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imrllytootiredforthis · 7 months ago

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The ‘bad’ kind of desire

pairing: soobin x reader

synopsis: you can't touch him, because he's too innocent, too sweet. but god you wish you could.

warnings: implied fem reader (can't remember if it's outright said), dom reader, sub soobin, masturbation, fingering, lowkey corruption kink, mentioned mommy kink, think that's really it

a/n: the first portion of this fic has been in my drafts since roughly july last year and was in my notes app for a few months - at least - longer than that so don't even ask me how old this really is, but at least it's out!!😭

“Am I bad person?”

Beomgyu scoffs, looking at you with eyebrows raised. He nearly laughs at the ridiculous statement coming from your mouth.

"What?"

And that makes him lose it, unable to even hold it back as he barks out a laugh, looking at you as if you've grown a second head.

It’s a hard thing to fathom coming from you given that you’ve definitely never had any qualms about your morality when it comes to this kind of stuff. “Really? You’re asking me that?”

His best friend sits across the room, oblivious to the conversation, his headphones pulled over his ears, the game he’s playing flashing on the computer screen in front of him.

Soobin.

Sweet sweet Soobin, messy blonde hair left unbrushed, pajamas still on, not bothering to change as this was all he was planning to do all day.

Sweet Soobin who you can’t help but want to play with.

Who you can’t help but imagine how pretty he’d look with tears in his eyes.

"I'm not fucking around Gyu-am I a bad person?"

You groan and flop over on the couch, rolling over to rest your head in Beomgyu’s lap, looking up at him with a comically-in his opinion-concerned expression.

He gives you nothing but an exaggerated eye-roll. "Don't even start."

“But aren’t I?” You look again at the boy across the room, wondering why, why he had to be so stupidly adorable. His lips were twisted into a small pout and why it was so fucking cute.

Why? You wondered, feeling like this was all you were doing nowadays.

Beomgyu resists the urge to roll his eyes at you for the second time in a row, now at the way that you look at his best friend like some kind of lovesick fool, especially considering that all you really wanted was get into his pants. It didn’t really make sense, but hey, who was he to judge?

“Why? Just because you want to rock his shit? Step on him and make him cry? That makes you question your morality? Out of everything that you've done?”

You gasp, slapping his chest. “He’s right there.” You hiss, not exactly denying the words.

He ignores that, shoving you off of him. He knows as well as you do that those headphones are the expensive noise cancelling ones that he'd gotten from you last Christmas. He barely hear himself yelling at his online teammates much less your hushed conversation.

You look at him as if you want to take him out on a nice picnic date and let him lay his head in your lap while playing with his hair pointing at clouds. Which Beomgyu couldn’t really see in any world, you were never really the type.

But who knows? Maybe you were really just that eager for his dick at this point-or the more probable scenario-have him on your dick, that it broke something inside you.

“Why’re you so concerned now? Not like you had any issues with Yeonjun or Taehyun. Hell, you kept up everyone else in the dorms,” His voice goes higher as he attempts to poorly mock his roommates. “‘Y/N, more~’ ‘please, I need it-need y-‘“

“Shut the hell up.” You spit, quickly covering his mouth with your hand while your eyes flicker once more to him, still staring intently at his game.

Really, why were you so concerned now?

Beomgyu was right. You’d had no problem doing the same to them, to Tae and Yeonjun, but they were different-he was different.

Soobin was different than any of them. They were the product of having fun with someone you knew like the back of your hand and vice versa. Simply satisfying-albeit unimportant-a matter of getting your rocks off with people you knew could find your clit and would let you hit it from the back.

Soobin was Soobin though. The sweet boy who looked at you with the most innocent smile.

Who got all blushy and embarrassed when you so much as lightly and non-vulgarly flirted with him.

He’d squeak and duck his head away when you called him bunny - again, non-vulgarly, trying to hide the fact that he was blushing and it turned him on-just a little bit.

In other words, painfully obviously, it was clear.

“He’s a virgin!” You hiss, hand still clamped over his mouth despite his garbled reply. You know just as well as Beomgyu knows how bitchless his friend is. Despite the fact that offers for him were nearly endless he was too shy, too awkward to accept said advances. “-I can’t take that away from him, it needs to be special, it needs-“

Your hand, still over his mouth is touched by something warm and wet and you shriek, pulling away quickly with a look of disgusted horror. “Are you serious right now?”

“Fight me bitch, I will not hesitate.” He growls, looking triumphant with the fact that you’ve now backed up to the edge of the couch.

You roll your eyes at him, looking once again at Soobin.

Fuck, why does he have to be so adorably innocent?

Beomgyu rolls his eyes, wiping at his mouth. "Just trust me, he'd be happy to be used by you. He might be a virgin, but he's nowhere near innocent."

"And what do you mean by that?" You sit against the arm of the couch, wiping Beomgyu's saliva onto the cushions.

He lets out a dry laugh, glancing back at Soobin before reaching for the previously forgotten remote control. "It means he wouldn't be as freaked as you think he would be if he found your sex toy collection."

—-

You suppose Soobin had always been special in some sort of way.

Always there over the span of time that you'd known all of them. Sitting off to the side while you hung out with the others. In his own room while you were fucking around with his other roommates. Playing his game while you were hanging out with Gyu.

He'd caught your eye more than once or twice, or three times over the years.

He was hot. You'd never discount that. Hot in the loser-y, adorable, cute, corruptible kind of way.

But then again, that kind of was your type if you thought about it.

You'd never been particularly close with him like you'd been with the others. He'd never made much effort to hang out with you but he was there when all the others were, if not one-on-one.

And he got really, really embarrassed when you tried to flirt with him like you did the others.

You didn't mind much, you'd just come under the impression that he was kind of scared of women. Which was also kind of cute.

But Beomgyu was right when he'd said that you'd never cared much about morals in the first place.

It didn't matter how close of friends or if they were a virgin or whatever other silly things that made things like that 'trivial'.

Life was too short to pretend you didn't feel things and besides. Sometimes, you really, just...didn't care.

And it wasn't personal, when you wanted someone, you would pursue it and if there was now friend groups you'd single handedly broken up, well they'd clearly made it personal themselves because you always made it very clear that there was no feelings involved.

Besides the raw, hot tension that made your skin tingle like your nerves were livewire.

Soobin was different though, special.

You felt bad for wanting him. For wanting to dirty him up.

He was something pure, something beyond and above you, perhaps and that was something you weren't willing to ruin, no matter what Beomgyu told you.

—-

"Fuck," he panted, "please,"

The room was dark, the light of his laptop being the only thing illuminating his face.

"Please,"

Sounds filled his ears through the crappy pair he'd owned for years, refusing to get wireless ones.

"Please."

"Bet you fucking like that, don't you?" The voice, only a few octaves higher than your own, still sent shivers down his spine.

Close enough.

"You're a such a dirty slut, you know?"

He whined into his sleeve, a sweater paw pressed over his mouth to keep the moans at bay. "I'm sorry, no, no please I'm sorry~" It wasn't doing a very good job muffling his voice though.

"I need it~"

The video seemed to respond to his desperate pleas. "If you need it so fucking bad then you'll be a good boy and wait for mommy's permission. You hear me?"

Or maybe he'd just watched this video so many times he'd memorized all of the male counterpart's lines. "Yes mommy," he panted, "I'll be good, I-I'll wait for your permission!"

He wouldn't. He knew he wouldn't.

He couldn't, as much as he prided himself on being a good boy. This time he knew he wouldn't even make it through the seven minute and thirty-two second video.

Not with you in the next room.

He couldn't tell if you were with Yeonjun or Taehyun. It didn't really matter either way.

Because he would only focus on you.

You weren't loud, having endured enough of Beomgyu's teasing and gripes about your sexual habits. He decided he hated Beomgyu for that.

But he could hear your pants through the paper-thin walls, heavy and followed by your quiet praises. "Sweet boy," you cooed, just as the porn on his laptop continued, "Naughty boy, such a messy little-" He ripped the earbuds out mid-sentence.

He wanted to hear you.

Not some substitute for the real thing.

He could imagine if you walked it on him right now.

Laying spread out on his bed, pants not even all the way off-just messily pulled below his hips, just enough for his dick to breathe properly and for his hand to easily slide up and down with the amount of pre-cum leaking from the tip.

"Fucking please." He moaned, quiet and needy.

You'd see him a mess, his soaked through sleeves catching the drool from his lips, teeth biting into the soft fabric to keep from crying out too loud.

You'd see him shamelessly fucking up into his fist, calling out pleas with no one there to hear him.

"C'mon baby, you can take it, take it all for me." Your voice was accompanied by the wet sounds of what, Soobin wasn't completely sure but his mind quickly conjured a few different theories. "That's it, a little more~"

Fuck him, he wished you were speaking to him.

Cockwarming him, your pussy wrapped around his dick, warm and wet and squeezing around him so good. Fluttering kisses over his face and throat as you teased along the length of him, slowly lifting up just to agonizingly sink back down onto him, clenching tight while he moaned into a kiss.

Or stroking him to another orgasm, making him cum again and again until his body was shaking and tears streaming down his cheeks. Telling him he could take more, do it one more time, for you. Because whatever pain you'd inflict would be worth it, after all it was your hands doing the damage.

"Fuck you look so pretty like this, just makes me wanna fucking wreck you. Turn you into a mindless whore on my dick."

Fuck, so that was what it was.

His mind managed to come up with one more picture through the haze.

You'd have his wrists pinned over his head with one hand, over him, keeping him down with a surprising amount of strength.

God, he could imagine the way you'd look at him. Maybe you'd be kind and gentle, sweet words and a sweet hand, fulfilling every one of his fantasies while calling him your sweet little bunny.

Like you were with whoever you were with on the other side of that wall.

But he doubted it. Or, he hoped not at least.

In his head you'd be meaner, crueler. Look at him with dark, hungry eyes and watch in a sadistic sort of glee when he cried, when he whined, when he begged and pleaded for more.

You'd thrust into him, hard and punishing, slowing down just to make sure that he wasn't crying from serious pain before you'd slam your hips against his, driving the tip of the toy dead into his prostate.

He'd beg you, plead you to slow down, to be nicer to him.

You'd tell him no. Tell him to be a good boy, voice patronizing and low, tell him only good boys get rewards.

God, that’s what he needed right now.

Needed you.

Your words, your touch, your scent, your presence even. You eyes on him, watching as he fell apart.

Not you fucking someone else in a different room.

Liquid heat flowed through his body, scorching and consuming every coherent thought.

"More."

He imagined it was you. Your hands all over him, pressing up against his throat, fondling his balls, purposely, maliciously ignoring where he needed to be touched most while you drove into him over and over and over until he was screaming in ecstasy.

It wasn’t enough, not nearly

"You just love my cock, don't you angel? Love being fucked by me into a mindless whore?"

He silently cracked the lube open, lathering his fingers in it before letting them drift lower.

He'd done this before, but it had been awhile and the stretch was beyond overwhelming with your words ringing through the wall.

“You’re just a little angel, aren’t you, bunny?” And he pressed a finger inside, thrusting shallowly, breath picking up as you got louder.

"No, you're not an angel. You're a fucking whore, taking it like you were made for it, huh?" A second finger, following the first, scissoring himself open with a quiet gasp.

"Yeah? Fuck, is that it?" You laugh and he swears it's right in his ear, ringing through his head. "'m gonna make you scream for me baby,"

He whines in frustration, his fingers not deep enough - you not deep enough inside of him. No, he needs it deeper, harder.

More.

"Get on top of me baby, ride me," you mutter, so far but so close.

He can imagine, as he settles on his knees, that the pillow he straddles is you. That his legs are around your hips. That his fingers, positioning on the bed under him is your dick and your hands are pressing against his hips, holding him in place.

"You're mine, you hear that? Mine. My perfect little slut, taking my cock like a pretty little slut." His body trembles, eyes rolling back as he slowly sinks down onto three fingers.

"Your's." He moans in reply.

And finally, finally, he reaches his prostate, hitting it head on with his fingers.

Stars burst behind his eyelids as they slip shut, back arching into the intrusion. He could cry, he thinks distantly that he maybe is.

But it doesn't matter.

Because your hands are on his hips, controlling his movements, leading him the way you want him to ride your cock.

Up,

"Slut." You whisper.

and down,

"Whore." You lean up, teeth nipping at his neck but not hard enough to leave marks.

over,

"Baby," Breathing over the shell of his ear.

and over,

"Good boy~" Teasingly biting at his earlobe.

harder,

"Bunny," Kissing along his jaw.

faster,

"Mine." Across his cheek.

deeper.

Just barely there, ghosting across his lips-

"-Cum for me baby,"

And he does. With his mouth hung open, drool covered sleeve long forgotten over. With his eyebrows furrowed and body curled into itself, fingers pressed against his prostate.

Ropes of cum covering his chest, and his face. Some reaching his lips and his chin, staining his skin and landing in his open mouth.

"Fuck,"

And on the other side of the wall, "Good boy,"

a/n: i was thinking about making a part two but honestly if it took me a year to find the inspiration to finish this one, i'm not sure a second one will ever come out😭

#soobin x reader #soobin smut #sub txt #txt x reader #txt smut #sub!txt #sub kpop #sub idol #sub!soobin #sub soobin #afab reader #dom reader #dom!reader

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astrolovecosmos · 6 months ago

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Sun in the 4th House: Golden child, matriarch or patriarch of the family, attention - seeker, the family artist, everyone in the family's heard of them, the family pride, legacy, identity may revolve around family, FAMILY IS EVERYTHING

Moon in the 4th House: Matriarch vibes or mama bear, the caretaker, strong ancestral connections, the family's counselor, loyalty and tradition matter, provider and/or protector, YOU DON'T TURN YOUR BACK ON FAMILY

Mercury in the 4th House: The family's problem solver, the one to keep everyone connected or up to date, the smart one in the family, knows everyone's business, the tech guru, the organizer, the family historian, FAMILY IS WHERE YOUR STORY BEGINS

Venus in the 4th House: Holidays at their home, keeping the peace, the one to join families together, has the family's talents, gets all the compliments and maybe all the attention, best friends with some family members, IN FAMILY LOVE IS ALL THAT MATTERS

Mars in the 4th House: Head of the household, needs their space, competitive or hot-heated family member, always at the center of conflict or family drama somehow, never runs out of energy or passion, the defender or warrior of the family, FAMILY CELEBRATES THE GOOD TIMES AND GETS YOU THROUGH THE BAD

Jupiter in the 4th House: The family's moral compass, the joker or prankster, the family fool or wise woman/man or sometimes both, bold and productive family member, so generous, open-hearted, making waves or making legends, the lucky family member or maybe the one who always "seems" to have everything handed to them, A FAMILY'S VALUES MATTER

Saturn in the 4th House: The responsible one, provider and protector vibes, the stern or controlling one, taking on all of the family's problems and burdens, cares a lot about what their family thinks, can be distant, strong sense of duty, the reliable one, can be the scapegoat of the family, FAMILY SHOULD BE A SANCTUARY

Uranus in the 4th House: Family rebel, maybe outsider, can be about found family, the weird one, has unconventional family dynamics, detached or separated family member, making new traditions, brings change or new understanding to family, always moving, trendsetter or leading the way, FAMILY LOVES YOU NO MATTER WHO YOU ARE

Neptune in the 4th House: The psychic of the family, the healer or counselor, the sensitive one, the one who might get babied, coddled, or overprotected, the dreamer or artist of the family, may romanticize their family members or dynamics, takes inspiration from family, lack of boundaries, FAMILY IS WHERE LIFE BEGINS AND LOVE NEVER ENDS

Pluto in the 4th House: Intense family member and/or grew up in an intense family, uncovers family secrets, can be the family's healer or therapist, the witch in the family, deeply loyal to family, what happens in the family - stays in the family, empowers others, protective, the possessive or controlling one, is always right, FAMILY IS WHO YOU SHOULD/CAN BE VULNERABLE WITH

Chiron in the 4th House: Healing family or ancestral wounds, breaking cycles, asking questions no one else will, stirs the pot sometimes, family members tend to take their side or goes against them, can be a family scapegoat, the spiritual one, the erratic one, the insightful family member, FAMILY IS WHO'S THERE FOR YOU AT THE END OF THE DAY

#4th house #astrology #natal chart #zodiac #sun #moon #mercury #venus #mars #jupiter #saturn #uranus #neptune #pluto #family #chiron

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moondirti · 8 months ago

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due to popular demand, a follow up to this featuring: 18+ content, gaz, ballerina!reader, internet stalking, men being gross, another a thinly veiled character study

Kyle is a good man.

Granted, his metric is not attuned to common standards for morality anymore, nor has it been that way since basic. He's sure that if he were to pick any sheltered samaritan off the street to read out his laundry list of transgressions, they'd balk at the fact that their taxes go to keeping him fed. They'd rather their image of the army stay unsullied and ideal. They'd rather keep him at arms length with a thank you for your service and not confront the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

But he can no longer be held to their degree. No longer exists within these spaces. No. Kyle – or Gaz, if one were to go off of what he's called most often nowadays – is a doorstop. A pestle. Something inconspicuous, obscure, that serves the sole function of making life easier for everyone but itself. And he assumes this role with a handful of others who have nothing else to live for, exiled to crowd the back of Foxhounds and kill at a moment's notice. Foul men. Friends.

If someone were to line up every operative on a special forces unit, or better yet collect the likes of the 141 and asses each for their moral standing, Gaz can rest knowing he'd come out on top. He's not yet as far gone as they are; can enjoy a night out or a pretty bird writhing underneath him without wanting to choke her out. Only devoted to his captain, or the others, to the extent that their professional relationship calls for (no matter how much it itches at him to watch Ghost take care of Soap, or to reject Price when he offers him a drink).

Sure, he laughs at their jokes. Might pitch in when they're swapping stories of their filthiest catch, Soap rattling on about the lass who'd stuffed her tongue up his arse, or encourage them to shoot on sight if they spot a potential threat, civilian or otherwise. Yet the difference is this: when he goes home, he can stuff that all away.

Knows not to let it infest the boundaries of the real world. Off deployment, his comrades play pretend at the noncombatant lifestyle, but the guise is ill-fitting. They're too big for their skin. They stretch and tear at the conventions holding them in place, like feral dogs made to heel. Kyle doesn't have to be tamed. He's still functional, familiar with the expectations held of him. Can submit to integrity more easily than most.

Kyle is a good man.

And that's what he tells himself as he returns home, train car completely void of anyone but himself. He's good for having given you up. He's good for not have followed you home. There'd been a brief lapse of judgement, but he's good for doing something about it before things passed the point of no return.

You've lived this far without his protection, he reasons. Yet it doesn't change the unreachable itch, closed away in a supposedly locked box. Gaz. Or, his captain's voice, cigar-smoked and advisory.

But why should you continue like that.

It's hard to fall asleep that night.

He's sick with worry wondering if you ever got home, bile broiling and distending up his throat at the thought of having abandoned you. It's pure concern that compels him to find your socials, really. Kyle is only searching for an update, or recent post, indicating that you're alive.

With nothing to go off of but a face, he searches for dance studios in both Acton Town, your area, and the Kensington, the area where you'd boarded the tube from. He makes a shortlist of the most reputable ones (your attire seemed to imply that you were a seasoned ballerina) and cross-checks them as hosts of upcoming recitals. Two renditions of Swan Lake and a production of Giselle turn up, each with their very own cast lists. Thus begins a tireless search of every name credited.

His heart almost leaps out of his nose when you eventually load into view, then plummets at how easy you'd been to find.

Your vulnerability only sets Kyle's conviction in stone. Bloody good thing he's got your best interests in mind.

Locked twitter, a LinkedIn, and a public Instagram page which sends his blood pressure skyrocketing after checking your follower count. Popular. And of course he can see why. Over a hundred posts chronicling bright smiles and flattering outfits. You mainly use the account to promote your practice, though; feed full of skimpy little outfits, leotards and exposed sternums and impossible poses.

Stop it. He's here for something specific.

Kyle sips in a deep breath, scrolls back to the top of your page, clicks on your most recent post. A casual video of your leg raised on a barre while your friend counts how high above your previous record you're able to stretch. Your skin is sweat-slicked. Your mouth is thrown open in a half-laugh, half-pant. He almost forgets why he clicked on it in the first place, before the timestamp catches his eye.

30 minutes ago.

So, you'd gotten home.

He can go to bed now.

Exit your account. Swipe up on Instagram to clear it from his running apps. If he's extra disciplined, he'd block you. Rob himself of the temptation to tug himself over the photo of you in the splits.

Kyle is a good man because he knows his limits.

(But Kyle now also knows the address of your studio. That, even if he blocks you, it'll take up space in his chest. A ticking-time bomb. A knowledge that'll haunt him whenever he's on the District, Circle, or Piccadilly lines, and the train announces Gloucester Road. A force, a stone in his throat, that'll grow so large it'll force him to stand up and disembark, to walk until he's standing right outside and wait on you to wrap up rehearsal.)

It occurs to him that the point of no return has long since passed.

inclusivity note: i felt the need to say that, while reader is a dancer, her profession is not meant to imply anything about her body type. flexibility and agility are not limited to thin builds, and while the ballet industry can be very toxic, i've seen my fair share of spaces where all figures are embraced and success is determined only by ability!

#ooo i love him a little delusional actually #kyle 'gaz' garrick x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle 'gaz' garrick #gaz #kyle garrick #gaz garrick #cod #call of duty #x reader #x afab reader #tw stalking

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netherfeildren · 1 year ago

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With Mercy for the Disturbed

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: He's a father and then he isn't, and then he's in the perfect place with the perfect girl, and he's done so many bad things that terrify the both of them. And then, finally, he's saved and there are dancing bears and doors newly opened, and everyone's a little mad at the end of it all.

-OR-

the Hannibal/Alice in Wonderland AU wherein Joel loses his mind

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: AU; Dubious Consent; Dark Fic; Doctor/Patient Relationship; Forced Orgasm; Rough Sex; Face fucking; Oral Sex (f!receiving); Bondage; Power Imbalance; Exploration of Power Dynamics; Unreliable Narrator; Memory loss; Blasphemy; Discussions of religious disdain; Discussions of morality; References to suicide; Beware of the old man who’s crazy and lets all his intrusive thoughts win; Older man/Younger woman; Creampie; Light breeding kink; Like very light for the likes of me promise; Possessive Behavior; Kidnapping; Joel POV

A/N: Hello and hallelujah, I’m so happy to be posting this!! For a minute after I finished Pink I felt like it would be impossible for me to write anything else ever again, and felt so weird and without anything left to say. I struggled so much just getting these words down, and it was supposed to be something very different initially compared to what it turned out to be, but I think I quite like the final product. I hope you do too.

And one million kisses and thank yous and all the praise in the world to @frannyzooey for giving this a little looksy over before posting. You’re the greatest and the bestest, Kelli, thank you so so much :)

Please heed the tags carefully and err on the side of caution!!! The goings on in this are very strange and this is probably the darkest thing I’ve written to date.

Word Count: 8.8K

Read on AO3

He can’t remember her name anymore, but he remembers the number. It’s been seven hundred and thirty eight days since his daughter died.

Sometimes, he’s not sure if he even remembers his own name. He thinks it’s Joel, and the sound of it brings him comfort in a way, when it’s especially dark and confusing in his mind, and so he tells himself over and over again that that’s what it is. Joel. Joel. Joel. I am Joel. That that’s what it’s always been. That that’s the name she knew him as.

Sometimes you call him that too.

He used to be a father, and then one day, so suddenly he can’t recall how it even happened, he lost everything. Like dominos falling over in his mind – the girl, and then his memories and then the man with the face like his. He plays dominos all the time now.

In his spot in the sun in the big blue room, wearing his whites and his soft socks and taking the pills they force down his throat. He plays dominos, and he does his exercises, and he thinks of that daughter whose name he can’t remember. He says his own name over and over and over again so many times until it’s not even a sound anymore, only a buzz or a hum or a scream.

His beard is thick and his hair is long, and he does not recognize his own face in the mirror. All he sees are ghost green eyes and dark hair and a fathomless sort of failure. A father, no longer a father. He goes for walks in the garden, he eats the food they give him even when he doesn’t really want to, even when it tastes like ash or greater madness than the one he’s already swallowed. And he waits for you. All the time he waits for you to come to him, he watches the big doors that go out into the world he’s too frightened and broken to step foot in now, draws his fingertip over the gristle of scar tissue at his temple mended over invisible fracture, and he waits and waits, and he says his name and he thinks of that nameless daughter and he waits and he thinks: the morning after I killed myself, I woke up in the perfect place with the perfect white walls and now all I do is wait.

He sits in his chair in the corner now and counts the seconds for you to come for him. Always at this time, always when the sun is at that spot in the sky. When it rains, and he can't tell where he is in the world, and the clouds are swollen purple gray verging on melancholy and anger, he feels something like despairing. Something like the sort of insane they whisper he is behind his back now.

He watches the puddles filled with dark mercury grow and grow like the ocean rising out of concrete, and the orange tree that drips and weeps and sags and he thinks he feels very much that way inside too. Sometimes, when the sun shines and there are no clouds and he doesn’t feel so terribly downtrodden, or maybe worse than usual, each orange blossom opens like a hand reaching out for him. Begging him not to do it, not to think of it, not to go back to that bad place. Focus only on me, she says. Focus only on the blue walls and the perfect room and the place where the sun sits in the sky, she’s on her way, she’s almost here.

The first time they’d told him he was ill – or dead – the first morning in the perfect room, he’d been angry, affronted or offended, and he’d howled and fought and said I’m not fucking crazy, it’s only that my daughter is dead. But as much as he’d fought or kicked or screamed, wept until he was brittle and dry as a whale bone, they’d not believed him. And so, he’d come to appreciate the peace of the perfection surrounding him, the perfection of a lie, or the perfection that comes to visit him in the shape of a woman, soft and round in all the right places and pretty. Fuckable. He tries not to think of it. He swears he does. But there’s little else to consider in the perfect place. So really, he thinks of little else.

You’re almost here, he knows it’s almost time.

A few more moments of the sun in the place where it is until it’s in the place where it should be, and then you’ll be here, and he looks down at the stone in his palm, held for so long it’s turned dark with his sweat now. I shouldn’t have, but I brought you something, placed it in his hand, done that thing with your eyes and your mouth that told him secrets he wasn’t sure you were even aware you were telling him.

He knows that it’s November now because you’d said it was, and he doesn’t know why, but when you’d told him, he’d wept and wept and wept. Become inconsolable which had sent you to worrying, put the different sort of look on your face, in your eyes, the one that vibrates, that screams instead of whispers. And he’s positive you don’t know you show him that one, but he sees it anyways, you’ve got a shit poker face. And he’d told you between sobs and chokes, it’s November and it’s terrible and I can’t explain why except to say that it’s as though the earth has suddenly realized that she’s grown old and cold and there’s nothin’ she can do to prevent it except weep, and I feel very much like this in my own heart too. And when he looks back up at the sun, it’s finally where it’s supposed to be, and when he looks back at the double doors that lead away to all his fears and all the bad, there you are. You walk towards him slow and measured, and you’re perfect, perfect, perfect. Precious, impeccable, absolutely exceptional in every way. He wants very much to ruin all that pure magnificence.

He knows that he did something very bad after his daughter, after they took her, lots of very bad things to lots of very bad people. He knows this, he remembers this vividly, enjoys the memory of it, savors it like something sitting sweet and light on his tongue.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love with the idea of a girl who was gone who’d come from me who is never going to be again. Who I never made enough time for when there was still time to be made.

You always wear beautiful clothes, and it makes him appreciate the blandness of his own. That you stand out, that he’s merely a blank canvas for you to inflict yourself on. Wool skirts and silk blouses and sheer pantyhose he wants to rip to ribbons with his fingers. Makes him appreciate the beauty of you, faultless, guileless. Sweet in a way he’d never witnessed before like a kitten that’s so adorable you want to squeeze and squeeze and smother until it bursts. Big eyes and a full, soft mouth and breathy voice, and then you’re right there.“Hi, Joel,” and yeah, that’s right, he does know his name, you remind him of it all the time.

“Mornin’.”

“Ready?”

“As ever.”

The room you usually sit in to talk has a big painting of a field in it, a bear in the far off center up on its hind legs, somehow, appearing as if it’s dancing away. Even the paintings are mad here, but he likes it, wants to dance away into the far off unknown like that too.

“The middle of the day’s not the best time for fishin’ usually.” Sometimes, you let him start where he wants. Silent until he chooses to break. He pulls the thought out of nowhere. “Bein’ out there’s just the excuse, I suspect, in the sun and the water.”

He listens to the scratch, scratch of your pen. You write with one of those fountain types with the sharp point, and he wonders if you’ve ever considered how easily he could turn it into a weapon. How smoothly it’d pierce the soft, satin skin of your throat he likes to fantasize about. He would never. But he does like to think about it, pretends it’s a show of your trust, wonders if the guards and higher ups know you bring something like that in here with him. Scratch, scratch, scratch, and it makes his brain itch.

“You used to fish?”

“Think so.”

“Are you remembering?”

“Nah.” The morning after I killed myself, I lost my memories – it’s only that they’d hurt everywhere I’d touched them, and so I’d had to let them go.

“No?”

You’ve got the loveliest voice, and sometimes he wishes he could tell you to stop asking so many stupid questions about him and talk about yourself. Endlessly. He chooses a new route. “What is it about empathy that people find so difficult to be generous with?”

That soft hum in your throat he loves, the one he feels soothe that itchy brain of his. “Humans can be inherently selfish. We’re born with only ourselves, we die with only ourselves, sometimes that gets in our way.”

“No… Don’t think that’s true.”

“No?” He knows you like to lead him sometimes, like a game he doesn’t want to enjoy. “You’re the one saying we’re greedy with our empathy.”

“Forgiveness too,” he adds.

The click of your tongue, “Do you think you’re forgiving?”

“Not at all.”

Scratch, scratch. Once he’d asked what it is you write about him during these talks of yours, and all you’d said was notes. It’s the only time he’s ever been angry with you, refused to talk to you for three days after that. Only because if you wouldn’t tell him things, then he wasn’t going to tell you anything either. “Then what’s the point you’re trying to make? What’s your question?” But then he’d missed the sound of your voice too much, had felt the burn of your gaze on his skin too intensely, had masturbated too many times without satisfaction to the memory of your eyes on him that he’d been forced to relent. He needed the sound of your voice in his head also to be able to come.

“Why is it so difficult?” He asks again because he has to understand. Because he needs an answer desperately.

“It’s hard to see someone as simply themselves, simply human – a sentient flaw, so to speak – when they make a mistake. And yet, as grievous or offensive as something can be, we all do it eventually. Some people have no patience for that.”

“Even though they themselves will eventually, inevitably, do it too?” He can feel himself getting upset, his heart beating too fast, a cold sweat sprouting at the back of his neck while his face flushes hot and red.

“Yes.”

“That’s bad.”

You shrug, “Perhaps.”

“Selfish.”

Again, “Perhaps.”

And then the true source of his anger, “I think I’m like that.”

You nod like you understand, and he wants to shake you and make you see that there’s no way you actually could. “Would you like not to be?” It pisses him off when your voice goes all even and patient like that.

“Yes. I hate people like that. I hate people that can’t find it in themselves to forgive – to give someone a second chance.”

“Why do you think that is?”

He can’t help himself when he vomits the words, not fully expecting them to come out so slicked in truth as they do. “Because I wish someone would give me one, even if I don’t deserve it. F– forgive me– But even then… what does it matter? What does it matter if I’m forgiven, given a second chance, absolved of all my sins? Look at where I am. Look at what I've become. I’m entirely lost to myself. You know, sometimes I can’t remember my own name if you don’t remind me of it.”

“You’re Joel. You had a daughter. Her name was Sarah.” He flinches at the sound of it, wants to bare his teeth at you like a rabid animal. “Your brother is Tommy. He calls every Friday at three o’clock to ask how you are. You’re Joel Miller.” That’s right. The morning after I killed myself, I met my brother for the first time. The real him. The him who’s afraid of me. The real Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Sometimes the name rings familiar in his mind, again, when you remind him of it.

He shakes his head, swallows a gruff sound, tries to shutter the manic look he knows floods his eyes, reverts back to his initial thought, “False senses of moral superiority disgust me.” The sun’s shining in at an angle so that there’s a single tendril of sunlight wrapped around the slim of your crossed ankle, gripping the nylon covered limb in its light. Joel’s eyes shift jealously from that held piece of you to the shadow of far off rain he can see in the distance through the window, trying to find some measure of peace in the sight. It’ll reach here eventually, and he tries to ground himself in the inevitability. “Yes, there’s right and wrong. There’s also humanity. There’s also the right to grow and learn, and to make mistakes that, in the end, make you better. Who are you to condemn me? Is your glass house so pristine not a stain mars it? Grace, forgiveness, empathy… I find those infinitely more valuable than whatever false sense of good and bad you’ve decided makes me worthy or not,” he says, eyes cast towards the coming rain. He can feel your gaze on his face, and he does not want to acknowledge it.

“But the things you did were bad, Joel. You hurt people. You killed people.”

That makes his eyes snap back to yours for the way you say it. As if you’re sharing a bit of inconsequential news with him. The weather is about to hit, the rain is almost here. Can’t you see it, just there, in the distance? Voice so even and soft. Sometimes he calls you angel, when he knows he’s charmed you enough just to get away with it, when he’s said all the things he knows you want to hear from him and smiled all the right smiles that cost him so much. Voice like a goddamn angel, face like a goddamn angel. Everything else… like something come straight from Hell to drag him down to where he really belongs and never let him go.

He eyes you suspiciously. “The Bible says an eye for an eye. They killed my daughter so I took their eyes.” And then other parts.

“And then their lives…” And then their lives. He nods once, succinct. “You ascribe to the scripture?” You snap that little leather bound book open again, red, scratch in it once again, all your secrets about him. That itch returns, stronger than before. He bites down on it, chews it away within himself.

“What? Like I believe in it? Fuck no. Fuck religion. It isn’t real. A weak construct made for weak men in need of comfort. And– and… like what – it’s going to save my soul? I ate that a long time ago, angel. Look at where I am…” He shrugs, letting his head fall back in a circular motion, coming to rest on his shoulder. He can’t help but smile at you, he knows you hate it when he gets like this, all ornery and heretical.

You purse your lips, shake your head at him gently, and he wants to eat the lipstick from your soft mouth. “You believe in angels though… you call me–”

His smile cranks up another notch for a single beat. “Gotta believe in somethin’ that’s right in front of my eyes, don’t I? What d’ya think, that’m crazy?” And his eyes slide to the window again, smile melting off his face. “‘Sides they told me so–”

“Who told you what?” Voice slow, measured, all serious-like. He rolls his eyes, feels the stone of anger in his belly heat, spin, jump to his throat.

“They killed my daughter,” he spits like a whispered scream instead. The shadow of rain is closer. If the dancing bear were out there, it’d be lost to the deluge by now. “I should’ve done worse. I would have, had I not been thrown away in here.” He remembers that a man with a face like his left him here, but he doesn’t know who. He shakes his head, jostles the non-memory out of his ears, searches harder for the dancing bear, killed a bunch’a people, he murmurs to himself, once more again, because he likes the sound of it.

“So you’re talking about yourself. You want to be forgiven.” He doesn’t like when you tell him, when you don’t ask. It makes him feel like you know something he doesn’t, and he wants to know everything you know.

“No. I don’t know.”

“Do you feel thrown away, Joel?”

“I feel forgotten – impossible to remember,” his voice cracks at the end, eyes suddenly wet and hot.

“By who?”

“The world.” He can’t remember his childhood. He can’t remember what he was like as a child, and it makes him sad.

You’re quiet for a long time, no more scratch, scratch, scratch, no more itch. No more angel voice, and then, very soft, like you know you shouldn’t. “I remember you. I haven’t forgotten you.”

Once, a time ago because he can’t discern lengths of it anymore, it doesn't exist here in the perfect place, amidst what, he thinks, is a lot that you know you shouldn’t have allowed, you’d changed the routine up on him. Had sent for him, instead of coming for him yourself. When he’d stepped into the room where you have your talks, you’d been facing the big window, looking out at the green, the line of your shoulders and the dip of your waist and the swell of your ass in your skirt that shifts like water around your knees and the saliva pooling heavy in his mouth, it’d been too much, too much for a broken thing, and you hadn’t turned. Like the pen, like more trust, you hadn’t turned to face him even though he knew you’d heard the door snick shut behind him. He’d stepped as quiet as he could up behind you, quiet like when he was sneaking to kill, and he’d brushed a single tip of his finger up the length of one of your skinny, little ones, so much smaller and finer than his thick, brutish ones, stroked the palm of your hand. You’d made the tiniest sound, interrupted by a swallow, but he’d heard it. He’d heard the want in it. He’d not forgotten either, and he sees that sound in your eyes now, again, as you stare at him with an intention he’s not so fucking crazy that he doesn’t know you shouldn’t possess.

He smiles a little again, and you don’t return it, but it’s okay, he sees the sound of your want in your eyes anyways, and that’s infinitely more satisfying to him. “It would serve us all well to remember to try to be a little more empathetic, a little more forgiving.”

You swallow, shaken, he can tell. Shaken by that thing inside you for him he knows shouldn’t be there. You scratch a little in the book, say slowly, “It starts with you, I think, you have to forgive yourself first.”

He doesn’t acknowledge that. There are things you talk about you clearly have no understanding of. You’re young. You don’t know better. He understands. “I think… I think, I haven’t been myself lately.”

“Who have you been?”

And again, he doesn’t mean to say it, but you tell him so much you don’t mean to say either that he feels he might as well also. “Someone–” That anger again, he can’t help himself even though he desperately wants to. “Someone my daughter would be afraid of.” Full blown rage now. At you. Yes, at you. You force things from him he doesn’t want to give you, and there’s a thing within him that wants to punish you for it, take a pound of flesh in repayment. “I want someone to forgive me. I want to be forgiven. I want to experience it.” Truth is like fire, hypnotizing, seductive, once it catches, inextinguishable. He wants to hate you sometimes for forcing these things from him, for not giving him a choice, and worst of all, done so unintentionally, unknowingly. He wants to not give you a choice either.

“From who?” You ask. Silly little girl. You need to learn the art of restraint, of temperance. He should teach you.

“Our hour’s up.” He looks away, dismissing you. As if he’s the one in charge here, and not the one caged. Divested.

“No, it isn’t. It’s–”

“Our hour’s up,” head snapping back towards you, barking– “It’s time for you to go.” And something in his gaze must tell how far he’s been pushed, by you, for you jerk up and out of your chair suddenly, turning to scurry towards the door, not bothering to say goodbye, not bothering to turn back, not bothering to notice the clatter of your pen on the linoleum.

He watches you go, a single black seam runs up the back of your hose, and the sight makes him feel violent, eager for darkness and the solitude of his white box room.

He doesn’t know why, maybe the way the rain beats against the singular tiny window in his room, maybe the way it whispers at him like all the other things that whisper at him now, but he knows you’ll come before he hears the stunted jangle of keys, the sigh and click of his door, the bare pad of shoeless feet on the hard floor, you’d thought this through, your too fast, too shallow breathing.

He’s staring up at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head, cock hard, a little chafed. He wasn’t able to make himself come tonight, sometimes it doesn’t work, sometimes he needs the imagination of your wet cunt more than just the mere memory of your voice in his mind and the remembered feel of your gaze on him, but he’s never let himself picture the full act of fucking you. Thinks it would send him to a level of unhingedness he’d find unable to restrain in your presence. He only thinks of bits and pieces of you, like a dissected doll pulled apart for his half pleasure. Never the full thing, ever.

You try and say whatever it is you want to say several times before it finally comes out, all choked and feigned regret, but you do try and put on a good show, swallowed up by nerves as you are. “I– I just– I just came to make sure you’re okay,” you whisper. You’ve never been in his room before. He’s never had you in his space like this, and it makes him leak.

“You didn’t come for that.” Voice slow, still wide eyed, looking up at the white domed ceiling, something like victory in the shape of a hymn pounding through his veins. He won’t look at you until he’s ready.

“I… I felt badly about how we left things this afternoon. I shouldn't have– I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t end our talk the way– the way… Joel?” You stutter, trail off, voice small and unsure.

He sees you move out of the corner of his eye. One step forward, two back, pressing up against the door again. Little bunny full of regret for coming into the wolf's bed, and he moves suddenly, swift despite his age still. He has little to do here besides move his body, make sure it doesn’t grow rust. He sits up quick as a whip, swinging his legs over the edge of his too small bed, planting his feet wide and sturdy on the cold floor. He can see the tremble of your throat even from here, the pristine lines of you. Your hair and your face and your tits and the tiny little pearl buttons of your blouse like soldiers waiting to be felled on the battlefield. He’s going to rip them from you, pluck the garments keeping you hidden away from your skin, spread you out, filleted.

“That’s not what you came here for, angel.” He shakes his head slowly, and your panic ricochets higher, makes his cock harder. Your arm reaches back for the latch slowly, fumbling behind you, and he braces his legs. Your other palm outstretched, fingers trembling. He gives you another slow shake, as if that small gesture could keep him at bay. “I hear all the things you tell me. Don’t worry. I always hear.”

“Wh– what do you mean?”

“I always see the things you want me to know. I know… I know. It’s okay.”

“I don’t– I’m not sure… I shouldn’t have come.” Your hand finds the latch, angling your body to slip through as swiftly as possible, and his muscles coil tight and ready. “I just wanted– to– to make sure…” You pull the door open, move to slip away, and he lunges for you, catches the edge of the swinging door, lets you float in the lie that you’ve gotten away for a few seconds, scurrying a few paces down the dark corridor of his perfect place where he’s found his perfect girl.

The morning after I killed myself, I found an angel.

You make it as far as the bend in the hall before he’s trapping you in his grip, swinging you around so fast you bounce against the white tiled walls, cages you there, open mouth immediately at your jugular, biting down hard while his big palm completely smothers your face, forces your choked cry back down. His other arm wraps around your waist, lifting and dragging you back down the hall towards his white box and his little bed and all his fantasies, artery caught between his teeth, no more choices to be had, exactly like you leave him all the time. He whispers at you to be quiet, quiet, quiet, angels are always good, and then he’s shutting the door behind him, trapping you inside and plucking the keys from your skirt pocket, locking the two of you away together as you should’ve been from that first day.

You try and struggle in his arms, little feet kicking weakly at his shins, scratching at his sides where he has your arms trapped, but the sound of your fight is restrained, held low and gurgled in your throat, and he knows that you know that this is what you’d come for, that you’re getting exactly as you’d sought.

“Fight harder if you’d like,” he says low in your ear, throwing the keys to the far corner and wrapping both arms tight around you, pressing all the air out. Finally, fucking finally. He’s touching you, the plush heat of your breasts against his chest, the soft swell of your belly against his stomach. He’s so fucking hard he wants to rut into you like a beast. “I want you to be scared,” and it’s the foremost truth he’s ever shared with you. The heart of all his depravity. “I want you to want it so bad you’re terrified. As bad as I want it. I want you to not want it also. Want you to fight and cry and scratch and bite, and then take it anyways ‘cause I’m gonna to give it to you anyways. You always take all of my choices from me,” he adds on, voice going barely there, mumbled, pressing a tiny kiss to the tiny hammering pulse in your throat, and you let out your first soft moan. An angel singing right into his ear. Your fighting tells all sorts of lies. He hoists you higher, presses you closer, and you wriggle and squirm, grinding his erection into the soft apex of your thighs.

“Joel– stop, please– please. I– I didn’t think–” He bends his head to your breast, drags his nose over the hard peak he feels beneath the silk of your blouse, nuzzles there, enjoying the sound of your breathlessness, again that feigned shock. You’re right, you didn’t think, and it’s too late now. What did you expect would happen, coming here to his cage like this in the middle of the night? He catches the taut peak between the edge of his teeth, tugs gently, plucking your cords.

With a fist wrapped in the length of your hair he forces you to your knees at his feet, jerking your head back roughly so that your mouth falls open on a gasp giving him the opportunity to hook his fingers over the edge of your bottom teeth, stretching your jaw open wide. “Open– lemme see,” he orders. “I wanted you so bad,” dragging the pad of his thumb along the sharp edge of your jaw. “I want you so bad. All those days when you forced me to tell you things I didn’t want to tell you. I’m going to show you temperance now, angel,” he nods his head down at you condescendingly when you try and protest. I didn’t force you to do anything, “But you did. You did. You pulled things out of me I didn’t want to share. And now I have to have you. You always take all of my choices from me.” He clicks his tongue down at you, and there are tears in your eyes that go wide and something worse than frightened when he tugs the elastic waist of his soft white pants down, pulls out his angry erection and heavy balls. Your expression morphing from something worse than frightened, to something like desperate, like hungry, like his for the taking. And he’s big, he knows it. Much too big for the pretty little throat he’s about to force it down. But he’s going to be gentle, he’s going to help you, teach you.

“Joel, please–” And look at you beg, so pretty with tears in your eyes, running down your cheeks. He brings the searing brand of his erection to your cheek, presses the burning hot skin all over your face, coating himself in the wet of your tears, marking you in the thick male scent of him. And the feel of you, just like this, just this little bit – with his fingers still hooked over the edge of your teeth he turns your face so that your open mouth brushes against his length. “Taste– I know you’re hungry for it. Give it a kiss hello, little angel.”

Your eyes flash up to his face for a brief moment, almost too quick for him to catch, and then you’re pursing your mouth against him, swallowing the shudder that moves through his entire frame. A tiny kiss to the ridged underbelly of his cock, the drag of your lips against the length of him to the fat tip, and then another kiss with wet lips and enough tongue to undeniably lick up some of what’s slicking it. You want him, even if you won’t admit it, even if you cry or fight. It’s all he needs to know.

Still caught by the teeth he jerks your head back forward, opens you wider and forces his cock down your throat. You gurgle around him, whining, shrieking, false, he knows what you really want. Can feel it in the slicking of your tongue around the proof of his desire for you, he’s giving you everything he has, and he spits your name, purges it from his belly like an infection over and over again while he starts to fuck your mouth. Feels you gulp hard just at the right moment to get his leaking tip caught tight at the choking opening of your throat. He could come just like this. He could, he could. You’re all his. Fill your belly with his semen until it bulges, feed you himself until you’d never be without him. He lets his head fall back, looks up at the white dome, at the false home of the false God, tells you again, voice all cracked and broken and gone away from him, “I don’t believe in God anymore, but that’s okay. I have you to believe in now,” fucks harder, listens to your cries climb up the walls, savors the scratch and shove at his thighs when he tightens his fist in your hair to a painful degree. You always take all my choices from me, always. But he knows that if he’s to show you temperance he must exercise his own, and after a few more slick thrusts, he pulls wetly from your mouth, enjoying your whistling groan as you sag face first against his thigh. He pets your hair now gently, fingers twisting through the softness. He’d always wanted to feel it, memorize its texture, its scent. There is nothing about you that isn’t worthy of veneration, of doing the worst thing in the world just to have you, taste you, keep you.

He lets you rest for a moment, wonders at the fact that you haven’t screamed yet. You easily could, call for help, salvation, an escape. You haven’t, and it soothes him. Makes him feel disgusting in a way that doesn’t match up with how disgusting it should feel to force himself on his pretty angel; a self satisfied type of disgust. Something he should be more ashamed of than he truly is. But when you have so little, when you barely have yourself, when theft is the only means of self satisfaction, little recourse remains for creatures caged in perfect places with only bad avenues left to them.

He hauls you up by your underarms, lets his wet cock press trapped between the two of you, and he’s so close, so close, so close to what he’s needed for so long. He gathers you in his arms, cradles you gentle and with purpose. Tucks your hair behind your ears and wipes the tears and spit from your face, takes it the sparkle of your big wet eyes. So pretty. “Truly like an angel,” and chucks you beneath the chin when you shake your head at him. “You are. So pretty and so soft.” And then finally, like so many times he’d forced himself not to imagine it because he was terrified of what the fantasy would turn him into, no longer the dancing bear in the distance finding it’s escape, but a hungry one, a violent one, an animal so far beyond control all it could do was devour, he pulls you close by the tip of your chin and swallows your mouth whole. All tongue and teeth and the slick slide of your own fervor because yes, it’s there, tangling with his own mouth, pressing your own spit onto his tongue like an offering. You kiss him back.

You kiss him back.

And, “I want to make you my little butterfly,” he says, “Spread you open, pinned just for me to look at. Only me.” He whispers it into your mouth, soft and secret and true. He’d string you up if he could, split you open and peer inside, rifle through the shafts of your ribs like a lexicon that spells out the truth of who you really are. And then that sudden anger again, that furious stone spinning in his throat. His touch becomes harder, punishing, “You’re going to tell me everything about you,” he says with all that rage in his voice, spits the stone out at you. “You shouldn’t have kept secrets from me.” Fuck the little red book and the scratch, scratch, scratch. He’s going to have all your truths. He’s going to be the one taking all of your choices away from you now.

He hauls you towards his little bed, popping the pretty pearl buttons as he goes, knowing he’s going to go to his knees later to collect them like treasures for himself after this is done. He rips the blouse from your shoulders, shudders at your indignant little gasp with the sound of the tearing silk, and you’re all soft skin and fine lace and the prettiest thing he’s ever beheld with his own two eyes in this whole life.

You bring one delicate hand up to his throat, try and grip him there, push him back, but he presses into the touch, sucks at your mouth again, harder, biting, and you say onto his tongue that you shouldn’t, and please, Joel, just wait, but he won’t and he can’t and he tells you it’s useless to fight because he’s having you regardless.

“No, no– none of that. You’re going to take your fucking like a good little girl,” and something about his words or his tone or the look in his eyes must make the connection in your brian that this is happening click because you suddenly go boneless, head falling back to bear your throat for him, soft sound of concession slipping from your lips.

He goes in for the kill, he’s always been exceptional at that, after all. Teeth latched at your jugular, tongue up and across the slope of soft sugared skin, and you taste like salvation. He’s saved now, he’s sure of it. Everything he’d lost, his daughter, his mind, himself, he’s going to find it buried in your cunt. Joel is absolutely certain of it.

He divests you of your skirt, the pretty lace, leaves the nylons held up by tight elastic around your soft thighs, and then it’s all just bare skin and heat and your soft whimpers, the coolness of your hair between his fingers. He lays you out across the length of his bed, takes in the majesty of his winnings. An angel felled and caught. You lie there staring up at him, and there’s an innocence to your gaze that brings him to his knees, set down and at your mercy now. He parts your legs slowly, one small kneecap in the bowl of each palm, the softest skin he’s ever felt beneath these death roughened hands, and Joel could sob now, weep if he had the time for it. He spreads your thighs wide, palms dragging up the insides, calluses catching on the smooth nylon and watches the dip and hitch of your belly as you gasp and shiver.

“Are you scared?” He whispers right as his palms reach the uppermost part of your thighs, and you’re all softness and warm, damp skin, plush in a way that makes his mouth water and his gums ache, and then he’s finally laying eyes at the center of you, and you’re slicked in the gloss of your desire for him. Playing pretend, feigned fight and reluctance, but he’s looking right at the heart of you, and all he sees now is your truth. You shake your head no, let out a soft breath. “Look at this drippy little cunt,” and he drags his thumb over the pearl of your clit just as whisper soft as his voice is. A half screeched hitch claws up your throat, your thighs jumping at that first touch. He needs to see more, hooks a thumb at each delicate lip and spreads wide, but gently, so as not to hurt you. That’s for later. He stretches your little hole, enjoys the shy wink it gives him.

“My God… look at you,” he says with something like reverence in his voice. So slick and gorgeous. “I think this little cunt’s going to take me in very nicely.” He runs the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit again, clicks his tongue when your knees try to struggle shut. “None’a that, angel. Be good for me now.” He presses harder at your clit, runs his thumb down to your twitching opening, passes there lightly, coating himself in your leaking slick. “I wanted you so bad,” he tells you, one more moment for confessions before he starts. “I want you so bad. And you’ve always taken all my choices from me. Forced me to stay myself when that’s not who I want to be anymore.”

“You’re Joel,” you whisper, and bring your hand to circle the wrist of the hand he’s petting you with. Not pushing him away or pulling him closer, only a gentle manacle around the thick of his bone. He looks up and into your eyes as he presses his thumb slowly inside of you, hooking it over the thin edge, twists you open slow and gentle and measured, gets you ready for the thickness he’s about to split you open with.

“That isn’t who I wanted to be anymore. I wanted to forget all that, all the bad, her, I wanted to forget all of it. I tucked her name under my tongue for so long it became blood, and I wanted it like that. And you didn’t let me.”

Your thighs shift restlessly around him, and you bring one foot up to the edge of the bed, anchoring yourself there so that you can begin a gentle rocking motion of your hips, fucking yourself slowly on his thumb. Your breasts heave and sway with the motion and his balls go so tight and so searingly hot, he could come just now like this from the sight of you, suddenly green and untried like he was in his youth. He didn’t think it was going to be like this, and it’s like he’s wasting your honor, stealing it from you, but something given can’t be stolen and his plans are foiled, he’s not in control but he doesn’t really care either. He finally has you.

He bends his head, brings his mouth to your slick swollen cunt and takes the first sip. Groans so deep in his chest he’s more animal than man suddenly, sucking hard and sharp on your clit, he pulls his hand from you and laves his tongue over the entire slope of your sex, tongue dipping into the well of you. He spreads your lips again, wide, stretches your hole and fucks you with his tongue, big nose pressed to your clit, drowning in your sweet musk. Your fingers twine in the overly long curls of his hair, and he grips your thighs so hard he’s sure you’ll be left with the mark of him later which only makes him rougher, stronger in his hold. With your grip in his hair you sing for him in soft moans and whimpers and more feigned resistance with whispers of no, Joel, and please, stop while you ride his face, his entire mouth covering your cunt, eating it. More beast than man, not Joel, not a father, not a brother, not a killer, only yours. Carved in the image you’d wanted him to be. The one you’d made him with your words and your looks and your scratch, scratch, scratch. All those times you’d asked him what do you want, Joel? And he’d never had an answer for you because what was he supposed to say? You, this, freedom, your wet cunt, the far off field and the dancing bear and my daughter back, alive, my brother, face not unknown. My name, my name, I want my name back. I want myself back. To be alive. I want to be alive. You come on his tongue, first with a shudder and then with a groan, your entire body flushes hot, and it’s a concession of yourself and a door opening, the first vestiges of what the rest of his life will be.

“You’ve got the sweetest little cunt, baby. Goes so tight and wet and fluttery,” he licks up the sticky sweet of your come, runs his tongue over the wet around his mouth, feels it trickle through his beard. “Think I’ll keep you.”

Pulling his shirt up and over his head, he crawls up the length of you, slotting his hips between your damp thighs, pushing his soft pants down his legs as he goes, gathering the small of your wrists in a manacle of his fingers to pin them up above your head. He drapes himself over your body, covering you entirely with his weight and pauses for a moment, nuzzling through the curtain of your hair to get at your ear, your throat, your smell. “Are you going to fight back?” He says soft into the small shell of your ear.

“No, I don’t want to.” You turn your head further to the side, bearing more of your throat to him.

He follows your orders, runs a line of wet kisses up the delicate column, tastes the pulse of your heart and the slope of your shoulder. “Why not?”

“I don’t have it in me. I’m not a fighter, I came from a place where there was always fighting, where I always had to do battle constantly. I don’t have it in me now, anymore, ever.” You turn to face him again, lick at the line of his mouth, suck on his tongue, your hips rolling now against him, his erection slotted between the soaked lips of your cunt, swallowing him in warmth. “But also, because you were right. Because I want you. Because I did take all your choices from you.”

Your words pull a groan, a whimper from him, and he pulls his hips back, presses forward, uncoordinated and slipping against all that slick, hot skin. He lets one of your wrists go, keeps the other trapped above your head. “Fuck– grab my cock,” and he feels the heat of your fragile formed hand wrap around the thick of his cock. An ugly, brutish thing held by perfection. You squeeze gently, twist just barely, and he feels his tip rim puckered skin, hot and round and persistent, probing against you as you try and find the right angle. “I’m gonna ride this cunt – hard. And you’re going to take it just how I give it. And you’re going to beg for more and harder and you’re going to thank me.”

Yes, yes, yes. Please, Joel. Thank you, Joel.

You notch the tip of his cock at the wet mouth of your cunt, and then he’s pushing in, saving himself, finding salvation, returning or leaving himself, it doesn’t really matter anymore. He presses in, in, in all the way until he’s sitting hard and heavy and deep inside of you, and he’s sure he can almost feel your heartbeat when he bottoms out, balls pressed to the slick curve of your bottom. Your breaths scratch in whimpers against his ear, his hair fluttering in the wind of your gasps, and your free arm wraps tight around the back of his neck, your hips rolling to take more, impossible, for he’s already deep as he can be, tip to womb. But he shifts his weight, grinds against your cervix and enjoys the sound of your pained moan.

“You feel right there? Where it hurts? That’s where I fuck you full’a my baby, little angel.” And his thoughts are unhinged, his desires full of madness and future and possibility. He pulls his hips back, drops them and shifts his weight forward inside of you. “And right there?” Grinds against your most sensitive spot, “That’s where I make you cream all over my cock.” He pulls his hips back again, focuses the tip of his cock at that desperate place inside of you and with his hand gripping your bottom to the point of pain he pounds into that place over and over again. The slick wet, obscene sound of his cock fucking in and out of your drippig cunt rings in his ears, and he grits thourgh clenched teeth, “Say thank you, say thank you. Beg me for it harder.”

And you’re so good, so good, and all please, Joel. Harder, harder, more. You’re so deep, it’s so good, please, more.

He’s going to fill you up and mark you and keep you for himself, and he bends his head, wraps his mouth around the full and heavy weight of your bouncing tit as he fucks you into orgasm around his cock. Going tight, tight as a fist, so wet it drips down his balls and onto the already soaked sheet of his too small bed, and you come for him the way he’d never let himself fantasize about before. Your moans like a song in his ear, and it’s so fucking good, better than any dream, better than anything the voices in his head or the dancing bear could have ever conjured up. He shifts upwards, anchoring himself above you so that he can look down at you as he fucks down deep into your cunt, cock punching against your womb so that it hurts, so that the look on your face is folding in on itself, but good enough still so that your pussy convulses again in another forced orgasm. He wants to look at you as he fills you with his spend, turns you into something he owns after this.

“Gonna fill you up now– gonna fill you until you’re leakin’ me.” Your hands slide up the soft slope of his stomach, his chest, fingers dragging through the hair there, twisting and pulling on it, up to his face where you cup his chin gently, eye to eye and all wrapped up in your cunt he starts to come, the thick heat of his semen coating your womb while you milk him deeper, every last drop of every last part of him he has to give.

When he’s done he pulls heavy and wet from you, the sight of your swollen red cunt gaping from him, he finally pulls the slick ruined panty hose from your legs, the marks of the too tight elastic leaving brands in your soft skin, he fingers the grooves gently, clicks his tongue at the sight in reproach. The only thing leaving marks in your skin now should be him. He pulls your wrists back into his grip again, and the look on your face is almost melting in submission, soft and spent and sloppy, leaking cunt all covered in him.

He ties each delicate wrist to the iron frame of his bed, tight, he can leave marks here now, you’re all his, and returns his attention to the source of his salvation, ignoring your protests as he eats his own come from your cunt until you’re crying a little too loud to remain undiscovered, coming twice more before he gives you reprieve, but he’s the one taking all your choices now, and you have no say in what happens after this.

He eyes the forgotten keys he’d thrown to the dark corner of his white boxed room, “If you’re not good and quiet, I’ll leave you here for everyone to find, naked and fucked and leakin’ me. Pretty used cunt for the whole world to see, that what you want?”

“No, Joel,” you shake your head, all falsely innocent gaze sparkling up at him.

And he tells you how good you are because the two of you are only going to share truths with each other now, only going to share everything. “I had nothing for so long. Nothing. Not even my own body, not even my own mind. Now I have you, and I won't give you up for anythin’. You’re mine now. They all told me so.”

“Who told you?” You ask softly, but he ignores the question as he draws his clothes back upon himself.

“I find myself so hard to remember and so easy to forget, but you remember me. You said so, and now I’m going to make sure you never forget.” Joel collects the keys and the pearls brought to him for his salvation, the dancing bear is so close now, and wraps your shredded clothes back around you, unties your wrists from the bed only to re-secure them, and hoists you folded over his shoulder for the taking.

Joel lost his daughter, and then he lost his mind, but now he’s found you. And they said it would all be okay now that he’s found you.

The morning after I killed myself, I found the end of my suffering, and at the end of that suffering there was a door – behind that door, I am alive again.

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Updates Blog!

#vic fic #Joel Miller #joel miller x reader #the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller/you #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us au #Joel miller smut #dark joel miller #dark fic #joel miller imagine #pedro pascal characters

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liyawritesss · 20 days ago

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ᴊᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏᴅᴅ + ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱɪᴄ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀꜱ

-> synopsis: there's no denying that Jason Todd Is the intellectual boyfriend we all crave - so let's take a peek into his repertoire and see what are some of his favorite black artists, authors, and philosophers!

-> characters: Jason Todd | Red Hood

-> from: batman universe

-> contains: can be read as either pre- or post lazarus pit, 3rd person

-> a/n: here's the first hc post from the batman poll i did! currently taking an intro to black writers class, and I wanted to make a spin on some classics I think Jason would like, specifically from black contemporaries from the like late 1800's to the 1990's. And yes, I know these authors and stories dont necessarily tie in to the canon timeline of things - I honestly just wanted to have fun with this, so please take it with a grain of salt, and if you don't like it or find yourself wanting to comment something mean, just scroll! Save us both the commotion.

-> join my taglist!

-> tags: @mbakuetshurisprincess @shuriszn @writingintheshadowsforever @cafehyunji @niyahwrites @marsfunzon22 @briology @asensitivecookie @moon-bo-young @flo-milli-shit-hoe @romiantic @shuinami @badass-dora-milaje @uranometrias @insomniac-jay @punkeropercyjackson

-> Paul Lawrence-Dunbar

-> dunbar was a young novelist, writer, and poet during the 1880's and 1890's. His writing style is distinct with dialect, which earned him a lot of criticism despite his much popular portrayal of black life in southern America after the end of slavery. A lot of the tone in his pieces depict that of the African Americans struggle for survival post-slavery, as without adequate resources to gain their footing into society, the formerly enslaved were left to fend for themselves. What a lot of people at the time missed in his writings - and what Jason actually gravitates towards - is the fact that his particular style is actually intentional. It acts as a reclamation of what was mocked and dehumanized, reinstating power into it in a way that seems regressive, but is more powerfully progressive in retrospect. ‘Sympathy’ was a poem he didn’t know he needed until he read it, and now he either has the poem taped on his wall somewhere or it’s written/screenshotted in his notes on his phone. Similarly, he finds that the poem ‘We Wear The Mask’ is an allegory to the path he himself has taken.

-> “Passing” by Nella Larsen

-> this novel tells the story of two colored women - Irene and Clare - and how they navigate the world with the ability to pass as white women. There’s so much that goes into this novel, from the question of race as a moral ground, sexuality in the form of envy, the loss of community when one crosses the racial lines…. I feel like jason would love this book DOWN, the complexities and intricacies are right up his alley. While the book is not in production, Jason definitely finds some way, shape or form to get his hands on a copy….don’t ask a fanboy his methods okay!

->Toni Morrison

-> Toni Morrison is one of my favorite black authors and by extension it is now Jason’s favorite. The way she writes is just so raw and passionate yet delicate and it really speaks to your soul. She’s one of those authors that’s in a completely different league of her own. I feel like Jason would really love Sula and A Mercy from her. He definitely cried while reading Beloved (everyone cries while reading Beloved). The Bluest Eye is his number one favorite book ever in life and I will die on this hill!!!

-> “Sonny's Blues” by James Baldwin

-> I honestly think anything by James Baldwin, Jason would like, but I choose Sonny’s Blues because of the struggle with brotherly love. There’s no secret that Jason has a tumultuous relationship with the rest of the Batfamily, and although for the most part the majority of it has been reconciled, tension lingers. Jason has his reservations, hes brash, and he’s the one that often clashes heads with people. This dynamic reflect that of the narrator and his brother, Sonny, who are constantly at war with one another because of Sonny’s desires and dreams, and the narrator being unable to see them. I feel like this is one of Jason’s comfort novels; it’s bittersweet, heartbreaking, and truly a testament to what people do when they think they’re doing what's best for those they care for.

-> Other Books and Essays Include…

-> “Letter to my Nephew” by James Baldwin, “Native Son” by Richard Wright, “Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl” by Harriet Jacobs, “Sweat” by Zora Neal-Hurston, The Parable Duology and “Bloodchild” by Octavia E. Butler

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, and reblog for others to see! And don't be shy to send in a request!

#black reader #black tumblr #dc batman #batman dc #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd hc #jason todd headcanon #jason todd dc #jason todd batman

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alicentofficial · 4 months ago

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re: my last post about jaime and alicent being parallels, i got an anon claiming they couldn't be similar because jaime as a man is privileged in ways alicent isn't since westeros is a patriarchy. this fact is correct! however! characters can have shared experiences, internal conflicts and dare i say, even themes, despite the fact that they are in different situations. let me explain why jaime and (show)alicent are similar characters.

rape/sa mentions below the cut

(1) okay so fundamentally jaime's thing is that he views himself as being sworn to so many conflicting ideals that he will never be able to uphold all of them. he is essentially in debt to so many people that anything he does will make him an oathbreaker. i think alicent views herself in a kind of similar way, only its through loyalty rather than oaths. hence that "i have endeavoured to serve both my house and my country etc" line because alicent basically FEELS like she has sworn conflicting oaths to everyone and everything around her - her father, her children, viserys, rhaenyra, the gods, the ideals of house targaryen, the abstract concept of what it means to be a "good woman" in society, and the list goes on, they don't call her Alicent "Where is Duty Where is Sacrifice" Hightower for nothing! both alicent and jaime see themselves trapped in moral paralysis because they are so concerned with what they are or should be loyal to, and as a result they are both constantly being eaten alive by guilt and self-loathing.

(2) both became deeply entrenched with the royal family at young ages whilst simultaneously living under their extremely ambitious hand of the king fathers. both fathers basically do not care who their children turn out to be and are only concerned with them as far as they can aid in his own ambitions. in jaime's case this was lessened by the fact that it was essentially divided between him and cersei, but tywin aggressively only gives a fuck about jaime as being the heir to casterly rock (hence his underlying insistence that jaime will do this despite the fact that he has sworn an eternal oath preventing it) - jaime does everything else to become tywin's lion-of-lannister golden boy but he will still never truly have tywin's love or affection or approval because tywin is incapable of that. otto basically pimped out his teenage daughter to viserys, and then after she spent 20+ years doing whatever he wanted he STILL doesn't respect about her, firstly because shes a woman, and secondly because he doesn't view her as a person, he views her as a political tool. and both of them are intensely loyal to said fathers and compulsively seek the approval which they know (on some level) is never coming.

(3) both of them have extremely complicated relationships with parenthood - alicent because her children are all products of her sexually abusive marriage, because she essentially grew up alongside them, and because they too are viewed as political tools more so than as people. as a result she's pretty emotionally cut off from them (struggling to connect with helaena, the unhealthy dynamic with aemond etc) meanwhile jaime can't ever openly acknowledge his children or act like a father to them and sees them as an extension of his relationship with cersei. alicent's feelings about aegon (and to a lesser extent aemond) are this weird dynamic where she loves him a lot and wants to protect him but is also aware that he's an abusive monster. in asos there's a jaime chapter after joffrey dies where he has this moment of awareness that joffrey is his firstborn son, and he kind of wonders if he should feel anything, but he can't bring himself to, basically because joffrey is also an abusive monster. he kind of awkwardly tried to bond with tommen at one point and seems vaguely fond of myrcella but can't really get himself to properly contemplate his feelings towards them either. for both of them parenthood is so wrapped up in all these other layers of pain and guilt that they struggle to have healthy, loving relationships with any of their kids.

(4) they both use copes - alicent with religion and jaime with dissociation - to essentially avoid engaging with their inner conflicts. jaime started dissociating to avoid having to deal with any of the injustices he saw around him i.e. listening to aerys raping rhaella and deciding he could absolve himself of his bystander guilt by "going away inside". meanwhile alicent uses religion as an outlet for her rage because when she throws herself fully into religion and convinces herself that she hates things because they're sacrilegious she doesn't have to confront her own trauma and anger. like a big part of why she hates rhaenyra's children is because they're physical manifestations of the freedoms rhaenyra has which alicent doesn't, but she's not emotionally equipped to deal with that, so the only option is to really really REALLY convinces herself that they're abominations cursed by the gods and thus she is justified in how she feels.

(5) okay here's where you have to hear me out. i think, narratively, jaime sees cersei's role towards him in a similar way to how alicent views criston. cersei and jaime's relationship is obviously built on the recurring themes of lannister exceptionalism and pseudo-incest within their house, but i also think jaime holds on to cersei as this symbol of pre-kingslayer him. she is his other half so when he knows that he's failed and become a terrible person, he can just hardcore project all his hopes of what he could have been onto her and see her as this paragon of beauty and love and nobility. and because of this he spends a lot of the series wilfully blind to the fact that their codependent relationship has turned them both into extremely violent and unstable people. to a certain extent alicent also projects a lot of her own childhood idealism onto both criston and rhaenyra - rhaenyra is literally her childhood girlfriend companion and i think because she's so emotionally stunted she's still obsessed with their relationship as like, the simplicity and tenderness of childhood before her marriage. hence why she seems so in denial about the fact that the war is about more than just their their relationship - but more so i think her relationship with criston is similar to that of jaime and cersei. (up until recently lol) i think she also saw criston as this white knight tragic courtly love figure because theyre BOTH still obsessed with the ideals of chivalry and knighthood and can reflect it back onto one another, whilst at the same time continuing to practice their own hypocrisy. she is basically (in a very jaime fashion) sticking her fingers in her ears to the fact that criston is deeply unstable and and punches people to death when he gets angry. both cersei and jaime's relationship and alicent and criston's relationship are essentially echo chambers that make them both worse while allowing them to view themselves and each other as idealised figures of the white knight and the noblewoman.

#i dont know how this turned into an alicole ramble at the end i think that just automatically happens if i type for long enough #alicent hightower #jaime lannister #house of the dragon #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #criston cole #alicole #cersei lannister

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landinrris · 21 days ago

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Since you’ve been re-blogging all these great gifs of young Lando, what did he and Carlos find most intriguing about the other the night they first met at that party in your football au? I imagine there must’ve been such a lovely spark. Don’t know if you’re going by canon, but it reminds of how Carlos said Lando was quite shy during their first meeting at the MTC, which is very sweet.

The young Lando gifs are destroying me tbh. The short answer is that Carlos is immediately drawn to Lando because of circumstance (both hiding out from a party). And then he stays because Lando is just real with him- he doesn't pay attention to football, even to the club that plays down the street, so he has no idea who Carlos is. He sticks around and wants to get to know Carlos for him rather than because Carlos might be able to get him match tickets or a tour of the club. Lando definitely gets more confident over time, but Carlos makes him a little wild from the start.

The long answer is that I have written this part, so why not a little prequel action! Takes place while Carlos and Brentford are still in the Championship League rather than the Premier League.

-----

If Carlos had a choice, he would not be at a house party right now. A house party after playing an away match three hours away that was grueling and maybe the longest ninety minutes of Carlos’ life to date. They’d barely come out on top, a fact about half the guys wanted to celebrate after a rocky start to the season.

Pierre had somehow managed to convince him to come out. Carlos was the captain after all, and his tagging along would be that much more of a morale boost. Plus, it’s not like the party was a total stranger’s. The house belonged to some kid Marcus knew who was busy being productive in uni.

So, Carlos swallowed his pride, resolved to stand in the corner with a beer or two, and provide moral support to whoever needed it.

The house itself is modest. It’s close by the university— small and shared by three guys whose parents names are probably on the deed. The party already looks like it’s in full swing, and Carlos wonders how long it’ll be until the police are called.

A few people recognize and cheer when they see them, but for the most part, the party goes on as it had. Pros and cons about not being in the Premier League, Carlos supposes.

Carlos loses Daniel and Pierre pretty quickly and is sure he lost track of Liam and Marcus before they ever got into the Ubers to come over.

He sighs as he takes in everyone around him. He’s probably not much older than half the people here— certainly closer in age than Daniel is to everyone, but that doesn’t mean Carlos feels connected. He knows he looks older than he is, not helped by his clothing choices— jeans and a navy henley. Not that he has much better “going out” options, but still.

The lights are half out in the living room, spilling out into the back garden where he sees plenty of people chatting and playing some kind of yard game.

In the distance, he sees the glow of what must be the kitchen and heads in that direction. The sacred place. The holy land. As much as he’ll hate it, maybe he can linger in there and someone will make small talk with him. He’s not always overly thrilled to talk about football when he’s not required to, but maybe that would help pass the time now.

The kitchen is small— proportionate to match what Carlos judges to the rest of the house. It’s plain to see boys live here, though they’ve tried to clean up as best as they can. The appliances are begging to be replaced, the coils on the stove rust colored with age and definitely not level. The cabinets are white clapboard as well with dull brass knobs. Carlos didn’t go to uni, but he’s no stranger to the cheapness of a setup.

On the far counter sits a few bottles of liquor and juice. If one was more lazy, a sports drink cooler sits next to that, undoubtedly containing a concoction Carlos could only dream of. He’s not looking to fall victim to alcohol poisoning though.

As if someone in the room could read his mind, a voice speaks up from behind him. “There’s some beer in the fridge if you want something less caustic.”

He turns around to see who’s just spoken to him and finds a boy sitting up on the countertop next to the stove, a plastic cup in his hand and the heels of his feet resting against the bottom cabinet door.

Carlos spends more than a few seconds staring, but he can’t help it.

The kid— because he looks like a kid— has frizzy brown hair that looks like it’s trying its hardest to do something against the laws of nature. Even in the yellowish light of the kitchen, Carlos can tell his eyes are mesmerizing and hard to explain. His face is dotted with what looks like a combination of freckles and acne.

Carlos wordlessly turns to the fridge, pulls out the first beer he finds, and floats over to the other side of the kitchen helplessly.

“Thanks,” he tilts the bottle in the guy’s direction and looks around for a bottle opener.

“Behind the liquor bottles.”

Carlos needs to get his head out of his ass because the bottle opener isn’t even hiding. He does spare a glance at what he’s about to put in his mouth and figures he’s had worse.

“Did you know those beers were there because they are supposed to be drunken or because you are one of the people throwing this party?”

“Probably no to both. My roommate dragged me here because he’s friends with the guys throwing it. I just snooped in retaliation. Don’t know why they’re there.”

Carlos can’t help but laugh disbelievingly. He props his hip against the stove a few feet to the guy’s right like he’s posting up residence. “Well then, I thank you…”

“Lando, not much of a party guy.” He sticks his hand out in introduction, and Carlos can’t help but take it. He repeats Lando’s name to himself in his head a few times, mind rolling over the n and d like it's some foreign word he's learning for the first time.

“Nice to meet you, Lando. I’m Carlos, also not much of a party guy.”

“Did you also get dragged here or are you just a masochist?”

“No, I am also here with friends, but they disappeared almost as soon as we walked through the door. One of them knows one of the people who lives here. I guess. My plan was to just hide in a corner with a beer for an hour and then make a quiet getaway.”

“Well, it’s not much of a corner, but it is relatively quiet in here.”

“I am touched you would share your space. So you are in uni then?”

Carlos tells himself it’s not a crime to make small talk despite feeling like a dinosaur around people a few years younger than himself. There’s just something in this Lando guy’s eyes that has Carlos leaning in closer and wanting to know more. It doesn’t hurt that he’s cute on top of the strange pull.

“Yeah, it’s my first year. I live down on campus with a few people. It’s been decent so far. Mostly spent this term trying to get my bearings and figure out what’s going on.” He glances down into his cup, and Carlos suddenly wonders if he’s even old enough to drink. Carlos should probably leave him alone.

“And what are you wanting to do?” he asks instead.

“Art— sculpture and pottery more specifically. I like making things and getting my hands dirty, you know? Something tells me you are not in uni though.” Lando purses his lips like he’s only now coming to the realization and is somewhat dismayed by it.

Maybe Carlos’ face revealed too much.

He bends his head down and smiles ruefully. “Ah, no, I am not. I just turned twenty-two. I suppose this makes me a bit of a loser being at this kind of party.”

Lando shrugs. “Maybe. I doubt hiding in the kitchen helps that.”

Carlos laughs. “Fair. Does this also make you a loser?”

Lando scoffs in what looks like mock offense. “I’ll have you know I have plenty of friends. They’re all just…” he gestures elsewhere, “Making out with girls somewhere else. Also not really my thing.”

“Randomly making out or the girls? Because if it’s just the making out, I’m sure there are plenty out there who would get to know you first,” Carlos asks before he can stop himself. He’s not even drunk and here he is asking about Lando’s sexuality.

Lando’s eyes go wide. “Uh… no, it’s the girls. Not really my scene, and I’d rather not find out which of the guys’ it is either. Not a few weeks into my first year.”

Carlos hates the way his heart skips a beat. “I know what you mean. Sometimes it feels like it is better to stay quiet than open yourself up to people who can judge and hurt you.” He doesn’t know why he admits as such to a complete stranger. He’s not out publicly, and just because Lando didn’t say I know when Carlos introduced himself doesn’t mean he doesn’t know who Carlos is. For all he knows, Lando could go online later and tell everyone that Brentford’s captain is gay.

Lando doesn’t look surprised though. He doesn’t reach for his phone to tell the world. If anything, his eyes are understanding in a way that strips Carlos bare.

“Have you found someone? Who doesn’t do that to you?” Lando asks.

He sounds like he’s asking partly out of his own curiosity and partly for Carlos’ well-being.

“My family and some close friends know. But if you are asking if I have a boyfriend, no I do not.” Carlos will not admit to reveling in the way Lando’s cheeks redden. It’s like he didn’t expect for Carlos to figure him out quite so easily.

Lando nods and takes a gulp of his drink. Carlos can’t help but look on amused and sip at his own.

“I didn’t mean to pry, I’m sorry.”

For an unbearable second, Lando looks like he’s about to hop down from the counter and flee, which is the opposite of what Carlos wants.

“You didn’t pry, it’s fine.” When Lando looks unconvinced, Carlos repeats himself. “Lando, it’s fine. You don’t have to be sorry.” He wonders if Lando expects him to ask the question in return even if he admitted he was essentially single a few minutes prior. But Carlos won’t let himself open up any kind of possibility with Lando right now. Not before—

“How old are you, anyway?”

Carlos is about to wonder why Lando looks suddenly morose at Carlos’ question before he answers. “I’ll be eighteen in a few weeks.”

Carlos almost chokes on his drink. “I thought you said you were in uni.”

“I skipped a year and I have a late birthday.” Lando sighs and leans his head back on the cabinet behind him. “It always freaks people out.”

It’s understandable, especially while Lando’s still young. “I can imagine. I didn’t mean to be like other people. It just surprised me. How was that for you?”

Because Carlos finds that he wants to hear and wants to still learn everything about Lando even if it’s only for friendship right now. Lando may be mesmerizing, but Carlos can and will control himself.

Lando doesn’t look nearly as downtrodden when Carlos doesn’t run away. Instead, he launches into stories about school that gradually meander into conversation from other areas of life. Carlos steers them clear of anything related to football, utterly uninterested in learning whether it changes Lando’s opinion of him.

Sure, Carlos isn’t a Premier League player, but Brentford is sitting fourth in the Championship, and Carlos knows there’s no limit to what people will do for a leg up.

The topic doesn’t even come up in general, making Carlos think that Lando doesn’t even watch it— and wouldn’t that be something. Of course, it’s not outside of the realm of possibility, but to seemingly click so well with someone in a genuine sense and not because the other person is trying to make themselves appealing because of what Carlos does for a living? It’s refreshing.

He loses track of time huddled in the kitchen talking to Lando. He learns that Lando sells some of his pottery online already and that he wants to grow his business throughout school and beyond it. He shows Carlos some of his work— beautiful and flowing vases and pots with artful designs that remind Carlos of pieces locked away in his mother’s china cabinet. He’s been involved with pottery since primary school when clay pots consisted of connecting coils and pinching a ball out into something usable.

They talk about their families— the woes of growing up the middle child with multiple sisters. Lando makes Carlos laugh harder than he thought possible, the two of them seemingly syncing their laughs in a way he’s ever only done with a few close friends. It makes warmth bloom in his chest.

Only once Daniel wraps his knuckles on the door frame of the kitchen does Carlos realize it sounds quieter beyond the kitchen than it used to. Carlos tries not to react as if he’s been caught out doing something secretive.

Daniel hesitates as he seemingly takes the scene in. “We’re getting ready to go, you coming? Most everyone is starting to clear out.”

Carlos looks down at his watch and balks at the time. So much for only staying for an hour when it’s been about three. “Uh, yes I will meet you outside?”

Daniel nods and turns back into the living room.

Carlos turns back to Lando and takes a leap. “Give me your phone number? We can keep talking and maybe hang out properly?”

Lando’s eyes widen. “Yeah? Yeah, okay. I can send myself a message from your phone if you want.”

“Okay, perfect.” Carlos fishes his phone from his back pocket, navigates to a new message, and hands his phone over. He saves Lando’s contact after Lando hands his phone back, going so far as to tell Lando to pose for a picture for his contact photo. Lando puts his hands under his chin and squints his eyes into an exaggerated close-mouthed smile. It’s hopelessly endearing. “I will see you around?”

“For sure. Thanks for keeping me company.”

“Anytime.”

Carlos is somewhat morose to leave the little room that had become his haven over the last few hours. Lando’s face might as well be burned into his retinas for as long as he’s been looking at him, and yet it doesn’t feel like it’s enough. The living room and front walkway are too dark, the people not as endearing.

Somehow Carlos is going home with the same people he came with, though they’re definitely on the tipsy side compared to Carlos who had only had an additional beer.

“Everything good?” Daniel asks, lingering as Pierre and Alex climb into the waiting Uber.

Carlos startles out of his own head and looks to see Daniel watching him. “Me? Yes, everything is good.”

“Carlos, mate,” Pierre exclaims when they’re seated. “I thought for sure you would have left like an hour and a half ago.”

“Nah, Sainz looked like he was having a good time, didn’t you?” Daniel protests.

Carlos thinks of Lando sitting on top of the counter with his blinding heart-like smile. He doesn’t have any qualms about agreeing and letting them gloat. “Yeah, I did actually.” Carlos doesn’t pay attention to whatever Pierre says after, choosing instead to look out the window instead and watch the trees and houses roll by.

#football au #surprise blurb!#a not small part of me really wants to explore the early years of their relationship so I've got a couple small things written/thought out #carlando #husbands™#writing tag

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justatalkingface · 6 months ago

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for an op izuku story. it could even make aizawa’s reaction towards izuku understandable in a way. smart, powerful midoriya who came 1st in the entrance exam by a country mile, who was quick to make friends and those friends call him “Dekiru” because he can do it. maybe he couldn’t see past the shiny quirk whose only weakness is being TOO STRONG of all things. he’d still be childish and ignorant but more realistic i think. i stumbled upon your post from last year about op izuku and i thought it was a great read

You want to know the interesting thing? That's almost canon.

The thing about Aizawa's introduction to us is that he spends the entire time lying: not just at the end, where he says he was never going to expel anyone and the entire thing was a 'logical ruse'; he goes through about three different excuses for why he's even doing this: first, that they're 'too happy', which was always... deeply fucked up.

Then he zeroes in on Izuku and starts on about how uncontrolled his Quirk is, and combined with his reactions watching the them apply it makes it seem like maybe that's the reason... but after awhile All Might chimes in, and Aizawa unconsciously agrees with him, in that he's doing this because Izuku is like All Might.

The fact that he's a pure-blood product of All Might's Plus Ultra philosophy pisses him off so damn much that he goes through all this to find an excuse to try and kick Izuku out, knowing his Quirk control is terrible... and, as I've discussed before, when peak!human Izuku and his super throw outperforms a girl whose only power is invisibility, he fudges the results to put him at the bottom.

Literally, the the Quirk Test 'arc' is build around Aizawa's vendetta at All Might, Plus Ultra, and, as an extension of them, Izuku. And even if Izuku was actually the second coming of All Might, and, like All Might himself, actually able to use the Quirk from the first minute, All Might makes it clear that, no, he couldn't actually stop Aizawa from kicking out Izuku. Even though he's the Number One Hero.

Because Reasons(TM).

For whatever fucking reason, Eraserhead was given an absurd amount of power involving his students, and I don't think there's canonly anything stopping him from kicking out someone he just doesn't like, and the only reason he didn't kick out Izuku was his weird, twisted ethics that said only breaking a finger was such a big improvement he deserved to stay... and then he did nothing with the whole, 'breaking his finger' thing.

I'm not sure on the exact details, I'd need to brain storm it, but in an OP!AU where Izuku was able to actually use his Quirk I could imagine him constantly trying to test Izuku, looking to undermine him with morals and making the right choice in, like, disaster scenarios and what not (you know, that thing we had implied for five seconds before Shigaraki showed up), trying to make Izuku make the 'wrong' choice so he could have a 'good' reason to expel him, since once upon a time that shit actually mattered.

Have you read Ao No Exorcist? The way Rin was treated always pissed me off, and the fact that pretty much everyone did it kinda drove me away, but that kind of attitude is exactly what I'd imagine for this, where Eraserhead wasn't narratively made the Best Teacher and Izuku was allowed to be great, an attitude of constantly having to earn his place, again and again and again, and passing whatever the most recent test isn't proof that he's 'worthy', but that he's just barely making the absolute minimum.

You know, that, or just the energy Sir Nighteye had in general.

(Fuck Sir Nighteye.)

#ask #mha critical #bnha critical #aizawa critical #izuku deserves better #aizawa is a bad teacher #OP!AU #Because Reasons(TM)#fuck sir nighteye

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seijorhi · 3 months ago

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What is your favorite version of Oikawa you’ve written? Do you think there’s a sequence in which Oikawa is a lot more or a lot less yandere in your stories, or do you see him as a similar level of darkly obsessed across all your works?

ooh i like this one.

hmmm it's hard because on the one hand i am a big fan of wife guy kawa in settle/sea change, but scion oikawa does make me a little melty. what can i say; i like a man with 0 morals, hot tattoos and a penchant for guns.

as far as the second bit goes, i'd say they're all pretty equally obsessed (as if i'd write him as anything less), some are undoubtedly a little more trigger happy than others, and some slightly less stable, but the real difference is in the circumstances and the lengths they're willing to go to.

now, take shelter from the storm kawa. he's a merc, his world is blood and death. killing carries no more weight than parking illegally. the reader's family is powerful and very much an obstacle, therefore the logical course of action is to remove them (admittedly, her kid brother was more out of jealousy but to-may-to to-mah-to). a similar thing could be said for scion oikawa.

settle oikawa has no need to threaten anyone, much less seriously consider murder – he's isolated her from friends and family, from everyone really, and there's a baby on the way. the only threat he faces is her leaving of her own volition. bully oikawa's got the reader sitting pretty where he wants her, again, nothing that really necessitates any extreme measures (beyond the usual stuff, anyway).

oleander oikawa's a product of his own fucked up childhood, of course he'd kill to keep what's his. always/inescapable oikawa could have been a fairly mild yandere, if not for the reader wearing atsumu's name. we haven't seen how he'll spiral now he's actually at risk of losing his soulmate.

the level of obsession doesn't change, just the means they have to employ to get what they want and, perhaps more importantly, keep it.

#who am i kidding all of my toorus are wife guys #even the unmarried ones #rhi answers

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xenosagaepisodeone · 6 months ago

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supersize me is incredible in how potently hateful it is. it's as if the pop culture wasteland of the 2000s suffocated spurlock's brain to the point where whatever synapses that hadn't shriveled up were only left capable of firing off the same demand to keep punching down at all costs that every halfwit with access to cable news and a desire to 'tell it how it is' seemed to have been afflicted with. everyone knows the methodology in this doc is bunk, but what's missing from the conversation is how this film is another artifact of antagonizing incurious dipshit libertarian smarming about how the sheepish masses cannot just simply get with the program and be better. "americans are fat fat fat fat so fucking fat and they love it so much that they'll let their kids eat the same slop that they serve in prison" "wait, back up. the same apparatus that provides elementary school lunches also supplies prison food? and you're saying the cost of healthier food isn't all that much more? is there anything here worth looking into further?" "no. but have this clip of this random guy talking about how we should heckle fat people like how we heckle smokers". what made this film notable for its time was how it was less focused on how being fat makes you look (which isn't to say that isn't still a huge component of it. because it is. and spurlock has endless shots of strangers with their faces blurred out to emphasize this), but the alleged deterioration of lifestyle, values and vitality that comes with the depletion of one's physical health. that is to say, the film is arguing that failing to live a regimented lifestyle causes one to fall into a state of moral decay. this is the buried lede, because ultimately this film is actually-actually about an alcoholic externalizing the complex he has towards his own lack of self control onto fat people.

it is no wonder why elementary school health teachers in the aughts were quick to deploy it in classrooms at the same rate they did photos of STIs in place of actual sex ed. the imagery of this greasy motherfucker throwing up in his car is meant to serve the same purpose in telling kids that this is what happens when they can't control themselves. when a corporation is blamed for something, it's only inasmuch as it enables people to be dumb and fat. spurlock points out how mcdonald's predatory advertising normalizes it's products in places it should not be (hospitals in particular), which you think would warrant further discussion- but in line with pushing responsibility onto the role of the individual, this is framed as merely mcdonalds tricking customers instead of actively encroaching on their way of life via invading media and legislature. no, the real villains are cafeteria lunch ladies, who are not instilling discipline in your children unlike National Weight Loss Hero Jared Fogle, who educates children around the world. one can only imagine that spurlock's libertarian values compel him to feel a sense of kinship.

the funniest part of this film was the one doctor who seemed to know that he was bullshitting about not having any drinking habits but doesn't want to be up front about confronting him. at first he comments on how how spurlock's liver resembles one belonging to someone engaged in long term alcohol abuse, and then later in the film he gives some generic lip service in response to spurlock's report like 'well, i wouldn't think that fast food and liver health are connected, but your report seems to indicate otherwise' before cutting straight to "whatever you're doing, stop pickling your liver". also at another point spurlock goes "lunch time" and there's a hard cut to some fat mcdonalds employees and he's trying so hard to evoke disgust with all of these shots but my response to these baddies is just "zamn looks like they got dinner and dessert too 🥵🥵💦💦💦💦💦💦💦"

but anyway

youtube

#Youtube

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severus-snape-apreciation-blog · 2 years ago

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SIRONA RYAN IS NOT A TRANSPHOBIC NAME. GOOGLE IT.

People are hating on the name Sirona Ryan for the trans character. They are assuming JK came up with the name.

She has almost nothing to do with the game. Nothing with story writing or production.

And everyone complaining about the name. LEARN TO FUCKING USE GOOGLE. My Celtic ancestors are crying. It’s a real name. It’s Celtic. They probably picked it cause Hogwarts is in Scotland. And it means Goddess of Healing Springs. JFC. I am filled with rage. People are not googling it and assuming it means Sir Ona. (Onna is Japanese for woman)

It’s getting ridiculous at this point. Also the hate for anyone playing the games. “Boycott it” if the game does bad. Most who worked on it get laid off. It’s a hard to get job in the industry. But no let’s get hundreds fired and Jk terfling won’t even be affected by the $3-4/game she’s not getting.

Go spread that hate at the actual problem. JK not game buyers.

Don’t buy it if you feel it goes against your morals. But stop bullying people. Making a 12 cry in the comments of a tik tok video about the game isn’t fixing the terf.

Y’all need to watch this before you even think of commenting

#I’m trans and I approve this msg #Harry Potter #hogwarts legacy #fuck jkr #anti jkr #Sirona ryan #severus snape #percy weasley #well I’m Non Binary but I’m under the umbrella #don’t tell my mom #ronald weasley #Weasley #hermionie granger #game

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wordy-little-witch · 7 months ago

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Hiiii dis is a follow up to my long ass brainrot,,

So the candind buggy pictures just started out as pics from a fan from buggys crew while at a party but then caught the pic at a time when buggy was taking a break at the top of a stage, gazing at the ocean and having this calm yet longing look,, he looks so pretty there w the wind slightly blowing his hair, and the sun has almost set and the fans heart skips a beat and photographs it without thinking,, skip a few days later, the photo is also included in the printing of buggy photocards for the fanclub lol

And everyone in the crew is shocked at the pic and they b looking at it for morale,, lets just say the productivity has increased and the fanboying/girling also increased including praises towards their captain,,

mihawk noticed it, and the pictures which made him look twice and thought that the clown is pretty there, which made him more interested in the clown so he tries to sneakily see that calm look while going to in the library or during quiet moments,,

As this goes on, some ppl of the crew has to travel for business and they bring along their buggy merch n photocards, then shenanigans ensue and ppl on that island see a merch n photo n become curious abt it, the crew wanted to gatekeep at first but then their admiration for their captain won out and started boasting abt their captain and shows the merch and photos including that one pic eksjzksjz and everyone is taken by it lol and asked if they r selling, so the crew sold is as a part of their business transaction lololol

Then crocodile now know of this due to his connections info and the paper documents of the crews trips amd notice ther is an increase if sales in this "merch" (he has no idea at first abt the merch the buggy fanclub has been selling) so he be curious and asks a member abt it and they show the merch and dat pic, and croco is shocked at how pretty the clown is, then he notices the stonks of money the merch n pics has been bringing in so decides dat buggy should do a photoshoot w the help of the members

- croc convinces buggy that its for the morale of the crew

- the crew also helps in by giving buggy a makeover n giving compliments dat boost his ego lol

- mihawk croco n the other crossguild members decides to dress up buggy acc. To their tastes and they swoon at how attractive buggy looks

- buggy tries to pose very bold aggressive n flashy but its not giving the effect that that one photo had, so buggy is frustrated

- but then a child of one of the crew/staff had approached buggy to thank him for the stuff toy

- cue soft buggy cuz he will be nice to a child goddammit, he smiles gently and looks fond of the kid and pats their head, then the ppl there stares at buggy and go like 'oh..'

- then the camera clicks n the picture of him being soft was taken.. along w stylish clothing chosen by each member

- then there r also pics of him practicing circus acts in his hot ass tight n stretchy clothes, him in the library looking so focused yet calm while reading, him cuddling w richie with a relaxed smile... just pics of him showing a different side of him which the ppl find so alluring n pretty fkkssjjxjs

- then there are the thirst trap photos, an idea by hawks n croco, cuz they r so attracted to buggy it makes them mad lololol, they they chose low v necks, his hair in pony tails or elegantly loose, they instructed him to pose and lie down on a surface (👀 u guys aint slick), thet both feel hot but they realize that they are in a room full of other ppl helping the set up (who are also thanking the stars for this moment being near their captain while being this hot lol) then they collect themselves but this made their resolve in wanting to court buggy

- the sales of buggy merch was already good, but after the thirst pics were dropped, the merch store had run out of things to sell and there is a mob of ppl getting angry because they wanted to buy more buggy merch esp the thirst traps lololol and there has been an increase in marriage proposal letters to buggy but the crew are handling those out so it doesnt reach to their captain

- becuz of this croc decided to take the merch selling business seriously so he instructed the crew to double the products and made the clown go to the photoshoot, but this time w ulterior motives😳

- croco also wants to be w buggy in the pic but since he prefers to be on the backstage figuratively, it will be just his hand showing in the pics,

- so its just gonna b a series of buggy looking good/elegant wearing silk/lace with jewelry and with crocs hand holding his face, with buggy, being flustered but commits to the act by leaning to his hand and looking at the camera and at crocodile seductively, theres even a pic were his thumb is on buggys lips and buggys eyes are heated, a pic where the hand is wrapped around his neck-djskdjskzksjs whcih made evrryone in dat room esp croco feel flusteredddd, hawks is just looking at dem disrespectfully O_O

- this also sold out instantly with now ppl shipping the two together cuz its obvious whos hand is dat and loving the buggy aesthetic,, he just looks so pretty, submissive n breedable lmao

- mihawk doesnt want to lose to croco so he also made buggy pose with him but without showing himself that much so its gonna be similar to the previous photoshoot but buggy is wearing gothic circus styled clothes while mihawk is behind him and his arms are wrapped around buggy, then feeling competitive, hawks decided to also show the lower half of his face in the picture w buggy just to show the public who was touching him so intimately (and maybe also to start another ship lololol)

- this also sold out and now there are maybe shipping wars in the grandline lolol maybe perona n zoro shipping bughawk and robin and the spiders cafe ppl are shipping crocobug lololol

- shanks is both thriving n suffering from this phenomenon so he decides that looting from the buggy merch ships isnt enough and goes to buggys island hxjsnsjsjs

- buggy acts in a usual buggy way but then calms down after complimenting buggy n giving him treasure jejdjs then they decided to party together and buggy n shanks are drinking together but then the photo crew notice this look buggy has when looking at shanks and sneakily decides to take a pic of him

- then that pic had caused the most uproar in history cuz buggy looks so in love in that photo (shanks is cropped out lololol) cue the marriage proposal letters piling up even more,

- also even some marines are buying the merch tho undercover

- then buggy finds out while sailing on a nearby island (and finally out of his inveting hyperfixation of a new and improved buggyball in the invention room) wer ppl there suddenly recognize him as buggy the pretty blue haired clown and wanting his authograph and to his shock they have his merch evenr the thrist traps hdjsjxkskz

- hes gonna b upset n mad a first mostly abt ppl not telling him another way of getting money, but calms down at how much profit they havd. he doesnt understand his own appeal due to low self-esteem but as long as it makes him richer hes okay w the photoshoots jdjsjzkskz

i need his followers to help him fail upwards cuz they be unintentionally setting him up in the manga lolll

Basically buggy in his idol/influencer era with a hint of crossguild n shuggy

I ran out of crossguild n shuggy ideas tho my brain cells r tired lmao i hope u like dis brainrot of mine fjsjzkskz feel free to add more to it only if u want to cuz i know u can cook 🔥

Thank u for reading dis long ass ask again HAHAHAHA

I am eat WELL TONIGHT christ on a cupcake sugar this is DELICIOUS THANK YOU FOR THE MEAL I'M GNAWING ON YOUR LEG (/pos)

I'm going absolutely insane over this, like I physically cannot articulate how much I love this. Like. Yes. Yessss. ALL THE YES.

I'm gonna Sprinkle in some of my own headcanons here, but like. Casual intimacy as well is so beautiful, and Buggy would absolutely just bloom under some soft, sweet, gentle loving moments. Like Buggy being good with kids makes me so soft bc he IS a clown and he would 110% become the kind of adult who he would have needed/wanted as a child, I bet. He thinks Shanks is Roger's legacy, but he's the one who carries so much of his captain in his veins and heart and soul.

Up to and including the unyielding notion that children are to be protected.

I love the idea that for some holidays, Karai Bari opens boarders for trade or festivals or visits other places for business deals. Or maybe there's a situation where a business meeting is nearly canceled because of a family emergency, no babysitter for the little child of the boss, and Buggy just goes "Oh, bring her along, that's fine. I guarantee her safety."

Croc and Hawk are both pissed about it, bc the clown? This little spineless buffoon?? Really??? But boss man mcgee is relieved and does bring her.

And Buggy is. So good with her. Respectful, sweet, just the right blend of protective and allowance to explore the world but do so safely. And when lil girlie pop mentions liking his face paint, he just grins. "Why thank you! Do you like makeup, too?"

"Uh huh!"

"We should have a makeup party, then!"

"Can you do me like yours?"

"Sure, if your dad is alright with it. Tell you what, we'll do each other's makeup."

"Yay!!!"

The dad IS okay with it honestly, is more happy that his little girl is safe and happy than anything else, and Croc and Hawk are surprised by how... smooth this is going. Dude's more relaxed and open to discussion on arrangements and such, and they get to see a tame Buggy with the softest smile they've ever seen...

The pictures of that time are a HIT, and boss man is assured baby girl's face is kept out of the shots sold. The ones including her are given to him.

((She grows up to be a clown but that's beside the point)).

Just. Yes. Buggy with the RANGE. He can do the fierce, bold, masc thing, but it always feels fake, uncanny valley even. The ones that are softer and sweeter are so much more authentic.

((And when something finally comes along to push his buttons Just So, they all get some shots of Buggy truly Livid and Confident. It's not a deathly glare and snarl like it would be on many. It's not an dangerous scowl or a glower. No, it's a slight smile, crooked, toeing the line between smile and smirk. It's lidded eyes, an arched brow, cocked hips and casual flippancy. It's a flirty line, degrading and sickly sweet, a finger hooked under a chin while the other hand casually finger-walks up a chest of a person bound and bloodied. It's a face close to another, grip soft on a jaw, red lips perfectly pouty and sly. It's a sudden, jarring shift, grip tightening, face still placid despite the tenseness of muscles and mild furrow of a brow. It's a nightmare dressed like a day dream, and the guild is absolutely PROFITING over it.))

(((Shanks has to step away to his cabin when he gets that batch of pictures. Nobody has the nerve to go close enough to hear if he's yearning or... occupied else how.))))

#witchy answers!!#buggy the clown #buggy the rizz king #i LOVE #i am eating this shit up #shaking the bars of my cage #buggy headcanons #cross guild polycule #implied shuggy

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