#since i've seen snippets of their scene

[cheswirls]

oh now that i think abt it. have i ever said anything abt pt 2 of the magic au?? ik i've rambled abt different plot points from the third part but. hmmm.

[maroonshirt81]

hey! did you see that post going around with drunk!Oscar looking completely out of it, some guy's hand around his waist? I remember you mentioned somewhere you like writing drunk scenes. could you write something carcar with this kind of dummy!drunk Oscar? that would make my day ❤️

You are completely right about my tendency to write fics where the characters are drunk. After this one, there are at least 3 more coming up. Clocked! And I don't even drink alcohol, hah! (also write a lot of porn for an asexual, so... make of that what you will.)

I didn't find the exact post you're referring to, but I'm guessing you meant this flavor of Oscar:

I've already postet a snippet of this, but here's the full, almost 6k of dummy!drunk carcar, rated M

----

Carlos let his gaze wander across the opulent, marble-columned room. It was the kind of space that belonged in a palace, but was in fact just the banquet hall of a local luxury hotel.

He wrinkled his nose, finding it all a bit tacky. This was a fundraiser for a school, for fuck’s sake! Granted, a fancy private school, but still. Not the goddamn royal wedding. Yet the board had spared no expense to impress the parents and grandparents of their future students.

The hall was lined on both sides with tables, overflowing with canapés and champagne flutes, from which an army of waiters continuously filled their trays, gliding from guest to guest to ensure not a single throat went dry.

Clearly, the master plan was to get everyone drunk enough to leave a generous check with their signature on it before the night was over.

Carlos had no idea why the teachers had to be part of this farce. They stood out in their ill-fitting suits like ducklings at a swan convention, clearly out of place.

His eyes landed on Charles, surrounded by a group of older ladies, his gaze silently screaming for help. A bit farther off stood Max, sulking in a corner with his arms crossed, shooting death glares at anyone who dared approach him. And in the opposite corner, Carlos spotted his least favorite colleague, Oscar – who he’d bet was having the worst time of all, trapped among privileged older people, forced to make small talk about what blessings their spoiled children were.

Instead, he found Oscar with a big, dopey smile on his face, eyes narrower than Carlos had ever seen them, a deep flush on his cheeks. He held an empty champagne flute in his hand, and there... there was an arm, slung low around his waist. Far too low. It belonged to some older man whose face was way too close to Oscar’s to be appropriate. Especially considering Oscar was clearly drunk out of his mind.

Before Carlos had even formed a proper plan, he was already striding across the hall, setting his empty glass on a passing tray.

Just because he didn’t like Oscar didn’t mean he’d let him get groped in the middle of a work function. As private school teachers, they already gave up enough dignity to these kinds of parents, money often speaking louder than real effort or basic decency.

“Good evening,” Carlos said politely once he reached the group of older men surrounding Oscar. “I’m terribly sorry, but I need to steal Mr. Piastri for a moment – we’re supposed to prepare the presentation later and he’s the only one who knows the password for the file.”

Oscar turned to him, that big, stupid smile still plastered on his face. “Wot?”

It took serious effort to keep his own fake smile in place, especially since the massive hand resting at the curve of Oscar’s ass didn’t even twitch.

“The presentation, Oscar,” Carlos repeated, enunciating pointedly. “I sent you an email about it earlier today.” When Oscar just gave a slow blink in response, Carlos turned to the men with exaggerated exasperation. “Math guys,” he sighed. “Famously terrible communicators.”

The overly hands-on man beside Oscar broke into loud, boisterous laughter, and Carlos swore he saw that giant hand slide even lower in his peripheral vision. He might’ve blacked out for a second. Abandoning the high road, Carlos grabbed the stranger’s hand and pulled it off Oscar’s ass, slipping an arm around his colleague’s back instead to steer him away from the predatory crowd. There was a chorus of surprised gasps and awkward chuckles behind him, and Carlos could only hope the guy wasn’t going to file a complaint with the higher-ups.

Oscar stumbled along with him, his side easily melting into Carlos’s, which was strange, because Oscar was usually stiff as a board, groaning like he was seventy every time he stood up from a chair. Now, he felt like liquid, easily guided across the room and out a side door. Carlos paused for a moment, getting his bearings. They’d ended up in a dim corridor, but there was light to the left, so he followed it, rounding the corner and finding an entrance to a long sunroom that opened into the hotel’s rear gardens.

He maneuvered Oscar’s boneless body through two sliding doors until they stood outside on the terrace, the summer evening breeze brushing soothingly against their skin.

Oscar made no attempt to free himself from Carlos’s arm. He probably needed the support. His head tilted as he looked around with slow, confused blinks.

“Is your laptop out here?” he asked.

“Oh my god!” Carlos took the empty champagne flute from Oscar’s hand and set it down on a mosaic table, then rounded on his hammered colleague. “You do realise that old creep’s hand was basically kneading your ass, right?”

Oscar gave him wide eyes – at least as wide as they would go in his state, which wasn’t very wide at all.

“Oh, no, he was just being a little overly friendly,” he waved it off with a shrug. “You know. American.”

“Yeah? Is that so? Do Americans usually stick their tongues in your ear at professional functions?”

Oscar, unbelievably, giggled like Carlos had just made a joke and didn’t even follow up on it. Instead, he slowly sank down to the tiled floor, his side dragging against Carlos’s. Apparently, the groaning like a dying animal wasn’t limited to getting up – it made an appearance even when he was sitting– or rather, lying down on the ground.

“What are you doing?” Carlos asked, incredulous.

“Head’s spinning a bit,” Oscar said, eyes closed.

“Yes, no shit. Are you going to throw up?”

Oscar snorted, opening one crinkly eye to peek up at Carlos. “From what?” he asked. “I didn’t drink any alcohol. I’m at work! I only had that funny, sparkly orange juice.”

“You mean the mimosas?” Carlos groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “Oscar! How many?”

Oscar gave him a blank look, then visibly blanched.

“Why do they have mimosas at a fancy gala?” he whined, instead of answering Carlos’s question. “Aren’t they for brunch and stuff?”

“Yes, but what kind of clientele do you think the parents of our students are? They made sure to have everyone’s favorite drink on hand!”

Oscar mumbled something unintelligible which Carlos was 90% sure was “They are pretty good…” and Carlos shook his head, pulling his phone from his pocket.

“I’m calling you an Uber,” he said, resolute.

Oscar didn’t even try to argue. He folded his hands over his belly and closed his eyes, face relaxed and content, very unlike his usual expression of mild constipation.

The nearest Uber was still a while out. They were on a secluded hilltop overlooking the ocean – an ideal setting for a whodunit, and Carlos could only hope Oscar didn’t drop dead and leave him as the prime suspect – miles away from the city.

“Don’t fall asleep now!” he warned, nudging Oscar with his foot. “I won’t carry your drunk ass all the way to the parking lot!”

“Hm yes, because you couldn’t,” Oscar murmured, clearly half-asleep. Of course he’s out of it enough to let some randy retiree grope him in the middle of a gala and not even register the violation – but God forbid he miss a chance to throw shade at Carlos.

“I teach sports,” Carlos reminded him, offended despite himself. “I’m fit! Of course I could carry you!”

“Really?” Oscar cracked open his eyes again, squinting up at him through the terrace lights. He looked Carlos up and down, then smiled. In a soft voice, he said, “Prove it?”

And honestly, Carlos would not have. He would not have fallen for it – if it weren’t for that soft voice and that stupid, froggy smile, a reminder of just how utterly wasted Oscar was. He would have laughed in his face and said, “You wish,” and then abandoned him on the terrace floor while he found Lando to dump the responsibility on.

Instead, he crouched down and hooked his arms under Oscar’s armpits.

Oscar’s hands wrapped around his neck without needing direction. And even though he looked like a sack of rice left on the ground, he lifted easily – body loose, melting into every curve of Carlos’s frame. He was warm against the breeze. And he smelled… surprisingly good. Carlos couldn’t place it. Something sweet. Something that made him feel hungry.

He was tempted to just throw Oscar over his shoulder and carry him toward the garden, where he knew there was a gate leading to the parking lot. At the last second, though, he decided that Oscar had already lost enough dignity for one day. So he merely set him upright, wrapped an arm around his waist for support, and gently nudged him in the direction of the stairs.

“You call this carrying?” Oscar grumbled, dragging his feet.

“I just decided I’d prefer not to have your puke dripping down my back,” Carlos said. “Careful! Steps.”

Oscar nearly didn’t make it down the obstacle of the three narrow steps into the garden, because, incredibly, a series of bubbly giggles burst from his throat – the kind usually reserved for Lando’s antics. It caught Carlos so off-guard that he almost missed a step himself. Thankfully, he managed to catch both of them in time, steadying Oscar by pulling him back into his side.

“Are you okay?” he asked, because Oscar giggling at something he said could only mean something was seriously wrong.

Oscar let out a low hum and allowed Carlos to guide him gently into the garden. It was darker here, though the stone path was lit by a row of soft ground lights. The way to the parking lot had to be somewhere nearby, but everything looked so different in the dark that Carlos briefly lost his sense of direction.

He stopped at a junction, glancing around.

“Can you stand on your own for a second?” he asked Oscar, who took a reluctant step back so Carlos could fish his phone out of his pocket. Google Maps wasn’t particularly helpful, but at least it confirmed the parking lot was somewhere to their left, and he should be looking for a gate on that side.

He had just stuffed his phone back in his pocket when Oscar sagged forward against him, forehead pressed to Carlos’s shoulder. Carlos barely caught him in time to keep them from toppling over backward.

“Whoa! What are you–”

“Sorry, just got dizzy for a sec,” Oscar mumbled into his shoulder, warm breath seeping right through Carlos’s shirt. There it was again – that sweet scent, stronger than the surrounding rose bushes. Carlos had to fight the urge to bury his nose in Oscar’s hair and take a deep breath. Instead, he carefully wrapped both arms around Oscar’s waist to steady him.

“Idiot,” Carlos murmured, but it came out far too fond – maybe because of the low voices they were using, or because it was hard to fall into their usual rhythm when Oscar was being so unusually soft and vulnerable. This whole side of him was completely derailing Carlos. He hadn’t known Oscar could be warm or affectionate. He hadn’t known Oscar smelled good. He hadn’t known his breath would feel hot through layers of clothing. If he had known, he definitely wouldn’t have carried him out here, into the garden, where the lights were dim, the insects buzzed lazily in the bushes, and the two of them were alone, pressed together from head to toe.

“Better?” Carlos asked after a moment, unable to stop his hand from drawing slow, soothing circles on Oscar’s back.

Oscar hummed an affirmative against his shoulder and finally pulled back slightly – not out of Carlos’s space, not really, but at least his lips were no longer touching him. When Carlos dared to meet Oscar’s far-too-close eyes, he spotted that same froggy little smile again.

“You’re being too nice to me,” Oscar said, barely audible despite how close he was. “It’s freaking me out.”

“I am always nice!” Carlos protested – relieved, honestly, to return to some form of arguing, even if his hands still hadn’t gotten the message and kept tracing slow circles on Oscar’s back. “You’re the one always picking fights with me!”

Oscar looked amused by that. His eyes crinkled even more than before, pale skin rippling with too many lines – not just around his eyes, but at the corners of his mouth, too. He looked like a different person. Then again, he’d looked different all night, ever since showing up with his hair brushed and in a suit, albeit a slightly-too-small one that hugged his ass so tightly Carlos had been distracted even before this drunken debacle began.

Maybe it was time to admit that Oscar was… actually really good-looking. And good-smelling. God, what a terrible thing to realize about your least favorite coworker.

“I’m sure I was antagonizing you when you scratched up my car in the parking lot, huh?” Oscar said, predictably, since it was the origin of their strained relationship. But for once, there was no real bite to it.

“You were parked like a jackass!” Carlos shot back with his usual retort. It was so worn out now it barely held any weight. “How was I supposed to see you sticking halfway out of the space?”

“Maybe look into getting some glasses if you’re that blind,” Oscar said, and then, without warning, went off-script. “Might actually look good on you.”

“Yeah?” Carlos breathed, too thrown to come up with a good comeback.

“Mmhm,” Oscar hummed again, one hand rising to brush against the place where the frame of a pair of glasses might sit. His long nails dragged gently under Carlos’s eyes, too light to scratch. Very, very slowly, Oscar leaned in further, his body melting into Carlos’s, one knee sliding between his legs.

Carlos inhaled sharply and let it out in a slow exhale. “Jesus, Oscar,” he finally said.

Oscar’s thumb drifted down Carlos’s cheekbone toward the corner of his mouth. He didn’t speak, just stared at the movement of his own hand like it was hypnotic. By the time he reached Carlos’s lips, both of them were breathing hard. No more laugh-lines on Oscar’s face – just the pale glow of his skin, only disturbed by a smattering of moles and the plush, pink hint of what hid inside his open mouth.

A shrill ringtone made them jump apart just in time. Carlos scrambled to pull his phone from the pocket of his suit pants, which suddenly felt much tighter than before.

Shit. He’d completely forgotten about the Uber!

“Sorry! We’re on our way!” he barked into the phone, then grabbed Oscar – who was giggling – by the arms and dragged him down the path.

They nearly walked past the small garden gate, which wasn’t lit at all. Fortunately, Carlos caught a flash of headlights from the waiting car and managed to deliver his completely wasted coworker to the parking lot before the driver could leave due to a no-show.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” he apologized to the man, who was pacing impatiently in front of his car. “We got lost in the garden.”

Opening the back door, he gently maneuvered Oscar onto the seat, where he slumped against the window, soft like mashed potatoes. He didn’t move a muscle as Carlos half-climbed over him to pull the seatbelt across and buckle him in. The car’s back seat was mostly dark, but a bit of light caught in the whites of Oscar’s eyes, and on the soft curve of his lips. He was looking up at Carlos with that quiet, contented smile Carlos had never seen before today.

As Carlos started to pull away, Oscar grabbed the sleeve of his jacket.

“Where are you going?”

“Back inside, obviously,” Carlos whispered, matching Oscar’s soft voice. “I can’t just ditch work. If anyone notices you’re gone, I’ll cover for you, okay?”

Oscar didn’t let go. Still smiling, he said, “Then I can’t go either.”

“What? Do you not trust me, or–”

“No, I don’t,” Oscar said, though he was clearly just teasing. “But I also can’t go home. Sophie made me put all my stuff in her purse because she said my bulging pockets ruined the fit of the pants. I don’t have my house keys on me.”

Carlos suppressed a groan and tried to ignore the driver growing more impatient behind him.

If he had to stumble all the way back to the hotel now, find Sophie in the massive hall, all while avoiding their bosses and the old men he’d antagonized…

“You’ll have to take me to your place,” Oscar whispered, tightening his grip on Carlos’s sleeve.

“Oh,” Carlos said.

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Horrible. Catastrophic.

He found himself settling into the middle seat before his brain could come up with more disastrous synonyms, buckling in while Oscar’s limp hand dropped from Carlos’s sleeve, right onto his thigh.

“Ready?” the driver called from outside and shut the door before Carlos could reply.

Two minutes later, they were on the road to Carlos’s apartment. A slow song played on the radio, streetlights flashing sparsely past the windows. Oscar’s hand stayed on his thigh, unmoving. A radioactive weight, pressing him down into the seat and keeping his pants tight.

He couldn’t even see Oscar’s face in the dark – just the occasional flicker of silhouette when they passed a streetlight. After a while, Oscar’s head tilted bit by bit until it rested against Carlos’s shoulder.

Had he fallen asleep? Probably not, judging by the steady, deliberate strokes of his thumb across Carlos’s inner thigh. Oscar’s hair tickled his nose, wafting that sweet scent again. Carlos hadn’t really clicked with the Uber driver, but suddenly he wished for some pointless chatter, just to defuse the tension in the car.

The drive felt twice as long as it had on the way here. And just when Carlos thought Oscar had dozed off, his hand moved again, dragging along the bulge in Carlos’s pants, drawing a surprised, breathy whimper from him that he really, really hoped the driver hadn’t heard over the music.

The next streetlight illuminated Oscar’s eyes again. He was looking up at Carlos from beneath a curl of hair, gauging his reaction. There was a glint on his lips where he’d licked them.

Carlos was going to die.

He’d had no idea the tension between himself and Oscar had been sexual all this time. Maybe it hadn’t been – maybe it had just turned upside down tonight because Oscar was being nice for once, and all dressed up, and… groping him in the backseat of the car.

No, not groping. Not exactly. His hand was just lightly brushing against him, irregular, almost by accident. The only reason Carlos had to assume intention was that Oscar’s face was tilted upward, presumably looking him right in the eyes.

Carlos closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the headrest. He could feel Oscar’s hot breath against his collar, making him reach up to loosen his tie. He felt like a teenager, one glass of champagne too many, bubbles dancing in his periphery, probing hands, blurred lines. It was just a twenty-minute ride, but by the time they finally re-entered civilization, Carlos felt like he’d lived half a life – hard and hot and on the brink of snapping.

He wasn’t sure how much he tipped the driver in the end. He just shoved his hand into his back pocket and pulled out whatever cash he’d stuffed in there, leaving it in the center console without a word. Then he got out and walked around the car, collecting Oscar from the other side.

The Uber driver stuck his head out the window, suddenly looking a lot friendlier than before.

“Thanks, ‘ppreciate it!” he said, waving the wad of cash Carlos had left him. There was definitely a twenty in there. Oh boy.

But Carlos didn’t have much time to mourn his hard-earned money. Oscar was heavily leaning into him, eyes half-lidded – no, three-quarters lidded. Actually, they were slits, at most. He was smiling again, as if he’d never been happier in his life than right now, with Carlos’s arm around his waist, insistently maneuvering him toward the entrance to his building.

He lived on the ground floor and had never been as glad about it as today, because there was no elevator in this building, and carrying Oscar up a flight of stairs might have ended in disaster.

Not that this wouldn’t end in disaster.

“Okay,” Carlos said, drawing in shallow breaths in a futile attempt to calm himself down. “This is… this is me.”

Oscar’s eyes crinkled, amused, as he walked over the threshold, right into Carlos’s life. Carlos was mostly an orderly person, but there were hints of him not expecting any visitors strewn around. A blender cup left to soak in the sink from where he’d hastily thrown together a smoothie that morning. A few discarded tie options hanging from the back of the couch. A sports magazine, flipped open on the coffee table.

“It’s nice,” Oscar said, which was probably the most un-Oscar-like thing he could’ve said about Carlos’s apartment, reminding Carlos once again of just how far gone he must be.

Stalling for time, Carlos wandered into the kitchen, hoping Oscar wouldn’t just collapse to the floor without his support. “You want anything to drink?” he asked, opening a random cupboard. “Water? Coffee?”

Oscar’s brows arched, but he followed, leaning with his elbows against the kitchen island.

“Water’s fine,” he said, and Carlos reached for a tall glass, filled it from the faucet, and handed it over from the other side of the island, so they didn’t have to touch.

Oscar, ignoring the message, sidled along the island’s edge until he was right in Carlos’s face again. The light was low, but bright enough to highlight the flush sitting high on Oscar’s cheeks, right on the fleshy part under the eyes. It looked pretty. He looked so fucking pretty when he wasn’t being a prissy bastard, nagging Carlos for literally just existing. So pretty when he smiled.

“Thank you,” Oscar whispered, finally taking the glass from Carlos’s sweaty hands. He didn’t break eye contact as he took a long sip, swallowing audibly. The half-empty glass gave a soft clink when Oscar set it down on the kitchen counter, and the sound went straight through Carlos, bone-deep.

It was so fucking hard to be ethical when Oscar looked the prettiest he’d ever looked, wore the tightest pants he’d ever worn, and stared right into his eyes while licking his lips.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” Oscar continued, when Carlos could do nothing but stare back, unblinking.

“Yeah, uh,” Carlos coughed, only just realizing how dry his throat had gotten. “It’s no problem, rea–”

Oscar grabbed his tie and pulled him in, a lot more coordinated than Carlos would’ve given him credit for. There was no miss, no awkward clack of teeth – just Oscar’s soft, freshly-wet lips, and then, already, his tongue, slipping into Carlos’s open, desperate mouth.

Carlos immediately lost the fight against his own morals.

Oscar’s body was fusing itself to his again. Mouth-to-mouth, chest-to-chest, bulge-to-bulge. They seemed to be about the same height, which, for some reason, was the hottest thing to Carlos right now. He’d never thought a lack of height difference could be a kink, but he was discovering a lot of new things about himself tonight.

His hands were busying themselves with Oscar’s shirt, fiddling with the buttons, which refused to open. They were just as stubborn as their wearer, so Carlos gave up and went straight for the belt instead. Oscar groaned into his mouth when Carlos peeled his pants down, past his ass, and the weight of the belt carried them further, until they pooled around Oscar’s ankles. It was probably a terrible idea to leave a drunk man with fabric shackles like that, but Carlos was too distracted by the firm grip of Oscar’s ass in his hands, and Oscar somehow managed to step out of his shoes and pant legs just fine. Maybe the alcohol was wearing off.

Spurred on by that idea, Carlos gripped Oscar’s ass harder, pulling him close, and up, until Oscar got the message and wrapped his legs around Carlos’s waist.

‘See? I can carry you. Easy!’ Carlos would’ve liked to say, as he transported Oscar around the kitchen island and across the living room blindly, until Oscar’s back hit the bedroom door. His mouth was still too busy to talk, so he hoped the quality of his neck-sucking conveyed the proper amount of smugness as he pushed down the door handle and stumbled into the room with Oscar in his arms.

The unloading wasn’t very elegant, unfortunately. He banged his shins on the bedframe and dropped Oscar into the pillows like a sack of bricks. 

Oscar landed with a muffled “Ooph!” but didn’t complain. He just looked up at Carlos, the flush even more widespread than before. It went all the way down into his loosened collar, tie hanging on by a thread, the first three buttons undone to reveal surprisingly shaped pecs.

“Fuck,” he groaned, as his narrow eyes raked across Carlos’s body. Carlos wasn’t sure what he was seeing that was so impressive – he wasn’t the one lying on the bed with naked, spread legs, light grey boxers tented and damp at the tip, ready to be devoured. Not even in his wildest dreams could Carlos have conjured up such a sinful image of Oscar Jack Piastri, bane of his existence.

But there Oscar was, one hand reaching down to squeeze his dick, still staring up at Carlos, voice coming out rough and breathless as he said, “Jesus! Why do you have to be so fucking hot?”

Suddenly, there was a record-scratch sound in Carlos’s brain.

Because it wasn’t just the picture in front of him – it was the words, too.

Oscar Piastri, in his right mind, would never say those words out loud to Carlos Sainz’s face.

One time, when it was just the two of them in the break room, Oscar had caught Carlos checking himself out in the reflection of the coffee machine and rolled his eyes so hard Carlos had genuinely worried about the strings holding them in place.

“Regret to inform you, you’re not as hot as you think you are,” Oscar had told him.

That was what the real, actual Oscar Piastri thought of Carlos. He couldn’t trust anything this mimosa-brained, dummy-drunk temptation was telling him. It was just the alcohol talking. And if Carlos ended up taking advantage, he wouldn’t only break his own morals – there’d probably be a murder in this house the moment the real Oscar returned to his body in the morning.

So, as hard as it was, Carlos took a step back – away from the heavily breathing, clearly aroused man sitting on his bed with spread legs – mumbled a quick, “Good night, Oscar”, and stumbled off toward the bathroom as fast as his legs could carry him.

It took about five minutes for Oscar to process what had just happened and show up at the closed bathroom door, banging his fists against it and yelling what the fuck was wrong with Carlos – and another five minutes until he gave up and shuffled back toward the bed, muttering a few choice words under his breath.

Carlos stayed in the bathroom for the rest of the night, not trusting himself to face Oscar again. He took a long, cold shower and built himself a nest out of a few towels.

It was a terrible night. He barely slept at all. Different scenes from the evening played on the inside of his eyelids like a movie screen every time he closed his eyes. At one point, he even had to take a second cold shower. He could still feel Oscar’s ghostly hand brushing over his thigh, again and again, grazing his bulge through the suit trousers.

He woke up when the sun shone through the small bathroom window, way too early, and half-hard.

There was no sound coming from outside, though, so he dared to slip out of the bathroom.

The door to his bedroom was closed, and Carlos gave it a wide berth, heading to the kitchen instead to make himself a coffee.

Two hours later, there were still no sounds coming from the bedroom. Carlos decided it was time to face his fate.

He grabbed the glass Oscar had abandoned on the kitchen island the night before and filled it with fresh water. Then, very carefully, he went to knock on his own bedroom door.

No reaction.

He knocked again, but nothing changed.

Had… had Oscar left after Carlos had locked himself in the bathroom? Unlikely – he didn’t have his keys, or his phone, and Carlos had found his pants abandoned on the kitchen floor this morning.

Oh God. What if he’d fallen asleep on his back and choked on his own vomit, like some kind of drug victim?

Carlos opened the door and found the room mostly dark. The curtains were drawn, but they didn’t manage to keep the sunlight out completely.

The bed was a mess, but the body sprawled half-over, half-under the pile of blankets and pillows Carlos kept in his bed was clearly still breathing. Carlos was greeted by a perfectly shaped ass, clad only in underwear, sticking out of the sheets, one bare leg tossed carelessly over the blankets. Oscar’s hair was sticking up in all directions, defying gravity.

Slowly, slowly, Carlos walked into the room. He just wanted to set the glass of water on the bedside table and sneak back out, but he must have made some kind of noise, because just as he reached the bed, Oscar’s eyes snapped open, staring up at him.

There was a moment of silence as Carlos didn’t dare move a muscle, hoping against hope that Oscar would simply close his eyes again and go back to sleep. Instead, he sat up in bed.

He didn’t look especially disoriented for someone who had just gotten blackout drunk the night before, but then, Oscar never really looked fazed by anything.

“What are you doing?” Oscar asked, voice deep with sleep.

Carlos hesitantly lifted the glass of water in his hand. “Bringing you a glass of water?”

“Hm. That’s considerate,” Oscar said, without even a hint of a smile. “I really need that right now.”

Good. Good! Carlos handed him the glass with slightly trembling fingers.

A second later, the entire contents of the water glass splashed into his face. Carlos didn’t make a sound. He just let it happen. He kind of deserved it.

“Thought you really needed that,” he mumbled, once the majority of the water had dripped off his chin.

“Yep. That’s exactly what I needed it for,” Oscar said.

Carlos nodded, understanding. He sat down on the edge of the bed, drying his face with the hem of his T-shirt.

So. Oscar was clearly furious with him, and he had every right to be. Unfortunately, Oscar was also sitting there in his underwear and rumpled dress shirt, tangled in Carlos’s sheets, with the most adorable bedhead the world had ever seen, looking soft and warm, like a murderous kitten.

“Look, I’m very sorry–” Carlos began, but Oscar didn’t seem interested in hearing him out.

“As you should be!” he snapped. “Jesus Christ, Carlos! You were flirting with me all night! Do you have any idea how humiliating this is for me? I’ve been practically throwing myself at you and you were giving every sign, including taking me home! Only to run away the second I’m half-naked on your bed? At least have the decency to explain yourself! I’m a grown man – if you’re not actually into me, just say it!”

What? In what world would Carlos not be into him? He was getting hard just sitting here, being told off.

“That’s not what–” he started, stammering. “I mean, I just suddenly realized you were blackout drunk, and–”

“Blackout drunk?” Oscar snapped. “I wish!”

“Okay, so maybe you remember some of it, but you were clearly drunk, Oscar! I couldn’t… I couldn’t risk it, okay?”

Oscar still looked like he was actively considering tearing Carlos’s head off and using it as a flower vase.

“I wasn’t drunk,” he said icily. “I had, like, two mimosas. I’ve seen you drink twice that much right after arriving, mate.”

“Uh–” Carlos faltered like he’d just been punched in the stomach.

“I was tipsy, at best!”

“But… but you were smiling!”

“It’s called ‘having a good time,’ Carlos!” Oscar snapped. “Not something I usually experience around you, granted, but not exactly unheard of!”

“And you were letting those old American guys grope you in front of everyone!”

Oscar’s mouth dropped open in protest. “You mean Zak?” he groaned. “Mate, that’s my old boss. He got me this job! And he wasn’t groping me – his hand was on my mid-back, at best. You were the only one groping me in front of everyone, Jesus Christ! I only let you because I thought it was hot when you suddenly got all territorial!”

“But… but…” Carlos was running out of arguments. “You couldn’t even move without me supporting you!”

“What?” Oscar rubbed at his eyes like a headache was starting to form – one that had nothing to do with last night’s drinks. “I was supporting you just as much! Mate, I just thought we were both a little tipsy off the champagne, in the mood for a stupid mistake that wouldn’t even matter in the long run, because we already don’t get along.”

“Right,” Carlos said, gears finally turning.

“Right,” Oscar echoed.

“So,” Carlos said carefully, scooting just a little closer along the edge of the bed, “does that mean… you’re not mad at me for taking advantage of you, but rather mad at me for not taking advantage of you?”

“Hardly taking advantage, is it?” Oscar said, narrowing his eyes.

“Right,” Carlos said again, and shut up, waiting.

Oscar eyed him warily, and then, after a beat of silence, leaned back, his dress shirt falling open just enough to reveal the faintest glimpse of a nipple.

“Right,” Oscar repeated, a glint in his eye.

Carlos tackled him back into the sheets.

[slamminslamminmcgill]

Can you pretty please write a fic where Logan and Deadpool are having an argument about how they should be fucking the reader, like going over techniques while the reader is just drooling and mindless like “whaaa”

hell YEAH i love getting fucked stupid by big strong men >:3333€

this is a rly good prompt btw so i could GLADLY expand on this but for rn here’s a snippet 😌

warning: dp, painal, sadomasochism, mild transphobia, slurs, degradation, overstim, dubcon, daddy kink

anatomical terms: cunt/pussy/bussy

They talk about you like you’re not even there.

Well, physically you were right there with them. Mentally you were nowhere to be found, certainly not on their conversational level. Wade had been bouncing you in his lap for god knows how long. His cock in your cunt had thoroughly fucked your train of thought off the tracks. Your internal monologue was nothing but bitchy whimpers and primal burning for more. Welp. What do you expect? Back to back orgasms will do to that to you. You couldn’t even recall how the argument started, and context would’ve really been helpful.

“Wow! Okay! That’s a shitty thing to say to our guest! Wanna apologize and maybe try that one again, JK Rowling?”

"Oh, get fucked. That's not what I meant and you know it." Logan kept his firm hands on your shoulders, assisting your bounce, since your legs were damn near liquified.

“Mmmmm, ah, gah-fuuuck… Wh... Wha? Huh?”

“How is that not what you meant?" Wade, questioned, maintaining his steel grip on your ass. He felt that he had to protect you from the big bad wolf and his transphobia. "You just said he’s not a real man because he has a pussy. A tight, sweet, JUICY pussy that feels like a fleshlight full of microwaved angel dust. And yet SOMEHOW this makes him not a real man to you? Maybe you’re just not man enough for HIM, sugar-tits!”

"I said you gotta fuck him like a real man. You’re being too good to him. It's gonna fuel his ego, and I’m not letting you turn him into a spoiled brat. Fuck him in the ass, that'll teach him a lesson. Show him this shit ain't a joke."

"No way! Ass is ass is ass is ass. Everybody's got an asshole, peanut, and newsflash? They all feel the same. But this boy's pussy? This hot buttery premium A5 wagyu bussy that's—SQUEEZINGmyfuckingdicksotight, oh, fuck, fuckfuckfuck, angel baby, sweet boy, you feel so GOOD! Making your Daddy feel so good, good boy!"

Praise was easy enough to process. It didn't require any cognitive effort on your part. You didn't have to weigh in and have an opinion, you just have to take it, and be grateful for it. "Hah, fuck! Thank—thank you, Daddy! FUCK! Wade! WadeWadeWadeWade—WADE! WadeWadeWade..."

But Logan wouldn't let it go. "I'm serious. Make him take it up the ass, or I will."

“Un-be-lievable. You know something? You must be the one guy in this universe who could see a whimsical forest path that leads to a magical unicorn fountain, and says 'Oh, no, none for me. Let me go spelunking in the poop-chute, thank you very much!' And if that's not the single gayest thing I've seen in my entire—"

"WADE, SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

"Eeep!"

Oh, you poor thing. He nearly gave you a heart attack! It's terrifying when someone yells out of nowhere, especially when that someone has you naked and vulnerable in their hands. Logan had slammed you down on Wade's cock when he yelled, completely stopping the scene and trapping you between them. Woah. Time out. Shit has officially just gotten real. You and Wade held bated breath, and traded a glance that said "We're cooked. Nice knowing ya."

But Logan just laughed at you both. Delighted by the atmospheric tension he had just created.

"Heh... heh heh heh..."

Then he relaxed his grip on you, and those big strong calloused man hands started to explore. They massaged your shoulders, rubbed your neck and jaw, and groped and squeezed wherever they pleased. All the while, his hot breath, tinted with whiskey and malice, ghosted over the shell of your ear as he talked. He spoke very firmly. Targeted. Slow. He wanted you to get every fucking word.

"Listen, bub. I’m not about to question whether or not you’re a man, okay? But I’ll say this. When real men wanna take cock? It hurts. Oh, it hurts real bad. And most of ‘em don’t get the luxury of a cushy little cunt that’s meant to take a pounding. No, son. Real men get ripped apart by cock. It makes them cry and scream and sometimes their tiny little rims even bleed because of it. And you know what? They love it. They love how much it hurts them. Cause they’re men. Strong men. And you’re no fuckin’ better than them, you know that? You think just cause you got another hole that you can take the easy way out? Everything's gonna be peaches and cream, huh? Nuh uh. Not on my watch, you little shit. You wanna act like you're such a fag? Well then you’re getting fucked like one of us too."

…

…

…

“Jesus fucking Christ, babycakes, if you don’t want him up your ass I’ll GLADLY take the heat for you.”

[writeonwhiskey]

act like you love me: ch 7 (18+) MDNI

a/n: this is coming out at this random hour because i forgot to send out the snippet on the mailing list again and i feel bad 😔 enjoy! word count: 4,780 tracklist: love untold, railway (i've once again placed in the chapter where these songs were most impactful while writing if you wanna feel that vibe out) [ fic master list ]

7 - The Scene After the Scene

WEEK 6 (continued)

Getting through that rehearsal took all the thoughts and prayers. It was a constant barrage of physical contact with Hyunjin after three days of being apart. Granted, that’s not a lot of time, when you think about it, but you haven’t gone more than a day without seeing him since you started filming.

You didn’t expect to miss him. You didn’t expect to leave set wanting more.

But you did. And you still do.

A few weeks ago, you couldn’t have fathomed feeling remotely fond about that man, let alone yearning to be near him. But in the time that has passed, you’ve seen and learned so much that opposes your initial assumptions of him. His gentle, compassionate side has been on display more frequently and that, combined with all that continues to shift between you—since dinner, since the club, since the camping trip—is threatening to undo your professionalism.

It’s a continuously growing revelation.

The biggest takeaway from today, though, is that Chan approved of the choreographed scene. He sat and listened to the suggestions you and Hyunjin had come up with for the filming style, too. You’re beyond thankful to Chan for being willing to work with you, and to Hyunjin for helping you voice your concerns, addressing them, and eagerly working to make it something you’re comfortable with having on screen.

After you wrapped for the day, you were tempted to hang around in your trailer until Hyunjin finished but figured it would be best not to.

However, since coming back to your hotel room, all you’ve thought about is the potential repercussions of pursuing something physical with Hyunjin. But with the way that rehearsal went down, you also considered how good it might feel when the layers of clothing are finally removed.

You close your eyes, sinking into the couch as you imagine the feeling of his hands touching every part of your body, his lips trailing kisses down your stomach and your pussy quivers at the thought. You bite your bottom lip, hand creeping toward the waistband of your pajama bottoms.

You have to be professional at work. But when you’re home alone…

Your phone suddenly buzzes next to you, and you startle, heart pounding as if you’ve been caught. Your eyes widen, reading the name on the screen: Persistent Prince 👑.

Why right now?

Is this a sign?

Or maybe an omen?

You contemplate letting it go to voicemail, but you’re too curious and too hopeful right now. You clear your throat, press the answer button and put the phone to your ear.

“Do you bother all your co-workers this much?” you ask dryly, as if you weren’t just about to diddle your fucking bean to thoughts of him.

“No. Just you.” He replies and your heart smiles. “So, you’re up?”

“Clearly.”

“You busy?” he asks, ignoring your sarcasm.

Although you’ve always spoken to each other this way, it doesn’t have the same weight of pettiness and bickering as it once did.

You quirk a brow. “Why?”

“Meet me in the lobby in thirty minutes.”

“What if I’m busy?”

“If you were you wouldn’t have answered. Unless…” he trails off.

“Unless…?”

“You’ve been waiting for my call.” You can practically hear the smile in his voice. “See you in thirty.”

He hangs up, giving you no time to accept or decline.

You could disregard the invite and stay cooped up in your room for the night. In fact, that’s probably the best choice.

But you’re already standing from the couch, forsaking that logical little voice in the back of your mind. You head straight to the bedroom, puzzled about what to wear. He didn’t mention a dress code. Jeans and a t-shirt? Or something sexier? He did seem to like your outfit at the club a lot.

No. The least you can do is not tip this in that direction by wearing anything too thought-provoking. You’re just going to hangout. That’s it. Jeans and a t-shirt it is.

Thirty minutes later you’re standing in the lobby of the hotel, looking around nervously for fear that Minho or Han might see you. But you remind yourself that you hang out with them all the time.

This wouldn’t seem any different...

Hyunjin emerges from the other elevator moments after you. He’s clad in dark clothing, a hat pulled low and covering far too much of his features. He gestures towards the exit, and you walk out together.

“Where are we going?” you ask as Changbin takes off.

“You’ll see when we get there,” he replies.

You hide your smile. A surprise?

“What made you call out of the blue?” you ask.

“We didn’t have a lot of time together on set today.”

You can’t be sure, but it feels like an ‘I missed you’ is hidden in there somewhere.

You missed him, too.

When you arrive to the destination, Hyunjin gets out first and holds the door open.

“Thank you, Changbin,” you say on the way out.

“I’ll text you when we’re done.” Hyunjin says, leaning in the car to speak to Changbin.

“I’m going to bed. It’s a thirty-minute walk back. You’ll be fine.” Changbin replies.

Hyunjin huffs, shaking his head as he closes the door. “It’s hard to find good help these days.”

You nudge him playfully with your shoulder.

“An illusion museum?” you ask, reading the sign above the entrance.

Hyunjin grins. “Thought we could use a night of fun.”

[song: love untold]

Inside, the place is quiet—almost closing time—which means you have most of it to yourselves. The first room is a giant mirrored maze, and you’re both immediately separated, laughter echoing off the glass as you keep running into your own reflections.

“You good?” Hyunjin calls.

“No,” you say between laughs. “I’m fucking nauseous—there’s too many of us.”

Eventually, you find him again—his face breaking into a relieved smile. And for a second you just stand there, facing each other. Reflections of the two of you ripple across every surface, warped and multiplied. It’s a perfect representation for the situation you’re in—endless possibilities and outcomes.

He reaches out and your hands meet against the mirror first, to which you both chuckle. Then he finds the real you and laces his fingers through yours to pull you close.

“There you are.” He places a quick peck to your lips.

You bite your bottom lip to keep from smiling too widely.

“Next room,” you suggest, pulling away.

In the upside-down kitchen, Hyunjin jumps into character, pretending to stir invisible soup from the ceiling, and insists on snapping photos with the worst angles imaginable.

“You’re going to regret these,” you warn. But as you scroll back through them, he’s perfectly photogenic in every single one, regardless of the angle. “Your face is so unfair.”

“You can thank my mother.”

“Not your dad?”

“Maybe for my humor,” he shrugs.

At the forced perspective wall, you pretend to be a towering giant while he crouches small in the corner. “This is kinda how you make me feel on set,” he teases. “Tiny.”

You continue throughout the other rooms, your bodies like magnets. You drift apart for a while when exploring and taking pictures but come back to each other’s side right after. He holds your hand a few more times, steals a few more kisses. And after a while you stop acting like it annoys you.

When you’ve gone through all the exhibits, he thanks the employee for letting you stick around after closing and you exit.

“Convenience store run?” he suggests when you’re outside.

You hesitate. This would be a good time to call it a night. That would be the wise and responsible choice. But you did just have fun with him, doing something completely normal and nothing like the NC-17, perhaps XXX, content that’s been plaguing your mind.

And yet, you don’t feel like you’ve had enough time with him.

You still want more.

“Yeah,” you reply, smiling.

You walk in the direction of the hotel and stop at the first convenience store. The inside is fluorescent and freezing. You each grab a green basket at the entrance and start down the aisles like it’s a timed competition. Hyunjin tosses in triangle kimbaps, banana milks, and a pack of shrimp chips without hesitation. You, more thoughtfully, grab ramyeon, a bar of dark chocolate, and two bottles of water.

You both come to a stop at the wall filled with a wide array of gummy snacks.

“You’re going for sweet and spicy,” he observes, peeking into your basket. “Classic.”

“You’re going for chaos,” you reply, eyeing the random snack combo he’s put together. “Is this your usual dinner?”

He shrugs. “Tonight’s my last cheat night. I’ll be hitting the gym every day now until the shirtless scene.”

You gulp.

Hyunjin shirtless is the last thing you should be picturing about right now.

Your eyes travel to his chest of their own accord, but you quickly avert your attention to the gummies on the shelf and grab a peach pack.

You don’t even like that flavor.

“Do you want to make the ramyeon here and eat outside?” you ask.

“Is there another option?”

“We could go back to the hotel…” you trail off, letting the offer linger in the air.

“To our separate rooms?” he tilts his head to the side.

“Depends if you know how to cook without burning down the place,” you tease. “…but we could go to my room.”

“You okay with that?”

You shrug. You’ve done well keeping yourself in check so far. You can handle this.

Maybe.

He pays for your haul and you resume the twenty-minute walk back to the hotel. It’s mostly a silent trek, and you can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. He knows this is a bad idea too, doesn’t he?

On the elevator ride up, you’re racking your brain for the state you left it in. You’ve made a conscious effort to keep it relatively clean and if anything is out of place, he doesn’t comment on it when you enter.

You advise him to sit at the table while you take the bags into the kitchen, but he doesn’t listen. He’s at your side, opening cabinets and drawers, taking out cooking utensils and seasonings.

“Please, you’re a guest.”

“Fine.” He says, after taking out a pair of bowls and setting them next to the stove.

“Get comfortable—you can take off your disguise,” you tell him.

He pushes off his hood and removes his hat before sitting on one of the barstools across from where you’re prepping.

Your hotel smells like garlic within minutes. You’re stirring a pot of noodles, vaguely aware of Hyunjin looking more at you than the food.

“You actually know what you’re doing,” he says.

“Shocking, I know.” You toss him a playful look over your shoulder. “I feed myself like a grown-up.”

“You’re ruining my image of you.”

“And what was that?”

He grins. “Someone who survives entirely off iced americanos and anxiety.”

You snort, putting the noodles into the bowls and sliding one in front of him. “You’ve got me mixed up with Han.

“That’s actually pretty accurate,” he laughs, picking up his chopsticks to take a bite. He blows on the noodles before slurping them up. The look on his face giving away just how hot they are. “This is really good,” he manages to get out.

“You sound surprised…again.”

“I am surprised. You’re hiding all these domestic skills.”

“Guess we’re both full of secrets.”

The clink of chopsticks against ceramic takes over for a moment as you both eat.

“I like this,” he says eventually.

“What?”

“Hanging out with you.”

There’s that openness again—the thing that sneaks up on you when he stops trying to be amusing, or charming, or anything else.

You opt not to respond verbally, nodding your head instead.

He offers you the last bite of his triangle kimbap, and you shake your head, but he leans forward anyway, holding it out.

You sigh at the weight of this gesture. You can deny your feelings all you want, but he doesn’t seem to have any intention of doing the same. You take the offered bite from his hand.

When you’ve both finished eating, Hyunjin insists on washing the dishes, not accepting your rebuttal that he’s a guest. So, you sit sideways on the couch and watch him work, making small talk. He tells you he has a few more projects coming up after this to finish out the rest of the year and won’t have a real break until December. You finally tell him about your conversation with Chan.

“KBS?” he repeats. “No shit?”

You nod.

“Are you going to do it?”

“My agent thinks I should. But I don’t know if it’s the right career move…”

He’s silent for a moment as he continues scrubbing at the dishes.

“Do you want my input?”

You don’t know when it was that you came to rely on his guidance, but you’ve stopped questioning what he tells you career-wise as anything other than helpful. He always seems to put you first, more so even than your agency.

“Please.”

“I think you should take it. Chan’s right about that—it’s a great opportunity. It will be good publicity for our show, but it also gives the general public a chance to fall in love with you,” he says, and your brain gets stuck on how those last four words sound falling from his lips. “All it takes is one high ranking exec’s teenage kid to start blabbering about how great you are, and they’ll be calling you up with more work.”

He dries his hands and comes to sit on the couch, his right thigh just near your feet.

“You think so?”

“I know so. I understand what you’re up against, but you’re really kind of amazing and I don’t think you see that the way everyone else does.”

“Situations like that interview tend have a longer lasting impression than anything positive,” you say.

“Fuck that guy.” He repeats his sentiments from a few days ago. “It’s easy to let the negativity cling to you in this industry. You can’t let it.”

You nod.

He glances around the room before turning to you with a smirk. “Alright, you’ve seen my art, my hidden passion. Where’s yours?”

“I don’t have a penthouse suite, so I packed light,” you tell him.

“Pity,” he clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

You smack him on the arm.

“There’s gotta be something you come home to unwind to.”

“I really didn’t bring anything,” you shrug. “I do have a Lego collection of landmarks from around the world at home. My dad is in the army, and he’d get me one of every place he was stationed, and I’ve just kept up with it on my own.”

“That’s nerdy. But cute.”

“Don’t make me hurt you, Hyunjin.”

He smirks. “I could be into that.”

You offer a small chuckle to brush it off.

He lifts your legs from beside him and drapes them across his lap, his hands resting on top. He doesn’t touch you beyond that, doesn’t bring you closer. He just looks—at your face, your mouth, your eyes—and suddenly, it’s quieter than it should be.

You speak first, wanting to lighten the air. “Do you always stare at people like this?”

“Only when I’m trying not to do something stupid,” he murmurs.

You swallow, looking down at his hands, unsure whether you should pull your legs away, or move yourself closer.

“Tell me not to,” he says. “And I won’t.”

You must stay silent for too long. Because without warning, his hands grab your hips, sliding you toward him until the back of your thighs are pressed against him. Your pulse quickens at the sudden movement—the closeness.

You look up, meeting his gaze. “We shouldn’t.”

His eyes drop to your mouth again, lingering there for a moment.

“Is that a no?”

You know you shouldn’t. He knows you shouldn’t. And yet, you shake your head anyways, and he leans in slowly, giving you time to move or change your mind.

But you don’t.

When his lips meet yours, it’s gentle at first. His body is tense, like he’s still holding back. But when you wrap your arms around his neck, hands caressing his head, you feel the change in him. He really kisses you then. No hesitation. His mouth claims yours, tongue slipping between your lips like he owns you already.

You’re both aching with everything unspoken—the stolen glances, the unfinished thoughts, the pent-up energy and tension from filming and rehearsing. But you can’t shake how good it feels to be connected to him like this. And you still want more.

You break the kiss, resting your forehead against his as you both catch your breath. You pull away, leaning back until you’re lying flat on the couch. You keep your eyes on him, grabbing his shirt to pull him closer. He readjusts you, then himself before settling on top of you, fitting between your legs as if he belongs there.

He kisses you again and when you arch your back, pressing your chest into him, his hands snap to your sides like he needs to hold you still or he’ll lose control.

“Take it easy,” he warns against your lips.

Was he intending only to kiss? Perhaps that would be okay…

But the heat between your thighs says that it’s not.

So, you nip at his bottom lip and rock your hips up, slow and purposeful. He groans as a small gasp escapes you, feeling the pressure of his cock through his jeans, right where you need it.

He drags his mouth down to your jaw, then lower. His teeth graze your skin, and you tilt your head to give him more access. You slip your fingers beneath his shirt, nails lightly gliding across bare skin. He shivers.

He leans back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed.

“What about thinking? And not letting the moment get the best of you?”

You never thought you’d curse a man for actually remembering the things you say.

[song: railway]

“This doesn’t feel like just a moment,” you softly admit. “And…I want to.”

You roll your hips again. This time he grabs them tight, grinding down into you with a low groan.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Maybe just this once?” you try to roll your hips again but his grip on you is too tight.

“To get it out of our system?”

“And then back to professional?”

Neither of you answer a single question asked.

Then, his hands leave your hips and in seconds, his shirt is gone.

You stare. His torso is lean and defined—not gym obsessed perfection, but real. Beautiful. His eyes scan your face as he reaches for your shirt. You sit up a little and raise your arms.

Your bra comes off next. You unhook it yourself, letting the straps fall, feeling shy as his gaze roves over you like he’s never seen tits before. He covers you, bodies flush now, every inch of you ignited. His mouth crashes against yours, hungrier, rougher.

Your heart is fluttering and racing all at once. It’s overwhelming, how much you want him—how long you’ve been trying not to. And he’s kissing you like he needs this just as badly as you do.

You’re both too far gone now.

He groans when your hand slips beneath the waistband of his jeans. You cup his cock over his briefs and squeeze gently.

“Take your pants off,” you whisper.

He lets out a sharp breath and sits up, shoving his jeans down, boxers still on but strained against his cock. You push your jeans down, too, kicking them out of the way.

He stays upright on the couch, pulling you into his lap this time, your thighs straddling his. His fingers skim your waist, dragging fire along your skin. His gaze drops between your legs.

“Red tonight, huh?” he comments, to which you chuckle.

He kisses your breasts, alternating between taking one in his mouth and circling his thumb around the other, gentle at first, then firmer when your hips grind against him. The little fabric still separating you is such a fucking tease, but the added friction feels good.

“Fuck, y/n,” he groans.

You grind your hips again.

“It shouldn’t feel this good, right?”

“It really fucking shouldn’t.” He agrees, leaning back on the couch to just watch you please yourself.

All you can focus on is the way rubbing your pussy on his cock feels and the way he’s looking at you like you’re something sacred and sinful all at once.

He reaches down, his finger slipping between the thin material of your underwear to pull them to the side, leaving nothing between your clit and his boxers.

“Look how fucking wet you are already,” he says, as you start moaning.

But you don’t need to look. You can feel it. You can hear it.

And you want his boxers out of the way too, now. You still need more. You grind harder, locking your fingers behind his neck.

He pulls you to him, kissing a path up your chest, then your throat, nipping lightly beneath your jaw.

“Hold on to me.”

He grabs your hips suddenly and lifts you. You lock your legs around his waist, lacing his neck and shoulders with kisses as he walks down the hall to the bedroom.

This. This is what you envisioned when rehearsing.

It felt wrong to imagine it then.

But it doesn’t feel wrong right now.

The only light entering the bedroom is what drifts in from the window.

He lightly tosses you onto the bed and you move back to make room for him. You expect him to lie on top of you again, but he has other plans. He lays down flat on the bed, one hand slips up and over your thigh to grip it. With the other, he strokes a finger up and down your pussy, over your underwear, teasing you.

“Hyunjin—just take them off.”

“You want to feel my fingers on your pussy, jagiya?”

Fuck. Double fuck. Those words.

You nod, your hips circling against his finger. Your clit is pounding—begging for more.

“So fucking wet,” he murmurs.

“Hyunjin,” you plead. “Please.”

He smirks up at you before pulling your underwear to the side, planting his mouth right where you want it.

You moan, your head falls to the side, eyes shut. You were half-expecting delicate, teasing licks but his tongue is relentless, sliding up and down, lapping you up. He draws out every sound, every buck of your hips.

When the pleasure threatens to unravel you, your fingers clutch at his shoulders, desperate to bring him back to you. He finally relents, rising to his knees with a heated look in his eyes. With one hand, he slides your underwear down your legs, tossing them aside, then pushes his boxers down to free his cock.

You let out a low exhale, licking your lips at the sight. He’s thicker than you imagined—not too girthy—and already glistening at the tip, making your thighs instinctively part wider.

He shifts closer, settling between your thighs, his cock hovering just above your dripping pussy. His fingers wrap around the base, and he drags the tip slowly up and down your slit, teasing you again with every pass until he pauses at your entrance, his gaze flicking up to meet yours—like he’s asking one last time if you’re sure.

You give a subtle nod. “Come here,” you whisper, hands reaching for him.

But he just smirks, shaking his head. “I have to see your face.”

You’re spread open beneath him, vulnerable and aching.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, and you feel the shift as his hips begin to slowly press forward.

He sinks deeper, inch by inch, and your mind begins to blur.

Finally.

“It’s perfect,” you breathe.

“Like a glove?” his grin is wicked.

You swat his chest. “I can’t stand you.”

Your laugh is cut short by a sharp gasp as he sinks into you fully.  

This is what your body’s been screaming for in every moment you spent pretending you didn’t want him. You feel stretched, filled, split open in the best way.

You both groan.

He moves slowly at first, unhurried. You match his rhythm, legs locked around his waist, hips tilting upward, fingers roaming his chest—memorizing the way he feels above you, inside you.

He lowers his forehead to yours, your breaths mingling.

And really does feel perfect.

He presses a kiss to your lips before pulling back, hands gripping your thighs as he starts to thrust deeper, harder. Each stroke feels like he’s letting go of something he’s been holding on to for far too long. And maybe you are too.

“You feel so fucking good, y/n,” he declares, slowing his pace just enough to make you whine. Every slow push deeper knocks the air from your lungs; every draw back has you chasing for more. “So. Fucking. Good.”

He emphasizes each word with a thrust of his hips.

“Hyunnie,” you moan.

He chuckles softly at that, his hands sliding back to your legs to unhook them from his waist. He pulls out just enough to flip you onto your side, curling himself behind you. His arm slips beneath your head, cradling you close as he pushes back inside. You gasp at the new angle—the way it lets him reach deeper, the way his chest is pressed to your back, lips brushing against your ear.

“You like when I fuck you?” he whispers.

You nod, unable to form words.

“You thought about this when we were rehearsing too, didn’t you?”

You arch into him, threading your fingers through his on the mattress as he fucks you, unrelenting now.

“My cock in your pussy—tell me how much you wanted it.” His other hand slides to your breast, gripping, kneading the soft flesh.

“So fucking bad,” you admit, breath hitching.

“Me too. I wanted to know how tight you’d feel around my cock. How wet you’d be for me.”

His voice is far too close. Saying far too many filthy things. The sound of skin slapping skin is joined by his ragged exhales and your whispered pleas—to fuck you harder, to make you come.

“You going to come for me?”

“Yes,” you whimper, thrusting back against him.

His hand leaves your breast to curl tightly around your waist, holding you right where he wants you.

“You’re mine now, jagi,” he says, voice low.

You cry out at the possessive growl in his tone.

“Hyunjin—I—I’m—”

“Let go,” he breathes. “With me. I got you.”

And you do—tumbling right over the edge, turning your face into the mattress to hide your cry. He follows soon after, groaning against your shoulder as he fills you.

And then…silence.

Except for your breaths. His chest still pressed to your back. His hand still tangled with yours.

It doesn’t feel real.

Not just the way he fucked you—like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed it—but the way he’s still holding you now.

Your heart pounds in your chest, and not just from the high you’re still coming down from. But because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with him. Not like this.

But now that it has, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

“Fuck, I should have grabbed a towel,” you say, breaking the silence.

You feel the moment he starts to stir, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, and you hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. “We could shower.”

“We’ll mess up the sheets. I don’t want to explain that to the maid.”

“It’s fine.” He shifts slightly behind you. “We can make it to the bathroom like this.”

You snort, turning your head. “You’re not seriously trying to walk like this.”

“Why not?” He grins, wrapping his arm tighter around your waist. “Teamwork.”

It’s ridiculous. And yet, you let him guide you to the edge of the bed, both of you moving in clumsy tandem, still connected, stifling giggles like teenagers.

You’re bent forward, hands braced against the wall as you inch your way toward the bathroom and he’s behind you, smug and unbothered.

By the time you reach the bathroom, you’re both breathless from laughing, from the afterglow, from everything.

Somehow, it really is perfect. And so much more than a moment that got the best of you.

a/n: FUCKING FINALLY. i hope it was worth the wait 😊 i swear the scenes where i was listening to love untold would play out as the cutest music video ever. a fun date at a museum? convenience store run? ending with them taking the elevator up, and fading to black when they enter the hotel room. do you see the vision?? and if you hit play when railway is mentioned, the beat drops in right around when he's taking his shirt off, depending on reading speed of course. its *chefs kiss* and then the undressing bits would play out kinda slowed down ahhhhh! sorry that's the filmmaker in me blabbering, i love picturing how scenes would play out as a movie/show/video etc. anyways lol, i'm going to try doing a tagging list again. please comment here or on the master list for this fic if you'd like to be added. i tweaked some settings, so hoping tumblr stops maxing me out at five people??? ready to kms over ts (jk, im just dramatic, pls) tagging those that have been commenting faithfully, so don't even ask, you're already on it my loves.

@hwangjoanna / @hanniesbubuwife / @straycat420 / @tsunderelino / @dessianna1 / @akindaflora / @tirena1 / @krayzieestay / @ehstay

[hugheshischier4313]

YOU MISS HIM DON’T YOU | Q. HUGHES

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x reader

Warnings: maybe emotional cheating?

Word count: 2k

Author’s note: Hi lovelies! I was rewatching desperate housewives and a certain scene encouraged me to write something similar. It was supposed to be a quick little Drabble/blurb but im at 10 pages now and still not done. So here’s a snippet :)

———————————————————————

Quinn had known about your boyfriend from the very beginning. He had seen you together, bringing boxes to the apartment beside his, and noticed you immediately. He wished he could say it had all been innocent, but the first thing he saw was how your legs looked in the tennis skirt you had been wearing. You bent down to pick up a fallen pillow as he exited his car in the parking garage. His eyes lingered on you, and he forced himself to turn away before you noticed. He swore he would offer to help you before he met eyes with Andrew as he stepped out of the parking garage elevator.

"I didn't mean to; it just happened. You were bent over, in a skirt, right outside my car; it was hard to look away when I didn't expect you to be there." Quinn had a slight pink tone to his features right now, and you were smiling, trying to suppress a laugh. You stood in the kitchen, pouring the margaritas into your cups.

"You mean the skirt I'm wearing right now? Is that why you mentioned it? Quinn, you could have kept that secret forever. I mean, you couldn't waterboard that information out of me." You were always more giggly when drinking, which was contagious to Quinn. "But since you didn't, I'm gonna use this against you for the foreseeable future."  The laugh left you when you got back to Quinn's couch. "I'll try not to make any sudden movements that may catch you off guard," you teased as you stood before him and handed him his drink.

"It's not funny; I've felt bad about this for months." he tried to be serious, but the smile never left his face. As you nodded with a smirk on your lip, you turned from him after he grabbed the glass, "Y/N, I'm serious." He wasn't; he could never stay upset with you, even in a joking manner. 

"I guess I'll just go back to my apartment then; I don't want to bring back any of your past shame." your body once again turned towards him as you leaned down over to hug him, "Bye, Hughes, I'll make sure to only wear this when you're out of town." He let out a sarcastic 'ha.' "You don't have to leave; I can control myself. I promise." he rolled his eyes and slowly got up to stop you.

"I don't know; I think the only logical answer is to wear your Drew sweats." You had pivoted and ran to his room before he could reply. You had bugged him countless times to try them on over the past months; you had just wanted to see if they were worth the hype because the black sweats had been sold out forever (and maybe, subconsciously, because of your past love for Justin Bieber). And every time he said no, you took this as your opportunity to try them and bug him simultaneously.

Being in Quinn's room was familiar to you. You had spent most days at one of the two apartments, and sometimes that meant laying in his bed watching TV after he had just returned from a string of away games or after a challenging game or practice. You had worn his clothes before, too; it was always in a platonic way, the first time you had locked yourself out after being out on a run when it started raining. You lost your key on the run, and the concierge was gone for the night. You had also spent the night; he let you sleep in his bed and took the couch. 

As you ran into the room, you closed the door behind you and walked into the closet, closing that door, too. You had found the sweats and slowly walked out of the closet. There was no sight of Quinn, and the bedroom door was still closed. You walked towards the door, sweats in your hand, as you called out to him, "Q? Are you -" But you were cut off as he tackled you onto the bed next to you.

The two of you lay on the bed laughing before turning to face each other. The laughter died down, and you were smiling and looking at each other. The two of you lay there for a while, not saying anything until you broke the silence, "Your eyes are a different colour every time I see you, but today I can see every shade in them." You don't know why you needed to share your observation with him, but it felt right. "You cut your hair." He reached out to tuck a strand behind your ear and play with the end of another. His voice had been so him, soft yet dominant. It was true; you had gotten a slight trim the day before and a few longer layers at the bottom of your hair, a small and simple detail that could have been missed. In fact, he was the only person to notice; none of your classmates or even Andrew, although over Facetime, had noticed. 

The room felt heavy as you looked from his hand in your hair to his eyes again, stopping to look at his lips for a second. And when you reached his gaze, it was unreadable. "I -" A phone began to ring as Quinn was about to speak. You could see a shift in his demeanour as you continued to look at him. He got up to find the cause of the sound. "It's your phone." He walked it over to you before heading out to the living room again. The phone illuminated ANDREW CALLING.

You looked towards the empty doorway as you brought the phone up to your ear. "Hey you," your playful voice sounded forced, and the smile on your lips was even more so. "Hey, I have a surprise for you. The notification said it was in the lobby." This shocked you, not only because it was a surprise but because Andrew was never one for small gestures. It was always something big like him ordering 4 dozen roses to your desk after your fourth date. But he had never just sent you or given you something randomly.

Andrew could be a sweet guy; you worked together before he asked you to have dinner with him. You knew you were moving and had no intention of starting anything serious before moving to Vancouver, but he had been so persistent, and it felt nice to have a distraction with all the craziness of moving. But living in different provinces has brought no comfort to either of you. It felt like pen pals most of the time. You would call him a few times a week and talk for an hour before he had to go. There had been a few times where you could have sworn you heard someone else there, but the times you mentioned it, it felt like the fight had been more trouble than the issue itself.

And maybe subconsciously, you felt like a hypocrite. Your relationship with Quinn was platonic, but the number of times you were confused as a couple in public could be seen another way. In fact, you hated to admit it, but it felt like you communicated more with Quinn when he was away than with your boyfriend. 

"There's something for me in the lobby of my apartment complex? Andrew, what did you do? It's 7pm?" As you started talking, Quinn walked into view, bringing your drinks and extending to you. "It's a surprise; you should go get it now; I'm assuming it's just on the concierge desk based on the picture." You stared up at Quinn as you listened to Andrew, "Okay, I'll be down in a minute, and I'll call you back once I have it." The phone call was quickly over. 

"What did you order?" Quinn asked with a smile, used to all the packages you've received. A few that had been too heavy for you to carry on your own that Quinn had taken himself. Even when they hadn't been too heavy, he would carry them for you if he was there. "I'm not sure, Andrew sent it to me." You could have sworn there was a look on his face that was gone as quickly as it appeared. "You want me to go with you in case you need help?" there was no hesitation in your quick reply of 'yes.'

As the two of you walked down the hall, you were overly aware of the distance between you. It was no different than it had been in the past, but there was a particular charge. The words shared and unshared in the bedroom hung heavy. "So I never got to even put the sweats on," you joked while waiting in front of the elevator. "You can borrow them when we get back up if you want," his answer made your breath hitch. He had never let you try them on, much less borrow them.

He looked at you, letting you walk into the elevator first. The ride down was quick and quiet, but how you looked at each other made everything race faster. Your heartbeat quickened as you saw his slight deviation towards your lips before making their way back up. "Quinn," your voice came out as a low plea; whether it was to continue or to stop was uncertain. He stepped closer to you as the two of you stood in silence for a brief moment before the doors opened. As you stepped out, your heart felt heavy.

As you made your way towards the front desk, you saw the back of a man at the desk, but when you heard the voice,  it made you freeze. Andrew, he was in your lobby waiting for you, Quinn failed to notice your pause and ran into you. However, before you could tip forward, Quinn had steadied you with a hand on your arm and waist. Andrew called out when he turned around. 

"Andrew! What are you doing here?" You didn't miss the look he gave the sight of the two of you or how his gaze only lingered on Quinn's hand on your waist as he walked closer. You unhooked yourself from Quinn to hug Andrew. The hug was stiff; he held himself higher, and his head hadn't moved from the position it had been in before. You figured he was still looking at Quinn. 

"I wanted to surprise you; we settled a case earlier than expected, so I took a few days off." You had pulled yourself to his side, a view of both him and Quinn. They kept looking towards each other, completely ignoring you. "Well, Andrew, this is my friend I always tell you about, Quinn. He introduced himself the day I moved in, remember? He lives next door to me." Andrew smiled down at you as you continued. "Quinn, you remember Andrew." Quinn looked from you to Andrew before extending his hand. "Good to see you again, man." Andrew hesitated before shaking his hand. 

There was a quick silence before Quinn grabbed his phone from his pocket and looked at the screen, excusing himself, "I have to make a phone call; I'll see you around," but before he could walk off, you gave him a side hug goodbye. You had done it a thousand times before, and feeling like you couldn't because Andrew was there didn't feel like a good sign, so you did it anyway. "I'll text you," you quietly said as you let go.

The next few days had been uneventful, showing Andrew around Vancouver. The hallway had felt unusually empty each time you passed, hoping to run into Quinn. A string of away games was starting that Monday, and when you came back from dropping off Andrew at the airport on Sunday night, you noticed the bag sitting in front of your apartment door. 

The black sweats were inside with a note, 'I'll pick them up when I'm back. Enjoy :). ~ Q" He never asked for them back

———————————————————————

[iamespecter]

HELLO HELLO

First off, wanna sau I love your art. Absolute fire I eat that shi up every day.

Second, I'm quite new to ur page and I realise that ur whole page usually revolves around Pomni and Caine (ur page is the first time Ive ever seen this ship) which got me wondering, what about their dynamic do you like? Like what made you go like "Oh yeah I love/vibe Showtime so much"

Im falling in live with Showtime just by looking ay your art 🎀

Have a great day!! 🤍🤍🤍

It's the ADHD x Autism they got going on girllll

Jokes aside, I really like how.... flexible? A potential character/friendship/relationship dynamic between them would be. What I mean by that, is the fact that you can explore a TON of things surrounding them, and it'd bounce so easily because of them being opposites (yet also being similar).

I've always had a knack for shipping two characters when they have these subtle, yet present opposites/parallels/mirroring between their characterization.

For example, a bunch of the promotional art has them acting like these,

and these,

And not only is it entertaining to see them in these kinds of situations, everytime I see them 'interacting', my brain starts to think of ways in where 1) how a scene would play out if at least ONE of them cared for the other, and 2) how they both could find a middle ground that allows them to balance each other out based on just these snippets.

Don't forget the absurd amounts of potential hurt/comfort angsts too, especially in the theory space.

Since Pomni is the main protagonist who helps others in her own way, and Caine is the main antagonist who slowly sinks deeper into helplessness and insanity as the cast ignores/are blissfully unaware of the warning signs, well....

TL;DR: It's so fun to experiment with their dynamics-- ex. extrovert x introvert --especially in AU formats, and that's why I tend to gravitate towards them specifically.

I also just like m/f ships that I headcanon as bi4bi lmao

[epicness1000]

17 REASONS WHY SAMPO KOSKI IS SUS

I'm not sure if I've come across a fictional character more horrendously sus than Sampo Koski.

Since I'm kind of hyperfixated on him (and Dr Ratio too), I will make a post on why our beloved blue scammer is very, very sus.

He is the only character to leave no trace when he walks. No splashes in water, no footprints in the snow. Literally no other character in the game does this.

All of his eidolons, save for one, are made up of two words and are very light hearted: "Rising love", "Infectious enthusiasm", "Big money!", "Huuuuuuuuge money!" and "Increased Spending", all of which reference either his love for money, or his warmth. The one exception is "The Deeper the Love, the Stronger the Hate". What? What do you mean hate? We've never seen Sampo be anything but 'haha funny scam boi'. What a strangely ominous thing to say...

Not to mention the art paired with that eidolon. In every piece of art we have of him, you can see the light in his eyes– not here. The light's completely absent.

His defeat pose. Every character is either kneeling, or sitting down. Sampo is the ONLY one who is still on his feet. This must surely be intentional.

The fact that he's among the few characters with an invalid rating from the rating pistol (Alongside Acheron, Jing Yuan, Feixiao, March 7 and Luocha, all of whom are either extremely powerful, or have a completely unknown past as is the case of March 7).

He is the only character to directly acknowledge the player in-game (Sparkle did this in a trailer, but... it was a trailer, so it doesn't count until it's something in-game). Self-aware character? (This is my own headcanon >:)

He very clearly is not a Belobogian native, this is all but confirmed by the fact that everyone states he just showed up one day a few years back (something along those lines). So... where is he really from? His splash art doesn't seem to be Belobog either...

The fact that the trailblazer turned away from him for ONE SECOND, and he disappeared without a sound??? Like he was never there at all.

The entirety of Funny Bone, which shows a very violent side to Sampo. You CANNOT convince me it doesn't hold some element of truth to who he truly is, because if Hoyo truly intended for him to be harmless comic relief with little more to him, why would they play this song live in an official Honkai: Star Rail orchestra accompanied with the visuals? Would they really approve something showing him in such a dangerous, unhinged and dark light when we've never seen him like that in-game?

The fact that he's a Masked Fool. A Masked Fool who apparently has some moral standards, but a Masked Fool nonetheless. Personally, I suspect he wasn't always so mellow.

THAT WHOLE SCENE OF FIREFLY DESCRIBING HIM, HAVING KNOWN NOTHING ABOUT WHO HE WAS, AND MAKING HIM SOUND LIKE SOME SORT OF SKILLED ASSASSIN?? (I know it was a shapeshifted Sparkle but I think the point still stands. Also, this might just be me, but before I realised it was Sampo following us around, the way FF was talking about our stalker unsettled me and genuinely left the impression that she was talking about an assassin of some kind... wouldn't surprise me if this guy's hands have been stained red in the past).

The fact that his backstory snippets are all of him just goofing around disguised as Madame Poisson? When there's CLEARLY more to him than meets the eye?

THE FACT THAT HE'S ONE OF THE FEW CHARACTERS WHO IS NOT ABLE TO BOARD THE ASTRAL EXPRESS YET????? Even Sparkle can board, so it doesn't have to do with the fact that he's a masked fool. And I think everyone else from Belobog can board, so... hmm... sus....

We find him in the Belobog outskirts. I'm pretty sure it's noted that normal humans can't go out there unprepared without freezing to death, or something? I might be misremembering.

HIS LIGHT CONE! HOW COULD I FORGET HIS LIGHT CONE! Firstly, notice it's not just one sniper targetting him, but there is also a man in the corner pointing a gun at him. The art is called "The Eyes of the Prey", yet when you read its description, Sampo is unsettlingly calm, spotting the sniper from a distance with no warning (makes him sound like he has borderline supernatural awareness, which I think fits with the idea of him being 'self-aware'), and is noted to have more money than the hitman makes from multiple contracts. I think the title is also a subversion– with how in control Sampo is of the situation, surviving TWO simultaneous hitmen, it's quite clear that he is not the prey– rather, it's those who target him.

He knows things he ABSOLUTELY SHOULD NOT KNOW. The fact that he implies that Dan Heng is a dragon? Or his 'knowledge' voice line, which clearly expresses his awareness that we arrived by train (when he should not have this information?).

His eidolon activation phrase is "Everyone has a colourful past, wouldn't you say?" We know literally NOTHING about his past.

So, I'm not sure EXACTLY what this all means, but it's clearly pointing to something. Don't let me down, Mihoyo! You usually do, you filthy gacha bastards, but... try to do Sampo justice please.

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Good Omens graphic novel update: August 2024

This time last year, the Kickstarter was in full swing, what a journey it’s been since then! Colleen is still working hard to complete the graphic novel and we have some incredible pages to share with you.

There have been many merchandise updates in the past few months and whilst a number of backers told us they loved these, others wanted to hear more directly about the graphic novel itself. So, for this month we will focus 100% on Colleen’s work, and how the various editions of the book are coming along. Everything is shaping up rather nicely, if we do say so ourselves!

You may have seen some of the sneak peeks Colleen has posted recently, such as this wonderful scene between our heroes:

And our favourite angel and demon on the road.

Collen has recently shared a rare view from her drawing board with us. "Working on pages 75 pages apart at the same time" she explains. The joy for us is that these pages arrive similarly out of order, so the graphic novel is unfurling like a magnificent jigsaw.

The reversible alternative covers by Rachael Stott and Frank Quitely are coming together beautifully. Different vibes, both ‘heavenly’ and we’re delighted to share them with you:

Moving inside. Here's an introduction to your introduction: our favourites include: Dog: Satanical hellhound and cat-worrier. Everyone should have one!

With the pencils mapping out the story almost completely in place, here are some samples from across the book – don’t worry we’re not giving too much away. It is always interesting to see these images come in, then watch them evolve over time

As we enter the latter stages of inking and colouring, we're also getting glorious new artwork by the bucketload. Colleen has been working diligently and it’s simply wonderful to see the story coming to life so vibrantly.

We shared this a few updates ago in its inked form. Now here it is in full glass-shattering colour.

A jaunty moustache and some 'definitely not-bad-news' being delivered in the middle of a birthday party.

A prior inked piece we shared before. Crowley venting his frustrations, oh so subtly.

And here's a closer look at some of the Horsemen in situ.

...of course you must also have some snippets of Aziraphale and Crowley having a fine time with books and wine.

And this rather lovely panel ends the previews of our main duo for this update.

But one final thing before we leave our heroes for this month... feast your eyes on this absolutely gorgeous celestial piece.

And now to the admin.

If you have a query, please check the Good Omens graphic novel FAQ page at terrypratchett.com. Some key recurring questions:

The Good Omens graphic novel was listed to publish in July 2024 - why have I not received it? We shared an update on April 16th 2024 introducing the new timeline and full context on why dates had to be moved. You can read that here. We appreciate that some didn't catch the timeline update and had been expecting items to arrive across July and August - the graphic novel and surrounding items are due to arrive in Spring 2025 to align with the new publication date. Thank you for your patience. We promise that it will be worth the wait!  

I've been in touch with a query about my pledge but have not heard back - what should I do? We have been dealing with a significantly increased number of messages recently and our team are working through them as best we can. If you have messaged over a week ago and are yet to hear back, please get in touch again, either via the message thread on Kickstarter or your previous email chain. Rest assured, we are reading and working through all messages as quickly as we can and appreciate your patience.

If your question is not answered in the FAQ, please don't hesitate to contact us and we can get back to you as soon as possible.

Events

We announced in our June update that Crowley's S2 Bentley would be appearing at ACME Comic Con in Glasgow. Unfortunately, our team will no longer be attending, so the Bentley will not appear at this event. We wanted to let you know as soon as possible in case you have booked tickets expressly to see it, or to meet the Good Omens HQ team. Maggie Service is also no longer attending the event, however Quelin Sepulveda, our beloved Muriel, is still appearing on the Saturday, and there are many filming locations around the central belt of Scotland if you are visiting, so you can still make your trip a little more ineffable. We apologise for any disruption to your plans.

Colleen has also had to cancel her appearance at the upcoming DragonCon, as she explains here.

[vesna-v-irkutske]

do you know which letter artyom mentions nikita in?

Actually, it turned out that Artyom had mentioned Nikita in several other letters, but only briefly (well, at least from what I've seen; I think there's a lot left behind the scenes). Personally, I think this letter somewhat stands out. I think it's from their period in the pre-trial detention center (2011-2013), otherwise it would have been a special form instead of a random piece of paper. This is just a small published snippet (since it's the 9th page).

"The band has a bad name because it has an extraneous person's last name, and it doesn't matter if it's a singer or someone else. I don't like the emphasis on persons in things like band names, etc. But that's just my opinion, I don't criticize those who make music in these directions, using all sorts of nasty things in their names. Some people think that these are childish pranks, whereas this is a peculiar way of expressing their attitude to the problems of modern society. That is, everything has its pros and cons, and so does the work of DP (Dismembered PugachOva) and similar collectives. It's just that their activities can be described ambiguously. As you've already understood, I'm not only talking about the names, but also about the lyrics and music =) However much I like to look at any things or phenomena from all sides, (something was covered up; I wonder if this was done by a censor or by whoever posted it) Well, again, if my memory serves me right, of course =) By the way, I'd like those who dedicate their masterpieces to the DP band, for example, or to the criminal activities of those who committed murders and attempted murders in Akademgorodok in Irkutsk in 2010-2011, to at least just take note of my opinion about all these tributes and glorifications of the so-called "hammermen": all this is being done to the detriment of both me and Lytkin, so I have a wish that the guys slow down and stop at least mentioning me in some texts or somewhere else, if, of course, such facts take place. Of course, I can't decide for Nikita, but I don't think he needs that kind of fame either. I know he wants all this hype, but he just doesn't seem to understand how serious the situation he's in is. I understand that people want to have fun, but let them do it in a way that it doesn't create problems for their idols or those whom they consider to be such. I'm going to ask you, Natasha, to catch someone more rational from them and tell, well, from those who are involved in music there in your communities, and tell them my last words, or rather, their essence. I'm not holding you responsible for the reaction to these words of those to whom they are addressed, I'm just asking you to try to convey them so that it doesn't get any worse =) That's why I drew attention to the fact that it's necessary to convey the essence of these words — you may have to change, add or remove something in them, depending on the situation and the mindset and temperament of the person to whom you will convey this. If, of course, you consider it necessary to fulfill this request =) Thank you in advance =)"

[gotstabbedbyapen]

I have very complicated feelings for the Vengeance Saga (after the first listen)

Disclaimer: I will only criticize Epic the Vengeance Saga as a work on its own, not for its inaccuracy or deviation from mythology and The Odyssey. There are more knowledgable people who can point out and analyze the changes in Epic the Musical, but that is not what I'll be tackling here.

To put it bluntly, I'm not being angsty about it as I should. The whole saga just... didn't feel right with me.

Now, first off all, I'm a big fan of Epic and had been following it since the Cyclops saga (first version). I've been in love with many songs and hyperfixed it for months on end. But when the Vengeance saga came along, I didn't feel that same bubbling love rise in me.

Even as a fan, this isn't my first time having peeves with Epic. I didn't jam with the re-release sagas for a while, I'm underwhelmed with the Circe VS Odysseus fight and other issues, very unpopular opinion but "Monster" wasn't too impactful to me, and also the God Games (especially Zeus' attack).

The Vengeance Saga though? Well, they say we gotta do the Bun-Meat-Bun (or whatever the hell its name really is) technique when giving criticism, so I'll start with the good parts.

I love that Odysseus looked so done with Calypso in "Not Sorry For Loving You". They're basically this meme:

Like sorry you're a sad but you're still an abuser 😒

Then Odysseus starts singing the reprise for "Full Speed Ahead" but there's no one to back him up. That one hits me hard. To whoever on Tumblr said that after the Thunder Saga we will never hear the crew's back-up again and Odysseus' singing will be answered with silence, Apollo really blessed you with the red ball.

Hermes and the Winions' part was really cool too! I really like them being mischievous helper! The warning about the wind bag and the changing scene of Odysseus fighting off sea monsters while Hermes just vibing with the beats is 👌👌👌

But after that the hype started to sizzle out for me. You might want to skip this part if you're not comfortable with harsh criticism because I WON'T hold back.

It's really backward but I like the Odysseus VS Charybdis draft more than the final production. Charybdis' roars and music are somehow less intimidating, which is a shame because I thought this would be one of the biggest struggles Odysseus will face. Even with awesome illustrative animatics, the scene wasn't as thrilling as I've expected.

The other songs got massive improvement from its draft version (on top of my mind I can think of "Thunder Bringer", "There Are Other Ways", "Little Wolf"), but I don't get why "Charybdis" didn't get up-graded as much like them. It's like a cake that was throughly baked but half decorated and it just didn't taste as good as I've hoped.

Then we have the Odysseus VS Poseidon part in "Get In The Water" and "Six Hundred Strikes". The first thought I had for GITW is this song sounds like all the draft snippets were mashed together without a smooth transition/connection between them. Jorge and Steven's performance is great, but there's not enough tension for me to dread for Odysseus. When Poseidon first met Odysseus in "Ruthlessness", the whole opening was terrifyingly good! And we didn't even have any illustration animatic back then! (that's not to say the GITW animatics were bad, they just can't salvage much when the song itself was already weak)

I wasn't impressed with Poseidon's Shatter The Ocean move either. It's supposed to be the Strongest AttackTM but it's less scary than when he and the Laestrygonians destroyed Odysseus' eleven ships with probably 1% of their power. It didn't even help when Poseidon looked like he's having a seizure with lights pouring out of his eyes and mouth during the transformation.

Odysseus being literally on the brink of death with the souls of his loved ones pulling him into the abyss is a gem in the rough, but because we've seen Odysseus almost drowning before in the end of the Thunder Saga, it's not as shocking as it should be. Furthermore, Poseidon could have instant-killed Odysseus right then and there but didn't really annoyed me. But I guess he just wanted Odysseus to slowly suffer while dying.

Right when I thought the progress will get better, it... gets down. I can go with Odysseus using wind to escape the water, but him wearing it like a jetpack is so comical it ruined the drastic of the situation. And I'm officially let down when Odysseus FUCKING ATTACKED Poseidon in "Six Hundred Strike".

What? Just... why with that choice?

Look, I'm not gonna fault Epic for making creative liberties from the source material (as said in the disclaimer), but I will criticize if that change contradict itself in the transformative work. And this is one of them.

Poseidon and the gods have been proven time and time again in the musical just how powerful they are. Their ominous and grandiose entrances, them striking fear and inferiority in our hearts just by singing. Even Circe, a low-level goddess, poses a constant threat to the crew and Odysseus had to get help from Hermes just to get a chance to corner her (and Hermes even joked that he can still die!)

Poseidon easily destroyed almost all of Odysseus' fleet. Odysseus was very avoidant of him, opting to go to the literal Underworld to find instruction on how to dodge him and sailing through Scylla's lair + willing to sacrifice six men for safe passage. And when Poseidon said he can drown all of Ithaca, it's not just bluffing, he would and could have done that. Yeah, the King of the Sea is THAT BIG of a threat.

So no, Odysseus isn't cool to attack Poseidon, he's being stupid. I'm not even cheering for him the whole time he fight, just groaning at how ridiculous the whole thing is. If Epic is more believable and sticks to WHAT IT HAD ESTABLISHED BEFORE, having a sudden burst of anger and choosing ruthlessness won't save Odysseus from one swipe of Poseidon's trident. Odysseus stood no chance against one of the most powerful deity, even if he's the protagonist and love his family.

Not only that, Poseidon didn't even defend himself and was wounded by a mere human! And he just sat there and took all the blows and insults from Odysseus??? And he actually begged Odysseus to stop and agree to quell the storm to let him get home??? I'm not buy that bullshit. I'm more upset that a literal Olympian god was nerfed down than Odysseus having a Gary Stu moment. Give me a break, that try-hard moment to be cool and edgy just show how badly written the scene is.

What's the fucking point of hyping up how dangerous the gods are if a human can take one down? Tell me this isn't some Wattpad-y Greek myth retelling fanfic where the teenage Y/N sass her way to defeat an entire pantheon. Epic really traded its opportunity to be better for some cheap and out-of-the-blue dramas in this saga, dare I say it's even worse than Zeus' OOC attack on Athena. I'm very disappointed with that decision.

On an end note, the saga did have one saving point with the "After everything you've done, how will you sleep at night?" - "Next to my wife" lines. Odysseus knew he could be the most horrendous man ever and Penelope would still choose his side, that just show how powerful their love and faith in each other are.

But not enough to excuse all the terrible cinematic choices.

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

Wip! (Fantasies in the dark)

I know I've not posted recently and there are a few of you who are still waiting for their ask, I'm sorry it's taking so long! I know I'm probably repeating myself but I don't have time to write anymore considering my degree is extremely demanding and completely absorbs all of my free time. Anyway, have a little snippet of a one-shot that had been sitting for way too long in my drafts! I just need a moment to proofread it and it should be published soon. Have a taste of Arthur not being able to sleep because he caught an intimate glimpse of you... Good Lord, I love tormenting that poor man.

Lately, Arthur had a problem. An incessant, disturbing, haunting problem.

He can’t sleep at night.

This could have been related to the gang’s precarious situation, being hunted down by the Pinkertons and surrounded by enemy gangs, O’Driscolls and Lemoyne raiders everywhere. Or even because of some older wounds, the loss of Eliza and Isaac, reminded almost every day by the complicated family portrait John was painting with Abigail and Jack. Or the hurtful thought of the life he never had with Mary that was always following him since he had seen her again near Valentine. Life doomed by his inherent violence and the mountain of corpses he was responsible for.

Arthur had plenty of reasons not to sleep at night. But this wasn’t because of any of that.

Arthur couldn’t sleep because of you. 

Not that it was your fault. In fact, you didn’t even know about any of that and Lord have mercy, he was praying that you’ll never find out; because he would never be able to look at you in the eyes after this.

A few weeks ago, the gang had settled at Clemen’s Point. A rather pretty spot just near the lake, and not so far from town. But it wasn’t exactly the place that was causing him trouble. It was the unexpected view he was having from his tent. For some unknown, mystical reasons, Ms Grimshaw while deciding the camp’s ajancement had decided to place your tent right next to his. Not so big of a problem at first sight, right?

Except that you’re a night owl combined with the suffocating warmth of the place.

Making you get to bed naked.

Oh, Arthurs knows you do, because every night, every single one, you let a candle lit to read or write or God knows what before sleeping. The light casts your shadow against the tent’s canvas. The shadow of your very much nude body.

[...]

He sits down on his cot. Mumbles to himself orders and curses to try and stay reasonable. Takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat and dirt from his busy day. Scratches his beard and his ears, tells himself he needs to take a swim into that lake. That he’s as dirty on the inside as he’s on the outside. Pulls down his suspenders before stretching his shoulders, a pained groan escaping him. A cigarette joins his lips, a match lights it, and he breathes in slowly. He tries to calm down, focusing as always on this homey feeling it brings him. 

But his brows furrows. His lips tighten. He knows he won’t be able to hold on much longer. He needs to rest properly. Even being the all-mighty Titan he is, he still needs a good night of sleep to keep his body fueled, and you have kept it from him for days.

He lies to himself promising this is only for his health.

That this is the only way for him to stay focused during the day; the only way to rest properly and be at his best again tomorrow.

That this will be the only time he’ll do that.

His only moment of weakness. 

The still-lit cigarette and his good conscience fall to the ground as he lies on his cot, settled on his left side, his right hand already roaming on his lower belly.

His eyes drop on the scene he had fantasized about for what seems like years to him at this point.

Lord have mercy…

[crazerk]

Dear author, we need a mother-daughter (or even one with Kaz 🥹) snippet now that we've seen how adorable MC's sons are with her!

Omg yes! This ask reminded me of a scene in magnificent century where mihrimah defended her mother from Hatice. I based this snip on that.

"Soraya, your posture," you murmured, barely moving your lips as you adjusted your daughter's silk sleeve. The great hall buzzed with conversation and the sweet notes of the court musicians, but all you could focus on was the way Soraya's shoulders kept slouching in defiance of years of training.

"Mother, I'm dying of boredom," Soraya whispered back, straightening briefly before slumping again. Her eyes kept straying to the door as if plotting an escape. "I should be with Cyrus. He's all alone in that stuffy room, in pain and bored to tears..."

"Your brother has three physicians attending him and more books than the imperial library. What he needs is rest, not you hovering over him like a mother hen." But your own thoughts drifted to your younger son, wondering if his fever had broken yet.

Across the room, Arman's laughter boomed over the refined murmur of conversation. He was trading war stories with a group of young officers, his cup of wine sloshing dangerously as he gestured. Soraya watched him with naked envy.

"At least someone's enjoying himself," she muttered.

"General Dastan seems to be enjoying the evening as well," you observed carefully, noting how the man's eyes kept finding your table. The Hero of the Northern Campaign, they called him. The Scourge of the Steppes. The man who'd saved the empire's borders through cunning and steel. He cut an impressive figure in his formal military attire. At thirty-two, he was in his prime – battle-tested but not war-worn, his dark good looks unmarred by the campaigns that had made his name.

Soraya's lip curled. "He can enjoy it somewhere else. I don't like the way he stares."

"He's a good match," you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "Intelligent, successful, with strong support among the border provinces—"

"Mother, please." Soraya's fingers twisted in her lap. "I'd rather join the priesthood. I've already picked out my temple."

"You've been threatening that since you were twelve."

"Well, maybe this time I mean it."

You sighed. "I just want—"

"I know what you want." Soraya's voice softened. "But I can't be the perfect princess you're trying to make me into. I wish..." She glanced at Arman again. "I wish Cyrus were here. He'd tell me exactly how many battles Dastan actually lost, and how many of his victories were just good luck and better weather."

Despite yourself , you smiled. "Your brother does have an uncanny memory for other people's failures."

"It's not fair that he gets to skip this because of a fever. He probably isn't even that sick. I bet he's in his room reading those new scrolls from—"

"My, my, what dreadful posture."

The voice cut through your conversation like a blade. Consort Zina, one of prince Parvis’ concubines, settled onto a nearby cushion with practiced grace, resplendent in jewels that couldn't quite disguise the years etched around her eyes. Despite being aunt by marriage to the shah, she carried herself as though she were the empress herself. A younger woman hovered at her shoulder, wearing the latest court fashion and an expression of carefully crafted concern.

"Really, you grace," Zina continued, her tone dripping with false sympathy, "I would have thought you'd taught your daughter better. Though I suppose we can't all have the advantage of proper breeding."

Soraya’s eyes flashed with rage while your face remained perfectly composed, though your fingers tightened on your cup. "Your concern is noted, Consort Zina."

"And where is your younger son?" the younger woman chimed in, clearly eager to curry favor. "Surely an imperial prince understands the importance of state functions? Or perhaps he finds himself... above such duties?"

Soraya's head snapped up. "My brother is ill."

You squeezed your daughter’s hand in warning before turning to face the haughty noble. "Prince Cyrus is indisposed," you said coolly. "As I'm sure you've heard, Lady...?"

The woman flushed at the deliberate slight. "Lady Mercen."

"Ah yes. New to court, aren't you?"

"Now, now," Zina said, lifting her cup to her lips. "No need to be sharp, y/n. We're all concerned for the proper appearance of the imperial family. After all, these children reflect on all of us, even those of... humbler origins."

Soraya went very still. When she spoke, her voice could have frozen flame.

"Consort Zina. You're addressing an imperial consort and the mother of two princes." Her smile was razor-sharp. "How many sons have you given the imperial house again? I forget. Is it... none?"

"Soraya." Your voice cracked like a whip. "You will leave. Now."

"Mother—"

"Now."

You raised your hand slightly, and a servant materialized at Soraya's elbow. Your daughter rose, trembling with fury but trained too well to make a scene. As she was led away, you turned back to Zina, who sat with her mouth still open in shock.

"My daughter speaks out of turn," you said softly, "but she is young, and protective of her family. I trust you understand." You lifted her cup in a subtle mockery of a toast. "After all, we can't all have the advantage of proper breeding."

The musicians played on, and somewhere in the hall, Arman's laughter rang out again. You caught sight of General Dastan watching your daughter's retreat with an expression of mixed alarm and fascination.

Good, you thought. Let him see exactly what he'd be getting if he pursued this match. Your daughter might never be a proper court lady, but she had something far more valuable – the courage to bare her fangs when those she loved were threatened.

[zosa95]

Future Story Snippet

Thank you for the tag @lynzishell 💗

Since I am so damn slow at posting these days, I'll offer snippets from three future scenes/posts.

[phone call] Jude: You made assumptions. You know what happens when you assume you make an ass-- Jude cackled when Chessie let loose a stream of Tartosan curses. He wasn't sure, but she might have said his balls would shrivel up and fall off on the next full moon. Jude: You kiss your nonna with that mouth? Chessie: I will throttle you the next time I see you. Do you have her phone number?

Gemma: (hesitantly) I'm not sure how much to share. Edward: (firmly) Everything. Gemma: (rapidly) It was a free love commune. The leader, Cosmo, was the love of her life. He died of cancer, and she left the commune after that. She has mentioned orgies. She thinks I'm uptight because I've never engaged in a threesome, and I protested when she shared her fantasies of Markus-- Markus: Gem-ma, that part could have been left out!

Markus spotted Madison -- the company's young protegee, as suggested by Erik-- chatting on the sidewalk with another woman. Madison's hacking skills were beyond her years; Markus was relieved she was on his team, not an opponent. Her youth and enthusiasm invigorated his team, and Markus could find little to no fault in her other than her explaining slang and trends to him like he was ninety-three years old instead of thirty-three. As Markus drew closer, he realized that the woman Madison was with was the same woman he'd seen with Beatrice. Madison stared hard at Markus as if she were sending him a signal. The other woman turned and offered a coy smile.

Tagging: @dresdendarlin @cliosimming @sirianasims @bakersimmer @queeniecook @rebouks @miss-may-i and YOU! (participation optional)

[thegingerwrites]

I've been writing quite a bit lately including making some progress on the results of this poll from the beginning of the year at least until I found an idea to obsess over which i have

The current fic I'm really into writing started out as like an outlet for my id (which is, coincidentally, how short cycle started too) I just wanted like a scrap doc to put my horniest thoughts in and it has evolved into something even more fun than i originally thought.

It's a sort of post-rots, no order 66, palpatine is dead, the galaxy is saved, anakin leaves the order to be with padme and the twins au. Obi-Wan and Anakin haven't seen each other in 4 years. I love getting to wrestle with Obi-Wan's pov in this scene where he is, in his mind justifiably, kind of a bitch

And because I feel like I haven't been around lately, here's an extended snippet:

“What are you doing here?” Obi-Wan asks. He doesn’t bother to wonder how Anakin got in. So many things that should be unlikely or impossible are child’s play to Anakin. If enough desire is there, nothing can stand in his way. Obi-Wan knows him well enough by now to know that the question to ask is not how but why.

Anakin looks at him, all of him. He rocks forward on the balls of his feet like he wants to step inside Obi-Wan’s quarters but Obi-Wan doesn’t move an inch. It’s not like Anakin can sneak past him without a struggle if Obi-Wan decides not to let him in. “I had to see you again.”

“And so you have.”

“I’ve been thinking of you a lot lately and seeing you today felt like a sign.”

Always so dramatic. “Today was a coincidence, nothing more.”

“There is no such thing as a coincidence when it comes to the Force.”

Obi-Wan tilts his head, the expression on his face veering towards amusement so that it doesn’t flirt with anger. “You sound awfully like a Jedi for a civilian.”

“Obi-Wan—” Anakin begins and for all that Obi-Wan is dying to hear where Anakin is going to go with this, Anakin doesn’t seem to have the words.

He lets Anakin struggle and fall. Keeping his face placid and still is a challenge, so he overcompensates and feigns a small, amused smile. It’s a cruel little thing but Obi-Wan doesn’t have it in himself to be gentle with Anakin. Not after all this time.

“What?” he asks, when he’s finally had enough. “You came all this way but have nothing to say to me?”

“I don’t know where to begin—Obi-Wan, can I please come inside?”

“We could start right where we left off today, couldn’t we? Exchange pleasantries?” Obi-Wan keeps his voice light and manages to hold his tongue through iron self-control. He desperately wants to pile other questions on top of those. How have you been since you decided to leave the only life you’ve ever known? How have I been since you left without a word?

Anakin scoffs. “What, you want to talk about the weather? I don’t think we’ve exchanged pleasantries in the entire time I’ve known you.”

Because that is what strangers do and they have never been strangers to each other but they might be strangers now. Anakin has made certain of that. “What do you suggest we do then? I’m still waiting to hear what brought you to my door.”

“I’d like to come inside before someone comes to investigate a shouting match in the hall.”

Obi-Wan puts on a look of innocence and peers to the left and right down the hall. “A shouting match? I haven’t heard anything of the sort but I’ll be sure to keep an ear out. Kit does like to leave the volume on his holoprograms rather loud.”

This is fun, Obi-Wan realizes. For all of his nerves, for all of the rattling sense of inevitability, he hadn’t anticipated enjoying himself trying to goad and skewer Anakin. But he does have to be careful not to push Anakin too far. He can’t risk the man storming off now that Obi-Wan has the upper hand.

“Come in, then.” Obi-Wan steps back to let Anakin past him.

“Thank you,” Anakin murmurs. Obi-Wan tries hard to find the note of sarcasm that must be hiding there but he must not have the ear for it anymore.

He takes a minute to stand back and watch Anakin in the middle of his apartment. He blinks and tries to will away the shock of it. Remind himself that Anakin is real and tangible. He won’t vanish like a ghost or a dream. Obi-Wan tries to put himself in Anakin’s shoes, see his apartment from his point of view. It isn’t as though much has changed since he left. Obi-Wan has never had very many possessions. A throw blanket on the couch, a new mug by the sink, a succulent drying out on the windowsill. He can’t get a read on what Anakin makes of it, the same but different, but Obi-Wan doesn’t much care what Anakin thinks. He isn’t ashamed of how he has led his life, the code he has always tried his best to stick to.

“Shall I put on some water for tea?” asks Obi-Wan, ready to keep pretending that Anakin is just some other house guest for as long as it gets under Anakin’s skin.

Anakin gives him a look. It’s far too familiar and something in Obi-Wan aches at the sight of it. The feeling vanishes in an instant, replaced by a kind of disgust in himself for his weakness that is far more comfortable.

Then Anakin seems to come to a decision. He moves to the kitchen cabinets with a purpose. He opens the one over the sink and lifts up onto his toes to grab—ah, yes. There is a bottle of Corellian brandy Obi-Wan once confiscated from Anakin as a padawan. He came back to their rooms dizzy, drunk, and babbling after a night out somewhere in the temple with some of the other padawans, not more than fourteen years old. At the time, Obi-Wan told him they would share it one day when he was older, when he was an adult and could handle his alcohol better. Then it became something of a joke that no, even when Anakin was nineteen, twenty-one, twenty-three, he still wasn’t quite ready yet.

Patience, my very young padawan. Some things get better with age.

Obi-Wan doesn’t go into that cabinet very often. He’d mostly forgotten that bottle was there.

[madam-whim]

WIP Wednesday

tagged by @labskeever, @sulphuricgrin and @moriche - thank you!

This time, I have another snippet from the next Martinhok chapter. It's a scene I've been struggling with for ages; Arri with her sudden mood shifts and reactions is insanely difficult to write. I hope it's somewhat enjoyable to read, still!

I'm tagging @pinessydr, @lilarus, @illumiera, @elavoria, @yansurnummu, @graveofcalaxes and @bostoniangirl21 - as always, no pressure! And also I'm tagging everyone who might want to share something! (Let me know if you want me to add you to my list - currently I don't tag people whose posts I've already seen, but that's an easy fix. I also might start preparing the WIPs in advance since I'm always super late on this - being European and starting work at 7am will do that to you.)

Lost in thought as he was, he nearly noticed it too late – the subtle shift in Arri’s stance, the only warning before she launched herself forward as if to strike Jauffre. By the time he realized what she was about to do, he could do nothing but stumble after her and reach out in an attempt to hold her back, just to prevent the worst. It was a good thing that he did, too, because Jauffre stared at the chaos surrounding them, hands shaking and eyes casting about wildly, as if there were answers to be found in the items strewn across the room. He would never have reacted in time to defend himself or step out of the way, not that Martin could really blame him, or Arri for losing her temper. He felt her trembling as his arms went around her waist to hold her back from attacking Jauffre, felt how tense she was. She’d been hanging on by a thread for days, and even Jauffre would have to admit that she was right – he should have let her keep the Amulet, or at the very least found a better hiding spot for it. But then, how could Jauffre have known to anticipate this? How had the cultists even found out about the Amulet’s location? Had Arri been tracked when she first made her way to the priory, as she had certainly done when she’d delivered the damn thing? Assuming she’d been as worried about being followed as she’d been on their way here, she wouldn’t have allowed that to happen. Or had it been someone else who’d given them away, perhaps another Blade coming to get new orders? Not that it mattered now. The Amulet was gone. And that fact alone scared him – if the Mythic Dawn had seen a necessity to get their hand on the Amulet, they had to know there was still someone left who could relight the Dragonfires. They knew, somehow, that he had not died in Kvatch as they had intended. Arri had very likely come to the same conclusion, cursing and struggling against his hold, and he had to keep his arms locked around her waist to have a chance of keeping her in place. And he understood – if it had been him in her place, he would have been furious. To risk one’s life to save another, to single-handedly make everything fall into place, and then have it all be in vain due to the carelessness of another … No, he believed her anger to be well justified. Still, he didn’t want her stabbing the Grandmaster. If she had such a thing as a conscience – and she did, he was almost certain of that by now – she certainly had no need of a murder weighing on it. “Don’t,” he muttered, low enough so that only Arri would hear, even as she attempted to dislodge his arms. “I understand, I truly do. But save your strength. Think of your injury. This won’t do you any good.” He was well aware he was making use of her apparent unwillingness to hurt him just to get away, and he also understood that she would be livid with him later, once the impulse to simply cut Jauffre down receded. But until then, he had to keep holding on to her. She was still a fighter while Martin was nothing of the sort; it should have been child’s play for her to free herself. And yet, there she was, struggling in a way they both knew would not get her out of his hold. Perhaps she truly didn’t have that much strength left, or she was merely doing it because the pain and frustration and despair needed to go somewhere, and Martin could at least be there. “I know! I know, but you don’t get it,” she seethed, her fingers now digging into his arms instead of her own palms, and the sound she made following those words sounded terrifyingly close to a wail. “He’s doomed you, just let me go, it’s his fault!”

Does this qualify as their first hug? I don't know. Martin won't tell me.

[yellowjacketsfashion]

Hey you might be the wrong person to ask but I've seen you reference this the most: where do the acolyte names come from? Like saying Natalie is wearing the Butcher outfit...what does that mean? Where did these titles come from and who is who??

The specific names like “Butcher” or “Hunter” actually come from the Pilot script. In the excerpt below the various names are highlighted in pink:

The “Runner” is the person who the fandom called “Pit Girl” from the Pilot but she’s ultimately been revealed to be Mari Ibarra in 03x10.

The “Hunter” is the acolyte with the Coed Naked Soccer shirt and the skunk balaclava. In 03x10 we learn that Van is the person behind the mask which is interesting as the Coed Naked Soccer shirt was first canonically worn by Van (it’s assumably her shirt).

The “Butcher” is the acolyte with the pink raincoat and fur apron. The outfit is first worn by Natalie im 03x10 but the person who ultimately wears the outfit during the scene from the script snippet above is Hannah.

The “Overseer” is the acolyte with the beaver veil, tan cloak and multicolor jacket. Since the Pilot we’ve known that Misty is the person who wears this outfit but “overseer” is what she’s called in the script before the reveal.

Some other key terms featured in the Pilot script are “Acolytes” and “Shaman.”

The term Acolytes encompasses all of the Yellowjackets left at this point in the wilderness/the believers in the wilderness. I like using the term because it makes it easier to discuss the Pit girl scene for fashion purposes, especially as we didn’t know the identities of the people in the costumes until recently.

I’ve mentioned it before in an analysis post but the Antler Queen is term created by the fandom and originally in the script the antlered figure was called the “Shaman.” Costume Designer Marie Schley has also referred to the AQ as the “Oracle” as well so you might have seen that term around as well.

I believe there are a few other acolyte names like the “Fighter” but since those aren’t specifically said in the script they are terms/names given by the crew to the acolytes.

Hopefully this is insightful but if you have any other questions please feel free to ask!