#it has been SHOULD he do the thing he does and can he do it without actually doing more harm than good

[kimyoonmiauthor]

Depends on the culture...

I think one can get stuck in the but I need these events, without thinking about impacts?

But pure story theory after consuming stories from West Africa, Ethiopiam, Zimbabwe, South Pacific (still working on it), East and South Asia, South East Asia, the US throughout time, UK, Germany, France, Italy, and lightly the rest of Europe, Russia, and of course Indigenous stories from North, Central and South America as well as from Australia...

You can be tied really closely to a formula and fail the story completely by getting too clinical with the story and not thinking about how the events shape the characters and the characters shape the events and what does that make you THINK and what does that make you FEEL? Non-writers relate to *those* things and often don't know anything about act structure and honestly, despite my long post, don't really care. The story tools are there to make you do those two things, primarily, and for those things, that's why you should break the rules, discipline characters and events.

All story telling tools are how do you get to those two points. This is patently why things like Gen AI don't work for fiction.

I still hold that Wonder Woman 1984 (besides would have been better if it was queer) hit every single part of the 3-act perfectly, but it made people feel and think nothing. The cycle between characters and events didn't do anything for people because no one thought about the impacts. It was more like this happens. And this happens, and then the character reacts, and then this event happens.

So be careful to not rely on formulas overly much and think rather on the basis for the reaction and effect on a local and global scale.

Everything Everywhere All at Once used Kishotenketsu, (according to the creators, though I kinda thought it followed Qichengzhuanhe more, but off the rails here). But using it wasn't why it connected with the audience, but because of the small ways they managed to connect the audience to various concepts along the way. (You are the least interesting Evelyn) grew along the way. Laughing at rocks, became crying at rocks. And the emotional and metaphysical journey is what made people connect. And sometimes the character changes and sometimes they don't, but the thing that engages usually is the audience having some sort of reaction to it. And resonance doesn't have a particular formula. Waymond, categorically does not change, but in learning about him, the audience changes. (Ah, I still want that skill).

Just because Gustav Freytag, the genocidal maniac who hated everyone who wasn't German, the fascist he was before fascism became a thing (I have evidence) said it, doesn't mean it's true and people are and were workshopping the idea through the twentieth century. Do what works for you. (BTW, story structure has changed in the last 20 years in the European world. I've been tracking the changes).

🧩 How to Outline Without Feeling Like You’re Dying

(a non-suffering writer’s guide to structure, sanity, and staying mildly hydrated)

Hey besties. Let’s talk outlines. Specifically: how to do them without crawling into the floorboards and screaming like a Victorian ghost.

If just hearing the word “outline” sends your brain into chaos-mode, welcome. You’re not broken, you’re just a writer whose process has been hijacked by Very Serious Advice™ that doesn’t fit you. You don’t need to build a military-grade beat sheet. You don’t need a sixteen-tab spreadsheet. You don’t need to suffer to be legitimate. You just need a structure that feels like it’s helping you, not haunting you.

So. Here’s how to outline your book without losing your soul (or all your serotonin).

—

🍓 1. Stop thinking of it as “outlining.” That word is cursed. Try “story sketch.” “Narrative roadmap.” “Planning soup.” Whatever gets your brain to chill out. The goal here is to understand your story, not architect it to death.

Outlining isn’t predicting everything. It’s just building a scaffold so your plot doesn't fall over mid-draft.

—

🧠 2. Find your plot skeleton. There are lots of plot structures floating around: 3-Act. Save the Cat. Hero’s Journey. Take what helps, ignore the rest.

If all else fails, try this dirt-simple one I use when my brain is mush:

Act I: What’s the problem?

Act II: Why can’t we fix it?

Act III: What finally makes us change?

Ending: What does that change cost?

You don’t need to fill in every detail. You just need to know what’s driving your character, what’s blocking them, and what choices will change them.

—

🛒 3. Make a “scene bucket list.” Before you start plotting in order, write down a list of scenes you know you want: key vibes, emotional beats, dramatic reveals, whatever.

These are your anchors. Even if you don’t know where they go yet, they’re proof your story already exists, it just needs connecting tissue.

Bonus: when you inevitably get stuck later, one of these might be the scene that pulls you back in.

—

🧩 4. Start with 5 key scenes. That’s it. Here’s a minimalist approach that won’t kill your momentum:

Opening (what sucks about their world?)

Catalyst (what throws them off course?)

Midpoint (what makes them confront themselves?)

Climax (what breaks or remakes them?)

Ending (what’s changed?)

Plot the spaces between those after you’ve nailed these. Think of it like nailing down corners of a poster before smoothing the rest.

You’re not “doing it wrong” if you start messy. A messy start is a start.

—

🔧 5. Use the outline to ask questions, not just answer them. Every section of your outline should provoke a question that the scene must answer.

Instead of: — “Chapter 5: Sarah finds a journal.”

Try: — “Chapter 5: What truth does Sarah find that complicates her next move?”

This makes your story active, not just a list of stuff that happens. Outlines aren’t just there to record, they’re tools for curiosity.

—

🪤 6. Beware of the Perfectionist Trap™. You will not get the entire plot perfect before you write. Don’t stall your momentum waiting for a divine lightning bolt of Clarity. You get clarity by writing.

Think of your outline as a map drawn in pencil, not ink. It’s allowed to evolve. It should evolve.

You’re not building a museum exhibit. You’re making a prototype.

—

🧼 7. Clean up after you start drafting. Here’s the secret: the first draft will teach you what the story’s actually about. You can go back and revise the outline to fit that. It’s not wasted work, it’s evolving scaffolding.

You don’t have to build the house before you live in it. You can live in the mess while you figure out where the kitchen goes.

—

🛟 8. If you’re a discovery writer, hybrid it. A lot of “pantsers” aren’t anti-outline, they’re just anti-stiff-outline. That’s fair.

Try using “signposts,” not full scenes:

Here’s a secret someone’s hiding.

Here’s the emotional breakdown scene.

Here’s a betrayal. Maybe not sure by who yet.

Let the plot breathe. Let the characters argue with your outline. That tension is where the fun happens.

—

🪴 TL;DR but emotionally: You don’t need a flawless outline to write a good book. You just need a loose net of ideas, a couple of emotional anchors, and the willingness to pivot when your story teaches you something new.

Outlines should support you, not suffocate you.

Let yourself try. Let it be imperfect. That’s where the good stuff lives.

Go forth and outline like a gently chaotic legend 🧃

— written with snacks in hand by Rin T. @ thewriteadviceforwriters 🍓🧠✍️

Sometimes the problem isn’t your plot. It’s your first 5 pages. Fix it here → 🖤 Free eBook: 5 Opening Pages Mistakes to Stop Making:

[luveline]

Hi lovely!!

Could I request a KBD fic centred around Beth and her being a little different? 🩷 I can’t remember but I think you’ve said before that you’ve written her autistic coded so I was wondering if you could do a fic that touches on that please! Being a girl who was also different and ‘weird’ and struggled to make friends it wasn’t just hard for me but my parents too so I feel like the dynamic between the reader and Steve has been portrayed so well and the way you write Beth is so so good

No worries if not! But if you get around to this then thank you in advance 🩷🩷

thank you for requesting ♥︎ —you and steve struggle to help beth, but you lean on him and he leans on you and beth eats her dinner in the end. mom!reader, 4.5k

You weren’t the most normal kid. Beth has some of your strange behaviours, but she has a whole new gallery of her own, too, and it’s just… You had Avery, and you had Beth, and you didn’t assume that Beth was somehow abnormal because she was different to her sister —who would that be fair too? But then you have Dove, and you realise that the things that Beth can’t handle are things that most kids can. It’s not so cut and clean as to suggest that kids can even be normal, they all have their quirks, but Beth needs far, far more support for things that should… well, they should be easy. Or that’s what everyone says. 

“Come on, my sweet girl,” you murmur, in that same place as last night and the night before, Beth in your lap, wriggling unhappily every time the spoon so much as leaves her plate, “just a couple more bites.” 

“I don’t want it,” Beth says quietly. She’s already crying, her cheeks wet and hot to the touch, t-shirt rumpled by a squeezing hand. 

“Baby, you eat this every night,” you say. 

You aren’t necessarily an expert, but you’re good at getting Beth to eat, even on her worst days. But for the last week she’s been declining, taking smaller mouthfuls, or trying to skip meals altogether. “I’m too tired,” she says, sniffling as you scoop a little mound of cheesy broccoli onto her favourite spoon. “I want to go to bed.” 

“Beth, honey, what am I supposed to do?” you ask. Steve clears his throat, and you wince. “Sorry, baby. I’m sorry. But you didn’t eat your breakfast, or your lunch. It’s really important that you feed your body, isn’t it? What if you get sick?” 

Steve’s hovering nearby, his arms crossed against his chest. You try to give Beth as much privacy as possible when you do this, because you know she’s ashamed of herself when Avery asks her why she can’t eat her dinner, ’cos it’s so yum, Bethie, daddy makes it the best, but you know Steve can’t leave. 

“I’ll eat breakfast tomorrow,” Beth says, a fat tear rolling down her cheek.

Fuck, it’s such a big tear that you push her dinner plate away and let your sleeve fall over your thumb, wiping it as gently as you’re able to. “Shh,” you say quietly, rubbing at her little cheeks until they’re dry. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Did mom make you cry so much?” 

“I don’t want to eat it,” she sniffles. 

“Aw, baby, it’s okay. I won’t make you eat the broccoli and cheese.” 

Steve pulls the chair next to yours out slowly. He sits quietly. His hand is careful when he puts it on Beth’s small arm. “Hey, Bethie.” 

“Hi.” 

He smiles, but he's already super sorry. “You know what I’m gonna ask you, but you can say no, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

She sounds even sadder than he does. 

“Will you drink one of the milkshakes?” he asks, wiping at a new tear before it can reach her chin.  

Beth automatically hides against you. You tut under your breath, pity and love for her like a hand squeezing your heart as you wrap her into a proper hug. “It’s okay if you can’t, baby,” you say, though it isn’t, not really. You just can’t see her like this much longer. She’s boiling away in your lap, so overwhelmed that you’re lucky she hasn’t started scratching her neck —Steve hates it so much it brought tears to his eyes the last time she did it. 

“It’s alright, honey. Should we leave the kitchen?” You hold her face. “How about we go to mommy’s room? Would that make you feel better?” 

She sobs out a yes. 

“She’s not gonna be able to go to school tomorrow,” Steve murmurs as you gather her up. 

“I know,” you murmur back, pressing Beth’s shaking body to you. She’s getting tall like Avery, skinnier than you’d pictured, but she’s still super soft, plush cheeked, a weight in your arms as you push in your chair with your knee. “I’ll stay home too. I’ll…” 

“Call the doctor?” Steve mouths. 

“Yeah. Maybe.” You sigh, pressing your nose into Beth’s forehead tiredly. “Let’s go to bed, sweet girl.” 

“Thank you,” she says. 

“C’mon, Beth, it’s alright,” you say, half a lie. “Don’t worry about it. You tried your best tonight, didn’t you? You ate so much of your dinner even though you didn’t want to, ‘cos you’re my good girl.” 

Beth clings to your neck all the way to your bed. She refuses to be detached from you, even when Steve offers her a cuddle to give you a breather. It’s been hours of this, of her upset, and of you failing to convince her. She falls asleep between sobs, sniffling and shaky in your arms, and you don’t realise you’re crying until Steve’s wiping your cheeks with the same care he’d wiped at Beth’s. “It’s fine,” he murmurs.

“Sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” he says again. “She’s fine.” 

He climbs up onto a knee to kiss your forehead. 

—

The doctor doesn’t actually want to deal with it. “She won’t eat?” he asks you over the phone. 

“Nope.” 

“Nothing at all?” 

“Uh, she’ll eat fruit slices if we beg her too.” Your voice is scratchy with the admission. “A little of dinner, but only what she likes.” 

“So she can eat?” 

“It’s not–” You clear your throat. Steve rests an encouraging hand on your arm. “Not really that simple. She can eat, like, she can chew and swallow, but I can’t get her to finish anything. She just cries.” 

“Does she have a fever?” 

“No, she’s not sick. She gets like this sometimes, but I’ve always… we’ve always been able to wait it out.” 

“Right… is she lethargic at all?” 

“A little? She’s not eating enough.” 

“But she can get up? She can walk around?” 

“Yeah.” 

The doctor or assistant sighs long, slow, and it drives you up a wall. “Is she a picky eater?” 

“Extremely.” 

“The best thing to do is to tell her she eats what’s on her plate or she doesn’t get dinner.”

For a second, you’re so shocked at his answer that you can’t summon your own. 

“She’ll get hungry enough eventually,” he continues.

“I’m not going to let her starve.” Steve stiffens next to you. 

“It sounds like she is already. Kids do this, they test the boundaries because they’ve only now realised they have them. I guarantee you she’ll be eating normally by the end of the week, so long as you don’t bend to her every whim.” 

“That’s– that is not really helpful.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Beth won’t eat. We make her her favourites every night and she won’t eat it. Why would she eat something she doesn’t like later on? She doesn’t care that she’s hungry, she can’t eat.” 

“Let me talk to him,” Steve says.

“I got it.” 

“Let me talk to him,” he says again, taking the phone from your hand. 

Steve doesn’t shout like you’re expecting, but it’s a good thing, really. “Sir, hi, it’s Bethie’s dad… Yeah, it doesn't matter what she’s offered, or how little she’s eating, she won’t eat more than a handful at a time, and not for hours.” He rests his other hand on your shoulder. “No, no, it’s– I’m not asking you to admit her, we don’t want her back on the kids ward again this year– We want an answer. No. No, because this isn’t normal.” 

Steve’s brow screws up. 

“What’s he saying?” you whisper.

He holds up a finger

“No. No, she’s never…” He stares at your cheek. “We’ve never looked at that. No. And that doesn’t really answer us for what we should do today. She won’t eat today. She’s gonna collapse and then…” 

He rolls his eyes and offers you the phone. “Hopeless.” 

The doctor sighs across the line as you press the phone back against your ear. “Normal kids don’t need to be coddled into eating dinner, is all I’m saying.” 

“And it’s not helping.” 

“Clearly, Mrs. Harrington, you don’t really want my help. I’ve given you the solutions.” 

“We want her to see a doctor.” 

“Take her by Eskenazi general.”

You slam the phone down on the receiver. “Fucking asshole,” you scathe under your breath. 

“What did he say?” 

“He said to do what he said or to take her to Eskenazi. What did he say to you?” 

“He said she…” 

You duck your head. “Steve?” 

“He said she could be disabled, like– like she’s ‘touched’, he said, and a bunch of other jargon. But what the fuck ever, right? Dude’s an asshole.” 

“What kind of disabled?” you ask. 

“I don’t know, I didn’t know the word. He said we can get her tested.” 

You shake your head vehemently. You’ve seen how people treat one another when they’re different; you have no inclination to expose Beth to the world's judgment. “She doesn’t need to get tested, she’s just Beth. And– and if they won’t help me look after her then I’ll do it myself.” 

“…Maybe it could help.” 

“With what, Steve? So we have a word for her? She’s my Beth.” 

“Maybe knowing she’s different might help her to understand. Maybe it’ll… I don’t know.” He scratches at his scalp. “I don’t know.” 

You get where he’s coming from, because you’ve known Bethie was different for a while now, for years. You just can’t see how this will help her through dinner tonight. She’s gonna starve herself if you aren’t careful.

“I’m gonna go out and get more stuff,” you say, closing a hand around his fingers to hold. 

“Like what?” 

“She has these phases, right? So– so maybe she hates broccoli and cheese now, but she hated it before when– when she liked those little quesadillas you make. So I’m gonna go and get some tortillas and cheese and stuff and you’re gonna make that for lunch.” 

Steve holds your eyes. His are brown, and gentle, and pinched at you hopefully. “Yeah, okay. What else can we do?” 

Beth did not want to eat or even smell a quesadilla the last time Steve made them, but you’re running out of choices. 

“I don’t know.” 

He holds your eyes, unspeaking. 

“She’s different,” you concede quietly, “I just never wanted her to know that.” 

“I think she knows, baby.” 

You think about letting yourself burst into tears. Steve would let you. He’d hold you and kiss you and tell you that it’s okay —everything will be okay, you know that already. But if you break down Steve will make sure it’s hammered home. He’ll stop all the worry and heartache for a bit, just like he always does. 

“I’ll go now, while she’s still asleep.” 

Steve gives you a sad smile, as though he knows what you almost did. “Sure, honey. Take my car, okay?”

—

You bring back cheese and candies and enough chocolate to have each of your girls kissing up all night to a house that’s only just begun to stir despite the hour. Nearly noon, Beth lays wrinkled with her head in Avery’s lap. Avery plays with her hair, their own bubble of love you’re not privy too whispered into Beth’s small ear, while Dove plays with Beth’s socks. Even Wren seems to have come to understand that Beth isn’t feeling like herself, your littlest baby standing unsurely at the base of the couch, holding on to the edge for dear life as she babbles hellos. 

Steve sits on the playmat, ready to catch Wren when she stumbles back. “Hey,” he says. 

“Hey.”

“Busy?” 

“Weirdly busy for a Thursday morning.” You smile at your girls gently. “Hey, sweethearts. Good morning, did everyone sleep okay?” 

“Mom, come hug,” Dove says immediately, her voice still scratched by sleep. 

“I gotta put this away!” you coo. “But you can help lighten the bag a bit.” 

You give Dove a white chocolate bunny. Avery gets a milky truffle the size of her palm. Wren gets a chocolate yoghurt, and Beth gets a pack of kisses. “No pressure, Bethie.” You give Avery the kisses, rather than make Beth hold them, vindicated when the quick flash of dread on her face is replaced with relief. “You can throw them all away if you want to, but I didn’t want to leave you out.” 

“Thanks, mom,” she says. 

“Yeah, of course. I don’t even want the thank you, Beth, I just like seeing you smiling.” 

“I got the day off school too,” Avery says. “To look after Beth.” 

“How do you feel, Beth? Well looked after?” 

Beth manages a real smile. “Yes.” 

You put the groceries away and appear with one of Beth’s old favourites: raspberry yoghurt drinks. You don’t offer her one, only sit on the floor by Steve with one in your hand. You give it a shake and peel off the foil. Steve glances at you from the corner of his eye. 

“What you got?” 

“Raspberry.” 

“Yum. Sharing?” 

You take a sip and pass it to your husband. He drinks a little. “Wait, they’re nicer than I remember.” 

“You think?” 

Wren slams onto her butt, but luckily her diaper saves her bones and she giggles as Steve goes, “Oopsy daisy, what a clutz you are.” 

She leans back and stares at Steve with wide, baby-pretty eyes. ”Wen?” she asks. 

“Wren wants some?” 

Wren babbles. “Yeah!” she says eventually. 

Steve helps her into his lap, four babies later and still the most gentle guy in the world. “Ready?” he asks, pressing the lip of the yogurt to her mouth. “Here you go, Wren. That’s it, honey, good job. How is that, is that yummy?” 

“Can I have some?” Dove asks. 

“I’ll get you your own one,” you say, scrabbling up. “Don’t want all Wren’s spit.” 

Dove drinks hers in a long pull. Avery nibbles her milky truffle. Beth, surrounded by food, looks a bit sickly, and she’s quiet for the next hour. You take them all upstairs for baths they should’ve had last night and outfit them in blue loungewear to match one another. Beth doesn’t look any better for it. She’s sweaty as you sit her back on the couch, but she manages to smile when you tickle the arch of her foot between socks. 

With Avery playing on her tummy in the toy corner (or, the toy half), and Dove following Steve around in the kitchen, you stick Wren next to you on the couch and try to relax. Beth will eat if she needs to. And if she doesn’t, you’ll take her to the ER and sob yourself sick when they tube her. 

“Oh, Beth,” you murmur. 

“Oh, mom,” she says. 

You side-eye her. She’d said it with a smile, and she’s still smiling as she lays her face against your shoulder. 

“What’s funny?” 

“You sounded funny.” 

You let Wren crawl on your knees. She curls up with her face to your stomach, gurgling until you pet her back. “You sound funnier.” 

“Are you angry at me?” 

You frown at her. “No, never.” 

“Even though I wasted dinner again?” 

“You didn’t waste dinner yesterday, you just didn’t like it. Not your fault.” You follow the slope of her nose with your eyes. “Do you understand what that means, that it isn’t your fault? Me and daddy know you can’t help it. So it’s okay. And everybody stops liking stuff sometimes. I used to like apple juice, but when I was pregnant with you I had a glass of it that made me feel so sick that I haven’t had it since. Sometimes, we just change our minds.” 

“But I thought I liked it,” she confesses. 

“That’s okay. Daddy thinks he likes lettuce, but he has to pull it out of every sandwich.” 

Beth giggles, rubbing her face in your arm. “That’s funny.” 

Your face never looked so lovely as it does on Beth. Even though her eyes are swollen from all her crying the day before and her lips are crusty with toothpaste, she’s sweet. You scratch the toothpaste away carefully and wrap her up for a one armed hug, Wren underneath it, Beth’s arms snaking around her to return your cuddle. 

“I know it’s not easy, Beth. I don’t expect you to feel good right now. But if you want to talk to mommy and tell me what you’re thinking about, I can listen. Even if the feeling feels silly.” 

“I don’t want to…” She fades off. 

“Don’t want to eat dinner?” you guess. 

She doesn’t answer. 

“Beth, you don’t have to eat dinner if you can’t. The important thing is that you eat something. For now, it can be anything. If there’s one single thing you think you can eat, then I can get it for you, and I won’t… Beth, I just want you to know that it doesn’t matter what you need me or daddy or even Avery or anyone to do so you can eat something. I’ll drive you to New York if you think you want a slice of pizza.” 

“Why to New York?” she asks, her nose wrinkling. 

“That’s where they make it the best.” 

“I… don’t want you to be sad with me,” she whispers. 

“I don’t mind. You don’t make me sad, you know. I just want you to eat.” 

“Even if…” She looks down at your tummy, where Wren wriggles and snuffs. 

“Anything.” 

“Can I have honey ham?” 

You feel your eyebrows rise of their own accord. “Honey ham? Like daddy makes at Christmas?” 

She nibbles her lip. “Yeah.” 

“Okay.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes.” You take a deep breath, pressing your nose into her hair. “It doesn’t have to be for Christmas. I like daddy’s honey ham. Thing is, he’ll have to go to the store and get the ham and the honey so it might take a while. Is that okay?” 

“Can I have bread too?” 

“With butter?” you ask, too casual. Luckily she doesn’t notice. 

“Yeah.” 

“Like, a ham sandwich?” 

“I don’t want the ham in the bread.” 

“Okay,” you say, failing to hide your relief. It comes out in a sigh. “Honey ham and bread and butter. How about we pretend it’s Christmas and daddy can make the whole feast?” 

“Like, the potato’s and the sweet mash?” she asks. 

“Sure, if you want that. Even if you don’t want to eat any of it, it won’t go to waste. I love dad’s Christmas cooking.” 

She lifts her head to stare at you. “Really?” she asks again. 

“Beth, I just want you to eat, bubby,” —you sound as tired as you feel— “I don’t mind what you’re craving. I know it’s hard to eat food you don’t want to eat. It’s hard for you, you’re just a kid. You don’t get to choose. But I promise I’ll try my best when you’re feeling like this, okay? So– so no more crying at dinner,” you say, though you’re really pleading with her in a way, “‘cos I can’t stand seeing my lovely girl crying.” 

She shrugs off your loving but changes her mind at the last second, curling under your arm. 

“Can the ham be cold?” she asks quietly. 

“Yes. That’s no problem.” 

“Okay.” 

“Beth?” 

Beth tips her head upwards. 

“I know you’re different,” you say, holding her gaze, those baby wide eyes, “and you know you’re different, too. But it doesn’t matter to me or your dad, okay? I won’t get angry with you for the things that you can’t change. And… maybe, if you feel different in a way that confuses you or…” I don’t know, you think, grasping for the right words. “If it sounds like a good idea, maybe we can go talk to somebody. A doctor.” 

Her lips part. “Like Dr. Scandi?” she asks under her breath. 

Dr. Scandi is the paediatrician that treated her when she had her horrible flu, who she liked, because he was very tall and very quiet. “I don’t know. I just want you to know that you’re not alone. That I’ll try to fix things if they need fixing.” 

Beth is perhaps a little too young to understand what you’re trying to say, but, like she has ever since she was a baby, she softens at your tone. “I like talking to you,” she whispers. 

“I like talking to you.” 

Beth nods. You offer her a kiss. 

—

Steve makes his summer Christmas banquet and Beth, beautiful girl, eats three slices of bread with salted butter, and she eats every bit of honeyed ham that touches her plate. She even has a raspberry yoghurt after. 

Her empty stomach pangs at the sudden influx. Steve gathers her up and gives her one of his trademark post-dinner tummy rubs, her back to his front, the two of them in the bean bag. He rubs her stomach until she burbs, and laughs, and goes sleepy as a fieldmouse in a flower. 

Dove falls asleep before eight. Wren goes down at nine. And Avery, after a couple of minutes sitting with her legs swinging off of your thigh, asks to be put to bed as the sun’s going down behind the house. You turn off all the lights, lock the doors, and follow her to a still upstairs, Steve behind you with dozing Beth in his arms. 

“You okay, big girl?” you ask, pulling the sheets over Avery’s legs as she settles down. 

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” she says. 

“Thank you, baby. I was just stressed out about Beth, that’s it. I’m happy long as you’re all happy.” You raise an eyebrow at her. “Are you happy?” 

“I had a good day,” she says decidedly. 

You cuddle her, her shoulders shifting under your hands. She’s gonna get big soon. She’s almost at that age where they shoot straight up into teenagedom the second you look away, so you refuse to look away. “I’m glad you did, Ave. Thanks for looking after Beth today. You did a great job.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Want me to put a movie in?”

She beams. You shove FernGully in and sit with her for a little while things are quiet, smiling indulgently against her forehead as her eyelids start to flutter. 

“Love you,” you whisper.

“Love you, mommy,” she whispers back, her ‘you’ nearly lost, a stutter of a sound as she falls asleep against your side. 

You wait five minutes before easing out from beneath her. Her hair brushes her pillow, nose sinking into her buttery pillow case, breath rustling out of her as you pull the sheets over her shoulders and crouch by her bedside. You smile at her. Give her cheek a quick stroke.

“You alright?” Steve asks. 

His uttering is so soft you don’t startle, though you hadn’t known he was waiting in the doorway. Your answer is a hum as you stand, and his is a hand on your arm as he pulls Avery’s door closed and leads you to bed. 

With Wren moved to the nursery with Dove, you and Steve find yourself alone for the first time since the early morning. Things are quiet while you undress, though he does his usual routine and helps you with the tie on your pajama bottoms before going back to his own clothes. You pull the end of his shirt from his pants and slide a hand underneath it, feeling at the small of his back for stretch marks. Your finger bumps along them and up, until you're massaging at the space between his shoulders and he’s laughing under his breath. “Stop, stop.” 

“You okay?” you ask. 

He relaxes under your ministrations. “I’m fine. You know, I heard you talking to Beth, earlier. Not all of it, but most of it. When you told her she’s not alone, that stuff, I don’t know. I was so proud of you, even though you didn’t need that from me.” He turns his face to see you over his shoulder. You rub at a notch with your thumb. “I mean, you got her to eat. You always do.” 

“She would’ve had to eventually. You’re the one that made dinner.” 

“I don’t think she could’ve told us what she wanted if you didn’t give her all that patience.” 

You don’t ignore him, but you have nothing to say. You could tell him you love him, but he knows. Could say thank you, but you’re not confident you won’t cry, and you don’t want the headache. So you draw a pattern over his back with your fingernails, resting your mouth on his shoulder. 

“I love you,” he says. 

“I love you, too.” 

“I get if you’re, like, tired, and this is too much for now, but… this has been a lot. I just want you to know that you’re there for them and I’m here for you, remember?” 

“I know.” 

You don’t wanna talk, but you know. 

Steve forces your hand down as he turns to you, rings of  purple under his eyes doing little to hide how handsome he is when he smiles at you like you’re hanging the moon up right in front of him. He’s all gentled almond eyes and his deeply kissable nose. You let yourself trace the wrinkles in the corners of his mouth. Smiling, you press a kiss to one of them. 

“I’m proud of you, too.” 

He kicks your shin. “Get to bed.” 

“I’m busy.” 

He kicks you again and pushes you into bed. 

“I’m sorry about all of this. I know it isn’t my fault, but I,” —Steve kisses your nose— “hate seeing you like that. Like this. Want you to smile.” 

“I’ll feel better tomorrow.” 

He climbs on top of you, putting his chin on top of your head and his leg hooked on top of your hips, pulling at your back until you curl into him nicely; he’ll have to move the sheets before he sleeps, just it’s comfy puzzled in like this. 

“We gotta find out what’s really happening with her,” he says. 

That’s more tentative. He’s hugging you to distract you, and it’s doing the job. You don’t feel as scared as you did this morning when he suggested the same thing. “I know. What was that word he said, the doctor?” 

“Autist.” 

You’ve read about it before. “I heard it was just a boy thing,” you mumble. 

Steve lets his hand slip beneath your ribs. “Maybe there’s a girl version…”

You lift your head away to see him better. “You know, no matter how different she is, we’re all gonna be fine.” 

“I know that, I told you that.” 

“Just wanted to make sure.” 

He noses along your jaw. “Guess what.” 

“What?” 

“We didn’t brush our teeth.” 

You let out a string of long-suffering sighs, agonised. Steve laughs and presses a kiss to your open mouth, promising you taste as good as you look, though he won’t claim the same in the morning. 

[clairewritesfanfics]

do you like those fics where the premise is "all the variants are here for y/n but main mark hasnt even dated her"

i like them the most when its a right person wrong time situation on main marks part because im mean

like since highschool theyve never managed to be single at the same time and then he finds out the evil versions of him destroying shit have had her when hes never even got to try asking her out

nobody has written this specific type of thing i want to read yet, but like, the variants getting stuck in main marks dimension and he and y/n keep finding out things about the variants loves with their version of y/n thats excruciating to hear for two people whove been in love their whole lives but have never been in a place to act on it

the only variant who hasnt done anything with her is maskless who was in a very similar situation with his william. like three of the older marks were actually married to her, at least one out of those 3 had been about to have a kid with her before losing her. literally none of them have ever broken up with her of their own free will. at least one of the younger marks had only just managed to start a relationship with her before he lost her.

main mark watching these versions of himself practically swarming someone he also loves and has probably loved before he even understood it but with no right to do anything about it because hes with eve. who he does like. but he asked out after a version of her from the future told him she loved him apparently her entire life and he was her biggest regret.

main mark experiencing never before seen types of emotional pain wondering if he should have read into the eve thing as the universe telling him you were about to break up with your at the time partner just as he was getting into things with eve, or if waiting to see if youd leave them would have prolonged your relationship with them because the universe fucking hates him for reasons beyond his understanding

i would write this myself but im already stuck trying to write like 3 other long projects already. but if i did write it id probably end it as happy as possible because even though i like angst i can only stand so much.

It is truly the writer's blurse to be struck with so many fascinating concepts while juggling already existing WIPs.

( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;) 

It's an amazing idea with a lot of angst potential. I have encountered a similar but not exact premise a few times, maybe not as fully realized fics but as propositional posts.

I've always loved the idea of the Marks being so obsessed and devoted that they will stop the violence in order to reminisce about their respective Readers aka Y/Ns. (Oh, and this is more of my personal preference as an Invincible fanfic writer: the Reader-sexual crew includes Maskless because, as I have once discussed in gruesome detail, when it comes to Mark it is all or nothing for me. I can't tolerate him being in love with Eve or Amber in my verses, so I can't handle him being in love with William either. I am an equal opportunity "homewrecker." VCS readers, please don't ask me more about this because I might end up spoiling some things about my future plans.)

Honestly, if you have the energy to spare, you should give it a go, it doesn't have to be multi-chaptered. It can just be a short story or a bunch of "reactions" strung together. Heck, just write dialogue for it. Pure dialogue. Maybe you can use this idea as a writing exercise, like trying a different style or POV. Something to come back to and appreciate when you want to take a breather from your long fics.

Tbh, you've given me an excuse to stop delaying and start practicing first person POV again, and I was reminded why it's so hard penning reader insert stories:

I was surrounded. I could take on one or two of them, but twelve of these murderous assholes? My best bet would be to retreat while they were distracted, but there’s one problem: you.

You were the ball in this screwed up game of catch. All eyes were on you and I doubt there was anything that would take everyone's attention off of you at the same time. Even if I did manage to steal you away in a split second of distraction, I wouldn’t be able to go very far, not with that girl version of me here.

I watched as she pulled the pink scrunchie from her hair, black Rapunzel braid falling apart as she placed the hair tie gingerly on your hands. 

You gave her a shaky smile but she didn’t seem to care.

I clenched my fists.

She was fast, faster than the rest, and faster than me. 

“Cute, aren’t they?” The me dressed in my father’s colors watched you with arms crossed. “Don’t even think about trying to take her away, Marcy will rip you apart before you get the chance to take off.”

“Marcy?”

“Long story.”

It was hilarious. Not too long ago, this guy sent my girlfriend to the ER and here we were, talking like old pals. I wanted to punch him in the face but–

“You want to kill me,” he said, not bothering to look at me. “But we both know you won’t do that in front of her.”

“You don’t know anything about me or her.”

“I know that every version of you that came here is because of her.” He finally turned to me. “We all wanted a reunion.”

“I won’t let you take her.”

He scoffed. “We’re not interested in ‘taking’ her anywhere, we just wanted a chance to see her. To talk to her again.”

My fingers twitched. I already had my suspicions but I needed to know. 

“What exactly is she to you?” I asked.

The faintest smile melted all the coldness from his face as he answered, “She was my dove.”

Time slowed to a snail’s pace as my voice betrayed me, “What?”

He met my gaze. “She was my wife.”

“Was?”

The ice returned as he turned away. “She died.” That was all. He continued staring at you, his longing obvious under that veil of composure.

I watched as more versions of me crowded you. Each one had something to show or say to you, each one looking like they have waited a thousand years for this.

The fear seemed to have dissipated from you somewhat, because you were now laughing at the words of my maskless self. He was smiling softly at you, but I could see the cracks in his expression. He looked at you like you were the world, but it was clear to me that he was searching for something.

I didn’t know what it was but I couldn’t help but release my fists, wondering if Eve ever caught me wearing the same expression.

#

I kept accidentally bouncing from third person to first to second. 😭

But it was a fun exercise!

I hope you do write about this someday because it is a great concept. Thank you for sharing it with me and our fellow fans.

PS

I must ask for clarification what you mean by "the Eve thing." Is this a reference to a specific plot point? Or just his relationship with Eve in general?

[kinkyniragi]

War Goddess

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Genre: Smut 18+

Word count: 4,8k

Summary: You are Tommy’s wife. You hear him moan in the dark, caught in another war-drenched nightmare—except this time, he´s coming in his sleep. He asks you to help him in quite a special way and you say yes...You’re not sure what terrifies you more: The violence he craves… or the power he gives you.

CN: Tons of smutty smut (but with a plot, of course ^^), Tommy forcedly being submissive, war trauma and healing attempt, heavy psychological themes tbh, Tommy being vulnerable but not able to suppress his dominant side, power and gun play, degradation, humiliation, bondage, blindfolding, kind of spicy interrogation, oral and anal stuff, edging, hard sex as usual. Please note that this is all just fantasy. Things that happen in my stories should always be consensual. Take care.

Author’s note: My longest one-shot so far…Feel free to leave comments and share my story if you enjoy it—I truly appreciate every bit of motivation to keep writing. Even though I'm not a native speaker, I'll do my best 😉

***

The bed is warm. His back is damp.

You wake before him, as you often do, your body curled against his. A fine sheen of sweat glistens on his chest, his jaw clenched. He mumbles something — unintelligible at first — then clearer, just enough for you to catch fragments.

“In the walls—"

He jolts, his hand clenching into a tight fist.

“They´re coming—"

“Hey, shh…” you whisper, trying to soothe him, but before your fingers can even find his skin, he cries out — loud, raw:

“Fuck—NO!”

He’s nowhere near waking.

You run your hand gently across his fevered cheek, but even your softest touch can’t reach him. He’s too far under — trapped in whatever nightmare his mind has pulled him back into.

“Please—” he pleads, voice cracking with anguish. “Take what you want—"

And then, startling you into stillness, you feel it: the hard press of his arousal against your stomach.

You freeze.

What the hell is happening in his head?

He shudders and turns his head. His lips part once more.

“Use me—hurt me—just don’t kill me…”

The words spill from him in a strangled mix of fear and something else — something desperate, broken, wanting. A twisted yearning that doesn’t make sense, and yet feels all too familiar to you.

You shouldn´t be aroused by what you are witnessing.

But you are.

***

You love him. That’s never been the question.

It’s what comes with loving him. The silence, the scars, the smoke that never clears. The way he disappears for days without a word. The way he comes back smelling of whiskey and gunpowder, like some battle you weren’t invited to.

Tommy has always been the hell of a dominant partner — what most would call an alpha male, without a second thought. Your safety, your well-being, they’ve always mattered to him, no doubt about that.

But only on his terms.

In daylight.

And by night.

Tommy doesn’t ask. He takes. And because you love him — and because you know he loves you, in whatever way he knows how — you’ve always let him.

***

You don’t speak of it the next day. You want. But your throat closes up.

He never talks about the war, not really. But you see it when he wakes in a cold sweat. When he touches you like he’s claiming land. When he looks at you like you’re the last thing standing between him and the abyss. But in this night, something shifted. Through the fevered haze of his words, his dreams have begun to take shape. Some buried trauma seems to claw its way to the surface — twisting, merging with an arousal that has no business being there, showing up as a wet dream in the dark. It shouldn't turn your stomach and your thighs into this aching knot of questions.

But it does.

Almost every night, Tommy lives through terror. Submission and destruction leading to a heavy climax he must be aware of the morning after... You wonder if there’s a way in — a way to reach him, to pull him from that place. To help him.

***

A week later, you're both drunk in the sitting room — the kind of drunk that slows time and peels away your last defenses. He watches you over the rim of his glass. His hair’s undone, shirt half open. His tie lies forgotten on the floor.

“You’ve been looking at me differently,” he says. His voice is low. Controlled. But not cold.

You blink. Try to smile. “Have I?”

He stands. Takes a step closer. Then another. Your little drinking session has had an unintended side effect: you're off guard now — and he's noticed. Which gives him the perfect opening to question the shift in your behavior.

“You heard me, didn’t you? That night.”

You don’t answer. But he sees it anyway. He always does.

His voice, usually sharp with command, softens unexpectedly. It disarms you more than you'd like to admit.

He stares into his glass of whiskey, thoughtful, then downs it in one swallow. Without looking up, he starts to speak.

“It was the tunnels. France. 1916. We knew they were under us. Digging. Germans. Could hear it through the fucking mud. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe.”

His sudden honesty confuses you. You had hoped that sharing a few drinks might loosen his tongue, maybe draw something out of him — but you hadn’t counted on much. His illegal dealings with the whiskey trade were hard to hide from you, of course — not least because he was his own best customer, though he liked to dress it up with the word "tasting."

Still, his seasoned tolerance meant that getting him drunk enough to slip wasn’t an easy game to play. Tommy and loss of control — those were two things that almost never coexisted. At least, not in the daylight world.

So the fact that he's opening up to you now — telling you things about what he's lived through — You want to believe it’s because he’s letting go. Because something in him is softening, and he’s showing you a part of himself he doesn’t let others see.

But you know better.

You’ve known Tommy too long not to recognize the strategy behind every move he makes. Nothing he does is ever without calculation.

He’s in front of you now.

“One night... I dreamed it wasn’t them anymore. It was you. Digging through. Breaking in. Pulling me under.”

A pause. Then:

“I panic. It’s life or death — a fight to survive. But... it’s you. The woman I desire. The woman who desires me…”

His jaw tightens under the weight of the words, clenched around a knot of fear, terror, helplessness. Tears track silently down his cheeks.

You listen, spellbound, aching to reach for him — to comfort him — but his entire body is so coiled, so rigid, you know he’d likely shove your hand away in fury.

“Everything blurs. The memory… it slips, dissolves. And then—fragments. They come back. Again and again. The same dream. Every damn night. No escape. I have to—”

Beads of sweat shine on his forehead. His fingers rake through his hair, fisting it so tightly his knuckles go white.

“I have to end it. The me inside the nightmares... he needs to understand it’s over. That it’s safe to let go. That it’s time to surrender.”

He reaches into his holster. Pulls the pistol.

Hands it to you.

“Next time… when you want me, really want me… use this. Hold it to my head. Overpower me. Take me. Hurt me. Fuck me raw. Do whatever it takes to let me overcome this fucking nightmare. I really mean it. Do you understand, sweetheart?”

Your fingers close around the metal. Still warm from him.

“You trust me that much?” you whisper.

He leans down, mouth to your ear.

“I need to.”

He pauses, then adds with a sharp edge to his voice, “But don’t you fucking dare look inside the magazine, eh?”

You hold his gaze, unflinching.

Impatiently, he presses on, “Got it? I trust you. Just trust me. No hesitation. Not for a second.”

As the weight of the pistol settles in your palm, you realize he’s not asking for danger. He’s begging for freedom.

From his ghosts.

And only you can give it to him.

***

He’s already asleep when you enter. Lying on his side, arm curled under the pillow, his breath deep and steady. The moonlight drapes him in silver, catching on the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the faint sheen of sweat on his bare back.

You’ve prepared everything to make him relive the nightmare — without real danger, and with a happy ending. At least, that’s the plan.

Maybe you’ve gone too far, but here you are: wrapped in the long coat of his uniform, and beneath it, a whisper of black lace and silk over-the-knee stockings.

A femme fatale. A war goddess.

Ready to take on the fight with men and their ghosts.

Silently, you set down the items you've brought with you. A glass of cool water goes on the nightstand within his reach — he’ll need it later.

You stand there for a moment, watching. Your chest rises and falls. Faster. You know what you’re about to do. And you know what it means.

This isn’t a game to him. It never was.

You pick up the pistol. It’s heavier than you remember.

You slip onto the bed without a sound, carefully turn him around by the shoulder, straddling his hips, knees sinking into the mattress. Carefully, you slip the makeshift noose around his neck, crafted from a pair of your silk stockings. It tightens just enough to be felt — a whisper of threat, a breath of control.

He stirs as your weight settles over him but doesn’t wake. Not yet.

Your fingers trail down his chest. You feel the twitch of his muscles. His breath hitches.

You lean in, pressing your mouth to the shell of his ear. Then, with a sharp crack, you strike the wooden headboard several times with the pistol and shout his name — loud, commanding, unmistakably in charge.

“Don’t fight me, soldier,” you continue.

He tenses.

Eyes still closed, but his body wakes before he does — blood rushing, skin hot and sweaty.

You shift your weight, and his hands move instinctively to your thighs, still half-lost in whatever liminal place he drifts in.

He jolts awake, eyes wide with panic.

And that’s when you raise the pistol, slowly, deliberately, until he’s staring straight down the barrel.

Then you let the cold metal touch his temple.

He freezes.

The air turns electric.

He looks at you. Sees the gun. Sees your eyes. Besides his panic, there is something else, a slow, dark hunger blooming behind his gaze.

He exhales through his nose, sharp and hot.

You lean down and kiss him, deep and brutal, until he groans against your mouth and grabs your hips. But you don’t let him lead — not tonight.

Tonight, he’s yours.

Your fingers tighten around the pistol as you straddle him, your thighs framing his hips. With your other hand, you give the silk noose around his throat a slow, deliberate tug — just enough for him to feel your control over every breath he takes. You feel him hard beneath you — not just aroused, but wide awake now, sharp with tension. And still, he doesn’t move.

He’s waiting.

For you.

“Lift your hands above your head,” you command quietly.

He obeys.

There’s a clarity in your movements now, a calm, predatory resolve that leaves no doubt: you’re going to take exactly what you want from him.

The pistol slips soundlessly into the bulging pocket of Tommy’s military coat. Then you reach for the coarse hemp rope you had set aside — rough, unyielding, unforgiving — and begin wrapping it around his wrists. One loop, then another, until he’s bound. You secure the ends to the slatted headboard above him.

He watches you in tense, breathless silence, his chest rising and falling. You can see how hard he’s working to restrain himself, to keep from grinding hungrily against the heat between your thighs.

The oversized coat is carelessly fastened by a single button, gaping just enough to tease him with the barest glimpses of skin, of lace, of promise.

If Tommy only knew what else you were going to deny him tonight.

From the inside pocket of the coat, you draw something slick and black. Before he can register what it is, darkness swallows him whole.

Your silk sleep mask — what a perfect idea.

With his vision gone, his world narrows to sound, to sensation, to you. Every brush of fabric, every shift of weight, every breath you take.

You reach once more into the pocket where you stashed his gun, then let the heavy coat slide off your shoulders with a slow, deliberate rustle. For a moment, you wait, letting the silence stretch, then — click.

The unmistakable sound of the safety being released.

His body flinches beneath you. But he doesn’t speak.

He just lies there, blindfolded, bound, and waiting.

Ready for whatever’s coming next.

“You’ve been keeping secrets from me, soldier,” you say, voice low and even. “I think it’s time you talk.”

A pause. Then his answer, tight, unsure: “I— I don’t know what you mean…”

You slide the cold barrel of his own pistol along his temple. Not hard. Just enough to remind him who's holding the cards tonight.

“Start with what you think about when you’re alone. When you’re hard. When no one’s watching.”

He shifts under you. The ropes strain softly against the wood.

His answer comes hesitantly. “I… I think about things. Sometimes.”

You let the silence stretch, the pistol resting lightly against his temple.

“Go on.”

“I imagine… being under you. Not… not just like this. More.”

You lean in, your lips grazing his ear. “More how?”

He swallows. “Your thighs… I think about your thighs. And you… above me.”

You smile. “Above you?” you echo, feigning confusion. “You mean like now? Or do you want something more than just to be pinned?”

He says nothing.

“I think I know what you mean,” you continue softly. “You want me to sit on your face, don’t you? Use you like you’re nothing but a tongue.”

His breath catches.

“Say it.”

A beat. Then, quietly: “...yes, ma’am.”

You don’t move.

“Say it properly. I want to hear it.”

His voice is thick with shame and arousal. “I want you to sit on my face… ma’am. Use me.”

You feel it in the tension of his body—every muscle pulled taut beneath you, not from resistance, but from the unbearable strain of surrender. It isn’t the act of pleasuring you with his mouth that costs him; he's done that before, eagerly, with a fervor that bordered on reverence.

No, it’s the confession.

The admission that he wants to be used.

That he craves your weight, your power, your indifference to his pleasure. That he needs you to strip him of the armor he wears even in your bed.

And still, some part of you waits for the snap—for the moment he can’t take it anymore, when he breaks the ropes or tears off the blindfold, flips you beneath him and reclaims the control that defines him. You see the war in his clenched jaw, in the way his hips shift beneath you as if his cock could argue with his mouth. He wants to dominate. It's in his blood.

But somewhere deeper, darker, older, is this need: to be undone by you. To be freed from himself—not with mercy, but with force.

And you?

You’re willing to take him there.

As many times as it takes.

You lower yourself slowly, knees firm against the mattress, thighs bracketing his head. His breath hitches as the heat of your arousal nears his lips—he can smell you now, wet and aching, your desire soaked into the soft fabric barely shielding you. You don’t speak. You wait.

His voice, hoarse: “You don’t know what you do to me. Or maybe you do. Please… end me.”

A smile plays at the corners of your mouth. You remove the last barrier.

“You’re going to earn your reward, soldier,” you murmur. “Not with your cock, though. That’s not yours to use. Not yet.”

You press yourself against his mouth. He groans—hungry, eager—and you feel the warm pressure of his tongue between your thighs. Every movement is reverent, desperate, grateful. He drinks you in like a man parched.

“You’re so fucking hard, aren’t you?” you whisper, teasing. “Throbbing. Aching. Can’t wait to bury yourself—but you’ll have to wait. Only good boys get what they want. And you haven’t told me everything yet.”

His voice is muffled, but the words reach you, trembling with devotion: “Thank you, ma’am. You taste... incredible. I love this. I love being used by you.”

You slide your fingers through his hair, tighten slightly.

“Then prove it,” you say softly. “Confess more. Tell me the rest of your dirty little truths while you worship me.”

His breath hitches, hesitant at first, voice low and trembling: “I… sometimes imagine your finger… while you’re… using your mouth on me. It feels wrong, but… maybe that’s why it’s so… intense. Like I’m… losing myself in a way I’m not supposed to. It’s… a bit unsettling, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You didn't expect this turn of events, but you don't let it show and act cool. “Inside you? What do you mean by that? Don’t be afraid to say it.”

You can hear that the tension is almost breaking him. He struggles with the words: “I… I think about you… pushing something inside me…when you’re pleasuring me with your mouth.”

You lean closer, your tone gentle but insistent: “Push something inside you… What exactly, Thomas? I want to hear it.”

He swallows hard, cheeks flushing beneath the mask, finally admitting with a whisper: “Your finger. I imagine you… using your finger… while you’re making me yours.”

You see the mix of shame and relief in his posture as he speaks the words aloud, the weight of his confession hanging heavy in the room.

You press your thighs a little tighter around his head, sensing his pulse racing beneath you.

For a second, you hesitate.

You’d stepped into this role for him willingly—eager, even—but the rawness in his voice takes you off guard. You hadn't anticipated this. Not that the subject itself is unfamiliar. Anal play was never taboo between you. On the contrary, he’s had no trouble taking the lead there before, no hesitation in pressing deep, in claiming you in every way he could.

Especially on days when business hadn't gone his way, or after another shouting match with his brother Arthur, he seemed possessed by the need to use your body in that degrading, desperate way. Not for pleasure, at least not primarily. For control. For relief. Like you were the only thing that could soak up his chaos.

And when he did, there was always that gleam in his eye, that hungry, near-feral focus that told you he wasn’t holding anything back. That when he had you like that, he felt powerful. Unstoppable. Like the world could burn and he wouldn’t notice if he was buried in you.

And now… now he wants to feel the opposite.

That image grounds you. Gives you direction.

You lift yourself from his face slowly, relishing the shaky breath he pulls in as you grant him air again and at the same time let him endure the uncertainty of how you will react to his confession.

Finally, to his surprise, you pull the sleep mask from his eyes. You want him to watch exactly what happens to him next. Sliding down his body with the smooth confidence of someone in full control, you let your tongue drag along his hot skin until you come to rest at his most sensitive spot, teasing him just enough to make him twitch.

He gasps, hips flexing instinctively—but you hold him still with a palm to his thigh.

You dip your head, let a slow strand of saliva trail from your lips to your fingers. Your eyes stay on his as you coat your middle finger, then reach lower, circling gently around his entrance—soft, slow, testing. Not entering. Just letting him feel that you could.

And will. When you decide.

“How many times,” you ask sternly, “have you imagined me forcing my way inside you? Don’t lie. I want details. Or I stop."

A tense pause. You can feel him swallow under your gaze, his breath shallow.

“Too many,” he admits hoarsely. “In the dark. When I can't sleep. When the flash backs come.”

He hesitates, then continues, the words dragging over gravel: “I imagine you… holding me down. One hand over my chest. Your mouth driving me mad. And then your finger. Slick. Insistent. Not asking.”

His body tenses as his dirty fantasies fall out of him, raw and real. “You don’t stop. You know exactly what it does to me. You edge me until I’m desperate. Until I’m begging.”

You listen closely as he stammers through his shame, your eyes locked on his. Your tongue circles the tip of his hardness with practiced precision, drawing a sharp, helpless breath from his throat. Meanwhile, your fingertip begins to apply gentle pressure—testing, teasing—until you feel him yield, inch by inch, his body pushing back, unmistakably begging for more.

"Fuck, just do it," he hisses through gritted teeth, jaw clenched in lust and defiance. "Claim me."

His chest rises with each breath, muscles tense, but his hips don’t lie—he’s aching for it. And yet, his voice lowers dangerously, his command laced with warning: "This never happened. You breathe a word of this to anyone and you’ll regret it."

His wrists twist in the silken bonds as if they were about to break free at any moment. As if the balance of power were about to reverse at the last moment because he can't bear it any other way.

"One time. That’s all. I needed to get it out of my system. After this, it goes back to the way it was. I’m in charge. Understood?"

Your finger presses in, slow and controlled. His body tenses against it, breath staggering. The sound he makes is halfway between a growl and a gasp, raw and involuntary. Still, he doesn’t stop you. He lifts his hips ever so slightly, as if giving in to you hurts less than resisting.

"God, don’t stop," he mutters, voice strained and dark. "Just—"

You take your time, tongue still working him in tight, knowing swirls, your finger moving with increasing confidence. The way he trembles beneath you, the broken sounds spilling from his lips—it’s more than arousal. It’s surrender. And it’s yours.

When you sense him teetering at the edge, you pull back. Slowly. Cruelly.

"Fuck!" he chokes out, head thrown back, fists clenched in the silk. "You—"

You do it again. And again. Bringing him close until his body is slick with tension, his voice hoarse from begging without words. Every time you stop, his eyes search yours with something like desperation—and still, he won’t say please.

Not yet.

Your finger is buried deep inside him, pressing against that sensitive spot with relentless precision, sending waves of agonizing pleasure through him. The warm, salty taste of his precum lingers on your tongue, rich and intoxicating. He groans, eyes fluttering shut, wrists tugging at the restraints. His entire body coils tight, every muscle trembling beneath your weight.

Finally, he cries out, “Please… I— I can’t…”

“Can’t?” you whisper. “That’s not what I saw in your eyes when you begged me to use you like this.”

With satisfaction, you let him believe for a moment that he can now experience relief. And then—you pull away.

His cry is raw, broken, the sound of a man unraveling.

“No, soldier. Not yet,” you pretend to be calming, “You don’t come until I say you can. You gave me that power, remember?”

You rise slowly, deliberately, your breath steady as your fingers glide over his sweat-slicked skin. His muscles twitch under your touch, every nerve drawn taut. You lean in, lips grazing the line of his jaw, breath warm against his cheek, and then, without hesitation, you guide yourself onto him.

Your body takes him in inch by inch, a slow, relentless claiming. His breath hitches, turns into a sharp gasp as you sink down fully, burying him inside you. He throws his head back, jaw clenched, wrists straining against the bonds.

“You think being inside me makes you in charge?” you whisper, voice laced with heat and mockery. “No, soldier. You’re just where I want you—hard, helpless, and desperate.”

He groans, shaking his head in defiance, but his hips betray him, rising to meet you, his body aching for more.

“You wanted this,” you say, grinding down with a slow, punishing rhythm.

He groans again. This time it’s almost a sob. “Yes,” he breathes.

“You think you still have control?” you taunt, increasing the pace just enough to keep him trembling on the edge. “Say it. Say who this cock belongs to.”

His eyes squeeze shut, teeth gritted, every word a battle. “…It’s yours.”

“Say it properly.”

He chokes on the next breath, voice low and broken: “My cock belongs to you, ma’am.”

You smirk, leaning in to bite gently at his throat. “Good boy.”

He's drenched in sweat, his eyes wild, teeth clenched hard as he tries to hold onto the last thread of composure. But it's gone. He's gone.

“I see you, Tommy. Even when you hide. And right now, you’re mine. My weapon. My ruin. My beautiful, broken thing,” you whisper.

“Take the gun,” he rasps, voice barely human. “Do it…now.”

You freeze for a heartbeat. He’s serious. His eyes are shining, bloodshot, locked on yours.

“You said… you'd surprise me,” he pants. “You said you’d do it. You have it, don’t you?”

He swallows, every word a plea and a command all at once. “Pick it up. Point it at me. While you're… riding me. Please. Fuck. Just—please.”

Your hand reaches for the revolver where it lies on the table. It feels impossibly heavy in your palm. You keep grinding against him, relentless, as you lift it and point it at his chest.

You remember what he told you. Don’t look in the magazine. Trust me.

And you hadn’t looked.

Not then.

But now the weight of the revolver in your hand feels heavier than it should. Loaded? Empty? Just one round waiting? You have no idea.

And that’s exactly how he wanted it.

You glance down at him—sweat-slicked, eyes wild, desperate—and you wonder: Did he ever want to win this round? Or lose it? You panic, but no matter what, you are aware that you have long since reached the point of no return.

Your breath grows uneven, ragged, blending with his in a tangle of gasps and broken sounds. The room pulses with heat and noise, the rhythm of skin on skin, breath on breath, your pleasure building in sync, your bodies answering each other.

“Pull the fucking trigger,” it bursts out of him.

You knew this was coming.  And you hesitate for what feels like eternity. His eyes bore into yours, begging and burning all at once.

“Pull it.”

He growls now, louder. “Do it. DO IT.”

You squeeze your eyes shut—

Click.

Silence. Nothing.

You throw the gun aside with a shaky breath just as his cry tears through the room, loud, guttural, pure release. His body jerks beneath you, cock pulsing inside, spilling more than just heat. It’s everything—grief, helplessness, pain, old wounds he never dared name. All of it floods out of him at once, like his body finally found the only way it knows how to let go.

His wrists wrench free of the silk just as his body arches up into you. The bindings fall, forgotten. He seizes your waist and turns you on your back, breathing ragged, eyes wild. There's no hesitation anymore.

His fingers slide between your legs, slick and sure. His mouth follows, tongue teasing all of your sensitive spots, relentless, until you’re gasping, knees weak. Only when you're shaking, breathless, right on the edge, he flips you onto your stomach, pushing your hips up with practiced hands. He has long since recovered and is half hard again; a few strokes are enough to be ready again. He thrusts back in with a deep groan, hips snapping against you.

Now it's your turn to cry out.

And this time, he doesn’t stop until you do.

And when you come, you don’t hold back. Your knees give way, and you sink onto the mattress. He falls on top of you, still buried inside your core.

You cry out under his heavy weight, breaking apart, shaking, eyes wide open, he wraps his arms around you tightly — possessively, like the old Tommy is being back, but also like someone trying to anchor himself to something real.

His lips press to your hair.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You’re not sure you can.

But as the sweat cools on your skin and your heartbeat settles against his, one truth presses in quietly:

He didn’t just surrender tonight.

He chose to be known.

And that frightens you more than if he’d begged for the trigger a second time.

***

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Special Note: This story contains the idea of IRRT (Imagery Rescripting & Reprocessing Therapy) a special therapy technique to treat PTSD.

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[makingfanfictionstosleep]

to be finally chosen

disclaimer : one shot | caleb x non-mc | mc being a 'pick me girl' | light romance

he always knew that his best friend would never look at him the same he does, especially after her memories resurface, after she remembered that she's the onychinus leader's mate.

it broke him in ways he couldnt explain.

he'd always be that person in her eyes - the best friend. nothing more, nothing less.

he hated it, but couldnt do anything about it.

how could he pop that bubble of happiness?

that smile that he yearned for, plastered stupidly on her face while she talks about sylus, all girly and giddy.

sometimes he just wants to smack that name off her lips.

he wished she'd smile like that because of him - not as her best friend, but as her lover.

so, he decided to just go on with his life, his miserable, sad life, taking one mission after another, dropping on his bed due to exhaustion, mind numb to even think about anything.

until he was promoted as the leader of the fleet - the colonel.

until he met you - who was assigned to be under his watch for protection, because you were another successful subject - one they all hoped to subdue and control.

and though it was purely his instinct, he looked after you, made sure you were around him, made sure you were safe.

but what had drawn him to you was your strength and control - unlike his best friend, who is reckless and brash to take things head on.

no, you were entirely different. you were soft, yet determined and calculated, afraid to make mistakes, afraid to cause casualties or affect others by your decisions.

that is why you decided to be compliant, for now, until you find the right people to ally with - the right people to rely on and hope that you'd get the freedom that you have always dreamed of - away from ever.

caleb watched you, observed you, analyzed you. everything felt new, yet strangely familiar, but something inside him says this is different - that he can do something differently.

maybe he is doing this because of his lingering feelings towards his best friend, maybe because he thought he failed to protect her, was gone most of the time, until she was out of his reach.

maybe he is seeing her in you.

however, little by little, you are proving him wrong.

how? those little things that you do - how you rush to his aid during missions when you were already cleared to partake in some as long as he is there, how you'd give him one of those limited edition figurines that he once yapped during mission downtime - not even saying a lot about it but you remembered, to his birthday wherein you have always made it a point that it should still be celebrated even if it's week late since he decided to go home to linkon and try to spend it with her but got disappointed because she's with sylus.

you remembered the little things from your short and brief small talks, you never pushed but you somehow remained by his side when he is down, never asking, you were just there - present for him, undivided attention - all of it on him and no one else.

you were always there with him, not only because he is keeping an eye on you, but also because you seemed to simply wanna hang out around him, even if there were plenty of chances for you to hang out with others. nope, you decided that the company of the brooding colonel is better than others.

it was weird, but somehow, it felt satisfying for him.

he'd find a cup of warm coffee on his desk during hours of investigation, or a meal tray which reminded him that he missed to eat again.

those mundane things that he used to do for his best friend - you were doing it to him, and he liked it. for the longest time, he had always been caring and looking after her, but his actions and affections were scarcely returned, as if he has always been an afterthought, a constant person who would be there to pick up the pieces if her heart is broken, or if she has problems.

but now, come to think of it, she wasn't really there when he needed someone to talk to.

slowly, he began to see you differently, completely different from his best friend, until his affections are slowly leaning towards you.

"hey," he heard you approach him, "its almost lunch time. you have to eat at some point."

there it is - the care and concern from your soft voice that he is starting to miss every time he spends his holidays and breaks at linkon, until he begins to make the vacation days at linkon shorter so that he can, maybe, spend time with you - hopefully.

"huh? caleb? weren't you supposed to be on vacation?"

he rubbed the back of neck, a little bit shy and felt a bit awkward in front of you, not knowing what to say and also because you look so damn pretty in that pink floral sundress that emphasizes your curves and figure a little too well.

"i, uh, decided to come back early," he said, trying to keep his composure and trying not to blush too hard when he caught a tiny, satisfied smile that you tried to hide, "i figured i havent been spending a lot of time here unless im on missions. im always at the base, so im curious if anything's changed in the city."

"wanna look around? i plan on wasting my time there, walking around aimlessly until i find something interesting," his heart jumped when you offered and tried not to appear too excited with it.

"i guess having a tour guide wont hurt," he gave a boyish smile at you, and he noticed how your cheeks flushed pink in an adorable way that he liked.

spending time with you was worth it. you were different when you're wearing the fleet uniform, well he is too, so this is refreshing for him.

he cant even remember the last time he felt this light, this relaxed, almost joyful and giddy. the last time was before the explosion, before he laid his life to protect his best friend, taking the brunt of it as he tried to contain it using his evol.

well, one thing was accomplished by that - doctor josephine died and he doesnt feel remorseful at all because people like her shouldnt exist. people like her, who experiments on humans, on him, his best friend... and the others who managed to lay low and stay alive got their hands on you - the second successful subject.

he understood what its like, and he was astonished at how you handled it all - how you were calm and waiting for the right timing to strike from within.

and when he found out about that - he had decided to help you, even if you dont ask for it.

those were his thoughts as he trailed behind you around the city, wandering lazily, humming in satisfaction as the sun slowly sets down.

he saw a cafe, asked if you wanted to rest there since he noticed that your steps lacked the same bounce that it had earlier - figured you were tired.

you nodded happily and went with him.

you made him laugh effortlessly, made him feel what its like to look forward again - without relying on exhausting missions and training to numb his mind.

nope.

you made him look forward to tomorrow again, hoping that he'd get another chance to see that smile again - the smile that is only for him, the smile that is because of him.

months later, you finally asked him, finally confronted him, face scared yet there's that determined look beneath that terrified beautiful face.

he'd wipe that terror from your expression, vowed that you'd never have to be afraid again.

he said yes easily, before his heart could even beat, before the clock's hand ticked towards the next second. he said yes and he'd always say yes to you.

"why would you do this for me?" you asked, both in confusion and relief, as you gently held on to his arms, looking straight in his eyes, hoping for answers to calm your heart and push your fears.

"because you're you," he answered softly, "you made me see that there's hope. you gave me a chance to do the right thing. you gave me an opportunity to feel - love again, when i thought i cant do it anymore."

and he kissed you, it swept you off your feet, made your knees tremble.

"this time, we'd crush ever," he said with a promise, gaze intense and determined, one that told you he'd never break it, not as the fleet's commander, but as your caleb, "and no one can hurt you again."

and his heart melted when you accepted it - his offer, his warmth and promise without a question, as if you're holding on to him for your dear life - as if he is the only one who can make you safe.

he knows your strength all too well, knows that you were trying to suppress it so that ever would have the notion that you're weak, make you look like a harmless sheep who survived because of luck. he found it attractive - the way you manipulated the biggest organization, bidding your time and now you are making a move to strike.

he couldn't help but kiss you at that moment.

and you let him, melted in his arms right there, as he felt something click in place - you're perfect right there, you belong in his arms.

ever slowly loosened its hold on you, until he was able to finally take you with him to linkon for the first time.

and when you met his best friend, who was passive-aggressive towards you with her subtle hints that she knew him better than you do, while you remained composed, despite the growing rivalry - as both you and her felt the aether cores within your bodies, yet you never allowed yourself to lose control - not when you have a plan being set in motion.

he was stunned and in awe of your control.

the cake topper was when his best friend told him that she saw the limited edition figurine set that he was yapping about ages ago, you just rolled your eyes at that and caleb was a bit flustered.

"weren't you looking for it? i found one at the shop near my place. wanna go there tomorrow?" she asked a bit too playful for your liking

caleb rubbed the back of his neck, a habit whenever he feels awkward or flustered, averted his eyes from her and answered, "yeah about that, i already have the complete set, two weeks after it was released."

"what? but its a limited set, the stocks aren't that many," she said in confusion, but caleb already knew that she had forgotten that she promised to get it for him yet he was already used to it.

"ummm," caleb said uncomfortably, "she actually got it for me, so no need to worry about it now."

of course, his best friend gave an attitude about it by sulking, knowing that caleb would try and make her feel better. you, on the other hand, tried not to think much about it, but somehow your confidence is wavering cause afterall, they're best friends and she's his first love so its hard to compete with that. also, you're not down for any competition. you won't stoop that low.

so you sat there, trying to keep it all together and you gasped when you felt caleb's reassuring hand on your knees, his attention on you right way when he noticed that you have that conflicted look, one that told him you're feeling uncomfortable and also worried about where you stood in his life.

"hey," he said softly, with that handsome boyish smile that you love, "you got something here," he said then leaned a bit and wiped something off the corner of your lips. you knew there was nothing there, so you figured that this is his way to let you know that his eyes are always on you.

"there's nothing there caleb," you pouted, and he poked your cheek playfully.

"i know," he shrugged, tucking loose hair strands behind your ear, "its just an excuse to make you blush."

of course it worked. it always works whenever he does something like that.

and his best friend? she was glaring at you for stealing the attention of caleb since she used to have his undivided focus and concern - all the time. but she disregarded all that. maybe its not her fault, or maybe it was. maybe she could have treated him differently, made him feel important and not an afterthought or like a toy that she can tuck away when she's not interested then play with it when bored.

but you're not here to judge. you weren't there during the times when they grew up. that bond is theirs and you will never take that away from them.

just as you will not let anyone take what you have with caleb - not a damn fucking chance.

and so the night ended, his friendship with his best friend being questioned in his head, but you were there once again, telling him that she will always have a place in his heart and that is something that can never be taken away from him.

then his breath hitched as you stepped closer to him, and held his cheeks gently, then you whispered softly, "and i hope you won't let anyone take whatever we have away from us."

then you tipped your toes to reach him and kissed him on the lips.

it took his breath away, and he melted right there, taking your face in his hands as he returned your kiss with a firm, loving one, with a hint of longing and passion, ending it with a playful nip on your lower lip.

"that will never happen," he mumbled hazily against your lips.

and with how he acted in the restaurant in front of his first love? you believed him without a second thought.

and that same night, you sealed the bond wrapped in his arms, accepting his passion and devotion for you until you both collapsed in each other's embrace, both out of breath, but full of love.

"you know that i love you right?" he said breathily, head resting on your bare chest, "i want to make that clear."

"you did," you replied in a loving tone, while you massaged his scalp tenderly, "and you have shown it clearly, made your point and made it clear as the sun."

"and caleb," you spoke again, "i love you too and i dont mind showing it to you over and over again."

he hummed against your skin, satisfied and heart full, finally felt what its like to be chosen, knowing and witnessed how many men admired you and even declared it, yet you still decided to stick with his grumpy ass.

and you? you feel loved and safe. and confident that when the day comes when you'd have to strike down ever, you wont be alone. not anymore.

[vinelark]

hi!!!! do you have any Timkon (or superbat too) fic recs with identity shenanigans? the more ridiculous the better, like MLB levels of ridiculous and annoying. Can be angsty too!! and/or pang-y as you call them (which!! I became obsessed with that concept and you fully convinced me it should be a new fic genre!!))

(sidenote: I absolutely loved the way you dealt with the identity side of things in BBTS!!! just another way it's one my favourites fic out there💖💖💖)

hello! sorry this took forever, and thank you! also hell yeah, i'm slowly pushing my pang genre agenda one person at a time 🙏

i do have identity shenanigans for you! here are a few timkons from a while ago, and here are some more timkons + superbats + a few others.

and here are a couple more bite-size timkon recs:

the bro code by @cv-angels: kon makes a valiant attempt to get over his crush on robin by dating [checks notes] random civilian tim drake

Wires Crossed by @hayleyhearts: the pure shenanigan-filled fallout of robin thinking superboy is flirting with [checks notes] random civilian richard grayson

and to round it out, a not-so-bite-sized superbat wip rec that i've def talked about before, but if you're looking for pangs boy howdy does this fic have them:

we shall be free; we shall find peace by @blorb-el: au where clark has been kept in a lab (to put it mildly) since he was a kid; bruce does not know this mysterious and dangerous alien ever had a civilian identity, and clark does not know batman's civilian identity yet either

[riality-check]

Purpose (‘pər pəs) (noun): a subject under discussion or an action in course of execution

It’s been two years, and Jayce still doesn’t quite understand Viktor.

He’s never really been a people person. They’re a lot more complex and unpredictable than tools and machines, and while he likes them well enough, he prefers to spend his time in the forge or workshop with very few exceptions.

Viktor is an exception, probably because he is almost always in the workshop with Jayce. Two years into working together, and Jayce can count on one hand the days that Viktor has missed in the workshop. Meanwhile, he’s never come to visit Jayce at the forge.

He doesn’t know why. Jayce doesn’t know a lot of things about Viktor, actually. He hasn’t spoken about his time at the Academy - which is something the two of them can surely find common ground in - or his family, which Jayce guesses they can’t. All Jayce knows is that Viktor is from the Undercity, he’s the smartest person he knows, and he’s full of contradictions.

Example 1: “don’t ask for permission,” and yet, the first words out of Viktor’s mouth in the nearly four hours they’ve spent holed up in the Academy library searching through prior literature are: 

“Can I ask you a question?”

Jayce doesn’t call him out on it. His head swims from squinting at faded tables and figures, and the clock rings out an hour far too late for them to have not eaten since lunch. If he teases Viktor about this contradiction, they’d banter and promptly lose track of the original question in the process.

Source: too many confused blackboard scribbles to count.

So, he just nods and peels his eyes away from the writings of one Dr. Kovac, who should consider a career as a sleep therapist with how boring his studies on thermal conductivity are.

Viktor sets down his volume (Applied Physics, Vol. 3, Issue 6) and stretches out his legs. His face twitches briefly into a grimace, a blink-and-you-miss-it sort of flinch.

Jayce notices. You don’t work with someone for years and not notice that type of thing, he reasons.

“I will need some help in the next few weeks,” Viktor says. He stares at his hands, where he passes a small screwdriver back and forth between them. 

He has to hold something when he talks. Usually, that need is satisfied by his cane, but when he’s sitting down, he trades that for another object. Jayce noticed this months ago, and he doesn’t mind. He has to have something in his mouth while he reads. 

In that instant, he becomes shockingly aware of how stale his chewing gum has turned while they’ve been here. A quick scan provides exactly zero (0) trash cans nearby.

Ugh.

When Viktor doesn’t elaborate and Jayce realizes it’s his turn to carry the conversation, he asks, “What kind of help?”

“Cooking, cleaning, laundry.” Viktor counts them on his fingers, starting with his thumb. 

Jayce does it that way, too. So does Mel Medarda, and Caitlyn half (50%) of the time.

“So, you want me to be your housekeeper?”

He stretches his arms above his head - whoever designed the library chairs did so with zero (0) regard for the human body - and snorts when Viktor teases, “Smart-ass.”

“Hey, that’s what it sounds like,” Jayce defends.

Viktor looks up at him for the first time, suddenly far more serious. “I am getting surgery-”

“Surgery?”

“-and as much as I would like, I will not be able to do everything myself,” he finishes as if Jayce had never spoken.

“Shit, Viktor,” Jayce says, setting his own volume (Advances in Engineering, 5th edition) down on the nearest, highly overcrowded end table. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was not relevant.”

“Of course it’s relevant!”

Viktor raises an eyebrow. Jayce won’t admit it, but he’s jealous he can do that. He practiced in the mirror for months as a kid, but he can still only raise both of them, or none at all.

“How so? If I had told you any earlier, you would have fretted and worried, and that would have taken your time, energy, and focus away from Hextech.”

“We have plenty of time, energy, and focus for Hextech,” Jayce counters.

“True, but Councillor Medarda’s money is not infinite, no matter how well you get along with her.”

Jayce sighs. “You get along with her alright.”

“I do. She is a good investor, and I respect her very much for making something of herself in Piltover,” Viktor admits. “But you are more her friend than I am.”

Jayce runs a hand through his hair. Fuck, he’s tired, and scientific literature isn’t exactly riveting. The data is interesting - at least, the relevant stuff is - but too many scientists write with all the energy of drying paint.

“Aren’t you worried?” he asks, changing the subject. “You said you didn’t tell me because I’d be worried. But you don’t seem freaked out at all.”

Viktor stares at him. “Of course I am worried. They are taking apart my spine to straighten it out with rods and screws.”

“It’s spinal surgery?”

“This is why I did not tell you.”

“Viktor, that’s a major surgery-”

“Correct.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“Of course I was going to tell you.”

Jayce pinches his nose. A headache is imminent, he knows, between the lack of food and Viktor’s obstinacy. “When it became relevant?”

Viktor cracks a smile. “Now you are getting it.”

Jayce can’t help but smile in return. “When is your procedure?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Jayce leans so far forward in his chair, he nearly falls out of it.

“Well, tomorrow afternoon, around 3:00 PM, to be more specific.”

The sunset is just starting to fade to the blues and purples of dusk, but there’s just enough light for Jayce to catch the time on the clocktower centered in the window behind Viktor. They pick this alcove of the library for the view. It’s easier not to completely lose track of time when the bells toll every fifteen (15) minutes and the view remains unobstructed.

That, and because the undergraduate students don’t know about this spot. They’re everywhere. And far too loud.

Jayce takes a look at the clock. Less than twenty-four (24) hours until Viktor gets cut open and rearranged. 

Which hospital is he even going to? Should Jayce visit? Is he even allowed? What should he bring? 

“What if I had plans?” he asks.

“Plans,” Viktor repeats.

“Like dinner with someone.”

“You dine with Councillor Medarda on Tuesdays and your mother on Fridays. Tomorrow is Thursday.”

“Or a performance?”

“The ballet is out of season, and I do not believe you have tickets to the symphony.”

“Or vacation.”

Viktor bursts out laughing. His laugh is loud and a little abrasive, if Jayce is being honest. It’s harsh and imperfect, but he likes it. In a world where he got judged for wrinkles in his slacks as a student, he likes that Viktor isn’t perfect.

It makes him feel less alone.

“It’s not that outlandish,” Jayce mutters. Nevermind the fact that not once in the two years they’ve been working on Hextech has he taken anything close to a vacation.

“It is my sincere belief,” Viktor struggles to compose himself, “that if the words Jayce Talis and vacation ever inhabit the same sentence, a cataclysmic event will occur.”

Jayce pouts. Viktor laughs harder. A few undergraduate students poke their heads through the stacks, silently reprimanding them for the noise.

It is finals season for them, isn’t it? Oops. Jayce doesn’t miss those days.

“I assumed, seemingly rightly, that you had no commitments beyond Hextech,” Viktor says, finally serious again. “Much like me. So, can you help me?”

“Yes.” 

Jayce answers before his neurons have a chance to fire off a conscious thought. He thinks that might be instinct, but it’s been ages since he’s taken any sort of biology or psychology class.

“Yeah, I can help,” he follows up.

Viktor smiles. It’s a crooked, quiet smile, but that doesn’t mean it’s small. Nothing about any of Viktor’s expressions is small.

Jayce is grateful for that. It means there’s no guesswork as to how Viktor is feeling, unlike the vast majority of people in Piltover. It’s refreshing.

“Thank you,” Viktor says, and he looks directly into Jayce’s eyes when he says it, dead serious.

He fits perfectly here, if Jayce only considers his eyes. They’re the same shade of gold as the Academy roof.

“Of course,” Jayce says, and he means it with just as much seriousness. “Should we work out details now?”

“We can do it tomorrow,” Viktor says. He grabs his cane and pushes himself to stand. His brace creaks so quietly that Jayce thinks he’s imagining it for a moment.

“Your surgery is tomorrow,” Jayce says slowly. He follows Viktor’s lead and collects his own books. The ones he plans on checking out go into his bag, and he carries the ones he won’t in his arms.

He takes Viktor’s rejected volumes as well, without being asked.

“It is,” Viktor says. “But you’ll be in the lab tomorrow morning, no?”

They begin the walk toward the exit. Viktor’s cane thunks loudly on the wooden floor. The undergraduate students look up at them as they pass.

Jayce notices. He wonders if Viktor does.

“I was planning on it,” Jayce says, dropping their books at the front desk. Angelina, one of the younger librarians, gives him a friendly wave and checks their books out with lightning speed.

“Then I will see you there.” Viktor passes through the heavy wooden door that Jayce holds open for him and out into the cool night.

Jayce follows. “You can’t possibly mean you’re going to be in the lab the morning of your surgery.”

“Of course I will,” Viktor says, affronted. “I will be dreadfully bored otherwise.”

Jayce shakes his head fondly. “Get home safe.”

Viktor rolls his eyes. “You say that like it is dangerous here.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Viktor admits.

The bells ring for the half hour. Jayce’s stomach growls.

“9:00 AM sharp,” Viktor says when the silence has stretched on a little too long.

“I’ll bring your coffee,” Jayce replies.

With a nod, Viktor turns to walk home.

Jayce realizes, as he begins to make his own way, that he doesn’t actually know where “home” is for Viktor.

He supposes that’s question one (1) for tomorrow.

[fantasylover145]

While I don't think Eddie treats Buck like a child, I do agree!! Buck has made some terrible mistakes in his relationship especially with Taylor and when Eddie was moving. Like I honestly don't think Taylor should of taken him back but Buck constantly proves how much he is willing to do for the people he cares about over and over again. Also, while Buck still has his insecurities and can act out at times and even accidentally hurt the people he loves, he almost always not only apologises but shows up for them and provides them with what they need the most, especially with Eddie. He has grown so much in his maturity, his relationships with the 118 and with his romantic partners.

But Eddie is constantly on this hamster wheel of not evolving, he lies, runs away & treats his partners like shit. He may not be mean or cruel to them in anyway but he puts them in this mother/wife role, which feels inherently sexist since he never bothers getting to know them, hardly shows interest in them and almost only ever mentions them when they are doing something for him. I don't think the writers will ever address how the traditional roles Eddie puts his partners in are toxic or how he needs to change his views, i think it's just poor writing at this point. The writers have been notoriously sexist for such an inclusive show (killing off Shannon, bringing Lucy into the 118 then reducing her to a love interest etc). Eddie certainly isn't the only one who has been sexist or had sexist ideals both Bobby and Buck have shown those tendencies in the earlier seasons. But Eddie is the only one who still has those values, even if they were hammered into him when he was a kid he hasn't stopped to think about how he is hurting his partners. Chim is the only one who has never shown any tendencies like that at all, thank god 🙏

Furthermore, Eddie ran away from Shannon to the army twice, he quit his job (despite it ultimately being good for his mental health) for Christopher without talking to him about it or even Buck, then buys a house in El Paso in Texas without telling anyone before he'd done it. He cuts people out and purposely hides things from people and then acts surprised and angry that people are mad that he hid things from them. Like Eddie acting angry at Buck in 8x17 for Buck being hurt and upset that Eddie lied and hid things from him was a bit insane. Buck never lashes out and hardly does anything to defend himself and he's not a child but Eddie throwing that Buck's selfish in his face for like the 6th or 7th time now is a pattern. Eddie has grown so much since season 2, he's no longer as emotionally repressed, he has healthier coping mechanisms, he has become more sure of himself as a person and a father and has taken steps to discover his own happiness. However, he still constantly runs away and lashes out when things get hard. Buck has made his fair share of mistakes and has hurt Eddie as well, but it isn't a pattern that he treats Eddie poorly and never apologises for it. I would love buddie to get together but I think that there would need to be a lot of work to be done before that happens or they need to go to couples counselling together. They both need to heal and communicate, because Eddie is making the same exact mistakes he made with Shannon with Buck.

buck and eddie started out on unequal footing. they might be roughly the same age, but eddie is a single dad and a combat vet. he's an Adult (tm), whereas buck is a barely recovering fuckboy.

buck never took eddie off that pedestal, still going on about his military experience and what a great dad he is seven seasons after they met, but the truth is buck grew and eddie stagnated. buck made mistakes in romance and friendships that he learned from, while eddie continued to throw a grenade and run in the other direction. yet when there's a conflict, eddie behaves as though he's the adult and buck is just a child.

and buck lets him.

[luveline]

Ur emergency medicine doctor!reader x Hotch blurb changed my life.. can i request either a hurt/comfort part 2 where their busy schedules kinda get too much and all reader needs is hotch but he can’t be there Or…… or… one where someone from the team ends up at reader’s emergency department (nothing too serious) and she treats them? Thank you thank you!!!!!

thank you for requesting ❤︎

“Spencer Reid, what did you do?” you ask, pulling aside the curtain with a whack. 

He grimaces at you. “Nothing! I didn’t do anything, I just got shot!” 

You grimace back. “Jesus, honey, I’m sorry. How’s the pain?” 

“Better now they’ve stitched me back together.” 

“Really?” 

“No!” 

You push up your sleeves and take a look at Spencer’s thigh. You’re careful —in his hospital gown, you’re one good pull from seeing his unmentionables. Not that that seems to be a concern as he winces in pain. “Had tylenol?” you ask. 

“Yep.” 

“They did a nice job with the stitches. Came out the back of your leg?” 

“Yep.” 

“Okay. How’s your head?” 

“Hurting.” 

You aren’t a fan of his one word answers, but you aren’t sure what can be done to help him if he’s not gonna have the strong stuff. And you don’t blame him. He has to do what he needs to do, you just wish there was more you could do now to help him along. “Well, at least I didn’t have to do your stitches. Wounds pretty close to your artery, but you know that already…” You swallow. “Uh, how–”

“He’s fine.” 

“Yeah? I did look at the admissions, but you know he– never answers the phone when I need him to,” you say, squeezed. You obviously hate that Spencer’s been shot, but it’s a relief to know Aaron stayed out of the firefight. You’ve pictured him a hundred different ways since you saw it on the news. You know intimately how hurt people can really be. 

You sigh. “Spencer, sorry. Um. Okay, so, you know we don’t always stitch up wounds like this because of the risk of infection, so you’re gonna have to be super careful with this, you have to keep it clean. But any complications at all are ones we can treat, and, you know, you have my number.”

“It must be hard, not seeing each other for so long.” 

You give him a grateful look. “It’s really hard. Harder when I know he’s so close to danger. But I trust his capabilities, just like I trust yours, and I’m gonna give you this packet of wound care and I’m gonna tell you that you can go home tonight only if you promise me you’ve read it before then.”

Aaron arrives a few hours later, and you’re not upset when he gives you a quick, quick kiss and says, “What room is he in, honey?” Absconding as swiftly as he arrived. You finish up some paperwork at your computer behind the reception desk and wait achingly for him to come back out. It takes twenty minutes, but he appears again with one less bag and a look of relief that threatens to floor you. 

“Hello,” he says, less urgent, more doting, stopping with his shoes pressed against yours. 

“Hey, Hotchner.”

“Nineteen days,” he says. 

“Felt like a thousand.” 

“It did, didn’t it?” he asks, bringing a hand to your cheek. It should be rough. You smile at the way he brushes it along your face to hold you under the ear. 

“You okay?”

He nods. You’re not sure he’s telling the truth, it’s a jerking, stiff thing, but he’s not faking when he brings his face down to kiss you. Just once on the lips, then up to your cheekbone, where he rubs his nose so hard it nearly hurts.

“Thank you for looking after Spencer.” 

“I didn’t, actually, that was Deb. Just been keeping him stocked on tylenol and jelly.” 

“When can I look after you?” he asks. “Finishing at midnight?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I’ll come pick you up.” 

“It’ll be too late,” you lament. Once you get home and he picks you up, that’ll be nearing one in the morning, even if he gets there early for you. 

“No, it’s okay. I’ll come and get you anyway. I need to see you.” 

You drop your face into his collar and breathe. He does more of that nose-rubbing into your skin, stirring your stomach with every pass, worse when his thumb travels from just under your ear to across your throat. If you weren’t in an alcove away from your patients, you’d be steaming with embarrassment. Here, you’re tempted to let your teeth drag against his skin through a kiss he has no business receiving. “Can’t believe you haven’t come to see me for so long. You hate me.” 

“I don’t hate you, honey. I’m sorry. I’m gonna make it up to you.” 

You pull away. He cups the back of your head. “You promise?” 

He hears the neediness in your voice. You don’t wanna be in charge, don’t want to be the one saving people. You both need to go home and lock up in bed like pathetic little worm people, boneless and sweet on each other. 

His smile is loving and bemused at once. “Cross my heart.” 

[godmadeaterribleerror]

On My Way - A Babylon the Great Bonus Chapter

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Request from my love Queercodedwords! I've always said he does this, and I meant it. enjoy!

Chapter title from Only Exception by Paramore

Word Count: 2k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Sam and Dean work a case, and Dean gets distracted by fruit. place around Chapter 23. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff

Read on A03!

Dean hadn’t known there were so many fruits in the world. He’d been scanning Sammy’s old World Atlas, poured over the internet, and flipped through an old plant book in Bobby’s library, and there were so fucking many.

There couldn’t be a good reason for this many fruits. Apples and cherries were all a man could goddamn need. 

Not all.

There was one fruit—one didn’t even know the name of—and he needed it more than anything.

It was making cases harder. All this fucking fruit, filling up a whole damn aisle of this haunted store. It was distracting. 

Dean was supposed to be talking to employees at the mall. Figuring out who the hell this ghost was, so they could burn the son of a bitch and get back on the road. Back home, to Her and Bobby.

Mostly Her. 

Dean really fucking missed Her.

They’d already be done, if She was on this case with them. Sammy wouldn’t have to hide in the bathroom to call Her—something about if he did it in front of Dean, Dean would try and talk to Her and nothing would get done, which was bullshit—and Dean wouldn’t be waking up every morning with a feeling like an iron poker was being shoved down his throat as he rolled over, and She wasn’t there.

She was safe. He had to remind himself that She was back at Bobby’s, and safe. It was the safest place for Her in the world, She wouldn’t run away when Bobby needed Her, and Dean would be home soon. He’d hug Her, tell Her about the case, and talk Her into taking a night off from research.

They could watch Indiana Jones, or more Scooby, or—if he could bribe Her with candy and the new book he’d bring Her—Dr. Sexy.

He should bring Her back a book. And maybe some nail polish too. Or lip gloss. She always liked that stuff, and Dean lived for Her, but he didn’t know the first damn thing about makeup-

“Sammy.” He grunted, and Sam frowned at him over a pile of watermelons.

The fruit wasn’t watermelons. Too watery.

Dean said Her name, and Sam’s frown deepened.

“Is she-“

“She’s fine.” Son of a bitch, She better be fine. “You know what lip gloss she uses?”

Sam blinked at him. “No? Why the hell would I know that if you don’t-“

“Cause it’s a girl thing.” Dean gave Sam a wide grin, and got only a flat look in return. 

“If either of us is gonna know, Dean, it’s you.” Sam looked back to his stupid little notebook with a smirk. “I’m not the one who stares at her mouth all the time.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re not denying it-“

“I’m gonna kick your freakin’ ass up your mouth-“

“Sure, man. Can you do it after we finish the case?”

Dean scowled, and turned his focus back to the fruit. He’d look around for what to get Her later. 

She used those bee-wax stick things a lot. He’d recognize it, if it was put in front of him. Or he could call Cas and ask if he knew-

The case.

Dean couldn’t go home—to Her—until they finished the case.

But it wasn’t moving fast anyway. And they were still in the fruit aisle. It was a good opportunity to just check, to make sure he hadn’t ruled something out of Her fruit smell that was obvious. And Sammy has this handled. 

Just a salt and burn. Dean’s services weren’t needed.

So he picked up an orange, glanced around to make sure no one was looking, and took a deep breath. Citrusy. Tangy. 

Not Her. 

Neither were the apples—Dean had smelled a lot of apples before, but this store had something called Pink Lady apples, and he’d never smelled those—or the cherries. But those were too obvious. Dean wasn’t a fruit genius, but pie had fruit in it. He would’ve recognized the taste of Her if it was some sort of a common fruit. 

But it had to be something. And this store had figs, and Dean had never smelled figs before. His handful was still small, and he ducked slightly to hide himself from view and-

“Dean.” Sam materialized behind him, and Dean froze. “What are you doing.”

“Uh- Grocery shopping.”

Given the look on Sam’s face, the lie didn’t land. “For figs.”

“And?“ Dean shrugged. “A man can’t eat a freakin’ fig?”

“Dean.” Sam gave him a flat look. “You hate figs.”

“Wrong, Sammy. I’ve never had figs.”

“Yeah, and you’re so adventurous with your food. Is there secretly bacon in there or- Fuck-“

Dean threw the figs at Sam’s face, and laughed as one hit in square in the nose and split open. 

Sam wiped a little juice from his face with a glower, and Dean’s grin grew. “Dean-“

“Yeah, yeah, the case.” Dean held out his hand. “Can I get them back?”

“No.”

“But I gotta- C’mon man, I’m helping you clean up-“

“No, you’re not.” Sam gave him a flat look, wiping a little more away. “I know what you’re doing, Dean. And it’s not fig.”

Dean froze. “So you know-“

“Nope.” Sam shrugged. “Because I don’t smell her. But she doesn’t eat a lot of figs.”

Shit. She doesn’t. And Dean could smell the fig off of Sam, and it wasn’t right either. 

He’d figure it out. Eventually, Dean would figure out the goddamn smell.

He wasn’t sure what he’d do when he did. He might have to buy some of those scented candles, or a car freshener, or figure out if he could make a pie with whatever it was. Finding out might actually be worse. He’d was already sort of freakin’ crippled by the smell. Being able to hold it in his hands might be a problem.

It would save time, though. Because they kept moving through the mall, got closer and closer to wrapping up the case—ghost of a murdered janitor out for revenge, just a salt and burn—and ended up at one of those fancy soap and lotion shops.

This could be it. It might not be a lotion, but these things were filled with strangely titled shit like Arabian Nights—they couldn’t be that different than American nights, but maybe there was some sort of desert fruit—and Sugar Cane Sparkle, which was very pear-ish.

It wasn’t pear. Dean had ruled that one out a while ago. Strawberries were also long off the table, but Strawberry Summer did have a sort of vanilla-y smell that made it feel like She was next to Dean. Black Oceans was salt and citrus, but it wasn’t that, and Orchard Butterfly was honey and apple-

Dean smelled that one again. It wasn’t it, but it wasn’t not it. There was a candle, too. Maybe She used the candle. Or the weird tube of sparkly hairspray-

“Dean.” Sam muttered, and Dean frowned down at the hairspray. She used hairspray. He was pretty sure She used hairspray. 

But She used a fancy looking brand that She stole—borrowed, Her voice corrected in his head—from that fancy store with all the silk curtains and no windows-

“Dean.” Sam hissed, yanking the spray from his hand. “People are staring-“

“So?” He grabbed the spray back, then held it up to Sammy’s nose. “Smell this.”

“I am not smelling a girl’s hairspray.”

“Why? You might need it, Baywatch-“

“We’re supposed to be working-“

“I am working. And we already know it’s the janitor. Got ganked by some asshole kids, trying to make them join him on the other side. Easy as pie, Sammy, now smell it-“

“No, Dean.”

“It’s easy, you just gotta-“ Dean angled it back to his own face, and took a deep whiff. “See?”

Sam sighed. “I know how to smell things. I’m just not doing this.”

“Don’t you want to know-“

“I really don’t. Because I,” Sam grabbed the hairspray, and set it back down on the self. “Am not in love with her. C’mon, I think I know where the next hit is gonna be.”

Dean scowled, and let Sam drag him out of the store.

The case. They did have to finish the stupid case. But-

“It just drives me insane, Sammy.” Dean grumbled, glaring around the mall. There was a blonde chick giving them fuck-me-eyes. He wanted to go home. “It’s not cause of- That. I just smell it all the time, and it makes me feel like I’m losing my freakin’ mind-“

“Have you asked her?”

Dean shook his head. “No. And I’m not going to. You know why?”

Sam sighed. “Why.”

“Because that would make me sound like a psycho stalker, Sam. Hey,” he said Her name, and his heart did a flip just from the fucking sound of it. “What fruit do you smell like? I’d figure it out myself, but I’ve tried for a decade and found nothing. See? I sound like I’m gonna murder her.”

“I dunno.” Sam shrugged. “I don’t think she’d read it like that.”

Dean didn’t want to think about if Sam was right. If he’d ask that, and She’d just tell him, and he’d get to have just a little more of Her. He’d never deserved any of it. 

But if he got it, he’d never hurt it. He’d curve around it to guard it from the mud. He’d dedicate himself to it, even though it was just a fucking smell.

He might become like a hound dog, with it. He already sort of was. She followed him into his dreams and haunted him on the wind, and he did creepy shit like smelling candles and girl’s body wash just to be a little closer to Her.

Son of a bitch, he really shouldn’t be trusted with Her. Nobody else could be—nobody else knew how to care for Her right—but Dean shouldn’t be. So he shook off Sam’s words, and kept his voice bored and firm.

“Well, I’m still not asking. She won’t know.”

Sam frowned. “What-“

“I already checked her bathroom.” Dean grumbled. “It’s not a wash or scrub or perfume. That’s just- It’s just her.”

“Yeah.” Sam snorted. “And you’re not a psycho stalker.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and shoved Sam to the side. “Focus, bitch. The case.”

Sam shrugged it off in a second, and—mostly—dropped it. There were some more teasing comments on the drive, but there were always teasing comments about Her. About how Dean had gotten that bee-lip-thingy, and a book, and he called with Her for an hour when they got back to the motel. 

He didn’t ask Her about the smell. He wouldn’t.

It drove him out of his mind, but it was still just Her. And Dean had never really cared to understand all the complex magic bits of Her, because at the end of the day She was Her. And if the smell was something supernatural, then one day he’d be on a case and figure it out. If it was just a rare fruit, he’d get to it eventually. 

As long as he got to keep dreaming of Her, and fall down into Her siren-voice and sweet smell, he was good. It was more than anyone else got. 

And Dean was Her’s no matter what. Maybe the smell was only intoxicating because it was on Her. Maybe it only existed for Her. 

That just gave him another excuse to kiss Her when he was allowed. To taste the fruit.

And touch Her.

Maybe eat Her alive, if he got the chance. Sprawl Her out on the bed below him, make Her moan his name, and taste Her however he’d be allowed. He’d always take whatever part of Her he was offered. Even if it was just a smell, that had haunted him into the grave and back. Even if he just chased it like a high with his cock in his hand, and Her name escaping his lips in the shower. 

Dean was lucky to get close enough to smell her at all. 

So whatever it took to stay that close, he’d do it. Until all that was left of both of them was a smell of fruit on the wind, and Dean’s bones wrapped over Her’s in a grave. 

End Note: He's a smart boi guys he's gonna get it one day.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️

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[tommysversion]

A Step Too Far (Tommy Miller x F!Reader)

Summary: you get what you want. Tommy is more than happy to provide.

Notes: part two to Off Limits, written for @iamasaddie 's Miller Fic Writing Sprint. Reader character has no physical description beyond having breasts.

Warnings: smut / infidelity / breeding kink / lowkey mean!Tommy / dirty talk & degradation / one (1) pussy slap / unsafe PIV / thigh riding / a hell of a lot of nipple sucking and titty play because Tommy is Obsessed.

-- x --

Tommy's always been a hard worker, especially since Jackson took him in. He's always seen the community as a fresh start, as an opportunity to do good, be a good person in spite of the world going to shit. In spite of the things he did, back in those terrible days following the outbreak.

As of late though, he's had a different motivation to keep busy. He takes extra patrol shifts, works double time in the stables or with the cattle, all manual labor that he hopes will keep his mind as busy as his body. At first it works, and he falls into bed at night so exhausted he barely thinks of anything before he's asleep.

But then his body adapts to the new routine, and it's not like he can escape you entirely. He doesn't think you're deliberately occupying the same space as him; Jackson is only so big, after all, and he doesn't want to draw attention to his attempts to avoid you.

Because the reality is, he isn't really avoiding you. He's avoiding confronting his own temptation. Things with Maria aren't great. Haven't been great for a while. They're fine, but that's it. Just... Fine. And while he wants to say he's the kind of person who doesn't let his eyes roam... He does.

And ever since you told him that he knows where to find you? It feels like he's been a ticking clock, doing everything he can to delay the inevitable.

He feels like Eve from the tales of old, in the garden of Eden, being offered that apple. He knows it's wrong, knows he shouldn't, but you, like the apple, are something coveted, and he can't help but wonder if maybe just a single taste of what he shouldn't might be enough to quell whatever the fuck is raging in him.

So he waits, waits for Sunday morning when most folks are in church, when he should be tending the cattle, but instead he catches your eye as he's walking down the street and instead changes direction, follows you into your house, as though he hadn't completely planned to be there. As though he hadn't waited for a time when almost everyone nearby will be either in church or on patrols, so the chance of being caught is so slim.

"So you did know where to find me," you say in greeting, that smile playing across your lips, like you can read his mind and somehow know that he's been fucking his own hand daily thinking of you, of that day in the barn where you teased him with your words and a glimpse of your chest.

"This a game to you?" Tommy shakes his head as he steps closer to you, follows you deeper into your house, into your bedroom.

The windows and curtains are closed, sheets neatly made, but the room smells like you, and it's enough to drive him near crazy.

"Not really," you say, shrug as you admit, "never thought you'd actually show."

You pull your shirt off, slow, drag it over your head and reveal your bare tits to his gaze.

"Wanted you to, though." You tell him as you run your hands over your skin, pinch your nipples between your fingers. "Wanted you to come touch me."

"Jesus Christ-" he's staring and he knows it; how many times has he fucked his own hand thinking of your tits? He doesn't even realise he's moving until he is, tossing his own shirt to the ground, pushing you back onto your bed and caging you in beneath him.

"Yeah?" You coo at him as he nuzzles into you, between your breasts, kissing the hollow between them, "you like something, cowboy?"

He just grunts a response, plucking and pinching at your nipples until they're nice and hard for him, before he draws back and circles his tongue around one.

"O-oh, you do~" you tease, even though your voice hitches and catches just a little as he sucks a hardened nipple into his mouth, letting his teeth graze the sensitive skin.

He was right, he thinks with an almost savage satisfaction, you're sensitive, arching and moaning beneath him as he sucks greedily at your nipples, alternating between each one every so often. He palms at your tits with big, rough hands, massaging, squeezing, aware of the way you press your thighs together as he does so.

He shoves one of his knees between your thighs so you can't get the friction you want, fixing you with his dark gaze.

"Oh, no. You don't get to cum yet. If we're gonna do this, we're doin' it my way. Which means you take what I give you. Got it?"

When you don't reply, he bites your nipple gently, drawing a whine from your lips.

"Got it? Repeat it."

"I got it-" you repeat obediently, let him shift his knee and drag your jeans and soaked underwear down, laying a sharp slap to your bare cunt before he's shoving his still clothed leg back between your thighs.

"Good. Now, you're gonna grind on my leg like the needy slut that you are while I give these-" he kisses your breast, open mouthed and greedy, "- the attention they need."

You can't find anything to complain about there, even if you'd rather he filled you with his cock, this is good enough for now. More than good enough when you start to grind against the worn denim of his jeans as he sucks greedily at your nipples, flicking his tongue over them and dragging his teeth lightly.

Fuck it feels good; you had no idea you were this sensitive, or maybe it's just that he knows what he's doing. Ridiculously, jealousy flares in your gut when you think of Maria, of him doing this to her all the time. But he's not doing this to her right now. It's you he has his mouth on, you whose tits he has his mouth wrapped around, as you grind against his thigh like a shameless whore, moaning the entire time.

You're just thinking you're not sure if you can cum like this when he shifts, so his leg is pressed right against your clit, and then your mind is blissfully blank except for the pleasure of it, your cunt spasming around nothing, aching to be filled, coming solely from his mouth on you and the rough fabric of his jeans stimulating you.

"Fuckin'... Shit-" Tommy's groaning as he unbuckles his belt; in the aftermath of your release you're vaguely aware of him moving away to discard his jeans, then he's back in your line of sight, looming over you.

"Gonna give me your cock now?" You ask, looking up at him with your best big doe eyes. You know the answer; you can feel him, hard and dripping fat beads of precum against your inner thigh.

"We do this, you ain't ever gonna tell anybody, you understand me?"

You raise an eyebrow, because he's literally just had your tits in his mouth, made you cum by making you grind against his thigh while he sucked your tits like a starving man, but that's where he draws the line?

You're smart enough not to question him or be a smartass, though, knowing that's a one way ticket to not getting what you want.

"Not a word." You promise, then you reach between you and wrap your hand around his cock. He lets out a low hiss when you do, your fingers barely touching around the thickness of him. "God... So big... Knew you would be."

You hum as you guide him to your dripping cunt, catch his tip in your entrance and then let him push all the way in, back arching up as he slides in to the hilt.

"Not so big you can't take me. Greedy little pussy just swallowin' me up-" Tommy leans back a bit so he can see where his cock is splitting you open. Fuck, you look good like this, exactly as he'd imagined, spread out on your bed with your tits covered in his bites and saliva, cunt dripping around his cock as it spreads you open.

Your eyes drop closed and he moves, pushes one of your thighs up so he can get deeper; you moan for him, loud and filthy.

"Oh, fuck, yes!" You gasp as he thrusts deep, hard, as though trying to punish you for making him want you, but in reality all he's doing is making you feel good, making your cunt drool with need.

One hand seizes your wrists, pins them above your head so you can't give in to the temptation to touch, to drag your nails up his back and along his shoulders. You want to show restraint but you're glad he has the foresight to do this; the last thing you want is for this to be discovered later.

The other hand keeps your leg pressed up to your chest so he can pound into you, fucking you into your bed with relentless abandon. Strands of his hair are coming loose now, falling into his face with the effort, but he doesn't care, is only focused on you.

On how tight and wet you are. On the sounds you make for him. On the filthy, obscene wet sounds of your cunt as his cock plunges into you, over and over until he feels you shaking beneath him, your pussy tightening and the sound of your cum squelching pornographically as he fucks you.

"Fuck, such a good girl, takin' this-"

He mutters obscenities to himself, no longer the facade of a good man that he's tried so hard to portray; more like the man he used to be, raw and rough and ragged with little care for anything.

"Gonna take my cum, too? Be a good little whore for me, walk around knowin' it's mine if it takes?"

You whimper, give him a truly pathetic look as he keeps going, almost pleading. It's all he needs, the vaguest hint of permission, heavy balls aching as he empties himself inside you, feels the release of his load into your tight, hot cunt and groans again, panting heavily as he releases.

It takes him a moment to come back to himself. To release your wrists and let you wriggle them to get the blood flowing again. Then he's pulling out of you, pleased when barely any of his cum drips out of your cunt, running his fingers over your puffy pussy and smirking slightly.

He almost expects guilt, but he feels none, looking down at you splayed out on your bed, thoroughly fucked out. A small part of him feels almost bad for you, but he pushes that down as he starts to re dress.

"I'd ask if you'll stay, but I already know the answer." You say, sitting up slowly; just the sight of you, knowing it's his cum on your thighs, his mouth that's left your nipples puffy and your tits swollen, has him rethinking things, his cock already considering registering interest again.

"Not this time." He agrees, buckling his belt and turning to go, but not before he catches sight of the look on your face. Smug somehow, even as he walks out and leaves you in your bed alone.

It's not until he's back in his own house, taking a shower to wash the smell of you off his body before Maria gets back, that he realises why you looked so damn smug, that it had nothing to do with the fucking he'd just given you.

Not this time, he had said. Fuck. A one time thing, he had told himself. Once. Just to get it out of his system. But subconsciously, he knows that now he's had you? One time isn't going to be enough at all.

[steddieas-shegoes]

remember to try and forget

for @steddiesongfics using 'delete ya' by djo as inspiration AND i slipped a few short bursts of lyrics in here (thanks @withacapitalp for the suggestion that got me started on this, hugging you squishing you)

rated m | 1581 words | cw: implied sexual content | tags: road trip, ex friends with benefits to lovers, temporary heartbreak, angst with a happy ending, robin is a meddling friend and we love her for it, jonathan and argyle also meddle and have a great time doing it, love confessions, getting together

also on ao3

🛣️🛣️🛣️🛣️🛣️🛣️🛣️🛣️🛣️🛣️🛣️🛣️🛣️🛣️

A summer road trip should be fine.

Just the guys.

Which includes Eddie. Of course it includes Eddie. Why wouldn’t it? He’s one of the guys.

It’s just that the road trip is gonna be in Steve’s car and he doesn’t really trust anyone else to drive it, and Eddie won the passenger seat in some bet that he’s not even sure Argyle and Jonathan knew they participated in. And he’s made it a point not to be near Eddie for a while now. Pretty much since…well, since Eddie broke his heart into a million pieces and stomped on them and pretended nothing happened.

“We should probably get on the road,” Jonathan says as he closes the trunk. “We’re already an hour behind.”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Steve mutters under his breath. “Alright! Let’s go!” He says louder, claps his hands together.

If he makes it through the next four days, he can make it through the rest of his life.

Eddie slams the car door and grins through the window at him.

He may not survive the next four hours.

****

It’s okay for an hour or so. Jonathan and Argyle are keeping conversation going, moving from one subject to the next with seemingly no connecting thoughts between them. Eddie’s tapping his fingers to the music playing and throwing in random quips when Argyle says something that Steve can’t follow.

Steve’s driving, only interjecting if he knows what the hell they’re talking about.

He’s ignoring Eddie.

He doesn’t even notice how he’s wearing a new cologne, or that he has a different ring on his left middle finger, or that his thighs are parted obnoxiously so that one is almost…just barely…touching where his hand rests on the middle console.

He’s not noticing it so much that he nearly drives off the road when they touch.

“Jesus!” Eddie holds out his arms as they slide to a stop on the shoulder.

Jonathan is silent, and Argyle is patting Steve on the shoulder like he’s making sure they’re still alive.

Steve puts the car in park and gets out before anyone can ask what the hell is wrong with him.

It’s so hot, and he wonders why the hell they had to do this trip in July of all months, and he isn’t paying attention at all to know Eddie’s following right behind him.

“What the hell, Harrington?” Eddie grabs his shoulder to get him to slow down. “What’s going on with you?”

A loaded question that Steve doesn’t even want to answer. He knows exactly what’s going on with him. He also knows if he wants to enjoy this road trip, he can’t tell Eddie what’s going on.

“Nothing. I just didn’t sleep well last night,” Steve starts. It’s not a complete lie. He was nervous about the trip. “I’ll be fine.”

“Why didn’t you sleep well?” Eddie pushes, because he always pushes until someone pushes back and then he runs.

“Just didn’t,” he shrugs, rubs his hand across his face. He’s turning to go back to the car when Eddie grabs his hand and holds it. He looks down at where they touch and feels that familiar ache, the thing that’s kept him from having any good sleep for months. “Let go of me.”

Eddie does, but he doesn’t move away. Steve sees him swallow, hopes it hurts the way he’s been hurting since Eddie broke his heart.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“You really wanna know?” Steve feels manic, like he did that night he ended up at Robin’s house, barely able to see past the blurry vision his anger and heartbreak gave him. She sat on his legs just so he wouldn’t pace a hole through her floor and made him listen to Blondie and Madonna to calm down before he was allowed to talk. Too bad she isn’t here now. “What’s wrong is that I put myself out there and got shot down again. What’s wrong is that you were okay when we were just fucking around a little but the moment I wanted more, you couldn’t even look at me. What’s wrong is that you agreed to go on this stupid road trip knowing I was coming and didn’t care that it would kill me to be close to you and not be able to do anything about it!”

His heart is racing, his breath is coming in short bursts. He doesn’t want to get back in the car.

“Steve…”

“Don’t, Eddie. You made it clear enough that this is one-sided and I just have to get over it. I don’t need to hear it again. I just need a few minutes.” Steve probably needs a lot more than a few minutes. He wishes he could just delete Eddie from his head the way he deleted the kids’ late fees at Family Video. “Go wait in the car.”

Eddie doesn’t move. Steve doesn’t either.

He can hear Jonathan and Argyle talking by the car, but they don’t come closer.

“I agreed because I miss you. I wanted the chance to talk to you,” Eddie finally says quietly. “I wanted to say I was sorry.”

“Right. I’m sure you’re sorry that I can’t fucking drive us on our dude getaway or whatever.”

The anger bubbles up in his chest. He feels it boiling under his skin, making him shiver and shake like a volcano about to erupt.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know how to love you when you needed me to!” Eddie says much too loudly.

Argyle and Jonathan are silent now, hopefully not watching whatever is happening as Steve’s eyes widen and he finds Eddie’s heated gaze already on him. They’re glassy, tears gathering as if he has anything to cry about.

He doesn’t get to cry; He’s the one who said he didn’t want anything more from Steve.

“You didn’t even try,” Steve hears how his own voice breaks, feels ashamed that Eddie’s getting to see his pain. He wipes sweat from his forehead and a tear from his cheek. “You didn’t even try. Why wasn’t I worth trying?”

“Steve, you were. You are.” Eddie cautiously rests his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I didn’t deserve you then, I damn sure don’t deserve you now. But I do want you to know I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for leading you on and making you think I didn’t want you when I did and I do and I’m sorry for telling you that none of it mattered when it meant everything to me.”

“So you talked to Robin.”

He’d be mad at her, but he knows what probably happened. She got mad enough to confront Eddie, Eddie was terrified to piss her off more, he explained his side of things and she got mad enough to give all of Steve’s side of things. She has no filter when she’s mad. Neither does Steve, apparently.

“She talked to me first. She’s terrifying when she’s mad,” Eddie shakes his head. “But she loves you enough to tell me I’m a fuckin’ idiot. And I love you enough to tell you that I was a fuckin’ idiot.”

“Dude, what is going on?” Argyle’s asking Jonathan.

“I think they’re finally figuring out they love each other,” Jonathan answers.

“Why did you tell me you didn’t care how I felt?” Steve ignores them. “I spent every night with you for months. Every night. I kept coming back. And you let me. And you pretended like it was good and it was going somewhere and you looked at me like it meant something and I thought-“

“You thought right. I swear you did,” Eddie is cupping his face in his hands and he barely chokes back a sob. “I’ve never…had the chance to do that with someone. I never felt real love for someone, not like this. I dunno! I was dumb!”

Steve laughs. He can’t help it. It makes Eddie smile.

“You were so dumb,” he says quietly. His shirt is sticking to him, and it’s starting to become all he can focus on. They should go. They can talk when they get to their first stop in a few hours. “Are you done being dumb?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever not be dumb, but I’m gonna do my best to love you anyway,” Eddie’s voice is full of promise and hope. He wants to believe it.

“Robin was right.”

Both of them turn at Argyle’s words, brows creasing together in silent question.

He’s beaming at them as he explains, “She said you guys would figure it out if we did this!”

Steve turns back to Eddie, a hysterical laugh bubbling out of him. “Did Robin make you come on this trip?”

“Yeah. Insisted I needed time away from Hawkins. You?”

“Yeah,” he shakes his head. “Said I needed to have some time with someone other than her before I turned into a lesbian.”

Eddie snorts. “We got tricked. If she thinks I’m not inviting her to the next campaign, she’s mistaken.”

“She won’t play the nerd game.” Steve pats his shoulder. “C’mon. We have a long drive and those two will need to stop for food soon.”

“Wait.” Eddie grabs his hands tight, his face schooled back to something more serious. “This was too easy, right?”

“Oh, you aren’t done,” Steve smirks. “You’ve got a lot of making up to do. We’re getting our own room tonight at the motel. You still have some forgiveness to earn.”

[drdemonprince]

Hey doc,

Autistic, unmasking advice ask here.

I’ve been getting more hyperfixated on kinky sex stuff and this weekend my nephew confided in me that my interest in this stuff makes him uncomfortable. He’s an adult, but he spent a good chunk of his childhood living with me and I’m the only family member he’s still in touch with. I still kind of think of him as my kid…and this revelation that I’ve said and done things that made him uncomfortable has me feeling pretty crushed. It’s really putting this whole unmasking journey of mine to the test, because letting him down like this makes me feel like I’m just another adult in his life who failed him by being too deviant/weird/unhinged. Do you have any thoughts on this? I know you’ve written about the fact that sometimes unmasking alienates people…but what about when it alienates someone who you feel responsible for protecting?

I think you have the opportunity to have a really valuable conversation with your nephew about how a person should handle feelings of discomfort.

First of all, thank him for sharing with you how that he has been feeling this way. He's telling you that he is finding something challenging in your relationship, which gives you both the chance to do something about it, and that's wonderful.

Understand that what your nephew is sharing with you is DATA. It is not shame. He's letting you know about his own feelings about sex and kink and how difficult those topics are for him to navigate, again, *so that it can help your relationship*. He is NOT telling you to stop having sex or being kinky, or to stop being open about those things. He's sharing that *he* is having a hard time, and wants your help, as someone who loves and looks up to you. Your role in that is to provide him with help navigating his discomfort, not to eradicate anything about yourself that he might not like or approve of.

Though it will probably freak you out to hear your nephew speaking negatively about your sex life, try to really listen at the emotional truth behind his words. He might be responding the way he is out of fear of sex, shame about his own desires or identity, past experiences of being bullied for his own differences, prejudices he's internalized, or any other number of things. You can respect where he is coming from, emotionally, without ever agreeing that what you are doing is wrong or needs to be hidden from plain sight.

Next, have a real conversation with your nephew about what bothers him, and what he can control his exposure to. Keep this very practical, and focused on boundaries that you and him can set, together, to prevent causing problems in the relationship.

If it skeeves him out to see you posting sexy photos, he can just unfollow you on social media. Being family does not mean he is obligated to see everything that you are up to, and there are other ways to stay in touch! If he doesn't like to hear you talking about your sex life, then you can decide to share fewer details about that aspect with him directly, AND he can leave the room if it comes up in conversation and he doesn't want to hear it.

You both have a responsibility to one another here. You should do what you can to respect when your nephew doesn't want information and doesn't want to see anything, but he ALSO has the responsibility to notice how he is feeling and find ways to communicate that, and to learn how to regulate it. He will absolutely make mistakes in this, and need help, because he is younger than you and presumably less experienced. You should be patient.

But also, sometimes you might just have to tell him to suck it up and go complain about his gross sexually promiscuous aunt/uncle/nuncle/however you identity to his friends! That is acceptable. People have been feeling the ick about their relatives' sexual lives since the beginning of time, probably, and you're not harming him by living how you want to live. You're showing him what it looks like when an adult overcomes their repression and masking and chooses to live how they want to, and giving him some amazing training in self-advocacy and conflict negotiation that will last him his whole life long.

How wonderful that you have this close relationship and that he believes in you enough to tell you that he's struggling. That really shows what a fantastic job you have already done being an approachable person in this person's life. And I don't think it's untoward for you still to think of him as a kid as you approach this stuff; you feel an obligation to do right by him, and know that he's been looking to you for cues. You feel a sense of responsibility to him, and I think that's genuine -- but your responsibility is to help him continue to develop into a capable person who has a healthy relationship with you, not to coddle him or prevent every negative emotion.

And this is a fabulous exercise in boundary-setting for you, too. Who we are in our caregiving and familial relationships does not have to be the person we are in the dungeon, and though digital communication technology has really blurred the lines between all these aspects of us and granted everyone in our lives equal access to all sides of who we are, you do get to draw firm lines and let a significant portion of your existence be not-safe-for-work, and not-safe-for-people-you-knew-when-they-were-kids. If you want to remove your nephew as a follower on social media, create private accounts, or just tell him to learn to not look at things that he does not wanna see, you can do that. And you can be completely compassionate and emotionally available to him the whole time.

Good luck!

[moonshynecybin]

bez trying not to smile about marc 🥴 it's all I want to think about

god i know !!!!!! sorry okay i wrote some fic about them in the spirit of motogp summer camp bc i want my new pairing badge lmao. and can i say thank you so much for organizing that bc it’s been such a fun and galvanizing force for the community like trulyyyy so fresh and lovely. yayyy okay here’s 2k marcbez omegaverse that still kinda ends up being about vale but i tried okay !!!

Marquez smells good.

And Marquez usually smells okay. Bez doesn’t get too close to him often, but when he does it creeps in on the edges of things: bright, a little bitter, a little chemical. Gas, rubber, tarmac. Like when you uncap a permanent marker and the smell punches you in the gut, goes to your head and makes you dizzy. Makes you blink hard.

He doesn’t smell it often— and when he does, it’s faint. Just a whiff like its coming from the next room. He always thought Marquez just might not have a scent that travels. Some people don’t really project like that. He also thought— yeah, he thought Marc might be a beta like his brother, the burning scent complimenting the peppery citrus wash of Alex that Bez can smell when his leathers are down.

He was probably wrong about that, though, because today it’s everywhere. Strong, heavy, crawling over the paddock like a dense, drugging fog, and Bez doesn’t know exactly why—but he has a few guesses.

Someone props open a door and it floats in with the breeze. Pecco wrinkles his nose. Bez takes in a big lungful—feels it drip, trickle down through his spine and buzz at the edge of his nerve endings like a shot of coffee. If before it was a gut-punch, now it’s a bullet— sharper and definitely more dangerous. Not something he can just go and walk off.

“Jesus— who is that?” Pecco asks.

Bez counts down the unmated alphas in the paddock— Him. Some mechanics. Franky. Vale. None of them really people Marc would go to, probably. Franky and Vale— definitely not, and a mechanic would be too weird.

“Marquez.” He answers Pecco after a thick second, slower than he should, his tongue heavy and clumsy in his mouth. He tries to breathe through his nose and escape the pressure of the smell pushing down on him. Instead— he can taste it.

He reaches down and adjusts his dick in his shorts. Marc in leathers. Marc pushing him on track. Bez’s last podium, a win, when Marc pushed at his shoulder, eyes sparking at the kid he trains with crossing over the finish line on the shitty conference room TV. Gas, diesel, rubber. No one in front of him but tarmac. Bez likes riding alone, does Marc? He’s alone right now, and he smells like that, and Bez doesn’t think anyone is doing anything about it.

When he was 16, Bez visited the paddock— he met Marc for the first time on the heels of that insane 2014 season. Bez had looked at the way he threw the bike into corners and around other riders, the sheer aggressive force of it, and thought, that’s the kind of competitor I want to be.

Now— he needs to figure out the time attack. Maybe Marc knows how to fix the Aprilia that Bez has been saddled with, all alone. Maybe he should go ask him. He exhales. Blinks hard.

But Bez doesn’t want to be friends with Marquez, so he makes a point not to think about stuff like that. And he wouldn’t be thinking about it, except—

“Alex?” Pecco wonders, back to the topic of the owner of the smell.

“What? No, it’s Marc. You’ve never smelt Marc before? You spend half your life in the box with him.”

Pecco’s also an omega— Marc’s an omega. Two of them on one team, that’s never happened before, as far as he knows. Omega noses— they’re usually not so good with each other, so Pecco wouldn’t have noticed the dulled version of his smell if Marc was on scent blockers. Which means that Marc must be off his scent blockers for some reason— an emergency heat, maybe? Bez can’t think of why.

He scrapes blunt nails over the side of his neck. Focuses on where all ten of his toes meet the floor, staples himself hard to the Earth so he doesn’t bolt. Jesus.

“He’s gotta be in heat.” He continues. He has to be alone, fucking himself on some toy and wishing it had a knot.

“The Marquezes smell the same to me.” Pecco rejoins, which is an insane thing to say that Bez ignores. Pecco raises one eyebrow and leans back, a little prim. He looks over Bez and then says, slowly, like he’s really thinking it over, “If his blockers failed— He should take care of that soon, that’s dangerous.”

“With who, though?” Bez asks. Him. Some mechanics. Franky. Vale.

Did Vale ever laugh at Marc’s jokes, after all that mess? Should Bez, now? Bez should ask him, he’s in the paddock today. He should ask him about Marc, or about what it means when an omega goes into heat like this, when they don’t mean to be. Because there’s a race tomorrow, and there’s no way Marc means to be. Vale would know, if something needed to be done.

Franky would just smile at him, slow, and tell him that he should be able to figure it out.

Bez isn’t going to ask any mechanics.

Big breath in. Gasoline. Rubber. Two race weekends ago— a smile he couldn’t stop from coming to his own face. Marc tapping his leg, eyes black like polished stones. That dumb sunscreen ad that came up on his instagram explore page— Marquez in shorts, dick big and folded soft in the fabric of his swim trunks. Scars shiny in the sun like lighting over skin.

Bez decides not to ask Vale anything.

He stands up, thrumming. Balls his hoodie up in front of the crotch of his pants, embarrassed. Some mechanics. Franky. Vale.

Him.

“Do you know where Mig is?”

Pecco looks up from his data sheet. Scans Bez with his steady eyes and says, “I haven’t seen him, why?”

“I have to ask him something,” Bez mumbles, an excuse neither of them believe, and pushes himself over the doorframe, led by his hard cock and his nose and the memory of meeting Marc when he was 16 and he doesn’t know what. A smile, maybe. His or Marc’s, he doesn’t know.

He staggers over to where the riders are staying. He always liked the smell of rubber.

XXXXX

The line of motorhomes doesn’t smell like rubber— it smells like it’s on fire.

Bez throbs, sweaty and achey. Feels filthy as he makes his way over to knock on the navy and red door. He doesn’t know if this is even going to work.

“Marc— do you need help?” He calls, and no one answers. He curses out loud when he remembers he said it in Italian. He tries, searching— clumsy Spanish.

There’s silence, then shuffling. A bang.

After a moment, Marc opens the door, shirtless and steaming, wisps of water evaporating off of him with the heat of his skin. He must have just gotten out of the shower. Dark hair curls just behind his ears. He’s holding his towel out awkwardly around his waist, like he’s hard and sensitive. Bez can see it poking against the fabric anyway. Another gut punch, another bullet.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see— do you need help?” Marc blinks and Bez shuffles. “Just, you know. There aren’t many alphas in the paddock. And you—”

He gestures at him with one hand. Regrets it kind of immediately.

Marc’s eyes, black with how wide his pupils have been blown to, drop to the bundle of his hoodie held over his cock. It twitches and Bez hunches forwards. “I mean, of course. Only if you want—“

Marc licks his lips. Sniffs at the air and probably tries to catch some of Bez on the wind.

“Is this a joke? Did anyone send you?”

“What?” Bez blinks. He cannot think right now, with this much skin in front of him, and he decides to talk instead. “No, the whole paddock can smell you. I mean fuck, Pecco noticed. I thought, I guess. You know.”

He trails off, then swallows. Comes down to the heart of it. “If you want to use me. I’m here.”

Marc looks around, weighing his options. He looks like he’s expecting something to to pop out behind Bez, eyes all flighty and all over the place. A reporter, maybe.

“Pecco noticed?”

Bez nods and Marc curses. He chews on his lip, then considers Bez. Looks him up and down like he’s a horse to be sold. “And what, you would—?”

“Yes, yes— really. No, no problem.” He throws him a weak smile, then tilts his head to the side so Marc can see some of his neck.

Marc snorts, then stares around another second. He pinches his brow. Bez notices— his hands are shaking a little. He must be pretty deep in.

He makes a decision.

“Fuck— alright, fine.”

He hauls Bez in and shuts the door.

There’s a second’s hesitation, and then Marc just drops the hand holding up his towel, and he’s naked and so fucking hot in front of him. He fits their mouths together, desperate just like Bez is, and Bez’s hips move like they’re on a string, pushing forwards and grinding against him before he can think.

Bez gasps, and Marc presses his advantage.

It’s quick, a blur, and then his clothes are tangling down around his ankles and he’s spread out on the couch. The feeling hits him hard, dizzying, like he can’t breathe and doesn’t want to, and then Marc is holding his dick in his big hand and sitting down on him, ass hot and soft and wet enough to drip, getting Bez’s balls slick. He swallows hard, thumbing hard at the bony hollow of Marc’s hip.

Marc’s bright eyes watch him.

“Okay,” He says, trying to keep it together— and his throat betrays him, makes a dry sort of aborted whine. It’s fine though, because Marc flashes him the hint of a smile, throat a deep warm gold, and Bez feels fucking stupid and doesn’t care, lets his head loll back against the ridge of the couch, mindless with the places Marc is touching him.

There’s a second— an adjustment, and then it’s slick and easy with his heat, and Marc starts to ride him fast and hard. He braces himself against Bez’s shoulders, pushes him down and keeps him there— and Bez had offered, but Marc has clearly listened, and he puts him where he wants him, his cock hard enough that it hurts, knot about ready to fucking pop just from the way this looks, Marc’s dick bobbing up and down as he works himself, his hands scorching hot as they dig into Bez’s collarbones. Silent concentration on the sharp planes of his face.

The world degrades into Marc, and into sensation: his tight ass dragging on Bez’s cock, his knees on the outside of Bez’s thighs, two devastating points of contact. The sound of them coming together. The punched out noises Marc is making. He closes his eyes, twitching, then opens them again, dazed, chasing the image.

The smell is everywhere. He feels like he’s been struck over the head. Bez is gonna come.

“Wait,” Marc pants a command, voice hard and cracking even as he bears down, a hot squeeze on Bez’s dick. Bez didn’t realize he spoke out loud, or maybe Marc can just tell from the way his breath has gone harsh and fast, bellowing like a horse. “Wait, not yet,”

Fuck, alright. He palms Marc’s waist, feels the way his hips flex as he rocks up and down. Bites down hard on his lip and tastes salty iron blood. His hips rabbit up once, twice. His knot pops.

“Shit,” He comes sticky hot up in him, panting like a kid who ran too hard and too long, damp against Marc’s neck. It burns through him, gas on wood, hot and fast. Face blotchy and breath wet.

“Goddamn it,” Marc says, broken and horrible.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bez cries, and tries to keep fucking him, but his knot has caught— he can’t.

“Stay fucking still,” Marc pants, and grabs himself, hand working over his stupid big dick, hips fucking back in tiny jerks on Bez’s knot. “Fuck, just don’t move,”

So Bez lays there, head digging into the edge of Marc’s couch, and stares at the shine on Marc’s forehead, his top lip, his abs. Tries to be still for him, shaking with the effort. Sun hits his skin through the gap in the curtains and lights him up— another scar for Bez to stare at, or think about touching. He groans, humiliated. The back of his neck burns. Marc needs more, and Bez can— he can try.

There’s another knock at the door— more sounds. A voice Bez recognizes. Italian. He freezes, ice shot through his veins. Marc’s hand speeds up, his mouth open and pretty and shocked.

“Marc!” Vale pounds on the door. “Open up! Fuck! Let me in, everyone can smell you from here to Jerez. Are you off your blockers?”

At the sound— Marc wails, and he locks up. Comes messily up on his chest in wet, dragging pulses.

The voice outside falls silent. He heard them.

Bez trembles.

He remembers his list.

Him. Some mechanics. Franky.

Vale.

When his knot goes down— Marc climbs off of him with shaky knees, and doesn’t say a word.

[doctorpotatomd]

the thing with the "friendzone" is that the type of relationship it typically describes is not the same as the types that you are describing here. When a lonely young guy talks about being friendzoned, from his POV he's basically been courting a specific girl, spending lots of one-on-one time with her and building up some level of emotional intimacy. There's no difference between this and the beginning stages of dating someone, except that the "friendzoned" guy either never makes his romantic/sexual intentions clear because of his fear of rejection/being creepy. He basically treats her like a girlfriend, or like he thinks a girlfriend should be treated, and she treats him as a close friend, and so they end up in this kinda unreciprocated half-relationship where he's kinda hoping that one day their sorta-relationship-shaped-from-his-POV friendship will naturally collapse into an actual romantic relationship without him having to do the scary bit. Or maybe he worked up the courage to ask her out and got "let's just be friends"-ed, and said okay, and then they ended up in the exact same situation because he doesn't know how to treat women his age apart from as "a girlfriend".

This guy is not the same guy as the guy who has a lot of female friends and sometimes sleeps with them or ends up in long-term relationships. The friendzone guy doesn't have the social skills to navigate a mixed-gender friend group, he's not well-adjusted enough to be able to be close friends with a woman without treating her as a sorta-quasi-girlfriend and pining after her. The thing you say about it being noticeable when guys are only interested in women as girlfriends and not friends, and about "having a girlfriend spot to fill", is salient; it's gross-feeling for sure, but these guys just haven't built the social/emotional capacity for anything else.

I don't have any better advice for these lonely young men, sadly, not that they'd be able to take. "Be normal and fun to be around and be genuinely happy to be friends with a woman instead of dating her" is great advice, but they just don't have the framework to be able to even understand any of that. When I was that first guy, the one who gets "friendzoned", I can't tell you how many times I rolled my eyes at the classic "Just be yourself!", but it turns out that it's literally the best thing you can do when trying to attract a romantic partner, and also it's literally the most difficult thing to do in life.

4chan and the PUA/TRP scene gave these young men a space to discuss this phenomenon and a (flawed) framework to try and understand it, but the phenomenon still would have been an issue even if nobody was giving it a name. Sadly, the asymmetrical nature and the fact that it only really happens to guys who don't yet have the capacity to understand it or themselves makes it difficult to discuss, as does the association with incels and the manosphere. I dunno what we can really do about it apart from just generally try and build a better society where people are better socialised and more normal, but... 🤷

I've been watching a lot of videos about right-wing pundits and, man, so much of the Red Pill stuff and all the stuff that budded off it is based on confused straight men asking,

"Hey, how come women never seem to ask me out?"

[streamsofmoon]

vi x f!reader

synopsis: when you wake up next to him in the middle of the night/when you think about me all of those years ago...

a/n: i said i wanted to write something based on good luck babe by chappell roan and here we are :)

When you wake up in the middle of the night, it's with a gasp. A gasp so harsh that it leaves your throat sore for a second. Your heart's a thundering drum in your chest, and you try to calm it down—try to breathe in and out.

It almost doesn’t work until you feel your muscles start to relax. Until you're able to rest against the headboard with a heavy sigh, your soul weary as you look around the dark room.

Beside you, your husband sleeps peacefully. Unknown to the troubles that plague your mind and the woes that sit heavy on your spirit.

He makes you happy; he does everything for you—goes above and beyond for you. Out of all the men that have tried to capture your attention, he succeeded with his kind and soft nature. He is, what many would call, a dream.

But it's horrifying to find out when you don't love someone like that. When you don't love someone who is so startlingly right for you. Because love is a funny thing; it's unbalanced and unpredictable and inconsiderate with how it behaves. It's an awful thing to experience, especially when it refuses to go where you need it to.

Your wedding ring is oddly cold against the warmth of your finger. It's chilling when you rub your thumb against it; it provides a reason for you to take it off. There are other reasons, but those aren't ones you're able to conquer just yet.

Because love is the defining factor once more.

You're happy.

You're happy.

You should be—

"So you’re going to marry him?" Vi asks you on your wedding day. She's gorgeous in a two-piece suit that fits her like a glove. It's hard to take your eyes off her, especially with the way she's looking at you.

"I am," you tell her, fixing the necklace around your neck. It was a gift from your future husband, golden and covered in diamonds. "Isn't that what people do when they're in love? Get married?"

Vi scoffs and murmurs, "oh please," beneath her breath, loud enough for you to hear. Loud enough to have your hands still as you stare at her in the mirror, eyebrows furrowed.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" You question, a bit of anger injected in your tone. "And don't tell me nothing, we both know you're not shy with your feelings."

"Okay," Vi says, sliding her hands into her pant pockets. "You wanna know what I think? You don't love him."

Your heart drops a little despite knowing where this conversation is heading. "Not this again," you say softly, turning around so you can look at Vi. "Vi, you can't keep doing this. You can't keep dictating how I feel." You point towards the dressing room door, the one that leads out to where you'll say your vows. "I love him and I am going to get married to him and you need to—"

Your next sentence is cut off by Vi's fast approach, and her lips smashing against yours. You gasp in surprise, fighting back weakly for a mere second before you're succumbing to her kiss. Your mouth opens eagerly to welcome her tongue, moaning as she kisses you deeply. Her arms around your waist feel like home and the way she makes you feel with a single kiss...

Your future husband has never been able to achieve what this feels like.

And you doubt he ever will.

When Vi pulls back, it's reluctant, and she kisses you gently one more time, like she can't help herself. Then she's resting her forehead against yours, breathing you in as you clutch at the lapels of her suit jacket.

The moment stretches on for almost too long until Vi asks, one more time, "You're going to marry him?"

No, you want to yell. No, I'm not going to marry him. I'm going to run away with you and be happy with you.

But you don't say that.

Because you can't.

You aren't allowed to.

"...I am," is what you say, voice weak and thin with your pain. "I have to."

Vi doesn't reply, but the way her arms tighten around you says more than words can.

Her lips are light when she kisses your forehead, soft and lingering, before she's walking out of the room and she's...gone.

And you haven't seen her since.

You wish you could cry, but the numbness won't let you. It only offers you the hellish sanctuary of loud thoughts that shake you mercilessly, leaving your head ringing.

Your husband shifts beside you, the sheets shifting with him, and your heart breaks a little more.

And as you stare off into space, you can't help but wonder.