#especially violent smut in these characters' tags

[blackstarising]

sowing (getting more men of color as antagonists and or villains in media which is indeed sexy and great) and reaping (fandom primarily associating them with sexual aggression and animalistic traits and not giving them the same emotional and intellectual depth they do for white antagonists for Some Reason)

[kazutora-kurokawa]

Heyyyy, omg can I ask for nsfw headcanons for haitani brothers, hanma, baji, kawata brother and shion with a reader who has a extremely high libido 😼

TokRev x High Libido!Reader

♡ NSFW, fem reader, pet names, roughness + fluff, praise + degradation, Hanma lowkey being a jackass ♡

Characters: Ran, Rin, Hanma, Baji, Nahoya, Souya, Shion

note: Just some short headcanons, thank you anon 🩷

note 2: Writing smut while I'm on my period is so therapeutic for some reason

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Ran

💜 Doesn't mind your high libido because he has one too

💜 Mutual masturbation + phone sex

💜 Teases you when you're needy

💜 Lazy morning sex 🔛🔝

💜 He lets you ride him as soon as he wakes up

"My pretty baby~ so needy for me early in the morning ♡"

Rindou

🩵 Soft boi hours fr

🩵 Eats you out before he fucks you

🩵 Fucks you like he loves you because he does

🩵 Praises you nonstop and loves listening to you whimper and moan for more

🩵 Doesn't stop til you tell him to even if he's tired, he lives to please you

"It's okay princess, imma make you cum okay?"

Hanma

🏵️ Teases you about your high sex drive and laughs when you get upset

🏵️ Doesn't let you touch yourself because you're his to touch

🏵️ Lets you sit in his lap and grind yourself on him

🏵️ Degrades you while you beg for him to fuck you

"Aww my little slut wants me to fuck her? You're gonna have to beg me better than that baby ♡"

Baji

🪷 Bites you during sex to mark you as his, you always wake up the next day looking like you were the main dish at a vampire buffet

🪷 Loves when you leave nail marks down his back (he'd proudly show them off to Chifuyu too 💀)

🪷 Laughs at you when you beg for him to fuck you because he was going to even if you didn't beg

🪷 Eats you out til you're overstimulated

"What's wrong cutie? You begged me for it and now you're a whiny little mess~"

Nahoya

🌟 Thigh riding + ass slapping (he'd probably slap your pussy too if you let him)

🌟 Grips your thighs hard enough to leave marks

🌟 Likes when you pull on his hair, takes it as a sign to be rougher

🌟 Curses the whole time you two fuck

"Fuck baby, pussy gripping me fucking so good. I'm gonna make sure you can't walk in the morning ~"

Souya

💠 Doesn't mind your high sex drive, but his is definitely lower

💠 Moans louder than you when you fuck, you're just so tight and warm

💠 Loves when you ride him, especially when he gets home from working at the ramen shop, it's a great stress reliever

💠 He'll let you keep riding him even if he's tired and overstimulated, he just wants you to feel good

"You look so beautiful on top of me babygirl, keep going til you're satisfied~"

Shion

🖤 He may be a violent delinquent, but he's a major softie for you

🖤 Obsessed with your high sex drive and always makes time to fuck you

🖤 Prefers to fuck in private, but will do it in public if you beg him enough

🖤 He whimpers when you suck him off

🖤 Has to go slow when he fucks you so he doesn't cum too fast, but you always end up fucking yourself onto his cock faster

"Shit! Slow down please, I ain't tryna cum just yet pretty girl~"

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Tagging @arlerts-angel and @i-literally-cant-with-this

[joannasteez]

starship pain

pairing: cody rhodes x reader , cm punk x reader warning: explicit content (smut) minors pls dni. angst. emotional infidelity? loads of description!!! a lot of space related metaphors. authors note: lovely little request from @harmshake i hope i did your idea some justice. this takes place after mania. somethings are changed and switched around to fit my ideas. so it's a bit of an alternative universe from present kayfabe. the one flashback i have in this has a little red text noting when in the timeline of the year its set in!! word count: 14k tagging: @333creolelady @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae @coyotegirl-ramblings @luchorgasm @xbriexx @wanna-see-my-lease

...what gives a star it's character?...

temperature

color

mass

luminosity 

size 

...and with the display of such magnificent character, do stars not go about tirelessly with the work of inspiring awe? living wondrously bright amidst the deafening swallow of that deep void called space, so much so, that even with great distance, they exist bold enough to be witnessed. if so, then can we not be stars too? though not as great, can we not aspire, with terrible diligence, to be as breathtaking?... 

and with the conclusion of wrestlemania forty, the philadelphia crowd erupts thunderous. earsplitting even. the american nightmare, cody rhodes, kneeling with tears at the heart of the ring. clutching the weight of the title belt. gold in hand, the newly crowned undisputed wwe universal champion. the hearts, minds, joys and displeasures of the people performing well to revolve in orbit around such star-like greatness.

"your moonsault needs a bit of work still". your father's voice coarse from age. his eyes unblinking. a perfectionist's stare. his penchant for over examination as lively as the sun. existing still even with the residual thrill of wrestlemania. "you're hesitating too much before you press off'. 

you sigh. small enough that it goes incomprehensible. sipping at early afternoon coffee complimentary of the hotel. "it was just nerves pop", you give. because facing rhea ripley for the title, center stage in front of thousands was no easy feat. preparation took a back seat, amongst the lights and screams and hard bumps to the body. it was natural to have a seconds worth of overthought. "the match was fine'.

because it was fine. it was good. great even. two women telling a story with the violent bursting and clash of their bodies. loss be damned. it felt good to withstand the cold. to toil through limitation so fiercely. an easy break of a glass ceiling that worked well to loom above your head for some time. but your hall of fame of a father couldn't see pass the minor inconsistencies. a scrutinizer to the greatest degree. 

"you should come by the gym soon. we can catch up. work through a few things together'". 

catch up and work through meaning your body bouncing off a turn buckle till his satisfaction reached a good, sore, exhaustion. you pivot quickly at the thought of it. at the thought of drilling through moves and the terse cut of his voice. 

you pick up your phone, hearing the shift of feet from across the hotel room. another sip of coffee that plays well over the soft closing of the bathroom door. because your father didn't need to know the details of your latest tryst. especially so soon after the events of the biggest sports entertainment night of the year. everything to him, that isn't the four sided ring, a distraction. 

you smile. "doesn't sound like anything's wrong with my wrestling. sounds like you miss me". 

he softens. blinks his eyes and lets his pride show through a small smile. "any father in their right mind would". 

"so then say it".

"your moonsault is near flawless...", he gives. like relenting but not really. "...and i miss you". 

the bedsheets ruffle behind you. your cue to end the moment before it has the chance to sour.

"we'll talk later", you give. "i have to go". 

"alright. be good".

the face time call ends. gentle touching steps along the carpet of your hotel bedroom before you're slipping under puffy sheets. the philadelphia sun bursting beyond thin curtains to shape his face. blue eyes more sky than ocean under such bright warmth. his fingers quick to pull against your body. slipping up and over with a tender maneuvering till you lay against him like he seems to like. a drawn tune of a hum singing, your weight pressing in to comfort the sore, exhausted champion. his neck craning, rushing with movement to follow the run of your touch over his scalp and across the apple of his cheek. lips dipping into the heart of your palm. 

"did i wake you?", you ask. 

"no", cody gives. voice tired. "my phones been going crazy all morning". 

your thumb caresses just beneath his bottom lip. soft and sweeping. "as expected. the price goes up when you're the champ. so does the attention". 

"is that right?", tone suggestive. eyes a heavy linger along your lips. 

you oblige him. a small sweet reward for all his tiresome effort. your lips, sweet and rich, tasting of coffee as they meet his. a tender meshing before they slip to slot passionate. his fingers curling into your hips. a venture to endear you, moaning lazy as his body forms deeper into the sheets. mouths parting only so his indulgences can lead him else where. wet, tongue led kisses along your pulse. hot breath and the dull graze of his teeth. surely overwrought still by the thrill of the night before. this morning version of him performing with a delirious high. his every touch sure and firm. the hands of a champion. 

"how does it feel?" 

a deep breath. weighing the question with silence. finding a home for his yet to be spoken thoughts in the dip of your neck. the part of his lips there producing a shiver up your spine. 

"good. it feels good". the shine in his eyes threatening to wane. "scary. now i have to actually carry it. do some good with it". 

you kiss him sweetly. a plant of reassurance. "you will". words kind as you roll on your side to face him. catching the beginnings of an etch in of adoration as he fails to look away from you. a semblance of something near unpleasant troubling your chest. like being under the weight of his gaze is too much to bare. 

"thank you for being here". 

"of course". 

"i couldn't get to you properly last night. it all moved so fast after the match. one thing after the other". 

you find yourself ruffling through his hair again. your own will, making to ingratiate your senses to him. like staining the skin to lay a good base for memory. "it's ok. m'here now", mouth on him. an urge that lives with imperfections, your tongue flicking soft, lapping over sweetly till it works away that ambivalent trouble in your belly. urges growing greater by the second till they form with an edge too defined to ignore. eager now, to feel him against skin. the way the mellow heat of him flares under your palm, melting the worry till it runs off into desire. this performance of a great gravitational pull.

regulating yourself to one drink for the night is a testier task than originally thought, but it works well enough. the celebratory buzz of the room filling in where the warmth of liquor doesn't. the philadelphia skyline sparkling the dark chill of the night as the closed in rooftop swells up to a comfortable fullness. wrestling stars at every corner. drinks in hand and simple, cheery conversation. the scene of it all, once a dream, talked of and imagined, now a reality as you maneuver amidst it all.

a firm take to your arm pulls you toward the secrecy of a corner. your lips failing to keep away from a pull up of excitement. heels clicking to keep the pace as you're rounded about a tall column and tucked away behind it. cody pressing in. a lazy little kiss against your mouth that tastes like his drink of choice. the glass clutched in his hand still, attempting not to spill it. 

not so long after your intimate morning did you both part. post-mania obligations too much of a priority to ignore. 

his free hand slips into the slit of your dress. fingers curling into your thigh. a silky brown number that matches his undone suit. his tie loose, his jacket gone and the vest unbuttoned. cheeks dusted a faint pink. his mouth pressing into your pulse. housing there to feel the warmth corralling under the skin. 

and with only a few weeks of this relationship have you confirmed just how affectionate cody is. his every touch made to linger, his smile luminous and his words warm as they work tirelessly to sink into skin. 

"you look", a kiss to your cheek. "absolutely beautiful angel", and another to your mouth. 

you smile. lip tucking under your teeth. "thank you". fingers running to crease his shirt. pulling him closer. the curt shuffle of his shoes clicking forward as your back flushes up into the corner. your eyes sweeping over his mouth. reaching to lick in for a kiss that makes him groan. "you look good too". tasting the bitterness washing his tongue before going in for more. "very good", a purr of a moan floating in that makes his breath hitch before he's groaning soft. a mindless overworking of nerves you're sure. because the weeks with him thus far—albeit fresh—have been nothing short of a teasing game. heavy traveling and the looming possibility of a good passion not yet explored. that trouble in your belly shortening the full breath of your desires. 

you break for air, remembering where you are. he downs the rest of his drink. clutching the glass still. 

"you had a lot to drink?", you ask. wiping at his mouth with your thumb. licking at the residual bits of liquor.

his eyes trailing over your lips. unhurried to meet back at your eyes. "not too much. this was my last. m'tappin out early". 

"good", you give. tugging at the undone part of his vest. keeping him flushed up against you so that the strength of his cologne steeps in. "cause i need you sober. we have unfinished business". 

his free hand still finds itself making a home beyond the slit of your dress. kneading just where your thigh rounds out into the supple flesh of your bottom. a firm squeeze that's all possession. the action risky, but exhilaratingly so. his words toughing out with a groaning. "fuck the party then". 

"no. enjoy it". slipping from under him slowly. "we'll have plenty of time later". 

a final look of promise before you click away. deep tempering breaths that work to quell your own rise of desire. cheeks hot and your body beneath the delicate dress teeming with the memory of his touch. sensations comfortable enough that they leave you wanting. borderline desperate. but yes, what lives of the the draw, the pull of him, all a symptom of simple necessity. his everything sure enough to fall into. a security exacting to an almost bothersome degree. but maybe this full consumption isn't a bad thing, after past failures and flings too loose and undefined. shapeless, wordless things. maybe cody is what you need. your body tucking to lean into the wall that meets the end of the rooftop bar. "gin and tonic", you order. 

soft clutching hands at your shoulder. you turn. bianca belair beaming with excited knowing eyes and a smirk. "you got blondie real red in the face", she starts. slipping up next to you. "no thoughts, just half of a three piece suit and a vibe". 

you smile with her. feeling heat in your cheeks and a swirl in your belly. the intimacy of your relationship with cody no outright secret, but the confirmation of it never really reaching the great private sphere of your friends and friendly acquaintances. because it was business only yours and cody's to keep or share, but bianca is a good friend. closer than most. a former tag team partner. a nxt sister. and the playfulness of her curiosities were always as fun to indulge in as they were to hear. 

"a real nasty vibe", you chuckle. "that man was trying to give ya'll a PLE from the corner. i had to slip away while i could". 

"and i get it cause this brown and gold!?", her hand taking yours to spin you around. appraising the the beauty of your dress and accessories. her fingers dabbing up under an eye and sniffling with faux tears. "i taught you so well". 

"you really did". 

both of you laughing and sipping at your drinks. 

"is it serious?", her tone shifting firm. 

the question forcing you into a bout of consideration you've attempted to stray from on many occasions. but it's crucial nonetheless. a conclusion you'll have to come to regardless. 

"i mean, i don't know". thumb rubbing against the chill of your glass. taking to a silent mull over. the past few weeks or so a whirlwind of affection. secret rendezvous' and late night calls. the tenderness of him working with an endless drive, even amongst the world of work set before the both of you. "we're slow burning it a bit but i think the end goal for him is to have something serious". 

and your wording doesn't go unnoticed, not that you want it to. some part of you maybe looking to gain some much needed perspective. a nudge in the direction you feel is necessary. and she doesn't fail in delivering it. "you deserve something stable. the casual shit is cool but it's not forever". 

you sigh. memory serving well of your former trysts with a different superstar. "i agreed on that being casual".

"you can agree to a lot when you think the dick is good". sipping at her drink. "he's here by the way". 

and if you pretend not be be affected by the possibility of seeing him, of being seen by him, then doesn't that null the existence of the feeling all together? that twist in of nerves in your belly. residual things, like words and perhaps sentiments left to wander the void of space formally known as a very casual but fevered, undefined union of legs and lips. a deep passion left to succumb to the suffocating elements of space and time. 

"i figured he'd be".

his name is a draw. of money, eyes and thoughts. his return causing this gravitational pull of the people, controversial or otherwise. a veteran in his own right. for him not to be seen at a celebration of the greatest night in their business would be confounded and weird. 

"you good with all that though? i know it ended kinda all of a sudden". 

from passion all the time to none at all. hour long drives and last minute flights. apartments and not so high floor hotel rooms. his name seemingly forever written into the slip and work of your tongue. free and casual but still working so sure in that space of passion that the feeling of being beholden to one another felt more truer by the day. living too sporadically—and maybe too unrestrained—still though, to last well enough on its own. because without the consistency of light, how is anything sure to grow? and then in came cody, prying away your attention with the ease and experience of a star born to evoke awe. his light pleasant and safe. 

you shrug. "you live and learn, you move on. i'm good where i am". 

bianca smiles. her arms a nice embrace. "as you should be. m'happy for you".

"thank you", you give. her warmth contagious. your body squeezing into the hug. 

and when she's called away, montez drunkenly whisking his wife to another corner of the room, she parts with an apologetic smile. mouthing "sorry", as her sloshed to capacity of a husband drags her along with him. leaving you to live alone at the end of the bar, newly made acknowledgements of your relationship resting over you thickly. a tight take of adrenaline to your nerves. small sips of your drink working only to occupy your hands. unwilling to decipher the root of such a rush. fear or excitement. either way, the feeling of it drops your belly and leaves the tiny hairs everywhere to stand on end. because this has happened before, drawing too close to the power of a star too soon, burning amongst the void before the possibility of impact. 

shoes click, approaching beside you. his cologne familiar. a scent made to intrigue. memory slipping in to harshen the roll over happening in your belly. of course he'd be here. the self proclaimed 'best in the world', the second city saint, the straight edged superstar. after some months of nothing, cm punk is alive and looking too well for you to stand. 

you sip again. a cool lean up again the wall. eyes patient as they go about examining him whole. his doing just the same. 

he looks good in a suit, much to your dismay. 

"you clean up well", you give. meeting his eyes. standing firm against the heaviness of his gaze. 

"so i've been told", slipping closer. his body leaning up against the bar to rest just as coolly as you have against the wall. a casual disposition so incredibly indicative of your times together. "you look beautiful. nothing new for you though".

"you're letting your grays grow out again". 

"a new era, a new look". his palm smoothening over the salt and pepper patches of hair. a smile running through his lips. "you always did like them". 

a fight to arrest the heat in your cheeks and old memories. "so what, this is about me?"

"such a smart girl", he chuckles. "i love it when you state the obvious". 

you grin at his teasing. "i just had one of the most important nights of my life', shoving up against him playfully. "you can't be a dick to me". 

"you did well by the way". a sincerity that makes something bloom over the skin. a jittered feeling you choose to ignore as he continues. "a nice bag of new little moves and tricks, it was good shit for your first mania. get rid of that moonsault though, it doesn't fit you". 

you scoff. "oh cause you know what fits". 

body bracing for impact just after such a wild take to flight. the words leaving before you can think them over. his shoulders shaking as he laughs. 

"i've had the pleasure of knowing a time or two". 

"oh fuck you punk". 

"i mean...", dark earthy eyes sweeping over your lips. a lazy, patient journey over your body. a show of his appraisal. "...i don't know if you can. given your new boy toy and all". 

"i'm bound to get a new toy if the old one breaks". not that cody is a toy. no. he's no play thing in the slightest. a sudden need to defend him in that right springing up till its thick in your mouth. stitching into words. his every intention appearing precise and laid bare. sweet gestures and impassioned words. his everything lingering long enough for you to notice. "it's a lot more serious than you think". 

"so it seems", voice neutral, but appearing in his eyes to live, these little slivers of disappointment. 

its something not meant to harp on for the sake of your own peace. but they try their damnedest to penetrate. working diligent. enough for the air to feel too warm and thick to breathe in. your barely touched drink a nuisance and the friendly crowd of the celebration too much to handle. and thank God for cody, your attention catching his motions for you. slipping through the crowd to head for the entry-exit doors. a make to leave as he catches your eyes to join him. 

"i should...i should go-"

"that's a smart decision". 

cody's tongue tastes like his drink of choice. room temperature whiskey. the lap of it lazy and patient, aiming to steep into the palate. his lips soft, twisting wet as they go about the work of ingratiating the senses. his hands following suit. a tight journey over the skin, heat flaring up in the wake of such an ardent touch. curling in to leave cratered impressions. his movements breathtaking, your body hoisted up in his arms before you're bouncing into the fluff of the bed. persistent fingers and his mouth ready, tongue dipping into where your body pliantly unfolds for him. your legs spreading with guidance. an exposure to the air that pulls a shiver through the body. 

"so pretty", musing to himself. tongue slipping deep. warm and wet and earnest. groaning from a pleasure that comes with pleasure. your inner thighs suffering under the gripping weight of his touch. a steady hold that keeps you open for him. "been thinkin about this all day". 

you hiss. touch filled with delirium. your belly overwrought and filling in hot. skin breaking away from the chilly philadelphia air. your hips testing their limits. a gentle swing up that catches against the rhythm of his mouth. a sweet suckle to your clit that shortens the air in your chest.

his thumb joins the fray. teases the messy drool of arousal pooling to drip lazy like. a dull circling at that broaches the possibility but nothing more. leaving you with the desire to be filled to the hilt. your pussy pulsing hard against his tongue. clenching about nothing, waiting impatient as he revels in his own play at giving pleasure.

"cody please", voice near broken. a sweet little plea. 

he leaves you spread. watches your little performance of appeal. nails painted a color that leaves a beautiful contrast against your soft skin. slipping sweet at the bud of your clit. holding his eyes. enchantment and lust. the light of his desire bright enough that it reflects beautifully off your skin. curving its way up the body. paints itself warm over the work of your pleasure. melting in till its swirling heavy at the base of your belly. a sensation that grows easy. another groan erupting, surely from that clinging sensation you've bought to his tongue. pulsing and shivering. singing and moaning wispy for him. a full consumption that breaks the resolve you've built so easily. and when his thumb sinks into the fat of your clit, circling deep and persistent, you sink further into the sheets. a sharp "fuck", breaking into the air. your nerves unruly as they go in their frenzy. 

your body drunk, senses beautifully askew. a quick to arrive release that speaks to his determination. 

his mouth messy and slipping over your inner thighs. working to kiss your belly and through the valley of your breast. tongue peaking before it flattens over the perk of your nipples. an involuntary rut in your hips rushing up into him. the sensation like kindling for a fire. 

you taste yourself. pulling your lips to his. the whiskey and that dangerous steep in of your own arousal. his hands nailed into the sheets. your own freeing him from his underwear. hot and hard in your hand. slipping him through slick arousal, to feel how awfully ready he is for you, before you're guiding him in with a desperate hand. head tipping into the bed as you feel the wet split as he goes. a hiss of enjoyment as he deepens, resting just over the end of you. 

cody hums. diving his nose into the scent of your perfume. the stain of it at your neck arresting him. hips knocking in firm. deft and easy. working you open to take him. 

your palms sweep over muscle. to layer over that already laid foundation of memory.  his back taut and strong. nails clawing in as he fills you whole. your lips parting. breaths taken. belly coiling with the threat of release. and here the work of taking him in feels more than good. that troubling knot of ambivalence that once warred beneath the skin, trampled upon with a temporary defeat, as his hips work steadily. 

"you feel so good", a moaning drawl of words. 

an admission that slips its way to settling into thick air. performing well enough to saturate the room. and its true. cody feels good. amazing. his warmth gentle, and his everything near flawless.

the man wrapped in your arms, the reigning undisputed universal champion, is only near flawless. this, a thought that slips deep into your conscience. taking root aggressively so. but are stars not perfect in shape? bright and the enormity of them sensational. great enough in size that the draw of them from within performs well enough to gather equally at every side. a faultless sphere of a shape indeed. and has he not—in spite of your damning early morning sentiments—taken on that part of a stars character? wearing it warm and well. the wrestling world revolving to orbit his dazzling spectacle of victory amongst the mania. then what of it could be so wrong as to call him only near flawless and not flawless simply? the touch of his skin and the pull of his lips gracious even in hunger and looking to consume. a ready made heat not so dissimilar to a great star. 

it's clear. so very fucking clear, amidst the slow creep in of the morning, as your phone vibrates with a call, just where the doubt reeks from. 

'the best in the world' showing up as caller ID. because you never changed the name. because you never had the heart to leave him nameless even. slipping from the sheets, from the comfortable weight of cody's body. a fluffy robe over your skin as you slide the balcony doors of the hotel room open. answering his call. 

those slivers of disappointment in his eyes from last night. performing well enough to disrupt your feelings. like the grand effects of a solar flare. 

"have breakfast with me", he starts. 

no preamble to give you room to deflect. a sigh heavy as it leaves you. his morning voice coarse and unfortunately satisfying. maybe you should've stayed in bed. wrapped yourself deeper beneath the sheets and the lay over of cody's body. 

"we lose a little contact and you forget your manners. that's unfortunate". 

he chuckles. "please?"

"that took a lot out of you huh?" 

"not really". a dramatic little pause, because punk does have a flare for it. albeit in small doses, in his own way. and you can feel him smiling through the phone. can feel the change in tone just before he can give it. "begging is just usually more your thing than it is mine". 

and the truth only hurts, vexes the nerve so, because it is the truth. because it has life. breathing and smiling with the sole objective of tethering itself ungraciously to every little thing you do. 

"can you not?" 

"you like it".

slivers of guilt. peering to look through the glass of the balcony door. cody still sleeping, peacefully unaware. but what is there to be guilty of? the past solely the past. this little phone call but a blip in time. a soundless action amidst the airless void of space. 

"ok, m'sorry". he relents. receiving your silence in full. "i'll stop". 

"i can't do breakfast. it wouldn't feel right". 

"it's just coffee and a little chit chat". 

lies. "i've never had just coffee with you...", memory serving right as the words grow heavy and thick. leaving the tongue less easy than you'd like them to. months of passioned tryst' and rendezvous, from city to city, before and not so long after his return to the company. "...it's always had some accompaniment to it". 

he hums. "i know how to respect a boundary if that's what you're worried about". 

slivers of guilt still. a pang in your chest. the cool morning philadelphia air doing nothing to lessen the heat in your cheeks. "the boundary isn't just for you", admission quick and terse. angered that it had to leave.

this slow to slip along silence. a lazy passing over before he's chuckling again. like the type of amusement you get after a small win. his voice is all raspy satisfaction. "i see", he gives.

"i'm sure whatever you want to say over coffee, you can just say over the phone right now".

"you gonna make me bare my soul over some fuckin radio waves?"

it'd all be a less ceremonious go of words. not so serious. as shapeless and uncategorized as the months were with him. 

"you are notorious for saying things you probably shouldn't, so keep that in mind".

"old habits unfortunately die very hard sweetheart". 

a chill creeping up the spine. riding in along the morning air. "it's almost eight a.m., it's not even a good time to be sharing all this...sentiment". 

"then give me a time and place". 

"i don't know punk, whenever you can get to a target closest to you", laughing a little. the rejection feeling sweet and easy as it leaves you. "they sell journals and diary's with matching pens. that's a good place to put all of your little feelings". 

"ouch".

you stand. watching cody slowly make his way to the bathroom through the glass balcony window. your hand against the handle to slide it open. "i have to go". a quick throw of words before you end the call. pride slowly inching over the skin. 

a successful deterrent.

the “archangels moonsault", a name coined by a collective of your fathers contemporaries. his performance of the golden triangle moonsault habitually flawless. appearing more angel than man as his body soared for some seconds. awe forever struck across the color of your eyes at such a spectacle, so much so, that you wished to live it. and so it went, a song and dance done many times before. the child of a legend attempting to step beyond that harrowing shadow in hopes of creating their own. the awe inspired, attempting now to inspire awe. like the cinematic feat of interstellar travel, viable only through the art of imagination. a play at the impossible, and nothing more. the perpetual falling short of a dangerous aspiration. nerves fraying at the seams and a deep plummeting of the heart. angst, a side effect of near flawlessness. starship pain.

"just keep workin at it", cody said once. watching your frustration after failing to perfect your fathers beloved moonsault. the precision of it lacking. your body insistent on underperformance. resentful of the air.

the encouragement working against its own intention. a bitterness rising to meet your tongue. but the near success of it grows palpable on your fingertips. nagging the nerve endings there so much that it forces into the skin a deep repetition. a cycle of the same thing for weeks on end—house shows, and training, and live events and training, and meet and greets and training, and merch signings and training, and interviews and training, and photoshoots and training—till the system grew faithful. and whichever cracks of free time expose themselves are quickly remedied with cody. because if all these distractions exists, then the time to decipher the bitterness growing on your tongue has no room to live. the ambivalence attempting to sneak in your belly once again, snuffed out by other things. 

and friday night smackdown becomes an interesting state of affairs amidst your little world of moonsault turmoil. cody and punk both drafted, a feud storyline written up by creatives. the new undisputed champion versus the self proclaimed best in the world. a guarantee for money and ratings. which always means good business. your draft to smackdown a grounds for opportunity just the same. a fresh creative direction post-mania. but such good chances don't stop your body's war with itself. feeling the toil of the work, that faithful routine, and refusing to surrender from it's grudge. resentful of the air still. 

but cody remains. his touch heated and sure. a sweet kiss to your skin in the privacy of a dressing room before your first match on the smackdown brand. the memory of his words sticking as you make to kiss him. 'just keep workin at it'. the rush of affection feeling odd. 

"you okay?", his eyes searching. thumb swiping gentle, palm holding at your cheek. 

"yeah", your body odd in it's skin. tempted to leave but feeling the need to stay. you grab his hand. a gentle squeeze of assurance. "i think it's just nerves". 

"you been workin at it hard. it's gonna pay off", he gives. his smile small but bright still. a hand roaming gentle. soothing up your back. 

but the second city saint was, is, never too far behind. posturing himself as the metaphorical rock, adamant on flushing you uncomfortably against a hard place. slivers of mischief in his stride and in coarse perfected words. the smackdown before backlash interesting to say the least. proving itself as the first domino. the main event of the night a strategic volley of words. the returned superstar and the undisputed champion. the knot tying itself about your belly barbarous as it works, watching them dig into each other with dramatic promises of destruction. the usual song and dance of a good promo. waiting for something terrible that affirms the odd abrupt spring ups of guilt and that bitterness refusing to leave your throat. everything of your romance, center stage and dazzling with bright lights for all the world to see. and when the words stop, the crowd jeering for who they hate and loud in delight for who they love, the air grows thick with the way it deafens. 

rough thudding drops of their microphones before that faithful rushing in. fire in their eyes and a close size up of the competition. good drama for the crowd. 

punk breaks with a laugh. similar in an amusement you've heard, felt before. like he's won a small victory. wholly fucking satisfied and happy about it. reaching to whisper something in cody's ear. words that penetrate more than they're supposed to. something a little less fire filled than anger striking bold along cody's expression. like a smoldering yet to come fully ablaze. 

and it is said that for every star, there is a loss of mass in it's life time. a lessening of that gravitational pull. a change of character that threatens its awe. 

his skin warm, but not as balmy. his kiss sweet but the comfort of it waning. the journey to seeing to its ease seeming more painful than letting it be. but the need to try breathes still. living bored and tired and thin, but alive nonetheless. the late hours between the end of the live show and his first official title defense quiet and terrible. all of his little bright smiles and tender touches gone. the beauty of the french hotel drained by this sudden standstill. blue eyes colder and distant. taken by the trouble of overthinking. 

text message | outgoing: wtf did you say to him?

text message | the best in the world: what's my name saved as in your phone? 

your fingers feel weak. tired and unable. the nerves there doing well in fraying at the seams. held hostage by a guilt that refuses to leave.

text message | the best in the world: i'm not really a write my feelings in journals kinda guy, you should know that. i want to see your pretty little face for a chat still. whenever you decide to stop avoiding me. 

text message | outgoing: boundaries remember? or are the new gray hairs screwing your memory

text message | the best in the world: well i figure a little courtesy closure is in order before your boy gets his ass whipped on live television. 

text message | outgoing: closure? can't really close a door that never existed can you? 

a thick, curling cloud of steam rolls into the hotel bedroom from the open door of the shower. a silent invitation to join him—an olive branch living still in spite of his sudden brooding—that your body refuses to indulge. but the air does well in an attempt to suffocate you anyways. skin sweltering uncomfortably. or maybe it's just the ambivalence in your belly and the dull taste of something wrong on your tongue. frayed nerves and this half shaped desire to leave. all of these symptoms living as the summation of...of something that feels too harsh to speak to. your eyes take a steady read over the chain of messages. a once over that happens too many times to happen just once and yet there is no clarity of thought here. 

closure? a type of reconciliation afforded to people once terribly impassioned. and yes, your times with him were fevered. fierce little meetings that left you craving more. but never did the attraction burn so much as to bring about such a heat, that lived closer to something like love than not, or whatever he seems to be feeling. 

but there was that one time in albany. a confusing, charged little tryst. different from the others. his fingers curling in so deep then that he'd bruised your skin, like he was trying to remember you-

"so...", cody starts. a simple word edged with hesitation. bath towel wrapped about his waist as he pads out of the steam of the bathroom. skin wet and tantalizingly inviting. "...you and punk?" and finally it comes. the source of his brooding, his silence. that dejection of touch and affection. 

your phone grows heavy in your hands. plops along the sheets like a weight. "old news", words ironed and pressed. dressed up in a surety, that if spoken with enough, can be believable. because the second city saint is old news. 

his eyes are cold. a gray-blue snatched from the impending roll in of a storm. "feels pretty current", he sighs. turns to the table below the bedroom mirror. searching through a small bag of things. lotions and colognes and clothes and such. his perfect teeth spreading mirthless. "very current actually". 

your body anchors to the bed, and curiosity an anchor in your body. inspires a refusal to move—to go to him, to ease the tension in his shoulders—as the sharp edges of it rip through till it holds deep enough. 

"what'd he say to you?" 

"nothing worth repeating...", hands rubbing about his face. a serum moisturizer. taking up small work as he finds and treads slow through words. tone like that of an interrogators though not nearly as violent. but the suspicion in him bothers to root well enough that it can't be hidden. can't be done away with easily. "just implying a bunch of... of shit. which is interesting because punks not that type of guy on the mic. if it needs to be said, he makes it plain..."

"its a work probably...". tone cool. indifferent. the sensation resting in your belly just the opposite. words spilling, living two fold. an attempt at persuasion overflowing so well that it performs for him and yourself just the same. "...ratings, clicks, views. it's drama for tv". 

"well it feels pretty damn personal". 

"and what?", you scoff. "winning mania wasn't?" 

cody recedes. softens. because winning at mania was personal. business but very personal. the stakes of such a win clinging to the base of his emotions at every breath and turn till the belt rested in his hands. that much you could feel, drawing closer to him in those months—a sweet, innocent friendship born from this great host of similarities—till nearly every moment was spent with each other. his words and his thoughts and his touches becoming more intimate. affections as clear as the perfect beauty of his smile. and then comes the guilt, a drizzle against the air, like the first damning drops before the inevitable chaos of a down pour. your body lighter now. the will to leave him be, to wrestle with his feelings by his lonesome unanchored by the shame of doing so. 

"am i being crazy about this?", he asks. 

you move to him. crossing the exceptional size of the room to embrace him. arms encircling and your eyes gentle. his skin warm and comfortable. your body fighting itself still though, even amidst the vulnerability of him, battling back these slivers of a temptation to leave. "it's a mind game. don't let him win". 

his hands venture. a smooth, sweeping take along your arms till they cradle your face. thumbs tender as they roll at the apple of your cheeks. "and us? this is it right? we're solid?"

your eyes flick to his lips in a means to inspire within yourself some true meaning of devotion. desire and fidelity. your mouth pressing sweetly to the seam of his as you pull him into a deeper embrace. words kept unsaid. buried alive before the work of a damning departure. your tongue soft and slipping gentle. wet and precious enough to elicit a moan. the tension in him waning as he goes, falling further into your show of affection. shoulders unburdened and the heat returning pleasantly to his skin. a performance that convinces only his hesitations and nothing of your own. 

and that lack of conviction reigns over heavily. devastatingly so. failure thundering about your chest, slipping wild through the arms and legs, till it swims heavily about the head. ambivalence working ungracious in the body, like a storm of solar proportions. because cody had done well at backlash, performed greatly against the second city saint as they went head to head in their first of a best of three match. 

but you—your knees buckling just after the press off for the archangels moonsault—do terribly. a harsh botch that leaves your feet to slip, head hitting against the ring before your body can be properly caught. a concussion that blurs your vision for the remainder of the match. 

a number of horrible executions that follow, equilibrium disrupted, all amounting to a slow paced performance. your body resentful, spiteful now too. 

this attempt at a diligent work of resting comfortably in the security of cody's everything, like a roaming out into the hostile environment of space. unprepared and certainly unfit for such an expedition of passion. a fast deterioration of desire and the weakening of a strength to see to its survival. 

this longing for a good and whole and secure thing, a need pulsing your heart strong and persistent, now inverted, though working with the same vigor, to bring you under with a maddening sort of frailty. a self induced bout of muscle atrophy. 

"a break", is what hunter is calling it. his words and eyes this odd, cold meshing of empathy and business. a command that lives without the room to resist and it stings even the strongest parts of your ego. 

punishment by the ether, for aspiring to reach so far, with so much confidence, for something never meant to be had. because stars exist out of reach, with light years of distance, for a reason. 

and the doctor gives a definitive "no" on flying back to the states. a futile joke to follow about getting much needed rest in the "city of love", which in full effect lurches your stomach into a fit so disgusting that it empties. that bile troubling itself in your belly, waiting for its call to action, finally revealing its putrid nature to be formidable and unrelenting. a symptom of the concussion they say, but you know, above all things medically sound, that this is just violent revenge inflicted upon the self. the body taunting the mind for its ill-purposed ambition. trying to fall into something comfortable and love-like with cody was, is, and would always be ill-purposed ambition. 

the air of the suv heavy with that leather interior smell. rolling smooth and slow against the parisian streets on its way back to the hotel. 

cody's finger playing along yours with a soothing caress. a patient concern brushing up the drained make of your face from his eyes. soft music living under the sound of his voice as he goes. "they'll probably clear you to fly in a few days. i can get someone to book a flight for you, and you can just… just be with me...", a gentle tone but living definitive. committing himself to your care. a security you'd always hoped to fully adore. "...and im not saying this like you're unfit to take care of yourself but i wanna help...", his blue eyes looking for a response and receiving much of nothing. a shallow head nod that keeps him rambling. "...i wanna—just let me do this for you. please?", his hand squeezing yours. a feather weight gesture. "let me take care of it, okay?" 

you blink. eye lids heavy with exhaustion. a drained sensation that leaves you too undone for any proper recognition of feeling other than emptiness. your voice hoarse, the acid moving up violent enough that it stole away the fullness of it.

"i hear you cody". 

the last words said to him before his departure from france in the morning. 

an army of texts and calls heating your phone as the sun rose and rested amongst the clouds with a far comfortable distance. a reminder of terribly fated ambitions. water at your bedside that felt like heaven as it settled in and down the body. 

five calls from bianca and encouragement texts of the "i love you" variety. one call from your father and a message that read more definitive than suggestive. "come home when you can", it said. and a text from him. 

text message | the best in the world: heard hunter put you on a bit of a break. im here for you when you need me. 

not if, but when. the confidence even amongst the sympathy, frustrating. an imagining of his cool, more sage than forest, green eyes screwed with pity. the thought of it beating a harsh heat pass skin into blood. rolling in amongst the red till it rushes to anger. a pounding in your skull and a light nausea rocketing the delicate lining of your belly. laid out along the length of a too beautiful parisian couch, your body forced to endure the harsh gravitational pull back down to earthly reality. for there could no longer be an ambitious voyage to that outer enormity, in search of bright, wonderful, comfortable lights. a star so secure in its character that you make no qualms with the threat of it burning your skin before even the reach of full impact. and truly how stupid and cowardly was it anyways? fearful of a different end so much as to suffer with something that just barely scratches the surface of fulfillment. 

fearful of the ill-controlled, imperfect things so terribly that you looked upward in an escape to the stars. 

and though albany, new york is not the perfect choice, it is the most suitable option for what you need. a quiet, reclusive setting that works well for all this wonderfully, amazing, burdensome introspection you've been forced to endure. truths roaming tirelessly about your skull as they look and wait with impatience to be fully actualized. and maybe—agreeing with his decisions against your better judgement and instinct—hunter was right. this "break", needed. a thing that could not be put off on the account of some bruised ego. countless little mishaps and slip ups in ring that had eventually led to a nasty botch during the biggest PLE since mania. the look of it not great for business or your health. but to hear it, to feel the full rejection of it, tears through you something fierce. a complete tattering of your pride till it remained undone in mangled pieces. raw and red and blood filled. and once the doctors give their clearance for you to fly, you leave france silently. without a word to anyone. bags and suitcases packed and ready. the flight to new york like a shipping over into uncharted territory. 

because some truths had made themselves painfully aware already. did not wait for your slow foot drag of a realization. funneling up hot and disgusting with the bile from your empty stomach. 

trying with cody was only a dream, forced and sculpted by your hands and a stubborn will, till it formed with jagged edges. the struggle to fit two unmatched puzzle pieces.  

"your old man'll kill me if he knows you're up here with me and not training with him". a ghost of a laugh living along with the coarse age of his voice. jimmy "the butcher" cruz, a dear old friend of your fathers, and a hall of famer in his own right, sighing agreeably as he speaks over the phone. "but you're welcome any time kiddo. you like my own, y'know that? the gym is here whenever you need it to be". 

"i appreciate you butch", you give. the slow ride to your hotel quiet and familiar.

"let me know if you need anything else".

"will do".

the call drops. a blow of air past your lips working well enough as it plays an odd tune of some mild mannered frustration. a soreness of spirit where the body breathes and functions well, systems and internal processes going on as they should but still there rests this adrift feeling. a weightless sensation. fatigue and an imbalance of any direct thought. confusion. symptoms of the concussion surely, which only do well in leaving you to exist in this dead space limbo. an auto pilot of movement. muscles remembering the weight of things. your suitcases and bags, and the heavy swing back of the hotel doors. memory bruised but alive. because you don't have an explanation for returning to albany. your foot stepping into the quaint beauty of the hotel room like aggressively lifting the unfinished heal of a scab. being here, in this place, like your body is taking the long, necessary journey back down to earth. hot on impact of the surface but ready to land. 

your lips suffering under your teeth and your fingers tingling. a wistful air working about you, brushing up against your skin as a reminder of times past. here in this place with him, before the abrupt end of it all. 

flashback - january 2024 - albany, new york

and it is said, by scientists and theologians alike, that before the creation of everything, there was nothing. whether the world came to be from a Godly "let there be", or this abrupt but explosive expansion across the cosmos, the truth remains here, that we exist not of our own casual volition. and so if this coming into being—a devastatingly beautiful ripple through that forever stretch of space—is as ornate in nature as it is said to be, then how is it that one can exist so unceremoniously with another? passion this slow, steady expansion like that of the universe. his name on your tongue and his grip nestled into delicate skin. eyes fashioned with colors to rival that of those painting the faraway galaxies and the breaths singing between coarse little moaning songs, a great imitation of the wind. surely these are bouts of madness, giving frivolous, near shapeless names, for such heavy performances of affection. 

or maybe it isn't insanity. because don't we always give awful, insufficient names to things we hate. and even more terrible names to things we fear. 

the apple state inn, a small time hotel in albany, new york, is not known for it's size or luxury. a just off the exit, two and a half, maybe three star rated establishment—google reviews and the website beg to differ with one another—with a scarce housekeeping staff and forever stale, day old coffee. always near empty vending machines and a just out of high school receptionist who doesn't know the difference between credit and debit and counts change like they're counting sheep. but the walls are thick and the privacy is immaculate. immaculate enough that it'd be more useful and cost effective to keep from printing do not disturb cards than not. because once the door closes behind him and that roll of his mini suitcase follows him in, you figure—with the way he's nearly suffocating you with his mouth—that he needs all the undisturbed time he can get. 

the cloud over of steam and a stream of hot, prickly, shower water. your fingers sudsy as they comb through the slick, soaked ways of his hair. thumbs sweeping at his nape before the caress behind his ears. these tender little dotting ministrations that make him groan some. a dark, near weightless, trembling sort of song humming up his throat. tattooed fingers feeling stitched into the soft flesh of your hips as the water works to wash away the soapiness of his hair. his nose nudging into yours and the slight height of him leaving this impression about you that he's surrounding you some. working to consume. to prove with a wordless go of his everything that he's the best in the world. 

that thick curl of heat and the prod of his hard dick against your leg don't help either. his tongue jutting against your lips—a little lick that you chase with enthusiasm—as he smooths it over his own. such a damn tease. your body alive and burning with a war of feelings. not so little sensations that burst at your neck and your mouth and your chest and the warmth pulsing between already wet legs. the proximity of him damning to whatever words you used before to name your current state of affairs. because this seems a little more than casual. a little too charged and full of breath and life to be just a fulfillment of those nagging, sultry, desperate, bodily desires. because it's never felt this impassioned before. this slow and meticulous. a strangulation about the heart that makes the muscle somehow pump harder, faster. like if it fights for life, for it's right to be as its always been, than maybe it can survive the domineer of whatever this is.

the soap dissolves from his hair, washing down into the drain. your fingers remaining still. running dull over his scalp. a deep caressing. an act living so well that it forms it's own memory in your fingers. the seam of his lips pecking at yours. tiny, lax, unhurried kisses that work like they have till the end of the expansion of the universe. 

a laugh cuts up from your chest. like it's unsure it even wants to escape. a fear that it'll have to explain itself. 

cool green eyes and a spark of diligence you've only seen him have when he's wrestling. "what?"

"nothing, it's just...", eyes failing to meet him. dim as they take to the littered ink all over his chest instead. "...this is strangely intimate no?" because it is. the usual air of your rendezvous' living with a more curt edge to it. an urgency of spirit. something great and simple and to the point. made and brought about from a deep mutual attraction, but for the pure sake of fulfillment. 

and maybe your words, amounting to this cautioned little question, have put some distance between your bodies. like the air and nerve to say it leaves the both of you just a little more distant than seconds before. and it must have, because he's fastening himself to you. skin pressing hotly over skin, a slow mold, leaving you to shiver up against cool tiling. mouth still a sweet tease over yours. palm sweeping down and under to cup your thigh till it's hitching up into his palm and cinched to his waist. "i take last minute flights to nameless little, kinda three star hotels, to eagerly stick my dick in you...", his hips canting up. nudging at the sensitive bloom of your slit. lips at the curve of your ear. his breath hot and your skin shuddering. "...and i'm not knockin the hotels..", he chuckles. "...i'm just sayin. it's a bit of a journey to make it to you. this whole thing has been pretty intimate in a way for a while". 

you take slim little nips at your lip. "does that bother you?"

an earnest moan escaping as he slots his lips along yours for a real kiss. the gentleness of it turning sharp as his teeth glide to pull your lip. "why would it?...", tongue led kisses. hands cradling him hostage. his mouth tasting like the sweets he indulges in before he meets you. "...our whole thing is a little informal but that doesn't mean we can't have a moment...", nipping a trail to your neck and kissing over the slights as he goes. breath at your pulse and the thick heat of him slotting and nudging still between your legs. "...or moments". his words these actors of persuasion. as if muddying the lines of a casual thing has ever been good for anyone foolish enough to do it. 

"does it bother you?", he gives into your neck. fixing your hips to the wet wall as he grinds into them. 

the air thick still. his hair fine under your fingers as they find a home there. your lips kissing his shoulder. dazed by the sensation of shared little whispers and the hard ride of him provoking your arousal to slip and your belly to roll with delicious quiver. "no", you hum. meeting his hips with a roll of your own. "i think it makes our thing more enjoyable". words shaky and a shitty contradiction to the inevitable. 

because this thing, this flare of a sensation—soldering hot to melt your bones—is neither unceremonious or fleeting. it is that forever expansion, forming from nothing into something after the abrupt snap that wills it into being. a universe of a feeling housed in the fragility of skin, simple sweeping touches and the persistence of his eyes. 

your body is this picturesque take to the sheets. his arms strong, a gentle carry before he's settling to slot between your legs. wrapped up in your thighs and his lips placing delicate. and no, not like the simplicity of it would work in a means to break you, but like the need for reverencing runs deep enough that it'd feel like sin to ignore it. and cm punk has never been a man of self-denial. his tongue curling against yours, sweet and patient. hums of moans and the warmth of him working in beautiful opposition to the cool sheets. his thumb soothing up your jaw, palm cradling your cheek, like he's keeping the angle of your lips just where he likes it to be. control living easy in him. pressing kisses in without the urgency of forethought. 

and maybe the apple state inn deserves a five star rating. a review that speaks to the allure of low yellow lights and that natural smell of lavender stuck to the walls. 

an embarrassing sort of greediness spills over. hips rocking clumsily to rush into the simple glide through of his fingers at your slit. a firm circling with his thumb but still sedated. a measured touch that nearly aches your teeth in anticipation. breaths short and brattish whimpers. your back curling, attempting to steer him to the tight throb of your entrance. 

he's enjoying this. teeth nipping your lips with a small smile. nails digging at his arms in need. "please". a drawl of a whine. 

a gentle, testy, shallow, slip into your pussy makes him groan. raw and unmoderated. your legs falling over the muscles of his thighs, spread for him as he dips and retracts. the lewd little sound of it hot to the ears. "don't rush my process", teeth gripping into your neck. tongue following to sooth. 

you squeeze his arm. digging what exists of sharp nails into tattooed skin. impatience unruly. "fuck your process, i wanna-"

an emptiness. the dip of his lone finger gone, replaced with the swift swat of his hand at your slit. a gasp cutting up quick, your body jostling from the speed and the cruelty of it. nestling then in pleasure that rolls in after. his tongue still at your neck. remedying skin sure fated to bruise in the morning. your clit overly wet and throbbing and sliding messily along the idle way his finger just sits there. resting right over without a mind to do something useful. the second city saint, a bastard and a half. 

his laugh breaks into your skin. a little wry and a little mean. like maybe he thinks you're too audacious. so vulnerable and desperate and still making demands. "you barely know what you want for breakfast sometimes...", he starts. forehead pressed into yours. his right hand playing through the easy slip of your folds and the other tight as they ball the sheets near your head. like all of his control is stored there. knuckle white tight and fighting to stay strong. "...so whatever shit you think you want, it's just you being impatient and greedy. i guess its that only child syndrome shit". 

"fuck you", you cut. nudging your face against his. cheeks roughing over the gray of his beard. defiance rife. 

"oh sweetheart", he sings. a drawl of a tenor voice that makes you shudder. makes your hands cling to him tighter. like your hold there could maybe cause it to wring out more of his voice and breath, warm and sweet over your body. "you got not the slightest idea how much you're gonna eat every letter of what your just said". kissing your mouth harder. tongue sweeping with a less gentler purpose. lips pulling and suckling and nearly suffocating. looking to savor the dirty taste of your words. touch taking an abrupt curl into your pussy. a steady wet stroke that rattles your body with an almost ugly moan. almost. "you been drivin me crazy since before i got on that flight...", tongue lapping at your yours. a stress of a moan working up as he seats his finger deeper. "...been thinking about touching you for days". 

and you rush to meet the feed in of it. an upswing of your hips, urging him just that much deeper. praying for the feel of it along that sensitive little spot inside that makes your skin jitter and your breathing short. your hands cradling his face close. a tough hold in his hair as you suck his tongue. a lazy timeless go if it, nearly falling so well into it that you almost lose yourself. 

"someone sounds a little obsessed", you give against his lips. 

his eyes green but nearly black and piercing. forehead pressed to you still. "unfortunately yes". an almost whisper if not for the bass of it. 

your heart hammering. fearful and exhilarated all the same. 

and you can feel his mouth on yours still, moving and hot and dangerous even as your eyes close for some feen for reprieve. a break from the diligence of his own. but you can hear him, the pry the noise of him takes to flesh, like he's opening up and splitting your nerves at the seams. "want you to show me what you do when i'm gone...", kissing your lips sweetly. a second finger joining the first. burying deep to the knuckle and balancing with perfection the deftness it takes to numb your brain with bliss. clit nudging against the add of his thumb. sensitive and the sensation of it blooming it's way till it reaches your toes. "...wanna see how good you take care of yourself when i'm not with you'. 

that lavender smell soaked into the walls filling your lungs. the tips of your fingers pressing his thumb in till it's flush up against the swell of your clit. control ill suited to your body as you groan in his mouth. 

back curling in with another arch. nipples aching and needy and up against his chest. 

your longing this breathy, moaning, call to action. his mouth quick with a salacious answer, finding your body there. a flat, wide, lick over the twist of it. deep in it's savoring. curling and flicking and smiling about the perk of it as he feels you cling wet to his fingers. the pad of his thumb touched by the throb in your clit and the tight press you lay over it. keeping him there as he drags long and steady through your pussy. a greedy moan of his bleeding into your skin as it leaves him, the ball of your nipple playing in his mouth before he's suckling with tongue and prying with his hot mouth. wringing up the pleasure till it's voicing pliant and needy for him. teetering a line of overindulgence where he forsakes control. breaths heavy and hungry as he moves on to the other. a similar treatment that forces your hips to buck. a harsh, abrupt spurring that slips him deeper. right there, nestling and stroking lewd still. "harder, baby", you gasp. clutching the sheets. control lost. sporadic ruts that feen for that touch again. 

"there?", humming at your breast. fingers just a little more vicious. the sensation sweetening your blood as it heats.

throbs undulating your skin, like the rippling push of something that goes on to last forever. his thumb releasing to let your have at your own undoing. lips suffering under your teeth. eyes glazed and your head tipped into the sheets. chasing that bliss as it waits to unfurl all over. 

"yes", gasping. a tiny, pleading soprano. small and aching as it leaves you. trembling soft under him, the beginning of it rocking into you slowly. "oh God, i-", labored breaths and groaning. your fingers running up sloppy at your clit and his mouth suckling still. fucking into you with a purpose you're sure that entails seeing you go mad. "i'm coming ". 

he releases your nipple with a simple pop of his lips. returning to sweep his tongue through the awestruck expression of your mouth. a sloppy kiss. wet and meshing and a little mindless. pussy drooling still as it steeps and clings and throbs. 

"not sure he'd love hearing you say that but i sure do", a frail kiss at the edge of your mouth. "say it again". 

"i'm coming", you pant. short cuts of breath he presses his lips over. 

a glint to his eyes. gaze cascading over. appraising the state of your unraveling. "and so pretty doing it too". 

you hiss. body collecting with a short hitch, like it means to ease the landing of this brace-less thing. an effort made in vain as the violence of it takes you. his throat humming satisfied, and the work of his fingers going on still to brush up against that deeper, delicate, slip of skin in you that drives you crazy. a bright, pitchy, "fuck", flying off the tip of your tongue as you curl in and lose yourself. a wordless, world of a feeling. an inconceivable burst of color behind the eyes and your lungs fighting for those better takes of air. unruly and exposed. skin teeming with too much of a good thing. the bed dipping and un-dipping, the shift of him living just at the edges of your awareness. the taste of former words heavy and thick in your mouth, like he said they'd be. his fingers collecting your thighs to adjust the way they reveal the mess of you. 

a trail of dainty kisses as he ventures low. a journey over flesh to mark his appearance. a quiver playing your nerves, his tongue slipping to lick long along the full bloom of your slit. messy and drunk, like the careless indulgence of a reward long awaited. drawling moans and the grip in your thighs meaner than any touch he's given you thus far. a drive of his tongue through where you pulse and drip. weak hands near dead, trying their hardest to ease him off. eyes recovering and lazy, watching him go greedy. another hiss through your teeth, one now that indulges. a little less than brutal hold in his hair that keeps him close. the end of an old pleasure making way for a new one. suckling your clit like he did other parts of skin. little bursts of pleasure breaking to the surface, your hips rutting to following the sensation blindly. 

his quickness, a jarring little feat. feeding tongue into your mouth to share the taste of you. your thumbs over his cheeks and your thighs hiking over his hips. the hard heat of him grinding along till it's snug and laying at your slit. 

and even the thought of him slipping in is enough to leave you shivering. 

"how do you want me?" 

"deep". a thoughtless answer. your tongue wetting your lips, aching for it. "just take it, take me. i-", desperate and thin feeling. "please", you stress. 

his earlier words a little clearer. thoughts and imaginations disrupted, having been troubled by the thought of you. his diligence running vengeful. 

and there is nothing exactly satiating about this, about the pace, the life of it, of this. heavy feeling as he makes to stretch you deep. filling to the hilt and nestled comfortably so. like perhaps he was always meant to be there. your throat singing, breathy and filling his mouth as he makes to kiss you. a softness to you, boneless and subdued. the slightest touches made into something bigger and greater. a hand held at your thigh, a smooth reach till its hooking under your knee and the other calm and patience, the thumb of it stroking your forehead. 

"not much for being a selfish prick but i need you lookin at me", he rasps. cool green eyes just a bit warmer under the low lights. gentle and arresting. "so beautiful", like a whisper to himself. "i wanna see em when i'm coming in you", he gives. testing your devotion with a push of his hips. 

something heavy and dismantled erupting in his chest. bass-y and coarse, breathing over your mouth. his lips making like they mean to kiss you but never fully getting to the completion of it. your thighs housing a sweet aching and your ears burning hot, pleasured by the noise of him. the way his body slowly conforms to being taken in. easy and patient and terrible for his nerves. "yeahhh", he drawls, like an agreement of some staggering pleasure made with the self. or maybe a noise of satisfaction made pure by completion. 

whimpers stuttering and cut with short breaths. your eyes glassy and your throat gaining that bit of heaviness. softly trembling, and feeling crazy under the weight of his eyes. like such vulnerability would soon be your end. a quiet sob breaking free, fingers sinking into his skin for dear life. your pussy quivering desperate, clutching hot as he gives a slow, firm, slipping stroke, pressing in enough that it makes you whole. 

terror delighting it self in your bones. pressure in the body heavy enough to make diamonds. a tear slipping tenderly, falling over your cheek, the trouble of another release gathering in your belly. 

he kisses the wet streak along your face. lewd and hot and wet, pussy pulling at him softly to stay. an endearing path being made upon the skin, a light press of his lips everywhere. silent and filled with purpose.  

it isn't enough to let go, to deny the self of a former ambition. solid ground must be met, a full impact made regardless of how unsavory the process is. this quiet, contemplative, stretch of time in albany, not so dissimilar to a travelers great return to earth. readjustments made to air and the gravity. a re-stabilization of things—your walking and your turning and your weight against the ropes of that faithful squared circle and your ego—because a concussion only made your body's resentment more of a hell to deal with. compromise, a great ordeal with the self, a testier thing to endure even. a month of falling away, deep into the recesses of a particularly dark shadow. a host of memory lanes and the diminishing of self importance. FOMO a real bitch and a half to deal with. the frustration buried beneath skin feeling more childlike than anything else, eyeing the others as they roam and enjoy, from the window of your injury styled detention. week after week, nestled at the back of a little less than dingy sports bar, watching your friends and colleagues perform at the greatest arena's and stadiums. 

but the time away made for an easier reclamation, a confession you wouldn't speak well too aloud, lest it proved hunter's opinions right. your head clear of that horrible knock of an ache against your skull and the nausea more than minimal. 

minimal, but not gone. a small swim of it rippling your belly. flowing against the slosh of ginger beer you've become friendly with since discovering the existence of 'porters dive bar'. an albany staple for the city's exuberant wrestling community. the spice of the ginger steeping your tongue and the fizz of the liquid rolling over to test the limits of your stomach. like the first weary steps of a travelers feet back on earth. a fear of failure but an eagerness of spirit regardless. the building back of strength and resistance. a well made sort of exposure therapy. 

your phone pings. another one of his messages appearing. his televised win against cody at an arena in albany, working like a kindling for this abrasive flare styling his words. ego on fire and looking to consume. 

text message | the best in the world: soon i'm gonna stop asking to see you and just show up unannounced. you know i'm close right? where are you?

text message | outgoing: porter's dive bar 

and this here is the full impact. a hypersonic re-entry. soaring past atmospheric layers as the body is once again enveloped by earths gravity. reality styled with its many worldly limitations. rich colors and coarse ground and a pulling weight in your bones. 

talking to him is that meeting of skin against solid ground. the unsavory process. 

your phone pings again. fingers slipping against the screen to reveal who. dread coursing wild and unfettered. a quick washing in your blood that plunges the heart. 

text message | cody r: can we meet sometime soon? to talk? 

text message | outgoing: of course.

you owe him that much. an explanation—regardless of how terrible it will form on your tongue. bile and a lack of brilliance born from guilt.—of your faults and self misguided decisions. but it's all just another step. a heel toe to reclaim familiarity with the earth. building back the strength lost from that unruly lack of ambition, from that great deal of muscle atrophy. 

the wooden chair opposite your booth seat scoots harshly against the floor. his entrance screeching your nerves to wake with a horrible sort of surprise. the cool green of his eyes hidden beneath the curl over of a ball cap brim. shoulders squared and wide and persistent. "you look good", he gives. sitting across from you. "refreshed". 

you settle your phone down. a soft tremble in your fingers as you make to embrace one hand in the other. the feel of his gaze, like the easy thin slice of a razor over thick skin. a surgical opening that leaves you bare to eyes and air alike. useless to yourself and a short ways from uncomfortable. fighting against a painless pain, against that shameful, irritating weakness that comes with vulnerability. fears and slivers of frustration born from this ill-controlled performance. because cm punk, the best in the world, makes you vulnerable. 

you take one of the two ginger beers off the table. sipping at the cool spice of it for some reprieve. "your first words are always about how i look".

"because i'm unfortunately very invested in your wellbeing". 

"unfortunately?" 

"s'not a whole lot of reciprocation on that front". words not minced. eyes trailing to look over the cold glass left untouched. his curiosities moving him to bring it closer. "what is this?"

"ginger beer". watching him sniff at the rim of the glass before he tests the taste. the spice of the ginger and the fizz delightful and cold sober. "reciprocation". the truth of it cutting across the air, to give something deep and sharp and exacting against whatever assumptions he's made amidst his resentments. because while your investments into his wellbeing weren't as vocal as his for yours, they still hold firm in some form of existence. 

"where you been hiding out?"

"our little go to hotel".

he shifts the curl of the brim to reveal more of his eyes. in a manner that allows you to see them well enough. to get the gist of whatever mixture of emotions they take. a hardened sort of confusion styling them now as your answer sinks in. "why there?" 

hesitation. like the stutter of your foot after a misstep. body afraid to fail, afraid to fall after that great coming back to earth. "not sure". 

his nose flares. a fierce movement. and then his jaw. a chain reaction of many things. as if to curb the brunt of his anger. this overbear of a deep vexing, he pulls into the constraint of words. hard eyes and a harder tongue. "you got a real nasty habit of not saying the things you mean and i can really do without it". 

but it was enough, too much even to admit such wrongdoings amidst the court of your own thoughts and imaginations. resentment housed by the body, less sore as the days venture on, but still aching in the skin. felt in the abruptness of harsh maneuvers. swimming knocks in the head and your balance disturbed. those disgusting dull bursts of nausea and a heaviness in your body. exhaustion from nothing. "...and what is it exactly that you want from me?" 

"a little transparency", he grits. "some honesty".  

"i was fine with cody...was on my way to something substantial even', you give. a corral of words you feel were truthful sometime ago. back when the ambition felt sure and not so unattainable. before muscle deep resentment and injury. "we fell away from each other naturally...", words more like a tool. these builders of persuasion. and God what horrible persuaders they were. everything falling off the tongue half made and shoddily voiced. "...but in true cm punk fashion, whenever you don't like something anymore you get pissy about it. threw a dirty little wrench into my relationship to screw me over". 

his chair stresses against the floor. body pulling in closer. fury stored in the pull in of his brows. "you screwed yourself. threw yourself headfirst into bullshit because you're scared. called what we had a thing, because if you actually put a decent name to it then you'd have to admit how you feel about me, and how much that terrifies you...", his tone hushed and curt and piercing. "because cody is safe and easy and if he fails at making you happy, it's no real loss at all right? because you were never really in all the way anyways". 

you feel thin. subdued and quite overwrought by all this exposure to him. "you had time to say something. why wait till when i'm with someone else?"

he sighs. settles into an answer like it's the hundredth time he's come to the conclusion of it. "spent since january trying to get rid of you and it didn't work for me, and you were on live tv botchin the hell out of everything, trying to get rid of me, so i don't think it really worked for you either...so here we are". 

the air thick and the silence loud. the droning of the bar easing in to fill the space. a hard siphon of the energy by words and the confession of not so dead feelings. your ginger beers icy still and watered. a waitress comes, strutting up to your table. 

"you guys need anything?"

"two more of these ginger beers please", punk gives. a small smile as she leaves. 

his eyes the color of garden sage. softer now. flitting over your face with a renewed sense of diligence.

and it's more clear now than it's ever been. he isn't going anywhere. 

your fingers curl, a slow coming together into your palm to ball. multi-purposed, squeezing to live a little in that familiar burst of an ache. bones and muscles flexing as the skin pulls some. a summation of weariness. knuckles breaking against the door to knock. a similar rhythm playing in your chest, because cody could be many things. sad. angry. vexed. indifferent. he could speak wild or terribly soft, but inspire another layer of guilt to lay at your skin just the same. 

"just a second", he gives. bass in the voice and words slipping thick like over his tongue. in that way that he tries to cover some but can't help. 

a shift in your leg, like the anxious pinch of a nerve. a jerk or maybe a pulling. you're not sure what it is, but it's asking to move. to leave. to maybe do this another time. "i can come back later if you want", shouting some over the regular drone of pre-live show buzz. one hand slipping away from the cool metal of the door handle and the other undoing from that ache of a fist. making to about face into the fray of crew members. but he must recognize your voice, even through the thickness of the door. must've settled himself enough in whatever emotions he's living in.

his voice rushing. like he can feel you falling away from this long overdue talk. "no no, come in. i'm good. come in". 

your hand returns against the door handle. cool metal more like an icy burning. stepping into his dressing room like a re-entry into the world of him. his hair retouched to the roots, a cold blonde that pops his already sky blue eyes. his hands roughing with his wrestling boots. blinking up at you silently. mouth parted and slightly lost for words. like he'd maybe rehearsed everything and has now forgotten all the brilliance of it. a sigh leaving with that realization. like he'll have to forsake all the prearranged self made discussion and go about this a little less practiced. "you look well", he gives. with a nod. "the break did you some good". 

"yeah", stepping in further. arms folded over. body overly aware of his appraisal. "that seems to be the consensus". 

his throat clears, brows pulling together before they fall away quickly. this awkward abrupt movement that reveals the slow work of his thoughts. gears oiled and turning and trying out words before he says them. a farer cry from his in-ring persona, where he's suited and pristine and seemingly always ready. the little action of it making him more human to the eyes and less star-like. something you would have shrunk away from before out of fear that it would cause him some lackluster effect, now finding in its own imperfections, very endearing. 

"was it something about me, or anything i ever did that kinda just-...?", his voice falling off. left to motion oddly between your bodies with his hands. miming a separation. like finishing the words, allowing them to live in the air, would cause them to be true. 

"no! no, it was...", trying to find something not so terrible to soothe him with. stepping a little closer to him. arms unfolded. like the honesty begging to leave you for some time has now taken command of your body and it's functioning. "...i wasn't being honest about a lot of things with myself and it spilled over into what we had going on, and i'm really sorry about that". 

and he nods. not like he's accepting of it all but like he gets it. like he's relating to you. eyes softer, made vulnerable by his own truth. "all the...all the asinine bullshit leading up to mania just...", his eyes rolling as he remembers the trouble of it. "...on top of already wanting the belt for personal reasons, it just drove me crazy. and i think in the midst of that, i leaned in on us a little harder than i should've. maybe more than i planned to". fingers scratching and curling up into his hair, going about aimlessly almost. giving himself something to do to remedy the weight of his words. "we have quite a bit in common so...the intimacy was good enough, it-it was easy to just hold on to. i think we were both faking it to make it". 

your throat grows heavy, face warm with the well up of tears. relief meshing easy with the sadness of it all. the both of you willing to settle, if it meant being comfortable and not alone. a heartbreaking circumstance to force upon the self for sure.

"can i...?", your hands motioning for an embrace. 

"of course, c'mere".

his arms warm and comforting as he takes you in. wrapped tightly, with a friendly sort of affection. an earnest touch, made not to linger in a performance of desire but to give solace. sniffling against his chest as he squeezes tightly. 

"don't you start crying for real...", he jokes. "...cause then you're gonna make me cry".

you smile. slipping away from him gently. "well that don't take much so..." 

his eyes roll. grabbing the outer jacket that completes his in-ring gear. 

your fingers sweep under your eyes to rid of the wet streaks. shoulders less heavy and the dread in your chest no longer fighting to consume. making to leave his dressing room. "don't go easy on him either. i need him a little softened up". 

"will do". 

you make a full exit. slipping your phone from your pocket. his name under your thumb as you press against it. memory serving well, thinking of that sports bar in albany and all the empty glasses of ginger beer spread across the table. the vex about his face growing gentler as the night carried on. that line in the sand washed away, the boundary blurred and then made new into something with a better shaping. his cool, pale, sage eyes working like he wanted to remember that moment. like the satisfaction of having you in front of him again without any attempts to break away from him, was too good to simply be lost to time. 

you click to call and wait for his answer. an impatience running in your fingers as you make to join the producers and tech operators at the staging area. 

he answers. a simple, coarse, "yeah", that sweetens your ears.

"have breakfast with me tomorrow", you give. plain and a little demanding. "please?" 

he hums. amusement in his voice like he's smiling. 

"time and place sweetheart". 

[undobutton]

Okay so I'm angry, feel free to ignore or whatever.

warnings: swearing, terrible grammar, possible spelling mistakes.

white fanfic creators will worship the white / white passing characters and get so fuckin mad when people " mis-characterize " those characters. when in reality others are usually exploring the character as a whole. maybe they're kind in a fic or the 'precious cinnamon roll' gets genuinely mad for a good reason. but that doesn't fit their view of said character and they feel so comfortable yelling at whoever wrote the fic and shitting all over them???

then they want to strip a black character of their blackness and pretend like racism doesn't exist in their little worlds and they make black readers feel so... false? like we don't even actually exist. like they won't even go through the bare minimum of finding new ways to express embarrassment it's ALWAYS blushing. or feeling your face turn red. and someones always playing with y/ns hair??

but god forbid a black writer create a black reader that other people can fuckin enjoy? or express that a BLACK character might feel uncomfortable dating a white person?? or the (black) character and their white significant other will experience the world differently?

and it hurts cause fanfic writers will spend hours up to weeks researching a time period or a fantasy race (elf, dragon, witch, etc) for accuracy but they won't consider it for a black character or reader? thats so sad.

especially when they take offence at black writers only wanting other people of color to interact with their posts. Like you kick us out of the chatacters xreader tag. but the xblack!reader tag is for everyone?

and then the smut. it's always borderline racist. like the character frowned or got angry once and now they're characterized as a toxic, rude, violent person? like if you want rough smut there are so many not-black characters who are word for word what you want. but you instead force those ideas onto the black characters with no evidence!

like they aren't porn-bots for your little kinks. they mean something to those black readers and writers who finally got some representation and now we've gotta scroll through pages of uncomfortable smut to find one fic where the character is sweet... but y/n is white as hell.

like i hardly write because im afraid of white fanfic writers taking my stories as a personal offence. especially with Hobie. since there's always someone in his tag with their "hot take" or actively yelling at a black writer bc we express these feelings.

like just shut up. please. or do some fucking research.

[ch3rryb0mb3rr]

Tldr; please put warnings on smut and have it below the cut and stop sexualizing minors in media. Especially if they just came out of middle school thats weird. Write what you want but tag and put warnings when needed.

--

I get so pissed when im going to read something about my favorite character, and it's smut WITH ZERO WARNING.

No 18+, no NSFW, no MDNI and it isnt even in the fucking tags. I dont wanna read that shit. Put the damned warnings there for the love of all that is green on this earth it takes two seconds. maybe a bit more, but if you could pump out 3.4k words of pure porn, I think you can handle a couple of tags and warnings

I am a minor, and i use those warnings, so I dont read straight-up porn!! I also dont need to read about incest accidentally because there was NO warning, and it was NOT in the tags!!

(And for those of you who do put warnings, i thank you and wish the best in life!)

(I am also well aware that a lot of people dont listen to dnis like that, but it's helpful for the people trying to avoid reading stuff like that)

Also, while im on the subject, let's not sexualize minors in media. Yeah their hot, i can see that. But i dont want to see the start of an NSFW alphabet for a 15/16 year old. Aged up my ass. Just put the beginning below the cut?? And not after the first four letters??

I do NOT need to know a fav characters preferred body part is the tits thank you very much. I definitely do not need to accidentally read that they wanna suck on it like a damned bottle.

--

'This character as your friend is soo perverted he wants to steal ur panties hehehe' NO HE DOESNT. HE'S A TEENAGER AND LIKES CATS. TF?? theres adults in the majority of the show that are reasonably attractive. Write that shit about them.

'Oh, they have this list of kinks,' and its shit only someone who has read hardcore smut would have. They are 16 and most probably haven't had sex because the creator cant give them a fucking break from trauma.

'He would be soooo toxic and blahblahblah [insert romanticised assault and abuse and trauma]' NO. that boy is my age and is a nerd. Motherfucker wants to study at princeton and has absolutely no flirting ability. You're only saying that because he's black, most of that shit reeks of racism.

--

These characters are kids, CHILDREN, and you as an adult (if you are one) should not be writing smut about them, aged up or not. You should not be thirsting over a sophmore when theres PLENTY of good looking adults that you can be.

Theres a difference in growing up liking a character and having a crush on them and growing out of it when you're an adult. And being an adult thirsting over a teenage boy. It's not cute. it's not 'oh, it's fine because he/she's not real'.

Its really fucking gross actually.

--

At the end of the day just tag your stuff correctly. That way its easier for everyone else to find EXACTLY what they wanna read. Because at this point im just gonna start reporting fics with no warnings at the beginning.

Someome younger than me with no parents looking through their devices could stumble on that, and not know what it means, read it, and be scarred for life.

I was reading that stuff way way way too earlier and its fucked up my mental state a bit so if we collectively start putting in the effort to help prevent this from happening to another 11 year old or younger than we should do so.

--

Start gatekeeping fandoms like creepypasta from young kids, start tagging shit correctly

Another child does not need to end up somewhat hypersexul with very violent intrusive thoughts by the time they hit high school because their parents wouldn't look out for them, and the fandom did NOTHING to try to prevent it.

Its not your job to parent the kid, and to look over their should. Thats not what im saying.

It IS your job to, again, tag shit correctly, put warnings for gore, bluring violent images, saying outright that a certain game/book/story/etc your recommending is NOT for kids due to its violent nature/sexual content/etc. Reporting accounts of children under the age limit for social media (i.e., a 10 year old with discord or instagram) (it is breaking the T.O.S)

Act like that one lgbtq+ chat room website I was on for a couple weeks where all the adults kinda looked out for me a bit. And supported me figuring out who I was and collectively riped a guy to shreds after I blasted him at a failed attempt to groom me. (And told me I had done exactly the right thing in this situation. Also, hi, if you know who I am from there!!!) (Story time if ya'll want I look back and think its the funniest thing ever how I dealt with him 💀)

[allloudontheeasternfront]

Everything at Once

Dieter Hellstrom × Original Fem Character

Heyyyy. So this is my first ever fanfic, I know it's not good. Please be nice!!! I hope y'all like it! There will be multiple parts to it, I didnt leave you on a cliffhanger for fun haha!

Warnings: cursing, N*zis, angst, discrimination, Dieter is kind of a dick, soon to be smut (still in the works you horndogs) violence maybe in the future. Still working out the kinks 😉😘 I do not support N*zis in any shape or form WWII should not be glamorized into thinking what N*zis did was okay. This is just for fun, for the Inglourious Basterds fandom, especially Hans Landa, Dieter Hellstrom and Landstrom ship.

Also, English is not my first language and writing in English is a little difficult so there will be some grammatical errors. I'm sorryyy Anything not in English will be translated! Please enjoy and let me know if you like it and if I should continue and if you wanna be tagged for the future.

(not my gif)

.

It was a cold, gloomy morning in Nazi occupied Paris. The idea of a Nazi occupied Parisian life, sounded ideal to the Germans who'd forcefully make themselves comfortable. Croissants, berets, beautiful women, free-spirited music and lifestyle but of course, obligatory anti-semitic men in uniform terrorizing anyone they wanted.

A man in uniform is a well sought after type for women, just not these men.

It was around 8 o'clock on a Monday, the start of the work day. Cafe doors were unlocked, pastries were set out, and fresh coffee was slowly brewing. Camille wiped her hands on her apron and sighed.

"Hopefully more customers today..." she thought aloud.

Her father owned the bakery and since he was taken away by those horrible foreigners for "questioning", Camille was the sole inhabitant of the cafe.

She wiped a bead of sweat off her brow and looked out the window. It was still cold and cloudy but there was something different...

She heard birds sing. The birds havent sung in years! Will the sun shine? Will the clouds roll away?

The cafe door chimes ring violently as two men walked in the cafe. A tall, lanky, pale man all in black besides a red cuff and a shorter older man with his jacket littered with medals and emblems, clearly SS.

Camille, startled awake from her daydream greeted them.

"Bonjour messieurs, qu'avez-vous envie de manger" (Hello sirs, what would you like to eat?)

The tall, pale man stared at her. Little moles scattered his face like constellations, his undereyes dark and slightly pink. Looks like he hasn't slept in days. His black hair slicked back, he wore a neutral expression.

The older and superior man nudged his stonewall-faced friend out of his stupor and cleared his throat, "Ah, mademoiselle, deux cafés et deux strudels, s'il vous plaît." he replied, holding up his fingers when saying the number two. His little smug smile and Eagle-like eyes seemed like he was analyzing everything all at once.

(Ah, miss, two coffees and two strudels, please)

The taller man looked down at the other. Clearly more annoyed. "Hans...I dont want strudel. I don't eat that sweet shit." he said in German behind gritted teeth.

Hans, the other man hummed, amused in the annoyance. His smuggy smile grew.

"Oui, s'il vous plaît, asseyez-vous où vous voulez. Tout devrait bientôt sortir." Camille replied, blushing slightly as the tall man continued his gaze upon her. Why is he staring at me like that...?(Yes, please sit where you like. Everything will be out soon.)

The men sat near one of the window, close to the door. On the table was a white lace table cloth with small little pink flowers embroidered in and a vase full of different colored flowers. The pale man secretly watched Camille as she scurried around the kitchen, trying his absolute hardest not to look at her waist and not to be caught.

Hans took notice. "You're not much of a sly fox as you think you are, Dieter old boy." He whispered. The pale man scoffed and rolled his eyes. His fingers toying with the lace of the tablecloth.

As Camille grabbed the strudels off the warm rack and set them respectfully on the dishes, she caught a glimpse of the pale man. He got caught staring again. A slight rosey tint blushed on his cheeks, he found himself getting very annoyed.

Camille took short notice of the red cuff on his arm. Must be gestapo or some sort of high security. The Gestapo were never friendly. Clearly the Hans man was SS, high ranking. But, he seemed friendly? But, does it matter? Should she be afraid? They just want food. Right...?

Camille walked over to the men and set the strudels and coffee cups down for each of them. She poured the hot coffee into both cups from the kettle. The pale man visibly tensed as the women came closer to him.

Hans chuckled to himself quietly observing his nervous friend.

"Rien d'autre?" Camille asked, putting his hands behind her back. (Anything else?)

"Silence?" The pale man dismissed her with a wave and started to drink the coffee. Creme and sugar were already placed but he drank it black. Oof. Rough morning?

"Dieter! Must you!?" Hans scolded the man. 'Dieter' choked mid-sip of his coffee, nearly spraying the hot liquid everywhere as his superior chastised him in German, something about being rude or inconsiderate and also something about not keeping the coffee not in his trap or in the cup.

"D'accord. Je t'apporterai le chèque!" Camille said fast, trying to diffuse the situation. Her face beet red in embarrassment. (Its okay! I'll bring the check!) She quickly ran behind the counter to grab the check and few napkins and set them on their table and disappeared back behind the counter.

Great start. Two Nazis come in, one is a jerk with a staring problem and spilled coffee everywhere as his suspicious higher up is currently yelling at him about "arschloch" this and "dummkopf" that.

Camille busied herself in rearranging the pastries on the rack, trying not to over hear the little German she can understand.

To be continued 😘😘😘

@whore4waltz @rurivu @xoxocillian @fridaycanbesadsometimes @racheljo47 @whitechoc135 @officerh4t @blueberrypancakesworld @hanslandasstrudel

[boywifesammy]

spn fic rect fest - 9

AUGUST 31 - all time favourites

we’re here, the big fest finale !! i tried to keep this list short but alas it got out of hand... pls go read them because they’re all wonderful and be sure to give the authors your thanks and kind words :) as before, i've tagged authors that have their tumblr public on their ao3. if you'd like me to remove the @, just lmk. @spnficrecfest for more info on the event.

dead dove & sensitive topics under the cut. TWs are given where necessary.

Touch Me Like a Razor Blade by ADeedWithoutaName (@a-deed-without-a-name) Sam/Dean, 18k, E [underage]

"For as long as he can remember, sins have caused Dean physical pain." in my mind this fic is in the golden hall of wincest fame. the idea of materializing dean's guilt is SO CRAZY and ingenious given he is THEE guilt character. especially in a story about the taboo of incest. dean's internal struggle in most wincest fics is already so delicious and painful but to make it a physical sensation that he is constantly aware of puts this perfect bow on him as a character. also because sam DOESN'T KNOW until so late into the story. are you kidding. also an actually GOOD example of bdsm!! a masterpiece, go read it and show the author allll the love!!

The Road Rhythm Outro by brokenlittleboy Sam/Dean, 50k, E [violence]

"A routine hunt goes horribly wrong. A curtain fic dealing with permanent injury, angst, and various types of trauma, and fluffy domesticity." this is my favourite permanent injury fic! the author clearly researched a lot to make it accurate and that makes it hit so much harder. there's not only the initial grief and pain, but also the recovery journey, and a thorough exploration of sam's struggle after his injury and how it effects his relationship with dean.

The voicemail by tattooalecki Sam/Dean, 3k, E [noncon]

Sam masturbates to the infamous S5 voicemail. #1 for hottest samdean smut fic. PLUS a voicemail fix-it! this particular niche of humiliation kink is my fav and i haven't found any other piece of writing that does it quite so well. it's hot and captivating while still feeling in-character. if this sounds like your thing as well then definitely check this out because it's insanely good!

snuff by chinablue (@mpregjohnwinchester) Dean/John, Sam/Dean, 5k, E [underage]

"There's nothing good on TV, and Sam's contemplating killing his father again." i had to control myself from putting all of china's fics on this list. she is SUCH an amazing writer and the way she writes johndean is my absolute favourite in the fandom. this fic manages such a delicious balance between hot, violent, possessive and horrific. i don't know how she does it! @-@

Tethered to You by lily rose/annabeth Sam/Dean, 32k, E [TW necro, violence, major char death, noncon]

"Sam wants Dean, but he'd like him even better dead." yes, this is necrophilia smut. BUT- it's also a character study and an insanely interesting look into the psychology of paraphilias. i firmly believe sam would be into something weird given the way he grew up, and the author really displays that in an accurate way. 10/10 most tasteful necrophilia i have ever consumed.

the one percent by deadlybride (@zmediaoutlet) Sam/Dean, 9k, E

Dean finds out that Sam's too big for most condoms. my fav take on the bigdick!Sam fanon. there is something soo hot about a guy being too big to be contained... it rolls perfectly into sam's gentle giant thing where he's sooo big and powerful yet quiet and unassuming. also sizequeen!Dean. whats not to love.

Brittle by thecapn Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess, 30k, E [TW ED]

"Sam Winchester has an eating disorder." so- i couldn't reread this fic when i was putting together this list. not because it's bad but because it is so beautifully written, raw and accurate that i couldn't read it again because it got me worked up. it's really that good. the ending manages to be positive without feeling preachy, and at the same time has that lingering pain of how difficult recovery is. massive tw for eds obviously, but if you can stomach the content then this is a must-read fic.

I have to live here by Goshen/applecrumbledore (@goshen-applecrumbledore) Sam/Dean, 30k, E

An angel erases Dean's memories, but only the ones about his relationship with Sam. silly amnesia fic from the one and only applecrumbledore. there's some angst as well where we get to see sam's grief over losing his relationship with dean and dean working through all the roadblocks they had to overcome to finally get together. as always the characterization is perfect and the writing is so engaging and witty.

Lima Syndrome by guestwho (@guestwho) Sam/Dean, 20k, E

Sam has extensive facial scarring from the fire. John locks him away, and Dean is as usual, not normal about him. holy SHIT i cannot rave enough about this story. it's one of those fics where you read it and wish there was more or an actual book about it because the author's writing is so compelling. it's an interesting take on the whole sam/dean codependency thing with an angle that's less supernatural focused. also freak!sam in this is sooo captivating and the smut gave me shivers, just go read it, i promise you won't be disappointed!!

hello by allwellandgood Sam/Dean, 4k, T [major chara death]

Dean's dead but his ghost lingers. Sam struggles to reach out to him. this is such a depressing but hopeful fic. it broke my heart the first time i read it, especially considering how dean dies in the finale. in my mind if dean ever died he would refuse to pass on and stay with sam just like in this fic.

With A Bit Of Spit And Luck by elsi/Prince_of_Elsinore (@prince-of-elsinore) Sam/Dean, 7k, E [underage]

"Teenage boys cooped up in a cabin in the dead of winter with nothing but each other and an ancient porno on VHS to keep them warm." weecest smut extravaganza. i loveeee the trope of dean being sam's sexual awakening. the idea of them in a little cabin together while dean shows sam scratchy low quality porn is amazing and the execution of it in this fic is perfect.

lay my bones beside his bones by adastreia Sam/Dean, John/Dean, 6k, E [TW CSA]

Dean has a rape fantasy. Sam indulges him, and things come to light. a perfect mixture of smut and hurt/comfort. i also love how sam & dean's hell trauma is integrated into the johndean CSA. the scene where dean says 'dad'- i genuinely felt my stomach drop. haven't had a reaction like that from fanfic in a LONG time !! very well-written.

[physalian]

Content Warnings for Original Books

Can we please encourage content warnings for smut and other triggering topics in published literature? This needs to be a thing. Everyone bashes fanfiction for being fanfiction, but I’ve never seen a fanfic where the smut or trigger warnings weren’t tagged to high heaven somewhere in the description or in the opening author’s note.

AO3, compared to FFN, even has a specific “mature” rating just for sex—”E”—that FFN didn’t have. FFN had nervous authors throwing objectively mild content into the “M” rating (e.g. "rated M to be safe"), which meant that if you wanted to read a story that was a little bit violent, you had to turn off your filters as a kid and sift through all the smut just to find that one smut-less, but violent, fic.

When I was a kid in my early FFN days, I was probably exposed to way more stuff I shouldn’t have been reading because I had to disable the mature filter, just so I could read so-called “graphic violence” from pearl-clutching authors. I’d be looking for that one action-adventure fic that happens to have a little murder in it, and sift through fifty pure-smut summaries that ranged from vanilla to straight BDSM—of which had a high chance of being incredibly unhealthy, but you wouldn’t know that at 10, 11, 12 years old.

Fanfic authors, especially when the fanfic platform gives them the freedom to tag, are very clear to let you know just what you’re getting into.

—

I doubt I need to explain what a content warning is on Tumblr, but I will anyway. A content or trigger warning is a heads up at the beginning of a work of media that there are some elements not meant for younger audiences, or for sensitive audiences, or for people who have experienced situations depicted in traumatic ways, or for people who just don’t want to consume media with such content.

In film, this is obvious. If it’s rated R, you generally know what to expect. Generally. Because an R rated film could be R because of anything from profanity to graphic sex/assault and torture scenes. The MPAA rating system is garbage and ‘harsh language’ is not nearly on the same tier as sex in terms of what we should expose our children to.

Before streaming like Amazon as a platform to get around cable censorship rules, you had premium networks like HBO for all your adult content, and then some shows greenlit on smaller networks like AMC—never on ABC, CBS, TNT, etc. HBO wasn’t only for adult stuff, I used to watch Crashbox all the time.

That was the place you went for media that circumvented foul language, violence, and nudity rules in America. It kind of came with its own built-in content warning by virtue of being on those networks, and even then they still give warnings for shows on HBO, Showtime, Starz, etc.

At the start of every episode, you either get a full screen from Starz with the little icons for profanity, nudity, violence, etc, or it would be up at the top around the episode's title. You'd know exactly what you were getting into.

—

In a fanfiction, because I’ve never seen one in an original book, much less for generic vanilla sex scenes, this is what we’re all familiar with:

A/N: Trigger warning! This story contains mentions of rape/non-con. Turn back now, don’t like don’t read.

They also tend to appear at the top of the chapter that contains said scene to double down on the warning, or will, upon completion, include which chapter or chapter section to skip in the work’s summary or opening author’s note. In the old FFN days, there might even be a 4th wall break mid-chapter. Though the terminology we use over the years shifts, we still manage to get the point across.

Like, if I turn off all the filters on AO3 trying to browse for tags and underloved characters that may be lumped in with stuff I’d rather not read, I’ll see tags like “DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT,” which was not a thing in FFN days, even if FFN had allowed things like tags.

While it’s easier to tell in movies due to that shitty-but-functional rating system, that’s not really the case with fiction books. With books, I know the genre, and I know the intended audience age group. If I pick up a book in the children’s sci-fi section, I know it’s going to be something about robots or space or the future and our characters are going to be about twelve years old.

If I pick up a YA thriller, I know I’m going to have a cast of sixteen-to-twenty-somethings and there’s going to be some violence, very vanilla cussing or the author’s own slang, and probably some murder.

Adult or new adult romance—Sex. At least one scene guaranteed.

The problem is that unlike films and TV shows, we don’t get a breakdown for books on what to expect and the nature of those scenes. There’s no little ‘R’ sticker on the back cover and there’s certainly no little insert between chapters to let you know what’s coming next. There's no "trailer" I can read to get a sense of your tone.

So if I’m in the mood for a new adult supernatural romance novel and I have to sit through a vanilla sex scene, that’s fine, that’s what I’m reading it for. But if Mr. Badboy is incredibly aggressive and dominating and being an asshole with very dubious consent, that’s different (although, objectively determining what is and isn't 'dubious' is mighty difficult).

Should I still expect that I take my fluffy or angsty romance with a fat grain of salt just in case?

What happens if it’s not a romance novel, but I get a surprise rape scene as my character’s Tragic Backstory? What if it’s an adventure novel? Spy thriller? High fantasy or historical fiction or murder mystery? If there’s no indication in the genre, summary, or by the style of the cover that I’ll have to read about two characters getting it on?

Some people don’t want to read your characters in all the nitty gritty details. They really like everything else about your book, they just don’t want to read a sex scene, and they really don’t want to be super invested, hundreds of pages and even years of series dedication in, and be massively turned off by smut.

It doesn't need to be this big to-do or hyperdetailed like fanfic. In my upcoming book, I had beta readers with personal and moral objections to some of my themes. From then on, I made sure to ask up front so I didn't trigger my betas.

ENNS is about vampires. I haven't settled on what my content warning page might look like or how exactly I want to phrase it, but it might read something like this:

Dear readers, this is a content warning for graphic violence and adult themes. This book contains mentions of assault, self-harm, and suicide. Please be warned that these themes are present and prevalent in this story and readers should take the utmost care for yourselves when approaching this book. Thank you.

Something like this, just a quick, lighthearted heads up for your novel would suffice:

Dear readers, this book ain’t for kiddies! Be prepared for some adult themes and suggestive romance between characters.

I'm definitely not in the camp of pearl-clutching suburban conservatives, but if I'm browsing for a new novel for my tweenage bookworm and I opened up a book with an intriguing summary, and saw that warning? I'd be much happier with the author for their consideration, instead of buying it blind for my kid. You have no idea why someone wouldn't want to read a sex scene. They might be prude, or they might be a survivor just trying to enjoy a new book.

Because romance and sex is taken for granted, most people are at least going to be open to the possibility of sex, but not everyone will be expecting it or wanting it or think it warranted. It’s not spoilery, it’s not revealing some surprise plot twist, it’s a kind and considerate gesture for those members of your audience who just don’t like sex scenes. And heck, maybe they don't want to read it right now, but they'll remember you and pick your book back up later because you tried.

—

TL;DR: I don’t mind smut. When done well.

There’s a reason romance such a compelling story and why it dominates fanfiction and original works leagues ahead of all other plotlines.

But it still needs a content warning, even if you think it’s obvious, or spoilery, or patronizing. Because if I’m not in the mood for it, it just drags and I want to put the book down instead of reading all your hard work to completion.

[vera-king-hrfl]

ALMOST THE ENTIRETY OF MY BLOG IS NSFT. MINORS, SENSITIVES, AND THOSE WITH HEART CONDITIONS, DO NOT RIDE THIS RIDE!

Second warning: I am bipolar, so even if it seems like some of these could have been written by different people, it's all me. You can tell because I'm also pedantic, formal, and obnoxious. ❤️

BG3 fanfiction master list. I was considering organizing this by rating, but most of the titles have at least a little smut in them, so like... ugh. Just read the tags. Some is more cute and sweet, some is much darker and more violent. Each of these takes place in a slightly different universe, and, especially with Zevlor, I explore many facets of the personalities of the characters.

This is the one I'm most proud of. It's an actual novel filled with drama, angst, smut, and plot twists. Currently over 80k words and not looking like it's going to be finished any time soon. Zevlor and original female character. Extends well beyond the events of the game. CW: F/M, M/M kissing, Angst, hurt, violence, slight non-con elements, self harm, the works.

Second novel in progress. This is now the longest one of my things. Close to the same tone as the first, but this one stars Cal and Ryldinn, a drow Tav, with Astarion in a supporting role. CW: M/M, Angst, smut, violence, past sexual trauma.

Rolan and mostly undescribed afab Tav. A little angst and some pining, but it's a lot lighter than the previous works. This turned out to be my most popular one so far.

This is a weird one. It's in three parts and it's your choice to decide which you want to read first because it's a different experience. Zevlor, Rolan, Dammon, and Cal are trying to deal with the events of the story and heal and find love after it's all over. CW: M/M, F/M, bdsm, rough stuff but no violence, angst.

Next, we have some pure love and adoration starring Zevlor and Dammon. Tav gets involved in part 2. Just a touch of angst near the end, but I include a page break and a warning so you don't have to read the sad part if you don't want.

Zevlor and Tav one-shot. She's a sweet little half-elf in this one, who reeeaaaly wants to make our Hellrider happy.

The rest are a little iffy if you're sensitive. I'm including a CW for each. All the doves are dead down here.

CW: Non-con. Rolan and Lorroakan.

CW: Graphic Violence, Non-con. Absolute!Zevlor and afab Tav. This was more popular than I thought it would be, and I will finish it eventually, I swear.

CW: Dubious consent. Zevlor and Tav

[ao3feed-fengqing]

Control of the Three Realms

by Fuyu_Natsu (l0aves4me) An au where Qi Rong manages to break out of the Kiln of Mount Tonglu, becoming the newest Supreme Ghost King. No one had expected this outcome, especially from a ghost like Qi Rong. The Night Touring Green Lantern wasted no time to test his newly obtained ability on the Heavens and Ghostly realms. His green ghost fires had leveled up with himself after breaking out of the kiln. Now, they don’t just have a lock on them, but whoever they latch onto become like zombies, bending at Qi Rong’s will, having no conscience and not remembering anything when they break out, if they can. Qi Rong is so strong that he is up to Black Water and Crimson Rain’s level. He manages to have his ghost fires lock onto almost everyone in the Heavns and Ghostly Realm. Having the gods control the mortal realm. The few survivors will stop at (almost) nothing to stop Qi Rong’s reign. Many feelings will be discovered, and violent battles will be fought. Just what will happen in this war of the Three Realms? Words: 2961, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: 天官赐福 - 墨香铜臭 | Tiān Guān Cì Fú - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù, 天官赐福 | Heaven Official's Blessing (Cartoon), 天官赐福 | Heaven Official's Blessing (Webcomic) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Categories: F/M, M/M Characters: Xie Lian (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Hua Cheng (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Feng Xin (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Mu Qing (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Qi Rong (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Lang Qianqiu, Guzi (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Shi Qingxuan (Tian Guan Ci Fu), He Xuan (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Pei Ming (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Ling Wen (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Shi Wudu (Tiān Guān Cì Fú), Quan Yizhen (Tiān Guān Cì Fú), Yin Yu (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Yushi Huang, Yushi Huang's Ox, Ruoye (Tian Guan Ci Fu), E-Ming (Tian Guan Ci Fu) Relationships: He Xuan/Shi Qingxuan, Feng Xin/Mu Qing (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Hua Cheng/Xie Lian (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Lang Qianqiu/Qi Rong, Quan Yizhen/Yin Yu, Pei Ming/Shi Wudu Additional Tags: The Author Regrets Nothing, The Author Regrets Everything, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Good Parent Qi Rong (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Parent Qi Rong (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Sex slave Lang Qianqiu, Toxic Relationship, Toxic Qiurong, beefleaf, BLACK WATER ARC NEVER HAPPENED, FengQing, Hualian, qiurong - Freeform, Quanyin, Peishui, main relationship Fengqing, Smut, Angst, Gore, Fluff, Blood, Violence, battles, Mount Tonglu (Tian Guan Ci Fu), Fighting, War, Genderfluid Shi Qingxuan, Hurt No Comfort, Multiple Orgasms, Jun Wu has gone missing, Breif mentions of Jun Wu, Eventual Smut, Eventual Happy Ending, Cuddling & Snuggling, Naked Cuddling, Other Additional Tags to Be Added via https://ift.tt/0DeJmMp

[paintedhyenadogs]

Just because Im lowkey pissed that people don't understand the archive warnings on AO3 and get mad at the author because of their own lack of understanding:-

Here are what the archive warning tags mean and what each apply to:

No Archive Warnings Apply

This means the fic doesn't have any of the content that fit into the other warnings

Still tread with caution, especially if there are no other tags, as in 0. No relationship tags, no character tags, nothing, nada. It means the author might be really new or just was too lazy to use any tags or warnings. Know the risk or play it safe and don't read.

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

This means the fic might have none, some or all of the listed warnings. This is the warning. You might end up reading triggering material, or reading a fluffy sweet fic. It's a toss up, so if you aren't willing to take the risk, DO NOT READ.

If you've filtered out any of the other archive warnings and see this one, make sure you are ready to encounter something that might be triggering, that you've filtered or just avoid it. Even if the other tags don't indicate it, be wary and stay cautious, remember that this is still a warning.

Graphic Depictions of Violence

The content of the fic features graphic violence, as is stated. But if the creator chose not to tag what happens specifically that is violent, be ready for anything ranging from a bloody fist fight, to cannibalism to eroguro to violent torture.

Rape/Non Con

The fic will contain rape/noncon, which I've also seen include dubious consent/dubcon. It can be a major plot point in the story of the fic, or be smut. Read the additional tags to get a gauge of if it is one or the other. If there are no other tags, and you only want to read a story driven fic that may have rape/noncon, play it safe and don't read.

Underage

The fic has pedophillia and just like the rape/noncon warning, can be either a plot point or part of smut. Just like the above, if you do not want to read smut, play it safe and do not read if it has 0 additional tags. Honestly just filter it out all together, it's a good idea.

Some people also might use this tag when the fic involves sex between two underage characters (usually when the show is set in a high school), please keep this in mind if you aren't filtering the underage warning altogether. Also serves as a, "Always read additional tags!" note.

(Just in case someone gets on my ass and says "omg why would you say it also has smut under it ewww, are you a pedo?!" because I know someone will: I am simply saying that, the reality is, it's on the site. I don't wanna see that either, but it's there and I can't do a thing about it, just please be aware that you could be stumbling into a gross fic if you are not reading the tags properly.)

Major Character Death

A major character in the fic dies. This could be an OC, the reader, or a canon character.

If anyone feels I should revise and/or add these explanations, please tell me.

Additional words for newbies for ao3

AO3 is an archive site first, fanfiction hub second. It isn't for readers, it's for authors to archive their work and be able to label their work accordingly (or just not label it).

As a reader you should be respectful towards the authors and their work. You have no right to demand for a new chapter of a work you may like, you have no right to insult the author because of your own lack of knowledge or ignorance. Be grateful you're even getting any work from these people. Again, these people. These authors are real people like you and me, writing you fanfiction to read at no additional cost.

If you plan on posting on AO3, you should tag it, just so people can filter it, it's nice to be nice. I don't write on AO3 so I don't know what else to say on this part.

[abitohoney]

A Shimmer in the Night

Chapter 1 of 5 - Taking Matters Into Your Own Hands AO3 link

CH1 || CH2 || CH3 || CH4 || CH5

Sevika x female reader

Rating: Explicit, MDNI, 18+, NSFW

Tags: Sevika/Reader, Enforcer!Reader, Werewolf!Sevika, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood, Smut, Light Dom/sub, Dom!Sevika Sub!Reader, Begging, Praise Kink, Cunnilingus, Overstimulation, Strap-Ons, Rough Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Aftercare, Soft Sevika, Face-Fucking, Hair-pulling, Vaginal Fingering, Choking, A/B/O Dynamics, Marking, Rutting, Heat, Werewolf Sex, Knotting, Breeding, Minor Character Death

Word Count: 6.6k

Summary: A series of mysterious, violent murders has taken both Piltover and the Undercity by storm. As a relatively new enforcer, you're bound and determined to solve this before any more innocent lives can be taken. Nothing prepares you, though, for the discovery you make when you take matters into your own hands. Nor are you prepared for the involvement of Silco's enigmatic right hand woman.

AN: This is already complete on AO3. Just bringing it to Tumblr now. Tags are for the entire fic, not necessarily the individual chapters.

You stand in the office of your superior, along with half a dozen other enforcers, listening as the Piltover sheriff provides a brief on the latest findings regarding a series of mysteries murders.

For several consecutive months now, there has been a seemingly random night in which dozens of citizens of both Piltover and the Undercity had fallen victim to these brutal, animalistic killings. It appeared the killer, or killers, worked indiscriminately, targeting man, woman, or child, rich or poor, several of your fellow enforcers included. The only commonality being how mangled the bodies were left. With sharp, claw-like tears in both clothing and skin, and canine, fang-like bite marks and gouges in the flesh. Traces of purple-tinged saliva found near the puncture sites.

"With body count up to several dozens and quickly rising, we need to act fast to locate and seize the culprit or culprits," Marcus explains, and you struggle to keep your mouth shut and let him finish, knowing you have useful information to share. "Considering the sheer amount of deaths, and the short time between several of the reported discoveries, I suspect we are dealing with multiple assailants," he continues, and you're visibly, anxiously shifting from foot to foot now. He takes notice, eyes flitting to your dancing feet, but he seems to ignore it as he blathers on. "We have yet to determine a pattern beyond what seems to be a once a month occurrence. Calendar date and day of the week have thus far been random-"

Marcus stops abruptly, turning to you with blatant annoyance across his face. "Is there something you'd like to share with us?" He bites out through clenched teeth.

"Sir, if I may," you start, taking several steps forward to the front of the desk, across from where he sits in his chair. The look he gives you says you may not, that he was being sarcastic, but you ignore out and press on. "I believe there is in fact a predictable pattern, a very obvious one actually," you pause, though only briefly when you catch his eye twitch at your last remark. Probably not the best choice of words to use with your superior, especially given you’ve only been an enforcer for less than a year now, but he really is only superior by rank, certainly not by intelligence. "Do you have a calendar?" You question, gaze dropping to his desk where you spot a small calendar facing him. Without waiting for his reply or permission, you reach across and grab it, setting it flat so both of you could view it as you quickly flip back through the pages. "Last attack happened here," you state, finger pointing first to the date, then slipping down to the lunar phase for that day, a full moon. "Prior to that…" you start, flipping back nearly thirty pages before poking at another full moon, "...here." Without removing your eyes from the calendar, you turn back yet another thirty, this time without speaking, simply pointing to the phase of the moon.

Finally lifting your gaze to take in the sheriff's expression, you find him staring down at the latest page, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed.

"I can keep going, sir," you add.

He rubs his temple between thumb and forefinger, and you're certain he's going to try to argue when he opens his mouth to speak. Not giving him a chance, you cut him off, "And tomorrow is the next full moon." Flipping all the pages back in one swipe to the current day, you pull back slightly, pressing your palms against the edge of the desk and allow him to reluctantly turn the page to the following day himself.

"And that's not all I've noticed," you continue, running entirely on adrenaline and ignoring how Marcus won't even lift his head to acknowledge you as you speak, clearly in denial of the knowledge you've obtained on your own accord. "The traces of purple saliva we've found on the victims has a muted luminescence very similar to that of the shimmer that floods the Undercity. I believe whoever, or whatever, is responsible has been under the effects of some variant of shimmer. We should start by investigating the possible sources of this shimmer, and set a curfew for tomorrow, before dusk."

Standing fully now, you anxiously wait for Marcus to speak, unknowingly tapping your foot in the otherwise quiet room. Unable to see your fellow enforcers standing behind you, it's still very apparent by their silence that they are in shock and likely just as anxious as you, though for entirely different reasons.

"So, let's pretend your moon theory holds water. You expect me to, in the span of less than a day, tell not just the entire population of Piltover, but also the Undercity, the people who despise us, that we are enforcing a curfew… on Progress Day? And then top it off by sticking our nose in the business, the main source of income, of the Undercity?" He asks, speaking in a slow, measured tone.

Shit. Tomorrow is Progress Day. You hadn't even thought about that, but it really doesn't matter. Something has to be done before more lives are lost.

"Yes," you reply simply.

His narrowed eyes meet yours and you already know what he's going to say. Fists balling at your sides, you fight the urge to cut him off again as he speaks.

"You're clearly not in your right mind. Probably overworked. Take tomorrow off." He says with finality, one that you ignore.

"Sir, we can't just sit and let this happen again," you start, throwing your hands in the air dramatically.

"We are not going to just sit and let anything happen. We have a plan-"

"A plan?!" You scoff, "You mean that bullshit of sending more enforcers out to slaughter?"

"That's enough!" Marcus hollers, slamming his fist down on the desk. "You are dismissed and relieved of this team!"

Mouth agape, you stare dumbfounded at the sheriff.

Did he really just kick you off this case?

"Fucking unbelievable!" You shout, spinning on your heel and storming towards the door, pushing your way between two of your stunned coworkers. Just as you're about to shut the door behind you, you hear Marcus fire one last shot in your direction.

"Make that a week. Without pay."

Worthless prick.

Lying in your bed that night, you glare up at the ceiling unable to sleep with the rage that's currently burning a hole in your chest. That stupid man was too blinded by his own damn pride to see the obvious. And that stupidity was going to cost more innocent lives tomorrow night. Well, not if you have anything to say about it. He may have relieved you of your duties for the next week and kicked you off the case, but you could do your own investigative work tomorrow. Maybe even convince some to stay indoors come sundown. The money doesn't even matter. You just want to put an end to the senseless killings.

Sighing heavily, you roll onto your side, closing your eyes as you try to formulate a plan. You'd heard the name of the supposed criminal kingpin running the shimmer business. Silco. He's an obvious start. All you can do is hope he'll be willing enough to hear you out. To share any information he may have regarding an errant form of shimmer. Mind racing, it doesn't take long for exhaustion to set in, and your thoughts drift and fade into nothing as sleep finally takes you.

The following morning you're up bright and early, uniform on despite being relieved of your duties for the next week. Your plan, to claim you'd been sent by Marcus to investigate the Undercity, will be much more convincing if you are dressed as an enforcer. Successfully sneaking past several of your colleagues unnoticed, you make your way to the lift that will take you to the lowest level of the Undercity, a place you'd only visited once before along with Marcus and several other new recruits. It isn't until the rickety cage reaches the very bottom of its run that the weight of what you're about to do hits you hard. Just as hard as the Undercity smog that invades your lungs the moment you step out. Reality rears its ugly head; you're about to traipse right up to the criminal kingpin Silco under false pretense and inquire about a rather deadly set of events. That is, assuming you can even convince him to grant you audience.

Thankfully your memory serves you well and you're able to locate The Last Drop rather easily. Seems most of the Undercity dwellers are still asleep, only encountering a few threatening looking characters in the shadows of adjacent alleyways. Either your uniform or your hand hovering over the pistol at your side is enough to keep them at bay. The large neon eye of Zaun over the entrance, even when not lit, stands out amongst the considerably smaller, more drab buildings along the outskirts of the lanes. It's rather intimidating, probably intentionally so, and you start to second guess your plan the moment you push one of the large doors open.

There are several shady looking citizens within, all of whose attention is immediately drawn to you as you step inside. Clearing your throat, you attempt to stand tall and hold an air of authority, despite feeling like the only prey in a room full of hungry predators.

"I'm here to speak with Silco on behalf of Marcus," you announce to no one in particular. Two of what you're now assuming to be Silco's goons exchange glances before looking to something at your right. Following their gaze you find two rather large and intimidating looking bald men standing with their arms crossed at the bottom of a set of stairs leading to a balcony. One of them nods towards the stairs, and you take that as an invitation to follow.

As you reach the bottom of the stairs, you offer a nod to the other man, who makes no move to allow you room to pass, forcing you to turn sideways to avoid contact as you slip by. Swallowing hard, you focus on your breathing to calm your nerves as you follow a few steps behind the first man.

"Wait here," he grunts as the two of you come before a large door near the end of the balcony. As instructed, you stand near the railing while he knocks. You hear a muffled drawl, "Come in," from the other side of the door and try to catch a glimpse as the man steps inside, but his large frame eats up almost the entirety of the doorway before he's inside and closing the door behind him. You try to listen in on the short conversation, but become distracted when you catch several of the goons below are still watching you intently. The realization that you may be in over your head hits you, but it's too late now.

The door swings open again, startling you and you spin to find the large man standing just outside, waiting for you to enter the room.

"Thank you," you somehow manage without your voice cracking. He, unsurprisingly, says nothing and you walk past and into what you immediately identify as an office given the large wooden desk situated at the back center of the room, just beneath an ornate green window set within an intricate iron design. The door clicks shut behind you and you're grateful that whoever sits in the tall-back chair behind the desk is turned toward the window because you visibly jump.

Something moves to your left, just within your periphery as you step further into the room. It's only when you turn towards it that you realize there is another person in the room, and you're awestruck by the sight. There, sitting with thick thighs spread on a dark red settee, is a beast of a woman. She's leaning back, one dark-skinned arm, including a bicep that looked as if it could tear through the leather shoulder and arm guard covering it, draped along the backrest. Her other arm is oddly covered by a dark red cloak that hangs only over her left side. A cigarillo rests in the corner of her mouth, dark lips curled around it in an unabashed smirk. Your eyes meet hers, stormy gray and full of mirth, apparently amused by how jumpy you are. She's just as intimidating, if not more so, than the two large men guarding the stairs. But she's also incredibly attractive-

"So the good sheriff sent you, a fresh faced enforcer, all the way down here by yourself to speak with me?"

The low measured tone of the man at the desk pulls you from your thoughts, your attention returning to the desk to find he's now turned to face you. And you are definitely alone in a room with two very scary individuals. Silco, you presume, though a stark difference in both size and skin tone compared to the woman, is terrifying all the same. He's lean, almost frail, with ghostly pale skin. What has you frozen and unknowingly holding your breath is his frightening left eye. It's a fiery orange set within a black abyss. Almost the entirety of the left side of his face is horribly scarred, but as you force yourself to look at his good eye, both out of fear and respect, you found that teal orb to be just as intimidating in that you're certain he can see into your soul with the way it burns through you.

“Uhm- yes, he did,” you reply, taking a few steps closer in an attempt to keep the heated gaze of the woman out of your periphery and from distracting you any further. “As you may already be aware, Marcus is leading an investigation into the mysterious murders that have been plaguing your city as well as our own. Something we recently observed was that many of the victims seem to have traces of what appears to be shimmer along the gashes and soaked into their clothing. As the main distributor of shimmer, we’re wondering if there is any information you may have to share that might aid in the investigation.”

Silco’s brow, the one not affected by whatever had scarred the other half of his face, raises ever-so slightly. “Are you- excuse me- is the good sheriff implying that I have something to do with this?” He questions, tone measured and his teal eye calculating.

You’re certain he’s merely attempting to intimidate you, but you remain unaffected. Or at least play it off that way, but it’s impossible to deny the amount of tension filling the room between all three current occupants, including the woman whose gaze is literally raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

“No sir, you misunderstand me. I’m certain you’d like to know who or what is killing your citizens just as much as we do. We’re simply wondering if perhaps you could give us the names of some of your secondary distributors or material suppliers that could possibly be misusing or marketing tainted shimmer. We’re working with very little information here, so anything that comes to mind could help us solve this and prevent further deaths.”

Regarding you for a moment, Silco seems almost bored, and suspiciously so given how dire the circumstances are for his people. This ought to concern him and drive him to seek assistance, even if it’s from topsiders.

“Nothing comes to mind, but I’ll be sure to contact Marcus should something arise. Please let him know that the Undercity appreciates his dedication to our well-being and safety,” he replies dryly and with finality as he picks up several papers from his desk.

“Silco, sir, please, there must be something you can share. A name. There’s a definitive pattern of these killings occurring on nights of a full moon and tonight will be another full moon. If we don’t act quickly-” Your plea for his cooperation is promptly ignored and sharply cut off by Silco’s low voice, which you note now carries a hint of irritation.

“Sevika, if you would be so kind as to show our guest out.” His gaze drops to the papers in his hand. End of discussion.

Tempted to press him further, your words falter the moment you hear the floorboards creak and catch sight of the woman, Sevika, rising to her feet. Not wishing to wait for his obvious right-hand to physically remove you from the premise, you release a frustrated breath and turn on your heels, marching out into the hallway.

Heavy footfalls follow not far behind you, and as you reach the stairs you lose your cool.

“You don’t need to walk me to the door. I’m well aware of where it is,” you snap without looking back. You hear the deep, snide chuckle behind you before Sevika replies.

“Boss’ orders.” Her voice is as deep as her laugh, and just as thick with arrogance.

Biting your tongue, you hold back the snarky remark that threatens to spill out. It won’t help the situation, and there’s no denying this woman could take you out with little to no effort if she felt compelled to.

The large goons at the bottom of the stairs step aside for the two of you to pass and you ignore the heated stares from the remainder of the bar’s occupants, heading straight for the large set of doors that lead to the streets. Sevika is still trailing not far behind you, and it only proves to further test your patience. With the door in arms reach, you just need to get out and cool off. You wrap your fingers around the large handle and pull the door open only to find it forced shut as a much larger hand lands just above your own. Clenching your teeth, you ignore the way the large bicep at the side of your head flexes as Sevika invades your space, and focus instead on formulating something to say that won't end with you unconscious on the floor of this filthy bar. Whatever remark you have ready dies behind your parted lips when you feel something heavy and sharp on your shoulder, just under the arm currently preventing you from leaving.

Your eyes drop to the offending object to find a series of sharp, deadly looking silver-tipped nails attached to intricate brass hinged fingers. Each one curls and digs into your shoulder, piercing your uniform just enough for you to sense the cold metal points against your otherwise fury-heated flesh. You're forced to turn to face Sevika by those claws and your eyes follow them in a mixture of awe, wonder and fear as they drop to her left side and disappear beneath the dark red cloak.

"Listen here, sweetheart,” she sneers, and you’re not sure you appreciate the tone she’s taking with you, nor the seemingly condescending pet name. You raise your eyes to meet her steely gaze, and it takes you tilting your head back enough to crane your neck given how impossibly tall she is. “You and I both know Marcus wouldn’t send a rookie to question Silco."

Setting your jaw straight you attempt to hold your head high and remain cool as she towers over you in a clear attempt to prove dominance and induce fear.

“You don’t know that and frankly it doesn’t matter given the situation we’re in,” you grit out, fists clenching at your sides. Her eyes drop momentarily, apparently taking notice of that before raising again to meet your gaze. The nasty grin that tugs at her dark lips pulls higher and she takes a small step closer until your chests nearly touch, caging you in further between her massive body and the door behind you. You realize that she must have ditched her cigarillo at some point and something catches your attention in your periphery. Letting your eyes flit to her left cheek for a moment, you’re surprised to find a series of scars scattered like blue lightning, running from just beneath her eye, clear down her thick neck and under the soft leather choker that’s wrapped around it. Her gruff voice draws your attention back to her stormy eyes.

"I suggest you keep your nose out of the situation , unless you're looking to get hurt." With her proximity you can feel her warm breath fan across your face, filling the air around you with the smell of cigars and whiskey.

"Is that a threat?" you ask, indignation written plain as day on your face and you begin to question that initial physical attraction that hit you when you’d first laid eyes on her in Silco’s office. This brute and her boss are clearly in cahoots with whatever, or whoever, is behind these murders. Either that or they themselves are directly responsible, and given that terrifying looking claw of a left hand she had, the latter seems most plausible.

"No, sweetheart,” she replies, her voice dropping impossibly lower and you swear you catch a flash of purple behind those gray eyes before she lowers her head. “That's a promise," she rasps a mere hairsbreadth from your ear. The tiny hairs at the back of your neck rise again and a shiver runs mercilessly down your spine. Something about the way she spoke those words felt like more than the threat you want to believe is all she intended. And as she stands back to her full height, you find yourself ensnared by the way her thick lips curl into a wide, feral grin, revealing two white rows of teeth that you’re certain each include a pair of excessively sharp canines.

That's… different .

It isn’t until she steps away, the heat that had been radiating from her body disappearing along with her, that you are suddenly aware of just how excruciatingly hot your body had become. The cool air of the bar rushes over the small amount of exposed skin from around your uniform, sending yet another, much more visible chill, through your body.

Sevika’s dark, short chuckle rumbles from her chest and fills the otherwise silent room, bouncing off the walls and singing in your blood-pulsing ears. To say you're pissed is an understatement. It isn’t until you hear another snicker, one that certainly isn’t hers given how distinct hers is, that you recall the two of you are not alone. Clearing your throat, you attempt to straighten yourself up, because apparently at some point your body had gone limp and you were held up only by your back slumped against the door. Unable to clear your head enough to form any sort of retort or even a farewell, you silently turn, open the door and slip out into the smog-filled streets as quickly, albeit pridefully, as possible.

For the entirety of your return topside, you try to convince yourself that the only thing grating your nerves is anger, frustration and maybe a bit of fear, nothing else. That initial… allure or whatever it was you felt when you looked at that woman, is gone. She's bad news.

You spend the next several hours at a desk in your small bedroom pouring over the past several months of reports, of which you admittedly obtained copies illegally a few nights back when Marcus refused to let you review them on your own. It seems glaringly obvious that shimmer is somehow involved. Nearly every report, out of some hundreds of them, indicate the presence of the neon purple substance on or around the victim. And after the morning’s questioning with Silco and his- enigmatic second in command, your suspicions only grew. The two of them screamed shady business, and of course Silco was already widely known for such, but whatever this was didn’t seem business related, at least not something an industrialist should be interested in.

Reading a particularly detailed report on one of the latest victims, you come across the descriptions of the gashes found on various parts of the body. They were reported to be animal-like, as if the flesh was ripped by large claws. And chunks missing, torn by large, sharp canines. Your mind flashes back to your encounter with Sevika, that brief moment where you swore her eyes glowed purple, the flash of sharp, oddly long canines, those metal claws she hid beneath her cloak and to top it all off, the obvious threat she gave you. It all absolutely reeked of foul play.

Not one to admit defeat so easily, you opt to take a trip to the Undercity again later to question some of the locals. With a new lead, you focus your interrogations on Silco, or more specifically Sevika. Does she frequently mingle with other individuals? Based on the sheer amount of killings, she can’t possibly be doing this alone. Has she ever just up and disappeared the night of a full moon? What about any of Silco’s other subordinates? Do any of them have animalistic augmentations or body modifications?

Needless to say, you’re no luckier than you were talking directly to Silco. It would seem that either the Undercity inhabitants are just naturally uncooperative, or probably more-so they have an extreme dislike for topsiders, enforcers in particular. This also, unfortunately, makes them less perceptive to your suggestions that they all stay in that night. Your explanation that the killings coincide with a full moon either fall on deaf ears or earn you condescending laughter and snide remarks.

Just hours before dusk you’re back to your desk, slumped over in your chair. Out of leads and out of time.

Fit with your enforcer issued pistol and a rifle you’ve only ever used for target practice, you stuff your camera into a small pack attached to the belt at your waist. Unsuccessful in obtaining enough information to put a complete stop to the murders, you’ve opted to do the next best thing. Arm yourself to take out the culprit, or culprits, and maybe save a few lives. Or at the very least capture some pictures that could aid in solving the mystery before another attack a month from now. Ditching your enforcer uniform to a) avoid being caught in it while off duty and b) don something more practical than the standard issue dress, you opt for simple fitted jeans, ribbed tank top, black jacket and some sturdy ankle high boots.

Glancing out your window situated over the desk in your bedroom you can already see the full moon starting to poke out from behind the clouds in the nearly dark sky. You need to move fast. The area you plan to scope out, a heavily forested area with a winding walking path, is a far trek from your home. That particular area seemed to have the highest frequency of incidences in Piltover, so you’re hopeful that you’ll find something there.

Heading out, you’re disappointed, but not surprised considering it’s Progress Day, to find there are still a large sum of people wandering all throughout Piltover. Many of them are drunk, which you’re certain will make them easy targets, especially when they do finally decide to head home late in the night, likely alone and unarmed. Even many of your fellow enforcers are out enjoying themselves rather than holding posts and staying vigilant.

It makes your stomach churn and your vision blur with red at the thought of how Marcus simply chose to take no action, just like Silco. That odd little similarity hits you and you pause just outside the edge of the entrance to the forest.

Is that just a coincidence?

You’re pulled from your thoughts when the single lamp along the walking path that winds in and out of the woods begins to flicker. Gaze drawn upward to the flashing yellow, you catch sight of the full moon as it disappears behind the clouds just as the bulb in the lamp finally dies out, leaving you in complete darkness.

Not wanting to give away your presence by pulling out a flashlight, you push forward nearly blind, stepping between the tall evergreen trees and further into the darkness. The cloud above passes quickly, providing you with just the faintest glow from where the moonlight sneaks through the tiny gaps between the tree tops. Treading slowly, carefully, you attempt to move as quietly as possible. Once you reach the edge of a small clearing where you can see the edge of the walking path poking through, you find a relatively flat spot behind a large trunk and drop to kneel on one knee. With your rifle resting on your back, strap over your shoulder, your hand rests over the pistol on the opposite side of your pouch. All that’s left to do is sit and wait.

You’re not sure how long you’re waiting there, but it’s definitely long enough for your nerves to settle and for the sweet siren’s call of sleep to reach your mind and body. Eyes and body heavy, you shift to sit on your haunches, leaning your shoulder against the massive trunk. It’s eerily quiet tonight. No animal seems to be awake, not even the insects. The only sounds your ears can pick up on are the occasional rustle of leaves when a gentle breeze passes through or your own breathing when it’s otherwise calm.

Another cloud passes overhead, evident by how that tiny bit of moonlight you’re relying on suddenly disappears. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear something heavy was taped to your eyelids with how difficult it became to keep them open. Maybe you needed to move to a different spot, another one along the path. Your lids droop and you catch a glimpse of moonlight. Willing your eyes open again, you try to consider your options. Your vision goes black again as you start to nod off. When your head starts to slip along the rough bark of the tree, your eyes shoot back open again. The clearing is fairly well illuminated again, clouds apparently passed. Just as your eyes are about to fall shut yet again, your ears pick up on something.

A rush of adrenaline has you wide awake as you hear the sound of crunching leaves and twigs just past the clearing. Somebody, or something, is moving just out of sight. Careful not to make a sound yourself, you push back up onto both knees, then raise one to place your foot on the ground in the event you need to run. It could just be an animal. Or it could just be someone taking a late night walk. But your hand hovers over your pistol regardless.

Something starts to step into the clearing, into the moonlight, and your heartrate kicks up a notch. Whatever it is, it’s large enough to be human, but definitely on all fours like an animal. Holding your breath you watch wide eyed as it steps fully into view. It’s covered completely by dark, matted fur, with a large snout. It’s reminiscent of a wolf, but far too large and the rear legs are oddly similar to that of a biped.

The hand at your side trembles and a lump forms in your throat. You’re certain this had to be one of the things that has been terrorizing both Piltover and the Undercity. A breeze sweeps in from behind you and towards the beast. It raises its snout, sniffing at the air and you realize too late that it’s just picked up on your scent. You’re frozen with fear when Its head slowly turns in your direction and its glowing, purple eyes meet your own. Large rows of teeth, including two pairs of deadly sharp canines, glisten in the moonlight as its face contorts into a snarl.

Shit.

Pulling your pistol from its sheath, you take aim just as the beast lurches toward you. You pull the trigger and at a mere twenty or so feet from your target you manage to hit its front right shoulder. The howl of pain that rips from its throat is unlike any animal you’ve ever heard, and to your terror the beast is quick to return to pursuing you.

Fuck.

Firing again, you manage to hit the other shoulder and this time you spring to your feet, ready to flee. Another yelp echoes through the forest, but it still moves forward, quickly closing the distance.

A third shot behind your back as you begin running with limited vision through the dark forest. Eyes focused on the ground before you, you don’t watch for the hit, but you hear another howl and know it at least landed, but the heavy patter of large paws crushing the foliage behind you indicates it still wasn’t enough to take it out.

Heart hammering in your chest, you fire several more rounds blindly behind your back, apparently missing as there are no more cries of pain, just a series of terrifying snarls and growls that are gaining fast.

With your mind racing in panic, you lose track of how many bullets you fire, and to your absolute dread you find the gun now empty. Stomach churning you attempt to pull your rifle off your back. It’s not suitable for close quarters like this, but you are literally out of options. Before you can manage to get the damn safety off it you lose your footing, tripping on a large tree root that you couldn’t see.

A startled yelp tears from your open mouth as you find yourself falling face first to the ground. The side of your head hits something hard and unforgiving and for a fraction of a second you see white behind your lids. Attempting to scramble to your feet, pure adrenaline is the only thing powering you as your lungs burn and your head spins. Then something slices across your back, shearing right through your jacket and top, tearing flesh like it's made of nothing more than wet tissue paper.

The shriek of pain that rips from your throat echoes through your ringing ears. Collapsing to the ground again, your hands reach blindly for the rifle you’d dropped during your fall. Tears fill your eyes and the dark objects that surround you spin and careen, making your stomach lurch.

Somehow, miraculously, you manage to find your gun. Grabbing it by the barrel with one hand, you roll onto your opposite side, swinging as hard as you can towards the beast now crawling over your feet. The butt of it lands hard against the jaw of the snarling animal from where it towers over your legs. Saliva and blood fly from its mouth, but it quickly recovers. Watching in complete shock, your heart plummets to your stomach as it rises, crouching on hind legs that are certainly not like any animal, nor human, you've ever seen. Pushing yourself up into a sitting position, you struggle to right your rifle. The beast raises a front paw that looks far more like a hand, only with razor sharp claws, and swings faster than your dizzy mind can process, but you feel and hear the gun leave your hands and scatter some distance to your side. Frozen in terror and without any other defense, all you can do is close your eyes when that giant paw pulls back for another swipe, and await what you hope will be a deadly blow so as to end this quickly.

A sudden growl followed by a pained, animalistic yelp hits your ears and your eyes fly open just in time to see a second, larger beast just inches from your feet. Its attention, thankfully, is not on you, rather it appears to be snarling at the first which is now several feet away and limping in a defensive arch around you and its attacker. Leaning back on your palms, you attempt to scoot further away from what is certain to be a brutal fight between these two creatures. Vision blurring and body aching, you're only able to get far enough to lean your left shoulder against the base of a tree, careful to avoid the gaping gashes that spread clear from your right shoulder down to just above the left side of your waist. A sudden sharp throb at the side of your head has you touching it gingerly. It's wet, with blood no doubt, right where you'd hit it when you fell. You're most likely concussed, yet another mark against you on this cursed night.

As the second beast circles around the first, you catch a glimpse of something odd in the small beam of moonlight that filters through the treetops. The front left leg, or as you're starting to consider it- arm- is neither human nor animal. Not flesh or organic by any means. It's… metal . Clear from the hand-like fingers to the shoulder, it's entirely metal, reflecting in the light of the moon.

What the hell have you uncovered?

Unable to tear your eyes away, you watch in awe and horror as this larger beast lunges at the first. Between your fading consciousness and their gruesome fight moving further into the shadows of the trees, you're unable to make out which one is winning. Not that it matters. You're dead either way. But you can certainly hear that one is fairing far better than the other. Though both are clearly the same type of creature, you can pick up on obvious differences in their snarls, growls and whines. It all seems to happen so fast, but your fear leaves you unable to grasp time. Not long after the battle disappears further into the trees and completely out of your sight, you hear a final animalistic cry of pain and then everything goes eerily silent. It isn't until that moment that you realize your breathing has become dangerously shallow. You're barely holding onto consciousness, and as you watch only one beast emerge, it starts slipping faster.

Head falling limp against the side of the tree you're barely leaning against, your glazed over eyes struggle to track the slow, stalking movements of the victor. Moonlight streams first across its left hand, which reflects back. It's the second beast. It steps closer still, revealing bared teeth dripping with saliva and blood. Body so completely numb, you can't even feel fear anymore and your eyelids become unbearably heavy.

You blink.

It's at your feet, sharp canines ready to bite.

You blink again.

It's over your legs, its deep growl reverberating through your entire body.

One final blink.

All your clouded vision can make out is the terrifying glow of two purple eyes mere inches from your face, but you feel the wet, warm sensation spill down the front of your neck and beneath your shirt as that mixture of blood and saliva drips from the beast's mouth. Just before your lids drop, you swear you catch those eyes turning gray for just a second as the moonlight disappears behind the clouds.

Unable to open your eyes, your ears ring with the pained howl that erupts from the creature and somehow dissolves into a human's- a woman's- deep pained groan that grows quieter and quieter, until everything fades to black.

next chapter >

[2af-afterdark]

Let's Make a Family

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: F/M

Fandom: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!

Characters: Satan, Main Character

Additional Tags: afab!MC (you/your), shameless smut, no plot, breeding kink, mention of impregnation

A/N: My breeding kink has been going off lately, so this request made my brain go brrrr. Only horny when writing. No brain.

Word Count: 826

Satan had you seated in his lap, legs spread wide as he rubbed his length against your soaking wet core. He could tease you all day if you would let him, content with watching you squirm in his lap, rubbing against his hardness and listening to you beg for more than just light contact. Still, leaving you unsatisfied wasn’t an option either, especially not today.

“Maybe you want something more,” he said as his hand traveled down your navel until it was dipping between your thighs, slowly stroking the small nub that made your nerves fire in every direction, “Want me to stuff this pretty hole of yours? Fill you with my cum until you can’t hold anymore and it runs down those sexy thighs of yours?”

He laughed as you began panting and whining his name in that beautiful voice that made his cock twitch against you, listening as you softly called out, “Put it in. Fill me up. Need you.”

Slowly, overcome with rare impatience from listening to your needy cries, he lifted you up, kissing the warm heat of your entrance with the tip of his cock. And, just as slowly, he began to lower you onto himself, groaning at the feeling of you stretching around him, “Such a good girl, taking me so deep.” His hips picked up their pace, rolling up into you in a rhythm that matched your increasingly desperate moans and whines.

“Good. ’s good.” Your cries broke each time he bucked up into you. The way your body willingly took him in, stretching around his thick cock as he began pounding into you… it was all so delicious that you couldn’t help but lean your head back against his shoulder. Your eyes began to roll back in your head as his fingers worked your clit in perfect sync with his hips.

A fire burned inside of you, spreading out from the spot where you and he were joined. Your nerves burned up, heating your fingers and curling your toes as you felt something inside of your begin to fray and snap. Your voice hitched in your throat, your walls fluttering around him as you felt yourself cumming on his cock.

“Good girl.” Satan practically purred in your ear as you went limp against him, your exhausted nerves trying to rest for a moment after such an intense orgasm. His hand pulled away from your clit, moving to your thighs to help keep them spread nice and wide for him so he could force you to bounce on his cock as he took what pleasure he could from your body. Each time he drops you onto his length, you can feel him press against your deepest parts, "Such a tight little kitten. Gonna cum in this pretty cunt of yours. Should I make you a mama?”

Your legs shook, his words pushing you toward another orgasm and your voice breaks from the continuous lewd moans spilling out of your mouth. Your poor body was so overcome from the wave of pleasure that had just passed through it and he was only making it worse with each stroke, massaging the remaining sensitive nerves and nearly bringing you to tears, “Satan, please – nggh – please.”

“Please what?” He was so close. It was taking all of his willpower not to empty himself inside of you before he could hear you beg for what he wanted too, “Knock you up? Make you nice and fat with my kid?”

“Yes.Yesyesyesyes.” Your head lulled back, words running free and uninhibited from your lips as your overstimulated sex took his increasingly violent and frantic thrusts, “Put a baby in me.”

That was all he needed to hear to finally stop holding back. He slammed you onto his cock, pushing into you as deeply as he could and flooding your insides with everything he’d been holding back. His cum painted your slick inner walls, which squeezed him happily as though trying to collect all he had to offer.

Your face was wonderfully blissed-out, body limp as you began to settle into a state of postcoital euphoria. His cock remained inside of you, plugging you up to keep even a drop of him from seeping out and being wasted. He could see it already: your belly full and tits engorged with milk because of him. The thought was enough to nearly make him lose control and try to breed you yet again, but you looked so happy to finally relax and he couldn’t bring himself to ruin such a sight.

So, instead, he let his cock rest inside your wet, sloppy, stuffed cunt as he ran a hand through your hair to soothe you. All the while, he whispered to you about how well you had done, how proud of you he was, how beautiful you would look once you started to show, and how he would love you and his child with all of his heart.

[ntzsche9]

So, hi! I'm Verne (they/them), practically a queer elder in my 30s, brand new to tumblr (dunno how I ever missed the boat), and I only ever seem to write in the 20 minutes or so between pulling up to work and clocking in, or when I'm putting my toddlers down for a nap but don't want to crawl out of their beds and address the chores I gotta do while they're out of the way. I've written poetry, prose, and roleplayed in the past but got away from it for years and years, and only recently started writing again. I have notebooks and lists of story ideas but the few things I have fleshed out are mostly silly character-based "what if?" scenarios, because those are the most fun to me. Too many of my stories are me simply wanting to write a scene, developing a bit of a world around it, then losing interest entirely. I hope this blog can change that a bit, help me focus on following through or figuring out how to better develop small ideas into something longer.

Interests:

Post-apocalyptic

Near-future dystopias

Scifi/Fantasy (urban) with magical realism

History/AltHistory (especially lesser-known and marginalized stories)

Horror, dark, violent, and mature themes

Queer everything. I can't write heteros to save my life and I'm not all that sorry about it.

Sexy melodrama and smut with too much plot

Fanfiction (I could read/write Fallout stuff all day)

Some Favorite Authors:

Octavia Butler

Nnedi Okorafor

VE Schwab

Starhawk

Madeline Miller

Ta-nehisi Coates

Becky Chambers

Emma Donoghue

Looking for:

Community, inspiration, other writers to follow, and problem-solving tips in storytelling and sticking to stories when things get tough. I really just need some folks to talk to when working through all the things in my head. Open to the occasional tag but I'm not great at responding.

I have plenty more little bits of nonsense in various states of readability, like character backgrounds, alt-ending scenes, slice-of-life banter between characters, etc. These will be posted under the tag #ntzsche misc

Noteworthy WIPs:

Bad Blood - A Fallout Nuka-World fanfic (#ntzsche Nuka-World)

My longest story is a fanfic, but with a cast of characters largely not in the Fallout 4 DLC. I intend to eventually write this in a way that someone who hasn't played the game would be able to easily read.

Lafayette, the son of a 'retired' raider, left his abusive father to find his place in the world and was taken in by an eclectic trauma-bonded found family that inspires him to be a better person and shows him love he is certain he doesn't deserve. When his father comes across them in a raid, Lafayette is given the offer to join him, and he agrees in order to save the settlement and his little brother. Lafayette finds that being with his dad again, and being the son he always wanted him to be, isn't nearly as difficult as he thought it would be. He struggles to maintain the person he wants to be with the person he suspects he is, all while a cast of scheming raiders, wastelanders, and slaves vie for power in the raider city built within the rusted remains of an amusement park.

Salem's Child (#ntzsche Salem)

A background on one of the lesser Nuka-World characters that I got carried away with.

Andrew Rook doesn't look like his parents. He looks like someone they are desperate to forget. Growing up in post-apocalyptic Salem, Massachusetts has it's perks, though. In a fading settlement run by incompetent men who would rather blame the population of feral black cats for their problems than try to solve them, Andrew and his two best friends build a world in their imagination that shields them from the wretchedness of the wasteland and the people they have to rely on to survive.

Hechizo

Another character background that I would love to expand into a few short stories around.

Mateo Zavala was born in the vibrant and tight-knit community of Navarro. His great-great-great-great-great-great grandmother, a pre-war ghoul, is still the ruling matriarch, and it's hard for her not to play favorites when she has over 300 living descendants.

The Crash (#ntzsche Crash)

A what-if real-world rewrite of an event from another story. I just really enjoy writing these two.

Gabe always knew his functional alcoholic roomie would get into a terrible car wreck some day, but he never thought he would be dumb enough to be in the car with him. When the consequences of the wreck threaten to destroy Dave's life, Gabe finds himself doing everything he can to hold those pieces together. The love he harbors for his straight, polyamorous best friend runs deeper than either of them are ready to face, and find that Dave's injury turns their relationship completely on end.

[lindsay00000008]

About Me:

Call me Lindsay 💚 ✍🏻 🎨 🌿

Howdy! I’m new to posting on Tumblr! I’ve got ramblings and story snippets for ya (and art!). I mainly enjoy writing whump and fantasy OCs, but I write some fanfic too!

She/her, bi (💍➡️🤷🏻‍♂️), ‘98 (👵🏻)

Posting since March 2024 / About Me updated September 2024

Pet Whump Masterlist (in slooowww progress)

Ghost x JustAFriend/Fem!Reader

Fandoms:

Whump! The OA, Hannibal (NBC), Zelda, COD, Helldivers, JJK (only for the Suguru/Satoru discourse and also Sukuna is hot) any video game where I can use a bow and arrow or build a house, booktok

Genre interests:

Fantasy (historical, historical AU, original world, isekai)

If modern, would be an AU (omegaverse, magic, multiple worlds, post-apocalypse) OR have something interesting/dark enough to tide me over (serial killer, criminal underworld, etc)

Whump: 80% hurt, 20% comfort. But I love when they’re combined (e.g. caretaker witnesses or is even somehow responsible for the whump, or intimate whumper is comforting whumpee as they whump)

Fav authors: Diana Wynne Jones (whimsical!), C.S Lewis (fantastical!), my sister (who is my mirror and notepad!)

Interacting with me:

Writers…

✅If a post does not use character names, use the scene/prompt/dialogue/idea however you like! You can even continue a snippet in your own part 2 post or reblog (even if I end up continuing it myself). I like to see where different authors take a scene or inspiration. If you’re not sure you can hop on and continue a specific post of mine, drop a comment! Please credit or [link to post] if you’re inspired by something specific, but no biggie.

❌If a post does use character names, or is a reader x character fan fic with multiple parts, I have more of an investment and I’d like to keep those as my own.

Readers…

Most story snippets with romance/smut will be hetero but I’ll keep ramblings, whumspo, etc nonspecific

I love any kind of feedback. I especially love comments! Feel free to tag me if you think I'd like something, or send me a request! (I yearn for a stuffed ask box)

Friends…

I’m currently learning Welsh 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿 (did you know theres a welsh translation of Manacled?). I have a degree in Chinese 🇨🇳 (and linguistics) as well as intermediate skill in Korean 🇰🇷 (though I’m way out of practice in those). You can message me in those languages too!

⚠️Blog Content / Trigger Warnings⚠️

General - Sexually explicit and/or violent content. 18+ MDNI.

Why do I like whump? (Link)

If there's a post you think needs an extra CW, no matter how specific, let me know!

My posts may include:

Smump (Smut + Whump in the same scene/event)

Non/dubcon (I enjoy finding reasons my characters should smash other than because they desire to (e.g. sex pollen, appease a God, break a curse, share life force, etc) May include consent given without full understanding of circumstances or identity (e.g. sex with the man who killed their father, who then tries to kill them etc)

Omegaverse (including hetero)

MF pairings, MMF pairings, MMMF... uh... etc

Breeding, choking, BDSM (the usual)

Monsters (But I’m picky. Yautja is probably my limit. Mostly humanoids.)

Religious trauma / Purity culture / Cults / Grooming (sexual or otherwise - never physical, always evil)

Pet/slave whump, systemic or just for fun, conditioning, dehumanization

Dad/Mom issues, loud men trauma, narcissism, republicans, being a general disappointment to caretakers

Medical whump & experimentation, time gaps/amnesia, seizures, drug usage, hallucination, general illness (although I’m not into bedside caretaker stories unless a whumper is still involved)

Mental illness (anxiety/adhd specifically from personal experience, ptsd, responding to triggers, flashbacks, panic attacks, dissociation, suicidal ideation (including casual), self harm impulses, etc)

Torture, gore, blood, scarring, noncon body mod or surgery, sensory deprivation, food restriction, self harm

Fantasy violence, damsels in distress, generally un-feminist tropes (lol)

Born-sexy-yesterday - magically mature bodies/minds (ex. Nymph born from a flower, magical artifact awakened to serve a master, someone was turned into a cat as a child and has just been returned to human in their twenties)

Age gap (no minors e.g. 32 y/o x 20 y/o, 500+ y/o creature x 20 y/o Human)

Death (including minors)

Content will NOT include:

Full-on willful noncon to MC, or extreme whump/maiming to MC without reason or resolution (unless done by irredeemable villains who are later violently slaughtered).

I like my MCs to have a resolution to any trauma or injury faced. I like them to be saved before the breaking point, or at least have their pain acknowledged and healed. As a writer it helps me feel in control. If I would have a hard time giving my MC a happily ever after, I'm less likely to write it that way.

Poor hygiene in combination with whump, smut, smump, or general intimacy. Like infected wounds, bodily functions etc (unless plot or worldbuilding related - e.g., where do pet whumpees take a leak?)

I'm a bit of a weeny and like my MCs healthy and clean, even if they're getting tortured :) If they throw up they will quickly get cleaned up etc

Intense description of injury to toddler, infant, fetus or very pregnant person

Pregnancy body horror and writing children suffering gives me heebie jeebies. Also, will not write pregnancy as a happy ending because it terrifies me irl lol

Minors in sexual scenes

Reminder that this does not include grooming by villains. If I did write something like that, it would be verbal or implied only and never physical (e.g. a woman raised to be the perfect, obedient wife might have some groomy backstory scenes)

Terrible note to end on. Anyway, enjoy my stuff!

[55sturn]

amy tips on how to start writing on here

this is not the end-all-be-all of writing tips, let me preface with that. this is just an accumulation of tips i’ve noted on my own in the almost ten years of writing i’ve spent on this app mixed with tips i’ve read and gathered from other people.

but a few pointers i have are

tags: these are incredibly important, they can be as plain and collective as possible or they can be incredibly niche and only applicable to the content you’re posting. but they are important tools and they aid in your content gaining traction and your blog gaining popularity. it is incredibly important to include all possible for the character or figure you are writing more, in my examples i’m going to use chris sturniolo tags. you will find the tag section at the bottom of each new post you create, below the screenshot is of the tag section.

meaning: if your content doesn’t have a named character alongside the figures in the fandom you’re writing for, use an x reader tag; ie: chris sturniolo x reader.

meaning: if your content has a named character alongside the figures in the fandom you’re writing for, use an x oc /x original character tag; ie: chris sturniolo x oc / chris sturniolo x original character.

meaning: if your content doesn’t have anything sexual, triggering, gruesome, bloody, horrific, you should tag it as fluff or sfw. ie: chris sturniolo fluff or chris sturniolo sfw.

meaning: if your content does have anything sexual, triggering, gruesome, bloody, horrific, you should tag it as smut or nsfw. ie: chris sturniolo smut or chris sturniolo nsfw.

read more: this is a tool to help cut the length of your post so that people don’t have to spend absurd amounts of time scrolling, without removing any of your content, all it does is add a “keep reading” button that the reader can click if they wish to view more of your content. the screenshots below show what button to press and how it appears.

abbreviations: do not add text slang, acronyms, numbers, or abbreviations when you are writing in person dialogue. it gives your content an unfinished and poor impression.

meaning: if your character is saying “you’re joking.” to another person physically, do not write “ur joking.”, just write the full word.

meaning: if your character is saying “i’ll be right back.” to another person physically, do not write “i’ll brb.”, just write the full word.

meaning: if your character is talking about numbers, such as “oh there’s two of them.” to another person physically, do not write “there’s 2 of them.”, just write the full word.

descriptive writing + imagery: this is vital, it adds depth and other elements to your story while keeping the reader/s attention. it’s important to include details about where the characters are, what time of day it is, how cold or warm it is. it’s also important to describe what your characters are feeling and their body language. but have fun with it, try out different descriptive words and imagery styles.

pairings/duos/relationships: it’s always good to inform your readers of who will be with who either from the start or eventually in your story. i always add the pairing of the story right underneath the title. ie: pairing: chris sturniolo x fem!reader

synopsis: this is a paragraph that gives your audience small clues as to what your story is about, without giving away every detail. it’s important not to add any plot twists in the synopsis section because you want that element of surprise to still be in effect. i always add my synopsis right under my parings paragraph.

warnings: these are incredibly important! always post these above the read more link as it allows your audience to know what to prepare themselves for, especially if your story is sexually or violently graphic or if it includes triggering topics [ suicide, self harm, vomiting, sexual content, SA, violence, anything disturbing. ] adding proper warnings allows your audience to know whether or not to click out before they start reading. i usually place my warnings right above the read more link so that they can choose to keep reading or not, and so that they have the warnings fresh in mind.

lastly, just have fun with whatever you’re creating. a few good blogs to follow for other writing tips or advice or just anything related to writing are @urfriendlywriter @novelbear @thepromptswhisperer and @love-me-a-good-prompt !!