#this coloring is terrible that stage lighting was so.....

[wolfchans]

[hyunpic]

HYUNJIN | I LIKE IT

[neckromantics]

More creepy and unsettling, creature Astarion please.

I beg of thee. Vampires are meant to be an uncanny valley type of thing. An undead creature of the night that passes itself as just the right amount of living and mortal for you to let your guard down. I need more examples of his vampiric nature showing once he's grown comfortable enough, and I need it now.

~

An Astarion who is so silent in his movements that you often got jump scared by it in the earlier stages of your relationship.

You'd be lounging around on the sofa. Reading a book, lost in thought, all serene and cozy beneath a nice knitted blanket-- just having an all around nice, relaxing time when you see movement out of the corner of your eye. You glance up for just a moment, to the space before you that was previously unoccupied, and his entire face is suddenly hovering right in front of you.

Just waiting. Not moving. Pupils blown so huge that there's barely any color left to his eyes. Fangs are peeking out over the bruise-purple skin of his bottom lip. He's pallid. White as a corpse. Definitely in need of a good feeding.

His intentions were entirely innocent. He really only meant to ask you a question, and here you are being all dramatic and jumping several feet into the air and throwing your book off to the side in a panic. Thankfully, you're able to catch yourself before you full on shriek in his face.

(You love him and his ghoulishly handsome face, you really and truly do, but you sincerely thought for a moment that he was a spectre come to take you to the afterlife.)

~

Astarion, who routinely forgets to breathe. Yanno, like it's nothing.

You're well aware of the fact that vampires don't need to breathe. It's more of a force of habit than anything else, really-- something left over from when he was still mortal, he says.

Although, during bouts of intense emotion, or some sort of uh, stimulation, the focus on something so trivial gets put on the backburner for a bit.

The two of you will be sharing a particularly passionate kiss (or worse) when you feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest stop short. It's like all of the air has gotten caught in his lungs, and he ends up making these creaky grudge-like sounds in place of his usual low moaning. A clicking in the back of his throat in place of a sigh. If you play your cards just right, there might even be a rattling from deep within his chest that almost sounds like a purr.

When he finally does breathe, usually due to a well executed nip to his bottom lip, or the gentle brush of your fingers against one of his ears as you play with his hair, it comes out as an animalistic hiss. A sharp, choking gasp that sends goosebumps down the length of your arms.

~

How you catch him watching you sleep.

How you'll wake up in the pitch black of your bedroom in a cold sweat. Your hair is stood on end, a fearful shudder threatening to rattle your frame. A spike in your pulse that has your sleep addled brain doing somersaults in your skull. All of your instinctual alarm bells go off at once, telling you that something must be terribly wrong. Something must be watching you.

You try to blink away the bleariness-- try to shake off the fog of sleep for long enough to get your bearings, and catch a glint in the dark so ominous that for a moment you're scared stock still.

Something is watching you. Someone, rather.

Astarion's eyes gleam back at you in the dark like a wild animal's might. A bobcat, maybe, like the ones you'd often find stalking pray outside the tree line of camp all those nights ago. Pupils that glow a filmy, holographic orange despite there being no light to reflect off of them.

You don't notice until after you've taken a second to calm yourself that he's hovering over you. The bed just barely dips from his weight as he supports himself, and you'd be baffled by it all if you had any braincells left.

"Go back to sleep, darling." His voice is so soft, even over the pounding against your eardrums. Soothing. Tranquilizing. And though your eyes do begin to feel heavy, you're not exactly in the mood for rest anymore.

Especially not when he's pressing cold, feather-light kisses down the length of your throat not a moment later.

~

Please, I beg. Give me more.

[stararch4ngelqueen]

A Spoonful of Honey

Jason Todd/pregnant fem!reader (cause why not, I started reading the adventures comic so silly Jason is just on my mind as much as big beefy himbo acting like a baby over taking medicine. Chat I’ve been through it these past months, so this isn’t proofread)

Time Written - 11:05 p.m

The morning was cold, dreadfully cold, with a humid fog blanketing the dreary skies, blurring the atmosphere in a quiet haze. The temperature reached forty degrees at the highest around the late evening, giving those who had no business being outside a perfect excuse to remain indoors.

You basked in this opportunity to bring out your gold handle, cream colored dutch oven. Soft cardigan sleeves pushed up to your elbows to cut vegetables for a hearty dinner.

Slow, rugged feet trudged into the kitchen in the midst of you sautéing a rainbow assortment of veggies in butter and oil, dressed in his ‘plain ol’ civilian clothing’, a muted gray hoodie pulled over his head.

A sort throat was how it started; signifying the side effects to his nightly routine. Vigorous exercise could only help so much to fight off the chill, but with temperatures dropping incredibly low, sweat could nearly freeze on skin shortly after it’s been secreted.

The cold nearly nipped a permanent flush to his chiseled cheeks, kissing a sprinkle of color on his nose. He looked as exhausted as he did the previous night, when he first arrived home with a short cough and occasional clear of his throat.

Jason was sick, in the beginning stages of a cold. He’s not even bothering to hide it, yet continued to insist it wasn’t as bad as he led it on to become.

“You’re makin’ soup?” he asked. A comforting, light pressure of broad muscle against your back. Warm hands roaming from their soft placement along your hip dips roam forward, rustling along the fabric of your plush sweater, palms finally settling snug over your stomach.

“Mhm.” You nod, settling one of your hands over his interlaced fingers. “Chicken. With potato, and a ton of vegetables you like.”

“Mmm,” he hums, lightly sniffing the delectable curls of seasoned steam from your spice additions. “Smells incredible, ma.”

“Thank you. Good for the cold,” you comment, feeling satisfied at your seasoned sauté of protein and vegetables. You glance over your shoulder, smiling a little at his calm, droopy expression. “And colds.”

“Wow. Funny.” He murmurs per your amusement, taking over in reaching for the box of broth you set aside.

“You looked a little under the weather. Just wanted to help you feel a little better.” You reply after nodding in thanks for his aid, snapping open the seal to the box.

“You’re always taking care of me.” He exhales, his head tilting to kiss you on the cheek. He sounds grateful for the consideration, but he’s not very surprised by it.

You always had a tendency to spoil him. It’s just been your nature since the minute he first knew you.

“How’s the little one doing?” he asks, thumbs brushing light ovals over the soft mound of your protruding bump. Barely the size of an overripe grapefruit, or an underripe honeydew.

“Fine. No complaints,” you continue while pouring in the chicken broth. “Though, I’m sure the baby’s convinced that papa is doing a terrible job not resting up.”

Of course, he says nothing of it to confirm or deny. As if there was anything to deny, you could hear it in his slightly nasally tone. His fingers continue their gently ministrations, his eyes seemingly fixated on your actions, or unfocused as his mind trails off to space.

“Jay.”

“Hm?” His head slightly perks, leaving you to instantly assume the latter.

“It’s only been four months. You won’t feel much at four months.”

Maybe it’s faint arrogance to the doctor’s words. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he thinks that he can feel their baby shifting and wriggling around inside. He never thought of it before until it occurred to him one day, entering his mind at first as a silly thought before turning into a strong fixation.

“What, are you expecting it to come out and give you a high five?”

“Shut up.” He grunts, earning you a smirk.

“Couch,” you instruct, your gentle squeeze of your hand on his forearm combatting your firm tone. “Dinner’s almost done. Go relax.”

“Alright.” He’s quick to agree, yet his actions say otherwise. For a man who’s known by others to sulk, in your doting presence he reverts to a state a comfortable serenity, regardless of this mild illness weighing heavy on his tired bones. Regardless of your ever so heartwarming instruction, he retaliates with gentle backlash, consisting of third grade retorts and heavy groans. All in good fun, merely poking at your funny bones to catch a glimpse of a smile.

He moves his hand in little circles against your belly, waiting for his baby to respond. While he doesn’t feel any kicks just yet, he’s excited just thinking about all the times they have to come.

As much as you loved every ounce of physical touch, the slightest pet peeve of him not doing as you requested for his own good irked your mind. “Jason. You gotta move.”

“Can’t,” he mutters, “I’m fine right where I am.”

“You can play with the baby after you eat, Jason,” you insist. “You gotta eat, take some medicine, and rest. You can’t take medicine until you’ve eaten first.”

“I bet you the baby’s hungry, too.” Such sweet words from his mouth nearly had you melting on the spot. Already a doting father in waiting, how could you not feel your heart flutter?

“Jason,” you insist once more, your spoon resting on the rim of the cooking pot.

“Don’t wanna,” he replies, sounding both annoyed and amused by such insistence. His warm body never separated from yours for a mere five to seven minutes after that, your palm reaching up and back to catch his cheek, meeting the warm skin of his flushed face.

“You ever notice that you get grouchy during a cold—“

“I’m not grouchy right now though—”

“—the baby wouldn’t want their papa to be grouchy.”

“And you’re being a little mean.”

“Me? Mean?” You sounds surprised, though you’re smiling wide the entire conversation.

“Yes, you.”

“I could never.”

He doesn’t look at you though, his voice sounding playful once more. “You’re being super mean, trying to make me eat and take medicine and everything. The audacity, ma.”

You scoff as you closes the pot, turning your full bodied attention to Jason.

You smile, adoring your sick beloved, the father of your unborn baby gazing down at you with exhausted, lovestruck teal eyes. He always looked so cute, especially sick with a cold. Especially with the mentality of thinking he can do what he wants at this moment, thinking he’s said all the right words to coerce you.

“Good. That’s called love, now gooo.”

He sighs, and he’s really not looking forward to it. The idea of eating just doesn’t sound appealing right now anymore, nor does taking the medicine. Either way, the coziness of his woman wrapped in pearl colored cashmere with a cozy smile finally allured him towards the promising comfort of the living room couch, a temporary respite.

Inevitably, He left you to finish, granting the kitchen vocal silence for the next twenty minutes, apart from the soft drum of heavenly soup coming to a boil. Only when you come to find him did you see him flopped on the couch, an arm draped over his eyes to block all means of light.

You beckon him with a bowl of warm soup settling on the coffee table, alongside the eventual promise of lemon balm tea with a spoonful of crystallized honey.

“I don’t even feel that sick,” he grunts as he sits up, his voice starting to get a little hoarse from him talking (and complaining). Let the big guy say what he wants, you knew him better than even he admitted to allow.

“Then you’ll have no problem drinking my horrible concoction,” your gentle sarcasm would never be heard as unfavorable in his ears.

Jason takes a sip of his soup, slightly wincing from the heat on his sore throat, but he doesn’t seem as pleased with it as he’d originally thought. It tastes good, everything you’ve ever concocted for meals brought comfort, but as of now. he’s not really as hungry as he anticipated.

“What is this? Chicken, right?” He’s just making small talk now, wanting the conversation to last. “It’s really good, really, ma. Just not as hungry as I thought.”

You nod, not really happy about the outcome. But again, he’s sick. You can’t blame him.

“Take a few more sips, at least. Just so the medicine dosent make your stomach hurt.”

Jason looks away when you mentions the medicine, but he nods all the same. He eats what he can from his bowl, his shoulders slumping as exhaustion decides to increase weight down on his bones, forcing him into an even drowsier state.

All he does is partially lean against you after setting his bowl back on the table, keeping his eyes closed to ease the faint throbbing pressure building at the top of his head.

“I don’t even like cold medicine… I can’t sleep when I’m drowsy.” He mutters to himself, seeming to babble to no one but himself on not being so ill.

Your hand reach up to settle along his back, easing the tension with your fingers massaging his neck, confusion conflicting your mind at first.

“What you just said made no sense,” you giggle a bit, watching him lazily shake his head with a mild scoff.

He presses his head against the curve of your shoulder, his voice growing soft like a cat’s rumble. One of his arms settles lazily around your back. his body feeling practically limp.

By now, his response came in a series of short, muffled hums. He’s not complaining, really, but he is being extremely clingy. He just wants to be wrapped up in your arms, succumbing to an incredibly long sleep in your embrace, as if he can’t support his own weight. (He really can, but chooses not to.)

“On the bright side, the medicine says it tastes like honey.” You gently suggest, putting optimism where it may have lacked.

“Can’t you take it for me?” He lightly whines, his voice rumbling with a drowsy rasp. At this point, it’s not even because of the cold. Jason’s just too exhausted to think straight.

“I don’t know if pregnant women can take this kind of cold medicine,” you whisper to him, holding his shoulder after combing through his hair.

“Pretty please?” He whispers, his body feeling a little warmer from your presence. As comforting as it may have been to him now, a few minutes longer would’ve resorted in an uncomfortable ache in his neck from this poor posture.

“C’mon baby, just one little cup of medicine and you can sleep as much as you want. I’ll even yell at Bruce or Dick if they even try to call.”

Jason gives a light chuckle, his nose brushing along your jaw before planting a minor kiss along your neck.

“Fine, guess I’ll stop giving mama a hard time about it. It’ll be your job in about five months.” He speaks in second tense towards the bump in between you, followed by an eye roll on your end.

Watching you measure out the golden, syrupy mixture of potentially foul tasting medicine left him in a weak bind. He’d graciously drink horrid syrups consisting of fear toxin and joker venom if it meant you’d spoon-feed him an antidote. Such blind devotion was rare to come by throughout his life, comfort was your name in a foreign language.

He’s blessed with your smile once he had gotten the medicine down, rewarded with a kiss on the tip of his nose and a cup of promised tea, ambrosia to combat the foul taste. Goddamn medicine bottles with their stupid, deceiving lies.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so needy.” His slurred mumbling surprised you the most as you adjusted the blankets between the two of you.

A light tongue click leaves you, shaking your head in denial from such an unnecessary apology. “Don’t be, you silly man.”

Whether from some conflicting guilt, or illness inducing dysphoria on his mind, or shame, you gently deny and accept his apology with another kiss.

The effect of the medication is quickly kicks into place after ten minutes in bed, starting to drift off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Nothing but calm silence steals his consciousness for a few hours, warm bodies sheltered by the chilly winds batting against fogged glass throughout the long hours of the night. Despite the occasional faint echoes of neighbors next door and above, serene silence envelopes the minds of exhausted bodies.

You were snuggled up beside him with one of many pillows invading the space. Your cardigan sprawled neglected on the floor, cast aside due to the overwhelming seer of body heat.

He sighs softly, still tired, but his eyes glance over to the time on the nightstand clock.

He’s been asleep for hours, the time being … A little after eleven.

“Damn.” He whispers, drawing your closer to his body in a close hold. You feel so good like this, so safe. Spending all this time with him, doting on him, caring for him would mean the fifty percent chance you’d be afflicted next once he got better. Jason didn’t mind one bit, as much as he knew he should’ve been the one spending all his free time being attentive to your needs.

Either of you would look back on this and laugh of it, considering it practice for the baby.

For now, in the short time period of limbo between doctors appointments, checklists on supplies, criminal justice, and other impending challenges of becoming parents, everything was quiet. Calm, perfect even.

“Shh, the baby’s sleeping,” you softly retaliate, your hand cradling over his on the bump. You nudge just a little closer to the warmth radiating off him, seeking comfort with the furnace you call your beloved.

“What time is it?”

“Sleeping time,” he retorts, still sounding a little drowsy, his words coming out slow and somewhat slurred. His nose felt more stuffy than before, his head aching with a pressure that grew the longer he remained awake.

Once more, calloused fingers rustle against the fabric of his shirt on your body, potentially to be stretched during the later months to come. Here’s to hoping, he’s been secretly dying to see it.

“I love you both,” he whispers along your forehead, speaking from his heart in the sanctuary of your shared vulnerability.

You smile, tilting your head up to plant a soft, exhausted kiss on his chin. “We love you too,” you whisper, fighting back sleep to express an intimate act of love.

He closes his eyes, ready to sleep again. He’s not tired yet, stuck between the purgatory of both conscious states, but he’s not going to be able to stay awake much longer. At this point, he’s already half in the land of dreams. He’s comfortable—and happy to be with you, and with his baby.

“Never wanna let go of you two,” he mumbles, faintly catching the fragrance of your shampooed hair, the faint spice of ambery musk clinging to your skin.

You can’t help but quietly coo, burying most of your face against the crook of Jason’s neck.

“Then, don’t.”

[favslarue]

Bakugo NSFW inspired by Never Lose Me - Flo Milli

Wanings: Rough sex, erotic dancer, dirty talk, humiliation kink, light spanking, coming inside. porn with feelings.

My first EVER fic. English is not my first language, 100% accept advices and correction in the grammar and vocabulary, but please be nice. 🥹

Don’t know how to make the introduction cute, new on tumblr 😭

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆⋆｡

You never have felt so hot than you feel right now, you took some classes before, but you never felt this adrenaline while pole dancing, especially because you never danced with this type of clothes, never had a crowd of men mesmerized by you, and most important, never had him staring at you that way.

You are wearing the most revealing outfit you’ve ever worn in your life, a blood red push up bra, and the tiniest lace shorts of the same color, a fishnet stocking that suits your skin color, making your thighs shine, and a high black plataform. A red mask covering your eyes and nose, leaving only your lips showing, with a lipstick as red as his carmine eyes. Your curly hair is completely matted from the sweat and movements, you knew how hard it would be to untangle it later. But for some reason, that just complemented the whole look, you looked feline.

He was looking in your direction, with a look that would make anyone shiver. It seemed like anger, but he was licking and biting his lips like he was thirsty, like he was hungry, for something, for someone.

You thought that maybe the villain was close to you, maybe they were in that crowd that was throwing money at you.

You were on mission, it just didn’t make sense that the others were searching for a terrible villain, involved with illegal prostitution, and he was just standing there, like your fucking bodyguard. He probably had a plan.

Everyone would joke that you are his crush, cause you’re only one that haven’t got a rude nickname. And you’ve always answered that he probably didn’t noticed you yet to create a name for you.

These thoughts were immediately vanished from your head as the song that you been obsessing over for weeks starts playing: Never Lose Me - Flo Mili. In this moment you just get so excited, you just let the rhythm control your body on that pole, as you mouth the song without even noticing it.

“Never had a bitch like me in your life

And you ain't never had a bitch like me in your life, uh

Never had a bitch like me in your life”

You don’t even notice those perverts freaking the fuck out at this new interaction

You weren’t even thinking straight, maybe your body thought this was another wet dream your had about performing like this to Bakugo.

“Tell me you don't never wanna lose me (lose me)

Tell me you don't never-”

You searched for his eyes on the club, and once you found it, it mesmerized you, you clearly wasn’t being yourself, maybe it was the mask that gave you the confidence - and the stupidity - to just stare at him while erotically dancing and singing softly

“When I suck it, I look in your eyes (yeah)

You better fuck me like you mean it (fuck me like you mean it)”

That moment, you noticed his expression shift, from a angered look to a eyebrow raise and a smug grin. You thought you were delusional.

“Doin' good, bitch, I'm gucci (bitch, I'm gucci)

When we fuckin', it feel like a movie (it feel like a movie)”

As the music stoped you go back to reality, noticing what you did, but you didn’t even had time to process everything. Someone grabbed you by your wrists, and drag you out of that stage and pole, it was Mina. They got him.

The cops are outside and the villain is cuffed, and three of his men are in the same situation. You been shoved into the teams car, Bakugo sits on the drivers seat, and Kirishima on the passenger’s seat. you, Mina and Deku, behind. She covers you with a coat, you totally forgot you were seminude.

- Oh my god. I can’t believe your distraction worked so well Y/N, that asshole watched you the whole night. Good is that Katsuki was searching that area, he catched the villain! - Says Mina excited and nervous - The other three criminals were just around the club ordering the poor girls around.

That moment you realize that Bakugo wasn’t watching you, he was actually watching one of your watchers. Your eyes widen and your cheeks redden.

You look into the car mirror, he was looking at you, with one of his eyebrows raised, almost laughing at your face. You wanted to die.

The whole ride you were quiet, unless if asked something

- Where did you learn all of that? You were SO hot on that stage - Mina shouts, making your face even redder

- Hm. i just took some classes for fun, you know? Never thought i was going to actually use it. - You say staring your hands, to embarrassed to look up and meet his eyes again, which were shifting between you and the road.

You got to the UA accommodations, your coat was long enough to cover your thighs, or else your classmates waiting on you team would see you semi naked

They tried to make conversation, Bakugo didn’t even paid attention and just went to the rooms. You did your best to be polite enough when leaving too. Walking towards the rooms, you saw him at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall next to your door. Your stomach dropped.

You just wanted to turn around and go back to the living room. But you kept walking, trying to ignore him, didn’t even look in his direction, while he didn’t took his eyes off you, as if he was daring you to stare back at him. You didn’t.

As you got to your room, you tried to open the door, doing your best to not drop your keys and to stop shaking.

He didn’t turn his body in you direction, but still, he was so damn close, you could smell him, it kind of reminded you of a gas station. It was addictive.

You finally opened it, he pushed you inside, entering without an invitation, pushed you against your own door. It all happened so fast that hadn’t had enough time to think before he started talking. His voice sounded so angry and deep.

- You’re going to explain to me what you were doing today.

- W- What do you mean? - You tried so hard to speak coherently - We were in a mission, i was designed to dance as a distraction and undercover.

- But not to distract me. You thought that dressing as a slut and singing that song to me, you wouldn’t catch my attention? - He said pushing you harder against the wall - Maybe that’s what you wanted.

- Fuck you! Not everything is about your ass.

- I thought you wanted me to fuck you, like I mean it, right? - He said it mockingly.

You kept quietly, you felt a heat in you stomach and between your legs.

His hand started opening your coat, the other one he placed in the back of your neck, he started with a caress that sent shivers through your body, giving him an unspoken permission.

The caress stopped and he tugged your matted hair tightly, making you moan with the unexpected pain, with that, his mouth curled in a smug grin.

He managed to take of the coat without you even noticing, now you were wearing only your lingerie. He didn’t have you time to be embarrassed, capturing your lips with so much hunger, seemed like he was starving for this, for you.

The kiss wasn’t romantic or calm, it was angry and burning. His sweaty hands gripping you turned the temperature of the room up. Your hands curled up in his hair, and that made him lift you up, your legs circled his hips.

he headed you to the bed, he didn’t even tripped once, it was like he knew the way to your bed like the palm of his hands. But he never had been to your bedroom, right?

He sat on the bed and you sat on top of him, neither of you broke the kiss. He started moving your hips with his hands, creating fiction between your covered parts.

- I’m the only one who should see you wearing this, gonna teach you to dance like that only for me. - He whispered in you ear

His voice had a huge effect on you, and on your pussy. His kisses trailed a way through your neck to chest. Hands left your hips and touched your back until it was in the clip of your bra. But it stopped there

- Are you lazy or sum? Who the fuck told you to stop moving? - He slapped your ass right as he finished his sentence. Gripping your thigh right after the smack.

- Hm… Sorry - You moaned, you restarted the rolling of your hips, eagerly, as if it would satisfy you.

After so much teasing, he finally took of your bra. And your shaking hands moved to his T-shirt, unbuttoning it. At that moment you focused on his face, his eyes were in your tits, as you moved your hips they bounced, he licked his lips while watched you hungrily.

His eyes met yours, for the first time that night, his glaze wasn’t dominant, it was kind of begging, he took a moment to observe your features a bit. Your face was red and eyes teary, lips swollen from his kisses and bites, neck and chest with purple and red marks all over.

- Fuck… You’re beautiful, I hate it.

He rolled you, to lay down in your back, under him. Kissing you again, as he tried to unbutton his pants. Wearing only boxers, he started to grind your intimacies again, making you moan. It was taking so fucking long.

He took of your shorts and the stockings so fast, leaving you only in a thong. Pushing your panties to the side, his fingers started working on you, in and out of your cunt, making wet noises

- You’re so fucking wet…

- Just fuck me then, hm… You’re taking to fucking long!

He raised his eyebrows and chuckled

- Didn’t know you were such a eager whore. I’m doing you a favor by preparing you.

- Your ego is so huge, you think I can’t take your tiny dick?

He stopped. You didn’t even saw him doing the movement of freeing his cock from his pants, you just noticed when it was already invading you. It was big, and he wasn’t gentle. Your eyes started tearing up, you really couldn’t take it

- Ah! Wait. - You cried. - Calm down.

- What is it? Isn’t it tiny, you bitch? - Couldn’t he take a joke?

- Sorry, calm down, please. - He complied, stopped a bit

- Is it all way in? - You asked

- Not yet. I’ll be nice, but only this time.

He went for another kiss, while shoving it gently, his hand moving from your legs to boobs. When it was all in, he started with a calm rhythm, which didn’t suit his personality.

You moaned, pulled him closer to you and arched your back, wanting more.

He shoved his face in your neck and sniffed, you smelled so fucking good. It was all too much for him, your moans, your scent, the hotness in that room.

He started to pound into you, hard.

- Ugh… Fuck - He moaned into your ear

You sunk your nails on his arms and back while he ravished you. Each trust deeper than the previous.

- How long have you been dreaming of me destroying your pussy like this?

You just couldn’t think of an answer that wasn’t humiliating

He slapped your face and then grabbed it while your cheek that was still burning, kissing the pout that his hand forcefully formed in your mouth.

- Answer me, you disgusting whore. I want to know how much time I wasted without having this pretty bitch to fuck when I want.

- Aah. Since… Since I first saw you, i’ve been waiting for you to make a move… I- He stopped you with a kiss, his tongue invading your mouth.

He was going deeper, almost hurting.

The tension growing on your stomach, your pussy throbbing and your heart pounding in your chest.

- Are you going to cum princess? - He asked trying to mock you, but his voice revealed how much he was trying not to reach his own peak.

You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. It was already too much for you, phrasing your situation wasn’t really possible

- Come for me, slut. Now that I know that’s what you’ve been wanting since we first met.

That was it. Hell. You actually came like a slut, you just felt the tension being released, how long haven’t you had such an intense orgasm? You couldn’t control yourself, you didn’t even tried.

You tried to scream, but he closed your mouth with his hands, thankfully. Your eyes were watery and you were shaking in a embarrassing way

Katsuki didn’t seem to think it was embarrassing, he actually never had seen such a sinful scene before.

He decided at that moment that no other man will have the pleasure of seeing that sight.

You were still panting when he turned you around, belly on the bed, not doggy style, you were actually laying down, when he laid on top of your body, inserting himself into you once again, while breathing in your ear and kissing your cheeks and shoulders. It was so… intimate.

- You’re beautiful, the most gorgeous woman on the fucking earth. - He hummed in your ear, while fucking you so calmingly, as if he was trying to enjoy every single inch of your cunt.

- Can’t believe I took so damn long to have you. You’re mine now. - And in one last thrust he shoved himself deep inside you, just to come into your womb. And you came once again, didn’t know if it was from his words or his seed spilling from your pussy to your legs.

He laid by your side quietly, his chest on your back, beating wildly, his arm circling you. In completely silent, that’s how you fell asleep that night.

[joannasteez]

starship pain

pairing: cody rhodes x reader , cm punk x reader warning: explicit content (smut) minors pls dni. angst. emotional infidelity? loads of description!!! a lot of space related metaphors. authors note: lovely little request from @harmshake i hope i did your idea some justice. this takes place after mania. somethings are changed and switched around to fit my ideas. so it's a bit of an alternative universe from present kayfabe. the one flashback i have in this has a little red text noting when in the timeline of the year its set in!! word count: 14k tagging: @333creolelady @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae @coyotegirl-ramblings @luchorgasm @xbriexx @wanna-see-my-lease

...what gives a star it's character?...

temperature

color

mass

luminosity 

size 

...and with the display of such magnificent character, do stars not go about tirelessly with the work of inspiring awe? living wondrously bright amidst the deafening swallow of that deep void called space, so much so, that even with great distance, they exist bold enough to be witnessed. if so, then can we not be stars too? though not as great, can we not aspire, with terrible diligence, to be as breathtaking?... 

and with the conclusion of wrestlemania forty, the philadelphia crowd erupts thunderous. earsplitting even. the american nightmare, cody rhodes, kneeling with tears at the heart of the ring. clutching the weight of the title belt. gold in hand, the newly crowned undisputed wwe universal champion. the hearts, minds, joys and displeasures of the people performing well to revolve in orbit around such star-like greatness.

"your moonsault needs a bit of work still". your father's voice coarse from age. his eyes unblinking. a perfectionist's stare. his penchant for over examination as lively as the sun. existing still even with the residual thrill of wrestlemania. "you're hesitating too much before you press off'. 

you sigh. small enough that it goes incomprehensible. sipping at early afternoon coffee complimentary of the hotel. "it was just nerves pop", you give. because facing rhea ripley for the title, center stage in front of thousands was no easy feat. preparation took a back seat, amongst the lights and screams and hard bumps to the body. it was natural to have a seconds worth of overthought. "the match was fine'.

because it was fine. it was good. great even. two women telling a story with the violent bursting and clash of their bodies. loss be damned. it felt good to withstand the cold. to toil through limitation so fiercely. an easy break of a glass ceiling that worked well to loom above your head for some time. but your hall of fame of a father couldn't see pass the minor inconsistencies. a scrutinizer to the greatest degree. 

"you should come by the gym soon. we can catch up. work through a few things together'". 

catch up and work through meaning your body bouncing off a turn buckle till his satisfaction reached a good, sore, exhaustion. you pivot quickly at the thought of it. at the thought of drilling through moves and the terse cut of his voice. 

you pick up your phone, hearing the shift of feet from across the hotel room. another sip of coffee that plays well over the soft closing of the bathroom door. because your father didn't need to know the details of your latest tryst. especially so soon after the events of the biggest sports entertainment night of the year. everything to him, that isn't the four sided ring, a distraction. 

you smile. "doesn't sound like anything's wrong with my wrestling. sounds like you miss me". 

he softens. blinks his eyes and lets his pride show through a small smile. "any father in their right mind would". 

"so then say it".

"your moonsault is near flawless...", he gives. like relenting but not really. "...and i miss you". 

the bedsheets ruffle behind you. your cue to end the moment before it has the chance to sour.

"we'll talk later", you give. "i have to go". 

"alright. be good".

the face time call ends. gentle touching steps along the carpet of your hotel bedroom before you're slipping under puffy sheets. the philadelphia sun bursting beyond thin curtains to shape his face. blue eyes more sky than ocean under such bright warmth. his fingers quick to pull against your body. slipping up and over with a tender maneuvering till you lay against him like he seems to like. a drawn tune of a hum singing, your weight pressing in to comfort the sore, exhausted champion. his neck craning, rushing with movement to follow the run of your touch over his scalp and across the apple of his cheek. lips dipping into the heart of your palm. 

"did i wake you?", you ask. 

"no", cody gives. voice tired. "my phones been going crazy all morning". 

your thumb caresses just beneath his bottom lip. soft and sweeping. "as expected. the price goes up when you're the champ. so does the attention". 

"is that right?", tone suggestive. eyes a heavy linger along your lips. 

you oblige him. a small sweet reward for all his tiresome effort. your lips, sweet and rich, tasting of coffee as they meet his. a tender meshing before they slip to slot passionate. his fingers curling into your hips. a venture to endear you, moaning lazy as his body forms deeper into the sheets. mouths parting only so his indulgences can lead him else where. wet, tongue led kisses along your pulse. hot breath and the dull graze of his teeth. surely overwrought still by the thrill of the night before. this morning version of him performing with a delirious high. his every touch sure and firm. the hands of a champion. 

"how does it feel?" 

a deep breath. weighing the question with silence. finding a home for his yet to be spoken thoughts in the dip of your neck. the part of his lips there producing a shiver up your spine. 

"good. it feels good". the shine in his eyes threatening to wane. "scary. now i have to actually carry it. do some good with it". 

you kiss him sweetly. a plant of reassurance. "you will". words kind as you roll on your side to face him. catching the beginnings of an etch in of adoration as he fails to look away from you. a semblance of something near unpleasant troubling your chest. like being under the weight of his gaze is too much to bare. 

"thank you for being here". 

"of course". 

"i couldn't get to you properly last night. it all moved so fast after the match. one thing after the other". 

you find yourself ruffling through his hair again. your own will, making to ingratiate your senses to him. like staining the skin to lay a good base for memory. "it's ok. m'here now", mouth on him. an urge that lives with imperfections, your tongue flicking soft, lapping over sweetly till it works away that ambivalent trouble in your belly. urges growing greater by the second till they form with an edge too defined to ignore. eager now, to feel him against skin. the way the mellow heat of him flares under your palm, melting the worry till it runs off into desire. this performance of a great gravitational pull.

regulating yourself to one drink for the night is a testier task than originally thought, but it works well enough. the celebratory buzz of the room filling in where the warmth of liquor doesn't. the philadelphia skyline sparkling the dark chill of the night as the closed in rooftop swells up to a comfortable fullness. wrestling stars at every corner. drinks in hand and simple, cheery conversation. the scene of it all, once a dream, talked of and imagined, now a reality as you maneuver amidst it all.

a firm take to your arm pulls you toward the secrecy of a corner. your lips failing to keep away from a pull up of excitement. heels clicking to keep the pace as you're rounded about a tall column and tucked away behind it. cody pressing in. a lazy little kiss against your mouth that tastes like his drink of choice. the glass clutched in his hand still, attempting not to spill it. 

not so long after your intimate morning did you both part. post-mania obligations too much of a priority to ignore. 

his free hand slips into the slit of your dress. fingers curling into your thigh. a silky brown number that matches his undone suit. his tie loose, his jacket gone and the vest unbuttoned. cheeks dusted a faint pink. his mouth pressing into your pulse. housing there to feel the warmth corralling under the skin. 

and with only a few weeks of this relationship have you confirmed just how affectionate cody is. his every touch made to linger, his smile luminous and his words warm as they work tirelessly to sink into skin. 

"you look", a kiss to your cheek. "absolutely beautiful angel", and another to your mouth. 

you smile. lip tucking under your teeth. "thank you". fingers running to crease his shirt. pulling him closer. the curt shuffle of his shoes clicking forward as your back flushes up into the corner. your eyes sweeping over his mouth. reaching to lick in for a kiss that makes him groan. "you look good too". tasting the bitterness washing his tongue before going in for more. "very good", a purr of a moan floating in that makes his breath hitch before he's groaning soft. a mindless overworking of nerves you're sure. because the weeks with him thus far—albeit fresh—have been nothing short of a teasing game. heavy traveling and the looming possibility of a good passion not yet explored. that trouble in your belly shortening the full breath of your desires. 

you break for air, remembering where you are. he downs the rest of his drink. clutching the glass still. 

"you had a lot to drink?", you ask. wiping at his mouth with your thumb. licking at the residual bits of liquor.

his eyes trailing over your lips. unhurried to meet back at your eyes. "not too much. this was my last. m'tappin out early". 

"good", you give. tugging at the undone part of his vest. keeping him flushed up against you so that the strength of his cologne steeps in. "cause i need you sober. we have unfinished business". 

his free hand still finds itself making a home beyond the slit of your dress. kneading just where your thigh rounds out into the supple flesh of your bottom. a firm squeeze that's all possession. the action risky, but exhilaratingly so. his words toughing out with a groaning. "fuck the party then". 

"no. enjoy it". slipping from under him slowly. "we'll have plenty of time later". 

a final look of promise before you click away. deep tempering breaths that work to quell your own rise of desire. cheeks hot and your body beneath the delicate dress teeming with the memory of his touch. sensations comfortable enough that they leave you wanting. borderline desperate. but yes, what lives of the the draw, the pull of him, all a symptom of simple necessity. his everything sure enough to fall into. a security exacting to an almost bothersome degree. but maybe this full consumption isn't a bad thing, after past failures and flings too loose and undefined. shapeless, wordless things. maybe cody is what you need. your body tucking to lean into the wall that meets the end of the rooftop bar. "gin and tonic", you order. 

soft clutching hands at your shoulder. you turn. bianca belair beaming with excited knowing eyes and a smirk. "you got blondie real red in the face", she starts. slipping up next to you. "no thoughts, just half of a three piece suit and a vibe". 

you smile with her. feeling heat in your cheeks and a swirl in your belly. the intimacy of your relationship with cody no outright secret, but the confirmation of it never really reaching the great private sphere of your friends and friendly acquaintances. because it was business only yours and cody's to keep or share, but bianca is a good friend. closer than most. a former tag team partner. a nxt sister. and the playfulness of her curiosities were always as fun to indulge in as they were to hear. 

"a real nasty vibe", you chuckle. "that man was trying to give ya'll a PLE from the corner. i had to slip away while i could". 

"and i get it cause this brown and gold!?", her hand taking yours to spin you around. appraising the the beauty of your dress and accessories. her fingers dabbing up under an eye and sniffling with faux tears. "i taught you so well". 

"you really did". 

both of you laughing and sipping at your drinks. 

"is it serious?", her tone shifting firm. 

the question forcing you into a bout of consideration you've attempted to stray from on many occasions. but it's crucial nonetheless. a conclusion you'll have to come to regardless. 

"i mean, i don't know". thumb rubbing against the chill of your glass. taking to a silent mull over. the past few weeks or so a whirlwind of affection. secret rendezvous' and late night calls. the tenderness of him working with an endless drive, even amongst the world of work set before the both of you. "we're slow burning it a bit but i think the end goal for him is to have something serious". 

and your wording doesn't go unnoticed, not that you want it to. some part of you maybe looking to gain some much needed perspective. a nudge in the direction you feel is necessary. and she doesn't fail in delivering it. "you deserve something stable. the casual shit is cool but it's not forever". 

you sigh. memory serving well of your former trysts with a different superstar. "i agreed on that being casual".

"you can agree to a lot when you think the dick is good". sipping at her drink. "he's here by the way". 

and if you pretend not be be affected by the possibility of seeing him, of being seen by him, then doesn't that null the existence of the feeling all together? that twist in of nerves in your belly. residual things, like words and perhaps sentiments left to wander the void of space formally known as a very casual but fevered, undefined union of legs and lips. a deep passion left to succumb to the suffocating elements of space and time. 

"i figured he'd be".

his name is a draw. of money, eyes and thoughts. his return causing this gravitational pull of the people, controversial or otherwise. a veteran in his own right. for him not to be seen at a celebration of the greatest night in their business would be confounded and weird. 

"you good with all that though? i know it ended kinda all of a sudden". 

from passion all the time to none at all. hour long drives and last minute flights. apartments and not so high floor hotel rooms. his name seemingly forever written into the slip and work of your tongue. free and casual but still working so sure in that space of passion that the feeling of being beholden to one another felt more truer by the day. living too sporadically—and maybe too unrestrained—still though, to last well enough on its own. because without the consistency of light, how is anything sure to grow? and then in came cody, prying away your attention with the ease and experience of a star born to evoke awe. his light pleasant and safe. 

you shrug. "you live and learn, you move on. i'm good where i am". 

bianca smiles. her arms a nice embrace. "as you should be. m'happy for you".

"thank you", you give. her warmth contagious. your body squeezing into the hug. 

and when she's called away, montez drunkenly whisking his wife to another corner of the room, she parts with an apologetic smile. mouthing "sorry", as her sloshed to capacity of a husband drags her along with him. leaving you to live alone at the end of the bar, newly made acknowledgements of your relationship resting over you thickly. a tight take of adrenaline to your nerves. small sips of your drink working only to occupy your hands. unwilling to decipher the root of such a rush. fear or excitement. either way, the feeling of it drops your belly and leaves the tiny hairs everywhere to stand on end. because this has happened before, drawing too close to the power of a star too soon, burning amongst the void before the possibility of impact. 

shoes click, approaching beside you. his cologne familiar. a scent made to intrigue. memory slipping in to harshen the roll over happening in your belly. of course he'd be here. the self proclaimed 'best in the world', the second city saint, the straight edged superstar. after some months of nothing, cm punk is alive and looking too well for you to stand. 

you sip again. a cool lean up again the wall. eyes patient as they go about examining him whole. his doing just the same. 

he looks good in a suit, much to your dismay. 

"you clean up well", you give. meeting his eyes. standing firm against the heaviness of his gaze. 

"so i've been told", slipping closer. his body leaning up against the bar to rest just as coolly as you have against the wall. a casual disposition so incredibly indicative of your times together. "you look beautiful. nothing new for you though".

"you're letting your grays grow out again". 

"a new era, a new look". his palm smoothening over the salt and pepper patches of hair. a smile running through his lips. "you always did like them". 

a fight to arrest the heat in your cheeks and old memories. "so what, this is about me?"

"such a smart girl", he chuckles. "i love it when you state the obvious". 

you grin at his teasing. "i just had one of the most important nights of my life', shoving up against him playfully. "you can't be a dick to me". 

"you did well by the way". a sincerity that makes something bloom over the skin. a jittered feeling you choose to ignore as he continues. "a nice bag of new little moves and tricks, it was good shit for your first mania. get rid of that moonsault though, it doesn't fit you". 

you scoff. "oh cause you know what fits". 

body bracing for impact just after such a wild take to flight. the words leaving before you can think them over. his shoulders shaking as he laughs. 

"i've had the pleasure of knowing a time or two". 

"oh fuck you punk". 

"i mean...", dark earthy eyes sweeping over your lips. a lazy, patient journey over your body. a show of his appraisal. "...i don't know if you can. given your new boy toy and all". 

"i'm bound to get a new toy if the old one breaks". not that cody is a toy. no. he's no play thing in the slightest. a sudden need to defend him in that right springing up till its thick in your mouth. stitching into words. his every intention appearing precise and laid bare. sweet gestures and impassioned words. his everything lingering long enough for you to notice. "it's a lot more serious than you think". 

"so it seems", voice neutral, but appearing in his eyes to live, these little slivers of disappointment. 

its something not meant to harp on for the sake of your own peace. but they try their damnedest to penetrate. working diligent. enough for the air to feel too warm and thick to breathe in. your barely touched drink a nuisance and the friendly crowd of the celebration too much to handle. and thank God for cody, your attention catching his motions for you. slipping through the crowd to head for the entry-exit doors. a make to leave as he catches your eyes to join him. 

"i should...i should go-"

"that's a smart decision". 

cody's tongue tastes like his drink of choice. room temperature whiskey. the lap of it lazy and patient, aiming to steep into the palate. his lips soft, twisting wet as they go about the work of ingratiating the senses. his hands following suit. a tight journey over the skin, heat flaring up in the wake of such an ardent touch. curling in to leave cratered impressions. his movements breathtaking, your body hoisted up in his arms before you're bouncing into the fluff of the bed. persistent fingers and his mouth ready, tongue dipping into where your body pliantly unfolds for him. your legs spreading with guidance. an exposure to the air that pulls a shiver through the body. 

"so pretty", musing to himself. tongue slipping deep. warm and wet and earnest. groaning from a pleasure that comes with pleasure. your inner thighs suffering under the gripping weight of his touch. a steady hold that keeps you open for him. "been thinkin about this all day". 

you hiss. touch filled with delirium. your belly overwrought and filling in hot. skin breaking away from the chilly philadelphia air. your hips testing their limits. a gentle swing up that catches against the rhythm of his mouth. a sweet suckle to your clit that shortens the air in your chest.

his thumb joins the fray. teases the messy drool of arousal pooling to drip lazy like. a dull circling at that broaches the possibility but nothing more. leaving you with the desire to be filled to the hilt. your pussy pulsing hard against his tongue. clenching about nothing, waiting impatient as he revels in his own play at giving pleasure.

"cody please", voice near broken. a sweet little plea. 

he leaves you spread. watches your little performance of appeal. nails painted a color that leaves a beautiful contrast against your soft skin. slipping sweet at the bud of your clit. holding his eyes. enchantment and lust. the light of his desire bright enough that it reflects beautifully off your skin. curving its way up the body. paints itself warm over the work of your pleasure. melting in till its swirling heavy at the base of your belly. a sensation that grows easy. another groan erupting, surely from that clinging sensation you've bought to his tongue. pulsing and shivering. singing and moaning wispy for him. a full consumption that breaks the resolve you've built so easily. and when his thumb sinks into the fat of your clit, circling deep and persistent, you sink further into the sheets. a sharp "fuck", breaking into the air. your nerves unruly as they go in their frenzy. 

your body drunk, senses beautifully askew. a quick to arrive release that speaks to his determination. 

his mouth messy and slipping over your inner thighs. working to kiss your belly and through the valley of your breast. tongue peaking before it flattens over the perk of your nipples. an involuntary rut in your hips rushing up into him. the sensation like kindling for a fire. 

you taste yourself. pulling your lips to his. the whiskey and that dangerous steep in of your own arousal. his hands nailed into the sheets. your own freeing him from his underwear. hot and hard in your hand. slipping him through slick arousal, to feel how awfully ready he is for you, before you're guiding him in with a desperate hand. head tipping into the bed as you feel the wet split as he goes. a hiss of enjoyment as he deepens, resting just over the end of you. 

cody hums. diving his nose into the scent of your perfume. the stain of it at your neck arresting him. hips knocking in firm. deft and easy. working you open to take him. 

your palms sweep over muscle. to layer over that already laid foundation of memory.  his back taut and strong. nails clawing in as he fills you whole. your lips parting. breaths taken. belly coiling with the threat of release. and here the work of taking him in feels more than good. that troubling knot of ambivalence that once warred beneath the skin, trampled upon with a temporary defeat, as his hips work steadily. 

"you feel so good", a moaning drawl of words. 

an admission that slips its way to settling into thick air. performing well enough to saturate the room. and its true. cody feels good. amazing. his warmth gentle, and his everything near flawless.

the man wrapped in your arms, the reigning undisputed universal champion, is only near flawless. this, a thought that slips deep into your conscience. taking root aggressively so. but are stars not perfect in shape? bright and the enormity of them sensational. great enough in size that the draw of them from within performs well enough to gather equally at every side. a faultless sphere of a shape indeed. and has he not—in spite of your damning early morning sentiments—taken on that part of a stars character? wearing it warm and well. the wrestling world revolving to orbit his dazzling spectacle of victory amongst the mania. then what of it could be so wrong as to call him only near flawless and not flawless simply? the touch of his skin and the pull of his lips gracious even in hunger and looking to consume. a ready made heat not so dissimilar to a great star. 

it's clear. so very fucking clear, amidst the slow creep in of the morning, as your phone vibrates with a call, just where the doubt reeks from. 

'the best in the world' showing up as caller ID. because you never changed the name. because you never had the heart to leave him nameless even. slipping from the sheets, from the comfortable weight of cody's body. a fluffy robe over your skin as you slide the balcony doors of the hotel room open. answering his call. 

those slivers of disappointment in his eyes from last night. performing well enough to disrupt your feelings. like the grand effects of a solar flare. 

"have breakfast with me", he starts. 

no preamble to give you room to deflect. a sigh heavy as it leaves you. his morning voice coarse and unfortunately satisfying. maybe you should've stayed in bed. wrapped yourself deeper beneath the sheets and the lay over of cody's body. 

"we lose a little contact and you forget your manners. that's unfortunate". 

he chuckles. "please?"

"that took a lot out of you huh?" 

"not really". a dramatic little pause, because punk does have a flare for it. albeit in small doses, in his own way. and you can feel him smiling through the phone. can feel the change in tone just before he can give it. "begging is just usually more your thing than it is mine". 

and the truth only hurts, vexes the nerve so, because it is the truth. because it has life. breathing and smiling with the sole objective of tethering itself ungraciously to every little thing you do. 

"can you not?" 

"you like it".

slivers of guilt. peering to look through the glass of the balcony door. cody still sleeping, peacefully unaware. but what is there to be guilty of? the past solely the past. this little phone call but a blip in time. a soundless action amidst the airless void of space. 

"ok, m'sorry". he relents. receiving your silence in full. "i'll stop". 

"i can't do breakfast. it wouldn't feel right". 

"it's just coffee and a little chit chat". 

lies. "i've never had just coffee with you...", memory serving right as the words grow heavy and thick. leaving the tongue less easy than you'd like them to. months of passioned tryst' and rendezvous, from city to city, before and not so long after his return to the company. "...it's always had some accompaniment to it". 

he hums. "i know how to respect a boundary if that's what you're worried about". 

slivers of guilt still. a pang in your chest. the cool morning philadelphia air doing nothing to lessen the heat in your cheeks. "the boundary isn't just for you", admission quick and terse. angered that it had to leave.

this slow to slip along silence. a lazy passing over before he's chuckling again. like the type of amusement you get after a small win. his voice is all raspy satisfaction. "i see", he gives.

"i'm sure whatever you want to say over coffee, you can just say over the phone right now".

"you gonna make me bare my soul over some fuckin radio waves?"

it'd all be a less ceremonious go of words. not so serious. as shapeless and uncategorized as the months were with him. 

"you are notorious for saying things you probably shouldn't, so keep that in mind".

"old habits unfortunately die very hard sweetheart". 

a chill creeping up the spine. riding in along the morning air. "it's almost eight a.m., it's not even a good time to be sharing all this...sentiment". 

"then give me a time and place". 

"i don't know punk, whenever you can get to a target closest to you", laughing a little. the rejection feeling sweet and easy as it leaves you. "they sell journals and diary's with matching pens. that's a good place to put all of your little feelings". 

"ouch".

you stand. watching cody slowly make his way to the bathroom through the glass balcony window. your hand against the handle to slide it open. "i have to go". a quick throw of words before you end the call. pride slowly inching over the skin. 

a successful deterrent.

the “archangels moonsault", a name coined by a collective of your fathers contemporaries. his performance of the golden triangle moonsault habitually flawless. appearing more angel than man as his body soared for some seconds. awe forever struck across the color of your eyes at such a spectacle, so much so, that you wished to live it. and so it went, a song and dance done many times before. the child of a legend attempting to step beyond that harrowing shadow in hopes of creating their own. the awe inspired, attempting now to inspire awe. like the cinematic feat of interstellar travel, viable only through the art of imagination. a play at the impossible, and nothing more. the perpetual falling short of a dangerous aspiration. nerves fraying at the seams and a deep plummeting of the heart. angst, a side effect of near flawlessness. starship pain.

"just keep workin at it", cody said once. watching your frustration after failing to perfect your fathers beloved moonsault. the precision of it lacking. your body insistent on underperformance. resentful of the air.

the encouragement working against its own intention. a bitterness rising to meet your tongue. but the near success of it grows palpable on your fingertips. nagging the nerve endings there so much that it forces into the skin a deep repetition. a cycle of the same thing for weeks on end—house shows, and training, and live events and training, and meet and greets and training, and merch signings and training, and interviews and training, and photoshoots and training—till the system grew faithful. and whichever cracks of free time expose themselves are quickly remedied with cody. because if all these distractions exists, then the time to decipher the bitterness growing on your tongue has no room to live. the ambivalence attempting to sneak in your belly once again, snuffed out by other things. 

and friday night smackdown becomes an interesting state of affairs amidst your little world of moonsault turmoil. cody and punk both drafted, a feud storyline written up by creatives. the new undisputed champion versus the self proclaimed best in the world. a guarantee for money and ratings. which always means good business. your draft to smackdown a grounds for opportunity just the same. a fresh creative direction post-mania. but such good chances don't stop your body's war with itself. feeling the toil of the work, that faithful routine, and refusing to surrender from it's grudge. resentful of the air still. 

but cody remains. his touch heated and sure. a sweet kiss to your skin in the privacy of a dressing room before your first match on the smackdown brand. the memory of his words sticking as you make to kiss him. 'just keep workin at it'. the rush of affection feeling odd. 

"you okay?", his eyes searching. thumb swiping gentle, palm holding at your cheek. 

"yeah", your body odd in it's skin. tempted to leave but feeling the need to stay. you grab his hand. a gentle squeeze of assurance. "i think it's just nerves". 

"you been workin at it hard. it's gonna pay off", he gives. his smile small but bright still. a hand roaming gentle. soothing up your back. 

but the second city saint was, is, never too far behind. posturing himself as the metaphorical rock, adamant on flushing you uncomfortably against a hard place. slivers of mischief in his stride and in coarse perfected words. the smackdown before backlash interesting to say the least. proving itself as the first domino. the main event of the night a strategic volley of words. the returned superstar and the undisputed champion. the knot tying itself about your belly barbarous as it works, watching them dig into each other with dramatic promises of destruction. the usual song and dance of a good promo. waiting for something terrible that affirms the odd abrupt spring ups of guilt and that bitterness refusing to leave your throat. everything of your romance, center stage and dazzling with bright lights for all the world to see. and when the words stop, the crowd jeering for who they hate and loud in delight for who they love, the air grows thick with the way it deafens. 

rough thudding drops of their microphones before that faithful rushing in. fire in their eyes and a close size up of the competition. good drama for the crowd. 

punk breaks with a laugh. similar in an amusement you've heard, felt before. like he's won a small victory. wholly fucking satisfied and happy about it. reaching to whisper something in cody's ear. words that penetrate more than they're supposed to. something a little less fire filled than anger striking bold along cody's expression. like a smoldering yet to come fully ablaze. 

and it is said that for every star, there is a loss of mass in it's life time. a lessening of that gravitational pull. a change of character that threatens its awe. 

his skin warm, but not as balmy. his kiss sweet but the comfort of it waning. the journey to seeing to its ease seeming more painful than letting it be. but the need to try breathes still. living bored and tired and thin, but alive nonetheless. the late hours between the end of the live show and his first official title defense quiet and terrible. all of his little bright smiles and tender touches gone. the beauty of the french hotel drained by this sudden standstill. blue eyes colder and distant. taken by the trouble of overthinking. 

text message | outgoing: wtf did you say to him?

text message | the best in the world: what's my name saved as in your phone? 

your fingers feel weak. tired and unable. the nerves there doing well in fraying at the seams. held hostage by a guilt that refuses to leave.

text message | the best in the world: i'm not really a write my feelings in journals kinda guy, you should know that. i want to see your pretty little face for a chat still. whenever you decide to stop avoiding me. 

text message | outgoing: boundaries remember? or are the new gray hairs screwing your memory

text message | the best in the world: well i figure a little courtesy closure is in order before your boy gets his ass whipped on live television. 

text message | outgoing: closure? can't really close a door that never existed can you? 

a thick, curling cloud of steam rolls into the hotel bedroom from the open door of the shower. a silent invitation to join him—an olive branch living still in spite of his sudden brooding—that your body refuses to indulge. but the air does well in an attempt to suffocate you anyways. skin sweltering uncomfortably. or maybe it's just the ambivalence in your belly and the dull taste of something wrong on your tongue. frayed nerves and this half shaped desire to leave. all of these symptoms living as the summation of...of something that feels too harsh to speak to. your eyes take a steady read over the chain of messages. a once over that happens too many times to happen just once and yet there is no clarity of thought here. 

closure? a type of reconciliation afforded to people once terribly impassioned. and yes, your times with him were fevered. fierce little meetings that left you craving more. but never did the attraction burn so much as to bring about such a heat, that lived closer to something like love than not, or whatever he seems to be feeling. 

but there was that one time in albany. a confusing, charged little tryst. different from the others. his fingers curling in so deep then that he'd bruised your skin, like he was trying to remember you-

"so...", cody starts. a simple word edged with hesitation. bath towel wrapped about his waist as he pads out of the steam of the bathroom. skin wet and tantalizingly inviting. "...you and punk?" and finally it comes. the source of his brooding, his silence. that dejection of touch and affection. 

your phone grows heavy in your hands. plops along the sheets like a weight. "old news", words ironed and pressed. dressed up in a surety, that if spoken with enough, can be believable. because the second city saint is old news. 

his eyes are cold. a gray-blue snatched from the impending roll in of a storm. "feels pretty current", he sighs. turns to the table below the bedroom mirror. searching through a small bag of things. lotions and colognes and clothes and such. his perfect teeth spreading mirthless. "very current actually". 

your body anchors to the bed, and curiosity an anchor in your body. inspires a refusal to move—to go to him, to ease the tension in his shoulders—as the sharp edges of it rip through till it holds deep enough. 

"what'd he say to you?" 

"nothing worth repeating...", hands rubbing about his face. a serum moisturizer. taking up small work as he finds and treads slow through words. tone like that of an interrogators though not nearly as violent. but the suspicion in him bothers to root well enough that it can't be hidden. can't be done away with easily. "just implying a bunch of... of shit. which is interesting because punks not that type of guy on the mic. if it needs to be said, he makes it plain..."

"its a work probably...". tone cool. indifferent. the sensation resting in your belly just the opposite. words spilling, living two fold. an attempt at persuasion overflowing so well that it performs for him and yourself just the same. "...ratings, clicks, views. it's drama for tv". 

"well it feels pretty damn personal". 

"and what?", you scoff. "winning mania wasn't?" 

cody recedes. softens. because winning at mania was personal. business but very personal. the stakes of such a win clinging to the base of his emotions at every breath and turn till the belt rested in his hands. that much you could feel, drawing closer to him in those months—a sweet, innocent friendship born from this great host of similarities—till nearly every moment was spent with each other. his words and his thoughts and his touches becoming more intimate. affections as clear as the perfect beauty of his smile. and then comes the guilt, a drizzle against the air, like the first damning drops before the inevitable chaos of a down pour. your body lighter now. the will to leave him be, to wrestle with his feelings by his lonesome unanchored by the shame of doing so. 

"am i being crazy about this?", he asks. 

you move to him. crossing the exceptional size of the room to embrace him. arms encircling and your eyes gentle. his skin warm and comfortable. your body fighting itself still though, even amidst the vulnerability of him, battling back these slivers of a temptation to leave. "it's a mind game. don't let him win". 

his hands venture. a smooth, sweeping take along your arms till they cradle your face. thumbs tender as they roll at the apple of your cheeks. "and us? this is it right? we're solid?"

your eyes flick to his lips in a means to inspire within yourself some true meaning of devotion. desire and fidelity. your mouth pressing sweetly to the seam of his as you pull him into a deeper embrace. words kept unsaid. buried alive before the work of a damning departure. your tongue soft and slipping gentle. wet and precious enough to elicit a moan. the tension in him waning as he goes, falling further into your show of affection. shoulders unburdened and the heat returning pleasantly to his skin. a performance that convinces only his hesitations and nothing of your own. 

and that lack of conviction reigns over heavily. devastatingly so. failure thundering about your chest, slipping wild through the arms and legs, till it swims heavily about the head. ambivalence working ungracious in the body, like a storm of solar proportions. because cody had done well at backlash, performed greatly against the second city saint as they went head to head in their first of a best of three match. 

but you—your knees buckling just after the press off for the archangels moonsault—do terribly. a harsh botch that leaves your feet to slip, head hitting against the ring before your body can be properly caught. a concussion that blurs your vision for the remainder of the match. 

a number of horrible executions that follow, equilibrium disrupted, all amounting to a slow paced performance. your body resentful, spiteful now too. 

this attempt at a diligent work of resting comfortably in the security of cody's everything, like a roaming out into the hostile environment of space. unprepared and certainly unfit for such an expedition of passion. a fast deterioration of desire and the weakening of a strength to see to its survival. 

this longing for a good and whole and secure thing, a need pulsing your heart strong and persistent, now inverted, though working with the same vigor, to bring you under with a maddening sort of frailty. a self induced bout of muscle atrophy. 

"a break", is what hunter is calling it. his words and eyes this odd, cold meshing of empathy and business. a command that lives without the room to resist and it stings even the strongest parts of your ego. 

punishment by the ether, for aspiring to reach so far, with so much confidence, for something never meant to be had. because stars exist out of reach, with light years of distance, for a reason. 

and the doctor gives a definitive "no" on flying back to the states. a futile joke to follow about getting much needed rest in the "city of love", which in full effect lurches your stomach into a fit so disgusting that it empties. that bile troubling itself in your belly, waiting for its call to action, finally revealing its putrid nature to be formidable and unrelenting. a symptom of the concussion they say, but you know, above all things medically sound, that this is just violent revenge inflicted upon the self. the body taunting the mind for its ill-purposed ambition. trying to fall into something comfortable and love-like with cody was, is, and would always be ill-purposed ambition. 

the air of the suv heavy with that leather interior smell. rolling smooth and slow against the parisian streets on its way back to the hotel. 

cody's finger playing along yours with a soothing caress. a patient concern brushing up the drained make of your face from his eyes. soft music living under the sound of his voice as he goes. "they'll probably clear you to fly in a few days. i can get someone to book a flight for you, and you can just… just be with me...", a gentle tone but living definitive. committing himself to your care. a security you'd always hoped to fully adore. "...and im not saying this like you're unfit to take care of yourself but i wanna help...", his blue eyes looking for a response and receiving much of nothing. a shallow head nod that keeps him rambling. "...i wanna—just let me do this for you. please?", his hand squeezing yours. a feather weight gesture. "let me take care of it, okay?" 

you blink. eye lids heavy with exhaustion. a drained sensation that leaves you too undone for any proper recognition of feeling other than emptiness. your voice hoarse, the acid moving up violent enough that it stole away the fullness of it.

"i hear you cody". 

the last words said to him before his departure from france in the morning. 

an army of texts and calls heating your phone as the sun rose and rested amongst the clouds with a far comfortable distance. a reminder of terribly fated ambitions. water at your bedside that felt like heaven as it settled in and down the body. 

five calls from bianca and encouragement texts of the "i love you" variety. one call from your father and a message that read more definitive than suggestive. "come home when you can", it said. and a text from him. 

text message | the best in the world: heard hunter put you on a bit of a break. im here for you when you need me. 

not if, but when. the confidence even amongst the sympathy, frustrating. an imagining of his cool, more sage than forest, green eyes screwed with pity. the thought of it beating a harsh heat pass skin into blood. rolling in amongst the red till it rushes to anger. a pounding in your skull and a light nausea rocketing the delicate lining of your belly. laid out along the length of a too beautiful parisian couch, your body forced to endure the harsh gravitational pull back down to earthly reality. for there could no longer be an ambitious voyage to that outer enormity, in search of bright, wonderful, comfortable lights. a star so secure in its character that you make no qualms with the threat of it burning your skin before even the reach of full impact. and truly how stupid and cowardly was it anyways? fearful of a different end so much as to suffer with something that just barely scratches the surface of fulfillment. 

fearful of the ill-controlled, imperfect things so terribly that you looked upward in an escape to the stars. 

and though albany, new york is not the perfect choice, it is the most suitable option for what you need. a quiet, reclusive setting that works well for all this wonderfully, amazing, burdensome introspection you've been forced to endure. truths roaming tirelessly about your skull as they look and wait with impatience to be fully actualized. and maybe—agreeing with his decisions against your better judgement and instinct—hunter was right. this "break", needed. a thing that could not be put off on the account of some bruised ego. countless little mishaps and slip ups in ring that had eventually led to a nasty botch during the biggest PLE since mania. the look of it not great for business or your health. but to hear it, to feel the full rejection of it, tears through you something fierce. a complete tattering of your pride till it remained undone in mangled pieces. raw and red and blood filled. and once the doctors give their clearance for you to fly, you leave france silently. without a word to anyone. bags and suitcases packed and ready. the flight to new york like a shipping over into uncharted territory. 

because some truths had made themselves painfully aware already. did not wait for your slow foot drag of a realization. funneling up hot and disgusting with the bile from your empty stomach. 

trying with cody was only a dream, forced and sculpted by your hands and a stubborn will, till it formed with jagged edges. the struggle to fit two unmatched puzzle pieces.  

"your old man'll kill me if he knows you're up here with me and not training with him". a ghost of a laugh living along with the coarse age of his voice. jimmy "the butcher" cruz, a dear old friend of your fathers, and a hall of famer in his own right, sighing agreeably as he speaks over the phone. "but you're welcome any time kiddo. you like my own, y'know that? the gym is here whenever you need it to be". 

"i appreciate you butch", you give. the slow ride to your hotel quiet and familiar.

"let me know if you need anything else".

"will do".

the call drops. a blow of air past your lips working well enough as it plays an odd tune of some mild mannered frustration. a soreness of spirit where the body breathes and functions well, systems and internal processes going on as they should but still there rests this adrift feeling. a weightless sensation. fatigue and an imbalance of any direct thought. confusion. symptoms of the concussion surely, which only do well in leaving you to exist in this dead space limbo. an auto pilot of movement. muscles remembering the weight of things. your suitcases and bags, and the heavy swing back of the hotel doors. memory bruised but alive. because you don't have an explanation for returning to albany. your foot stepping into the quaint beauty of the hotel room like aggressively lifting the unfinished heal of a scab. being here, in this place, like your body is taking the long, necessary journey back down to earth. hot on impact of the surface but ready to land. 

your lips suffering under your teeth and your fingers tingling. a wistful air working about you, brushing up against your skin as a reminder of times past. here in this place with him, before the abrupt end of it all. 

flashback - january 2024 - albany, new york

and it is said, by scientists and theologians alike, that before the creation of everything, there was nothing. whether the world came to be from a Godly "let there be", or this abrupt but explosive expansion across the cosmos, the truth remains here, that we exist not of our own casual volition. and so if this coming into being—a devastatingly beautiful ripple through that forever stretch of space—is as ornate in nature as it is said to be, then how is it that one can exist so unceremoniously with another? passion this slow, steady expansion like that of the universe. his name on your tongue and his grip nestled into delicate skin. eyes fashioned with colors to rival that of those painting the faraway galaxies and the breaths singing between coarse little moaning songs, a great imitation of the wind. surely these are bouts of madness, giving frivolous, near shapeless names, for such heavy performances of affection. 

or maybe it isn't insanity. because don't we always give awful, insufficient names to things we hate. and even more terrible names to things we fear. 

the apple state inn, a small time hotel in albany, new york, is not known for it's size or luxury. a just off the exit, two and a half, maybe three star rated establishment—google reviews and the website beg to differ with one another—with a scarce housekeeping staff and forever stale, day old coffee. always near empty vending machines and a just out of high school receptionist who doesn't know the difference between credit and debit and counts change like they're counting sheep. but the walls are thick and the privacy is immaculate. immaculate enough that it'd be more useful and cost effective to keep from printing do not disturb cards than not. because once the door closes behind him and that roll of his mini suitcase follows him in, you figure—with the way he's nearly suffocating you with his mouth—that he needs all the undisturbed time he can get. 

the cloud over of steam and a stream of hot, prickly, shower water. your fingers sudsy as they comb through the slick, soaked ways of his hair. thumbs sweeping at his nape before the caress behind his ears. these tender little dotting ministrations that make him groan some. a dark, near weightless, trembling sort of song humming up his throat. tattooed fingers feeling stitched into the soft flesh of your hips as the water works to wash away the soapiness of his hair. his nose nudging into yours and the slight height of him leaving this impression about you that he's surrounding you some. working to consume. to prove with a wordless go of his everything that he's the best in the world. 

that thick curl of heat and the prod of his hard dick against your leg don't help either. his tongue jutting against your lips—a little lick that you chase with enthusiasm—as he smooths it over his own. such a damn tease. your body alive and burning with a war of feelings. not so little sensations that burst at your neck and your mouth and your chest and the warmth pulsing between already wet legs. the proximity of him damning to whatever words you used before to name your current state of affairs. because this seems a little more than casual. a little too charged and full of breath and life to be just a fulfillment of those nagging, sultry, desperate, bodily desires. because it's never felt this impassioned before. this slow and meticulous. a strangulation about the heart that makes the muscle somehow pump harder, faster. like if it fights for life, for it's right to be as its always been, than maybe it can survive the domineer of whatever this is.

the soap dissolves from his hair, washing down into the drain. your fingers remaining still. running dull over his scalp. a deep caressing. an act living so well that it forms it's own memory in your fingers. the seam of his lips pecking at yours. tiny, lax, unhurried kisses that work like they have till the end of the expansion of the universe. 

a laugh cuts up from your chest. like it's unsure it even wants to escape. a fear that it'll have to explain itself. 

cool green eyes and a spark of diligence you've only seen him have when he's wrestling. "what?"

"nothing, it's just...", eyes failing to meet him. dim as they take to the littered ink all over his chest instead. "...this is strangely intimate no?" because it is. the usual air of your rendezvous' living with a more curt edge to it. an urgency of spirit. something great and simple and to the point. made and brought about from a deep mutual attraction, but for the pure sake of fulfillment. 

and maybe your words, amounting to this cautioned little question, have put some distance between your bodies. like the air and nerve to say it leaves the both of you just a little more distant than seconds before. and it must have, because he's fastening himself to you. skin pressing hotly over skin, a slow mold, leaving you to shiver up against cool tiling. mouth still a sweet tease over yours. palm sweeping down and under to cup your thigh till it's hitching up into his palm and cinched to his waist. "i take last minute flights to nameless little, kinda three star hotels, to eagerly stick my dick in you...", his hips canting up. nudging at the sensitive bloom of your slit. lips at the curve of your ear. his breath hot and your skin shuddering. "...and i'm not knockin the hotels..", he chuckles. "...i'm just sayin. it's a bit of a journey to make it to you. this whole thing has been pretty intimate in a way for a while". 

you take slim little nips at your lip. "does that bother you?"

an earnest moan escaping as he slots his lips along yours for a real kiss. the gentleness of it turning sharp as his teeth glide to pull your lip. "why would it?...", tongue led kisses. hands cradling him hostage. his mouth tasting like the sweets he indulges in before he meets you. "...our whole thing is a little informal but that doesn't mean we can't have a moment...", nipping a trail to your neck and kissing over the slights as he goes. breath at your pulse and the thick heat of him slotting and nudging still between your legs. "...or moments". his words these actors of persuasion. as if muddying the lines of a casual thing has ever been good for anyone foolish enough to do it. 

"does it bother you?", he gives into your neck. fixing your hips to the wet wall as he grinds into them. 

the air thick still. his hair fine under your fingers as they find a home there. your lips kissing his shoulder. dazed by the sensation of shared little whispers and the hard ride of him provoking your arousal to slip and your belly to roll with delicious quiver. "no", you hum. meeting his hips with a roll of your own. "i think it makes our thing more enjoyable". words shaky and a shitty contradiction to the inevitable. 

because this thing, this flare of a sensation—soldering hot to melt your bones—is neither unceremonious or fleeting. it is that forever expansion, forming from nothing into something after the abrupt snap that wills it into being. a universe of a feeling housed in the fragility of skin, simple sweeping touches and the persistence of his eyes. 

your body is this picturesque take to the sheets. his arms strong, a gentle carry before he's settling to slot between your legs. wrapped up in your thighs and his lips placing delicate. and no, not like the simplicity of it would work in a means to break you, but like the need for reverencing runs deep enough that it'd feel like sin to ignore it. and cm punk has never been a man of self-denial. his tongue curling against yours, sweet and patient. hums of moans and the warmth of him working in beautiful opposition to the cool sheets. his thumb soothing up your jaw, palm cradling your cheek, like he's keeping the angle of your lips just where he likes it to be. control living easy in him. pressing kisses in without the urgency of forethought. 

and maybe the apple state inn deserves a five star rating. a review that speaks to the allure of low yellow lights and that natural smell of lavender stuck to the walls. 

an embarrassing sort of greediness spills over. hips rocking clumsily to rush into the simple glide through of his fingers at your slit. a firm circling with his thumb but still sedated. a measured touch that nearly aches your teeth in anticipation. breaths short and brattish whimpers. your back curling, attempting to steer him to the tight throb of your entrance. 

he's enjoying this. teeth nipping your lips with a small smile. nails digging at his arms in need. "please". a drawl of a whine. 

a gentle, testy, shallow, slip into your pussy makes him groan. raw and unmoderated. your legs falling over the muscles of his thighs, spread for him as he dips and retracts. the lewd little sound of it hot to the ears. "don't rush my process", teeth gripping into your neck. tongue following to sooth. 

you squeeze his arm. digging what exists of sharp nails into tattooed skin. impatience unruly. "fuck your process, i wanna-"

an emptiness. the dip of his lone finger gone, replaced with the swift swat of his hand at your slit. a gasp cutting up quick, your body jostling from the speed and the cruelty of it. nestling then in pleasure that rolls in after. his tongue still at your neck. remedying skin sure fated to bruise in the morning. your clit overly wet and throbbing and sliding messily along the idle way his finger just sits there. resting right over without a mind to do something useful. the second city saint, a bastard and a half. 

his laugh breaks into your skin. a little wry and a little mean. like maybe he thinks you're too audacious. so vulnerable and desperate and still making demands. "you barely know what you want for breakfast sometimes...", he starts. forehead pressed into yours. his right hand playing through the easy slip of your folds and the other tight as they ball the sheets near your head. like all of his control is stored there. knuckle white tight and fighting to stay strong. "...so whatever shit you think you want, it's just you being impatient and greedy. i guess its that only child syndrome shit". 

"fuck you", you cut. nudging your face against his. cheeks roughing over the gray of his beard. defiance rife. 

"oh sweetheart", he sings. a drawl of a tenor voice that makes you shudder. makes your hands cling to him tighter. like your hold there could maybe cause it to wring out more of his voice and breath, warm and sweet over your body. "you got not the slightest idea how much you're gonna eat every letter of what your just said". kissing your mouth harder. tongue sweeping with a less gentler purpose. lips pulling and suckling and nearly suffocating. looking to savor the dirty taste of your words. touch taking an abrupt curl into your pussy. a steady wet stroke that rattles your body with an almost ugly moan. almost. "you been drivin me crazy since before i got on that flight...", tongue lapping at your yours. a stress of a moan working up as he seats his finger deeper. "...been thinking about touching you for days". 

and you rush to meet the feed in of it. an upswing of your hips, urging him just that much deeper. praying for the feel of it along that sensitive little spot inside that makes your skin jitter and your breathing short. your hands cradling his face close. a tough hold in his hair as you suck his tongue. a lazy timeless go if it, nearly falling so well into it that you almost lose yourself. 

"someone sounds a little obsessed", you give against his lips. 

his eyes green but nearly black and piercing. forehead pressed to you still. "unfortunately yes". an almost whisper if not for the bass of it. 

your heart hammering. fearful and exhilarated all the same. 

and you can feel his mouth on yours still, moving and hot and dangerous even as your eyes close for some feen for reprieve. a break from the diligence of his own. but you can hear him, the pry the noise of him takes to flesh, like he's opening up and splitting your nerves at the seams. "want you to show me what you do when i'm gone...", kissing your lips sweetly. a second finger joining the first. burying deep to the knuckle and balancing with perfection the deftness it takes to numb your brain with bliss. clit nudging against the add of his thumb. sensitive and the sensation of it blooming it's way till it reaches your toes. "...wanna see how good you take care of yourself when i'm not with you'. 

that lavender smell soaked into the walls filling your lungs. the tips of your fingers pressing his thumb in till it's flush up against the swell of your clit. control ill suited to your body as you groan in his mouth. 

back curling in with another arch. nipples aching and needy and up against his chest. 

your longing this breathy, moaning, call to action. his mouth quick with a salacious answer, finding your body there. a flat, wide, lick over the twist of it. deep in it's savoring. curling and flicking and smiling about the perk of it as he feels you cling wet to his fingers. the pad of his thumb touched by the throb in your clit and the tight press you lay over it. keeping him there as he drags long and steady through your pussy. a greedy moan of his bleeding into your skin as it leaves him, the ball of your nipple playing in his mouth before he's suckling with tongue and prying with his hot mouth. wringing up the pleasure till it's voicing pliant and needy for him. teetering a line of overindulgence where he forsakes control. breaths heavy and hungry as he moves on to the other. a similar treatment that forces your hips to buck. a harsh, abrupt spurring that slips him deeper. right there, nestling and stroking lewd still. "harder, baby", you gasp. clutching the sheets. control lost. sporadic ruts that feen for that touch again. 

"there?", humming at your breast. fingers just a little more vicious. the sensation sweetening your blood as it heats.

throbs undulating your skin, like the rippling push of something that goes on to last forever. his thumb releasing to let your have at your own undoing. lips suffering under your teeth. eyes glazed and your head tipped into the sheets. chasing that bliss as it waits to unfurl all over. 

"yes", gasping. a tiny, pleading soprano. small and aching as it leaves you. trembling soft under him, the beginning of it rocking into you slowly. "oh God, i-", labored breaths and groaning. your fingers running up sloppy at your clit and his mouth suckling still. fucking into you with a purpose you're sure that entails seeing you go mad. "i'm coming ". 

he releases your nipple with a simple pop of his lips. returning to sweep his tongue through the awestruck expression of your mouth. a sloppy kiss. wet and meshing and a little mindless. pussy drooling still as it steeps and clings and throbs. 

"not sure he'd love hearing you say that but i sure do", a frail kiss at the edge of your mouth. "say it again". 

"i'm coming", you pant. short cuts of breath he presses his lips over. 

a glint to his eyes. gaze cascading over. appraising the state of your unraveling. "and so pretty doing it too". 

you hiss. body collecting with a short hitch, like it means to ease the landing of this brace-less thing. an effort made in vain as the violence of it takes you. his throat humming satisfied, and the work of his fingers going on still to brush up against that deeper, delicate, slip of skin in you that drives you crazy. a bright, pitchy, "fuck", flying off the tip of your tongue as you curl in and lose yourself. a wordless, world of a feeling. an inconceivable burst of color behind the eyes and your lungs fighting for those better takes of air. unruly and exposed. skin teeming with too much of a good thing. the bed dipping and un-dipping, the shift of him living just at the edges of your awareness. the taste of former words heavy and thick in your mouth, like he said they'd be. his fingers collecting your thighs to adjust the way they reveal the mess of you. 

a trail of dainty kisses as he ventures low. a journey over flesh to mark his appearance. a quiver playing your nerves, his tongue slipping to lick long along the full bloom of your slit. messy and drunk, like the careless indulgence of a reward long awaited. drawling moans and the grip in your thighs meaner than any touch he's given you thus far. a drive of his tongue through where you pulse and drip. weak hands near dead, trying their hardest to ease him off. eyes recovering and lazy, watching him go greedy. another hiss through your teeth, one now that indulges. a little less than brutal hold in his hair that keeps him close. the end of an old pleasure making way for a new one. suckling your clit like he did other parts of skin. little bursts of pleasure breaking to the surface, your hips rutting to following the sensation blindly. 

his quickness, a jarring little feat. feeding tongue into your mouth to share the taste of you. your thumbs over his cheeks and your thighs hiking over his hips. the hard heat of him grinding along till it's snug and laying at your slit. 

and even the thought of him slipping in is enough to leave you shivering. 

"how do you want me?" 

"deep". a thoughtless answer. your tongue wetting your lips, aching for it. "just take it, take me. i-", desperate and thin feeling. "please", you stress. 

his earlier words a little clearer. thoughts and imaginations disrupted, having been troubled by the thought of you. his diligence running vengeful. 

and there is nothing exactly satiating about this, about the pace, the life of it, of this. heavy feeling as he makes to stretch you deep. filling to the hilt and nestled comfortably so. like perhaps he was always meant to be there. your throat singing, breathy and filling his mouth as he makes to kiss you. a softness to you, boneless and subdued. the slightest touches made into something bigger and greater. a hand held at your thigh, a smooth reach till its hooking under your knee and the other calm and patience, the thumb of it stroking your forehead. 

"not much for being a selfish prick but i need you lookin at me", he rasps. cool green eyes just a bit warmer under the low lights. gentle and arresting. "so beautiful", like a whisper to himself. "i wanna see em when i'm coming in you", he gives. testing your devotion with a push of his hips. 

something heavy and dismantled erupting in his chest. bass-y and coarse, breathing over your mouth. his lips making like they mean to kiss you but never fully getting to the completion of it. your thighs housing a sweet aching and your ears burning hot, pleasured by the noise of him. the way his body slowly conforms to being taken in. easy and patient and terrible for his nerves. "yeahhh", he drawls, like an agreement of some staggering pleasure made with the self. or maybe a noise of satisfaction made pure by completion. 

whimpers stuttering and cut with short breaths. your eyes glassy and your throat gaining that bit of heaviness. softly trembling, and feeling crazy under the weight of his eyes. like such vulnerability would soon be your end. a quiet sob breaking free, fingers sinking into his skin for dear life. your pussy quivering desperate, clutching hot as he gives a slow, firm, slipping stroke, pressing in enough that it makes you whole. 

terror delighting it self in your bones. pressure in the body heavy enough to make diamonds. a tear slipping tenderly, falling over your cheek, the trouble of another release gathering in your belly. 

he kisses the wet streak along your face. lewd and hot and wet, pussy pulling at him softly to stay. an endearing path being made upon the skin, a light press of his lips everywhere. silent and filled with purpose.  

it isn't enough to let go, to deny the self of a former ambition. solid ground must be met, a full impact made regardless of how unsavory the process is. this quiet, contemplative, stretch of time in albany, not so dissimilar to a travelers great return to earth. readjustments made to air and the gravity. a re-stabilization of things—your walking and your turning and your weight against the ropes of that faithful squared circle and your ego—because a concussion only made your body's resentment more of a hell to deal with. compromise, a great ordeal with the self, a testier thing to endure even. a month of falling away, deep into the recesses of a particularly dark shadow. a host of memory lanes and the diminishing of self importance. FOMO a real bitch and a half to deal with. the frustration buried beneath skin feeling more childlike than anything else, eyeing the others as they roam and enjoy, from the window of your injury styled detention. week after week, nestled at the back of a little less than dingy sports bar, watching your friends and colleagues perform at the greatest arena's and stadiums. 

but the time away made for an easier reclamation, a confession you wouldn't speak well too aloud, lest it proved hunter's opinions right. your head clear of that horrible knock of an ache against your skull and the nausea more than minimal. 

minimal, but not gone. a small swim of it rippling your belly. flowing against the slosh of ginger beer you've become friendly with since discovering the existence of 'porters dive bar'. an albany staple for the city's exuberant wrestling community. the spice of the ginger steeping your tongue and the fizz of the liquid rolling over to test the limits of your stomach. like the first weary steps of a travelers feet back on earth. a fear of failure but an eagerness of spirit regardless. the building back of strength and resistance. a well made sort of exposure therapy. 

your phone pings. another one of his messages appearing. his televised win against cody at an arena in albany, working like a kindling for this abrasive flare styling his words. ego on fire and looking to consume. 

text message | the best in the world: soon i'm gonna stop asking to see you and just show up unannounced. you know i'm close right? where are you?

text message | outgoing: porter's dive bar 

and this here is the full impact. a hypersonic re-entry. soaring past atmospheric layers as the body is once again enveloped by earths gravity. reality styled with its many worldly limitations. rich colors and coarse ground and a pulling weight in your bones. 

talking to him is that meeting of skin against solid ground. the unsavory process. 

your phone pings again. fingers slipping against the screen to reveal who. dread coursing wild and unfettered. a quick washing in your blood that plunges the heart. 

text message | cody r: can we meet sometime soon? to talk? 

text message | outgoing: of course.

you owe him that much. an explanation—regardless of how terrible it will form on your tongue. bile and a lack of brilliance born from guilt.—of your faults and self misguided decisions. but it's all just another step. a heel toe to reclaim familiarity with the earth. building back the strength lost from that unruly lack of ambition, from that great deal of muscle atrophy. 

the wooden chair opposite your booth seat scoots harshly against the floor. his entrance screeching your nerves to wake with a horrible sort of surprise. the cool green of his eyes hidden beneath the curl over of a ball cap brim. shoulders squared and wide and persistent. "you look good", he gives. sitting across from you. "refreshed". 

you settle your phone down. a soft tremble in your fingers as you make to embrace one hand in the other. the feel of his gaze, like the easy thin slice of a razor over thick skin. a surgical opening that leaves you bare to eyes and air alike. useless to yourself and a short ways from uncomfortable. fighting against a painless pain, against that shameful, irritating weakness that comes with vulnerability. fears and slivers of frustration born from this ill-controlled performance. because cm punk, the best in the world, makes you vulnerable. 

you take one of the two ginger beers off the table. sipping at the cool spice of it for some reprieve. "your first words are always about how i look".

"because i'm unfortunately very invested in your wellbeing". 

"unfortunately?" 

"s'not a whole lot of reciprocation on that front". words not minced. eyes trailing to look over the cold glass left untouched. his curiosities moving him to bring it closer. "what is this?"

"ginger beer". watching him sniff at the rim of the glass before he tests the taste. the spice of the ginger and the fizz delightful and cold sober. "reciprocation". the truth of it cutting across the air, to give something deep and sharp and exacting against whatever assumptions he's made amidst his resentments. because while your investments into his wellbeing weren't as vocal as his for yours, they still hold firm in some form of existence. 

"where you been hiding out?"

"our little go to hotel".

he shifts the curl of the brim to reveal more of his eyes. in a manner that allows you to see them well enough. to get the gist of whatever mixture of emotions they take. a hardened sort of confusion styling them now as your answer sinks in. "why there?" 

hesitation. like the stutter of your foot after a misstep. body afraid to fail, afraid to fall after that great coming back to earth. "not sure". 

his nose flares. a fierce movement. and then his jaw. a chain reaction of many things. as if to curb the brunt of his anger. this overbear of a deep vexing, he pulls into the constraint of words. hard eyes and a harder tongue. "you got a real nasty habit of not saying the things you mean and i can really do without it". 

but it was enough, too much even to admit such wrongdoings amidst the court of your own thoughts and imaginations. resentment housed by the body, less sore as the days venture on, but still aching in the skin. felt in the abruptness of harsh maneuvers. swimming knocks in the head and your balance disturbed. those disgusting dull bursts of nausea and a heaviness in your body. exhaustion from nothing. "...and what is it exactly that you want from me?" 

"a little transparency", he grits. "some honesty".  

"i was fine with cody...was on my way to something substantial even', you give. a corral of words you feel were truthful sometime ago. back when the ambition felt sure and not so unattainable. before muscle deep resentment and injury. "we fell away from each other naturally...", words more like a tool. these builders of persuasion. and God what horrible persuaders they were. everything falling off the tongue half made and shoddily voiced. "...but in true cm punk fashion, whenever you don't like something anymore you get pissy about it. threw a dirty little wrench into my relationship to screw me over". 

his chair stresses against the floor. body pulling in closer. fury stored in the pull in of his brows. "you screwed yourself. threw yourself headfirst into bullshit because you're scared. called what we had a thing, because if you actually put a decent name to it then you'd have to admit how you feel about me, and how much that terrifies you...", his tone hushed and curt and piercing. "because cody is safe and easy and if he fails at making you happy, it's no real loss at all right? because you were never really in all the way anyways". 

you feel thin. subdued and quite overwrought by all this exposure to him. "you had time to say something. why wait till when i'm with someone else?"

he sighs. settles into an answer like it's the hundredth time he's come to the conclusion of it. "spent since january trying to get rid of you and it didn't work for me, and you were on live tv botchin the hell out of everything, trying to get rid of me, so i don't think it really worked for you either...so here we are". 

the air thick and the silence loud. the droning of the bar easing in to fill the space. a hard siphon of the energy by words and the confession of not so dead feelings. your ginger beers icy still and watered. a waitress comes, strutting up to your table. 

"you guys need anything?"

"two more of these ginger beers please", punk gives. a small smile as she leaves. 

his eyes the color of garden sage. softer now. flitting over your face with a renewed sense of diligence.

and it's more clear now than it's ever been. he isn't going anywhere. 

your fingers curl, a slow coming together into your palm to ball. multi-purposed, squeezing to live a little in that familiar burst of an ache. bones and muscles flexing as the skin pulls some. a summation of weariness. knuckles breaking against the door to knock. a similar rhythm playing in your chest, because cody could be many things. sad. angry. vexed. indifferent. he could speak wild or terribly soft, but inspire another layer of guilt to lay at your skin just the same. 

"just a second", he gives. bass in the voice and words slipping thick like over his tongue. in that way that he tries to cover some but can't help. 

a shift in your leg, like the anxious pinch of a nerve. a jerk or maybe a pulling. you're not sure what it is, but it's asking to move. to leave. to maybe do this another time. "i can come back later if you want", shouting some over the regular drone of pre-live show buzz. one hand slipping away from the cool metal of the door handle and the other undoing from that ache of a fist. making to about face into the fray of crew members. but he must recognize your voice, even through the thickness of the door. must've settled himself enough in whatever emotions he's living in.

his voice rushing. like he can feel you falling away from this long overdue talk. "no no, come in. i'm good. come in". 

your hand returns against the door handle. cool metal more like an icy burning. stepping into his dressing room like a re-entry into the world of him. his hair retouched to the roots, a cold blonde that pops his already sky blue eyes. his hands roughing with his wrestling boots. blinking up at you silently. mouth parted and slightly lost for words. like he'd maybe rehearsed everything and has now forgotten all the brilliance of it. a sigh leaving with that realization. like he'll have to forsake all the prearranged self made discussion and go about this a little less practiced. "you look well", he gives. with a nod. "the break did you some good". 

"yeah", stepping in further. arms folded over. body overly aware of his appraisal. "that seems to be the consensus". 

his throat clears, brows pulling together before they fall away quickly. this awkward abrupt movement that reveals the slow work of his thoughts. gears oiled and turning and trying out words before he says them. a farer cry from his in-ring persona, where he's suited and pristine and seemingly always ready. the little action of it making him more human to the eyes and less star-like. something you would have shrunk away from before out of fear that it would cause him some lackluster effect, now finding in its own imperfections, very endearing. 

"was it something about me, or anything i ever did that kinda just-...?", his voice falling off. left to motion oddly between your bodies with his hands. miming a separation. like finishing the words, allowing them to live in the air, would cause them to be true. 

"no! no, it was...", trying to find something not so terrible to soothe him with. stepping a little closer to him. arms unfolded. like the honesty begging to leave you for some time has now taken command of your body and it's functioning. "...i wasn't being honest about a lot of things with myself and it spilled over into what we had going on, and i'm really sorry about that". 

and he nods. not like he's accepting of it all but like he gets it. like he's relating to you. eyes softer, made vulnerable by his own truth. "all the...all the asinine bullshit leading up to mania just...", his eyes rolling as he remembers the trouble of it. "...on top of already wanting the belt for personal reasons, it just drove me crazy. and i think in the midst of that, i leaned in on us a little harder than i should've. maybe more than i planned to". fingers scratching and curling up into his hair, going about aimlessly almost. giving himself something to do to remedy the weight of his words. "we have quite a bit in common so...the intimacy was good enough, it-it was easy to just hold on to. i think we were both faking it to make it". 

your throat grows heavy, face warm with the well up of tears. relief meshing easy with the sadness of it all. the both of you willing to settle, if it meant being comfortable and not alone. a heartbreaking circumstance to force upon the self for sure.

"can i...?", your hands motioning for an embrace. 

"of course, c'mere".

his arms warm and comforting as he takes you in. wrapped tightly, with a friendly sort of affection. an earnest touch, made not to linger in a performance of desire but to give solace. sniffling against his chest as he squeezes tightly. 

"don't you start crying for real...", he jokes. "...cause then you're gonna make me cry".

you smile. slipping away from him gently. "well that don't take much so..." 

his eyes roll. grabbing the outer jacket that completes his in-ring gear. 

your fingers sweep under your eyes to rid of the wet streaks. shoulders less heavy and the dread in your chest no longer fighting to consume. making to leave his dressing room. "don't go easy on him either. i need him a little softened up". 

"will do". 

you make a full exit. slipping your phone from your pocket. his name under your thumb as you press against it. memory serving well, thinking of that sports bar in albany and all the empty glasses of ginger beer spread across the table. the vex about his face growing gentler as the night carried on. that line in the sand washed away, the boundary blurred and then made new into something with a better shaping. his cool, pale, sage eyes working like he wanted to remember that moment. like the satisfaction of having you in front of him again without any attempts to break away from him, was too good to simply be lost to time. 

you click to call and wait for his answer. an impatience running in your fingers as you make to join the producers and tech operators at the staging area. 

he answers. a simple, coarse, "yeah", that sweetens your ears.

"have breakfast with me tomorrow", you give. plain and a little demanding. "please?" 

he hums. amusement in his voice like he's smiling. 

"time and place sweetheart". 

[the-girl-lost-in-fandoms]

DEBUNK OF TIT FORSHADOWING

hello! i promised a recap and debrief of all the times dip and pip teased what happens in the terrible influence show, so here it goes, brace yourself 'cause it's gonna be a long one

GENERAL REMARKS

so i started with the videos posted during the summer, since they were rehearsing the show during that time. i might go further back if this post does well (they said they've been writing for six/seven months and they were already teasing during dan's birthday stream). anyway, there were some recurring hints that i'm gonna get out of the way now:

a LOT of emphasis on the fact that it's been nearly 15 years of dan and phil (cough cough, reminds me of phil's infamous inconsistant line about their anniversary coming up in octodecember, cough cough)

a lot of ancient lore being introduced by 'the year was 2009/2011/2015', which is generally reminiscent of the recap at the beginning of the show, and most are the actual years featured in that segment of the show

they acknowledged 'we are ph-', which they also use in the show i.e. the phouse, the phortgage, the pheal, the phitchen, etc.

they are SO aware of the moms/dads/straight boyfriends that we have forced dan and phil onto, they kept asking us to bring them and they acknowledge them several time in the show

DNP GOING AWAY Q&A (1st Sep.)

strong emphasis on the haitus (reminiscent of phil's dramatic haitus microphone moments)

say they might adress the japhan wedding conspiracy (which they do!)

the nude colored briefs (are for sister daniel)

at 2:45, phil says 'gay' and the rainbow light and sound effect happen just like in the show

dan mentions red flags (might be far fetched but reminded me of the green flags/red flags of lawyer!dan and doctor!phil)

phil says cunt (like in the show)

'no but seriously imagine it'

phil broke a rib during repetition of 'some kind of stunt event' (during the boxing/wrestling match)

they spent $300 on silicon for 'full body character transformation onesie' for 'a perfectly unsexual moment of the show' (read: phil wears fake abs while pretending not to have sex with dan on stage)

Dan: 'you're not a 365 party girl? terrible influence when you're bumping that?' (charli xcx is on the preshow playlist and it teases the terrible song)

reveal of the 'dan and phil made me gay' T-shirt, teasing of the sweatshirt and black tour T-shirt

DATE NIGHT WITH DNP (25th Aug.)

dan sings muder on the dancefloor (which is on the preshow playlist)

dan going 'ohmygod they SHARE CLOTHES' (one of the conspiracies addressed in the show)

WRITING PHAN FICTION ABOUT OURSELVES (19th Aug.)

it's a fill-in-the-blanks game, as they do multiples times in the show (okay, not really foreshadowing as they've done this in all of their shows, but i think it was a way to introduce this to the newer audience maybe)

MrBeast mention

DNP REACT TO TATINOF (16th Aug.)

phil: 'fall out boy! my chemical romance! the shipping had started!' (basically all the ingredients of the no seriously imagine it post)

'if we asked people to confess stuff now it would be so much worse' 'the tone might be different' & 'and if you come to our show, there might be a different tone' (so... confess your sins to sister daniel, need i say more)

#spon (which is now #ad in the terrible song)

'i went to see dan and phil and all i got was this lousy plate' (EXCUSE ME DAN??? he was basically spoiling the merch two weeks in advance) (this is the moment that inspired me this post btw)

dan 'professional hater' howell is now the one starting the song in tit

'imagine that but 2025. we're old. we're gay. phil can say fuck' (and indeed, he says fuck)

DNP PLAY DRESS TO IMPRESS (11th Aug.)

they wear the matching 'precious baby angel' t-shirts (same phrase used to describe phil in the show)

DNP DRESS EACH OTHER (14th July)

Phil: 'like two Kens playing with Kens' (i bet pj was crafting the little rooms and the little dolls at this point)

they both have mesh shirts as the main show outfits

'how booty are the shorts, dan?' 'i'm not gonna bend over in these things'.... except for the photocards that feature your ass in those shorts!

the two first look (emo!phil and beach!dan), the white cowboy hat, phil's blue and purple bomber jacket are all featured in the photocards sold at the show

DNP MASSIVE MUKBANG 2 (5th July)

'we've been doing this since 2009 and 2006 *excerpt from phil's first videoblog*' (that's literally the opening of the show)

'we reclaim what Dan and Phil is in 2024'

'we’re gonna look at what YouTube is like in 2024, how do we fit in, we’re gonna be taking shots at people'

'we’re gonna spill some things that would have sent you into cardiac arrest seven years ago' (2024-7=2017. so basically any of the conspiracies they adress from that time, like the tour bus, vegas, etc.)

'we’re gonna go full theater kids' (oooh teasing the musical number already)

'what do people want? Series mystery hunting, lifestyle cooking, real life, get a dog, domestic' (that's basically all the things they try on stage)

[stelly38]

I've been meaning to share this and finally got 'round to it. Occasionally, I write some review/recommendations for a group I'm in. This was my five cents on Rivals.

Rivals is pretty much everything the press said it would be, and then some, although it doesn’t start out that way. The first two episodes are slow and light on content as characters are introduced and plot points are set. But hang with it—the story really picks up from the third episode, when everything begins falling into place.

I’d been looking forward to this series mostly because it stars the deliciously hairy and handsome Aidan Turner, delightful in the role of Declan O’Hara, hard-hitting journalist and TV presenter fresh off his job with the BBC. He’s lured into indie TV by Lord Tony Baddingham, played by the always-entertaining David Tennant, who is terribly, wonderfully evil in his role as the director of Corinium Television, the biggest company in Rutshire County, where the story takes place. The other main character, Rupert Campbell Black, (Alex Hassell), is a filthy-old-money-rich and famous ex-Olympian, cad, and MP, as well as the Most Handsome Man in all of England™. Lord Tony has hatched a plan to ruin Rupert (the two are sworn enemies) by inviting him to be interviewed live on Declan’s new talk show. Intrepid journalist that he is, Declan has unearthed the dirtiest dirt on Campbell-Black, and he’s just itching to smear him in an effort to keep him from sniffing around Taggie, his beautiful, too-young-for-Rupert daughter.

Add to this mix Declan’s flirtatious and frustrated wife, Maud (Victoria Smurfit), as well as a cast of other colorful, endearing characters, all tangentially connected to Corinium, and the stage is set for all sorts of accurate-for-the-era shenanigans, some of which may be shocking to viewers who weren’t around for this decade. Think British Dallas or Dynasty with nudity and sex, backstabbing and adultery and corruption, and a much better sense of humor. There is full-frontal nudity (Alex Hassell), and many, many pairs of breasts, so be prepared for that.

David Tennant has the bitchiest and best lines, and I laughed good and long at those zingers. Tony is a truly detestable character, but it is difficult to hate him, because David is so wonderful. My favorite scene (barring any naked Aidan Turner) in all eight episodes is when Lord Tony throws an epic tantrum. I’ll leave it there. (FYI, the final episode ends abruptly on a cliffhanger, as the series only goes about halfway through the novel by Jilly Cooper.)

Speaking of Mr. Turner, we get to see quite a bit of him (just not that bit), as well as a huge, ridiculous mustache à la Hal Linden in Barney Miller. The mustache is so big, it kind of makes up for the bit of Turner we don’t get to see… a girl can dream, right? Turner, as Declan, appears mostly naked in the kitchen while getting ready for work; in the tub, scrubbing up; and in various rooms of his home, satisfying his wife. I shed a tear of horny gratitude that television producers have finally refrained from touching Turner’s chest hair, save to comb it, perhaps—those lucky, lucky set groomers.

In a nutshell, the show is a snapshot of 1980s English society folk, framed around the power struggles within the independent television industry. It’s good, silly fun—trash—in a word, that is well aware it’s trash. In fact, it wears that badge with pride. While actual trash has zero value, Rivals manages to sprinkle some sharp and insightful social critique in among all the teased hair, orgies, blue mascara, and insane parties of Rutshire County.

Here’s hoping for a second season.

[lennadanvers]

Pure Imagination: wearing his band's t-shirt

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Jeff holds the very first Corroded Cofin’s merch with his arms extended. Eddie is just as proud as him, if not more. The band has been working on the design for at least a couple of years. It started as doodles on the back of Garreth’s notebook, at lunch, when all of them were still in high school.

Admittedly, Eddie wasn’t paying full attention to what was going on. But who could blame him? That day- a grey Wednesday- you were wearing short rain boots that made your legs look so… out of reach. And your hair! Over the months, Eddie had arrived to the conclusion that you liked rain more than normal people did. He’d caught you walking way too slowly on your way through the parking lot more times than you’d probably like to know. Sometimes you did it even if you didn’t need to. He was sure this was the case. Your hair was wet, tiny drops shining under the yellow lights of the cafeteria. Diamonds would have looked amazing on you. But he’d never touched a real diamond, much less did he have the money to buy you some. What a shame. A terrible loss for the mineral kingdom, truly.

That day, Dustin’s hand gripping his shoulder forced his attention back to his own table, where Jeff and Gareth were having a heated debate about whether the use of green was appropriate for a corroded coffin or not.

Now, a graduation and a rainbow of deterioration colors later, they are in presence of the first Corroded Coffin t-shirt ever. Ever.

And all Eddie can think about is how it would look on you.

Maybe they can make one in your size. Black suits you. Everything suits you, if he's honest. But the hypothetical way you’d look after one of their presentations concerts, wearing their name- flushed cheeks, hair up to fight the heat moistening your neck with perspiration- has a special place in his belly. He remembers he’s made a pendant out of one of his guitar picks. It would fit perfectly with the other charms on your bracelet. It doesn’t have diamonds, but it’s worth just the same to him.

As he smiles and admires the t-shirt- a milestone in their musical career- Eddie lets the vision take over his reality. In his head, you want to wear it- you like love his music, so much that you’re always in the front row, yelling the lyrics he wrote about you. You smile at him- not just in his direction. When he gets down of the stage, it is to find you. You run up to him, and he catches you. Your legs go around Eddie’s waist, your arms behind his neck: your whole body hugging his. He gets to have your eyes on him. You hold Eddie's guitar for him- he trusts you. Maybe you even pretend to play it and he becomes a puddle of a man.

But then Jeff folds the t-shirt and he realizes not only that he’s not at the Hideout, but also that you’re not wearing his name on your clothes.

Someday, he promises himself. Someday… the voice in his head sounds like the pastor that preaches on the radio: Heaven is waiting for us devotees.

Taglist: @whataboutbibi @hellfirenacht

Hope you liked it <3

Masterlist

[pinkieclown]

Cats The Musical Autism Headcanons

because these kitties are autistic okay!! honestly i think all the characters can be autistic these are just the ones i have specific ideaz for :3

mungojerrie & rumpleteazer (cause the twins definitely share some traits lol)

- the talking talkers… they’re both hyper-verbal :) while their chattiness can sometimes help with their schemes (they like to engage a friendly policeman in conversation!) but usually they just talk cat’s ears off cause they like talking

- always up in each other’s space, these two have very little sense of personal space and are always grabbing each other’s shoulders/arms or leaning on each other, snuggling, or generally being close to each other

- both love jumping up and down or running around to stim! sometimes they link arms and run in a circle for minutes at a time just to get their energy out

- they’re pretty spontaneous when it comes to their heists, usually jumping into it before fully working out a plan, but both can get very upset when something goes wrong/doesn’t go their way

mungojerrie

- TERRIBLE with eye contact, he’s always looking at everything except the person he’s talking to. definitely adds to his kinda ‘shifty’ reputation

- loves oral stimming, usually chewelry or something of the sort, but will absentmindedly chew on p much anything in his reach (pens, plastic, teazer’s arm, etc)

- has poor volume control, tends to talk just a bit too loud or too quiet depending on the situation

- tends to accidentally interrupt/talk over others cause he doesn’t really understand their cues

rumpleteazer

- very touchy-feely… but only on her terms! she loves initiating snuggles hugs or play-fights, but if someone touches her when she’s not expecting/in the mood, she won’t hesitate to take a swipe at em (jerrie is usually the only exception)

- tippy-toe walks alllll the time. helpful for moving quietly when she needs to but will do it for no reason at all

- loves to give cats nicknames, but doesn’t understand how they work so just decides on random nouns to call her friends

- has a hard time understanding metaphors and sarcasm

etcetera

- THE STIMMER!! she loves to stim! usually flapping her paws, tapping her toes, or bouncing in place, but pretty much any repetitive movement is a stim for her <3

- related to her stimming, she cannot sit still! she’s always moving around, playing with toys, or shifting from side to side even when she’s supposed to stay still

- loves to knit or crochet with jenny, since its repetitive and keeps her hands busy, plus she gets a cute scarf at the end!

- has echolalia, she often repeats words/sounds other cats say, usually just to feel it in her mouth

mistoffelees

- non/semi-verbal, only speaks when he’s very comfortable or around certain cats (like victoria or tugger)

- loves to perform but is naturally quite shy and quiet, so tends to lean on his ‘stage persona’ to express his more dramatic and expressive side! when he isn’t in that mindset though he’s very aloof

- very diligent about keeping himself clean and tidy. he can feel when even one tuft of fur is out of place and it BOTHERS him

- has hypersomnia, he’s always sleepy and gets worn out pretty quick (especially after his bigger magical feats)

- has very specific day to day routines (wakes up at a specific time, visits the junkyard on specific days of the week, etc) gets really frustrated and stressed if they’re interrupted or changed

- he’s a house-cat, but refuses to wear a collar (he hates how it feels)

sillabub

- didn’t speak for a long time growing up, but at like age 4 (in cat years) suddenly started speaking in full sentences. demeter was very surprised

- has a (terrifying) habit of slipping into this wide-eyed hundred yard stare when she zones out. it took a while for everyone to get used to that

- very sensitive to lights and colors, she’s the first to notice when the light shifts ever so slightly, and too-bright lights or colors are very overstimulating for her

- doesn’t like being touched except by her moms and sister (demeter & bomba and electra, respectively) and even then only in certain moments

- special interest is the night sky, she knows all the names of the constellations and can tell you the phase of the moon on any given night

- makes A LOT of eye contact

[captainsophiestark]

Guest Appearance

Dick Grayson x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for my personal fic writing challenge for 2024, Sophie's Year of Fic! Featuring a new fic being posted every Friday, all year long :)

Fandom: DC

Summary: As a PA on a nightly talk show with all kinds of celebrity guests, the job always comes with some level of unexpected chaos. But when Dick Grayson's interview is interrupted by a New York supervillain, the events of the night might reach a whole new level of wild adventure

Word Count: 2,967

Category: Fluff, Humor, maybe a little bit of Angst

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

"Can you believe he's really here?"

"No. How is it possible that he's somehow hotter in person?"

I stifled a laugh behind my hand and turned to look at my coworker, Tara, who had an absolutely shameless grin on her face. I shook my head, but I couldn't stop a similar smile from spreading across my own face, too.

We'd become work besties since we got hired and added to the crew of the same talk show together at the same time. We'd worked with a laundry list of truly incredible guests (and some truly terrible ones), but today was officially the record best for the both of us.

Richard Grayson, the famous, charming philanthropist and eldest son of Bruce Wayne was our guest for today's show. My job was making sure talent knew where to go and that they got there on time, so even better, I'd actually been able to interact with him a bit.

"Was he nice?" asked Tara, keeping her voice low as we watched our host go through the interview as planned. "Please tell me he was nice. I don't think I could handle it if he was an asshole."

"Oh, Tara, he was so sweet. You should've seen the smile he gave me when we were introduced. And he remembered my name, he said thank you specifically to me when I got him to the stage earlier!"

Tara sighed. "I'm in love."

"Honestly? Same."

The two of us fell into comfortable silence as we returned our attention to the shoot before us. The host was asking about some charity work Dick Grayson and his dad had gotten behind recently, and every time the host tried to give him accolades, Dick deflected and turned all the attention back to the volunteers and the people they were trying to help.

I was quite literally melting. Next to me, Tara seemed to be having the same reaction.

"I wish he could come on every week," she muttered, shaking her head. "They're about to wrap this part though, I need to get in position to set up for the game they're gonna play. Continue this after the show?"

"You're on."

She shot me a wink, then headed over to where all the props were resting for the game our host was going to play with Grayson. I turned my attention back to the interview, then frowned. Something weird was going on with the backdrop of the set. The color was changing to an icier white, as if frost was spreading across it. I squinted, trying to get a closer look, when everything around me exploded.

Cold wind swept through the studio as the lights went out. Members of the audience screamed, and I whirled around a moment later to see exactly why. Killer Frost, one of the supervillains who sometimes operated here in New York, was at the top of the audience seats, sending ice and freezing wind through the entire studio.

I shook my head, taking a few steps backwards before I thought better of it. I turned to the main stage where our host, guest, and a few others had been, searching for anybody I could help out of here, only to find it empty. A moment later Tara rushed up to me, a panicked look in her eye.

"Tara! You have to get out of here!" I said, trying to be heard over the increasing commotion as Killer Frost slowly but surely made her way down the stairs and towards the main stage, moving as if she had all the time in the world. "Get anybody you can to follow you, go down the stairs and get the hell out of here as fast as you can! And call somebody for help on your way out!"

Tara nodded, her grip on my forearm still like iron.

"Are you coming with me?"

I glanced over her shoulder at Killer Frost with a grimace, then turned back to Tara and shook my head.

"I want to see if I can help anybody else get out of here, especially Grayson. Talent's supposed to be my responsibility, and it seems like she's probably after him for a ransom or something. Since he's not familiar with the studio, I don't want him getting lost or stuck somewhere if there's something I can do to help."

Tara shook her head, but I started pushing her towards the exit and moving in the opposite direction before she could stop me.

"Go! I'll meet you outside!"

With that, I turned on my heel and ran.

Thankfully, I'd gotten to know this place well enough in the time since I'd started working here that I was able to navigate quickly through the back hallways. Everything back here was deserted now, which hopefully meant that everyone else had already gotten out. I threw open every door I passed anyway, looking for stragglers trying to hide that I might be able to send out the back stairs instead, getting them further out of harm's way.

The temperature in the hallway dropped with every extra second I spent here, and I knew I was running out of time, but I was determined to finish checking this space. Every room so far had been empty, but the last door at the end of the hall was our guest dressing room. Once I cleared it, I could get the hell out of here myself. With one quick glance over my shoulder to make sure Killer Frost hadn't reached this place yet, I threw open the last door on my list.

I froze in the doorway, but not because of a supervillain. Basically the opposite, actually. Before me, in the middle of the room, was Dick Grayson. He was shirtless, but more notably, he was halfway into the very recognizable superhero costume of Nightwing.

We locked eyes, just staring at each other for a few long moments while my brain tried to compute what I was seeing. I blinked, thinking this had to be a prank or an illusion or something, but then the temperature dropped another few degrees and Dick Grayson—Nightwing—started moving.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked as he quickly pulled on the top half of his suit. I just shook my head, trying to get my brain engaged again.

"I... I was checking if anybody was still here, I wanted to make sure you got out the back stairs since Killer Frost is probably here for you... are you seriously Nightwing?"

Dick grimaced as he slipped on a domino mask, giving me all the confirmation I needed.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anybody. But right now, you need to get out of here."

"Right. Right, yeah, you're right."

Dick nodded, crossing the room to gently take my arm and lead me out of it. I turned to the door at the end of the hallway that would lead to the stairs and out of the building, but before I could take so much as a step towards it, a blast of ice exploded against the wall, sealing the door completely shut.

I heard Dick swear under his breath as he yanked me back against his chest, moving me out of harm's way just in time.

"Get in the dressing room and keep your head down," he muttered to me before gently pushing me in that direction. I paused in the doorway to watch as he slowly turned to face Killer Frost, who'd finally caught up to us.

Nightwing shot me a wink and a confident smile before stepping forward, past where I could see his face. I knew I needed to take cover; I couldn't do much against Killer Frost, and neither could Nightwing if he was worried about protecting me. But before I shut the door, I figured there was one last thing I could do to try to help him.

"Dick, take cover back there," I said, faking pushing someone just beyond sight of the doorway from the hallway. "Nightwing's here, he's going to take care of it. It's going to be okay."

I wasn't sure if that would convince Killer Frost, or if Nightwing's secret identity was even something I should be concerned about right now, but I figured it at least couldn't hurt to try to help him out. I chanced one last glance behind me, but couldn't see more than a blinding flash of light as the two supers collided and I shut the door.

I took a deep breath, trying to gather myself. It still didn't seem completely real—it felt like a mistake. Richard Grayson, the famous son of Bruce Wayne, was one of the last people I'd expect to be a vigilante. Yet the proof was pretty irrefutable.

I crossed the room, shakily easing down into the nearest chair. Hopefully Dick, or Nightwing, or whoever the hell he was would be able to beat Killer Frost. If he wasn't, this room would surely be her next stop, and she'd probably be pretty disappointed to just find me, without the billionaire's son she'd been looking for.

The clashing and shouting sounds of fighting continued outside, setting my nerves on edge with every second that passed. Finally, they came to a stop, and that was honestly worse. I perched on the edge of my seat, ready to jump up at a moment's notice, and watched the door like a hawk. I shot halfway to the ceiling when it came flying open, then collapsed back onto the couch when I saw it was just Nightwing.

"You scared the hell out of me," I breathed, putting a hand to my chest. He shot me a grin as he slammed the door shut behind him.

"Sorry about that. I don't have a lot of time to spare, here."

"You... won, right? You beat Killer Frost?"

He nodded before ducking behind a rack of clothes to one side of the room. I could still see his face as he slipped off the domino mask, revealing the kind but non-super guest of the show that I'd met earlier today.

"She's unconscious, and I made sure she was subdued for whichever authorities get here first. But I couldn't stay out there to wait for them, since it might make my identity a little obvious. Especially when they checked this room and found you alone in here."

I huffed a laugh. "Yeah, people might have a few questions about that, my boss included."

He shot me a smile that made me melt, then stepped out from behind the rack of clothes a moment later, his nice suit for the talk show looking as good as when he'd first come in this morning. I frowned.

"What?" he asked. I shook my head, gesturing to his overall appearance.

"You look too put together. You were almost kidnapped by Killer Frost, you got shoved into this room by a vigilante and me... I don't know, I think you're supposed to look a little more rumpled."

He laughed. "You know, that's a good point. Hold on."

He ran his hands through his hair a few times to mess it up, then ripped at his nice white button up shirt until it looked sufficiently messy. Once he'd finished, he turned back to me with a smile, arms out to his sides.

"How's this?"

I smiled. "So good you might need to start worrying about the threat our hair and wardrobe people might pose to your safety when they see you instead of Killer Frost."

"I'll take it," he said, still beaming. A moment later though, the smile melted off his face and he took a step towards me. "Look... I appreciate your help covering my identity with Killer Frost... can I trust you to keep doing that? Nobody knows this secret."

I stared at Dick, one of the nicest guests we'd ever had on this show and apparently secretly the superhero Nightwing, as he came to a stop just a few inches from me. His wide, sparkling blue eyes and messy black hair made my heart melt and race all at the same time. I still didn't really know him, although I now knew something pretty major about him, but nevertheless, I couldn't help feeling that my sense about him—that he was a good, kind person—was right on.

I took a deep breath to give him an answer when the door to the room came flying open. On instinct, I shoved Dick backwards and behind the couch, and stepped forward. My producer, the show's host, and someone I assumed was a detective here for Killer Frost stared back at me.

"What happened?" I demanded, trying to look scared and wary as I shifted slightly backwards towards Dick. "Where is... is she gone?"

Everyone in the room relaxed a little at my question, the detective nodding as Dick stepped up to stand next to me.

"Killer Frost has been neutralized," she said. "What happened to the two of you?"

I glanced at Dick, still making a show of being rattled, and he did the same. I took a deep breath and turned back to the trio before us.

"I ran down here to try to make sure everyone got out, but Killer Frost showed up before Dick and I could make a run for it. She would've..." I paused, letting my gaze go a little unfocused as I swallowed hard, doing my best to sell the fear of the experience, which really wasn't all that hard. "I think we would've been in some serious trouble, but Nightwing showed up in the nick of time. He told us to wait in here while he took care of Killer Frost. Is he... is he okay?"

The three people before us shared a look, before the detective's eyes slid over me and Dick standing beside me. I very intentionally didn't look at him, instead focusing on keeping my eyes wide and worried. After a moment, the detective sighed and shrugged.

"He's not here and Killer Frost is subdued on the floor, so I'd say it's safe to assume he's fine," she said. I sighed, letting my shoulders relax and leaning slightly into Dick. He slumped a little too, putting a hand on my shoulder, like the both of us were incredibly relieved. We sat down on the couch together while the detective made sure we were both alright, and then my producer and the show's host checked in as well. They'd obviously decided not to finish filming today, and Dick was kind enough and thankfully in town long enough that we were able to schedule an alternate filming day.

Once we'd finished going through plans and questions and being checked on, we were told to head outside and go home. Dick and I didn't say much to each other throughout the process, until we stepped outside the building together, the sun shining down on the both of us. I took a deep breath then turned to Dick, only to find him already watching me with a smile.

"Thanks for that," he said. I returned his smile.

"Thanks for saving the day," I replied. "And I know it wasn't really your choice to share... you know... with me, but I promise your secret's safe."

Dick met my eyes, the smile off his face and replaced by a much more serious expression. He took a breath, then slolwy nodded.

"I believe you. Thank you."

The corner of my mouth quirked up, and we just stayed there for a moment together, letting the new reality wash over us. Even though we'd only met today, and neither of us knew the other well, things felt different, and closer, than they had before, now that we'd shared such a wild experience today.

"So... I know tonight, you probably just want to go home and get some breathing room from everything," Dick started, his eyes drifting to the city around us as he spoke. I watched him carefully, one eyebrow raised. "But I was thinking... after I come back for our replacement shoot, maybe I could take you out to dinner once we're done? I at least owe you a drink for everything we just went through together."

I laughed. "You owe me a drink? I'm pretty sure Nightwing is the only reason I'm not a frozen popsicle in that studio right now."

Dick smiled, and I couldn't help mirroring his expression as my heart pounded in my chest.

"But... I'd love to take you up on dinner," I continued, ignoring the rush of blood and nerves in my ears. "As long as you know the first round of drinks is on me."

Dick absolutely beamed back at me.

"Deal. Here, let me get your number and we can coordinate the best place for dinner and drinks."

"Perfect," I said, somehow keeping my hand from shaking as I held out my phone to him and took his in return. We exchanged numbers, then shared another smile as we handed back each other's phones. "Well... I guess I'll see you soon, then?"

"Can't wait." He flashed a grin that made me melt, then took a step closer to me and lowered his voice. "And thanks again for all your help today. I really, really appreciate it."

I nodded. "Likewise. Happy I could help."

He shot me a wink and another smile, then backed away, heading down the street and away from the building that housed our studio. He waved over his head at me as he went.

"See you soon!" he called. I grinned and waved after him.

"See you soon!"

I watched him go until he turned a corner, then finally started making my own way home. I didn't expect to end the day with a date scheduled with Dick (no matter how many times Tara and I had joked about it), but I was certainly happy with the unexpected outcome, despite what it took to get here.

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

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen

[youngsadlesbian]

BIGGER THAN THE WHOLE SKY — carina deluca and maya bishop.

pairing: carina deluca x maya bishop x daughter!reader

summary: you are going to college, and your mothers gravitate towards some memories of when you were still their little girl.

a/n: i had this idea out of nowhere and decided to write it down, even though it turned out terrible. i hope you like it!

word count: 966

warnings: none, just fluff.

You were going to college in three days, and your mothers were not handling it well. They supported you, of course. But the mere mention of the word "college" made them realize that you had grown up and were no longer the six-month-old girl they had adopted.

Carina still clearly remembered the first time she realized you were an art girl. You were five years old and had become somewhat obsessed with the movie "Burlesque," insisting that she and Maya enroll you in a theater school. You blossomed quickly and discovered your love for musical theater. The idea that you might become a firefighter or a doctor when you grew up died when your mothers understood that you would be an actress.

You followed in Maya's footsteps as an athlete in school, which helped you earn a full scholarship to the drama program at Juilliard School. They threw a party when your audition and application were accepted by the college faculty and were very, very happy for your achievement.

Carina found herself looking at all the memories she had of you on her computer, sitting in the living room on a rainy afternoon. She started with the photos of when you first arrived at their home, a chubby and smiling baby who was hardly any trouble.

Your first time at Station 19. You playing with Carina's stethoscope while sitting on her lap during your first visit to Grey-Sloan.

Then Carina moved on to the videos. Maya joined her, sensing the gravity of the moment. They clicked on a video of your first birthday party.

In the video, you were wearing a tiny pink dress with a matching bow. "Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you..." everyone sang as you clapped your hands, your face lighting up with joy.

"Do you remember how she smeared cake all over her face?" Maya chuckled, her eyes glistening with tears.

"How could I forget?" Carina replied, smiling through her own tears. "She was so happy."

Next, they watched a video of your first day at school. You had on a little backpack that was almost bigger than you, and you were holding Maya's hand tightly.

"Are you excited for school, bambina?" Carina asked in the video.

You nodded vigorously, though your eyes were wide with both excitement and apprehension.

"Yes, Mama. I'm gonna learn lots of things!"

"Be brave, our little star," Maya said, kneeling down to give you a kiss. "We'll be here waiting for you."

The screen transitioned to a video of your first school play. You were in a colorful costume, your face painted to look like a cat. Your tiny voice filled the room as you sang your solo part, and the audience erupted in applause.

"She was born for the stage," Carina whispered, her heart swelling with pride.

Maya squeezed her hand gently. "Yes, she was."

Then, Carina found a video of your very first word. In the video, you were sitting on Carina's lap, holding her stethoscope, entranced by your reflection in the camera.

"I'm here with our little girl, missing you terribly," Carina said, pointing the camera at your face. "Say hi to Mama Maya, bambina."

"Bambina," your tiny voice echoed through the room, and there was a silence as Carina absorbed that you had just said your first word.

Tears welled up in Carina's eyes as she remembered that moment. "Her first word was 'bambina,'" she said softly, smiling at the memory.

Maya smiled, her own eyes glistening with tears. "I remember. It was such a special moment."

They continued watching, finding a video of your high school graduation. You were standing proudly in your cap and gown, surrounded by your friends.

"Congratulations, bambina!" Carina called out from behind the camera.

"You did it, kiddo!" Maya added, her voice full of pride.

Finally, they reached the video of your high school prom. You were dressed in a beautiful gown, your hair and makeup done perfectly. Your date, a close friend, stood beside you, both of you beaming with excitement.

"Look at our beautiful girl," Carina said, her voice filled with emotion.

"You two look amazing!" Maya added, capturing every moment on camera.

You and your date waved at the camera, laughing and striking poses. "Thanks, Moms! We're going to have the best night ever!" you exclaimed.

The memories continued to flood their minds, each one a precious fragment of your journey from a tiny infant to the poised young woman ready to take on Juilliard.

Finally, it was the day to take you to college. The car was packed with your belongings, and the three of you stood by the front door, each trying to hold back tears. Carina hugged you tightly, her voice trembling.

"We're so proud of you, bambina. Go out there and shine."

Maya embraced you next, her eyes filled with love. "Remember, no matter how far you go, we're always with you. You are bigger than the whole sky."

You nodded, tears streaming down your face. "I love you both so much."

The drive to Juilliard was filled with a mix of silence and laughter, as you shared memories and talked about the future. When you finally arrived, your mothers helped you carry your things to your new dorm room.

Standing in the hallway, they both hugged you one last time. "This is just the beginning," Carina said, her voice choked with emotion. "Make the most of it."

"And call us anytime," Maya added, her smile warm and reassuring. "We'll always be here for you."

As they watched you walk into your dorm, ready to start this new chapter, they knew that while they were saying goodbye to their little girl, they were also saying hello to the incredible woman you had become.

[howisjoostfanfictionforfree]

snip!

Part one of this series (which I will be posting soon) is almost finished but in the mean time here is a teeny tiny nugget since I said I'd give one!

Pairing: vampire!reader x Joost

CW: RPF, plenty (and I mean plenty) of other warnings will apply in this series but none in this particular excerpt

Remember guys, reader is the vampire here, not Joost

When you get to the club it is delightfully similar to the photos and you spend your evening rotating between dancing your ass off and people watching from the side when the smells and jostling get a little too exciting.

Yes, the club is exciting. The right amount this time around. You feel like a real young adult. You give yourself another pat on the back for your foray into normalcy.

It’s a smaller club on Lange Leidsedwarsstraat. By no means tucked away but far enough from Leidseplein main square that there are far fewer tourists. The ice is starting to melt in your drink. You can’t be bothered with it when there is so much to look at. There can't be more than a hundred people crammed in this basement but they manage to sport a variety of fashion and dance styles. Inevitably you spot hakken amongst them. The tangle of decks and mixers on the small raised stage is huge and the lone DJ operating it all is lit up in alternating colors as lights strobe from behind to scatter over the crowd.

You work your way out of the corner and back onto the dance floor again. The upbeat song playing now hits just the right vibe for how you’re feeling. 

Doe de Fryslân bop

Wist je niet dat ik van Fryslân kom?

Dude, doe de Fryslân bop

Blaas het op als een fietsbandpomp

You bop along for a minute as the song demands and notice a group of several people shouting along much louder than everyone else. They seem to know every word. One of them facing away from you turns in place as he dances and suddenly you’re locking eyes with the exact same guy. 

Jesus Christ what are the odds. 

Well, maybe not terrible odds if you consider he’s probably a local. 

But still. Goddammit. 

His face instantly lights up and it would be kind of cute if you weren’t panicking. What happened to not giving a fuck? Before you can move a single muscle to make your retreat he is surging towards you through the crowd and  o h   s h i t   you did not expect that. You thought he’d be running too. Even if he had been surprisingly horny in the face of inhuman eyes you figured the freakish speed there at the end would have been enough to spook him.

Shocked, you fail to stop him from grabbing your wrist like he can tell you’re gonna make a break for it again. Vampire reflexes who? You open your mouth to protest but before you can say anything he leans in and bites your shoulder.  

What.

WHAT?

[hurlumerlu]

@delicatebeauties your tags sorta inspired me so... uh... here's a thing?

More flies with honey

a short THK fic (AO3)

The restaurant’s bell chimed its light, cheerful greeting, and Fadel didn’t even feel the need to look up. He knew who it was chiming for.

There were many conclusions to draw from that, none of them good, but the two hours Fadel had spent arguing with Bison had left him too tired to argue internally. He set the self-recriminations aside and abandoned the register.

"I suppose sorry, we’re closed will not –" he began. Stopped.

Style… well, Fadel wouldn’t know how to describe the guy even on the best day, but this time he had, apparently, decided to accessorize. There was his usual get-up: the beaten sneakers, the well-worn, comfort-first pants, a predictable – if exceedingly garrish – acid green and hot pink crop-top… then there was the rest.

Style walked up to the barstool on vigorous tiptoes, the clear imitation of a high-heeled catwalk. "I was out thrift-shopping with the girls," he proclaimed, doing a little spin before reaching the seat. Fadel had no idea who the girls were supposed to be, but Style always did that, always referred to the people in his gigantic social circle as if Fadel knew them too.

As if Fadel was part of his life.

"And we had a bet on who would wear these bad boys best." Playful jazz-hands, showing off the red, silky gloves that flowed from Style’s fingertips to the crook of his elbows. They were custom made, clearly, and for someone whose ring finger was longer than most: the fabric diped a little where Style’s too blunt nail couldn’t fill it. "I won, obviously, so we decided to complete the ensemble." He flicked at his birdcage veil with a wink, then let his hand rest on his throat, where laid a golden cross necklace. "Don’t I look great? Very femme fatale."

He had said those last two words in the self-satisfied way he always spoke english. Fadel considered pointing out it was actually french, and decided against it: the idiot would just brag about being polyglot. Style didn’t need his input anyway.

"Then Koi told me" – he pitched his tone higher, in what was without a doubt a terrible impersonation – "you should go see that man of yours, see what he thinks of all this, and I told her, Koi, you brilliant, brilliant woman – oh, we should send her a selfie!"

Fadel plucked the phone from Style’s grasp and turned to put it high on the shelf.

"You’ll get it back if you behave", he said, to prevent all protest, and tried to ignore the stage-whispered that’s so hot that resonated behind him. Somewhere in the neighborhood, some lady he had never met thought of him as Style’s man. Fadel slowed his breathing.

The other had finally sat down, and was looking at him with his chin propped on his palm, waiting for – oh.

"Why are you wearing make-up?" Fadel asked, knowing that was exactly what was expected of him and therefore the last thing he should have said. Worse: Style’s joy made it worth it.

"Thank you!" He exclaimed, like the question had been a compliment. "None of them would lend me their mascara, but May said one couldn’t be truly fatale without lipstick. What do you think?"

"It’s not your color."

"Oh come on." The pout probably wasn’t intended to be provocative, was probably just a pout, because Style had never been that good at coming off as seductive. "I was just fishing for compliments, dude, you don’t have to be honest all the time."

Fadel shrugged. He hadn’t been honest.

He handed Style a beer.

A bad move that would inevitably be read as an encouragement, but Style wasn’t a man you could get rid of with a cold shoulder. He wasn’t, mounting evidence suggested, a man you could get rid of at all. You had to hunker down and weather him. So Fadel handed him a beer, and watched his fingers, in their elegant red sheaths, open it on the counter. Watched his painted mouth welcome the bottle, his eyelids fluttering shut in appreciation.

Under the neon’s lights, the golden cross seemed to glint with every swallow.

Style put his drink down with an exagereted sigh. "Thanks, I needed that." Behind his veil, his fox eyes had blinked open. They, too, were watchful.

He leaned over the counter, and Fadel couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward as well. Style smiled up at him.

"Now ask me what a girl like me is doing in a place like this."

"No," Fadel said. His voice was coming out wrong, too soft, too low. "I won’t."

"Why?"

Because, Fadel thought, I don’t believe in love at first sight.

Because Bison wants so badly to be a real boy that he’s letting some smarmy fuck lead him around by the nose, and that means I can’t.

Because I should know better than to find you too good to be true.

He was still leaning forward, the cold metal of the counter warming under his hands. If he touched Style’s lipstick, it would ruin it.

"What’s the point of asking, when you’re only gonna feed me lies?"

[ghoulangerlee]

this has been in my drafts for a while tbh, I thought of it one day, scribbled the idea out and then never committed to it.

So, I challenged myself to write this out in the 30 mins I have before bedtime (I seem to have went over by a few oops)

Copiaether cockwarming ahead <3, a bit contemplative, soft and full of love. The book Aether's reading is House on The Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune :) hope you guys enjoy!

-

Time around him goes syrupy and sweet, slow like molasses the longer he kneels there, mouth stretched around where Aether’s somewhere between hard and soft.

He'd been told before, however long that was, to kneel and be good, open his mouth and let the thick head of Aether’s cock rest against his tongue.

No sucking, just resting, keeping him warm and wet while Aether reads—and he is reading, from a novel that Aether had been picking his way through.

The words don’t mean much to Copia, not like this, not when he’s surrounded by the scent of Aether where it’s the thickest—kneeling here between his spread legs, mouth full, content—

Oh. He shifts, there’s a sharp pain in his knees despite the soft pillow he’s resting on, he shifts again, makes a sort of garbled, grumbling sound in his throat, vibrates down his chest as he opens his eyes, disgruntled at the way his body had so easily pulled him from that floaty place of contentment.

He taps, once and then twice more against Aether’s bare calf, gaze trained upwards as Aether stops reading and lowers the book, cataloguing his expression despite everything.

“Do you need something, darling?” Aether asks, pitching his voice low, just as he had been reading, placing the book face down over the arm that he's closest to.

Copia doesn’t speak, doesn’t pull away until Aether’s hands gently guide him up and away, his mouth open still as he mourns the loss of the fullness, but Aether shushes him, rubs a thumb over his lower lip where its shiny and slick with spit, “Use your words,” he chides gently, stern in a way that makes Copia want to obey.

“My knees,” he finally says, hating the way his voice goes wobbly, something about being here for Aether, kneeling at his feet while Aether practically ignores him makes him feel in ways he didn’t think was possible. “Can we change positions?”

Aether smiles, spreads his legs wider and leans down to kiss at Copia’s slack lips, warm and encouraging, “Come up here on the couch, darling.”

It takes him a few minutes to comply, his knees twinging painfully as he stands, but Aether’s hands are cool as they slip under his T-shirt, gently funneling magic into him, letting it wash over his stiff joints to soothe as he guides him up onto the couch.

Copia sighs as he stretches out, lies on his belly so he can nuzzle his way back into Aether’s lap, making a contemplative noise—Aether’s thickened up a bit in the meantime, and he peers up at him, blinking slowly, “Can I—?”

Aether cards his fingers through Copia’s hair, gentle and light, “Is that what you want?” he asks softly, thumb brushing over the graying hair at his temples, “We can shift to something else. Take this to the bed…” he trails off, glances over at the bedroom door, opened to reveal the rumpled sheets of Aether’s bed.

“No,” Copia says, the word catching in his throat as he shifts on the couch more, it’s located in the perfect spot, a grand window overlooking the forest at the back of the church, the sunlight coming through the crack between the curtains bathing the couch and the two of them in warm light.

“I want to stay,” Copia continues, “Right here. For a bit longer. Finish your chapter,” he glances and the book on the arm of the couch, the colorful cover bringing a sense of calm over him, “Maybe two more chapters. And then...” he trails off, uncertain.

So unlike the persona he puts on when on stage, Papa Emeritus the Fourth, so larger than life, yet here he is, feeling as if he’s suggested something terrible for the two of them, even when—

“Two more chapters, huh?” Aether asks, cutting his thoughts off, “I think I can do that. I am enjoying the book,” he admits, “And the company.”

Copia hides his face against Aether’s bare thigh, the dusting of hair there tickling against his skin, he’s flushed, embarrassed, knowing how fast he's slipping if a sly comment and a wink causes him to act like this.

“Can I—?” Copia manages, muffled against Aether’s thigh for a moment, before he lifts his head, peers up at him with half lidded eyes, “I want to keep you warm again, my ghoul, while you’re reading.”

Aether’s hand slips down from his hair, thumb brushing over his cheek, then to his bottom lip, guiding his mouth open, “Mm, I think you’ve earned it,” he says sweetly, “Do you remember my rules?”

Copia nods, trying not to look too eager at the idea of getting his mouth back on Aether, “No sucking, no licking, I’m just keeping you warm.”

“Good boy,” Aether says warmly, leaning down to press a kiss to Copia’s forehead, nuzzling at his hairline for a moment, “Two more chapters and then we’ll move to the bedroom,” he murmurs.

A noise, something excited, slips from Copia’s mouth as he lets Aether guide him back to where his cock has chubbed up, thick and resting there between his legs, fitting his mouth over the girth of it feels like home.

Or maybe it’s just being with Aether that feels like home, and Copia settles into it, rests one arm over Aether’s thighs while the other one curls under his chest, comfortable and warm now that he’s not kneeling on the floor.

Aether pets through his hair a few times, murmuring a soft Good boy before he’s picking up his book again, sinking back against the couch as he starts reading aloud from it again.

The whole time, Copia drifts—warm and comfortable as time goes syrupy thick again, his eyes fluttering closed as he feels his entire body relax once more. His mouth stretched around Aether—chubby and thick in his mouth, making his jaw ache just a little with it, while Aether reads above him, voice warm and low, welcoming.

“A home isn’t always the house we live in. It’s also the people we choose to surround ourselves with."

[emerxshiu]

Grand fest idols (cw: a bit suggestive clothes i think)

decided to make a grand fest version of my splatoon idols

if you follow me on twitter, you probably saw me bitching and yeah shits bad hand hurts, back hurts, head hurts, its hot in here, i cant stop coughing and its that type of cough that hurts

i dont wanna bring the mood down so im just gonna talk abt other things!

Their name is Hada, fun fact: i never finished the drawing i made so i kinda had to pick some colors in the spot, well, i picked some from the old reference since that was a redesign (you might have seen the one i did of the other) they are based on a big fin squid....

this....

thing...

cool! so yeah thats why they are so tall

here is the sketch i made for their normal design

they actually wear goggles usually since they are very sensitive to light, but i didnt draw it there

and here is Lucida! based on a glass octopus (though she used to be an inkling i changed it when i saw that i barely had any octoling ocs (never changed actually, like, always a glass cephalod, so nice that i found out that octopus also have a similar like, species so i didnt have to change her much))

and here is her's! wich i did finish

if you notice i kinda changed her body just because i wanted her to be chubby but i thought my job was bad so i decided to improve it a bit, her freckles also change colors :3

and here is an old design

its not even the oldest, they look REALLY different from those

though, i havent really written down their personalities or anything so its kinda woobly, you can ask about them but just mentioning that so you know they probably will change

i will try to do a team future drawing tomorrow, but now im gonna rest my hand a bit and try to get back onto splatoon as soon as possible, hopefully (the next line is a bit of a leak, skip to the next parentesis if you dont want to read that) when the amiibo concerts are back, you can choose for them to perform at the grand festival stages, or if anything, (you safe now) i want to be able to keep going there after the festival ends, even if the idols arent performing. because i really want to take more photos of deep cut, btw deep cut are my favourites now, callie is still too but not as much as them. uh- yeah- sorry i tend to go off topic a lot, welp, my timing is terrible so i end up taking the pictures some seconds later and it gets fucked up, i might upload all the ones i took after the fest ends

well, i should get going, Jambuhbye!

(forgot to say this but they are over 20 dont worry)