#SEEING THE CONTOUR OF HIS WRISTS IN THOSE GLOVES

[rexscanonwife]

ALSO I SAW THIS LAST NIGHT ON TIKTOK AND LOST MY SHIT BUT THIS IMAGE OF REX IN S2 LEAKED AND HE GOT ME LIKE 💖💖💖💖💓💓💓💕💕💘💘💘

#jane journals #self insert talk #💙 oh captain my captain 💙 #HOW IS HE SO FUCKING HOT!!!! #LOOK AT HIM #HE'S STILL COVERED UP FROM TIP TO TOE BUT I'M STILL FROTHING HOW DOES HE DO IT 😭😭😭 #they need a mouth frothing emoji ASAP tbh #but oughgghgh something abt f/os who have one (1) outfit WEARING SOMETHING NEW IS SOOOO #SEEING THE CONTOUR OF HIS WRISTS IN THOSE GLOVES #SOMETHING ABOUT THAT SASH THING AROUND HIS WAIST #IM A FUCKING VICTORIAN GENTLEMAN NOW BABES

[janghoefett]

Mine - Boba Fett x F!Reader

You and your man Boba Fett head on back to Slave I after a night at the cantina and ya smash. Cause we really needed more Boba smut, right? Right?

Rating: Explicit (18+ only) Pairing: F/M Word count: 1k

This is a fic I posted on AO3 a while ago that I forgot about and I’m not even putting tags on this asdfghjkl;

Warnings: Porn without plot, unprotected p in v sex, rough sex, fingering, dirty talk, a spank, possessive behavior.

Another night, another cantina.

Strange men come and go from your table as you sip your drink. They’d eye you, surely, but wouldn’t dare try anything with a possessive bounty hunter at your side.

Boba Fett is next to you in the booth with his hand gripping your thigh under the table. Occasionally you’d bring your smaller hand to rest over his, teasing him by playing with one of his large fingers. Boba grows hard underneath his codpiece as the ache builds between your legs. Your bodies wanted each other like magnets.

Boba worshipped you. He would never know how to say it, but his heart was in the right place whether you knew it or not. From the soft kisses he’d press to your lips after fucking your brains out, to the precious little gifts he’d bring back for you after a hunt, you were his girl; and he was going to make you his as soon as you made it back to his ship.

His helmet is discarded with a clunk as the doors close behind you. Warm lips come to yours with desperation, devouring you with raw heat. Boba backs you into the wall and lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. Your arms cling to his massive shoulders as your centers grind against each other. He was hunting you; you were his prey.

“D’you know how many men wanted you tonight, mesh'la?” Boba breathes in your ear, gripping your ass as he saunters towards his cot.

“Boba—” you start.

“Seven. There were seven men wanting my girl,” he growls, laying you back onto the bed. "And just look how beautiful you are..."

Boba is quick to pull your boots off and whatever other article of clothing he could remove easily. You assist him gladly in freeing yourself of your clothes, leaving yourself bare as you lay back on the bed for him to see.

“Can you spread those legs for me?” he whispers.

You oblige, biting your lip as you part your legs for him to see. Boba’s breath hitches at the sight of you flushed and aching beneath him. From under fluttering eyelashes, you stare up at him with wide eyes as your cunt swells and drips with anticipation and desire.

Boba peels his gloves off, tossing them aside, and brings a strong calloused hand to stroke you. A smile comes across your face in relief to finally being touched.

Two large fingers slip inside of you facing some resistance from your tight heat. You throw your head back in pleasure, clenching around the intrusion. “Oh, Boba…” you sigh, grinding your hips on his fingers.

“There’s my good girl,” he praises with a twisted smirk. The bounty hunter watches as your face contort with pleasure, listening intently to the changes in your breathing as he pleasures you in preparation to take him. HIs fingers move with expert technique, pushing every one of your buttons. ` “Boba,” you squeak. “I… I…”

Your hands reach down to grip his arm. You don’t know why; perhaps it was too much, or perhaps you needed more.

“Look at you, so hungry for cock you can’t even ask for it,” he rasps, pulling out only to leave you painfully empty.

Your chest heaves. Boba sits up to remove his armor; you watch with eager eyes as he unfastens his shirt.

He’s over you again, kissing your lips with fervor. Your arms sneak up and down his hard, warm skin. “You’re so soft… so beautiful,” he breathes, clutching at your breasts and soft sides.

You reach down to unfasten his pants. While Boba was scarred and rough around the edges, his cock was a perfect specimen. Veiny, beautifully colored, and thick, with sizable balls at the base… it was pure pleasure.

Your legs come up around him. A strong hand grips your ass, before giving it a firm slap and lining up at your entrance.

Boba sinks into you slowly. A filthy moan escapes your lips at the feeling of his wide girth stretching your tight cunt as your legs shake. “Such a tight little thing,” Boba groans, pinning your delicate wrists above your head.

You whimper beneath the bounty hunter as he bottoms out inside of you. You gush around him as your heat flutters and adapts to the intrusion. Boba knows your body like no one else. He knows what angle, what pace, and how you’re responding. So he starts his pace, reaching deep within you.

“You’re so fucking good to me,” he groans. His hands are greedy, grasping every bit of flesh he can, and you squeak an unintelligible response as his cock pounds into you. His labored breathing and the sound of skin slapping upon skin seems almost far away as your mind checks out from the pleasure.

“Who do you spread these legs for?” Boba growls.

“You,” you respond, whining.

“Yeah? Do you like taking my cock?”

“Ye—” you start, before Boba hits a spot in you deeper than before. “YES!”

Boba grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls your head to the side, exposing your neck. His mouth comes down to the skin hungrily, marking you up for all to see.

“Boba,” you whine, pulsing around him. Your arms slide up the scarred, rigid contours of his strong back. You were ready to come.

“That's it. Come for me, mesh’la,” he pants in your ear.

Boba is relentless as he continues to fuck you open. Your hips grind into his in seek of your release. “Boba… Boba…” you plead. His thrusts become more erratic as he draws closer to his own finish... fuck, it’s just what you need. You convulse around him tightly as your release hits.

Boba continues fucking you as your combined slick gushes around him and down to the sheets. Your cries echo through the ship until finally, he stills inside of you with a grunt.

Your eyes meet as you catch your breath, still locked in a complete embrace with his cock sheathed inside of you. A weak hand of yours comes up to the side of his almost innocent face.

Boba presses a gentle kiss to your lips. “Mesh’la,” he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours. “You’re the only thing in this life that matters to me.”

#this is like JUST ALRIGHT OKAY it's old #boba fett #boba fett x reader #boba fett fan fiction #star wars #the mandalorian #fan fiction #boba fett x you #reader-insert

[dinosaurtsukki]

-lipstick on your cigarette

pairing: chuuya nakahara x f!reader

word count: 1.4k words

contains: brainrot content, chuuya being a flirt

a/n: brainrot hours go brrrrrr also excuse this not being proofread i am drinking wine

usually, you enjoyed going to parties. usually, you enjoyed squeezing and melding with the bodies of dancing people, feeling the loud bass of the music over the stereos in your chest, and of course, drinking from the mystery punch that your friends always made.

but that was back then when your boyfriend was around to do all those things with you. dressing up for this party felt like a chore and every single thing you used to love about parties annoyed you to no end. you regretted being swayed by your friends to come when you clearly didn’t feel like it so after grabbing a beer from the kitchen, you retired to the balcony of the house on the third floor. for a while, you relished in being alone, feeling the beer warm you pleasantly against the cool, night air, until someone came in and ruined the quiet.

“mind if i join you?”

you turned around at the voice and found a man, with red bright red hair, a dark brown fedora, and wearing a leather jacket and black, skinny jeans, leaning against the doorway. in one hand, he carried a half-empty bottle of wine and a paper cup. you shrugged, as if to say ‘be my guest’ and took a swig out of the rest of your beer. the man walked up and leaned against the balcony railing next to you.

“so, you alone?” he asked. you let out a sigh, instantly pegging him as someone who was here to pick up girls.

“no, i came with my pet hamster,” you snorted. 

“hah, never heard that one before,” the man laughed. “sorry, just wanted to talk. not really here to flirt with you if that’s not what you want,” he said, backing off just a bit. “well, unless you want me to,” he smirked.

“charmed,” you smiled, feeling a bit better now that things had been cleared up. and now that you could see him up close, you didn’t really mind talking to such an attractive man at a party.

“i’m chuuya, by the way. chuuya nakahara,” he introduced himself, reaching a gloved hand out for you to shake.

“y/n. y/n l/n,” you shook it. 

“so, what’s got you so down?” he asked. “if you don’t mind me asking.” 

“just not really feeling this place is all,” you shrugged. “i mean, i like parties but, it’s not quite fun when your friend who brought you is getting to third base in the master bedroom and your ex is out there with some new girl beside him.”

“well, if it’s any comfort, the guy who’s with your friend is probably going to forget about her the next morning,” chuuya said.

“that makes me feel a teensy bit better,” you chuckled. 

“other than that, i’m afraid i only know alcohol as the one solution to all problems,” he grinned, pouring wine out into the paper cup he had and offering it to you. you weren’t really one to accept drinks from strangers but you didn’t really sense anything malicious from him.

“you know, i’m actually not that into wine,” you said after taking a sip. “it’s just... sour grape juice.” 

“sour grape juice that gets you drunk,” chuuya pointed out. 

“you get drunk from wine? pssh, lightweight,” you snorted.

“shut up, it’s 12.5% alcohol,” chuuya muttered sourly. seeing his expression made you laugh even harder. “glad to see you smile for once.” 

“you’ve only known me for a few minutes.” 

“yeah, but i already figured you looked prettier when you smiled,” he said, smirking at the apparent embarrassment on your face.

“are you always like this?”

“sometimes i show a magic trick or two,” chuuya shrugged.

“is that an innuendo or something?” you raised an eyebrow.

“pshh, no way,” he shook his head. “want me to show ya?”

“sure,” you shrugged, turning to face him. chuuya reached into his pocket, pulling out a packet of cigarettes, and took one out before handing it to you.

“put a mark on it. you could put a pen mark or anything to identify it,” he said. “i have a pen on hand if you want.”

“hmm,” you looked at the cigarette, turning it this way and that, before lifting it to your lips and placing a kiss on the side of the white paper, leaving a red lipstick mark. 

“no one’s ever did that before,” chuuya shook his head and chuckled, taking the cigarette from you. 

“and no one’s ever shown me a magic trick before,” you smirked. chuuya took out a one-dollar bill from his pocket and wrapped it tightly around the cigarette. then, he reached into his pocket again and pulled out a lighter.

“watch closely, alright?” he said. he lit the very end of the cigarette and blew on the flame until it grew and burned through the whole thing, leaving only ash in his hands. chuuya closed his fist and blew the ash over the balcony. the entire time, you couldn’t help but admire the lines and contours of his face and how his red hair framed the sides of his cheeks. 

“and now....” chuuya smirked, reaching a hand behind your ear before pulling out a cigarette with a flick of his wrist. he rolled it to the side, revealing your red lipstick mark along its side.

“whoa.” you clapped your hands and chuuya bowed.

“that’s always a favorite,” he grinned, looking down at the cigarette before sliding it back into the packet. 

“keeping a souvenir?” you said, nodding your head at the cigarette.

“i usually smoke these right away but... i have a feeling this one’s worth keeping,” chuuya said. you bit your lip. even though it was your idea to mark the cigarette with your lipstick as a way to flirt with him, there was something thrilling about someone as attractive as chuuya keeping it.

except, you didn’t really feel that thrill for long when you spotted your ex out of the corner of your eye inside the house. your blood ran cold when you saw the other girl who he had his arm wrapped around.

“shit,” you cursed, turning away when you realized that he spotted you.

“what’s wrong?” chuuya frowned, looking over inside the house.

“well, it’s the very guy i was hoping to avoid,” you gritted your teeth.

“ah, the one who looks like he had his face slammed by a door?” 

“the very one.” you watched chuuya narrow his eyes in distate at the sight of your ex.

“is it weird that i already hate him?”

“hah, wish i had that instinct,” you laughed bitterly. chuuya took a step closer to you, leaning your head closer to yours. you felt your face flush at how close he was.

“let’s mess with him,” he smirked.

“h-how?” you asked, even though you already knew what he was thinking of.

“kiss me.” 

you didn’t even need to be told twice. you grabbed at his shirt collar and pulled chuuya close to you. his lips were surprisingly soft and they moved effortlessly against yours, deepening the kiss. he tasted just like the wine you just drank and smelled like a mixture of cigarette smoke and men’s cologne. neither of you had the mind to pull away any time soon, even though you were certain your ex had already seen you and left. but how could you pull away when chuuya had his hands around your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin and daring you to even leave.

when you finally parted, you were both breathless and panting for air. the way chuuya looked at you with half-lidded eyes that hinted at something more brought a chill down your spine.

“you have... a little something there,” you cleared your throat, gesturing at chuuya’s lips which had your red lipstick smeared on it. 

“yeah? you do too,” he said. before you could even react, chuuya licked his thumb and wiped at the sides of your mouth.

“i think that did the trick too,” you grinned, turning to find that your ex was no longer around. you only wished you could see the look on his face with you in the arms of someone else. someone undoubtedly more attractive than him.

“glad i could be of assistance,” chuuya bowed again. “now, i do believe you owe me for that kiss. and the magic trick.” 

“oh yeah?” you raised an eyebrow. “and what would that be?”

“your company for the rest of the night,” chuuya smirked. 

“only if it’s someplace better than this party,” you said. 

“well, i have a motorcycle and an appropriate amount of alcohol in my system,” chuuya said, wrapping an arm around your waist. “just say the word and i’ll take us there.” 

***********************************************

taglist (check out my post for details on being part of my taglist): @waitforitillwritemywayout @atsumu-brainrot​ @laure-chan @goodfoodxoxoxo  @ah-kaashi​ @guardianangelswings​

#bungou stray dogs #bsd x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya nakahara #chuuya x reader #chuuya #bsd #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs fluff #bsd fluff #bungou stray dogs drabble #bsd drabble #bungou stray dogs one-shot #bsd one-shot #bungou stray dogs imagines #bsd imagines

[trash-writings]

Kinktober Week 2: Sub!Hisoka and Fem reader

Kinks: wax play, ice play, bondage, degradation, choking, edging

Warnings: Degradation, everything above, and tbh this might be considered torture at some point lol.

Your hand slowly travels down Hisoka’s neck to the center of his shoulder blades. You walk forward and the tips of your fingers graze his skin lightly, causing small goosebumps to develop on him. You smile as you catch his golden eyes in your sight. Hisoka stares at the fishnetted tights you have on. The way they fade into leather boots drives him mad. Your thighs look delectable in the skirt he picked out a few weeks ago; tight, but not too short.

Noticing Hisoka staring at your thighs you pull the skirt up slightly, teasing him. It’s not hard to read Hisoka, while many others believe it is. He’s not complicated. He is very straightforward in his desires. That's how you ended up here now. Months of asking you to take some control has finally paid off. It’s not easy, and even now you feel you’re going to topple over in these heeled boots, but the attention Hisoka is giving you is too good to give up. You need this.

Humming quietly you walk across your bedroom to grab a pair of handcuffs after seeing Hisoka’s fingers twitch from their position on his knees. While his obedience is pretty sufficient for now, you can tell he’s itching to get his hands on you. Hisoka continues to let his eyes explore your body, now focusing on your back since it’s turned to him. The straps of your bra are slightly twisted, making him want to jump at you and snap them against your skin, but he won’t. He wants you to have this moment. However, he’s grateful you decided on just a black bra and no shirt to torment him.  

Golden eyes watch you as you pull out his favorite drawer, the one he loves to torment you with. He brought you all the toys as gifts, and he knows that you never use them without his permission, but tonight… tonight is different. He wants this badly, probably more than you even do, at least he believes so. Your eyes catch sight of the tart burner on your dresser, you flip it on wondering how long it will take to melt the red apple tart sitting atop.

“What are you doing, kitten?” His voice is sweet like cotton candy, however, it’s not going to work tonight. You grab the cuffs, the cold metal chilling your nervous palms. You ignore him and turn around slowly after shutting the drawer. You lean back against it looking at your friend with lustful eyes. He truly does look delicious sitting on his knees like he always asks you to wait for him. Who knew you’d enjoy being on the giving end already? Definitely not you. With each passing second, you take in the sweet satisfaction of being able to decide your and his pleasure for the evening.

“Hisoka, I didn’t give you permission to speak.” Your voice is stern, and you immediately feel your confidence growing knowing you’re finally in control. Finally, everything you say goes. A smile creeps on your lips as you walk towards Hisoka. You dangle the cuffs in front of his face. He looks at them for a moment before looking up at your passive face. You won’t give him the pleasure of how much you’re enjoying this just yet.

“Kitten, please talk to me... “ a swift slap to the face makes him hush. The stinging on your hand instead of your face burns pleasantly in a new intense way. The gratification you normally feel from burning cheeks is different… this is very new.

“Next time,” You bend at the knees, getting to his level, “it won’t be so soft. Got it?”

“Wh-” you slap him harder. He smiles, suddenly making you feel irritated for his obvious enjoyment. Again, this time he’s shocked. He actually feels the sting this time since this cheek has now been slapped twice. It’s been a long time since he’s had someone actually handle him this way. While fighting is fun for him, there’s nothing quite like this.

“Stop smiling, sicko.” You spit the words at him the way he does you for enjoying punishments. His smile disappears. His face is intense, serious, and maybe even a bit dark.

“Is sicko all you’ve got, kitten?” He’s not smiling, but he might at well be. He feels intensely proud of you at the moment, despite wanting to rip you to shreds and make you apologize for daring to lay a hand on him. He loves it. The way your face contours into irritation, your eyebrows furrowed, your eyes staring deep into him with lust and maybe even some disgust. It’s driving him insane.

Ignoring him you stand back up. He looks up at you wanting you to slap him again, but he won’t tell you that. He wants to see you grow into this. Those few small attempts at shutting him up weren’t the best, in his opinion, but it’s something. Something to work with. Something to nurture.

“Hands: in front of you now,” you tell him. He listens and holds his wrists out for you. You put the cuffs on him the way you remember him doing it to you when you have misbehaved.

“Very good,” he coos, pulling at them lightly. You let this one slide. You needed the reassurance that you did it right. The confirmation will only help you grow, he knows this and he knows it’s why you haven’t slapped him for speaking out of turn. However, he aches for more. Hopefully, he thinks, you will hit him some more.

“Will you stay still if I go outside of the room for a moment? I promise I’ll reward you.” You watch as the gears turn on his head. Hisoka wants to stay still, but he’s itching to jump you and it’s making his head spin. However, the anticipation is feeling something deep inside him that he wants to continue feeding. He nods.

You exit the room, walking quickly towards your freezer. Opening the door to the freezer your eyes search for the ice tray. Finding it you quickly grab two cubes, hurrying back to your bedroom with them in hand. The ice already starts melting with the short walk back to the room. Hisoka hasn’t moved to your surprise. He’s stayed perfectly still.

His eyes gaze at you, not noticing the ice cubes. Good, you think as you quickly move behind him. With his hands in front of him, cuffed, he can’t stop you from what you do next. You lightly run the ice cube down his exposed neck. His body reacts quickly, jerking forward away from the cold. You press it harder against his skin and he lets out a lewd noise from deep within his throat; it’s music to your ears.

“Aw, is it too cold?” You whisper close to his ear, making sure to push the ice into his skin. He shakes his head no, pleasing you. He’s not speaking without permission finally. Hisoka’s attention is focused on the ice pressed against his neck. His golden eyes desperately search for your face, unable to make contact without turning his head. He stops trying after another piece of ice is pressed against his left shoulder.

“Hisoka, I want you to be a good boy for me okay?” He nods slowly. His compliance is almost strange. “I’m going to set the ice on your shoulders, you have to stay very still for me.” He nods again. You steady the ice cubes in the small divot of his shoulders. You notice his body heat is already starting to make it pool and you need to be fast. You hurry over to the dresser, seeing the red wax has completely melted in the tart burner.

You slip on one of your soft gloves for winter so you can safely touch the hot clay that holds the wax. The warmth seeps through the glove but is manageable. As you turn around you catch Hisoka’s glance. He stares at the pot of melted wax with curious eyes, is this even body safe? Does it really matter to him, he wonders? It doesn’t matter, he ponders, but with the ice starting to burn his skin with the freezing sensation.

Hisoka is so focused on keeping the ice from dropping off his shoulders he doesn’t notice when you start to tilt the clay container, letting the red wax start to pour down onto his back. The uncomfortable heat hits him in an instant, making him jerk forward and the ice falls onto the floor. You stop the stream of wax, watching as the small amount runs down the muscles on his back. The wax cools pretty fast, to your surprise, leaving pretty red trails among his muscles. The red wax looks beautiful on his pale skin.

“Fuck,” he hisses from below you. The unexpected mix of hot and cold has overwhelmed his senses, something he never expected to happen to him. Where, he thinks, did she learn this? He’s certainly never gone as far as to pour wax on you. Not only is he excited, he’s proud. This strange mix only adds to his delight to be submitting to you. You’re growing at an impressive rate.

“Pick up the ice,” you command, “Now.” You slowly come to the front of Hisoka again. His cheeks are flushed and you can tell that he’s become erect. Looking at the tenting in his underwear makes you want to drop down to your knees and beg him to be gentle with you after this spout of confidence. He reaches forward and picks up the ice cubes by your feet.

“Good,” he smiles with your small amount of praise. “Now, I want you to listen very carefully.” He nods. “Raise your hands to the center of your chest, then slowly run the ice cubes down your pecs. Very slowly, making sure the ice completely cools your skin.”

Hisoka listens carefully then follows your orders. It’s cold, for sure, but nothing he can’t handle. However, it is clear to him that you’re not doing this just to hope he gets some ice burns. No, you want something more; but he can’t place exactly what. His cock twitches at the thoughts of you making him keep ice on him until he can’t handle it any longer. You’re not that cruel, are you? He doesn’t think so… at least, not yet. He knows you have a lot to learn, he’s barely had any time with you to explore anything riskier. But, he knows you’re a fast learner. Look at you, he thinks, standing there confidently as your eyes follow his fingertips spreading ice across himself. The intensity in your eyes, the small smirk upon your lips, and the pot of wax in hand is a sight to behold. He could cum now if he tried, he’s so proud and aroused by you.

As he traces the ice back again, following the pattern in reverse, you kneel down again to be eye level with him. Hisoka smirks, obviously ogling your breasts. Irritation creeps through you making your skin crawl. You didn’t give him permission to stare at your chest. Reaching out you bring the pot of wax dangerously close to touching his skin. His eyes instantly advert to your actions. The wax pours delicately out onto his chilled skin. As it makes contact Hisoka lets out a loud feral laugh to mask his pain.

“Stay still!” You hiss grabbing his cuffs and yanking him back closer to you. You increase the drizzle, making more splash across his skin in a semi-straight red line across his chest. It splatters some, leaving pretty red dots on his skin where the wax wasn’t meant to go.

“You fucking-” you slap him before he can finish the sentence.

“Shut up, I know you’ve had worse done to you.” You can’t help but laugh at him as he bites back his tongue. His hands form fists, obviously wanting to regain control again. You stand up and take the pot back to the burner. You’ve had enough of playing with him. Watching him cry out has turned you on more than before. The wetness pooling between your thighs is overwhelming, and you want to get off sooner rather than later.

Hisoka watches you place the pot down and take the glove off. He can’t lie, he is pissed you reacted so quickly to him. The slap felt amazing, but the wax wasn’t meant for pleasure, and he knows it. Even when he deals out rough punishments, he never does it from anger or irritation, you need to learn that. You have so much to learn, he has so much to teach you, and he plans to make sure you never react like that again. But, not now, later when the time's right. He has to evaluate you now. He can’t forget that. For now, he will sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Your heels are louder than anything in the room as you walk back towards him. You can’t help but feel a tad ridiculous, but looking at Hisoka you know that you’re not. You’re everything he wants and needs right now. You stop in front of him; his mouth level with your waist. His fingers are fidgeting, and he looks impatient. He must not like this as much as he thought he would, or something else is going on. Either way, it’s fine. You just need him to touch you.

“Hands up, please.” He listens and you take off the cuffs. “You can only touch me when I tell you, okay? Or I’ll lock you to the bed and leave you here for three days.” His eyebrows perk up, but you know you’re mostly joking. He can probably break out of these cuffs in an instant. “Tell me what you want,” you ask.

He tilts his head and smiles before speaking. “I want to taste you,” he tells you. “So fucking bad.”

Motioning to your skirt you talk slowly, “take it off then. I’m waiting.” With his hands now free he reaches up quickly and rips the skirt. The tearing of the fabric is loud, surprisingly, and you feel exposed suddenly in front of him. Before you can tell him to, he shoves his face between your folds. His tongue explores your body so smoothly, finding your clit with no hesitation.

Biting your bottom lip you hold back a moan. Your hand goes to Hisoka’s head, locking your fingers between your fingers in case you want to pull him off of you. Instead, you end up pulling him more into you. His tongue never disappoints you. He always makes you come undone before anything even enters you. Closing your eyes you let out another loud moan as Hisoka sucks at your clit. The familiar burn in your lower stomach signaling your orgasm approaching.

“Use your fingers,” you command. He takes his time, his hand trailing up your fishnet covered thighs before he slowly inserts two fingers into your needy cunt. You clench around his fingers, glad to finally be filled.

“Fuck, good boy, like that” you groan as he pumps his fingers into you at a rather fast pace. He’s as desperate for your orgasm as you are. He hums with pleasure against your cunt, making you let out a loud gasp. Your breathing is already picking up, your chest rising and falling more and more as you get close… so close you can taste it. Just a little more… right there… here it-... Hisoka pulls back from your grip, ripping some of his hair out from your fingers. You let out a loud groan and look at Hisoka, who is now smiling.

“You arrogant whore,” the words leave your mouth before you can think about them. The joy on his face is clear, him acting good for you was clearly too good to last long. “Why are you smiling like that? Hmmm?”

Hisoka opens his mouth to speak, but you shove him down onto the floor with your foot. The black leather boot stays against his chest as he lays back against the hardwood floor. Hisoka is shocked you went as far as to push him down, let alone hold him down with your boot. He loves it.

“Oh, you thought I wanted you to speak? Sorry, whores don’t get to talk to me.” Now your words are flowing like an uninterrupted stream. “How dare you deny me… Do you think I’m going to let you cum now? If you do, you must be absolutely stupid. I don’t expect much from a whore like you, but this is low.”

As you continue speaking Hisoka keeps his focus on your lips. Your degradation is music to his ears, something he wants more of. Denying you your orgasm was the right move in his mind. “You look so pleased with yourself,” you bend down, keeping your boot firmly on his chest. The heel biting at his skin. You hope it hurts. “Too bad I won’t give you what you want. I know you’re just a desperate brat who wants me to hurt you.” He frowns. So you were right… he wants you to hit him more. Maybe even spank him. However, you won’t give him that pleasure. All care for his desire is gone, your focus solely on yourself.

Hisoka watches you closely, seeing the gears turn in your head. He wonders what you’ll do next; hoping you make the right move. It would be easy to hit him some more, in fact, he would even take the route. He knows how much you prefer overstimulation or edging to being spanked, so he always goes for what will make you learn. Spanking teaches you a lesson. Edging does not. He’s left curious about which route you’ll take.

“What are you going to do, doll?” Hisoka purrs.

“Raise your hands up,” you command and he listens. His arms rise above his head and near the base of the bed. “If you move I swear I won’t let you cum for seven hours. I’ll stay right here, touching you until you’re about to burst… then I’ll stop. Over and over and over again,” you warn him.

At this point, Hisoka’s smile will permanently be ingrained onto his face. You bend down, meanwhile, Hisoka groans as your boot and heel digs into his chest more. You quickly cuff his left wrist and bring it up to the leg of the bed. He stays still as you lift his right arm up closer and you can successfully lock his wrists to the bed.

“That’s better” you pat his cheek twice and blow a kiss to him for dramatic effect. His brow furrows, but you can’t tell if it's from irritation or because you’ve slipped your hand into his underwear. “Oh do you like that?” You remove your foot from his chest as you release your hand from his underwear. He lets out a pitiful whimper.

Crawling down between Hisoka’s legs, you pull his underwear down around his knees. Firmly grasping the base of his stiff cock you give it a few stokes. Watching as Hisoka’s golden eyes roll back into his head. You straddle him, positioning yourself right above the tip of his throbbing head; swearing you can feel the heat radiating off of it and onto your slick lips, so you push your thong to the side. After exposing yourself you bite down on your bottom lip to keep from moaning as you part your lips and slip down onto his cock.

Giving yourself seconds to adjust you finally start bouncing yourself on him. His eyes focus on you, specifically your tits as they bounce with you. He lets out a loud guttural groan as you pick up your pace. You feel your lost orgasm fast approaching. Your eyes are already blurry with bliss as you ride him. You steady yourself more onto your hands on his chest, your knees slipping slightly into a more comfortable position to angle his cock deeper inside of you.

“Fuck, yes more…” You groan after he snaps his hips up into you. You feel as if his cockhead is hitting the bottom of your cervix. Your vision blurs and you start grinding on him harder, until your breaking point reaches. You cum around his cock, your walls clenching onto him. Warmth reaches your toes and they curl in your boots. The denial of your previous orgasm only intensified this one, making you crave more of him; but not now. Now, you want to punish him more since you could have had two by now. So, you pull yourself off of him; earning a loud defeated groan from Hisoka.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but remember you’ve been a bad boy… Bad boy’s don’t get to cum, Hisoka.” The grin forming on your lips looks sinister to Hisoka, and he suddenly regrets letting you put him into this situation. However, just knowing he can break free isn’t enough to kill his arousal.

--

“Please, I’m begging! Please let me cum!” Hisoka’s loud begging fills your ears like a light sonnet on a summer evening from some Shakespeare play you can’t quite place. His eyes are finally glassy. What is it, the thirteenth or fourteenth time you’ve edged him until he screamed? It could be more. You stopped counting after five so this is just a guess. IT’s getting dark out you notice as you look over your shoulder to the window.

“Stop whining, you’re not even crying yet…”

--

Tears are streaming down Hisoka’s face now. He’s stopped begging but instead resorted to noises that resemble a cat in heat mixed with a cockfight. Maybe he’s had enough, you think, maybe he should be allowed to cum now. Hisoka’s eyes are on you, he’s pissed. He knows you’re just fucking with him now. No one could enjoy this much edging, not even him. He’s had enough. A loud snap stops you from touching him again. You look up to see Hisoka has torn the cuffs apart at the chain. How the fuck did he do it so quickly?

“Now little one,” his eyes gleam with malice,”it’s time you learn how to really punish someone. No more of your twisted sadistic bullshit…” Before you can back away he’s pinned you under him; his hand around your throat. His eyes are no longer red and teary… instead that of a hawk whose finally caught it’s mouse.

#hxh kinktober #hunter x hunter #hunter x hunter requests #hunterxhunter #hunter x hunter headcanon #hxh #hisoka marow #hisoka x reader #hisoka

[stab-the-son-of-a]

Whumptober No.1 - Barbed Wire

TW: Character death, choking, blood

Gladys doesn’t get paid nearly enough for what she deals with. Sometimes, the joy of helping a burgeoning new enthusiast wet their feet outweighs the irritation and frustrations. Other times it’s exactly the new whumpers that irritate her so much.

Idly drawing stylized S’s on her notepad, she listens to the woman on the other end list out the symptoms. At the start, Gladys had written her client’s name down but now, going on an hour later, she finds she can’t read her scribbled writing.

“So the symptoms you’re describing,” Gladys interrupts the woman, because waiting for an opening hasn’t worked for the past half an hour. “They’re a spot on match for lockjaw. Fever, muscle spasms, the whole breathing and swallowing thing.”

“Um, nooo,” the woman draws out her words in the most annoyingly condescending tone possible. Quite the feat considering she’s dead wrong, Gladys thinks. “Tetanus went away with the vaccines. Like polio.”

She absolutely does not get paid enough for this. In a display of superhuman self restraint, Gladys holds back from telling her just how ridiculous she sounds. She deadpans, “I’m sorry ma’am, herd immunity doesn’t protect from toxins.”

“Whatever! What do I do? How do I fix this?”

“There’s really no fix for tetanus—”

“Um, yes, there is! It’s like antibiotics, or medicine or an antiviral or something.”

A lack of proper planning and knowledge on the clients’ part nearly always necessitates in an emergency for the agents, and she's well accustomed to the golden rule of never underestimating how damn stupid people can be, but Gladys is also pretty sure that sharp throbbing pain behind her eye is her IQ draining away.

In the distance, she hears the poor whumpee groan, the sound tight and agonized. You and me both, pal, she thinks as she stares down at the now full page. With a sigh she rips it off and starts a fresh one.

“Are you going to fix it or not?” Karen — she’s going to call her Karen because it’s perfectly apropos — demands. “I’m not done with him yet!”

“No, I’m thinking you’re done with him.” As Gladys awaits Karen’s indignant squawking, she switches to drawing cubes rotated at various angles. “He’s done for, ma’am.”

On cue comes the tirade. How Gladys can’t possibly know this just from a list of symptoms and a short discussion and a picture. How Gladys isn’t a doctor (never claimed as such) and thus not qualified to give a diagnosis.

Honestly anyone with half a brain can see what happened. Karen dressed up her ex-lover in shibari made from barbed wire, and she didn’t even check if he was up to date on his shots. That’s on her.

That said, the picture sent to Gladys is just delicious, so she almost can’t blame Karen for this. The man in the photograph, stripped down to his jeans, kneels with his arms bent behind his back just so- elbows forced together by the wiring, hands and wrists cinched against his waist. The result pushes his chest out, opening it to expose the bloodied stripes and blooming bruises from previous sessions with a whip. (Gladys wouldn’t be surprised if Karen used one made of barbed wire.) The bindings continue down his hips and legs, the angle forcing them apart and curving his spine backwards due to the short length tying his wrists to his ankles and both to his neck.

But what really catches the eye is the blood. It wells up from countless small puncture wounds, trails and rivers flowing down, collecting in hollows and marking the trails and contours and planes of his body.

“Are you even listening to me?” Karen interrupts Gladys’s appreciation with an indignant shriek. Like a newborn needing attention, she raises her voice, and Gladys hastily pulls the receiver away from her ear before she can deafen her. “I called looking for help and you’ve done everything but help!”

She knows how she’s meant to react, technically, by the rule book, and all that PR, customer is always right, bullshit. Instead, Gladys says coolly, “Are you ready to listen to me?”

“I’m ready for someone to help me.”

“You see, ma’am, in my professional opinion, you’ve fucked this up beyond repair.”

Karen goes absolutely silent, but her whumpee whines and whimpers, the sounds all breathless and shallow, weak and raspy. Yeah, no, that man is dead or on his way there.

Emboldened by the success of getting a word in, Gladys continues, “Yep. Fucked it right up. Start over. Toss the whole man out.”

“You don’t understand. It has to be him! I chose him for a reason!”

“Then take a picture for memory’s sake but you can’t keep broken trash laying around. That doesn't spark joy.”

To that, Karen doesn’t respond, except to set down the phone on some hard surface. She doesn’t hang up, surprisingly.

“Baby…” the man croaks. He sounds absolutely parched, his voice raw and shattered from screaming. “Please… don’t��”

“Fuck you!” Karen finishes her cry by yanking on the wire that encircles her ex’s throat, if the choked gasps are any indication. “You ruin everything! You couldn’t do this one thing for me, Jason? You couldn’t let me have any bit of happiness?! You selfish pig! I should have done this years ago!”

The sounds of struggle and asphyxiation slow and then stop entirely. Her ex hits the ground with a boneless, wet noise, and doesn’t gasp or wheeze again.

“Thank you,” Karen says primly as she picks up the phone again. “That was unpleasant.”

Gladys taps against the paper and wonders for a moment if she should say something. Finally her conscience gets the better of her. “Ma’am, are you wearing gloves?”

“What does that have to do with it?”

… so no. Clearly Karen handled the very same tetanus infested wire without protection. Gladys glances down at the man in the picture, at those resigned, glistening eyes still so stupidly filled with hope and affection, and shrugs to herself. “No reason,” she says with a sharp smile. “Would you like to stay on the line for a brief survey?”

Click.

#whumptober2021 #no.1 #barbed wire #oc #fic #character death #choking #stress position #blood #tetanus #wcc gladys #wcc series #crack whump #konmari your whumpees

[bullshxtvixen]

Safe word.

Tendou Satori - Reader uses safe word HC

Pairing: Tendou x Sub!Reader

Request:  you wrote in your tendou hcs about him respecting the safeword, do you think you could write something about maybe his reaction and how he would handle his s/o having to use it? if not no worries!!

Warnings: Degredation, 18+, pain kink gone too far, sadism.

a/n: At first i was just going to go down the over-stimulation route, but idk, i always see him wanting to test your pain threshold so this seemed the best way for me to go.  Plus i write about over stim all the time. The reader will use the safe word because of pain so if that makes you uncomfortable then do not read these.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*

☆ Even though Tendou is a sadistic fuck who gets off on pain and humiliation, the last thing he ever wants to do is push it too far.

☆ In his eyes if you ever got to a point where you had to use the safe word for anything other than being unable to bare anymore over-stimulation, he’d see it as him breaking the trust between the two of you.

☆ I mean it when I say he’s super meticulous about watching your body language and keeping an eye out for your signal if you’re unable to use your mouth.

☆ His sixth sense always comes in handy too, it’s like he can tell if he’s about to take it too far.

☆ But everyone slips up every now and then, even the famous guess monster.

☆ He has a spreader bar placed between your legs and your wrists were secured behind your back with thick bondage tape as he pressed your front into the leather cover that was spread across the heavy wooden table that sat in the spare room of your shared apartment.

☆ It was also where Tendou kept his collection of toys that he used to bring you the intoxicating mix and pain and pleasure that had your whole body in a state of bliss.

☆ But today...

☆ Today was different.

☆ It’d start off amazing. He’d used the vampire glove he often favored to lightly spank your ass as his hand held a wand vibrator against your clit.

☆ The sting of the glove as the tiny mental spikes met the delicate skin of your ass only fueled your desire, your thighs immediately slick with your arousal and lust making your head spin.

☆ “Such a good little whore for me, squirming like that. I can see how soaked your dirty little cunt is, I can practically smell the lust dripping from between your thighs.” Then he’s bringing his hand down hard on your ass, the gloves biting in a little too harshly but the pain is quickly overridden as he turns up the settings on the vibrator, your body convulsing at the intensity of the sensations he’s making you feel.

☆ “Let’s see how much pain my little cum dumpster can really take.”

☆ Then the vibrations on your clit was gone. You hear some shuffling behind you and then you feel his presence return to you once more.

☆ “You better brace yourself for this, angel.” You feel the tip of a what you can only assume is a riding crop being dragged down your back and shiver. “I want you to count for me, all the way to 10.”

☆ The first blow comes like a shock, your body immediately reacting to the pain.

☆ “One.”

☆ “Louder, you filthy slut.”

☆ Usually his words didn’t get to you, but coupled with the actions, your mind began to spiral.

☆ The next blow is even harsher. You bite your lip as tears threaten to spill.

☆ “T-two.”

☆ “Not loud enough, didn’t you hear me, slut? Looks like i’ll have to make the next one even harder as punishment.”

☆ You couldn’t take another one, it was too much. There was no pleasure in this, only pain.

☆ You watch from the corner of your eye as he brings his arm up, ready to let the crop hit its mark again.

☆ The tears pool in your eyes as the one word you never thought you’d have to use leaves your lips.

☆ “Block!”

☆ As soon as the word reaches him and he hears the pain laced in it, he’s immediately dropping the riding crop and removing you from your restraints.

☆ I think he’d be in a state of shock, not believing it had happened for a few seconds before his brain catches up to what you’d actually said.

☆ When you flinch slightly as he moves to touch you, pain immediately engulfs his chest. He should’ve realised. He should’ve notice, and now the tears falling from your eyes were from him. He’d caused those from pain, not pleasure. 

☆ “Y/n...please forgive me...I’m so sorry, angel.” Then he’s carrying you to the bathroom, holding you to his chest, careful not to put pressure on your abused skin.

☆ He’ll place you on your feet in the bathtub, asking you to hold onto his shoulders as he uses a warm flannel to clean you up. His touch is light as he moves a long your body, scared to hurt you further. You notice his hand shake slightly as he rubs the flannel over the contours of your body.

☆ When you grab his hand and pull him towards you so that you can place a soft kiss on his lips, that’s when he feels like he can finally breathe again. 

☆ “I forgive you, ‘Tori. It’s...it’s not okay, but i forgive you. I’m not going anywhere.” You could read him like a book. He thought you would leave him after this, he saw it as breaking the trust he held so dear to him. 

☆ When he resumes his cleaning, he leaves a trail of kisses behind the flannels path. Your thighs, your hips, you stomach, your chest, they’re so light that you barely feel them but you know he’s not going to risk being rough with you for a while.

☆ Then he’ll apply cream to your broken skin, you hiss as it comes into contact. Each whimper that falls from your lips is like a shot to the heart.

☆ Once he’s satisfied that it’s all rubbed in, he’ll help you to the bedroom, placing you on your stomach on the bed. He’ll bring you water and your favourite snacks with a timid smile on his face.

☆ He’ll pull you to his chest and wrap an arm around your waist as his other hand traces over your face, down your neck, over your shoulder and along your back. He’ll repeat this for a while, just needing his hands on you as he whispers soft words to you, his lips ghosting over your forehead as he does.

☆ “I love you more than anything.” “You are my home, i hope you know that, y/n.” “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

☆ Then he’s humming the tune of your favourite song in your ear as you drift off to sleep on his chest, wrapped in his arms, where you belong.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:

i don’t really know how i feel about these but i hope you liked them.

I also just want to say that aftercare is super important after sex, even if it’s just vanilla. It’s definitely a practice that more people need to get into and it goes both ways for a Sub and a Dom.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagine #tendou x reader #tendo x reader #tendou satori #vixenscribbles

[sp00kworm]

Quiet Night

Pairing: The Collector / Asa Emory x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: Adult Content, Mild Horror

A/N: Anon asked for soft Asa with his s/o with some spicy adult content so here is this little oneshot. This is about as soft as he gets I think? I don’t know anymore but I mega just had to roll with this little thing. 

---

The nights were getting colder, and wetter, this time of year. Rain streamed down the windows and wind battered at the glass. You curled closer to the fire in the lounge, tucked up in a blanket as you peered at the book in your lap. It wasn’t uncommon for Asa to be late home. You’d cooked for both of you, but had film wrapped his dinner for when he got home. Even then, you knew he’d be unlikely to sit and eat it. Usually, Asa walked through the door and straight into his office or the basement, where he kept some of his favourite little bugs. Most of his tarantulas were in there, and you liked to avoid it. He had some with inch long fangs and those were fangs you would rather not be on the receiving end of. The fire was warm against your legs and you yawned quietly as you reached for your drink. It was getting late. Late even for Asa. Usually his work didn’t take him this long. With a sip of your drink you opened your phone and looked at the notifications. Nothing. You unlocked the device and opened your text messages with Asa. Just as you debated typing a message to ask where he was, the front door handle jiggled, the lock snapping open with a quick flick of a wrist. Asa walked in, dragging the rain in with him as he carefully closed the door and snapped the two locks back into place, the chain bolt first before he turned the keys. He looked at the door for a moment, water dripping from his hair as he turned his eyes on you.

You smiled over the back of the sofa at him. Asa didn’t return it right away, instead turning to hang his coat near the radiator so it could dry. The sheepskin and leather looked drowned with water, it dripped by the heat as Asa looked at you again. His shoes came off with similar precision, the laces swiftly undone before he placed them in the same area to dry. Scorching eye contact made you look back at your book, sipping your drink as you waited for him to finish with his little ritual. He walked over quietly, his wet socks slipping over the floor before he stood over you, damp and looking dark, his eyes shadowed by the fire light.

“Did you have a good day?” You asked gently, letting his hand run over your cheek.

Power coiled in his arm, but he didn’t hold you still or snap your cheeks tight. Instead, he leaned forwards and brushed his lips over yours in an uncharacteristically soft kiss. Your heart fluttered in your chest. Before you could really lean into it, Asa pulled away, holding your chin between his strong fingers as you breathed the same air for a moment. Conflict burned in his eyes as he pulled away. He was unsure whether that kiss had satisfied the urge he had in the back of his mind.

“Bad day?” You asked again as Asa reared back, his brows furrowing under his wet fringe as he touched his plush bottom lip curiously, “Asa?”

 Asa was broken from his revere, “Bad. As usual, Fred decided not to show for labs. Drinking again. Found him in the office.” He grunted, “Papers to mark.” He flicked his fingers in distaste as he went to collect the mail from the small table by the stairs, “I’m going to get a shower.” He grumbled as he took the stairs, socks slapping against the wood as he left you in confusion. You watched him disappear around the corner to the stairs. The boiler hummed to life as the water was turned on upstairs. You opened your book again and tried not to think too much on the soft kiss that had been pressed to your lips.

 There was an unmistakable ache in him as he stepped into the shower. For once, he hadn’t been late due to one of his little hunts. Work. His mundane, normal work-life had kept him away from his normal façade of a home. Asa reached for the shampoo and worked it into his hair. He sniffed as he rinsed it away and opened his eyes to see your own hair product in his hand. He repeated the action by accidentally using your soap. He grumbled as he stood in the hot water, trying to ease the pain in the top of his back from leaning over his desk marking. The hot water worked against his tight muscles, and Asa sighed as he looked down at himself. He was well managed, clipped and clean shaven in other places. Another façade. He brushed at the short hair on his chest under the spray and wondered if you would prefer it gone. He’d never bothered to ask, but you also never had a complaint. He caught himself, strangling the notion with a metaphorical fist inside his head. He wasn’t supposed to care. You were a convenient tool. In the right place at the right time. Still, he thought about your face and felt conflicting feelings well up in his throat. You’d learned almost everything about his habits. Just now, as he walked in, you had let him go through his own routine, without the interruption of a loud ‘hello’ or a rush for a kiss. He thought of your face again and felt a phantom smile turn the corner of his lips up at one side. Even through his exhaustion, he felt frustration tense him again as his length twitched between his legs. Tonight, he didn’t have his usual outlet. He was too tired to pack up and head away to his little base.

 The water turned off with a clunk, and you listened to Asa’s striding gait as he strode across to your shared room and closed the door. It was only closed for a moment before Asa strode across the landing and leaned over the banister. Your name was said from the stairs. You listened from the sofa. You knew he had heard you move.

“Come upstairs.” Asa’s tone was tired. There was the usual demand his words, but it was softened, not as cold as it once was. You snapped your book closed and made sure the fire guard was in place before you walked upstairs. Asa was stood at the top, his brown hair damp, and his face tired.

You reached the top and smiled as you tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear, “What’s wrong?” You asked. Asa swallowed but didn’t say anything as he leaned forwards again on the top step, his hands reaching for your hips. They slid over the flesh carefully, purposeful as he reached to hold you in place. It wasn’t the usual hungry gnash of teeth clicking, but rather, another soft kiss. Asa held you upright on the stairs before he coaxed you up the last step and into his chest, his lips forcing your own to part before he gingerly touched your tongues together. Confidence gathered within him quickly, and he stole your breath with a demanding kiss. His teeth stayed away from your lips as he pulled away and you peered up at his tired face, star struck still as he ground you against his hips. You held onto the robe wrapped around him as he held you against him, backtracking towards the bedroom.

 You followed Asa in a daze, watching as his fingers undid your own clothes and left them in a heap on the floor. Firmly, his hands traced at your figure, moving over the contours and grooves of your torso before he slid his own robe free and grabbed at your buttocks. His fingers dug into the muscle meanly before he relaxed and leaned forwards again, exploring the side most people had as their main function. Your lips met again as he pulled you towards the bed by the wrists. He looked back at the sheets, feeling like an unsure virgin again as his own feelings clashed. His fingers twitched at his sides, wanting to grapple you down on the bed and push inside of your mouth. He enjoyed the drool sliding between his fingers, gloved or not. The idea made him hard, but he let you ease him back against the bed. Control. He didn’t like this. No control. Asa’s breathing deepened before his hands gripped your hips tight.

“I set the pace.” He hummed as he kissed at your collarbones, “Or not at all.” His tongue tasted your skin, but he didn’t mark you. You shuddered over his hips, looking down at him, love drunk. Asa looked at your eyes and felt his own breathing pick up again. Your skin stretched over you as you knelt up to touch yourself. His hands made short work of stopping your own attentions.

“Please.” You leaned forwards for another kiss and looked at Asa’s black eyes, “Please.” You whispered again against his lips. He blew a breath against your lips before he kissed you again and lifted your hips. His fingers made quick work at replacing your own, slick with lubricant you didn’t remember hearing him get out.

“Shhhh.” He whispered against your ear as you moaned shakily. His hands cupped at your skin as he leaned back and pushed your hips flush together, finally.

#asa emory x reader #the collector x reader #asa emory #the collector #the collection #the collector (2009) #The Collection (2012) #asa emory x gender neutral reader #the collector x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #reader insert #slashers #slasher #slasher x reader #slasher reader insert #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #oneshot

[fictional-thoughts]

Sweetness

the mandalorian x reader

i had this idea that, when given the chance, my guy mando really enjoys going down on his girl. so! let’s all thirst for the hottie with a helmet on ;)

words: 2.6k

warnings: smut, female receiving oral, blindfold use, slight bondage, naked female, clothed male

—

The early morning light is splayed over her body, dots of golden light sprinkles her skin and the light grey sheets of the bed, the thick and heavy comforter pulled back and forgotten it hangs from the edge of the bed.

The Mandalorian takes in the sight, his bare hands curved around her thighs, thumbing the soft skin in smooth circles. Without the helmet contouring his vision, he sees everything so clearly, the intimate details of her, the way her reddened lips part in soft sounds, her wrists crossed and twisting in the soft bounds he’d looped around only moments before, her soft hair against the worn pillow, the arches of her back, pushing her chest upwards as her body is moving without thought, only chasing the closeness he so promised her.

She’s so warm in his inexperienced hands, he’d never imagined anything to be as good as the way she felt under him. He’s had her before, but every time it feels brand new, opening a vault of hidden opportunities, slick and ready at his wanting.

The light turns as the morning drags on, splashing lines of light seen through the chipped windows of The Mandalorian’s Ship. His hands chase the warm light, pulling and feeling down upwards until they reach her breasts, she jumps at the contact, smiling softly as his large hands engulfe the softness of her breast.

“Please,” she’s quiet, barley loud enough for him to hear. Her eyes are closed under the black silken fabric covering her eyes. Keeping the secret of who the Mandalorian really was. The identity unknown, all that runs through her veins in soul attraction to who he was as a person, not a Mandalorian, a Bounty Hunter, a killer... One who she trusted enough to have her in this way.

“Is this what you want?” He’s close to her ear, his warm breath tickiling her neck, his deep voice mixed with heavy breathing curling through the air, sending warm shocks of arsousl through her. She shudders, trangled up in the idea of him touching her just a little more. The Mandalorians large hand is still on her breast, his palm running down, fingertips sinking into the soft flesh. “Talk to me,” he’s kissing her neck, slowly and messily, basking in the taste of her, the sounds of her soft voice, the creaking of the bonds; he knows just how bad she wishes to touch him, to break from the bonds and feel him alive under her fingertips, to knot her hands in his thick hair, drag her nails in lines down the soldiers back, knives to a stone.

The ripping feeling of desperation is nearly killing her, he’s biting down on her shoulder and squeezing her chest and it’s all too much, she’s tugging on the restraints as her breathing speeds up; she’s sure he can hear her heart pounding. “Keep going,”

He catches her mouth in his own, their lips come together in bruising force of lips tongues and teeth clashing and he inhales deep through his nose as she nearly steals his breath away, her lips part and she licks into his own and he’s only able to stop himself from devouring her again and again. It’s all rotten candy and sickly sweet wine, she’s a whisper of what things in heaven should taste of. His hands never stop moving, mapping the plains of her body, an artists shaping the statue, he’s everywhere all at once, she chokes on a gasp as he tweaks one of her nipples before moving to taste her with his tongue. The warm wetness of his mouth over on her tit is pushing her closer to collapsing with heated arousal.

She figures she wouldn’t need the blindfold next time, her eyes are screwed shut and not going to open for a while as the shocks of pleasure leak through her system. She can feel his soft hair brushing her flesh, his teeth dragging and digging over her skin, the roughness of his face, his chapped lips, his calloused, battle worn hands; yet they hold her so gently. It’s a battle of fire and fire within her and in him as well. He’s worried he’s taking everything out on her, getting lost in her body to forget his life, the blood on his hands, shards of broken bones and echoes of screaming victims.

The Mandalorians helmet and gloves are off, those are the only parts of him bare to her, to match her exposed nakedness. The helmet is on its side on the floor, the visor staring at the two lovers, entrnagled within one another, sharing breath through bruising kisses and his hands moulding her skin to his touch.

“Mando...” she doesn’t know his name, know his past, she only knows sharp words and gunfire, the smell of blaster smoke and the feeling of fearing of her life. “Gods, you have to touch me.”

He drags himself from her breasts and moves to cup her jaw in his large hand, pull her face closer to his, meet her swollen lips to his own. Short and damp are the kisses, slicked together with the rush of the risk. His knee keeping him upright is sinking the mattress, the hard metal plates of his amour are alien to her bare skin, and send shivers up her arching spine when the metal glides over her skin. Before tying her up, he’d slowly helped her remove her clothes, catching her lips with his own in between quickening moments of rushed passion. His adoration of her only grew when he realized she trusted him in such a way, to have her blinded, at his own mercy, a victim like no other.

He’s lathering her skin with marks and sensing out her sweet spots by following her patheticly sweet sounds, the soft sighs, hushed whimpers and moans of his name. His hand moves to push her thigh down, giving him room to settled between them, and he sees she’s so, so, so wet. She’s hot and slick with arousal. Her body trembles as he rids some of his armour, freeing up his albilty to contort and lower himself to her centre, to begin what he so desperately wanted to do. He remembers tasting her on his tongue for the first time; under her careful instructions he had buried his head between her warm thighs, snug around his ears. His chin and lips were soaked in her dripping honey he had curled his mouth around her most sensitive spots, delved his warm tongue into the cleft of her cunt he dragged her up the hill to climax, all through her whines of estastic pleasure, soft orders and shrill moans.

He’s brought back to the moment when she speaks.

“I wanna feel you so bad,” she’s pleading, not caring to see him, but to break the man free of his chains and armour, to peel back his clothing and expose him fully to her wanting, to feel the contours of his muscles, hard and sinewy under his slicked skin, she wants to tear open what’s left of his humanity and use it for her pleasure and hers alone.

Before her, the Mandalorian never thought of sex, of holding one so close he could shatter them and piece them back together, to have one at total mercy, and for them to be desperate for it. He’s moving by pure instinct, and had been each time he’s taken her before that. She’s been there for him, an open body for him to burrow into, bask in the warmth of her, to taste her, tear her apart, lick up the sweetness of her and rebuild her, all in the darkness of her own willingness.

“You trust me?” His voice is rough and slurred with his growing disire to have her. She’s nodding frantically and the Mandalorian is watching her, chest heaving. She, to him, is something else entirely, the Mandalorian is not so sure if he should fear the way she makes him feel. He would burn cities for her, destroy battleships, take a million live in cold blood is she told him to. It doesn’t cause him fear nor resentment, but utter amazement that she alone has chosen him.

“Please,” she’s saying again, her voice dipped in something so sweet he feels a skip in the pattern of his heartbeat. The Mandalorian sighs against her, inhaling shakily he looks up at her, peering through his lashes. “I dont, I don’t wanna see, I can’t bear to not feel you.” Silence follows her voice, and she’s swallowing her fear that maybes she’s said too much, that he’ll stand up, leave her longing and pathetically desperate.

It’s the silence and the darkness that is around her, the uknown of the moment. She thinks that’s why she’s so aroused, so needful of something, anything, to make something come to light. The bed creaks and there’s a shifting above her, his scent follows him, of metallic rust and smoke, of blood and dirt. It’s everything to not break from the bonds and pull him close.

She’s sure now that was line was crossed. That was the deal, was it not? To be bonded and unseeing, he could finally touch her. No matter the circumstance, he’s breaking the rules of his religion, his history, his culture. The Way, all of that along with everything his commander had burned into his mind was forgotten the moment you offered him your body, your soul.

Then there’s a short, rough tug of the strings above her and her wrists are free, she gasps softly in disbelief and before she can move Mandalorian is shifting downwards and lifting her hips to his mouth. His own eyes close as his mouth is slanted against her wet slick and honeyed skin, the soft petals of her sex under his lips, she’s crying out and her thighs are closing around his head, hips lifting to grind out as much movement as she could gather. Finally he’s there, right at the place to begin to tug her crashing release closer, she’s panting, skin dotted with sweat as he goes down on her. She’s rushing to contain her breaths, and thinks for a moment that damn she’s taught him so well.

“Stay still,” his large hands press down hard into her hips, forcing her to still. He’s following the softer movements of her body, circling his tongue around her bud he’s drinking all she has to offer.

She’s trying, but with her freed hands she immediately drops them to his head, gripped in her splayed fingers she pushing him closer to her soaked cunt, whining as he’d pull away to suck a short mark into the softness of her thigh. Her hand knots in his hair, and he finds himself groaning roughly into her when she tugs on it, fire looms within him, and he’s so achingly hard and desperate to fuck her that the Mandalorian thinks he could come right then, her nails catch in his thick dark hair and pull as he sucks and licks her sweet cunt. She’s close, panting as her breath is picking up she’s so close.

She’s telling him how good he’s doing, how his hands feel digging into her waist, his unruly hair tangled in her hands only makes her want to come faster. She’s begging and repeating his name, the cunningly sweet nickname she’s called him this whole time she’s known him. “Mando! Gods, slow down, I’m close —”

The Mandalorians not a talker, he’s assertive and straight to the point, he says what he needs to and no more than that. But now he’s sure he would be unable to string together a coherent sentence to tell her just how sweet she tastes, just how warm she was against his lips, how her hands in his hair and hips arching into his hands makes him nearly explode. The Mandalorian is too far gone to stop, he’d rather an aching jaw than you feel unwanted and forgotten about. He thinks of her in the darkness of the blindfold, and realizes just how lucky he really is. She is open and exposed to him, and willingly so if he could only allow her to see, it would make the whole thing so much better.

“You’re so — mmh,” he’s caught up in focusing on her hot and swollen bud, he wants to say beautiful, he’s never said the words aloud but all he can think to say is how fucking sweet you are against his lips, melted candy and ripely tang he’s sure she’s the best thing he’s tasted. Sucking and smoothing over with his tongue shes seconds away from bursting under him. He reaches his right hand to grip one of hers and she’s nearly sobbing as the feeling of hot pressure spreads through her anatomy.

She grips his hand, fingers linked with his own and squeezing as if she’s pulling the trigger. Her thighs tremble and tighten, it’s a burning coil strung so tight and hot, he’s only done this so many times she’s wondering just how bad it is that she’s so attracted to the Mandalorian that he can pull her to coming within minutes of only using his touch. She’s blind to him but not unfeeling.

“You’re almost there,” he’s not stopping, the seeping, white hotness of his own arousal is nearly controlling every once of his movement, he’s hard as goddamn marble and only thinks of how soft and warm she is around him. He’s licking and circling her faster and faster, closing his lips around her softness, her sweeetness dripping from his chin he is pulling her closer and closer. Her backs arching, knees drawing up and nearly suffocating the Mandalorian, pressing him as close as she can. She’s absolutely soaked and it’s only getting tighter, the coils about to break and he’s takes one last suck, swipe of his tongue and movement of his head under her hands she falls apart under him.

She’s choking on moans as waves of climatic bliss are sent throughout her body as if it were lightning on a seastorm, the burning wildfire of orgasmic endings and painful spasms of her muscles contrapt her within herself. She’s hot all over and her thighs are shaking terribly. Her body is ruined and numb in the aftermath of such a surge of sudden pleasure. The Mandalorian utters soft moans as he relaxes further into the bed, into her; sinking past her shaking limbs he drinks as if he had never had such a thing. Her breasts rise and fall in line with her heavy breathing, lips still reddened she gnaws on the bottom one, her mind still slack with pleasure.

She lets go of his hand to cart her fingers through his hair, he’s pushing himself up and onto her, wary of his beskar armour digging into her sensitive skin.

“Are you alright?” His bare hand slides over her face, lines her jaw and trails over her cheekbone. His fingertips graze over the blindfold. Would it really hurt to pull off the mask? To reveal himself to one who has just exposed her most intimate self? She lazily turns her head to stare at him, he imagines her without the blindfold, soft starlike eyes, he would kiss you in the middle of your forehead, feel your lashes flutter against his skin.

“I’m more than alright, Mando,” she’s pulling him close to capture his lips with her own, soft and gentle, she tastes herself on him and smiles. “We should use the blindfold more often.”

—

thanks for reading!

feedback is much appreciated, this is my first ever star wars fic (smutty or otherwise) and i wanna know how i did and if you want to read more!

#the mandolorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian smut #sinful sundays #my writing #star wars #the mandolorian smut #send me requests #the mandalorian x reader

[inviouswriting]

Hands

Arjuna x reader.

From one of my prompts 

Fingers locking

And a borrowed one from @thevoidwriting​

Some spicy hints of smut in here. but very mild ones.

The first time you hold Arjuna’s hand, it is gloved. You rub the pad of your thumb over the top of his hand, missing the way his eyes dart to your face. You feel him slip his hand from your grip, he felt ashamed like he shouldn’t be allowed this privilege from you.

The second time you hold his hand, he still wore gloves, but did not recoil from the touch like he usually did. Instead there is a grace of a gentle smile on his face, and you smile more when a curious thumb plays over the top of your own hand in his. You allow him to take it slower, you see in the blink of the dark room, a wistful look in those deep brown eyes, hopeful as he lays his heart open.

The third time you take Arjuna’s hand, it feels natural. The gloves still there, shorter on his hands, black and you sneak a finger to grace his wrist. He looks to the side from the gesture you give him. You don’t miss his expression, but don’t question him about his heart. You let him open up gradually on his own pace. That was the true way into it.

The fourth time you grace his hand, you feel skin from his forearm up to his palm where you trace fingers over the center. It was the trigger in what lead you both to want more. Till his hand gripped yours tight against the top of your shared bed. You two had taken a bigger step in your relationship. Intimate in a way only you two would allow. 

You admire the way your hands fit together, fingers locking together. His holding yours tight, Arjuna feeling yours equally tight on his. Neither of you wanting to let go, so you don’t and sleep like that.

The fifth time, Arjuna pulls his hand back, worried about his inner demons again. Till you take his hand. You feel over his fingers memorizing the small indents of his bows string, You sit with Arjuna and bring his hand up to your face.

“Master?” You look up at his face, meeting the stare he has, you know the expression. He was about to remind you about getting to close to him.

“Arjuna.” Arjuna begins to tug his hand back, and you hold onto it loose at his wrist. Your thumb playing over the top of his hand soothing.

“I don’t see why you find my hands interesting.. all they’ve done is kill. They’re stained. You’d be better off with them covered.” Your mouth presses into a firm line, and you move your hands to either side of his head and hold him there.

“ No I want to play a with your hands, see the nicks and groves. See the callouses, get to know its history and play with each finger till I know them as well as my own.” As you say this, your hands smooth down his face, touching the contours of his jaw to his neck where your hands rest at his shoulders.

Arjuna is taken by surprise with your words, and looks away sheepish. He lets you take his hands without question and satisfy your curiosity with them. Not missing when your fingers pass over an old scars. 

The sixth time you hold his hand, he is sure of himself and where it is you love him. Showing him trust with your own heart. You travel together, finding him looking amazing in purple and hair styled back out of his face. Dark eyes regard you as he picks out items for you and himself.

When you walk with him, your fingers are locked perfectly, and he shows affection in his way. You see him at ease in your presence now. You remember the day you gave him chocolate for the first time, and he had gifted you the arrow that he used on his brother. To try and live his best life now, you never expected that, that would be with you in it.

Arjuna seeks your hand out often, holding it every chance he gets. In the cold of air he is the breath that warms them. In the calm of the morning, you feel his thumb dance over the back of your hand. Under the moonlight he holds it tight as you cry his name from underneath him. He also recalls the hardest you ever held it when you feared losing him, you remember him holding yours hard for the same fear. 

The tender kiss upon your palm, with warm eyes staring at you. You wouldn’t trade the world for this single moment with him. Truly the prince shining through, and his heart was yours that you cherished. 

Specially when he holds your hand tighter in his now.

#fate arjuna #arjuna (fate) #fgo arjuna #arjuna x reader #arjuna

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Snowed In p6

This gave me such a hard time but I needed this conversation to happen for like 50% of the plot shit down the road, plz forgive me. 

Pairing: Geralt x fem!reader

Warnings: hella awkward convos, pining, self depreciating undertones?, talking about sex? idk yall im tryinna tag these with everything i can think of but if i miss something plz let me know!

Summary: (Last part was pure smut, but for those who skipped, it was basically them justifying a good roll in the hay bc it would help them sleep) The day after some completely pragmatic and not at all monumental sex they’re figuring out where to go from there. Boundaries and such?

__________

part 5 here!

You woke slowly, uncomfortably warm and… sticky? 

As reality came into focus you realized the stickiness was sweat from being plastered to Geralt's bare chest as you slept. You wriggled a little, loosening his hold on your hips so you could scoot back and see his face. He was still fast asleep, hair sticking to his stubble and mouth slightly open. He looked so much more innocent, almost juvenile when he slept. It made you want to protect him, as ridiculous as it sounded. 

Your hand reached up on its own to brush the strands of hair away from his face. When he didn't stir you trailed your first two fingers down his jawline, gently dragging the backs of your knuckles up over his cheekbones. You knew he could wake up at any moment, and it would be uncomfortable to explain why you were staring at him like he alone breathed life into you every day, but you continued tracing the peaks and contours of his face. 

If you let yourself think about it, he technically did. He got you up every morning, did anything you asked to help you, and everything you didn't have the stones to ask. This man made space for you like no one ever had and accepted the mess you brought with you, going so far as to help you sweep it into a manageable pile. 

You swallowed back the lump forming in your throat as you realized just how much of a mess you'd made for yourself this time. You'd fallen in love and set yourself up for nothing but pain.

The snow would melt, you two would join Jaskier on the other side of the pass, things would go back as they were, and you would fall asleep alone. 

You took a slow deep breath in and savored the peace for the last couple of moments you could before your heart would burst. Gently lifting Geralt's arm, you rolled up to sitting as slowly as possible, watching him the whole time. When he still didn't wake, you snatched up your clothes and tiptoed to the bathroom. 

He was still asleep after a towel bath and meticulously braiding your hair, softly snoring now. You couldn't help but feel a little proud of yourself for tiring him out so thoroughly.

Sitting down next to him you squeezed his shoulder, "Geralt. Hey, wake up." 

He grumbled something about it being early and patted the bed where he thought you were supposed to be before his eyes snapped open.

"There he is." You cooed, reluctantly pulling your hand away.

He squinted and furrowed his brow against the morning sun, pushing himself up on one elbow, "You're up. And dressed." 

Now, you knew you were manufacturing the disappointment in his words, but it still hit you just as hard. You sprang to your feet, kicking the contents of your bag back toward the corner with a little more vigor than necessary, "Woke up hungry. C'mon, get up." 

"Alright, alright." He grumbled, rolling over and reaching for his neatly packed bag.

Breakfast was uncomfortable, to say the least. 

Geralt didn't lean his knee against yours and you weren't sure if you missed it or were relieved he spared you the adrenaline rush. Though when he brushed against your arm reaching for the salt and you nearly jumped out of your skin. The neighbors sat across the table from you and one of them winked at you, almost making you choke on your oats. As soon as Geralt was done with breakfast you cleared both your plates and made a beeline for the door. 

You lead the way out to the barn, excited to see the caverns in the snow your fight had left the week before were still uncovered by fresh snow. You fumbled with the latch, not entirely paying attention, so Geralt reached over your shoulder and flicked it open himself. He was so close you felt his breath on your neck and the heat coming off of his chest. Everything in you wanted to lean back into him, but that might be breaking a rule and these rules were becoming ever more nuanced. 

You went about your usual business feeding and examining the horses and were about to leave, but Beau looked so sad and bored. Poor guy hadn't gotten more than a walk up and down the breezeway in a month and you could see the pent up energy in his eyes. You sighed and grabbed hold of his mane, swinging up onto his back and laying back over his haunches while he ate. This felt like a good place to slow down and examine your options with this whole "friends" business. 

"Y/N?" 

Or it would have been. 

"Stall." You answered, not sitting up even when you heard him slide the door open. 

"What're you doing up there?" Geralt's voice had that same confusing, unidentifiable tone he'd used when he'd left you in the bath. 

"He looked so lonely. You don't just spend time with Roach?" You spared him a glance, noting how casually he leaned against the door, arms crossed so that his collar slipped down to show the marks from your nails digging into his skin.

He shrugged, "She gets tired of me." 

Beau walked across the stall to sniff Geralt’s pockets and nudge his hand when he smelled what he was after. You shifted to stay balanced on his back, absolutely no intention of coming down any time soon.

The silence between you that crept on and on was in no way comfortable. You fidgeted while Geralt pet Beau, giving him a treat here and there when he smiled for him. Normally you’d be amused, now you were just angry at yourself.

You swung a leg over Beau’s withers, spinning to sit sideways facing Geralt, “You’re rather quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

You shook your head, frantically searching for the words you needed, testing the waters,“I ah… I had a good time last night.”

He quickly glanced at you before focusing back on Beau trying to eat his gloves, “Mhmm... Haven’t slept that well in months.”

There was a beat where you debated leaving it there, but you were never one to quit while you were ahead, “This doesn’t have to be weird, does it? I don’t want things getting tense.”

Geralt finally locked eyes with you, searching your face for something, “No… if you’re uncomfortable-”

“Which I’m not.” You interrupted.

He tilted his head, a softness taking over his face that you rarely saw, “You’re my best friend. As long as you’re okay with it, I am too. It’s just sex, after all.”

You nodded, “Just sex. Yeah. We- heh, we didn't even kiss...”

“Exactly. What are friends for?” Geralt playfully swatted at your boot, giving you a grin. 

What are friends for…

You plastered a smile on your face, changing the subject before the emotions bubbling in your chest boiled over, “Jaskier is gonna kill you when I tell him you said I’m your best friend.”

He moved to stand in front of you, crossing his forearms and resting them on your knees. His touch was calming, grounding you back into reality as he usually did.

He squinted up at you, “That’s if you tell him.”

You patted his hand, “Oh, I’m definitely telling him.” you teased. 

He gripped your wrist and quickly spun to face away from you, pulling you forward and off Beau's back. You squeaked and gripped onto his shoulders when you landed on him. He laughed, giving a little jump to get you higher on his hips and get a hold of your knees. A giggle slipped from your lips, partly due to surprise, but partly because his grip on your knees tickled.

"I'll tell him it was you who dropped the sword on his lute strings." Geralt made his threat halfheartedly, carrying you out of the barn only to have you steer him back to grab your gloves that you'd left on the hay. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, taking your opportunity to hold him close to you as possible, resting your chin on his shoulder. His warmth and his scent lulled you into a state of content as he took his time meandering back to the inn. Just before he reached the door you noticed a fresh snowflake on your elbow. 

"Motherfucker." You shouted, "It's snowing again." 

"Shit! Y/N, you're right in my ear." He tried to turn to look at you but you tucked your head against his neck, hiding almost like a child. 

"Sorry. I forgot…" you whispered, more out of embarrassment than anything.

He hummed, the vibrations permeating your whole body from where you were perched as he yanked the door open and stomped inside. You wiggled, communicating you could once again walk just like a toddler, but he just hoisted you up higher and trudged up the stairs. You bit your lip, hiding a smile on the basic principle of not wanting to feel it, not necessarily because anyone important could see you. 

When you reached your room Geralt rather unceremoniously collapsed onto the bed, sending the two of you bouncing for a bit before he came to rest with his shoulders on your hips. 

"Tired?" You asked, fighting the urge to rake your fingers through his hair.

"Exhausted." He made no effort to get up but rested his hands underneath the outsides of your knees. 

You sighed in agreement and rested your hands on his shoulders, "Post breakfast nap sounds nice."

I can handle this. I know the boundaries. Just don't kiss him. That should be easy enough ...

__________

part 7 here!

gotta edit bc im a scatterbrain and forgot to tag! If you want to be tagged plz let me know! 

@ab-haya @fire-in-her-veinz @cavillhavoc

#geralt of rivia #the wticher #geralt of rivia fic #geralt of rivia fanfic #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x reader fic #geralt #geralt x reader fic #geralt fic #geralt x reader fanfic #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fan fiction #the witcher fic #geralt x fem!reader #fucking yearning hours yall #thats damn near all im good for

[phoenixtakaramono]

The Untold Tale - ch2 Preview

SUMMARY: Let it not be said that Shen Yuan didn’t know how to be an accomplished—arguably better—writer than Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky! A middle-aged author in his hubris, he’d unknowingly triggered his fate and had his consciousness whisked away into an unfathomable mystical world that he would later learn to be based on Proud Immortal Demon Way and his very own work-in-progress. When given the opportunity to customize his character’s stats and to design his one remaining Customizable Skill Slot, as a veteran reader of transmigration stories and its tropes, Shen Yuan demanded, “Grant me the protagonist’s halo of course!”

The SYSTEM was silent all but for a minute.【Understood. Unique Skill <<PROTAGONIST’S HALO>> activated. Esteemed Host, you share the Unique Skill <<PROTAGONIST’S HALO>> with one other.】

“Who?”

【This world’s Luo Binghe. From the original novel series.】

“...Hold on, I need some time to process this.”

(Little did Shen Yuan know that this world’s Luo Binghe is the same sadistic Heavenly Demon “Bing gē” who’d stumbled upon the alternate universe version of his “Shizun” enjoying marital bliss with “Bing mèi” in one of the released Extra short stories. It was also too bad that Shen Yuan, in his mortal form, resembled Shen Qingqiu by a good thirty-to-forty percent.) 

(It’s a sort-of redemption fic. I think Bing gē deserves his own Shen Yuan. Some soulmates are just meant to be....)

Luo Binghe didn’t reply immediately when the low voice graced his ears. He was content to drink his fill of the fortuneteller before him, his breath stolen. 

It was as if the Heavens had sculpted this extraordinary fairy from the white nephrite mines of the Tian Shan Mountains and had breathed life into their creation. Such a man gave the impression of a heron found resting in the wetlands, with an immaculately majestic white plumage and tall stature and long legs. The crown had lent him a dignified air, with its moonstone threads giving off a resplendent iridescent sheen in the moonlight. Aside from the face, any sign of skin was covered up beneath the many fabrics of dark blue finery and silverspun threads. The gossamer tips of the white embroidered wings on the back of his outer robe fanned out along the bend of those wide sleeves as though the wings of the egert were extended around the wearer himself, the outstretched tips of the chiffon weaving gracefully in the air from any subtle breeze or movement. 

Luo Binghe stared brazenly at the man’s high collar which was fastened securely around the throat, not allowing a sliver of skin to be exposed. In contrast, the mink fur of the man’s outer robe looked luxurious and soft to the touch, begging for him to sink his fingers into it. 

He was the very representation of how Luo Binghe had imagined a celestial being to appear sequestered away in the coveted Heavenly Realm, mature and self-restrained and untouched by matters of the secular world. Luo Binghe shifted, briefly scanning the surroundings. Like seeing through a fog, colors of this mystic world were not as vibrant as that in the Mortal Realm. Frozen clouds hung in the outskirts of the infinite pond, the picture of twilight outside, with heaven and earth enveloped in silver and white.

Because Luo Binghe was once brought up with the common people who believed in everything divine—or supposed to be divine, no matter whether it was associated with Buddhism, the Dao, or the cult of the dead—he was familiar with the folklores and fictions that populated the imaginations of his countrymen. The educated class never made it an occasion to question the validity of the myriad of deities worshipped by the illiterate masses. Except for deities, everything under the sky was the King's land; everyone on these lands were the King's subjects. For reasons of courting blessings and averting calamities, mortals in their middle empire followed the teaching of Confucius in their religious beliefs, including the lesson to treat all divinities with reverence and to regard them at a cold, respectable distance. 

And among those popular tales, Luo Binghe was familiar with the mythology of the Eight Great Fairies. Like cultivators, they represented the pinnacle of human beings who had acquired immortality and magic through the constant practice of the esoteric discipline of Dao, achieving a status of divinity and ascending from the secular world. If this celestial was a fortuneteller, then his situation reminded Luo Binghe of the story of Ho Hsien-ku. Endowed with a supernatural power, the magician could make divinations and prophecies without the slightest mistakes.

“My story?” Luo Binghe rasped, intentionally obtuse. His expression relaxing, he permitted his hand to be lowered but he kept the tight grip on the man’s wrist. 

When the immortal had spoken, contrary to his aloof and handsome appearance which resembled white frost, his voice was as refreshing as a spring brook. Every word he’d uttered was infused with a bit of warmth, reminding Luo Binghe of the afterglow that followed the setting sun—even with the slightest warning lodged in that tactful entreaty. He’d called him xiōng dì, so Luo Binghe could surmise the celestial considered himself as Luo Binghe’s senior.

It was obvious that while he was wary of a Heavenly Demon’s sudden appearance at his residence, the ethereal being didn’t seem to bear him any misgivings. He seemed more curious about how Luo Binghe ended up here.

“...This lord doesn’t recall crossing a silver bridge,” Luo Binghe continued slowly. In their tales, the Heavenly Realm was ruled by the Jade Emperor who presided over a court of deities worshipped throughout China. Only human beings who had lived exemplary lives were allowed entry after death by crossing the “the silver bridge” into this domain and being reborn as gods.

His body and mind felt strangely refreshed, the internal fire no longer consuming him. There was a faint recollection of the feeling of fire abetting as the yin energy flowed through him, and even when he’d begun to regain consciousness, he remembered registering the feeling of a pair of hands on his back guiding him to lie back down. Realizing the significance of his position on the immortal’s lap after falling into the river, his eyes were overfilling with indescribable emotions after piecing together what must have happened. It was a small revelation that made his head dizzy.

The serene gaze settled upon his face, and beneath the thick eyelashes that were devoid of color, the immortal was assessing Luo Binghe with an intensity that he himself didn’t mind returning. 

In the deep recesses of his mind, Luo Binghe compared the differences of his features against two similar faces. He committed to memory the beguiling shade of jade found in those pale eyes, with the emotion that swum in them as calm as the surface of a lake. They were quite different from the cruel bottomless storms of his Shizun and the gentle overcast skies of the other “Shen Qingqiu.” 

To Luo Binghe, the existence of this person was akin to finding a painting that had been carefully preserved and well-hidden, like a fairy who has hidden his existence from the realms for centuries. His unusual appearance could even be likened to the seven wonders of the world, a peerless beauty that could even overshadow the female white snake spirit Bai Suzhen from fable. Celestials were naturally an enigmatic sight that stole a second glance and set the heart at ease. Luo Binghe felt as if he’d discovered an elusive treasure of indescribable rarity which had never before been gazed upon by the likes of mere mortals or demons. 

And he was undoubtedly his shizun, even with the differences. 

This was the one—the special existence that belonged to him. A chance encounter between a celestial and between a human who had the blood of ancient demons fallen from heaven running through his veins could only be testament to the natural balance of order.

The sudden damp touch against the side of his face made his eyelids jolt slightly, reacting to the drag of fabric along his skin. 

A pensive air seeped into the celestial’s demeanor, and Luo Binghe could sense he was contemplating Luo Binghe’s facial features. Deep in thought, the pad of his thumb carelessly brushed against his jaw, making Luo Binghe’s pupils constrict.

They were a pair of scholarly, masculine hands. Although the fortuneteller wore gloves, Luo Binghe could presume that those long fingers held a bit of roughness to them, calluses formed from training with a sword or from other extraneous activities. Having trained in the art of cultivation himself, Luo Binghe could not disregard the white sword sheathed at the immortal’s waist as being worn for decorative purposes. He gave the deceptive impression of being quiet and harmless, but Luo Binghe had discerned his body to be capable of releasing stored-up strength at any time. From his position lying on the immortal’s lap, Luo Binghe could sense the contoured muscles hidden beneath the folds of fabric. 

A mental image suddenly appeared in Luo Binghe’s mind which made him want to slide those offending garments off and sink his teeth into that pale, untarnished flesh which resembled the moonlight. The emotion in his gaze became all the more lascivious as he imagined the colors that’d bloom, branded by him.

In the same measured tone, the immortal proclaimed, “You are Luo Binghe?” When the smile spread across Luo Binghe’s face, the fortuneteller soon matched it. He answered himself amicably, “Yes, you are the one whom the fates smile upon…. It is an honor to finally meet the reputable young lord who presides over the demons. I present to you my greetings.”

“And to be able to meet you is seven lifetime’s worth of blessings.” He saw those snowy lashes flicker as the brows flew up. Seeing surprise coloring those features, Luo Binghe swallowed and rasped, “Permit me to be so bold, but this xiōng dì would be honored to know what this simple fortuneteller’s name is.”

Those pale jade eyes flickered past. “...I am known as Shen Yuan.”

Luo Binghe mouthed the name, repeating the consonants and the syllables. A look of hunger flitted across his face, before his expression soon resumed its natural state, sweet and indulgent. 

He can be good to this Shen Yuan.

(Chapter 1 can be found on AO3. Link is in my profile)

#svsss #luo binghe #bingqiu #shen qingqiu #bingyuan #shen yuan #the untold tale #phoenixtakaramono #WIP #preview #ch2 #If I'm lucky I can maybe eke this out by Nov #if not then you can consider it a December gift #bc good lord the sheer number of comments from just the prologue alone #I am flabbergasted #TUT will be updated b4 G&G #my writing #scumbag system #the scum villain's self saving system

[maximumninjavoid]

Mining for Unobtanium part 21

Oh my gawd, yes, twenty one.

Ya’ll have been so good, you get TWO parts of this nonsense today. that’ll make your Monday suck less.....

I’m having a GREAT time writing this. I need to put it all into one BIG WORD DOC. an asbestos word doc.

Unbeta’d, we die like appliances . And cheap cars.

@fishcustardandclintbarton, that’s their line. I stole it.

At eleven packages arrived. One was from a lingerie shop I had browsed at online, Bordelle. Their stuff was exquisite, really, cutting edge fashion, and wickedly sexy. I assumed he either knew or guessed my sizes. I had already done my due diligence on the dreadmill, hoping some of this whatever this was would dissipate, but even an hour at an incline of three and a half didn't settle the starlings in my stomach. Those were no butterflies. I spent an indulgent amount of time in the bath, lotioned everything that could be with almond oil, touched up my cuticles, decided my pedicure was in good shape,  exfoliating, buffing, it was madness. Nerves, I suppose. I mean, wouldn't you be? I began opening boxes. Stockings, of the most fine denier, that you could read a newspaper through, and a Cuban heel with a seam up the back. A suspender belt of black straps, almost like an open bottom girdle, with six garters. A matching balconette bra that would really display my decolletage.    There didn't seem to be any panties. Hmmmmmm. There was a beautiful pair of shoes with a low heel and an ankle strap, which was amazing, because I don't have the grace or the talent to wear heels. The dress that accompanied it was simple and elegant, well made, and also rather retro in it's styling. Fitted bodice, sweetheart neckline, sleeves that ended just at the elbow, rather fit and flare in its styling, and the skirt was voluminous. My God, there was even a hat with a little veil and gloves. He didn't miss a trick.   I began to dress. Fortunately two weeks in a hotel had not been all that bad for me. The circles under my eyes required minimal spackle, a bit of blush, a swipe of contour here and there, with my contacts in, eyeliner was out of the question and it hadn't occurred to me that I should pack lashes. Mascara it is then. Lip stain, blotted, fixed,reapplied, blotted again, this was NOT coming off, on my mask or on a shisuitAollar. I spritzed some scent in all the proper places and I hoped he wouldn't recognize it, and that it would please. I've never been one for traditional women's fragrance. It smells artificial on me. I like darker notes, spice, leather,and they're much better balanced in men's fragrances. I get lots of compliments, and never find myself wearing the same scent as anyone else. Seams straight. Pearls. Hat. Bag. Gloves. Aaaaaand it's 6:45. I've got fifteen minutes to make macrame out of my internal organs. And now, for entertainment, our brain will show a selection of every possible disaster scenario it can conjure, no matter how ridiculous. And I pace. I look at the clock again, and I swear it's moved backwards and now says 6:40. That cannot be correct. I shake my head. I pace some more. I pop breath mints like they're drugs I did in the eighties. I am not going to smoke. I might pass out. There's a knock on the door. My heart pounds. I walk to the door and try to breathe....{internal voice; don't lose your shit} I open the door and there he is. In a suit. Not just any suit. I mean, you can't. Not when you're built like a brick...... House ( apologies to the Commodores). I could write epic poems that would put the Iliad to shame just describing his fair countenance....but I would be doing him a disservice if I didn't spent some time on just how much style he possesses. Tailoring is one thing. Fit, proportion, but he has raised style to high art. Like old Hollywood meets English Nobility, and unless I miss my guess, that's a bespoke Huntsman suit. Made specifically for him. To his precise measurements, by HIS cutter, who has a file on him, and all their other clients; about their preferences, in colors, fabrics, linings, how they want their trousers, best preferences, THE WHOLE NINE YARDS. Did you see *The Kingsmen*? That place. It's actually Huntsman. I think they have been on Saville Row for over 100 years. Might even have a Royal charter. The suit is perfection. Fits literally like it was made for him..... Because it was. And it took twelve weeks and multiple fittings.  Charcoal grey, with a hint of a chalk stripe, very subtle, crisp white shirt, double breasted vest, with a watch chain no less, and the trousers are perfectly tailored, break at the perfect spot, and his tie is a perfect four in hand, and the tie is splashy, but flawless. Me? Oh I'm taking this all in, trying to remember to breathe, and he takes my hand, bows a little, brings it to his lips and just as his mouth is almost at my hand he turns my wrist and kisses the bare skin above my glove, and looks up at me with that smirk he has. "Ma'am? Shall we?" I put my finger under his chin and raise him to his full height . " A moment, please. " I step toward him and slide my hands up each side of his chest and lean in toward him. "Before we leave I wanted to thank you for your excellent taste. Your gifts were lovely and I hope I do them justice" and I pressed my lips to his. He pulled me in closer and wrapped his arms around me, his tongue sought to part my lips and I allowed it, my hand reaching up for the side of his face, as our tongues explored each other's mouth, tentatively at first, quickly catching fire. I didn't want to stop. But I knew if I didn't, we'd be rutting in this doorway and whatever he had planned would be for nothing. Difficult as it was, I pulled back and smiled. " I could do this all night, happily. And more, or did you want to keep our original plan? " He adjusted himself ( I don't think he knows I saw that ) and took my arm in his. "Do you have everything?"  " Thank you, yes. I have my key, my bag, I am in your hands" . He closed the door behind us and walked me down the hall. We exited the hotel through a side door and got into a car with tinted windows. " Please tell me I'm not wearing your lipstick" Smiling again, I remarked that he wasn't but if he wanted to... And he laughed and pulled me in for another kiss. We made out. Like teenagers. In the back of this heavily tinted car, and I couldn't get enough of his kisses. We drove for a bit, I'm not certain how long,  I frankly was too caught up in kissing him, and occasionally pulling back to look into those eyes. We could have driven off the cliffs of Dover, I'd never have known. We turned down a side street, then an alley and stopped in the back of a building. He got out of the car and said he'd be around to get me. Ok. I'll behave. He opened my door, offered me his hand to help me out, said something to the driver and then took my arm and we walked the few steps to the door in the back of this building. Henry was grinning like the cat that are the canary, and I couldn't figure out why. He knocked on the door and after a minute or two, it opened, and we went down a short hallway into a kitchen where there was a booth, IN. THE. KITCHEN. It was all I could do to not scream and go completely fan girl, for at that moment I realized where we were. This was the imagination station; the chef's table at Gordon Ramsay 's restaurant on Royal Hospital Road. I turned to my dinner date and threw my arms around his neck, peppering his face with kisses. " How did you know? How did you manage this? You realize that this might just kill me....oh, right, we have a provision for that. " He bowed from the waist " My Lady is pleased? "

" Oh darling, pleased is not the word! " Dinner was spectacular. Course after course of the most delicious ingenious things the chefs could create, with pristine service and just the two of us. Sharing bites, oh you must taste this, ooh! This, taste! Stealing kisses in between courses, and such easy conversation. we talked about books, and we talked about music, and he ribbed me about my ‘frozen in amber’ musical taste and I told him I had checked out some of the bands on his running playlist and liked quite a few of them. we sat close to one another, thighs touching, holding hands between courses, I kept getting lost in those eyes, but I did manage to hold up my end of the conversation.

I asked him if he was disappointed about not drinking during dinner and he countered with “ I haven’t seen you smoke”. We agreed that kissing was worth some sacrifices. Truth be told I did want a cigarette, but not as much as I wanted him. Dessert, coffee, more conversation, and I asked what else he had up his sleeve. He smiled. “ There is that american expression about the gun show?” I threw back my head and  practically roared. “ I have this well in hand. Shall we?” And he took my hand and we got up and walked out the same back way we had come in, to the waiting car.

#henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill smut #henry cavill x reader

[silverandarsenic-hcs]

Ghost BC x Murder

im a simple girl. i have mental illness. i fantasize about being brutally murdered. is this problematic? 1000% yes. am i going to get canceled for this? 1000% yes. Have I been posting on borrowed time since that little caesars post? again, 1000% yes. Here’s this anyways.

TW: murder, blood, gore, manipulation (Papa II, Papa III), stalking (copia), domestic abuse (Papa III), substance and drug abuse (Papa II), Suicide (Papa II and Dew), Sex crimes - all consensual (Dew) these are about how they would murder you so im sure you can imagine the types of bad things it will entail. 

Papa I: For him, it’s a fit of emotion that drives him to kill. One thing piles on top of the next, frustration turns to anger, anger turns to rage. He doesn’t mean to hurt people, but when he gets so worked up, theres nothing that can stop him. All he can see is red until he’s snapped back into reality and sees the red staining his hands and his favorite robe. With you, all you had to do was walk into his office after a few bads days in a row, more bad news in tow, and that’s all it took. He loses his temper on you before your brain can even register that you should run. Before you can even scream. He’s not particularly a weapon guy, he’s more likely to choke you to death or anything he can do with his hands. If he feels so inclined, he’ll grab the nearest solid object to crush you with. He feels remorse, in the end, but still covers it up and hushes the room when they speak about your disappearance. Decently classic case of homicide - its usually someone you know, crime of passion, unplanned.

Papa II: This one hurt me very deeply to write. His case was classic, when he was a kid. Everyone says that when an adult loses it, you could tell from the time they were a kid that they had cracks - too abnormal, or too perfect. Papa had odd behavior but Nihil never had him tested or even looked at for anything because his ego got in the way, and nothing could possibly be wrong with his son. And nothing was really wrong with him. Something just wasn’t right. He felt things strongly: love, hate, depression, elation, anxieties. Sometimes it was too strong for him to cope. Sometimes he would turn to things that would help him deal with the emotional rollercoaster he couldn’t get off of. Other people just got on with him. He started smoking weed in his twenties. That wasn’t enough. He started drinking heavily at 25. By thirty that wasn’t enough either. Stronger, more potent vices were what he needed. Cocaine. Heroin. Anything to make him feel okay - anything to make him feel. And you, you were the light of his life. The only good thing he’d ever known. You were the only person he had met who could keep up with him, but keep him safe at the same time. But eventually you got swept up in the parties and drugs and drinking too. Lost more control as the months and years passed. And one night he thought you were pussing out. Not being fun. That you were being boring and killing his mood. He pushed you until you did more lines, and kept pushing you and pushing you until your nose began to bleed. But he was so gone he didn’t realize. He pushed you and you accepted it because it was the first time you had ever truly been afraid of him. When you overdosed and died on the couch in the living room of your shared apartment, Papa had already passed out in the bedroom. It was three days before he sobered up enough to wake, and when he found you, he called the police and said there’d been a murder. But he knew what happened. He knew what he did. Cocaine has a funny way of making things stick like that. He hung up the phone, and before the police could arrive, took his own life the same way he took yours. 

Papa III: In the beginning, he has a silly little crush. He steals glances your way. He brushes up against you and makes you blush. As you two talk more, he falls deeper. You two become a couple, an item. You tell each other you love them. Years could pass. You move in together. You don’t notice any cracks in him, but he sees them in the relationship. He saw you talking to the new guy at work today. What’s that, you had lunch with him? That’s interesting. He sees the way you look at the barista when he says your name, and hands you your coffee. You say he makes it the best. He sees the way your friends look at him. He goes through your phone once, when you’re sleeping, and doesn’t find anything. he kicks himself for months about invading your privacy and promises himself that he’s going to stop digging. But he can’t tear himself away. When youre in the other room, he’ll go through your purse. The next time he sees you smile at another man in passing, when you get home he confronts you. you say he’s being crazy. he says your crazy for cheating on him. he just loves you. cant you see? he loves you. when he finally chains you to the radiator in the bedroom so you won’t leave him, you’re shocked at how a man you once loved could be this way. When he finally kills you he’s begging you, with his hands around your throat, to understand that he’s not a bad person. He's not a bad person. He's not a bad person. He’s not a bad person.

Cardinal Copia: He stalks, but never gets close. Not like III. He’s aware of the mistakes of his predecessors. He’s smarter than that. More calculating. He would learn you schedule - morning routine, where you work, what you eat, when you get home, night routine, how long you sleep for. When you touch yourself. When you see your friends. At first it was from interest, but he begins to hate you. The way you walk, the way you talk, who you love, who you hate. And he wants you dead for it - but he wont be hasty, no, he’s still smarter than that. he has to remain calm and collected to pull this off. Hate you as much as he wants, he still knows you’re smart. Not as smart as him, but smart. Its thursday night, and you’re home alone getting ready to go out to the new bar in town with your friends. he climbs into the kitchen through a window he knows you leave unlocked for when you yourself forget your keys and need to break in. In the end, he slits your wrists with a knife he pulled from the wooden block on the counter. Good thing he followed you to work and school, he knows your handwriting wonderfully. He watches you bleed out on the floor while he writes your suicide note. You have never met him in your life. Good thing he always wears those gloves to keep everything clean of fingerprints, because the cops never suspect any foul play, and no one has a clue.

Swiss: He doesnt get close to his victims - he doesn’t have time. When you’ve gone through this many people, you start to forget their names, if you even knew them from the start. He takes jobs as an assassin when he needs the money - and it does pay well - but whenever he needs to blow off steam he’ll really go at it. Get creative. He’s a weapons guy, gun by choice but he’ll really use anything, and he knows each in his collection very very well. But in his eyes he isn’t doing anything wrong, he’s killing people that deserve to die, for good reasons (Edward Cullen who??). Racists, fascist, misogynists, homophobes. He was on the news once for throwing a brick at a nazi. You’re the anomaly on his list of victims though. You were an accident of sorts. He got sloppy with one of his jobs, got noticed, and the vic took a hostage - cue you walking into the back room at work at the wrong time - the only way he can get his shot in without risking his own life or alerting others is to shoot right through you. And now that he’s been noticed, he can’t give up the job and run. He memorizes the details of your face before he pulls the trigger, and kills you and the man with his arms around your torso in one shot. He feels the worst out of everyone. Attends your funeral, but stands very far back. Something about your face, the look in your eyes when you died. He thinks about you often, for a long time. When the exact dip of your nose and contours of your cheekbone begin to fade, he pulls a picture of you he cut from the newspaper from a shoebox under his bed. If he regrets any of the bad things he’s done in his life, it was hurting you.

Aether: He’s the one you don’t expect and he knows it. He’s the cult leader of the group - but that doesn’t make sense. He’s not even a leader in any capacity. He’s no Papa, not even a Cardinal. He doesn’t even lead the ghouls, really. But people trust him, and respect him, and that’s enough. The most pull he has in the church is being what you would compare to an advisor for the cardinal. helps him make decisions here and there. They get more drastic as things go on, and the church slowly burns itself down, but Copia is the only one people blame, including Copia, because Aether makes him believe every choice he made was his own idea. Eventually, when the cardinal has become useless, Aether will have him removed. By whatever means he has to take, but ideally not murder, it’s too early to have blood on anyone else's hands in his name, and far too early to have blood on his own hands. Aether promises to rebuild the name of the church, and fix everything the cardinal destroyed, and make things better.. Make people happy, and health again. And every single person drinks the kool-aid. Soon, rather than worshipping any Dark Lord or Old God, people are worshipping Aether. People believe in him with their hearts and souls. People believe he’s the savior. You are the anomaly. You were close with Aether before all of this started, before he was even the cardinal’s advisory. You just think the power has gone to his head, and blame the cardinal with the rest of him. But when you start digging, you realize it’s been his plan all along to have complete and total power To start his own cult. To be worshipped like a god in a place that was built for it. Your death is a stepping stone on the path for Aether to achieve ultimate power, but of all the stones cast, yours was the only one that meant anything. He didn't want to have to kill you. He didn't want you to defect, and put everything he'd worked so hard for at risk. He couldn’t have that. But the road to his ultimate power ends with his own death too - you can’t really be appreciated for everything good you've done for the world until you die, and he knows that. But until then, he will think of you often.

Dewdrop: Kills you for sexy reasons. Not because you wont sleep with him, or he wants to actually hurt you, but because you both got too swept up in the moment. There’s a movie called Sexual Predator and he’s pretty much the guy in that. One minute he’s got his belt wrapped around your throat, tugging on it hard while he’s hitting it from behind. He’s too caught up in the moment to realize you’ve gone limp on the bed. He doesn’t realize anything is wrong until he finishes. And it’s bad. Oh it’s bad. Unlike every other crime he’s committed, he calls the police, and he’s honest about what happened. He’s disgusted with himself. He’ll never have sex again. He’ll never wear a belt again. He’ll never touch another person’s throat again. He’s sentenced twelve months incarcerated along with probation and some hefty fines. Everyone knows what he did, how he did it. You were friends with all his friends - You weren’t together, but you were friends. And they all know he killed you. If any of the above are likely to have their own suicidal thoughts after the murder, Dew is the most likely to do it. He can’t stand the way everyone treats him after he did it. He can't stand living knowing what he did to you and what hes capable of. He can’t go on like this.

Cirrus & Cumulus: When they kill it’s for each other. In a LOT of other HCs i mention that II’s solution to things is to simply “kill them” if they’re bothering you, but the girls actually just do it. If someone touches Cirrus in a club, Cumulus will absolutely pull a gun out of her back pocket and blow their brains out right there. Good thing for the masks. They’ll spend the next few months or years on the road, saying under the radar until it’s safe to go home again. The ghoulettes have a lot in common with Swiss - they kill for what they believe to be a good reason. The difference is that Cirrus and Cumulus aren’t opposed to the more gorey ways of doing it. Torture, manipulation, blackmail, you name it they’ve probably done it. They know a lot of dirty things about a lot of big people, and at their whim they could have all their hearts desire. Trouble is, knowing everyone’s secrets is just a little bit more fun than that. They’ll kill to protect their friends and family, anyone who has ever unintentionally hurt an animal, and anyone that’s standing in their way. They’ll even collaborate with Swiss on a job if it’s gonna take some more elbow grease, and he needs people he can trust to get the job done without leaving behind a crumb trail of evidence.

- Kat

#i dont edit these so if there's a mistake SO BE IT #im sorry for this disaster and if youd like to complain please send an ask to head office (this blog) #i didnt do everyone because i didnt Want To #Rain and mountain do NOT murder people and i couldnt make myself think so if i wanted to #if anyone its rain and mountain being murdered #tw #blood #gore #murder #drug abuse #substance abuse #alcohol abuse #death #manipulation #abuse #domestic abuse #stalking #long post wow #ghost bc #the band ghost #ghost band #ghost #assasination #trigger warning #papa i #papa ii #papa iii #cardinal copia #copia #cardi c

[batdaddies]

Shadows Of Freedom

warnings: explicit, violence, domestic violence, character death  

pairing: orm marius x oc/reader

about: HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!!! I was listening to All I Ask Of You from Phantom Of The Opera (which is my wedding song, the irony...) and had this idea, this is set when he was young, still a prince, my own canon. Kinda angst, kinda dark, kinda young love, kinda soft, I want this to be a journey of self-discover. A message about this or an ask is always well received! Let's get this long hair Orm bread!!!! (it is a prequel to another multi-chapter fic hihihi wasn't the plan, but where we are) part 2 coming soon. (it was fully x reader, but blame @lanthimo and @nropay in the oc character) (credit of gif to kingsorm)

SHADOWS OF FREEDOM - PART ONE

Feed your mind, feed your lungs, feed your beast.

I

It began with sharp edges down on the sideburns reaching the jawline, two hooks behind the ears to support, and they grew making fins in three rows, the first in a small size, the second in medium and third in large where both connected at the top, in the middle. Tiny alexandrites sparkled around the strong lines, as fooling from the afar the real color, depending the lights, it would be purple, or blue, or silver, or all of them. It rested gracefully on the blonde threads floating in long locks reaching the shoulders, a delicate braid made by the sides so the face could be clean, a straight nose, two arched eyebrows, heavy eyelashes contouring the ocean blue irises and pouty pink lips, the upper sightly laid on the lower, hiding it. A timeless beauty composed of such pretty traces the anger inside the eyes didn’t match, the calmness in the flawless skin was of a wild animal with claws waiting to hunt. The posture of an aligned spine, broad shoulders, strong arms and veiny hands resting on each of his thighs, the royalty was presented on the tight suit made of black scales reflecting red, the atlantean symbol between the hips in the same deep shade of silver the thick bracelets had. No cape, no trident, no armor, only supporting the King in the matters of the Crown, listening carefully, focused on the debate going back and forth of what went wrong in the borders.

A case of four of those crustaceans from the Brine Kingdom trying to sneak into Atlantis without clearance, the reason was unknown, and King Orvax was ready to fight over to discover, his voice of thunders ringing in the white walls, the spirals on the throne trembling, bending to his will, infecting inside with the venom of hate as always had been. Sometimes, it would condemn everything and everyone around, sinking the surroundings into the same emotion which Orm was familiar with, they were his father’s way, and even if in the beginning, when he was trying to understand how it worked, didn’t make any sense, he was taught the most important was the goal reached, not the path to it. Nobody left a word after the yelling, passing a gloved hand on his swinging black short hair without a crown, gold capturing the sun rays and flickering, Vulko stared concerned at the hologram pairing on the white table, along the other two generals.

“Father,” he finally called, composed, the voice coming directly from his throat, two tones lower than the King’s, the arms moved effortless in a soft impulse to stand, floating in the direction they stood on the clean ground, the black boots combined in a straight line just bending when his feet touched the floor, by the side of his father. Both were different physically, Orm was growing some inches taller already, Orvax was old in the wrinkles on the corner of his cheeks, one was blonde, the other was a brunette, one was youth, the other was old; but with strictly resemblances, the obscurity swallowing the eyes, the empowered posture, and the lips. Once all the pupils laid on him, Orm continued. “We cannot risk to go war because of a mere intrusion, we must deliver them back, and speak with their King. This is n—”

Before he could finish, a hand came for his profile in a slap, not in a perfect hit, the razor scales on the back of the gloves met his flesh, piercing into it and holding his face in the act, instead of sliding smoothly through the cheek. Orm cried aloud immediately, feeling his skin standing at their mercy, his eyes closed with the pain and surprise mixing, and his father didn’t hesitant to pull the arm back harder once seeing it stuck, bringing the flesh to stand more in the triangle shape the scales had, blood splashing into the water with bubbles, enough to pollute his entire head and crown. This time, his cry came in a hiss, his own hands coming to the wounds, while his shoulders trembled drastically with the new shots of pain through the veins.

“I did not ask for you opinion,” the King spat every word to his miserable figure, voice too close to know he was in the red thick cloud, right there on his ear, a reminder of the promise Orm made himself long ago to never let his father see him in that state, and took him a great will power to lower his hands, slowly, face turning back to the King, crown high, darkness dripping through his blue eyes, lips rigid in a line of pure anger, it was already easily to ignore the saltiness of water on the cuts. “Leave, and do not show your face to me for the rest of today.”

He heard, not changing a look to any other being in that room, vision blurred by his blood, and hair. It was for the better when his calves pushed up and his body towered over his father’s, but before leaving, the tongue came as an eel, tip curling to touch one of cuts, the closest one to his lip, where burned as soon he licked the drops of blood away. They were two beasts glaring at each other in a challenge, two sides of a same coin, past and present united.

The path of bubbles behind proved Orm was too fast, swimming away from the room of the palace to open waters of the sea, feet impulsing as the pain on his face was coming back to life, the speed ripping the wounds as he passed through the homes of his people. An itchy was born on the tip of his fingers, crawling as a disease into his veins, up to his arms, to the neck, to the mind where it spread in vicious want of carnage, of going back, taking the trident and, in a clean cut, making his father pay. It wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last, and every single time, that itchy came stronger, and stronger, to the point, Orm almost wasn’t able to control it. He loved his father, truly, in his own way of doing so, and he was sure his father loved him back, in his own way too, yet it didn’t mean he would think twice before killing the King.

It was in the Old City he found shelter, in the degraded sunk boat in the middle of seaweeds, where the air conserved itself inside, not allowing animals or atlanteans in. A place discovered not long ago, in an unsettling night at the palace, since then, the tides would take him there to think, and hide. Orm didn’t like that word, he wanted to use another, but there was no other one to specify what he was doing. His body exploded on the huge hole to entered, landing with the left foot and right knee on the floor, standing right away, fingers twisting close to his wounds, where he yelled for them, at least. Yelling from the top of his lungs, chest expanding, too loud to his own ears, a ringing sounding where now he could feel the blood sliding to the jawline, and the neck in thin lines, the boiling anger he had inside coming out, the beast tamed escaping through his voice. For a second, Orm became blind. It was more of a roar, than a yell.

He stopped when breathing was missed, tired, letting his hands support his torso on the knees, panting. The wet long hair a funny feeling on his neck and forehead, the air was pure in his lungs. Orm gave three steps behind, the back on the wood and sliding to the floor, sitting down to calm and think. The wounds would probably turn scars after healing, they were too deep, maybe reaching the muscles, the marks of a King rage forever stoned on the cheek, even with his risen, his father would always be there, a ghost on his face. Orm needed to see himself, the symmetrical face of his becoming more of the darkness he contained down the hole of his heart, the pupils searched the inside of the boat for a mirror, found gold coins with treasures, old weapons, and the immensity of colorful plants pecking through the ends. The fingers went to the collar on the neck, one creeping on and pulling slightly so the adam’s apple could move freely when the lungs receive air instead of water. He was there quietly, closing the eyes and controlling his mouth to never hiss when the shots of pain came to his body every time the wounds decided to remind him they were still there, the lips were pulling at the muscles, and he didn’t want it to happen.

Minutes passed of the battle inside his thoughts, when a little slurp of water woke him from them, Orm raised an eyebrow and straighten his posture, ready to fight the soldiers his father probably sent for him, but his eyes only found a mere hand entering in the air, long lilac nails, delicate fingers, a small palm, a golden bracelet on the wrist and the soaked arm lowering to the ground. He watched as the hand touched around, nails as a tambourine on the wood, he knew it was seeking for something by the way it opened, stopping deadly close to his thigh, on top of one red plants, pulling hard from the roots until it succeed and retrieved. It wasn’t done, coming back, and Orm saw it close to where he was sitting, letting it. Opening the palm, seeking for more of the plants he was on top of, it came on his thigh eventually, a gentle touch on the thick, toned muscle. It noticed the scales of his suit in that same moment, and pulled back right away, however Orm wanted to see the owner, who could come to the Old City to steal some plants, and he was quicker to hold the wrist tightly.

The arm whipped to get away, and Orm forced his grip, holding it still, shifting his body so the barrier of water was in front of him, the currents blurred the figure, just a twisted format of someone on the other side, the colors of white, red and gold. The arm was pulled once more, and Orm pulled at it to show he wouldn’t let go, bending forward to greet whoever was there. A woman as he suspected, on her knees, a basket by her left arm with way more plants than just the red one, the attire was plain green, no scales of any kind, but a metallic texture finishing by the elbows, the hair was locked by two massive braids from the roots of the scalp with a golden headband on the forehead. The lashes blinked in curled threads over the brown eyes, giving a view of the sparkly lids, the same product used there was also on the top of her salient cheeks, nose and Cupid’s bow, on the feminine heart-shaped black lips, they opened when seeing her Prince in surprise, Orm could tell when shock fell on her face and she had a moment to think if she bowed, or not, if she explained, or not. He was too close to her, the crown high, shining all the colors with the blond locks dancing around the jawline, the stare of a powerful royal, cold enough to scold his own people, yet, he forgot what really caused her to wide her eyes, remembering soon when the blood flowed from his neck and cheek by sheer lines. His eyebrows arched to her, a growl, letting go of her wrist and pulling back to air, where a mere atlantean couldn’t follow him, he expected her to leave, swim away from the surprise of the Prince in that state hiding in the ruins of what was Atlantis, however her hand touched the floor between their knees.

“Your Highness,” her voice was muffled by the water, a strange sound, the greeting was more of a calling than a bow, careful wishing the attention. Orm didn’t say anything back, so she continued. “I can help you with the wounds…”

“Who are you?” his tone was serious, demanding, the shadow of a King, loud. The pretty lips almost pouting in every word, almost a behavior to cast out the inferiors from the royalty, almost a threat, what never suited Orm, not in that way, commoner or high-borns, all were Atlantis, he was only a Prince for what his people were there.

“I am Midra, a scientist,” the hand turned, offering the palm, the fingertips painted in the same lilac the nails had. “I can help you to heal with no scars.”

It was what convinced Orm, the possibility of his father cruelty not being a mark on him for the rest of his life, at least not where his people could see, the shame of never going to war, and still to carry visible scars on his face when crowned one day. His legs stood, not accepting the hand, giving the steps needed to exit the old boat, the woman was still on knees when he floated by her side, the posture of the Prince, and her eyes examined him, from the boots to the fins crown, taking her time to absorb the presence in front of her, it would help if Orm wasn’t so intimidating in only his hovering, in only his being.

She gave herself an impulse, braids sitting on the water and the basket falling to her hands, the free arm stretched up, leading the body to wave pass him and guide him to the capital. Orm studied her as she did, the form of her head, of her shoulders, and her waist, following when his chest on the level of her feet, wounds not hurting so much anymore, the saltiness of their seas helping his body to embrace it now, not burning neither when the tides passed by every now and then. They were quiet, the prince on the her shadows, circulating the bright towers, before they reached the traffic of ships on the regular dimension the homes where, she stopped by the beginning of one specifically, right hand pushing the plasma where it shaped the door, the substance changing into mere water to welcome them.

Orm gave a last stare behind and around before entering, a typical home for an Atlantean, glassy walls with a lot of lights, a table with holograms displayed in five or six researches, the logarithms in long studies, by the side, plants of every kind cultivated, a colorful arrange of a few he could name for the lessons about his Kingdom, some blocks connected close for seats, and fishes freely swimming on the ceiling, a manta pairing over his crown. She disappeared into another room with the basket, while Orm contemplated the idea of being into one of his people house, believing into a promise of a scientist to help him. Hours ago, he was by the throne, face torn apart by the King, then the Old City, in a hiding boat, now waiting for what he didn’t know, he thought about leaving, more scars on him wouldn’t be so much of a change. Not being able to, when the woman came back, feet taking her to him, a flask on her hands, the jewelry and makeup with a different spark under the lights of her home, her eyes a shade lighter than in the dark of the ruins, the contrast of her green suit on her golden skin, she seemed off when she also noticed what was happening, focused on the crown on his head a bit too much for his liking, she was staring and that was rude.

“Do I sit down?” he asked, knowing she wouldn’t ask him to do it, knowing she was shy to do anything at that point, he didn’t know though why he was sounding so angry at his ears when she was trying to only help. She nodded quietly, eyes lowered to his boots. Orm went for one of the blocks and sat in the same high posture he did by the Throne.

He watched as she opened the flask, a transparent iridescent creamy substance was found at the end, her delicate fingers took a good portion, and she hesitated for a moment, her hand stopped by some inches of his cheeks, it would definitely be easier if Orm for some minutes didn’t stare at her with those freezing blue eyes, or didn’t wear the crown, or didn’t have his jaw and lips so hard. She touched him with a shot of courage, and Orm almost expected her to apologize for doing so, instead, he felt the soft and refreshing fingers caressing his skin back to the right place, causing both a hiss and a burning, while he studied her, every inch of her close face, the pointy nose, the heavy lashes, every thread of her pitch-black braids, every single sparkle on top of her skin, a bizarre taste on the tip of his tongue.

The fingers did the first time, and on the second, there was no more burning, the cautious not being something he was used to, it was usually the touch of combat, of trident, of his father’s hands, of Vulko’s hands around his torso in a training, but never like that; last time perhaps when he was younger, way too younger. Atlanna’s lovely hands embracing his face, combing his hair back, vanishing into his memories as the last kiss she gifted him on his forehead before she was gone. In the third, her baby finger rubbed on the corner of his lips and Orm swallowed the taste of his mouth with water hard, gazing at her black mouth, the frown she did in an extra dose of attention to him, and the twisting of nose, but never meeting his stare. He could recognize innocence instantly, immaculate, not only afraid of his high position, also the man he was turning into. It was… tempting, for what he learned from his father, innocence was the best virtue to conquer.  

Midra pulled her hand back, there was only silence when she smiled proudly, the feminine lips opening to show teeth. Orm didn’t understand, at first, he saw how her pupils focused on the cheek, so he reached for it, feeling the cuts not so protruding anymore, then the skin was sitting back, under his palm, the regeneration was reconnecting fast, and the cheek was flawless again, in a matter of seconds, no pain left, or burning, as it had never been there. He was so surprised it didn’t fail to somehow affect his expression, just his arched eyebrows softening, strumming the area like she did.

“It is healed already, Your Highness,” she stated nicely, grabbing a mirror on the table and offering him, head lowered. The fishes came to swim around her calves, and the manta close to the braids, shadow over her shoulders.

He accepted, feeling her fingers under his, smaller and softer under his callous, she stiffed lightly, breathing again when the contact was done, the mirror showed him nothing, only the cheek where his skin sparkled with the cream gone. “How?”

“I have been studying our skin properties, how easily it heals from burns, and light cuts, but fails when the muscles are damaged,” Midra said turning around apprehensive, floating over to the table, her curves always shining in the metallic suit, indicating he could follow to see the holograms, Orm did, placing the mirror where it was before, and took a look at them. “Some plants present perfect condition to regenerate themselves even if a part of them was lost. I made a combination to nourish our muscles.”

Orm was in silence, his arms were folding on the chest, paying attention to the notes, and writing. They started to flash in pictures of the plants she spoke about, an animation of how a root was cut, growing up immediately after. As being who he was, there was no need to excuse himself when his hand controlled the hologram up, more notes and the manta appeared in purple dots. Meticulously, he understood her line of thoughts and research. “The real medicine is not for us, it is for the animals.”

“Yes,” she turned to him, nodding with her head, and Orm stared at her for a while, how her lashes fell to stare at his neck, interrupted when the real manta dove between them, crawling up on the woman’s chest and shoulders revealing a long, white scar on the back. “Our skin is easy, it is bound to the recovery, but… They are more sensitive, I thought if I could combine our cells with the vitamins from the plants, it would help them.”

One of her lilac nail traced the scar exactly how it caressed his cheek, carefully, something about her was filled with sadness, telling the secret she didn’t, how her research was still failing when it came to the animals. It wasn’t hard to understand why, Orm imagined how difficult it how to combine the two different organisms together, it was true the atlanteans were bound to recovery, the plants were bound to regeneration, it could flow well if the person was able to do it without barriers, for example, not in the simply space of a common home, with enough resources to conduct the thesis, and a team of efficient scientists to help. The Institute of Science was also struggling with the new harmed animals, everyday another case of the surface dwellers killing many of them, hunting their whales, locking their sharks, hurting their system. Orm had the opinion Atlantis was not limited by the atlanteans, the kingdom was far more, everything the water sunk was part of it, the entire seven seas and the habitants under.

The manta changed the point of affection to him, creeping up his left arm, the slippery tissue of skin rubbing against his nude biceps, falling to the bracelet on his wrist, his hand tried to care the animal back when it was lower enough to his finger tips, but his palm was rough from the training, and it didn’t feel as good as hers, causing the manta to swim back to the little fishes. He admired her for a bit, the medicine she made was definitely something more than the team of scientists had, in his visits to the center, they would discuss how they couldn’t cure the cancer from the pollution, they would discuss how the damaged animals could be helped in small surgeries, not thinking bigger, of how actually to restore their lost members. It was extremely smart and virtuous of her, also going until the Old City to search supplements.

“Did you take it to the Institute?” his voice was rather cold, as discussing diplomatic matters in the Throne room, lips as pouty as before, and he almost asked her to look into his eyes, he wanted to see the innocence behind them, it was unique for him, fascinating.

“I am waiting for better results,” she trailed off, stare glued to the hologram, one of the braids accidentally touching his arm where the manta was, it felt soft, making his hands become fists, veins popping on the back of them up to the biceps. “The plants from the Old City show enormous progress, the ones in contact with also air, but...”

Her lips curled in defeat, leaving the rest unsaid, as there was much to say. Maybe such as her arms were too small to reach so deep into air, or she couldn’t see what she would found there, or couldn’t explore the inside of those air capsules by herself, or she was just a pleasant, unable to enjoy the perks of royalty. He wanted to say something, it felt right to do so, secure her of something, yet he said nothing, eyes crossed on the piece of hair clapping on that spot on his arm, right at the line of triceps, then the format of her profile, the lashes, nose and mouth.

Orm always found a woman the most interesting when in battle, or when engaged in intelligence. His own crown reflected translucent dots on her cheeks, blue, purple, and burgundy, he dared to say he liked the type of braids on her hair, seemed a fish tail, and found odd the long lilac nails with lilac fingertips, a good type of odd, it came from the culture before Atlantis sunk, from the atlanteans responsible for the cure of illness, the preservation of peace, and the animals. Of course, his omnibus knowledge of History wouldn’t just judge she did it for fun. It was sacred, it was why she had offered her palm in the first place, to convince him of protection.  

“May I?” he asked, calm and collected, pointing to the flask on her hand, she didn’t hesitate on giving him, carefully placing on his palm without any touch, bowing her head in heavy lids, noticing he would leave after doing so. “Thank you, Midra.”  

Orm left the home, a last look on the scientist circulated by fishes watching him from over her shoulder. Going for the tower on the palace, speeding through the faster he could, stripping from the tight suit immediately once in his chambers, the flask forgotten on his sheets as his hands quickly applied the cream on each one of his scars the armors hid, erasing the memory of King Ovax from him completely. One on the left ribs from the trainings, one on the inside of his right thigh from fury, and the last one on his chest from the trident of his father when he tried to fight the guards when they took Atlanna away.  

II

Didn’t take long for the flask to be emptied. The issues with the borders were increasing when another two invaders tried to sneak in, the reason was unknown, and as much as King Orvax wanted a war between the two kingdoms of the pure sake of himself, Vulko and the Generals kept him away from the idea, it was too risky, the Brine Kingdom hadn’t been disturbing Atlantis for over two decades now; the best solution was to return the prisoners, and talk to their King, if was a sabotage, he wouldn’t sacrifice the five, and if was made without his knowledge, he would kill them for trying to start something. It was also Orm’s opinion, base the situation on diplomacy, opting for a bigger war only if necessary, Atlantis was already suffering enough from the surface pollution, they needed to be united to fight against the real enemy, all the remaining Kingdoms. His father, however, had troubles containing his anger when he knew the Military Forces wouldn’t support him, the trainings with the King became more of a punishment session than a attempt of improvement, Orm was stripped from the bronze trial trident, Vulko was forced to stay on the wall, watching as his father would try at any cost to hit him, calling for his defense senses, Orm was a great warrior, greater than Orvax, but the King had a want of blood, specially his blood after he was the one who stated war wasn’t the best option, the sharp edges would pierce his flesh rarely, yet deeply, reaching the muscles, and Orm would finish the days of combat by the wall where Vulko sat, who smelled like the sand and the toxins from the surface, the blood floating freely, until he was excused to his chambers, wondering to the dark part of his mind, cursing.

His fingers tried to get the very last bit of cream he could the last week, when he noticed it was empty, two thoughts came to his mind. One being his life had been fine without it before, there was no really need in a medicine to cure his scars, his father would soon outgrow the rage and stop with the behavior, and the atlantean skin was made to recover with no scars, the raptures that turned into those were made to be that way, possibly saying it shouldn’t be changed, a reason for the scar to be there. Murk was a great example of that, face never fully recovered from the failed mission on Xebel, and he wore the scars with pride. The second being it would be nice to lose King Orvax in some degree, the spectrum of his father fading from the body, they were alike in much personality, mind and enough on the face features, at least something was only Orm’s.

The debating was confusing, and the victory came when he visited the Center of Technology in the Capital, his voice had sounded so much like the King when giving orders, Orm was sure it was for the best. It was from the soldier’s armors, extracted from the helmets, small enough for the area of mouth and cheeks, the glass thin for talking with no barrier, and a tiny mechanism to keep the currents in the water, everything exactly how he commanded.

“Is this what you requested, Your Highness?” the director of technology asked, curiously, a data-pad on his arms, behind the white three-dimensional table, the shaved sides of his hair revealing an earplug. The device between them was metallic red, the glass in bright blue, holograms on top showing writings of how it worked, the material it was made and the manipulation of water it was capable.

“We will soon find out,” Orm answered, eyebrows raising and falling, closing the box the device was on, the water lock interlaced the open line under his fingers, forming an unbreakable cube. “Thank you.”

Everyone in the room bowed as he floated away, carrying the box. Outside, a green, golden ship was located, small, space only for two, perfect to submerge into the traffic and not calling attention, functioned like fishes fins between all others, where Orm touched the top, the thick water forming the capsule gave him an entrance, and he was quick to get his long legs inside, sitting and placing the box on his lap. The location of the small house was under the towers of civilization, discreet, so the ship dove, reaching a shadow level where it became part of the capital, and no one could recognize him. While driving, he questioned himself another time, selfishness was not part of his traits, neither bribe, there was no other reason to take it, but those two. Orm being selfish enough to demand more of a medicine that only cured him, and bribing with a device that could save a research, both also an excuse to see the black braids and painted fingertips again, curious to see how long they would remain uncorrupted next to him, the most corrupted of them all. Instead, master of his own thoughts, he pushed them away, and fooled himself into believing he was doing for greater good.

He parked the ship deadly close to her door, getting out with the box and placing his own hand on the plasma, which brighten up and vibrated sending dense waves to the inferior to signal a visitor had come, he didn’t wait long until the door gave him access, the scientist in front of him with her hand still up, the long nails and fingertips now were black, the braids were combined into one long fishtail, her lids were sparkling in shades of golden with the cheeks, and her lips were adorned by a red shade. Her eyebrows were high in surprise for the royal appearance at her door again, as if it wasn’t odd enough to find the Prince in the Old City with a mutilated face, she was again finding him by the house, the blond locks swimming by his jawline like an halo, two tiny braids on each side to keep them from getting on the way of the pretty face, and he was really so pretty, the icy blue of the eyes saturated by the blue suit he wore, the broad shoulders straight with the scales reflecting green and white from the lights of the ship behind, almost dressed him with wings.

Midra was speechless, and Orm saw it, and liked it, his posture a frame of the highest royal, waiting for a reference; she didn’t fail to do it.

“Your Highness,” she whispered in surprise, coming to herself, a long bow from the waist, and her hand dropped to her sides. Orm allowed himself enjoy the courtesy, there was no crown on his head, but he accepted like it was.

“May I come in?” he asked serious, the tip of his feet rubbing on the floor with the soft currents, he didn’t miss when her eyes focused on his lips, then his arms, and finally she nodded, giving in space to swim pass her.

Midra still couldn’t believe Prince Orm Marius was floating in the middle of the room with the hard stare on her, the first time was luck, the second time was a denial. The plasma behind her restructured itself, the fishes on the ceiling came to flow around his calves, the manta pairing over his shoulder one more time, accepting the presence. He turned to the animal in an almost delicate way, the slippery skin in contact with the cheek that would be deformed to scars if wasn’t for her, Orm was, after all, worried about the sea lives.

He looked around, the holograms showing she was working with them before being interrupted, the plants by the table swinging in the colorfulness they had, and on top of the surface, some utensils. “Any improvement?”

“No, not yet,” she was quiet, nails clicking together as her feet slowly guided her figure to him, never looking into his eyes, the will of asking what he was doing there was on the top of her tongue, he knew, but she remained in her place, so he decided to help her.

“I wondered if there was more of the medicine,” he started casually, lips contouring the words while his teeth were glued together, not a hiss, actually a habit hard to let go even if he wasn’t angry, adopted years ago when he was younger, in the middle of his father trident and Vulko’s guidance, and even if he was there to ask something, didn’t feel like, never felt like. Orm wasn’t used to asking for anything, they gave him manners, yet never let him practice, placing what he wanted in front of him without needing to ask for them.

She bit her lower lip in a nervous act, and he wished she didn't. “No, Your Highness, I have been mostly taking notes the last days.”

“I want more,” his voice was demanding, and Orm corrected himself immediately. “Of it, if you can, of course. And, I brought you a token to help.”

His fingers were of crab’s paws, curling and creeping down the lock, the middle pressing the spot guiding the water to undo it, his hand opened it, showing her the device, he watched carefully her expression changing, the curious eyes, the little frown on her eyebrows, and the surprise dancing on top of her cheeks.

“Is it?...” Midra didn’t finish, admiring it with extreme excitement, understanding what he meant.

“Yes,” Orm didn’t notice his lips corners rising at her in a wicked, strange way of smiling. “It was tested twice, works perfectly.”

The scientist nodded, hands about to grab it from the box, but she looked at him before, asking for a permission, lashes hitting her eyebrows, and Orm saw how tiny she was close to him. The Prince gave a sign with his chin, and she got it, mouth opening in a big smile, teeth showing. Smiling suited her, dressed her face a little too well for her own good. There was no excuse, or petulance of being unworthy of such gift, he was glad she understood what it meant, Orm wasn’t buying her services, but requesting them with a reward later, a possibility perhaps of taking her research to the Institute, where it would grow and the Crown would finance it to help the animals in Atlantis. No connection at all to the strange taste in his mouth every time he saw her, or the growing greediness upon seeing her smile.

He thought it would be better for his interest test along with her for the first time instead of just leaving and coming back later to collect what was asked. So he tried to offered, yet his voice was still of command, “I will take you to the Old City, so you can test yourself.”

The smile got bigger, cheeks in high with the bones, and a simply nod, holding the mask with the arms too, a treasure in her sight, something so precious she was not believing at all. Orm left the box on her table, swimming by her in his strong physic, a tiny swirl when his waist as by her shoulders causing the braid to float up in the current. The plasma made itself into water, allowing him to get out, a hand on the ship again and the woman followed him, awkwardly getting inside with the short legs and figure, he took a good look at her cheekbone before diving the ship lower, into the ruins, finding the path to the Old City, to the air boat in silence, bright lines of Atlantis bathing her excited expression.

Both got out as soon as the ship paused in the barrier of water, a small waterfall with tides on the hole in the woods, the ground under the boots were of seaweeds and starfishes. Orm turned to her, calm, collected, anger thin under the layer of skin, reached between her hands for the device, his figure towering over her in an approximation of the glare, so close her long lashes had to hit her eyebrows to look at him. He swore his tongue asked to taste her mouth, the way she was so strangely intimidated by him, by what he represented, if she tasted the way she behaved. His gesture was slow, enjoying placing the mask on her face, feeling her flesh, the metallic red matching her lips, and he saw her parting them, lower teeth white, as requesting for more.

He didn’t think clearly as the palms were opening on her entire face then, so tiny, feeling the quiver she gave with the contact, and his thumb pressed the corner on the mask, where a button could be find only if searched for, not seen. The thin glass brighten up in blue, a low buzzing of currents being made specially to mimic the sea, and Orm didn’t swim away yet, the fingertips in the softness of her hair, the pointers on top of her ears, jewelry scratching them, and he almost forgot how to control himself. But he sucked all the dripping darkness leaving from his pores back, letting go of her, almost hearing a sigh. He went in first, the lungs accepting the pure air in replacement for water, the blond hair sticking onto his neck, shoulders and forehead, transcending the blue of his eyes, under his feet, the wood was still strange, and out of his own best intention, he reached a hand through the water, a guide to the Midra. Her delicate hand rested on top of his, nails digging on the palm, sending a shiver from his veins to his spine, and she joined him.

Gravity was funny, affected her in the tremble of her legs, the heaviness sudden on the shoulders, and her braid fell on her black suit, rasping the edges on the golden belt. Orm watched, supporting her to the news sensations, threads glued to her cheekbones, her eyes discovering the inside, side to side, and she was so thorough to give another step, adjusting herself to the pressure in the air. Under the mask, her lips formed another smile, this one accompanied by the sound of laughter, perfectly echoing around as the glass didn't muff it, pure. That was when she left his hand to cup her own jawline, surprised, appreciating the award.

“I will come back here in five days,” he said, arms crossing on his back, the posture of royalty adorning his frame, the lips pouting with the words, teeth lightly sinking into his lower one, the tone of warning.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Midra nodded, not so intimidated anymore, focused on the new opportunities she had with the device. Eyes still everywhere but him.

He left her, the short figure in the middle of the ruin of a boat, where air was presented, the view of her back composing of the tight suit on curves and belt, lost into herself to notice Orm spent long seconds there, just looking at her. It was obvious it wouldn’t end up good, but he was good at plotting, at planning, at strategies and conquering, well, good when he was only five. Orm would be twenty soon, he had mastered them now.

III

The path to Xebel was of corals, beautiful sea lives gracing the rocks between the bright colors of every kind, fishes swimming by, nature in the best place, they were almost high walls guiding the way to the civilization, a breathtaking paradise they were familiar with. But. Over the ship, a island of pollution paired, closer to the coast of where surface was, damaged from the garbage humankind discarded, it was the size of the transportation, no sun rays passing by the thick barrier, a shadow of the worst kind. Two extremes of beauty and ugliness, of perfection and destruction. It didn’t matter how much the xebellians pushed the dirty out, it found the way back, wouldn’t take long for it to affected the corals, or the golden gates. The Kingdom was close to Atlantis in architecture, the tall towers, the traffic of ships, and homes paying tribute to the classic construction they had before the Great Fall, Xebel was the one with the most references to the old days, it was brighter in green and golden tones, closer to the surface than Atlantis, hid too deep into the sea. Sun touched magically the treasure of their lives, and did wonders to the palace specifically, made of mother of pearls and gold. Modern, yet so ancient.

King Nereus and King Orvax were together, face to face, a long stare. One dressed in green armor, strong, trident made of bronze, a weapon capable of shooting hidro, upgraded as a gun, powerful, the age came to him as grey slicks sessions on the ginger hair. The other dressed in purple armor, trident made of silver, an undefeated weapon, tradition of the family, symbol of victory, the age came as wrinkles on the corner of the eyebrows and cheeks. Two sovereigns who had deals with each other, strings on the lives of their children.

Orm was behind his father, hands on his back, wrists crossed in the posture straight, the lights in Xebel shining over his silver crown as the alexandrites sparkled in blue and purple, the long locks a halo on them of decent prettiness, swinging in the currents, the clearness in the hall allowing his traces to smooth, however highlighting the dangers inside the blue irises, accentuated by the superior aurea in his breathing. The lips rising the slightly bit a somewhat smile, seemed peaceful at first look, then, it was genuinely a mocking at the princess behind her father. Mera, the xebellian, in her prime ages, colorful hair a hurricane on her clavicles, on her cleavage and on the three horns her crown was, it was so vivid, her skin was another level of paleness. Orm remembered it to be red, just not so red. Her face was empty of any reaction to him, the thin eyebrows high in her own royalty, the lips in a rigid line with the cheeks in a tone of pink to match. Neither minding their future being discussed so casually, it was their duty, of course.

“We must hurry with the ceremony,” Orvax was cordial, anger lingering under his skin exactly like Orm, trying the best excuses to force the marriage now. Mera came not only as a wife, came as a Princess, with soldiers, with an alliance, the best kind when his father was crazy to declare war to the Brines. Lying was easy to him, but Nereus knew better, didn’t appreciate the sudden visitation to his Kingdom, when Orvax himself banished the younger princess in the last time he had been there to seal the marriage deal, since then, his father was hated, yet Nereus was a King of word, and Orm wondered if the feeling would go any longer, after all, Mera was the favorite daughter, that was why she was the one promised to be Queen of Atlantis in the beginning.

“King Orvax, I ask why,” King Nereus tilted the head, beard following, and he hovered to the corner where the ancients of Xebel were, serious, inviting Orvax to join him, where they could talk with more opinions on the matter. It meant a defeat already, the elders wouldn’t support the idea of a desperate marriage, rumors of the intrusion in the bridge circulating, they knew his motives.

His father took a look at him before swimming to the others. How pathetic his father was being to believe he could do that, he was getting old, forgetting how to rule, going to Xebel to eat the left-overs anyone could give him. Orm wanted to laugh, loud enough to fill the hall with the dark sound, and he did in someway, responded the stare with a soft shake of shoulders, corners of his lips rising at extreme, another mocking, showing he wouldn’t follow the King to the conversation. He could be punished in the ship, or back in Atlantis, but he would take it if it meant his father had to taste humiliation.

Mera approached, attire of green scales, and golden jewelry, stopped to glare at their fathers along the elders in the corner of the room, they couldn’t hear them, only the small buzz they were making as discussing.  She grew some inches, he could tell, asides from that, still smelled of fresh seaweed, still so lean. Her sister was the warrior one, even when they were little, the three of them playing together under those waters, the shoulders, arms and legs increasing like Orm’s, while Mera trained, but was more focused on the control of water, and when they grew, her sister voice was the thunderous yell in the Throne, demanding her birthright, while Mera anger was seen in her witty remarks and words.

“I wonder why your father still accept this,” Orm pronounced himself, not looking at her, chest expanding in the purple suit, an inhale of water, the funny expression dropping from his traces quickly, giving way to the seriousness, the usual.

“He is fond of you,” Mera tilted her head just like her father, fingers interlacing on her hips, nails too short, no painting on the tips, voice somewhere between disgust and loathing, her upper lip twisting in the same way she said those words.

He turned the neck to her, only one eyebrow arching, and when she looked back, his lips rose up again, the same mocking from before, eyes greedy on her face and neck, as if he could strip herself from those feeling and those scales, seeing right through the pretending, the frightening beast inside him coming out just to play with her, who retreated to her space immediately with the way he stared at her. “Oh, Mera, don’t deny yourself, we know how it ends.”

The xebellian shaped an O with her mouth, shoulder moving away from him, outrageously. The words of a past not so far, of memories he knew she liked to deny, and the mere mention of it possible to irritate her, send her to her limits, what happened. Her face contouring anger with a frown, hands in fists by her sides, and her voice was poison. “I can barely remember it!”

“I remember very well…” Orm crooked smile was unaffected, if something, he flirted with her venom, bending his head to whisper into her ear, tiny currents from his straight nose hitting her neck, and his tone was malicious. “We never forget our first…”

Nothing compared to Mera gasping, glaring at his smirk. She was feisty, so Orm was surprise she didn’t reply, as if there was really how. Of course she remembered, it wasn’t so easily forgotten in the back of their minds, an act out of curiosity. They had been raised together at some point, Atlanna would embrace Mera as her own child since the Queen died in the birth to her younger sister, and Nereus would come to the capital to discuss politics with Orvax. With the sacrifice and banishing, they found each other alone for the crucial times of lost, a toll on both, Mera missed her sister, and Orm tried to ignore the existence of his mother. They were betrothed, and young. Orm wouldn’t lie and say he remember how it happened, because he didn’t, he knew Mera was staring at his lips for too long, and he decided to let her taste them, it wasn’t truly a loving manner, they were teenagers, hungry for the unknown and contact, didn’t mean it was awful though. Orm studied anatomy since he was three, his fingers were satisfaction on her body, practicing everything they learned, winning the sinful noises she made, and he took her as his thighs pressured her against the corals, her red hair mixing with the other colors, hands grasping the rocks, mouth suffocated by the sensation of his thrusts. Mera was a girl back then, and didn’t understand his dark thoughts, it was too much to copy, how his lips not only kissed her, but bit into her neck, licking the clavicles so obscenely, and her orgasm got her, who was prepared to anything, off-guard. Orm still remembered well how he had to kiss her mouth to shut the loud noises, hips helping her to ride the feeling until the very last bit.

It divided them right after, when he tried to help her with her crown and suit, she didn’t look at him in the eyes, legs trembling in the water and she was shy. Later, Mera became rigid, ignorant and bothered by his simple presence, Orm never understood why, until his father, in a night where Atlantis’ lights were dim and he was tired from training, watched his face in a frown for meticulous minutes.

“Be careful, Orm,” the voice was not of order, or repulse, just normal, didn’t suit him. “Life is about taming, you either change them or let them tame you, and you and I, we can’t be tamed. We break people.”

He wondered if his father knew, or how could he? They were alone, hiding deep in the corals. But it was clarity, and he understood the reason why Mera was so distant, afraid of falling for him, afraid of addiction to how he touched her, he had let her too close to his true personality, when too young to be comfortable with it. Orm didn’t blame her, sometimes he would look at himself in the mirror and wonder how he turned into that young man staring back at him. But it was three years ago, Orm and Mera outgrown that phase, now it was something they thought little about, a passage of life. Mera liked to use it against him, and Orm liked to used it against her.

“You think too much of yourself,” Mera finally said, eyes rolling from his boots back to his face, disdain in them, reducing him.

He didn’t need to say anything, his smile was the proper reply, which she wanted to slap away his pretty face, didn’t have the chance when the Kings came back to where they were, Orm almost remarked how fast it took to his father lose the cause, but he stood quiet, hands crossed on his back, posture of omnipotent.

“Hope you come to visit Xebel again, King Orvax,” Nereus gave while offering Mera his hand to hold, she did, face relaxing upon her father, and bowing to the King of Atlantis. It was a goodbye, a farewell to show Orvax they didn’t wish his presence there anymore. “Prince Orm.”

“King Nereus, Princess Mera,” Orm bowed with his broad shoulders and head in a small courtesy, his crown reflection bigger than his own father’s. And turned to leave when noticing his father wouldn’t greet the other king back.

They floated to exit the hall, the huge white ship with open doors and guards waiting for them, the red guns and armors. Orm hadn’t even the chance to land on the floor of the main cabin when the gloves of King Orvax came to his hair, threads mixing in the middle of his fingers and a strong pull he didn’t expected, forcing him to arch his back, his own hands came to the wrists to try to free himself, but before he could reach them, the hand forced his head against the wall, hitting his forehead hard on it, who hissed at the sudden pain, and his father pulled again, this time twice the strength to hit his head on the wall where he was held, fingers creeping on his father’s glove to try to free himself.

“Weak as always,” Orvax condemned behind. “I brought you to help, and you chose to be quiet!”

“You seek my help now, father?” Orm wasn’t dizzy, instead, used the pain to hold the wrist with strong fingertips, trying to cut into the scales with his short nails, find the real flesh of the hand, the surface on his cheek hard and cold. It was a slip of his anger not being tamed anymore, the itchy to fight back, he was trained for that, a swift move of his hands and he would be able to put Orvax against the wall, maybe the guards would let him do it, however he settled for only speaking. “This is not my war, my King, I do not fight for you.”

Orvax let him go after long seconds, absorbing what he was told, glaring at his son still on the wall, the hands holding close to his head now, back muscles reflexing as an animal preparing to attack, yet the attack never came, just the stare, Orm’s blue eyes over his shoulders, dripping the hatred from the lashes, the blond locks swinging close to his jawline and mouth. Closer and closer to the edge, to the promise of battle.

IV

The five days passed marking the date to collect his part of the bargain, a coincidence to the trip back to Atlantis the last day, it didn’t go as planned, so there were new bruises on him, one on the forehead, one on the neck and one on his thigh, they were red, purple, green and gray, his head against the wall from the ship, the choke on the throne room and the fist in the morning to wake up. A hiss after each, an itchy on the back of his palms and a twist on the upper lip. The darkness was consuming the organs inside like cancer, spreading through the veins, causing a tremble on the right leg, and a blurry vision every other moment when Orvax appeared, it felt as water was too dense on his throat, didn’t matter how many times tried to swallow, it wouldn’t go down, it wouldn’t disappear. It began to rip, overflowing through the pretty lips, cutting the flesh into half to turn into the new skin, totally visible to anyone who took a look at him, the chest expanding and falling frantically, a beast from the Trench coming to the senses of an atlantean with want of blood.

It wasn’t the best decision to go to the Old City, yet he needed that flask, that power of erasing Orvax, and perhaps it would help him with the shake on his hands, asking to retributed the hits. It was the worst he had ever been, thoughts falling, never ending, the line losing itself, and there was a yelling on his ears, asking for anything, for something to make it stop. Orm thought maybe the innocence in Midra would help him, just a bit, a tiny, tiny piece of it could cure his disease.

The small waterfall on the hole of the boat gave only some blurs in movements inside, the ship didn’t call for attention, as they were going on without an interrupt, he decided to announce his arrival with a step further, the water running through the entire frame entering, on the silver crown, on the broad shoulders, down on the chest, the thick thighs and boots. His hair flied soaked to the neck where purple scales hid the veins there, and the soft lump his adam apple had with the sudden change of air and water in the lungs, wrists crossed behind the back as usual, hands into fists, holding the itchy steady.

Two massive braids of pitch black hair, reminding of horns on top and falling as fishtails until the hips, a minuscule fillet of her golden skin appearing in the waist where the metallic suit was cut into two pieces in the same shade her locks had, her tiny figure was close to an improvised atlantean decor table, because of course she would work from there, plants on top, her utensils, and holograms flashing the notes, she didn’t look wet, or damp, completely dry of hours and hours studying there. In the sound of his arrival, she turned the face back, over her shoulders, an arched eyebrow, the long lashes covering the harsh dark sparkles on the lids, and the bright red mask covering her nose and mouth with the blue light, but under, her lips opened a smile, the cure, the innocence glowing on her traces, the same thick layer he had of darkness on his cheeks, she had it of virtue, incorrupt. It was actually a bad decision, because it didn’t affect him for the best, but for the worst, his own voice inside his mind asking more, to touch, to conquer.

“Your Highness,” Midra turned completely, bowing with the arms behind her back, he heard it along the buzz of the tides in the device, and he knew his legs took steps closer to her, yet his vision dominated his senses in the way he just could keep staring at her pure eyes, wishing for what he didn’t have. Her expression fell in a degree when noticing the bruise on his flesh, and she was fast to grab the flask with the medicine from the table, offering it with her palms, long nails in red with her fingertips in the same color opening in delicate.

Orm stood still, admiring the new volume her dry hair presented, a crown of her own, the golden jewelry on her ears, being quick to count, seven on one, six on the other, shapes of shells, pearls, and tridents, and most important, he let her settle on his royal presence, feel his tension, and wondered if she could reach out, and actually touch it of how much evaporated from his pores. Midra didn’t fail, pupils on the precious stones from the fins on top of his blond locks, the straight lines of nose and jaw, the meaty upper lip, the salient chin, on the purple scales, the lights coming from the raptures in the woods shined on them in red and green, even black, looking like loyalty, sleeves stopping a bit over the biceps where veins creeped down the strong arms to be cover by the silver bracelets, and on the hands, black gloves made of armor. On the waist, an atlantean symbol reserved for the highborns, the thick thighs were flexed, weight supported on only one, and the black boots also made of armor, all wet. As his own people said, it was true, even when wounded, Prince Orm Marius was blessed by beauty gods in birth, yet was he even aware of that, when all the focus on his life was preparing for taking the throne? If any, his intimidating glare was simulating, not the true-self.

“No,” he denied, studying her stare not stopping at his, everywhere, but his eyes, what she did when hearing the harsh tone, the brown irises rising slowly to him, under the lashes, the traces with a fear of disappointment on, and Orm lifted just a corner of his lips, wickedly. “Will you do it for me?”

It was wrong, he knew, that was why he asked, not demanded, to give the opportunity of refusal, his head, neck and thigh itching tremendously for her caress, the soft, small fingers rubbing on them as when he was in her home, he needed that specifically touch, the touch of innocence, the touch his mother had when brushing his hair, teaching him songs, planning to betray him, teaching him treasons. Nobody else touched him the same, but Midra in his front, and he was practically begging for her to clean him from his sins, free him from himself. It was safe, he locked his hands behind his back, and bent slightly, donating the wound to her, watching her relieve on his request, her tremble to open the flask. He tried hard to contain the inaudible sigh that left his mouth when he felt the refreshing fingertips sliding through the forehead, his lids fell to the floor, sucking in the darkness spreading in his veins, noticing she was in tiptoes, the high heels on her golden boots not helping. The comfort came again, another caress on the forehead with the sparkly cream, the images of King Orvax leaving with the bruise, the senses calming themselves and lines of thoughts completing, starting and ending, itching disappearing, but the voice continued, asking him to possess it, to own it, and Orm listened to it when the touch was broken, his rough gloved hand pulling at the scales on the neck, three fingers entering inside the attire to expose the other bruise, tilting the head to the side, offering it to her. She bit her lower lip under the mask, unsure, and tempted of how the veins jumped to pump his blood.

“Please…” his whisper was to secure there was no issue in going out the boundaries there, the pink lips moving, the teeth gritted and when her nails did, Orm resisted the urge to close his eyes, shivers attacking where the hickey was, swimming down his spine. The voice was then quiet, and he felt numbed by the calming rubbing there, Midra was too delicate, tracing the jugular, forcing him to close his eyes and enjoy it, not remembering the last time he did something just for the sake of doing, and actually enjoying it.

His life up until the point were of lessons, practices, knowledge driving towards the goal of being King in the future, people in the middle of it being diplomatics, tutors, maids, either serving him, the Crown or Atlantis; he was around those waters more and more in the past few years, in what could be called contact to his people, after all, knowing their needs and their infrastructure supposed to mean he knew them, yet Orm was oblivious to certain degrees of relationships out there, born inside traditions and culture, preserved from failure and ordinary live. It was a blow on his face, a trident on his chest when after four times her hand caressed his neck, it came for a fifth straight out of kindness, and he knew it would be missed for a long period, something he wasn’t used to, but found pleasure in it. Being taken care of. A luxury the Prince couldn’t afford to have. The voice came again, a whisper, lost in the threads of her braids, piercing his ears in the tone of his mother lullabies.

“Midra,” he repeated what the voice told him, the sound being more of his lungs than his throat, a terrible tone of nasal, powerful, yet pleading, lost in the soft feeling on his neck, drowning into his own veins. He was decent enough to ask again, following the dark thoughts in the back of his mind, abusing power and titles was not one of the many flaws from his personality, not a simple help with a mask, it was more, much more, and if she didn’t want, he would understand, there were limits and he didn’t want to cross them, but if she accepted, he would gladly do it, breaking her if it was her wish. “May I touch you?”

Her palm ceased, cupping the neck and his eyes opened, glaring at her with many forbidden promises, watching quietly as her lips moved under the mask, forming something he didn’t quite hear as the voice began to shout, informing him she had accepted, informing him to take her, to sink himself into her innocence. Orm didn’t hesitate, a blank vision, letting the deepest obscure side of his take over. His gloves were strong, fast, big in filling themselves with the flesh on her waist, bringing her closer, it was different from Mera’s lean body, he squeezed to feel it better, while his lips wasted no time in claiming for her neck, not a kiss, just his teeth biting where her veins would be, worldly, for what Orm wasn’t familiar with care and gentleness, the voice hummed into his ears. The fingers sunk into her, clutching into the texture of her attire, and his mouth separated from the touch, opening to deliver the tongue, which replaced there, a strong, slow lick until the gold jewelry on her earlobe. Orm sighed with himself, the taste of his waters, the taste of her immaculate skin, the taste of possessing, conquering, his tongue explored the space, snapping wet sounds, along the soft moan Midra left with the shivers it sent through her, everything happening too fast for her to do something, but to forcing the grip on his neck to support herself.

He wanted so bad to kiss her, revoke her lips and mouth, drastically demonstrate how much he desired her, however the device couldn’t be taken off, so he settled for her neck and ear, licking down the area first, then kissing and biting everything, one of his hands finding a braid and pulling at so Midra could tilt her head back, give him more access to discover her. Under the buzz of currents in her mask, she made soft, almost inaudible little noises he could grow addicted to, besides hating the lack of contact she presented now. His builded frame applied more pressure on her, locking her tiny self between his legs and the table, one of the thighs finding the spot in the middle of hers, and squeezing up for friction. He wanted so bad for her to feel it, to inundate her everywhere.

“My Prince…” it was a calling, a supplication in the sensations of his arms, right on his ear, her cheek tried to rest on his head, yet the crown wouldn’t allow, the sharp edges of the fins poking and automatically, her braid was pulled again, harder, arching her back together, for his tongue left her neck, roaming on the clavicles, teeth sinking later on the right bone, where he whispered back.

“Orm. Only Orm…” the air of his nose hit the cleavage, where the tip of his tongue cared to enter, licking the space between her breasts as he wasn’t the atlantean prince anymore, or the future king, or a product of duty. He was just Orm, himself with no titles, the young man with the slightly bending to darkness, the voice inside his head which was only his to listen and speak, and he wished her to call him of that, see through the royalty of his attires, rather than his crown, the atlantean wearing it.  

He backed off enough to let go of her waist and hair, grabbing her wrists instead, staring at her heavy lids, the brown eyes under a mirror of his, shining of desire, the lips parted, sucking water in long breaths as her chest was rising and falling. Midra saw it too, as Orm’s jawline was too rigid, the sapphire irises of hunger, the pores oozing the beast inside, and on the corner of his rose lips, the tip of tongue clicking, running the upper lip until the other corner, the mouth opened slowly. He wanted her to watch, and she did when he guided her hands to his face, the right palm on his cheek, the left on top of his mouth, and for a moment, Orm closed his eyes, enjoying the softness, showing her it was what he wanted, to be touched, to be freed from the pretending vessel. A smile appeared, crooked, the whole white line of teeth presenting as Midra responded by craving the long nails on his eyebrows and on the soaked hair, it was even strange for him to do so, seemed something was off, the maliciousness of it with the real intentions, it wasn’t nice, or caring, it was victory in its best corruption, as the canines could grow into fangs of sharks. Orm continued to guide them lower, to his neck where her palms disappeared, and he felt only the scratches of her nails, then his broad shoulders, and his chest when Midra palmed to admire the hard muscles under the scales, and he opened his eyes again, another look at her, before allowing the last lock prisoning his true self to be crack.

The palms left her wrists, coming for the two massive braids, the roots on the back of her, holding it with the solid strength he fought with, where he pulled just to see how her eyebrows arched, how the bright blue mask reflected on the golden skin, the lines her neck formed. One fell, the glove texture rough on her shoulder and her neck, closing around it, and Orm came, offering his tongue once again, on the glass, a small lick, the signal if wasn’t for it, he would be kissing her. The other followed the path, not stopping on the neck, but one of her breasts, cupping in a slow squeeze, feeling the size his hand could fill it and watch the extra skin coming through his fingers, Midra moaned, ripping the air with the satisfactory sound, the chest expanding in delight with the feeling of his heavy hand. Orm accepted it as his fingers were of tambourines, lowering to the fillet of flesh in the middle of her two piece suit, the middle twisted in the hem, getting inside and pulling up, until her breasts escaped from the black metallic top, the round shape with nipples hard, he almost could already taste them, the vision of overwhelmed beauty, a female body always instigated more his interest than the male, the different lines of frames, the delicate looks of it, the nudity of the ancient paintings preserved into the Hall of Art, the type only the high borns had access, in the air capsules to not ruin the old style of paint. They would represent the females in both war and rest, not mattering if the model was holding a spear, or a book, the bodies seemed to endure life with elegance.

The height different obligated him to bend, the back curving drastically to reach his mouth on one of her hard nipples, the skin still soft even in the excitement form, his tongue tip flicked on it, earning another moan, and Orm sighed, a rapture of his mouth engulfing all it could inside, sucking while his thumb caressed a particular spot on her neck, sensing the throat breathing the water in as if it was too dense. Her small hands were insecure on his chest, unsure of how to grip him, of how to support herself into him, slightly overwhelmed by the wet muscle on her, for what she was dry, and he was damp, offering her a portion of the element from their land in form of saliva and desire. Midra would be diseased if she stopped to analyze what was happening, her close eyes giving in for her Prince, the obscure mind only knowing how he touched her, not remembering where they were, what she was doing before, who he was certainly, and what could happen if any discovered her wrapped in his arms, and mouth, she would be banished, or worse, sacrificed for daring to involve in carnal with Atlantis’ heir promised to a princess from Xebel, but it would be a good way of doing so, the forbidden act donated even more adrenaline to her blood, being consumed by the Prince Orm Marius, who had sex in the same want he fighted for his kingdom. But then, he was just Orm, and she was allowed to take pleasure on him.

And he was everywhere. On her thoughts, on her body, on her mouth, on her hands, on her vision, on her legs, on her heart, just everywhere, dominating her in long breaths of air, in armor hands, in promises to award her like no other could, the mere kissing on her breasts had her moaning in low tone, thighs pressing his against the core, where she felt herself flooding, an invitation for him, and she heard his groan, animalistic, raw, dangerous, when she began to grind on his leg, hips rolling in friction for more, meeting the signal of his own excitement locked in the purple scales, as his mouth never ceased destroying her. At some point, she tried to peak down to watch him, yet, the fins on the crown wouldn’t let, the very top where they met poking her chin and she didn’t mind that much, closing the eyes, lashes on top of the device, moans not muffled by the glass, neck held steady by his one of his strong hands while lips couldn’t decide which breasts they wanted to explore more.

They were rising and falling in every breath, Orm would kept up with the pace, feeding of the softness of her flesh, tongue roving through them with teeth to bite and lips to suck. The free hand fell to help with the task, squeezing one while his mouth took all it could inside and suck, pulling at the nipple and skin as his head distanced to let go of it with a loud pop. He groaned again, when her grind was hard on his thigh, meeting his covered member in a delight cry she left out, and he was tired of it.

Orm whispered her name as an arduous lover, once, twice, non stop in a slow thrust in her lower belly, friction of himself on her, even it wasn’t the plan, no, not at all. The plan was to taste, to devour only, there wouldn’t be any pleasure there capable of compare to the pleasure of just giving, for what Orm was a giver, not a taker, he’d give, and give, and give until she couldn’t take it anymore, he wanted her legs to tremble, her voice to rasp, to break any other atlantean in a million times, break the seek of any other who could pleasure her like him, he wanted to destroy the future partners, being the best of the occasion, not even love for another could bring her to forget how he treated her. Wasn’t it the best way of corruption? He was breed for it, to be the best at any matter, to make any who could come after him fail miserably.

Backing his face off, his hands raised to her cheeks, palms on top of the red metal, where hers followed to his wrists, fingers closing on the bracelets, the texture of gloves a strange approaching on the sparkly cheekbones, when she opened her eyes, she finally saw his traces coming close, forehead resting on top of hers, the evil eyes staring at her while his parted rosy lips were over gritted teeth, making her wonder if there was a second he didn’t look prepared to battle, then she felt it, another thrust, this time stronger, pushing her hips to the table, to offer more friction to her, what Midra granted, grinding faster, the fluids in her slipper tight pants helping the movement. He was admiring her expression, the low eyebrows, the heavy lids, the red lips sighing as she didn’t stop the grinding, he could smell her arousal in the air, and at least, he pushed her gently to lay on top of the table, holograms dancing around her torso, utensils adorning her surroundings, plants between the braids, and Orm was a figure of tall broad shoulders from that view, chest expanding in perspiration, crown high, shining in all its glory. Midra rested the elbows on the surface, nails now craving on it as the prince’s hands made her route of neck, clavicles, breasts, ribs and inside of her pants, the cold pieces of armor sneaking in, as he lowered it down, undressing her with patient, from the waist, to the thighs, the knees, and calves, where his fingers forced the boots out too. Her legs opened for him in automatic, feet coming for the table edges, on her left ankle, another golden jewelry, and Orm could hyperventilate from the vision only.

Their secret wasn’t over, it grew with the very first time Prince Orm would kneel for someone, not doing so for his own father, or mother, who died before having the chance, a bow to other was easy, any courtesy was, but kneeling never, a meaning behind it too powerful to do for any. Kneeling was a gift to the revered, a promise of dominance, subdued to the will of someone else. Orm was willing to kneel for Midra. The left knee dropped to the wood floor, his height changing to half, eyes on hers when the right knee pursued. His silver crown stones tinkled in the middle of her legs, and when he darted his stare to her core, his blond eyebrows frowned in both mercy and desire.

His hands were big enough to cup the shape of ass, lifting slightly as an award to himself, positioning it closer to meet him halfway, and his thumbs contoured the line separating those muscles to the legs, finding a way in, where they flicked in her fluids, opening her labias almost too slow. He licked his own lips, groaning louder than the moan she left when his mouth kissed her there, so wet, and so warm, the bittersweet taste his new vice, he knew he would crave for it for the rest of his days. The lips gave space for the tongue, which passed on the entrance, making her whimper, climbing to the clit, where it twisted and pressed against, making her back arch with a moan. Midra doubted to what God Orm paid his tributes for, Venus or Mars, Aphrodite or Ares. Her body betrayed her when he sucked there, greedy, torso contracting in the the sensation of such.

Maybe he was a god of his own. His name began to leave her lips in veneration when his tongue came back to explore more, in soft cries, in delightful moans, in reverent prayers, the feeling of him was becoming too much, however he engulfed her callings together with her wetness, pressing his face into her core harder and harder when listening to them, mouth devouring her intimacy, at some point, his tongue pushed through her entry to lick around the muscles and she almost screamed at the feeling, back falling on top of the table with a tug, the veins of her neck popping, chin high as her head sunk into the object. The blue eyes were focused on her, watching everything under the silver crown, a new darkness presented on them, dripping to meet her wetness when he opened his mouth to reach even deeper inside her, his cheek smashing against her thighs, dirty in the mix of her fluids and his saliva. He definitely made a mess for someone of such class. Back at kissing her clit with flat lips, rubbing the tongue on it, his hands left her, coming together to take one of the gloves off, electricity bursting in the spots of her buttocks where his skin connected to hers at least.

“Orm!” she pleaded, tone straight from her throat when his fingers fell, one drawing circles in her entrance, ask for permission, or just teasing, she couldn’t decide which when his tongue licked around her clit. Her hips soon rolled on him, granting the passage to his rough finger, an inch at a time, until it filled her completely, and Midra gritted her teeth when it twisted, falling out, and coming back in. “Please!”

He ignored, slowly penetrating only one finger in her walls, crushing his teeth down on her labias in gentle bites, enjoying the vision of her squirming, the wetness soaking his chin. Her hips continued to roll on his finger, on her own privilege, mouth chewing her virtue and swallowing it away. Yet Orm was in a mission, and the second finger presented itself in a new thrust of his palm in her, the nail forcing her to spread for it, the sensation was of suffocating, as if he took her mask off and let her without water, shivers running through her insides of when they twisted around, again, instead of backing off. Her back arched drastically when he curled them in the specific spot to send her away, in moves of calling her, tips pressing those muscles, as asking for her moans, more, and more, until she was a mess herself. And Midra was loud, deliciously loud, he was young, fascinated by dramas, could be lost in the shaking her legs on his head, her feet slide in a precise beg of his fingers to the scales on his back and shoulder. It was a clue.

Orm gladly took it, the intrusion of her taking a new rhythm, adjusting his mouth a little up, tongue flat on her clit, twisting there, while his palm shifted in movements of up and down, fast, hard, and severus, whole arm providing her all the pleasure he could, the wetness clicking in the old boat. Her palms clapped on the table, supporting not only her body, but mind, and he was kind enough to use his free hand to grab one of hers, interlaced the fingers, they were connected everywhere, he would not only push her off to her orgasm, also jump in the abyss together. Midra began to ride his fingers and mouth, hips consisted in push on him, the foot on his shoulder helping her in the grinding, the water failing at her lungs, and Orm was controlled in this oh-too-fast fingers, but she was erratic, thighs not caring to the sharp fins on them when they decided to close on the head. He groaned along, the beast greeting the orgasm with wild mouth, eyes not leaving her. She couldn’t even pronounce his name, beg for him, she was the one hyperventilating in her mask, and her back arched higher as her sounds were growing, not lasting, and she was almost sitting on his face when she came desperately, whole body shaking violently, almost painfully in doses of satisfaction so intense, the noise not possible in between shouting and moaning, hips breaking on his mouth that never stopped, sucking all of her he could, fingers powerful trying to make the sensation last, and Orm wanted to experience it everyday, listen to her everyday, eat her everyday.

Midra fell down on the table, defeated, spams disturbing the spine, down to the feet, crying in when Orm retreated his fingers, tongue licking up and down to not waste any of her, taste blinding him. She was stiff, tiredness drowning in her nude chest, but rest was a luxury when the prince didn’t let her breath, only capable when he backed off, raising in the tall wall he was on top of her, the lids opened just enough to see when he sucked at his own two fingers, the stare on her somewhere in malicious, and devilish, lips swollen and the blond locks pairing on the neck, under the high crown.

The bracelet on the gloved hand beeped in blue lights, telling Orm he only had 10 minutes to go to the Palace without anybody noticing his absence. It was his meditation time in the day, before training with tridents, when he was allowed to his chambers without any disturbs, or interruptions, every five days in the schedule. It had gone perfectly if Vulko or his father asked. He had never felt more at peace and centered since his mother was sacrificed.

#orm marius #orm marius x reader #king orm #king orm x reader #orm marius imagine #orm marius x oc #gabs writing

[mymelonerboner]

It’s Pink Season! - Chapter 2 - A JoJo OC Fanfic

(i should preface this by giving this fic some context – this fic took four OCs of four different people (one of them is me!) from a JoJo discord server that i hold especially dear to my heart. i set myself the challenge of taking these characters from wildly different imaginations and trying to piece together a cohesive story where they all interact with each other. to the owners of these OCs, i hope i’ll do them justice. this fic is estimated to last 4/5 chapters, and depending on my free time, maybe i’ll do something like this again with more OCs from other people, who knows :) anyways hope you guys enjoy what i’ve got so far!)

Rémi - belongs to Quality Queen @qualitiddy

Kyra - belongs to Kyrare @kyrare

Claudia - belongs to Sweet Kurage @sweetkurage

Francis Miller - belongs to meee! @mymelonerboner

Chapter 2 Word Count: 2,194

—————————— 

*     *     *     CHAPTER 2     *     *     *

"LA VACHE! SHUT UP! I'M TRYING!" 

Rémi swung the wheel hard to the right, but screeches and smoke gave away the fact that it wasn't going to be quite enough. Kyra had to act fast. She gritted her teeth in frustration as she braced herself for an undoubtedly painful experience.

"STEEL PANTHER!"

From her torso, the upper body of a feline figure emerged. Dark metallic silver glinted with ferocious animosity against a panther-like physique as the figure stretched its metal wings out, letting out a guttural hiss. Kyra's stand pressed one paw against the dashboard of the sedan, before phasing another paw through the floor of the car, contacting the speeding asphalt of the road below it. Kyra hissed in pain as she felt the sensation of the asphalt scraping against her stand's palm.

In a split second, the sedan burst with a light blueish glow surrounding the whole vehicle, before the pulsating light flowed straight into the point of the ground that the phantom panther was pressing its paw against. With a deafening crack, the asphalt below the sedan broke into pieces, nudging the sedan ever so slightly more to the right, and the sedan seemed to slow down tremendously, as though most of the energy of the hurtling car just vanished, like water spilled from a cup. It was enough to make the sedan brush past the mysterious figure on the motorcycle.

Right after, the sedan slammed head first into something solid behind the motorcycle, denting the bonnet of the car.

"I'M TRY- FUCK! OW!" Rémi shrieked as his head jolted into the SPW-branded Super-Deluxe-High-Comfort™ airbags of the sedan. Kyra sighed in relief. Whatever it was they hit, she managed to divert enough energy in time to make the crash relatively mild.

But what was it that they hit?

Kyra peered through the slightly cracked windshield. There was nothing in front of the car. It was as though the bonnet was dented by some invisible pole.

The trio crawled out of the damaged sedan, each eyeing the mysterious biker with caution. The gleam of the biker's helmet visor masked their face and gave them an aura of anonymous danger. The helmet, from afar, somewhat resembled the look of a brown aviator hat with goggles. Kyra shot a glance at the others. A slight swarm of mist was already forming and circling around Rémi's feet in defensive anticipation. Claudia wore a look of terrified concern.

"What quick wits ya have, Kyra Furyia." An unfamiliar, male voice rasped from the biker. With a quick gesture from the biker, the seemingly empty space in front of the damaged sedan bonnet suddenly appeared to melt and morph into a slightly dented lamppost. "If you were just a split second slower, you fellas would've been totalled by that crash."

"Why thank you, kind gentleman." Kyra shot back in pompous sarcasm. "You know my name. That means you've done your research. I think it's safe to assume you know about our stand powers too."

The biker chuckled. "Not bad, cat lady. You're right, I know all about your stand, Steel Panther, and its energy redirection powers." He lifted a gloved finger towards Rémi. "I also know about you, Rémi Martin, and your copying ability. However…" The biker slowly cocked his head towards Claudia. "This girl… don't think I've seen her before. She a stand user?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." Rémi spat. "I'll tell you this much, helmet - you're not very good at hiding your powers. I've already figured out how your stand works."

Kyra lifted a brow. Already?

"Kyra, look." Rémi pointed at a green-themed restaurant just a few meters away. "The invisibility, the unfamiliar surroundings… there must be only one explanation." Kyra peered at the restaurant and read the large, white block letters right above its entrance.

Five Guys!

"You're right, Rémi!" Kyra gasped. "I've never seen a green Five Guys in my life. Wow, this was way easier than I thought." Kyra smirked as she lifted a metal-clawed finger towards the biker. "Good sir, your stand ability… is to change the colour of objects, isn't it?"

The biker snorted. "Congratu-fucking-lations, you guys have eyes." With a grandiose wave of the hand, he gestured to the all the wrongly-coloured walls, windows and pavements surrounding the trio. 

"Isn't it funny how much we people depend on colour? When you see a car drive past you, your first thought is never gonna be 'Oh, that was a flat-topped car', or 'Oh, that was a Volkswagen'. More likely, you're gonna go 'Oh, that was a blue car'. Same thing applies for many things. Animals, buildings, walls… it's the first way you recognise something. Mess with colour a little and suddenly everything looks foreign. It's evolution, y'see. Colour has been the warning system for predators and prey since the dawn of eyeballs. It tells you what's food, what's poison, what's danger, what's safety. Colour is everywhere."

In a seamless motion, a figure emerged from behind the biker. Humanoid in appearance, but coloured head to toe in a brilliant pink hue, skin as smooth as rubber with vastly contrasting, bizarre patterns strewn across its body in random spots like lazy patchwork, all made with different hues of pink, purple and magenta. It donned what looked like the apron of a painter, and where there should be forearms, instead there were what looked like two paintball guns attached directly at the elbows.

"My name is Francis Miller, and my stand, Pink Season, can control the colour of any object it shoots!" 

Kyra couldn't hold back an impudent snort. "Colour. Colour. Well gee fuckin' golly, I'm *dye*ing to know how dangerous that's gonna be." She cackled at her joke. "Whatcha' gonna do, paint me to death? Mulberry sunburst my ass into- OW FUCK!"

With lightning speed reaction time, Kyra used a metal claw to slice through a paintball that was hurtling right into her abdomen at mach speed. The capsule split into two, splattering a dark blue hue against her torso, leftover shell debris scraping her green sweater and leaving minor tears. 

"...Well, that was huemiliating." Kyra smirked through her panting.

"This is bad! That stand has long-range capabilities." Rémi gritted his teeth. "Claudia, stick close. Those paintballs look dangerous at that speed."

"Hey prick, you better turn this shit on my sweater back to green right now!" Kyra hissed as she picked up a discarded beer can on the ground with one hand and pressed her other hand, shielded with her armour-like paw-glove, against a nearby lamppost. The lamppost flickered on and off momentarily, emitting a yellowish glow from its steel base which flowed into the beer can. Blue sparks began to fly out of its aluminium skin. With the proficiency of a pitcher, she flung the charged beer can straight towards the biker. The biker didn't move a muscle, simply silently watching as the beer can sped closer towards him.

Only for the can to narrowly missed the biker's visor by an inch. It tumbled against the ground behind him, letting out a loud electrical discharge as it contacted a manhole cover.

Wha… That was impossible. Kyra never missed a target. Countless years of intensive training assured her of that. She took everything into account, wind velocity, wrist posture, amount of centrifugal spin…

Francis burst into an obnoxiously raspy, wheezing laugh. "What magic some simple contouring and shading can do! I coloured the walls and road in between us to look like I was just a bit further from you than I actually was. I know your modus operandi, Kyra! I knew you would try that move!"

Optical illusions!? Shit! This is bad. 

Francis was still wheezing and hacking from his half-laugh-half-choking. "You had the fucking balls to underestimate me. But now I know somethin', Kyra. You may have the sharp senses of a cat, but your eyes are still human. You're weak to my power! PINK SEASON!" And with a wild gesture, both the biker and his stand slowly began to melt into thin air, splotches of nothingness spreading like an oil spill across their whole bodies. In a matter of seconds, they both completely vanished. In alarm, Kyra backed up to where Rémi and Claudia were huddled, eyes peeled on the surroundings for the invisible biker.

"Rémi! Look out!" Claudia exclaimed. Rémi's eyes widened, bracing himself for an attack. He drew a breath, preparing his spiritual energy.

"IMITATION OF LIFE!"

And with that cry, light greyish wisps of mist gushed out from Rémi's feet, swirling around in front of him and taking on a vaguely humanoid shape. At where its "head" should be, two large, beady, solid red eyes flitted open, glowing with a brilliant ruby hue. This misty form lightly planted a "palm" against the asphalt road with a feather's touch, and immediately, the coarse, hardened, blackened texture of the asphalt spread up the misty shape's "arm" and across its "chest", eventually encapsulating its entire "body". Upon completion of this transformation, the now hardened figure disassembled itself into a cloud of rocky particles, swarming around the body of Rémi, before settling against his skin and body to form an asphalt suit of armour, complete with a dark-grey-tinged translucent facemask that still displayed his face well enough.

Split seconds after this asphalt armour settled, Rémi was immediately hit across the left check with a speeding paintball, splattering a vibrant green colour against his asphalt exterior, starkly contrasting its dull blackish look. The force of the paintball was enough to make Rémi's head jerk to the side in a dizzying way.

"Woah! You alright kid?" Kyra exclaimed.

"I'm fine! I activated my stand in time." Rémi cracked his neck to soothe the pain of the concussion. "More importantly, that shot revealed his location! I know where to attack now!" With a roar, Rémi darted into the direction the paintball came from.

"Wait, no! Slow down!" Claudia called out to him.

Suddenly, Rémi dropped down through the seemingly solid ground with a surprised shriek. In instinctive panic, he managed to catch a grip on the edge of the "hole" with his asphalt fingers.

"Rémi!" Both Kyra and Claudia screamed after him.

A raspy voice from the thin air broke into an ugly chortle. "I removed that manhole's cover in advance and coloured its interior to match the road. I knew you two had close-range type stands. One of you guys were gonna try to bumrush me, so I just positioned myself in front of that hole. You think I'd be some kinda dumbass to just give away my position like that?"

With some effort, Rémi pulled himself out of the manhole and hurried back to the group, eyes darting about wildly as he tried to figure out where Francis was going to strike next. Kyra narrowed her eyes at him, then at Claudia. It was Claudia she was worried about the most. Her defensive capabilities were practically null. There was only one reason Francis still hadn’t targeted her yet, and it was because he still didn’t know what she could do. 

Kyra shifted her focus to Francis, or wherever she was wildy guessing he was going to be. He was cunning. He was prepared. He even had traces of tar on his clothes to mask his scent against the road. Kyra bit her lip in frustration, admitting in a pit of her heart that Francis was right, and she had underestimated him. It wasn’t just a matter of controlling colours, it was a matter of controlling perception. To not even know whether you can trust your own eyes… Is there any way to defeat such a stand user? Any way to even land a blow on this bastard, if you can’t even tell where he’s-

“Rémi! Two meters to your left, eight o’ clock!” Claudia suddenly yelled, pointing to an empty space next to Rémi. Kyra widened her eyes. Dia, how the fuck!?

Rémi wasted no time. Without missing a heartbeat, he leaped to where Claudia had directed and with a cry, slammed an asphalt fist straight into the empty space. A loud, satisfying thud resonated as Francis flew backwards from the rocky impact straight into his visor, shards of fortified glass, plastic and multicoloured dye mixed with blood spurting into the air as his camouflage wore off. Kyra let out a yelp of triumph mixed with confusion as she watched the biker and his stand tumble backwards against the road.

But it was far from over. The biker shuddered, and slowly but surely propped himself up. Through one cracked lens of the helmet visor, he eyed the young Spanish girl with a look of murderous intent.

“Y...you saw through it. You, girl… Claudia, was it? You saw through my optical illusions…” Francis hacked out a blob of spit and blood against the road. “I was wondering how you kept warning your friends of my moves. You… you are a stand user after all.” His cold gaze trailed from Claudia to her surroundings, the buildings, the road, the sky.

And in his visible eye, there was a gleam of realisation, and then triumphant satisfaction.

*     *     *     END OF CHAPTER 2     *     *     *

#jojo #jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #oc #fanfic #rem #imitation of life #steel panther #gloomy sunday #pink guy #filthy frank #pink season #it's pink season! #chapter 2 #action

[honestlykeenpenguin-blog]

Best Gift Ideas for Men

Is your boyfriend’s birthday in a few days and you haven’t figured out what to get for him yet? Or maybe he’s been your good friend for years now and you want to congratulate him on his anniversary with a token of love and appreciation. Sometimes getting gifts can be a real task for you especially when you are out of the gift ideas for him. But there’s no need to worry anymore because I’ve done your homework for you.

Well, men can be quite different in their preference when it comes to buying them presents. But there’s no need to worry I’ve got you covered. The question you should be asking is; what do men really like when it comes to gifts?

Men are known to be simple in their preference of gifts, it’s more of class and function than beauty and fancifulness. We like things that either improve our fashion style, improves our daily routine and most importantly play a vital role. So whatever you’ll be getting make sure it’s very functional.

                                      To save you the stress of creating a wish list, I’ve compiled a short list of amazing gifts for men that will blow his mind and spark that smile. So if you’ve been pondering on the best gifts for him, then here you have it.

 TUPLUS X2 Luxury Suitcase

Is he a classy man? Or someone who loves travel and is always on the go? If your answer to these questions is yes, then I have just the perfect gift idea for him. Let him marvel at the beauty of the TUPLUS X2 luxury suitcase and enjoy the ease it gives him during travel. What more can he ask for when he’s got the best luggage bag on the market?

Allow him travel in style with the new TUPLUS X2 Luxury Suitcase which comes in four beautiful colors; rose gold, silver, black and the Christmas special red color that’s perfect for the season. Give your man the comfort of his life with this gift.

The TUPLUS X2 Luxury Suitcase offers you great features like a patented one touch open system for easy access, flexible door opening to any degree, in built TSA lock system for added safety, a compact space that can carry up to 5-days luggage and other amazing features. The new red TUPLUS X2 Luxury Suitcase is the best choice for your boyfriend, spouse, dad or your favorite guy.

Let him explore the beauty and travel in a new dimension with the TUPLUS X2 Luxury Suitcase. For more info on how to purchase this luxury suitcase, click the link below

https://www.tuplus.us/product/tuplus-x2?color=3

  Nordgreen Philosopher Gun Metal Watch

An amazing timepiece from Copehagen, the Nordgreen Philosopher Gun Metal Watch is a great gift for a man with a good fashion sense as it adds style and class to his clothing. This watch is very special and one of my favorites because of its interchangeable straps that allows him to choose from a metal strap, casual fabric or the beautiful leather strap. This makes it look new every day when he tries it out, unlike one-strap watches that he’ll eventually get tired of due to the same color and style. Give him something to be proud of when he’s dressing up for work with the Nordgreen Philosopher Gun Metal Watch.

  The North Face eTip Gloves

Technology has made life easier for us and you should take advantage of this with the North Face eTip Gloves. Winter is here and we all want to be cozy and warm always with our regular hand gloves, but what happens when you want to check a new mail outdoors? You pull off those gloves because you have no choice than to operate your smartphone with your hands. Now you can navigate your smartphone anytime and anywhere with the the North Face eTip Gloves which allows him to navigate his touchscreen without having to expose his hands to the cold. Now, tell me if this isn’t one the best gift ideas for him you’ve come across so far. It’s something every guy would love to have, try this out and thank me later.

Carry on Cocktail kit

A special gift for the perfect gentleman. Is he a traveler and a cocktail lover? Then he’d definitely love this Carry on Cocktail kit that comes with everything he needs to make the perfect cocktail no matter where he is and what time it is. The Carry on Cocktail kit comes finely polished utensils giving it a classy look. Give that whiskey lover this special gift for his birthday and see the delight in his face.

  The Tile Pro

Is he careless or forgetful? Always losing stuff and looking for his car keys every morning, if this is your guy then The Tile Pro will come very handy for him. Similar to a regular key holder but only slightly different with a GPS tracker and a mobile app that lets him trace his things easily anytime he loses them. An amazing feature of The Tile Pro is that it lets you track and locate anything it’s attached to within a maximum of 300ft away which is a really long range if you’ll ask me. Now you don’t have to be a search party anymore, help him stay more organized with The Tile Pro. Instead of complaining about his carelessness, show him how much you love him with The Tile Pro.

Fitbit Charge 3

An average guy nowadays works out and that’s also something you could use too. Instead of using normal wristwatches to monitor time and progress, why not give him an upgrade with the Fitbit Charge 3. This smart wrist band is everything he needs to monitor his daily progress and stay healthy. The Fitbit Charge 3 keeps track of numerous activities like; heart rate, sleep routine and food logging amongst others and also gives him a personalized analysis of his performance. It’s a great gift for men who enjoy working out and sports.

  Philips Vacuum Beard Trimmer

Beards are trending now in men’s fashion and most guys keep theirs which is cool. So why not get him the perfect gift for men with beards so he can always be clean shaved. The Philips Vacuum Beard Trimmer gives him the best clean shave with its unique in-built 20 different adjustable lengths and a vacuum feature which gets rid of any contour giving it a smooth and perfect finish. Show him you care with the Philips Vacuum Beard Trimmer on your anniversary this year.

You might not have waited long enough to read this last part probably because you got over excited and ran off to make your order. But if you did, I know you couldn’t just get enough of this amazing list of gift items for men. Don’t forget to thank me later. Enjoy!

#luggage #travel #bags #mensfashion #menstyle #birthday #giftideas #holiday #christmas #tuplus