#I also like just writing about character things

[larkiethings]

the regency period is another one of these! I know this is more directly because of Jane Austen and her impact on English literature, but it’s another example of a 40 year period that we obsess over way more than the times before or after

My theory as to why times like this loom larger in popular consciousness is BECAUSE they were so short, and made a big cultural impact but never really got to be normalized for more than a generation. Like…if I grew up on my parents talking about how they were terrified of pirates (or honestly even aware of pirates) when they were traveling, I’d spend a lot of time thinking about oh wow what must that have been like? Not common enough to become quotidian, but with a big enough impact on people (scary) that they’ll still talk about it years later.

There are certain very specific, unsustainable periods of history.

The Golden Age of Piracy lasted from the 1650s to the 1730s, and was really three different waves of piracy that all had their own specific causes and characters. My personal favorite has always been the post-Spanish Succession period, when a bunch of sailors and privateers were left unemployed and turned en masse to piracy since those were the skills they'd picked up during the war. This supply of pirates was obviously non-renewable.

The Wild West lasted between 1865 and 1895, depending on who you ask, not even a full human lifetime. It's a very narrow band of time, and of course it wasn't sustainable, there was only so much land to colonize.

There are lots of these times of change, conquest, colonization, and war, particularly in the last three hundred years. I always think they're interesting, mostly in how quickly the course of history moves on to some other relatively more steady state.

There's a thing that speculative fiction does where it stretches specific periods out to extremes, most notably with Medieval Stasis, but I think it's far funnier when applied to these tiny slices of history that have ballooned in the public consciousness. Either it takes heroic feats of worldbuilding to make it make sense, or everyone is just sort of okay with the idea of a Golden Age of Piracy that's implied to have lasted for a millennia.

[jets076]

I have Idea and I can't draw

Good news: found post idea

Bad news: its a shitpost

[starkeyvhs]

enviers goin’ to envy

PAIRING: best-friend’s brother!rafe x fwb!fem!reader

SUMMARY: envy gets the best of you when you hear about rafe and a new girl. 

WORD COUNT: 1132

WARNINGS: suggestive content; casually dominant rafe; mentions of sex; light swearing

EDITH SPEAKS: I haven’t written in god knows how long, and even though university was a major contributor, my country’s current status contributed just as enough, if not more. I’m extremely relieved to say that things have simmered down quite a bit, but nothing is certain so I don’t want to get my hopes up. I hope that anyone else who lives near the borders is safe and sound <3

Besides this, I’m really glad I was able to write something after so long! I was watching cmbyn for the very first time, and the reference is right in the first line. When I heard that line, trust, I immediately opened my doc and started writing this piece without even seeing what happened next in the movie :p so yeah! I hope you like reading this 💞💞 feedback is always highly appreciated xx

masterlist / join my taglist / requests

“We almost had sex last night… Eliza and me,”

Well, that caught your attention just as he had intended. 

You lifted your head up from your plate to catch a glance of Rafe from the corner of your eye, and you saw how he was just busy eating, his gaze on his plate, but you could see it: the hink of a smirk on his face. 

There were multiple things going on in your head. The thought on the forefront was what kind of topic this was to bring up on the dinner table? And why was everyone acting so unfazed? Was his sex life a regular dinner topic at their house?

But, besides this extraordinarily loud thought, the other thoughts mainly revolved around two names, which also somehow became the main characters of your life; an entirely unintentional move from your side. 

Rafe Cameron and Eliza Cooper. 

“Wow, sounds interesting,” Sarah rolled her eyes from next to you, going back to eating her greens. You could feel Rafe’s gaze on Sarah and you, so you made sure to not lift your head up even once from your plate.

“Oh trust me, it was more than interesting,” he said, and his pride was dripping from every word rolling off his tongue. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but no one cares Rafe,” Sarah snapped back, and you mentally thanked your best friend from stopping whatever seizure Rafe’s probable next words would’ve given you. 

“Oh please, everyone’s interested enough,” and Rafe’s gaze was set on you. You could feel his eyes practically seeing through you – all your thoughts and emotions, and exactly just what his words were making you feel. 

You didn’t know what this complex bundle of emotions was inside you, yet you felt Rafe knew exactly what it was. 

“It was at Topper’s party yesterday, we found ourselves in a nice bedroom, things were going absolutely great. I could tell, she really, really wanted me,” 

Wow. Now he was just being straight up evil. 

“Rafe, son, as eclectic as this conversation is, I’d prefer it if it doesn’t happen on the dinner table yeah?” Ward spoke up, and that shut Rafe up the way you had wanted since that mouth of his had opened. 

Everyone fell quiet, the only sound being of forks and knives scraping across the ceramic plates. 

“I think I’m going to ask Eliza to be my girlfriend–”

“I need to go to the bathroom.” 

Your words were quick, cutting smoothly across Rafe’s voice as you immediately stood up from your chair. Everyone looked at you, and you just knew everyone could see how the color had practically drained from your face. 

“You okay sweetie? You look a little… pale there,” Rose said softly. You looked down and you saw how tightly you were gripping the fork in your hand. You let go of it and kept it in your unfinished plate with a light clatter. 

“I’m fine, just- just need to use the washroom,” you muttered, and left the dining table. You could feel everyone’s gaze on you as you left, but Rafe’s– Rafe’s gaze just felt like a laser beam. 

You were quick to enter Sarah’s bathroom, where you stood in front of the mirror, and looked at yourself. 

Eliza? His girlfriend? Was he fucking serious? 

You knew what it was: just a random girl he met, something to make you feel extremely jealous when you broke off your deal with him. 

You thought you could stay away from him. 

Yeah, yeah you could. 

You could 100% stay away from the insanely sexy brother of your best friend, who you had a crush on for as long as you remember. 

What a clown.

That’s what you thought you looked like when you looked at your reflection in the mirror. With shaky hands, you turned the tap on and splashed cold water on your face, as if that water could wash away all the thoughts from your mind. 

Only if it was that easy. 

With your head ducked down, you began to wipe your face off with a towel. 

But as you lifted your face up to look at yourself in the mirror, you realised you were no longer alone. 

“Rafe–” 

Your words got cut off when Rafe’s palms pressed into your sides, the warmth of his chest spreading through your back. 

“Shh,” he hushed quietly, his chin resting in the crook of your shoulder. His arms wrapped firm around your waist and he pulled you into him, the action causing your breath to get hitched in your throat. 

“My girl got so jealous, didn’t she?” Rafe murmured, his lips pressing to the shell of your ear. 

The way he was holding you, the way his chest was pressed right up to your back, and the way his voice was travelling through your ear; you knew you were turning into a mush. 

A mush only Rafe Cameron could make of you. 

When you didn’t respond with anything, Rafe chuckled softly, beginning to press the most gentle kisses to the skin behind your ear. 

“Hm, I know you were,” he whispered, kissing a trail down to the side of your neck. Your body wasn’t under your control anymore, with the way your breathing picked up pace and you leaned your head to the side to give him space. 

“And you know what?” He whispered further, now kissing in the crook of your neck, finding a particularly sensitive spot that made you gasp softly, “that was exactly what I wanted. To see my girl jealous. Now I know she wants me.”

Rafe’s hands were swift to turn you around, so that you were facing him. Your back pressed into the sink behind you, and you were efficiently trapped between the cold sink and Rafe’s warm body. 

He could see you were avoiding eye contact, so a finger came right under your chin to direct your gaze back at him. 

“Am I wrong?” He whispered, his other hand exercising a firm grip on your waist to keep you in place. 

You shook your head, your lips parted just slightly as short breaths escaped them. 

“Good girl,” he murmured softly, and god that praise did something to you. 

And just as you thought Rafe would do something to help with the ache of pure need that lit up every nerve of your body, he let go of you and stepped back. 

“It’s rude to leave your dinner unfinished,” he said, his hand already on the doorknob to open the bathroom door. “Be there in two, yeah?” 

And with that, he left. 

Now, if it would’ve been any other man commanding you this way, you wouldn’t have tolerated it for even a second. 

But this wasn’t any other man. 

This was Rafe.

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

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[starsapphire]

i understand the tim hate for meta reasons but 90s tim is so enjoyable and fun and his chronic foot in mouth disease has so much potential for great comedy

is tim telling dick that the death of the flying graysons was one of his worst memories a good thing? no. is it deeply fucking funny? yes.

is tim saying "and robin! :D" after bruce says "don't you know you can't kill batman and nightwing?" a good thing? no. is his complete inability to read the room about this so fucking funny? yes.

bruce and dick both having an internal ping-pong match between "he's such a good kid" and "trying not to throw hands with a 13 year old" because he's so earnest and wants to do what he thinks is right but he is such a little shit and so tone deaf, it's a gorgeous train wreck

tim is SO funny especially in the late 80s–⁠early 90s comics and i think a lot of it is because writers really were having so much fun writing him being A Teenage Boy. and ofc that involves him being kind of shit at reading the room and thinking before he speaks. like yeah of course he's a little tactless, he's a 9th grader and he's new to all of this!!!! if he always said the most respectful, tactful line possible and was never annoying or accidentally rude then 1) he would not be an accurate teenage boy and 2) he would suck as a character. how boring!!!!!

of course his chronic foot in mouth syndrome often ends up being worse than the average teenage boy's might because. you know. he's robin, and also he's spending all his free time with two guys who are notably Tragic Orphans and who have (recently!) lost a young family member. and he really is just so well-meaning and devoted and he dedicates himself to knowing about people, and it all comes together to make him a massive accidental asshole. and they can't even be mad at him about it because he has those big wet earnest eyes. it's so fucking funny

all that said, i think people (not you just like. people in general) tend to miss or ignore that it's Very Much part of tim's long-term character development that we see him go from being just. utterly incapable of thinking before he speaks or pulling his foot out of his mouth in the early 90s to being very methodical in his words and actions and recognizing the power and weight of what he says, as we see by the end of new earth canon in the late 2000s–2011. so you get people being like "wow tim is an asshole who has no tact ever" instead of realizing that while he's tactless as a kid (as all kids are), he is well removed from that by the time he's 18. (but he doesn't take his foot out of his mouth entirely. and i never want him to)

[dextivestudios]

No, no, people don't get it.

Doctor Who (1963) was EXTREMELY feminist for its time, and it apparently had an actual card-carrying communist working on it in the 70s.

Barbara White is amazing and I love her. She was the one with the braincell, and freaking ATE. Meanwhile, Ian was a parody of the "breadwinner manly man don't worry, ladies, I got this!" type. (Spoiler alert: it was the lady who had things handled.)

Like, if Ian was created today, he definitely WOULD follow Andrew Tate and unironically call himself an alpha, only for that to...not be the case. At all.

Alt-right "Whovians" literally look at characters like Ian and the joke just flies over their heads completely.

We are meant to admire Barbara, and we are meant to laugh at Ian.

I should also mention it tended to get very preachy about anti-colonialism.

Classic Doctor Who was far from perfect. Disabled and queer people virtually don't exist, and it's very much a racist show with there being more yellowface than actual Asian actors. (And it takes an embarrassingly long time for them to finally cast a black actor. I noticed a darker complexion for the first time during the FIFTH DOCTOR's run. Which is....YIKES!) And the amount of cultural appropriation/orientalism would be shocking to modern audiences.

I do think more people should watch more Classic Who. It's not as good as nostalgic Classic Who fans claim, and there are episodes far worse than even the Timeless Child incident in the modern show but watching Classic Who does expose you to amazing stories, and it does improve your viewing experience for the modern show. Like, so many jokes and references go over your head if you don't watch the Classic show.

It wasn't even perfect with the feminist aspect and there are plenty of counterpoints where companions, and the writing in general, fell victim to sexism.

And, yes, the bad/offensive episodes should be watched, too. It's a part of Doctor Who history, and even harmful art has value to it. And the fact that it sucked in other aspects does not devalue for many things such as feminism.

My only recommendation is to watch Victoria Waterfield's run in its entirely. You will want to skip her. But trust me on this one. Don't skip an episode. The more you see of her, the funnier her departure will be.

And, honestly, I think the original creators would be proud of what Doctor Who has become, especially in the representation aspects. It is queer and not asking for forgiveness. The TARDIS has wheelchair access now, we have two black Doctors with one of them being a main Doctor, two LGBT Doctors BACK-TO-BACK.

Though that's strictly talking about the characters. I know that Ncuti himself is gay, Jodie has a husband and I don't think she made any public announcements about any labels she may identify with? That's to her discretion and I don't really care that much. All I can say for certain is that she is married to a man, and appears to not mind depicting sapphic women. I won't speculate because that is an asshole thing to do, and this tangent has gone on for long enough already.

All in all, Doctor Who has always been woke. It has a flawed past, and its focuses have shifted overtime. Heck, remember when it was big on anti-guns all the way back at Tenth Doctor?

But, yeah, the problem is that it has a focus on groups that the Nazis are currently actively targeting. Which would be both queer and disabled people, it also doesn't help the cast is heavy on POC at the moment (note: not a bad thing.) and the women characters are currently being respected. But it's primarily the queer characters and disabled characters.

Nazis are not real Whovians, and I'm glad that Doctor Who is making an effort to make them as uncomfortable and unwelcome as possible. Because tolerating Nazis and taking them seriously, like giving our time and energy to them is worth anything, is exactly how they are gaining power in the USA.

Remember: the only nazi who deserves peaceful interactions are dead nazis. And even then, feed their bodies to the dogs, as not even death is redemption for them.

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #17 死

† bedroom confessions †

“His real name is the most dangerous thing he’s ever given you.”

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 7.5k

rating: explicit (18+)

content: first time in jeon’s bedroom, real name revelation, sexual tension finally exploding, dirty talk that’ll make you blush, spanking kink discovery, emotional walls starting to crack, post-sex vulnerability, and lines being crossed that can never be uncrossed.

Kiki Nation’s discussion thread for this chapter.

☠ author's note ☠

Y’ALL I’M DECEASED. Just casually writing 7.5k of filth like it’s nothing. Who even am I at this point? My laptop is judging me, my FBI agent is traumatized, and I haven’t made eye contact with my roommate in three days.

So… that happened. Jungkook finally shared his real name AND his bed, and honestly? The power that man holds when he’s being all dominant and teasing is absolutely CRIMINAL. I had to take several water breaks while writing this chapter because WHEW. Is it hot in here or is it just me? (¬‿¬)

The fact that Jungkook’s idea of aftercare is literally “wanna stay connected all night?” has me HOLLERING. Sir, that is NOT how this works—but also it’s so perfectly HIM. Our emotionally stunted sniper boy doesn’t know how to process feelings unless they’re shooting through a rifle scope.

And Y/N with the attitude even DURING sex? A queen behavior. Standing ovation for not becoming a complete puddle the second he touched her (though let’s be real, it was close).

Let’s also talk about how they can’t stop BANTERING even post-orgasm. These two idiots calling it “charity work” when they’re both equally obsessed with each other? THE DELUSION. I love them so much it physically hurts my face.

I know I promised slow burn but uh… Listen. LISTEN. It’s an EMOTIONALLLL slow burn. The fuck buddies tag is there for a reason. Sometimes characters just take over and you have to let them bang it out, you know? It’s for their mental health or whatever.

Don’t get too comfortable though! We all know what happens in this universe when people get too happy… the universe (aka me, their cruel god) decides to throw a wrench in everything. ⌒(o＾▽＾o)ノ

Next chapter will give us a little morning-after situation and maybe even some actual plot development if I can stop writing smut for five seconds!

Love ya, trauma vultures! Keep those comments coming, they fuel my sleep-deprived writing sessions!

xoxo 💋

P.S. Also, for the hate comment I deleted 5 seconds after it was posted (you tried though)… here's an even longer author's note, since yk, like you said, nobody reads them… More for me to yap without consequences, I guess.

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⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You're in Jeon's room. 

Jeon's fucking room. 

When he'd texted you to come to the shooting range earlier, you'd figured it was just another one of his typical late-night training sessions. 

But now? Now you're here, on his bed , with him standing over you like he’s already decided you’re his next target.

Like you’re already dead and just haven’t figured it out yet.

Okay, maybe a tiny part of you had hoped for this. (Shut up , horny brain.)

But you'd only agreed to be fuck buddies like, what, some hours ago?

And here you are already, sprawled across his sheets, heart hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape.

Talk about moving fast.

Except it isn't simple. Not when you're already spread out across his bed like you fucking live here. Not when your heart's kicking like a scared rabbit in your chest.

Your fingers curl into his sheets on reflex. Satin. Dark. Smells like pine and something sharper—pine. Him. God, that should not do things to you but it does.

You fight the dumb grin twitching at the corner of your mouth.

Because here's the thing.

He's just as gone for it.

Jeon's staring down at you like he hasn't eaten in days. Dark eyes locked on you like you're dinner and dessert and every guilty pleasure combined. There's no hesitation. No second-guessing. No going slow. Just that razor-focused, dangerous glint he always gets before pulling the trigger on a mark.

And Jesus Christ, you're the mark.

Your breath catches.

That stormy energy of his? It's fucking alive. Wrapping around you. Crawling over your skin. You feel it. You taste it. Static in the air—sharp, biting, almost buzzing in your goddamn teeth.

His fingers graze your thigh and oh. 

That's nice. Really nice. 

But before you can really enjoy it, he pulls his hand away. Plants it on the mattress by your head, making the bed creak under his weight.

You snap your head up in disbelief. "Seriously?"

Your voice cracks. Great. Love that for you.

But then his other hand comes up—slides along your jaw like he owns you. Fingers rough. Callused. Deadly. And all you can do is stare like a fucking idiot as his thumb presses against your bottom lip. Tugging. Testing.

You go pliant before you even process it. Lips parting on instinct.

His mouth opens just a little—like he's picturing it. Like he wants to taste you. Swallow you whole.

And goddamn it, you want that too.

So bad it hurts.

Is he imagining what it'd be like to kiss you? 'Cause you sure as hell are.

"You sure you can handle the kind of tension relief I'm talking about?" he asks, voice low and gravelly. 

You almost laugh. As if you haven't been thinking about this exact scenario for weeks. 

"Guess you'll have to show me so I can decide, huh?"

That does it. 

He moves. Fast.

You barely register it before he's already there—mouth crashing into yours like he's starving. Teeth. Tongue. Fucking warzone.

There's no slow build-up. No teasing. Just pure, raw take.

Your breath punches out of you as you grab for him. Instinct. Desperation. Your fingers slip into his hair—damp, messy, soft as hell. You tug. Hard.

He groans into your mouth. Loud. Deep. Way too fucking hot. It rips down your spine like lightning.

You bite his lip just to feel him suck in air through his teeth. God, that sound—that sound—shoots straight to your core. Your legs twitch under him, thighs pressing together, trying to ease the ache.

It doesn't work. Makes it worse.

Jeon doesn't let you off easy either. He dives back in. Deeper this time. Tongue claiming, swallowing every shaky breath you give him like he owns them now.

His body shifts—presses down harder—pinning you to the mattress without saying a single word. Your back arches up like a fucking reflex. Can't help it.

And then, just as fast, he pulls back.

Forehead against yours. Breath ragged. Lips slick and swollen.

His chest rises and falls like he just ran a mile.

You're no better. Gasping. Throat dry. Pulse wrecked.

"We doing this?" he asks. 

Not really a question. He knows. You both know. Still—he waits.

And maybe it's stupid how much that makes your throat go tight.

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. "Yes."

One word. That's all it takes for Jeon's eyes to darken further.

His mouth finds yours again, but only for a moment. Then he's moving—trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. When his teeth graze below your ear, a small gasp leaves your throat.

Fuck.

The sound does something to him. You can tell by the way his fingers dig into your hip, how his breath comes out just a bit harsher against your skin.

His other hand slides down your stomach, fingers spread wide like he's trying to touch as much of you as possible. The shirt bunches up with the movement. 

More skin exposed to the cool air of his room. More of you for him to explore.

You can barely breathe right. Every inhale is shallow, desperate. A whine builds in your throat, needy and embarrassing, but you're too far gone to care. You want more. More of his hands on you, more of his mouth, more of the way he's practically caging you in with his body.

He makes this sound—low and satisfied, almost like a growl—that has heat pooling between your legs.

"Jeon," you breathe out. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. 

"Jungkook," he corrects, voice rough with want. "My real name is Jungkook. Say it like that again."

Your breath catches. Using real names in Kkangpae isn't something you take lightly. It's intimate. Personal. A sign of trust that goes beyond the physical.

"Jungkook," you say again, louder this time. Testing how it feels on your tongue. 

The way his eyes darken tells you everything you need to know about how it sounds to him.

He growls—actually growls, okay paw patrol?—at that, like your voice saying his name is doing things to him. Like he can't get enough of it.

God. The way he's looking at you right now.

"Turn over for me," he murmurs like a command, but there's something patient in his voice. "I need to see that ass."

Your whole body feels like jelly as you move. The mattress dips beneath you, and fuck—you realize how exposed you are right now, laid out for him like this. How vulnerable. 

How wanted.

"Ass up, sunshine," he says, voice raspy.

You push yourself up on your elbows, lifting your hips. The position makes you feel s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, but it also feels slightly intoxicating, being on display like this, knowing exactly what it's doing to him.

The sharp intake of his breath is worth it.

His hands hover over you for a moment—those same hands that can take a life from a mile away with a sniper rifle now ghosting across your skin. The anticipation has your stomach in knots, has you fighting the urge to push back against him.

When he finally touches you, it's almost reverent. Like he's mapping out territory he plans to claim.

"Fuck," he breathes out; and the way he says it—like a prayer, like worship—makes your face burn. "You have no idea what your ass does to me."

His fingers dig into the flesh of your ass, kneading with the kind of expertise that makes you wonder h̶o̶w̶ ̶m̶a̶n̶y̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶ if he's thought about this before. 

You have to press your face into the pillow to muffle the sounds trying to escape your throat. 

Because if you start, you're not sure you'll be able to stop.

He takes his time, methodical in a way that's driving you insane. His thumbs spread you open, then let you fall back together. His hands work their way, massaging and squeezing. The heat under your skin builds until you feel like you might combust. Like you might actually catch fire right here in his bed.

"Such a perfect ass," he groans, and then—oh—his lips are pressing against one cheek, then the other. Soft kisses that feel somehow filthier than anything else he's done. "Fucking beautiful."

The praise hits different when it's coming from him. When it's Jungkook—cold, distant, perfectionist Jungkook—telling you how perfect you are.

When he pulls back, the loss of contact hits different. Like someone just yanked a warm blanket off you.

"I want to try something," he says, and okay, when his voice sounds like that you'd say yes to almost anything he'd say. 

"Yeah?" Your voice is breathy, but at this point you're too curious (too turned on) to give a single fuck.

His hand traces up your spine, gentle in a way that doesn't match how intensely he's staring at you. The contrast makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

"I want to spank that gorgeous ass of yours." 

It comes out like a confession, like he's been thinking about this for a while. There's a question mark hanging at the end of it though, waiting for your permission.

Oh.

Something hot and electric zips through you at the suggestion. Your brain staggers for a second, but your body's already made up its mind. You're nodding before you can even process what this means.

"Let's do it," you say, maybe too eagerly, but the thought of his hand coming down on your ass has lit something up inside you that you didn't even know was there.

"Remember our safe word?"

Even in the middle of this is, he's making sure you're both on the same page.

"Black tape," you confirm immediately. 

Having that word there, knowing you can use it anytime—it's like a safety net. Makes everything else feel okay.

"Good."

He positions himself behind you again, and the anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you crazy. His hand hovers over your skin, making you feel every inch of exposed flesh. 

Then, the first spank lands.

It's almost gentle—like he's testing the waters, seeing how you'll react.

The sound it makes in the quiet room has your face burning.

Sharp. Clean. Loud. 

Your skin blooms with heat where his palm connected, and fuck—it's not exactly painful, but it sends this electric feeling through your whole body that has you gasping. The sting melts into something warmer, spreading under your skin until you feel like you're floating.

Your face burns. 

And... It's not from pain.

Obviously, he's watching you like a hawk, trying to read your reaction. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy and intense.

"How was that?" His voice comes out rough, like he's the one who just got spanked.

You have to take a second to remember how words work.

"Good," you manage to get out, barely above a whisper. "Really good."

He gives you time to process, to just feel it. Then his palm is back on your ass, but this time he's not spanking. He's just... touching. Soothing the heated skin with gentle strokes that somehow feel more intimate than the spank itself.

It's messing with your head—how he can switch from rough to gentle so fast. One second he's spanking you, the next he's treating you like you're made of glass.

The air feels exactly like right before a storm hits. 

Jungkook's presence behind you is overwhelming in the best way, and when his hand moves away, you actually have to bite back a whine.

Every second he makes you wait feels like torture. You arch your back a little, trying to be s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ subtle about asking for more. You can't see his face, but you know he's smirking. 

You've seen that look enough times to picture it perfectly—that cocky little quirk of his lips, the way his eyes get all dark and intense.

"Ready for another?" he asks, voice gone all gravelly; and it shouldn't be hot, but it is.

Your heart's going crazy in your chest when you nod. "Yes."

Waiting has has your skin tingling, has you holding your breath without even meaning to.

You can feel him shifting behind you, the mattress dipping as he draws his arm back. 

When his palm connects this time, it's not a question—it's a statement. 

The smack echoes off the walls, louder than before, and holy shit.

"Fuck," you gasp out. 

It stings more this time, sharp and intense, but in a way that makes everything feel unfairly good.

"How does that feel?" His words drip with arousal, but there's still that undercurrent of concern. 

Always checking, always making sure.

"Nice," you hear yourself say, and you're surprised by how eager you sound. Like you can't get enough. "Keep going."

There's a pause, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"As you wish," he finally says, and you don't need to see his face to know he's smirking.

He pulls back again, and like the asshole he is, he makes you wait a little bit.

Not for long though, because clearly, the fucker is enjoying this too.

When the third spank lands, it's like a lightning bolt straight to your core. It's stronger, more controlled, and the pleasure that rips through you is so intense it steals your breath. 

You cry out—not from pain, but from how good it feels. 

How it makes your whole body sing.

This time, his hand stays put. You can feel the heat of his palm against your stinging skin, and it's grounding in a way you didn't know you needed.

"Beautiful," he breathes out, like you're some kind of work of art.

You hadn't pegged Jungkook as the type to be into this kind of thing. But the way his breath catches, the slight tremor in his hand as it rests on your ass—it's like he's discovering something about himself right along with you.

Maybe it's a spanking thing. Or maybe it's just a you thing.

Or your ass thing. 

Either way, the realization that you're affecting him this much? 

Heady. Bargaining material. 

His fingers start tracing patterns on your heated skin, soothing the sting. Again with the contrast, from the spanking to this. Like he's not quite sure himself where he stands.

"You okay?"

You nod into the pillow, not trusting your voice right now. 

Because how do you tell someone that you're more than okay? That you're floating on some kind of pleasure high you didn't even know existed?

And honestly, this whole situation is simply making it hard to think straight. 

But then, Jungkook moves, slowly, creates some distance and—oh? 

A soft thud. His towel hitting the floor. 

He steps closer once more, bare skin against yours, and it's hot. He's hot. His skin is hot.

His body is all hard lines pressed up against your softer curves, and when his cock presses against your panties, you actually have to bite your lip to keep quiet.

You push back against him without thinking. 

S̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ Needy.

"You're driving me fucking crazy," he makes this sound you can't quite classify.

The raw want in his voice does things to you. But before you can even think of responding, his hand comes down on your ass again. 

Hard.

The sound echoes through his room, and you can't help the moan that slips out.

(Anyone walking past his door would definitely hear that one.)

"Tell me you felt that," he demands.

"I felt it," you manage to get out between breaths. "I felt all of it."

Then his free hand wraps around your waist, fingers spreading wide like he's trying to conquer as much of your body as possible. He pulls you closer, and god—you can feel every inch of his cock pressed against you through the thin fabric of your panties. 

The contrast between his rough skin and the smooth material is driving you insane.

"You want more?" 

He's trying to sound teasing, but you can hear how affected he is. His voice is multiple octaves deeper than his usual 'whatever' tone.

"Yeah." Your voice comes out wrecked. "Don't stop."

He laughs—this low, dangerous sound that makes your toes curl. "God, I love how eager you are."

His hand comes down hard—harder than before—and the sound echoes through his room like a gunshot. You can't help the groan that rips from your throat. It's embarrassingly loud, but who cares at this point?

The sting burns hot across your skin, sharp and biting, sinking deeper until it melts into that aching pulse you can’t get enough of. You can feel exactly where his palm landed, the heat of it sinking deep into your flesh.

"Christ, you take it so well," he says, and his fingers dig into the spot he just spanked, pressure making you bite your lip. "I can see the shape of my hand on your ass, turning red. It's fucking sexy."

You're breathing like you just ran a marathon, each exhale coming out kind of whiny and desperate. Your brain’s mush. All you can register is his hands and the heat of him grinding against you.

"Jungkook, please." The way you say his name is straight-up pathetic, way too needy. 

You push back against him, wanting to feel him without these stupid panties in the way.

His fingers trail down your spine, so slow it’s infuriating. They dance over the curve of your ass before playing with the edge of your underwear. When his fingers finally hook into the fabric, you freeze, chest tightening as he pulls the fabric aside.

Your face is pressed into his mattress, ass up in the air like some kind of offering. You should feel exposed, but something about it just feels right.

"You're already so wet for me..." You can hear the smirk in his voice. What an asshole. "How can I resist?"

But he does resist, the bastard.

His touch goes all gentle, fingers just barely exploring your folds like he's got all the time in the world. Like he's trying to memorize every little detail—how wet you are, how warm, the way you can't help but tremble. 

He then makes this approving sound deep in his throat and you've had enough.

"Jungkook," you whine, dragging out his name like some kind of desperate prayer. "Stop teasing."

"But I want to watch you squirm," he says, and fuck—you can tell he means it. 

He wants to see you fall apart, wants to watch you beg.

What a bitch. 

His sadistic little game only gets worse when you complain. You can feel his finger right there, barely touching where you need him most, just collecting evidence of how embarrassingly wet you are. The anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you insane as he slides that finger up and down, parting you without actually giving you what you want. Using your own arousal to make the glide easier.

You try to push back against him, to get his finger inside you—anything. But his other hand is pressed firm against your lower back, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

"Jesus Christ, just fuck me already," you can't help but groan, frustrated. 

But Jungkook—because he's a bastard—just keeps playing his little game.

"I'll fuck you when you're ready to break from wanting it so bad," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. 

He loves it. 

His finger circles your entrance, the touch so light it's actually torture. Every time he passes over that spot, you clench around nothing, desperate to feel him inside you.

When he finally pushes just the tip of his finger in, you actually sigh out loud—half relief, half frustration. Your whole body's shaking with how bad you need more, but he keeps holding back. Adding pressure so slowly it should be illegal, pushing in just to pull back out again.

He's drawing this out just because he can, the power-tripping dickhead.

The pressure builds just a tiny bit as he shows you the smallest amount of mercy, sliding that one finger in entirely so slow you think you might actually lose your mind. 

It's not enough—nowhere near enough—and he knows it. 

You want him to stop being so careful, to just take what you're offering.

Despite how frustrated you are (or maybe because of it), you can't help but smirk. 

"What, you got no condoms this time either?"

The words come out all breathy between your gritted teeth—and honestly? Not your brightest idea, bringing up that particular memory from the tent.

The response is immediate—his hand comes down hard on your ass, sting spreading across your skin like wildfire.

"Aw, what the fuck—?" 

You yelp, caught between the sharp pain and how embarrassingly turned on it makes you feel—like your body can't decide if it wants to flinch away or push back for more.

"You should know better than to sass me right now."

Then his hand is smoothing over the spot he just spanked, gentle in a way that feels almost worse than the hit itself.

"You're such an asshole," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it. 

You both know you don't mean it, not when you're bent over his bed with his finger inside you.

"Mhm, but you fucking love it, don't you?" 

He says it like it's just a fact. Like the sky is blue, water is wet, and you get off on him being a dick.

(The worst part is he's not wrong.)

You can't help but grown more impatient when you feel his ring finger press up against your entrance, right next to where his middle finger is already buried inside you. He pauses there, just letting you feel the pressure.

"For fuck's sake, just do it." Your voice cracks embarrassingly, giving away just how bad you want it.

He laughs, low and rough. "Patience, I want you to feel every single inch."

Can he die? Genuinely. 

Then the pressure builds as he starts working his ring finger in alongside the other one. He's being so fucking methodical about it, pushing deeper into you at a pace that's making you lose your mind. 

Every inch feels like it takes forever.

"You feel so fucking tight, you sure you can handle both?"

The teasing note in his voice makes you want to bite him. He already knows the answer, the smug bastard.

"I can take more than you can give," you get out between breaths, because fuck him.

And it's meant to be cocky, but it comes out sounding more desperate than anything.

"We'll see about that."

His fingers stop moving for a second—just long enough to make you whine—before he starts pushing in even slower. Like he's trying to make you feel every single movement, every stretch, every slide.

And at this point your body's on fucking fire. But can you be to blame, when he's been nothing but an infuriating tease?

Little pleading sounds keep escaping your throat without permission. You're practically chanting 'please's as you try to push back against his hand. But he's got you pinned, keeping that torturously slow pace.

"Fucking... jerk," you mutter—because he absolutely is. 

"Yeah," he agrees. "I am."

When both his fingers finally—finally—bottom out inside you, you actually gasp. Your body clenches around them greedily, trying to get any kind of movement, and the grunt he lets out sounds s̶e̶x̶y̶ pleased.

"Tell me how much you want it."

It's not a request. His voice has that edge to it that makes it very clear.

"I want it more than my next breath." The words tumble out raw and honest.

"Good girl," he says, and even though it's rough around the edges, the praise makes you stutter.

His fingers curl inside you, making you moan embarrassingly loud. Then the bastard just... stops. Stays completely still, letting you feel exactly how deep his fingers are, how they're stretching you open.

You're actually going to lose your mind if he doesn't start moving soon. But you refuse to beg—you won't give him the satisfaction.

"I think listening to you beg is my new favorite sound," he says, like he can read your thoughts.

"Fuck off—" The words die in your throat when his fingers pull back just a tiny bit before pushing deep again, and yup, the sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up pathetic.

"You're driving me insane," you tell him, trying to sound angry.

"That's the idea." He says, but it's all dark and pleased. "I want you out of your mind with need, so when I finally give you what you're begging for, you'll remember who put you there."

Fuck.

His fingers are still buried deep inside you, not moving, and you can feel every single knuckle. It's like a preview of what's coming later—a promise that this is just the start, and he's planning to take his sweet time getting there.

The seconds drag by like hours. You're stuck in this weird space between pleasure and frustration, where his fingers feel so good but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough. The heat of his body against yours isn't helping either. Having him this close but not getting what you want is actually torture.

"Are you planning on moving anytime this century?"

And yeah. It sounds bitchy. 

Exactly how you want it.

"In due time."

You can barely breathe right, desperation clawing at your throat. Then—oh—his finger brushes against your clit, so light you almost think you imagined it. Your hips jerk without permission, chasing that barely-there touch.

"Jungkook," you warn, half-growl, half-whine.

He chuckles. "No patience at all, huh?"

"Just fucking touch me already." The snark in your voice is falling apart, giving way to pure need.

"Ahh, I love it when you get all feisty."

You open your mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove that smugness, but then his finger is back on your clit. 

Just ghosting over it, barely any pressure at all. 

But your whole body lights up anyway, every nerve ending suddenly wide awake.

"This is torture," you accuse, though the breathiness in your voice kind of ruins the effect.

"Not torture. Appreciation." He hums. "I'm just enjoying all those pretty sounds you make. The way you shake. How desperate you get."

Bastard.

His finger starts moving in slow circles around your clit, adding just a tiny bit more pressure. It's enough to make your back arch, trying to get more friction, but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough.

"Please," you whine, past caring how needy you sound. "Just—a little harder, please, Jungkook."

He gives you what you asked for—barely. 

Just a fraction more pressure, but combined with his fingers still buried inside you, it's enough to make your body clench around him. 

He's got you trapped between pleasure and frustration, keeping you right on that edge.

"This what you want?" he asks, mocking. "This pace good for you, hmm?"

You know exactly what he's doing—getting off on your impatience, on how desperate he can make you with just his fingers and that stubborn w̶i̶l̶l̶p̶o̶w̶e̶r̶ control of his. 

The pressure on your clit keeps changing, going from barely-there touches that make you want to scream to just enough to have you chasing more.

"Jungkook, I fucking swear—" 

The words die in your throat when his finger suddenly presses harder.

"What?" His voice drops even lower, hitting that dangerous note that usually means he's about to stop playing nice. "What exactly are you swearing?"

"That I'll rip your fucking hair out if you don't stop messing around." You have to grit your teeth to get the words out, trying to sound threatening even though you're literally shaking with need.

He laughs—this deep, dark sound that vibrates through you—and rewards your threat with a firm stroke that has heat coiling in your stomach.

"That's not very nice," he says, but he sounds more amused than anything. Like your empty threats are entertaining him.

His finger goes back to those slow, torturous circles around your clit. Each pass builds the pressure a little more, but it's never quite enough to get you there.

The most f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ messed up part? You're kind of into it. 

This whole power play thing you've got going—how you push and he pulls, how you threaten and he teases. 

It's addictive. 

Because in truth, there is something powerful about knowing you can make Jeon Jungkook, Kkangpae's perfect soldier, want to hear you say his name.

Suddenly his whole rhythm changes. 

No more of that torturously slow pace—his fingers start moving with actual purpose, curling inside you in a way that has your toes curling. Like he's finally done playing around and just wants to make you genuinely cum.

Hallelujah.

The sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up filthy. You have to press your face into the mattress to muffle it, which only makes you more aware of how heavily you're breathing, each gasp basically fucking advertising how good his fingers feel.

"Come on, sunshine," he teases. "You don't have to be quiet. These walls are soundproof."

But you just press your face harder into the mattress. 

It's become a matter of pride now—you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing exactly what he's doing to you. 

You're right there, so close you can taste it—

And then the fucker stops.

A pathetic whimper leaves your throat as you squirm beneath him, feeling weirdly empty. The loss of sensation has you actually wanting to cry.

When you turn your head to glare at him, he's got this insufferably satisfied look on his face. 

He reaches over to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer like he's got all the time in the world. The foil packet he holds up catches the light, and the victorious look he gives you makes you want to bite him.

"See, I do have condoms this time, you smart mouth." The smirk on his face should be illegal.

"Oh wow, look who's being a semi-functional adult for once." You narrow your eyes at him."Want a fucking gold star or something?"

He laughs whilst tearing the foil packet and for some reason, it is weirdly hot—how focused he looks while rolling the condom on.

"Maybe after this you'll want to give me one," he says, still sounding way too amused.

He settles back on his knees, raising an eyebrow at you like he's waiting for something. You huff, pretending to be all put out even though you're literally dying from how bad you want him. When you press your cheek against his cool sheets again, you make sure to arch your back just right.

You know exactly what that view does to him.

Feeling extra b̶r̶a̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, you wiggle your hips a little. Just a tiny movement, but it's basically saying 'come and get it' without words.

And bingo. 

His hand comes down on your ass hard—but despite that, you feel weirdly victorious. 

Then he's right there, lining himself up. 

His tip brushes against your entrance, teasing to the point of madness, because at this point you just want him inside already.

You bite down on the sheets, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg again. But your body's giving you away anyway—the way you're trembling, how desperately you're trying to push back against him.

He takes his sweet time, just watching you. His eyes trail down your spine to where his handprints are probably turning your ass red. 

After what feels like forever, he finally pushes in, one smooth stroke that rips the air from your lungs.

And it's impossible to muffle yourself; even with your face squashed against the mattress, when he bottoms out completely. 

You feel every single inch of him, filling you up so completely it's genuinely insane. And he just stays there, buried deep inside you. 

"So fucking tight," he growls, sound vibrating through you, making your toes curl.

Your body moves on its own, pushing back against him, desperate for more. You need him to move, need that relentless pace you know he can give you. But the bastard just holds you there, completely still, making you feel every single detail of how he's splitting you open.

His fingers dig into your hips—not hard enough to leave marks (yet), but firm enough to keep you exactly where he wants you. And the slight bite of pain just adds to the pleasure, kind of welcome honestly. 

When he finally pulls back, you almost whine at the loss—but then he slams back in, hard and deep, and your brain melts. Everything gets kind of blurry after that.

Your skin feels like it's on fire everywhere he touches. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes through his room (thank god these walls are actually soundproof), getting louder with each thrust. His pace is brutal, punishing, but it's exactly what you've been dying for.

"That's it, take all of it."

And there's just this thing in how he says it—that has you pushing back against him like you're desperate for it. 

(Maybe you are.)

Every thrust feels like getting hit by a natural disaster; like a fucking hurricane. It's hard to breathe, hard to think about anything except how he's driving you into the mattress.

He's fucking you like he's got something to prove, hips snapping forward so hard it's just obscene, has you clutching at his sheets like they're the only thing keeping you grounded.

Then his hand slides underneath you, looking for your clit. Like he knows exactly what you need without you voicing it out. 

The second he finds it and starts rubbing circles against it, electricity zips through your whole body. It's almost too much, the dual sensation of his cock stretching you open and his fingers working your clit.

"Fuck, Jungkook," you moan, and you barely recognize your own voice. "Don't stop."

He lets out this grunt that gets lost in the sound of him pounding into you. 

But he listens, thank god, keeping up that relentless pace with both his cock and his fingers.

It's not gentle. He's fucking you like he wants to break you, like he wants to hear every embarrassing sound he can wring out of your throat.

"Just like that, sunshine," he pants. "Fucking take it."

Each thrust builds something wild inside you, like being caught in the eye of a hurricane. The pressure coils tighter and tighter until you think you might actually lose your mind. Everything feels too much and not enough all at once.

Your senses go into overdrive—the obscene sound of skin hitting skin, the heavy scent of sex filling his room, the salt of sweat on your tongue. You're drowning in pleasure, and Jungkook's the one holding you under with his relentless pace.

Then it hits.

The orgasm crashes through you in waves, drawing these embarrassingly loud sounds from your throat—whimpers, growls, straight-up begging. Your body clamps down around his cock like it's trying to keep him there forever, fingers still working your clit through it all. Pleasure zips through every nerve ending until you can barely breathe.

"Jungkook—" His name rips from your throat when you come, sounding absolutely wrecked. 

The pleasure is so intense it almost hurts.

He falters for just a second before picking the pace back up, fucking you through your orgasm until you're seeing stars. Each stroke sets off these little aftershocks that have you questioning your sanity. His groans get louder, deeper, mixing with the sounds you can't help but make.

Every thrust hits exactly where you need it, precise and commanding in that way only he can manage.

You can feel how tense he is, how close he is to losing it.

His breathing comes out all rough and uneven, matching the brutal pace of his thrusts. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave marks, using the grip to pull you back onto his cock like he can't get deep enough. 

It's feral, is what it is— how he's moving now—like he's completely lost in it, chasing his own pleasure.

"Shit, I'm close," he groans against your neck, chest pressed tight against your back, skin burning everywhere you touch.

Then he goes rigid as it hits him. 

You can feel every twitch of his cock, every pulse as he fills the condom.

He makes this plethora of sounds—deep, rough groans combined with some high pitched ones; all stripped away until he's just raw need and pleasure.

"Ah— fuck—"

Every curse that falls from his lips sounds snatched from him, desperate.

His hips stutter against yours, losing his rhythm as he rides it all out. His grip on your hips is tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he falls apart. Each thrust gets slower, like he's trying to make it last.

When he starts coming down from it, his hands go gentle where they were rough before. 

He's still panting hard against your neck, little aftershocks making his cock twitch inside you. His heart's hammering so hard you can feel it against your back.

Jungkook collapses against your back, his legs apparently giving out after how hard he just came. His chest is slick with sweat where it presses against you, and his breath fans hot across your neck. He's still buried inside you, cock softening but still making you feel so full. 

The sound he makes—this low, satisfied groan—is almost cute. Like a big cat after a good meal.

The afterglow starts to settle, leaving this heavy kind of quiet between you. Your breathing starts evening out, going from desperate gasping to something more normal. 

You both just... stay there for a minute, too worn out to move.

Then he just... drops his full weight on you. Like his arms finally give out or something.

The heat of his body wraps around you completely, and maybe it'd be nice if he wasn't crushing your lungs. 

His whole body is radiating exhaustion, and yeah—you get it. That was intense. 

"Jeon, move... you're heavy," you grunt into his pillow. 

Your voice comes out all rough from how loud you were being earlier.

"Give me a second," he mumbles against your skin, sounding just as wrecked as you feel. "You can't expect me to move after fucking you like that." 

He sounds half-joking, half-serious, nuzzling into your neck like he's planning to just stay there forever.

You can't help but laugh at that. Something about seeing Kkangpae's perfect soldier brought down by an orgasm is kind of hilarious. 

You shove at his side, trying to get him to budge.

He doesn't move an inch, the bastard. 

Instead, he has the audacity to suggest something so wild it's weirdly very him.

"How 'bout we fall asleep just like this, me still inside you?" His voice comes out all lazy and satisfied. 

You can tell he's half-joking, but there's this note in his voice that says he's actually considering it.

You reach back to smack him, caught between being annoyed and kind of endeared by how shameless he is. 

"Fat chance, thundercloud," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it. 

He laughs—this deep, warm sound that tells you he's smiling even though you can't see his face.

But you really can't breathe with him crushing you, so you push at him again, harder this time. "Seriously, off. You're heavy as fuck."

He makes this exaggerated groan like you're asking him to run a marathon or something, but finally rolls off you and onto his side. 

His cock slips out (and fuck, that's a weird feeling), and then he sprawls out next to you, throwing one arm over his face as he catches his breath. 

The sight of him like this—all tatted up and muscled, skin still kind of shiny with sweat—is doing things to your brain that you really don't want to examine too closely.

After a few more deep breaths, he sits up with this little sigh like moving is the worst thing ever. You watch him from the corner of your eye as he deals with the condom. 

There's something almost gentle about how he handles it, which is kind of funny considering how rough he w being just a minute ago. He ties it off and tosses it in the trash with this practiced little flick that says he's definitely done this before.

"So, you wanna cuddle?" The teasing in his voice is obvious. 

It's a callback to your conversation earlier, when you were both pretending this was just going to be sleeping.

"Seems like I'm not the one wanting to cuddle after all," you shoot back, matching his tone.

Jungkook gives you that smug little grin.

"Just doing some charity work," he says, voice all teasing and challenging, daring you to argue.

You can't help but scoff. The audacity of this man.

"Charity work? Please. If anyone's being charitable here, it's me."

He laughs—this deep, satisfied sound that fills his room. "Ha. Don't act like you didn't enjoy that just as much as I did."

Well. He's got you there, but you're not about to admit it out loud. Not when he's being this smug about it.

You tilt your head, feeling a crooked smile tug at your lips. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. Guess we'll never know."

He shifts closer to you, and fuck—even after everything you just did, your body still reacts to his proximity.

"Maybe I need to fuck you again to find out," he says, voice dropping low enough to make heat pool in your stomach.

"Oh? You sure you can handle another round, tough guy?"

The smirk he gives you is absolutely criminal.

"Sunshine, I've got stamina for days." He says it like he's joking, but something tells you he's not exaggerating.

"For days, huh?" You raise an eyebrow. "Someone's confident."

"Because I know you," he says softly, words ghosting across your skin.

That makes you pause.

Know you? 

He doesn't know you any more than you know him. 

Sure, your bodies seem to speak the same language—the way you fit together, how you respond to each other's touch. 

But that's all this is. 

All it can be. 

Nothing more complicated than pure physical attraction.

But you don't feel like getting into that right now. Not when you're both still riding the high of what just happened.

"Tempting," you say instead, drawing the word out. "But we've got a long night ahead, and I'd rather spend it actually sleeping."

He narrows his eyes at you, looking way too pleased with himself. 

"My bed seems to be the only place you're actually honest," he says, and how does he always have a comeback ready?

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Was that supposed to be a compliment, Jeon? Getting soft on me already?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, putting on this fake serious face. "Can't have you thinking I actually enjoy your company or something."

"Oh, please. Soft is literally the last word I'd use to describe you." You can't help but smirk at the double meaning.

A yawn catches you off guard—not because you're tired (okay, maybe a little), but because you're actually kind of... comfortable?

Weird. 

"Anyway, time for sleep. That's what we said we'd do, remember?

He literally snorts. "Sleep? After what we just did? You're fucking with me."

"Not anymore, I'm not," you shoot back, and the look on his face is actually priceless.

"Come on," he tries again. "Round two? I promise it'll be worth staying up for."

But you're already settling into his stupidly comfortable bed. "Nope. Some of us need actual sleep, thundercloud."

"Fine," he sighs, all dramatic about it. "But just so we're clear—this isn't me giving up. It's a tactical retreat."

You actually snort at that. "A tactical retreat? Is that what we're calling it?"

"Yeah, well." He pulls the covers up, finally accepting defeat. "Pushy ain't sexy."

You both settle comfortably in the quietness of his room.

And you can't help but ponder.

It's weird how easy this feels—being here with him, joking around after what you just did. 

Like you're not just teammates or gang members or even fuck buddies.

That thought's definitely more scary than it should be.

goal: 480 notes (also lil reminder to go vote fmu 21 and 22 on wattpad after the mass unvoting to restore them, if you enjoy that story as well! (●’◡’●)ﾉ)

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(COMMISSION)

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Reader Who Vocal Stims

★ Commissioner: @namosaga

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ The first time you meowed mid-conversation, ENA blinked once, paused, and offered you a deal on faux cat ears.“Meow? How quaint! May I offer you a three-for-one promotion on emotional support accessories?” You’d blurted the sound without thought—a little chime of contentment—and she’d answered it with a business proposal, solemn yet too bright-eyed. You laughed. She did not. Her eyes narrowed at the sheer marginal profit loss of wasted dopamine. Later that day, when you meowed again, more stressed this time, Meanie barked, “OH, IS THAT YOUR DISTRESS CALL OR ARE YOU JUST BROADCASTING TO THE DAMN ANIMALS?” You didn’t answer. You just meowed louder. Somehow… that felt like mutual understanding.

☆ You have a habit of repeating her last words under your breath, like an echo that got lost and never found its way back. ENA always notices. “Let’s arrange our next ambush at the scene—” “Ambush at the scene,” you echo, soft, almost reverent. She tilts her head, intrigued. “Practicing for the pitch? Or just haunted by my phrasing?” You hum, dodge the question. But you catch her testing it later. She throws out complex words like bait—“extrapolate,” “obfuscate,” “phenomenological transcendence”—just to hear your little trailing voice imitate her like a living reply. Meanie, however, hates it when you mimic her yelling. “STOP IT!! NO, I SAID STOP IT!! NO, I SAID!! NO, I—!!!” You both go in circles until you collapse in laughter. She does not laugh, but she does shut up.

☆ You tap rhythms on the countertop like Morse code for people who never learned it. Your fingers go tap-tap… tap tap tap… tap— ENA pauses her tea-stirring. “Hm. Is that jazz or a secret complaint about your eggs?” You shrug. You don’t always know yourself. Later that week, she starts replying with percussive desk taps of her own. It becomes your thing. Communication without speech. Her dual-colored hands dance out rebuttals, agreements, warnings. Meanie once banged the counter so hard trying to “respond” she snapped a spoon in two. “I’M SENDING A MESSAGE TOO, DIPSTICK!!” The message was, presumably: aggressive affection.

☆ When you stim by circling around your words, starting sentences with three false starts, ENA listens like it’s poetry. “Today I was—so I was going to—I mean I was thinking about…” She finishes it for you, gently: “Getting the lemon cake? Getting lost in a daydream? Getting ready to cry?” All three were right. You sniffled and nodded. “I read between the ellipses,” she said, smug. “Consider me your translation service for complicated feelings.” Meanwhile, Meanie had already thrown the menu across the café. “FOR GØD’S SAKE JUST SPIT IT OUT! SPIT IT, HACK IT, LAUNCH IT FROM YOUR STUPID THROAT!” She didn’t mean it unkindly. That’s just her love language: verbal bashing with a side of simmering loyalty.

☆ You sometimes sing little songs under your breath—tuned nonsense, soft melodies with no lyrics. ENA pretends to critique your pitch. “Hmmm…could use more vibrato. Also, have you considered writing jingles for our future cult?” But she never interrupts. Never mocks. Never tells you to hush. In fact, the one time you stopped mid-hum and said, “Is this annoying?”, she immediately looked wounded. “Darling. Your noise is the only sound in this world that isn’t static.” You didn’t expect her to say that. You never told her, but you wrote it down and stuck it in your pillowcase.

☆ One day, when you asked her to sing back… ENA tried. It wasn’t melodic. It wasn’t good. ENA cleared her throat like she was about to deliver a corporate anthem and then started crooning a strange, clipped verse: “Profits in the moonlight, margins in your eyes, return on emotional investment—” You burst out laughing. She looked pleased. Later that night, Meanie howled her own song through the hall. Off-key. Screaming. It was about frogs and debt and possibly your name. It was, against all logic, deeply moving.

☆ On your overstimulation days, when your stims get loud, clicks, taps, words that loop like caught records—Meanie at first doesn’t get it. “YOU’RE JUST MAKING IT WORSE! DO YOU WANT TO BE A WIND-UP DOLL ON THE FRITZ?!” But you flinch. Go quiet. She pauses. Squints. “…Hey,” she mutters, kicking at the floor. “You can, uh. Do the thing. Just… not near my megaphone.” By the third time it happens, she builds you a personal sound corner. A little cardboard tent of peace. She calls it dumb, but she’s careful never to rip it.

☆ You once meowed in public, startled, anxious and someone laughed. You shrunk. Went quiet. ENA stepped in front of you immediately, blocking the laughter with a smile sharp enough to bleed. “Dear friend,” she said sweetly to the stranger, “were you planning on finishing your sentence or just chewing your own tongue in futility?” Then, to you, quietly: “Your voice is valid currency. They just tried to pay with lint.”

☆ There’s a special stim you only do when you’re around her: a soft little click at the back of your throat whenever she talks too fast. Click. Click. Click. Like punctuation. At first, she didn’t notice. Then she started slowing down mid-sentence. “Let’s—click—organize—click—our next—click—ambush—click—” “…Are you editing me in real time?” You grinned. Clicked twice for “yes.” She laughed. She actually laughed. “I should start charging for the service.”

☆ The day you had a meltdown, full noise, spiraling echolalia, screaming, panic, ENA didn’t leave. She sat with you. Right there on the tile. Meanie yelled at the noise, not you. “OH SHUT UP, YOU STUPID PANIC, STOP TAKING WHAT’S NOT YOURS!!” Salesperson held your hand. “This moment is not your enemy. It’s a very intense coworker. Shall I fire it?” You didn’t answer. You just clung. Eventually, the sounds softened. The static in your mind thinned. And ENA, both of her, remained. Because love isn’t silence. It’s who stays when the noise is at its loudest.

[sweetlybun]

♡ hugging you tight

🍙 MEI SAYS : my first work ^_^ i hope this is good, i liked writing it!! now i wanna get a hug from all of them ahjhjaehjg 🌱 CHARACTERS : xiao, diluc, kaeya, albedo, childe x gn reader

🍀 XIAO

soft, awkward hugs... please teach him what a hug feels like.

i don't really think xiao is always one for hugs, so maybe when he does, it's either in times of desperation or he's let his walls down so much that he doesn't care anymore

the first time he hugged you, he was definitely blushing and trying not to think too hard about it HAHA and doing it for you!! because he cares, he'd fight the awkwardness to give you the human comfort you deserve

but i'd like to think that a hug from him feels good! unfamiliar, but in a good way; where you wished there was more without the circumstances

he holds on a little tighter than you do

🍀 DILUC

grounding, sturdy hugs -> the kinds that make you feel burrowed into his arms, all wrapped up tightly in there

hugs for comfort :( diluc definitely holds his lover lots, be it in bed or in the entranceway as you welcome him home. there are some days where he holds you tighter.

also thinking of a size difference with diluc... oh he's so big – so warm, so loving, so willing to wrap you up and protect you from the world.

he'd be so big with you against his chest :'( he's so much bigger and his frame just envelopes you its the best thing ever

🍀 KAEYA

TEASY HUGS :( hugs that pull you in closer as he laughs and brings your head closer into the crook of his neck!!

he's so silly he takes any chance to hug you .. something about him just screams wanting to be close to you any chance he gets! i think he'd be rather touch starved too

he pulls you into his arms by your hands, that sweet, sweet smile of joy that can only be seen when someone sees their lover...

please hold him tighter. underneath all that is just a man who yearns for reciprocation he never has to ask for ♡

🍀 ALBEDO

slightly awkward hugs... i'd like to think that his first few hugs with you were somewhat strange, like when you're a kid and friends with the neighbour boy and your moms force you to take a picture together

you have to teach him!! >:3 teach him what a good hug feels like

the intricacies of human touch, like the soft looking up into his eyes, or burying your head into his chest, or letting him rest his head against yours

time passes, and hugs are one of those things he doesn't let you ask for -> he just knows, somehow. like a little radar in his mind, just letting you fall straight into his arms

🍀 CHILDE

soft, sweet hugs that you melt right into

ohhhh i think a good long hug from him would heal the world solve all problems water your crops actually. somehow his body just knows; the right warmth, the right pressure, the right position, everything that makes you feel cradled and so well loved

i think it's also an older brother instinct maybe :( he knows how to make things better...

HE'S SO CUTE he has this habit of rubbing his thumb against your shoulder blade as you lean into him. the softest, sweetest, most comforting hug you've felt in a long time.

please hold him even tighter when he needs it!! at the very core of his love and protection is a man who needs to feel the same

[thewickedbohemian]

but the thing with mutants is that not every mutant has powers of the same threat level, like, (even among the X-Men never mind the countless mutants whose mutation is too minor to be of use, heck wasn't there some minor character who was some sort of aspiring entertainer whose mutation was literally just that his skin was naturally blue) for every Cyclops or Rogue who one might be able to argue could be a danger to others without the right training there's someone like Kitty Pryde whose mutation, yes, can technically be used to harm-if-not-kill others, but it'd have to be in such a specific way that you couldn't really do it by accident unless you had literally no control

And with Zootopia I always saw it as about prejudice in general/the nature of implicit biases as Judy faces as much prejudice (just in a different way) for being a small animal as Nick does for being a predator, y'know, remember the exchange with her boss (who also happens to be prey and that's never really addressed) "Sir, I'm not just some token bunny" "then writing 100 tickets a day should be easy". Also she was literally, well, not really a "DEI" hire but DEI got her into the academy, she just became valedictorian all on her own

the reason "robot racism" is often a really stupid metaphor is the same reason that like. discrimination against demons or vampires or whatever doesn't work, is because there's often a pretty justified reasons humans are scared of vampires or robots or whatever, in a way that doesn't apply to real life minorities, like a fantasy author will be like "the reason vampires are discriminated against is because most of them and kill and eat people for fun and pleasure, and so humans respond by trying to kill them, isn't that so sad" and like no that's a perfectly fine reason to not trust vampires i think.

[r4fe-cam3ron]

WARNINGS; *please read before reading* — NOT a romanticized oneshot, manipulation (though not plainly stated, it’s clear that remmick is only trying to feed), mentions of spousal abuse — bruises, mentions of a k*lling, a body, and blood, a vague ending. MDNI — 18+ an; this is my first try with remmick, and i’m not entirely sure if i enjoy this or if i’ll actually do anything else with this character — but i love horror and i thought it would be interesting to try and write something horror. if you do enjoy this, and would like to see more horror based oneshots or anything, let me know!! again, im not romanticizing anything in this short oneshot at all!!! please be sure to read all warnings before proceeding. (this is also just so i can actually catch up on all of jack’s film’s before writing for more characters!!)

It’s something that you barely thought about — locking the front door that leads into you and your husband's home. The fire had been put out long ago, smoke swirling its way up the chimney and into the night sky. 

Living room and kitchen had been cleaned after dinner, your feet hurting from the long day and eyes heavy with sleep. Although, your mind still reels from earlier and the visitor you’d grown to know over the last few months. 

The man’s name was Remmick. He was charming in a strange way, words that could pull you into any type of conversation and never bore you. You’ve known him for four months — he’s realized many, many things, even if you haven’t voiced them. 

He’s harmless. Drinks ice cold sweet tea, loves lemon poppyseed muffins and blueberry biscuits with homemade icing. There is something strange about him though — how he requests the curtains to be closed, and how he wears thick coats in the middle of summer and how he tries to shield himself from the light of day, staying until the sun dips below the horizon just enough. 

You don’t ask questions. You’re just happy to have a friend, someone to listen if you ever need a shoulder to cry on or to speak about the heavy weight on your shoulders to remain perfect. 

He’s caught on with what happens behind closed doors — the way you jerk away from his gentle touch, or the way you pull your sleeve to your wrist — to hide something, a secret. It has something dangerous — primal — wanting to shed its shell and show its ugly form. 

“I could help you, you know?” 

It’s said in passing, making you flinch from his voice breaking the long stretch of the silence that had lingered after sharing a plate that had two blueberry biscuits on top, the icing dripping down to the sides. Your eyes flicker up to meet his. “What do you mean?” The laugh that slips past your lips is shaky, nervous. You begin to shake your head. “I don’t need any help, Rem. I’m okay.” 

You stand, trying to move away from him, the conversation. You reach down, fingertips grazing under the plate before his hand is wrapping around your wrist in a gentle hold. Your heart skips a beat, eyes immediately shooting over to stare at him.

He’s already staring up at you. 

His other hand moves slowly, tugging up the sleeve that hides away any deep purple and blue marks or fading yellow-green ones. Your cheeks flush, embarrassed, and trying to pull your arm away only leads him to tighten his grip slightly and pull you closer. “Remmick, that’s not—”

“You think you’re clever at hidin’ them, but you're not,” His eyes drop down to your arms. Goosebumps raise slowly as his fingers trail slowly up your skin, tracing over slowly. “Thinkin’ this is a type punishment is low for a man,” He shakes his head. 

You watch as his eyes trace around the marks, before his head slowly begins to lower and his hands gently cradle your arm in a soft hold as he lifts it slowly. His lips meet the skin, pressing a soft kiss against a fresh mark. 

You’re sweating now, chest beginning to heave slightly. You know you should stop him, but there’s just something so captivating about the man, the words die in your throat when you feel a slight nip from his teeth. The chair shifts under his weight when he stands, your body stumbling back slightly, pressing into the table from the way he crowds into your space. 

“Let me help.” He whispers, eyes darting down to your lips, then your neck. He watches as your pulse begins to pick up, the smell of sweat beading at the hollow of your throat. He relishes the moment, eyes flickering to yours once again. 

You swallow your spit — your throat feeling as if it was glued together with pins and needles. The thought is intoxicating. You’re not exactly sure how Remmick would help, but you know he would follow through on his word. 

His grin is dangerous, sharp, when you finally nod your head. It’s hesitant, but it’s still yes, help me. 

His hand is cold when he cradles your jaw, something that sends chills over your body, your spine straightening from the touch, and the hair on the back of your neck stands straight. 

“Leave the door unlocked tonight,” His voice is low. “I’ll be sure to not wake you.” 

You’re still awake — your eyes now wiped from the heaviness of sleep they were carrying. There’s something that’s different tonight, something in the atmosphere that shifts. You’re not sure what it is, or what it could be, but the way your heart pounded and fingers clenched at the sheets, you aren't sure that you enjoy the feeling. 

It’s distant when you hear the floorboard that squeaks outside your bedroom — you’ve gotten used to listening for it when your husband would come home at three in the morning. 

The door creaks open slowly, the sound of heavy boots making their way over. Your eyes squeeze shut immediately. The slow, tantalizing steps make your breathing hitch quietly, they’re coming closer to you. 

They stop. A finger slowly pushes away the strand of hair that had slipped against your temple, you try not to flinch. The touch is gone and the sound of his boots make their way around the bed once again before stopping. 

It’s sickening — the sounds. The bed jerks and a hand shoots out to grip your arm, but another is jerking his arm away, the sound of bone cracking has your hand pressing over your ear as you try to bury your head deeper into the pillow. 

The bed jerks once more, roughly, before something drops onto the floor with a heavy thud. Slowly pulling your hand away, your breath shaky with every exhale, you wait to move. 

It’s only a minute. Slowly looking over your shoulder, eyes burning with tears, the sight you’re met with is sickening — there’s deep crimson that stains the pillow case and blankets. Sitting up, you stumble to the ground, head banging against the floor. 

A sob leaves your throat and a sudden pounding against your temple has you feeling even more nauseous. There’s something warm under your hand and face, your cheek sticking to the ground. Slowly opening your eyes, you blink once, the grim reality of what Remmick’s help truly meant. 

Your husband's face is stuck in a scream, fear etched onto his face, the life from his eyes dull. Flaring your nose, you slowly lift from the ground, shaky hand lifting as you stare at the small red river that trails down your arm, wrapping around slowly before dripping onto your nightgown. 

A small sound leaves you as you turn your head, eyes lifting as a quick tear rolls down your cheek. Remmick stands by the window, the moonlight seeping into the room casting a ghostly glow over his body. 

“I told you I’d help you,” His voice is different now — deeper, gravelly. “Now, you help me.”

[elodieunderglass]

Long-time listener, first time caller here! In reference to Bill the Pony and the mines, are you familiar with the poem “The Bells of Heaven” by Ralph Hodgson? (Harriet Vane fans also take note!)

Twould ring the bells of Heaven

The wildest peal for years,

If Parson lost his senses

And people came to theirs,

And he and they together

Knelt down with angry prayers

For tamed and shabby tigers

And dancing dogs and bears,

And wretched, blind pit ponies,

And little hunted hares.

(In reference to how original character Killie would give a PowerPoint presentation on pit ponies and how Bill the Pony, a SHETLAND, would be well-enough suited to a mine that he should have come with them. Which you can imagine sparking off a fight with his lotr nerd boyfriend, who’d be pointing out that based on this extensive evidence, mines do indeed appear to be bad places for ponies, and Killie pointing out that a perfectly navigable mine is right in a Shetland’s wheelhouse while octopuses aren’t, and Derek pointing out the orcs, and Killie pointing out that if they knew about the orcs why did they all lie. This was presented as an operational mine. Take the pony. And Derek’s like it isn’t that deep. You are supposed to be immersed in the story. And Killie’s natural sense of justice is too outraged by Not Appreciating Pit Ponies that he says he is Done with this Stupid Film and goes for a 5k run.) 🏃‍♂️

Anyway LEAVING ASIDE Killie, the rotten little weirdo, and his TERMINAL HORSE OBSESSION - I adore this poem. The origin of Harriet Vane’s “shabby tigers”! Which represents what I believe to be the stirring of both her and Peter’s latent, just-for-this-one-person twinges of vestigial heterosexuality 🫡 🐅 they are both gay but straight for each other (to me)

Pit ponies. Pit ponies are indeed incredibly moving to me. A small creature, a little horse, that is forced for its life into the dark; some, once a year, had a single holiday of sun and grass… some were permanently dropped into the mineshaft, lowered in chains, and lived their whole lives down there. The image of the pony dropped in chains; working in their mining gear; the ponies with their little mining helmets - sometimes with cages over the eyes; but what did it matter if they went blind? - and how kindly the miners cared for them. How they were loved, how they were exploited, how they were used up - eaten all up - just like the coal, just like the miners - fuel for the engines. Hundreds of years of little animals toiling deep and lonely under the earth. Their little stables carved in rock! Their little names! How could you NOT write poetry for them. How could you NOT feel how heavy the mountain was on their backs! How heavy the empire! Those poor miners, those poor canaries, those poor ponies.

I have a daemonAU fanfic with a pit pony daemon in it. Her name is Anne, and she should end her story by getting to go on some grass, under a clean sky, and thinking about the things she likes.

And I don’t think dungeons and mines and Deep Places in fiction should get away, clean-handed and bloodless, without the ghost of a pit pony or two in there. If the mines are no place for a pony, they’re no place for miners either.

Thank you so much for writing in - it’s lovely to meet you.

[writeriguess]

Okay, first of all, I ADORE your writing! You just GET the characters, and I seriously look up to you. You even made me wanna write Bakugo again, and I thought I was past that phase. Anyway, is it weird to request a fanfic of a fanfic? Because I cannot write smut to save my life. No pressure at all, but I wrote Bakugo with an unhinged, lovestruck reader who’s always trying to win him over while he pretends not to care (but totally does). They end up together, and I’d love a fic where reader tries to surprise him with something sexy in her usual chaotic way. He’s surprised, laughs, but ultimately goes along with it because, well, that’s why he loves her. Some fluffy, comedic smut, if you’re up for it. But if not, no worries at all. Just wanted to shoot my shot!

Laced with Chaos

Katsuki Bakugo has been dealing with your bullshit for a long time.

It started with the relentless, borderline concerning pursuit. Grand declarations of love in public places. Handmade gifts that ranged from endearing to downright dangerous. A once-a-week habit of sneaking into his agency, just to throw him finger guns and whisper "call me, Dynamight" before security dragged you out.

And, to be fair, you did eventually win him over.

He’d begrudgingly fallen for the way your chaotic energy filled every room you entered, how you never took his attitude personally, how you loved him so unapologetically he didn’t stand a chance. It had been inevitable. Unavoidable. His fate, whether he liked it or not.

Still, if there was one thing he should have expected by now, it was that you’d never stop being a walking, talking, sexier-than-you-had-any-right-to-be problem.

Which is why, when he comes home from patrol and finds you standing in the bedroom doorway, draped in sheer black lace, holding what appears to be a homemade whip crafted out of shoelaces and a broken phone charger—he nearly drops his duffel bag.

“…The fuck?”

Your grin is dazzling. “Welcome home, Dynamight. Hope you’re ready for a night of debauchery and sin.”

Oh god. You’re doing a voice.

He squints, stepping closer. "The hell is on your head?"

It’s a DIY lace veil, of course. Because of course you’d take it that extra step.

"Do you like it?" You wiggle your shoulders in what he thinks is supposed to be a seductive manner. "I thought I’d spice things up, you know? Give you a night to remember. Make all your dirtiest fantasies come true."

Bakugo drags a hand down his face. "Why do I feel like you're about to hit me with a theme?"

“Because I am,” you say brightly. "I call this... The Fallen Angel: A Tale of Lust and Damnation.”

He chokes. "A tale—?!"

"You found me, broken and longing," you continue, as if you didn’t just give him an aneurysm. "Cast from the heavens for the crime of loving too hard.” A pause. Then, seriously, “And maybe also tax fraud. But mostly love.”

He wants to die. He wants to walk into the ocean and never come back.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "What the fuck am I listening to right now?"

"A story, Katsuki," you say with conviction. "Our story. One of passion, redemption, and—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there." He sighs heavily, tossing his duffel onto the floor. "Where’d you even get that outfit?"

You gesture grandly to the bed. “Oh, I made it.”

Bakugo looks.

There, in a heap of suffering, lies a pile of butchered lingerie. Expensive-looking lace bras that have been haphazardly cut into strange, asymmetrical shapes. A pair of fishnets with the crotch completely obliterated (why). And, off to the side, a sewing kit he knows you have no idea how to use.

His eye twitches. “Babe."

“Yeah?”

“…Is that superglue?”

“Maybe.”

He prays for patience. “Why?”

“Because stitches take too long.”

He closes his eyes. Counts to five. Opens them again. "You glued yourself into your own outfit?"

You lift your chin. "Wouldn't be the first time."

He stares at you. You stare back.

Then, slowly—so painfully slowly—Bakugo exhales, and a grin twitches at the corner of his lips.

And that’s when you know.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping closer, hands pressed to your heart. “Are you laughing?”

His jaw clenches. “No.”

"You are."

“Shut up.”

"You love me."

He grabs you, hauls you into his arms, and throws you onto the bed before you can gloat any further. You squeal, but it immediately turns to a giggling mess as he lands on top of you, pinning you beneath his weight.

“Listen,” he says, voice low, fingers curling beneath your chin. “You wanna be a fuckin’ menace? Fine. But you do not have to DIY your damn lingerie, dumbass.”

You pout up at him, thoroughly unrepentant. “But I wanted to make it special.”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip. His eyes darken. “…Tch. The only thing special about this is the fact that you haven’t glued yourself shut.”

You bat your lashes at him. “Would you still hit it if I did?”

He barks a laugh, loud and rough and real, before dragging his teeth over your neck. “Don’t test me, idiot.”

You shiver, tilting your head, giving him more access. “You’re not mad?”

He nips at your skin, soothing the sting with his tongue. “Nah.”

Your heart soars. “So you do like it—”

He bites you harder, shutting you up with a sharp gasp. “Don’t push it.”

You whimper, squirming beneath him. His hands slide down your sides, slipping beneath the sham of a lace bodysuit you’ve trapped yourself in, and—

—rrrRIIIIP!

You gasp. "Bakugo!"

"What?" He grins, teeth sharp, voice smug. “Just helpin’ you out, babe. Ain't like you're gettin' outta this thing on your own.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

Then, finally—“…Hot.”

He laughs again, this time softer, and presses his forehead to yours. “You drive me crazy,” he mutters. “But fuck if I don’t love the shit outta you.”

And then—well.

You do end up making it a night to remember.

Just… maybe not the way you originally planned.

[technecat-scratchings]

Here is another common argument I see when people defend genAI as 'just being the next step in automated technology'. In fact, I've had multiple lengthy discussions with people about why it's a bad comparison, so I'm going to break down my reasoning with some of these examples as a springboard.

This one is...long. 🧑🏻‍🏫

"I'm stealing jobs from portrait painters every time I take a selfie" is a bad comparison because photographers did not replace portrait painters in their entirety and because cameras take a fair degree of skill to use well. If you wanted a professional portrait, you would still have to pay one of these two types of artisans to get it.

"Computer used to be a profession", yes, and now, computer programmer is a profession. The technology changed the required skill set, but did not replace the need for the skilled artisan. (Yes, coders are artisans.)

These comparisons, and others like them, focus on the progress of technology ignoring an extremely important aspect of the argument. That being, why does technology improve? The answer to this is, simply put, that technology improves in order to decrease the need for human labor in tasks that are tedious, unpleasant, and sometimes dangerous.

Do you really believe that people who washed dishes for a living before dishwashers came along bemoaned technology that made their jobs easier? Or lost their jobs because of it? Note that dishwasher is still a job in 2025, because an electric dishwasher is (1) a tool that requires human input and (2) cannot be used for all things that need washing.

"But wait", you may be thinking, "generative AI also requires human input and cannot be used for all things, therefore it is just a tool like a dishwasher!" And you would be half-correct in that it is a tool, but wrong that it is nothing like a dishwasher.

Do you enjoy washing dishes? I don't. The task itself is fine, but its Sisyphian nature is maddening. It would be ten times worse if I had to hand wash everything, so I am grateful that I have a reasonably good electric dishwasher to do the hardest part for me-- the hardest part being the physical labor that goes into washing a week's worth of dishes. With a dishwasher, the only physical labor I have to do is scrape the dishes, load them into the washer in the correct configuration, put in soap, and set the buttons (then later, reverse half the process to put them away). I only wash dishes because I have to wash dishes. It's labor that I would gladly automate away completely if the opportunity presented itself.

Art, however, whether music, writing, drawing, photography, voice acting, performing- is not labor that needs to be automated because it is labor that is--and this part is important-- enjoyable and fulfilling to the laborer. I know some people hate the "art is human" argument, but I'm sorry, art is a huge part of human culture and society and it always has been. People have always pursued art for its own sake, building the skills needed to create it because it is meaningful to them to do so, and not because they have to.

And, believe it or not, even the art and design that you may think is unimportant and ripe for automation, like marketing, advertising, character design, jingle writing, voice-overs-- is actually something that someone cared enough to hone a skill in and even -dare I say?- someone's passion.

I love designing lesson plans and handouts. I use Canva for layout because the district covers it and I get to use all the features for free. Canva is always pushing for me to have their "AI" create the layout or write the content or generate images for me. I hate that; I never use any of those features. For me, the joy of making the handouts is making them. It is a craft I like to do so I don't need to replace that with algorithmic automation.

But worksheets are, admittedly, a weird comparison for most people. They are an artform to me but most teachers would love to have someone else do that labor for them. There's a whole digital marketplace called Teachers Pay Teachers that is literally for the purpose of paying fellow teachers who enjoy doing that kind of work. Wild, right? Paying someone for labor that they enjoyed doing because you wanted the results but didn't or couldn't do the labor enjoyably yourself?

And now we can loop back around to the real reason why generative AI being called "just another tool" is a problem. Because the "problem" the tool is "solving" is paying for labor. The issue the technology addresses is not, "I want this to be easier for me to do on my own" but, "I want this result but I do not want to pay a skilled laborer to do it, nor do I want to invest the time in learning to do it myself".

People still pay huge amounts of money to get their portraits professionally painted. Humans like things that other humans make. We like to see the results of struggle and effort and celebrate successes with people. The art patron pays willingly because they value the labor that goes into a painting. Photography did not replace the portrait painters, it created a new type of artist who gained a new skill set and mastered a new technology that, ultimately, just gave everyone a new way to enjoy art (and pay for the labor that went into it).

Defenders of genAI as a 'tool' for creation like to argue that prompt writing is a honed skill. Well, so is drawing a relatively straight line on a piece of paper. It's not a particularly impressive or labor intensive skill, but you do have to practice to get a passable result. But I don't see anyone arguing that someone who draws a relatively straight line on a paper is on par with a trained artist, nor that they should be paid for labor in equal to what a trained artist should earn.

And yet, that's what these AI companies want people to believe. They want you to believe that the effort of imagining something and telling someone else to create it for you is equal to the effort of creating it yourself. That they are simplifying your life by removing the tedious labor of having to learn a skill for the purposes of your own enjoyment. That art isn't actually labor that deserves to be paid for, because it can be almost fully automated.

But in reality, they just don't want to pay a human being to do art. Don't let them trick you. It is in their best interest as tech companies to devalue human labor as much as possible (even though that will, eventually, backfire on them) and they will push that narrative as hard as they can for as long as they can to keep filling their pockets.

I've finally figured out an argument that convinces coding tech-bros that AI art is bad.

Got into a discussion today (actually a discussion, we were both very reasonable and calm even through I felt like committing violence) with a tech-bro-coded lady who claimed that people use AI in coding all the time so she didn't see why it mattered if people used AI in art.

Obviously I repressed the surge of violence because that would accomplish nothing. Plus, this lady is very articulate, the type who makes claims and you sit there thinking no that's wrong it must be but she said it so well you're kind of just waffling going but, no, wait-- so I knew I had to get this right if I was gonna come out of this unscathed.

The usual arguments about it being about the soul of it and creation fell flat, in fact she was adamant that anyone who believed that was in fact looking down at coding as an art form as she insisted it is. Which, sure, you can totally express yourself through coding. There's a lot more nuance as to the differences but clearly I was not going to win this one.

The other people I was with (literally 8 people anti-ai against her, but you can't change the mind of someone who doesn't want to listen and she just kept accusing us of devaluing coding as an art) took over for I kid you not 15 minutes while I tried desperately to come up with a clear and articulate way to explain the difference to her. They tried so many reasonable arguments, coding being for a function ("what, art doesn't serve a function?") coding being many discrete building blocks that you put together differently, and the AI simply provides the blocks and you put it together yourself ("isn't that what prompt building is") that it's bad for the environment ("but not if it's used for capitalism, hm?" "Yeah literally that's how capitalism works it doesn't care about the environment" she didn't like that response)

But I finally got it.

And the answer is: It's not about what you do, it's about what you claim to be.

Imagine that someone asks an AI to write a code and, by some miracle, it works perfectly without them having to tweak it---which is great because they couldn't tell you what a single solitary thing in that code means.

Now imagine this person, with their code that they don't know how it works, goes and applies to be a coder somewhere, presenting this AI code as proof that they're qualified.

Should they be hired?

She was horrified, of course. Of course they shouldn't be. They're not qualified. They can't actually code, and even if by some miracle they did have an AI successfully write a flawless code for every issue they came across that wouldn't be their code, you could hire any shmuck on the street to do that, no reason to pay someone like they're creating something.

When actual engineers use AI what they do is get some kind of base, which they then go though and check for problems and then if they find any they fix them, and add on to the base code with their own knowledge instead of just trying different prompt after prompt until they randomly come across one that works.

People who generate code like this don't usually call themselves engineers. They're people who needed a bit of code and didn't have the knowledge to generate it, and so used a resource.

And there you go. There are people who have none of the skills of artists, they don't practice, they don't create for themselves. When they feed the prompt to the AI they then don't just use the resulting image as a reference point for their own personal masterpiece, and if they don't like it they don't have the skills to change it---they simply try another prompt, and do that until they get something they like.

These people are calling themselves artists.

Not only that, these people are bringing the AI generated thing to interviews, and they are getting hired, leaving people who slave over their craft out of the job.

And that is the difference, for the tech bros who think AI art isn't a big deal.

[excusetowrite]

Let Him In (2)

Part One Part Two

Summary: On a sweltering southern film set, our young actress discovers that the hardest part of her role isn’t the intimacy written in the script—it’s the desire building between takes. With every lingering touch and look that lasts too long, her co-star Jack pulls her deeper into a dangerous game of blurred lines and buried desires. And when the cameras roll on their most intimate scene yet, she’s left wondering if she ever really had a choice—or if the performance became something far more consuming.

Warnings: Minors DNI. Lots of themes of obsession and possession here. Flirting, tension, talks of smut, and a very very heated filmed scene that you'll have to read for yourself. Nothing too out of the ordinary for this type of fic, hope you enjoy part two. And yes, there will be more >:))

The Taste of Pretending

At first, I thought his Irish accent would be the death of me, but I quickly learned I also have a thing for Southern men. Jack was kind-too kind sometimes. And whether he liked making me nervous or just cared too much about his craft, the effect was the same: I couldn’t breathe around him. We spent a long time that first night going over our scene for the next day and though I fought my mind from roaming Jack was nothing but respectful- and charming, and dreamy, and distracting. He fell into character in a way that shocked me and for me it was easy to pretend to be infatuated with him because it wasn’t so far from the truth. 

The first scene was on the log with Mary. I didn’t have many lines, Imogen in general doesn’t have many lines after she’s turned. All I had to do was sit there, on his right, his arm possessively around my waist, then later when the scene turned more intense gripped on my thigh. Imogen stares at Mary as if in a love-sick trance, only speaking up when spoken to directly. We filmed that scene many times that day and from many different angles. Hours of close intimate contact, some takes more, some less, but always constant. 

The next few weeks were more of the same. We filmed most of the outdoor scenes and fight sequences—those were tough. One night, we had to cut because of an alligator in the water, and after that, Jack kept very close. Hiding my attraction was incredibly hard especially when the work was already so intimate. I caught myself staring at him- his arms, his chest, his waist, lower. No better than a man. At least I could blame it on method acting- pretend that my lingering stares and flushed cheeks were just part of the role. When we would wrap for the night he would walk with me to our trailers after we got out of hair and makeup, sometimes asking to come in to work on something and sometimes I think he could tell I was just too tired. The nights were long, and most of our sleep schedules were completely ruined by that point. 

There came a point when I noticed that some of the times I invited him in we talked less and less about whatever we were working on the next day, around this time I also noticed his roaming eyes. I was partial to nightgowns and it wasn’t like I wasn’t already treating him like eye candy. Our scenes were becoming dangerously easy to shoot. I wanted to believe it was chemistry, but deep down, I knew it was something else, something harder to turn off when the cameras stopped rolling. One particular evening we were sitting across from each other sharing some drinks in my trailer, supposedly giving each other notes, when he let me go off topic. It was so easy to talk to him, and he seemed like he wanted to listen, and my drink had me feeling a little tipsy, so I talked. Rambled, really. He would interject curiously to keep the conversation moving but really I think he just wanted to hear me. That's when it came up that I used to write.

“Oh that’s awesome, a woman of many talents. What’d ye write about?” he asked as his lips perked up at the corners. 

“Fanfictions,” I blurted, regretting it the second the word left my mouth. “That was a long time ago though, I stopped when I was sixteen or seventeen maybe.” 

His laugh was low and knowing, not mocking—more like he’d just confirmed a long-held suspicion. “Of course ye did,” he teased, eyes sparkling over the rim of his glass. “Let me guess... scandalous ones?” 

There was no stopping the heat that rushed to my cheeks and my comfortable demeanor immediately fell away as flashes of my stories of him rushed through my mind. Involuntarily I crossed my legs as embarrassment, and slight arousal overtook me. He could see the shift and his eyes and smile widened in a way that reminded me so much of Cook. I tried to take the humility on the nose as I shrugged and we laughed. 

“Who was lucky enough to earn the perverted attention of teenage you?” he asked as our laughs calmed. 

I leaned back into the cushion, his eyes jumping for a split second to the rising hemline of my nightgown. His gaze flicked lower, and I swear I felt the path of it like a physical touch. My skin prickled under the thin fabric. I shifted, suddenly hyperaware of how every small movement seemed like a silent confession. Lifting my drink to my mouth I responded, “That—I’m not sharing,” I shot back, trying to sound confident even as my cheeks burned. “Some things are better left buried in the dark corners of the internet where I left them.” Sure, he could know I was a horny teen—I mean, who wasn’t? The rest stays a secret. 

His smile turned sharp. “Dangerous to leave things buried, love. They’ve got a way of clawing their way back up.” For a beat, the air felt heavier, like the moment just before a storm breaks. He leaned back in his seat, legs stretched out, his eyes dragging over me slow and deliberate. I suddenly became acutely aware of how thin my nightgown really was. He eyed me curiously and smirked before moving back to our scripts.

That was the first night I crossed a line. An imaginary line that only I knew about, but a line nonetheless. By the time Jack retired to his own trailer it was early morning and I was just a little more than tipsy. The alcohol made it harder not to look at him, to think about him, and the time I spent sitting there became incredibly frustrating. As soon as he was gone and I was in my bed alone, I did it. Reading it was bad enough. Finding release to the stories and photos of the man in the trailer next to mine made me feel wrong, but also more excited than I had been in a very long time. 

—

I’m proud to say that I’ve held my own as an amateur in this cast of actors by trade. I was also happy to have built a genuine friendship with my co-stars, especially Jack. We were always together on set of course, but I felt myself gravitating towards him off set as well. An intrusion he did not mind. 

The flirty game of a friendship we had was fun, but the first time I noticed a real shift was when we filmed the scene trying to get into Club Juke. Remmick and Imogen, Joan and Bert, two white couples just trying to sing some music and have a good time. Like always Jack- Remmick’s arm was around my waist and on one particular take Michaels character Stack looked over me in a different way than the previous takes. More intently, with more intrigue. We all tried different stuff many of the takes we did and this was no different than that, just an option to pick later. Completely improvised. 

What was also improvised was the flash of anger that crossed Remmick’s face, just for a split second, blink and you’ll miss it. And the charming smile was back, but not before his grip on my hip tightened to almost an uncomfortable amount. The mood shifted—subtle but sharp, like the snap of a wire pulled too tight. No one else seemed to notice, but I felt it in every nerve under his hand. Still I stayed in character. Still I looked at Jack starry eyed and tried to capture a reason on his face but the character had taken over him again. It was the way his fingers dug into my hips—not enough to hurt, but enough to leave the ghost of pressure behind. His grip said, mine, even if no one else could see it. And the way he looked at me—dark, focused, like he was memorizing every inch—made me feel owned in a way that wasn’t in the script. We finished the scene and that was the end of it, though when our characters walked away slowly I couldn’t help but notice how tense Jack was, how the arm shrugged over my shoulders was not loosely hanging but wrapped possessively. 

Later that evening when I left hair and makeup he was already waiting for me. We walked in near silence this time. The air between us felt heavier than the heat hanging over the set. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his head ducked just enough to make me wonder if he was thinking as hard as I was trying not to. Every few steps, our arms would almost brush. Almost. Neither of us closed the gap. As we approached our trailers I went to ask him if he was alright but before I could he turned and asked, “You know what we’re filming tomorrow, right?”

I racked my mind for a moment before my cheeks flushed, yes, our next scene was the one where he turns me, and during a lustful act to say the least. I had been putting off mentally preparing for that day and for the separation I’d have to manage in my head between my own attraction and Imogens and in doing so the day snuck up on me. His words felt like a warning and a promise all at once. I nodded, but my throat had gone too tight to say anything clever back. And wasn’t that just the problem? I never had the right words around him—not when it mattered. He returned the nod as I began to walk up the steps to my trailer, eager to be out of the uncomfortable situation. 

“Will you ever tell me?” he asked up at me. I turned to look at him, confusion furrowing my brow. “Who you wrote your smut about?” 

I laughed lightly and shook my head, again turning to go into my trailer. I stopped at the top of the steps and turned, just enough to look down at him. He stood there, hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or go. For once, I wasn’t the one squirming under his gaze. He was the one hesitating. Waiting. 

“So, I take it you don’t want to invite me in to practice tonight?” he asked. This time when I turned to look at him he was smiling, but I could tell he was nervous. 

I let my eyes drag over him slowly- deliberately. His jaw tightened. His shoulders tensed like he was bracing for a blow or something much worse: rejection.

“Do you want me to?” I asked, voice light, teasing. But it was the kind of tease that knew exactly how much weight it carried. His mouth parted- no sound. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, and God, it was almost too easy now. I watched the nerves flicker across his face like he wasn’t used to being the one left standing in the heat of his own want. I asked. I don’t think he was expecting that response because his smile fell away and for the first time he was the one looking at me nervously. “Hmm,” I hummed, stepping back toward the door, letting the screen swing half-closed between us. “I think I’m better at improvising that sort of thing.” Then, with a smile just this side of wicked, I added, “Goodnight, Remmick,” and closed the door behind me, leaving him out there in the thick, humid air with nothing but his imagination to keep him company. 

Later that evening in the comfort of my own bed I did it again. Masturbating to someone you know personally will always be weird, and I am not recommending doing it. But there is something about it that gets me very hot and bothered. Especially knowing he’s right next door, and especially after trying to prepare myself for the next day.

—

  The next day was a closed set. Only us, the intimacy coordinator, director, and needed techs. We had already filmed the scene leading up to it days ago. Imogen, walking home from her job in town late at night, unknowing of Remmick watching her from the woods. He could smell her blood and it smelled like his own, he liked that- took that as a sign. That’s what the script says at least. Of course they stumble across each other and he offers to walk her home like a gentleman, it’s dangerous on these roads at night for a pretty lady to walk alone. Imogen isn’t used to the attention, especially not from a handsome man. Her fathers protective and the only interaction Imogen usually gets is from customers at her job, customers who do not like her Irish born father. 

It’s a long walk of course and Remmick asks for a drink of water when we reach the porch. Imogen considers for a moment, her father would not approve, but her mother and father were out of town right now. And Remmick was very, very convincing. So she does what any other girl in her position would do. She lets him in. 

We ran through the rough blocking with Ryan and the intimacy coordinator a few times before we started filming for real, and that was intense enough. Starting in the small living room and moving to the kitchen, the counter, the table. I could do this. This is going to be easy. I’m a professional. Before I know it we are on our marks and someone yells action. 

It’s easy to fall into Imogen especially after all this time, easy to remember my lust as I look at him standing in front of me, and equally as easy to anxiously turn and rush into the kitchen to start filling a glass of water. My back is to him but I know he’s approaching. Predator and prey. 

“So, pretty girl like yourself lives out here all alone?” he asks as he enters the kitchen. 

I turn to look at him, his grey contacts are in but I pretend like I don’t notice. “No,” I respond as I hand him the glass of water and continue, “My Ma and Pa are usually here but they’re gone right now.”

He nods his head knowingly and drinks the water, a smile spreading across his face as he starts to approach me. My back hits the counter as he enters my space to set his glass behind me and I- Imogen- suck in a breath. He smells like Jack, like cologne and tobacco. I close my eyes at the realization and hope it fits for the scene. How many time had I imagined that scent late at night? He doesn’t move out of my space. Remmick takes space; he doesn't retreat from it. 

His voice is low as he says, “Hmm, don’t they think that’s kinda dangerous? Leaving you out here all by yourself?” He shrugs a little, the distance between us nearly closed as I come to meet his eyes. I can’t tell who I’m looking at. Jack, or Remmick. 

“I can take care of myself,” I say as I turn my head to the side sheepishly. I know he’s hit his cue to stare at my unknowingly exposed neck when I hear him suck in a sharp breath. 

“Oh, I bet you can.” The scene moves at an agonizing pace, and I can feel the tension rising—between us, in the room, in me. It only breaks when I finally look up at him and for that split second I see him, not Remmick but Jack, before the obsession returns and he closes the distance, lips crashing into mine. 

Being kissed like this feels like possession, feels like melting into him, feels like full surrender. It was hard and fast and heated. His hands grabbing and roaming my middle. Suddenly I’m lifted off the ground by strong arms and set firmly on the counter earning a gasp even though I knew it was coming. He’s standing between my legs now, just close enough to be professional and just far enough to be frustrating. Still we devour each other. His hand goes to my hair and nestles for a moment before pulling my head to the side, exposing my neck to him. 

He kisses down my flesh sloppily, nibbling and sucking in all the right spots. A moan escapes me, a real one, but no one will know. I’m an actress, I’m supposed to be acting. Still at this I feel him groan into my skin before continuing his assault. 

He doesn’t bite, not how Remmick is supposed to. Instead after we know they have more than enough film he pulls away and sucks in a deep breath, composing himself. His hand is still rooted in my hair and his eyes lock onto mine as he says, “I want to taste you.” It’s the closest to a question that he was going to get. I nod my head eagerly and he smiles greedily, as far as he’s concerned he already has me. And as far as I’m concerned he does as well. 

He returns to kissing me, gentler this time, hands sliding up my exposed legs and under the hem of my skirt at an agonizing pace. There's lube spread across the inside of my upper thigh and as soon as I feel him run his fingers through it my eyes widen and I throw my head back in a gasp. Remmick smiles and watches me greedily, finding pleasure in knowing he already has this control over me. We act it out for a few more beats before he finally removes his hand and lifts his glistening fingers for me to see. 

“All this for me?” he asks, lifting his finger to his mouth. He sucks on it slowly, eyes closing, brow furrowing like he’s savoring a delicacy. I watch him, hungrily and enthralled, then when his finger finally leaves his mouth he's dead calm as he lifts his pointer and middle to my lips. “Taste,” he orders. So I do. Slowly at first, then more greedily. The lube is strawberry flavored, but I can taste him as well. Sometimes there is no movie magic for these sort of one shot scenes. He just stands there watching me, heavy breathing and eyes blown out. When he finally removes his fingers with a pop he doesn’t hit his line immediately, for a second he just blinks, as if for just a second he forgot. But then he shakes his head. “Not enough,” is the only warning I get before he's kneeling before me and hiking my dress up, head dipping between my thighs. 

Of course it went no further than that but we still had a job to do. He started miming the intimate moment, just inches away from where I wanted him the most. I threw my head back and moaned, brow furrowing, one hand bracing myself on the counter while the other flew to tangle in his hair and I gently began pulling. This earned a growl from him and he moved more feverishly. I felt him rub his lips and chin across the lube and I could have sworn I felt it, soft kisses moving along the inside of my thigh where the lube was placed, a trick of the mind- heat of the moment. It helped me perform either way, helped me be more believable. His hands held my hips firmly in place, legs hiked over his shoulders, if I wanted to move I couldn’t- I didn’t want to. 

I gently squeezed his head twice—just barely. The cue we decided to use when I’d act like I was reaching climax. And boy, was I acting. I’ve never seen him move so quickly, one second on the ground before me and the next he was up again and lifting me off the counter earning a genuine gasp from me. 

“Not yet,” he said, his mouth and chin glistening with more than just the lube on account of the drool-inducing mints. “Not until I say so.” My legs wrapped around his center and arms around his neck as he turned and walked me to the table, holding me with one strong arm as the other brushed everything off of it in one swift motion before setting me down and standing before me. 

My hands moved hastily to grasp at the buttons of his shirt, but he stopped that with one swift motion yanking it over his head and slinging it on the ground. Chest now bared to me I made quick work of curiously roaming and kissing his newly exposed skin. His head dipped back and he let out a moan. I may have been leaving marks, but I didn’t care, and he must not have either because he didn’t stop me. Just left me to make sloppy work across him while they got their shot. 

Then, more calmly than any man should have been, he grabbed either side of my shirt collar and ripped my blouse open, loosely sewn buttons flying everywhere, leaving me in just the bra. He moved fast on the newly exposed skin, kissing and sucking, nibbling and- biting. There was only one place to go from here and we were fastly approaching that cue. 

His hands hiked my skirt up before fiddling with his buckle. My arms wrapped around his neck, our brows pushed together, eyes locked as we acted out passing that final precipice. We both let out groans of satisfaction before he started to move his hips, hands gripped on my waist. Of course there was fabric between us, but every few thrusts he got just a little too close, brushed up against where I wanted him the most ever so slightly, earning real moans and groans from me- but they were frustration not pleasure. I hope the camera can’t tell the difference. 

I had to move or I was going to explode, so I did. I improvised, laying back on the table, arms stretched above my head, body revealed and vulnerable before him. He didn’t miss a beat, and when I opened my eyes to glance up at him, his brow was sweaty and furrowed with pleasure, mouth hanging open, letting out lewd noises I’d only dreamed of. His chest still glistened, blooming with fresh marks just how I’d left it. His eyes locked on mine, and we shared a few glorious, intimate beats holding that eye contact. It almost felt real. Almost.

Then they yelled cut.

He stopped and backed away immediately, eyes darting anywhere but me. The sudden lack of warmth felt wrong. I felt vulnerable. I sat up and pulled my blouse closed with both hands.

“Was that good?” I called out toward the lights and cameras. The response was an enthusiastic yes. They just had to switch Jack's contacts and put in his prosthetic teeth for the final shot. No blood this time- leave that to the viewers’ imagination. I was told to stay put while they got him ready. He didn’t look at me as he walked away. Didn’t look at me when he came back, either. Eyes red now, the simpler set of sharp teeth in.

He got into position between my legs again, and we waited a minute while they reset the shot. Even this close, inches away, he avoided my gaze. Anxiety twisted low in my stomach and climbed, cold and tight, into my chest. Sitting bare and exposed in front of him, and he wouldn’t even look at me. He’d had no problem looking at me a few minutes ago when he was pretending to fuck my brains out.

“Did I do something wrong?” I whispered, the space between us so small no one else could hear.

His head snapped toward me, eyes wide. “No, no,” he said quickly, in his regular accent. “Just trying to stay in the right headspace is all.” He offered a weak smile. It didn’t make me feel any better. But it didn’t matter. They called for us to get back into position.

I laid back again, and before I knew it, Jack was gone—once again replaced with Remmick’s hungry gaze. So I tried to do the same, to put on the mask that was Imogen just as easily as he did. We picked up right where we’d left off- just a few seconds while they captured the transition. But my mind wandered, anxiety still lodged in my chest.

“Come here,” he commanded, loud enough for the boom mics to catch. I saw his eyes, his teeth, but Imogen’s lust had blinded her, or maybe made her unafraid of the man in front of her. So I rose to meet him.

His arms wrapped firmly around my bare waist, mine went around his neck once again—but that was all I could manage. I was struggling to find the rhythm again, to pull myself back into the aroused state I’d been in just minutes before.

He didn’t falter. He just gripped me tighter and whispered in my ear, low enough that no one else could hear:

“What’d you write about me?”

I gripped his neck harder, and a moan escaped my mouth as images flashed through my head. The stories I had written. The ones I had only imagined. The heat I felt each night in bed, thinking of him- him, the man in front of me.

I was back- lost in it. Moaning, head thrown back, eyes rolling. Then my brow pressed against his again as the camera moved behind him, angling for the final shot. While his face was still out of frame, he whispered:

“I knew it.”

He smiled, sinister with the teeth and contacts, and it only made me act harder.

The camera captured the shot of us, hungry, locked in each other’s gaze. We both began to speed up, reaching our fake climaxes. It was so easy to pretend. That’s when she does it- when I do it. I tilt my head to the side, baring my throat to him, offering myself without hesitation, without fear.

The last thing the cameras catch is him going in for the bite. The last part I feel is his breath- hot, deliberate- right where my pulse hammers loudest. And I don't know where Imogen starts and I begin anymore.

[wisteria-lodge]

I was trying to pin-point the place where the narration switches from "Malfoy / Draco Malfoy" to just "Draco"

(because at some point it does, he's 'Draco' in the epilogue.)

And I found some interesting stuff.

~ The book consistently uses 'Draco' during scenes that feature Lucius, or sentences that mention both Draco and Lucius together. This makes sense - up until Book 7 Lucius is "Mr. Malfoy" or "Lucius Malfoy" in the narration... and you don't want a "Malfoy" and a "Mr. Malfoy" in the same scene, that's just confusing.

(this is also probably why Voldemort calls all his Death Eaters by their last names during the graveyard scene... except Lucius. We're still firmly in Children's Lit, and if Voldemort had started addressing one of his Death Eaters as 'Malfoy' ... somebody would have gotten confused and thought that Draco was somehow there.)

~ The first scene that really commits to "Draco" in the narration is the opening of Book 7, where Voldemort is holding court in the Malfoy dining room. It's told in third person omniscient, and even though Lucius isn't doing much... it's a scene about Voldemort taking his wand (and his power) away from him. So there's a fun mis-match between the detached /objective narrator, who calls him "Malfoy" or "Lucius Malfoy," and Voldemort... who calls him "Lucius." The way the scene is written is telling us that he's being disrespected.

Draco is called "Draco" in this scene so we don't confuse him with his father... but maybe there's also a little implication that "Draco" is the most neutral thing to call him, and he's only "Malfoy" through Harry's eyes (ie the "Harry filter.") Still, using his first name like this during such an emotionally charged scene does have the side effect of bringing us a little emotionally closer to the character - especially during Charity Burbage's death, which is a beat that doesn't have anything to do with Lucius.

“And you, Draco?” asked Voldemort, stroking the snake’s snout with his wand-free hand. Draco shook his head jerkily. Now that the woman had woken, he seemed unable to look at her anymore. (...) “Avada Kedavra.” The flash of green light illuminated every corner of the room. Charity fell, with a resounding crash, onto the table below, which trembled and creaked. Several of the Death Eaters leapt back in their chairs. Draco fell out of his onto the floor.

~ The bit where Draco tortures Rowle is the first time when Harry's narration uses "Draco" (in a scene that has nothing to do with Lucius.) We actually watch the switch happen:

A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting across a terrified, pointed white face — with a sense of emerging from deep water, Harry drew heaving breaths and opened his eyes. (...) Malfoy’s gaunt, petrified face seemed branded on the inside of his eyes. Harry felt sickened by what he had seen, by the use to which Draco was now being put by Voldemort.

~ He's "Draco" all through the scene in Malfoy Manor... and of course he is, Lucius Malfoy is massively important to that scene. But since by now we've had a little moment of "Draco" from Harry, and from the narration (and he's "Draco" during the whole bit with the prisoners in the cellar, which Lucius isn't there for...) I think that this writing choice (unintentionally?) implies... an emotional connection from Harry, that wouldn't be there if his narration stuck to "Malfoy." Like here are two sentences that I think would read very differently if Harry's narration used "Malfoy" instead of "Draco."

Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw him obliquely: a figure slightly taller than he was, rising from an armchair, his face a pale and pointed blur beneath white-blond hair.

Harry saw Draco’s face up close now, right beside his father’s. They were extraordinarily alike, except that while his father looked beside himself with excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance, even fear.

~ Harry calls the wand he uses to defeat Voldemort "the hawthorn wand" a couple of times... but MOSTLy he thinks of it as "Draco's Wand." Including at like, the moment he's actually defeating Voldemort:

Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco’s wand: “Avada Kedavra!” “Expelliarmus!”

I think the Doylist reason for this is to help the reader understand the (pretty confusing) chain of events that leads to Harry being the master of the Elder Wand.... but in the moment, that's a ton of emotional weight for Harry to be giving the name "Draco."

~ There is this interesting little moment where Harry calls Draco "Malfoy" out loud... but "Draco" in his head:

“Not [your wand] anymore,” panted Harry, tightening his grip on the hawthorn wand. “Winners, keepers, Malfoy. Who’s lent you theirs?” “My mother,” said Draco.

So it seems we've got a little conflict going. Maybe Harry doesn't have the same relationship with Draco that he used too... but is a little uncomfortable letting Draco know that. Actually, the only time Harry just calls him "Draco" in dialogue is when... he's talking to Voldemort.

“I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago. I took this wand from him.”

(draco behind a pillar having an out-of-body experience because really potter? did you HAVE to phrase it like THAT?)

~ Interestingly, Harry's narration switches back to "Malfoy" during the Fiendfyre scene. This might be to make Draco more of an intentional pair with Crabbe and Goyle ('Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle' is a construction the books love.) Or maybe it's to reflect Ron and Hermione's perspective? Backpedal a bit on the implied Harry/Draco emotional closeness? Because... lemme just show you what this scene looks like if I swap out "Malfoy" with "Draco"

Draco saw him coming and raised one arm, but even as Harry grasped it he knew at once that it was no good. “Don’t kill him! DON’T KILL HIM!” Draco yelled at Crabbe and Goyle, who were both aiming at Harry [Ron] and Hermione dragged Goyle onto their broom and rose, rolling and pitching, into the air once more as Draco clambered up behind Harry. Draco was screaming and holding Harry so tightly it hurt.

~ And then, in their last real interaction, the names are all over the place:

Draco was on the upper landing, pleading with another masked Death Eater. Harry Stunned the Death Eater as they passed: Malfoy looked around, beaming, for his savior, and Ron punched him from under the Cloak. Malfoy fell backward on top of the Death Eater, his mouth bleeding, utterly bemused. “And that’s the second time we’ve saved your life tonight, you two-faced bastard!” Ron yelled.

All I can think here is that it's "Draco" when the narration is focusing on Harry's experience... and "Malfoy" when it's focusing on Ron's.

[raichukfm]

Hi! Random hobbyist author here! (Though I don't really write on tumblr.) I love the em dash—I use it liberally. In fact, I use it in casual conversation; you know, on those occasions in casual conversation when some typographical offsetting—particularly parenthetical asides—would be called for. How do I do it?

I used to hold down alt and then 0151 on my numpad because my old laptop had a numpad on it. I didn't really memorize alt codes generally, but for something I used all the time? Easy peasy. Plenty of people on Windows are like that; I know (most?) Linux distros have some similar procedures for writing out Unicode characters by control code, and I know Mac has something.

But then I got my newer laptop and for some fiendish reason, despite sporting an extra-wide build and being the direct successor of my old laptop model with glorious in-chassis numpad, it had a TKL garbage. There's literally room in the thing for the numberpad. There is empty space, right there. Evil design.

Did I give up on my darling daughter Em? Well, no—you knew that already, I used some earlier—for a while, I made use of copy-paste. I got pretty tired of that, though. I copy a lot of things, and while I have a lil' application for memory in my clipboard it's kind of annoying to have to dig into it relatively regularly. Eventually I got an external keyboard which gloriously has the numberpad and also sports magnificently clicky mechanical keys. But before that, I found an even better solution.

I installed AutoHotKey and then made a file with this in it:

!-:: { Send "—" }

So now I just press alt and - and kabam I get —. It's so easy. I can use them all I want, I basically have an em dash key on my keyboard now. I'm sure other diehard fans of the em dash have our various ways. For that matter, the acolytes of the en dash likely have at least 1–5 ways between them for that darling. (I generally cheat and use the hyphen for that, though, I must confess.)

Humans can be very particular about what we want to do and how we want to do it. We'll find our ways over whatever random technical hurdles might be there, and often that's not even that hard—for better or worse we did make these silly computer machines for doing stuff, after all. And as pointed out, if we didn't, there wouldn't be the training data for AI to learn that sometimes people use whatever thing.

And the same principle, as stated, goes for quirks beyond the technical, too.

"this is DEFINITELY written by AI, I can tell because it uses the writing quirks that AI uses (because it was trained on real people who write with those quirks)"

c'mon dudes we have got to do better than this