#even if i don't write the actual fic

[starrystevie]

18+ | cw: improper use of plumping lipgloss, mentions of alcohol, oral sex, it's steddie endgame i promise | crossposted on twitter

it’s no secret, steve likes making out. likes isn’t a strong enough word. he loves making out. loves grabbing hold of someone and pulling them close, loves laying over them on a couch, on a bed, hips just barely moving as he takes them apart with lips and teeth and tongue.

that doesn’t change once he’s had a few drinks either, body tingling with tequila or vodka or something equally strong that has his inhibitions thrown to the wind. he’s always able to find someone willing to dance with him, hips pressed together and arms wrapped around shoulders.

it’s usually girls, pretty things with pretty hair that draw steve in like a punch drunk happy moth to an overzealous flame. they’ll turn their heads with a flirty shy smile and follow him out to the dance floor before pressing up tight against his front.

they’ll curl their fingers into his where they rest low on their hips and keep him close. they’ll drop their heads onto his shoulder and let their breath ghost over the side of his face until he gets the all too obvious hint.

steve likes making out on a dance floor. no, not likes.

loves.

that is until his lips are covered in sticky, sweet lip gloss and he’s pulling away because his tongue is on fire, tingling from something other than alcohol and the thrill of being in a pretty girl’s mouth.

“what is that?” he yells into her ear over the bumping bass.

“sorry,” the girl says sheepishly, “it’s my lipgloss. it plumps my lips.”

she goes back in to kiss steve once more and he isn’t exactly going to deny her. her lips are pretty just like her, plump and shiny and all too inviting, so he kisses her back. the gloss is spicy on the cracks of his lips, on the tip of his tongue when he he pulls her lip in between his teeth. it’s addictive in a way. he wonders if his own lips will plump up from the contact alone.

later, when they say their drawn out goodbyes outside of the club, he’ll ask to borrow the lip gloss since his night isn’t over yet. she’ll pull it out with a grin and apply it so sweetly to her own lips and then to his. her touch is gentle and precise before she puts the tube back in her purse and then connects their lips for a final time.

steve likes to make out. no, not likes.

loves.

so he goes to a bar around the corner, robin hot on his coat tails with some blonde she picked up attached to her side, and he’ll order a vodka soda that he can sip through a straw so he doesn’t destroy his pretty glossed lips. the bar is grungy, but steve almost prefers that, able to blend into smoky shadows and dark corners while he watches the crowd.

while he watches someone in the crowd watch him back.

he has wild curly hair and handcuffs on his belt and steve swears he’s staring at his lips and the way the light is bouncing off of the gloss, but he isn’t too sure. not until there’s wild curly hair and handcuffs on a belt standing right in front of him.

steve has a different confidence with guys. maybe it’s because he has to read them a little differently. maybe its because he gets read by them a little differently, too. but flirting is flirting all the same and steve finds himself biting at his lip and licking away some of the spicy lip gloss with a wince as it burns the inside of his mouth.

curly hair handcuff guy is cuter once they start talking for a while, all animated and vibrant, a bright shiny beacon in a dingy bar. he finds out his name is eddie with a lingering handshake that means something, fingers trailing and tingling like they had a spice to them, too.

they don’t dance, but they do end up out back, sharing a cigarette as drunk people stumble around them. it’s easy enough for eddie to light, flame from the lighter sparking in his big, brown eyes.

“so steve,” he says, flicker of some other kind of spark in his eye, “where to?”

and steve knows how to do this part. he grabs the cigarette out of eddie’s mouth and puffs on it himself, blowing the smoke over his head. “is it too forward to say i don’t think i can last much longer without getting my mouth on you?”

eddie grins and lets his eyes flit down. “no. is it too forward for me to say that i’d let you do anything to me, mouth or otherwise?”

he takes the cigarette back and steve can see his trace left behind on the filter, can see when the hint of gloss hits eddie’s lips if the wrinkle of his eyebrows is anything to go off of.

he doesn’t say anything, just winks over at steve. he doesn’t say anything, just drags him into a taxi. he doesn’t say anything, just wraps a hand high over steve’s thigh, just pushes steve up against his apartment wall, just fumbles over handcuffs and pushes down his jeans.

steve likes making out. no, not likes.

loves.

if he loves making out, then he really fucking craves giving head. he feels like a cartoon animal with hearts popping out of his head as he pulls eddie’s cock out of his briefs. he licks his lips like he’s starving and regrets it when the gloss singes his tongue.

steve looks up from his knees and swipes a finger over his lips, holding it up high for eddie to see. “taste it,” he whispers.

eddie’s eyes widen, but he obediently bends his neck, tongue lolling out so he can lap at steve’s finger. “your lip gloss is spicy,” eddie says flatly as he recoils.

steve nods. “and it’s going on your cock unless you say otherwise.”

which is how steve finds himself turning eddie into a writhing mess. his hands hold onto the backs of eddie’s shaking knees as he works over his cock. his hair stings as eddie tugs on the strands. his eyes water as he sucks him in deeper and deeper into his throat, spicy lipgloss tingly on his tongue and cheeks.

“you are a fucking wonder,” eddie whines, hips humping as he grinds himself further into steve’s mouth. “just fucking made for this, huh?”

steve pulls off and spits on his cock to jack his hand over it as he pulls the head to his lips. he rubs the sensitive tip over his lips just to watch eddie twitch.

“you have no idea.”

he blows a line of cool air over the gloss that’s left there and drinks in the way eddie’s eyes roll back in his head before swallowing him back down, reveling in the spice that hits the back of his throat as he does so.

when eddie comes, he pulls steve off so he can paint his pretty, puffy, plump lips with it, dragging his cock over them to make a mess. it’s not a surprise when steve licks it off, spicy and salty and a special kind of sweet that he thinks is all eddie. he leans up to place a kiss into the thatch of hair over eddie’s cock, smearing behind come and shiny lip gloss.

“you gonna wait for me to come in my pants or can i go fuck you?”

steve likes making out. no, not likes.

loves.

and he loves giving eddie head. and he loves fucking eddie. and he loves waking up with a spicy, sticky residue on the side of his cheek after falling asleep with his head on eddie’s chest.

and maybe, just maybe, he’ll love eddie someday, too.

[mikakuna]

the way that nobody noticing, for who knows how many years, that jason broke out of his coffin implies that jason's grave was rarely, if at all, visited, and when it was, nobody in that family of brilliant detectives stayed long enough to notice something was off

[brynn-lear]

"Hmm? Oh, I'm just the milkman. Nothin' more. Won't you let me in, my doorman?"

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[possamble]

farcille postcanon characterization warmup that got way out of hand. beware, here be spoilers, dragoncock, and bottoming as an extreme sport.

~~~

Marcille has always loved Falin’s voice. Soft, high, airy and girlish—it was always as gentle as the rest of her, even in the midst of pitched combat. When things went to hell in a handbasket, it was always Falin’s whispery incantations that kept Marcille grounded as blood and monster guts sailed through the air. 

And that hasn’t changed. No amount of dragon could really change that, Marcille thinks. Yes, she she has moments when her voice becomes rough and ragged and guttural, mostly when she’s swinging her mace or her fists, or gritting her teeth through a monster claw stuck into her side. But maybe that urge to growl was always there, and she’s just finally able to voice it now. Marcille finds that she’s loud at times she would have been silent before—grunting with exertion when she would have grimaced quietly, singing some nonsense melody over a mundane task when she would have hummed it under her breath—and that’s a good thing.

But otherwise, nothing has changed. Falin’s voice is as delicate as ever, chiming in a lilting giggle behind a dainty gesture of her hand. Rustling like pages of well-loved books as she casts her protective wards, or ponders over how to cook a new monster, or murmurs right into Marcille’s ear while she…

Well. While she’s got Marcille bent over her own desk with her nightgown pooled at her ankles. Marcille’s not sure if it’s rude or considerate that she didn’t get a chance to dress herself before she had a girthy cock shoved up her cunt first thing in the morning. 

“Marcille,” Falin whispers, unfairly shaky as if she’s the one getting fucked within an inch of her life. She’s mouthing at Marcille’s neck, draped over her and pressing as close as possible in every way, gripping Marcille’s hands tight and keening like she’s found heaven between her legs. “Marcille, Marcille…” 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that she gets to do that, that she gets to sound like that—with that sweet voice she’s always had, now making obscene little noises that are still whispery fine and almost ethereal coming from her mouth. These quiet, barely voiced sighs that puff against Marcille’s ear, the dulcet moans that thrum against her skin, and that demure little gasp when she thrusts a little harder and somehow finds even more space inside Marcille to bottom out in—

“Marcille…” she whimpers like she’s in pain, on the verge of tears, fingers tight between Marcille’s as they grip the edge of the rattling desk together. “You feel—so good, oh… You’re”—another moan buried just behind her ear—"so wet, so good…” 

It’s not like Marcille got the chance to be anything else right now, did she? Not when Falin fell upon her just as she was sorting through her documents, pressed against her back and already unfastening the clasps of her gown and slipping it off her shoulders. She was fully naked before she even got a playful good morning whispered into her ear—it’s a miracle she had the forethought to push her papers out of the way just before Falin had her wrapped around her finger in the most literal sense. 

Well. Fingers in the plural, really, since she always starts with two. Usually while pawing at Marcille’s tit with her other hand until her stupid knees give out and she ends up buckling over whatever surface is nearby—in this case, her desk, mercifully free of any uncapped inkwells at the moment. Now slathered with sweat that makes her tits slip and slide along the wooden varnish, of course, but otherwise non-disastrous. 

Hopefully her nightgown is catching most of the mess running down her thighs, or she’s going to have to make the most humiliating request to the castle staff about her carpets for the third time this month—

“Yes…!” Falin digs her heels in and fucks her even harder, taken with some kind of mindless momentum all of a sudden. “I love you,” she pants in that stupid—feathery, daisy-light tone that has no business being this sweet while she’s ravaging Marcille like this— “you’re perfect, you’re perfect—” 

Marcille’s going to die like this. This is how she’s going to go: Bleating like an animal with her cheek stuck to her desk with drool, eyes just permanently rolled back in her head, toes barely touching the floor as Falin keeps fucking her further onto the desk. She hasn’t said a single coherent word since her second orgasm however many minutes ago, just broken into an endless stream of guttural noises as her cunt slobbers and squelches around Falin’s cock almost as loudly as she’s wailing. 

“Marcille,” Falin keens, sounding like a bashful princess ravished to breathlessness—just something straight out of a high-minded erotica novel—all while hammering Marcille into the desk at a shallow, breakneck pace. “You feel—feel s–o good, you’re perfect, oh—oh, you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, I love you, I love you—” 

For the love of—fuck. Marcille can distantly hear herself scream, can feel the desk digging into her as she flails, her grasp on sanity getting thinner and thinner with each word that tumbles out of Falin’s mouth and shoots straight through her nerves. She’s—good god, she’s not usually this talkative. It’s almost always Marcille begging and blabbering about how much she wants Falin’s cock, how good it feels, how she wants it harder and faster and more, screaming and crying Falin’s name over and over—

But now, in the absence of Marcille’s pathetic yapping—after she’s already fucked the words out of Marcille so thoroughly—Falin’s taken it upon herself to murmur a stream of honeyed nonsense into her ear, her frail and gentle voice breaking with desperation—and fuck, it’s not fair.

“Yes, yes, oh—” Falin sobs into her neck. “I love it—I love it when you sound like this, I love you—you’re so good, so good for me, my Marcille—” 

No, no, no, she can’t do that, she can’t do that—she can’t say that, in that voice, while her cock is so deep in Marcille there’s hardly room for anything else, battering all her nerve endings and rearranging her so that there’s nothing left but her, Falin, Falin—

“Ah!” Falin cries out, like she’s the one getting reamed against her stupid fucking desk so hard she can barely breathe— “Yes, please, please—please say my name again!” 

Well. She can beg all she fucking wants, but it’s not going to be pretty and she has no one to blame but herself—it’s her fault Marcille can hardly speak, it’s her fault her name is only coming in rough wails with both syllables separated with heaving, crying breaths. Marcille gives it her all, scrapes whatever intelligence she has left to speak, and sounds like a dying animal in a way that can’t possibly be anything but hideous to listen to—

And still, Falin sobs, as if in utter ecstasy as she fucks Marcille so hard the desk starts scraping along the floor in harsh jumps. 

“Yes, yes—ah—” Her voice, not so whispery gentle now but still so melodious and clear, sounding out from deep in her chest— “I—love—you—” she weeps, punctuated by the hard slams of the desk against the floor as she drops the rapid pace in favor of mercilessly hard thrusts— “Beautiful—perfect—mine!” 

Then she finally, finally comes—not that it stops her, not with how she thrusts with every spurt. Like she’s not just satisfied with letting it spill out, like she needs to fuck it into Marcille with all her strength, once, twice, then one last time, stuffing her cunt absolutely full with searing heat—

And Marcille doesn’t even realize she’s coming until she’s unceremoniously ejected out the other side of the high, that telltale swoop of vertigo rushing through her veins. The orgasm doesn't even have the grace to let her go limp with afterglow, of course, and she’s left there convulsing and twitching like a drowning fish. With her jaw pressed to the desk, she can actually hear her teeth chatter from how hard she’s shaking, Falin’s warm weight on her be damned. 

(One day. One day, she’ll stop embarrassing herself like this—one day she’ll finish like a normal person during sex, instead of going off like a cheap firework every half hour and wringing an orgasm out of herself as soon as she feels Falin finish inside her, whether or not she even had one left in her to begin with.) 

“M-Marcille,” Falin stammers, her voice breathless but now shy and girlish again as she slowly untangles their hands. “Are you—are you okay?” 

The gall. To ask her that, when she’s nothing but a sweaty carcass slung over her desk, still twitching erratically. To be so gentle as she straightens up and kisses the back of her neck, tenderly brushing her hair to the side as she pulls out ever so slowly—

And still. Not. Slowly. Enough—apparently! Not with the sparks that explode in Marcille’s eyes again, utterly unclear if this is another orgasm or just a particularly brutal aftershock! She just goes squeaking and shaking and sliding off the desk onto her knees, hands clapped over her cunt like they’re going to protect her from the lightning racing up and down her spine. She doesn’t even know where she landed, really, convulsing and closing her thighs around her hand as cum and slick drools into her palms, falling forward and— and smacking her head against the edge of her desk.

“Oh!” Feathered arms clasp around her before she can slide past the wood with her sweaty forehead and land on her face. “Careful—are you okay?” 

The gall. The audacity. The—something, or whatever, fuck, Marcille doesn’t even care anymore. Her head throbs with an oncoming bruise, she can’t feel her legs, she can feel her pussy way too much, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen apart on the spot—

“Okay… let’s…” There’s some maneuvering going on, but hell if Marcille can actually tell what Falin’s doing. “Here, let’s take a bath—I’ll go draw some water.” 

Marcille whines, because no—she doesn’t know where she is, she just twists until her face finds feathers and buries herself there. She even manages to bring one cum-covered hand to grip at the quils, because this mess is Falin’s fault and if she doesn't like it then she can wash it off herself—but she’s not allowed to leave. 

A little chuckle under her breath—and it’s so fucking cute and girlish like she hasn’t just demolished a full grown woman to the brink of unconsciousness, but Marcille can’t even find it in herself to be mad. Falin can ask her whatever the hell she wants, do whatever the hell she wants, so long as she doesn’t let go. 

“I’m bringing you with me, I promise,” Falin whispers so tenderly, pressing a kiss to Marcille’s head. There’s arms tightening around her back and under her knees, and she feels herself being lifted. “I wouldn’t leave you like that…” 

Better not, Marcille grumbles to herself. Not sure if it made it past her mouth, but it doesn’t matter. Falin’s going to take responsibility for turning her morning into—into this, even if it means having to draw some bathwater with an elf clinging to her the entire time. She’s going to be the one to wash her off, bring her their missed breakfast, and tell everyone why she wasn’t there at the morning meeting—

Maybe not that last part. 

“I’m sorry,” she hears, in that soft and whispery tone she’s loved for so many years. That voice that didn’t change, even with everything that happened—everything that Marcille did to her, and it’s—

It would be so, incredibly stupid if she started crying out of nowhere. 

“Liar,” she whines, digging the indignant annoyance back up to pout like a spoiled brat. “You liked… every second…” 

Another giggle that so infuriatingly lovely. “I did.” The sound of a squeaky valve turning, then rushing water that slaps against stone. “Did you?” 

Marcille just grumbles again and clings even tighter. Falin just laughs a little louder and strokes her hair, too kind to demand an answer in so many words—or, perhaps, impishly content to let Marcille incriminate herself with her silence, as she so often does.

[bumblingbabooshka]

The worst trope in the universe is when someone accuses character A, who is part of a real or fantasy or coded minority, of doing something bad and everyone's like "That's just your prejudice against [real or fantasy minority]!" and it turns out character A actually did do that bad thing and everyone else was stupid for not believing they did that bad thing.

[yaekiss]

okay. the will wood song as vampire childe. a reverse of that oh so beloved fic based off a lil ask of mine.

the way he loves your pure, unadulterated humanity as you breathe down his neck when you’re on top of him. you’d have him squeeze his scarred thighs together if they weren’t pinned open from your pounding into his pretty and greedy hole.

he begs for your attention either way. his bratty words as he tries to set you off, wanting to drain you of your blood to have you even a part of his body. he begs and begs, taking in every careful breath of yours between his own moans of pure bliss and his sucking of your blood. the way he looks on with dazed eyes as your own roll back when you tell him to detach… but no　♡︎　he’s not doing that.

vampire childe who is just your silly little parasite! despite his expensive tastes, he likes it when you drag him to some seedy club’s bathroom and take him in the stall where anyone can hear him. his tab’s forgotten as he makes up for pissing you off from letting others ogle at him, such lecherous monsters he’s much better than, at least, that’s what he says as he’s holding onto the dirty mirror, seeing the possessiveness in your gaze as you surely leave bruises on his hips and ass.

IHDSWJHD I can't believe I wrote so much for Bloodied Fangs... something about exploring the different dynamics of vamps I guess idk what came over me. I think your asks just do something to the writing part of my brain. Hmm. Rambling under the cut again, I think I'm losing it

On a side note, if anyone reading this would like a full fic based on a prompt/request you might have, do check out my ongoing event!!

ANYWAYS! sorry I have worldbuilding(?) brainworms I have to get out first b4 everything else as usual sigh. I think a vamp!Childe is bloodthirsty in ever sense of the word. If we're going by the more popular vampire tropes, he might enjoy the boost to his abilities (i.e. heightened senses, supernatural strength) although I am curious to see how it would affect the use of his delusion and his Foul Legacy state.

Would additional vampiric features manifest themselves in the Foul Legacy state? Sharpened fangs, torn and roughed up bat-like wings?? Would mixing the powers from the delusion and vampirism produce any backlash? If the delusion draws from the user's life force, what would happen to a vampire who's immortal? One can only speculate.

Perhaps it's the genuine concern combined with natural curiosity in your expression when you pose these questions to him that continues to draw him closer and closer to you. How sweet of you to worry over him, he swears he can almost feel his now non-functioning heart skip a beat when your warm hand cups his face. He drinks in your warmth, constantly clinging to your side like some leech.

Which is why he loves it when he managed to rile you up, the contrast you show him is addicting. He knows what he's doing when he licks at the salt rim of his glass, shooting you a coy look as he consciously ignores the way the other patrons of the club are eyeing him. He knows he's won when you're dragging him off to the bathroom, a possessive glint in your eyes. Meanwhile, Childe is beaming when some customers whistle at the spectacle.

You sure that those outside can definitely hear his moans over the trashy upbeat music the club is blasting on the speakers but the man before you doesn't seem to care at all. His fangs sinking into your skin, the familiar taste of your blood settling on his tongue. The flavour is intoxicating, heady, rich. Infinitely better than whatever that drink he ordered just now was, how could it even compare?

He feels you yanking at his hair, trying to drag him off you and saying something along the lines of, "C'mon detach already, haven't you had enough?" The answer could not be more clear to him, how could such a small taste of you ever be enough?

If he drains you of everything, doesn't that mean your entirety will be a part of him for all eternity?

Bonus!! can't really figure out how to link it to everything I wrote above but I think he'd really like it if he could drink your blood while you're fucking him. Something about lapping away at your neck/wherever he chose to bite, acutely aware of your heartrate speeding up when he clenches down on you, your blood laced with the sharp sweet taste of bliss and arousal. He could simply drown in it all.

Thanks for reading! Consider supporting me on kofi if you enjoyed this or check out my other works hehe ♡

If you'd like to request a full fic of your own, do consider checking out my event post!

[jade-of-mourning]

sorry sometimes i think about mako and my heart hurts so much. this kid raised himself and his brother on the streets in homelessness and utter poverty from eight through fifteen, promptly after seeing the violent death of his mother and father. he turned to the triple threats because they couldn't survive as a pair of wretched kids without any adult support, and the environment forced him to turn into the exact character that killed his parents in a terrible twist of irony. and after sheer-fucking-luck hits and they aren't homeless anymore, their livelihood wavers on the outcome of what's a literally game to everyone but them; and after things are finally starting to look up and their team is going places and things just might be okay, his gradually stabilizing world unceremoniously expands and everything goes to shit.

and the city that chewed him up and spat him back out, ruined him as a child and took away his ability to stay afloat in a true sense of normalcy as an adult — when it's on the verge of destruction and falling to pieces before his eyes, he gives himself to save it with the full expectation to die. he went from the kid who didn't and couldn't care about anything outside of himself and his brother, to finding redemption for his younger self in his police work despite its injustice against him, to willingly sacrificing himself to a world that had never loved him.

he's a desperate people pleaser, socially and emotionally stunted for the adult he had to be as a kid, unable to navigate interpersonal relationships easily yet still trying his damned hardest. he's intensely and entirely devoted to the things that matter to him and for so long it was only him, bolin, and ensuring their survival — yet by the end, that devotion has expanded to protecting the rest of the world. he starts out entirely self-reliant and ends in trusting the people he cares about to know their own needs, to be able to take care of themselves, to be okay without him despite having spent so much of his life defined by his role in others' well-being.

just. what the fuck i'm such a big fan of this fictional guy and i'm unashamed about it at this point. also let him cry please (if you won't i'll do it i'll let him cry)

[autisticrosewilson]

Um if you write Jason having to get drugs for Catherine I want you dead btw. Not only does it tell me you assume the average drug dealer would give the hard shit to a very small child and then not supervise them at all (classist stereotype that all drug dealers are inherently evil + lazy writing with no grasp on reality) and you genuinely think that Catherine was CONSTANTLY high, as if that's even possible without overdosing far sooner than she did. That's without even getting into the bad mom Catherine propaganda.

[osamusriceballs]

Last-Minute Plans

Ushijima x fem reader

Warnings: NSFW (cockwarming, rather soft)

Words: ~ 1,5 k

About: Wakatoshi got a ring for you, and he needs to make sure it fits.

A/n: Happy Birthday to our beloved Wakatoshi-kun~

"It fits,"

he mumbles with a sigh of relief, one he hadn't realized he was holding. He looks contently at the jewelry now adorning your ring finger.

Ushijima knows that he's late with this. He should have attempted this plan a long time ago; he despises last-minute actions. Lately, however, you've insisted on waiting until he returns home late from practice due to extended training sessions just before the crucial match, making it impossible for him to secretly slip that ring onto your finger to see if it fits. He's aware he hasn't been giving you the time you deserve lately, but he's determined to make it up as soon as he can. He intends to spoil you as soon as the match is over and his schedule finally allows him to have more free time, treating you like the princess you are.

He had nearly abandoned the idea of trying the ring on your finger. He considered simply hoping for the best, planning to alter the ring quickly after proposing if it didn't fit. He knows you wouldn't have minded, but he wanted this moment to be perfect. The first difficulty he had encountered, however, was that you had rings in various sizes in your jewelry box- probably for different fingers, but even after sorting through them, he was still not convinced that he chose the right size.

Relief washes over him as he sees the ring fitting comfortably, and for a short moment, he envisions your future together. He dreams of having you sleep beside him every night, of going on the vacation you've always dreamed of, and of giving you the beautiful wedding ceremony you've always wanted. He's already asked Tendou to be his best man and informed his parents of his plans. He even decided to send his father a notice that his son will be getting married soon—hopefully.

The ring looks stunning on your hand. It's noticeable yet subtly elegant. He's confident you'll love it; you've often praised his taste, describing him as simple in his choices, which you adore.

His gaze drifts to your peaceful sleeping form. You must be exhausted not to have woken up yet. Normally, you'd wait until he returns or awaken when he quietly lies down beside you, an act he's yet to master. You'd always greet him with a tender kiss, a gesture he cherishes most during his days and misses the most when he's away. Yet, you sleep soundly, your face soft, breathing steady. You're wearing one of his shirts, the old Shiratorizawa jersey you claim is the comfiest—adorable on you, he agrees.

He's fairly certain you're wearing only flimsy panties beneath, but he'll take his sweet time tomorrow to explore every inch of your body.

"Toshi," your sleepy voice pulls him from his daydreams, and he quickly hides the ring, clutching your hand in his. You stir, turning towards him, brows furrowing as you reach out blindly.

"Y/n, go back to sleep. It's late," he murmurs in a soothing tone, knowing you find his voice calming.

"I missed you," you groan, squinting your eyes as you try to make out his face in the dimly lit room.

"I missed you too," he replies, smiling softly and leaning down to press a tender kiss to your lips. You smile in return, bringing your free hand to his cheek, a bit clumsily—almost slapping his face, but he doesn't mind; he is simply happy having you close.

"You haven't shaved today," you mumble as you caress his cheek. He hums in response. "I forgot. Does it bother you?"

"No, it doesn't. But you never forget to shave. What was on your mind today?"

You, he thinks, but for once, he refrains from sharing his thoughts. He needs to distract you, to take back the ring unnoticed. How you haven't noticed it so far surprises him.

"I was thinking about…" he begins, his voice trailing off, unsure how to respond without you getting suspicious.

"Wakatoshi, come to bed. You seem really tired," you yawn, and he suddenly knows what he needs to do.

Ushijima leans down to kiss you again, this time deepening the kiss with more passion. He feels your response, your body arching into his touch, your lips moving in sync with his.

"Toshi," you're already breathless after a few kisses, and he finally feels your hand relax, fingers intertwining with his with the metal still on your finger. He typically holds your hand more firmly, but now he keeps his grip gentle, ensuring you don't feel the ring on your finger. With his free hand, he traces the hem of your shirt, his fingers gliding beneath the fabric, encountering the softness of your skin.

"Want you, but I'm tired," you whisper against his lips, prompting him to nuzzle against your neck. "Should I pleasure you? Should I make you feel full?" You moan softly and weakly nod, your eyes barely open in the dark room. Unbeknownst to you, a wave of relief washes over him. This may not be going exactly as he planned, but making love to you with the ring already on your finger is better than he could have imagined.

He quickly runs through potential scenarios in which he could smoothly slide the ring off your finger, deciding to position himself behind you while maintaining a hold on your hand in front of your body. Shifting his body weight, he maneuvers behind you until his chest presses against your back. He skillfully settles beneath the blanket without releasing your hand, making sure not to tighten his grip around your fingers. His lips find your neck, where he places the gentlest kisses against your skin, earning the softest, most beautiful moans from your lips. His hips begin to rhythmically move against your backside, and he feels how he hardens in his pants.

You contently hum while you lean into his touch, raising one leg to allow him to slip his thigh between yours. "Feels good," you murmur as he starts a grinding motion against your pussy. He feels his growing need, a nearly instinctive response to your body. His earlier suspicion about you wearing only his shirt and panties appears accurate; that much he notices when his shorts ride up and his bare thigh grinds against your cunt. As much as he wants the feeling of your bare skin against his, he knows that undressing might raise too much suspicion. Instead, he guides his free hand downward, gently tracing circles against your clothed center.

"You're so perfect. So beautiful. I love you so much," he whispers into your ear, causing you to shudder in his arms. Your grip on his hand tightens, while your other hand softly clutches the sheets. He understands your needs. Grateful that he's still wearing the soft shorts, he pushes them down slightly, quickly freeing his cock.

"Should I use some lube?" he asks, concern lacing his voice, worried about hurting you since he hasn't fully prepared you yet—a truly challenging task when ensuring your hand remains held and he can only use one hand properly.

"Think I'm wet enough," you mumble, and he dips two fingers between your folds to confirm, and he is rewarded with enough arousal to forget about his worries.

As much as he wants to ravish you right now, he knows you would probably drift off to sleep if he makes love to you tenderly—so that's precisely what he does. He gently spreads your legs further with his thigh, allowing his cock to rest between your legs. It has almost become a routine for him to set aside your panties and gradually ease his cock inside you- a practice that you often do after he comes home late from his practice sessions.

A breathy moan escapes your lips at the stretch, and he feels his own body tensing at the sensation of your soft walls around him. He continues to push until he's fully inside of you. You always take him so well—it feels breathtaking to be buried deep inside you. He still hopes you'll succumb to sleep in this embrace, even though he's surely wide awake himself.

"Feels good," you hum, your breathing gradually returning to a steady rhythm. He pulls you closer, inhaling the soothing flowery scent of your hair- a scent that always brings him comfort and calms his mind when he can't seem to rest. You might not fully grasp how much he loves you—how every fiber of his being yearns for you, how he wishes for you to be happy and to be his. This is precisely why he plans to propose to you tomorrow and to place the ring back on your finger. You wouldn't refuse him on his birthday, would you?

"Sleep well, my love."

[darks-ink]

Welcome back! I saw you are taking story ideas so I wanted to submit two of the prompts I wrote for Phic Phight.

1) Danny's excuse when someone notices the resemblance between Fenton and Phantom and comes too close to his secret: The ghost is his dead twin who he ate in the womb. This might have more truth to it than he originally thought.

2) Long ago Clockwork had and lost a child, the young Ancient of Space. Even with his Sight of time, he could never see what became of them, only that they disappeared. Now another being that evades his Sight has crashed into his existence. Another child, and this one a boy with the stars in his eyes and the cold of space in his veins.

I hope you like either of these!

Thank you! I went with #1, but admittedly it turned out a little short.

Duplicity

Rating: Gen Warnings: focuses on vanishing twins & the formation of ghosts, especially in connection to each other Words: 770 Additional Tags: Post-reveal, Good Fenton parents

[AO3]

---

“You know, one thing still confuses me about ghost cores.” Danny resisted the temptation to fidget when three pairs of eyes turned to him. “Or, uh, the cores of half-ghosts, at least?”

“Do tell, Great One, and perhaps I can answer.” Frostbite turned further to face him.

“Well, um.” Danny’s eyes darted over to his parents, briefly, before returning to Frostbite. “Isn’t it kinda weird that my core is more stable than Dani and Vlad? Like, I thought Dani was just because she was a clone, so she was destabilizing, but apparently Vlad got really sick as he was developing his powers? But I was, well, fine?” He shrugged, unsure of how to put his thoughts into words.

His mother hummed thoughtfully, but didn’t say anything. Neither did his dad, though he did frown.

“Of course not. Both other half-ghosts you refer to had to develop their own cores, growing them from scratch. You, on the other hand, absorbed yours from another ghost, thus stepping past the initial growing pains.”

Danny felt his heart stop. His core freeze. Thoughts grinding to a halt.

“Excuse me?” he blurted out, automatically, incredulously. “Are you telling me I killed another ghost?”

“No, no.” Frostbite lifted his hands, voice dropping into a soothing tone. “Although it is not unheard of for proper ghosts to fuse together into one, this sort of core-binding is only possible with blob ghosts.”

“And blob ghosts aren’t truly sentient, right?” Maddie hummed in thought, saving Danny the effort of trying to figure out what, exactly, Frostbite meant. “They’re barely more than free-floating ectoplasm, which is common here in the Ghost Zone.”

Frostbite nodded. “Indeed. A more developed ghost couldn’t have been absorbed in such a manner, so there is no need to worry, Great One.”

“That’s a relief.” Danny heaved a sigh. It still felt weird to imagine that his core wasn’t originally his, that it had developed separately, but, well. At least he hadn’t killed someone in the process.

“Although,” Frostbite suddenly started, interrupting Danny’s thoughts. “It is very unusual.”

“Oh?” Danny felt like slapping himself. Why did he ask for more information? He regretted asking in the first place. Knowing more wasn’t going to make himself feel better, was it?

But his parents would probably have asked if he hadn’t. Right? Yeah, definitely.

“Typically, ghosts require some form of connection to be present to bind together. Two fully-formed ghosts can fuse over shared goals or other such traits, but such a thing isn’t possible with a blob ghost. To absorb one of those, a more tangible connection is required.”

Frostbite eyed Danny, but he couldn’t quite read the emotion in his eyes. “Obviously the power of the Ghost Portal let you bypass the part where you weren’t a ghost yourself—” or perhaps he was dying and turning into a ghost anyway, “—but that connection would’ve still been necessary.”

But how. What? Who? The blob ghost must’ve come from somewhere, something, someone, but Danny couldn’t imagine, couldn’t think—

“Oh, that makes sense,” Maddie said, voice casual. “Danny absorbed his twin in the womb, so it makes sense for him to do the same thing with his twin’s ghost.”

“What?” Danny blurted out, turning to her in shock. “I had a twin? A twin I absorbed?!”

“Well, yes.” Maddie nodded, looking at him in confusion. “Of course, it happened fairly early on, so he wouldn’t have become a real ghost. But the impression of it, the potential of a twin gained and lost, that would’ve been enough form a blob ghost.” She turned to Frostbite. “Right?”

“Right.” Frostbite nodded back. “And yes, a connection like that would have worked quite well. A connection of blood and spirit, an action repeated. An echo between life and death.”

Danny shook his head. Well. Jerked his head side to side. “Are you serious? Why are you all acting like this is—this is normal, totally expected?”

“I thought you knew, honey.” Maddie was frowning at him now, confusion deepening. “Weren’t you the one who started using it as a cover?”

“What?” He blinked at her, then realized. Yes. Yes, he had been using that as an excuse for the resemblance between Danny Fenton and Phantom. A dead twin, a ghost which looked just like the living Danny. “I didn’t—I didn’t think it was real.”

“Oh.” She shot an uncertain look at Jack, then Frostbite, then turned to him. “Well. You know now?”

Danny stared at her, incredulous. Then shook his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do now.”

But what the hell was he supposed to think of all this?

[themaevethcometh]

okay i've had this scene from an au stuck in my head recently so here's 3k of timkon identity shenanigans where kon has been recently taken in by luthor for nefarious reasons and is forced to attend a gala where tim and bruce show up. robin hasn't revealed his identity to the team yet even though they've been friends for years. canon/timeline has been put in a blender and liquified.

Kon takes a deep breath in through his nose, holding it for a few seconds before slowly letting it out of his mouth.  It’s a technique that Robin taught the team when he was trying desperately to get them on a more bat-approved training regime, including meditation and an acrobatics routine that Nightwing allegedly used on the Teen Titans years ago.  Kon is fully aware that he’s got weird stuff going on with his body’s organs and systems compared to humans, but the slow, rhythmic breathing still brings comfort and helps center him, slowing everything down enough so he no longer feels like he’s going to accidentally fry someone with his heat vision.

He tugs at the collar of his dress shirt, gulping and taking a deep breath again.  The shirt and tie feels so much more restrictive than his Superboy uniform, tightening like a noose around his neck, and the inflexibility of the suit coat makes him feel like a stiff, awkward mannequin.

“Stop that,” Luthor says, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder.  Kon immediately stills, straightening and trying to relax at the same time.

“These people are vultures,” Lex says, voice low.  Kon tries to focus his super hearing on him, rather than the woman with the loud laugh across the ballroom or the clink of glasses down the hall where the staff is continuously loading and unloading equipment.  He can hear the steady beat of Lex’s heart, the rhythmic whoosh of air traveling in his lungs, the slight gurgle of his stomach (gross!).  Kon decides he doesn’t like listening to Lex Luthor very much.

“Remember what I told you,” Lex is still saying.  “Be on your best behavior.  Today is about getting your name and your face out there.  Be polite, but not a pushover.  Never let them see weakness.”

Kon forcibly bites back the retort that his only weakness is kryptonite and makes himself nod instead.

Luthor leads him over to a group of people with his hand still clamped on Connor’s shoulder like a shackle.  From there, it’s an exhausting parade of schmoozing with millionaires and billionaires, shaking hands firmly (but not too firmly!), laughing at unfunny jokes, and pretending that he loves dear old Dad instead of wanting to punt him through the nearest wall.

Kon is charming.  He knows this.  It’s something that he’s known since he freshly came out of a test tube, and it’s something that he’s perfected with smiles and body language and a well-placed word or phrase.  Kon can get most people eating out of his hand with barely any effort, but it’s usually normal people a little closer to his age, not rich, egotistical, out-of-touch old people who want to pinch his cheeks but absolutely cannot be allowed to due to his invulnerable skin.  Kon forgets everyone’s name almost as soon as he hears it, clutching his flute of sparkling cider like a lifeline (but not hard enough to shatter).

Kon doesn’t know how long he gets paraded around as Luthor’s newest pet, but it feels like forever.  Everyone talks around where he’s been for the past 17 years of his life (nonexistent and then in a lab and then gallivanting around with superheroes and then, finally, as of two month ago a little farm in Kansas until Lex Luthor uprooted everything with a few well-placed threats), and Kon lets Lex tell the cover story about how he didn’t find out about Connor until recently, but he’s happy to be reunited with his son now.

Son.  Connor isn’t anyone’s son.  He was maybe getting to be a family member to the Kents finally, but Luthor threw a wrench into all of that.

Connor had a room at the farm.  He had a chore list to do and homemade meals to eat, and Clarke has finally stopped flinching when he sees him.  Clarke grinned at him the other day, not his public smile or a small, polite thing, but an actual, honest to goodness grin.  Connor bets he can kiss that goodbye now, just like he can kiss goodbye ever knowing Robin’s real identity, because there’s no way that Batman will let him tell Kon now that Kon is semi-legally under the guardianship of a supervillain, and just like there’s no way that Kon can have anything remotely resembling a normal teenage experience as the ward of a billionaire and forced showpony, and just like–

“I’ll be damned,” Lex breathes next to him, interrupting Kon’s spiral.  Kon follows his gaze to the entrance of the ballroom, ears picking up the loud, boisterous laugh of Bruce Wayne clapping someone on the back a little too forcefully.  Kon has never seen Bruce Wayne in person, but he’s difficult to miss in the papers, especially with how often he finds himself in trouble.  Robin has told him of a few instances when he or one of the other Gotham vigilantes has had to rescue him, and Kon knows that Lois interviewed him once and Clarke has informally run into him at a gala such as this.

Clarke says he tried really hard to be the journalist from the Planet here tonight once Lex demanded that Connor be there, but it was too late notice.  Neither Clarke nor Lois are among the reporters clustered in the corner.  Kon is alone.

“He didn’t RSVP,” Lex says, miffed.  Kon immediately likes Bruce Wayne significantly more because of it.  “Oh, and he brought a friend.”

Kon peers around the crowd that has quickly amassed around Gotham’s favorite billionaire and finally spots the person Bruce Wayne has a hand on the shoulder of.  It’s a teenage boy, dressed in a dark suit with dark hair parted in the middle to keep it out of his eyes.  He’s slight, but not skinny, and he’s not overly tall, probably closer to Robin or Bart’s height than Connor’s.  He doesn’t show any signs of discomfort at the press of adults around him, offering polite handshakes and letting the women kiss his cheeks the way some of them have tried with Kon.  Bruce doesn’t stray far, taking the boy with him when they finally finish with the crowd near the door and head to the bar.  The boy doesn’t seem to mind the attention.  Kon, however, does not appreciate the tone of voice that Lex used when he said friend.  He’s ready to do some superheroing if he needs to.

“Let’s go,” Lex says, putting his hand on Connor’s shoulder again to steer him through the crowd.  “Let me handle Bruce Wayne.  The kid is Timothy Drake.  He recently became the head of his parent’s company when his father died.  This is the first time he’s been seen at an event since the death.  Bruce is almost certainly going to adopt him.  Timothy stayed with him when Jack Drake was in a coma, plus he has the dark hair and light eyes and Brucie favors in his kids.  He’s your focus for the rest of the night.  Forget about everyone else.”

“Lex!  I didn’t know you’d be here, you old dog!” Bruce calls before Connor has time to process all of that, slinging an arm around Luthor’s shoulders and seemingly crushing all of the air out of him in less than a second.

“It’s my party,” Lex wheezes.

“Good thing I’m here to liven it up, eh?” Bruce asks, elbowing Luthor in the ribs.

Kon really hopes that Bruce Wayne’s obsession with dark haired, light eyed boys is an innocent coincidence, because he doesn’t want to apprehend him for being a pedophile when he’s pissing Lex off so easily.

“Hello, Timothy,” Luthor greets, holding out his hand.  Bruce pouts at being ignored while Timothy shakes politely.  “May I just say, it’s refreshing to see you out and about.  I’m sure running your parent’s company is stressful all by yourself.”

Timothy tilts his head, reminding Connor vaguely of a bird.

“I’m happy to do it,” he says, polite but firm.  “It’s what my parents would have wanted, and they left things well organized for me.”

“And I suppose Bruce here has been giving you advice?”

“Now Lex,” Bruce says, wagging his finger at him, “you know that’d be a conflict of interest.  Besides, Tim could run circles around me.  I should be asking him for advice!”

Connor feels his eyes start to glaze over as Luthor and Bruce volley back and forth, seemingly forgetting that he’s even there.  Having Lex’s attention off of him and on someone else is a much needed break, so he’s not about to complain, but it’s also really fucking rude.  Connor hasn’t even been introduced to these two.

Timothy catches his eye, sweeping his gaze over to Luthor and Bruce and rolling his eyes.  Connor smirks.  Timothy raises an eyebrow and Connor mirrors him, just a slight quirk.

Timothy looks pretty nice, up close.  His eyes are the promised light blue, but his dark eyelashes are long and thick, framing them beautifully.  He’s pale, almost reflective in the glittering chandelier light, and he carries himself with a self-assuredness that Connor envies in this environment.  The suit fits him really nicely, hugging his shoulders and accenting his trim waist and long legs.  When he raises his flute to take a sip of the drink inside, Kon finds himself tracking the liquid as it disappears past his pale pink lips, his throat flexing as he swallows.

He’s not bad to look at.  He could easily turn out to be dull as a brick or a total douchebag, but so far first impressions are good.

“And who is this young man?” Bruce asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.  Luthor puts a hand on his back to push him forward a step, and Kon doesn’t have to move, but Lex is going to be mad if he doesn’t and the situation is delicate.

“This is my son, Connor,” Luthor introduces.  Kon offers his hand with his most charming smile.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, shaking first Bruce’s hand (better grip than he expected) and then Timothy’s (rougher than he thought it’d be, skin warm).

“Son, eh?  He must take after his mother!” Bruce laughs.  Lex’s face pinches, but Connor doesn’t have a chance to relish in it before Bruce is sweeping Luthor away with another arm around his shoulder, talking loudly about secret children and parenting hacks.  Luthor tries to protest, but it’s quickly drowned out by Bruce, and he doesn’t have a chance to so much as glance back at Connor before they’re swallowed by the crowd.

Kon blinks.

“Bruce will keep him busy for a while, sorry,” Timothy says, not sounding very sorry.  He takes another sip from his glass, then leans in.  Cologne tickles Connor’s nose.

“Hold your drink by the stem, not the glass,” he says quietly.  “It’s supposed to keep your drink from getting warm, an old etiquette thing.  It’s small, but it’ll help you blend in a little more.”

Kon looks around the room, taking in the people with flutes like him and where they’re holding it.  The majority are holding the stem, and the ones that aren’t are people that Luthor hasn’t bothered to introduce him to yet.  Kon adjusts his grip accordingly, off-balance and embarrassed.

“Thanks,” he says.  Timothy tilts his head.

“You want to get some air?  There’s a balcony over there.  Your father will be able to find you easily once Bruce releases him.”

“Yes,” Kon agrees immediately.  He’s used to not fitting in, but having the eyes of so many judgy rich people on him when he’s pretending to be Lex Luthor’s human son has been exhausting.  No one has been too rude so far, but the weight of Lex’s hand on his shoulder is heavy, and this complicated set of social rules that he still doesn’t understand puts him on edge.

Normally he’d say fuck the rules and do what he wants, but the situation is too delicate for that.  Clarke and Robin both told him that he needs to be careful and think twice about every move he makes, and for once neither of them sounded condescending about it.  He could tell that they don’t like the situation, either, worry and sympathy clear in their faces.

“Come on,” Timothy says, heading towards a set of double doors.  He doesn’t glance back, trusting Connor to follow him, and Connor does, stepping in his footsteps as he expertly weaves through the crowd, deflecting anyone trying to stop to speak to them with smooth excuses and a well-placed smile.  In no time at all he’s pushing open the large french doors, releasing them from the ballroom and into the cool night air.

Kon tilts his head up, blinking at the night sky above him.  It’s cloudy, obscuring what few stars manage to make their way through the light pollution to reach Metropolis.  Connor wishes he could fly up there, feel the dampness of early rain on his face, burst into the dark and escape everything.  For now, he keeps his feet on the ground, instead joining Timothy by the railing.

“So, how often do you come to these things, Timothy?” Connor asks, leaning back on his elbows.  The other boy perches with a hip pressed against the railing, arms crossed over his chest.

“Tim, please,” he says.  “Timothy makes me feel like I’m in trouble or you’re trying to swindle me out of a business deal.”

“Okay.  How often do you come to these things, Tim?” Connor corrects, testing the feel of it in his mouth.  Tim relaxes at the sound.

“Decently often, but I usually stick to Gotham,” he says.  “I’ll have to start coming to more now that I’m in charge of Drake Industries, but I grew up going to galas.  Is this your first one since Luthor found you?”

“Is it that obvious?” Connor asks.  Tim smirks, but shakes his head.

“I think I’d remember if I’d seen you at one of these before.”

Connor flashes him a charming smile.

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”  Tim’s cheeks turn pink, his blush noticeable against his pale skin even with the limited light out here.  Kon takes a sip of his sparkling cider, satisfaction making it taste sweeter on his tongue.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re probably the only people under thirty in the whole building besides some of the catering staff,” Tim says. 

“You missed the toddler earlier,” Connor hums.  “She was throwing a tantrum.  I very much sympathized.”

“Did I really?” Tim asks dryly.  “What a pity.  Oh no.  How unfortunate that Bruce likes being fashionably late to everything.”

Connor snorts.

“Bruce Wayne, huh?” he says.  “How’d you two meet?”

Tim shifts so he’s leaning back against the railing like Kon.  Kon takes a moment to drink in his profile, tracing the sharp jut of his nose, the hair shielding his eyes from him at this angle.

“He’s my neighbor,” Tim says.  “I’ve kind of always known him, but our families weren’t really close until a few years ago.  When my dad was in a coma, Bruce took me in.  My uncle was supposed to get custody of me now, but…”

Tim trails off, searching for words.  Eventually, he shrugs.

“He’s fostering me right now.  We’ll see where it goes from there.”

“Do you want to stay with him?” Kon asks.  Tim considers his words carefully.  Connor’s mouth is always running away with him, but Tim seems to have the opposite approach.  Everything is measured and careful, cold and tactical.  It reminds Kon of Robin in the middle of missions, keeping his reactions even and methodical to counteract the impulsiveness of the rest of the team.  Kon wonders if Tim is the type of person to let himself be stupid and emotional around friends like Robin is, or if he always keeps everything bottled up.

“Yeah, I do,” Tim breathes eventually.  “But it’s complicated.”

“What do you mean?”

Another pause.  Kon does Robin’s breathing exercise, staying patient.  Some people need time to talk, and Kon can’t help if he doesn’t know what’s wrong.

“I guess I don’t want him to adopt me because he feels obligated,” Tim says.  “He has a family.  There’s–It’s a long story, too long to explain now.  Sorry, this is a weird first impression, huh? But enough about me!  What about you?  Where were you before Luthor found you?”

“Uh,” Connor says, still recovering from the whiplash of topics and searching for Luthor’s cover story.  “Kansas.”

“Kansas?” Tim prompts.

“Yeah, Kansas. I was in the foster system for a while, then I got adopted by this nice old couple who live on a farm in Smallville, which is just as small as it sounds.  I didn’t know anything about my birth parents until Lex showed up.”

“Wow,” Tim says.  “This has to be a big adjustment, then.”

Connor scratches the back of his neck.

“Yeah, kinda.”

Kon’s whole life feels like a big adjustment, from adjusting to existing and Clark’s negative feelings towards him, to adjusting to working for Camdus and living in Hawaii, to adjusting to Young Justice and Teen Titans, to finally trying to adjust to Smallville, only to be ripped away from that and forced into Metropolis high society.

“Do you miss them?” Tim asks.  “The old couple who adopted you?”

Kon swallows against the unexpected pang that rolls through him.  He can almost taste Martha’s pancakes on his tongue and hear the crinkle of the newspaper as Jonathan hands him the cartoons.

“I wasn’t with them very long.  Only a few months.”

Tim tilts his head.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Connor shrugs.  He doesn’t know what the right answer is here.  Martha and Jonathan are the closest thing he’s ever had to parents, but part of him never expected to stay with them.  When Luthor ripped him away from them, there was a part of Kon that wasn’t surprised at all, even if a bigger part was in agony.

Martha kissed his forehead when he left the farm and gave him a sad smile.

“You can always come back here, okay?  This is your home, no matter what Lex Luthor has to say about it.”

“If they formally adopted you, Lex Luthor’s claim as your biological father isn’t enough to force cut contact,” Tim says, pushing off the railing and taking a few steps closer.  “Trust me.  I researched this stuff when my dad came out of his coma.”

Kon frowns.

“He didn’t like Bruce?”

Tim wavers.

“It’s complicated,” he offers.  Kon snorts.

“Yeah, I get that.”

Tim’s mouth quirks up, giving Connor the shadow of a smile again.

“It’s not really a first meeting story.”

“Guess we need a second meeting, then,” Connor says.

“Yeah?” Tim asks.  “My weird family dynamic really captivated you, huh?”

“It was your eyes first, actually,” Connor says.  Tim opens his mouth, then closes it again, eyes wide.  Kon holds his breath.  He says flirty things all the time, both to his friends and to people he rescues who seem like they need a pick-me-up, but it’s been a while since he sincerely flirted with someone he plans to see again.  He almost never does it with someone who only knows him as Connor rather than Superboy, much less a boy.

If this goes badly and Tim tells the entire Metropolis elite that Lex’s son is a homosexual, maybe the scandal will be enough for Luthor to send him back to Smallville.  If it goes well…

“You have… very nice eyes, too,” Tim says eventually.  Connor beams, then beams even more at the sharp inhale Tim draws in response.  Tim shifts.

“Hey, do you want to get out of here?” he asks.  “There’s a decent ice cream place open late a few blocks away.  We can be there and back before anyone misses us.”

Connor glances towards Luthor in the ballroom.  He’s still talking to Bruce Wayne, and they’ve amassed a small crowd around them.

“Bruce will keep Lex busy for a while.  He likes to talk.  Besides, you can always tell him that you were networking,” Tim offers.

Luthor said that Tim should be his focus for the rest of the night.  He never said that they had to stay at the gala.

“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing grandly towards the French doors.  Tim blinks once, then again, then smiles.  His eyes light up with it, and Kon suddenly understands why Tim had to inhale before.

“Come on,” Tim says, leading the way.  Kon follows just as closely as he did before, trailing him until they spill out into the Metropolis night and he can stand next to him, almost close enough for their arms to brush.

Maybe living with Lex Luthor won’t be so bad if comes with seeing Tim Drake, too.

[lodessa]

Started something . . .

“But really . . .” she says after a long silence, not lifting her cheek from its resting place against his chest, “Did you?”

A dozen teasing answers spring to mind, but here: alone and stripped of all armor, the last thing he wants to do is to put a wall up. So he runs his fingertips back down her bare spine, soaking in the reality of Kathryn: here in his arms at long last and replies simply: “No.”

Why do you say that like you’re embarrassed?” she questions, turning her face to look up into his, while staying wrapped close against him for the most part.  “Do you have something more shameful to tell me than what you apparently didn’t do while stuck alone on that planet with my hologram?”

Kathryn’s voice is curious, no hint of accusation or resentment to be found.  She can be a jealous mistress, this woman he loves with his entire being, but that apparently doesn’t extend to whatever she was imagining might have passed between him and her hologram.

It is a fair question.  It isn’t like the thought never occurred to him. It’s not even like holoJaneway (yes, he still insists on thinking of her that way, never holoKathryn) hadn’t broached the topic.  (That’s irony for you, isn’t it? All the years the two of them spent talking around it, but he’s had dozens of conversations about himself and Kathryn with her holographic facsimile.)  He spent a decade with only holoJaneway for comfort and he wouldn’t even let himself truly have that.

“It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?” he has to admit.  “But as much as having that little imitation sliver of you kept me going, kept me alive . . . I think it would have hurt more than it would have helped to pretend like that.”

I didn’t deserve the comfort, a voice inside of him adds.  Not after what happened to my crew, to Adreek . . . Not knowing I could never come back to you and you might never know why.

“Noble,” she bites her lip with a smile. “Principled. Honorable. Long suffering.”

And with that, Kathryn shifts her weight to roll more evenly on top of him, beginning to crawl her way up.

“I felt more like I was being a petulant child sometimes,” he admits.  “Refusing comfort, taking my own frustrations out on an imperfect copy for not actually being you.”

Which isn’t exactly the romance hero answer, but that’s kind of the point.  He’s here now, running his fingers through the bits of gray in Kathryn’s hair.  She’s real and can be too, finally.   This isn’t some hallucination, some fantasy temptation to pristine to be true.  He looks up into her smile lined face and his regret is that he wasn’t there to see every millimeter of them forming.

[hamartia-grander]

Wyll breaking up with the player character if Ulder dies so Wyll must become the Duke makes me wanna throw up sobbing because he actually thinks that just because his father's first duty being to Baldur's Gate made him a Bad Father that Wyll himself will inevitably be a Bad Lover because surely no one could match love with duty if his father couldn't, unknowing he has more love in one hand than his father had in his entire body. fuck

[hotluncheddie]

an addition to this au with @scoops-aboy86 <3

condensed ver: office au, steve starts baking to try and impress eddie, it doesn’t work, because steve is too distracted by eddie to mention it’s his baking. but it’s okay because eddie is already impressed, and likes watching steve eat the random deserts more than trying them himself anyway. 

so i had to write what happened at the end of their first date <3 

wc: 3.6k | rated: E | tags: getting together, fluff, chubby steve, sweet gooey smut

ao3

˙✧ ° 🍮 ✧ .୧ 🥄

‘gonna just hit the bathroom and we can go, yeah?’ steve asks, standing and stretching his arms over his head until his shoulder pops. he feels pleasantly full and warm, comfortable after being in eddie’s space all evening. butterfly’s fluttering at eddie’s sweet determination to make steve feel looked after, friendly arguing over how to split the bill. (eddie putting more cash down but steve ensuring their waiter gets a nice tip.) 

steve freezes, forgetting that he’d popped the button on his kind of too small jeans like, an hour ago. he sucks in and forces the button back closed, pulling and smoothing his yellow sweater back down over himself. giving his little shelf of stomach a pat. 

he trails his eyes over their table; a couple beers each and steve’s vanilla drink, and around eight empty plates of appetisers and sides that eddie had ordered periodically thought the night. he’d said the food here was good and he was right, steve had tried all of it, finishing almost all of it. thinking he should take robin here so she can try the cheese fries. he enjoyed every bite. 

‘i feel like i should be more embarrassed, but that food was really good.’ steve says. 

‘nothin’ to be embarrassed about.’ eddie says ‘i ordered the food because i wanted you to try it, just glad you enjoyed it.’ he’s resting his head in his palm, looking up at steve with a lazy sort of adoration. 

‘yeah?’ steve asks. 

‘yeah.’ eddie smiles and stands and doesn’t touch steve but steps close, in his space, eyes roaming steve’s features, his face and hair and neck. catching on the peak of chest hair visible at his neckline. trailing over his chest and arms and stomach. eventually making it back to his eyes and steve knows his breathing has picked up. eddie’s eyes are hooded and dark. steve feels warmth through his bones. 

‘i’ll just. bathroom’ steve says, voice quiet and gravely. he clears his throat. forces himself to swallow.

eddie’s smiles wide, pointy. steve feels his own flushed face split into a grin, the butterflies doubling. he nods once and walks backwards towards the bathroom, keeping his eyes on eddie’s mouth for as long as possible. 

once he’s back, having checked and double checked his outfit in the mirror, because maybe he was a little embarrassed. eddie is slouched at the empty bar waiting for him. 

‘i wanna make a joke about like, the button, getting into your pants, be all smooth and suave or whatever.’ eddie says, a little bit of a whine to his voice as though he really really did want to be smooth. ‘but, i’ve got nothin.’ he sighs 

fuck it. ‘do you want to? get, in them, i mean?’ steve asks, running a hand through his hair, pretending it’s not shaking. 

eddie’s smiles wide, a little shocked, almost shy, and nods. steve bites his lip, the butterflies tripling. 

‘i’ll uh, just call us a cap? back to mine? steve asks, and eddie pulls a piece of wavy hair in front of his mouth. looking up at steve through his lashes. steve thinks he must have a guardian angel, sending this man to his office, letting him fill his eye-line. 

steve uses the bars pay phone. gripping the receiver tight and having to turn away when he catches eddie’s eye, afraid his voice will come out strange from smiling too wide. has to contain his excitement as he rattles off the bars address. he feels giddy and well fed and he’s not had a night like this in, well, ever. 

they stand apart from each other on the street outside the bar. steve by the curb, hands fisted in his jacket pocket. eddie leaning up against the bars brick wall, one foot up against it and he’s smoking. baring his neck to expel white tendrils up into the night sky, taking long slow drags so steve can see the veins on his hands, long fingers and big rings. steve can’t take his eyes off him. eddie smirks, like he caught him, like he knows. steve’s blood burns. 

finally through the doors of steve’s little suburban home eddie stands close while steve locks and checks the door. eddie takes off his boots and steve helps him hang his jacket on the coat hooks, followed by his own, something swirling in the back of him mind. a ‘how nice’, a ‘maybe’, a ‘please’ and a scared little question. what if this was all the time? what if you just stayed? 

steve puts his hands on eddie’s hips to brushes past, asking if he’d like a drink, getting himself a glass of water. eddie’s skin was so warm. 

eddie steps though the house, hands behind his back, looking delighted and mischievous, like steve’s place is something interesting, something to care about. steve hides behind his glass. 

eddie looks at the photos hung up around the walls. back facing steve, eddie says ‘it’s nice in here, cozy, like you.’ and steve can’t take it any longer. can’t take being apart from eddie any longer. 

‘come on.’ he pulls at eddie’s arm, gently leading him to the couch. standing in front of it steve manoeuvres eddie’s hand up so he can compare them, his are bigger, they always are. steve sees eddie’s adams apple bob, he smiles, holds eddie’s hand in both of his and kisses each of his knuckles in turn. his skin is warm, smells like salt and cigarettes. 

eddie tucks some of steve’s hair behind his ear to get his attention, hand gently cupping his jaw. ‘can i?’ he whispers, eyes so big and pretty, nervous and hungry. 

steve’s nods slightly, looking all over eddie’s face, trying to drink in the moment, never forget it. 

eddie’s lips quirk at the corners, like he’s exited, joyous, that he gets to kiss steve. 

steve’s meeting him before eddie even moves, pushing their lips together, something sweet, something honey filled and gooey. 

eddie switches angle, dives in deeper, it becomes wet and molten and creamy. steve’s hand in eddie’s hair, holding the back of his head, other hand still gripping eddie’s. mouths searching and sharing, fingers locked. 

eventually eddie breaks the kiss, they’re both panting, coming up for air. steve closes his eyes for a moment, leaning his forehead against eddie’s. he can’t remember the last time he kissed someone. he doesn’t think it’s ever felt this good. 

eddie moves slow, stepping back, sitting in the center of the couch. he pats his lap, tugging gently at their still joined hands. 

steve hesitates a moment but straddles eddie, settling down on top of him as best he can in his tight jeans. the denim pulling at his thicker thighs, biting into his stomach like it was at the bar. but eddie rests his head back agains the cushions, looks up at steve with stars in his eyes, ‘so pretty stevie.’ 

and steve can’t help but kiss him. 

eddie free hand moves to steve’s hip. something instinctive and embarrassed makes steve grab it, pausing it before it can splay over him fully. thinks about pushing him away, to hide, but then eddie pulls back slightly and steve sees the look in his eyes. the flash of sweet concern but also the foggy want and desire. deep, dark pupils eating up chocolate brown and all steve feels is want, wanted, whole. 

‘you okay?’ eddie whispers, stealing air from steve’s own mouth. 

‘yeah, yeah just um, been a while.’ steve admits feeling his cheeks flush. but eddie just smiles at him, in that sweet way he does all the time at work. he squeezes what he can of steves fingers, kind, reassuring. 

steve feels that want bloom and flower in his chest, warmth dripping through all of his cracks and crevices. 

he pushes eddie’s hand up under his sweater and eddie can definitely feel how his jeans waistband is digging in, creating a muffin top but steve doesn’t care. he kisses eddie and it’s feels good, slips his tongue into eddie mouth and it feels perfect. 

eddie opens his mouth wider, moaning, letting steve in. squeezes a handful of steve’s side and steve can’t help but grind down against him and whine. 

eddie grinds up, meeting him, their denim clad cocks both hard and straining. ‘it’s been a while for me too. so, i, it’s okay, if you wanna, ah, uh, if you wanna slow down.’ eddie says, in-between kisses. 

steve does, but he doesn’t. he thinks tonight so far has been perfect and he really wants to touch eddie. wants to let himself do it. ‘wanna touch you, wanna keep kissing you and i want you to stay, stay the night with me. is that, is that okay?’ steve asks, breathless and desperate, insides flayed open, honest. 

‘more than okay, that’s, ugh, fuck, sounds so perfect baby.’ eddie grits out, still squeezing steve’s side, head thrown back, pretty long neck on display. 

‘say that again’ steve breaths, their hips haven’t stopped moving. steve’s eyes close tight, his skin on fire. 

eddie moves the hand from steve’s hip to the side of his neck, pulling him down so they’re eye to eye, almost nose to nose. eddie sweeps his thumb over steve’s bottom lip, wiping the spit across his cheek. looks right in his eyes, right into his soul. ‘baby.’ he purrs. 

steve feels his pupils blow, wet tip soaking his boxers. ‘fuck’ he keens. he needs to feel him, needs to know if eddie’s wet too. 

steve pushes himself up using the back of the couch, going for smooth but he fumbles his footing slightly, starts giggling, flustered. but eddie just giggles too, sitting up and using their still joined hands to help stabilise. ‘c’mon pretty boy.’ steve says, giddy, and tugs eddie up once he’s found his footing, pulling him towards the stairs. swaying his hips a little more than normal as he climbs them. 

eddie sits on the edge of the bed, looking around like he did downstairs, face open and curious. steve thinks he’s beautiful. 

steve hesitates a second before undoing his fly and shimmying out of his jeans, kicking them aside. eddie let’s out the faintest little ‘oh’, almost wounded, and steve realised he’s looking at the indented red lines that have been left on his soft underbelly, where it’s been pushed up against his jeans waistband all evening. steve flushes and goes to cover himself but eddie takes his hands gently, pulling him forward so he’s standing between eddie’s thighs. eddie’s big dark eyes looking up at him before he dips forward and leaves the softest kiss over the indent right in the middle, where the button dug in the most. steve can’t look away, his breathing picking up slightly as he feels his gut churn with something he thinks could traverse all the way to his heart, could expand and grow into something like love. 

‘need to touch you eddie.’ steve pleads, voice higher than normal. 

‘yeah, yeah, course sweetheart.’ eddie’s voice is horse, affected, he lays a few more feathery kisses on steve’s stomach and the soft skin by his hip. ‘but take this off first for me, please baby.’ eddie released his soft grip on steve’s hands and slips his fingers just under the hem of steve’s sweater, rucking it up slightly higher on his belly and squeezing steve’s hips. the contact making steve close his eyes and shiver. 

‘you don’t like my sweater?’ steve jokes, hands on eddie’s shoulders to keep his knees from turning to jelly. 

‘it looks perfect on you. but steve, baby, i’ve been thinking about what you’ve got hiding under that button down for weeks, please don’t tease me any longer.’ and eddie sounds so desperate that steve believes him. 

‘i was worried i was being too obvious, but fuck, i just couldn’t take my eyes off you.’ eddie murmurs and steve feels eddies wet kiss just below his belly button, nuzzling the soft skin and hairs. then eddie sinks his face into steve’s belly for real, dips his tongue into steve’s belly button and swirls. steve moans, he didn’t even know that could feel so good, that it was so sensitive, but it does, and it is. 

steve pulls his sweater off, tossing it into the corner. hand moving back into eddie’s curls, pushing him in deeper, relishing in eddie’s muffled groan and the slick sounds of him sucking and biting. ‘you next eddie. your turn.’ steve tugs at eddie’s hair, pulling him away from his now glistening stomach. eddie’s mouth hangs open, he looks fucked out and glossy. 

‘fuck.’ eddie croaks taking in steve’s now naked chest, eyes roaming quickly and greedily over steve’s chest hair, pecks and arms. 

steve smiles, laughs a little. ‘you okay?’ he teases. but he’s happy, kind of awed. 

‘yeah.’ eddie breathes, spacey and adorable. then he seems to come back to himself a little, blinking and blushing slightly. steve can see it where the tips of his ears stick out of his hair. ‘sorry if, ah, that was too much wasn’t it?’ teeth worrying pretty pick lips.  

‘no no.’ steve laughs, earnest, because steve’s happy, feels divine. he pulls on eddie wrists, making him stand. ‘no worrying’ steve holds eddie’s face in his hands, soothes his thumbs over the soft skin below eddie’s eyes. ‘just, my turn now, kay?’ and steve kisses him, firm and deep. 

steve’s lets his hands roam, sliding down eddis arms and up his sides before returning to his hips, thumbs stoking and dipping where hip, meets jeans, meets boxers. he steps in closer so they’re chest to chest and squeezes eddies ass. and oh, how eddie opens up for him. tongue hot and wet, hips flush and grinding, holding steve’s shoulders like he’s scared to float away. 

steve slides his hands up eddie’s back, taking his shirt up with them. ‘off’ he says, their lips still connected. eddie steals one more peck before he steps back and steve gets to see all of his pale, tattooed chest for the first time. 

‘oh.’ he says, amazed. he knew eddie had some. but, patches of eddie are covered with art. some spooky intricate things, some old with bleeding edges and steve can’t help but touch. tracing their lines and watching as goose bumps travel down eddie’s arms, nipples hard and pretty pink. steve traces them, tweaks them, smiling when he hears eddie’s faint gasp. 

‘pretty.’ steve says. looking into eddie’s eyes. he wets his lips and lets his hand travel down, squeezing eddies cock through his jeans, relishing in the weight and warmth of it in his palm, through the denim. 

slowly, eddie’s brings both of steve’s hands to the fly of his jeans. eyes dark and hungry. steve takes his time, popping the button, pulling the zipper down tooth by tooth, knuckles giving steady pressure to eddie’s length. once it’s open eddie pulls them down, boxers going too. deft fingers tugging at steve’s boxers, pulling them off, tossing it all aside. until they’re standing in front of each other, both completely naked, cocks hard and flushed red, pre pearling at the heads. 

something about the feeling of air on his hard cock has steve pausing, sinking into his head a little. he really likes eddie, they’re doing this, it’s scary. he’s not, he hasn’t had feelings like this in a long time. it could really hurt, eddie could really hurt him, if it keeps going the way steve hopes. 

steve’s been still and silent too long. ‘um, fuck, sorry, it really has been a long time and i ah, i don’t usually do this on a first date and uhm...’ steve says, trailing off, sucking in a shaky breath. 

eddie steps forward and entwines his pinkie with steve’s finger. it’s such a comforting, tender gesture that something in steve melts. how lovely actually, that it’s been so long, but that he’s able to feel these things again. 

‘hey.’ eddie’s voice is soft. ‘no worrying.’ his thumb strokes against the back of steve’s hand. ‘and me neither. i’ve, honestly had an embarrassingly small number of first dates. but, this one’s been perfect, even if it ends here.’ and eddie looks so happy, so earnest. steve steps forward and kisses the corner of his mouth. 

eddie turns his head into it, capturing steve’s lips. coming together they groan as their lengths slide against each other. tongues entering mouths, spit slick and sloppy. 

‘you wanna lay down?’ steve asks, taking a tentative hand and squeezing their cocks together as one. 

eddie’s eyes close at the contact. ‘yeah. but, uh, i don’t think i’m gonna last long, sorry.’ he says, breathing deep through his nose. 

another squeeze and steve let’s go, pulling eddie onto the bed with him. ‘good. me neither.’ steve lays on his side facing eddie, mirroring each other. 

‘this okay?’ steve asks, taking them both in his palm again, collecting the pre from their tips and moving slow. 

‘yeah, yeah, fuck, just.’ and eddie cards one of his hands through steve’s hair, moving closer, holding him firmly at the base of his skill, eddie’s hand squeezes and steve shivers. ‘hold on just.’ eddie grunts, taking steves hand away from their cocks to lick and solid wet stipe along it, bast to tip. 

‘fuck’ steve pants, slide slick and smooth now. eddie gripping the back of his head still, other hand gravitating back to his hip. roaming that plush crease at his waist. 

steve speeds up, grips tighter. eddie’s pushing their foreheads together, panting, sharing breath. steve knows he can’t last long, with eddie hard and thick against him. 

‘fuck, fuck, stevie’ eddie whines, curing in on himself, pulling steve closer, hand moving to grab at steve’s peck, his shoulder, blunt nails against his neck. ‘baby, i’m close, i’m close.’ 

steve watches, enamoured, eddie’s eyes squeezed shut, mouth pretty pink and open. ‘me too, me too’ steve pants, doesn’t want to blink, speeds up his hand, twists their heads. 

eddie throws his leg over steve’s thigh, gripping a handful of his peck again, twisting the hairs at the back of his head and steve comes with a shout. eddie squeezing his chest and pulling his hair through his own orgasm, rocking against steve’s cock, steve’s hand. the pleasure pain rolls through steve, down his legs and arms, making his mind go fuzzy blank. 

panting, he nuzzled into eddie, nosing at his cheek. still moving his hand in a lazy grip. 

‘baby.’ eddie moans, sounding spent and sleepy and loose. 

steve doesn’t open his eyes, just kisses him. pushing his messy hand into eddie’s stomach, getting him to lay flat so steve can devour him. eddie letting him eat. 

eventually the kisses turn into steve breathing in eddie’s skin, head tucked into his neck. half asleep but sticky. 

he rolls off, holding his hand out in front of him, as if their combined cum isn’t also all over his chest. goes to the bathroom to wash his hands and wipe himself down, coming back in with tissue and a damp towel for eddie. 

eddie has rolled into his side, eyes following steve coming over. his hair a mess of frizz around his head, face happy and sleepy and satiated. steve thinks he looks glorious. 

steve likes the feeling of the quiet, the focus and attention he can take to cleaning eddie off, hands roaming over pale skin. he leaves a kiss to eddie’s sternum once he’s done, the moment feels reverent and deep, something warm shifting through steve again, solidifying within him. 

sleep takes them quickly, a tangle of limbs and blankets, chased kisses and wondering fingertips. eddie sighing into steve’s embrace. 

steve wakes to the sound of the radio, something a little heavier than his usual morning station. both sides of the bed are still warm and everything still smells like eddie. steve shoves his face in his pillow to stifle his grin. wants to squeal, wants to kick his legs and throw the widows of his heart open wide. 

he makes a quick call to work, feigning sick and gets up to find sweats. 

eddie is in the kitchen, sitting at the counter and leafing through a book. he’s humming and swinging his legs, steve can’t help but stare. eddie’s hairs still a mess but he’s picked up his boxers and steve’s sweater from last night. the collar is pulled to one side and shows off  a peak of collarbone, the yellow complimenting his sleep flush cheeks. steve swallows, heat rushing through his belly, his jumper looks bigger on eddie, oversized and sweet. 

eddie’s finally looks up at him but he looks pointy again, mischievous and magical, even with the pillow crease on his cheek. steve comes closer, he has to kiss him. 

and eddie let’s him, humming sleepy and deep. but pulls away eventually, same face still on just now with kiss pink lips. ‘these cupcakes look like the ones from the office, and these cookies, and this cheesecake.’ eddie flicks to each one. ‘funny that, don’t you think? stevie baby.’  eddie says, pointing to a page in the book, leaning into steve’s space, eyes greedy and sparkling. 

oops, busted. steve blushes, takes a moment to figure out how to explain what was his frankly insane plan to get eddie to talk to him through baked goods. he scratches the back of his neck, mind blank. 

‘cant you make this?’ eddie asks, turning to the page for molten chocolate cakes and tapping it with long callused fingers. 

steve just looks at him, silly pretty thing. ‘for.. breakfast?’ steve asks and eddie just nods, grin getting a touch more feral, eyes on steve’s mouth, hand sliding up under steve’s t-shirt and squeezing. 

[polaroidcats]

Ugly crying & the marauders generation - a pseudo-scientific approach (my marauders crying PhD abstract)

Abstract

In recent days, there have been a variety of claims as to who the prettiest and ugliest crier in the marauders generation could be. This paper aims to address the recent surge in opinions on the matter, and categorize different approaches as well as add a new approach to the scientific examination of ugliness/prettiness when it comes to crying. I hope to provide readers with an overview of the current state of research and encourage all marauders scholars to add their own and I intend to make a contribution to the discourse by committing to the bit and writing a pseudo-academic paper about it instead of actually working on my thesis.

Introduction

In the following paper, the discourse about 5 marauders era characters will be examined in regards to their various levels of perceived ugliness whilst crying. Scholars who may ask why Peter [Pettigrew] is not included in this analysis are advised to refer to acclaimed marauders ugly crying scholar @lynxindisguise's (2023) original poll on the popular blogging website "tumblr.com" which did not include Peter, but rather two non-marauders characters named Lily and Regulus. This paper will follow that approach, since Peter is the nastiest skank bitch I have ever met, I do not trust him and he is a fugly slut. The characters included in this approach are as follows: James Potter, Lily Evans, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and Regulus Black.

Following the scientific criteria for ugly crying, as stated by lynxindisguise et. al (2023), the question of the ugliest crier can be answered by observing the crying person and assessing their ugly-levels on the following parameters: (1) unbecoming facial expressions, (2) facial swelling/blotching, (3) unsettling noises, (4) snot factor, (5) tear volume, (6) general loss of dignity, (7) glistening eyes/lashes, (8) Victorian heroine factor, (9) elegant tear-wiping, (10) post-cry glow (ibid).

Criteria (1)-(6) can be categorized as the ugly crying parameters whereas (7)-(10) are pretty crying parameters, creating a false binary between ugly and pretty crying, which may be problematised and addressed in another the paper. In contrast to lynxindisguise’s original 10 criteria to measure the aesthetics of crying, this paper proposes to add (11) explosiveness of cry as another ugly crying parameter, in order to get a more clear assessment of where on the ugly-pretty crying scale a character falls.

The ugly crying parameters

(1) Unbecoming facial expressions

James Potter is mentioned in this category by several marauders scholars: @jaylienpotter talks about his red face and ugly sobbing, @artbyace mentions his “scrunched up cry face” and @sectoren claimes “james (…) is that one handsome guy that when the waterworks get going becomes like. Cartoonishly ugly”, raising the question of upkeeping toxic masculinity in order to avoid having to witness more of James Potter’s crying “mug”.

Though James Potter features heavily in this category, another character who is also mentioned just as often is Remus Lupin: @kaaaaaaarf, @appreciatedmoron and @http-starboy all emphasise that Remus Lupin is the one with a red and blotchy face.

(2) facial swelling/blotching

While there is a definitive overlap between the categories of facial swelling/blotching, unbecoming facial expressions and snot factor, Sirius’ and Regulus’ victorian heroine complexions, which give them an advantage in the homonymous category, may be to their disadvantage in the “blotching” category. This will require further research by other scholars.

(3) unsettling noises

James Potter is mentioned in this category by Jaylienpotter (2023), claiming he not only hiccups when crying but also that “his cries are one of the most heartbreaking things you’ll ever hear” and similarly, artbyace states that “James loves and feels so loudly”, whereas “Sirius is silent”, both sentiments are reminiscent of znelda’s (2023) statements that James “was allowed to feel his emotions freely in a loving household” and “Sirius (…) [is] used to hide [his] feelings and [has] become stoic”.

With several other scholars, among them also @jamesunderwater (2023) raising the point that James may be the ugliest crier due to him being “the only one well adjusted enough to have access to his feelings” this raises the question of possibly introducing another category, maybe of emotional awareness/stability to be able to measure this parameter more efficiently, though emotional vulnerability may also just be a part of the unsettling noises parameter, suggesting that there is a correlation between noisiness and the existing environment being welcoming to and accepting of various expressions of emotions.

(4) snot factor

The most popular winner in the snot factor category seems to be Remus Lupin, with several scholars agreeing that his sobs are the dampest and snottiest out of all the candidates. kaaaaaaarf (2023) writes “he turnes all red and blochty and snot drips out of his nose (…) he cant (sic) not cry with his mouth open as well so there is a lot of spit”, and appreciatedmoron (2023) agrees with kaaaaaaarf on this.

It only seems right to me to include spit in the snot category as well, seeing as they’re both crying-related bodily fluids that add to the ugly-cry factor. http-starboy (2023) also mentions snot in regards to Remus Lupin, which compared to both their comments in (1) opens up the question of how unbecoming facial expressions, more particularly redness of the face and snot factor may be related, as several authors seem to write about both specifically in relation to each other. Whether this is just pure coincidence or not would need further research, for which we currently do not have enough funding. This is only one of the many research gaps in the relatively new field of marauder’s ugly crying studies, which cannot fully be addressed in this paper.

James Potter is also mentioned in the snot category, namely by the marauders scholar artbyace (2023).

(5) tear volume

Artbyace (2023) claims James Potter is “full on bawling” which can only be assumed to refer to tear volume, but the most convincing argument for tear volume comes from the acclaimed marauders scholar @fruityindividual (2023), stating that “tsunami warning tones go off in sirius’ brain anytime remus is close 2 (sic) tears” which already indicates high levels of tear volumes. The author then goes on to specify the volume by claiming that “indeed the ocean wishes rj lupin would jump in and help contribute 2 (sic) rising sea levels”, further emphasizing the volume of Remus's tears.

(6) general loss of dignity

@pastaplatypus (2023) writes about James Potter not being able to do a Melodramatic Bollywood Cry, which is perceived as inherently racist by the crier.

I would like to argue that Sirius Black also deserves to be mentioned in this category. While as of today, with less than 1 hour left to vote, 15.5% of voters agree that Sirius is the ugliest crier, the more outspoken voices all argue for different ugly criers. Due to their upbringing, I am tempted to name both Black brothers in the “loss of dignity” category and look forward to reading future contributions to this discussion.

The pretty crying parameters

(7) glistening eyes/lashes

Undoubtedly Sirius Black deserves to be mentioned in this category. I believe his dark lashes and glimmering eyes are part of what makes him the prettiest crier. Whereas Remus’s eyes also sometimes glisten or appear red, and it is usually attributed to be caused by drug consumption, which more often than not is a wrong assumption, but he happily goes along with the pretense of being a weed-smoking bad boy in order to hide his ugly crying damp tendencies.

(8) Victorian heroine factor

It almost seems superfluous to even mention Sirius (and, to a lesser degree, Regulus) Black in this category. This category was made for Sirius, as is apparent when reading lynxindisguises (2023) description of the victorian heroine factor, in response to a question by the scholar @plecotusauritus:

“the Victorian Heroine Factor is a deeply scientific assessment of the Vibes. Is this person giving tragically beautiful, windswept Victorian Heroine, sobbing gently into their hands while sprawled across a boulder or a well or a fountain of some sort? When they look up at you, do their tear-plumped lips part elegantly as a single tear slides down their cheek?”

(9) elegant tear-wiping

There hasn't been a lot of research in this area, but I would like to propose handkerchiefs with embroidered initials and family crests as another potential factor in favor of the Black brothers scoring high marks in this category as well as the Victorian heroine factor.

(10) post-cry glow

Artbyace (2023) claims “lily is always beautiful (…) even when crying”, which is echoed by znelda’s (2023) earlier claim that “Lily (…) [is] a woman and no woman is ugly when crying.”

Sirius is the other popular choice by marauders scholars for this category, with @in-flvx (2023) stating that he “handsomely handsomes while dying after 12 years of torture hell and another year in shackles”, which would mean that “a few tears would[n’t] stop him from being the hottest person in the room at all times” (ibid).

Additional parameters

I am suggesting to introduce an additional metric in order to further specify and better assess the ugly-crying levels:

(11) explosiveness of cry

@felixantares (2023) introduces the idea that Remus “is the type that very few people have been seen cry because he ignores every difficult emotion hes (sic) ever had (…) and it all explodes at once and its horrible to watch when he breaks down”, a sentiment shared by several of the other authors mentioned above in various other categories.

Further opinions & conclusions

The most popular consensus seems to be that Sirius cannot be the ugliest crier, sometimes also in direct comparison to his brother: @spindrifters (2023) answers the question of the ugliest crier with “obviously it’s regulus”, elaborating that “at least [it’s] definitely not sirius bc (sic) reg is canonically less handsome in all ways” which brings up the question if regular beauty plays into ugly crying. This is contrasted by lynxindisguises argument, that Sirius may be an ugly crier because he’s so gorgeous, and his ugly crying subverts the expectations of beauty:

“the most beautiful man alive looks hideous while crying, and his deeply awkward and perpetually damp bf (sic) is literally in his element while crying – dampness becomes him, you might say.”

This statement raises yet another question – does regular crying make the crier more or less ugly? Can an ugly crier become a pretty crier by practice or are we all born either ugly or pretty criers, condemned to this fate for life?

While this paper has given an overview of the current state of research to ugly crying/pretty crying, it has also raised many more questions. Other topics which may be addressed in future papers also include the philosophical question whether ugly crying is in the eye of the beholder and if it is possible to ugly cry without being perceived, and if it is possible to ugly cry if the person perceiving you doesn’t find it ugly. Since the research field of ugly crying is a relatively new one, we can only hope to read many more opinions on these and other topics in the future, and I look forward to reading different scholar’s approaches to these highly relevant topics.