#streetlight docks

[hyombus]

Sitting with Takofuusen 7/23/23 - 7/25/23

#yno #ynoproject #ynfg #yume 2kki #qxy #wataru #red streetlight world #wooded lakeside #oblique hell #kaleidoscope world #glowing tree path #streetlight docks #deep woodlands #rooftop #red sewers #cool bathtub room lol #ily #swt

[ki-yomii]

down on you | jjk

➥ pairing | jeon jungkook x f!reader ➥ word count | 4.5k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dirty talk, pet names, mild praise kink, squirting, hair pulling, standing missionary, rough sex, porn w/ plot, mafia!jk, detective!reader, established relationship, mild angst, mild violence ➥ summary | It’s true, he owns you: blood, bones, and all. ➥ notes | the mafia!jk au no one asked for aka an excuse to write smut w/ feeling lol.

💚 masterlist | inbox | AO3 💚

On his knees staring down the barrel of a loaded gun with a mouthful of blood, he knows this is the end of the line. He’s going to die like a rat in the gutter - no mercy to be found, loopholes to exploit or bribes to be made.

This is the real deal, and there’s no coming back.

Judgement Day comes in the form of a man with dark eyes and a dangerous smirk: Golden, the deadliest guard dog of the underground.

Credited with dozens of hits, you won’t know he’s there until it’s too late. Trying to keep him pinned is like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands, or a whisper on the wind.

And you won’t know he’s coming until you feel the breath on the back of your neck, hear the crack of a bullet ringing in your ears.

Belonging to one of the most powerful men in the world: Kim Namjoon, he’s more war machine than man.

“Go ahead, do it!” He spits at Golden’s feet, a mess of blood and drool staining the crisp leather of his combat boots. “Killing me won’t change a goddamn thing.”

A coy smile tugs at Golden’s mouth, his grin all sharp teeth and violence. He stays where he stands, his silhouette haloed by distant streetlights.

Water laps at the docks, the tang of salt heavy in the mid-summer Seoul air. There’s no rush; they both know he’ll be dead and dumped just like all the rest of the garbage in this rotting city.

“Come on, you prick! Pull the fucking trigger already.”

Golden cocks his head, and hums in the back of his throat. 

“Tch! I hope you’ve got a lot of bullets - we’re gonna knock the crown off Kim’s head one way or another.”

Golden thumbs at the safety of his gun, the barrel glinting through the shadows. “Ahh, is that what you think?” He shrugs, a lazy ripple of muscle. “Well, I have to say: I’d love to see you try.”

The night is shattered by the resounding crack of a gunshot and an echoing splash of something heavy dropping into the water below.

You climb out of the nondescript government-issue car. The faintest tremble of your fingers nearly gives you away but you’re able to reign in the impulse to smooth your hands over your clothes at the last second.

Showing weakness is the last thing you need to be doing right now.

Especially here.

Right in front of where you’ve parked - shoved between two looming apartment complexes - sits a quaint, vintage building. The rough brick face is at odds with the sleek surroundings, but tinted windows keep prying eyes at bay while the classy signing hanging above the door reads The Red Bullet written in caps.

If you didn’t know better, it would be hard to believe this otherwise mundane storefront is a cover for one of the most dangerous international organizations based out of South Korea.

Not only do they hold the keys to the kingdom, but their success is largely in part because they spearhead operations from government espionage all the way to simple blackmail.

Even though it’s been several months since you darkened its doorstep, the familiar sight is enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Send your heart galloping into a tailspin as your stomach swoops.

While time away helped clear your head of stolen kisses and promises whispered in dark rooms, it also drove the longing bone deep.

In those quiet moments to yourself, when you have nothing else to distract from how lonely you are, you miss this place like one misses a limb.

You didn’t realize how attached you were to these four walls until it was too late: the hazy air filled with whorls of smoke, the overhead lights that bathe everything in red, the plush chairs you spent many nights sprawled across, the glossy black stages.

You don’t know how, you don’t know when but at some point it (he) started feeling like home. A luxury you can’t afford. Not again. After all, if you give in, any progress you made outside of his gravitational pull will be for naught.

Which puts you in a dangerous position as you find yourself back where it began; feelings at war with duty, mind vs heart. Because even if it leads you to a place you could go a million years without ever seeing again, you have to follow the trail of bodies.

A bouncer grants you access, the heavy door slamming shut behind you like a death knell as he herds you towards the back of the club.

It’s outside of official operating hours but it’s no less busy inside, men and women alike in scattered conversation as you pass through.

“It’s nice to see you again,” the bouncer murmurs, chancing a quick glance at your profile. “Been a while.”

You swallow, gaze darting down to your shoes. “Ah - yeah… Got busy with work. It’s - it’s nice to see you too.”

The small talk fizzles out, a snuffed candle as you arrive at a cordoned off room, “Here we are. Mr Kim is already expecting you.”

Any further pleasantries grow stale on your tongue as you enter the private booth, fighting against the lump in your throat to manage a hoarse ‘thank you’.

And then you find yourself left alone with the man himself, Kim Namjoon. He’s as intimidating as you remember, lounging back into the leather booth with his ankles crossed.

A lukewarm smile stretches across his lips, the slightest hint of a dimple peeking out from the valley of his cheek. Standing at attention on either side of his reposing form are two massive bodyguards. Their hands rest on the butts of their guns, daring any who enter to try and make a move.

“It’s good to see you again. But I gotta ask - what’s the occasion, Detective?” Namjoon hums. “I thought we were past all this.” He waves a nebulous hand between your bodies. “After all, you’re practically family.”

You ignore the hidden barb with a wince. “Mr Kim, you know why I’m here.”

“I used to know why a long time ago.” A well-groomed brow raises, his gaze glacial as it spears you in place. “But now I’m not so sure.”

“Please, Mr Kim. I don’t want to make this more difficult than it is. I just need to know about the man they fished out of the harbor, and then I’ll be on my way. So… who was he?”

Namjoon scoffs. “What makes you think I know more than the police?”

There’s a flash of a smirk, barely noticed, before his face returns to its neutral expression. As calm and cool as a placid river. “A john’s a john. What I do want to know is why you care so much?”

The underlying question is clear; why are you really here?

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss such matters with civillians.”

“Oh? So I’m a civilian now.” His expression is not unlike the cat that caught the canary: vicious and delighting in the discomfort his evasions are causing. “Gotta say that’s a new one for me.”

Sighing in defeat, you say, “Alright, enough. I get it. I’m wasting my time with you. Let me ask this instead: where is he?” 

“He doesn’t know any more about this than I do,” he says, waving a blase hand towards a door off to the left, “But if you insist, you can find him in the office. Oh, and Detective?”

“...Yes?”

“Take your time, I’ll be out on business all afternoon.”

With a curt nod, you flee the room amid low-throated chuckles and enter the office. Standing near the desk, his broad back turned towards the door, you find the man you simultaneously want to see the most and run from the fastest.

He turns around, the muscles of his back rippling with the movement. Your breath stutters in your chest, and you nearly swallow your tongue as your eyes trace over the cut of his body.

The moment your eyes meet, those many months spent cultivating time and distance turn to ash. You forgot how even the mere sight of him affects you, any resistance to his many charms virtually nonexistent as the world falls away.

Rich, coffee dark; his gaze sucks you in until it’s all you can do not to reach out, to brush your fingers over his edges and feel them soften beneath your palms.

Rocking back on your heels, you clear your throat and glance to the side as you remain standing in the entryway, more than a little off-kilter.

Coming back after so long apart, only to find him the same as the day you left… How do you reconcile everything that’s changed with everything that was?

“Well, hello there.” Jungkook croons, leaning his hip against the corner of the desk with a roll of his shoulders. His arms cross over the trunk of his chest, accentuating the bulk of his chest, the flex of inked bicep. “Long time no see.”

Shifting, you gulp. “Ah - yeah…”

The burn of his gaze - a palpable sensation prickling across your skin - tracks a path from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes as he gives you a thorough once-over.

“You’re looking good,” Jungkook hums in approval, “real good. I’ve missed those pretty eyes of yours.”

“You - you too.”

Your attention doesn’t know where to settle: drifting from the curve of his shoulders to the jut of his bloody knuckles, the tuck of his trim hips to the thick-soled combat boots.

Tiny hairs at the back of your neck stand on end, and your palms slick with sweat.

“I mean, you look… y’know, uh, good too.”

A flash of a crooked smirk, the raising of a pierced brow gets your blood pumping, your heart tattooing a rhythm against your ribs. Emboldens you to reach back with shaky fingers to turn the lock. The sound grates down your spine, bolts of anticipation slicing through you.

It was dumb to think coming here, seeing him again, would end any other way than his taste on your tongue and his cock in your cunt. Hope makes fools of us all.

Should’ve known better but you’d been hopeful those days were long behind you. Now you realize it was inevitable.

After all, Jungkook is magnetic.

The black hole at the center of your universe, consuming everything in its path until he’s what remains in your head, your heart. You’re helpless, ceaselessly drawn to him like a moth to flame.

And try as you might, you can’t say no to a face like that.

Never could, in fact.

Failure to extract yourself from his orbit during your not-relationship is nothing new. That doesn’t mean you can’t make it difficult.

After all, you still have some dignity intact.

So try, try, try again.

“Ahem.” You try to banish the heat from your cheeks, guiding the conversation into the correct territory. “I’m not here on a-a social call, Jeon. I need to know: were you the one that killed and dumped the john in the harbor?”

Stalking closer, a lazy jungle cat on the prowl, Jungkook crosses the distance between you. He only stops once your bodies brush with every labored inhale. Heat radiates from him, and you’re achingly aware of every point of contact.

The light scent of his cologne teases your nose, and his eyes - god, his eyes. They’re shaded and hungry, devouring your expression with single-minded possessiveness. 

“What makes you think I know anything about that?”

“Jeon -- Jungkook.”

He hums.

Your heart thrums, pulse rushing hard through your head until you feel faint, blood surging the longer you stay in close contact. The shameful clench of your cunt makes your cheeks burn all the brighter.

The last time you were looking up at him like this, his hand was on your jaw while his cock thrust balls deep.

“C’mon, you know that isn’t going to work. This is me you’re talking to, not some rookie.”

“Mm,” he purrs, “it is you I’m talking to, isn’t it?”

You manage to bite back the groan but can’t stop your eyes from rolling even if there’s the slightest hint of a stutter when you reply, “Please, I just need to know if you killed him.”

Jungkook looms tall and proud, crowding closer. “And if I did, baby?” he asks.

Instinctively you back up, only to be followed step by step. A game of cat and mouse that finds you pinned against the wall before long. With nowhere to run, you watch, heart in your throat, as Jungkook dips his dark head.

His nose runs along the length of your neck, breath puffing across your sensitive skin as he inhales the pleasant scent of your perfume.

“I - I…”

“Would you see me in handcuffs?” His lips caress the underside of your jaw, a soft groan escaping him. “… C’mon, answer me. Would you?”

“I would - if I had to.”

As much as you wish that was true, you know in your heart of heart's you would do everything in your power to make sure that never happens.

No matter how much you like to think you’d do the right thing when push comes to shove, you’d choose him a thousand times over.

His eyes dance playfully. “Careful, I might like it.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” you say with a snort.

Jungkook chuckles low and warm, using the arm around your waist to tug you into the safety of his body. The softness of your breasts presses into the hard planes of his chest, your nipples pebbling through the thin cotton shirt you wear.

With a deep-throated groan, his hands encircle the curves of your hips as a thickly muscled thigh slots between yours.

An answering quiet sigh gets his blood pumping and his cock twitching.

“Mm, something tells me you’d enjoy it just as much, Detective.”

The use of your title is a rude awakening.

“Jungkook,” You warn, moving to push him away. Only once you start touching him, you can’t stop. His muscles flex beneath your curious fingertips. “We really shouldn’t.”

You’re sure if he could, Jungkook would spend days worshipping between your thighs, velvet heat wrapped around his tongue and hands in his hair as he brings you to peak again and again until you’re a sobbing, sopping, boneless mess beneath him.

“Come on, I know you want me - that you’ve missed me. I can see it in your eyes.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, tongue flickering out for a brief taste before a rough thumb skates across your bottom lip, tugging down to expose your teeth, the glitter of your tongue as it darts out to flick over the pad of his finger..

“I’ve certainly missed you, baby. Want me to show you?”

Even though you refuse to admit anything out loud, you can’t help but angle your throat back and grind into his hips pressed against yours.

Jungkook tsks, “That’s alright. I’ll get that pretty mouth open one way or another.”

Before you can retort, a mouth swoops down to fuse with yours in a fierce, all-consuming kiss. A low, broken moan punches from your chest.

Reaching up, your fingers sink into the mane of dark hair that brushes the cut of Jungkook’s jaw. Soft, thick, and wavy in your grip; you tug at the roots.

Jungkook hisses. 

Teeth nip at your lip, kittenish licks soothing away the string as blood bursts across your tongues. The thigh shoved between yours grinds up with every wet, sloppy pass of your lips.

Thick muscle spreads your pussy open through the thin slacks of your work uniform. Sparks of pleasure dance down your spine with every rock against your swollen clit.

“S-Shit!” Your shoulders curl in, a shudder jerking through you. “K-Kook, I… !”

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me.” Jungkook growls, rutting his cock against the jut of your hip. The wet patch you’re making on his jeans grows larger with every filthy grind. “You’ve been gone too fucking long. Never again, you hear me?”

You claw at his shoulders, stuttering out, “there’s noth-ing you can do t’stop me.”

“If you don’t come back to me,” his eyes are dark and stormy, voice whiskey rough, “I’ll find you.”

It’s not a threat - it’s a promise.

“Then make sure I never want to leave,” you challenge breathlessly, staring into his blown out pupils, “Make me want to stay.”

Above all else, you think.

The words are barely past your lips when Jungkook accepts your challenge with gusto (just like you knew he would). Without delay, he thumbs open the button on your pants.

Refusing to let you look away, Jungkook yanks them to your feet and swings you up into his arms one-handed. They hang from your ankle like a chain.

Your surprised squeak is quickly swallowed up by a moan when he settles you over the bulge in his pants, your cunt hovering over his erection.

The heat of his skin sinks through the thin cotton of your panties, so, so close to where you need him. Slick soaks into the fabric, and clings to your inner thighs.

Every shift is a smooth, sticky glide of folds that stirs, and stokes the ember of desire smoldering behind your navel.

“Kook,” you breathe. “Please.”

Your head rolls back, and you sag into his chest. Your hips twitch in pathetic little attempts, trying to get pressure where you need it. Having him hot and hard and all for you; any distance between you is suddenly unbearable.

He needs to spread you wide and stuff you full with every inch of his thick cock until he’s so deep you won’t be able to walk for days.

“Shh baby, I’ll give you what you want,” he says, gaze heavy and possessive. “I’m gonna ruin you so good, you’ll have no choice but to come back. You’re mine.”

“Says who?”

“Hmm. You don’t think you are?”

Nibbling on your ear, Jungkook slips a finger under the hem of your panties. He smirks when you keen, rubbing his knuckle up and down your sloppy folds with teasing pressure.

“How about I show you what your body already knows?”

Wasting no time, he lifts you off his cock, the scrap of cloth fluttering to the ground. His free hand dives between your bodies. Then comes the clink of a belt, the sound of a zipper pulling down.

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, your body coiled with anticipation as your stomach swoops at the brush of his fingers along the underside of your thigh.

“Look so pretty like this, baby.” Jungkook twists his wrist, hips arching back. “And it’s all for me. Fuck, I can’t wait to get inside this pretty pussy.”

Any response dies on your tongue, brain short-circuiting as the slick, fat cockhead rubs along your slit. Pressing against your entrance the slightest bit before slipping up to nudge at your clit - coating himself up in your sticky juices.

The ultimate tease - something Jungkook’s always been overly fond of doing until you’re out of your mind with desperation.

“Please, please, please,” you chant, cheeks on fire and eyes half-lidded as you circle your hips. “Stop playing around. I want it - want you, Kook.”

“Oh, baby,” he smiles, ducking down to kiss your forehead. “You’ll take whatever I give you.”

You can’t stifle the broken sob, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Liquid fire surges through your veins, a thousand bolts of lightening crackling beneath the surface of your skin. Your pussy is tender, swollen. Walls fluttering in time with your heartbeat. 

“Ha, you’re so needy for me.”

Jungkook’s lips brush away the moisture around your eyes, his thumb drawing soothing circles into the base of your spine. All the while, his torturous grinding never ceases.

“Aren’t you?”

You croak, “I can’t – Kook, please. Anything, I’ll do anything you want just fuck me.”

The flash of his eyes is your only warning before he’s right there, your walls embracing the girth of his erection inch by inch. Every ridge, every jerk as he seats himself as deep inside your silken heat as he can is absolute heaven.

The stretch as you take him to the hilt sends you careening towards the edge, eyes rolling back and toes curling in your shoes.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” you whimper.

“Shit!” Jungkook grits his teeth, squeezing the base of his cock as you tighten  around him. With every deep inhale, his pelvis brushes your swollen, needy clit. “Forgot how good you feel wrapped around my dick, baby.”

“Me too,” You gasp, tightening your legs around Jungkook’s hips.”Me too, Kook.”

Dropping his forehead to yours, he says gruffly, “‘m not gonna last long.”

Making a noise of acknowledgement, you wiggle your hips. Sinking your teeth into the side of Jungkook’s jaw, you bite and suck at his skin, wanting to leave a mark to remember you by. His reaction is instantaneous, releasing the grip on his shaft to grab a fist full of hair.

He yanks back.

The long, elegant line of your throat is exposed to his butterfly kisses and scolding love bites.

“Now you’ve really asked for it,” Jungkook huffs out with a dirty chuckle.

“Then give it to me.” You lick your puffy lips, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. “Show me who I belong to.”  

The brewing hurricane in his eyes is unleashed. Wide palms and strong fingers grip your hips so tight you feel bones grind together. His stance widens, his unwavering gaze locking onto your face, brow pinched, and mouth slack.

His lip piercing glints in the light, his tongue sliding out to wet his bottom lip. Dark curls tussle about his head, a wild halo that sweeps down into the burning umber of his eyes.

Helpless, you succumb - enchanted by the darkness peering at you from behind those dangerous eyes. He’s ethereal; a siren song that threatens to drown you, swallow you whole.

You’d happily let him, you realize with a shiver.

It’s true, he owns you: blood, bones, and all.

“Hold on tight,” Jungkook says, hooking his hands under your bottom. 

And then, he’s jackhammering into your cunt so hard and fast all you can do is hold on for the ride. Punch drunk and moaning as he manhandles you how he likes, spreads you wide and stuffs you full until you’re panting for breath and clinging to sanity by your fingernails.

“Fuck yes, that’s it. Look how well your pretty pussy always takes my fat cock.”

His low voice whispering filthy praises in your ear makes you whimper, whine, and writhe as the band of pleasure coiling tight in your belly comes close to snapping. It’s the fastest he’s ever fucked an orgasm out of you, and it feels so good you don’t even care.

The pace is brutal, slamming into you so hard you’re sure you’ll have bruises on your hips come morning. But it’ll be so fucking worth it. You’re going to cum hard and long, you just know it.

About to melt as Jungkook fucks the slick out of you, groaning as you drip down the base of his cock, his balls - his very own pretty little mess.

“Yeah, you gonna cum, baby?” he laughs, pressing a sweaty kiss to the side of your face. “Can feel how - haaah shit - how tight you’re squeezing me.”

“Uh-huh,” you cry, holding onto the tops of his wide shoulders. Every thrust has his cockhead dragging over the spongy patch of your g-spot, sending fissions of pleasure rocketing through your nervous system. “So - so close, baby. Just a little more, I--”

Balancing yourself, you lift up only to slam back down, meeting Jungkook’s thrust with all the force of gravity. “Oh fuck, oh fuck!”

Crashing over you like a tsunami, your orgasm shoots through your limbs and zips down your spine. A warm rush of cum soaks Jungkook’s shaft, the wet and messy sound of your squirt splashing against the floor secondary to the cry that claws its way out of your throat.

“K-Kook!”

Jungkook grunts, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips as he helps you keep bouncing up and down on his erection. “Yeah, that’s it - keep going, baby. Wanna feel you keep cumming all over this cock.”

Aftershocks slice through you like lightning, tiny jolts of electricity. As you come down from your high, your gummy walls pulse, milking at Jungkook’s thick shaft.

He groans softly whenever your muscles tense, release; your body a worn-out rubber band as your breath stutters from you.

Then a hand pets down your flank, your skin shivering with hypersensitivity at the tender touch. “S’okay. Just breathe, baby.”

Peeling open your heavy eyes, you look up at his face. Take in the crinkle of his brow and the ravenous expression. Even floating on a sea of bliss, white noise fills your ears, you want more.

You slur, determined, “Kook, baby, please. Cum in me, want you s’bad.”

“Fuck! Can’t just say shit like that to me or I…” Jungkook bites down onto the tender crook of your neck, muffling his grunts in your flesh. “Shit - ’m so --”

You cry out, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders, “A-haah, K-Kook!”

Snapping his hips forward one last time, Jungkook grinds as deep as he can get and lets go. The fat head of his cock kisses your cervix, his length throbbing in time with his heartbeat as a rush of cum floods your insides.

“Yeah, just like that,” he grunts, rutting once - twice into the cradle of your body, “take it like a good girl.”

He croons when you whine at the press of his pelvis against your oversensitive clit. Thready sparks of pain shoot down your legs that hang limply over his forearms. Every breath stutters from your lungs, slow and deep.

“No more, can’t - can’t…” Shifting, you arch your spine and burrow your head into his chest, nearly catatonic in his arms. “S’too much.”

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” Fingers brush over your closed eyelids, smoothing over the arch of your brow. With every kiss dropped to the top of your head, he mumbles in dulcet tones, “I really have missed you, you know.”

You mewl in response as strong fingers knead the backs of your thighs.

“You’re not allowed to go anywhere.”

“Oh,” you can’t muster up enough energy to say anything more, body tender and trembling with little aftershocks, “s’that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” He chuckles. “You’re staying here - right where I want you.”

In lieu of a response, you pick your head up off the pillow of his chest and seek out his gaze. Liquid soft; he’s looking at you like you hung the world on a string.

“I’ve missed you too, Kook,” you say with a gentle smile.

You’ll allow yourself this moment of weakness when there’s no space between your bodies or hearts. Titles don’t matter much when he’s cradling you to his chest like a piece of precious china.

Between the two of us, you’re the one who hung the moon and stars, you think while combing back his sweaty bangs.

And I think I love you, you whisper voiceless against his lips.

#jeon jungkook x you #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #bts fic #jungkook #bts jungkook

[garoujo]

LET ME TAKE YOU FOR A RIDE — TOKYO REVENGERS

feat : sano manjiro, ryuguji ken, hanma shuji, haitani rindou, ( akashi ) sanzu haruchiyo + sano shinichiro.

♱ warnings — f!reader, bike sex, exhibitionism, idk if motorcycles are actually this sturdy but if they aren’t let’s just lie okay :3 creampies, fingering / cunninglingus in sanzu’s, shinichiro fucks you on someone else’s bike, smoking in hanma’s, cockwarming in rindou’s.

♱ note — a lil bonus shin hc in here cause the idea came to me v suddenly akhajaka so consider it a fank yew for u guys putting up w me < 3

・✶ ｡ﾟSANO MANJIRO / MIKEY

as far as mikey was concerned he could fuck you wherever he wanted in his city, why should he have to resist you when he can feel the way your pretty tits are pressed against his back, even through the thick material of his gang uniform. wordlessly pulling over before he’s shooting you a look that has your thighs already squeezing around the cool metal underneath you.

“m-mikey, ah!” you gasp as mikey pushes himself against you, caging you between his chest and the cool body of his motorcycle behind you. “what? does ‘t feel good?” he breathes, but there’s a dreamy lull to his tone when his lips curl slightly against the crook of your neck and he sinks into your pussy. your nails are digging into the plush leather of the seat as a means to ground yourself when he leans the weight of his hips against yours, the blunt head of his cock pushing up against the swollen spots inside of you before his hips are drawing back and he sighs.

he’s still fully dressed except from where he’s pulled his cock out his pants, long coat hanging over his shoulders and the only thing keeping it from falling off is the way your free hand is twisting into the fabric — keeping mikey close as he begins a pace that has you jolting against his motorcycle, every smack of his hips echoing around the darkened dock. “hnnn—you’re so tight.” mikey gulps, letting his slender fingers trace between your bodies to roll your clit in sticky circles, panting and growling against your jaw when your pussy tightens around him in time with each flick of his wrist.

“w-we could’ve waited until we got home, mikey.” you whine, but your hips still grind up to meet his as his brows furrow, feeling him push his cock up against something sensitive inside of you until your breath is skipping, pussy clenching right around him everytime he rocks forward and mikey thinks he could watch your lustful expression under the dim streetlights every fucking day. “yeah, then you shouldn’t have looked so pretty.”

・✶ ｡ﾟRYUGUJI KEN / DRAKEN

it was so easy to rile draken up, even though he knew exactly what you were doing when he felt your fingers trail down his toned abdomen — grazing along the bulge of his cock at every fucking red light so you can see the way his jaw clenches, before he’s cursing and pulling into some random alleyway with a pretty frown and a hard cock since you can’t fucking wait.

“this what you fuckin’ needed, princess? you tryna fuckin’ kill us? s-shit—“ draken’s trying to sound angry but you can barely hear anything he’s saying with how well he’s filling you, keeping you pressed over the metal handlebars of his bike as he fucks into you, each thrust heavy and clapping and driven by the strength in his huge body and there’s a burning hot rush of blood under your skin where you feel his thick fingers grip at the swell of your ass.

“need to quit spoilin’ you, ‘s that it?” there’s a carnal drop in draken’s tone, one that vibrates through his chest but despite that there’s no real weight to his words, because you know you’ve got him wrapped around your pretty finger — only having to send him a doe-eyed look to have him bullying his thick cock into your pretty pussy. you moan brokenly into the darkened alleyway and you hear your boyfriend hiss with another wet withdrawal of his hips. “keep quiet, princess. shit, hhnn—gonna get us fuckin’ caught.”

you can barely breath with how deep draken feels like he reaches, your fingertips curling along the steel handlebars as another languid moan of his name kicks at your throat, your desperate attempts at being quiet melting away with every harsh smack of his hips against yours. your body feels like it’s crumbling under each of his thrusts, and your pretty sure even the heavy motorcycle beneath you is jolting as he splits you open on his cock, grunting long and low when he leans over you to twist your face towards his for a kiss. “‘f you’re not gonna be quiet then let me feel you cum, princess.”

・✶ ｡ﾟHANMA SHUJI

you knew it was coming, you could basically see the arousal that radiated out of shuji when he turned round to face you at every red light, letting his fingertips trail up your thighs before he was pulling you in for messy, quick kisses. there was nothing more thrilling to him than being able to bend you over his bike whenever he wanted, plus.. he’d break the teeth of any bastard that tried to tell him he couldn’t.

shuji’s amber eyes are hooded when he looks at you, black ink of sin visible when he takes the last long draw of the cigarette that’s hanging from his smirking lips, before he’s flicking it to the side and pressing deep into your body, helping you bounce on his lap as he sinks back against the obnoxious print of his bike seat. “look at you, baby. fuck sake, ‘s pussy’s always so fuckin’ ready for me, yeah?” he goads, sending you a teasing look before he snaps his hips into yours, the rough rhythm of his cock making you twitch and pulling a low groan from his lips before it breaks into a breathless chuckle.

it’s almost unfair the quick pace hanma takes as he fucks you, his thick cock digging up inside of your pussy until you’re trembling and twisting into him, heels digging into the steel of his bike as he works your hips to meet the encouraging pull of his huge hands from where they’re massaging at your skin. you feel his teeth nip playfully at your jawline before his lips are gliding along the spots after, cunt baring down around his cock tight as you gasp and he slows to a teasing grind.

“shuji—hnnn, please!” you whine, whispery and choked off as he rolls his hips into yours — pushing up against the spots that makes your hips tremble aswell as your lungs with your next inhale, but he knows you need more. “hmm?” he smirks, feigning obliviousness but there’s a playful glint in the amber that’s jumping from the sight of your glistening cunt to your pretty face. “use your words, doll, or else. you wanna cum, right?” hanma drawls, scratchy and growly as he lets his fingers trace along your skin to roll your puffy clit, just as he grazes along the right spot inside of you that he knows will make you cum — but he can’t deny that the pleasured tears gathering in your lashes make him fucking throb. “wanna cum.” you finally answer and lightning feels like it sparks in your body with the first too deep kiss of hanma’s cock that immediately follows. “oh? that’s more like it, baby—fuckin’ shit. don’t hold back on me, now.”

・✶ ｡ﾟHAITANI RINDOU

rindou was such a tease so the amount of times he’d fucked you on his bike had all been of his own doing, he loved the feeling of your chest being pressed against his back but he also loved the feeling of your pussy squeezing around his cock, chest to chest as you both bask in the city lights. but he couldn’t get enough of how pretty you looked when you squirmed for more.

“so fuckin’ needy, princess.” rindou goads from where he’s got you sat infront of him — chest to chest on his bike and your thighs hooked around his hips, your pretty pussy spread eagerly around his thick cock underneath your skirt. he knows he’s going to fuck you, but he loves the needy little humps you make as you beg for some friction, and the way your wide-eyes blink up at him everytime he revs the engine of his bike — making his cock graze along the swollen spots inside of you when it jumps underneath you both, pushing him deeper.

you whimper when you feel rindou’s fingers tighten around your jaw, urging you to meet his lilac gaze from where he’s watching you from underneath his dyed bangs — pulling you in for a kiss that’s a little messy and accompanied by his hips rocking into yours languidly, swallowing the needy mewls that fall from your lips at the sudden stimulation. “don’t fall apart on me yet, doll.” he groans, but he fills you so well at this angle you can only whine into the kiss, moving your mouth along his while you twitch around him.

“fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me, princess.” rindou slurs, the hand that was hooked around the handlebars of his bike grabbing onto your hips before he’s pulling you closer. his heavy balls pressing flush against your ass at this angle and you feel his heavy cock twitch and throb when your pussy clenches around him. you pull a growl from your lilac haired boyfriend before he’s moving to press you down against the cool steel beneath you both with a dangerous smirk, one that only tugs wider when he pushes deeper into your cunt. “damn, baby. this what you meant when you said you wanted to go for a ride?”

・✶ ｡ﾟ SANZU HARUCHIYO

it was so obvious the effect you had on sanzu, almost embarrassingly so considering how crazed and unhinged he seemed to everybody else. so it was even more charming to watch him fall apart at the seams so easily, deliberately pushing yourself to breathe along the back of his neck while you squeeze your arms around his waist as he drives you through the city.

“told you to sit still angel.” sanzu whispers, holding your hips down from where he’s got your lower back pressed along the handlebars of his pink bike as he buries his face into your pussy. you feel his fingers trace along the soft curve of your inner thighs before he’s spreading you lewdly, his lips curling into a smirk when he drags his tongue along your swollen clit just to feel the way you push up against him, greedy for more of his mouth and he feels his cock strain against his slacks at the feeling.

his fingers grab and dig into the aching flesh of your ass as he rocks you against him, his chin and scarred cheeks wet with a mixture of your slick and his spit, as another low sound cracks from his throat when he pushes his tongue into your twitching walls. the way sanzu eats you out is so eager, hearing him swallow and slurp at the cream his tongue pushes out of your pussy before he’s curling it against your clit, and you feel your toes curl from where your legs are thrown over his shoulders as you twist your hands in his hair — rocking yourself against his greedy ministrations as you feel his tongue drag over your slit.

“so fuckin’ pretty. kill any bastard who thinks they can see you like this, ‘ts only for me.” you know he’s talking about if anyone happens to round the corner of the quiet street he’s parked up in, but you doubt either of you would even notice with how dizzy you feel — his words vibrating against your pussy as a mixture of euphoria and bliss rolls down your spine. sanzu’s tongue splits down your folds to taste the slick that’s gathered there, dragging it back up to your clit before he’s closing his lips around the bud and suckling languidly, making you throw your head back and push yourself tight against the uncomfortable metal below you. “gonna cum all over my fuckin’ bike, angel? don’t hold back on me.”

・✶ ｡ﾟSANO SHINICHIRO

he’d never been able to resist you, his will power was basically non existent — especially when you’re sitting in his shop while he works on a bike, swaying your hips and sending him a pretty smile everytime you hand him a tool, and even just the slight brush of your fingertips against shin’s has him cock twitching as he shoots you a drowsy look. “cmeer, baby. need somethin’”

the sweet, needy little moan that leaves your lips makes shinichiro’s cock throb before he’s picking up a pace that’s a little faster, desperate as he loses himself in each squeeze of your walls around his cock. “fuck, jus’ like that, baby.” it’s late, he’s in the back shop and thankfully he’s not expecting any customers because right now, his hair is mused where it hangs over his drowsy, lidded gaze and his clothes are rustled, pants unzipped under the jacket that’s wrapped around his waist as he bends his pretty girlfriend over the bike he’s been diligently working on all day, but now couldn’t care less about because of how good you feel.

“s-shin, ‘m gonna make a-ah! mess.” you gasp when you feel him press his calloused palm against the front of your thigh, pulling it up to hook it around his waist and the new position makes him feel like he reaches even deeper. “nah—’ts fine, baby. ‘ll clean it before i give ‘em it back anyway, f-fuck.” shinichiro huffs, scratchy and breathless as he leans forward to smear kisses along the back of your neck, letting his free hand trace between your bodies until he’s rolling your clit, pairing it with the back and forth stutter of his hips until he’s groaning, low and shameless when your pussy throbs around him.

“damn, y’re gonna make me c-cum, hnnn—squeezin’ real fuckin’ tight, baby.” he rasps, his brow crumbling as he pants above you and his darker bangs stick along the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. it only takes a few more twists of his wrists before he’s coaxing you into your orgasm. every thrust making you whine his name as a gooey ring of cream forms around the base of his cock and shinichiro groans at the milking compression of your walls, grabbing onto the sturdy steel bike below you both as he thickens and trembles, spilling hot inside of you with a few more shallow thrusts before he’s smearing kisses along the dip of your shoulders. “gotta clean my baby up before some bike though.”

© 2022 garoujo. please do not copy any of my layouts or writing and translate or repost onto any other sites.

#݁ . ࿓ : sealed #tokyo revengers x you #tokyo revengers smut #tokyorev smut #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo rev smut #tokyorev x reader #mikey x reader #mikey smut #draken x reader #draken smut #hanma x reader #hanma smut #shinichiro x reader #shinichiro smut #sanzu x reader #sanzu smut #rindou x reader #rindou smut #manjiro x reader #manjiro smut

[rosanna-writer]

Love at First Sight's for Suckers (2/5)

Summary: [A Feysand Newsies AU] Rhysand had a reputation. A big reputation. But fortunately for Feyre, a newsie selling papers on the streets of Velaris, tabloid gossip about the handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir means business is booming. That is, until the city's newspaper magnates get greedy, Feyre finds herself an unwitting labor leader at the center of a strike, and Rhys becomes an unexpected ally... Warnings: None

We're back with Feyre continuing to unwittingly make Rhys lose his mind in second part of my gift for @the-lonelybarricade for @acotargiftexchange! Thank you to @itsthedoodle for beta reading <3

Ch. 1 - Got a Feelin' 'bout the Headline | Ch. 2 - Beautiful. Smart. Independent.

You can read the second chapter Here on AO3 or under the readmore.

Feyre really didn't like the way that cop was looking at her. He'd already passed her corner once, and she'd forced herself to ignore him and just keep hawking papers. There were hundreds of lesser fae newsies just like her on the streets of Velaris—even though she was shouting headlines, she might as well have been invisible.

And when you were technically a fugitive, nothing less than invisible would do.

But something had made him turn around and come back. Lucien, at least, was long gone, back to his spot by the docks to finish work for the day. Feyre hoped he wouldn't come looking for her again; if she needed to bolt, Lucien couldn't travel through shadows, and Feyre would never, ever leave her best friend behind.

Recognition flickered in the policeman's eyes. He broke into a run, straight towards her. "Feyre Archeron!" he shouted.

Heads turned. Feyre's heart pounded. The faeries in the square turned their attention to her, putting it together that they had a criminal in their midst.

So Feyre became a shadow again.

To everyone else, it looked like she'd disappeared entirely. But Feyre had merely made herself impossible to grab, nothing more than a wisp of darkness, and she slid into the shadow that the nearby streetlight cast in the late afternoon sun.

She couldn't stay like this forever, so like a ghost, she passed through the solid walls and doors of the Rainbow. Feyre tried to ignore the pang of longing at the workshops and art galleries—there was no time to linger. The Rainbow had always been a safe haven, but there was one place in particular she knew she wouldn't be found.

Once she was backstage at Ressina's theater, Feyre let herself become corporeal again…only to be greeted by an ear-piercing shriek.

"High Lady! " Ressina cried. "Do you really have to do that right in the middle of my dressing room?"

"Sorry. Had a bit of an emergency, Mind if I hide out here for a while?" Feyre said.

Ressina smiled. "My favorite scenic designer can stay here as long as she likes."

Feyre leaned in and kissed the air just above both of Ressina's cheeks, careful not to touch the actress's heavy stage makeup. If Ressina hadn't been wearing an elaborate sequined costume, complete with feathered hat perched precariously on her head, Feyre would have given the female a hug.

"Painting a few trees hardly makes me a scenic designer."

"I made sure you're credited as one in the playbill. And we've been getting such good reviews, I can finally pay instead of owing you a favor. Rhysand and Morrigan are even in the audience tonight."

"Rhysand is…here?" Feyre almost didn't believe she'd heard correctly. As far as she knew, the prince spent his free time at parties and pleasure halls—not in small, lesser fae-run playhouses in out-of-the-way corners of the city.

Cauldron, did he even like musicals?

"Probably some arts patronage thing. Morrigan is on the board of damn near every charity in Velaris."

That made a bit more sense, Feyre supposed. It was common knowledge that Rhys and his cousin were close; perhaps she'd dragged him here. And regardless of why, the buzz from the prince's attendance would do wonders for ticket sales, and Ressina deserved that. In addition to performing, she owned the place, having built the business from the ground up herself. "That's fantastic news."

Ressina shrugged. "We'll see if anything actually comes of it. I don't count my dragons before they hatch. Intermission is almost over, but feel free to stay and watch the rest."

And with that, Ressina left. From previous experience, Feyre knew that backstage in the middle of a show was a busy place, so she crept up to the front of the house and hoped she could find an empty seat.

As she passed one of the private boxes, a familiar voice drifted through the open door. Feyre did her best to ignore the way her heart gave a traitorous little flip at the sound.

"Mor, are you positive that your contacts at the food bank will be prepared for the increased demand?" Rhys was saying.

That was…odd. Whatever this was about, he sounded deadly serious, not at all like a person who was out to enjoy a night at the theater. Feyre froze and strained to listen for Mor's reply, telling herself that obviously the matter was something of political importance if more people in Velaris were suddenly going to need assistance.

Yes, definitely that and not just her own inherent nosiness.

But Mor's reply never came. And neither did the chance to fade back into the shadows. When Rhys's voice drifted out from the open door again, his purr was unmistakably aimed at her. "Hello Feyre darling.

If he wasn't accusing her of anything, Feyre certainly wasn't about to apologize. "Twice in one day. Think it's fate?" she said evenly, letting her voice carry to him.

He materialized in front of her, leaning against the doorframe. At some point since that morning, he'd changed into a formal black tunic embroidered with silver swirls. Feyre found herself wondering idly if the design matched the Illyrian tattoos she'd never seen for herself—the Herald ran plenty of headlines about Rhys in compromising positions, but tragically, a picture of him completely shirtless had never made the front page.

But of course, Feyre was only thinking about that because the plunging neckline he'd worn last Starfall had sold out papers in record time.

"If it is, then I'm the luckiest male in the world." Something in Rhys's smile was just a bit too knowing. Feyre didn't like it.

But still, there was something comfortingly familiar about hearing more of his teasing. "It's nice to see you, too."

His voice floated into her head, which nearly made her jump out of her skin. Rhys had never used his daemati abilities on her before. You shouldn't be out here, not with the police still after you. The box is secluded enough to hide, and there's an extra seat. Join me.

For a long moment, Feyre just stared at him, blinking in surprise. She'd merely stolen a loaf of bread for Lucien in a moment of desperation when he'd spent several days too sick to work and her own earnings hadn't been enough to support them both. Avoiding arrest by fading into darkness hardly made her a notorious criminal, not when any other shadow-wraith could call upon the same abilities.

But Rhys knew. And Feyre couldn't fathom who might have told him or why he'd care. She didn't trust it. "You'll want something in return, won't you?"

"I might." He gave her another one of those annoying feline smiles. She scowled back.

"Fine. What do you want?"

"Draw something for me on the blank newsprint in your bag, and we'll call it even."

Feyre had never heard him sound so earnest, and his violet eyes had gone soft in a way she'd never seen from him before, either. She couldn't shake the feeling she was missing something. "I— What? Why would you want that?"

"My walls are looking a bit bare. What better way to fix that than with something you made?"

More teasing, then. They were back on familiar ground, and Feyre would have thrown a punch—mocking her art was a low blow—if Rhys hadn't praised her work before. When they'd met, she'd been sketching the skyline over the Sidra on a spare bit of newsprint leftover at the end of the day. He'd asked if she was selling newspapers to pay for art school, and she'd laughed in his face.

But after that, he'd returned to buy the paper from her every morning without fail.

"Alright. It's a bargain."

Magic crackled in the air as the bargain tattoo appeared on Feyre's arm, a swirling design that covered everything from the elbow to the fingertips of her left hand. She'd spent her whole life in the Night Court; she knew what bargain tattoos were. But by the Cauldron was this one elaborate. And beautiful.

Rhys was looking at her as if he could hear her thoughts. Feyre frantically double-checked that her shields were up—it was so easy to forget she was in the company of a daemati. "You have an artist's eye. I hope it's up to your standards."

"Bargains go both ways. Where's yours?"

"If you're that curious, undress me and find out."

It must be exhausting, Feyre supposed, to go through life unable to stop flirting for more than a few minutes at a time. But then again, Rhysand never looked tired. "Will you manage to keep quiet during the show? Or am I going to hear you blathering on about how my eyes are like stars the entire time?"

"That's something else you'll have to find out for yourself."

Before Feyre could get another word in, he took her hand and tugged her into the box. The door snicked shut behind her on a night-kissed wind.

A blonde female Feyre only recognized from newspaper photos turned and smiled at them. Morrigan, Feyre realized. She'd heard Rhys use his cousin's name, but after shouting so many headlines about her, Feyre was still caught off-guard by the sight of the Morrigan in the flesh.

"You must be Feyre Archeron. I'm Morrigan, but call me Mor. It's so nice to finally meet you," she was saying, holding out a hand for Feyre to shake.

"Oh. Um. Hello," Feyre said. There was an awkward beat of silence as she tugged her hand—which was still in Rhys's—back so she could shake Morrigan's. "Nice to meet you, too."

There was more uncomfortable silence as Rhys and Mor just stared at each other, and several different expressions cycled across their faces in quick succession. At first, Feyre didn't know what to make of it. But then she realized they must have been speaking about something mind-to-mind. Whatever the topic was, it seemed…contentious.

And that had almost distracted her enough not to notice that Mor had said nice to finally meet her. Feyre couldn't imagine who could possibly have been speaking about her to Mor so frequently.

Rhys indicated for her to sit, and Feyre did. He was right about the box being secluded; the seats were set far enough back that she'd be difficult to spot if someone came looking for her. It put her at ease.

"Do you need something to write with?" he asked, dropping into the seat next to her and stretching his long legs out in front of him.

Feyre always carried a pencil. She reached up under her cap and pulled it out of the messy bun it had been keeping in place all day. Her hair—light brown now that she was fully corporeal—tumbled down her shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Rhys staring at her, mouth slightly parted.

Before he had an opportunity to say something cutting, Feyre said, "You left a loophole, you know. I could just draw a line on the paper, and I'd keep my half of the bargain."

He shrugged. "Maybe I just wanted to see what you'd do."

Feyre had no idea what to say to that. But at that moment, the lights dimmed, and Mor took a seat on Rhys's other side. Musicians began to play the opening notes of the entr'acte. Feyre tuned it out; she'd heard it enough times when she'd been painting sets during rehearsals.

The bigger question was what she was going to draw for Rhys. As a shadow-wraith, she could see perfectly in the dark theater, so there was nothing stopping her from spending the next hour perfecting a sketch. And uninterrupted time to work on her art was vanishingly rare.

But still, it was Rhys, so the temptation to draw the outline of a cock just to spite him was strong.

Even stronger, though, was the urge to sketch his face. Rhysand was without a doubt the most beautiful male Feyre had ever seen, and since the day they'd met, she'd been eager to try her hand at capturing his strangely sensual-yet-swaggering demeanor on canvas. But a prince could have his portrait done by any artist he liked, and Feyre doubted that he'd agree if he asked him to model for her.

So even though it was against her better instincts to do something that might inflate his ego, Feyre wanted to sketch a portrait of Rhys. To her surprise, he kept quiet and still, actually paying attention to the show.

It was the longest Feyre had ever seen him go without smirking. His features were soft, and she did her best to capture that instead of the smug mask he presented to the world. Something told her moments where he looked this unguarded were rare.

She finished just as the show ended and the lights brightened again. Before Rhys could see what she'd drawn, Feyre rolled up the portrait and held it out for him with a pointed look, daring him to unroll it and examine it in front of her. The bargain tattoo on her hand faded.

Wisely, he merely thanked her and tucked it into a pocket dimension.

"Feyre, the sets you painted look like dreamscapes," Mor said, brown eyes bright. If Feyre wasn't mistaken, that was admiration.

Feyre shrugged. "The actors just needed something pretty to stand in front of while they sing."

Mor locked eyes with Rhysand again, probably having another wordless conversation. Feyre took it as her cue to leave—she could easily slip into the crowd headed for the exit, then find Ressina backstage. But Mor let out a decidedly unladylike snort, squeezed Rhys's shoulder, and winnowed away.

Rhys looked at her, and something in his eyes pinned Feyre to the spot. "Will you allow me to walk you home?" he said.

***

Rhys wasn't entirely sure he was breathing as he waited for Feyre to answer. Not that it was the point, but he wasn't sure his already-bruised ego would survive slinking back to the House of Wind alone after he'd just urged Mor to leave him alone with his mate.

"Why?" Feyre said. At least it wasn't a no.

He slid his hands into his pockets, hoping he looked nonchalant. "Because I'd like to see you get home safely, and no one will bother you if you're with me."

She nodded once. "Alright."

"I can meet you at the stage door once you've gotten your coat."

"I— I don't have one."

He was pulling his own off the back of his chair and wrapping it around her shoulders before he knew what he was doing. This late in the year, Velaris was cold after dark. And perhaps it was reckless, but the risk of a few headlines about Feyre taking him home was worth making sure she didn't freeze.

At least she'd put her arms through the sleeves while she'd scowled at him, though.

Rhys looped his arm through hers and winnowed them outside to the street. Without thinking about it, he started walking towards the tenement she shared with far too many newsies crammed into the small space. Hopefully she wouldn't ask why he knew exactly where it was.

For a while, they said nothing, but to Rhys's immense pleasure, Feyre didn't pull away from him. The silence was comfortable, and for a moment, Rhys just let himself imagine that they were walking home at the end of a proper night out.

But he'd gone to Ressina's in hopes of finding Feyre there for a reason, so Rhys broke the silence. "In a turn of events, I have news for you this evening."

"Do you?" Feyre raised her brows expectantly.

"Starting tomorrow, the owners of Velaris's newspapers will increase the price they charge the newsies. Sixty cents per hundred."

Her hand tightened on his arm as Feyre's entire body went stuff. Their mating bond was still unaccepted—and therefore, faint—but Feyre's anger surged down it anyway. The force of it was nearly enough to knock him off his feet.

When Feyre spoke again, her voice was low and deadly. "Who told you?"

"I was there when they petitioned my father for assistance today. He said no, so they moved on to another strategy."

"And why are you telling me?"

"Because if this develops the way I anticipate it will, then I want to make sure you're the first to know that I won't be buying the paper from a scab. I'd publicly support a strike."

Feyre went quiet, and to keep himself from succumbing to the temptation to read her thoughts, Rhys forced himself to focus on the lights reflected on the river in the distance. Her fingers on his arm never relaxed.

"We don't have a union," she said eventually.

"Then consider this a head start to remedy that." If anyone could form one in a matter of hours, it was Velaris's High Lady. Rhys was sure of it.

"Thank you."

They lapsed back into silence again. Even if Rhys weren't a daemati, he'd be able to see the wheels turning in her head, just from the determined set of her chin and the way a muscle ticked in her jaw. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen a more beautiful sight.

All too soon, they arrived at Feyre's stoop. Before Rhys had a chance to insist she keep the coat, she shrugged it off and handed it to him. "I'm not a charity case," she said, as if she could hear his thoughts.

Rhys took the coat but didn't slip it back on. "I know better than to suggest you are."

"Good." Despite the cold, Feyre made no move to step inside. Rhys was torn between urging her to go warm up and wishing that she'd stay out here with him forever. Something in her face softened, and Rhys could almost fool himself into believing she'd let him kiss her goodnight after a night at the theater as he courted her properly.

But Feyre, he reminded himself, didn't want him like that.

Rhys started to say goodbye, but Feyre added, a bit more softly, "For what it's worth, you're going to be one hell of a High Lord one day, Rhys."

Maybe Rhys didn't have Feyre Archeron's heart, but he did have her respect. And maybe that mattered more.

"My father's not a dreamer, and the Night Court suffers for it. Good luck tomorrow."

Rhys refused to waste any more of her time; unable to resist preening for her just a bit, he stretched his wings out wide, then launched himself into the air to return to the House of Wind.

When Feyre had shown up outside the box, he hadn't been able to avoid telling Mor exactly who she was to him. And now, Rhys could practically feel his cousin's mind vibrating with curiosity as he reached for it. She reassured him—not for the first time that day—that Velaris's charities were prepared to handle an influx of newsies in need, and Rhys pointedly ignored his cousin's request for updates on what she'd termed the moonlit stroll with his mate.

Alone in his bedroom with the door firmly locked behind him, Rhys finally pulled the newsprint out of the pocket dimension. And if Feyre's art hadn't been so precious, he would have dropped it in shock.

She'd sketched him. There was something soft about Feyre's portrait that had been missing from the stiff, official ones he'd sat through with his family. It gave Rhys the strangest feeling that Feyre had seen something soul-deep within him and recreated it with a pencil on a spare bit of newsprint.

If the next day weren't likely to be long and uncertain, he would have spent half the night staring at it.

When he woke early the next morning, Rhys could still feel Feyre's anger simmering in the back of his mind. He resisted the urge to tug on the bond for reassurance she was alright—the last thing he needed was for her to feel the pull just behind her ribs and realize what it meant. So all he did was keep alert as he dressed, ate, and made his way to his father's study.

And as if on cue, when the High Lord's daily briefing was barely through, Pulitzer himself burst into the study. Darkness swirled around Rhys's father, dimming the room, a clear warning that the interruption was unwelcome.

"My apologies, High Lord, but it's urgent," Pulitzer said, bowing politely.

"What, exactly, is urgent?" Rhys's father snapped.

"The newsies of Velaris are forming a union. They intend to strike, and I'm here on behalf of the city's newspaper owners to ask for your support with breaking the strike."

Rhys stilled. For a long moment, the study went silent. The slight deepening of his father's frown—and the fact that a tendril of darkness hadn't already thrown Pulitzer from the room—made it clear enough that the High Lord was weighing his options.

"Who's their leader?" Rhys said, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

"An upstart shadow-wraith named Feyre Archeron. They call her the High Lady," Pulitzer said with a sneer.

Rhys felt a warm glow of pride—despite the darkness that rolled off his father in waves. The High Lord jealously guarded his power, and it seemed that even a poor lesser-fae female couldn't get away with a nickname he took as a threat or a jibe.

"You can't possibly—" Rhys said.

The High Lord cut him off. "What sort of support?"

"Police, if you can spare them," Pulitzer said.

Rhys stood so quickly, he nearly knocked over his chair. "There is no reason at all this needs to escalate to violence."

"As my heir," the High Lord said coldly, "you need to learn that in situations like this, it's necessary. If we make an example of the newsies, the rest of Velaris will hesitate to disturb the peace going forward. Pulitzer, you have all the crown's resources you need."

Pulitzer was bowing again and thanking the High Lord for his support, but Rhys hardly noticed. He was already storming off towards the Rainbow.

#feysand #acotar secret santa #love at first sight's for suckers

[theclairvoyage]

Centrifugation: Chapter 9

Series Masterlist

The first psych appointment since the incident.

Chapter Warnings: psychological trauma, therapy, mentions of overdose, mentions of medications, mentions of depression and nightmares, allusions to previous traumatic event, fluff, smut, anal play (f receiving), oral (f receiving), face riding, unprotected p in v, a spank or two, more self-doubt.

WC: 3.4k

Monday, October 25th | 1000

“Call me when you’re done and I’ll come get ya, alright?” Joel requests as you prepare to hop out of his truck and enter the behavioral health facility.  You turn to him, nodding and fake smiling.  He catches on to your façade quickly.

“C’mere, baby,” he says, motioning you to come in for a kiss.  He holds your chin softly with his free hand, other hand glued to the steering wheel.

He’s nervous, too, you can tell—fidgety, white-knuckling nervous.  He spent the entire drive over here raking his hand through his stubble and hair, glancing at you almost every other minute.  It’s odd.  Normally, Joel is the stoic one, remaining ever calm to make you feel safe.

Slowly, you lean in closer to him, propping your elbow up on the middle compartment and tilting your head slightly right.  Your gaze is locked on his—worried amber irises scan your face as he scoots forward to kiss you.  He stops right before your lips meet and exhales audibly, puffing warmth on your face.

“Hey,” you say softly, reaching to stroke his grown-out beard.  He hasn’t trimmed in a while, but he looks good—small patches of gray are popping up near his mandible and chin, much to his dismay.

He closes his eyes at your soft touch, inhaling deeply and slowly.  He cups your hand to his face and reopens his eyes, which are tranquil now.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he replies, half-smile crinkling his cheek.  He kisses you softly and sweetly for a few moments before deepening the kiss.

Most of your kisses escalate like this.  Passion and desire overwhelm both of you, no matter the time or place.  You pull back from the kiss, teeth pulling Joel’s lower lip with you before you let go.  He groans.

“Fuck.  Y’do this to me every time,” he huffs, eyes pointing downward at the erection fighting the zipper of his jeans.  You smirk and peck his lips one more time before opening the door and hopping out.

“Thank you, Joel.  I mean it,” you say earnestly, suddenly feeling shy.  He stares at you for a moment with that look before shaking his head and waving you off.

“S’nothin’, you deserve it.  I’ll see ya in a bit.” You blow him a kiss and shut the door before ambling your way to the entrance.

It’s gloomy in Omaha today.  Overcast sky, little gusts of cold wind ripping through the trees and shaking the streetlights.  Winter is creeping her way into Nebraska, frosty fingertips swiping ice along the ground overnight—much like the Nutcracker fairies in Fantasia.  You don’t mind winter, though—long sleeves and pants, hot coffee, chilly air grazing your bronchioles—it’s a nice contrast from the muggy, excoriating summers here.  And no bugs.

You’re a little late, which is unlike you—Joel was running behind this morning after spending much of it on the phone with Tommy and the high-maintenance Council Bluffs client, whose shrill voice you could hear from across the room.  She’d been complaining about the boat dock needing redone, which wasn’t part of the original agreement she’d made with Miller Contracting.  Tommy was at her house this morning working on the house remodel when she sprang it on him, bickering with him about cost and materials before he decided the older Miller would be a better choice to put her in her place.

You approach the front desk, an older woman with thick-rimmed glasses, crunchy blonde and gray-rooted curls piled on top of her head.  She looks up and smiles at you, red lipstick-stained skin peeling from her chapped lips, before giving you a singsong hello, dear.

“Hi.  Appointment for 10:00,” you say much less enthusiastically, spelling your first and last name as she searches for you on her computer screen.

“Great!  Your doctor sent over all your notes, I just need you to answer some questions and sign a few release forms before we take you back.  Have a seat right here and bring them up when you’re done,” she coos, pointing at a puffy green armchair facing the front entrance.  She hands you a clipboard with several forms, pen attached by chain.

You scribble quickly on the forms, trying not to inconvenience the psychiatrist too much.  The questions regarding recent sexual activity make you blush, fantasizing about your last few days with Joel.  Yesterday, he’d perched himself between your legs and licked you to orgasm for what felt like hours—just the reminiscing makes your core tingle.  Hopefully there’s more of that today—you have a feeling you’ll need it.  You clench your thigh muscles and focus on the rest of the forms before taking them back up to the receptionist.

Shortly thereafter, a skinny nurse calls your name from a door beyond the front desk and takes you back into a hallway.  He takes your blood pressure and weight before introducing you to the psychiatrist, Dr. Mandel.  She’s quite petite, maybe five feet tall, with fiery red hair and freckles dotting her pale skin.  She’s beautiful, almost elven.  She shakes your hand warmly, pale green eyes taking you in as she ushers you into her office.

“Have a seat here.  Do you need any refreshments?” she asks, pointing toward a comfy, orange chair facing the window in her office.  She walks over to her desk to grab a few things before sitting in an identical chair opposite you.  You shake your head.

“Thanks for being here.  I know this is difficult—most patients do what they can to avoid these appointments,” she says matter-of-factly.  You nod.

“I feel like it’s better for me to do this sooner rather than later,” you say, rubbing your arm nervously as you scan the room.  It’s warm, accented with rich orange and red hues and natural light spilling into the space.

“Some doctors would agree with you, like myself.  Most think social support is the best thing for healing after a traumatic event.  Would you say you have that?”  You nod, thinking of Joel, Keri, Trina, and the rest of your work group that would drop anything in a heartbeat for you.

“That’s good.  My professional opinion is that social support and therapy have the best prognosis for healing and returning to a somewhat normal life, though you won’t be the same as before,” she says eloquently.  She’s very animated, hands complementing her words and tone expressive.  You feel comfortable around her, like she’ll tell you the truth no matter what.

“Have you experienced any suicidal thoughts, nightmares, or other troublesome mental episodes?” Your eyes sweep the ceiling as you recollect the nightmare you had the other day about Cedric.  Picking nervously at the calluses on your palms, you nod.

“Just nightmares.  I had a panic attack the day after it happened, but nothing else.”  She jots some notes on a legal pad perched in her lap, nodding as you speak.

“I’ll prescribe you some pills for the nightmares and we can get something for the panic attacks, if you feel it’s necessary,” she informs you, gauging your reaction.

“The nightmares, for sure.  I don’t think the panic attacks will be a problem until I have to go back to work,” you tell her, anxiously imagining walking through the front doors of the plasma center, picturing Cedric’s lifeless body splayed on the cold floor.

“I’ll prescribe something for that just in case—you might think right now you’ll be fine, but seeing the area where something traumatic happened can reopen psychological wounds.” You nod grimly and admit to yourself that you were worried about that when you do eventually have to return to work.

The remainder of the appointment consists of her asking questions for her assessment and teaching you coping strategies.  She diagnoses you with acute stress disorder, though mild.  You’re not surprised—you were stabbed and somewhat witnessed a homicide.  You’re worried how much worse you’d be if you didn’t have Joel taking care of you—would you have even made it here today?

Dr. Mandel prescribes you a benzodiazepine for nightmares and an antidepressant for panic attacks.  She warns you about taking the nightmare medicine with your pain pills. 

“Don’t drive after and make sure you’re in a safe space until you know how your body will react to both,” she warns, tone serious.  “I’ve had one too many patients overdose while taking both—please be careful.”  You nod.  You don’t want to join Cedric anytime soon.  She shakes your hand as she guides you out to the front, where you set up your next appointment with the cheerful receptionist.  Two weeks out, right after you come back from Chadron.  You might need psychiatric help after dealing with your mother for a week.

Perched on a bench outside the clinic, you call Joel.  He answers after the second ring.

“All done, baby?  How’d it go?” he asks.  You can hear the echo of his truck door shutting in the garage.  You stare at the puffy gray clouds traversing the sky, wind pushing them along faster than normal.

“Pretty good, actually.  She gave me some medicine for the nightmares, so we’ll see if that helps,” you say, trying to make your voice more cheerful than you feel.  Blah best describes the way you’re feeling today—much like the weather.

“I’m glad.  Don’t like seein’ ya upset when you should be havin’ happy dreams,” he says, turn signal clicking in the background.

You smirk as you think of a witty response.  “I have happy dreams all the time, like today when I was filling out the forms and remembered what I was doing yesterday around this time,” you murmur coyly.  A deep, devious chuckle escapes his lips.

“We can arrange that again, y’know,” his syrupy Southern voice croons, dipping an octave lower and making your stomach flip in excitement.

“Please,” you say, almost whining.

“Mmm.  Can’t wait.  S’my favorite dessert.  I’ll be there in 5,” he says before hanging up.  Your pussy aches.  You love that he loves tasting you—no man in your life before has ever lapped you up the way he does.

Right on time, Joel pulls up in the circle of the clinic.  He eyes you as you walk up, getting out so he can open the passenger door for you.  You throw your arms around him and pull him into a hug unexpectedly, which makes his heartbeat quicken for a few seconds.

“Miss me already?  Was only an hour or so, baby,” he chuckles, kissing your hair.

“Just my way of saying thank you.”  He pulls back and kisses your nose before swatting your ass.

“Can’t to show you how I say thank you,” he murmurs into your ear before trotting over to the driver’s side door.  You shudder.  You won’t make it home if he keeps this up.

Monday, October 25th | 1235

“Oh my god, fuck, Joel,” you cry, nails scraping his scalp as he sucks on your needy clit.  You’re writhing, squirming in his iron grip as he works you into a fit of ecstasy.  He moans into your core.

“Love hearin’ ya talk, baby.  Tell me how good it feels,” he urges you, shaking his head side to side as his mouth latches onto your folds.  His middle and index finger prod at your entrance teasingly.  You roll your hips toward him, urging them closer, but he moves back ever so slightly.  You groan in frustration.

“Hold on for me, darlin.’ I’ll give ya what ya need.”

Your nerves are in overdrive, his warm tongue and vibrations of his voice creating a steady stream of arousal that leaks from your pussy slowly.  He knows just when to decrease the pressure of his licking and sucking, trying to keep you from coming until the very last second.  Not being able to reach your high is driving you insane, but you know it’s worth it.

Suddenly, he pulls mouth off you and rolls onto his back.  Confused and irritated, you sit up and cock an eyebrow at him.

“C’mere,” he says.  “Want you to sit on my face.”

Your eyes enlarge as you register what he just said to you.  Arousal pools low in your belly, and you don’t hesitate to straddle his shoulders.  He loops his arms around you, one hand gripping your ass as the other spreads your lips apart.

He looks up at you, mystified at seeing you from this angle.  You’re blocking the light, casting a shadow on his face, and allowing him to see everything.  The underswell of your breasts topped by taut nipples, head tipped back in anticipation, hair swept over your shoulder, one hand gripping the curls on his scalp for dear life.  A brambly growl escapes his throat at the sight.

Needing to taste you, he pulls you down onto his warm tongue and feasts.  You cry out loudly, involuntarily grinding your hips onto his face.  This spurs him on even more, soundwaves from his muffled groan vibrating into your pussy.  You lean back with a moan, the pleasure taking away what stability your thighs have left.  Shaky legs encase Joel’s head.  A few more swipes of his tongue send you over the edge.  You come hard and with a hoarse moan on Joel’s face.  He drinks it up like his favorite whiskey, getting drunk off you.

Using the headboard as leverage, you lift your hips off his face and collapse onto your stomach.  Panting, you hear Joel get off the bed and walk over to your side.  He brushes your hair off your back and kisses the back of your neck and moves down further, teeth scraping the skin of your scapulas and midback.

“Ready f’me, baby?” he asks in between kisses.  You hum in approval and get on all fours, sticking your ass out for him.  He growls.

“Fuck.  I love your ass,” he tells you, cracking a hand down on one cheek.  You yelp in surprise, followed by a playful giggle.  He grips your cheeks and lifts them up, squeezing them together as he admires you.

“And this pretty fuckin’ pussy.  God damn.  Can’t believe you’re mine,” he croons.  At some point he ditched his boxers, now sliding the head of his cock up and down your wet folds.  He pauses at your entrance and folds his chest over your back to murmur in your ear.

“Tell me, baby—are you mine?” his gravelly voice trickles into your ear, giving you goosebumps.

“Yes, Joel—fuck, I’m yours,” you whine back.  He pushes himself off your back and prods himself at your wet hole, pushing in slowly.  You squeak, voice unable to respond any other way to the stretch of him.  He bottoms out and waits for your muscles to relax before moving again.  After a few beats, your walls loosen their death grip on his cock ever so slightly.

“Good fuckin’ girl, just relax for me,” he soothes, pulling out of you slowly.  He pushes into you with finesse, wanting to work you into another orgasm slowly and carefully.  He picks up his pace after a bit, gripping your shoulder for leverage as he digs into you.  You almost scream at the depth he’s hitting but find that your voice is still unable to make any sounds—you’re so full, each thrust compressing your lungs and pushing what little air you have out in heavy pants.

Joel removes one of the hands from your back and sucks on his thumb before pressing it lightly near the tight entrance of your ass.  He slows his pace, needing your permission before he continues. 

You crane your neck to look at him, and god damn, he looks fucking good.  Salt and pepper curls bedraggled.  Sweat beading on his tan forehead.  Looking at you like you’re Venus reincarnated.  He lifts an eyebrow at you.  “It’s okay if you don’t wanna, baby.”

“It’s okay,” you promise him, giving him permission.  You’ve never done this before, but this is the right person to try something new with.  You know he wouldn’t push your boundaries without your consent.

“Tell me to stop if it’s too much,” he says, swirling his thumb around your ass.  It feels good—it’s foreign, but it’s pleasurable.  You instinctively tighten around his cock as he prods his thumb further, making him hiss.

“Fuck, darlin’—gonna squeeze me to death,” he moans.  You try and relax, but the anticipation of what’s coming has your muscles in protective overdrive.  He leans over and spits on your asshole, the warm liquid making you jump a bit.

“Alright, baby, you just say the word if it hurts,” he reassures you.  You nod, ready to experience this with him.

Sharp pain shoots through your spine at the first push, and you clench your muscles in response.  A soft cry escapes your lips.  Joel pauses, unable to tell if it’s from pain or pleasure.

“Keep going,” you urge him.  He pushes his thumb just a bit further.  Pain ebbs into achy pleasure as your muscles adjust, then white-hot pleasure as he picks up the rhythm of his thrusts again.

“Oh fuck, that feels good,” you moan.  The tandem of pleasure and pain pull a new kind of orgasm from you, ripping you to pieces from the inside out.  You collapse onto your elbows as you quiver, both holes contracting around Joel.  He curses your name and collapses over you, emptying inside you with a ragged groan.  He’s heavy, but not enough to suffocate you.  His torso is warm, draped over your sweaty back.  With a groan, he pulls himself out of you and stands up, rolling you over and grabbing your hand.

“Shower?” he says, pulling you into his chest.  He doesn’t let you respond before he starts kissing you.

“Yeah, you stink,” you tease, scrunching your nose at him as you lead him into the bathroom.  He chuckles and rolls his eyes as he follows you.

Monday, October 25th | 1421

You’re in Joel’s kitchen, sipping some water as he makes a late lunch for the two of you.  He decided on some chicken fried rice after you told him about a thousand times that he could pick what to eat this time.  You’re staring at him absentmindedly and he catches you.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, baby?” he quizzes you, pushing the rice and eggs around the sizzling wok as he stares at you.  You let out a big sigh.

“I think I need to go back to my apartment tonight and try to be alone, to see if I can do it,” you say quietly, somewhat worried about his response.  He sets the spatula down and turns to you, expressing concern, but not upset.

“I’m not gonna push ya either way, but what made you think that?” he asks, tilting his head toward his shoulder and leaning against the island as he evaluates you.

“I just… don’t want to be too dependent on you.  I’m so happy when I’m with you, and y-you’ve done so much for me.  I just don’t want to spend all this time with you and then get to a point where I can’t be on my own,” you say, exasperated.  You’re picking at the callouses on your palms again, gauging his response through worried eyes.

“I understand, baby.  This is a weird situation for both of us.  I’d prefer it if you stayed here tonight since you’re tryin’ your new meds, but you’re the boss here,” he reminds you, putting both hands up.  He’s right, it wouldn’t be a bad idea—you just haven’t been at your apartment in what feels like forever and have this sense of dread returning there, like it’ll pull you back into the past.

“That’s smart.  I’m not sure why I feel like this.  Just a lot in my head right now,” you say, looking up at the kitchen light as your throat starts to tighten.  He pulls you in for a warm embrace, rubbing your back lightly through your shirt.

“Told ya, this healing is gonna take a while.  I’m never gonna tell ya to leave—I’ll come stay at your place, ‘f you want me to.  Just want you to be okay, baby,” he murmurs into your hair.  God, he’s too good to you.  You’ve made up your mind.  Pulling back, you kiss him chastely.

“Okay.  I’ll stay here tonight, and then tomorrow I’ll stay at my apartment by myself, just to make sure I can do it.  And then you can stay the night after.  Cool?” You lift a thumbs up and raise your eyebrows at him.  He mirrors you.

“Absolutely, baby.  Good call.  Let’s eat, huh?”

“Please.”

Taglist: @burntheedges, @syd-djarin, @anoverwhelmingdin, @danaispunk

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #centrifugation #joel miller x you

[tbcanary]

arrowfam week day six: dream & comfortable!

(loosely set sometime around ga vol 7 #2)

—

Lian wakes with a start as a hand grasps her by the elbow. In the lingering fog of sleep, her brain supplies the familiar: chilly Gotham air, threats around every corner, the knowledge that she needs to run if she doesn’t want to end up dosed with Joker gas or dead on the docks.

Instinctively, she kicks a leg out in the direction of whoever is grabbing her. They grunt, and she uses the surprise to wriggle free just a little, vision still hazy and mind unclear.

And then the hand is back, joined by another, both holding her down by the shoulders.

“No!” Lian insists. “No, no, let me go!”

“Lian.”

She knows that voice, she thinks, but she won’t risk it. She’d picked a bad place to spend the night, too far from the streetlights, why can’t she see—

“Lian, dammit, it was just a dream! Stop kicking at me, kid!”

The voice slots into place and the fight rushes out of Lian all at once. She stills, blinking up at the dark shadow leaning over her.

“Uncle Ollie?” she asks, voice small.

He nods. “It’s just me. Promise.”

It comes back to her like smoke from a candle, wispy and uncertain. They’d been in the treehouse. There had been vegetarian chili, and they’d fought a woman who looked like a cat. She isn’t home, but she isn’t in danger, either. Probably.

She swallows past the terror gripping her throat. “What happened? Why’s it so dark?”

“I put out the campfire a little bit ago. Didn’t want anyone seeing us,” Oliver mutters. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were afraid of the dark. Figured Gotham would have driven that out of you.”

Despite herself, Lian’s face burns hot with shame. “I’m not scared. I just… was surprised. That’s all.”

Slowly, Ollie releases her shoulders. He sits back with both his hands held up, an open and honest gesture. When she sits up and shakes the last of the sleep from her eyes, he sits a little more comfortably. Relaxed, somehow.

“I’d bet the nightmares didn’t help,” he offers. “They can be real disorienting.”

“I…” I wasn’t having a nightmare, is what she means to say. Instead, she finds her tongue betraying her: “I dreamt about dying, I think.”

Ollie nods. Wordlessly, he picks up a canteen and offers it to her. The water is warm and stale; she drinks until her stomach hurts.

“I hate those, myself. You’d think your mind would have had enough, after the real thing, but no,” he sighs. “You gotta keep watching the damn highlight reel.”

Lian plays with the cap of the canteen, avoiding Oliver’s eyes. Even if she can’t see them properly, she can feel them; they’re picking her apart, right down to the bone. She’s never known anyone with eyes like Ollie, not even Uncle Connor. He looks at her like he understands her, despite all the time apart.

“Did it… hurt.”

Ollie starts. His face is clearer now that her eyes have adjusted, but the features are still mostly shadow. She can’t tell if he’s surprised or hurt or horrified, or whatever else he might be.

“In the nightmares, I feel like it did,” he responds, slow and somewhat contemplative. “At the time… Well, I hate to say it, but I don’t really know. Sorry, sport.”

Lian nods. Swallows. “I think that’s how it is for me, too. I just… I don’t know what it was like. And I think part of me wishes it did. So… I dream about it. A lot.”

“You sure you’re Roy’s kid?”

The question startles a laugh out of her. “What?”

“Well, it just seems to me you spend a lot more time pondering and considering than he ever has,” Ollie says. “Not to say he isn’t smart. Of course he is. Just in a different way, I think.”

Lian rolls her eyes. “He hasn’t seen me since I was a toddler. I figured out a lot on my own.”

“That you did,” Ollie concedes. “That… you did.”

Again, he’s watching her. She can just barely see the stars reflected in the void of his pupils, and it makes him look almost spooky. Or maybe just powerful, like all the other superheroes his age. They have a knack for that kind of thing.

“What?” Lian demands.

Ollie shrugs and leans back against the tree he’s set up in front of. When Lian doesn’t budge, when she keeps staring, he caves.

“It’s just that it’s late,” Ollie explains. “And it’s pretty chilly up here. And I know you’re all grown up, and all, but I could use a hug and some company from a brave grown-up like yourself if I’m going to get comfortable.”

“…You aren’t a very good liar, Uncle Ollie.”

“So they tell me.”

But it is kind of cold in their treehouse hideout, and Lian’s hands are still shaking slightly where they hold the canteen. She rolls her eyes and shifts over, moving to curl into Ollie’s side.

He lets out a long, contented sigh and drapes an arm over her shoulder. For once, as she settles into sleep, she feels comfortable. Warm.

#Oliver Queen #green arrow #lian Harper #arrowfam #arrowfam week #arrowfam week 2023 #fic.tb

[rotworld]

9: Meat Market

(previous)

you end up somewhere you'd rather not be. a familiar priest wants to make you feel welcome.

->contains gore, mind control, non-consensual touching, religious content.

.

.

.

You need a shower. 

You’d like to wash your clothes, bandage your knees and palms and lay down to ease the pressure on your sore hips and core, but all of that pales in comparison to your visceral need to rinse the grit and disgusting sticky sensation from your skin. You tilt the rearview mirror, examining the throbbing, tender bites and scratches adorning your skin. There’s a mark right where your neck meets your shoulder, not flushed and irritated like the rest. It’s faded like an old tattoo, just barely visible; symmetrical symbols, twin forking arches.

Antlers, you realize. Just high enough to peek out of the collar of your shirt.

It’s a long way to the University. You wouldn’t make it there tonight, even without this awful ache in your lower body. You scan the roadside for signs promising lodging or even a rest area, desperate for somewhere to stop. There’s nothing for a long time, even when you escape the lingering grasp of Verlinda and the treeline falls away. You see foggy plains and farmland, rows of ripe corn behind a wooden fence. For the first time in a while, you encounter other cars on the road. You see the finger-like silhouettes of factory smokestacks, a blocky city skyline in the distance.

You notice the smell as you drift into the exit lane. Sharp and savory—spices and dried meats. Your mouth waters. A shower, you think, and then maybe a hot meal. It’s a small town, you notice, more like Henley Creek than Prismville with its sleepy main street and quaint coffee shops. You drive slowly, looking for courier signs, but you see something else first; something that makes your heart skip a beat.

A metal sign straddles the road. A bridge gently arcs over a stylized river, colorful text following the curve. It says, “WELCOME TO NELTON.” You consider for a moment how desperate you really are.

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: I ADORE YOU BY QUEEN ADREENA]

A river squirms through Nelton from north to south, sandy paths and old, soggy docks lining the bank. The city is a spacious, small town sprawl, meandering avenues dotted by benches, kitschy local shops and garland-wrapped streetlights. There’s some sort of special event or holiday coming up, implied by the colorful banners and 50% off sale signs, but not one you’re familiar with. 

Downtown is bustling. You’ve arrived just in time for the lunch rush, watching hurried foot traffic stream through cafe and diner doors. Churches pop up like weeds every few blocks but they’re smaller and in poor condition than you expect, white, wooden buildings that look like they might topple in a strong breeze. You park on a busy avenue, walking slowly by the windows of a florist, an antique shop, an apartment building, looking for courier signs. You’re starting to lose hope when you round the corner and nearly run into someone. 

“Sorry, I wasn’t looking—oh, hello again.” 

You stare at the man in front of you. Have you met before? He’s smiling like you have but nothing about him is particularly memorable. You feel like you’re flipping quickly through a product catalogue and all the models are blurring together, pleasing to the eye but unobtrusive so as not to distract from the rest of the image. He wears a white shirt and black slacks, suspenders curving over his shoulders. And gloves, you realize, black leather gloves. You ran into him in Prismville. 

“Courier! What a pleasant surprise!” There’s another man with him who you recognize immediately. Malachi is dressed in the same cassock as the last time you saw him, hands clasped together in front of his chest. “I’m so glad you’re here. Was it a long drive? Why don’t you join Mr. Bachman and I for lunch?” 

“I’m afraid I can’t stay, but I’m sure the two of you will have a lovely time.” Bachman smiles and slips past you gracefully. He claps a hand on your shoulder as he goes, leaning in just slightly. “Don’t eat anything they offer you,” he whispers. He walks unhurriedly to a small, silver car parked by the florist. When you turn back around, Malachi is slightly closer, his smile just a bit wider.

“I had no idea the two of you were acquainted. What a small world!” he says. 

Anticipating his charisma, the way he draws you in, doesn’t help. You feel yourself relaxing, the tension leaking out of your shoulders. The glow of his eyes is even fainter outside in the Drift’s weak daylight, but you notice the slightest golden hue rippling around his face. “We’re not, exactly. I saw him a while ago. Didn’t have time to introduce ourselves,” you admit.

“Ah, that sounds about right. He’s an anchorware repairman. Always rushing off to the next place, a bit like yourself. We just had to recalibrate our whole stabilizing array and I wasn’t sure it was done properly. It was kind of him to rush out and take a look—” Malachi cuts himself off suddenly, eyes widening in surprise. He hooks two fingers beneath the collar of your shirt and tugs it slightly to the side, staring, no doubt, at the mark of the Stag. “What happened here?” he says softly. 

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, leaning out of his reach. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I could really use a shower—”

“Goodness, of course,” he says, his hand resting gently on the small of your back. You’re walking before you’re fully aware of it, letting him guide you down the street. You’re leaving downtown, ambling down a long, green path to what looks like an industrial park. A massive complex of metallic buildings, steel walkways, and gaping delivery bays greets you at the end of the path. That spicy, savory smell you first noticed on the way into town is stronger here, almost cloying.

“Employee showers are in this building here. And no, nobody will mind,” he says, steering you towards a smaller, rectangular building with its own parking lot, separate from the rest of the factory. “You’d be more than welcome to use my bathroom if we were closer, but I live quite a ways from here. I’m sure you’d like to get cleaned up sooner rather than later.” 

Before long, you’re walking down a long, echoing hallway, passing people in stark white uniforms. Everyone smiles and nods or waves to Malachi, a few exchanging cheerful greetings. They’re polite to you but not overly friendly, seeming to sense your unease. The shower room is clean and spacious, and thankfully unoccupied when you arrive. There’s a plastic bench against the wall with clean towels stacked in a pile. The stalls are around the corner. You can’t help but notice Malachi lingers, leaning against the wall beside the bench. “You can leave your clothes with me. I’ll make sure nothing happens to them,” he says, smiling innocently. 

You’re too tired to argue. You go around the corner to undress, wrapping a towel around your body and hand off your clothes, extremely aware of Malachi’s fingers brushing against your hands. The lights are dimmer. The glow of his eyes is more noticeable and eerie. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” he asks, winking. “Are you delivering something, or just passing through? I suppose you’re always passing through, regardless.” 

You slip around the corner and into a shower stall, turning on the hot water. It’s heavenly, soothing on all your scrapes and scratches. “Just passing through,” you call over the hiss of running water. 

“Ah, the exciting life of a courier. Doesn’t it get lonely?”

You don’t answer, lathering some soap in your hands. The presence of amenities, several different scents and varieties of shampoo, makes you curious. “What is this place?” 

“Nelton’s biggest employer,” Malachi says wryly. “Food processing, meat packing, and animal feed manufacture, all under one roof. Or, well, a series of connected roofs. It’s a big complex. If you noticed a particular odor around town, this is where it comes from.”

“And it’s got showers,” you marvel. “Nice ones.” 

“Food is the heart of the community. Those who work with it are afforded the highest respect.”

You’re waiting for the invitation to lunch but it never comes. Are you being paranoid? There’s something odd about Malachi, and Bachman’s whispered warning is lingering in the back of your mind, but you towel off and get your clothes back without incident. 

“You’ve got plenty of daylight left,” Malachi says. “So I suppose I can’t convince you to stay a while longer.” His eyes flick down to your neck when you come out of the showers, an irritated twitch at the corner of his smile. “That’s a stubborn spot of dirt, isn’t it?” he says. 

You saw it in the mirror. The mark of the Stag didn’t come off, but you didn’t expect it to. “I’m sure it’ll come off eventually.”

He insists on walking you back to your car and you let him because it seems harmless, and you’re not sure you could navigate out of the factory complex alone anyway. You’re still a bit sore but you smell clean, at least, and your mood has lifted. Nelton’s peaceful scenery puts you at ease. The belltower spire of a courthouse periscopes from the center of downtown. A fried, buttery scent wafts from a seafood restaurant along the river. Wind skims across the surface of the water, stirring gentle waves.

“It’s a nice place, isn’t it?” Malachi asks, ambling along the sandy riverbank beside you. 

“It is,” you say. A pair of fishermen seated at the edge of a dock wave at the two of you. 

“Have you seen much of town? I meant to show you around. You might’ve noticed there aren’t any courier signs, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t welcome. Just the opposite. Everyone in Nelton is more than happy to help a courier. Food, lodgings, supplies, whatever you need, you don’t need to worry about finding it here.”

“That’s generous,” you say. The suspicion must be evident in your voice or on your face. Malachi laughs softly.

“The law of Nelton is hospitality. It’s simply what we do here. We’re especially appreciative of couriers, of course, but anyone who comes all this way would receive the same treatment.” He pauses, gazing across the water. You stop beside him, watching the waves lap at the rocks and meandering tree roots on the far shore. “Our most important holiday is in less than a week, the Feeding of the Multitude. Are you familiar with that particular story from the Bible? It was one of the miracles of Jesus. He took a couple fish and a few loaves of bread, gave thanks for them, and distributed them among the faithful and needy. This blessed food fed thousands.” 

He’s watching you, you realize, studying your face. “Ah,” you say, unsure of what sort of reaction he’s expecting.

“That spirit of generosity is the essence of Nelton. Whether you follow the faith or not, it’s good to give, right? To feed the hungry and shelter the lost.”

He reaches for your hand and the thought that you should pull away passes through your mind, fizzling out just as quickly. It’s fine, isn’t it? You know he means well. He just wants to take care of you. His gaze is steady and warm, full of affection, as he tugs you closer. It occurs to you that this is strange, improper somehow, that a stranger and a priest of all things shouldn’t be holding you like this, but that thought, too, melts away.

“The truth is, a miracle happened here. Just like the fish and loaves,” he says quietly, so quietly you have to lean in closer. You get the sense that this is a secret he’s telling you, something not often given to outsiders. His hand is on your face, his thumb stroking your lips. His eyes are beautiful, gold like honey. “Are you hungry, courier?” 

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. You think that this isn’t right, that you were leaving, weren’t you? You were going to get back in your car and keep going south but that seems too difficult now, not worth the risk. Where is your car? Where’s the florist and the antique shop? Isn’t that where he was supposed to take you? Hunger rakes through your belly. You’re ravenous. You could eat everything you have, all the eggs and junk food the Singer gave you and still not be satisfied.

Malachi is still watching you. You don’t know what he sees but it’s something good, something right, happiness blooming in your chest as soft and sweet as spun sugar when he strokes your cheek. “Then I should feed you, shouldn’t I?” He holds your hand, lacing your fingers together, as he begins to walk again. You’re leaving the river behind, ascending a steep, grassy hill. Town is far away, small in the distance. How far did you walk without realizing it? 

There’s a church here that’s not like the others. It’s much bigger. It’s the same old style, the same white paint flaking from the exterior and the same dead leaves and spiderwebs gathered in its gutters, but its walls are wider, its steeple taller. Soft, golden light flickers beyond the windows but all you can make out are vague shapes and silhouettes. You stumble, your feet suddenly refusing to work. 

You can’t go in there. The thought is a lightning bolt, a sobering shock to your system. You absolutely cannot go in there. The Stag has a presence like a forest made of eyes, the paralyzing, primal gaze of ancestral predators and the weight of a hundred thousand trees. This is worse. You aren’t glimpsing the beast through a leafy canopy but wandering right up to its maw, engulfed in its hot, butcher shop breath. 

“It’s alright,” Malachi says gently. “Don’t be afraid, it’s alright. I know how it feels the first time.” 

“I can’t…” You shake your head and pull back, away from him, but he doesn’t let you go. His grip on your hand tightens. “I can’t, I can’t—”

“Holiness isn’t as pretty as they make it look in Renaissance paintings. It’s messy. Visceral. It breathes and it bleeds, just like us.” You sink to your knees and he follows you, kneeling in dry, prickly grass—red, you realize, the grass is red and the dirt is red and everything is slick and glistening and red. You are kneeling in the vivisected insides of a thing stretched and splayed across miles. The trees are stiff stalks of sinew and leaves of thin, veiny membranes that pulse and ooze. You smell meat, cooked and seasoned to perfection. Malachi cups your chin and urges you to look at him. 

“Let me go,” you beg him. “I don’t want this.” Fear, too, is a shriveling impulse, weak against the warmth of his hands stroking your hair.

“You do,” he coos. “You poor thing, I know you do. We’re all hungry and we all deserve to eat.” He cups your face in his hands and leans in so the gold of his eyes is all you see. Sharp, searing pain erupts in your neck and shoulder and you shove him off of you, scrambling back in the grass. You touch the spot, feeling for a wound. 

There’s nothing. Just the tingling heat of the Stag’s mark. Malachi looks shocked and then really, truly sad, gaze gentle with sympathy. He reaches out to you and you scramble to your feet, running without ever looking back. 

Nelton flickers around you. Sometimes you see the town, sometimes the flesh. Squirming ropes of intestines dangle like power lines. The road is cobblestone, and then it’s a row of teeth. You can’t tell which is real. People watch you, pausing their routines to peer out of windows and lean out of their cars. All of them frowning, all of them with furrowed brows and eyes emanating the same golden light. They don’t stop you. You’re afraid they know something you don’t.

Your car is where you left it. You screech out of your parking spot and make a beeline for the edge of town. The red fades. The road, stone and sterile, welcomes you back. That savory smell lingers for a while, and then it turns sour. You feel nauseous. The sky darkens and you check your clock, discovering your brief trip through Nelton cost you several hours. The sun will set soon and you feel worse than before, sick and exhausted and dirty all over again. Turning back isn’t an option. You’ll have to settle for the next place you see. Whatever you find, you assure yourself, it can’t be any worse than where you just came from.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift

[accidentalautomaton]

THE THESEUS MASTERPOST

if you’ve been around @streetlight-spam or i’s tumblrs, you might have seen a lot of art for something called the theseus. confused about the characters or plot? fear no longer!

the plot

Two staff members on the passenger ship Theseus- dock hand Ambrose and apprentice surgeon Jordie- discover one horrifying night that they are thrust into a world neither were prepared for. After a horrible storm that leaves all other passengers devoured by the waves and the Theseus sunk, Ambrose and Jordie are forced through a transformation by the Sink, the great unknown eldritch entity that lies beneath and in the waves. They become avatars/hosts of this entity, and are cursed to sail the Theseus for centuries, unchanging and growing ever hungry.

the characters

(artwork courtesy of @streetlight-halo)

Ambrose Celestine- late twenties, deep red hair. Uses he/she pronouns, for what is gender to an eldritch sea captain?

History- grew up in a small, secluded village with his single mother. When she was around 20 his mother got sick, and progressively got worse until he was forced to travel to the city in hopes of finding the medicine she needed. This is how he ends up boarding the Theseus, as a dock hand travelling to find a medicine that could help her mother.

Deluded, cocky, and quick-witted, Ambrose is someone you don’t want to be on the bad side of. After the Sink and his consequential death and rebirth, Ambrose has taken full advantage of his new existence, delighting in his loss of humanity and responsibility. She has visions and hallucinations of the entity that took them over, but sees it more as a conversationalist than a dire warning.

(artwork courtesy of op)

Jordie Lovelock- late twenties, dark brown hair. uses all pronouns.

History-Jordie grew up in a smaller family in the city, always knowing that in whatever form it took, they wanted to help people. That opportunity finally came when, at a young age, they began study as a surgeon to a well-known doctor in the city. As they got older, this apprenticeship took them to the Theseus, where they would be all but a practicing doctor. However, fate had different things in mind for them.

Jordie is horrified by this transformation from human to… well, not. Killing makes them sick, a forever reminder that they can’t help people, only bring them fear and harm. Jordie is quiet, stubborn, and in a constant state of calculated impulse.

Barnacle- the ship’s cat, found in the wreckage after the Sink. Orange, small, and a complete bed menace.

@thesillys Motivations for #thesillysmasterocpost: Both of these characters have extremely different motives, and yet need to work together and trust one another in order to survive. They are both sopping wet beasts, and miserable to a fault. They are completely eligible for the sillies.

#the theseus #thesillysmasterocpost #art #ocs #jordie lovelock #ambrose celestine

[justlittleguysims]

Project: Untitled WIP

Chapter 1. Part 1 - Creature Comforts

About this Project || Continue Reading Under The Cut

Chicago, Illinois, USA

December 18th, 2021 : 3:26 AM

Leaving work is usually a huge relief to most people, but not for Derek, especially now that his boss talked him into joining in on his newest real estate prospect, an old factory building renovation downtown. There is something about this place that just doesn’t feel right to Derek. Maybe it’s all the boarded-up windows, or the creaky, industrial-sized doors that sound like nails on a chalkboard every time you walk through one, or maybe it’s just the general liminality of a large empty space. Whatever it is, all he’s been wanting to do these days is get out of that place. The trouble is, with his line of work, leaving can often feel just as agonizing, and this night was certainly no different.

Stepping out the door leading into the back alley behind the reno site, Derek took a moment to compose himself before stepping off the stoop and away from the only well-lit spot for the next 50-60 feet or so. Looking out into the dark blue night, he noticed that the snow was finally letting up, at least for now, but he could see the distant glisten of ice on the pavement.

‘Noted,’ he thought to himself. ‘No rush, just take it easy this time.’

He exhaled, his stomach sinking at the thought of coming back here for another day’s work come Monday, but there is no use complaining, he’s not allowed to quit anyway.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the next as he walked down the steps, he could hear the ice and slush crunching beneath his chukka boots. He looked both ways before stepping off the stoop completely, just as he always did… you know, just in case. You can never be too careful.

Now for the worst part of his nightly commute, making his way down that dark ass alley. Not being able to see either side of him really puts Derek on edge, but using a flashlight and giving your location away doesn’t feel very smart either. It didn’t help that on this night, the constant sound of whaling police sirens was echoing across the entire block. Sure, this isn’t the nicest part of town, but the cops being this present in the area is a bit out of the ordinary, considering how empty everything had become in the last year.

He wondered for a moment why they were around, but then forced himself to drop the thought.

‘Nope, they’re not looking for you,’ he thought to himself, ‘just stop it and get on home.’

Walking toward the empty warehouse loading dock where he usually parked his car, he suddenly heard what sounded to him like muffled crying. He paused, turning frantically to search for the source of the sound. Gazing across the empty lot, surrounded by the abandoned factory buildings and very little else, he knew that, logically, the people who usually frequented this spot would have been long gone by now, especially in this cold.

‘That sound…what if that sound is bait.’

The dim, greenish glow of the old streetlights here was doing nothing to quell his discomfort at the moment. Slowly and quietly, he continued to make his way to his car. He must have been no more than 20 feet away when he heard a loud pinging crash, followed by a string of pain-filled curses. He turned on his heels toward a nearby dumpster where a shadowy figure was struggling on the ground.

Derek ducked behind a nearby newspaper box, where he huddled in wait, listening to the stranger try to regain their bearings.

“Stupid, you’re so fucking stupid.” They said to themselves, sniffling.

‘A girl? What- what is she doing out here at this hour?’ Derek wondered.  

Derek peeked out from behind his cover, toward the dumpster. The girl was struggling to keep her balance on the icy ground as she tried climbing up onto the closed dumpster’s lid. It seemed to Derek that she was trying to make her way through one of the broken glass windows of the abandoned factory building, directly behind the dumpster.

The dad side of Derek’s brain began to scream ‘danger.’

What if this poor girl slips on that frosted metal lid while trying to grab that ledge and back onto the ground. If she doesn’t fall, she would surely cut her hands open on whatever glass may be sitting on that windowsill… and even if she did make it over, who knows what lies inside the building. There could be spiky, death machines or rotten floorboards. She could get seriously hurt!

Before he knew it, his body sprung up from hiding:

“WAIT! DON’T GO IN THERE!”

Stunned, the girl did a little hop while standing on the dumpster, losing her footing, and sliding backwards onto a hard icy ground below.

Derek’s spine tensed up at the sight of her fall. He could almost feel the sting of the ice on his own back. He rushed over, best he could toward her, trying not to land on the ice himself.

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry!” He scrambled to help her back onto her feet, apologizing profusely. “Did you hit your head? What are you doing out here?”

The girl was crying even harder now. Shivering and battling for her next breath, she managed to mutter, ‘homeless’ between her gasps.

Derek stomach sunk again. “Oh god.”

“The cops… the-they r-raided our ca-camp, by th-the bypass. They to-took everything!” She cried into his chest. “I lost ev-everthing I-I worked for!”

She was sobbing at full force now, her body limp, and buckling down to her knees.

 “They ar-arrested so many of us. My neighbors. Friends. Everyone e-else… scattered! I have nowhere to GO!”

“Wh-what about a shelter? I can drive you to one.”

“Th-that’s not how th-they work… it’s fi-first come first se-serve. They’re cl-closed by now…”

“Oh… um.”

Derek needed to think. He couldn’t just leave her here. “Um… well, first things first, we need to get you out of this cold. Uh-” he paused in mid thought. “Ah! There’s a Diner not too far from here. We can go there for now. Then maybe… I could, uh… call a motel for you to stay at tonight or something.”

“Then what? Then w-where do I go tomorrow?”

Derek sighed, “I-I don’t know. I don’t know… but I will help you get out of this.”

The girl nodded, tears still streaming down her face as she finally began to calm down.

“Come on, my car’s this way.”

“Um, Okay…”

Together they shuffled over to Derek’s car. Derek unlocked the doors, and cranked the ignition, letting the heater do its thing. He then ushered the girl into the passenger seat. Taking a step back after closing her door, he strolled around the car to lay his windshield wipers back down, brushing the powdery snow off his front and back windshields and side mirrors. Once that was done, he got in the car, suddenly remembering he didn’t introduce himself.

“Um… I’m Derek Moore, by the way.” He offered her his hand.

The girl nodded, ignoring his gesture as she laid her head up against the glass. “Morgan… Just Morgan.”

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#justlittleguy posting #project wip: chapter 1 #ts4 story #simblr #writeblr #ts4 simblr #ts4 screenshots #sim stories #project: wip #project wip: derek #project wip: morgan #my ocs #my sims #my stories #read: wip

[hyombus]

Sitting with Takofuusen 2/27/2024 - 2/29/2024

#yno #ynoproject #ynfg #yume 2kki #swt #ily #qxy #virtual city #white garden #home within nowhere #wooded lakeside a #wooded lakeside b #kaleidoscope world #shimako #sunset rooftop #critter forest #streetlight docks

[amethystdreamer114]

My Weakness Part 2/?

Summary: ABO where Gold is a hot-blooded alpha and struggles with rutting symptoms, while trying his hardest to gain your favor before the worst hits…

TW: rut, swearing, smut, vomiting, random other sickfic stuff I decide on- honestly this is kinda a kitchen sink sickfic so😂

As soon as he left his shop, the cold air hit hard, making him shiver so hard he could barely move. The dim streetlights and similar looking cobblestone alleyways didn’t make it easy to navigate as his sense of direction was marred by intense dizziness.

“J-j-just have to m-make it t-to the d-dock…” he reminded himself.

The further he walked, the more his old leg injury flared up, leaving him limping (and occasionally falling) onto the icy sidewalks. Between the chills, his confusion, and the fact that he hadn’t been able to eat all day due to nausea, he nearly passed out at the boarding ramp of the ship.

“Aye! Outta here you bloody crocodile! I’ll not have you on my ship. You try, you’ll lose.” Hook was serious. His sword was already drawn. As an alpha himself, he could smell Gold’s rut coming on quick. You’d already gone to bed and he was about to join you… except for one thing.

“Killian you okay? I smelled…” you gasped when you saw Gold, who was slowly turning into Rumple.

“He’s not our problem lass. He’d have Belle if he hadn’t been an ass.” Killian’s eyes were like knives.

“Please I-I’m-“ he shuddered, falling to his knees.

You couldn’t bear to see someone in such a vulnerable state, alone, and you knew it would only get worse. Not to mention, you and Killian hadn’t exactly been *happy* lately.

You grabbed your coat and started down the ramp.

“(Y/n)! He’s fine! He doesn’t deserve-“

You cut him off.

“I’m not about to let him suffer. If you had half a heart, you’d understand.” You scolded, finally reaching him.

At first, he flinched away from your touch, not wanting to cause more trouble. His head was beginning to hurt and any yelling would have him curled up on the concrete, clutching his temples.

“It’s alright sweetheart, I won’t hurt you. He won’t hurt you either.” You whispered, looking up at Killian who was absolutely fuming.

“I’m gonna get you back to your shop. You just tell me when you think you can move.” You stroked his hair back and then down his neck. He felt so warm as he leaned into your touch with a pitiful whimper.

He curled into your chest, as his animalistic instincts took over.

“You s-smell so-“ your scent calmed him down quite a bit. His chills lessened, and the aches in his muscles had relaxed.

“And I’m gonna be here,” you rubbed his back. “As long as you need me.”

He nodded, now transforming further into his Rumplestiltskin appearance. His now curled hair fluffed up against your breast as he cuddled into you.

Killian just huffed and started throwing random items like his canteen overboard or to the other side of the ship where they’d shatter.

Each sound led to Rumple nearly bursting into tears. Loud noises and bright light sensitivity… both signs of a rut-induced migraine which only happened when an alpha didn’t have a set mate.

“I’m staying with you Rumple,” you soothed him before carefully helping him to his feet to begin the trek back to his shop.

#ouat fanfiction #ouat rumple #rumplestiltskin #ouat rumple sickfic #sickfic #sickfic mr gold #sick ouat #reader insert #abo #alpha Killian #alpha gold #alpha rumple

[georgefairbrother]

In the early evening of December 4th, 1951, 52 Royal Marine cadets, aged between nine and 13, were being marched the short distance from their own barracks to the Chatham Naval Barracks, via Dock Road, to watch a boxing match. They were marching three abreast, actually on the roadway owing to the narrowness of the footpath which abutted a high wall, and with the traffic. They had no torches or safety lighting, other than what was provided by the overhead streetlamps. The cadets were under the supervision of a regular Royal Marines Officer, Lieutenant Clarence Carter.

Just before six pm, in conditions of poor visibility worsened by fog and defective streetlighting, a double decker bus operated by the Chatham and District Traction Company hit the marching column from behind. Twenty four cadets were killed and a further 18 were injured, at that point the highest loss of life in a road traffic accident in the UK.

The bus was being driven by an experienced and highly regarded driver, 57 year old John Samson, who had worked for the company for 40 years and was about to be officially commended for his safety record, long service and good conduct. He stated that he did not see the cadets ahead of him prior to the collision. He was driving using sidelights only, despite the poor visibility, which was common practice at the time. Estimations of the speed of the bus by witnesses varied between 20 and 40 mph. There was no mention of any passengers aboard, it appears that the bus was returning to depot.

There was some thinking at the time that using sidelights only under street lighting reduced dangerous glare for other traffic. It was also to save power, as batteries under load could drain even when mobile.

Accounts of the accident and immediate aftermath are, not surprisingly, horrific. The conductor, Dorothy Dunster, initially thought the bus had run over a pile of ‘loose rocks’. The dead and injured were, according to witnesses, 'spread out from one side of the road to the other'. Several cadets were trapped beneath the bus and died before they could be rescued. Lieutenant Carter, who had attempted to marshal the cadets toward the side of the road upon hearing the bus approaching, was struck and injured, although it would appear not seriously. A number of cadets died in the arms of three Royal Navy sailors who had rushed to the scene having heard the cries and screams of the injured cadets.

Mr Samson was present for the Coroner’s inquest which was held at the Royal Naval Hospital, Chatham, during which parents had to sign off on the identification of their deceased sons, but he collapsed after the final identification was complete. The Coroner recorded verdicts of Accident Death, however Samson was charged with dangerous driving, fined 20 pounds at the Old Bailey, and was disqualified from driving for three years.

There was considerable sympathy for Mr Samson at the time and for many years afterwards. The jury, upon finding him guilty, urged the judge to show as much leniency as possible. The judge noted that no amount of punishment could be worse than Samson's own utter devastation at what had happened.

A number of injured cadets, recovering in hospital, organised a whip-round to buy Samson some chocolates to cheer him up. He continued to live locally, never spoke publicly, and was shielded by friends and neighbours whenever media interest in the crash rekindled from time to time.

According to the website of Historic Medway;

"...A huge amount of money was collected by public appeals after the crash. Some was spent on memorials for the boys who died, and some was spent on the boys who were disabled. The mayors, who were looking after the money, could not agree what to do with the rest and, after a court case, it was decreed that as it could not be returned to the donors (a lot of it was collected on the streets) it had to be kept in an account. It wasn't until the 1990s that some of the money was spent restoring the cadets' graves..."

Sources include: Websites of Kent Online and Historic Medway, archived Time Magazine, The Chatham Bus Disaster (YouTube) by Raven's Eye

#chatham bus disaster #gillingham #medway #social history #accidents and disasters #british history #1950s #royal marines #uk history #road safety #public transport

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

Had one of my "Elevator Dreams," recently (-ish?). And it's been lingering...

At some sort of convention for the geekily weird, and generally having a good, if confused, time (I think I and my dream companions stumbled upon it, rather than having made plans to attend).

And in the hallway where the bank of elevators was, one elevator opening was as wide/large as an industrial loading dock space, and it was missing its doors, leaving the elevator shaft open (one misstep, and someone could plummet hundreds of feet to their death).

As we were commenting on this, and telling each other to be careful, the elevator car comes up, and stops at that floor. I don't think the other elevators were responding to the pushing of buttons, so I and one other decide to get into the elevator car...

Only to find the inside just as vast and industrial, with dim lighting, machinery, grey steel, etc., as the loading dock opening would suggest. ... And the whole inside space was a huge maze of stairs going nowhere in particular.

We spend a good, long, time wandering around trying to find our way back to the convention hotel...

But when we find our way out at last, it's out on the street, in the cold, at night, in a run-down, nearly abandoned part of the city, lit only by a couple anemic, yellow streetlights, and the sidewalks are super narrow and broken up.

And Also, randomly, as an aside during the convention, there was a Christian Evangelist Wife™ attacking and trying to kill people; I can't remember if she had a knife or not, or whether she was going after people with her bare hands, but her husband was there, smiling with that placid Christian Evangelist smile (you know what I mean, right? You can picture that description?)

#hello darkness my old friend #dreams of a disabled queer atheist #Hey- Subconscious? #Could you be a little *less* on-the-nose?

[twofrontteethstillcrooked]

Suptober 13 Oct.: Morning after

The morning after the rehearsal, Dean realized with something akin to banked panic, was technically the morning of the wedding. Shit. 

deancas, mild horror + fluff, trippy evil mushroom au 

note: since today is 10/13, this snippetfic is also an homage to The X-Files s6 episode “Field Trip”

(1013 is the XF production company. yes, this is very geeky lol) 

(fyi that ep has a guest star in none other than Mr. Bobby Singer-- uh, Jim Beaver. Highly recommended 👽)

The morning after the rehearsal, Dean realized with something akin to banked panic, was technically the morning of the wedding. Shit. Extremely early morning at present. 1:07 a.m. according to his wristwatch. He should go take a nap.

The rehearsal went well, didn't it? He scrubbed at the back of his neck. All these new shirts for the occasion were itchy as hell. He was about to scratch himself out of his skin about five times an hour. 

Now that most of the crowd had cleared out, he supposed he should lock up. Seemed weird it was his responsibility – where was Sam, anyway? Some best man he was – but all right. The caterers would be back at 8 a.m. to switch out the tablecloths and reset the hall; Father Whatshisname (Christopher?) said he'd let them in. Kickoff: noon. Be there or be square. Jo'd murder him if he was late. Literally, with her hands around his throat and not in the fun, sexy way.

The sidewalk buckled under his feet a little and his stomach lurched. New shoes, still stiff with too-slick soles. Find the car. He detoured through the cathedral yard and skidded to a halt before he could trip into a bed planted with purple mums.

Cas was still here? On one of the stone benches by the memorial wall. Just sitting by himself in the dark. Head bowed.

Praying, Dean thought, and thinking it seemed to turn up the volume. The yard that had been silent – no cars passing or crickets chirping or wind, no late night television wah-wahs coming from the nearby homes – amplified Cas's quiet voice. 

Dean knew he should leave, or cough, something to announce his presence. But he stood, transfixed, and somehow heard every word Cas spoke.

"Please keep them safe," Cas said. "They both deserve safety more than anyone."

Say something, Dean told himself.

"Please." Cas's voice broke on the word; Dean felt it splinter something beneath his own ribs. "Please let them always be a home to each other."

No, Dean thought, this is… Wrong. He looked down at his hands in the dimly green, slanted light – a strange hue, like before a storm – and saw they were trembling. Cassie was going to fuss at him if he was coming down with the flu.

Cas had kept praying, more and more quietly, until on a sharp swerve of unnerving breeze Dean heard him say, "Please help me let him go."

Dean shouldn't have been able to hear him. He was too far away. 

Him who? Dean thought, desperately. Who is he letting go? He was wracked as though with a high fever, all chills and burned eyes.

Cas, he tried to say. Wait.

The bench was empty.

The streetlights along the road to Cas's house were all flickering, like fireflies. Really must be some sort of weather brewing. Dean wiped his eyes for the fourth or fifth time and kept driving. His throat ached and his chest hurt and shit, what if it was the flu? Cassie– Jo. She'd been pestering him to get a flu shot before everything but he'd just run out of time. Not like he'd known October was such a big month for weddings and everything would be a hundred times more tedious and more expensive, and that he'd wake up every day like he'd slept crushed in a vise the whole time.

He couldn't remember what Jo was wearing at the dinner mere hours ago. A sage green dress with long sleeves. No. Cassie always wore harvest gold yellow when she wanted to feel comfortable.

He missed the driveway and slammed on the brakes. Backed up and drove up to the door. Behind the house, the lake shimmered with moonlight. He couldn't hear it lapping at the dock; the sound was more like water dripping from a leaky faucet. His hands were almost translucent. When he looked again the sky seemed too near, filled with roiling clouds. He knocked on the front door and the sound boomed, echoed somewhere far away like thunder.

"Dean?" Cas said, expression full of worry. 

He looks so tired, Dean thought. 

"It's very late. Are you all right?" Cas asked, stepping aside to let Dean pass as he came in.

Dean smiled feebly. "Hey. Yeah, I think so." 

"Is something wrong with Lisa?" Cas's eyes were… 

"Lisa?" Dean exhaled, shook his head quickly. The room clicked, as though a clock was nearby, or a metronome, neither keeping good time. His vision blurred and he sat down on the couch as his legs weakened. "Why would– I haven't seen Lisa in years."

Cas sat facing him on a heavy wooden footstool. He'd gone pale, making the circles under his eyes darker. "Dean, what are you talking about? You're marrying Lisa in fewer than twelve hours."

Dean swallowed. "No." All he wanted to do was touch the vulnerable pulse he saw fluttering at the base of Cas's throat. "I'm not."

Cas went very still, his eyes boring into Dean's. "Why not."

Dean's head hurt. "Your prayer was the kindest thing I've ever heard someone ask for," he said, squeezing his eyes shut for a second against the room's glare. When he opened them again Cas was watching him, so much sorrow and regret in his face it almost made Dean sob. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop." 

"I don't understand how– You'd gone, with Sam, your mom, Lisa, Ben. I saw you all drive away in the Impala. Did you come back to the church for something?" Cas wrung his hands.

"No, they must've gone on without me." A single drop of cold sweat scored its way down Dean's spine. "They, uh… I had to find my suit jacket after Jo– It was on the back of the kitchen door?" But he wasn't wearing a suit jacket.

A look of pure horror crossed Cas's face. "Dean, Jo's dead."

"I meant Cassie," Dean corrected, and a blinding pain crack across his skull. 

"You're engaged to Lisa," Cas said, voice quivering with fear. "We– I fixed it. I undid the–" He stood up and paced. "She remembered you and you reconciled; you're in love and you'll be a family." He was having to speak more loudly; tree branches clawed at the windows in a ferocious wind. He ran to bolt the lock. The door rattled like it was wrapped in chains and being kicked in by a hurricane. 

Dean stabbed his thumb in the middle of his forehead, hard, and the pain subsided enough that he could breathe again. Something flashed in his vision – slimy coils like innards strung everywhere, and a cocoon binding him and Cas with unnatural ropes – and the look Cas gave him then told him he'd seen it too.

"What's the last thing you truly remember clearly?" Dean asked, clutching at Cas's arms.

"Thursday," Cas said, concentrating. "It's Thursday after lunch. We're going on a hike to see if the kid's story about the cave checks out." Dark, almost black blood was smeared in his hair and down the side of his face. He reached up, ran his fingertip along Dean's temple. "You're injured," he said, voice shaking.

"We're still in the cave," Dean said, feeling the blood oozing from where he'd been hit. "None of this is real."

Cas pressed his hand to Dean's jaw; Dean could feel the angelic healing begin but it was nothing like the instantaneous spark of heat Cas could usually command. This was a thick needle being pulled through torn skin, slow as torture. Blood trickled from Cas's nose and Dean was suddenly terrified for him.

"Stop," he said, tipping his forehead to Cas's. "Stop."

Cas rested, breathing heavily, in the cradle of Dean's arms. They swayed for a moment and collectively decided to sit down on the floor. Darkness poured in around them; the lake flooded into the house. They were dry, because the cocoon floated – but they couldn't escape it either. 

"They'll find us," Dean whispered. He tried not to think about how being held by Cas was the first thing that had felt right in a long time; how if this was his end, he was dying right where he wanted to be. He held on as tightly as he dared.

Just before he lost consciousness, someone yelled, "Over here," and the world burst open with light.

-

Dean came to in the back of Donna's pickup. She and Sam and Jody and whoever else had been roped into the search party were milling around in the headlights of a half dozen other trucks. Fire poured out of the mouth of the cave like a dragon lived there. He could see Sam's towering silhouette as he helped a guy in a haphazard hazmat suit do…something. 

"They're sealing the cave," Cas said. He tightened his arms around Dean. "They excavated the bones we tripped over going into that largest cavern, but it was deemed too dangerous to search for others."

"Sam?" Dean asked. He felt Cas smile.

"The GPS on your phone was glitchy, and Nathanial wasn't sure which cave his brother had been in. I guess that makes sense since he's seven. All the caves on this side of the park were checked. Apparently the other caves only have bats living in them."

"So what was living in ours?"

"Sam's theory is, some kind of malevolent fungi-networked forest spirit." Cas shrugged when Dean raised his eyebrows. "Iron dipped in sheep’s blood cut through the cocoon. Salt, fire, then filling in with rocks, then lead-lined concrete, maybe. Sam says he's staying a few more days to help figure it out."

Dean turned just enough to be able to really look at Cas. Cas still looked exhausted and bloodied. And wonderful. 

"You doing okay?" Dean asked.

"Better." Cas looked away. "When I was trying to heal you in there – it rebounded or something. Cracked the outer cave wall and pulled down a few trees. That's how they found us."

"It trapped us like a djinn, huh. Tapping into our subconscious somehow?" Dean's eyes started to burn again. "But both of us at once. And all screwed up." He laughed a dry little laugh. "Monsters always think they've got a bead on me and they are always fucking wrong."

Cas was also trying not to cry; Dean could tell by the way he blinked and clutched Dean more fiercely. 

"In case you didn't know." Dean leaned in as close as he could, to speak as softly as he could. "You're already my home."

Cas tasted like salt the first time Dean kissed him. Dean was pretty sure he tasted like salt too.

#suptober22 #deancas #destiel #spn #fic #snippetfic #suptober

[2kkiupdates]

New Worlds: Overview (0.120d)

No information anywhere, no routes, no maps. All I had was determination and a need to know what was new. That being said, with the new 0.120d update came a host of new worlds to explore! 

As always,  all names in brackets are placeholder names I’ve come up with in order to more easily differentiate these worlds!

(Blob Tower)

Accessed through the twisted streetlights near the Monochrome Street Entrance.

A very simplistic world! First thing you see when you enter is a locked door. To get through it, you must get to the bottom of this tower.

Going down the floors, you might notice sheets of paper lying around. These seem to be drawings of strange creatures.

After seeing the last one in the bottom floor and exiting the room, you will notice soemone killed the NPC that was previously standing there.

If you follow the bloodstains, you’ll have to survive a chase through all the floors with new obstacles and a static-blob chaser.  (I don’t have any pictures because i was kinda busy running for my life...). Once you reach the last door, you will be treated to a little cutscene showing that you now have a green key.

The door that the key opens has... nothing! It’s a bit underwhelming, but perhaps we’ll see new connections added in future updates!

(Pastel Shoal)

Accessed through the door to the left in the second-floor of the Spaceship.

A very cute and calming world! The blue and pink hues are very soft and sweet. Some NPCs are seen milling around, more notably three humans: Surf Bro, Green-haired Girl and Brown-haired Girl.

There are also three cones leading to the water that imply this might be a future connection. Near the upper side of the world is another connection, this time fully functional: it’s a golden fence with a gap in the middle. This leads to (Pastel Heaven).

(Pastel Heaven)

Accessed through the gate in (Pastel Shoal). Also thorugh Fantasy Island (Method unknown).

A small, looping world with pretty pink clouds and carpets. Some angelic NPCs similar to those in Fantasy Island are milling around, together with a poodle and a squirrel (both winged). Cute!

(Waterlogged Bridges)

Accessed through the upper left corner of Tesla Garden (Industrial Waterfront).

Short world that begins with a wooden bridge. Crossing it, you will first see a blue NPC behind a dumpster.

Bringing out the Chainsaw, however, seems to convince her to leave, showing she was hiding behind that dumpster because of her injuries and deformities.

Going forward, a small traditional house and a child appear.

If you equip the Grave effect, the child seems to have a bit of a neck problem.

If you enter the house, six futons lie on the floor, five of which are occupied. You can sleep in the empty one! you can also chainsaw the other five and sleep to see their spirits glaring at you in your sleep.

Going further right from here will bring you to a small dock and a boat.

Following the path, which is littered with white ghostly figures coming out of the water, you’ll reach a broken grate.

(Hydroelectric Power Plant)

Accessed through the broken grate in (Waterlogged Bridges).

Once you enter this area, you’ll have to keep going in the boat for a while in a sewer-like section until you reack a dock and a doorway. This will take you to a section with flickering lights.

Not much is interesting in this part, since it ends up being a mostly straight path, except perhaps the vending machine.

Eventually you’ll reach a lit doorway.

Going through here will take you to the Power Plant per se.

Going up the ladder and through the door, you’ll end up in a small workshop zone with very cozy lighting!

If you go down, however, yo’ull see a fenced-off exit and an enormous turbine (which you can interact with to see fully).

(The Mall)

Accessed through the right exit in Flo’s Shop in Graffiti City.

A sprawling mall with a variety of shops and food stalls! Apart from the shops where you can’t interact with anything, there are a few points of interest. First of all, there’s an octopus hairdresser!!

There’s also a sales clerk that will chaneg appearances depending on which effect you have equipped! They do so with almost all effects with varying results, so here are a few examples:

There is an arcade (or gambling area, however you want to see it) where a girl occupies one of the machines. Two cones block off an exit, marking a possible future connection.

This place is great for getting difficult-to-get food items like pizza (previously only available in Virtual City) or Takoyaki!! Make sure to check out all the food vendors!

Neon Suburbs

Accessible through a rainbow warp in Monochrome School.

A vast, looping area filled with flashing neon colors and creatures! You can walk on the “tree leaves”. Only two things of note in this area: first of all, there’s a warp blocked off by a cone, so maybe we’ll see more of this area in the future.

And lastly, there’s a warp identical to the entrance somewhere else in the map.

Going through this door will take you to a rave party, with many creatures dancing to their hearts’ content! You can drink the punch, and if you interact with the giant npc sitting in the sofa it’ll switch the music! 

As a side note, try using the Marginal effect in here. It’s... curious!

Marble Ruins

Accessible through the backstage in the theatre in Snowy Village.

An extremely pretty world to me personally, this pristine and elegant place is vast and a bit maze-like. By roaming around, you can find a fossil, a mural and a gold-and-blue clock you can admire.

There are other things scattered around, like a tiny garden, but if you explore enough eventually you’ll come across a small exit. Going through it will lead you to a path over the water where shadow fish swim in the foreground, and afrter that you’ll find a statue of a praying figure with four arms.

Going further from here, there’s a strange device in the winding path after this section.

Once you reach the end, there is a staircase adorned with stained galss windows. As you go up, however, these windows become more and more deteriorated...

At the top is a doorway that takes you to a beutiful starry night sky and some cones that mark a future connection.

The music is also extremely pretty and calm! The perfect ending to this journey through the 0.120d worlds. They were many and very extensive, but overall I really liked them!! My personal favorite was Marble Palace, and I can’t wait to see what’s in store for them!

#yume 2kki #2kki exploration #noildoof #Nakatsu #Namedude

[accidentalautomaton]

every love story is a ghost story.

ouahhhh the blorbos docked ship for a little while… @streetlight-spam

#my art #the theseus #ambrose celestine #jordie lovelock #art #digital art #oc art #been drawing them so much… the lore just keeps getting better (more miserable)