#taking a break from drawing... by drawing? sure!

[mrs-stans]

Sebastian Stan Tells All: Becoming Donald Trump, Gaining 15 Pounds and Starring in 2024’s Most Controversial Movie

By Daniel D'Addario

Sebastian Stan Variety Cover Story

It started with the most famous voice on the planet, the one that just won’t shut up.

Sebastian Stan, in real life, sounds very little like Donald Trump, whom he’s playing in the new film “The Apprentice.” Sure, they share a tristate accent — Stan has lived in the city for years and attended Rutgers University before launching his career — but he speaks with none of Trump’s emphasis on his own greatness. Trump dwells, Stan skitters. Trump attempts to draw topics together over lengthy stem-winders (what he recently called “the weave”), while Stan has a certain unwillingness to be pinned down, a desire to keep moving. It takes some coaxing to bring Stan, a man with the upright bearing and square jaw of a matinee idol, to speak about his own process — how hard he worked to conjure a sense Trump, and how he sought to bring out new insights about America’s most scrutinized politician.

“I think he’s a lot smarter than people want to say about him,” Stan says, “because he repeats things consistently, and he’s given you a brand.” Stan would know: He watched videos of Trump on a loop while preparing for “The Apprentice.” In the film, out on Oct. 11, Stan plays Trump as he moves from insecure, aspiring real estate developer to still insecure but established member of the New York celebrity firmament.

We’re sitting over coffee in Manhattan. Stan is dressed down in a black chore coat and black tee, yet he’s anything but a casual conversation partner. He rarely breaks eye contact, doing so only on the occasions when he has something he wants to show me on his iPhone (cracked screen, no case). In this instance, it’s folders of photos and videos labeled “DT” and “DT PHYSICALITY.”

“I had 130 videos on his physicality on my phone,” Stan says. “And 562 videos that I had pulled with pictures from different time periods — from the ’70s all the way to today — so I could pull out his speech patterns and try to improvise like him.” Stan, deep in character, would ad-lib entire scenes at director Ali Abbasi’s urging, drawing on the details he’d learned from watching Trump and reading interviews to understand precisely how to react in each moment.

“Ali could come in on the second take and say, ‘Why don’t you talk a little bit about the taxes and how you don’t want to pay?’ So I had to know what charities they were going to in 1983. Every night I would go home and try not only to prepare for the day that was coming, but also to prepare for where Ali was going to take this.”

Looking at Stan’s phone, among the endless pictures of Trump, I glimpse thumbnails of Stan’s own face perched in a Trumpian pout and videos of the actor’s preparation just aching to be clicked — or to be stored in the Trump Presidential Library when this is all over in a few months, or in 2029, or beyond.

“I started to realize that I needed to start speaking with my lips in a different way,” Stan says. “A lot of that came from the consonants. If I’m talking, I’m moving forward.” On film, Stan shapes his mouth like he can’t wait to get the plosives out, puckering without quite tipping into parody. “The consonants naturally forced your lips forward.”

“If he did 10% more of what he did, it would become ‘Saturday Night Live,’” Abbasi says. “If he did 10% less, then he’s not conjuring that person. But here’s the thing about Sebastian: He’s very inspired by reality, by research. And that’s also the way I work; if you want to go to strange places, you need to get your baseline reality covered very well.”

A little later, Stan passes me the phone again to show me a selfie of him posing shirtless and revealing two sagging pecs and a bit of a gut. He’s pouting into a mirror. If his expression looks exaggerated, consider that he was in Marvel-movie shape before stepping into the role of the former president; the body transformation happened rapidly and jarringly. Trump’s size is a part of the film’s plot — as Trump’s sense of self inflates, so does he. In a rush to meet the shooting deadline for “The Apprentice,” Abbasi asked Stan, “How much weight can you gain?”

“You’d be surprised,” Stan tells me. “You can gain a lot of weight in two months.” (Fifteen pounds, to be exact.)

Now he’s back in fighting form, but the character has stayed with him. After years of playing second-fiddle agents of chaos — goofball husbands to Margot Robbie’s and Lily James’ characters in “I, Tonya” and Hulu’s “Pam & Tommy,” surly frenemy to Chris Evans’ Captain America in the Marvel franchise — Stan plunged into the id of the man whose appetites have reshaped our world. He had to have a polished enough sense of Trump that he could improvise in character, and enough respect for him to play him as a human being, not a monster.

It’s one of two transformations this year for Stan — and one that might give a talented actor that most elusive thing: a brand of his own. He’s long been adjacent enough to star power that he could feel its glow, but he hasn’t been the marquee performer. While his co-stars have found themselves defined by the projects he’s been in — from “Captain America” and “I, Tonya” back to his start on “Gossip Girl” — he’s spent more than a decade in the public eye while evading being defined at all.

This fall promises to be the season that changes all that: Stan is pulling double duty with “The Apprentice” and “A Different Man” (in theaters Sept. 20), in which he plays a man afflicted with a disfiguring tumor disorder who — even when presented with a fantastical treatment that makes him look like, well, Sebastian Stan — can’t be cured of ailments of the soul. For “A Different Man,” Stan won the top acting prize at the Berlin Film Festival; for “The Apprentice,” the sky’s the limit, if it can manage to get seen. (More on that later.)

One reason Stan has largely evaded being defined is that he’s never the same twice, often willing to get loopy or go dark in pursuit of his characters’ truths. That’s all the more true this year: In “The Apprentice,” he’s under the carapace of Trumpiness; in “A Different Man,” his face is hidden behind extensive prosthetics.

“In my book, if you’re the good-looking, sensitive guy 20 movies in a row, that’s not a star for me,” says Abbasi, who compares Stan to Marlon Brando — an actor eager to play against his looks. “You’re just one of the many in the factory of the Ken dolls.”

This fall represents Stan’s chance to break out of the toy store once and for all. His Winter Soldier brought a jolt of evil into Captain America’s world, and his Jeff Gillooly was the devil sitting on Tonya Harding’s shoulder. Now Stan is at the center of the frame, playing one of the most divisive characters imaginable. So he’s showing us where he can go. The spotlight is his, and so is the risk that comes with it.

Why take such a risk?

The script for “The Apprentice,” which Stan first received in 2019, but which took years to come together, made him consider the American dream, the one that Trump achieved and is redefining.

Stan emigrated with his mother, a pianist, from communist Romania as a child. “I was raised always aware of the American dream: America being the land of opportunity, where dreams come true, where you can make something of yourself.” He pushes the wings of his hair back to frame his face, a gold signet ring glinting in the late-summer sunlight, and, briefly, I can hear a hint of Trump’s directness of approach. “You can become whoever you want, if you just have a good idea.” Stan’s good idea has been to play the lead in movies while dodging the formulaic identity of a leading man, and this year will prove just how far he can take it.

“The Apprentice” seemed like it would never come together before suddenly it did. This time last year, Stan was sure it was dead in the water, and he was OK with that. “If this movie is not happening, it’s because it’s not meant to happen,” he recalls thinking. “It will not be because I’m too scared and walk away.”

Called in on short notice and filming from November 2023 to January of this year (ahead of a May premiere in Cannes), Stan lent heft and attitude to a character arc that takes Trump from local real estate developer in the 1970s to national celebrity in the 1980s. He learns the rough-and-tumble game of power from the ruthless and hedonistic political fixer Roy Cohn (Jeremy Strong), eventually cutting the closeted Cohn loose as he dies of AIDS and alienating his wife Ivana (Maria Bakalova) in the process. (In a shocking scene, Donald sexually assaults Ivana in their Trump Tower apartment.) For all its edginess, the film is about Trump’s personality — and the way it calcified into a persona — rather than his present-day politics. (Despite its title, it’s set well before the 2004 launch of the reality show that finally made Trump the superstar he longed to be.)

And despite the fact that Trump has kept America rapt since he announced his run for president in 2015, Hollywood has been terrified of “The Apprentice.” The film didn’t sell for months after Cannes, an unusual result for a major English-language competition film, partly because Trump’s legal team sent a cease-and-desist letter attempting to block the film’s release in the U.S. while the fest was still ongoing. When it finally sold, it was to Briarcliff Entertainment, a distributor so small that the production has launched a Kickstarter campaign to raise money so that it will be able to stay in theaters.

Yes, Hollywood may vote blue, but it’s not the same town that released “Fahrenheit 9/11” or even “W.,” let alone a film that depicts the once (and possibly future) president raping his wife. (The filmmakers stand behind that story. “The script is 100% backed by my own interviews and historical research,” says Gabriel Sherman, the screenwriter and a journalist who covers Trump and the American conservative movement. “And it’s important to note that it is not a documentary. It’s a work of fiction that’s inspired by history.”) Entertainment corporations from Netflix to Disney would be severely inconvenienced if the next president came into office with a grudge against them.

“I am quite shocked, to be honest,” Abbasi says. “This is not a political piece. It’s not a hit piece; it’s not a hatchet job; it’s not propaganda. The fact that it’s been so challenging is shocking.” Abbasi, born in Iran, was condemned by his government over his last film, “Holy Spider,” and cannot safely return. He sees a parallel in the response to “The Apprentice.” “OK, that’s Iran — that is unfortunately expected. But I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Everything with this film has been one day at a time,” Stan says. The actor chalks up the film’s divisiveness to a siloed online environment. “There are a lot of people who love reading the [film’s] Wikipedia page and throwing out their opinions,” he says, an edge entering his voice. “But they don’t actually know what they’re talking about. That’s a popular sport now online, apparently.”

Unprompted, Stan brings up the idea that Trump is so widely known that some might think a biographical film about him serves no purpose. “When someone says, ‘Why do we need this movie? We know all this,’ I’ll say, ‘Maybe you do, but you haven’t experienced it. The experience of those two hours is visceral. It’s something you can hopefully feel — if you still have feelings.’”

After graduating from Rutgers in 2005, Stan found his first substantial role on “Gossip Girl,” playing troubled rich kid Carter Baizen. Like teen soaps since time immemorial, “Gossip Girl” was a star-making machine. “It was the first time I was in serious love with somebody,” he says. (He dated the series’ star, Leighton Meester, from 2008 to 2010.) He feels nostalgic for that moment: “Walking around the city, seeing these same buildings and streets — life seemed simpler.”

Stan followed his “Gossip Girl” gig with roles on the 2009 NBC drama “Kings,” playing a devious gay prince in an alternate-reality modern world governed by a monarchy, and the 2012 USA miniseries “Political Animals,” playing a black-sheep prince (and once again a gay man) of a different sort — the son of a philandering former president and an ambitious former first lady.

When I ask him what lane he envisioned himself in as a young actor, he shrugs off the question. “I grew up with a single mom, and I didn’t have a lot of male role models. I was always trying to figure out what I wanted to be. And at some point, I was like, I could just be a bunch of things.”

Which might seem challenging when one is booked to play the same character, Bucky Barnes, in Marvel movie after Marvel movie. Bucky’s adventures have been wide-ranging — he’s been brainwashed and turned evil and then brought back to the home team again, all since his debut in 2011’s “Captain America: The First Avenger.” Next year, he’ll anchor the summer movie “Thunderbolts,” as the leader of a squad of quirky heroes played by, among others, Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Florence Pugh. It’s easy to wonder if this has come to feel like a cage of sorts.

Not so, says Stan. His new Marvel film “was kind of like ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ — a guy coming into this group that was chaotic and degenerate, and somehow finding a way to unite them.”

Lately, knives have been out for Marvel movies as some have disappointed at the box office, and “Thunderbolts,” which endured strike delays and last-minute cast changes, has been under scrutiny.

“It’s become really convenient to pick on [Marvel films],” Stan says. “And that’s fine. Everyone’s got an opinion. But they’re a big part of what contributes to this business and allows us to have smaller movies as well. This is an artery traveling through the system of this entire machinery that’s Hollywood. It feeds in so many more ways than people acknowledge.” He adds, “Sometimes I get protective of it because the intention is really fucking good. It’s just fucking hard to make a good movie over and over again.”

Which may account for an eagerness to try something new. “In the last couple of years,” he says, “I’ve gotten much more aggressive about pursuing things that I want, and I’m constantly looking for different ways of challenging myself.”

The challenge continued throughout the shoot of “The Apprentice,” as Stan pushed the material. “One of the most creatively rewarding parts of the process was how open Sebastian was to giving notes on the script but also wanting to go beyond the script,” says Sherman, the screenwriter. “If he was interested in a certain aspect of a scene, he was like, Can you find me a quote?” he recalls.

Building a dynamic through improvised scenes, Stan and Strong stayed in character throughout the “Apprentice” shoot. “I was doing an Ibsen play on Broadway,” says Strong, who won a Tony in June for his performance in “An Enemy of the People,” “and he came backstage afterwards. And it was like — I’d never really met Sebastian, and I don’t think he’d ever met me. So it was nice to meet him.”

Before the pair began acting together, they didn’t rehearse much — “I’m not a fan of rehearsals,” Strong says. “I think actors are best left in their cocoon, doing their work, and then trusted to walk on set and be ready.” The two didn’t touch the script together until cameras went up — though they spent a preproduction day, Strong says, playing games in character as Donald and Roy.

After filming, both have kept memories of the hold their characters had on them. They shared a flight back from Telluride — a famously bumpy trip out of the mountains. “He’s a nervous flyer, and I’m a nervous flyer,” Stan says. Both marveled at the fact that they’d contained their nerves on the first day of shooting “The Apprentice,” when their characters traveled together via helicopter. “We both go, ‘Yeah — but there was a camera.’”

Stan’s aggressive approach to research came in handy on “A Different Man,” which shot before “The Apprentice.” His character’s disorder, neurofibromatosis, is caused by a genetic mutation and presents as benign tumors growing in the nervous system. After being healed, he feels a growing envy for a fellow sufferer who seems unbothered by his disability.

Stan’s co-star, Adam Pearson, was diagnosed with neurofibromatosis in early childhood. Stan found the experience challenging to render faithfully. “I said many times, I can do all the research in the world, but am I ever going to come close to this?” Stan says. “How am I going to ever do this justice?”

Plus, he had precious little time to prepare: “He was fully on board, and the film was being made weeks later,” director Aaron Schimberg says. “Zero to 60 in a matter of weeks.”

The actor grappled for something to hold on to, and Pearson sug gested he refer to his own experience of fame. “Adam said to me, ‘You know what it’s like to be public property,’” Stan says.

Pearson recalls describing the experience to Stan this way: “While you don’t understand the invasiveness and the staring and the pointing that I’ve grown up with, you do know what it’s like to have the world think you owe them something.”

That sense of alienation becomes universal through the film’s storytelling: “A Different Man” takes its premise as the jumping-off point for a deep and often mordant investigation of who we all are underneath the skin.

The film was shot in 22 days in a New York City heat wave, and there was, Schimberg says, “no room for error. I would get four or five takes, however many I could squeeze out, but there’s no coverage.”

Through it all, Stan’s performance is utterly poised — Schimberg and Stan discussed Buster Keaton as a reference for his ability to be “completely stone-faced” amid chaos, the director says. And the days were particularly long because Oscar-nominated prosthetics artist Michael Marino was only able to apply Stan’s makeup in the early morning, before going to his job on the set of “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.”

“Even though I wasn’t shooting until 11 a.m., I would go at like 5 in the morning to his studio, or his apartment,” Stan recalls. The hidden advantage was that Stan had hours to kill while made up like his character, the kind of person the world looks past. “I wanted to walk around the city and see what happened,” Stan says. “On Broadway, one of the busiest streets in New York, no one’s looking at me. It’s as if I’m not even there.” The other reaction was worse: “Somebody would immediately stop and very blatantly hit their friend, point, take a picture.”

It was a study in empathy that flowed into the character. Stan had spoken to Pearson’s mother, who watched her son develop neurofibromatosis before growing into a disability advocate and, eventually, an actor. “She said to me, ‘All I ever wanted was for someone to walk in his shoes for a day,’” Stan recalls. “And I guess that was the closest I had ever come.”

“The Apprentice” forced Stan, and forces the viewer, to do the same with a figure that some 50% of the electorate would sooner forget entirely. And that lends the film its controversy. Those on the right, presupposing that the movie is an anti-Trump document, have railed against it. In a statement provided to Variety, a Trump campaign spokesman said, “This ‘film’ is pure malicious defamation, should never see the light of day and doesn’t even deserve a place in the straight-to-DVD section of a bargain bin at a soon-to-be-closed discount movie store, it belongs in a dumpster fire.” The campaign threatened a lawsuit, though none has materialized.

Asked about the assault scene, Stan notes that Ivana had made the claim in a deposition, but later walked it back. “Is it closer to the truth, what she had said directly in the deposition or something that she retracted?” he asks. “They went with the first part.”

The movie depicts, too, Ivana’s carrying on with her marriage after the violation, which may be still more devastating. “How do you overcome something like this?” asks Bakalova. “Do you have to put on a mask that everything is fine? In the next scene, she’s going to play the game and pretend that we’re the glamorous, perfect couple.” The Trumps, in “The Apprentice,” live in a world of paper-thin images, one that grows so encompassing that Donald no longer feels anything for the people to whom he was once loyal. They’re props in his stage show.

“The Apprentice” will drop in the midst of the most chaotic presidential election of our lifetime. “The way it lands in this extremely polarized situation, for me as an artist, is exciting. I won’t lie to you,” says Abbasi.

When asked if he was concerned about blowback from a Trump 47 presidency, Stan says, “You can’t do this movie and not be thinking about all those things, but I really have no idea. I’m still in shock from going from an assassination attempt to the next weekend having a president step down [from a reelection bid].”

Stan’s job, as he sees it, was to synthesize everything he’d absorbed — all those videos on his phone — into a person who made sense. This Trump had to be part of a coherent story, not just the flurry of news updates to which we’ve become accustomed.

“You can take a Bach or a Beethoven, and everyone’s going to play that differently on the piano, right?” Stan says. (His pianist mother named him for Johann Sebastian Bach.) “So this is my take on what I’ve learned. I have to strip myself of expectations of being applauded for this, if people are going to like it or people are going to hate it. People are going to say whatever they want. Hopefully they should think at least before they say it.”

It’s a reality that Stan is now used to — the work is the work, and the way people interpret him is none of his business. Perhaps that’s why he has run away from ever being the same thing twice. “I could sit with you today and tell you passionately what my truth is, but it doesn’t matter,” he says. “Because people are more interested in a version of you that they want to see, rather than who you are.”

“The Apprentice” has been the subject of extreme difference of opinion by many who have yet to see it. It’s been read — and will continue to be after its release — as anti-Trump agitprop. The truth is chewier and more complicated, and, perhaps, unsuited for these times.

“Are we going to live in a world where anyone knows what the truth is anymore? Or is it just a world that everyone wants to create for themselves?” Stan asks.

His voice — the one that shares a slight accent with Trump but that is, finally, Stan’s own — is calm and clear. “People create their own truth right now,” he says. “That’s the only thing that I’ve made peace with; I don’t need to twist your arm if that’s what you want to believe. But the way to deal with something is to actually confront it.”

[novaursa]

Fire and Heart

- Summary: You accept your life with Aegon, finding happiness in him and your growing family.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Note: This is one of possible futures of The Broken Crown series. If these events happen, the reader doesn't go to Dorne.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

You stand in the nursery, the sound of laughter and playful giggles filling the warm air. Your son, Aerion, chases his sisters, Aelora and Vaella, around the room, their silver hair flying like a cascade of moonlight. You smile softly, watching them, your heart swelling with a love so fierce it almost frightens you.

"Mother, look!" Aerion shouts, his eyes shining with pride as he catches Vaella, pulling her into a tight hug. She squeals, pretending to struggle, her face a picture of pure mischief. Aelora claps her hands, her laughter ringing out like bells.

"Well done, my brave little dragon," you praise, brushing a stray lock of hair from Aerion’s face. He beams up at you, his expression so much like Aegon's that it makes your heart ache. You reach out, smoothing Aelora’s dress and patting Vaella’s hair. Your children, your precious gems.

A soft knock draws your attention to the door. Aegon stands there, his gaze intense and thoughtful, as it always is when he looks at you. He steps into the room, his presence commanding and undeniable, even here, among his own blood. The children rush to him, their small arms wrapping around his legs, and for a moment, he is not the conqueror but simply a father, smiling down at his brood.

“Aegon,” you greet, your voice soft but steady. There is no resentment anymore, no lingering bitterness over the betrothal he shattered, the future he stole and replaced with his own desires. It took time, but you forgave him. You learned to love him, to see beyond his ambition and pride, to the man who is as much yours as you are his.

“Sister,” he replies, though there’s a warmth in his tone that belies the formality of the word. He bends down, lifting Aerion into his arms. The boy laughs, a bright, carefree sound, and Aegon’s face softens. He looks at you over your son’s shoulder, his violet eyes dark and deep, like the sky before a storm.

“How do you fare today?” he asks, his voice quieter now, meant only for you.

You smile, a small, genuine curve of your lips. “The children keep me busy, but they are good. They bring me joy.”

Aegon nods, his gaze lingering on you, something unspoken in his eyes. You step closer, reaching out to smooth a crease in his tunic, your fingers brushing against his chest. His hand covers yours, warm and strong.

“You’ve given me a family, Aegon,” you say, your voice steady, though there’s a strange, fluttering sensation in your chest. “Three beautiful children.”

He inclines his head, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “And you’ve given me more than I ever deserved.”

You take a deep breath, gathering your courage. You’ve thought about this for a while, weighed your fears against your desires. You look up at him, holding his gaze.

“I want another.”

For a moment, there is only silence, the children’s laughter a distant sound. Aegon blinks, his expression shifting from surprise to something else, something deeper, warmer. His grip on your hand tightens, and there’s a flicker of something almost like hope in his eyes.

“Another child?” he asks, his voice low, as if afraid to break the spell.

You nod, your heart racing. “Yes. I want to give you another child.”

Aegon’s lips part, but no words come out. He looks at you as if he’s seeing you for the first time, or perhaps seeing something he’s always hoped to see. Slowly, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, his breath warm against your skin.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, his voice rough. “After everything…?”

“I’m sure,” you whisper, looking up into his eyes. “I want this, Aegon. I want to give you another child, to have another piece of us in this world.”

He closes his eyes, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. When he opens them again, there’s a light in his gaze, a kind of fierce joy that you’ve rarely seen.

“Then I will give you what you want,” he says, his voice a promise, a vow.

You smile, something tight and warm loosening in your chest. You rise on your toes, pressing your lips to his, a soft, lingering kiss. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin with a tenderness that still surprises you, even after all these years.

“Tonight,” he whispers against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. “Will you send the children to bed early?”

A soft laugh escapes you, the sound light and free. You nod, your forehead resting against his. “Yes. Tonight.”

Aegon pulls you closer, his hand cradling the back of your neck. “I love you, sister,” he says, the words quiet but fervent, like a prayer. “More than you’ll ever know.”

“I love you too, Aegon,” you reply, your voice steady, true. “And I always will.”

In that moment, with your children’s laughter surrounding you, Aegon’s arms around you, and the promise of another life between you, you feel whole. Complete.

And you know, without a doubt, that you have made the right choice.

The candles flicker softly in your chambers as you wait, nerves fluttering in your stomach. The children are asleep in the nursery, nestled together with their cousins, Aenys and Maegor. The quiet stillness of the castle feels almost heavy, as if it’s holding its breath along with you.

You stand by the window, looking out at the darkened skies, when you hear the door open behind you. You turn, your heart skipping a beat. Aegon stands there, the door closed behind him, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

Before you can speak, he crosses the room in long strides, his hands finding your waist, pulling you against him. His mouth crashes down on yours, hot and insistent, swallowing whatever words you were about to say. You melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, the kiss consuming, overwhelming.

“Aegon—” you gasp against his lips, but he doesn’t let you finish. His hands are everywhere, rough and urgent, tugging at the laces of your dress. You can feel the raw need in him, the desire that has been simmering between you all day now boiling over.

His lips trail down your neck, and you arch into him, your pulse racing. “I need you,” he breathes against your skin, his voice rough and desperate. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with hunger. “I need you now.”

There’s no hesitation in you as you nod, your hands fumbling with the fastenings of his tunic. Your fingers brush over his skin, feeling the heat and strength beneath, and a shiver runs through you. He shrugs out of his clothing, his hands never leaving you, stripping away the barriers between you with a swift, practiced ease.

Your dress falls to the floor, forgotten, and then his hands are on you, his body pressing you back toward the bed. You don’t break the kiss, your mouths locked together, tasting, claiming. The world narrows to just the two of you, the heat of his skin against yours, the scent of him filling your senses.

He lifts you, and you cling to him, your legs wrapping around his waist. You can feel him, hard and ready, pressing against you, and the anticipation coils tighter in your belly. He lowers you to the bed, his body covering yours, his weight a welcome, familiar pressure.

“Please, Aegon,” you whisper, your voice breathless, pleading. He groans, his lips capturing yours again, his hand sliding between your thighs. He finds you wet and wanting, and he curses softly against your mouth.

“Hold on,” he murmurs, his voice a strained growl. And then, with one powerful thrust, he’s inside you, filling you, stretching you. You cry out, your back arching, the sensation both achingly familiar and exquisitely new.

He pauses, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged. “You feel… gods, you feel perfect.”

You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as you adjust to the fullness of him, the heat spreading through you like wildfire. “Move,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He begins to move, his hips snapping against yours in a hard, relentless rhythm. Each thrust sends a shockwave of pleasure through you, your body rising to meet his, your breath mingling with his in gasps and broken moans.

There’s no gentleness in him tonight, no restraint. His hands are rough on your skin, his mouth devouring yours, his need a wild, untamed thing. You respond in kind, matching him stroke for stroke, your bodies a tangle of sweat and heat and desperate longing.

“Aegon,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips, your fingers clutching at his back. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he drives into you, deeper, harder.

“I want to fill you,” he growls, his voice low and fierce, each word punctuated by a thrust. “I want to give you another child. I want everyone to know you are mine.”

“Yes,” you breathe, your voice breaking, your body trembling beneath him. “Yes, Aegon. I’m yours.”

His hand slides between your bodies, his fingers finding the sensitive spot that has you crying out, your body clenching around him. He thrusts harder, deeper, his movements becoming erratic, his control slipping.

The pressure builds inside you, winding tighter and tighter until it finally snaps, a wave of pleasure crashing over you, stealing your breath, your voice. You shatter around him, your body tightening, convulsing, and he follows you over the edge with a hoarse shout, his body going taut, his release pulsing deep inside you.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, harsh and uneven, your bodies still joined, still trembling with the aftershocks. He collapses against you, his weight warm and solid, his arms wrapping around you as if he can’t bear to let you go.

You hold him close, your fingers trailing through his hair, your heart still racing. He shifts, lifting his head to look at you, his eyes soft, the fierceness replaced by something gentler, something almost tender.

“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice a rough whisper, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

You smile, a slow, languid curve of your lips. “More than all right.”

Aegon’s lips find yours again, softer this time, lingering, as if savoring the taste of you. “I love you,” he murmurs against your mouth, the words quiet, but there’s a depth to them that makes your heart ache.

“I love you too, Aegon,” you whisper, your hands cradling his face.

He smiles, a rare, unguarded smile that lights up his eyes. “We’ll have another child,” he says, his voice filled with a quiet certainty. “A strong, healthy one, just like the others.”

You nod, your heart swelling with a fierce, protective love. “Yes, we will.”

And in that moment, with his arms around you, his body still warm and close against yours, you believe it. You believe in him, in the life you’ve built together, in the family you’ll continue to grow.

Tonight, the future seems as bright and boundless as the stars outside your window. And for the first time in a long while, you feel truly at peace.

[shalomniscient]

[nsft utc] (jane doe x reader)

“c’mon, how ‘bout we try again, sweetheart?”

you lean back in the interrogation chair, one arm on the armrest, the other on her waist. your hand on the armrest has her tail wrapped around your knuckles like a cord, and you have the base of her tip pinched gently between two fingers to prevent her from doing anything naughty like trying to nick you. though, you don’t really think she has quite enough brain capacity for mischief at the moment, stuffed full of your cock as she is.

jane makes a strangled, huffing noise, nails digging into your shoulders through your detective’s coat. her pretty teal eyes are half-lidded, and a delicate flush sits on her pale cheeks. her shorts are discarded somewhere, and you’ve conveniently created a nice hole in her leggings to access her pretty cunt. the fact that jane herself had decided to forgo underwear is a bonus—or maybe something she planned as well.

“don’t know what you mean, detective,” she breathes, rocking her hips again, or at least trying to. you hold her in place with a firm hand, keeping her still, and a petulant noise slips from her lips. you chuckle lightly, then without warning, snap your hips up roughly. jane yelps, then moans, eyes rolling back she she squeezes tight around you.

“sure you do, sweetheart,” you coo, lazily shifting your hips. the sheer size of you ensures that each of your movements hits at least one of her sweet spots every time, creating an almost endlessly pleasurable experience for as long as she sits on your cock. “you wanna stop lyin’ to me?”

she laughs, and the look in her eye turns dangerous, challenging. it makes a thrill run through you, your veins lighting up both with oxytocin and adrenaline. her fingers thread in the hair at the base of your neck, giving a sharp tug to make you look up at her. “what makes you think you deserve the truth?”

“bit of a spitfire today, ain’tcha?” you muse, unbothered by her little display. your hand on her waist shifts a little lower and your thumb brushes her swollen, neglected clit, and she’s nearly immediately folding, muscles in her abdomen jumping and a throaty moan spilling from her lips. you pair it with another slow roll of your hips, and she cries out, her eyes nearly disappearing into her skull. “but ‘s alright, sweetheart. we got a few hours before anyone comes knockin’, and that’s enough time for me to get ya to confess, ain’t it?”

it’s a rhetorical question. she opens her mouth to answer, undoubtedly with some smartass thing, but you fuck up into her before she can and her words break on a squeak of pleasure. and this time, you really get going, one hand holding her down and ensuring she sinks onto your cock all the way each time while your hips ruthlessly piston into her. her thighs tremble from the impact, and you think idly that it’s a shame you don’t have her bent over the interrogation table like last time so you can see the way her cute ass shakes with each thrust. ah, no matter. there’s always next time.

you focus back on railing her absolutely senseless, your thumb toying with her clit as you go. jane’s fingers tighten in your hair, her head thrown back in pleasure, and you take the opportunity to lean forward and seal your lips on her chest, even through the thin fabric of her top. jane whines when your tongue laps at her stiff nipple, coaxing it to hardness through her clothing. her back arches, and she pushes more of her breast into your mouth. you tend to her almost hungrily, giving each tit the same amount of attention until you feel her squeezing even tighter around you. then you draw back with a wet smack, grinning like a cat who got the cream.

“gonna cum, sweetheart? wanna finally be honest with me?”

teal eyes meet yours, and you still see the hint of challenge in them. in response, you slow down ever so slightly, and suddenly they’re widening, defiance giving way to desperation as she rapidly shakes her head, bouncing on your lap to not lose the stimulation. “n-no, please,” she manages, still trying to ride you, “fuck, baby, don’t stop— don’t you dare stop—“

“tell me what i wanna hear, sweetheart, and i’ll let you cum,” you coo, holding her in place, and you know if jane had her tail free she’d probably strangle you. instead she just looks at you with glossy eyes as she rides you, plush bottom lip trembling.

“no one— no one fucks me like you do,” she confesses, burying her head in the crook of your neck. “need you so bad, baby, this fucking assignment— haven’t been fucked in weeks and i need it—“

you soothe her with a kiss to her temple and another hard rut of your hips. “see? wasn’t so hard, wasn’t it? let me take care of you now, darlin’.”

and take care of her you do. you release her tail in favor of gently wrapping your arms around her as you fuck into her, holding her close to you. she’s small, and fits perfectly against your form. jane’s tail slithers down to wrap around your leg, and you chuckle at her unspoken need for closeness. you kiss the side of her face, her neck, her shoulder as you fuck your cock in and out of her dripping cunt, until her teeth sink into your shoulder and she cums with a strangled cry. you grunt as she squeezes you like a vise, eagerly drawing whatever you have to give her. you’d been backed up yourself, and your cum ends up leaking out of the seal her pussy forms around your base.

you sigh and lean back in the chair, carding your fingers through her hair. “you alright, sweetheart? need some water?”

jane shudders, and then her lips press against your pulse point. she shifts a little, making both of you hiss at the slight overstimulation, but then she presses closer against you. you hum and run a hand up and down her back soothingly.

“missed you,” she murmurs, her voice small and raw and honest in a way you know is reserved for you. for as much as jane loves toying with her prey, she isn’t infallible or immune to her own heart. and neither are you—hence why when zhu yuan took her in on the pretext of an interrogation, you’d commandeered it immediately. you deal with CIs anyway, so it was fine.

“missed you too, sweetheart,” you whisper back. “always.”

in about half an hour, you’ll pretend to leave the door unlocked and she’ll pretend to escape, and then you’ll both pretend to not know each other until the day jane brings all her criminals to light, and you’ll be there to cuff every last one of them. but until then, you hold your wife close to your heart, where she should be.

[forcedagere]

I personally really like the idea of Bill x Reader x Ford. This one kinda ties into my previous post, but it’s not required reading. I suppose this would be an AU where Ford accepted Bill’s offer during Weirdmaggedon, or something else went wrong resulting in Bill staying in power :)

Contents: forced age regression, yandere, implied mental manipulation

Whereas Bill is far from the best caretaker (though he tries, in his own way), Ford takes care to create a semblance of structure in your life. He doesn’t have tons of practical experience with children or little ones such as you, but he makes up for it with dedication. He takes to caring for you as if it were a newly discovered, fascinating field of study. In other words… He reads many, many books, and tries all kinds of things to figure out what you like best.

Ford is not entirely fond of the kind of dynamic you have with Bill. It's not because he doesn't want to be referred to with parental terms, that's simply a matter of preference, but that he insists on you being friends above anything else. Considering the dynamics at play here, Ford cannot help but view it…

"As simply pedagogically irresponsible, Bill." The triangle in question rolls his eye. "Oh, boohoo! Fancy McFancypants over here knows what’s up!” Bill glances at you from the corner of his eye. Seeing you crack a smile while you’re sketching away with your crayons, he’s encouraged. “You read one book on how to raise a kid, and now you wanna tell me what to do? Get lost. Kid, c'mon, prove him wrong-- I'm your favourite, right?" You look up from your latest piece of art. You are drawing all three of you, in fact. You're usually deaf to their arguments, it's such a constant that you've grown used to the noise and stopped viewing it as a threat. (Your daddy calls it 'bickering'; Billy, when daddy isn't listening, calls it 'flirting'. That makes you giggle.) But you don't like getting involved in it yourself! So you firmly shake your head, and drop the pacifier attached to your necklace to speak. "No favourites… I love you both," you say with the confidence only someone as little as you could have. Billy's eyelid flutters, and your daddy smiles.

To put it simply, Bill is the ‘fun, rule-breaking parent’ and Ford is… A little less that. One should not take Bill Cipher as the benchmark of taking good care of a human, though.

Ford will make sure your meals are more varied than the endless stream of candy that Bill feeds you, and get you tucked in for sleep at regular times, too. Compared to Bill, who enjoys playing games with you and ‘roughhousing’, Ford prefers calmer activities. He’s definitely up for the occasional board game, but, most of the time, he’ll read to you, make drawings upon requests (or give you lessons!), or toy around with science experiments safe for someone who gets the urge to put anything that looks interesting inside their mouth.

He might’ve taken you for an adventure or two outside, but… The world hasn’t been the same since Bill got his hands all over it. He may be technically immortal now. You decidedly are not, as far as he knows. Either way, he doubts that Bill would let you out of this room to begin with. He doesn’t have to ask to be able to know that. If there is any reason he would keep someone locked up the way he does with you, it must be because you have some form of special connection to him. Ford does not believe he would risk that.

Really, Ford isn’t stupid or blind. It’s not that he’s going along with all of this because he is ignorant of Bill’s manipulation of your mental state. Bill can call it a ‘nudge in the right direction’ all he wants. He’s keeping you regressed. But everything has changed. He has changed, and Ford doesn’t know if he made the right decision. He fears he hasn’t. (Somewhere out there, in an alternate universe, a Stanford must live who made a difference decision. Ford hopes he’s happy.)

Spending time in this little contained room, with something dependent on him and eager to be looked after by him, who doesn’t know better and never will… It’s not good, it’s the very definition of selfish, but it’s comforting to him. Grounding, in a sense. With an eternity of time left ahead of him and the foundations of his previous life all but crumbled, he has something steady to return to. It doesn’t matter how much he rationalizes it. It’s twisted and fucked up, plain and simple.

…He supposes he can understand why Bill finds him so amusing, even now.

A little whimper snaps him from the spiral of his thoughts. Your bottle is empty. He should get youa refill, then pull you back on his lap.

[franabz]

★ Band 141 AU !fem user (part 2)

(part 1)

Ghost wasn't very sure why he was suddenly so drawn to the absolutely bonnie young woman on stage, but something about her was like a moth to a flame to him in ways he couldn't really understand.

Maybe it wad the way she seemed absolutely terrified, practically hitching with every step she took on stage in front of rows of (mostly drunken) bar patrons. You'd almost feel sorry for how she was practically shaking like a leaf as the stage manager handed off her own mic and her eyes nervously darted over the crowds with a tremble in her knees.

The lead vocalist, Vixen, didn't seem as amused as the rest though. She subtly took a step back and nudged you with her elbow, snapping you a "Don't fuck up" look that made you swallow thickly. One by one each member of the band got to their respective places, then Vixen's voice pitched into the mic through the speakers. "Thank you all for having us here tonight!" She grinned widely, obviously thinking highly of herself in the moment.

"How 'bout tae brunette? She looks like'a bonnie lass." Soap commented, resting his forearms over the wooden table as he nodded towards one of the other female band members, the bassist stage named Robin. "We're lookin' for a vocalist, not 'nother bassist." Price sighed, taking another drag of his cigar before tapping it against an ashtray to take a sip of his whiskey. Gaz and Ghost were mostly silent, simply observing the potential candidates. At least Gaz seemed alive in his thoughts, his brows raised slightly in curiosity as the music finally began. Ghost however, ever the stone-faced man, was completely unreadable, per usual.

An upbeat and funky rhythm sounded through the speakers as each band member performed their parts with practiced ease, everyone giving it their all. Vixen's captivating alto voice being the main focus. You did your best to stay on-par with the rest of the band, yet remained significantly quieter. Ghost kept his eyes trained on you with laser focus, seemingly keeping a mental note of every flat, shaky note you managed to spew out like he was some sort of critic. "She's good." Gaz uttered quietly while resting his chin in his palm, subtly head bobbing to the beat. "Ah dinnae ken... Ye can barely even hear 'er over the blonde." Soap gestured a hand towards Vixen, watching as she was blatantly trying to steal the spotlight over the other band members, her voice considerably louder than the instruments. Price simply watched with a critical eye. You could practically hear the gears moving in his head.

Little by little you finally started breaking from that timid shell you were curled in and your true colors began to shine, your captivating soprano vocals mixing with Vixen's alto tone rather nicely, though it was obvious she was still trying to overpower you. Nonetheless you delivered with such soulful grace that rang out in the ears of patrons even after the song ended. Almost like a siren drawing in unsuspecting victims.

Though Price didn't say anything, it was obvious his face said it all. "I have to talk to her."

"Soprano and baritone? Not a bad combo." Gaz chipped in. "Wot's what mean?" Ghost finally spoke up, gruffly scowling as he tapped his foot against the wooden flooring below.

"Bloody 'ell, pipe down." Price grunted, waving away his smoke as well as waving away the chatter of the boys.

The rest of the performance the boys were relatively quiet, each going through their own inner turmoil. Well, everyone but Soap. He couldn't care less who joined as long as they were a decent person. As the band finally finished and the final notes rang in the air, the band roared in applause and cheers, some drunken bar-goers even going as far as to throw catcalls. As soon as the band finished and Vixen began addressing the audience while the others began loading off stage— "Be right back." Price put out his cigar and took one last swig of his drink before weaving his way through crowds with a small occasional "S'cuse me" or "Pardon me" just to get a chance to talk with you.

Sure she was as timid as a butterfly, but nothing some good practice and encouragement couldn't fix.

As Price disappeared into the crowd, Soap stood up to head back towards the bar to order some more drinks, leaving just Ghost and Gaz.

"So, what'd ya think, Si?" He smirked, his eyes flickering back up to meet Ghost's own gaze. Ghost stayed silent for a moment, avoiding Gaz's gaze slightly. He actually did enjoy the performance, though he would never admit that out loud. "T'was fine." He replied quietly, tapping a blunt fingernail against his empty glass. "Fine? That's all you can say? The girl gotta voice of siren. Bloody captivating."

He leaned back in his booth, the slight sound of denim rubbing against leather could be heard over the distant bar chatter. "Only the first band n' Price already has his eyes on a bird." Ghost subtly eye-rolled and met Gaz's brown eyes for a second, before drifting his gaze away as his eyes roamed over the crowds again, trying to find the girl Price went to talk to.

Meanwhile with Price, he managed to stop you in your tracks with his usual straight to the point charm, one that made you cock a brow subtly.

"Hey- I jus' wanted to say you hav'a lovely singin' voice, mate. A true talent." Price smiled respectfully, tucking a hand into his jeans pocket as his gaze stayed trained over you. "Ah... Thank you, sir." You replied with a small sheepish chuckle, idly fiddling with a loose string on the hem of your jeans at the compliment. Price could notice your unease and chuckled gruffly, finding it a bit amusing how sheepish you were. "Don' worry, lass. I don't bite." He reassured, a small amused huff escaping his lips. "Look, I won't sugarcoat this. I thin ya 'ave true potential, and I was wondering if you'd be interested in a little meeting, eh?" He pulled a small business card from his pocket and held it out for you between his rough fingers.

You glanced down at the card and could feel your face warming at the offer. "A business offer? Hell- I could barely hold a steady note..." You thought to yourself, before quickly snapping out of your stray thoughts and swallowed thickly, hesitantly reaching for the card. "We're currently lookin' for a secondary singer 'nd thought you'd fit in nicely. All of my details're on the card." Price added, handing the card off to you before folding his arms over his chest, watching your reaction.

You accepted the card in shaky hands, your eyes roaming over the "141" label in jagged fonts. "Right... I'll think about it." You muttered, before placing the card into your own pocket and looking back up at the man, exhaling deeply to release some nerves. "Thank you." You added quietly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

"F'course, lass. Hey, you have a true talent. We could use s'meone like you on our side." Price hummed, satisfaction crossing over his face at your acceptance.

You both respectfully bid farewells and went your separate ways, Price returning to the secluded booths and you being left to stand against the wall with your own thoughts. You couldn't lie, the offer was something that definitely caught your attention, but then again you were still technically in a band. Would they even notice if you left? You were barely even noticeable on stage anyways... Maybe if you—

"Y/N!" A familiar voice snapped you out of your inner turmoil, that of Vixen; better known as Crystal. "Where were you? We're packing up for the night." She sneered, placing her hands on her hips as she looked at you, almost silently judging you. "You're lucky you didn't completely blow it tonight. Everyone was too focused on me to care, anyways." Her comments definitely tugged at your gut, but you decided not to say anything about it.

"Right, sorry." You sighed, silently resenting Crystal for her constant jabs, though you couldn't say you didn't expect it. "Damn right you are. Now hurry up, Jayce is paying our tab." She stuck her nose up subtly, before turning on her heel to walk away. Your expression stiffened as she walked away, a small exhausted exhale leaving your lips.

You took one last look around the bar, your eyes falling over the booths where 141 was currently sitting, laughing it up and sharing drinks and smokes while other bands were loading on stage, before your eyes returned to the front of the bar where Crystal and the others were waiting. You patted the pocket that Price's business card was in and let out a controlled inhale, before slowly weaving through the crowds to get to them.

Though the thought of the offer hadn't left your mind yet.

[goodlucktai]

Would you maybe do 8 with Leo talking to Usagi? :D

dialogue prompts

8. “Okay. Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do—fuck.”

x

The subway tunnels are dark, half-collapsed, and the purest pitch black. Leonardo’s eyes are hooded white when Usagi sweeps the beam of his penlight towards him. Usagi’s never gotten a straight answer from any of the turtles about what, exactly, they had been genetically modified for in the first place, but he watches Leonardo pass his own light to one of the frightened humans behind him and figures he could add ‘built-in night vision’ to the column of weird abilities he’s seen firsthand proof of. 

The woman takes the light from Leo and passes it to her young daughter, who clutches it like a lifeline. No one from their group makes a sound, hyper-aware that the Krang hounds they barely managed to outrun could make a reappearance at any second. 

“Okay,” Leo says, in that steadfast, fearless tone of voice that made heads swivel from every corner of the room to pay attention when he talked. “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do—fuck.”

“What?” Usagi blurts, jolting forward. “Leonardo, what?”

He tries to keep the panic out of his voice, for the sake of the humans they had not quite managed to fully save just yet, but he can’t help the way his heart starts to race. Leo doesn’t swear. He never swears. Every time he used to, he would look around guiltily, waiting for his big brother to swoop in out of thin air and scold him— “I don’t care if you’re a hotshot resistance leader,” Raph would say, “you’re still my brat of a baby brother, and I’m still bigger than you.”

But Raph died two years ago, and is no longer around to scold him for it. It didn’t stop Leo’s knee-jerk reaction of looking over his shoulder for him, as if he still might appear. And Usagi knows that hurt him every time. So Leo doesn’t swear. 

For him to break out the big guns, something must really be wrong. Usagi sweeps the light over him, his pulse pounding in his ears, and freezes when he finds what definitely looks like a piece of metal sticking out of Leonardo’s arm. 

Leo tilts away from him, putting the injury in the dark, and says, “Hush, Cottontail. We can’t let the hounds know we’re here.” 

But what was already a tricky situation has become a ticking time bomb. The hounds are nearby, their warbling, high-pitched croons reverberating down the dark tunnels, making it nearly impossible to pinpoint their location by sound. They’ll follow the scent of blood from a quarter of a mile away, like sharks. And Leo’s losing it fast—alarmingly fast. 

He unties his mask from around his eyes and uses his teeth to knot it around his arm instead, tight above the wound. He’s perfunctory and businesslike about it, and when he looks up Usagi knows he’s going to say something horrible.

Sure enough, “I’ll draw them away,” Leonardo says. “Once I do, you get these people to safety. We’re not that far from the safe zone, you’ll make it.”

Only that’s not how it’s going to go. Because Leo’s siblings are waiting for him. Because Mikey still hugs Leo like an octopus any time one of them leaves without the other, every single time, almost thirty years old and made ancient by grief and fear but still very much someone’s baby brother. Because if Usagi goes through with this, he’ll have to look April and Mikey both in the eye when he returns, and he doesn’t have the stomach for that. 

A crooning howl creeps toward them, alarmingly close. The hounds are getting excited, as if they’ve picked up the trail. Usagi shifts one step back, then another. 

Leonardo says, “Don’t. Don’t you dare.” It’s his leader voice, but it doesn’t work on anyone who grew up with him. And they were kids together before the end of the world. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, because he is. If he had a choice, he wouldn’t go. But this—him or Leo—this isn’t a decision that needs to be made. This just is what it is. 

He runs as far as the end of the track, sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles piercingly, and Leonardo’s stricken face, fuzzy and indistinct just within the range of Usagi’s flashlight, is the last thing he sees before he turns and runs for his life. 

They’ve used these tunnels for training exercises more than once, and that’s the only reason he makes it as far as he does, counting on muscle memory as he sprints and ducks and climbs. He crawls into a pipe just barely big enough for a rabbit yokai, much too small for a Krang hound—but not before he feels the drag of claws in the meat of his calf, not before a cry of pain is wrenched out of him, the immediate sting of the alien toxin setting in like a chemical burn. 

There are four of them screeching and digging at the mouth of the pipe with their horrible hands, and Usagi presses as far back as he can and hopes the metal holds. Hopes Leo got away. Hopes he won’t look over his shoulder for Usagi the way he does for Raph, because that would be—that would be so—

The sun comes out, flooding the tunnel with gold. The hounds shriek and peel away. A familiar, powerful force thrums in the air, like the charge before a lightning strike but consistent. 

Usagi thinks it’s strange to see a sunrise underground, and stranger still to see the sun at all when the sky has been overcast with dust and smoke for years, but it’s nice. It’s warm. 

And then he wakes up, which is super disorienting because he doesn’t remember going to sleep. He’s in the infirmary, the one room in the base guaranteed to have working lights and clean linens. The soft pillow beneath his head feels like a luxury he didn’t do anything special enough to deserve.

There’s a pressure on his hand, and when he looks he discovers Leonardo is holding it while he sleeps on the edge of the bed, slumped forward in his chair. Michelangelo is conked out beside him, his hair doing the funny curly thing it does after he uses too much ninpo, the whole of him blanketed in leftover static electricity. 

On the other side of the bed, April is watching Usagi with brown eyes that see everything. 

“That was close,” she says. “I don’t need to tell you that.”

No, she doesn’t. The memories limp and crawl back, and Usagi rips his eyes away from Leo’s face. He looks stressed even when he’s sleeping. Usagi contributed to those lines under his eyes, the chasm between his brows. It doesn’t feel good to know that. 

“I won’t ask you for a miracle,” April murmurs, “because that isn’t fair. But—it feels like I’m holding onto him by a thread sometimes. And I know Angie isn’t gonna let him out of his sight again for at least a week. Usagi, he can’t lose anybody else, okay? He can’t.”

The distress in her voice triggers something in Usagi that just bleeds, all through his ribcage, all through his heart. 

“I know,” Usagi whispers. He really does know. Donatello’s funeral was three months ago, and it still feels like they’re walking through a minefield. They’re balancing on a tightrope. Leonardo hasn’t laughed once since he buried his other half. 

“So just,” April says, “come home, okay? No matter what, make sure you come home.”

“I promise,” Usagi says, and holds his free hand out to her. She clasps it, and her fingers are human, the shape of them entirely different, but they have had a decade to make the gesture familiar and second nature. She’s his sister, as much as she’s Leo’s and Mikey’s, and Usagi would do anything she asked of him. 

So he keeps that promise for a long time. But he doesn’t keep it forever. 

[nyx-umbrakinesis]

Lucifer flying along all day making sure the carnage from the most recent culling from Heaven was being recovered from and no one else needed any drastic help.

Hours later he lands in front of the hotel and goes to withdraw his wings when one of them spagms and he cries out in pain as he gets a cramp.

You come running outside to see if he's okay and you help him up to his room, asking if you can help ease his wing pain.

Lucifer: "It's fine kitten you can stop fussing, it's just a cramp, it'll ease soon."

You: "You've been doing so much good lately Lucifer, you deserve someone to fuss over you to sometimes you know, let somone care for you sometime, noting is ever all give and all take."

Lucifer sighs, but when he looks into your earnest eyes his expression softens.

Lucifer: "Alright Kitten, you can help." He gestures for you to proceed.

Your hands are tentative as they brush against the soft down of his wing joint, he feels utterly divine under your touch, warm and soft... And perfect.

Your fingers knead gently down the span of the limb, and you bite your lip at his deep groan, feeling heat in your face and the muscles twitching in your grasp.

You focus however on what you're doing, admiring his pure white down as you do so, not noticing his eyes fixed on your face as his tendons flex slightly as you hit a reflex and make him twitch.

Lucifer chuckles as you startle at the movement, and his hand comes to cup your cheek.

Your eyes meet his and before you can say or do anything else his warm mouth covers yours in a gentle taste of affection.

Sighing into the kiss you feel Lucifer draw you closer deepening it, his wings wrapping around you now, making a cocoon of warmth and ethereal energy around you, isolating you both from the outside world as your head spins from lack of air.

Lucifer breaks the kiss and presses his head to yours, panting and flushed.

"Better?"

"Better."

[artdcnaldson]

ok so . basically. art has to break patrick's brattiness. he has to just edge him and fuck him until pat is like . brain dead and then art STILL won't let him cum so patrick is whimpering and whining like a puppy and art is just being soooo mean. maybe they even take a video for tashi ! — 🪵

ougghhhhh yeah <3 Edging him and not letting him cum would BREAK him.

Art just knows him too well— he’s seen the way Patrick gets right before he cums time and time again. Before, when he’d have to hide the fact that he was looking/listening/wanting… and more recently, when he’s had Patrick pinned beneath him, with a hand or his mouth wrapped around the brunet’s cock.

He knows his tells. He can feel it in the way Patrick’s cock pulses and kicks in his fist and his balls draw up, see it the way Patrick’s toes curl and flex, how his abs tense, hear it the exact pitch and volume of his moans. Patrick can lie and lie and say he’s not close, beg Art to keep going, but Art knows.

The first few times, Patrick just gives a weak little whine and lays there panting as his cock twitches against his tummy. But the longer Art holds out, the more he aches for release. His cock is flushed an angry red, almost painfully hard. Art’s fucking mean when he’s punishing Patrick for being bratty too, doesn’t even bat an eye when Patrick starts whining and begging. Art doubles down, actually. Slicks up his palm with even more lube and just tortures Patrick’s oversensitive tip :( pulls back before he cums so his cock just throbs pathetically.

He has to put a tight cock ring on before he fucks Pat bc he’s such a slut for it that Art’s sure he’d cum just from getting his prostate drilled :( Art makes him lay on his back and hold his knees to his chest so he can watch all of Patrick’s expressions and see the way his cock drips pre all slick and messy. The second Art’s cock slams into his prostate Patrick goes brainless. All whiny and babbling out garbled pleas of “please” and and “more” even though he cant cum it just feels so good :( when Art gets close he pulls out and cums all over Patrick’s tummy, glazing his untouched dick in pearly white, which just serves as more lube to keep him slick and wet for him to play with <3

Tashi gets home and sees the state Patrick’s in and it’s just too adorable. All teary eyed and begging her to take pity on him for once. She figures he’s learned his lesson anyway. The second she pulls off the cock ring and just rubs her thumb over his tip he spills a huge load all over her fingers and his stomach. Poor boy cums so hard he blacks out a little :(

[tendersugarx]

Ask the Angels

tomas vrbada x f!reader nsfw and when he breathes, he looks for you

it’s  just that you’re not only obsessed, you’re hungry. and it’s a different kind of hunger where the slightest sign of affection will have you throwing yourself on top of him, claws out to make sure he’s marked. he’s always stunned at how much you want it, how much you want him, how  much you want his cock. it drives him insane, makes him hold you from behind, press his body against yours. ‘if you love it so fucking much,  you can have it every day’ he says, salivating because one hand is holding your waist and the other is pushing your panties to the side, the rosy cotton ones he loves so much, and you’re wet, god you’re so wet for him. if this had been the first time during the day he would find it cute, charming, lovely. he’s the one doing this to you. but this isn’t the first time, it’s the sixth time in the span of 4 hours. he’s given you so much, made you come so good---a few times using only his tongue---and now you’re once again luring him to you as if  you’re made of siren’s curse. he holds his cock by the base, teases your entrance, slides it between your folds. he’s so sensitive, you’re so sensitive, everything is spinning. ‘please please please please please--’ ‘i’m here, i’m here, i’ve got you, sweetheart.’ and he pushes in with one hard stroke, so hard it jolts you upwards for a split second. he wastes no time, there’s no room for delicacy right now,  he fucks you hard and fast with no breaks, he needs this too, he needs it as much as you do because otherwise he’ll cease to exist. he knows, logically, that’s not true, the rational part of his brain still functions (yours is long gone) but it’s what it feels like. that if he doesn’t have you over and over he’ll never have you again. you’re such a good thing, the greatest gift he’s gotten over the last few months. being cooked up here with you, hiding for a bit, disappearing to everyone else---he's on a hunt, to his clan, he's on a hunt. and that's not really a lie, is it? you present yourself like prey, you melt in his hand, his kisses are hard and candy-like, his teeth sink into your skin and he draws the tiniest bit of blood, licks it clean again and again. god, he’s  so good, sliding in and out of you, he’s come inside you three times, the rest you asked for it in your mouth, asked because you wanted his taste, wanted to see his eyes rolling to the back of his head, to feel his fingers tangling in your hair as your urged him to fuck your mouth. and now now now god now you want it back inside of your cunt, you feel so full already, such a mess, you ask for it so sweetly. he chokes on a moan at the request, his heart is beating so fast, sweat covered skin and damp hair, eyes sparkling, lips used and swollen from your kisses. “i said i’d give it to you, didn’t i?’ ‘you did,’ you say, out of breath. ‘i’ll  come inside you, sweetheart, you feel how hard i am, how close i am,  i’m fucking throbbing inside of you and you--fuck---you squeeze me so  tight--- ‘ he’s rambling away in your ear, sweet nothings, he’s admitting to so many things, he’s picking up the pace and thrusting into you like his life depends on it and it probably does. one particular angled thrust takes you there, makes you clench down on him  and scream a silent scream, head tipped back almost touching his chest.  he gets louder, even faster, he’s coming too, he’s coming so  fucking hard and pressing you against that wall and he’s, he’s--

‘fuck yeah, like that, come on my cock, come on my fucking cock, fuck fuck fuck i love you, i love you so much---’ you’d barely picked up on his previous ramblings but these words register perfectly, seep inside your skin, into your bloodstream. this is what makes you blush. not the fact that he's been fucking you against the wall so hard you scratch at the wallpaper to keep yourself steady, no, no, what makes you blush is the softness of his confession. the euphoria of hearing him like this, usually so well spoken and polite, losing control to the point of uttering such secrets. when you’re both standing still, panting, trying to recover, his forehead pressed against the back of your head, you think he’s choosing to believe you didn’t hear his words. but you did. ‘i love you, too.’ ‘you do?’ you nod, turning around to face him, to nudge against his face like a cat trying to leave your scent on him. your knees buckle but he holds you. ‘with all i have.’ he smiles. ‘me too. with all i have, i mean, i love you. i want you.’ ‘i’m here.’ "promise?’ ‘i would never stray. not from you.’

[jelzorz]

Oh boy oh boy if you're taking ficlet requests, how about Opeli making sure Soren doesn't collapse of exhaustion while he's supervising rescue efforts and providing aid in the aftermath of Sol Regem's attack?

193.

It's all kind of a blur afterwards. Soren chalks it up to being exhausted from, well, everything, but it's not like there's been time to rest between it all anyway. There are too many wounded, too many dead, too few supplies to share between the too many refugees, and he has enough to deal with without the grief creeping along the edges of his mind, waiting for him to feel it and to process it on top of everything else. The physical labour is hard, but he's used to that. The emotional labour...

Well. It can wait.

So he heads out to the castle ruins with different groups of soldiers and volunteers to salvage what little they can. He moves rubble and bodies and supplies, helps pitch tents and herd children, tends to the wounded with the limited training he has. He's worn thin and he knows this. He hasn't slept for more than a couple of hours since the attack and he knows this too. He knows because Opeli keeps telling him to rest and Corvus keeps telling him to sleep and they're just as tired as he is, but neither of them stop, so why should he?

It's been a week. A little more he thinks, but he doesn't really know because the days have started to bleed to into each other and the rise and fall of the sun doesn't really mean anything in light of everything that's going on. He knows that the others had all come back the morning after the attack, and he knows Ezran had given the order to move everyone to the Banther Lodge after a couple of nights at the temples, but beyond that, all Soren knows is the ache in his muscles and the precarious uneven rhythm of his next step, and the one after, and the one after that.

He's sitting by the fire tonight. There's a pile of damaged armour beside him that he doesn't really know how to repair but the blacksmith didn't make it and the Banther Lodge works, but they're still sitting ducks out here. Damaged armour won't do them any favours. There's no room to lose anybody else. He's fixing the leather in a bracer when they find him, Corvus and Opeli, both tired, both weary, both obviously concerned.

"'Sup," greets Soren absently.

Corvus and Opeli glance at each other.

"We've been ordered to rest," says Corvus.

Soren snorts. "How's that going for you?"

Opeli twitches her lips. "I can't refuse an order from the king," she says drily, "but more importantly, neither can you."

Soren pauses in his work and raises an eyebrow.

"You need to rest," says Corvus, taking the bracer from him and shoving the pile of armour over with his foot. He takes a seat next to him without waiting for an invitation and Opeli does the same on his other side, already frowning at the bandage she'd placed over the cut on his forehead.

"You've split your stitches again," she says, her disapproval obvious.

"I'm fine," mutters Soren. He tries to snatch the bracer back but Corvus holds it purposefully out of reach.

"You need to rest," says Corvus again, tossing it back into the pile and kicking the whole stack of it further away. "We all do," he adds pointedly to Opeli, who wrinkles her nose petulantly and draws her knees to her chest.

"I'm not arguing," she mutters. "But whether or not we do relies on Soren, doesn't it?"

Soren stares at them both. Corvus actually smirks.

"We made a deal with Ezran," he says somewhat smugly. "I don't need a break—"

"Yes you do," snorts Opeli.

"But I wouldn't take one unless Opeli took one—"

"And I won't take one unless you do." Opeli gives him a look then, her usual stern-faced glare laced with something stubborn and a little sour, but something hopeful too: an opportunity to rest mandated by someone else that she won't feel guilty for taking. "So whether or not we get to take a break is up to you, really," she says.

Soren pauses. Then he scowls at them both. "That's a dirty trick."

"It's pretty fair actually," says Corvus, stretching out beside him. "You need to rest, Soren. If not for yourself, then for the people who care about you."

"And you do have people who care about you," says Opeli. "You must know that."

There's another pause. Corvus leans into him on one side and, hesitantly, Opeli does the same on the other, their warmth a comfort against the evening cold, their weight a ward against the feelings he isn't quite ready to feel.

He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them, it's dawn. The morning is quiet. The fire is out. Corvus has shifted so that his head rests on Soren's shoulder and Opeli has tucked herself under his arm in her sleep. The blanket draped over them is scratchy but warm.

Soren lets himself go back to sleep.

[viibo]

I think the prsk in your strawpage refers to project sekai so can you draw Dev listening to Nightcord at 25:00 and Hazel listening to Wonderland x Showtime? (You don’t have to draw this part it’s only if you want to but when Hazel sees his favorite group is N25 she sort of looks over at him like, “dude, are you alright” and he just nods with tears running down his face or changes the song to a different group)

Dev is N25 biggest fan ever and literally Mafuyu trust ! he totally cries while listening to the songs because in his words, “they’re me fr” His top songs are definitely BUG, IDSMILE, Jackpot Sad Girl, Bitter Choco Decoration, Samsa, and Lower One’s Eyes! Peri low key gets concerned when he hears Dev play one of N25 songs

Havel is literally Emu and knows every song word for word and her favorites are definitely Positive☆Dance Time, Ego Rock, Glory Steady Go!, Tondemo-Wonderz, Kirapipi★Kirapika, and Niccori^^ Survey Team Theme! I’d like to imagine her and Cosmo & Wanda totally jam out to WXS!

I’m sorry this is really long I didn’t mean for it to be that way I’m sorry for yapping 💔 I love your artstyle it’s so cute and pretty!! sending virtual hugs your way and make sure to take breaks from drawing from time to time and stay safe and hydrated :3 I hope you have an amazing day/night wherever you are‼️

THIS IS MY FAV ASK IVE GOTTEN SO FAR this is all so real plus i have more of an excuse to redraw fop in vocaloid songs AND UR SO KINDD <33

hazel Is emu coded i agree but i also think she loves tsukasa bc 1. im projecting <3 2. BIG BROTHER WHO JUST WANTS TO MAKE HER SISTER SMILE!!1!!!11!1AAAAAAAA

[the-broken-pen]

Hello! i love your cat villian one so much maybe do more??????

but ignore if not (AMAZING BLOG EVER)

The protagonist was dying. They were sure of it, they could feel it, this all consuming terror and in the way they couldn’t draw a full breath into their lungs, like it was funneled through a straw and it was killing them–

Their vision went blurry and they crumpled against the wall, curling into a half-hearted ball over their knees against the baseboard. There was blood splattered over their hands. They just–if they could just–a tiny bit of air–

A hand, warm and gentle, appeared at the nap of their neck, tipping their head up to look at their face.

The protagonist blinked, and the villain was there, and they were watching them die, and oh god they were going to get fired–

“Breathe,” the villain said, and it sounded like they were under water. A million miles away. Point Nemo. Their sister had told them about that once, in the middle of the night as they sat on the roof.

It must be so lonely, she had said, head tipped to the stars. To be so far from everyone else.

The protagonist had wanted to say, I don’t need to be far from everyone else to feel lonely. I’m Point Nemo, can’t you see? But they hadn’t, had just hummed something in agreement, and the villain was telling them to “breathe,” again.

I’m trying, the protagonist wanted to sob. I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying.

“Protagonist,” the villain cupped their face in their hands, and through the blurring of the protagonist’s vision, they looked absolutely terrified.

Which didn’t make sense, because the villain always knew exactly what to do in every situation. It was comforting to be in the shadow of someone who knew exactly how they fit into the world.

The villain said something, and the protagonist blinked.

“What?” they managed. The villain snapped their head to look up at them.

“I said, I’m calling your mom.”

Abruptly, terror was flooding their veins again, and they slammed the phone out of the villain’s hand and onto the concrete.

The villain just watched them, concern stark on their face.

“Protagonist–”

“You can’t call her,” they gasped out, chest tight. “She’ll worry and–I can’t do that to her, not after my sister, she can’t do that again.”

Point Nemo. One million miles away.

Really, though, just six feet down.

It felt the same.

“Okay,” the villain said, low and soothing, like they were a scared child. They were. “Okay, I won’t call her, but I need you to breathe,” they emphasized.

“I’m trying,” the protagonist bit out, sucking in air that didn’t seem to be doing anything. How could it not be doing anything? This was one of the worst things that could be happening to them, let alone in front of their boss. They were supposed to be stronger than this, they were stronger than this, so why were they shaking against the baseboard in the hallway of their base. Idly, they looked down at the blood coating their arms, and couldn’t remember whose it was.

“I don’t know how to help you,” the villain admitted, voice breaking.

The protagonist couldn’t get their hands to stop shaking.

If they could just draw a breath–

Blood is harder to get off than you would expect. It clings and clings and clings–

The villain followed their gaze down, and a moment later, they had a wet wipe in their hand, wiping down the protagonist’s hands with an efficiency they could never hope to imitate.

They flinched away from the cold of it a second too late, and the villain frowned.

“You’re okay,” the villain promised, and the protagonist wanted to believe them.

They still choked on the next breath they tried to take, and it hurt and was miserable and the protagonist just wanted it to stop.

The villain said something that sounded like their name again, and they wanted to respond but felt the words get caught in their ribs, and the villain vanished and–

They were holding a cat.

Their shoulders untensed immediately, hands curling softly into the fur, as softly as they could manage while shaking, and they bit their lip to keep from crying at how useless they felt. How could they not figure out how to use their own hands? They bit back a sob, because nothing was working and they couldn’t bear to hurt a cat.

The cat curled itself further against the protagonist’s chest, tucked into their arms in the hollow between their knees and their abdomen.

The villain was–oh.

Oh, the protagonist was so stupid.

The villain was kind, kinder than they deserved, probably, turning into a cat just to make the protagonist stop having a meltdown in their hallway.

The protagonist just needed to get their legs to stop being numb, and then they could stand up and go hide in the bathroom until their body remembered how to do its job, and stop bothering the villain with their stupid problems and panic.

And then, abruptly, the villain began to purr, rumbling into the protagonist's chest.

Some knot deep inside of them that they hadn’t realized existed uncoiled, and they sucked in a breath so deep they thought it would never end. They choked on it on the way out, but the villain simply kept purring, so they tried again, and again, until their vision unblurred and the ache in their lungs had vanished.

“Okay,” the protagonist murmured to themself. Sometimes, they could trick themself by talking in the tone they used on frightened children when out on patrol. “You’re okay, I’m okay, everything is fine.”

They moved to set the villain down, but the villain dug their claws into the protagonist’s arm, nudging their face into their bicep.

Are you really okay? They seemed to ask, and the protagonist didn’t have an answer to that. They could breathe, and feel their toes, and they could remember–oh.

They could remember.

Blood on their hands.

The villain started purring again, and the protagonist burst into tears, burying their face into the villain’s fur. The villain let them, nudging the side of the face every so often in a reminder to breathe.

They stayed like that, until the protagonist’s tears had dried, and their heart only panged a little bit when the villain jumped down out of their arms and onto the floor in front of them.

A blink, and the villain was in front of them again, eyes filled with concern as they grabbed onto the protagonist’s elbows.

“You’re okay,” the villain breathed, and then the protagonist was pulled into a hug so warm they never wanted to leave. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” the protagonist agreed, face tucked into the villain’s chest.

The villain simply hugged them tighter.

Point Nemo had never felt further away.

[idlenight]

was taking a little break and decided... hey maybe lining that lil scar wip is too much effort rn but what if... I draw that burn scar on smiling river???

heartbreak left a mental and physical scar thanks to that energy cast <3

[hinamie]

playing around w slightly different hair renders

[hvezdnastreka]

WIP i'm probably never going to finish, because IT'S ANOTHER KLAUZURA SEASON BABYYYYY!!!!

^^(a black and white walk cycle animation of a girl, who's legs aren't drawn yet ) GET CONCEPT ARTED LOSER (This time we're making concepts for our own video game! :) )

[lemongogo]

sry i dont know what 2 draw anymore T_T . elendira portrait #999