#the flip side is that I don't usually offer to get things for other people 😅

[aquitainequeen]

I am possibly the first person to ever ask how best to write a request for a cup of tea.

[alastor-x-reader-stories]

"Bite Me" - Alastor x Reader

next

You were a strange addition to the hotel.

A quiet sinner demon with no merit to speak of who just waltzed in without much fuss or fanfare. No blowing up walls, no trying to kill anyone, no entertainment what so ever.

You were so boring, Alastor didn't even want to mess with you.

...

At first.

Then, quiet and unassuming, you slowly established yourself as both over-forgiving and sharply blunt.

It was amusing watching the whiplash on a demon's face when you flip between them so much in a single day.

Once, Angel Dust was high as a kite and practically lobbed a brick at your head. Your response was "No harm done, don't worry about it." later that same day, the spider-fellow draped an arm around Vaggie's shoulder and slung some sort of ridiculous insult. You moved his arm off of her and said "You need to learn to watch what you say or I'm ripping this arm off and shoving it down your throat."

Usually that last threat would lead to some other comment, but the flat way you said it and moved on to a different subject left the spider fellow standing there without much else to say.

How amusing!

Even he was no exemption from your two-faced nature, it seemed. One moment apologizing for accidentally blocking his path, the next informing him that you'd use his antlers as forks if he didn't leave you alone. Silly little threats that were oh-so pathetic when said by such a...underwhelming, individual.

Alastor's favorite of yours was 'I'm going to eat your kidneys'. Then how rude you were to decline the cooking lesson he offered!

Typically your quips and comments were about trivial things, little things that Alastor would purposely do in order to get a reaction.

THIS TIME, THOUGH

He had a particularly annoying run in with Vox one day, trudging back to the hotel with his patience already at its limit. Husk knew better than to comment on it, shying away from him as he prowled through the lobby. Angel Dust was at the bar counter, eyeing Alastor as he strode on through.

"Ya look like shit." He commented passively.

"Thank you ever so much for the keen observation." Alastor said with a smile. Husker flinched, ears dropping. It was only then he noticed you there as well, a forgotten drink in your hand as you gaze lingered on Husk, a frown setting to your lips.

The rest of that particular exchange wasn't of any significance. It wasn't until later when you sought him out in the Hotel's parlor things escalated.

"You need to calm down."

His grin hitched up and he leered down at you. You were more than a foot shorter than him and your big eyes did little to make you look more intimidating.

"I beg your pardon, dear?"

"I said you need to calm down." Your tail swished in agitation. "I get you had a bad day but that's no reason to take it out on other people."

Alastor chuckled "Oh goodness. My apologies, my dear. But you have absolutely no ground to tell me to do anything."

He back you up against the wall, hands planted on either side of you. His antler stretched out and his eyes took on the appearance of dials as he leaned down. Sharp teeth grazed your face, hot breath stung your eyes. Claws carved their way into the wall on either side of you.

"So, my dear, what was it you said? I'm afraid I didn't quite catch it."

"I said you need to calm down."

Alastor's eye twitched, his grin twisting into something so much more unhinged. No hesitation. Were you stupid?

A look at you said yes, but you knew damn well the danger you were in. You were trembling, pupils shaking breath shallow. But you still had the nerve to speak to him that way?

"All right, what if I don't?" He purred, tracing a claw over the side of your face "Go on ahead and let me hear whatever pathetic threat you have."

"I'll bite you." spoken in that flat tone of yours.

Alastor laughed "As amusing as always-"

Pain burst from his shoulder, sharp and sticky as fangs burst through flesh. Perhaps it was shock that had him stumble back, perhaps it was amusement that allowed you to get away from him. You opened your jaw, withdrawing your teeth from his shoulder as skin and cloth clung to the spaces between your bloodied fangs.

You gave him a pointed glare as your wiped some excess blood off of your face and prowled off without so much as giving him a second glance.

He had every right to hunt you down and rip apart your soul right then and there.

Instead he found himself losing his balance, falling onto his rear on the floor. Fingers curled over the fresh and large bite mark on his shoulder. The damn thing nearly covered the entirety of between his collar bone and his arm socket.

He pulled his hand away to stare absently at his own blood.

You must be venomous. That was the only way to explain why his heart was suddenly racing and his face suddenly felt far too warm. His breathing was off, shallow and uneven.

You actually bit him.

Were your threats actually not so empty?

Did you really intend to use his antlers as forks?

He laughed to himself, letting his hand drop back to his side. This was ridiculous! If you meant even half the strange threats you threw at him....then...

Well. He was in danger.

[aliquid-de-magis]

walking batfish are a shallow-water anglerfish that show up in the pet trade occasionally. unfortunately they don't tend to have good lives in captivity, even with the best husbandry an aquarist can manage. they often refuse to eat until they waste away. :(((

however! as a (temporary) caretaker of these little dudes i've found out something quite encouraging which is:

with a bit of patience and the offering of gifts, you can make friends with them!!! and with that simple thing they do so much better, even after somebody buys them. it's like a switch gets flipped and they become great eaters who don't get stressed by other fish and who enjoy human visitors. now obviously my sample size is quite low because we only get them occasionally, but as of this post i've successfully done it four times over two years and the customers who bought them report that they're all still alive and doing well :D

but the reason i made this post, is i have a fifth batfish buddy right now and i noticed a side effect that i NEED to share

HE WIGGLES HIS LURE AT PEOPLE NOW

an anglerfish's lure is delicate and important to their survival, so they usually only show it to prey items and keep it tightly tucked against their body in the presence of large things. so it's an exciting thing to see it!

i guess my bro picked up on that, because now he uses his lure whenever he wants attention, and will even specifically rotate it toward onlookers.

so! now that you have the context to be properly excited by it, i am proud to present THIS:

[capslocked]

DIPLOMACY

male reader x kim minju

7k words

For those not paying attention - of which there seems to be an increasing number - it’s not that she doesn’t have the pedigree. But just shy of getting into that storied history or into the nitty-gritty of her curriculum vitae, the only thing that really matters is:

"This all seems a little beneath me." 

It’s another day of this. Of you, of her, of trying to gather the mien of someone who isn’t utterly disarmed by Minju’s usual, beautiful, challenging self. Which, let’s be honest, is always an uphill battle.

Minju nearly pouts, flipping through a copy of the dossier idly from the other side of the desk in a gesture that reads both bored and dismissive and every little thing it needs to annoy you.

"Look," you offer up, graciously diplomatic all things considered, "it's about finding the right springboard, to something else more… substantial."

"Or to something else, you know, beneath me." Her red lips turn down ever so slightly. She doesn't seem so interested in playing ball on this one. And, for you, amounts to something of a huge problem.

See, Minju doesn't quite understand how the working world really, actually works. That the carrot that's dangled in front of her is your carrot just as much as it is hers - that you stand to lose out just as badly. That it's both of your asses on the line if things fall apart and Minju's shortsighted insistence to only work those certain roles befitting a name like hers puts that all at risk.

"Maybe you can tell me something,” you start, coming across more curt than you possibly intended - but not by much, “how many of your former cohorts have had their career aspirations line up with reality, Miss Kim?"

“I’m picky, not naive,” she sighs, not missing a beat, and you watch her dark hair cascade gently down her shoulder when she reaches a hand back to unfix her loose ponytail from its hair clip.

“You might see how I can get the two confused.”

“Then spare me the lecture,” says Minju.

Though she says nothing else, an unspoken you already get paid too much for that hangs in the air.

The tricky part is that no matter what else Minju does, her contract has some non-negotiable clauses to them that no talent has before, or will likely get afterwards. Things that cannot be broken. Like the requirement of her making x number of media appearances, and she gets to approve all of them.

Or that her agent's take home comes from a fixed fifteen percent of her gross earnings, with further incentives when her roles hit specific milestones. But with her refusing projects like the ones in the dossier before you, it leaves you in the unenviable position of losing out on your guaranteed fixed income or trying to convince your diva talent to do what it is she ought to be doing.

The truth is that there’s quite a long list of things no one has had the guts to say ‘no’ to yet.

And, well, it's rather simple and obvious when you look at her:

Minju is that particular blend of A-lister gorgeous. The special look that’s all kinds of mesmerizing and magnetizing, in full bloom - that makes you feel like you're suffocating in beauty. Like if she said come here, you would go; the type where a single look is all it takes and then - just like that - she's got your number forever.

Because everything about her is tailored - from her clothes to her perfect porcelain features. And they made her that way for a purpose: to sell records. (Which, that's exactly what they did.) You can hardly blame the people in power over there, wanting what's best, in a position where everyone would kill for a taste, or even just a glimmer of possibility.

"I don't suppose the part of the governor’s neglected wife is capturing your imagination.” You push the dossier closer, and she doesn’t so much as look at it. “It’s this year’s big budget political thriller, a shoo-in for awards.”

“You mean the one who ends up in a lot of very steamy shots on the apartment’s rooftop pool. Maybe I’m mistaken, but you can’t really unshow your tits.”

"This isn't about being above, Miss Kim, it's about being well regarded; it’s about proving you’re easy to work with,” you argue. “We could-"

"Find a better use of my time?" she cuts in, closing the dossier shut. There's a long moment in which she's looking you over, her gaze sizing up every little inch.

"Your big break won't happen just because you ask for it." You grimace a bit, hating to tell it like it is, but not really wanting to just coddle her either. "But listen - we work together, one project at a time - we can build up to it."

Minju crosses her arms with a loud hmph. "And what are you going to do if I decide not to accept these projects?"

There’s enough edge in her voice that it gives you pause.

"If," she says again pointedly, a teasing little grin tugging at her lips.

So - actually, another thing: when you start digging into the details, there’s more problems than just what can be seen at the surface. Which perhaps it’s too reductive, but essentially everything between you and the talent sitting on the other side of your desk is not quite so straightforward. It was never about Minju doing the best she could for either of your careers; it was about Minju making sure her needs were taken care of, no matter what.

Months ago, thanks in part to the way Minju filled out this tiny black excuse of a cocktail dress, and as a compromise of sorts, there’s an uncharacteristic mistake you ended up making. Or two or maybe a couple.

Because there’d been the perfect backdrop - an end of year party, beautiful dresses and suits, lots and lots of champagne, the kind of jovial mood that inspired one drink too many - and then you and her, taking off down one of the hallways, towards the exit.

Of course, you ended up exactly where neither of you should have ever been - where the snow was falling gracefully and melting into the pavement, behind a private accessway at the back of the venue, somewhere dark and dingy and dripping with a smell reminiscent of garbage; somewhere your hands had gripped firm fistfuls of Minju’s waist before you shoved her up against the back of the building. 

In short:

You remember how she gasped when her palms hit the brickwork, how you figured you may as well give her everything she wants.

(So what, it was one time, you hear yourself explaining, mildly repentant, and to say that it’s complicated the matter is a massive fucking understatement.)

In the interest of full disclosure, you tell her, “what exactly did you have in mind?”

"That maybe," she hums, tongue flicking out over her lips before she purses them thoughtfully. "You should persuade me a little better."

"And let’s suppose, I don’t do any of that," you persist.

"It'd be a shame, wouldn't it, having such a promising future cut short so early? If word got out. From such a respectable agency too, of all places. Couldn't live with yourself," Minju remarks, leaning forward on her elbows until her eyes are level with your own. “Come to think of it, it’s the kind of thing that could totally, like, end your career.”

But as she sits there, arching that perfect brow again, you don't feel so good about the whole thing. You take another look at her - which, your mistakes start there, if nowhere else - at the girl that is somehow not the airheaded starlet she’s supposed to be. No, she’s calculating. A rarity, though you do know the type: here’s a girl who just happened to take her brains for granted in the years she was pampered by the industry - the same one that fattened on her only to later spit her out. And that thought, the look of cold intellect in her eyes and the slight upward curl at the corner of her mouth, has you frozen just a bit stiff.

She takes a key card from her clutch, and throws it onto the desk in front of you.

“Minju,” you caution, and there’s a taste of danger on each syllable of her name - more of a warning for yourself than you can conceive of it ever being for her.

"I'm only suggesting" - she’s watching you nearly fucking choke, amused - "what's best."

And when the lines get muddied between the two of you, that's exactly the issue. What's best. As though this was always Minju's aim. Maybe you've read it wrong, maybe you've gotten too lost in your own delusions, maybe - maybe, it doesn’t matter -

"For work," she adds, at which point her knee bumps yours playfully beneath the desk, leaving the suggestion open, and the implication unmistakable. "Whatever's required."

Here, you should definitely tell Minju no. Say no. Say: you're a professional, and getting involved with her, romantically, officially, personally - whatever - would lead to nothing but disaster. That’d be the responsible thing probably. It’d be generous to say you end up getting even halfway there:

"There's rules against this, you know."

Minju tips her head. “Why ever would there be rules in place against doing your job?”

She thinks that if she feigns being clueless, you'll bite, which -

“Against me folding you over this desk and fucking you until your forget your name.”

"My apologies," she practically coos, knowing that she’s not only made progress, but that she’s wrapping you around her finger. She is a bright girl after all. “You might see how I can get the two confused.”

At that, you figure, the only real move, to be perfectly blunt, is to play Minju at her own game -

To convince her to bend, just a little. To persuade her. So you lean closer, you start to promise, with your face just next to hers:

"You want me to show you how I might handle an uncooperative talent? Would that do it for you, huh?"

And now if that isn’t enough to earn you a whole look, one that’s equally a challenge and a triumph; you watch as she bites the inside of her cheek, not that she can help the smirk creeping across her pretty mouth, a grin full of want and need and all those dangerous, thrilling thoughts that're probably too predictable given your unique sliver of history you’ve already carved out.

She arches that perfect brow of hers once more, toying with the corner of her lip between her teeth. 

You navigate around your desk to hand her your pen, with instructions that are perfectly clear: "then for once in your life, be useful, and sign on the fucking dotted line."

And her whole act falls apart just like that.

She’s humming almost pleasantly to herself as you settle in flush behind her, sinking into you just a little when your hand arrives at her waist, another carding through her hair. “Here,” you point out, watching her name materialize in ink on the document - pressing your lips to the nape of her neck each time she finishes penning out an exaggerated curl of a u.

“And here.”

“And here.”

“And here."

She signs again - and again - and that merits a reward; she’s good when she wants to be. Persuasive when she needs to be.

You can hear her murmur your name when your mouth slips just beneath her jaw, when you mark your next path across the bare skin of her shoulder and when she gets started on the last page of the documents, it happens just like this -

The pen drops from her fingers at some point, tumbling onto the desktop with a clack that might as well be a round leaving the chamber of a starting pistol. The office door isn't even locked and you have half a mind to check on the blinds, but the idea of some desperate executive running face first into this scene - where you’re smoothing your hands down the fabric of Minju’s top, down the rise of her jeans, fiddling slowly with the button at her waist - it holds an unfortunate sort of appeal; those blinds, they're mostly closed anyway. And at this hour of the afternoon, well - maybe it’s a little more clear why Minju asked to reschedule this meeting in the first place.

At first, it’s just a  few of your fingers dipping under the waistband of her pants, following the curve of her hip, her thigh, then inward, and when you reach down to find her already burning up in anticipation, she inhales sharp, a noise that makes you groan in turn, low, right into the hollow behind her ear. Minju, to her credit, is absolutely willing, so very helpful and - as you pinch the soft, tender skin at her hip, she's saying something but you haven't quite paid it a moment's mind.

Her head turns, eyes looking up at you ever-so-slightly-more-vulnerable than their usual mischief and calculation, and there’s a hint of a demand dancing on her tongue, ready and waiting; she moves her leg upwards just a few inches, settling to rest her knee on top of the tabletop, a calculated little pose, angling her hips so you can sink your hand lower, closer, press your fingers into the lace over her hot cunt even deeper.

Here you figure you're probably ruining the fabric, drenching it in her own slick as you work two, then three fingertips in tight circles. You’ll ruin it, and you’ll ruin more - ruin everything and take what you're owed. As her breath hitches again, in some way that makes your senses come to life: you can feel her skin become taut and tense, gooseflesh rising when your hand untangles from her hair and slides up under her shirt, can hear the steady rush of blood in your ears, her pulse quickening, the heart in her chest beating rapid -

(She can pretend all she wants that this was an attempt at extortion. She can pretend she’s not an easy read; that she doesn’t like being easy for you, when she’s hot and whimpering and aching so wet, creaming on your fingers when you haven’t even gotten her pants off.)

- as if every part of her wasn't made for this, as you lay out your first real proposal:

“Do you remember what I asked you? The first time, right after you signed on, when you were so good for me up against the bricks in the alley?”

Minju chokes out an affirmative when you toy with her pussy where she’s craving the shape of anything, but, boy, are the rough pads of your fingers more than up to the task.

"I remember you almost couldn't answer, you didn't dare want to admit that it's what you needed - isn't that right?"

She moans with a voice thick as honey when a couple more fingers brush up against her wet lips and fuck, she does look breathtakingly good; she's exquisite, she's irresistible - the image of a living wet dream.

"Say it, baby," you croon, her voice beginning to melt a bit at the edges, her own heat burning her resolve up from the bottom up as you tug sharply at a string on her lace.

Minju sighs. Arches into your touch.

Because you’re settling into this torturous pattern, where you draw inwards, closer, so close to the little bundle of nerves, her cunt flexing and rippling hungrily when your fingers flick once or twice around it, only for her to wince just slightly as your fingers trace down towards her entrance to start all over again -

Minju steels herself, drawing in a heavy breath past her teeth. “You asked how rough you could be.”

There's something so painfully wicked, how her voice falters there - but then your own voice is rasping right back in a similar caliber of depravity.

“Hm. That’s pretty close to how I remember it.” After all, you are always taking care of Minju - her concerns, her contracts, her needs. So if she was interested, why the fuck would you hold back on providing exactly what she wants. “But help me out, what did you tell me?”

Another twist - another catch. Another push - another pull. She's going to break so sweetly if you're patient - and, ahh, patience - she's shuddering underneath your touch, squirming against you so nicely that you've already gotten away with a bit too much, this much, these fingers and you and Minju's breathy gasps.

"M-that you could be. That you could-" she stutters, all as you feel her folds start to swell, then quiver, as your thumb drags painfully over her clit again - 

And in that moment Minju starts to consider if this were a good idea or not, but her back is already arching against your chest. She's gripping your arm to get you right where she wants you, and the reality of this hits her - a rush of cold clarity through her head just as everything else threatens to spiral into something else, something frantic, something hot and animal and making the muscles at her core begin to clench up.

But you just ease out of her completely, a whine coming out from the back of Minju's throat - her thighs parting further in desperation.

And oh, the disappointment, the sound, it’s incredible - a high pitch - almost a sob -

You slide your other hand in her hair to make sure she's got an earful of your words:

"What was it you said, hm?" you whisper, nipping at the skin on her neck, the side of her jaw - she's shuddering with it when your mouth lingers so close -

“As rough as you fucking want.”

God, the little things that her voice does to you. “Exactly, sweetheart.”

And how's that boundary supposed to hold up and remain uncrossed then, really, if you just give her whatever the fuck she asks for - especially if you have your mouth working it's way around her pulse-point, toying with her as she starts to tense and soften all at once.

In fact, Minju can only stutter out an okay or two as you grind forward, the hard suggestion of your cock nestling up against her rear, just shy of the perfect spot between her legs, and even with still a few layers of clothes between you, the feeling - fuck, the friction, the sight - it’s enough to get you grinning.

Enough to form this near-half-coherent thought: that it’s what's always had you on edge with this girl. She is absolutely every bit your type. Everything about her, right down to the way that she was put together.

All her hard edges and soft curves that should've never really been yours to covet and now, somehow, have become exactly that. Oh, she's the kind of temptation that's better suited for the life of glitz and glamor and the time it requires for indulging in it. You never thought that you would actually ever get here, even as the years have begun to stack up and time starts to grind everything in the back of your head and turn it all over into something like resentment.

If only Minju weren't so good at making you a sucker for those pouty lips and big doe eyes.

Particularly when she's turned around - face to face now - she's the epitome of gorgeous, equal parts aphrodite and adonis; a fucking knockout, her body sculpted and lithe and athletic. Those lines curving out and away like they might tell time, like her thighs could count the minutes and seconds until she's straddling you in your lap with her ankles locked in at the small of your back and you're rutting up into her without reservation, without doubt.

(So what, really, is your goddamned excuse? Your pride? The nature of the beast in you that demands that you must have some degree of control over yourself? The power that your position, here, now, provides? But you can hardly be blamed, even when it's wrong and filthy and so fucking good.)

"You’re stalling." Minju’s leaning back against the desk, tilting her chin up, blinking lazily, and there’s a bit of bite in her voice again.

It takes a minute for it to dawn on you that it must be intentional, trying to get a further rise out of you, the same way your hands have risen up to trace the dips and elevations of her spine, her every vertebra, your fingertips mapping the hollows and rounds of her back. To learn the geography of her shoulders and where, and when, and how to get her breath catching in her lungs, each labored intake of air a little harsher, hastier, hotter than the last.

"You know," you start, spreading your palm across a soft plane of denim, fingers pulling onto the cheek of her ass, dragging her even tighter against you, "I always figured your reputation was a little overdramatized. Most everyone's bound to have a story or two."

She laughs, full of mirth. When the mood strikes, she's the picture of perfection, and she knows it. "Well? Were you disappointed?"

As she coils an arm around your waist to slide your shirt free from the confines of your pants, and as a deft hand slips its way in, you stop asking yourself about right or wrong, good or bad, or about the kisses that land playfully at the corner of your mouth - until you hold her tight and seize her lips, hard, like you mean it - it isn't long before she's fumbling and scrambling with the zipper at your waist. 

"That depends," you’re pulling yourself away long enough to say.

"I think I know the answer." 

And by the way she shivers a little when you shove up the bottom of her top, the way she's melting into your mouth and demanding more and more and more, Minju does. You think she probably has since the first night that your threads got all tangled up. Especially when she slides off her top - her bra - her jeans - leaving them in a pile that lasts barely a second where it started once you sweep everything off of your desk in one broad, efficient gesture -

There's a thud when a pair of binders and a couple of books hit the floor. Someone exclaiming in recognition, the muffled noise drifting through the office door, and, oh, this would probably be the best moment to remember how painfully thin the walls are; you consider whether to walk over and lock the office door, and when Minju’s fingers run up your sides, you decide you won’t.

Too little too late, you figure.

And before you can take a second to give it the more congruent thought it deserves, Minju opens her mouth: "which, in your professional opinion," a hum and a slur as her nails find their way to your collar, "is well, that the thing I should take," she gets out, unbuttoning you at the cuffs, loosening the last of your shirt, "really," her hands palming over the fabric on either side of the lapels, working their way downwards, "how - how do you think this goes?"

“Oh, Minju.” She’s all but begging you to fuck her and still has the wherewithal to be asking for terms.

Like her fingers aren’t completely down your pants, locking around your hard cock - pumping you with soft, lazy strokes - not too different from how you have her chewing on her lip every time your fingers circle over the entrance to her cunt, tenting the last of her lace all slow and careful.

It’s driving her crazy. She just bites into the edge of her thumb in response.

"Fine. Alright. Let me explain it clearly." You dip a finger into her cunt; the whimper is short-lived when she tightens around you and it hits home, the pressure so delicious that she can barely stutter to keep up.

“A negotiation, of sorts-”

“Yeah, sure, we can call it that.”

The mental picture you have of your length outlined against Minju's tiny fist - as she works it into her hand, steady - it's all almost more than you can possibly bear: the way her long legs stretch out so pretty in front of you, the way her wrist twists with each pass and every bump at the veins of her forearm that is such a damn perfect shade of porcelain white in the dim glow of the desk lamp.

This girl with her pert pink mouth and those lips, the ones that aren't quite touching yours but rather smirking the whole time. (If only you were to make her scream loud enough, because you know she could be so much prettier.)

The thought flits through your brain, unbidden and treacherous -

"Think, fuck - think of this, as a one-way track into your career. Think of me, a guiding hand - if you want to. The key to all this," you continue, spacing the words carefully so you don't falter under the pace Minju is picking up, "is that you're going to need to be compliant. Easy."

"Mm. And in exchange?" she bites, choking down an embarrassing moan.

"Here's the basics." And there, there's no fucking reason for you not to dip the tips of your fingers right on downwards, tap into her soft heat until her hips are arching away from the flat of the desk, searching for more. “Whenever you need me to take care of you, I’m there, however you need it: on my fingers, my tongue, my cock - I’ll make you fucking cum over and over.”

"That sounds," she gasps, losing track of the end of her sentence, rolling herself along the pads of your fingers, taking them deeper into her, "very-very-oh fuck-”

Her grip around your cock releases, arms throwing themselves around your shoulders, holding on tight as she starts to trust you implicitly - to give her exactly what she wants, what she needs - and give herself over to you, to your fingers, circling and circling and circling.

“See, tomorrow,” you start, “there’s an audition,” and when you pull your finger out of her cunt, Minju lets out this sound that’s between a whimper and a whine. Her pretty mouth has dropped open, like she's all out of words, lost somewhere, chasing this. Getting dire.

“It’s this teen soap; they need someone young, someone pretty, do you think you can do that for me?”

She doesn’t answer so much as grab and tug and pull you even closer as the heel of your hand pushes and presses over her clit, just about enough force behind it that, eventually, you begin to feel a certain rigidity through her limbs, how the lines of her face and her faultless features grow more and more focused, fixed and concentrated; her voice reduced to the high-pitched huffs and half-formed syllables of pure and utter desperation.

I can, I can - she’s murmuring - please, yes, I will - putting herself right into your capable hands.

When you feel Minju tightening, flexing around nothing, then seizing and shivering, her pussy throbbing hot and wet and clenching around your finger as it again works deeper inside her, an anguished groan finds its way out from her throat.

And from yours, well -

"Show up," you command, giving her another knuckle, curling it just right - watching as her expression contorts and twists up for all her worth. "Make a good impression. Don't make me fucking beg. Show up, Unreserved. Understood?"

And if her body wasn't making her pleas utterly transparent, she's screaming in agreement. It takes you barely a couple seconds, working up inside her cunt until she's all full-body, fully, blissfully spent. She starts to nod, needy, eyes screwing shut.

“And let’s say, something else pops up. A little racy, a little more gravure, just the right amount scandalous, I need you to keep an open mind.”

When it sinks in what you've said, Minju gives this wail, low and perfect - her cunt throbbing over the pulse at your palm - inches away from cumming and shaking and creaming on your hand. You could ask for anything, you think, and she’d give it to you -

“My PR team,” she gasps out, the consonants of her words fraying at the seams, “it’s up to my PR team.”

“Minju,” you say, priming a loaded question and a half. “Do you trust me?”

She nods, expression readable and open like a book. It starts to set in just about then, how you’re going to fucking ruin this girl.

Your breath runs hot, right against her temple, and you whisper the slightest affirmation, “good girl, I’ll take care of it.”

Because to be fair, you’ve not made it this long in your career without learning how to pull a string - how you might pull up on the sensitive skin straddling Minju’s clit and get her reeling; her pussy flutters in the tight, wet heat, muscles clamping, demanding as you work yourself in deeper and then, when the timing's right, pull out to slide a second finger past the slip of lace she has covering her cunt.

She's this tight, dripping, overwhelming fit - even more than you have yet to discover, to tease and then take, the heel of your wrist landing on her clit in a heavy pattern, circles - circles - circles -

- so you figure: fuck the PR team.

If only they knew how well and thorough you were going to fuck the rules right out of Minju.

That you were going to remind her who's the one in the driver’s seat of her life, of her career, that you would make sure she stays in her lane - the proper lane - that this, you think to yourself, might become a recurring sort of negotiation, the kind she's so shockingly eager to accept.

You'd be doing her a favor, fucking a couple good lines into her head, into her skin, into her cunt.

And soon, before long -

She's gritting her teeth around the shape of your name and giving one last heave against the hard wood of the desk underneath her. It's almost beautiful to watch how Minju crumbles into herself; the way she grinds back onto the digits in her cunt. How you’re dragging her underwear down her thigh, pulling your cock into your fist and twisting her leg around your waist until finally, you press yourself right up against the heat radiating from her cunt.

“I’m going to take good care of you, Minju, don’t worry, I’ll fuck this pussy of yours just right. I'm going to make you shake and cum all over me.”

“Please.” Fuck, she looks at you sincerely - no games, no bullshit - pupils so very blown out with want, with need. You watch her adorable mouth uptick into this faint lazy smile as she tilts her head into your collarbone, lips parting slightly to remind you: “as rough as you fucking want-” 

And you sink right in. 

It’s all skin-on-skin as Minju practically collapses in your arms; pushing deep past her soaking entrance - your hips slotting together just so, cock engulfed by her tight heat. Minju fucking wails when you drag back from her cunt, slow - so, so agonizingly slow.

You let her recover just a bit, watching her breathing quicken and shallow.

And the word on her lips becomes something reverent, the most indecent prayer, pleading please, please, please let me have it, please fuck me with your cock- 

You brace yourself, thrusting back in, and she doesn't wince this time, holding fast to you like you aren’t the one fucking her open and taking her apart.

“God, I - look, this perfect little fucking cunt, look at how you’re stretching around me, Minju,” you’re telling her - promising her really - all of which doesn't count for shit when, once, and then again, and a couple more times after that, your hips meet hers and she starts to break just so slightly around you. “I can’t believe - it’s like you were fucking made for my cock, baby, you’re taking me so fucking well.”

"Now, show me why - why the fuck everyone wants you - wants you to be their-" she's trying, in a fashion  all to her credit and her fault. She should probably care more about that raw, unhinged noise you’re making right into the crook of her neck when you bury yourself deeper into her pussy. But in the next moment, with another wild crash of your hips, the tables start to turn.

Slowly at first, and then all at once.

Because the sound you’re ripping from her chest when you start fucking her - truly fucking her - becomes far, far filthier than anything you've ever heard a girl like her make. All of it coaxed out from you working the edge of her pussy open, stretching her, hitting each and every sensitive spot inside her.

Minju tips her head back to stare at the popcorn ceiling and fluorescent lights, brow creasing in the middle, mouth gaping open. You find you might have missed something, when she moves to hold you down, hold you in place with an insistent leg, the back of her heel digging into your ass. As though there were somewhere you might possibly want to go.

It all comes down to something she's murmuring, quietly, harboring this smug lilt like you aren’t fucking her raw and senseless: how maybe the key to unlocking the rest of her potential isn’t all that dissimilar, not as off-brand as you may have been initially worried about. And the notion that both of you might actually be profiting off of this - how it shouldn’t sound as incredible as it does - is doing absolutely fucking nothing to slow the brutal pace you fall into.

"Fuck, just like that," and she's smiling, grinning really, nails biting into your nape - your name and curses and a fuck you or two falling out of her mouth as you pound each short breath right out of her chest. 

"The only talent I'm gonna need to show," she manages, dizzy, and with one arm hooking around your waist, she pulls the two of you close, right up against each other. The sound your skin makes, clapping against hers - her cunt tight, pulsing, quivering around you - "is my, my, my-"

Your thumb should have never left her clit, you realize, pressing down on where your cock is disappearing between her legs, pushing up against that bundle of nerves that can get her screaming. That’s how you’ll punctuate your end of the bargain, how you’ll make her cum and cum and cum -

"-talent for being such a-"

There's something ungovernable in you, something fumbling, as you find yourself drawn to her lips like a magnet - claiming them in a kiss that has you both growling with all the intensity you can muster, groaning as her jaw goes slack, surrendering to the fucking. To this hard, solid snap of your hips, a raw fuck forward that pushes Minju against the edge of the tabletop.

It doesn’t matter what she had wanted to say, though it must be evident how easy she can wind you up, and you do your best not to be too gentle. Pushing into her so rough that her breasts, oh-so-delicate, bounce up and down along her chest, nipples tight and rosy, begging to be tasted and played with.

You’re pressing your mouth on hers hard, fucking her harder - fingers digging into the flesh around her thighs and leaving marks and memories, all these reminders you’ll be sure to come back to.

But the fact is that this is your girl in so many ways: needy and a dream in all her curves, and how her waist rocks back, her body fitting so perfectly against yours - you're hooked on all of it. On her - she is temptation made real, in blood and bone and soft, supple skin, so exquisitely touchable, just like the sound that she makes, high and tittering when your thumb starts to work her clit over; each swirl and figure eight sending a jolt through her nerves and straight back into your own spine. It's difficult - hard to focus, you find - when all her exposed skin has these drops of sweat standing in saltwater relief, how it rolls down the plane of her chest and disappears where her waist flares wide.

Minju turns her cheek, mouthing falling open, and asks with a certain helpless pleading, “yes, can you-”

she sighs,

“right there,”

she hiccups,

“please, again,”

she begs,

“again, harder, i’m so close-”

Not before long, the desk is scraping loudly across the carpet, moving right into the next office over, all from where you have your hand trapping her voice back in her throat, palm over where she’s practically sobbing for you to let her cum. 

From where you’ve got her locked in tight, lifting her up into your arms, into some perverse, unspoken promise to carry her the rest of the way. To do with her whatever you want.

"I'm going to show you," you're gritting out, "exactly how a professional handles their star, the girl at the center of it all, their top draw - and it's so easy, isn't it? This is - fuck, sweetheart - you're nothing more than a - just a desperate little cockslut who's aching to cum, and it's good - oh so, fucking-"

When that next shiver courses down the length of her perfect form, it's entirely because of you, when her legs are still locked and clamped over you like this, as she sputters and babbles, totally cock-addled and barely managing a coherent thought. “Please, sir, please, fuck-”

And then a keening, sounding low, lost.

“Sir. Please, sir, please just - I just wanna-" Her lips are shaping all these words that never quite materialize - because her cunt is slick, the whole of it hotter and softer than anything else in this goddamn room. Maybe anything else in this whole building. Or in the entire world. It makes her whimper and ache, her voice rising and rising, belting out, need it, need it, please let me cum -

Which -

Minju, oh god, Minju cums, and you are fucked sideways to hell and beyond when her whole body convulses, shakes, every single part of her contracting, contracting - all at once - the way her hands claw desperately onto the blades of your shoulders as the room gets taken up with the scent of her; the sounds she's making are fucked and filthy. She starts to become undone as you double your pace, aiming true - thrusting, pounding, nailing Minju right into the finish.

“Minju, sweetheart, I’m going to cum in you,” you tell her, and it’s not even a question, or a concern. You’re dictating, not negotiating when you say it to her again, when you tell her you’re going to fill her perfect pussy so full with your cum, she'll be hung up on it for weeks.

One long, stretched out moan is all it could ever take; a split second, where everything runs blindingly hot, and you bury yourself as deep into her pussy as you possibly can.

Cumming so much, spilling out deep inside - this heavy flood of cum that pools warmly at the back of her cunt and fills every corner of Minju - she whines and sobs and tells you it's too much, please, all this hot and thick white cum pumping right into her -

As you throb into her, she's having a hard time saying anything beyond your name, actually, because if anyone can, if anyone would, if Minju can trust anyone and anything in this world more, it would be you.

Her chest shudders and shudders, and she kisses you in a vain effort to quiet her own body, to quiet yours. She has all this faith she's pouring right down your throat as you rock the last of your orgasm into her twitching heat, spilling and spilling and spilling, not caring about the wetness leaking onto the carpet. Not bothering to mask the obscene slickness, how everything gets completely fucking sopping between the two of you.

When she's practically drooling over you, eyelids growing heavy and fluttering, Minju sags heavily into the bend of your arms. In that shallow heaving and gasping for air that bathes the both of you - blissed the hell out, a lazy tangle of limbs - and without warning she turns to speak into your neck, her breath cooling, like a whisper of a dream:

“Okay, and already… I guess this isn’t entirely-”

“Completely terrible,” you offer after you swallow the dryness in your mouth.

Minju smiles into your shoulder. “And sir, in the spirit of honesty and transparency, I think I - I think I really did want - this - you - the entire thing…”

You stop her there, right in the middle of that particular train wreck. A drop in your voice, and the message is clear, when your mouth works its way to hers.

(No more of her talking like that.

Besides, she looks even better on your lips like this, and fuck, doesn’t Minju taste like you will have to remember, like a little bit like desperation, but only in the way that it has you both completely hopeless, hanging on to every whimper as your cock slides lazily about her well-fucked pussy, a bit deeper, a bit further.)

Like there is something far beyond professionalism guiding the hand with which you hold her hip and let her ass spill through the gaps of your fingers.

It’s all mixed up, how in this exact moment you figure this is a terrible, terrible idea, the worst kind of agreement, this pact - because no one could look at you, could look at either of you and have any doubts in mind now. But you can see it, how you’ll both wear this little agreement like the most beautiful stain in your histories. Even though it might, conceivably, cost one or both of you dearly at some point in time. 

And yet, still.

"Will you - can I - can you..."

She's clinging onto you with all her remaining energy, like she wants to see it through.

But her eyes - the poor thing - her expression is melting into this haze, her face contorted in something like pain and something else entirely: a different kind of satisfied glimmer. It's almost unreadable how that sharp mouth softens at the edges as her cunt gives this small flutter over the head of your cock, as you pump her so full, threatening to overflow.

And in your ear, you catch this little whisper. It says, “please, let me show you,” she's practically purring, “let me, let me - I'm gonna clean you up now, lick my cum right off you.”

It's true. Minju can act and perform and pose and make faces, for a shit ton of people - but she’ll play-act any facade you might ask her to, and she'll do it for you - because, this time around, all you ask her is this:

To be yours.

To be a good girl for you, an obedient little thing, in your private audience, away from the cameras and the lights, away from everyone.

When her knees hit the carpet, she is perfectly between your legs, palms on your hips and fingers splaying out against you.

And when she tries her damnedest like this, no one should bother ever pretending to think differently - least of all, you - and certainly, not while your cock is hardening again in the wet heat of her mouth, under the curl of her tongue, the gentle touches of her fingers -

How can anyone ever bring themselves to tell her that she isn't completely, indisputably the greatest.

(The very, fucking best.

And in every other way: the woman of your dreams. A woman, you realize, you ought to endeavor to keep, in all manners, and forever.

Minju, who could probably do anything, and you, who just might be able to give it to her.)

[gallaghersgal]

hi hi hi today i’m thinking about carmy (as usual oopsie) and his girl who loves him more than anything. she loves him so much she always supports him with the restaurant, she listens to his ideas, tastes his meals and gives her honest opinion, she makes sure to take care of him because he often forgets about that. she’s just that girl <3

and maybe for his birthday or their anniversary (or the bear’s opening day’s anniversary?) she spends months preparing a book similar to the dozens they have in their living room or in the office at the bear. you know those professional cook books? with the impeccable meal pictures and the chef in deep concentration and explanations about each piece? she spends months snapping pictures of carmy while he’s working at the bear (when the restaurant is closed and he’s trying stuff out), him and the rest of the team, she’ll snap pictures of the meals he makes and take notes when he explains the idea behind it to put it in the book. she asks to take pictures of his notes too and he says yes, she doesn’t tell him what she’ll do with them though (but it’s okay because he trusts her <3) and just compiles everything so she can offer it to him. she adds her own notes and maybe at the end a longer note where she tells him what she thinks of him and his work and how much she loves him.

carmy gets too into his own head and it keeps him from seeing all the good he does, the positive side of things, the fact that he’s loved and he has people who care about him. and this book just has it all <3

-🧸

sobbing bc i started writing this and then accidentally closed it and the draft didn't save so anyways. this is very sweet so here is a mini blurb. sorry for the wait my lovely 🧸

carmen can't believe how lucky he is, to have someone like you as his wife. sweet, thoughtful, smart, and caring. he isn't an emotional man by any means, burying his feelings in nicotine and the rhythm of the kitchen. you've realized that even those closest to him don't know his intricacies, not in the way that you do. it's hard to break the surface of him but you've done it.

a lone tear trails down his cheek while trembling fingers flip the pages of your meticulously crafted anniversary gift. a cookbook, full of the most significant recipes in his repertoire. the pages were adorned with scans from his sketchbook. there were pages upon pages of old draft menus, sketches of unperfected dishes, and his handwritten recipes. each item included a 'professional' photo of the dish—courtesy of sugar and the fancy camera she bought before the baby's arrival—recreated by the bear staff and others you'd tracked down.

but the part that really gets him comes at the end. a faded photograph of mikey, sugar, and himself at the beef, holding up sandwiches and grinning. his childhood order is written in your handwriting, his choices annotated in a way that teases him even through the page.

"bear?" you ask quietly, poking your head into the office. you knew he was opening your gift, you'd been pretending to care about something on the hostess stand. too nervous. your heart is a little too bare on the pages.

carmen looks up with blue eyes sparkling and lays the book down on his desk. "you. c'mere, right now," he mumbles, extending one strong arm to hook around your waist and grapple you into his lap. his soft lips flutter against your neck, jaw, and cheek, and your giggles keep him from kissing your lips effectively.

"happy anniversary carmen," you whisper. his head falls to the crook of your neck, almost like he's hiding. and maybe he is, with what he tells you next.

"you, are the best wife, a man could ever ask for," he mumbles against your skin, each pause is punctuated with a kiss. he sounds choked up, and you pretend not to notice. "an' i thank whatever powers-that-be ev'ry day that i get to call you mine."

[husky-studies]

hello, aventurine with a teen!reader who has a similar past like his?

Concept: Aventurine with a teen!reader who has a similar past

Warnings: mentions of reader having a burn mark, mentions of slavery, mentions of character death (not reader), relationship between the character and reader is strictly platonic!

Notes: Ngl anon you gave me a few ideas so hopefully you're alright with this one :)) and yes I know the stuff the IPC has been doing 😭

The planet you live in is rich with minerals and ores, its no wonder why most of the people there work as a miner. Its also not a surprise to know the planet belongs to the IPC as well. Unfortunately, not many know that the planet's work system is messed up. A lot of kids already worked as a miner and was treated horribly by the leaders. You had been working since you were a child, they had worked you to the point you look like a gust of wind could make you collapse.

A few young miners wanted to find more minerals but ended up making the small mine exploded. A good portion of the miners there dead and the rest fled, only you were left. Left to get the blame pinned on you. You weren't fairing any better. The explosion left a burnt mark on your left eye. The miner's leader was more than mad, he reported you to the IPC for you to get dealt with.

Aventurine got a notice that a mine in a mineral-rich planet was blown up, he was told to hold the trial since both Jade and Diamond is currently busy with other matters. He was expecting someone in their mid-20s or early 30s to do it, but he wasn't expecting a teen to do it. If he was shocked he might've hid it well. He looked into your info file given by the mine leader and then looked at you. You looked smaller than the average teenager should look like, your hair was unkept, your clothes were tattered, and your wrists bound together. You reminded him of his younger self in this position.

"Well kid, have anything to say to defend yourself?" Aventurine asked with his usual business smile. He heard a small whisper from you, although he didn't hear what you said. "What was that?" He asked once again. "I didn't do it." You spoke louder so he could hear you clearly. "It seems like your leader thinks differently, care to explain about it?" He said. Without hesitating, you explained everything. Aventurine has his usual smile on his face as he listen, but the furrow of his eyebrows were a clear hint that he's silently focusing on every word you're saying.

He feels the need to somehow help you out of your situation, so he did the only thing he's good at, gamble. "Let me offer you a deal, i'll flip this coin and if it lands on heads you'll come with me and work with me. But if it lands on tails, i'll send you back to your planet. Do you accept?" He offered. You've heard of his incredible luck but have no idea which side of the coin it will land on. Would the risk be worth it? "I accept." You pray to whatever aeon was up there that the risk was worth the result.

Soon Aventurine flipped the coin and caught it in his fist. Lo and behold, it landed on heads. Aventurine silently sighed in relief, his luck was in his favor yet again and he is able to somewhat help you out of your current situation. You on the other hand looked okay, but you were relieved you would be away from your cursed planet. Although you'll now have to work for Aventurine, it's better than working back there.

"Well, I'll go tell Jade we'll be getting a new recruit. And said new recruit will be working under me. Welcome to the IPC, kid." He said. Even if he doesn't show it, he's glad to know you'll be alright under his watch from now on. You can't help but be curious on whats going to happend to the trial. "Mr Aventurine, what are you going to tell your boss of the result? Would they be okay with this?" You asked. Aventurine just laughed and patted your head "Of course, I have my way with words. Plus I don't think they'd reject someone with good potential. Come with me, let's get you cleaned up." He said as he walked away, you following behind him. Maybe this won't too bad, working for the IPC.

Tags: @mitzukitsuna

[itsgreti]

THE NEW BOUNCER

pairing. elwood dalton x f!reader

summary. a new motorcycle gang is causing trouble, but the new bouncer solves the problem within a minute.

warning. cursing, mentions of physical injuries

word count. 1,2k

a/n: hey guys! it's literally my first ff ever, i just wanted to try out how hard is writing in another language, and i can tell you that i was struggling a bit haha. english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me! (divider is made by rookthornesartistry)

Working in the Road House was eventful. During the daytime, it was peaceful, but as night approached, the bar was no stranger to chaos. Lately, the trouble was caused by a motorcycle club, and its leader, Dell. He was the main source of broken tables and fights. Every night, he would swagger in, eyes glinting with wickedness. Tonight, however, things were going to be different.

(Y/N) had been working as a waitress at the Road House for a few years now. She had quickly become a favourite among the customers for her sense of humour and warm smile. But Dell's recent attention was anything but welcome. He would glance at her from across the bar, making nasty comments that sent shivers down her spine. She had tried to ignore him as much as possible, even helping Billy kick their ass out of the bar, but it had only led to swollen, bruised eyes of Billy and rude words to (Y/N).

Frankie’s only option to eliminate Dell and his gang was to find a new bouncer, and Elwood Dalton was the perfect candidate. He was known for his calm manner and challenging fighting skills. Initially hesitant, Dalton accepted the offer, as he had no other choice.

The other day, Dalton arrived to Glass Key, and as he walked through the door of the bar, (Y/N) couldn't help but stare at him from behind the counter. Tall, muscular, he was different from the usual arrivals, and he was an unfamiliar face compared to the regulars. He took in the scene with a keen eye, assessing the surroundings before making his way deeper into the bar. He met (Y/N)’s eyes.

"Hey there, what can I get you?" (Y/N) asked, her voice steady and friendly. It was rare for new faces to arrive with luggage in their hand.

"A black coffee, please." Dalton replied, his tone polite but firm.

"Um, we don’t have that. But you can try our Cuban coffee. It’s different, but it works the same." (Y/N) replied with a smile. Dalton agreed and waited her to prepare it. While he was waiting, he took in the ambiance. As she handed him the coffee, their eyes met, and she felt a strange sense of reassurance. There was something about him that made her feel safer already.

"You're new here," she said, more as a statement than a question.

Dalton nodded. "Just started today. Name's Dalton."

"(Y/N)," she replied with a smile. "Welcome to the Road House."

"Thanks, ma’am. Do you know where can I find Frankie?" he asked with a small smile at the corner of his lips.

She quickly pointed at a small room. "Yes, up there." Dalton acknowledged her, poured down the coffee, and made his way up to his new boss.

As the day went on and the light of the moon reflected into the bar, the place filled with people. The air buzzed with music and laughter. (Y/N) didn’t stop working for a moment as more and more customers ordered drinks. There were small fights, but Billy and Reef quickly wrapped them up. Dalton sat at the side of the counter and admired (Y/N)'s endurance and resilience as she also tried to put the too-drunk people in place.  

"The bar is always that packed?" Dalton asked (Y/N), who was mixing a cocktail with a customer.

"Yeah… " (Y/N) replied and handed over the drink to a girl. "But it’s normal, until-" Before she could finish her sentence, the mood shifted the moment Dell and his ass gang walked in. (Y/N)'s heart sank; she had been hoping for a quiet night and Billy had enough black eye for today.

"Wow, it’s like a morgue in here," Dell shouted and flipped the table in front of him for no reason. He scanned the room, his gaze immediately locking onto (Y/N). Dalton, watching from the aisle, tensed.

Dell made his way through the crowd, knocking over a couple of chairs in his path. He reached the billiard table to play some rounds as he had the past days, but he again terrified the other regulars. Billy came over to him and told him to get out, but Dell just laughed and pushed him back.

"Oh, Billy. You’re that stupid?" Dell laughed with his company next to him. "You didn’t learn, did you?" (Y/N) watched it behind the counter and decided to end it finally. She loved Billy as if he was her brother and couldn’t watch it anymore as the biker beat him up by and made everyone's life miserable. Dalton followed her every movement and decided to stand up if anything happens.

"Hey! Get the fuck out, now!" (Y/N) said with anger in her voice and stand in front of Billy.

"Ay, sweetheart. You’re here to protect your little guy?" Dell snorted and grabbed her wrist, pulling her towards him. "How about you and I get out of here and maybe I won’t give him another black eye?" he slurred, his grip tightening.

(Y/N) tried to pull away, her voice steady despite her fear. "Let go of me."

Dell laughed, a cruel sound that sent a wave of anger through Dalton. Before (Y/N) could say anything more, Dalton was there, his presence a wall of protection between her and Dell.

"She asked you to let go." Dalton said, his voice calm but firm.

"Who the hell are you?" Dell sneered.

"Dalton," he replied calmly. "And you're done causing trouble here."

Dell scoffed, but he released (Y/N). "What are you gonna do about it, Dalton?"

Dalton didn't respond. Instead, he moved with a speed that caught Dell off guard. In a matter of seconds, Dell was on the ground, gasping for breath and clutching his stomach where Dalton had landed a perfectly aimed punch.

The bar fell silent; every eye now was on Dalton. He looked around, making sure his message was clear. There was something about him that commanded respect. "This bar is under new management. Anyone who wants to cause trouble will have to answer to me."

Dell scrambled to his feet, fury in his eyes. He charged at Dalton, but Dalton sidestepped, using Dell's momentum against him. Dell crashed into a table, breaking it under his weight. The crowd burst into cheers, and a couple of regulars moved to help Dalton drag Dell's friends out of the bar.

Once Dell and the others were outside, Dalton turned back to (Y/N). She was shaken but unharmed, her eyes filled with gratitude.

"Thank you," she said, her voice a little shaky. "He’s been a problem for a while, but it was the first time he…" she tried to continue but felt a hand on her shoulders.

Dalton gave her a reassuring smile. "You don't have to worry about him anymore. If he comes back, he'll regret it."

(Y/N) nodded, relief washing over her. As the bar slowly returned to its usual noise and chaos, she felt a newfound sense of safety. (Y/N) handed him another beer, on the house this time. With Dalton around, she knew she could handle whatever came her way.

And as for Dalton, he couldn't help but feel a deepening admiration for (Y/N). She was strong and brave, and he was determined to make sure she never had to face trouble alone again.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All the Good Girls Go To Hell 19

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, power imbalance, injury, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You come home for the summer but your break is not as relaxing as you expect.

Character: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers

Note: Friday!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

"Is it berries?" Bucky asks as you cradle your head and the phone.

You shake your head, hunched over your knees, still sat on the cold tarmac. "There aren't any berries here," you sniffle, "just flowers."

"Oh, well, is it a flower?" He continues to guess.

His coolness, his light tone, it makes your own world seem less dire. You hear a car door, a noise that seems to echo speaker rustles. You sigh and tell him no again. He's been trying to guess this whole time and it's starting to get frustrating.

"Alright, game's over, doll. What was it?"

You look up as a shadow strides up the driveway. You get to your knees as Bucky comes closer. You lower the phone as you stare at him dumbly.

"How did you find me?" You blubber.

"You said you were with Naomi... I can track her phone. I bought it. Plus she always ends up with that kid," he shrugs as he offers his hand, "come on, let's get you off the ground."

"Why?" You stare at his thick fingers.

"Why what?"

"Why are you helping me?"

"Doll, let's not get into those feelings right now," he sighs, "please, you can't stay here. I can't leave a sweet thing like you out in the dark all night. Not like she did."

"Alright," you croak and take his hand. He hauls you up easily and lets you lean on him,.

"So, what was it?" He asks.

"What was what?" You murmur.

"The red thing."

"Oh, uh," you swing around and point, nearly toppling as he catches you, "the gnome's hat."

"Huh, never would've guessed," he clucks as he clings to you, "come on, doll, we really should get you out of here."

You let him lead you down the driveway. You feel very week as you let more of your weight lean on him. Your head lolls as your eyes threaten to close on their own. You open them as you approach the car and he opens the door. He sits you down in the seat and bends to get you in straight. His rough palms graze your knees and thighs before he pulls back, putting a hand on the roof.

"You good? Get your belt done up."

You nod and do as he says. He watches, looming over you, moonlight limning his figure.

"Good girl," he growls and his timbre sends a shiver through you, "I want you to stay awake for me, can you do that?"

"Yes, Bucky," you lean your head back and focus through the windshield, vision glazing.

"I know you can, baby," he caresses your shoulder and closes the car door. He gets in the driver's side as you hug yourself and chatter. "Cold?"

You nod and he reaches into the back seat. He pulls forward a grey hoodie and offers it to you. You take it and spread it across your shoulders. It smells like him. It's almost comforting.

"Right," he hits the button and the engine rolls over, "some music will help."

He turns on the stereo and flips to a pop station. You doubt it's his kind of music. He shifts into gear, giving you a long look before he pulls out.

"Doll, why don't you tell me what happened?" Bucky prompts as he keeps a hand on the bottom of the steering wheel, his other on the corner of your seat.

"I..." you sniff and take a deep breath, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Ah," he hums and nods, "did Naomi do something?"

You shrug and look out the window. He exhales as he slows at the stop sign.

"Did she hurt you?" His voice is gravelly.

"Not exactly," you lean into the door and cover your face with your hands, "it's not just what happened at the party... it's-- it's-- my mom. And Steve. And everyone!"

Your babbling. You can feel it but you can't stop it. The alcohol has you under its spell and fuels your distress. You just want to explode.

"Oh, your mother?"

"Yeah," you whine and pulls your hands away from your face, "her and Steve– and I can’t even go home–”

"Your mom and Steve?" He asks.

You snap your mouth shut. You shouldn't have told him that.

"Oh, doll," he coos, "I'm sorry."

His fingers stray down to your shoulder and he rubs it through the fabric of the hoodie. It's soothing despite everything. Gentle. You're tired. So tired. You just want to sleep. You lean back and yawn.

He squeezes your shoulder, "doll, stay awake. Remember what I said," he retracts his hand, "I'll get us home and you can lay down there, alright?"

You nod and peel your eyes open, "okay... thank you, Bucky."

"Anything for you," he says so quietly you barely hear him, "I'm gonna keep you safe."

🏡

The world sways around you. You can hardly lift your head. You open your eyes and see Bucky above you, feel his arms around you. He carries you throughthe shadows of the house.

You shift in his arms and he peeks down. "It's alright, doll, you tried."

You kep your head on his shoulder. You can hear his heartbeat. He's warm, he smells like cedar. You blink, eyelids sticking. He takes you into the guestroom and places you on the foot of the bed.

He makes you sit up, hands on your arms as he holds onto you, bending to look you in the face. You notice the fresh sheets, no longer the crisp white but patterned with dainty pink flowers. He brings a hand under your chin and makes you meet his gaze.

"I'll get you something to wear, doll, and some water," he explains.

You murmur and nod. He lets you go and reluctantly turns away. He stalks off as you lean over your lap, elbows on your thighs as you struggle not to fold.

"Here," he surprises you as he comes in again, "there's a shirt for you."

He hands you a tidy white tee shirt, one of his. You thank him through your sticky mouth. He goes to the night table and puts down the glass of water in his other hand.

"Make sure you drink that before you lay down," he says.

"I will," you whisper.

He goes again as you tug at the dress. You slip free of the tight sheath, tits falling out as you stand in nothing but your panties. You swoop the shirt over you and struggle to poke your head through. You grab the water and gulp it down, feeling it swish into your belly.

You put the glass back and turn to the bed. You teeter and fall onto the mattress, sprawled on your stomach.

You hear a subtle creak. Bucky's footfalls lightly glance over the floor and he sets a bucket next to your bed.

"Just in case," he touches your shoulder, "try not to roll onto your back."

"Got it," you utter sleepily and close your eyes, another yawn escaping you.

He drags his hand away and you feel him tug on your tee shirt, pulling the hem to cover the edge of your panties. He then drapes the blanket over you before retreating with a soft 'good night'. The light turns off and you're left in the dark, quickly succumbing to a drunken stupour.

🏡

You feel like you’re drowning in sludge. The morning blares over you from the window as you emerge from the deep pit of alcohol-laced sleep. You groan and stiffly bend your arm, pressing a palm to your forehead as it pulses. This is why you don’t drink, it’s not worth it.

Confusion comes after the onslaught of agony. You stare at the ceiling, taking in the room little by little. Your mind pieces together how you got there. The party, Naomi grabbing you, kissing you, running out… fractured memories that lead to that very moment.

You push yourself up with aching arms. You didn’t expect to be back here. You don’t know how to do this. After all he’s done, you feel like you owe Bucky. You can at least hear him out. He can’t be as bad as Naomi claims if he’s the only one trying to take care of you.

You get up, stopping to lean on the night table. Your hand trails onto the empty glass and you pick it up. It’s as good an excuse as any.

You go out into the hall, peering up and down. You pad along towards the kitchen, an eeriness follows you knowing that it’s only you and Bucky. You’re not surprised to find him waiting in the kitchen. He always seems to be a step ahead of you.

The smell of coffee draws a rumble from your stomach. You look sheepishly at your host and show the glass, going to the sink to rinse it. As you place it in the rack, he takes down a mug and fills it, sliding it towards you. He’s the first to speak.

“Morning,” he waits, watching you as you hook your fingers through the handle of the cup.

“Morning,” you eke out, too nervous to try the coffee. You inhale and make yourself look at him, “I’m sorry–”

“I should be sorry,” he says, “I shouldn’t have let you go with Naomi. I should’ve told the truth. Way before that. I shouldn’t have gone along with any of it.”

You stare at him. His blue eyes flicker as his cheek dimples, anxiety needling in his forehead. He gestures towards your hand on the cup.

“Please, have your coffee.”

You drag the mug to the edge and lift it. You drink with a long hum. Oh, it feels good. You pull the brim away from your lips and swallow thickly. You clear your throat and peek up at him again.

“So it’s all true?” You ask, hoarsely.

“I don’t know what she told you but…” he hesitates, “I’m not her father.”

“Yeah,” you agree crisply.

“I can show you,” he turns and reaches for his phone, “everything. Right here. This is what she sent me the first time she brought you over.”

He shows you the screen, holding his thumb down to keep the chat from rolling back up. You see Naomi’s name at the top of the chat and the bubbles back and forth. You read the received message by his thumb.

‘Bringing a friend. Please say you’re my dad, don’t wanna freak her out.’

You chew your lip. It doesn't disprove anything she told you. You frown and he starts to flick through the conversation.

“Look, just tell me the truth,” you demand, though your tone is less than intimidating.

He sighs and lowers the phone, “we have an arrangement. I support her and she… supports me. In a way.” He looks down ashamed, “I’m not going to make excuses. I could say I was lonely, newly divorced, stupid. It was convenient–”

“She was vulnerable,” you suggest.

He nods, “that’s true. But I never intended… when she brought you…” He pokes his tongue out and closes his eyes, “I’m trying to just explain but there’s so much. Thing’s fizzled out.

"When she got back from college, she was just angry all the time so I gave her space. I told her that we could end things but I would help her find a place, keep paying her tuition and she could make it up to me later. When she got a job.”

He backs up and leans on the counter. He crosses his arms and raises his head. He looks tired, drawn.

“She brought you over and you’re so nice and it was– is refreshing. To have someone look at you without hate. My ex-wife, she had the same look as Naomi got. I don’t know what I did,” he sniffs, “but I’m sure I deserved it. I guess I’m needy.”

“Alright,” you mutter, unsure what else to say. Two sides of the same story. They line up, to a point.

“I know I can’t ask you to trust me. If I was you, I’d be… I’d be confused, creeped out, everything. I really don’t know what to say or do at this point. I called you over and over thinking I could explain myself out of it but there’s no excuse. And then you answered and you were drunk and crying and I came without thinking. Because I know Naomi, she’s destructive and I thought maybe she got you into trouble.

“And then you mentioned your mom and well, that broke my heart. I really can’t believe that she’d kick you out. Her own child. Even Mimi’s parents weren’t that cruel.”

You blanch and take another swig of coffee, trying to set yourself straight. 

“They didn’t? Her parents didn’t kick her out?”

“No,” a stitch forms in his forehead, “no, I guess she stormed out after some argument. They suggested maybe she stay and go to school here but she didn’t like that. She was on Steve’s couch for a while and then ended up here. Wanda got a bit crowded.”

You try to hide your surprise. You put the cup back on the counter and stare into the depths. Naomi lied. Maybe not about everything but she made it seem much more sinister.

“Doll,” Bucky rasps, “you okay? You gonna be sick or something?”

You bat your lashes, fighting back tears. You’re lost. You don’t know who to believe but your best bet is the one who isn’t groping you for her friends or cornering you when you’re alone. Your lip quivers as you search for a response.

“I… I believe you,” you breathe.

[brucewaynehater101]

All of this is just so. Chefs kiss. I do have another layer of angst and a layer of comedy. After all, the angst stops hitting as hard if you don't have something light hearted to compare it to. After all, how can you know what darkness is if you have never seen light?

I said at the start that Tim gives discounts for secrets. He always seems to be able to tell when people lie and those that do tell him lies well. Bad things happen to them. Nothing can be directly traced back to Jane Doe, but everyone knows. Of course this does lead to some rouges and GCPD pigs trying to intimidate Jane into telling them what she knows. Everytime, Jane offers to play a game with them. 5 rounds, whoever does the rounds gets to ask the questions and no one else but others can listen. Should the challenger win a round, they get to ask one question and Jane promises to answer truthfully. If they win two, he will answer two and so on. They only get a 30 second break between each round and the Playlist is set to shuffle.

Tim lays out these rules and once the person agrees, thinking it's either a fight or sex, only then does Tim reveal they will be playing Dance Dance Revolution that Tim "upgraded" so it has the four diagonal pads too instead of the usual just 4 pads. He sets it to max difficulty for Rouges, second highest for everyone else. The most anyone has ever gotten is when Harley managed to ask Jane to questions.

Of course there are rules about the questions, like you can't ask Jane for any of their own personal details, and if Jane doesn't know the answer to a question you get one do over question. Joker has never threatened to hurt Jane over the way they sell secrets back with DDR because he thinks it's the funniest possible way to humiliate people who demand answers. Sometimes he has his henchmen challenge Jane knowing they'll lose just to laugh at them as they fail.

But on the flip side. Do you think any of the Rouges, before they knew Jane was Robin ever hired Jane? Tim would *hate* it but... those he goes on dates with are often very loose lipped about things and one time he got paid to just hang off a drug dealer's arm all night and look pretty while the guy drank. The guy was a *very* talkative drunk and after he passed out Tim was able to look through his shit with the potential excuse of "im just looking for the bathroom sweetheart~" of course none of the Rouges would ever hire Jane if they knew how old he was but Tim doesn't advertise that. Especially if he's been on the street for a few years at that point and has a reputation. He has to be at least 20, right? Right? Plus the mask and the fact it has a filter to obscure his voice he's just... there was no way for them to know, right? They can justify it to themselves all they want but if a Rouge did, they would definitely feel Really Gross.

Yeah! You've got to have some light-hearted or happy moments to really drive in that angst.

For Jane's age, it definitely depends on the Rogue and their characterization. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure Black Mask was a bit creepy to Steph when he was torturing here. So, whether or not they would feel gross/horrified depends on who it was.

I can see how they wouldn't have known (especially if Jane refused to answer questions about themself including age).

As far as the Dance Dance Revolution? That's a brilliant idea. I wonder if he's ever practiced that with YJ or Dick. I could definitely see then doing that. It would be a cute bonding activity (until they learn he used it as a form of protection).

[evilminji]

The House of Mysteries is Arguably Sentient Right?

(O.O ) I sit here... contemplating the... WEIRD Ghosts Danny might come across. The true Haunted Houses. Planets. Theaters. Boxes bigger on the inside. Living ships and A.I.s, Etc.

All things can die. If the house of mysteries is someday utterly destroyed? Is that not death? If the Planet and Green Lantern Mogo is broken to pieces like non-sentient Krypton was, has he not perished?

Do they not stand equal chance of become Ghosts?

Are.... Are Haunts even created? Or are they a symbiotic ghost relationship? The dual fulfilling of Obsession. A house, properly haunted and taking care of someone. And a Ghost, watching TV or organizing stamps or living out the fantasy of their Perfect Life.

All behind purple doors.

Houses are demolished all the time. Or lost to war or disaster. An old enough house? Enough people living and dying in it? Could arguably start to accumulate ectoplasm. Become, not sentient, but a touch more. And in dying? Like any animal, leave behind that Idea of who they were. That ALMOST and Instinct.

Certain places though? That are alive? That have seen far too much death? They seem to carry over. Castles and long burned libraries, coliseums, and frozen hills. The places life was lost, over and over or all at once.

Floating islands from long dead planets.

I bet we could find Kryptonian flora on some of them. If we looked in the right area. It must be a strange mix. Down right bizarre. Facing just about anything and wondering if it's sentient.

With Ectoplasm? It could be.

But at the same time? Imagine the RELIEF? Of, after the stress and fear of dying, waking up CHANGED, somewhere new and alone... searching desperately for something, anything, to ground your self? The relief you'd feel... when a door seems to drift right into out of nowhere. Just? Gentle bonk.

And yeah, it's purple. Looks like every generic door that's ever been. But? It has this VIBE. Like you're staring at the door to your first shit apartment, but it's YOURS and YOU paid for it and you're... you're home now. You open it.

And it's like some crammed every inspo board you ever had and all the parts of every room you ever loved, together. Familiar, new, and best of all? NOT a vast swirling green void. You drift inside.

If you're like so many ghosts? Probably never leave. Why would you? It's spooky and loud and crazy out there. Everyone's nuts. In HERE it's nice. No fights, art and food the way you like it, time feels muted and far away...

You only really snap OUT of your happy Vibe Sesh with your House Haunt when someone intrudes.

There us probably a whole flip side of the Zone that we never really see. Haunt politics. Competition for the really GOOD Ghosts. Haunts that don't want a ghost because they are waiting for somebody who may or may not come.

Other fuckin MOGO'S. Seriously. Sentient planet. That may be rare, may even be the sole example IN THEIR UNIVERSE, but the Zone is Multiversal. Literally Infinite.

Which means there ARE at least a handful or more of SENTIENT PLANET GHOSTS. How do you?? Cope? "Oh this is my buddy, the PLANET EARTH." But possibly BIGGER.

Fuck that's a lot of Ectoplasm. Thank Zone their Obsession's are usually "Be Prosperous Planet" and "orbit and protect this Star, which is sentient and my frient".

Oh? They forgot to mention the SENTIENT FUCKING STAR? As in giant ball of fire and death? Whoops! :T

Don't worry! THEIR Obsession is their planets! It's a full circle thing. Just leave that little system alone and they won't annihilate you and everything you've ever loved! Easy.

Lookin a little pale there, your Majesty. You need to lay down?

(And to think, all this... because Pariah's Castle got into a literal land war with other castles over who gets the New King.)

(Accusations of being a Greedy Bitch were thrown. Suggestions to Get Good and stop being A Loser Crybaby were offered. Somehow, there were cannons? Danny is still unclear but has been told under NO circumstances is he to step foot in ANY ghost building until mediators can be brought in. It could be seen as declaring a preference.)

@hypewinter @hdgnj @ailithnight @nerdpoe

[glitchinginthegarden]

OC Smash Or Pass

I'm doing another one because I can. No pressure tagging: @matapang-coffee, @totentnz, @perhapsrampancy, @hiighborg

RULES: pretty self explanatory. include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. the “other” label can be used for “sexuality misalignment” (ie: oc is femme and you’re gay, vice versa or you aren’t into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idc).

A/S/L (or something)

Full Name: Virgil "Gil" Vickerström / changed to Gil Vickers in 2071

Age: 35

Height: 6'5 / 196cm

Eyes: Cloud gray Kiroshis, naturally brown

Hair: Teal/phthalo green 'hawk, dirty blonde sides/roots (sometimes dyes his short hairs for fun)

Gender: Cis man

Pronouns: He/Him

Sexuality: Bisexual

Pros +

LORGE. In every way. Yes, that way too.

Polite AF. Gil grew up corpo and a lot of the etiquette he had drilled into him during that time stuck. He says his "please" and "thank you"s, is usually the first to offer a handshake, holds doors open for others, will carry your groceries, etc etc.

Generally just a flat out good dude.

Extremely laid back, friendly, chill - to the point that it makes some people wary of him because they think it's not genuine. He is guilty of using this to his advantage if the situation calls for it though.

Grade A cuddler. You will never be cold, you will always have ample tits to rest your weary head upon, and he's content to spend an entire day like that.

Cons -

He participates in street fights at least one or two nights every week. He will come back bloody and bruised and possibly in need of stitches. And he will be thrilled about it. He will not ask for anything from you in tending to these wounds.

Watson's local ('ganic) weed man. If you don't like the dank, this ain't gonna work. He used to deal hard drugs too but stopped years ago.

Drives a candy grape panel van (or in-universe a Mahir Supron) and has no interest in upgrading his wheels.

His laid-back attitude can sometimes make his partners feel as though he's not invested.

He takes a loooong time to actually open up to someone. If you want more than a quick romp, he takes work.

Can "flip a switch" when he needs to be cold/ruthless/etc. Putting this in cons because it's jarring and borderline unhealthy (thanks, Arasaka).

Extra Propaganda

Most commonly seen in an open pink bathrobe, boxers, and nothing else. Will run errands like this. Take that as you will.

Connections out the wazoo. If you need something, he either has it or knows who does.

Extrovert and well practiced in carrying introverts through social situations.

Most things are low stakes to him. He's not the type to get upset or take it personally if someone turns him down for anything. Very "go with the flow".

Ex-hit man. If you need someone gone in Night City, he'll have it done in a week, max, but it'll cost you.

Likes to feel useful and that extends to bedroom. He's very service forward. Ultimately, an absolute switch though.

Good luck getting him to keep a shirt on.

[haveihitanerve]

Okay so theres quite a bit of Batcest hate out in the world- and I do have to admit, I view the Bats as family too, which is why I can understand, but there are certain ships that i understand, after all most of them are not related biologically at all, and are under no obligation to each other to be so, bruce literally says in one comic "Whether or not they're brothers is no matter, they're both my sons" or smth along those lines, pretty much his children may all be his children but that in no way has to make them siblings anyway im getting away from myself here, a list of batcest shippings i understand and my reasoning for why people might ship them together, if you don't wanna, don't read any further🙃

Bruce/Dick: Brudick is an old ship, actually, originally they were created as a gay couple, not openly, but heavily implied, and a way for people back in the day to "legally get married" was through adoption... Anyway I like BruDick when I see it because it just works Dick understands Bruce in a way no one else ever will, he was the first one, the original, his grief and experience mirrors Bruce's in a way that makes them so similar and yet so different, he is the light at the end of Bruce's tunnel, and theres just so much that can be written about them, angsty or fluffy, whether romantic or platonic

Jason/Tim: this one I also understand, to an extent, Tim needs someone who cares for him, Jason needs someone who understands him, Tim looked up to Jason, not as much as Dick but enough, he wants Jason to come back into the family, wants Jason and Bruce to forgive each other, he sees the good in Jason when no one else does, hes stubborn in his desire to mend their relationship- Jason on the other hand once he stops trying to kill Tim actually genuinely cares for him in a way he doesn't for anyone else in the Batfam, appreciates Tim's knowledge and perspective and I do believe, I honestly am not too sure on this, but he works with Tim first before anyone else??? i'm probs wrong on that one but I think... anyway I do like their pairing- it gives a nice contrast and they usually tend to love each other wholeheartedly, almost obsessively in the fics i read, which they kinda deserve, someone who loves them so much

Bruce/Jason: this one I get, but only after the pit. They're two sides of the same coin, Jason is only more willing to go for the final step and Bruce isn't, theres just so much of their morals that collide and snap, this honestly could just be a fic/pairing i like because of the angry smut and all, but yeah i like them, I feel like romance between them would make it easier for Bruce to get his point across about why he can't murder and why its wrong, and also vice versa

Dick/Jason: the two oldest, the ones who dealt with Bruce's shit the longest. Idk but something about them, they had almost personality flips, Jason was the happy go lucky one, then he went pit mad and now hes angry and snaps and Dick was the angry one hell bent on vengeance and now he's smiling and happy and trying to keep the fam together and all that, idk jason would let dick be angry again if they're a couple and let him release all the pent up anger/repressed inside and Dick would cool Jason's anger, bring back the joy in him, etc etc

Bruce/Tim: this one I'm still a lil on the fence about, I like it because it offers another side of Bruce and Tim's relationship, and it adds another way for Bruce to show he does actually care and appreciate and love tim and wants him in his life, and its another way for tim to soothe Bruce and bring him back from the edge and etc etc... don't have too much to add bc again im on the fence but yeah

so those are all that i got for now, yeah hope that maybe explained things better, probably just made things more confusing but i just had to get it out at one point :p overall i steer away from batcest in my fics and dont like to use it like that, theyre family, brothers sisters, parents in my heart, but sometimes theres just scenarios where they fit better as romantic partners... anyway thats all

[foggyfanfic]

Camilo Analysis

Bruh, who even is Camilo? He is arguably the Madrigal we get the least real characterization for, other than Teenage Boy, which is a very broad category of person. So as per usual, it helps me to get my thoughts in order if I write this stuff down.

First, Mirabel introduces Camilo through song and we right of way see him shapeshift into a young mother so he can sooth her baby while she takes a nap. That's actually a really great way to imply several things about his character (oh my god guys, this movie is so well written).

Thoughtful enough to offer a new mom a chance to rest

Comfortable caring for infants (probs helped care for Antonio?)

More patient than I would have thought, because taking care of a baby while the mother rests is not a quick and easy favor

Sort of implies that he likes kids

Then Mirabel sings he "won't stop until he makes you smile today" while he turns into multiple people and doing goofy stuff. Everybody already knows he's an entertainer at heart but I gotta add it to the list anyways.

5. Likes making people laugh

6. Plays around with his gift a lot

Moving on to Antonio's party, he's the guy greeting all the villagers by name, and he changes his energy to match each person.

7. Knows a lot of the villagers

8. Charming and personable

9. Respects his elders (kisses the old woman on the cheek)

He jokes around with Antonio, probably in an attempt to soothe his nerves, and teases his Pa. This reinforces points one, four, five and six. If this was a different list, I would talk about what it means that Camilo is clearly comfortable teasing his father, despite the seemingly stern reaction Félix has, but I digress.

He stands with Julieta while Antonio and Mirabel walk to the door, giving birth to a lot headcanons about them being especially close, and I'm going to roll with it.

10. Of his siblings, he's closest to Julieta.

Then he's very excited for Antonio as he discovers his room, it's actually the happiest we see him in the movie (other than perhaps when he's dancing in We Don't Talk About Bruno). So:

11. Supportive? Or maybe just enjoys seeing other people happy?

Plot happens, fast forward to breakfast when he pretends to be Dolores so he can get double the food. Then teases Isabela about Mariano, something he does a lot in the movie.

12. Likes food.

13. In his Little Shit era

Fast forward some more, all the way to We Don't Talk About Bruno. He absolutely kills it, and clearly enjoys the whole production. If you're like me and you headcanon that the musical numbers happen in universe then we can conclude:

13.5. Fucking loves living in a musical

And if you headcanon they don't:

14. Enjoys telling stories.

15. Probably hasn't thought through the consequences of telling everybody his Tío is a seven foot tall boogy man that feasts on screams. Which is very normal for a fifteen year old boy.

Teases Isabela about Mariano again. More plot happens. Time For Dinner. Dolores gossips to him as soon as she can, then he immediately gossips to his Pá. When Félix accidentally spits his drink onto Mariano, Camilo has to hold in a laugh. It's possible he doesn't really like Mariano, he keeps making jokes about the guy, at the very least he doesn't take him seriously. I wonder if he's the sort of guy that prefers to hang out with women?

16. Close to his sister.

17. Close to his father.

18. Shapeshifts reflexively/accidentally.

More plot. We see him try to soothe his mother.

19. Takes care of his Má. Pepa is literally unable to hide her emotions, so it would make sense that, through no real fault of her own, the kids slowly learn to take care of her as they grow up. The squeaky wheel gets the grease and all. On the flip side, the fact that sun beams come out whenever they get home from school or learn a new skill probs means the kids can never doubt that Pepa loves them. Plus, she likely has the easiest time transitioning from a parent-child relationship to a parent-adult offspring relationship of all the adults. So Camilo might be growing closer to his Má as he gets closer to adulthood.

The longer the plot goes on the less we see him. He's clearly frustrated with his gift glitching on him, but that doesn't really tell me much. It's a situation that would frustrate anyone and they don't show us how he handles those negative emotions. They also don't show us how he handles hearing the end of Mirabel's and Abuela's argument. Rude. They do show us him leaping to the candle's aid while the house crashes down around him so clearly:

20. Sees the Miracle as more important than his own safety.

The house falls, the candle goes out, in the background we hear him first remark on his gift being gone, then wonder how this will effect his little brother. We already know he enjoys using his gift, I can theorize he's made Being a Shapeshifter an important part of his identity, but all we have that's concrete is:

21: He doesn't just enjoy his gift, it is important to him.

22. Empathetic.

Mirabel runs off, resolution happens, Mirabel comes back. He is the one who cuts through the reunion to point out their house is gone, and even gets a little exasperated when he catches a bit of flack from Félix.

23. Not an optimist. Might be a pessimist, but most likely just not particularly sentimental.

For the rest of the scene he exists in a state of confusion. The hits start coming and they don't stop coming. Apparently Tío Bruno is just suddenly back now? And it kind of seems like half the family isn't surprised or asking any questions?! There's not a lot of conclusions I can draw from him being shocked and confused that Bruno just sort of appeared out of nowhere, I think most people would be. And unlike the parents or the older cousins, he doesn't have enough memories from when Bruno was around to be swept up in the joy of seeing him again. His reaction is relatable and endearing, but not very revealing.

The last character moment we get is when he tries to twirl the shovel around all fancy, almost drops it, then checks to make sure Mirabel wasn't watching. It reinforces things already mentioned, like him being showy, and wanting to entertain those around him, but also:

24. Wants to be seen as cool. Another very normal trait for a teenage boy.

It is interesting that the first person he looks at is Mirabel, I can't help but wonder if that would have been the case at the beginning of the movie. There's room for interpretation there, but regardless, by the end of the movie:

25. Respects Mirabel's opinion.

[mblue-art]

i’m curious about your take on strawberry nightmare! to you, what’s he like? how does he act? what’s he all bout?

He is annoying (/aff hehe), and even more so to regular Nightmare. I tried to figure out (still am, I guess) how to put the flavor theming and '2P!' thing together, but here's what I have in my head for him ^^ (ramble warning!)

Finding out that the concept of '2P!' variants existed in UTMV too, made me happy! Usually 2P!s are inverted or flipped versions of the original character— think Fell'd or Swap'd versions in UTMV terms— so I thought:

Huh. If he's supposed to be a flipped version of Nightmare, would he have similarities with Swap!Dream? 🤔 But softer, nicer? 'cause he's also strawberry milk-themed! 🍓 flavors and aesthetics can be associated with soft, nice, sweet, cheery, and pretty...

(And sometimes, behind that pretty pink, lies red danger. While regular Nightmare clearly shows that he is a threat, S!NM hides it behind a layer of sweetness; (like a yandere— I explored yandere S!NM here), like a 'nice' character hiding their bad side—

But don't worry! Only those who are deserving of his wrath will face it. He's mean when he needs to. The simps are safe, as well as the people he cherishes! He can be a patient man. Just don't be on his bad side and you'll be a-ok! 👍(⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆

He's like... If regular NM decided to go uwu for the bit, but forever.........(/hj)

He is friendly, a flirt, flips between being all cutesy and rizzing up the simps,

nicely offers you (suspicious— he loves making people doubt LOL) pink sweets in exchange for company or simply as thanks for spending time with him

(A king can feel so lonely sometimes 😩😔 esp w/o his dear brother around... so maybe he has a massive pink house instead of a castle :] Oooh, imagine how pink and aesthetic the interior would be...),

likes messing with the original Nightmare (Ah!! NM hosting parties! Him getting invited! Yes, he'd def talk to the king of the castle but tries to be civil! This is a nice fancy party with lots of people around; he's not gonna ruin this for anyone 😤 he just wants to socialize!!)

(Yes he owns a few creative 🍓-themed suits, why wouldn't he lean towards his aesthetic 😤)

Like any Guardian of Feelings, he can manipulate/control emotions. He can pull out one's negative emotions to calm them down, and he can also make one feel nervous or any other mix of feelings in his presence, just like how his original counterpart does.

As for his role in the multiverse, I'd say he honestly just tries to have fun. Yk, jus a lil chaos. Teehee. No multiverse domination or anything, he just likes being a menace to people hehehe

An idea I thought of a few times is him hinting that he has visited Nightmare's castle (whether he actually talked to NM or not) by leaving strawberry milk (carton/bottle) in the fridge for the others to see and be confused by.

'hey guys where's my choccy milk? did any of you drink it?? it was my last box!' - 'why is there strawberry milk again... none of you drink this...' - 'who keeps getting this pink stuff'

NM eventually informs them about this visitor, and to be cautious, just... Don't drink whatever pink thing he leaves in the fridge.

I've never really thought of what S!NM's backstory would be, what him and his Dream's 'Dreamtale AU' would be, so right now, he's just... There one day (lol) with a brother that keeps? running away from him?? (His Dream is 🟦 instead of 🟨! (I saw an artist drew him as such) And while 🍓 is happy and excited, 🔵 is kinda gloomy... Interesting to see a happy Negativity Guardian and a grumpy Positivity Guardian...)

You can scroll through the #snm asks tag to read past (mostly simp) shenanigans with him, and you can also click these links for my other rambleposts about him ^^

[wexhappyxfew]

Okay but to add to the Kennedy x Bucky Stalag thoughts, Kennedy grounds Bucky and gives him a sense of an anchor. Just like you said Shannon, he has someone he wants to take care of and whoops he’s just realized he’s in love.

But then… what’s this? The flip side, Kennedy also realizes she’s in love. All of a sudden these feelings are bubbling up for this protective, empathetic, caring man who is watching out for her and who has sorta been on her radar but she’s never really taken the time to notice. He’s holding her hand and listening to her talk about her trauma. And all of a sudden she realizes she’s not alone in this mess and she has someone who wants to watch out for her specifically because of who she is (not just that she’s a woman) and she wants to watch out for them too. She cares about all the boys in the 100th but this is different.

Please ignore if this is not the vibe, but this is where my mind went👉🏼👈🏼

-☀️

HI SUNSHINE ANON!!!!! <3333333 i saw this in the early hours of the morning before work and it positively made me so so happy and i was so excited to answer it!!! PLEASE KNOW. this is absolutely the vibe!!! you really seem to understand the dynamic between kennedy and bucky and it makes me so happy to see people express that through their analysis, depiction and dissection of these two. so truly! THANK YOU!!!! <333333 please enjoy my ramblings! i put it under the cut too incase i get lengthy haha (which i tend to do).....

kennedy ALSO realizing she is in love is HUGE. because let's dig into kennedy and her past for a moment - because we've done that with judy (and it is a heavy influence for) and it's only right we do that for kennedy (i feel the need to do it for annie now too haha).

KENNEDY THOUGH -- she comes from a wealthier background than most - we've seen the mentions, mom set her up with a few guys at the country club, had a fairly good childhood - pretty happy and joyful, attended parties and charity events with her family, she came from good things to say the least. a few other worthy mentions - kennedy was in love once before, she knows what it feels like to be in love and to be heartbroken - she protects herself (naturally). she grew up with all brothers, so she knows how to stand up for herself too when things aren't right.

SO, with bucky entering the picture - and most importantly, her realizing that she is in fact IN LOVE with bucky - takes a lot for her. she doesn't trust too easily and when someone is sticking their neck out for her, she usually is always questioning it. just like when she dumbs down bucky in that one fic where he said she could rest in his bunk after a nightmare - he was just being nice, kennedy says. she doesn't give herself really enough credit for things like this. and bucky blows that out of the water for her. and shows her that she CAN be loved.

i love your wording - this protective, empathetic, caring man who is watching out for her and who has sorta been on her radar but she’s never really taken the time to notice. HEAVY on the 'sorta been on her radar'. kennedy isn't blind. this definitely is on ideas for writing but, when she first met bucky, it was before their first practice run when kennedy became a waist gunner for him. he was all sweet as peaches, shaking her hand, offering some compliments on her shooting skills. and she remembered hearing about him before seeing him and so once she saw him, it sorta ticked in her mind like hm i like this guy, but nothing more. and then bucky was just always there - even when she moved to silver bullets. bucky was just....there. and so when his few attempts at expressing himself towards her don't go as planned, she distances a bit in a way. not entirely, but she thinks that if she gets too locked into the idea of them possibly even being people that work out with one another, she would never go back.

until bucky goes down. and she does too. and they're in the stalag. i would consider it their moment that just changes everything for them. because kennedy realizing like i am in love with this man and there's no stopping at this point, she absolutely makes it well-known. because let's be for real - she's hella protective over him right back. would 100% fight people for him (and he'd be proud as anything watching her). but....no doubt, her recognition of being in love with him makes her realize a whole lot more about life than before (and more moments that she shrugged off too).

also can i just-

She cares about all the boys in the 100th but this is different.

this is my favorite piece of the ask sunshine anon. like. YES. EXACTLY. kennedy is a fiercely protective and loyal friend. you don't mess with her. and she loves all the 100th boys with her every being - like: her and brady got drunk one time on schnapps and then bet each other to ride bikes at 2 in the morning with bessie to supervise them (bessie took them both back to barracks to tuck them into bed), kennedy and buck are VERY like-minded and have shared drinks before, kennedy has even helped hambone learn how to dance and not feel weird like!!!! BUT WITH BUCKY. it is a whole different ball game (literally lmao no pun intended). it just is. and she doesn't know why. until she realizes that. shit. she loves him. a whole lot.

[alicelufenia]

What follows is a little micro fiction I wrote in a daze at 1am, about my latest Baldur's Gate 3 character Tavierra, cleric of Eilistraee, dancer, singer, and former assassin of Menzoberranzan. This takes place in her early life, before transitioning, before meeting the Silverhair Knight who aided and abetted her escape to the surface and a life with the goddess who would see the Drow liberated.

Most days when I sleep, there are no dreams. That is how it is for Drow. It was only in my fourth or fifth decade that I even learned the word "dream". When trancing fails to bring us rest and we must lay our heads and bodies down and, against every instinct, let consciousness slip away, we know only oblivion.

Like a book with dense text that, upon turning a leaf you are greeted with a set of blank pages. Sometimes they number a few, sometimes a dozen, two dozen, a hundred—and you flip them each time expecting something and are rewarded with more blankness until, once you're convinced there are no more written pages—FLIP—and the story continues at the next waiting word, the missing syllable from the last string of letters that, united, form a whole. The passing of one waking moment to another, across half a dozen hours, a miniature abyss of time and knowing.

In my youth and foolish growing years I would often lay myself down to sleep, cease for a time, and upon waking ask myself if I still am me. Do I fall asleep only to wake as another person. With a blink my eyes adjust to the infrared and cast about my person, alone as I remember. I never slept when others were around, not back then, not with the company I kept. Quickly each detail would come back to me; the slip slide of spider silk sheets over my body, my room with a textiles work bench, shelves of books placed out of order, the modest shrine to Lolth in the corner, yesterday's discarded clothes strewn on the floor. The walls are decorated with multi-colored spider silk threads, the resident spiders in their usual resting corners. I see all of this, and I know I am still me. I get up, and go about my day.

I don't remember when I first started seeing and remembering after sleep. My friend from before I entered the academy, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set tight as I signed to him in the silent speech of my people, asking if he sometimes saw things when he slept. "If you see visions gifted by Lolth, that is right and proper," his fingers spoke into the palm of my hand. "If you see anything else, do not speak it, do not sign it. Cast it from your mind and into the abyss. This discussion never happened." I didn't share any more, with him or anyone else, after that.

Most sleeps I did not dream, enjoying instead the common nothingness I had grown accustomed to. But on occasion—at least a dozen times a year—I would close my eyes and marvel at

her

She was always present in my dreams, sometimes front and center with no distractions, sometimes off in the distance, but I always could count on her presence. A maiden with long flowing white hair, limber and lithe limbs twirling in arcs and spirals about her body. She commanded the space around her, yet unlike most women I did not feel compelled to cast down my eyes lest she demanded them from my skull. In my dreams, she demanded nothing from me, only offering an invitation. To watch. To sing. To dance with her. I almost felt like I could do it, like I could stay by her side and abandon all masks, all denial, all ambition, and just Be.

Other visions featured in my dreams plenty. Images and landscapes I would not understand until years later, when I would journey to the world's surface in raiding parties, doing what was demanded of me. Rolling hills of dark green flora speckled with color, towering plants thicker and taller than any mushrooms, their canopies creating strange cavern-like spaces in this realm beyond the Underdark. And above them, an expanse deeper in its height than the deepest layers of the abyss, sparkling lights dancing like the faerie fire glittering off every building's edge in the city, only more, so many, many more.

When I woke from the first such dream, my eyes were wet with streaks of tears, though I could feel no irritation in them. It would be half a century before I knew what it meant to cry. I then gathered myself, and rose feeling truly renewed. Going forth into the waking world, I played the game I was born to play—mercantile ventures, performing in plays to entertain prospective nobles looking to adopt, and once in their employ, I would carry out their covert deeds of spying and assassination. This work I did and did it well, with one concern on my mind: survival til the next cycle of Narbondel.

Till the next time I could sleep, and gaze upon the Dark Maiden and the lands above, where trees and flowers grow.