#Love Beyond Body Space & Time

[justmeinadaze]

Could you write a Gator Tillman x Plus size Reader series or an imagine (upto you) kind of like enemies to lovers

Also you are one my favourite writers and all your fics are so amazing ❤️

A/N: Thank you <3. I love you! I can turn this little thing into a series if people want that :)

Warning: Smut, degrading (brat, whore), dirty talk

Word Count: 1065

“That’s it, you little brat. Take my cock like the whore you are.”, Gator moaned as he rolled his hips roughly on top of you. 

You hated the deputy and everything he represented in your small town but God did you love playing games with him. The first time was at the bar you worked at after you had been robbed. You gave the police all the information but when he came back a few weeks later to tell you they came up empty handed, you cried and smacked him across the face. In return, he bent you over pool table and fucked you till your eyes rolled. 

After that the game was always a bit different but the outcome was the same. A few times, he pulled you over on the side of the road siting a broken taillight before handcuffing you for “resisting” and shoving his cock down your throat. Another time, he showed up on a date you were having and brought you home to tie you to his bed, teasing you all night till he finally allowed you to cum drenching his mattress with your arousal. 

In public you were ruthless with each other, calling each other names and throwing verbal spares till the other one was pissed off enough to retaliate.

Tonight, while he and his friends were at the bar, you challenged him. Gator had said an off the cuff remark about how if someone breaks into your house not to call because “someone needs to put you in your place and humble you!” You had snickered which amped him up enough but your following sentence was the spark that ignited the fire within him. 

“I highly doubt you’re the man to do that. Can barely even protect me let alone fuck me.”

That’s how you ended up in the position you were in currently, waking up in the middle of the night with him pinning your wrist above your head as he fucked you nice and deep. You secretly hoped he would come over, waiting in your room in the thinnest lingerie nightie you could find for hours before giving up and going to bed.

“Fuck. You think I can’t take care of you? Y-you can barely take care of yourself. Do you—mmph—do you know how easy it was to sneak in? Then I find you here in this flimsy nightie, pussy dripping, just begging to be ruined.”

“Gator…”

The officer’s sweaty forehead fell on yours as he groaned against your lips. 

“Fuck, baby. I love hearing you moan my name.”, he whispers, a rough whimper leaving his throat when you moan it again. “Tell me you need me, Y/N.”

“I-I-I need you, Gator. I need you to keep me safe a-and—oh my God—take care of me. No one fucks me like you. Make me cum, honey, please.”

His head promptly shot up at your words as his rhythm slowed making you whine. 

“No one fucks you like me? No one else better be fucking you at all, little girl. You’re mine. This tight little pussy, your sexy curves, this perfect ass…” Gator’s palm comes down hard at the space between your upper thigh and behind causing a little mewl to leave your lips.

Picking up his pace once more, he roughly slammed his hips into yours as his cock aggressively hit that sensitive spot and beyond deep in your cunt. The officer’s head fell to your side and he continued to whisper in your ear as he heavily panted after every other word. 

“Your fucking smile…adorable…adorable laugh…the way your face lights up…when you see me… shit,baby… your sarcasm and quick wit…your beautiful heart…I want them all. Fuck, I’m close. Tell me who you belong to you, Y/N.”

While he spoke, your fingers had tangled in his hair, holding him as close to you as you could as your other hand gripped his ass guiding his movements.

“You. I belong to you, Gator.”

Your legs locked at the ankle around his waist forcing him to stay put as your body trembled and you came. As you he listened to you climax, his own followed as he grunted loudly and pounded his release deep inside you. 

The two of you laid like that trying desperately to catch your breaths for a few minutes before he gently pulled out of you and reached for some tissues by your bed to clean you with. Once he completed his task, he laid on his back with his arm behind his head as he stared at your ceiling. 

“Why the lingerie?”

“Huh?”

“I imagine you don’t usually fall asleep in something like that.” You didn’t answer mostly because you didn’t know how. To be honest, the two of you rarely ever spoke after you played. “If you did that for me, you don’t have to. I think you look sexy as is.”

“How would you know?”

“Jesus.”, Gator chuckles. “Did you hear a word I fucking said? “

“You don’t know me, Tillman.”

“I’d like to, Y/L/N.” Your eyes met his as he continued. “I know you hate me but I’d like to prove to you I’m not the asshole everyone thinks I am.”

“You mean the asshole you pretend to be to make daddy happy?” When he huffs and closes his eyes you immediately feel bad. “Gator, your dad hates me as a person. I doubt he’d let you take me on a date or something.”

“I don’t care. Look, Y/N, you wouldn’t be going on a date with him. You’d be spending time with me and only me.”

“You’re on his police force.”

“Christ, you are so fucking stubborn!”, he growled before softly grinning when he heard your small giggle. 

Rolling on to his side, he reaches out to brush some of your hair behind your ear. 

“Ok.” Gator’s eyes widen excitedly as your smile grows at the sight. “But I swear to God if he comes at me with ‘A woman’s place is…’—“.

The officer’s lips cut you off and you revel in this new feeling of soft kisses instead of passion, anger fueled ones. 

“You can say whatever you want to. Just know, though, that I can keep you safe and take care of you.”

“I know, Gator. I know.”

[impish-knight]

Love in Violent Form

I asked for this. Pleaded, if you will, in a rather public forum. Bragged about how excited I am to be handled by you in an intense violent way that would have onlookers wondering if we're both sane. A deep need to silence the Nightmare in my mind pushing me to ask for your demons to come out and play with them. Violence is the best way to sate them - and lucky for me, violence is our love language.

The night started off slow and soft. Not in a bad way that grates on the nerves, but the way it helps center me to you. We've already amped each other up during they day, gearing up for what we both wanted and needed to come from our scene. Now we get to enjoy each other's company and run a few errands and share dinner together. Shoot the shit, catch up on the gossip, and bitch about life in general, share and vibe in our music. These are the times I enjoy spending with you, whether we play or not, and I cherish them. You're such an amazing being.

What is expected: an intense and daring scene that pushes boundaries which requires extra precautions. - How: Restraint beyond the typical cuffs used to remind me not to retaliate. Be in my personal space and up in my face. - With: Sting, and all sting. I'm not in the mood for the deeper thud. - Where: Front side only tonight. I need to watch you and track you. - End goal: Break me to tears. A first for semi-private play and a dicey game. - Limits: The ones we already have, but you already know you have my trust.

Finding our spot can be such a hassle at times, but our selection works even if it's a little limiting to the possibility of using a whip. While it is an amazing bite I can feel from you, the end goal is not to end with a whip this time. Thinking on it, the basement is a rather fitting area to play. Who doesn't want to be slightly chilled underground where the only lighting is provided red light? It's as if you've decided to make running from what I asked for that much more difficult.

You set up while I kneel at the cross pulling a hank of rope that will be used later than sooner. I watch the onlookers who are looking at us with curiosity while watching another scene that's happening not far from us. Feeling safer and less seen than what I'm usually at in public, I feel I can breathe. The mask I decided to wear tonight is a wonderful barrier to the outside. I asked for this and the time is ticking down to when it'll come to fruition. As you place my cuffs on my wrists, making sure to get them as snug as possible, you check in and ask where my brain is. Considering all I can do is give the "scattered" sign, it's rather telling that this beginning in public isn't much different from other times. Yet, I'm not backing out because the look in your eyes and the connection that snaps into place is everything I need.

Pushing my back up against the cross, my hands find the wood behind me as a grounding instrument. You crowd into my space and my focus is lasered to only you. Violence lights your eyes and calms my brain enough to crack a smirk. Warming me up with your bare hands, you start with my chest and work down to my legs. Watching you is my goal, but I cannot help but look up to spot the onlookers out of a nervous protection habit. An urge I have to tame if I'm to give you the proper attention you deserve. You never let me stray for long, and this was no different as you crowd into me and slam your hand hard into my chest. That did the trick, I'm here with you now as I look at your devilish smirk. 'Ow, bitch,' I think to myself as I give you a glare. 'I see how this is going to go.'

Tilting my head and observing your body language, I fall into the rhythm you're setting with your hands. Of course you're going to dig your knuckles into my sternum, it's your favorite closer and personal torture weapon. What I wasn't ready for was your elbow doing the same. Before I could catch my breath from swearing softly under my breath, your knees join the fray. Will I ever stop glaring at you during this scene? We're not even five minutes in and already I can sense you will push all my buttons.

Witty banter exchanges between us but it's extremely muted compared to our other scenes. The tone has been set to be serious and hard and my mind immediately sees you for what you are in the moment to me - a predator. You watch me as much as I watch you, your pace slow and controlled as you walk to grab what you want to use first. 'Game on. Do your worst,' I think to myself, but I'm fairly certain my eyes give it all away. You've always been rather great at reading me.

Of course, all I can do is smirk as you bring out your black leather hand. Letting out a sarcastic laugh, I tilt my head and decide to push the first button. "What, your hand not strong enough you have to bring out another one?" Bingo. Your eyes flame for a second but you remain silent. After a brief second, I regret my words. Not because of the punishment for saying it, but I know you have forcefully open hand slapped me for the past several minutes. Even have curled your long nails into your palm to slam the side of your palm into my chest. My hands would but smarting as well at this point. I think of taking back my words but don't. You don't apologize to predators, because they won't.

My chest "learned" the price of my words and the first swear word has escaped my lips. "Fuuuck." Squaring up to me you just tilt your head and give me most vicious one word response of "Yeah". It doesn't end there as you proceed to slap me everywhere with enough force I know it's leaving a red mark behind. I wonder if it's just to prove a point or if this is still the bantering state. The last slap to my chest dissolves me of any questions as it lands hard enough that I know for a fact the stitching is now imprinted on my skin.

My body has officially warmed up the possibilities of tonight, but the only thing I'm left puzzling is why on fucking earth are my legs shaking? It sure as shit isn't from fear, what the actual fuck. Now I understand when people mention how their legs feel wobbly from anticipation and excitement - interesting.

Wait, why are you walking up to me with your hands empty? "Look at the pretty red skin." Promptly you grab the inside of my breast and bite into it with enough force that I have to let out a breath of air, my abs clenching as my fingers dig into the wood behind me. "You now have my dental records, but only one one side." As you move to my other breast, I feel my eyes roll into the back of my head as it tilts back. Whether I said it with my outside voice is unknown, but all I can think is 'Fuck, why is this so fucking hot?'. By the time you bite yourself down to my stomach, all I can do is let out a growl as I look down at you with enough intensity, I'm sure the onlookers can feel it at this point. All I want to do is lift you up by your hair and bite into the crook of your neck, but I can't. Just have to dig my fingers tighter into the cross.

I glare at you, my eyes tracking as you make your way to your toys again. Your back is now to me as you contemplate what to do next and I tsk in my thoughts. How simple it would be to flip the scene - but why would I? Taming me is the point and that thought only entices my nightmare. I have to look away and focus on anything else, which reminded me that, oh yes, we do still have onlookers. Fuck them.

Snapping back to you, I smile as my favorite toy is now in your hand. Warm up is officially done, and now all the demons get to come out and play. Now I've learned one thing - the cane's handle digging into my sternum is not a sensation I was prepared for. "Fucking bitch." I'm rewarded with a laugh as you nod your head once in sarcasm. Feeling the cane cut across my thighs is enough of a happy feeling it causes me to lose my controlled thoughts that will inevitably be spilled from my mouth. Hearing the cane move through the air before it lands is one of my favorite sounds and I recall a memory. 'Last time she hit me like this, people said ow for me.' And to think, this is all while I'm still unrestrained.

Not for much longer, though - and thank fuck. Being a greedy person isn't something I like to be, but I really want more and I'm already feeling froggy. Shit is getting real, though. "Wrists." For the first time, I dig my claws out of the wood and put my wrists together in front of me for you. I watch intently as you thread the bite through both of the D-rings and pull the working ends through the loop. There's no quick release from there unless you undo the cuffs. Keeping my eyes forward with effort, I sink into the feeling of my wrists being pulled up above my head to be tethered to the cross. After checking in to where the safe place for my hands are, you go to work securing it and I can't help but inspect your work. Now I know how to get myself out of this if I need to though I know I won't unless it's an emergency.

Of course it won't start as simple as just beating me after you have me captured - that's too simple. Your steps are purposeful as you step up to me and lean your forearm onto my chest, your other arm resting on my shoulder as you lean into me. In the calmest voice you tell me I'm pretty and all I do is glare at you, my nose wrinkling from the disgusting compliment. That wasn't enough of a reaction for you, because you repeat yourself again and my heart races as I get closer to your face and whisper growl "Fuck you". Laughter peels out of you as you walk away from me and I grit my teeth. You're so amused with yourself, aren't you? Now I'm feeing trapped and it's a heavy feeling in my chest that makes my fingers curl into a tight fist.

You return with the cane in your hand again. "Hah! Fucking bet, bitch," I growl out loud enough for everyone to hear. "Oh, I do," is such a simple response, but now I see your dick. The look in your eyes have fallen darker and more dead. What an amazing sight to behold - Sir is letting herself go enough to play with me in a way I've been craving. Knowledge is set deep in my brain that she won't harm me, but I need her to hurt the living mother fucking shit out of me.

Squirming is a nice way of saying how I'm moving on the cross as you land blow after blow on my thighs with the cane. I'm fairly certain I already had stripes, but now there is no question whether I'll have any. Lips curl as you step to my side and start to hit my chest with it, my nipples being struck hard enough times that I pull on my restraints with the need to grab the weapon. You know this though, don't you? The smirk on your face tells me you do, and you delight in knowing my mind is starting to race to react but I don't want to hit you. Fear play is something that happens when you play heavy with me, and you fucking love it.

What an interesting look in your eyes as you look at the cane and the smallest of smiles grace your lips. Whistling sounds as I watch the cane slice through the air at a speed you haven't used yet. The first strike was enough to catch my breath. Second had my mind remembering we joked about breaking cane because it's getting so curved from use. 'She might actually break my fucking cane,' races through my mind as a third blow lands and you remind me to breathe. "Good, kitty." Guess it won't break, damn that's a good cane.

If I didn't growl, I'm fairly certain my eyes gave enough of a reaction as I watch you move into a different position. Breathing is no longer a thing I care about as you start to hit my pubic area enough times that it does nothing but pisses me off. The pain is delicious, but this reaction is involuntary and unbridled. This is something new that we haven't played with minus a class a few months ago. "Fucking cunt!" rips out of my mouth so fast that I didn't even have a moment to leash it in my mind. "Good job! You know your anatomy. Here... CHEST!" That was the heaviest hit to my chest tonight from you and I can't help but lunge forward at you as I groan from the pain and you do nothing but laugh as you stalk off.

'Breathe... in and out,' races through my mind. 'Yeah, you keep talking all your shit at a safe distance you fucking pussy. You talk a big game when you're not in my face.' I'm fairly certain that was my inside voice, but I guess you sensed it as step into me and put your forearm just under my throat, your other hand touching my face as you intently watch my flinch from the touch. I'm getting twitchy now and I fucking love this woman because... "You're so pretty, and strong. I'm so proud of you."

Yes, follow it up with punching and kneeing me. How fucking dare you. Keep trying to beat the positivity into me - I'm sure you'll succeed one of these days. Blow after blow lands on my legs and I instinctually start to pull my leg up to knee you in the chest. Red may not be the color I'm seeing at the moment, but rage from all the compliments is a close second. Tamper it, push it down. I growl at you again before you back off, knowing that you pushed to that edge. Breaths heavy and fast, I stare at you with enough intensity I'm sure others would run from. 'If I get my hands on you, I'm going to fucking strangle you so you can't say nice things about me again.' Did I say that out loud?

"Here comes Daddy!" comes out of my mouth, once again unbidden, as you hold up the belt as ask if it's okay. With a simple nod, we both giggle a little at each other. There's that hint of playfulness we usually have during our scenes, but is quickly replaced by strong hits from the folded belt. Damn belt is older and broken in but it's a fun playful sting as you point out you're worried the belt might snap. Change of plans as you get close to me and we both giggle a little.

Your dragon tail is something I forgot about, but I will never forget again. You wield it so viciously in a skillful manner that makes it hard to control my reactions. I'm not starting to dance on the cross as you switch between heavy and softer hits. I can feel my ribcage and stomach taking so many hits that I growl because it's a sharper pain due to not being as warmed up. Your eyes are not dead, but they have a new look in them that I haven't quite seen before. Defining it escapes me, but it lets me know that there is more to delve into in the future and I want more.

Stopping doesn't seem to be in your agenda with the dragon tail. You've hit a zone with it that it would take something outside to distract you. Movement catches from the corner of my eye as someone walks beside us and your eyes track their movements. Hackles raise as I watch them 'You mother fucker, why are you near my Sir and our shit? You're so fucking lucky I'm tied,' flicks through my mind before they move off.

She catches my mind and moves over to my side to bring me back to her. I feel so safe with her I don't worry about her actions while I'm distracted. Forceful blows hit me and I wasn't ready for it. Fucking idiot me wasn't paying attention and I immediately come off the cross and lunge at you, only the tie on the cross stopping me and reminding me what's happening. Moments pass as I breathe and try to center myself, your words "Go back, now," the only thing that brings me back to the present and move back to my place.

You know this is it, this is the time to punch it and end it. Bringing back out the leather hand again. My mind is so far gone that I can't help but feel emotions I repress coming to the surface. This is it, you're actually going to push me over the edge. Blow after blow rocks my body and forces me to move with it in the beginning. I don't know when I lost my glare at you and panic started to set in. If you keep hitting me like this, I'm going to lose it, and not in anger. No, my anger has officially left me as I give myself over to the pain I asked for.

My body is jerking with the blows and I feel myself starting to curl from each blow, trying to protect myself from the pain. I'm going to cry, I can feel it. This is more vicious than before and all I think is that this is what I deserve and need. Sounds come from me that I haven't heard in a long time. I'm whimpering? A sound that comes across as begging but I can't stop it. I've lost my track of you and all I'm focusing on is the pain.

I'm so gone that I find you when you speak again. "Good kitty. You're done. You did great. I'm so proud of you." Quickly you start to untie me and step in front of me, protecting me from the onlookers I forgot about for the longest time as you pull us down to the ground. Curing up into your lap, hiding my face in your lap I can't help but let out a shudder and a small cry as I take the warmth from your lap. Gripping the back of your legs helps me center myself more and I'm unaware if I'm hurting you or not. You say nothing, make no sound, as you drape your upper body over me and take a few deep breaths with me.

As we both sit up and make eye contact, I see the tears in your eyes. "I'm so fucking proud of you. You're so strong," you whisper to me as our foreheads touch. I'm so spent but I feel so fucking powerful right now. The connection that I feel at this moment is the strongest I have ever felt before and all I can think is that I don't want to lose this, ever.

A few exchanged giggles and the thought from you that maybe we should move so others can use the cross moves us into action. Cleaning up is a quick and fast thing and I have no focus except on you. Upstairs on the beanbag is nothing but a focus on you: your warmth, your breath, your presence of energy. Found out later that there was a dog and others in the room. I know I heard them, but it didn't register. Everything is so calm and focused in a way I haven't felt in a long time. You're so fucking amazing, and I have no way how to express it with my words.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was a night to remember and I think we've both learned a few things. I do in fact have the stitching imprinted in my skin and I get to wear and feel her marks for a good while. The bruises on my ribs were not noticed until I took a shower and moved a certain way. Apparently we were checked in on during the dragon tail part because it was so loud.

We play hard and we've discussed we are pretty much CNC players with each other on the way home. This is our love language for each other - it's always intense, but always in different ways.

Enjoy a photo from a day after our scene. @impishangel bestowed some amazing ones.

[sydneyeco01]

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[lgbtqreads]

Fave Five: All-Queer Anthologies All Out and Out Now ed. by Saundra Mitchell Summer Love and If the Fates Allow…

[oddishme]

#AYEARATHON - Pick a Color TBR

#AYEARATHON – Pick a Color TBR

One of the things I wanted to do more of this year was to join readathons. Preferably ones that aren’t too long since I tend to falter a bit the longer they are.

One readathon that I’ve known of for awhile and wanted to join is the #AYEARATHON which is a readathon that happens once a month with different themes each month.

This months theme is to pick a color and read books with that cover…

[bibliocratic]

clear the area jonmartin, post-MAG200 content warnings in the tags

They earn their ending. A happy-ever-after beyond the gaze of any eyes.

Jon endures his abdication. This world has no Archivists, has need of none, the thankless crown of Knowing finally unburdened from his shoulders. The blood washes off Martin’s hands with soap and scrubbing and scalding water. They live.

The end. In conclusion. Fin.

-

Jon’s new scar, the packaging of his skin split ragged from collarbone to sternum, fades like sun-caught paint. A maw of red pursing to a gummy primrose pink, settling into a rough cartography of white.

The first few months are hard. Brimstone flare-up silences and ice-pick shouting, open-handed forgiveness and closed-fist weeping. They drain themselves to husks with anger and worry and grief until there is enough space for better things to grow there in their stead. Jon’s nightmares were a nightly stormfront to bear, sweated sheets and dawn fanfares of panic and dread, but he is learning now, with the space for his ribs to expand, that it is ok for them to breathe here.

Jon digs up the garden with a rusty trowel until it is a bumpy canvas of mulch and soil, dirt tucked under his fingernails and decorated with smudges up to his elbows. He hums while he irons their shirts in front of the television, thoughtless and senseless with tune.

Martin has tried to, but the sound goes down the wrong way.

-

Martin is happy.

-

It isn’t the sight as such, that might sit as a film over his vision to tinge his waking sepia. The reddest thing they own is a terracotta plant plot brimming with raggedy thyme that lives a precarious cliff-top existence on the kitchen windowsill. He observes Jon’s face in all its variations, even pained – when he snags splinters in his fingers, when he stubs his toe on the stone front step and swears damnation – and his response is sympathy tempered by admonishment.

It’s not the sensation, not really, that might tremble on his skin. Martin’s palms tend to dryness inside their homely bubble of creaky central heating, hemmed in by boisterous coastal winds. He handles bread knives and butter knives and steak knives and carving knives without the muscle memory of other blades, and he thinks he might be getting pretty handy with his oven experimentation.

It’s the sound. It wakes him, the noise lingering like the echo of a slap.

The slick punch of metal into muscle. A tooth-bared, tense-jawed gasp.

Resurfacing to shocked consciousness, he would be seized by a frenzy, to know, to check. His scattering hand scrabbling for the lamp with such force he hit it off the nightstand to roll in a giddy clatter, throwing off the covers to rapidly pollute both of them with the outside air. Jon would be rocked from sleep, groggy, panicked, and Martin’s words would not come, a train of thought trying to race full steam where no one had laid tracks, so it would be just the two of them, exhausted and upset and amping the other up in misery.

Now, upon his rousing, Martin knows not to turn on the light. He does not check. The aftermath of punch-gasp curls in his ear, and he inhale-exhale-inhales with the ferocity of mantra, and clamps the threatened tears in the clench of his teeth.

He does not wake Jon.

-

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know me. Like a log.”

-

He is happy. He is. Why wouldn’t he be?

--

Jon rumbles like a rusty mechanism with snoring whenever he drops off on his back, and he mumbles accusatory when Martin coaxes him to his side. Martin finds black hairs on his pillowcase, in the shower plug. Jon is a vista of experience since the Eye left him, who gets hungry and tired and grumpy and drunk and silly and fed-up and giggly. Jon searches him out with the surety of magnets, and loves him, loves him, loves him. He seals kisses to Martin’s new landscape of extensive scars. Their disagreements, when they surface, are as meaningful and lasting as stones skipped on water.

Martin wanted this. He wants this. The rhythms of domesticity fading to foam on an untroubled shore.

He is out of practise with happiness, that’s all. It doesn’t come to him like breathing. He needs to till the earth of it, shelter its seeds from a thousand circling crows until it bears harvest.

He just has to try harder.

-

Night-time.

An episode or two of something simple, Jon nodding off like a capsizing ship before the credits. Encouraging him up in grousing, unwilling increments, rubbing out the nettle sting of pins and needles up his own arm. Check the locks, the light switches. Brush teeth. Pyjamas. Put his phone to charge, read until Jon succumbs to sleep. Click the light off, pushing Jon onto his side so his mouth doesn’t dry. Jon squirming around like a fastidious octopus until he has at least half his limbs hooked over Martin.

The dark creating shadow play. In the absence, Martin colouring in the gaps with lurid shades of disaster.

A creak – the rattle of a door downstairs, an intruder unfastening the back door, transferring their weight upon the staircase. A unfamiliar scent – the recollection of smoke-stench in his nostrils, the acrid promise of gas, the ferrous pungency of blood. The rain will flood their house to drown them. The wind will blow their roof in. Jon hooks his leg around Martin, the skin void of hair where Daisy’s mouth had almost torn it off, and all he can envision is the ways this could be destroyed as he watches.

Bundle Jon close. Ignore the rain, the itch at the bottom of his stomach, the queasy roil of his fear. Drift into unkind sleep populated with its garden of earthly terrors.

-

Martin is… not happy. Not exactly. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

-

Jon is happy.

-

Jon, rubbing at the compression lines around his hips, the accusatory splay of the top button refusing to budge closed:

“I can’t fit into my jeans.”

Martin enfolds him from behind, planting his palms over the slight paunch of Jon’s stomach, filled out through sensible eating and small indulgences and a hunger that will never be ravenous but has restored its human qualities.

“Hmm. It’s a good look on you. Healthier.”

“Or it’s middle age.”

“Or it’s eating things that aren’t tea and meal-deal sandwiches.”

“Or other people’s terror.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I completely forgot about your subsistence diet of eldritch and unbidden horrors in a luscious wholegrain wrap, forgive me.”

Jon laughs at that. The sound has not yet lost its novelty for either of them.

He shifts, turns, his arms a buoy around Martin’s stomach.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Must be all the clean air,” Martin quips. “All that healthy living.”

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

When his heart has wound down from the pace of its gallop, he extricates himself from Jon’s grip. It is a laborious task to find the places where they’ve joined in the night and pull them apart, like separating fabric snagged on rosebushes.

He gets some water from the cold tap in the kitchen. Sits heavily on the sofa, the room cossetted by the gloom.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

His hands shake.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

-

He isn’t happy, but he could grow to be. He could. He could. He just isn’t trying hard enough.

-

Some days, he feels like he’s waiting for the ice to give under them.

Check the passers-by as they walk. Anyone familiar, any teeth filed too sharp, anything animal or blood-shot, any eyes that glance too deep.

Check the oven. The gas knobs are angled to off but a leak is not impossible in a house this old, their alarm might malfunction, they might fall asleep and some spark from a plug socket could catch and incite a conflagration.  

Check the window latches. The opening wide enough for a body to squirm through, the claws of a Hunter marring the sill. Wriggling infestations that invade through the letter box, the keyhole, the gap under the door where the wind can whistle through.

Check. Check. Check.

-

Jon is happy. Jon has a job, work friends, a hundred small luxuries that he has struggled to earn. Jon is happy, so why can’t he be? He went through so much less, the blood washed off easily with soap, what the fuck does he have to cry over –

-

Martin has always crafted his masks from scrap, tongue out in concentration, piecing things together in low light, a make-do-and-mend of his own devising. His early efforts, the paper mâché and glue easily cracked before he learned to shore up his constructions. He has a small collection garnered over years.

The quiet-voiced, muffled-stepped, muted-smiled creation of a Good Son.

The zipped-mouth, no-refusals-no-complaints-yes-of-course-how-high earnestness of the Good Employee, the desperation sanded off the edges so no one could see.

The I’ll-get-the-first-round friendliness, the open-handed, open-hearted, too-naïve Good Colleague.

This new mask forms in increments, in the same way a rising mound of dirt marks the extent of a grave being dug.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s just he’s better at not talking about things. He always has been. And it is an ugly, easy comfort, to slip back into bad habits.

And Jon is happy.

All the things Martin does not wish to permit the light to touch he compresses inside like shaken soda. The rot in him deepens structural, the places where he papers over moulds and fungal speckles with the distraction of their new life. His smile parades simple, contented, cheeky, teasing, and there is a meticulous artistry in each. He sketches interest, paints joy, manufactures irritation out of the clay of nothingness that he allows himself to feel instead of the overwhelming rush of everything else.

I love you, his mouth murmurs, laughs, sighs, groans, and that at least is always true.

The mask of a Good Partner slips on tailor-made.

-

They find their nine-to-fives. Jon’s job is uneventful, boring, and nowhere near an Archive. He works in a registry office for the council, filing and organising and he’s cheerfully lied on his CV in order to get it. He gets the bus and texts Martin grumpy faces and GIFs summarising his mood when he gets suck in the commute or some idiot parks in a bus lane, he has a couple of colleagues he likes and a greater number that he tolerates, he gets a hot chocolate from this universe’s overpriced multinational chain on his lunch hour. When he gets home, he complains with delight at the mundanity of his dissatisfactions, regales Martin with tales of meagre drama.

Martin gets a cleaning job at a school. It is monotonous, dull and safe. Martin loses track of the time easily, quagmired in his musings. The children are wary of him and his visible scarring but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The teachers are friendly enough, as well as the other cleaning staff, but he does not make friends. They’ll have to move anyway, if anything finds them here, if the Fears emerge again.

Martin tries not to feel like he’s waiting.

-

He wants to have a good night’s sleep.

-

“I’ll have breakfast at the school, don’t worry.”

“There were some leftovers from the canteen, so I’m kind of full.”

“It was one of the teacher’s birthdays, you know, Denise? Heh, might have had a bit too much cake. I’ll pop this in the fridge for later though, it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

“I’m just not that hungry tonight, Jon.”

-

He feels sharper when he doesn’t eat. It is uncomfortable, a scratched-out, hollowing sensation, but things focus more. He can control nothing else but this, and it feels good, to have this mastery over himself when so much is beyond him.

He drops down notches on his belt and tells Jon it’s all the walking he’s doing.

-

The world continues to happen to them. He goes to the cinema with Jon and picks at popcorn and encourages Jon’s outraged opinion. He meets Jon’s mildly interesting work friends and plays nice and excels at small talk, and he drinks half a cider that he nurses over the evening because it’s making his head fuggy. His body communicates its sharpness to him and he gains grim satisfaction from ignoring it. He goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep and goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep.

Martin does his best at living, and his mask doesn’t slip.

-

“You seem tired,” Jon pries his words out carefully, picking them out of his teeth as one would scraps. “Is… is everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure it is. Why?”

“…  you seem a bit down today. Recently. Is anything… is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I’ve just been working too hard. Been a while since I had to do double-shifts, heh, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you’re sure?”

Jon shifts to a different position where he’s sat on the sofa, his legs tucking up under him. Martin endures his questioning gaze with practise.

“Yeah, I’m all good.”

Martin delivers a hand-crafted smile that’s gilded heavily with guilelessness and reassurance. He watches as Jon believes him and hates himself.

-

“You know… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you can – you know you can talk to me, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes focus on Jon’s chest at the point where a knife once sunk in, and doesn’t reply.

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

Jon has twisted over onto his back again, rattling like a chain-smoker’s cough with his snoring. They were quiet that evening, tangled up in their own thoughts, but there is none of that distance in sleep. During the night, Jon’s wormed himself out of the covers with a single-minded determination, his restless legs squashing the duvet to the bottom of the bed on his side, encouraging Martin’s to follow suit.

He’s shirtless, his top chucked off to pile unceremoniously on the floor. The temperature is ripe with a burgeoning summer heat, and Jon tosses and complains if he’s overwarm, and Martin didn’t think he’d get to feel the drudgery of another lived summer. He’s shirtless, and the room is palled in sweltering dark that softens the vague shapes of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the knickknacks of the life they’re building together. He’s shirtless, and Martin cannot see where the scar is, the only scar of Jon’s he has ever thought ugly, but he knows it is there. That he put it there. That he could just as easily be waking up alone.

His body pains him to live in it. His stomach tight and bottomed out empty.

He is so so tired.

Martin’s heartbeat does not slow down. His chest constricting, and he swallows, a sharp sound hiccupping in his throat. He stifles it with a forceful sniff but more come as a painful spasming wave, and he has to sit up if any air is to dribble into his lungs.

He should get up. He has to get up, do this in the bathroom, doubled-over the sink, stifling his weakness where it cannot be witnessed. He cannot do this here.

Punch. Gasp.

His burning face is soaked as he bunches up his sleeves against his reddening eyes. A calming exhale drains out shaky, moulds itself into another loud sob. He plants his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes closed, and this will pass, he’s fine, this will pass…

“Martin?”

I’m sorry to wake you, he thinks to say. It’s nothing, go back to sleep, stop looking at me Jon, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’s nothing…

His shoulders start to shake.

“Martin?” Jon repeats slowly. And the ice creaks and cracks and Martin gasps and then it breaks, and the force of his damned-up grief is tidal, catastrophic and he sobs into his hands.

“It’s… it’s alright – it’s… it was a nightmare, that’s all, ‘s alright…”

“It’s not!” Martin bubbles out, the words mashed to a wail in his hands. “It’s not, it’s not, it’ll ruin this…”

“Hey.” Jon brings his arm around Martin and he buries his head in the bony crook of his shoulder because he does not want to meet Jon’s eyes. “What do you mean? Martin?”

Jon rubs at his back. Martin’s body betrays him in a hundred ways as it collapses around him. His weeping wrings him out, dry-mouthed and headachy and trembling when he subsides into shivery breaths.

“Talk to me,” Jon says. “Please.”

“You’re so happy,” Martin sniffs out. “I-I want you to be happy, god, o-of course I do. Things are, they’re good, they’re good and we won, s-s-so why does it feel like I’m still holding my breath? I-I go to bed and I’m frightened of every noise, and I wake up and I’m terrified that someone somehow could take this all away, and I can’t sleep, and I-I’m tired, Jon, I’m tired of holding my breath, and it’s all – it’s all so much a-a-a-and I can’t – ”

“Oh, Martin – ”

His words fail him then. Jon holds him up and his arms do not loosen.

“We-we’re going to fix this,” Jon says after a long while. “I promise you, together, we’ll – we’ll talk to someone. You aren’t alone in this. Together, alright, we’ll do this together. We’ve survived – everything else, we can get through this too.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Martin says, too drained to avoid honesty.

“…Maybe not yet,” Jon says after a pause. “That’s OK. I can wait.”

I’m sorry, Martin attempts to say but Jon presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says. He strokes Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

“… Can we talk? Tomorrow? You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I’d like to be there for you, if you want me. If you’ll let me.”

Martin nods because he doesn’t trust his gummed-up throat. Jon takes that as an answer.

Dawn comes in slowly enough but they see it in together.

[papirouge]

Girl you are so smart about most things but seeing you fall for anti vaccine propaganda is beyond cringe. Especially because the people you reblog from provide zero sources and are just based on hypotheticals.

The vast majority of Covid hospitalizations are UNVACCINATED people. And the hospitalization rate is 17 times higher for unvaccinated people than vaccinated people.

Source: https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.sciencenews.org/article/covid-coronavirus-vaccines-hospital-cases-rates-unvaccinated/amp

If you don’t want the vaccine, that is your choice. But you need to stop lying.

Hun, what's cringe is simping for Big Pharma after it got exposed numerous time for lying to governments ("vaccine are going to eradicate the pandemic/stop the transmission of the virus🤡), selling crooked vaccines (a bunch of them got pulled off the shelves because they caused serious injuries such as the Johnson), and shady data integrity lmaooooo

and let's no forget the infamous Lancet Gate......

You want sources? Here is it :

These are stats from my country (France) following the number of hospitalized people from May to November

FYI FULLY vaccinated people (2 doses) are in blue and unvaccinated are in red

........interesting, isn't it?🤔

So yeah, at the beginning most people hospitalized were unvaccinated but watch them being quickly caught up by the vaccinated by the span of the summer (which is the time around vaccine became mandatory for public spaces). Most hospitalized RIGHT NOW people are vaccinated. That's not propaganda but reality. Wasn't that vaccine supposed to stop the virus prevent serious case of c0v!d? ....yeah sure.

The "vaccine is going stop the pandemic" narrative was a lie and it's very rich you have the audacity to state that I am the lying one when YOU are the one who's been lied to by the industry you're currently white knighting ...What in the Stockholm syndrome hell is it?💀

What lie is there in stating vaccinated people got the COVID? I really don't understand what's so bothersome for you to see people simply observing FACTS. They are literally shoving a 4TH(!!) dose in Israel after initially saying 2 doses were going to bring our life back to normal. They are making camps for the unvaccinated after saying those saying it was going to happen (months ago) were nothing but fearmongering cOnsPIracY The0RiSts.

None is it is "propaganda" it's actually REALITY unfolding before our eyes. This whole situation is utterly ridiculous & grotesque, and it astounds me that people are still defending this mess lmao

....girl, what's not clicking?

That's precisely because I have a brain that I can use it and put 2 and 2 together. Smart people aren't afraid of crime thought because they know better.

The fact that I NEVER got the COVID while not being vaccinated and seeing people with 2+ doses catching just proves me ever further that I'm doing the right thing. I love my body and I love my immunity system and I trust them more than I will ever trust big pharma and these crooked vaccine lmao

Cope💚

[into-the-afterlife]

Why I Ship Johnny/Female V: Part 2

[Part 1] [Part 2]

This is Part 2 of my essay series on why I ship Johnny and female V. Back in part 1, I covered why I ship female V specifically with Johnny and not male V, as well as some thoughts on Johnny’s sexuality. This time, I’m looking at Johnny himself. (Content warning: there is some discussion of rape and how rape is handled in fiction.)

Johnny, ambiguity and age-old romantic tropes

Look, I’m just going to come out and say this: part of my interest in this ship is thirsting over Johnny. And when I’m interested in something, whether it’s an intellectual, creative or sexual interest, I like to do what I always do – analyse it to death. So what is it about the actor, the performance and the character that makes Johnny as attractive as he is?

Keanu Reeves himself, obviously, can’t be ignored here. He has a gorgeous face and voice, but crucially, he’s distinctively beautiful. Obviously, everyone has the right to be into what they’re into, and I don’t want to shame anyone for their tastes. But I do not understand people who are into the blandly beautiful. Sure, there’s nothing wrong about, let’s say, Chris Evans. But what’s right about him? Where are the snags that catch your attention and hold it? Where’s the life?

Reeves, meanwhile, is attractive because he’s unusual. He has long, dark hair, but he’s regularly photographed at public events with it mussed-up. He has a chiselled face, but his cheekbones are high enough that he looks alien. He has all the charisma of any Hollywood actor, but, whether this is him as he is or an especially well-calculated image choice, it comes off as genuine. When watching interviews with him, you feel less in the presence of a star and more an especially fascinating stranger at a party, one who, despite bursting with witticisms and stories, somehow wants to talk to you most of all.  

There’s also an element of age ambiguity here. Reeves is in his fifties, and while age suits his looks better than youth did, it shows. Meanwhile, Johnny the character is in his thirties when he dies, and to match this, the animators smooth out Reeves’ face and darken his beard. They also give Johnny the (unrealistic but glorious) organic arms of a dedicated bodybuilder. So what Johnny ends up with is the presence, confidence and charisma of an older guy, combined with the physicality of someone younger. It’s potent, to say the least. It also adds to Johnny’s uncanniness as a character. He’s caught between maturity and youth, life and death, humanity and machine; he’s hard to pinpoint no matter where you look. And whether you express this academia-style, as, ‘the gothic associates uncanniness with sexuality’, or internet-style,  as, ‘I’m a monster/robotfucker’, this is, as the kids say, pretty damn hot.

This uncanniness, as well as Reeves’ looks and performance, also offset some of the more unlikeable aspects of Johnny’s personality. This is best illustrated by the concept art created for Johnny before Reeves was brought on board. (Found courtesy of the lovely folks at r/LowSodiumCyberpunk.)

As you can see, they had a lot of Johnny’s look already nailed down. But this makes the differences all the more startling. This Johnny looks like he’s been dragged through the wringer. His hair is messier, and he seems to be getting premature wrinkles and balding. He’s strung-out, with a genuinely hopeless cast to his face. His look is also a lot more dated. While our Johnny has elements of the old rocker, the jean jacket, bandana, V-necked black jumper and aviators clipped to the tank top root this Johnny inescapably in 1980s music and fashion.

Why is all this relevant to shipping Johnny with V? Partially because I’m shallow, I’m not going to lie. But it’s also because making Johnny look like this would have made him much more obviously an intrusion. A guy dressed like this next to 2077’s booty shorts and space buns is like a ghost in a ballgown next to a woman in jeans. He’s not just out of time; he’s been irrevocably left behind. Johnny’s face here also has much less in the way of possibility. Where our Johnny says, ‘maybe your life would be better if you listened to me’, this Johnny screams, ‘my way is hopeless, but you can’t ignore it’. It’s leaning much more into the tragic aspects of Johnny’s character and of the genre of cyberpunk. And don’t get me wrong – I love that artwork, and think that angle would be an interesting artistic choice.

But making Johnny a tragic intrusion like this removes the element of seduction, so to speak, from his character. What makes Johnny attractive, ideologically, sexually and romantically, is a balance of certainty and uncertainty. On the surface, he’s passionately, blazingly certain of his politics, his music and himself. If you’re taking a leap of faith, whether that’s fighting against the corpos that rule your life or hopping into bed with an engram, what draws you to it is the kind of confidence that makes you doubt your own certainties. Yet too much of that can be off-putting. Nobody wants a partner who’s so cocksure (pardon the pun) that they don’t listen to what you want, and nobody wants a political ally who’s gone so far into their own rhetoric that they can’t convince those outside it.

Therefore, the common factor across all the ways Reeves’ looks impact our perception of Johnny is the balancing of two seemingly opposing things. Keep that in mind, because it only gets more relevant the deeper into this ship, and Johnny’s attractiveness, we go.

Of course, Reeves’ looks are far from the only thing he brings to the table. His acting, across body language, facial expressions and voice acting, is incredible. I want to take a look at his voice acting, as well as his voice generally, first.

I’m not familiar enough with the subtleties of American accents to pinpoint why, but Reeves’ accent sounds slightly different to the more generic accents of other famous actors. Perhaps it’s because he’s Canadian. Either way, his consonants are less harsh on the ear than other A-list actors, his vowels less elongated. He speaks slowly, sounding as if he just woke up. His voice is mellow and soothing; it’s the sort of sound you could take a bath in.

(For reference purposes, I’m listening to this Cyberpunk trailer as I write this, as well as, um, this video that I’ve watched far too many times. XD)

Obviously, to play Johnny he has to modify that laid-back aspect of his voice. But it’s interesting how his natural voice and his ‘Johnny’ voice bounce off each other. Reeves is able to pull off a much more belligerent Johnny than many actors could, precisely because of that laid-back quality his natural voice has. Think of that ‘impressive cock’ line. It’s made as funny as it is because of the total lack of shame in how Reeves delivers it. But in the mouth of an actor like, let’s say, Robert Downey Jr, that level of shamelessness would just come off as annoying. Reeves uses his natural voice to amp up Johnny’s, for lack of a better word, Chad-ness, far beyond the place another actor could manage. Because he has that base of softness, he can go hard on Johnny’s arrogance.

Why is this relevant to Johnny’s attractiveness as a character, as well as why Johnny/F!V are a fascinating ship? To develop a character well, you have to have an extremely solid base to start on – and that base is where a lot of writing and acting falls down. The audience has to know intimately what a character is usually like, or who they seem to be, before burrowing into the character further is made effective. That equal hard/soft approach means that when Johnny does soften later in the game, it seems both unexpected and inevitable. Even as the harsh tone and words were conveying one thing, that softness underneath was always conveying another. But the fact that Reeves can go hard on the arrogance makes that change much more impactful than it would be in another character. Once again, we’re seeing an equal balance of two seemingly opposing qualities, not openly leaning towards one or the other.

There’s also some aspects of the body language Reeves and the animators give to Johnny I’d like to focus in on. While I’m not an actor, nor am I a psychologist, and therefore am likely to have missed things, there were a few things I noticed when going through footage of Johnny in pivotal scenes. (If you spot something I haven’t talked about, please reply or reblog! I’d love to get a back-and-forth discussion going.)

Over and over again, Johnny’s body language has two layers. There’s what I’m calling the ‘douchebag’ layer, which is where Johnny seems insultingly relaxed. The scene when V and Johnny first meet, as well as the scene at the diner, have two great examples of this. Johnny gets into V’s space, but it’s slow, catlike. There’s no urgency when he leans in, nor when he stands over V.

Similarly, at the diner, he tells V he doesn’t want to kill her anymore – something pivotally important for their relationship and the plot - while putting his arms behind his head and his feet up on the table. It communicates, at least on the surface, a real sense of disrespect. ‘I don’t give a shit’, says his posture, ‘whether you hate and fear me or not’. His threatening slowness when they first meet, meanwhile, communicates that he doesn’t think V is a competent opponent. Why should he hurry if he can get her any time?

At least, that’s what it looks like. Take a look from 9:40 onwards here. Sure, he swings his legs up on the table – but not before hurrying into the diner booth and tapping his fingers rapidly on the table. Even when he gets into that relaxed posture, he’s bouncing his leg the entire time. Those catlike movements I talked about when they first meet? If you look from 5:42 here, they’re there. But they’re also interspersed with banging his head incessantly against the wall, pacing back and forth and glitching unpredictably all around the room.

This is where the second layer of Johnny’s body language comes in. Underneath all that casual condescension, he communicates constant, frenetic energy, even anxiety. Even in his default, idle animations, it’s extremely rarely that Johnny communicates real coolness and calm. He covers constantly racing thoughts and feelings with a slick persona.

What this does is very like the hard/soft balance of the voice acting I talked about earlier. Because the ‘douchebag’ layer of body language is the most obvious one, you pick up on that first. But the other layer is there throughout Johnny’s entire arc, and it goes into your brain on a much more subconscious level. Then, when Johnny’s guard does come down, it seems like a natural development of his character while still being a surprise. Once again, there’s that knife-edge balance between two disparate qualities. And for me, attraction always lies in the space between.

There’s also something highly sexual about the way he gets into V’s space when they first meet, the way he stands over her. When first playing the scene where they first meet, it felt like watching the moments before an act of rape. You see him first as he leans over you while you’re still in bed. He beats you to the ground, smashes your head into the window, and towers over you while you’re collapsed on the floor. Given the context of him taking over your body, the overtones are unmistakeable.

But again, crucially, that frantic body language and his lines are the complete opposite of how someone behaves when making the kind of power play that rape is. The pacing, the panicked words and the fact that he’s caught off guard all communicate disempowerment. While it’s still a violent, frightening scene, it’s not a monstrous one.

Why is that relevant to discussing Johnny’s attractiveness, and Johnny/V? Because rape fantasies and male domination are some of the oldest tropes in the book for M/F romantic arcs. Done properly, they play on desires of sexual submission without explicitly acknowledging the kink, depict the eroticism of that liminal space between humanity and monstrosity I talked about earlier and allow you to fantasise about being deeply wanted. Of course, that last bit isn’t a factual depiction of rape in real life. But in the fantasy, the story, the idea of being ravished is partially about being special, being so uniquely attractive that the guy loses all control of himself. If you have a more conservative or repressed view of your sexuality, the ravishment/rape fantasy also allows you to fantasise about sex without seeing yourself as a slut. (This post is a great look at that last idea as applied to the movie Labyrinth, if you want to find out more.)

The idea of sexualised monstrosity is also everywhere in the tropes used to characterise Johnny. He’s a troubled rockstar, an angst-ridden artist who died tragically young, a violent political rebel, part human and part supernatural creature, a charismatic, cocky, seemingly heartless guy, who just might have a heart if you look deep enough. What all these tropes have in common is the promise of both reassuring humanity and fascinating, exciting monstrosity.

Reeves’ and Johnny’s looks combine strangeness and humanity. Reeves’ voice acting moves between soaring arrogance and languid softness. Johnny’s body language combines fear and overconfidence. And the use of age-old romantic tropes in an unexpected context, as well as the use of these specific romantic tropes, knit all the effects of the other things together to create that balance between the human and the strange. He’s unusual enough to be interesting, human enough to seem real and associated with all our cultural symbolism of an attractive man. With all that going on, how could you not find him hot as hell?

But the thing about these tropes is, they’re also so common they’re clichéd. Not just in fandom, but all across Western media and art. So what lifts Johnny and Johnny/V out of being something generic? What makes them so fascinating that I’ve written thousands of words about them? What, in short, makes them different?

That’s what I’ll go into next time.

[Part 1] [Part 2]

[thatmultifandomhoe]

Knitting You a Home - 6

Pairing: Wolf Hybrid Namjoon and Human Reader

Word Count: 1,551

Genre/Rating: Hybrid AU - Established Relationship - Angst - Fluff - Smut - PG-13

Overview: Things have changed for you and Namjoon. It’s been a year since the two of you got together, and despite a rocky start, it was impossible to deny the bond and love you shared for each other. But ever since Hoseok had been separated from his Mate, Namjoon has been withdrawing himself from you and doesn’t come home until late at night.

With questions far larger than either of you imagined, you can’t help but wonder if he’s let his past and old fears come back to haunt him. You had shown him that it was possible to have a home and be loved once before, but will you be able to do it again?

Warning: None.

Playlist:

Main Master List:

Knitting You a Home Master List:

Mated Love is Never Easy Series Master List:

Sneak Peak - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - ?

©thatmultifandomhoe Do not repost, translate, or use my stories without permission.

Tugging on his baseball cap, Namjoon pulled out the folded-up flyer once again, making sure he had the right address. The overhead purple neon light flickered once but continued to light up the dark as packs of people entered and left Lotus at the same time.

He was tucking the paper into his back pocket when he suddenly heard laughter. Looking up only to see a woman with both her arms around two friends who were laughing just as hard. Their smiles were contagious and for a moment, Namjoon felt himself smiling, wondering when the last time he had felt that relaxed was.

After meeting you, his life had fallen into a familiar routine. It was exactly what he needed and he loved it, but sometimes he found himself wanting to do the unexpected, to just go with no real plan or idea and stumble upon something different.

Which was why he was walking through Lotus, the most popular night club in town. Eyes adjusting to the sudden darkness, strobe lights bounced around the room as the bass thumped out of the speakers. Sweat and liquor hung in the air but nobody appeared to give a damn. The other Hybrids that Namjoon spotted as he made his way to the bar were either used to the sounds and smells, or they were too drunk to care.

Before Namjoon reached the bar, he managed to stumble his way over to the restrooms to catch his breath. It wasn’t as crowded as the dance floor, allowing him to relax his tail. He was looking around the club, watching the bartenders toss glass bottles and shake up mixed drinks, one even filling about seven shot glasses with amber liquid in a straight line at once.

Out of the corner of his eye a door opened, a man stumbling back to the bar with a shit eating grin and he thought nothing of it. But when the door didn’t close right away, Namjoon’s ear twitched in its direction, hearing different music coming from there than what was being played in the club.

It was faint, but in seconds he was able to detect the rap music coming from behind the door underneath the sound of EDM.

The flyer suddenly felt heavy in his pocket, and as he pulled it out once more, the paper clenched in his grip. Behind that door was where he wanted to be.

Not thinking twice, Namjoon opened the door to find a hallway leading to a staircase that went down. The rap music grew louder as he walked down the stairs, his heart beating in unison as his steps were drowned out. Following the music, the stairs only went down one floor before breaking out into another hallway, and halfway down there was a door that at the moment, was open, allowing red light to stream out into the grey hallway.

There wasn’t anyone guarding the entrance like he thought, and nobody stopped him when he walked through the door. Instantly he was transported to another place, one that he hadn’t expected to exist underneath Lotus.

The room opened up into a large underground basement, cinder-block walls encasing the several hundred people that were occupying the space. Red strobe lights danced around and in the middle of the room was a large stage that was being used. Only there were regular white spot lights being used to highlight the stars of the show. Amps were set at the sides of the stage, but with music seeming to be coming from everywhere, Namjoon assumed they had installed several in the ceilings or on the walls.

Up on the stage were two groups. On the left side were a group of nine men, and on the right was a group of about thirteen who were currently dancing. The crowd screamed as one of the dancers flipped, twisting his body and spinning around on his shoulders.

Namjoon smiled as he walked further into the room, not quite entering the crowd but absorbing everything that he saw. Despite the numerous strobe lights, he had to take out his cellphone and hold it above the flyer. He didn’t recall there being dance battles advertised as well.

“Hey newbie!” a voice suddenly called out.

Startled, Namjoon looked around him, wondering if he had misheard or if they were looking for someone else. But he was off to the side with no one else around him, and the blond-haired man was coming straight towards him. Namjoon straightened up, watching as he came closer. The stranger was wearing a black tank top that showed off his muscular arms while piercings decorated his ears.

He nodded towards Namjoon’s phone, gesturing with his hand across his neck. “If you’re gonna be down here, first thing you need to know is to kill the light.”

“Sorry,” Namjoon murmured, double tapping the screen.

The stranger grinned though, coming to a stop once they were close enough to hear each other without straining their voices to shout. “It’s alright. Boss prefers there to be no phones so none of the artist get caught.”

“But they’ll hang up flyers at recording studios?” Namjoon asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

“Studios are always looking for new talent,” he pointed out. “They’re willing to look the other way. Officers however, would love to break this up. I’m Jackson by the way. What’s your name?” Jackson held out his hand, waiting for Namjoon to shake it.

“Namjoon.”

“Well, Namjoon, how the hell did you find the Underground?”

The flyer was still in his hand, so instead of answering, Namjoon simply held it up. Jackson shook his head, glancing at the stage before looking over his shoulder. Following his gaze, Namjoon spotted a lounge area that was further away from the stage.

“Come on,” Jackson called out. “Let’s go over there and talk. It’ll be easier than over here.”

Without waiting, Jackson headed over to the lounge, leaving Namjoon no choice but to follow after him. There wasn’t anyone else when he joined Jackson, but empty glasses littered the large square table as well as crumbs.

It wasn’t as loud this far away from the main attractions, and he was still able to see the performance going on. “I thought this was for rap battles?” He asked Jackson, finally tearing his eyes away from the dancers.

Jackson nodded, sinking into the black leather couch. “It is. We have a high demand for rap and dance battles, but not everyone does both. So, we alternate between the two. This just happens to be our dance battle night; come back tomorrow night and you’ll see the rappers go at it.”

Pressing his lips together, Namjoon joined Jackson, taking a moment to take it all in. He was finally here, and he had come on the wrong night. This was just his luck.

“You wanted rap night I take it?”

“Yeah, but it’s alright.” Shrugging, Namjoon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees to watch the stage, smiling when the whole group got involved this time.

Raising an eyebrow, Jackson gave Namjoon a once over. He wasn’t dressed as if he was going to participate in either battle, and he didn’t look as if he came here to get his party on. All he wore was jeans, a green shirt, denim jacket and a baseball cap. Instead, he looked like he was about ready to go home. Like this was the last place that he belonged.

However, his eyes honed in on the square outline in one of the pockets of his jacket. Jackson had been around artists long enough to have an idea of what it was. “What’s with the notebook?” He asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Namjoon patted his side, relieved to feel that it was still there. “I work at the recording studio,” he explained, taking his notebook out of his pocket. “I saw the flyer a couple nights ago and finally decided to check it out.”

“What do you think so far?” Jackson stared at the notebook, spotting the worn-out corners on the cover. As Namjoon absentmindedly flipped through it, the black ink in his sprawled-out handwriting became visible for a brief second before disappearing again.

The Hybrid couldn’t take his eyes off the stage though. As he inhaled, he was able to make out the faint distinguish scent that Jackson was human and friendly, a note that he mentally marked up in his mind. For some reason, like he felt with you, he knew he’d be able to trust Jackson.

For years he had been working on his own music project, and Yoongi - who had spent as much time helping Namjoon out and listening to it – had even encouraged Namjoon to finally put it out there. It was ready for the world to listen to, but he kept holding back. He needed to see if people would actually give a damn about what he wanted to say, to know if they were able to look beyond the tail and ears, and see him as himself. As a serious artist. Pointing at the stage, he turned to look at Jackson over his shoulder, a wolfish grin appearing on his features as he held up his notebook.

“I want to get on that stage.”

[roanniom]

hey! thanks for opening requests. could you do a charlie X soft dom!reader smut with the line 'let me take care of you'?

Hi anon, yes I can! Let’s see what we can do to help Charlie out. Hope this is to your liking!

Pressure

Charlie Barber x Soft Dom!Reader

Word Count: 1,763

Warnings: N S F W, language, soft dom/sub, oral sex (male receiving)

Charlie’s had a long day. It’s the price of being a leader, of always having to have the answers, no matter who is asking and no matter the question. As far as his company is concerned, the buck stops with him, and lately it seems things have been going wrong almost as often as they’ve been going right. You know it’s just the ebb and flow of the business. Charlie knows that, too. But it doesn’t stop him from returning to your apartment weary and worn, weighed down by choices he still has to make and problems he still has to solve.

When you hear the front door open and close, you walk cautiously into the living room, wondering what mood Charlie will be in today. Sometime it’s a maelstrom – a flurry of curses and listing of concerns and retelling of grievances. On those days Charlie needs someone who can keep up. Who can challenge his irrational assumptions and provide alternative solutions.

Today, however, Charlie is quiet. He is sitting on the couch, not even having bothered to remove his coat. This Charlie is more defeated than frustrated. He’s slumped forward, elbows resting on his knees and head in his hands. You know this Charlie.

And you know what he needs.

Without a word you make your way over to him and kneel before his open knees. When he doesn’t look up, you grasp his forearms to pull his face from his hands. Bleary eyes look back at you from underneath a mop of tousled hair. Running his hands through it is one of his nervous habits, and one look at the state of his waves tells you all you need to know about this particular day.

“Hi,” he says quietly. You don’t respond. Instead, you let go of his arms to grasp his knees, dragging your hands up and down over the muscles of his meaty thighs. He reaches a hand to touch your hair but you swat him away.

You sit up taller and press a kiss to his willing mouth. One of your hands continues to knead his right thigh while the other slides up his chest to work nimbly at the buttons of his rumpled dress shirt. He groans when one hand makes contact with the expanse of skin beneath his collar bone just as the other slides over the space where his leg meets his pelvis. The latter hand follows the curve of his leg inward, to high on his inner thigh and the place where his pants are tenting quite proudly.

Your left hand rubs his right nipple while your right traces the rigid outline of his cock through the fabric. His massive hand closes over your smaller one, adding pressure on his lap that you had previously not afforded him. You withdraw your left hand from his open shirt and grab his wrist. Wordlessly you move it, placing his open palm firmly down on the couch beside him. Charlie pouts from above you.

“But - ” His words die on his lips when you give him a stern look. His chin trembles but he behaves, gripping the couch tightly on both sides of his spread legs now.

You lightly press against his abdomen so that he leans his weary body against the back of the couch instead of slouching over. He complies, head lolling against the cushion as he releases a long, shaking breath.

You stroke his now-throbbing length more firmly through his pants and lean in. Your open mouth hovers over his lap, getting as close as you can without touching. Your hot breath dampens the fabric just a bit and he tenses all over in anticipation. Slowly, oh so slowly, your hot open mouth descends onto his clothed cock, wetting the fabric and making Charlie buck up into your face and grab the back of your neck with one of the hands previously relegated to gripping the couch.

You lean back immediately and Charlie looks sheepish behind black-blown pupils.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Sit on your hands,” you say simply. Charlie shakes his head.

“But I…I want to touch you.”

“You don’t get to touch me,” you say, cupping your own breast as you say it, as though providing a visual aid for exactly what it is he cannot have. Charlie swallows audibly.

“Please.” He’s breathing harder. You’ve barely touched him, but his tension needs an outlet like the steam in a pressure cooker. And you’re teasingly fingering his release valve.

His face crumples when you shake your head and you’re quick to soothe him.

“You don’t get to touch me because I want you to just lie back and feel me touching you.” Your words are quiet, and not even particularly lewd, but Charlie’s eyes flutter closed and he melts back into the couch, shifting obediently so his hands are beneath him.

“That’s a good Charlie,” you coo. You unbutton and unzip his pants to finally release his aching cock. It’s practically swollen with need, shining at the tip with precum that looks just too tantalizing not to taste. So you do taste it, licking a fat stripe from the underside of his cock, over the head, and across the top of his shaft. Charlie shudders beneath your touch but doesn’t break the rules, hands still firmly beneath him.

You tease his tip for a while, swirling your tongue around it as your hand grips him, stroking slowly up from the root. Charlie’s feet shuffle slightly against the floor on either side of you. He’s clearly working very hard to stop himself from thrusting up into you again. He hisses when you dig the nails of both of your hands into his thighs and drag up till you reach his abdomen, where you splay your hands over his lower belly. Feeling it rise and fall with each shallow breath.

You look up at him from between his legs until he opens his eyes and looks back down at you when he realizes you’ve stopped moving. He swallows his groan at the sight of you. On your knees between his, big eyes staring up at him as his cock bobs not even a centimeter from your wet, plump lips. When you speak, your lips ghost his tip, hot breath washing over his cock, making it twitch.

“Let me take care of you, Charlie.”

He nods and you lower your mouth slowly onto him, never breaking eye contact. The feeling of your hot, wet mouth brings him immediate relief from the agony of waiting for more contact, but it only amps up his desire to be fucking in and out of you. In any way that you will allow him.  

He whimpers as you begin to move, taking him in and out, your tongue cushioning the underside of his cock as your jaw widens to take him ever deeper.

“Oh fuck,” he lets out, gasping when he realizes he’s spoken out loud. He watches you warily, not sure if that, too, is against the rules. You nod around his cock in response and he understands. Touching is off limits. But noise? Noise is on the table.

With your permission squared away, Charlie becomes more vocal in tiny increments. His whimpers turn into whines, pulled from his throat in a strangled way that runs straight to your clit. You swallow him down, taking him more fully into your throat with each movement, and Charlie lets out a quiet yelp. You’re letting him make sounds, but he is still keeping it down, afraid to shatter the intimacy of the moment.

“Oh my god. Oh god oh yes.” His words are tense and whispered through gritted teeth. Your grip moves back to his thighs for leverage as you begin moving up and down over his cock more frantically. One hand moves to cup his balls, feeling them tense, knowing he’s close.

“Feel so good. So good to me, sweetheart.”

“Fuck…oh shit…fuck – fuck me!”

“God. Please. Oh god…”

He’s babbling almost incoherently now, squirming in his seat, hands still beneath him like you asked. His face is scrunched up, having lost the ability to maintain eye contact some time ago in the onslaught of all this pleasure.

You drop your head down abruptly, gagging yourself almost forcefully on his pulsing cock. The tip presses deeply against the back of your throat and you make choking and sputtering sounds, but succeed in holding it there. One hand wraps around the base of his cock and squeezes upward, milking the part of him that you can’t fit down your throat.

All of this drives him wild in a way he can’t possibly express. But what does it is the feeling of your other hand, creeping back up to splay on the soft lower belly again, pressing down against him. Your thumb brushes back and forth at the skin there and he cums. Violently down your throat, finally thrusting up into you involuntarily, beyond gone at this point. A guttural moan fills the room and you swallow what he gives you. All the while caressing him his skin softly.

When his hips stop bucking you pull off of him and wipe your mouth, gazing up to find him looking absolutely obliterated. His clothes are still mainly on, just open and askew, pushed haphazardly aside to expose glimpses of his naked skin below. A slight sheen of sweat coats his chest and his face is flushed, mouth open as he takes in deep breaths. He looks like he wants to cry, or like he’s been crying and this is the cathartic aftermath, shudders racking his body.

You climb up onto the couch beside him and tug at his arms to get him to release the hands he’s been sitting on. He pulls his hands out as you wish but places them on his lap, palms up. Still following your no-touching instructions. Your good Charlie, through and through.

You grasp his arms and drape them around you, assisting him in pulling you closer. You pull on the back of his neck encouraging his face to fall down to your chest, which it does. His cheek presses into the swell of your breasts and he presses his lips to the cleft of your cleavage in the softest of kisses.

You continue to hold him like that for a long while. Your thumb caressing a swath of exposed skin. He’ll still have choices to make and problems to solve later. But for now he feels empty of worry with his arms so full of you.

~*~

Tagging some lovely people (please let me know if you’d like to be tagged or untagged in future work!): @mariesackler​ @direnightshade​ @safarigirlsp​ @sacklerscumrag @paper-in-ashes-fanfiction @historyandfandoms50​ @clydesfavoritegirl @wayward-rose​ @hopeamarsu @thegreenmatt @barbers-glimmerin-darlin

*I promise you guys I’m done tagging you in my smutty thoughts for the day lol. It’s been a whirlwind 24 hrs of content.

[aliciameade]

It Really Builds

Title: It Really Builds Author: aliciameade Rating: E for Everything I Write is Smut Pairing: Beca/Chloe Summary: Post PP3. They were roommates. (They were not quarantined.) Chloe likes to try new bath and body products. She leaves them in the shower for Beca to try. Beca’s not sure Chloe meant to leave one particular product behind labeled “pleasure balm.”

You’re welcome @becabottommitchell​.

Also on AO3

“Dude, seriously?” Beca laughs to herself. She’d reached somewhat distractedly for her conditioner. Her mind was trying to work out a hook for a new song she’d been sent; the song was terrible but she knew she could strip it down to nothing and build it back up into something good.

She stares at the compact green bottle she’s retrieved. It is not the blue bottle of conditioner she’d intended to grab. It’s unfamiliar and definitely not hers. Chloe always has new bath and body products in the shower. She loves trying the latest fad and there’s not a week that goes by that there’s not some new type of scrub, oil, cleanser, purifier, or detoxifier crammed onto one of the overflowing shelves of the shower they share.

(Beca’s still trying to get rid of the stain caused by a particularly potent bath bomb.) 

Sometimes Beca tries them out of curiosity; it’s hard to pass up promises of smaller pores or glowing skin.

She’s about to flip the cap on this one after noticing something about it being spearmint and assuming it’s meant to revitalize her face when she does a double-take to actually read the packaging.

Kama Sutra Pleasure Balm

Beca’s not an idiot. Nor is she a prude. She doesn’t have to guess what its purpose is or how it’s used, though she’s never tried it before.

She’s also not surprised Chloe has such a thing. She is, however, amused that she left it in the shower.

And since Beca is not an idiot, she quickly realizes that meant Chloe was using it in the shower at some point between yesterday and today because she doesn’t recall seeing the distinct emerald green bottle when she showered yesterday.

That thought does a few things to her. It makes her blush, it makes her drop the bottle to the bathtub floor, and it turns her on.

She hates herself a little bit for that. Whatever she and Chloe are (they are friends), she knows it’s not cool to get aroused by thoughts of her doing...whatever she was choosing to do with her pleasure balm.

(Beca has a pretty good idea.)

Angry at herself, she grabs the conditioner and works it through her hair, glaring at the bottle sitting on top of the drain by her feet which has sparked all kinds of thoughts in her mind.

Unfortunately, she has nothing else to occupy herself with as she waits the recommended three minutes for her conditioner to do whatever it does and finally stoops to retrieve it and put it back on the shelf where she found it.

Except instead of putting it back, she’s turning the bottle over to read instructions about dabbing it on pleasure points to let the fun begin. 

And she knows, she knows curiosity killed the cat, but she can’t help it. Thoughts of Chloe touching herself right where Beca stands now have consumed her, fogged up her rational brain with a need to seek her own relief.

And if it works for Chloe, it makes her want to try it all the more.

“Whatever,” she says and flips the cap open to put a dab of clear gel, the scent of mint immediately filling the steamy shower, on her fingertip before she returns it to the shelf.

She doesn’t have to be a scientist to figure out what will probably be the most interesting place to put it. She slips her fingers between her legs to brush it over and around her clit and rinses off her hands. 

She had expected an instantaneous reaction but there’s little more than a faint tingling sensation. Disappointing, really.

Instead of waiting it out, she gives up and rinses the conditioner out of her hair. The moment has passed and she feels kind of dumb and a little wrong for using something so personal of her roommate’s.

Shame creeping up the back of her neck she hops out of the shower, works a towel through her hair until it’s no longer dripping, and wraps her favorite fresh, fluffy one around her body.

She’s two steps away from her room when the product decides to kick in.

“Oh, fuck,” she says, actually tripping and slamming her shoulder into the door frame as she tries to hurry into her room. It makes her curse again which gets Chloe’s attention, head popping out from her room across from Beca’s.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she says, not noticing how breathless she is until she hears herself. It’s not a faint tingle anymore; it’s a full-on sensory assault. She might as well have an ice cube between her legs. She’d slam the door if she could remember how to use her limbs.

“Are you sure?” Chloe’s voice is getting closer and it’s laced with genuine worry. Beca knows what comes next: Chloe touching her out of concern.

She hisses when Chloe’s hand touches right between her bare shoulder blades. Every inch of her feels like it’s on fire and also in an ice bath. 

Beca has many regrets right now. Such as her inappropriate curiosity. Her underestimation of what had appeared to be a relatively innocuous substance. Not keeping her shit together long enough so she could make it into her room and lock the door and do...whatever it was going to take to answer the demands her body’s suddenly making. The fact that when she’s turned on, her mouth and the rational part of her brain don’t always communicate.

“Dude, what the fuck with that Kama Sutra shit in the shower?”

She realizes she says the words but doesn’t have the capacity to try to take them back.

Chloe’s hand disappears and there’s a muffled sound behind her; she doesn’t have to turn around to know that Chloe’s covering her mouth in an attempt to not laugh. “Oh, my God, Bec.” She drops her hand away, voice clear once again. “Did you use it?”

“Shut up,” Beca growls, spinning around, half-embarrassed, half-generally confused as to why she’s not kicking Chloe out right now. She’s managed to stumble at least a couple of steps into her room. She could slam the door in her face if she wanted to.

Chloe’s laugh is even louder this time. “Your face is, like, beet red. Did you not know what it was?”

“I knew what it was,” Beca bites.

Chloe’s eyebrows raise at that and Beca can’t help but notice Chloe kind of eyes her up and down. “It’s on you right now?”

“No, I’m just generally this horny when I get out of the shower.” Her own eyes go wide at her admission but she still can’t manage to rescind her words.

Chloe’s entire demeanor seems to shift. Even her voice is different. Quieter. “Where did you use it?”

“Where do you think?” Beca has to shift her stance. It’s like the evil fucking gel is listening to their conversation and choosing to amp up its intensity based on what’s being said. However, the shift, minor as it is, feels like ice water pouring between her legs and her entire body shudders.

It’s obvious Chloe notices; her teeth suddenly snag her bottom lip and she looks at Beca in a way Beca’s not unfamiliar with. She’s seen Chloe look that way at other people before kissing them.

“How is it?” Chloe asks, voice still quiet. She takes a tentative step forward with the question and alarm bells sound in Beca’s brain but she doesn’t know what to do about them.

“Intense,” she manages to squeak. It’s almost starting to burn which is a new, not unwelcome sensation.

“It helps if you touch it.”

Beca should probably be surprised Chloe would have masturbation recommendations for her but she’s really not. “Yeah, well...there’s the door,” she says with a jutting of her chin in that direction.

“Yeah,” Chloe says absently, still moving closer step by step until Beca has to take a step backward that does not go ignored by what’s happening between her legs. 

A whimper escapes her lips and she immediately clenches her jaw.

“I can show you.”

Beca just stares. Because Chloe seems to have just offered to put Beca out of her misery.

“If it’s okay with you,” Chloe continues, still moving forward until Beca’s legs hit the edge of her bed.

She doesn’t sit; she’s not sure what will happen if she does. Spontaneously combust, probably. “Um…” Say yes. Just say yes, dummy.

Chloe’s eyes feel hot when they meet Beca’s. “Because I’d like to show you.”

Another shiver chooses that moment to zing through her, right when she opens her mouth, and her, “Okay,” comes out more like a moan than anything.

The way Chloe steps into her space, Beca fully expects to be kissed. She even keeps her lips parted and wets them, only for Chloe to stop short of that. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Beca nods dumbly; she knows she’s not going to tell Chloe to stop whatever is about to happen.

She feels the graze of fingertips on her inner thigh, higher than the edge of her towel, and her knees nearly give out. It shouldn’t feel that good, not there, but every inch of her is on edge, every nerve on high-alert, and a hand flies out, unthinking, to grab and hold on to Chloe’s shoulder.

“You weren’t kidding,” Chloe murmurs with a soft smile, mostly to herself it seems. Beca doesn’t really respond. She can’t. Not when Chloe’s fingers are traveling up her thigh. Chloe, her friend since she was 18. Chloe, her friend with whom she’s been through thick and thin. Chloe, the woman she’s lived with, in some arrangement or another, for nearly eight years. Chloe, the person she’s been in love with for as long as she’s known her.

She has to close her eyes; it’s too much to watch Chloe watching her for reactions and Chloe’s fingers are dangerously close to intimate territory.

Beca hadn’t bargained on her body being as aroused as it is, though, and that arousal and the incessant, subconscious clenching of her thighs has traveled beyond the source. She feels Chloe’s fingers find and slip through slickness sooner than she had expected.

“Oh, Beca…” Chloe sighs and Beca feels her move closer. She doesn’t dare open her eyes to look but she can sense her, can feel the warmth radiating from her body and her breath against her own lips. Her fingers’ advance pauses, though, and she feels her moving slowly back and forth along the wet patch on her right thigh. “Are you sure?”

She knows she should say something more like, ‘yes,’ but what comes out instead is, “Please.”

Chloe’s exhale is sudden. There’s so much unspoken communication with it that it makes Beca’s head spin more than it already is. “Okay,” she says and Beca feels the word against her lips. “I’m going to touch you.”

The words ‘you already are’ flit through Beca’s mind but they don’t make it any further. Her fingers dig into Chloe’s shoulder in anticipation and though Chloe isn’t really teasing her, it still feels like it takes a year and a half for something to happen.

When it does, when Chloe’s fingertip grazes Beca’s clit, Beca can’t breathe.

In a more normal circumstance, she’s sure she wouldn’t have been able to breathe, either.

But this...when her body is on fire from whatever that balm was already doing to her…

The word, “Fuck” forms and dies on her lips and her hips tilt [somewhat embarrassingly if she cared; she doesn’t] forward.

She hears what sounds like a moan, but it came from Chloe. It makes her hips buck again, already seconds from coming, and she feels Chloe’s touch disappear.

“No, don’t,” she whines. Pathetic. She’s totally pathetic.

Chloe shushes her and she can hear the way she’s chuckling through it. “Sit down.”

The concept of sitting, of putting so much pressure and so many contact points around the part of her body that is screaming so loudly that it’s deafening, scares her and her entire body stiffens.

“Beca,” Chloe repeats, actually laughing this time, “just sit down.” She actually pushes Beca and with the bed already flush against her calves, Beca has nowhere to go but down.

As expected, it’s a rush of stimulation that makes her shudder and forces her to grit her teeth because she’s definitely on the precipice of orgasm, and it just seems like way too soon for that. She’s not even sure she wants to orgasm with Chloe.

(Kidding. She 150% wants to orgasm with Chloe. It’s just not something she thought she’d be doing when she woke up today.)

“Can I show you what I like?” Chloe asks as she nudges Beca’s knees apart with her own. Her eyes linger particularly long on Beca, but not on her face, and Beca glances down in concern to notice her towel is just sitting limply around her waist and in her lap.

It must have fallen when she sat; she hadn’t been thinking about babysitting her towel. She grabs for it immediately, meaning to cover up her nudity, but Chloe’s hand stops her from reaching it.

“Don’t,” Chloe says as she starts to kneel. It makes Beca’s mouth go dry. “I like seeing you.”

Beca swallows and lets her hands rest on the bed and tries to not pass out.

“So, can I show you?”

“Um,” Beca has to clear her throat to get her voice to work. “Okay.”

Chloe smiles up at her; it would be innocent if not for what was happening right now. “Awes.” She nudges Beca’s legs wider to accommodate the width of her shoulders and glances up at Beca after a few seconds. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she manages, not sure where the strength or brain power came from. Maybe the adrenaline that’s kicking in from being naked on a bed with Chloe on her knees in front of her asking to show her something she likes.

Chloe just giggles (such a pretty sound), and Beca feels hands run up her legs from her ankles to her calves to her knees to her thighs which Beca feels not unpleasant twinges of a stretch in as Chloe eases them wider still; it forces her to put her hands behind herself to prop herself up.

She watches until it’s too much. She closes her eyes and waits. She feels the soft touch of lips against her thigh and a moan escapes her, though the moan turns into a groan when a gentle stream of air blows across her throbbing, tingling, aching clit.

“Oh, holy shit,” she says when it subsides.

Chloe’s voice sounds smug. “Told you.”

Then another stream of air, this one lighter but it lasts longer and Beca’s entire body tries to arch into it.

“Lay back,” Chloe says, her voice sounding oddly unsteady. Beca does as she’s told, though, and lets herself fall backward to lie down as she feels her legs being lifted and shifted until she realizes they’ve been put over Chloe’s shoulders.

“Fuck,” she whines as her shoulders dig into the mattress and her heels into Chloe’s back to try to push herself closer as more air flows over her. It’s broken now, rhythmic little puffs of air that start her hips rocking to match the beat.

There’s a quiet moan from Chloe. Then, “Do you like it?”

“Yes. Fuck,” she adds with another groan when she feels Chloe’s words float over her. Because her mouth is that close to her cunt. It’s so close that she can feel Chloe’s breath on her clit when she speaks. The thought sends her hand flying down and into Chloe’s hair; she’s fantasized about this so many times and needs to feel her there. Needs to anchor herself. “Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” The words are breathed hotly over her and Beca knows it was done with purpose. 

It makes her hips jerk hard and then cool air returns, unpredictable patterns that drive her arousal higher and higher until she doesn’t think it’s possible to be any more turned on without coming. Without even being touched. She’s fighting it, waiting for something and she doesn’t realize what it is until, on instinct, she tugs on Chloe’s hair and hears her moan just as the tip of a tongue grazes her clit.

Beca would swear if she could but instead, she just groans and presses her hips up and tries to pull Chloe closer.

She knows Chloe’s being gentle on purpose; she would probably explode if there was any vigorous contact with her right now, but the way Chloe’s so delicately lapping at her aching clit makes her want to beg to be taken so much more roughly than what is happening.

But Chloe is taking her.

Beca’s voice is unholy; every touch of Chloe’s tongue to her flesh makes her body try to leap out of itself. The hand not tangled in Chloe’s hair fists in the quilt beneath her.

She must say or do something that tells Chloe how close she is because she hears Chloe saying, “Yes,” over and over again, though the word is distorted because her tongue doesn’t leave Beca’s clit.

When she comes, the world around her shatters.

She feels it in her brain, in her hands, in her feet, in her thighs and stomach and breasts but nowhere more so than between her legs where Chloe’s lips are touching her so, so softly despite how wildly her body is bucking. She hears it, too. Hears the way she sounds. Desperate and wanton and being released from agony. She hears Chloe, too, moaning with every breath she takes, and hearing it only draws out what already felt impossibly long.

She goes limp when it finally passes, fingers retreating from Chloe’s hair so she can use both hands to cover her face and muffle the delirious laugh that explodes from her.

“You’re laughing?” echoes up to her and she feels Chloe moving her legs off her shoulders so they hang freely again. 

It only makes her laugh harder; it’s all too much. What just happened. The entire scenario. The massive orgasm that Chloe’s mouth had just given her.

She feels the bed dip and move after several seconds and then feels the warmth of bare skin pressing against her own, thigh to arm, and a hand drags one of her own down from her face.

It’s Chloe, of course. Chloe who, with one quick glance to confirm, has stripped herself naked and gotten into bed with Beca. Chloe whose face is flushed and eyes are dark and hair is mussed and who looks ready to quite literally devour [again] her at any second (she would let her. She would sooooo let her.)

“What’s so funny?” Chloe asks with a smile as she pulls Beca’s other hand away.

Beca’s still trying to formulate a response when Chloe’s mouth claims hers.

It’s not gentle or tentative; it’s hot and all-consuming and Beca opens her mouth to her tongue immediately.

She’s still moaning from the unexpected kiss when she feels her lips start to tingle.

She hadn’t considered that.

That it would transfer from Beca’s clit to Chloe’s lips (oh, my God) to Beca’s lips. But it has and it amps up her raw senses even more until she’s blindly reaching for Chloe’s hand and dragging it between her legs.

“Seriously?” Chloe laughs against her lips before flicking her tongue over Beca’s and her fingers over her clit. “God, you are amazing like this.”

“Shut up.”

“You are,” Chloe says, fingers already setting a pattern against Beca. “But I’ll shut up now.”

Beca’s nodding as she works her arm under and around Chloe so she can keep her close. “Good.”

The End

[sydneyeco01]

hotel eco cleaning service Sydney | Sydneyecocleaning.com.au

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[lgbtqreads]

Fave Five: Queer Indigenous Fiction Fire Song by Adam Garnet Jones Drowning in Fire by Craig S. Womack Love Beyond Body, Space, and Time ed. by Hope Nichols The Way of Thorn and Thunder by Daniel Heath Justice Jonny Appleseed by Joshua Whitehead

[divine-motion]

don’t fucking interact if you ship t/cest and minor/adult ships

more shitty phone photos of sketchbook sketches for my tmnt fan incarnation/tmnt 2012 rewrite bc i have no shame and i’m having fun with it! pictures should have captions since i spent time writing them out, but tumblr might mess it up, so in case captions doesn’t work: 1. left to right: leo, donatello up, raphael down, michelangelo 2. Casey Jones up top, April O’Neil to the right, donatello in the middle and karai at the bottom 3. casey and don again, raphael to the left, mikey at the bottom just bc i liked how their their expressions turned out and didn’t want a bunch of negative space so don and case appear again 4. size chart featuring turtles. left to right: leo, don, mikey, raph 5. sketchy Slash design. big boy.

general thoughts character stuff below the Keep Reading. A Lot of rambling below so beware!!

April: 15 years old, trans and bi. local fifteen year old telepath finds out that not everyone is able to feel what other people are feeling, something she’s been able to do since she was six after she played in that one weirdly glowy puddle (early Kraang mutagen attempt that only managed to mutate April in the sense that it gave her telepathy, was originally intended to make humans become part of the Kraang hivemind). she’s largely unfazed by the existence of mutants and aliens, taking it in stride, and finds out about the Kraang - and meets the turtles - while snooping around TCRI business (aspiring journalist that she is) and accidentally witnessing the mutation of Snakeweed. her telepathy, which later as she grows in power alongside the turtles extends to telekinesis and basically possession, is very useful whenever she gets into a scrap since she can predict what moves her opponent will make, thus letting her dodge their blows effectively. personality wise she is a very determined and driven young girl, incredibly curious (and cannot mind her own business, she wants to know all the drama while not having to be part of it... which makes her very fortunate to be a telepath. listen she’s 15 she’s allowed to misuse her powers a little bit. as a treat.), playful, and cheerful, and she’s an extroverted autistic. in her spare time between her studies, she likes to play bass, sing, read, and write. that, and investigating whatever shady business is going on in town, and she makes it very clear to the turtles that even if they weren’t going to deal with the Kraang, she’d continue to try to stop them herself. she would like to not live under the threat of her or her loved ones getting mutated, thank you very much! and, you know, it’s kind of exciting. kind of.

i know it’s bc i have brain issues when it comes to parent figures but i am very much leaning towards Splinter not being... a good dad. i don’t think 2012 Splinter is a good dad anyways but i’d probably amp it up, make him a mix of 2012 and idw probably. i’m still mulling it over but like, remember in the season 1 finale when leo is watching his show and thinks the captain guy making a totally unnecessary sacrifice is a heroic move, and then Splinter tells leo (his fifteen year old child) that leo should know what or who to sacrifice, more or less telling him to sacrifice his brothers’ lives, potentially?? i know there was a lot at stake but hello??? i remember watching it and being like me: ah i see, this is showing that splinter is wrong and there is no need for any sacrifices as seen in the show when the captain Goes Down With His Ship for no reason other than just sacrificing himself, and leo will see that- leo: *tries to sacrifice himself twice in the finale, both times being kind of unnecessary/seemed like if he had just hurried or done something slightly different there would be no need to stay behind, and he gets out fine with no consequences, seemingly no injuries, and does Not learn anything, his brothers don’t even get sad when they think he died or get mad at him for pulling such a dumb move) me: surprised_pikachu.jpeg

like that moment haunts me. has any other splinter told their sons to sacrifice himself or his brothers? has any other splinter put that on them??? idw doesn’t count if he has bc he’s more explicitly supposed to be bad so???

sometimes writers think they’ve made an uncle iroh but they really, really, really haven’t. also his backstory is the same as in the show

anyways. Donatello: 15 years old, bog turtle, nonbinary (he/they, doesn’t mind being called brother but doesn’t like to be called “boy” or “girl” or whatever), bi. he isn’t in love with April. no creepy incel shit here. donnie is instead more like a mix between his Rise and 2003 self. he has trouble expressing himself and is pretty introverted, but he is very altruistic, kind, and compassionate. a lot of his inventions are made to help people and he was driven to learn about science and engineering because he wants to find a way to reverse splinter’s mutation, to give splinter his life and humanity back. he feels like he needs to know if splinter would just abandon them if he wasn’t a huge rat man, needs to know if there’s any part of splinter that blames them for being constant reminders of his mutation. other than that, he also likes to make inventions because he’s a dreamer and wants to experiment to see how much of the unknown he can push beyond. also, the best liar out of the turtles. also fairly good at compromising and prefers to solve conflicts without violence he can get a little... “obnoxious 15 year old genius” at times. even when he’s helpful it can come off as a bit “poor dear isn’t as smart as me”, and while he usually gets along well with Raph, he doesn’t handle Raph’s temper well at all (calls him “Wrathael/Wrath” and thinks he’s being super clever) and gets really dismissive of Raph’s “outbursts”.

Michelangelo: 13 years old, diamondback terrapin, unsure about the gender and sexuality thing but he doesn’t think he’s exactly cis and definitely not straight. a bouncy ball of sunshine and surprising emotional maturity and emotional intelligence! more so than his emotionally constipated brothers, at least. it’s on his thirteenth birthday (it was leo’s idea for them to pick dates that would let them have their own birthdays instead of sharing the “Mutation Day”, Mutation Day being another special “holiday”) that the Plot would be set in motion, as he’s finally allowed to go to the surface same as his brothers, and on this first night out they meet April and the Kraang and other mutants. he is a goof still, but he’s capable in his own right and gets frustrated when people treat him like a baby or an idiot because he’s not. he doesn’t always treat everything with the seriousness it should but like. he’s thirteen, he’s having fun. even so, he’s very insistent of taking responsibility whenever he does do something wrong and gets mad if someone tries to take the blame for something he’s done. definitely the most compassionate and empathetic out of the turtles, he’s quick to make friends and is very persuasive due to his earnest nature and good heart. much like donnie, he prefers to solve conflict without violence but does enjoy knocking skulls a lot more than donnie. unlike donnie, though, he is almost overly forgiving and not petty at all. he’s well aware that his kindness and forgiveness may be taken advantage of, but he still likes to approach people with an open hand, even if he knows that it may end up getting bitten. oh, and his hobbies include drawing, cooking, singing, and dancing. he likes to express himself!

Raphael: 14 years old, mississippi map turtle, trans, bi. all his fury is compressed within his tiny body, that’s why he’s so angry all the time! no, he’s not angry all the time, but he does have a short fuse. he absolutely hates his anger issues which leads to a lot of self-loathing, and a lot of frustration as his family members either don’t take his anger seriously or don’t have the tools to help him with it. he’s the physically strongest out of the bunch and the least agile. he loves animals and plants a lot and keeps a lot of flowers in his room, hoping that he can one day become a gardener. as his idw self, he wants to watch things grow, but no matter what he does he seems to be best at destroying things. he’s also the one most self-conscious about how the human world perceives them, as he greatly fears rejection, and is the first one to see something positive with people getting mutated - namely, that maybe this way mutants will be more well known and finally accepted by society, so he’ll no longer be trapped in the sewer until the end of his days. so yeah, he’s a huge optimist, in truth. also he’s great at knitting - great at creating and taking care of things in general - and there’s no leo and raph rivalry this time around. he can get mad at leo but not really more than he gets with his other brothers.

Casey: 15 years old, nonbinary (they/them), bi. teen vigilante who gets inspired to fight mutants and the big time criminals (no beating up pickpockets or shoplifters or whatever, just the ones that are really hurting people) and gets roped into the turtle fam after meeting raph and becoming unexpected friends (everyone was expecting it, once Casey realized that mutants are people and not weird monsters. well, not all the time, anyways). they struggle a bit in school not because of a lack of trying but a lack of time, as their parents work full time jobs and someone has to take care of casey’s little sister. their parents are very loving, but they only have so much time, so casey takes it upon themselves to take care of their little sister when their parents are busy and/or burned out from work. that, and they run into the classic dilemma of vigilante work clashing with school work. as always, they have a short fuse, they’re pretty cocky, they like beating ass, and they like hockey a whole lot. hockey, vigilante work, school, and taking care of their little sister... yeah, they have a lot on their plate. oh, and making their little inventions like the taser glove and their puck bombs, something that they bond with donnie over.

Leonardo: 17 years old, Central American wood turtle, trans, gay. he doesn’t fall in love with his sister oh my god. ahem. so, leo is raised from the start to be a Leader and has to mature very quickly, learning to be an adult way earlier than he should’ve, and as such he is very stoic and quiet, and doesn’t seem to have any hobbies, instead just doing chores and training almost constantly, and when he’s not doing that he’s reading or sleeping in his free time. he’s incredibly protective of his younger brothers and his other allies/friends, even if he acts distant and detached most of the time, and removes himself from situations where they’re having fun to not be the stick in the mud. he loves his brothers and admires them greatly, believing they could be So Much if the surface world would just accept them, and as a result he tries to be The Soldier so his brothers won’t have to. alas, they still get caught up in the Kraang and Shredder business, which frustrates him internally. he is the best fighter out of the turtles on account of having more years to train (and convincing Splinter to wait a few more years before they got Real training bc Come On Dude They’re Kids) but it’s the Only thing he’s good at, along with stealth and his sharp eyes. he absolutely sucks at talking when it isn’t about a mission or something he can script easily in his head. in his mind, he’s supposed to be more of a weapon than a person, an idea that isn’t exactly encouraged by Splinter... but not exactly discouraged either. his arc would be very paralleled with Karai’s, as they would both learn to hate their dads... also, absolutely down for murder, and a lawful neutral at best, putting his family and friends’ safety above all other things and following a strict personal code. doesn’t care too much for society’s laws, though.

Karai: 16 years old, demigirl, lesbian. same backstory as in the show, she’s born as Miwa but gets taken by Oroku Saki and raised as his daughter. however, she doesn’t exactly want revenge against Hamato Yoshi because she believes that he killed her mother. she never knew her mother, so it’s much more difficult to hate someone for taking her mother away, even if it does mean that she never got to know her mother. especially since her father rarely spoke of what her mother was like, and much more about how much he hates Yoshi. instead, her need for revenge is more for the possibly idyllic life she was robbed of, since she believes that maybe, just maybe, her father Saki would’ve been a kind father that would’ve let her have a normal childhood and not be molded into a warrior from the start if her mother still lived. and hey, maybe Tang Shen would be a nice mom too. being trained in the art of deception, Karai has a tendency to talk a lot and say very little, or at least very little that is true. she is rarely ever sincere and acts as if she’s taking nothing seriously, which is part of her defense mechanism to never let anyone close or see her true self. she mocks pretty much everyone, ally and enemy alike, but especially likes to make fun of her father’s henchmen and is always the first to point out their failures. while she does value honor to some extent, she is a bit “flimsy” when it comes to loyalty, especially after the truth about her father is revealed. when that is revealed, she at first just feels very numb, learning that not only has she been nothing but a tool and a weapon for the Shredder from the very start, but also that the idyllic fantasy where her mother still lived, perhaps her life wouldn’t be so different after all. she looks at leonardo and sees a reflection of herself, that her “real” father chose to train his sons the same way the Shredder trained her. she feels stupid for feeling like she’s been robbed of even a fantasy, but it still enrages her. of course, this also inspires her to stay with the Foot Clan... just to get the kill on Shredder.

... yeah. that got long. ahem. i’m very passionate about this unfortunately!! anyways i might draw/write more for it because no one can stop me and i’m having fun

[quickspinner]

Beautiful Dreams - Ch 3 Dreams Worth Chasing

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | AO3

Marinette was on her way to pick up her missing folder, and Luka had a plan. Sort of. He caught himself chewing his freshly painted thumbnail and made a face (both at himself and the taste). He was going to be a wreck by the time she got here if he didn’t do something. 

Luka picked up his electric guitar and cranked his amp. Rocking out was always the best way to deal with nerves. He was breathing a little hard by the time he finished his own version of Jagged Stone’s Rock Giant but he was comparatively relaxed when a slightly timid knock sounded on his door. 

Okay. He could do this. He was smooth, no matter how much Juleka liked to pick on him. 

Luka opened the door and there she was, stylish and put together as always, and as always his heart stuttered in his chest. Her hair was looking a little windblown and a strand stuck to her lips. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw him, and he didn’t miss the way her gaze flicked over his white t-shirt and black jeans, nor the faint color that tinted her cheeks. He tended to keep his arms covered when he was with his students, as the type of parents who could afford his rates were often the type who didn’t really appreciate tattoos, but he’d left his arms bare today just to see if he’d been imagining things at the market. He concluded a little smugly that he hadn’t and Marinette wasn’t put off by his ink at all. That gave him the boost he needed to stop staring like an idiot himself.

“Come on in,” he offered, stepping back. “I put it in the back so I wouldn’t lose it or spill anything on it, I’ll go grab it. Make yourself at home.”

“Last time I did that I fell asleep,” Marinette said wryly, and he laughed, wincing slightly at how it echoed in the hallway.

“I hope you’re better rested today,” he called as he reached for the folder where he’d left it on top of his dresser. 

“I wish. Was that you playing just now?” she asked when he returned with the folder in hand, and then answered herself before he could. “Sorry, that was a stupid question, of course it was you. It was good—I mean of course, you’d be good, you’re a teacher. I just—I’m a big fan of Jagged Stone and…” She seemed to run out of steam, blushing.

He’d thought he was too old to get butterflies in his stomach but the idea that her slip-up at the market hadn’t been just a fluke, that she was nervous because maybe she was just a little bit affected by him too was enough to make him feel sixteen again for the second time in as many weeks. 

“I’m a teacher,” Luka said, leaning one shoulder against the wall as casually as possible. “But I’m a musician first and the electric guitar’s always been my first love. I play every chance I get. I’m glad you liked it, I’m a big fan of Jagged Stone myself.” He held the folder out to her.

Marinette took it, her gaze on the floor. “He’s actually one of my oldest clients.”

“Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s impressive. Louis told me you worked for him, but I didn’t realize you’d been working with him that long.”

“It was luck that started it, really, but we’ve had a good working relationship. Not so much lately since he’s sort of semi-retired but…” She trailed off, blushing harder, and Luka gestured to a poster on his wall. 

“Louis told me you designed that one. He’s very proud of you. As he should be, I’m really impressed,” he said. “It’s one of my favorites.” He grinned back at her. “You’re really talented, Marinette.” 

She lit up red as a tomato and stammered something about needing to go.

“Of course,” he said, stepping back and motioning her ahead of him. “I don’t want to keep you if you’re busy.” That’s such a lie. I want to keep you forever.

He walked her to the door. Now or never, Couffaine.

“Marinette.” Luka took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and offered it to her. “If you’d like to hear more, my band is playing this weekend. I’d love for you to come.” 

“Oh,” Marinette said, taking the paper and unfolding it slowly to look at the flier. “I’m...not sure? I’ll have to see if I’m free.”

“I understand. Well, I hope you can make it.” He took a breath. “Maybe after our set is over, I can buy you a drink.” 

Her gaze snapped to his face and Luka did all he could to keep his expression relaxed and friendly, though his eyes were locked on hers. He shrugged slightly. “No pressure, just...if you feel like getting out.”

Marinette bit her lip and lowered her eyes, and then looked back up and smiled. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

“Great.” Luka smiled and opened the door for her. “Have a good week.”

She smiled back at him, blushing faintly. “Thanks. You too.”

He watched her get into her car, and then stepped back inside, shut the door, and leaned against it, all his breath rushing out with a whoosh. “Your move, dreamer,” he muttered. “Hope I see you Saturday. If you come, it’s on.” 

***

Luka went through his usual pre-show routine, and his body and mind readied themselves to sink into the music in response. If he had something different than usual dwelling at the corners of his mind, no one noticed, and no one spoke to him, his bandmates having long ago learned to respect his space before a show.

If there was any place at all that Luka could feel at home outside of his family, it was at the club. He’d practically grown up in the back rooms of clubs and bars and anywhere else they could find that had a stage and somewhere to plug in an amp, trailing behind his mother with Juleka’s hand held tightly in his. Anarka Couffaine was fiery and bombastic where Luka was quiet and calm, but once he began to take the stage, first by her side and later on his own with Juleka at his, it became obvious he was his mother’s son. The stage contained and tempered Anarka’s fire, taming it into something other people could share. It fanned Luka’s flame, giving him the energy to reach out, to connect, to give others a glimpse of the inner world he guarded so carefully.

If Marinette was out there, beyond the stage light and the wall of crowd noise, she would see him tonight. 

She’s here, he thought to himself as he picked up his guitar and stripped the strap over his head. She has to be. 

No way he was going to fumble it this time. He was in his element here, he’d made his choice, made his peace with it, and now there was nothing left to do but act.

Behind him, the count tapped out, and Luka played.

***

For once, the pounding of his heart didn’t stop when he stepped off the stage. Luka accepted and returned the fistbumps and backslaps and congratulations of his bandmates on an excellent show. He stowed his gear as quickly as he could, and grabbed the extra bag he’d packed.

There was only so much he could do in the small, cramped bathroom, but he got his stage makeup washed off, freshened up as much as he could, and changed his shirt. He redid his eyeliner and ruffled up his hair, before taking a deep breath. He tossed his bag in the back with the rest of his stuff, and went to look for Marinette.  

He found her faster than he expected, wearing a slinky red dress and her hair pinned up, standing at a table with a couple of other people. Luka lingered just a moment to prepare himself and then slipped through the crowd and touched her elbow. “Hey, Marinette. Glad you could make it.”

“Luka!” The smile she turned on him was blinding. “Luka that was amazing!” 

He grinned back, instantly captivated. “Thanks, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I loved it! Oh!” She jumped as the brunette next to her elbowed her. “Um, Luka, this is my best friend Alya, and I’m pretty sure you and Nino have met.”

“We have. Good to see you again, Nino.” He exchanged a handshake and a shoulder bump with the other man, trying not to sigh at this slight complication. He hasn’t counted on having to hit on Marinette in front of her ex-husband’s best friend. 

Not that it was going to stop him.

Nino gave him a neutral nod as he pulled back. “Hey Luka, long time no see. The band was sick.” 

“Thanks,” Luka grinned, and offered his hand to Alya. “Nice to meet you, Alya.” She took his hand and looked him up and down, but not like she was checking him out—more like she was sizing him up. Luka had been on the receiving end of the BFF stare too many times to be bothered. He gave her his blandest smile and turned to Marinette. “So, can I buy you that drink?”

Marinette’s cheeks pinked. “Sure.” 

He walked Marinette to the bar and let her order what she liked, and got a beer for himself. “So you liked the set?”

“I loved it,” Marinette smiled up at him. “The covers were cool but there were some original songs in there too, right? I really liked the one you did…” She gestured vaguely, forehead creasing in thought. “Umm, I think it went ‘not the right hand, not the right touch, but she always said I needed too much’? And it had that amazing guitar solo in the middle? That was my favorite.”

“Yeah?” Luka grinned, leaning against the bar. “I wrote that one, I’m glad you liked it.”

Marinette’s eyes went huge. “You wrote it? Like out of nothing?”

“More or less,” Luka chuckled. “I roughed it out and wrote the instrumentals, and our vocalist Jenner, he helped me work out the lyrics and the vocals. Only fair, really, since he had to sing it. I can usually put the melodies together on my own, but I always have to have some help with the words.”

“The melodies were so evocative and emotional though,” Marinette said, picking up her drink as the bartender delivered it. “The words are just the icing on the cake.” 

“That’s nice of you to say,” Luka picked up his beer and motioned Marinette to precede him back to the table. 

Marinette didn’t move right away, giving him an adorably pouty look that came with such sad eyes that it made him want to cringe. “You make it sound like you think I’m insincere.”

“That was absolutely not my intention, I’m sorry.” Luka sighed and drummed his fingers on the bar, trying to find a better way to explain. “People tend to...notice words more, I guess. When people talk to us about a song they usually talk about how the words affected them, or that they thought this or that thing we did with the instrumentals is cool or catchy. I don’t get a lot of people who talk about how the music itself made them feel. So, what I meant was, thank you. That’s nice to hear.”

“Oh.” Marinette tucked a strand of hair back, clearly processing. “Then...you’re welcome. I really do feel that way, especially…” she hesitated, tilting her head slightly as she looked up at him. “Especially when you were taking the lead. I mean, I’m no expert, but, um...wow. That was incredible, what you can do with that guitar.” 

It might be a shy, hesitant flirt, but he’d take it. He leaned into her space just a little, one hand resting on the bar next to her elbow. “Well, considering you’ve spent a lot of time around Jagged Stone—and don’t think I don’t know he’s not the only musician you’ve worked with—I think I’m very flattered, expert or no.” 

He couldn’t quite see if she was blushing in the blue light coming off the bar, but he was pretty sure she was as she stammered something about getting back to the table and turned quickly, nearly tripping in her haste to put some space between them. Luka caught her arm to steady her, and rested just his fingertips on her back as he tried to shield her from some of the jostling of the crowd as they wound their way back to the table. Once over her initial fluster, she leaned back into his protection almost automatically, tucking her petite figure against his side when things got a bit tight. 

When they got back to her friends, Marinette excitedly recounted their conversation. It wasn’t quite enough to make Luka blush, he knew what his strengths were, but it did make it easy to keep a smile on his face. 

As Marinette talked on, Alya fixed Luka with a stare. When there was a lull in the conversation, she said, “Marinette, why don’t you go grab us another round.”

Marinette frowned. “Alya, nobody’s even finished—”

“Food,” Alya declared. “Get us some food. Please.” She reached over and slid Marinette’s glass in front of her. “I’ll watch your drink. Shoo.” 

Marinette rolled her eyes and stood up. “Rude,” she sniffed. “You better not ditch Luka all by himself while I’m gone.”

“Of course not!” Alya promised.

Luka frowned, wanting to offer to go in Marinette’s place, or at least to go with her, but it was obvious that Alya just wanted Marinette out of the way. If that was the case he might as well sit here and get it over with. The crowd was clearing a bit as the DJ got rolling, people pressing toward either the bar or the dance floor, so she’d probably be okay.

Sure enough, as soon as Marinette was out of earshot, Alya rounded on him. “So what’s the deal? Are you into my girl or what?”

Direct. He could appreciate that. “Yes.” He lifted his bottle to his lips, watching Marinette over Alya’s shoulder trying to make her way through the crowd. 

“Like a house and picket fence interested or like take her home and fuck her brains out interested?”

“Alya!” Nino hissed, looking horrified.

Luka barely managed to swallow before he laughed, putting his drink back down. “Both.”

“Oh my God,” Nino groaned, putting his hands over his face.

Alya grinned. “Good answer, Blue.”

“It’s Luka,” he said, amused. 

“Make it past the second date and I’ll consider remembering that. So you teach music for a living?”

“I do all kinds of music for a living, but my steadiest income comes from my students, yes.”

“And you’re okay with being a stepdad?”

“You really don’t have to answer any of this,” Nino broke in. “Alya, come on.”

Luka ignored him. “Totally. Louis is a great kid and I like him. Honestly I didn’t have the greatest example in the dad department myself, so it’s a little scary, but I can deal.”

“Would you want more kids than just Louis?”

“Sure, I’d be open to that someday. Though I’d want us all to get settled with each other first before we brought a baby into the mix.” Luka sat back and let Alya continue giving him the third degree, refusing to answer only a few very personal questions. Finally she folded her arms and regarded him thoughtfully.

Luka smiled. “So, do I pass?”

Alya snorted. “If you can live up to half of what you just said I’ll gift wrap her for you myself.” She leaned forward. “Take advantage of my girl and I’ll kill you. Push her into anything before she’s ready and there are no words for the kind of hell I will put you through.”

“Noted,” Luka replied without any change of expression. Alya gave a nod and stood up.

“Listen, be blunt with her. She’s terrible at flirting. You have no idea how many men hit on her and she never even noticed. If you just hint around like you did with this, even if you think you’re being obvious at the time, she’ll convince herself it doesn’t really mean what you’re trying to mean. Now I better go help Marinette or we’ll be waiting here all night.”

“I can’t believe you let her grill you like that,” Nino said as Alya walked away, his eyes glued to her...back. 

“It’s not the first best friend interrogation I’ve been through, although that was one of the more entertaining,” Luka grinned, propping his thick boots up on the currently empty chair next to him. “It’s usually easier to just go with it. What’s the harm if it gets her on board?”

There was no answer, and Luka looked over to find Nino regarding him soberly. “What?”

“Nothing, just...I thought you and Adrien were friends, dude.”

“We are.”

“You won’t be any more if he finds out you’re dating Marinette behind his back.”

“I’m not doing anything behind his back. If she actually agrees to go out with me, I’ll call and tell him myself.”

“He still loves her.”

Luka shrugged. “She still loves him too. You can see it every time she talks about him. But they’re done, and he doesn’t get a say anymore. And honestly man? If it was you and Alya was Adrien’s ex-wife, would it stop you?”

“You think you feel about Marinette like I feel about Alya?”

Luka looked across to where the girls were working their way back across the crowd. “Hell yeah,” he breathed. 

Nino blew out a long sigh, and lifted his glass. Luka clinked it with his bottle and they both took a long drink. “Then I guess, good luck, bro.” 

“Just do me a favor and don’t say anything to Adrien yet, okay?” Luka said. “I’m not asking you to lie to him if it comes up, but just leave it alone for now. She could still turn me down and I don’t want to cause a big shitstorm over nothing.”

Nino eyed him. “You’ll tell him before you two go out?”

“Absolutely.”

Nino sighed. “Okay.” 

The girls finally returned, setting an assortment of bar food on the table. “Dance with me, Nino,” Alya ordered.

“Yes ma’am,” Nino sighed, standing up with a put-upon air but a smile on his face. 

Luka watched them go and then turned back to Marinette as she settled back in her chair. 

“So,” Marinette sighed. “How bad was she?”

“Pretty bad,” Luka chuckled, and Marinette giggled nervously. “I didn’t mind though, she’s just looking out for you.”

“Sorry, I told her it wasn’t like that, but—“ she gestured vaguely, not meeting his eyes. 

Score one for the BFF. Blunt it is then. “What if it was like that?” Luka leaned his elbows on the table and tilted his head so that he was looking up at her. “What if I was hoping you’d come out tonight so that I could ask you out without being totally unprofessional?”

Marinette went red as a cherry and her mouth opened and closed and nothing came out. 

“I know we don’t know each other all that well, but I’d really like to change that.” He put his hand out, palm up, on the table. “So if you want, we can talk some and maybe dance a little and then, if you’re feeling it, I could take you out for coffee tomorrow?”

He could see her swallow. She looked like a deer in the headlights and he wondered if he’d been a little too direct. Luka withdrew, sitting back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I won’t bring it up again.”

“No, I, it’s j-just, I mean I’m divorced and I have a k-kid and—and—“

“I know all that already,” Luka said gently, leaning forward again. 

“But—But I’m boring and you’re all dyed hair and tattoos and you can play guitar like that and—why would you want to go out with me?”

Luka’s smile spread slowly across his face. “Well that sounds like something we can talk about over coffee. If you’d like.” 

Marinette bit her lip and blushed, looking away, but he could see the smile tugging at her lips. "Coffee sounds nice," she finally managed, giving up on containing her smile. 

"Do you maybe want to join Nino and Alya on the dance floor?" he suggested. They both looked automatically towards the couple on the dance floor, only for Luka's eyebrows to raise and Marinette to bring a hand up to cover her jaw drop. 

"On second thought," Luka amended. "Maybe we'd better leave them to themselves." He coughed, trying to keep back his laughter. "Damn, I'm not sure whether to feel sorry for Nino or high-five him." He and Marinette exchanged a look, and they both broke down in a fit of laughter that lasted several minutes. 

***

When Marinette walked into the little coffee shop the next day, Luka had to slide his gaze away for a moment, trying not to remember how she looked under the club lights, her red dress swirling around her thighs when Alya had finally convinced her to dance while Luka and a still-flushed Nino watched from their table.

She was lovely in a different way today, soft and sweet in a peasant style top over jeans, her hair flowing loose around her shoulders. Luka was just as glad to be spared the distraction of her bare neck, though God did that loose hair make him want to tangle his fingers in it. 

He swallowed and managed to greet her in a mostly normal voice. “Can I get you something?” he asked her, but Marinette set her purse down and shook her head. 

“I’ll get it,” she smiled, and went to the counter to order. She didn’t ask for it to go, which he thought was a good sign. 

“How are you feeling this morning?” Luka asked when she came back and sat down at the table. “I hope we didn’t keep you out too late last night.”

“No, I’m fine,” Marinette said, waving her hands. “I’m kind of a night owl anyway, at least when Louis is with Adrien. Usually I’m designing and not dancing, but I had fun last night. A lot of fun. And the band, that was really great, I‘m really glad you invited me. ”

“That’s great to hear,” Luka smiled. “Have you thought about what we talked about?”

“I…” Marinette blushed, but went on bravely. “I like you, Luka. I think I’d like to go out with you. I just…” She chewed her lip.

“Go on,” Luka said gently. 

“I’m worried about Louis. And…” Marinette tapped a finger on her cup thoughtfully, staring at the table. “I’ve been with Adrien since we were kids. I’m not sure I even know what grownup dating looks like.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” Her eyes shot to his, like that was the last thing she’d expected him to say. Luka smiled at her. “I think it’s sweet. You were in love, you took a chance, and you gave it your best.” He took her hand carefully and squeezed it. “Listen, my sister and I were raised by a single mother, so I know at least a little bit about where you’re coming from—more than a little bit about where Louis is coming from, and I promise you I’ll be as sensitive with him as I can, and if we need to work with his therapist to figure out how to approach this with him then I’m absolutely willing to do that. But let me make something perfectly clear, Marinette. There is nothing wrong with you. You’re not leftovers or damaged goods or whatever other awful words that roll around in your mind when you hear the word divorce. You’re not a failure, you’re not a mistake, you’re not stupid for taking a chance on young love, and you are so far from being unloveable. Okay? And even if you decide that you don’t want to be with me, I don’t want you going into any other relationship thinking any of those things. So what if you don’t know what so-called ‘normal’ dating is? It’s not that big of a deal to ask a guy what that looks like to him and expect him to be honest back. There is nothing wrong with you. You are successful and smart and pretty and a great mom and there are a million guys out there who would fall all over themselves to date you. I’m just lucky enough to be the first in line.”

She stared at him, and he thought he saw a shimmer in the dim café lighting. Luka squeezed her hand and let go, standing up. “Tell you what, I’m gonna give you a minute. I’ll bring us back some pastries or something.”

When he got back to the table, Marinette looked a little more composed. “You’re very upfront with your feelings,” she observed quietly as he sat down.

“I try to be,” he agreed. “Partly because I’m not really that great with words and when I beat around the bush I end up creating a lot of misunderstandings. I’m not scaring you off, am I?”

“No, it’s just...I don’t think I’m as brave as you are.” Her gaze slanted away.

Luka touched the back of her hand. “May I?” She blushed and nodded, and he took her hand. “That’s all there is to it, Marinette. Just one decision at a time.” He held out his other hand. “It’s up to you.” She put her other hand slowly in his. “And if it’s too much and you change your mind, that’s okay too.” He opened his fingers so that he was just cradling each of her hands in his loosely. “You have a creator’s hands.” 

Marinette huffed. “Rough and scarred up?”

He grinned. “Just like mine. Although I would have said strong and capable.” 

She smiled self-deprecatingly. “I don’t think we compare. You’re a teacher and a musician. I just make clothes.”

“Art is art, Marinette, and don’t sell yourself short, I may not know much about fashion but I know that you don’t get a position like yours just because you can sew. And I doubt making clothes is all you do. You must have other interests. Can I ask about this?” He turned her hand slightly so that the ladybug tattoo was facing upwards.

“Oh,” Marinette said, blushing. “That was just—it was stupid.”

“I don’t think I believe that,” he said lightly. “But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I know tattoos can get really personal.”

Marinette’s eyes slid away. “Maybe sometime, just...not now.” 

“Sure,” Luka said easily, letting her turn her hand in his so the ladybug was out of sight. “So tell me something else I don’t know about you.”

“Oh. Um,” Marinette frowned for a moment, thinking, and Luka’s mouth twitched as he tried not to smile at how seriously she took the question. “My father’s a baker. He and my mother own the bakery on Rue Gotlib, and that’s where I grew up. Sometimes I still design cakes for my parents, just for fun.” 

He listened to her talk about her family, and volunteered information about his. “My father’s never really been in the picture,” he told her. “Oddly enough we’ve gotten closer since my mom passed, but he travels a lot, so I only really see him every once in a while when he’s in town. My sister lives here, though, and we’re really close. I think I told you she and her wife just had a baby about a month ago, so that’s been a bit of an adventure for all of us.” 

“I remember those days,” Marinette said sympathetically. “It’s a huge adjustment for everybody.” 

“They’re doing great with it,” Luka said, smiling fondly, pulling out his phone, and pulling up a picture. He and Juleka leaned over Rose where she lay in a hospital bed holding up a little pink bundle for the camera. “That’s my sister, and that’s her wife Rose, and that’s Angelique.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Marinette cooed, leaning closer, and Luka swiped through a couple more pictures—he and Juleka hugging, him holding the baby, Rose and Juleka asleep on each other side-by-side in the narrow hospital bed—until he found a close up of Angie. “She’s precious.” 

“She’s been a light in our world this past year, just getting ready for her and watching her grow in the sonogram pictures,” Luka said, putting away the phone a little reluctantly. “I painted the nursery three times because Rose couldn’t pick a color and I don’t regret a second of it.” Marinette giggled, a hand over her mouth, and Luka smiled at her. “I try to get over and see them as often as I can without being in the way. She’s just learning how to smile now.” 

“Ooooh,” Marinette swooned, putting her hands to her chest. “When Louis was that age, Adrien used to—” She broke off and bit her lip. 

Luka’s expression didn’t change. “Go on,” he encouraged. 

She did, haltingly, and it took a few minutes to find their rhythm again, but then it began to flow. Marinette seemed to find it easier to talk about other people rather than herself, a fact Luka filed away for reference. It was funny, the way she talked about her friends and Louis and even her assistant at work while only just touching on her own thoughts. Luka didn’t press, content for the moment to learn about whatever part of her life she felt comfortable sharing.

“I have to go soon,” Luka said regretfully, checking the time. “I do actually have some students today. So, how are you feeling about a date?” He leaned his elbows on the table, trying to keep his tone casual. “I’m thinking maybe we could check out a museum and a café?”  

“That—“ Marinette took a deep breath, and then smiled. “That sounds really nice. I’d love to go.”

Luka grinned and they both pulled out their phones and hashed out a time and place. 

“It’s a date then,” Luka said, once everything was settled. “I have to go now, but...I’m really looking forward to it.” He reached over and tucked a lock of hair gently behind her ear, letting his fingers brush her suddenly blushing cheek lightly as he drew back. “See you soon, Marinette.”

“See you soon, Luka,” she said shyly as he got up from the table. He glanced back with a smile as he opened the door, and the little ladybug danced as she waved.

***

“Hi Luka. I got your message. What did you need? I thought the lessons were going well.”

”Hey, Adrien. Sorry to bother you but I...kind of need to talk to you about something. You’re probably not going to like it.”

“...You’re not calling to talk to me about Louis, are you?”

“No. I’m calling to tell you I’m taking Marinette out this weekend. On a date.”

“...”

“Adrien?”

“If I say I’m not okay with it?” 

“Then things are going to be rough for a while, because I’m not disrespecting her by asking for your permission. It’s not up to you, man. But I didn’t want you to find out from somebody else and think I was hiding it.”

“I might appreciate that eventually. I’m having a bit of trouble mustering any appreciation at the moment.”

“I understand. I know this sucks, man. I’m sorry for that.”

“Not sorry enough to back off.”

“Would you?”

“God, I really hate you right now, Couffaine.”

“Understood. Let me know when you’re ready to talk.”

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | AO3

[sloppy-butcher]

Whats your hcs for Frank, Evan and Herman?? They are my 3 loves so im curious... (love your work ya poes

how old are you sir? I must ask to see ur ID. a babey can’t be using language like that >:(

anyhow, the 3 boys eh? I’ll gladly write anything for them uwu. I’m going to be doing general relationship hc’s so things will probably get fluffy and maybe a little angsty. i can’t help myself sometimes. I’m going to try include one NSFW hc for each of the 3 stooges, so be prepared. it may be bad. the reader will be left as ambiguous as possible

edit: i write way to much :/ i think i should only do 1 or 2 character requests from now on T_T

hope you enjoy!

General relationship HeadCanons

The Legion (Frank Morrison)

With Frank, there was no real start to your relationship. There was no moment in time, no exact, pinpoint instance when one could say that that is when you two starting everything. It kind of just happened. Maybe it was when Frank first kissed you, it felt like fireworks and the snow in Mount Ormond was no longer cold. Or maybe it was when he first saw you dancing along with Suzie to one of her favorite songs, the twirling of your feet mixed with perfectly timed head slams dazzled him and he wanted nothing more than to have you give him a private dance. In the end, these are all speculations and the truth may never be known.

Around others, he was hesitant to show his emotion. You two could be sitting right next to each other your thighs all but alined when out of nowhere Joey sticks his head in. Frank snaps like a mousetrap, retreating back away from you as if he was embarrassed. You confronted him about this, you told him everything’s okay and that no one would judge him for being human. He refused you and, not to lie, it really hurt. But one day, just as you were walking away you felt his hand snake its way into yours. He hesitated for a moment, afraid you might reject him but of course, you gladly wrapped his hand in yours. You heard Joey wolf-whistle from somewhere behind you and Frank very enthusiastically tossed a middle finger at him. You couldn’t see it, but Frank was blushing under his mask.

Franks, not a romantic guy so don’t expect flowers or gifts or really anything nice. He grew up with virtually nothing so the idea of wooing someone with items of material affection is very foreign to him. He believes that if his presence and physical affection aren’t enough to prove to you that he appreciates you, then nothing will. But you never cared about gifts. All you ever wanted was Frank and he couldn’t help but feel giddy at the thought.

!NSFW! Frank was a pretty vanilla guy. He doesn’t have much experience when it comes to the department of extremely intimate affection and therefore knew literally nothing about the pleasures of the flesh. But the keyword here is ‘was’. After meeting you and your guiding hand he blossomed into a very wild and very hungry individual. His favorite position though is when he gets to look at you. And if you call his name he will instantly crumble. Afterward, or during the act you need to reach out and caress him. Touch and explore his body, mainly his face and he’d moan even louder. Your hands are so soft and gentle and when you touch him he floats with elated glee. He feels alive when he’s with you.

The Doctor (Herman Carter)

You would have to be extremely special or out-of-the-ordinary in order to catch the eye of the Doctor. But somehow you managed to do it. Herman was a man unhinged, incapable of empathy and compassion. He never looked at other humans as people with feelings and conscious ideas and thoughts. He only ever saw them and you as test subjects. But something about you was off. You did something that made this machine of a man halt in his pursuit of human torture. What exactly did you do? Well, nothing really. As he approached you, electrical energy between his hands flexing and growing ready to turn your brain to mush, you never screamed, never flinched away and never took your tired eyes off him. The first few times when you welcomed death he didn’t notice and it was only after a significate amount of encounters that finally Herman realized he had never heard your cries of fear and pain.

He would amp up his power when he would find you in trials. He would kill you much more violently than he would the others, make your liquified brain ooze out your ears and make your heart stop and start like a busted old car. Sometimes he would even through away the whole trial upsetting his boss greatly, just to get to you. But no matter what he did, you never offered him what he wanted. You had seen and experienced much worse than him and when death never gives you a release, torture becomes mundane and repetitive. When Herman finally understood that you weren’t afraid of him, he relented, snuffed out his power and walked away. He had his attention now.

Whenever you would visit him during off-time he would follow you as you wandered around the massive mansion known as Léry’s. Sometimes he would lead you, taking you to the rooms which he liked the most (operation rooms). Herman can not talk, the contraption in his mouth has stretched his lips to the point that they can no longer function and his voice box is beyond repair, damaged thanks to his constant flow of electricity that would otherwise kill a man. But he doesn’t need to talk to you. You always seem to know what he wants without hearing a single word.

!NSFW! Sex with Herman is out of the question. The man is pumped with endless volts of electricity and if you were to so much as touch him, your body would recoil and spasm painfully from the contact.  If you ever wanted to experience pleasure from or with the man, he would have to try rein back some of that overflowing energy. But the man is too prideful and would never dare try to cull some of his ability. Unfortunately. But maybe after some time, he might learn to listen. There is no time in the Fog, only eternity and humans were never meant to live for that long. Our minds dull and our intentions warp from the time spent existing and maybe even someone as mad and determined as Herman could learn that it’s not so bad to let others into his life.

The closest you could ever get to kissing Herman is probably just planting a soft peck on his cheek.  A dangerous move considering the possible consequences of actually touching him with such a sensitive part of you, but a risk you were willing to take. One day, however, in the silence and fog of the mansion Herman would reach out for you. He would lean down to your height and very slowly take your hand. There was no static shook when your skins met. He was telling you that he was calm. He would then guide your hands to his mouthpiece and he would tell you to take it off.  Delicately you would peel away the metal from flesh and his mouth would furiously bleed and dretch his teeth with red. When he was free you would quickly meet him and you would hungrily kiss his chapped lips. He would kiss you back, his lips unable to keep up with yours but his tongue is wild and eager. However, after only a minute he would shove you away violently. As you feel the connection between you two break, the space around Herman lits up and crackles with mad energy. You would have to wait for him to calm down again if you wanted to continue your endeavors.

The Trapper (Evan Macmillan)

Despite being one of the most diligent and consistently brutal killers in the realm, when Evan is alone and the only eyes watching him are yours, he is a gentleman. He would speak to you softly, asking about your day already knowing that it was pretty shit. He would hold doors open for you and he would always make sure you were warm, either with a spare blanket or a seat extra close to a fire. He would fuss over you. Your soft skin, so clean and pure, untouched by the horrible and evil ways of the world made him marvel at how human you were. To him, you were what humans were meant to be, good and kind, whereas he was a monster charred and broken, unworthy and incapable of affection and of all those things that were meant to make life wonderful. He wanted to protect you, preserve that softness of you and although he couldn’t do anything to help you when the camera’s all turned back on, during this time he would smother you with whatever cautious and motherly behavior he could muster.

He was drawn to you because of your confident behavior. He found your energy alluring and would always find himself somehow infected by your hope and optimism. You were like a fire, burning everything in your path and he just happened to be close enough to catch alight. In the beginning, Evan would become very annoyed by your seemingly endless ideas of survival but as time went on and you never seemed to dampen like the others he found that his annoyance turned into curiosity. A part of him wanted to know what it was like to be under your light of hope. It yearned to be rescued but a bigger and much louder part of him, a voice oddly resembling his fathers, drowned it out. However, that didn’t stop his feet from walking towards you and it certainly didn’t stop you from staying with him.

In the early stages of your relationship with the mountain of a man, you had to the one initiating affection. You had to be the one to reach out and grab his hand. He would look down at you and you swore you could hear him gasp. And when you would want to hug him, you would either have to wait until he sat down or you would have to climb atop a box. It’s not that he was afraid to reciprocate your feelings, he just felt like he didn’t deserve it. He tried to remain stone-cold and distant hoping that it would detour you and make you give up on him but you weren’t known for ‘giving up’. Eventually, when you refused to leave and he had to accept that you wanted to be with him, all you needed to do for a hug was open your arms wide and beckon him closer with your hands. He would roll his eyes and very stiffly lean down for you. You would eagerly wrap yourself as best you could around his neck and, if you were laughing or in an infectiously good mood, he would engulf you in his own. Sometimes he would even stand up and sweep you off your feet. He would bury himself into your neck,  trying his best to smell you through his bone and metal mask.

!NSFW! This has been said many times before but Evan has handles. Those large pieces of metal piercing his shoulders and down his back. It scared you at first when he suggested you hold onto them, they looked so painful and the skin around the puncture wounds were all puffy and red. He reassured you and explained that he doesn’t feel much of anything anymore. When he said that you looked at him confused then, without thinking, you lean forward and gently place a kiss on the wound. He tries to watch you as you trail butterfly kisses over his exposed chest. “Feel better?” You ask pulling away for a moment. He couldn’t respond, his throat welling up with shook, disgust and absolute fascination. You clearly didn’t care about what he looked like, what kind of monster he had become, and it gave him so much more confidence. Hold on to his handlebars, pull and yank them as he thrusts into you, he likes to feel your weight vibrate through the bars into his ribcage. Evan enjoys the feeling of control he gets when he is the one giving you pleasure and also foundation.

BONUS! Drag your tongue along one of the bars. Make sure his eyes never leave you and when you finally lick the whole length of the metal, plant your lips firmly on his mouth. He will kiss back passionately, amazed at how dirty someone so pure and good like you could be.