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rad-batson · 1 year

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Damian Wayne Headcanons :) in which I give him actual character growth, suck it dc writers

this is extremely long, I am not sorry

He has literally no footsteps, you cannot hear him walk, even when he stomps around in one of those moods, it’s just barely a little *pat pat pat*

He doodles on everything. With everything. Some Gothamites have found intricate floral designs etched into the roof or random brick walls (most likely with a knife) after seeing Robin patrol.

He has like 20 weighted blankets, all different weights and sizes depending on his mood.

His favorite item in his room is a silver Nintendo DS. (He likes to use the little chat rooms, even if no one else is on the other end. He doodles and writes little messages. It’s like his diary.)

He loves all animals, and that includes the creepy ones. Especially the creepy ones.

Once, Tim started screaming bloody murder over a massive bug with a bajillion legs in his room. Damian now houses it in an enclosure in his bedroom. Her name is Mildred, Millie for short.

When he was in the LoA, he was forbidden from stimming in front of others. It took two years for anyone in the batfamily to ever witness him stimming.

His most common stimming behaviors are shaking out his hands, scratching his palms, and rubbing his hands across different surfaces. When he’s really stressed, he’ll snap his fingers.

He absolutely hates cameras. They’re loud and make him uncomfortable. One reporter almost got scratched when they got too close to him with the flash on. He only barely tolerates the security cameras in the manor. Barely.

He can and will be roped into any dare imaginable. Bruce repeatedly forbids him from taking dares from his siblings for months at a time.

He has a compartment in his utility belt dedicated to treats for any animal he sees on patrol.

When he’s tired, he’ll speak a mixture of Arabic, Mandarin, and English. Only Bruce can make sense of it, and occasionally Jason.

Bruce absolutely refuses to yell at Damian. Even if some of his other kids argue that he’s being too nice, he’ll only use his Batman voice and his Soft But Disappointed Dad Voice, but he will Never yell.

(He doesn’t tell them it’s because of what happened the first and only time he yelled at Damian. Bruce moved his hand a bit, and Damian flinched wildly. Bruce cried for hours over the implications of that.)

Damian only feels comfortable sitting if he can clearly see the main entrance. If not, he’ll sit with his back against a wall or he’ll stand.

He dutifully takes the responsibility of feeding and grooming every Wayne animal. They receive the most nutritious and filling meals on the market (all while receiving lots of head pats.)

He has very strong eyebrows just like his father. They tend to pull the same exasperated expressions too, highlighting their resemblance.

Talia taught Damian at a very young age how to write perfectly with both hands. He no longer remembers if he is naturally left or right-handed.

The one insult he cannot handle is “spoiled brat.” A few months after he arrived, someone in the family called him that as a joke, and he completely shut down emotionally. No anger, no sadness, no resentment. Literally just nothing. For days. No one knows why, but they will never let it happen again.

You know he’s Up to Something TM if he swings his legs back and forth while he sits.

He is obsessed with those cheap TV documentaries about famous plane crashes and shipwrecks. After finishing one, he’ll find the nearest family member and tell them all about it: how it happened, what human error caused it, and his fool-proof plan for if it ever happens again and he is nearby. Usually, it’s Alfred.

For the first few years at the manor, Damian’s favorite spot is the family graveyard. Everyone calls him dramatic. He just likes how it’s so quiet. (And he’s dramatic.)

When Jason waxes poetics about dying over dinner, Damian just groans and says, “So have I. You’re not special.” That’s how the family learns he was repeatedly revived in the Lazarus Pit due to the fatal nature of his training and abuse.

His first ever crush was on the cute male tech at Alfred the Cat’s vet. Damian was 12. Jason, who accompanied him, proceeded to give him both The Talk (“It’s okay to like boys”) and The Talk (“Your body is ✨changing✨”) on the drive home.

He will not text back unless it is absolutely necessary. He will leave people on read. He does not hate you. (…Probably.)

Titus is a registered therapy dog, trained in helping Damian through panic attacks and sensory overload. If you ever see Damian asleep on the floor, eyes cried out with Titus resting on top of him, you know why.

When he was 13, he tried to fake his own death after he failed a test at school and “dishonored the family name.” Bruce and Dick had to sit him down and explain that grades aren’t everything, and they still love him unconditionally.

He talks to animals like they’re human. He has a habit of venting his frustrations to Batcow in particular. And his fish while he feeds them.

His love language to others is a mixture of gifts and quality time, usually without words.

One day, Damian was snooping around the house and found that one of the electrical closets leads to a tiny space—barely two feet wide—in between the sheetrock and the foundation wall with nothing but a single hanging lightbulb. It took years before anyone else found it, but by then, Damian had painted an 8x10 ft mural on the wall and created a small bed of blankets and pillows for when he needs a quiet place to escape unwanted stimuli.

When he sleeps, his cheeks puff out like a little chipmunk. It’s adorable.

During the Winter Olympics one year, Damian falls in love with figure skating and decides he wants to try it out, but he never asks to take up lessons in fear that he will be horrible at it.

Duke figures this out and now takes him ice skating just enough to avoid suspicion. It’s become their bonding activity.

Once, Jason and Tim made him try a Sour Patch Kids-flavored energy drink. He immediately spit it out and said, “What the fuck?! That’s even worse than drinking from the Lazarus Pit.” And that’s how the family learns that Ra’s made Damian drink from the Lazarus Pit a few times.

One day, Steph told Damian about the wonders of concealed self defense products. Now, about 80% of the mundane items Damian owns is secretly a knife. He will purchase any item that is secretly a knife. Including several fake lipstick tubes.

He has rigorous self-control when it comes to sleep. Sure, his schedule is a bit fucked up for someone his age, but he is in bed and asleep exactly when he tells himself. (His siblings could never.)

His entire wardrobe is soft items he “found” stole from the laundry room. If it’s comfortable, it’s his now. (No one complains. In fact, having Damian steal your clothes is considered a privilege.)

He hates whenever Alfred tries to recreate dishes from his childhood. It’s just not the same. Alfred understands.

When he’s really stressed—like the “I am one stubbed toe away from a complete meltdown” stressed—he will finger paint. He likes the feeling of it on his skin.

Due to his time in the LoA, Damian has a habit of never telling anyone if he’s injured. Instead, he’ll pretend nothing’s wrong until he passes out or literally can’t move right and someone calls him out. He’s working on it, though.

There’s a massive system of fish tanks in his room complete with handmade decor and multiple venomous species. No one even realizes until Alfred mentions it during dinner.

He has hyper fixated at least once on every single artistic medium you can imagine. His top three are oil paintings, mosaics, and pottery, but he mostly sticks to drawing in his free time.

He has taste tested all of his pets’ treats at one point for “research purposes.”

Giving friends their own nickname is one of the most intimate things Damian does to express his relationship with someone.

Once, he was having an argument with a sibling, and they said, “Oh yeah? Well at least Bruce wanted me!” Damian didn’t leave his room for exactly six days. He even stapled blackout curtains to his windows and the vents. Bruce chewed the shit out of whoever said it and spent hours every day talking to Damian through the door to convince him that, yes, Bruce wants him and couldn’t ever think of a family without him. Damian didn’t come out, however, until he heard Bruce crying while begging him to eat. Damian slept in Bruce’s bed that night and the following week.

When he turns 15, he gets really obsessed with Måneskin.

He’s exactly the kind of Art Hoe that is completely loyal to his favorite brand of art supplies and wouldn’t touch other brands with a 10ft pole.

He has weirdly thin fingers. Like creepily thin, especially as he grows older. Someone commented on them once, and Damian proceeded to wear gloves nonstop for a week.

There are exactly four (4) people who are allowed to touch him without permission first. Dick, Jon, Bruce, and Talia in that order.

His eyes are actually naturally blue. The reason they are green is because of the Lazarus Pit. It’s always the Lazarus Pit. (They barely glow in the dark too, but you need to really pay attention to notice.)

He can wiggle his ears. The only people to ever witness it are Cass and Duke. They’ve been sworn to secrecy.

Whenever one of his many pets sleeps in his bed, he tries to stay as still as possible without touching them so they don’t get annoyed and leave, but they always worm their way into his arms.

As he grows, his family is surprised to learn that he isn’t building the same muscle as his dad. Instead, he’s lean like his mother due to an extremely fast metabolism. He eats a lot to maintain proper health. (His cheeks are still puffy when he sleeps, though. And when he smiles.)

Dick is his emergency contact for school, partially because Dick isn’t as busy, partially due to that time Bruce “died,” but mostly because Damian is terrified of disappointing Bruce if he ever gets in trouble. Thankfully, Dick is convincing Damian otherwise.

His favorite ever birthday gift comes from Tim. It’s a pottery studio he spent months building on their property in secret with several pottery wheels and a kiln.

His hands have always had a sort of surgical accuracy to them due to his stealth training, but it never came to the forefront of everyone’s mind until one particular mission when Tim got shot, and they needed to get the bullet out as quickly as possible. Despite being bigger than most of his family members by now, and Tim refusing to stay still the whole time, Damian was the only one capable of taking the bullet out. While riding in the Batmobile. Going 80 mph. Completely painlessly. Damian is immediately given the de facto role of Combat Medic.

Jon likes to send Good morning texts to Damian. At first, he didn’t know about the “only responds if it’s an emergency” thing, though, so he decided to stop after a few weeks of Damian never replying. Within an hour of not getting the usual text, Damian was at Jon’s house in full Robin gear to make sure he was okay.

He and Steph like to paint each other’s nails when one of them is stressed. After Damian comes out as pansexual, Steph paints little pride flags on his fingers.

He only plays Minecraft on creative mode. He likes building farms and wildlife preserves.

At 16, he gets asked out by a pretty girl in school that Damian had a crush on last year, but he thinks it’s a joke because he can’t fathom anyone liking him so he turns her down.

As he grows, his looks become more androgynous, again eerily resembling his mother, but his voice drops low enough that it doesn’t cause much misgendering.

Then he starts thinking of his gender a bit more and wonders if he’s also a They.

He likes to paint all over the soles of his shoes whenever he gets a new pair. No one will ever really see it, of course, and it eventually wears off the more he walks, but he knows it’s there.

It’s a nice day in the park. He’s doing homework on a picnic table while Titus and Ace run around, and he can’t stop thinking about his future.

Yesterday, there was a school assembly about choosing a career path. Alfred slid him an SAT prep book during breakfast. And his class was assigned one of those “Which career path is best for you?” quizzes.

He gets Veterinarian.

It takes a full five minutes as Damian stares at the results, thinking about the crazy, out-of-this-world idea of not being a vigilante or assassin his entire life, what it would be like if he just turned his back on the future which was so carefully laid out in front of him since birth, before it clicks into place.

Damian doesn’t want to be Batman.

He doesn’t want to lead the LoA either.

Two years later, Damian enrolls in Gotham University and majors in Wildlife Biology on the Pre-Vet track with a minor in Studio Arts. He gets a dorm room, works in the pottery studio, and volunteers at the local animal shelter.

He is content.

Does some of this stray from canon? Yes. However, I do not give a rat’s ass. Thank you, and goodnight.

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mrgrimmer · 6 months

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hi, making my first post on this blog! i’ll put this behind a read more, i’m just dying to meet people after having experienced monster in its entirety. particularly people who are really into wolfgang grimmer. sorry for tagging it, i have horrible, daily anxiety and i just want to meet more monster fans. this masterpiece has touched me beyond measure.

tl;dr: new monster fan, wolfgang grimmer has altered my life, i want to meet more friends!

i’m arnika (pseudonym) and i’m 32. i’ve been a goth ever since i was a preteen (this is important because it’s a huge part of my identity) and i have been selfshipping or bonding with characters even before that. i have autism and lack empathy and struggle to relate to others. i have been a very avid selfshipper for a long time, but i’ve sorta stopped making self inserts because i myself love the character in question, not an oc. i consider myself asexual and ficto-romantic/sexual. i don’t like the latter term (nothing wrong with it!! i just don’t care for it) but it describes me accurately the most, i think.

my comfort character is wolfgang grimmer from naoki urasawa’s monster. i have never related to someone more. there have been characters that have come close, but i really, really cannot describe the feel of belonging i have when i watch his scenes. i could wax poetic about it; it would take forever. but i love him in ways i can’t describe. it goes beyond attraction, it’s more like i think he was put into my life for a reason. i’ve been struggling to come to terms with the fact i don’t experience empathy like most, as a diagnosed sociopath it bothered me for the longest time because i am not a cruel person. i am very kind and i try to put out more good into the world than bad. but seeing wolfgang and reading him and experiencing him made me realize i may be a little damaged, but i am not a bad person. i can care about people and i can even love them in my own little way. i do this by my actions and by my regard for others. it sounds contradictory, but empathy is not necessary to care for other people, just like empathy doesn’t automatically make you jesus either.

…sorry, i’m rambling. i don’t want to flood the wolfgang grimmer tag with this bullshit, more or less i’m trying to find likeminded people. i do not get jealous over him, he deserves every drop of love he gets from everyone who is touched by him like i am. i can’t tell you how many tears of joy i have shed over the sense of camaraderie i feel because of him.

he’s everything to me, and he’s a huge inspiration as to who i should model myself after. he’s made me a lot happier lately to me too, a lot more faithful in other people. i cherish him so much. he’s like a soulmate to me, i have a few like that, but i can’t tell you how much he means to me.

anyway, thank you so much for reading. i hope this wasn’t really annoying.

#wolfgang grimmer

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theclaravoyant · 9 months

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AN ~ The Heartstopper/GOmens double feature is doing a number on me ok, I loathe to think what will happen to my sanity when OFMD hits (Oct?). This is inspired by, but a little saucier than, "Do You Like It When I Speak French?" ... because this is adult man-shaped ethereal beings we're dealing with here.

Read on AO3

The Louvre is always busy, but it’s also huge. It gives them plenty to talk about - not least squabbling with each other, and with the notecards on the art, but there’s also plenty of reminiscing and waxing poetic about the artists, their subjects, and this place. It feels kind of timeless here, especially once they’ve surpassed the crowded halls and taken themselves out to those less traveled.

Crowley’s enthusiasm for the museum itself is soon flagging, but he trails Aziraphale with a sense of contentedness he’s still getting a handle on. He’s happy drinking in the experience, watching his Angel animatedly recount a tale about Catherine de Medici, the wariness that’s stalked him for centuries just barely prickling the back of his mind.

He damn near jumps out of his skin when his phone rings, and all but throws it on the floor in an effort to pick it up as fast as possible. But the violent stab of fear and rage soothes quickly. It’s just the restaurant, confirming their booking and any special requests. He makes his notes and bids them au revoir, and hangs up to find Aziraphale.

Staring. It’s not unusual to find Aziraphale staring, especially as they venture down this path of being together-in-a-new-but-not-at-all-new-way. It makes him feel flattered. Flustered. This one even makes a little bit of heat creep in behind his ears, especially when Aziraphale’s tongue just ever so slightly touches his lip, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Christ, it’s positively -

Crowley clears his throat.

“Sorry,” he says, tucking the phone away. “I’m listening. Just tonight’s reservations.”

“You made reservations?”

That’s not why he’s staring. Why he hasn’t put those hungry eyes away.

It starts to sink in, and Crowley almost, almost laughs.

“Angel. We can both speak French,” he reminds him.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Aziraphale blushes, but he’s in too deep, he can’t hide the sparkle of lust in his eyes. He turns away, trying to dredge up whatever he’d been talking about before. What’s a Medici? (It doesn’t help that he can feel Crowley’s eyes tracking his every move, with a lot more nerve endings all of a sudden than he could before.)

“I mean…” Crowley clarifies, and scoops him into an embrace from behind. And maybe with just a little tiny flicker of snake tongue against his Angel’s ear, he murmurs deep and low; “You like it when I speak French.”

“Oh, come now, Crowley-”

“Buy me dinner first?”

Aziraphale damn near trips over his own feet. He catches himself half on Crowley and half on the wall, and finds himself face to face with his Demon smiling, looking at once mischievous and ravenous and like he wants nothing more than to drink him slowly and sweetly like a rich cherry port. The feeling is very much mutual, and so he wraps a hand in Crowley’s lapel, pulling himself forward for a kiss even as Crowley begins to recite;

“L’espoir divin qu’à deux on parvient à former

Et qu’à deux on part–”

He knows it. It’s a poem about longing and timeless love. It rolls off Crowley’s tongue like he was born to speak it into existence - or like the words came into being to be spoken by none other than him - and yet Aziraphale can’t bring himself to feel bad that said tongue is too busy now to entertain itself with such beauty. Crowley takes his invitation to heart, kissing back with such care and passion, flooding them both with such a wave of unbridled sensation, that they don’t even hear the footsteps.

It takes a bit of shouting for them to register, they’re being told off like randy teenagers by a very irritated, probably long-suffering guard.

Crowley looks at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looks at Crowley. Each kind of expecting the other to reel it in and apologise, or at least smooth things over and serruptiously make an exit, but neither do. Aziraphale laughs, grabs Crowley’s hand and pulls until they’re running and the guard shakes his head and lets them go, with a sloppy Nous Sommes Desoles! shouted in their wake.

#ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #gomens fic #good omens #crowley x aziraphale #renewgoodomens #give me s3 or give me death #clara's fic tag #good omens spoilers

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cielsosinfel · 6 months

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here are my thoughts on all BG3 companions up through the end of Act 1 and very beginning of Act 2:

Astarion: light of my life, I am actually spoiled for probably 95% of his story, he is such a disgusting and rancid poor little meow meow and I want to see him grievously mutilated and tortured and then gently put back together again (repeat). As a faggy bi man he is the best #representation I have seen yet from mainstream media lmao. If i speak too much about him this whole post will be about him, sorry. Guro noncon yandere kink fanfic material out the wazoo, tho (Also of course I have many many thoughts on his character's narrative around trauma and healing or the lack thereof, but, too many words)

Shadowheart: I LOOOOVE HER I love her. I kind of wish they'd kept her as initially hostile and cruel as in EA after viewing video of it, but I also enjoy how she seems low-key and almost normal, though an asshole, and then BAM suddenly she's waxing poetic about committing terrifying emotional and physical torture in the name of her beloved mommy goddess. She is such an asshole and I feel like she gets soft on the PC weirdly fast, but I also do enjoy how playing Dark Urge informs the relationship dynamic as her backstory and personality unfolds, how the fact she becomes Best Friends with them despite the whole blackout-frenzied-murder and urges to eat corpses plays into her own issues and desire for understanding and connection (the memory loss and disconnect from her previous life and sense of self, the god devotion, wanting to make herself an even worse person in the name of her god, how completely committed she is in the art of torture and causing suffering, how she's simultaneously disgusted by and intrigued by Dark Urge's whole murder cannibalism urges.) Anyway yes she's great, I love her turmoil about not living up to her potential as a Shar-loving religious zealot and expert torturer.

Wyll: Wylllllllllll I feel like he was done so dirty by the writers between Early Release and Release. They should have continued to let him be an asshole warring with living up to heroic ideals, who just made a deal with a demon out of desperation for respect and appreciation. But he's fun in release too, just too low-key for me? With Dark Urge it's interesting because he is truly the most morally Good-Aligned party-member, probably, and I think about how he must grapple his morals with aiding and growing close to a murderous gore-loving freak. He's constantly having to compromise his own deeply-held ideals in the name of getting the tadpole out of his head, and I wonder about that constantly. At the same time, he's so focused on doing good and the cause of justice but is REALLY REALLY DOWN FOR GOBLIN MASS-MURDER... Like OK Wyll!! They kept that from Early Access at least lmao. His relationship with Mizora and the angst and regret he feels at signing a contract with her, for making this one major ill-thought decision while in a high-stress "do or die" situation, gets me, the way he's like, so resigned to it... How he's so resigned to being transformed into the very thing he'd dedicated his life to culling existence of (demons.) (The constant metaphors to being a pampered pet on a leash get to me.) Though you know, it still gets me he's lamenting how ugly he looks with horns, claws and fangs, in the middle of a party full of Tiefling who just faced a lot of life-threatening discrimination for looking like demons... lmao... especially when he's venting these things to a Tiefling Durge lmao... oh wyll...... Anyway I think he's sweet, and I have even more thoughts on him and Astarion being foils who need to fuck. I want to learn more about his daddy issues so I can give him a proper daddy kink. Wow, how is this the longest part of this post.

OK THIS GOT TOO LONG AND ITS ONLY THREE CHARACTERS!!!! I am going to an indie comics and arts festival today, I will come back to do the rest of the characters later.

#bg3 #mine poste

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riddle-me-ri · 1 year

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i’m gonna follow the pattern here lol:

your thoughts on…the different scarecrows? especially MOF jon?

Oohh spooky Twig Boys that I may or may not slightly slightly enforce my southernness on (only the good southernness like cooking, music, hospitality none that other shit) I'll be more than happy to oblige anon hehe. It's not often I get to talk/discuss the masters of fear.

Again gonna just kinda discuss all the ones I write for since I'm the most informed on those versions so sorry if I missed one and the post got long lmao

Masters of Fear Scarecrow: since you asked for him specifically I put him first lmao. And this Jon is just incredibly endearing? I think he's an adorable spry kinda guy that, like most, deserved better. I'm also super fond of his design. Also as someone who writes for "x reader" it was nice to see him...actually have a romantic interest? (albeit she was a bully bitch) listen listen...any extra info in a romantic sense of a character I will take

Arkhamverse Scarecrow: Uhh can I just say, absolute whiplash in design and mannerisms lol. While I enjoy both its like...such a bizarre change? Like yeah he did go through something traumatic (being very close to dying) but like...a total voice change? Maybe there's some behind the scenes explanation or something I don't know but yeah...I do enjoy him being whimsy and silly in Asylum and brooding and stoic in Knight with his waxing poetic lectures...but also also...does anyone have any idea how Knight Scarecrow's face works? Like his mouth and such?

TNBA Scarecrow: Definitely a more gritty and intriguing take, especially considering its a revamp of BTAS. Allegedly this is the idea of Scarecrow with a noose started? And now we've seen it incorporated in other designs which is pretty cool.

BTAS Scarecrow: Much like Jervis and I think Batman as a whole, this was my first Scarecrow encounter, and cause of such there's a wee bias to him being one of my favorites lol. Super rich voice, I don't care if he's terrorizing me, I will die of fear peacefully. Solid design and a super strong depiction of the character overall? Also my god his theatrics, top notch such a dramatic lad I love him.

Dark Knight/Nolanverse Scarecrow: pretty eyes...pretty eyes..strong jawline..pretty pretty scarecrow..huh, what? Oh..uhh yeah he's...fine I guess..I mean like not just fine as in fine as hell just...meh? I don't know I just remember him being stupidly criminally pretty. Although to be fair I don't recall much about him..sorry (granted I don't recall much about nolanverse as a whole...its been at most five years rip)

Year One Scarecrow: it took me an embarrassingly long time for me to actually read Year One rip. But it was very gut wrenching. It was the best updated take I've seen on Jon's origins and just how deeply rooted he is in his obsession, and it was a unique way too? Like it was an interesting take on the broken family scenario, I dunno I just thought it was super enriching.

Fear State Scarecrow: so I will say the designs for him are jarring as there's like..a different artist between the beginning, middle, and end of Fear State. But I like both looks, especially in the middle where he looks a lot like his BTAS counterpart. It was an amazing surprise to see the spikey red hair and wide eyes again in comic form and more realistic but still animated? I hope that makes sense. But I loved the story, and he was especially cunning and ruthless here.

Happy Halloween, Scooby-Doo! Scarecrow: asdgggh this boomer asshole lmao. But definitely one of my top three favorites. He's a decent blend of old and new for me. Like he bears resemblance to BTAS but also some other comic appearances, he doesn't even need to he in the costumer and you can just tell he's Jonathan Crane. Also his voice is amazing, and I will forever be grateful to the writer that decided that Scarecrow was a fucking Elvira fan boy. Like of fucking course he'd love Elvira, Mistress of the Dark asdfghjj one of the few times where canon got it right lmao

#ri rambles #long post #lots of thoughts #lots of words #about the scarecrows #lmao #if only i could get better at writing for them rip

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fireemblems24 · 2 years

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AM review! I loved hearing what you thought of the route, and I was wondering about your favourite quality of each Lion? 👀 - travelling-on-the-octopath (via main)

I am so so sorry this took so long to write, but I really ended up taking my time thinking about what I love about all the Blue Lions so much. Bonus I also included Rodrigue and Gilbert.

Dimitri -

Oh, geeze, only one thing? Well, since I just posted about his sense of duty and how he doesn't pull the "woe is me for being so privileged" card, I'll talk about his compassion instead. I love how this is both his greatest strength and weakness. How he gets so influenced by other people's hurt and doesn't know how to put healthy barriers up. But it's also that side of him that emphasizes so strongly with Byleth and coaxes the emotions out of her, the side of him that finds it in himself to forgive Edelgard. I also love how amazing his character arc is, and how he loves helping people so much, and I could keep going lol.

Dedue -

He's both the gentle giant who loves gardening and cooking, but utterly terrifying and completely badass in his loyalty to Dimitri. I also love how he handles Duscur. He admits to hating Faerghus for what they did, but that doesn't blind him to total prejudice. When confronted by Ingrid, he doesn't feel the need to personally carry the weight of her prejudice and "teach" her differently, letting her come to her own conclusions. I just think it's neat to see a character who experiences racism that isn't the one pressured to change, it's everyone else who has to do that leg work.

Felix -

I love what his character arc changes say about his character and that he even gets them, but that's too long for this. My favorite thing about Felix is how tragic parts of him are. Felix cares about his friends and family with his entire heart, but has no skill at communicating or processing complex emotions. He hates seeing them all hurting, hates himself for being unable to do anything, and ends up hurting everyone he cares so much about. It's what makes his arc so powerful in AM that he matures out of that.

Ingrid -

I love how she takes a common FE character tick (massive eater), but turns it into something serious. But more than that I love how realistic her struggle is. She has her own dreams and passions and naturally wants to pursue them, but actually addresses and acknowledges the benefits of a political marriage rather than just waxing poetic about wanting "romantic love." Bouns points because her struggle isn't "I want to marry for love", but "I want to be a knight" wayyyyy cooler.

Sylvain -

I'm going with the expected answer here with his complexity. His excessive flirting isn't treated as a joke, but a side-effect of a serious psychological damage and treated as a serious issue too, not as a wish-fulfillment trait. But he's also one of the best and brightest leaders in this game, and is so painfully loyal to his friends and family. It's a crime against his character that he's so easy to recruit.

Mercedes -

She embodies that "I'm a healer, but . . ." meme. Mercedes is incredibly sweet and cares about everyone, but she's not a boring or one-note character and her gentleness doesn't make her a pushover either. She is not afraid to share her mind. I also love how she enjoys trolling everyone with ghost stories. You know Annette and Ashe suffered many a night because of her.

Annette -

I love how determined she is once she sets her mind to something. Whether it's her studies or trying to find her father, Annette goes after what she wants and puts 100% into everything. Not being the best at studying doesn't deter her either, she just admires others who don't have to try as hard and tries to learn from them.

Ashe -

I'm cheating and using something from Hopes. I love how Ashe decided to fight for what he believed in. He worried about and considered what Lonato would do, but ultimately chose to follow his heart and do what he thought was right, and that takes a lot of courage.

Gustave -

How he's able to overcome his immense depression when needed. Gustave is still racked with guilt, still believes himself unworthy of his family and Faerghus, but he's able to work through that and ultimately come through in the end.

Rodrigue -

His ability to balance being himself and an effective duke. He seems to know when it's ok to just be a father or just Rodrigue and never comes across either too married to duty or like he ignores his responsibilities for his own desires. He seems quite mature in his outlook on life.

#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #three houses #blue lions

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cottoncandyruby · 2 years

Note

5. 23. 29.

hey hey trq ☺️ I’ve put 5 & 23 here and 29 is on a separate post, it may take a min cos I needed to add a video and it long oof

5. Favourite Crew Member? Gosh, this is hard. I really like a lot of the main crew we see like Chase, Stevie, Jordan, Emily, David Hill, Mikayla, the MK Crew oh and Matt Lieb! But I think Emily and Jordan have to be the ones who make me laugh the most (and like I knew I liked them straight away) I always enjoy seein 'em and Emily was so much fun at Mythicon too!

23. What colour do you think Rhett's eyes are? Ooo, Rhett's eyes are the colour of the untainted ocean that has yet to be marred by humans or pollution. They're the kind of melding of blues and greens that make you think of Atlantis and ancient beings. To me, being in water feels like freedom, so when I think of Rhett looking at me, the idea of his eyes seeing me...well, I think that being seen by him is to feel free. The colour, therefore, is subjective but beautiful. They are the colour of something you'd stumbled upon in nature, you'd be so delighted to find a shade of blue or green, depending on the light, amidst the gray that you couldn't help but feel like you'd found something precious and you'd fight the competing desires within you to share this treasure with the world and keep it tight to your chest, protected and safe.

In short, I'm not sure of the colour but those eyes feel like freedom. And freedom to me is green. (This makes sense in my head, and probably my head only, sorry was not expecting to wax poetic but there we go)

#asks #about rube #thank you #I’m so sorry this took an age to answer #tumblr and me have been fighting today #also #I so needed an excuse to post that pic of Rhett again #because his face #good god

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writerofshit · 2 years

Text

This is absolutely unfinished, and is 100% my own memories that i, apparently, really need to let go of. I don't think they belong to me anymore, and their other handlers let go a long time ago.

Present

The sun is hot, soaking into the shoulders of Michael’s t-shirt. He readjusts his baseball cap, smashing his curls down even flatter. He fiddles with the key ring in his hand, running his thumbnail along the groove in the old penthouse key. it comes away dark and dirty. He should have given the key back when Geoff sold the place, but he could never bring himself to let it go. Besides, no one knew how many copies there really were, and the new owner had surely changed the locks. He can’t remember their name.

He glances up from his spot, leaning against Fredo’s latest passion project. It’s an old chevy something or other. Doesn’t mater much. There’s an older white guy heading his way, hands buried in his pockets.

“Can i help you?” Michael asks. he doesn't move from the car.

“You got a lighter?” The man’s voice is deep and gravely. Instinctively, MIchael reaches for his front jean pocket, and it isn’t until his hand comes up empty does he remember.

“Sorry dude, no.”

The guy tilts his head curiously at michael. “Should’ve asked you a couple years ago, huh?” He asks with a smile. It’s not so much a question as an assumption. Michael nods.

“Hell, six months ago I’d’ve been your guy.” Part of him wishes he still smoked, could still have an excuse to be standing out here isolating himself. Truth be told, it wouldn’t matter anyway. Fredo’s bound to roll his eyes at Michael regardless.

“good for you, kid.” THe guy says, nodding. “it’s a goddamn rotten habit.”

MIchael huffs out a laugh. “Worse than some, better than others.” He considers the myriad of other ways he used to pass the time. Cigarettes had been the least of his concern. All behind him now, though, so what difference does it make?

“A-fucking-men, kid.” tHe guy tilts his ehad towards Fredo’s door. “good luck.”

“With the car or the addiction?” He misses this too, unloading on strangers he’ll never see again.

“Both.” The guy says, smiling. “But especially the smokes. Quitting ain’t easy, believe me. Done it too many times to count.”

Michael’s heard this speech before, doesn’t care too much to hear it again. He doubts even this time will be his last time quitting. But that’s fine. He’s doing better for now. He’ll take what he can get.

“Thanks.” Michael says. He wants this guy to leave so he can sit here, wax poetically about his car. The guy salutes him and wlks away, and Michael’s back to waiting alone.

Double-O-Mog is in the shop, or the closest he can get it to these days. The car is old, and the crew has garages full of shiny new ones. it’s not high on the priority list, doesn’t need to be fixed. If Trevor had his way, it would’ve been junked years ago. BUt Double-O-Mog holds a lot of sentimental value to Michael, and Fredo’s got more free trime than sense to say ‘no’. So here they are.

The door dings open, and Michael looks up.

2016

“This genuinely sucks, doesn't it?.” The windows are down, and the trees are speeding by in a green blur

“Seriously! And I’m just saying this song makes no sense.” The windows are down, blowing Gavin’s douchey hairstyle in 12 directions at once. He’s smiling broadly, one hand dangling out of the window, the other reaching for the dial.

“Touch that knob and lose a finger.” Michael says flatly.

HIs left hand is hanging out his own window, pushing against the air presure of the highway. He has no particular attachment to the song, some one off from some band Jeremy had sent him. Mostly it’s fun to argue with Gavin, call him an idiot and hear him squeak in indignation.

“Michael.” Gavin admonishes, laughing. He flips the channel, landing on a Top 40 station. “So much better.” He says, grinning smugly at Michael.

Michael’s pretty sure the singer is Justin Timberlake. it’s kind of terrible. Gavin belts out the lyrics, horrifically off key. “Can’t stop the feeling!” He draws out the ‘ee’ in ‘feeling’. He kind of loves this.

A car pulls beside them, glancing over obviously. Gavin waves, and the driver, a twenty something with dark hair and darker bags under his eyes, waves back. “Shit!” Gavin says, leaning toward Michael. He points at the other car. “I worked with him years ago. Glad he’s still around.”

Michael presses harder on the accelerator, and the car lurches forward and past the man Gavin used to know. “Can we go anywhere in this fuckin city without running into somebody you know?” He asks. He flips the turn signal, easing Double-O-Mog into the right lane. He’s 80% sure they need to get off at the next exit.

“Excuse me for being popular.” Gavin says, sitting back in the seat. He glances out the window. “Are we close?”

“I think?” It doesn’t really matter. Either they’ll get off and be right, or they’ll be wrong and have to get back on. Or not. Truthfully, Michael could keep speeding down this highway for forever, keep bickering back and forth with Gavin until they run out of gas. He’d be happier doing that than going to work.

“Rumor has it Chris is working out here now.” Gavin says, turning the volume on the radio down. it’s moved on to a Chainsmokers’ song.

“Oh yeah? And the odds of running into him?”

“With me here?” Gavin grins at him. “Pretty damn good.”

2017

He’s drunk. So goddamn drunk. He’s not sure how they’ve ended up here, squished into the backseat, Jeremy’s body warm where it presses into Michael’s. The AC in Double-O-Mog stopped working years ago and they never figured out why. Michael drives with the windows down and it’s fine. But now it’s April and global warming has fucked spring straight into summer. The air feels heavy and humid, like it might actually choke him if he doesn’t take his shirt off.

“you are one of my best friends.” He says instead of disrobing. He means it, too. They’ve been on the edge of this, have spent too many nights drinking together and sitting too close. The whole crew knows there’s something there. Something Michael has allowed himself to dream of at night but never say aloud. He’s wondered, in a desperate longing sort of way, if Jeremy feels it too. Maybe he has before the other night, when they leaned against the hood and Jremy wrapped an arm aorund him.\

“I think you might be my only friend.” Jeremy says. His face is turned into the side of Michael’s, but Michael won’t turn. What happens if he does? Will it be the beginning of the end? If he turns and they kisss and maybe they have sex, what then? Do they stay friends? Become more than that?

“I’m telling Gavin you said that.” Just keep making jokes, keep trying to sober up. The moment will pass and the cat will stay ambiguous.

“I don’t talk to Gav like I talk to you.” Jeremy says, huffing a laugh into his ear. “Definitely not like we are tonight.” He slips a hand to MIchael’s knee, slung over Jeremy’s lap.

“To his great dsappointment.” Michael jokes. His eyes are closed, he still won’t do it.

“Michael.” Jeremy says softly. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re not 100% on board with doing. We can go home. I’ll drive, if you want.”

How does he explain to Jeremy that this, snuggled in the back seat of his car, is almost too perfect? That yes; he’s 110% into wherever it goes. He wants it. He wants to turn and kiss Jeremy. He wants Jeremy to kiss him back, to push him into th leather seat, let his hands unbuckle MIchael’s jeans, let his hands wander farther. He wants Jeremy’s mouth on his body, wants to touch Jeremy in all the places he’s never been privvy to. He wants Jeremy to press into him and place kisses into his collarbone.

He wants to go home, to one bed, to wrao his arms around Jeremy and fall fast asleep. He wants to wake up with sleepy smiles and gentle kisses. He wnats to make Jeremy’s coffee the way he knows he likes it.

How does he explain to Jeremy that he is 100% on board with all of it, but he’s terrified he’ll only get tonight?

“Do you want me to drive home?”

Michael turns and kisses him.

2018

The parking lot is dark but warm, mugginess making Michael’s t-shirt cling to him uncomfortably. He’s leaning on the hood of Double-O-Mog, Gavin beside him, for what feels like the millionth time of his life. He half expects bells and whistles to go off, mark the occasion as something special. Gavin’s saying something about a trip he took, about Alfredo and competitions, sniper guns and one hundred dollars. It strikes Michael that he should be worried, that any place on earth the story would turn heads. But not here.

Here is safe, and fun, and it feels like they’re on top of the world.

He flicks his thumb against the filter of his cigarette, ashing it into the air. A small speck floats down onto the toe of Gavin’s converse.

“Michael.” Gavin whines. He doesn’t move his foot, doesn’t shake the ash away. “Didn’t anyone teach you it’s not polite to ash on people? Who raised you?” He puts his own cigarette to his lips, blows the smoke into Michael’s face almost immediately. Michael turns his head away but takes a drag anyway.

“Dick.” He looks back to Gavin, their eyes meet. “For the record, no, she never tld me not to ash on people. She just told me not to smoke at all.”

Gavin nods as if he understands. As if their childhoods are even remotely comparable. As if if he heard the same message, hadn’t been caught smoking at 13 and been sneered at because they were menthols and not reds. “Yeah, I can see that.” He flicks his cigarette butt and it sails three spots away, landing in a puddle. He whistles in satisfaction. “Can I guess her stance on premarital sex?” He asks, smirking at Michael.

“Firmly against.” Michael says, and his laugh has no real humor to it. He puts his cigarette to his lips but withdraws it. “But hell, even if we were married, it’s not like she’d recognize it.” It’s weird to say out loud. It hurts. He takes another drag, ashes the cigarette again.

“THat’s fine.” Gavin says, shaking his head. He reaches back, picking up MIchael’s pack from behind him. “We’d never get married anyway.” Michael eyes him. “You mind?” Gavin asks, but he’s already pulling one out, already moving past the potential conversation. Michael shrugs. Gavin reaches out and digs for the lighter in Michael’s jean pocket. Michael doesn’t portest, doesn’t push him away. Just laughs and shakes his head. He can’t remember a time they weren’t like this.

Far before they slept together it even made out, Gavin never could keep his hands to himself. It was always a oint of pride for him, and indication of how much their friendship meant. 'Im so into dudes' he'd say, lying on top of Michael. 'But there's nothing going on here, because we're friends and I respect you too much.' It hadn't mattered, in the end. They'd still made out that one time, and they'd ended up fucking anyway. Four months prior, if his math is correct.

Lighter extricated, Gavin cups his hand gently around the cigarette in his mouth. it lights, he puffs, smoke billowing out of his mouthy after a beat. He wrinkles his nose. “God, since when do you smoke reds?”

“Since a few months ago.” MIchael says, flicking his own cigarette away. It doesn’t even come close to Gavin’s. He remembers the look of surprise on Trevor’s face when he’d pulled 305’s out of his pocket. He’d shrugged, told him the same thing he'll tell Gavin now.

“I thought you hated them.” Gavin says. They watch the smoke curl up toward the stars. Gavin taps the top of his cigarette and the ash falls to the ground.

“I do.” MIchael confirms, slipping one frfom the pack. The admission is on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t know if Gavin will understand, the feeling or the reason. “Only smoke ‘em when I hate myself extra.” he says, putting the cigarette to his lips. Gavin blinks at him but hands the lighter over.

“Well that makes no sense.” Gavin looks away from him, tip of his cigarette glowing cherry red as he inhales. “If you’re gonna have a bad habit you might as well enjoy it.” He says quietly.

There’s the click of the lighter and then, spoken around the smoke-

“Exactly.”

The word hangs in the air, but neither of them acknowledge it. Michael could explain farther, tell Gavin that honestly, it’s them these past few months, feeling like he’s betraying everyone, but especially Gavin’s ‘not technically ex because they never actually called it dating’. But they were. Everyone knew it, had accepted them like one of the crew. Everything had been great.

ANd then it fell apart.

Gavin got cagey and broke it off, and then- well, they’d always been on the cusp too, hadn’t they? Drunken confessions of mutual attraction, a kiss, then nothing. Gavin got serious until he wasn’t, then they picked back up. By that point, Jeremy had had Matt in his bed, and lads nights always did end in sharing blankets and sitting too close. But there was technically no one to feel guilty about. it was good, great, even. Michael liked sleeping with Gavin, liked the way he liked to cuddle after, liked the way his hand felt around Michael’s throat.

He still hadn’t switched back to menthols, though.

“So.” Gavin says, instead of addressing the elephant. Just as well. Michael has no interest in talking about feelings, especially not with Gavin. He nods back at the car. “You wanna have sex tonight? We can drive out to the middle of nowhere, like we used to.” he says with a grin.

the smoke settles in his lungs, harsh and suffocating. The cherry glows, bright and hot, racing toward his knuckles. He shouldn’t, should make better choices than fucking his best friend in the backseat of his car.

He flicks his cigarette. “Yeah.” He says finally. “Sounds like a plan.”

#I want to add to this #but the memories aren't with the car Anymoreal #also if anyones keeping up my J is getting married and my Gav has a boyfriend #and i remain alone #ks writes

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becca-e-barnes · 2 years

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OMG Becca! That anon just gave me the filthiest thot!!How about dbf! Bucky coming home early after a shitty Valentine’s Day date only to notice Reader’s bedroom light on in the house opposite his… he knows your parents are away for the night and decides to go check on the house… what he doesn’t expect to find is Reader in bed coming all over her rabbit vibrator … 🤯🖤 - do you think he would watch in silence, or use Reader’s entire toy box on her before railing her himself ?! 🤣

Oh now this is a beautiful thought, particularly since my valentines plans are exactly this, only I have no beautiful dbf!bucky watching

And I just wanna wish you all a really happy Valentine's Day! Whether you have plans or not, whether you're loved up or on a journey of self love, I hope you have a fab day!! And for anyone who doesn't have a boo and feels a lil left out, you're my Valentine now, sorry not sorry 😘💐

Bc imagine him maybe just seeing your bedroom light on and assuming you're getting dressed up to go out with someone special. His date was awful so he came home early but there'd be no harm in heading over to make sure you didn't need him to drive you anywhere or pick you up later, especially when you have no parents at home.

So he lets himself in with the house key he's got, closing the door behind him. He scrolls through his phone absentmindedly as he climbs up the stairs, not really paying much attention to what he's doing. He doesn't even think to announce his presence but then he hears a faint humming sound and a little broken sob.

He's not even entirely sure what to think but it makes him a little more wary, rounding the top of the stairs and finding your bedroom door slightly open.

And his breath catches in his throat because God, there you are, totally naked, working a rampant rabbit into your dripping pussy. Your free hand alternates between grasping your hair and tugging at your own nipples and he can't help it but he's absolutely mesmerised.

His mouth waters at the sight of your pussy clinging to the toy, the slickest sloshing noises filling the room and his mouth is watering just at the thought of how you must feel.

You're a fucking beautiful woman, there's no doubt about that but he's never truly thought of it until now. Your body is all soft curves and gentle slopes and maybe it's just been too long since he'd seen a pretty woman naked but he's waxing poetic about how perfect you are.

And God, your body is one thing but your moans are entirely another. They're soft yet still throaty, the sound of pure, unashamed lust. You're holding nothing back, teasing your own body the way you know you enjoy. The way no one else has ever taken the time to learn.

He watches as you angle the toy slightly differently, tilting the handle downwards to press the shaft up, making sure the tip nudges your sweet spot just right. The sob that leaves your lips is heavenly but so is the way that your thighs tremble, pleasure numbing your brain and clouding your senses as you writhe on your bed.

Fuck, he's hard. He's so painfully hard. He knows he should go home, just slip back out the front door without embarrassing you and spend Valentine's the way he usually does, rubbing one out and then watching shitty movies until he falls asleep.

Part of him can't do that this year. Not now. Not after forgetting all about that shitty date. Not with the knowledge you'd be in your bed all night, pleasuring yourself in this empty house when he knows he could do such a better job.

"Gotta say, sweets. That's quite the show." He smirks, expecting you to be all flustered. He's waiting for you to start scrambling, desperately trying to cover yourself but you don't bother.

"Wondered if you were just gonna watch all night. F-fuck, thought I'd have to turn this thing up a speed to tempt you out." You groan, your voice shaky but painfully seductive, your hips grinding down to take the toy as deep as it can go.

You see the confused look on his face and it only makes you laugh. "Camera system, Buck." You grin, knowing that you outsmarted him and that's when he twigs that your home safety unit would've alerted you to a car pulling up in the driveway. His car. You kept going so he'd catch you.

"Is that the only toy you have, sweetheart? Somethin' tells me you're not as sweet and innocent as you seem." His eyes are trained on where your folds are parted, letting the toy slip into your slick heat. He swears each time you pull it out, it's even wetter and creamier than the time before and it makes him swallow thickly.

"O-oh God." You whimper, arching your back off the bed, barrelling closer to your first orgasm and you just can't stop yourself. "Let's make a deal." You gasp. "I'll show you my collection. S-so long as you can make me feel better than every damn toy in that box."

He watches you for a moment, admiring the thin sheen on sweat on your chest, your curled toes and trembling thighs and your hips that are grinding against that pathetic piece of plastic.

"Oh sweetheart, you won't have to worry about that. I'm going to ruin you for anything and anyone else. Every time you slip that stupid thing into you after tonight, you're going to wish it was me splitting you open instead." He's got a lust in his eyes that makes you slightly nervous because he looks like once he gets a taste, he might not be able to stop and in that moment, you don't care. You want him to take you apart in the most intimate ways and give you a kind of mind numbing pleasure you'll never be able to recreate on your own.

#asks answered <3 #anon #becca writes spice #dbf!bucky #dads best friend!bucky #dadsbestfriend!bucky #happy valentines besties #stay safe #be good #don't do anything I wouldn't do

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engie-ivy · 3 years

Text

Everyone seems to think it's just the most hilarious prank Sirius was given a potion to make him think he's in love with Remus. Remus himself, however, doesn't quite like hearing Sirius say everything he's been secretly dreaming of, and not meaning a word of it. However, there might be a bit of truth to Sirius’ words. Or a whole lot of truth.

Truth Be Told

Remus is haggard. After a long day of classes, he has spent the evening tutoring a second-year Hufflepuf, and it would surprise Remus if the boy can even tell the front from the back of his wand. All Remus wants now is to drop down on a couch, and unwind with his friends. As he enters the Gryffindor common room, he spots them sitting at the back and makes his way over.

“Wotcher, Moony,” James greets. “You look bloody knackered!”

“Alright, Moony?” Peter grins. “Long night?”

“Moony!” Sirius says. “I’m so glad you’re back. Even when it’s just an hour, I miss you whenever we’re not together. You light up any room you enter, no matter how tired you look. Just the sight of you makes my heart skip a beat, as you’re still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

The boys all fall silent and stare. Remus blinks a couple of times. Then James bursts out laughing, quickly joined by Peter. Horror appears on Sirius’ face and he clasps a hand over his mouth.

“Eh,” Remus says hesitantly, as he sits down. “What’s going on?”

James, still laughing, wipes a tear away from his eyes. “D’you remember how Sirius hexed McKinnon last week, making everything she ate taste like earwax for the entire day?”

Remus nods. As funny as the prank may have seemed, dealing with an angry and hungry Marlene McKinnon hadn’t been an experience worth repeating.

“Well, she got back at him just now by spiking his Pumpkin Juice with some sort of potion, but so far, we hadn’t figured out what kind of potion. Until now, that is!”

“A Love Potion?” Remus asks incredulously.

Sirius, face bright red, is pointedly not looking at Remus.

“The potion must have made him so head-over-heels, he’s too overwhelmed by your all-encompassing beauty,” Peter snickers.

Remus is still stunned. “Why a Love Potion to make him fall in love with me, though?”

James shrugs. “Girls have a weird sense of humour, mate.”

Remus shakes his head. “That’s ridiculous!”

James wants to say something, but Sirius cuts him off. “There’s nothing ridiculous about being in love with you!” He exclaims. “You’re the kindest person there is. You have such a good heart, and you’re always there for me, no matter what. You always make everyone feel at ease. You’re clever, hardworking, and strong. I don’t understand how everyone isn’t in love with you! And Merlin, you’re so attractive. The way you bite your lip when you’re trying not to laugh is so bloody sexy.”

Sirius isn’t the only one blushing now, as Remus feels his own cheeks heat up. “Err, thanks,” he mumbles.

James and Peter, however, nearly fall off the couch laughing. “This is gold!” James manages to say in between his laughs.

Remus doesn’t agree. He finds it more embarrassing than funny that apparently, McKinnon thought making him in love with Remus was the best joke she could play on Sirius. And even worse, and Remus will take this secret to his grave, like a bloody twelve-year-old who reads too many romance novels, he occasionally fantasizes about Sirius illuminated by candlelight, holding his hands, waxing poetically about his undying love for Remus. To now hear Sirius say similar words, without meaning any of them, is definitely more painful than funny.

Sirus doesn’t seem amused by it either. “I’m sorry,” he says miserably. “I know I shouldn’t be saying this! I mean, I know I don’t have a chance with you, Moony. You’re such a good person, so much better than me. I truly don’t deserve you.”

“Merlin,” Peter laughs. “Sirius Black thinking he’s not good enough? I wouldn’t have thought it possible! What the hell did McKinnon give him for a Love Potion?”

Remus wonders that as well, as he watches Sirius hide his face in his hands. With the Love Potions Remus knows, the person under the influence at least doesn’t realise how insane they’re acting, but poor Sirius seems perfectly aware.

“Moony,” Sirius says pleadingly. “Normally, I think every minute spent apart from you is a minute wasted, but as I can’t seem to stop embarrassing myself in front of you, would you mind terribly to maybe stay away from me until the potion has worn off?”

“You really do say the most ridiculous things,” Peter agrees.

Sirius glares at him. “You calling me confessing my deepest feelings ridiculous is actually really hurtful, Peter.”

Peter blinks at him.

“Right,” Remus says, getting to his feet. “Yes. That would probably be best. Just... take care, and let me know if you need me.”

“I always need you, Remus,” Sirius says. “And I always will.”

“Err, right. Yes. Okay. Great. Eh, bye then.” Remus hurries away.

As Remus makes his way through the common room, he walks past Marlene, Lily and Mary sitting together at a table.

“Oi, Lupin!” Marlene calls, with a smug smile. “Is Black having a nice evening?”

Remus folds his arms over his chest. “You think you’re bloody funny, don’t you, McKinnon?”

Lily raises her eyebrow. “Come on, Remus. Black had it coming.”

“I suppose he had,” Remus sighs. It’s true. Marlene and Sirius are always pulling pranks on each other and retaliating. “But next time, please leave me out of it!”

“Leave you out of it?” Marlene repeats. “When have I ever gotten you into it?”

“Please, a Love Potion to make him confess to being in love with me?” Remus rolls his eyes. “I can understand how you’d think Sirius Black fancying me is just the biggest joke, but please, don’t.”

The girls fall silent.

Mary is staring at Remus with wide eyes. Lily is nervously tugging at her braid. Marlene is shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“What?”

Marlene and Lily exchange a look, then look back at Remus. “Eh, Remus,” Marlene says carefully. “The potion I gave Black wasn’t a Love Potion.”

Remus begins to ask “Then why-” But Marlene continues talking. “It was Veritaserum.”

Sirius is lying face-down on his bed, wondering if there’s a spell that can make the ground swallow him up whole. Damn Marlene and her damn Truth Potion! At least his friends, and most importantly Remus, had assumed it was a Love Potion. Luckily, James and Peter had eventually left him alone, thinking that the fun was over anyway after Remus left, so perhaps the universe doesn’t completely hate him.

He has barely finished the thought, or the door to the dorm opens. Sirius glances up, and when he sees Remus walk in, he considers smothering himself in his pillow.

“Moony,” Sirius groans. “Please. I really want to be alone.” For once, he and the Truth Potion are in perfect agreement on what to say.

Remus ignores him and sits down cross-legged at the foot of Sirius’ bed with a huge grin on his face, because, yes, the universe has it out for Sirius. Sirius pushes himself up and wraps his arms around his legs. “While normally I would be thrilled to have you on my bed,” Sirius says, because of-bloody-course he does. “Right now, you shouldn’t-”

“What potion did McKinnon give you?” Remus interrupts.

Sirius opens his mouth to say it’s the Love Potion, but what comes out instead is “Veritaserum,” which, really, he should’ve expected. He wonders if it’s too late to still smother himself in his pillow.

Remus grins brightly at him. He knew, Sirius thinks. The bloody bastard already knew.

“You know,” Sirius says irritably. “I’m so gone for you that you could probably push me out of the window, and I’d still be smitten,” has he mentioned that the universe hates him? “But I must say, Remus, it kind of hurts that you found out my deepest secret and came here to rub it in my face and laugh about it.”

Remus seems a little taken aback by Sirius’ blatant honesty, but he should’ve known that’s what he would get. “What? No,” he says quickly. “I’m not laughing about your feelings! Or well, maybe I am laughing about your feelings, but because I’m happy about your feelings!”

Sirius looks away and mutters “Well, I’m glad you at least enjoy my desperate pining.”

Remus moves forward, and places a hand on Sirius’ cheek to gently turn his head back to him.

“You on my bed, sitting this close, and touching my face like that is Doing Things to me,” Sirius says, and he kind of wishes Remus had pushed him out of the window.

Remus lets out a breathless laugh. “Good, because what I wanted to say is, I’m happy about your feelings, because I most definitely return them. I’m gone for you too.”

Sirius’ eyes widen. “Really?” He breathes.

Remus smiles softly at him. “Really. I’m not taking any Veritaserum, though, so you’re going to have to take my word for it.”

Emboldened by the notion that he can’t possibly embarrass himself more than he already has, Sirius shifts a little closer understand. “You know,” he says, nervously licking his lips. “They say actions speak louder than words.”

Remus immediately understands. The hand on Sirius’ cheek moves to his neck and the next moment, they’re kissing.

Sirius briefly chases Remus’ lips as the other boy pulls away, and sighs while he blinks open his eyes. Kissing Remus is the best feeling in the world, leaving him dizzy, and rather hot and bothered. And of course, in his current state, he immediately informs Remus about this.

A flush appears on Remus’ cheeks and he chuckles. Sirius hides his face in his hands and groans. “And just like that, I turned the best moment of my life into the most embarrassing moment of my life.”

Remus grabs his wrists to pry his hands away from his face. “No, Pads, it’s okay! More than okay. I love kissing you as well.”

Sirius lowers his hands and looks into Remus’ soft, honey-coloured eyes, that look back at him affectionately. “I love you,” he breathes.

Remus lets go of his wrists and his eyes widen in shock.

Sirius winches. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I wouldn’t normally go from first kiss to full-blown love confession in like zero seconds, but that damned potion! That potion goes by the rule ‘if you feel a strong emotion, immediately speak it out loud’, and loving you is the strongest emotion I’ve ever felt.”

Remus’ eyes widen even more.

“Oh, Merlin,” Sirius says. “I’m only making it worse, aren’t I? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to freak you out like this.”

“No, it’s... I mean, I...” Remus scrapes his throat. “I don’t mind. I admit, it’s all going a bit fast, and I wasn’t expecting a love confession so soon, but I think I’m... happy?” Remus lets out a nervous chuckle. “I’m sorry, this is all very new to me.”

“It’s new to me too,” Sirius says softly, and then, just in case he hadn’t freaked Remus out enough, “You’re the first person I’ve ever said those words to.”

Remus nearly topples off the bed.

The universe must be having one hell of a laugh.

“Oh, bollocks!” Sirius says. “I keep saying these wildly inappropriate, way too intense things, for which it’s much too soon! I won’t blame you if you want to get away as fast as possible. As a matter of fact, you probably should stay away from me for now, before I end up telling you I’ve already been envisioning our wedding.” Sirius’ laugh sounds forced, and Remus’ sounds a little too high-pitched, and Sirius can see clear traces of panic in his eyes. Yet, Remus doesn’t move from the bed.

“You know,” Remus says a tad nervous. “Perhaps I could stay, but prevent you from speaking?”

“How are you...?”

Remus smiles shyly. “My idea was to keep your mouth... otherwise occupied?”

Sirius’ eyes widen, and then a bright smile appears on his face. “Remus Lupin, you always have the best ideas!”

Remus wakes up the next morning with Sirius’ body pressed against his back and Sirius’ arms around his waist. “Hmmm,” he hums happily, covering Sirius’ hands with his own. “I love waking up next to you.”

He can feel Sirius smile against his neck. “Me too. Waking up next to you and falling asleep next to you. Even your snoring is music to my ears.”

Remus snorts. “I gather the Veritaserum has worn off, huh?”

#my tumblr writing #wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar fic #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic #marauders era #sirius black #remus lupin #remus x sirius #james potter #peter pettigrew #marlene mckinnon #veritaserum

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hauntedelation · 3 years

Text

Repeat

Description - The Hammer proves to utilize surprising ways to settle down after a rough assignment.

Pairing - Black Male Reader x August Walker

A/N - This is my first male reader insert and AW fic! I wasn't sure how I should write the man but I found my August to be a little unpredictable, maybe hard. (Maybe he has some feelings, but he won't tell you what kind.)

Word Count - 2.4k

Warnings - descriptions of blood, wound tending and cleaning, anxiety, surprise fluff and maybe pining? Just partners being partners.

(no real proofreading this time y'all sorry 😅)

⊱ ───────────── ⊰

What he applied to your hand forced a pitiful sound from your body, something like a whimper subdued poorly by you.

By the sickly fluorescent light you can see it, the split that was the palm of your hand. Crimson upon crimson flooded the tissue, renewing again.

Your insides overturned, and for the first time in your career you averted your eyes. You had to. For a reason you couldn't place your finger on, you knew you shouldn't stare.

The way your pulse was working more warm liquid out of your hand, his fingers stained and slipping back and forth to tend, you felt unsteady.

The spaces in your mind were gradually being occupied. So there was no shortage, no problem taking your mind off of it.

You went back to that first mistake, back to where you foolishly under-packed. This assignment was far, but a swift turnaround. Accordingly, you thought it good to keep the amount of bags you carried to a minimum.

A good number of things were left, a tool here and there that didn't stand out. You had done it before. One notch carved into the wood and you were null of any mistakes up until this point.

What you couldn't grasp was that these absent devices were the key to this assignment. It hit like a ton of bricks the moment you were met with the complex screen of a security lock.

You were deflated when your eyes met the empty space of what could have been the bypass key. There you spent upwards of an hour working through the perimeter of the place.

The next one could have happened regardless, but it didn't make you feel less inept.

Where you went right when you should have gone left. The opponent you met was just as trained as you were: blank, unrelenting and practiced with a blade. You fell to a place where you were at a strident disadvantage.

Would you have picked your jugular or your hand? There had to have been something better, a third choice? You should have been faster than that.

You could have.

Still, your hand caught the edge and it wasn't until much later, long after you were walking away that you could feel heat trickling down your fingers.

It's like the movies until it isn't. You've got yourself thrumming, high from the situation. You're locked in and can take anything to your vessel, then you're coming down slow. All the little details enter your mind, focusing and you notice. He noticed, actually.

With the most austere set of eyes you had ever seen, he did.

Before you were given the chance to sit down he was standing over you, breath hot and charged from the brawl. On the top of your head you could feel it. The fabric of his suit was torn and twisted over his chest, rising and falling with his loosened tie.

He'd backed you to one of the steel tables, squinting through the dim and the dark. You had in mind that you were to be spit in the face, condemned for dragging the job to left-field. The glower had already been there.

You were bracing for it, balling both of your hands. The blunt object in your fingers collided with the brick floor. And it rang out, filling the empty spaces with a loud echo. Soon there was nothing.

That's how it was seconds after.

A pair of boots brushed against yours before there was a hand capturing your right arm. He'd brought your dripping palm up and opened your curled fingers. Your wound was inspected with cautious eyes, the extent picked apart.

His calluses dragged around the edges of your sticky palm. You sucked in a breath when he had gone a little too close, but he ignored it. There was a drilling leer into your face before he spoke, "You were sloppy."

The back of your throat had grown bone dry. You took a second, swallowing then pulling your eyes from his hardened face.

That had been the first time that you'd been told that. Knowing in the very depths of you that this was the beginning to many months of second guessing, wishing you could have done better.

You don't know why you had let this one go. Everything seemed feasible in the documents, from the time requirement to the objectives. You expected to have gone above and beyond.

That is close to what you told Sloane all those weeks ago,

⊱ ───────────── ⊰

"This one looks like it's going to be less of an issue."

She had her arms crossed in her crisp sleeves, her hip propped against the hardwood of her desk. You were called in to provide an updated report over your assignment, your feelings and projection.

It had gone to the point where you could no longer count on your fingers how many jobs you'd been on. The second anniversary from your first day recently passed, the bouquet still sitting on your dining room table.

You recall being introduced to your boss, the gratification in seeing someone like her in such an esteemed position.

(Someone who reminded you of your mother at times.)

Right then, the woman appeared to be getting ready to give a critical reply. Her brow was curled sharply but you could see the corners of her lips begin to upturn.

"You have been assigned an associate with this task, agent."

This was of no particular issue. It was not every mission that you collaborated with another. Be that as it may, you've grown accustomed to this practice, it evolved into something that you improved with. This was your dream, and you intended to flourish.

You were sure there was no one you wouldn't be able to work with.

When your superior uttered the name, 'Walker,' you had asked her to come again.

"You're up and coming, still figuring things out in this line of work. I'm placing you with my best on this one," Sloane announced.

You withheld any signs of protest in front of her, flashing professional countenance and a nod. She dismissed you with a lingering gaze, most likely holding the same thing in her mind as you were. You kept up the front until you were situated at the chair by your desk.

Upon your back touching the seat, a sigh was released, one that you felt in the pit of your stomach.

You wanted to smile at how comical his name sounded. One would have thought you were speaking about an exotic dancer, The Hammer. You didn't think it fit at first.

He's just a man, but he is the kind that exceeded the weight behind his title. He had discharged far more in his profession by the time you were approaching yours, taking the limits of what an agent could do to the stratosphere.

You could wax poetic about those stories, try to recount those details. But, truthfully there had been such a divide in your experience when compared to his. You could feel the pricks of uncertainty in your chest.

Perhaps you were only afraid.

He'd never once acknowledged your existence until you met on the tarmac the following Tuesday morning. The moon was leaving the twilight sky. Under an orange colored light, shining on the side of his face you could see him check his watch.

And then those eyes flicked over to you, sizing up your bags, your clothes. You think you may have even caught those blue slits drag along certain parts of you.

Your voice was weak, coughing low in your throat you tried to press out, "It's nice to finally meet, Mr. Walker."

(Ah, Mr Walker? You wanted to flinch, but you found no time.)

Then you provided him your name with a reluctant hand. It took far more composure on not showing the tremor in your limb but when the man peered down at you, securing your hand with a firm shake you knew.

He'd felt how clammy your skin was.

That mustache made a microscopic twitch, "Call me August, and, ditto."

⊱ ───────────── ⊰

You allowed your hand to remain elevated, but your period of self-loathing was eventually disturbed.

The sensation of his large hands appeared, firm and wrapping around your waist before hoisting you on the surface of the steel table. There was a soft thud from your good hand landing to bear your shift in weight.

It was then that you froze, ears pricking to that steady footfall departing from the table.

You listen and—what?

What crosses your mind is maybe you hit your head back there, sometime during taking that grunt to the floor. Yet, you don't feel anything, no pounding in your skull. The musing is washed away the moment the flicker of a pale-green light shines above.

The room is revealed to have been an abandoned kitchen of sorts. Pots and pans layered in a thin veil of dust with more grime to compliment. With your good hand you wipe at the sweat falling down your temple, you'd become a little hot.

Glass crumbles underneath his boots, he rotates his back around to you with a small kit that strongly resembles the one you stored in your bag.

The white plastic had your name scrawled on there in your handwriting. While you could sit there wondering how August retrieved that, you are still processing the way the man picked you up. How he brought you up like you were made of feathers. Why he…

He comes in real close, your vision floods with a view of his chest, his gloved hands shedding away the garment and laying them on the metal surface.

The soft click of the first aid box click echoes out, and under the hum of the lights above August murmurs down to you,

"At least you had enough sense to pack this."

His tone is the same, puncturing only not quite as breathy. The rise and fall of his chest had slowed far more, the dark curls on his chest soaking in the sweat running down his skin. And you blink, not realizing how enthralling the sight is.

Your pulsing hand is taken again, gingerly, by a pair of rough hands. You brace yourself on the edge of the table upon seeing the clear liquid bottle.

He's cleaning your wound throughly and you're trying not to take it like a kicked puppy. Through grit teeth, "You think I could skip stitches this time?" They never were your favorite.

"No dice," he breaths out, placing the bottle of alcohol down next to your thigh.

"You about had your hand sliced in half, Agent. You're lucky anyway. But,"

The needle and thread is pulled out, more cleansing and draining. Rinse and repeat. Walker was moving quickly, probably sensing the adrenaline in you draining by the minute.

Your communication devices buzz in unison, you don't have time to check your screen for any updates before he reaches with one hand in his pocket to retrieve his.

He sets your hand down on your own thigh and you listen to his voice shift to a formal tone. The female voice on the other line, (Sloane most likely) sounds curt and questioning.

Your stomach begins to roll in circles. Your fingers wrapped around the table's edge tighten around the metal, almost enough to leave marks.

Through those training sessions all those months, you learned to properly squash any threats of anxiety, distraction. You could feel yourself slipping, your body seizing up in front of the man. Walker seemed to have been approaching the height of his conversation with your boss, shifting so the phone rests between his ear and shoulder.

In the meantime, you were breathing. That familiar rhythm, flowing in and out, counting. You fall into the headspace that you became acquainted with all too well.

You lost yourself in it, not realizing that Walker was dissolving Sloane's interrogation. Every syllable. The way in which his voice formed the words was unknowingly steadying your brain, calming your heart rate down slowly.

All the while taking your wounded hand was taken in his, he set about cleaning it one more time before starting to close it with the thread.

"Yes ma'am. No, he had everything in his detail under control...Yes. That's correct. The only slip up had been breaching the security wall but we successfully infiltrated."

You could feel the sharp pricks in your skin, your arm tensing after each pull to the string when closing the wound. Eventually Walker drifted, and your eyes landed on the semi-clean criss cross stitching in the palm of your hand.

The man's eyes were dead set on his handiwork, narrowing on the lines before clearing his throat to part ways with your boss. There was a, "We will report back upon leaving this location."

He hung up the phone, and slid the device next to your thigh. You didn't think anything of it, only Walker's hand didn't leave where his phone was sitting. And you were encircled, the fabric of his shirt practically enticing his body closer to yours.

It had been a number of seconds before you could bring yourself back. The same exercise was reaching its tail end, and maybe, just maybe you could believe Sloane would not chew you a new one when you return.

Those words, It's okay, you tried your best. Everyone has bad days. You said them once again, inaudible and only in your mind. The room at this point only held the echo of the cars outside, Walker's heavy boots shifting before—

His fingertips were cold against your jaw, you almost jumped away from him. You should have, what was he doing? His thigh brushed so light against your knee, and when he guided your eyes up, you saw him already peering at your damp face.

Everything about the man's face was blank. Thick brows, lips hidden under a bushy trail of hair, all set in a firm line. You made no attempt to divert, you weren't sure he would let you. You had been planted there, decided by him your next move would be included.

Then those words fell silent.

His fingertips pushed up your jaw, against the grain of your facial hair growing there. Then you felt him cup your cheek, strong hands dragging along your skin.

Walker used his thumb to brush against your temple, wiping away something sticky. Red tint coated the little grooves in his skin and he pulled away, wiping his digit on the material of your pants. His tone was far more entertained then,

"Looks like you hit your head back there."

⊱ ───────────── ⊰

Taglist - @mansaaay @hope-to-hell @feralrunaway @thetaoofzoe @luclittlepond @madbaddic7ed @brandycranby @emyearns

⊱ ───────────── ⊰

#August Walker x Reader #Male reader #Black reader #henry cavill x reader #Henry Cavill fluff #Repeat #henry cavill x black reader #henry cavill x black!reader

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ao3commentoftheday · 3 years

Text

comment transcript: oh god this made me cry. the end of this made me CRYYYYYYYY ;-;

i’m not good at long comments, my head is very empty, i almost failed english at least once (we cant all be fugo), and i am filled with nothing but love for these characters. but i will say: i think this is one of my favorite things ive ever read. EASILY. i think ive felt the whole spectrum of emotion over the past 2 1/2 days as i read this series. i just. love the way you write. i love your voice, its comedic and poetic and beautiful and it just. flows. so nicely. i watched il postino for the first time the other day (ty buccellati) and maybe it just made me pensive, but i think that movie and this story make me feel similar ways. maybe its the beautiful metaphors. maybe its the ocean. ive never been good at putting things into words, and i keep typing things and deleting things because they don’t make sense, but i get it. when giorno and fugo talk about the whispers between the trees and the sound of the ocean... thats how this makes me feel. i understand it.

also, and sorry if this makes things turn towards the weird, but i think reading this has helped me a lot? like im not a kinnie i swear but i relate so heavily to what these characters are feeling and going through. and i know fiction has power so none of this should surprise me but a lot of the shit theyre realizing and a lot of the conclusions theyre coming to and the things that theyre learning are things that i think i needed to hear. like there’s a lot of stuff in here thats stuck with me and that i’m going to be thinking about forever but giorno’s realization of thinking about things means actually *thinking* about things genuinely made me set my phone down for half an hour and start to sort my shit out. i dont know i guess what im trying to say is this was beautiful and impactful and the way you wrote your characters is so real and genuine and incredible and reading parts of this was almost like cathartic to me and i think, like giorno finally ready to let himself love and be loved, i think this has helped me be ready to face the shit ive been too afraid to face.

there was definitely more i wanted to say and i might come back to edit this comment and add more but my stomach has won over and my mind has completely blanked and i think i need to go make myself lunch. but in a weird fucked up little summary: this was so beautiful and i love the way you write and the characters all feel like real, tangible people and god this was so good. i love the crab shack. im learning that its okay to be unremarkable and its okay to just have a stupid job and make a living and let myself be happy in my little life. i love fugo. slutty but good dad dio made me laugh way more than it probably should have. if this were to get published i would buy it in a heartbeat and read it and reread it until the spine fell apart. if i knew how to wax poetic and write even half as beautifully as so much of this made me feel i would do it right here but i feel like ive already written an essay in your comments section soooooooo instead im going to go eat my little lunch and think about this wonderful world you’ve created and probably reread my favorite little sections. i hope you are doing well and having a fantastic day/month/year/lifetime and thank you so so so much for writing this you have blown my mind and changed my world!!!!!!!!!

edit: ok i wrote an edit for this and then the safari app crashed and i lost it so this wont be eloquent in the least but oh my god i didnt realize how long this comment was until i hit publish. i am so sorry. i really said i wasnt good at long comments and then absolutely word vomited and now im adding more and i cannot believe it but i wanted to talk about and then didnt mention just how much i adore the way you characterized all of them? especially abbacchio and bruno, the way you wrote them was so beautiful and sweet and when i woke up this morning i spent a solid five minutes staring at my wall unable to think about anything except for abbacchio’s unlabeled jar of savings for a honeymoon and how fucking romantic that was. and then it becoming savings for narancia and how bruno would agree that thats the right thing to do and theyre family and they love each other so much and despite everything thats happened in his life abbacchio has so much love in his heart and he has so much kindness and he wants to live and be happy and shit this derailed but i just. ugh. its all so fucking beautiful i just dont have the words to describe. id love to say that i cant believe ive gotten this emotional and felt like my whole mindset has changed this much because of a jojo fanfiction but youre a phenomenal author and i believe it 100%. please never stop writing i would buy every book you were to ever put out

personal note: if the commenter finds this submission, i hope that you know that you changed MY life a little and made me love storytelling to touch the lives of amazing ppl like you <3 of all things it’s a fic about a jersey shore boardwalk au 😭

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26070166/chapters/63406363

#ao3commentoftheday #submission

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copias-thrall · 3 years

Note

How would Mary goore react to hurting someone he genuinely cares about? I absolutely Love your writing!💕

Hello, nonny! Thank you, I love this ask!

This was going to be alist, but it got away from me! 😅

Enjoy 😘

It wasn’t anything big.

Just a few of Mary’s favorite beers (the craft kind—not the shitty beer he drank on his shoestring budget), some of that chronic shit you’d scored and have been saving for a special occasion, and a VHS box set of horror movie classics.

***

Mary comes in and out of your life at will, and that was something you accepted—knowing he was As Is or not at all. And honestly—no, really—you liked that. You had your own shit going on, and being Mary’s expected caregiver was NOT something you wanted to add to that list.

(If someone else wanted to try to tame him and pick up after him, well…kudos to them. Less work for you.)

Mary showed up on your pivotal days and he rubbed your feet and always invited you out to trivia. You'd held him when he was coming down from a bad trip and listened to his grievances and gave him a place to stay when he was persona non grata at his own. And in a way, that made you always feel like #1 in Mary’s world…and that was good enough for you.

***

A few months ago, Mary had been lying on your couch, picking the label off his beer bottle.

“I’m gonna be away for a bit,” he’d said.

“Oh?” you’d responded as you’d mashed the controls on your gaming controller.

“Yeah. I mean, I’ll be around…but I got some shit going on.”

You’d paused your game.

“Bad shit?”

He’d waved you off.

“Neg. Just tryna get myself out there. Signed up for open mics and shit.”

He’d shifted, his long legs receding from around you and folding under him.

“So, like…I got my job at the bowling alley…but nights and weekends are kinda shot.”

You’d tried not to let the disappointment show on your face. You supported Mary’s dreams, and that meant not making an issue that he was finally trying to do something about them.

This wasn’t against you. It was for him.

When you’d taken too long to respond, his face had scrunched.

“But if you want—”

“It’s fine, Mare,” you’d said as you’d made yourself smile. “This is important to you, so it’s important to me.”

You’d unpaused your game.

“Just don’t expect me to not beat this game without you.”

He’d grabbed the controller out of your hands with a snarl, causing you to cry out when you died.

“Fuck the game.” His hand had fisted your shirt. “Give me a night to remember.”

You had. Twice.

***

Mary had texted you occasionally over the next few weeks—a few memes, a few drunken key-smashes, a dick pic, and 2 grainy videos of his performances for critique—but such contact was sporadic, and you’d never seen him in real-time.

He’d blown in one night, five weeks in, with a box of pizza just as you'd been heading out to meet your crew. When you’d told him you’d made plans, he’d looked so crestfallen that you’d caved and canceled on them.

While he’d been there, he’d given you a date in 3 weeks.

“That Saturday I have nowhere to be,” he’d said as he’d chewed. “I can spend the whole day with you.”

You’d been careful not to seem too eager.

“Oh yeah? Should I plan shit?”

He’d crammed the whole crust into his mouth and had given you a doughy grin.

“Why ’’ya think I told you?”

You didn’t know what you’d expected, but when he’d had to bounce 90min later, you were still surprised. (That was hardly enough time to digest!)

“Sorry,” he’d winced. “I gotta be on a bus in 45min.”

He’d left, and you’d been too embarrassed to join your friends who were only just going to the second bar.

Having fun with your man ;) ? one of your friends had texted.

What do you think? You’d texted back before changing into your pjs and turning on Netflix.

***

So maybe you were low-key excited about your day with Mary.

Perhaps you’d spent those 3 weeks figuring out the perfect date—something that said, “I missed you,” without saying “But in a clingy way.”

Beer and horror were two things the both of you were totally into, and you knew he’d be exhausted, so it seemed perfect. You’d bought the boxed set off of eBay and splurged for expedited shipping; you’d borrowed your brother’s old dual TV/VCR from his college days; and you’d forgone your weekly Chinese takeout for the craft beer funds. (And if things got steamy, well…even better.)

***

A few days before The Date, you’d run into Mary on the bus. You were coming home from a shift, and he was going to his.

He’d brightened and waved you over—as if you weren’t already on your way—and you’d plopped down beside him with a tired grin. You’d told him of the latest entitled asshole, and he’d showed you another clip of him on guitar.

Before your stop had come up, you’d tentatively placed your hand over his.

“We still on for Saturday?”

He’d blinked at you a few moments before grinning.

“Yeah.”

“Should I plan a whole day for us, then?”

His arm had crept around your shoulders before pulling you into him to kiss your temple.

“Yeah, why not.”

***

That morning, you wake up happy.

Mary will be over soon.

You roll over and grab your phone.

When should I expect you? :-*

It takes him an hour to respond. You aren’t surprised—Mary isn’t known for being a morning person—so when your phone dings, you grab it up excitedly.

An excitement that dies when you read his text. And reread. And re-reread.

not 2day

goin upste 2 show

You blink.

What show? Didn’t we confirm?

yeah. got me thinkin

why no show?

so i chked

i missed one

gotta do it

Rage blooms hot, then cold behind your eyes and down your cheeks.

But you said we had the whole day. I made plans.

save em

ths is impt 2 me

We’ve had this planned for weeks.

i thot u suprted me

on a bus cnt tlk

You send a few more irate texts, but he doesn’t respond, and you toss your phone across the room with a shout of frustration. You scrub the hot tears from your eyes before they can fall.

And…on paper, Mary isn’t wrong. Nothing you had planned won’t keep: movies, beer, takeout.

But…

It gives you a stark look at what you mean to Mary. He gave you this date and confirmed it. He knew you were making plans.

How long was he going to wait to tell you he wasn’t even in the city anymore?

You fight the urge to kick the VHS tapes across the floor, but you open the fridge and grab a beer. If Queen Elizabeth could have beer for breakfast, then it was good enough for you.

Once you’ve downed all eight, you move on to the jug of vodka you keep for cleaning.

When you empty only liquid from your stomach into the toilet, you grab your frozen fries out of the freezer. You roll a handful of the cold ones in your mouth as you wait for the others to crisp in the oven, and once you’ve consumed the cooked ones, you go right back to the vodka.

***

Opening your eyes the next morning is a mistake, so you take a few deep breaths and go back to sleep.

When you wake again, your heart is fluttering, your stomach turns, and it feels like there’s an ice pick behind one eye. Shuffling slowly, you make your way out to your kitchen where you take some painkillers, drink some pickle juice, and eat two slices of plain bread.

The sense that you did something awful stays with you, but you’re in no condition to find your phone and see what you’ve done. Instead, you go back to bed. It takes more deep breathing to settle yourself, but once you do fall asleep, you’re out for hours.

You don’t feel amazing when you swim to consciousness again, but you feel at least like a human being.

Your phone is dead when you find it under the sink, and waiting the 5 or so minutes for it to charge feels like waiting to face the executioner.

It’s both better and worse than you expected.

You breathe a sigh of relief to see that there are no vague social media posts, and you didn’t drunk dial any of your friends, but…

The texts to and from Mary are ugly.

Apparently, you’d managed not to send him angry texts until he’d sent you another clip of his performing. But then the floodgates had opened.

You’d started with telling him you didn’t give a shit about the show, how he was an inconsiderate ass, and then you'd devolved into incomprehensible, typo-ridden texts that accused him of using you, that you were only something to do when he didn’t have anything better to do, that he was an entitled man-child and if he didn’t apologize, you were done.

Mary’s texts in response range from him being angry at your disregard, to heated retorts you were blowing this out of proportion (and he didn’t appreciate your “ad hominem” attacks), to a cool detachment that this wasn’t working over text and he’d finish this in person.

You put your head in your hands but are too dehydrated to cry.

***

Mary doesn’t text you again during his self-imposed time frame.

You don’t text him either, but that’s more out of self-preservation than pride. There’s no point exacerbating the situation…and you’re pretty sure there’s no coming back from this, so why speed up the inevitable?

The horror tapes taunt you every time you walk by them, and you wonder if you can return them (you can’t). You give the TV back to your brother, and when he asks you how it went, you plaster a smile on your face and say, “Great!” with forced enthusiasm you hope comes across as genuine.

The primo weed goes over to your friend’s house, and the two of you wax poetic all night about existential claptrap as you devour two cheese pizzas and a bag of bbq chips. You talk about Mary without talking about Mary, and you get a heartfelt, “Sorry, dude.”

You beat the video game anyway, but it’s mostly because you needed something to occupy your mind and less out of spite (though that’s there as well).

***

Despite waiting on tenterhooks to hear anything from Mary, you truly don’t really expect to. You know you’d been atrocious, even if it had been prompted by his careless disregard, and you know Mary isn’t really the kind of guy that troubles himself with relationships that are hard.

Not that you’re in a relationship.

So when there’s a knock on your door a week later and Mary’s behind it, you’re genuinely surprised.

You gape through the peephole in shock.

“Fuck. If you’re there, just let me in, ok?”

Fumbling with the chain, you unlock the door and crack it open.

“Mary?”

“You gonna let me in?” he rasps.

You shrug and step away from the door, and he shuffles inside. He looks around like you’ve changed anything (you haven’t), before turning around to face you.

You close the door and stare back.

He folds his arms. “Breaking up with someone over text is tacky.”

What you think is, So you’ve come to do it in person, but what you say is, “Can’t break up if you’re not together.”

He winces and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Yeah…apparently I’ve ‘taken advantage' of you.”

This…isn’t what you’re expecting.

“I…what?”

“Can we sit down?”

You nod, and Mary sits rigidly on the edge of your couch. You curl up in the chair on the opposite side.

He rubs his palms down his greasy jeans before he speaks.

“I mean…you pissed me off, ok?”

You nod.

“But, like—you weren’t wrong, ok? I kinda knew that deep down, but I’m a dumbass, you know?”

You don’t nod.

“And I kinda bitched about the whole thing…but the resounding response was that I was the asshole.”

He angles his body toward you.

“I guess I’ve kinda been treating you like my best friend that I fuck sometimes.”

Your entire face flushes—you’d always thought you’d maybe ranked a little higher than that—and you duck your head so he can’t see the tears that you blink back.

There’s a swish of fabric, and you startle hard when Mary’s hand is at your chin. He jerks back with a Sorry.

“Shit—that’s not what I…” he blows out a breath and puts his hands behind his head before looking back up at you.

“But you aren’t, and…fuck this is harder than I thought.”

So this is it.

Waiting for him to do the deed is clearly going to be excruciating, so you take charge of this whole shit-show.

“I understand,” you say flatly.

“You do?”

“It’s ok, Mare-Mary. It’s my own fault for reading too much into it. I just…I saw what I wanted to see, I guess. I know you don’t need…” you look down into your lap, “…my shit in your life.

He makes a noise low in his throat, and then he’s squatting in front of you, his hot hands planting on your knees.

“But I want your shit in my life.”

You squint your eyes at him.

“But what I said…”

He grasps your hands in his.

“Pissed me off, yeah…cuz I wasn’t fucking thinking, ok? You’re like one of the only people who gives a crap about what’s important to me. And all I could see was you suddenly…not.”

Anger wells up in you again, and you yank away your hands.

“Weeks, Mary…weeks of you all over the tri-state area, and you thought I didn’t care because of one night?! A night you promised to me?”

He sits back on his heels. “I know…fuck. Ok? At the time, it just felt…like the show couldn’t be rescheduled. Our night could.”

Because you’re what he does when he’s bored.

You curl in on yourself.

“Shit.” He leans forward again. “Fuck, I’m sorry, ok? I’m fucking on my knees here.”

You blink at him.

What?

“Please, please don’t break—say we’re done.”

“What?”

“Look, we can go into my shitty fucking psychological profile on why I fuck around later…but right now I need you to know that I knew it was you before I fucking knew it was you.”

You uncurl.

“That…’what’ was me?”

He knees forward and presses your hands to his face.

“The one I wanna spend my free time with. The one whose opinion means the most. The one who was the first person I wanted to share all my good shit with. You’re the one I missed, and—after that awful fucking night—everything felt pointless because I knew I couldn’t come over and jam about it.”

“Mare—what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m a fucking dumbass. I’m saying I thought I was pissed at you, but I was pissed at myself for fucking it up.” He sighs. “I’m saying no fucking one was on my side and they all told me to get my shit together.”

He looks up at you with wide eyes, and for the first time, you can see how they’re outlined in red, his subtle crow’s feet more pronounced.

“So, you’re not done with me? I’m not…too much trouble?”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “What? Shit, no. I’m asking you to not be done with me. I’ll give you all the nights you want. Fucking text me, and my ass’ll be here posthaste.” He shifts up, and his thumb ghosts over your lips. “Anything to get you to give me that secret smile again.”

“Secret smile?” you ask while trying to perform the action.

Mary actually blushes.

“Uh…yeah. You get this…” he makes a motion across his face, “…when you’re giving it back to me.” His fingers shove back through his hair as he casts his eyes down. “You don’t give it to anyone else.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve made a study of it.”

You’re a swirl of emotions. Mary’s apologized—has admitted he was wrong and has asked for…more—but you’re still hurt. And embarrassed.

But he’s looking up at you with wet, hopeful eyes.

“Do you…” you start carefully, “…do you know why I got so mad?”

That statement was clearly not what he was expecting, and he blinks at you a few times before nodding and looking down at the floor.

“I made a…uh, commitment…to you. And I treated it like it didn’t mean anything.”

He gives you a look like, Did I get it right? and that’s close enough—even if he’s missing some of the nuance.

You nod. “And I know I…wasn’t…the best.”

His face contorts, and your heart sinks.

“You…” he shakes his head. “You said some awful things…some hurtful shit—and it really got in my head.”

Mary gives you a complicated look.

“Shit that you’d been pissed about for a while.” He traces your knee. “Shit you could’ve said to me…but shit I should have noticed. Fuck.” He presses his forehead into your knees, and you can’t stop yourself from sinking your fingers into his hair.

He takes it as encouragement and presses into you before looking up again.

“I just kinda wanna put that whole night behind us. It feels like a fucking ouroboros of fault. And like maybe I created it. But let’s agree to like…not do that again.”

You look down at him, and his eyes search your face.

“Ok…but what does all this mean, Mare? I can’t…I need to be something to you, ok? More than just your friend.”

Mary nods emphatically, and he takes your hand and curls his into it.

“No more fuck-ups, and no one else…can we start there?”

He’s saying all the right words, but you’re still trepidatious—you know Mary, and he doesn’t like constraints.

“I…just…how can I believe you?”

He shakes his head like he can’t believe you even have to ask. He rises and awkwardly reaches out to touch your face before drawing his hand back.

“Cuz you’re important to me. I care about you, and I don’t want to lose you. Ever.”

And yeah. Ok.

#asks #mary goore #gender neutral #hurt/comfort #my writing #original post

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pedros-mustache · 4 years

Text

loquacious

summary: you’re not normally this expressive.

word count: 2k

warnings: smut (18+ or i will fight you): protected sex (not specifically mentioned), kinda sorta cockwarming, dirty talk, .2 seconds of cumplay, breeding kink if you squint. also: language, x fem!reader.

a/n: there is no plot, but i very much enjoyed writing this prior to my three hour thesis presentation tomorrow. v much would enjoy smoft sex with ezra. also: sorry mom

it’s simple, unrushed this time.

so often you find your lovemaking with ezra to be born out of frenzy, a need to expel pent up energy after a grueling scavenge. it is rough and dirty and, yes, thoroughly enjoyable, but decidedly unromantic. though there are moments in which he gazes at you with pure adoration amidst the throes of pleasure, that adoration is quickly replaced by a cavernous sort of lust that never seems to dissipate until you are both spent and sated.

this evening, though—this evening, tucked away in your rented room, you are away from danger, away from deadlines, away from everything but the warmth of one another.

and ezra is taking his time.

he sits on the edge of the bed (a bonafide mattress with a luxurious comforter and two pillows!), his feet planted firmly on the floor. you sit on his lap, his length firmly sheathed in your tight core, your arms around his neck, face bent in the crook of his neck as you move slowly against him. your own legs squeeze tight around his hips, drawing him ever closer.

it’s a reprieve, this moment. a reprieve from thirty cycles on an inhospitable moon with other prospectors on your tail and too few resources to go around. you’d gotten the job done, though, and the buyer paid handsomely for all your trouble.

now, ezra fulfills his softly spoken promise of eighteen cycles ago. he’d promised you rest, a break from the hard work and a moment to catch you breath before moving on to the next job. noxxo seven isn’t the warm, sun-drenched planet you’d hoped for, but it’ll do the trick. so long as you’re with ezra, any place is just fine by you.

the room he’s bought for the next few nights is unique. it feels more like a replica of a pod than a traditional room. oval in shape, complete with white walls and thin carpet, the layout reminds you somewhat of an egg. soft blue lights emanating from the baseboards do little to counteract the gray permeating every corner of the room. noxxo seven’s atmosphere—a thick, heavy cloud of fog—is inescapable, and any sunlight attempting to shine through the veil merely bathes your room in a colorless soft of haze. trees smack against the singular window, pushed by the rushing wind. there’s a storm somewhere outside; you can hear rain pelt the roof of the building.

everything—the fog, the rain, the dim lighting—pushes you closer to ezra.

neither of you rush to find release. tonight is about the journey. it’s about savoring the feel of ezra in his naked humanity and him exalting in your divine aura. (his words, not yours.)

ezra’s hips barely rut beneath yours. his arms are wrapped tight around your back, his mouth drawing wet paths from your lips to your neck to yours breasts and back again. he can’t be bothered to move faster, to truly thrust in and out, and you really don’t care. the stretch of him is enough for now.

you sigh, tilting your head away from his neck when his mouth finds your nipple. raking your fingernails through his hair, you smile when he mumbles something against your sweat-slick skin.

“always talking,” you whisper. you swivel your hips lightly, and he grunts in approval, pulling away.

he catches your eye, and you still, trapped in the warmth of his gaze. “i would never be able to exhaust all the writing utensils in the universe were someone to task me with recounting all the ways i adore you, little bird.”

you lift a hand and cradle his chin between your thumb and forefinger, leaning in for a kiss. his lips are soft, his mustache ticklish. you linger in the feel of his mouth on yours: the way he lets you set the pace, humming against your touch.

then he adjusts his feet on the floor—perhaps to get more purchase, perhaps because he’s lost feeling in his toes. whatever the reason, the movement drives his cock a little deeper, a little closer to that one particular spot, and you gasp, clenching around him.

ezra chuckles. “you like that?”

you nod, and he moves again, this time with purpose. one hand comes to grip your hip, the other splayed along the small of your back. he thrusts once, twice, three times. each time you mewl in pleasure. you drop your forehead to his shoulder as he slows once more.

“kevva, erza,” you breathe. you dig your nails in the muscle of his bicep.

he just snorts in amusement, thrusting upwards again. his pubic bone brushes your clit, and you keen, eyes rolling back in your head.

“shit. you’re so—” you press your lips together to stop yourself.

ezra’s fingers squeeze your hip. “what’s that, my love?” he bucks beneath you at an erratic pace, setting you on edge, uncertain of when or where the next pulse of his cock will strike. “do you have something you’d like to say with those precious lips of yours?”

before you can respond, he kisses you, his mouth a messy slant over yours. he pulls away, gasping for breath as he continuous the slow, torturous drag of his cock in and out, in and out.

your throat seizes, and you lift your head from his shoulder. your mouth falls open on a silent moan. “you just...” you gasp and shudder, shaking your head.

“what is it?” he prods, tone gentle. “tell me.”

he’s egging you on, you know. he can see the way the words sit on the tip of your tongue. he knows you well enough to sense the feelings mounting in the pit of your stomach that you shove down time after time.

talking—that’s his thing. he’s good at it. no matter the subject, the time, or the place, he can wax poetic. you, on the other hand, aren’t as eloquent. you cannot paint pictures with your words the way he can. you cannot make him crumble with just one phrase the way he does you. so you keep quiet—especially during sex. you cannot compare to him, so you don’t try.

“tell me, bird,” he whispers. he presses his palm to the side of your face. “let me hear you.”

and with one emphatic thrust, he unlocks the floodgates.

gripping his shoulders, you toss your head back with a wanton moan. “fuck, ezra. you’re so big.”

his hips stutter. he groans, his own forehead dropping to your clavicle. still, he continues pushing in and dragging out. you lift your own hips to help the movement. the evidence of your desire—your love for him—pools at the base of your joined bodies, and you whimper at the sight.

“you fit me like a fuckin’ glove.” you wind your arms tight around his back as you grind against him. “every time you fill me, i think i might burst.”

he growls, pushes a little harder, a little deeper.

“just like that, baby,” you whisper, unable to stop yourself from speaking it all, telling him every thought that floats through your lust-clouded mind. “you’re good with your fingers and even better with your tongue, but fucking fuck—i want you all the time. like this, any way, i don’t care. i just love the feel of you and—” you whimper again. “touch me, ezra. ‘m close.”

ezra remains silent as he removes the hand from your back to press his thumb against your clit. he rubs the nub in sweet, gentle circles, and tears spring to your eyes.

“oh shit, that feels so good.”

if it is at all possible, you press yourself tighter against him as you clamor for your release. your hips move wildly against his, his fingers now rough against your clit. he huffs in your ear, and the sound drives you mad.

you can feel it rising like the tide in your stomach: the clench, the fluttering, the ultimate burst of pleasure.

in an instant, you clamp down, crying out against his shoulder as you come. ezra just keeps going, leading you through your high until you begin to settle.

then he moves.

in one fluid motion, he has you pinned to the mattress, one leg flung over his shoulder. sweat drips from his forehead as he drives into you, deeper still at this new angle. the sound of skin against skin brings a flush of heat to your cheeks, and you grip his arms for support.

you lift a hand to smooth back the little patch of blond hair clinging to his forehead. “fuck me so good, baby,” you mumble, the outline of another orgasm slurring your words.

he comes without warning, a guttural groan tearing through his throat as he releases inside of you. the feeling is enough to send you over the edge once more.

for a moment, as you both regain your breath, he lays his head against your chest. you hold him, your eyes fluttering shut as you swallow past your dry throat.

“i can hear your heart beat like the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings.”

you startle at the sound of his voice. it’s been—what?—quite some time since you last heard him speak. a new record.

you don’t say anything, and he pulls out, moving to sit on his knees. he grunts at the sight of your mingled juices spilling from your core. with two long fingers, he scoops what he can from the bed and slips it within you.

you laugh and wiggle against the feel of his fingers. “what do you think you’re doing?”

he looks up through his lashes. “merely putting my seed where it belongs.”

satisfied, he goes to the fresher and returns with a damp cloth, wiping you down. he smirks and lifts an eyebrow as he works, his touch languid and unhurried. “you are quite loquacious when you want to be.”

“you are quite tight-lipped when you want to be.”

“i must admit your words stunned me to silence, which is a rare occurrence, as you well know.” he pauses his ministrations, meets your eyes. “but i would go to the pits of hell and back to hear you speak like that again. i would let my tongue be cut from my mouth if it meant—”

rising, you shut him up with your mouth on his. you kiss him until your lungs scream for air. you pull back, your hand pressed to his knee. “i’d be upset if you lost your tongue. it’s one of your greatest assets.”

“so i’ve been told.” he squeezes the curve of your ass, and a line of concern appears between his brows. “you must use your words, dear one. i long to know every thought that crosses your mind, especially when i am sheathed inside of you.”

you run your hand along his chest. “even if i’m not as... pretty as you are?”

he shakes his head. “i have never seen someone so illustrious.”

“i mean with my words.”

“your words are like honey, each one a magnificent drop in its own right, but electrifyingly sweet when swirled together.”

laughing, you fall to your back against the comforter, reveling in the silky fabric against your bare skin. “ezra, you should be a poet.”

he lowers himself to your side and runs his fingertips along your stomach. “only if you remain my muse.”

you circle your fingers around his. “always.”

outside, the storm rages, but inside, you bask in the moment of peace. in a few day’s time, you will be back in the field, working once more for rich men willing to pay for your skill and effort. but for now—for now you lie nestled against your love, desire sated, unyielding affection coursing through your veins.

you snuggle closer to ezra, and he slips his arms around your waist, drawing you to his chest.

tomorrow’s worries can wait.

#ezra (prospect)#ezra x reader #ezra smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #x fem!reader #pm writes

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