#can my faves stop getting hurt GOD

[writingonleaves]

not watching the game but jack not on for the second?!??? sigh

[stellamusing]

Pleased to report that I'm just as insane over the barricade boys as I was in 2012

[snekdood]

once again reminding certain individuals: trying to scare me into pretending the thing you want me to pretend is true........... doesnt make it true, now does it

[persephonesdreams21]

NSFW Alphabet with Kyle

A/N: So like, I’ve had this in my drafts forever and I finally got around to tidying it up(sort of) and finishing it. In a perfect world where I had free time, I’d love to do headcannons for all of Timmy’s characters. In reality I’ll probably only get a few more in,

Warnings: NSFW. Smut- def talks of dom/sub undertones and just generally horny themes. I mean, the title is very self explanatory. Kyle x AFAB! Reader

After Care(what they're like after sex):

The first time you have sex with Kyle, aftercare isn’t a practice he’s ever partook in. He comes and makes you come and then is ready to pop a cigarette in his mouth and call it a night.

This rubs you all the way wrong.

Has you wobbling out of bed and pulling on your clothes in a furious, flustered silence.

“What are you doing- hey. Y/N. What the hell?” He watches you, big green eyes accusatory as you prepare to leave. Your steps shaky and uncoordinated. He hadn’t exactly gone easy on you. “Sit down, you can barely walk”

“Like you care” you scoff. “it’s fine, I’m just gonna go”

He sighs, not one for dramatics that aren’t his own. “You’re gonna hurt yourself”

“I’m not some random piece of ass that you can screw and discard, Kyle. Fuck you very much for thinking so” your words are venomous and sharp, but your bottom lip is wobbling. Your eyes are stormy and still slightly unfocused and woah.

Holy shit. He’s a douchebag but he’s not an idiot. He spends way too much time online and he’s able to put together what’s going on pretty damn quick.

You’re dropping.

He can’t let you leave like this. Hell, you shouldn’t be up from bed much less driving in this state..

Kyle doesn’t do aftercare, we’ll at least he hadn’t before.

It’s all kind of clunky, him bullying your purse from your weak hands and batting away any resistance. Him sitting you on the edge of his bed and leaving, just long enough, to return with a glass of water and a stray granola bar. He sits close by, hovering. His hand a solid, but silent comfort on your thigh.

You don’t cry, won’t in front of him, but god do you want to.

You end up stripped back down to your panties and under his plaid comforter once he deems you hydrated enough.

He still smokes his after-sex cig, but this time he has you tucked into his side. Your cheek smushed to his chest as he puffs on nicotine. The fingers of his free hand dancing along the skin of your back.

He’d deny it, but he’s a sucker for aftercare now.

Body Part)their fave body part of theirs, and of their partners

Kyle likes his height. He enjoys towering over crowds, being the tallest person in the room. It makes him feel strong(and like when he was little he was a shrimp- he had a late growth spurt in 9th grade)

Kyle likes your hands. They’re all teeny and delicate and he tends to play with your fingers absentmindedly. He also likes the pudge on your sides. They’re called love handles for a reason. Any time he reaches for them you screech and shy away but like. That doesn’t stop him ever.

Cum(anything to do with it)

He’s the first man to ever make you squirt and yeah, that goes to his head a little bit. He’ll finger fuck you until youre sobbing and clawing at his arms, whimpering at the mess that he seems to love.

Dirty Secret(self explanatory)

He’s a panty thief. Will literally steal your panties and keep them(and sniff them, often). You complain about it, because he’s such a weirdo and because cute underwear can get expensive! He doesn’t care.

Experience(how experienced are they? Do they know what they're doing?)

For how much sex he’s had he lowkey wasn’t great at it when you guys started fooling around. Or maybe it’s that he never cared- to get good at getting his partner off. Kyle is a selfish lover. You def teach him all the tricks in your book on how to make you feel good. And once that boy knows? He KNOWS. He’s able to flip you over and make you come in two minutes flat.

Favorite Position(this goes without saying)

Kyle loves doggy. He wants you bent over, unable to do anything but take him. Also partial to reverse cowgirl.

Goofy(are they more serious in the moment? Are they goofy?)

He is soooo serious it’s almost laughable. He gets offended when you laugh at the smoldering look on his face while he fucks you. It makes you nervous- you can’t help but giggle.

Hair(how well groomed they are)

Very well groomed. Neatly trimmed. He can’t pretend he doesn’t care about societal norms all he wants, Kyle is a total preener and loves taking care of his appearance. I mean, look at his hair. You just know it takes him a ridiculous amount of time to do in the morning.

Intimacy(how they are during the moment? The romantic aspect)

At first- intimacy isnt even in Kyles vocabulary. He doesnt know how, he doesnt understand it. It makes him feel awkward as hell. Slowly but surely as your relationship developes he starts to crave it. He wants you to stare into his eyes while you ride him, your fingers interlocked. Its tantric. Addicting.

Jack Off(masturbation headcanon)

Porn addict. All conspiracy obsessed, internet surfing boys are. He loves reading Manga and watching anime porn. You’ll indulge him and watch it with him sometimes.

“Hey, I have a toy that looks just like that!” You make the offhanded comment as the two of you watch an animated girl with big tits in a school uniform getting railed by a tentacle monster.

You’re immersed in the video. The raunchy sounds of high pitched squealing and skin slapping fill the quiet room. The blinds are drawn and the two of you lie cuddled together in his bed.

Kyle stares at you. His brain short circuiting.

You’d said it so casually. You have a toy- that looks just like the giant tentacle on his computer screen.

“You’re lying” he deadpans and it makes you giggle.

“Maybe one day I’ll show you” you shrug and like. What the fuck. Where did you even come from?

When you send him a short video of a pink glass tentacle dildo sliding in and stretching your wet hole…well let’s say that he doesn’t have to turn to his anime porn for spank bank material anymore.

Kink(one or more of their kinks)

Kyle loves overstimulation and edging. Both him doing it to you and you doing it to him. Like full on tears, shaking, emotional breakdowns, orgasms that are so good they hurt. Ugh. It’s his favorite.

Location(favorite places to do the do?)

Anywhere. Although, he def has a thing for sliding inside of you after a show. The adrenaline of playing live still coursing through his veins as he crowds you into the handicapped stall of some grimy venue bathroom and fucks you raw, his jeans around his ankles.

Motivation(what turns them on? Get’s them going?)

He loves it when you’re jealous. He's not ignorant to the way that women(and men tbh) look at him. React to him. It's always been this way, really it doesn't phase him anymore.

But you? You hate that shit.

You hate the way you can be holding his hand, and still girls will come up to him. Wink at him from across the room, waitresses leaving their phone numbers on napkins. Its maddening,

Kyle reassures you with words, with kisses and promises. He’s yours. He isn't interested in wasting energy on any of them. You're his only girl.

Still, the way you stake your claim makes him feral. When you suck bruises into his throat or wrap your arms around his waist. Don't even get him started on the time that you threw a drink in that girls face at that one party(she’d told Kyle he had like, the best hair, and reached for his dark curls. Her hand never even made it close) its just so hot. Knowing that you want him that much,

No(something they wouldn't do? Turns off’s)

So he likes it when you’re jealous, right? But you making him jealous? Is completely off the table. He will, and has, freaked out about it. He could never do threesomes or any kind of group play, he’d lose his shit.

Oral(preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc?

Kyle loves getting head. “Selfish lover alert”. It’s a chore you’re happy to perform, you love suckling at his big cock. Playing with his pink tip-

But like. He also enjoys going down on you. When the two of you first started sleeping together, you were really self conscious about it. Something about your shitty ex not liking the mess. Which like, he’ll never understand.

Your pussy is so gorgeous. All puffy and pretty for him, swollen and sopping wet. Hes such a tease with his quick tongue and little kisses. It’s not until you’re writhing and begging and forcing his dark haired head deeper that he really goes to town.

Pace(are they fast and rough, slow and sensual?)

The mans good with his hips, it's the musician in him. He has rhythm. But he is still just a young man, and he does end up getting sloppy and messy towards the end. Chasing his high like a mad man

Quickie(their opinions on quickies, how often?)

Loves a good quickie- but you’re not a huge fan. He’s very good at convincing you though, at dragging you into dark corners and palming at your body through your clothes.

Risk(are they game to experiment? Do they take risks?)

Yup, he loves that shit. He's such an exhibitionist You warn him that it is in fact, illegal. That public indecency can end in heavy fines, “The sex offenders list, Ky! I’m serious!”

But like, you always end up caving. Letting him fuck your brains out in his car. Spreading your legs when he reaches under the restaurant table, his fingers grazing your soft inner thigh, playing with your clit through your panties. If you wore a skirt for easy access…well thats your own business.

Stamina(how many rounds can they go? How long can they last?)

He’s a lazy little thing, I just know it. You get a couple rounds out of him and then he’s laying back and demanding you ride him, your turn to do the work.

“You’re my pillow princess, huh, baby?” you purr as you climb ontop of him, rubbing your wet slit along his flagging erection. You know he’ll get back to full hardness soon enough.

For now, he lies back, hands behind his head. Lounging, barley awake, his long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. You give his plump lips a wet smack and they twitch up in amusement.

“Princess? Whatever” He sasses, feigning offense. Even as he lets you do all the work, reaching between your own legs to fist at his cock, leading the head to your waiting hole.

“Prince then” you smile as you sink down and he groans, the veins in his neck straining as he throws his head back into the soft down pillows. He’s more than happy to let you do all the work.

Toys(do they own toys? Will they use them?)

He’s bleh about them. I think he’s inquisitive by nature, and likes to think of himself as explorative but like- he doesn't want anything but his cock filling you and making you feel good. He does enjoy watching you use them on yourself,

Unfair(how much they like to tease)

He is the absolute WORST tease. He loves riling you up. It makes him so hot, the way he can get you so desperate for him.

Volume(how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc)

Kyle’s a quiet lover, he grits his teeth and lets out long sighs You love getting him to crack, making him moan and writhe and gasp.

X-Ray(let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

I’d hate to say this because he already has a massive ego, but he has a pretty big dick too. Maybe right above garage. 7 inches. Long, but heavy.

Yearning(how high is their sex drive?)

When he wants it- he NEEDS it. Like. He’s very dramatic and takes high offense to you withholding yourself from him. Its as annoying as it is flattering.

Zzz(how quickly they fall asleep after)

He’s knocked the FUCK out. Quickly. This man has fallen asleep with his softening cock still inside of you. He’s your big baby and once he’s drunk on your kisses hes a goner.

“Your pussy’s better than indica, baby” he tells you once, only half joking and you snort and hit him square in the face with the nearest pillow.

[nmakii]

Hii! Hear me out on this, right, Alastor (in your current yandere husband au) has one-on-one bonding with our lovely Noah. (I have a cat named Noah...lowkey imagining him here.) Idk what dads do with kids but for the sake of plot I'm going to call it hunting. Reader is sitting quietly as Noah tells her all about his day in the forest and how he got to see his food before it was his food! She starts thinking that no amount of nurture can overpower someone's nature. Reader doesn't hate her son...but she's just worried and is trying her best, because in her mind, she's still a single mom and always will be. (Rightfully so) Alastor is egging this on and almost trying to get reader to lose it in front of Noah, to prove something. Other things ! Alastor is def not happy with one kid lmao. Seven years is a long age gap...better hurry up! He wants his Emilia....not because his mother is asking for it or anything like it! Speaking of his mother...god rest her soul man...i lowkey would just marry him for her to be my legal mother (in-law). Rip mom...fly high girl... (Ps, can i please hug you platonically, i literally love you and your writing so much. Please remember that you've made so many cool things and will continue to make cool things no matter which path you go. Love you girly (gn), a little more than Alastor's mom) - Charry Anon

WE’RE GONNA FLY AWAY FROM HERE

[before you read this, read the rest of the story!]

— the more and more alastor influences your son, the more he becomes just like his father. but, why stop at just one child?

— i love u i will make MORE yandere alastor bc hes now my fave

you hated this house. no matter how much alastor tried to hide it, the subtle scent of blood reeked from all over this house.

you oh, so desperately wanted to run away— hop on a train all the way to long island. but, it isn’t so simple anymore. you had a son to think of, a son who’s growing scarily closer to his father.

the thought of hurting noah might have never crossed alastor’s mind, but he wasn’t above threatening it to bring you back home. and above all that, you couldn’t leave him alone with this wolf.

and so, you stayed.

“and then, papa told me to stay quiet… and he shot the turkey! papa took me to his butcher room and showed how get the yummy turkey meat! y’know mama, papa has lots of meat in his butcher room.” your son rambled on, kneeling on a stool by the kitchen counter as you prepare for dinner. “lots of meat, you say?” you raised an eyebrow. “…that sounds really fun, baby.” you sighed.

it’s only been a month since he forced you back. and, noah’s already calling alastor ‘papa’. he tainted your sweet boy’s mind— ‘mama lied to you, she wanted to keep you all to herself. she’s really selfish, but then again, i can’t blame her!’

and, you couldn’t protest. if you did, if you broke the rose-tinted filter alastor created— he would hurt you. not physically, alastor is still a ‘gentleman’. he’d hurt you mentally, break your little mind until you can’t do anything but nod your head.

alastor would never strike his hand on noah. after all, deep down, there’s some part of him that’s still in love with you, albeit in his own twisted way. and, noah is apart of you, alastor couldn’t bear to hurt him, not unless he’s misbehaving…

“mama, can we have the turkey we hunted for dinner?!” noah asked excitedly, slamming his hands against the counter over and over again. “sure, baby… but, remember before..? you got in trouble with mr. yee because you released all his chickens…” you asked, quite desperate. this little boy, the one who finds hunting fun. he is nothing like the one who wanted to become vegan after he found out where chicken comes from, despite failing because of his love for chicken burgers.

“yeah, but papa showed me how fun hunting is!” he squealed. at the mention of papa, alastor laughed, carrying noah from behind, tickling his belly as he kissed your little boy’s head. “talking to mama about our little trip, huh?” alastor grinned.

“ah, alastor… dinner will be ready in a half hour.” you glared at him. “no worries, my love. it just means that i have a half hour to play with our beautiful son!” he smugly said. he saw the hatred in your eyes the moment he said ‘our’.

he was trying to make you lose your shit. make you seem like a hysterical woman. that way, if you even tried to divorce him, noah would be left in his care. now that you were older and wiser, you wouldn’t play into his little trap.

“alright, you two have fun.” you begrudgingly smiled. alastor’s eyes widened, showing his shock for just one split second. alastor nudged noah, “go on for a second. papa wants to talk with mama.”

oh god, what now?

once noah left, alastor went behind you, straddling your waist. “what is it, alastor?” you groaned. “i want another child, darling” he whispered against your ear. “i visited my mother with noah last week, she adored him, my love. she said she’d adore a granddaughter this time. she even picked out a name, emilia.” he rambled on. “as much as i love your mother, i don’t want another child, alastor.” you hissed out.

“oh, but it’s not just my mother, dear. little noah also wants a little brother or sister of his own.” at the thought of a little sister for noah, it would keep him busy, away from alastor, wouldn’t it? he’d gain those brotherly instincts that are so reminiscent of the soft hearted boy you raised.

“…alright…” you frowned. alastor’s grip on your hips tightened as he pressed kisses onto your neck. “good girl.” your head leaned back as you melted into his touch. as much as you didn’t want to, the warm sensation of his soft lips on your skin was to die for. “after dinner, darling.” he grinned, finally leaving you alone.

what had you done to be forsaken with this monster?

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Six (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. 

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list). 

Author’s note: Hope you like this one. Weirdly it's one of my fave chapters. (I love Frankie, you'll see.) Slightly shorter chapter this time. The angst continues (I’m so sorry... but also I'm really I'm not sorry at all, yk? :P)!  As always, I would be super, super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way, and I'm so touched that anyone would even consider reading this far along in the story! ILY :-*

Word count: 3.7k for this part. 

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

Santiago watches you go. Feels the violence of you being snatched from his side like a wound. 

He feels lost for a moment. Paralysed as he watches you retreating, barging by Frankie and Will and Benny in the doorway; most of the boys - barring Tom- having mobilised downstairs. They are soldiers, after all, and so they can sense a conflict. They look like it too. They look primed: to assess, attack, defend. Defend you. Always was that way. That’s all Santiago ever wanted too. 

“Hey. Hey, hey. Come on. What is all this?”. Frankie attempts to soothe as you hasten your approach across the sand, towards the refuge of that doorway. As though Santiago is an earthquake and you must take shelter from him there. “Come on,” he calls out to the two of you, indiscriminately. And then, to Santiago only. “For fuck’s sake, man. You care about each other.”

Santiago can’t move. He desperately wants his feet to move after you but he can’t seem to get them to cooperate. Can’t seem to get any sound of protest to birth from his throat. Can’t seem to bring himself to stop you from walking away. Just like last time. Maybe he thinks he knows what’s better for you, and so he dare not try. 

Instead, he watches as Frankie futilely tries to smooth things -to slow you down - but on your approach he must see little chance of reconciliation in the folds and caving of your face, for he lets you barge right by him. You slip clean by Will on the porch too, and just past Will’s broad shoulders, Santiago can see his brother spinning on his heel. Launching himself to follow you back upstairs. To offer you the comfort you deserve after the wounds you didn’t. The wounds he has created by telling you the one thing he’d always feared himself. 

That there was no hope for the two of you. 

God. He had simply tried to love you, but how could he reach out to you softly when his hands are so lethal? How could he hold you, when all he ever did was hurt? 

He huffs a sharp breath out of his nose, cursing at himself under his breath. His heart is hammering in his chest. There is a ringing in his ears. Guilt. Fear. Adrenaline. Anger. Guilt most of all. Santiago watches dissociatively as Frankie beelines across the sands for him, not to comfort, he thinks, but to blame. It’s all he deserves, isn’t it? Maybe, but he feels exposed out here, alone on the sand, so he too mobilises towards the house. His head down and his pace purposeful, face locked in a grimace, as though perhaps he too could somehow slip by unnoticed, despite its guarded perimeter. Even though the whole squad is primed for damage control. Even though he’s flagged as the danger. The wrecking ball, the shell, the strike, threatening to bring this house to its knees. 

He’s done worse. 

He had wanted better for you.

“I’ve had enough of this bullshit, man,” he spits to Frankie - without looking at his buddy as he rounds on him, attempting to get in his way and slow him down. Santiago doesn’t like to feel caged in. To feel small. Vulnerable. He rasps the palm of his hand down over his mouth and chin. “Fuck.” 

Santiago reaches the porch, still ignoring Frankie, and moves to pass Will too. But, his old captain is having none of that. He pushes Santiago back firmly - heel of hand to shoulder. “Why don’t you leave it?” he warns, the words frothing between his teeth. Santiago still does not look up, his face a snarl, trying once more to shoulder barge and bypass his way into the house. “No, no way.” Will stands taller, knocking him back, practically looming over Santiago now. 

Santiago looks at him this time, in accusation. He squares off to him, tension writhing along his jaw, Will bearing down on him with all the weight of his bulk and presence and his track record. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Frankie placates from behind him, and Santiago feels the man’s hands settle on his tense, packed shoulders. He quickly shrugs them off. “Let’s take a walk. Let’s take a walk.”

“You fucking kidding me?” Santiago bites, his breath raging through his nose. 

“Take a fucking walk, Garcia.” Will orders coolly. The shorter man’s jaw writhes, tension rippling through his body, but he doesn’t plan on going toe to toe with Captain Miller. He knows that wouldn’t end well. 

Frankie tries again, planting his hands once more on Santiago’s shoulders and twisting him away from the porch. Santiago still hasn’t looked at the man. He can only feel him there. This quiet, calming presence, reflecting the grotesqueness of own anger back at him. Forcing him to face himself in the mirror. “Let’s take a walk. Come on, hermano. Take a walk.” 

Santiago rips his gaze and head away from Will and with an unbecoming grunt begins pacing it down the long strip of beach, adrenalin still piping into his veins. His body shaking, tremoring, and fists clenched by his sides. “Can you believe her? I’m just so… fucking-” He growls. 

And still, Frankie is behind him, in his PJs and sliders and just shoving him forward, palms planted on his shoulder blades. “Walk, man. Just fucking walk. Don’t talk. Move your legs.” Santiago tries it one more time, tries to twist around but Frankie just shoves him onward again, keeping pace behind him. He sticks with him, despite the huffed breaths and snipes and everything else. He walks him like a fucking dog until the adrenalin has burnt off. Until Santiago feels only jitters through his weak legs. Until he feels a pit open up inside and swallow him. Until he can carry himself no further away from you. Until he realises that no matter how far he walks he cannot run from himself. 

“You cooled off now, huh?” Frankie manages to soothe, even with the bitter lime-wedge bite in his tone. “Okay. Okay.” 

Santiago crashes. 

“Fuck, Frankie.”It is as though he turns to sand, knees buckling and dropping to a crouch, burying his face into his gently tremoring hands. “Shit.” He scoops up a handful of sand, tossing a tiny grit storm into the air. “Fuuuuucckk.” He crests, and he sags back on to his ass with a sorry thud into the sand, his legs spread and knees drawn up. He rests his elbows on top of them, his head sagging down in between his legs and his fingers lacing behind his neck. He looks like he’s protecting himself from debris. From the aftermath.  

To his side, Santiago hears Frankie sigh deeply, and he plonks himself on the floor beside his buddy. Santiago squirms performatively to dismiss the circles Frankie’s broad hand smooth into his shoulder, but he is eminently glad when his friend doesn’t quit. He needs this. Someone who won’t give up on him. 

Frankie’s robust voice is a comfort too, yet he can still hear some judgement in it. Knows it is coming. Still, generously, Frankie allows Santiago a moment. A breathing cycle before he must face another onslaught. “Hey. Hey, come on.” He pats his back more firmly, and Santiago just sits, tears piping freely down his cheeks. 

There is a groan around a bitten lip, and Santiago finally looks. Finally looks to see Frankie softly shake his head from side to side. Something is coming. Santiago can guess what. It’s somehow always his fault, isn’t it, and so he should expect the onslaught? Frankie’s voice is deceptively soft, but he always strikes in stealth. That’s where he does his best work. He applies another couple of slow, forceful pats to Santiago’s back, before scrunching his hand into his t-shirt and jostling him, perhaps as though he could shake some sense into him once and for all. “I don’t get it, man,” Frankie intones. “Isn’t she everything you ever wanted?”

Santiago closes his eyes, the final smattering of tears beading in his long lashes. “I don’t know why I can’t…” His shoulders tug up as he sucks in a steadying breath and promptly releases it again, digging his closed fists into the sand before him. “I don’t. I just…” His eyebrows leap up in distress as he wrestles with the complexity. “I want to. I want to, but she’s better off without me. She doesn’t deserve all of my bullshit.”

“I don’t think she’s once tolerated any bullshit, hermano, least of all yours.” 

Santiago sees what his buddy is trying to do, but Santiago shakes his head forlornly from side to side. “I wouldn’t be good for her. Wouldn’t be good enough…” 

Frankie clicks his tongue. “She wants you. Don’t patronise her by thinking you know better.” 

“No. It’s too late. I fucked it. I… Shit.”

Frankie’s voice drops an octave. “I’ve been patient. But I’m tiring of your fucking excuses, man.” He does; he sounds tired. Everyone, always so tired of him. “Look ahead with me for a minute, alright?” Frankie gestures with a sweep of his arm through the air, as though Santiago could fix on a vision of the future before him. Instead, all he sees is a black, rolling sea, fringed with frayed white lace. A round disk of mellow light shining down through the night. “What do you see in your life? Christ - what’s your endgame? Getting shot in some fucking ditch?” Frankie swats Santiago’s arm with the back of his hand when he receives no reply, the man instead looking wistfully out over the water, his eyes as soft as the moon. “I asked you a question. So answer me. What’s your endgame? If you can’t even say it aloud, I can’t fucking help you.” 

“Her,” Santiago breathes, without looking away from the water. “Her. You know it is.” He scratches nervously over the stubble on his cheek. “I’m so in love, man. So gone for her I can’t fucking think straight.” 

“Right,” Frankie nods firmly, looking at Santiago unblinkingly from beneath his lashes. “So what the fuck are you going to do about it?” 

“I can’t just leave everything, Cat. Walk away and-” 

“-Can’t you?” Frankie smacks the back of his hand definitively against his own open palm. “I did. Tom. Will. She did.” 

Santiago actually scoffs then, as if something is funny. “Yeah. Yeah, Cat,” he concedes, pushing himself up from his hunched position in the sand, voice oddly taut. “You did.” Frankie stands with him, his chin raising as he defends from whatever low blow Santiago has brewing, a healthy dose of cynicism dripping from him already. “You did, and fucking look at you. You’re all a goddamn mess. A hot steaming pile of shit.” His eyes tighten with resolve, a solemnity shrouding his sharp features. “I can’t do that to her.” 

“Fuck you, man,” Frankie revs. “I’m good. I have a little girl on the way.” 

“Oh, please. Give me a break.” Santiago slices his hand through the air. “Tom’s eyes are fucking hollow. Selling fucking condos?” Frankie’s eyes flash with a rage and a sadness that seem to cancel each other out at first, and so he can all but listen as his buddy winds up his tirade. “Will - fucking Captain Miller - this burly bastard walking on eggshells because he’s afraid of flipping that switch and blacking out again. He choked a man out, no flag on his shoulder. Lost the love of his life. I thought those two were it, man. You’re scraping by on lines and don’t think we haven’t noticed.” Frankie’s head ducks down then, and he lets out an undone noise, something between a protest and a whimper. “Fuck, even Benny. The fucker gets beat to shit for fun. Do we sound fucking healthy to you, Cat? Is that how good it is getting out?” 

Frankie’s breaths are turbulent now. Santiago can see the familiar look of restraint on the man. Nostrils flaring, brow drawing down. The dark, formidable edge behind Frankie’s quiet exterior barely kept in check. He meets his gaze and he almost looks battle-drunk. On the offensive and ready to do whatever it takes to get off the backfoot. But, he reins it in. Swallows it down. Until all he delivers is a march forward, pacing Santiago backward, his finger jabbed into his chest and his words snarling directly against his cheek. “Fuck you, pendejo. You think you’re any better than us?” 

Santiago lets him have it. He’s not sure he has any fight left anyway. Isn’t sure he’d mind anymore if he got punched down into the dirt. 

“No. No, I don’t. That’s exactly my point.” Frankie searches his face, the knife in his keen eyes blunting to a wet sheen as Santiago lays it out in a small, fractured voice. “If you can’t do it, how in the hell can I make a go of it? I’m not the best of you. I’m so fucked up. I’ve got all this… fucking baggage. My mom. The nightmares. Lorea. The blood on my hands. I can’t be ‘it’ for her. I can’t. Because she deserves better. Deserves the fucking world, man.” 

Frankie clamps his hands down on Santiago’s shoulders, drawing back to look him squarely in the eyes. “Guess what? You’ll be fucked up in or out, trust me. But you may as well be fucked up with fewer bullets grazing your vitals daily, no?” 

Santiago shakes his head as if getting “out” is simply impossible. “I’m doing something, man,” he mutters, as if he can’t muster the strength to believe his own line anymore. As if all his old mantras are dead. Washed away in the sand. “I’m trying to do something down there.” 

“This mother’s homeland bullshit again?” Frankie really does sound eminently tired. Trust Santiago to hit on an argument within an argument, right? He can always twist just about everything. “Wake up call, Pope. You can’t fix it. You don’t even care if you fix it. You just want to keep fucking running.” 

Santiago tears away from Frankie’s grip, pacing in a small circle. “Fuck you.”

Frankie raises his palms in the air. As if he really is about to give up. What does he do if every one of his best friends gives up on him, Santiago thinks? “Fine. Whatever. That’s your shit, not mine. But look at it this way. You tell me you can’t walk away from that life. Look me in the eye and tell me this. You okay walking away from her?”

“She walked away,” Santiago spits, even though he scarce believes it any longer. Yes, you might have walked away. But he was the one who ran. “She was the one who-”

“-I don’t care!” Frankie yells, quickly losing patience, waving his palms of surrender around.  “I’m tired of this. Shit - I do not care about these little technicalities. Yeah. Okay. She left, right? She moved on, Santiago. Moved along the road. Life is moving on. Don’t blame her because you’re standing still, cabrón.”

Santi shifts his weight from foot to foot, swipes his palm back and forth over his mouth. “Fuck you, man, standing still my ass.” 

“Oh, what?” Frankie retaliates. “You can come at me but I can’t come at you?” Santiago’s expression is stark, all straight lines and angles and shadowed planes. “You stayed and for what? To spite her? To prove yourself right? Jesus, Pope. Lorea has you chasing your tail. You’re going round in circles. You fuck your problems away but you wake up and, hey, guess what? They’re still there. Still a big steaming stack of turds in the corner.” Santiago curses under his breath, spitting insults and deflections, but Frankie is undeterred. “And the worst thing is, you could fucking have it! You could have everything you want! What the rest of us wouldn’t give for that, pendejo.” 

“Right, yeah. Thanks for that assessment. I’m just a fucking chump, is that it?” 

“Hey, look. It’s you. I’m just saying what I see.” Frankie’s mouth curls into a tentative smile, yet the blow dealt by Santiago’s stony expression manages to dull it. 

“Asshole.” 

“Whatever. I’m done helping. You don’t want her? Fine. You don’t have to change a thing. Can drive her away all on your own, I’m sure.” 

A hard swallow bobs down Santiago’s corded neck, and he chews on some words before offering them up. “And if I do? Want her?” 

“If you do? Then, Christ. Stop moaning about it like a little bitch and do something about it.” Santiago’s face sours all over again, and Frankie holds his hands up once more in surrender. “I’ve tried the softly, softly approach, man. We’ve all got our own shit going on. It’s past time for a fucking intervention with you.” Santiago writhes his jaw, but there is no further protest from him. Eventually, he concedes with the barest of nods. Frankie braces his arm on his shoulder, his expression growing wistful. “I just want to see you happy, man. I gotta know that some of us can still be happy. Of all of us? She fucking deserves it. And, look. You deserve it too, alright?”

Tears ball in Santiago’s eyes. It’s been a long time since he felt like he deserved to be happy. A very long time. He concedes, with the barest of nods. “It’s… I’m….” He chucks out a breath, frustrated at his lack of ability to get his words out, his mouth and brows pinching together.  

“What? Spit it out.” Frankie gives his shoulder an encouraging jostle. 

Santiago looks him in the eyes, about to level with him. Perhaps upon seeing the vulnerability there, the pilot’s eyes soften. “I’m fucking… scared, man.” 

Frankie’s eyes tighten with a wistful mirth, and his hand slips up to curl around the back of Santiago’s neck in a brotherly embrace, emotion flooding the cracks in his grit-flecked voice, making it warm and robust. “Santiago. Idiota. The way she looks at you, man? You don’t have a damn thing to be scared about.”

Tears glisten in Santiago’s eyes once more, and Frankie draws him into a tight, enclosing hug. Santiago lets himself collapse into it, wrapping his arms around Frankie’s broad, slender torso. After a few moments, and an extra squeeze for good measure, Frankie draws back, still cupping the nape of his buddy’s neck. 

“Cool down and come back to the house okay?” Frankie encourages, eyes needling Santiago for an answer until he nods. “Look. You okay?” He nods again, more adamantly this time as Frankie soothes him, dipping his chin down and raising his brows to hammer home the seriousness of his inquiry. “Yeah? Not gonna do anything stupid? Santiago?” 

“Yes. Yeah. I’ll be okay.” 

Frankie drops his arms, evidently feeling somewhat reassured. Yet, with Santiago, the fact that he promises not to do anything stupid bears repeating. “What are you gonna do?” 

“I’ll take a walk,” Santiago nods, his face drawn down into stern lines. “I’ll come back to the house.” He regards his friend, his eyes still painted with concern. 

Santiago frowns. Scratches the back of his neck. “Listen. You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Frankie grins, an element of deflection in it. “I’ll be okay.” He bumps Santiago in the shoulder with his fist. “Fuck you though.” 

“Yeah. Sounds about right. Listen, we gotta talk soon, huh?” 

The smile drops from Frankie’s face as he contemplates being the one placed under scrutiny. “Yep.” 

Santiago shuffles from foot to foot. “Will you…”

“Yeah,” Frankie reassures. “I’ll make sure she’s alright.”  

“Love you, man,” Santiago calls, as Frankie turns on his heel. 

He calls back over his shoulder, walking a few backward paces. He comes to a halt a few metres from his friend. “Yeah, I know. Love you too.” 

“And… I’m sorry.” He had no right to drag Frankie’s shit into this. 

“Yeah. I know that too,” Frankie revs. “Not as sorry as you’re gonna be if you ever say shit like that to me again. I’m too old for this bullshit, man.” Still, Frankie shrugs, indicating no hard feelings. “Anything else you want to say for yourself?” He juts his chin up. Watches Santiago struggle with the words, but allows him the time to pattern them out.  

“She said she wants to fucking marry me. Can you believe that? But… I’m not that guy, Cat. I’m not the picket fence guy. I…” A frown layers over his already stern face, and he gazes intently at a spot in the sand, mid-way between them. “I don’t want to be the guy who… ruins her life.” 

Frankie inhales deeply, letting the whole gust of breath go in one, puffing it out through his pouted mouth. He looks far too tired for this. “Fuck, I don’t know man. You’ve got so many hang-ups I could use you as a coat rack. But that doesn’t mean you’re not loved. And that’s enough, no? Picket fence doesn’t suit you? I don’t fucking know.” Frankie shrugs, palms tipped up towards the sky. “Shit. Have whatever kinda perimeter you want. Just -for Christ’s sake - make sure you put her on the right side of it. Don’t keep shutting her out.” 

“That’s some deep shit, Cat.” 

“Not just a pretty face, cariño.” 

Santi grins. 

“Now, are you done? I gotta fucking sleep.” 

Santiago nods, and watches as Frankie begins to turn away again. But, there must be something in Santiago’s face which causes him to think better of it. Instead, he surges towards the man, cupping the back of his head in his hand and planting a kiss to the middle of his forehead. The frown lingering there disappears. “I love you, asshole.” 

There are several things which bear repeating when it comes to Santiago.

“I know.” Santi stares intently at his feet. 

And, finally satisfied, apparently, Frankie seems willing to leave his buddy to it - granting him a moment to contemplate things alone. To contemplate you. To contemplate his words of advice. 

Santiago feels grateful for Frankie. Even feels bolstered for a moment, until he realises that what he’d assured him might not be true. That even a love that feels too abundant to bear? That it is not always enough. After all, you’d told him as much, hadn’t you? 

His love wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough. 

Frankie walks away. 

Santiago will have to decide if he’s going to do the same. 

Or maybe he’ll run. 

After all. Isn’t that all he’s good for?

[highpope]

stuck with you - jj maybank blurb

hurt/comfort fic with my fave blond pogue while i get back into the swing of writing. this trope is everything to me i will never get sick of it. the formatting of this is so weird im sorry

warnings: mentions of blood and a fight. not graphic

requests are open! :))

“y/n, it’s not that bad. Stop looking at me like that,” JJ had said as he came through your front door, face and hands covered in blood that wasn’t completely his own.  “Your nose is actively dripping blood and your hand looks broken, J. It is most certainly that bad.” 

It wasn’t unusual for him to come to you in these types of situations, but that didn’t make it any easier. But if he felt comfortable enough to seek you out when he was hurting, you would take it. You kept your medicine cabinet well stocked with bandages and antiseptics for reasons like this, but also threads for stitches and some heavier dose medication that they don’t specifically sell over the counter at convenience stores. Hospitals were expensive and none of you had the kind of money to go to the ER every time someone got in a fight.

“It’s not like I haven’t broken it before. Besides you should see-” 

“Shut up.” You spoke, cutting him off and walking into the bathroom.

You didn’t want to hear about it.JJ follows and together you get situated like clockwork, not even needing words. He jumps up to sit on the counter while you wash your hands and get everything you need.

“Here,” you said as you handed him a rag to hold to his nose. You tap his knee with the back of your hand and he moves so you can stand in between his legs. His eyes soften when he looks down at you and you have to actively fight the blush creeping up your neck.

You gently move his head to face the wall with a hand on his chin, assessing the damage. “If something hurts, you tell me.” 

He nods, “yes ma'am.” a smile plays on his lips. 

You roll your eyes and start washing the cuts around his cheekbone and forehead. Such a flirt.

Sighing you tilt his head up slightly and clean the blood off his cracked lip. 

He drops his hand from his nose, the blood seeming to have stopped with the added pressure, “my little nurse,” he says, leaning to kiss your temple. You fight the urge to lean into his touch. Softly cleaning up the rest of his face and began to run your thumbs across his cheeks and nose to check for any broken bones. 

“Ya know, you’re gonna be glad you had all this practice when you get into med school.” 

You can feel him smile under your hands but you don't answer. Just keep scanning over his face.

JJ reaches out and smooths your furrowed eyebrows, “Hey” he says softly.

“Baby, stop.” he reaches out, encircling your wrists and bringing your hands down to rest in his lap. Tears well up in your eyes and you blink, trying not to let any out.

“Talk to me, baby, please.” JJ says, his voice just above a whisper. 

You take a deep breath before speaking, “I just. I don’t like seeing you like this. J, what if something more happens and I can’t fix it. Or I’m not here or god, JJ, I don’t know.” Your tears were now uncontrollable.

JJ swipes your cheeks, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I never mean to scare you, I’m sorry.” He wraps his legs around your body and moves you so you're resting against his chest. 

“I’m the one supposed to be taking care of you,” you sniff.

His hands are in your hair and one slowly moves up and down on your back, tracing comforting circles. “I’m okay. I promise. I’m not going to leave you, ya know.” 

“Yeah?” you whisper, lifting your head back up to look at him. 

“Yeah,” he replies, kissing your forehead, “do you know how crazy I’d have to be to mess this up? You’re stuck with me, kid.”

[cheolhub]

6:30 p.m. — jeon wonwoo

summary. wonwoo catches you touching yourself while he’s at work and decides to show you that he’s all you need.

wc. 755 (or so)

warnings. unprotected sex, mentions of masturbation, degradation, hard dom!wonu— MINORS DNI 18+

note. it’s short but yeah… hard dom!woo my fave genre

you wish you could recall the moment you ended up in this position. with your head pushed into your drool and tear-soaked pillow, ass in the air, and wonwoo’s hand pinning your wrists to your back as he roughly fucks in and out of you. 

“thought you were my good girl,” he mutters in disapproval.

you turn your head, heated cheek on the wet pillow, “i-i am!” you cry defensively. 

he chuckles, shaking his head, “nah, i don’t think you are,” his thrusts are sharper now. his cock kissing your cervix with every vigorous stroke. “just a pretty little slut,” 

wonwoo has been busy lately. between being an idol and trying to get at least 5 minutes of sleep, there wasn’t much free time given to him. as much as he wanted to, he had no time to be with you, so the days felt long and sad and you were extremely pent up. 

he knew, too. he felt so horrible about leaving you at home alone every day before you woke up and he felt even worse when he’d come back in the middle of the night and see you were asleep. 

you needed relief, just this once. he hadn’t fucked you good in a week and that’s 7 days too long for your poor body. you usually would never even think about touching yourself since he keeps you satisfied, but you were growing horny with every waking second that you’d smell the cologne on his clothes or see a picture of him or even hear his voice when he’d call you during his breaks.

the one day you thought it’d be a good idea, wonwoo had also thought it was a good idea to go home early and surprise you. 

and there you were, two fingers shoved into your cunt and tears in your eyes as you frustratedly tried to reach an orgasm. and there he was, watching through the glasses sliding off his nose with his arms crossed and an evil smirk on his face. 

now, you’re begging him for mercy as he pounds into you, sending your mind into a frenzy. 

“what? can’t go 10 minutes without my cock, huh?” he asks, his words patronizing. he knows it’s mean and he knows you did the best you could, but he can’t stop when he feels you clenching around him as if life depended on it with every dirty word he spews. 

“uh-uh,” you confirm. “missed it, m-missed you!” 

his heart flutters at your words because, god, did he miss you too. the words that leave his mouth, though, are anything but sweet. “missed me so much you couldn’t even let me know you’ve been getting off on your own?” 

his hand releases your wrist so he can pull you up, back pressed flush against his chest as he moves his lips against your ear. you cry out feeling his cock at a different, deeper angle. “how many times have you gotten off without me, hmm? how many times did you fuck yourself?”

“ah! no-none, won! today only,” you whine, his hot breath against your ear sending shivers down your spine. you try to wiggle for friction as he stays frozen deep in your weeping cunt. 

he brings his hand to your throat, squeezing it gently to not hurt you. “and did you cum?”

you choke on a sob, his hand wrapping around your throat making you feel even more bothered, arousal gushing all over his soaked length. “nono! needed you, wonwoo,” you breathe. “always need you! please, m’ sorry!”

“aw, poor thing,” he coos almost condescendingly. you can feel the mocking pout pressed against your ear. “not even your pathetic fingers can make you feel good. lemme take care of you, yeah? give you what you need?”

even as you shrink under his belittling, you nod your head strenuously, feeling overwhelmingly needy. you whimper a mantra of pleads and begs before you’re pushed back into the mattress feeling his cock leave your cunt.

whines flee your mouth as wonwoo pauses for a second, “you sure you want it, baby?” his voice is soft, a stark contrast from the way he was whispering in your ear seconds prior. 

“yes, i’m sure,” you shudder out, heart skipping a beat. “wan’ it bad, baby.”

“and you know what to say when you need me to stop, right?”

“mhm,”

“good girl,” he whispers. “now, keep yourself up on your arms, yeah? wanna hear you nice and loud for me.”

© cheolhub — all rights reserved, please refrain from copying, reposting, modifying or translating my work on any platform.

[zmediaoutlet]

Survey results time.

At time of downloading the data we got just over 300 responses, which is not bad for a survey that was long and complicated to take! I'm sure my shamelessness helped. Being a survey for a specific crowd, we also didn't get anyone (as far as I could tell) taking the survey in bad faith, which is a legit surprise. Special shout-out to the several people who, when asked to write literally anything to say they understood what was going on, wrote "literally anything"; additional shout-out to the person who wrote "penus and hole" (sic). You get it, anonymous person.

I'm going to share the top results for the questions here, but I'll also include the raw data as a sheet at the end in case anyone wants to actually go through it with a fine-tooth comb. This is not a survey where cute pie charts or graphs would be useful or readable, so get ready for some sweet-ass numbers:

Story Genre

Unsurprisingly, our leaderboard for most favorite story genre in the 'Anytime!' category is as follows:

Hurt/comfort (153 votes)

Angst (142 votes)

PWP (139 votes)

We just like the guys to get the shit beaten out of them, angstily, and then they can feel better by jerking off about it. The ideal evening.

The big loser in genre, with 34 buds flat out saying "not for me", was Dark!fic. That said, Dark!fic also got 112 votes (third highest) for "has to be JUST right," so we can probably take from there that while as a group we don't hate dark content, we have pretty strict definitions for a) what counts as dark, and b) what kind of dark we're willing to take.

Gencest/gen was arguably the most 'eh, idk?' of the genres, with respectable showings in every category from Anytime to No; most people don't hate it, but people aren't really seeking it out either. It's definitely There.

Story Setting

The winner of most 'Anytime!' votes for story setting is close to my heart; the podium is:

Bunker era (142 votes)

Canon-close, codas, etc (129 votes)

Pre-series/weechesters (126 votes)

It feels good to know that canon is on our side. This may help explain why various alternate universe settings didn't do so hot with the respondents -- the least fave according to this survey is an age!swap AU, followed by a raised apart!AU. Writers who are making Sam the big brother who lives in Cleveland while baby Dean lives in Seattle, you keep living your truth, but readers are rearing back.

That being said, while Canon Divergence isn't an overall winner, it has a full 149 votes in the 'Dig it' category; so, while we may generally prefer canon, we're willing to be led on a garden path away from it. We just want canon to be within shouting distance, at least.

Canonical Character Variants

Here's where the survey gets more complex. I've always been interested in how and why people are fandoming about things, and simple 'yes/no' surveys rarely dig into that meat. The point of the superego/ego/id separation is to really interrogate -- hey, do you like to read about (for example) soulless!Sam because you find it interesting on a high-minded level, or because your heart-strings are getting tugged even if you think it's kinda dumb, or just because it makes you so hornt-up you can't think straight? All are valid, and all are possible simultaneously, but it's interesting to prod at to see how the interest is working. You might also just be like, eh, it's fine, or GOD, STOP, and that's fine too. So, with all that said:

Superego winners:

demon powers!Sam (202 votes)

soulless!Sam (177 votes)

blood addict!Sam (160 votes)

Y'all like to really brain about how Sam is fucked up. I get it.

Ego winners:

Trials of Hell!Sam (186 votes)

blood addict!Sam (180 votes)

demon powers!Sam (161 votes)

Still all Sam, and no surprise that his saintly pale sleeplessness is winning the heartstrings battle.

Id winners:

demon!Dean (205 votes)

demon powers!Sam (175 votes)

blood addict!Sam (165 votes)

Again, no surprise: fandom girlies (gn) love their bad boys, lol. Soulless snuck in at #4 here with 163, presumably because working out still wearing a belt was juuuust dorky enough to kick him off the podium; #5 was Smith & Wesson at 162, probably because if they'd been left in that AU for ten more minutes they would have been fucking over the top of Dean Smith's desk. Glad we're all on the same page, there.

The nopes here were an interesting mix. In the full-on No Thank You category we had Michael!Dean and Gadreel!Sam (with 52 and 53 votes respectively) -- it would be interesting to know if that was due to dread of the storyline specifically, or just how No Bad Wrong it felt to have it happening. These two also led the 'meh' category, although they were joined on the podium of bad by Endverse!Dean (128 Meh votes), which frankly shocked me. Y'all aren't into his thigh holster? C'mon now. Sure, he murders his friends without compunction, but -- thigh holster!

Story Tropes

These ones were fascinatingly all over the place, which is exactly why I wanted to do this. Going to just run down the S/E/I podiums real quick, then 'Hard sell', then No --

Superego winners:

Outsider!POV (211)

Someone Finds Out (191)

Mental health issues (190)

Ego winners:

Mutual pining (252)

First time (242) AND Sick/injured (242)

First time in a long time (235)

Id winners:

Jealousy/possessiveness (224)

First time (218)

First time in a long time (180)

Now, part of what's interesting about these is how they fall off in other categories. Outsider POV wins handily at Superego with 211, but then drops all the way down to 92 votes at Id -- which isn't nothing, but clearly it's preferred to have a heckin' think about how other people view the incest relationship, rather than thinking it's just So Hot that people might. Similarly, while people do think it's so so hot for one brother or the other (or both!) to be possessive at 224 votes, when it comes to the superego that drops right down to 134 votes, presumably as the brain wakes up and goes RED FLAG!

Entering the land of no thank you, we shall have two anti-podiums:

Real hard sell:

Infidelity (127)

magic/powers!Dean (125)

Unrequited/no relationship upgrade (110) AND "Carver Edlund" fandom

This is a much more mixed bag. Infidelity and Unrequited are no surprise here, because it Feels Bad, Man; magic!Dean also not really a surprise, given that most of our respondents prefer being closer to canon, and Dean is very much our mundane buddy in the show as presented. (A delightful buddy, but a distinctly nonmagical one.) Carver Edlund fandom makes me laugh mostly because it's such a bananas thing to exist in the show. Sam and Dean reading big bang fics about each other? Collectively we just... don't know what to do with that. Weird.

Squick/No/Maybe one exception:

Permanent character death (140)

Infidelity (108)

Eating disorders (102)

Again, no surprise in the anti-winners of 1 or 2 here, but number 3 surprised me, personally. ED fic used to be a pretty big wedge of common tropes that people would seek out. Perhaps it's gotten less popular over the years? Or perhaps just that the people who like it REALLY like it and so chat about it out loud, while those who don't quietly bury it in sand, lo as a cat does with their leavings.

Most extreme delta in 'general interest' (whether that be S,E, or I) to 'ehh' (whether that be Hard Sell or Squick) is first time. Y'all loooove your first time.

Sexy Tropes, Vol. 1

This is where I really wanted to know if people could pull apart their interests between brain and heart and guts. Hopefully people were honest, as requested. Some of them we know are slight liar answers, because the hits on AO3 tell a story that can't be refuted -- nevertheless, here's what people were willing to admit to.

Bulletproof kink/will read any version:

Bedsharing (158)

Incest kink (139)

Size kink (133)

your friendly neighborhood survey creator is jumping up and down going 'wooo' that size kink made the podium. also I hope everyone understood that incest kink meant, like, indulging in the incest of it all via 'oh you're so totes my brother and i want to suck your dingle for that reason specifically', but I realize that could've been clearer.

Easy sell/you don't have to work hard for me to enjoy:

shameless bottom!Dean stuff (151)

switching (147)

voyeurism (138)

the first one here genuinely surprises me considering what I see getting written most often; is this a case of just not being in the right venn diagrams, or the 'easy sell' just not matching up with what people are being sold? Curiouser and curiouser.

Medium sell/not my fave, but I can see how it appeals:

bad/awkward sex (120)

phone sex (114)

in [drug/alcohol] veritas (110)

edging into awkward town in a few ways here: we don't love these, but we can see how it'd be fun. or not fun, in the case of bad sex.

Hard sell/this is unbelievable or uninteresting so you have to work hard to get me to enjoy it:

always-another-gender!AU (84)

multiple Sams or Deans (73)

genderswap (magic) (72)

so, in general, we prefer to keep the penises around and intact, but just one Sam penis and one Dean penis, please. Here, I'm interested that the volume is much lower than in the top category: maxing out at 84 hard sells compared to 158 bulletproof options means that we're willing to give more of these tropes a chance, even if they're not our faves. How accepting we are!

Squick/no/maybe one exception:

always-another-gender!AU (83)

A/B/O elements (65)

multiple Sams or Deans (51)

strong overlap with the hard sell; and, keeping in mind that people were able to choose multiple options, it's possible that some of those were identical votes. Again, please keep the penises straightforward and only two at a time. A/B/O is interesting here, especially given what we know of how well it does on AO3; while it's a big squick for a lot of people, it also has decently high votes in bulletproof/easy, averaging 82 votes. Mixed bag!

Sexy Tropes Vol. 2, Electric Boogaloo

Bulletproof kink/will read any version:

Possessive/claiming sex (129)

Marking (hickeys/bruising) (116)

Hair pulling (103)

Let's glance back up at the Id winners in the story tropes above, hmm quietly to ourselves, and move on.

Easy sell/you don't have to work hard for me to enjoy:

Marking (hickeys/bruising) (135)

Hair pulling (130)

Possessive/claiming sex (121)

Well, that's boring. So let's expand so as not to be repetitive:

4. Dub-con (116) 5. Dom/sub (113) AND Underage (113) 6. Knifeplay (107)

There we go. Pretty easy to put all of those into one fic, too.

Medium sell/not my fave, but I can see how it appeals:

Blindfolds (128)

Painplay (116)

Shibari/rope play (112)

We're starting to lose interest as accessories come into play. Interesting to compare D/s and its relative success against painplay -- so, tell him what to do, but don't hit him while you're doing it. Fair enough.

Hard sell/this is unbelievable or uninteresting so you have to work hard to get me to enjoy it:

Fucking machines (94)

Vore (80)

Mommy!kink (77)

Entertaining mix here, haha. General feasibility may be rearing its head here. (Also, for my own entertainment: daddy!kink got 67 Hard Sell votes. People generally prefer to keep it as horizontal incest, not vertical incest.)

Squick/no/maybe one exception:

Feederism (164)

Vore (161)

Extreme underage (157)

No surprises here, although some fans of the nibbly variety of wincest may be disappointed by vore's poor placement. Note also that 'extreme' is in the eye of the beholder; we'll leave aside value judgments, as we have for the whole survey, and note that people are not indulging in a version of underage they find to be personally past the line, or at least are not admitting to that.

At a glance, the closest matchup between bulletproof for some and a squick to others is bloodplay, with just 1 vote separating the two categories: 44 bulletproof, 43 squick. Next time someone tries to tell you that 'everyone' likes or doesn't like something, please take it with an entire shaker full of salt.

Dynamic & Position Preferences

I tried to encourage people not to think too hard about this one and just answer on instinct. Who knows if that worked. But here are some overview takes:

Toppy/dominant: Sam takes the lead here, with 69% of respondents being in the 'Love it!' category. Nice. (217 votes)

Dom Dean earned a respectable 52% of 'Love it!' votes (163).

However, I was also interested to check out the inverse --

subby!Sam: 44 'Very no thank' votes (13%) subby!Dean: 27 'Very no thank' votes (8%)

It's interesting to leap way back up and compare that against 'shameless bottom!Dean stuff' doing so well in the rated E categories. Makes you ponder.

Actual sex position: Frequently switching takes the win here, with 61% of the vote (194 votes). Sam always topping edges out if people must choose, with 144 votes; Dean always topping is our lowest choice, with 112.

Service!topping: this is a fairly niche fic type, but it does still exist -- I guess in a world of bottoms someone's got to actually get up and do something, and it is hilariously an almost perfectly even split:

service!top Sam: 50.17% (151 votes) service!top Dean: 51.50% (155 votes)

A healthy percentage of people said they didn't care about these questions either way, and more power to them. However, they were wildly outvoted by those who did.

Multishipping Time

Our final categories are when other people get their grubby hands on Sam or Dean, either canonically(ish) or in our fandom activities.

Canonical relationships for Sam

Jess wins, quelle surprise. :) 161 people Dug It and who can blame them.

Amelia LOSES, shocking no one: 112 people said Fuck That.

Eileen was definitely a mixed bag; her results, in order, were: Meh: 92; Fuck that: 76; Worse than meh: 66; Dug it: 44.

Canonical(ish) relationships for Dean

Note here: it was too unbalanced if we only went with people Dean officially dated. However, the show leaned hard into a few unrequited male relationships for him, which we included here, and no one sent me hate about it so I guess that was fine.

Benny wins the Love It! category with 129 votes, barely edging out Cassie at 122. Benny is best boy, so that fits.

Cas loses with a full 99 Fuck That votes, which is probably what we'd expect from a wincest survey. That said, he also got 93 Dug It votes, so it's a pretty balanced showing.

Poor Lisa sits firmly at Meh with 148 votes. It's not that we hate you, Lisa; we just don't really know what to do with you. Which is pretty much how the relationship went in the show.

Shipping Sam like FedEx

We returned to the S/E/I model for shipping as we did for tropes, because it means something very different to go 'oh sure, I can see how that would be interesting' vs saying 'I want them to fuck rawnasty and I don't care why they're doing it.' Apologies if I left out your favorite side-ship but, shit, there's only so much time in the day.

So, we return to the podiums:

Superego:

Ruby (132)

Rowena (121)

Cas (102)

Ego:

Rowena (121)

Cas (106)

Ruby (90)

Id:

Ruby (125)

John (121)

Rowena (118)

So that was going on sedately until Dad came in like a hammer. Fascinating. On the other hand:

No:

Lisa (234)

Donna (222)

Claire (219)

Interesting to me that these three are ladies that Sam theoretically could have got up in but people are not into it, regardless. This is slightly different to Dean's 'no' category -- spoilers for three inches of screen space!

Dean, Shipped by UPS

Superego:

John (129)

Benny (115)

Lisa (99)

Ego:

Benny (134)

John (116)

Lisa (102)

Id:

John (147)

Benny (128)

Crowley (114)

Well. That tells a slightly different story, ahem. Enjoy the various tropes that will be applied, Dean! And then we get:

No:

Amelia (245)

Kevin (223)

Gabriel (217)

Comparing to the Sam 'no' above -- these three are slightly more 'traditional' Sam ships, though the wincest shippers are nevertheless not into them for Sam, either. Dean literally never spoke to or saw Amelia on screen, so it'd be a determined shipper who'd make that happen. Not undoable, though!

Conclusion

Syke: there isn't one to be made. This really shows how diverse the taste is in the wincest community, or at least in the wincest community that a) happened to see this survey over the last five days and b) bothered to take it. This particular group leans slightly toward e.g. toppy Sam, or slightly toward switching, but when you look at raw numbers what you see is that at least one person LOVES every single one of these things, and at least one person fucking HATES every single one of these things, and so -- so what? Write what you want. If you see a niche of something that you love where you feel like not enough people are writing or reading, try to fill it. If you're worried "no one" will like it, well -- you're wrong. Someone will. It just needs to get seen by the right people.

That's where fandom comes in, to spread the love even if something isn't bulletproof for us -- reblogging a post to say, 'hey, my mutual made this thing, look at it!' What a joy it'd be if someone saw it and loved it to absolute shattering bits, and then found their little bulletproof community, and happiness was made. What's the point, if we're not making each other happy.

Thanks for participating if you did, and reading all this if you did. Here's a link to a google sheet (read only) with all the tables of raw data if you're interested. I'll post some of the more entertaining fill-in answers later.

s&d shipping survey results: November 1, 2023 - Google Sheets

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Holy shit, Always on the Sidelines had to be one of my favorite fics. As a person with chronic pain I always feel like I’m pushed to the side and like I’ll never find someone who will love and care for me like that.

If you wrote more I would def be happy

(ok. im fangirling a lil bit because i absolutely LOVE your jamie tartt fics and i cant believe my fic has become one of your faves! anyway, here's a lil snippet after the events of Always On the Sidelines!)

Here On Out

Summary: You're out with Jamie and your friends, but then your leg decides to act up and you have a bit of a breakdown.

A/N: hurt comfort! also, i headcanon that Jamie is a 1D fan.

You're really fucking bummed out. You were having so much fun hanging out with Jamie and the boys, your friends, because, yes, his friends are now your friends and they all adore you and you them.

Anyway, you'd gone to a club with them that was having a One Direction night. Drinks were flowing and you were having so much fun dancing with Jamie, then singing at the top of your lungs with Keeley, taking shots with the guys. It was all so much fun...but then your knee started acting up.

You excuse yourself from the dancefloor and Jamie follows you with concern. But you brush him off, not wanting to ruin his fun.

"I'm just gonna rest for a bit. Go have fun." He hesitates and you practically push him back towards the dancefloor, "Go! I'll be fine!"

"Alright. But you tell me if it gets worse and we'll go, okay?"

"Okay," you shoo him away and as soon as he turned his back, you hobble your way to the bathrooms so you can cry.

As soon as you enter the women's room, you lean against the counter and let out a sob. You curse your knee for causing you so many issues. You can't play football, you can't be on your feet for long, you can't even last having fun with your fit as fuck footballer boyfriend! You felt so...broken.

Two women, a brunette and a red head, enter the bathroom laughing but then stop when they see you teary eyed. They immediately rush over to you, "Oh my God. Are you okay?" The red head asks.

"Do we need to kick someone in the dick?" the brunette asks.

You chuckle, "No. I'm fine...kinda."

"What's goin' on, babe?" the brunette asks, looking genuinely concerned for you.

You shake your head, "I had a knee injury a while back and it starts to hurt if I'm not my feet for too long or doing extensive movements."

"Do we need to get you someone?" the red head asks, wiping away some of your tears.

You shake your head again, "No. It'll go away eventually it's just," you let out a deep breath, "It just makes things complicated for me. Like, I came here with my hot boyfriend and we were having the best time and now my knee started hurting and I had to step away-"

"Why isn't your boyfriend with you?" the brunette asks.

"I told him not to worry about me. Didn't wanna ruin his fun."

The door opens again and Keeley lets out a sigh of relief, "Fucking finally! Jamie's looking all over for you! You're not answerin' your phone!" She suddenly takes note of your teary eyes, "Oh shit. I'm getting, Jamie."

"Wait, no-Keeley!" but your cries fall deaf on her ears as she rushes out in search of your boyfriend.

Red head looks back at you, "Wait, was that Keeley Jones?"

You nod, "Yeah."

Moments later, Jamie comes in, hand over his eyes, "Is everyone decent? No one with their undies down, right?"

You can't help but snort, "You're fine, Jams."

Jamie drops his hand and zeroes in on you, "What's going on?"

"Holy shit," brunette starts to freak out, "You're Jamie Tartt! You're-"

Keeley steps in, pushing red head and brunette out the door, "Right! Let's go dance, ladies!"

"But I still need to wee!" brunette exclaims.

"Hold it in!" Keeley replies aggressively.

It's now just you and Jamie left in the room. Jamie slowly approaches you, hands on your hips to steady you, "What's wrong?"

You let out a sob as you tuck your face into his neck, "I feel so broken!"

"Love, you're not broken."

"But I am! I can't keep up with you and I fucking hate it! I hate hurting all the time. I hate making you cut your time short when we're out with friends. I hate that you can't fully enjoy yourself when we're together. I-"

"Hey, hey. Look at me," he pulls back, gently holding your face in his hands, "You're. Not. Broken. Your injury doesn't define you. I mean, look at grandad! Sure, he had to retire 'cause of his leg, but he's still out there coaching us, giving us a hard time, still doing the things he likes to do. He doesn't let his injury stop him.

"And you shouldn't either. I don't care that if we have to leave parties or gatherings early because your leg hurts. All I care about is you and how you feel. I don't like you being in pain. That's why I always check in on you. I don't want ya sufferin'." He wipes the tears the slide down your cheeks.

"What if you get tired of me? Get tired of taking care of me?"

Jamie shakes his head, "Never. I experienced life without you and I was fucking miserable. Besides, like how cuddly you get when I take care of ya. Makes me feel loved and shit."

"Jamie Tartt, you're such a softie," you playfully say, nudging his shoulder.

"Only for you, love," he murmurs before kissing your forehead. You two stand there, just cherishing each other's presence for a bit.

Keeley then pops her head in and says, "You two coming out soon? 'Cause a line is forming and these girls really gotta go."

Jamie steps back and asks, "Can you walk?"

"I can limp," you reply.

He shakes his head, "Piggy back then," he turns his back to you, crouching down a bit.

You do your best to hop onto his back and he lifts you with ease. Keeley opens the door wider for you both, "Thanks, Keeley," Jamie says and his looks at the line of waiting women, "Sorry, ladies! Me girl wasn't feelin' well!"

Keeley follows the both of you to the booth where everyone was sitting and taking a break from dancing.

"Are you okay, Y/N?" Dani asks.

"My leg again," you sheepishly reply and the boys nod their heads in understanding.

"Feel better," Isaac says.

Colin chimes in, "Do you need help to the car?"

"Nah, mate, I've got it!" Jamie replies and pulls out a few hundred notes, passing them to Isaac, "Hope that covers our drinks and some of you lot!" the guys raise their glasses in cheers to Jamie and wave good-bye to the both of you.

Keeley and Roy follow you two out just in case.

"Can this count as some of me trainin', grandad?" Jamie asks.

"No," Roy rasps out and you giggle.

"Prick," Jamie mumbles with a smile.

When you get to Jamie's car, he helps you in and then gives Roy and Keeley a d hug good-bye. Roy nods at you and Keeley blows a kiss your way. You wave at them until Jamie drives away.

_____________

When you get back to Jamie's, he carries you to the bedroom you share. You undress while he runs a warm bubble bath for you.

Once it's ready you get in and he quickly undresses, sitting behind you. You sigh in relief as you lean back against his chest and he starts to softly massage your knee.

"See? Cuddly," Jamie murmurs against your neck and presses a kiss.

"I love you," you whisper as you close your eyes and let the water warm your body up.

Jamie's smiling wide. This isn't the first time you've said it to him, but it still makes him all bubbly inside when you say it.

"I love you too. Always will. From here on out."

[namazunomegami]

Atonement

Pairing: Geto Suguru x gn!reader

Synopsis: How can you cleanse yourself from the sin that has been tainting you since your attempt to escape? The answer is easy: walk on barefoot for him, suffer some misery, risk your health for him, open yourself up for him and you can earn his forgiveness.

CW: canon compliant, established relationship, toxic and complicated dynamics, religious symbolism, porn with feelings, Geto is a manipulative ass how surprising, gaslighting, m!receiving oral, fingering, non-consensual edging, good old unprotected sex + creampie

WC: 5.3k

Credits: my lovely @notveryrussian who worked so hard to get this fic proofreaded. Ngl they deserve all the praise and respect because we lost literal pages from the already edited draft because windows is crap and they had to start over again. Take one big break darl, you deserve it 💕

Song rec: mythical creature by pregnant whale pain was my main inspiration during writing but i think tumblr dot com is not ready yet to listen to an unknown hungarian avantgarde metal band while reading porn lmao. Maybe i'll drop the acoustic version later.

A/N: Here is part 1 in case if you missed it. I think you need to know what happened to completely understand the buildup and have a general idea about their relationship. This fic is probably my fave I’ve written so far, a special lil brainchild of mine. These two are living in my mind rent free with all their lore and they'll never let me go.

Reblogs are greatly appreciated 💕

Minors don't interact unless you want me to stand outside your house at 3 am with a pitchfork

It was very hard to explain to your family what happened to you. The worry which they approached you with, especially Mimiko and Nanako just stirred a weird sense of guilt in your chest. The twins even offered to help you out with chores, eagerly telling you to rest, let your body heal. Your heart shattered to pieces in that moment, weeping endlessly with fat, salty tears. Your precious darling girls, so considerate of you, so caring, their hearts filled with everlasting gratitude. And you wanted to leave them. You felt like a piece of shit of a parental figure, obviously.

Days passed as if nothing had ever happened. Even in your private moments with Geto, the issue was never brought up. He took care of your wounds, of course, but your escape attempt wasn’t a topic of conversation at all. You swept it under the rug.

Which means it was only a question of time until he was going to wield it against you.

“Leave the scabs alone.” he reprimands you softly, dragging your wrist away from them. The hot water softened your scars, making them itchy, easy to pick away at them. But Geto is so thoughtful for looking after you like some kind of crazy mother hen, right? Even sitting in the tub behind you.

He takes hold of the edge, stepping out of the tub swiftly. The water suddenly drops around you, goosebumps dot your skin from the sudden touch of the moistened air as he hides that broad, sun-kissed form of his beneath a bathrobe. You ache for a bit of peace, a bit of me-time, but since the so-called “accident”, he just couldn’t stop himself from keeping an eye on you constantly.

Your hand dances along the surface of the water, bunching the bubbles together into various shapes, like they’re islands. Like you’re a young god, decorating the plane you’ve created. But his outstretched palm appearing in your vision disturbs your creative process.

“Come, I’ll take the stitches out.”

Compared to when your wound was sutured, cutting out the thread is a relatively quick process. Especially with his competency. The tweezer lifts and holds the knot, as he severs the thread with a pair of scissors and pulls it from your flesh before he moving on to the next. It’s uncomfortable, not in a way that it hurts, but it makes your skin crawl and your bones bend. An overall disgusting feeling. But when it’s over, it does feel better. And knowing him, you wonder if it’s purposeful or not.

“Must you make it painful?” you complain, thumb pressing down on the closed, marred skin. For the wrong reasons though, but you can freely complain.

“I didn’t intend to hurt you.” his voice is soft like silk, but not without a sharp edge in it, slowly unfurling, like the jaws of a venus flytrap. “I just wanted to teach you a lesson.”

You glare at him, your eyes piercing him like a dagger.

“Me? I wanted to teach you a lesson.”

This… was a bit too far, you must admit.

You storm out of the bathroom, like you could get away from the conversation.

“Go on, speak.” his words echo through the walls of the bedroom, making your movements halt immediately. You glance up at the window, faced with his reflection as he leans against the doorframe. “What should I learn from you? That you’re not afraid to run? To put your life in unnecessary danger?”

A long sigh leaves through your nostrils.

“If it comforts you, then yes, I realized that I had made a dumb decision.”

You don’t have to turn around to know he’s standing right behind you. Looming over you, shrouding you like an evil trickster spirit.

“I must admit I enjoyed your little attempt…” his palms are heavy on your shoulders, just like his words echoing close to shell of your ear. “Catching you, watching your resolves crumble, the raw terror plastered on your face…” the way his voice caresses you is just like the way he would hold a blade right against your throat, pressing down on the pulsing veins that could be cut open so easily. Like needles slowly being inserted into your ear canals. Eventually it softens, getting more serious and chiding. “But you did scare me. Have you ever thought about what would’ve happened if I didn’t go after you?”

You’d die, you would definitely die. Bleeding out amidst the leaves and grass, letting the frosty night bite you tense and weak. All alone in the dark.

Hold on…

You wouldn’t be injured if he hadn’t frightened you in the first place.

Did he just… no, it can’t be.

He slowly walks away from you, and you hear the bed creak under his weight. The choking feeling finally lifts from your throat. You turn towards one of the incense burners, already filled, it merely needs to be lit. But you do it slowly, just for the sake of appearing busy, to not feel obligated to carry on with the conversation.

But you should make peace with him before he does. He’ll make you face all of your mistakes and their consequences, if not outright making you suffer because of them. Rub all of them into your face until you have no choice but to plead for forgiveness.

It’s not easy, but you open your mouth. The scent of sandalwood lowers your guards, helping you be honest and brings forth the thoughts you’ve been trying to hide for a long time.

“Sometimes I wonder if we’re doing the right thing. And I wonder even more about that if we’ll fail before reaching our goal. Fail spectacularly. Because we want to do the impossible.”

“What is exactly the right thing? Being selfless? Forgetting all about our grudges and letting the world trample all over us? Or being selfish and crushing anyone under our feet to keep each other safe?”

Like an elastic band being strained for far too long, you snap. Luckily, the bronze lid of the incense burner holds out under your grasp.

“It’s too fucking late for moral arguments! Can’t you speak to me more directly for once? Instead of hiding behind your… carefully crafted scenarios that only prove your point.”

You should have avoided looking at him. At your serpent, who made you sin, who was cursed alongside you, your serpent who devoured your beloved Adam. You yearned for the remains, sitting in the bottomless pit of his stomach.

But you swore those remains spoke to you, through layers of flesh, scales, and deception. Soft and calm like a light summer breeze.

“Do you have doubts about me, darling? Are you giving up on me?”

The question breaks you, evaporating all of your anger and resentment in a flash. Devoid of any playful tone or hidden meanings, so raw that it takes hold of your heart and squeezes it so tight that it couldn’t possibly beat anymore.

You know how he twists the truth, striking right into the softest parts of you. He feeds you poison – yet you swallow it right down every single time.

“Faith has no zenith, my dear.” you answer, low and sweet, like you wanted to comfort him. The lid on the incense burner closes, giving you enough time to build up the courage to approach him. You weave your words carefully, in such fashion that it can be interpreted in multiple ways. If he switched just one little word, he’d immediately gain more insight into what’s really been weighing on your heart. “There’s no such peak we can reach on which we can stagnate forever. Faith sometimes wavers, sometimes we question our beliefs. Sometimes we’re unsure if our prayers are heard.” you get down on your knees before him, taking his hand into yours, giving him a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “But I do want to have faith in you.”

His features visibly soften. Heavy lids close in relief, and you feel his thumb brushing along your knuckles.

This is your chance! Go on, there’s no time more perfect than this to try to convince him.

“We should really get away from the temple.” you start with an almost resigned sigh, but your excitement soon starts to show. “Just for a few days. Manami will handle the followers while we leave for the countryside, or an island. We can bring the girls even.”

A faint glimmer in his eyes tells you his answer is going to disappoint you.

“They don’t know about the girls, but they certainly know about you.” he reminds you sternly. “The higher ups want us dead and the last time I offered to protect someone, they ended up getting killed.”

His voice is faint, almost shaky. He rarely talks about the death of Riko. And if he ever brings her up in a conversation, you know he means it.

The heavy lid above his eyes drops, violet irises hiding behind his lashes, averted from you. The words coming out of him are barely above a whisper, like his lips are made from lead, like forming the words is a tiring task because they’re so heavy, and filled with something violently torturing him.

“This is a risk I’m not willing to take again. Not even for you. Especially for you.”

You feel something pooling on your waterline. Translucent pearls of tears appear so involuntarily when you see him like this. Sometimes you do want to hurt him, but when you see him in pain, it torments you even worse.

“I’m not asking you to take risks for me. I never did. But you should take some for you. You could use some respite.” you lace your fingers with his. It brings you a strange kind of comfort how your hand just loses itself in his, but it’s yours that looks more lively and powerful. Like it’s you what keeps him together. As if without you he would shatter into pieces. “You take on an awful lot of responsibilities, I think sometimes more than you’re capable of handling.”

Affection sweeps through his features as he caresses your head, from the roots of your strands to the thick bone of your jaw. A lonely thumb brushing along from your cheekbone to the lobe of your ear. And there’s nothing you can do, only stare at him, wide-eyed with reverence, like he’s an ethereal being.

“This is not your cross to bear.”

He wanted to ease your concerns, but you’re much more stubborn than that. You won’t stand there, at a safe distance, watching him drag himself to his Calvary, whipped and crowned with thorns. You’ll push through the crowd, smash them to bits just to reach him and offer your veil to wipe his face. A thousand times, as many times as he needs.

“Of course it is, what do you expect from me? Unlike…” No, don’t say names, do not compare yourself to certain figures in your past and the way they treated him. “I’m worried about you, for no other reason than I genuinely care about you. That’s why I want you to put our plans to aside - let’s unwind a little, recharge. Before all of this drives us insane.”

He deliberately avoids answering, your concern grows and grows like vicious vine. Is this too much to ask for? A small moment of normalcy can’t be granted to you? What are the two of you really? Idols of worship, if not gods at this point because your sheep do regard you as such. But can’t gods long for a visit amongst mortals? Can’t they shed their divine status? You could, but maybe, before he’d let you leave, he’ll feed you pomegranate seeds.

Would you eat them again? Of course you would. Even if you fight and snarl a little beforehand. Because love is the death of duty, and of a peaceful mind, of comprehensive decisions. Love is so mystified, shrouded in the illusion of an immortalized existence, just like death. Love is, indeed, death.

Your palms cup his face, his skin radiates warmth through you. The warmth of the evening sun that makes the sky bleed with the prettiest colors you can imagine. Your touch slowly encourages him to look into your eyes, finding a strange kind of determination and care mixed with your obvious worry. A Magdalene dwells within your gaze, who already washed her prophet’s feet with tears and dried them with her hair before he starts his last journey to Golgotha.

“I told you a million times, if you fall too deep into your misery, when you feel like you can’t come back to the surface on your own, let me know, so I can pull you out. Or let me know so I can go after you. And we’ll drown together.”

All those little pacts and vows you made during the years echo through you. Even the first one, the most ancient of them all, when it was still easy to hide your concerns behind your techniques.

I’ll keep an eye on you.

It’ll keep an eye on you.

You lean closer, foreheads and the tips of your noses touching. Eyes closing in almost perfect synchronicity.

“Promise me, Suguru. Promise me again.”

You wait and wait, until his warm breath brushes your skin like fine silk, like a feather.

“I promise.”

You sigh in relief. It hurts, it hurts so much. There’s so much place in your heart for him to dwell in. He owns it and he won’t give it back. Ever.

You only wanted a chaste kiss, but a special type of hunger wakes deep below your navel. You taste his words, you swallow them down, nipping them from his lips. You look for the rest of them, his thoughts that hadn’t been formed into words yet, the rest of the sentence, you search for it with your tongue inside his mouth.

You grab onto the sheets, trying to push yourself up. Like you could overpower him, like you could battle against him. To have him laid out on the mattress, defeated. But he stops your advances with a palm resting on your shoulder, gently pushing you away.

“You’re not healed yet.” he whispers, truly concerned.

“Then I’ll be on top, I don’t care.” you oppose breathily, your fingers trying to pry his robe open.

“The cut on your hand could re-open if we’re not careful.”

Oh, how you adore him when he’s so tender with you, but now, this is the last thing you want. You want to bare your teeth and go right for the throat.

“Then you’ll stitch me up again.” There’s a playful edge in your voice, and you kiss him again with the same curve of a smile while he lets you crawl on top of him.

And he smiles against you too, delighted by your eagerness. You, trying to eat him up, digest him - he’s just enjoying you and the feast you’re having. Taking everything from you. He only wants to capture you, to cage you in his hold. He’s kneading your flesh leisurely and humming into your mouth contently, almost lazily.

In the crooks of his body, you find your religion.

The sharp line of his jaw, the tendons of his neck, the hollow caverns around his collarbone. But your mouth carefully avoids the scars slashing through his chest, after all those years, it still pains him when the lightly coloured, textured skin gets touched. As if these lips of yours and your aimlessly trailing fingers were the same blades, penetrating the flesh again and again.

There’s not a morsel of him that you weren’t intimately familiar with. In a way that rivals how much you know about yourself. And what you know even better is that how can you venerate them, dote on them, adore, and idolize with such devotion you could anger all deities created by man and make them scream blasphemy on you.

You take his cock in your hand, teasingly working your palms around him. Pumping it, stroking your thumb along the underside to make his breath hitch. His dick grows beneath your hands, getting harder and heavier. The first beads of precum get smeared along the length by your skillful fingers.

“You know you don’t have to- “but you cut him off while settling between his legs.

“Just relax and let me do all the work.” your response comes out a bit more deadpan than planned. “You deserve it once in a while.”

And with that, you wrap your lips around him, enveloping him in warmth and wetness, your tongue slowly swirling around the head. His thighs twitch, more precum oozes into your waiting mouth as the muscle between your teeth works eagerly. You give him a few, gentle sucks, slurping up the mixture of your own saliva and his arousal. Between ragged breaths, he reminds you to breathe through your nose as you take more and more of his length. You relax your jaw, your fingers tense around the base of his cock and you’re trying as hard as you can to defeat the urge to gag. When you fit all of him inside your mouth, you empty your lungs and give him a harder suck, hard enough to make you cheeks hollow and his chest heave. As your free hand is occupied with kneading his balls between your fingers and knuckles, a moan bursts out of him.

The sound boosts your confidence, filling you with a wicked kind of playfulness. The kind of wicked that makes you pull back your tongue a little, as to not keep your teeth hidden. You drag them along his sensitive, pulsing underside, balancing the pressure between pleasure and pain. Like you could prove to him that you’re ready to bite back, that this is the only moment when he can’t control you, that he shouldn’t underestimate you.

And just as if he could read your thoughts, his hand goes for your head, fingers getting lost between your strands. But he’s not as cruel as to push you down on him, instead he guides you, increases the rhythm that you’re working with. Steady and firm, but not too fast. You earn yourself his praises, soft curses pitched higher than his normal voice.

This is what real worship looks like.

When you feel the muscles in his thighs and stomach tensing up, you stop. You emerge from the space between his legs, wiping your lips clean and admiring your work. All that flushed skin blooming in pink on his chest and face. You move, trying to get into a new position, settling your calves right next to hips. You start aligning yourself with his cock to finally start grinding on him.

He sits up and traps you with an arm coiling around your waist.

“Since when were you so reckless?”

His hand creeps around the apex of your thighs. A finger barely brushes along your slit. By adding another digit, he spreads your folds, finding hot, smooth, slippery flesh.

“I would’ve prepped myself.” that’s all you can say in your defense.

Fingertips circle your hole, applying a bit of pressure, checking how much you’ve loosened up. He invades you slowly as your lungs empty, the hardened skin on his fingers stroking and massaging your sweet spots before he starts working you open.

You wrap your arms around him, slowly undoing his bun to have something to grab onto as you jolt, as your bones melt, as your brows furrow in bliss. The moans coming from you are breathy and tender, and you hide them in his strands. He twists his fingers inside you, stretching your warm muscles further, making your back arch and you press your hardened nipples to his chest. Your essence engulfs his knuckles, clear and sticky like honey.

The heel of his palm settles right against your clit and you shamelessly grind on it. Your mewls pass over his ears as he’s nuzzling into the crook of your neck, nipping at the skin of a faint scar. But you resist giving in, you stop him, telling him that’s enough, but in reality you just want your control back. Take back the lead and revel in it.

And somehow he obeys, laying back into the sheets.

You slip out of your robe, showing yourself fully. The bruises on your skin can finally bathe in the dim lamplight, painting the complexion of your sides, shoulders, and upper arm in different shades of blue and purple, like paint on bare canvas. Like the night sky carrying storm clouds, like you’re rotting, decomposing. You find a twisted, perverted joy in the fact that he must be seeing them for the whole time.

“Slowly, slowly.” he murmurs softly as you’re pushing the head of his cock inside you. “There’s no need to rush.” Trimmed nails trail up and down from the flesh of your thighs to your bruised sides. Tender and slow like a ghost, goosebumps pepper your skin from the tickling feeling. “I’m already yours.” He purrs and your heart flutters.

And there’s so, so much pride in you that only you can render him to this state. Too powerful for the world to bear him, capable to burn this plane to ruins, defying the barriers between a mortal and a god - or something way worse than that. Maybe you should receive twice the respect from your herd, for being the only person who can enslave him in this way, that only you can have this sort of power over him. Only you can overthrow him. Because you’re just too dear to him, too close to his burning heart.

Maybe it’s your time to warn him. Tame him like the monster he is.

You move with your own rhythm. His hand caged between your fingers and pressed down against the sheets. You give him no other choice but to venerate you back and he does, with pleased, low rumbles coming from his throat. Only a singular hand is allowed to roam your form freely. On your back tracing the shallow line where your spine lies beneath skin and flesh, wandering towards the inner part of your thighs, then to your stomach and chest. And you reward him with a prayer of your own, encapsulated in deep, long sighs.

But you’re too trusting of him. You let your guard down too easily.

You’re holding onto his kneecaps, leaning towards them a little, allowing every inch of you to be seen. You want to give him a show, but your knees are too worn and tired.

He takes hold of your hips, helping you guide yourself along his length. His pelvis moves along with you in synced rhythm. Your teeth are pressing down on the soft skin of your lips, but you can’t keep your whimpers in. You’re getting close, your muscles and nerves are st tight and pulsing, your walls are pressing down on his length. His name mindlessly slips out of your mouth.

Maybe you can say you love him before you shatter.

But his fingers clench around you, strong and firm, stopping your movements. Lifting your hips up so high that his cock is barely inside, robbing you from your incoming orgasm.

You’re shocked, eyes staring into the nothingness, open wide. Your stomach drops, stirring up all kinds of feelings dwelling in you. A chill races down your vertebrae as you glance down at him.

“Suguru..?” Your voice is weak, shaky.

Fear courses through your being, primordial and all-consuming.

And when he speaks to you it’s all dark, shrouded in malevolence.

“You forgot one thing, darling. After I brought you back from the forest.”

No, no, no, he can’t do this to you! He can’t hold your orgasm hostage for the sake of toying with you! You should puncture his flesh your nails, scratch him, tear him up, but you can only grit your teeth. Your features twist from bliss to rage.

“You…” boiling anger swims through your voice. It’s like it’s not even your voice - more like a hiss, a growl.

There’s an undecipherable mixture of pity and amusement in his eyes. He twitches inside you but you’re too upset to notice.

“Apologize.” he sneers - almost commands.

His words cause anger to bubble up in you.

“Oh, you piece of shit…!” you seethe, but sob and moan when he slams you back on his cock, stretching you around his length again. Wanting to quench your rage with the sensation you crave the most right now.

“I hope, for your sake, I don’t have to repeat myself.”

It doesn’t matter how much you try to squirm, fuss and wriggle, he forces you still. His behaviour frustrates you to no end when you’re so desperate for a bit of friction, the horribly hollow and burning feeling of your lost peak torturing you seemingly endlessly. To the point where you’re too tired to put up a fight, when you’re teetering on the edge of breaking. You know you must swallow your pride, you have let him have it his way.

“I… I’m sorry.” you apologize meekly, teary-eyed, your voice a pathetic mewl. He finally starts lifting you up and easing you down, building you up slowly. But it’s not enough. You need more but he won’t give it to you just yet.

“You do?” he asks you in a way that it cuts deep into your marrow. It’s not even close to a loving tease – no, he’s outright mocking you.

Vicious bastard. You should grab his throat and squeeze the air out of him.

“Yes, I do!” you cry out without thinking. “I’m sorry for running away from you.” you push the words out through your whimpers. He increases the pace, making you yelp and shake, you end up closing your eyes reflexively. He robbed you from the sensation for so long that you became sensitive, it’s easier to make a mess out of you. Your face is red with shame, so much so you can’t look him in the eyes. The humiliation is like an invisible rope tightening around your neck.

“Promise you’ll never do that to me again.”

He pushes your hips further along his length this time, shifting you a bit towards his thighs. Creating a perfect angle, he uncovers a sweet spot inside you that makes you almost incapable of forming coherent words. And he eats the sight right up.

“…I promise… I promise...” you manage to get your answer out in the form of a choked hiccup. Your vision blurs. Everything is too intense for you to handle. You swear that the very shape of you could dissolve at any given moment.

Faith is desperate. Gods are hungry for despair. So they deliberately make you suffer and only then reveal themselves to you.

His fingers dig into your waist so hard it burns. You feel the world shift with you and then you collide with the sheets. Your bruised back ripples with pain. You’re unsure if he did it out of spite or not. You don’t know if he’ll completely shatter your dignity, or if he’s fine with just enforcing the feeling that you can never be above him, that you can never defeat him.

His weight on top of you is overwhelming. The midnight dark locks of his hair spread around you like spilled ink. And through the thick fog of your mind, too far gone in twisted, masochistic pleasure, you lock your legs around his waist. You don’t want him to go away. You might as well cease to exist if he does.

“And what do we say when we apologize?”

The soft plea coming from you is more instinctual rather than deliberate.

“Forgive me.”

You ache for him to move, you’re starved for the incoming high. Like a ravenous beast, all devouring. When he finally gives it to you, his thrusts make you feel possessed, make your back arch, your head falls back into the pillow as if you were offering your neck to him (maybe one day he won’t be able to resist the urge and will bite down on the jugular, through your trachea, putting you out of your misery) - you don’t dare to beg for anything else.

Maybe just for a little blood. A mark he can wear, just like you wear your bruises. Your nails somehow acquire a will of their own, your scratches have him excited and pleased.

His fingers meander around your jaw, gently coaxing you into letting him guide your gazes to meet again.

He’s imitating you, admiring his work like you did with him. And what he sees is a being stripped from any likeness of a dignified human being. With eyes so blown he can see the bottommost pits of Hell in them.

And he’s satisfied, rewarding you with a soft kiss on your temple.

“I forgive you.”

Your release crashes over you like a tide, submerging you, burning you to cinders on the inside. Tearing you apart. And when he collapses on top you after filling you to the brim, you feel like a festering wound.

He’s a disease, miasma, a flesh-eating parasite crawling inside you.

“You’re…” you huff. “You’re awful.”

“I know. But you love me all the same.”

You wonder what you should have done to earn a different outcome, but you give up soon. Looks like he already had plans for your atonement in mind. After all, gods are impatient creatures. They’re dependent on your reverence and servitude. And you’ve waited for too long to make things right.

Why, why, why - it echoes inside your head.

But if you think about it… he’s your serpent. The vilest, most horrendous creature created by God. The one who charmed you, tempted you with sin and has now sunken his fangs into you. Of course he did, and instead of trying to heal from his venomous bite, you want to catch him - to find out his reasons, to prove to him that you didn’t deserve that.

And yet you could never, ever prove him wrong. Your serpent will always think it was right to bite. It’s in his nature afterall.

“Is your hand alright?”

He makes it up to you with spoiling you again. He cleans your wounds so sweetly, so thoughtfully, looks after you in a way that nobody could, which confuses you even further.

He cherishes you, destroys himself for the sake of keeping you safe - not like it’s a choice, but a must - just like a mother would. He scolds you, reminds you not to make the same mistake again, collars you, keeps you on a tight leash, only loosening it (just a little) when he succeeded at making you play by his rules, just like a father would.

And somehow, he excels at both. Way better than those two ever did when it came to you.

You wish your glare could pierce right through his skull when you hand the empty glass back to him. You don’t have it in you to play nice. You don’t even attempt hide that you’re sulking, he probably finds it funny - adorable even.

“Go to hell.” you spit and lay back into the sheets, your bruised back facing him.

“Oh, darling…” he coos, but the surface level sweetness of his tone hides a sharp edge of condescendence. He crawls into bed, right behind you, caging you in his embrace, forcing you to feel the warmth of his body. The warmth that you’re so used to, the one you can’t sleep without it. Nobody has ever made you feel this safe, and the fact makes your heart ache and your stomach twist.

“If there’s a Hell, I’ll see you there.”

[marycorcaroli]

massage w sanji. ♡

fluff, gn!reader ! !

@vulturelined 's req ♡ : my whole body hurts like hell, and i’m thinking about sanji massage hcs…

if you don’t want to write then no worries 🙏 just an idea for one of my fave mutuals

mary ♡ : thanks for the req, hope u like it ! english is not my first language, i apologize for the mistakes.

rules ; masterlist.

— i think sanji will notice from the very beginning how tired you are and how you can barely walk and stretch your shoulders and back. and he's so caring 🥺 he'll come to you right away and ask you what's wrong and what he can do to make you feel better.

"mm? what is it? are you too tired? aww, my flower, what can i do for you?" sanji literally purred saying those words to relax you a little and not to make you more nervous.

"what? you want me to give you a massage? baby!—" oh, he literally shrieked the last word and forgot about your tiredness, but it's okay, because he brushed his lips against your temple, kissing you as hard as he could. and of course he salivated on your temple.

"oh god, i'm sorry, sunshine, it's weird i didn't realize what you needed since you love my hands so much." that little shit-he's so shameless, but that didn't stop him from getting a flick on the head from you and hearing his ringing laughter bringing a smile to your face.

— first of all, sanji will ask you to undress and will run to prepare a warm bath for you, with your favorite toys, bubble bath or bombs, in general, he will do everything to make your body a little stressed and ready for the massage.

— he will gently put you in the bathtub and sit on the edge, running his hand through your hair and with the pad of his thumb he will touch your cheek, turning you towards him he will give you a quick smooch.

— god, i feel like he's gonna make different foam figures on your head. he's so small 😭

— will joke a lot while he washes you and tell you funny stories from his life to see you smile and your eyes sparkle ! ! i already told you he is the cutest didn't i ? ?

— will definitely dry your hair and brush it and then start with a scalp massage.

— ( i am not a massage therapist and i have rarely had a massage, but i will try to describe it well 💗 )

— while you are sitting on his lap with your back resting on his chest, sanji will use the pads of his fingers to gently go from the beginning of your hair to the end, and so on several times in a row, then he will massage your temples gently in a circular motion and eventually he will put all of his fingers in your hair and pull it back, but not too hard so it won't hurt you.

— ithink he will suggest that you lie on your bed while he runs back and forth to get all sorts of oils (where did he get that from¿).

— he will come to you and sit gently on your ass, kissing your shoulder and mumbling some sweet nothings.

— he will start gently rubbing the oils all over your body while massaging it.

— to relax your muscles, he will massage your neck and shoulders, using his fingers and palms. he will start with something small so that you don't feel any discomfort. he is really trying so hard for you, even though he doesn't know anything ; (

— he rubs your whole back so that it doesn't hurt so much, he kneads your back so that your blood circulation is normalized after using his thumbs in circular motions along your spine.

— and finally starts massaging your feet so that your feet finally release tension and you can sleep.

— sanji will not forget to tell you how good you are and how hard you are working for him ! !

"baby? you're not hurt, are you? ah, you're almost asleep, wait a little while and soon we'll go to bed."

"can i get you some water?"

"my moon and stars, you're so good, i'm sorry if i do something wrong."

— he's gonna pay attention to your heels, you've been walking so much and your heels are the most stressed. So he's gonna make a fist again and he's gonna make a circular motion all over the surface.

— he'll smooth your ankles and look at you to see if you like it or not.

— he will finish his massage by wrapping the palms of both hands around one of your shins, moving from the tendon to the hamstring, and then he will do the same with the other shin.

— he will massage your ankles in a smoothing motion and look at you to see if you like it or not.

— he will finish his massage by wrapping the palms of both hands around one of your shins, moving from the tendon to the hamstring, and then he will do the same with the other shin.

— after the massage, he will clean you of the oils and bring you everything you need, so that he can hold you against his side and hear you sniffing in his ears.

[brighttears]

Wise Fools

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description, no use of y/n, readers has female sex organs

Summary: you tell Joel you love him, he doesn’t react how you think, but he also doesn’t react how he wishes he had. he sorts himself out and comes back to fix things. 

Word count: 5k

Warnings: mutual pining, drinking to get drunk, SMUT (minors DNI), cunnilingus, fingering, male masturbation, mentions of PiV sex, pet names (darling, sweetheart, beautiful girl),

A/n: not super proud of this tbh but i just felt pressured to post it like i just wanted to get it tf out eeeeee. barely proofread the smut not my fave thing to write but i know it's what the ppl want 😪

—

“…I just feel like I need to tell you, I never want to be without you… and… I love you, Joel.”

You watch his lashes because he won't meet your eyes, then brush a finger over his cheek to softly hook under his chin, but just as he lets you raise it, he shifts out of your grasp and stands. 

You watch him walk away, smoothing his hand over the back of his neck, facing the dark front window in his living room, the only sound being his foot scuffing to a stop.

The air shifts. You can tell that he’s not going to say anything, and are suddenly hit with the realization that you are a fool. You fooled yourself into believing that you have some kind of control over this game, some kind of special insight or providence. You feel beat. 

He stands with his back mostly to you, his arms crossed, staring at the floor. His jaw flexes. 

A ball of lead falls from your head down through your heart to land in your stomach and your skin prickles; it’s a freezing cold feeling but you’re hot with embarrassment at the same time. Those first few times you saw him, you remember how irrefutable you saw your goal to be; like you were already his, you thought he was already yours. 

This whole time, it was just you. Your heart begins to race. 

“I’m gonna go.” You get up, pause for half a second, thinking he might try to stop you, but he doesn’t. He still won't even look at you. You feel sick. “Have a good night.” You manage as you slip out. 

—

“Fuck.” Joel stays standing after you leave, pulling fists of his hair up until it hurts. Squeezing his eyes shut, he whispers through gritted teeth, “God damn it.” Part of him is screaming to go after you but his body won’t obey, and his mind twists, curls and knots around itself. The one thing he knows for sure is that he fucked up. He feels small and stupid. And he wants his brother. 

Joel counts to fifty before leaving his house. Outside, he wants to call out his brother's name, he wants to run to him like a child, he wants him here now. Clenching his jaw, he keeps his mouth shut, and repeatedly swallows down thick threats underneath cries. Finally, he makes it to Tommy’s front door and raps on it, waits, raps again. He combs his hand through his hair, then drags it down his face, clears his throat, and sniffs hard. 

Tommy opens the door looking a little groggy, but his eyes snap wide open upon seeing his brother so undone. Once processed, he urges him, “Shit. Come on, come in, sit down, I'll get ya’a drink.”

Suddenly very insecure, Joel whispers, “Well I don’t wanna disturb Maria, I guess I sh—” 

“Nah, nah, nah,” Tommy shakes his head, “she’s asleep, but she’s a hard sleeper. As long as we’re not screamin’. Js’ come on.” He motions his arm inside and Joel finally follows. “Sit down,” he tells him over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen, and comes back out with two thick, clear plastic cups, and a large clear glass bottle holding an easily recognizable rust colored drink. He pours without a word, sits down, and looks at his brother, “Go, on, then. What happ’nd?”

Joel takes his cup, staring into it as he begins, “I fucked up, Tommy. I fucked up real bad.” He sips and keeps his eyes in the cup as he continues, “She told me she loves me. An’ I didn’t say a fuckin’ thing. Did’n even look at her.” He takes a long sip and grimaces, “So she left. Cause I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

“Aw, don’t say that,”

Joel shakes his head, “I am. I am. I’m a fuckin’ coward is what I am. I love ‘er, you know that?” He finally looks up to Tommy.

“Yeah, I kinda guessed.”

“N’ it’s like this whole time I’ve been waitin’ for that, for, I don’t even know what the fuck, to know if–if she loves me I guess, an’ she does, an’ I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I js’ froze. I froze bad. I love her, I do, I do… Fuck me. Look what I just did to ‘er.” He sloppily gulps what’s left in his glass as he finishes his sentence, then says immediately, “Pour me another one.”

“You tryna get shitfaced?” Tommy inquires, visibly concerned. 

“Wouldn’you?” 

Tommy bites the inside of his cheek, then uncaps the glass bottle and pours. “Fair ‘nough.”

“Mm.” Joel watches him pour, then raises his glass, “To bein’ a fuckin’ idiot.” and throws the liquor back. Tommy follows suit, for his brother's sake. 

—

You stumble the short way to your house, almost falling, and curse yourself for being so weak as to be physically hindered by nothing but a broken heart; nothing you haven’t felt before… this time feels different, though. 

Once inside your house, you sniffle, cough, and walk straight into the kitchen, dragging a chair behind you to set in front of the refrigerator. You climb it to retrieve the one bottle of alcohol you keep in your house: a bottle of wine, old as shit, found on the road. You don’t bother with a glass nor do you pull the chair back to the table, simply collapsing in it there and take out your pocket knife to work at the cork. 

How the wine tastes isn’t something you pay any mind to, though it’s possibly one that you should savor, being that it’s aged and all that. Within a few minutes, half of the bottle is gone, set on the counter next to your chair, where you sit, legs spread, elbows on your knees, nails on your scalp.

You told him you love him, you said the L word, you broke your rule, made many broken hearts ago, to not fucking do that. Why did you think, really believe, that this time was different? What a fucking fool. 

Sitting up straight, you breathe deeply, grab the bottle, and then guzzle another cup out. 

Should you just leave Jackson? Run away? It’d be best for the both of you, you think. Where would you go?

Suddenly, the question hits you: what's the point of going on if you have nobody?

You are well acquainted with this feeling of brokenheartedness and deep lonesomeness. However, you’ve never experienced it in a house like this, warm, unarmed, drunk. Well what's the point of staying in Jackson if all you’re going to do is… what, this? Go to the fucking movies? And avoid Joel. No way would Tommy talk to you. Maybe not Ellie, either. You couldn’t blame either of them. He’s theirs, they’re his, all running with loyalty in their blood. Not you, though. You are an outsider. 

Don't you dare allow the simple thought of what's the point? That is not allowed. For all the people you’ve known that have died, who held on with everything they could to the last fucking second, you can’t give it up. Even if it all just means pain, fear, and loneliness. 

At least if you’re alone all you need to fear for is yourself. Definitely not over some silly man, of all things. Some silly man, who you love like you’ve never loved before, who couldn’t bear the thought of that, so much so that he had to pretend like he hadn’t heard it, that you weren’t even there. 

“Jesus Christ.” You slur, standing, holding the bottle, and take a few empty steps into the empty living room. The couch bounces back with you when you plop down on it. Your eyes fall closed. Without opening them, you set the wine bottle on the coffee table and stretch out on the couch.

Clips and images of Joel run over your eyes and you’re drunk enough to enjoy them. You reflect on the first time you saw him, how unbelievably beautiful he was, and how funny he looked, like a lost little kid walking down the street, and then the first time you met, when Tommy called out his name while you talked with him leaned against opposite polls under the awning of a shop. Something about the cool light tones of the winter contrast ridiculously well with him and you were near starstruck. Immediately, you knew It was him. Then you started seeing him around more, you worked on a couple projects together in town, did patrols, met up on each other's porches, talked just to talk. You could talk for hours, nonstop, always something more to add. The kind of immediate connection you had is one you can’t remember the last time you had with anyone. By the end of winter, you were thick as thieves. 

And you had misread all of it, and ruined it. 

You jolt up. Then decide to move upstairs to bed, for some comfort at least. It works like a charm and you’re out cold within minutes of snuggling in under the covers. 

—

Tommy convinces Joel to quit drinking before he can’t walk anymore, which he decides is fair. Drinking isn’t helping anyway. It’s an extremely refreshing walk home. He isn’t unable to walk upstairs to his room, but he simply can’t be bothered, and he doesn’t want his creaking stomps to wake Ellie, so he flops on the couch, boots and all. 

In his drunken state, Joel squeezes his eyes shut and wills time to go back, so that when he wakes up, it’s yesterday morning, and he can do that all again, and do it right. In his head, he works out exactly what he’d say as something to convince time that it’s gonna go backwards for him. 

From the moment I saw you, I swear to god I knew it. You were different. And ever since then you’ve only proven me right. I just adore everything about you. Now that you're in my life I can't imagine life without you because I don't want to. I want forever with you. 

I have a hard time with love, I can't remember the last time I told someone I love them. Out loud, at least. I hope I've shown you I love you. But you need to hear me say it. I love you, I love you, I love you. I'll tell you every day. Every night, every morning, I'll tell you I love you.

Loving you feels like freedom, it’s like finally being able to fill my lungs all the way up with air. And it comes so naturally, feeling this way, and trying to show you. I can learn to say it. I'll learn to say it for you. Because I need you to know. 

I'd be lying if I didn't say I'm scared to death, of all of it, of being in love in the first place. Scared to death. But it’s not going anywhere, and I never know when I'm gonna die, and I don't see the point in trying to push all this down because I don't know how long I have left to really, actually live, and loving is what makes living worth it. Love is the whole point. And I'll show you, I'll do everything I can to show you til the day I die, but if you tell me you love me I'll tell you back. So I'm telling you back. I love you. 

Joel mouths the words ‘I love you’, trying to get a feel for them again, and falls asleep with them still in his mouth. 

—

It takes you a long time to get out of bed once you wake, between the headache and the heartache and fear of facing the day. 

Why go to breakfast? You probably won’t be able to keep it down anyway. Water sounds fantastic, though. So, finally, you drag yourself out of bed, keeping the blankets as a cloak, having apparently stripped completely nude at some point in the night. 

Water was indeed a great idea. You feel it running through your brain, cooling and clearing. It doesn’t help anything else, though; last night still happened, your relationships are still ruined. Do you have anything going on today? Any reason you have to leave the house? No. Well, then, you won’t. Staying in bed all day sounds too depressing, so you go back to your room to slip on your biggest tshirt and your most comfortable pair of underwear. Your wrap your blankets back around yourself and they drag behind you down the stairs. With your trial, you feel like you must look like a slug.

To the couch it is. The bottle of wine from last night still sits on the coffee table. Day drinking crosses your mind, but it didn’t make anything better last night, so fuck that. You push the table away with your foot and slouch down as far as you comfortably can. You miss TV. 

—

When Joel wakes up, there is a short pause before the grim memories of last night come back to him and he draws out a swear as he wipes his hand over his eyes, forces them to open and then himself to sit. The light of the windows in front of him stings his eyes and he stands up to turn away, his knees struggling hard, and rubs his pained neck. He is too old to be sleeping on couches like this. That’s fine, he deserves pain anyway. 

The idea of going after you runs around in his head, hitting and spinning every other thought, and once again he’s lost. After a couple minutes of trying to figure something out, he thinks fuck it and heads for the front door. 

It’s warm, wet, cloudy, and a short walk to your house, not allowing Joel enough time to give in to cold feet. He makes it up to your porch but gets stuck there at your front door.

What is he scared of? He knows you love him, he just needs to tell you he loves you too, and apologize, maybe on his knees.

The image of him being on his knees in front of you brings a new idea in his head—his hands on your thighs, your hands in his hair; he wonders how you sound when you moan, how you taste, how long it’d take him to make you cum. Joel tries to shake the thoughts out, taking a deep breath. That is not the task at hand. However, a new realization re-electrifies the ideas, which he’s had many times before, but now… if you love him… that means he might be able to actually find all that out.

This is not the time for that, Joel scolds himself. 

He takes a deep breath. Shit, he forgot to figure out something to say. What was all that he had last night? All he remembers is how to say ‘I love you’. Shit. Joel takes another deep breath and starts practicing it again, barely audibly telling your front door ‘I love you’ over and over again. 

In his focus, he does not notice any kind of sound or movement inside your house until the door opens. 

—

Standing in front of you on your porch, Joel looks disoriented. You don’t know what tone to use to ask what he’s doing here so you say nothing. 

“Can I come in?” He finally speaks. 

You unthinkingly nod and stand aside to open the door for him. 

Once shut, you turn to him and nervously pull at the hem of your shirt. You felt too stupid with those blankets on, so you abandoned them on the couch, but you probably should have put on more clothes before you opened the door. Should you excuse yourself, go upstairs to change, leave him down here?

Suddenly, you realize that things between you are awkward now, and it makes you want to cry. 

“Alright.” Joel starts just in time, facing you with his hands on his hips. He still can’t meet your eyes. Is he here to scold you? Say ‘how dare you’? ‘You ruined everything’? ‘I’m leaving’? ‘You should leave’? Instead, he shocks you by saying “I’m sorry.” Then he slowly works his brow up to peer at you. You huff, flustered. He looks back down. 

“Why?” You let out, small, and his eyes shoot back up to you. He raises his head up fully, looking at you square, and swallows hard.

There’s a pause. Neither of you look away. 

“Last night. I fucked that up.” His voice is deep and uneven. Joel’s shoulders move with a deep breath, “Listen. I… shit.” He looks down, taps his toe on the floor. You cross your arms protectively over your chest. “I fucked that up. I’m sorry. That wasn’t… that didn’t… express what I wanted to… what I feel. I just get scared, y’know?” He looks at you, then back down. “I mean, you do know. But I, I realized that it doesn’t matter. That’s all bullshit. Cause here you are, and here I am, and… Jesus.” He shakes his head, then talks like he’s unleashing it, finally meeting your eyes, and you can see the earnestness in them, “Listen. I feel like I was always just waiting for you, I just didn't know it.” Joel’s gaze falters again. Then his voice is deeper, softer, quieter, and more melodic, “I dream about you. When I’m asleep and when I’m awake, an’ I think you’re the most beautiful thing. You’re js’ special. An’ I feel lucky that I met you, and I adore you. Everythin’ about you. An’ I don’t care what they say about sayin’ shit like this, cause you are perfect. An’ I gotta thank you for sayin’ somethin’ first cause I’m a fuckin’ coward, an’ I’m just sorry it took so long. You deserve more, you deserve to know every day. I know I… I just… even if it’s not… like that, I hope I show you how much I care about you.” Eyes focused firmly on the floor, Joel scuffs the toe of his boot. “I’d do anythin’ for you. I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll go wherever you go, an’ I’ll get my shit together so I can tell you, every morning, every night, every time you tell me, that I love you. I love you.” Joel swallows hard and keeps his head down. 

Chills run up and down you. Why do you feel like crying? He looks so sad and shy and you want to hold him up, raise his chin, straighten his posture to how it should be, head held high; you want him lying in bed like this so you can make him feel better with your mouth and your hands; you want to just hug him, feel him holding you, so warm, so protected, you want to be engulfed in him. You’re too far away. So you take two quiet steps towards him, stop, and then take one more. Two more steps and you’d be on him. He’s watching your bare feet as you approach. 

Your voice is quiet and delicate when you ask, “So you love me?” and he finally looks up, slowly examining your body from the feet up and finally to your eyes. 

“Yes.”

There's a pause, you take another half step, and ask, “Can you kiss me?”

The few seconds it takes for him to find his way to your lips last a very long time, and the moments once they actually meet can’t last long enough. 

You let out a sigh as they do, losing touch with gravity a little, resting back in his arms wrapped around your back, preoccupied with his lips hard against yours, finally knowing them, finally tasting him; you want to drink him in, have him inside you in every way, a part of you. This first moment, you see as so, and appreciate all of the newness, the finally, finally, finally, finally.

He lets you pull off his layers until he’s only in a t-shirt, and you’re chilled over and over again in excitement and something else, whatever it is, you don’t care, all you care about is his arms almost bare, so thick and strong, his hands in places they’ve never been before, smoothing over your back, hooking around you, dragging over your front, over your stomach with a pressure that opens your mouth and furrows your brow. He pulls away then, only enough to be able to look at you, and his brow is relaxed in a way you’ve only seen hints of. He brushes one hand clumsily over your face, this thumb over your lips, and you angle your head down to catch it in your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip, looking him in the eyes. With a deep breath, Joel takes his hand away to kiss you instead, deep, wet, pressing your foreheads together, then slowly backs you all the way up against the wall. Then he drags himself down, keeping most of himself on you as he does, hands following your curves, chin or lips dragging down however they can, and then he’s on his knees. 

Joel brushes his hands up and down the sides of thighs, then grips your hips. “Can I taste you?” He asks softly, big, puppy dog eyes looking up at you. 

Frankly, you breathe out, “Yes.” 

Joel takes a deep breath, first pressing kisses just above, then over your underwear with a pressure that makes you tingle just under it. He opens his mouth and drags it over you open, still over the fabric, with a heat that you know has you absolutely soaking already.

Still looking in your eyes, Joel hooks his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and pulls until they drop around your ankles. He bunches up your long t-shirt in a fist, lifting it up and resting it on your stomach, then he holds your hip firmly with his other hand, stabilizing himself as he moves his mouth in. Joel focuses, ready to finally show you what he can do for you, secretly smiling as he licks a line up with a flat tongue, proud when your chest jumps with a gasping moan. He repeats, kitten licking you, getting you nice and wet for him to take your clit into his mouth, forming around the sensitive tip to suck and massage with his tongue. Intense pleasure takes your breath away and as you gasp your nipples begin to feel more sensitive rubbing against your shirt and you let your hand smooth over your breast. 

“Shit Joel, fuck,” you breath out, then lean your torso forward as you moan, and fall back as he releases your clit.

Joel moves his hand from your hip to under your thigh and lifts it, pressing the side against the wall, opening you up more for him. His head bobs as his tongue slides further in, licking a line straight from your hole up to under your clit, and then again, this time sharpening the tip of his tongue to lick under your clit until it flicks off. Your pussy craves it seemingly with a mind of its own, controlling you. 

“Yes, Joel, fuck, just like that, oh my god,”

And so he repeats, the tip of his tongue continually stimulating the underside of your clit. When your hips turn up into him he lets his mouth shift down to swirl over your hole, his nose instead rubbing up and down the area above. Your moans are chocked, deep, and long, as you feel that pressure beginning to unwind inside of you. Knowing that it’s on him, you want to let go, give yourself to him, let him have you.

From your sounds, Joel can tell he’s closing in, but no way is he letting this last only a couple minutes. For one thing, he doesn’t want this to end, but he also wants you in ruins by the time he’s done. Joel swipes one more flat lick over the full length of your pussy and then pulls away, looking up at you. The tip of his nose shines with your wetness and he’s near out of breath. 

“Not lettin’ you go that easy, darlin’, ain’t gott’n my fill yet.” He stands, pulling himself up using your arms, and is back in your mouth, no concern for how he’s licking your own cum into your mouth. You don’t really care either anyway, all you care about is how he’s on you. Arms wrapped to hold your stomach to his, you feel his strength again. In between kisses, Joel says, “I’ve been waitin’ so long to know how you taste. Waitin’ so long to make you feel good like that. You’re so fuckin’ sexy. You’re so beautiful. I wanna see you cum. I wanna make you cum with just my mouth. Just my mouth on your pussy.”

Sounds fucking good to me, you think, almost making yourself laugh, but don’t waste any time to speak so as not to take away from your tongue teeth and lips on his. Being connected to him like this feels so secure, so correct; the awkwardness that had scared you so bad has vanished and now you’re closer than ever before, in body, spirit, and mind. 

Your lips allow you, “Do whatever you want with me.” 

A line of saliva keeps you connected when Joel pulls away, both of your faces wet, mostly with you. His hands shift to your forearms, holding them to pull you as he walks backward, guiding you to sit you down on your couch. When you’re down he’s immediately back between your legs, grabbing your thigh to hold out, and you see his other reach to what must be down his pants. The idea of that, Joel stroking himself just under you, makes you feel hotter still and you moan as his tongue connects. He makes a sound and it vibrates through you and you grip his hair and let yourself fall back, your other hand used to stabilize you on the couch so that you can arch your back and watch him. As his tongue rolls over your opening, he peers up at you. The image of him here itself could be enough to push you over the edge. So many days admiring him, soaking up his beauty, and how many times have you touched yourself imagining something just like this? 

Joel has the same thoughts going on in his head as he strokes himself rapidly. As much as he wants to feel himself all the way inside of you, as far as he’ll fit, and feel you squeeze around him, he’ll save that for you for another time. For now, he’s getting off just fine watching—making you get off.

“Joel, that feels so good,” you whine, he hums again and your hips jolt up. 

Joel’s eyes stay locked on yours as all of his own movements become unsteady with the more pleasure he gives himself, his hand pumping up and down his full length. He’s never been this hungry in his life, and here you are to devour. 

“Joel I know you’re touching yourself I wanna see you cum,”

“You first, darlin.” He says basically into you. He uses his tongue to tease your hole with swirling force, then licks up to your clit and sucks it. Keeping his focus there, he releases your thigh to utilize that hand to hook two fingers into you, then rocking them in and up.  

As soon as he starts with this you know you’re done for, and when your face screws up and your hips roll, forcing him to follow you, he knows, too. Joel strokes himself faster, fed by the feeling of his fingers inside of you and this prizing view.

You hold your thigh up for him, your head is leaned back and eyes squeezed shut, triggered by pure pleasure. The pressure building inside of you is like a balloon that Joel repeatedly hits with his two hooked fingers and you feel yourself squeezing, and try not to squirm away as your body rolls closer and closer to overwhelming climax. 

“Joel Joel Joel Joel Joel,”

As he comes close to finishing himself, Joel’s mouth opens wider, but he does what he can to keep you stimulated, closing it and moving his tongue all up and down wherever it can, and then he sucks, and his fingers land on your G spot and he rocks them and you’re cumming, loudly. Joel does not release, fighting through your writhing to pull you through your orgasm and with his last licks, he cums, and you shake as his moans vibrate through you. 

You slow to a stop, Joel removes his fingers once your pussy releases them, and falls back to sit on the ground in front of you. His pants are undone but his boxers are up, hiding his dick but not the wetness of his cum in them. Shy, you lean forward to cover yourself with your hanging t-shirt. You’re both smiling like giddy kids, and you kiss again, unavoidably wet, but soft, slow, and sweet—appreciative. You keep your eyes closed for a moment when you pull away and he smiles watching you. 

“Now what?”

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere near noon.”

“You wanna go get lunch?”

You smile. “Alright. Just let me get dressed, I mean, I have to… clean myself up.” You chuckle shyly. 

Joel stands, zipping his pants back up and redoing his belt. “Yeah, me too. Need a whole new pair a underwear. How bout I meet you back here? Won’t take long.” 

“Alright.” You smile, reaching down to pull your underwear back up and stand, twisting your legs around each other. 

Joel walks behind you to pick up his discarded layers and you watch him shamelessly use the inside of his coat to wipe down his face. When he looks up, he smirks slightly, looking you up and down, steps towards you and then leans in, “Gimmie some sugar.”

You smile and oblige, leaning in slow and taking his lips in yours. What was meant as some cheeky kiss turns soft, sweet, and sincere.

This is how things are now, you realize, you can kiss him, and he can fuck you, and you can go get lunch together. 

“I love you.” You quickly add after you pull away. 

“I love you, my beautiful girl.” 

You beam, he basks in it.

[necrotic-nephilim]

omg another Tim Drake multishipper, hello!! :3 I haven't seen much Tim/Dick, but I'm a HUGE fan of DamiTim and JayTim!

If I may ask, what are things about Tim/Dick that you like? I haven't seen that ship before, so I'm curious! :)

hello!!! i am the biggest Tim multishipper, i will ship that guy with anyone and everyone. but i have such a soft spot for DickTim and would LOVE to talk about them oh my god

there are so many angles you can use to look at DickTim, but the primary one is their relationship to the Robin mantle and how it influences their relationship to each other. Tim is the Robin that Dick chose and gave his mantle to. because while yes, Dick accepted Jason as Robin, Dick was *not* the one who gave Robin to Jason, that was Bruce. and Dick didn't fully approve of it, not as a slight to Jason but just being protective of his mantle. but Dick approved of and gave his mantle to Tim. and on Tim's side, when Tim came to Dick in the first place, it was to ask *Dick* to be Robin, not to be Robin initially. Tim is Robin because Dick refuses and guides him into that role.

with Dick and Tim in general, there's this repeated insistence on both sides that they know what's best for the other and will try to force the other into that role. Tim thought Dick being Robin was best for Dick (and Bruce) and tries to persuade Dick into that role. and later on, when Dick gives Robin to Damian, in the fandom it gets treated as some big asshole move, but in reality Dick does it because he sees Tim as his equal. he thinks Tim is ready to move on from Robin and doesn't want Tim to be his Robin when Dick is Batman because it would be insulting to Tim. and i'm not going to get into whether or not Dick handled that correctly bc that's a whole other post and that moment gets fanonized as it is, but the point is, Dick was doing what he thought was best for Tim. and the driving force of *any* of their conflict is never genuine malice, it's one of them trying to do what they think is best for the other and it causing disagreements. all of their conflict is born out of love and care for each other. when Dick doesn't believe Tim about Bruce being alive, it's not out of doubt of Tim's detective skills, it's out of love and concern for Tim's mental state. (bc historically, Tim has proven very poor at coping with grief) and i personally deeply enjoy ships that are a tad fucked up and dead dove, and the best way to dead dove DickTim is to make them *too* controlling of each other. they try too hard and go too far trying to "help" each other and that can make for some messy middle ground.

but even at their worst, they still make up. Tim and Dick still managed to get back on good ground after the whole Red Robin thing and Dick immediately trusted and believed Tim. their relationship is not a perfect one, but it's one born out of love and trust. neither of them handle being angry/distant with each other for long and they will always attempt to mend things. i'm rarely a New-52 fan but, i've always loved Tim's reaction during Grayson (2014) when he finds out Dick is alive. (Dick died but came back and has been forced by Bruce to continue faking his death bc he's undercover and all) of everyone, it's Jason and Tim who have the worst reaction to Dick being alive. it's an incredibly hurt betrayal. Tim loves Dick so much he can't fathom the idea of doing that to Dick, so he doesn't know why Dick could do that to him. it's one of my fave DickTim moments. the deep hurt and how long it takes to rebuild that trust. but still Tim immediately works with Dick and is willing to help him with a mission. no matter how angry he is, he will always let Dick in and be there when Dick needs him. it's so crunchy to me. they're not always *good* at making up in their low moments, but they will never stop trying.

furthermore, i know fanon has sort of latched onto "Jason was Tim's Robin/hero" which is certainly cute and fun as a concept, but Tim is canonically the biggest fanboy of Dick Grayson to exist. he loves Dick and he loves the mantle of Robin that Dick has created. i personally firmly believe Tim at some point had a childhood celebrity crush on Dick and i can't be convinced otherwise. Tim views Dick through the lense of Robin bc Tim is just massively Weird about the Robin mantle in such interesting ways. when Tim hallucinates Dick encouraging him during Batman (1940) #456, he hallucinates Dick as Robin, not Nightwing. there's such a pedestal that Tim puts Dick on in his mind, i think it's very easy to see that be a romantic attraction. during the Unternet arc of Red Robin (2009), when Tim is in the Unternet his Red Robin suit looks like a Nightwing suit. it's *very* clearly derivative, and that suit was created by his subconscious as how he sees himself. (as per how the Unternet works and all) so Tim's *idealized* version of Red Robin is built off of Nightwing's image.

more on Dick's side of things, when Dick kills Joker during Joker: Last Laugh #6, he does it because he thinks Joker killed Tim. and to be clear this isn't a heat of the moment thing. this is premeditated, multiple characters try to stop him from finding Joker because he fully plans to kill him, and does. (ofc Bruce gives him CPR and all) it's *Tim's* death that pushes Dick over the edge to compromise his morals, even when he knows killing Joker is just letting Joker win. he can't get over his anger over Tim's supposed death though. Dick is incredibly protective of Tim and I think that's fun to play with how far Dick is willing to go for Tim compared to everyone else.

a lot of characters in the Batfam are purposefully entangled, but Dick and Tim feel very fated in a specific way. Tim was there, when Dick's parents died. he saw it happen and from that moment on, his whole life's trajectory was changed in the direction of Dick. i would argue it's Dick that brought Tim into the fold, not Bruce. there's just so many countless moments of them looking up to each other, checking in on each other, helping each other out, etc, especially during the 90s/2000s. they work remarkably well as a united front against Bruce, for me. when they need to hide something from Bruce or just need someone on their side when Bruce is being Bruce, they always go to each other and trust each other far more than Bruce trusts either of them at times. i think a lot about their dynamic during Batman: Prodigal and how being Batman and Robin while Bruce was... off doing who knows what served as a bonding moment. no one else was really around, it was just Dick and Tim relying on each other and getting to know each other better.

of all of Tim's relationships in the Batfam, i would personally argue he's closest to Dick. so much love is already built into relationship, so turning it romantic is a natural and easy step. you can add a lot of conflict from their more unstable moments of attempting to make choices for the other or just have a very sweet and loving partnership because of their trust in each other. it's such a good ship to me.

[milla984]

And in the Beginning...

Summary: after spending a day at D.C.’s most renowned multifandom convention Spencer and Garcia stop for a coffee. Spoiler alert - our fave Resident Genius dumps their order on Reader.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader (Reader is a sci-fi buff)

Category: fluff

TW/CW: swearing, mentions of food, some Star Wars-related talk

Word Count: 2k

Once again, a ginormous THANK YOU to @drgenius-reid for taking the time to beta-read the first draft (aka witnessing the horror)!

The following work is my entry for @imagining-in-the-margins' CM Meet Cute (or not) Challenge and is also part of the series Spencer Reid, my beloved

“Highlight of the day?! Jamie Hewlett signing my copy of The Cream of Tank Girl! In you face, Mr. 'Superman Can Fly'...!”

The woman carrying a Chinese paper umbrella rummaged through her purse to retrieve a wallet and pay at the coffee truck parked outside the convention center; stylish two-tone glasses matched the army green jumpsuit with a teddy bear patch on her right leg and the blue mandarin collar button-down shirt she was wearing, and her blond hair was tied up in a pair of small side buns.

The tall man beside her chuckled as he picked up two cups. “I don’t know if I should be more impressed or worried.”

“Why?! We made a deal and it’s perfect: he can have Sci-Fi-Gate, I’m keeping WashCon.”

“Sci-Fi-Gate has amazing Star Trek guests, though…”

A long and colorful scarf was wrapped around his neck and a deep red cravat necktie peeked out of the hem of a plaid design vest, combined with a single-breasted brown coat and a pair of grey pants. 

“I can't believe you would really choose the Captains of the Enterprise panel over my emotional stability,” she frowned, paying zero attention to the cosplayer in a trenchcoat with a pair of black wings attached to their back she was about to brush past.

When the feathers smacked her cheek she pulled back, the tips of her umbrella almost poking the tall guy dressed as Doctor Who in the eye; the sudden movement startled the cosplayer and a rapid swing of their dark wings created a commotion in the crowd of people waiting for their turn to order. In the confusion that followed, a random shoulder bumped into yours and pushed you out of the line and off the sidewalk, right in front of the Fourth Doctor - who was struggling to maintain his Fedora in place and watch where he was going at the same time.

Needless to say, he ended up failing at both.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” the blond woman asked. 

“I’m so sorry, SO SO SORRY—” the tall guy apologized simultaneously and she cut him off, rushing to your side.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

The frantic exchange prompted your brain to whoosh into light speed mode to elaborate and discharge the ‘Ah, shit!!’ and ‘wait… is this iced macchiato?!?!’ inputs in favor of a more suitable reaction at the sight of the considerable amount of caffeine soaking your hoodie.

“... I think I’m okay.”  

“First-aid manuals suggest removing all clothes or jewelry near the affected area within moments after the spillage of a hot liquid,” the tall guy said, and the woman gasped in shock. 

“Please tell me you didn’t get burned! Once I got this non-fat steamed white chocolate vani—”

“I’m fine,” you growled a bit. 

Someone behind you was snickering and, despite the relief of not having sustained serious injuries, the attention was already making you feel uncomfortable.

“Scalds are caused by sources of humid heat and certain types of fibers retain the water, which can be responsible for additional damage to the skin,” the tall guy explained again, speaking faster than anyone you had ever heard.

You tucked your shirt in your jeans and raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Let me guess: you’re a doctor.” 

“Well… uhm, yes, this is my…” he faltered, unable to tell if you were referencing his costume as a pun or not. “I am, actually.”

“Not that kind of doctor,” the woman added.

She sighed as soon as she realized you were standing there speechless, drenched in coffee, your gaze wandering back and forth between them. “I’m so sorry…”

“They should be more careful with the lids. I think I got lucky,” you muttered through gritted teeth as you pulled the zip down.

Thanks to the decision to splurge some money on yourself, earlier on, you had something to replace your soiled hoodie with. The Fourth Doctor looked away and focused his attention on the cups he was still holding in his hands; before he threw them in the nearest trashcan he inspected their content, confirming he’d fortunately spilled on you a combination of 98% half-caf iced caramel macchiato and just 2% regular hot americano.

The woman was still clasping the handle of her umbrella. “Listen, we were about to check out this itsy-bitsy lovely Indian place ‘round the corner, maybe you should come with us. You know… to try and get cleaned up a little.” 

You dug into the shopping bag at your feet, taking a sealed package out to rip the plastic film wrapped around a brown sweatshirt with a stylized front print of the panoramic view of the desert, Jabba the Hutt’s palace and twin suns on Tatooine, and put it on. 

“No offense, but my parents taught me to never follow strangers.” 

“None taken,” the tall guy replied, “they were absolutely right. According to the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System, about 90,000 individuals are reported missing in the U.S. every year and the National Institute of Justice estimates that approximately 4,400 unidentified bodies are recovered annually.”  

For the second time in less than five minutes, you considered the possibility he could truly be from Gallifrey. You also wondered if he was aware of his perfect facial structure: everything about his demeanor indicated he wasn’t too skilled in the art of charming people using his sculpted jawline and lean figure. 

“... do you always quote statistics about murders and kidnappings like it’s a casual topic of conversation?”  

His eyes got even bigger, showing a hint of gold on the inside. “It was merely an observation—”

“Yeah, he… does that,” the woman came to his rescue, “and even if it sounds bad, trust me it’s- it's part of his job. Our job. Except, I don’t deal with the scary, disturbing, yucky stuff.”

Your question wasn’t meant to come out in such a sarcastic tone. “You’re cops?!”

“FBI. Tech Analyst and Behavioral Analysis Unit,” she explained, and the tall guy waved a silent greeting at you. 

Even though the chance of running into the Bureau personnel stationed in D.C., at some point, wasn’t unreasonable, ‘two FBI agents walk into a multifandom convention dressed as characters from sci-fi TV shows’ could have easily been the beginning of a bad joke. 

Plus, it was hard to picture the Fourth Doctor as a G-Man. “What’s your Ph.D. in, exactly?”

“I have a Ph.D. in Mathematics. And Chemistry, and Engineering. And I hold BAs in Psychology, Sociology and Philosophy.”

“Google him. Spencer Reid, B-A-U,” the woman suggested after a short pause, in response to your skeptical expression.

Judging by her tone she was daring you to, as if the situation wasn’t already giving off major The Twilight Zone vibes… and yet, instead of bidding them an unenthusiastic farewell, you pulled out your phone to type his name. 

A plethora of results popped on the screen seconds later, so you first clicked on the link titled BAU’s newest member. 

“With three doctorate degrees from Caltech already, and a staggering IQ of 187 as well as an eidetic memory there is no psychological exam or test the FBI could put in front of him he could not ace,” the piece said about newly-recruited Spencer Reid.

“When I ask why he chose Caltech over MIT and Stanford, he quickly runs down a list of Professors he had a desire to study with. He makes no mention of the weather or girls,” an older article reported.

You skipped through at least a dozen mentions of SSA Reid’s outstanding performances in the field, then a PDF document, property of the California Institute of Technology, caught your interest and you read the title aloud. 

“Identifying non-obvious relationship—” 

“Non-obvious relationship factors using cluster-weighted modeling and geographic regression,” he recited by heart, “that's my Engineering dissertation.”

He was too prepared on the subject and too adorably peculiar to be an impostor posing as a genius FBI agent for kicks, during the weekend; you picked his Fedora off the ground as a peace offering. 

“Seems like you’re a wunderkind, Doctor Reid.”

Spencer lowered his chin so he could mask the rush of blood to his cheeks and his friend giggled, gently linking arms with you. 

“Now, there’s something relevant we need to discuss, pronto… how do you feel about veg biryani?”

An hour and a half proved to be all the time you needed to form a solid conviction that Spencer Reid going on a spiel about the original blueprints of a fictional space station was the best thing since sliced bread.

“It’s part of the iconic imagery Lucas wanted to establish, there’s no health and safety. And don’t forget it was originally designed by the Geonosians.”

You snorted at the mention of the classic ‘designed by a flying alien species’ argument. “That’s not an excuse! Even if the Geonosians designed it, they knew it was meant to be used by humanoid creatures.”

After leaving the restaurant, where you had insisted on paying for your share - much to Garcia's dismay, you’d walked back to the convention center’s parking lot and now you were waiting by your car for Penelope to get hers. As you had recently discovered, she loved mugs, old Italian movies and playing the ukulele; Spencer wasn’t as outgoing and chatty, especially about his private life, but Star Wars was for sure one of his numerous areas of expertise.

“TIE fighters don’t have a proper defense system and the original prototype even lacked structural integrity to support atmospheric flight. The Empire doesn't care about casualties, it’s safe to think they never bothered to install a guardrail or other appropriate safety measures because to them the Death Star technicians are expendable.”

“Okay… solid theory,” you admitted, making him smile as he wiped his forehead to get rid of a lock of curly hair.

“Thank you. It’s nice to have a discussion with someone who knows about the Geonosians. Or the Death Star. It only happened twice but I’ve had people asking me what that was.”

When the convertible Cadillac with a plastic Hawaiian lei tied to the rear-view mirror stopped inches from you, Garcia - behind the steering wheel - proudly gestured at the extension of her eccentric personality.

“Meet Esther. Isn’t she fab?”

You wolf whistled your appreciation, gliding your fingertips over the leather upholstery and orange body paint. “Quick question: how much do you think I’d get if I sued two FBI agents for… damages, let’s say?!”

Penelope produced a fluffy pen out of the glove compartment and scribbled something on the back of a PetMAC receipt she handed it to you. 

“Sweet pea, if I were you I'd settle for a lifetime of free IT support.”

“I’ll take it,” you said, “I’m kind of tired of being bullied by my own laptop.”

She stared at you for a moment before her face lit up, like a girl on a trip to a four-story candy shop. “... have you ever been to Baltimore ComicCon?!” she asked out of the blue while Spencer plopped himself down on the passenger seat.

You shook your head. “Do you guys—”

“We should totally go together!!” Garcia proposed. Or rather, declared.

In all honesty, the prospect of attending another convention on your own was depressing and you’d given up on the one in Maryland for that specific reason; you turned to Spencer for his approval, too, and he nodded, maybe because he knew there was no way of stopping Garcia if she had her mind set on a specific goal.  

“Baltimore it is, then…?!”

Penelope shot you a smug grin. “Keep in touch. We still owe you a nice dinner and ComicCon’s not up until September, I’d hate to run a background check on your license plate to find you.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the idea and saluted them goodbye as they drove off, Esther’s taillights shining bright red.

What a weird Saturday. Meeting a real life genius and the quirkiest FBI agent ever came with a price, and one of your favorite hoodies was most likely beyond salvaging. You needed to know if Spencer Reid was well worth it.

Garcia’s words then echoed in your ears, so you sat in your car and unlocked your phone, scrolling through the most recent Google searches: you had a lot of reading to do. 

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover, @thisiscalmanditsdoctorreid, @pretty-boys-book-club, @spookydrreid, @f-me-reid, @foxy-eva, @scorpiofangirl1109, @a-potato-wearing-plaid, @cynbx, @reidsbookclub, @nagemasstuff, @hotchsdharma, @reidmainbitch, @lizzylynch1, @will-grahams-eyes, @padawancat97

»»»— read pinned post for taglist info —«««

[ladyluscinia]

I'm already so sick of how the fallout of ofmd season 2 has snowballed into people on here going "fandom these days just can't handle Bad Things happening in media-- newsflash, characters have to get hurt and die, grow up!" all condescending like. First of all, in the context of Izzy, most people I've seen discuss his death agree that they would've accepted and enjoyed his death if it had just been handled appropriately, and also. "You just can't handle bad things happening to your fave!" Bruh. We were all partying it up when Izzy lost his fucking leg and was suffering physically and mentally. It can be FUN to see your blorbo suffer!

And that is just one example of a larger trend on this site-- people are really gonna come onto the "we love putting our blorbos in the blender and watching them struggle and suffer" site and say "kids these days can't handle Bad Things happening to their blorbos." Sorry, but that's just nonsense. Fandom loves their fix-its, but they also love shattering their faves. The problem has never been Bad Things happening in general, but HOW those things are framed within the narrative and how that narrative is told. The problem is when something is out of place in its genre, or when it goes against a promise the show has made, or when suffering is used flippantly and uncaringly, or when a character suffers and suffers and then just when they've finally caught a break, they're kicked down again, just for a cheap tug at your heartstrings.

Both within the context of ofmd AND in a wider fandom context, fandoms LOVE when our blorbos are hurt, as long as our blorbos are hurt RIGHT.

... And I think it sure is Something that a fandom can have a rampant issue with fans of a character being harassed and sent death threats and that's just "normal fandom being fandom" but god forbid people feel Emotions. About a Character and a Show. And dare to react by... just Offering Criticism! No, death threats are "fandom culture that comes with the territory," but if you vent post or criticize a writing decision in media, THAT'S being "hysterical" and "overly emotional" and "truly frightening behavior!" I just LOVE (big sarcasm) how back when people were getting doxxed and threatened for liking a guy, the fandom was all *cricket noises,* but NOW suddenly everyone is "terrified and exhausted by fandom's volatility" and "concerned about the fragile mental health of fans" when you simply say "damn that episode sucked and I sure am sad about it."

The OFMD fandom was toxic as fuck for a year and a half and continued to be toxic as fuck for all the airing of S2, so hardly surprising that the aftermath of S2 appears to be... toxic as fuck.

Least surprising thing in the world is that the people who hated Izzy and passively or actively supported driving his fans out of the fandom for "ruining it for everyone else" now think his fans should leave the fandom if they are so upset and stop leveraging "baseless criticism" at the show that is "ruining it for everyone else." They have normal not-at-all-parasocial relationships leading them to directly @ David Jenkins and thank him for a season that somehow managed to be both flawless and have all its flaws blamed on MAX, but those wretched Izzy stans have horrible-evil-parasocial relationships making them harass the crew by *footage not found*

If Mr. Jenkins decides to go scroll the #ofmd s2 tag on tumblr and stumbles across me - a random blog and icon - outlining how I think he fucked his show up, that's pretty clearly on him? This is tumblr. I have no relationship with this man or obligation to tailor every word I say as if he's bound to see it and going to take it personally???

I'm actually a big proponent of "Don't @ the cast and crew about pretty much anything" because the same fandom mentality that makes you think you can randomly ask him about your headcanon like you're chatting is what all these people are melting down about if someone directly goes "hey you killed my favorite character and that makes me mad!" - same fucking people, same fucking parasocial relationship. The standard of "only @ them for good things" is the flimsiest fucking line, as any ao3 writer who has received unsolicited "constructive criticism" or "advice" can tell you.

If we want to snidely get into "what this is really about" well it's the same fucking thing it was before:

People substituting subjective opinion as objective fact with zero self-awareness of doing so. "I liked this so it's good." "I didn't like this so it's bad." "I got bad vibes from that character so he was clearly written to be horrendous and unlikable." "I sympathized with this character so anyone suggesting he has flaws is demonizing him."

Or the deepest circle of fandom hell: "I think [insert identity] rep is so important and this piece of media fits into however I personally define 'good rep', therefore it is flawless and/or morally significant enough to be above criticism."

...which, yeah, leads to temper tantrum levels of fandom infighting, especially since people online express, fairly frequently, "I didn't like it because it was bad" and then present evidence for their point. And also a lot of fandom likes bad TV. Or even just mediocre TV that's entertaining.

I personally was not going to be happy about any person beyond one-offs, blatant villains, and background randoms dying because "they had to" (for their own arc or someone else's) because I fundamentally think if you believe you've written yourself into that corner in a workplace comedy that's built around a main romance arc... you're kinda stupid. Yes, even if it's pirate themed. Enough injuries have been walked off and lampshaded to confirm that part is aesthetic.

The fandom wiki for The Office lists 11 deceased characters. Three of them are fictional characters who die in an action-movie episode. Two are one-offs that get named dropped seasons later as having died offscreen. One of them is an offscreen cat, who appears to have had a more significant death plotwise and emotionally than any of the humans, and another is a woman who literally exists as a picture someone makes up a personality for and then discovers the real woman died. The most significant character on the list is a temp boss that got a four episode story arc about being a useless idiot who died in the hospital after a basketball dunking accident.

That is a show that ran for 9 seasons and over 200 episodes. It's pretty universally regarded as good, and the cringe asshole boss getting genuinely moving emotional beats is a big part of that. I think we can maybe pretty confidently say that reflecting the random realities of death is not essential to every story.

If OFMD wants to be evaluated as a hard-hitting drama or a queer story about the struggle of piracy against the Evil Empire, I will compare it to Black Sails instead of The Office. I just don't think David Jenkins is going to enjoy that comparison.

I'm not going to lower my standards because [insert rep reason the show must absolutely be a wild success here].