#and it’s okay to not be into that side of fantasy
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three | matt sturniolo
— CONTENTS: established relationship; threesome (f-m-f); oral (f receiving); handjob (m receiving); strap sucking; boob sucking/nipple play; p in v; slight cuckolding; mommy kink; sub!matt
— NOTES: happy new year!!! im so grateful for this past year as a writer and for being able to star a second year writing for my favorite boy in the whole world ♡ this one was highly requested so take it as a gift since i couldnt do a christmas fic. this is very very filthy and descriptive, if you're not into f-m-f or wlw, just don't read it! also i called her lexi cause NO ONE suggested me a name, but you can put your own if you'd like :) not proofread, but hope you enjoy it just as much as i did ♡
matt had an amused smile lingering on his face throughout the whole day, an occasional smirk appearing whenever you stared at him for too long.
matt was totally okay with you being bisexual — more than okay. he found it extremely hot. as a very shy and private guy, matt never spoke about bringing someone else to the bedroom. however, you were different, and you always encouraged him to explore beyond his imagination, to push the limits of fantasy. and you managed to get him extremely excited for this one.
a close friend who you occasionally used to make out with, lexi, gladly accepted spending the night with you, after all, matt’s looks were intoxicating and you were irresistible.
“can you at least pretend you’re not about to cream your pants?” you mocked matt and his pathetic grin. he sunk his teeth on the bottom half of his lips, trying to hold himself back, but he just couldn’t.
you rolled your eyes as you got closer to matt, standing on your knees, grabbing his chin and forcing him to lock eyes with you. “is my sweet boy excited?” he nodded, smiling again. “yeah? you wanna see another girl playing with us?” you cooed, ruffling his hair.
“you” matt said, nuzzling his face against your chest. his poorly shaved beard tickled your cleavage, making you chuckle. “i wanna see her… eating you out” he continued.
“is that so?” you couldn’t hide the excitement in your tone. matt nodded again, placing both of his hands on each side of your hips. “you’re gonna be a good cuck for me? watch me getting fucked by another girl?” you teased, a guttural whine coming from the back of matt’s throat. his pants got tighter, the sudden nickname — which felt more like an insult — and the thought of having two beautiful women in front of him made his blood run faster to his cock.
lexi stepped out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around her frame, the knot revealing her plump breasts, and came across the sight of you and matt making out on the sofa. with careful steps, she crossed the room and stood against the wall, coughing weakly to catch your attention. you pulled away from the kiss, resting your hands on matt’s chest as you tilted your head back to see her.
with a chuckle, lexi undid the knot, standing entirely naked in front of you and matt. he widened his eyes, startled by her boldness, but didn't say a word, simply allowing you to get off his lap so you could take her by the hand and lead the way to the bedroom.
matt promptly followed you, locking the door before he laid down with his back against the headboard. lexi didn’t need to know in advance that he was going to sub, therefore, he could enjou himself a bit. matt lifted his arms up and placed both hands behind his head, enjoying the scene unfolding in front of him.
as you sat in front of lexi, you also traced your own finger through the fabric of your shirt before slowly unbuttoning it. you removed your shirt and tossed it towards matt, who attentively caught the cloth. you leaned your body against the mattress, holding your weight with both elbows as you called lexi to come closer with your finger. she crawled in bed, reaching for your tits and sitting in one of your thighs.
she started massaging your flesh with both hands, causing you to moan. her hands were soft and gentle, the touch was delicate yet intense. you placed a hand in the back of her head, lightly pulling her hair and biting her lower lip before going for a deeper kiss.
her tongue twirled around yours, the wet muscle exploring every inch of your mouth. lexi gradually started to grind against your bare thigh, feeling her own heat growing stronger. you smiled between the kiss, reminiscing the times you both would do that for fun. with another seal, you pulled away, watching as she picked up a pace on her movements. “so pretty, riding my thigh like a good little slut” you spitted out, taking a strand of her hair and placing it behind her ear.
both of your hands moved to her round hips, your grip helping her to go faster and practically hump her wet pussy against your skin. her soft whimpers became louder when you latched your lips around one of her nipples, sucking it hungrily.
as you circled your tongue on her hardened nubs, you tilted your head in order to take a look at matt. he looked like a virgin watching porn for the first time, his mouth hanging agape as his chest panted, his hands holding the sheet in a fist. you chuckled at the adorable sight, giving lexi your full attention. you could tell she was close by the way her cunt throbbed, the juices flowing from her coated your entire flesh.
“princess” you called, receiving a whine in response. “can you be a good girl and do something for me?” you asked as she slowed down, nodding eagerly.
“mama’s getting all wet watching you” you praised, “can you help me out before you cum? eat me out real good and put on a show for that little boy over there?” you said, pointing at matt who was visibly struggling with standing still.
“anything for you” lexi breathed out, getting off of your lap and placing her hands on your waistband, quickly removing your shorts. you were now fully bare and matt was the only one left with the clothes on. she caressed your legs with her beautiful, long nails as she trailed kisses down your body, stopping right above your pussy.
you gasped when she gave you a long kitten lick, dragging her wet tongue from your hole to your clit. matt adjusted himself on the mattress and quietly unbuckled his belt, pressing his boner over his jeans. it was a delightful sight. your fingers immediately tangled on lexi’s hair once she started sucking your clit, a loud moan coming from the back of your throat.
while still eating you out, she placed her thumb on your clit, rubbing circular motions as she traveled through your folds. unwittingly, you opened your eyes and glanced at matt. he had his cock out, his large palm slowly stroking his own lenght. his blue orbs were attached to yours, both of you breathing heavily. he fastened the movements of his fist when he saw your legs trembeling, as if he could feel the knot on your lower tummy begging to be released.
soon enough, spasms took over your body. the fact that matt was watching you being fucked by another girl and jerking off to it threw you over the edge, your orgasm washing over you as your high-pitched moans filled the room.
lexi made sure to lick all of your juices before crawling to matt, who was completely caught off guard when she kissed him and spilled your release inside his mouth. matt loved your taste, his flushed tip starting to leak when lexi replaced his own hand with hers.
you couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy watching the scene. once you fully recovered, you quietly reached for the nightstand, searching for your strap and adjusting it before they could notice.
matt was the first one to pull away, loosening the grip on lexi’s waist and turning his attention to you. he gulped when he saw your pink dildo, not sure if you had planned on fucking him in front of another girl.
“open your mouth for me” you told matt and he quickly obeyed. he already knew what to do — put his tongue out like a good slut.
you held the dildo by its base and placed the tip on matt’s tongue. he wrapped his lips around the plastic dick, trying his best to fit everything he could. you tangled your fingers in his brown locks, starting to bob his head up and down in slow movements, drool dripping from the corners of his mouth.
you decided matt had done enough when you heard him gag. he deserved to enjoy the night, not get a sore throat. “such a good boy” you praised as pulled out, wrapping your knuckles around the dildo and spreading his saliva.
“mama on top?” you asked lexi, who had been touching herself the whole time. she denied with her head, her cheeks suddenly gaining a pink tone of embarrassment. “i… i wanna ride mama, please”
“fuuuuck” you heard matt whispering. you chuckled at him and sat by his side, spreading your legs and patting your tights so lexi would join you. she quickly went for it, placing her lower lips around the tip of the dildo and gradually sitting, a heavy sigh leaving her nostrils.
“all full?” you teased, placing your palm on her lower tummy. with a bit of pressure, you could perfectly feel the thick, veiny dildo filling her up. “so, so full” she whined, holding on your shoulders for support.
matt could no longer hold himself. his cock was hurting and the tip wouldn’t stop leaking pre-cum. he didn’t want to cum untouched, so as lexi started to ride you, he nuzzled his face on the crooked of your neck. “what is it hm? want the attention all for yourself?”
“nuh uh” he pouted. “just hurts… need your help” matt whimpered. you smiled at how well behaved they both were, listening to everything that you said.
“here’s what we’re gonna do. you can cum when she cums” you started, “if you act like a good boy and hold until the end, you can fuck mama afterwards” you told matt, giving him a peck. he nodded desperately, silently begging for lexi to cum soon.
you decided to not be mean and help them out. one of your hands went to matt's cock, stroking it at a slow, steady pace, while the other one remained on lexi’s clit, quickly rubbing it. “mommy mhm— please” matt whined. “i c-can’t hold it”
“no? you wanna cum already?” you asked in a warm, understanding tone. “is it too much for my little boy? watching two girls and not getting anything?” you continued, causing matt to whimper even more.
“mhm, ‘s too much” he answered, squeezing his eyes shut when you placed your thumb on his slit. “mama! please! cum!” matt cried out.
“what do you think, baby?” you asked lexi, who was too busy focusing on her on pleasure, mindlessly bouncing on your dildo. “should we let matt cum?” she nodded as she felt her own high approaching, her pussy throbbing.
“cum for mama, prince” you allowed matt. “and you can cum for me too, pretty girl” you told her. that was all they needed — your permission, your attention, your touch, you.
the room was filled with loud, lewd noises. the sound of skin slapping and moans took over the house, both matt and lexi releasing, surprisingly enough, at the same time. matt cried and whimpered as she moaned like a porn star — and you couldn’t help but feel the warmth spreading through your body once more, your pussy starting to drip from the wetness.
the three of you were too tired to say a word or even clean up, acknowledging that maybe, just maybe, you should take a break.
little did they know the night was just getting started.
— TAGLIST ♡⊹𑄽୧ @thepubeburgler @submattenthusiast @pearlzier @mattsfavbitchhh @bugeyedgrl @sturncakez @riowritesitall @mattsturnswife @sturnsmia @sturnthepot @mattscoquette @conspiracy-ash @ilovemattsturn @lizzymacdonald06 @blahbel668 @fratbrochrisgf @sturnobsessedwh0re @cayleeuhithinknott @sturniolo04 @1c3b4th @mattsfavbigtitties @bellassturniolo @sturnsxplr-25 @ivammbb @shadowthesim @slutformatthewsturniolo @stefansring @teeheeomg @dystfopia @riasturns @faiyaz555 @sturnslutz @alesturniolos @cvnntagious
#matthew sturniolo#matthew sturniolo smut#matt sturniolo#matt sturniolo smut#matt sturniolo fanfic#matt sturniolo x reader#matt x reader#matt x y/n#sub!matt#maria writes matt#sturniolo triplets#sturniolo fanfic#sturniolo smut#sturniolo imagine#sturniolo x reader#christopher sturniolo#chris sturniolo#nicolas sturniolo#nick sturniolo
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YOU SAID U WANTED SEVIKA ASKS ?? K THEN , how about sevika and brothel worker!reader who wears a full face mask whenever they're together , but sevika finally gets her to take it off . huh what about that
hm. ok this is mainly smut not a lot of plot, im assuming this is dom top sevi i will say for the room that sex work is not to be romanticised and is a degrading line of work that women should never be forced into (i know, what a bummer way to start a fic) but for a fantasy...TEEHEE Okay i got a bit carried away describing sevikas pussy so its a little explicit, dom vers sevi, pussy eating, strap sex (minor), cum-sharing (girl this is so nasty), fingering, it's pretty short sorry :(
Sevika had been coming to you for months. She did frequent the brothel prior to your employment, but got addicted the minute she tasted you for the first time. Until now, you'd been on the receiving end of pleasure. She'd come to the brothel, request her special girl (which babette always rolled her eyes at), and cherish your body. She would spend at least 30 minutes kissing across all your skin, her dark brown lipstick littering your body, before fucking your brains out.
On this particular occasion, Sevika had been plowing into you for half her 3 hour duration with you. You had cum on her strap more times than you could count, your eyes crossed in the top of your head, your weak moans muffled by your mask. It drove her insane, not being able to see how your eyebrows quirked when she picked out her strap, not being able to see you bite down on your lip, not being able to see the tears that streaked down your face.
As you groaned and gripped the pillows behind you to brace yourself for another orgasm, Sevika grunted and twisted her lips to the side. "Fuck, princess, what I'd give to paint that pretty face in my cum." Filth being groaned out to you wasn't uncommon, but something about Sevika saying such dirty words made your mind snap. You came whining and using your feet to push at her hips. She pulled out slowly and gently, sitting beside you and tracing her fingers around your nipples. She would never dare push you past your limits, something that was, unfortunately, foreign in your line of work.
Maybe it was the way she fucked you. Maybe it was the fact that you had built up a little friendship since you'd seen her for months on end. Maybe it was just that, underneath her hard exterior, she was a sweet woman who cared about you above her own pleasure. Whatever the reason was, you trusted her.
"You can do that.. that thing you said... if you want.." you mumbled as she kissed gently against your neck. "I'm not riding your mask, I'll break it." You giggled and pinched the bottom of your mask, lifting it enough to kiss Sevika's neck. You straddled her and sat up, preparing yourself for what you were going to do. She looked at you wide-eyed, hand resting on your thigh and flexing with anticipation.
You removed it and she moaned, moaned at the sight of your face. Jesus, you didn't think you were that hot.
"Oh fuck, fuck get on your knees princess," she spluttered, fighting her way out of her strap and taking off her boy-shorts, legs spread on the leather sofa in one quick movement. Your eyes shimmered as you took in the sight of her pussy. It was.. well it was like the straps she always chose. It was big. Her pussy was just.. everything about it was almost obnoxious. Her outer lips puffy and chubby, shrouded in thick black hair that ran up to her belly button and along the inside of her thighs. Her inner lips were dripping, huge and protruding, daring you to suck on them. Her pussy was a deep shade of brown fading into a dark fucsia when you spread her open. Nothing about it was "neat" or "cute", it was womanly. It was natural. It was sexy as fuck.
Teasingly, you poked your tongue a little ways inside her, making her grunt and take you by the back of your head. She shoved your face into her sopping wet pussy, groaning when you whined at her taste. You wrapped your arms around her thighs and got to work, nose shoving against her, again, obnoxiously big clit. "Mmmph, so good for me princess, so good," she grunted out, using the grip she had on your hair to maneuver you how she liked. She grinded her hips against your face, quite literally painting your face in her moisture. You left soothing touches up her hips, gripping at her hip bones, tracing the indents of her abs.
You assumed she'd be sensitive due to the sheer size of her clit, and you were absolutely right. It didn't take long for creamy, white cum to force its way across your cheeks, drip down your chin, down your throat. You spluttered and coughed, your air having been deprived for the short duration in which you sucked on her pussy. She leant down to you and opened her mouth, inviting you to spit her cum back down her own throat.
You did so and she grinned, kissing you with an open mouth, her cum and your saliva dribbling down your cheeks. As you kissed , you snaked your fingers between her legs, slipping them inside her messy pussy. She moaned into your mouth and shoved her tongue down your throat, you sucking on it instinctively.
As you curled your fingers and pumped them into her, sevika guided you down to the floor. She gripped your hair for balance and bounced on your fingers, eyes shut tight, mouth hanging open. She grinded on you, finding a steady rhythm.
"More, princess," she whined out, and you added a third finger into her pussy, making her groan and grip your hair harder. You brought your other hand up to toy with her clit, thumbing her under the hood, making her throw her head back.
She creamed onto you again, her cum seeping its way down your wrist and painting your breasts as she rode out her orgasm. She slowed down and brazenly checked herself out, gripping a little at her ass before standing and scooping you up.
She placed you gently onto the couch and licked up her cum from your breasts, stopping to suck at your nipples, and of course giving you open mouthed kisses with her mess still on her tongue.
okay i hope thats good i went a little off track LMFAO
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Okay so I'm writing this down cuz I realised my handwriting is uh
Bad, so yknow
Street racers gem and joel in an urban fantasy au!
-joel is a changeling/fae
-bad boys are roommates but jimmy and grian don't participate in streetracing
-gem and etho are siblings
Some other stuff I've decided
-team TIES works in the same tech company, they all have a 9 to 5 and all hate it (besides imp, who doesn't hate it as much because "it's less bad that the bureaucracy in hell")
-on that note imp is a demon and skizz is an angel, who left their posts as demon/angel because they didn't suit the job
-etho and gem may be some sort of sea creatures, maybe smt like a siren or rusalka
-etho is a car mechanic on the side and helps gem and joel with their cars
-pearl, gem, and bigb are roommates
Birthday time I get to make smt lazy and self indulgent
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Whatever You Need
Request: Jason helping reader through their period
Pairing: Jason Todd x afab!Reader
Summary: Your period takes you by surprise. Luckily, Jason's there to take care of you.
Word count: 1.6k
Sorry this took so long... I started four different Jason fics, which means none were finished. But they should be finished and posted sometime soon.
Sprawled on the couch in your pajamas, watching an episode of The Great British Bake-Off that you’ve seen at least twice before, you feel the first twinge of pain in your abdomen. You don’t think much of it at first, which is a mistake. There are still two days before your period is supposed to start, and you ate ice cream after dinner even though you’re lactose intolerant and ran out of Lact-Aid a couple days ago. You figure you’ll head to the bathroom to deal with the consequences of your actions if the need arises, but you’re too comfortable to move when the weighted blanket on top of you has a name and that name is Jason Todd.
You’ve been on bedrest (or couchrest) for the past week and a half after a bad fall in the rain during patrol twisted your ankle. It swelled to twice its normal size. The upside was that it happened during winter break so you didn’t have to make the choice between limping to class or skipping. The downside was that you wanted your superhero persona to have more of a presence with Gotham’s goons. As a part-time hero, unlike Jason and most of his family, you get much less respect when suited up than, say, the Red Hood.
As a contestant’s dough fails to rise and they begin to have a breakdown on the screen, your stomach cramps again.
Sometimes, if you ignore it, the pain will go away. You’re too comfortable to get up now.
To distract yourself, you run your fingers through Jason’s messy curls. He doesn’t have a wash routine, so they’re always frizzier than Dick’s, but you’ve never minded. He’s devastatingly handsome either way. At least like this he looks a little bit less like something come to life straight out of your fantasies. He’s just a little more real.
Jason hums sleepily and pushes his head into your hands, a bit like a cat nuzzling at you. It’s been a lazy day for you both. You’ve been in the same position on the couch for hours—you on your back, half-watching the show, half-dozing, and him on his stomach in the cradle of your legs, head pillowed on your stomach, not even pretending to watch the show, judging by his closed eyes.
Your stomach cramps again, and this time you feel it—the ache even lower, and a wet heat blooming between your thighs. “Oh, fuck me.”
Jason takes a minute to respond, still interested in your fingers that make his entire body tingle when you massage in just the right way. Then he cranes his neck up, brow furrowed and bottom lip jutting out with his confused frown. “Okay?” He starts to sit up, hands reaching for the hem of your shirt, but you draw your legs up and out from under him and roll off the couch.
“No, not literally,” you say through gritted teeth. “Fuck—did I stain the cushion?” It was no big loss—you’d found the couch on the side of the road and Jason helped you bring it up to your apartment and sanitize it—but a bloodstain would stand out on the light brown color.
“Oh,” he says with realization as you run to the bathroom and slam the door behind you. “The couch is good!” he calls.
Your pants aren’t. It looks like someone died between your legs. You’ve always had heavy periods, especially the first couple days, accompanied by strong cramps. If you get ahead of them and take pain meds, they’re not too bad. Sometimes you can even patrol. But playing catch-up with ibuprofen is a recipe for disaster.
The rest of the day is going to suck.
Because you always feel gross when you’re on your period, and because no amount of wipes would fully clean up the mess between your legs, you hop into the shower and turn up the heat until your skin is bright pink. Jason pops in for a second to drop off a change of underpants and sweats, then ducks out just as quickly.
Turning off the water starts the race against time. As quickly as you can, you apply your preferred hygiene product before any more blood can leak down your leg. Then you towel off and shrug on the new clothes. You still feel icky, but the new clothes and shower helped slightly.
Something sizzles in the kitchen when you open the bathroom door.
“Hey, honey,” says Jason without turning around, standing in front of the stove. He points at the table. “Meds and water are right there. How are you feeling?”
“Ugh,” is your response. You down the pills and almost set the glass back on the table, but at his insistent look, finish it off. Hydration helps with cramps as well.
“You’re two days early.”
“Well, I haven’t been patrolling. Exercise changes can throw my cycle out of whack.” You sniff. “What are you making? It smells good.”
“Chicken stir fry.” You peek into the pan and see broccoli, bell peppers, and a couple other vegetables frying with the chicken. The covered pan behind it, you know without looking, contains rice. “I also have ginger tea brewing.”
All of it, every part of the meal, is meant to help reduce your symptoms and pain.
You can’t help it. How is he always so thoughtful? You throw your arms around Jason’s middle and squeeze. So he can keep stirring the food, he shifts until you’re tucked beneath one arm. His hair is in complete disarray from your fingers like he just walked through a tornado. When he notices your gaze, red colors his cheeks and he flattens his hair down self-consciously.
You press a kiss to his shoulder, the highest place you can reach without stretching.
“Go sit down,” he pretends to scold.
In response, you lean into him, heavier and heavier, until he’s practically carrying you. Jason doesn’t even blink at the added weight.
“I plugged in your heating pad,” he says. “It’s right by the couch.” Another thing right next to the couch is a coffee table he stole from the manor when he was pissed at Bruce. On top of it is a bar of dark chocolate and a freshly-washed bowl of your favorite berries.
You kiss his shoulder again. Jason kisses the top of your head, then nudges you away with his chin. “Go. Sit down. Rest your ankle and your uterus.”
“That is not how it works,” you say, mirth in your voice.
“It’s how I think it works,” he mumbles.
When the food is done, he brings two bowls over. You lift your legs and he slips underneath them. He uses your shins on his thighs as a makeshift table, balancing the bowl between them, and absentmindedly rubs your weaker ankle with the hand not holding his spoon.
The two of you eat in comfortable silence as The Great British Bake-Off plays. You finish first, and as soon as he sets his bowl down, you sit up slightly and make grabby hands at him. “C’mere.”
Jason pretends to roll his eyes, but judging by the line of kisses he trails from your wrist to the inside of your elbow as he lies down, he doesn’t mind your bossiness too much.
You shiver at every brush of his lips against the sensitive skin of your forearm. It’s almost enough to distract you from the cramping that’s beginning in your abdomen again—a cramping that eases slightly when he’s atop you again, resting the gentle pressure of his weight on your stomach. Warm, fed, and with his weight on you, is it any wonder you fall asleep?
You’re only woken by Jason’s gentle hand shaking you, telling you that it’s been eight hours since you last applied your feminine hygiene product and you need to change it. You’re tired and sore and cranky, but as soon as you blink your eyes open he has pain medication and water for you to take.
You do so in the bathroom in a daze and tumble into your shared bed, tugging Jason in with you. He goes down easily, using his huge, warm form to surround you with his easy, comforting scent. You left the heating pad on the couch, but the thick arm Jason winds around your stomach does the job well enough, and you drift back to sleep quickly, never fully awake in the first place.
The next morning, you wake to an aching back and stained sheets.
You stare up at the ceiling and swear, which unfortunately wakes Jason, who lifts his head and stares at you, one eye still crusted with sleep. His curls are in wild disarray, one side flattened from the pillow and the other on end as if he’s been spending his spare time sticking forks in electrical sockets.
If the cramps have gotten to your spine already, then the next few days are going to be hell. And this was a nice pair of sheets! The blood had better wash out.
Jason grunts and lowers his head. “Everything we own is bloodstained, honey. Though usually it’s mine.”
You leave him in bed. Your hair feels way too greasy, and your skin feels tacky, and even after a half-hour shower, you still don’t feel great.
As soon as you step out of the bathroom, Jason is there with chocolate-chip pancakes he made himself, accompanied by a fresh bowl of fruit and more meds.
Emotion rises in your throat. You want to tell him so much, like that you love him even though you haven’t said it, or that you can’t fathom going through your period on your own anymore, but all that comes out is, “You’re perfect. You know that? You really don’t have to do all this—or stay home from patrol for me.”
Jason tousles his messy curls and shrugs. “Well, I’m gonna anyway. You need me, and I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”
DC Taglist
@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe @lonely-star2044 @flanhog @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t
Let me know if there's anything you want to see from me!
#reader insert#jason todd#jason todd x reader#jason todd x y/n#jason todd fic#jason todd x you#dc insert
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Lost In Control | Bad Omens | CHAPTER 26
adult content | minors do NOT interact.
⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. Bad Omens X ex-girlfriend and singer!Reader.
⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. You and Noah had a difficult ending but you still need to support each other for the band.
⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). melancholy, ex-boyfriends, difficult relationships, alcohol abuse, swearing, drug addiction, violence.
It's okay to not agree with the characters' attitudes during the fic. It's good to remember that the story is fiction from the author's sick mind and of course they will make dubious decisions according to my fantasies. Nothing is done to be compared to reality.
A fearful man, nearly two meters tall, was walking behind you in the dark woods, using the light of a cigarette lighter and you as a shield. This was about as pathetic as your life could sound at the moment.
You both walked hesitantly, careful not to step on any dry leaves that might alert whatever was making the noises nearby. Noah seemed to get closer with each step, and whenever his arm brushed against yours, a brief shiver ran down your spine.
“Could you stay at least one step away?” you muttered while checking behind a bush. “You’re making me nervous.”
“You’re the one with the light, and I can barely see in broad daylight, let alone in the dark!” Noah retorted, almost offended. “Don’t think I’m using this situation to take advantage of being near you.”
“Oh, really?” You raised an eyebrow, shaking your head at the joke. “I never would have guessed if you hadn’t said anything.”
Noah huffed and took a step back, and you chuckled as you continued walking, pressing the lighter's button with a bit more force. It was a simple motion, but it required extra effort with trembling fingers, a side effect of withdrawal.
Pretending nothing was wrong was becoming an impossible challenge as each withdrawal symptom hit harder than the last. Your body’s dwindling supply of the drug felt like a red alert. The abrupt pause gnawed at you more than years of uninterrupted use ever had. No one gets clean overnight.
Least of all you.
Your thoughts were interrupted as Noah jumped, startled once again by a sound coming from the bushes. You couldn’t help but laugh, covering your mouth with one hand, but when you lifted the lighter’s flame toward his face and saw his blank expression, you quickly stifled your laughter and focused back on the strange noise’s source. It was almost funny, the way he trusted his life to your shaky hands for a few seconds.
Ruling out the possibility that it was a real person, your chest felt a bit lighter. After being chased through the streets and finding your house open as if someone had broken in, you weren’t taking any more chances.
“Ah…” you said quietly, almost frustrated, as you knelt on one knee and looked up at the towering monument that blocked the moonlight. “It’s just a bird.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” he muttered, incredulous, and from his tone, you could tell Noah would have preferred it to be a bear if only to make his earlier display seem less ridiculous. “Fine, fine, leave it there, and let’s head back inside.”
“He’s hurt.” Your words sounded more like sorrow as you handed him the lighter so he could provide some light. “The weird noise was because he got tangled in the branches. Look!”
You stepped aside, giving Noah room to kneel beside you. Thankfully, he had enough empathy not to say anything snide, instead waiting to see what you’d do next. Maybe he remembered that you loved animals, adored birds in particular, and always wanted a dog but never felt competent enough to care for one.
Now, the two of you watched the small bird among the dry leaves, its wing broken and a raspy whistle escaping its beak. You bit your lower lip, trying to devise a quick and effective strategy, your eyes falling on a loose thread from your sleeve. Wrapping the thread around your index finger, you tugged it free with your thumb.
“Do you think it still has a chance?” he asked, tilting his head as you gently brought the bird closer.
“When Seth used to shoot at birds singing in our backyard, he rarely hit them, but the shock of the gunfire made them fall and injure themselves just like this one,” you recalled, the bitter memory immediately filling you with regret for sharing it. Still, you continued, inspecting the bird. “I’d keep them in my room, tying their wings with string and popsicle sticks until they could fly again.”
“Did it work?” There was genuine interest in his voice, warming the cold knot in your stomach and making you smile as you nodded.
“Yes! Two days, and they’d be flying again, even if slowly.” As you spoke, you knotted the thread and, using a hairpin, improvised a splint to keep the bird’s wing stable.
“It’s a shame we won’t know if it truly healed since we’re leaving it here alone.”
“We’ve done our part, offering help without taking it away from where it belongs for some selfish idea of solidarity. It will decide what to do next with this new chance.” You smiled, standing alongside him, watching the little bird struggle but ultimately move forward—free.
A few steps ahead, you found a river where you insisted on stopping to wash your hands. Subtle raindrops fell over the water, unable to blur the moonlight so bright it illuminated the entire area. You lifted your gaze, fascinated by the reflection on the water.
“Damn, it’s freezing here,” Noah grumbled, hugging his arms. You barely heard him as you played with the water, dipping your fingers into the cold stream. Rain had a special way of making the chill feel bearable, even pleasant.
“Hey! What are you doing?” he exclaimed in near desperation as he saw you strip off your clothes, tossing them onto a rock. Wearing only your underwear, you smiled, recognizing the tone of his voice. It was almost like a time machine. Noah was still as unsure as the first time he’d seen you embrace the rain without fear of soaking your clothes.
“I want to jump in the river,” you declared, puffing out your chest as you freed your hair. He struggled not to stare at your body in the moonlight, his restless eyes darting nervously.
“You’ve lost your mind!” He let out an awkward laugh, grabbing your shirt from the ground and tossing it at your chest. “Get dressed! Let’s go! You hate working sober, and you’ll definitely make my life hell if you get sick!”
“It’s been so long since we’ve had any kind of break that maybe I am losing it. We’re stuck in a deserted place with no way back to the hotel before dawn. Like it or not, we have to put up with each other, so why can’t you stop being so unbearable?” you teased, tossing the shirt back at him and shrugging, certain you were close to pushing him over the edge. “I won’t tell Scarlet if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“You’re pathetic and immature,” he muttered, rolling his eyes impatiently. “I’m freezing, Miss I’m Willing to Annoy Noah Sebastian!”
“Well then, don’t let me stop you! Look how nice the water is!” Taking advantage of his distraction—Noah had let down his defensive posture—you pushed him into the river. To both your surprise, it was deeper than it seemed.
You stood on the riverbank for a moment, laughing at your audacity, but you couldn’t resist for long. Taking a few steps back to gain momentum, you leaped into the water after him. The impact was cold and disorienting, but it didn’t take long for your eyes to find Noah’s figure beneath the surface.
His expression was anything but amused. His eyes were narrowed, his lips pressed into a line of disapproval that only made your laughter intensify as you both surfaced.
“You’re insane!” he muttered, spitting out water and pushing his hair out of his face. “And I’m freezing, thanks to you!”
“Oh, poor thing!” you teased, splashing a handful of water at him.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” He raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes.
Before you could react, he splashed water at you, igniting an awkward, laughter-filled battle. Every movement sent water splashing around you, mixing with the rain that continued to fall, turning the river into a chaotic dance of droplets.
You tried to swim away as he closed the distance, but the sound of your shared laughter — yours and his, in perfect harmony — drowned out any sense of urgency. You were both surrounded by problems, carrying the wreckage of everything that had trampled over what you once felt for each other in the past two years. Day by day, you fought to bury it, to smother the persistent flame that refused to die.
But it was impossible.
The energy between you was an uncontrollable force. In the same space, the air shifted, gravity seemed to pull you together. You radiated electricity, igniting each other, yearning with an almost insane intensity for what no principle or real obligation could replace: the singular feeling only the other’s presence could bring.
“There’s no use running!” he exclaimed, launching himself in the opposite direction to cut you off.
Eventually, you felt his arms reach you, a touch firm yet gentle, as if he always knew exactly how to hold you. Both of your breaths were heavy, your faces close enough that you could see every drop of water on his skin, his intense gaze locked onto yours.
Noah paused for a moment, his smile softening, as if lost in something deeper than the river surrounding you. Your hands rested on his broad shoulders, his soaked shirt clinging to his torso, outlining his chest and strong arms.
“You know this is the part of you I always hoped would never change?” he said, his voice low, almost drowned out by the rain and the current.
Your eyes searched his, a mixture of surprise and anticipation building within you.
“What part?” you asked, almost breathless.
“This one. The part that lives. That doesn’t mind getting wet, laughing out loud, dragging me — even if only for a few seconds — into feeling what it’s like to be as free as you.” He smiled, small and genuine, and that expression, so sincere, completely disarmed you. “I’m still a fan of that part.”
Before you could respond, he leaned in, threading his fingers into the damp strands of hair at the nape of your neck, bringing your face to his, and the kiss happened. It started slow, as if the entire world had slowed down to let that moment exist. Then it grew more intense, with both your bodies colliding, separated only by the droplets of water sliding between you, filled with everything words couldn’t say.
You savored every chance to be together again as if it were the last of your lives.
The rain continued, but you no longer felt the cold. Only the warmth of his touch, the hands that held you as if nothing could take you away. And, for an instant, the rest of the world didn’t matter. Each drop sliding down your skin was forgotten in the heat of that moment, in the pressure of his lips against yours. The river seemed to transform into an exclusive stage for the two of you, as if the universe itself conspired for that moment.
When the kiss finally broke, you stayed close, your foreheads almost touching, your breaths mingling as you tried to catch them. Noah opened his eyes, a different kind of light reflecting there, his lips trembling from the cold.
In the rain — your shared trademark.
You both remained silent for a moment, the sound of water and rain filling the space between you. It was as if the world had paused, allowing you both to process what had just happened.
“So…” you began, swimming slightly backward, trying to break the tension that was starting to form. “Still cold?”
“Not enough to forgive you for pushing me into the river,” he replied, but there was a playful smile tugging at his lips.
“Oh, so you’re still mad?” you teased, splashing another handful of water at him.
“Maybe,” he said, a mischievous gleam reappearing in his eyes as he moved closer again.
“Maybe?” You instinctively retreated, but he was already too close, his strong arms wrapping around your waist once more. Before you could protest, Noah spun you both in the water, drawing a surprised laugh from you.
“Now we’re even,” he declared, and for the first time in a long while, it felt like you’d both let go of everything that haunted you.
The rain began to ease, the drops now softer, as if even the sky was weary. You swam to the shore, the laughter gradually fading, but the lightness of that moment lingering between you.
Sitting side by side on the wet grass, both of you soaked but oddly comfortable, he looked at you with narrowed, bright eyes, an expression that held more than words could say.
“You seem worried about something.”
“It’s my mom’s birthday today…” you said softly, knowing Noah usually didn’t like when you brought her up. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, just as you expected. “Sorry for bringing it up with you, but it’s impossible not to remember every year.”
“I’ve always been a good listener. Above all else, we were best friends. You don’t need to apologize for wanting to talk to me,” he said quietly, with evident hesitation but sincerity. “I know you can’t talk to anyone else.”
“Thank you.” You raised one side of your lips in a smile that was more a reflection of relief.
“You always called her on her birthday, Mother’s Day, and Christmas. I remember that.”
“I filled her voicemail,” you said with a slightly embarrassed laugh, but out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Noah still serious, his gaze lost in something that wasn’t in front of him. “After a while, Crystal’s phone stopped ringing. Now it seems like it’s turned off.”
He cleared his throat slightly, as if something scratched at it, diverting his gaze for a few seconds before returning it to you. “Maybe she changed her number.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” You nodded, relaxing your shoulders and tossing a stone into the river, the sound of water breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Do you think she might’ve looked for me at some point over the years?”
Noah’s gaze was fixed on you. His restless fingers fidgeted with one another as he swallowed hard before shaking his head.
“I’m sure not.” He said, the words coming out slowly. “But… but it matters to you, doesn’t it?”
“I thought about going back to Richmond and stopping by her house a few times. I don’t know, don’t ask me why, but I felt this need countless times. To see her, to know how she was doing.”
“But you’re afraid of what you might find if you go there.”
“Yeah…” you replied, the word escaping almost as a whisper. You rested your chin on your arms, using the silence to reflect.
Anyone in your place would hate her, and maybe you had felt that at some point. But in the worst moments of your life, when pain was your only ally, your mother’s company was still what you sought when you returned home. Hers was the name you called out every night, and it was her you hoped to see at the end of every performance.
You waited for her for nine years.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Noah shrink slightly, pressing his temple in silence, as if he didn’t want to bother you with his groan of pain. Without ignoring him, you got up and gently asked him to walk back with you. After gathering everything that was scattered around, you both walked through the woods. He offered to carry you on his back if you were tired, but you refused and kept walking barefoot.
You tried to distract him so he’d forget the discomfort that was clearly bothering him. You brought up random topics, teased him more, and the two of you even managed to come up with part of a possible new song. But every now and then, he’d fall silent when that pounding in his head demanded his attention.
Back at the house, you used a pile of wood to light the fireplace and warm up. Noah had forgotten his hoodie at home, so he gave it to you to cover yourself while your clothes were hung to dry. You watched him sitting on the floor, his bare back exposed, revealing the large, colorful tattoo on his skin. He was in nothing but boxers, poking at the flames to make them grow.
In your pocket, you felt a piece of plastic pressing against your fingers. When you pulled it out, you saw an orange pill bottle with his name on the label.
“You’re the person most against self-medicating that I know. Would it be invading your privacy to ask why you’re carrying this in your pocket?” you asked without letting go of it, still calm as you looked at him. He turned his head slightly, his expression serene as he glanced over his shoulder at you.
“I still feel the same way about self-medicating, but the doctor who treated me said it’d be good to use those when I get headaches like that.”
You tightened your grip on the bottle, your eyes fixed on the label. Something about that name, about the doctor’s stamp, pulsed in your memory—like a song you can’t remember the lyrics to but know you’ve heard before.
“Dr. Klein?” you murmured, frowning as you scanned the printed name. Unease crept down your spine, as though an old shadow were trying to infiltrate your thoughts.
Noah turned slowly, his eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher what had changed in your expression.
“Yeah. Is there a problem with that?”
You hesitated, your fingertips gliding over the bottle, now more cautiously, almost as if it might explode at any moment.
“I don’t know… I think I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”
He raised an eyebrow, a little suspicious, but chose not to press the matter. You were grateful for that since you needed time to rummage through your memory to figure out why it felt so familiar. But nothing seemed clear in your mind, and you dismissed it as a silly déjà vu.
After he fell asleep, you stayed by his side, hugging your knees as you watched him. The night’s silence seemed to amplify the sound of his breathing—a soft but fragile rhythm, as if it could shatter at any moment. The empty bottle nearby felt like a cruel reminder of his vulnerability.
You rested your head against the windowpane, staring at the reflection of the dimly lit room. The moonlight filtered through the half-open curtains, illuminating Noah’s features. Every line on his face, every shadow formed by months of absence and suffering, seemed to cry out for something he’d never admit out loud. Help.
Your chest tightened, a dull ache you couldn’t ignore, like a fist pressed against your heart. You hated feeling trapped in that bubble again, in that fate of trying to protect him at all costs. So many times, you’d sworn to yourself that you wouldn’t let it happen, but there you were, watching over his sleep as if every second of vigilance could make a difference.
He shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping his parted lips. You held your breath, waiting for any sign he might be in pain again, but he only settled deeper into the blankets. Even so, you didn’t relax.
The doubts swirled in your mind like a storm. What if he needed you? What if he was getting worse? What if you weren’t enough to help him this time?
A warm tear rolled down your face, but you ignored it. The fear was overwhelming, a weight that seemed to sink your lungs, and the silence of the night only made it more oppressive.
“You can’t carry the whole world, you know?” you murmured to yourself, but the words felt empty, powerless.
Noah mumbled something incomprehensible in his sleep, his brow furrowing for a brief moment before relaxing again. You wanted to believe he was fine, that the apparent calm was real, but you couldn’t convince yourself.
And so, the night stretched on, slow and relentless. You stayed there, unmoving, staring into the early hours with tired eyes and a heavy heart, promising yourself you’d be there if he needed you—even if it meant losing yet another part of yourself in the process.
Finally, dawn arrived, and you were getting ready to head back to the hotel. Noah insisted you keep his hoodie when he noticed it was still drizzling outside. He was still groggy, unusually quiet, and you found it odd, knowing that mornings were rarely his silent moments—especially after the previous night.
“Are you okay?” you asked, watching as he turned away from the pensive moment he’d been caught in at the door.
“I don’t remember falling asleep in the bed…” Noah murmured, scratching the side of his head. “Did you figure out where that noise was coming from?”
You stared at him for a few seconds, folding your arms tightly when you saw the pure sincerity in his confused eyes. Noah didn’t remember the night before.
“I did… it was just a bird,” you said softly, and he gave a faint smile, nodding with a compressed grin.
“Ready to go?” He craned his neck to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything, and you followed him.
“We’re heading back to the hotel, but before we go any further, I really want to propose a truce.”
“A truce?” he asked, raising his eyebrows with a cautious expression.
“I’m not saying this night changed our lives or erased everything we’ve done to each other over the past two years, especially the last few months.” You took a deep breath, summoning the courage to continue. “But I think we can coexist as two human beings who… who loved each other deeply and now respect each other.”
Noah looked at you, puzzled, as if trying to decipher your words.
“I can’t promise things will be like they were or fool us with a false hope that we still have a chance, because I haven’t changed, Noah. And I can’t lie to you—I really haven’t changed.” You gave a sheepish smile, scratching the side of your head. “But I really wish we could live in a bearable environment until this is over, and we each go our separate ways.”
He stayed silent for a few moments before nodding slightly, his lips flexed in hesitation. Internally, you crossed your fingers, hoping he wouldn’t turn your attempt to be near him into something so complex. You felt the need to stay close, and you desperately needed an excuse to do so. He needed someone.
“You’re right.”
Noah sniffled discreetly, brushing off the discomfort in his nose, and took a step forward.
“But you’re not the only one who hasn’t changed… I’m still the same as back then, and that’s one of the reasons I want to keep my distance now. This version isn’t what you deserve.”
A painful silence lingered between you, and you closed your eyes for a few seconds, hoping to find another scenario when you opened them again. But he was still there.
“We should go. We’re going to be late for soundcheck, and Matt will chew us out,” you said. He gave a faint smile, trying to lighten the moment, but the shadow of his words still hung between you.
After the soundcheck, you returned to the dressing room and slumped heavily into the chair in front of the vanity. Your trembling hands rested on the surface as you stared at the pale reflection in the mirror. Your eyes were sunken, heavily concealed under layers of makeup. Your pupils were dilated, and cold sweat dripped down your neck. A tremor ran through your legs, forcing you to cross them in an attempt to mask it.
Your knotted stomach couldn’t digest anything but liquids, and the sharp pain in your head was a cruel reminder of withdrawal.
The sound of your phone ringing hammered at the back of your skull like a knife turning slowly. It was constant, repetitive, deafening, and every time you answered, all you heard was faint breathing in the background and the sound of something scratching. It made you stop paying attention to the device, treating it as if it didn’t exist.
With a sudden movement, you grabbed it and shoved it under the couch cushion, as if that could silence the noise that seemed intent on driving you mad.
You leaned forward, holding your head in your hands, when the door suddenly opened. Scarlet walked in, radiating that insufferable energy of control disguised as concern.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her tone suddenly softened but still laced with something insidious.
“It’s just a lack of patience,” you replied, trying not to show the weight of your confusion. “The incessant ringing of my phone gives me a headache.”
Scarlet glanced around and easily found the device under the cushion.
“You mean this phone?”
You nodded, not raising your eyes to her.
She frowned, glancing between you and the screen. “But it doesn’t have any missed calls.”
“What?” You jerked your head up, feeling the ground shift beneath your feet.
“Look…” Scarlet extended the phone toward you, and the blood drained from your face as you realized she was right. “There haven’t been any calls. Are you sure about what you’re saying?”
“Stop asking me if I’m sure of what I see or know, as if I’m crazy!” Your voice rose, echoing through the narrow dressing room walls.
“I’m sorry, but it’s normal for me to worry when I see you like this.” She tilted her head, her tone falsely empathetic, poisoning the air. “Your mind’s getting more confused every day. It’s not hard to imagine you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”
“But I’m not making this up! I’ve really been getting messages and calls nonstop for days!” you snapped, running your nails along the side of your head, as if you could scrape away the irritation. “Even…”
You stopped yourself, hesitating to mention the recent episodes—the feeling of being followed, the sight of your door being tampered with.
It was exactly the kind of thing Scarlet would use against you.
“Don’t tell me you’re also feeling like you’re being watched or constantly followed?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but the alarm in her eyes betrayed her. “I really should be worried about the clear signs of paranoia you’ve been showing…”
“STOP!” you shouted, the tension crackling in your voice like electricity, but she pressed on.
“You know it’s common for people in your state, don’t you? These things you’ve been using long-term erode your brain, and the tendency is for you to become more dangerous every day—not just to yourself but to others. That explains why Noah’s been keeping his distance.”
“I already told you to stop and get out of here!” Your voice shook, and you ignored her words, turning back to the mirror. The reflection was a battlefield where your inner chaos spilled outward. It wasn’t the moment—by no means—to absorb anything she said. You simply didn’t have enough control.
“Maybe it’s the perfect time to lock you up in rehab again.”
Those words hit like a punch, knocking the air from your lungs. Blood drained from your face, and your hands began to tremble as you heard something that should’ve been confidential. You had guarded that secret so carefully, buried under layers of shame and failure. Those months had felt useless—a recovery attempt now being used against you.
How did she know about that?
It didn’t matter.
You clenched your fists, jaw rigid, forcing yourself not to respond. Your vision blurred, breathing quickened, and a suffocating heat surged through your body. The incessant noise in the back of your mind, the weight of the accusations, and the physical pain melded into a whirlwind. Before you could control it, you lunged at her with all the force of your pent-up rage and despair, slapping her across the face.
Your body collided with hers, knocking her backward into the vanity. The impact sent some items crashing to the floor, but you didn’t stop. Your hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her as you screamed incoherent words—a mixture of anger and pain slamming her head against the wall with each strike. Blood trickled from her nose as the blows intensified.
Scarlet tried to defend herself, grabbing your hair and pushing your face away, but you were in an uncontrollable state. She attempted to slap you, but it only fueled your fury, blinding your vision until all you saw was red. You shoved her hard, slamming her against the wall again. She gasped for air but maintained that broken, defiant glare. With a firm tug on her hair, you alternated between punches and slaps. Adrenaline burned through your veins as you pinned her down, straddling her to immobilize her movements.
“Now you’ve got plenty of proof to call me crazy, you miserable bitch!” you screamed, your eyes wide, tears mixed with sweat streaming down your face.
She managed to free herself for a moment and tried to fight back, but the struggle was clumsy, chaotic. You both stumbled, knocking over a chair, until the sound of the door opening interrupted everything. Someone had heard the commotion and was about to step in.
You let go of Scarlet, breathing heavily, while she collapsed into loud sobs, struggling with exaggerated difficulty to move.
Both of you stayed silent for a moment, the room suffocating with the tension of the fight.
“What the hell happened here?” Noah’s voice cut through as he scanned the wrecked dressing room, startled by the disheveled girl sobbing and clinging to him.
“She freaked out and attacked me!” Scarlet sobbed, clutching his torso, her smudged makeup running as she brushed blood-matted hair away from her face.
Noah glanced between her and you, waiting for your explanation. But you merely shrugged with a restrained smile. After all, she’d come out worse. She was more injured than you, and any argument you made would be dismissed.
If she wanted to be the center of attention tonight, you had given her that.
⭑ @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard ; @iluvmewwwww75 ; @anarchydomainglory ; @foliosgirl ; @lacy1986 ; @chey-h ; @supersquirrel1996 ; @zozaline ; @just-randomm-stuff ; @do-it-jakey-baby
#lost in control fic#fic#bad omens#noah sebastian#bad omens band#bad omens fanfiction#fan fiction#bad omens fic#fanfic#noah sebastian davies#noah sebastian fan fiction#noah sebastian fanfic#noah sebastian smut#noah sebastian fic#noah sebastian fanfiction#noah sebastian bad omens#noah sebastian x reader#noah sebastian davis#bad omens fanfic#bad omens fan fic#smut fan fiction#fanfic writing#fan fic writing#smut
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I don't know...I know Elain isn't a fully fleshed out character yet and she's kind of "there" sometimes (compared to her other sisters who have more "strong-willed" personalities). But I guess I don't like the hypocrisy where some people can recognize, understand, and sympathize with Nesta's trauma responses, but can't do the same with Elain's. We can acknowledge that Nesta's abrasive and sharp disposition is due to trauma and her upbringing (which makes her such a compelling character in how she deals with the world around her), but when it comes to Elain, we can't give her that same grace. Instead, she's considered spoiled, or selfish, or hiding behind "big strong Azriel" or "mean vicious Nesta" to "protect her" from "nasty people" and like...ugh that's such a one dimensional, cartoonish view of her after what she's been through? I don't want to deny that Elain has probably been spoiled during her upbringing (mainly by her father) or that she's sheltered (by Nesta but also Feyre) but I don't think it's a stretch to think that her treatment in the past influenced how she deals with her trauma (and you can say the same for all the sisters...).
I see so many popular posts on Tumblr advocating for the "soft girl" archetypes because we don't see enough of that in fantasy and when we do, they're often cast off to the side or are undervalued. We want to see different types of female empowerment and strength instead of "aggressive girl with sword". But when a female character's trauma isn't "loud", when their trauma presents in the form of people pleasing instead of people bashing or becoming catatonic and doted on by everyone instead of becoming self-destructive and isolating themselves from everyone, then we don't recognize that as a trauma response. Instead, it's spoiled, or selfish, or golden child syndrome.
Because Elain's trauma responses aren't destructive, it's like people think she's "living it up" in her "perfect, sheltered" life where everyone loves her because she's kind and agreeable. And maybe the IC might see her that way, but people pleasing and being sheltered are also unhealthy coping mechanisms, as are lashing out and pushing people away. We wanted Nesta to stop drinking and self destructing, we wanted her to improve her mental health. And she did I guess...(though the methods for how the story went about it are so controversial to say the least....). We also want Elain to stop being sheltered and being a people pleaser. We also want her health to improve.
It's more than okay to dislike Elain (sometimes her character archetype isn't everyone's cup of tea, totally valid). But I just wish fandom gave her a little more nuance and grace like they do other characters. I'm personally interested in seeing Elain develop as a character and gain strength in her own unique way.
#elain archeron#pro elain archeron#acotar#nesta archeron#a court of thorns and roses#bookworm#my posts#as i always like to say....nuance is dead
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This got longer than I expected, hence the extra day's delay.
Apologies for the less-than-fully-coherent nature of the following post: the best way to turn a vaguely formed idea in your head into written form is not a hastily-written Tumblr post that you're typing up stream-of-consciousness-style in between tasks during a cross-country move. Anyway.
On Lizardfolk
So we can start with the depiction of lizardfolk as represented by OP, and understand it not as the way lizardfolk are, but as the way humans (and other humanoids) think of lizardfolk. Part of this is, of course, horrible mammalian propaganda, but part of it is also that the lizardfolk prefer it that way — if everyone else sees them as not really worth thinking about, then they’ll get largely left alone. Meaning this is all a Watsonian explanation, in a way: those bullet points above are the public-facing understanding, and anything below that contradicts them is, in-world, a secret that is deliberately kept from outsiders.
What are lizardfolk like really, then?
I think of lizardfolk as being creatures of deep time. This is admittedly something that stems from aesthetics on my part: as OP mentions, there’s a pulp-inspired typecast of lizardfolk as “ruin dwelling primitives descended from civilizations long before recorded history”; combine that with the way they kinda look like crocodilians or dinosaurs, and there you are. If you really lean into it, though, I think you can get somewhere interesting.
Hissssssstory
Think of how the difference in lifespans and timescales between the different humanoids, goblinoids, etc. of your standard fantasy world is going to produce some radically divergent worldviews. Elrond understands the War of the Ring differently from Bilbo, and Gandalf understands it differently from both of them. I recall reading somewhere on the Old Internet a discussion of how a series of conflicts between a population of goblins and a population of dwarves might look different to each side. To the goblins, these are entirely separate and unconnected clashes: multiple consecutive generations are born and live out their whole lives in peacetime, and it’s frankly weird that the dwarves hold a grudge about something that Great-Grandpappy Goblin did way back in the day. To the dwarves, this is one long ongoing war with peaks and valleys: Dwarven Soldier Guy might hold a grudge about the battle Great-Grandpappy Goblin fought in because DSG fought in that battle personally (and may have also fought Great-Great-Great-Grandpappy Goblin before then, for that matter). Dwarves come off as cranky bastards who can’t get over the past because they live ten times as long and goblin “ancient history” is dwarf “last year” — and once you’ve personally fought in three wars against different generations of goblin, you might start thinking the next battle is going to roll around eventually regardless so why bother being friendly.
Lizardfolk take this to the extreme. They’ve been around forever. Their history is on an evolutionary timescale, and mammalian-humanoid “history” is barely worthy of the term. As far as they’re concerned, all these hairy people might as well have popped into existence yesterday for all the historical context they have to work with. (Okay, elves, we know y’all are sensitive about this one, we can agree y’all have been here since at least Thursday.) In the real world, the oldest known surviving records are the oral histories of Aboriginal Australians: multiple different groups preserve stories about a rise in sea level that happened over seven thousand years ago, and the Gunditjmara apparently have one about a series of volcanic eruptions that happened over thirty thousand years ago. Again, for lizardfolk, we turn this up to eleven: they’ve got oral histories about (your game world’s equivalent of) the Chicxulub impact.
This gives you a hook to attach them to whatever plot is currently happening in your campaign, and on a related note, a reason the lizardfolk might be hesitant to let people know it’s a thing. They have surprisingly accurate information about things that happened long before what you humans laughably call “recorded history”, would be an invaluable resource for any number of fact-finding missions, and by the way would really rather not have any more strange beardy people showing up and quizzing them about stuff, thanks.
The myth of progressssss
Wrapping back around to OP’s phrase “ruin dwelling primitives descended from civilizations long before recorded history” for this part. Yeah, lizardfolk have been around forever. Their distant ancestors built vast empires before the distant common ancestors of humans & elves & dwarves & such were even bipedal. So why are they living in ruins and, as OP also notes, chucking spears? I just made a visual reference to Babylon 5 there, comparing the lizardfolk to the also-reptilian* Narn — if they had great civilizations millions of years ago, why aren’t they the Vorlons?
*It’s possible I subconsciously picked up some inspiration there as well.
Well [maybe spoilers] did it seem to you like the Vorlons were really living their best lives? No doubt at multiple points in the distant past some lizardfolk civilizations Ascended to a Higher Plane of Existence or something, but the ones that decided to stick around in the material world are probably pretty justified in not wanting to repeat the past, and live in small tribes in the swamps because they like it that way. Not that they’re all anarcho-primitivists or anything, unless you want to derail your gaming table with esoteric political arguments. It’s just that at a certain point, the concept of running a globe-spanning empire loses its shine, because you know, it didn’t work out great the last dozen times. Lizardfolk civilization has “risen” and “fallen” so many times that the current longstanding consensus is that it’s best to just sit out that whole cycle — is it even worth conquering the world when you know you’ll be lucky if your new world order holds together for even one thousand years?
In the real world, the common background assumption that technological progress and social progress are always moving forward in sync is already not a great model. In a world that runs on magic instead of science, there’s genuinely no reason for that assumption to even be a thing. A lot of our associations between civilizational scale and progress are predicated on the kind of quality-of-life stuff (e.g. medical advancements) that comes along with technology. This doesn’t apply as much to a fantasy world because magic doesn’t require an industrial base. Medical advancement, for instance, is completely decoupled from how big & complex your civilization is if the best healing all comes from The Gods and nobody needs to source materials for an MRI. If a population has sufficient access to magic, then each individual can live in just as much comfort whether that population is a million people in a shining metropolis or fifty people in huts.
Lizardfolk have had eons to refine their magical practice. They are living in the fantasy equivalent of a high-tech utopia; it just doesn’t look like one to us. Those marshy little clusters of huts are a post-scarcity society trying their best to make everyone else ignore them. Lizardfolk don’t seem to have agriculture because they don’t need to; that group you saw out spear-fishing the other day was just doing it for fun, not because they need the fish. It’s kind of low-key for a lot of reasons, but notable among those are: (1) there’s really no need for conspicuous wealth if you can just conjure the stuff you need; (2) in a post-scarcity society, status displays have nothing to do with visible wealth; (3) lizardfolk sensibilities are not human sensibilities, so any such displays are largely illegible to outside observers; (4) if too many of those damned endotherms figure out what we’ve got going here, they’re going to start showing up and hassling us.
Now, to be clear, the Star Trek comparisons are superficial. This isn’t actually a sci-fi civilization that just happens to be located in your fantasy world. The lizardfolk are using the same tech as everyone else; they’re just good with magic. And that’s not because they’re all secretly archmagi: a couple low-level spellcasters per village is about right. The trick is the millennia upon millennia of figuring out easier, more efficient ways to create the same magical effects as everyone else: if you learn to cast spells in the lizardfolk tradition, the equivalent of create food & water is a cantrip, and Lizardkainen’s magnificent mansion is a first-level spell. And of course that doesn’t necessarily translate to throwing around fireballs or anything, the applications of which are fairly niche if you’re not an adventurer or, like, fighting a war. I mean, a high-level lizardfolk spellcaster is working with forces that are fully beyond the ken of an elven wizard of equal level, but that’s neither here nor there and they prefer not to get involved anyway.
The Prime Directive parallel isn’t quite the same either. Lizardfolk don’t care about the natural development of other civilizations. (What other civilizations? Oh, like humans? Surely that doesn’t count as civilization; they only just came down from the trees. I guess I keep forgetting they have buildings and stuff now.) There are some lizardfolk who kind of want to leave mammalian “civilization” to its own devices just to see where they’re going with this, and look at the whole business with the same sort of fascination you might have if the raccoons in your backyard started knapping flint, but that’s not the motivation of the society as a whole. They’ve found something that works for them. Lizardfolk, as a species, have settled into a comfortable retirement in the countryside and don’t want to be dragged back onto the international stage.
Imagine a situation where a human nation is being threatened by the unexpected return of an ancient, epic-level lich — or some other existential threat that comes from so long ago that nobody was prepared and the scholars aren’t even sure where to start looking for information on how to deal with it. What would it be like if the humans were aware that the local lizardfolk tribe not only remembers the last time this lich was kicking around, but has notes on his true name, his secret weakness, and how to call up his mother’s spirit to scold him? Much less that the village wise-lizard could stand toe-to-toe with the lich in a magical duel before she’s even had her morning coffee. Forgotten evil gods from the dawn of history? Well, you forgot them, and they’re from the dawn of your history, but to the lizardfolk they’re just, “oh, these jokers again?”
The lizardfolk just don’t want the hassle of being called in for this stuff. And you may think that it would be okay if it’s just for the once-in-a-lifetime world-imperiling threats, but you’re thinking on the wrong timescale. The human emissary is going to walk into the lizardfolk village to speak to them for the first time in three generations and get the immediate reaction, “What is it this time? We just fixed your last problem! Always an emergency with you people.” And that’s assuming the humans can in fact be convinced to only speak to them when it’s necessary rather than, say, constantly trying to gain access to the vast knowledge and arcane skill they now know the lizardfolk are sitting on. Or, gods forbid, open formal diplomatic channels so the lizardfolk have to get involved in the larger political scene. They did that already. They built towering cities that made the greatest works of dwarves & elves look like shantytowns. They had multiple great empires that lasted thousands, or tens of thousands, of years. And every time, it eventually collapsed into a nightmare of fire & blood. They’re done. They’ve kicked the habit. They want no part of political power.
Of course, this means there are layers to any encounter with lizardfolk. What does it look like they’re doing through the lens of the lizardfolk stereotype from the original post? What are they really doing? How are they keeping their actual business under wraps while interacting with outsiders? If it’s a combat encounter, they probably won’t break out the serious magic — dropping a nuke on some random human bandits would be extremely frowned upon, and would undermine their udssyosjas**, but sometimes people make bad decisions.
** Roughly, “masquerade” — or possibly “kayfabe”.
Lizardfolk facility with magic shouldn’t be that surprising — I mean, there’s a reason one of the major magical writing systems is Lizardfolk Runes. Yes, humans call them “draconic” runes, but that’s just them being confused over who came first. Speaking of which…
Continuity of lizzzardsssssss
“How fleeting are all human passions compared with the massive continuity of ducks lizardfolk.” — Dorothhhy Ssssayersssss
Of course, on this kind of time scale, there has been some evolutionary divergence. Your classic lizardfolk is more or less the same species they were back in the dim mists of their earliest history: like crocodiles, it’s a form that just works. But every reptilian sapient is really just an offshoot of lizardfolk. Troglodytes? Cave-adapted lizardfolk, simple as. And then of course there are the dragons.
Dragons are the result of a branch of lizardfolk way back in the day who got really into the magical equivalent of genetic engineering. Most reasonably-well-educated dragons are aware of this, but don’t tend to acknowledge the connection; they don’t think it reflects well on them to be descended from people everyone else thinks are spear-chucking primitives. Lizardfolk aren’t thrilled with it either: general dragon behavior is considered extremely gauche, and the fact that they also engineered themselves a little servant class in the form of kobolds is pretty unsettling. There’s some friction there to put into your world: dragons get Respect from everyone but lizardfolk, because lizardfolk think they’re all colossal assholes.
At this point, though, there’s a concern. Surely there’d be some social change among the lizardfolk? It seems odd that they’re all so consistently on board with this approach. And of course, as mentioned earlier, a lot of the difference in scale of perspective between, say, elves & humans is imagined as the result of a difference in individual lifespans. I’m going to pitch a solution that’s mostly based on the fact that I find the idea of an NPC being able to casually bring a deep-time perspective to a conversation very funny.
Now, hang on, you might be saying. There’s some variance in how long various D&D and Pathfinder sourcebooks say lizardfolk are supposed to live, but it only ranges from “a little shorter than humans” to “a little longer than humans”. Why would a species keep their lifespan under Masquerade in a world where there are elves and dragons?
Well, because there’s a difference between “my species is longer-lived than yours” and “my species conquered Aging before yours conquered Fire”. If it got out that not only are lizardfolk biologically immortal, but that they made themselves that way, we’d be right back to having a lot of annoying warm-bloods showing up at the wise-lizard’s hut begging to live forever and disrupting the balance of things. Fuck off, Gilgamesh.
That may be a bit far into the “secret post-scarcity society” vibe, but like I said, I think there’s something to giving them that deep-time perspective, and it works better if that comes from personal experience instead of just a strong oral tradition. My thought process here, I have to say, was basically envisioning the following graphic:
Of course, you could do a mix-and-match with any of those possibilities. Probably many of them don’t want to actually live forever, and there’s always the possibility of violence or accidents, so a million-year-old lizardfolk is going to be an unlikely encounter. Reincarnation or collective ancestral memory might be options for what happens to lizardfolk when they do die.
A bonus here is — and I don’t recall whether this is something that’s officially canon or something else I’ve seen in online speculative worldbuilding — the idea that lizardfolk keep growing larger as they grow older. So out in the deep swamps there are some absolutely leviathan specimens who count their age in myriads and have to keep amulets of reduce person on hand in case they need to go somewhere people might see them.
About those ruins…
Maybe you still want to have lizardfolk hanging around the ruins of their old civilization for the aesthetic vibe, but in the timescale we’re talking about, those buildings would have crumbled to dust long before some proto-elf invented tents.
The thing is, sometimes one just needs to have those old buildings back. Usually for ritual reasons, honestly — some major magical work or religious ceremony just has to be on a ziggurat and you could swear there used to be one around here just a hundred thousand years ago. One of the magical tricks lizardfolk have cultivated that nobody else has access to is a type of temporal manipulation: reach back to a little bit after the last time someone used that building and pull it forward to the present. It’s a pain, so they don’t do it often, but that’s how you get these shockingly old lizardfolk buildings in weirdly inaccessible terrain: the jungle wasn’t there when they built the thing. (Well, even in the real world, ruins in jungle terrain probably didn’t have the jungle around them when they were new.) Then, of course, when they’re done using the ziggurat, they just leave it to keep falling apart for a while; a couple hundred years later, it’ll pop back out of existence when some future lizardfolk needs it and drags it through time again.
This has already gotten too long and I’m rambling, so wrap-up / tl;dr — I think leaning into the idea that lizardfolk are the heirs to an incredibly ancient civilization, with the knowledge and the hang-ups that that entails, gives another dimension to how one can use them in a game. Even if, to the average human NPC or PC, lizardfolk still seem like the stereotype described by OP, if you know there’s something more going on, you can write in some interesting material and give them more complex motivations.
Now, like a lizard detaching its tail, I will cut this post off and escape.
Hey friends, I was thinking of taking a crack at doing an oft requested "monsters reimagined" for lizardfolk in the next little while, but I found myself stalled out on creating an alternative pitch for their lore.
The problem is that there's so little to work with in the " Ignorant primordial savage" role that they've been pigeonholed into that I'm having genuine trouble finding inspiration.
As such, I figured I'd encourage you all to write your own favourite take on the lizardfolk in the replies/comments, and we'll see if we can't brainstorm our way to an awnser.
Here's some of my own thoughts to get you started:
Lizardfolk as they are presented primarily exist to fufill the role of stock primitive antagonists, a one step more fantastical version of the jungle dwelling cannibals often encountered like pulp heroes like Indiana Jones/Doc Savage/Conan the Barbarian.
In many ways they are the epitome of the "fill in the blank baddie", with everything from their culture to their religion to their motivations being wholly based on the fact that they're lizardy lizards who like to do lizard things and could never be anything but. This is flat and boring, and needs to change if we have any hope of doing something with them.
The whole "uninterested in knowledge", " think with their stomachs", "don't have emotions, just instinct" is one of d&d's most glaring examples of biological determinism. It assigns lizardfolk the concept of "spear chucking savages" and then works backwards to justify why they remain savage while detouring through 19th century race science talking points.
When dealing with any kind of anthropomorphic reptile we're inevitably going to get into the "lizard people" conspiracy theory milieu, with all the baked in antisemitism. On top of that, we're also open to ancient aliens style conspiracy theories given how often Lizardfolk are typecast as "ruin dwelling primitives descended from civilizations long before recorded history".
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Im very fond of soulmate AUs but I've never been a fan of the "you spend your whole life waiting for the ONE and you HAVE to date or you're weird" it feels iffy to me (I mean I'm arorace so maybe that's it). I enjoy "oh you're on the same wave length, if you meet you for sure will have a deep emotional connection with this person but who knows what it'll entail. And maybe you'll never meet but that doesn't mean your life will be any less fulfilled". It's more of a,,,you were born under the same star, lol? But yeah I wanna write a few fantasy high fics with that concept.
I'm partial to (temporarily) mirroring markings on each other's skin soulmate AUs but honestly I'm not super sure what to do with this one. But I'm throwing up ideas because I can't just stay silent, I'd explode.
Listen. Listen. Sandra Lynn and Gilear are soulmates. Being inherently compatible doesn't mean you can't fuck up. The two have a genuine connection and she loved Gilear but she was never 100% sure that she was in love with him, and monogamy maybe wasn't right for her either but she was ignoring all those doubts and complex feeling in favour of going for the safe and easy life that society expected and that would, short term, definitely make her happy. It'd make Gilear happy, too. (The possibility of living an immortal life without a partner by her side might have scared her more than the possibility of that partner not being the right one.) Both of them later find new happiness in their respective partners, and they're on okay terms but they never restore the closeness they once had. Which is okay, certain mistakes can't be undone even if they're forgiven, and certain relationships just won't be restored. But yeah complex feeling about this and how sometimes soulmates don't mean forever.
Branching off of this, Fig. The divorce causes all the problems with Fig it normally does, but it also makes her write off the idea of soulmates completely. True love doesn't exist type deal (which I agree with. Feelings can change and you have the potential to love anyone, and anyone has the potential to be loved. But for a teenage girl that might have previously romanticised the concept of it this realisation can be upsetting and lead into the other extreme, which is that love in general can never be sincere. Which hey, is a sad outlook.) She tries to replicate the feeling for validation with faces that aren't her own but eventually finds someone that loves her for her and becomes comfortable being the person she is. Ayda happens to be her soulmate but they'd love each other regardless of that.
(Ayda's past incarnations have had varying soulmates. The ones she has records of never met theirs and she really was in the "why would I have one in the first place" mindset. Who knows about the Aydas that came before her, It's so far in the past that I don't think it matters.)
(Idk if Jawbone has a soulmate and if he does idk if he has met them. But I don't think that matters much they're not on his mind.)
Less romance related take on soulmates are Fabian and Riz I think! Fabian is in denial at first because Riz is a loser (not that Fabian isn't a loser lmao. But Riz is like, a social loser.) but Riz immediately decides this is his GUY. This is his best friend. And Fabian does too honestly but it takes him a while to get over being a shitty teenager and be open about it. The whole sophomore year stuff. I do think Riz is aroace and I have my. aro-spec thoughts about Fabian so this can go either "just" best friends (I don't want to de-value purely platonic relationships they're SO good and important and shouldn't be placed below romantic ones all the time) or venture into more queerplatonic territory. Which I also really like with those two lol. But they're a package deal with a deep connected and care for each other greatly :)
Gorgug hasn't met his soulmate and he truly does not care. He has all the time in the world, and if he never meets them that's fine too? His parents are definitely soulmates but being raised by them I think it'd truly be so hard to become insecure about societal expectations like that. This is covered somewhere in the sex and relationship folder probably. Gorgug is such a guy. Zelda, Mary-Ann, Squeem, Unit, Ragh(??). Everyone wants him. He's mostly up for it. SUCH a guy.
Oh! Also. Lucy and Kipperlilly were soulmates. Just, cause, yeah. I think Lucy has so much shit to work through in therapy and this might be #1 on the list because, like, yeah.
Oh also non-romantic soulmates Adaine and Aelwyn,,,they're so important to me. They're so important to each other too. For a really long time Adaine thought something must be wrong with her for her soulmate to treat her like this, something must be wrong with the world for the stars to align only to promise her cruelty. They're okay now. Aelwyn of course felt deeply guilty for everything she was doing but also shoved said guilt so far down she barely felt it. Their relationship is already perfectly articulated in canon I don't have much to add to this, I just wanna write them softly rebuilding their relationship I love them so dearly.
#rambling into the void#au ideas#dimension 20#fantasy high#unnamed soulmate AU change this tag later#sandra lynn faeth#gilear faeth#figayda#figueroth faeth#fig faeth#ayda aguefort#fabian aramais seacaster#riz gukgak#qpr fabriz mention#aelwyn abernant#adaine abernant#frostkettle#lucy frostblade
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OOOOH this event sounds so fun, could I have angst #21 (the bl*od one) with JK please? Low-key I’m thinking of like a royal vibe where like they’re both royals but enemies but it’s up to you Dee whatever you write I will gladly eat up 🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽
callofthegreen asked: Angst+21+ Jungkook (I'm a sucker for angst, and you always make it hurt so good, love you 💗)
21. "Is that... blood? Please tell me it isn't blood."
note: you said royals and i immediately thought... fantasy 🤓🤓 man idk the setting is very much inspired by mlbb universe 😭 this is kinda erm but hope you both enjoy i tried my best! 😭
wc: 1.8k (boo i know sorry)
You try to conceal the uncomfortable gnawing at your thigh – but the trek to the steep of the mountain was getting too much to bear, and every passing second is starting to feel like suicide.
Subtly looking to the side, you observe Jungkook stands just fine. He has cuts all over his face from the attack of the common creeps back at the jungle, but he generally looks okay overall. Meanwhile, you still haven’t told him a horned lizard got you good and sliced quite deeply at your thigh when you made the mistake of kicking at the wrong time.
It hurts like hell. Jungkook has been offering to stop by at few spots whenever he hears you inhale a sharp breath, probably assuming your discomfort about the length of the walk, but you couldn’t have it in you for him to think that you aren’t built for this.
He’s spent the entirety of your childhood mocking you for your poor archery skills, laughing with his older cousins about how you couldn’t even pick up a sword the right way. He bitched and moaned about his status to be prince – completely wanting to be a warrior instead, and as a result insulted you for acquiescing to your royal responsibility of being princess.
You hate him for many things. Hate him for how he affected you all those years, hate him for making you cry on the night of your 13th birthday, hate him for the fact that your father liked him more than you, and hate how he goes through life like it’s his stage and he’s the main character who never dies.
Right now, Jungkook isn’t like the scrawny kid who used to pick on you for a hobby, second to perfecting his sports – he’s now a twenty-seven-year-old responsible king who had strategically led the movement of winning the impending war.
But that doesn’t magically erase all the animosity you have towards him.
You hate that you’re betrothed to him, hate that you knew that even before your father and your mother broke the news to you at the ripe age of 18. Hate that both your kingdoms are to form an alliance to battle the current rise of rebellion from the west. But after you lost your parents from the war that transpired two years ago, it had to be done.
Jungkook may not be the same old guy who made half your life miserable – but you know that underneath his composure and the respectable manner in which he presents himself with now is nothing but a mere facade.
Frankly, you do not trust him. You do not trust his plans. You do not support the war and everything that he and his council stands for.
You don't want to be by his side when you're proven right.
And the last thing you'd want to be in front of Jungkook is weak.
But a goddamn rock had made you trip on your own way, and you couldn’t help the shriek that escapes your mouth when you drop on the ground.
“Fuck–” you pull your wounded thigh up, automatically wrapping your hand around the area and squeezing to manage the throbbing pain. “Shit.” You hiss when you see red your trousers, panicking internally.
“What the hell– is that blood?” Jungkook drops his bladric on the ground and immediately goes to you, eyes widening at the sight of your thigh. “Please tell me it isn’t blood.”
“Don’t touch me!” You say when Jungkook hovers over your thigh. He recoils, and you know he didn't expect that much hostility – given that you’ve been quiet for the entirety of the trek, and even though you haven’t exactly been welcoming to him for the past month of the expedition you both coincidentally sneaked yourselves into, you’ve been civil.
Jungkook pulls back, one knee bent on the layer of dirt on the ground, hands surrendering up as if to reassure you he wasn’t going to do something you wouldn’t like.
You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Jungkook retorts, eyes trailing to the growing spot of blood on the fabric of your trousers. It’s getting more painful by the second – and you want nothing but to scream about how it fucking stings. “Jesus christ, __, just let me help. That’s a damn big wound you’ve got there.”
“I’m fine–” you insist, but it’s broken by a sharp intake of breath as another twinge comes up. you wince. “I just need– I just need some fabric. Tie it around the wound.” You manage to say, distressed. Both physically and emotionally.
“We need to– I need to clean you up,” Jungkook says and maybe it’s your eyes playing jedi games on you but for once, he actually looks genuine to you. As if he actually cares.
You scoff. “I can do that myself.”
You don’t expect the way Jungkook snaps.
“For once, can you stop being stubborn? You can barely breathe properly, __. You can say and think what you want and hate me again after this but just let me take care of you this one time. I’m going to clean your wound and make sure you’re not gonna bleed yourself to death by the time we arrive at the port.” Jungkook looks into your eyes and they feel almost… earnest. Like he wants you to really listen to him. He closes and opens his mouth as if wanting to say something. You wait for it, then for a few seconds it doesn’t come, until... “I’m not out to get you, __.”
I’m not out to get you. It’s a simple sentence with a simple message. One that you should understand right away.
But you don't.
You avoid his eyes when you only say, “I don’t trust you.”
What you don’t expect is his quick answer.
“I know.”
He crosses the distance between you once again, and you watch as he hesitantly hovers his hand over your thigh again. He looks for your face, silent – but his eyes scream for permission. You don’t give it verbally; too tired to speak, too consumed by the pain in your leg to voice out any more complaints lodged in your throat.
When Jungkook initially places his hand on your leg, you don’t flinch. And it’s a surprise. Surprise because you expected his touch to burn you like how Icarus did when he flew too close to the sun, but instead it felt like winter night. Cold, but strangely warm.
When you don’t say anything, he halts.
“Can I?” He asks. Leveled. Waiting. Always waiting. Almost gentle…
You purse your lips when you nod your head.
Jungkook brings forward his satchel where he takes out a small knife, and there’s nothing but the gentle breeze of the wind and songs of the birds surrounding you at this part of the mountain when Jungkook begins cutting throught the fabric of your pants, effectively revealing the – admittedly – ghastly cut on your bare thigh.
“Jesus,” Jungkook looks at you, eyebrows creased. “When did you get this? It can’t be from the fall.”
“I–” you clear your throat and look away, ashamed to be admitting this now. “The horned lizard got me back at jungle.”
Jungkook looks like he wanted to say something but for god knows what, he keeps it to himself.
You watch quietly as he takes out a flask, twisting open the cap and looks at you before pouring over the water on the wound.
When you hiss in pain, Jungkook immediately stops.
“Are–”
“I’m fine– it’s okay,” you assure him, biting your lip, glancing down at your wound. It would be hard to walk further carrying this with you.
“I’m sorry.” Jungkook says. You assume it’s for his previous action, but you don’t exactly know how that guaranteed an apology.
You ignore it and he continues tending to the wound, relieved that he’s got some clean scraps of fabric in his bag – a quick aid kit, perhaps – to tap your wound with, and when he asks you to leverage his shoulder for a little bit so he can lift your thigh up a little in order to wrap the fabric around your thigh, your breath hitch at the proximity.
Even though you and Jungkook are bethroted, you never really shared any moments where you’re required to be as close like this. The banquets are public appearances that only needed you and him to sit beside each other and smile and laugh at the visitors so they think you’re a good pair, but once the doors are closed, one becomes a stranger to another.
But this… this feels different. It’s… intimate, in a way.
When you said that his touch didn’t burn, it felt a little more different when you feel his skin touch yours. There’s a little spark to it – fleeting, quick. And you swear he lingers for longer than necessary when he finishes tending to the wound.
It makes you confused.
“I wish you told me sooner.” Is what Jungkook says when he lets go.
You pull your hand away from his shoulder. “I didn’t want us to lag behind.”
“I wouldn’t have mind.” Jungkook says. It’s spoken with so much sincerity that it suddenly triggers a lot of underlying pain – and not just because there’s a big wound on your thigh that’s feeling a little better now – but because Jungkook is acting so different with you. “I’ll try to hunt us something to eat. We’ll stay here for a while so you can rest. Your wound’s pretty fucking big and I’m sure it’s gonne be swollen in a few minutes. Let’s just dry it out for awhile so I can apply the gel all over it, and then we can–”
“Jungkook,” you cut him off. “Can you stop?”
He looks at you, rightfully confused.
You feel mad. Mad at the horned lizard for cutting you. Mad at yourself for letting yourself get cut. Mad at Jungkoook. Mad that he’s being nice. Mad at the situation. Mad at the war. And mad that all of this doesn’t make sense to you.
“Stop trying to act like you care," You purse your lips and stare into his eyes when you add, “I don’t trust you. Right now I’m putting my guards down and maybe you feel nice enough to not obliterate it but this doesn’t mean you suddenly get to act like you’ve always cared about me. You never did, and I doubt you ever will.”
Jungkook looks at you. His dark brown orbs have always held something in them – the stars, looks like it, but the stars were beautiful and you didn’t like associating him with beautiful things.
“You don’t know everything.” Jungkook says, looking away just as he says that. You thought there was more… or maybe you thought there was more so you could retaliate with something – just something – but no words come after it.
You find yourselves staring blankly ahead at the landscape of nothing but the vast blue skies.
#p; drabbles#p: drabble requests#will do this tomorrow still i think. planned to write at least 10 😭#jungkook angst
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One Day - Part Two of ?
Pairings: Dean Winchester x Y/N Female character
Series Summary: You were rescued by Dean Winchester a long time ago. Over time, you kept bumping into each other.
Word Count: 2,420
Tags/Warnings: Violence, profanity, angst, argument, monsters/supernatural
A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! This story is AU as it does veer a bit from the history we see in Season 1 of Supernatural. There will be references to episodes and seasons, but it'll change as the chapters come. Enjoy the ride!
Dividers: credit to @talesmaniac89
Chapter Two: Scent of a Woman
If you looked up repetition in the dictionary, Dean was convinced you’d find his photo. His life for the last two years since that rather eventful week in Indiana was essentially fucking, drinking, cheating at poker, and hunting down monsters. It was perfect.
There was only one problem: no Sam.
In the two fucking years since Sam left to go to Stanford to live a boring ass ordinary life, Dean remained daddy’s good little soldier. He did what he was told and he was damned good at it.
Unlike Sam, John didn’t judge what Dean did on his free time. Hell, John was so busy doing whatever he was doing that they barely spoke outside of hunting. That suited Dean just fine, if only because then he didn’t have to see the disappointment in John’s eyes.
As for Sam… Christ, it was obvious that he was enjoying the picket fenced life. Neither John nor Sam were aware that Dean stopped by Stanford to check on his baby brother. He had been tasked with keeping Sam safe and by God, he’d do it.
Not that Sam needed protecting. He seemed to be doing damned fine. He went to classes, hung out with this drop-dead gorgeous blonde, and overall seemed so damned happy it was like a knife to Dean’s gut every time he went.
So when John called Dean with a job while Dean was checking on Sam, he grabbed it instantly. Anything to forget that big ass smile on that baby brother of his.
God. He might go get drunk after this hunt. Maybe find a hot chick or two and bury his emotions for a while. Just enjoy the fucking and—
Dean’s line of thought sputtered to a stop as he pulled up to the address John sent him. It was a goddamned mental asylum. Either John was telling him to commit himself or there was a serious clue Dean was missing.
Let’s see. Power wasn’t on, big sign. Okay. Metal bars on the windows, wildly illegal after a point in history. No fences of any kind, that was puzzling.
What the hell did his father send him to this time? Was John trying to convey something without outright saying it? He hoped not, but it wouldn’t be the first time the Winchester men made a mess out of not talking. They specialized in fists, not words.
Pausing long enough to grab a flashlight and his shotgun and a pocketful of rock salt bullets, Dean headed inside. The fact the front door gave way easier than Elizabeth Hurley—
He sighed, shoved that little sexual fantasy to the side, and kept on going.
It was so sterile and bland that Dean had to keep checking he wasn’t missing anything noteworthy. White walls and white linoleum with white curtains. Christ. Didn’t these people hear of color?
Halfway through his very boring walk-through the asylum, it occurred to Dean there was a scent in the building that stood out. Underneath the stench of stale air and standing water, there was something flowery. Fresh. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
Every so often, Dean would flash the light behind him, to the sides, and see absolutely nothing. Yet, he was convinced he wasn’t alone, that something or someone was mirroring him at the other side of the asylum.
“Ollie ollie oxen free,” he muttered. God. Why was that flowery smell niggling at him? As though something or someone was here and he ought to pay attention. Well, excuse me princess. Despite the obvious skill set—he was alive after all—Dean was hard pressed to declare himself worthwhile of saving.
God, he needed a drink. And a girl. Preferably both.
He was so distracted in his thoughts that he almost didn’t hear the click of a gun behind him, followed by the low, husky tones of a woman’s voice:
“Don’t move.”
Dean hesitated, sighed. Great. Just great. He half-turned to glance over his shoulder, but couldn’t see who it was. “You know… it’s polite to introduce yourself before you turn a gun on someone.”
“Right. It’s also ‘polite’ to break into an asylum,” she retorted. She sounded familiar, but Dean’s memory couldn’t call her up. Maybe one of his one-night stands? One of the people he rescued in the past? He couldn’t remember.
“Uh, lady, you broke in too,” he retorted.
She was quiet. He could almost feel her scowling at him and he grinned. Slowly, he turned around and saw her. He narrowed his eyes as her as he studied her. Oh yeah. He knew her. He just couldn’t place her. Then he got the whiff of the flowery scent again and the memory came back. That damned kiss. That vampire. That silo.
“Shit. Y/N?”
She drew back in surprise, then took a step closer. Then another. He could feel her eyes on him, taking in the details. The leather coat. The jeans. The boots. The amulet. Then he felt her study his face, and the focus sharpened.
“Oh my God…” she muttered. “Dean.”
He smiled lopsidedly. “Fancy meeting you here.” His expression darkened, the smile gone. “Why are you here? In fact, what the fuck are you doing with a gun?”
“Long story,” she said defensively. “Why are you here?”
“Long story,” he echoed back with a scowl. Son of a bitch. This complicated matters. Last time he saw Y/N, she was studying to be a veterinarian, not being a wanna-be hunter in a potentially haunted mental asylum.
She met him in a stare down. He waited her out, determined to out-glare her. God, he felt like a 10 year old in an argument with another 10 year old. In the two years since he last saw Y/N, she definitely did not change. Still fiesty, still hot.
His libido did it again. It popped out of the box and inquired, if you please, if this time, he got the girl. He tried to ignore it.
“Oh come on!” He caved and he was not happy. God damn, she could really stare him down. “This isn’t right! You shouldn’t be here! You should be back in—in blasted Indiana, getting your groove on with your fellow college kids, not here!”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t have a choice,” she shot back. There was something in her voice that had he slanting a look at her.
“What do you mean, you didn’t have a choice?” he demanded.
“After you left, I… I tried to pretend I wasn’t aware of the supernatural, of monsters.” She shook her head. “It lasted two weeks before something else happened.”
“What?” Dean was so surprised he took several steps toward her. “What else happened? Why didn’t I hear about it?”
“Because I dealt with it,” she said fiercely. Dean stared. The fuck? She dealt with it?! “It was a haunting in one of the dorms. A time capsule had been dug up, someone stole a bracelet from it, and pissed off a spirit.”
Dean couldn’t believe his ears. He was the hunter, and this chick was aiming for his job! He couldn’t decide if he should be impressed or annoyed. “Are you shittin’ me? You decided to play hunter?”
She set her jaw. God help him, it looked hot. Damn libido. “Yes, I was the hunter. I did the research, tracked down the stolen bracelet, salted and burned it.”
Oh shit, she’s a female Sam. “So… what, you decided, ‘hey, I did this right, I’ll do it professionally’?”
“God, could you be any more condescending? No, that’s not what happened!” She shifted her stance, and God, that did everything to emphasize her curves. Dean yanked his libido and shoved it back into a mental box. Not the time or place, Winchester. “I went back to classes, I did the studies… but…” She sighed. “Things kept happening. I started noticing a pattern. And… I quit.”
“You quit college? You?” He wasn’t about to forget how hard Y/N got on his case about how she had a scholarship to Purdue and no, it wasn’t easy missing classes.
“Yes! I couldn’t…” There was something in her expression that tugged at his heart. He sat on his emotional reaction; he couldn’t afford to go soft. “I couldn’t forget what I knew, what I saw. T-the vampire, the ghost…. I started noticing weird things in the news, local gossip. I tried, Dean,” and her voice cracked. “But I couldn’t ignore it.”
“So you… instead of, oh I dunno, calling me, telling me about this shit, you decided to go hunting yourself?! How the hell did you even get trained?” He raked his fingers through his hair, wanted to scream at her. She was reckless, untrained. It was a miracle she even stayed alive this long.
She frowned at him. Shit, she looked hot mad. “The number you gave me on that fake card? Disconnected, dumbass. What was I supposed to do?!”
“Not hunt them yourself, that’s for damned sure!” Dean would’ve said more, but then there was a creak. He froze, glanced around, reaching for his gun. Y/N noticed and also followed his lead, looking around. Thank God, she had brains and knew when to pay attention.
“Do you smell that?” he whispered.
Y/N looked around and frowned. “It smells… cold?”
“Yeah. That’s not good. Come here,” he said, reaching for her. She moved over to him willingly, half-turned so her back to was to him. Smart girl. Damn.
There was a loud BOOM that echoed through the asylum, rattling the walls and sending a shower of dust raining down from the ceiling.
“What the hell was that?” she hissed.
Dean spun around, just in time to see chairs, broken tables, and shards of glass hurling down the hallway toward them, propelled by some unseen force.
“Move!” he shouted, grabbing her arm. They bolted as debris smashed into the walls around them, splinters and glass flying like shrapnel.
The hallway twisted into chaos. A metal filing cabinet slammed into the wall inches from Y/N’s shoulder. She stumbled, and Dean yanked her upright without breaking stride.
“There!” Dean pointed to an open doorway. They darted inside, pressing their backs against the wall as the storm of objects roared past the door.
Dean’s breathing was heavy, his green eyes scanning their surroundings. “Okay, so I think it’s safe to say this one’s pissed.”
“No kidding,” Y/N whispered, clutching her gun like a lifeline. “Did you see where it came from?”
Dean’s gaze flicked to the hallway. “It’s not random. Something’s triggering it.”
They peeked out into the hallway. The barrage had stopped, but the oppressive energy still hung heavy in the air.
Y/N’s flashlight beam landed on a pair of cracked, wire-rimmed glasses lying in the center of the chaos.
“There,” she said, nudging Dean and pointing. “Think it’s those?”
Dean’s jaw tightened. “Wouldn’t be the first time a haunted object’s caused this much fun.” He pulled a salt pouch and lighter from his jacket. “Cover me.”
Y/N stepped into the hall first, eyes darting, gun at the ready. Dean followed, moving swiftly toward the glasses. Just as he bent to scoop them up, the air around them chilled, and the light above them shattered.
A guttural scream ripped through the hallway, and a shadowy figure materialized at the far end, surging toward them.
“Hurry!” Y/N shouted.
Dean didn’t hesitate. He dumped salt over the glasses, struck the lighter, and flicked it into the pile.
The glasses caught fire instantly, the flames licking unnaturally high as the shadow let out a deafening shriek. The figure dissolved into smoke, its form writhing and twisting before vanishing completely.
Dean stood, brushing ash from his hands, and glanced at Y/N. “You okay?”
She exhaled a shaky breath, lowering her gun. “Yeah. You?”
Dean smirked. “I’m fine. Another day, another homicidal spirit taken care of.”
She gave him a look. “You’re lucky that ghost didn’t chuck you into the wall.”
“Hey, I’ve got a thick skull,” Dean quipped, flashing a cocky grin.
Y/N rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. Together, they turned back toward the exit, their footsteps echoing through the now-silent asylum.
Once they reached the outside, he glanced at Y/N. “You know, I’m still not cool with you being a hunter.”
She sighed. “You gonna stop me?”
He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Wouldn’t do any good. Short of tyin’ you up—and man, that’d be fun—you’d just keep hunting after I left. I don’t suppose you’d listen?”
“I can’t,” she said, glancing away into the dark. “I… I know too much now. Unless you knew a way for me to forget…”
“Lobotomy?” he offered. She scoffed, and he grinned halfheartedly. “There isn’t. This… this is it, Y/N. This is my life. It doesn’t have to be yours. You can just go back to your life. I got this. I’ll even give you my real number, okay?”
She hesitated, and for a long moment, he dared to hope to keep someone from the hunting life. He grew up in it; it was all he knew. He wasn’t set for the picket fenced life, no matter how much he’d envy seeing families together, happy and innocent. Then she shook her head, and he felt his stomach sink. Damn. Hot and stubborn, just like before.
“I can’t, Dean,” she whispered, and he was surprised to see unshed tears glittering in her eyes. “Ignorance is bliss. I can’t pretend to not notice all the wrong things around us.”
He heaved a sigh. “Yeah, I had a feeling.” He pursed his lips, grabbed one of his fake cards that had his actual phone number on it. “Here. It’s my real number. Call me, okay, if you find something you need help with. I’ll come. I promise.”
Y/N took the card, studied him. “Thanks.” She cleared her throat, blinked back her tears. “Thanks for… helping me.”
He quirked a half-smile. “Yeah, well, you didn’t give me a choice.”
She chuckled, lightly patted his cheek. “Remember that next time you try to shove me out of a hunt.”
“Yeah, well…” God, her hand was soft, and she looked so freaking good. “We still have time.”
Her eyes narrowed a bit as she heard the husky, flirty note in his voice. “Not happening, Winchester.”
God damn it. His libido screamed in the box in his head. “Can’t blame me for trying.”
“Yes, I can.”
He grinned. “See you around, sweetheart.”
Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2
@foxyjwls007, @katastrophicmind, @globetrotter28, @deansimpalababy, @daisychaingirl
#one day#dean winchester#supernatural#spn#jensen ackles#jackles#dean winchester fanfiction#dean x reader#dean x you#dean winchester x you#dean winchester x f.reader#dean winchester x reader#dean winchester imagine#dean winchester x y/n#dean winchester x female!reader#supernatural fanfiction#spn fanfic#supernatural fic#jensen ackles character#friends to lovers#taylor's writing#taylor writes#taylor's light dancing words#divider by talesmaniac89
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Idk if this is your thing BUT I’d love to see your take on Patrick making Art drink a bunch and then piss himself
yesssss I love this! please ask me your deepest darkest fantasies lol
cw: nsfw (18+), piss, dom/sub undertones, kink negotiation, public(ish) masturbation
Art and Patrick were walking around the mall trying to find christmas gifts before they went home for winter break. They had actually just got out of the movie theater after going to see Wicked. They always get a large popcorn and a large drink to share. However, this time Patrick had intentionally not touched the drink at all. He wanted to see Art finish it all by himself without even noticing.
By the time they got out of the movie theater and made their way back into the mall Art really had to pee.
“wait I have to pee,” Art says stopping in his tracks.
“are you sure? we’re so close to sephora I wanted to get tashi something for christmas.” Patrick asks trying to delay them.
“no patrick I need to go like right now.” Art says before he starts speed walking to the nearest bathroom.
Patrick is quick to follow, he can’t let his plan go down the toilet already (literally and figuratively). Art makes his way to the bathroom, not thinking twice before he walks into the family restroom since it’s a single bathroom. Even in his haste, Art still holds the door open for Patrick knowing he’d follow him in.
Patrick locks the door behind them, placing their bags down on the floor. He wastes no time going to close the toilet lid and sit on top of it.
“what? patrick, i need to piss man.” Art is standing in front of Patrick, making Patrick eye level with Art’s navel.
Patrick shakes his head no. “not in this toilet you don’t.”
Art scoffs, “what are you talking about?”
“i want you to piss yourself” Patrick smirks. He pulls Art closer by his waist, zipping down Art’s fly.
Art groans, clearly frustrated. This was not the time or the place. They had fooled around a few times during their time dorming together but never like this. They both had their respective kinks and had the philosophy of always trying something once but they had never talked about this beforehand, so Art just wanted to use the bathroom like normal.
“c’mon patrick, I gotta go,” Art whines. His bladder was not going to hold up for much longer.
“it’s okay baby, i’m not stopping you from going i just wanna see you.” Patrick says as he nuzzles his face into Art’s navel, leaving a soft peck right under his belly button, and pulling away shortly after.
“..i can’t do it.” Art says softly, years of being a potty trained adult doesn’t really make it easy to break that and piss yourself.
“yes you can, and you will.” Patrick states looking up at Art.
“but I don’t have clothes to change into after, i can’t walk out of here covered in pee.” Art responds.
Patrick is running his thumbs up and down Art’s sides as he continues holding on to Art’s waist. “hey don’t worry about that, i always take care of you, don’t i?”
At this point Art realizes Patrick really isn’t going to give up so he starts to cave. It’s really hard being a naturally submissive person because it makes it very hard to say no, especially to Patrick.
“do you need help?” Patrick asks
Art nods in response. He can feel his eyes start to tear up because he’s already starting to feel embarrassed. Patrick takes one hand to cup Art’s semi-hard cock through his briefs. He uses his other hand to press lightly on Art’s lower stomach/upper pelvic area.
Art still feels like his body is physically not allowing him to let go. His eyes are still watery, not even about the embarrassment of it all but now he’s upset that he’s not being good for Patrick. “i told you, i can’t do it.”
“hey it’s okay, you just have to relax. take a deep breath, close your eyes and just listen to my voice.” Patrick says.
Art closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His stomach is starting to hurt and his bladder is getting no relief.
Patrick presses harder on Art’s lower stomach, still cupping Art’s dick in his other “i need you to just let go, can you do that for me baby? i just wanna watch you make a big mess. want you to be good for me and make a mess, that would be so fucking hot.”
Art’s not sure if it’s because of the pressure Patrick’s applying to his stomach, Patrick’s dirty talk, or if Art’s bladder has just given up but shortly after Art is pissing himself. He can feel the warm liquid start to wet his briefs before it runs down his legs.
Patrick keeps one hand on Art’s dick, as it starts to get wet Art starts to get hard. He stands up and moves his other hand to unzip his pants and palm his own erection. “fuck that was really fucking hot. you’re so wet baby, being so good for me”
Art opens his eyes and before he can even look down to assess the damage, Patrick pulls him into a kiss. They’re making out for a minute until Patrick pulls Art’s wet cock along with his own. He starts jerking off the both of them.
“did you like that? like that I made you piss yourself?” Patrick asks as his hands pick up the pace.
Art nods, moaning, “yes fuck, i made a mess.” Art goes to lean forward, his forehead resting on Patrick’s shoulder.
“you made a big fucking mess all over yourself, and now i’m gonna make you cum.” Patrick moans directly into Art’s ear.
It’s not long before they’re both spilling over Patrick’s fists, they both get a little in their shirts too. Patrick pulls away to get some damp paper towels to clean them both up.
“did you have fun? I definitely did” Patrick smirks as he finishes cleaning up the both of them.
Art nods taking off his soaked pants and underwear, “yes I did, but i’m the one covered in piss not you.”
Patrick keeps his smirk on his face when he says “we can have that arranged”
And Patrick did have to leave Art in the bathroom, surprised there wasn’t a line considering how long they were in there, while he went to go buy Art some new sweatpants and underwear.
#anon asks#art donaldson#challengers#patrick zweig#artrick#art donaldson x patrick zweig#artrick smut#challengers 2024
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Toxic shippers are now saying, “The bummer breakup utilized all the biphobic tropes they accuse us of using in our (good and noble) fan fiction, and, of course, there is CRICKETS from that side because it would require them to admit Temu is the most evilest character ever created, ever!”
1.) y’all must live under a fucking rock. Because whatever there was to be said about the show’s biphobia has been discussed to exhaustion by “the other side.” 2.) the show being biphobic does not suddenly mean you cannot *also* be biphobic or that it is now a-okay for you to be biphobic, or that when someone calls out your biphobia, they’re secretly a hypocrite.
If the story wants to be biphobic, many of us just don’t fuck with it anymore. Simple as that. Because, for many of us, watching the show isn’t about a FUCKING ship, like it is—and only is—for y’all; watching is about the story that is being told.
Maybe try watching the show for what it us. Try analyzing it for what it actually brings to the table. Maybe stop engaging with media exclusively for the shipping culture. Because if you are upset by what is canon. If you do not like what is canon. If you get angry when you’re reminded about what is canon, and how your fan fantasies aren’t canon. If you unironically think fan fiction is better than the real canon. Then you do not like the show. Simple as.
#fucking discourse#believe it or not… if someone genuinely likes a show#they don’t feel the need to fix it
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Bloodlust: part one
Pitfighter! Vi x Stripper! reader
Warnings: none in this part
Genre: fluff ish cause no real angst yet???
A/N: i was listening to strictly for the strippers by sexyy red so enjoy!! Vi is depressed and impulsive but she’s trying her best.
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Sounds of bottles popping, folks hollering, and ass thumping. That’s my typical atmosphere ‘round 11:30. I’ve only been stripping for three years, and I’ve learned a couple things.
Save your money
Get a buddy
Your real name is earned
Never sleep with your clients, this is fantasy
My stage name is Wisp. I got it when I auditioned based on how I move around the pole.
Recently there’s this new hardass that’s been coming to the club. She’s broad, covered in tattoos and has a chip on her shoulder. I avoid these types…but I can’t avoid her.
Think whatever you want about strippers but most of us are decent people tryna make it especially in Zaun.
I walk onto the floor getting what I can before I have to go on stage when I hear her whistle at me.
I roll my eyes fighting a little smile. I will admit she is beautiful but her attitude isn’t. Eventually I’m called onto stage. It never gets old when you are announced on stage. The crowd calling for you, the base thumping and the first moment you touch the pole and you whirl in the air…magic everytime.
The theme of the night was whimsical whores, I know subtle right.
No matter the lighting, fog of weed or anything else I see her through the crowd, heavy blue eyes watching me. Towards the end of my performance my heart was racing almost. She felt closer? She usually stays towards the bar and stares but this time she was closer to the stage.
The song fades out and I get off stage collecting my money when I feel someone hit my ass. Before I could react my new regular is picking fights. One fight, starts twelve here so I scurry off stage and change so I can leave early.
Outside I catch my breath and I see her get thrown out yelling and cursing when she makes eye contact with me. I don’t enjoy when customers get in my business it never ends well. She walks over to me, everything about her looking heavy. Her lip was bleeding and there was a cut under her eye. “You okay?” She said softly might I add.
“Yes but don’t do that again.” She tilt her head and scoffed at me.
“Is that how you say thank you?”
“Why am I thanking your drunk decisions?”
She rubbed her face like she was fighting to say something and just muttered a sorry. She’s obviously drunk and probably wanted to help, before she walks away I grab her hand and she snatches it away. “I just want to know how you’re getting home…”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m not leaving you alone till you let me take you home.”
We stare at each other for thirty minutes until she starts leading the way. Is this dangerous? Obviously! However I’d feel better knowing she’s home safe.
She slows down so I can walk next to her. She smells like wood and blood, not sure if that’s her natural scent or because of tonight. I see some of her tattoos peeking out, they look so intricate.
Her voice broke the silence letting me know we’re here. I thought it looked okay on the outside but my gods it was horrible on the inside.
“Have you ever cleaned or is this the aesthetic you’re going for?”
She side eyed me so I stopped talking.
“I’m barely here so I don’t see the point in caring.” She mutters as she takes off her jacket.
I swallow thickly when I get a view of her back, instinctively I want to touch it but I won’t.
“Like what you see doll?”
“No and don’t call me that, it’s wisp to you.”
“Doll suits you better” she walks towards me, there’s a sadness in her eyes like she’s done this before.
“What’s your name?” I say abruptly trying to change the conversation. She catches on and leaves some space in-between us, “it’s Vi.” She was ashamed to say her name. Then it all started clicking for me.
Vi lays on her makeshift bed and I stare at her crumbled form, “I’ll let myself out…”
“Can you stay?” She whispers, her voice so soft I almost missed it.
You shouldn’t get this close to anyone in the lanes just because they have shit going on, we all have shit going on…but sometimes people need help and I have a hard time saying no to helping people.
I lay behind her and slowly wrap my arms around her. Vi flinched slightly but she was tryna relax. I rub her hair a little trying to comfort her as I hear her sniffle. She grabbed my hand and just lays it across her instead. We stayed like that till we fell asleep.
My downfall has always been my heart let’s see where that gets me.
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A/N: im trying not to be corny whilst writing this so I hope y’all enjoy!! I love strip club based stories so there will be more stripper! reader. I’m gonna try to make part two longer and add angst but I suck at writing angst so we’ll see (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)
Taglist: @manfuckthisimout
(Dividers- @dollywons)
#dividers by dollywons#vi x reader#black! reader#visdoilie#vi x black reader#stripper! reader#dazeduties#black femme#scared femme writes#I just want them to be healing together#pit fighter vi
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Listen everyone has their own metric for what good writing is and isn’t but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t get me down a little to see one of my faves dragged through the mud by both haters and fans alike on a pretty much weekly basis
#yes this is about Salvatore#I don’t mean this to say you can’t dislike or hate his work because that’s valid too#I just mean that he’s become one of those writers where it’s okay and trendy to shit on him and he’s popular enough that it’s excused#I feel like there’s a lot of irl fans who crap on him because they inherently don’t like the over-the-top rule-of-cool style that is FR#and it’s okay to not be into that side of fantasy#but you aren’t the superior reader because you love GRRM-esque super serious grim dark content#also I haven’t personally met a long running series where I loved every single book or plot point#it’s pretty normal when you look at a 40 book series to find that some arcs/books are a bit better than others#and I feel like people jump on certain books and take it as ‘see? any talent he ever had has gone down the drain’#like my dude it’s okay if you didn’t love a few of the books just skip and move on#add to that he’s a prolific writer in general and I’m sure some books got more time and effort from him than others#it’s fine and normal and not a sign that he’s the worse ever ffs#also there’s a part of me that doesn’t like comparing authors working in shared worlds to authors writing totally independently#because some plot points are set by the publisher before pen ever hits the paper#and again you don’t have to think Salvatore or anyone is a good writer#but I always factor it in when I see plots that seem to come out of nowhere and the like#anyways that’s my rant lmao#constructive criticism of any writer is fine and I’m not knocking that before anyone gets their knickers twisted
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here's my piece for the "Even Rats Have Lives" zine!
the rat grinders going on little ice cream runs post ratgrind have always been canon to me!! ALSO i highly encourage you to check out the bundle itch.io!!
#art by aphotic firefly#dimension 20#fantasy high#fantasy high junior year#fhjy#the rat grinders#ratgrumblr#oisin hakinvar#kipperlilly copperkettle#mary ann skuttle#ruben hopclap#ivy embra#buddy dawn#no lucy this was while they were all shatterstarred#listen i thought about their ice cream orders a lot okay#maryann would love cute miffy shaped popsicles#ruben eats mint choco icecream not because its his favorite but simply because ppl always side eye him for liking it#kipp just has the standard vanilla swirl in a cup bc i think she'd be into the basics#buddy this DIVA would loveee the wackiest ice cream orders with the most colorful toppings
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still dont see how so many people say that dawntrail is poorly written in comparison to other expansions like. what, did you realize you had to learn about a new culture and immediately not care anymore lmao? you've done it before, was this one not white enough for you?
genuinely i think more people should do side quests during msq so idk you can form a heart about the characters you're interacting with if you struggle with that and understand the land better so when impactful shit happens your illiterate ass can actually read and have empathy. theres no excuse for this.
if you can't handle storybuilding and character introductions from the expansion that feels like stormblood and shadowbringers had passionate gay sex that got one of them pregnant and birthed a beautiful daughter they both love and care about then idk what to tell you, maybe youre just lame and can't read. best of luck with that.
#'they dont take as many risks as shadowbringers and endwalker!!' okay one WHAT risk did ENDWALKER take lmao#and two DID YOU PLAY PAST ZORMOR LMAO?????????? HELLO?????????? DID YOU LEAVE TULIYOLLAL??? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT#like i genuinely think you guys just complain about shit without actually playing the game#god forbid you have to learn about another world#some people heard this was stormblood 2 and immediately gave up caring#oh im sorry you were able to care about literal racist elves in cold france but a refugee? a non white civilization? oh i see#shadowbringers literally set up its societies too they were already in war dawntrail wasnt already#i think people should replay stormblood. it was never a bad expansion and i dont know what people are talking about???#half of the complaints i see for stormblood are racist and the other half werent reading any of the dialogue#'the horrors of war expansion has horrors of war in it i just wanna play on the playground with gay elves'#bitches will literally say they dont understand stormblood or dawntrail and then say yotsuyu was justified zenos is hot and wuk lamat is bad#why play a fantasy game if youre not interested in exploring new worlds#dawntrail takes so many more risks than shadowbringers and endwalker combined and sticks the landing with just about all of them#i think my only problem was how many times theg brought up they arent related by blood. no i can tell lol#some of yall are just haters that cant form their own opinion and are just mindlessly nodding along to somebody#you follow on twitter that was gonna hate DT regardless because zenos didnt come back to life this time#consume new media. go do side quests. touch grass. walk a trail at dawn and perhaps you have appreciation for story building#you guys are pathetic and i wish you the worst <3#dawntrail's twists are on par with shb and stb thats why i call it the love child of stormblood and shadowbringers#ffxiv
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