#and after I’ve effectively filtered through the good stuff

[lovebombs4life]

honey whiskey - l.r.h.

requested: nope. i actually cleared my requests bc it was overwhelming and ive already got a big wip going on

a/n: im insane. okay bye

cw: SMUT!!!! friends to loves, unprotected PinV, they bang in calum’s spare bedroom at a party oops

wc: 1,496

———

luke has once again dragged me to another party with the band. i wasn’t going to complain, i loved going out, but i knew i’d end up drinking too much, and i’d let out things i didn’t want to.

the last time i was drunk, i kissed luke on the cheek, and he sort of freaked out. i did too, after realizing what i did. sure it wasn’t a kiss on the lips, but either way it was a kiss, and it was on my best friends cheek.

i was kind of shocked when luke asked me to go to another party. i had thought he was mad at me for kissing him, but he must’ve forgotten about it.

as we walked through calum’s house, the scent of weed, sweat, and fruity alcohol filled my nose. i winced slightly, the smell not being totally pleasant.

“let’s get a few drinks, yeah?” luke asked. i nodded, following him to the kitchen. the music wasn’t as loud in there, and fewer people stood in the room. people filtered in and out grabbing drinks.

luke stood at the counter, looking over the drinks. he grabbed a bottle of honey colored liquid. he opened the cap, smelling it. he poured a little into his cup, taking a swig. he grinned, pouring out more before handing me the small cup.

“it’s honey whiskey. possibly best thing i’ve ever had.” he chuckled. i grabbed the cup from him, downing the alcohol. it wasn’t bitter, and it didn’t burn my throat as most alcohol does. it was sweet, and flowed down my throat.

he grabbed another cup, pouring out more of the whiskey. quickly, i felt the effects of the alcohol kicking in. i wasn’t surprised, as whiskey usually hit me hard, and especially this stuff since it was so good.

luke finally gave up with the drinks, feeling the buzz as well. i knew he could handle his alcohol better than i could. he pulled me back to the crowded room, finding calum and michael sitting on the couch with ashton.

“c-cal, where’d you get that honey whiskey?” luke asked, sitting on the chair close by. he grabbed my hand, pulling me into his lap, holding onto me. my face felt like it was on fire. my stomach swirled around with butterflies. i couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol, or because i was sitting on luke.

i decided it was the alcohol. i couldn’t be feeling all fuzzy because of luke, he was my best friend.

“not sure, some bar in town, i think?” he said, sipping from his cup. luke nodded, resting his hands on my thighs.

my eyes widened, and michael took notice. he started laughing at how visibly flustered i was. i gave him a look, and he stopped laughing, looking down and biting the inside of his cheek.

i shifted on luke’s lap, making him tense up. he gripped my waist, pushing me down against his hips. i nearly choked at his firm grip as it is, but i swear i could’ve had a heart attack after realizing he had become hard against my ass. i stood up quickly, excusing myself to get another drink.

as i made my way through the crowd of people, a hand stopped me, pulling me back. i snapped my head back, seeing it was luke. he pulled me to his chest, gripping my hips tightly.

“dance with me.” he spoke, moving my hips to the music. he spun me around, pulling my waist against his. i gasped as he pressed his back against mine, his hands staying on my hips.

his movements were intoxicating, and took over my mind. i started swinging my hips against his, my ass brushing his hardened member. he groaned slightly, kissing at my neck.

the air was stolen from my lungs as he sucked at my skin softly. he pulled away, turning me to face him. “we better stop before i try something i might regret.” he groaned, kissing my forehead.

i grabbed his hands as he pulled them away, leading him away from the crowd, and into the hallway. i pushed open a door, leading to once of calum’s spare rooms.

“don’t stop, don’t regret it.” i breathed out, grabbing his neck and pulling him down to my face. his lips danced against mine, groaning against my mouth. i trailed my fingers into his hair, carding them through his blonde curls. he bit at my bottom lip, pulling at it as i tugged softly.

“you sure you want this? want me?” he asked as he pulled away, hands sliding under my shirt. i nodded viciously.

“i’d do this even sober, the honey whiskey just pushed me to actually do something.” i spoke, pulling my shirt off. he pushed me backwards towards the bed. i laid back as i got to the bed, grabbing for his hips. he unbuttoned his shirt, letting it fall from his shoulders. i bit my lip as i observed the small tattoos on his body.

i went to unbutton my jeans, being stopped by his hands. “let me, wanna touch you, y/n.” he panted, pulling down the zipper of my pants. he tugged the material off my legs, letting the cool air around us nip at my legs.

i grabbed at his belt, sliding it out of the loops, pulling his jeans down. he groaned as the constraint of his jeans against him went away, being freed from the tight clothing.

i palmed him through his boxers, making him thrust his hips forward. “wanna feel you, lu, please.” i groaned as he unclasped my bra, throwing it across the room. his lips kissed against my hot skin, sucking against my chest. i shivered as he did so, my head tossed back against the bed.

his fingers hooked into the sides of my panties, pulling them down my thighs. he groaned as i parted my legs, wanting more of him. “please, just fuck me already.” i whined. he chuckled, pulling his boxers down.

he grabbed his cock, stroking himself before lining up to my entrance. his tip teased my slit before pushing in, making me cry out with pleasure. i clenched around his length, feeling his pulsing cock inside me. he started a steady pace, kissing the crook of my neck, sucking bites onto my skin.

“you feel so good, y/n, been wanting this for longer than you can imagine.” he spoke into my ear, making me shiver.

“i’ve, i’ve thought of you so many times, lu, never thought i’d finally have you.” i panted, my nails digging into his back. he thrusted into me, holding my hips steady.

i wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer to me. he squeezed his eyes shut, his head hanging down as he watched our bodies meet. his heavy breathing and occasional moans sounded like absolute heaven.

luke absolutely ruined any other man i’d ever been with. not only that, he was ruining me.

i grabbed at the pillows on the bed, covering my face with one, moaning into it.

luke quickly took the pillow from my face, putting it back to where it was. “don’t cover up those pretty moans darling, sounds so angelic.” he praised, running a hand through my hair.

my eyes fluttered shut, rolling back as my toes curled.

“gonna make me cum, lu, need to cum.” i cried, my breathing becoming rugged. he grunted as he pushed further, making me cry out.

“i know baby, almost there.” he ran his hand against my thigh, squeezing my leg. i clenched around him as my body lurched forward, my orgasm rushing through my body.

luke moaned out loudly, burying his face in my neck, pulling out as his orgasm hit him too. the room was filled with our heavy breathing and the hot smell of sex. luke collapsed next to me, holding my hand.

“think that’s the best sex i’ve ever had.” he breathed out, looking over at me. i smirked at him.

“you regret this?” i teasingly asked. he shook his head instantly.

“never. i’m quite glad.” he smiled softly, kissing me. i sighed into the kiss, moving my body closer to his.

“you think cal will be mad that we screwed in the spare room?” luke asked, breaking the silence. i giggled softly. “maybe a little.”

“luke?” i looked up into his eyes. he glanced down at me, his eyebrows raised. “you wanna be my boyfriend?”

his smile grew wide as it spread across his face. he pulled me closer to him, kissing the top of my head.

“it wasn’t obvious i already wanted to be?” he chuckled. i blushed as i hid my face in his chest. “of course i do, y/n. never thought it’d happen until now.”

i gave him a soft kiss on his cheek, sitting up. i stretched out, looking back down at luke once i was done.

“so.. round two?”

#luke hemmings x reader #luke hemmings smut #luke hemmings imagine #luke hemmings #5 seconds of summer #5sos #luke 5sos

[kneelingshadowsalome]

ahh~ i’m so glad you liked my little essay~!! i have a knack for analyzing and interpreting stuff, i just think it’s so fun. plus i needed a way to vent out my thoughts and feelings on the little hyper-fixation i’ve developed from your story, my brain just went into overdrive because of how unique it is so i couldn’t resist.

anyway, thank you, seriously thank you for enjoying it, and i’m super happy to say that i have come up with few a headcanons of my own. these are mainly könig headcanons, so they’re more of my interpretations and analysis on him. let me know what you think~! i hope you have a wonderful read, and please keep doing you, you are a wonderful writer, and incredibly talented!!

okay, so first:

despite könig’s openness and acceptance to engels interest in his weaponry, i highly doubt that he would actually allow her to indulge in using any of them. i would even consider that he wouldn’t even teach her how to use one, especially his guns. sure, he’s gifted her knifes but notice that they’re quite feminine and dainty even, könig does try to engage with engel and her interests but emasculates them in a way that should suit her, a cute little knife is practically harmless compared to the massive destruction of his guns. the furthest he would go to showing her anything is how to hold it, but he still wouldn’t want her to hold it herself, and he won’t even shoot it in front of her considering that would damage her hearing, and he can’t bring himself to do that to his baby.

with that, i do think könig is careful and cautious with his engel. i feel like he tries to filter through the good and the bad for her. yes, we’ve been given instances in which the exact opposite has happened, i.e. him stabbing her boss right in front of her, but that was acted purely on impulse. i think after that, he tries his best, and i mean he really tries to shield her from that ever again unless absolutely needed. however, if she were to ask for that twisted ruthless side of him again, because she has the tendency to be twisted herself, then i’m sure he would have to lay down some ground rules, and although hesitant, in the end, he would do anything for her. but despite that, he does not allow angel to consume things that he perceives to be negative for both him and her, and what i mean by that is that he doesn’t allow her to consume any material that could be triggering for him or anything that could alter her behavior that would negatively effect both of them. so, stuff like world news, social media, anything that could give her a sense of empowerment, he doesn’t allow her to have her own phone, she’s constantly monitored, and she’s never alone once she leaves home because könig has to always check in on her. könig absolutely does not want her to be influenced by anything, it’s another reason why she doesn’t have friends, and knowing she isn’t influenced by anything other than him helps keep him from being paranoid, anxious, and violent.

now, back to könig being a raging misogynist at times, he would definitely believe in the value of gender roles, and i mean nothing is more important to him than the normalcy and complacency of the ideal of gendered roles and relationships. also, i hate to admit it, but he just can’t see his woman doing or portraying anything too masculine, it’s a turn off for him, he prefers if she were to just stay at home and do “womanly things” and be a woman, whatever that entails. i think he would even encourage engel to quit the job that she has now, he probably never liked the fact that she worked in such a masculine environment, working such a dirty job in the first place. the only times when he’ll allow engel to even be remotely dominant is during sex, and it’s only if she wants to be, but even through sex he still has the upper hand and has this, ‘this is only happening because i’m allowing it to happen’ mentality. plus it’s a nice thing to let go, relax, and allow her to take control for a little bit, but he would always remind her, both sexually and domestically, where her place is.

könig is completely shameless when it comes to his physicality. he knows what he’s capable of and he knows engel loves his body, so he uses that to his advantage to show off and impress her more. so that means, more unnecessary bouts of strengths used in front of engel, more commitment to his workouts, wearing less clothes around her (he honestly prefers to be casually nude more than he likes to admit, i also think it’s a kink for him to see her so flustered from it too), and insane sex positions. i think he would really enjoy fucking/eating her out standing up, just anything that involves comfortably lifting her up and possibly manhandling her, in a safe way at least.

also, könig is the most expressive when it comes to his sexuality. again, he has little shame, but it’s only because there’s something so special in sex that allows him to let go and just do what he wants in such an intimate environment, and it’s because of engel that it only amps up way more. so, with that being said, the guy is incredibly kinky and experimental. like i said, he likes casual nudity, but only done on his part, he doesn’t really like engel flaunting her body the way he flaunts his and prefers for her to stay modest, it’s really because of the innocent aspect that she tends to play that gets him going because of it. i also see him thriving in animalistic, predator/prey type of sex, especially if it’s outdoors. every time they’re out hiking, camping, or just happen to be in a large remote wooded area, expect some wild sex happening between these two. he just really enjoys pushing his limits and boundaries through sex for the purposes of showcasing the emotions he is unable to communicate normally, which is why he often has an intense sexual drive, but he also enjoys letting go once in a while, being taken cared of, and feeling loved by engel. könig really bonds well when he has this outlet where his emotions, something he constantly suppresses, can be catered, and very often is his emotions expressed dominantly, whether as a hard dom or soft one, it’s mainly about control and acceptance for him.

something könig would slightly be ashamed of though, is receiving open comfort and affection. his upbringing is super fucked and his lack of affection and love as a child definitely shaped himself as a very undeserving man of any of that, although he craves it immensely. so, as contradictory as it is, while he loves giving devotion and intimacy for selfish reasons, he does have trouble accepting genuine love and warmth for himself. it’s something that takes time for him to recognize that he needs and accepts, especially with the right person. so, yes, he’s very hesitant of these instances, but by god, does engel make it so much easier for him. it’s no wonder he’s so indulgent with her and why he’s constantly pushing her limits, it is not because he’s consciously choosing to do the most insane shit but rather, he doesn’t realize it and it’s inappropriateness. i think if engel were to teach him how to properly love and care more respectfully and appropriately, you know something he wasn’t taught as a child, i think he would be a bit more mentally stable in his behavior. however, i do not think she will, it’s because of his dangerous behavior that drew her in the first place and his toxic, overwhelming personality that solidified her place in their relationship, so there’s no way she’s getting rid of könig’s obsessive, possessive, dominant traits that practically has made him into a sex god, but she will suggest therapy from time to time if he continues to exhibit insecure-like behaviors and especially when he’s going through ptsd episodes. i’m pretty sure he has both ptsd and c-ptsd, and to top that off, personality disorders, and mood disorders, soooo…

last but not least, and this one is purely self-indulgent on my end, he is a serial spender for his engel. dude makes an absurd amount of money for what does, and has no reason to use it… until engel walked into the picture. even since then, könig will buy anything for engel and help her splurge to keep her happy, comfortable, and away from society. this man will get her all the material items that she wants, clothes, a big new house, lots of land, entertainment, all the foods that she wants. want a dog and/or cat? sure! he’ll even supply her with weed if she’s that type of girl, but anything to keep her sane and occupied, he is willing to buy, just nothing too illegal, and definitely no vacation spots, dude is way too paranoid to travel and is not willing to risk it.

IM AM SO SORRY THAT THIS WAS SO LONG 😭😭

These were just pure gold, *chef’s kiss* exquisite!! Every single sentence is perfection. So well thought out, and so well put! I don't even have the words to express how incredible this is (and I call myself a writer lol). Seriously, thank you again!! 💖

Also I want to participate (teacher teacher lemme participate please) by adding a few things:

The first one I wholly agree with, but I also believe König might have a little teeny tiny kink for watching how his innocent Engel brushes her fingertips down the barrel of his huge shotgun or holds one of his biggest knives in her *cute* little hands... The contrast between a woman’s softness and a massive, cold, brutal weapon drives this man crazy.

To indulge in his dark fantasies, he might allow Engel to come to the range with him once or twice. I imagine König getting off on showing a “fragile woman” how to handle and shoot a rifle 🙄 He thinks it’s both horrifying and drugging to see how her smaller body tries to absorb the recoil from his guns. Soon enough he’s like “Ok that’s enough” but not before he has enjoyed that peculiar scene a while longer.

And the fourth oh god. Gave me butterflies. He's shameless. I just know that König sleeps naked. Guy associates nighttime with masturbation – and nowadays, sex with his Engel – so off with his clothes, and off with hers, too. König also gives me semi-somno vibes: he would try to wake Engel up with his dick if he can't sleep. (Give me attention and love and provide me with a distraction from my anxiety! Now...!)

The sixth: yes, I don’t see things getting any "better" as in them suddenly calming the fuck down and learning healthy ways to live and love. They are too enamored with their dark side and as you said, I don't know if Engel would be that fascinated with König if he suddenly developed a conscience and healthy ways to cope with his trauma(s). Their escapades resemble a shared psychosis sometimes, but with time and patience this couple will perhaps find true love and relief together – something bigger and better, a way out of the spiral. They learn to dance on the knife’s edge, so to say. They might even start to behave 🩷

And the last one: YES he would spoil her to bits! One of the reasons for this is that König feels guilty. He doesn't know how to show love and devotion through emotional intimacy so he will try to show it through spending money on her. So yes to all of this.

I see Engel wishing for a pet to keep her company while he's away on longer missions. And König is so thick-skulled he wouldn't even bother to ask what type of pet she wants or if she has allergies, he just shows up with a cat one day like: "Hier. I brought this to you. Do you like my gift? I will bring you a different pet if you don't like this one. 🤨"

(And omg the image of Engel smoking a fat one or using a cute little bong on their porch, perhaps chilling out with that cat and giggling when König comes home... ^^)

Thank you so much for bringing these to us! Tbh I never wanted this essay to end 🩷😭 You're amazing I hope you know that!!

#answered #könig headcanons #yandere könig #toxic könig #i loved this #best essay ever #university levels of headcanon #toxic könig institute #❤️❤️❤️

[granulesofsand]

🗝️🏷️ discussion of RAMCOA with nonphysical examples, sh/suicide

For every person I see opening up about RAMCOA, there’s another telling the world to never so much as glance in its direction. We are shit at tone sometimes, so not to be rude, but I do have reasons I dislike the silence.

Reading about tortured children should never be comfortable, and if you have no reason to suspect a similar history, you can filter away the nastiness. We will never be able to have that ignorance, even if our front-facing alters don’t remember.

If you do suspect a history or end up having one, congrats! Time to start deprogramming. Chances are if you went through this flavor of hell, the stability you have is a cover for your involvement, past or current. Either way, I’ve never seen someone survive without any side effects, and addressing the problem is the only way to actually solve it.

Omega (death/sh) programs can be activated by looking into trauma material. Any trauma material. And a good amount of other stuff, like trying to leave your area or not reporting back to an assigned group member. Our omega programs have been passively problematic for years, and our first active cases were around 4 years old. It’s a common program line, and some groups install functioning versions very young. We did not know about any kind of abuse at 4, despite being trafficked and regularly hurt our whole life. It was triggered by existing too close to a ritual site, and we had sh behaviors and runaway attempts for ‘knowing too much’.

We were taught by abusers that what they were doing was good and normal at the same time they were teaching us we were dirty for living it and nobody would believe us. Pretty much all of that category was just convincing us not to tell on them, with punishment for breaking cult rules. We’ve read about survivors taking the ‘Golden Rule’ as ‘Silence’, and we have a similar experience. Any breaking of the quiet without direct harm at their hands is another inch towards safety. If we can convince ourselves they really did lie about their omnipotence, we can shake some programs based in those beliefs.

We were told that our system/body specifically was bad and wrong, and that these things happened to us because we deserved it. We don’t hold the same standard for outsiders, and their stories make us think we might not have been predestined for the life we got.

Outsiders who have no trauma history, and sometimes those who do, can be pretty insensitive. We have been harassed for having been sexually assaulted, called names for telling/not telling parts of our story, and insulted in various unpleasant ways because we were forced to perpetrate. We still commonly get a reaction of disbelief, even after months of building trust and then giving only vague summaries. The more people hear about this form of maltreatment and its effects, the higher their tolerance will be when someone needs them to show up.

It makes us feel more secure in our own memories when other survivors have similar experiences. To know that it can actually be that bad, it isn’t the norm, and others have gotten out and started healing is more weight off our shoulders I knew we carried. I, and other alters, have shame pits that we can sink into quick. The pure validation of knowing it happened, the flex tape of understanding it wasn’t their fault, the basis for comparison we have never had in anyone but our abusers. It helps us, even if it also hurts.

Silence is what they wanted. ‘They’ being the pedophile rings, cults, and other organized groups that rely on programming children and anyone else they got their hands on for profit. I genuinely do believe more people fit into our community than currently admit, and the gray doesn’t become visible until you open your eyes to the damn black and white.

#did osdd #dissociative identity disorder #traumagenic system #actuallydid #ramcoa #tw ramcoa #ramcoa vent #ritual abuse #organized abuse #mind control #manipulation #did system #osddid #sysblr #syscourse #polyfrag system #polyfragmented system #system

[stevenbasic]

GITJ Post 313: The Tale of Queen Angie, p7

Her boobs are growing, and all her little friends? she seethed to herself as she marched down the sidewalk, headed to the shop she’d found online. She’s taller, she’s a fucking She-Hulk at the gym, she’s got some sort of weird-ass hypnotic perfume? she continued to rant, silently to herself, Fine. Two can play at that game.

Angie Wade was not accustomed to shopping in this part of town, the swankiest. But despite being a bit out of her element she held her head up high, strode confidently, some would say haughtily. She’d needed to make an appointment, in fact, to be let into this place she was headed to - ‘Merz Parfumerie’ - which was annoying but whatever. She’d be on time; she’d skipped out of the office an hour early to make sure.

She could feel her boobs jiggling in her too-small bra under her thin, faux-cashmere sweater as she walked. All the extra calories, along with the fenugreek, were starting to do some good, and maybe while she was downtown she’d look into a lingerie store. She’d finally gone up a cup size or two, she figured. Those fifteen pounds had to go somewhere besides my thighs. It was chilly, this early November afternoon, and her nipples were sensitive.

It annoyed her that she even had to be doing this. She’d tried to use AJ, her ex- and apparently some construction-monkey crew leader working on the office expansion, to get her what she wanted. She knew that there’d been adjustments made to the air circulation system in the building, that there was some sort of aromatherapy shit going on, something based on Melissa’s perfume. She knew it had something to do with how the other girls were growing, how spellbound the stupid doctor was by Melissa and her fucking jigglebunnies. Why was it not having any effect on her?!? Why couldn’t she tell him what to do and boss him around like everyone else was doing?!? It was fucking frustrating but she wasn’t about to sit back and just watch, let all these other girls become whatever they were becoming, especially after the elections let the whole fucking world know that there’d be new bosses in town pretty soon - all of them in smart skirts and high heels. She should be the one running that place, not that overgrown bimbo. So, she’d asked AJ to get some of the pure stuff, whatever it was that they were infusing the air filters in the office with, some weird super-strong chemical that smelled like Melissa’s perfume (so fucking weird, right?)…but he proved to be useless. He can’t even do that for me. 

Finally at her destination - she’d had to park a few blocks away, where parking was cheaper - she looked in through the dusky storefront windows of this high-end perfume shop. She squinted, trying to see inside, what she’d be dealing with, but couldn’t make much out. She rang the stupid doorbell and waited. 

A moment later a man answered the door - she was hoping for that. Angie tended to have better luck getting her way with guys than women. But by the way this guy wore that scarf around his neck she wasn’t too sure her normal methods of persuasion were going to be of much help here. Fine, money talks too. The company credit card that she’d been using over these past few weeks, and then surreptitiously hiding transactions for, was in her purse. Working in accounting was helpful. 

“You must be our four o’clock customer. Welcome to Merz Parfumerie,” the thin man with the squirrely little moustache said as he stepped aside, ushered Angie into the dark little shop. He looked her up and down, took note of her cheap shoes and heavy behind as she glanced around, perused, browsing the shelves of exotic perfumes collected from around the world. “Is there anything in particular I can interest you in?”

Angie turned towards him; he’d found his way behind the glass sales counter. She stepped up to him and placed her purse on it. “Yes, thanks. I’ve heard that you can make custom perfumes, is that right?”

“Yes, yes we can,” the man smiled, “a personalized fragrance can be tailored just for you. We have a perfumologist from Grasse, perfume capital of France, who can craft whatever scent you’d like, for any occasion. It’s a wonderful idea. Would it be for you, or is this a gift?”

Perfumologist? Angie scoffed, silently, That’s a thing? “It would be for me, for sure,” she answered, “and I have a particular thing I want...”

At that, Angie unsnapped her purse and - pulling out some gum wrappers and her lipstick, putting a tampon on the counter - removed the three N-95 masks she’d squirreled away, snagged from the exam room earlier this morning. Damn, her whole purse was going to smell like Melissa, now. 

The sales guy watched with cocked brow as she presented the masks to him, placed them on the countertop. His trained nose immediately picked up the scent of them. It was strong. 

“These masks have been, like, soaked in some chemical, some perfume,” Angie began, “I want you to try to duplicate it, but make it…more like me. I want it even more intense.”

As Angie talked the man, with delicate, tentative fingers, lifted one mask from the three and passed it in an arc below his nose. It was not like anything he’d ever smelled before. Feminine, organic, beautiful in its own way. But it wasn’t a perfume, that he could tell. 

“I want to wear it,” Angie continued, “I want to smell powerful. I want people to smell my strength, I want them to gag on it.” She watched the man take another breath of the alluring scent from the surgical mask, considering. “Can you do that for me?”

========================================

#growing into the job

[unsleepingtales]

Vulture Dimension Time I’ve got my ice cream let’s do this it’s our time it’s our year

Everyone’s outfit is Fantastic today

Some good ol fashioned summer fun

The vulture dimension is great right

They’re actually doing this. I keep thinking oh they’ll just do a normal episode but no they’re fully gonna do this but for however long it takes

That’s such a fair assumption gorgug. I would also think I had died.

Why did you do this to yourselves

‘It’s not gonna work any other way than the way I want it to’ this is so Brennan’s revenge

All that buildup <3

Trans joke trans joke

From the vibe they all had. Absolutely.

Love gorgug trying to do plot things in the vulture dimension

Oh Zac is GONE

Are these real

HOMEBREW ALERT: Feather of the Vulture King: Breaking this oily feather summons 1d4 vultures. They are not under your command.

I want these items so badly.

Cassandra glowed from that??

Oooh new battle board camera angle!!

It’s not yesterday! What a good motivational statement.

Devastating.

God he hit her for 20 dmg off a cantrip and she did 22 from a 5th level spell that really is devastating

Woooo hit himmm

Get off my lawn!

Gorgug has So much to be mad about here

(Brennan rolling too many dice)

One of my favorite things about dropout are the captions <3

Riz giving his silvery barbs advantage to Fabian after the bardic/least favorite friend exchange is. I’m thinking and feeling things.

Nat 20 luck check is incredible

Ally.

THIRTY NINE

NICELY DONE FABIAN

So… what happens at school now?

Go homeeeee get out of my house

What are you doing baby girl

Why are you doing this

Emily you HAVE a nose piercing. It’s not a septum but cmon.

DO YOU HAVE A WARRANT

Gorgug is so done I love him so fucking much

I am the exact same way when it’s been too long a day with too many things.

GET HIS COP ASS GORGUG

Oh the identify spell has a radio filter on now that’s fun

What’s threatening the existence of the school at the folk festival?

Riz art hiiiiiii

Siobhan’s outfit is so great

Red light??

Copperlilly caterpillar <3

Three cheers for stage tech arcana.

Like the 24 point stars from the book?????

Enchantment effect?

OH MY GOD

Rage effect. Fucking hell.

I so wish I could hear about spells being cast through concerts without thinking of uhv. Unfortunately I cannot.

Guys. Guys.

No! Eat it now! Don’t give him hot sauce mom!

Just fun videos to look back on

Nobody noticed Zac saying Kristen the rats can’t vote and that’s criminal bc it was SO funny

He frenched the vulture king

How good can a rat’s history check possibly beeeee

Ooooh Lucy was doing necromancy?

NO

There’s definitely not a rat world under the school 💀

Awwwww

Spot needs to be the next d20 plushie

Oh god

Oh nooooo

Gross

RIP Spot 💔

THAT TRAILER EDIT WAS SO CLEAN

ALSO WHAT THE FUCK THOUGH

She died so recently ok

Add it to the fucking pile

Fig’s dad is an archdevil I think she can afford wizard class

HELLO????

An unholy last rites. That’s so fucked.

Oh SHIT okay

Did Lucy’s party turn on her?

Holy shit that’s intense

Here there be giants?

Christ

Work a miracle Kristen

Who’s the fuckin turncoat man

God they’re so good at being teenagers

Kristen just literally saved someone’s soul. Good lord.

Saint Kristen Applebees.

Oh my god.

Holy shit! Nice job Kristen!

I hope they can reach Cassandra somehow. I honestly can’t tell if the resolution of this arc is letting them go or finding them through work and either one is beautiful but I love Cassandra and I want them to be okay.

Where do you live 😭

Oh godddd

They’re being really inconsistent with the days of the week and I can’t tell if it’s on purpose time quangle/exhaustion stuff or if it’s just a mistake. Like, the party was on a Friday night and then the next day was Sunday. The festival was on a weekend day and then the next day was also a Saturday. It’s bugging me.

Yeesh.

DID THE DIRT MAKE HIM MAD (am I overthinking this)

Consigliere of the geeks

Sklondaaaaaa

Devastating

I’m unbelievably wealthy and me and my friends just discovered the site of a double homicide #justgirlythings

Fabian is taking care of them and I love him so much for it

Please please please

YAYYYY PORTENT

Oh I just read such a nice fic about Adaine studying barbarian stuff with Gorgug <3

HE CAN DO THIS

Teddy bear of helpfulness holds concentration, would he be able to use that whole raging?

Gorgug Thistlespring my BELOVED

I felt weird about being mad 😭😭

But he doesn’t burn and pillage and murder! That’s not how the bad kids adventure

God porter annoys me

WOOOOOOO GET THAT MCAT

The Last Stand exam

oh god if Kristen gets moved to pass/fail what happens to the others

Oh fuck Gorgug

RIZZZZZ

HES THE ONLY ONE ALLOWED TO TAKE STRESS FOR OTHERS

Henry encouraging gorgug to build a time machine?

Oh thank god he’s still on the owlbears

I think I have to lie down. He’s me.

The fact that their relationships with their parents are suffering because of this is fucking heartbreaking

Bitch fuck all the way off ok

It’s fine it’s all fine everything’s peachy I love my life 🥲

Awwww is Aelwyn gonna visit Adaine at work

ALSO Cait May said Aelwyn’s art was based on her mini. Which means we’re gonna see an Aelwyn mini. Which I’m so excited for.

Glad to see Aelwyn is still Aelwyn

Oh nooo

CLAMFACE CUNTHEAD

CLAMHEAD CUNTFACE

What in the worldddddd

COTTONCANDY BITCHFUCK

Adaine Abernant and Siobhan Thompson I love you so so much

Yeah what does happen if Gorgug is affected by the rage magic.

It’s our time! It’s our year!

#fantasy high junior year #reactions #verbal component

[watching-pictures-move]

Put On Your Raincoats | Derelict (The Pope, 2019)

I watched Deception from The Pope and Kink.com a while back to get a sense of what a modern narrative roughie would look like, and my takeaways were that these things would be better if shot on 8mm or 16mm film, that some of the sexual activity was genuinely uncomfortable and as a result worked as horror for me, and that I would have appreciated if the movie didn't zoom in on the actresses' rear ends during the non-sex scenes. I think this is a more accomplished piece of filmmaking on the whole, benefiting most greatly from its astute use of its locations and sets. I understand they're used in other videos by the studio (although let's just say I wasn't paying close enough attention to the sets during the nonzero amount of times I've watched their output), but they really add to the harsh atmosphere of the movie. Even the camerawork seems better here, as we get some moody drone shots of the landscape, no ogling of the actresses' posteriors during the non-sex scenes, and camera setups that pull back from the action so you grime of the sets seeping into the proceedings. (There's also none of the crappy grindhouse filter from the other movie.) Again, if this were shot on film, it would probably complement the textures of the milieu nicely, but I guess that's not a fair expectation for a porno shot today. As for the sexual content, if you've seen anything from this director or this studio before, you kind of know what to expect, as the movie works through a number of BDSM acts with fetishistic attention and unwavering intensity. (I'll be honest and say that some of what transpires here is not my bag. What that exact percentage is I'll take with me to the grave. I should note that there is one vanilla scene that I understand was actually shot last.) What perhaps distinguishes this from some of the other stuff I've seen from this studio is that there is a convincing veneer of horror throughout, and some imagery that very much brings to mind the roughies of yore. (There was one stretch where one of the actresses is menaced with a cattle prod that genuinely stressed me out.) So as a work of horror, good job, movie. As a porno, yikes! I do think the acting is not as sharp as it was in the other movie, although let's say I've...enjoyed the work of both Casey Calvert and Charlotte Sartre in the past so I won't hold it against them too much. I could say that they are effectively expressive during the torture scenes, but that would make me sound like a serial killer, so I won't say it. (But they are.) I was trying to work in a joke about how Calvert can do but Sartre is smartre, but we don't actually get much from either one in terms of personality or their relative levels of intelligence, so I'll just leave that there. (I will say that Calvert's jeans really annoyed me, as they looked like they could fall apart at any moment, frayed all the way down the front of her thighs, and with two big tears right below her ass. I hope she used her paycheque to buy a new pair of pants. Yes, I know people wear ripped jeans, but I don't have to like it.) The Pope himself plays the villain again, with a similarly inhuman presence (this time he wears a Leatherface-style mask for added spookiness). The movie tries to give him some psychological depth and humanize him with flashbacks. (I guess it was nice when he folded up their clothes so neatly.) I wish the movie didn't throw these scenes in, as they're undercooked and detract from the singleminded griminess of the affair and the sense of unmotivated evil that I personally find a lot more unsettling. Perhaps the Pope was afraid we'd think he was a bad person if he didn't include this stuff, but with the before and after interviews with the cast (de rigueur for the studio), we have no reason to believe that. Collapsing morality goes with the territory. As they say (usually in a more critical context that has nothing to do with this genre), the cruelty is the point. There are also structural problems, in that the first torture scene goes so hard, that the rest of the movie feels like more of the same when there should be a sense of escalation. And like Deception, there's a twist ending, which frankly doesn't land at all, although if I were directing a roughie with locations doing the narrative legwork over any actual plotting, I don't know how I'd wrap mine up either. But yes, this is better made than it probably needs to be, and is surprisingly potent as actual horror. And if it gets your motor running...this is a judgment-free zone.

#film #movie review #put on your raincoats #derelict #the pope #not that pope #although his name is john paul #lol

[jdgo51]

Boundaries Without Question Marks

Today's inspiration comes from:

Good Boundaries and Goodbyes

by Lysa Terkeurst

Editor's note: "If we want more peaceful relationships, we have to turn our life from accepting chaos to pursuing peace." The Good Boundaries and Goodbyes Online Bible Study by Lysa TerKeurst starts July 24th! Sign up today!

"'It’s no wonder we are anxious and feel boundaries are only acceptable and legitimate if the other person agrees with and respects them. In other words, instead of stating our boundaries and ending the sentence with a period, we tag on a question. “You good with that?” “Okay?” “Does that work?” “This is understandable, right?” “You see where I’m coming from, yes?”

Posing a boundary as a question opens us up to be questioned, debated, and disrespected. If a boundary is presented with doubt, it won’t be effectively carried out.

Now, add on top of that the weird notion that if we are Christians, then we are absolutely obligated to sacrifice what’s best for us in the name of laying down our lives for others.

Where did we get the idea that we aren’t allowed to say no, have limitations, or be unwilling to tolerate other people’s bad behavior?

If we are filtering our thoughts of boundaries through wrong perceptions, it’s no wonder many of us find boundaries not just challenging but pretty close to impossible.

Here’s why:

We aren’t sure who we really are. We aren’t sure what we really need. We aren’t sure that if others walked away from us, we’d be okay.

Let’s take an honest look at an important question.

Who are you?

When I took time to answer this question for myself, I wondered why I’d never addressed this before. In a moment of honest reflection, it felt incredibly freeing to state for myself who I really am rather than when I’m trying to defend myself against the judgments of others.

Here’s who I am. I am a woman who loves God and loves other people. Therefore, because of Christ in me (Galatians 2:20), I am empowered to be the version of me God intended when He created me. I’m kind, creative, caring, generous, fun, and loyal. I have those qualities, but they aren’t what is most apparent when people use me, take advantage of me, make unrealistic demands of me, and make wrong assumptions about me when I say no. In other words, when I’ve let someone violate my boundaries, I can get so frustrated that I act in completely opposite ways from the woman I really am. This type of reaction is on me — and I need to totally own it — not what someone else does, but my reaction to what they do.

So, boundaries help me stay true to who I really am. Without boundaries, I can hyperextend myself to the point where I become anxious, bitter, resentful, angry, annoyed, and distant. That’s not who I really am, so it’s my responsibility not to let another person’s actions and expectations wear me down to the worst version of myself. In a biblical sense, it’s me not allowing another person to make me betray who I am in Christ.

Okay, your turn to answer this crucial question: Who am I?

Pause here. Think about this.

And if you’re having a hard time answering, maybe it’s because you’ve lost her. Sometimes we’ve let other people’s opinions and needs define us for so long that we lose ourselves in the process. Or maybe circumstances have been so confusing, maybe even brutal, that we feel like life has reduced us to someone who others feel badly for. I’ve felt this exact way during the past several years of my life. I wanted to be a victorious woman of God, not a victim of a bunch of circumstances that caught me off guard and ripped the rug out from beneath me.

There is so much more to us than just being a sum total of what’s happened to us. Right?! So, how do we get back to that person we were before all the hard stuff?

Join the OBS I was on a group Zoom call recently with my friend Amanda after she had read an early version of what I’ve written here. She got choked up as she told me about a picture her mom found in her grandmother’s jewelry box after she passed away. The old black-and-white photograph was of a beautiful little chubby-cheeked baby with dark hair.

“That little face in my grandmother’s jewelry box was one I hadn't seen in more than twenty-five years since I last laid eyes on the picture. Twenty-five years. It’s me as a baby. The most pure version of me. This is me before life happened and wrote its own story on me. Before I got hurt and heartbroken and jaded and run over by what life had become.”

Her tears spilled down her cheeks as the rest of us tried to manage the lumps in our own throats. The baby in the picture was Amanda, but the truth of this moment applied to all of us.

Picture yourself as a tiny baby fresh from God’s hands. Innocent. Blissfully unaware of tragedy and trauma. Imagine yourself looking into her eyes. What would you say to her? Who do you want to tell her she is before life gets written on her? Speak that over her now.

Remember, you are closest to who you really are when you are the closest to who He created you to be.

Another memory you could recall is to remember yourself before you were really hurt. Before she said what she said. Or he did what he did. Or, before that event when everything changed, and you felt a bit damaged. Who were you?

Think of a memory, a memory from early on in your life, and try to remember who you were before you started looking to others for validation. Before you started becoming so hyperaware of your faults and frailties that you stopped seeing yourself as worthy, valuable, and designed by God on purpose. If nothing comes to mind from your early childhood, just speak to one of your baby pictures and tenderly tell her why she doesn’t need to live her life with an unhealthy pursuit of constantly seeking validation from people.

Now, write down the qualities that are true about the most authentic, wonderful version of you.

That’s your beauty. The goal is to humbly, and purposefully, walk in that beauty and own it. Serve from that fullness. Give from that wholeness. Walk confidently in the fact that our all-sufficient God did not make you insufficient or broken. Yes, we need to grow and develop and seek to become more and more like Jesus. But just like a seed contains everything in it necessary to bloom, so do we. All that a seed goes through to grow into a plant is part of the process of becoming what it was designed to be — not a process of determining its worth or value (1 Corinthians 15:38–44).

This exercise is more important than you know. If we don’t know who we are, we will constantly be manipulated into who others want us to be or become enmeshed in the needs of other people.

When we know who we are, we are whole and available to love, serve, and give to others from that fullness. If we don’t know who we are, then we will love, serve, and give, hoping people will fill our empty places and make us feel whole. And in doing so, we will always be defined by how well or how poorly someone else makes us feel.

My passion for all of this may have put a tad too much wind in my sail — or words in my chapter. Welcome to my overextended TED talk. Just kidding.

There’s an even more secure foundation to knowing who we are than just naming it for ourselves. We want to let God’s Word become the words of truth for our identity.

When God is the source of our identity, we are much less prone to others feeding our insecurity.

I’ll leave you with these words I first wrote in my journal and then put in my book Uninvited years ago: “God’s love isn’t based on me. It’s simply placed on me. And it’s the place from which I should live... loved.”1"'

Lysa TerKeurst, Uninvited: Living Loved When You Feel Less Than, Left Out, and Lonely (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2016), 259.

Excerpted with permission from Good Boundaries and Goodbyes by Lysa TerKeurst, copyright Lysa TerKeurst.

[troquantary]

Edward Cullen: That Boy Ain’t Right

So I was doing a reread of @therealvinelle 's collection of Twilight metas, as one does, and in "Edward, Denial, and a Human Girlfriend" she mentions that she doesn't believe Edward is sane. I thought, "ha, yeah, he's definitely not," and also, "but wait, what does that mean exactly, please say more about that." But since she's already inundated with asks, I've decided to use my own head-muscle and explore this idea. (TL;DR: I start out more or less organized, synthesize some points Vinelle has made across several posts (and have hopefully linked to them all where relevant but please tell me if not), touch a little on narcissism, then take a hard left into the negative effects of being a telepath.)

Just a couple things to note at the outset, though. Theses have been written already (probably) about Edward as an abuser. Edward being insane doesn't negate that at all; he's definitely an asshole and just...a disaster of a human being. (I find it more funny than anything, but YMMV.) I'm also going to try to avoid talking specifically about mental illness and how it relates (or doesn't relate) to abusive behavior -- that's territory I'm not really equipped to discuss, like at all. My starting point is "Edward has a deeply warped perception of reality," not "Edward has X disorder."

So: deeply warped perception of reality. The evidence? Goes behind a cut, because my one character trait is Verbose.

Vinelle provides a great example of it in the post linked above, which I'll just quote because she does words good: "[Edward] keeps acting like his romance with Bella is a romantic tragedy, and all the cast of Twilight are actors on a stage making it as sublime as possible." Edward's the one to pursue Bella, but he does so with the full belief, from the very beginning, that it will never last; Bella will "outgrow" him, go on her human way, and he can spend the rest of eternity brooding magnificently over his too-short romantic bliss. [Insert premature ejaculation joke.] Turning her is never an option, even though Alice, Noted Psychic, says that romancing Bella will either end with her dead (exsanguinated) or dead (vampire).

This framing, where he's a dark anti-hero in love with -- but never tainting! -- the pure maiden and eventually leaving her in a grand, tragic sacrifice to preserve her soul? It's fucking bonkers. Bella isn't a person to him in this scenario. As Vinelle points out, Bella's never really a person to him at all; he falls in love with his own mental construct, cherry-picking from what he observes of her behavior and her responses to his 20 (thousand) Questions to convince himself that she is the ideal woman.

Bella's not the only one who gets the projection/cardboard-cutout treatment. Edward sees everything and everyone through a highly particular, personalized lens. He filters his entire reality, which we all do to an extent, but the thing with Edward is that he starts with his conclusions and then only pays attention to the evidence that supports those conclusions. Often that evidence consists of what he admits in New Moon are only "surface" thoughts -- but recognizing that limitation doesn't keep him from taking those thoughts as representative of what people are. Edward then becomes absolutely convinced by his own "reasoning" and won't be swayed from what he has decided is Objectively True. It's obvious with Bella; it's also painfully obvious with Rosalie. (Vinelle explains this and brings up Edward's raging Madonna/Whore complex in the same post, so refer to that again -- she's right.)

He also catastrophizes. Everything. Bella's just vibing in her room, rereading Wuthering Heights for the 87th time? She's gonna be hit by a meteor, better sneak into her room while she sleeps. Bella's going to the beach with the filthy mundanes their human classmates? She's gonna fall in the ocean. Jasper's cannibal pals are stopping by for a visit, but know not to hunt in the area? DISASTER, DEFCON 1, ALSO FUCK YOU JASPER FOR EVEN EXISTING IN MY AND BELLA'S SPHERE YOU UNSPEAKABLE BURDEN. Edward must believe that Bella is vulnerable and in near-constant peril, to support the reality he has created in which he is the villain turned protector and maybe?? hero??? (!!!) for his beloved. So when the actual, James-shaped danger arrives, he goes berserk, snarling and flipping his shit and generally not helping the situation. His fantasy demands that Bella remain human, so instead of doing the very thing Alice, Noted Psychic, assures him will neutralize the threat (and not just a threat to Bella, either, but to Bella's family and any other human James might decide to include in the "game"), he vetoes it immediately, no discussion. Bella Must Not Turn, and he sticks to those guns despite James nearly reducing her to ground beef, despite leaving Bella catatonic with depression (but human! success!) in New Moon, despite Aro's order and his family's vote and, let's not forget, Bella's clearly and repeatedly stated desire to be a vampire. It's going to happen. But he doesn't accept it until Renesmee busts out of Bella like the Kool-Aid man and the poor girl's heart finally, unequivocally stops.

Sane people don't behave this way. I don't want to slap labels on Edward, but I can't help but note that he comes across as highly narcissistic. He's the only real person in his universe, the lone player among us NPCs. That probably has a lot to do with him being frozen in the mindset and maturity of a seventeen-year-old boy, but I think it's also just...him, on some fundamental level. His failure to connect with others and recognize them as full, independent beings with their own wants and priorities isn't like Bella's failure -- she's badly depressed. Edward is...something else, and I get the sense that his sanity has been steadily deteriorating over time. And a cursory google of narcissistic traits turns up some familiar-looking stuff. He's self-loathing, yes, but also grandiose; he hates himself for the monster he is (and hates most vampires besides Esme and Carlisle for their monstrosity, too) but still feels superior to humans, to the extent that he felt entitled to human blood and resented Carlisle for depriving him of his "proper" diet. He eventually returns to Carlisle, but he's far from content -- the beginning of Midnight Sun finds him in a state of ennui, bored and dismissive of (if not outright disgusted by) everyone around him, that has apparently persisted for years and years. He doesn't play the piano, he doesn't compose, he doesn't enjoy anything...at least until Bella comes along and then he becomes obsessed to a disturbing degree with her and his new, romantic tragedy spin on reality.

[Next-day edit: I’m not sure where else to fit this in, but the way Edward casually contemplates violence against people who have, at best, mildly annoyed him is...chilling. I have a hard time writing off his strategizing how to murder the entire Biology class as a result of bloodlust -- it’s so calculated, nothing like the blackout state of thirst Emmett describes when he encountered his own “singer,” and that is probably the default for when a vampire is extremely thirsty. But even ignoring the Biology class incident, Edward still does things like consider, with disturbing frequency, how he might grievously injure or kill Mike Newton, all because...Edward considers him his romantic rival (despite Bella barely giving the kid the time of day). He thinks about slapping Mike through a wall, which might be an amusing slapstick image, except as a vampire Edward’s actually capable of turning this boy’s skeleton to a fine powder. So it’s, y’know, kind of sick when you think about it.

But even worse than that, when Bella tells Edward about how she flirted with Jacob to get at that sweet, sweet vampire lore, Edward chuckles and then, after dropping Bella home, flippantly observes that now that the treaty’s broken, why not genocide? I’m not even kidding, it’s right there in Midnight Sun; he seriously thinks about the fact that he’d be technically justified now in wiping out the entire tribe because a teenager tried to impress a girl with a spooky story. That is fucked. Remember, Edward was there with Carlisle when the treaty was first established. He knows how remarkable it is that they even came to a truce in the first place, that it was only ever possible because Carlisle is...well, Carlisle, and that it marks a pretty significant moment in supernatural history. He doesn’t care; he doesn’t respect it, or he’d never think something like “Ha ha, if I went and killed them all, I wouldn’t even be wrong. I mean, I won’t do it, but I’m just saying, I wouldn’t be wrong.”

Again: not the thought process or behavior of a sane person. (Or a person that respects life in general -- sorry Carlisle, big L.)]

Finally, whether he's a narcissist or not, I think the fact that Edward has constant, unavoidable access to everyone's thoughts is a powerful contributing factor to his instability. He can tune out the mental noise to an extent, but he can't stop it -- so he comes to rely on it like another sense. This causes issues with disconnect and lack of empathy, of course, but there's another facet to this shit diamond: he's basically experiencing a ceaseless flow of intrusive thoughts. His narration in Midnight Sun suggests that he "hears" the words people think, can "see" what they visualize in their mind's eye, and can sense the emotional "tone" and intensity of their thoughts. Therefore, perceiving Jasper's thirst through his thoughts makes Edward more aware of his own, "doubling" the discomfort. This would be a lot to deal with even from just his immediate coven members, but Edward gets all of this pouring into his head like a firehose on a day-to-day basis because the Cullens live right alongside humans. I know Meyerpires have galaxy brains or whatever, but that's a ton to process.

Besides the compounding effect on his own thirst when he "feels" the thirst of others, Meyer never suggests that Edward has difficulty separating his own thoughts from other people's; even when he was newly turned, he recognized Carlisle's "voice" in his head as Carlisle's. That would create a whole different host of issues around identity, but it looks like Edward's escaped that particular torment. However, I can easily imagine that what he does experience is just shy of unbearable nonetheless, with an eroding effect on his sanity over decades. He can't sleep to escape it; he's on a dishwater diet and probably (like the rest of his family) experiencing a perpetual, low-grade physical discomfort due to his thirst never being fully satisfied; and he's around far more people than is the norm for vampires -- even discounting all the humans, his own coven is unusually large -- meaning more noise.

Honestly, it would be weirder if he were all there, considering.

And even though I feel like I lost a sense of structure around where I started ranting about telepathy, I've written like 1.5k words about Edward fucking Cullen and I think that's enough for one post.

#twilight #twilight renaissance #twilight meta #edward cullen #i stared too long and the twilight abyss gazed back #long post #major credit due to therealvinelle for having basically all the ideas already #theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin too since they agree and build off each other's metas a lot #idk how people who write meta can just crank these posts out i've been here for two hours #edited to add stuff i forgot to mention about edward's disproportionately violent fantasies

[wkemeup]

Start Again

summary: A chemical spill, uncontrollable desires rushed to the surface, an unbridled need, and the consequences in the aftermath  pairing: steve x reader word count: 5k warnings: SMUT (18+), sex pollen (dub/con), a very slight dom!steve, angst, absolute filth ok dont shame me a/n: first sex pollen fic, first steve smut. felt right. and hot. 

“Rogers! Watch your six, dammit!” you shouted, hair whipping into your face as you lunged at a stray opponent aiming a gun directly at the back of Steve’s head. Roundhouse kick to his hand and the weapon flung halfway across the room; another blow to the man’s temple and then, he collapsed to the ground in a heavy thud.

“That’s what I have you for, isn’t it?” Steve chuckled from the doorway, turning back with a smirk over his shoulder as he nudged his way into the vault with the edge of his shield. All confidence and charisma and still, his ears were a little pink, his eyes flickering down at the floor by your feet when he held your gaze a moment too long. A hesitancy in his teasing. A sincerity nestled in pale blue eyes.

You chewed on the edge of your lip, unbothered by the coppery taste left behind by the hit of a Hydra agent unconscious at your feet, and you side stepped your way into the vault. Steve stood with his arm extended, gesturing you to lead the way, smile creeping up the left side of his mouth before he followed behind.

This was how things were between the two of you. Flirty banter. Quiet moments. Poking at the tension in the air with the blunt edge of a knife. Careful, but still pressing. Lingering. Waiting in agony until the moment it snapped.

“What is this place?” you asked, covering your nose with the crook of your elbow as a lingering burning sensation filled the air.

The walls were lined with chemicals placed neatly in organized vials, within enclosed glass tubes, and refrigerated syringes. Beautiful bright colors to dull, dreary shades, big and small, carefully sealed, with hazmat suits hanging from the rack at the corner of the room. At the center sat a single metal table with restraints hanging down off the sides.

You stepped closer to it, carefully examining the cuffs made of leather where it cracked along the outside from years of use. You shuddered to think of the men they laid strapped on this cold unforgiving surface, injecting god knows what into their veins.

“This is sick,” you exhaled, dropping the restraint and watching as it swung over the edge of the table.

“It’s Hydra,” Steve replied tensely. “Whatever they have in here, it can’t be good. Let’s just get what we came for and get the hell out.”

You nodded, walking closer to the shelves in search of the small vial Dr. Cho described. Blue in color, almost translucent, a liquid of only a few milliliters in total. If you were lucky it would be labeled NR-829. You didn’t know what it was for, but you weren’t one to ask questions. Steve went along with the mission without hesitation and you followed his lead. You trusted Steve enough for that.

It took a while as you filtered through dozens of unknown chemicals until you found the vial. Tucked in the back of the shelf, hidden behind a series of test tubes and a particularly large glass bottle with a large ‘X’ scribbled in black marker over the cap, the light blue serum sat in wait. You grinned, gently pulling the tube from its stand and holding it up for Steve to see.

“This is why I keep you around,” Steve teased, a sigh of relief etched into his tone.

“Thought you needed me to watch your six, huh?”

“That, too.”

Steve hung his head with a smile so wide on his face it made your stomach twist into knots. Hands planted firmly on his hips, stealing careful glances up at you from under long, thick lashes, you couldn’t help but admire the tenderness he carried. Even under pounds of muscle, a super soldier’s strength running through his veins, and the weight of the world on his shoulders, he still managed to carry an innocence, a lightness, and he was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen.

“We should go,” Steve said after a moment and you nodded quickly, hoping he didn’t notice your staring.

You were just about to place the vial into the small pouch at the edge of your hip when a movement at the edge of the vault froze you dead in your tracks.

A flicker of metallic.

The click of the safety unlatching.

The grunt of a man in vengeance.

Laying on the floor, mouth covered in blood as it drenched down from his broken nose, the man you’d rendered unconscious now aimed a gun in your direction; a sickening grin pealed up along his cheeks to reveal yellowed teeth soaked in red.

Steve’s arm jutted out in front of you, yanking your body quickly out of the line of fire, but the man only smirked. He didn’t attempt to follow in his aim. Instead, he narrowed in on something beyond your position. Something on the shelves.

The gunshot rang out, echoing painfully within the small confines of the vault enough for a violent ringing to pierce in your ears, and still, you heard the glass shatter.

The air filled with the sudden sweet smell of candied apples and caramel; a scent specific to the night Steve dragged you out to Coney Island in efforts to relive his old memories, when you’d spent nearly half the night sitting on the docks prying sticky caramel from your fingers and laughing until your stomach hurt. The way he’d looked at you that night, like maybe all these feelings stirring deep in your chest might not be unrequited, how he’d smiled just enough until it pressed dimples to his cheeks.

No ordinary chemical could produce a smell like that. Not something so specific. Nothing but—

“Oh God.”

Steve was at the doors to the vault, desperately trying to pry his shield between them as the chemical spill must have set off emergency protocols and sealed you inside, but it was no use. He let out a visceral groan as he used all of his force, and still nothing.

“Steve,” you crocked, already feeling the sweat dripping at the nape of your neck. Your eyes glanced back at the emerald green liquid fizzling on the cement floor. The smell was intoxicating, burning almost to the point where it physically ached, and you closed your hands tight into fists.

“What is that?” Steve grunted, finally turning away from the doors. He brushed at his nose, confused, as tried to find the source. “It... it smells like... coffee and—and cinnamon sugar.”

The bakery down the block from the tower. Where you’d taken Steve in the early hours of the mornings when he’d find himself standing in the doorframe of your bedroom, shame lingering in his features and a redness in his eyes. It was a safe haven. An escape. The smell of a pleasant memory.

You’d heard that this chemical had the ability to manifest individually to those it effected, but it still took you by surprise. Drawn on the desires of its host, different to each in its unrelenting path. There was no time to wonder what it meant, why it smelled like the bakery around the corner and the nights you spent with Steve when the nightmares woke him in a blinding panic. There was no time because your eyes kept flickering down the lines of Steve’s body, tracing him hungrily, like a woman starved.

You choked back a moan, squeezing your thighs together as a sudden all-encompassing emptiness tore through you.

“Steve, listen to me,” you tried again, voice a little dry as you stretched your neck away from the collar of your suit, tearing your stare from his body as you focused on the wall in front of you. You zipped down the edge of your suit to your sternum and it only provided an ounce of relief. You were suffocating under it, burning, and you swore if you didn’t get it off soon you might collapse.

Steve didn’t seem to hear you though as he walked towards the exposed chemical on the floor, examining it. “Why expose us to this chemical instead of just killing us? What’s the point? What the hell is this stuff anyway?”

Your legs were crossed at the ankles, thighs pressing tightly together in an effort to relieve some of the ache at your core, but it did nothing. Not when you knew what you needed. Not when he was standing right there.

“Steve, please,” you whined, close to tears, hands gripping tight at the edges of the metal table.

Steve whipped around at the sound of your voice, panicked by the urgency, the desperation in it. His shoulder tensed, eyes darting wide at the sight of you.

The chemical had taken its effect quickly. Your hairline was drenched in sweat, heart pounding so painful in your chest you were certain he could hear it across the room, but what surprised him most was the slight tang in the air, a sweet kind of smell that was only and entirely yours; one he only dared allow himself to notice once before, under the cover of night when he’d walked past your bedroom in and heard the soft whimpers beyond the door.

Your legs were shaking under you, ready to collapse, and Steve darted forward. His hand gripped at your waist, trying to hold you steady.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he cooed sweetly, though there was a panic in his voice as he turned to look back at the sealed exit. He exhaled a heavy breath, pulling you in closer. “I’ve got you. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

The pressure of his hands was unlike anything you’d ever felt. It was exhilarating, like the touch of lightening to your skin and still, feather soft. It was a jolt of desperation that only worsened the pulsing at your core, the agonizing emptiness you felt between your legs.

You whimpered, shaking terribly in his arms, and then, his hands moved slowly up along your body to cup at your cheeks. He pushed away the damp hairs on your face, sky blue eyes searching yours, trying to understand what was affecting you like this, so concerned, so full of worry, but it was too much.

Your skin was too sensitive; every touch heightened beyond what you’d ever experienced and each rub of his thumb over your cheek bone, each pressured dip of his fingers against your neck, was almost unbearable. Your cunt clenched around air, waiting eagerly to be filled and used and — fuck — you were going to die if you didn’t get that damn suit off now.

“Y/n?” Steve called, though it sounded far away, like a lingering semblance of an echo long carried through a tunnel.

Unable to take it, you tore Steve’s hands away from you, stumbling back until you hit the table with a painful corner to your spine. You whined, shaking, whimpering, and as Steve tried to take another step closer to you, you held up a desperate hand.

“It’s not effecting you as quickly because—because of the serum,” you gasped, trying to find your breath as a hand slipped under your collar, pushing down at the zipper on your suit in search of relief, “but it will. It will, Steve, and we—we have to—God, we’ll die if we don’t, but—”

“What are you talking about? What’s happening to you?” Steve demanded, trying to step closer to you, to reach out in comfort, but you flinched away. You still had some semblance of control, even if your dignity was in pieces. You wouldn't dare let him touch you again until he understood what this was, until he could have some kind of choice.

“The chemical,” you shuddered, pointing to the shattered vial on the floor, “it’s the extract of the pollen Tony warned us about in Brussels.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. Brussels was almost three years ago but he remembered it well. They’d been tasked with infiltrating a Hydra base attempting to create an army of enhanced super soldiers by pairing the gifted with their knock off experiments. Creating offspring artificially wasn’t an option, it seemed, and well, Hydra needed to convince their participants to engage.

Realization hit Steve like a truck and he stumbled back, eyes wide. “N-No, it’s can’t be. That stuff should have been destroyed when we blew up the base...”

“Should have been,” you repeated, nodding slowly as you shrugged your shoulder out of the suit. The cool air touched your skin and it was instant relief. Teeth clenched, lump in your throat, you looked at Steve. “We don’t have a lot of time. I—I have to get this off. I feel like I’m burning alive...”

“Okay, okay,” Steve nodded, rushing towards you to help. You choked back a whine as his fingers touched over bare skin, slipping under your suit as he helped peel away the skin tight fabric until it dropped down over your thighs and was left in a pile on the floor.

Left only in your sports bra and panties, Steve started to evert his eyes, even as his breathing started to pick up in pace. It was affecting him slower than it did you, but it was still in his veins, it was still coming for him.

“Steve,” you gasped, your hands fumbling with the band of your bra, trying to pull it over your head. Your nipples were pebbled hard, the touch of the fabric agonizing against the buds. Your thighs squeezed tight together and you could feel how soaked through the thin cotton between your legs had become. You could smell it yourself, so you knew Steve could, too.

“Steve, please. I—I need you. It hurts so much…”

Steve swallowed, eyes gazing up at your body as you stripped clean of the remaining material. He tried desperately to hold your eye, but as your hand slipped down between your legs in search of some relief, he followed.

Your fingers dipped in between the folds, swirling in the wetness that dripped down your thighs, and even as you circled in rushed movements, sunk two fingers deep inside you, it did nothing to relieve the ache. It couldn’t be relieved on its own, not without help.

In a surge of pollen-induced confidence, you carefully reached out for Steve’s hand, letting your fingers hook around his as hooded eyes gazed up to a startling pale blue and the bite of teeth over pink, swollen lips. Slowly, you guided Steve’s hand closer to your core and when you were met with no resistance, replaced your fingers with his own, pushing his touch to the heat between your legs.

He shuddered as the wetness dripped over him, fingers moving of their own accord and circling sweetly at your clit. It was like fire through your veins, rendering you outside of yourself, and still, you needed more.

“You’re alright, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, running a free hand through your hair, but you could only whine in response, resting your forehead to his shoulder.

Hands curled into the thick fabric of his suit, dipping into the muscle in his arms as you tried to focus on the pressure on your clit, how his fingers swirled and circled and pressed and flicked at the sensitive bundle of nerves, but that emptiness lingered. It screamed at you, tore through your body and consumed you, begging to be filled, to be abused and used.

“More,” you begged, too far lost to the effects of the pollen to feel shame for the tremors in your voice or the neediness with which you rolled your hips to his fingers. “Please, Steve. I—I can’t. I need—”

“Okay, I’ve got you,” he said quickly, a softness in his tone as he helped ease you up onto the metal table. It was cold against your exposed skin, though it supplied no relief to the fever lighting like flames within your veins.

You called his name again, a desperate cry, and Steve gently ran his hands down your curves, slipping over your hips and thighs and gently returning to where you needed him. It was like he was trying to hold onto some kind of semblance of romance or affection amongst the intensity of the pollen igniting dangerous levels of dopamine and oxytocin in your brain; like maybe he could fool himself into believing it was real.

“It’s okay. I’m here, sweetheart. Just try to relax for me,” he whispered, sinking two fingers into you, and then a third. It was relief unlike anything else. The slight sting of the stretch, the rub of his knuckles by your entrance, the curving of his fingers deep inside your walls, pressing up against the spot that made your back arch up from the table.

“Fuck, Steve,” you gasped, eyes closed, overwhelmed in the sensations, in the pumping of his fingers and his thumb circling at your clit, the high that started to take over completely and render you in a mess on the table, open and exposed. “Yes! Ah—don't—don't stop!”

Even through your haze, you felt the slight touch of his lips on your forehead. Something so tender, so soft, in stark contrast to the heat of the pollen’s chemical amplifying your senses.

“That’s it,” Steve urged, his breath warm on your skin as your walls began to clench around him. Tighter. Tighter. He pumped his fingers faster, the sounds filling the room enough to draw heat to your face if it wasn’t for the heightened bliss produced by the pollen.

You rolled your hips against his hand, meeting him at his knuckles, begging for more.

More, more, more—

“Let go, doll,” Steve whispered against your ear, breath hot to your skin, “come for me.”

Closer and closer and rising to the very edge of the peak and— nothing.

You whined, a sob breaking through you as the crescendo faded out just before the highest note. Your body collapsed, sinking into hardened metal, exhausted, desperate, aching.

“What is it? What happened?” Steve questioned, panicked.

“It’s not enough,” you gasped. “I need you.”

Steve froze, slowly pulling his fingers from between your legs to find them dripping in your wetness. He closed his hand. “Y/n, I—”

“I need you to fuck me, Steve.”

He shook his head, backing up. “You don’t-- You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do. Please, Steve,” you begged, your own fingers circling back at the head of your clit, swirling in the drench of your juices at your core and still, it wasn’t enough. It won’t ever be enough. You needed thick veins and a pulsing heartbeat, rushed thrusts, hands digging to your hips, and the labored pants of a man above you.

You needed him.

“You don’t want this,” Steve argued, determined, though you could see the pollen starting to take its effect. His pupils were blown wide, sweat dripping at the nape of his neck though he tried to brush it away. His legs were trembling.

“The pollen is only enhancing desires that already exist,” you urged, breathy and in gasps as your fingers worked tiredly at your clit and still—nothing. In your haze, you didn’t notice how Steve’s eyes widened at your confession. He stared at you for just a moment longer before he shook the thought from his mind, unwilling to let himself go there.

“Steve, I’m begging you. I gonna—I'm gonna die.”

“No, you’re not. I won’t let that happen.”

He could feel the pollen starting to take it’s hold in his own body and the longer he looked at you, exposed and ready for him, dripping, the sweet smell of your cunt filtering in the air, the closer he came to the losing edge of control.

The serum kept it at bay for a while, but he could feel his cock aching painfully hard under layers of Kevlar. The fabric rubbed against it, creating an almost burning sensation, and he understood why you were so desperate to rid yourself of your clothes.

Jesus – it was a miracle he kept it together as long as he did. He could still feel the squeeze of your pussy on his fingers; the heat, the wetness, the softest most vulnerable parts of you. His hand was sticky in your slick as he clenched his fist, nails digging painfully to his palms.

“Steve, it’s starting to affect you, too.”

He shook his head. “I can deal with it. I’ll handle it on my own.”

“You can’t, Steve. It won’t be enough.”

“It has to be!” he snapped, harsher than he meant to, but the pollen was pushing him towards an edge he wasn’t certain he’d ever come back from. “I can’t-- I won’t let that fucking chemical turn me into a monster!”

Steve groaned, raking his fingers through sweat damped hair and ridding himself of the shield and weapons strapped to his suit. He was panting long before he started shouldering the vault doors again, desperate to lodge his way through.

You closed your eyes, tears slipping past your temples as you laid on the metal table. Shaking, dripping at your core, aching. Your fingers doing nothing to relieve the painful, empty feeling left in Steve’s wake. Chills swept up your spine, like a fever, and you stared up at the ceiling, watching as the tiles swayed over one another, melting and twisting into a blur of grey cement as you listened to Steve’s labored breaths, the grunts in anguish, as he tried to break out of the vault.

But suddenly, it came to a stop.

A heavy exhale. A pained groan. And then—

“How certain are you?”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, vision blurring, dizzy, but you could still see how desperately Steve was trying to hold himself back. His arousal was thick and prominent against his thigh, a wet spot growing at the head, as he rubbed himself through the outside of his pants.

“Y/n,” he asked again, tenser, strained. “How certain are you that it’s only enhancing existing desires?”

“Certain,” you choked out. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, Steve. Since Coney Island.”

Steve gritted his teeth, and you could tell there was a part of him that lingered, wanting to know more, wanting to say something meaningful in return, but the pollen had taken a hold of him and he wasn’t the one in control anymore.

“I can’t hold back.”

You shook your head, heart racing in anticipation. “You don’t have to.”

“You don’t understand, Y/n,” Steve groaned, sliding his hand under his belt in search of some relief, unabashedly stroking himself in full view as his pants circled around his ankles. “I can feel this shit taking over and— I won’t be able to— I can’t hold myself back. Do you understand?”

He took a step closer to you, pulling his jacket off as well until he was naked before you. He paused at the edge of the table, hesitant for a moment, before slowly, he set his hands on the tops of your thighs. You moaned at the sensation, arching up for him, though he didn’t touch you where you needed him most. Instead, he let his hands travel along your legs, sliding all the way down to your ankles before he yanked hard enough to pull your body right to the edge.

You met him with a gasp, hands landing on his chest as you looked up to darkened eyes.

“It’ll be rough,” he gritted out.

You were panting, heart stammering. “I can take rough.”

“I might hurt you.”

“So hurt me, Captain,” you begged, voice low, hands snaking up around his neck.

“Say it again. Tell me you want this. I need to hear it,” he demanded, darker than you’d ever heard him, and still, there was a soft kind of pale blue in his eyes; a lingering piece of that tender, hesitant man you knew who kept his distance, who flirted and teased with shades of pink in his ears. He practically growled as his fingers dug deeper into your thighs.

“I want this,” you said firmly, your left hand raking through his hair, your right slipping down his stomach until you reached his cock. Circling your grip around his shaft, you slowly began to pump him and spread the precum down the throbbing vein underneath. His breath caught in his throat, eyes fluttering closed as he sucked in a harsh breath.

“I want you, Steve,” you whispered against his neck, your lips pressing a kiss to his pulse point before you licked a stripe along his jawline, up to his mouth, where you paused. You caught his eyes for a moment, laced in lust and thick in desire, and you mewled against his lips, “fuck me, Steve. Use me. I’m yours.”

It was hard to tell what was the pollen and what was inherently you, but when it was Steve standing in front of you, his erection sliding at your folds, his eyes gazing hungrily into yours, you couldn’t find it in you to care where the words came from. They were real desires, a real longing, a real desperation you carried deep inside you, hidden under lock and key, and the vial shattered in the back of the room only released them from their cage.

Suddenly, Steve yanked you from the table, spun you around, and held you firmly against him, his breath like fire against your neck. Your back was only kept pressed up against his chest for a moment before he pushed you flush onto the table. The cold of the metal ice against your skin, your cheek pressed onto the surface as he kept you still with a hand on the mid of your back. Your toes barely touched the ground, but Steve had a good hold on your hips with his free hand.

“That’s my girl,” he praised, his hand on your back nestling along your spine, pressing like the keys of a piano. You shuddered under him, trying to squeeze your thighs together but he kept them propped open. “Be a good girl for me, won’t you, baby? Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yes.” Your hands gripped onto the edges of the table, your toes lifting off the ground.

“Gonna let me take what I want from you? Gonna let me use your body how I want? Fuck your tight little cunt? My sweet girl...”

“Yes,” you whimpered, shaking, as the painful aching between your legs grew stronger. “All for you. Just you. Steve... please...”

Steve’s hand gripped to your hips, painful enough to leave bruises but your whole body was stripped to the bare edges, sensitive unlike you’d ever been in your life, and the divots he dug were sweet relief. You ached for more. Whatever he would give you.

You felt the tip of Steve’s cock edging at your entrance and you let out a desperate whine. You tried arched up for him as much as the position would allow, even with Steve’s hand keeping your upper body flattened on the table as he came up to you from behind.

He slid into you with ease, bottoming out in one harsh thrust that nearly jolted the entire table. You gasped, holding onto the surface, reveling in the ache of the stretch, how thick he was pressing you open, stretching you.

“Christ, you’re tight,” Steve grunted, adjusting his grip on your hip. He pulled out, just to the tip, slowly, agonizingly, before he slid back in with a shuddered breath. “So fuckin’ good, baby. Your cunt’s fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart. Shit.”

You’d never heard Steve curse like that. It was foreign in his voice, but God, it was like pure sin. Pieces of him he kept hidden, desires he wouldn’t dare allow to the surface broken free by the pollen littering the air and seeping deep into his veins. A man without boundaries or confinements. A man unleashed.

“Fuck, yes, Steve,” you moaned, gripping so tightly at the edges of the table, you wondered if you might be strong enough to crack it. “God, Steve, don’t stop! Just like that—Just like—ah, fuck—”

He was relentless. Rushed. Desperate. Quick and harsh thrusts of his hips snapping against your ass, his cock throbbing and dragging against clenched walls, spurring on that twist deep in your stomach, bringing you closer and closer to release, to relief.

The noises he made only urged you on, filling the room with cries and screams, his name and yours, uncontained, unfiltered. Through the gasps in his breath, through your name exhaled low in his voice, he muttered praises and curses, his grip tightening, your skin burning against the metal surface with every drag of your body. It was a rush, a high, every thrust, every bruise he pressed into your skin, every inch closer to the peak that left you screaming his name over and over again until finally—

The ground fell out from under you, mountains crashing down, and you cried out through the free fall; impossibly sensitive, withering and desperate to hold on as he chased his own release, prolonging the longest, most intense orgasm you’d ever had, one that left you in near tears, until he came into you, releasing against your walls.

There was a moment of relief, of a comforting stillness. The labored pants of your breaths filling the room and the sticky sweet smell of sex overpowering the long faded scent of the pollen. The dizziness cleared from your mind, the high of the orgasm pulling you fully back to your senses, and you were shocked to find how cold the room had become.

And then the silence started to carry an unease within it.

Steve’s hand released its grip on your hips, on your back, unpeeling away from skin he’d colored under his touch and you tried not to wince at the sting of it because you knew he was watching you. Then, he pulled his softened cock from inside you, slipping out slowly and leaving behind a kind of emptiness that pierced straight through to your chest.

With the desperation gone, the heat of the pollen absent from your veins and a chill in your spine, you turned to find Steve, hoping for something as tender and sweet as the man you knew to offset the bruising on your body and the new kind of ache between your legs; pains you eagerly agreed to and even in your clearest thoughts knew with certainty you had wanted. Still, there was a need for more, something of the man you know Steve to be.

“Steve?”

He was scrambling to put his suit back on. Hands fumbling with his pants until he covered himself, then, quickly began to search around the room. Shaking hands yanked open drawers, throwing around papers and supplies until they covered the floor.

“Steve, hold on a moment...”

“I don’t-- I don’t have anything for you to--” he exhaled harshly, rubbing at his eyes and you realized what he meant. The sticky residue between your legs, his release and yours. He swallowed thickly, and it didn’t slip your notice that he couldn’t meet your eye. “Just-- just give me a second. I’ll-- uh—I'll find something.”

“Stevie, it’s okay,” you tried to tell him, but he couldn’t hear you.

You bent down and grabbed your suit from the floor, stepping into it as his cum had dried along your thighs. You could wash it away later. There was no concern for pregnancy. SHIELD provided all agents with standard birth control. Steve should know that and he should know that Sam would still be waiting on them in the jet, concerned that the coms hadn’t been working for the time you and Steve were trapped down there.

You crossed the room, coming up behind Steve and placing a hand on his bare shoulder. He flinched the moment your fingertips grazed his flushed skin and you pulled away, curling your hand to your chest. He turned to face you, but his eyes were focused on the floor by your feet. Even clothed, standing in front of him as the woman who had loved and adored him for years under the guise of friendship, he couldn’t bear to meet your eye.

A crack nestled in your chest, straight through your heart. God, you just wanted to hold him.

“Steve...”

The vault doors sprang open with a thunderous echo, a clear mist expelling from the ceiling.

A sudden darkness came over Steve’s features, the soft outline of his face turning hard as a growl brewed in his chest. He grabbed the gun from his waistband and bounded toward the exit. Without a moment of hesitation, he fired a single shot at the Hydra agent who had broken the vial of pollen in favor of killing either of you; still laying on the floor, barely even enough time to react to defend himself.

You gasped as a bullet lodged through the man’s head and he slumped over. Deep red pooling around him.

Steve stomped back into the vault, slipped the top of suit back over his head, ran his fingers through his hair to tame the mess. With his back turned to you, he paused.

“You have the vial we came for?” His voice was cold, detached, incredibly unlike the man you knew.

“Y-yes,” you replied, feeling for the small test tube securely placed in the container at your hip. You zipped up your suit to cover the exposed hills of your breasts; even with Steve’s back to you, it left you feeling exposed.

His back straightened, a short nod to himself, and he stepped over the body of the Hydra agent. Boots imprinting into the mess of blood, leaving a trail in their wake as he quickly made his way back to the jet.

You waited until the echoes of his steps disappeared down the hallway and you were left with a deeply unsettling silence. There, you allowed yourself to cry.

--

part two

#steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #steve rogers #steve rogers x you #steve rogers one shot

[enterunderscore]

Could you tell more about how you recreated the PlayStation 2 start up animation? In particular I’m wondering about the motion blur, aliasing, and other PS2 specific rendering quirks. Thanks <3

gladly! actually most of that stuff is done in blender’s compositor! i can break it down for you.

early game console motion blur was not true motion blur -- that is, the physical simulation of a camera shutter being open for too long while something is moving. to do this today, the renderer takes note of the location of every vertex in the scene during the last frame, and compares those locations to the current frame. then it will take those positional differences (sometimes creating a few extra “steps” in between those two positions for extra data) and create a blur between them, achieving this:

the PS2 (and the other consoles at the time) was a graphical powerhouse compared to its predecessor, and thanks to new rendering techniques, was able to sort of simulate motion blur without the full cost of actually simulating motion blur, like we do today.

to do this, there was a technique often referred to as “color accumulation blur”, where the last 2 or 3 frames were simply overlaid on top of the current frame at a lower opacity. it cost next to nothing, reduced aliasing (or jaggies) on some edges, and for the time was a pretty convincing full-screen motion blur effect—at the expense of it looking like “ghosting” or “afterimages”:

now, without doing some crazy render layer trickery, blender doesn’t necessarily have the compositing tools to do this exact effect (at least to my knowledge, i’m not a wizard or anything), but it’s very convenient that during the PS2 boot animation, the camera moves smoothly forwards in a single direction. 

we can't use blender's default motion blur feature for this effect, because it'll actually be high quality motion blur instead of the kind we want. blender just so happens to have a very nice feature in its compositor called directional blur.

here is first bit of the compositor node setup. here, i take the currently rendered frame, and pump it through a directional blur node, which will blur the frame outwards from the center. those “zoom” and “spin” sliders modify the intensity of the blur and the spin of the blur, and i animate those upwards as the camera gains speed towards the end of the animation. the iterations slider is what determines how many copies of the original image will be overlaid against each other to create the blur, and considering what we learned above, i set that to 2 so it looks nice and choppy.

after that, i hook up the original image and the new blurred image into an add node, adding them together!

this one's pretty simple. the PS2 typically rendered graphics at a resolution of 640x480 (it could do 240p and 480i, but for simplicity's sake i stuck with 480p). so in blender's render settings, i set the resolution to 480p.

anti-aliasing is a technique where you take a rendered image and through one technique or another, reduce the appearance of jagged edges on pixels—allowing the image to look smoother and cleaner.

the common anti-aliasing techniques of the time were extremely expensive especially for a console, so most titles didn't use it at all. this is why a lot of older games (and a lot of new ones too) can have graphics with pixelated shimmery edges. however we mostly had CRT TVs at the time back then, and CRTs are notoriously good at covering up aliasing.

blender, however, has anti-aliasing enabled by default. to fix this, we need to head over to the scene tab, and go to film > pixel filter.

blender's anti-aliasing method is called pixel filtering, and by default the "width" (strength) is set to 1.5px, which will sort of let each pixel affect the next half-pixel in all directions. it ends up looking like this:

don't worry i barely understand it either, we just need to turn it off. so i set the width to 0.01px, and bam! crispy jaggy aliasing.

finishing touches

finally, i had to give the render an old-school analog feel. the PS2 rendered digital images and sent them through a low-quality analog cable. that’s right, i’m talking about these bad boys:

since only one of these cables were used for sending a video signal, they had to send chroma (color information) and luma (brightness information) data through the same pipe... so naturally you’d get some crosstalk between the two, resulting in some odd looking color smearing: 

to achieve this in blender, we do some more compositing!

here, i am taking the frame with all effects applied up to this point, splitting it into its red, green, and blue color channels with a separate RGBA node, and then ever-so-slightly applying a blur to the blue and green channels before re-combining them back together with a combine RGBA node. it’s definitely not accurate to how chroma-luma crosstalk works in real life, but it’s good enough that the effect is convincing! (NOTE: for this screenshot i’ve dialed the blur way up to make it more apparent for this post—it’s much more subtle in my final render)

...aaaand that’s about it! 

there’s definitely a lot more at work here to make it PS2-authentic but those are the big ones! i also rendered the little colored balls of light as a separate render layer and added them on top of the frame, lowered the contrast a bit to look more like a recording of a real PS2, and turned off raytraced shadow casting.

here’s what the frame looks like before it hits the compositor:

and here it is after:

thank you for asking and thank you for reading! i love talking about this stuff.

#ask #tutorial #3d #blender3d #blender #retro #rendering

[oddberryshortcake]

Tallest Purple isn’t simply just ‘stupid’

I’ve been thinking about this all day while going through some IZ episodes. Personally, I don’t like leaving characters to just ‘one note’, whether or not reading into them complexly was intended by the creator. 

I know it’s a popular view that Tallest Red is ‘smart’ and Tallest Purple is ‘dumb’. I’d argue that they’re a little of both, but going into the argument of Purple’s one character trait being the dumb one, I’ve got some stuff I’ve observed (Both out of headcanons I’ve discovered from Red and from purple)

-Purple is articulate/has a better memory! 

Red may be commanding and a quick-thinker (making him better at plan-making as well as working under pressure) but he’s actually got issues with his memory! This shows itself in his forgetfulness of words that could be considered ‘big’ (Can’t remember the word ‘Armada’ so he says ‘Big Spaceship Gang’ instead)

Red also seems to not remember people and faces even if he’s known them for a decent amount of time (Forgot Zim, someone he’s known all his life, after a 2 year absence, also mistakenly called Larb ‘Lorp’)

In both these instances, Purple was the one correcting him 

-Purple can do math too!

As I see signs of dyslexia in Red (Just a headcanon, of course) I figured that just as he mixes up words, there’s a chance he could mix up numbers as well. Sure enough, when Purple came up with the idea of on bidding on Zim dying on Hobo 13, he was the one who started counting numbers! 

It seems like something he does genuinely enjoy doing. It was one of the few times Purple came up with a plan as opposed to Red. 

There’s a lot Purple can do! The difference between him and Red is, well...Purple is a lot more childish. 

He wishes to be entertained more, he has no real filter and often spurts out whatever he’s thinking at really inappropriate times, is a lot more docile when it comes to working with Red but happily does whatever he wants when allowed to like throwing people out of airlocks. 

More than Red, he wants to enjoy the easy parts of being a Tallest. His work ethic is low for accomplishing things that aren’t purely for fun. He’s not good at thinking under pressure and out of the two of them, Red is the more capable in a leadership position. 

But Purple’s immature desire to just kick back and have fun prevents him from being an effective tallest, but it doesn’t mean he’s without any skill! 

When it comes to being lazy, it doesn’t matter how good you are with words and math, you’ll still refuse to work.

#Invader Zim #IZ meta #Tallest Purple

[stylesharrys]

Webbed Up

A/N: For my first Peter smut, I kinda thoroughly enjoyed writing this haha. Peter and the reader are both 18 in this, about to finish high school!

WC: 5,468

“Promise I’ll be a good girl,” you bat your lashes innocently, lips pouted and puffy. Peter’s cock twitches in his pants and he bites back a groan and a growl.

You’re toying with the zipper of his jacket and it only just hits him that he’s still got his damn backpack on. “Think you deserve to be touched after acting like a little brat all day?” he asks with a hum, head tilted.

Your thighs quiver and you gnaw on your bottom lip, shifting to the edge of the counter desperately. “I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, Pete,” you whisper. “Be so good for you.”

or

You’re being a little too bratty for Peter’s liking, so he teaches you lesson or two.

//

Three more weeks. Just three more weeks until you’re done with high school and you can start planning your near future. You’ve been accepted into three colleges, two of which are the same as Peter and while he’s inching more toward MIT, you’ve got your heart set on Harvard.  

Just a 20-minute walk from each other, you’ve already figured out that your relationship will work. It has to.

The whole excitement and stress of leaving high school for good has done nothing but wrap Peter up in a tight bubble. He’s a little off lately, fixated on everything going to plan, on you not randomly changing your mind and deciding to take your scholarship to London. It doesn’t matter that you continuously assure him you’re sticking with your decision to attend Harvard, he’s scared.

“Are you even paying any attention to what I’ve been saying the past thirty minutes?” MJ’s snippy voice is quick to break you out of your little trance and you blink away your daydream.

“What?” you ask. “Yeah… yeah, course I’m listening,” you shrug your shoulders and lean forward on the desk, elbows propped up and your chin rests in the palms of your hands.

MJ rolls her eyes. “Whatever, you’re so in your head lately, what’s going on?” she asks. You purse your lips. It’s not that you don’t want to tell her, because you do… but she’s Peter’s friend too, and it’s not exactly fair for you to complain to her about him.

You shake your head. “It’s nothing!” you tell her, a little too enthusiastically. You clear your throat. “What were you saying?”

MJ squints at you sceptically, like she’s trying to figure out what it is you’re really hiding. You show no tells, though. You keep your bright eyes and encouraging smile and eventually, she gives up. Before she can actually repeat anything, though, a ruckus sounds from behind you, cutting her off.

You spin in your seat, eyes wide as Peter tumbles toward you and trips over another groups table. “Sorry! Sorry,” he mumbles out his apology, cheeks flustered and he knows half the cafeteria are staring at him.

MJ rolls her eyes.

“Hey,” you greet him softly, moving across the bench to give him room to sit beside you. He huffs out a barely audible ‘hello’ before dropping his lunch tray on the table and turning to you with pouted lips.

Stifling a laugh, you lean closer and kiss him gently, MJ making a scoff of disgust while you feel Peter’s body relax against your touch. He hums against your lips and you smile into the kiss, loving the calming effect you seem to have on him.

“What’s up?” you ask, the tip of your nose brushing against his and Peter sighs, shaking his head and giving you a knowing look. The one where his lips are pursed and tugged at the left side, eyes a cautious glimmer. It’s the Spidey look.

Your shoulders slump a little and you turn your body to your food. You suddenly don’t feel very hungry and your entire mood has turned sour from just one look. You know it’s silly, but you also know if you don’t prepare yourself for the soon disappointment, you’ll only be more upset when he inevitably cancels your plans for tonight.

Flicking your pasta around your plate, you chew on the inside of your cheek while Peter complains about the chemistry homework with Ned. MJ squints at you, subtly kicking you under the table, and instead of a usual sarcastic remark, you don’t say a thing… don’t even bother looking up from your chicken pasta bake.

You zone out for the rest of lunch like your social meter has hit empty. The bell rings later than you would’ve liked and before you can wander off to your next class, Peter is calling your name and slowly jogging the few steps that you are ahead of him.

You spin around, shoulders slumped and he frowns. “Let me walk you to your class,” he offers, but you know it’s not an offer so you let him walk you anyway. You don’t say anything, just hold your books close to your chest and Peter doesn’t need his spidey sense to know there’s something wrong.

He doesn’t say anything, though. He figures if you wanted him to know, you’d tell him yourself. Typical man.

By the time you reach your class, you haven’t even spared a glance at him and he’s growing worried. You’re about to walk straight into your class without a usual kiss goodbye when he side-steps in front of you, blocking your path.

Peter raises his hands to hold your shoulders and he dips his head a little to get a better look at you. “Hey… are you okay? What’s going on?” he asks, searching your eyes for an answer. You let him dig a little deeper and for a split second, you think he’s figured it out, that he finally understands why you’re so upset. But then he speaks.

“Are you on a period?”

Your lips thin as you grit your teeth. “No,” you spit. “Why? Will that make you cancel our plans tonight?” you ask bitterly. Peter frowns in hurt but the expression quickly changes to one of pure confusion.

“What are you – wait, we have plans tonight?” he asks, words jumbled and rushed and if it’s even possible, your shoulders slump further. You bite back your quivering bottom lip and blink away the tears of frustration.

“Are you serious?” you scoff.

Peter stares at you, eyes wide and you can see the guilt painting his pretty, stupid face. And though you keep searching, there’s no sudden hint of realisation, no flash of remembrance. “Movie night at my place… while my mom and dad are visiting my grandma for the weekend…” you say, hoping it will at least jog his memory but his expression doesn’t change.

You scoff and nod your head, gnawing on your bottom lip. You know by the look in his eyes that he’s trying to think of a way to let you down easy, to tell you that something’s come up. “But you can’t make it, can you… because you have Spidey Stuff to do, right?” you spit.

Peter keens back, shock and confusion soaring through his veins at your sudden tone and aggression toward him. You didn’t mean to be disrespectful, but the words left your mouth before you could filter them or set a slightly softer tone. You know it’s not his fault, that being Spider-Man is an important and demanding role, but you’d also appreciate it if he stopped cancelling on you, or straight-up forgetting.

He doesn’t say anything back, doesn’t exactly know what he’s supposed to say. “Whatever, I’ll see you Monday. Stay safe.”

//

“He blew you off again?” your mom asks, her tone surprised and you nod, sighing. She gives you a pitiful smile through pursed lips. You knew it was a mistake to FaceTime your mom because you could really do without her pitiful smiles and words of reassurance.

“Maybe he’s just stressing about you guys graduating,” she suggests.

You hum. “Maybe,” you agree, because that’s easier than telling her that Peter is actually the suited Spider-Man swinging around the streets of Queens. The idea of one day having to explain that to her gives you a headache.

She’s about to say something else, probably more useless words of encouragement or reassurance that you’d appreciate either way, when your dad calls her name and you hear your grandma cackling from the other room.

She gives you a guilty smile and you shake your head. “It’s fine, go. I’m gonna order a pizza and watch a movie or something. Love you, see you Sunday night!” you tell her. She blows a kiss to the camera and ends the call, finally allowing you a moment’s peace.

It’s quickly disrupted and ruined when your doorbell rings and insistent knocking taps on your front door. Dragging yourself to the front door, you pull it open, heart leaping at the sight.

Peter stands on your doorstep, hair a mess with a bunch of white and pink flowers in his hands. He’s got a nervous, lopsided grin on his lips and half his Spidey suit is hanging out of his sixth backpack this year.

You purse your lips and jut your hip out, hand resting on it. “What do you want?” you ask tiredly. You know you’re being bitchy but you’re done with taking his shit and hearing his petty excuses.

He raises a brow comically. “That how you treat your boyfriend now?” he asks and his tone is teasing, lighthearted with something unknown in the middle of it. You squint, trying to figure it out.

“What do you want, Pete?” you sigh, a harsh shiver prickling your skin as his lopsided grin twisted into a filthy smirk, one you’ve never seen before.

He points the flowers at you. “To apologise?” it comes out a question, but you know he won’t let you close that door on his face, not that you ever would anyway. Especially when he’s looking at you like that.

You eye him up again, trying to figure out what the fuck is going through his head, what that little twinkle means as it flashes blindingly in his eyes. Something stirs in your stomach, a feeling that spreads heat to your lower stomach and for some reason, you feel your panties begin to dampen.

You swallow back anything that almost tumbles out of your mouth and pull the door open more, allowing him to come in. Peter steps inside, closing the door behind him as he follows you into the kitchen.

You don’t realise how close behind you he is until you’re bending over to root for a vase when his crotch presses hot against your ass and your breathing hitches. Your body stills as you feel his tender hands caress your hips, your cheeks flushing pink.

“God, you have the nicest ass,” Peter groans from behind you, bottom lip caught between his teeth and in your sheer leggings, he can make out the lacy thong that disappears between your full cheeks.

“What, you think you can come here, tell me I have a nice ass and that’s it, we’re good?” you scoff breathlessly, desperately trying not to keen into his touch. You hear Peter tut from behind you and you stand again, your ass brushing against his cock and he shudders.

You spin around, chests flushed and you tilt your head up slightly to get a proper look at him. His cheeks are flustered, just like yours, and that glint in his eyes is even more prominent than before.

Peter reaches up to cup your cheek in his hand and you nuzzle into his touch. It’s sad how excited his touch makes you, but you’ve been starved of it for too long and this is the closest you’ve felt for weeks.

“I was going to come over and explain that I’ve been so distant ‘cause I’m worried this whole different college thing won’t work, but if you’re just going to continue to be a little brat, maybe I’ll just go home.”

It takes a moment for his words to actually register in your brain. Maybe your mom was right about the college thing, but now you’ve got the last of his explanation in your head. Brat. He’s never called you a brat before and now you can’t help the thrill and excitement that courses through you as the name tumbles from his pink lips.

You’re not sure where it’s coming from, or what you’ve done to get this kind of reaction out of him but you’re already thinking of ways to be bratty, just to see what he’ll do.

“I’m not a brat,” you tell him sternly, though, by the glint in his eyes and blush to your cheeks, Peter knows you’re playing along to whatever the fuck he’s doing.

He raises a brow and his thumb strokes over your cheekbone before he’s cupping your chin and his thumb is nudging your swollen bottom lip. “Oh, really? ‘Cause you’re acting pretty bratty to me, Princess.” His voice is gravelly, deep and fucking dirty.

You’ve never seen him like this, and he’s only just getting started. The curiosity in you wants to be defiant, see how far you can push him, what he’ll actually do, but the other part of you, the submissive part, is screaming for you to be a good girl.

“Maybe if you showed me some attention once in a while, I wouldn’t be such a bratty little girl,” you reply in a sultry tone. Your lips are pouted out slightly as you speak, eyes doey and innocent. You look like such a fucking good girl for him but Peter knows better, knows you better.

You press spongy kisses to the pad of his thumb, eyes on his and your heart is fucking thumping in your chest. He’s no better, his cock is throbbing in his jeans and he’s trying not to sweat through his shirt. He’s nervous, neither of you have ever tried anything like this before but he knows you’re game, so he can’t back out now.

Not that he wants to. Peter knows soon enough he’ll be domming the shit out of you and you’re counting down the seconds until you finally see the raw and new side of him, not the gentle, soft Pete you know and love.

He nibbles on his bottom lip as he gently pushes his thumb into your mouth, resting it on your tongue and you suck softly. He’s growing harder by every sweet stroke of your tongue, cheeks flushing at the idea of you sucking on his cock like that.

“Or maybe, you just need a good spanking to put you in your place,” Peter suggests.

Your knees buckle, eyes fluttering closed and an involuntary whimper slips passed your lips, muffled by Peter’s thumb. Peter hums, your pussy pulsing. “You’d like that though, wouldn’t you?” he fucking knows you would.

You hum around his thumb and reach up to hold his wrist. Your eyes flutter open and he’s fucking panting, internally struggling against his inner desires to fucking obliterate you. You suck harder, a silent prayer that he’ll have no fucking mercy.

You’re embarrassingly turned on by the idea of Peter having his way with you; spanking, spitting, dirty talk, the works. Your panties are pooling and you’re sure if you don’t take them off soon, you’ll drip down your thighs.

The second his thumb slips from your mouth, his lips are hot on yours; desperate and eager. It’s dirty, fucking filthy – heavy breathing, wet tongues and teeth clashing. His nails are digging half-moons through your shirt and into the skin of your hips and your fingers are tangled in his tendrils.

Peter’s hand reaches around for your ass, grabbing handfuls as he smacks his palm into you. He pinches the backs of your thighs and you jump, legs wrapped around his narrow waist and he sets you on the kitchen countertop, legs spread wide and he stands between them.

He pulls away, nose nudging your cheek and with his index finger and thumb, he grips your chin and tilts your head, assaulting your neck. Your eyes are daring to roll back as he nips and sucks on the sensitive skin of your pulse point and you’re sure you can fucking feel him grin cockily against you.

His hands stretch across the expanse of your thighs, fingers curling as he grips the flesh and effectively pushes your legs further apart. You whimper, the feeling of your wetness seeping through your panties causing your cheeks to blush and you’re sure he can fucking smell your arousal.

“Pete, please,” you barely manage to whimper out but he hears it, loud and clear.

A dirty chuckle is muffled in the crook of your neck and he nips at the skin before pulling away; eyes hooded and fucking gleaming with lust. “Please what?” he’s digging, trying to see if you’ll talk back just as dirty as he’s planning to.

He knows you’ve never been one for dirty talking, never had the confidence for it. But he also knows (by pure luck that you’d left a porn tab open on your laptop one night a few weeks ago) that you’re more than a little into dirty talk and being a submissive little girl.

“Touch me,” to his surprise, you whimper out the request in a breathless haze. His grin grows, hands inching up your hips until they squeeze.

He got the reaction he wanted, but he’s not going to stop there, no. “Touch you where?” he pushes, doesn’t miss the way your entire fucking body shivers and his lips ghost over yours.

He’s patient, though. Wants to wait and let you tell him when you’re comfortable, wants you to know that if you don’t want to take it this far, you’ve got your out. But you grab his hands, guiding one to your breast and the other to your clothed pussy, and he’s fucked.

“Promise I’ll be a good girl,” you bat your lashes innocently, lips pouted and puffy. Peter’s cock twitches in his pants and he bites back a groan and a growl.

You’re toying with the zipper of his jacket and it only just hits him that he’s still got his damn backpack on. “Think you deserve to be touched after acting like a little brat all day?” he asks with a hum, head tilted.

Your thighs quiver and you gnaw on your bottom lip, shifting to the edge of the counter desperately. “I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, Pete,” you whisper. “Be so good for you.”

He hums and watches you, eyes calculated like he’s thinking about it, but if you know anything about Peter, it’s his inability to tell you no.

Peter kisses your lips softly, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth. “You’re sure you wanna do this?” he asks gently, releasing your lower lip. His sudden soft exterior has your heart melting, but that’s not what you want. You want to be fucking ruined.

“Wanna be a good girl for you, do whatever you say.”

His eyes sparkle and he sends you to the bedroom, tells you he wants you on your knees and naked by the time he gets in there.

Your pussy is swollen, lips pulsing and clit throbbing. Your wetness is dribbling all over the sheets as you kneel on the bed with your pretty thighs gently spread a little. Peter wanders in a few moments later, wearing nothing but those tight fucking boxers and you can see how badly his cock is straining against the fabric.

“Lay on your back, Princess,” he commands. His voice is low, deep and dark and you lay on your back, legs spread wide and your pussy fucking glistens in the warm light on your nightstand.

Your chest is rising and falling with an erratic rhythm, breasts bouncing and your nipples are pearled and hard. Peter wants nothing more than to suck and kiss and touch, but tonight, he’s gonna be selfish.

You should be blushing, hiding under his hard gaze, but you’re not. Instead, you’re alive with excitement and adrenaline. He’s looking at you like you’re the sexiest woman he’s ever laid eyes on and it only feeds your ego.

You spread your legs wider, press your breasts out further. Peter knows what you’re doing, that you’re fucking with him, but he doesn’t care. Not when you look like that; naked and willing, all for him.

He stands at the foot of the bed for a little longer, admiring the way your slick pussy clenches around nothing, appreciating every crevice and curve of your body. Your eyes are on his face, trying to gauge any reaction to your position. He’s void of emotion, but his eyes are fucking swimming with want and desire.

Your hands are by your head and you sneak one down between your thighs, finger ghosting between your folds and you swirl it through your growing wetness. Peter tuts, reaching for your ankles and he rubs them softly.

“Hands above your head, baby. You don’t get to touch tonight,” he commands.

Your pussy clenches again and you do as he says; hands resting above your head and he grins wickedly. Peter lifts your ankle to his face, pressing soft, spongey kisses from your ankle to your knee. He does the same to your other leg, nipping and licking along his way.

Your heart is racing, beads of sweat dotting at your hairline in anticipation. Your skin is warm, growing clammy. Peter notices but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes a step back and watches you squirm, spread out like the most delicious buffet he’s ever seen.

You’re getting eager. He can see it in the way your hips roll and legs tremble. He’s about to tug off his boxers when you sneak a hand down again to rub your fingers across your clit. He’s quicker, though, and in the darkness of the room, you failed to notice those little cuffs sitting around his wrists.

When his eyes catch yours, you raise your hands back above your head, but before they meet the headboard willingly, something else forces them to it. Your eyes are wide, wrists bound by a sticky substance. Then you notice his wrists.

Web-shooters.

“I told you, hands above your head.” Your entire body shudders, chest and neck red as your cheeks blush. You nod your head, though, eager. It’s more than just agreeing to listen, it’s agreeing to how far you’re both willing to take this.

“M’ sorry,” you whimper breathlessly. Peter tuts, shaking his head and he unclasps the web-shooters around his wrists.

You rub your thighs together, watching as his cock twitches in his boxers and you want nothing more than to reach your foot out and touch him. You don’t, though. You decide that if you’re going to do this, you’re going to be such a good fucking girl for him.

“Are you?” No. You don’t say that, you don’t have to. He already knows your answer.

Peter hums again. “Just look at you, baby. All pretty and desperate for me,” he admires, eyes akin with fire and the undertone of his voice has your eyes rolling back.

“Please, Pete. Promise I’ll be such a good girl for you, just touch me, baby. Please,” your voice is a wreck, breaking mid-sentence and you can feel your wetness dribble out of your throbbing pussy.

Peter grins to himself, ego well fed and he shimmies from his boxers, sighing in relief as his cock springs free. You hear his sigh, know exactly what it means and your eyes flutter open, dripping cock in your line of sight.

You whine out for him, wrists tugging pathetically on the webs but they’re stronger than you, so much stronger. He tuts again. “Thought you said you’d be a good girl?” he quirks a brow.

You’re about to let out another pathetic whine that you know will do no help when he crawls between your thighs and smothers his face in your pussy.

An involuntary gasp tears past your lips and you keen into his touch. Peter hums against your cunt, tongue flicking from side to side between your folds until he circles your hole then licks up to wrap his lips around your swollen clit.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp out, eyes rolling back. He’s staring up at you with hooded eyes, watching how your breasts bounce and nipples pearl. You’ve got your head thrown back but he can see the way your jaw is slack and your eyes are clenched shut.

Peter tries not to smirk against your pussy but it’s no use, he’s fucking smug. He’s barely touched you a few seconds and he can tell you’re already on the brink of cumming all over his face.

Peter rolls his hips as he devours you, his thick cock rubbing against the cotton sheets and while it isn’t the best feeling, it's a relief. You raise your head from the pillow, eyes locking with his and he’s staring at you like you’re his fucking prey.

“So good, Pete, feels so good,” you cry out, not missing the way he sucks harder and his finger travels to your pussy, pushing through your hole and curling at your G Spot. Even while Domming the shit out of you, he still loves to hear the praise.

“Hmm,” he hums against you. “You like that?”

You’re nodding profusely, thighs trembling as Peter curls his fingers deliciously, sucking on your clit while he flicks the swollen bud with his tongue. You’re seeing stars, a burning fire spitting in the pit of your stomach and Peter feels the way you pulse and clench around him.

“I’m gonna cum, please let me cum, baby,” you pant, vision clouding and he hums, sucking harder. Peter pulls away to shove another finger in your pussy and he scissors them.

“Cum for me, Princess. Cum all over my tongue,” he coaxes it out of you, fingers rubbing just right and you explode, vision clouded with white lights and wayward stars. It knocks the air out of you, lungs constricting as your throat burns.

You can’t tell your left from right, body completely fucked and spent but still keening into his touch when his warm breath fans over your trembling cunt. Peter gnaws on his bottom lip, can’t believe how fucking good you taste, and he finds himself spitting on your pussy before burying his face into it again.

He’s kissing you, making out with your cunt like it’s the dirtiest kiss ever – and it is. You’re whining, squirming on the sheets and Peter pulls away with a shit-eating grin, chin and lips fucking glistening in the soft moonlight.

“So fucking sweet,” he praises, and even after the filthy noises and amount you came, your cheeks still blush like you’re nothing but an innocent girl.

Far fucking from it, he thinks.

Your chest is glistening with sweat, nipples still hard and he doesn’t stop himself this time when he trails up your body and sucks one into his heavenly mouth, holding eye contact. Your head rolls back, mind can’t fucking handle how well he’s treating you. Everything feels like it’s on sensory overload but in the best fucking way possible.

He pulls off with a pop, nosing up your neck and jaw until his swollen lips are on yours and you’re tasting yourself on his tongue, whining filthily into the kiss. It’s breathy and messy, tongues wet and tastes mingled. A filthy fucking kiss and neither of you can get enough.

“You’re being such a good girl baby. And good girls get rewards,” he whispered against your lips. There’s something in his voice, something dark that hides behind the light. It’s more than just a reassurance that he’ll fuck you, it’s a promise that no matter what, you’re gonna have probably the best orgasm of your life, thus far.

You nod your head vigorously, pussy pulsing already in anticipation. He pulls away from the kiss, eyes scanning yours and for a second, you see your Peter shining back through. The Peter that stumbles over twigs and blushes when someone mentions sex. But the moment passes after your nod your head and he’s back to business.

Peter crawls down your body, kissing down your torso as he does so. Your legs are spread, thighs resting on top of his as he sits back on his heels, admiring the sight of your heavenly cunt.

He rubs at your clit with his thumb, the other hand pumping himself softly. “So fucking wet, baby,” he murmurs to himself, eyes locked on your fluttering folds. With soft shudders slipping from your lips, Peter inches closer and teases your cunt with his cock, rubbing his head across your puckering hole.

You gnaw on your bottom lip, soft gasp echoing through the room as he pushes in, balls deep. Peter gives you a half-second to adjust before he’s slowly thrusting, moving his hips in a way that has your mind muddled.

He’s panting, holding back grunts of appraisal and whistles of affection. His thick cock is snug between your walls, fucking soaked as your pussy swallows him up. He picks up a decent rhythm, rocking his hips into yours.

Your eyes are rolling back, arms beginning to ache deliciously. Peter’s gaze is glued on your cunt, the way his cock comes out wetter each time, the obscene squelching noises you make as you take him deeper with each thrust.

Your whines and cries are music to his fucking ears, so filthy they’re borderline pornographic, but they feed his ego so he doesn’t complain. He can’t complain, not when it’s the most heavenly thing he’s ever heard.

“Such a pretty pussy, babygirl,” he praises. “Just look at you, taking me like the good little girl you are. Fuck, you’re so fucking tight, baby. Oh, fuck,” Peter whines, hips snapping at an ungodly pace and you can barely keep up.

He’s hitting all the right places, knocking the air out of your lungs and you can barely catch a breath. “Fuck,” you drawl out, toes curling when he hits The Spot and it’s like the first time you ever got high. You can’t make sense of anything but everything feels right. There are fireworks in your eyes and you feel like you’re fucking floating.

“I’m… I’m cu–” you don’t get to finish your sentence, don’t get the time to warn him like the good girl you promised to be. No. Instead, you’re cumming all over his thick cock, fucking screaming his name as he pounds relentlessly.

He doesn’t stop. His hands find purchase on your naked waist, fingers digging into the flesh and he forgets his own strength. You wince, can feel his fucking fingertips bruising on your damn skin but fuck, you can feel that fire roll over you again in waves and you’re cumming seconds later.

It’s different, though, more intense. You can’t see a damn thing but you can hear Peter moaning, fucking praising you like “yeah, baby, holy shit, that’s so hot, keep cumming for me,” and you think you might’ve had a glimpse of heaven when your body falls limp and he pulls out of you, grunting and panting.

Peter pumps himself furiously, cock fucking soaked and he cums all over your stomach in white ribbons, painting his mark on your skin. He falls back on his heels, completely fucked. His hair is a mess, sweat dripping down that gorgeous fucking body. You squint at the obscene amount and muster up all the energy you can to lift your head.

Wait.

That’s not sweat.

An embarrassing blush smacks you in the face and with wide eyes, you look to Peter, silently begging you didn’t just fucking––

“Watching you squirt is my new favourite thing.”

Oh, God.

Peter sees the horror on your face, notices the way your skin drains from its usual vibrant colour as your head falls back into the pillow. With wide eyes, he rushes to your side. “No, hey, don’t do that,” he scolds as you try to hide your face in your shoulder.

His dominating personality is long gone as he caresses your cheeks and gently kisses your lips, forcing you to look at him. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, baby,” he promises, the genuine glint in his eyes enough to convince you.

“I soaked the sheets,” you murmur, cheeks still blazing and Peter lets out a giddy chuckle, nodding his head.

“Have you ever heard of this machine that washes sheets?” he teases with squinted eyes. You laugh tiredly, ready to smack his arm playfully when you realise you’re still bound to the fucking headboard.

Peter blushes at the sight, a laugh snickering to fall from his lips and your smile falls, eyes hard on him as you try to gauge his reaction. “What?” you ask, head dipping down as he tries to turn away.

You push your leg out to stop him, telling him to turn back to you. “What?” you repeat, heart thumping and you’re expecting the worst, that something somewhere has gone horribly wrong, that maybe him being with you has been a prank this whole time.

He cringes as he looks at you, comfortingly rubbing your leg and there’s a glint of pity in his eyes. Here it comes, the fucking ‘I’m leaving you’ speech while you’re naked and covered in his cum. But it doesn’t. Instead –

“The new webs take 6 hours to dissolve,” he cringes. “Wanna watch a movie?”

“Peter!”

#peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker smut #imagine peter parler #peter parker imagines #marvel #marvel imagine #spiderman #spiderman imagine #spiderman smut #peter parker oneshot #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #imagine tom holland #tom holland imagines

[fannishcodex]

More Bat adora and her papa please, just to tied us over while you are making the story.

@thehumminbrawler So this actually inspired me to write a like ficlet oneshot. ^^; May be out-of-continuity with the mainline AU, but was neat to put it down and I kinda just needed to put it down due to some stuff going IRL right now, I'm like coping with fandom even more right now.

Notes: While spacebat!Adora was a baby, Shadow Weaver tried to kidnap her and take over the Etherian Horde. Hordak managed to protect Adora, escaping with her and Imp as well as those that remained loyal to him/didn't want to follow SW, while SW took over the Fright Zone and created the Shadow Horde. Hordak and co.--pretty much now the Renegade Horde--fled to the Crimson Waste, and their presence started to stabilize the region. The Renegade Horde fights more with the Shadow Horde now, and tries to negotiate for allies more. The Renegade Horde has an ongoing and tense negotiation effort with the Royal Alliance against the Shadow Horde. The Valley refers to the Valley of the Lost, still a major settlement in the Crimson Waste and now more of a bustling center of commerce and community. Just quickly named Dryl Baker "Bekka." Due to Hordak's background of being surrounded by brothers as his own family and society, he perceives Adora and Imp as his younger siblings, but after Later Events he'll start exploring the terms of 'parent-child' and may think that fits their relationship better. (It's an AU Prime in this though the differences don't really come into play here.) There is a little Entrapdak.

Fic under the cut:

following his brothers while sneaking glances out the window at all the stars

all four eyes bearing down on him and pinning him in place

futilely holding a dying brother's hand on the battlefield

"--well I'm very happy you've got it all figured out, Imp." Hordak's ears twitched at his younger sister's grumbling, making his heart slow down. He clung to the sound of her voice, a refuge from nightmares and poor memories even if she obviously sounded irritated, though with an edge of self-reproach. The elder clone began to gingerly sit up, monitoring himself while slipping off the blanket. What could his younger siblings be squabbling over? What could be troubling Adora? How long had he slept?

Fortunately Hordak hadn't fainted, but he had felt weaker, tired earlier--enough so that Adora and Imp caught him and made him lie down and rest. As they had gotten older, his younger siblings had a habit of ganging up on him when they put their mind to it, and their teamwork always proved to be formidable. But Hordak had planned to search for some materials down in the Valley today, and he still saw no reason why he couldn't do so. He felt groggy, but also like some of his energy had been replenished. Adora's reasoning and Imp's insistence that he should rest had been sound.

Imp gave a warning screech, clearly spotting him, and Adora was immediately at his side. Though still...wobbly, irritation didn't flash through Hordak (he was getting better at accepting help from those he cared about). Instead, a fond smile slipped onto his face at his sister's presence. But when he caught her eye, his smile faltered slightly. They were blue and alive with concern--but he again stumbled on the dark slit pupils she had been blessed to inherit from their oldest brother and genetic template. Blessed. She had been blessed...it was his own weakness and cowardice that made him unsettled sometimes. But these were rare flashes for the differences always asserted themselves--Adora's eyes were a bright blue just like her fangs, and more significantly they were always warm and open, she had not the necessary detachment of Horde Prime. (And yet it had been a long time since Hordak had talked about Horde Prime with either Adora or Imp.)

Hordak felt his own self-reproach cloud his mind when Adora frowned, but felt it retreat when she only said that maybe he should lie back down, and asked how he felt. She apparently hadn't realized Hordak foolishly misdirected fear toward her eyes and the unintended offense. Adora had thought his faltering smile and proverbial wince was due to his physical weakness, not his mental one. The elder clone took a breath and shook his head. "I'm fine, Sister. I've rested enough--" Adora glared, and her ears gave a warning flick. "You shouldn't go to town today--" Hordak opened his mouth, then his eyes landed on a tray of tiny soup mugs. He decided to switch tactics. Sometimes it was necessary in the face of Adora's determination. "Entrapta made soup?" It wasn't really a question, and he reached out a talon for a mug. Though he hadn't seen her before Adora and Imp had convinced him to rest, he assumed his partner must've come while he slept, made something for when he awoke, then took her leave. They were all busy with impending negotiations and the...local customs that were apparently necessary. (He still didn't understand "parties," while Adora tackled them with dedication, almost always open to finding the value in anything.) Imp passed him a mug, and Adora absently nodded. "Yeah, she came while you were out and whipped them up." Then she shook her head, re-focusing. "She said--"

"--tell Hordak to feel better and sorry I couldn't stay, Cobalt needed some time-sensitive wrangling with the delegation from Thaymor--but I'll be back later tonight!" Entrapta's recording filtered out once Imp opened his mouth. Hordak smiled at her bright voice. Adora laughed and rubbed the back of her neck. "Right, that. Thanks Imp." She slid the tray of soup closer to Hordak, where it had been placed on a small table next to his bed. "You like it? Entrapta said she tried something different, added a new herb or something that Bekka told her about," his sister remarked, and Hordak nodded around a sip. Then Adora's ears snapped down, nearly horizontal, and her eyes narrowed. "Eating your soup doesn't mean you should go out right now." "I'll have been fed and rested," Hordak pointed out after finishing his second mug. Adora's ears pricked up to their usual stance, and her eyes were no longer narrowed. "Hordak, I can just go into town for you--" His sister was apparently trying to change tactics too. The elder clone shook his head. "I am looking through updated inventory, not picking up something I know they already have." He downed another mug of soup. "If you just described what you're looking for--" "It's not that simple, it's..." Hordak shook his head. "It would be easier if I did it myself." "...You're just browsing, aren't you?" Hordak nodded, realizing Adora had articulated what he meant. "Yes, that." His sister blew out a frustrated breath, her ears giving an irritated flick. But she still didn't look convinced. "You can always accompany me to the Valley," Hordak finally said after he emptied another mug. Usually Adora loved exploring the merchants' wares in the Valley markets; it was what he had come to learn was called a "hobby." "My formal dress got wrecked when the Shadow Horde tried to kidnap Prince Peekablue." Adora's disappointed voice crackled out as Imp played the recording, while the present Adora's ears pricked up in surprise. "We can look for something new for you in town," Hordak added, seizing on Imp's opening. Adora's eyes darted between her brothers, frowning. Imp looked smug and far too satisfied, while Hordak tried not to grin at his younger brother's demeanor. Hordak and Imp could form their own effective team as well. Adora shook her head, but hesitantly. "That's fine, there's still time before the talks and the delegates' ball, I can go when you're feeling better--" "I feel better now," Hordak insisted. Imp chittered cajolingly as he climbed up on his shoulder, but Adora favored her fellow hybrid brother with a glare. "Backstabber," she grumbled at Imp, who just chirped teasingly. Then their sister rolled her eyes. "Fiiiine." Imp theatrically scrunched up his face in faux disgust, then played back a recording of one of Princess Mermista's signature groans. "Woah no, I'm not--don't even joke about that--" Adora snapped with wide, alarmed eyes while Imp snickered and Hordak slid a hand over his growing smile. ___ Since the fracture of the Etherian Horde and their exile into the Crimson Waste, the desert region had been changing with the influx of now branded Renegade Horde members who rejected Shadow Weaver's command. The place had become more stable, and in that stability it had found a new profitability in more consistent commerce. After examining scrap yards and mechanics for new goods and finding some promising materials that went straight into Adora's shopping pack--she refused to let Hordak carry anything, and Hordak refrained from resisting as long as she agreed to let him carry whatever new dress she picked--they went to the merchants selling various garments and accessories. Adora tried to efficiently and quickly select something, and while Hordak could see her reasoning, he instead told her that she could spend more time looking. "You normally enjoy the markets," he pointed out to her. Hordak still had mixed feelings on the place, which was especially dependent on how tolerable the crowds were. But he felt satisfied when he found particularly useful tools or supplies there; he enjoyed it more when he hunted for supplies with Entrapta and shared conversation with her; it brightened his mood when he watched Adora bounce happily between the stalls and eagerly browse while Imp flew around her head, orbiting her like a moon.

His sister sighed. Imp plopped on her head, pouting, and Adora stumbled a little under the sudden weight of him. She frowned and glared up at the boy, but then stared back at Hordak. "Yeah, but--" "I'm fine, Adora," Hordak repeated. Then he hesitated, and continued, "We...could use a break, and that can take the form of an afternoon in the market stalls." It was difficult to learn, but Hordak had been learning. He had been learning from his younger siblings, when he found he liked letting them play, and continued to desire seeing them enjoy themselves when they could. He had learned from Cobalt, Grizzlor, and Octavia once he realized he could trust them more. He had learned from Entrapta... (Hordak tried not to think of his oldest brother wreathed in light and consumed with purpose.) Adora blinked, and gave a soft smile. Then she giggled as Imp mussed up her snow white hair, and Hordak led them to the dried fruit stall they all favored. ___ Adora examined various dresses and talked to some eager-to-sell merchants while her brothers stood back. Imp ate the last of the dried apricots while he sat on Hordak's shoulder, and though the risk was minimal, Hordak wanted to ensure he did not make a mess on the shop's inventory. When Imp finished, Hordak nodded to him, quietly giving permission, and the boy immediately launched himself off and flitted around Adora's head. Locals used to Imp were able to mind the boy's flight path.

"Hey, Hordak, you already have an outfit picked out like Imp and Entrapta, right?" Adora called out from behind a shelf of scarves and jewelry, with only the tips of her ears poking out. And then they ducked out of sight while she was clearly on the search for something, or examining something more closely.

"Yes," Hordak said, while he glared at Imp and gave a warning flick of his ears when the boy started playing with a scarf, wrapping it too fast and roughly around his body. The boy stuck out his tongue, but began to disentangle himself.

"Okay, so I'm looking for a dress, but I thought I could accessorize too because something just caught my eye--but maybe I should find a dress first--but this accessory could help me narrow down on a dress that could pair well with it--"

Hordak actually felt the urge to laugh, but he fought it down and only allowed himself a smile. (But he questioned himself--why not laugh, a chuckle in the Valley's bustling market would not be out of place--the silence of his brothers while on guard shift, four eyes staring down--but he had already broken so many edicts--the cold click of a talon guard--)

"Are you asking for input, or brainstorming?" Hordak asked, shoving back thoughts of his original home away. It was a question he had asked Adora before, wishing to determine when she wanted his thoughts or when she wanted someone to just listen.

"Brainstorming! And I'm also prepping you because I want to show you and see what you think, and I think I found something you might like too--" And then Adora stepped out and gestured to her ears with a smile.

Hordak looked, and he felt something rise up in his throat, and he hated himself. The metal clasps wrapped around Adora's ears were bronze and they didn't even reach the tips of her ears--but in his mind's eye he saw Prime and silver clasps perfectly fitted to his ears, and the dark slit pupils of Adora's bright blue eyes were swallowed up by vivid green and lacking in all warmth...

"Brother--?"

Hordak flinched, his eyes squeezed shut. And then it registered with him that it had been Adora's voice filled with concern, obviously not Prime's. His self-loathing grew. He opened his eyes just in time to see Adora close the gap and lay a supporting talon on his arm, clearly worried he might stumble. Imp clung to her shoulder, with part of the scarf he had been playing with still wrapped around one of his arms.

"Hey, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?"

"I...yes, I just need to take a seat," Hordak said, thinking pretending he had felt a little faint was better than admitting to the awful and confusing thoughts that plagued him. Adora promptly and politely asked the merchant's assistant if they had a stool, and he immediately provided one.

Adora thanked the assistant, then looped an arm around Hordak's, clearly wanting to help him sit. Normally he would've resisted, he would've insisted that he could sit by himself at least, but shame and guilt made him comply. But then he saw in his sister's face that his easy compliance had not been reassuring to her.

"When you're ready, we can go back--"

Hordak shook his head while Imp switched to his shoulder. "I'm fine now; I can wait here while you find your dress." Avoiding her concerned look, Hordak unwrapped the final piece of scarf away from Imp, then carefully began rolling it up.

The elder clone glanced up at Adora's ears--now dipped low with worry, he noted with another stab of guilt--and forced himself to review the new accessory by its own merit. Despite his efforts, he felt it still looked eerily similar to Prime's; but its bronze material seemed to go well with the reds Adora tended to favor.

His ears flicked in the direction of her new jewelry. "Their color suits you," he murmured with muted but genuine fondness. This was his sister, her own...truly her own person. Her capacity for mercy marked her as distinct.

Adora's ears pricked up, and she ran a talon self-consciously across the length of a clasp adorning one of them. "You really think so?"

"Of course."

She smiled softly back. Then she startled, as if remembering something. She raised her other talon, closed in a fist. "This is the, um, thing I thought you might like." She unfurled her fist and let a single, red diamond earring dangle from her carefully pinched, taloned fingers. "I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be by itself for an asymmetrical look--at least that's what the note next to it said--"

When Hordak reached out a talon, Adora dropped it in his waiting palm. He rubbed a thumb over its surface, still warm from his sister's touch.

"It's exquisite," Hordak said, and Adora softly chuckled, pleased. Then after again asking Hordak if he was fine and Hordak again insisting he was, Adora went back to looking. Soon she amassed a pile of clothes and claimed one of the dressing stalls. By the time she came out wearing the first dress, Imp was settled in Hordak's lap, and Hordak had tried on the red diamond earring.

"Too long," Adora muttered. She went back in, and came out again in a new dress.

"Too much...um, ruffles?"

Dress number three. "This color's not working."

Back in, back out. "The embroidery's kinda too much."

Next. "Okay guys, what do you think of--?"

"You look like you got run over by a tank." Imp used a recording of Grizzlor's voice, and Hordak gave a scolding hiss.

With a flush running across both her ears and cheeks, Adora immediately ran back into the stall and snapped the curtain behind her. Imp glanced up at Hordak with a guilty look, realizing his joking had gone too far. "You will apologize to her later," he told Imp with a glare.

"Um, so I actually like...kinda like this one..." Adora's voice filtered out from behind the curtain of the stall, and the hesitancy in her voice made Imp's ears lower even more, and Hordak did not relent in the glare he favored him with. "But I dunno, it's...well, look--"

And Adora stepped out, with one talon gripping her other arm while her cheeks and the tips of her ears still flushed blue. Adora favored red, and all of the dresses she had tried on were different shades of it, but this one was the right sort of crimson that went well enough with her blue skin. The cut of it was simple, from its torso to the way the edge of its skirt flared out, but the structure of it suited Adora in his mind. Its belt was just as simple, and with an amber color that paired well with her bronze ear clasps.

"It's kinda basic, but..."

"You look lovely, Adora," Hordak said, and his sister's ears perked up.

"Beautiful." Imp conveyed with a recorded excerpt of Entrapta's voice.

Adora smiled, her blue fangs beaming.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Comments/reblogs/likes are deeply appreciated!

#spacebat adora #hordak #horde clones #spacebats #horde prime #my fanfic

[sassycassie-s-writing]

Winter Court Wedding

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): A Court of Thorns and Roses Series/Rhysand

Rating: PG/K+

Original Idea: This has been in my head for a few days and I had to get it out of my head so I could write other stuff XD

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) 2,356 words... yup it ran away from me again. This one pretends Tamlin isn’t a terrible person so we get Rhys instead 😉 @itscheybaby

^^^^^

“Rhysand?” I called through the town house.

“Yes?” His voice was coming from the kitchen.

I went downstairs, holding the box I’d found in our room. “What’s this for?” I asked, indicating the heavy fur-lined black cloak with silver embroidery of the moon and stars up the sides.

“Can’t I give you a gift just because I want to?” His smirk was almost too casual for me to believe him.

“You know I prefer coats in Velaris,” I replied. “So there’s something going on.”

He sighed, wings drooping. “Alright. You caught me,” he muttered. “We’re going to the Winter Court.”

“What for?”

“Kallias and Vivane’s wedding.”

“Didn’t they get married like an hour after he got back from Under the Mountain?”

Rhysand folded his arms, tucking his wings against his back a little tighter. “Yes,” he said carefully, “but they’re hosting a formal reception for their court, as well as for the other High Lords. I’m sure Kallias doesn’t actually want to invite us, or any of the other High Lords for that matter, but Mor and Vivane are really good friends and I don’t think he wants to harm that relationship.”

“So Mor’s coming with us, then?”

“Unfortunately, no. She has to put out a fire in the Court of Nightmares.”

“Literal or figurative?”

“Figurative. Keir is pitching fits again.”

“Ah. Same old, same old, then.”

“Pretty much.”

I decided to change the subject.

“So, the cloak is to keep me warm in the Winter Court climate, I’m assuming.”

“Yes. Hopefully without damaging your dress. Sometimes your coats rumple the skirts. While we’re in Velaris—and anywhere in the Night Court that’s not the Court of Nightmares, really—I don’t mind. But you know what we look like to the other courts. The image we present.”

Wealthy, dangerous, ruthless, powerful Night Court High Fae. Immaculate and pristine. Never even a hair out of place. Always in control of every situation. The High Lord who always got what he wanted, his thunderstorm of a High Lady by his side. Nary a trace of the Illyrian half-breed with self-worth issues and the Autumn Court runaway who’d never belonged anywhere.

“I know,” I said.

Rhys approached me and pulled the cloak out of its small box. “Besides,” he said, slinging it around me, “it does look rather fetching on you.” He bent his head and pressed a kiss to my neck.

“Charmer,” I teased.

He laughed. “I could say the same about you.”

I wrapped my arms around him. “I missed you, while you were… gone.”

Even though he insisted he was fine, I still did my best not to mention Under the Mountain. The secrets he’d been forced to keep, the things he’d been forced to do to keep me and the rest of the Night Court safe. We talked about it when he needed to, and I would always be there for him, but I didn’t need to force the past forty-nine years on him.

Rhys put his arms around my waist under the cloak and buried his nose in my hair. “I missed you too.”

“So when do we leave for the Winter Court?”

He knew I was changing the subject away from what I didn’t want to bring up, but he let me. “Tomorrow. We may stay overnight, we may not.”

“Shame Mor’s not coming with.”

“Agreed. She’d love to see Viviane again.”

“We’ll find some way to reunite them. How about that?”

“I think it sounds delightful. We’ll put them in a sound-proof room so we don’t have to hear them squealing into the late hours of the night.” His sarcasm was not lost on me. I chuckled. We swayed in place for a bit. “Let’s go get prepared for tomorrow, darling,” he said.

“Okay,” I agreed.

—

I already miss the Northern mountains, I thought at Rhys, wrapping the beautiful new cloak tighter around me to suppress a shiver. Even they aren’t as cold as this.

He hid his amused smile with a lazy smirk, boredly surveying the Winter Court ice waste around us as the reindeer-pulled sleigh whisked over the snow. I agree, he thought back, but it’s not for very long.

The small tiara I’d chosen to accompany my gown was like I’d wrapped an icicle around my scalp. The metal of it practically frozen to my skin.

The sleigh turned a corner.

“By the Cauldron,” I breathed.

The palace was made of ice. It towered into the sky with sharp jags and icicle towers, hexagonal walls filtering sunlight from behind. White-furred bears patrolled the battlements alongside the soldiers. All of whom sported white hair and pale blue uniforms. Snow was falling, but there was only a scattering of clouds. The High Lord’s magic, then, probably.

It might be a good idea to close your jaw, Rhys advised, no sarcasm present. We have an image to maintain while we’re here.

Right, I thought.

The sleigh driver pulled us up to a half-circle drive of packed snow. At the apex of the half-circle were two massive doors to the palace, wide open to the deep blue gloom of indoors. After slowing to a stop, we gave the driver a curt but polite thank-you and swept out of the sleigh. I caught Rhys flicking a finger before offering me his arm. What magic did you just do? I thought at him.

Tipping the driver. It’s polite but I definitely don’t want to be seen doing it. Would ruin the monster reputation I’ve spent centuries building. An image accompanied his reply—of a cheeky wink. I sent him back nothing but laughter.

An attendant—a young “lesser” faerie female with skin the color, texture, and reflectiveness of powdered snow—guided us inside. It was a lot warmer within the ice-crafted walls than I would have expected. I almost wanted to remove my cloak. The attendant looked absolutely terrified of us. Rhys and I barely acknowledged she was there, both keeping impassive expressions on our faces. I wished I could reassure her that everything was alright—that we were friendly—but I knew why I couldn’t.

She led us up what technically counted as a spiral staircase—despite it being hexagonal and not perfectly circular—to a suite of rooms. “His Lordship hopes you will be comfortable here,” the attendant said.

“Thank you.” A curt dismissal from Rhys. She scampered away.

Once she was gone and the doors closed, both of us relaxed. “I hate acting like that,” I muttered.

“Me too. But every High Lord puts on a face,” Rhys said. “You remember Helion. He seems terribly prickly and temperamental in public but is quite amusing and kind in private.” Rhys sat on a white sofa embroidered with sky blue winter flora and a few snowflakes.

“I do remember Helion. I also remember wishing you’d given me a warning about it. I was ready to punch him for being so rude to you.”

Rhys winked at me. “That wouldn’t have been nearly as fun,” he replied. I rolled my eyes. “Well, love, there’s nothing to do but wait until the reception. We did arrive a little early.”

“Four hours is ‘a little’?” I joked.

All I got was a shrug. “I like making statements,” he replied casually. “I arrive when I wish and I don’t care about their scheduling. Usually I would prefer to show up late to make it seem like I really don’t care about whatever it is they’ve had the courage to invite me to, but sometimes it’s more fun to arrive much earlier than planned and make that everyone else’s problem.”

I laughed. “You do a good job of making your act seamless.”

“Centuries of practice, darling.” He lounged on the sofa but patted the seat next to him. I sat beside him. It was almost warm enough inside to remove my cloak, but not quite. Rhys’ body heat was helping make up the difference. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

I grinned. “Thanks. You’re quite stunning yourself.” Black jacket, immaculately embroidered in silver and gold, deep midnight blue shirt underneath buttoned all the way up to hide his tattoos, black slacks with a single ring of silver thread around the ankles. It had taken me an hour to convince him to wear a blue shirt instead of black. But it really brought out his eyes. Dimmed the blazing, powerful violet just enough to reveal that his irises were actually blue.

“I’m always stunning,” he replied.

I smacked him in the chest with the back of my hand. “Arrogant,” I accused.

He kissed me. “You like it though.”

I rolled my eyes.

—

The ballroom was enormous. Pillars of glimmering ice reflected faelight bobbing around the ceiling. It was lightly snowing inside. Winter Court High Fae and faeries milled around, talking, eating, drinking. A line extended away from the bride and groom. Well-wishers offering their congratulations.

Rhysand wasn’t going to bother waiting in the line. I knew that. We’d approach from behind or from the other side, offer our regards, and then leave.

But not immediately.

The ballroom was warm enough that I passed my cloak to a waiting attendant. My gown was so dark violet it was almost black. A bell-shaped skirt dotted with beads in the shape of stars swished over the ice floor, lightly dusted with snow. The gown’s sleeves barely capped my shoulders, but the long black satin gloves that ended two inches from the bottom of the sleeves helped keep my arms warm. The bandeau tiara had three dark amethysts glinting among the white diamonds.

The finery wasn’t terribly comfortable, but I knew the effect it had on others.

Rhys and I wandered the ballroom, mingling only occasionally—and only if the other party dared approach us first.

Including High Lord Tamlin of the Spring Court and his charming bride-to-be, Feyre Cursebreaker. Both of them looking happy and healthy and more in love than ever.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Rhys,” Tamlin said begrudgingly. His eyes flicked over to me. I didn’t have to be daemati like Rhys to know what he was thinking. The whispers of the other faeries milling about followed me the moment we entered the room, and Tamlin was likely in agreement.

Freak. Unnatural. Witch. Lightning was not meant to be harnessed by magic like that. She doesn’t belong in any court.

I thought about snapping something at Tamlin, but Rhys cut in smoothly, “We could hardly miss an important function such as this, Tamlin.” He inclined his head at the female on Tamlin’s arm. “A pleasure to see you again, Feyre.”

“Wish I could say the same about you,” she replied dryly.

Rhys tsked, but didn’t say anything to her. “Enjoy the party,” he said to both of them instead before pulling me away. I waved at Feyre, letting an apology touch my expression. Her glare softened a moment and she lifted her fingers as though to wave back, but thought better of it.

I turned away. She’d saved Tamlin and freed the other High Lords and their courts from Amarantha. She gave Rhys back to me—and I couldn’t even give her the thanks she deserved. Electricity crackled in my veins. Rhys jolted slightly as I shocked him. No one else would have noticed.

Easy, he thought at me. What’s wrong?

I let him into an antechamber in my shields, to see what I thought and felt without having to explain. Thoughtful silence followed. We’ll find a way to let you thank her. For us both to thank her. She gave me back to you, too.

Thank you, I thought at him.

Of course. I felt a loving caress against my shields. I sent one in return.

Rhys took me through the crowd, occasionally offering greetings to the High Fae and faeries who didn’t cower as we passed. Rhys’s damper on his power had been loosened. Not released completely, but relaxed—allowing tendrils of darkness to drift from him like shafts of steam. It was an intimidation tactic. He did it a lot.

“Kallias. Viviane,” Rhys said as we approached the bride and groom. Both looked resplendent. Viviane in her simple but no doubt expensive gown that glittered like powdered snow under the moonlight. They turned to us. “Morrigan sends her regards and regrets that she couldn’t make it.” Those words were directed at Viviane. She smiled at the both of us. More warmly at me than at Rhys.

“Congratulations to you both,” I said with a genuine smile. “You deserve to be happy with one another.”

Kallias gave me a cold stare. Wondering where my calculating, ruthless High Lady mask was, no doubt. But I did want them to know that I was happy for them. That I was happy they’d found one another after Amarantha.

“Thank you,” Viviane said before Kallias could reply. She reached out and took my hand in both of hers. “And thank you for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Rhys said smoothly, smirking slightly.

“We left our gift on the table with the others,” I said softly to Viviane.

She gave me a warm grin. “Thank you. Thank you, both.”

I returned the grin and Rhys bade a curt goodbye to Kallias before we retreated back into the crowd.

“Care to dance?” I asked.

“With you? Always.” He smiled at me. For a moment I forgot we were in another court. All I could think of was him. All I could see was those blazing eyes—that lazy smile. His warmth against me.

I didn’t realize I must have been showing that on my face because he leaned down and kissed me. “The rest of tonight is going to be so much fun,” he whispered suggestively, giving me that playful smirk he always had when he knew we were both going to get what we wanted from each other before the night was over.

A shiver that had nothing to do with the Winter Court chill travelled down my spine. Excitement. “Oh, I think it will be,” I replied.

#Winter Court Wedding #Rhysand #Rhysand Imagine #Rhysand FanFiction #ACOTAR #ACOTAR Imagine #ACOTAR FanFiction

[jdgo51]

Boundaries Without Question Marks

Today's inspiration comes from:

Good Boundaries and Goodbyes

by Lysa Terkeurst

"'It’s no wonder we are anxious and feel boundaries are only acceptable and legitimate if the other person agrees with and respects them. In other words, instead of stating our boundaries and ending the sentence with a period, we tag on a question. “You good with that?” “Okay?” “Does that work?” “This is understandable, right?” “You see where I’m coming from, yes?”

Posing a boundary as a question opens us up to be questioned, debated, and disrespected. If a boundary is presented with doubt, it won’t be effectively carried out.

Now, add on top of that the weird notion that if we are Christians, then we are absolutely obligated to sacrifice what’s best for us in the name of laying down our lives for others.

Where did we get the idea that we aren’t allowed to say no, have limitations, or be unwilling to tolerate other people’s bad behavior?

If we are filtering our thoughts of boundaries through wrong perceptions, it’s no wonder many of us find boundaries not just challenging but pretty close to impossible.

Here’s why:

We aren’t sure who we really are. We aren’t sure what we really need. We aren’t sure that if others walked away from us, we’d be okay.

Let’s take an honest look at an important question.

Who are you?

When I took time to answer this question for myself, I wondered why I’d never addressed this before. In a moment of honest reflection, it felt incredibly freeing to state for myself who I really am rather than when I’m trying to defend myself against the judgments of others.

Here’s who I am. I am a woman who loves God and loves other people. Therefore, because of Christ in me (Galatians 2:20), I am empowered to be the version of me God intended when He created me. I’m kind, creative, caring, generous, fun, and loyal. I have those qualities, but they aren’t what is most apparent when people use me, take advantage of me, make unrealistic demands of me, and make wrong assumptions about me when I say no. In other words, when I’ve let someone violate my boundaries, I can get so frustrated that I act in completely opposite ways from the woman I really am. This type of reaction is on me — and I need to totally own it — not what someone else does, but my reaction to what they do.

So, boundaries help me stay true to who I really am. Without boundaries, I can hyperextend myself to the point where I become anxious, bitter, resentful, angry, annoyed, and distant. That’s not who I really am, so it’s my responsibility not to let another person’s actions and expectations wear me down to the worst version of myself. In a biblical sense, it’s me not allowing another person to make me betray who I am in Christ.

Okay, your turn to answer this crucial question: Who am I?

Pause here. Think about this.

And if you’re having a hard time answering, maybe it’s because you’ve lost her. Sometimes we’ve let other people’s opinions and needs define us for so long that we lose ourselves in the process. Or maybe circumstances have been so confusing, maybe even brutal, that we feel like life has reduced us to someone who others feel badly for. I’ve felt this exact way during the past several years of my life. I wanted to be a victorious woman of God, not a victim of a bunch of circumstances that caught me off guard and ripped the rug out from beneath me.

There is so much more to us than just being a sum total of what’s happened to us. Right?! So, how do we get back to that person we were before all the hard stuff?

"Remember, you are closest to who you really are when you are the closest to who He created you to be."

— Lysa TerKeurst

I was on a group Zoom call recently with my friend Amanda after she had read an early version of what I’ve written here. She got choked up as she told me about a picture her mom found in her grandmother’s jewelry box after she passed away. The old black-and-white photograph was of a beautiful little chubby-cheeked baby with dark hair.

“That little face in my grandmother’s jewelry box was one I hadn't seen in more than twenty-five years since I last laid eyes on the picture. Twenty-five years. It’s me as a baby. The most pure version of me. This is me before life happened and wrote its own story on me. Before I got hurt and heartbroken and jaded and run over by what life had become.”

Her tears spilled down her cheeks as the rest of us tried to manage the lumps in our own throats. The baby in the picture was Amanda, but the truth of this moment applied to all of us.

Picture yourself as a tiny baby fresh from God’s hands. Innocent. Blissfully unaware of tragedy and trauma. Imagine yourself looking into her eyes. What would you say to her? Who do you want to tell her she is before life gets written on her? Speak that over her now.

Remember, you are closest to who you really are when you are the closest to who He created you to be.

Another memory you could recall is to remember yourself before you were really hurt. Before she said what she said. Or he did what he did. Or, before that event when everything changed, and you felt a bit damaged. Who were you?

Think of a memory, a memory from early on in your life, and try to remember who you were before you started looking to others for validation. Before you started becoming so hyperaware of your faults and frailties that you stopped seeing yourself as worthy, valuable, and designed by God on purpose. If nothing comes to mind from your early childhood, just speak to one of your baby pictures and tenderly tell her why she doesn’t need to live her life with an unhealthy pursuit of constantly seeking validation from people.

Now, write down the qualities that are true about the most authentic, wonderful version of you.

That’s your beauty. The goal is to humbly, and purposefully, walk in that beauty and own it. Serve from that fullness. Give from that wholeness. Walk confidently in the fact that our all-sufficient God did not make you insufficient or broken. Yes, we need to grow and develop and seek to become more and more like Jesus. But just like a seed contains everything in it necessary to bloom, so do we. All that a seed goes through to grow into a plant is part of the process of becoming what it was designed to be — not a process of determining its worth or value (1 Corinthians 15:38–44).

This exercise is more important than you know. If we don’t know who we are, we will constantly be manipulated into who others want us to be or become enmeshed in the needs of other people.

When we know who we are, we are whole and available to love, serve, and give to others from that fullness. If we don’t know who we are, then we will love, serve, and give, hoping people will fill our empty places and make us feel whole. And in doing so, we will always be defined by how well or how poorly someone else makes us feel.

My passion for all of this may have put a tad too much wind in my sail — or words in my chapter. Welcome to my overextended TED talk. Just kidding.

There’s an even more secure foundation to knowing who we are than just naming it for ourselves. We want to let God’s Word become the words of truth for our identity.

When God is the source of our identity, we are much less prone to others feeding our insecurity.

I’ll leave you with these words I first wrote in my journal and then put in my book Uninvited years ago: “God’s love isn’t based on me. It’s simply placed on me. And it’s the place from which I should live... loved.”1'"

Lysa TerKeurst, Uninvited: Living Loved When You Feel Less Than, Left Out, and Lonely (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2016), 259.