#my fic barely aligns with this post I think
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phoenix-inblue · 7 months ago
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No hate to anyone here, all the opinions are valid. And I agree, at least ONE (Bowser) would need to change (or be ooc from the start, or have to upset the power dynamic, etc) in order for the ship to be healthy. Not that it has to be healthy, but that's a seperate topic. Really I'm about to write this because the "why" has been on my mind lately and this is an excuse to say what I think.
There are a few other things that make the ship appealing outside of just "blorbos kissing" and "movie scene with accidental tension" (though those by themselves are valid). The easiest one to talk about is many's favorite: Beauty and the Beast! Now, if you don't like that fairytale, that's totally fair. But for those who do like it, having a Bowser / *almost any human* ship is very very easy to put in that category. Plus, in the Disney movie, the Beast does act like an a-hole at first and has to change for the better. Bowser could fill his role pretty well! Now, if we circle back around to the movie - Luigi is held prisoner and it gives a good excuse for him to fill Belle's role.
Next it's about Bowser's obsession with Peach. He is trying soooo hard to get the girl. But Peach is simply Not Interested and has directly said so. But Bowser is a likeable character for some, and so some of us just really want him to have a win somewhere. So, for Bowuigi or other Bowser-centric ships, maybe it's a matter of rethinking his goals. Why does he want Peach? Because she's pretty? Human? Royalty? Is it simply for rights to the Mushroom Kingdom? Does he just want someone to love, and how did she get into his sights if so? I've seen several fics tackle several different interpretations, and I love most different directions shippers take it!
Meanwhile, Luigi has entirely different problems. He's an anxious man who is stuck in his brother’s shadow. Further summarized: anxiety and overlooked. Now, he's not weak or anything. He's a hero too and is just as good as his brother. But with how other's treat him - or how afraid he becomes at times - it is very easy to see his potential insecurities.
This is where I might lose you if I haven't already: these elements have Bowser and Luigi complete eachother. Maybe not easily like puzzle pieces (and yeah I know a shipper would need some creative liberties, but I think that's the fun in it) but hear me out!
Depending on your interpretation of Bowser, maybe he can get his goals from Luigi instead of Peach. As I said earlier, I've seen a few different directions this could take in fics, and personally I like the variety. My personal favorite interpretations are "Bowser just wants someone to dote on as well as be a 2nd parent to Junior" as well as "Bowser thinks most humans are cute, he just happened to meet Peach first." There's also fics where Bowser just wants to make life better for his kingdom and pursued Peach to gain more prosperous land. This could evolve to "he learns pursuing Peach is a dead end and seeks out a treaty instead" and this leads to excuses for Luigi to be the one to help the kingdoms towards peace. I also read a fic somewhere where Bowser and Luigi marry as a "betrothed" situation for the sake of a treaty. Plus there's always the fun bonus of annoying Bowser’s arch nemesis, Mario, in the process! I don't want to list all the scenarios I read, this is getting too long as is, but I hope this makes sense! Edit because I think I explained it so poorly: Bowser is known for pursuing someone (Peach). How Luigi completes this goal is by having Bowser pursue him instead and win. It's just of matter of the "why?"
Then for Luigi, I think this part is actually way easier to explain. Scared of everything? But what's scarier than Bowser??? Everyone likes Mario better than Luigi :( ? Well, Mario might have fans and a princess, but now Luigi has a king! In a way, Luigi getting with Bowser has a couple of wins! And might even cover the hero's "weaknesses" if you want to interpret the dynamic that way.
In other words, while yes the movie introduced many - including myself - to this ship, the tension in *that scene* alone isn't the only appeal. There are other elements in their species (beast and human), their roles (king and hero), and their personalities (wants to love and be loved) that can make the ship make sense.
Finally, someone who gets why Bowluigi makes no sense! I swear, it has to be that one out of context scene in the Mario movie trailer where people saw "Oh, two characters in close proximity, therefore ship" and just ran with it even though there was no reason to suspect that was the context in the trailer, and when the full context was revealed, it was about Bowser worrying that he'd have romantic competition for Peach. There's nothing that Bowser would find attractive about Luigi, or vice versa. He would see a wimpy weak human and Luigi would see a huge terrifying monster.
Now does this mean that there aren't any interesting possibilities with this dynamic? Absolutely not! I could see a sort of unlikely friendship/frenemy relationship where they have things that they could learn from each other, like Bowser forcing Luigi to face his fears in the most aggressively "helpful" way possible, or maybe they could talk about the things that make them feel insecure. But I just don't see that blossoming into romance.
No I do NOT mind the ship at all! If anything, it spawns a lot of…tasteful…art hehehehe (yeah that’s right, I’m a filthy degenerate, but I’d rather not show that here on my Tumblr. That’s what Twitter is for lol)
But I would prefer it if the didn’t change Bowser’s personality. That’s it. And I applaud @xxno-thoughts-just-chaosxx for doing God’s work for keeping him as Bowser-like as possible in the ship.
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alphabetboyluvr · 2 years ago
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once the thrill expires | jjk
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title credit: cardigan - taylor swift
pairing: college!jungkook x female reader
synopsis:
your housemate-turned-fwb takes another girl home after a night out
warnings: angsty, smutty turmoil. it's not that bad, but it definitely isn't a happy lil number. fingering, oral sex (f receiving), rimming (f receiving), vaginal sex, doggy, protected (!!) sex, lil spanks, jaykay sorta makes out with her ear???, jaykay is a fawk boy who needs to learn self-control, oc is holding out for something that'll never happen, multiple partners in one night (jk), jk calls the reader diz (dizzy)
wordcount: 5.8K
note from holly: virgo boy trauma for you in the form of a jk one shot lmao. it's rare you get virgo boy shit laid this bare but he he i love oversharing on the internet! there's an old paragraph from yet another virgo boy fic hidden in here, too so if you think it looks familiar, that'll be why!!
minors dni // cross posted to wattpad
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The knock on your en-suite bathroom door comes as a surprise. 
The subsequent twist of the lock mechanism from a coin wedged in the bolt on the other side does not. 
There’s only one person it would be.
And so you don’t yell. Don’t tell him to go away, even if you do hug your legs into your chest a little tighter. 
Sitting on the floor of your shower, dignity is preserved - but with skin as red as the flags that Jungkook freely hands you, and mascara staining your cheeks from the onslaught of piping hot water showering down on you, how dignified can you really be?
No words are spoken as the steam billows from the room, Jungkook not caring to shut the door behind himself. He takes a perch on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows to his knees, tattooed hands clasped beneath his chin. Refuses to look anywhere other than you.
There’s perplexion to his taut jaw - a frown embedded in his brows - but more than anything, there’s an overwhelming sense of confusion in his soft eyes. You’re unaware of the way he’s mirroring your expression back at you; how defeated you look, wet hair sticking to the side of your face, an emptiness in your gaze that is pale in comparison to the void in your chest.
With nothing but the pitter-patter of your shower to fill the space, you’re thankful that he can’t hear the way your heart is beating, or how you’re sniffing back the tears you were freely crying before he arrived.
“Jem messaged me,” he eventually says, quiet beneath the sound of the water. Leaning back, he wipes a palm over his face, then pushes it back into his dishevelled hair. Lets his hand fall between his legs, then shrugs as he looks at you as if to say, 'Don’t look at me like that' or 'It’s not my fault.'
And realistically, you know that it isn’t. Whatever he’s done is within the parameters of what was agreed upon. The way you feel - like Jungkook has stolen the moon and stopped the tides from turning - is not.
It’s not like either of you had ever expected to let things get this far, and definitely not for this long.
What had started as quiet kisses in the corners of clubs when your friends weren’t looking, had catapulted into drunken hook-ups after those aforementioned nights out. 
He’d call you Dizzy, ‘cause he was convinced you looked at him like you’d been spinning in circles, all awe-struck and smiley. Pretty. Like a giggle was on the tip of your tongue at all times.
Was easy, back then. Convenient. He was newly single. Not looking for anything. 
You’d been quietly harbouring an illicit crush on him from the day you moved into your shared university accommodation. Had been waiting for the stars to align - and once they had, you were certain that soulmates had to exist.
It’s the only way you can explain the small earthquake that happened half the world away at the very time you first met, the tectonic plates shifting to make sure you were perfectly presented to one another. 
You didn’t feel the tremors - would have been impossible - but your heart certainly felt something. Adrenaline? Limerence? You’re not sure.
Whatever it was only became more and more prevalent with every tipsy hold of his hand on the way to clubs, or moments stolen in secrecy in the house you now share with six of your friends. 
Now in your final year of university, if you spent as much time studying, as you do fretting over Jungkook - what he’s up to, who he’s with - maybe you’d get a first-class degree.
You’re on track for a 2:1.
He’s on track for a first, though. 
You choose to believe it’s because he’s naturally more academically inclined (as if you didn’t write an entire paper for him last semester), and not because he spends significantly less time thinking about you.
There’s no need for endless thoughts, though. 
The arrangement is simple: You’re friends. 
Best friends. Spend all your time together. Are plus ones to events. Fill the void that a partner should fill; at the winter balls, cinema screenings you don't want to see alone, and in the hushed privacy of midnight intimacy. He gets you off when you need it, and you him. 
Kisses are never shared between lips - apart from that one summer when he accidentally said he was in love with you, then took it back a week later under the guise of not wanting to ‘ruin’ the friendship. 
You don’t speak about that summer.
Hook-ups are in your room, always, ‘cause you’ve only got Jem in the room next door. Jungkook’s room is up on the middle floor, surrounded by all the boys. They’d realise what’s going on far too quickly.
It’s simple - yet excruciatingly complicated when there’s a lack of commitment, and Jungkook looks at you in the way that he does. 
His lips are a little deeper than their usual pink this evening, but you put it down to alcohol. 
Denial is a wonderful thing, and delusion even greater.
Still, he leans forward to push the shower door open. Leans further still, then knocks the tap off. Lets the water trickle down the drain, the hum of the pipes murmuring like your unspoken grievances. 
Rivulets of water chase down your skin. Jungkook watches one race from your knee to your ankle, running straight over the bruises from messy nights out and the small cut at the bottom of your calf from the fountain you’d both traipsed through when you were a little too merry a few nights prior. 
He’d given you a piggyback the entire way home, blood staining the white of his shirt; the very essence of you embedded now in the fabric of him. 
He’d patched you up after you got home. Showered with you, right here, then carried you the measly five or six steps to your bed. Had told you that you’d definitely get sepsis and die. Kissed it better, then decided he didn’t know any better, and trailed his lips up your leg. Took pity on your impending death and gave you a little, lovely death just to soften the blow. 
Funny, how you think sepsis would be preferable over whatever the fuck it is that you’re feeling now.
“Jem messaged me,” he repeats. Presses his lips together, the ring in the corner of his mouth glistening under the white lights of the bathroom.  “Said I should check on you. Been in the shower for an hour, apparently.”
Well, you think to yourself, bitterness wrapping around your words like poison ivy. You’ve checked. You can go now.
The words don’t manifest in your throat. Nothing does. Not even the echo of a sob you’ve been holding in since he first stepped foot within your sanctuary.
Instead you’re silent as you get to your feet, not caring for your nakedness. It’s nothing Jungkook hasn’t seen before. Probably knows your body better than his own at this point. Can look at the faded bruise on your chest and know that it was left there by his lips last week. Can pick out which ones of your dainty linework tattoos were there before he met you, and which ones have been acquired since.
It’s a quiet intimacy, the way Jungkook looks at you. There’s no towel in the bathroom - an oversight by your tipsy brain when deciding you needed to wash yourself clean of the man in front of you after arriving home from the club - and Jungkook doesn’t care to offer you one. 
Insanity is the product of looking at your body, he thinks. Can’t remember a time he’s ever seen you like this and hasn’t wanted to be inside you. He’s a simple man in pursuit of simple pleasures, and the way you fit him like a glove is the simplest pleasure of them all. 
“Hm?” He questions your lack of a response. 
His deep black eyes are just like the depths of the ocean floor, and it feels like he’s dragging you right down every single time he looks at you like this. Softly. Tenderly. Sweetly. As if he actually gives a shit.
There’s no room for two in this bathroom. It’s not a space designed to be shared, no matter how many times you’ve both squeezed into the shower under far different circumstances - though now you come to think of it, perhaps they weren’t so dissimilar. 
It was always Jungkook’s pursuit of pleasure that put you in that position, just like it put you there tonight.
“Hey,” he says quietly, as you turn to leave, his grip on your waist pulling you between his legs. You don’t look at him. Just keep your head turned to face out of the room - but you make no attempt to leave. Especially when his nose brushes up against the bottom of your ribs right between your breasts, and he husks, “Why are you being like this?”
The softness of his lips as he presses them against your sternum, long lashes splayed across the top of his cheeks, has you spiralling. Kind of feels like he’s twisting a corkscrew through your heart. You know he’ll rip it right out - but maybe you’ll let him, if it means he’ll kiss the wound better.
“Hmm?” He hums. One of your hands rests on his shoulder, the other in his hair, and that’s how Jungkook knows he’s rectified the damage done for a short while. It’s like putting washi tape over holes punched in the walls - useless, and bound to fall off eventually, but ever so pretty in the meantime. Another washi-tape kiss is pressed to your skin, a little higher this time. “We had a good night, didn’t we?”
The tenderness of his voice rewrites the events of the evening. A good night. 
Not one with tears, and jealousy, and arguments that people who claim to be just friends have no business having. A night shared together, perhaps, with no one else to intrude.
Didn’t we?
You so prefer this false chain of events - the one where he left the bar with you, and held your hand in the cab ride back just like he’d done in the cab ride there.
“Is she still here?”
He’s surprised that you’re mentioning it. Half-expected you to act like it never happened. Like she never happened. Is what you usually do, whenever he goes home with someone that isn’t you. 
Still, he just continues to gently stroke your sides. Doesn’t present you with any sort of weakness.
“No.”
“Did you fuck her?”
There’s a little venom to your tone; the poison ivy around your thoughts sprouting now from your throat. 
Her. Some inconsequential girl that neither of you will likely ever see again. Looked nothing like you, but a hell of a lot like his ex. 
“No, Diz,” he softens the sternness of his tone with a name only he calls you. “I didn’t fuck her.”
You’ve no idea if this is a lie or not. 
It’ll be accepted as truth for an hour. Maybe two. Just enough time for you to convince yourself that you’re the one he wants. That he couldn’t bear to fuck anyone else. That he sent her on her way after a kiss or awkward fumble, because he realised no one else could feel as good as you.
You’ll ignore the fact you know he’s here because Jem messaged him. 
You’ll ignore the fact he thinks you’ve been in the shower for over an hour, and has no actual knowledge of the events of it all. 
You’ll ignore the scratch mark on his back, and in the morning you’ll believe it was you who left there even though your nails are bitten right down.
The lies you’ll tell yourself will be far more grand than the ones Jungkook ever tells you. Nobody can ever hurt you quite like you hurt yourself.
And so, against your better judgement, you let him follow you to your bed. 
There's a clang as he tosses his rings down into the ceramic dish beside your bed. It's white, and speckled in tiny black dots, and matches the one Jungkook has in his own bedroom. Not really a surprise. He was the one who bought it for you. Before then, he used to just tuck his rings beneath your pillows - but he kept losing them, and he found it annoying having to rummage around for them whenever he was trying to make a silent exit so as to not wake you.
You tell yourself that small things like this are Jungkook's way of integrating himself into your life; creating permanence. In reality, it's just something that makes it easier for him to leave.
Leaving is the last thing on your mind right now, though, and it will be until he comes.
It used to be different. He used to stay. You convince yourself each and every time that he’ll do what he used to do before things got so confusing. That he’ll stay, and that things will be okay.
You let him kiss your skin, but he’ll never kiss your lips. Let him lay claim to your body, even though you know he’ll never lay claim to your soul. 
It’s nice to pretend.
Nice, when he lays you down and rids himself of his shirt. Nice, when he presses your legs apart, and looks at you like you’re the first woman he’s ever laid eyes upon. Nice, when he says shit like, “Such a nice cunt,” and “Let me make you feel good.”
So nice, when he strokes up and down your inner thigh, eyes trained on your pussy. 
So, so nice when he slowly drips a little spit between his pursed lips and watches as it trails down your folds. 
So fucking nice, when he spreads you with his index and middle finger, groaning at the sight of you.
See, Jungkook can be nice. Can be honest. Can tell you how much he wants you, and you can believe him without having to do mental gymnastics over it all.
As he sinks his middle finger into you - “Shit. So wet for me, aren’t you?” - Jungkook is on his best behaviour. He’ll make you feel so good that you’ll forget he ever made you feel bad, cause he needs this. Needs you. 
Not in the life-debilitating, earth-shattering, universe-bending way that you need him, but in a way that isn’t too dissimilar. 
You’re his best friend. He loves you in his own, curious way. Would lay his life on the line for you. Just can’t seem to keep his dick in his pants for no other reason than selfish gluttony. 
It’s his fatal flaw, but he just thinks everyone has them. That most people are like this.
Of the seven deadly sins, Jungkook wields them all. Too proud to admit his wrongdoings. Greedy in his need to have everything life can offer, and how he refuses to limit himself to just you. His lust and gluttony go hand in hand - yet whenever any one else with similar predispositions look in your direction, he turns green with envy. Green, until he’s red, wrath taking hold. 
But he’s lazy, too. Far too settled in how easy it is to have his way with you. Why would he try harder when you never make him?
That’s your cardinal sin: desperation. 
It reeks. Spiced vanilla and black cherry. Tarnishes your skin, until Jungkook licks it from you.
And so as his lips press down your legs, wet and wanting, you don’t object. In fact, you don’t really do anything. You just allow it to happen.
Because you are desperate - for him, his approval, his desire. His heart.
You’ll never get it, mind you, for his heart is hollow. 
Saw every example of what he considered to be true love crackle and crumble until it fell apart. Parents divorced. High-school sweetheart cheated. Love, as you know it, doesn’t exist in Jungkook’s understanding of life. 
You never stood a chance. Not really.
The only times his heart is full is when he steals enough adoration from yours, and cosplays it as his own. Shines it back at you, and tricks you into thinking that maybe he did mean it when he mumbled false declarations into your lips.
But that was three summers ago, now, and Jungkook is a creature of habit. Too stuck in his ways to ever change. Comfortable in this chaos with you.
‘Cause while the other girls are fleeting, and fun, and always very nice, they’re never comfortable. Not like you are. 
“I liked your dress tonight,” he whispers, as he pushes a second finger into you. Pumps them gently, palm skywards, coaxing soft little moans from your lips. Curls them just right, just like he always does.
The affection of such a compliment rids you of the haunting way he’d looked at you earlier that evening. 
Up, down. No smile. Turned away to change the song coming through the aux at pre-drinks. Didn’t look at you again until he was passing out shots for everyone to take. Just nodded towards your necklace - the one his hobbyist silversmith mother made you for Christmas - and asked, “You like it?”
The pendant is small. Embossed with the letters DJ - the name his mother collectively calls you whenever you spend the summer together at his place. The hammered edge of the pendant matches the ring that wraps around your thumb. Another one of her creations, gifted to you by him for your birthday.
“Of course I do,” you’d said. Seemed silly for him to ask. You wear it most days. 
“Good,” he’d nodded, then took his shot and pretended as if he wasn't all too aware that your dress would be attracting good-for-nothing men all night.
See, Jungkook knows you like the necklace. Had just been reminding you of it, and the fact it’s his initial on there with the initial only he calls you. Well, him and his mother. Goes with the territory. 
She’s seen you through your formative years. Only ever sees the good parts, because Jungkook orchestrates it that way.
She doesn’t see the moments like these, when he’s crushed your self esteem and tries to fix it in the most idiotic of ways. 
The necklace pools around the base of your throat as your head tips back into the pillows, his thumb coming to toy with your clit, gently pressing down.
“Shush, Diz,” he smiles, so pleased to see your body responding in the way that it always does. “You’ll get us in trouble.”
God forbid the people you live with - who’ve all heard the arguments after his illicit encounters with randomers, and seen his face of thunder whenever you’re getting ready for first dates - ever figure out you’re fucking. Not like it’s obvious in the slightest. Not why Jem texted Jungkook, instead of checking on you herself.
Biting onto your wrist, you try and stifle the impact of his touch - ‘cause if they do hear, it will be your fault. You’ll be the reason everyone knows your dirty little secrets. You’ll be the one who ruins it all. Not him. Just you. 
He doesn’t mean to condition you in such a way. Doesn’t even really realise he’s doing it.
Nor do you - but your self esteem is shot to shit. You’re good enough to fuck, but not good enough to love, even if Jungkook insists that there’s no one he adores more. It always comes with an add-on of ‘you’re my best friend’, or ‘you wouldn’t wanna date me anyways’.
Maybe he’s right.
But maybe it would have been nice to try.
Shame.
The pace of Jungkook’s fingers pumping into you begins to slow. Leaking around the base of his knuckles, you’re just as wet as you always are with him. Even when the emotional labour of letting him have his way with you feels like a ten tonne weight on your chest, crushing down on your ribs and spoiling you forevermore, your body still wants him. Only him. Always him.
Withdrawing his fingers, Jungkook taps the outer side of your thigh. “On your front for me, Diz. Face down, ass up.”
With anyone else, Jungkook is far more often on the receiving end. It’s a shame, ‘cause his talents go to waste, it’s just what he’s found to be typical of random hook-ups.
He loves pussy. Loves eating it. Loves that you love it, too.
Slow as he spreads your ass with his hands, Jungkook really doesn’t fuck around with wasting time. He dives in without hesitation, burying his tongue between your folds. Cares not for accuracy, nor carefulness. Just wants his tongue all over you.
Your body lurches forward, hands clutching onto the duvet beneath you. He’s always been like this. Hungry. Just as desperate as you so often feel, but better at hiding it than you are.
His tongue laps against you. Sinks into your soaked hole as deep as he can get it. Uses one of his hands to reach around and toy with your clit while he continues to explore somewhere he knows like the back of his hand.
Pulling back a little, Jungkook’s breathing is heavy. You can hear it. Groan, as he grips your ass again. Spanks it softly, then get back to his previous position. Licks a stripe from your clit up to your leaking cunt, then continues. Flicks up against the tight muscle you rarely let him fuck around with.
But you want him to want you. Want him to have you in whichever capacity he so desires. 
You reach back. Tangle a hand in his hair, and encourage him to massage your tight hole with his tongue, like you know he loves to do. 
It’s kinda cute, in a way. He likes doing it, ‘cause he loves the way it feels whenever your tongue toys with his ass. Assumes other people must love it too. Just wants you to feel good. Wants to right his earlier wrongs.
He continues to trace up and down both your holes, stimulating your entire body in the process. Rubs your clit with his fingers, till you're writhing against the sheets, body pressed flat to the cotton as Jungkook begins to fuck his fingers into your again. 
“You gonna cum for me?” He husks, a smile on his wet lips as he watches the tell-tale sign of an orgasm rush over you. Soon, you’ll be looking at him with dizzy eyes once more, and your namesake will make Jungkook feel things he pretends he can’t feel. “That’s it, Diz. All over my fingers. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”
There’s a relief that comes with your orgasm for Jungkook. Hope that you’ll stop being mardy with him. He doesn’t like it when you don’t like him. These days, he keeps making choices that make it hard for you to like him. 
But you always like him - like him so much - in the comedown of a climax.
He doesn’t give you much time to recover. Wants to coax a second orgasm from you while he still can. Pulls you back into position - face down, ass up - and pushes down his sweats. Cock hard, there’s a small damp patch in his boxers from the precum he’s leaked for you. Lines himself up. 
“Let me fuck you,” he begs before he pushes into you.
“Uh-uh,” you full forward a little, preventing him from doing what he so desperately wants to do. Turning to look over your shoulder, you shake your head. “Condom.”
He furrows his brows. Has the audacity to look fucking offended, as if he didn’t bring another girl back to the house you share.
You’re stupid, and you’re desperate, and you make all the wrong choices, but you aren’t naive. Not really. Your delusions and denial are always elevated away from reality, of which you like to think you have a firm grip on.
And so you simply say, “Don’t believe you didn’t fuck her.”
He doesn’t deny it. Shakes his head, not that you can see it. Just reaches to the shelf above your bed, and gets one from the pot you keep them tucked away in. Rarely ever use them. It’s a novelty, more than not, when you use them. Something to make him last a little longer.
It’s different today.
Today, it’s because you don’t know if his cock is fucking clean or not.
It should crush you, but it doesn’t. 
Just a fact of life. Jungkook fucked someone else less than three hours ago. Came, probably. For someone else. Over someone else. Inside someone else. 
But that desperation of yours is back once more. You want to be the reason why Jungkook loses his mind in temporary bliss. To be better. To be his last memory of the evening.
And so as Jungkook rolls the condom down his thick shaft, you position yourself perfectly for him. Whimper as the tip of his cock kisses your entrance. Whine, as he pushes inside you. 
“That’s it,” he husks, gripping your ass cheeks to spread them nice and wide. Looking down to where your bodies meet, Jungkook is reminded of why he enjoys you so much. No one takes him so well. No one. He knows this. Doesn’t know why the fuck he ever feels the need to seek out anyone else. They’re never as good as this. “Fuck. That’s it, baby.”
Your hips roll back, ass bouncing in that hypnotic way he always swears will ruin him. His grip loosens to let you do the hard work, one of his hands stroking up your spine until it’s resting around the base of your throat. 
Taking back a little control, he keeps your head pushed into the pillows. Grunts. “Take this cock so fuckin’ well, don’t you?”
The mumble you moan into the sheets isn’t enough for him. He always does this. Asserts control and then realises he actually kinda fuckin’ hates it. Fingers still wrapped around the base of your neck, Jungkook pulls you up.
Chest pressed to your back, Jungkook wastes no time locking you in place with an arm around the front of your waist. His cock continues to pump upwards into you, the movements a little subdued but by no means lacking. 
The ridge of his thick head rubs up against your sweet spot. Gets you so fucking needy. Has your hand dipping to your clit to match the pressure.
And when you do? Oh, it’s heaven. You can’t help but whine - so Jungkook uses the hand that isn't on your waist to cover your mouth.
“You only get to cum if you’re quiet,” he tells you. “Be quiet for me, baby.”
But his hips are erratic. The sounds are lewd; skin on skin. It’s wet. Disgusting. Needy. Him, just as much as you. Sweat blossoms on his skin, keeping you both in this clammy haze of hedonism. 
Catching his lips on your ear, Jungkook doesn’t care if he isn’t supposed to let kisses linger so close to your lips. Tongue wet, he intrudes. Licks the shell of your ear. Grazes his teeth on your lobe. Whispers, “You looked so pretty tonight,” then drags his tongue across your ear. 
Cares not for precision nor accuracy, just the fact that this is an area of the body he doesn’t often explore, and that maybe he should do it more often, given how tightly your pussy is clamping around him.
There’s something about it - the obstruction of one of your senses likely to blame, sound distorted whenever his tongue licks against it - that makes you whine. 
You can’t even really do that now. Are too muffled beneath his hand - until he pushes the two fingers that had been inside your pussy earlier into your mouth. 
The taste is just the same as it always is whenever he does shit like this. Loves having you taste yourself. Experiencing what he experiences. Wants you to know exactly why he’s incapable of letting you go.
“Slutty little mouth,” he smirks against your ear. “Gonna finish in it.”
“Mhhm?” you mumble against the fingers you’re keeping wet and warm for him.
“Mhmm,” he replies. Presses a kiss to your temple, ‘cause he isn’t really thinking straight. Groans when your cunt clenches from the touch. “God, you want it, don’t you? Want it so bad. Wanna swallow my cum.”
Of course you do. You’ll take what he’ll give you. 
Your mumble around his fingers isn’t enough. He wants to hear you say it. Frees your mouth of himself. Grips your chin between his forefinger and thumb. Turns you to face further over your shoulder.
He’s just gonna make you say it. Just make you say something lewd to get him a little closer. Just… Just gonna… Just...- Oh, fuck it. Your lips are just there, and they’re wet, and they’re pouty and - God, forgive me - perfect for him.  
His eyes flitter between your eyes and your lips. Is aware you’re doing the same. 
“Kook,” you whisper, as if you’re about to reprimand him.
“Please,” he begs. Thinks he needs this just as much as you do. Maybe even more so.
And so somewhere between the overwhelming acknowledgement that this is a catastrophic chain of events, and the promise of a happy ending (of which you know damn well will never reach fruition), you let him sink his lips into yours.
You’re pretty in war, and even prettier in defeat. 
Jungkook thinks you’re prettiest when you’re all his. 
You think that to be his is to accept an eternal loss. 
The breath of his nose is heavy against your cheek as his lips press into yours, brows furrowed. The need for you to be lewd is abandoned, ‘cause Jungkook doesn’t even think he’ll last long enough for it. Thinks that nothing gets him closer than the flavour of your lips. 
Hips still jerking up, the sound of his skin hitting your ass echoing around the room, Jungkook fucks himself into you until he can do it no longer. Pulls away. Rips off his condom. Tosses it to the floor. Gets you face down again. Wanks himself to the point of coming undone, hot spurts of cum dripping onto your ass and spilling down to the valley of your spine.
He’s the one moaning now, your body defiled by a boy who you wish would paint you in pretty compliments instead. Still, this is a compliment. Kind of. You’re hot enough to make him cum. That’s nice, you suppose.
“Shit,” he chokes out, breathing all out of sync, heartbeat far too rapid. A light spank is tapped against your ass, then softly stroked. He soothes. Aloe on sunburn. Milk with hot sauce. Pretty kisses in the comedown of a rough fuck. 
You won’t get those. Wasn’t a particularly rough fuck, either - and yet it hurts so much when he gets up to leave.
It’s awkward. He doesn’t really say bye. Doesn’t acknowledge the fact he stoked a fire inside you that burned you from the inside out. Ignores the ashes that are scattered around your vessel, as if your soul has been ejected from its home. 
He’s warm, when you look at him. That little part of your heart has been stolen once more. He’s just feeding it back to you.
“Sorry,” he says, a hand on your doorknob. “I shouldn’t- I mean, we shouldn’t-”
“It’s fine,” you offer.
That’s the thing about Jungkook. He’ll give you the world, then realise it was never his to give. Always has to ask for it back. You’ve lost count of how many times he’s fucked you, then acted as if was foolish - only to repeat the same mistakes the next evening.
It’s what he’s always done, and is what he’ll always do.
You’ll never learn. 
The shirt you chuck on to head downstairs the next morning is his. 
Far too big for you, it finishes around your thighs. Television blaring in the room beneath you, it’s obvious your housemates are awake, and even as you’re trudging down the stairs, you’re not quite sure you’re alive.
The headache of an overbearing hangover is threatening your life. You’re certain of it. The fact your housemates have the television set to what must be the maximum volume? Only further sending you to an early grave. 
And yet when you see Jungkook sitting by the breakfast bar, hair in all different directions, a bowl of cereal in front of him, and smiling in the direction of whomever else is in the room, you find yourself smiling, too. 
“Morning,” you say pleasantly as you walk into the kitchen, ready to flop your forehead down on Jungkook’s shoulder like you so often do.
Ready, until you notice the look in his eyes when he turns to face you.
Ready, until you glance in the direction of his previous smile.
Ready, until you see the girl who looks a lot like his ex-girlfriend and absolutely nothing like you leaning on the other side of the counter. Mug from your trip to Amsterdam together in her hands, and the shirt you got him for his birthday covering her body, she smiles.
You’re drowning.
“Oh,” you say, not looking at him. Only her. “I didn’t realise we had company.”
“Is she still here?”
“No.”
She’s awkward as she nods. “Sorry, hey. I crashed here last night - hope you don’t mind? It’s just you know what it’s like getting an uber at that time-”
“Yeah, yeah,” you nod. Smile. Jungkook thinks you look pretty - but of course he does. You look defeated. “Totally.”
“Did you fuck her?
“No, Diz. I didn't fuck her.”
“Jungkook said you were feeling unwell last night?” She tries to make conversation. She needn’t. You feel far more unwell now than you ever did last night - and that’s before you notice the pretty purple bruise forming on her neck. “How are you feeling now?”
Her care is kind. Considerate. Wholly wasted on you because you’re gonna lie, and say that you’re fine, even though it feels as if your lungs have been filled with venom spat by a lover who is incapable of loving.
Still, you don’t look at Jungkook. Just make your excuses. Leave.
And even though he knows that he should, Jungkook doesn’t chase after you. 
He lets you go, because he knows you’ll always come back. You always do.
But if you don't?
Well, he’ll go back to you, and you’ll let him. Again, you always do.
From the kitchen, Jungkook can hear your showering starting up. Appetite lost, he isn’t listening to the girl in front of him. Isn’t even really sure of her name.
All that he’s sure of is that the fall out of this is not gonna be pretty.
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emeraldelixirs · 6 days ago
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Bloodsport // prologue
bsf! m. riddle x fem!sallow!reader, stepbrother! t. nott x fem!sallow!reader
Bound by Blood, Betrayed by Fate. When you’re dragged to Malfoy Manor under orders from Voldemort himself, you learn the price of your mother’s mistakes: an Unbreakable Vow, tethering your life to the deranged Bellatrix Lestrange. Forced to navigate a web of dark magic, family debts, and impossible expectations, you must tread carefully in a house brimming with enemies—and a few familiar faces. As tensions rise and the lines between loyalty and survival blur, one question remains: will you find a way to break free, or will you lose yourself to the darkness?
content warnings: 18+ dark themes, aged up characters (by a year), mention of y/n, mentions of anxiety and isolation, death, crossover references with HP legacy, canon HP themes involving death eaters, blood status, purity, house prejudice, and underage coercion. let me know what if there’s anything missing!
Word count: 1.5k
A/n: I’ve been keeping this fic held near and dear to my chest for a while, but have been too nervous to post it and wanting it to be perfect aligning the canon, noncanon, potential AUs, etc. Also I’m just a girl with a full time job and life. 🥲 But as I keep adding on to this story, I think, at least, hope others will enjoy it as much as I’ve been while writing. Feedback, reblogs, and likes are always appreciated 🫶🏻
[playlist: no time to die—Billie eillish ]
<< next part >>
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The click of your heels against the cold, tiled floor echoed hauntingly through the desolate halls of Malfoy Manor, a sound that mingled with the steady pressure of Fenrir Greyback’s wand digging into the small of your back. Each step felt like an eternity, your pulse hammering in your ears as Narcissa Malfoy led you down the dimly lit corridor. Her movements were calm and composed, her shoulders drawn back with an elegance you envied in that moment. She, at least, did not have a predator breathing down her neck.
“Keep moving, girl,” Fenrir growled from behind you, his voice low and guttural, sending shivers down your spine. “Mistress doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“That’s enough, Fenrir,” Narcissa snapped, her tone cutting through the air like a blade.
Her icy demeanor, usually so measured, betrayed her frustration. You could sense it in the stiff set of her shoulders and the clipped tone of her voice. Narcissa Malfoy hated what her home had become—a fortress for Death Eaters, a cold and dark parody of the life she once knew. But most of all, she hated that the lives of children, her son and his friends included, were being consumed by the dark tide that had overtaken their world.
When Narcissa came to a halt before the double doors of the dining room, her fingers meticulously adjusted the buttons of her blouse, her sharp gaze fixed on the brass knobs. “Leave us, Greyback,” she commanded, her voice devoid of emotion but brooking no argument.
“Mistress said—”
“Do I need to remind you,” she interrupted, turning on her heel with a venomous glare, “that your mistress is *my* sister? This is still my home, and I will not tolerate being undermined in it. Now. Leave.”
Her warning crackled like electricity in the air, but Fenrir relented with a sneer, retreating down the hall. Narcissa exhaled slowly before turning her attention to you. Her cold, pale fingers reached out to smooth your hair and adjust the sleeves of your dress, though you’d ironed them to perfection just that morning. Her dull gray eyes darted behind you, ensuring the hall was empty, before she spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Listen to me, child,” she said, her hand cupping your cheek with an unexpected gentleness that contradicted the steel in her tone. “You go in there with your head held high. Shoulders back. Do not let her see your fear. She will exploit it.”
The lump in your throat grew unbearable, but you managed a trembling nod. Narcissa’s hand tightened on your chin, forcing your watery gaze to meet her own lifeless one.
“Do you understand?”
“I understand,” you murmured, the words scraping against the knot in your throat.
Her gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, and then, with a curt nod of approval, she turned to knock on the doors.
The dining room was frigid, both in temperature and atmosphere. Bellatrix Lestrange lounged at the head of the table like a queen upon her throne, her wild, matted hair framing her pale, deranged face. Alecto Carrow stood beside her, her towering, stocky figure and lifeless gaze only adding to the oppressive weight that filled the room.
Bellatrix’s lips curled into a sinister grin as her dark eyes landed on you.
“This is the girl?” she drawled, rising with an unsettling excitement.
“She will be in her sixth year, like Draco,” Narcissa said coolly, her tone devoid of the pride she’d once reserved for introductions.
Bellatrix let out a high-pitched laugh, tilting her head back as though the very idea of you amused her. “Sixth year! A mere child!”
“She turned 17 in the spring,” the younger sister noted, clearing her throat. She was aware of what Bellatrix wanted, and the idea of a child doing her sister’s bidding stirred the already restless unease in her body.
Your stomach churned as she circled around you, her wand tracing invisible lines along your jaw and down the column of your neck. Her closeness made your skin crawl, but you stood your ground, your face a mask of carefully constructed neutrality. You couldn’t afford to falter now—not in front of her.
“You look so much like your mother,” Bellatrix said, her voice dripping with mockery. “The Veela blood is strong in your family. A pity it didn’t make her smart.”
Your nails dug into your palms as you resisted the urge to react, hearing Narcissa’s earlier warning echo in your mind. Bellatrix’s gaze bored into yours, relishing in delight at your discomfort.
“She’s one of the top in her class, and heavily involved in the school’s extracurriculars.” Narcissa interjected, her voice brittle, though she stood rigid behind you. “I believe she will do well with the tasks you assign her.”
Bellatrix’s twisted smile widened, and she gestured for Alecto to step forward. The red-haired woman stalked closer, her soulless eyes narrowing as she assessed you like one might a piece of meat.
“Do you know why you’re here, Y/n Sallow?” Alecto asked.
“I’m here to finish the business my mother couldn’t,” you recited in monotone, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within you.
“Good,” Alecto purred, her lips curling into a cruel smirk. “And do you know what happens if you fail?”
“I will be executed,” you replied, the words chilling you even as they left your lips.
Alecto chuckled darkly, seemingly satisfied with your response. Bellatrix clapped her hands together, her giddy laugh echoing off the cold stone walls.
“You will not bear the Dark Mark,” Bellatrix said suddenly, her voice gleeful. “No, the Dark Lord has other plans for you. You will be bound to me instead—by an Unbreakable Vow.”
The words struck you like a physical blow. Your mask faltered as you turned to Narcissa, whose own composure cracked for just a moment. This was not discussed–Dark Mark or Unbreakable Vow–you were supposed to be unscathed by any affiliations Theodore Nott Sr, your step father, told you.
“Bella, this wasn’t—”
“Dark Lord’s orders,” Bellatrix snapped, her wand digging into your chin as she forced your gaze back to her. “Take my arm, child.”
I hate you.
With trembling fingers, you obeyed, grasping her sickly pale forearm as she held it out. Alecto began the incantation, her voice cold and mechanical, each word sealing your fate.
I hate you.
The vow burned as it took hold, a searing pain lancing through your arm and up into your chest.
I hate you.
The three words chanted through your brain as the woman laughed maniacally listening to Alecto talk.
In the moment, resentment tugged through you at your mother for leaving you alone in this world to take the weight of her debts. Alecto’s words becoming muffled to a deafening screech of the thoughts that thrummed in your head. The brand of the vow making itself known, threading through the fibers of your being.
And when it was over, you staggered back, Narcissa catching you before you could fall. Bellatrix’s laughter rang in your ears as she clapped her hands again.
“I will call on you soon to prepare for your new role,” she said, dismissing you with a wave of her hand. “There are other matters to take care of.”
Narcissa dragged you from the room, her grip ironclad. The tears you had been holding back slipped down your cheeks as the weight of what had just transpired settled over you. The woman beside you offering icy coles trying to coax the tears to stop.
“Y/N?”
The sound of your name stopped you in your tracks. You turned to see Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Mattheo walking toward the dining room. Theo and Draco acknowledged you with stoic nods, while Enzo’s concerned gaze lingered. Mattheo, however, didn’t even spare you a glance.
Mattheo had always been the one to meet your gaze when things got bad. A silent promise shared between the two of you—‘I’ve got you.’ But now, there was nothing. No glance. No acknowledgment. As if the weight of your fate was too much for even him to bear.
The sight of him ignoring you sent a fresh wave of anguish crashing over you. You tore your gaze away, as Narcissa pull you further down the hall, sparing one more glance back at them. Enzo was still turned towards you as Theo tugged his arm to pull him away. You could feel your chest be torn apart as you were carried further down the halls past death eaters gathering.
There had to be a way out of this. There had to be.
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A/n: eeeeee it’s out to the world, chapter one will be out soon to not keep you waiting. If you want to be added to the taglist let me know or have suggestions of making it efficient pls pls pls
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brucewaynehater101 · 4 months ago
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There's nothing I love more than Tim-centric fics, either with BAMF Tim, caffeine addicted Tim or even fics were Tim is like v overworked w/ poor/unhealthy living habits and very done with everything.
But I feel realistically(or atleast a bit more realistically), Tim would take care of his health and body(probably bcuz even the slightest of colds or infections would keep him off the field for weeks at the least).
Tim's immune system is as good as shit, due to him losing his spleen *and* getting the clench twice(I think? don't really remember), so Tim *has* to take care of himself to stay healthy, he sleeps 8 hours a day(w/ occasional all-nighters, probably. .), manages his time correctly, boycotting red meats and dairies(cuz of asplenia), etc etc..
[sorry if there's any grammatical errors or if the sentences sounded a bit awkward to read, English isn't my native language]
[You're absolutely fine. I do not judge asks based on grammar, spelling, or sentence structure. Yours was well worded, but I don't mind spending an extra minute if it's not worded clearly. I struggle with reading comprehension, and others have their struggles as well. Thank you for the effort of putting the ask in my language even if it's not your native one]
I agree that it's very highly improbable that Tim, post spleen loss, is not on top of his health. In fact, it would perfectly align with his character if he was way too into managing his own health.
This means he has schedules upon schedules upon schedules for working out, eating, sleeping, etc. His vigilante work (and sometimes friends/family) interfere, so he has meticulous mental notes to try to balance things out as they shift.
Tim does not want to be forced to be out of the field for something preventable (especially due to his guilt complex if any of his family members get hurt during that time). If he needs to spend a ton of mental points to prevent this, he will.
Hmm... What would be interesting is seeing a fanon Tim (not sleeping, over caffeinated, barely taking care of wounds) being forced to change all of those habits after the BruceQuest. His frustration, exhaustion, and the way his plans never stay on schedule would be fabulous to explore (Tim breaking down due to the new limitations he *has* to impose upon himself).
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try-set-me-on-fire · 9 months ago
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I have been crying on and off about that Tommy MCD fic idea since you posted about it. The way you write emotional devastation is soooo good. It always punches me in the gut.
Thank you thank you here’s some more of it… using this as my fuck it Friday post, thanks for the tag @eddiebabygirldiaz, tagging @colonoscopys @homerforsure @chronicowboy @shitouttabuck @bigfootsmom @daffi-990 @butchdiaz @ anyone else who has stuff they want to share!
Going to put a lot of this under a cut because one its long two it’s a major character death au and there’s a bit about past contemplation of suicide. But it’s kind of happy generally I swear! This is Buck and Eddie getting together sort of!
For more of this au I’ve been tagging it ‘the seconds ticking killed us all a million years before the fall’ (lyrics from standing outside a broken phone booth with money in my hand)
I’ve hated and thought this scene was pretty good in turns over the last few hours so whatever here you go!
Eddie thinks the creaking on the front porch might be a raccoon, at first. It’s light, comes and goes for several minutes. He should probably go shoo it away, but it’s two am and he’s sore all over and can’t be damned. He’s settling further into the couch and his various ice packs when the raccoon knocks. Hesitant, hesitant, loud, loud, louder. Eddie stands up with only a slight groan, ice packs flopping all over the place, and goes to the door.
Buck stands on the other side of it.
If Eddie hadn’t been so exhausted yet in too much pain to fall asleep, he thinks he might have expected this. If he was a little more exhausted, a little more hurt, he might have admitted to hoping for it. As it is, all he can do for a moment is blink at the apparition before him. Buck is pale, wild eyed, looking somehow thinner than when they’d last seen each other not that many hours ago. His hands come up to hover near Eddie’s shoulders as Eddie is also reaching out, so he ends up with his fingers colliding into an awkward fist against Buck’s elbow.
“Eddie.” He sounds wrecked. “I’m- I’m sorry, I-”
“It’s alright,” Eddie says, soft, shaking his head. “I’m okay, Buck. I’m still okay. Like I promised.”
Buck makes a terrible little noise and steps backward, and again, off the porch. Eddie follows, hands out, trying to make sure he won’t trip. “Eddie,” he says again, “Eddie.”
“It’s okay,” Eddie says, keeping his voice low, calming, less likely to wake any neighbors. “Buck, it’s okay. Do you want to come inside?”
Buck looks up behind Eddie, where the door is wide open. Light spills through, shining in his eyes, in the unshed tears there. “I don’t want to… waste… any time I have.”
“What-”
Buck kisses him. The sound Eddie makes is more frightened than anything, even as his arms come up around Buck, to hold him close, to hold him up. It’s not- it’s wet, and Buck’s fingers almost hurt where they’re dug into the sides of Eddie’s head. Their faces are pressed too hard together, noses crushed into cheeks. Their lips are barely even aligned. Buck gasps a hitching breath into his mouth and Eddie pulls back. Not away, just enough to speak.
“Come inside,” he pleads. “Buck, come inside, just- please, come inside.”
Buck doesn’t let go of him, doesn’t give him an inch, but lets Eddie pull him into the house. Eddie’s not sure how he manages not to trip going blind and backwards, but they make it through the door, down the hall, to the living room. Eddie’s not even sure if he’d count what’s happening as kissing, but Buck’s mouth presses into his over and over as they go.
“It’s okay,” Eddie says, between the moments of contact. “It’s okay,” he says as he kicks a shoe or something out of their path, “It’s okay,” as sits back down on the couch. Buck climbs on top of him immediately, and Eddie hopes the combined weight of them doesn’t pop the ice pack that ended up crushed under his thigh. It is kissing, now, the desperate kind of making out Eddie remembers with Shannon in the day or two on either side of his deployments. Eddie slides his hands to rest firm against Buck’s lower back to anchor him — or maybe both of them — and follows Buck’s lead as their lips slide together, as Buck gets his mouth open and chases his tongue, as they gasp raggedly for air without ever breaking apart. He’s not sure, but he thinks Buck is crying. Eddie isn’t, barely. Buck needs someone solid right now, someone who will let him take what he needs and be okay if this is it, if this is the only time they have this. Because Eddie’s not fooling himself. He laid there at the bottom of that pit under all that rubble and heard Buck’s scream, first wordless, and then Tommy, and then Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. He knows that this might all be too much, too soon, too mixed up, and if Buck pulls away from this kiss and never comes in for another one that’s okay. He wishes, maybe, that it could have happened different. He wishes Buck had been smiling, and it had been gentler, on a bright afternoon, on a good day. But it’s okay.
It goes until Buck’s elbow catches a bruise and Eddie can’t stop a small, pained sound from getting out. Buck jerks back like he touched a hot stove, eyes open to near circles as he looks Eddie all over. Eddie knows it's sort of a rough picture, all purple and blue and a fresh line of stitches cutting a half moon around his temple from forehead to just under his mole. Buck’s fingers come up to trace it, not quite touching the skin. Just the shape, in the air.
“S-sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so- I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Eddie says again. He wipes a thumb under Buck’s eye, though it doesn’t do much to clear away the still falling tears. Buck leans into the touch, though, and then in further, head cradling against Eddie’s shoulder as he slides half off him onto the couch. Eddie slides his fingers into Buck’s hair, wraps his other arm around him as Buck coughs muffled little sobs into his t-shirt.
“S-sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Buck.” His hair feels a little limp, greasy. Eddie wonders if he went home at all, took a shower, ate. His own fridge is kind of dire — he was planning on going to the grocery store after work until a building collapsed on him — but he could probably scrounge up something. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I scared you.”
Buck scoffs a single, wet laugh. “No,” he says, voice thin, scrubbing at his face as he sits more upright. “It’s not- you didn’t do it on purpose. That’s the job, right?”
The job that killed your husband. Why would you want to do this a second time? I care for you so much and I’m so sorry you reciprocate. “Yeah. Still.”
Buck inhales and exhales, shaky, and nods in thanks. He makes a face and pulls another ice pack out from under him. It’s all floppy now, probably too warm to be effective. “God. Let me…” He stands, gathering up all the ice packs he can see and heading towards the kitchen.
“You don’t have to-”
“I’ll be just a minute.”
Eddie sighs, leaning back into the couch and listening to the freezer door open and its contents get shuffled around. The soft hiss of it shutting, Buck’s footsteps, Buck in the doorway sheepishly holding an armful of frozen vegetables. Eddie arranges peas and carrots over the worst sore spots as Buck sits back down beside him.
“Did you take anything?”
“Yeah, just before you got here.” Extra strength ibuprofen, so he won’t be good to take anything else until morning. Wasn’t going to be a problem when he thought he was just going to sleep, though he wishes he’d taken a smaller dose now so he could spread them out, time it better to however long they’ll be talking here.
“Good.” Buck sighs, looking at him with furrowed brows. “Sorry I… I didn’t mean to be so dramatic, coming here.”
Eddie laughs, startled and genuine. “It’s, uh, been a dramatic day.”
Buck hums agreement, a tired and beautiful smile pulling at his lips. He flops his head sideways onto the couch. “I kind of had a… an idea.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm. Of what I was going to say. Because…” he searches Eddie's face. “I'm not- I'm not making it up, right? There's something here? You feel it too?”
Eddie can barely breathe. “Yeah, I- it's not just you. But- Buck, I understand why you wouldn't want to do this, why you wouldn't want to take the risk. I- I have feelings for you,” it feels like a childish way to say it even as the words leave his mouth, “But I… you're my friend. I think you're my best friend. And I am truly fine with that. You don’t have to… it’s okay.”
That smile. “That’s the thing. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. N-not just today. Though, I guess- you scaring the shit out of me made it more- more real.” He chews at his lip for a moment. “I… spend a lot of time wishing… that I had more of it, with Tommy. That we had longer together. Or at least that I- that I’d made sure every minute counted, you know? B-but I think maybe I did? I loved him so much and we- it was good, what we had. Just because it ended, that doesn’t mean the rest wasn’t worth it. I’d love him again, knowing what was coming. And, so…” he takes a deep breath. “So I’ve been thinking that… even if I… even if something bad could happen- I don’t want that to stop me from having something good, now.”
“Buck-”
“Hold on,” Buck says, a hand up, a wry smile. “I have a part two.”
“Okay.” Eddie’s turned towards him without really noticing, both of them sitting one leg folded up on the couch so their knees touch.
“I’m not… going to stop loving Tommy. And I’m, uh- kind of a fucking mess, as I just demonstrated. I don’t- know that I’m- going to be any less messy any time soon.” There’s a furrow in his brows that Eddie wants to smooth out. “I don’t know that starting something would be fair to you.”
“I-”
“You’re a very kind man, Eddie.” Buck says it very softly, and one of his hands comes to rest so gently on Eddie’s leg. “I think you’d let me fall apart here forever, but I want- I want you to really think if it’s worth it-”
“Buck.” Eddie’s voice is sharp enough that Buck blinks several times, quick. “Don’t- you’re worth it. Your pain isn’t- it’s not some kind of chore to me. I haven’t been just- hanging around, waiting until you’re a fun guy. I like you, Buck, right now, not- not some other perfectly okay version of you.”
Buck’s fingers twitch against Eddie’s thigh. “You’re a very kind man,” he repeats.
“I don’t even know if that’s true,” Eddie sighs, the material of the couch soft where he rests his cheek against it. “I just…” He thinks back to that first day Buck showed up at the station, and then to every day after that. “I think I always just wanted… to make your life easier.”
“Oh.” Buck shuts his eyes, whistles a breath through his nose. “You- you do. You do, Eddie.”
They’re quiet, at an impasse. The whole world is quiet, here at nearing 3 am with all the colors purple dark outside of this lamp lit room. Eddie can hear crickets and frogs if he listens hard enough. “Tommy was my friend. I’ve felt… guilty.”
Buck opens his eyes again. “For liking me?”
Eddie smiles a little at the phrasing — Sophia’s 8th grade voice saying like-like in his head — and nods. “It feels… disrespectful. He loved you so much, I don’t- I don’t know how he’d feel about it.”
Buck scratches a nail absently against the fabric of Eddie’s sweatpants. “We talked about it, a little.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. The jobs we have, you know? It’s not like- it’s not like we never got hurt, never thought about what would happen if one of us…” Buck shrugs, and his smile aches this time. “I told him if I died he had to be sad forever, only love me the rest of his life.”
Eddie laughs. “Mm. Reasonable ask.”
Buck nods, smile getting bigger, almost a grin. “I didn’t mean it, but… You know, I think he would have. He was teasing when he promised, but… he was serious, too, I think.” He sighs. “He told me he was scared I wouldn’t let anyone love me. He said I-” Buck’s voice cracks badly enough he has to wait a few moments to continue. “I’m too easy to love. I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t go without it.”
Eddie feels a little wide eyed. “That’s…”
“Isn’t that just annoyingly romantic?” Buck laughs, wiping his eyes. “Reasonable ask. Jesus.” He scrubs harder. “I think he… he wanted to make my life easier, too. You’re… you’re so alike, sometimes.” He winces. “No, that’s- I don’t mean- that’s not why I-”
“No, it’s… I know you’re not trying to replace him.” It’s not like he hasn’t had the thought, himself. He and Tommy got on so well in part because they were alike. Shared hobbies, both army, both carrying around a complicated relationship with their families and their sexuality. But they’re their own people. And- “I wouldn’t want to… try to be that, for you.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
There’s another quiet minute. Hesitantly, Eddie rests his hand palm up next to Buck’s. Buck slides their fingers together, and they fit as well as any hands do. “So… what do you want to do? What do you want to happen?”
Buck squeezes. “I… I’m not sure.”
Eddie nods. “Has there… am I the first person? After?”
Buck’s eyes get a little calculating, like he’s not sure he should say whatever comes next. “I hooked up with a girl, a few months in, uh, a little before I came to the 118. In a bar somewhere, I don’t even remember… And then I went home and, uh-” he winces, glances to the side. “I almost killed myself.”
“Buck-” Jesus, jesus-
“No, no-” Buck squeezes tighter, sits up a little straighter. “I didn’t. I didn’t and I wouldn’t. I- I’m safe, I promise, Eddie. It wasn’t- it wasn’t even actually an attempt, I just… thought about it.” He swallows. “It was close, I guess.”
Eddie’s clinging more than holding his hand. “Buck- if- I don’t want to-”
“No,” Buck shakes his head, firm. “I didn’t tell you because I- I thought if we-” his other hand wraps around the two of theirs. “I don’t want you to think if we move forward you’re putting me in danger. You’re not. I- I wasn’t doing well back then, it was hardly even about- it was a lot of things. I’m going to be okay, I swear.”
“If- If you’re ever not-” words feel like physical objects in Eddie’s throat, choking and uncomfortable. “Promise me you’ll tell someone, Buck. It- it doesn’t have to be me, just- promise me.”
“I promise,” Buck says, solemn, serious. His thumb rubs gently at the back of Eddie’s hand. “I’m sorry, I- I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“No,” Eddie disagrees immediately. “It’s… I asked. I want to know. I-” they complete another loop on this circle of a conversation. “I told you, your pain isn’t a chore. You don’t need to hide anything from me.”
“Right,” Buck sighs.
“Buck.”
“No, I-” Buck laughs a little at Eddie’s admonishing tone. “That was a right, I understand, not a yeah, right. I just-” he takes a hand away from the tangle they’ve got going and runs it through his hair. “God, I’m tired.”
Eddie nods. He’s exhausted, down in his bones. “Okay. I’ve got two things to say that don’t really go together, this time.”
“Okay,” Buck smiles at him, eyes crunched up and fond. “Hit me.”
“First, I think…” Eddie sits up straighter, too, takes a deep breath. “I like you, Buck. I- care for you. I- I-” Truth has to go both ways. Fuck it. “I’m in love with you. You should probably know that.”
Buck nods, eyes wet again. “Okay.”
“But I think if we… If you want to try being together, we should take it slow, and if you need to back out, that's okay. You’re my friend, and I swear to you that’s more important to me than anything else. So… So we have to just keep being honest with each other, even if it might hurt.”
“Alright,” Buck nods again, wiping his eyes. He manages a smile. “Was that the second thing, or…”
Eddie shakes his head, lips quirking up. “No. The second thing is, you wanna come sleep with me?”
Buck throws his head back laughing, almost losing balance where he sits. Eddie grabs his elbow to make sure he won’t fall over. “Eddie-”
“It’s late,” Eddie explains, not bothering to keep the adoration out of his voice now that he doesn’t really have to. “You shouldn’t drive home, my bed’s more comfortable than the couch.”
Buck laughs again, resting his elbow on the couch and his chin on his hand. He looks at Eddie, and Eddie thinks there’s plenty of adoration in that gaze, too. He shakes his head, though. “I think I’ll still take the couch tonight, if that’s okay.”
“Of course it is.”
Buck raises their still clasped hands and kisses Eddie’s knuckles, holding his smile pressed into the skin there for a few moments. “And in the morning we can start to… figure out the rest of it?”
“Yeah,” Eddie whispers. Smiles once, twice. “See you then. Looking forward to it.”
Buck ducks his head, though his smile is still visible. “Yeah. Me too. Go- get some sleep, Eddie. I’ll-” he laughs, looking around them. “I’ll put away your peas.”
“Oh,” Eddie lifts up a bag of mushy vegetables. “No, I can do it, don’t worry about it.”
“Eddie.” Buck stands, gently taking the bag, and hesitating only a moment before he bends down and carefully kisses his cheek. From only a few inches away, eyes soft and close and blue, he says “I want to make your life easier, too.”
Eddie swallows hard, rests his hand against Buck’s cheek for just a second, and nods, momentarily incapable of words. Buck is halfway to the kitchen when he manages to say “Goodnight, Buck.”
Buck turns in the doorway. Smiles. “Goodnight, Eddie. See you in the morning.”
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househrt · 23 days ago
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Could you please post a rec list of trans Wilson fics 🥰 btw you’re my fav blog rn sending love
I never realised how few trans!Wilson fics I've actually got in my bookmarks, but I've linked my favs. There's also a bunch more smut fics on ao3 but my preferences are usually more aligned with angst or fun shenanigans over porn, so that's what's on this list:
"I asked the women in my life, including Chase, how long I should wait to make a move after someone's divorce and the approximate number came down to 13 days-ish. And here I am. Thirteen days after your divorce. I barely made it in time because I noticed you have been flirting with the nurses a lot recently, which means you're getting tired of your single status and you are possibly very horny. What better time to confess my undying love?"
or, House has elaborated a plan to seduce Wilson with the limited time he has between a wedding and another. Wilson would like to entertain this intense game of gay chicken, but he feels the weight of the secret he's kept for more than twenty years becoming just a bit too unbearable.
All of his life Wilson has felt powerless, out of control. After the whole debacle with Tritter he decides to take control in the one way he can, his diet.
^ content warning for eating disorders
“Hold on, you can’t just tell me Wilson has a secret vagina and run away!” House insists. “I guess you’ll never know,” Cuddy says around a smile, and click-clicks her way across the marble floor too fast for him to follow. Well, only one way to find out. House has to get Wilson naked.
When House's pipes break in his apartment in early season 5, leaving him with no running water and no ability to shower, Wilson is recruited by the ducklings to make House shower because he smells distractingly bad. But Wilson doesn't smell anything bad. Actually, Wilson thinks House smells really good. Which could mean nothing. OR: Wilson discovers boysmell and has a midlife sexuality crisis about it.
and this one is safely in my Marked For Later list:
As with most things concerning people House cares about, he has trouble seeing the forest for the trees.
(Or, when Wilson is kicked out by his wife and crashes at House's place, he falls into a depressive episode and can't get out of his own head. House, of course, picks up on the fact that Something's Wrong, but skips depression on the way to assume more serious diagnostic causes.)
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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 11 months ago
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Morning Things (Eddie Munson x Reader)
Summary: It’s another morning in Eddie’s room, just a slice of peace before you have to face the world.
AN: Found an old Eddie fic in my OneDrive back when I still fancied him/liked Stranger Things lmaoo, might as well post it.
Reader is gender neutral, no use of Y/N.
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Masterlist
You didn’t realise that you were being greedy when you first woke up. As you rolled over to your back, you found your body was bundled up in the double duvet, which you sent sprawling out as your legs and arms stretched out across the span of the boxspring bed. A distinct dip cradled your head, between the two pillows that assigned sides to you and your boyfriend. Cracking open your eyes revealed the ceiling - the only dull wall in this room. 
It was like rolling to see the posters popping off their paper roused your other senses. You felt the entire duvet around you with no tug of war from Eddie to retrieve his fair share. No contact was made no matter where your hands reached. 
The twang of a beloved electric guitar caught your ears. No amp powering its usual timbre, its strings pinged against Eddie’s calloused fingertips before pausing. The man was down to his boxers, his instrument balanced across a bare thigh, and a sleeveless shirt hung off his shoulders to expose most of his tattoos to the break of dawn. Eddie placed his pick between his lips, swapping it with the pen already in there so he could scribble in his song book in front of him. He hummed the tune as he scribbled. He began mumbling then some semblance of lyrics emerged through half-closed lips before he flipped back to his pick to strum again. Once he’d repeated the tune, he experimented with a new sequence but winced, shaking his head with his mop of hair following behind.
Groggily, you managed to say, “Morning.”
The second Eddie laid his eyes on you, he dropped the pen from between his teeth, threw off his guitar, and dropped his pick onto his open song book. 
“Oh, I was enjoying that,” you complained pathetically.
Completely disregarding what you said as he crawled over you, Eddie’s nose nudged up against yours. 
“Good morning, sweet thing,” he grinned whilst he balanced over you. 
After stretching up, you rested your arms around his neck and anchored Eddie into the bed, half laying atop you. 
“What were you playing?” You sighed against his neck. 
“Just mucking around, throwing some bits I’ve been thinking of together. Seeing if they mesh.”
“And do they?”
“They’re starting to align.” Eddie rolled over onto his back, bringing you with him as he gestured above you, “I gotta encourage them to get their shit together a little more before I can show you.”
“Can’t fucking wait,” you said into the ticklish tips of his curls. 
Eddie kissed the crown of your head, “You gonna get up?”
“Hmm, maybe.”
“You inspire me no matter where you are. From lying here in my bed,” He waved grandly to wear his feet almost hung off the end, “To perched at the end of it.” You let out a close-mouthed giggle, invoking Eddie to do the same and allow those dimples to peep out of his cheeks, his hand crossing behind your back and squeezing you as he said, “So, you got places to be?”
“Nowhere but next to you.” 
“Does that include the bathroom?”
“You wanna shower together again, after what happened last time?”
“I was thinking more like pooping together.”
Hiding in his neck again, you groaned, “Eddie.”
“I feel like we’re at that stage in our relationship.”
“Nothing like communal shitting to inspire your next big hit, I guess,” and you pushed up a little, “Wanna stay here a bit longer first.” To sweeten the deal, you squashed his left cheek with your lips, smacking them loudly when you slumped back down into him. 
Accepting the bribe, Eddie tightened his grip around you and said serenely, “I can make time for that.”
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wilbursluvr · 27 days ago
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Hii! I've been a huge fan of wilbur and I'm so happy that I've found someone posting about him! ☺️
Could the fic be about drug dealer user and wilbur buying them? Like if wilbur wouldn't have enough money maybe he could pay her in other ways!!
Could I please be 🍄 anon?
haii!!!! you can be 🍄 anon :3
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how bad do you want it?
druggie!wilbur x dealer!reader
afab!reader
cw: sexual content, mentions of drugs
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god, wilbur was desperate.
and it’s silly, wilbur thinks. he’s freezing his ass off in his car that barely works, shivering hard, his hands up against his mouth in attempt to warm him up. he knew he needed to get his car fixed, the fucking heat didn’t work… but right now, he didn’t care.
and then, he saw your car pull up.
you weren’t even out of the drivers seat before he was walking over, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. you slowly got out. you’d already had everything ready. it was always the same with him, and you had no idea how he wasn’t bored of it by now.
“you know the drill.” you sigh, looking up at him. his shaky hands pulled his wallet out, opening it… only to find that there was barely anything in there. “what?” he asked himself out loud, opening his wallet wider, as if that was going to make more money appear. he laughs nervously. “i-i swear i had enough.” he says, shoving his wallet back into his pocket as he checks his jean pockets, then his jacket pockets… and still nothing. “are you serious?” you ask, appalled. “i-i have your money, i-i swear… please, just… just let me go check my car quick…” and he sounded so desperate for it, running back to his car. you see him searching around, and his movements get panicky. slowly, he comes out of the car, shaking hard as he looks at you. “i-i don’t have your money…”
“are you kidding me?! you made me come out all this way and you don’t even have my money?!” you were practically yelling, and you were mad. “i-i had your money! maybe i-i left it at home! i must have!” wilbur says, looking down at you. and he seemed so desperate… but you weren’t caving in. “fuck this! i’m going home!” you say angrily, heading back over to your car. “no, please! don’t go!” wilbur begs, grabbing your wrists and turning you around. “please, i-i’ll do anything! i need this, please!” he says, already on his knees, your hands in his. you saw the tears beginning to spill from his eyes, and you softened up a little bit… but you were still angry.
“anything?” you ask. “yes, anything! please!” he was actually crying at the thought of you leaving, and the thought of him having to deal with his own shit. you thought for a moment, then sighed, looking down at him. “you know what i’m gonna ask you to do, right?…” you spoke softly. he nodded almost immediately… almost as if he expected it. but by god, he didn’t care anymore. he was so desperate to get some type of drug in his system to make him forget about his shitty life situation.
“get in the backseat…” you say to him, and he stands up immediately, running over to your car and getting in the backseat. you climbed in behind him, and he shrugged his jacket off, glad to be in a warm car for once. you climbed on top of him, your hips pressed against him as you press his back against the seat. you wanted to make this quick and easy. you felt guilty enough.
your hands were quick to unbuckle his belt, to which a soft whimper left his lips at the feeling of your hand against his waist, and he lift his hips to let you pull his pants off. you watched his eyes fly from his hard cock back up to you. you pulled your pants off, climbing on top of him again. he whined, his hands grabbing at your hips as you stroke his cock gently. his hips buck up slightly, his eyes fluttered closed. “your hand is so warm…” he whimpers, his mouth open while he whines, his thighs shaking gently from the pleasure. you align your hips with his, sinking down on his cock.
“oh!” wilbur cries out, his hands tightening on your hipbones as you ride him slowly, whining and moaning the whole time. “shit, that’s so nice, wil…” you moan loudly, your head thrown back as you rock your hips slowly. you watched his chest rise and fall, his breath heavy as you moved slowly on top of him. you watch his face contort in pleasure as you begin to move quicker. you rest your hands on his shoulders, your breath getting heavy. he had no idea this would feel so good…
his hands moved up to your waist, grabbing it hard as you rode him faster. he whined out, his eyes looking up at your gaze, in love with the lustful look in your eyes. he gasped when you pushed down particularly hard, his eyes closing as he tosses his head back. “fuck!” he moans, his hands shaking from the never ending pleasure. you watched as the windows fogged up, grabbing his shoulders harder.
just as your thighs were beginning to grow sore, you felt a throbbing in you, and wilbur cried out as he finally came, his eyes flying open to look up at you, his mouth open. you slowed your hips down, breathless as you loosened your hands. his breath was heavy and he slowly released your waist. “y-you feel so good…” he whines softly, watching you slowly lift off of him. ���maybe you should forget your money more.” you smile softly, winking at him for a second before helping him put his pants back on. you put your own back on, and you watched as he put his jacket back on, his cheeks flushed red. “i-i should probably go now.” he says, avoiding your gaze. “oh. yeah.”
after the exchange was done, he got into his old car and drove away, where he smoked the night away, thinking about you the entire time.
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nemaliwrites · 3 months ago
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For the directors cut ask game, I would absolutely love to here about ‘none of this is real’ it’s so surreal yet so painfully grounded.
ahhh i love None of This Is Real! i actually wrote this one so fast that i forgot all about it - i got a comment that was like 'i love this passage!' and i was like wait that passage slaps and i reread the fic and went :0
this fic was originally supposed to be for an AU-gust challenge! the prompt was 'case fic' and in the end, i decided not to post it for that bc the trope felt...kind of loose to me. the original idea for this fic was actually much different! it was supposed to be more of a case fic in the traditional sense: once Adrien is trapped in his own head, there's some kind of murder that he needs to solve before he can leave, but why is everyone treating him like he's the murderer?
in the end, i abandoned that idea mostly because it felt kind of wrong. if the point of the fic is that adrien's in his own head, the people he loves can't outwardly treat him like he's done something wrong - also having only ladybug be in that world with him i think made the vibe more like what i was going for. my initial idea was for the victim to be gabriel ofc, but then i realized that i didn't know how to make the monarch identity reveal play into that in a way that wasn't contrived, so i scrapped it.
another initial idea was for ladybug to lead adrien to the eiffel tower and they would find monarch's body underneath, kind of reminiscent of the eiffel tower being 'ground zero' in chat blanc's world. but then i was like...there's no suspence there. it's just a dude on the ground. and it also kind of takes away from the whole 'adrien and ladybug alone in a world of his making' thing if he just...sees monarch.
so that's when the gravedigging idea came along - and i think it definitely aligned more with my vision! then it felt like adrien making an active choice to find the truth rather than...randomly stumbling upon it lol
writing not!ladybug was actually surprisingly fun! she's kind of uncanny valley-ish i think - looks like ladybug and talks like ladybug but acts absolutely Nothing like her. but she still cares about adrien, because she's a part of him! fighting to protect his own mind!
there's a couple lil things i threw in this fic that i can highlight too!
The hand in Ladybug's is bare — he's detransformed, ring on his finger. He's alone with Ladybug, who knows his name. Who still takes his hand. -> the way he thinks the only way Ladybug could take his hand as Adrien is if none of this is real....as though she could never possibly want to otherwise
"I'm real to you," not-Ladybug says, and she sounds hurt. -> just a lil insight into adrien's pov of ladybug....she's always Real to him. she's always a Hero to him.
She smiles, then, and she looks so much like his lady that it makes his chest squeeze. "Not you. Us. Together." We're not together, Adrien wants to say to her. You're not really here. It's still me, alone, just like it's always been. -> more of his pov of ladybug! proof of how deeply her abandonment hurt him, even when his brain is actively fighting against it!
Why, he wonders, does a man like Monarch have such a beautiful coffin? A man who no one even bothered to give an epitaph? Did he pick it out for himself? Did Adrien pick it out for him, from the depths of his subconscious? -> yes. he did. and the fact that adrien never saw his mother's coffin....i like to think he'd think it's beautiful. he'd want his parents in matching coffins :')
There’s something odd about seeing him like this. The villain they’ve spent so long at war with, the most hated man in Paris is still just that: only a man. He can be buried. He can die. -> i think i push this concept a lot in my Hawk Moth reveal fics - i think i did the same thing back in Parable too? but i love the idea of the realization that this villain who has always seemed larger than life is just...a guy. just a dude. someone you could pass on the street. knowing that most of his strength is because you built him up in your head.
A world with no pain and no sadness and no hurt, and this is the requirement. Adrien must have no father. That is the trade the universe demands. -> in a way, exactly what happened in the S5 finale.
“Isn’t the world a better place without Monarch? Without your father?” “He’s my father,” Adrien says quietly. “How can you ask me that question? He’s my father.” -> and this is what it all comes down to.
He would laugh if he weren’t crying. Free? What does it mean to be free? Is it freedom to be a murderer, to know you’re a murderer? To know you’ve killed your own father, just as you’ve so often dreamed of doing — he, who is your worst enemy? He, whose love you desire above all else? Whose love you will never get, because he will die? Because of you? -> this is the passage a lovely commentator highlighted!! made me go damn and reread the whole fic. and this fic doesn't even go into the whole senti!adrien thing but again....what is freedom? is adrien truly free now with his rings in his own hands?
The momentum sends him flying forward and then he's falling, falling. A hand on his back, a clawed finger against his neck, and nothing in his vision but eyes so red he can hardly stand to look at them. So he doesn't. When he finally opens his eyes, he's flat on his stomach, cheek against the concrete. It's quiet. Feet in his vision, then: spotted, familiar. Ladybug.
The sensation of falling; his eyes are screwed shut, his father’s hand is slipping from his own, and then he's falling, falling. A hand on his forearm, ashes in his lungs, and nothing in his vision but eyes so violet he can hardly stand to look at them. So he doesn't. When he finally opens his eyes, he's flat on his stomach, cheek against the concrete. It's quiet. Feet in his vision, then: spotted, familiar. Ladybug. -> i like mirrors in writing.....the same prose to travel in and out of his head....ladybug and not!ladybug's actions mirroring each other.....images of monarch contrasting with the akuma...
“Ladybug,” he says quietly. “I know who Monarch is.” -> this final line was actually the first one i wrote! i was like 'i have NO idea what the fic will be like but this has to be the ending'
thank you for the ask! and for letting me ramble abt this fic! <333
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onehotbroad · 6 months ago
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Hello! I read your Rodrick x FTM Reader a while back, and I fell in love with your work, (it would be amazing if you could make a part two to that btw) so I thought I should request a story from you. I was thanking something along the lines or Rodrick x Male or gender neutral Reader who is usually punk and masculine, until one day they show up in a very fem and colorful outfit.
If your not comfortable writing post, I completely understand! Either way I hope you have a great day/night whatever you may be ❥
Unfortunately, I did delete that FTM!reader x Rodrick fic out of insecurity so there will not be a part 2 :( However, I’ll be happy to do your fic request for you! (I wouldn’t mind rewriting that fic btw lol )
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Rodrick x Gn!Reader Headcanons
-Status: Requested!
-TW: Small mention of blood, feminization of the reader (just a little)
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⚠️I DO NOT WRITE FOR FEM READERS. IF YOU ARE FEM OR FEM ALIGNING READ SOMETHING ELSE⚠️
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-You and Rodrick were known to the school as some sort of “punk duo”.
-So when you showed up to school wearing Mary Jane’s, fishnets, a white long sleeve blouse, and a pretty pink skirt he was….surprised.
-At first he just kinda stared in both awe and confusion.
-he ran up asking you a bunch of different questions and you just laughed.
-of course people at school made fun of you calling you a variety of names I’d rather not repeat but you would either not care or Rodrick would step in to defend you.
-He’d never tell you this but he was actually into your look. Not in a creepy sexual way but more of a “That’s so cool” type of way.
-After he got used to the skirt thing, he began getting more feminine as well. (You were the whole reason he started wearing “guyliner” lolz)
-Whenever you wore something fem to school he would stare a you with the biggest puppy dog eyes ever.
-He was so blessed he got to be friends with someone who looked hot in both feminine and masculine clothing.
-Once when he was at your house, you let him try on some of your more feminine clothing and (while he wasn’t into the skirts) he loved the fishnets and heeled boots.
-in fact, he loved them so much he wore them to a gig at some pizza place.
-When he saw you cheering in the crowd, he played even harder
-He ended up blowing a hole in the bass drum :(
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The way his cheeks flushed red was unlike anything you’ve ever seen. You sat down at your usual home room desk next to Rodrick and began to scroll on your phone mindlessly. You barely noticed how both Rodrick and the rest of the class stared at you in both awe and disgust. Some were whispering to their friends about how “wrong” it was for you to be wearing something like that while others whispered about how “hot” you looked. Rodrick noisily scraped his desk closer to yours and began to whisper in your ear.
“Dude. Did you know you were in a skirt?” He asked. He was genuinely asking as well which was the funny part. It wouldn’t have been the first time you wore something embarrassing by accident. Once you strolled up to school in sweatpants and a My LittlePony shirt after pulling an all nighter during finals week. That had to be the worst day of your life. Meanwhile, you just looked at him with a confused smile before nodding and returning back to your phone. Rodrick just silently nodded before turning his attention to the teacher who had walked in late as always. You didn’t notice but Rodrick’s heart was beating out of his chest. He never thought something as simple as a skirt would make him weak in the knees but something about you in one did something to him. They pretty pink bow on your blouse and the ruffles on your skirt made him melt. Trust me when I say that he got 0 sleep that night. The only thing he could think about was what you’d look like in different girly clothes. The thought of you in stockings and mini skirts was enough to give him a nose bleed. Literally. There’s a blood stain on his pillowcase now.
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I’m really sorry if this isn’t what you wanted! I’ve never written one shots before and I’ve been out of the writing game for almost a year. Pinterest really saved my ass on this I had no idea what to do. In any case, I’m getting into writing again! Yippee! I’m happy to do any requests that you guys might have! While on that topic, a Jeff the killer x reader fic series is in the works ;)
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saintsenara · 9 months ago
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Hey, I've been enjoying going through your takes on various hp ships, and I haven't seen this one. Did I miss it? What do you think of Ginny/Luna??
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thank you very much for the ask, anons!
i've hinted at my views on linny in various places, but they don't yet have a dedicated post. so let's rectify that...
while i have a lot of time for the idea of both ginny and luna as queer, i'm sorry to say that linny is a victim of my general view when it comes to luna-centric pairings: that fics in which it's presented as something which works depend on the presence of fanon!luna, who is a beautiful clairvoyant ray-of-sunshine, rather than canon!luna, who is a stubborn conspiracist with the vibes of a golden retriever which can speak.
i don't doubt that ginny is incredibly fond of luna - nor that luna's positive characteristics [like her resilience, loyalty, kindness, and courage] must have been an enormous comfort to her while they're stuck at hogwarts with snape and the carrows - but her fondness always reads as the same sort of fondness you might have for a friend's precocious toddler. it's nice eye-rolling, but it's eye-rolling nonetheless.
which i think adds a slightly condescending element to their relationship which often gets left out of its portrayals in fanfiction, in both the platonic and the romantic sense. ginny and luna become closer just as ginny approaches her hot girl era [and, may i say, the implication of canon is that they're barely acquaintances prior to order of the phoenix, rather than childhood friends], and ginny's interest in keeping her around is evidently rooted in the fact that she views luna as unthreatening - her making luna take harry to ravenclaw tower in deathly hallows instead of cho always sends me, because she basically says "luna, you're unfuckable" and luna jumps up like "right you are!" - to her during her teenage peak. it's not exactly giving "christ, i think you're gorgeous"...
except, of course, that this doesn't matter in the slightest because this is fanfiction - the entire point is for two characters to be shoved together and made to realise they think the other is beautiful! i am perfectly amenable to the idea that linny can be written in which ginny and luna like and respect and are fucking obsessed with each other and which also feels coherent to both of their canon characterisations - and i love that for anyone who's a fan of the ship.
i just don't entirely think i am...
[there's also the... slightly discourse-y point, which is that linny often feels thrown into fics as a secondary ship as a way to enable a harry-centric slash pairing in a way which doesn't require the author to think about unravelling harry and ginny's canonical relationship.]
[i don't think there's anything wrong with this, per se - i break hinny up all the time, authors should be free to do whatever the fuck they want with their stories, not all fics need to do a completely canon-coherent wrangling with the canon couples they're breaking up in order to have their blorbos kiss, and i am increasingly uncomfortable with how some of the discussion i've seen recently pushing back, rightfully, on the misogynistic treatment of female characters in slash subfandoms is starting to sound a lot like "our canon het is pure and good and their non-canon slash is incomprehensible and wrong".]
[but i do nonetheless think it's worth being aware of a fandom tendency to make femslash relationships a throwaway line in order to enable m/m slash ones - and to think about how just smashing two female characters together without exploring how the relationship would align with their canon personalities doesn't necessarily help...]
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cetaceans-pls · 4 months ago
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Are you ever going to post the full version of this teehee https://www.tumblr.com/cetaceans-pls/685147739958509568/preview-for-the-jason-todd-zine-red-lights-dark
hey anon! i have so much work strewn between google docs and ao3 and here and i lost track :') here's a lil sunday treat, fic below the cut!
A Habit of Domination BruJay, R, petplay Good boys go woof.
Sometimes, after a particularly athletic night of sex, Bruce and Jason will go to sleep on opposite ends of Bruce’s absurdly huge bed and sleep facedown and unmoving for a solid 10 hours. The blankets will all be on the floor, bare butts facing the ceiling, and if they’re feeling romantic in their sleep they’ll wake up at acute angles to each other, bare toes barely touching.
Sometimes, after a particularly athletic night of sex, Jason just gets more and more and more wound up, and the absolute last thing he wants to do is fade into quiet sleep.
Nights like these Bruce doesn’t have to do much more than just sit back and take it, sex-drunk and worn down enough that the quiet core of him, that desire to serve that’s kept Batman running for decades, is close enough to the surface that Jason just looks at him and it has Bruce unwinding with a quiet yes on a quieter exhale.
“Must be the full moon,” Jason says as he roughly tugs Bruce to lie flat on his back before he climbs astride his hips. “Must be some janky bit of astrology, B, because you fucked me hard and good,” a quick kiss for a good job well done, “but I’m cranked up worse than before.”
Bruce just snorts, hands coming up to hold on tight to Jason’s waist. “Can’t blame planetary alignment for being a brat, Jason.” He rolls his hips, but the night’s gone soft and so has he. “What do you need?”
Jason, meanwhile, isn’t suffering a similar fate. He rubs his hard cock against Bruce’s chest, leisurely marking his territory. “Dunno, trying to figure it out.” He leans down and bites into the curve of Bruce’s shoulder. With the obscene packed muscle there, it’s more an imposition on his teeth than it is on Bruce, which is offensive. “Could get you to fuck me with a toy, but you look wiped out.”
  
He gets a pinch at the waist for his taunt, Bruce looking placid but for that no-good smirk right at the edge of his lips. “Talking mighty confident for someone who comes on a hair-trigger, Jay,” Bruce says mildly. “Do you really want to get up on your High Horse?”
The only way to stop Bruce from prefixing their sex toys with Bat-something has been to relent and let him instead name them with  godawful puns nobody under the age of 40 would find funny. It’s maybe a little fucked up that Jason finds that endearing, but the High Horse is the world’s finest(!) Sybian redesigned on a rig that makes it rock and roll like a fucking bucking bronco, and a terrible name is a small price to pay for orgasms so intense the oversensitivity starts feeling like death (Jason would know).
Jason shakes his head. “I don’t want to leave the room, don’t want to leave this bed, really. Even if I get you to go fetch the stupid thing, you still haven’t fixed that squeaky wheel, and I’m gonna go fully feral if I go down for breakfast tomorrow and Alfred’s got a can of WD-40 on the kitchen counter.” He slides lower down Bruce’s body, and looks over his shoulder at Bruce’s cock. “You sure you can’t get it up? C’mon, I’ll even go reverse cowgirl. I’ll moan extra loud, go ah ah ah Bruce you’re so big!” He grins, reaching up to press down on the bite mark on Bruce’s shoulder. “A special extra big ego boost as a reward.”
Bruce sits up, and they both wince at the ungodly crack his back makes. “Couldn’t get it up even with that as incentive,” he says, rubbing his scruff against Jason’s neck. “Couldn’t get it up even to please you. I think I’m broken for the night.”
Jason’s never one to be stopped by something as minor as physical limitations. Got an autopsy scar up-down his chest, Jason barely even let death slow him down. “I’m pretty good with my hands,” Jason tells him, dragging his nails up-down Bruce’s chest. “Pretty good at making things work even when they’re not supposed to.” He lets his hands slip up and up and up, till they rest warm and light around Bruce’s neck. “You wanna see how far I can take you?”
“I already know,” Bruce says, almost polite but for the way the grip he has on Jason’s hips go tighter. “You’re being a handful tonight, Jaybird.” 
Oh, Jason’s going to be getting bruises tonight. It warms him right up, riles him further, and he ruts against Bruce’s hip. “Wish I could say the same ‘bout you,” he says pointedly, reaching back and rubbing the back of his knuckles against Bruce’s soft cock. “Wish you were better at taking orders.”
That seems to land exactly the way Jason had aimed, has Bruce twitching and shuddering under him even if his face remains calmly impassive. “Is it going to be that kind of night, Jason?” Bruce asks him very, very quietly, and Jason hadn’t planned on it at the start but right now he really can’t think of anything he’d like more.
“Looks like it’s gonna be,” Jason says, excitement helping him rise to his feet as he jumps clear off the bed, landing with a heavy thump. “Off the bed now, B,” he says as he heads towards a patch of wall that looks like any other patch of wall, except this one rolls up at his light touch. “You know pets aren’t allowed on furniture.”
If Bruce isn’t feeling it, Jason knows he’ll turn around and the man will mutinously still be on the bed.
He’s barely got the collar out before he hears the creaking and thudding of a heavy man being careful to make sound as he climbs off the bed and sits back on his knees. Jason feels a shiver crawl up his spine, makes him straighten up and roll back his shoulders, because yeah, it’s going to be one of the best kinds of nights. 
Nothing too fancy, he thinks. For all that Jason enjoys push-push-pushing Bruce till his breaking point and, on extra special occasions, well beyond that, Bruce has been run down worse than usual with an attempted Arkham breakout. 
No one can accuse him of being a bad owner. 
“Here boy,” he says, clicking his fingers and pointing at his feet. Bruce comes by, limited in his grace by cracking knees and an old back, and comes to a halt right by Jason with his usual mild, impassive face.
That look’s not going to be on there for long. Jason flicks his finger up to the ceiling, and Bruce obediently sits up and looks up, head tilted back, the exact perfect right angle for a collaring. He has a well-trained boy, he does. Jason smugly puts the collar on, just  a thing of black leather that’s softer than butter, free of embellishments. Need little more than a buckle to make Bruce look his best, need less even than that for Jason to know who's a good boy, or
who's a bad one.
He checks that the collar is on just right (a little too tight), just the wrong side of being perfectly comfortable, because Bruce's tastes are, like all the rest of him, aggravating but also precision-designed to maximally appeal to Jason. It says a little too much ‘about the both of them, probably, but what could you want out of a partnership beyond someone who likes it too tight and someone who likes to make it so?
“Down, boy.”
Smooth as anything Bruce comes back to all fours at his feet, and Jason lets his hand rest in hair that’s starting to go gray, takes a moment to feel exactly as on top of the world as the man who domesticated the Bat deserves to feel. “You were bad, weren’t you? Asked you for one little thing, and you couldn’t even give me that.”
Bruce nods gravely, hangdog look dragging down the corners of his lips. Jason presses his palm to Bruce’s cheek to reward the admission, and the heavy push into his hand is headier than a lifetime full of blood rushing to the head.
They’ve tried slave-master stuff, they’ve alphabetically worked their way down most common kinks, and sortof-pet play has stuck harder than most because it’s a pleasant novelty for Bruce to do what’s asked of him and get rewarded for it, and Jason gets off hard on the control and gets off harder on being the only one who can meet the needs of this big bat brute.
 
Yeah, they make a hell of a pair. Jason wants him so badly it’s giving him the beginnings of a migraine.
“You just need more training,” Jason says, brushing hair behind an ear, not forcing eye contact because he knows how funny Bruce can be about that when he’s Like This. “My bad, I let the leash run too long, and now you don’t know how to be good any more, isn’t that right?”
Another nod, and Bruce leans more heavily against Jason, face to thigh, and he’s probably halfway gone just from this. God, Jason can barely contain himself, feels frizzy with electricity and power, and he cannot help but drag his nails down the back of Bruce’s neck, see the slightest red welts trail after them. “Tail kinda night?” he asks, because he’s a conscientious owner, and also because there are fewer things more singularly satisfying than watching stone-faced Bruce trying to adjust to a plus with a wagging rubber tail to it, face caught between embarrassment and a strange sort of satisfaction.
He gets a shake of his head for his trouble, which is unfortunate but also, like. 
Isn’t it the right of pets to be a little bit spoiled? 
“Fine. But you still need to get trained, so’s you can be good for me. C’mon, big guy. Present.”
The early days of all of this had been A Mess, with fights erupting and rocketing out of control at a glance gone wrong or a word better left quiet, both of them extremely keen not to let on just how into this they really, really are. 
Now, though?
Bruce takes a moment to suck a hickey into Jason's thigh before he sits back on his heels, hands propping himself up so his back’s in a curve that hurts, and his hips are tilted up and out. God, if he’d been hard, Jason might have salivated. As is, it’s a near thing.
“Good boy,” Jason says, easy with the positive reinforcement. “See, now, you’re being good all over, but you still won’t get hard for me.” He steps between Bruce’s spread thighs, and nudges at his soft cock with the top of his foot. “That’s no good to me now, is it?”
Bruce shakes his head, and Jason takes a second to mourn how he’s yet to get Bruce to agree to wearing ears. Jason sure would appreciate something shaggy to bury his hands in or see fwip side-to-side whenever they’re in this type of mood.
“Good, at least you know that. Now, how’re we gonna get you going?” There are a few possible answers, depending on what Bruce is feeling like and what Jason is feeling up to. It’s not an elaborate kind of night, long as it’s been, and there’s something to be said for a sure thing, so Jason rubs his thumb across Bruce’s cheek, putting in the exact right amount of pressure to have Bruce’s eyes slowly close.
“There’s a good boy,” Jason says with the confidence of a man who knows he can do almost anything right now and damn well get away with it. He keeps the gentle teasing up for a while, because even in the absence of ears and a tail Bruce fully looks like a massive, hulking dog come to be sweet, and it’s an addictive sight. “Let’s start with a treat, baby, so you know what’s waiting for you if you behave.”
No extra warning needed, he presses the head of his dick against Bruce’s lips, deigns to wait a second to let Bruce have a careful, thoughtful taste, before he’s pushing home with a hearty groan. “Christ, the mouth on you,” Jason says, a little out of breath, reaching down to wrap a hand around Bruce’s throat. He reckons he can almost feel himself, and he definitely can feel the way Bruce is struggling to breathe and struggling to swallow. “Take it now, don’t you want to be good?”
He gets a half-nod, Bruce’s eyes closed, nose pressed flush to Jason’s skin, shuddering like he’s about to burst apart. Jason enjoys the wet, tight heat, pulls back an inch and gives back a mile, biting his lip as Bruce chokes and shudders.
He doubles down, and on the next pull-out push-in he goes as far as he can manage before he squeezes the sides of Bruce’s neck, the exact right way to stop blood from going to the brain. “Hold it,” Jason says sternly, even though he knows he’ll get whatever he wants whatever tone he uses. Bruce doesn’t reply, just works his throat harder, and doesn’t struggle as the seconds crawl by and his breath is gone.
It’s well over a minute when Jason pulls back of his own volition, and Bruce’s deep heaving breath is accompanied by a sharp slap to his face. “How many times do I have to tell you, you tap out when you need to,” Jason says, slapping Bruce again, before holding his hair back so the man can gasp in peace. “Worse ‘n worse ‘n worse, you’re all over the place tonight.”
Bruce, ah, can’t  really register anything except for the disappointed tone of voice. This deep under, it’s hard to realise how close he’d come to passing out, or the edge of concern in Jason’s voice.
Nothing really matters except for Jason, though, so Bruce bends down down down and contritely presses his cheek to Jason’s ankle. This, at least, he’s learned. Submit hard enough, mean it whole enough, and his faults stop being his. All he needs to do is focus on Jason, after all.
(What is Jason if not a miracle, that he came back from the dead with a vengeance? And what’s a miracle for, if not for believing in?)
Jason looks down, and struggles to stay mad at the Bat lying prostrate by his feet. Careful not to dislodge Bruce who’s Gone, and is Gone because he knows Jason’ll pull him back, Jason kneels down on one knee. “C’mon, act this sweet and I’m not gonna punish you for anything,” he says, rubbing down Bruce’s back, nails catching on scabs from the most recent time Croc got his teeth in him. “Just gonna get more and more spoiled, aren’t you?”
 
Long, slow strokes down Bruce’s back, right down to the tailbone, and big guy’s shuddering like a spin cycle falling apart. Delicious, delicious, and if spoiling Bruce rotten is all part of a grand plan to be irreplaceable (to be even more irreplaceable), well.
In the bedroom’s the best place to air out all desires and grievances; Bruce knows what he signed up for, accepting Jason’s vicious single-minded pursuit way back at the start.
Speaking of desires….. Jason digs his hand into the meat of Bruce’s ass, then reaches down and around to grab hold of Bruce’s soft cock. “You really are tapped out, huh, B?” Jason says pityingly, giving a rough squeeze that’s more unpleasant than not. “Really got nothing left to give.”
He half wants to see if he can’t pull out a toy or twelve and force him into hardness, but Jason discards the thought almost as soon as he has it. No, no, for all of Jason’s Big Talk about discipline, he’s still a lost cause when it comes to his big brute. Treats enough to rot your teeth out, thy name is Todd.
Bruce still hasn’t moved, and Jason would be concerned if he was a lesser man. Instead, he reaches back to Bruce’s hair and tugs a little harshly. “Up, up, on the bed. Have a blowout and call it a night, even when you’re bad I’ll still treat you good.”
The slow drag of seconds for the words to settle in Bruce’s head is an ego boost, the panting that accompanies it even more so. Jason stays down, even as Bruce takes long, sweet moments to figure out how to get to his feet and totter hazily towards the bed, scarred back on display, once again tempting Jason to get a big red bat tattooed on from scapula to scapula.
Narcissistic? Sure, but look, see, there’s just one thing about that.
Jason deserves it. Jason’s fucking earned it.
How could you argue to the contrary? Bruce is sprawled out on the bed, looking like a relaxed man dead asleep, but his face is half pressed into the sheets, half turned towards Jason, and the look in his eye is on fucking fire.
“Shoulders down, get on your knees, big guy,” Jason says with fake calm, stalking towards the bed like Red Hood on the prowl, because yeah, this’ll work just fine. He has to squeeze the base of his cock when Bruce obeys without question, even if the temptation’s there to just cum all over that beautiful, beautiful back.
He deserves a treat too, though. Jason climbs onto the bed, reaching over for their expensive lube, and pulls it over to him. “Right, baby,” he says as he gets his fingers wet, gets Bruce’s hole wet. “Gonna have to punish you for being bad, and the punishment is me fucking an orgasm out of you while you’re soft.” Soft all over, takes a finger and then another in like he’s made for it, like he’s made for Jason, rrr. “And when you cum and you’re so oversensitive you think I’m gonna kill you, you’re gonna say thank you. Do you understand me?”
Jason doesn’t get much of a response, just a mess of half-words groaned into the mattress. That’s not good, that’s not what a well-trained mutt should be doing, and Jason would be remiss if he left it as is. He shuffles closer to B, sits up on his knees so he can press his cock to the slick mess of Bruce’s hole, catch on the rim and push in with that heated burn of not-enough-preparation.
God, if he hadn’t been so well worked over in the night, Jason would have lost it then and there, but instead he keeps pushing in, inch by unceasing inch, as Bruce makes unintelligible sounds and tries to buck his hips up. 
It’s a lifetime before Jason’s fully seated, pressed in as deep as he can go, and the heat has him dizzy, sweat beading all along his brow. He takes a breath, then another, and leans forward so his bulk covers Bruce’s back. It somehow gains him another impossible half inch closer, and he’s in the exact right position to set his teeth to Bruce’s shoulder and bite him to blood.
(Might be more than one dog in this bed, fancy that). 
“I said,” Jason growls, pulling out slowly and pushing back in with a sharp snap of his hips, “do you understand?”
Bruce nods fervently underneath him, urgent and desperate as he scrabbles to grab hold of where Jason’s arms are caging him in. “Yes, yes, Jason, yes, thank you, Jason, please,” he says in a voice fucked hoarse, and
Fuck, Bruce has made a liar out of Jason.
There’s no way they’ll be done in one round.
-
Jason comes to slowly, dazed and feeling dehydrated. No surprise, given the hell of a night and they’ve had, but he’s pretty sure he’d fallen asleep while still fully seated inside Bruce and neither of them had gotten up to any kind of aftercare.
Bad practice, bad owner, bad all around, Jason thinks to himself, sitting upright all in a hurry, expecting an empty bed, Bruce tucked in the Cave pretending he hadn’t been brought the lowest he’d ever gone.
Instead Bruce is still next to him, with them both lying in that weird only-feet-touching position they gravitate to when it’s too warm but they’re too loving. Jason waggles his toes, and Bruce waggles his back.
The relief’s like a Heimlich maneuver gone right, probably. Jason lets out a shuddery breath and reaches across the divide to lightly brush his fingers against Bruce’s shoulder. “You doing all right there, old man?”
“Hmm,” Bruce murmurs absently, still looking at Jason as he fiddles with the collar that still is around his neck.
Bad, bad owner. Jason curses, and reaches over for it. “Sorry, should’ve gotten it off before we fell asleep. Are you hurt?”
He gets batted away for his troubles. “I think,” Bruce says, unprompted and absently as he continued fiddling with the buckle, “I might want to try with some ears.”
Jason finds himself swallowing around a mouth gone dry, his cock making a spirited attempt to come back to life. “What? You know you don’t have to-”
Bruce ignores him again, and Jason would be annoyed, he really should be, but the absolute madman just keeps flicking his thumbnail against the metal buckle, a little Gone but mostly returned. “I think a tag would be good,” Bruce says, calm like he’s discussing the weather. “A little red tag, perhaps. Bat-shaped, of course. With the name and number of who to contact, should I get lost. How does that sound, Jason?”
And there’s that crack, that quirk of the lips that indicates that Bruce fully knows the hell he’s unleashing on Jason, that’s got him shuddering like a spin cycle spinning apart, holy fucking shit.
“Give me a taste and I'll take a whole thigh, Bruce,” Jason warns him, scooting closer while he imagines a tag that matches with a brand on the small of a beautiful back, and it has him fully wholly feral. 
Bruce just smiles a little quiet smile, hand still messing with his collar, eyes fully on Jason.
“Then take it.”
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sunrisetune · 4 months ago
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My family's dog needed to go outside and thus I am awake at 3:23am, and thinking about Astarion/Karlach what's Up
I feel like Karlach's trauma is taken less seriously than the resident sad vampire's, even by us who really like her individually and both of them together
It comes up a lot; the v. specific way I'm thinking of now is how in post-canon post-Avernus fics, Astarion often gets a Healing Profession that has nothing to do with sex work ("Goose he was fantasy trafficked, that is not remotely the same as non-coerced sex work" - I know and agree just give me a minute I promise) He's a tailor, or a parfumer, or a fantasy lawyer
And Karlach doesn't get that. She's a soldier or a fantasy bounty hunter - even for a good-aligned organization like the Harpers
Like tbc I get it on its face, she doesn't voice her trauma as much as Astarion- readers will note she barely talks about that shit At All, even- and there's the trick about video games & fantasy RPGs especially where Blood Is Compulsory (InnuendoStudios youtube 2015) and the violence stops mattering,, in any meaningful way
but still, I feel like we can do better for the woman who was sold to a warmonger devil and had to murder people every day for a decade than give her a job where she has to murder people every day
This Does Not, again tbc, mean that she has to never do anything violent again her entire life. Just that there are ways to do that without said murdering.
I am happily accepting suggestions! Example: Karlach becomes a professional gardener who also takes up fantasy kickboxing outside of work. At home she has a flourishing garden she shares with Astarion, at least five cats, chickens, and a really mean goat
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queer-ragnelle · 9 months ago
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Hi! I hope I do not bother you, but I'd like to ask a thing (if you already answered this in another ask I'm sorry) because you seem to be the most qualified person to answer. In a retelling, when how much is too much changing? I am writing two whole Arthurian fics and while I mostly mix and match from different versions there are some things I fully changed (one of the most egregious, for example, being Palamedes dying early in Post-Vulgate fashion and Safir as the one who slays the Questing Beast and the killing being an expression of vengeance instead of newly-found peace despite this definetely not being the case in the original text). I think what I changed works better for plot reasons but I am a bit uncomfortable with it, especially when it comes to characterization. But on the other hand there are so many different versions that I find it hard to say if I am ruining it or not because even in the canon plots and characters' personalities change a lot but I don't want to do something that ends up being "in name only". When is too much too much?
Hello! I don't know about being the most qualified person to answer, but I can certainly give you my answer! I've explained this a little bit before here and here, but can elaborate again for you, especially because I think those characters and that text in particular should be handled with care.
Before you determine what amount of reinterpretation constitutes the right balance, pause everything, and pinpoint your audience. Are you writing fanfiction for your own self-fulfillment and enjoyment? Maybe also for a handful of friends who share your ideas? In that case, there are no rules, do whatever you want. That's your space, your story, and you bear no responsibility to uphold some unquantifiable standard of characterization "accuracy." Fandom is your sandbox and you can build whatever castle you want! Be free!
The next thing to determine is what characters you're changing and why. Not all changes are created equal! For example, if you wanted to absolve Arthur of the May Day Massacre to write a more honorable King, it's not all that drastic a change. There are many texts, old and new, in which that narrative beat never occurs. If noble Arthur serves your story better than morally gray or evil Arthur, and it can be done without compromising the Arthurian fabric from which you sample, go for it. Alternatively, if you decided to incorporate additional violence into the story, especially if attributed to a character who had not previously done those things (such as rapist Gawain, ie, inverting his Maiden's Knight role he's known for), you're going to have a harder time selling the reader on it. Generally speaking, a positive or neutral change will always be easier to sell than a negative one.
This is especially important if you intend to publish something you write for a broader audience. That's a different matter, in my opinion. In that regard, the thing you create is contributing to an Arthurian body of work that's meant to stand on its own. Fanfiction exists in a writing niche which assumes a base knowledge from the reader, you may not necessarily explain what Camelot is, or what chivalry means, or who Palomides is. That's fine and dandy. It's for fun!
But with a published book standing alone on the shelf, the author is expected to establish the framework of the world their story takes place in. That may or may not align with "canon" and therefore maintain or depart from the expected. This is where your decisions as an author matter. While Arthuriana is anachronistic by design as a literary tradition that's evolved alongside its authors, the moment you decide on an era to write in (if you put a year to it or imply one based on what historical aspects emerge), you now bear responsibility to depict that as accurately as you can. Even if it's a mishmash of "Medieval" spanning a few centuries, it should still bare resemblance to the era. Particularly in our current political climate with constant misinformation and even disinformation spreading, it's important to do the research necessary to create something genuine so as to avoid misrepresenting the past and the people in it. For example I think it would do a disservice to an Arthurian story to ignore religion, particularly one about Palomides or his brother Safir. To write them as areligious is to ignore the role in the Arthurian narrative they were created for. They're Saracen, (even if Palomides converts in some versions), and to ignore the way religion and race interconnect in Medieval society would be disingenuous.
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[Idols in the East: The Saracen Body by Suzanne Conklin Akbari]
And, more to your point, that aspect informs character. The stories define Palomides by his religion, by his race, and how that impacts him in the face of a rivalry with Tristan, a white Christian, for the love of Isolde, another white Christian. This isn't to say that you're obligated to depict racism, or to put the characters into situations that oppress and hurt them, but to write something "race blind" is to erase the character's identity, and that would be too great a change, for me personally, to get by.
That being said, if you're writing in 6th century Britain, your research might lead you to think, "Hey wait a minute, Islam doesn't exist yet! But Palomides and Safir are written as Muslims, so how can I stay true to both the era I'm writing in and the characters if that anachronism is built right in?" Well, that's where you have wiggle room to be creative! Perhaps they're Zoroastrians or follow one of the many Berber religions that existed at the time. Even Tristan could reasonably be written Pagan in this era, as he has in many retellings before you sent this ask. Maybe Tristan's Mithraic or Druid or Jewish and that in and of itself helps mitigate some of the tension between the characters as neither are Christian. All of this should be handled with great care, of course, but the point is that there aren't really straight answers about what changes are worth making.
Your discomfort in this isn't unjustified. I've been there. But it doesn't mean you're doing anything "wrong." It's not a crime to conceptualize changes. I had a lot of anxiety writing Ragnelle and her brother Gromer as Zoroastrians. But I went on to find an editor who studied the religion, and asked my Zoroastrian mutual for help, who put me in touch with a practitioner that agreed to beta read my books and inform me on my handling of it. There's no perfect story, but all you can do is give it your best effort.
I don't think it'll benefit you to worry about "ruining" the story with changes such as Safir pursuing the Questing Beast. That sounds awesome! And your plan about vengeance is baked right into the source material, as the Post Vulgate indicates that QB had killed all of Palomides's brothers before he finally defeated her, so your story has some textual basis in a medieval source. (Not that you need it to be "allowed" to write that, but it may help your anxiety to know!)
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[Post Vulgate Quest for the Holy Grail: 87. Galahad and Bors Chase the Questing Beast and Meet Palamedes and His Father, Esclabor the Unknown.]
One other thing I'll point out is choosing the language you use matters a lot. You can have some characters behave a certain way toward Palomides or Safir or this "futile" quest that resembles historical prejudice while utilizing word-choice throughout that signals to the reader you, the author, know what you're doing and understand the nuances at play. Reading broadly will help you with this so much. Not just non-fiction for your research, but other Arthurian retellings as well. I personally didn't love Persia Woolley's handling of Palomides in her Guinevere Trilogy. He was referred to as "the Arab" throughout which seemed like a "lesser evil" placeholder for "the Saracen." It's usage acted as a generalized umbrella term to other Palomides and didn't indicate his area of origin beyond constantly reminding the reader that he wasn't white. (Whereas Gawain was "the Orcadian" and Lancelot "the Breton," which differentiated their white cultures from one another while homogenizing Palomides with every other Eastern person in the story as a monoculture.) Furthermore, many characters were afraid of him (I mean literally making the sign of the cross and hiding when he walked in the room), which isn't consistent with a Post-Roman Britain, in which the population would have been mixed. I prefer the handling of Numidian Sagramore in Bernard Cornwell's Warlord Chronicles. Sagramore, as a Black man, is a part of Arthur and co's community, even if the Saxons themselves are unnerved by him. He's respected by the narrative. It's usually better to be specific (Numidian Sagramore versus Arab Palomides) particularly if that character is a minority and the word is leaving the mouth of a white character. This article discusses this aspect at length and really eased my own concerns depicting these characters and doing them justice.
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[Saracens and Black Knights by Maghan Keita]
Here's another example of generalized versus specific language.
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[Sword of Lancelot 1963: Merlin refers to "the Orient."]
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[The Adventures of Sir Lancelot 1956: Merlin refers to "the Iberian Peninsula."]
So in my opinion, as long as you don't white wash Palomides or Safir and avoid writing them as "exotic" or "mysterious" or in some way barbaric in the pursuit of the Questing Beast, you're fine. Even in La Tavola Ritonda, Percival pursues QB for a time before Palomides picks up the quest, which is the opposite order in which that occurs in Post Vulgate where Percival and the other grail knights assist Palomides to defeat her at the very end. Many versions don't maintain the incest-monster aspect of QB from Post Vulgate either, like in Perlesvaus or Moriaen, she's just a monstrous creature and that's sufficient to tell the story the author has in mind. Even from a characterization standpoint, Malory wrote Palomides as volatile and melodramatic, having fits in the woods over his grief from which only Tristan could coax him out of, where in La Tavola Ritonda, Palomides is mostly chill and sweet, to the point Dinadan teases him for being a push-over haha! In regards to Safir, there's far less textual source material to base him off of than Palomides, so you have even more creative freedom! Literally the spectrum is so vast you can pretty much characterize however you desire if you keep in mind what the core of the character is and why that's important to their identity and the historical significance of that identity. (Even if it's something you have to bulk up, such as you will for Safir.) If you're ever unsure, it's never a bad idea to ask! Plenty of historians, or medievalists, Arthurian enthusiasts, or people of different cultures would love to discuss this subject. You might have to dig a little, but I can't imagine it'll be harder than my search for a queer Zoroastrian beta reader willing to read a trilogy-length Wedding retelling haha! It'll benefit your writing to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known so others can give you feedback. Share some passages with a trusted few and gauge their reactions. Read what other people have done and take notes about the way they chose to characterize Palomides or Safir—did [aspect] resonate with you? Or did [aspect] ring false? Exploitative? Hollow? Why? Then step back, take another look, and go from there. It's about vibes and can't be defined, but you'll know when you know.
Hope this helps. Good luck and have a nice day!
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gvtted-ratz · 10 months ago
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Look Outside The Window
Jay Merrick/Skully x M!Reader
Last Edited: July 4, 2021 12:03 AM
TW: stalking, obsessive behavior
Requested: no
AO3 LINK -> HERE
Notes: these used 2 be posted but i deleted them after some comments made me hate them. however, i found them again recently n may end up adding more. i also do not hate them anymore. tws will be in the notes before every chapter and some will be put in the additional tags. the character is also in the notes/summary before each chapter. (The 1st 4 r old n unedited)
You had needed an out. You needed to get away from home. Your parents did nothing but trap you there. You couldn’t make your own decisions or even buy anything with your own money without them talking you down or insulting you over it. They wanted you to live with them and go by their rules. They didn’t care about what you wanted in life and only saw you as their “little boy”. You weren’t a child anymore; you were a young adult. They were constantly trying to infantilize you and you hated it. You were a young adult and you needed to branch out, make mistakes, and move on. So that’s what you did. You left home after finding a house-sitting job.
The job would last a few months, which was odd to you. Why house sit for months on end? The owners didn’t tell you anything. You didn’t even call. You emailed them and they emailed you. Every interaction with the couple was through emails. Or at least, you think the person messaging you is in a relationship. It sounded that way. One part of the email said, “We’ll be leaving the house to you. My partner and I are going on vacation for a few months. You can watch and live in the house while there. Your pay will be sent to you in a check via mail. The groceries will be delivered to you once a week. May you watch it carefully.” The last part gave you a sense of foreboding, almost like you should be watching out for something out in the house deep in the woods.
When you had arrived at the house, you were pleasantly surprised to find it very tidy. Everything was spotless in the two-story home. It held four bedrooms and three bathrooms. There was a dining room, living room, family room, kitchen, foyer, dressing area, and a nook. Overall, a large house. Well, a large house for a simple couple. Perhaps the couple has quite a bit of money? Especially if they’re going on vacation for a few months and are paying you a large sum to simply watch the lonely house in the woods.
The first few days were fine. Nothing really happened other than the feeling of being watched. What creeped you out the most though was that you never heard any birds. It was always silent outside. Silent and still. There was barely any wind thanks to the dense forestry. Despite that, the feeling of being watched continued. Sometimes, though, you would hear gentle buzzing in your ears. It reminded you of bees but it sounded more like an old tape. Whenever you heard it, it seemed like static covered your eyesight. You could still see, but the static was like a film over your sight. Whenever you would look in the mirror, your eyes seemed to have a slight glaze over them. Of course, there wasn’t much you could do and no amount of searching the internet seemed to help.
By the second week, you were hearing birds. There was something… off about them. They didn’t sound lively. They sounded hollow. Almost like something was mimicking them. You would hear them next to whichever window you were closest to as well. It was like something was by the window, mimicking the birds only when you’re there. It didn’t happen all throughout the day either. It only happened when you weren’t doing something. If you were to turn off the television, ready to get started on a meal, the chirping and singing would start up. Because of how hollow and synthetic it sounded, shivers would run all over your body. It didn’t help that the static over your vision seemed to get slightly worse whenever it would happen; the buzzing in your ears also seemed to get louder. At night, however, there was no chirping or singing. The static seemed to have tripled at that point though and the buzzing was so loud that you could barely hear your heartbeat and breathing.
By the first month, you were looking outside constantly. The bird noises seemed to happen constantly by now and notes started to appear around your home. When you would try to sleep, the hollow tune of the birds would be there despite the fact that no birds were out. The buzzing was so loud that it was all you would hear. The static was so bad that it completely covered your sight; it was like looking at a static screen. The notes terrified you. There were never any footprints in the snow outside and you were the only one in the home. You believed, at first, that you were writing them. Maybe you had been half asleep and wrote them. But that changed when the notes didn’t match your handwriting and started to be… weird.
You look handsome today. One said. Do you like the birds? They don’t seem very lively though. Another read. I wish you would see me. You always know I’m there thanks to the static and buzzing. Maybe we’ll meet soon. More and more would come in. They were always placed where you’d see them. A window. The fridge. Even on the television. They were taped there, all signed with an S. One was even on your bedroom door. How did someone get in and out without leaving any footprints or any evidence behind? You didn’t know but it started to make you close every curtain and try to raise the volume of everything, trying so hard to drown out the unlively birds.
Today was just like the last few. The static over your vision makes it hard to see right with how thick it is. The buzzing in your ears is loud, but not loud enough to drown out the synthetic birds. You make breakfast for yourself, dressed in some simple sleepwear. The breakfast you make doesn’t take too long, just some scrambled eggs and toast with jam. You eat in silence; well, not entirely in silence thanks to the buzzing and birds. When you finish your breakfast, you wash the plate and other utensils you had used to make your meal. Once done, you decided to do some light stretching in the living room. There wasn’t much you could do in the home. Outside was too cold for you to explore the wilderness without sustaining frostbite.
All of the curtains were closed except for one. It was the closest to the television. You were going to close it before spotting the note taped on the box. You stare at the note before tearing it off the screen. It reads: Look Outside The Window . You pause, staring at the note. The buzzing slowly starts to get louder just as the static over your sight starts to worsen. The birds, however, stop chirping. There’s only the buzzing. Slowly, you look towards the window. Nothing. Nothing but still snow.
A small smile worms its way only your face, mocking. A small, forced chuckle leaves your lips before you turn around, ready to head back into the kitchen to make some tea to calm your beating heart. You freeze though when you see the figure standing in the doorway. The beige-orange coat covers most of their figure while the black-ish blue hood covers their face. They have on a pair of gloves, the same colour as their hood. Their pants are a simple pair of jeans while their shoes seem to be black combat boots. Seeing a figure in your home is terrifying, yes. It wouldn’t have been as scary if the figure didn’t have a mask on. The mask was an off-white-ish colour with black eyeholes, high black eyebrows, and a box shape for the mouth, somewhat resembling teeth.
You both stand there, no one moving. The buzzing is so loud now that you can barely hear your own heart and breathing. The static is so bad that you can barely see the figure clearly. “IT’s NiCe To FiNaLlY mEeT yOu, [Redacted],” They, or he, says. His voice sounded weird. It was like a mix of different pitches and he couldn’t decide which one was best and went with all of them. You didn’t think though, only acted. You quickly dropped the note and fled the living room. You could hear him following you as you ran for the back door. You slam into it, trying to unlock it. “YoU dOn’T wAnT tO gO oUtSiDe! It’S tOo CoLd FoR yOu. EsPeCiAlLy WiTh HoW yOu’Re DrEsSeD!” You don’t listen though, not even as he slowly approaches you. With a final turn of the knob, the door is flung open and you run out into the snow.
It’s cold and stings your feet. You run and run and run. You don’t once look back, too scared that he may be right there. You don’t hear him following you, but that’s due to the buzzing. It’s so loud now that it’s all you can hear. You’re basically running blind; the static is so thick that seeing your surroundings is almost impossible. You stumble around mostly, hands in front of you so you don’t run face-first into any trees.
You’re unsure of how long you have been running. All you know for sure is that you can’t see anything anymore, the buzzing is starting to give you a headache, you feel like you’re sweating buckets beside the fact that your legs, arms, fingers, and toes are going numb. It isn’t long before you collapse. You’re breathing heavily, panting in the snow. You can feel yourself shaking despite feeling so hot, so overheated. Your hair sticks to your forehead as you continue to sweat. You try to move, to drag yourself somewhere but your body refuses. You lay there, your eyes open despite them wanting to close. The static is still strong, just like the buzzing. They scream danger but your body refuses to listen.
As more time passes, you feel yourself slowly going numb, your eyes fluttering every now and then, trying to close. The static slowly starts to fade away until it’s back to the normal, barely there, state. The buzzing fades into a gentle hum, it barely being able to be heard. You can hear how heavy your breaths are and see the pure white of the snow. One of your hands is in front of you, pale and slowly turning blue. Frostbite will, or already has, set in. Were you going to die out here? Here, all alone. Nothing to your name. No one looking for you besides your parents. Who would find your body? Or would the masked man hide your body away, letting it decay somewhere?
You can hear the crunch of the snow and gentle humming coming your way. It seems the man has come for you. His pace is slow, not at all rushed. Soon enough, he walks into your field of vision. He crouches down, sitting on the balls of his feet. His gloved hand is brought up before it comes through your hair. “LoOk At YoU. A sHiVeRiNg, HaNdSoMe MeSs. As MuCh As I lIkE hOw YoU lOoK rIgHt NoW, bEiNg VuLnErAbLe AnD aLl, YoU’rE tUrNiNg BlUe,” As soon as those words leave his mouth, he scoops you up in his arms, holding you close to him tightly. “DoN’t WoRrY. I’lL tAkE gOoD cArE oF yOu. I lOvE yOu ToO mUcH nOt To. YoU’lL bE sAfElY tUcKeD aWaY iN tHaT hOuSe, WiTh Me By YoUr SiDe To KeEp YoU cOmPaNy. NoW dOeSn’T tHaT sOuNd NiCe?”
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toxicanonymity · 2 years ago
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Aisle 39. Ben's Hardware
5250 words / Ben Solo x Rey
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Warnings: I8+ mdni. Sexual tension, dubcon (via uninformed use of force connection but she wants it), dry humping. I 🖤 Dry Humping. Hardware Store AU but more than meets the eye.
A/N: posting my first fic in any fandom since I never posted it on Tumblr aside from the AO3 link and Tumblr is home now 🖤. I'm resisting the urge to improve it 😅 I'm not even gonna reread before posting. It was originally reader insert but @dark-scape translated to reylo. Lmk if you want the reader insert version instead and that can be arranged.
Rey visually undresses him.  He inhales through his strong nose, meets her gaze, and cocks an eyebrow: “Now that’s an idea."   He sinks all the way back into the cushions, his huge palms on his thighs, as if to take in the moment with a subtle, satisfied smile.  He then abruptly sits back up and starts unbuttoning his shirt.  As if on command.
Rey drives through the streets of Jakku. It's a chilly day, but bright for mid December. The sun is in her eyes, but the drive isn't long enough to commit to finding her sunglasses. As she turns into a parking lot, she sees the cafe next door is open and realizes it will be the perfect day to grab her favorite nutmeg butternut squash soup with their signature green tea bread if she can make it out of the hardware store before the lunch rush really picks up. This is a rare opportunity because the cafe's hours are aligned to typical office job hours when she’s normally across town.
Rumor has it the hardware store is locally-owned now, and she wonders how much it’s changed. She's taken a vacation day to finish some holiday shopping and errands, and thought of an easy home improvement project last night to spruce up Finn and Poe’s house while she housesits and takes care of their cat Bebe. She wants to fix the dimmer for the light above their kitchen table. The knob has been missing for awhile now, and even when you twist the naked peg, the lights don't dim, so she assumes the bulbs aren’t the right kind. She figures she can fix this with a new plastic knob, a 4-pack of dimmable LED lights, and five minutes of labor. She can finish it off with a little red bow on the new dial. This will be a nice surprise and will also give her an excuse to procrastinate her other errands.
Turns out, not much has changed. She clip-clops through the sliding doors in her warmest boots and still sees orange aprons with names hand-written in sharpie. She immediately locates the light bulbs and spends a few minutes longer than necessary deciding which pack to get. She looks at her phone and sees she has about ten minutes until the lunch rush, so it's time to find the other item she needs, the knob.
She looks up and sees a worker. He's wearing a dark gray jacket over his apron, and what looks like a lighter gray hoodie under it. It isn’t that cold in here, she thinks . She almost leaves him alone, but something on his apron catches her eye. She can't see the name, but barely sees the edge of an expertly doodled death star. Bold choice.  
He's got a nice head of dark hair, chin length, tapered around his face, but out of the way enough to see his eyes are brown. He runs his hand through his hair over the top of his crown as though slicking it back, then some of the strands fall back down. His face is a mix of heart and square shaped with a masculine jaw and strong nose. He has the stubble of a mustache and soul patch but no beard.
He has beauty marks, so many. How many? Are they just on his face or all over? He has an enviously clear complexion and looks like he tans easily. He's kind of tall, but not looming, maybe because his head is bowed slightly as he lifts a crate of lightbulb boxes and begins to unpack it. He seems athletic, hard to tell with what he's wearing. He has a youthful vibe but isn't exactly boyish.
He carries himself like he knows more or less what he's doing, but doesn't take the job too seriously. Rey imagines he wouldn't be the best candidate to tell her how to do a project, but he must know the aisles at least. She doesn't like to be a bother, but hopes it's an easy enough question, and he's standing right there. He can tell she’s about to ask him something and looks up. The whites of his eyes are clear and sparkly. Rey wonders if hers would be like that if she blinked more, which leads to her unintentionally fluttering her lashes.
She finally says, close to a whisper, “Can I ask you something?” I asked… if I can ask him something. She groans inwardly.
She isn’t prepared for the gentle baritone voice he responds with, "Yeah. Sure."
"Uh, where can I find the light switches and dimmers?"
"AISLE 39. I think. Here, I'll show you." He sounds about twice as old as he looks. Those few words he speaks are enough to flip a switch in Rey.  Her heart is melting at the same time her mind is racing. She can't tell for sure because he’s so bundled up, but she imagines he has strong arms and is in great shape based on the vascularity of his hands as he holds his barcode reader. He's working in the middle of the school day so he's got to be at least 18, not that he looks any younger, but Rey tends to think in worst case scenarios. Realistically, she would peg him for mid-twenties, but his voice sounds at least two decades older.
He walks her to aisle 39 and stops. She thanks him for his help, and as she turns to walk in the direction he pointed, she realizes she’s slightly blushing and she’s been silent. She doesn't want her shyness to come off as cold, so she makes eye contact and lets a little smile sprout from the left corner of her mouth across her lips, small but beaming. She hopes it doesn't come off as a smirk or make him self conscious. She can't tell whether he's the self conscious type.
She figures she can find the item herself from here, and doesn't think to ask him about the specific product. She wanders nearly all the way down the aisle, but after several minutes of searching (albeit distractedly), Rey is relieved to see him come back with another customer. He's helping a man find a specific thing, not a whole aisle. She’s jealous, even though it was her own fault not to ask. She hopes he sticks around and asks her if she found everything okay, but when he's done with the other customer it seems like he's about to leave.
She quickly approaches him. “Can I- can I ask for your help again?” Asking to ask again. Do I always sound this ridiculous? She tells him about the dimmer she’s looking for, which is apparently called a rotary switch.
To her surprise and delight, he talks far more than he needs to about rotary switches. His dark velvet voice is lulling Rey half into a fantasy while she struggles to continue listening to his words. He repeats almost every word she says back to him coolly and casually. And these aren't complicated concepts. She isn’t sure if he's practicing an active listening technique from sales training or is simply aware of his effect on women. Or his effect on her. She stands inches from him and looks into his eyes. She wonders to what extent her white cheeks have bloomed into roses under her freckles and given her away.
"You need a dimmer?" He looks her in the eyes, but she’s transfixed on every flex of his jaw and twitch of his lip as he talks.
"Yes, but just the knob, not the whole thing,” she says.
He nods thoughtfully then confirms, "So you just need the plastic part?"
“Right, there’s still a stick you can use to turn it, but it’s naked,” Rey confirms. She pulls her phone out of her back pocket to show him what kind of set-up the panel has and what part she needs.
"So on the panel there's an up-down switch, and a rotary dimmer."
“Yeah." She shows him the knob on the store's app and says, "I think the dimmer part is in stock.”
He replies "Oh, it says aisle 2?" He looks in that direction like he’s trying to remember what’s in aisle 2. He must be new.
"No, we’re in the right aisle. It's wrong on the preview page, but if you click into it you can see," she explains.
"Oh, ok. This is what you need though?" He locks eyes with Rey.
Just like that, she’s imagining him taking off his apron and hoodie at the end of the day, revealing meaty biceps that want to burst out of a black, soft washed t-shirt. Running his large hand through his hair. Flexing those beautiful arms as he peels off the shirt. A smooth torso with hard pecs, scant chest hair. At the thought of this, the left half of her bottom lip starts to creep under her left front teeth, and he cracks a smile for the first time, from the right side of his mouth, almost like a mirror image to Rey’s. His teeth are pretty but unassuming. They're close to white and not overly straight.
Her cheeks grow warmer and she looks away, responding to his question with a slight nod, which she hopes doesn’t read as hesitant, before resuming eye contact. “Yeah,” she quietly confirms.
"But you don't need the regular switch, right?" He speaks with a relaxed beat, not rushing the conversation to its end.
"Uh-huh."
He's speaking low and soft and looks back and forth between Rey’s eyes, not at the screen they’re both supposedly studying. "You just need the dimmer."
"Yeah." She feels like this is being drawn out to the point of overkill, but she’s not complaining.
"And you only need the plastic part." Every time he speaks is like music.
"Yeah," she confirms, barely audible, with a smile.
He continues to search her eyes and she repeats, "Yeah."
For a brief moment, he seems to gaze at Rey as lustily as she knows she is looking at him before he gathers his thoughts. She feels self conscious and suspects by the amount that he’s talking he must know the spellbinding effect his voice has on her. But if that's the case, she supposes there’s no harm that could come from him knowing it.
"Okay, let’s go over here," he says as he leads her back to where she started at the front of the aisle. "I think I see it.” He crouches down to get something from the bottom shelf.
"That’s it!" Rey says with a grin.
She feels bad for not crouching down with him. She’s always self conscious of making people do too much work, but then she also doesn’t want to make it awkward by taking over. So it's not that she expects him to serve her, she’s just frozen. He starts to pull the small product off the metal rods. It's the exact one she’d shown him on her phone, but she notices a better color next to it. Rey squats down and as she looks at the package to the right of the one he's holding, he almost looks disappointed that he didn't pick the exact unit she needed.
She says, "This one is even better, it'll match the old yellowed white." As she slides the package toward her, her right thumb almost imperceptibly brushes his left hand which is still holding the other package. She hasn’t even thought about his package yet, but the lightest brush of his skin is enough to short Rey’s circuits. She gets nervous and stands up, thanks him twice with a genuine smile and that's all she can do.
"No problem," he says, and that's all. As Rey watches him walk away, she feels an odd desperation to hear his voice again. She thinks about making up another question and recording him with an app. Is that creepy? It’s a little creepy, but not full-blown creepy, right? It isn't an option to never hear his voice again. She briefly glances around and he's nowhere in sight. She gets a hold of herself and makes her way to the self checkout line and pays.
Scanning the parking lot as she leaves, Rey wonders which car is his. When she gets to her car, she realizes she doesn’t have her keys. She sheepishly walks back inside and grabs her keys and receipt from the self-checkout terminal she just used. She looks at the receipt - “Ben’s Hardware”. So it did change ownership. She feels someone watching her from the aisle straight ahead, but tries to play it cool. She smiles and shakes her head in disbelief as she turns around and leaves, heart pounding.
Rey forgets all about the soup she was going to get and drives on autopilot to the house to install the dimmer and bulbs. What was that back there? When did I become so shy? It’s been a long time since she’s felt a visceral longing for someone, too. She can feel the animal inside of her awakening from a years-long slumber. She isn’t worried about it, she welcomes it. It’s tame. She has the maturity and experience to stay in control.
She pulls into the broken driveway and parks under the carport. Bebe runs to greet her and Rey bends down to pet her when she opens the car door. This should be an easy but impactful little project. She enters the kitchen, and takes the rotary dial out, dismissing a ridiculous passing thought that she should have bought the white one, too, because he touched it.  She tears the packaging open and holds the off-white plastic rotary dial in her hand, smiling as she remembers all the ways he described it.  
She raises the cream plastic dial to the light switch panel and glances at its underside, confirming it’s compatible.  The unsheathed rotary peg juts out from the panel in anticipation. She holds the dial by its outer edge, aligning its hole with the peg, and gently eases the peg inside.  The dial slides all the way on and snaps into place. It sticks out a little far from the wall, but it works.  Then she unscrews the light bulbs in the cheap chandelier one by one and replaces them with the dimmable ones she bought. 
Finally, the moment of truth - she presses the rotary dial, which turns on the lights, but when she rotates the dimmer, it dims nothing. The dimmer wiring itself might not be LED compatible. Of course. It looks like she’ll have to go back to the store, but not today. She does her shopping and begrudgingly runs errands, and finishes off her day with a warm cup of rooibos.
When she gets in bed, her mind drifts back to Him. She’s dying to hear his voice again. He was so calm, aloof, but somehow radiating power. She interprets it as sexual energy, but she wonders if she’s just seeing what she wants to see. To keep his voice in her mind, she imagines him narrating, “So. This is your bed… we’re going to use an extra blanket tonight, because it’s cold.” She feels ridiculous. But when she drifts off to sleep, there he is.
*** 
Rey is in a living room, but not hers.  It’s a subtle mid-century style with huge windows and modern touches.  It’s dimly lit with a fire roaring behind a glass.  He’s slouched on a stool at a wet bar, drinking something on the rocks.  He’s wearing black slacks, a form-fitting charcoal button-up shirt, untucked, with the cuffs unbuttoned.  He has one foot on a rung of the stool and another with its heel on the ground as he looks at his glass. 
He looks at Rey and puts down the glass.  “Drink?” he asks, standing up to go around the other side of the bar.  Rey watches him.  “Whisky? Wine? Water?” he asks, while filling a glass of water.   “I’m fine,” she replies.  He puts the glass of water down on the smooth granite in front of a second stool that’s still tucked under the bar.  As he walks out from behind the bar, he lets his fingers graze the leather seat of the closest stool.  Rey notices he’s shoeless, wearing black and gray argyle socks.  Why is he so quiet? 
Right on cue, he says, “Well, you’re here.  What do you want to do?” It’s so vivid.  Rey is frozen and says nothing.  Her heartbeat quickens.  He paces patiently.  There’s a teal sectional facing the fireplace.  The living room has soft carpet that feels new under her bare feet.  He walks across the living room, crossing into It a breakfast nook with an oak table.  Behind the kitchen table, he reaches for the wall and lightly touches a conspicuously cheap looking dial that dims the room further.   He comes back toward Rey, and pauses between the breakfast nook and living room. There’s a cabinet separating the spaces, about the same height as the kitchen table.  It has a record player and a box of records sitting on top of it.  
He approaches the record cabinet, which is about hip height to him.  He’s facing Rey, with the cabinet and the entire living room in between them.  With a casual stretch of one leg, he spreads his feet to lower himself a little and look at the records. He rolls up his sleeves, glancing up at her with his tan forearms flexing.  He thumbs through the vinyl records, which appear to have no words on the covers.  He has his head down, his hair has fallen slightly in his face, and he’s glancing up at Rey every few seconds as he thumbs through the box. 
He starts reading out the names of records, and her butterflies intensify at the low rumble of his voice. “Led Zeppelin III,” “Some Girls,” “Get Behind Me Satan,” “Ocean’s 11,” “Travis” “John Wick 2”  The foliage outside rustles gently against the window.  The next time he looks up at her, he doesn't look back down.  It’s an expectant gaze as though to see if the sound of his voice was effective.  She squirms a little and blushes.  He holds her gaze, squints slightly, and smiles a little.  He’s finished going through the records.  He doesn’t put anything on the record player, but a song she likes starts playing anyway.  Think, by Kaleida.  
He gives Rey a mischievous, inquisitive look, and runs his hand through his hair as he walks over to the sectional. He takes a seat and hinges forward at the hip, putting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together.  She admires the shape of his forearms.  He raises his clasped hands upright and sets his chin on them playfully, his biceps straining his sleeves as he meets her eyes.  He says, “Well, here we are at my place,” which she doubts.  Rey doesn’t know what she expects his place is like in reality, but it isn’t this refined.  He chuckles, removing his elbows from his knees and resuming a more grown-up posture. With arched brows and an otherwise straight face, he says, “Really.” His brows relax again.  “What do you feel like doing?”  His voice floods every inch of her body with a yearning to be touched.  
She doesn’t know how to answer him.  She doesn’t know how she got there or what’s going on, but the combination of his voice, eye contact, and arms are enough for Rey to begin visually undressing him.  He inhales through his strong nose, meets her gaze, and cocks an eyebrow: “Now that’s an idea."   He sinks all the way back into the cushions, his palms on his thighs, as if to take in the moment with a subtle, satisfied smile.  He then abruptly sits back up and starts unbuttoning his shirt.  As if on command. . . Holy shit, Rey thinks.  She realizes this is a dream. She’s lucid.  It’s like a 5-d game where she can feel everything.    In theory, she can do whatever she wants.  What she really wants at this moment is to straddle him.   
He glances down between his legs and coolly says, “sit anywhere you want.”  She feels observed, even though he isn’t real.  She walks over to the sectional and perches next to him on the edge of its velvet cushion. She feel herself getting wet.  She’s wearing a gray stretch miniskirt–something she wouldn’t have picked out for herself–black leggings, and a green cardigan with no undershirt.  He finishes unbuttoning his shirt and discards it on the floor.  She sees exactly what she’d pictured earlier - a strong physique, his lightly bronzed arms straining against a soft washed t-shirt.  “What’s your name,” he asks, and she feel a warmth growing between her legs.     She tells him, “Rey.”  “Rey,” he repeats, and she fruitlessly responds, “What’s yours?” 
He sighs and gazes around wistfully, “Her name is Rey.”  Then his eyes are back on her.  He places a large hand softly on her knee.  Electrified, she reciprocates.   It’s not real, she reminds herself.  She can do anything.  The guy from the store will never know.  She dares to run her hand a few inches up his quad and give his muscle a light squeeze.  He exhales with the slightest little groan,  “yeah,” and moves his hand to the small of back to urge her closer.  She’s sitting next to him but facing him now, left leg folded under her, working her right hand up his quad. 
The expanse of his thigh dwarfs her pale fingers on his black pants as she leans forward and lets her heel nestle between her legs to relieve some tension.  A tsunami of tingling deep inside her spreads through her breasts.  She grips his thigh for support, and lifts herself just barely,  intending to bring the inner crook of one knee up over his closest leg in a cuddly way while remaining seated on the couch.  A tent in his pants catches her eye and her skin starts to burn with urgency.  If she moves too quickly, she wonders if she could startle herself awake.  
As Rey raises her leg, he brings his far hand to it, gently coaxing her to move all the way onto his lap.  Her skirt rides up over her ass as she follows his lead.  He seizes one buttock in each hand, gives them a gentle squeeze, and takes a deep breath.  She is overcome with arousal and takes her own deep breath, shuddering and blinking slowly as she exhales. Her legs are now spread wide open straddling his lap, but she’s hovering and hasn’t put her weight on him yet.  Her head is a little higher than his in this position.  He bows his head and nuzzles his nose into her cardigan between her breasts, closing his eyes and taking in her scent.  
Rey’s modest chest is heaving against his face and he cradles her with both arms as she breathes.  She places her hands gently on his shoulders, and slowly moves them inward to fondle the hair at the nape of his neck.  She twirls a lock around her finger contemplatively, but she’s still hovering.  His arms are under hers with his face still in her sweater.  He drags his nose up to her neck and she feels her cardigan unbutton, exposing a lace bra, which is fastened in the front.  He looks up at her and reiterates in an intimate whisper, “you can sit anywhere you want.”  
Rey could tell from his breathing what would await her in his lap.  Her leggings were already soaked.  One by one, she scooted her knees closer to the back of the couch on either side of his expansive torso and let her weight down.  She is now truly straddling him, her inner thighs and the intimate seam of her warm, moist leggings fully embracing his arousal.  Her wetness spread through her leggings and into his pants.  His lumber swells against her, pulsing into her aching nub.  “Yeah,” he breathes.  “Right here.” She leans forward to feel his full length, which spans from her privates to her belly button as he thrusts against her. 
Over the course of a few blissful seconds, she feels his erection press harder against her, slide upward, then come back down, and repeat.  His mouth finds her neck, then her mouth.  She accept his lips hungrily and grinds back in rhythm.  Her lips pull away as pleasure shoots through her gut and breasts.  She leans her head back and gasps.  He moves his way back down to her heart, nuzzling his nose along her neck then planting a kiss on her collar bone, another kiss on her breast.   
Then his teeth lightly pinch her skin as they find the front of her bra.  He looks up at her as the clasp flies open and her breasts are free.  Her hard nipples are framed loosely by her dangling bra and the top half of her cardigan which is still buttoned, only at the bottom.  She’s still wearing leggings, but his cock feels too good to leave it for even one moment to undress further.  She continues to slowly grind against him as he moves one hand to her breast, keeping the other behind her for support.  He palms one breast, lightly at first, grazing her nipple with the heel of his palm, then softly cups the whole breast, enveloping it in his large hand as he continues to slowly thrust into her warmth  He uses his free hand to bring her close enough to kiss her other breast. 
Rey is burning up now.  He undoes the last two buttons of her cardigan and she lets it fall off her shoulders, discarding her bra at the same time.  She reaches down to the hem of his shirt and slides four curled fingers underneath it.  He helps her take it off, and she takes in the sight of his shredded torso.  His right pec has a scar.  She traces it with her thumb.  His pecs are so hard.  As she explores him, they continue grinding, then he gives a more emphatic thrust, like his cock cannot physically get close enough to her.  She reaches between their loins and strokes his arousal through his pants, tracing the outline of his cock in detail.  His pants are damp and shiny from her leggings and with a wetter spot of his own.  
Rey needs him badly.  He isn’t wearing a belt.  She frantically searches for his button and zipper and carefully frees him. She holds, and beholds, the glorious, veiny shaft that lands in her hand.  She savors the feeling of its soft skin as it throbs in her hand.  “You. . . are a vision,” he murmurs into her chest, which is exactly what she was thinking about his package.  She moves her thumb to the head of his cock, collects a bead of precum, and swirls around the head affectionately.  Her brows furrow with want.   He holds her tighter, closing the gap between them.  He begins thrusting again, hard and slow.  Rey grinds her throbbing warmth against his lower shaft while her hand is still in between them.  
She feels the spine of her groin twitching and knows she’s close.  She takes a deep breath and lets a sharper pleasure overtake her chest and groin.  Her breath quickens as she nears her peak.  She still has her leggings on. He reaches his broad hands into the back of her leggings, taking one buttcheek in each hand and moves her up and down against him.  “I need you,” he breathes. They look into each other’s eyes and there’s something wild in his pupils, something dark, like a warm, black hole, drawing her in.  “Take me,” she says.  He reaches a hand behind her neck to cradle her head, and they gaze at each other, breathing, grinding.  Then he pulls her face decisively to his.  
Rey inhales through her nose as their lips meet hungrily. He kisses her hard, too messily to  seal their mouths together, leaving his lower lip between her lips as he draws in a deep breath through his mouth.   He then closes his lips on her upper lip, his teeth and tongue slightly grazing it.  Half his mouth opens into hers, the other halves of their mouths still breathing heavily. 
He shifts her slightly upward, wraps her around his waist, and she feels the head of his rock hard cock aggressively nuzzling her clit, up and down.  His tongue finds hers and she lets it brush against her teeth.  When she pulls away for a moment, he looks her in the eyes. They’re both moving faster now, and  as they’re about to come, she folds herself into him, sliding her lips down his chin to his neck and opening her mouth, breathing against his skin. 
His thumb finds her most sensitive place and one touch sends her over the edge.  The pleasure is almost too much to bear.  Her ass clenches as ecstacy blooms from her groin, her nipples, her ears, and deep within her gut.  Muscles she didn’t even know she had shudder in release, and he wraps his arms tight around her, thrusting to the beat of her orgasm.  She rides wave after wave, pulsating against his cock, and as another wave swells he groans, and she feels his cock begin its own contractions, intensifying hers.  
Rey’s mouth is open against his neck and she’s breathing into his skin and as he unleashes a huge lode of cum, between them, soaking through her leggings, and gluing their clothes together.  Her canines dig harmlessly into the side of his neck – she can’t resist –  then she brings her lips to the flesh and seals it with a kiss.   She collapses into him, loosely hugging him with her legs, and the two of them just breathe.  Then he tightens his arms around her in a hug, and she looks up. She sees the mark of her teeth on his neck, and remembers no one else will see it.  This isn’t real.  
She nuzzles her head into her mark and blinks her eyelashes against his skin.   He sighs slowly through his nose, then she feel the vibrations of his voice against her face as he says, “You are… remarkable.”  She lies there breathing for a few minutes and he wraps them both in a cream, cable-knit throw.  She falls asleep in his arms and wakes up in her own bed, marveling at how a dream can make one feel like they’ve experienced someone so intimately.  She hadn’t had a lucid dream in years.  She absently scratches an itch between her breasts and wonders how she can be sure to dream of him again tonight.  Was it the rooibos, or the sheer will of her want?
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