#except for every facet of life

[moe-broey]

Sketch I accidentally put too close between other doodles

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

Sometimes I want to read my friends' fics bc like... friends! Their fics! But then like... my brain reminds me the only fic I read is dmcl.

[pedgito]

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 | Javier Pena x reader

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summary | Authority looks good on him, but you think he'd look ever better on his knees.

author's note | written for @wannab-urs��s DMAMC 2025. forever and always a special thank you to @murder-wife for the beta.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, sub!javier, dom!reader (but lbr, they’re both switch) obviously. reader has vague backstory (related to work), enemies to fwb, they fuck a lot oops, unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), restraints, brat!javi as god intended, choking, coming untouched, edging for the greater good, amen.

word count — 6k

Javier Peña dominated every facet of his life.

Work. Home. It was no surprise with how easily he authoritates a room.

You’ve learned to mind your business at work, keeping to the file and lunch room. There, back, never anything less or more. It was a security net, a secondary salary unless your primary fell through—it hardly did, considering there was always dirt to dig up, but it was nice to have the additional income. One less stressor among the many. The road here had been long, sinuous and complicated and you were thankful for this overdue regularity in your life.

The one thing Javier hadn’t figured out about you was that you and him had more in common than he expected. Different sides of the same coin, you yearned for the control and command in whatever situation you found yourself in, liked the idea of you having power over the outcome. 

It was a high that you craved like nothing else.

“Morning,” He greets casually—you’ve known him for a distance for weeks now, only trading files in and out, turning in his paperwork, signing off on certain things without looking like a robot. Assess, find, file, repeat. It was monotonous, but it was easy, “what are we up to today, cups?”

That stupid fucking nickname. 

It was a running joke amongst your co-workers—he’d only caught on recently—watching how you plowed through a pot of coffee on your own, never re-using the same flimsy cup, always grabbing a fresh one. Your stack was only about six inches tall today, but you were running on mostly fumes.

“Fuck off,” You sneer, a lighthearted roll of your eyes, “this it?”

You yank the file from his grip as he spots the watch on your wrist—he analyzes, squints, grabbing your arm without acknowledgement as he speaks his mind.

“Pretty nice for a file clerk salary,” He frowns in consideration, “Cartier?”

He’s been prying recently. 

Javier didn’t have any evidence, but there was a deep suspicion. 

One, you were a mole—working for Escobar, infiltrating the DEA from the inside.

Or two, you were just a liar. 

Your story has never changed. You transferred from the states a few months ago. You were living at a small apartment in town that most of the staff seemed to hole up in during their transfers and long-term stays. Javier would occasionally catch you in the hallway, but he never talked. He was always pensive, stiff, odd.

You worked as a file clerk, did your job, and went home. That was it.

Except it wasn’t.

He’d figure it out. It would eat away at him until it did.

“It was a gift,” You retort, pulling your wrist from his grip as you sign on the paperwork inside the file and place it aside, fiddling with the jewelry on your wrist as you fit the watch back into place.

Also, not a lie. It was a gift…from a client.

You side eye him as he continues to stare before you finally get annoyed enough to bark at him.

“Are you lost, Peña?” You ask, “You’re holding up the line,” He peers over his shoulder at the few men that have gathered behind him, cigarettes perched on their lips and an expectation for him to hurry it up, “Keep it moving,” You tease with a nod of your chin.

He flicks at the stack of cups and sends them tumbling to the floor with a triumphant grin, watching as your mouth gaped, trying and failing to hold back the chuckle that rises in your chest.

It was a harmful back and forth—not quite enemies, not friends either.

Eventually, he finds himself with a dilemma. 

Weeks and weeks of nothing on the trail to take down Escobar and he’s grasping at straws, on edge, and you’re the easiest target for him to attack.

–

It was a simple trading of evidence for payment as you were gearing to make the drive home, helping out a co-worker under very specific terms that he wouldn’t approach you during work hours—he was almost positive his wife was cheating on him, begging you to dig up information on the supposed suspect. 

She was going on extended vacations for work, a traveling nurse with a bad habit of leaving evidence behind—though, with her, it seemed like less of a mistake than her poor husband thought it to be. Either way, you got the information and he handed the money over. 

It was one of the easier sides of your other job, less of a risk than running surveillance or being asked to break the law by government officials who were either corrupt or just desperate for information or a helpful break in a case.

Javier was being nosey, unfortunately. And you knew he was watching, turning your head to him as he approached when the coast was clear, cornering you at your door with a mere centimeter of distance between you both.

“Insubordination, really?” Javier bites, eyebrow raised in skepticism as he looks you over, not even a twitch of intimidation in your expression. “Carrillo would have your ass over this.”

You shake your head in amusement, pressing a gentle hand against his chest to shove him backwards, patting as if to console a child, “Javier, I don’t know what you think you saw, but you might need to take a break on these late nights at the office. They’ll drive you crazy.”

“Crazy?” Javier echoes, “Estás loca,”

There’s a certain jeer to his tone, stress collecting in his furrowed brow that helps you figure out where to attack, “Are you okay?” You ask with a serious tone, “Do I need to report you to Carrillo?”

“Traidora,” He remarks, “You think I can’t tell?”

You tilt your head in question, ignoring his own.

“I haven’t had a break in this shit in weeks, chasing a fuckin’ ghost—do you work for him?”

There it was, the lapse in judgment you were waiting for.

“Who is it?” You ask, “What are you after?”

He gives you a name, a subtle amusement to his tone like you should already know. It doesn’t immediately ring a bell and it shouldn’t, considering what he was accusing you of was the furthest thing from the truth.

“Carrillo knows what I do,” You tell him honestly, “So, go ahead. Tell him. I dare you.”

You knew it was a mix of work stress and whatever demons Javier was harboring in the backseat of his mind, a job that riddles you with guilt and what-ifs, it tends to boil over.

Whatever—you’d do him this one favor.

“Te verás estúpido.” 

It shuts him up, thankfully. 

–

You’ve got the file on his desk by eight o’clock the next morning—a long night of extensive research that led you toward a full file of usual information, whereabouts, alias, anything that could help out, even just a little. You’re pouring up a fresh cup of coffee when he spots it, dropping his bag into his chair and picking up the file like it was a spectacle, peering around all sides before he flips it open, a pink sticky note pressed into the first page.

His nose twitches, like a sniffle as he crumples up the note and shoves it into his back pocket, his eyes peering up to lock with yours from across the room, like he sensed your gaze. A smile gracing your face as you stirred your coffee, nothing out of the ordinary.

He approaches you near lunch, the file room emptying as people are heading toward the break room, but Javier catches you at the perfect time, back turned and he’s slapping the file on the desk behind you with a distinct clearing of his throat. 

“You wanna explain this?” Javier inquires, fingertips spread across the file as he slides it toward you.

You stare him down, a silent challenge as his hands settle against his hips.

You push the file back, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He digs the pink note from his pocket and flattens it out, turning over a closed file to match up the messy cursive handwriting, “Is that not your handwriting?”

You quickly snap the file closed and pick it up, shoving it into his chest. 

“Take the damn file, Peña,” You order him, a sheer darkness to your gaze that glosses over, compelling Javier to take the file without another word, “I’m not a traitor, okay?”

Javier chews at his bottom lip in thought, taking a quick glimpse through the file once more, impressed by the collection of information that has had him stalled for weeks, handed to him on a silver platter.

“You wanna grab lunch?” He asks casually, peering up at you from the file, a smile curling under his thick mustache, “My treat.”

“It fucking better be,” You remark.

–

It starts that way, a gradual comradery shared over lunch and late nights, moving from twenty-four hour dine-in spots to the comforts of your own apartments, trading off in a discombobulated schedule.

A big break in the case called for celebration, having finally caught the one member of Escobar’s entourage that they had been after for months, having been helping Javier behind the scenes with no expectation of credit, thankful that it didn’t intersect with much of your other work.

“So, is it usually cheating couples?” Javier asks curiously, shooting him a look of warning, “C’mon, chiquita, I’m curious.”

You shrug, closing the file as you tossed it aside, stretching back on the couch with your open beer in hand, enjoying the soft, plushiness of Javier’s couch.

“Family, sometimes,” You add, “And strangers, more often than you think.”

Javier makes a small hmph sound through closed lips, scratching as his cheek as his thumb circles the lip of the bottle, oddly reminiscent of something far too dangerous to allow your mind to wander towards this late at night, three bottles in, and sleep deprivation on the rise.

“Do you want me to walk you back?” Javier asks after a long period of silence, still repeating the same subconscious motion to the bottle as it sits between his thighs, legs outstretched and his left knee knocking against your own that were curled underneath you know.

“Give me a minute,” You murmur, eyes falling closed as down the rest of you beer and place it on the floor, your hand failing to support you as it slips from the cushion, sending you tumbling to the floor at Javier’s feet, laughing immediately at your drunken clumsiness as he leans forward in concern, placing the beer bottle on the table as he reached for you.

“Shit, you’re a sloppy drunk,” He jokes, subtly pushing your hair back to check for injury, a sudden charge to the air as you kneel between his legs, his chest hovering above, his tongue peeking out to lick his bottom lip, “is it always that bad?”

You laugh again, a soft snort through your nose as you shake your head.

“Wouldn’t you love to know,” You remark, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he chuckles, the faint smell of barley on his breath as you’ve come to realization that not only had his hand stayed on your face, but the other had joined—it was a silent yearning that Javier couldn’t find the balls to act on, so you do it for him, “—are you gonna ask to fuck me yet or not?”

“Is that what you want?” Javier counters, “You want me to fuck you?”

“I mean,” His thumb grazed along your bottom lip, a subtle pull that has you rising to press the palms of your hands against his thigh, willing to crawl into his lap if he pulled you further into him, but instead you hovering back, a challenging gaze and smirk only our lips, “unless you want me to fuck you?”

Javier’s face pinches together in confusion, amused but still wholeheartedly confused.

“You didn’t say no,” You tease, another beat of silence as he remains undecided before you’re answering him, “yes—I want you to fuck me, Javi.”

And, god, does he.

It’s messy—sweaty, hot, sticky, and nothing near graceful.

Javier fucks like you expected he would—because, despite your best efforts, it had been a thought to cross your mind.

He ravishes, controls, demands. He’s insatiable and greedy, never enough. One orgasm, a second, a third before you’re begging, pleading for relief. He likes to work himself up—he gets you first with his fingers, then his mouth, eventually sliding the head of his cock against the seam of your soaked, oversensitive folds and catching against your entrance before he slides in with a deep, guttural groan. 

But, he can’t have all the fun. 

You eventually wrestle him into the cushions, on his back as he grips at your thighs, both of your hands clutched against the arm of the couch and the back, Javier entranced with you, his eyes showing as much amongst his needy, wandering hands. And he tries to hold off—he does, but his climax hits him with gusto, leaning up to levy the dominance between you both as he fucks up into you, his foot sliding to the ground to steady him, face buried in your chest as he comes inside of you, something you two hadn’t discussed beforehand and comes as an immediately apology from Javier, his cheek pressed against your breasts as you slump back into the couch, leaving Javier to catch his breath as he leaned against you.

“Don’t worry,” You assure him with a tired laugh, “I would have let you know if I wasn’t okay with it before you did it.”

Exhausted, Javier chuckles too.

It was the first of many late night meetings—some work, mostly play. Javier finds himself a little more emboldened as time goes on, interrogating you like a suspect after a long, eventful day.

“Javi,” You sigh, “your dick is still inside of me and you want to talk about work?”

Javier shrugs impishly from his position beneath you, sitting in his lap as he leaned against his headboard. 

He leans forward, pressing a wet kiss against the column of your throat before his kisses trail, teeth dragging against your neck followed by another wet, sloppy kiss. 

Well, now you were curious.

You grip his hair, a gentle tug to pull his head back to look at you, a profound glint in his eyes at the action.

Speak, you command silently.

“I’m just saying—if the FBI knew what you could do, they’d be killing each other to get to you,” He explains, “but you wanted to be a file clerk?”

“I like the ease of it,” You speak through the gentle caress of his hands over your ass, rocking your hips to a slow rhythm, “simple, uncomplicated—fuck, that,” You sigh, head falling into his waiting hand as he cradles your face, watching you through a half-lidded gaze as you start to succumb to the throes of pleasure, “feels so good—I just,” You blink through the haze, a little breathless as you speak, “working freelance, you know, off the books…it’s easier.”

“And risky,” He warns, “without protection—“

“Who said I wasn’t protected?” You smile, releasing your grip on his hair as he slowly flips you underneath him, pulling out briefly to adjust the duvet , kicking it down the bed as he slid into you, knees pulled high over his hips as he gripped the sheets beside your head, thrusting his hips at an impossible to focus pace.

“Be—besides,” You begin weakly and Javier offers a mocking laugh, low and full of pure adoration, even if he’d never admit it, “I’d get too pricey for you.”

“Oh, should I be paying you?”

You stop, a gawking look on your face as you steady him at his shoulders, pausing his movements, “Did you think fucking me was payment? Oh, bebé, no.”

Javier balks for a moment, in disbelief that his sexual expertise and suave looks suddenly weren’t as valuable as he thought.

“I’m fucking with you,” You tell him through gritted teeth, your hand curling around the back of his neck, eyes locked on his as you offered him a sultry smirk, a subtle twitch of your lips, “but, you do owe me.”

And he’d pay up, eventually.

—

Javier’s things start to take shape in your apartment without a word—a spare toothbrush for the nights he was too tired to leave, a spare set of clothes—maybe two. You also always had his favorite beer in your fridge and a spare pack of cigarettes sitting on top of your microwave. It was little touches, ignored and unaddressed but he was like a constant presence in your space.

You were more secluded, careful—but Javier didn’t mind.

He just gets comfortable, though you both had clear boundaries, a strict line that neither of you crossed.

Feelings, out of the question. 

And honestly? Not a problem.

Javier was a good friend and even greater fuck, but he would make a terrible partner, you both knew it.

And you can feel that urge, he wants that effortless, full submission that he won’t explicitly ask for—it’s what he used to, women falling so easily to their knees and begging for him, it, whatever he had to offer.

But, you see both sides of his personality. He could be commanding and in full control of a situation, but also had a tendency to let his guard down…just a bit, enough for you to pry your way in and settle there.

It was two battling personalities, one you’ve learned to subdue with a valiant effort, meld yourself to any situation, whatever was required.

Javier follows you back that day, disregarding his own apartment for yours, in a constant fog of distraction all day. Between the news, the ramping up of Escobar’s antics, and the pressures of the higher ups weighing on his and many others shoulders, he just can’t seem to find a way to relax. 

Even as you lay in bed, slung over him in your near nakedness, your white button up still covering your frame as he squeezes at the soft flesh of your hips, grinding you down against his cock, half-hard for the last fifteen minutes. He’s frustrated, evidently so.

“I’m sorry,” He apologizes, pulling away from your lips with closed eyes, rolling onto his back as he rubs his thumb and middle finger against his temples.

You’ve gotta pull his mind away, leaning up on your palms to follow him, raising your leg over his lap to straddle him.

He chuckles, reaching for his nearly empty pack of cigarettes, plucking one out lazily before he’s tossing the box aside, but you’re quickly snatching the cigarette away and tossing aside, pressing your hands against his chest with an expectant look.

“What the fuck?” He gawks, looking you up and down and toward the floor, watching you shrug in response. 

He moves to push up, but you push back, the distribution of weight giving you the upper hand as he falls back against the sheets, “Alright, real funny.”

“Close your eyes,” You urge him gently, obvious skepticism on his face but eventually he succumbs, throwing his hands up in defeat as he closes his eyes, suspicious to the various shuffling noises as you lean to the side, digging in drawer of your bedside table until you find the item you’re looking for, a distinct clink of metal that Javier recognizes too late, the metal tightening around his wrists and tangled through the loop of the bed frame slats.

“The fuck are these—” He shakes his fists, pointless, “did you sneak my cuffs out of the office?”

You shake your head, slowly unbuttoning your shirt, a clear distraction that Javier tries to fight.

“They’re mine,” You tell him, simultaneously enjoying the slow rock of your hips as it seems to have found a somewhat solution to his issue, wiggling underneath you at the movements, almost urging you to quicken your pace, insistent.

Javier cocks his head in both a show of question and defiance, pressing for more.

“What?” You feign innocence, peeling the fabric over the last button as you lean forward, cradling his face with your hands as you give him a slow, explorative kiss, your tongue slipping into his open mouth, chasing you as you pull away, “Citizen’s arrests are just as legal here as they are in the states, Peńa.”

“So, this is an arrest,” He counters, licking at his lips, tugging once more at the chains.

“Do you want it to be?” You tease, hands pressed against your thighs now, finding amusement at his obvious frustration, knowing that he was completely helpless in this situation.

“Tell me you have the key.”

Your eyes widen at the sudden realization, “Oh, fuck—”

Panic rises, but you quickly quell his worries, “Just kidding,” You reply with a chipper tone, picking the key up from the table while dangling it in front of his face, “you want it?”

Javier nods, yanking against the cuffs weakly.

You contemplate, face scrunching up as you think. 

“Are you sure?” You question, glancing down at the hard line of his cock defined in his jeans, rubbing your palm against the bulge in the denim, gently pulling at the button to pop them open, “I think you enjoy it.”

You place the key at the center of his bare chest, nodding toward it.

“Beg,” You tell him, voice steady and completely serious, the eerily void of emotion that has Javier thinking you might be joking, attempting to get a rise out of him, he laughs.

“You can’t be serious,” He says, but doesn’t explicitly ask.

Your eyebrows raise expectantly.

A battle of silence.

“Oh, I had that file I forgot the other day,” You switch topics, climbing off of him as you slip your unbuttoned shirt down your shoulders, revealing the bold colors and thin lace, material that hugged every curve of your body, a dark crimson red, sheer material leaving little to imagine—though, Javier had enough familiarity that he didn’t need to guess.

“Wait,” He interrupts, his hands balled into fists as you turn to him, one knee settling into the edge of the bed with the file in hand, looking at him….waiting, “come here,” He beckons, perking up as you toss the file aside and walk toward the head of the bed, fingers hovering over the key, “no—no,” He quickly interjects, “like—up here,” He explains vaguely, a weak attempt at asking you to sit on his face—he could come like that, he thinks. Eventually break you down enough. But, you remain ignorant to his demands, waiting for those specific words.

In the entirety of your midnight hook-ups with Javier he had never said please. It was a forbidden word in his vocabulary, far too confident and expectant, deserving to be knocked down a peg.

Besides, it was clearly working, the visible flush in his skin as you began to back away, his writhing against the sheets having shift his jeans further and further down his hips—never having been so thankful that Javier Peńa was a strict believer in going commando, silently helping the aid of his jeans down his legs with your bottom lip between your teeth, a predatory gaze and teasing touch at the inside of his thighs as you toss his jeans away, completely naked and at your control.

“Are you serious?” Javier asks, not an ounce of shyness when it came to his body, cock hard and leaking from the tip as he watched you turn, ignoring him as you grabbed the file and began to flip through, reading out the information as if he wasn’t even there, “Is this me owing you one?”

If there was one thing you knew about Javier, ignoring him was not the path to take.

Beg, your eyes demand.

Not a fuckin’ chance, his grimace retorts. 

You twirl in the spinning desk chair, skimming silently through the papers now as Javier startle to unravel, eventually leaving you to get antsy, wandering around your room to fix the curtains, fold and tuck away a few loose pieces of clothing, only acknowledgement the small grunt he makes as you turn your backside to him, ass in the air as you picked up the discarded cigarette from earlier—he’s never needed one so bad in his entire life.

You reach for his lighter, placing it between your lips as you ignite the flame and press it to the end, awaiting the amber glow before you toss the lighter aside.

“You don’t even smoke,” He gripes, “You want me to say please? Is that it?”

You pull the cigarette from your lips and listen, approaching him so your stomach was at eye level, flicking the cigarette in the ashtray you had purchased specifically for him and cigarette after sex ritual, and he sighs, “Please,” It’s deadpan and lackluster at best, but you appreciate the effort, “baby, seriously.”

You shake your head in dismay, stubbing out the cigarette as Javier frowned.

“I’m helping,” You remind him, “I mean, I got your mind away from work, didn’t I?”

It was a slow but eventual realization that, yeah, you had. A hard task for even him.

You slowly climb over him on the mattress, dragging your hand along his chest and down his stomach, fingertips gazing against his pelvic bone, resting against his thigh.

“So, you’re going to beg,” You explain, leaning close enough to his lips that he can taste the remnants of smoke on your breath, “and I want you to, really, really mean it.”

He feels vulnerable, he is—but, he’s just desperate enough that he’ll let it slide.

For you.

He’s quiet for a stretch of time, watching as you toyed with the idea of touching his cock, watching it twitch with the slightest of touch, feeling like one tug would have him coming in your hand, a pathetic whine to follow. But, he focuses, lips parting as you finally wrap your hand around his cock, velvety soft skin as you caressed the girth of him, neatly trimmed hair at the base the peeked up toward his stomach, his tan skin almost glowing under the soft yellow light of the room, knowing you were throbbing just as bad as he was, feeling the needy pulse under your palm as you jerk your hand slow, from base to tip and back, rubbing your thumb over the slit at the head of his cock, so tantalizing you could take him in your mouth right now and take the load of him down your throat.

“Baby,” His voice relaxed but his body telling you otherwise, “Oh, fuck—you gotta go a little faster, tighter,” He directs, and you apply a minuscule amount of pressure to tease, “like that, like that,” he chants, his chest rising and falling as his brow furrowed, yanking roughly against the chain, your eyes catching at the movement. They were loose enough to avoid any discomfort, you were careful. It was mostly mind games, if Javier wanted out he could probably slip his hands through with enough concentration, but he wasn’t focused on that. He was focused on you.

He’s getting closer, the staggered breaths and soft whimpers that were like melodies, desiring nothing more than to give into your own temptation and sink down onto his cock, riding him until he was mindless. 

You let go, much to his dismay, “Fuck,” He groans, eyes peeling open to look at you, “you enjoy this, don’t you?”

“A little,” You shrug, giving him a fair chance out, “do you want me to stop?”

“Where does that leave me?”

What are the consequences, he means.

“I’ll uncuff you, we’ll get dressed. I give you your file and you go home.” 

You reach for his face, rubbing your thumb along his bottom lip, the unavoidable twitch of his tongue as he instinctively licks, your own lips parting in desire, the enveloping heat of his both pulling the digit in.

“Or, you beg for it hard enough and I’ll let you fuck me.”

A real, authentic plea. That’s what you wanted. One derived from desperation and primal need.

You straddle his hips slowly, pulling at the tied bows at your hip keeping your underwear in place, pulling at the thin ribbon until they loosen and fall, balling up the fabric in one hand while you hook your hand in the strap of your bra, unfastening it with ease, tossing the garment aside completely.

You position your cunt along the shaft of his cock, silently tapping at his chin until he opens his mouth expectantly, shoving the discarded fabric of your panties into his mouth without a word, an obvious smirk on his face at the action as you try to stifle the short giggle at his eagerness to accept.

“I think you really underestimate me, Peña,” You taunt, canting your hips as it drags along his cock, coating it in the sticky slick that has gathered between your thighs at your own neediness, suffering in silence and wishing for him to break, nearly caving in yourself, “Stop being so fucking stubborn all the time.”

His eyes roll back as the bulbous head of his cock catches at your entrance, nearly slipping in at how easily you slide against him, raising his foot to the mattress in an attempt to do so, his remark muffled behind the fabric, that heady taste of you on his tongue.

He’d come if he wasn’t so frustrated, but he’s there—right fucking there, the pace of your grinding quickening as you grip the balled up fabric in his mouth, using it as leverage as his eyes squeeze shut, the familiar coiling in his gut that you recognize too, slowing down considerably as you rip the fabric from his mouth.

“Say it,” You demand, slightly breathless, “just say it, Javi.”

Fuck it, he can’t do this anymore.

“Please, bebé. Please,” He begs, “this is fucking torture.”

That was the tone you were looking for, the shakiness to his voice that oozed desperation.

You nod and he’s almost expectant that you’ll undo his cuffs and let him have his way with you, but that wasn’t the plan.

Instead, you sink down onto his cock without another word, a long drawn-out groan from Javier followed by your soft moan of satisfaction, riding him almost desperately, the sound of skin and against, the sticky heat and humidity of Colombia seeping through the open window of your apartments, you both nearly delirious with overdue release. 

His lip is pulled tight between his teeth, eagerly trying to match your hurried, erratic bounce of your hips as you claw at his chest, marks he’d admire for days to follow.

“Be realistic, baby,” He moans, “even like this you know that pussy belongs to me,” Your eyes flick up, greeted by the raise of his brows, tongue peeking between his lips with confidence.

Even now, he still has the nerve.

“Yeah,” You agree, egging him on with that salacious, vexatious tone, “Does it?”

He admires the slick mess at the base of his cock, angling your hips to grind down against him, cursing at his inability to grab and touch, flip you over and coax you into your climax with a twitch of his thumb, an easy fix.

Javier, unfortunately, was not a man to be tamed. 

He was yours, but he’s never been solely yours.

You were special, though. He knew that.

He just needed a refresher.

“Seems a little unfair,” You shrug, his impatience growing and evident, “don’t you think?”

Your finger drags up his chest, inch by inch until the full expanse of your palm encircles his throat, his chin lifting in silent permission.

“Say it,” You counter, “come on, Peña.”

He chuckles, the sly fucker.

“Tell me this cock belongs to me,” You whisper low, close to his ear as your teeth drag along his jaw, “—that no one can make you come like I do,” You squeeze at his throat, a weak noise falling from his lips as his eyes roll back, “ and how pathetic and needy you look when I let you come inside of me.”

You squeeze once more, gentle but demanding.

He squeaks quietly, yanking weakly at the chains, “It’s all yours, bebé—fuck, it’s—right there, it’s—”

“Beg,” You urge, his mouth parts, breathing increasing more rapidly as you echo yourself, his head nodding instinctively in a desperation for relief, “beg and you can come, Peña.”

He does, a plethora of please—baby, please falling from his lips as you slide off of him, allowing him to come untouched, watching his dick twitch wildly, come coating his stomach in thick spurts as he groans, throaty and wet, eventually falling slack on the bed beneath you as you undo the cuffs without a word, a soft whine releasing from his chest as he arms fall to his side.

It takes a while, several minutes, eyes closed with a gentle and repressive touch of your thumb against his forehead, brushing away a loose strand of his hair, waiting for the haze to wear off.

“How do you do that?” Javier asks, returning the touch as his hand wraps around your wrist.

“What?” You counter with a playful smile, his tired one spreading across his features.

“You’re like…some kind of bruja,” He jokes lightheartedly, “No one’s ever—I’ve never let someone take control like that.”

“You look really pitiful when you beg,” You tease, “it drives me insane.”

You soothe his ego with a kiss, leaning over him to reach for his pack of cigarettes, squealing as his arms pull you back, swatting the contents out of your hands, wrestling you back down into the sheets with ease, your own body fighting a similar exhaustion.

“I wasn’t wrong,” Javier remarks, “estás loca.”

He sinks between your legs without a word, reminding you that he wasn’t a man to be bested, fingers stuffed inside of you as he pumped with an expertise that came with familiarity, learning what made your body tick—Peña was goddamn expert.

He’d rendered you speechless, fingers gripping the sheets, wriggling and whining without a tangible thought on your mind, words lost.

“Pobrecita,” He mocks, “come on—use your words.”

You hum weakly, wistful but hard-headed, “Make me,”

Fortunately, like you, Peña was always up for a challenge.

-

dividers: @/saradika-graphics

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Miguel Having A Crush On You Would Include…

Warnings: Implications of Smut, Obsessive Miguel, Possessive Miguel, Implied Yandere Miguel, Miguel in Love, Vampire Marking, Marking (Kind Of), Fluff, Typical Crush Behaviour, Petnames/Nicknames, No Pronouns used for Reader Except ‘You’.

Him being absolutely OBSESSED with you.

Literally completely feral, down bad, infatuated, etc.

Initially, when he realised he’d started liking you in a romantic sense, he tried pushing you away; tried drowning his feelings in work, missions, Hell – even resolving petty spats between the Spiderpeople at the base. Anything to exorcise this rising feeling of butterflies in his chest whenever you were around. Vulnerability.

However, you were persistent.

You’d bring him lunch whenever you knew it would be a long day in the office for him, telling him that “Even the best superhero needs a sandwich every now and then!”

And by God were your sandwiches phenomenal.

Though he’d never admit it, his heart would skip a beat whenever the door to his office opened, knowing that it could be you paying him a visit with your delectable lunchables, or even just to check in on him. Make him feel special in ways nobody else had or could in years.

Eventually, this turned into a daily affair; one Miguel would watch the clock for, wait for. Long for.

Miguel also tried hiding his feelings when you brought him hand-crafted, love-filled desserts that he just couldn’t bring himself to ignore or throw away. Or, when Miles offered to take them off his hands, let anyone else have.

Eventually, there isn’t a day that goes by where you aren’t with him in some capacity. And it shows.

Whenever you’re late, even only by a few minutes, Miguel can feel his heart spike, asking Lyla where you are, if she can track you, etc.

“Sounds like you liiiike (Y/N)~” Lyla gives Miguel a knowing smile.

Miguel just grunts, ignores her. Though, he can feel the corners of his lips turning up, and hides them behind a well-placed hand, rubbing his temples.

Soft glances whenever you’re in the room, all his attention turning to you and you alone.

He just loves to stare at you. You’re so beautiful that he can’t understand why nobody else passing you has to stitch their dropped jaw back onto their face.

Then again, he is grateful. The fury that bubbles inside him whenever he catches someone glancing at you, gaze lustful, is all-consuming, enough to make his teeth grind, his eyes bleed a light rouge hue, piercing. He makes sure they’ll never cross paths with you again.

Gradually, your warmth and kindness thaws his walls, and, once the floodgates are open, neither you nor he can predict the dark ocean that is to flood your lives.

He doesn’t mean to throw himself full-force into his feelings, but after being so guarded for so long, he just can’t help it.

Becomes overly-concerned with every facet of your life. More so than he already was.

Constantly trying to find out information about you, though being stumped as to how to do so without arousing your suspicion.

Asks Lyla to track you, see what you’re doing, who you’re with, their relation to you.

However, she begins to deny Miguel such luxuries, telling him to “Grow a pair and ask (Y/N) yourself!”

When he realises Lyla is steadfast in her resolve, he does so. Reluctantly.

Though, once he starts, he finds it difficult to stop.

“Where are you going after work?”, “Are you going out tonight with anyone?”, “Who?”

Eventually, you just look up at him, seemingly oblivious to his growing desperation, and say: “Gosh, Miguel, you’re starting to sound like you’re my boyfriend or something!”

His heart stops. His throat dries and he just looks at you, eyes wide.

One second passes. Then two. Then–

“Oh– uh– yeah... I mean, not that that’s weird, right? Unless you think it is weird, then–”

Lyla has to step in and save him from himself, telling him he has ‘urgent business’ in one of the other wings of the facility.

His suit suddenly feels too tight and too hot beneath the collar whenever he has to speak with you alone.

And tight in…other places when his mind wanders to the more intimate aspects of your hypothetical relationship.

Miguel likes to rationalise this as him preparing how best to please you when the time, inevitably, comes for him to claim you, make you his. At least, this staves off the post-nut clarity (guilt) just a little longer when he’s pursuing a release, blasphemous images of you running through his mind.

A good example of this occurs almost nightly, with Miguel thoroughly loving a pillow clad in a shirt he’d lent you once, your scent still woven, though faded, into the fabric.

Many nights, his face is pressed to the cotton of that shirt, muffling his lips and his moans as his teeth sink into your temporary body, extending, marking, hand moving fervently beneath the bed sheets, your name the chant of many a spell of ardour.

You might mistake that red glow on his cheeks for the illumination of the console screens, but anyone who looks close enough knows better.

He loves showing you around the facility. Especially when your eyes light up and you remark how intelligent he is for “Doing this all on your own,”

Any compliment from you makes his heart thrum and his cheeks burn with the urge to smile. And, if it’s only you in his company, he does so.

Maybe even give you a nervous laugh.

You’re the only one he feels comfortable with showing emotion to.

He hopes that his displays aren’t lost on you; that you know him well enough to know that every smile, every laugh, is for you and you only.

And he is determined to, one day, make that smile of yours for him. And only him.

But, for now, he will content himself with daydreams and night ventures into territory not yet known, all the while possessing a seat beside you, being a shoulder for you to cry on, an ear into which you may pour your worries, a hero on whom you can always depend in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterpost

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

[aethon-recs]

30 Tomarrymort Recs for 2024 — One-Shot Edition (Part 2)

2024 recs continued! Here's a round-up of some of the most compelling one-shots that I came across in 2024 that I hope showcases the diversity of talent in our ship across a broad range of tropes and themes and ratings 🤍

Criteria for this list: one-shot, complete, published in 2024. Can be read in 1 sitting. Overall for 2024, I've split up the year-end recs into 3 parts: (1) Completed Multi-Chapter Fics, (2) One-Shots, (3) WIPs. Here’s the link back to Part 1: Completed Multi-Chapter Fics. 

The 3rd and last part of this list (WIPs/Longfics updated in 2024) will be posted soon. Happy reading!

*

A Moment of Curiosity (or Weakness) by koel7 (E, 6k, complete)

“I’m having these dreams,” Harry says. “You’re in every one of them. I think you’ve been in them for a long time, I just didn’t know it was you.” Tom inclines his head, and Harry sees the red eyes. He sees deathly, pale skin, and a flash of green light. “Do you remember?”

a pale horse by @ictyn (E, 7k, complete)

Harry, a penniless orphan, struggles to survive under the superstitious judgement of his isolated puritan community. One day, a vile omen is left before the church, an omen which portends only doom. The elders choose to cast Harry out, sending him as a sacrifice to a crumbling castle. The Dark Lord waits within, ravenous for the taste of his blood and the sweetness of his soul.

A Prank Unlike Any Other by A_Single_Cactus (E, 2k, complete)

It was April Fools’ Day. Harry decides to prank Riddle by acting differently. He decides to act nice. It doesn’t go as planned.

Adhesion by @telelli-writes (T, 5k, complete)

Overachieving sixth-year prefect Tom Riddle is on the fast track to be Head Boy next year, a Department Head by thirty, and Minister for Magic by forty. Harry Potter, Quidditch star and the most popular boy in school, doesn't factor anywhere into those plans or Tom's life. Until Professor Slughorn pairs the two of them together on a Potions project.

bad guy by @circleofplanets (M, 5k, complete)

Considered the power couple of Hogwarts, Tom Marvolo Riddle and Harry James Potter have been the topic of interest ever since they got together. A series of interviews getting close and personal with their friends and their outsider perspective on the famed couple.

Blood of the Covenant by @solelyseeking (E, 10k, complete)

Perhaps more than Parseltongue ran through Tom's veins. The Gaunts carried a hunger in their blood- not just for power, as is their right- but for each other. Tom thinks of the way their legacy had dripped from Harry's tongue, later that night, as his wrist works beneath the covers. He feels no shame for his urges. Tradition is sacred, after all. And Tom had always wanted a family.

Consume by @known-concepts (E, 4k, complete)

Something goes awry during Voldemort's resurrection, the balances of life and death are upset, and there is only one way to fix it.

cult classic by @aitafrog (G, 3k, complete)

For his whole life, Harry’s been looking forward to leaving behind the Dursleys and making his own fresh start. He’d envisioned endless opportunities ahead of him, with countless ways of reinventing himself. But for all of his daydreams and plans, he never quite imagined his fresh start involving the infamous cult leader Tom Riddle.

Customer Service by lilacscented (T, 6k, complete)

Furious at Borgin & Burkes’ blatant false advertising and shoddy customer service, Harry spends his Christmas Eve on a quest for Justice. Tom, meanwhile, is just punching the clock for some holiday pay. Both of them end up getting more than they bargained for.

deadbolt by @duplicitywrites (E, 8k, complete)

Tom is stunning at sixteen. He has always been an exception in a sea of mediocrity, a chameleon of sorts, conducting himself with the arrogance of genius astride the pity of orphanhood. Each facet of Tom Riddle is a domino on the path of Voldemort; it is up to you to divert them. Or: Harry goes back in time again, and again, and again.

don't blame the stork by @theonceandfuturequeenoftarts (T, 10k, complete)

Harry feels a little adrift after the war, so Magic decides he needs a baby, Magical Britain decides he needs to be Minister, and Voldemort decides he needs some company.

Eternal Hunt by @metalomagnetic (E, 3k, complete)

Harry wants to be good. Tom wants Harry.

Fearsome Thing by @0p4l3sc3nc3 (NR, 13k, complete)

It was him. The angel. "P-pleased to meet you," Tom murmured, and then cursed his tongue for the stutter, and his throat for the raspy tone of his voice, and his heart for being a traitor. And the angel—Harry, he had to remember that name now, it was of utmost importance—smiled at him. "The pleasure is mine.”

Heartbeats by @cyandenial (T, 10k, complete)

Harry Potter, a medical student, volunteered to help in St Mungo's hospital for the summer, to gain extra credits and some practical experience. He was assigned to look over one old man, a task no one wanted, because Tom Riddle wasn’t making it easy for anyone. His horrible attitude brought about every nurse to tears, and Harry was determined not be among those who cried. To everyone's surprise, he managed somehow… Until he didn't.

his love life and death by @noctelier (T, 5k, complete)

Tom Riddle doesn’t get sick. His immune system, just like the rest of him, is extraordinary. Incomparable. No one would dare suggest otherwise. Which is why everyone goes silent when he starts to cough. Or: Tom contracts Hanahaki Disease, knows what he must do about it, and decides he’s better than all that (until he doesn’t).

Ho, Ho, Ho by @moontearpensfic (E, 3k, complete)

Tom's parents take him shopping at the mall, where he scopes out snake paraphernalia and a Santa Claus with pretty green eyes.

if the moon should ever doubt by @fericide (M, 6k, complete)

They meet in the Astronomy Tower.

Mistletoe Managed by @tommarvoloriddlesdiary (T, 3k, complete)

“What’s so bad about magical mistletoe?” Harry asks. Hermione sighs, “Well, magical mistletoe won’t let a person go until they share a heartfelt kiss... So he'll be there a while.”

O Come, All Ye Faithful by @shyinsunlight (E, 3k, complete)

The sanctity of midnight mass requires dignity, composure, and absolutely not dropping the thurible when Harry fucking Potter walks in fifteen minutes late. Harry, who hasn’t darkened the church door since last Easter, and who’s apparently decided Christmas Eve is the perfect time to make his triumphant return to worship.

paint your eyes with sunsets by @boyneptunee (T, 5k, complete)

Tom moves to a new apartment building where he more or less gets himself a boyfriend and a family. Oh, and there's also a cat.

Resonating Souls by @endlessburningdarkness (E, 4k, complete)

Minister Riddle has an unusually dream filled night.

Roughly 19 Years Later by @dividawrites (E, 2k, complete)

Platform 9¾ is a nice place for reunions.

seven by lilacscented (T, 7k, complete)

Harry meets Tom Riddle on the first day of school. He has just turned seven. “So you’re like me,” he says, a statement, not a question. “Meet me in the woods later this afternoon.”

Soil by @ratzeebatz (T, 11k, complete)

The thing about Tom, and many people were aware of this, is that he had a combination of traits that made him both dangerous and infinitely appealing to anyone that spoke to him.  Or: Tom Riddle is a murderous herbologist, and Harry smells better than anything he's smelled before.

stumbling into wonderful by @satflesk22 (E, 5k, complete)

The Ministry sees fit to meddle at Hogwarts in an attempt at curtailing rising pureblood sentiments, to try and lure prospective recruits away from the Dark Lord Nott. Unsurprisingly, the Heir of Slytherin is stuck together in a room with the Chosen One. The worst part is that it bloody works.

The Betrayal (and Boon) of One's Own Biology by @riverxsong-ao3 (E, 7k, complete)

Tom Riddle had always known he was destined for greatness. As a young wizard, he was certain he would present one day as an Alpha - strong, powerful, in charge. When he did not, he came to accept that he must, in fact, be a Beta. Then, one day, everything changed.

The Descent by @chaos-bear (E, 5k, complete)

Secrets, grief and blood magic collide in the depths of the Austrian Alps.

The Good Knight by @mosiva (E, 9k, complete)

Harry and Tom drifted apart at Hogwarts, and Harry hasn’t seen Tom in years as she’s off travelling the world. But Harry doesn’t have time to be sad about it. She’s got problems closer to home – like helping the Order of the Phoenix to combat the recent rise of one Lord Voldemort.

the thing lay dead by @duplicitywrites (E, 7k, complete)

In the end, there was one body that all refused to touch. It unnerved people to see even the corpse. Harry tended to him, this man made mortal. Smooth, alabaster skin and thin, brittle bones. Peaceful in death as he had never been in life. No longer a monster. Now a body, just like everyone else.

this is my persona, secret lover (he's my collar) by souliloquium (M, 3k, complete)

Some things are the same, some things are different. Harry is not the Boy Who Lived. He still finds the locket. And Tom finds him.

We Bow to Each Other, Harry by @liquidluckandstuff (T, 4k, complete)

Harry falls asleep with the Horcrux around his neck and has a very strange dream.

When the Weight is Gone by @marrythemonstersao3 (M, 7k, complete)

In the quiet after the war is over, Harry feels the empty space in his soul like a missing limb. Eventually, his grief and longing come to a head when Death offers him a choice: to move on for good, or go back and do it over again.

*

[wannaeatramyeon]

Lookism: I can fix him (no really I can)

G/N. Gun, DG, Sammy, Jakey, Ryuhei, Goo, Vin

You didn't roll up your sleeves, ready to fix the men that came into your life. As if you were some amber or red flag magnet, and you had ample time and energy and patience to sort out their issues. Somehow though, it happened anyway. Slowly. Little by little.

With yourself more of a dubious observer more than anything.

Only a fool would invite someone like Gun into their life and not expect troubles. The pitch black eyes are already an obvious omen.

Except. Gun has second thoughts around you. Peaks of humanity showing through his cracks. Fun for Gun used to be fights and bloodshed. Letting his demons out fully. He can never be completely tamed but he realises there's joy, a bone-deep peace, in other things too.

Namely, your company.

James plays his cards to his chest. As James Lee, as Diego Kang, as whoever he may be in the future.

Hides his intention and true character with a detached, arrogant smile. Buries into himself further with his shiny k-pop persona, not letting anyone see his authentic self.

Your touch first cracked his well polished veneer. Your words and keen eyes, astute and observant, blew the gap wide open.

He realises there's no more hiding with you.

Samuel doesn't lack motivation or discipline with most areas of his life. When it comes to his mental health though, it's sorely lacking. Though, delusional and lacking introspection, he never realised it was a problem until you.

He notices your smile dimming during the beginning of his spirals. Feels your absences as he plummets to rock bottom. Craves you with every part of his being as he soars into mania.

Your worried looks and trembling bottom lip gives him the final push he needs to want to improve.

Being Gapryong's son is a part of who Jake is, irrefutable and undeniable. As much as he likes to convince himself he is nothing like his dad, he has fortunately taken all his best traits and foregone the worst.

However. It takes someone like you to come along, that loves all the parts of him-

(Son of the legend of the Pre-generation, the Boss of Big Deal... And the quietest part, the part of him dimmed and muted through the challenges of life, simply Jake Kim, where he can be as he wants to be.)

-For him to finally accept all parts of himself too.

When Ryuhei crushes, falls, obsesses, he finds it hard to fit the whole image of someone in his head.

All their imperfections and flaws and faults are non-existent in his mind. Which sounds harmless and sweet at first thought, but he could never truly connect with anyone if he is only able to see his own perception of them.

But then you showed him all sides of you, forced him to acknowledge the good with the bad, experience the troughs with the peaks.

Until, over time, he fully sees every facet of you.

Being with Goo is like trying to domesticate a wild animal.

He has glimpses of docility assuming he is well fed and well entertained, though he is still likely to bite the hand that feeds at any moment. Of course, only someone used to getting his way would continue being this... deranged.

You take no prisoners. Uncompromising in the way you should be treated, respected, until Goo has no choice but to also fall in line if he wants to keep you by his side.

Vin keeps himself barbed and prickly. Masks his true feelings, his own insecurities, with jokes and insults. Has made more people cry than he can remember and ignores any guilt with a shrug of his shoulders.

He's not a sociopath. It's just that he's been this way for so long he doesn't know how to be anything else.

You cut through the bullshit, give him no judgement for who he is, how he looks, but how he acts.

His jokes are still rude. Insults still mean. But there's no longer any cruelty.

[pixelnrd]

Mac was satisfied with their mother's account of her own childhood and where she had come from; but it had only opened up more doors that Mac wanted to explore. They had heard from their mother and her siblings - but they wanted to know more. And who better to tell them than their grandmothers.

Mac tried to visit their grandma's every few months. The years had taken a lot from them in old age, and the triplets had sequestered them back home from Tartosa to keep them close by and safe as old age began to take its toll on every facet of their lives. Heather and Jenny lived in a retirement home, albeit one that had every luxury of a resort. Whenever Mac visited, they were always busy with some activity or social engagement.

This time though, Heather was excited to see her grandchild to tell them stories of her own life. She broke out her old family photo album, the one she had held onto her whole life, with the precious few photographs she had to show where she herself had come from.

'My mother and father were married, and they had me and my brother. You'd see these photos and think we were the perfect family, but I learnt from a young age that things aren't always what they might seem from the outside - my Mom was unhappy, and my Dad was a workaholic. After my parents divorced, Dad married again and moved away, your classic mid life crisis. But even so, as a young girl I missed him so dearly.'

'I guess that's the benefit of never having known my Dad,' mused Mac. 'I can't miss someone I never met.'

Heather smiled at her grandchild. 'Such an insightful one, aren't you? You can't miss what you never had... except your own memories. I did always want to see that big house we grew up in one last time before my time is up.'

Mac had a great idea. 'Why don't we go there, granny? Just for a look?'

And so Mac took their elderly grandmother on a road trip to San Sequoia, to the address of the home she had grown up in as a child in the 80s. Except when they arrived, the house didn't look the same.

'Well, I guess it's to be expected,' sighed Heather. 'All old things get remade into something new.'

Mac didn't want their grandmother to be sad; but as they went to turn around, a family came out of the house - a Mom, a Dad and so many children.

'Sorry to have bothered,' said Mac. 'It's just, my granny here grew up in this house as a girl, and she wanted to see it one more time.'

The family were excited to hear Heather's story, and invited them into the house. It was a beautiful, sunlit home with all the marks of being well lived in by a young family. It was nothing at all like it had been in Heather's childhood - and yet, she smiled as she looked around the space, remembering that her childhood had existed right here too in a different time.

'Are you okay, granny?' asked Mac. They didn't want her to be feeling sad, like her childhood had been destroyed.

Heather smiled and hugged her grandchild. 'Not at all my dear. Another family lives here and is making their memories now. Think of the beaitiful layers and layers of happy childhoods that exist here. I am glad that this home is still loved.'

[alltimefail]

Okay so I have more thoughts on Dead Boy Detectives but this is less about scene analysis and more about my own personal interpretation of Charles as I truly believe Charles' inability to fully "reciprocate" Edwin's feelings is less about accepting his sexuality/lack of awareness about his sexuality and more about feeling unworthy of being on the receiving end of Edwin's love (and about bad timing - them being in an afterlife or eternal suffering situation on the literal stairs of hell, but I digress lol). This would explain, pretty seamlessly, why he seems to seek out fleeting or "fun" romances and flirtations. It would also explain why, immediately following the confession, there are micro-changes, blink-and-you'll-miss-it differences in Charles' behaviors and expressions. It's clear that our boy is reflecting, and he meant it when he said he intended to "figure out what the rest means..." even if it takes him forever (and I doubt it will, but again... I digress). This is why calling his reassurances to Edwin on the staircase a "rejection" and putting Charles in a box as default-straight is a complete disservice to his character, to the writers, to the queer brilliance that rings beautifully in every facet of this show, and to Jayden Revri who is an exceptional actor with a palpable, deep love and reverence for the character he's portraying.

As a repressed PTSD bisexual™️ myself, I can't help but connect Charles' history with abuse alongside his poor perception of self, people-pleasing tendencies, and his quickness to stifle and repress his own feelings and desires to his fear of being a "bad person." It would not surprise me if Charles would fear the possibility that he is capable of taking something fragile, beautiful, raw, and vulnerable (Edwin's love) and destroy it in the way his father did.

Charles has always loved fully and without caution; I would even say he loves recklessly at times, throwing himself in front of danger, even to his own detriment. But has anyone fully loved him back in the way he loves? Charles has always loved Edwin, but did he ever allow himself to humor the idea that Edwin might just love him back?

It's evident that Charles had very little kindness in his life. Charles' friends were conditional at best and violent/abusive at their worst, his father was a monster, and his mother (who, in all fairness, was also a victim of abuse) was quiet and complicit in the abuse Charles received from his father. His entire afterlife is intrinsically connected to Edwin's - his entire existence, and Edwin's entire existence, are so closely entwined to one another that to "screw up" the delicate balance they've struck would be more than unfortunate - it would be earth-shattering, a loss like no other. Charles is impulsive, but he is not careless...quite the opposite, actually. I truly think whether or not he's attracted to men is not the issue; it wouldn't surprise me if, at the very least, Charles is aware he is attracted to people regardless of gender and just doesn't have the language to put a label to that sensation yet (he might have never been compelled to put a label on it, frankly). The issue is that Charles is unsure if he is deserving of someone not just loving him, but being in love with him... especially when it's coming from someone he thinks is the best person in the world, the most important person to him, the only person he would deny heavy and defy hell for.

Honestly Charles might even already know he has feelings toward Edwin specifically that are not strictly platonic, but taking that gamble even though he struggles with feelings such as being undeserving of Edwin; that he would be selfish to take a love he's undeserving of; that Edwin might come to realize, at some point, that he was mistaken in loving Charles and that being with Charles isn't actually enough/what he hoped it would be and he regrets his confession all together. Or, perhaps worst of all, what if Charles finds that the nagging fear he's buried deep down was correct all along... that he actually is like his father and capable of hurting Edwin and bastardizing the concept of love as a whole?

There are stakes when it comes to loving Edwin - if he were to screw up what they have, the consequences would be disastrous, it very well might destroy him. He cannot be careless, he cannot be impulsive, he cannot risk destroying what he and Edwin have. I'm not sure Charles has ever not loved Edwin, but he probably never humored that his Edwin: touch-reserved, buttoned-up, logical, stubborn, beautiful, kind Edwin who brought a warm light to Charles in his darkest moment, could feel that way, too... especially about him. What is he to do with that?

[valtsv]

cw for discussions of suicide and suicidal ideation but i'm thinking about tsv saints again and wondering if they're even capable of self-destruction (self-iconoclasm?). like, every saint we've seen so far, no matter how much suffering they're being forced to endure and how much of their self-awareness they've retained, has only been able to die if they're dispatched by another character - with the exception of the woundtree saints, which are generated by suicide as an act of protest, but they're an intentional outlier. this isn't a "should saints be euthanised if their quality of life is determined to be below a level that is considered acceptable" debate because that's a whole different ethical can of worms. i just wonder because there's an argument to be made that in taking away their ability to intentionally end their own lives, the hallowing procedure attacks another facet of personal bodily autonomy by denying the right to harm or terminate that body. compounding the horror of it all further.

[artdcnaldson]

PAT GIVING ART A BLOWJOB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! omg elaborate need ur thoughts………

-🩰

Patrick's first BLOWJOB 💜 (giving ofc <3)

He's just curious! Maybe they're both high or crossed after a party with Art's Stanford tennis friends, and Patrick just wants to know what it's like!! He fucks girls' faces all the time, he's just curious what it's like. Maybe he just doesn't phrase it correctly.

"Can I see what your dick tastes like?"

Art narrows his eyes, which is a feat considering they're already half-lidded. "Dude, what?"

But Patrick's a convincing guy (not that either of them needs any convincing, really. The thought has lived in both of their heads for a long time), and their inhibitions are already lowered soooo far that it's not long before Patrick's on his knees between Art's thighs, watching as Art tries to stroke himself to full-hardness.

"How are you gonna— ngh— know what to do?" Art pants, teasing over the head of his cock with the pad of his thumb, digging into the slit just the way he likes.

"I'll just copy what girls do," he says. "How hard can it be?"

It's mostly intuitive— Patrick finds, and he can't really find an easy way to describe the taste of cock on his tongue. He likes it, though. The weight and heat of it.

When they were younger, he and Art would compare dick sizes. Soft, then hard, 'cause that's what really counts. They'd frantically jerked off, then lined them up side by side.

"So close, champ," Patrick had teased when he beat him in length. Not that Art had anything to be embarrassed about, but winning was always a rush, in every facet of life.

Now though, with Art's dick in his mouth, his jaw aches a little, and there's so much spit pooling at the corners of his mouth that it's messy.

"Am I doing okay? Is it too messy?" Patrick asks, his voice a little hoarse.

Art nods, flushed from his cheeks to the tip of his nose to the tips of his ears. Flushed even through his cock. "No, you're... it's good, just... maybe you can take it deeper," he pants.

Patrick nods, spitting onto Art's dick. It twitches. He watches as precum beads at the tip and spills down the side, following the vein down the side.

Art whines when Patrick takes him back into his mouth, when his cock presses against the back of his throat and the brunet gags pathetically around it. The drool pooling at the base of Art's cock is thick, stringy, dripping down Art's balls messily.

He has to remind himself to breathe through his nose— to not suffocate around Art's dick, not that it would be too bad of a way to go.

He falls into a rhythm, sucking Art's cock deeper, bobbing his head up and down and relishing in the sound of Art coming apart just above him. Lithe fingers tangle at the back of his head, not pushing, just guiding how he wants. He wonders if the girls who've sucked him off felt comforted by it the way he does.

There's just so much he wants to do. He's not sure if it's because of that innate curiosity, or if it's about Art. Except it is about Art. Everything is, usually. He tries to use a little tongue, to lave over the underside of his cock as he goes deeper. He takes him as deep as he can, which, admittedly, isn't impressive, but is rewarded by the prettiest noise from Art's mouth.

"F— fuck, Pat—" Art slaps at his shoulders frantically. "C'mon, up— fuck— up... Gonna c— shit—"

Art had always cum a lot. Every time they jerked off together, he saw that. But in Patrick's mouth, it was a lot. He feels Art's hot spend paint his tongue and tries to swallow as much as he can. Part of the experiment, part of knowing what it's like. It tastes different than his own cum, not as salty, which is... well, it's something.

Art pants, collapsed back onto the bed with an arm slung over his face. Patrick releases Art's softening cock with a pop.

They both feel a lot more sober now.

[stopper-my-heart]

Nick's moments of panic under the umbrella in Heartstopper S1E4 before Charlie kisses him really get me. So I wrote a thing in second person to try to appreciate the weight of the emotions that I imagine Nick is experiencing.

------------------------

You’re into this boy. So into him. He’s been in your thoughts. . . a lot. You've been talking all the time, you keep wanting to see him, and whenever you do, it’s never enough. You can’t help but smile when you think of him, let alone when you see him.

You want this boy. Romantically. You don’t really know what that looks like, but you know it’s true.

And, it seems, he wants you, too.

Your first kiss was good. Really good. All those tingles and flutters and sparks that you felt from just being close to him were amplified into so much more. It was so much better than you could’ve ever imagined.

And then you panicked. You screwed it up. You ran. You went back, but it was too late. You need him to know that you don’t regret it, that you wanted it, that you want him, that you were (are) just freaking out.

You try to be calm, you try to keep your cool. (No need to embarrass yourself in front of your crush.) Plus things are a little weird, restrained, and understandably so. He's probably really hurt. You need to get this out, you need to explain. You can do it.

And then he begins apologising. It quickly becomes clear that he has this all wrong. That he’s wildly misunderstood, rewritten what has happened. You were there because you wanted to be, because you chose to be. Yes, you were scared — are scared — but he has this all twisted.

Charlie.

Charlie!

Charlie.

He's not getting it. So you kiss him.

You make sure he knows what’s going to happen, and even if he seems very confused, he responds readily enough. You attempt to pour all of your feelings into him, to get across all of your regret and sorrow for hurting him as well as (maybe especially) how much you do want this. And for a moment, he loses himself in the kiss. You understand, you do too. Kissing him is just as good as you remember.

And, well, it’s too late for being cool now. You just kissed all your emotions into him, practically begging him to understand; you’d best explain what those emotions are in the hopes that he properly will. (Besides, this isn’t just “your crush”, this is Charlie.) You can’t leave him standing there so lost and confused. You may be confused, but he deserves to know that that confusion isn't about him.

So you start to explain…and then it all comes out. You’re vulnerable in a way you can’t remember being before. There’s no one in your life you can talk to like this, especially not about this. And it’s really been messing with you. Because not only has this boy's presence in your life already begun to upend everything, but you're so much happier because of it. And what are you supposed to do with that? What even would your life be if it were entirely different? Do you even want it to be different? . . .Maybe. But it’s scary. But you want him. And you want you.

So you tell him this, more or less. Really, you cry into his chest. Is this too much? Is he overwhelmed? So much for keeping it cool, keeping your cool. But you need this. He seems okay, he seems to get it. The friendship you’ve built is there, it can handle difficult things — it already has. He seems to want to be there for you. So you let him, and he lets you, and things are hard but they’re better in this moment. You’re finally seen and understood, and maybe Charlie now understands why you ran away, that it wasn’t about him, about the two of you.

. . .But now what?

You want him, but being with him will indeed upend every single facet of your life if other people know. You’re not ready for that, you can’t face that yet. It's too much. Everything is still so new and confusing. You don’t want to ask, but you want to be with him and you don’t see any other way to do that right now except to…keep this a secret? He finishes the thought for you. "Yeah," you concede, unhappily, but owning that that’s where you’re at.

He agrees, he tries to reassure you; you’re not completely convinced, but you want to believe him, so you let yourself.

And there's that question again: Now what?

There have been a lot of emotions and things are a little weird, even if a lot better, and you want to say something, or to touch him, but this is new and you’re meant to be leaving and…best to just go. The awkwardness will fade eventually. You’ll figure out how to be in this new dynamic. For now, you’re wanting, but you don’t know how to do anything more than that (would he want you to?). So you smile at him through the awkwardness and start to walk home.

. . .

. . .

What. Just. Happened.

This is good, but awkward, but good, and he wants this too, right? You’re together now, right? You’re really getting to be with him, with this boy you want so much, with Charlie. This is happening?

And then you hear it: Charlie calling out to you. Feet slapping on wet pavement.

“Nick!”

You stop, startled, confused, off-balance. What’s happening? He’s smiling, but.. What could possibly be worth running out into the rain in his pyjamas for? Has he changed his mind already? Does he not want this? Is keeping it a secret too much?

The doubts and fear are filling your mind, but you try to rein it in, to not let it show, to not let him see.

And then he looks back at you. And you know, in an instant, that everything that you wanted for your goodbye, he wanted, too.

Right? Please let you be understanding this correctly. You look at his lips, once, twice — you can’t help it. You’re desperately hoping that you’re on the same page, but barely daring to believe it.

And then he kisses you.

And the world stops.

.

.

.

.

And this is it. This is right.

Charlie.

This boy just ran out in the rain to kiss you. He’s soaking wet, he must be freezing, and here he is, kissing you. That’s the only reason he came out after you. To kiss you.

He smiles — that amazing smile of his that lights up your whole world — and then he runs off again.

There’s no more room for thoughts, only feelings. Massive feelings that well up inside you. So much sentiment that it feels like your heart is bursting.

You thought you were off-balance before? Well now you’re practically drunk.

What have you gotten yourself into?

Maybe the best thing ever.

[buckevantommy]

1? For dialogue prompts

꒰ 1 ꒱ “i can’t fucking believe this.���

"I can't fucking believe this."

"Sal.."

"Where in the hell does he get off—"

"Sal! It was my choice."

That brings his friend up short. "What?"

"I broke up with him."

The worst of it is: there's no confusion in Sal's eyes. Just horrid understanding sinking in. And not without pity. "Jesus."

Tommy scrubs a hand down his face, stubble catching on his calloused palm. He hasn't bothered shaving on his days off. Evan was always so vocal about how much he enjoyed the texture of Tommy's scruff - beneath his fingertips, against his lips, between his thighs.. His next inhale is a heady rush. "Yeah."

The couch dips where Sal settles beside him. They sit in silence for a minute, maybe two, maybe more. Tommy fiddles with the label on his beer bottle and doesn't taste it when he takes a sip, the flavors bitter on his tongue.

Sal finally breaks the uneasy quiet. "What happened?"

He ran away. He ruined the best relationship he's ever had because he got scared. "I fell for him. I let myself think—" It was stupid. Foolish. He should never have let things get as far as they did. "It doesn't matter. He doesn't want me."

"He tell you that?"

"He's not seeing things clearly right now, but he will."

"Oh my god." Sal sways forward in his periphery. His tone is accusatory, which: rude. "Is this because of Jason?"

Tommy looks away.

"Jesus, Tommy. I know you cared about him, but that guy was an asshole."

Jason was Tommy's second serious long-term relationship with a man. They dated less than a year before moving in together. Three months later they broke up because Jason wasn't ready to commit and Tommy found himself on Sal's couch for the next two months.

That's putting it nicely. The harsh truth was that the man Tommy saw himself buliding a life with got bored of their relationship. Bored of Tommy. And Evan— Buck, would've soon realised the same: that he wanted more than Tommy could give him, wanted something different, someone better, wanted to explore this newly discovered facet of his identity without hindrances.

Not that Tommy was ever going to move into the loft, even in a perfect world where things turned out better for them; Tommy has a house for fuck sake, a mid-century ranch he's spent the better part of a decade making his own. And living alone. But he'd be a liar if he said he hadn't pictured waking up to a certain someone there every morning and going to sleep together every night.

Why be apart when we can be together?

"Hey," Sal knocks a knuckle against his knee. "I'm sorry."

Tommy gives a tight nod, doesn't trust himself to open his mouth in case what comes out is something more embarassing than words.

"For what it's worth, I thought you and Buckley were good together. Hadn't see you that happy in years."

He was happy. Happiest he's ever been in a relationship - except maybe for the giddy euphoria he felt with his own first boyfriend; it was fun but it ran its course. Same with Jason. And he was Buck's first, it wouldn't last. It didn't.

He let himself ignore the inevitable for six amazing months. He doesn't regret their time together, but the ease of being with Buck had lured him into a false sense of security. Buck didn't know the real Tommy - he barely knew himself - so it became apparent that moving forward together was not an option.

Foolish Tommy's happiness always seems to spell heartache down the line. He tried to spare himself this time but it was too late, and that notable happiness that was is juxtapose to a consequential pain that is and which feels like it could last a lifetime.

"I love him," Tommy confesses suddenly, voice quietly ragged. A heated sting presses behind his eyes and he squeezes them shut. Tries to steady his breathing.

And only resists for a moment as Sal pulls him in, big hand bracing Tommy's head, tucking into his friend's shoulder as the floodgates open.

"I know, pal. I know."

doing this thing

[clairedaring]

Sneak Peak of the Cutting-Edge Futuristic Netflix Thai Original ‘Tomorrow and I’

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The cast includes Pakorn Chatborrirak, Violette Wautier, Waruntorn Paonil, Treechada Hongsyok, Ray Macdonald, Timethai, Thongchai Thongkuntom, Aelm Thavornsiri, Pongsatorn Jongwilas, Chananticha Chaipa, and Wanichaya Pornpanarittichai.

This groundbreaking series is directed by Paween Purijitpanya a trailblazing filmmaker known for his genre-defying works such as Body, 4bia, and Phobia 2. Paween has also showcased his talents with the feel-good series Seven Something, the boundary-pushing film Ghost Lab, and his exceptional direction in the episode “Liberation” of Girl from Nowhere Season 2. In Tomorrow and I, Paween reimagines four everyday scenarios in intriguing ways, starting with…

Episode 1: Bringing your loved ones back from the dead. Imagine a future where innovation has reached its peak, testing the boundaries of life and death. In this world, the cycle of birth, death, and being reborn may become an everyday reality through the technology of cloning.

Episode 2: Welcome to a place where technology meets intimacy. Have you ever felt that your partner couldn't quite meet your desires, or felt uncertain because you're still new to relationships? What if there's a city where technology might provide the solution? Enter a world where intelligent sex robots are designed to cater to every emotional and physical need.

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Episode 4: And if an entire city were submerged underwater after years of relentless rainfall, how would humanity survive? Would people fall into despair as the waters rose, or would they have to rely on "octopuses," potentially the last hope for survival? When this moment arrives, everyone will face a crisis beyond our species' abilities.

Unveil the future in Tomorrow and I, the year-end series that will spark your imagination and challenge your perceptions of a world where technology seamlessly integrates into every facet of our lives. Coming soon, exclusively on Netflix.

[powdermelonkeg]

just saw ur gale/mystra analysis post. im new to the game and dnd lore and honestly… ur take on their relationship feels like the most natural/compelling one??? esp since its all too easy to simplify topics that have many facets and nuance….

thanks for sharing i love analysis and reading people’s takes on narratives : D

My pleasure! (Bee from the future here: congrats, you spawned another meta!)

I love complicated characters, WAY more than I like a clear cut-and-dry case. Flaws, to me, are what make a character compelling and lead to interesting stories about them with choices that can get them into situations. I'm both writing a fanfic and running a campaign where I'm playing as Gale, and in the interest of portraying him properly and in-character, I've gone into SUCH a deep dive into all the decisions and facts that make him him.

It helps to, y'know, also be in love with the fictional wizard, but I digress

The thing about Baldur's Gate 3 is that no character in there is perfect. I've seen a couple analyses about the theme of continuing cycles of abuse vs breaking out of them, but in my mind, in terms of the characters themselves, it goes like this:

The origin characters have just come out of the lowest situation of their lives (Lae'zel being the exception; being tadpoled is a gith's worst nightmare. You're seeing that lowest situation in real time).

Not the lowest point, mind. Gale's lowest was probably the day after he got the Orb. Wyll's was probably the day his father cast him out. Karlach's was the day she lost her heart. But the lowest, accepted normal for them is what they've just left.

They're then thrown out of their depth and forced to rely on you to live. That's #1 priority: living. We get the extremes of these characters before we get their nuances, because they're quite literally at their breaking points.

Then once we get to know them, we see their wants, their hopes, their fears, as they open up to us. Every companion's story is at their own pace, but they all have a moment where they ping-pong between despondency and desire. Sometimes that desire is what we know isn't good for them, like Shadowheart wanting to be a Dark Justiciar. Sometimes that despondency is only for a flicker, like Astarion's realization that he's condemned 7000 people to a half-life of tortured spawnhood for as long as he's been a vampire.

Romance lets us crack all that open more, because if you pursue a romantic partner, they see you as their closest confidant. They WANT to trust you, so they're more willing to explain how they see the world and what decisions they want to chase.

And then their endings. Those often get simplified as good/bad, continuing the cycle vs breaking away from it. But how is Duke Wyll on the same platform as Ascended Astarion? He's not evil, he's not even entirely unhappy. He might even have broken out of his abusive cycle with Mizora, if you played your cards right. And Ascended Astarion is overjoyed, even if he is remarkably more cold.

I think that the endings are less a dichotomy of "this is good for them" vs "this is bad for them," and more one of "bringing out their best traits" vs "bringing out their worst."

Wyll's worst trait is being willing to sacrifice his own wants for whatever people desire of him. His best is standing for what he believes in and ensuring people are safe. Duke Wyll leans into that necessity to turn the other cheek in the name of people who count on him, while the Blade of Avernus has seized that moral compass of his and forged it out of mithral.

Shadowheart's worst trait is blind obedience at the cost of her individuality, while her best is her desire to be kind to things that don't deserve to be hurt. Mother Superior Shadowheart's whole life is defined by Shar. Selûnite Shadowheart's life is defined by her hospitality, especially towards animals.

Karlach's worst trait is how willing she is to accept that things are (to quote her) fucked, letting despair override hope. Her best is her durability in the face of horror. Exploded Karlach would rather die than try to work out a solution in the Hells, because she's terrified of facing Zariel alone. Mindflayer Karlach has accepted her fate and decides to give up her heart and soul to go out a hero, losing who she is. Fury of Avernus Karlach is willing to keep fighting for a solution, and by the time the epilogue happens, she's got her sights set on one.

Astarion's worst trait is his desire for power over people. His best trait is using the tools he has to his advantage. Ascended Astarion has let his powerhungry nature and paranoia lead all of his decisions, with his sights set on dominating mankind. Spawn Astarion has embraced what he is, and carved out a life for himself where he can do as he pleases.

Lae'zel's worst trait is her blind fanaticism, while her best trait is her individual dedication, making her loyalty a marriage of the two. Ascended Lae'zel is a meal for the lich queen, turning a blind eye to all Vlaakith's tried to do to her and literally being consumed by her fervor. Champion of Orpheus Lae'zel has turned her loyalty into something productive for diplomacy. Faerûnian Lae'zel has seized her individuality by the throat and decided her own future.

And then Gale. Gale's worst traits are his hubris and, paradoxically, his low self worth. His best traits are his creativity and wonder for the world. God Gale is the embodiment of ambition, having burned away all but that in pursuit of perfection. Exploded Gale has let his remorse blot out all hope for a redemption in which he does not die, because he thinks he's earned it. Professor Gale leads his life by embracing the school of Illusion and letting his creativity thrive, teaching others to do the same. House Husband Gale has multiple creative projects he's working on, and Adventurer Gale is always finding new sights to see and wanting to share them with you.

There are arguments to be made on which ending the origins are happiest in, certainly, or which one benefits them the most, but each ending represents the extreme of a facet they possess.

So with all that, there's a sort of malleable method to figuring out the ins and outs of a character.

You take their endings—all of them, all variables they can have—and reverse-engineer the flaws and details they carry. Then you start to notice how those work into their approvals for minor things: Astarion approving of your taking of the Blood of Lathander, or Shadowheart approving of standing up for Arabella. Getting a list of approvals and disapprovals is helpful, but having those endings on hand tells you why they react like that to a majority of their decisions.

You take their romance-route explanations of how they act, and apply those to earlier decisions. Astarion's confession to manipulating you and Araj-prompted admittance to using himself as a tool brings to light how he reacts to your decisions, regardless of his actual opinions on them. Wyll's fairytale romance and love of poetic adages speaks to his idealistic nature, and why he takes a sometimes-blinded approach to decisions in which the "right" answer isn't always the smart one.

You take their beginning reactions to stress and use that to measure how future decisions impact them. Lae'zel locks down and gets snappy when she's scared, while Gale immediately turns to diplomacy. Shadowheart has gallows humor, while Wyll turns to quiet acceptance. If they break from these and seem even worse, you know the situation is more dire in their minds than having seven days to live.

And then you factor in all their fun facts and dialogue choices and backstories.

A wizard falls in love with a goddess and her magic, attempts to retrieve a piece of her power for her, is scorned for his attempt and is cursed to die.

Give that backstory to a Tav. Look at how it changes.

A chaotic good wizard fell in love with a goddess, thought retrieving a piece of power for her would be a showy bouquet of love, and was punished for not thinking things through.

A lawful evil wizard fell in love with a goddess's power, snatched the most precious thing she owned, tried to use it to barter his way through to the secrets she kept, and was given a swift retribution.

Same backstory. Same class, same act, same goddess. Wildly different connotations. Wildly different conclusions as to who is in the wrong.

If you take all there is to Gale, all that the game shows us makes up his character, and apply it to this backstory, you get what really happened:

A wizard, enamored with magic, fell in love with a goddess. His desires led him to want more than she was willing to give. In his well-buried fear of inadequacy, he concluded that the reason she wouldn't indulge his ambitions was because he just hadn't proven himself worthy enough. So he tried to prove himself, but he lacked the context for what he was proving himself with. And the goddess, seeing a weapon that had killed her predecessor, saw this ambitious wizard as losing his way and coming for her just like the weapon's creator had. She was angry, she withdrew his link to her, and he didn't know why. So he drew the conclusion that she took his powers to punish him, and let that encompass his fall from grace.

Was he wrong to reach for what was out there?

If you knew that the answers to everything you cared about were not only known, but kept by someone you loved—someone who adored you—what would you do to ask to see them? What if your curiosities were if there were other planets with life out there, or how dark matter worked, or whether or not we could one day travel in the stars? What if it was the potential cure to an illness that's little-understood, or the way to make a program you dreamt up, or the scope of the true limits of your artistic talents? Would your answer change?

Was she wrong to cut him off?

If you were once hurt, and the person you loved—the person who adored you—brought the thing that caused it to your door, believing you'd want it, how would you react to seeing it? What if that thing was someone you thought you'd broken contact with, like a friend or family member you'd been trying to avoid? Would your answer change?

That's the sort of scope that needs to be applied to this, on both sides. You have to take the perspectives of each party, and apply two analogies instead of one.

Gale saw the vastness of the universe, untold wonders, the solution to every question he could ever dream up, and saw Mystra as withholding this from him because she thought he just wasn't worthy enough. To claim Mystra knew his perspective does her a disservice.

Mystra saw a cruel weapon she thought long gone, in the hands of someone who could use it, brought right to her, and thought Gale was willingly following the path of Karsus. To claim Gale knew her perspective does him a disservice.

Should Gale have researched his prize more, so he knew just what he was obtaining? Should he have kept his hands off a cursed book that would devour him? Of course he should have.

Should he have given up on chasing his dreams?

Should Mystra have understood that Gale's pursuit of power was nothing like Karsus'? Should she have communicated when she was angry instead of giving the cold shoulder? Of course she should have.

Should she have given him the benefit of the doubt?

That's the root of their falling out. That's what leads to hurt being inflicted. Understandable, human reactions to the situations they perceive. Unhealthy, unwise choices made afterwards.

You work backwards from this to figure out their dynamic as Chosen and goddess. You work forward from this to understand more of where Gale and Mystra are during the events of Baldur's Gate 3. Gale reached too high, and understands this. His goddess hates him, and he regrets this. Mystra isolated Gale, and understands this. Her Chosen wants redemption, and she wants to make it happen.

Just like we took Gale's character into account, we also have to take Mystra's.

A goddess is faced with a problem. She uses someone who's desperate for approval to solve it, by telling him to kill himself.

An evil goddess is faced with a threat to her reign. She sees someone who's unfailingly loyal and hates himself, and elects to have him tear himself apart rather than do anything about it.

A good goddess is terrified of the future. She sees someone who tried to hurt her, who's going to die anyways, and tells him to use it to save the world.

Same story. Same act, same power, same pawn. Different character. Different perspective. Different outlook on whether or not this is the right thing to do.

Mystra has died, multiple times, to people trying to stake claim to her domain. Someone appears with the very thing that could do it again, right as she's regained her stability.

She does not see mortals the way mortals do. She is timeless. She is eternal. She has a duty to protect billions of people, and one person lost to protect that number is more than worth the sacrifice.

People like to bring up the Seven Sisters as proof of Mystra's cruelty. For those unaware, Mystra asked permission to, then possessed, a woman, used her to court a man (with dubious consent from the woman), and bore seven children, all of whom were capable of bearing Mystra's power as Chosen without dying. The woman she possessed was killed in the process (reduced to no more than a husk, then slain by her now-husband, hoping to end her suffering), and the husband was horrified by the whole story.

Mystra needed Chosen in order to restore herself in the event that she was killed again, to prevent magic as a whole from collapsing and wreaking havoc on the mortal realm, like it had in the few seconds Mystryl had been dead. Elminster, Khelben Blackstaff, and the Seven Sisters contributed to this. The more Chosen she has, the better; what happens if Elminster dies? She can't afford to have all her eggs in one basket.

Mystra has Volo (yeah, that Volo) as a Weave Anchor, imparted with a portion of her power to prevent the Weave from shredding itself to pieces in her absence. All Chosen of Mystra are Weave Anchors by nature. The creation of Weave Anchors was mandated by Ao, the Overgod, and Chosen are the best way to make sure those anchors aren't drained by ambitious people hoping for godlike power. Chosen can, and will, defend themselves, unlike static locations (which Mystra also has). The anchors are why the Weave wasn't completely obliterated during Mystra's last death, when the Spellplague rose up, because they stabilized the Weave around them.

Everything Mystra does is in the name of the big picture, to prevent a catastrophe like the fall of Netheril from happening again. Her restriction of magic, her numerous Chosen, her creation of Weave Anchors, her destruction of those who would claim her power, it's all in the name of the stability she's been charged with. Dornal Silverhand's grief and Elué Silverhand's death, while regrettable, were worth it to bring seven more anchors into existence to save all of the Material.

So someone appears with the Crown of Karsus, potentially powerful enough to try to kill the other gods in the name of the Dead Three. She can't risk being a target of them. She can't risk the destruction of magic again.

Gale is going to die. He lives in fear. He begs for forgiveness.

In Mystra's eyes, she's offering him the best outcome. She'll let him die in service to her, to save Faerûn, and she'll forgive him. He's going to die anyways, and if he does this, she'll give him everything (she thinks) he could ever want in her realm. She's asking him to do what (she thinks) is the right thing.

"She would consider what she considers to be forgiveness."

Notably, she leaves the decision in his hands. She doesn't have Elminster lead him to the Nether Brain. She doesn't activate him as soon as he's there. When he lives yet, she doesn't revoke the charm that keeps him stable. And when he declines, when he lets it go and starts pursuing Karsus' path, she doesn't smite him on the spot.

She is (she thinks) being incredibly patient. If Gale is going to try to be Karsus II, she's ready for him. If he decides to walk off and keep the Orb, he's dug his own grave in the Fugue Plane (those who don't have a god to claim them roam endlessly as husks and form a wall of bodies around the City of Judgement).

From her perspective, she's not being unreasonable. But from the perspective of a mortal, she absolutely is.

"Now, I have a question for thee: what is the worth of a single mortal's life?"

This is a question she cannot answer properly.

I think a lot of characterization is lost whenever someone paints one of them as being totally in the right. But I also think you have to be invested in them as characters to want to see that characterization. If you want to write about Mystra, you have to try to get into her head, analyze the decisions she made, figure out why she thinks she was right, and follow the pattern.

Gale's sacrifice is a very predictable thing for her to ask for.

[kavehayati]

Man I wish I could feel bad enough for even talking so I just don’t yap too much it just feels embarrassing a lot of the time

My brother just called me an unskippable NPC 😭

[junkdrawerfics]

What's Imprinting?

Jasper Hale X Reader

Summary: You are a wolf shift, except you have no clue what that is. During your search for someone like you, someone who can explain what's happening, you run into a certain vampire and you, what did he call it? You imprint on him apparently!

Word Count: 2037

Note: So this plays with the idea that there are other wolf shifters besides the Quileute tribe, mainly because I am not Native American and don't feel comfortable writing a reader that explicitly is. No origin is stated, so it's open to all.

---

When you first shifted, every facet of your reality shifted with you. 

Suddenly, things you thought were just stories became disturbingly real. Every monster. Every myth. You couldn’t rule any of them out, not when you could turn into a massive wolf and run faster than a car.

The worst part was not knowing why. And you couldn’t ask just anyone.

So you left. There had to be someone who could explain why this happened to you. Someone like you. Somewhere. Finding them turns out to be harder than you think though, because, like you, someone who can turn into a wolf doesn’t exactly want the world to know about them.

So now, after a year of searching, you’re in Washington. On the brink of giving up.

Letting out a low huff, you drop yourself onto the edge of the cliff, staring down at the waves below you. The dark water crashes against the rocks, as if it’s trying to rip the cliff away, mist spraying high into the air. The salty smell of the ocean drifts up on the soft breeze. You take a deep breath, trying to rid yourself of the lingering city scent.

Seattle proved fruitless. Not that you were really expecting much. What kind of wolf would stay in a place so gross? Every city block brought a new scent. Garbage, grease, smog, sewer. Just like every other city you’ve been to. Even if there was another wolf there, you’d never be able to catch their scent in all of that.

“I swear, if I end up smelling like that city for the next week,” you grumble to yourself, nose scrunching at the thought.

“I don’t think you smell all that bad.”

You freeze.

Someone’s behind you?

Every muscle in your body goes taut as a scent suddenly sweeps over you. It’s like walking into a candy shop, so sickeningly sweet and heady, it makes your head spin. Your wolf snarls to the surface, jaws snapping, hackles bristling. Screaming at you to run.

Fear creeps up your spine.

But then it just…disappears.

Everything falls still. Your mind, the anxiety pulsing through your veins, even your wolf. The strange sense of calm that floods through you covers it all like a heavy fog. But it’s not you. It’s not you.

“What are you doing to me?” You breathe out shakily, fingers digging into the stone under you.

“Just stay calm.” It’s a man, his voice deep and soothing, rolling with a southern accent that would be charming under different circumstances.

But right now, you’re just focused on the way your panic keeps being taken away. You can’t even feel frustrated about it without that being covered too.

“You don’t seem to be giving me an option,” you growl. It has to be him. Nothing else could explain it. What is he? How is he doing this?

“I can answer all your questions if you just give me-”

“Stop it!” You flip around, lips pulled back in a snarl, ready to phase and snap this guy’s head off.

Until your eyes meet a pair of honey gold ones.

The whole world seems to slow down, all except your heart, because the man in front of you is possibly the most beautiful person you’ve ever set eyes on. He’s tall and lean, with a face that looks like it’s been carved from marble. And his smile. It slants his mouth in an adorably boyish way.

Your eyes trail down the pale curve of his neck, across his broad shoulders, down his arms. That’s when you notice countless scars littering his pale skin. Like a match striking stone, rage flares to life in you, so sharp and sudden you have to clench your eyes shut to stop yourself from phasing. 

How could someone do that to him? You’ll kill them. All of them. You’ll hunt them down and-

Wait.

Eyes flickering back open, wide now as you look back at the blond and his strikingly gold eyes, you can’t help but shrink back. What was that? What is this feeling? A deep ache starts in your chest, only growing worse when you put more distance between you. Like you want to be close to him. Like everything you’ve done up until this moment doesn’t matter, and all you want is to just press into him and learn everything about him and protect him.

The man keeps his eyes trained on you, brow creasing when you let out a strangled, confused whine. He takes a step forward, hand reaching out for you, but stops in his tracks when you flinch.

“Are you doing this too?” You demand, practically toeing the edge of the cliff now.

“No.”

As if his words carry magic, your struggling panic eases. You take a deep breath, easing away from the cliff and closer to the handsome stranger. A smile pulls at his lips again, all soft and kind and tempting. For a split second, you wonder what it would feel like to kiss hi-

“Why do I feel this way then?” You wrap your arms around yourself, unnerved by the sudden desires burning under your skin.

The blond raises a confused brow, “I believe you wolves call it ‘imprinting’.”

Imprinting? What on earth does that me-

Your eyes blow wide, voice shrill, “Wolves?”

The man nods. He knows. How does he know? And why doesn’t it bother you that he knows?

You expect the panic to come back, or your wolf to go crazy, but nothing. And it’s not him this time. Instead of any of that, you almost feel…relieved. There’s no need to hide. You don’t want to hide.

 You look at the man again. He should be threatening. Tall stature, lean muscles, and all those scars. But when you look at him, all you feel is the need to be closer. You look at him and you feel safe for the first time in years. Is this what imprinting is?

“Who are you?” You ask, barely above a whisper.

“My name’s Jasper Whitlock,” he hums, inching closer. You don’t back away.

“How do you know I’m…?”

The blond - Jasper - chuckles, the sound warm and rough, “Your kind has a particular scent, easy to recognize. Though yours isn’t that bad.”

Brow furrowing, you have to resist the urge to sniff your clothes, “You can…smell me?”

“Vampires have keen senses.”

Vampires. He’s a vampire. Of course he’s a vampire. Pale skin. Unusually colored eyes. The scent, which has changed since you first caught it. It’s softer somehow, still sweet, but more like caramel and dark chocolate. Addictive.

“So you, you um, and I, okay.” You drop to the ground abruptly, legs folding under you. Your head is spinning with all the new information. “So you’re a vampire?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls, eyes gleaming with amusement as he sits himself a couple feet away from you.

“And you know I’m a werewolf.” A nod. “What is - What did you call it? - Imprinting?”

“You don’t know?” You hunch your shoulders, cheeks growing warm under his curious gaze. Jasper frowns, “I suppose you wouldn’t. My understandin’ is that when your kind imprints, it’s like…findin’ your soulmate.”

Soulmate. That’s…big. It seems life just can’t stop throwing curveballs at you. First the wolf thing, now you learn you have a soulmate. A vampire soulmate. Who looks like a Greek sculpture. While you must look like a mess.

“I can’t believe this,” you grumble, mostly to yourself, but Jasper still hears you if his amused smile is anything to go on. “All I’ve been looking for is another wolf to explain what on Earth is happening to me and instead I find my soulmate, who’s a vampire. I thought werewolves and vampires hated each other? That’s what all the books say!”

“Most humans enjoy exaggerating the details,” Jasper drawls, “Though this is certainly unusual.”

You pout. How are you supposed to react to all of this? On one hand, it’s completely crazy. On the other, he could be the answer to everything you’ve been searching for. He knows what you are, maybe he knows why! Or maybe-

“Do you know other wolves?” You practically jump at him, hope soaring in your chest.

Jasper freezes. His gold eyes go wide, trailing down your arm. Cocking your head in confusion, you follow his gaze. Your eyes go just as wide as his at the sight.

Unbeknownst to you, you grabbed onto his hand, your fingers awkwardly interlacing with his. His skin is cold to the touch, but you feel overwhelmingly hot as your embarrassment skyrockets. You should let go. The man is still a stranger. But you can’t bring yourself to do it. Touching him feels…right. Taking a deep breath, you look back up to his face hesitantly.

The shock is gone, replaced with a look of awe. Jasper slowly shifts his hand, fitting them together more comfortably. Your skin tingles with each touch, your heart dancing wildly in your chest. His eyes dart back up to yours, and the warmth there makes your breath stutter.

“I was worried I wouldn’t be able to handle bein’ around you,'' he breathes, the low hum of his voice quickly becoming your favorite song. You could listen to him for hours and never get bored. “I wanted this to be perfect. I’ve been waitin’ a long while for you-”

“(Y/n),” you supply without thinking.

Jasper smiles softly, repeating it to himself, “(Y/n)...”

And just like that, you find yourself falling for the vampire. Jasper Whitlock. The golden light that came into your life when you were so close to giving up. 

You sit on that cliff for hours, asking countless questions. Jasper answers each and every one of them, the best he can at least. You learn about his family, how they’re different from other vampires and don’t harm humans, a fact that brings you more relief than you expected. He tells you about Alice and her visions, the one she had of you, and his years waiting for you.

You, in turn, tell him about your life as a human. Your small town, your family, and how much you miss them. You recount when you first phased and how you’ve been searching for someone to explain it all. For him.

It’s only when the sun starts to set, painting the sky in dreamy shades of pink and purple, that your conversation trails off into a comfortable silence. You look out across the water, thoughts drifting to your still intertwined fingers. You don’t have the heart to let go, and Jasper seems more than pleased to hold on to you.

“So,” you hesitate. The words stick to your tongue despite how desperately you want to ask them. As if sensing this, Jasper squeezes your hand softly, a silent encouragement. You gather every bit of your remaining confidence, all to ask, “What now?”

He hums and traces his thumb over your knuckles thoughtfully, tenderly, “What do you want to happen, darlin’?”

You don’t have to think about it. The words tumble from your lips readily, “I want to be with you.”

And the smile he gives you is all you need to know you’ve made the right choice. It lights up his whole face, and for a moment, you swear his eyes seem to glow. And, just as you think he can’t look more beautiful, the last few rays of sunlight streak across the cliff, reflecting off his skin like diamonds, surrounding him with an angelic haze. It steals your breath away.

How absolutely gorgeous.

“I think that can be arranged,” Jasper replies, drawing you from your stupor. 

“Good, cause you’re officially stuck with me,” you chirp and lean into his side.

Jasper slips his hand out from yours, leaving you feeling horribly empty, until his arm wraps securely around your shoulders to draw you even closer. The gesture sends pure elation buzzing through your whole body. If you were in wolf form, your tail would be wagging like a tornado. You curl into him, hiding your own smile in his sweater.

When you first phased, you never imagined this is where you would end up.

Maybe fate wasn’t too cruel, after all.

---

Might have a part 2 for this, because I have a funny idea for when they team up with the wolves in Eclipse.

I hope you guys enjoyed it!