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forever-rogue · 2 years

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Hi, I love your blog so much it's amazing.

I was wondering if you could write some Joel Miller being jealous? Like they're in some kind of relationship but Joel doesn't want to put a word to it and arrive to some camp and a guy from there is trying to flirt with reader but she just has eyes for Joel, could be the first I love you confession from him, to make things official between them? Fluff because my heart can't handle anything else :').

AN | Jealous!Joel? Okay, okay, I see you!

Pairing | Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Warnings | Language

Word Count | 2.5k

Masterlist | Joel, Main

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Joel Miller wasn’t a relationship type of guy; he hadn’t been for a long time and it seemed pointless to start now. And that’s exactly how you found yourself in a sort of relationship with him…a situationship if you will.

He also wasn’t the jealous type either. You weren’t his girlfriend, or his partner, or what have you. You happened to be another person living in Jackson that he spent an inordinate amount of time with and had sex with. Lots of sex…he liked to think of it as stress relief. Yeah. That’s it - stress relief. Everyone could use some of that given the current state of the world.

But, in conclusion, you weren’t anything more to him than anyone else.

So why did he experience a definitely-not-jealous-feeling deep in the pit of his stomach when he saw you talking to one of Jackson’s newcomers?

He wasn’t jealous. No. Nope. Definitely not.

He just wanted to strangle any man that talked to you, or looked in your direction. It was a totally normal reaction…or at least that’s what he tried to convince himself.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Joel?” you found him stalking through downtown and had rushed to catch up with him. You hadn’t seen him in the last couple of days and when you had he’d barely spoken a word or even graced you with a look.

You could see his shoulders stiffen for a moment but he slowed his stride so you could catch up with him. You quickly fell into stride, but you could sense that he was in a mood. You nudged your arm against his and he grunted in response, “what?”

“What?” you parroted back at him, frowning in response, “or like what’s been up with you lately?”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” the man was stubborn beyond measure sometimes. You huffed and waited for him to expand but he refused to give in to you, “been busy.”

“Busy,” he refused to look at you, but he could feel you glowering at him, “we’re all busy, Miller. That doesn’t mean we don’t make time for each other.”

“You expect me to make time for you?” his twang came out as he stopped suddenly and you almost tripped over your own feet as you stopped as well. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, head cocked to the side. Your expression clearly said duh, “and just why would I do, sweetheart?”

“You’re being a jerk,” you pushed his shoulder, gently, although you doubted you could really do much damage to him, even if you wanted to, “last time I checked I thought we enjoyed spending time together. But over the past few days you’ve had such a-a bee in your bonnet.”

“Last time I checked I didn’t owe you anything,” and oh. Those words definitely stung, “we aren’t anything.”

“Oh wow,” you were hurt, but you weren’t about to let him know how much, “that’s rich coming from you. I don’t know what your problem suddenly is, but if you’re going to be a jerk, you can fuck off. And next time you need something, don’t bother knocking at my door. But if you decide to get over whatever this is, or want to talk to me like a grown man, you know where to find me.”

Your reaction had left him stunned; he knew you could hold your own when you needed to, but you’d never talked to him like that before. In that moment you definitely weren’t that soft, sweet girl he’d grown to love. Love. But he’d never admit it; truthfully he might not have even come to that realization just yet.

You stomped away, leaving him standing there and staring after you, a dismal expression on his face. He might have been a quiet man, but he wasn’t often left speechless. You’d just managed to do so.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You made it a point to avoid him over the next couple of days, figuring that if he really wanted to make things right he would come to you. You missed him, admittedly, but decided to throw yourself into doing things around town to keep your mind occupied.

That’s how you’d gotten to know the newcomers to Jackson. There were a few women and teenagers, along with some men. For the most past, they were all kind and wanted to keep out wherever they could.

One of the duties you least liked was being put in charge of one of the community gardens. You had a green-thumb adjacent at best, and didn’t want to be the only one responsible for any bad vegetables or fruits, so you had recruited Max, one of the newbies, to assist you. If you were going down, he was coming right along with you.

You liked Max, so far. He was around your age, handsome in a tall, dark, and roguish way, with a nice smile and good sense of humor. And, unlike men had done since the dawn of time, he didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. So, you had decided, he was going to be your friend.

“You’re horrible at this,” Max laughed as you fumbled around with some tomato vines, trying to get the ripe fruit without destroying anything else, “how are you making this so difficult?”

“Shut up,” you groaned but it quickly turned into a laugh as you fell onto your bottom from how you were teetering and crouching. You managed to knock the whole plant down (sorry tomatoes), “oops.”

Max had dropped the small shovel he had been working with, head thrown back as he laughed, “and you’re clumsy on top of it. I’ll remember that for the future.”

You grabbed a small handful of soil and threw it over at him, “bold of you to assume that we’re ever hanging out again after this. You’re bullying me!”

“So dramatic,” he snorted in amusement as he brushed off the dirt and came over to you, offering you his hand to help you to your feet, “come on, I’ll let you bully me in return.”

You took his hand and he gently hoisted you to your feet. You almost stumbled into him, but caught yourself by putting your hands on his shoulders as his found purchase on your waist. You looked at him in surprise and he smiled softly, causing you to relax. He was so close, and pretty, and nice, and you could just lean in and kiss him. Max must have been thinking the same thing because he started to lean in too. A shiver of excitement ran down your spine, until-

“Get your hands off of her,” the two of you jumped apart at the sound of his very angry voice. Your face flushed with warmth, a combination of being caught red-handed and annoyance because you weren’t technically doing anything wrong. Max’s glance shifted over to Joel and then back to you, “now take a step back.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” you hissed at him, “why are you here, Joel?”

“Are you two…?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

At the sound of Joel’s answer your eyes widened in surprise as your jaw almost dropped to the ground. Max held up his hands in a sign of surrender as he started to slowly back away, “hey man, I didn’t know she was your girl.”

“Don’t worry Max,” you offered him an apologetic look, “I didn’t know that either.”

“I gotta go, but I’ll see you around,” he said sheepishly, “bye!”

He almost ran off, leaving the two of you there, the tension so thick. After a moment you turned towards him and shook your head. You weren’t quite sure what to say so you decided to just walk past him, but not before giving him a full glare, “you’re such a dick sometimes. First you shove me away like I’m nothing and now you act like I’m yours. How about I make the final decision? We, you and I, are done. Whatever you want to call it, it’s over. Maybe then you can figure out your own feelings.”

But the man wasn’t about to just let you go. No, that was not his style.

His fingers wrapped around your wrist and his strong grip kept you from walking away.

“Stay,” he insisted gruffly, causing you to pout in that way that always made his knees weak.

“Why? Are you going to apologize?”

He remained silent and you could see that the answer to that was clearly no. You huffed as you pulled your hand out of his and started to walk away. He remained silent as he watched you go. He could have just said everything he wanted to and gotten it all out there but…he’d chickened out.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “fuck.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You didn’t run into Joel again for almost a week. You wondered if it was partly him avoiding you or you just didn’t happen to cross paths. Jackson was only so big; you knew the truth.

But as your feelings would have it, you really, really missed the man. He’d become such an important and vital part of your life and not having him around felt like you were missing a huge part of your heart.

When you decided that you couldn’t take it anymore, you made a plan to take matters into your own hands. You left your place and made the short trek over to his, knocking on the door loudly. He was home; you could see the light and if he had sort of sense, he would open the door.

After a few long moments of buzzy anticipation, you heard his familiar footsteps come towards the door. He opened it slowly and his brown eyes widened when he saw that it was you. He was a mixture of confused and happy.

“What are you…?” he didn’t get the opportunity to finish his question, instead watching as you made your way inside, brushing past him and causing sparks to shoot down his spine.

“Can we just talk?” you were already in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you looked at him softly. You couldn’t help it; you were a sucker for this man.

“Yes,” he agreed, coming in and mirroring your position on the other side of the counter. You wanted to be made, or at the very least annoyed, but you couldn’t find it in your heart, “I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Which part?” if he thought you were letting him off easily, he was so wrong, “the part where you said we were nothing, or the part where you changed your mind - unilaterally I might add - and decided we were something?”

“Both,” he pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh, “I was an idiot.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, “you were. What changed your mind?”

“That kid,” you could see the tick in his jaw as he frowned deeply. Ahhh. Yes, you knew exactly what was going on; Joel Miller was jealous. He just wasn’t going to admit it in those terms.

“His name is Max,” okay, maybe now you were just doing it to get a rouse out of him, “and he’s perfectly nice. He was just helping me.”

“He wanted to do a little more than help,” the man tore his gaze from you and huffed.

“Joel Miller, you’re jealous,” your smile was practically stretching from ear to ear as you beamed at him, “just admit it! That’s what all this has been about?”

“I’m a grown ass man,” he sounded anything but, “I don’t get jealous.”

“Okay, so you weren’t jealous just…something incredibly like it?” you asked. He shrugged dismissively in response but gave away no emotions or anything, “huh, that’s interesting.”

“It’s not, no. I’m not the-”

“I get jealous too sometimes,” you admitted sheepishly, hiding your face in your hands, embarrassed to admit it out loud, “when those women practically throw themselves at you. Makes me want to…I don’t know, show them you’re mine.”

“What are you-”

“You’re such a man,” you flopped your head to the side, “those women - and men - love you. You’re sexy, and smart, and lots of other things, but apparently so oblivious. But I guess that doesn’t matter though.”

“What do you mean?” he was leaning closer now and you could smell his familiar scent; it made you want to curl up with him and let him swallow you whole.

“You said we weren’t anything so,” ugh. You wished you didn’t get so emotional over this, “it doesn’t matter what I think or want. I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”

“I lied,” and it was oh so hard for him to admit that, “that day. I was just…mad - not at you. I just thought, when I saw you with all the new people, that you liked them and they were all over you, especially that one kid-”

“Max.”

“Max,” he didn’t like the taste of the name in his mouth, “I just figured you’d want someone like that and not me.”

“You’re a fool,” you shook your head in disbelief, “I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”

“I never…putting labels on things seems trivial,” he whispered, “how can what you mean to me be summed up with one word? I just never thought about it; it never meant you didn’t mean everything to me.”

"I…" you felt a prickling at the back of your eyes that caused you to try and blink it away, "do you mean that?"

"Yes," he reached over, hesitantly at first before settling his hand on your face brushing your tears away with his thumb, "I mean it. You're very…important to me."

"You're important to me too," you put your hand on top of his and gave it a gentle, tender squeeze, "we don't have to put labels on anything. Just as long as we're on the same page about everything."

"You're mine," he promised and you felt yourself practically glowing. His words made you feel all warm and fuzzy, butterflies fluttering in your tummy. You nodded happily, "I know I'm not great with a lot of things but I do love you. I hope you know that."

"Hmm," you hummed as you closed your eyes contentedly, "I love you, even if you're a stubborn, tough man."

"Enough to accept my apology?" he had his answer already but needed to hear you say it. You rolled your eyes playfully.

"I suppose," you leaned in closer and smiled softly.

"Enough to let me kiss you?"

"Definitely."

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #pedro pascal #tlou #tlou hbo

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grandlinedreams · 10 months

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|| special thanks to @miloonmetis for this specific brand of rot on discord yesterday lmao and happy fingering friday to my bbs iykyk

[Heads up!: inappropriate joke about Law's fingers, fingering (reader recieving), oral (also reader recieving), kinda mean dom Law]

You spend an inordinate amount of time staring at Law's hands. They're pretty, after all, almost as pretty as the man himself. Long, slender ㅡ with the letters of 'DEATH' tattooed on them in dark ink against tanned skin.

You toy with his fingers, curling and uncurling them, feeling the delicate work of the tendons and veins beneath. Your fingertips dance between the gaps, then you sigh. "You know, about these fingers of yours..."

"Hm." Law, having tuned you out about fifteen minutes ago, does not pay much attention to the deliberate bend of his fingers under your control.

"I think I'd like you to do these three to me." You wait patiently for him to drag his attention off of his text book review and to his hand. The index, middle and ring are extended out, pinky and thumb bent.

'EAT', it spells, and it takes Law a good minute and a half to register that, then what you're implying. You grin wickedly as color flushes his face.

"Oh."

He does as you ask, though. He's nothing if not a generous lover in terms of what you can ask for ㅡ what he gives you is an entirely different story.

"Close? Already?" His tone is teasing, hard edge of something else in his voice as 'e' and 'a' curl within you. His head tilts as you writhe, hips rocking to meet his shallow thrusts into your warmth as best you can when his other hand is trying to pin you to the bed. "Come on, you can take another finger, can't you?"

It's equal parts condescension as it is genuinely a question, and your cheeks burn for how eagerly your body responds to his words. You nod, and Law's lips curl. "That's what I thought."

The breach of his third finger aches in the best of ways, makes you whine as your cheeks burn, heart hammering and tummy clenching at how close your orgasm is.

And then Law stops. 'E', 'a', and 't' halt their delicious stretch inside you, the denial of your orgasm a cold bucket of water as you gasp, half-worded pleas spilling from your throat. "Keep going, please, please, I was so close ㅡ"

"Hush." Law's lips meet your thigh, pressing against the soft swell of skin, admiring the plush expanse as sticky fingers curl against you ㅡ and then his tongue is against your hot, achy center, and you almost wail in relief.

This too is something Law is familiar with, follows every jerk and twitch of your body as he curls his tongue, kneads at your thighs in comfort even as your orgasm begins to crescendo once more.

This time you anchor a hand in his hair, yanking hin closer to you ㅡ thighs squeezing in a bid to make him stay. He isn't going anywhere though, renewing his efforts as your noises pitch higher before you still against him, yanking as you cum.

Law lets you ride it out, waits until your hand eases up in his hair to pull away and peer at you from just below your groin. "Can you take another?"

It's clear what he means for the way he looks at you as if he's going devour you, and you shiver breathlessly before you nod, preparing yourself for a very long night.

#ㅡmine.#one piece scenario #one piece x reader #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #–ml: law.

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wordy-little-witch · 5 months

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Okay but One Piece being in the pirate era and the lack of a frankly inordinate amount of sea shanties hurts me. Like you know DAMN well Roger was a partier, Buggy and Shanks undoubtedly know an incredible amount of shanties, from their first crews, from the new crews, from exploring and seeing and experiencing the world so thoroughly from such a young age.

Shanks would be the type to belt them, top of his lungs, but always adhere to the Codes, though he does think on it for a moment. People think he'd be a pirate head to toe, through and through, and he is! Truly, he is. He just doesn't really live by the Code and die by the Code the way some of the older generation does.

Buggy, despite popular belief, is the one to cling to those Codes with all he has. It's subtle, in the way he hums certain songs to himself but never sings the full lyrics without Meaning. He will sing and dance and party with his crew, they will make merry but they will do so properly. He's avant garde and nouveau expressionism but he's also old fashioned.

When he finds out Shanks taught this scrawny rubber twink everything the kid knows about piracy through sporadic meetings over a year, nearing a decade ago, he is absolutely livid. The swordsman is stupid but has a decent head on his shoulders for behavior. The redhead, from what he sees, knows more than most. He decides to put class in session.

He's surprised to be beaten so thoroughly and then furthermore to be removed succinctly. He's not gonna let it slide, obviously, but he'll play along. Sure. Could be fun. He was getting bored anyway.

Shit just so happens to hit the fan with this decision and all that follow. Shanks, knowing the truth of things, is simply VERY amused and Buggy is debating fratricide.

He's been playing this role for so long, it feels unnatural to drop it. It feels wrong. It makes him panic, makes him Itch.

It only comes to a head years later as he's humming to himself late in the evening on a certain day in September, having spent a good chunk of the day on his own, away from company and to the surprise of very few. Crocodile and Mihawk are among those who do not know why, but they alone are the ones to look for him.

Finding Buggy, singing softly to an animal as he gently brushes out their fur, surrounded by calm animals who seem to nearly build a wall with their bodies between himself and the world, was not anticipated to either men. Nor was hearing Buggy's voice, usually so shrill and rasped, flow gently over a melody with a grief filled expression. Ritchie, among the ones closest, gently head butted the clown with soulful eyes. Mihawk and Crocodile simply watch, seeing Buggy groom and pamper the creatures within the stables this far from town as he sings a specific sequence of songs.

Mihawk realizes first just what they're witnessing, and he grips the logia user's arm, guiding them both back. Crocodile, startled, goes to ask, and Hawkeyes simply shakes his head sharply. It is only once they are far enough that Mihawk breaths a stunned, "He's performing Rites."

"What?"

"Rites," the swordsman reiterates, sending the other a suspicious look. "The Rites of the Code."

The mafioso takes a drag from his cigar, gesturing for the other to go on.

Mihawk sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I forget," he remarks dryly, "how uneducated in ours ways you are."

"Excuse me-?!"

"Rites," the other interrupts, "are a form of mourning. Frequency varies, and the honoring actions can be altered as well. The constant component are the shanties sung in remembrance and the flags flown. For some, a single instance can be sufficient..." Golden eyes drift to the side, unfocused, as he continues. "For others, there is a need to continue doing so. Often, it is a crew mourning a commanding officer. Unlike Marines, Pirates all share an unspoken connection. Though paths may vary and goals may differ, we all care Her in our veins."

Violet eyes love to the expanse of blue, the horizon bleeding across the world. He knew. He may lack some of the nuance of the Code from his priorities laying further inland, but he knew this. How could he not when his own blood sang salted sprays? He knew this much at the very least.

"So the clown is in mourning."

"Yes."

".... why?"

"...... ....... it is September."

"And?"

"The 28th."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You were there, too, 25 years ago. Loguetown."

Silence falls.

The wind rustles branches overhead. It carries the faintest wisps of a voice. The two men pointedly ignore it and the choked quality it had.

".... I see."

"..... yes. That is my theory, at any rate."

"............. Hawkeye."

"What?"

"He was on the King's crew."

"Yes, this has been established."

"Why?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Why him? Why the clown? He's not even 40 yet, so that day... he'd have been, what, 15, at the most? He'd have been on the crew for years by that point. He was there before the man was crowned, after all."

"Shanks was, as well. I believe the earliest mention was when he mentioned an incident from their childhood. He'd said they were... oh, what was it? Seven? Thereabouts. To be on a crew so young..."

"To be there so long, Hawkeye. The brat would have been with them since childhood. That crew was infamous for the things they did - the clown does not fit the pattern."

"He does not boast anything nearing the decorum expected of a fledgling of a King..."

"He knows the Codes, something never mentioned to us nor taught explicitly to his crew that we know of. He served under the King and kept it hidden from the world government for decades. He escaped the Grandline and settled as an East Blue nuisance for years. He was imprisoned in Impel Down with no sea stone."

Golden eyes widen. "You believe he has been hiding more than simply his heritage."

"What makes more sense? This, or what we have thought so far."

"How would we confirm it?"

"Just ask me, maybe?"

Neither man will admit to being startled when a new voice chimes in, soft and hoarse, drowsy. Buggy leans into Ritchie's side as the lion purrs loudly, the clown rubbing his eye.

He continues. "Tomorrow, though. It's late, I'm not feeling well, and Ritch and I have a date with my blanket nest."

"The lion?" / "Blanket nest?"

Buggy giggles softly. "Weighted blankets are expensive. Weighted Ritchies only cost snacks and chin scritches," he remarks softly. "As for the blankets, nests are the way to go. Good night."

Two dark haired men are left by a drowsy clown and lion in the woods on the edge of town with much to thing on and a list to compile for the next day.

The first question? How Mihawk had not sensed him whatsoever on approach.

#buggy #buggy the clown #one piece #cross guild #sir crocodile #dracule mihawk #buggy is a roger pirate #sea shanties my beloved #i am so eepy #send help

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hardly-an-escape · 11 months

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A Close Shave | Dream/Hob | 2150 words | Rated G

tags: retired!Dream, shaving, unmitigated yearning and longing, the pining is probably mutual but you only get Hob's POV

“Been meaning to ask," Hob says. "How are you feeling about... this?"

He gestures to his chin, the stubble there, and across the table, Dream slowly puts down his spoon. Even more slowly, he raises one hand to his own chin and runs the backs of his fingers along the newly-grown layer of hair there.

It’s been a little over a month, and by now Hob is used to the speed – or rather, lack thereof – with which Dream finds it necessary to live his freshly-human life. A month, since Dream had chosen to live, and chosen to live with Hob, taking over the spare room and filling it with books and soft cardigans and snacks as he learned his own likes and dislikes as Dream-the-human.

It still feels to Hob as though there’s a minor miracle sitting across the breakfast table, now thoughtfully fondling the brand-new beard on his chin.

“Ah,” Dream says eventually. “You mean this. The hair on my face. Yes, I have noticed it.”

“I’ve never seen you with a beard before,” Hob says neutrally.

“I suppose I never felt the need to manifest one when I visited the Waking World,” Dream says. He returns most of his attention to his oatmeal. It still requires some concentration, to hold the spoon steady; to make sure it reaches his mouth without spilling. Hob watches for a moment, impressed all over again with Dream’s willingness to try.

“Does it bother you, having one now?” he asks.

“Why would it bother me? It is a part of my body, is it not?”

Hob, wisely, refrains from mentioning the other body parts and functions – the sunburn, the stubbed toe, the sensations of hunger and dizziness and nausea, the need for sleep and to relieve himself – which have bothered Dream an inordinate amount over the past four weeks.

“But do you like it?” Hob presses gently. “I mean, one of the great things about being human is that it’s pretty easy to change our looks, generally speaking. Maybe not as easy as just… manifesting. But still. You get to choose what you look like, whether it’s a beard or clean-shaven, or, or pink hair. Or anything. Infinite variety.”

Dream puts his spoon down again and brings both hands up to his face. His palms cup either side of his chin and his long, narrow fingers stroke gently, from the downy hairs peppering his cheekbones, down into the hollows of his cheeks (not quite as gaunt as they used to be, Hob notes with a swell of gratitude), and then along the line of his chin to where it ends in a devastating little point.

In the morning light, with his face framed by those artistic fingers and a look of such solemn concentration on his features, he looks like a statue; a religious icon, perhaps, contemplative and blessed. His eyes are closed and his rosebud of a mouth is very pink and very slightly open.

Hob has to dig his fingernails into his own thigh to stop himself from reaching out and running his own fingers down Dream’s cheek, or brushing his thumb along that unfairly soft-looking bottom lip.

“Hm,” Dream says finally. “I do not think I dislike the beard. But equally, I am not sure that I like it. I am not sure that my face… feels like me.”

“Well,” Hob says. “You can shave it off, if you want. See if you feel more like yourself. I can – I can help you. Obviously.”

Obviously. Obviously. He supposes it is obvious – it must be – how desperately he wants to help Dream. How abject his desire to make this fragile, human life a little more bearable, in any small way he can.

“Yes,” says Dream. “I would… like that. Thank you.”

Hob drags a kitchen chair into the bathroom. Digs out his softest hand towel and wets it with hot water before wrapping it carefully around Dream’s face and neck. He chatters idly as he gathers his supplies: random recollections about his favorite Turkish bath in London, which had gone out of business during the Great War, and the Russian steambaths and Finnish saunas he’s seen during his travels.

He doesn’t use his old straight razor much anymore, preferring a good reusable safety razor for himself when he’s going clean shaven, but he’s always found a well-honed, old-fashioned cutthroat to be more comfortable when shaving someone else. And he keeps his razors, like any tool, in good condition whether he’s using it regularly or not; the mother-of-pearl handle is clean and polished, the joint moves smoothly, and the blade gleams.

Dream watches through hooded eyes as Hob strops the razor and mixes up the suds of shaving foam. He loads up the soft bristle brush before removing the towel and making sure Dream is positioned in front of the mirror.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Hob says. “I’m going to start by just doing your neck and cheeks, clean up the edges a bit. You might like it more when it looks like an intentional beard, not just a couple weeks’ worth of shaggy growth. And if you’re still not feeling it, we’ll shave the rest. Sound okay?”

Dream nods, and Hob goes to work.

Touching Dream is – not difficult, not exactly. If anything, it’s too easy. Hob’s fingertips hunger for the soft brush of Dream’s skin, for the fluff of his dark hair, for his stubble and his slender hands and the little creases in the corners of his eyes. In those earliest mad days, when Dream hadn’t even been strong enough to walk on his own, Hob had manhandled him matter-of-factly. He’d helped him walk, and dress, and eat; taught him how the bathtub worked and washed his body, cheerfully ignoring the furious flush on Dream’s face at the indignity of needing to be cared for. They’d gotten through it.

He’s mature enough to admit to himself that he misses it, now that Dream has gained enough strength of body and mind to do it all for himself. There’s something so intimate about that contact with another person: about being needed in that particular intense way. It’s heady. The longing for it almost chokes him, sometimes, with how badly he wants it: to hoist Dream in his arms and cradle him against his chest. To wash his hair and rub him gently dry. To hold a cup of water or warm milk to those perfect lips.

But Hob, for all his faults, is trying so hard not to be an asshole these days. So he doesn’t touch Dream that way, now that it isn’t needed – now that he isn’t needed. No matter how much he might like to.

Until now.

Now, for just a moment, he lets himself indulge. Runs his hungry fingertips along the soft, vulnerable curves of Dream’s throat and the firmer lines of his jaw as he brushes on the shaving foam. Tips his head gently this way and that, revels guiltily in how biddable Dream is as he sits quietly in the chair.

Hob takes his time with the actual shaving, both out of caution (perhaps even a bit of terror, that he might inadvertently mark that precious skin) and out of a desire to linger over the experience for as long as he can get away with. Unfortunately, shaving just a person’s neck doesn’t really take that long, regardless of how carefully one does it. Within just a handful of minutes, he is carefully wiping the last spot of soap from the hollow of Dream’s throat and turning him fully toward the bathroom mirror.

“What do you think?” he asks.

Dream doesn’t answer right away. He turns his head from side to side, surveying his reflection. Then he tilts his chin up and runs his fingers down the newly-soft skin of his neck. Hob’s fingertips tingle. He knows the sensation Dream is experiencing, knows it intimately: the smoothness of the hairless skin, the slight tackiness of the moisturizer. Knows it from his own face, and from the faces of lovers over the decades, and even from poor, long-dead Robyn’s face, when he’d taught his son to shave.

He doesn’t say anything, and after a moment Dream meets his eye in the mirror.

“I think I would like to have the rest of it off,” he says. “If you would not mind…?”

“No problem,” says Hob softly.

They go through the whole ritual once more: the hot towel, mixing up the foam. Hob strops the razor again, just to be sure. This time he carefully rubs a little pre-shave oil into Dream’s beard to soften the hairs as much as possible, then covers his face with the thick foam.

“I don’t really know if the oil does much,” he admits, “but the last time I went for a proper shave at a barber’s, the bloke who did it swore by the stuff. I guess I’m a sucker for a good upsell. And it does smell nice.”

It takes much longer this time, of course. He finishes the first pass, wipes Dream’s face, lathers him again and goes for a second pass. He leaves Dream’s sideburns mostly alone, just taking them up enough to blend in with the hair falling shaggy over his ears – if Dream wants a haircut that will have to be another adventure, to a real barber or a salon, because Hob doesn’t trust himself with that kind of artistry, not where Dream is concerned.

He narrates as he goes, describing the best angle to hold the blade, how to gently pull the skin taut to avoid nicks, when to go with the grain of the hair and when to scrape against it. Reminiscing further on his favorite barbers and spas and on a broad history of facial hair and shaving. He is babbling a bit, he knows, but he tells himself it’s for educational purposes; that this kind of general knowledge could potentially serve Dream well as he navigates a new human life.

He’s certainly not talking in order to distract himself from the sensation of Dream’s skin and the soft sounds of Dream’s breath, or to stop himself from saying something much more revealing and embarrassing. Like how he wants to take care of Dream for the rest of time. Or how badly he wants to see if his skin is as soft all the way down as it is in the tender place just behind his ear. Or how fiercely grateful he is that Dream has chosen to live, to try, to be here, to sit in a kitchen chair and eat oatmeal, to sit in this bathroom and let Hob run his fingers down the line of his jaw, over and over, trying to memorize the feeling of every inch of skin he’s allowed to touch as he runs the razor over the valleys of Dream’s cheeks.

He will never run out of words to say to Dream – or words he wishes he could say – but eventually he does run out of skin to shave. At his direction, Dream leans over the sink and rinses his face with cold water, then gently pats in aftershave while Hob meticulously dries his razor and clears away the shaving tackle.

Then it’s quiet in the little bathroom for a long, long moment while Dream reexamines his face in the mirror.

“Well?” Hob says eventually, so low it’s almost a whisper. He allows himself one last touch. Drops his hand onto Dream’s shoulder and squeezes gently.

Dream makes eye contact in the mirror, and Hob is shocked by a swift bolt of recognition. Here, in front of him, is Dream – his Stranger, his centennial mystery – so different, so human, and yet, suddenly, so familiar. It could almost be 1489 again, save the electric lighting; his hair is nearly long enough, and the imperious pout is back on his lips.

And then he opens his mouth.

“Hob, I –” he trails off. Breathes. “I am me.”

Hob squeezes his shoulder again. “Of course you are.”

“No, you misunderstand. I – I recognize myself,” Dream says, unconsciously echoing Hob’s thoughts. “I see a man, and he looks like me.” He meets Hob’s eye in the mirror once again. “I – thank you.”

Dream’s eyes are, unaccountably, welling up with tears, as beautiful and delicate as the rest of him. Hob does the only thing he can think to do, which is to drop his chin to Dream’s shoulder, lay his own hairy cheek alongside Dream’s newly-smooth, freshly-scented face, wrap his arms around Dream’s bony chest, and hold him.

One of Dream’s hands comes up and wraps itself around Hob’s wrist, and they stay that way for a long time: Dream in the kitchen chair, in front of the bathroom mirror, and Hob behind him, holding him, crouched somewhat uncomfortably, but exactly where he wants to be.

---

this has been languishing in my drafts for absolute ages and I wish it hadn't taken me so ding dang long but it is what it is || this two cakes situation is inspired by @watercubebee's art and dedicated to her and @valeriianz 🎂🎂 || art, Kris's ficlet (plus part two)

read on AO3 >>>

#hello I am once again posting barely edited fics in the wee hours AS IS MY WONT #do you know how long I've had a tab open with the wikihow article on shaving with a straight razor?? it's been WEEKS #someday I will improve on my current writing speed of twelve words per day smh #my writing #dreamling #the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling

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dotthings · 4 months

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Some tea from Richard Speight, Jr. about filming Cas’s testament scene has surfaced from DLC6. [x]

nothing cut from script to screen but they added things, such as Cas having to paint the sigil on the door and leaving the bloody hand print on Dean’s shoulder [my note: wbk about the additions during filming. There's still the matter of the spanish dub because the latam dubbing team felt a verbal I love you from Dean, made sense. And a few other lingering questions that have not actually been resolved and we may never know, but I'll go along. If Rich is happy with what was filmed and got to screen in the US, I'm glad. I love 15.18 either way. Rich's comments also goes to show how collaborative making tv is and how fluid the process can be.]

Rich said the scene wasn’t intended to be about Dean’s reciprocation, it was to give Cas his moment to speak his truth, to speak his love for Dean, and Cas didn’t expect an answer back, he just wanted to be heard, wanting Dean to know. [my note: makes sense to me, and it’s what I’ve thought about Cas pov. Cas pov not being the same as audience pov and what the story might need next and what Dean’s needs are. But for that scene, Cas feels complete. It also very much means the emotional story from Dean's side is not resolved. Dean wasn't given his chance yet, by creative design, perhaps because the only way they could get this greenlit at all is if it was only Cas who got to speak. We'll see what happens next.]

Rich saying because they did many takes of the scene with Dean’s emotional reactions, there are shots where Dean is crying more, or crying less. Editing put together different angles from different takes. [my note: the irony that naysayers are already trying to weaponize this to shut down the idea that anything got cut when per Rich himself, the facts on the ground are that the full range of Jensen’s acting for Dean’s response got reduced. No shade on Rich. But let's not erase or deny what was going on with Jensen's acting and how Jensen gave 110% and what wound up on screen was about 80% of whatever work Jensen did. Dean wept more than we saw, even before Dean was on the dungeon floor sobbing. Jensen’s performance as it stands is beautiful and powerful and full of emotion. It has taken an inordinate amount of hate and erasure, which is 100% cynical concern trolling to deny Dean’s feelings for Cas. More shots of Dean crying openly wouldn’t stop it, there’s no excuse for those responses. What’s there is loud enough. Only the most willfully cynical gaze could deny the love and anguish Dean showed.]

Rich said the parallel for John and Mary’s confession in TW 1x07 to 15x18 is a “coincidence” yet went on to talk about the trope of confessing love in a life or death situation and cited Leia and Han Solo among others [my note: it was also used again by an ep Rich recently directed in another piece of media I won’t say so I don’t spoil it. Also I’m laughing about how it seems he answered this. Total coincidence!! And spn 15.18 is like TW 1x07 is like Han and Leia and love confessions in dire situations is a common (romantic) trope. Pls, if anybody is taking away from this some kind of shutdown on creative recognition of the Destiel implications of it all, I don’t even want to know, I’ve had my fill of poor comprehension skills, poor critical thinking, and poor media literacy, oh my god]

Rich saying he was glad Cas’s words meant a lot to queer fans and that he feels it was important and a “bold” move that Bobo and Misha fought for. <3

So that's confirmation from director now, to add to writer intention, both actors, and an EP who greenlight Bobo's pitch for Cas’s testament as romantic. That is canon. That is a lock.

Cas's testament started out carefully padded into an “open to interpretation” zone. We have watched it be eased out of it and into the open.

I’m pleased it's openly acknowledged for what it is...and what I knew it was when the ep aired. I did expect it would be eventually, and would take some time. I’m glad it's here now.

As always, my appreciation for the work Rich, Bobo, Jensen, Misha did on 15.18 <333

#richard speight jr #destiel #jensen ackles #gay Cas is canon #Castiel #Dean Winchester

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sissylittlefeather · 9 months

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Role Play Part 1: Good Cop, Bad Cop

A/N: This might be a one-shot or maybe I'll write more parts. I haven't decided yet. It'll depend on whether anyone likes it. But this is based on photos from Sonny West's wedding. It's Elvis x fem!reader and it is dirrttyyyy.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, kissing, cussing, fingering, oral sex (m & f receiving), p in v penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, gun play, Elvis being bossy and dom, infidelity, cop roleplay, handcuffs, I think that's everything?

Word count: ~3.5k

When your cousin asked you to help with one of her catering events, you weren't exactly excited. However, you changed your mind when you found out who the event was for.

"You know who Sonny West is, right?!" You frantically ask your cousin.

"Kind of? All I know is Elvis Presley is picking up the tab for the whole wedding."

"I will absolutely help you with this event." You smile and grab her arm, squeezing it gently. This is the opportunity of a lifetime and you've never been happier to be related to her.

******

On the day of the big event, you spend an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom doing your hair and makeup. Everything has to be perfect on the off chance you happen to get to meet Elvis. You know it's a long shot, but still, this is a better chance than you've ever had before. Once you feel like the look is complete with your tight black skirt and white button down, you head out the door. You're assigned to work the after party at Graceland, so you get in your car and drive that way.

The wedding party isn't there yet when you arrive, but they will be soon, so you get to work helping prepare food and set out trays.

You're in the kitchen when you hear the party arrive and everyone heads out to their assigned spot. You're putting the finishing touches on your tray, though, so you stay behind in the kitchen. That's when you see him for the first time.

He saunters into the kitchen to get a bottle of his favorite water from the fridge. You don't notice him walk in, so you're startled when the refrigerator door opens. You gasp and put your hand on your heart, glad you didn't drop the tray you're holding.

"Oh, I'm sorry darlin', I didn't mean to scare ya." He drawls. Your mouth drops open a little at the sight of him there in his velvet suit and white tie. You've suddenly forgotten how to speak English. "What's your name, honey?"

A smirk plays across his mouth. He's enjoying the fact that he's got you speechless as you search your brain for the answer to his question. After way too much time, you finally get it out.

"My name is y/n. You're..."

"I am. It's nice to meet you, y/n. Welcome to my home."

"It's nice." You cringe a little with your response and he smiles.

"Thank you. I better get back out there. Hopefully we run into each other again." He winks shamelessly and you blush as he leaves the kitchen. You take a deep breath and head out to your assigned post near the drink table.

You stand there for about twenty minutes before you feel eyes on you from across the room. When you make eye contact he winks again and smiles. He obviously isn't paying much attention to the conversation he's supposed to be in. Your cheeks flush and it suddenly feels very warm in the room. You decide it's time for a bathroom break and grab another waiter to let them know where you're going. You get there and wash your hands with cold water, pressing them to your cheeks when you finish. You look in the mirror and shake your head a little and then head out the door. What you don't expect is to almost run smack into Elvis when you leave the bathroom.

"Oh my gosh!" You put your hands on his chest to keep from running into him and look up at him as he chuckles.

"I guess I did say I hoped to run into you." You nod, speechless again. "Are you afraid of me?" His eyebrows knit together in the center of his forehead, showing his concern. Finally, you find your voice.

"No! I'm sorry; I'm just a little starstruck. I can't believe you're talking to me."

"Why wouldn't I be talking to you? Look at you." He gently brushes some of your hair out of your face and tucks it behind your ear. You look at each other for a while and his eyes flick down to your mouth. Then, he cups your chin in his hand and starts to lean in towards you. As he presses his lips to yours softly, fireworks go off somewhere behind your navel. He pulls back slowly and you hear a voice.

"Boss, they're asking for you again." He sighs deeply and turns to the man sent to summon him.

"I thought I told you not to disturb me tonight."

"It's Priscilla. She-"

"Enough. I'm coming." He turns back to you and smiles. "I'll find you again. Don't worry."

When he leaves you there in the hallway, your breath comes in deep waves and you feel like you might pass out. Elvis Presley kissed you. And it seems like he'd like to do it again. You decide then and there that you'll let him- and more if that's what he wants. After gathering yourself a bit, you go back to your post next to the drink table.

When you get there, Elvis is doing some kind of demonstration with a few of his guns and badges. He's taken his jacket off and you can't get over how good he looks with his shoulder holster and belts showing. He holds up a long rifle and someone takes a picture as he talks. The way his rings clack against the wood and metal and he holds his cigarillo against the butt of the gun makes your warm center even warmer. The masculinity of the scene hits you in the soft and feminine parts of you and you don't just want him, you need him.

When he notices you watching with your mouth opened slightly, he gives you a knowing smile and licks his lips. A shiver runs down your spine and you pray that he will come talk to you again. You serve drinks and pass out smiles and wait patiently for him to be free.

Finally, he catches your eye and nods towards the kitchen. You don't hesitate to head that direction. When you get there, it's bustling with activity. He comes in behind you and you hear his voice boom.

"OUT!" All the waitstaff look at each other and then back at him. "You heard me!"

They gather their things quickly and leave, so that it's just you and him. As soon as you're alone, he wraps his arms around your waist from behind and kisses the back of your neck under where you have your hair pulled up. He whispers into your ear.

"I saw you watching me with my guns. Would you like to see more of them?" You close your eyes with the sensation of his breath on your ear, but you manage to respond softly.

"Yes, please."

"Come with me." He unwraps himself from around you and takes your hand. He leads you up the staircase and through his office to his bedroom. You know someone must have seen you, but it doesn't seem like anyone cares. Or maybe they've just learned not to say anything. Either way, you find yourself standing in Elvis Presley's bedroom as he shows you his small arsenal.

He describes each gun in detail, but you're so distracted by how attractive he is that you would fail a test if he gave you one. Finally, he pulls out a small pistol and makes sure it's completely unloaded. Then, he hands it to you.

"You know how to hold one of these?"

"I don't." He steps behind you again and makes sure you have the gun pointed away from anything. He puts his hands on your waist.

"Feet shoulder-width apart." He runs his hands up to your arms. "Arms straight." He slides his hands down to yours and makes sure your stance is strong. In doing so, he also presses his rock hard cock into your ass. You damn near melt where you're standing. Then, he pulls back quickly.

"What?" You ask, nervously, afraid that he's changed his mind for some reason.

"Little lady, do you have a license for that firearm?" He has a playful smirk again, so you relax.

"No, sir, I don't." He pulls a badge from his pocket.

"Then, I'm afraid I'm going to have to arrest you." Sliding open a drawer, he lifts out a pair of handcuffs. He leans in close to your ear and whispers. "Let me know if this is too much."

"It's not."

"Well, alright then." He takes the gun from you and turns you around, pulling you close to him and kissing you deeply, his tongue sliding into your mouth to dance with yours. He pulls back and looks you in the eye. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but you can kiss me and tempt me all you want. I still have to arrest ya."

You walk together towards the bed with him still wrapped around you and your mouths pressed together, kicking off your shoes as you go. He tosses the handcuffs on the bed and then lifts your shirt up and over your head. Then, he removes his heavy belts, letting them drop to the floor, and his shoulder holster, tie, and necklace. He lets you undo the buttons on his shirt and push it down his arms and off. His hands run up and down your body and then move to your back to unhook your bra. He lays you on the bed and reaches for the handcuffs.

"I hate to do this, but illegal use of a firearm is a pretty serious offense." He speaks matter-of-factly as he handcuffs your wrists around the bedpost. "Some punishment is in order."

With every word, your dripping center becomes wetter and wetter and your absolute need for him grows. He unzips your skirt and slides it down your thighs and off, leaving you in just your panties. With his hands on the inside of each thigh, he spreads your legs. Then, he runs a hand up to your core and feels the wetness there with his thumb.

"Mm. Good girl knows what I like."

"What are you gonna do to me, Officer?" His eyes light up when you play along with his game. You can tell this is a fantasy for him and you're not about to ruin it now. Besides, it's turning you on more than you care to admit.

"I'm gonna make sure you don't do anything like this again."

He moves back up to your chest and runs his tongue around your nipple while you squirm beneath his touch. He sucks lightly on the other nipple and kisses down your stomach. He presses a kiss to the place where your panties are so wet. "Is this what you want, baby?"

You moan softly with the feeling of him so close to where you want him.

"Yes, sir. Please. I promise I'll never do it again." He slides your panties off and puts his finger to your entrance, collecting the wetness gathered there to rub circles on your clit.

"Bad girls deserve to be punished. Are you a bad girl or a good girl, y/n?" He asks.

"I was nice and wet for you, Officer."

"That's true, but you still had that illegal firearm. I think you're a bad girl." He slides two fingers inside you and presses them as far as they'll go, his rings cold against your entrance. Then, he pumps them in and out quickly and lowers his mouth to your clit. He licks over and around it vigorously as you get closer and closer to your climax. When he feels your walls flutter, he backs off of you and pulls both fingers out. You whimper frantically and whisper.

"Noooo, Officer, please!"

"Bad girls don't get to cum when they want to. If you want to be a good girl, you'll cum when you're told."

"Yes sir, please I promise, don't stop!" He goes back to pumping two fingers inside of you, stopping to tickle your sensitive spot every once in a while.

"Does my bad girl want my tongue again?"

"Yes, Officer, please."

"Ask for what you want."

"I want you to lick my pussy again, sir." He gives you a smirk and slides off the bed. When he walks over to the gun case, his pants form a tent around his erection. He fetches the small, unloaded pistol, checking it again for bullets, and walks back to the bed.

"I need to show you how bad this gun can be before I give you want you want."

You nod, hoping he'll let you cum this time. But he doesn't go back to licking you. Instead, he takes the cold metal of the gun and pushes it to your clit gently. You gasp at the sensation and squirm again. He begins to use the tip of the barrel to tease your clit, rubbing it over and around on you carefully. Surprisingly, the sensation is a good one and at one point you cry out in pleasure.

"Oh God, Elvis."

"Does my bad girl want to cum?" He asks as he moves the gun on you gently.

"Yes, please, fuck!"

"Are you gonna be a good girl from now on?"

"Yes, Officer, please!" You moan and he pulls the gun away from you and sets it on the bed. He gets close to your center and blows on your clit gently.

Your orgasm seems to be teetering right on the edge and it's driving you insane. He kisses your hip and down to your pussy again.

"Has my bad girl learned her lesson?" You nod frantically and beg again as he licks up your slit to your clit and back down again.

"Yes! Yes! Please let me cum!" He smiles and presses his lips to your clit. Then, he begins to lick you again, sliding two fingers inside you, and you're so close that it almost hurts.

"Cum for me, baby." He whispers and you whimper as you feel your orgasm closing in. "Remember, good girls do what they're told."

He tightens his tongue to a point and licks directly over your clit hard and your center explodes with waves of undeniable pleasure, crashing over and over as you shake and pulse around his fingers.

"Oh, God, Elvis!" You cry out, completely forgetting about the party going on downstairs. He laughs and slides his fingers out of you.

"Good girl. Now I think it's time you try to convince me not to take you downtown." He retrieves a small key and unlocks the handcuffs, giving you access to your hands again.

"Yes, Officer." You push him down to lay on his back and settle between his legs. Then, you pull his pants down just enough to let his cock spring free. He moans softly as you run your hand up and down his shaft, rolling back his foreskin. When you lean down and lick the tip of his dick gently, he inhales sharply. You pull as much of him into your mouth as possible, gagging a little to fit him. He groans with the sensation of hitting the back of your throat. You pick up a steady rhythm of bouncing on him as you massage his balls.

"Yes, yes, that's my good girl." He moans, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. When you can tell he's getting close, you pull him in deeply again and back off.

"So am I going to jail?" You ask with a pout.

"I'm almost convinced to let you go." He pushes his pants the rest of the way down his legs and flips you over onto your back, lining his cock up with your dripping entrance. "Just one... last... thing."

When he gets to the final word, he pushes into you deeply, filling you fully in one thrust.

"Fuck, Elvis!" You cry out again at the sensation of being stretched and filled so quickly.

"Goddamn, you feel good, baby." He whispers in your ear as he begins to pump in and out of you. After a few minutes, he pushes your knees up so that your feet are pressed against his chest. As he fucks into you, he has one hand on your foot and he leans down and kisses your toe. "Such pretty little feet. Did ya paint these nails just for me?"

"I did." You respond breathlessly as he pounds you over and over again. The feeling is almost overwhelming in the best way possible.

"Good girl. Such a good girl for me." Suddenly, he pulls out and rolls you over, spanking your ass lightly. "Get on your knees, babe."

"Yes sir." You get on your hands and knees as instructed. He holds your hip with one hand and uses his other to tease your slit with the tip of his cock. "Does my good girl want me to fuck her?"

"Yes, Officer, please." You whimper and beg.

He grunts as he pushes into you from behind, putting his other hand on your hip to brace you as he begins to slam into you over and over. His balls slap against you as he fucks you vigorously and you let out a soft cry with each thrust. It feels so good as his length hits your sensitive spot time and time again. He reaches around and begins to make circles on your clit as he fucks you.

"'M gonna cum soon, baby. Cum with me." He moans as he continues to push into you powerfully and rub your clit. Your breasts bounce with every impact and you wish he would never stop.

"Yes sir." You already feel your climax building and you cum hard, your orgasm running through you like wildfire just as he slams into you and moans loudly. You feel his warmth inside you and it just adds to the pleasure of your own pulsing orgasm. He pats on your ass before pulling out.

"That's my good girl."

He slides out of you and you lay down next to each other on the bed looking up at the ceiling, sweating and breathing heavily.

"Thank you, Officer." You turn your head and meet his eyes. His playful smirk is back.

"Anything for a sweet thing like you." He takes your hand and kisses your fingers in a gesture more intimate than your situation.

Suddenly, there's a quiet knock on the door and a voice nervously calls out.

"Boss, I know you said not to bother you, but your wife keeps asking where you are. What should I tell her?"

He looks at you with a devilish glint in his eye and mouths, "oh shit."

You cover your mouth and try not to giggle as he calls back to whomever is at the door.

"Tell her I had some police business to attend to."

The guy at the door walks away and Elvis rolls over onto you and peppers your face with kisses.

"Thank you for indulging me tonight." He leans in and kisses your mouth deeply. "That's more fun than I've had in a long time."

Something that's almost like sadness seems to settle on him and you kiss the end of his nose lightly.

"Of course! It was really fun for me too." He smiles again and kisses your cheek. Then, he rolls off of you and you both start to get dressed. He puts the gun and the handcuffs back where they belong.

"I'll tell you what, I'll never look at this pistol the same way again." You laugh and try to smooth your hair in the mirror. He wraps his arms around you from behind and kisses the back of your neck once more.

"Can I see you again?" You look at him in the mirror with his chin on your shoulder.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea. You're married."

"Ehhhh, for now. I like you. Please?"

You turn around in his arms to face him.

"Now who's begging?" You joke playfully. He makes a pouty face.

"Please, baby. You can pick the role play next time." You raise an eyebrow. That idea is intriguing.

"Can I be in charge?"

"Honey, you can do whatever you want if you dress up for me."

"Deal." He leans in to kiss you and there's another knock at the door. He rolls his eyes and sighs.

"Boss, she really-"

"Will ya let me deal with 'er? I'll be down there in a minute." He turns his attention back to you. "I have to go. I'll find you. We'll do this again. On my honor as a cop." He winks and unwraps himself from around you, kissing you sweetly one last time. As you make your way down the stairs and back to your post, you suppose your cousin probably won't ask for your help again.

When you make eye contact with him across the room again, though, you really don't care. He's worth it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

So do we want more?

Taglist:

@ccab @elvisfatass @elvisalltheway101 @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @ashtag6887 @your-nanas-house @deniseinmn @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69

#elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presley #elvis fanfic #elvis smut #elvis presley fic #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #elvis #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley smut #elvis fanfiction #elvis x y/n #elvis x you #elvis presley x you #elvis presley fanfic

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exhuastedpigeon · 6 months

Text

Buddie Hiatus Fic Rec - month 9 Jan 16 - Feb 15

0-5k

might as well be drunk in love by fleetinghearts / @shitouttabuck Teen | 2.3k Getting little-spooned by his drunk best friend was not on buck's maid-of-honour checklist, but. it's happening

She Said She’d Do It Again by Pansys_goth_gf / @pansysgothgf General | 2.8k Ana Flores runs into the 118 four years after her break up with Eddie. It turns out, a lot can change in four years.

hot cocoa by evcndiaz / @evcndiaz Teen | 3.1k Buck is freaking out about proposing. He gets an assist from Athena, Bobby, and. Well. Eddie himself.

our secret moments in a crowded room by heartbeatdiaz / @loserdiaz Explicit | 3.7k In which a new probie at the station has a crush on Buck, Eddie is… a little bit done with the guy, if he’s being honest. And Buck is having the time of his life.

like a cat in the rain by oklahoma / @sunshinediaz Teen | 4.6k Sometimes, Buck forgets the lightning strike happened to Eddie, too.

things you shouldn’t say to me by coldbam / @coldbam Mature | 4.7k Eddie comes out, sleeps around, and Buck hears all about it.

5k-10k

finally found what i’ve been looking for by fleetinghearts / @shitouttabuck Explicit | 5k buck's good at basketball, eddie's trying really hard not to commit an act of public indecency about it, and maybe, just maybe, a slightly bloody beachside pick-up game can be the start of something new

i am just a fool, but i have loved you all along by oklahoma / @sunshinediaz Teen | 5.1k Buck asks Eddie on a date. Eddie spirals and makes a list about it. Everything works out in the end.

how to say what you mean by brownbananas (nickel710) Gen | 8.1k In which Eddie becomes a little obsessed with equipment maintenance and has a crisis of sexuality, and the two things are more related than he thought.

gonna make love to you for the rest of our lives by wikiangela / @wikiangela Explicit | 8.7k It's Buck and Eddie's wedding night, they're horny, in love, and obsessed with being husbands.

10k-20k

that green light, i want it by asteriasera / @asteriasera Mature | 11.1k Buck and Eddie hook up after Maddie and Chim’s wedding, then spend an inordinate amount of time not talking about what it means until the universe decides to intervene.

it's gravity after all by Iover_of_mine (I_almost_do) / @lover-of-mine Teen | 11.7k Buck and Eddie get trapped in an elevator. What else can they do besides talk to each other?

and we are homeward bound by glorious_spoon / @glorious-spoon Explicit | 18.1k Buck and Eddie get around to telling the people they love that they're together.

Winter Prayer by Daisies_and_Briars / @cal-daisies-and-briars General | 18.2k When a work conflict prevents Athena from accompanying Bobby to Minnesota for the ten year anniversary of his family dying, Buck and May offer to go instead. Over the course of the trip, they all learn more about each other, and Bobby faces his grief.

20k - 30k

let you set the pace by devirnis / @devirnis Explicit | 23.9k Eddie fucks Buck over a weekend.

30k +

A Minor Delay by rainbow_nerds / @rainbow-nerdss Mature | 43.6k Almost a year after the bridge collapse, a lot has changed. The team are scattered—Bobby and Athena on their Honeymoon, Hen on adoptive parent's leave, and Buck and Eddie... They may still work together, still have movie nights with Chris whenever they can, but things have changed. With Maddie and Chimney's wedding around the corner, Buck tries to make it perfect. And maybe, along the way, he might figure out why everything still feels... wrong.

The Cupid in Bel Air and His Thousand Kisses by Moonrose001 / @liptickyourway Explicit | 53.8k Eddie knew that when he and Christopher moved to LA, there would be a lot more deities than he was used to. What he did not expect was a Cupid that had it out for him, determined for Eddie to fall in love despite Eddie's repeated refusals, denials and threats. But Eddie needs a partner in the field and it seems like the winged weasel is the closest he is getting.

Month 1 (May 15 - June 15) Month 2 (June 16 - July 15) Month 3 (July 16 - August 15) Month 4 (August 16 - September 15) Month 5 (September 16 - October 15) Month 6 (October 16 - November 15) Month 7 (November 16 - December 15) Month 8 (December 16 - January 15)

#buddie #buddie hiatus fic rec #911 #buddie rec list #rec list #TWO MORE SLEEPS UNTIL 911!!!#and one more list to go!

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sgiandubh · 3 months

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Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

This is the second nasty Anon reaching these serene shores, ever since Kissgate started, last Wednesday:

The form of life sending it is now blocked. Not that she hasn't a choice to make several other sock accounts - of which I have been blocking an inordinate amount, these last weeks, by the way. And since she probably will do so, here is my answer:

What else have I got? Evidence of your desperate fear, Pumpkin. I mean, how bad things must look now, for you folks to shamelessly write that C was a 'clearly intoxicated woman'? Is it me, or your stupidity showed itself ready to throw The Goddess Herself under the bus, just in order to save face?

You are so desperate and shaken, that you don't even bother to disguise the particular corner where WHY is the Operative Word of the Day, for lack of any other sort of arguments. This is ALL the Screeching Banshees have to offer you in terms of a debate and it was always both funny and arresting to read. This and endlessly discussing OLD, FUCKING OLD marathon pictures nobody gives a supersonic fuck about, anymore. I thought you berated shippers for doing the same and yet...? Oooh. Oooh. It's not embarrassing if it happens in your corner. Gotcha. #Silly me. Won't happen again.

The same corner where these surreal comments have been posted, by the way:

I have no idea who that woman is, but (based on what she writes above) she is a tragic piece of work. I mean, you eat and drink with people you consider your friends, then you suddenly decide, one fine day, to bullshit them all over the dashboard. Frankly, now: what did you expect? Sunshine, lollipops and roses? Are you for real, even? And now you victimize yourself, surely a mature woman & a community pillar on your own right (your choice of words is very informative), that you are 'unable to read their blogs'? Oh, FFS, such a cheap eyeroll, right there. Just where are we? In a Uni dorm, trading gossip? Sweet Lord on a motorbike, get a grip, lady!

The thought of educated women collectively sharing some beliefs didn't even give her pause. It should have. At this point in time, this is cognitive dissonance, at its finest. Plus hey, weren't we STUPID, STUPID, STUPID? Huh? I find it extraordinary we suddenly aren't, anymore.

Back to you, Anon. I can feel the anger and see those trembling fingers on the screen of your phone. What a nice Freudian slip, right here: '5 years IF legal marriage'. Besides a sheet of paper, root canal smiles and pulse grabbing, what else ya got?

#anon #fandom #shitshow #TS Edinburgh 2024

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32bitterra · 6 months

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(March 1 - March 29, 2024)

Back once again for the renegade master, D4 damage with the ill behavior (camper fans come get ya food. more under the cut.)

AW YEAAAH

This is not a comic, just me getting easily distracted in art form. One of my friends thought Chloe's helmet was a TV screen.

Artist's block then began to beat my ass, but we will brute force our way through.

I wonder if Maloof likes Tom & Jerry.

This one's for the bird nerds and/or lovers of corny jokes out there.

Signs of spring.

ELKA DOOM FANS WHERE YA AT? MAKE SOME NOISE (I was feeling inspired.)

With Elka's help, the artist's block was vanquished.

This one is based on a dream I had months ago. They are listening to this because it kept me sane during the inordinate amount of time I spent on it.

Dart's head shape is like a modified version of Quentin's head shape (or maybe the other way around.) Visualizing it this way has made it easier to draw him.

A very important task as Bobby's henchman, you see.

(Note: since people have been unsure of what Bobby means when I show it - he wants Benny to bite into the apple first since he can't bite it with his bad teeth.)

Katherine.

I hope you took some time for Vernon on Storytelling Day (March 20)

There's been this commercial that plays "What A Feeling" and every time it comes on, it makes me think of Crystal without fail.

Is Chops wearing lipstick? The color is similar to Kitty's lipstick ... Did he steal it from her?

A Kitty-less Franke, how sad. I've expended all my energy to draw Kitty, so she has to be by herself.

J.T. has a very nice face. He has a very trustworthy smile. I trust him.

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sahonithereadwolf · 5 months

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I have a question about being two spirit. I'd always understood it as culture-bound to indigenous people but I was at a presentation by somebody from the Lenape tribe and they said that the term can be used by anyone who understands and respects the meaning well. They said they will hold ceremonies for non-indigenous people who identify with the term. This contradicts what I've been told before so I'm not sure what to think - is two spirit a culturally closed identity?

What's important to understand here is no one indigenous person here (me included) can speak for or stand in for all indigenous people. We are hundreds of distinct nations with our own histories, boundaries, and cultural mores before we even get to the individual level. Sometimes they hold opinions that make me wanna bop 'em in the back of the head.

The thing you gotta understand about Two-spirit is that it's a compromise. The term Two-spirit is an umbrella term covering numerous identities. Sometimes with their own names in our own languages. Sometimes they're words that are lost. Sometimes it's things we're putting back together after hundreds of continuing years of oppression, colonialism, and religious violence.

We weren't allowed to legally practice our culture until my mom's lifetime and weren't allowed to speak and teach our languages until mine. So two-spirit is a compromise for those things in the gaps for a lot of folk. It's cardboard over a broken window you duct-tape to keep the winter cold out. Sometimes these things are closed. Sometimes they aren't. Sometimes they're aspirations or a statement of intention. Some come with heavy things like duty and expectation. But they're innately tied to our experiences. I don't think you could or should use these identities. So much of queerness and it's experience and identity to the mass is dictated by whiteness. Or set by Black and Latino communities that never get the recognition for doing so. So a lot of indigenous kids end up spending an inordinate amount of time going "Yeah, but what does queerness mean or even look like for me?" and that's what Two-Spirit offers them. A shelter and a roadsign. I don't think you could or should use these identities.

A kinship, an empathic understanding, or a relationship to the experiences ain't a bad thing to have. It's human and kind. As such, I ask that you please do not take me as cruel for trying to defend my brothers, sisters, and those experiencing something between or beyond the limitations of colonial language.

Love us because we wanted to share our experiences with you. But some things just ain't worth it to take.

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antiyourwokehomophobia2 · 25 days

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As someone who writes and someone who reads a lot of writing, I have something I'd like to say to other creators.

At the risk of sounding like a hypocrite, I never leave comments. On anything. It's actually a habit I'm actively trying to break out of as I get further along into my writing career because I know how much comments mean to me and so I want to provide that for the creators I come across.

But the grand grand grand majority of work I have read and loved? I have never commented on. To this day, I have never written a review on Goodreads. Not even for books that have stuck with me since I was a child. I've never written a comment on any of the fanfiction I've read or on any Tumblr art that I come across.

I am speaking about work that has literally changed my life. There are fanfictions out there that I have remembered for years after I read them. The authors have no idea. I never wrote a comment letting them know. They have no clue how much their work meant to me and impacted me. Just yesterday I was thinking about a fan fiction I read when I was early in my teen years (so about 10 years ago or so). To be fair I don't think I could have written an eloquent comment at 13, but that's not the point. The point is that I remembered that fanfiction after 10 whole years and the creator doesn't have the slightest clue in the world that their words re-entered the mind of someone who has not revisited the work for a decade.

There are so many fanfictions that I have bookedmarked that I genuinely love to death, and I've never said anything under them. I still reread them to this day even though I bookmarked them when I was much younger. There are certain lines in them that have given me feelings that I have tried to replicate in my own writing. I hope that people who read my work can feel how I felt when I read some of the fanfics that I have saved on my phone. The creators, again, have literally no idea. Don't get me wrong: their fanfics have gotten comments from other people, but if I'm anything to go by then there are so many other people who never verbally expressed their love even though they absolutely do have love for the work.

To be quite honest I am just not the type of person who thinks to write comments. Even though I fully understand how much comments mean to creators (which is why I'm going out of my way to be better about leaving them), I just... Have never been the type of person to write about how much a piece of art means to me. A piece of art can shake me to my absolute core and imprint on me and I will never tell the person who made it how much I love it.

As someone who also creates, I know how it feels to get low engagement on work you have spent an inordinate amount of time on. I know it can be discouraging and make you feel like what you make isn't worth anything. I also know firsthand that someone can have an indescribable amount of love for what you do and keep that to themselves. I am not the only person out there like this. That's not a guess. I've heard people before say that they feel weird commenting on work that is "too old" even though they love it. Or they feel like creators don't want to get a notification for a simple "woah".

Someone can love your work dearly and not think to comment for a number of reasons. That doesn't mean that your work isn't valuable and it doesn't mean nobody loves it. And honestly? Even if your work really does only bring you joy, I still think that you should create it! But that's a point for another post. My point for this one is that a lot more people silently love your work than you realize. Unfortunately (or very fortunately depending on how you look at it) they probably outnumber the people who do comment.

So I'm sharing this with all other creators. You have so many silent lovers. Secret admirers exist in the world of creating, too, and I think that that is very important for you to remember. If you ever feel down about the fact that people may not say the things that you want them too? Consider that they're thinking it instead. Keep creating!!

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