#sometimes i like to make him witness the horrors

[rottxdecay]

Gricko, you gain the ability to break the fourth wall.

bruises warning!

secondary little doodle of him healin' after a battle!

[aklaustaleteller]

heyy how are you! i have this idea that wont leave my head, the reader is scared of love and runs away from it and keeps pushing anyone that tries anything away, but klaus does everything to prove to her that his intentions are pure, and after he does with a little while, she find out about him being a hybrid (maybe she gets really scared) and he has to grovel his way into her life

Mendable Inside Your Ribs

Y/n, all her life, had reached for love and then felt her white-knuckled dying grip on it slip. Then suddenly, Klaus comes in her life looking like the light at the end of the tunnel – and maybe, just maybe, their monsters have more in common than they originally thought.

Warnings - Mentions of animalistic urges, monstrosity, blood, wounds and bruises but it's all in a metamorphic manner (well, except for the blood)

Word Count - 3.2k

Masterlist | please reblog the fic if you like it!

Finally, Anon, I'm posting your request! I'm so sorry I took so long, but I truly hope that you find the wait worth it once you're done reading this! I could've written this in an entirely different and simpler manner, but I was already half-way through it already written it in a poetic/metamorphic way, so I hope you guys still enjoy it for I am quite proud <3 Please do tell me if you do!

Y/n, all her life, had reached for love and then felt her white-knuckled dying grip on it slip. So many times had it happened that now she was found sat with her hair tangled, dried blood and dirt on her face and inside her nails with crooked teeth, clawing at her own skin sitting in a corner, rocking herself back and forth to comfort herself as she saw love creeping towards her with a smile so sinister that it could make shivers run down the devil’s spine. 

From her parents shaming her for wanting something so simple as love, to her romantic partners who’d always stumble a couple steps back upon realising just how hungry she was for love – how animalistic she could get just for an ounce of it. 

All of it turned her into a person as cold as a tombstone standing over a dead person’s grave, unfeeling and unmoving.

But when she would feel, it felt like her own heart was pushing her head under the water, holding her in there until she had only one more breath left in her. It made her want to snarl and to hiss, to bite and to claw at the person who made her heart leap out of her chest. 

Which would then make her turn and run the other way as fast as her feet could carry her, back to the corner where she belonged. Sometimes she would raise her head and look at the walls inside of her, reading the numbers she had madly tally-marked on them to keep track of just how many days she had kept herself chained there. And somewhere along the passing time, she’d begun defeatedly losing count.

Yet as she sat in that very corner and raised her head this time, she saw something bright. Almost like a light at the end of the tunnel. So she’d gotten forward on her hands and moved on her knees, curiosity pulling her forward until she reached the border which she’d have to cross to get to the other side. 

And that’s when she saw him standing there – Klaus Mikaelson. Smiling down upon her like she was the cutest lamb he’d ever come across, instead of falling backwards because he actually saw the love-hungry animal that she was. 

So, she had taken it upon herself to back off, and ran away from him. But horror crept over her and held her tight when she saw that he had followed her back inside, back to her corner where she resided. 

“Love,” she heard him whisper as he brought his open hands in front of him, wanting her to place her own calloused ones in them and come with him. 

But she never did, always turning away with a growl so that he’d leave. But every time she’d look his way to check if he’d finally left, she’d find him still standing there, with that same smile and those same open arms. 

“Go away, Klaus,” she said coldly, looking away so her dead eyes wouldn’t have to witness hurt flash through his starry eyes. 

He wanted nothing more than for her to see herself the way he saw her. Wanted for her to know that he was the one who’s undeserving of her love, actually. He was the animal here, not her.

But she profusely denied all of his pleas and begs, holding herself strictly uptight so that she wouldn’t fall into pieces upon him and crush him under the weight of all her grief, anger and tragedy. 

He just couldn't seem to get through to her, no matter how hard he tried. So he just decided to remain persistent, and show her how truly pure his intentions are via small acts. Like buying her gifts that he knew would matter to her, such as those small plants that never grow, or random postcards that he knew she put up on her walls, or books that he’d annotated for her to get her to take a glimpse into the way he saw her.

But sometimes, those acts got rather intimate. Like that time he brushed her hair for her for a week long when she had broken her wrist, or that night when he took her feet in his lap to massage them gently after she’d given her best performance on stage. Hell he’d even gone as far as to cook for her on especially hard nights so that he could feed her his love. 

And maybe he was just growing delusional now, but he was beginning to feel like she was taking down her walls around him brick by brick. She no longer glared at him with those ice cold eyes when he would enter into a close proximity to her, nor did she sneer at him to go away. 

Instead, he saw her eyes grow a little wider when he’d enter the same room as her, the dead stare tucking itself away for other people as some life took a dive in her eyes. And he heard a lullaby in her voice when she’d greet him back, her body turned towards him and eyes on him to give him all of her attention.

That’s how he knew that he had brought her away from that corner and back to the very border, again. And he also knew that he now had to tread carefully so that she wouldn’t go back, tumbling away from him. 

And Klaus didn’t know if the Salvatore brothers telling her all about the supernatural world, about who The Klaus Mikaelson was, was his fault or not. 

But what he did blame himself for, was for lowering his guard when he’d brought her just one step away from crossing the border and loosened his grip on her because the moment she was told about his past, not only did she go fumbling back but she also left crescent moons dug in his shoulders from when she’d been shaking him, sobbing loudly and crying out for him to tell her that all of it wasn’t true.

But Klaus couldn’t lie to her, so he’d stood frozen with tears spilling from his eyes as she ran back to her corner, tally-marking another day after so long that her eyes had taken a moment to adjust to the darkness that surrounded her again, this time, more like an evilly laughing capturer instead of holding her in it’s arms like a pitiful mother. 

Y/n awoke this morning with her eyes puffed up, it happened every time she went to sleep exhausted out of her mind. And as the flashes of last night began reeling through her mind again, her eyes grew moist and her vision grew blurry while she climbed down the stairs to go into the kitchen. 

Grabbing a glass of water she chugged it down, leaning over the sink and mumbling to herself that everything was fine, that she was fine. Her eyes remained shut but tears slipped out regardless, sniffling sounds echoing through her house as she tried not to retain any of the information that had been dumped on her. 

“He’s a …hybrid,” Stefan had said, looking at her through his lashes like he was talking to a child about how tooth fairies aren’t real.  

“And what’s that?” She asked, a feeling in her gut telling her that it was, in no way, a sweet creature. 

“He’s half vampire, and half werewolf,” Damon finished saying behind her. 

Breath was knocked out of her lungs at that. She’d always had her suspicions about some certain people surrounding her, like Stefan and Damon themselves, but never once had she felt anything remotely scary when Klaus would stand in front of her. 

Perhaps it was because of his big starry eyes, and those unruly blonde curls that he kept trimmed for some reason. Or those dimples that would shy away from her gaze and that mouth which would always stretch into a smile upon her sight. Or, those hands that held her so gingerly, and those feet that held the weight of her body as he carried her home. 

And maybe it was the fact that he’d never once told her about this himself, that hurt the worse. He had lied to her, or kept the truth from her, dare she say to defend his honour. But it felt like a punch square in the chest when she learned about the blood that stained his hands, his clothes, his face and his mouth. 

Despite that horrifying revelation, she had run straight to his home and shouted at him to come outside. And the moment he had, she was pushing and shoving at him, putting her hands on his shoulders and shaking him, crying – “tell me they are lying! Tell me that you aren’t what they say you are, that you have no blood on your hands!” 

“Tell me!” She had broken down, resting her head on his chest as she let out the sobs. 

“Tell me this wasn’t your intention!” She shook him again and Klaus had opened his mouth to agree with her, but she had fallen to her knees then, looking up at him with tears staining her cheeks and blood swirling in her eyes. 

“Please don’t take me home,” she had told him despite the hot tears streaming down her face and fog settling in her mind. “I can never go home now,” she whispered, scared. 

Home was something that was supposed to be a constant in one's life, that one returned to every single day. And there hadn’t been anything like that for her until Klaus. And now that the shelter of his frame had been uprooted and thrown away, cold rain scraped at her skin all over again as she scrambled around to find her corner to go back to. 

She didn’t want that corner to be her home but time and time again, it was proven to her that it was – whether she liked that or not. 

Taking deep breaths to gather herself, Y/n went back up to her room to get ready for the day – knowing that all she was going to do was read and write and water her dying plants and maybe bake some biscuits that she was never going to get Klaus to taste now. 

And just as she came back to make her first cup of tea, she heard a hissing sound and turned to see a paper that had been folded into half. It had been slipped in through the crack underneath the door. 

She picked it up and opened it, immediately recognising Klaus’ handwriting. 

Y/n,

I know I’ve wounded you deeply by keeping who I truly am from you. But spending so much time with you, I’d somehow mistaken myself to be just the Klaus Mikaelson that you saw. I'm the one who’s wrong at that part, forgive me for it. I never meant to lie to you, perhaps, I was waiting for the right time. But it’s never the right time, is it? I’ve learned that now. 

And while I’m sure the brothers told you enough, I’d still like to introduce myself to you all over again. This time, by laying all my defences down. I should’ve said it then and there, but something came over me and I couldn’t form words. But I hope you’d believe me when I tell you that hurting you was not my intention – it’s something far far away from what I truly do intend. 

My family is hosting a traditional ball tonight. Please save this sick lover of yours a dance. And, you need not fret for I have brought you a dress, come outside? 

Yours truly,

Klaus

A deep weight rested itself on top of Y/n’s chest as she slowly walked towards her door, and opened it. She’d been expecting to see Klaus, but instead there was a box on her porch with a silk bow resting on top of it. She sat down and brought it to her lap, opening it to reveal a blue dress, folded neatly inside the box. 

She knew she was going – there was no doubt about that. But what did gnaw at her, was the chance of what would happen when she’d get there. She wanted to accept the feeling that told her he wouldn't hurt her. And yet, a tremor coursed through her body as she sat and sipped on her tea, waiting for the evening to roll around. 

She wanted for him to unleash himself and show her who he truly is, so that she can love him for him. She didn’t want to fall in love with just his bruised upper skin – no. She wanted to get to know him, inside and out. Wanted to know what his guts found intimidating and what his soul found peaceful. 

But if he wasn’t going to show her that, then nothing could ever make her clean herself up and rid herself of all the wounds that had been inflicted upon her, so that she doesn’t bleed on him from the cut that he didn’t inflict. She had a feelling that maybe, just maybe – there monsters had more in common than they thought they had. 

There must be a reason behind the blood tainting his skin, perhaps, it was thrust upon him for all she knew! Maybe he didn’t want to be the monster that he had been turned into. 

And if that’s true, Y/n wondered if she would still want to unravel him if it turned out that he was just a monster that had no other driving force apart from some personal fun. 

So she dressed herself up for the night. Prepared to listen to him and ask him questions if he wouldn’t have answered them already in his explanation. 

Entering the mansion that she always ran far away from, Y/n took a huge breath before wandering her eyes around to search for the one and only. And It didn’t take long before their eyes locked, with him already looking at her with rather guilty eyes and a relieved smile for she had shown up. 

Walking to her, Klaus took in a shaky breath as he fixed his suite. He was nervous, hell, scared even. Honestly, terrified that tonight might be the final time he would see her and the final memory he’d have of her would be of her sprinting away from him for she couldn’t bear the sight of the ugly monster he had ended up growing into. 

“You came,” Klaus smiled, looking at her with those same starry eyes except tonight they were shining because of the sheen layer of tears glossing them up. 

“You asked me to,” she shrugged faintly, her mouth cold to sight but her eyes were big and almost smiling up at him. 

With her hand still in his’ from when he had bent down to kiss the back of it, Klaus walked her over to the vacant balcony – nothing to witness the tragedy but the sky that had itself gotten dressed in its best constellations and ornament, the moon.

Klaus wanted to believe his heart when it told him that she would listen to him and try to love him, but his head’s juxtaposition was not gentle. It prepared him for the worst, reminding him of how no one had ever loved him before, and no one would now. For all that was true, he had only gotten worse over time. 

“To hurt you, was never my intention,” he whispered, his big eyes looking into hers. 

“It is true that I am a Hybrid – a vampire and a werewolf. It is also true that I’m covered in blood from head to toe, from my bones to my skin, I am drenched in it.”

His legs were growing jittery and breathing was becoming harder to do than it should be. But his hold on her hand only tightened, tears collecting on his bottom lash line. 

“It is true that I am a monster. One with a heart that doesn’t beat and a soul that feasts upon the love it never gets,” with his free hand, Klaus wiped the tear as it slipped down the slope of his cheek. 

She only stood still in front of him, urging him with her eyes to go on. Her own breathing ragged as she began seeing him and listening to him

“But I need you to know, before you leave tonight,” his voice shook as he stole his eyes from hers for a second to gain back his courage, as all of it had been spent the moment he mentioned her inevitable departure. “That I would never hurt you, I never can, hurt you,” he assured her, searching her eyes for anything. 

“I truly am in love with you. And I will take forever to show you that if that’s what you’ll ask of me,” bringing her hand to his chest, he rested it there. “I want you to lay yourself bare in front of me so that I can show you that even your ugliest is loved by me,” he whispered.

“Say something, please,” he almost cried, his voice cracked, not having anticipated her departure to come so soon. 

“I –,” Y/n began, her voice hoarse due to not having used it for so long. “I think I can love you, Klaus,” she uttered, looking away from his eyes, fearing that he was going to deny her heart upon realising just how ugly and bruised and beaten it is.

Upon the realisation that sure, her insides are a million colours – but they are all shades of blue. 

And when the deafening silence got too much for her to bear, she turned away from him to make a run back home. 

But her hand felt to have gotten caught in something and she was pulled right back, into a hard and vulnerable chest as her mouth felt something soft press itself hardly against it. 

Klaus’ mouth. 

His mouth was on hers and one of his hands was curled against the back of her neck while the other cradled her face with force. 

Everything inside of her erupted into flames as she tilted her face to better mould it against his’, and fisted the curls on the nape of his neck, pushing him further into her while bending her back to accept the force. 

“Say it again,” he breathed, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead on hers, his tears slipping from his eyes and falling onto her cheeks. 

“I think,” she exhaled sharply, trying to catch her breath while her eyes remained stuck on his mouth. “I think I can love you,” she confessed again, instantly moving her lips in sync with his’ as he kissed her desperately, finally. 

“My heart – it is shabby and broken but it’s already yours,” she choked out. “And it’s only mendable inside your ribs,” her shoulders shook as she cried, now fisting the shirt of his collar to keep him close to her. 

“My love, your heart – it, it is safe with me,” he breathed with her, trying to calm his racing heart down. “And my heart will forever beat on your command,” sniffling, he tucked her hair behind her ear, gently lifting her face to seal his confession by breathing in her breath and letting her take away his’ as he pressed his mouth against hers, once again. 

[timmydraker]

Tim always has his neck covered.

In photos taken by paparazzi or news articles he’ll be wearing a turtle neck, scarf or the occasional choker.

Around the manor he wears similar things but it’s more often he wears a thick band around his throat. It might be a velvet choker or a sort of sweat and like accessory. Sometimes, if it’s hot or he feels safe and confident, he will wear a thick strip of ribbon that he’ll tie in a bow at the back.

Tim’s Robin suit was altered to make sure his neck was covered after Bruce figured out he was wearing the bands during patrol and began to worry about it being a chance for him to be choked. If it’s not, he has an undershirt that’s thin and goes up to his chin.

He doesn’t eat in public very often and it leads some people to think he had some kind of issue with swallowing or maybe some kind of defect or hole in his throat.

Obviously everyone is curious, from the public to his own parents.

But Tim is a master of getting people to look away.

It’s when Jason comes back to Gotham as Red Hood and attacks Titan Tower than the reason behind is revealed.

Various non-fatal injuries are given to Tim, who of course, figures that is because Red Hood didn’t want to kill him so much as make it so he couldn’t be Robin, but it’s not all that important when other wounds are added and the slice has cut his turtle neck open.

Blood and his hand rushing up to cover his throat is the only cover for what’s under the fabric until he’s in the medical room at the Cave.

Tim is out by the time rescue comes and doesn’t wake for a while.

Which gives his family enough time to go through the grief of witnessing the horror on his neck.

There, between slight tan markings and surrounded by dried blood and a small cut, is a mouth.

It looks like a scar at first, but with some prodding the lines of the ‘scar’ split open and it’s revealed to be two pursed lips that concealed disturbing needle teeth, a nasty forked tongue limp within the unnatural mouth. It’s like something out of a horror movie, as wide as half of Tim’s neck and somehow replacing the usual parts of a throat and neck.

Alfred stands back in shock, same with Leslie, and the two look at each other in confusion.

Wordlessly, Leslie covers up the monstrous mouth with some spare bandages and the two continue to work.

Bruce, who had been nervously watching with a pacing Dick through the window of the makeshift med at in the Cave, feels dread in his stomach at the sight.

Part of it is admittedly because he feels he let a being like Tim be Robin, but it’s more so that the sweet boy with a too quick snark and brain had seemingly been hiding his Meta like ability from everyone. His parents weren’t aware of why Tim hid his throat, which means he wasn’t born with it or it developed later on.

Dick, who loves with his entire heart, can’t help himself from feeling disturbed by his youngers inhuman feature.

Yet they pull it together and with mutual understanding, decide they will find a way to figure this out and adjust to this new reality.

So, when Tim wakes up and immediately checks his throat is covered, Bruce gives him an unused look of being sorry and holds his hand.

“I… we had no choice, your neck was bleeding but-“ he takes a breath and his expression changes to determination, “I understand why you hid your, um…”

Tim in a quiet voice as he forces himself not to freak out mutters, “mutation.”

Bruce smiled at his intellectual son, “Mutation. Dick said you might be worried I would make you leave and I swear to you, Tim, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne, that you will never be made to leave this place. This is your home, that will not change.”

It takes a moment for Tim to fully process what had been said to him and he begins to shake, tears threatening to fall as he brings a hand to cover his throat.

“Are you-are you scared of it?”

Of me?

Bruce feels guilt form in his stomach and moved without thinking, pulling his heavily injured child into his arms and kissing his head, “Never, not now and not ever. I admit I was… unsure of how to react at first, but I know you Tim.”

Tim begins to sob then, clinging to Bruce and forgetting all the pain and panic he woke up with to feel the embrace of his mentor.

It’s enough to make Dick’s penitence snap and he moves into the room and joins their hug, squeezing them both tightly as possible.

When they pull back, Tim sees them both glance at his throat and sucks in a deep breath.

Dick raises a hand to his free one and says, “you don’t have to show us if you don’t want to.” But Tim shakes his head and pulls the bandage off carefully.

“I don’t want to hide anymore, not if I don’t have to.”

There, below his chin, is the mouth.

Now that he is awake, the mouth is more active. Its tongue lolls out for a moment, licking over the sharp teeth before flicking and slinking back inside.

When Tim speaks again the mouth doesn’t move, though it does seemingly smile, “It doesn’t talk, that’s kind of the only reason I still have the one on my face. I need to eat with this one though and it can be anything, organic or not.”

Dick looks on with wonder, pushing away his nerves to support his brother.

Bruce looks like he’s itching to do test or ask questions, and Tim smiles gratefully at him and does his best to supply what he does know, “It started to form when I was three but didn’t open until I was six and by then I found I couldn’t eat with my main mouth. It was when I found myself chewing on my fork and the metal broke and I ate it safely I realised I can eat all material.”

Smiling shyly, Tim searches the back of his head and says, “Steal taste the best.”

When Dick snorts a laugh and Bruce raises a curious eyebrow, Tim looks around and finds a spare pencil beside him on the side table.

The two watch as Tim’s entire head falls backwards for his gaunt mouth to open, looking almost like he’s been half decapitated.

The younger shoots out, wraps around the pencil, and then crushes its with strength and teeth until he swallows it down and his head falls back into place.

Bruce breaks and starts asking questions while Dick pokes at his brothers neck.

[shiny-jr]

Hi! I noticed that your requests were open and I love the way you write Malleus so I was hoping you would do yandere malleus x reader. where the reader knows twisted wonderland is a game (but not imposter au pls) and after they got isekia'd are trying to stop the overblots from happening and malleus is just terrified for them. Idk just an idea I've had for awhile but never found a fanfic like lol. Obviously it's totally fine if you don't want to do it or if I accidentally broke a rule. Anyway remember to drink some water and take a break if needed! Have a amazing rest of your day/night!!

Warning: Yandere (not really, not at all). Gender-neutral reader.

Characters: Malleus Draconia.

Summary: MC sees affection meters and it's not good.

Note: These are mainly thoughts and random words my mind spewed out.  

How did one claim victory at a game? Well, it entirely depended on the game, the mechanics and the options. It should've been impossible to lose a mobile game that was primarily composed of the gacha mechanism and visual novels.

When you suddenly found yourself in the series of twisted villains in a prestigious school of magic, you found that it was much more complex than it appeared on screen. Especially when only you could see these small bars occasionally floating above people's heads. Bars which you recognized as affection meters, nearly all of them stagnant at a dull gray 0% when you first arrived. This was the hurdle blocking your way to an easy victory. Because how else were you to escape the game, other than complete it?

Situations became messier, when you didn't have a dialogue options between two mere choices. Add making good impressions and keeping a character's favor, to the list of quests alongside avoiding death by inky overblotted characters. By some miracle, you had increased the affection of the characters you met and interacted with to a healthy 5% or 10%, sometimes more. At any cost you wished to avoid getting in the negatives, because you did not want to find out what would happen then.

Sometimes, the numbers would drop dangerously close to zero, mainly when an overblot was occuring. Never had you realized how the visual novel failed spectacularly at portraying the utter horror of the overblotted in all their wicked glory. The black inky darkness leaking from them like tears or blood with those crazed unhinged looks in their eyes–– was the stuff of pure nightmares.

And yet the one whose overblot you had been dreading the most, the dorm leader of Diasomnia, was surprisingly docile as you dealt with others. However, you knew even when conversing with him, that you would one day witness him overblot and look like some ethereal but deadly fallen angel. So mentally you prepared yourself, while taking on the task of keeping up appearances.

Malleus' affection meter, was a good 20% and a friendly pink shade, quite the accomplishment you were proud of, considering the majority of the cast wasn't even at 15%. The Draconia heir was certainly someone you never wanted to see reach below zero, so you did your absolute best to appeal to him, even if he was quite intimidating at first with the way he stoically watched you complain about the least of your worries, homework and classes.

By the time you spoke to him about your troubles with the Ramshackle dorm and Azul, during what you knew was the Octavinelle arc, the prince's affection had sprouted to a 22%. When you went into more detail of the potential loss you could face, it went to 23%.

The next time you saw him, you were weary and antsy since witnessing Azul's break-down. If the blot of his tears had the magic to gather, it would've been enough to drown, you were sure of it. Even by that maniac look in his eyes, you're sure he would've purposely drowned you if he got close enough.

Throughout that charlatan's chapter, his affection meter had slowly been rising, dropping during the overblot like the tides only to rise once again by the end to a good 45%. This was good!

But no matter how much you may have pondered, strategized, or try to predict each next action, you could've never guessed that the next time you saw Malleus after Azul's overblot, his expression taut with concern, his affection meter had made a jump to 55% and turned red. This entire time you had been avoiding the negatives, but you never once worried of the dangers and implications a red affection meter above 50% would mean for you. Or heaven forbid, anything close to 100%.

[brucewaynehater101]

The Tim and Dick bonding ask made me think about the angst of eidetic memory but specially for Dick.

He tries really hard to make really good memories with Tim, knowing they'll be well kept. Something he fails to consider is the fact that all of their fights (which is a normal part of being siblings, especially under the stress of being also vigilantes) are also perfectly recorded in Tim's memory. I think Dick's hot temper gets the better of him sometimes but he doesn't mean it, so to him it doesn't register as something particularly memorable ("Yeah I had an argument with Tim but that happens sometimes").

It's not until Tim makes a remark about something Dick said in one of their arguments (maybe even the one about Robin) that Dick suddenly has that realization: Tim remembers EVERYTHING. And it's so nonchalant, like Tim isn't bothered by it (there were times when he was more insecure about his place in the family, but now he understands that fights are normal and Dick isn't really mad at him). But Dick is having an absolute crisis about it.

Not only does his little brother remember every single shit he didn't mean to say but blurted out in anger, he's also coming to terms with the fact that he must remember every traumatic shit his witnessed in HD. Obviously there's the very graphic death of Dick's parents to start with, but also the corpse of Tim's father, just to begin with.

Cue to Dick having a breakdown trying really hard to remember all of the extremely graphic and brutal shit he deletes from his brain on a daily basis to cope with their way of life while Tim's just beating the shit out of him at Mario Kart.

Dick: Bruce. Bruce, were you aware of Tim's photographic memory??

Bruce: ....yes? It's a valuable skill for-

Dick: Bruce. B. Dad. Have you consider the horrors we see on an average night?

Bruce:...

Bruce, sweating: hmm.

One, I love the notion that the Bats are extremely intelligent detectives, but they also overlook a lot on accident (like Tim's memory being as much a curse as it is a blessing [they maybe somewhat realized this, but not to this extent]).

The idea that Tim has an instant replay of every harsh word, disgusting comment, and traumatic event he's been through? Yeah. No wonder Dick is freaking the fuck out.

Anyways, it'd be interesting to see how the Bats treat Tim's memory. If he remembers everything in HD, he might be the most trustworthy source if there are no cameras (to an extent. His memory is a biased account and will be affected by his emotions. It's also dependent on what he notices, catalogs, and focuses on). Therefore, gaslighting Tim by saying stuff like, "I never said that!" doesn't really work.

I want to know more about the ins and outs of how Tim's memory operates

[evilgwrl]

TF 141 X Reader (Apocalypse!AU)

Immune: Seven

WARNING: This is a 18+ Poly!141 Series (MDNI)

CW: Humping, nipple play, groping, brief female masturbation, oral sex (m receiving)

Taglist: @beebeechaos @h3art3at3rr @johannxseb @cndy-l0v3 @nylluns @pomegranategum

Masterlist

Thick streaks of due simmered down the window panes, globs cascading and collecting at the wooden frame, moulding the inside before it eventually rots away.

The patter against the roof was gentle, calming, almost like a hushed lullaby that succumbed the house to a deep slumber, one that was needed. You found yourself stumbling back to the house a while after your time with Gaz, the Sergeant blabbering about what life was like for him before all of this happened, how rough it was being in the military and how sometimes he felt even the apocalypse was less depressing.

The kitchen smelt like beef stock and thickened gravy, raw deer meat filtering through the padded walls as you walked in on Price, gruff grin on his face as he ordered around Soap who ushered to his every move.

You observed them for a second, taking in how much respect and authority they upheld for the oldest man. He called, they answered. In a way, it was endearing to watch. Even out of the field, they still admired their well-earned ranks.

“You enjoy yourself, doll?” John quipped towards you, smug smile adorning his worn features, age mellowing him like fine wine. You rolled your eyes in a playful manner, shrugging off the suggestive tone. It was still new to you, and in a way you don’t think you would ever get used to it. Any of it.

“What are you making?”

John loved the way you spoke, your voice a mellow honey, seeping through the grit of your teeth and rolling off the fat of your tongue, lips drenched with your saliva, the top of your mouth coiling upwards slightly when you were amused but attempted to hide it.

You held a certain glow to you, a deafening feeling that ached away at them all even during the shortage of knowing you. Almost captivating, you were a simplicity in a world full of horrors and maybe that’s why they grew so fond of you so fast.

“Had a spare bag of rice tuck’d away in Simon’s bag, brute onl’ just went through it. Dirty bastard, that one,” Soap joked, voice cracking with the disguise of his accent that blurred any coherence of certain words, “It’s rice and deer t’night, hen. That good t’ you?”

You smiled, nodding, “Do you need help?”

“I woul’ never deny a fine lady’s help,” the man winked, ushering you over as John rolled his eyes at the flirtatious Sergeant. Gaz scurried away upstairs, Price following, you presumed to change clothes, but truth be told, you wondered what they did when you weren’t around.

Did they talk to each other? Touch each other? Hold each other? Did they fuck one another like they’ve done you?

You shook your head, eyes rolling down to the chopping board in-front of you as you followed Soap’s command, enjoying his wit. After a while, you figured you relatively enjoyed his company, despite the occasional pushiness, he was really a sweet guy and incredibly smart. He offered you a sense of comfort and warmth, similar to Gaz, their eyes both holding an endearing light.

Once prepared, you watched Soap work with ease, stepping back to give him space. He didn’t acknowledge it but you could tell he appreciated it, enjoying that you trusted him enough to take control in a space you only called your own.

You faced away from him, hands buried in soapy cold water that would barely do enough to wash away any lingering bacteria. The spit of bubbles penetrated your skin, soft tingles simmering against the delicate hair that lightly littered your arms.

Soap watched you, taking in the curvature of your thighs and ass, the way the material hugged you, moulding to every crevice of you. Gentle fingers settled amongst your hips, pulling you flush against a harder surface, the clear indent of a boner flushed against your behind as you almost gasped, body jolting at the sensation.

Lips pressed against the heat of your neck, burying themselves in the crevice. Your skin erupted at the sensations, hot magma rising through your veins as plush thighs rubbed together, the friction of the fabric most likely causing chafing for you to deal with later.

“Soap, what are you doing?” You whispered out, the feeling of his hands raising to the mound of your chest, groping the flesh as sensitives nuns pressed themselves against the cotton of your t-shirt.

“Just want’d a taste before dinn’r. That ok’ sweet’art?”

You whined as calloused hands slipped under your shirt, settling at your chest. His hands were warmer than you expected, almost adding to the flames that erupted against your flesh, heating you.

Twitchy digits found your nipples, tugging at them with both patience and fervour; almost testing the waters. You backed up into him, rubbing against the growing bulge that buried itself between your ass, a thankful growl passing his lips before you felt him lick a stripe behind your ear, hot breath fluttering against your lobe.

Both of you worked against each other, hips clashing as you humped one another, working yourselves off through icky fabric, desperate and starved for any form of touch. Your hand gripped around his arms, veins running underneath the palm of your hands as his own kneaded your flesh, toying with your breasts and tender skin.

Your pussy clamped around nothing, almost aching for more as he rutted against it, the simple tease of fabric gently guiding along your clit occasionally, panty breaths leaving your lips as you hummed at the sensation.

The sound of stairs creaking tore you away as you shuffled to the side, quickly running your arms together as you smoothed out your top, the lingering sensation of Soap’s touch still prevalent against your skin.

You looked up to the imposing figure now standing before the kitchen, Simon’s face still covered by a thick piece of black fabric, the hem of his brown eyes peeking through, framed by long blonde lashes.

“Food nearly ready?” His voice was gruff, almost threatening, yet being in his presence didn’t scare you. He was intimidating, a burly figure that could easily harm you if needed, but there was a simple gentleness that followed him. You had heard him crack a few jokes, shitty jokes, but jokes nonetheless.

“Ay’ don’t be impatient, LT, it’ll be ready in a moment.”

Dinner was nice. It was simple. All of you nursed a final pour of whiskey, the brown liqueur broiling at your chest before settling in the depth of your stomach.

Everyone had offered to clean, letting you head up early which you gratefully thanked them for (even though it was the least they could do).

It was quiet upstairs, your head chiming as you got ready for bed, shedding your clothes off before slipping over an old shirt, legs bare as they tangled between the sheets. Fingers laced your sensitive skin, dipping into your folds to collect your slick before sliding a repetitive motion against your clit.

You were pent up from earlier, chasing the needed high that you weren’t able to get from Soap. Would he visit you? Fulfil the words he said to you? Remove the clothed barrier between the two of you?

Almost like your mind was read, there was a soft hum of a knock at the door as you pulled the blankets over you before gesturing them in. Soap’s eager eyes welcomed you, head lopping to the side slightly as he gave you a clumsy smile.

You weren’t sure if it was confidence or the barely-consumed amount of alcohol that surged through you as you stood up and waltzed over to the Scotsman. Quick hands pushed the door closed before you were on your knees, the wood below you offering you no support as you fidgeted with the zipper of Soap’s pants.

“Lass, you don’t-“

“I want too.”

He swallowed, visibly, Adam’s apple bobbing with excitement as he rested a hand against the side of your hand, rubbing against it delicately. Sea blue briefs were stained a dark hinge due to the large wet patch that grew, tip flushed against it as an eager mouth lapped at it through the material.

Johnny hissed, throbbing at the sensation before he thrusted slightly, meeting your tongue that was soaking through his boxers. “Don’t tease m’, love. I’m a desperate man.”

You looked up at him and grinned, palming him, before pulling them down, angry cock springing out before slapping against the base of his stomach, tip leaking with pre-cum that you were eager to taste.

Steady hands found the base, squeezing it before bringing the threatening length towards you. You spat, a glob of saliva dripping down towards his cock before you worked it in with a pace, the member now glistening as you kitten licked the tip, tasting him for yourself as you hummed.

Soap’s hands found your hair, holding it into a pony as your lips worked around his length, slowly burying him in the warmth of your mouth before you hollowed out your cheeks, earning a grunt from the man.

“That’s it, love, good girl.”

His words fuelled you, feeding you just right as you worked him further into your mouth, a gag soon following as evident saliva pooled at your mouth, escaping your lips through a crack as you swallowed around the intimidating length.

Soap was a string of expletives as you sucked him off, your tongue running along the shaft of his cock, tracing every vein as the remainder of him was worked off by a hand, another buried at his balls that were covered by light curls of dark hair.

His hips moved with every thrust you made, working himself deeper into your throat as you gagged and hummed, tears welling your eyes as he held onto your hair with a tight grip. You looked up at him, eyes wide with lust as he smiled back, a cocky glaze over his face.

Johnny’s hands pulled you back, your mouth pulling off of him with a pop as you raised a brow in confusion, almost offended.

“Would be a waste if I came in your mout’ before feeling your pussy, wouldn’t it, sweetness?”

[seamistgale]

Bernard was being haunted.

His sus-o-meter isn't up to 100%, but if he's being real, it never is. The downside of being into conspiracy theories was that you were only partially sure which one was more skewed than the other. One day he could be convinced Batman is more cryptid than man, and then he'd stumble on some fascinating witness accounts that make him rethink the Vampire hypothesis.

This time, however, he's fairly sure this sort of freaky shit only happens to people in those cookie-cutter horror movies.

… Except this particular ghost might be of midwestern decent, or something, because they sucked at properly haunting.

Example number one:

It was rare that Bernard had dishes piled up. He lived alone, and occasionally Tim would come to his apartment; with a couple of games, some takeout boxes, and a movie later, there would be way more things to clean up than a whole weekend on his own.

The last time Tim came over, Bernard didn't bother cleaning up for the night, and then the trash just…. Disappeared.

Not like 'a burglar broke in for some weird fetish reason, and my trash is now gone' gone, but more 'the trash is in bags, the dishes are clean, and I swear the air smells fresher' gone.

That was strike one.

He brushed it off because Tim had been there. It was unlikely he just went on a stress cleaning spree at Bernard's place but… Well, Bernard's caught him doing way weirder shit. It's fine.

(it's not fine. You just didn't move things around on someone else's turf.

"…Clean up?" Tim echoed back from the phone, sounding as confused as Bernard felt the following morning. "I-- no, of course not!" and then hurriedly continued to reassure Bernard he'd never do that. Because Tim was nice like that, even after Bernard low-key accused him of giving him the Gotham equivalent of pissing in someone else's yard.

So, that was strike one in the back of his hindbrain that something was up.)

Strike two and three came together.

See, in Gotham's economy, sometimes your employer doesn't have your paycheck the week it should be. Who cares if you need to pay rent through or your landlord will double your rent? Neither your boss nor the landlord in question, obviously. So what he usually did was have a nest egg the size of his rent just in case.

But this month Bernard had splurged a little too much, so he was short. It was nothing big, he was just five bucks short.

The issue was, that his landlord was paranoid and was already breathing down his neck for not paying the next month's rent the day before the new month started. Like clockwork, his landlord put a warning under his door, ready to evict him the same day the month started if Bernard didn't have the rent in cash the next morning.

He knew the eviction notice was at the door, but chose to ignore it because it didn't matter, he'd get those five one way or another by the end of the day.

By the time he came back, two things were out of place. The first was the eviction notice on his table. Again, no one moved someone else's shit around.

Strike three happened while counting his nest egg, and would you look at that! He had more money than he'd counted. Nothing ridiculous, just… He had those five bucks now.

All these little things were easy to miss, or misremember, but Bernard was not most people. But the catch here was… All these things were good things. Sort of.

So not only was this happening when he wasn't around, but they were happening to his… Advantage? He'd even call it good fortune if one was willing to ignore the lack of privacy… And maybe he would have, if this wasn't Gotham. Privacy was a mix between a luxury and a currency. Sometimes a kindness.

In some ways maybe it would have been an effective scare tactic, to mess someone's shit up, but this was not the way he'd personally go about it if he wanted someone to leave the building.

So here Bernard was, staring again at the dishes he had placed as bait, because he wasn't an idiot and tempting a ghost into anything remotely violent was stupid. The dishes were cleaned.

He squinted at the ceiling, then at the rest of his apartment, trying to gauge whether trying to make first contact was going to get him more haunted, killed, or turn him into a Saturday morning cartoon.

Finally, he picked up a cup. Not a glass cup, because why would he give the ghost any ammunition, but a couple of fairly clear plastic cups, a marker, two sticky notes, and filled both cups with tap water decently enough so a mild tremble would be noticeable.

The first sticky note said "Yes", and the second, predictably, said "No."

"So." Bernard sat in front of the cups, feeling halfway like a dumbass for doing this in the first place, and halfway like he's about to do the worst decision of his life because it might just work. "You from out of town, or are you just really shitty at this?"

[clesired]

𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐂𝐀𝐓 | 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐘 !

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 ! “can i request a fred x black cat!gf since he’s such a golden retriever!bf?” thank you to the lovely anon who requested this <3

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ! go christmas shopping with your boyfriend, come back with a cat!?

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ! no warnings, fluff, fem!reader, golden retriever bf!fred x black cat gf!reader, established relationship, second person pov, 0.8k words!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Your eyes scan the hustle and bustle of Hogsmeade, mentally mapping out the different shops you need to hit for your Christmas shopping.

Nodding to yourself, you gently release Fred’s hand and look up at him to confirm. “Okay, meet at Three Broomsticks in two hours?”

He looks at you like you’ve just kicked him, as he grabs your hand again and frowns. “No, what? Why are we splitting up?”

He looks so genuinely confused as to why that’s even an option and it makes you feel a little warmer despite the chilly air.

Still, you squeeze his hand softly and shake your head. “You’re one of the people I’m shopping for today, Freddie.”

You see the indignance before he even speaks. “That’s okay, I’ll just pretend like I didn’t see.”

His quick response pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop it and you shake your head in amusement.

“Two hours isn’t even that long, love. We spend more time apart during classes.” You point out gently.

It’s not that you wouldn’t prefer Christmas shopping with your boyfriend—you just prefer that your gifts remain a surprise a bit more.

He pulls you into his chest, uncaring of the surrounding witches and wizards witnessing the public display of affection.

“That’s because I’ll get a howler from mum if I skip too many classes.” He grumbles quietly, and you pout back at him teasingly.

“Oh, the poor baby. The horror!” You coo as you pinch his cheek teasingly, causing him to let out a quiet huff before he suddenly throws you over his shoulder and starts booking it through the village.

You let out a noise of surprise as you pound at his back, your hits doing absolutely nothing to slow him down.

“Put me down this instant, Frederick Gideon Weasley!” You pull out his full name, which causes him to laugh.

“Promise we’re shopping together first!” He calls back, and now it’s your turn to huff.

“Fine, I promise. Now unhand me, you silly man!” You smack his butt for emphasis just as he’s setting you down on your feet.

He smirks mischievously as he stares down at you, hands still holding you by the waist firmly. “Feeling a bit cheeky, are we, love?” His brows wriggle up and down playfully.

You furrow your brows, “What-” and then you groan, realization setting on you. “Oh, you are foul for that joke.”

He leans in closer to you, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours affectionately. “You love it.” He insists softly.

“I love you.” You correct, looking up at him.

He smiles, his eyes shining with happiness as he leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. “And I love you.” He murmurs softly.

“Even though you drive me crazy sometimes.” You tack on, causing him to step back and clutch at his heart dramatically.

“Really know how to make a bloke feel special, love.” He winces softly, hanging his head as he rubs circles over his heart.

You roll your eyes playfully as you gently pull his hand away from his chest, intertwining your fingers before you begin walking to Tomes and Scrolls.

“C’mon, Mr. Broken Heart. You can walk it off, yeah?” You pat his back consolingly before facing forward and leading the way.

Fred pretends to sniffle softly as he walks, taking one big step forward to even out with you. “My girlfriend stop being mean to me challenge, difficulty level: impossible.”

You turn your head to glare up at him. “I am not mean to-”

You stop short as he raises a pointed brow, and you feel your cheeks heat up in a rare display of embarrassment as you look the other way.

“That doesn’t count. I’m defending my name here.” You mumble quietly, making him chuckle as you feel yourself get pulled into his side yet again.

“Don’t worry, you look cute when you’re all irritated. Like a disgruntled kitten.” He notes with a smile.

“You did not just call me a kitten.” You say, your tone laced with the slightest hint of incredulity.

“You’d look cute as a cat, now that I think about it.” Fred continues playfully. “Think you’d fit as a black cat.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” You grumble quietly, and Fred nods.

“Spoken like a true black cat.” He says matter of fact, and you can’t help but laugh out of sheer confusion.

“My love, what does that even mean?” You raise your brows.

He chuckles with you, “You know, I’m not really sure. But it makes sense to me.”

You side eye him as you two walk past Pets & Familiars. You can already see the gears turning in his head as he peers through the shop window.

“Don’t you even think about it, Freddie.” You warn, and he pouts softly.

And there he goes with his puppy eyes—you’re a sucker for that look and he knows it. “Oh, you are playing so unfair right now.” You grumble quietly.

By the time you’re walking back to the castle hours later, not only does Fred know everything you got him for Christmas and vice versa—but you are both now proud parents of a little black kitten.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ! wooh, first request done!!! not sure i did the black cat!gf archetype justice, but i tried. i hope you lovelies enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

©clesired - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

xoxo,

mila! *: ･🐚༄🫧*ੈ✩

[the-newlymadeweeb]

I Gotcha.

Luke Castellan x daughter of Apollo!reader

Description: three times you promised Luke that you got him. The two times he struggled to believe and finally when he did.

A/N: the gif is not mine, credits to the owner.

************************************************************

The days spent at camp immediately after his failed quest were arguably the worst of Luke's entire life.

He had to drag himself back home with a burnt chunk of an apple, a dragon tooth and half his face destroyed.

You had nursed him back to health. Spending three days straight in the infirmary. The solo quest was a bad idea and you had known it. Luke had gone alone in some sort of attempt to prove himself, seeking glory but now this entire thing had backfired and you couldn't help but worry.

When he awoke he had stared in mute horror at the mirror you held up to his face.

"I tried to minimise the scarring as much as I could, Luke. I couldn't remove it entirely but with the correct balm and scar creams it'll fade," you had explained.

Luke knew you were the best the camp infirmary had but he couldn't explain the rage that boiled within him. This fruitless quest, with its dumb replication to Heracles' and his quest all for the sake of earning his father's attention had permanently marred him.

Physical proof of his father's neglect right there for everyone to witness.

And he would have to carry this stupid scar for the rest of his life.

"Luke?"

His gaze snapped to meet yours, softening slightly, as you placed the mirror facedown on his bedside table.

"Yeah?"

He didn't want to see sympathy in your eyes, no doubt too many campers will be looking upon him like he was a pitiful kicked dog, nor did he want to see disappointment; he wasn't quite sure how he'd stomach that.

But your face held neither of those emotions, instead a strong conviction resided in the lines of your face, lines that you were too young to have, that marked the effects of stress no adolescent should feel.

"I'm gonna take care of you Luke, okay?" You reached out and cupped his uninjured cheek, "I gotcha. I always gotcha."

And wasn't that something.

He reached out cupping your face in his hands, this was his whole world.

"Okay baby; yeah, please."

****************************

Luke had miscalculated. He'd failed to retain the master bolt and the helm of darkness.

Now, he was being punished. Severely. And he hated it but he deserved it. He'd let Kronos down, he needed to learn his lesson so he never makes the same mistake.

The nightmares cut too much into reality though sometimes. His entire body lit aflame but it always got so much worse when he was forced to face a scenario where he had to cut you up so that your pieces would replace the Titan.

He never failed this test, but it always took the most out of him. Even if you always understood his anger, he wasn't sure you'd understand his methods; and at the crack of every dawn, he'd escape his cabin and run to the lake where he knew you'd always be. Like clockwork, watching the sun rise.

This time his skin buzzed with the phantom recollection of his nightmares, he had to scrub at his eyes to clear his vision a few times, mistaking the blood on his hands to be real in his fatigued state.

You sat on the deck, eyes fixed on the changing colours of the sky. He could hear your voice humming a soft nameless tune. This was your ritual, your futile attempts at interactions with your father as he burst across the heavenly dome on his sun chariot.

Nonetheless, Luke always enjoyed the sound of your voice. He'd appreciate it if Apollo never would.

You'd sense his presence as you always did in the early hours and you'd beckon him towards you.

Sitting by your side felt right, amidst all the tension he'd been under. The weight of all his plans. Your song was familiar, the heat and strength of your figure a comfort.

"Nightmares again?" You asked, knowing the answer regardless.

He'd nod.

There were a few truths he was allowed to tell you. Sometimes if he said it with enough of himself, he could fool himself to believe that all you knew weren't mainly lies.

"Come here."

And you'd guide his head to you lap, gentle– loving, like the first rays of the sun. You would card your fingers through his curls, and every now and then lightly ghost your fingertips over the scar on his face.

On occasion, Luke would dream that you were healing him, erasing his scars, erasing his pains.

"I gotcha Luke," you'd murmur, "I always gotcha."

Some mornings he'd fall into a dreamless sleep.

************************

"I gotcha baby," oh he's missed that voice, "I always gotcha, Luke." It's been too long. Days, weeks, months. Years.

You were crying.

Percy and Annabeth were crying too but–

You're crying.

Don't cry.

He's really tired, and it's getting difficult to take a breath. He figures this is the feeling of death and he's trying to not be afraid.

You reach for him, and he forces himself to open his eyes and look at you.

It's not so bad. Your face has always been what he'd like to see last. It's just–

There's so much to say. So many things he has to tell you, to apologise for, to confess, to love and there's no time.

You're so beautiful.

Even covered in soot and monster dust and blood.

Your hands cup his face, fingers instinctively brushing his brows and scar. You keep mumbling small comforts, little assurances. But you don't promise life, because that wouldn't be true and while Luke has been a deceitful liar, you have never been one yourself and you won't lie to him even now.

But you promise that you got him. And he believes you.

"I know baby," He huffs and tries to say, "but now...it's time�� time to let me go."

It's a struggle. His vision is blurry, he's really tired.

So he focuses on the feel of you instead, letting his eyes close. This is just like falling asleep.

*****************************************************************************

[3lliesan]

"Yandere x reader twst characters!" "Yandere first years!"

No, I just want a twst au where the first years decide to test how far they can go with insanity with how many horrors they deal with in one school year. Yuu included.

Yuu should act like the leader they were meant to be instead of being just a background piece.

Ace may not have a UM of his own and constantly gets underestimated, but knows how to put his wits and misdirection to good use.

Deuce may be slow when it comes to learning new things and is trying his best to be an honor student to make his mom proud... But he now knows that an honor student doesn't have some other qualities of his and that it can help him in more ways than one.

Jack may be a person who follows his principles well, but maybe, a little bit of personal justice wouldn't hurt. Especially when it comes to his pack.

Epel isn't going back to his old days, he swears! Even if it is tempting sometimes. But ever since he finally started to understand what Vil meant after that conversation with Deuce from VDC, as well as some tips from Yuu... Playing the "poison apple" is quite satisfying once he got used to self-restraint.

Ortho might act optimistic and innocent most of the time because his personality was set to be that of a child, but he's also... very overprotective of those he considers family. He's constantly learning more about the world around him, which also extends to the people he surrounds himself with! So, he shouldn't have much of a problem with... terminating threats to those he cares about. The line between right and wrong is blurry in NRC, after all!

Of course, there's nothing like murder or anything like that!... But the psychological damage/reputation/injuries are enough to scar anyone who goes far enough to do anything funny is quite... unfortunate.

The best-case scenario is when you get spooked enough as a warning! But I don't recommend trying again though. :D

You don't want to be one of the people who are foolish enough to do the same despite having a clear mind, unlike those who Overblotted, do you?

I may or may have not randomly written this after remembering the english lyrics to this song exist.

[loveinhawkins]

Eddie lingers by the Lite-Brite, while Robin and Nancy thunder downstairs in search of the bikes; Steve can hear the echo of their voices as they go, Robin insisting that she get, “—the coolest looking bike, Nance, that’s only fair considering your goddamn outfit nearly strangled me,” followed by Nancy’s answering laughter.

Eddie doesn’t look like he’s heard them at all. Looks like he’s in a world of his own, actually.

His fingers trail through the air, creating a path of golden shimmers. His eyes are wide, entranced, and he suddenly looks so peaceful that the sight actually threatens to choke Steve up.

Maybe it’s a small thing compared to everything else. But Steve thinks it’s monumental: how despite every horror that he’s witnessed, despite everything, Eddie’s still reaching for the light.

The thought is familiar, a reminder of how he’d felt just minutes before, hearing Dustin and Erica’s triumphant giggles—hope and affection catching in his throat.

He’d almost forgotten that all of this could be fun, too.

Eddie’s fingers keep weaving—he doubles back on himself several times, like he’s trying to draw the light into his palm. There’s no discernible pattern to his movements, no half-formed words Steve can make out—he only sees Eddie’s complete and utter contentment in doing nothing but this: just drinking the moment in.

It makes Steve think of how he used to consider the Fourth of July as a kid. Before the big fireworks show, when it felt like time had slowed, like the whole world had narrowed down to just him and a dazzling sparkler in his hand.

Steve watches on, leaning against the doorframe; he wants—suddenly, desperately—to give Eddie all the time in the world.

But he has to settle for counting out increasingly long seconds in his head. Then he suppresses a sigh, gives a gentle tap, tap along the wall.

“Eddie,” Steve says softly. Then, when Eddie still hasn’t heard, just a touch louder: “Eddie.”

Eddie startles, blinking rapidly. His eyes refocus, land on Steve—but a slightly dreamy, captivated quality remains, as if he’s still seeing an afterimage of the lights.

“Oh,” he says, sounds almost sheepish.

“Hey,” Steve says, smiling. “You doing good over there? You look like you found proof that, like, Santa’s real or something.”

Eddie chuckles under his breath, but he doesn’t reply.

His hand returns to that spot again, dipping in and out of the light like he’s sat by a creek, fingers dragging through the water.

“Y’know,” Eddie begins, so quietly. Achingly wistful. “If it was all like this… I wouldn’t mind it.”

The feeling hits, tugs on Steve’s breastbone. It doesn’t hurt.

He keeps looking at Eddie, at the flickers of gold reflected in his pupils, and he silences the part of himself that insists he shouldn’t have time for this, and just thinks it anyway.

You’re beautiful, Eddie Munson.

That’s all. Nothing else, no qualifications.

Maybe here, things can be simple. Just this once.

Eddie drops his hand. The light fades away, but he’s staring at Steve, like something else has inexplicably been lit up right in front of him.

“What?” Steve says.

“Nothing,” Eddie says, almost a whisper. “Sometimes I just. I just think. You, um—you look at me like…”

Slowly, slowly, Steve steps further into the room.

“Like what?”

Another step.

Eddie shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. Adds nonsensically, “Must’ve been a trick of the light.”

“I don’t think so,” Steve says.

He reaches out a hand. Feels the warmth beneath his palm.

Eddie lifts his hand, so hesitantly. He edges ever closer, until the shimmery trails from their fingertips begin to merge into one.

Until their hands intertwine.

For a moment, Eddie stands frozen, and Steve’s ready to draw back.

But then Eddie inhales. He’s not looking at the lights, not anymore.

He’s looking at me, Steve thinks.

Perhaps has been for a while.

“Yes?” Eddie murmurs, lips barely moving.

“Yes,” Steve says.

He leans in.

The kiss is a small thing, really. Warm, tentative touches—a stumble before finding each other in the dark.

Such a small thing.

But to Steve, it’s monumental.

He feels it in his chest, like a tidal wave, and as he brings a hand up to cradle the side of Eddie’s face, he thinks that the lights are somehow in his chest too, like they’re both swallowing flecks of gold until they’re glowing with it, until the beams’ll shoot out of their fingers, their toes, the ends of their hair.

And here, in this house that’s frozen in time, it somehow feels like they’re stealing more of it, precious seconds, minutes—hell, give me hours, Steve thinks euphorically, give me years—

“Steve!” calls Robin’s voice distantly, and they both jump. “Get your ass in gear or I’m gonna slash your tires.”

“Uh, have a little patience, puh-lease!” Steve returns, a role reversal from all the times she’s run late for him to pick her up.

Eddie blinks, looks as if he’s holding his breath again; his eyes flicker over Steve’s face, like he’s expecting him to pull away.

Steve doesn’t.

A tender, lovely smile spreads across Eddie’s face.

And then they’re laughing into each other’s mouths.

And laughing leads to more…

“Harrington,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling too much for it to come across as remotely serious.

“Just a little longer,” Steve says—feels like he’s back in high school, joyful and silly.

Eddie laughs breathily; Steve presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, swallows the sound.

“If Buckley slashes your tires, you’re gonna have to, like, book it alongside us.”

“Or we could share a bike.”

A disbelieving, fond chuckle. “Steve.”

Eddie breaks away only to lean back in and kiss Steve’s cheek instead—and for some reason that’s the thing to make Steve’s breathing truly catch.

They’re still holding hands; he rediscovers that fact when Eddie grins slyly and pulls him to the door.

“Let’s go.”

“All right, all right, jeez.”

The room is left in darkness, but they’re laughing as they race each other downstairs—and though the shimmers have dissolved, they’re still leaving light in their wake, wherever they go next.

[targaryen-dynasty]

THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE.

Antichrist!Aemond Targaryen x female Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; dub con, p in v, fingering (with gloves 😮‍💨), dacryphilia, choking, degrading, unprotected sex, power imbalance, female reader

WORDS: 4.7 K

NOTES: Yes, this is based on American Horror Story Apocalypse. Michael Langdon is just so *phew* that I had to adapt it to Aemond. This is so self indulgent, I'm not even sorry. @kaelabear you're getting the special taglist. @arcielee thank you for beta reading this! <3

You have lost track of how many days, months, or even years have passed since your arrival in Outpost 3, and gods, you’d give it all right away to be back in one of the holding cells the government had put you in around the time the bombs rained down over King’s Landing. 

Even though you received the status as a purple upon your arrival, therefore placing you to the upper-class elites specifically selected for survival, you couldn’t be worse off. At least there you’ve been allowed to do your own thing – as far as the confines allowed you to. 

The nutritional cubes they serve you are rationed, with Ms. Misery announcing they’ll have to ration them even further in the next days, and on top of being hungry and bored, you haven’t had a good fuck in quite the while. 

Sexual contact, or any kind of copulation, is strictly forbidden, and you’ve witnessed firsthand what it means to break Miserys’ rules – not that you’d make any moves on the other residents occupying the former exclusive boys school anyways. 

It’s only been you and your hand, sometimes even your pillow, from the very beginning on until now, and truth be told? You’re sick of it. 

At some point you’ve stopped getting yourself off, only because your body longed for physical contact, for someone else’s body on your own. 

And what certainly doesn’t help with your misery is the mysterious man that arrived just a few days ago. 

When he introduced himself as Targaryen, you knew his arrival was something that came partnered with power. As much as you would have liked to focus on his speech to campaign himself, you found it was far too difficult to care about humanity being on the brink of failure when the man telling you about it was so, so damn easy on the eyes.

Just the sight of his sharp features, regardless of a part of them being concealed by a black eyepatch, has been enough to make your mouth water. And when your eyes traveled lower, taking in the way his black slacks all but hugged his toned thighs, all was lost for you. 

You’ve been grateful that Laenor pounced on him to be interviewed first, wanting to see if he'd be worthy enough to be relocated to the so-called sanctuary, because you certainly would have jumped Targaryens’ bones right then and there. 

His alluring aura, the dominance radiating off of him – it all are factors that drive your aching body to insanity. and the nights that followed you found your relief more than once with the image of him flashing right before your eyes. 

Some time has passed in which you’ve barely seen him around, only hearing of him through the stories of the other residents that have been interviewed by him; now it’s your turn to warm the large chair standing in front of the imposing Mahogany desk. 

It’s the door behind you sliding open that lets your heart drop into the pit of your stomach, and you fidget with your fingers to stop yourself from turning around. You don’t want to be caught staring in the first few seconds already. 

You hear your name fall past his lips so smoothly it sends a shiver down your spine. You give in to the temptation and watch him step inside with an air of mellow gratification, prowling around the desk until he eventually sits down in the empty seat across from you.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” he purrs, a glint of mischief dancing in his eye. 

There comes no reply from you, instead you continue to fumble with your fingers, looking at what you assume to be your file splayed out on the desk in front of him. 

It’s the dismissive hum that rumbles in his chest that finally piques your interest, and when your gaze settles on him again, you spot him touch his chin thoughtfully as his eye skimps over the pages, seeming as if he’s reading it for the first time. 

The red gloves he wears stand in stark contrast to the otherwise colorless rest of his outfit, your gaze drawn to them like a moth to a flame. He has worn them upon his arrival already; the smooth leather shining in the dim light of the candles makes your mind wander to more indecent things. 

He tilts his head up again to meet your gaze, his smooth and calming voice ringing out. “Your genetic profile would appear to be favorable, so you can say that this interview is solely conducted as a… precaution.” Though it’s meant to be reassuring, the deliberate pause he makes doesn’t seem convincing. 

His words make you frown. “What for?” you ask, and you curse yourself for how blunt and bold your voice sounds. “Aren’t you in need of relocating the last few people that pass on good genes, now that this is the last outpost standing?” 

The genuine laugh he offers you prompts you to lean back in your seat, juxtaposing the way he leans forwards in his. Something in the arrogance that radiates off of him, and the smug smirk he has on his lips, feeds your irritation. 

“Doesn’t seem like you can afford to be picky,” you snap back at him. 

He licks his lips, and although it’s not longer than a second, your mind immediately drifts off to think about how it would feel between your legs, how he would feel between them. You try to be subtle as you shift in your seat, barely moving enough to soothe the aching that blooms at the apex of them. 

“We’re making the selections as carefully as possible,” he counters. The paper of your file is pinched between his index and thumb, rubbing it between the pads of his fingers. “We need to ensure the survival of humanity, and I’m sure you understand that we have to look for a certain level of ambition in the people we choose.”

Even though his explanation is vague, and doesn’t make much sense to you, it is strangely appealing. The word ambition is such a broad term that could mean anything from career-minded to cutthroat, yet you still have to figure out exactly what he means. 

The tension grows thicker and thicker with each passing second of silence, and you feel a warm sensation spreading inside of you from his intense gaze – which is perhaps also due to the hint of desire that gleams in his eye as he regards you. 

You try your best to ignore the way your heart races, wanting to diminish the warmth inside of you. But to no avail. 

When he rises from his seat, your heart drops into your stomach again, and your eyes grow wide with curiosity and intrigue. 

It’s a brief flicker of your eyes down his body that has you squeezing your thighs together, far too distracted by how tall he is than to notice the smug smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips. 

“Would you say that you’ve… settled here?” he asks, his voice carrying a hint of something you find difficult to decipher.  

He slowly stalks around the desk, the tips of his leather-clad fingers smoothly gliding over the dark wood. His eye lingers on your face, taking you in and assessing your reaction. His expression holds the same edge of darkness his voice does, though he isn’t hiding it as effectively as he thinks he is this time. 

Your eyes never leave his frame when he comes to stand next to you, leaning back against the desk. He’s gripping the edge of it, and even in the dim light of the candles, you notice that it’s rather tightly, almost as if he’s suppressing the urge to touch you. 

“Well, I suppose I’ve managed to adjust,” you reply. 

For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. He just stares at you with this cold precision – until you catch his eye flitting lower, trailing over your form. 

The purple gown you wear isn’t revealing at all, not that Ms. Misery would allow you to wear anything of that sort anyways. The neckline is squared with raised yet off-the-shoulder structured shoulders that leave little to the imagination – but only if you’ve been touch deprived for long enough.

And, judging by the way his jaw clenches as his eye meets yours again, you can tell it’s also been a while for him. 

The thought of it makes your blood run hot, the warmth now spreading to your cheeks. Your gaze falls to your lap, watching your fingers fumble with each other while you feel his bore into your frame. 

There’s a hum rumbling in his chest once again, but this time it sounds more like a purr, as if he finds satisfaction in your nervousness. “Are you normally this flustered in front of men… or is it just me?”

A sudden rush of excitement and embarrassment floods your veins as your mind processes his words; your head snaps back up to look at him, and you’re greeted by a teasing grin. 

“I’m not flustered,” you reply, your voice only wavering slightly, yet you know that it’s clear to him that you’re not being very honest. He’s well aware of the effect he’s having on you. 

He tsks, a dangerous glint in his eye. “I mean, I can see you,” he says, gesturing to you with his hand. “You’re licking your lips, you can’t meet my eyes for more than a few seconds, your cheeks are flushed – it’s clear your body yearns to be touched…” he trails off, smirking to himself as he briefly glances to the ground. “... by me.”

His statement catches you off-guard. A quick exhale from your nose leaves you feeling winded with the sensations of butterflies wreaking havoc within your body. 

The silence between you lingers, heavy and thick as you ponder over his words, and you decide to go all in. You glance at him sideways, before speaking. “Is that so?”

His eye darkens at your coy demeanor, and with the corners of his quirking up into a sly smirk, he reveals just a glimpse of the devil that lurks beneath the angelic exterior. “Oh, it is,” he replies with a mocking tone. “I know you’re getting off to the thoughts of me at night, sweet thing. And even right now, you’re dripping for me. It’s almost pathetic.”

He almost seems relieved as he finally reaches to trace a gentle line over your exposed shoulder, starting at the crook of your neck. His light touch and the coldness of his gloves cause you to shiver involuntarily, and makes your breathing heavy. 

As if he’s searching for something within yours, his eye narrows, and your mind races with the possibility of what such a look might signify. 

“Look at you,” he purrs, licking his pouty lips. “You’re sitting here, just waiting for me to take things a step further – all the while I could smell that sweet pussy of yours ever since I’ve stepped into the room.”

Your mouth goes dry at his words, making it difficult to swallow, and you feel yourself clench around nothing; the urge to squirm in your seat is nearly overwhelming. 

“That sweet scent of yours…” he trails off. Mesmerized by his words and confidence, you almost flinch when he pushes himself off the desk, slowly kneeling down to be on a level with you, hovering close to you like a predator pretending to pounce. 

Your breath is heavy, and with your body still facing the desk, you’re forced to turn your head to the side to meet his gaze. There are mere inches between your faces now, and you feel his minty breath fan over your lips, swollen from how often you've licked them at this point. 

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, and heat follows where the cold leather of his gloves ghosted over your skin. “So desperate to be touched… to be filled,” he hums. While embarrassment blossoms inside of you, there’s no amusement laced within his silky voice. It’s as if he’s just stating facts. “Or am I mistaken?” Your name topples past his lips with so much ease, it makes you imagine how it would sound moaned by him.

Your head begins to swim. His scent, his domineering aura, the warmth emanating off of him – it’s all too much and not enough. 

Meekly shaking your head, the ‘no’ you reply comes out not louder than a whisper. 

He takes in a quick breath of air, relishing in his victory. The way you submit to him, to his power and dominance, feeds something within him; a hunger that’s been growing more and more demanding from the moment he stepped into the room with you. 

“Good girl,” he purrs, slowly rising to his full height, stretching his fingers as he keeps his eye locked on you. A flush spreads over your cheeks at his praise, the subconscious urge to make him proud sending a shiver of excitement through your veins, feeding right into your desire to please him. 

He’s standing again, letting his eye drift over your sitting frame for a moment too long, trailing down your neck, over the curves of your breasts, and settling in your lap. A gloved hand comes forward to pinch the skirts of your gown between his fingers, an almost disgusted look on his features. 

“Take it off.”

“W-What?” 

“W-w-what?” he mocks, the scoff he releases filling you with shame. “Take it off,” he repeats. “Or else I will take it off of you, and that won’t be any more pleasant.”

The thought of him undressing you seems tempting. A small part of you wants to protest, to say something along the lines of ‘you can’t just demand something like this’ but the other part craves this. It feels as if it’s quintessential for your body to survive, not able to go one day longer without being touched at all. 

Rising to your feet, you smooth out the skirts of your dress before craning your neck to look up at him. He’s towering over you, hardly stepping back far enough to create any space for you to undress. 

Having always been a bit of a pain to put on, getting out of the dress was even worse. The tight fit and squared neckline leaves you with very limited mobility, meaning you’re always relying on a servant to help you get out of it. And facing these difficulties, the thought of removing it all by yourself, especially in front of him, seems almost sacrilegious. 

A thought pops into your mind, and your body is quick enough to get through with it before you can even think about it properly. 

“Care to help me?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at him. Before he can refuse, you brush your hair over one shoulder and turn around, presenting him with your back and the tightly laced corset. 

Much to your surprise, he doesn’t refuse, and you say nothing as his fingers find the lacing of your corset, gloves brushing your skin as he slowly undos the laces. 

It’s a slow process, one that builds anticipation within you, and has you squeezing your thighs together yet again. 

His caresses are light and careful at first, but they grow increasingly firm and forceful. Each tug and pull draws you closer to him, and only when you hear the same dismissive hum rumbling in his chest do you dare to glimpse at him from over your shoulder, seeing him staring at your back with his jaw set with a new purpose. 

The fabric is still pinched between his fingers when they suddenly change course, gripping the purple fabric around the lace with a bit more force than necessary. He rips open the corset in a single, harsh motion in a clear display of his impatience, the torn fabric hitting the ground with a thud, and your gown quickly follows suit. 

For a moment, you feel relief at being freed from its confines. But it’s fleeting, your skin immediately prickling as you become aware of how much of your body is exposed to him now. 

It’s weird to think that this thin layer of modesty has been enough to keep your fluttering nerves at bay, and now it’s peeled away with you knowing he’s gazing at you as if he’s been served his first meal in months. 

Easing your trembling legs, you hold onto the desk for support. It feels like an eternity as you crouch forward slightly to steady your uneven breathing, the moment only breaking as he advances towards you, his body leaning against yours and pressing you up against the desk. It’s the only thing keeping you upright, and the moment you feel his hot breath caress your neck, your legs feel like they are about to give in. 

His thigh slips between yours, but you can’t feel his hands on your body, assuming he’s clasped them behind his back or kept them at his sides. You can tell that his chest isn’t the only firm thing that presses against your body, his cock rock hard and all but straining against your lower back, clearly finding as much pleasure in the situation as you do.

His proximity is all you’ve thought of for the past days, yet it’s not enough. You need his hands, him, to feel thoroughly satisfied. The urge to whine scratches in your throat, but you manage to swallow it at the last moment. 

“Beg for me to touch you,” he drawls, voice laced with a mixture of excitement and hunger. 

Exhaling a strained breath, you close your eyes. “P-Please,” you whimper, barely loud enough for him to hear. “Please… touch me. It’s been so long.”

“Hm.” You hear it loud and clear, the amusement, the satisfaction, causing your skin to heat up. “That’s all you’ve got?”

You tip your head back in frustration, meeting with his shoulder, a loud huff slipping past your lips. But you’re so close to getting what you want, there’s no way you’re giving up already. 

“Please, please touch me… Mr. Targaryen.” His name is spoken with a bit of hesitation. “I-I- please, fuck, need it so, so bad. Please.” That you’re not stomping your feet on the ground like an insolent child is everything, knowing it would push your chance for relief further away. 

But it seems to do the trick, because one gloved hand settles on your hip without him saying anything, while the other clasps around the outside of your thigh, his thumb brushing smooth patterns over your hot skin. 

He drags his nose along the side of your face, his breath tickling your skin, and you slightly turn your head to lean into it. “Where else do you want me to touch, mh?”

Feeling him on every inch of your body has you far too aroused to be frustrated by his on-going teasing and stalling. “Right…” you pant, peeling his hand from your hip to bring it down between your legs, “... here.”

A quiet whine slips past your lips as his fingers make contact with your sensitive clit, the cold leather of his gloves against your hot skin striking you as a welcome surprise and sending a shiver down your spine. It feels foreign, but nice nevertheless.  

You’ve fully anticipated him to pull back again, to leave you high and dry, but he surprises you again, when he drags his fingers through your swollen folds. 

“Right here, mh?” he purrs into your ear with a husky voice. 

It’s a grazing touch that alone is enough to make your mind hazy, merely humming in return. 

He’s not doing more than rubbing your clit and brushing his digits through your folds, but you’re wet enough already for it to be audible. The squelching sounds coming from between your legs are embarrassing, clearly highlighting your desperation for him, and it only gets worse when he slips a finger inside of you. 

Taking in a sharp breath, you hold onto the desk again. “God, fuck,” you whine. 

His finger is thick enough to be accompanied with a slight burning stretch, intensifying the moment he adds another. You can’t resist the urge to grind against his hand, the base of it applying just enough pressure to your clit to numb any discomfort. 

“You like that, mh?” he rasps. “So fucking wet and desperate for my fingers, dripping all over my glove.”

A string of whiny yesses leaves your lips as the pace of his fingers increases, making it incredibly difficult for your hips to maintain the rhythm. 

Heavy breaths and pants fan over your flushed skin, spurring you on and bringing you closer to the sweet relief you’ve craved for so long. He seems to sense your impending orgasm, and works you just a moment longer, before he withdraws his fingers from you, making sure the loss would make it even worse. 

But there’s no time to whine. 

“Look at the mess you’ve made,” he teases, acting as if he’s completely oblivious to the torture he puts you through, and brings his gloved hand up to your face. 

The red leather is covered in your arousal, sticky and glistening even in the dim light. As he spreads the two fingers, a few strings of it connect the leather, and you bite your bottom lip, knowing all too well what might follow. 

“Open your mouth, pet,” he commands in a stern voice. “Clean up your mess.” 

And you comply, parting your lips and eagerly embracing him pushing them inside. Your tongue swirls around the digits, the leather tasting and feeling completely different on your tongue. 

You hardly notice that his other hand has left your thigh, and even less that he’s undoing the zipper of his slacks, pulling out his hard cock. Only when you feel the pressure against your entrance do your eyes widen, and you whine around his fingers as he pushes inside. 

Even though you are stretched from his digits, it can not compare to his cock. 

He’s filling you to the brim in one, swift thrust, and with you being gagged by his gloved fingers, you can’t do more than mewl and moan. “Fuck, tight cunt taking my cock, hm? That’s it, such a good, little pet.”

Not giving you the chance to adjust to his size, he sets up a reckless pace from the very start, his impatience running thin with the way your tightness embraces him. He fucks you as if it’s a one time thing, as if you won’t make the cut, but something inside of you tells you this is merely the beginning. 

Saliva trickles down your chin as his cock drives deeper and deeper, forcing moan after moan past your lips and his gloved fingers. It’s the sounds of skin slapping against skin, his strained grunts and your muffled whines filling the room, and if Ms. Misery were to find out, you would be tortured or killed even before the next day arrived. 

Maybe it’s the risk of being caught that drives him to his next step, but he withdraws his fingers from your mouth, gloved hand coming down to rest around your throat instead. He applies just a bit of pressure, merely meaning to hold you upright and steady to make it easier for him to use you to his liking.

You scramble for hold, sweaty palms planted flatly on the wooden surface in front of you, supporting yourself as the man behind you all but fucked every coherent thought out of your brain. 

“Look at you,” he grunts, pounding into your needy cunt. The tip of his cock brushes your sweet spot, pushing high enough to knock the air out of your lungs and make you lose yourself. “All you’ve been thinking about was my cock. So desperate to be fucked by me, huh?”

You are so full with him, his scent, his warmth, everything, that breathy whines and yesses are the only things slipping past your lips. 

He drags his nose along the side of your face, clearly relishing in the way he’s fucked you dumb with so little effort already, and you almost feel yourself come on spot the moment he presses his lips to your earlobe. 

Pushing his hips all the way into yours, he stills them for a moment, bringing up a gloved hand to spit on his fingers and before dragging them harshly over your sensitive clit, and putting you straight into a frenzy. 

The tears that were brimming in your eyes now spill and run down your flushed cheeks, hitting the desk he has you hunched over. 

“No need to cry, pet,” the man behind you drawls, a satisfaction weaved in his husky voice. “You wanted this, didn't you? Wanted my cock to fuck you stupid? Or do you want me to stop?”

Your blank mind barely processes his words, but just hearing the word stop has you finding your voice again. “N-no,” you whine, arching your back and pressing your ass back against him. “Don’t-don’t stop, Sir. ‘M so, so close.”

“Close, mh? Then fucking come for me.”

With his hand now applying a good bit of pressure to your throat and his fingers strumming your clit in a reckless pattern, you feel yourself getting lightheaded as your release hits you suddenly. 

His strained groans are hushed against your neck as you spasm around him, sucking him in hungrily. He works you through it, fucking you as you quiver and shake. Grinding against him, you ride your high out in rhythm with his thrusts, gasping each time his cock pistones inside of you. 

His hips falter slightly for a moment, caught off guard by how tightly your walls are squeezing him, but he regains his composure and sets up a brutal pace again. You’re swollen and raw by now, but he doesn't stop. 

“That’s it, fuck, I’m gonna get this pathetic cunt stuffed with my cum,” he grunts, pulling his hand from your clit to plant it on your hip. 

Each rut of his hips makes your eyes journey to the ceiling, the tears on your cheeks now dry. There are hiccuped breaths spilling from your mouth, and you can’t do more than to hold onto the desk, bracing yourself for his relentless pounding. 

With a stutter of his hips and a raspy groan escaping his throat, his cock eventually spills deep inside of you, coating your walls. He fucks it into you with deliberately slow thrusts, the last spurts of his warm release filling you to the brim.

A strained groan is audible as he pulls out, tucking himself back in his slacks, and assumes the cold demeanor he’s had before. The only courtesy he grants you is picking up your dress and underwear he’s torn off you before, holding it out for you to take. 

You get the cue, and dress yourself on trembling legs. The blonde watches curiously, leaning back against the desk again. The red gloves now lay on the desk, and you catch a glimpse of his long, ring-clad fingers. 

With flushed cheeks, you briefly look at the ground before presenting him your back again. “Do you mind?” 

He nods and steps towards you, silently lacing up your corset, and whenever his skin brushes yours, a shiver runs down your spine. His skin is soft, smooth even, and the warmth emanating from them is far more pleasant than the cold leather.

But the moment is fleeting as he quickly moves to sit down behind his desk again, a new file already pinched between his fingers. You smoothen out the skirt of your dress, merely bowing your head once, and make a beeline for the door. 

It’s his voice ringing out that stops you in your tracks, though you don’t dare to turn around. 

“I expect you to come back for your second interview tomorrow. See it as an opportunity for me to gauge whether or not you truly have the right… ambition.”

“Thank you, Mr. Targaryen,” you mumble in return, a strange sense of satisfaction and anticipation already coursing through your veins. 

Hearing your name once again, you turn your head to look at him. “There’s no need to be formal when it’s just us. You can call me Aemond.”

Taglist: @heimtathurs @croatianprincess @nina2697 @malfoytargaryen @thetaygaryen @wintrr13 @winter-soldier-101 @kyuupidwrites @boofy1998 @thekinslayersswordhand @sagelovesreading @jiminie-08 @doublesparrows @at-a-rax-ia @fan-goddess @recorddust @tsujifreya @melsunshine @drwstarkeyy @kazuyatokue @moonlightfoxx @bbgmonsay @thatmysteriousblog @ashovertheriver @black-dread @watercolorskyy @nothingqueens @urmomsgirlfriend1 @lovelykhaleesiii @hypocritic-trash-baby @darylandbethfanforever9 @snowystark @connorsui @valeskafics

[winwintea]

nct vs haunted house (who you picking to go with you?)

pairing ↬ ot25 nct (127, dream, wayv, wish)

tags ↬ cussing, i roast everyone (sorry not sorry)

author’s note ↬ very lax and lazy shitpost. can y'all pretend like i posted this before november 1st to spare me the embarrassment and shame, thanks. also in no apparent order so you might have to dig for your member. this is the first time i've posted for all the members... also only seen the wayv and dream haunted house videos so it might not be fully accurate.

sakuya

nah why the hell would you pick him. this shit is gonna make a bolt for it and leave you alone inside to defend for yourself. if it's a haunted house walkthrough, he's gonna speedrun it and save himself, not you. if it's a horror escape room he's probably gonna get jumpscared, but will distract himself by laughing at you. NOT HELPFUL AT ALL, somehow manages to break everything. (0/10 partner, made me cry afterwards. this is why i hate children /j)

winwin

you've got like a 50/50 chance of surviving this thing. winwin's scared out of his wits when it comes to haunted houses, but in an actual stressful situation he thinks very logically. given the right circumstance, he doesn't make dumb choices, and can actually progress through the haunted house fairly easy. his only flaw is that when he gets jumpscared he has extreme reactions and always is on the floor. (6/10 partner, just make sure he isn't pulling you to the ground as well.)

haechan

no sane person would pick him, are you okay? i mean he's kinda unpredictable. either cackling and laughing his ass off or sobbing or straight faced the whole time. when he's scared he demands to be carried, like tf? thought you were supposed to protect me. whatever. actually kinda smart and helpful though like if you're lucky you two can get out just fine. (7/10 partner, because at least he isn't gonna leave you alone to die, you'll die together.)

doyoung

get ready for snarky comments on everything, "i wonder if these people are getting paid minimun wage." or "whoever designed this place needs to go to jail why is everything so ugly looking." he's a NERVOUS WRECK though. starts yapping when he's scared. telling the scare actors to "wait pls" (they won't love you like i love you) they don't listen to him though... very tense, movements are stiff, he has like a 25% chance of actually being helpful. (2.5/10 partner, someone tell him to move faster.)

jaehyun

you picked the nonchalant king himself! he'd probably be a bit scared, maybe a few jerks or flinches from the jumpscares, but nothing too bad. probably laughs at the actors or at the situation, but it's not a mocking laugh. very helpful and you'll definitely make it out of there alive! if you're easily scared no worries! he'll be fine carrying you if he has to. give yourself a pat on the back, you picked well. (10/10 partner i have no complaints)

jisung

someone save this poor baby and you because you two are also not making it out alive today. not very loud screams, but oh my god he clutches his chest and bucks his knees like he's heard the worst news of his life. 15,000 mental breakdowns in the span of a minute. asks random obvious questions and is curious about everything. he's too lost in his own head and thoughts to be really helpful, plus he's too scared to try anything so you really aren't progressing further unless you lock in. (2/10 partner, i love you ji but i gotta survive)

riku

honey idk who lied to you but riku is not brave at all. another stumbler, he's tripping all over the place, sometimes you wonder whether it's on purpose or not. no cause this man spends more time on the floor then actually on his feet. when he's collected himself and believes that there's no reason to be scaried he's gonna aegyo his ass off. which doesn't work lol. might as well use him as a meat shield atp. (3/10 partner, good meat shield /j)

yushi

also a 50/50. very very very helpful and knowledgeable when it comes to solving clues and mysteries. but when it comes to progressing forward and interacting with the scare actors he's not in his element. asks "who's there" as if anyone would answer. also in denial half of the time, "oh it's not that sc- AHJH SHHHH-" runs around and clings to something, probably your arm. (7/10 partner, just the two of us, we can make it if we try! )

hendery

i asked to survive not a distraction for my fears and worries. why is bro singing???? we're supposed to be working and solving the puzzles, no more distractions pls!! he's going to terrorize you just because it's funny, but i'm in a haunted house NOT A COMEDY CLUB. when it comes to solving clues he cooks dogshit!! nobody let him back into a haunted house thanks! (0/10 partner, i need the scare actor to mercy kill me atp)

chenle

why. you know better than to pick him. 100% will scream as loud as he can and sacrifice you in -119 seconds. laughing mess. he's like sakuya and will leave you to fend for yourself. he dngaf. will also terrorize you because it's "funny". unless it's a competition he will not help you at all and pretends like he's helping but he's not doing anything except goofing around. try again. (-143/100 partner, except he doesn't love you like in the skz song)

johnny

you make it out of there purely off of johnny’s dumbass luck. i’m serious. as soon as he’s jump-scared he puts his hands up and turns around like “helll naahhhh” and then he starts scolding the scare actor like he’s their dad ???? or something ?? why the fuck did this turn into a big ass therapy session about how the scare actor could turn their life around and use their talents for something more rewarding in life? (9/10 partner, you only make it out of there because the scare actor tearfully tells you the answers to all the clues and promises johnny he’ll work on bettering himself.)

kun

if you thought his leader mode self would activate you are wrong. completely wrong. first of all he TRIES to act calm and mature, but fails miserably. also he forces you to do everything, go first, because bro is ACTUALLY A COWARD ISTG. at least he's pretty decent at solving problems, but when he gets jump-scared he's too terrified to function, like if was by himself he would get himself killed. (-4/10 partner, i asked for a good partner not a manchild)

yuta

going with the other non-chalant king is also a fairly good choice! except he's even more unbothered and unfazed than jaehyun, you're wondering if you should be more scared of him than the actors. feel bad for the actors though like they get a kick out of scaring people and he's just like "heh. that's funny" not very helpful with puzzles though so you might have to do that yourself! (8/10 partner, you'll probably survive, but you'll do most of the work unfortunately.)

renjun

i think the only other person you could pick that's worse than him on this list is taeyong. CONSTANTLY CLINGING TO YOUR ARM. savagely trying to crack jokes but is scared out of his wits for sure. he's okay with solving clues, renjun is smart, just don't pressure or tease him or he might actually snap. honestly just don't pick renjun to be your partner. (-127/10 partner, why are we still here? just to suffer?)

taeyong

you are 100 percent getting killed today !! congratulations !! or maybe you wanted that? poor bubu was not cut out for this line of work okay. he screams the loudest screams you've ever heard, does not function normally after the first scare. you could've picked anyone else and maybe you would've had a 99.99% chance of dying instead of 100. (-553/10 partner, PICK BETTER PLEASE. i'm so fucking mad /hj)

ten

he's a runner he's a track star !! he's literally a cat. what else did you expect? him to not be a scaredy cat? when u call him out for being unhelpful or too scared he'll gaslight tf out of you. he'll also deflect and start saying everything you're doing wrong as if you aren't the ONLY PERSON DOING ANYTHING AT ALL?? “stop pushing me” EXCUSE ME? YOU PUSHED ME? makes me so mad, but at least he sometimes is helpful i guess. (-40/10 partner, you should know better than to pick him.)

sion

better than kun maybe on par with winwin i'd say. his leader mode is definitely more active here, also tries to play up and be brave, gets scared very easily but it's okay. he reacts quickly and that's honestly all that matters in a haunted house bc if you can get out of that inital shock and think logically about the situation you can survive about anything. very good with puzzles i don't think he's a bad option! (8/10 partner, jaehyun maybe enlisting in a couple of days but at least we have sion)

jeno

might be the one of the best options out of all of these clowns. but again nct is a circus and they are so unpredictable. i would feel safe with jeno though. he's suspiciously quiet, and not very reactive when it comes to the scares. very smart too like he solves the puzzles in seconds too. take jeno with you and you are LIVING TO SEE THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL! (12/10 partner, very satisfied would recommend. )

xiaojun

you picking xiaojun is like whoever tf seulgi is singing to that knows 28 reasons to run away but chooses to depend on her anyways. LIKE CMON. xiaojun definitely scares himself. also he's really loud in general like you need something to shut him up with. bad at puzzles, okay with scares, idk if you're gonna survive broski. (2/10 partner, maybe xiaojun has dumb luck and you'll survive, who knows.)

ryo

way more mature than sakuya, i'm convinced you will actually survive! this little maltese is very brave and will definitely go first if you're too scared. also willing to throw hands but let's talk about that later you will make it out of there in decent time, and not struggle that much. may get a little bit scared, but he regains his courage very easily! (10/10 partner, guys i love ryo a lot. he's literally my child.)

jaemin

yes jaemin is a good pick, he’s not that phased by scare actors and will even try to talk to some of them about their day. spreads positivity but will probably mock you for being too scared if you get scared by the jump-scares. if you can deal with that you should be fine. he’s not as good as jeno is with the puzzles but can hold his own weight fairly well. “can we go again?” absolutely not. (8/10 partner, would’ve been higher but for that last comment he’s getting marked down a couple of points.)

jungwoo

just because this man isn’t vocal when he’s scared does not mean he isn’t shitting himself right now. instead of screaming, he opts to stumble and fall instead. any little noise will make him jump, even if it’s caused by himself. closes his eyes because “i can’t get scared if i can’t see them!” he was incorrect. jungwoo can in fact get scared if he can’t see them. (0/10 partner, no negatives for jungwoo but you probably won’t survive.)

mark

best option in my opinion. the only leader who calms down the fastest and reacts the best. i mean he deals with haechan and chenle on a daily basis so he has some practice. all his years of testing his patience has prepared him for this moment. deep inside he’s paranoid as hell, but that really doesn’t distract him from getting you two out of there as quickly as he can. extremely motivated and works hard to solve the puzzles. (17/10 partner, much better than his egg making abilities!)

jaehee

he thought it was going to be fun. it was not. “this was NOT a good idea. oh MY GOd-“ pointing to every little thing, “did you see that”. okay but his prediction game is kinda on point though. thanks to his paranoia he manages to predict all the jumpscares. so eventually you two come up with a plan to scare the actors themselves which actually works surprisingly, and lessens your worries about the whole thing. maybe it was fun after all. (8/10 partner, you got banned from coming back though)

yangyang

now most of y’all might think that yy will whine and scream and cry in a haunted house. and, you’re not wrong! but in terms of the pussy-ness scale against the rest of these clowns, yangyang is actually pretty good at this. he’ll flinch, react, scream, and run away, but he takes the lead. willingly to go first, even if he himself is shaking in his thousand dollar shoes the entire time. good at puzzles too! (7/10 partner, so good so bad like whatever zb1 said!)

perm taglist ↬ @lyvhie @aquaphoenixz @ldh0000 @galacticnct

[sadhours]

the diner - part one

billy hargrove x fem!reader

cw: 18+ minors dni, stalking, murder, toxic relationship, trauma, hallucinations, flayed!billy, peeping Tom, masturbation briefly mentioned, horror

He survived. Somehow— someway. Billy survived. Took care of what he should have so long ago. But that monster lingers, still alive within him.

You’re an innocent girl who works next door to him and he can’t help himself. Could you help him or is he too sick?

read on ao3

part two

Rain slips down, leaving clean streaks across the scum splattered front window of the shop. It’s deep into the evening, town’s asleep except for the truck stop directly next door. Bright lights illuminating the gas pumps, convenience store and the 50’s style diner. The one you work at.

And in the darkness of Route One Garage, Billy stands at the window. Watching. Eyes following as your hair bobs up and down with your steps as you run around the diner. Taking orders, filling coffee cups, carrying hot plates of greasy food made on grills cleaned less often than the health department wants. He’s eaten there, knows you can taste the filth in the food. But it’s the only place to get food this late for miles. The place is full of truckers, different faces but they might as well be the same copy of a person. In and out all day long. Billy’s seen the way they talk to you, been witness to it and just sat there with his blood boiling. Didn’t do anything about it because he’s a pussy and also, because you don’t know him. Sure, he comes in semi-regularly but he doesn’t really talk to you. He can’t for some reason. But before he moved to this teeny, shithole of a place, Billy wasn’t like this. He could talk to any woman. You didn’t look at him like most women did, though.

He watches you like this almost every night. Every night you’re there. Fantasizes about the things he wants to do to you. Sometimes those things are questionable, violent even but sometimes they’re just fantasies of talking to you— making you fall in love.

But he did something that woke up these dark demons deep in him. Well, two things.

Billy still has visions of the shape shifting monster. Haunts his dreams. Recalls each time he led an innocent person to the monster. Regretted not leading his father to the monster. So when he crawled out of the slimy, pulsing portal. He found his dad. Did what he’d always been too weak to do. Billy wonders if that monster still possesses him. If there’s still some of those black, gunky slugs in his stomach. Puked them up for weeks, it felt like.

But he’s thousands of miles from Hawkins. Though it feels like part of him is still contaminated. Made him reclusive, awkward, scarred up. Maybe that’s why he’s scared to talk to you. He knows he doesn’t look like he used to. His hair’s longer, his eyes are darker, his body has starfish shaped scars patterned all over. That charm has been evacuated. He’s not as suave.

Obsessive. That’s how he is now and he knows it but he can’t stop himself.

Billy knows where you work, he knows what you drive and he knows where you live. He has the name of your boss, your parents and your ex boyfriend. He’s followed you to the dive bar in town, walked around the general store and kept his eye on you and the things you buy. He’s full blown stalking you. It’s not his fault, though. That monster gave him this sickness and this town gave him loneliness. A recipe for disaster.

And you’re just so fucking pretty. The way your face lights up when you smile stains his eyes when he closes them. If he focuses hard enough he can hear your voice. Same script over and over.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Shop busy, today?”

“Usual tonight?”

“Coffee, eggs over easy, hash browns , extra bacon and sausage, right?”

“Want some more coffee?”

“Anything else tonight? Maybe some apple pie?”

“Ya sure? It’s really good apple pie, I promise.”

“I’ll just get your check, then.”

Sometimes Billy can finish when he’s thinking about those words. Which is sick and he knows that but he feels like he can’t help himself. Wonders what you think of him. You’re not a bitch or anything but you don’t ever look at him like girls used to look at him. Nothing like the moms laid out by the pool. Not like you think he’s good looking but like he’s any other face you see. Which infuriates him but makes him sad about himself more than anything. Occasionally he looks at himself in the mirror until he feels sick. Until he sees his dad. Tells himself he needs a haircut, needs to shave the mustache. Sleep more so he can lose the bags under his eyes. Maybe you’d look at him differently.

The lights flicker, buzz loud enough he can hear it in the shop. He leaves. Locks up the place and his boots take him to the diner. To the same booth he always sits in. Lights up a smoke and meets your eyes from across the place. You don’t flush the way girls used to. In fact, Billy can’t register any kind of reaction on your face. So he flicks his ash on the floor because you’ll have to sweep it up and it feels like he won. Won what? He doesn’t really know, but he wants you to clean up his mess. Gives him some kind of satisfaction.

The script starts when you walk up. A variation of it.

“Late tonight,” you say, filling up his coffee cup without asking. “Must be busy.”

“Sure,” he says. Always keeps it short because you don’t meet his eyes and he can’t meet yours. Instead he stares at your hands, pretty fingers wrapped around the carafe’s handle.

You walk away. To put the coffee away he guesses. Stares at the mug, wraps his own fingers around it and takes a careful sip. His eyes find you behind the counter, giving a look of disdain to your coworker who said something and then you grin. Laugh at whatever she said to you. Then you’re back at his booth and his eyes fall to the table as the script resumes.

“Usual?”

“Yeah.”

“Eggs over easy, hash browns, extra bacon and sausage,” you recite from memory and Billy gets a bit of satisfaction from it. Proud of you for some reason.

“You remember,” he says, low and steady.

You scoff and chuckle, the sound makes his thighs tighten and you say, “Kind of hard to forget it. You’ve never changed it.”

Bold for some reason, he replies, “Maybe I should.”

“We do have a whole six pages on that menu. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you open it, though,” you offer and this is new. It’s off script. Both you and him.

Billy smirks, flips open the menu and peers down at the first page. It’s greasy, a stain of sticky jam at the top left corner and he immediately catches a typo. He purses his lips and continues to flick through it. You pull the notepad from your apron but he’s too nervous to look up at your face. He flips another page and then, finally, looks up at your face.

“What do you like?”

You look shocked. He likes that.

“Uh,” you laugh, a soft little sound and Billy’s skin is hot. “Our patty melt is pretty damn good.”

He closes the menu, slides to the end of the table as he replies, “I’ll have that then.”

“Wow, you’re full of surprises tonight,” you quip, “Fries or potato salad.”

“Why don’t you give me a surprise,” Billy says and then looks away because you’re too fucking gorgeous and he’s on a roll. Kind of feels like his old self right now and looking at you would fuck that up.

You pick up the menu and laugh again, “Sure thing.”

You walk away and he takes a hit of his neglected cigarette, ash falling to the table as he does so. Another mess of his for you to clean. Makes his whole body tingle at the thought. You don’t check on him before his food is done. But Billy keeps checking on you, eyes bouncing up to follow you as you work. Finishes his cigarette and coffee. Takes in the uniform you’re in. The big, bold name on the pin clasped into your blouse.

When you bring his food, you ask, “Got anymore surprises for me tonight?” and his mind runs wild. Sick fantasies. Ideas that make him feel guilty and the charm he’d felt after years slips far, far away.

“No.”

But you say, “Good. Don’t wanna overwhelm me too much.”

You fill his coffee again and walk away. Then he eats and the script resumes as normal. He pays. Sits in his car until all the lights in the diner shut off. Watches you walk to your car, waits a beat after you drive off before he starts his car and follows you. To your house. Keeps waiting until you go inside to park behind your car on the street and watch the numerous lights flick on and off. Aiding in him as he imagines exactly how your night plays out. He thinks you go into the kitchen first. Maybe you get a drink, perhaps a beer. When he’s followed you to the bar, he’s seen you drink beer. Then that lights flicks off and the TV turns on. Can see the variety of brightness and colors through the window. He thinks of what you might watch. Imagines sitting on the couch with you, cuddled up. His thoughts get perverted quickly and before he knows it, he’s staring at your window with his dick in his hand with the fantasy of your mouth on him.

After he finishes, he’s still watching. Until the changing lights of the TV go black and a different light turns on. Bathroom. That window is small. You brush your teeth, maybe wash your face. He takes this time to get out of his car, walk to the window on the side of the house, crouch down and peer through the broken blinds. Your bedroom. You turn the light on, back to the bathroom to turn that light off and return. Close your door and undress. You sleep nude but you keep a robe next to your bed. You flick off the light. Sink into bed and Billy stays for a while. Until he knows you’re asleep. He thinks about sneaking inside but he hasn’t gathered the gusto to do so yet. The whole watching you through the window is new enough. But he’ll escalate soon. Won’t be able to help himself.

Then Billy goes home. Back to his shady little apartment. Falls asleep on the couch with infomercials playing on the TV. He’ll wake up and do the same thing again tomorrow.

—

Dark tendrils wrap around his wrists and ankles. Pull him in opposite directions. His eyes are wide open but his body feels paralyzed. He tries to scream but it’s gargled and there’s a monster limb attaching to his mouth, pulsing down his throat. Fills his belly with baby slugs. The sticky limb retreats him and the constraints on his ankles and wrists unravel and he’s shaking. Thrashing. Screaming. Crying. Pleading.

Then Billy’s awake, sits up straight and pants. Looks around his room and there’s nothing there. Just him and the mess of his belongings. He cries. Then he showers. Makes himself vomit and he sees no slugs. No sludge. Just the dinner and foamy beers he had. Billy showers, water so hot it burns— turns his skin patchy red and tingly. He vomits again. Watches the sick circle the drain. Cries some more. Feels the loneliest he’s ever been. Wonders why he can’t kill himself. Why he doesn’t have the strength to do that.

He’s up too early. Doesn’t work for another three hours. Billy paces his apartment. Chain smokes and pounds coffee. He briefly thinks of Maxine. Stalks over to his freezer and reaches in it for the bottle of vodka he keeps in there and guzzles some of it down. Drowns out Max. Maybe he should make sure you get to work safe. He has to do something. Anything.

The drive to your house is routine, but he doesn’t often do it in daylight. Can’t risk you seeing him, so Billy parks a couple houses down. Chain smokes while he waits and soon enough, you’re walking to your car.

[star-anise]

Everyone's got a take, and I've got a take too, about the current Internet Villain: James Somerton, a gay Youtuber who just got exposed (in the back half of a 4-hour video) as massively plagiarizing the work of LGBTQ+ media critics, historians, and memoirists, and then exposed in another 2-hour video as just making up the wildest nonsense about the topics he demonstrably had access to accurate information on.

He achieved a six-figure income on his work by squeezing money out of his audience with claims...

That only he was creating content that preserved queer history and elevated the voices and experiences of the LGBTQ+ community (a lie)

He was in serious financial distress and would have to go out of business if people didn't give him tons of money (a lie)

That he was going to use some of that cash to make definitely good and not-at-all-plagiarized independent movies, a thing he was definitely skilled and experienced enough to do (a lie), and

That those plagiarism allegations were incorrect,, and frankly,,,, hurtful and homophobic. (a GIANT lie)

Like, here's a visualization of the script of one of his videos, "Society and Queer Horror". The highlighted bits were lifted nearly verbatim from the works of others—the 18 authors identified at the time the exposé was posted—and presented as Somerton's own work.

So here's what drives me absolutely up the wall about this:

If he had just ADMITTED that it was the work of other people, THAT WOULD STILL BE COOL. If he had just said, up front, "We are going on a survey of thoughts and insights people have had about this topic", that would still be a good video with a real audience!

Like yes, he studied business in university, he might not have gotten the kinds of research skills and knowledge someone like Kaz Rowe uses to not just report on the history and analysis of others, but evaluate their relative validity and trustworthiness.

But honestly, since watching my niblings (oldest is 13) watch Youtube, I think you honestly can't underestimate the number of viewers who are really hungry for someone saying, "I don't understand this topic! Let's explore it together!"

But NOOOOOOO, Somerton didn't want to be just some schmuck waxing enthusiastic about homoeroticism on film and acknowledging the smartness of other people. He wanted to be HIM, MR. SMARTYBOY, very sophisticated and alluring and thoughtful and deep. Definitely an intellectual heavyweight who just happened to spout off his own personal ideas and analysis that put him at the forefront of all the scholarship on the topic he's come across.

I hate being wrong. Hate being wrong. But blogging for most of my life has forced me to confront constant textual evidence that two or ten or twenty years ago, I said some dumb-ass shit. Honestly, it'd probably keep me up at night sometimes even if I didn't have a written record. I absolutely understand the desire to scan the field, find the coolest people around, and quickly clothe yourself in as perfect an imitation of them as you can manage.

But if you want to be an artist or a scholar who produces something lasting, you can't prioritize coolness over truth all the time. To develop your true, independent voice, you need to find a time and place where it is just you and just the work you're doing, and you have pick up your tools and say, I don't know if I'm doing this right, but this is what feels right to me.

There are a lot of things in life to which we can only truly contribute our presence and our perspectives. Things we can only witness or hold space for. We cannot go back and bleed the pain out of history, or erase the complexity of another person's life. Not honestly, at least.

But those are the times that need our presence, our perspectives, our witness, and our space. When we gather round and tell sad tales about the death of kings, honesty can be the only thing you give that's worth a damn in the large scale of things.

If this dude had owned up to the truth and honestly showed the work of trying to piece together a queer understanding of the world, trying to draw the threads of culture together until he found a place he fit inside them, it would have been so much more valuable to our culture as a whole.

He probably made more money this way, though. While it lasted.

[so-much-for-the-seashells]

Movie Nights Headcanons With BF!Dean

✨ Dean Winchester x fellowhunter!Reader ✨

Minors! Get out of here! Please and thank you!

COOOOONTENT: definitely 18+ (a tiddly bit of spice) but very cute

A/N: reader’s supposed to be cis/fem BUUUT headcanons only mention “girl” a few times? I’m working on my spicy gender neutral skills I’ll get there I swear

Oh also!!! I made my own icons, super proud 😌

And please! Feel free to leave notes! They literally make my day!

Anyway, let’s get this party started!

( ˘ ³˘)♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

-movie nights at the bunker are few and far between, because, you know, hunting is exhausting

-however, when they do happen, they’re the best thing in the whole wide world

-let me explain

-once you started dating Dean and moved into the bunker, some changes had to be made

-you had gotten a cute sofa for the Dean cave, somewhere for the both of you to sit because all that had been in there before you moved in was two dingy chairs

-at first Dean had protested in the sofa saying that it was “too girly”

-but you know how dads are with the pet that they never wanted??

-that’s Dean and the sofa

-so once you guys get comfy with your favorite snacks and drinks, you snuggled up sitting crisscross in the corner

-he’ll lay with his head in your lap, letting his bow legs rest on the opposite arm rest.

-he really loves laying on your thighs. This can be taken as you want it to.

-they really are his favorite pillows

-they’re just so squishyyy

-anyway

-he loves when you play with his short hair. It’s really comforting to him, and he really enjoys it

-this may or may not come from his love of you pulling it when he’s being a munch

-rom coms are his guilty pleasure. He’s a sucker for Rambo and Top Gun. Also Back To The Future. Ofc he likes his horror movies too. Won’t make you watch anything you are uncomfortable with.

-might try to grumble when you pick, but if you give him some puppy dog eyes he’ll shut up real quick

-he’s sugar sweet when he’s sleepy. No more defenses or cool guy wit, just Dean saying a lot of I love yous and being the fluffiest biggest stuffed animal of a man

-tends to fall asleep in your lap

-if he doesn’t fall asleep he’s always chatting with you about literally whatever shows up in his pretty little head or talking to the movie

-“who fumbles reese witherspoon?” said with full indignation (about legally blonde)

-“I think my man Freddie is blind” (about Lainey in she’s all that)

-it’s super cute, especially if it’s after he’s grumbled about watching the movie he’s commenting about

-now (nsfw ahead)

-the thing is

-sometimes this dude wants to watch a movie, but he also wants a specific kind of snack

-yk, one that’s typically… white and sticky? And no I’m not talking about sticky rice

-so if you’re wearing only one of his shirts and your underwear

-and he’s in a mood

-uhhh let’s just say he really gets the munchies

-his legs’ll fall off of the sofa and magically his ass’ll land on top of them

-and oh em gee suddenly he’ll be eating that pussy like he didn’t just take down a whole bowl of popcorn

-and let me tell you, your hands aren’t ever gonna even bother leaving that hair, cause you’re gonna need to hooooold tight

-other times it’s a little different

-maybe you’re being needy while you both want to watch the movie

-so he’ll sit up, take down his pants just a little bit, move your underwear to the side and just sit you there. Keeping his cock nice and warm until the credits.

-cause you wouldn’t wanna be a bad girl (cue jojo siwa) and move on him!

-but sometimes you just can’t help it…

-so he’ll sigh heavily and pause the tv lethargically with great dramatics

-and then he’ll rail you within an inch of your life, as he does (has to make sure his girl is sated and then some 🖤 🎀)

-and hit play like nothing happened, keeping you sat right where you were

-honestly it’s a great time

-oh, also, blankets

-he loves blankets

-it’s his guilty pleasure, he buys them whenever he has some extra (stolen) cash and isn’t with his brother or Cas

-cause obviously they can’t know about his “girly” habits

-but he has so many. Some of them have flannel prints, there’s one with a bunch of Patrick Swayzes, one for every season, fluffy ones, scratchy ones, hand crocheted ones (major brownie points if you can somehow make him one)

-oh and back to snacks

-listen. You can tell him all about how much of a good idea it would be to eat healthy. Bring up all the stats and one of Sam’s famous guilt trips too.

-but all it takes is a pout with those sparkly, gorgeous, mountain-ass green eyes

-and all of a sudden you’re baking brownies together, just because you actually have a second to do normal couple things

-and anyway, brownie batter kisses?? Worth it.

-oh

-and it’s not just movies, sometimes it’s shows

-and I mention this because sometimes those shows are the wiggles. And you know why they’re the wiggles? Cause you two’ll sometimes sneak just a little bit of fun time grass into the brownies

-and the wiggles is just too much fun to watch when you’re uh… seeing sounds and hearing colors

-oh and also giggly high fun time sometimes ensues (WITH THE WIGGLES TURNED O F F you are NOT that blasphemous) (I hope)

-another one of the shows you get him to watch is Gilmore girls.

-he got hooked for three reasons:

1. he loves Luke (and no we don’t know if he loves him or LOVES him) oh and Kirk. He wants to be best friends with Kirk.

2. he’s a sucker for fall vibes. Including pumpkin spice and Halloween, apple cider and ofc his flannels- so naturally stars hollow visually floats his boat

3. he thinks it’s hilarious that some dude named Dean looks exactly like Sam ( 😏)

-oh and bonus- he’s really just a messy bitch who loves the drama and wants Lorelei to be happy

-ofc you two don’t watch your shows as much, movies take priority, but when you do you binge them. Cause who knows when the next time you’ll have time to see them is

-stupid supernatural warfare

-oh and he will always convince you to make a pie with him (NOT the sexual kind) (…sometimes the sexual kind) (🤤)

-sometimes you’ll host family movie nights, have Sam and Charlie and Cas and whoever else is hanging out around the bunker come

-most of the time a movie doesn’t even get chosen but that’s okay cause it’s still fun

-anyway, Dean is a cutie patootie sweetie sugar pie

-oh, and a munch

-I rest my case

-yeah that’s basically it

If you have any ideas for headcanons, send a request! My box is always open!

Xx