#like I didn’t realize so much of my identity was shaped by my attraction to women and femininity

[deliciousdietdrpepper]

Lately I feel like I’m grieving the realization that I’m a lesbian even though I’m transmasc and those identities aren’t totally compatible. Like, I didn’t feel like I was myself in a lot of ways before T and now that I feel more centered in my body, I‘ve been looking back on my life and all the attraction to women and trying to make sense of it. There are some things that I miss about being a “woman,” but mostly I just miss the ability to have a relationship with a woman as a woman and have it be queer. I spent a very long time ashamed of that aspect of myself and not allowing myself to experience it, and now I don’t think I can. I can never go back to who I was and live myself differently.

[sorrowful-hyacinth]

Back to Random Sorrow Thoughts and Shenanigans. I’ve been thinking about getting my hair dyed lately and I’ve never done it before. I know it’s a lot of maintenance and work to keep it up and if you don’t then eventually it fades out. You thought this was going to be a normal conversation about dyed hair? Yah no. This blog doesn’t do that 😌.

Hair changes your appearance a lot. Whether it’s dying it a new color, getting a hair cut, or some professional service. So imagine a Whumpee with anything like that. Like some flashy rainbow kind of dye or even just going from brunette to blonde. Maybe getting a perm, getting corn rows, braids in general. Just anything that disguises your original, natural hair color, shape, and texture.

Then, think about Whumper only ever seeing Whumpee in that appearance. So gradually throughout captivity Whumper starts to notice changes in their hair. The dye fading out, their hair growing longer, their perm relaxing, their braids starting to loosen or grow out. What do you think their reaction would be?

They could get a little obsessed with seeing whumpee’s original hair. Maybe going on about how it’s way better than what they did with their hair before. It might make them look more attractive and whumper might even want to start taking care of their hair just so that they can have another part of Whumpee to control.

Maybe they’re a little upset about not having Whumpee in the perfect image they saw them in the very first time they saw them. It’s the reason they chose them after all so they should look the way they want them to. So they could take them to the salon to get their hair re-dyed, cut, altered in whatever way it was before. This could even be the only time Whumpee is allowed in public where they’re treated like a normal person by a nice stylist.

Hair could also be a sore spot for Whumpee. Maybe they had some trauma with having long hair being tugged on, so they keep it short. Maybe they died it as a symbol of independence from controlling people in their lives. Maybe it’s a cultural/ identity thing. Whumper finds out, and out of good old whumper sadistic pleasure, they exploit it. Forcing them to grow their hair out, maybe shaving their hair off, putting too much bleach in their hair to purposefully burn it off so it doesn’t grow back the same for a long time.

I didn’t realize there was so much to talk about on this topic, but I really think hair is important to everyone. It holds memories and feelings. It’s fun to play with in story telling, and it’s a hell of a lot of fun for whumper to use against Whumpee.

- 🪻

Date: August 4, 2024

[sailorgundam308]

Random personal rambling.

I’ve realized I wasn’t straight when I was a kid, waaay back in the day. I remember thinking of people’s genitals as something like an outlet/plug in the sense that it doesn’t really matter much if you have an adapter. lol it was a notion that in the late 90’s, early 00’s, I didn’t have much vocabulary for, so I just called myself bisexual.

Then, with time, the nomenclature evolved and diversified to include terms like pansexual and I often think whether that’s a better descriptor for how I think?

But I’ve been describing myself as bi for almost 20 years and it doesn’t seem too off.

I always end up thinking, what does it matter the shape someone comes in if we’re attracted / like each other? People can make sex (or the lack of sex) work in many ways and I know that firsthand.

And that’s the core of everything and a fundamental pillar of my identity.

Obviously I’ve been thinking about these things more often cause of BG3 and how the characters also seem to come with this approach. This fluidity and natural adaptability. It’s reassuring.

[hawkeyescoffee]

Sharing is easy amongst twins

Ship: Jaime Lannister x Brienne of Tarth x Cersei Lannister

Prompt: Sharing

Daily Randomized Prompts: 41/?

Summary: Brienne prepared to leave the Capital, bot being able to watch Ser Jaime and Queen Cersei together, until the other twin comes to her with a proposal. 

Word Count: 1306

Warning: OOC behavior all around lol

Note: This only works if you ignore a lot of things we know about Cersei and Brienne and felt like I wrote Jaime’s w*t dreams. That being said, I did enjoy writing this. Someone write me a multi-chapter fic with those three please

Read on Ao3

————————————————-

Brienne hadn’t fully realized what she had gotten herself into until she was at a point of no return. A sweet delicious one, but full of consequences either way. 

She had been far beyond denying the attraction she felt towards Jaime Lannister, at least to herself. Was it pride or self-preservation that stopped her from confessing to him? 

For a while, when the two of them had journeyed, Brienne could have seen him reciprocating her crush, in her more deluded moments, but when they had returned to King’s Landing, Cersei Lannister was there.

It hit her after watching the twins for a while, seeing all the small details and gestures that incriminated them now that she knew.

Brienne might be the only person in the world to know.

Sure, the rumors were everywhere, but Jaime wasn’t a man to endanger his loved one like that and his sister didn’t strike her as someone shaken by public opinion. 

Brienne had heard the older knight say it. 

And she knew she should have been disgusted, maybe if he hadn’t learned so much about Ser Jaime over the last weeks and months, she would have been, but now she just ached for another man that would never want her. Another man that she had caught feelings for somewhere between friendship and admiration, that was in a forbidden, but committed relationship.

Would she repeat the same mistakes as with Renly? Stay with him and stand by?

Brienne remembered how Jaime talked about his twin and their relationship, how attached to each other they were, how young and hopeful once. Maybe just as Jaime was someone trying to do the right thing occasionally, before he became the King Slayer, Cersei Lannister had similarly good intention before she had become the wrathful Queen the Kingdoms had come to know.

She saw the changes, maybe before Ser Jaime saw them himself. He slipped into the man he had been before his change of heart as effortlessly as into a well-tailored shirt. Maybe the siblings made each other worse, had shaped each other’s wickedness over the course of their obsession. 

And than as Lady Brienne was preparing to leave, (she just wasn’t sure where to… Find a fugitive Sansa? Try to rescue Arya from her forced marriage) the Queen Mother came to see her out of the blue.

Cersei Lannister hadn’t acknowledged Brienne’s presence beyond the highly formal thanks she had received for returning Jaime. Maybe the Queen knew. Knew that Brienne knew, knew that she had romantic feelings for her brother and lover…

Maybe she had come to gloat.

Jaime was a handsome man and tough they were almost identical Cersei seemed to out-shine him anyway with her famed beauty. She wore a complicated emerald-green gown that matched her eyes and the doublet Ser Jaime wore today. The Queen watched Brienne for a moment too long as the younger woman curtsied awkwardly. Her fiery gaze burning into Brienne’s skin as she assessed her appearance and the obvious packing that was done.

“You are leaving us so soon, my Lady?”

The mocking tone Brienne might have expected did not come, instead Cersei Lannister sounded trained neutral. Did her visit has ulterior motives?

“My brother and I had hoped you would join us in my private drawing room for an convivial evening between friends.”

Both of them wanted to see her? Brienne doubted that. But she was disrupted in her suspicious train of thought when the Queen stepped closer to her, laying her small hand on Brienne’s sternum just above her bosom. She is certain the older woman can feel her rapid heartbeat. 

“I do admit that I was… wary of your close bond with Jaime, especially given your former employment and loyalties and well I suppose your reputation…”, she smiled somewhere between seduction and unguardedness. “But Jaime made your case to me more successful than either of us might have thought and we can agree that we both do are for Jaime immensely… And he for the both of us.”

Now Brienne watched a dark shadow pass those brilliant green eyes, so much like Ser Jaime’s but so much more scorching in their intensity. She might have grown to understand Jaime’s relationship with Brienne eventually, but Queen Cersei hadn’t to like it. The twins had been always close knit, in whatever perverted way that might be, but as far as Brienne had seen she wasn’t a threat to that love.

“I am no one to share my treasures, Lady Brienne.”, her fingers absentmindedly stroke the warm skin above Brienne’s throat in smooth patterns, leaving the younger woman on edge with the tingling it induced. 

“But maybe we can try to get along. Become friends even.”, her long fingers traced the pulse-point along her neck, coming even closer. “Maybe be even closer.”

Slowly, in theory slow enough that Brienne would have been able to pull back, gently pushed the woman away, any kind of reaction, Cersei guided Brienne’s head down and sealed her large lips with hers.

Brienne was surprised how electric the kiss felt, how easily it was for her to lose herself in it, not fight it when Cersei moved her sweet, plush lips against hers, allow her skilled tongue to enter her mouth and just drown in the pleasure of it all and not waste  thought about the immorality of it all.

She had been more lonely than she had realized if it was so easy for her to agree to this. Staying with Jaime meant staying with Cersei. A possibility that seemed dreadful with the assumptions she had made about the Queen. But those new developments? Maybe compromising her values was worth this piece of happiness? 

A lot of the qualities that drew her to Jaime could be found in Cersei as well. Obvious things like their similar appearance, their shared humor and willfulness. But Cersei was just as furious defender of her loved ones and just as graceful.

Brienne could relate to her resentment towards her restrictions in live because of her gender, tough she had to remind herself that Cersei Lannister was exactly the kind of person to be cruel to Brienne because of her lack of femininity , her looks, her struggles with tasks expected of noble girls. On the other hand, Brienne got to do things Cersei had yearned for, like being her father’s heir, having a say in her betrothals and learning to fight.

The Queen let her hand glide down the side of Brienne’s touch-starved body, leaving her shivering and wanting, to take her hand.

Guiding her gently out of her rooms and towards Cersei’s own private quarters, where Ser Jaime was waiting for them.

He stood when he saw the two women and Cersei gave him a wicked smile, beautiful and playful that it made Brienne’s stomach turn, but not as much as the sight of the twins united in a heated kiss. It shouldn’t have. It was wrong.

Again Cersei grabbed up to her jaw and kissed her gentler than she would have thought but not any less hungry. Brienne couldn’t help but lean into her, trying to mimic her movements and hold onto silky hair for dear life.

With a satisfied hum Cersei separated agin, licking saliva of Brienne’s mouth, leaving her panting. “I will enjoy corrupting this little sheep way more than I anticipated. So innocent.”, she caressed Brienne’s shortish hair. “Yet so willing to please.”

“Come on, Jaime.”, she pulled him closer to Brienne. “I am not the only one who should be having fun here. We are supposed to be sharing after all.”

But if Brienne was sharing Jaime with Cersei, like she initially assumed or if the twins had agreed to share her because of some shared attraction, the young knight did not understand, she couldn’t have said.

[garnet-xx-rose]

About you asking for Christine x Erik asks: Yes, hello. For the love of god hi! Please tell me more about your head canon for their dynamic in general (or whatever you want to talk about) but also imagine Erik’s reaction if Christine ever takes up sword fighting. The man would be going feral with how much he is simping. Would probably write a whole Opera about how glorious Christine looks while skewering her practice dummy dhajasnsn this is not at all inspired by that one pirate Christine art

My hc for Erik and Christine’s relationship varies, its kinda complicated. For example, Ramin and Sierra’s interpretation I find the most shippable and enjoy pondering about post-Final Lair. So if we’re just talking about Erik x Christine in the ALW-verse, I’m basing it off RAH, cause I love what they do with the characters. I love how touchy Erik and Christine are, I love how messy it is, I love *that* ending even though it hurts my soul, I LOVE how awkward Erik is. Ramin’s Erik is so awkward, but it’s also sexy and I feel like him and Christine would have some interesting conversations and soft moments if shit didn’t go bad so quick. I think watching RAH made me so frustrated (in a good way) because they look so beautiful together but ERIK MY DUDE, please just have a normal conversation with this woman and not jump to conclusions.

But at the same time, Emilie is without a doubt my favorite interpretation of Christine, while Ramin is still my favorite phantom. So, in like Modern AU situations, I’ve been basing my writing ideas off of their Erik and Christine being together, which I think would be a lot of fun: Ramin’s nerdy and reserved but passionate Erik vs Emilie’s warm, confident and excitable Christine. Erik does his sardonic theatrics and Christine’s like “Ok that was something but do you wanna go to Target with me to get groceries?

BUT ALSO: I do like Christine and Erik’s with an age gap. A good 10-15 years. Like Christine being 23+ and Erik mid 30s to early 40s. Before people start coming at me. As someone who’s in her early 20s that finds older people hella attractive but wouldn’t want to date them cause of the obvious power imbalance, enjoying Christine and Erik fills that gap. I love fics where even though Christine is younger, she has a strong grip on Erik and has a lot of power in the dynamic. Watching men, be deeply in love with women is a passion of mine, and I think they fit it in really well. Also love an older Erik that’s a bit husky in shape. Giving DILF real ness.

Overall though, these attributes exist in all my Erik x Christine dynamic hcs:

-Christine is very outspoken

-Erik is a simp

-Christine is trying out new hobbies and ways to express herself (sword fighting, dying and chopping off her hair) so that she can have an identity outside of music

-Erik is her #1 supporter in her endeavors

-They’re attraction to each other can be overwhelming, and it’s what causes initial conflict. They get lost in each other to the point they ignore other relationships and their friends confront them about it. Erik doesn’t understand the problem but its Christine who explains why its not healthy or sustainable for them

-Erik has a lot of issues and is also doing everything in his power to manage his problems. He often struggles with Christine choosing him and has a lot of insecurities, but he doesn’t put that on Christine and instead is learning to use other avenues for stress-relieving than Christine or music. He talks a lot more with Daroga and takes up non-music hobbies like cooking and crochet. (Now when he’s having a bad time, he makes a mean triple chocolate cookie)

-Christine is healing from her grief and it’s a emotional process: She misses her Dad but also realizes that her childhood wasn’t the most stable. She realizes that she’s been looking for this stability in her relationships, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. However, she’s uncomfortable being with herself. So, she’s learning how to exist in her own.

- Erik and Christine are messy, but they love each other and they love their unique connection. Both are committed to putting the work to make this last.

And heck yeah, love Pirate Christine so much!

[uuchanjustice]

Ekubo Week Day 6 - Growth

(Dimple and Stubble [from this omake], word count: ~900)

Spirits weren’t made of much. The average spirit was barely more than a few leftover emotions of a former living soul, easily destroyed by a bit of psychic energy or a moment of catharsis. Some lucky spirits could eat; they fed on human emotions and stories, and feasted enough to form an identity, a conception of self. But even those spirits were nothing but tiny fragments of power, in the end.

Millions of new fragments entered the astral plane one day. Bits of anger, determination, relief, pride, sadness, all with a major component of faith. Faith-based spirits were some of the most robust, and their shattered remains broke up the monotony of the swirls of fear and anger, the hydrogen and helium of this realm.

Sometimes, the pieces of a shattered soul would attract each other and form a mass of energy. The pieces would be diluted with other remnants of the astral plane, but something resembling the former spirit’s shape could be identified in the mass, if it was especially lucky.

That was the case for this newly destroyed spirit. Fragments assembled into a ball, a wisp of energy barely holding itself together, and the current of faith running through them was strong enough for the wisp to gain consciousness.

He was conscious. He couldn’t see or hear, but he was, and that was a step in the right direction. He just needed a little more power, and then he could-

“Dimple? Is that you?” Oh. He could hear.

A hand poked at the distorted mass that was his current form. A current of energy flowed into him, slowly bringing sensation back. “You look weak, old friend… what happened to you?”

He spoke as soon as he had a face again. “Stubble,” he said. “…It’s a long story.”

Stubble’s face became visible. It hadn’t changed since the last time Dimple saw him. “I’ll take you home,” he said. “You can rest… and then, could you tell me?”

Dimple realized he was being held in Stubble’s arms. So he was even smaller than Stubble now. “Sure. Why not,” he said, and fell asleep.

—

Stubble’s home hadn’t changed. Old cups and books sat on a rotting table, gathering dust. Weeds grew through the floorboards, stunted from the lack of sun. It felt smaller than Dimple remembered.

He didn’t know how long he slept. Stubble was waiting for him when he woke up, still much larger than him. Dimple wasn’t sure why, but he felt like this wasn’t the first time someone waited for him to come home. Even if this wasn’t his home at all.

“I looked for you every day,” Stubble admitted. “It was easier when I had Nocchi. Nowadays, I have to watch out for animal spirits. Not fast enough to escape without a mount, you know?”

Dimple frowned. “Nocchi left?”

“Of course.” Stubble’s smile was thin. “Spirits don’t usually want to stay put.” His beard was looking thinner than before, too. If he continued like this for much longer, he would waste away completely, Dimple was sure. But despite his condition, he had rescued Dimple. Maybe there was something he wanted…?

Dimple wasn’t going to be this weak spirit’s purpose. But the idea of leaving him behind made him feel small. “So…” He stretched out his newly formed arms and legs. “You wanna hear my story?”

—

They stayed together for a while. Dimple couldn’t measure the time, but he felt like he’d heard all of Stubble’s stories at least three times by the end. His strength was recovering slowly, but he couldn’t go out on his own, not yet. It gave him time to think about what he wanted to say.

“Stubble,” he said finally, one chilly afternoon. “I’m sorry for leaving you before.”

“Haha, don’t apologize,” said Stubble, leaning against the dusty teacup. “It’s in your nature to move on. Just as it’s in my nature to stay put. I’ve always been weird, in that way.”

Dimple looked around at the empty house. Even animals didn’t come in here… “You don’t have to be alone,” he said. “I’ve met people like you. People who were alone for years.” He thought of children growing up hidden away in their rooms, and children abandoned in studio apartments, and children trapped in someone else’s mind. “But they left one day. And it wasn’t easy, but they found new and busy homes.”

Stubble smiled ruefully. "Like you?"

"No," said Dimple. "That's why I'm still looking." There was a home he wanted. But he wasn't sure if he was welcome anymore. Still... he would keep looking.

Stubble was no longer smiling. He looked despondent. “And you think I can just leave? I’m not like you, Dimple. No desires are sustaining my existence.” He laughed bitterly. “None that I can achieve, anyway.”

Slowly, Dimple approached Stubble and sat cross-legged in front of him. “If that was true…” He put a hand on Stubble’s shoulder. “I don’t think you would still be here. You want to live, don’t you? It’s amazing how far you can get, just trying to accomplish something.” He thought of a boy passing out during a school race and walking home with a feeling of pride. “Even if you fail, you’ll still end up somewhere new.”

A jolt of psychic energy hit Dimple suddenly. He couldn’t make sense of the storm of emotions that came with it. But he knew- “I have to go,” he said.

Stubble laughed again. “You say all of that to me, and now you’re going to leave?” But he sat up straight and looked Dimple in the eye. “Will I see you again?”

Dimple resisted the pull of the energy long enough to say, “That’s up to you… but I hope so.” Then, he succumbed to the pull and flew as fast as he could towards Seasoning City.

[entirelydes]

Confessional Repost Assignment 

@fatfabfeminist is one of my favorite content creators and fat liberationists! This is confessing a common feeling that (non-conventionally attractive) fat people experience. We spend so much time idealizing, the perfect body, the perfect shape, the perfect face. And, we don’t realize that being fat isn’t somehow morally corrupt or negative; that is only part of the confession. The second part is realizing that there is joy and happiness in being fat.

—-

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A post shared by A Soft Wrongness (@asoftwrongness)

I often find myself saying the same thing, “I didn’t plan to live this long, so I’m just vibing right now.” This example aligns with my own confession. It’s difficult to define who you are, and what spaces you fit in, when you didn’t even see yourself moving forward. I think that’s one of the ultimate confessions of Western society. That were plagued with all different types of identity crisis, and unacceptance. So, we don’t know where to go from here.

—-

A key factor of misogyny/sexism is that the feelings and expression of women and femmes are not taken seriously. Here, in this example, we see Lara saying just that, but in the representation of women celebrities. Society likes to pose that we care about mental health, but when people - especially women - are actually struggling they’re not taken seriously. That is the notion that’s being confessed.

[jamiwrites98]

Comin' Out of My Closet and I'm Doin' Just Fine

“So, like, when did you… you know, know you were gay?” Bailey’s words stop me in my tracks, my coffee cup poised halfway between my mouth and the table. When did I realize that I’m gay? I have to think about it for a few moments, hand still hovering in the air while I contemplate. And all of a sudden, a lightbulb goes off in my head. But instead of answering her question, I turn and ask: “So, like, when did you… you know, know you were straight?”     

Gay people are asked this all the time, “When did you know you were gay?” Some people have an immediate answer, some really have to think about it. Why don’t we ask straight people when they knew for sure that they weren’t gay? That feels like something that should happen more often, if they want to know the private details of our lives. But I digress. For me, it wasn’t so much when I realized that I was gay, but when I realized there was a word for what I am. I had no idea how much it would impact my life, though.

That moment occurred while I was watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season six, episode 8, “Tabula Rasa.” My favorite character, Willow, lost her memory and throughout the course of the episode, rediscovers her feelings for her girlfriend. This culminates in the line, “...and I think I’m kinda gay.” And suddenly, there was someone on the screen who was attracted to women the way that I was, and there was even a word for it. What a novel concept! Homosexual (i.e. gay) didn’t quite fit what I felt, but it was like opening a door to a whole new world.

That being said, I don’t think it was ever some profound realization for me. There was never that bone-chilling, mind-numbing, life-changing moment of “oh shit, I’m gay.” I remember being attracted to (is that the right word?) girls all my life. Maybe… gravitating towards girls as much as boys. Yeah, that feels better. It was never a matter of “I like girls, that’s not normal, what’s wrong with me,” but rather something that I never really questioned. A lot of gay people will tell you that they remember being super attracted to certain characters of the same sex in movies or shows and upon reflecting on that years later after coming out, they realized exactly what that was, though they hadn’t thought much of it at the time. I feel very much the same way, and I never questioned it or thought it was uncommon. In fact, it was a movie that gave me my first proper label for my sexuality.

The hit Broadway musical RENT was brought to DVD in 2006. I was eight years old and I fell in love with it, much to the chagrin of my family members who then had to deal with my awful off-key singing for the rest of their lives. RENT is about a group of LGBTQIA+ individuals living in New York during the AIDS epidemic. One of the characters, Maureen, is bisexual.

“Bisexual. Bi. Two. Male and female.” I’m squishing my face while I talk, turning myself this way and that in the mirror in front of me. I keep thinking that it’ll make me look different, that by taking on this identity, I’m creating a new guise for myself. Nothing changed, not outwardly, but it feels right.

Bisexual. There was a word for the way I had felt all of my life. Gay felt like squishing two puzzle pieces together that didn’t quite fit, but bisexual? That was the right shape. Still, I didn’t declare it to the world at that moment. Because while I had finally found a word to apply to me, it still didn’t seem like a big deal or something that you should make a big deal out of. I’d never thought that it was weird to like girls as well as boys; I just hadn’t found a word for it. Surely a lot of people felt that way? So I kept it to myself. But junior high can be hell. First, my mom up and dies on me, and then I fucking out myself.

“Would you kiss a girl for a hundred bucks?” Jacob P. asks, shoving another handful of curly fries in his mouth. He’s smirking while he chews, little bits of fluffy potato spilling out of the corners of his mouth. He thinks he’s won this conversation, and I can’t let him have that.

“I’d kiss a girl for free. Girls are hot. Just as hot as boys.”

All chatter at our lunch table ceases in seconds. Anna is halfway through some joke about our most recent bully, Clayton, and she never does finish the punchline. Wade stares intently at his food, suddenly finding the salisbury steak a lot more appealing than he did two minutes ago. No one looks at me, nor Jacob. A few minutes of silence pass before Sam claps her hands together, shouting, “Awk-ward si-lence!” and everyone chuckles and returns to their food. The rest of the day passes by and the only person willing to talk to me is Shanah, who I’ve known since pre-school. We don’t talk about what I’ve said, and I’m grateful for it.

Truthfully, I don’t know what kind of reaction I was expecting that day, now that I look back on it. We didn’t have any LGBTQIA+ clubs; for all I knew, I was the only LGBT student in the entire school. We never talked about anything like that, anything different than the norm. In our incredibly white, straight, Christian school, this was received with some mixed reviews. Mostly, people just brushed it off, preferring to answer with an awkward silence that said they just don’t care, or don’t agree but didn’t want to cause a scene. Others, however, were not so reserved.

There was another group of students that didn’t so much care for keeping their mouths shut, and they sent out an email to the entire student body that read: “Jami is a faggot so girls stay away or shes gonna rape u.” Coming out as bisexual reduced me to rapist. No longer was I “Jami the Smart Ass” or “Jami with the Dead Mom.” No, now I was labeled as something far more sinister and cruel simply because of these fucked-up preconceptions these students had about gay people. I remember going through three distinct stages when I found out: shock, disgust, and then anger.

Our school had just gotten Macbooks for all the students, and there was a nifty little feature where, if you wanted to, you could send out an email to your entire class or the entire student body. With a total of 70 students per graduating class, it was easy to hit “send to all” and then delete the one name you didn’t want to receive the email. And, hey, you guessed it! I was the one whose name was deleted, so I didn’t even realize it had happened at first.

Something feels different today. Walking through the hallways, my friends avoid me and even the friendly girls who usually smile and wave at me seem to dart out of my path. It’s oddly quiet in the commons, where everyone is waiting for the bell to ring before rushing to class. My unassigned-assigned seat at the end of the lunch table is empty, as usual, so I plop down in it and look towards Wade. He just gives me a tight smile and goes back to fiddling with his phone. I can’t figure out why everyone is ignoring me.

“Did I do something wrong?” I ask to the table. Everyone glances around at each other, as if each person is desperate for someone else to respond so they don’t have to. Most of them just look down again, refusing to meet my eyes. After a few minutes of torturous silence, Anna throws her hands up and exclaims, “Oh for fuck’s sake, someone has to tell her!” Pulling out her big, clunky Macbook, she opens the email and slides the computer towards me.

A big thing I’ve noticed in Iowa is that we tend to teach the “if you don’t have anything nice to say then don’t say anything at all” rule; my mother had practically lived her life by this. And these people took that to heart. They didn’t have anything nice to say to me or about me, so they didn’t say anything at all. When they did, it was quiet snickers told under their breath, whispered to one another in the halls or in class. Loud enough for me to hear, but not loud enough to draw attention to themselves. This brought the stage of disgust. I was disgusted that they thought of me like that, disgusted with myself for being the way I was, disgusted with the school for letting them get away it. The whole situation was rotten, and I was sick of it.

Faggot, rapist, dyke, creep, gross, and a lot more that I don’t particularly care to repeat, all thrown at me just because I said I like girls as much as I like guys. I remember about a week after I found out, I was walking into the auditorium for some reason or another, and looking down at my feet (as I so often did to avoid seeing the stares), and bumped into this girl from my class who was walking backward while she talked to a friend. She immediately spun around, looked me up and down, screamed “EW!” and literally ran away from me. This brought on the anger stage. Then I was just pissed.

I had done nothing to these people. They were my classmates; they were supposed to be my brothers-in-arms, comrades in the middle of the hell that is middle school. I hadn’t hurt anyone or even tried to flirt with a girl (or a boy!). I’ve always been a quiet person; I generally keep to myself, talk when I’m spoken to, and don’t go out of my way to make someone’s life hell. I couldn’t understand why me being bisexual was cause to hate me, literally hate me. My very presence was an affront to them, just because… what? Because I was down to kiss girls? I hadn’t even kissed anyone yet! It just baffled me. What gave them the right to treat me that way?

I couldn’t figure it out, and I was enraged every day. I lived with the comments, the stares, the quiet disapproval for the next two years. I struggled with depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and self-harm. I started cutting, hitting myself, forcing myself to puke. It felt as if it was what I deserved. Being different, feeling different, coupled with the loss of my mother and the struggles I was facing at home, was just too much. It was a rough time in my life, and I don’t like to think about it too much.

It subsided a little, and eventually, it seemed they decided that it was alright to interact with me again. Someone else caused a scene (Madyson shit her pants? Vince caused a lockdown? Something like that.) and I dyed half of my hair green, and I guess those things were much more exciting to talk about. By the end of eighth grade, things were a bit better, but they were going to improve even more very quickly. That following summer, my best friend Lille threw a birthday party at her family’s farm and invited all of us as well as some of her friends from her previous school. This is where I met Kevin.

Kevin was shy and quiet, like me. He seemed a little out of sorts at this party, and we found ourselves sitting on a fallen tree in the moonlight, quietly petting Porky, Lille’s pig (you gotta love Iowa). We started talking, mostly about school, because everyone can relate to that. And I mentioned the bullying and I saw something flash in his eyes, a little spark of understanding.

“I know what you mean. I came out as pansexual two years ago. It’s been hell, but I like living my truth,” he mutters quietly, hands twisting together in his lap.

“Pansexual?” That’s a word I haven’t heard before. What could that possibly mean?

“Yeah, it’s like… Well, ‘pan’ means ‘all’ and I just think that sounds better than bisexual. But that’s cool, you know, if you’re bisexual. It’s nice to know someone else that isn’t… normal.”

We didn’t speak much after that. It’s scary, even talking to another gay, because you’re never quite sure what reaction you’ll get. I wanted to learn more, though, about this mysterious word, but I didn’t want to press him and make him uncomfortable. So I Googled it:

pan·sex·u·al

/panˈsekSH(əw)əl/

adjective

not limited in sexual choice with regard to biological sex, gender, or gender identity.

Not limited. Not limited. Not limited. I liked that. Those two words rolled around in my head for another week or so. Not limited. No limitations, no set boundaries, no need to choose or really see a difference. No difference. Not different. Yeah, I really liked that. And from that point on ‘til this very day, I found a new label: pansexual.

While I didn’t speak to Kevin much more that night (and only a handful of times after), it was my first interaction with someone who was just like me, and it was relieving. I don’t think that’s even a strong enough word for it. It was like everything fell into place. No longer was I an outlier, a lonely ‘other’ amidst a sea of ‘us.’ Junior high was over and high school would be next, everyone moved on from treating me like ass every day, and I found a friend just like me who introduced me to the label I still use to this day. Miraculously, things got so much better as time went on.

High school was a whole new ballgame. There were even other LGBTQIA+ people! Kayela, Johanna, Tara, Colton, Skylar, and Owen. These individuals swept me up under their collective wing and encouraged me to be proud of who I am. After the previous few years of pain and struggling, I was finally with people who wouldn’t judge me for who I am. Kayela, Johanna, Skylar and I all attended our first Pride together in Des Moines in 2016, and that was the moment that I finally felt that I had found a home. And you know what? A lot of people realized how shitty they had been in junior high. Some apologized, most didn’t, but the thing that mattered the most to me was seeing the change in them. No longer were they sharing out-of-context Bible verses to justify their homophobia; instead, they affirmed that their respective churches in fact support LGBTQIA+ youths and that they would do their best to understand and do better in the future. What more can I really ask for? Well, unwavering and unconditional support from the get-go, but I like to be realistic.

When it comes to unwavering and unconditional support, I actually found that in an unexpected place: my older half brother. Now, I never thought he would be homophobic. His aunt Marla married a woman named Marla (and one of them has a sister named Carla; I know, it’s a lot) and he pretty much grew up with that on his dad’s side of the family, so I knew he would at least be okay with it. But he’s always been weird about everything when it comes to me. I’m his little sister, and he doesn’t really think of me as an individual person with thoughts, feelings, wants, and needs. I never really “came out” to him or the rest of our family. I certainly never hid it, but I didn’t really outright say it either. Until this summer, 2019.

My friend Shoshanah had come out as pansexual at the beginning of this year, and she wanted to take her trans friend Aedan to Pride for the first time, to the parade on June 9th, but didn’t want to go alone. So I tagged along. We grabbed our straight friend Josalan and had ourselves a nice little group. I’ll never forget the look in Aedan’s eyes when he saw so many loving, accepting people in one place. But that’s not what this is about.

I’ve set up camp in the bathroom, various pieces of clothing and hair products strewn about. I’m getting ready to go to Pride later today. I’ve finally decided on black jeans, a “Straight Outta the Closet” crop top, and some cute space buns for my hair. The left side of my head is done, but the right is being a little bitch, not wanting to stay in the right shape, so I have to take it all out and re-do the entire braid. My brother, Josh, slips into the bathroom to grab his sweatshirt. His eyes meet mine in the mirror and his forehead crinkles a bit when he asks, “What are you up to today?”

“Shanah’s coming over in a bit. We’re going to Pride.” My tone is nonchalant, but I’m screaming inside my head. This is new territory for us. We rarely talk about my personal life, and so we’ve never really talked about my sexuality. He goes quiet for a few minutes, and walks into the kitchen. A few moments later I hear him crack open a bottle of tea (MY tea, I’m still bitter about that) and then he softly asks, “Are you gay?”

My hands freeze in midair as I twist the braid into a bun. Looking at myself in the mirror, it feels like I’m watching someone else, a bystander overseeing an incident on the street. It’s now or never. So with a deep breath, I continue with my hair, and say, “Yeah, I’m kinda gay.”

I don’t quite know what reaction to expect, but he just hums a little before saying, “I always kinda thought so. Well, you know you always have my support, kid.” The sounds of Mortal Kombat, the game he was playing beforehand, return and I know the conversation is over. I can’t cry, because there are approximately five days in a year that I wear makeup and this is one of them, but my heart is so full that it’s difficult not to.

My brother is not a sentimental or emotional person. He’s never been one for praise or affection, his support and presence always silent, looming, unspoken. To hear him say it out loud, even just once, was more than enough. It was the validation I’d always needed from him. It was that support that I needed in junior high. From there, I made it publicly known on my Facebook so that my family members would see. I was met with endless support. It’s still a relatively new thing, but my aunt Susie never fails to comment or throw a cute little meme on my statuses to show her support. I’ve grown closer to my family in these last four months than I have in 21 years, and it’s all because I finally feel okay with who I am. Who knew?

But for all the love and support that I’ve been met with, there are countless others who get the opposite. Hatred, fear, misconceptions, disownment, even death. The world has grown and become a much more accepting place, but it’s still hard as hell. But it doesn’t have to be like that forever. Trust me, I’ve been there. It’s not easy, it never is, but finding your home and your family can make it all worth it. So I’m pansexual, I’m out, I’m proud, and I have a wonderful family that supports me. And if your mom or dad doesn’t support you? I’m your mom/dad now.

[memorisofstripper]

Memoirs of a Stripper: How America's Prison Became My Path to Inner Freedom

Life frequently pushes us to our limits, putting our resilience to the test in ways we never expected. For me, the path to inner liberation did not begin on the stage where I previously danced, was admired for my attractiveness, and praised for my body. Instead, it began in the harsh, brutal confines of an American prison—an unexpected setting for self-discovery, healing, and transformation. My story starts in a world of flashing lights, loud music, and the constant craving for validation. As a stripper, my life was marked by fleeting moments of attention and a pursuit of external approval. On the surface, it seemed like I had it all—money, admiration, and a sense of control. But beneath that shiny exterior, I was slowly losing myself. The power I thought I wielded on stage was nothing more than an illusion, masking my deep insecurity and emotional turmoil. I entered the world of stripping not for empowerment, but out of necessity. I needed to survive—emotionally, financially, and mentally. Stripping seemed like a way to control my life and my circumstances, but it was a control built on fragile foundations. The attention I received was momentary, and the validation from men was hollow. The more I relied on external factors to shape my identity, the more I realized I was falling apart inside. I had become dependent on my body, my looks, and the admiration of others to feel worthy.

The Turning Point: A Prison Sentence My arrest and ensuing incarceration forced me to confront the truth that I had been ignoring for years. Prison, with its stripped-down surroundings and lack of glamor, was a stark contrast to the life I had previously experienced. Suddenly, there were no males to look up to, no audience to perform for, and no external validation to rely on. I was left alone with myself, which I had avoided for a long time. Incarceration was a wake-up call. I was forced to confront the woman I had become, and to realize that my previous life had been built on superficial foundations. No longer able to hide behind a stage persona, I had no choice but to face the emotional wounds I had suppressed for years. In prison, there were no distractions. I was forced to confront the pain, shame, and insecurity that had shaped much of my identity. But in the stillness of that confinement, I began to see things more clearly. Prison wasn’t just a place of punishment—it became my path to inner freedom.

The Power of Reflection and Healing In the seclusion of my solitary cell, I began a process of self-reflection. It was not easy. I had to address terrible memories and accept the emotional scars I had carried for years. I'd spent so much of my life numbing myself with external validation that I'd never stopped to really comprehend who I was behind it all. The process was difficult yet necessary. Therapy, journaling, and introspection became my tools for healing. I spent hours each day reflecting on my past, processing the trauma, and learning to forgive myself for the mistakes I had made. Slowly, I began to release the shame that had kept me in chains—shame about my past choices, my body, and the mistakes that had led me to where I was. I learned that true healing didn’t come from seeking forgiveness from others, but from forgiving myself. It was a difficult realization, but it was liberating. Through this journey of self-discovery, I also found spirituality. In the most unlikely of places, I discovered a sense of peace that had eluded me for years. Prayer, meditation, and connecting with a higher power gave me the strength to keep moving forward. I learned that inner freedom isn’t about escaping your circumstances, but finding peace within yourself, no matter where you are.

Reclaiming My Power and Purpose As I dealt with my emotional traumas, I began to restore my authority. I stopped considering myself a victim of my history or circumstances. Instead, I began to see myself as capable of healing, maturing, and transforming. I understood I no longer needed external approval to be worthy. My worth came from within, from the effort I was doing to heal and improve myself. Prison became the catalyst for a profound transformation. It was in this place of confinement that I found true freedom—not freedom from the physical walls, but freedom from the emotional and mental chains that had bound me for so long. I began to let go of the need to prove myself to others. I stopped identifying as a stripper or as someone defined by my past mistakes. I started identifying as a woman who had faced her demons, who had the courage to confront her pain, and who had the strength to rise above it. As I grew emotionally and spiritually, I began to explore new opportunities for personal growth. I started to think about life beyond prison—about what I wanted to do with the second chance I was being given. I realized I had a purpose far beyond what I had known before. I wanted to help other women who had walked similar paths, to show them that healing and transformation are possible, no matter how far they’ve fallen.

The True Meaning of Freedom Today, I see my time in prison as an awakening rather than a punishment. In that dark area, I discovered the light within myself. True freedom, I found, does not come from external conditions, but from within. It's about letting go of the need for validation, shedding previous shame, and embracing your true self. Memoirs of a Stripper: How American Prison Became My Path to Inner Freedom is not just a story about incarceration; it’s a story about transformation. It’s about shedding the masks we wear, facing our pain, and learning to live with integrity and authenticity. It’s about realizing that the most important validation comes from within. Through my journey, I’ve learned that freedom is not a place—it’s a state of being. True freedom comes from the ability to accept ourselves fully, to heal from our past, and to move forward with a sense of purpose and inner peace. My time in prison wasn’t the end of my story; it was the beginning of a new chapter—one where I reclaimed my power, my purpose, and my true sense of freedom.

[doublelistofficial]

My introduction in life to the art of seducing

When I was a kid, my mother taught me how to soften my gaze when watching birds so they wouldn’t feel the weight of my attention. This kind of look is just the opposite — a concentrated gaze that lands like a finger, tapping, casting the line of desire until it catches and tugs.

I looked at her, and something activated in me, responding to a set of clues telling me how she wants to be seen. “Look intently,” I told her, “but not for too long, just graze them with it.”

“Whoa,” she said, “careful where you point that!” She looked at me in wonder, and I felt both proud and embarrassed. “Where did you learn to do that?”

I think of myself as someone who has always known how to do this — an intuitive seducer — but my friend’s question invited me to reconsider the origins of the impulse.

Where did I learn it?

There is, of course, the mere fact of my being a woman, which means I have been consuming lessons in seduction my whole life from movies and TV. But my friend is also a woman, and she can’t emit the smoldering atmosphere to reel someone in. Whereas I can do it on command, as if it were my job. As we watch our meals arrive I ponder this, and something clicks. For many years — sometimes implicitly and sometimes explicitly — seducing people was my job.

Both my parents grew up working-class, sometimes working-poor, and I was raised with an ethos of scarcity — we wasted nothing, ate down to the rind of everything and tried not to buy anything on credit. Though my family was solidly middle-class, my classmates often assumed I was poor because I wore discount shoes and generic brand clothes all through grade school, until I switched to thrift stores as a teen.

My parents weren’t cheap, exactly, but they didn’t locate status in commodities — my mother once told me that driving a luxury car was like giving the finger to all the poor people in the world — and they believed in work. The week I turned 14, the legal employment age in Massachusetts, my dad took me to city hall to get a work permit.

That year, I started working as a dishwasher at a seafood restaurant. Dressed most days in a pair of faded overalls and Doc Martens, I would peer out at the front of the house and watch the wait staff — mostly 20-somethings who held the glamour of low-level celebrities to me. Sign up for the Opinion Today newsletter Get expert analysis of the news and a guide to the big ideas shaping the world every weekday morning. Get it sent to your inbox.

Tidy in their identical aprons and T-shirts bearing the restaurant logo, they all seemed kind of hot to me in an ineffable way that had little to do with their looks. The source of this attractiveness, I eventually realized, was the skill with which they deployed charisma.

They were practiced seducers, flitting around the dining room, calibrating their affect to suit each diner. The ones with the tallest stacks of bills at the end of a shift cultivated a flirtation with their tables that hit exactly the right note to release money. As if every diner were a slot machine played less by chance than by skill.

At 14, I already had a keen sense that I ought to appeal to people, men especially, but “succeeding” at this had mixed results. Early sexual development had left me vulnerable to early sexual experience — I didn’t really learn how to say no until adulthood — and mostly it had left me feeling powerless and numb. Using my drive to be liked in a context whose endpoint wasn’t sex, and which promised material reward for success, seemed a much safer forum. The idea felt empowering, even, as it gave me control over the encounter.

My first job waiting tables was at Café Algiers, a landmark Middle Eastern restaurant in Harvard Square in Cambridge that catered to professors and graduate students. I was 17 and happily living in a squalid apartment with four friends in Somerville. Amid the wobbly octagonal tables, I balanced silver pots of mint tea and plates of hummus and practiced my approach.

I learned that if my gaze was too intense, the men (and occasionally women) asked sotto voce what time my shift ended; if it was too subtle, they ignored me and left disappointing tips.

The trick was to kindle the right feeling in myself — I have something they want and I want to give it to them, but not yet — to render the plates of food a symbol for something else, to exude an air of slight withholding. I learned what all good salespeople understand: If you suggest that a person wants something with enough confidence, there’s a good chance they’ll believe you.

Every shift was an exercise in the art of seduction, and each one ended with a tally of tips that amounted to a kind of grade — numeric feedback on the degree of my success.

I honed my skills quickly. After just a few weeks, I could balance five entrees on one tray, instantly calculate a bill in my head, and just as instantly read the customers. I could tell if a diner wanted me to tease them, treat them with mild disgust (rare, but they did exist) or welcome them like a long-lost family member. My scatterbrained nature, which made me clumsy in my everyday life, was focused by the stream of social cues. I intuitively understood the rhythm of it, like a dancer catching a beat. When I was working, I didn’t think and I didn’t make errors — which was good, because my livelihood depended on it: In 1996, the minimum wage for tipped employees was $2.13 per hour.

My second job as a server was at the Greenhouse, another storied Cambridge institution. The overpriced diner had an iconic green sign and a dining room that was perpetually fogged with cigarette smoke. The female professors generally tipped big and wanted a dry little flirt, sprinkled with irony, as if we were in on the same joke. The blue-collar guys who ate at the counter liked to trade endearments, to be teased a little. A natural mimic, I sometimes dropped my Rs when talking with them. You want that on mahble rye?

After the Greenhouse, there were eight or 10 more restaurant jobs — the Jewish deli where families came for brunch, the bakery frequented by moneyed lesbians, the Mexican restaurant that hosted a lot of tourists and bachelorette parties. Whatever their differences, every restaurant was a microcosm of larger social hierarchies. I once worked a brunch shift in Belmont with a guy I was dating. He often got high before work and was terrible at his job. He never thought about what the customer wanted, never read their faces for subtle cues, never seduced anyone. He didn’t have to. He could get orders wrong, mix up tables, spill water on a customer, and still end the shift with a tall stack of tips. Meanwhile, my earnings dropped if I smiled too little or too much.

I came to learn that this was a rule in restaurants: No matter the quality of their service, male waiters got bigger tips. They also rarely had to put up with the kind of abuse that we did. Image Credit…Antoine Cossé

I remember one table I had during my stint at the Mexican restaurant. It was a big family, replete with a preening patriarch who emanated insecurity that he expressed by treating every woman in sight like garbage. I smiled through it, even when he patted my ass in full view of his wife, who then glared at me.

A knot of shame and fury tightened in me. I ignored it and imagined the tip this kind of treatment inevitably led to — a ten, maybe a twenty, even. I smiled at that vision and then directed it at the table. But in this instance, after they’d left as I cleared their oily dishes, I realized the man had stiffed me. I seethed for days. It stoked a fire in me that felt elemental. More than 20 years later, I can feel its heat. It wasn’t so much the money as the humiliation.

Over time, exposure inured me to the humiliations of the job. A person can get used to almost anything given enough time — personality will grow around adversity the way tree roots will grow around a rock, shaping itself in response to the immovable.

Plus, I needed the money. I was a teenager for most of the years I worked in restaurants. I didn’t have a degree, or even a high school diploma (unless you count the G.E.D.). Even though I was occasionally stiffed, it was the highest-paying job I was qualified for, by a long shot.

The humiliations inherent in waiting tables were also made tolerable by the satisfaction of being good at my job. While I held less power than the diners in many ways — I was there to literally serve them — I also had a subtle control over them, one they couldn’t see and which grew stronger the longer I exercised it. I worked them, like a salesperson or a petty con artist, and they were my chumps, my suckers, my johns.

A skilled seducer can invert a power dynamic to their advantage. The knowledge of how to do this was, I realized, a valuable skill and one I later employed to much more lucrative ends.

[twstwinnie]

♜ Love Languages : Pomefiore

characters: epel felmier, rook hunt, vil schoenheit

tags: hurt/comfort, gn! reader, minor ch. 5 spoilers !!

other dorms: ♥︎ ~ ☀︎ ~ ✎ ~ ♝ ~ •

a/n: aaah! my favorite dorm, of course! i absolutely love pomefiore, the dynamic, and it’s characters! of course, not biased at all, but really! i hope you all enjoy! given that book 5 just came out on the eng server, there’s only slight spoilers here! just some small backstory stuff for some characters! ignihyde next after this! i hope you all enjoy! — winnie ♥︎

♜ EPEL ~

[ w o r d s o f a f f i r m a t i o n ]

» Epel grew up in a small town, on a farm. There were no kids his age around where he grew up, so he’s a full fledged country kid. Yet, he gets sorted into what he considers to be the worst dorm possible for him. In Pomefiore, he has to do all of these things— pretend to be someone he isn’t and it’s hard.

» Of course, he’s grateful that his dorm leaders are helping him overcome his backwards mindset— that he’s okay with, but even having to hide his accent, his favorite food? It feels like he’s hiding his identity— his hometown pride. Who he really is. Sure, he gets a break during club activities, and when he’s around some of his friends, but for the most part, he feels like he’s living a falsified version of what he should be. He doesn’t mind (anymore) that Vil wants him to weaponize his charm— he’s become okay with that kind of strength, but could he really not just… let loose and be himself from time to time?

» Everything is upended when he meets, befriends, and falls for you. How couldn’t he? You were kind, encouraging… you didn’t even bat an eye when you learned of Epel’s true nature. In fact, you always listen so closely to his stories about his life back home. You always allow him to relax in your presence. When he’s with you— he’s not the poison apple that Vil is shaping him up to be. He’s just that boy from Harveston. The one who grew up on an apple farm— who loves sports and magical wheel— the hard worker who doesn’t mind getting a little dirty and putting in some elbow grease if he has to.

» Your encouragement warms his heart. Hearing you praise him for things he enjoys doing— things he put work into to be good at— it makes him happy. Sure, he was born with natural beauty and charm, but being praised for something he’s born with is far different from being praised for something he worked for. You’ve told him that he was attractive, yes, but it was different with you.

» You didn’t call him pretty when he was all dolled up in his dorm uniform after Vil’s incessant makeover— no, it was after he played a rough scrimmage of magift against his club members. You’d been watching, a soft smile on your face, cheering him on every time he scored. And after a well played game, he walked over to you, hair tousled and ruffled, clothes wrinkled, no make up— sweating. The works. Yet, you looked at him with such a warm, adoring expression.

» “You look pretty like this, you know?” You hummed. Epel stared at you in complete shock, his face going entirely red. He had not expected such a compliment.

» “What’re ya on about? Vil would freak if he saw me! I ain’t even wearin’ sunscreen!” He sputtered. You laughed simply in response.

» “Yeah, but this is a more authentic you, right? It’s like I’m getting a glimpse of that boy on an apple farm in Harveston. Is it so weird I find you pretty when you’re in your element?”

» That’s when Epel realizes— wow. You found him pretty. When he was being himself. That’s what you found more attractive. He didn’t need that charm to get you to like him. You saw who he truly was and complimented him when he was doing something he loved— when he wasn’t being the beautified persona of himself. It’s only a matter of time before that develops into a blossoming love for you— for the one person who made him feel like himself. Not who his dormmates wanted him to be.

» When you start dating, it becomes evident just how much your words have an effect on him. Can you blame Epel, though? Your words are always honest— they’re praises and compliments that he’s never heard before. Things he wanted to be recognized for that someone finally saw. Compliments on his strength, his magift skills, his magical wheel driving, hell, even his accent. You always tell him that you love that boy everyone else seems to want to quell.

» Yet, at the same time, you remind him that you also love his beautiful side. Even if it’s a little bit of a facade, you still love him all the same. Every part of him he displays is another part of him you adore. And Epel can’t help but feel like the luckiest person on the planet. When he’s dolled up, when he’s a mess, even when he’s just cried from how stressed Vil makes him— how frustrated he gets— you always whisper to him that you love him. And you’ll love whoever he decides to become. You insist that you’ll always be there— and it’s a constant he never knew he needed.

» Being reminded that someone would always be in his corner whether he played the part of the farmer from Harveston, or the Poison Apple that would take down Neige— you loved him. You told him as much and it made his heart swell with joy. After every magift game, after every rehearsal— he looked to you and you’d shower him with pretty words. Pretty, but vehemently honest words. Things that no one else would say to him.

» Epel works hard. Harder than most people should— and he’s pushed even further by Vil. You recognize his efforts and praise him for it where others don’t. You tell him things that he seldom hears from those he cares about and admires. You remind him that all of the work he puts in is worth while. And that if he ever needs help— if he needs to vent, a shoulder to cry on, or just general support— you’d always be there.

» All of your words went deep. They were never superficial comments, meaningless things that he’s always heard. They were things others never thought to say. But what Epel loves most about what you say is simple.

» He loves that you always remind him of how much you love and adore him. In his hardest moments, like a light, you remind him that he’s loved and always will be.

» Your words are a type of power that Epel strives to have. To be able to remind someone that they’re never alone, to be able to make someone feel so warm and adored with just a whisper— your way with words is absolutely admirable to him.

» And Epel hopes that one day his words will touch your heart in the same way your words touched his.

♜ ROOK ~

[ q u a l i t y t i m e ]

» Rook is used to being called “strange” or “weird” or a “creep.” It’s his reputation around NRC, in fact, it always has been. With hobbies like his, mixed with the fact that he prioritizes his privacy means that he’s typically seen as rather off-standing or seen as someone who has some sort of ulterior motive. People say some pretty harsh things to him, but he just lets it slide off of him. Because he’s used to it. He’s come to expect it from most, if not all of his fellow students at NRC. Sure, Vil doesn’t bat an eye, nor do his club mates, but he knows what most people say about him. He knows that most people avoid him like the plague.

» He’s never known any different. This is how things are and he’s accepted that. He wants to say that he’s fine with it, that it doesn’t bother him because at least he gets to spend time by Vil’s side, but when he’s alone, it gets to him. Rook keeps these emotions private, though, along with the rest of his life and true feelings. Why should he share his private worries, his private life? No one would appreciate it. All people see in him is a freak with weird hobbies.

» But he brandishes his brightest smile, always happy to give the most beautiful compliments to those who say the nastiest things to him. He sees beauty where others don’t, so even if someone says harsh things to him, it’s in his very nature to respond with his own expression of beauty. Because he could not bring himself to lie and call something or someone ugly, even if they’re treating him like some sort of parasite. It’s unlike him to do such a thing. Even if it hurts to observe so many others who have someone to lean on, rely on— to share things with, he’d never project that anger elsewhere. It would be absolutely unbecoming if he did something like that, he thinks.

» But then… you come along. You’re different. That’s something he observes and quickly recognizes. Admittedly, he knew you through his observations, but meeting you properly… getting to know you is entirely different from what he expected. You did not find his demeanor scary at all. When he sneaks up on you silently, whether intentional or not, you jump, but instead of scolding him, you laugh. It’s a bright, harmonious sound— one he’s never experienced before. At least, never a laugh meant for him.

» Rook quickly comes to realize just how different you are. You know of his hobbies, but you don’t pry. At first he thought that you didn’t pry because you found it unsettling, so he had to bring himself to ask.

» “Mon ange, why do you never question my hobbies? Surely you’ve heard the unsavory comments others have made. Does that not… alarm you?” He questioned. You hummed in thought for a moment before giving a small smile.

» “I mean maybe at first before I knew you properly? But now that we’re close… you don’t have any bad intentions. It’s in your nature as a hunter, yes? Besides. You clearly would rather keep it private. I won’t ask out of respect for that.” You respond simply. Rook’s eyes widened, subtly, but enough to display a slight level of shock.

» You didn’t find him to be even slightly alarming? And you didn’t pry out of respect of him? Not because you were afraid? It was like beautiful flowers bloomed in his chest at that very moment! Rook can find beauty in imperfections, but you. You were utter perfection. Flawless. How could someone so kind and generous become friends with someone with a reputation like his? However it happened, he would not curse his luck. He was grateful. Utterly grateful.

» Rook quickly finds himself liking you more and more as the days pass. Before he knows it, he’s opening up to you, showing you all of the photos he’s taken, every album, photo— everything crosses your gaze. Even his undying love for Neige LeBlanche is revealed to you and you respond happily. He’s elated that you show interest and that you indulge him. When you spend time together, you allow him the space to excitedly ramble. Once he realizes that nothing could push you away, he divulges his love and appreciation for theatre. One that you’re happy to share.

» It takes attending just a handful of theatre performances together for you two to end up as a couple. How could Rook not be happy? You spend time with him doing things he enjoys. You allow him to teach you the ways of a hunter— and in return, you trust him with your hobbies, interests, and private life.

» For once, Rook does not have to sit back and observe you to learn about you. You aren’t afraid of him— afraid to give him information like so many others are. You tell him all he’d like to know about you and he does the same. In fact, you take so much time out of your day to spend time by his side. Dates, staying in, theatre, hunting, archery— you’ve tried it all and enjoyed every second of it. Finally, someone appreciates Rook for who he is deep down. Even with hobbies that may seem a bit strange, you still find the beauty in them. You see beauty in him that many others have neglected to ever try searching for.

» And so, Rook does something he never once expected to do as an appreciator of beauty. He tells you of all of the “ugly” parts of himself. His insecurities, his loneliness, his worries. Everything. You two are sitting side by side on his bed when it happens and he sheds a few tears when he does. Being so private, he never once expected to cry in front of another. Truthfully, he never thought he’d be able to. But he does. He admits to you things that he never thought he’d have the opportunity to say. And in the face of such an unsavory sight, you smile, wipe his tears away and lean in, pecking his lips gently.

» “I’ll spend all the time in the world with you if I have to. Just to prove that you’re worth the time. That your interests are something I wanna learn about. That you aren’t all of the hurtful things people label you with. You are beautiful. Not scary. Most certainly not a creep. Just a man who sees beauty where no one else does. And I’ll never abandon or leave you because of it.” You insist and Rook leans into your touch, thanking you softly for treating him so well during even his most vulnerable moments. For wanting to spend time with him despite these moments.

» He feels so lucky that you’ve gifted him so much of your time and that you continue to do so. And it’s in these delicate moments that he realizes— Mon ange is a perfect nickname for you. Because you are his angel.

» You’ve witnessed everything that scared people off and you love him anyway. He’s your priority. You love him no matter what people say, no matter what date he plans, you happily tag along. And he thinks, you must be an angel. Because no one’s ever treated him so warmly before.

» And for that— for you. He’s forever grateful. Because it means that for once, he has someone he loves who willingly indulges in things he loves alongside with him. A life partner to appreciate beauty alongside him, but to also remind him that yes.

» Rook is beautiful. He is not defined by the nasty things people say. And most importantly, he’s worth every second, and you’d give it to him should he want it. And to that, Rook says that yes, he absolutely would love and appreciate all of the time you give so generously. It’s why he loves you so dearly, after all.

♜ VIL ~

[ p h y s i c a l a f f e c t i o n ]

» Vil grew up with constant typecasting as he rose into stardom. He’s been the villain so many times that it’s no wonder he starts to view himself in a similar light. Then, his unique magic manifests and suddenly he can’t help but feel that the title of “villain” truly fits him. Cursing anything he touches? Did he truly need another reason for people to view him in such a hostile light?

» Of course, many people see him as “evil” because of his prioritization of beauty and his looks— but is that so wrong? Is it bad to desire beauty and take pride in it? Is it so awful to want the title of “fairest” like the Queen he looks up to? Is it so… shocking to want a title that isn’t evil or villainous for once in his life? Fairest of them all sounds much nicer to him than any of the other things people label him with.

» That being said, it seems his unique magic worked against him. When he’s young, the glaring black gloves only serve as a reminder to himself and the people around him that his magic is dangerous— that he’s dangerous. Growing up in such a mindset, in a space where people were too afraid to touch him or have him touch them— it’s no wonder that he stopped seeking that out. If everyone would just assume such nasty things, why humor them with a reaction? Why allow them the ability to reject him? He’d take control for himself.

» Besides, nowadays, he has an entire fanbase of people who appreciate him. Even if it’s for his beauty, it’s enough for him. There are people out there who see him as the hero. Who see him as the fairest of them all. Even so, he knows he’s lying to himself. Meaningful connection… meaningful relationships… is such a thing practically impossible for him? Is he a fool to wish for something deeper with someone?

» He does think himself a fool, that is, until he meets you. While yes, you’re awestruck by his beauty, you don’t let it stop you from treating him as you do your other friends. You smile in the same way, open up to him in the same way… it’s a nice break for him. You’re nice company. That’s all he thinks of you at first.

» With every hang out, he keeps his distance. Your company is enough and he doesn’t want to scare you off— lose you. You don’t put him on a pedestal like many others do, and he doesn’t want to lose that. He cannot lose his one chance to be normal. Not a magicam celebrity, or an actor— just. Himself.

» But then, you start to get more comfortable. When you see him, you greet him with a hug, smiling all the while. The first time it happens, Vil is taken aback. He feels so incredibly warm… but, aren’t you afraid? His unique magic could hurt you— does that not startle your even a little? He freezes, afraid of what might happen if he reciprocates your embrace. You seem to notice his hesitation, pulling back with a concerned expression as you meet his eyes, asking if he was uncomfortable. He’s quick to reassure you before asking that lingering question.

» “Aren’t you afraid of my unique magic? I could curse you with a touch… It’s just like people said. I’m a villain. Is it really so wise of you to be this trusting of me?” He questions. In retaliation, you grab his hands, intertwining your fingers with his.

» “Well whoever said that obviously doesn’t know you! Calling you a villain… that doesn’t fit you even a little! Besides. Why shouldn’t I trust you? Villains have bad intentions, Vil. You don’t. You never have.” You insist. He can’t help the warm smile that creeps onto his face.

» He should’ve known that you were always different. That something as simple as his magic would never scare you off. It made him… happy. Your touch made him feel fuzzy in a way that he’d never experienced before. It just feels like home, in a way. That’s when Vil quickly realizes that it’s because he’s grown to love you.

» You’re someone who allows him to be his pure, unfiltered self. He doesn’t need makeup, filters, anything. He can just be who he truly is. He can openly vent all of his complaints, get your honest opinion on his newest products, he can even express his frustrations with typecasting. You always respond with honest sympathy and encouragement. You insist that he’ll get the role he deserves. That he deserves to be the hero that makes it to the end.

» Soon enough, between many hangouts, weekends spent out in the town, even a trip to his hometown— you two become a couple. Of course, Vil insists on keeping things private. He doesn’t want the paparazzi to pry— to scare you off, but as per usual, you smile at him. You’re okay with privacy, but Vil never needs to be afraid of losing you. You aren’t going anywhere.

» However, physical touch becomes truly important in quelling Vil’s fears and insecurities. He grew up being told to always wear gloves— that his unique magic was dangerous— to never weaponize it. Naturally, that fear crept into your relationship.

» But Vil knows that you’re the perfect partner. Because in response to his fear, you give him the absolute most affection. When you two are alone, you pry his gloves off and hold his hands in yours, insisting that it feels nicer without the barrier. You place a gentle kiss on his knuckles and tell him simply— “See? You aren’t hurting me.” And then for the first time, you place his bare hand against your cheek and lean into it with a smile and Vil can’t help it. A few tears slip and you wipe them away.

» The way you put your trust in him so faithfully and wordlessly— how you ignore all of the nasty things people have said about his magic in favor of allowing him to be affectionate— it makes him happy. It makes him feel loved. Worthy. In your presence, he doesn’t feel like a villain. He doesn’t have to exercise caution because you assure him that he won’t hurt you, and he knows that he won’t. How could he not believe you with how easily you lean into his every touch?

» It quickly becomes Vil’s preferred way to show you affection. Sometimes, after long days filled with housewarden duties, you’ll spend time with him in his room. Without a word, he extends a hand out to you from his bed and you take it, allowing him to pull you to his side. He’ll intertwine your hands together as you curl into his side. He finds comfort in your warmth, always seeking it when he’s able. You’re the only person he’d ever let play with his hair, or caress his face— because you’ve been so willing to trust him. So it’s easy for him to reciprocate that trust.

» Although you two can’t be too affectionate during school, Vil appreciates that you still find ways to remind him that you love him in wordless gestures. You’ll pass him a paper and let your fingers linger on his hand for just a moment longer. You’ll let your fingers brush against his when you both walk side by side— sometimes you’ll brush a strand of his hair back into place. All small things that make him feel loved all the same.

» With you, Vil finally feels that companionship, that touch that he’d been lacking all of his life. He finally isn’t treated like an untouchable, beautiful model, rather, someone who was worth loving, who just happened to be in the public eye. You allow him that normalcy, even if your relationship is anything but.

» You are the antidote to the poison that is Vil’s label as a villain. You prove to him that he was never evil. That he didn’t have to be trapped thinking he was. That his unique magic didn’t mean he was unworthy or unable to experience meaningful affection.

» You prove to him that no matter what people say, no matter the whispers of the public— Vil is worthy of your love and affection. And you’d never hesitate to show him that.

» In the dark, you reached out your hand to him and Vil grabbed on tight, intertwining your fingers as you pulled him out of the darkness. Even while people screamed that he was poisonous, you stayed. You are his light. And as long as you’ll have him, Vil will never hesitate to show you the same love you show him every day. Because with you, he’s been able to recognize a new type of beauty in himself.

» It’s confidence that comes with being loved and appreciated by someone you value. And Vil thinks it’s quite a stunning look on him.

— fin.

[defendersalliance]

crush

It was, surprisingly, a relief when the hero didn’t show up to the bar.

Being a civilian involved with a hero was so much more stress-inducing than Nat had expected. But it wasn’t the potential danger that bothered her. Dynamite had never had anyone come close to figuring out his identity, and the two had made it through a few dates already without incident.

No, what stressed Nat out was how inferior the hero stuff made her feel. His eagerness to run into danger. To drop his entire life at a moment’s notice for someone he’d never met.

She’d never felt bad about her forays into the wrong side of the law before, but now she spent every night worrying that Dynamite would somehow find out. She wasn’t sure what would be worse: the prison time, or his disappointment.

Okay, on second thought, definitely the prison time. It was easy to want the human equivalent of a golden retriever to like you, but she didn’t know him that well.

The sound of the bar’s door opening cut through the chatter. Nat didn’t bother glancing back to check if it was Dynamite.

Why would he ever suspect her as a criminal, anyway? No one did. Nat had never attracted much attention. Easy to be a thief when you were small and quiet and unassuming. Hell, it’d been a huge surprise when the hero came knocking the day after rescuing her from a fire. Part of her had admittedly feared he’d only asked her out as a way to investigate her, to find proof of the crimes she’d committed.

Why had she said yes to the date at all? Dynamite was nice, but not really her type. 

Maybe she’d spent too long alone.

Nat picked up her drink and stared at her distorted reflection in the glass, her messy waves of short brown hair, her eyeliner, her t-shirt and leather jacket. She dressed up nice for the restaurants Dynamite took her to, but tonight was supposed to be casual. So casual he might have forgotten entirely.

A man slid into the seat at Nat’s right. She didn’t glance at him, didn’t have any plans to acknowledge him, until he said her full name.

“Natalie Miller.”

Nat froze. Her hand tightened around the glass. “Can I help you?”

“I came to apologize. It’s my fault your boyfriend isn’t here.”

Nat forced herself to turn her head and look at the man. He wore a suit, a strange look for a bar, and even stranger was the material. The silver fabric of his shirt looked like liquid metal had been shaped into clothing, and the sheen of his bronze tie gave it a similar appearance. Even the dark fabric of his jacket and pants had an unusual shine when he shifted under the bar lights.

And…

There was a mask. On his face. A small steel mask around his eyes and oh god she was definitely face-to-face with a villain.

“My latest machine is halfway into the vault of Chicago’s biggest bank,” the man continued with a sly smile. “If it makes you feel any better, your boyfriend is doing a fantastic job dismantling it. Unfortunately, it’s not the vault I’m really after.”

Nat barely processed his second use of the word ‘boyfriend,’ a word that wasn’t even accurate. “You’re…the Metallurgist,” she realized. The villain that could bring metal to life with a touch. The villain that could make machines in every shape and size rise to his command.

He was a thief. Like her. But unlike her, he had power and a title. And was more inclined to showy break-ins and large-scale robberies.

The Metallurgist laughed and ran a hand through his black hair. “Please, call me Mel.”

Nat glanced around the bar. Everyone in her vicinity was too drunk to take notice of the villain, and when she glanced at the bartender, all he had to offer was a slight shrug.

“He works for me,” the Metallurgist—Mel—informed her. 

“Of course he does.” Nat’s heart was a frantic animal trapped in a cage, pounding an unsteady rhythm against her ribs. Maybe she could stab the guy with a shard of glass and get a head start on escaping. Smashing her cup on the counter would be easy enough—

Mel leaned in. “Relax,” he murmured, moving a hand to the back of Nat’s chair. “You’re not in any danger. No need to cause a scene.”

That didn’t do much for Nat’s racing heart, but at least her head was starting to clear.

“The Mighty Dynamite will only be occupied for another ten minutes, by my estimate, which doesn’t give us much time to get out of here.” Mel’s gaze darted down to the glass in Nat’s hand. “You're welcome to finish the drink, though.”

Nat found her voice. “You’re kidnapping me and you have the audacity to tell me I’m not in danger?”

“I would never lay a hand on a ransom victim,” Mel said. “Bad for business.”

Nat resisted the urge to sip from the glass. “And what if Dynamite doesn’t come for me?”

Mel raised an eyebrow. “Relationship issues? I think a noble hero would be willing to overlook that.”

“Not if he searches my apartment, first,” Nat muttered. Before Mel could comment, she added, “I’ll be safe at your…lair?”

Mel looked amused at that. “Lair. Sure. Like I said, not a hand on you.” He raised an eyebrow. “Though I’d like to know why you’re trying to hide from Dynamite.”

“We never made it official, for the record. And I don’t think he and I aren’t a good fit.” Nat’s finger traced the glass’s rim. “I have too much fun with my hobby.” Too much fun to be guilted into stopping, especially when her targets had more than enough money to spare. “All it would take is one slip-up to ruin my life. Him realizing I’m wearing a stolen necklace, or finding a jewel I forgot in my purse.”

“I—what?” Mel’s brow furrowed. “Jewels? You have stolen jewels?” 

There was a weird sense of pride that came with taking a villain by surprise. Nat couldn’t help but laugh at the look on his face. It was a nervous laugh, but a laugh all the same. “You know the Augustus Diamond?”

“Don’t tell me you’re the one who swapped it with a fake.”

Nat took another sip of her drink before leaning toward him, narrowing the already narrow gap. Voice low, she said, “I swapped every jewel in that room with a fake.”

“Seriously? Do you have some secret power I missed in my investigation?”

“No powers. Just good with my hands.” 

“You’re kidding.” Mel looked her over with a new look in his gaze. Amused? Calculating? She couldn’t quite read it, and she was past the point of caring. “I lost my mind when I finally stole the thing and realized it wasn’t real. How the hell did you pull that off?”

Impressed. He was impressed.

Someone found Nat impressive. Someone who wouldn’t have her arrested after finding out about the one thing she was good at. Maybe getting to spend a few hours bragging about her plans, her tricks, her heists…maybe that would be fun. To be the one talking instead of the one listening.

“Let’s make a deal. You skip the whole throwing-me-in-a-cell thing…” Nat began. She rested a shaky hand on Mel’s leg—still nervous to be so close to a villain, she realized with some annoyance. “…and I’ll tell you everything.”

“Hm.” Mel’s gaze darted over her again. “Natalie—”

“Nat,” she corrected.

“Nat.” Mel spoke her name in a low voice, let it hang in the small space between them for a moment before continuing. “Why don’t we get going? The sooner we get to my lair, the sooner we can…renegotiate the terms of your ransom.”

[hispipsqueak]

Good Little Pet

Satan x F!Reader - NSFW

WC: 2.5K

TW: pet play, anal play, choking, master/pet dynamics, maid outfits, light degradation, unprotected sex

A/N: I’ve been on a huge Satan kick lately. I roast the hell out of him, but would I still die to be his kitten? You bet! Sorry I’ve been MIA for a bit. I have so many fics I’m working on, and not enough time in the day. Thank you for all the support friends. <3 I see your tags and they honestly make my entire life! Also I did proofread this, but I’ve also been staring at it for a week so plz don’t hate me if there’s typos! :D 

All characters are 18+

The House of Lamentation had been unusually relaxed today. Most of the brothers were out, leaving only three home. Surprisingly the room was mostly silent as Levi had his headphones on as he played his game and even Mammon had been quiet, as he fiddled with his D.D.D. 

Satan thumbed through a mystery novel as he sipped his tea. Though he usually preferred to read in his room, the ambience here was relaxed enough for once, that he could focus.

Until the door opened and Asmodeus walked in, dragging you behind him laughing. The two of you had been out shopping and the stack of boxes you held towered above you.

"Ah, Satan could you help me with this?" You asked, giggling about something Asmo had said. Sighing as he placed his bookmark, Satan reached over to help you with the boxes, revealing your smiling face and the cat-ear headband you had on top of your head.

"Satan, isn't MC adorable as a cute cat?! Nya for us MC!" Asmo asked. You rolled your eyes, but put your hand up in a paw shape, letting out a sweet "nya". Satan's eyes widened and he could feel heat rising into his cheeks. He quickly turned around.

"Uh, yes of course. I'll be going back to my room." He placed the boxes on the floor and hurried away as you and Asmo looked at each other confused.

Satan closed his door behind him and pressed his back to the wooden frame. 

Satan often considered himself to be more level headed than most of his brothers, but he couldn't deny his attraction to you. Still, he showed less emotion outwardly than the rest of the brothers and he prided himself in that. However, seeing you in those cat ears, giving cute little meows as your eyes gazed up at him? Satan could feel his growing erection tenting his pants. 

He had seen one of Levi's games a while back that featured a cat girl in a scantily clad maid outfit on the front cover. Now, he pictured you in the same outfit, cat ears atop your head, your skimpy dress leaving little to the imagination as you knelt in front of him, your lips parted waiting for your master's orders.

Fuck. He let out a shaky breath as the image of you bent over his desk, collared and begging for him to fuck you now entered his mind. His hand slid down to his throbbing cock, desperately wanting release. 

A knock at the door interrupted him.

"Satan? You left your book and your tea. I brought it for you." Your voice called out, tentatively.

Shit. Satan looked around wildly. before sitting at his desk to hide his obvious arousal. 

"Come in." He called out hoarsely, hoping you didn't notice the quiver in his voice.

You opened the door, still wearing those damned ears and looked concerningly at him.

"Are you feeling alright? You rushed out of there and your face is really red." You placed his things on the desk as you walked towards him, avoiding the precarious stacks of books around the room. He quickly grabbed a book from the top of a pile and placed it on his lap as you approached him. 

"I'm fine, just got lost in thought." He lied. You raised an eyebrow but didn't press it. The pile of books next to him chose that moment to clatter to the ground and before he could react, you knelt down in front of him to pick up the fallen books. 

He looked down at you and bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. You looked up at him innocently, identical to the naughty visions of you in his mind. 

You placed a hand on his knee and he let out a low groan. Your eyes widened.

"Satan? I-"

"Come down for dinner!" Asmo's voice chirped out from outside the door. You stood up and turned.

"Do you want me to let them know you're not feeling well? I can bring you something back."

Satan nodded. He had to really take care of the very pressing issue at hand and knew he wouldn't be able to sit through an entire agonizing meal.

----

"Pass the salt, Asmo."

"I didn't hear a 'nya', MC." Asmo giggled, poking his tongue out at you. Your hand flew to your hair. 

"I forgot I had these on!" You laughed.

"Let's hope Satan doesn't see those." Levi muttered.

You cocked your head. "What do you mean."

Levi's face flushed. "Uh...no reason, er, nothing!!!"

You narrowed your eyes at the reddening demon.

"Satan's obsession with cats doesn't stop at real cats. Didn't he get obsessed with that stupid cat girl game?" Belphie yawned, sliding his half-finished plate to Beel who dug in happily.

"You mean Neko Magic Maid♡. It wasn't even that good of a game!" Levi said, "It definitely wasn't as good as SuperStar Magic Maid…"

"Yeah. I don't think he was interested in the storyline." Mammon interjected, laughing.

Lucifer scolded the brothers for being crass but your mind wandered. Was that why Satan was acting so weird? After dinner, you headed to Levi's room.

"Hey Levi! I was wondering more about that game you were talking about? The catgirl one?"

Levi didn't even turn from his computer screen. "Yeah it's on that shelf. But if you really like the Magic Maid series you should start with Springtime Magic…AHHH HE'S RESPAWNED!" He yelled, ignoring you again for the game he was currently playing.

You grabbed the game and slipped out of his room quietly. Glancing at the cover you saw a cat girl dressed in a ridiculously short maid costume. Her ears and tail were perked up and she donned a black collar around her neck with a little bell and tag that read 'Master'.

You grinned as you headed to your room. This would be fun.

----

"Satan?" 

"Come in."

Satan turned the page in his book.  Thankfully after that disastrous night, you hadn't worn that headband again, though he'd be lying if he said the image from you that day hadn't been filling his mind as he jerked his cock each night.

He heard you step into the room, but you didn't say anything. Looking up, his jaw dropped.

You were dressed in a maid outfit somehow more revealing than the one from the game. Your breasts were practically popping out of the dress, and the short skirt barely covered your ass. He could see the slight bulge of your thighs over top of your sheer thigh-high socks and he had the urge to bite that spot over and over.

You had the cat ears on again and as you walked towards him, he could hear a jingling noise. Glancing at your neck he saw a simple black collar with his name on the tag and a silver bell. 

"MC what are you doing?" He breathed out shakily. You placed your hand on his chest, gently pushing him into his desk chair.

"Taking care of you…Master." You knelt down on the floor and looked at him expectantly. 

Satan blinked rapidly. He had to be dreaming. 

"Can I please you, Master?" You asked. He nodded, at a loss for words, and you began to unbutton his pants, freeing his rapidly hardening cock. Your hands wrapped around it squeezing, and you slowly moved up and down. Satan let out a groan.

You moved closer, pressing your lips to the tip of his cockhead before lapping at the beads of precum from the slit. You slid his length into your warm, wet mouth and looked into his eyes, swirling your tongue around his cock. This elicited another grunt from the blonde demon.

As you bobbed up and down on his length, he rested his hand on your hair, gently pushing you deeper on his cock. You moaned around him and the vibrations made his heart race. He looked down at you, and noticed the tail that led to under your skirt. 

The realization set a switch off in his brain. He bucked his hips, forcing more of his cock into your mouth.

"Ohhhh fuck. That's it kitten. You like choking on Master's cock?" He asked, his fingers gripping tightly to your hair. You could only gag around him as a response, and the noises you let out were absolutely sinful.

"Such a good little pet. Your throat is squeezing me so well, kitten. But you can go deeper, can't you? Don't you want to please your master?" He asked. 

Frantically you nodded and forced even more of him down your throat, trying your best to breathe out of your nose. As you tried to pull back, his grip tightened, holding you firmly in place. Your eyes watered as you felt his cock throb in your throat and your vision blurred, from tears or lack of oxygen, you weren’t sure. He pulled back and you gasped for air, tear streaked face looking up at him. Satan panicked, apologies already forming in his head before you grinned and pulled him back into your mouth.

“Fuuuuck, such a good kitten. Addicted to master’s cock.” Satan groaned out, his eyes closing as you found your pace on his length. He could feel his release creeping up on him, a fiery feeling in the core of him as your mouth enveloped his cock. The room filled with soft pants and the jingling of the bell around your neck. He met your eyes as you continued to take him deeper. He wouldn’t last much longer if you kept like this. 

“That’s it kitten, that’s it. You want master’s milk? Want your cute belly full of your master’s cum? Tell me, kitten.”

You whined around him, releasing his cock from your lips. 

“Please master. Need to please you. Want your cum.” Your eyes were glassy with tears and drool dripped down the corners of your plump lips. Satan wished he could snap a picture of you looking so lewd.

“Good girl. Milk my cock kitten. Milk my fucking cock.” He gasped as you sped up around him, sloppier and more vigorously than before. Spit coated your chin and spilled onto his thighs as you wrapped your tongue around his cock.

“FUCK! Fuck, just like that!! Oh fuck, cumming!! Take it all, kitten. Fucking take it.” Satan wailed, his muscles tensing as he shot load after load down your throat. You struggled to swallow everything, with some dripping off your lips. Breathing hard, he scooped it with his finger, pushing it back into your mouth.

“Don’t waste a drop kitten.”

You sucked on his finger, a content smile on your face. He reached down, tugging your wrists and pulling you to your feet.

“You didn’t think we were done, did you kitten? Oh no...I want to explore every little bit of you.” He whispered, bending you over his desk. Flipping up your skirt he admired as the tail slid into your ass and gently tugged it, pulling a low moan from you.

“Such a naughty kitten. I can’t wait to fill all your holes with my seed.” He said, his hand palming your ass, before smacking you hard. You jolted forward with a soft whimper. He tugged at your tail again, chuckling as you squeezed your thighs together.

“I’ve barely touched you and you’re already squirming.” His fingers pressed against your drooling cunt. “Already this wet, just from a few tugs on your tail? What a slutty little pet you are.”

You moaned as he pressed his fingers into your cunt, the slick arousal easily letting him into you. He slowly pumped in and out of you as you attempted to grind against his palm, whining when he gripped your hips, stilling you.

“Look at you, kitten. Debasing yourself just to get off. How filthy.” His voice was sadistic and yet your body trembled with desire under his touch. Your brain was hazy with his fingers rhythmically plunging into you and all you wanted was for him to use you for his pleasure. 

“Please Master. Please touch me.” You pleaded, squeezing your thighs together as he pulled his fingers out of you. He pushed you down on the desk, as he pressed his cockhead against your entrance.

“Beg.”

“Please fuck me master. Please let me cum around your cock. I need you so bad, sir – FUCK!”

Satan slammed his cock into you, causing you to cry out. His hand gripped your hip as he fucked himself deeper into you. 

“Scream as loud as you want kitten, no one is going to hear you through the spells in this room. You’re clenching around me so deliciously, pet.” His fingertips bruised your skin and papers and books were knocked off the desk as he slammed into you over and over.

Your body shook and you felt so full with his cock in your pussy and the plug in your ass. You felt stretched to your limit and still he pressed on, fucking you until you saw stars.

“I can feel the pressure of your tail plug through your delicious cunt, kitten. Doesn’t it feel good to be so full? You’re such a lewd little kitten, aren’t you?” As he taunted you with his words, his fingers danced around your clit, causing your legs to feel like they were giving out. Relentless, he continued pounding into you as tears fell from your eyes.

“So, so full. So good, master! Your cock is so perfect, Master.” you babbled, your brain delirious with lust. The fire burning in your core was so overwhelming, your body ached for more and you needed him, needed your master to push you over that peak.

Satan growled, feeling his demon form activate. His tail wrapped itself around your neck, holding you in place as he wrecked you.

“Your lewd little pussy is fluttering around my cock, kitten. Are you going to cum for me? Are you going to cum for your master’s cock?” He panted out. He was close, apparent as his thrusts became harder and faster.

“Yes please Master. Let me cum on your cock!” You choked out, his tail tightening around your throat. Your eyes fluttered as you felt back arch.

“Cum for me, pet.”

That was all it took. You wailed as your cunt clenched around him, creaming around his cock. Your body convulsed and you felt dazed as you gushed around him. 

“Fuck, kitten!” He groaned out. His hand slammed you down as he unloaded into you. He was so deep, you could practically feel his cum in your belly as he shot ropes of his hot seed into your body over and over. After what felt like a lifetime, he slowly slid out of you.

Picking you up he delicately placed you on his bed, wiping aways the traces of cum that dripped onto your thighs. He gently worked your tail plug out and placed it on the desk before covering you with his sheets. 

“You did so good for me, kitten.” He whispered into your skin. Your eyes were too heavy to open, so you just smiled sleepily and curled into his chest. Running his hand through your hair, he undid the cat ear clips and placed them on his nightstand before succumbing to exhaustion, his whispered words barely audible.

“Good little pet.”

[sameheart-sameblood]

Live While We’re Alive

(gif by @rex-is-best)

pairing: commander wolffe x f!reader

summary: you thought being a newly recruited civilian doctor to the GAR was hard enough until you developed a hopeless crush on Commander Wolffe

words: 2.8 k

warnings: mature, some suggestive talk, mutual pining, medical exams, co-workers to lovers, a doctor having inappropriate thoughts about their patient 

a/n: I started writing this awhile ago and then lost all creative motivation but I've been in a Wolffe mood the past few days and sad we didn't get to see him in The Bad Batch so here we are. I'd like to apologize to my doctor dad and all medical professionals everywhere lol. Also, I had intended for this to end in smut but then got lost in feelings so there mayyyy be a chapter 2. We'll see ;)

read on ao3!

You want to fuck him. It’s been decided. This realization couldn’t have come at a worse time, though. You’re surrounded by Jedi and Clone Officers in a very important meeting detailing your next mission. But you only have eyes for one of the men and he’s currently standing at the head of the room giving a briefing to the holo of Master Yoda. It’s a testament to Commander Wolffe’s presence that you barely notice the little green Jedi Master he’s conversing with. Well, his presence and his extreme handsomeness.

When you’d first met him, you’d been truly intimidated. The other women you worked with nodded in understanding, whispering they had been thrown off by his cybernetic eye and prominent scar. But that wasn’t it. You’d noticed those things, but that wasn’t what made you uneasy.

It was the fact that he took one look at you and seemed to see right into your soul. You couldn’t explain it but you felt like with just a glance, he could tell your deepest insecurities. And stars, did you have a lot of those.

You had worked your way up through the medical field and had started your residency at the biggest hospital in Coruscant. After your training ended, you had secured a permanent job there. It had been difficult, to say the least. Though you knew you were qualified, even more so than most of your male co-workers, you still doubted yourself often.

Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi had come to visit you one nondescript Thursday afternoon, telling you of the need for doctors in the GAR. He said you came most highly recommended when he was searching for recruits but still, you thought a mistake had been made and that someone soon would realize and send you back to your normal life. It was a recurring nightmare you’d developed in the past few weeks that shook you from your sleep.

You had agreed to join the GAR, sympathetic to the cause and wanting to do your part. The next few weeks had consisted of you getting your bearings and meeting the rest of the staff at the base . Kix, the clone medic in charge, had helped you learn the ropes and had introduced you to all his brothers. At first, you had been overwhelmed by the sea of identical faces. As the weeks had gone on, you’d learned everyone’s names and they’d made you feel welcome, like one of their own.

The Commander and you had crossed paths several times. He was polite but distant. Not like you blamed him. He had more important things to do than exchange drawn out pleasantries. With each run-in, though, he seemed to be making more of an effort to be personable. Unfortunately, each conversation left you looking more and more like an idiot. Or a di’kut. The boys had been teaching you some Mando’a.

You were a medical professional, a well-respected doctor and yet Wolffe made you feel unsure of yourself. It had been so long since you’d had a crush that you didn’t realize this was what the beginning of one felt like.

*******

As you sit around the war room table, you feel even more like a school girl. Instead of paying attention to whatever Master Yoda is saying, you’re transfixed by Wolffe’s face. The hazy blue light from the holo reflects off his features, making him look ethereal. His scar looks even more prominent and you blush, remembering how often you’ve wondered what it would feel like to let your fingers trace it.   And his lips. They’re moving, responding to whatever the Jedi has said. They’re mesmerizing and now you’re thinking of what it would be like to kiss him. Or even better yet, to have those lips pressed against the plushier parts of your body.

You continue to stare until you realize his face has turned to you. It probably only takes you a second to come back to reality but it feels like an eternity. Somehow you’re able to respond to the question.

“Yes, Commander. All medical personnel are prepared for an 0800 liftoff. Kix will take his team with the 501st and I’ll have my staff along with the 104th. We’ll reconnoiter once we’ve landed on Hisseen.” The rest of the table nods, moving the conversation along. Wolffe stares at you for a moment, a hint of a smirk on his lips. You avert your gaze, finding the table a much safer object of your attention.

The discussion wraps up and Wolffe stands at attention, puffing his chest out, before Master Yoda disappears. Once again, your eyes are drawn to him. You’re not sure how but he makes something so mundane look indescribably attractive. Wolffe’s head turns in your direction but you’ve already bolted from your seat, hoping to cool down in the hallway.

Kix pushes through the crowd to get to you. “Hey, Doc. How’d the meeting go?” You shrug. “Nothing new to report. Just making sure we’re all set for our campaign.” He’s shifting back and forth, a sort of glazed look in his eyes. You realize he’s not paying particularly close attention. It’s the look of someone asking you something just so they can request a favor in return.

“Hmm oh yeah, that’s nice. Say, Doc, do you think you could cover for me for a few hours? I have some urgent business to attend to.”

“Since when is playing Sabacc with Fives and the boys urgent?”

“Since I remembered how terrible they are at it. I can make a real killing playing against them.”

You laugh. It’s true. You’ve come to love those men but a lot of them are really horrible at the game. You’ll need to give them a remedial course if you have any downtime on Hisseen. “Of course. What do you need me to do?” He rewards you with a huge grin. “Nothing hard! A few higher ups coming in for their physicals. Just the usual. Make sure they’re in tip top shape to get shot at by some tinnies.”

He gives you the list. It’s only a handful of men but the last one on it makes your blood go cold. “Commander Wolffe needs a physical?” Kix is oblivious to your inner turmoil. “Oh yeah, but he knows the drill. Honestly everyone can do it themselves at this point. We’re basically there to oversee it as a formality.”

You swallow down your apprehension and nod. “Sounds easy enough. Go have fun. And take it easy on them, will ya? Let them keep a little of their dignity intact” Kix just grins and shoots you a wave as he runs off.

*******

Your first few appointments go just fine. The officers are professionals and Kix was right, they could do these routine physicals with their eyes closed. You give them all your seal of approval and settle in to do your paperwork before your last, most anticipated patient arrives. The forms in front of you hold no interest and you find yourself checking the chrono every few seconds.

It’s not easy but you manage to finish your work. You set it aside and take steadying breath. Five more minutes and he’ll be here. You scold yourself. The Commander has never been anything but professional. You’re the one thinking these very unprofessional thoughts.

And you’re a doctor, for kriff’s sake. Your patients should be able to come to you without worrying you may be fantasizing about what they look like naked. But these are uncharted waters. It’s your first time having to deal with a patient you’re this attracted to. They really should take your medical license away.

Just as you’re thinking of packing it all up and handing in your resignation to the Jedi Council, a knock at the door snaps you to attention. Well, here goes nothing. You scold yourself once again for checking your reflection in the mirror before answering the door.

You had tried to adopt a passive, professional look to your face before greeting Wolffe but it must not have worked. “Everything alright, Doc? I’m not early, am I?” You shake your head.“Not at all. Punctual as always, Commander.” You beckon for him to come in and take a seat. You close the door, then sit across from him at your desk.

Your datapad hums to life and you busy yourself opening the appropriate forms you need to fill out. The weight of his eyes is heavy on you and your cheeks heat up in spite of yourself. You push on through as best you can.

“Well, Commander, how are you feeling today?” There’s that ghost of a smirk again but it vanishes so quickly you're not sure if you imagined it. “I feel like a million credits.” You giggle despite it not even being that funny. You’ve got it bad. “Glad to hear it. This should be quick then.” You gather your equipment and get to work.

First, you take his weight. Then, you listen to his heart. You press the stethoscope to his sternum, thankful you can do this over his blacks. He observes you the whole time. “And what about you? How are you today, Doc?” You risk a glance and meet his eyes. That was a mistake.

“Me? Oh-um just fine. Maybe not like a million credits but a few hundred at least.” You trail off dumbly but he humors you with a chuckle. You’re not sure you’ve ever heard that sound from him before. It’s like music to your ears. “Anything I can do to help? You do look a little flushed. Are you sure you don’t have a fever?” You avert your eyes again.

“No. I’m alright. It’s just, uh, hot in these uniforms. The coarseweave doesn’t breathe.”

“You sure? Maybe I should be the one giving you a check-up.”

You realize he’s toying with you now.

“That won’t be necessary, Commander.”

You move on to check his lungs. “Breathe in for me.” You move the stethoscope to his chest, then move it around a few different spots on his back. “You can call me, Wolffe. If you’d like.” He breathes in every time, not even needing prompting, ever the dutiful soldier, even when he’s teasing you.

“I would like that. Thank you, Wolffe.”

Next, you measure his blood pressure. You’re shocked that it’s so low. He sees the look of surprise on your face. “Something wrong?”

“Not at all. The opposite, in fact. Your pressures are great. I just thought with your lifestyle they might, understandably, be a bit higher.”

“What kind of lifestyle do you think I have?”

You’re backtracking as quickly as you can. “I just meant, your life as a soldier, it must be extremely stressful.”

There’s that smirk again. “It is. But you don’t get to be a Commander by not being able to handle the pressure.”

“Of course. But even so, if you’d like some stress relief techniques I can suggest some.” He hums as if really thinking it over. Thankfully there’s only one part of your exam left. Which is good because you’re not sure how much resolve you have remaining.

“Everything looks great. I’ll just do a head and neck exam and then I can send you on your way.”

You need to touch him for this part but you stop yourself, hands hovering but not quite meeting their destination. You feel like once you touch him, really feel his skin under your fingers, there may be no going back.

Wolffe sees your hesitation, then slowly reaches out to take your hands. You watch with wide eyes as he guides them to his neck. He looks up at you innocently enough but you can tell he’s laughing internally. You try to reign in control of the situation.

“Sorry, I just got distracted.” The Commander studies you but this time it’s in earnest. “Are you nervous? This’ll be your first time in an active war zone, right?” You had been anxious but not about that. But now that he mentions it, yeah, you honestly don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.

“Yes, I’m not sure what to expect. I guess you could say I’m a little scared.” Wolffe gently holds your chin, directing you to look back at him. “I won’t lie. It’ll be overwhelming and frightening. Battles can seem never-ending. But I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You’re staring into each other’s eyes and you don’t want to stop. But then he’s clearing his throat and gently removing his hand from your skin. You realize you’ve been resting your own hands on his shoulders this whole time. “Thank you, Wolffe. I do feel much better knowing you’ll be there.” You offer him a smile, hoping it conveys just how much you appreciate him looking out for you.

You begin your exam, gently kneading where his neck meets his shoulders, checking for any anomalies. Then you move to his throat. The throat you’ve so often been distracted by. It’s featured prominently in your daydreams. You move your hands along it, under his jawline. Having a man this powerful baring one of the most vulnerable parts of his body to you is intoxicating. Focus, di’kut.

Everything feels normal except for some knots you find resting right below the surface of his smooth skin. “Lymph nodes feel good. You’re a little tense, though. But I bet it’s from that bucket you have to wear most of the day.” He hums in thought. “True. But even so. Maybe you could give me some of those ideas for stress management?” He looks up at you with big eyes. There’s mischief in them but something else. Vulnerability?

You gulp audibly. “Of course. There are a few that work particularly well, um, like deep breathing techniques, going on walks, talking with friends, meditation, journaling, physical activity…” You’re rambling, fighting a losing game against your resolve. Wolffe thinks on it. “Physical activity seems like a good place to start.” His hands come up to gently cover yours that are still resting on his neck.

The sensation of his calloused fingers on your skin sends shivers down your body. You close your eyes, feeling the last of your self-control topple over. “Wolffe,” you whine “We shouldn’t…” He immediately drops his hands, worry etched on his face. “I’m so sorry. It’s just- I thought you wanted-.” He cuts himself off, snapping up to his feet and to attention. “Doctor, you should report me to General Plo Koon for immediate disciplinary action.”

Dank Farrik, you’ve just ruined everything.“Wolffe! No, I’m not reporting you to anyone. If anything you should report me for being so unprofessional.” His shoulders relax a bit but he still eyes you as if you’re a live grenade that might explode at any second. “What do you mean?” You sigh in frustration. This isn’t how you wanted to confess your feelings to him.

“I…want you, Wolffe. The second I realized that I should have asked to be re-assigned to a different battalion. Instead I thought I could push those feelings down and continue to do my job. Looks like that was a mistake.” You hang your head, avoiding his piercing gaze. He’s silent for just a moment but it feels like an eternity.

“So, you want me and I want you?” You nod your head, ashamed, as he continues. “Then what’s the problem, Doc?” Your eyes snap to his, not believing what you’re hearing.

“Isn’t it wrong of us?”

Wolffe sits down on the exam table again, genuinely thinking on it. “I don’t see why. We’re both consenting adults. We don’t work directly with each other- I report to General Koon, you report to General Kenobi- so there’s no real conflict of interest. The worst we’ll face is a little ribbing from the boys if they find out.”

You raise your head to look him in the eyes, needing to make sure he’s serious and that this isn’t some twisted joke. What you find staring back at you is hope and promise. He senses your trepidation and gently takes your hands in his. “I’m sorry if I came on strong. But the thing about this life is that there are no guarantees. Tomorrow isn’t promised and so I figured I’d rather go for something, someone, that I want and have my heart broken rather than regretting my inaction.”

Your eyes roam the scars on his face, evidence of just how true his words are. You’re heading into active battle tomorrow. One or both of you could be injured, or worse. You step towards him. He spreads his legs so you have room to get closer. You rest your forehead on his, breathing him in.

His hands come up to caress your sides. You take a shaky breath. He questions you softly. “Cyar’ika?” Ah, now that’s one of the new words you definitely remember. His vulnerability makes you ache and the decision to hand your heart over is an easy one. “You’re right, Wolffe. Might as well do some living while we can.”

*******

[rainydaydream-gal18]

(The Bad Batch) Preferences-Carving Pumpkins

(Author’s Note:  Ahhh, I had so much fun writing these!!!  I’m super excited for autumn, and I just needed an outlet involving our awesome squad

Warnings:  Squash being butchered, pumpkin guts....Oh, and some smooching).

Wrecker: 

   “Hey, sweetie?” Wrecker asked, and you glanced up from your selection of pumpkins.  He stood very still as his eyes flickered back and forth between two very large pumpkins that you were sure you wouldn’t be able to lift.  He stroked his chin in contemplation.

   “What’s up?” You folded your arms as you stood next to him.

   “Which one looks bigger to you?”

   You knelt down, dedicating several seconds to observing each pumpkin and taking mental measurements.  They were nearly identical in size.  “That’s a tough one.  They both look the same size to me, but if I had to choose which one I thought was bigger-” you pointed “-I’d say that one.”

   Wrecker stared at the pumpkin for a few moments before nodding.  “Yeah,” he agreed slowly.  “I’d say you’re right.”  He immediately knelt down and set to work on cutting through the stem with his viroblade.  Meanwhile, you had also reached a decision on a pumpkin, and asked your love if he wouldn’t mind picking it for you.  Wrecker was happy to oblige, cutting the stem with his viroblade and gently handing the freed pumpkin over to you.

   The others had already picked theirs and were heading over to the benches to clean and carve them.  You and Wrecker carried your pumpkins over to the nearest empty bench, claiming your tools.  Wrecker’s huge pumpkin took up half of the table.

   “So what are you going to do with your pumpkin?” you asked as you cut through the top of your pumpkin and proceeded to clean out the insides.

   “It’s a surprise!” he replied enthusiastically.

   You lifted a brow, but smiled.  “In that case, mine’s a surprise too.”

   “How about we do a big reveal when we’re done?”

   You nodded.  “I like that idea.”

   As you began to carve your design, it was hard not to notice the occasional chuckles and snickers as Wrecker set to work on his pumpkin.  Every now and then, he’d take a few steps back to look at it, huff out another fit of laughter, and then return to the project.  You were growing increasingly interested in what his would look like, but still kept your eyes on your own pumpkin.  Finally, both of you finished your projects and got ready for the big reveal.

   “Alright, on the count of three?” you prompted.

   He grinned.  “One...”

   “Two…”

   Both of you shouted, “three!” and spun your pumpkins around to face each other.  At the sight of Wrecker’s pumpkin, you burst into laughter.  It was a very silly face with big eyes and a wobbly smile, but it was carved so well, so precisely, it looked like a meme from the holonet.

   “Okay, that’s funny.”  You laughed. 

   “Yours looks good, ________!” he said, giving you a playful nudge.

   “Thanks.”  You turned to smile at him, and he pulled you into his strong arms.  His breathing picked up as he leaned into your space for a tender kiss.

   “I wanted to kiss ya’ so bad a few minutes ago,” he told you, “but I didn’t want you to think I was trying to sneak a peek at your pumpkin before it was ready.”

   You returned the kiss, lingering over his lips for a moment as you murmured, “well, you don’t have to worry about that now.”

Crosshair: 

   “Will this work?” he asked for the third time, though there wasn’t an ounce of impatience in his tone.

   “No, it needs to be more slender,” you decided with a shake of your head.  “And maybe just a tad taller?”  Crosshair backed away from the pumpkin he’d offered, eyes scanning the patch in search of one that better fit your description.  He knelt down, pushing away some leaves to reveal a pumpkin that was taller and thinner than the other one.

   “How’s this?”

   You knelt down beside him, narrowing your eyes as you tried to picture how your design would look.  It looked great in your mind.  Now, it was time to make it reality.  “Yeah, I think that’s the one.”

   Crosshair unsheathed his viroblade and swiftly cut the vine, detaching the pumpkin and handing it to you.  “There you go.”  You accepted it sweetly, unable to resist kissing him in appreciation for the gesture.  He hadn’t even questioned you on the design or complained once, only set to work on helping you find exactly what it was you wanted.  You waited for him to choose a pumpkin, which was a shorter process, before the two of you walked over to the nearest bench.

   You set to work on emptying the pumpkin of its guts, glancing over every so often to watch Crosshair at work.  Once in a while, he’d catch your gaze and notice the mischievous smile that you tried so hard to hide.

   He paused, straightening up from his task and fishing out a toothpick.  “What?”

   “Nothing,” you replied.  “Oh, uh… Can I borrow one of those?”

   He lifted a brow, but said nothing as he pulled out another toothpick and passed it to you across the table.

   “Thanks, Cross.”  You lowered your gaze, but it did nothing to hide the glint in your eye as you continued working on your pumpkin carving.  Crosshair returned to his project, though he still kept an eye on you.  At one point, he smirked at how absolutely giddy you looked.

   Finally, your pumpkin was complete.  You placed the last finishing touch, the toothpick, where it needed to be and stood back to admire it.  Crosshair’s was done moments later.

   “So, let’s see what we have here,” he said, motioning for you to show him.  You grinned and turned the pumpkin around, revealing your handiwork.  You had chosen the pumpkin’s shape with purpose.  It was the perfect canvas to carve Crosshair’s face into it, complete with the crosshairs tattoo over its right eye and a toothpick sticking out of its mouth.

   Crosshair exhaled sharply in amusement, his expression so cocky and strangely attractive as he shifted his stance.  “That’s a handsome pumpkin,” he commented.

  “Glad you think so,” you said.  “What does yours look like?”

   He chuckled, placing a hand on the top of his pumpkin to spin it around.  It had your face, and it was well-carved too.

   That’s a pretty pumpkin,” you told him with a growing smile. He met your gaze with amusement dancing in his.

   “Glad you think so.”

Hunter: 

   Hunter cut your chosen pumpkin from the vine, handing it to you with care.  “There you go, sweetheart.”

   “Thank you,” you said. 

   While you had taken your time in picking out the pumpkin you wanted, he wasn’t choosy and ended up taking the one closest to yours for himself.  Both of you went to one of the benches and set to work.  Apparently, Hunter was more interested in the carving part.  You paused to watch him take one of the tools and expertly cut the pumpkin open to remove the insides.  You found yourself resting an elbow on the table as you observed the sergeant, your pumpkin nearly forgotten altogether in the moment.

   Hunter caught your eye, smiling when he realized you’d been watching him.  He twirled the carving tool between his fingers and gave a playful wink.  Your face heated up as you pulled your pumpkin closer to your end of the table to begin working on it.

   “Need some help?” he asked, mistaking your momentary distraction from your project as uncertainty.

   “No, I’m good.  I just needed a minute to think about my design,” you said, which was also true.  “I’m not so helpless, Sergeant.”

   The use of his title in such a playful tone made him chuckle.  “Didn’t think you were, sweetheart.  I just can’t help it.”

   You rounded the bench to plant a kiss to his lips, and he welcomed your touch with arms going for your waist instantly.  “I know,” you murmured, letting him know that you took no offense.  “You’re just so used to helping everyone else.  I like that about you.”

   He exhaled, and there was no missing the slight tremble of his body.  You pulled away and headed back to your side of the bench to continue carving your design.  Every now and then, you couldn’t resist glancing over to watch Hunter skillfully carve the numbers “99” in a large aurebesh font into his pumpkin with the signature skull symbol at the top right.

   “Your design,” he spoke up, peeking over.  “Looks good, ________.”

   “Why, thank you.  I like your Bad Batch pumpkin,” you replied.

Tech: 

   “Are you certain this is the one you want?” Tech asked.  You nodded at the chosen pumpkin, and he cut the vine to hand it over to you.  “There you are, love.”

   “Thank you, Tech,” you said.

   “It is no trouble at all.  Now, the trick will be finding the right one for myself.”

   You knew how particular Tech could be about things, but you didn’t realize how seriously he would take the endeavor of selecting the “right” pumpkin.  Even so, you waited patiently, your own pumpkin in hand, for several minutes as Tech browsed rows of the patch.  You loved him for who he was, but it was hard to wait quietly anymore.  At one point, you had to set down your pumpkin because it began to weigh heavily in your arms.

   “What exactly are you looking for?” you asked.  Perhaps you could help the process along.

   “I’m looking for the pumpkin with the most aesthetic appeal- good color and symmetry are important.”

   “Oh, okay.”  You knelt down, pointing.  “What about this one?  It looks like the kind of pumpkin you’d see in a fall article on the holonet.”

   He followed your gaze, adjusting his goggles.  “I saw that one already.  It is indeed a good pumpkin, but still not quite what I’m looking for.”  You shrugged and kept looking, but none that  you saw were even as nice as the first one you’d pointed out.  Finally, you heard an exclamation from farther down the row.

   “Ah, I found it.”  Tech had been kneeling down to inspect it before making the commitment of picking it.  He approached, leaning in to give you an apologetic peck on the cheek.  “Sorry it took so long.  Thank you for waiting.”

   “It’s okay,” you chuckled.  “I’m glad you’re happy with your pumpkin.”

   Both of you went over to the benches to begin prepping the pumpkins for carving.  The rest of the squad were nearly done with theirs already, but everyone was talking and joking around, so there was no rush.  Tech chatted about varieties of squash for a few minutes as you worked.  He paused every now and then to admire your design out loud and relocate some of the tools closer to your side of the bench since he had a tendency to hog them.

   “Do you have everything you need?” he asked again.

   You nodded.  “Yes, I do.”

   “Good, good.”

   You walked over to his side of the table.  “Do you mind if I look?”

   “Not at all.  Mind you, it’s not quite finished yet.”

   You were amazed to see a little fall scene carved into the pumpkin, complete with a barn, a scarecrow, and a bare tree.  “Wow, Tech!  This is great.”

   “It’s still not done,” he reminded, as if that should make you less impressed.

   “It really looks great though,” you insisted, cupping his cheek and angling his mouth toward yours for an affectionate kiss.  That seemed to get his attention, drawing it away from fussing over what he saw as an incomplete project.  His eyes gazed at you softly through the large lenses, and his lips turned up in a smile.

   “I’m having... fun,” he said, arm tightening around your waist.

   “Me too.”

Echo:

   Echo cut your pumpkin from the patch swiftly, passing it to you, before taking a short walk down the rest of the row.  It wasn’t long before he found one that was decent-looking and knelt to cut the vine.

   “How fun is this?” you asked happily, carrying your pumpkin as you walked beside him on the way to the benches.

   “Yeah,” he agreed with a smile.  “Me and the boys did this once on leave.”  he chuckled.  “Jesse got in trouble for throwing pumpkin innards at Fives.”

   You laughed at the mental image.  “That sounds like a good time.”

   Echo shook his head, though a chuckle escaped his lips.  “If Wrecker starts throwing pumpkin guts...”

   “Knowing Wrecker, that very well may be a possibility.”  The two of you got settled at the nearest empty bench.  You glanced over to see Wrecker was indeed tossing some pumpkin insides in Crosshair’s direction, earning a grumbled “grow up, Wrecker” from his teammate.  You stifled a laugh and set to work on emptying your own pumpkin.  You and Echo worked side-by-side, absolutely content with the proximity despite bumping elbows often.

   Your heart sped up while the rest of you felt simultaneously relaxed at his side.  There was a happy calm that settled between you because you were simply together.  Yet, every time he glanced your way with that sure gaze, it nearly made you shudder.

   “Looking good,” he commented, pausing to get a better look at your nearly-complete pumpkin carving.

   With lips curling into a smile, you asked, “Me, or the pumpkin?”

   Echo chuckled.  “Both.”

   You leaned in to press a light kiss to your boyfriend’s jaw.  “You’re not so bad yourself.”

   He seemed momentarily dazed from the unexpected gesture, but he soon looked at you with a mischievous glint.  “Now, was that aimed at me, or the pumpkin?”

   You laughed.

   “I’m being serious,” he deadpanned.  “Because if I misunderstood, then this next part will be very embarrassing for me.”  He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you in for a longer kiss, his lips caressing yours in a way that nearly made your knees buckle.

   “So embarrassing,” you murmured teasingly.  You separated to continue your projects, shoulders still touching.  His pumpkin carving was a typical face with triangle eyes and a gaping smile, but it was done very well.  “I like your pumpkin,” you said.

   “Thank you, m’lady.  I like your design too.”

   “Thank you.”

Omega at the Pumpkin Patch: She takes the process seriously, spending quite a bit of time choosing the right pumpkin for what she had planned.  The others were curious because she chose a pumpkin that was much wider than it was tall, and she kept it angled away from the group as she worked.  Anytime someone would venture over to check her progress, she’d quickly stand up in front of it to block the view.

After she finally beamed and announced she was done, everyone gathered around to see she had carved an image of the entire squad into the pumpkin.

[shootingstarwritings]

Couples Therapy

Marcus glanced at his client before going back to his notes. As usual, it was a young woman who looked as though she was on the verge of tears after giving him a mile-long list of grievances towards her husband. For the first few years, everything was like an eternal honeymoon until the two began to drive the other crazy. From the little info Marcus had, the blame seemed to rest on two personalities that didn't feel like compromising—as it usually was.

However, compromises didn’t put food on Marcus’ table, so it was in his best interest to pin the blame all on the husband. “Like my services advertise,” he told the wife, Julia, while sliding a sheet of his talents over to her, “I can fix your marriage to be as blissful as it was on your wedding night. All I need is your consent and I can shape your lover as you need him to be.”

The tears soon dried up. "Um, huh…?" Julia grew sheepish as her eyes skimmed over the sheet. Not good. "Shape him? My friend said your type of work was unique, but changing my husband…? I didn't hear anything about that."

Tilting his head, Marcus said, "Did you not notice how your friend's partner changed? He was happier, more agreeable, and far more pleasant overall. Always carried a strong conversation and had the manners of a perfect gentleman. Don't you want the same for your husband?"

“I-I thought you just gave them counseling!” Julia stood up from her chair, hands clasping her purse as though Marcus was a violent, money-hungry criminal. “This is crazy. A-And, honestly absurd. I'll have no part in this lunacy!"

“So you’re okay with your husband’s divorce?”

Julia stopped just before her hand reached the door. Though she didn't turn around, she said, "What do you mean?" Her voice was tinged with fear despite her attempts to hide it.

“When you made your appointment, I did a little digging on your husband,” said Marcus, lying as naturally as he breathed. “Digging into his soul, of course. My abilities allow me to do so.”

He stood up and strode over to Julia. “He’s growing increasingly dissatisfied with your union. Every little action, every little word, every little annoyance from you pushes him more and more towards the arms of another.” While Marcus remained stone-faced, he was smirking inside as beads of sweat cascaded down Julia’s brow. 

Perfect.

“A young woman your age already divorced? What will the neighbors think? Your friends? Your family? But,” he shrugged and made his way back to his desk, “if you insist that you don’t need my services, I can do nothing about that. I sincerely wish the two of you a happy marriage. However long it lasts.”

Julia excused herself to go to the bank but promised she would return with the payment.

Marcus’ target was a man by the name of Trevor. Attractive, admirable, and breakable. All it would require was a few weeks in his body and Marcus’ job would be finished. Julia had signed the contract, so his body was completely available.

That was the limit to Marcus’ powers. Without some sort of consent from one who at the very least shared the name or a bond with his target, he was unable to do anything. Now, all Marcus had to do was take over Trevor’s body.

But first, Marcus was curious about what was going to happen in their ordinary lives. While Julia had given him a whole list of things that she wished Trevor would do, Marcus skimmed it before throwing it away. For the most part, his clients didn't know what they wanted—and what they did was something ridiculous like 'makes me breakfast in bed every single day.' It was all nonsense straight out of a soap opera. Marcus preferred to just take a look at what pissed his client off and doing a few favors here and there. The only part of Julia's list that Marcus even remotely paid attention to was, "Being more open to pegging."

Other than that, Marcus would just sit by and watch how a typical morning went for the couple. He made his way to the address Julia had provided him during their meeting in an astral form and peeked into their lives.

“God, another spill, Jules?” Trevor groaned as he looked down at his stained pants. “C'mon." While Julia let out a stream of apologies, Trevor just rolled his eyes and said, "I'm trying to get a goddamn promotion here!"

“I-I’m trying…!” Julia said, backing up as Trevor grabbed the empty mug and smashed it on the ground. “Th-That was mine...”

“And so’s the mess,” Trevor shot back. “When you’re the breadwinner in this relationship, you can decide what does and doesn’t get broken.” With that, Trevor left to get changed while Julia cleaned up the kitchen.

That was all Marcus needed to see. The bastard needed a major attitude adjustment. His wife was a complete klutz, but there was no need to bite her head off for making a mistake. Marcus didn't feel any particular sympathy for Julia, but assholes like Trevor pissed him off to no extent. "Only natural," Marcus said to himself. "Assholes hate assholes. Don't like pricks like him on my turf."

Floating over to Trevor and Julia’s room, he admired the assets he would borrow for the next few days. Trevor’s pants were off, allowing Marcus to get a nice glimpse of the package he would be showing off for the next few days. Along with that were nice, juice thighs and a good chest peeking out of the nice polo shirt he wore. No longer able to resist, Marcus just dove towards Trevor.

"HNNG! What the fuuuuck?!" Trevor moaned as Marcus phased through his back. Entire body tensing up, Trevor stood in place, his back arching while his head was thrown back. Feet planted to the floor, he moaned in pleasure and panic. "Wh-Who the hell?! What the—HAA! Ahhh…! What the fuck are youuuu?!" Unable to keep his balance amidst the barrage of pain and pleasure mixing, Trevor collapsed onto his bed, convulsing uncontrollably as the foreign intruder wore him like a suit.

“Mmm,” Marcus moaned, rubbing his hard-on against the mattress. “Oh, that’s niiice. Thanks, Julia.” Still face-down on the bed, he spread his legs and let his hands wander towards a certain untouched hole. “Don’t worry, I’ll turn your hubby into the subbiest bottom in town.”

Purposefully ignoring Julia, Marcus left the house and headed towards Trevor’s place of work, relying on muscle memory and the information Julia had given him for navigation. Eventually, he arrived at some fancy insurance firm full of suits who looked like they could use a healthy dose of Viagra.

Once more, Marcus relied on Trevor's muscle memory to guide his way through work. And once settled into Trevor's impersonal cubicle, Marcus began his work. At once, he worked on smiling more in Trevor's body. Man was a creature of habit and the human mind was a sponge for information and mannerisms. Because of that, Marcus would adopt certain behaviors for the week or so he would be in his hosts' bodies. The end result was a spouse that would compliment their partner far more.

On all levels, it was wrong. However, Marcus continued without losing a wink of sleep.

After making sure Trevor was smiling more, Marcus also stretched and relaxed his muscle. "God, you're so tense," he mentioned as he rolled his shoulders back. "Or, I'm so tense." Grinning, Marcus continued chatting to himself. It was always fun getting into a role. Perhaps it was his theater kid days, but adopting a new identity was always fun. "I should get more into yoga," he said, stretching as much as he could in that uncomfortable suit. "Do some squats. It'll help me make my ass all nice and firm. Flexibility'll be nice in the bedroom for Jules," he proclaimed, repeating it to himself to make sure it remained imprinted to Trevor.

To make sure those thoughts remained in Trevor's head, Marcus headed off to the gym after each workday. He worked until Trevor's already well-developed muscles were pleasurably sore by the time he arrived back home. "Keep acting as though I'm Trevor," Marcus had texted Julia before. "It'll make it easier for these thoughts to stick to your husband." His words didn't ease Julia's awkwardness, but Marcus didn't mind. Working with pathetic actors wasn't anything new for him.

By the final day of Marcus' planned stay, Trevor's boss called him into his office. "You're not in trouble," his boss, a man by the name of Arthur said. "Just wanted to catch up with you, is all." His words were even, but Marcus noticed that his gaze was not. Arthur's eyes kept traveling and his fingertips kept grazing Trevor as much as they could while retaining that facade of professionalism. "I've noticed your recent change in attitude. Rumors travel quickly throughout the office."

“When there’s not much to talk about,” Marcus began, “it’s easy to become the talk of the town.”

Arthur cocked an eyebrow. “Your attitude and your tongue’s changed, Trey. I'm surprised but pleased. Productivity for the whole office has gone up this week. And your more positive attitude has really helped with that. I've noticed the environment in general is a lot less toxic."

“Sorry about that, sir,” Marcus said with a curt nod. Yet, he made sure to keep a cocky, inviting smirk on his face. The blood was rushing to Arthur’s cheeks despite his stony expression. “Hadn’t realized how much my attitude had an impact on the office. But I’m sure you’ll be just as satisfied as my wife about the new me.” By now, Marcus was happily rubbing his thighs, making sure they stood out alongside his bulge in those tight slacks he had purchased for Trevor. During the week, he had made a habit of dropping his things and bending over to reach for them in front of his various coworkers. If his eyes didn’t deceive him, he was certain about the office spent more than half a second staring at Trevor’s assets.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Nonetheless, just wanted to show my appreciation for this sudden turn. Always happy to see my workers in a relaxed, pleasant environment.”

Standing up, Marcus leaned in close to Arthur’s lips. “I can think of a few other ways you can show your appreciation, boss,” he whispered, unbuckling his belt. This same scenario had played out so many times Marcus was certain his gaydar was impeccable. “Why don’t you bend me over your desk and show me who the boss is?”

Arthur hesitated for about a second before locking the office door and tying Trevor’s mouth shut with his own tie. “Take! This! You! Slut!” Arthur roared as he pounded Trevor’s ass raw. Marcus, back arched, face pressed up against the cold desk, just moaned like a slut. He eagerly met each of Arthur’s thrust with his strong workout for his hips.

This is my favor for you, Julia, he thought as Arthur pulled on his hair. Your husband’s hole might not be as tight as you want it to be, but he’ll definitely be up for stuff up his ass by the time I leave.

"Make me your bottom bitch," Marcus begged, trapped in a nirvana of pleasure and pain.

The next time Marcus saw Julia and Trevor the two of them were walking down the back, arms linked. Both were smiling and laughing so animatedly that Marcus was certain the songbirds were jealous. On occasion, he spotted Julia lightly slapping Trevor's ass and her husband reddening like a tomato at the sensation.

Marcus returned home satisfied at another successful trip.