#also lost silver still fucks to this day i do not care

[mla0]

like idk what makes people think it'll get them more "reach." if anything, all that's going to happen is you're going to get blocked if you make your posts unable to be filtered properly, when you otherwise might not be if you just. didn't do that. not to mention, if someone isn't a fan of creepypasta, they're not going to like or reblog your post either way, just because you threw it into the everymanHYBRID tag or something.

99% of creepypastas have nothing to do with slenderman, and slenderverse isn't just anything pertaining to slenderman, it's a specific community with its own characters and pieces of media

i don't hate creepypasta at all. i was in the fandom when i was younger. masky's existence is how i found marble hornets. ben drowned is still one of my favorite pieces of youtube creepiness out there. i read ticci toby x readers on quotev when i was 14. i drew fanart of "the seer" in my school notebooks. i'm not a hater and i'm certainly not okay with bullying kids (or adults!) over some bullshit metric of what is and isn't "cringe"

im just tired of mistagging, especially in a community where seeing a new post about your specific little webseries can be literal weeks apart. i go into the slenderverse tag to see slenderverse stuff. if i want to see creepypasta stuff, i'll look up creepypasta. cmon. please

whenever a creepypasta-only post gets tagged as slenderverse, a new child gets sucked into a haunted ROMhack to die in

[adragonprinceswhore]

Soft & Hard

Aemond Targaryen x Ex Girlfriend

Summary: How do you forget about Aemond Targaryen when he’s everywhere you look?

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, angst, emotional infidelity, descriptions of self-hatred, situationship, intoxication, smut, heavy petting, drunk sex, P in V, (some) size kink

Word Count: 4000

A/N: This has been plaguing my mind for weeks now, so I really needed to get it out of me and into the world. This can be read as a continuation of my Hockey player Aemond drabble, but can also be read as a standalone. Aemond is a hockey player in this modern AU! 🩵

You prop your feet up to rest on the sides of your bathtub, angling the shower head just right so it hits that spot that sends pleasurable shivers rippling through your body.

Your eyes are closed, and you’re desperately trying to visualise the hot guy from the TV series you’d just binged; mind racing through any arousing scenario you can come up with.

It’s not an easy task; keeping yourself occupied enough to not drift towards the very man you’ve vainly tried to erase from your memory. 

You don’t want to think about him. 

Thinking about him always leads to missing him. 

It leads to longing for him. 

No matter how badly he hurt you. No matter how much you rationalise your reasons for leaving, your stupid heart yearns to fill the hole he’s left behind. 

Pathetic.

You shut your eyes with more force, thinking of the hot TV character. Upping the pressure of the shower head, you imagine it’s him going down on you that’s causing the pleasure building inside. Your hips begin to shallowly sway back and forth, and low whimpering moans slip from your lips. 

As the pleasure builds and builds, the image in your head morphs; the hot TV guys’ hair turns silver, no matter how hard you try to stay focused. 

You’re close, so close, and just as you’re on the edge of pleasure, you hear him,

“You’re so pretty like this”

And you cum so hard you drop the showerhead in your grip, legs shaking as your hips jerk upward aggressively. 

Water sprays across the bathroom as the shower head falls, but you’re too lost in your own bliss to truly care, giving yourself a moment to just disappear into the fleeting, fierce pleasure consuming you. 

After a while, when your legs have stopped shaking and your cunt has stopped clenching around nothing, you turn the rampant shower head off with a sigh. 

The satisfaction of your orgasm is short-lived, promptly followed by the lonely reality of you chasing pleasure alone in your bathroom. You could stay in the tub and make yourself cum 10 more times and it wouldn’t change the loneliness residing inside of you. 

You could try to picture that hot guy from the show fucking you for hours, still you’d feel the same. 

Still, visions of him would cloud your mind. And the chill of loneliness would penetrate your bones, as it does right now. 

Because no one kisses your forehead afterwards, or holds you tight, or whispers sweet things into your ear. 

You're alone, and the warm water quietly splashing around you doesn’t stop the cold porcelain of your bathtub from chilling your heated flesh. 

You shiver. 

Sick of yourself; of your self-pity and hatred, you leave the tub and throw on a dressing gown, already on a search for a new distraction. 

Anything to take your mind off Aemond Targaryen. 

Forgetting Aemond was nearly impossible. 

Not only did your mind remind you of your heart’s longing for the man that broke it. The world did as well. Like when you overheard your colleagues discussing his latest game, and how skillfully he tackled his opponents, landing a blow on them so precise yet hard that they flew into the rink. Or when you got home after a long day and turned on the TV, greeted by him giving a post-match interview all sweaty and panting. 

The only way you knew him. 

Being restricted to seeing the man you’d spent countless nights together with through the TV screen has brought you to the conclusion that ultimately, your relationship hasn’t changed much. 

Sure, you don’t send him nudes anymore. Nor does he fuck you into the mattress of whichever hotel room he brings you to. 

But the distance is the same. The loneliness isn’t new; it always existed between the two of you. He never really cared to let you in. 

You were convenient. 

Pliable. 

An easy fuck. 

You should’ve realised it sooner. Like that time when Alicent Hightower, Westerosi socialite and Aemond’s mother, stopped by one of his practices. You were helping him lace his skates when she appeared, and as soon as he noticed his mum approaching, Aemond’s large hand gently but firmly pushed you away. 

Ms. Hightower’s curious gaze had asked about you, and her son huffed out, “She’s an acquaintance”

An acquaintance. 

Not even a friend. 

To you, Aemond was the first thing you thought about in the morning, and the last thing you thought about before going to sleep. 

To him, you were an acquaintance. 

Pathetic. 

That should have been the last straw. But you kept seeing him. Not even the humiliation and hurt you felt as you excused yourself and ran to the bathroom with tears in your eyes could stop you from craving him. That was the power he had over you.

The power he still has over you, even in his absence. Even if you blocked his number 6 months ago and haven’t seen him once since. 

The actual last straw was a message you’d gotten from an unknown number, asking if you’d send more of those “hot slutpics in dat black thong”. For a second you thought it was Aemond having a laugh, but the message didn’t sound like him, and he isn’t exactly known for being a guy that appreciates humour, or ‘pranks’.

Turns out, the number belonged to Aegon Targaryen, Aemond’s older brother and notorious fuckboy. Word around King’s Landing was that every girl who’d slept with him had gotten chlamydia, and still he seems to find a new conquest to throw his arms around each weekend. 

Perhaps the sleaziest guy in the Seven Kingdoms.

Turns out, it runs in the family. 

You blocked Aemond’s number that night. After swearing to never let your desire for him get the best of you again, you begged your friends to take you out and get you so shitfaced the humiliation Aemond had inflicted on you would be washed away. 

It didn’t work.

You’re still tainted by his touch. 

So you switch tactics. You look for someone else. 

About a month after you’d called things off with Aemond, you thought you’d found a good replacement. A nice, inconspicuous guy who was eager to please; eager to make you like him. You would’ve felt guilty, really, if the dark hole of lonely self-hatred in your chest didn’t outweigh your selfishness. 

And still, Aemond Targaryen was everywhere. 

You’d find him in that adoring look your new partner gave you as you sucked him off in the shower. You’d find him in bed, when you couldn’t sleep and imagined it was Aemond’s heavy arms holding you tight. You’d find him in your fantasies, seemingly incapable of coming with your new partner unless you closed your eyes and pretended the short, curly strands greeting your hand between your legs were actually long, silky and silver. 

Ultimately, your conscience caught up with you, and you broke things off with the new guy as well. He had told you that he loved you, and the sweetest of confessions felt like the sharpest of needles prickling your heart. 

Aemond never said it. 

Oh, how you wish it was him saying it. 

Sometimes, even after six months of not seeing him, you’re still surprised by how incredibly piteous he’s rendered you. 

Yearning for a man who only saw you as a plaything. Who only ever cared for you when you were conveniently there for him to do as he pleased with. Who refused to expose your relationship to his mother, and shared your nudes with his brother. 

Fucking prick. 

Today’s Friday. 

Single and lonelier than ever, you beg your friends to go out dancing with you. It’s become your new weekend ritual; go out and dance until your feet hurt and you’re so tired you collapse on your bed, mind delightfully empty. 

Now, you're back on the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes closed as you sway to the music. 

You always drag your friends to the same place, The Three Towers, a nightclub of the slightly more exclusive kind, with proper DJs and strong drinks. 

They must’ve figured out by now that it was Aemond who introduced you to this place. You see it in the pitiful looks they give you every time you insist on coming here instead of going to any of the many other places in Oldtown. Their eyes say what you’ve known to be true for over six months;

Pathetic. 

It’s not like Aemond likes to go out anyway. He hates crowds, dislikes strangers, loathes the fake people gathering around him to tell him empty words of adoration. 

But that one time you’d wanted to go dancing, he’d brought you here. 

Maybe he brings all his “acquaintances” here. 

You tell yourself that you don’t come here for him, that it just happens to be a great place, but still, every time you catch a glimpse of something silvery in the corner of your eye, dread punches you in the gut. 

Why do you seek him out when you know actually meeting him would destroy you? What if you saw him here with another girl? Maybe one of the models his brother so often gifts his infected cock to? 

Tumultuous thoughts swirl in your mind until you notice that the flash of silver isn’t Aemond’s hair at all, and ease settles over you. Well, something akin to ease. The self-hatred is still there,

Pathetic. 

Your feet quickly carry you to the bar, eager for more of the numbness only alcohol provides. You order another G&T and almost spit it out after the first sip; it’s basically all gin.

Good.

You take three large gulps and move back to the dancefloor, searching for your friends who you’ve lost in the crowd of intertwined bodies. 

You scan your surroundings, and then it happens again. A flash of silver. Only this time, it’s him. 

You remember the first time you saw him. TV appearances and watching him on the ice doesn’t do him justice. In person, his ethereal beauty’s blinding. Just like it is now. One of the spotlights over the sofa he sits on hits his hair, causing it to glow like the beacon of a dark night at sea. 

Calling you in. 

Your feet work by themselves as they walk towards him. You panic, desperately searching for any excuse to talk to him. 

What do you say? 

Suddenly you’re right before him, drink in one hand and the other nervously touching your hair as you dumbly stare at him. He looks up from the drink in his hand, a whiskey on the rocks you’d guess, and meets your eyes. 

His gaze is cold and stoic. 

Unimpressed. 

He raises an expectant eyebrow. 

And yet you say nothing. All the witty, insightful, hard-hitting truths you’d wanted to tell him for the last six months vanish as you stand before him frozen in panic. 

Pathetic.

Pathetic. 

Pathetic!

You have nothing. Your mind’s empty, the only thing you can do is feel. Feel the self-hatred, the loneliness, the insecurity he’s inflicted upon you. 

He rolls his eyes. Aemond’s not known for his patience, “If you’re looking for that new boyfriend of yours, he’s not here”

“I don’t have a boyfriend”, you blurt out, prompted by the shiver running through you caused by the venom dropping from his words. He sounds so hateful. 

He stands abruptly, forcing you to take a faltering step back as he tower over you,

“Come”

He takes the drink in your hand and places it on a nearby table before grabbing your hand and leading you out of the rowdy club. The chill of the night air hits your scarcely clad body as he drags you towards a cab waiting outside, your ears still ringing from the loud music in the club.

He opens the door and pushes on your arm to get in. His touch is still impossibly warm; just as you remember it. 

He slams the door shut and walks around to the other side, getting in and grunting an address you’ve never heard of to the taxi driver.  

You know your friends would be furious if they knew who you left with, so you send them a quick text stating that you’ve left ‘cause you didn’t feel well. 

You place your phone back in your purse and look outside. It seems like you’re driving towards the north part of the city, a place you hardly know. 

The deafening silence in the taxi is so tense, any sane person would ask the driver to stop and get out in a heartbeat. 

Aemond, sitting next to you with his jaw clenched and fidgeting with his customised black and red lighter, sends nervous ripples of fear through your being. You know he’s contemplating something, yet you wouldn’t dare ask. 

Any sensible person would get out. 

But you can’t. 

Because he still smells the same. And it’s everywhere in the stuffy cab. And your heart hurts, a tear threatens to spill, because you’ve missed it all so much; his smell, his hair, his voice, his touch. 

Him.

The silence persists, until you're finally freed as the taxi driver stops and Aemond hands him a few copper stars. 

You get out and take a deep breath of the late summer night's air. The buzz of alcohol still clouds your judgement somewhat, yet you feel more aware of yourself than ever before. 

You look around and see Aemond approach the entrance to a sleek building in that brutalist, modern design, and you follow in tow. He still hasn’t said anything, and neither have you.

You get in a lift, go up to the top floor, and enter a dark flat with only a small table lamp lit by the entrance, obscuring your view of the place. 

Just as you make way to move further into the room, Aemond hinders you. 

He doesn’t allow you entrance to the rest of the space, cornering you against a low side table by the entrance door. He’s so tall, and so broad, you disappear into the wall as he steals all the space around you. 

“Why did you agree to come with me?” 

He’s so close you feel his breath tickle your skin. It’s too dark to truly see the expression on his face, but the shadows cast on him makes him look stern. The smell of him intensifies. You feel warm.  

This is all you’ve wanted. All you’ve feared. 

You still desire him so.

“You told me to”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you know it’s because your reply’s caught him off guard. He’d assumed you’d fight back, jab at him in some way. He tries again,

“My mate saw you at that club last week, you know”

Is he keeping tabs on you? 

“What happened to your boyfriend?” 

How does he know about that? 

You swallow, “Nothing. It just wasn’t right” 

“Hm”

Your eyes are locked together, his mismatched gaze just as alluring as you remember it. Without looking away, he brings a hand up to gently stoke the cold skin of your arm. 

The harshness of his stare falters, 

“Did you miss me?” 

“Did you miss me?” 

The retort leaves your lips before you register it forming in your head. Can’t give in to him that easily. Can’t make your suffering known to the person causing it. 

The harshness reappears. 

“Did he fuck you the way you like?” 

His tone is cold, yet heated with anger. The same hateful tinge from before. 

Your drunk mind works without you operating it, 

“He wasn’t you”

The confession slips out, and so does the pitifulness. The loneliness. The pathetic mess you’ve become. 

Aemond didn’t expect your admission either, eyes narrowing in suspicion, 

“What do you mean?”

Is this the time? 

To tell him how utterly devastated you’ve been without him? How he plagues your mind? How your entire being is tainted by him? 

No. 

“Why did you bring me here?”, you ask, foggy mind finally cooperative enough to let you change the subject.

“Because you wanted me to”, he replies, the gentle hand on your arm suddenly travelling down to caress your exposed thigh before  harshly cupping your cunt. 

A startled gasp espaces your lips. 

His touch is so nostalgic it travels from your aroused core to your heart, and squeezes it painfully.  

His hand is big enough to cover you entirely, and with the heel of his palm, he pushes harshly where he knows your swollen clit lies obscured under your panties. His long finger taps against your hole, and he huffs a quiet, condescending laugh as he feels how moist the fabric is.

When did you get this wet? 

You feel the heat of his touch radiate from his palm to your cunt, so persistent it finds its way through your underwear. He only moves his hand to stroke you over the fabric and press at your clit, but the gratification of finally being granted his touch works you towards release at a speed you’d thought impossible. 

“Still a little slut for me”  

He brings two fingers up to press right over your clit, rough circles demanding that you obey his touch and come for him. 

His breathing hard through his nose, the look in his eye is hard to decipher, 

Arousal? 

Fury? 

Fuck it feels good to be pushed against a wall by him. To be subjected to his rough treatment. Anything to feel his touch on you again. 

Your hips move upwards to meet his fingers; you’re so close to falling apart. 

“You missed me. And that fucker you were seeing couldn’t compare to me. Isn’t that right?” 

He spits out the words, teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he leans even closer. 

Your arms have been hanging limply at your side, and you have to fight the sudden urge to grab him and press him against you. To feel him closer. 

“Did he make you this wet?”

Aemond’s tongue licks the sensitive spot behind your ear and you moan loudly, fully consumed by the way his fingers push you towards release. 

You angle your face so that his mouth is right by yours. With parted lips, you look up at him pleadingly, begging him to kiss you. 

Something in his eye shifts, and a victorious smirk breaks out over his face, 

“Come”

And you do. So hard you see stars and your legs give out. The pleasure is intense, it steals everything from you; your breath, your senses, your self-discipline. 

Your hands fly to Aemond’s biceps, anchoring yourself to him as your body twitches forcefully in the pleasure rupturing you. It’s cathartic; a long awaited release only his hands can coax out. 

When you come back to reality, to the dark hallway you're trapped against Aemond’s body in, the dreaded self-hatred you’d gotten to know so well makes itself known again. 

The brutal reality of exactly how far your pathetic infatuation with Aemond has driven you crashes over you like an ice-cold wave of regret. You feel hot tears well up in the corner of your eyes as they stay casted down, refusing to look up at the man who’s greatest pleasure in life seems to be to torment you. 

Why had he brought you here? Why did he enjoy hurting you? Why had you fallen for it? 

“What did I do to make you hate me so?” 

It’s the alcohol talking. Or maybe it’s the last thing you need to hear from him before you can finally let go. The last shard of your heart crushed in his grip. 

Silence is the only answer he gives you, and without looking up, you push him to move so you can get away from him. Instead of allowing you to leave, he brings one hand to your cheek, engulfing it in warmth, and drags your face upwards to meet his eyes. 

Before you can read his expression, he ducks his head down, letting his lips graze over yours. His tongue comes out to swipe over your lower lip in a slow, gentle caress that feels more sensual than anything you’ve ever experienced, and in retaliation your greedy arms pull him closer, eagerly kissing him back. There’s a slow urgency to the way his tongue seeks out yours, bending your body backwards to taste you deeper. You relish in it. 

You want him to eat you up. To devour you completely. You’re his anyway. 

Without breaking the kiss, Aemond leads you down the dark hallway and into a dimly lit room. The only thing you register is a large bed in the middle, where he takes a seat and keeps you standing between his legs, still kissing you. 

His hands roam over your body; over your exposed arms and legs. They find the zipper at the back of your dress and pull it down, slowly undressing you until you're completely bare. 

He stands for a brief moment to rid himself of his own clothes, and then sits again, guiding you to climb onto his lap. 

You follow his every command in enchantment. You grant him every kiss he seeks, allow him every touch he craves. He can have it all. 

He guides you to sink down on him slowly. You’re still so wet, yet he’s so hard your insides are forced to mould after his stiffness. 

Once he fills each part of you, he wraps your legs around his waist, sighing in satisfaction as he presses your body so close to his the skin of your torso sticks to his. 

“I won’t last long-”, he whispers into your ear, “-a 6 month wait is excruciating”

The touch that you’ve known as harsh and demanding is now so soft. So delicate it slowly picks up the shattered pieces of your broken heart and mends them together again with each gentle caress.

Your hands cup his cheeks, gazing into his lilac and blue stare as you slowly begin to move. 

Aemond doesn’t say anything, doesn’t say that one phrase that you want him to, but the look in his eyes is mesmerising. You’ve never seen him so vulnerable. It’s intimate.

He’s giving himself to you. 

You wrap your arms around him, accepting him. You want all of him, all to yourself. You’ve wanted him for half a year. You’ve wanted him since the first time you met him. 

He meets your hips each time you sink down, and the otherwise carnal pursuit for pleasure feels dreamlike as Aemond’s arms envelop you and you disappear into him. 

You want to say it, but not yet. You don’t dare. Would he retreat again? You know it to be true, but it’s too early. Maybe someday. 

Instead, it’s Aemond who speaks over the moans and sighs of pleasure,

“Don’t leave me again” 

You don’t know how long you fuck, but each orgasm feels more consuming, more powerful, than the last. Ultimately, you collapse together on the bed, legs and arms still intertwined. The familiarity of Aemond’s heavy arms over your waist soothes you, yet the soft sheets of the bed provide a stark contrast to the stiff, clinical sheets of the hotel rooms he’d always brought you to before. 

There’s nothing left between you, no more layers to shed, so you ask him about everything that had led up to your separation. About how he dismissed you in front of his mother, and about the text from his brother. The latter seems to genuinely surprise him, 

“I’ve never shared your pictures with anyone, especially not him” 

Guess Aegon Targaryen isn’t above snooping through his brother’s stuff. 

You talk all night, and Aemond tells you about his strained relationship with his family, “My family has an ability to ruin things for me”, he confesses, “I didn’t want that to happen with you”

As the rays of sunrise begin to seep through the window, you admit to the loneliness that’s been eating away at you since parting from Aemond. 

He cups your cheek again, thumb stroking your cheekbone,

“I fucked up. I’ve missed you more than I thought possible”

Your loneliness hadn’t been solitary. He’d felt it too. You’d shared it. 

You lay your head on his chest, listening to the slow drum of his heart. Before it lulls you to sleep, you remember the last thing you’d like to ask him,

“Aemond, where are we?”

“My place”

A/N: I never know if I should write it as come or cum? After some studious research (not), I decided that come is the original and therefore works better! Thank you for reading, I write these drabble for fun to improve my writing, so don't be too harsh please 🫶🩵

[miguelsslvt]

miguel o'hara x goth girl! spider! reader smut drabble

word count: 756

TW: nsfw, smut, overstimulation, y/n gets fucked dumb, creampie, fingering, spanish translated from google translate so it isn't very good i'm so sorry. and also it isn't exactly stated that y/n is 'goth', it's literally just heer style and i hate it sm that i write it like that i'm so sorry.

A/N: so basically i got requested to do a college au! goth girl x reader but i didn’t read the ‘college’ bit and i got a bit carried away so… here’s the shitty goth spider! reader whilst i try writing the college au!! anyways two posts in one night?? ahh! this is severely unedited and not even proofread, so i hope i did okay! i can always rewrite if you don't like it:). also i love doing requests so much, so pls give me more! welcome to the club! ^^

you were a smart girl. well, smart enough to notice the looks miguel gave you everytime you walked around spider society wearing your favourite black dress and fishnets. and you would be lying to yourself if you said the attention didn't make your legs tighten in anticipation.

you had your eyes on miguel since the first time you laid eyes on him when he recruited you. was it your everlasting hunger for male validation? maybe. was it the way his fingers flicked through tab to tab on his platform? most likely. was it the hunger you noticed in his eyes when he trailed his eyes along your figure? absolutely. that's why on the day you were supposed to come to miguel for 'monthly anomaly reports', you made sure to wear the short black skirt and fishnets you knew that would miguel drool. what? just because you were pretty didn't mean you were stupid.

after a beautiful walk around the graveyard near your home, placing some flowers on some empty graves, you decided to go back to the spider HQ, playing your favourite band, 'bauhaus'.

'spider goth. miguel would like you in his office.' your watch alarmed, as your smiled at lyla, nodding. before you walked into the office room, you made sure to fix your eyeliner so it didn't look too 'smoky' but smoky enough. you fixed your silver necklaces in place, as you walked in. 'yes miguel?'

fuck, that voice. miguel thought. he turned around slightly to take in your body. god, he could feel his dick twitch from just the sight of you. was it even normal to feel this way? 'sir? you seem a little.. distracted.' you said, tilting your head slightly. he smirked. if miguel was completely honest, he knew you knew how he felt about you. and the fact that you still continue to wear such provocative clothing around him, and the fact that you always give him that 'innocent' smile of yours was enough for him to know you enjoyed the attention.

'oh i think we both know why i'm distracted, spider goth-' 'y/n.' you cut him off. he seemed a bit taken aback. 'excuse me?' he asked. 'for you, it's y/n, sir.' you replied, walking up to his platform, your skirt riding up slightly as you sat on his desk.

god, he could take you right there. so he did.

✩★✩★✩★✩★✩★✩

'm-miguel!~' you moaned, eyes rolling back as he kept hitting that sweet spot inside you. your back was arched against the desk, as his hands held your hips roughly. your eyeliner and makeup was ruined, all over your cheeks as they were filled with tears. your fishnets were ruined, as your skirt was hitched up just above your ass, as miguel groaned in relief.

'god you don't know how long i've wanted this.. mi niña bonita~' he cooed, smirking as you gasped for air, holding onto the desk. (my pretty girl)

you had lost count on how many times miguel made you cum in just one hour, but right now you couldn't care. your legs were numb, mind was fuzzy and you could swear you were seeing stars. you fucked out dizzy expression urged miguel further, chasing both of your highs.

'g-god m-miguel g-gonna c-cum again..!' you moaned loudly, as miguel leaned closer to your ear, moving your jaw so he could see your dumb face.

you were drooling, crying, your hair and makeup was a mess. and mguel didn't think you could get any more prettier then this. god, and the way you clenched and gaped around him made him cum almost instantly. but he would wait. 'cum for me, that's it.. jodido tan tonto que ni siquiera puedes pensar, ¿verdad?' he teased, as he thrusts became sloppy once again. (fucked so dumb you can't even think, right?)

you reached you peak, letting out a loud gasp, as miguel held your jaw,his nose in your neck as he whispered to you. 'thaat's it.. that's my girl.. there you go..' he praised, prolonging your orgasm for as long as possible as he let his load in you.

it was alot, as you came down from your high, panting for air. miguel groaned as he pulled out, leaving a string of his cum and your juices out. he just let a deep breath, tutting. 'ay.. no.. mi dulce chica.. you're supposed you keep it inside. looks like i'm gonna have to plug it back in.' miguel said, sticking his finger inside you, making you squeal in overstimulation. (my sweet girl)

'let's take care of the mess you made, yeah?' he cooed, as you nodded mindlessly. there was one thing miguel will never admit, though.

and that's miguel likes it messy.

♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎♡︎♥︎

[fuumiku]

Chilcille huh... ngl I was a little suspicious. like why would you do that, huh... hope youre not mischaracterizing anyone in your weird and wacky ship. a little weird. but then you said they both had flat asses and you know what? I salute you and your perfect characterization

The fact you seem to think you managed to not make this ask insulting is baffling. What the hell. Fuck off.

If you actually care to be open minded about the ship, I talk about marchil on my sideblog 24/7. Funnily enough I’m currently 4k words deep into an analysis of their character arc together in canon, but that’ll take some more days to get done. Some notable posts:

Of course without counting the analyses of Chilchuck on his own I’ve made, like my masterpost on his family situation. Or better yet you could also read my fics for them, see how weird and wacky they are here.

Wanna talk about mischaracterisation? They’re literally a comedic duo who interacts 24/7. Marchil is crazy bc ppl are like "did those shipper read with their eyes CLOSED?? They have no chemistry!" Meanwhile canon is like: "She’s obsessed with knowing everything she can about him and she reads him like a book." In her eyes he’s like that extra rare and hard and shiny unlockable dating sim character, that brooding mysterious character trope that’s thrilling to crack open and typically is at the center of the plot. The wife roleplay???? "Hey, did you know his type is blondes. Hey did you know he likes his women pretty and blonde. Hey did you know he likes her hair. Hey did you know that he teases her 24/7 and it’s one of the few things that consistently gets him grinning because he finds her reactions cute." Like a schoolyard bully pulling on the pigtails of the girl he likes.

It’s not like they have any thematic narratives or relevance. It’s not like she’ll live to 1000 and has existential dread about it while he’s logically gonna be her next friend to die at 50 and wether it’s romantic or platonic it’ll terrify her to lose him. It’s not like it’s fear of death x fear of rejection so they’re both obsessed with the thought of loss looming, past and ongoing. It’s not like it’s half-elf x half-foot and there’s an inherent journey that was and still is to dispel prejudices and truly come to see each other. It’s not like he’s painfully real and raw and flawed but still a good man, that he’s not the figure of prince charming that she’s always dreamed of while still being virtuous and worth fighting for. Or you know, her hair being golden and it being the epitome of beauty to him, and his hair turning silver and it being Marcille’s worst nightmare.

Just a weird wacky ship who means nothing but shallow things to people who have weirdo reasons for liking it. Like can you not. If you’re not imaginative enough to think of reasons why this ship may have an appealing dynamic that’s not my issue. But yes, yes, they’re both flat asses to me, thanks.

[alastair-1205]

Time for my weekly insane about Geo thoughts. I cannot imagine how terrified he must still be of Cole leaving him. Like yea he did the whole lying about his powers thing already, but it goes deeper than that insecurity from being thrown into the land of lost things.

He must have spent years hearing about this other, amazing, powerful family that Cole once had and that he missed deeply, and of course Geo knows Cole loves him, but he's sure that if it came down to it that Cole wouldn't actually choose him. But he can take some selfish comfort knowing that this old family isn't in the picture anymore. He feels like an asshole, but he's felt worse so...

But then this family come back and brings those world ending levels of responsibility that Geo had only heard of with them. Cole is dragged away by that and Geo is far from thinking it's a good idea to insist he stays, but now Cole knows he's been lying about his powers, and now they can all leave the land of lost things so Cole doesn't have a moral obligation there either. And of course Cole loves Geo and their kids and the family they've made, but in the face of the end of the world, he can't stay, and in the face of the ninja coming back, he may not ever return.

But that doesn't happen. Sure some shit goes down and Bonzel may be missing (she's not dead. She can't be. Just missing in a place someone can find her one day.) But Geo isn't alone in that. Silver linings.

But then the other thing about Geo that I'm not normal about rn is how weird it must feel for him to interact with the rest of the ninja.

Like Cole obviously has this dynamic and relationship that's older than Spitz and Fritz and had been born from blood and trials and heartbreak and Geo and the Finders are just. There. On the outskirts of that but never being integrated the way people like Sora and Arin are (Geo cannot fucking escape feeling like an outsider within already established groups damn).

And like of course the ninja have been kind to him, but there's a disconnect there. Cole is the only connection between his two families and if he isn't there, that fact becomes pretty obvious pretty quick. They've truama bonded a bit, but in a group as traumatized as the ninja that doesn't mean as much as it maybe should lol.

I was honestly just thinking about that part in DR season 2 where Lloyd was injured and Geo was just there. Like it was almost funny and the fact that it was funny is kinda sad. Like he's trying to help, clearly he cares, and they aren't telling him to leave either, but he's put of place. Wanting to help but not being close enough to do so in a way that matters, but also not detached enough to just walk away. The weirdest sort of limbo. But he loves Cole and Cole loves him and he hasn't left yet so maybe they'll figure something out.

[monster-slxt]

Vampires you say? I happen to be a vampire connoisseur, some little things that have been on the brain lately - A vampire that can't stop themselves from sinking their fangs into your neck while they rail you into next week - Alternatively, a vampire who can stop themselves from biting you, they just don't. They whisper "hold still" in your ear and then bite you as hard as they can - Being a free use fuck toy/bloodbag for a covenant of vampires. They of course have to be careful not to drain you too much before your body has time to replace its blood volume, but they drink form you till your weak and unable to struggle, and then they spend all night using you like a fleshlight. They are creatures of the night afterall, they sleep all day and then have plenty of energy to use up at night. - Being a servant sent as a sacrifice to a vampire ruler, you presume you are meant to be a meal but instead they stuff your holes full of cum and you're made to join the group of other 'sacrifices' all of which are also filled to the brim

God these are all so good. Let's see if I can't combine them into something fun<3

"Really, they'll make a wonderful... servant! Very healthy, this one." It was all I could do not to shudder at my soon to be ex-employers words, offering me up as a lamb to the slaughter. The man, mysterious with sharp eyes, carefully took me in but said nothing. Instinctively I knew he wanted to watch my boss squirm.

Everyone knew the truth. Our town was practically run by a group of vampires. No one ever said it outright, but we all knew. You kept your head down, didn't get close to new comers who wouldn't last long, and everything was fine.

But everything was not fine. My boss had gotten himself into a spot of trouble. He never told me the details but it must be pretty fucking bad if he's desperate enough to offer me up on a silver platter. To call attention to himself.

"I think you might just have a deal." The monster, the head vampire if the whispers were correct, finally spoke up, "get out of my sight. You, come with me."

And just like that, i belonged to the vampire coven.

The first night had been utterly terrifying. Instead of being ripped into like I expected, the leader showed me around their manor and introduced me to the coven. Of course they fed from me that first night, but nothing more. Four mouthes latching onto me, sharp fangs piercing deep into my neck. Something about their bites left me uncomfortably warm and light headed, and I'm quickly shown to a room to recover.

Over the next few weeks my postion as blood bag is made painfully clear. All four of them are nipping at me every chance they get, and getting progressively handsier as time goes on. I get to learn their personality and preferences through these feedings.

The youngest is wild and impulsive- biting deep and harsh and almost having to be pried off of me by the others, lost in their hunger. They're the most handsy too, ice cold fingers slipping under my clothes feel far too good in my loopy post-feeding state. Another realm they need to be reigned in, no matter how hot and bothered feeding the vampires, the leader never allows anything further than heavy petting. It's honestly starting to drive me a bit insane.

The sweetest vampire has platinum blonde hair and likes to coddle me, cooing about how sweet I am and petting me while drinking my blood. They always make sure I end up somewhere soft and comfortable in the end. I think they must be getting off on taking care of me when blood loss makes me dizzy and frail.

It's still preferable to the second in command. They're outright cruel. Biting the deepest, holding me down and mocking my inability to fight back against supernatural strength. They like the hunt, following me in the shadows only to pounce when i least expect it- leaving me jumpy and paranoid.

I still don't know if I prefer them to the leader though. The leader treats me like food, nothing more. Just a pretty thing to sit on his lap and quench his thirst. He hasn't said a word to me since that first horrible night.

And so here I am, sitting on his lap as the others watch him feed from me. It's clear whatever aphrodisiac properties vampire venom have are getting to me- im hot and barely suppressing the urge to moan and grind against his thigh.

"Look, it's broken in enough isn't it? Poor things desperate." The leader detaches from my neck at that, cold eyes taking in my desperate form.

"You know, I think you're right." He says, leaning in close and nipping my ear. "I think it's finally time we showed our new pet some proper hospitality."

In an instant the others closed in, their freezing hands roaming every inch of my body. The chill felt heavenly against the heat of my own body. I was too lost in blood loss and vampire venom to have any idea what was happening, not that it would have mattered against the four of them.

[sunshinechay]

I absolutely understand why Babe would forgive Charlie so quickly. These two moments right here explains it perfectly:

And this one

Babe has spent almost his entire adult life feeling like he can’t love anyone. Feeling like he can’t, like he wasn’t worthy of that love, that he wasn’t worth it. He wanted someone who would love him uncondititionally and completely. Someone who would take care of him and not judge him. Then came Charlie. For all of Charlie’s flaws and lies, that is the one thing I don’t think I’ve ever doubted. Charlie loves Babe. He loves Babe so much but he also knows that if he tries to tell Babe who he is right away, Babe will reject him. Babe will, like he did at first, assume that it is all a part of Tony’s plan to get Babe back, to force him to go along with what Tony is planning.

With the foundation that their relationship has now, Babe knows that Charlie loves him. That everything he did, no matter how fucked up, was because he loved him. Charlie offers to die so that Babe will gets his senses back. I think that right there says a lot about how much Charlie loves Babe. How much Charlie loves period. He was even willing to lie to Tony on something easily fact checked. He lies and says he hasn’t seen Jeff. If Tony doesn’t know Jeff works at the garage I’d be very surprised. Charlie is so completely willing to put himself into harms ways for those that he loves. And Babe knows that.

So Babe forgives him. Babe forgives Charlie because Charlie disproves every single negative thing Babe has ever thought about his ability to love, about his ability to be loved. Babe is so starved for love, for touch, for someone to love him. Charlie gives it to him in spades, never stopping. Babe feels safe enough with Charlie to actually love him back. Something he has never done before, he’s never felt like he could.

This is also not so incidentally why I won’t get on the “Way might be a walking red flag but I’m color blinded” train. I have felt the exact same way Babe has felt before, something I still struggle with to this day. That kind of intense self loathing is tough to live with. Babe lived with his for years before Charlie. He never felt like could love anyone, and Way made him feel that. Way made him feel like he wasn’t worthy. It feels like an extremely fucked up version of “if I can’t have him no one can”. I do think it comes from Way also feeling similar to Babe, which is why I am still ultimately sympathetic to Way as a character, but the boy needs to step the fuck back from Babe and let the man live his life and be happy with Charlie. Babe has said so many times, including to his face, that he and Way could only ever be friends. Way just doesn’t seem willing to accept that, which a big yikes for me. Add the hypnosis on top of that and if this were in any other genre, I’d be voting for Way to get his head lopped off. Still I love Way is able to move on, whether that is with Pete or not. Hopefully his and Babe’s friendship will improve because of it.

So yeah, I don’t find it surprising at all that Babe is willing to forgive Charlie that easily. Charlie is everything he’s ever wanted on a silver platter. He was also willing to be completely honest with Babe as soon as Babe asked for honesty. He didn’t lie, he didn’t beat around the bush. He explained it all, point blank. He didn’t even lie about being the reason Babe lost his senses, even when he could have and it’s likely Babe would have never found out. Charlie proved that he does love Babe, genuinely and completely. He wants to protect Babe no matter what. He is willing to do anything. It’s exactly what Babe wants and what he needs. I have no doubt Babe will give back as good as he gets too.

This likely isn’t the end of the road for this discussion. I think they will revisit it eventually, though under what circumstances I can’t say. For now, Babe is willing to forgive him easily, because he loves Charlie and Charlie loves him. In the end, that’s all Babe wants and now that he is getting the chance, he’s going to grab it and hold on with both hands. He knows he can do that because he knows, down to his core, that Charlie will do the same for him.

[waynes-multiverse]

Plastic Hearts – Part 25

Pairing: Director!Dean Winchester x Actress!Reader

Series Summary: Los Angeles, 1985. Y/N’s a young actress without any success, hopping from one failed audition to the next until one desperate mistake brings her to her breaking point. Dean Winchester, on the other hand, is a grade A asshole and washed-up director at the end of his career, known for his godawful slasher movies in the 70s and his love for blow, booze, and women. Lost in the toxic Hollywood life, their paths cross when one hopeless little wrestling show changes their trajectory.

Chapter Warnings: +18, a tinge of angst, FLUFF

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: I'm not sad... 🥲 Honestly, I don't have words beyond gratitude and cliché goodbyes, so let's end this journey together 🤍

<< 24 || Spotify Playlist || Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

25. Dare

“Ugh, I can’t believe you convinced everyone to come out here,” Jo groans and raises her flat palm to her brows, shielding her eyes from the scalding desert sun. “What the fuck is wrong with Palm Springs, huh?”

“C’mon, we’ve always wanted to go to Joshua Tree together since we moved to LA. This is like the perfect time,” Y/N argues cheerfully and nudges her friend with her elbow. “Look! It’s so peaceful.”

“There’s a dead carcass over there. Looks like a symbol of my marriage,” Jo deadpans.

Y/N purses her lips before compelling another positive smile to her face. “We can get rid of that. The girls really needed this after the whole Crowley debacle.”

The group left straight after the network meeting in Dean’s office this morning, which didn’t go as planned, to say the least. While several executives were surely interested, Crowley and H-ELLTV put an abrupt end to it. Apparently, they sold their fucking souls by signing a contract with the devil. Crowley’s words still rang in her ears on repeat.

“Hate to be the bearer of bad news, ladies, but H-ELLTV owns your characters, which means you can’t sell them to another network. You all signed a contract and made a deal. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, fucking asshole…” Jo huffs her agreement but then throws her friend a suspicious sideways look. “What’s up with you, though? Why are you so chipper and cheerful like a fucking Disney princess? I thought you of all people would be fucking depressed and devastated about the stupid show ending.”

Y/N shrugs. “I am. I’m just trying to make the best of our last weekend together. Can’t I be happy?”

“Fuck no.” Jo shakes her head. “Something’s up with you. Usually, when you’re like this, it’s overcompensation ‘cause you’ve fucked something up. If I were still married, I’d think you’ve fucked my husband all over again. So, what did you do?”

Y/N shrugs once more and keeps her eyes trained on the sprawling desert landscape in front of her. “Nothing.”

“Dean also was a bigger asshole than usual this morning. So, I’m asking again, what shit did you fuck up now?”

“Nothing, okay? Dean’s always an asshole,” Y/N deflects defensively. Although, even she has to admit – those were some spectacularly icy green eyes this morning. Not that he ever looked directly at her or spoke with her even once. She probably would’ve turned to stone if he did.

“Fine, don’t tell. God knows I don’t fucking care,” Jo says indifferently and joins the other women as they set up their tents on the campground.

Y/N lets out a small sigh as she stares at the bluest sky she’s ever seen while the hot desert sun beams down on her. She watches the girls for a while, her heart slightly cracking at the thought this might be the last time they all hang out together. This year has been the best one she’s ever had.

But then, her heart stings even more when she thinks about the one person who isn’t here, wondering what he’s doing right now. If anything, she owes it all to him.

Dean nurses his beer with a sigh, his green eyes barely paying attention to the half-naked girl who’s winding herself up and down a silver pole in front of him. This used to bring him joy – day-drinking at a strip club and watching tits bounce. But now all he thinks about is how that girl looks nothing like Y/N. None of them do.

“Hey, son. Startin’ early today,” Bobby notes with a chuckle as he sits down next to him.

“Yeah, they canceled the show.” And while that’s certainly true, it’s not the reason why Dean’s sulking at a titty bar.

“Too damn bad. I loved the show!” Bobby tells him enthusiastically. “It was insane. Good insane. It had everything – comedy, drama, heartache, tits, violence, a fucking wedding? There’s something for everyone there.”

“Well, uh, thanks, Bobby. Really appreciate it,” Dean tells him politely. He likes the guy, but he’s not in the mood for chitchat. He’s barely in the mood for naked women, for crying out loud. This is a deep fucking depression.

There are only two promises he’s made to himself: One, he won’t slump like he did after his last divorce. There will be no excessive drinking, which leads to excessively pathetic crying, which leads to a myriad of bad choices out of sheer desperation. Remember that awful dating videotape he made? Yes, there will be no more of that. And then there’s of course two, no drugs – no matter how much he tells himself he wants or fucking needs them. A tiny dot of hope seems to be still dormant in his plastic heart, reminding him that she might come back, and he doesn’t want to risk disappointing her once she does.

Dean has worked fucking hard to be the best version he can be – a version she doesn’t seem to give a shit about. But even he has to admit: He likes himself a lot better now, so he refuses to turn back to old comforts, albeit it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

“You guys interested in doing a floor show?”

Bobby’s words pull him from his reverie. Dean arches a brow at him, straightening a bit in his seat. “What? Here?”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “No, idjit. My wife Ellen has some stakes in a club on the Vegas Strip. She manages the hotel there, too. They’re looking for a new headliner. Just do the exact same show, night after night, 300 miles east. Vegas is where the money is. Headliners make at least 25 grand a week. You think that gym is big? We have to fill 1,100 seats.”

Dean stumps and blinks at the old man a bit baffled. “Well, uh… I’ll think about it. Talk to my partner, the girls…”

Bobby smiles and pats his shoulder as he gets up. “You do that. I’ll call you tomorrow. Now, how about a lap dance? On the house. Can pick any girl that fancies your heartache. You ain’t foolin’ an old man like me.”

Dean chuckles. “Nah, I’m good. But thanks. Think I’m gonna head home and drink myself into a coma there.”

“It’s getting dark soon. How much longer?” Jo’s brown eyes dart to Y/N as she drags her feet over a rocky path. The sun stings less than it did when they started their little hike, but her skin feels perfectly tanned by now and the water is running low.

“Uh, I think it’s supposed to be just up ahead that hill,” Y/N muses and swirls her head around the formation of rocks that all look the same, squinting her eyes into the distance.

Jo sighs, and her stare intensifies. “You’ve been saying that for over an hour. Are we lost?”

“Noooo…” Y/N doesn’t sound convincing and surely doesn’t fool Jo with her reply.

“Alright, gimme the map.”

“I don’t have the map. I gave it to Meg.”

Jo groans and rolls her eyes, throwing her arms up in exasperation.

“What? Meg’s the trail leader. Trail leader gets the map,” Y/N defends her faux pas with reason.

“Great! So we’re fucking lost in the desert,” the blonde huffs.

Y/N chuckles lightly, mostly out of uncomfortableness and panic she tries to hide behind it. “No, there’s a trail marker right over there,” she says, pointing to a pile of rocks. “That looks manmade.”

Jo quirks her brow. “You mean like that pile of rocks? Or that one over there?”

Y/N follows her friend’s gaze, only to realize that there are lots of piles of rock that all look too fucking similar. She purses her lips and scratches her head before resting her arms on her squared-off hips. “I think we’re lost.”

“Yeah.” With an exhaustive sigh, Jo plops down on another pile of rocks and watches as the orange sun dips behind the horizon, shadows of blue slowly crawling across the desert floor and swallowing the light.

Y/N clumsily lowers herself down next to the blonde. Her leg hurts like a bitch, and the desert sand that has wound its way into her cast itches a good deal. Her hands and arms hurt as well from clinging to her crutches all afternoon. Maybe Dean was right, and this was a bad idea, after all. Why does he always have to be fucking right about everything? How can one person be so annoying and frustrating all at once?

“Well, you finally get your wish,” Jo deadpans. “We’re gonna die together.”

“I’m sorry,” Y/N says ruefully and looks at the first stars appearing in the night sky. “Maybe the stars will guide us home.”

Jo just looks at her, unamused and unsurprised. “You’ve never been camping, have you?”

Y/N twitches her shoulders apologetically. “It was only supposed to be a three-mile moderate beginner’s trail to a beautiful vista. It’s what the guidebook said.”

Jo shakes her head and blows a raspberry, hugging her knees. “Joanna Wesson, 27, found dead near a random cluster of rocks that might have looked like a trail marker. She was best known for playing Beth Crowne on the soap opera Paradise Bay before trying to revive her career on an unsuccessful wrestling show. She is survived by her son, Sammy, and her bitter ex-husband Sam with his secretary Jessica.”

“Well, at least you get an obituary,” Y/N quips. “Mine would just read: Soap Star Found Dead Next to Unidentified Woman in National Park.”

Jo even snorts at that. “Well, I’m sure Dean would cut and edit an adorable video tribute with a bunch of B-roll about you at your funeral.”

“Yeah, maybe…” Y/N pensively licks her lips, her heart doing those painful twinges again whenever she thinks of him. “You know yet what you’re gonna do next?”

“No, I-… I think I wanna produce,” Jo announces with determination in her hazel eyes. “I don’t wanna ask permission. I’m so tired of it all. For once, I wanna boss people around and tell ‘em what to do. You know, you were right.”

Baffled, Y/N raises a brow. “About what?”

“Men,” Jo says simply and then spits with fire, “I fucking hate them all. The Crowleys and the Dicks and the Cases and the Sams and the Deans… They make the choices. They dictate the terms… I’m sick of it all. I just hate asking them for anything.”

“Dean’s not so bad,” Y/N says quietly but doesn’t look at Jo. Her heart stings for the millionth time. “I got that role for the Sondheim musical. They called this morning.”

Jo’s lips curve into a soft smile that reaches her eyes. “Congrats. I’m not surprised. You were really fucking good.”

Y/N’s heart flutters a little at the compliment. Tears begin to sting her eyes. She can’t remember the last time Jo was nice to her. “Thank you.”

“You don’t seem happy about it,” Jo notes attentively.

“No, I am,” Y/N manages to choke out, but the sniffling betrays her intentions.

“But?”

Y/N bobs her head, swallowing. “I think I’m ready to talk about it now.”

“Fucking finally,” Jo huffs and rubs her cold and goosebump-littered arms as the heat disappears, the nightly air bringing a fresh breeze.

“Dean told me he loves me,” Y/N confesses. “He’s in love with me.”

“Yeah, no shit. Kinda obvious,” Jo says without a twitch of surprise. “Don’t feel bad for not loving him back. That’s what they want… For us to feel bad about every single fucking thing.”

“That’s just it. I don’t think that’s how I feel,” Y/N replies and lets out a jittery sigh.

Jo’s head turns to her, eyeing her friend up and down. “And how do we feel about that? I can’t tell. It’s too dark to see your face.”

“I-, uh, I don’t exactly know,” Y/N says, which is partially true. She might know how she feels about the green-eyed director, but not how she feels about the situation overall.

Jo purses her lips and nods. “Alright, here’s a couple of options: happy, excited, scared, or… repulsed?”

“Well, uhm… scared,” Y/N admits slowly and gulps. “And excited… happy.”

Jo throws her arms up, shaking her head at the stars. “Jesus fuck! Then what the fuck are we doing here?! Is that why you dragged me all the way to the fucking desert? Because you’re running from your feelings?”

“Kinda. I thought the peaceful quiet and beautiful nature would bring me some much-needed clarity,” Y/N explains.

Jo lifts a brow but tries not to seem too annoyed. She’s accustomed to her friend’s theatrics, after all. “And? Did it?”

“The hike didn’t, but facing death kinda does,” Y/N jokes and begins to laugh a little, Jo soon joining her. When their laughter dies down and the desert sounds of chirping crickets and screeching eagles remain, Y/N exhales a shaky breath. “I’m in love with him, too. He makes me really fucking happy. But… I finally feel like I’m on the right track with my career. I am where I’m supposed to be, you know? I don’t wanna throw that away for a guy.”

“Who says you should?”

“I don’t know… Isn’t that how it goes? You did it,” Y/N argues.

Jo licks her lips and clicks her tongue. “Yeah, ‘cause I chose the wrong fucking guy. Sam made me give up everything I ever loved and told me what to love instead. If you pick the right guy, he won’t make you do that.”

“How do I know it’s the right guy, though?”

Jo smiles softly. “Look, I’m not Dean’s biggest fan, but he’s yours. You know that, right? He’d never hold you back. He adores the ground you walk on. Yes, he’s an asshole with so many fucking issues, and he’s goddamn annoying most of the time, but he’s always had your back, even when he pretended that he didn’t. The guy would probably sell every limb and his fucking soul to see you get everything you ever wanted, Y/N. He wouldn’t be a mistake. You know what would be a mistake? Not trying because you’re too scared of making one. Don’t be fucking stupid.”

Thoughtfully, Y/N nods in agreement and grabs her crutches, rising from her rocky seat. “I need to see him. We have to head back to the city.”

“Finally! Thank fucking God.” With a grunt, Jo jumps to her feet and helps Y/N to steady hers. “Maybe the girls made a fire bright enough, so we can find our way back.”

“Shit.”

“What? They have matches, don’t they? I’m sure these bitches can manage a simple fire, right?” Jo then notices Y/N’s hand curling around her bicep, her grip tightening. And then, Jo glances in the direction of Y/N’s eyes and sees the same damn thing. Her brown eyes widen.

“Mountain lion.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” the blonde hisses and holds on to her friend as well. Both women freeze on the spot. “What-, uh, what should we do?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we should throw a stick?”

“A stick?” Jo arches her brow. The big cat snarls and stalks a little closer, making the two women jump back. Their hearts are thumping in their throats at this point. “It’s not a fucking dog, Y/N. It won’t play fetch with you.”

“I know that. How about you come up with a better idea, then?” Y/N snaps through gritted teeth. The lion hisses again, causing the women to tremble down to their bones and hug each other tighter. “I think I should jump it.”

“Are you nuts? No!”

“Look, while it eats me, you can flee. I can’t run with my cast anyways. This is the best option,” Y/N insists, but Jo vehemently shakes her head.

“Fuck no! You’re not sacrificing yourself. We die together. You’re not leaving me behind,” Jo maintains. “I always knew my death would be your fault. Don’t ask me how, but I knew you’d get me killed somehow.”

The wild cat takes another step forward and lowers to the ground as if to get ready to jump its prey – them. But then a few tumbling rocks and breaking twigs draw its attention behind the women. Is there an even bigger cat here?

And suddenly, Meg leaps forward from above them with a loud howl and snarls at the cat, which hastily tucks its tail between its legs and flees down the hill into the dark night. Y/N and Jo expel a big breath of relief and a shaky laugh as they find Meg.

“Meg, what the fuck? Did you just scare away a mountain lion?” Y/N gapes at her friend in utter disbelief.

Meg only shrugs her shoulders. “I hate cats. What are you guys doing out here so long?”

“We got lost. Couldn’t find our way back to camp,” Y/N explains.

Meg furrows her brow and thumbs behind her. “It’s just over there. You guys have been hiking around the same hill for five hours.”

Jo shoots Y/N a small glare of annoyance and blows some loose strands of blonde hair out of her face. “Of course we did…” she mutters.

“We have to get back to LA!” Y/N declares eagerly, trying to climb the small rocky hill with her crutches, foregoing the more suitable pathway.

“Right now? It’s probably 3am when we get to Burbank. Can’t this wait till tomorrow?” Jo says as she attempts to climb after her friend.

“No! I almost died! Twice… Dean needs to know how I feel before I get bit by a rattlesnake, too,” Y/N reiterates passionately.

“It’s probably for the best,” Meg chimes in. “We kinda forgot to pack food. I was about to hunt something for us when I ran into you guys. We have tons of drugs and booze, though.”

Y/N’s knuckles thunder persistently on Dean’s door and conjure up a storm. She has jumped out of Ruby’s limo so fast, the girls are still scrambling out and flooding Dean’s front lawn one by one. They’re loud and obnoxious, but the ringing in her ears makes their chatter barely noticeable.

The lock clicks and the door opens. Dean stands in front of her with weary green eyes, heavy with sleep, tousled bed-head, and a furiously scrunched brow. He half yawns and half grumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Once he feels clearer, minus the soft buzz of whiskey remnants in his bloodstream, he blinks at the young actress in front of him and then tilts his head at the circus show behind her.

God, between his punk rock daughter and this, his neighbors must really hate him.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you guys supposed to be camping in fucking Joshua Tree?” His voice is a gravelly bark. He doesn’t mean to sound so harsh, especially when he just woke from a dream about her, but he’s not as masochistic as he used to be. He’s not a fan of torturing himself with the image of her any longer.

Y/N’s heart somersaults as soon as she sees him, even though his apprehension hurts a bit. “Look, I almost died tonight. We got lost in the desert and then a mountain lion almost fucking ate us.”

Dean licks his lips, nodding. “Yeah, I’m not fucking surprised. Told you Palm Springs is the better option. So, did anyone fucking die? What’s the head count?”

“No one died.”

“Huh. Then why the fuck are you here in the middle of the night, Y/N?” Dean bites, his brow creasing in anger. He can’t even fucking look at her for a second without his heart being on the brink of an explosion. Even saying her goddamn name hurts like needle pricks in an abused vein.

“I–” Y/N swallows thickly. Her drumming heart is stuck in her airway along with her words.

“She’s here to tell you she loves you!” Ruby hollers behind her before several girls tackle her and clasp her mouth shut.

Dean’s heart twists upon the sick joke, his frown deepening. But then he glances at Y/N and thinks he can spot the truth in her eyes. He thought that once before, though, and was terribly wrong.

Y/N gives a shrug of one shoulder with tears brimming in her eyes. A small smile forms on her lips. “What she said.”

Dean nods and drags a hand over his freckled face, feeling the tears well in his eyes, too. Fucking whiskey. Always renders him goddamn sentimental. “Look, uhm, you kinda gotta tell me this yourself. Otherwise, I won’t believe it, okay?”

Upon his request, Y/N takes a deep breath and looks him into his eyes. “I’m in fucking love with you.” As soon as the words are out, she starts crying and the tears fall down her cheeks. Meanwhile, Dean’s heart tumbles into free fall, and he’s sure not even a parachute can stop it. “I’ve never said that to anyone in my life. Is-, is it too late?”

Dean snorts and shakes his head, grinning brighter than the California sun on the longest day of the year. “Fuck no. Even if it had taken you thirty years, I still would’ve taken you back. That’s kinda how once-in-a-lifetime love works, sweetheart.”

“Okay. Sounds like a good movie,” Y/N jokes between her tears, her fingers tingling to touch him.

“Yeah, best one there is.”

His hands grab hold of her and pull her into his embrace. He claims her lips, Y/N eagerly parting her mouth as his tongue slips between. The kiss is rushed and fervent and perfectly desperate. They’re both so gone they can’t even hear the girls cheering and applauding them in the background.

“You’re gonna come inside?” Dean asks in a murmur against her lips, barely letting her breath.

“Uhm…”

“Hey, Lothario, you got space for us, too?” Cassie shouts with a wide smirk.

“Yeah, we’re fucking starving,” Ruby adds with an impatiently arched brow.

“We, uh, forgot to pack food,” Y/N explains with a chuckle.

Dean sighs and smiles knowingly. “Of course you did.” He then turns to the women waiting on his lawn. “Alright, get in. I’ll order some pizzas.”

The women then proceed to brush past the couple and filter into Dean’s house. Missouri pinches his cheeks, Ruby pats his head, Cassie fist-bumps him and sends Y/N a flirty wink, Meg tousles his hair, Charlie shrugs apologetically, and Jo offers an annoyed eye roll.

“I’m never gonna get rid of them, am I?” Dean looks down at her and tightens his jaw, even when a grin is visible.

“No, I’m afraid not. It’s like you’ve adopted twelve strays. One of which actually turned out to be your long-lost puppy. They’re gonna be here until you die and then eat your corpse,” Y/N quips.

“Funny.” Dean clicks his tongue, his dimples itching to form a grin.

“Oooo! Let’s call the guys!” he hears Ruby exclaim from inside his living room. “It’s a fucking wrap party at the boss’ house!”

“No! No party! Guys, c’mon!” Dean storms inside after them, leaving Y/N giggling on his doorstep.

“Let’s call Garth, Kevin, and Benny!” Donna suggests, ignoring his protests. It’s like they can’t fucking hear him.

“I’ll call my husband, too!” Bela adds and eagerly dials Cas’ number on his landline.

“Oh, right, Cas…” Dean mutters with an eye roll as he remembers the impromptu wedding. “No fucking Benny!”

Y/N joins his side and rubs his back in comfort as he watches his house sink into female doom. “You okay?”

The deep trenches in his brow flatten into soft valleys as his green eyes lock on her. He dips his head and pulls her to his lips, kissing her slow and reverently. “Better.” He smirks. “Just gonna have to sage the whole house tomorrow.”

That earns him a playful slap on his chest. He laughs and pulls her closer with an arm around her waist.

“Hey, uh, speaking of party…” Dean mumbles before he addresses the whole room, grabbing their attention with an authoritative clear of his throat. He’s still got it. “You guys wanna do shows in Vegas?”

“What?!”

Dean’s eyes find Y/N’s gaping face. He chuckles a little. “Yeah, uh, Bobby offered me a deal. There’s nothing in the network contract about live shows. I already went over it with Cas this afternoon. It pays well, too. You guys interested? It’s not like any of you have actual jobs lined up, right?”

Y/N closes her mouth. “I got that Sondheim musical in San Diego. It’s a workshop production, but if it goes well, it could go all the way to Broadway. I could end up in New York.”

“Good,” Dean says and smirks. “You’re fucking fired.”

“WHAT?!” Y/N’s mouth falls open again. “You said you’d never fire me!”

“Yeah, well, this is for your own good,” Dean reasons. “You think I’m gonna let you quit Sondheim for some stupid wrestling show in Vegas? You gotta be fucking nuts! This is what you fucking wanted. Don’t make me kick your stupid ass onto that stage. It’s gonna look embarrassing for you again…”

Y/N bites her lips to conceal her grin. Her eyes meet Jo’s, who mouths ‘I told you so’ at her. “Thank you,” she tells Dean and kisses his cheek. He furrows his brow at her in suspicion. “But rehearsals don’t start until June. Still gonna need a job till then.”

“Oh.” Dean’s brow shoots up in realization. “The June in nine months?”

“Yeah, the June in nine months,” Y/N confirms with a laugh.

“Whoops. Well, consider yourself rehired till June, then,” Dean relents.

“So, if I ever have to work in New York–”

“Then we’ll go to New York. Big fucking whoop-dee-doo. You know I hate LA.”

Y/N giggles, nodding. “What would you do in New York?”

“Same I do here, just on a little balcony instead of a backyard. I sit with my typewriter by a table and smoke and drink,” Dean retorts. “I’ve actually been working on a new script. I’m moving away from horror and into Western.”

“Got inspired by the motel’s wallpaper, huh?” Y/N teases. “What’s it about?”

“Father-daughter storyline. Thought I’d give that a shot…”

1990, 5 years later…

“Dean! We’re gonna be late!” Y/N reminds him and holds the blindfold in place over her eyes as he drags her somewhere by the hand. Her heels can barely keep up with his fast pace. “You know, check-in at LAX is the worst. Our flight departs in two hours. I’m nominated, Dean! I can’t reschedule! The girls are all flying in, too…”

“I know! I’m fucking hurrying, okay?” Dean assures. However, she can hear the stress and tension in his gravelly voice. He then suddenly halts and positions her into place by her shoulders before carefully taking off the blindfold. “Alright, here we are.”

Y/N blinks her eyes open and recognizes blurry shapes of purple and gold. She lifts an eyebrow as ornaments on the walls and a big stage come into view as well. “The Aztec porno theater?”

“Mayan,” Dean corrects her and wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he gets down in front of her on one knee and tries to fumble out the too-big ring box from his too-tiny suit jacket pocket. “Son of a bitch!”

“Dean, wait!” Y/N stops his endeavor with raised palms, her eyebrows meeting her hairline when she realizes what he’s about to do.

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N!” Dean frowns in frustration and rises to his feet with a huff and a shaking head. “I know you’re against marriage and the patriarchy and all that bullshit, but c’mon… We’ve been dating for five years. We have a good thing going, right?”

After spending a whole year in beautiful Las Vegas – the Paris of Nevada – the two of them moved to New York. Dean sold his house in Burbank and opted for a Brooklyn apartment instead. Claire also studied film at NYU before she graduated last Spring. But every few months, the couple finds themselves back in LA – for interviews, for business, for friends.

“Dean–”

“No! You know me. I’d make a great fucking husband. You love it when I make reporters laugh on the red carpet. I’m an awesome trophy husband, okay?”

“DEAN!”

“WHAT?!”

Why the fuck is she angry now? He should be the one that’s angry. She’s turning down the best opportunity of her life. She should consider herself lucky he wants to spend the rest of his life with her. He even had an amazing speech prepared to knock her right off her feet, but does he get to say it now? How he wanted to grow fucking old together and support each other? How he wanted to marry her all those years ago when she told him she was pregnant? Nope...

“I’m fucking pregnant!”

Dean blinks at her in confusion before his eyes begin to wander around the familiar theater. Did he take something? Drink too much? Did he actually travel through time or is this a weird fever dream on his deathbed?

“What’s it with you and this theater? And why do you always yell that?”

“Because you never listen.” Y/N giggles and bites her lower lip. “And I’ll gladly marry you if that’s what you were going for. I just figured I’d tell you before in case you wanna change your mind and bail.”

“Why the fuck would I bail?” Dean’s brows knit together, close to offense.

She shrugs and holds up her palms in surrender. “I don’t know! I didn’t want you to feel trapped.”

“Why? Isn’t it mine?”

Y/N rolls her eyes, a grin twitching on her pink lips as she slaps his arm. “Yes, of course it’s yours.”

“And you’re keeping it? You sure?” Dean throws her a quizzical look.

Her brow furrows. “Why, you aren’t?”

“No, I am!” he assures her swiftly, realizing how it sounded. “Hell yeah, I want another kid! You know I always wanted to make up for missing out on Claire so much! I finally get to change a diaper, go to the park, or the fucking zoo while my wife works… It’ll be so fun!”

Y/N tries to stifle her laugh. He seems happy, judging by the joyful glint in his green eyes. They resemble sparkling emeralds.

“But are you sure, y' know?” Dean checks with a deep look into her eyes. “I mean, I do what I can to support you and keep the thing alive in your absence, but you know you’re still gonna be benched for a couple of months, right? I’m not a fucking seahorse.”

Y/N laughs a little at that. “I know. I’m fine with sitting on the bench for a little while. I’m kinda exhausted. I did two Broadway musicals almost back to back, three off-Broadway shows, all the workshops and the rehearsals and Matinees and the dancing and the singing… Not to mention I’m nominated for a fucking Tony tonight,” she says and is close to out of breath by the time she finishes her list of accomplishments.

“Which you’re gonna win,” Dean reassures her persistently. He’s been telling her since the nominations were announced (and even before that when he first saw her in the role on the first night).

“We’ll see,” she brushes him off, although her blushed cheeks betray her words. In her heart, she hopes so as well. “Anyways, I could use the break,” she admits and takes his hands in hers, interlacing their fingers. She places a loving kiss on his lips. “Right time, right guy, right baby,” she says, smiling.

Dean squeezes her hand happily and pulls her to his lips for a searing kiss. “So, where did we land on that whole marriage thing?”

“See? You’re never listening,” she teases, laughing. “Yes, I’ll marry you. Under one condition…”

Dean smirks. “I've had the same exact thought – Vegas. It’s perfect!”

“What, no! I don’t wanna get married in filthy Vegas, you dork!” Y/N frowns playfully, shaking her head. “I wanna get married in Nebraska. I want my dad to marry us."

Dean’s brow creases. He chuckles in amusement. “What, like a shotgun wedding? Could be fun… Pastor marries pregnant daughter to older man. Is this gonna make headlines in the townie paper?”

Y/N snorts, shaking her head at him. “No, it’s a shotgun wedding. It’s very common,” she deadpans.

“I’ve never met your parents,” Dean realizes then. “Why have I never met your parents? It’s weird they never come visit you,” he ponders.

“Oh no, they do,” Y/N tells him, pursing her lips as she twirls her hair around her finger. “They’ve seen me both in Into The Woods and Gypsy.”

“Really, when?” Dean narrows his eyes at her.

“Whenever you were in LA, visiting Claire,” Y/N admits ruefully. She never told them she was dating the director, not sure if they’d approve – not that she gives a shit, but she wanted to spare herself all the sermons and the exploring of the Sunday school dating pool. Whenever they asked who owned the men’s clothes in her apartment, she lied and said she had a gay-but-in-the-closet roommate. “But you can meet them now,” she promises with a reassuring smile on her lips. Thank God she’s an excellent, Tony-nominated actress. “I’m sure they learn to love you just like I did.”

“Learn to?”

“I love you.” Y/N smiles mischievously and shuts up any further comments by kissing him.

Dean grins and relents with a blissful sigh. “I love you, too.”

THE END 🌅

Thank you all so much for reading and making me laugh with your comments and screams throughout! 🤍

Are we done with these two for good? Probably not. I've left gaps and doors open on purpose, so I'm sure they'll make an appearance again at some point in the future 😉

TAGS:

Everything Jensen: @alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@mxltifxnd0m @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @deans-baby-momma @yoobusgoobus @jessjad

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70

[kinopioa]

I dont think we need to take Ken penders words for anything, the man is hated for reasons beyond his bad writing. He threw ofher writers he worked with under the buss all the time. Back in the early 2000s he would get anoyyed if someone complimented another writer besides him. He once said, he did his own thing because 'Sega didn't give him much to work with" and would imply his writing made the Sonic characters deeper then in the games. Jon Gray even stated, fhe entire reason why Ken left because he couldn't do what he wanted since his unused plans would break several rules with Sonic's character, especially regarding Shadow. He's now pretending to still care about Sonic's brand because Sonic fans are the only one giving him any attention nowadays.

He is 100% a grifter, idiot, glory hog, has daddy issues, probably misses the 90s when regulation was lax as fuck

But he is unironically right regarding Flynn's parasocial involvement with the fandom. That's the only thing I care about. Given my own research on Ian, Pender's 100% right. Ian already was doing interviews 4 years before he got on Archie, and then generated more interest with the bumbleking forums, and later paid questionaire podcasts. No other writer is this directly in view of fandom opinions, and as seen in his writing, appeals directly to fan bias pretty often

The entire reason he killed Tommy, treated Cream like shit, and fucked with a stupid 5 year "There's a traitor!" with Silver is directly cuz he was mirrored fandom ire. They hated Tommy being dead weight, they hated Cream for "kiddifying the franchise", they hated Silver for being a naive guy from a bad game

I've also noticed Flynn indirectly thrived on surrounding drama of the greater fandom. 06's reception + Archie writers dropping is the only reason he got hired. Yardley's less shit art is why writing got leeway. The 2013 lawsuit causing the reboot gave him a by for "not using expanded chars" along with getting Archie noticed by the games fandom, and Lost World/Forces failing for reception led to people to look more into spinoffs

I see people randomly gas up Archie Sonic as a powerhouse or peak entirely cuz they see this scene out of context

Even though this literally happens right after. He doesn't even beat him legitimately later, he was beaten cuz suddenly his mech is ineffective to most of the FF and Ray. Fucking Ray

People further cementing "skip to issue 160" and accrediting all good writing to Ian is also grounds for creating another Penders. Sadly I think it worked

So I don't give a shit about Pender's ramblings of his "great writing" given how miniscule his impact is nowadays. The only thing of impact to the games he did was bury the idea of a Chronicles sequel, an already noncanon game. I DO care if someone effectively hired by nepotism still shows his bias and misconception for this franchise. This stance in 2008 I don't think changed given how he's been trying to sneak in Archie refs still

If not Ian, it'd be another "fan" on Twitter doing similar disregard of the games

The term "a broken clock right twice a day" is what I'd say applies to Penders for his notes on Ian. Otherwise, outside Spiderman 4 dev, he is to be ignored mostly

Well that and him dunking Krash, that was just...wow. Rare W

[little-tyrant-gortash]

I have to move my theory to another post from here, so I can properly save it in my headcanons in my pinned post. 😊

Well yes, after being sold as a slave by your bloody parents to a warlock, you'd think one would be more cautious around a person who slaughtered his ally, butchered countless minions that supported him and literally pissed in his soup. (Because frankly. That's what we fucking did. 😂)

By rights, we should've lost our heads the moment we neared Baldur's Gate.

He does the complete opposite and since he's highly intelligent, I refuse to believe that he's doing it because he's stupid. No, there has to be another reason... why he... automatically... thinks the best of us. And yes, we ARE useful to him if he can persuade us to kill Orin for him, but he offers SO MUCH MORE in exchange for that.

His reaction to us - either Tav or Dark Urge - is overwhelmingly, frighteningly positive. He made a pact with Orin she wouldn't kill him but our mere word was enough. What's that if not hope and positivity?

I was thinking about something concerning this all. When we first talk to him face-to-face, we're in literal neck deep shit... he still has ideas how to proceed, he still has a positive look on our collective future.

I have a theory. I've been collecting these for a fanfic where he eventually turns away from Bane to Lathander. Because for me it's all. Right. There. It's also interesting that there's a MASSIVE lore on other gods but they've made an entire fucking Lathanderian monastery for us to wander in BEFORE we even know Gortash exists.

Okay, let me rant because I'm losing my mind, sorry:

Enver (Anwar) means "brighter, more luminous" in Arabic.

Enver Gortash's title is Lord Lightbringer. For comparison, Lathander's other name is the Morninglord. Very, very similar. And Lathander is rather the God of Dawn, representing a new day, a new beginning. It's also interesting that one of the titles a priest could get is Sunrise Lord. Sunrise Lord / Lord Lightbringer? Jesus fucking Christ Larian.

His Steel Watch have this big silver symbol on them that (to me at least) resembles the sun. Interesting he designed it in silver - the sun also looks white when we look directly at it, isn't it? Also: gold on black (light in the dark). And there are literal sunrays. Like dawn.

His exact words to us are "[we will] rise over Toril like a roaring sun"

Lathander's portfolio includes "birth, renewal, spring and youth, as well as athletics, self-perfection, vitality and creativity". Some of these definitely apply to Gortash, at least self-perfection, vitality and creativity does.

This entire passage on this page: "[Lathander] is the god of dawn, which represented the potential of a new day. A god of hope and beginnings, Lathander's name was invoked at the start of new endeavors, (once again, "[we will] rise over Toril like a roaring sun"] whether sealing a new deal, or setting out on a new journey."

Once more: like a roaring sun, because these words are burned in my brain. Bane is often called the God of Darkness. Why, pray tell, does Gortash say roaring sun? I'm going mental at that fucking line.

God of Hope - House of Hope (painful, but strange coincidence 😫)

"His was an eternal optimism, a constant willingness to focus on hopes for the future rather than wallow in the failures of the present. He was a doggedly determined god who encouraged proactive altruism and constant reevaluation of the old ways."

This ^ is also interesting because upon meeting him, Gortash doesn't focus on the past or the failures of the present either, he focuses on the future and what we can do together. He's also determined and constantly reevaluates the old ways (with his creations, his involvement in politics, his ascension, with his plans).

And how could he escape the House of Hope if he had no hope that he had a future, a new dawn?

I don't think that the creators did all of this by accident. It's visible they've paid careful attention to other details, too.

Maybe, just maybe... deep, very deep down... unconsciously... hidden from even Bane...

Gortash is drawn to Lathander. To the light. To the dawn and new beginnings.

And perhaps... maybe... he hopes that we are the ones who can bring him back to the light.

[clickoly]

O'Knutzy Week - Day 1

I saw the prompt Racing on the bingo card and I couldn't resist. 

Me? Watching twenty cars go vroom vroom in a circle for sixty laps every other weekend? Absolutely not. 

Here's the first of five parts of Starboys, a Cubs Formula One AU! 

(Leo will arrive in style, fashionably late, tomorrow)

Characters belong to the amazing @lumosinlove. A big thank you to @oknutzy-week-2024 for organizing the fest. 

A5: We lost

Link to Ao3 here

Monza, Italy

National Automobile Racetrack

The late August heat radiating from the pit lane was anything but a pleasant welcome. Sliding his sunglasses into messy hair, slightly sweaty from a short walk under the scorching sun, Logan took a quick look around. 

The Silver garage was uncharacteristically quiet, with only a few mechanics loading tires onto trailers, probably setting them up for tomorrow's free practice sessions.

The weekend hadn't even started yet, and Logan already wished it were over. He ached to wash away the feeling of too many sleepless nights off his body, to get rid of the latent headache that had been haunting him for days—ever since he'd boarded that flight from Amsterdam alone. 

What would happen if he refused to show up? Would they fire him? He actually considered hiding for a second, just as the back door to the offices opened. 

"Logan?" 

The unmistakable sound of Celeste's voice made him turn around. 

"Oui, maman?"

"Don't maman me, Tremblay," she stepped closer. "You're late." 

"I know," Logan risked an innocent grin. "Please tell me why I have to do this."

The threatening look he earned was more eloquent than any real answer. "Okay, okay," he held his hands up in a sign of truce. "Who's at the press conference?" 

Celeste had a habit of memorizing every single detail of his schedule. "Olli, Thomas, Jackson and Finn," she recited. "Do I have to remind you to behave?" 

"You know I hate those fucking-"

"Language," Celeste playfully pressed a finger to his chest, then tilted her head toward the door. "Go charm everyone with that sweet face of yours."

"Yeah," Logan huffed. "If anyone so much as breathes a word about last week, I swear to God–"

"You will kindly remind them it was a misunderstanding." 

"Mais non," he tried to reason. Had it been a misunderstanding?

"Logan, they want to throw gasoline on this already raging fire. We won't let them." 

"Fine," he gave up. There was no point in arguing with her. "But he better be on the same page." 

Celeste Dumais wasn't just any manager. She was a friend, a steady presence at Logan's side. And she also happened to be the scariest human being he'd ever met in his life. At least when she wanted to be.

"Go," she insisted. The bossy yet extremely loving tone came out, capable of commanding an army and taking care of a wild household at once. "Behave, and be ready for dinner at six. Pascal is taking us to his favorite restaurant in town, and Katie wants to show you she's learned to eat spaghetti."

"All by herself?"

"And with a fork. Can you believe that?" 

Logan's smile was genuine. "Merci, maman."

Down the hall in the Media Center, Logan could hear the loud chatter of people. He checked his watch and realized that they were probably waiting for him to start the conference. 

Media day, real fun. 

The same old faces welcomed him as he sat down at the end of a long red couch, right next to Thomas Walker, Racing Bull's first seat. 

"Care to join the party?" Thomas whispered, muffling his words from the cameras. 

"I'd rather not," Logan crossed his arms and leaned against the backrest. "But apparently I have no choice." 

Thomas tried to stifle a laugh as the journalist spoke into his microphone, drawing everyone's attention. 

"Welcome everybody to the drivers' press conference ahead of the FIA Formula One Italian Grand Prix," he said to the cameras. Years of interviews and conversations with this man, and still Logan found it tricky to understand his thick Scottish accent. "Here are our five drivers joining us today. Closest to me is the home hero for this weekend, Finn O'Hara."

Finn actually smiled for the audience and politely returned the greeting with a grateful nod. 

"Then we have Olli Halla, Jackson Nadeau, Thomas Walker and Logan Tremblay. Welcome to you all."  

Every other Thursday afternoon on race weekends, when his teammate James wasn't on call, Logan was forced to sit through the same boring go-to questions—usually asked by the same three people. What can you tell us about last week's results? What are your expectations for this weekend? And each time, he tried his best to hide his discomfort behind safely prepared answers, carefully tailored to avoid any kind of drama—the very thing reporters were always looking for.

"Why don't we start with you, Finn?" The man, Tom, asked. "How does it feel, as an American, to be able to race again in red in front of the Italian crowd?"

"Oh, man," Finn laughed, and the rapid clicking of camera shutters instantly filled the room.

Fucker.

"This is incredible," he went on. "Every year it feels like coming home. The fans are amazing, and their support means everything to me and, of course, to the team."

Not only was Finn an elite driver, but he also had an innate talent for winning people's hearts with the silliest of comments. Finn O'Hara was pure charm, and Logan hated to admit it, but he had always been a little jealous of his natural way with people—reporters, journalists, fans. Finn acted like he was born to be in the spotlight and, most importantly, on the top step of the podium. It came as no surprise to Logan when Finn received a multi-year contract offer from the most prestigious racing team in the world, the one people could name without thinking twice when asked about Formula One.

Ask a child to draw a car, and they will certainly draw it red—the same crimson as the Scuderia's vibrant and historic livery, the flagship of Made in Italy. 

"Let's move on to Logan," Tom said eventually, his voice as calm and punctuated as usual. "Shall we go back to last weekend? I believe it was a tough one for you, but you still managed to finish the race." 

Logan took his time answering. He grabbed the mic, untangled the long cable twisted at his feet, and slowly pulled it to his mouth, white knuckles clutching the metal casing. "It was," he said coldly. His free hand reached for his hair, feeling exposed by the absence of his snapback. "But there's not much to add, to be honest. As I said in the post-race interview, I got damaged by the contact and the car lost a little performance in terms of aerodynamics," he explained calmly. 

"The safety car he..." Logan trailed off. "The safety car helped. The mechanics did a mega job during the pit stop and fixed the problem enough to let me cross the finish line."

But I still don't know why it happened.

"It was absolutely a fantastic team effort," agreed Tom. "What about your predictions for this Sunday?" 

Logan's lips twitched on autopilot into a cocky smile. "Oh, I can totally see a win." 

"Best of luck to you," the man smiled back. "Now I think we have time to take questions from the print media."

Logan tensed. This was the tough part, when sports journalists went on a merciless gossip hunt, looking for the best headline for their next article. And once again, Logan found himself in their crosshairs. 

It didn't take long for Tom to give the floor to the most annoying of them all.

"Peter Jones, ESPN F1," the man said as he switched on the microphone. "Finn, the DNF at Zandvoort cost you important points in the battle for the championship," he paused. His greedy eyes flicked not so casually between Finn and Logan. "What are the consequences in the close fight between you and the current leader?" 

A subtle question, because Logan knew exactly where this was going. He couldn't help but turn to look at Finn, who sat up straighter on the couch and inadvertently moved a hand to rub the back of his neck—as he always did when he was nervous. 

"Like you said," he cleared his throat, "it's still a tight fight. I made a mistake and I apologized, because..." Logan heard the hesitation in his voice, a faint tremor. "We both lost something last week. The race, good points..." Finn's eyes went blurry for a fleeting moment. "But I have to focus more on the future if I want to close the gap between us. And that's still my goal, so I'd say nothing has really changed". 

"So everything's okay between the two of you?"

Logan had watched the footage in his hotel room. He remembered storming out of his box. He had wanted to talk, to understand. And they just ended up yelling at each other in the middle of the paddock. Fifteen minutes later, the pictures were all over the Internet. 

Sparks flying on and off the track. Tempers flare as Tremblay and O'Hara clash after today's collision, the official F1 account had captioned the post on Instagram. 

"Of course," Finn nodded, a half smile on his lips, uncertain. "Yeah, good rivals and all." 

Rivals. That's what they were these days. Faces of the rivalry between two legendary, antagonistic teams. Names in capital letters on magazine titles and website headlines. 

One against the other.

As soon as they were dismissed, Logan bolted out of the room. It was four in the afternoon, and he still had to find a way to get out of the circuit unnoticed.

Logan wasn't being hostile. He loved his job and the life that came with it—or almost all of it. Even if it meant exposing himself more than he actually liked. 

Just not today, not now, not when the constant pounding in his head kept his focus far away, trapped in a conversation he wished had turned out differently. 

He was close to the exit door when he heard footsteps running after him. 

"Logan, wait." 

"Not in the mood," he said without looking back.

"Lo." a warm hand cupped his shoulder. "Please." 

They hadn't talked in almost a week, a first for them. Finn had texted, but Logan had needed time to figure out why he was so upset. In the back of his mind, Logan replayed the scene for the thousandth time.

Lap fifty, one hour and forty minutes into the race. Logan was leading the Dutch Grand Prix, going through Sector 2 with a 0.286-second lead over Finn, who had his DRS open. At the entrance to Turn 11, they were neck-to-neck, fighting for the apex.

The contact between the two cars happened out of the blue. It felt like a punch in the gut. 

Logan had watched the tape over and over, looking for a valid justification, an explanation. There had been plenty of room for both cars, and yet Finn had pushed him off the track, damaging Logan's front wing and knocking himself out of the race.

"You lied," Logan said firmly, still with his back to Finn. 

"What?"

"You said you apologized. But you didn't."

Finn let out a heavy breath, a hint of disbelief in it. He stepped in front of him, tall and broad as he was, brown eyes unbearably sad. 

"You think I did it on purpose?" he asked, his voice shaking with emotion. 

Logan held Finn's gaze. He felt all the tension in his body release at the sight of the hurt on his face. "Finn, I could never. Merde, I just... I don't understand why you snapped at me like that." 

You know what, Logan? Fuck you too. I don't have to explain anything to anyone. Just leave me alone.  

"I didn't mean to," Finn ducked his head, shying away from him. "I was tired of people asking me what happened and..." he shrugged helplessly. "You were so angry and I was furious because I'm an asshole and that was a fucking rookie mistake." Finn finally looked back at him, "I'm so sorry, Lo. I should have told you right away. I'm sorry." 

We both lost something last week. Something.

Logan closed his eyes.

Competitiveness was rooted in his DNA. He'd been racing for as long as he could remember, and he knew he would become a professional driver from the moment he sat in a kart for the first time at the tender age of five. The son of Marius Tremblay, a legend of the sport, following in his father's footsteps. 

He'd come a long way, with ups and downs, blissful achievements, countless defeats and steady improvement. And yet he'd found his way to this, to be a two-time world champion at the pinnacle of motorsport. To compete for a third title against Finn, the best friend he could've ever asked for. The only thing he hadn't expected to find on this competitive journey, and yet the most precious.

Logan had lost a race. That was it, a mistake. He certainly wasn't going to make the one to let Finn go. He could barely stand the idea of fighting with him. 

Still, he kept his face straight. He would never have given in that easily. "Listen," he said seriously, fighting the urge to hold Finn as he grew even paler, the freckles on his nose and cheekbones a stark contrast to his milky skin. "If you're not taking me out for a drink tonight, we're done."

A sparkle lit up those helplessly kind, soothing eyes. "We're not supposed to drink alcohol, Tremblay," Finn smiled shyly. 

"D'accord," Logan rolled his eyes and bit back a smile of his own. "Alcohol free it is."

[gojoswhitebabydolllashes]

The decline and fall of two wolverines

Logan howlett x reader

-

DEADPOOL AND WOLVERINE SPOILERS!!!

-

Warnings: idk yet. The brain emoji represents when a flashback is starting.

-

🧠

I tried to murder Jean Grey.

I say tried because nothing can happen in the mansion without Xavier poking around in your brain.

'Are you sure that's what you want to do?'

'You know you can't turn back after this'

'Your better than this, you know that'

His voice echoed painfully through my head. I held my dagger tightly as tears streamed from my eyes.

'Come to me, child'

The pain grew deeper. Invading each cavity of my skull and destroying my senses completely. It was unbearable, and I thought I might explode within seconds if I didn't get out of here soon.

'STOP. FOR GODSAKE STOP IT!'

And this is when I learnt that I could talk back.

-----

The mission to destroy Cassandra Nova was not going to be easy. Despite Wade's excitement to, and i quote verbatim 'absolutely shred some fucking skulls' it turns out I would end up siding with Logan, who also felt strongly that this was a horrible idea.

"You are going to get killed." I put my head in my hands.

"It's worth it, we'd rather die doing this than die here like cowards" Elektra scoffed.

I glared at her and stood up. The floorboards beneath me creaked eerily as I strode toward elektra with a slit eyes.

''Are you calling me a coward?"

I watched the woman gulp. "No, I called him a coward. He's the one forcing you to stay here," she pointed at Logan, who furrowed his brows and expelled his long silver claws from both hands.

A coward?

A fucking coward?

I held up my hand, and within an instant, it began to transform into a long knife. From my wrist to the top of my head was a silver blade.

I wish I could say I had a cool name for it. But I don't. I'm just a human katana.

"I'm sure your a great person, but unless you want to start drinking through a fucking straw I suggest you apologize"

The room was silent. I felt as if i had ruined their moment, but I didn't care.

"Sorry, you're not a coward." she rolled her eyes and walked off.

I retracted my hand blade, but Logan still held his own out, the shining metal claws protruding ominously as he stood in the light of the window.

I turned around and looked at everyone.

"Motherfucker that was scary as shit. I almost cut off my own dick to stop you doing it with that fucking thing"

Even Wade's joke couldn't stop my anger. I wasn't going with them. They were all going to die anyways. I'd rather hear of it than be there to watch it.

-

🧠

I'm not sure that there's anyone left on earth who understands what loss means.

Yes, it's death. Yes, it's watching life drain from a person. But it can be the loss of your life together too and the loss of their love and their voice, how their breathing sounds and how they laugh.

Hell what the fuck do I know. After all what have I truly lost?

God fucking damn it.

The years at the TVA were not as smooth going as I had initially hoped. Each day was something new, another disaster. I had even written a list of the reoccurring people, the ones that we could basically never get rid of.

Monday: always scarlet witch. Always so tattered and torn, shivering with heartbreak and anger of grief.

Tuesday: Loki's. Loki's of every kind. Ragnarok Loki's, TVA Loki's, jotun Loki's even.

Wednesday: Perhaps the most shattering of all, we would get iron man variants quite often. Sometimes, a zombie sometimes just before the blip. Most times, it was before he built the iron Man suit at all.

Thursdays: Captain America. Now, these were tough ones. Their were a fucking lot of these. Zombie ones, soldier ones, ones still frozen somehow. Pre serum ones. Ones where he works for HYDRA. Those are the scariest ones, the red skull Steve Rogers is not for the faint hearted.

Fridays: Fridays were... well Friday.

-

I sat outside the hut as the others geared up for their mission. Logan had come with me, but he didn't say much. My Logan talked way too much, so it was awkward hearing him be so silent.

"Your not going?" I spoke.

"Nah. I don't have the fucking patience for it"

A small moment of silence ensued before Logan spoke again.

"That hand thing you can do," he started. "Is it all over you?"

I scratched my neck and yawned. "To be honest, I've never thought of it"

I looked at my legs and stretched them out. "If I could have knife legs it would sure make walking interesting" I laughed

Logan beside me chuckled. God, he even laughs like him.

"I thought I was the only one who had this kind of power," he said as he brought out one of his claws.

"I thought I used to be as well. Your claws are made of adamantium aren't they? Well your entire skeleton is isn't it?"

He replied with a hum. "So what's yours then? Stainless steel?" He joked

I laughed at his words. "No. Actually, it's Vibranium"

"Vibranium, huh? What's that like a vibrating metal?"

It occurred to me then and there that this Logan doesn't know about the multiverse.

"No, it's uh, one of the earths strongest metals. like from wakanda?" I smiled nervously.

Apparently, something in him ticked off as I said that. He grew out the rest of his claws on his hand and pushed me against the tree behind me with one swift move. I was crushed between adamantium spikes and a rough tree.

He scowled at me.

"You will never be my wife." He spat

Venom laced the air around us. Encasing me in a bubble of fear.

"You might look like her and talk like her, hell you even fucking smell like her, that stupid fucking flower scent. Follows you around like a lost puppy"

The hate in his eyes grew each word. "You are not my fucking wife and I don't give a single fuck about what happened in your universe, whether you saved my life or not, I hope in every single one of them, you fucking die"

[bonefall]

How does Fallenleaf feel about how Ivypool and Dovewing were treated? And what do the latter think about her (Dovewing especially, since i imagine she was compared to her a lot when it came to the prophecy. I can definetely see an exasperated Jayfeather going 'Well Hollyleaf took the prophecy seriously before- when we thought she was part of it). Come to think of it, I can see Dovewing resenting Fallenleaf not only for the comparisons made about her, but also the fact that Jayfeather and Lionblaze let their sister know but she can't tell Ivypool even as they grow more distant. (Granted, Hollyleaf was told BEFORE they realized she wasn't part of the prophecy, but who knows if Dovewing is privy to that. >:3c)

Their relationship is, uh...

Skip back 100 years ago, Holly Leaves the Tyrant ruining ancient society.

She killed Jay Wing with her own two paws, drove Lion Roar out through grief, and then tried to stop Dove Wing from taking the survivors to the mountain

Dove Wing beat her ass. Handed it to her on a silver platter. Folly Leaves could break her brothers, but NOT Dove Wing.

Fallen Leaves for 1,000 seasons in a tunnel: "thank god i never have to see that random person who mcfuckin wrecked me ever again i think i would die of embarassment and/or fear"

Lionblaze, modern day: "we missed you so much... we were terrified when you acted like that, I thought I killed you when we... well... it's time to put that behind us. Are you prepared to meet your nieces? ...i raised them. If you hurt them I'll never forgive you."

Dovewing: (IS THAT RANDOM GUY WHO KICKED HER ASS)

And then Fallen learns Cinderheart went through with the plan to raise them with Lionblaze so Poppyfrost could have access

But that Poppyfrost did not TAKE that access.

So basically Cinderheart went through all this for nothing

AND on top of all the other new information (and she can't entirely remember where she "left off." Was that one's name ALWAYS Honeysnake??)

One of those things is the prophecy. That was only revealed shortly before the Fire Scene in BB, and then the Fire Reveal, Firestar dying, the Gathering Reveal, uhh... what was the gray guy she killed's name again? Asterfall??

Her freakout before getting time travelled is the fuzziest part of her life, she can barely remember half of it and the order of events is totally scrambles egged. Did the fire happen before or after her grandpaw died??

But meanwhile Dovewing's been raised her whole life with Fallenleaf as like, this big missing piece in everyone's lives, she wanted to know the truth about her for her entire existence. Hollyleaf was an impossible standard to live up to, her mother's true love and her Firekin's prodigal child before her.

And now she can't. Because this is obviously not Hollyleaf. This is a big, confused shadow. That's FRUSTRATING. Dovewing is trying really hard at this point to not show how upset she is about this. You mean to say the sad ghost she could hear shuffling around in the tunnels her whole life was her long lost aunt all along?!

THIS is what she was being held up to, all her life? This is why she could never take a break? This is the fuss? Some Fucking Guy?!

Meanwhile Ivypool is trying to mimic the feelings her parents feel. She takes a lot from Lionblaze, desperate to signal to them that she's in the family and cares about the same things they do. I don't think she really feels much of anything towards Fallenleaf at first-- but if they all care together then it feels like they've "come together"

And Dovewing's lack of enthusiasm, or even desperately veiled frustration, is like betrayal. CARE with me, we're supposed to FEEL GOOD about this AS A FAMILY. And if you can't then WELL WELL WELL look who's WINNING AT CARING ABOUT THIS, something very NORMAL and POSSIBLE to do! Surely, I am the better daughter, actually.

And while all that's playing out, Fallenleaf is still like, absolutely haunted by Dovewing being that random person who kicked her ass. She deserved it but like... she killed her brother in an ancient epoch and it turns out his sister in another lifetime is now his daughter in this one. What the fuck. And she looks at her negatively EXTRA what the fuck

I want them all to have a few good scenes together, but I don't think their relationship to Fallenleaf is... strong.

She ends up marrying their mom, Cinderheart. I think for Dovewing, she DOES actually think that's nice for them.

But Ivypool feels threatened. She feels she's going to get replaced.

This is while Lionblaze also ends up moving on with Toadstep, mind you. Both parents are finding new mates and having new kits

Ivypool takes it especially poorly, Dovewing has complicated feelings.

Isn't it just peachy that Cinderheart and Lionblaze COULD have been good parents all along? They just weren't, for you?

Hollylark is their half-sib through CinderxHolly, and Snaptooth and Flywhisker are adopted half-sibs through ToadxLion

When Fallenleaf learns the full story, she feels sorry for how the two were treated. She would controversially support Dovewing's leave; but she isn't the type to do huge confrontations anymore. Since her time as a Tyrant, she has a sort of godly, detatched air about her.

So there wouldn't be any chewings-out of her brothers. She doesn't have that sort of confidence in her own judgement anymore. Trying to control others and tell them how they should sort out their problems caused the Kitty Bronze Age Collapse lmao

[gothushi]

thinking about Seb lashing out not being able to control himself he would totally leave tones of scratches and bitemarks

collar him

i literally just woke up from a nap and have to answer this my jaws on the floor. cw collaring, mild breath play if ur squinting, marks

maybe something happened with his guardian (still don’t know if i headcanon him being with his own family or possibly a foster family or another relative/someone who adopted him. idk idk details shmetails) so maybe he’s just like. overstimulated. pissed off. every single thing makes him upset or angry. but he’s come over because he promised he would and you two were gonna watch a movie and spend time together.

one thing leads to another and you’re making out on the couch, he’s pawing at you, desperate to release his pent up energy from an entire days worth of anger and frustration. cut to him laid back, you’re ontop, grinding down onto him slow and teasing and he’s just so… upset.. he needs more, needs to take and take, needs these feelings to get out before he just absolutely blows up like a bomb. so suddenly, his frame is over yours, pinning you to the couch, your legs around his waist, and he goes feral. im talking hips slamming into yours, jostling your entire body up, his hands on your shoulders and dragging over your back and arms, nails digging into your skin, all the while he’s buried his head in your neck, biting at the junction of shoulder and neck hard, so fucking hard that my god it really hurts? is he drawing blood? (you consider stopping him, already having said plenty “seb–! hey!” “slow down– seb, fuck slow down” “sebastion” grabbing at his hair, pushing at his shoulders, it doesn’t work. but you let him do what he must because yes it hurts but it isn’t past your limits) he’s panting through his teeth, sobbing tears of frustration as he takes takes takes, fucks like some wild, rabid animal until he cums. he doesn’t even know if you’ve cum too but that’s the least of your worries as he collapses onto you, crying, panting, and you pet over his hair like you’re comforting a stray cat, gentle, soft, careful.

cue clean up, your back is fucked. red scratches from his dull nails go from shoulder blade to just above your ass. some even go from shoulder down your biceps, and the left side of your neck is ravaged. a deep bite mark is on the junction where he stayed for the most part, small little cuts from his teeth, but also a cluster of hickies and more faint little teeth marks littered down your shoulder. he sobs again, cries, says he’s sorry, he doesn’t know what happened, he feels so ashamed and is horrified you’re going to leave him. but you tsk, try to ground him with a few ‘i love you’s and order him to clean your back for you and apply some cream to the scratches since you can’t reach. he does so, hand trembling all the while, and then you sit down with him to have a proper talk.

he doesn’t know what happened, doesn’t know why he just lost control. he says he was just so.. so mad all day, everything was going wrong, everyone was upsetting (save for you). you have a healthy talk with him, telling him he can’t always leave you like you’ve been mauled by an animal when he gets upset, nor can he turn to other things like breaking shit or yelling. you tell him that you’ll both figure something out, reassuring plenty that you aren’t angry with him and you aren’t leaving him. two days pass, you’ve come up with a solution the next time you hang out.

you present a little box to him, no bigger than his hands held out together. he’s confused. a gift? for him? he insists he doesn’t deserve anything but the constant sting when you move on your back serves to remind that yes, he does deserve this, and urge him to open the box. inside is a black leather collar, meant for a dog, silver buckle and one singular ring beside it, and a matching leash. he’s like.. “i don’t have a dog..” but his own puppy eyes say otherwise! you gently explain that it’s meant for him, for his neck, something to try that might be able to ground him, and he’d only wear it when at your apartment. it takes a second for the intentions to click in his brain, and his cheeks go red, “you.. you think that’d work?” he’s skeptical, but you remind him he doesn’t have to try it, you just thought it’d be a nice idea. so.. he agrees. he lets you buckle the collar on, enough to fit three fingers through comfortably, and oh.

oh.

his cock fucking aches. it hurts in his jeans. the constant pressure on his neck is just so good he can’t believe he’d never explored this. he’s laid with his head in your lap, watching a movie, trying not to squirm around. he feels he doesn’t deserve to fuck you again yet afterall.. but you notice. notice the color on his cheeks as you play with his hair, the way his thighs stay pressed together, the subtle shifts of his hips, the way he hasn’t really said a word about the show when usually he’s a little chatterbox critiquing or pointing things out.

cue fifteen minutes later, he’s sat back on the couch whilst you’re riding him. the pace is agonizingly slow, and he’s grunting and whining like crazy. you’ve clipped the leash on, but it’s slack right now. his punishment is to not touch you, he has to just take what you give. soon enough though (you knew this would happen) his hands fly to your hips, grasping, a shakey “please” escapes him. quickly, you’ve got your one hand on the back of the couch, leash in hand, and it tugs on the collar enough to yank his head back some. the most pathetic noise you’ve ever heard comes from his throat, brows furrowing up, lips parting as it’s just a bit harder to breathe. “behave.” you’ll groan, fucking yourself down a little bit faster when his hands leave your waist.

he cums twice that night, and next time he’s at home jerking off with you on the brain, his hand wanders up to his neck.

[4thenookie]

Hi hi i heard you wanted some headcanons!! As always this is /lh, not meant to be taken that seriously, agree to disagree, yada yada all that good jazz lmao. Most of them are pretty crack-y in nature as well, they're just meant for fun lol. And with that, I'll compile my miles long headcanon list into (mostly) sorted by character for everyone's convenience lmao

- starting off strong with trans EJ! Idk why but do headcanons really need a reason? (I do know why) (i like to make my blorbos suffer 💖) (and also [diverges your neuros] [transes your genders] [homos your sexuals]). Also biromantic asexual king

- more EJ because he's THE blorbo. Boy is british asf and he knows BSL and is learning ASL. Touch averse as well. I feel like EJ would actually be a decent if not great cook.

- EJ purring like a cat when he's content/happy? I think yes! Also has a tail with one of those tail tuft thingies? Kinda like lions if you know what i mean. And the pointy ears (peak character design yaknow)

- moving on. I feel like Jeff knows how to play an instrument. Probably electric guitar. He also has like a bajillion band t-shirts. Jeff also likes to take long, hot showers but hates to comb his hair lol

- while Brian cooks food so bad/raw it could as well just still be alive, Toby is either a great cook or a disaster in the kitchen with seemingly no indicator for which one it's going to be on any given day. I'm talking managing to burn a pot of water one day and cooking a michelen star worthy meal the next.

- Kagekao is actually fluent in English and speaks and understands it perfectly, he just refuses to speak it. He takes great amusement in watching other people lose their minds over this

- speaking of languages, i feel like Toby would be bilingual if not multilingual. He speaks English and German, maybe even Spanish if we're going the multilingual route

- also. Oh my god. The generational difference between BEN "memelord who quotes vines like there's no tomorrow" Drowned and Slenderman is just. I cant stop laughing thinking about it. Any given conversation between these two is just a gamble on who is going to lose it first

- BRVR is kinds Lost Silver's pet but also not really? Like he just kinda goes wherever but Lost Silver mainly takes care of him

- LJ he/it truther

- Me and a friend came up with this which probably explains why it is cracky as fuck but hear me out. Jeff as a makeup artist. He made Slender look like Beyonce once. No one knows how he did it and how he's not dead (the answer, as my friend said, is "no one can hate Beyonce")

- i feel like Toby, BEN, and Jeff would be like. The chaos trio. God knows what will happen when you put the three of then alone in a room together

- i also feel like Brian sunburns really easily.

- Tim is one of those dads that wants to leave in the middle of the night for road trips / holidays to avoid the traffic jams

Hope this makes even a bit of sense and i hope you enjoyed whatever my brain spewed at me lol if u ever wanna share more headcanons or talk about blorbos or share character slander (looking at Brian and LJ (affectionate)) feel free to dm me!! (I dont mind i promise lol /lh)

hi!!!!!!!!!!!!! omg these are so so so real thank you for sharing them with me!!!! ill go into some more detail under the cut :)

to be honest, i can kinda see trans ej being real now that you mention it, ill definitely think about that a lot!! and i also hc him as asexual!!!! :)

im british and i claim ej as one of us lmaooo

i absolutely agree w the purring thing!!! i think ej does a lot of cat things idk :)))) i love all of your ej headcanons!!!

tbh i can see jeff either playing electric guitar like you said or maybe drums?? just any instrument he can go ham on when hes mad lmao

in my hc he has the worst case of chronic greasy hair and he doesnt want to do anything about it

cooking hcs are so real brian can NOT cook!!!!!!! toby will either serve you some 5 star gourmet shit or some rotten takeout he found during a dumpster dive

omg omg omg I hardly see anybody talk about kagekao!!!!!! i totally agree he would do that lmaooo

idk if its canon or not but i read somewhere that tobys German so i totally agree that hed be bilingual!!!

oh my god BEN whos native language is memes meets grandpa slendy that would be so funny

in 4 words youve converted me into a fellow he/it LJ truther!!!! could we consider he/it ej too? maybe??

ik you said it was a cracky hc but i can actually kinda see jeff being good at makeup??? like one of those things where he tries it once and it's the most drop dead gorgeous makeup look you've EVER seen and everyones like how did you do that

toby BEN and jeff are an absolute riot when rheyre together lmao

omg i never thought about it but brian sunburning super easy is so real!! and in summer he always wears sunglasses so he has like an unburnt patch on his face where his sunglasses were yk??

OMG YES LMAOOOOO "guys get up our flights in 10 hours WE'RE GONNA BE LATE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" he would 100% have a checklist or 3

thank you so much for sharing these with me!! i hope you dont mind me adding my own thoughts lol but theyre so much fun to think about!!!! if you ever wanna slander lj and brian with someone feel free to dm me lmao!!!!!! take care <33333

[thebluestbluewords]

anti-Valentine’s Valentine’s date

I tried SO HARD to write the adorable Jal prompt that I received for Jalentines day, and instead of cute all my brain wanted to write was angst. Set in approximately D2, it’s a 3k lead-in to a longer Jal fic that I’m probably not going to finish writing.

*

Mal kicks the door of the boy's dorm open with the heel of the stupid, impractical strappy sandals she's been wearing since before dinner. 

Or at least, that's what she tries to do. Instead, because her life is a curse and the very existence of high heels is a prison, the delicate silver heel of the shoe that Evie spent hours sourcing for her snaps off. 

Great. Perfect. This is just how she wanted the night to go. 

Mal pounds on the door with her fist instead. "Open up! I brought misery and disdain for the institution of love!" 

A thump. "And chocolate?" 

"No, I didn't steal any chocolate at all from my date with the king of Auradon," Mal says, as sarcastically as she can manage with one shoe on and the other broken to pieces in her hands. "Just let me in already." 

The door pops open. "You're late." Carlos informs her. "Evie already went back to your room." 

Wonderful. 

"I don't care," Mal informs him right back, and shoves her purse, which is tiny and lilac and stuffed to the brim with all the chocolate she could fit, into his hands. "I need this princess shit off my body yesterday. I am not cut out for valentine's day, that's what I've learned, and also Ben's going to dump me and I don't care."

"Woah. Uh. Maybe you should care--" 

Mal spins around to glare at him, and Carlos immediately throws his hands up. "I MEAN, your judgement is impeccable and we all hate Ben now!" 

Ugh. 

"I don't hate him," Mal snaps, yanking her earrings out and throwing them sort of in the direction of somebody's dresser. There's still enough empty space on the top for her to recognize it as a dresser, so signs point to it belonging to Carlos. "I hate love. And valentine's day. And dating."

"You said you hated froot loops yesterday." Carlos points out. "Because I took the last of them. So like, I'm gonna take this with a spoonful of salt here. Did your date not go well?" 

Mal rips the pins out of her hair with so much force that one of them flies into the mirror. It doesn’t shatter, which is a fucking shame. She would have liked to make an awful mess. "I hate love, and I'm going to die alone surrounded by the bones of my enemies. No, it did not "go well,”” She stops ripping out pins long enough to add air quotes, which are essential to the dramatic effect of it all. "He asked if I love him back, and I told him, again, that I don't know how to love people, and he made this horrible face and was so kind about the whole thing, and just-- ugh!" 

Carlos is hovering. "I’m…sorry?" 

"I'm sorry we ever came here." Mal spits, yanking her other shoe off and throwing it somewhere in the direction of Jay's shoe pile. "I don't-- I can't be a princess. I hate that I just-- I don't know how to do anything, and I hate when people look at me like I'm supposed to know what I'm doing, and there were all these cameras, and--augh!" 

"Jay's in the shower," Carlos offers. "If you want to bother him about it." 

"I want to hit something," Mal admits. It's not a perfect solution, but she's already feeling a little bit less like her skin is on too tight now that she's got her hair loose and wild around her shoulders and her earrings and stupid, uncomfortable, impractical shoes off. "I think-- d'you want to spar with us?" 

"Can't. Homework." Carlos gestures to the textbooks he's got spread out on the neater one of the boys’ beds. "I've got a test tomorrow and if I fail I'll have to retake the class." 

Mal leans over so she can see the textbooks. It looks like history, maybe. Something with a lot of dense text and no visible math problems. "I can't imagine you failing any test, furball." she says, meaning it. How well they thrived on the isle of the lost isn't a perfect gauge for how well they're doing in Auradon, but school is school no matter where they are, and Mal can't remember her little nerd ever failing a test.

 Carlos goes even tenser at her attempt at reassurance. "First time for everything." 

"Still, you failing?" Mal scoffs. "We're in Auradon, not Wonderland. Not everything is upside down and inside out and topsy-turvy. Or whatever Allie’s sayings are.. You'll be fine." 

"I'll be better if I study. Sorry. No sparring for me tonight." 

Ugh. Mal rips another pin out of her hair and throws it towards the mirror with the others. "Suit yourself. I'm going to go bother Jay into letting me beat the shit out of him."

Carlos flashes her a little half smile. "Have fun."

“Oh, I will,” Mal assures him, and spins around to go invade the sanctity of the boy’s showers. 

The short, barefoot walk down the hallway to the boy's bathrooms gives Mal critical time to think about her plan of attack. She's wicked and awful, naturally, but she's also not especially interested in getting shouted at by a teacher for being out of bed and in the boy's showers tonight. She's had enough of being shouted at by adults who think they know better than her. She's not some Auradon girl to be controlled, so she's simply not going to get caught. 

Which means she's going back to the boys room. 

At least she'll remember to grab some different shoes this time. 

"Fuck off, Mal," Carlos calls through the door when she knocks a second time. "You can't steal my shoes." 

"I can steal whatever I want, actually," Mal corrects him, opening the door and barging in, as is her right as their fearless leader. She is Mal of the Isle, and she's not a prize to be won or a princess to be wooed. She's going to steal whatever shoes she likes. "Jay's shoes don't fit me right." 

Carlos throws a pen at her. "Neither do mine, you're just delusional about the size of your own feet. At least take my sneakers if you're going sparring. I hate when we have to dig out the poison kit after hours." 

Mal sticks her tongue out at him. Her shoes are all perfect, and she's also perfectly aware of the size of her feet, which are currently half a shoe size smaller than the one Carlos wears.  As such, their shared approximate size gives her the right to steal his shoes whenever the princess ones she's been dressed in are too much for her to manage, physically or mentally. . "I'm taking the ones with spikes." 

"Are not." 

"Are so," Mal says, diving under the bed to where he keeps all four pairs of his shoes lined up. "I'm going to add more spikes while you're not looking. Poison-tipped ones. Razor-sharp." 

"Use porcupine quills, they're barbed." Carlos says helpfully, making absolutely no motion to get up and defend his shoes.

Mal shoves aside the fallen textbook, grabs the hoodie shoved under the bed for later, and ah. There’s her prize.  Boots (with spikes), dress shoes, cleats (more spikes), and there at the end, sneakers. 

"Fishhooks," Mal suggests. "The giant ones that rip holes when they come out. And I'll dip them in bleach powder so it burns the whole time they're inside." 

Carlos shudders. "Gross." 

"You're gross," Mal rips her dress over her head, and does not wince at the popping noise the shoulder seam makes. Evie can fix it again later, or they can burn it. Whichever. "I'm taking your clothes too."

"Wash the bloodstains out before you put them back." 

Shirt. Pants. Hoodie. Sneakers. 

Ill-gotten disguise on, Mal flashes him a thumbs up on her way back out the door. 

“Hey,” Mal calls out, keeping her voice intentionally low. She’s got the hood of Carlos’s stolen hoodie pulled up over her hair, and she’s relying on the sight of a familiar size-shape-color-scheme to deter anyone from looking too closely at her. Not that there’s many students around the boy’s bathroom at 9pm on Valentine’s night, but still. She’s not exactly looking to get caught. “Jaybird?” 

There’s no noise in the bathroom except for the irregular drip of a shower head that hasn’t been turned off quite hard enough. All the money in the world, and Auradon Prep still doesn’t have showers that actually work how they’re supposed to. 

It’s ridiculous. If Mal were in charge of the school budget she’d be putting all the money into showers. A hot shower and a  fireplace in every dorm, so that none of the students have to feel cold if they don’t want. That’s the budget priorities Mal would have. Warmth, and then food. The dining hall could stand to leave leftovers out longer after meals. 

…princesses don’t think about food. She’s been around Evie long enough to know that one. Princesses are tiny and perfect without even trying. Princesses eat salad and fruit and don’t order fries with anything. Princesses are the sort of people the king is supposed to be dating, and Mal is never, ever going to become that sort of person. 

“Mal?” 

Mal does not jump. She just— startles. Just a little. “Hey.”

There’s a smile playing at the corner of Jay’s mouth. “Hey yourself. I thought you’d be out with Ben still.” 

“You know price charming,” Mal waves a hand. “Had to have me home by midnight or else he was afraid I’d turn into a pumpkin.” 

“It’s nine thirty.” 

“Localized curse. The younger you are, the earlier it thinks you should be home. We picked nine, just to be safe.” 

“You can just say you had a bad date, killer,” Jay says. “I’ll be your alibi. You need a shovel?” 

Mal snorts. “It didn’t go that badly, give me some credit. I just freaked out when he started talking about love. While we were on a date to talk about love.” 

Fuck. 

A lot more of the evening makes sense when she frames it that way. None of the bullshit they’ve found online talks about dating the king of the entire country, but there’s a lot of website with mind-numbing names like psychology today and buzzbees news that make it very clear how important Auradon brats think nonverbal communication is. 

She went on a date. On Valentine’s Day. 

With Ben. 

“…Killer?” 

Focus. 

“Fuck off.” Mal snaps reflexively. “I’m fine. Just. Plotting.” 

Jay dodges around her for a pile of fabric, which reveals itself to be his Auradon-blue team hoodie. “You wanna plot somewhere a little better?” 

“What I want is to go home, but I’m not going to get that,” Mal says thoughtfully. “I was going to ask you to spar with me, but if you’ve got any better ideas I’m open to hearing them.” 

“Breaking and entering.” Jay says immediately. “We should blow this place. There’s that all-ages club in town—”

“If I have to touch another human being I’m going to scream.” 

Jay touches her arm deliberately, a sustained pressure that doesn’t even read as touch, just comfort. Mal drinks it in like he’s pouring the comfort directly onto all the jagged, awful pieces of her soul. “I’m not a human being?” 

“Shut up. You’re mine, it’s different.” 

“You’re mine, then.” 

There’s a piece of her heart that fits perfectly again the broken edges of his. Mal couldn’t let go of Jay if she tried, not for anything in the world. Not for her mother breathing fire at them, not for Fairy Godmother insisting that it’ll be good for them to make other friends, and not for a stupid holiday that says she’s only supposed to be tied to one person, and not even the one holding on to her right now. 

“Sure.” Mal agrees, because she can’t put words to the enormity of feelings she’s experiencing. Villains don’t have feelings, but she’s reformed now, and it’s harder to describe the feelings with words than it is to have them. “We can sneak out, see what trouble we can find.” 

“You’re all the trouble I need, killer.” Jay says, too honest. “I’ll take you out of here whenever you need. Wherever you want.” 

“Sap.” 

“Princess.” 

“Do I look like a princess to you?” Mal leans back to gesture at herself. The sweatshirt she stole isn’t Auradon-blue like Jay’s. It’s an old one, ratty in the way that all their old isle stuff is, and nearly transparent at the elbows. The seams are held together with Evie’s neat machine stitching, but the thread is three different shades of red and grey all mashed together, and there’s a hole in the edge of the hood that’s exposing the soft inside of it. Her sneakers are a size too big, and laced tight to compensate. Her hair is still a mess from the violent undoing that she’d subjected it to, and she can’t be bothered to try and tame it, not when her chest is bursting with feelings that don’t have any place to go except for out of her body, in tears or screams or whatever violence she’s able to inflict that will drive the awful right feeling out. 

“The prettiest princess in all the land,” Jay says, and jumps back before the words are even out of his mouth, out of the range of Mal’s swipe. “C’mon, killer. You’re the fiercest baby dragon I know. Come out with me. We can find trouble somewhere better than this.” 

"You're trouble already," Mal grumbles, but there's no bite to the words. She wants, wholly and completely, to be somewhere else. "The gates are locked for the night, you know." 

"No problem. Besides, you can just say you're on an important errand for the king and get through all the school security." 

"I could," Mal agrees. It's not like she's afraid of a little misplaced power when she can wield it. "But it's more fun to sneak out." 

Jay's grin is a bright flash in the darkness. "Hey, I've got a stupid idea." 

Mal grunts. "Shoot." 

"I could toss you over the fence." 

"The twenty foot fence." 

Jay shrugs. "It's more like twelve feet. At least according to the build specs." 

"Which you came across..." 

"Totally legally. They're in the library, if you know where to look for 'em." 

"You're impossible," Mal sighs. "Okay, once you toss me how are we getting you over?" 

"I'll jump." 

Over the twelve foot fence. "Sure, and when you break your leg falling back down?" 

"You'll magic me back together again. Humpty-dumpty this shit." 

"I don't think you actually know that rhyme."

"I know your rhymes," Jay shoots back. "You've got magic for levitation in the spellbook, yeah?" 

"I don't have the spellbook with me, wise guy." Mal points out. "I'm not even wearing my own shoes right now, what makes you think I memorized magic that'll get us over the fence?" 

Jay's eyes are too bright. She's going to have to use a spell just to hide him, and the magic will burn her out, and they'll get stuck on the wrong side of the fence, and-- that's what she would think, if she were Jane, or someone will less awesome magic powers. She's Mal of the Isle, and she's got this shit under control. 

"Dragon magic," Jay says cheerfully, like it's not late and they're not doing something totally against all of the rules they're supposed to be learning by sneaking out to the city. "I trust you, killer." 

"I could kill you," Mal grumbles, but she raises her hands and lets the magic gather there, blue-green sparks catching on her fingertips as she pulls the spell out from her mind. "Make this boy as light as air, hop the fence without a care." 

The magic falls over Jay in a net of shimmering sparks. They absorb in after a second, but the look suits him. Mal spares a thought for her sketchbook, which is tucked away in her locker with the rest of the books she hasn't had the time to touch in weeks, and the drawing her fingers are itching to make. "You can hop it now. You'll be light enough to jump over the fence with a regular leap." 

"Sweet!" Jay turns and drops to a knee. "Hop on." 

"Piggyback? Seriously?" 

"No better way to hop it together. Unless you'd rather I throw you over."

It's dangerous, and not just physically. Mal's been doing a pretty fucking good job at squashing down the feelings she's not supposed to have for her best friends, but this... 

She's emotionally illiterate, but Jay's offer to take her out tonight is like a picture book. Or one of those furniture instructions that doesn't even have language, just pictures to follow. 

He cares about you, Mal's traitorous brain whispers. More than your boyfriend does. 

Ugh. 

"Don't do anything stupid," Mal says, even as she's the one climbing on. "The spell should be good for a few leaps, but--" 

"Can't hear you, too busy blowing this place!" Jay grunts, pushing them both upright. "Let's fuckin' go--" 

"Don't--" 

"Hup!" 

Well. At least they're on the other side of the fence now, even if they crashed directly into the school holly bush on the landing. 

"Oww," Jay groans. "Might need a little more practice on that spell. I think there's something wrong with your magic assist on the landing." 

Mal yanks a leaf out of her arm. "There is no magic assist, dumbass. I tried to tell you, but somebody decided to go full steam ahead without listening to my warning. We're over now, and that's what matters." 

Jay mumbles something unintelligible. She can only assume it's rude, given the circumstances. Ugh, holly leaves are not the hot new accessory of the season, not even when they're doing a levitation act and sticking with a single thorn into her nose.

 "Speak up or shut up, jaybird." 

"I said--" It's impossible to tell in the darkness, but it looks like he might be blushing. The school grounds are supposed to have automatic lights, but a little wire cutting took care of that for them, and they're sneaking out under cover of darkness tonight. Mal's good at knowing her crew, but she can't be sure. "I, uh, you're important. To me." 

"Don't get mushy on me." 

"I'd never. Just. We're sneaking out together, and I wanted you to know, I'd never commit crimes and misdemeanors with anyone else." 

"Liar." 

Jay flashes her a smile, but he's doing the thing where he's got a hand tangled up in his hair, and it makes him look heart-wrenchingly sincere. "Yeah, but not to you." 

Oh, gods. "Don't go having feelings on me," Mal says, swallowing down the wobble that wants to creep into her voice. "I can't handle it. Not tonight, please." 

Just like that, Jay's posture melts into something different. Not quite his usual confidence, but something closer to normal. "Sure. No feelings. I can do that." 

"I don't--" Mal scrubs a hand over her eyes. "I didn't mean that you can't have feelings, just. I can't be the one to handle them tonight. I'll do whatever you want tomorrow, just-- can we just go be somewhere else tonight? I can't handle all this lovey stuff." 

Jay's shoulders melt even further. Mal can't look him in the eye, she can't, she won't-- 

He's smiling. His hand is so, so warm in hers. "Killer." 

"I'm sorry." 

He shrugs. "Whatever. You're allowed to have a bad night. I'll take you out, we can forget this ever happened tomorrow. Easy." 

"You should have someone better," Mal cries, and the horrible realization that she's crying sets in. "I don't want feelings for you!" 

"shit," Jay whispers, so quietly that Mal is sure she wasn't supposed to hear it at all. "Dragon, we don't have to do feelings like the Auradon brats. You can just be mine, and I can be yours, and we don't have to do any of the mushy shit that's freaking you out. We can just run away." 

"Together." 

"Yeah. Unless you spelled somebody else over the fence while I was distracted." 

Mal wipes the sleeve of her stolen hoodie across her nose. "Ugh, no. I don't use magic for just anybody." 

"See, there you go. I'm honored to be worthy of your magic, your royal evil-ness." 

“Fuck off,” Mal groans, and then before she can lose her nerve she steps close enough to cup his face in her hands. There’s no magic this time, but Jay’s skin is hot and soft under her palms, and it feels like there should be magic between them. “I’m the worst girlfriend in the world, so I won’t ever put you through that. I’m selfish, and I’m flaky, and I can’t say that I love you, and I can’t ever promise that I’ll be able to say it.” 

Jay’s face is a thundercloud. “Did Ben say you needed to say it back?” 

“No, but— Ben’s not here right now. That’s the point. He’s not the person I run to when everything in the world is too much for me to handle. Ben’s sweet and all, but he’s not who I want to be with when I’m upset. Can you imagine what he’d say if I suggested running away from the grounds?” 

“What ho good chap, let me summon a car to escort you from the venerable grounds of our fine institution,” Jay picks up her thread, mocking. “And yeah, I guess when you put it that way, it’s pretty silly to think about Ben taking care of you.” 

Mal sucks in a breath. “Exactly. He’s sweet, but I don’t know how to deal with sweet, and it feels like the pressure of it is killing me. You know how to push back when I’m being a monster, and I don’t know how to fit that into one of the relationship boxes I’m supposed to use here.” 

Jay tips his head into her hands. “We could make our own box.” 

“We could.” 

“I wouldn’t ask you to be my girlfriend.” 

Mal leans in. “I know,” she tells the space between Jay’s parted lips. “I know.”