#should I put this on ao3

[autumn-equinox-04]

everywhere i go (leads me back to you)

i miss you, i'm sorry - gracie abrams

s1ep4 case of the lighthouse leapers au: branching from payneland's mini argument

multi-part

"What d'you mean, why am I getting so angry? You're sneaking off and doing dangerous things, Edwin! I thought we were meant to be partners."

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Charles."

"You shouldn't have to be, should you? I'm meant to be the brawn. How am I meant to protect you when you won't tell me what's going on?!"

"Charles, it is not your job to—"

"Yes, it is, mate! You won't do it yourself, will you?"

"Of course I will—"

"Of course you will. Just like you did when that tosser put that bracelet on you in the first place."

"...."

"Wait. No— Edwin, I didn't mean it like that, I swear! Edwin— please—"

"We should get back to the case."

"Edwin—"

"I believe Niko might have some leads for us. Let's go."

----

Part 2

[sevri-7]

You’re coming back (and it’s the end of the world)

‘Who are you?’

The question has been on the tip of his tongue since they had gotten to what could barely be called safety. The president had left them to find the rest of the detective agency, whatever was left of them that was.

The blurred faces of Kunikida-san, Tanizaki-san, and Kenji-kun flash through his mind. He no longer has the energy to will the images out of him mind so he lets them stay, he lets them ferment, and stew, and rot in his mind.

They had died, in front of him, they had died and he did nothing about it.

“You, and you alone could have protected your allies…their blood is on your hands” Dostoevsky’s sinister smile and cutting words branded into his skin. It still burns.

Atsushi wills himself out of his mind in favour of observing his not so dead partner. He had been stabbed through the chest by Dostoevsky in a show of power. In that moment, Atsushi was sure he had just watched Akutagawa die again, and again he could do nothing but watch as he stilled and fell to the ground. If he had been more observant he might have noticed that no blood pooled beneath Akutagawa’s unmoving body. If he wasn’t so pathetic he might have chased after Dostoevsky. If he wasn’t so consumed by his emotions he would have done something, Anything! Instead he stood still, choked by fear.

The president saved them and led them away from the remnants of the battle, if you could even call it that.

And now he sits here, in the dying daylight, with a stranger that looks like Akutagawa.

He doesn’t know why his chest hurts looking at his still body. He’s not dead, truly and miraculously, the hole that was stabbed through his chest has healed almost completely. Atsushi’s hand snakes up to his own healed stab wound and wonders why it felt so familiar. Yet something in him continues to strain as he looks at Akutagawa.

He still doesn’t know why…

He was different. Anyone with a pair of eyes and a partially functioning brain could tell something was off about this Akutagawa. He moved differently, with grace and fluidity so foreign to the precision and desperation he had been on the receiving end of more times than he could remember. He held weapons made out of his ability as if they were old friends, and wielded them like he’s fought a thousand battles with them. He was even dressed differently, long gone was his blood stained coat,

(Akutagawa’s parting gift to him, still soaked with both their blood was left with Ango-san for what?

He still doesn’t know why…)

replaced with black armour so dark it ate all light that would have made it shine. Then there were his eyes…something about them made him ache in a way he’s only get once before.

“You damn fool…hurry up and go”

It was gone. The fire, the desperation, the anger, the spite…it was all gone. The calmness he had seen, the strength he had perceived, he was wrong, so, so wrong.

As the fight raged on he had realized all too slowly that those eyes did not belong to Akutagawa.

Those weapons did not belong to Akutagawa.

Those movement did not belong to Akutagawa.

He. Was not. Akutagawa.

‘Who are you?’

Atsushi’s heart continued to ache.

He still doesn’t know why…

Atsushi’s had tentatively reached out towards Akutagawa’s healing wound. He internally reprimands himself, this is Akutagawa he’s reaching out for, knowing him he’ll wake up before he could check the wound to see if it’s healing properly, he would sit up, bare the pain in his chest and call him a fool, and a bastard, and insist that he doesn’t need his help.

And everything will be back to normal…

And they’ll defat Dostoevsky…

and get the page…

And bring everyone back…

And everything will be back to normal…

The rot stains his finger tips as his hand reaches Akutagawa’s chest. The wound is full closed and the scar is well on its way to fading. His finger gently trace the scar down till it tapers off, he pulls his hand back quickly as if he’d been burned. Atsushi watched Akutagawa’s body breathe, inhale. Exhale. Akutagawa’s eyes didn’t open, Akutagawa’s body didn’t sit up.

His mouth didn’t open to call him a fool, or a bastard, or to tell him he didn’t need his help. Akutagawa’s body stayed lying perfectly still, and Akutagawa was no where to be found.

The rot travels down his throat.

The world is quiet. Dead quiet. The lack of sound is deafening, the lack of everything blankets the collapsed structure they were hiding in. The sun had set leaving them in pure darkness. Despite this Atsushi’s eyes stay trained on Akutagawa’s face. His rotting hands reach out once more to touch Akutagawa’s porcelain skin. His touch is feather light as he traced his thumb over Akutagawa’s cheek. His skin was dry and fragile, like it would crack if he pressed too hard. He could hear Akutagawa threatening to chop off his hand for daring to touch him when he’s vulnerable. He could feel Akutagawa’s anger as his hand moved to his hair. He bathes in Akutagawa’s scalding remarks and not so empty threats. He takes comfort in the presence of someone who isn’t there.

Atsushi’s never been one for physical contact, neither of them had been, but in this quiet, empty moment, Atsushi held Akutagawa’s hand.

They had stayed like that, together and apart, lost and found, disturbed and undisturbed, for a long time.

Then he woke up.

His cold confident eyes bore into his. His armour shifted as he moved to sit up. He said nothing, and neither did Atsushi.

Atsushi ached as the rot spread through his body and seeped into every crack and crevice it could find. It sunk deeper and deeper until it dyed his bones dried blood brown. The rot continued its crawl deeming his body its home. It has taken everything from him and it’s making its way to his heart, but something is slowing it down and screeching it to a halt.

His hand is warm.

His eyes leave Atsushi’s and slowly trace their surroundings. They make their way around the room and lock back on Atsushi.

When they meet again there is no spark of recognition, no disgust at their contact, not even a snide comment. Just three simple words.

“Who are you?”

He asked as if it was an innocent question.

And Atsushi ached.

And he still didn’t know why…he keeps lying to himself…

And suddenly the hand he was holding was no longer Akutagawa’s, and his hand was cold.

The rot made quick work of his heart after that. Yet his hand stayed in his hand, holding on to someone who wasn’t there, reaching for a hand that didn’t belong to the one he loved.

He wanted to say a million things to him, Whoever he was. He wanted to say a hundred million things to Akutagawa, wherever he was.

‘Who are you?’

‘Where’s Akutagawa’

‘Why don’t you remember me?’

‘Are you Akutagawa?’

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Why did you save me?’

‘Why are you here?’

‘What happened to you?’

‘I love you’

Instead he choked out the only thing he could.

“My name is Atsushi” and he smiled as he felt is heart give in.

[iamanartichoke]

I don't know who needs to hear this, but as a creator -

I am fine with "the audience" -

downloading my fics

printing my fics

copy/pasting or screenshotting my fics

sharing your saved copy of my fics with anyone else who might want them in the unlikely but never impossible case that my fics are no longer available on ao3

making a book of my fic(s) and running your fingers across the pages while lovingly whispering my precioussss

doing these things with anything I create for fandom, such as meta, headcanons, au nonsense like 'texts from the brodinsons,' etc

I am not fine with "the audience"

doing any of the above with the purpose/intent of plagiarizing my work or passing it off as their own in any capacity

feeding my work into ai for any reason whatsoever

Save the fandom things. Preserve the fandom things. Respect the fandom things.

Enjoy the fandom things.

[heph]

The fics where the ducklings are heavily invested in their boss' love life

[savanir]

DP x DC ficlet

is it even a ficlet anymore, this thing has gotten incredibly out of hand...

So a while back I saw this

and I picked the Green Lantern one and then just kinda wrote a full fic so...

It had been a good party, official yes but despite that still festive enough and with just a bittersweet hint. as all good meaningful parties should be like, unless you’re looking to get absolutely shitfaced.

But hey Rowan deserved a proper sendoff for making it to this point and not dying in the process. Hal is going to miss the old pilot though.

"Hal, I got something for you, before I forget"

"Hm, what is it"

The old man puts a small intricate glass model of a f16 fighter in his hand.

"Back when I started I was given this for good luck and protection"

Rowan presses it down firmly and stands there all official like "may it grant you both as it did for me"

They both stand there for a second before laughing.

“Feel free to shelf the whole luck thing, what’s really important is skill and experience. Still, knowing you, you can definitely use the protection ”

Hal grins, "Thanks, I'll keep close"

"You better, the sentimental value is sky high" Rowan slaps his shoulder with another laugh.

Good lord what a dork.

The old retiring pilot wasn't paying attention, too caught up in everything else but Hal saw the faint and brief green hue coming from his hand.

In a panic he slammed his other hand over top. Completely missing the quietly whispered "protect"

Too busy cussing out his ring in his head, he swears that thing is trying to out him on purpose sometimes.

This time it wasn't the ring though, so it's a good thing it's an inanimate object and can't be upset at how wrong Hal is being right now.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah! Let's get back to the others"

The evening ends uneventfully.

---

It's really only until quite a bit later that things start to happen.

"Green lantern" its batman's business voice.

Both Hal and John look up.

"Jordan" ah shit.

"I'll catch you up later" and he leaves Hal behind, traitor.

"What's up spooky"

"You need to update your file, it is missing critical information, and on that note I wasn’t aware that the lantern suits grant you intangibility now"

"I... what..? It doesn't? What are you talking about spooks"

"Hrn" Batman pulls up a screen and shows him footage of the latest fight, in it you can clearly see something was supposed to hit Hal but went right through him "You're telling me you didn't know or notice this?"

Hal just looks kinda sick. That would have been a bad hit and he just straight up didn't even notice.

Batman just kind of silently looks at him and he must have come to some conclusion because the next thing Hal knows this comes out of his mouth.

"I've already ran your blood through the lab, it's not a sudden emergence of a meta gene so it's either from the lantern corps or you've otherwise externally been affected by something that's causing this"

Hal closes his eyes and internally counts to ten, it doesn't help.

Batman takes his silence to mean he can keep talking. The man is on an unusual roll. Hal would have been ecstatic if he didn't hate the topic quite so much.

"It would have been best if it had something to do with your ring however you seem to be completely unaware and I've also noted that the green of your ring and the green glow that comes with the density shifting are different"

He has examples with corresponding color codes, Hal is so tired.

“let's set a time frame…” Batman pulls up some documents and graph on the screen “seeing as you are unaware of this development I will set the starting point of this potential change as of now to right after the last time you have been known to be hit in a fight and before the first known instance of you being able to density shift, that leaves us with a full month.”

Hal really, really does not want to be here anymore.

“In this month you have not gone off planet so whatever caused this is on Earth” Batman pauses for a moment, “has anything significant happened during that time that springs to mind now?”

“no, nothing significant has happened during that time, frankly it’s been a very pleasant uneventful four weeks in which I finally managed to catch a break and it figures something crazy has apparently happened anyway”

Hal rubs his face with both hands, “but right now I couldn’t tell you what, anyway, does this have to be a bad thing? I for one am very glad that hit didn’t actually land”

“So far only Superman has had the privilege of having sudden emergence of new powers work out for him” Batman huffs, “it would be best to monitor this carefully, if anything springs to mind do not hesitate to inform me, the sooner this is figured out the better”

“awww you do care” Hal is using humor cope, sadly it’s Batman, so it’s not very effective.

“Jordan” now Batman sounds tired, he’s not the one with random surprise density shifting, Hal understand that Spooky’s crippling chronic paranoia must be exhausting but right now he’s the one freaking out considering this is apparently not a meta gene related development, it would have been so much easier if it was, oh and about that, just how and when did Batman get his blood exactly? he would like to know now.

---

sadly he does not get to know now. or anytime soon (or ever). it’s chaos right after, because of course it is.

knocked out of the sky and lying amongst the rubble, if their enemy spots him he’s in bigger shit than he already is, but he can’t fucking move and the next thing he knows he’s invisible.

and there is just nothing enjoyable about it.

Barry doesn’t know that though, “that was something else, just one moment and schwup and you were just gone, some sort of green lantern light bending? he looked right through you, thank god he did too” 

shit shit, “no that was..." it was like he just ceased to exist, movies and books and whatever other media always depicts it as such a cool thing but frankly it was terrifying. And he would prefer things that are terrifying not to happen to him, for obvious reasons, “honestly actually it’s complicated, stealth tech” Grade A bullshit.

“well it’s awesome”

“it was useful just now but not really my style you know” 

Barry slings his arm over Hal’s shoulder and gives him a one armed hug, “everything worked out” Hal can feel some tension flow out of his friend, “well! better get busy cleaning this mess up” and with a blink he’s gone.

Hal does not want to talk about this with Batman, but knowing him, he probably already knows anyway, it would be less of a headache to go to him than have him go to Hal. 

Hal wants to enjoy whatever this is, he really does, but he doesn’t know what caused this, he doesn’t know what triggers the new abilities or whatever they are, he doesn’t know what effects this shit is going to have in the future, he just doesn’t know anything, normally he doesn’t mind not knowing some things, he’s fine leaving the knowing to the people better suited for the more complicated knowing, but he would very much like to know more about this please.

---

Then they face off against an enemy and in the process Hal drains his ring completely and the next hit is going to be bad, so what will happen? Will he somehow go intangible again? Turn invisible and use the confusion to evade and attack?

No

Apparently this time he just gets a glowing green dome shield. Something very normal for him to have and use, if only it came out of his ring that is.

Nobody notices that something is wrong, nobody besides Batman that is.

"That's three new abilities that only appear during life threatening situations"

Hal has actually seriously gone over that month by now, but nothing, no answers. He's physically fine, mentally a little damaged but nothing new there, they all are. Every test he begrudgingly went through answered nothing. He was fine. Whatever was going on actually had nothing to do with him.

And at the same time it had everything to do with him because this is only happening to him.

As usual (by now) he takes out his little glass fighter jet and runs his thumb over the wings. It is soothing strangely enough. Like a stim toy.

"The last thing to try is a thorough examination by someone from the justice league dark"

Hal groans, magic, ok then, "Alright let's get this over with. Who knows maybe I'm just haunted"

It turns out he’s not haunted, this is a good thing... supposedly, Well let’s just say that Hal would have not minded being haunted or something if that meant it could be fixed, or just explained.

It doesn’t really need to be fixed, whatever this is has been very helpful after all, but he would do basically anything for an explanation right about now.

“you are not haunted or otherwise magically compromised, but I do sense faint traces of energy from the infinite realms” Zatanna is a godsent, finally something to work with.

“from the who whats?” Hal is worried, the occult field is definitely not his area of expertise. He's a space cop, not a space demonhunter… oh that would be pretty cool though, with like a hood and twin cyber crossbows, maybe he should incorporate that somehow.

“the infinite realms… have you recently been in touch with any death related realities?”

Well there was that time when he got booted to the death universe and he died and then he was a black lantern but he got better, that’s all very much very behind him.

She better not be about to tell him that stuff still has lingering consequences.

oh god dammit that’s exactly what is going on isn’t it?

"How recently?"

"In the past week?"

"Oh, no" Hal would have known if that was the case, death stuff tends to be hard to ignore.

Zatanna frowns, that's probably not a good sign.

"But you said I'm not compromised right?" Right now what Hal wants to know the most is if this is changing him. Cause it tends to be bad for him when that's the case.

"No this is just lingering traces of something or someone else using their powers near you"

???!!??!?

"What are the infinite realms?" oh hey there Batman, was wondering when you would show up again.

"It's the afterlife, or... more like a collection of all afterlives. The infinite realms is very literal in their naming. It is home to powerful dead entities. As a general rule magic users are discouraged from interacting with it.

"Hrn"

"What did you say happened to you so far Hal?"

"Uhm, density shifting, invisibility and then a green dome-like shield, a lot like my own energy constructs"

"that sounds like pretty standard stuff for a realms being"

"Soooo what, did one leave the afterlife and decide to follow me around or something?"

"I cannot conclusively say, I can only say that you've been close to one using its abilities"

Batman folds his arms over his chest, "We shouldn’t form theories on these findings alone, Zatanna are these realm beings dangerous?"

"Hard to say, they come in all manner of forms, some small and harmless and others on the level of world destroying gods."

Great great great, awesome, well it’s probably safe to say that whatever decided to stick around Hal isn’t small and harmless, cause small and harmless doesn’t sound strong enough to casually turn him intangible or invisible… he could be wrong though.

“I do advise caution, beings from the infinite realms also have the ability to possess someone, they call it overshadowing”

Batman’s lips thin and Hal tenses up, mind control of any kind is always awful.

“I’ll place a ward on you, as a precaution” energy starts to gather in her hands.

Batman moves for the door, “we might need to look into a way to force this being to reveal itself, it would be best if we could convince it to return to their realm”

“Well I mean-” Hal starts, “like I get that, but they have been a great help so far” 

“they are a security risk”

“I’m just saying, I am grateful that they kept me from being confined to the medical wing for who even knows how long, who knows they might just be shy, wouldn’t it be better to convince them to become our ally, like Deadman. instead of telling them to leave. just cause we don’t understand how they work yet doesn’t mean they are bad and should be booted out of our reality”

Batman narrows his eyes at Hal and turns to Zatanna who is finished with placing the ward on Hal, “Zatanna please send me all you have on the infinite realms, I will do my own research” and with that he sweeps out of the room, very dramatic.

“Ass” Hal whispers under his breath.

“He’s worried”

“well he’s being a dick about it, as usual” Hal’s fingers find his little plane once again “... hey do you think they could communicate through one of those oejah boards?”

Zatanna snorts, “it’s Ouija- and please don’t”

---

No information from the JLD has been useful so far in coaxing the realms being to reveal themselves and for the most part things just go on as usual.

“Whoever they are, they followed me when I went off planet and it might just be my imagination but I had a feeling that their stuff was a lot more… potent? out there? I don’t know it was kinda strange, it just felt stronger”

“but they didn’t reveal themselves to you?”

“nope, they must know that I know now too, so they have decided to just… go on as they always have I guess”

“hrn” Batman is leafing through files, because of this whole mess he’s uncovered hidden government organizations targeting occult entities as well as inhumane laws that stand directly opposed to the meta protection acts.

Why is he working with paper regarding this matter? Well it turns out there is a infinite realms being that can possess electronica and it was only because of the protections the JLD had put in place on the Watchtower that the entity didn’t overtake it in its entirety.

Watching Constantine freak out had been mildly entertaining but Zatanna had once again reminded Batman to be very careful, Batman had begrudgingly admitted he had made a slight misstep while digging for answers… in his head, not out loud, god forbid.

“this whole thing is turning out a lot bigger than we thought huh, good thing we are dealing with it now” Hal stretches his arms above his head, “anyway I am going to go grab something to eat”

“the rapport-” Batman doesn’t bother looking at him.

“yeah yeah” Hal doesn’t either while walking out of the room, dismissively flicking his hand, “don’t worry about it spooky”

Hal takes his little plane out on the way to the cafeteria and fiddles with it in his hand, once there he puts it on the table next to Barry before getting himself something to eat.

They catch up, Hal complains (bitches) about Batman, others come and go, Zatanna quickly checks up on the ward she placed which makes Barry raise an eyebrow at Hal, “Ghost protection”

“... no such thing”

Zatanna glares.

Hal can see them both gearing up to start the magic is just science we haven’t fully scienced out yet argument again, “alright! I’m full” he stands up, “if you need me I’ll be writing that rapport, later” and gets the hell out of there.

It’s when he has just reached his preferred spot to work on the boring paperwork stuff when the alarms go off throughout what he can only imagine must probably be the entire Watchtower.

It seems like something triggered all of the JLD’s defenses in one go.

Impressive, but also very worrying.

The rapport is going to have to wait.

People are gathering in the meeting room and Batman is already taking the lead, “status”

“as of a couple minutes ago there was a build up of as of yet unknown energy which then burst in the cafeteria knocking out Flash” Martian Manhunter says, “Zatanna says we are most likely dealing with another being from the infinite realms”

Superman groans, this means he’s out.

It’s a good thing they now have defenses against overshadowing though. Being effectively trapped in a space station (because currently the thing is on lockdown) where literally anyone could suddenly actually be the enemy is the kind of situation a whole slew of horror movies like to be about.

“We will need to be extremely careful while finding and then dealing with this entity”

It has certainly been quite some time since the Watchtower got directly hit like this.

Hal pulls out his little plane.

or, he would, if he still had it.

thoroughly distracted now he suddenly realizes it’s no longer on his person.

Spooky is probably not going to like it if during the infinite realms attacker hunt he takes the opportunity to look around for his missing little fighter jet.

well what he doesn’t know won’t harm him.

His plan of looking for the plane while looking for the ghost is working out well enough.

In fact it is working out so good that he finds both at the same time.

At that point Hal had started wondering if maybe Barry had picked it up for him at the cafeteria before the attack happened and that the little thing was now in the medical wing with him. 

That turned out to clearly not be the case once he found the tiny thing glowing green and floating in the middle of the hallway.

“alright ghosty, that’s really important to me and I would like it back undamaged”

the tiny plane turned to now point directly at him, hmm, yeah that's not creepy at all.

 “... please don’t launch yourself at me” he foolishly says which of course means that’s exactly what it does next.

He uses his ring to construct a net with a pillow inside to catch the tiny jet, completely forgetting that it’s overshadowed and can thus easily just go intangible and right through his creations.

Instead it hits him square in the chest, rather painfully he might add and then just stops glowing and drops, making Hal scramble to not have it fall and shatter in a million tiny pieces on the ground.

immediately all the sensors stop detecting the presence of a realms being and the alarms die down.

Whatever was in the Watchtower has left the building.

or…

Hal looks down at the tiny plane in his hands, his talisman of protection and has a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Hey there little guy, might want to explain yourself?” he says to the tiny jet.

It vibrates in his hands.

“... yeah I figured, shit”

---

“I say just smash the bloody thing and be done with it, preferably that takes care of it once and for all” Constantine glares down at the tiny jet.

Hal is almost halfway over the table to shield the little thing, covering it from Constantine’s sight with his hand, “don’t you dare” he growls.

“it would be best for everyone involved, for all we known you could have gone full liminal what with how long you’ve been carrying the blasted thing around”

Zatanna is going over the little thing with her own magic, “it’s trapped”

“In that case just straight up trying to murder it would be the worst thing to do” Hal glares at Constantine some more. Who clearly doesn’t give a shit, figures, all stressed out about dealing with things from the infinite realms but whenever he feels he has the upper hand he’s more than happy to go full nuclear.

“it would be best if we had a way of figuring out their intentions” Batman looks down at the tiny jet impassively.

“Well, another reason to just carefully release this creature instead” Hal responds.

Zatanna’s magic fades away, “I would say that the fact it’s been protecting Hal for as long as he has it is a positive sign”

“hrn, but now it has gone and knocked Flash out, so what does that say” Batman huffs, “it’s too risky”

“Constantine and I will set up everything we can so it won’t be able to escape or try anything dangerous” Zatanna stops looking at Batman and turns back to the tiny plane, “if it turns out to be malicious we could simply banish it back to the realms, killing it would be rather stupid, we do not know what kind of connections it might have within the realms, we might accidentally anger something far worse with such a rash act”

Constantine groans but accepts Zatanna’s reasoning, Batman nods as well.

It’s only then that Hal moves out of the way.

Any plans of attack or banishment fly right out of the window once the two magic users are done and a young boy manifests from the tiny fighter jet.

Hal pushes Constantine aside to get to the boy’s side.

“Jordan, are you insane! Get back here!” 

“Hey, kid, can you hear me? please open your eyes, slowly, take your time” 

Batman has also moved forward much to Constantine’s frustration. Don't these two morons get that their protections won’t do shit if you just casually stroll into the circle?

Batman is mostly concerned in being able to step in should the boy prove to be a hostile entity anyway, but at the same time… well, that’s a child.

The boy kind of dazedly opens his eyes, looks at Hal and then seems to become aware of his own arms and hands, after opening and closing those a couple times he looks back at Hal and lets out a breath that can only be described as relieved and promptly passes out into him.

Well, Hal figures that settles it then. He doesn’t know shit about looking after a kid, and definitely not one who is probably quite dead, but this one is his, back off Batman.

they all startle rather violently when rings of blinding white light pass over the boy and suddenly the kid in Hal’s arms is a bit warmer and seems to have a sluggish pulse and also his clothes are different and his hair is now black and-

Hal is up and moving towards the medical wing before his mind catches back up with him. He can hear Batman behind him, it seems like Constantine and Zatanna aren’t moving after him as fast.

Well anyway his life is already so goddamn weird, this might as well happen.

[harmonictechnicality]

model!steve and voice actor!eddie

part 2 here | ao3 link here

Eddie chose a career in voice acting to avoid shit like this.

Forced socializing. Schmoozing with hotshot directors who are used to everyone kissing their ass until their lips bleed. And Eddie doesn’t do that shit. 

… Okay yeah sure, Eddie kisses asses. But only in the literal, consensual kind of way. Usually after a few mediocre dinner dates, at least.

But this particular fuckhole of a director is insisting that Eddie attends the production shoot of the commercial that he’ll be narrating for. Which is weird - that’s not how this process typically goes. Eddie gets the script and records it in his studio. Easy peasy.

“I do things a little differently with my projects.” The director sneers into the phone’s speaker. Eddie silently gags at the oozing amounts of ego on this guy. “I want to immerse you into my vision.”

Ew. Eddie would rather immerse himself into a nap, but whatever. A job is a job.

“Understood.” Eddie agrees with minimal teeth-clenching. “I’ll be on set shortly.”

The phone clicks dead with nothing but a chuckle from the guy. No ‘goodbye,’ no ‘thank you.’ Rude… but that’s kind of an industry standard, so why did Eddie expect anything different?

He folds the script into his back pocket, throws on a shirt that screams ‘Los Angeles disaster gay,’ and makes his way to the studio lot.

Fucking yay. 

Upon arrival, the director immediately escorts Eddie into the green room. Rambles on about needing him to meet the lead model for this commercial.

“Isn’t he just posing with the product?” Eddie lets his snarkiness run loose with that question, knows it right away.

Luckily, the guy is too busy snapping at a crew member to notice. “You’ll be voicing his character’s inner narrations.”

“Right.”

“And I want your tone to be seamless with the energy that he’s giving in this shoot. Got it?”

“Loud and clear.” Mostly loud.

The director swings open the door and reveals maybe the most cosmically beautiful person that Eddie has ever seen.

“Eddie, this is Steve.” The director says. “Steve, this is Eddie.”

Models are beautiful people, that’s the goddamn gig. Makeup, no makeup. Photoshop, no photoshop. They just look better than the general population and society accepts that as a fact.

But Eddie is a grubby little voice actor that burrows himself up in his boxy apartment for days. Very little sunlight, very little human interaction, and a shit ton of takeout.

Long story short, he doesn’t get out much. So this? Seeing a biblically hot heartthrob in the flesh? With his own two eyes? It’s knocking him into deep space. Sending him into an astral projection without sticking a tablet on his tongue first.

“Nice to meet you, man.” Steve holds out his hand while someone brushes more powder onto his shiny, glowy skin. God, that’s the best damn skin Eddie has ever seen. Powder be damned, Steve doesn’t need it’s chalky finish.

Eddie shakes himself out of this spell, takes Steve’s hand like he’s somehow worthy of touching him. “Yeah, you too.”

Lame. So lame. On a scale of one to Star Wars prequels, his response is the CGI in Attack of the Clones. ‘Yeah, you too?’ Ugh, what a dumbass.

The director tells them to get acquainted and to be on set in ten minutes. Ten minutes. Eddie has to be convincingly normal for ten whole minutes. Pfft, that’s laughable, but he’ll give it a shot.

“That guy’s a total asshat.” Steve grumbles.

Oh. Eddie could smother him in kisses for saying that. Lick Steve clean of all that stupid powder and probably die of talc poisoning. Death By Licking a Model is one hell of a way to go.

“Yeah.” Find some new words, Munson. “Major asshat. But he happens to be paying my bills this month, so technically, he’s my favorite major asshat.”

“Oh, same.” Steve laughs. It’s fucking glorious too. Eddie kind of wishes he had brought his microphone so that he could capture such a wonderful sound with high quality recording software. Is that creepy? Maybe he should dial it back. 

... As if. This guy’s hair is sculpted with effortless perfection and his shoulder blades could slice through a French baguette. No way Eddie can dial it back or keep it together.

“So you’re doing the voice work on the commercial, right?” Steve asks.

‘Yup.” Eddie shoves both hands into his pockets. “Indeed I am.” 

Okay, that was borderline Yoda. Get a grip.

Steve seems unfazed though. “That’s cool. Can’t wait to hear what you come up with.”

“Thanks.” Eddie smiles warmly. Nerves mellowing out. “And I can’t wait to see you in action out there.”

“Hope I can give you some good inspiration.” And Steve winks, legit winks at Eddie. Does it like it’s normal too, like he winks at everybody. He probably winks at nuns just to see if he can get them to consider conversion.

Eddie is so hopeless. Fucking tragic at this point.

They walk into the studio and are greeted by a somber, archaic set design. There’s a massive throne in the middle that is draped with fur. 

It’s… tacky. That’s the nicest adjective Eddie has to describe it. Tacky bullshit.

“I thought this was for a cologne ad.” Eddie says, eyeing the snowy backdrop.

Steve nods. “It is.”

“So what’s with the secondhand Game of Thrones set?”

“Mr. Asshat thinks this is his cinematic debut.”

Eddie snorts. Loves that he already has inside jokes with this beautiful, beautiful creature. “Someone should tell Mr. Asshat that this is visual plagiarism.”

“Nah.” Steve runs his hand over the tacky fur piece. Smirks to himself as he speaks. “I say we let him suffer.”

Eddie’s legs wobble. “Damn, you’re hot.”

He sounds ridiculously uncool, so breathy and gone. But Steve shrugs in a non-pitying kind of way, so maybe Eddie's uncoolness is excused. Or expected.

While the camera and lighting crew finalize their positions, Steve takes off his robe, revealing his costume.

Torn, muddied pants. Ripped and clawed to shreds. A billowy white top that’s completely unbuttoned. Un-laced? Eddie’s not entirely sure about the mechanics - just knows that Steve’s chest is out, that’s all he can focus on.

There’s a dented crown that the stylist places next to the throne, right at Steve’s feet. It’s shimmery yet tarnished, catches the light in a kaleidoscope effect.

The product is called The Fallen King, so deductive reasoning tells Eddie that Steve is meant to be the physical embodiment of this scent. He recalls something in the script about his title being slandered by promiscuity and forbidden love. Apparently they’ve bottled up that smell into a cologne. 

Do people really want to smell like a dethroned monarch? That’s a thing? Huh.

Just to make the sexual torture even more unbearable, Eddie gets to spectate alongside Mr. Asshat himself. Which also means that Eddie almost has a center view of Steve’s performance.

Cause that’s exactly what he’s giving. A performance. A full display production of his body, his face. His whole godlike essence. 

It’s unfair how fucked Eddie is from watching Steve pose. He can hold the oddest positions without budging a single tendon. So still. Durable. Strong.

Every last thought in Eddie’s head is impure from that observation. He wants to wrap his fingers around Steve’s muscles until he finally moves, twitches. Eddie wants to watch as Steve’s pretty lips part, falling open with sighs. See how long it takes for those sighs to turn into moans.

Steve slumps back into the throne, legs spread obscenely far apart. His gaze droops low and dark, practically eye-fucking the camera. It’s crazy how jealous Eddie is of that stupid inanimate object. The things he would do to get eye-fucked by that golden sex god up there…

His internal porno gets interrupted by a new pose. A wicked one. Steve is on his knees now, looking up into the camera lens. He sinks into the dreamiest expression. Looks dazed, all spaced-out and helpless. Eddie kneads at the growing heat in his pants with the heel of his palm. Hopes it’s not fucking obvious that he’s so horned up right now.

The director clears his throat and yells over the camera’s constant shuttering. “Can you tilt your head back, Steve?”

And Steve does. So obedient, so exceptional at his job. His head rolls back on his neck, shoulders sagging with the shift of weight.

Eddie is chewing the inside of his cheek, nearly ready to take the horny loss and go jack off in his car. Steve is in the most ideal position now, totally vulnerable. Eddie could fuck him so good like that, let Steve melt into his touch. He’d treat him like treasure, spoil him with dick and praise. Eddie would catch him if his legs give out. Would lick Steve’s kiss-bitten lips until the swelling goes down.

God, Eddie is so sick in the head for conjuring up x-rated scenes like this. In public, surrounded by strangers. Literally on the clock. He seriously needs to get his head checked for having such a whorish imagination.

The shoot ends shortly after that last pose, the one that rocked Eddie’s world. He closes his eyes for a minute, takes a few deep breaths. Tries to inhale some goddamn decency.

“How was it?” Steve heads his way, snaking his arms back into the bathrobe.

Eddie blinks hard. “It was… you were…” And the words stop. Nothing else comes out, his throat is strangled and bare.

Steve gives a soft laugh, nudges Eddie’s arm with his elbow. “Guess you do better when there’s a script in front of you, huh?”

Oh. So he’s pretty and darkly playful? This is too good, too delicious.

Eddie wets his bottom lip, recovers quickly. “I do better when there’s not an earthbound angel in my presence.”

“Wow.” Steve raises both eyebrows. “That’s quite the compliment.”

“Oh come on - you must get compliments all the time.”

“Not like that one though.”

“No?”

Steve takes a step into Eddie’s space. “Definitely not.”

They just stare after that - mostly because it’s Eddie’s turn to speak but words are so secondary when there’s this much beauty to behold. Gazing becomes his top priority.

And before the conversation can lead to an exchange of last names or phone numbers, Steve is rushed off by his agent. Maybe his publicist. Maybe his mom, Eddie has no fucking clue. Just someone taking away his shiny new toy. He sort of feels like reenacting that scene in Cast Away when the volleyball drifts into the ocean. Be dramatic as all hell about this ending.

Eddie doesn’t actually jack off in his car, although he really wants to. No, he decides to use all of his adrenaline and pent-up hormones for the voice recording. It gives his vocals this strained, chesty sound. Sinful and corrupt. Cracking with emotion in certain spots, spiking the volume in all the right ways.

It might be too much, a little bit too suggestive for a lousy cologne advertisement.

But as he listens back, Eddie can’t help but picture Steve. Imagining snapshots of him from every angle, especially the unspeakable ones. The recording barely sounds like a script anymore. It almost sounds like Eddie whispering the lines directly into Steve’s ear. A dirty secret between them.

This is it, he thinks. Sends the audio file to his sound mixer without a second read-through, without a retake. This might be the best voiceover Eddie Munson has ever done.

[giantenemyrobot]

Happy uh late jalloween

[erinwantstowrite]

Have you thought of doing a funny Stan Lee cameo in LOF in the DC universe like Peter?

i haven't but that's because i hadn't even thought TO do it,,, now i have to because holy shit that'd be funny

[dustykneed]

everyone knows that if you bring your best friend along on a date with your bf, either your best friend of your bf will end up being third wheeled-- unless you're jim t kirk and you manage to third wheel for your first officer (who is in fact your boyfriend) and your cmo best friend.

no i have not watched bread and circuses yet but i feel in my heart that this applies. and also objectively the bread and circuses outfits are so insanely mind-blowingly attractive?? i needed an excuse to draw them in tight-fitting shirts and i regret nothing 😎

you just know that whenever the pre-mcspirk triumvirate hangs out whoever did the inviting will inevitably end up being the third wheel. like jim invites spock over to play chess and brings bones along to spectate and commentate and IMMEDIATELY spones joins forces to beat his ass (bickering and sassing each other all the while. and by the end bones is basically halfway on spock's lap smug as hell with spock leaning back a little just to accommodate him, a hand ghosting his waist to keep him from losing his balance.) And they beat jim's ass so soundly it would almost be embarrassing if he hadn't been preoccupied with committing the way spock and bones fit so well together to memory.

or spock will ask jim and bones over for dinner, and somehow while he's turned his back for a minute replicating their meals mckirk will have gotten into a playful argument about the worst terran movie and spock watches this eventually escalate into a mock tussle on the couch (and then onto the floor, where jim solidly pins bones (who is voicing his complaints very loudly) to the carpet and sort of pets at him until he goes pliant and giggly. and spock keeps watching because he can't bring himself to look away from how jim's biceps and triceps flex with the exertion of keeping a flailing bones still, and the way bones' shirt has rucked up with his wriggling and is now exposing his midriff in a decidedly... agreeable manner. And now their dinner is getting cold but spock is very much not. the opposite, in fact.

for bones though, generally he has the opposite problem-- whenever he tries to corner jim for a physical, it's guaranteed that spock will show up with him and stand next to his bed and all but hold jim's hand in front of the entire medbay and (with infuriating accuracy and highly amusing, transparent urgency) hand bones the instruments he needs before he even reaches for them, hovering by jim's side all the while. and jim is also TERRIBLE about not physically attaching himself to spock and actually letting bones do his goddamn job when spock gets hurt. if he wasn't so fond of them both, he swears he would've kicked them out of his medbay ages ago. Too bad they've both wormed their way solidly into his heart.

...

prompt fill for @mcspirkevents' mcspirk month day 26 "expectations vs reality" (i know this isn't spicy but by god spirk's mouths are actually touching and given my track record of not being able to draw people kissing properly it might as well be, lol) 🩵💙💛

[simplepotatofarmer]

handmade warmth

for the @sixteenth-day-event

The cold made Dream’s leg hurt. He rubbed a hand over his residual limb, massaging the scarred flesh and the muscle remained. It was a phantom pain and it annoyed him, that unwanted reminder of what had happened in the prison. He had told Techno that if it was in his mind then he should be able to control it and Techno hadn’t laughed but had given him an oddly tight smile and said he wasn’t sure it worked like that. Leaning forward, Dream held his hands out to the fire. It was low now, as the evening had dragged into night, and that was letting in the chill that caused the aching in his joints.

He thought about calling for Techno, who had disappeared upstairs for something he promised was important, to add another log. He could do it himself on a good day but he was tired and the muscle spasm in his leg when he had moved still hadn’t faded. Some rational part of his mind said it had been barely over a month since he had escaped the prison and it made sense he wasn’t up to much yet. Dream had been studiously ignoring it.

The metal poker was just within reach if Dream tipped the chair over just a little.

“If you fall, I am gonna laugh at you,” came Techno’s voice from behind him.

The chair dropped back to floor with a thud and Dream turned around with the best scowl he could manage, cheeks red and hot.

“I’m not—Shut up, Techno, you’re—you’re the one who left me here for, like, three hours,” said Dream, eyes flicking to the window as he tried to judge how much time had passed. The snow outside, tinted purple by the beacons, made it difficult.

“Bruh, it was not three hours.”

Dream rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, sinking into the chair.

“It felt like three hours.” Dream glanced down. “What’s that?”

The ‘that’ in question was a large package that was tucked under Techno’s arm. It was wrapped in paper decorated with snowflakes and holly and it was lumpy. The bow that had been carefully tied around it was crushed a little. Techno held it out and patted one hand against it.

“It’s a present, Dream,” he said, crossing the room to stand in front of Dream. He set in his lap. “Merry Christmas, man.”

Blinking a couple times, Dream ran his hand over the package and then frowned.

“It’s not even Christmas.”

Techno glanced at the fireplace then reached for a log. He carefully placed it on top, the flames licking at his fingers, and if it burnt, he didn’t seem to notice. Pulling his rocking chair a little bit forward, he sat.

“Eh, it’s Christmas Eve. Close enough.” Techno shrugged. “Beside, that’s as much for me as it is for you. Go on, open it, man.”

In the fireplace, the flames licked up the new log. Dream’s frown deepened. There were half a dozen protests he could make – that Christmas Eve still wasn’t Christmas, that he hadn’t gotten anything for Techno – but he began to carefully tear open the paper.

“Whatever,” he muttered. The embarrassed blush was still on his face.

Once the paper was removed, it took Dream a moment to figure out what it was. He ran his fingers over the soft fabric, a patchwork of different patterns and colors. Flowers and swirls and geometric shapes. Greens and blues and spots of reds. Dream unfolded the quilt partially. The back was three large blocks of fabric, all shades of dark navy that reminded Dream of the night sky in the arctic. He looked up. Techno was watching with a satisfied expression, mouth curved into a smile, tusks glinting in the firelight.

“What d’you think? Now you can finally stop hoggin’ my blanket,” said Techno.

Dream pulled the quilt further into his lap, letting it spill down across his legs. It was thicker than he had first realized. The weight on his lap was surprisingly comforting. It was warm. The mismatch of colors was pretty and Dream knew it’d be prettier once it was spread out. He loved it.

He said, “Heh. Hogging.”

In the chair across from him, Techno groaned and slapped a hand to his face in an over-exaggerated manner that was mostly to hide the grin. He got to his feet.

“Alright, that’s it. I’m takin’ it back, you’re outta here.”

Those words would’ve once caused a flutter of panic in Dream’s chest, would’ve birthed a snarky comment about wanting to leave, but Techno didn’t mean it. He knew that. Dream tugged the quilt up to his chest.

“No, fuck off, Techno. You made it for me, it’s mine.”

Laughing, Techno bent and tucked the blanket up around Dream’s shoulders.

“Yeah, you got me there, man,” he said. “I’m guessin’ you like it, then.”

The phantom pain had subsided. Dream shifted in the chair and rubbed his chin against the soft fabric of the quilt. A smile slowly worked its way across his face.

“Yeah.” A beat. “Thanks, Techno.”

[thetrinitytest]

[my-world-my-stories]

Aftermath cuddles with a giant, buff alien lady that just became your GF. Is there anything better?

Also, a lovely bracelet Wy'ld made for Cat as a mating gift (As seen in Chapter 15). Space hunters need hobbies too.

[itsyagurlchip]

Hihi! ^w^ saw your requests were open annnd i was wondering if you could do a husk x reader [romantic + established relationship] where reader is his lucky charm. Like he just has such good luck when they’re around him (especially when he’s gambling). Just make it super cute n fluffy :3

☀︎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･The Best Gamble Love Can Give☀︎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

ᯓᡣ𐭩 warnings: super fluff attack(!) cussing(!) gambling/alcohol addiction(!) wife-coded reader(!)

ᯓᡣ𐭩Guys I swear to God if y'all don't correct my grammar imma find y'all houses and eat your waffle fries/j. This one is super cute anon! Thank you for requesting <33 I want to make some hearts explode with this one. Would you be fine if I made you Husk's spouse? (tehe)

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Even if he didn't win, he still has you. And that's more than luck could ever grant.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 !!For those who don't play, Speed is a game where you have 20 cards to discard, and two discard piles. You have to place down each card (one by one) as fast as you can, in order, and whoever runs out of cards first wins. If there are no more cards to place, you grab from the piles on the sides to continue the game. All while keeping 5 cards in your hand at a time. While you don't need to know this in order to read the story- it will be helpful to know bc I'm not that good at explaining card games.!!

Husk kept on losing, and it was starting to piss him off. Today's redemption exercise was to practice to eliminate the need for gambling; ironically, Husk was chosen to lead the rounds of games. The current game was Speed, with Hellish versions of playing cards.

And he was losing. So. Bad.

Everyone was sitting in the main area, with the usual furniture switched out for tables and chairs. Husk growled, but kept his composure.

"Where's the serenity at, dear Husker? Getting 'chaff' now are we? I guess the cat does lose it's skill, after getting too curious of course." Alastor said, antagonizing him further. Husk banged his fist on the table, making the sinner in front of him jump a bit.

"Fuck!" He grumbles out. The first 5 were won easily, but for some reason these past 30 something games have been no luck.

At first, the goal of the exercise was to play a few games, and quit. You know, to discourage bad behavior but still have fun. But right now, even without a genuine bet, he was setting a bad example. He knows. The sinner in front of him was playing swiftly and skillfully. His wing twitched and he grimaced as his mind stuttered.

But he just had to win. He has to keep going.

Charlie was getting concerned, but he waved her off. Everyone else was finished with their rounds of games, it was time for a new activity. But Husk wasn't gonna allow himself to lose like this.

Not to a damned practice game.

Then you walked next to him. One by one, he rapidly placed down cards in order. His partner did as well, speed was the game afterall. His ear twitched as your heels softly clacked against the floor.

"Hey Husk, baby. You doin' any good?" You said, your voice dripping like honey over his ears. But then he remembered the game. You were worried, Vaggie told you he's been going on like this for hours non-stop. It's almost nighttime.

"Yea, don' worry. Imma win this game in just a minute." He responded, gruffly as he missed the chance to place his ace. He put down a 4 over the five in the second discard pile then. 2 cards left in his deck, but none that followed the order of the discard pile. Fuck.

His partner had 1 card left, probably a king considering the cards that were already placed down.

You kissed his fluffy forehead, relishing in the near silent purr he let out.

"Alright sweetheart, finish up the game so everyone can go to sleep." You fidgeted with his ears in your hands for a bit, before letting go and sitting at the bar.

Watching from afar, you saw that he won. But he wanted to play again. This time though, you didn't allow it. Vaggie saw that you had it handled, so she went up to the elevator. Probably to her room with Charlie, you guessed.

You stood up, walking towards him again with a glass of whiskey, swished with chocolate hints. You placed it in front of him while he was shuffling the cards, not before taking a sip.

The affectionate way it is then.

"Hey, you." You said, slowly rubbing up and down on his fur. You could feel it bristle in shivers before relaxing. Your chin rested on top of his head, lifting a bit to see what he was doing.

"Hey? You just talked to me a few minutes ago." He began to set the cards up, so you pluck them up and stacked them away into a withered box. His wing flapped in annoyance.

"I know," you chuckled. "I just knew you wouldn't last long without a drink. Nothin' too sweet of course." You finished, pushing the drink towards him.

While you couldn't eliminate his addictions, you could switch them for others in small amounts, enough to distract him to bed. You can't fix him, he can only help himself when he chooses to. You both know that.

"You know me too well, Sugarpie." Husk smiled, before talking a gulp of the glass you gave him. Half of it was gone. "No cherry?"

You laughed a bit, placing the box in your pocket to put away later. No one was in the room, no one you could see anyway.

"Naw." You rested your chin back down on his head, wrapping your arms around him neck a bit. "You would just swing it away. No appreciation for its flavor-" You scoffed amusedly at the thought.

He was now distracted away from the cards and now on you, good. You could hear Alastor snicker before walking away.

"Ready to go to bed?"

ᯓᡣ𐭩

In the dark room, you slept. Husk didn't.

He was wide awake, in a way that still made him feel tired, but not sleep. On his back, he looked up at the ceiling in mindless thought.

Husk didn't mind though, as long as it didn't affect your sleep. He looked at you. Your breaths were soft, and slow. His eyes dilated, though one could never really prove it.

Grabbing onto your waist, he cuddles into your side just a bit more, and relaxes with a deep sigh.

You, in your half asleep state, reach for him. In which you succeed, running your fingers through the tuffs of his ears in an unknown rhythm. Husk purred freely now, he loved it when this happened.

How lucky was he, of all people in this shitty hell, to still have his wife in the afterlife? Sure, you may not have done great things, but he was afraid that the two of you would forever be separated by heaven.

How lucky was he, in all of his shitty problems and mental shit, to be able to still have you around? To have you want him around?

That thought had brought a soft smile to his face. In all of his gambles, this was the best one he's ever made.

I think I remember who asked this, but then again I'm answering this one late. soooo, if I tag you incorrectly I'm so sorry (@kltira )

I think imma call this place the "debriefing space" bc I always wanna ramble, but I'm never sure where. Also, so people won't have to read this before the oneshot/fic. Nothing here will be specific, maybe things I'm thinking while writing, or things that I sorta wanna discuss.

Rather than being a lucky charm, I was thinking reader to be more of a saving grace for Husk. Which he already finds lucky enough. While you are motivation to win, it doesn't always secure his place for it.

I know this trope is kinds overused, but you and Husk were married during life (yippee!!). You guys are just two old people who want to spend time with each other lmao. I sorta headcannon that when he starts to get too into his addiction, you kind of save him (BUT NOT FROM ALASTOR LMAO/hj) and that was one of the reasons why he married you. Not only to keep himself in control, but to see you guys thrive together <33

you are quite literally his only silence from this hellhole.

{Can we just talk about how when Angel Dust nonconsensually touches Husk ppl call it "cute" and "aww", but when Valentino nonconsensually touches Angel it's now bad? likkke. we love the show but we gotta get some new writers for season 2 and fans who don't mischaracterize everything they see.

I'm now only really starting to think about this- and the double standard is starting to be more noticeable to me. Like when Sir Pentious was saying "no" but those demons still dragged him into the sex room. But that scene was used for entertainment rather than "Hey this is a serious moment" like Valentino was.

I'm all for HuskerDust, but you gotta realize when a character does something bad and does nothing to redeem from it, no matter if they're a part of the main cast or not. (isn't that what the show is supposed to be about- redemption? y'all do understand how destructive this behavior is and how it can easily make HuskerDust toxic right?). }

we need the option for another 'keep reading' thingy bc I talk too much. ignore my yapping.

૮₍˶• .•⑅₎ა tags: @kittykittyanon @bonefanatic @oleander-nin @towomatos @thealphagirl

૮₍˶• .•⑅₎ა@ziipzeepzop-eez @wheezdostuff @spongejuice @cyb3r-st4r @matteo-hamato

@clown-froggi

if you would like to be added, check my blog. if you would like to be added, check my blog. SEE? I SAID IT TWICE!!

[desceros]

masterpost

my ao3 || fics on tumblr headcanons, notes, mini-fics || blurple villain au

current projects: ONE SHOT: dayjob leo LONG FIC: symphony number 4 -> touch-starved donnie and professional musician reader 🎻 read HERE 🎻 tag for meta HERE 🎻 tag for asks/fanart/misc etc HERE

ideas in the queue: post here

i answer all asks publicly! here are some guidelines:

please don't ask: when i'm updating x; why i haven't updated y; "please write blah blah blah"; "what are your headcanons for [insert thing where you're obviously fishing for me to do a request post]"; "why is x fic so long" (spoiler: because i like it better that way) ok to ask: what i'm working on right now; questions about lore for any of my au settings; meta questions for any of my fics; opinions on things; random questions; how do i x or y; questions about how to write or something of that ilk; links to funny videos or dachshund stuff; just saying hello; basically anything else!

Individual links to fics below cut!

note: most of my stuff is on ao3, and i use the ao3 rating system for all my fics (ref here)

key: reader gender, rating, tmnt version; summary (link)

Leonardo (x)

GN!Reader, G, bayverse; deleted scene from tea fic; sharing calligraphy (here)

F!Reader, E, rise; leo comes back and wants to smell like home again (here)

F!Reader, E, rise; blurple symphony au where leo smells his shorts (here)

F!Reader, E, rise; leo loves your tits (here)

GN!Reader, M, rise; leo is suddenly horny (here)

F!Reader, E, rise; blurple symphony au where leo does a somnophilia (here)

F!Reader, E, rise; blurple symphony au where leo takes his chance after chap. 20 (here)

F!Reader, M, rise; leo "accidentally" sends you his nudes (here)

GN!Reader, T, rise; sunset hike up the hill (here)

Donatello (x)

F!Reader, E, bayverse; donnie pining mating season (here)

GN!Reader, T, bayverse; donnie is a dork (here)

F!Reader, T, bayverse; donnie rubs your back (here)

F!Reader, G, bayverse; watching donnie work (here)

GN!Reader, T, rise; waking next to donnie (here)

F!Reader, M, rise; symphony bad future fluff, chap. 19 spoilers! (here)

GN!Reader, G, rise; can't sleep (here)

F!Reader, E, rise; accidental double somno (here)

GN!Reader, T, rise; donnie helps you sleep (here)

F!Reader, M, rise, sleepy donnie (here)

GN!Reader, T, rise; donnie missed a week for... reasons (here)

Raphael (x)

GN!Reader, M, bayverse; raph likes it when you assume (here)

GN!Reader, M, bayverse; birthday plans (here)

Blurple Villain AU

F!Reader, usually T-E, rise; villain!leo au with the wolf/lamb/dog metaphor (masterpost here)

T; kissing donnie's scar for the first time (here)

E; leo likes lying on top of you (here)

E; pegging leo (here)

M; sharing an orange with leo (here)

TMNT

GN!Reader, G, bayverse; HCs for what goldilocks!leo and amaranthine!donnie want their insert-chan to wear (here)

GN!Reader, G, bayverse; HCs for all turtles with an insert-chan that has an unintelligible accent when upset (here)

[sidesteppostinghours]

ok. question.

ortega ended up hallucinating sidestep after they "died", but sidestep doesnt know about that. they know it got bad, but never the full extent of how their death affected them. so if your sidestep Did learn, if they found out ortega looked for them in every little piece they could, would that change anything for your sidesteps? would their relationship with ortega be any different?

[howdoyousleep3]

Prompt: Mommy Kink

Pairing: Female Reader x Randsom Drysdale Word Count: ~7K Tags: age difference, dom/sub relationship, alcohol use (light), porn with little/hidden plot, porn with little angst, mommy kink, nipple play, shower sex, praise kink, exhibitionism, dirty talk, topping from the bottom, multiple orgasms, edging, fluff Author's Note: This has become a fic I've been dying to wash my hands of; it's been in my life and WIP folder for far too long. I hope it doesn't read that way and I hope you can enjoy it. ❤️

As soon as you close the door to your apartment behind you, you know Ransom is here. 

You’ve stopped questioning how he gets into your home.

Based on the subtle tells littered all throughout your apartment, his mood is not a positive one. You know that without needing these signs from the slow walk through your kitchen and towards the living room; he doesn’t visit you when he is cheery. Cabinet door open, tequila bottle left uncorked, his coat draped along the back of your couch; he’s feeling quite brazen tonight. And he’s been drinking. 

You remind yourself of the importance of patience. 

You make no rush to find out where he is even though you have a sneaking suspicion that he’s somewhere in your bedroom. You can see him thinking that being in your most private of spaces will unnerve you, but it’s the most telling of all; a bedroom is the most intimate space in a home. 

You pour yourself two fingers worth of tequila, skip the ice, and place the bottle back into the cabinet. You leave your purse on the kitchen island.

The sound of your heels dances across the darkened walls of your apartment as you make your way to your bedroom. Your shin-length skirt flutters around you at a shared languid pace. You take your time turning off lights and ensuring the apartment is as it should be along your way, sipping on the golden liquid as you go. You gently pull the neck scarf from around the hollow of your throat, removing your hair clip and letting your locks tumble down over your shoulders. 

You softly smile to yourself as you unbutton your shirt enough to where the delicate lace of your bra is visible. There’s no doubt his eyes will be on your breasts in an instant. Good.

You aren’t sure what you expect, but him sitting in your bed, back against the headboard, your current read in his lap is not it. 

He sits in your room with only the dim light of your bedside lamp. You wonder if he realizes it’s terribly domestic. Your steps cease to falter though, not wanting to show him one ounce of surprise as you make your way to your dresser. By the time you’ve set your tumbler on your dresser and removed your watch from your wrist, he still has not spoken to you. You choose to break the silence. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” you murmur, reaching for the backs of your earrings as you remove them, turning to look at him as you do so. 

Your heart nearly stops. 

Immediately, you want to push and ask him what’s happened, his split lip and fresh bruise on his cheek pulling at your heart, but you know if you rush him, he’ll run. He’s still as gorgeous as ever though, his sharp clean jaw and an even sharper set of eyes. From across the room, they’re dark, but up close you know they’re beautifully haunted and bright with mischief. 

In his cable knit sweater and his socked feet, his hair unruly and boyish, the sight feels like a vice around your heart. 

He’s beautiful. 

He’s also a brat. 

Your favorite.

He merely watches you as you place your earrings in the tray on your dresser, placing the clip and neck scarf in their appropriate places as well. You pull your stocking-clad feet from your heels, sighing as you stretch your arches out and make your way across the room to your closet. When you reamerge you break the silence again. 

“Did you have a good day?” 

Not a question of why he’s here or what led to him being on the receiving end of such physical violence that then resulted in the marks on his face. It’s a simple inquiry, but you aren’t surprised by the venom in his tone. 

“What the fuck do you care?” 

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t care, you know this.” Your tone is gentle, soft, as you reach for the zipper of your skirt and try again. “Did you have a good day?” 

His eyes are on your body as your skirt drops to the floor. They feel like a physical touch, a heavy one. Even broken and furious he still manages to fill this space with intensely sexual energy and your body, fragile from your own long day, reacts immediately. You ignore said reaction as best you can, but you’re sure your hardened nipples are visible through your shirt as you bend to reach for your skirt. 

“I didn’t come here to talk about my day,” he tells you, tone sharp and mocking. 

“Oh? And why did you come here?” 

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“I came here to fuck you.” 

You in turn do not miss a beat either. 

“Oh, sugar— that’s not quite the truth, is it?” 

You don’t wait for an answer, turning and making your way back into your closet. As you remove your shirt the decision of what Ransom needs comes to you easily. When he comes to you in a mood like this you rarely have to break him down any further; he comes to you ready to be pieced back together again. Rarely do you see this side of him, this pushy, needy side of him that needs a gentle yet implacable hand. 

You leave your stockings, bra, and panties on and return to the bedroom, reaching for your glass along the way back to your bed. 

“Finish your drink,” you tell him, gesturing with your own glass to his on the bedside table. You take a slow sip of your tequila, relishing the burn that slips down your throat. He doesn’t make a move towards his glass and juts his chin out in blatant defiance. 

“You’re not going to waste a drop of my good tequila, Ransom Drysdale. Finish it.” 

You’re surprised and simultaneously relieved when he waits a few seconds and slowly reaches for his glass. Maybe it was your stern tone. He locks eyes with you as he tosses the rest of the tequila back quickly and you make the active decision to not reprimand him for not savoring this finely aged liquor. 

You finish off your two fingers not long after he does, maintaining eye contact as you do so, and when you’ve both swallowed the last of it down, your belly is more than warm. 

You skipped dinner, didn’t you? 

Damn. 

You take a few more steps towards him and hand him your glass. He only hesitates a few seconds before he reaches for it. 

“Thank you, baby,” you murmur, turning and heading into your bathroom, your stockings muffling your footsteps as you walk. You reach for the lights, turning on the dimmest setting, then head to the walk-in shower. You turn that on as well, the above rain shower head as well as the jets of water coming out of the wall. You place two of your largest and fluffiest towels on the bench just out of reach of the spray of water. 

You stop in the doorway of the bathroom, cock your hip and make yourself look as seductive as possible. You bite back your grin when you see that both glasses are out of sight. Good boy.

“Shower with me.” 

The way he gazes at you and your body almost makes you shiver. It’s fond and it’s hungry, the attitude he came here with deteriorating with each passing minute. This is why he came to you— to be loved on. You’re not quite sure how you became this person to him, what led to him clinging to you and reaching for you, but you’ve not once been uninterested. The opposite in fact; you take this cherished role very seriously. 

The last of the fight Ransom wants to put up is terribly visible on his face, the younger man as transparent as always. The way his eyes roam your body feels like a physical touch: down your torso, over your thighs, between your legs. You feel your panties grow damp in an instant, especially when he rises to his feet and reaches for the hem of his sweater. You don’t move from your spot in the doorway, watching on as he strips himself first of his sweater and then his undershirt, your heart kicking up into your throat once he’s bare chested, somehow soft yet hard all over. 

He’s quite literally breathtaking. 

You try your hardest to minimize the rise and fall of your chest as you watch him remove his pants, but you’re certain your neck is flushed and giving you away in an instant. Your panties are ruined, your nipples are more than visible through the thin lining of your bra. There’s no way your face isn’t giving your hunger away either, your eyelids heavy as he kicks his pants a few feet in front of himself, directly in front of you. 

It’s as if he’s taunting you, testing you in order to see the direction the two of you are headed in for the night. 

He knows you won’t tolerate such a move.

You have no choice but to square up with him, and you do so with a dramatic look down at Ransom’s pants on the floor and back up at his face. You’re impressed with yourself when your eyes manage to not linger or even pause on the impressive and familiar bulge between his legs, the dark material of his briefs straining to conceal his erection. The look you are met with is casually challenging, as if he wants you to push back and to do so hard. 

You don’t waste any time. You give him exactly what he’s here for— 

“Mama doesn’t like a mess, sweetheart. You know that.”

The effect of your words is instantaneous. You can practically see your sentence slipping over his shoulders and down his spine, his eyelids fluttering as he swallows quite audibly. And for a moment, he looks vulnerable, fragile even. It breaks your heart, shatters it, brings light to your importance in this role and in his life. You anticipate him fighting you a bit more, which is why you have to put effort into schooling your features when he steps forward and reaches for his discarded pants. 

Oh, baby…

Folding his pants, he places them into the chair to your right and then reaches for his shirts as well. Once his clothes are in a neat stack and he’s left standing in front of you, close enough to force you to tip your head back to look up at him, you want to toss your plan to the side and snuggle Ransom to sleep and not wake up for days. 

But he’s here for a reason. 

“Good boy,” you purr, voice husky as you reign in your eagerness. His lips part when your fingers reach for his cock, circling what you can around the fabric of his briefs. He’s harder than stone under your grip. You can swear you feel him throb there in your hand as you hold onto him, squeezing him. The weight of him, the girth of him, makes your pussy ache, makes you wish you had something to clench around. Your pussy wants him. 

Down girl. 

“Such a big boy,” you whisper anyway, testing the limits of what is and is not acceptable for the night. Ransom responds beautifully, eyelids drooping a bit alongside his jaw as you tug at his erection, stroking him off slowly through his underwear. It’s a selfish move, one just for you to indulge in, and he lets you with a hitch in his breath. 

Christ, he’s beautiful. You want more of him. 

“Is this for me?” you whisper on his lips with a squeeze at his cock, Ransom bending down to meet the tip of your chin. If your mouths weren’t nearly touching you’d miss his gentle and hesitant murmur of “...yes.” He knows what you want to hear but you know he cannot be pushed into indulging in your dynamic; he has to reach that point on his own terms. 

That fact doesn't stop you from giving him a nudge though.

“You sweet boy. All for me?”

You tug on the waistband of his briefs, pull it past the tip of his erection, exposing it. You hear the beginnings of a groan he manages to bite back. 

“For you.”

“For who?” 

You can see the word on the tip of his tongue, his hesitation palpable. You run your thumb along his cockhead, purse your lips around his plump bottom lip in encouragement. You reach for his hand with your free one, help him wrap his trembling fingers around the skin of your neck hoping the gesture will bring him comfort, will ground him. 

“For who, sweetheart?” 

He swallows loudly. 

“For…for Mama...” 

Yes. 

You know your eagerness could scare him away in an instant, but that doesn’t stop you from letting out a shaky noise, one that blurs the line between a purr and a groan. There are few things in this world sweeter than Ransom giving into his desires and letting you take care of him in the way only you could. It’s more than a word, it’s more than a misunderstood kink; it’s what this sweet boy needs from you and you’re more than happy to provide. 

You want to give him everything in this moment, want to start by bending down and suckling on his pretty cockhead, but you reel yourself in just enough to whisper, “Can you take the rest of my clothes off, baby? Please?” 

His hands are immediately on your thighs. His touch is rough with eagerness, the tremble in his capable hands obvious, a flush growing on his chest. He drops to his knees then, leans forward and presses his lips along the inside of your thigh as he works one stocking down your leg, peppering it with little kisses, first one and then the other.

He never gives in this easily. He never becomes your sweet boy without more of a fight. 

He must need you tonight. 

The sight and sensation of him kneeling before you does wicked things to your head. With your stockings removed from your legs, he moves up and reaches for your hips with both hands, fingers curling around the meat of them. He kisses over your panties, over your mound, unabashedly inhaling before he’s tugging on the waistband of your silky panties. When you step out of them, one leg at a time, your hands fall easily to his head, fingers slipping through his normally gelled locks. The gentle touch has him exhaling roughly into your belly. 

His urge to put his mouth on you is damn near palpable and fuck, your pussy can feel it too. 

You almost say something, chastise him for so obviously warring over his distracting thoughts and urges, when you feel his fingers run up your backside. He finds the clasp of your bra quickly and he expertly flicks it open even quicker, easing the straps down your shoulders until it too joins your other undergarments on the floor. Your breasts ache, nipples pebbled tightly and begging for a warm mouth. 

This time Ransom gives into his urges, nuzzling at the curve of your breast, rubbing his cheek into it as he sighs. The need to guide his head, to coo as he suckles, almost does you in. 

Instead you take a step back.

“Shower, sweetheart…”

You turn and leave him to follow after you. Pride thrums through your body over the fact that you’ve stayed strong so far, that you have given Ransom what he needs. He doesn’t need someone he can persuade or bend to his will, doesn’t need someone that will give into him easily. He needs steady, he needs calm. He needs structure and love, needs to be soothed and doted on. He needs to be told no. 

You had assumed the steam of the shower and the scorching temperature of the water would bring you clarity, but it seems to do the exact opposite; it makes your need for him grow infinitely. As you begin to remove your makeup and wash your face as causally as you can, your eyes drink him in slowly and luxuriously, his body entirely bare as he seems to saunter into the shower, almost predatorily. 

His eyes are on your body as well, something you would know even if you weren’t looking right at him, the path his eyes take feeling like the lick of a flame. You aren’t intimidated by the glint in his eyes or the curl of his lips; you know his looks are deceiving. His reputation is upheld by his looks, his sharpness, but at this point you know better than to believe there isn’t an abundance of softness underneath his facade. 

When you turn to wet your hair under the stream of water, hot water running down your already heated form, your front presses deliciously against his own. His heavy cock presses tightly against your stomach and your clit throbs at the slick feel of it against your skin. His energy is anything but calm, both of his hands coming up to frame the base of your throat, tightening them briefly before he bats your hands away and replaces them in your hair. 

You don’t react in the slightest to his gestures, eyes locking with his through the rising steam. Trust is a pillar in your relationship, whatever this is. He’d never hurt you, unless that’s something you asked for.

The intimacy of this shared shower is not lost on you.

As you tip your head back and look him over, your eyes are immediately drawn to his lip and his cheek, the respective cut and bruise. 

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” you ask gently as he reaches for your shampoo, your hands landing easily on his hips. Once they’re there you let them wander easily and greedily, squeezing and sliding them up his sides, down and around to his ass, up his back. Carved from marble, he has to be. His answer is what you expect, a short, “No,” in addition to your name. Just because it’s what you expect doesn’t mean it doesn’t disappoint you. You know little about his family, even littler about his job, his endeavors, but you know he is surely undeserving of physical violence. 

His hands in your hair feel like absolute heaven. When you envisioned the end of your day and this shower it was without him, but even then you were looking forward to it. The addition of Ransom is a delight. His capable fingers work wonders on your scalp as he thoroughly works the shampoo through your hair and you can’t help but moan and let your eyelids fall closed. His trapped cock twitches as each noise falls from your lips, each movement sending a wave of arousal to your core. 

When he rinses the shampoo from your hair, tipping your head back to meet the stream of water with a hand on your neck, you reach for his cock. 

His gasp is so pretty, almost as pretty as your handful. 

“Mama’s missed you,” you tell him as he rids your hair of shampoo, leaning into his hold on your throat as he pulls you towards him with the same grip. His lips land on your temple as you take your time feeling him, unabashedly groping at him. “It’s been so long since you’ve come to visit me.” 

He doesn’t answer, but he does let out his first unreserved noise of the evening, a groan of an exhale that sounds almost painful. You grin into his chest as you bring your other hand down to hold onto his balls, cupping the heavy pair, rolling them. He ruts against your front, your hold on him, does what he can to thrust into your fist. You openly ignore his efforts, taking your time to enjoy the weighty feel of him in your hands, giving yourself a moment to be greedy, to imagine what this will feel like inside of you soon. 

The insides of your thighs are slick and it has nothing to do with the stream of the shower. 

One more soft and urgent noise from him has you humming, pinching the tip of his cock softly. 

“You tell me when you’re close, remember?” 

You’re far too pleased when there is little hesitation as he answers very quietly, “Y-yes, Mama.” You give his sac a slow tug. 

“Are you close?” 

You know he is. You always know when he is about to come. His stomach draws tight, his breathing stutters, his lips part and his eyelids grow heavy. It’s obvious, yet he shakes his head, attempts to fuck into your grip. Greedy boy. You know you should be disappointed, but you find that you’re more thrilled than anything else. You fist his erection and pump him vigorously in your grip, his bitten, “Fuck,” dropping right to your clit. 

“No? You aren’t close?” 

You’re stroking him exactly how he likes, long strokes with a squeeze of your closed fist at the tip, your other hand holding on tightly to his balls. He whines in response, shakes his head and dipping it down so he can press a sucking kiss to the corner of your mouth. How sweet. 

“Liar,” you whisper against his jaw, digging your teeth into it as you drop both of your hands at once. You push him back by a hand in the middle of his flushed chest. You’re tempted to drop to your knees and selfishly suck him off when you get eyes on his hard and angry cock, but the build is so good. You know waiting will be what he needs and what you want. 

“Sit down,” you tell him, gesturing towards the built-in bench at the end of the shower as you reach for your conditioner. “Mama needs to finish washing her hair and then needs to wash her body. You can’t be trusted.” He doesn’t look hurt at your words, just mischievous as ever. If anything, regret flashes in his eyes briefly before a cocky, hungry look takes its place and he leans back into the bench, spreading himself out in an intimidating manner. 

You’re always weak for a manspread, for the way he can send his limbs out in a way that makes him appear even larger than he already is. He knows your weakness. You bite the inside of your lip at his obvious and defiant demeanor. 

You take your time distributing the conditioner through your hair, winding it into a low bun once it saturates the strands as you want it to. You won’t let this man, any man, take away from your self care. When you reach for your loofah and luxurious soap you feel the weight of his eyes on you and you feel your inner vixen slip through your veins and down your spine. 

His eyes on you are your guilty pleasure, your ultimate weakness. The attention he gives you, this special form of attention, is the foundation of your relationship. He looks to you when there is no one else to turn to. He looks to you when he needs comfort that is meaningful and deep, erotic and pleasurable. 

So, his eyes on you make you intoxicated with power, such a unique form of feminine power. You lean into that sensation as you move your loofah across your body, sudsing it up as you make swipe after swipe over your skin. You’re taking care of yourself, showing yourself gratitude and love, but it’s also a show for him. Where you squeeze, where your touch lingers, when you bend your body— it’s all for him. 

But you’re not immune to the way your touches and his gaze combined makes you feel. 

Ransom just about cracks when you turn away from him and bend at the waist, unnecessarily reaching down for your feet. The view has to be sublime. You’re so aroused by the situation that has unfolded before you this evening, turned on by the touches of your little display, that you can feel how swollen your pussy is. Bent over, you reach between your legs with a free hand and give into the urge to rub at yourself, fingers slipping against your clit, dipping between your folds. 

His whine is barely detectable, bitten off and swallowed, but it’s there, you hear it. And it’s just as sweet a victory to you as a climax is.

You’re impressed with yourself at the strength it takes to stand back up just out of reach of the spray of water, turning to face where Ransom sits on the bench. That is when you bring the loofah to your chest, slowly and unnecessarily rubbing it over the heavy curve of your breasts. The ache of the tightness of your nipples as you touch yourself forces your exhale to sound more like a whimper and you drop the loofah to indulge, both for yourself and Ransom. 

You squeeze your breasts together, the soap causing them to slip and smush together lewdly, and you enjoy it immensely as you pinch at both of your nipples. 

You let out a happy, throaty noise and do it all again. 

“Mama,” Ransom bites out, his tone daring to sound more like a warning than a plea. His look is one of warning as well, a stern look you’re sure he gives others and watches them crumble. But not you; you never crumble. 

He knows better than to try it on you. But he sure is a tempting sight, one plucked right out of one of your wettest of dreams. You’ve stood in this exact spot in your shower before, wishing he was sitting just as he is now, cock hard and eyes dark. His body, bare and wet and so big, makes you feel as if you could easily lose your footing in your normally rock solid feminine dominance. 

But that’s not what gets the both of you off, together. 

So, you continue to squeeze and fondle and pinch at your breasts, letting breathy noises fall from your lips. There are many weaknesses he holds for you, but this one just might take the cake. He loves your breasts, adores them even. He gets easily distracted by them, wants to hold them, wants his mouth on them. And when he’s most vulnerable, when he himself would consider him to be at his weakest, he wants to suckle on you, wants your nipples in his mouth as he whines and squeezes for more. 

His brazen display of entering your home without your permission, demanding sex from you, and warning you to not touch yourself is fresh in your mind as you pout, “They’re just so heavy and achy, baby.” 

You move to step back under the stream of water, cupping your breasts with both hands and squeezing at your handfuls, waiting for the water to do its job of rinsing the soap from your body. You then work the conditioner out of your hair, eyes locked onto him as you do so. 

His chest rises and falls rapidly as he does his best to conceal the way he pants for you, his cock heavy and achy itself. The sight of it standing proud between his muscular thighs, the way it arches up towards his stomach, helps make your decision for you. 

There’s a reason Ransom comes to you and only you. 

You delight in his look of surprise as you saunter over towards him. It seems he thought you weren’t going to give him what he came here for and you smile at him as if you don’t intend to prove him wrong. He leans up off the wall behind him, sitting up and looking at you expectantly, the look of surprise only there for but a moment. It’s easy to let him think he’s won as you straddle him, as his hands find your hips and squeeze to the point of pain. 

You aren’t surprised when his hands rise to cup your breasts, squeezing needily, but you are delighted nonetheless. 

It’s an easy decision then, how the evening and your time together should play out. 

You deserve to come. And you’re not sure if he does. 

“Mama wants you inside of her,” you whisper hotly on Ransom’s mouth, rubbing your ass along the line of his cock, fingers of both hands sliding none too gently through his hair. “Are you going to be good and let Mama have what she wants?” 

You can see the internal battle he’s putting himself through in his eyes, the way they somehow gleam with defiance yet soften with submission. You cling to that sign of submission and hum as he brings his mouth to your nipples. You run your fingers through his hair once more as he suckles loudly, pressing your breasts into his hands, into his mouth. Your pussy throbs at his treatment of you, at watching this man feast on your body. Your inner walls clench around nothing, the ache of it something fierce and making you feel a sliver of desperation. 

So, you push. 

“Let Mama come on your cock, baby,” you practically moan, reaching behind your body to grab at his cock. “Let Mama come on your big, baby cock. Let Mama sit on it.” 

Ransom moans around his mouthful, squeezing your breasts together and reaching for your other nipple with his mouth. The look on his face forces a moan from your own mouth, that pretty, glazed look in his eyes making you ache between your legs even more. 

“Mama,” is all he mumbles out against your skin, the both of you groaning when you press his cock against your waiting pussy. Your fingers dive back into his wet hair when you sink onto his cock, first the tip, then halfway down his shaft. There’s no exaggerating your need to ride the tip of his cock, to work yourself up to taking more of him. 

“So big, baby. Your cock makes me feel so good.” 

“Mama…” 

“Say it, baby. Tell Mama you make her feel good.” 

You know he won’t say it, won’t repeat your words about himself, but his reaction makes his disobedience worth it. Ransom’s moan sounds as if it grates against the front of his throat, long and drawn out, and it sounds like pure relief. A relief that only you can bring him. And isn’t that a heady reminder? 

At first, you bounce on your knees, taking your time to adjust to the size of him. It doesn’t take you long though, not with how hungry you are for the feel of him inside of you, the stretch of him, and you’re quickly saddled in close and sitting in his lap. You can’t help the groan that slips easily from your mouth, the indulgent one, the long and drawn out one. It’s more than the feel of him inside of you; it’s the feel of him. 

Ransom underneath you, pressed against you. His sizeable hands running from your hips, up to your back, squeezing at the nape of your neck, pulling you close and demanding your mouth on his. The feeling of him surrounding you as you rock yourself in his lap, as you use his body to make your own body feel impossible things, sensations you admittedly chase with others. 

You wind your arms around his neck, tucking your face into the side of his own, moaning again at the feel of him everywhere; he fills you up like no one else can. He returns your moan in kind and you can feel, can sense, that he’s near his breaking point of complete submission. 

That alone has your walls clenching down around the girth of him, has your stomach swooping as you gasp. 

You rock harder in his lap, bouncing in it as you cling to one another. 

“Mama…Mama.” 

Your breath hitches in your throat. “Baby…yes. Yes.” 

The harder he holds you against him, the more difficult it becomes to move, to bounce. But it’s the way you like it when you’re this close to your orgasm, the way he’s come to know how you like to be held; you want it taken from you. It’s almost savage in nature, how hard you have to force yourself against one another, how forcefully you have to ride him, to use him. 

The sound of your skin slapping against his own, the sound of softness coming in contact with packed muscle, echoes against the shower walls and in your ears. The sensation of the stretch of your pussy around Ransom heightens, the pain, you let out a noise akin to a growl into his cheek, and—

“Take it,” Ransom whimpers through gritted teeth directly into your ear, hands sliding up your back to curl around your shoulders, to make you work harder for it. “Take it, mama. S’yours.”

It’s the submission you constantly crave, the high that burns its way throughout your entire being. This beautiful man, this man that is so unearthly dominant, so aggressive, gives you submission. Beautiful submission. He allows for you to use, allows for you to break him down, allows you to see a side that others couldn’t fathom. You’ll continue to fight for it, you’ve earned it over time, but it’s submission nonetheless. And nothing compares. 

You look him in the eyes when you come. 

You pull your head back out of his neck, dig your fingers into his scalp and hold him there while letting him see the results of what his submission has brought out of you. He can surely feel the way your pussy pulses around him, the way your body demands release from his own and makes a valiant attempt to milk his come from his cock, and you know he can hear you whining, but you always want him to see. 

Because him watching you, his eyes frantically taking everything in and witnessing the result of him being good as it’s sprawled across your features, is the best part. 

When your hips slow, when you’re sitting in his lap as you gasp for enough air to slow the beat of your heart, you recognize he’s truly giving you the submission you want. 

Without prompt, without redirection, without reprimand; Ransom waits. He clings to you and you feel the way his body trembles against all the places his skin touches yours, his chest heaving as well, and you marvel at his desire to be good. 

He comes to you for a reason. Your firm hand and expectations are ones different from the ones society places on his shoulders. People see hardness when they look at Ransom, see cockiness and an unjustifiable ego. They see a fight. But you see softness. You see years of unaddressed trauma present in the way he takes on the world head-first, see someone in desperate need of praise and comfort and trust. 

Even if he sometimes seeks out your attention through negative antics such as breaking into your house while you’re away at work, he chooses you. You choose one another. And that coupled with the blooming bruises on his face, ones you’re taking note of again now that the feral haze of want is clearing after your orgasm, makes the decision easy for you. 

“I want you to come,” you murmur against his lips, winding an arm around his shoulder as you use your opposite hand to stroke your fingers down his cheek. You rise up on your knees again, the two of you hissing at the sensations of two very different kinds of overstimulation. His hands fly to your hips, unabashedly whimpering against your mouth as he frantically shakes his head. 

“No, Mama. Mama…” 

He’s so far gone and so, so goddamn beautiful. 

It’s your turn to whimper, but you nod your head in retaliation against the shake of his. 

“Yes…yes,” is all you can say at first, the stretch and drag of his cock inside of you momentarily zapping all focus away from your mind. “Yes, I want you to come.” 

“Mama…Mama, please.” 

“You’ve been so good, baby. You’ve been—” 

The broken moan he pours onto your lips spurs your hips on, has you bouncing in his lap with renewed vigor. The drag of your nipples against his chest, your wet skin sliding easily against each other’s, overstimulates you further. You don’t give him another chance to further deny you what it is you both want. 

“You’ve been so good for me, sweetheart,” you repeat, brushing the fingers of one hand through his hair and looking him in the eyes as you cling to him. “You deserve this. I want you to come. Mama wants it, baby. Mama wants it.” 

“I don’t…fuck, but I don’t—”

You bite out a sharp noise.

“Hush. You’re going to come because you deserve it and because I want it. You’re good. You’re so good, baby.” 

When Ransom’s breath hitches, when his arms wind around your bouncing frame and his mouth drops open, you know you’ve got him. It nearly makes you come again, the vulnerable look he gives you as he accepts your words of support and praise and climaxes from it. 

The times when he comes with a gentleness about him, when he is most quiet, are your favorite. When you can feel him feeling his orgasm across every part of his body, when he almost looks at you with wide eyes as if he’s scared to feel this good, you can barely contain your own wave of emotion, the hitch in your breathing. 

“That’s it, baby— give Mama what she wants.” 

He shakes his way through his orgasm, clinging to you as if you’re safety and comfort personified, as if you’re the only thing that makes sense in a world that he has to fake his way through. Your own moans are broken, ragged even, the feeling of Ransom coming inside of you never failing to bring you an immense sense of purpose and pleasure. 

He sucks down air as if he’s run a marathon, breaths whooshing against your neck. His grip is still painfully tight on your sides where he clings to you and his breaths sound damn near sorrowful. You run your hands along his shoulders and marvel at the strength that hides his softness. So strong, too strong. So soft. 

Your eyes fall shut as your lips take in the softness of the skin of his neck and shoulder. 

When they open again it’s because of the sensation of being picked up. And when you make a pitiful noise in protest of being carried out of the shower, you’re met with a taste of your own medicine. 

“Hush. I’m allowed to take care of you too, Mama.” 

You swear you feel yourself blush. 

He sets you down on your bathroom counter, taking one of the towels you set out and drying you off with it. You watch him as he’s gentle with your body, as he squeezes the water from your hair. Your eyes follow him even as he dries his own body off, moving much more efficiently and quickly compared to how he cared for your body. 

You want him to stay. You want him to stay for a long time. But you don’t dare vocalize your desire for him to stay with you; it will surely scare him away. You’re certain it’s obvious on your face though, with the way you look up at him and lean towards his touch as he begins to move a brush through your hair. 

You know your thoughts are obvious when he pauses before reaching for you again, hands wrapped gently around the column of your throat as he gazes down at you. 

Don’t look at me like that. 

You can hear the words even if they are unspoken. 

He’s said them to you before. 

You’re ready for the inevitable sting of rejection when he pulls you up into his arms once more and carries you into your dimly lit bedroom. When he pulls back the duvet and manages to climb in with you in tow, the surprise written all over your face is surely something he chooses to ignore.  

He reaches for your bedside lamp then, engulfing the room in total darkness, reaching for you next. 

A level of emotional content washes over you as he settles into your bed beside you as if it’s something he does every night, as if he’s done this a thousand times before. Your bodies meld together, your limbs intertwine, and your heart aches the moment the thought of you not being able to do this with other people crosses your mind. Aftercare, gentleness, snuggling, is something you have to force yourself through with others. 

It seems you both yearn for things you can only find with each other. It seems that there's a reason you're pulled back to one another again and again. 

His breaths are barely evening out, deepening, when you break the silence with a whisper as your fingers run up his back. 

“You’re going to tell me who hurt you.” 

The answer you get in response isn’t even a word; it’s a gruff noise.

You decide to not press the issue any further, promising both yourself and him that you’ll make whoever hurt him pay in your own special way, and tuck yourself into his neck. 

One win at a time.