#weirdo's fanfiction

[semiweirdshipper]

New Alpha/Beta/Omega Story Idea With DBD

Basic summary: In the Entity's Realm, everyone is from a different dimension, and so that means everyone follows slightly different cultures, beliefs and traditions. The reader is an omega, and in their dimension omegas' are treated as equals amongst alphas'. They're used to being pampered, respected, and understood by the alphas'. However, in the Entity's Realm, the alphas' are far, far different from the ones in the reader's own dimension. Instead of treating omegas' as equals, they fight to dominate them, control them, and use them. Even the omegas' are different; unkempt, submissive and out of control, easily bending to the alphas' will. Unused to and terrified of these alternative alphas' and omegas', the reader struggles to find safety, justification and respect. Will any of the alphas' they meet try to understand their traditions and standards? Or will they only suffer like the rest of the oblivious omegas'?

Notes: So in a lot of stories out there, everyone has their own unique way of writing alpha/beta/omega concepts. I myself have tapped into and read a lot of these concepts, and for this story I wanted to dive into tradition and culture and how it effects everyone differently. Using dbd's Entity Realm is a great way to take advantage of dimensional aspects.

What killers will be considered as potential love interests for the reader? Hmm, I'm not entirely sure (I'm never sure about that stuff. You guys know that, lol).

Obviously I'm gonna say Herman because my Herman is a sappy, lovey-dovey gentleman.

Caleb? Caleb has the potential to be both a considerate gentleman and a controlling jerk based on his time line, but I'm willing to make the exception for him.

One of the idiot-boy trio. Frank, Danny or Ji-woon. Gotta have at least one of them. Help me decide if you want.

Maybe Wesker? Like maybe he's turned on by the challenge the reader brings by being a more superior omega, and he secretly likes that.

Philip is cute, and I bet he would love a relationship where he didn't have to be so hard at work all the time.

We also have Pinhead. He's very intelligent and can sense the good in people. Obviously he'd be interested in the reader.

And then I'm gonna say Freddy because it's a twist and unexpected and I love the thought of him being the nicest to the reader out of all the other alphas'.

I've already got this story underway. I'm just posting this to try to help keep my own chin up. I really wanna get this story finished and posted so that way I can share the whole thing with you my precious dears'. Let's see how much of a disaster it turns out to be, aye?

[konigsblog]

brain rotting away thinking about loser-könig who shows off his collection of guns to his darling, only to fuck your little pussy with one. 🔞

könig has plenty of obsessions, whether that be his collection of guns and skills from his time in the military, or his interest in shooting games. he's obsessed and ecstatic that you're intrigued in hearing more about his collection of guns.

könig sits you on his large lap and wraps an arm around you. he fixes his glasses sitting on his nose and begins to go on a long rant about his different guns. fuck, he'll even offer to take you to a forest and teach you how to shoot deers and wild animals, if you're really that interested.

although, könig quickly gets aroused at your eagerness to know more, the thought of fucking you with a pistol plaguing his filthy, dirty mind. it's irritating, he always manages to make something sexual, even if it started off as innocent. he makes sexual innuendos on the daily and will sexualise you for doing quite literally anything. he can't help it, mäusi. you're his favourite prized possession and his most important interest.

he'll spread your thighs while you're rested on his bed and will begin to sink the muzzle of the pistol into your drooling cunny. your breathing is heavy and you're anticipating and anxious, barely able to control the way your cunt leaks around the weapon and the sounds that leave your filthy, little mouth. könig pockets your panties and steals them while you're distracted by the pleasure and force of the cold gun inside your wet heat, feeling as he thrusts and pumps it into your soaking arousal, a cheeky and playful smile curling the sides of his mouth.

his boner strains inside of his boxer briefs. fuck, both of his biggest obsessions together. you're fucking with his head, liebling... he sucks in a sharp breath at the glimmer of your sweet arousal left on the muzzle, shaming you for being so perverted, although deep down, we all know who the true creep is.

könig will push the gun into your mouth and will replace where the gun once was with his twitching, aching cock. he'll make sure you clean his gun off with your pretty tongue while fucking you into stupidity, until you're breathless and barely able to keep up with his fast pace and great stamina.

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language.  “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols. 

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression.. 

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think. 

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away. 

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns. 

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe. 

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as  “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

[allhailthe70shousewife]

Guess who is sitting around covered in ketchup, fantasizing out loud…

[leoreadss]

It makes me think of you and your fic @phoen1xr0se

And the fact that it is in the Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase & Fable that Terry read makes me cry like a baby.

[paynomindtotheinsanity]

[lulublack90]

Prompt 9 - Forget

@wolfstarmicrofic June 9, word count 533

Previous part First part

He didn’t even know why he’d picked up the box from the sand as he walked away from Remus. He didn’t know why he kept holding Remus’s hand either. Or why his body had reacted the way it did when Remus had licked that damn chocolate off his fingers. 

The water had been cooling, refreshing. The second he plunged beneath the surface his mind had gone blank, and he hadn’t wanted to come back up.

When his lungs were screaming at him, he looked up at the shimmering water above and kicked up. The oxygen that poured into his burning lungs was literally a breath of fresh air. But when he caught sight of the yearning, open-mouthed look on Remus’s face, he nearly sunk down again. Thank the gods for Minnie McGonagall. Her piercing commands stopped all other thoughts as he followed her instructions. 

“Sorry, Minnie. Won’t happen again.” He’d given her his best smile. 

“Mr Black, you are skating on very thin ice,” He’d gulped as she walked away. He did not want to push her too far. Then James had basically called him a manatee. Rude! And now here he was walking across the campsite with a treasure box full of chocolate coins and no idea why. 

He was lying on his bed looking up at the ceiling, trying to forget what a crazy person he’d been, when there was a quiet knock at the door. 

“Yeah?” He called, not bothering to get up. Remus cautiously walked through the door. 

“Hi,” Remus said quietly, looking extremely nervous. “I just—I just wanted to apologise,” Remus said, looking at the floorboards. Sirius was confused. 

“You didn’t do anything. Remus, it’s all on me. I overreacted. Ask James, it’s a known issue with me. The phrase drama queen has been thrown around a lot in my life. And this isn’t about your scar, just so you know,” Sirius tried to explain why he’d thought the only thing he could do at that moment was sink to the bottom of a lake.

“Scars,” Remus murmured. 

“Sorry?” Sirius was confused. 

“Scars, plural. I er, I have a lot. Of scars,” Remus’s face was bright red. 

“Oh,” It was a highly inadequate response, but he had no idea what to say. ‘Oh, me too.’ No, maybe. 

He let his head drop back onto his pillow as he drowned in his inner turmoil. “I’ve got scars too,” He admitted to the ceiling. If Remus could do it, so could he. 

“Oh,” Remus said. Sirius raised his eyebrows at him and they both burst into laughter. 

“Get over here, weirdo.” Sirius moved over on his bed, making room. Remus only hesitated for a second before he gingerly perched on the edge of the bed. “Properly.” Sirius barked out a laugh as he reached up to pull Remus down. He caught him by surprise and Remus ended up falling on top of him. Remus's quick reactions were the only things that stopped Sirius from getting squashed by the taller boy. He landed with his hands on either side of Sirius’s head. Sirius felt his heart skip a beat. He swallowed loudly, unable to stop looking into Remus’s honey-coloured eyes. 

Next part

[heliotrope155]

Cas always manages to carry and conceal a weird assortment of stuff in his coat (a magic trick that endlessly amuses Dean) and eventually Dean starts groping Cas as he rummages through the coat (Cas lets him, knowing that Dean's going to find nothing) and Sam's horrified by whatever bizarre foreplay he's watching and irritatedly informs them that he's getting another room.

[danosrosegarden]

batshit crazy antagonist lovers after getting kidnapped for the 43rd fic in a row

[bambiraptorx]

I'm debating a chapter in Minor Interference of Draxum introducing Donnie to the wider yokai culture (like showing him a college or something) and. yeah

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Kinktober 10 - Sensory Deprivation

PriceGhost

CW: Blindfolding, headphones used to cancel sound, dub-con elements, oral sex, wildly expensive alcohol (like, seriously, holy fuck)

Price doesn’t indulge in this odd relaxation ritual often, but sometimes he needs it. This week has been long enough that he might need it as much as Simon, at this point. His lieutenant is of the same opinion, apparently, because when Price strides into the den, the noise canceling headphones and sleeping mask are already on the coffee table. He grunts as he eases his aching body down onto the worn leather couch.

Simon comes stalking in, already changed into his sweat pants and a tee shirt. He places the McCallan on the coffee table with a solid thunk, then stares.

When he doesn’t say anything, Price scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m not that bad.”

Simon’s left eyebrow goes up, but his face stays blank.

“Yes, yes,” Price chuckles, placing the headphones around his neck. He settles the mask in place as he add, “I’ve been a right cunt.”

“Y’re always a right cunt,” Simon grumbles.

Price snorts a laugh as he lifts the headphones to his ears. As soon as he turns them on they connect to Simon’s phone and grey noise blocks out the world.

For an indeterminate amount of time, that’s all there is. Darkness and soft static. With the absence of other input, his brain catalogues every ache and pain in his back, his legs, his arms. It takes longer than usual to settle into square breaths.

The first touch of Simon's hand makes Price flinch, hard. He imagines he can feel his lieutenant's judgmental stare before he reminds himself that the whole point is to stop imagining. He takes two deep breaths and tips his head back into the couch.

The tips of Simon's fingers touch the palm of his hand again before being replaced with cold crystal. Price adjusts his grip, then lifts the glass to take in the bouquet of the scotch. It’s one of his favorites, ginger and cinnamon and vanilla notes coaxing the tension from his shoulders. The first taste is heaven, rich and smooth, lingering ginger and apricot as he settles in.

Simon waits until he's set the glass back against his thigh before picking up his other hand. He expects a cigar, but instead, he gets the deep pressure of knuckles in his palm.

He doesn't bother muffling the groan that flows from him as Simon proceeds to massage his writing hand, wrist, forearm as he keeps sipping his whiskey. When he switches hands, he almost drops the whiskey glass, his hand is so relaxed. The world narrows down to white noise, scotch, and muscles forced to unwind.

Then, Simon does something unexpected.

Price spreads his thighs when prompted. Then he feels more than hears himself make a questioning noise when a big body pushes its way between his knees.

For a long moment they just breathe. Then Simon taps his empty palm twice with his fingers. Solid?

Price taps back. Solid.

Large hands land on his knees and smooth their way up his quads. They don't hesitate to lift his shirt out of the way and make quick work of his belt. Another beat of stillness. Price brings the scotch back up to his lips.

Simon's hands are warm as they touch his belly, petting over course hair and feeling over muscle and fat. It's a curious sensation. He's not sure Simon's ever touched him so gently, even with this odd routine they've built together.

It's a shock and it isn't when those same hands coax him to lift his hips enough to shove his pants and trousers down his thighs. And then Simon’s palming his soft cock, not touching to stimulate, but Price feels the awareness of-

He hears himself moan over the noise when Simon’s mouth closes over him, hot and wet. He barely resists the urge to grip the man’s short hair in a fist, stars dancing behind his eyelids. Instead, he tries to focus on not spilling scotch all over them both.

It’s a testament to the stress they’ve been under that Price doesn’t get hard. After a brief flash of frustration, he sighs, deep and long. After a moment, the tension seeps out of his neck, and tipping his chin toward the ceiling.

Simon taps his thigh. Solid?

Price huffs a laugh. Solid.

[semiweirdshipper]

Vent post.

I promised myself that I would be more open with my viewers, and so here I am. I'm sorry if it's stupid and ridiculous. You really don't have to read this.

I take writing very seriously. Writing is my soul passion. And my bad guy series is one of my favorite series to write for... At least I thought it was. Here recently though, I've been noticing something and it's causing me to become more and more depressed and insecure by the month.

I'm not like everyone else in the slasher fandom. I'm different. And being different is causing me to be depressed.

At first I didn't know it, but I entered a dark fandom that thrives off of bdsm, sex and/or rape, submission and guilty pleasure. And I entered this fandom not liking any of that stuff. I don't like rape or bdsm or sex or submission. I don't even find the killers sexually attractive. But everyone else does. And that's what hurts.

I can't be like everyone else here. I can't make myself feel sexual attraction or enjoy bdsm and rape and all that. And that also means that I can't write any of that stuff either, and that makes me sad. It makes me sad because I can't be what this fandom wants me to be. I'm a disappointment. A dud. Sitting alone in a corner feeling so fucking a shamed and useless and lonesome.

Some times I don't even know what I'm doing here because I start feeling so upset, and I even get the urge to delete my stories. But at the same time I don't want to delete my stories. I want to keep writing and finish them, but gosh... This depression.

I keep asking myself what I'm doing here. I'm not good enough to be here. I mess things up. I don't even write the slashers in canon. What could I ever hope to accomplish in this fandom when I'm the polar opposite of what it stands for?

The only thing that's kept me going is the small group of friends and followers that I've made during my slasher journey. So if you're one of them then please know how grateful I am for you. Every single one of you gives me a reason to breathe inside this crazy fandom, even if breathing isn't what I deserve to do.

Also, this doesn't mean that I'm quitting any of my stories. I'm just venting and being pathetic. I'm so very sorry. I try not to let my feelings show, but here lately... I don't even know anymore.

[ambrozjas]

CadeSibling!reader and Johnny angst

crickets ꨄ︎

johnny cade x sibling!reader (platonic)

✧˖*°࿐ notes 🧸ᰔᩚ

i legit poured my heart into these guys.. eat up this angst 😋 🍽️

✧˖*°࿐ warnings ᰔᩚ

johnny’s parents is a warning on their own, mentions of bars and bugs?, lmk if i missed anything 🫶!!

✧˖*°࿐ word count ᰔᩚ

784 words, 4276 characters

you jolted awake as you heard another crash in the living room, followed by your mother screaming and yelling at your father, shouting at him to get out.

your breathing quickened as you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes, a soft scoff leaving your lips out of nervousness.

you immediately looked over to johnny, your brother already sitting upright with his knees to his chest, his dark black hair covering his eyes a bit.

“how long’ve they been doin’ this?” you croaked, a thick layer of sleep still coated your voice.

he looked at you, eyes glossy and wide. you could almost compare him to a puppy dog. he swallowed thickly as his eyes darted back and forth between you and the door before responding, “‘bout half ‘n hour.”

another sound of glass breaking followed johnny’s voice, causing both of your heads to turn.

when you had looked back at johnny, his face was pale and his shoulders were heaving. you could hear him try to breathe normally, taking breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth just like you’d taught him.

“wanna go somewhere else?” you asked him.

his eyes followed you as you got up, your bare feet on the cold floor as goosebumps spread across your legs. you opened the closet door as quietly as you could so as to not let your folks know you were awake.

you grabbed johnny’s jean jacket and your own, putting it over your shoulder and tossing johnny’s jacket over to him.

you winced as another shout was let out in their bedroom, your parents arguing about who-knows-what, as per usual.

you turned to johnny, beckoning him over as you slowly turned the doorknob and poking your head out before tip-toeing through the living room and out the door, your brother hot on your heels.

you crossed roads, passed by a myriad of houses that all look the same on the east side of tulsa. you ran up and down all over town just wanting to get away.

you finally made it to a grassy knoll behind some old buildings, usually where old kids hung out before they were scared off by dallas winston. you looked up to the dark sky, the tip of your nose freezing from the cold night breeze. you closed your eyes and took in all the sounds, the rushing of drag races going on maybe five streets over, the bustling of 24/7 bars. the sound of crickets and various other bugs were loud. any other day you’d find them annoying, but on this night you found comfort in their chirps.

you looked over at johnny. he was seated on the grass, eyes empty and tired. you couldn’t blame him. johnny had been through a lot. you both had, but you took more responsibility with comforting johnny.

you walked over to him, the fresh sound of grass beneath your sneakers was a nice change from the blood pounding in your ears the way you ran.

when you took a seat next to johnny, he sighed. a silence took over the both of you, just the ambience around you filling the void.

“is it like this everywhere?” he finally asked, his voice sounding cracked and on the verge of crying, as if his throat was coated in a thick barbed wire.

“what?”

“with the socs, and the greasers, and us. is it like this everywhere?” he tore some grass out of the ground and threw it in front of him.

“aw, hell if i know johnnycakes. you think i travel?” you chuckled, bringing your knees up to your chest and holding them there, subconsciously rocking yourself.

johnny stayed quiet after that, just tugging more at the grass below him, occasionally flicking a bug off his arm every now and then. in an attempt to further the conversation you opened your mouth to say something again.

“i’s like to think somewhere, this doesn’t exist.”

to that, johnny stopped. he turned to look at you and you kept your gaze above you, glued to the stars in the sky.

“a place with no socs, no greasers, jus’ people. normal people. a place where we can wander around the streets wit’out worryin’ ‘bout bein’ jumped.” you leaned forward and placed your chin on your arms, which were still wrapped around your legs.

“i’d like ‘ta go one day.” he whispers. you nodded your head in acknowledgement as you gave a hum for an answer.

and you two sat there, on that grassy knoll, only accompanied with the presence of each other and the sound of crickets.

johnny leaned his head on your shoulder as you patted his back soothingly.

“one day, johnny.”

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ GUYS TRUST ME IM WORKING IN MY REQUESTS RN OKAY I HAVE 14 IN MY INBOX 😭😭

kiss kiss ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

[marzipanxx]

sneaking reality checks in my fanfiction for the girlies. sometimes i just need jason todd to tell me "no you can't pull off blonde" so i can come to my goddamn senses.

[gigisriley]

[ishomieokay]

Homelander: YOU CANNOT FIX ME, NOURA!!! I AM A MONSTER BEYOND HOPE!! dONt evEn TRyyyyyyyyyYyy

Noura *who hates his guts, barely knows him, has absolutely no romantic feelings for him and would have never in a billion years considered the possibility that Homie could be FixedTM*: ...Ok.