#my fic barely aligns with this post I think

[phoenix-inblue]

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.

[alphabetboyluvr]

once the thrill expires | jjk

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

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.

[emeraldelixirs]

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 >>

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.

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

[thearttolifesdistractions]

i know

description: when you're with him, love feels like something fleeting. you act like you belong to each other, like it's official, but refuse to make it real. you tell yourself you’re okay with it, you always do. but when his phone buzzes, when you know it’s her, the weight of being his secret becomes hard. and still, when it’s time to leave, you don’t ask him to choose. because you already know he won’t. and maybe this situation won't grow as you hoped, but maybe that's okay.

warnings: mid writing, friends with benefits (ofc... my fav trope), mentions of nsfw but nothing explicit, angst but not really, not the best ending......

a/n: HELLO!!! crazy that you guys get two posts this week wooooahhhh…. anyways! so i wrote this after listening to 'i know' by fiona apple & i was convinced i was gonna make this a multiple part fic! buuut after writing this part i couldn't figure where to go from here 😭 well! maybe i'll make some more parts later if i can like…. figure out a plot but i figured why not post it anyways since i think it's alright as a standalone… enjoy!

wc: 3,127

paring: hozier x fem!reader

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The lavish, and entirely too expensive, room he’s booked is gorgeous. A five-star hotel in the City of Lights that makes your apartment back home look trivial, and that was quite expensive too. You’re curled up on the bed, body wrapped in the softest robe you’ve ever felt, watching as Andrew thumbs through a book, but his mind is clearly preoccupied, flicking from page to page without ever really focusing on the words. 

He’s on tour right now, though somehow, he had it scheduled to have an entire week free in Paris, and it just happened to align with your schedule as well. The second you both found out you were free during the same week, you flew out to see him. But even now, in the most romantic city in the world, you can’t help but feel like you’re living in a lie, or a moment that neither of you really has any claim to. His distracted gaze keeps flickering to his phone on the nightstand, as though waiting for something. Or someone.

The thought of her has your stomach burning, with both anger and disappointment. He’s not technically dating her, but he keeps up the image to ‘keep the press out of his love life.’ You were supposed to be something real, something beyond whatever this is, but you’re starting to realize you’ll never be anything more than the girl that keeps his bed warm. 

He doesn’t even know what that does to you, the way she’s always there, lingering in the background of every conversation. The way you always spend the last moments together wondering what he's going to do with her. He always has something planned with her after you’ve spent time together, claiming that it helps maintain the illusion that you two are just friends. He says no one will care about photos of the two of you having ‘friendly’ hangouts if he’s still going on dates with her.

It’s the last day before he’s back on tour. The last day before you go back home. It shouldn’t hurt this much. This is what always happens. You both have a brief window of time that lines up, and you meet up, privately playing the perfect couple, then going back to being friends until the cycle repeats. In the times where you both took breaks from releasing music, these moments lasted longer, sometimes months. It was hard to say goodbye then, especially after you'd forgotten how to be without him. So, it should be easier to say goodbye after just a week, right? But, he just makes it so damn hard.

You sigh quietly, the sound barely escaping your lips as you adjust to lay your head in his lap. Maybe being physically closer to him can bridge the gap, maybe it can help you convince yourself that this is normal. 

His hand immediately moves to comb through your hair, fingers scratching at your scalp in a way that has your eyelids fluttering. You look at him now, meeting his gaze as he stares at you with a soft smile, and for a moment, you wish you could just ask him. Ask him what this is, what you are to him. But you know that won’t change anything. He’d probably just smile, brush it off, and go back to doing whatever it is he does. You can’t blame him for that. It’s hard being in the spotlight, knowing that everyone is scrutinizing your every move. It’s one of the first things you two bonded over.

Your mind races back to those early days, when you first met him a few years ago, working on a song together. It started as something completely professional, both of you working at the same label and they’d decided that a collab between the two of you would work well. You were both doing your part, helping each other out with a track that you’d been assigned to create. But somewhere during the late nights in the studio, they turned into late nights talks that turned into something else. You couldn’t have predicted how quickly the chemistry between you would go from creative to something more.

It was easy to grow feelings for him, almost natural. You had never really talked about what you were to each other, you just were. And it was nice. The understanding that whatever it was, it didn’t need to be defined. You think about those first days, the way he smiled when he looked at you, the subtle touches. And how, over time, it was like your lives just fit with each other’s. 

The media had no idea, so they just called you "good friends," a convenient label that kept the press off your backs. It worked, until it didn’t. Of course, rumors and speculation grew about the nature of your connection: friends or something more? It wasn’t something you were worried about, understanding that whatever they said didn’t change the fact that while you were more than friends, you were still less than official. It didn’t bother you half as much as it had bothered him. 

At the start of the rumors, he had opened up to you about his last public relationship. How she had received so much hate that she couldn’t handle it anymore, ending things with him in order to protect herself. How much it hurt him to watch someone he cared about so much go through so much pain because of his lifestyle. And she wasn’t even famous. He told you, then, about his fear of things getting out of hand with you. Since you both live in the limelight, how much worse it could be. You didn’t know it then, but that was his way of telling you that he wouldn’t be willing to take the risk to be with you fully.

It was at the height of the rumors that he had told you about her. Claiming that it was common amongst celebrities, saying that this “pr relationship” would be beneficial for both you and him, keeping the media out of whatever you two had going on. The way he had explained it, as a way to keep you private, at first, felt like a way of saying he didn’t want the innocence of your relationship situation being ruined by the harsh words of those who couldn’t keep their opinions to themselves. He told you that he didn’t want the two of you to rush into putting a label on things, only for it to get torn apart by the public eye. Now, you see that he really just wants to have you without the responsibility of defending you, you’re not worth the effort. 

Regardless, you thought that it would be over quick. That he’d tell you he’s ready to make it official, let the media know he’s ended things with her, and continue keeping your relationship private but not secret. Of course, you were wrong. But, what did you expect? You never said it out loud, never set any expectations with him. Why would he go through the effort of ending something that requires so little from him for something that might be too much to handle?

His phone buzzes again, interrupting your thoughts, and your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. Another distraction. Another reminder that you’ll never really be his priority. He gives you everything he can, and it’s always just enough to keep you hooked. Not too much, not too little. And that’s all it will ever be.

He spares his phone a quick glance, and you relish in the way he tosses it to the nightstand and brings his attention back to you. “Are you alright?” He asks, finally, his voice soft, breaking through the silence. He doesn’t know what’s going on in your head. He can’t, not unless you say it. But you won’t. Not when the end of this reality is already in sight.

“I’m fine,” you say, your voice a little too steady. His eyes narrow at you, eyebrows raising. He knows you well enough to see right through the lie, but he also knows you well enough to know that you don’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t push, just gives you a look that says everything. That he sees right through you, but he’ll let you hold onto your silence a little longer. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to force the words out of you. He knows better by now.

For a moment, you both just sit there, the silence between you two comfortable. You never feel awkward with Andrew. You try to distract yourself, trying to focus on the way his hand moves gently through your hair. His touch is soft and intimate, but it doesn’t reach you the way it used to. Now, it acts as a reminder of everything that’s always just out of reach. A reminder of what could be, but never will. His gaze flickers down to you, and there’s that smile again. That soft, lazy smile that’s always just enough to make your heart skip and make you forget every bit of pain and self-doubt he’s caused. 

“You know, this week was... nice,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them. What an understatement. You want to say that this week was exactly what you needed, that spending time being intimate with him is the greatest comfort you know. That you want nothing but to spend every second with him, that nothing compares to the way he makes you feel. But, you’ll leave it at ‘nice.’

His smile grows as he nods, a knowing look in his eyes. He’s not oblivious of your inner turmoil, but he’ll respect your wishes to move past it. “Yeah,” he says softly, his thumb now brushing across your cheek. “It was nice. It’s always nice to be alone with you”

You wish he would have the courage to say what you wanted to. To admit that this time spent together is more than just nice, that it’s everything. The thought of him finally admitting what you both know flashes through your mind before you can stop it. But of course, he doesn’t say that. He never does. He’s always so close, just a few words away, but he’s never given you more. That might be your fault, you’ve never really asked for more than he’s willing to give. The truth is, you’re afraid to. 

And not because you think he doesn’t feel the same, you know he does. You know he loves you, at least to some extent. You feel it in the way he holds you, the way his touch is always gentle, even in the most intimate moments. You feel it in the way he listens when you talk, how he’s present with you in those quiet spaces between the noise of the world. He makes you feel like you're the only one in the room, like nothing else matters when you’re around. His love is there, you know it, you feel it in every moment you share. But his fear might just outgrow it.

The thought creeps into your mind, and for the first time, it doesn’t sting as much as it used to. Maybe because you’re starting to accept that the love you share with him, as real as it is, will never be enough to make him choose you over his fear of the public, the press, everything that comes with being with someone like you.

His phone buzzes against the nightstand, and you know it’s her. You can feel it in the way his body tenses, the way his attention flickers. For a moment, you want to reach out, take the phone, and throw it out the window. But you won’t. Because that’s not you, you’ve got a better grip on your emotions. Andrew sighs softly, his eyes glancing at his phone but not picking it up. He looks back at you, the silence stretching longer now. You know he’s trying to figure out what to say, how to ease the troubles in your mind without actually knowing them.

He knows you’re tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of being the girl that no one knows about. You wish you could ask him what it would take for him to just choose you. But you don’t, because asking for that would mean acknowledging what’s never going to happen. And if you acknowledge it, the end will be real. Instead, you shift in his lap, trying to find some comfort in the closeness, and it isn’t working as well as usual. His hand lingers on your cheek, the touch warm, but not soothing the coldness you feel inside.

“Tomorrow’s the day,” you say softly, the words heavier than you expected. It’s the end of your time together. The last moment of this unending season of your life. Tomorrow. you both hit pause until the next time. “You’ll go back to the tour, and I’ll go back to everything else.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes still focused on yours. “Yeah,” he finally says, voice soft but distant. “I guess we don’t have a choice.” You nod, the lump in your throat growing as you tilt head away, unable to look at him. You want to scream at him that you do have a choice. That he could ask you to stay, ask you to finally do him the favour of being his. That there is another option, he just has to say it. 

“I know we don’t,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “But I wish we did.”

He sighs, eyes softening, his hand gently lifting your chin to meet his gaze. “I wish we did too. I wish I could give you what you need.” His voice is low, tinged with regret, and it makes your chest tighten in a way that hurts. 

It’s the closest you’ve ever come to talking about it, and it was barely anything. And for a brief moment, you think maybe there could be more. But the moment passes quickly, fading into that familiar silence between you two. He doesn’t press for more, and neither do you.

You sit up slowly, lifting your head from his lap, ignoring his confused look as you shake his hand from your face. His expression changes as you shift, legs settling to straddle him, lowering yourself on his lap as you rest your head against his chest. You close your eyes as he wraps his arms around you, relishing in his warmth, listening to his heartbeat, and begging for the ache to stop.

Andrew lets out a quick sigh, breaking your focus on his pulse. “So, how’s the new album coming along?” he asks, and you can hear the playful undertone.

You look up at him, seeing the mischief in his eyes. “It’s coming along,” you reply, trying your hardest to match his new mood. “You know, the usual. The pressure of getting it right, the expectations, the deadlines.”

He raises an eyebrow, leaning back slightly to get a better look at your face. “Oh, yeah? Any songs about me?” His grin widens as he teases, the atmosphere going back to something just as familiar. You can tell he’s just trying to lighten the mood, and the effort warms your heart.

You laugh softly, the sound escaping before you can stop it. It’s like a breath of relief after the worries in your troubled mind. You sit up straighter, locking eyes with him, and you can’t hide the honesty in your tone despite your teasing smirk. “They’re all about you, Andy. They always are.”

His smile falls for a second, like that’s not what he was expecting you to say, which he probably wasn’t. Before you have a chance to clarify, he’s leaning in. 

His lips capture yours in a kiss that’s too gentle for how much you both need it. It deepens quickly, the emotional tension feeling almost exactly like sexual. His hands slip around your waist, pulling you closer as your fingers pull at the hair on the nape of his neck.

You can’t help but give into him, the way his lips move against yours with the perfect mix of gentleness and desire. He kisses you like he’s always wanted this, and you think that maybe you have too. The thought of everything that you want to say but you can’t becomes a distant memory as his hands squeeze at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

It doesn’t stay slow for long. The heat builds between you as his touch grows more urgent, more desperate. You can feel it in the way he moves, in the way his breath hitches when you tug a bit harder at his hair. You move your hands to roam over his body, exploring every inch of him. You trace the outline of his frame, the curves of his shoulders, and the defined muscles of his arms. Your hands are eager, and his hands match yours, caressing your body with a softness that has you trembling.

As the kiss deepens, his tongue teases your lips, asking for entry. You part your mouth immediately, inviting him in, and letting your tongues mix together. The taste of him is addicting, something you could never get tired of. His mouth leaves yours as he trails kisses down your neck, stopping briefly to suck at that spot just below your ear that has your back arching into him.

His hands move lower, his fingers trailing down your sides, pausing at the waistband of your silk pajama shorts. His warm touch is calming to your soul, but overwhelming to your body. He pulls his mouth from your neck and rests his forehead against yours, both of you huffing and sharing breath. Your eyes flutter open and you meet his darkened gaze, before you can speak, ask him why he stopped, he beats you to it.

“Whatever’s got you tangled up inside, let it go,” he whispers, his words slow and soft, but deliberate. “Let me take the weight off of you, love. Please.” His voice is whiny, borderline pleading. It makes your heart flutter, not just because of the softness in his words, but because he wants to take care of you. He’s offering himself, wanting to give you a release. And it’s real.

It reminds you that he’s here, now. As fully as he can be with you, and for the first time, you feel like maybe you’re both letting go of all the things that separate you. The world, the expectations, and the fear. It all slips away just for this moment. 

And maybe this is the realest you’ll get with him, but maybe that’s enough for now.

[gnawingonleonsbicep]

I Don’t Want to Fall in Love (1/2)

pt. 2

Leon Kennedy x gn!reader. Post RE4/R, written with RE4R Leon in mind, however either version works.

Angst. Hurt/no comfort? No use of y/n or [name]. Reader is referred to as “sweetheart”. Reader is a barista. Leon lives in an apartment idk. More tags in the tags. Sorry this is my first time actually posting a full fic.

WC: 2.7k

❝ Right face, wrong time, she's sweet

(But I don't wanna fall in love)

Too late, so deep, better run cause

(I don't wanna fall in love)

Can't sleep, can't eat, can't think straight

(I don't wanna) ❞

Between making sure he was in peak condition after the events of his Spain mission, particularly regarding the brief period he was infected with the plaga, Leon found himself with a surprising amount of free time between his assignments. During the free period, Leon found himself frequenting a quaint café near his apartment. Perhaps it was the coffee that drew him in. Or the soothing environment. Or the cute barista he happens to run into every time he visits. Too bad doesn’t want to fall in love.

Leon didn’t have much luck with relationships. Had a couple girlfriends before Raccoon City, none after. It wasn't like he had much time to get into the dating scene either; between his nonexistent work-life balance and the baggage he carried, he swiftly accepted the fact that a relationship must’ve simply just been out of the cards for him.

He didn’t lament on that fact; some things were just out of his control. No use in fighting it. He accepted that a long time ago. Hell, he didn’t even think he could manage a relationship anymore. Sure, the company would be nice, but he can’t stay in one place for too long. You’d think he’d enjoy the breaks whenever he got them, and you’d be right. As long as they don’t go on for too long. He’s gotten accustomed to the busy schedule, can’t help but get antsy whenever he goes long without an assignment, always feels like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Still, he can’t deny it gets “a little” lonely in his apartment. It’s dreary and desolate; from an outside perspective, one would easily assume it was vacant. Minus the bare minimum furnishings — a bed, a cheap couch he found, and a little TV he got for the occasions he is home — there wasn’t much in his apartment. None of it really got much use, though. More times than not, he’d end up passed out on the couch when he returned from an assignment.

Perhaps you could say his home was a representation of himself: dull and empty. Missing that spark of life. Missing what made it a home. He never put much thought into it, though. His main concern was being in an okay enough condition to complete whatever task he was given. Maybe he’ll do a good enough job that he’ll retire early and go back to a semi-regular life!

The thought was nice, if not based in naïveté. Something he’d think about while he tried to sleep. Maybe one day he’d be able to retire. Settle down and give someone a better life than he had. Wishful thinking and all.

During his time living in the area, especially with the surprising amount of free time he’s had, his routine grew to include a local café near his apartment complex. Perhaps it was the novelty of the quiet, quaint building, of a secondary location to unwind outside of his bleak apartment.

It also helped that there was a particularly cute barista there.. But you didn’t hear that from him.

That was how he met you. It was pure coincidence; your shifts happened to align with the days he’d show up. Some may call it fate; he more accurately calls it regularly visiting an establishment. Whatever attraction he might’ve felt had no play in it. Even if he happened to memorize your shifts. And that you were his favorite.

….

God, he sounded like a creep.

It wasn’t like that, though. He was just vigilant. He’d gotten used to being aware of his surroundings. He couldn’t help it. Besides, he didn’t memorize only your schedule. He knew that Aaron and Eliza worked Mondays and Thursdays, Carol opened on Sundays, and that Mac worked on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. Just to name a few.

He’d like to say he planned this. That he knew his feelings of attraction would grow into something more. But he couldn’t lie to himself. Or you. While it started as a simple infatuation, an attraction to how he perceived you, he knew it wasn’t love.

Until you began starting up conversations with him whenever you had the opportunity. It was small talk at first, asking him about his day, exchanging small pleasantries, occasionally making a comment on his attire; surface-level interactions while you took his order. Stuff you did with every customer. You were just being polite; he knew that. He wasn’t going to look into it and convince himself otherwise.

Then the conversations slowly grew longer. But that meant nothing. And it meant nothing when you started spending your breaks with him or when you made his order in advance because you knew when he’d arrive. And the cute notes you left didn’t mean anything. No, they definitely meant nothing. And you certainly meant nothing when you asked to have lunch with him on your day off. Nope. Meant nothing. Not like it was a date, right?

At least that’s what he told himself. Until you offhandedly mentioned that it was the best date you had in a while. But that meant nothing, right? Right?

He knew he was a goner the moment the date lunch had ended.

One date turned into another, and then another, and then another.. You even came over to his shitty charming little apartment (your words, not his.) for a horror-filled movie night (the horror movies were your idea). Leon wasn’t much of a fan of horror after experiencing a horror movie in his own life, though it was a little hard to be on edge after Raccoon City and Spain. Hard beat an actual “zombie apocalypse” and being infected with a parasite that nearly turned him into yet another mindless puppet of Saddler’s.)

If Leon already knew he was a goner by the end of your first date, it was really solidified when you were practically curled up and hiding in his chest for an hour and a half. On one hand, it was a little awkward considering Leon was rather.. touch deprived. It was far more physical interaction than he had been used to for a while. At least, in a sweeter, more intimate manner. On the other, the feeling of you clinging to him like a lifeline whenever the movie got a little too scary for you made him feel a sense of bliss. Like it was a taste of what could’ve been, what he could have. With you. He almost wondered how it would’ve gone if Raccoon had never happened. Then again, he probably would’ve never met you if things had gone differently.

While he silently relished in the feeling, it left him with a pit in his stomach after you left. He had trouble falling asleep that night. It wouldn’t have been too unusual.. If he hadn’t been thinking about you.

His thoughts raced, going over how poorly it could all end if you ever made it official. And how poorly it could end if you didn’t make it official. He was between a rock and a hard place; if he “set things straight” and bluntly said he “wasn’t” interested in a relationship, he wouldn’t be dragging you into whatever the hell he had going on.

However, he’d constantly beat himself up with the “what if”s if he missed this opportunity. An opportunity for something more in his personal life, something that could be what ignites that spark. A rock and a hard place.

He didn’t have much of an appetite, going throughout his day in a daze. He was in an inner conflict. He was sure he could see himself spending his life with you, at least a portion of it. For as long as you’d have him. But was he right for you? Was he really a good match for you? Could he provide you what you needed?

Sure, he was physically attractive, he couldn’t deny that. But could you really love what’s underneath that? Would you still love him if you knew the damaged man he was beneath his awkward charm and handsome features? Would you still love him if you delved deep, if you truly got to know him so intimately? If you broke down his walls and bared his soul to you?

And you were such a sweet, sensitive thing. Would you really be able to handle the time spent apart when he’s off doing who knows what for the government? Would you be able to handle him coming home bloodied and bruised after a particularly rough assignment? He was sure you’d tend to his wounds, cleaning and dressing them with such a tender hand, as if he was nothing more than a delicate flower. But could you really handle it? Could he handle the guilt that’d eat at him? Could he handle dragging someone so soft into his muddled world? Defiling your simple, picturesque life with his life of disarray?

Was it selfish of him to yearn for that? To yearn for someone to care for his worn-down body, to take him into their arms and rebuild him, over and over again, as long as it takes? For a sense of normality?

Leon was ashamed to admit that he started avoiding you. It made him feel weak, juvenile. The Leon S. Kennedy: survivor of the Raccoon City incident, the man that rescued the president’s daughter with rather minimal help, avoiding a civilian working as a barista at the local café, because of what, a schoolboy crush? Because he couldn’t handle his own feelings? God, he must’ve sounded pathetic.

You must’ve noticed something was off after he hadn’t shown up for the umpteenth time in a row. Maybe he was sick? What if he got hurt? You couldn’t help but worry; you did like him after all. You liked him a lot. It felt safe to say that you might even love him. Sure, you didn’t know every little detail of his life, but you didn’t need to immediately. That was something you could learn eventually, on his own time.

That was what led you to show up at his apartment with a cute little care package. Always such a sweetheart. After being drawn out of his thoughts. It was odd; he wasn’t expecting any company. It wasn’t like he really got any. Maybe it was Claire stopping by to drop something off? She was sweet like that. Sure, they weren’t able to keep in contact as much as he’d like, but they tried to make some time whenever they got the chance. Still, usually she’d give him a heads-up before she stopped by.

It barely crossed his mind that you’d be at his front door. He could nearly feel his heart ache at the sight of you, the way you nervously shifted from side to side, biting the inside of your cheek.

Oh, and the care package, filled with small, homemade goodies and topped off with a cream-colored stuffed bear, a little blue ribbon around its neck. It was so painfully you. After he got over his momentary shock, he quickly ushered you in with a quick “Come in, come in,” and a “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Glancing around his apartment, he mentally beat himself up for the mess. Well, as messy as his empty apartment could get.

“Sorry, I wasn’t.. expecting anyone,” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair as he glanced off to the side. It was silent for a moment, the both of you standing there; you staring at him, him avoiding your gaze. Maybe that was a way to describe your dynamic. You, looking at him with such adoration, with such love. Piercing through him in a way that was equally comforting and terrifying while he hid away from it, avoiding it as though it were the plague. It made him feel vulnerable, like you could see through him, see through the tears in his carefully crafted veil. He couldn’t tell if he loved it or hated it.

“Do you—”

“I was just—”

.

..

Silence.

It was clear you had something you wanted to say, though you refrained. Whether it was so you could simply formulate your thoughts or to avoid cutting him off again was up for debate. Perhaps it was both; perhaps it was neither.

After a few short moments, though they seemed to drag on for far longer than they actually did, you finally broke that silence between the both of you.

“I was just..” you paused for a moment, glancing down at the stuffed bear. “..I was worried when you didn’t show up. Thought you might’ve been sick or something,” glancing back up at him, a small smile graced your features, a hint of embarrassment tainting the expression, “But now that I’m here, I feel kind of silly.. Since, y’know, you seem fine and all.”

You were worried about him?

A pang of guilt grew within him. If he had made you worry enough to come pay him a visit when he was just behaving childishly, how would you react when he was out on a mission? Or when he returns bruised and beaten, wounds that are surely bound to become another scar littering his body?

It only further solidified his opinion. He couldn’t drag you into his life; he couldn’t put you through that. He needed to end things with you, to put a stop to whatever was growing between the both of you. Sure, he’d regret it. Why wouldn’t he regret it? But he couldn’t be selfish. You deserved better. You deserve someone that could be there for you, someone who you wouldn’t have to share with the government for as long as your relationship lasts. He couldn’t hold you back. Besides, it’s not like it’d be the first thing he regrets.

“Yeah..” he muttered, furrowing his brow as a sigh left him. “Listen.. I like you, I really do, but..” he paused, internally wincing at the way your face dropped, guilt piercing through him. “..I don’t think this is going to work out. I’m sorry.”

“..what.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look up at you. He was sure he’d crumble the moment you did. He felt like such an asshole, but this was for the better, right?

Right?

“My job– it’s.. Very demanding, and,” oh, it was more than just demanding. But he couldn’t tell you what he did. It’d only make you worry more. “..the hours are long, and I wouldn’t.. be there.. that much,” he knew he was being vague, but how could he casually explain what he did for work? That he’d be gone for days, weeks, hell, maybe even years? All because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time?

He didn’t need to drag you into his shit. He didn’t need to put your safety at risk due to his own selfish desires.

“But– but we could work through that. It won’t be a problem, I promise.” Oh, you were just too sweet. Too kind for your own good. He was over here breaking your poor little heart, and you were still willing to compromise with him.

“Sweetheart,” his voice was so soft, so gentle. Even when he was being the cruelest he’s ever been to you, he still spoke to you with such care.

“Please, Leon. Please. We could make it work. I know we could, if you gave us a chance,” Oh, there you go, breaking his heart. And he thought he was the cruel one. He was, and yet, he couldn’t ignore the way his eyes stung or the way his throat closed up.

“Sweetheart,” he paused, taking in a sharp breath; even as his voice wavered ever so slightly, he remained composed. He made his bed, and he was going to lie in it. It was his choice; he was the one breaking your heart, so what right did he have to cry in this very moment?”

“Please, Leon..”

“I think it would be best if you left.”

He knew he was going to regret that choice. He already had many regrets in life; what more was another?

After leaning against the now-closed door for a moment after your departure, he reluctantly pulled himself from it, only to bump into something on the floor.

That was odd. While he had some clutter about, he didn’t have anything out of line in the entrance..

Oh.

It was the stuffed bear. The one you brought him. It must’ve fallen while you were leaving.

Bending down to grab it, he held it in his hands for a moment, simply observing it. A memento for the occasion, perhaps. A physical reminder of the “what if”s he’d no doubt ruminate on.

God, he was going to regret this.

[numinousmysteries]

A Revelation

Okay, deep breath. I know what I'm about say isn't going to win me any friends in the X-Files fandom (and I'll probably lose more than a few) but it's time I be true to myself.

I've had this feeling bubbling up for a while that I've been trying to suppress because I know it's not a popular opinion but I figure now is as good a day as any to let everyone know....I am a noromo. I don't think Mulder and Scully are a good match. I just like the show for the scary stories and Chris Carter's genius plot.

Wow, just writing that gives me so much relief. I know I've been reblogging shippy gif sets and writing MSR fics but recently it's started to feel hollow. I'm so excited to live my truth as a born-again noromo.

If you like any of my fic, consider saving it now because I'll probably be taking it down and replacing it with stories that are more aligned with how I view the series now. I'm telling you, the ideas have just been FLOWING since I freed myself to write what I truly feel. I have two snippets I'll post here just as a taste of what's to come.

Here's an alternate take on the Amor Fati ending, and one for the Memento Mori hallway scene: AMOR FATI ALTERNATE ENDING

When Mulder opens the door to his apartment, bandaged head barely hidden under a New York Yankees cap, Scully feels nothing but professional respect. He has been her coworker for seven years after all. 

“Scully, what are you doing here?” He asks. “Actually, I was just getting dressed to come see you but I... I couldn't find a tie to go with my victory cap.” 

She knows he doesn’t really mean he was going to come see her, but rather come to the office where she also happens to work. 

If he were her romantic love interest and not just a coworker, Scully would consider taking his cap off and playfully tugging at his tie, but that would be completely inappropriate. They are just professional coworkers afterall. 

“Diana Fowley was found murdered this morning,” Scully tells him. Since Diana was the love of his life, she wanted to tell him this in person as soon as possible instead of in an official FBI memo as she originally planned. It does cross the line of professionalism, showing up in his personal space like this, but she knows how much Diana meant to him. Unlike herself, who is just a coworker to him.

“Thanks for letting me know, Agent Scully,” Mulder says, sadly. Diana was the love of his life afterall.

“Of course, Agent Mulder,” Scully says. She thinks about shaking his hand but instead just hands him the paperwork she brought with her. “Please make sure to file this PTO request for your brain surgery in a timely manner. Have a nice afternoon.”

She turns and walks away. 

**

MEMENTO MORI ALTERNATE HALLWAY SCENE

After retrieving Agent Scully’s ova from the Lombard Research Facility, Mulder decides it would only be polite and professional to let her know what he’s found. He returns to the hospital where he’s greeted by a stern nurse.

“Can I help you sir?” She asks.

“I'd like to see my professional work colleague, Agent Dana Scully. She’s a patient here,” he says.

“Are you family? Her husband?” 

“Oh no,” Mulder laughs. “I’m just her professional coworker.”

“Well then you’ll have to come back in the morning. Visiting hours are over.” 

Mulder nods. That makes sense. Why would he visit his totally platonic coworker in the middle of the night? He feels silly for even considering it now. 

“Thank you,” he says politely to the nurse. “I’ll return at a more appropriate hour for someone just visiting a colleague.” 

He turns and leaves.

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

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.

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.”

[brucewaynehater101]

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).

[wilburs-girl]

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

-

how bad do you want it?

druggie!wilbur x dealer!reader

afab!reader

cw: sexual content, mentions of drugs

-

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.

[the-s1lly-corner]

gigi x user who collects a LOT of smth ... (like idk..trading cards or tabs/bottle caps)

Gigi x reader who collects

Speed writing a lot of these openings. I think what I might do is, at least as soon as the valentines season is over and valentines requests close on my main-- I'll write up a bunch of stuff for here to fill a queue so I can get to work on fic writing. I know October is still months away but I've already verbally committed to two challenges and I don't want to make 1k word fics again this year HISSHISS

(This was totally unrelated to the request we are back on our plan dumping in authors notes WOO YEAH BABY) (maybe I'll squeeze in a few dandys fics for flufftober while the interest is still present and the passions still there)

Notes: gn reader, toon reader, pre game, written on mobile, short post, admin is still trying to get a feel for gigis character so bare with him

CWs: none

Gigi likes collecting things in general, whereas you have a focus on things- she can respect that!

She's usually not very keen on sharing, but... if she finds she has something that aligns with your collection she might just cough it up to you

Compare your collections to each other! It gives you both something to talk about! For her, where she found it and how... and for you, well... the same, but with the added bonus of info dumping

It's a little hypocritical but she thinks you're kind of a nerd for it... not in a bad way, of course, you're passionate for the material whereas she gets a thrill out of getting something into her possession

Has to fight the urge to yoink one of your belongings whenever she visits. She feels bad if she does and eventually returns it

[try-set-me-on-fire]

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.”

[househrt]

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.)

[nemaliwrites]

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

[khywren]

For your blossoms of appreciation post!!! I'm not sure I'm doing it right, but I'll never pass up on an opportunity to shower you with love 🩷

🌷- I adore and admire how you write; it's like poetry! Every word has a purpose and every syllable makes you feel what the characters are feeling. You have such an amazing way with words that guarantees that every time I sit down to read something of yours, I know it will be beautiful 🩷

🌹- The fics that have stood out to me the most are Mist and Shadow and Frost & Flame! M&S is honestly one of the best pieces I've ever seen and read when it comes to characterization of Astarion as well as conveying emotion- melts my god damn bones. These lines will forever haunt me:

And Astarion is furious. At the tieflings, for being too weak to carry their own weight. At Ysera, for letting them use her without a second thought. And at himself, for being no better than any of them.

For F&F I just can't get over how, even post game and sincerely in love, you've managed to keep Astarion as himself- i can hear his dialogue in his tone, even his thoughts resonate. And this section says it all- they really deserve this after everything they've been through 🩷

For the first time in a long time, Astarion feels like a stranger in his own body again. Like he's watching someone else's happy ending play out before his eyes, and only when Ysera pulls away and cups his face between her palms does the touch of her hands confirm that this is real – that she is here; warm, alive, and most importantly, his. And nothing can take that away from him anymore.

🪻- Now what's your fave?? 💜

🌻- I wanna ask about what you have planned next!! I love your writing and I'm excited for whatever ideas you've got tucked away in your brain 😊

💐- You're an incredible person, creator, friend, and presence in my life, and I know there are so many people who feel the same way I do 🫂 I will always cherish our friendship and value it till the day I die 🩷 Thank you for coming into my life! For when you did, and for sticking around with this chaotic mess of a person (me). Ily Khy!!! 💗

are you trying to make me cry? because this is how you make me cry. 🥺

ali!!! you are so kind and thoughtful and i don't know what i did to deserve such an amazing, talented, wonderful friend, but i am so glad we met and bonded over this eccentric little vampire man. thank you so much for supporting my silly little stories and inspiring me with your kind words and the beautiful things you write! i adore you!

i am SO glad you loved mist and shadow! i swear that writing most of that was like a fever dream. i had so many ideas in my head that i wanted to touch on, and i was so concerned about not being able to live up to them the way i saw them in my mind. i still think it's the best thing i've ever written, and i am enormously proud of it. the stars really aligned for me on that one, where the things i wrote and the way i wrote them turned out almost exactly how i wanted them to.

the passage you quoted is still one of my favorites, and it was a real turning point in the direction the entire fic took when it was in its early stages. up until then most of the things i had written (both with and without ysera) were about the softer side of astarion, because soft astarion is my kryptonite. but i love the idea of him battling with himself about the things he's feeling about his partner as we get deeper into act 2 and he realizes that, oh fuck, he's got feelings for this loser and now he's in too deep. at the end of the day, he's still a messy bitch, and i loved getting to explore that more.

my favorite part of that fic is probably this part of the main scene from the second chapter:

His rage is a volatile thing, barely leashed behind the fangs he presses into her throat. A soft whimper escapes Ysera's lips, and she clutches at his shirt. Somewhere on the periphery of his mind, he realizes he's hurting her, but the rush of blood that pours into his mouth as he punctures her neck without warning washes the thought away on a current of red. Her pulse pounds in his ears, and with every swallow he can feel his own strength returning. He had been purposely avoiding her before, vexed by his concern for her wellbeing, but it all seems so pointless now. Why shouldn't he take as much as he wants – as much as he needs? He'd be stupid not to when she's offering herself so willingly. Sooner or later she'll tire of him, and what will he have then? Nothing but his pride and an empty stomach.  Her kind words hadn't saved him when he needed them most. They're nothing more than a distraction now, and a luxury he cannot afford to indulge if he wants to maintain his freedom. ... His stomach tightens. All this time, he'd fooled himself into believing he was the one in control. But no matter what he does, he can't escape the one simple truth that he is weak. The only question now is who gets to hold his leash: Cazador or Ysera?

i think that really encapsulates the overall tone/theme i was going for with this fic!

i'm also so grateful to hear that about frost & flame! 🥺 it was my first time writing something that saccharine, and i'm glad to hear that i was still able to stay true to our beloved boy despite him being extra soft here. the whole idea for that fic started with me thinking about how silly it would be for astarion to be catching snowflakes on his tongue on the bus home from work, and the rest of the fic came together around whatever scenario would put him in that situation. i'm still super happy with that one, too!

as for what i have next, i've been in a bit of a slump lately because work's been taking most of my energy and free time, but i do have three active WIPs (active as in i've started writing them) in the works right now, and at least 4 other that are a little less concrete but are still ideas i like enough to move forward with. most of those are more kinktober prompts, but one is the toxic bloodweave thing i've been thinking about for a few weeks now. that one is very much a "they can make each other so much worse" kind of a fic and i hope i can pull it off~

as for adrift, all the pieces for most of act 3 finally fell into place, so i've been jotting down a lot of notes and things for that, and i need to get there yesterday because i'm really proud of what i've pulled together. i haven't written much these past few weeks, but i can leave you with the last line i wrote as a bit of a teaser~

"What appeared before me was no god, but an angel wearing a devil's face. In exchange for so little, he offered me everything."

[onehotbroad]

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)

⚠️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 ;)

[cetaceans-pls]

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.”