#however i will now tag the characters this IS about

[cherry-coffees]

Fitting Rooms — pervy!Caitlyn x reader

Summary: You ask your best friend to come shopping with you, knowing that Caitlyn has always had an eye for fashion. What you don't know, however, is that Caitlyn's intentions are far from friendly.

cw: 600 words | 18+ mdni, pervy!Caitlyn, she looks and thinks, but doesn't touch bc she wouldn't want to force anything on you, lowkey pining too, she really likes you

Caitlyn knows she's supposed to be your best friend.

Key phrase: supposed to be.

Caitlyn should, as your best friend, be supporting you. She should be laughing with you, talking with you, going to cute cafés and taking photos. She should have the best intentions with you — and, to be fair, she does.

She’s just a little secretive about them.

Caitlyn’s been eyeing you for years now. Your curves, your hips, the unmarked skin of your neck — gods, it makes her mouth water. She wants to be the one leaving love bites dotted across your skin, caressing your curves and pinning your hips down underneath her. She wonders, as she lays in bed at night, if you’d let her ruin you. Eating you out, tying you up, strapping you down — she doesn’t care. She’d let you strap her down, too, if it’s your preference. Anything to get you in her arms.

She wants you. She craves your touch and warmth more than anything in the world. Thus, she’ll do anything to get it. 

Caitlyn’s respectful, of course, she’d never do anything without your consent. That being said, she can’t blame herself for admiring you. Like, when the two of you are out shopping in Piltover one day, picking out items you’d look so lovely in. Caitlyn always comes with you, always takes you to high end shops that she pays for with a swipe of her card. Whether you want a lip tint to gloss the lips that Caitlyn so desperately wants to kiss or a stylish pair of jeans: it's yours. So when you pick out a particularly showy top, Caitlyn immediately perks up at the thought of seeing you in it. “The color would look lovely on you,” Caitlyn claims, accented tone disguising the desire in her voice.

When you come out of your dressing room, adorning the lacy top that she had so admired, Caitlyn practically preens. She tries to avert her eyes until you look at yourself in the mirror, and only then does she let her gaze dip down to trace the curves of your breasts. Had you even worn a bra with this? She wonders, biting her tongue so that no sounds escape to give away her wandering eyes. The more important question being:

Gods, has she ever wanted anyone like this?

“Ah—“ Caitlyn leaves her chair, crossing to you in a few strides. She’s tunnel-visioned: only seeing the barely-covered skin of your back. All her mind can tell her is touch, and she can't resist any longer. She slips her hands under the lace to trace along your back, pretending to reach for the tag to pull it out of the top. “Let me adjust the tag for you.”

(The tag is already pulled out, but you don’t need to know that).

You turn, chorusing a thank you and already stepping back toward your dressing room to try on a few more items. That is, until Caitlyn calls out after you, holding up a sweater she had seemingly pulled out of nowhere.”

“Do you mind if I join you?” She asks, icy eyes betraying no hint of her real motivation. “I want to try this on, but all the other dressing rooms are full.”

“Of course!” You nod, flashing her a smile. She’s your best friend, after all, so you hold the door for her as the two of you disappear into the fitting room. 

You don’t notice Caitlyn’s smug little smile as she follows behind you, eyeing your thighs (oh, what she'd like to do to those thighs) exposed by the swish of your skirt. Nor do you notice how she eyes you up when you bend down to grab your phone from the dressing room floor, taking in the sight of your exposed panties.

Or maybe you do.

You guys wanted pervy!Caitlyn so here she is!

I really believe that Caitlyn is very respectful, and I wanted to stay true to her character, so I didn't want to put any noncon in (also, I'm not comfortable writing noncon as per my request rules). But I do think she'd look and lust and have some pervy thoughts about you sooo... this is what I think would go through her mind.

Hope you guys enjoyed and you're all safe and healthy! Sending much love <3

~Cherry 🍒

[transhuman-priestess]

#breaking bad#i like it but as a mexican it's weird to watch sometimes#plus every time they're in mexico they use the fucking yellow filter ajsjsj#i could elaborate but watching narcos in american shows often feels... cringe#then again i don't like those plots so i don't watch anything related#(brba and bcs being the exception)#ok maybe i will elaborate but not much bc i don't even remember half of brba at this point#i am however rewatching bcs and it didn't necessarily get better when it comes to this#i don't think these shows ever aimed to do a good or a realistic portrait of narcos/cartels/whatever#for starters the cartel is isolated. you don't actually see the repercussions of their violence#beyond the effects they have on each other#because they aren't the point. they feel like villains in an (american...) superhero movie.#they don't have powers but they aren't down to earth people either.#if you compare them to the white characters they barely feel like people#now. you must know that brba was also a very popular show here in méxico. still is i guess.#and i don't feel like there are many serious conversations about these topics here either#partly because... if you don't take us mexicans seriously as people why should we take your media seriously lol#(mexicans and latinos in general) (the reason why i despise watching any narcos stuff made by americans btw)#(i mean. you don't take narcos seriously. people that kill kidnap and genuinely destroy lives. daily).#(what chance do we have to be well represented as regular people. one wonders)#and partly because in this country we are often forced to live under this impression that american media is So Cool#we must admire it! regardless of everything!#(but this is a whole other conversation)#anyway. it is sad to listen to the insider podcasts and see how much effort was put into these shows#and how they insist in wanting to write three dimensional characters. in not wishing to stick to “this character is simply this or that”#but most of the cartel characters are simply evil. they only serve the purpose of being villains.

#(i ran out of tags so another rb sorry) (said the person that wasn’t going to elaborate)#but here's my biggest pet peeve about these shows. and i think this assures you that this was made strictly for an american audience#no matter how well they did in other countries#you can somehow find an extra that actually has a snake tattoo on his face.#you can do all these amazing props. create whole documents that’ll be on screen for 3 seconds bc fans pay too much attention to everything.#but you can't 1) hire people that actually speak spanish or 2) hire a dialect coach at least?#(maybe they did and i don't know)#don't get me wrong. there are Great actors in these shows#but some of those scenes are not understandable at all!!!#english is my second language. i don't always need to have subtitles to understand.#then there are scenes in spanish and i NEED subtitles. to understand my native language. because... well. i wonder if they even bothered#to check#again i don't blame the actors. but i feel it does a disservice to their performance.#if an actor mispronounced something in english would you keep that take in the show?#if the scenes in spanish (or any other language) weren’t that important for you to consider casting actors with that skill from the start#maybe you can avoid making them struggle and therefore reducing the quality of their work and the show.#(not that americans care I guess)

Hey this is all fascinating and great insight. Especially the subtitles bit.

I feel like nobody appreciates how incredibly racist Breaking Bad was, and I think it’s overwhelming popularity is, at least in some small part, responsible for the wave of anti-Latino sentiment that has defined right wing politics for the last decade, in much the same way that The Birth of a Nation helped make the Klan mainstream again in the 20s.

[gothicpaperback]

THE WAY HE CARES | TEN

<<<PART NINE | MASTERLIST| PART ELEVEN COMING SOON >>>

wc: 4,2k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Joel Miller x You | Enemy Pregnancy

summary: Joel Miller has been my pain-in-the-ass neighbour for years. we argue more than we speak and when we do speak, it's usually through gritted teeth. but when my doctor tells me my fertility’s running out of time, panic sets in. I want a baby and I don’t have the luxury of waiting around for Mr. Right. Joel's a damn good father to his daughter, Sarah. that much, I can’t deny. so one night, fuelled by nerves and just the right amount of wine, I ask him the unthinkable: get me pregnant. no strings.no romance. just biology. i never planned on falling for him. but nothing about Joel Miller ever goes according to plan.

while the story is first person narrative, the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: neighbours, enemies to lovers, comedy, smut, sexual tension, mentions of fertility and reproductive issues, mentions of drugs and alcohol. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

chapter smut warnings: oral (F receiving), mentions of penetration, sexual fantasy, dirty talk.

taglist: @himboelover | @harrypotteranna23-blog | @isabella-rose-trastamara | @ro4nix | @sunndroppp | @harriedandharassed | @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 | @titlee78 | @olafsmiles2020 | @sophiagladiator | @sunnytuliptime | @6kaja9 | @magicxmiller | @redvelvettsunflower | @smvtwitchmiller |

THE WAY HE CARES | TEN

I'm trying very hard not to be frustrated right now, but I am. I was so ready to give into Joel, my hormones kicked into overdrive. 

And now I'm here on the couch in my pyjamas listening to the rain pattering down on the roof. Seems between the pipes and the weather the world is determined to keep me wet. 

I try watching television but it's so boring I give up and go on my phone. I'm scrolling when I decide to go to Sarah's Instagram. She's always posting cool stuff. 

But today is different. Today is an old photo of Joel. He can't be more than twenty five, arms muscled, body slimmer. He's still got that boyish look to his hair. He's sitting on a picnic blanket near a lake. 

He's wearing sunglasses and a huge smile as he faces the camera. A tiny Sarah is holding onto his fingers, using them to take a step forward. 

#throwbackthursday  To the best Dad then and the best Dad now. I miss you lots! 

I smile, eyes filling just a bit. I look at the photo for a long time thinking about how perfect a father Joel is. How natural fatherhood looks on him. 

How he was always the perfect choice. 

I must have fallen asleep shortly after because I wake to the sound of banging on the front door. 

The rain still hammers down on the roof as I pad towards the door. I open it, eyes blinking when I see Joel standing on the other side. 

Water drips down the end of his nose, his face shiny with rain. His shirt clings to him, similar to the one he was wearing in that Instagram photo. 

His eyes however are exposed and they are fiery. They burn into mine as he steps closer to me. 

"Joel, we can do this another t-"

He doesn't even give me a chance to speak. He lunges across the threshold, grabbing my face and pulling me in for a scorching kiss. 

And fuck can Joel kiss. 

Plump mouth, the tip of his tongue wetting my upper lip before devouring me. I cling to his soaked t-shirt, body pressed against his so tightly I can feel his erection pushing into my belly. 

He pulls back when I whimper, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. I can see my awed face staring back at me. 

"We said no kissing," I say breathlessly even as my mouth chases his. 

"Fuck the rules." 

He crouches a moment to tuck one arm under my knees and the other around my back in a bridal carry, hefting me into his hold and kicking the front door closed. 

"I'm gonna fuck you now," he tells me as he carries me to the bedroom. "Gonna put a baby in you." 

Joel Miller and his filthy mouth where did you come from? My eyes are saucers and I'm trembling but not from cold, from anticipation-

-And then the doorbell rings. 

I wake up from my dream, drool at the corner of my mouth, eyes itchy. I rub at them, glancing at my digital clock. 

11:55 pm.  

The doorbell rings again and I glance out my bedroom window to see the sky is clear, The neighbour is quiet save for the cicadas heard in the distance. 

I stumble to the front door, yawning widely. 

"Were you asleep?"

Joel has changed into a Miller Brothers hoodie and a pair of grey sweatpants that leave nothing to the imagination. He also smells faintly of...

"Are you wearing cologne?"

His cheeks flush when he gives a half-hearted shrug, avoiding my eyes. "Spilled some on me when I was brushing my teeth." 

Sure, Joel. 

Still the thought delights me; that he went to an effort. It makes me cringe that I'm dressed in my ratty Bugs Bunny sleep shirt and that my hair is a mess. 

"You still wanna do this?" He asks me, eyes searching. 

The dream I just had comes back to me and I have to press my thighs together tightly.  "Yeah." 

We enter my bedroom both holding our breath, the moment charged. suddenly I am affronted with what we're about to do when we see my bed. It all becomes real. 

I made it with fresh sheets this morning, made it and plumped the pillows. I wanted it to be as nice as possible. But now it looks intimidating. 

Joel is standing stiffly beside me, dark eyes scanning the room. Only a bedside lamp is on, casting a sensual glow over the room. 

He breathes slowly, hands twitching at his sides and I realize I need to make the first move.  

I crawl to the centre of the bed, tugging the sleep shirt down my hips when it rides up, feeling self conscious.

"Make yourself comfortable," I say awkwardly motioning next to me on top of the mattress.  

Joel looks around the room, surveying it before he nods. With my breath held. I watch as he peels the Miller brothers hoodie from his body and drops it onto the chair by my mirror. . 

He's not a fitness model and he's not in his twenties anymore but Joel Miller is incredibly hot. Strong arms with biceps made not in a gym but on a work site. Broad chest, gold in the low light. His stomach is a bit soft, but still defined enough for my mouth to go dry. 

He gives me a look, brow raised. Keep going?

I nod back. Yes please. 

The moment feels weirdly tense as he walks to the other side of the bed, so I busy myself fluffing one of the pillows. 

"Everything okay with Tommy?" I ask. 

He makes a face. "Can we not talk about my brother right now? Doesn't really get me in the mood." 

I cringe. "Yes. Of course. Shit."

He's at the side of the bed now with a tiny smirk at my flustered reaction. I watch him settle onto the mattress, observing the dip of it, his knees brushing mine as he comes to sit next to me, long legs folded.  

It's so real so close so intimate. 

He stares at me, the kind of bold open stare the steals the breath from my lungs and forces me to look away. 

"Sorry there's no phone for you to peruse," I laugh breathlessly, attempting to lighten the mood. "Mine is on the couch so if you need material you have to use yours."

"Don't need it."

He replies so quickly I'm not sure I heard him correctly. 

"I'm not offended if that's what you're worried about," I scoff. "I'm under no delusional. I'm sure your fantasy woman doesn't have knotted hair, wearing a bugs Bunny T-shirt for sex."

He leans back on his hands, playfully cocking his head. 

"You don't know my fantasies." 

 I know he's joking by the twinkle in his eyes but that doesn't stop my voice from coming out a little shaky. 

"I'm pretty sure men like stilettos and strappy lingerie. Whipped cream and silk-'

"-or blue sundresses." 

My eyes go wide when he stops and his cheekbones go pink. Is he referring to my phone background? The one of me and a blue sundress at Lake Travis? 

No. It can't be. 

But it is. I know it is because the energy in the room has shifted. 

Joel's eyes are on me now and I know he knows that I know. There's no pretenses now, only honesty.  Joel swallows.

"What if I told you I used the background of your phone that first time?"

I laugh, breathy, nervous. “I'd call you a liar.”

His chin juts lightly, a silent dare for me to accuse him of lying again. I have a niggle of suspicion, like he's trying to fuck with me. My curiosity weighs out however. 

"What else?"

"Huh?"

"What else did you look at that day?" I ask him, weirdly intrigued. "I was curious about the sort of stuff you watch but you wiped the history." 

"Didn't wipe anythin'."

"There was nothing in the search history," I explain. "It's okay if you wiped it Joel, I just wanted to know what a guy like you watches to get off."

My face is burning as I admit this, but fuck it. We're about to have sex and I've been curious since the day it happened.  

"I told you. I didn't wipe anythin'." His eyes are weirdly intense. "Didn't need anythin' else." 

My pulse ticks, my nipples harden under my shirt as I remember his grunts that afternoon. 

Bossy thing. F-fucking take it then.

Be good. C'mon be good for me tonight and take it.

Yeah show me. Show me how much you want it, darlin'.

He was saying that about me? There's no fucking way. I stare at him in suspicion. He''s screwing with me. That's the only plausible explanation. 

"Shut the fuck up, Miller," I laugh, rolling my eyes and shoving his chest gently.

But he's not looking away from me. His eyes are swimming over my face, stuck on my lips before rising to my eyes once more. 

“I watched that other video too. The one of you touchin' yourself in bed.”

I feel my jaw hinge open, eyes wide. No way. No way he did. This doesn't feel like a joke, this feels very very real. But it can't be real right? This is Joel Miller, frenemy, neighbour.

There’s a tiny red flush climbing up his neck as he takes in my muted reaction. He watches my face bracing for the fallout. 

“Are you upset?" 

I should be but I'm not. I’m a little embarrassed, sure. But mostly I’m suddenly, acutely aware of how Joel watched me touch myself for the camera, the memory of his grunts and groans. 

So fucking good

Keep going darlin', just like that, you know just what I need. 

The thought does something strange to my spine. Even though he's beside me in bed this admission feels more intimate than anything.  

I finally shake my head slowly, eye contact not breaking. No. I'm not upset.��I am confused though.

"Why are you bringing this up now?"

I watch him suck in a sharp breath, like he's trying to gather up the courage. He licks his lips and leans in slightly.

“If you’d seen what I saw, you’d bring it up too.”

What. 

The.

 Fuck. 

What is happening? How is Joel Miller, annoying neighbour, boring but dependable dad, block captain menace suddenly so suave that he has my stomach doing flips? 

All I can do is swallow thickly as my brain buffers. Joel seems emboldened by my response, the corner of his mouth curling slightly.

He leans even closer, knuckles pressing into the mattress, brushing against my thigh. My body breaks into goosebumps at his touch.

"I couldn't look away from your body arching and those sweet little faces you made when you were gettin' close."

His voice is pure honeyed sex. It drips between my legs and my ears. 

I'm convinced he can hear my heart pounding a staccato in my chest. It's so loud that I feel like it's the only thing I can hear aside from his voice. 

His face moves so close I can see the light that dances with the dark of his iris. His eyes are beautiful. I can feel the warm air of his breath buffet my parted lips.  I exhale shakily as Joel moves his mouth to my ear, lower lip catching my earlobe. 

"I wanted to know what faces you'd make if it was my hand between your legs instead." 

My heart literally skips a beat. I think I mutter something that may be his name or it might be gibberish. 

Whatever it is Joel grins gently against my ear at the response and keeps going. I stare down at his knuckles braced against the mattress, the coiled tension in his biceps, the thick outline of an erection beneath his sweatpants. 

"What if I wanted you to touch yourself like that again?" Joel murmurs all syrupy and low. "What if I want you to pretend I'm the guy you're making the video for?" 

Oh God oh God. 

Joel Miller is a dirty talking professional. And here I am just sitting with my mouth dropped open like an idiot. But it's just so unexpectedly sexy. And his suggestion is intimidating actually. The thought of performing in front of Joel makes me nervous. 

"M-maybe next time." 

Joel's smile is subtle but there. "Okay. Next time." 

Why does my belly flip at the thought of there being a next time? 

His hand brushes my arm before pulling back. He looks at me like he’s trying to memorize something, like he’s afraid if he blinks I’ll change my mind.

“You can go ahead, I won't break,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I know,” he murmurs, sounding relieved at the permission. "I know."

His hand grazes my arm, up to my shoulder, fingers trailing slowly down again like he’s learning the shape of me through memory.

He reaches out again and his touch is gentle, reverent even, as he guides me down to the mattress. The backs of my thighs press into the mattress. The cotton sheets are cool against my skin.

He lays alongside me on his side, one arm propping his head up and he just looks at me. A look of consideration, of interest, of lust.

"I was doing some reading of my own this week," Joel says and I feel his hand is coming to slide along the front of my thighs. It's gentle and teasing. 

"What d-did you read?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even. But all I can do is stare at his fingers brushing against my bare skin. 

"That we should be doing this daily, five days up to ovulation plus the day," he murmurs. "That i should be filling you up that entire week."

 Filling me up? Why is that hot to me right now? What the fuck is wrong with me? When I look over his eyes are on me, dark and shiny. 

"You want that?" Joel murmurs, thumbs tracing little circles on the soft skin of my inner thigh. "You want me to fuck you for a week straight next time?" 

Yes. 

"If you're not busy, sure." 

He grins, his chuckle warm. I like that it makes his face light up when he does that. That it makes me smile in response. His face lowers to mine and he brushes the side of his nose against my cheek, and something in me stutters. 

I feel the weight of him, the heat of his body as he leans in closer, and still, he moves slowly, taking his time. He’s close now. I can hear his breathing, quiet but uneven against my ear, like he’s holding it back.

When his mouth finally does meet the skin beneath my jaw I gasp out loud and it embarrasses me. He doesn’t comment. Just kisses me there again, softer this time, slower. He's technically not breaking the no kissing rule but intimate all the same. 

I should push him off, should wrench out of his touch and yet my head tilts to give him better access. I'm getting hazy on why I can't just give into Joel completely, why i shouldn't press my mouth to his. 

I feel his teeth scrape against my jugular, the warmth of his tongue coming to lap when his teeth move off. 

He's taking his time, working me into both a frenzy of desire and a puddle of lust. But he didn't need to.

I've been wet since I saw him. 

My fingers drift to his chest without thinking, needing to feel something grounded, something solid. And I can feel

His heart is beating rapidly too, a steady throb beneath his ribs. He breathes out through his nose, lips brushing the base of my throat. His stubble scrapes lightly, and I arch without meaning to.

Still, he doesn’t move faster. His hands stay gentle, mapping over my ribs, the dip of my waist, the soft curve of my stomach. 

There’s no teasing, no smugness in it. This is Joel gentle, this is Joel authentic. This is the Joel that made me ask him for his help in the first place.  

"Wait, one thing." 

When he suddenly jerks back I could cry. I want to strangle him for breaking this glorious momentum. My voice comes out in a hard snap.

"What?!"

"Do you always call men, Daddy?" Joel asks, grimacing a little. "Gotta say if you pull that out that'll get me softer than taffy on a hot summer day."

"Fuck no," I say with a groan and a laugh. "This guy asked me to do it on video for him and I did it. I hated it and never sent it, I was too mortified."

"So he never saw it?" 

"No one has." 

"Except me." 

My eyes find his trained on my face.

 "Except you." 

I watch his lower lip stick out in thought, fingers skirting the neckline of my shirt. He asks the next part casually. "Who was the guy? Ben?"

"Joel we're trying to fuck right now, can we chat about my bad tinder dates after?"

He gives me a breathless chuckle before nodding. "Yeah, we can do that."

His hand trails lower, skimming over the curve of my hip with aching slowness. Each pass of his fingers feels deliberate, like he’s memorizing, not just touching.

The momentum isn't lost, just derailed momentarily because I am already back to arching my back and whimpering.

I suck in a breath as his touch begins brushing the sensitive dip where skin grows thinner and nerves more alert. There’s a delay, a pause that makes me clench the sheet beneath me. 

When he reaches the edge of my underwear he pauses. Just rests his hand there, warm and still. Not pushing. Not asking, but waiting with his eyes on my face. 

"Heard it helps if the woman cums first," Joel drops at my cheek. 

The hush between us deepens, thick and expectant. My breath catches, and I know he feels it.

"Oh yeah?" I ask, trying to be casual. "Should we try it?" 

Joel grins, teeth gleaming in the low light of the moon out my window. "Couldn't hurt." 

The air between us is warm and quiet, except for the faint creak of the mattress beneath me and the soft rasp of Joel's breath which is slower now, more deliberate. 

His fingertips trail down with aching patience, skimming along the elastic of my underwear, stopping just shy of slipping beneath. 

The pads of his fingers are rough from years of work, but somehow that makes it better, like the contrast against the softness of my skin sharpens everything.

A faint sound escapes me, embarrassingly small and needy and I can feel him focus Like this is work to him. Intent, purposeful work.

It is work, I remind myself. Joel is not my boyfriend. He's not my husband. He's a man who has agreed to get me pregnant and that's it. He's a man trying to do a job. 

His fingers are exploring, teasing, taking his time like he's memorizing the way I respond. I feel them slipping beneath my panties, forefinger sliding up my drooling slit. His touch makes me break out into shivers everywhere. 

Like when he breaches me for the first time, with his second and third finger, slowly sinking them into me before working them to the knuckle. He doesn't look away as I breath out a huff of surprise, biting my lower lip to keep from gasping. 

The air smells like him now, like fresh laundry, a faint trace of soap and something deeper, more human. When he leans in closer, I can smell my own skin mixed with his.

"Bet you sound so pretty when you cum," he rasps against my ear. "Just as pretty as you look right now whimperin' up at me." 

I'm feral. I'm desperate. I'm so wet I can't stand it, the sound of my slick cunt almost vulgar in the quiet room as he fucks me with those thick digits. 

His fingers are getting me so close and I know the second I cum I want to feel him inside me. I don't want to wait because I can't be patient like him. 

I reach for the drawstring of his sweatpants, fumbling with untying them and shoving them down over his hips. I begin smiling when I feel him slide them off so quickly he grunts, kicking them to the side of the bed, his fingers never slowing inside me. 

His breath is warm against my collarbone. And I think he might be unravelling as fast as me because he starts groaning louder. 

"You know how hard you make me?" He mutters against my jaw. "How fucking hard it was not to moan your name when I knew you were out there on the other side of the door all those times?" 

He's making soft little groans every time I keen which is driving me even more insane. 

"Thought about fucking you in that sundress," Joel continues, fingers moving in and out of my slippery cunt faster and faster. "Thought about how you'd moan my name while you rode my cock." 

Is it true? 

Does it matter? 

Nope. It doesn't.

He could be lying through his teeth but I really don't give a shit. Between his voice and his fingers and the filthy things he's saying I'm already so close. 

"I think about you when I touch myself," I whine, unable to stop saying it. It's there in my head, burning.  

His fingers pick up the pace and I can feel his wet breath at my temple. "Tell me what you think about."  

"How you'd look going down on me," I keen, neck falling back. "How you'd tell me to cum."

"Jesus," Joel groans and his fingers curl in me, tapping and rubbing that inner wall that's making my thighs quake as his thumb plays with my slippery clit. 

"Joel-" I choke out, eyes slamming shut. "I'm... I'm so close." 

"Yeah? Good. But first I need those eyes," he whispers through pants. "I want you looking at the man who's making you cum."  

My eyes flutter open just in time to whine softly when I see Joel's fucked out expression, the hair damp at the temples, the half smirk of approval that quickly morphs into a pained look when my eyes roll back in my head. 

"Be loud, darlin'. Lemme hear how good it feels." 

My climax rises before I’m ready, slow at first, then all at once, tightening in my belly, coiling low and hot until I'm letting out broken cries. 

"Joel! Joel...I... Fuck don't stop!"

Joel doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps going, steady and sure, like he knows what I need before I do and I think he does because... Because...

My fingers clutch the sheets, Joel murmurs my name, urging me to cum on his fingers and then I'm gone. 

I can hear his strangled groan as my thighs snap together, trapping his big hand between my thighs as I ride his fingers to completion. Tension snaps, and everything in my lower body spills over. It's warm wave after wave pulling me under.  

And then... Soothing silence. 

For a moment, I can’t think, can’t move. I just feel him there beside me, grounding me, his palm still resting against my thigh like he’s anchoring me to the world before he pulls back. 

I’m still catching my breath, chest rising and falling in shallow waves, when I reach for him.

I'm delirious with want, desperate to feel his cock in me. I can't wait to have him bury himself deeply, his body caging mine. 

I don’t open my eyes yet, I just stretch a hand toward where he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, expecting him to shift closer, to move over me and to finish what we started. 

“Joel,” I murmur, my voice hoarse from everything he just pulled out of me. My body is loose now, open and unguarded. “Joel, come here.”

There’s a beat of silence, a thick pause and then the faint rustle of fabric. I open my eyes just in time to see Joel turning away, tugging his sweatpants and shirt back on with jerky hands. 

His back is to me, his head bowed.

I blink, confused. "Hey, wait, what happened?”

He hesitates. His shoulders lift with a deep breath, like he's trying to calm something down. 

I sit up slowly, a chill beginning to creep in. “Joel are you okay?”

He won’t look at me.  

"We shouldn't have done all that... Extra stuff. I wasn’t trying to-” he cuts himself off, scrubbing a hand down his face. 

What the fuck is he talking about? What the hell happened? His posture is stiff, like he’s ruined something.

“Joel,” I start gently, trying to ease the tension winding through the room. “just tell me what's wrong. Please."

He finally glances over his shoulder, and his expression cuts me. His jaw is tight, and there’s something raw in his eyes that makes me flinch. 

I try to speak again, but he’s already moving. Already stepping into his shoes, already reaching for his jacket. His body is still flushed, his hair a mess and he looks like he wants to disappear.

“Joel, please," I start, sitting forward.

“I need to go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped. 

And before I can stop him or say anything that might make him stay the front door opens and closes with a soft, final click, and I’m alone again.

[myfictionaldreams]

⁀➷ Make It Spin // Jefferson (Mad Hatter) x F!Reader

Summary: You came to Jefferson of your own free will. To help. Instead, you end up playing one of his games. Now the rules are slipping, your body is being pushed to its limits, and the line between punishment and pleasure is starting to blur. You said yes. You could still say no. But for some reason… You haven’t.

Requested by: 2 x anon have requests, Jefferson (1 anon specifically asked for this request!) Thank you both for the request! I will just say, I haven't watched OUAT in YEARS, and had to watch a compilation on YouTube for a reminder of his character, so if it feels off, I'm sorry! Also Jefferson is unhinged in this fic, so please read the tags!

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, dark, dubious consent (safe words are in place!), drugging, obsessive behaviour, forced orgasms, coercion (previously consented), toys: nipple clamps/vibrator, overstimulation, subspace, rough sex, restraints, dom/sub, begging, aftercare

Words: 3.7k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

You’d come to him willingly, wishing to help. You tell yourself that again as you begin to wake.

The room is quiet enough to hear your own pulse. It’s the smell that hits you first–clove, bergamot, a hint of something like vanilla and old paper. Your head is heavy, fuzzy. When your eyes open, you’re already tied down.

But you came to him. He hadn’t snatched you from the woods or stalked you through the streets of Storybrooke. You knocked on his door. Asked to help, sat down at his table and willingly drank the tea even though you knew it smelled of the familiar sleeping draught that you take before bed.

Not rope or metal. Silk.

Your arms are bound at your sides, ankles crossed, the velvet of the antique chair pressing into your back like a throne that doesn’t want you to leave.

Then– “You’re awake.”  A man’s voice, warm as tea and sharp as broken porcelain.

He’s by the fire, lounging in a wingback chair as though you’re not the one tied up. His legs crossed at the ankle, gloved fingers spinning a spoon in a cup. Eyes pale and piercing beneath a wild sweep of chestnut curls. The top hat rests on the mantel beside him, watching, judging.

You blink in confusion. “Jefferson? I said I would help, but this-”

He smiles slowly, like he’s savouring the sound of his name in your mouth. “You do remember. Good. That saves us time.”

“What–what is this?”

“A test,” he says lightly, setting the teacup aside and standing. His long coat flares behind him as he moves, each step slow and deliberate. “A bit of research. Some creative problem solving.”

You close your eyes, shaking your head in the hope that it will disperse the confusion and cloudiness in your mind.

In truth, this wasn’t the first time you both had played out a scene similar to this. You had been in love with Jefferson for years now, and he with you. The more you got to know him, however, the more you realised just how far he had fallen into the depravity of his insanity. Not that you honestly mind, there were always limits, a safeword, no permanent marks.

This scene could end with a simple three tap, or whisper of the word ‘red’, and yet, you never do because somewhere in the back of your mind, you needed this escape, finding the more intense the scene, the harder you orgasm. So you never stop him, you play along willingly.

He stops before you. Tilts his head, like you’re a painting he can’t quite understand. “See, my hat’s broken. It used to open doors. Worlds. It used to spin and shimmer, and sing. But now? Nothing.”

He glances toward it. “And then you showed up. And something shifted. It trembled. It wanted you.”

“Jefferson, we’ve talked about this. I’m not magic,” you whisper, throat dry.

His eyes lit with amusement. “Ah, but you don’t know that. And I don’t know that. So until we do…”

He kneels between your legs as your breath hitches. He doesn’t touch you, not yet, but his gloved hands rest on your knees, thumbs tracing idle circles. His voice softens to a lover’s caress.

“All you have to do is make it work. One spin. One shimmer. And I’ll let you go.”

You shake your head, “I can’t–I told you, I don’t–”

“Then,” he says sweetly. “You must not mind what happens next.”

He leans closer. “Because if you really wanted to stop me, darling, you’d make the hat work, wouldn’t you?”

Your lips part, panic and disbelief rising in equal measure. “That’s not fair–”

He laughs. Not cruelly. Something worse. Like you said, something adorable.

“Oh, sweetheart, who said I was fair?” His grin widens, and something in his eyes, fractured and gleaming, burns like frostbite.

“You don’t need magic. You just need motivation. And I'm very good at motivating.”

You yank at the silk bindings, but he’s already slipping off one glove, then the other, methodical, theatrical. His hands are pale and elegant. When he touches you, it’s almost gentle. Almost.

His fingers ghost over your inner thighs, dragging your skirt higher as he speaks in a low, hypnotic tone.

“Maybe it’s personal shame,” he muses. “Maybe you’re nervous. Or Maybe–” He slides a single finger along the seam of your cotton panties, teasing. “-You like the idea of being helpless.”

You gasp, hips jerking toward him because in truth, you’re soaked, cunt pulsing, squeezing around nothing and desperate for his touch. He raises a brow. “See? That was a twitch. We’re getting closer.”

“Please,” you breathe.

“Still not spinning,” he pretends to sigh, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Pity.”

He hooks your underwear aside with one finger. Cold air kisses your skin before his warm breath replaces it.

“This could be all over,” he whispers, lowering his mouth. “But since it's not…”

His tongue slides against you, slow and obscene. Your body jolts, traitorous, heat building with humiliating speed. He hums against your clit, lapping deliberately, rhytmically–like he’s tastinga fine wine, letting it linger.

You clench your teeth. “Jefferson– wait–”

He pauses just long enough to smirk. “I will. Just make it work.”

You can’t. Of course, you can’t. So he keeps going.

His mouth devoures your cunt. Wet and relentless, coaxing moans from your throat no matter how hard you try to bite them back. You didn’t want to listen to how good your body felt, tried to ignore his tongue pressing into your cunt, but you still feel yourself climbing faster, harder, your thighs trembling, wrists straining uselessly in the silk.

“Cum for me,” he purrs, smirking like a maniac. “Give me what the hat won’t.”

And when you do, when the orgasm hits you deep in your abdomen, you’re crying out his name before you even realise it, hips rocking against his face. 

He pulls back, lips glistening. Blows softly on your oversensitive cunt just to watch your flinch. Then he stands. Straightens his black waistcoat. Picks up the hat. He holds it over your head like he’s offering a crown.

Waits. Nothing. No shimmer. No spin. His smile returns, wolfish and delighted.

“Oh, dear,” he goads. “Still broken.” He sets the hat back on its pedestal with care. Then he turns to you, undoing the first button of his coat and removing the thick scarf around his neck, until the silver scar around his throat is revealed.

“Well,” he says brightly, “I guess that means again.”

The silk cuffs remain tight, but the panic in your lips has dulled. Not because you’re calm. Because you’re tired, your body betrayed you once already. He made sure of that.

Jefferson hums as he paces behind you, coat now discarded, waistcoat snug against his lean frame. He’s unhurried and precise like a cat playing with its meal.

His boots tap lightly against the hardwood as he circles. Hands behind his back, head tilted, eyes gleaming and something unholy. “I must admit,” he says, voice syrupy and amused. “I rather hoped you’d get it right the first time. Would’ve saved us both a lot of… well–”

He stops in front of you and flashes a grin, eyes flicking toward your trembling thighs. “--distraction.”

He crouches. Strokes a single finger down the side of your face with eerie tenderness. “But alas. Still no spin.”

His thumb drags along your cheek. “Now, the optimist in me says: try again. Let her focus. Let her breathe.” His smile widens into something darker. “But the realist? The scientist? He knows something more stimulating may be required.”

He stands again. Crosses to a nearby cabinet– glass-fronted, etched with swirls–and unlocks it with a small brass key that jingles like a charm bracelet.

Inside: leather, steel, satin. Tools that appear elegant and terrifying in equal measure. A flogger, velvet blindfolds, wands, restraints, gags, a collar, and clamps. And scissors. Not normal ones. Giant, gleaming Victorian tailor shears, black-handled, polished to a mirror shine. They look far more suited to cutting bone than thread.

He lifts them with excitement. Weighs them in one hand and looks over at you. “Now,” he begins, “hold still.”

“Jefferson–wait–I need to catch my breath–”

The scissors click open. “I told you. It’s Hatter.” You flinch as he leans down and snips – the first cut severs the fabric at your shoulder. The strap falls.

He inhales, pleased. “You wear too much,” he decides, slicing the front of your blouse with the calm precision of a man trimming ribbon. Each cut exposes more of you. Your bra. The slope of your stomach. “How am I supposed to read your energy if I can’t see you?”

You’re breathing hard now, skin prickling in fear and heat. “You don’t have to–”

“You could stop me,” he coos. “Just make the hat spin.”

You shake your head, eyes closing. “I can’t.”

He gives you a mock-pitying look. “Then you can.”

The final cuts expose everything. Your ruined clothes are falling to the floor. You’re left trembling in your underwear, chest heaving, goosebumps littering your skin. “Better, “he admires, rubbing the cool flat of the scissors down your sternum before tossing them aside with a metallic clang.

He turns back to the cabinet. You hear soft leather, zippers, the low buzz of something mechanical. Then, he returns, holding a small black vibrator wand and a length of silk rope.

“Oh,” he says innocently, catching your eye. “Did you think I was done?”

You try to shrink into the chair, but the bindings don’t let you. He kneels again, this time straddling your legs. Clicks the wand on. The sound alone makes your thighs twitch.

“That’s the thing about behaviour,” he whispers, brushing the wand’s tip along the inside of your knee. “It’s shaped by consequences.”

He glides it higher. “You failed your test.” The wand meets your underwear, already damp. He doesn’t move it yet. Just let it hum against the fabric, watching your expression change. 

“So now,” he leans close, lips against your ear. “You learn.”

He presses it harder. You jolt. The first wave builds fast with the device. You try to hold back, shame and adrenaline and fear warring in your chest, but he’s relentless. 

“You’re making such lovely noises,” he praises sweetly. “That moan right there–sublime.”

You squirm, eyes fluttering, breath coming out in quick bursts. And then you cum. Helpless, shaking. Heat flashing down your limbs. He doesn't stop.

“Still broken,” he drawls, voice maddeningly sweet. “You really must want me to keep going.”

You try to speak, but your words blur. “Oh no, no,” he scolds genly, pushing your panties aside once more, and turning the wand up. “No faking. No stalling. You want this? Own it.”

The second orgasm hits harder. Your head drops back, tears slipping down your cheeks from the intensity. He still doesn’t stop. By the third, you’re half-gone. Floating. The world is blurring at the edges. His voice becomes a distant melody. You can’t move. Can’t think.

He cradles your chin in one hand as he turns off the wand. “Look at you,” he praises, genuinely awed. “My little puppet. All wet and wild and weightless.”

He brushes damp hair from your forehead, voice dipping into something almost caring. “You’re slipping already, aren’t you? Right into the dark. That lovely quiet place. That’s called subspace, darling. Isn’t it delicious?”

You blink up at him, dazed. Then–softly, from your lips– “Emma…”

He stills. Then, very slowly, he smiles. But it’s not kind.

“No, no, no.” he strokes your cheek. “She’s the saviour. I don’t need saving. I need you.” He kisses your temple, soft and sinister. “You don’t get to leave me.”

And then, with a laugh that could shatter porcelain, he stands. “We’re just getting started.”

The silk cuffs are gone. Not out of kindness. Not out of mercy.

Jefferson untied them with a flick of his wrist and a smile that made your stomach twist. You’re free now – but only on a technicality. The velvet chair is gone too, replaced by something more cruel in its simplicity.

A desk. Heavy and old. Walnut and brass. The kind of desk that kings wrote war letters on. Its surface gleams under the chandelier light. At its centre, on a deep red cushion, sits the hat. 

Still and silent. Almost mocking. You sit before it like a student awaiting examination.

Jefferson is behind you. You can feel his eyes on your neck, his breath drifting across your shoulder.

“Isn’t this better?” he says in a sassy tone. “No restraints, no games. Just you, me, and her.”

He taps the hat lovingly. “Go on, then. Concentrate. Think very, very hard about making her spin.”

You glare at the hat, fists clenched in your lap. Your pulse is already rising, not from magic, but from the weight of his presence. Every part of your body feels too hot, too aware.

“I am trying,” you insist.

“Try harder,” he singsongs. “Or maybe, you want me to help.”

He disappears behind you. You hear the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of knees hitting carpet. And then, his hands slide up your calves. You freeze.

“Jefferson–”

“You’re not concentrating,” he tutts. “Your mind’s all fuzzy and tense.” He pressed a single kiss to the inside of your knee. “Let me help.”

Your chair jerks slightly as he nestles fully underneath the desk until you aren’t able to see him. You slam your hands against the surface. “No– this isn’t – this isn’t fair!”

“Fair?” his voice, muffled under the wood, is teasing. “Oh, darling. You’re still clinging to that word like it ever meant something.”

He hooks his fingers around your thighs, dragging you forward. Your knees bump the underside of the desk. Your heart continues to race.

“I told you…” His voice darkens. “All you have to do is make it spin. But you haven’t. Which tells me…” His lips press to the inside of your thigh. “You want this.”

“Wait…,” you whisper, voice shaking, but have no answer for him.

The first swipe of his tongue silences everything else. You slap a hand over your mouth, fighting the moan that threatens. His mouth is warm even on your already sensitive cunt, tongue flattening against your throbbing clit, licking you like he’s starved.

“You say wait,” he murmurs between licks, “but your body says yes, yes please, don’t stop.”

You tremple violently as he sucks your clit into his mouth, humming like he’s enjoying a fine meal. His fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you spread and open, your ruined underwear pushed aside.

“You could stop me right now,” he says. “All you have to do is spin the hat.”

You shut your eyes. Your hips twitch. The climax is blinding again, fast and shameful.

“Jefferson–”

“You keep saying that name like it’s a prayer,” he purrs. “Try ‘Hatter’. See if it tastes better on your tongue.”

You cum with a broken sob, your whole body jerking, hands digging into the edge of the desk. He moans against you like he’s the one receiving pleasure. When you slump back, legs shaking, he doesn’t stop. He nuzzles in deeper, tongue flicking over your overstimulated clit, another orgasm already blooming like fire under your skin.

“I can’t– Please,” you beg shamelessly.

“But you haven’t tried to stop me,” he coos. “Still no magic. No spin. Which means…” He pauses, licking his lips audibly. “You must want another.”

You take in his words, reading between the lines, realising that your hands aren’t even tied up anymore, you could have pushed him away if you wanted to, could have said your safe words, but you don’t want to.

You cry out as his mouth continues, you aren’t even sure how many orgasms you’d had now. You’re not even thinking anymore. Words are just sounds.

He finally crawls out from under the desk and crouches beside your chair, his lips swollen, eyes glowing with something manic and possessive. He cups your cheek. “There she is. Look at you, my poor little creature. You’ve barely blinked. Can you even hear me?”

You nod faintly. But you’re floating again, spaced out. Subspace yawns below you like a velvet pit. He strokes your face, leans in close. And you whisper it again–barely audibly. “...Emma…”

He goes still. Then stands slowly. His jaw ticks. “You want her?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He laughs. Bitter and dangerous.

“You think she’ll save you? That golden girl? That walking prophecy in leather boots?” he leans over, palms on either side of the desk, his face inches from yours. “She’s not the one in your head when you scream. I am.”

He grips your chin and kisses you, hard and claiming. His tongue pushes into your mouth like he owns it until you can taste yourself.

When he pulls back, he’s panting softly. “No more desk games,” he says, voice low. “No more little tests.”

He steps back and slowly undoes his belt. “If you won’t make the hat work, darling,” he says, licking his bottom lip, “then you’ll have to take what comes next.”

You don’t remember how you got into bed. One minute, you were still slumped at the desk, your muscles too weak to hold you upright. The next, you were floating again, head lolled back on a mountain of silk pillows, the chandelier spinning softly above you like a cracked halo.

Your limbs are heavy, your brain even heavier. You hear his voice before you see him.

“Not the Saviour,” Jefferson mutters from somewhere near the foot of the bed. His voice is calm, though, despite his manic appearance. He’s shirtless now. Lean, pale, marked in the way only madmen are.

He tilts his head as he looks at you. Then lets out a soft chuckle. “Look at you.”

He straddles your waist, bare chest gleaming faintly with sweat, curls a little damp from exertion. His top hat is still on the table. Watching, always watching.

“You should’ve made it spin,” he emphasised. “You could have.” he leans over you, one hand sliding up your exposed body, trailing fingers along your ribs, your breasts. His touch is delicate.

“But instead,” he says, voice lower, “you chose this.” he brushes his thumb over your nipple, watching it pebble under his touch. “You’re so quiet now,” he muses. “So obedient.”

He reached the bedside table, the same drawer from which the wand now sat. This time: two gleaming silver nipple clams, joined by a delicate black chain.

You don't even flinch as he pinches your nipple and fastens the first clamp. The metal bites, the pressure sharp and mean. Still, you don't make a sound.

He pauses. Then does the second one. Again, no reaction. His eyes narrow with interest. “Well, well,” he breathes. “What a good little doll you’ve become.”

He drapes the chain across your chest, the weight subtle but present. You blink slowly, the world still gauzy at the edges.

He kisses you in a deep, possessive way. But, when he calls back, he whispers against your lips, “You’re not thinking about Emma anymore, are you?”

You manage a soft exhale. He strokes your hair. “No. You're thinking about me. You're thinking about how it feels when I break you open and put you back together again.”

Heshifts down your body, pressing kisses to your thighs, then crawls back up, rutting his hard cock against your trembling pussy. “You feel that?” he growls. “That's mine. You’re mine.”

And then he's inside you. No more slow teasing. He sinks in deep and fast, and the stretch is too much, too perfect, your body arching instinctively. The clamps tug just enough to sting, and still, you barely react. You whimper, but there’s no resistance left in you.

He groans, watching you take him. His thrusts start slow but heavy, grinding into you with each push. His eyes never leave your face.

“You’re so quiet,” he pants. “You were such a fighter. So full of fire. And now look at you.” he presses a hand to your throat, not choking but claiming. “Look at what I made.”

You whimper again, vision swimming. He leans down and licks a tear from your cheek. “I knew,” he whispers. “I knew you’d be perfect for me.”

He snaps his hips harder. The chain between the clamps jostles with each thrust, sending pulses of sharp sensation across your chest. Your body shakes, tears slipping from your eyes, mouth open but silent.

He doesn’t slow. He loves it. Loves the tears, the silence, the way you give him everything now without even realising it. And then you cum again. Silently. Fully. A full-body quake that makes your eyes roll back, your fingers clench in the sheets.

He follows right after, groaning deep in his chest, burying himself inside you like he belongs there. When he collapses against you, it’s not rough. It’s gentle. Too gentle. He kisses your forehead. Removes the clamps with surprising care, even calming you as you scream as all the blood returns to your nipples, which is more painful than them going on. 

You tremble beneath him, body boneless and dazed. Jefferson brushes the hair from your face, watching you like a precious, broken thing. When he speaks again, it’s in a lover’s tone, sickly sweet.

“You did so well.”

Your lips part. A soft, whimpering sound escapes. Your mind is fogged with pleasure, pain, exhaustion, your body doesn't know what to do, except reach.

You lift your arms, barely, and he catches your wrists, pulling your body closer. He cradles you to his chest, rocking you gently. “You get it now. You finally understand.”

You nuzzle into his chest. “Good girl. My girl. My perfect little dream.”

You know the aftercare will come, the drinks with electrolytes, the sugary snacks, the washing away of sins from you and plenty of reassurance. But, something stays in your mind, a name that you’d been trying to communicate to him.

“Emma has magic, Hatter.” You’re finally able to breathe the words to him, only half awake.

You’d heard the rumours from town, and with any luck, she could be the answer he was looking for, creating magic for his hat.

He freezes for a second beneath you, then his lips curl into a grin against your temple. “Well,” he breathes, “that changes everything.”

He tucks the blanket tighter around your body. You sigh. Sinking deeper into sleep.

“Don’t worry, darling, you’ll always be mine.”

[sameore]

"Jax (no context given)".

After making a fanart featuring Pomni and Ragatha, I was thinking: "Why not Jax, after all?" so that's what I decided to sketch for this Sunday. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Well, let's say Jax has quite... expressive eyes!

(And DeviantArt suggested "expression" amongst the tags for this fanart, which I found somewhat funny...)

While he might seem kinda confident at first sight (pretty much like the bully of the team), we don't know much about his past... which he has refused to talk about so far.

It just seems like corns scare him away, and he might perhaps be a bit insecure about his masculinity (?)

Some of his reactions might, however, just be the result of a certain immaturi-

Pumpkie: Heeeey, haven't you already burst out of anger for something similar?

Sam: For wha-? Errrrrr... nah, let's say the context was different. I was surprised (and upset) someone who's been seeing me for awhile misgendered me that day.

Pumpkie: Not just that day, you sometimes get hostile when someone questions your masculinity.

Sam: Well, gender dysphoria sometimes makes me... impulsive I guess. You know, I've struggled for years to be accepted...

Pumpkie: Sounds fair. The fun part of being a transman, I guess.

Sam: That's it.

Ironically, although I'm aware it might be for different reasons, some time after watching the 5th episode of TADC, I told myself: "Oh crap, so I might have similar reactions as Jax?"

Because he's definitely not a character I would have identified to at first. (In terms of personality... whut? ÔO)

Pumpkie: That's what I just said.

Sam: Now, to go back to the artwork per se, something that annoyed me while I was working on it was that I thought I had kinda destroyed the lineart with that marker! But, now I look back at it... it doesn't look THAT bad I guess? So I can find some sort of satisfaction... 🤔 (And frustration at the same time…)

Regardless, Jax remains an enigmatic character, finally!

But what is he up to?

I'll leave it up to your imagination! 😄

[snarkiestchicken]

sorry for the late response!! i had this in my drafts while i was away and then executive dysfunctioned until now

what's one (or more, if you want) song(s) you stop everything you're doing to listen to? oooo this is tough. maybe propose (9lana cover), 1-800-hot-n-fun by LE SSERAFIM, slow down by chase atlantic, or sometimes by bo en!

2. favorite number? 42, because of the hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy reference, and how silly it is!

3. thoughts on coke/pepsi and adjacent sodas? i don't really like fountain soda type drinks? i definitely don't like coke, but i do occasionally enjoy sprite and fanta. my favorite kind of soda is either milkis or ramune if those count!

4. do you collect anything? mostly pins of characters or items from my favorite pieces of media :) i have ones from ace attorney and omori so far, and i'm trying to get ones for undertale, deltarune, and ENA!

5. what's a piece of art that you've seen/heard in person (or for a movie, seen in theaters) that you still think about/are glad to have seen? hamilton the musical and six the musical! also nezha 2 when it came out. those were all so good and i love the mementos i have of them (playbills for the two plays, and my movie theater tickets for nzh2)

6. hardcover, paperback, e-reader, or audio books? hardcover most of the time! e-reader if it's something short, audio books if i'm drawing or something and need noise to keep my brain happy. paperback books do have their own merits (like being cheaper lol) but nothing beats flipping through a hardcover book! also they're more durable. i drop things a lot.

7. you can go one place in the world, totally free. where are you going? i'm a bit mixed between china and japan actually! i really miss my relatives in china (and the actual walkable streets and efficient public transportation), and the food there was awesome. however, i've never been to japan but really want to, because it seems very interesting from what i've seen!

8. what's your favorite pasta shape? alphabetti spaghett—(is shot) just kidding gang. it's fettucine

9. what are you working on right now? (skill, art piece, goal, task, etc.) studying french because my teacher did not teach anything this year sighhh...also i'm working on artfight attacks and writing a new story about my ocs + finishing and polishing some old short stories!

i don't have any mutuals that are active/interact with me much rn, besides of course the one who tagged me in this (you're awesome bro! keep it up!), so open tag for everyone ^^

m making their own tag game??? it's more likely than you think....

answer some super specific questions and get to know your moots better!! (i just thought this would be fun, summer is starting for me and it feels appropriate to do something to commemorate my newfound free time)

what's one (or more, if you want) song(s) you stop everything you're doing to listen to?

after the bombs by the decemberists, and also first day of my life by the bright eyes

what's your FAVORITE number?

three!!!!! 3 <<< look at it it's such a good number

how do you feel about coke/pepsi and adjacent sodas?

used to be vehemently opposed to drinking soda, i fear i'm starting to like it? pepsi over coke, but i will never drink either over a glass of sweet tea

do you collect anything? if so, what?

my biggest collection is quarters! my newest is dvds which is very very fun to go to secondhand stores to shop for

what's a piece of art that you've seen/heard in person (or for a movie, seen in theaters) that you still think about/are glad to have seen?

lucian freud's painting "girl in bed" (look here!) which i'm just. obsessed with. getting to see it was totally by chance but maybe also a little bit fate or something like that? i don't know, but it was a beautiful experience

hardcover, paperback, e-reader, or audio books?

harcoverrrrrr

you can go one place in the world, totally free. where are you going?

right now, i'd really like to go back to the shenandoah valley in virginia. it's such a beautiful area and i've only been once but i. miss it tbh

what's your favorite pasta shape?

linguine! and not just because of the rattatouille character

what are you working on right now? (skill, art piece, goal, task, etc.)

getting back into reading more! been really busy and tired lately but trying to remind myself that if i have an hour for tumblr, i have an hour for a book

literally zero pressure tags: @glitteredbubbles @good--merits-accumulated @damnitneilthenamesnuwanda @scriptscraps @littleprincefan @autumnbookworm81 @chameleon3 @abs-blabs @charlie-why-do-they-swoon @sadiesinkobsessedsstuff @theduckwithafroghat @prophecyhaunted and open!!!!!!!

side note that i stopped doing tag games for like a month because i don't even know but. i'm so back i just needed to stop guilting myself/making myself stressed over being busy. lol.

[vivitalks]

thinking about guard dog characters and attack dog characters. the different ways to protect your people. characters who take the defensive versus the ones who never let it get to that. ones who, when someone bares their teeth, will bare their teeth in return, and ones who need only see the glint of teeth before tearing them limb from limb. it's the difference between "i would die for you" and "i would kill for you." characters who are ready to compromise their life or their morals, who have already made that sacrifice in their mind, who have fangs and claws and are always ready to use them, because ultimately these characters are fundamentally the same: they will protect you, and they will do anything.

[licorishh]

no way she's alive ?? yea those mental health breaks because social media makes people suck are wild huh

[trauma-bot]

sin eater

[spookyscaryskidnpump]

wanna quickly state. i do not know anything about DBH. respect to you and blorbo!! he seems interesting!!

however.

i was gonna be normal about this but!! you put this tag!! and now i have to say something because holy shit there is SO much more to these guys and this moment than you think. they are my blorbos and now im gonna ramble because i need to talk abt them again. (also btw they're from newgrounds first and foremost but thats me being nitpicky :shrug:)

here's the thing about Spooky Month: every single character is affected by the world around them EXCEPT for these two young kids. these kids (skid and pump, both less than 10 years old btw) seem to attract danger. paranormal monsters, eldritch beings, the cult that looms over their town- all drawn to them, but never affecting them. Skid (skeleton) in particular seems to be straight up IMMUNE to the eldritch entity i mentioned - Pump isn't, but it seems to like him and help him. Every other character has been traumatized to hell and back because of the antics these kids get into. and the kids?

they have. NO idea they're causing problems whatsoever for 90% of the series. it's only in the episode the possession scene is from where someone (father gregor, the priest) finally confronts them and tells them that they hurt people! they thought it was all fun and games, but when they find out what they were doing, they have an entire episode of going to apologize to everyone.

meanwhile, moloch (the demon) is lurking in the B plot, straight up KILLING people - way more murder than we've had in previous episodes, even the directly previous one about a literal serial killer (who's victims from that episode all survived). this isn't his first appearance, though!

this scene with moloch (the demon possessing these kids) has been set up and foreshadowed since episode 1, before the show was even planned beyond being a shitpost. the demon possessing them was summoned in that episode and has remained present, looming over everyone, for the ENTIRE SERIES. a threat, sure, but a mostly contained one until episode 3 when he escapes- but his host dies. he's gone, right?

right?

he comes back here, in episode 6, and by god he goes from "kinda a joke villain tbh" to "GENUINELY THREATENING". and he has a MASSIVE grudge against the kids (WHO THINK HE'S THEIR FRIEND, BY THE WAY) because THEY were the ones who trapped him for something like 2-3 years based on the continuity! they had no idea! and all of it builds up to this final confrontation between gregor and moloch... with the kids still there, not taking it seriously.

moloch possesses many of the side characters briefly as he chases gregor and the kids across town - kevin, roy, patty, all beloved side characters VISIBLY AFFECTED by this. the kids? fuckin clueless. gregor keeps throwing moloch out of people's bodies only for him to continue pursuit of the kids. and when he finally catches up to him?

they still think its a game.

they willingly let him possess them.

this? this is the first moment at ANY POINT in the series where the kids are actually hurt and heavily affected by one of these entities. the literal ONLY time they have EVER lost plot armor! the only paranormal thing that ever comes even close to genuinely harming them!!!! this is the episode, the moment we learn that no, the plot armor is not permanent, people can and will DIE, and the kids? they're gonna have to learn that this isn't a game. they're possessed for less than a minute, but it's such a major point of importance to the series that the runtime doesn't matter.

moloch ends up expelled from their bodies and exorcised by gregor, effectively killing him. the kids? devastated, crying for the first time in the entire fucking series, because their "friend" is gone - and it's their fault. the entire EPISODE is about them taking accountability, but it's only after this that we see them break down. they are affected. they are changed. pump opens up to his sister. skid apologizes to his single mom because he thinks he's a burden. this scene? this death of a monster? it's the single thing that we've ever seen break the armor. get through to them.

staying possessed is the ultimate bad end for them. not just because they're controlled, not because it would mean gregor would die and the town be destroyed. because they would never learn. they would never change. they would never understand.

this scene quite literally changed the dynamic of the show forever. we know the next episode is going to focus on the kids and some of the other teenage side characters. one of whom is pump's sister. these kids are going to keep learning the consequences - because now they can see them.

im not normal about this show. vote spooky moloch kids. 👍

Semifinals - Side A

RK900 V.S. The Spooky Moloch Kids

[katabay]

PAGLUIB

way back in like. march?? I took a stab at writing some kind of kabitserye type of story but it was a mess: it kept veering off into murder mystery drama territory because I was reading a lot of murder mystery novels around then and it Wasn't Good because I hadn't tried writing mysteries, let alone murder mysteries, before lmao

I did write a handful of short mystery stories since then, so next year I might take a stab at this idea again now that I'm no longer jumping head first into a genre pool I don't know how to swim in :)

[instarsanddyke]

time to make your choice only you can be the one

[nabaath-areng]

I have way too many alts that I keep to myself (which is why I generally refrain from posting them), but I'm going to ignore that habit for a moment just because I'm feeling particularly insane about this guy.

[ki1ldeer]

Going for a painterly thing… it’s kinda fun idk

[in-parkour-civilization]

Bro I made a bet with my buddy whether the parkour god would get it on with the champion or that Seawatt dipshit but they’re all making out in a circle what the fuck do I do

[mattzerella-sticks]

Thinking about the current X-Men serieses, and how they have framed Rogue and Cyclops as the new Xavier and Magneto. And I have to laugh at the beautiful storytelling set-up of -

Xavier's first student, his most loyal soldier, who Xavier most likely considers as a son (more than his own tbh) and who he had hoped would follow in his footsteps, becoming the successor to the role Xavier's best friend took on during one of their many 'splits' as he rails against the system.

The daughter of Magneto's most trusted General, who was a member of the Brotherhood of 'Evil' Mutants, whose power is 'stealing' others' abilities and life force dedicating herself to protecting the world and guiding its people to a future of harmony and understanding while playing within the system.

The narrative symbolism is just 😘