#blake writes nonsense

[eepy-whumpee]

cw // broken bones

the scream whumpee doesn't even think about suppressing when whumper snaps a bone in one quick movement... the agony washed with disbelief and betrayal... the animal way of saying "what did you do to me?"

[goat-boy-sounds]

fake rescue

obsessed with the idea of a whumper 'rescuing' a terrified whumpee. saying stuff like "shhhhh. it's okay. you're safe now. I'm not going hurt you. we're taking you somewhere safe" etc. as whumpee thrashes in whumper's hold. whumpee doesn't know that whumper's lying-- their resistance is just pure adrenaline-- but they'll find out soon enough. and by the time whumper's earned their trust and gotten them to cooperate, it's too late.

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Four Weeks in New York

gorgeous gif credit to @violaobanion

Requested: ☑️

Warnings: SO. MUCH. SEX. 18+, reunion jitters, potentially out of character actions due to rough sex? but then again, they’ve missed each a lot other, ok?! Also, i dunno, but beware he’s a horny over thinker and he’s in a funny headspace due to, ya know, war. Jean is a champ, Harry can’t manage to blow a load for awhile, mild breeding kink if you wanna call purposefully making a baby that…Gerry Hamilton and Margaret Blakely make tiny little cameos in here and I swear I’m half thinking of writing this trio of women all giggling over their legendary husbands

Word count: a hefty 7k and we’ve got more coming for ya

Coauthored with m’baby @crazymadpassionatelove

Synopsis: Harry Crosby is sent stateside to be with his wife for a month of terribly needed R&R in the summer of 1944

Caveat: this is based off a portrayal of real people in a tv series, while Jean wasn’t represented by an actress as Harry was, in this price of media I intend the same. I mean no disrespect to the real men and women mentioned and dramatized herein.

Scene One:

Jean had been at it so long in front of the mirror she began to notice every grain of powder collected in her smile lines and every infinitesimal blur of strong coal from around her eyes and -she needed to step away, at least a few inches from the reflective glass and get a grip. At the more sensible distance of gripping onto the edge of the counter -marble and swanky like everything in this posh and paid for hotel- she saw her face restored to what it was, a pretty decent cutie’s with a perfect mask of makeup and freshly styled hair: fit for a homecoming.

It was going to be fine. She was going to be fine. She was going to need to make him fine again, and give him back to them strong enough to come back to her for good. Happiness and dread swirled in a gnawing cocktail inside her, the cruel thought of almost wishing not to be teased with him at all until she could keep him for good fighting with the braver parts of herself that wanted every second of him she could have, even if it had a big red finish line drawn at a month.

A month was a long time, a month was about all they’d had to be married before he left. Technically, or at least Jean wondered if technically, it would mean she’d only been fully “married” for two months. Of course that was nonsense to the general public and the pastors who reminded about vows and the wedding band she flashed at over eager servicemen, but to her select little girl gang, the ones who worked at the factory with her and who had to give up their husbands too- they talked about their brief marriedness with hushed and giggly fondness, like something out of a dream and just as brief.

The fiancés in the girl gang were jealous of this topic and Jean supposed they had a right to be. She indulged the innocents with all their questions about being “actively” married, tried to repay them with the same frankness she’d so desperately sought before her wedding. But as it was, she’d only had a month of active service, and while it had been spent as vigorously as any young couple’s first four weeks of legal license, it had left Jean in the interim with a plain impression of herself being a little bit of a hussy.

She wanted Harry so badly this past year since he’d gone she hardly thought it medically sane. Wanted him so badly, and that was something not even the girl gang could always bring themselves to titter about. It was one thing for Margaret Blakely to joke about her Ev coming back the previous month ‘taking’ his leave in more ways than one, but they weren’t often out here asking each other if nothing really fixed the hunger since their man had been gone. It was all Jean thought of. Jean wanted to ask if it ever cooled, if the sticky frustration with one’s own inadequate fingers ever subsided.

By the dreamy eyed state of the recently visited Mrs. Blakely, the answer appeared to be a resounding no. Nothing ever beat the real thing. And that made Jean want to writhe in frustration before learning that she too, would be visited by a on-leave husband.

A year of being married and only a month of it “active”, Jean had concluded it was a chronic case on her part of salivating need for her Bing, the only cure would be him -him inside her, in perpetuity. All she’d gotten out of Maragret had been a grinning warning to Jean to “get in shape for Major Crosby’s furlough, you’ll spend it on your back.”

Jean could freely admit to herself that she needed to be ripped apart by her man, she needed him lingering inside her when he left again. She just feared that it wasn’t exactly their usual way. How could she tell him, what if that’s not what he needed. What if it was all different, what if it needed to be?

Jean pointed a finger at herself in the fancy gilt mirror, red nails pointing at her fancy clad self in pastel silk and tiny bows, “He’s your husband,” she told herself sternly, trying not to sweat at the idea he could be here any hour, catch her in this state of intentional undress, and help himself to her jittery body, “he loves you, you love him. All you need to do is let him have his husbandly rights and things will go smoothly. It’s a vacation not a death trap. You’ve got a man to patch up, get on with it.”

This speech gave her four whole seconds of empowered determination before a vigorous set of knocks on the hotel suite’s outer door made her jump out of her skin in surprise. She could go open the door but then -what if someone was in the hall with him? And saw her in this state of…lack of…well, her in her lingerie. He had a key, they’d have given him a key. He was the Mister to her Missus Crosby, they were allowed a shared suite.

“Jean?” Hearing that dear voice for the first time in twelve months, even faintly from far outside the bathroom door, flooded Jean with so much feeling her knees locked up and her throat collapsed on her response. He was her husband, her Bing, her first and only love, they’d be alright. They had to be.

Harry gingerly closed the door behind him, the heavy painted wood shutting with a finality that made him feel terribly anxious. While he had been trudging up the hall to their suite he’d been able to laugh a little at his dismal procession, morose shuffling and hang dog attitude. It had been absurd for a guy coming back to see the wife who he loved. He knew that and he could say that again and again in his head in a voice that morphed more and more into Bubbles’ voice an-

-and now he was in the room and he wasn’t anticipating anything, he had arrived and as if he’d just touched down in occupied Europe, he couldn’t help his braced posture or hunted surveillance of the oddly empty room.

“Jean?”

She wasn’t in here, but the en-suite bathroom door was shut. She wasn’t in here but from the bathroom came wafting something so viscerally nostalgic of her that he felt his heart pound in devoted recognition before his brain even caught up: her soap. Not some fancy hotel brand, it seemed she had brought her old stuff, the stuff he’d lathered on her as many times as he’d had the chance before leaving, the stuff she smelled of before church and the stuff that got more strong and pungent when he made her sweat in it from their exertions in bed.

It smelled like Jean in here and it was enough to make him drop his duffel bag with a decided thump. He was staying. This was his wife, everything might be different but some things like soap -they’d still be the same, as would the dry mouthed want it filled him with.

“Jean?”

He ventured further into the room, not bothering to call her name again, maybe being around guys had made him callous to spooking her but no real harm would be done, he was…him.

“Oh! Bing?” Jean sounded flustered behind her door and Harry found himself grinning. “I’m coming! I’m coming right out!”

It sounded less like a reassurance than it did an order to herself, which was amusing and it made him wonder, just how awkward were the two of them going to manage to make this? God knows he’d tripped over himself enough times winning her over the first round, he had such hopes never to revisit the bumbling stages of courtship. Seemed like once they’d married and joined it had been smooth as glass ever since- until…until he’d stopped being himself.

Until he had wandered into a hotel room with a woman who didn't wear a matching gold band. Jean knew nothing of that though. She never would. Sweet peaches and cream Jean who had come all this way to see him. Bringing that soap and the books he saw stacked on the night table. Bringing that sweet, pink pussy he needed to sink himself into. Remind himself of who he was. He didn't want to be Major Crosby at the moment. He wanted to just be Jean's husband. He heard the clock in the room ticking, felt the sweat pooling at the back of his neck as he waited for her. Her Elizabeth Arden lipsticks lined up like perfect little soldiers on the dresser. It had been so long that kissing her was surely going to feel like the first time all over again.

There was more amiss in the room, upon further inspection, besides her trunks and her hat boxes and the lipsticks. Amiss in that: there were elements no hotel should have, the plate of very delicious looking misshapen fudge, for instance, the plate itself looking suspiciously like their wedding set. Harry could describe that pink and green pattern on ivory in vivid detail if you had asked him yesterday, tracing it now was like no time had passed at all since that first breakfast as husband and wife, tittering over having “things” of their own. And beside the plate a book, one he’d not finished when he went over, he realized with a lump growing in his throat. Then there was the bed beneath these things, tidily made but not pristine, ha -how could it be with homey floral sheets in place of pristine white and a monogrammed pillow case each.

Giant embroidered C’s. For Crosby, of course.

Jeepers -he’d taken Jean for the first time on those very sheets, now he was recognizing them, and some very uncivilized part of him suddenly wanted to rip the covers back and find out if her virgin blood hadn’t fully scrubbed out-

“Bing!”

He is awkwardly sitting on the edge of the bed, thumbing through the pages of Look Homeward, Angel when Jean manages to saunter out with a summoned amount of calm. His hair is sleek and trimmed, his jacket well fitting, his whole self in his army duds seeming so comfortable, filled out, self possessed -it’s the floral sheets beneath him that ruins the effect just a little, makes him seem shifty, out of place. That and those great brown eyes suddenly round as a newborn calf’s at the long awaited sight of her.

She’s seen the soldier’s return posters -does he expect the same greeting? No little party at the station in satin and lace here, but they’d both agreed it would be better to be private, secluded, uninterrupted. Now it feels too tame and mild.

Does he want that? That reunion embrace?

Before she can rethink it she rushes him. “Binger!” she gasps out right as he stands to meet her head on, long arms outstretched to engulf her. This she knows, this she dreamed of. If she squeezes too tight she must be forgiven, it’s too fabulous to be considered real for many moments, the feel of his flexing back beneath her hands and his chest under her cheek. It’s tight and jarring and not a bit smooth but it’s him, it’s him and all is well.

Harry has his nose buried in her hair, that smell is wafting in again. It’s Jean -hits him with the force of a rocket and he’s suddenly responding in kind, arms crushing her to him, can’t get close enough, can’t tell her enough about missing her and loving her and how he’s put one step in front of the other all these years for this moment.

“Oh Bing,” she exclaims again, her face just barely pulled away to really get a look at him, her hands on his cheeks, “I can’t believe it. I’ve prayed, every day I’ve prayed for this.”

Prayers -the word sours in his mind after what he’s seen, after how many he’s sent up and not plane returned with an answer. “Mmm, Mrs. Crosby.” he contemplates the dear face before him before dragging his hand beneath her hair, cupping the back of her head with his large hand, watchface cool on the back of her neck. She’s been waiting for him to kiss her, wanting to let him lead, hoping her initial enthusiasm would embolden him like before. Instead he seems lost in archiving her face, those dear, melancholy eyes flitting over every feature, the hands studying and firm but not a caress. It’s obvious there’s something missing here, a piece ajar from the puzzle.

Jean stands atiptoe carefully, and determinedly slots her lips against his plush, red ones. That seems to rouse him a bit, Harry responds instantly, making up for his hesitancy, deepening it as his tongue meets hers in a heart wrenching reunion of sorts. He always was fond of kissing, her Bing. Now he was kissing her senseless and this -this was more like what she imagined.

His hands trail from her neck down the her ribs and into the dip of her waist, over the swell of her hips where he vaguely notices she’s adorned in some silky little something, no doubt chosen and worn just for him.

Say something Croz, you big idiot —he thinks to himself, confronted with the fact he is gripping at her and sucking face without another word said besides inane repetition of her name.

“Jean you look…perfect.” he mumbles against her lips.

It’s boyish and reminiscent, the stumbling praises mumbled so earnestly. It makes her giggle fondly. She breaks their kiss and takes hold of his face in her hands, indulging a little inspection of her own. “My beautiful boy,” she croons, “you came back to me.”

She kisses the prominent bridge of his nose and his perpetually furrowed brow and the smooth below each heavily fringed eye, his cheeks, his chin, the corner of his mouth -she pressed at his chest till she’s got him sat on the edge of the bed again. He’s fully dressed, taut as a bowstring and she wants him, needs him, to relax. She can feel the tension, the uncertainty, rolling off him.

She won’t let them take this away from them, she won’t let them rob them of their comfort with each other.

She kneels gently before him and undoes his boots, enjoying the way he pets her hair, quietly admiring its shine and style. His trousers are creased and starched and knelt between his legs Jean finally notices it then, the prominent tent beneath the olive weave. It makes her breath hitch. Was he always this big? Even camouflaged by trousers?

“You must be tired,” she frets aloud, working on the laces, “and cramped from such a long flight. Did you take something? Your eyes are a little…funny.”

Harry nods before realizing she’s not one of his men. Wives tend to value words and sentences, the more syllables the better. “Yeah,” he croaks aloud, “something for the stomach.”

Oh Bing and his stomach. Ever the dutiful wife, Jean rubs the sock feet she just liberated and kneads her way up his calves, hoping to leech some of the tension out of him. She works her way to his thighs, rising back up to her feet when he grabs her wrists and pulls her into another kiss. It’s even hungrier this time and his first moan of the evening sends a jolt of longing triumph straight to her core.

“I’ve missed you.” she chokes out between kisses and he responds by biting her neck, his thumbs rolling the satin in circles on her hips. His front pressing hard and firm against her lower belly, making her mouth run dry.

Still, Harry’s not saying much and if he wasn't kissing and caressing her so ardently, she'd have no clue they were even on the same planet.

And so Jean decides to do something rather bold. Something her mother would not approve of. She puts her hands on his shoulders, briefly causing him to pull away from her neck, then she whispers temptingly in his ear, “Last night I…slid my ring finger inside me. pretended it was you…I won't have to pretend anymore, will I, Harry?”

She feels him twitch against her belly beneath his layers. It’s her turn to kiss his cheek and nibble his neck, finding his little groans to be intoxicating. His grip tightens on her waist as he buries his head against her with his eyes closed, breathing her in. That scent.

That's when she adds in a plea, “Y-y-you're gonna have to…open me

up again Croz.…..you know what I

mean?...my poor little fingers are so

tiny and now I'm back to how I was

on our wedding night…”

Harry’s groan is animalistic and pained and she -well Jean’s a horny, rambling mess and she can’t bring herself to be ashamed, she missed him too strongly. “You're a hero to America.” She swears into his panting mouth, “And to me. I'm gonna give you the strength to help you get through the rest of what you need to do. But I need something from you, I need you to put a baby in me Bing.”

That is what he responds to, like orders in war. He’s good at finding his way with directions. His head rears back and his eyes sharpen with concentration. Jean wants something? he’ll deliver it, always was that way.

He nods.

“Lay back on the bed Jean.” his voice is quiet but she’s never heard it so steady, so commanding. That must be the voice he uses when he speaks to his men over there. If she wasn't squeezing her thighs together and scrambling onto the bed to follow Major Crosby orders, well, she'd cum right then and there. This isn't the same Bing that reads the paper, his beautiful lips mouthing the words as he does, the one who brings her flowers just because, or is quick not to curse in public. This man before her is a war weary Major who is used to being obeyed. Jean intends to follow every word he says, the thought of seeing him off without a little piece of him nestled inside her would just devastate her.

She burrows up against their Crosby pillows, looking like an absolute treat and admiring her man's package that seems to be growing bigger by the second. He's panting like a wild horse above her and she realizes she should heed all that advice she'd been given. Be a good wife, take care of his needs. Her painted toes rub against the sheets as she slowly inches forward to help him undress. Major Crosby beats her to it though, ridding himself of his uniform efficiently and tossing it on to the floor in a rumpled mess accompanied by a huff.

Is he mad? Jean wonders to herself. His freshly exposed cock sure looks mad. It's red, and almost looks hot to the touch as it dribbles and leaks down his thick shaft.

Was it always that big? Were his eyes always so wild? Bright -she remembers them as being bright.

He collapses on her purposefully, a crushing embrace with his hands snarled in her hair, elbows to the bed, his belly to hers, his lips devouring her own. It’s a shock and a thrill, that first feeling of skin against skin again, Harry’s so warm his tongue is nearly scalding and she feels herself sweat in her skimpy finery. The anticipation is harsh, the dynamic fumbling in its ravenous rush, her head spins when an irrational spike of fear slices through the heady haze of desire that his touches coax. Touch? -a mauling of sorts, more like, he is all teeth and nails and assessing hands, grabbing at her ferociously.

Instinctively Jean begins to rub him, his shoulders, his neck, his forearms

-a soothing caress at a kinder pace than he allows but she means it well, channels that little spark of anxiety she feels to sooth his own keyed up self.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she keeps swearing as she feels him buckle just that little bit to the insistent kneading of her hands on his arms, “I’m not going anywhere.” she swears and the rigid line of his body sags further into her neck, some off kilter focus he’s carried about him slipping under her gentle persuasion. “Baby, how about a little rub?” she coos, lithely extracting herself out from under him before she thinks on it too long.

“That might be nice.” he manages, not sure what the hell it is he needs, “My neck maybe..took a little spill a few days ago...” he casually mentions the incident, underplaying that whole fiasco of passing out cold from exhaustion, splattering on the floor like the contents of a mop bucket.

“Then let me rub your neck.” she begs.

He allows it and with a slightly lost gaze he follows her movements as she props up beside him and brings him closer for leverage. She scoops his head into her lap with that familiarity that made him fall first and hard for her, and suddenly he is pillowed on the warm, giving belly of a woman. His woman. And Croz feels himself begin to melt from that feeling alone, long before her clever thumbs start working at the knots nearly calcified at the base of his neck.

She used to do this for him when he was at school, too much reading in an ill advised position had him often so stoved up he couldn’t be of any use on the baseball team. Jean had learned to work her magic then, and Harry had learned how very much he liked his face buried against the swell of a girl’s womb.

Oh fuck -her little speech comes rushing back to him- Jean wants a baby.

Damn the jet lag, the separation jitters and all the rest that got him sent here like a looney to a special holding facility. Jean wants a baby and he hasn’t been rock hard since Dartmouth only to let it go to waste by sleeping it off.

Right when she begins to feel the motion of her hands take effect on his rigid shoulders, her Harry is suddenly lifting his head again, face slightly flushed and creased from the lace of her nighty and he smiles at her then. Mischievous and warm, “C'mere,” he beckons with a voice that means something and so she follows him as he sits up, “stand up babydoll, show me that outfit. Let me appreciate ya.” He slides his warm palm into her smaller one and tugs her to her feet, an easy sort of dance move to bring her round in front of his position, swaying her back and forth just outside the v of his legs.

“Well, look at you.” he marvels at her, his expression gone soft under that wrecked mop of curls. Jean recognizes the old spark alight in him, the one that might go dormant for her when away or when she couldn’t make up her damn mind but anytime she wanted him back?—oh he looked at her like this, like he was lucky as hell to have her and intended to be brave with that luck. “Turn around for me, loverdoll, c’mon, show me what I’ve got, come onnnn Jeaaann,” he insists, his voice playful and insistent as he spins her with a hand at her hip until she shows him the back of this frilly little excuse for nightwear, “Look at that.” he whistles behind her and Jean feels her cheeks burn pleasantly, “Pretty as a fawn, Jean.” he punctuates this odd little compliment with the back of a finger running up the length of her thigh, to the little swell of her rump and Jean knows her legs tremble in helpless response. “Go on, strike a pose for me, I know you didn’t put on this get up for nothin’. Who'd believe it? My Mrs. Crosby out here lookin’ like one of those girls.”

‘Those’ girls, whoever they are exactly, are left nebulous and Jean likes it that way, it gives her a saucy bravery to pitter patter away from his hold and turn back to face his unabashedly admiring gaze. Jean cocks a hip and drops a shoulder, knee turned in, toes pointed. Gerry had made her perfect it a million times in the mirror when she should’ve been sensibly getting into a gown and getting some shut eye instead.

Thank God for Margaret Ann Blakely and her fun loving pastimes. And also: “Screw him for us Jean!!” -thank God for Gerry Hamilton and her brazen preoccupations with her own man, for how she piled on as she convinced Jean of an assortment of little silk things thrown into her suitcase, “Screw him good, for all of us! For Americaaaaa!” the young and empty Mrs. Hamilton’s candor had built until Jean was close to frantic to get into the taxi and leave her best friends and their antics behind.

Jean didn’t doubt for a single minute that Hambone and Ev would shortly be receiving letters that good naturedly bemoaned Jean and Croz’s luck.

“You think you needed to look like this to get me to nail ya?” her Croz teases her now and his grin is lewd and Jean likes it that way, it matches the disrespectful hands that reach out without her Harry’s usual calculation and instead paw at her tits like a sex starved man. It sends a line of electricity straight to the little button between her legs and Jean ends up leaning into those hands until she’s suddenly so near him she’s on top of him and then, easy as anything, he knocks her sideways and under him once more. Legs splayed wide and with a husband lying on top of her with a very determined look on his face -she reckons the games are over.

“Gonna be like a second wedding.” she squeaks out, giddy eyed in excitement, toes curling in terror, he feels so big slotted at the spot.

Was he always so big?

Harry slings her leg over his hip and he’s suddenly in her without even needing to fumble for entrance. Little Croz pries her open all at once in a smooth, brutal, unyielding shove and that’s all it takes, he’s so overwhelmingly substantial that Jean finds herself bowing under him in a climax from the painful pleasure of reunion alone.

“Really, already?” he chuckles at her as she hoarsely keens out her ecstasy beneath him, her nails digging crescents in the flesh of his tense shoulders, his own thumbs stroking along her throat, “I missed you too, Mrs. Crosby.” he laughs.

She slaps at him, lovingly as her throat still hasn’t fully come back to use, “God you feel good.” She croaks.

“Just wait till you learn there’s more.” he teases before pulling his hips back and keeping that far tip barely nestled in her petals before slamming in again so forcefully she feels something funny in her chest.

“Bing!” it’s not a protest on her part but, my God -he, they…they used to give it the ole college try before he left, but this? This must be what it’s like to get really and truly screwed.

Screwing her, that’s what he’s doing and she wonders in a vague haze of helpless sensations if he’ll auger a hole straight through her back to the mattress with this merciless rhythm. She’s as vaguely impressed by his strength and capability as she is by her own body’s ability to absorb it, her freshly rediscovered hole burning at the use and somehow it’s all just a wonderfully heated, overwhelming miasma of delight as she keeps on seizing under him and he bullies her right though one peak after another with only a wicked grin on those full lips to suggest he’s got any idea what she’s so happily enduring.

“I can’t stop, I just can’t stop, it's just so -it’s so much.” she babbles, very keen to get her point across but very unsure what her point actually is. All thoughts, feelings and intentions center around Harry and that fat schlong of his rearranging her insides. She’s not sure her toes have been uncurled in over a quarter hour and her mind’s not been her own for longer still. “You’re so much.” she wails, and for half of it she means not his size but how long he’s been going at it.

“And you’re gonna take it.” he confirms, the hand on her hip inexorable and his pretty face is half snarling at her in desperation. “You miss this?” his voice shakes from his exertions and Jean is sure she’s never heard a more attractive sound than his wrecked breathing, “Miss this, huh? Bet you did, so goddamn tight. No married woman’s got any…any…any business being so tight. Gonna fix that, gonna make you so married you’re not gonna-“ he presses her legs back until she feels her hamstrings burn, knees to her chest, his body lunging into hers…angry again? she doesn’t know he just keeps grunting “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She’s milking him so perfectly, peaking and shuddering and clenching more frequently than he ever remembers and he should be so saved up he can’t manage to hold on but instead -the fuck if he can blow. It just won’t let go. The noise of his work is a lew phwap phwap phwap of split splat suction and from her whimpers and begs he knows he has already spent her but-

Goddamn! Came all this way, waited all this time and he can’t let loose?

Through the haze of her overstimulation Jean can feel something amiss, the tension back and worse than that, there’s the frustrated anger of before. Harry is breathing hard and his face is dark and the prominent vein across his alabaster forehead is popping so significantly she worries about stroke. He’s about to crack a tooth at this rate, his tension is so extreme and then suddenly, there’s a pause.

He stares down at the wet mess where they’re joined, brows knit together and mouth firm before a flicker ignites in his eye and in a fit of rage at himself and this deficient cock, he grabs at one of the decorative pillows and throws it across the room. It bangs dully against the window and flops to the floor.

Unsurprisingly the outburst against cotton batting and fancy trim does little for his pickle, he’s still stiff as a board and nowhere close to relief. He fought a whole goddamn war and came back just to not be able to get his rocks off. What a joke.

Gently as he can, and with rampant self pity running loose, he disentangles from Jean’s snug self and throws himself beside her on his back.

Bewildered Jean is more than a little grateful for the intermission. She does her best to collect her wits, looking over at him and clocking his defeated expression and closed eyes, the hand pinching the bridge of his nose. And poor Little Croz that is a furious magenta red with veins about ready to burst from swelling, sticking straight up from between his legs.

Shifting onto her side to face him rubs her poor kitty just wrong -or right- and a helpless mewl escapes her as she creams herself again from that little movement alone. The sound and shudder of his wife makes Croz crack open an eye, watching intently as Jean bites her lip and timidly runs her fingers through the hair on his chest.

“Come sit on my lap, Jeanie.” he mumbles.

She perks up with a smile, “Whatever my hero wants, baby.” she condones before shakily straddling his lean hips and sinking down with a noticeable squelch. It earns a drawn out moan of satisfaction from both of them. Sensing the agony and desperation of the man beneath her as she begins to lift her hips and slam them back down, juices splash on her feet from the movement. To lift his spirits she attempts her best at shoving her tits in his face while she does it and gets her nipples tugged in thanks.

This right here is perfect, she’s so full she can hardly bear it but he feels so good she ignores the burn of her legs and keeps her pace up, the beautiful expanse of her man laid out before her a perfect spur. The sun seems to have set by now and through the open curtains the sounds and lights of the city pour in, glistening off his sweaty skin like a million stars and doing nothing to dim the noise of his appreciative moans, the hoarse grunts of her name, the sounds of their sticky hips colliding.

“I've dreamed about being full like this every night since you left.” Jean tells him, stuffed beyond her limits it feels like he’s so damn deep he could describe the feel of her cervix in detail.

She can feel those tight bowling balls she's sitting on that need to unload inside her, and precariously she reaches backwards to fondle them with one hand, remembering how he used to react to it. She gets her first high pitched whine of the evening from him at that, his chest heaving and his head thrashing, curls everywhere. “Bing -- oh it's big, it's big, I'll take it all though I-I promise….we gotta make you cum, baby.” she determines, not needing the discarded pillow or fuming passion to alert her to his desperation, “Lemme help you…just fill me up, let it alllll out... you need to, must be aching so bad”

At the mention of the ache he begins to buck into her wildly like a feral thing. Jean would have toppled off from his vigor if he hadn’t seized her hips in an iron grip and held her still for his assault from below. Jean hears herself squealing and whimpering and begging nonsense, still a bit fresh -and respectful- to this new and ferocious side of him. Somewhere in it though, Harry’s beginning to crack, frustration going from anger to fury to desperation to some boyish and pitiful need for relief.

Harry doesn’t mean to groan so loudly, so pathetically but it’s all so perfect and he’s so damn close and Jean’s like a sprinkler down there she’s enjoying herself so much and -why the hell can’t a fella just blow?

Jean instantly stills atop him and cradles his face tenderly, soft searching eyes and lips whispering about …something, something something “baby boy” -and he shudders. His pants are harsh as if he’s about to have a heart attack and his chest is so winded and achy he thinks he might. Or else cry.

Wouldn’t that be fun.

Beneath his hands he feels Jean’s hips begin to flex and she’s grinding on him again, twisting her hips in a slow figure eight that feels like a man’s heaven beneath his palms, and ten times that for his cock. It’s not doing it enough to make him blow but for a moment he decides that’s fine, he inflates his poor lungs again and lays back, admittedly a bit too stiff and rigid, and touches her as she pleases herself on top of him. She giggles shyly to him and her near constant moans are music to his ears as she swivels on his cock. He enjoys watched the pink little folds absorb him and the way their curls brush and mix where they meet, his lower belly a wet mess and streaks of the same running down to her ankles, they’ve made such a soup.

Clam fuckin’ chowder, by the looks of it.

Maybe he did blow. Doesn’t feel like it. And after watching and coaxing her through another melting peak, he lets her sag onto his chest for a minute and regroup before, with a kiss to her hair and a hard smack to her ass, he tells her,

“Hands and knees, Jean, if you want that baby -hands and knees.”

He barked it like an order, and while a little startled by it, she still wastes no time in flipping herself over and off him, scurrying into the position he specified, shaky from so many orgasms and the anticipation of him back atop her. Wincing inwardly at the thought of that package at this angle with how sore she already is-

-and he wastes no time. But instead of a cock she feels the shockingly familiar but never less exquisite feeling of his tongue running up the messy length of her slit. Her face collapses into the pillows along with her pleased shriek of “Bing!”.

He he laughs warm and wicked behind her, enjoying the ass up display of what he’s done to her.

“Spread ‘em Jean.” he tells her, and two dainty hands leave off from gripping the covers to bashfully pull her cheeks apart and show her husband where his fat cock belongs. He can see her pulsing down like a living entity of its own, even in this dim light.

“I'll be good... I'll be good for you, Major. Tell me what to do.” Jean swears hoarsely, those fawnish legs trembling again.

“Just take me.” he mutters simply, mounting her suddenly with his hand on the back of her head, keeping her cheek to the pillow and her scream muffled as he shoves in and begins to plow this squeaking little lady like tomorrow is indeed not promised to men like him.

Beneath him, between the high pitched squeals of pleasure and the urgent whines of endurance, Jean is muttering a litany of …something. Again and again she’s saying words like “it’s ok baby, it’s ok” and Harry isn’t sure if it’s meant for him or her, she sounds like a drunk fairy and his head begins to buzz with likelihood. “It’s ok baby, they told me you'd be like this, it’s ok. I can take it. I’ve missed you—“ she just keeps muttering that and vaguely Harry is pretty sure that comfort is meant for him and he wonders who ‘they’ are and what ‘like this’ even means.

On Jean’s part she is legitimately unsure who’s she’s trying to convince, likely herself but also, maybe that part of her between her legs that’s torn between panic and absolute ecstasy at his rough usage. Jean's mind spins at the realization of how much she likes it, likes the feral proof of how badly he missed her, needs her, wants her still. Her sweet and mild Harry climbed on top of her and is now railing her, and while it’s not your average little jaunt in the sheets, she clings to her pillow and takes it with something like pride…in between the moments when Harry’s fat cock wipes her mind a starry white as her legs kick up helplessly beneath him and her back arches and her hole clenches and another happy mess slides down her inner thighs to the sodden sheets.

And all through it the best of it is Harry and his voice, half sane sounding for once this evening as if to balance out the animalistic pose he has her in, groaning above her,

“That's it, be my good girl..my good, good girl. Always so good to me.”

He’s petting her hair like she’s a damn Labrador or something, wrapping her beautiful curls around his hand, arched over her like a cat, it’s perfect and he’s so deep he thinks he could fuck his balls in, foot placed sturdily on the bed beside her for further leverage.

“-Croz! You gotta!” His wife wails nonsensically beneath him, he picks her head up by the hair to hear what the hell she’s jabbering about now, husbandly rights or how she was ‘told’ he’d be.

She’s so cock wrecked it ain’t even funny but when he prods her with a “What's that Jean?” between thrusts he gets a slightly more formulated thought-

“You gotta put a baby in me!” she insists through sobs, orgasm after orgasm turning her into this shaking, shuddering, limp excuse of a woman.

A loverdoll, for real.

Her words ping in his head like that damn red light everywhere he goes on base. A light at the end of the tunnel, an eminent thing he’s needed for. Tightness seizes his belly and takes him unawares, suddenly Harry’s roaring out a resounding,

“Oh FUCK! Jean! Fuck-“ that bounces around the room like a cacophony.

The hotel guests next door might be

wondering why a moose is dying in

Manhattan? But no sweat, it’s just Major Crosby seeding his willing wife.

Like a soothing balm on a surgical wound, Jean feels him exploding warm and sticky and healing inside her at last. It doesn't stop coming, rope after rope of the thick, steaming hot gold of his body swelling her own and this adds the finishing touches to what was already a melted woman. In his last rapacious thrusts, she can feel her body playing the minx, trying to squeeze him out but her Croz is having none of it, like a dying man to water, he uses every bit of strength left to shove himself back in and flood her until she’s a collapsed and leaking mess.

In a haze, Croz pulls his now mercifully limp cock out of her and surveys her wrecked self with bleary, appreciative eyes. “Looks like you been through a war of your own, baby.” he jokes but his voice is so wrecked from his previous yells it startles his newly moderated self and he ends up toppled over beside her, no longer capable of giving a damn about anything.

His eyelids refuse to stay open and his neck is laying funny but -fuck! He was just inside Jean!

“You ok, Bing?” he hears her sweet voice whisper beside him and it was no dream then, and God forgive him he was probably mean. She’s panting beside him and when he can’t manage to answer he feels her hand grab his wrist and gently guide him somewhere until he’s petting startlingly warm petals that are saturated with his spunk.

“Think you managed to open me up, alright.” she titters, still sounding drunk and he can’t help the way his cheek crinkles in a returning smile.

Smashed into the pillow as it is, it’s still the prettiest expression of the best man Jean has ever known. “Y-Yeah.” her man croaks, half insensible but his beautiful hand keeps petting her where she’s sore and recently excavated, his identification bracelet jangling softly in the stillness, “You were such a good girl Jeanie..a good wife…ya did your job.” he mumbles more, fully in Major mode as he begins to drift off, forgetting entirely that maybe a fella shouldn't praise his wife like she's one of his men gotten back from a mission.

But Jean takes the compliment well, knowing how it’s meant, knowing that maybe tomorrow when he’s more conscious and healed, she may be blocked out from that world entirely. It’s a little glimpse and she takes it for what it is, with soft appreciation. Smilingly she lets go of his hand to give deflated Little Croz some pats, the sticky, shrunken thing is playing at being harmless and she has a longing to meanly suck on it until it shows it’s true colors again.

But no, for now, Croz’s heavy and nearly insessible arm throws itself over her waist and drags her to him, slotting the married couple together like spoons in their drawer.

They could try to shower but that seems too daunting a prospect at present, and highly futile considering what lies in store -more of the same. And for her part, Jean doesn’t dare move and slosh and waste any of what her Bing gave her. His forearm is heavy over her battered womb, cum and abuse swelling it just that little bit as if she were on her menses. She’s not, those were two weeks ago.

When his hand splays and cups the swollen bulge he made, Jean whispers to his already snoozing self, “We made a baby Bing, I just know it.”

And if not— there’s four more weeks to make certain.

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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[dyns33]

Rafiq alruwh

I'm not sure yet if this will be a Bane x reader oneshot or not.

I like it like that, but I could find ideas for part 2. My only problem being that I still need to finish others Tom Hardy's characters story, while wanting to write Feyd Rautha stories.

As much as Y/N listened to these stories over and over again, she couldn't imagine the feeling everyone would describe.

The moment your skin touched your soulmate's skin, and suddenly everything became clear, better. A feeling of joy and the burning need to stay by this person's side forever.

It was a rare phenomenon that scientists could not explain. It was completely impossible to know when this would happen, or if it would happen, because fate seemed cruel. Most people either didn't have soulmates or didn't have the chance to meet them in their lifetime. The world was too big and time too short.

There were still skeptics, who claimed that it was all nonsense, lies, invented by people blinded by love or who wanted to give themselves a certain gender. Only those who ended up meeting the person changed their mind, the others remaining too jealous to accept the truth, considering that it was only a romantic utopia.

Y/N wanted to believe in it. She dreamed of meeting her soulmate and experiencing this special moment.

Her parents were not meant to be together. It was visible.

In her entourage, she had an uncle who had had this experience, a few neighbors, a friend, and all had said the same thing.

What they had in common was that they were all good people. Maybe that was one of the reasons.

“You might have had to choose another type of profession then.”

"Mom…"

“I’m just saying that cop is not the most popular job in the world.”

"And I would say that choosing to be a non-corrupt police officer in Gotham is almost like being a saint."

"You'll end up getting killed, long before you meet your soulmate. I'll never understand why you wanted to be a cop, especially in this town."

There came a day when her mother's fears almost became a reality. The day when terrorists took the entire city hostage with a bomb, preventing everyone from entering and leaving.

It was probably not what she had thought when she talked about dying, but for several months, hidden with her colleagues, Y/N thought about her soulmate, trying to imagine this meeting that would probably never happen.

Staying mainly with Blake and Gordon, she tried to hide her pain, but it did not escape Miranda Tate, who took her hand with a gentle smile and asked what was tormenting her.

“We’re going to die here.” Y/N whispered. "I mean, I'm not afraid of that, that's the risk of the job. But… I didn't think it would be like this now. I wish I had met my soulmate before."

"Your rafiq alruwh. I didn't think many people cared about it here."

"My what ?"

"That's how my father called soulmates. I grew up with a lot of stories about it, because he and my mother were related. I prayed a lot to be that for one of my friends, but no. Our destinies are linked, but not like that.”

"Sorry."

"Even if I would have liked him to be mine, I wish him happiness and that he meets his other half one day. A being worthy of him, of his love and his protection. He deserves to be happy. You too, you seem kind. Maybe you shouldn't have been here."

Her words were strange, but Y/N didn’t tell the others. It wouldn't have changed anything anyway. Even though she had discovered that Miranda Tate had the detonator, that she was the real leader of the terrorists, the streets remained controlled by the militias.

As always, they were saved by the Batman. She had never really known what to think of the vigilante, protected by Gordon and hated by everyone else. He clearly wanted to help Gotham, but his methods remained illegal, and not necessarily effective in the long term.

His death was a tragedy, but not necessarily the end of a symbol. Hope was still there, even stronger, and the Gotham police were determined to ensure everyone's safety.

Y/N felt this determination too.

Still, she froze as she inspected the sewers with Blake and Ramirez. They too had a moment of hesitation, as their lamps illuminated a body. A huge body, sitting against the wall, face hidden by this frightening mask.

There had been a search for Bane and his men after the explosion. Witnesses said the Batman fought him, and won, but they found nothing.

Obviously, the terrorist had managed to drag himself here to die.

"What do we do ?" Ramirez asked shyly. “Should we put a bullet in his head ?”

"What ? Why do you want to do this ?"

"To make sure he's dead. I've seen a lot of movies, man, I know the mistakes to avoid."

She didn't approve of the speech, but Y/N agreed, it was necessary to check it out.

Feeling almost stupid, she moved forward slowly, her hand reaching towards Bane to see if he felt a pulse.

She didn't expect the large hand that quickly grabbed her neck before she could touch him.

Fear paralyzed her body, and yet there was something else. An indescribable, incredible feeling, which resembled happiness but more intense, which was absurd in this situation.

Y/N felt so lost that she didn't realize the hand was relaxing, just resting against her skin instead of squeezing and snapping her neck like it easily could have done.

"Habibi…" was the word spoken with difficulty by Bane, who stared at her with an indecipherable expression.

“Let her go right now, you bastard !”

Maybe he was as confused as her, or maybe he was too weak, but the terrorist didn't avoid Ramirez's punch, while Blake grabbed Y/N to pull her as far away as possible.

She stood still, not understanding what was happening, as Ramirez called for reinforcements, proud of having been able to knock out the giant, even though he knew as well as anyone that he would have had no chance. if his mask hadn't been damaged and he wasn't half dead. It was not possible.

Bane couldn't be her soulmate, Y/N refused to believe it. A man like him had no soul, not after everything he had done, and above all why would he be destined for her ? She didn't feel like she had committed a crime that deserved such punishment.

She was probably never going to see him again anyway.

If he survived to Blackgate, he would be locked there forever. Even if she had permission, she had no intention of visiting him.

But the feeling remained there, strong, impossible to ignore, demanding more. An incomprehensible need to be close to the one who had touched her, so that he would touch her again.

Y/N resisted. She gave her report to Commissioner Gordon, forgetting a few small details, and indicating that she did not wish to follow this case, leaving Bane's case to better agents than her.

This seemed to surprise him, as he considered her one of his best people, but he accepted.

However, it was impossible not to think of her soulmate, since the whole town was only talking about him and his arrest. The television was on loop every day, and her colleagues thought they were doing the right thing by keeping her informed of progress.

"They say his face is horrible. I think there are photos in the file."

"I'd love to see that ! I can't imagine that fucker at all without his weird mask. Do you think he has a normal voice without that thing ?"

“I can go get it so we check.”

Ramirez's gaze met hers as he stood, and without her needing to speak, he knew it was best for him to sit back down and change the subject.

Y/N didn’t see the photos. She absolutely didn't want to.

After several weeks, she asked to take a vacation, claiming to still be traumatized by what had happened to her, in addition to the near destruction of Gotham. She needed some time to rest.

Turning off all the screens and her phone, she tried meditation to clear her mind, so she could get some sleep and forget that her soulmate was a crazy, half-dead terrorist who would soon be judged.

This miserable attempt being a failure, she turned her phone back on shortly after midnight, only to be bombarded with calls and messages, coming from several colleagues, Blake, and Gordon.

"What is happening ?" she asked, calling the Commissioner back.

"Damn, I almost sent men to check on you, you weren't responding ! Where are you ? Are you okay ?"

“I’m at home, why ?”

"Don't panic. Blake will come get you."

“Gordon, what’s going on ?”

"He hasn't said anything since his arrest, keeping very quiet, and then yesterday Bane spoke. He asked to see you, giving your name. The other agents are categorical, it's impossible that he knows ot, no one told him. The agent simply replied that you were not on the investigation, and even on vacation… Damn, he…"

“Gordon, what ?”

"He escaped, Y/N. We don't know how. No one knows where he is, or what he's going to do. But since he talked about you, I don't want to take any risks. Don't move, John will come right away."

She could have told him that she knew very well why Bane had spoken about her, and that it was undoubtedly necessary for her to leave without delay, but fear held her back.

Even if it wasn't her fault, what would the commissioner think when he learned of her connection to the fugitive ? He was a good man, but all men had their limits, and she would be the first to be wary of someone designated as Bane's soulmate.

After hanging up, she jumped out of bed to grab her gun and shoes, ready to wait for Blake to arrive in her living room.

Y/N froze in the middle of the hallway, seeing the huge figure standing between her and the front door.

His face was covered by a scarf, his posture a little less proud than in the videos she had seen of him during his city hostage situation, he appeared to be in pain, but it was obvious that if she tried to pass, he would retain her without the slightest difficulty.

“Habibi.” he whispered, and indeed his voice was different without his mask, more human. "What a joy to see you again. More beautiful than I remember or on pictures. Will you come with us without resistance ? I don't want to hurt you."

"Hands in the air." she replied, pointing her gun at him, ignoring the urge to hug him. “Don’t move, my colleagues are coming.”

"I admire your sense of duty and honor, Habibi. But I will not return to prison, ever again. And I will not leave you either. I thought of you every day. Is your neck healed ? I need to repair my wrongs to you.”

“I said, put your hands in the air.”

“So you leave us no choice, Habibi.” he sighed, looking behind her.

We. He said we, and someone gave him her name. Y/N reacted too late, one man grabbing her gun, and the other not holding her shoulder, injecting something into her neck with a syringe.

In an instant, she found herself on the ground, her vision blurring, but her body not panicking, as it was invaded by an incredible sensation. Bane had reached out to hug her, his eyes smiling as he ran a hand over her cheek.

"It's okay. I'm taking you home, rafiq alruwh."

All her life, Y/N had waited for this moment, this feeling, this sentence. She told herself that the stories we said to children were really stupid, as her eyes closed.

[linkman447]

Match making

Beacon staff room

Ozpin: so teacher I have important news

Glynda: does it have to do with that scroll call from mrs. Arc

Ozpin: indeed, mrs. Arc has put major importance on the livelihood of the Arc family

Glynda: maybe not accepting an untrained boy into a school for monster hunters is a good start

Port: nonsense. It builds character, I remember… (goes off on tangent)

Ozpin: sadly no it has nothing to do with his training or lack there of, it has to do with continuing the Arc legacy

Oobleck: so finding him a wife

The teachers: …

Ozpin: taking bets?

Peach: 1000 on jaune and Ms. Schnee

Oobleck: oh I know that the arc’s and the belladonna’s go way back so my moneys on jaune and Blake

Port: no no no we all know blonds must stick together so 1000 on ms. Xiao long and Mr. Arc

Glynda: I can’t believe we’re doing this

Ozpin: oh hush we all know you penchant for match making

Glynda: (sighs) 1000 on Mr. Arc and young ms. Rose

Ozpin: good (jots all of it down)

Port: what about you sir

Oobleck: oh yes what about you

Glynda just stares at him

Ozpin: oh my I guess I have no choice. In my case it would have to be Mr. Arc and ms. Nikos

As the teachers talk and discuss their own choices ozpin finished writing his list

Ozpin: well the list has been made

White knight 1000

Knightshade 1000

Dragonslayer 1000

Lancaster 1000

Arkos 1000

Arcwitch 10000

Glynda: w- what is arcwitch

Ozpin: oh that’s the bet mrs. Arc made

Glynda: who is it for

Ozpin: oh that’s simple mr. Arc and you Glynda

Glynda: HE WAS 7

Port: oh ho what’s this do you know our young mr. Arc

Glynda: (sigh) I used to look after the arc children along with Mr. Arcs oldest sister. One day little jaune came up to me and asked me to marry him

Ozpin: oh no but Mr. Goodwitch don’t you know about the arc family motto “an arc never goes back on their word”

Glynda just blushes and looks flustered

[oddlyhale]

The way the show handles Yang is poor, especially when there is a glaring topic that should be addressed about her character.

Yang feels like a character who experienced 'parentification' as a child. She had to grow up fast in order to maintain the family and take care of Ruby. Really though, parentification is a form of emotional abuse and Taiyang and her two moms put that on her.

Taiyang doesn't seem like someone who was mature enough to raise kids, or have them yet. He has an easier time now because the kids are older and can do everything on their own, but as toddlers, he wasn't having an easy time and preferred to let Qrow take over.

I think Yang was almost touching on the topic in V5, but the writing keeping pointing her in three different directions to not address anything fully. She needs to be sad about Blake for some reason. Being angry at Blake for leaving is valid, but to be sad and accept her as soon as she returns is nonsensical.

At some point, I think the writers didn't know what to do with Yang because she's being pulled in every direction until she's thrown at Blake.

[pilot-boi]

Since you tend to do a lot of darker au stuff, I'm wondering if I could ask for a little lighter of a post. No au, just Ilia in Vacuo simping over all the girls like Velvet, Coco, Reese, Neon, Nebula, May Marigold, Harriet, etc.

Fair warning, I had to look up who half these people are. Also fair warning, I’m VERY aroace so writing attraction stuff is hard for me

Also, thanks for liking my darker AUs :]

Ilia I think would be quietly freaking out because she’s been pining for Blake for half a decade, she hasn’t had eyes for another girl for a while. Let alone thought about other girls having eyes for her

Blake was always going to love people who weren’t her. And Ilia is happy for her, truly. And she’s moved on, really. But also she’s very not used to people noticing her

Living most of your romantic life under a mask in a cult will do that to you

It can’t be just the desert temperature. Every woman here is incredibly hot

Coco of course would immediately take Ilia under her wing

A young lesbian getting on the market for the first time? She needs to show this girl the ropes. Nevermind the fact that she’s technically only a year or two older than Ilia

She sees how Ilia keeps looking at her, and Velvet, and the Happy Huntresses, and NDGO. She sees how the Faunus’s spots turn bright pink and she looks away when they turn to talk to her. She sees how whenever any of them ask her to jump, Ilia asks how high

It’s adorable

Ilia’s skittish, that much is obvious. They all are these days, but her more than most. She’s trying to make up for something, amicable to the point of breaking her back. Especially around team RWBY

It’s not her business. They all have their trauma, their own ghosts. But Ilia seems like a good kid. She traveled all the way from Menagerie to join the war effort, so she’s definitely in it for the long haul. And anyone willing to join this nonsense deserves someone to be happy with

Coco will get this girl a date if it’s the last thing she does

[invested-in-your-future]

Do you think that what it meant or means to be a huntress changed between V1-3 and V4 onwards?

I don't think what it means to be a huntress changed. The concept of a huntsman has always been vaguely defined, and it was clear that the occupation means different things to different people as early as V2.

What I do think changed is the feasibility and realism of that concept, if that makes sense.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment when, but "Huntsman/Huntress" had become something that should be viewed within the setting as universally GOOD, culminating with the ridiculous battle against Ace Ops where Ace Ops lost solely because "they didn't have that power of friendship on their side"(even though the narrative itself contradicts that claim as they clearly displayed camaraderie)

Before that, the institution was clearly meant to be viewed as imperfect - even Beacon had bullies and the like. Even Mercury and Emerald would by all means be efficient huntsmen at getting rid of Grimm - were it not for whom they work with. And as ridiculously nonsensical as it was, Lionheart stuff clearly intended to show the fallibility of the institution (in the dumbest possible way, but still).

After all, within the show, the Huntsmen are just there to buy Ozpin time - we never get anything more about what Huntsmen are or what makes them different from militaries(or if the Kingdom military as a concept exists post-war).

In short - the show began with the idea that people like Ruby, Pyrrha, Weiss, and Blake are outliers - rare cases where their choice to be a Huntsman/Huntress is driven by idealism. Majority of Huntsmen were Huntsmen because they were willing to risk their lives for either self-gain or necessity for humanity's survival - Cardin and the like didn't join "because of blind belief in an ideal" and neither did the likes of Branwen siblings(especially true due to the absolutely WTF approach to their backstory) or Winter or even Yang.

The show instead builds a case that naive over-reliance on ideals will always clash against cruel reality, and it's what a person does after that that matters - confronting that is a natural part of adolescence. It's in the show's DNA from the start - from the first Salem/Ozpin monologue - the world is complex, and the value of humanity comes from whether people who believe in its future can find a place within it without being ground to dust by the reality around them.

Yet, by the time Atlas arc crashed as the ridiculous trainwreck it had become, the narrative began treating Ruby-style idealism as the default position of every Huntsman - if you aren't an idealist with strong conviction to ignore reality you are, instantly, "almost evil".

Volume 9 highlights that shift - the story screams at the audience that self-reflection is "evil" and one should ignore their past mistakes because they are already perfect and if one were to have traumatic experiences they are "evil and almost literally a dictator". What's more - Team RWBY are literally given a "divine purpose of blind idealism" by yet another deity thing.

Honestly, I think the show just gave up on exploring what it means to be a Huntsman/Huntress and the imperfections of the system - and alongside that, erased any sort of complex morality for the characters. Instead of delivering characterization for the leads where they can make mistakes, evolve and grow, the show instead had the reality itself give up because "it was simpler to write characters as unchanging".

[strqyr]

Do you have any freezerburn headcanons floatin' around? I'd love to hear them!

idk if these count as headcanons or just fic ideas that i've had over the years, but uuuuuuhhhh

– weiss sometimes hums / quietly sings while she's doing stuff, and yang is absolutely mesmerized by it; so much so that she will pause whatever she was doing atm (or about to do) (which may or may not be an issue. if something caught on fire then that's just how it goes okay)

– yang rating weiss' unintentional jokes / puns with a completely nonsensical rating scale.

– inspired by canon: weiss being inspired by yang and that leading to experimenting with her semblance more like the sword? concept art freezerburn 2.0 attack? sorry ruby and blake but i think weiss "i know we're not as close" schnee has a favorite lol

– can either of them cook? no. will they still try to cook together? yes. 9 out of 10 times it's a complete disaster and the remaining one is food that only the two of them can stomach.

– they would adopt a dog together and it would be the most spoiled dog in the universe.

– yang plans to built a house—a small log cabin in the middle of the woods listen it runs in the family—for them as a surprise but gets too excited about it that she shows it to weiss when it barely has a foundation in place just so that they can built it together exactly like they want. (yeah yeah when i'm with you i'm at home the house doesn't really matter but it's still nice thing to have when their work takes them all across remnant.)

also a little canon-divergent definitely-a-fic-idea-i've-been-meaning-to-write: weiss feeling down during the vytal dance bc as much as atlas is. well. atlas, she was still feeling a bit homesick and she thought planning the dance like it was a gala in atlas would make her feel a little better but it didn't and tbqh there's a lot more to it than that BUT. yang notices, talks to her, and eventually offers that they could 'sneak out' (idk if it's really 'sneaking out' when it's just a dance but they also planned it and kind of acted as hosts so i'm counting it ✌) to vale—there's a festival fairground there that they could spent the night in and have fun—and weiss is unsure but also, yang is already halfway through climbing down from the balcony and it would be really awkward if she had to climb back up and well, weiss really, really wants to go. so they go. and have fun, completely unaware of the goings at beacon's cct tower :)

i think that's all for now. i'm not a huge headcanon person bc i like them to be at least somewhat rooted in canon so i'm always struggling with them like "is this a headcanon or just a fic idea?" no one knows. least of all me.

[derangedanomaly]

SUPER IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER❗️

Regarding my AU, "Over-copy", I'm almost done writing the scripts for the comics, so I've gotta say...

SOMETHINGS WILL BE CHANGING IN THE STORY

I've noticed that I had a lot of nonsensical things in this AU, that didn't made sense. (Like wtf is the goddess of copy?? Why did she even teach Chaos something, if she wants him dead?) These kinds of things didn't made sense to me, I'm also really unsatisfied with the lack of screentime I'm giving some characters, that are pretty important.

So for that, I'm gonna tell you about some things you can look out for (I don't know when they'll be done though, so don't expect everything ON TIME)

1. I'm gonna create the comics starting from the VERY start.

Why did I do this change? Because there's a LOT of things that are left unexplained in this Au. Like, how did Chaos even get to Nightmares castle? What did the creation look like? This is all going to be explained in the comics.

2. Will the comics have any influence on the asks?

The answer is no. The comics of the main story, won't influence the asks, like they did to this very point. It was very stupid of me to connect the asks to the main story.

3. Will the designs change?

No! The designs will stay the same! Except that they'll all change their looks based on how far the story is. Like for example, Chaos. Chaos had the BIGGEST redesign out of all my characters. And I want to keep this aspect in the final story too! (HIS DESIGN STILL STAYS!)

I want to change Chaos the more he strives away from his purpose/code. That will pretty much stay the same!

As for the other designs... (Blake, Diana) I want to change their designs COMPLETELY. I'm not very satisfied with them. I mean, Diana looks like she came out of Disney's movie...

4. YOU CAN EXPECT A NEW CHARACTER

Yes, that's right. There'll be a new character, coming into the picture. Someone entire new. Someone you didn't see before. But I'm not gonna reveal any more! ;)

5. REFERENCE SHEETS

I'm gonna be releasing all the reference sheets, before the story starts! That's probably where you'll meet/see the new character.

6. When will the comics come out? How many parts will it have?

I don't have a date set for the release of the comics, but I do have the parts written out! So far, I have 10 ACTS written.

7. What about the masterlists?

The masterlists will still stay! And I'll still add new asks to it, but the comics of the story, will have a SEPARATE masterlist! (It's also gonna be a less of a mess)

You can ask me any questions if you have any! I'll gladly answer you! I think you have a lot to be excited about!

[bqstqnbruin]

Brock Boeser Teacher AU

I actually think this one might be my favorite one so far.

Also peep the reference to everyone's favorite couple, Blake and Nico

Teacher AU Series

Warnings: None

WC: 1316

___________________

“Hear me out,” Paige says, her friends at the lunch table groaning around her. “No, please.”

“Paige, we’ve been over this,” Gem groans, putting her head in her hands.

“There’s no way you can’t tell me they’re not into each other.”

“You need a different hobby besides thinking about Mr. Boeser and Ms. Valencia.” 

“My mom won’t let me read for fun during the school year, what else do I have?” 

Surya comes back to the table with utensils, looking around at the rest of her friends. “Is she talking about them again?”

“Think about how they were acting on the first day of school.” 

“Are you heading to the assembly?” Brock poked his head into the faculty room where Lennox was sitting with her computer, avoiding her room so she wouldn’t have to deal with the plethora of students that had congregated there before first bell.

“Do we have a choice?” she asks. 

Brock looks behind him, trying to see if any students were still in the hallway. He sees Paige and some of her friends, students he didn’t teach but recognized from around the hallways. He waves at them, not seeing the mischievous look on Paige’s face once she saw Lennox come out of the faculty room beaming at Brock.

The two make their way to the gym, collecting stray students on the way to bring them to their first day of school assembly that the seniors put together every year. 

Brock and Lennox stand off to the side, the other teachers surrounding the perimeter as well. The first day of school video the seniors put together starts playing on the screen in the center of the room. 

“Why do we never use someone from the drama club in these?” Brock leans over and whispers to Lennox. 

She shrugs, not taking her eyes off the screen. “They aren’t the ones who run for council.”

“I think we need to spend more time trying to convince them.”

“That can be one of our personal goals for the year.”

The two continue to whisper throughout the video, laughing silently to each other while trying to keep a straight face. Neither of them was succeeding, but they really didn’t care.

“You can’t tell me two people can look at each other the way they do and not be at least a little into each other,” Paige argues, Gem mumbling something. “What?”

“Have you heard of people being friends?” Gem repeats.

“I have friends,” Paige says, gesturing to everyone at the table.

“You might not for much longer.”

“What about that day in October?”

Gem stutters, checking her phone to see how much time was left before they all could be released from their friends' nonsense. “There are thirty one of them, Paige.” 

“No, I mean,” Paige sighs, turning to Surya. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Surya shrugs, opening the yogurt that was in her lunch box. “I promise you I don’t.”

Lennox sat on her desk, the rest of her students staring at her. “So, none of you did the reading last night?” She crossed her arms over her chest, arching one eyebrow at the students who refused to look at her. “Guys, we’re either having a discussion on the book and I grade you on participation, or I give you a quiz and that’s the grade for today.”

Surya looks at Paige, shrugging at each other. Surya raises her hand, Lennox gesturing to her student. “Nick wasn’t straight.”

Some of the students giggle around her, Lennox smiling and nodding. “Go on.”

“The chapter ends with a him going to lunch with Mr. McKee, it fades to black and then he’s like ‘oh no, not again,’ standing over a mostly naked Mr. McKee in bed.”

Lennox bites her lip, holding back a comment on Surya’s, ‘oh no,’ that would not be appropriate to say in front of students. She reaches back to her plan book, writing it down, making a note for Surya’s participation. She looks around the room, seeing some of the students writing, hoping that it meant they were taking notes and trying to participate in that way. “And why would that be important?”

One of her other students, Jamie, raises their hand. “Isn’t there that argument that he’s in love with Gatsby?”

A few of the students murmur in agreement. “So I ask again, why is that important?”

Before Lennox can call on another student, Brock knocks on the door, all of the students' heads whipping around. Paige rapidly pats Surya on the arm, Surya trying her best to swat her away as they watch Brock walk into Lennox’s classroom, handing her a note and leaving just as quickly. They didn’t see Brock wink at her, Lennox tucking the note into her book to get back to her lesson.

“So,” Lennox asks, clearing her throat. “Where were we?”

“Nick is gay for Gatsby,” someone in the back corner calls out, the students bursting into laughter.

“Ok, ok,” Lennox says, getting up from her desk and going over to her board. She uncaps a marker and writes ‘Nick in love w/Gatsby?’

The students start discussing the implications of the narrator being in love with the titular character, Lennox sliding the note out of her book while her students were distracted. She didn’t notice Paige watching her face light up at the note, dying to know what it said. 

“That had to mean something.”

“Sometimes the curtains are really just blue, Paige,” Gem rolls her eyes.

“Ok, but what about the sweatshirt?”

“Sometimes the sweatshirt is just a sweatshirt.”

“Mr. B, why is it so cold in here?” Paige asks, rubbing her arms to try to warm them up.

Brock gestures to the windows in the back of his classroom, one of them with a noticeable crack in it that hadn’t been there the day before. “The gold foil experiment from yesterday didn’t go well with fifth period.” 

The rest of the students file in, all of them mumbling about the noticeable difference in temperature between the hallway and the class. “Ok, ok, settle down, I have the door open.” Brock says, starting class. “We have our atomic timeline projects that are due next week, and since I know none of you are going to pay attention to notes in this room, we’re working on those instead.” 

“Hey, Mr. B?” Paige asks while the rest of the students are taking out their laptops.

“What’s up?”

“Why are you wearing Ms. Val’s sweatshirt?”

Brock looks at his sleeve, Lennox’s last name on his arm as he tries to hide his smile at the sight of it. “She’s smarter than I am so she leaves a sweatshirt here. I just asked if I could borrow it for today.”

“That was nice of her,” Paige smiles, Brock shaking his head.

“Paige, no. This doesn’t mean anything.” He knew that there was the rumor of him and Lennox being together, and he knew Paige well enough to know what her smile meant. “My cousin Blake borrowed another teacher's sweatshirt once and all of their students went insane. We are not doing that today. Work on your project.”

“He wouldn’t bring up another teacher if it didn’t mean anything. I found Blake on Instagram, and they are totally dating one of their coworkers,” Paige, says, pulling up Blakes account and showing her friends of Mr. Boeser’s cousin and their boyfriend.

“We need to stage an intervention,” Gem says.

“Yeah, Paige, this is going way too far,” Surya adds.

One of the seniors, Jackie, walks by their lunch table. “Are you guys talking about Boeser and Valencia?” Paige nods eagerly, her face lighting up. “Ms. Val is my homeroom teacher. They’re totally dating.”

Paige’s mouth falls open as Jackie walks away, ignoring the look of fear on all her friends' faces as her excitement grows. “This is so much better.”

[eepy-whumpee]

carrying someone bridal style seems a lot more difficult than the whump community lets on, so I like to imagine whumpee clinging as close as humanly possible, terrified of being dropped

[goat-boy-sounds]

waiting

"I've got something for you," whumper takes one of their gloves off, then raises their naked hand up. there's nothing there, just a hand, and it isn't until this moment that whumpee realizes they've never actually seen whumper without their gloves on.

that's all it is:

a hand.

is that it? of course, it isn't.

whumpee doesn't move. doesn't say a thing. they've never been a very expressive person, but nowadays, it's hard for whumper to get much out them other than a few grimaces.

whumper gives a long exhale... "I'm gonna be honest, I've been waiting a really long time to see how you'd react to this," and it's in the split-second that whumper's hand moves closer that something static smothers whumpee's brain:

oh no.

the hand grabs whumpee's shoulder. softly. firmly. both everything and not enough. whumpee looks at the floor before they even know what they're doing.

and the hand trails down to their upper-arm-- to the skin below the sleeve.

that's-- that's not--

-- it's warm. it's really warm.

everything in whumpee's body freezes. whumper's thumb digs in a bit, rubbing circles.

whumpee makes a noise.

whumper smiles apologetically, "you're okay." their hand grabs the back of whumpee's neck, still rubbing circles.

whumpee's face softens against their will. their breathing's slowing. like they've been drugged.

whumper moves to their jaw. starts scratching at it like whumpee's a freaking dog, and...

that feels good.

whumpee starts to go limp.

"easy there," whumper's voice is quiet. they drag their thumb across whumpee's forehead, "I didn't realize it'd be this... easy. huh?"

[fleetways-universe]

Now whoa whoa whoa, Hold on a second! I'm trying to make amends with you, Ok? Your response last night was uncalled for, and you're clearly leaving out the fact that i left you alone for a whole month, so I could give you some space before appolozing, a friend of mine clearly gave me advice to give you a month or two before talking to you again, that's why I waited that long before addressing this incident to you again, and how in the freaking hell was I supposed to know that you had gotten over it? You shut me out in the last conversation after you misinterpreted my response, so don't start that nonsense with me, i have already had a bad day as it was, you could of at least told me you were over it instead of making me feel bad about myself to have me write that apology letter, I apologize If I'm sounding a bit stern but don't you think your being a bit irrational right now? And what do you mean by laughable, are you making fun of my behavior or something? It would ne really swell if you could just seriously stop throwing all negativity towards me, why must you still shut me out, why can't you just accept my apology and let us have a nice conversation again? I know i cant fix whats already been done, and yes i do want to move on from this, but not in a way that involves me not being able to talk to you anymore, and like dont say stuff to me like i had my chance, or something to make me feel even more bad about myself, i was stupid then, and stop making me look more stupid if thats what you're trying make it sound like, Can you please just forgive me please? And I'll still watch your video, and would like to hear updates on your story as well.

Not only do I have evidence if you being persistent in talking to me when I made it CLEAR I want no part of it, you GASLIGHTED me saying I’m acting IRRATIONAL for wanting you to end the conversation. No wonder Blake and the others were annoyed by you. While they’re shitty people you crossed obvious boundaries with them. Enough is enough!

All because you wanted me to write shitty characters you’re obsessed with, that’ll have no relation to my version of Sonic Multiverse. You tried to guilt trip me; the attempts at it were what was laughable and pathetic. Here’s a great piece of advice.

✨Grow up ✨

Don’t contact me again.

[mythserene]

My favorite Mark Lewisohn Arguing in the Citations: “Was Alistair even there??”

My answer to my sister Lewisohn Investigator, @wingsoverlagos

Mark Lewisohn throws out sources for fun, but the more you study him the more you also discover his use of concealed sources. Like in the entirety of the Epstein-meets-the-Beatles/“Paul-was-trying-to-sabotage-Brian” sections there are huge swaths of detail with zero citations, but one person Lewisohn relies on heavily throughout them is Alistair Taylor. Not for any of that sabotage nonsense, but for lots of other little details. But Lewisohn also doesn't want to cite him because Taylor contradicts much of Lewisohn's reworked narrative and pointing to Taylor's book would be tantamount to giving away the Lewisohn Bullshit Decoder Ring. Truly. And so Lewisohn hides him and is mostly intent on writing Alistair out of the story, except for a few minor walk-on moments where he has no choice.

And there is one place where that gets VERY WEIRD.

Remember how Lewisohn mused that maybe Paul wasn't around for John after Julia's death?

“Asked some years later to describe how he’d been able to help John cope with the loss of Julia, Paul could remember nothing of the period at all. It could be they didn’t see much of each other in the summer of 1958.”

This is like that, but less malevolent and way more stupid.

In Chapter 23: The Boys, regarding the contract, Lewisohn writes that there was a clause saying Brian could have managed the Beatles separately, and that Paul said he'd still be “shooting for stardom” if the Beatles' flopped:

One additional clause (7) specified, "The manager may at any time if he so desires split up the Artistes with whom this Agreement is made so that they shall perform as separate individual per-formers." This was probably nothing more than a hangover from the sample contract, or perhaps it reflected Brian's thinking after (as Alistair Taylor alone would claim, without verification) Paul had said he hoped the Beatles would be successful as a group, but, if they weren't, he'd still be shooting for stardom-presumably alone. (28)

The citation reads:

28 - A Secret History, by Alistair Taylor (John Blake Publishing, London, 2001), p29. Taylor spoke as if he was present at the first management meeting (or meetings), and perhaps he was, but no one else mentioned him.

Doesn't Lewisohn make Taylor sound like the biggest liar on earth? I can hear his sneer from the printed page. “I mean, he alone claims this without verification, and besides that, no one else even mentioned him being there.”

Alistair Taylor is literally THE WITNESS ON THE FUCKING CONTRACT what are you talking about??? 😭 He was clearly with Brian all the time, and we only have a lot of this detail that Lewisohn relies on because of him.

Now, true, Lewisohn does not say that Alistair wasn't there when they signed the contract in this footnote about the contract. He technically says “first meeting or meetings,” but that is what he does. He splits hairs so fine that they blur, and he knows how he means to come across and will come across. (And yes, he does—just barely—mention that Alistair Taylor did witness the contract, while somehow also not putting him in the room and almost disappearing his signature. Not fully, but you can see how he writes it for yourself.)

[itsclydebitches]

It astounds me that CRWBY can have the whole volume's 'character arc' resting on the idea that Ruby doesn't need to be perfect and that her friends aren't expecting her to be, only for her heroic entrance in the climax to be followed by her team mates basically going "If she wasn't perfect, we wouldn't follow her.". They've already failed to effectively establish a character arc and somehow STILL manage to undermine it.

Unfortunately, that's RWBY's go-to writing style: put forth a straightforward character arc, but then fail to consider how everything surrounding it may undermine that journey. RT seems to continually believe that The Message of the show is separate from everything else we see on screen, rather than realizing they're two sides of the same coin; a fictional series of evidence supporting a fictionalized argument. You can't have a character proclaim, "I've learned to be charitable!" and then show numerous scenes where they're being unnecessarily stingy. That's a head and a tails that simply don't fit.

Cat: You’re broken! You break everything you touch! I call Humans… weak! Confused! Incomplete! Weiss: No, you’re wrong. Yang: She’s never been any of those things. Blake: That’s why we follow her.

Unlike my above example though, RWBY is usually a bit more complicated. Here, the Cat tosses out accurate and inaccurate accusations, making it that much easier for viewers to simply ignore the ways in which this moment doesn't support Ruby's arc because look, some of what he's saying is nonsense. Personally, I disagree with "broken" and "incomplete"—especially with those two descriptors leveled partly at Yang—but confused? Frequently. Weak? Yes, that's a part of life; a challenge to overcome. Breaking everything they touch? Not everything, but a large part of Volume 9's reflection was supposedly them acknowledging how massively they messed up in Atlas. So... yeah. Things have been broken, on a literal and metaphorical level. Why would the heroes deny that in the final hour?

The purpose of Ruby's arc was meant to be accepting her flaws to the point where she can work to move past them. There's a fine line between acknowledging that people are imperfect while likewise acknowledging our responsibility to continually improve. It's not an excuse or a pessimistic declaration, yet Volume 9 started by denying the impact that their failure has had on others—Who cares that an entire Kingdom is gone? We tried our best and that's all that will ever matter!—and ends with the girls denying that those flaws exist at all. "You're wrong... She’s never been any of those things." Ruby has never been weak? Or confused? She's never fucked up? Huh, I thought this arc was explicitly showing how weak and confused and a failure she's been, to the point where those emotions drove her to a magical suicide. Worse than simply erasing Ruby's (already near non-existent) growth though, this moment—as you say, anon—suddenly paints Ruby as perfect when the whole POINT was for her to realize she didn't have to be. Her team turns her into an archetype on a pedestal, rather than a living, breathing, flawed person who needs support. Ruby is never confused. She's never weak. She's never lacked anything within her sense of identity. She's never made horrific mistakes. She is the PERFECT leader and that is why we follow her. Insert the implication here that a flawed Ruby would be abandoned by her team, AKA the very fear she expressed earlier that day:

Ruby from a few hours ago: "Why do I have to be the leader, anyway? Why do I always have to be the one to pick people up? What about me? ... Gotta find someone who isn't going to just screw everything up! Gotta stay positive, right? Smiles all around!"

RWBY is so frustrating because we have these scenes where multiple narrative problems are combining. I hate that they have Ruby complaining about being leader when she continually demanded that responsibility, to the point of actual Kingdom-wide destruction, and I hate that she's simultaneously right to be upset with how her team has been treating her. RWBY fails on both fronts by giving us a hero who is incapable of acknowledging her own screwups without making a whole production of it (Ruby's breakdown, though understandable, puts her in the position of a victim in need of comfort, rather than the responsible party who needs to own up to those mistakes) and it gives us a hero who expresses a need to be treated like a human being... only for her team to turn around and deny a large chunk of what makes her human.

None of which even gets into the iffy human/faunus dichotomy and how these definitions of humanity apply to Blake...

I love you just the way you are, says Summer, talking to a literal toddler who has not caused irreparable damage in a war. What about me? screams Ruby, someone who has made it all about her since she ignored Qrow's advice and ran after Cinder. We never expected her to be perfect, says Yang, and she's kinda right because the story has consistently shown Ruby demanding this responsibility, not having it placed on her shoulders. We follow Ruby because she's perfect, says the team, obliterating this Volume's arc that was already contradicting the rest of the series. This show is a MESS, says Clyde, banging her head against the metaphorical wall.