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loganlermanstanaccount · 1 year

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Rigor Mortis (part 3)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 2, Part 4

summary: A bad day turns even worse. Miguel surprises you.

warnings: angst angst angst, mentions of grief, very vague mention of domestic violence and abuse.

recommended reading: the painting Ophelia by John Everett Millais, and the song Ophelia by the lumineers.

a/n: i lowkey suck at communicating my "big" ideas so i really really hope this makes sense!

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 3.8k

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

they were here, she says,

You’ve had your share of bad days.

Oh God , enough to fill an A4 binder with. For example, knocking out that tooth when you were twelve. A butterfly effect of fuck ups that led to a scuffle at school: blood in your mouth, a tooth on the ground, and a looong suspension. You received quite the earful at home, that day.

And then there was telling your parents you had dropped out of college. Telling them you were moving halfway across the country with your boyfriend. Breaking up with said boyfriend in your favourite diner; thus sullying Pam’s waffles and pancakes with the bitter taste of… oh-fuck-I-don’t-know-how-I’ll-afford-an-apartment-now. Oh, and heartbreak – although that wasn’t as immediate.

Scratch that, the day of the breakup had been fairly mundane. Pleasant, even. Jamie had an off day, and you only had a few lectures. He didn’t tell you, of course, so meeting him in the apartment was a surprise. You’re home earlier than usual, and you can’t quite bear to wake him up; slumped on the sofa like an old cat. He’s tired, lectures and clerkships running him ragged for the past few years. Only a year out until residency, with bags under his eyes as proof, and you see him less and less. All things considered, you’re glad to spend the rest of the day with him.

You’d spent too long after the break up analysing the days leading up to it: for a sign, something in his behaviour that would’ve warned you. And so, you remember it quite vividly: kicking your shoes off, putting your bag down, and sinking into the sofa next to him. You curl into him, looking up at his face: steady, tempered breathing. Something at your chest, solid and heavy. He looks peaceful, happy; and you haven't seen that side of him in quite a while.

When you shift against him, you knock against his shoulder. Jamie stirs, groggy, and eyes adjusting to the light. The first thing he sees as he wakes is you; romantic, in theory. His expression is etched into your subconscious; stark and stiff like a marble statue, or a tombstone. A flash of disappointment, lip drawn in what seemed like disgust – but only for a moment.

" Morning , baby." You squeeze his side, and take his hand into yours. That look ; it's gone almost as quickly as it came.

"Thought…" He frowns, fighting dregs of sleep. "I thought you would be back later."

"Nope." You give him a smile and he returns with one that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He puts a hand on your cheek.

"Morning," Probably tired, he sighs deeply. You move on with the day. And he breaks up with you, not even 6 hours later.

You had had 4 years of that: good days, bad days, but most of them had been… mundane. Boring. Not quite the heat and intensity of true love, as the movies had gaslighted you into believing in.

You like the old black and white ones the best. Old fashioned, old-timey folk; declarations of love in tinny transatlantic accents. Suddenly, you’re on the floor of your childhood bedroom; eyes wide at the Sound of Music. Maria and Von Trapp hand in hand: her dress billowing, the flash of white glove on the small of her back. Love, love, love; and your lack of it.

You feel its loss all the same.

Despite all your efforts – including a dash to the station that could rival an Olympic sprinter – you were late to your first lecture. Sweaty, out of breath, and ambushed with a pen and paper; thrust into your hands on arrival. You look around to see dozens of heads down, scribbling furiously. A surprise test – and you’re late.

Hand aching, you barely finish within the two hours, after bullshitting your way through at least half of the questions. By the looks of the people streaming out of the hall; faces rumpled and grimacing; you’re not the only one. However, it does little to comfort you. You’re sure you're the only one failing so spectacularly, with the semester already half over.

You'd smacked your leg on the coffee table on the way out and a book had slammed to the floor. An art book, the kind in a model home - and you know damn well Miguel's not an enthusiast. The image sticks for some reason, leg aching as you trudge to your next class. When he gives you that blank look; the memory of men gone past is haunting – dead-eyed, and blank, like eyes cut out of a painting. You wonder if a Van Gogh would feel the same with the brilliant blue of eyes slashed out.

Nevertheless, you feel like lead. Off

to your next class, and it's going over material passed out the day before; which you didn’t have the time to look over. The professor drones on; voice monotonous and gravelly. Struggling to keep up, you sink into your seat – tapping away at your laptop, whatever you can get down. You pick at your lip, unravelling; unfurling like the tip of a slashed rope.

That's what you’re waiting for, you think: sandbags clattering down from stage left, to bring the rest of this whole farce down.

A sinking feeling, that starts at your chest and makes its way to the tops of your fingers and toes, leaves you numb for the rest of the day. Dread, like a shadow, at your heels in the corridors, across the courtyard, all around campus. Another lecture, and you make it in time for labs, barely, but there’s no time to go over notes; what you managed to scrape together in preparation. And of course , your lab partner’s sick, because that’s just the kind of day you’re having. It’s hectic, doing the work of two people with only the scraps you’ve cobbled together.

The pressure mounts. Like liquid in that flask you weren’t meant to stopper; and you just might end up like its remnants on the counter. Glass everywhere but where it should be. For a good grade, it helps to be organised: everything in its place, always. Except it isn’t, and you’ve fucked it up, again . It means the results don’t match up in your lab book, and another hour staring at liquid decanting, monitoring temperatures. Staring at stark white walls, with achy legs.

You step out whilst machines run in your stead, and shed your lab coat. It’s hot and stuffy in there but out in the corridor, you can finally breathe. Forehead on the cool wall, it all stops for a moment. The persistent buzz of your phone, sat in the pocket of your trousers, creeps into the quiet.

Absent-mindedly, you turn it on with a click. The buzzing stops. You’ve just missed a call from Miguel. It’s odd, he doesn’t usually call, but it’s the little box underneath the notification that makes you pause. A message, from a number you thought you’d blocked – that you should’ve blocked.

From:Jamie <3

Hey

From:Jamie <3

We should meet. I’ve still got some of your things in the apartment.

Your blood runs cold. Dread, like a shadow; its hand wrapped your neck. You can’t breathe, stuck under the weight of something at your chest. You can’t breathe, the walls close in. We should meet , he says. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world; just friends catching up over a coffee. Like you didn’t watch him carve out a chunk of your heart with a rusty spoon.

A panic attack, and you’re awkwardly hunched over by the wall, phone in hand. Someone will find you here, lying on the vinyl floor in Block B, spread eagle between lab 6 and 7. Dramatic timing, but if it kills you; you’ll find a way to haunt your ex's ass for the foreseeable future. And Miguel’s too, because if you’re having a bad day; then somewhere out there, he’s having a good one.

~~~

The apartment is still when Miguel gets back – unusually so. You’re not on the sofa, watching a mindless soap opera, or howling some song in the shower. And he’s had to deal with that most days for the past few weeks, a break in the peace and quiet he’s so carefully cultivated. Rigorous routine, they keep him together. He needed it; the way myth needs a martyr, the way flowers on a small grave needs a body. A tick-tick-tick in his head, that drives him a little less crazy after a morning run, or a good meal when he comes home. A countdown, he thinks, a mechanical clock whirring and puttering with a shake of its gears. He feels them stutter and start, slowing down, but not quite stopping. An ache so deep, he feels its creak with every step.

Absent-mindedly, he looks around the empty apartment, pulling at his ears.

When he was younger, Gabi would pull at his ears, to get him out of a book. Reading, always reading, whenever he could. At the dinner table, when his mamá would rap his knuckles with a wooden spoon and chuckle lightly at his little grimace. No en la mesa, Miguelito. Not at the table, Miggy. Léeme más tarde – read it to me later.

It was when he got his braces, and picked up a slight lisp. He stopped talking for a while, not completely; but a lot less, not as interactive in lessons. And it was always little Miguel, at the front of the class with his hand up to answer. It didn’t help that Gabi poked fun at him, often sneaking up to him to hiss in his ear: palms pressed together with a slithering motion, and then a strike to his ribs like una víbora - a viper , struggling to say his S’s. They’d fight because of it after, tousling on the floor of their bedroom in a mass of limbs, like pythons squeezing prey. Or at least, until their mamá rushed to separate them.

She didn’t like it when her boys fought; so they’d been forced to make up every time. He still has the scars to prove it.

Car magazines at first, and then the newspaper, whatever book he had picked up at the library that week. Even with his lisp, his mother made sure he read to her, and sometimes to Gabi as well, at least once a week. Looking back, she was never perfect; the things he knows now about his dear mamá, and her visage tumbles like Ozymandias in the sand. Her mother, married to a piece-of-shit mechanic; and his mother, elbow deep in the oil spill. That’s the funny thing about love, he thinks. Love, and the lack of it; dripping through the cracks, passed on through generations. Maybe mamá felt the gears shuddering in her chest. He hopes Gabi was saved from that burden.

A small voice at the back of his mind tells him: it’s not enough. Doesn’t explain the little boy pulling at his ears, in Miguel’s jacket and dress shoes.

A glimpse in the reflection of a shiny pan on the side table, and he looks like shit. Eyebags, a permanent scowl, shadowy lines that prick at the corners of his eyes. It’s ironic, crows feet without the penchant for laughing. He thinks you’d find it funny. The pink and purple of a setting sun spills in through windows and makes him sigh. It’s late, and you’re still not home.

God, you're strange; sticking your nose where you shouldn't. Disrupting the calm of his apartment. A sanctuary, and you've got your grubby paws all over it. Your shit is all over the place; pun-based mugs in the cabinet, chewed pen lids with no pens in sight, a blanket on the couch. The same blanket, a ratty old thing, that he usually meets you wrapped in when he gets back. A creature of habit, he folds it up; trying to ignore the whispers of your perfume, sweet and heady on the fabric.

He gets dressed, starting with dinner; knife on a chopping board cutting onions and peppers into cubes. It's therapeutic, the steady thud ringing out into the kitchen. Quiet, for a fleeting moment. But the worry, it sticks ; despite his better judgement. Before he changes his mind, he clicks open his phone to call you. It rings out – you don’t pick up.

The urge to call again is surprisingly troublesome, so he shoves it down with a piece of tortilla. It sits in his chest, regardless.

~~~

You trudge into the apartment. Squelch seems more accurate, sopping wet as you step out of waterlogged trainers. It was an inopportune time to wear jeans and forget a jacket – and you fight the urge to wring out onto the wooden planks. Miguel would kill you; the place was already falling apart, and water-warped floorboards might just be the last straw.

It’s thundering outside; a torrential downpour you’d just been dragged through. Dragged, half-running through streets-turned-streams, with nothing but a tank top and hoodie on your back. And you must look a sight , eyes bleary and slick with rainwater. The bag heavy on your back goes first, slipped off your shoulder and on the floor next to the coffee table with a thunk . You’re unzipping the flimsy canvas, inspecting its contents. A soaked through textbook, clumps of loose paper. You’re ready to cry when you see what's happened to the pages of your lab book; bleeding ink that’s only half-legible. But it’s the state of your laptop that makes your chest really heave and knees weak.

It’s slick with rainwater, and the sandwich you’d forgotten to eat, smeared across its fans. Caked on, more accurately; an odd sludge that you try your best to wipe away. You put it on the coffee table and your hand shakes as you press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead.

You sink onto the floor, head in your hands between the coffee table and the couch. Everything was on there: photos from senior prom, end of semester projects – your whole life. You have to dig your teeth into your bottom lip to bite back a scream.

Miguel peers from the kitchen, watching your silent breakdown. Quiet, and so still, with only the slight shake of shoulders to tell him that something is wrong. He glances at your half-opened laptop. He’d eaten already, clearing up what remains of his dinner and this is the sight he’s greeted with: the lady of the lake, lain between the reeds.

He shakes the image out of his head, and walks over. You feel a tentative prod, and look up.

“...I called you,” He says lightly, scratching at his neck.

You blink up at him. He thinks you look like a painting, watery and forlorn, framed in the yellow light of the soft bulbs.

“I was busy,” It’s not said with malice, nor as lilting as your usual sarcasm. Plain, simple. Busy. Your head slumps back into the little hollow you’ve made with your arms.

And so he sits, shoulders brushing against yours. He’s frustratingly patient, presence warm and comfortable despite… well, despite everything.

You can’t help it. Popping back up, you state, “You never call, though.”

“You’re never this late home.” Home. The word is heavy, knocks you onto your heels.

“So?” You shrug. “Could’ve been out with friends, or at a club–”

Laughter slips out like apples loose in a bag, spills onto the floor. Crisp, sweet; but you glare at him all the same.

“You don’t have friends.” He says it with the remnants of a smile, teasing. A challenge, and you’re more than happy to accept.

“ Not true , fuckface.” It is. You'd lost track of most of your friends after moving – and all the ones you made here? Your friends were Jamie's friends, and they chose him in the divorce. " You don't have any friends."

"I do ."

"You don't." It's your turn to scoff. "It's a Friday night and you're in here, washing up and planning to go to bed at a reasonable time."

"I'm an adult, doesn't mean I don't have–"

"The ones you fuck don't count." And then you pinch the bridge of your nose. "God forbid, if that's how you treat your friends…"

He laughs, properly, and you feel it in your chest too: the kind of laughter that bubbles like little breaths rising to the top of a lake.

“M’serious.” He says it in between gasping breaths and you try to steady your own giggles. "And, I have a friend who could take a look at your laptop, if you wanted."

His eyes flick over to the crime scene besides you. It's sweet, but.. "It's gone, Miguel, I know. You don't need to… try and make me feel better."

" Chula ," He flicks the deep lines forming at your brow. You look up and he says, softly, "I'm not trying to make you feel better. I'm trying to get you off of the floor so I can mop up that puddle."

With the way he says it, with that little smile, you don't believe him.

Now he's got your attention, he says, "You could've skipped that 9:00am. Or just been late. Don't think it would've mattered."

"Maybe." You shake your head. "M'not the best student. I'm blindingly… average. Just wanted it to be different, this year."

Your voice crackles, leaves something in the air he can't quite name. Quiet, again, except this time it's thicker. Smoke, ash, rolling clouds of melancholy in the little front room. For once, he doesn't know what to say.

You've got your head back on the sofa now, with a deep sigh. You look at the ceiling, and he's looking at you. It's the first time he's able to really study your features, trace the outline of your lips and sloping cheekbone. Your lashes, damp with little droplets of water, look crystalline in the light. Sparkling. Like the paintings depicted in the hefty book sat on his coffee table. He's read that one, twice , cover-to-cover in a fit of… insanity, maybe. He's not a man of frills and fancy, didn't really get it; nor why Gabi had given him the book in the first place. It felt like a filler piece, something to put on the little table and forget about, or to prop up a wooden leg. But that's not how his brother works, frustratingly convoluted. It's stupid, Miguel thought. Everything had to mean something , or what was it good for?

But looking at you, here, like this ; it clicks. Reaching over for the book, he leans it against the flat of his thigh. And you see it in the corner of your eye, watching as he flicks through the pages. Filled with art, it's the kind of thing on a table in a model apartment: a space-filler in a false home. When you first came here, the starkness and severity of the space had stuck. To you, the book had only reinforced it. Who was Miguel? A serial killer for all you know, stocking fluff pieces and coffee table books; only pretending to be human.

Finally, he stops, finger over a specific place. A double page spread, of surprisingly good quality.

He clicks his tongue. " This one. "

You follow his finger. A woman in a lake doesn't do it justice. It's beautiful, but it doesn't mean anything to you.

" Ophelia, John Everett Mills, 1852 ." He reads out the little label at the bottom of the image. "Like from Hamlet."

You shrug. "I don't…?"

"Well, she's in love with Hamlet, and then her father's murdered, Hamlet fucks off; and she's left heartbroken, goes mad because of it , arguably–"

"I've taken tenth grade English, Miguel. I don't get what that has to do with anything."

"She drowns herself. Also arguably, to be fair," He chews his lip, thinking. "Slipped off the bark of a willow tree, into a brook. Incapable of her own distress, or something. Drowns. Do you know how horrible drowning feels? How violent? And yet–"

He taps the page, and you come a little closer. Beautiful. She's beautiful.

"I'll admit it, I'm not a big fan of Shakespeare. Gabi – my brother – is way better at this stuff than me. Drama and intrigue and–" He gestures vaguely. "– love . That's why he likes it, apparently. And I… I know someone who really liked this page; I think it was the colours, or the flowers…? She said it looked like a photo, and that the woman looked so pretty in the water."

He pauses, dead-eyed. He's rambling, only taking a breath to compose himself." I… didn't have the heart to tell her that Ophelia, in this painting, is dead. Dead as a fucking doornail. Dragged through still water, sentenced to death by her passivity and grief – but you wouldn't know it."

Unconsciously, you trace the outline of her hair with your finger; swirling locs that blend into muddy reflections. She's on her back and fully dressed; a beaded skirt billowing out into the water. On her back and looking up, like you were on the sofa just a moment ago. Oh. Oh . You blink at the image. Flowers, peppered around to frame Ophelia in her watery grave. It doesn't look like a grave from where you're sitting, but there's a body in the water all the same.

There's a lump in your throat. Grief; the loss of 4 years of your life in a middling relationship, the aftermath of dead eyes and brilliant blue slashed from a canvas frame. Grief, rising to the surface like a bloated carcass. You thought you'd bound its ankles to cinder blocks and tossed it in a river long ago.

"I'm probably overstepping. For that, I'm sorry, and I mean it. But I think there's something else. I..I hear you rattling around at night; and sometimes, when I look at you..."

Your eyes are glassy, tears threatening to spill over. You’re hearing him but you don’t quite understand. Does he know? God, does he know?

"...it reminds me of this painting. You remind me of Ophelia .”

He sighs, turning to you.

“I know how it feels. And I think this shit is going to kill you, if you're not careful."

~~~

He doesn't talk about it. He runs off to start the shower, bundles you into towels and leaves you reeling. God, it's like you've been shot – barely a 10 minute conversation and he's cracked open your ribs to root around in what's left of you. He sees you; wades through the undergrowth and cuts through the bulllshit - he sees you.

You couldn't even answer. That's what stings the most.

You’ve settled on the sofa, cross-legged and still fresh from the shower. There’s a documentary on the TV; mindless background to Miguel clattering in the kitchen. He’s putting together some leftovers, even though you insisted that you weren’t hungry, that you’ve already eaten. Well , he had pointed to the gunk caked onto your laptop, wasn’t that the problem in the first place?

He’s good at it; wraps you up in the blanket you always keep draped on the cushions, and hands you a full plate. Wordlessly, because you suppose he’s said everything he needed to. Dutifully, he takes care of you, without a word; the strain of cutting you open on the coffee table clearly too much to bear.

You thank him, and he settles on the armchair opposite, mug of coffee in hand. The gloom of the TV bathes him in light, cuts his cheekbones and jaw just so. One of your mugs in his lap, and he's in a thick knitted sweater. His hair kisses the tops of his lashes, but he brushes it away. You swallow thickly, and when he turns, you look away.

“...You okay?” He asks, confused.

You nod, unable to speak. He gives you a small smile, the corners of his eyes crinkled up like crepe paper. You return it with one of your own.

He sees you. Finally, you see him too.

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#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #kat_writes😼#spiderman 2099 #angst #lots of angst #atsv x reader #miguel o'hara angst

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jessejaredstories · 1 year

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Twisted Wish

Matthew was an average, everyday kind of guy from the suburbs. He was the 22 year old only child of happily married parents with middle class standing. He was also in his last year of college with a major in history. The only thing that helped set him apart was the fact that he was gay, but even his sexuality didn't really matter much in a big city full of twinks like him. All things considered, Matthew was a pretty ordinary guy with nothing particularly remarkable about him.

However, just because Matthew lived a normal life doesn't mean he didn't have his own set of problems. For example, he was 22 going on 23 and he was still a virgin who has never even had a real boyfriend. Sure, he had gone on plenty of first dates, but none of them ever went anywhere beyond the first date. It was the lack of romantic and sexual experience that made up Matthew's biggest insecurities. There were nights where he would stay up wondering if he would ever find Mr. Right. But what really made Matthew insecure was his roommate Dave.

Dave was a player. He was a lady's man through and through. In the short year Matthew's known him, Dave had already gone through 3 girlfriends and was currently working on his fourth. But that was just the girls he's dated, Dave's had plenty of side chicks too. Everytime a new one popped up, Matthew already knew he was gonna get sexiled and made himself scarce without Dave asking him to. Despite how often it happened, Matthew honestly didn't mind Dave's horny habits. Though he would be lying if he said he wasn't jealous of Dave. If some frat bro like Dave could get laid anytime he wanted, why couldn't he?

One Saturday night, while Matthew was by himself in the apartment, he spent the evening on his phone. He was endlessly scrolling through several social media sites while streaming some random movie for background noise. Matthew spent several hours online before finally getting tired of his phone. He began closing all the tabs, but during his clicking frenzy, he accidentally hit a pop-up ad. The pop-up took him to another website called "Reality Wizard." The ugly, gaudy colors of the website caught Matthew's interest just before he could exit out. Matthew took a moment to read the website’s welcome message. It read:

“Make a wish and the Reality Wizard will make it come true.”

From what Matthew could gather, the “Reality Wizard” seemed to be some online genie game. It seemed pretty straightforward albeit cheaply made. The little genie avatar had its arms open as if it was beckoning Matthew to make a wish. Something about its digital eyes made Matthew uncomfortable. He felt as if it was somehow looking directly at him despite it just being a static image on his phone. It was surreal to say the least.

But instead of simply exiting out of the website, Matthew decided to play along with it. He didn’t have anything better to do after all, so why not play along and make a wish to a fake genie? Matthew laid back on his bed as he thought about what to wish for. Then after a minute of thinking, he typed in his wish.

“I wish I could get laid just as much as my straight roommate does.”

Matthew chuckled as he finished typing up his wish. While there was some actual sentiment behind it (he was a desperate virgin after all), Matthew found more humor in making the genie respond to something dirty and see what happens. He hit submit and waited. The screen reloaded after a second, but all that changed was the genie’s eyes were now closed. Matthew waited a while longer but nothing else happened.

Once he was bored again, Matthew finally closed out of “Reality Wizard.” The night was still young when Matthew found himself alone with nothing else to do. That was when he decided to do what any other guy would do: jerk off!

Matthew pulled down his sweats and let his soft dick flop out while he pulled up an incognito tab on his phone. He then went straight to PHub to find a good video to rub one out to. But unfortunately for Matthew, there was nothing worth clicking on on the home page. He then spent the next 10 or so minutes searching for a good video. By the time he found one, he had ended up in the MMF video category. Matthew didn’t mind a woman in his videos, he could just focus on the men after all. He hit play, skipped to the good part, and started jerking off.

Between Matthew and the trio in the video, moans and groans quickly began to fill the empty apartment as Matthew pumped away at his cock. Despite being a total bottom, Matthew still had an above average length clocking in at about 6 inches. Even though his dick never saw any fucking action, it still made jerking off fun as he used both hands to stroke himself.

“Aww fuck yeah…” The trio had switched into a sandwich position with one of the men getting fucked while fucking the woman at the same time. Matthew was loving the man on man action. “Fuck that man ass! Make him your bitch!!”

While Matthew was jerking off, the wish he had just made to the “Reality Wizard” began to come true! But not in the way Matthew expected…

The genie’s magic began to take effect. Matthew was always a skinny twink, but the wish he made caused his body to change. His body was quickly gaining weight until Matthew had some heft to his figure. His arms and thighs filled in with the extra mass, as did his chest until he had big enough pecs to grab and squeeze. The same happened to his ass! Although he already had a nice, perky ass before the changes, Matthew now possessed the bubble butt of a gym rat. Even his cock and balls grew until he had an obscenely long and girthy member. His new dick was now 7.5 inches and hung low like a bull with how heavy his cum filled balls had become.

After the extra mass came the body hair. Matthew’s once perfectly smooth body began sprouting hair everywhere! His hair grew out until he had shoulder length curls like Tarzan. His face tingled as a full beard and mustache quickly grew in. His chest and midsection got covered with a fine layer of brown hair. Even his pit and pubic hair grew and grew until he had an unruly forest of hair in each area. By the time the transformation was finally over, Matthew had become an unrecognizable version of himself as he was now a testosterone-filled, hairy beast of a young man.

But even though Matthew just went through a magical transformation, his mind was still focused entirely on jerking off to the video. The two men and one woman were still going hard at it in a line. The camera angles kept alternating between focusing on the two men and focusing on the woman getting fucked. Matt’s favorite was seeing the man’s cheeks getting clapped from behind.

“Oh fuuuck I’m close..”

Matt threw his head back against his pillow. He could feel the pressure building up in his throbbing cock as he was getting ready to shoot his load out. He picked up his stroking speed. He was getting sweaty and red in the face as he was getting closer and closer to finishing.

Matt lifted his head again when he heard the woman begging for more. He kept his eyes focused on the video. The video had a wide shot which showed all three of them. Matt started with the two men, but as he kept stroking, he found his eyes unconsciously gravitating towards the woman. Matt wasn’t sure why he did that. He shifted his attention back to men, but found himself focusing back on the woman again within seconds. Suddenly, the woman was all Matt could focus on. Even if he tried to look away he just couldn’t! Even if he tried to imagine a hot man with a hung cock all Matt could picture was a woman with massive tits! Matt was panting at the sight of the woman’s tiddies bouncing up and down as she took a pounding. Her beautiful body was wet with sex sweat. Seeing her throw her head back as she let out a loud moan made Matthew tremble and twitch with anticipation. He couldn’t take it anymore, he had to burst!

Matt let out a guttural groan as ropes of warm cum shot out of his engorged cock. His hairy chest became drenched with his spunk. Even by the time he finished shooting load after load, his dick was still twitched and throbbing with how much cum he shot out. Matt sighed with relief as he threw his arms back to cool down after such an intense jerk off session. His body hair was dripping with how drenched it was with sweat and cum. On top of that, the room now reeked of a man’s sweaty musk, but Matt didn’t care. He was satisfied and content.

Once Matt finally caught his breath, it was time for him to clean up the sticky mess he just made. His initial instinct was to gather up all his cum with his fingers and then swallow it all, but Matt stopped when he realized how fucking gay that was. He had absolutely no interest in ever tasting cum. After all, why would a straight guy like Matt want to swallow cum?

Matt went to the bathroom and cleaned the jizz off his body. He then went ahead and changed his bed sheets too due to dripping all over them. Once that was done, Matt stood in his bedroom. He then lifted his arm up, letting the wild bush of pit hair hang free as he took a deep sniff of himself. Matt could smell some musk, but decided it wasn’t anything some cologne couldn’t cover up.

“Yo! Anyone home?”

Matt’s ears perked up when he heard his roommate Dave call out. He then walked out and greeted his best bud by dabbing him up. Matt and Dave were brothers from different mothers and were known for their unbeatable bromance.

“Dave, my man! What are you doing home so early!? It’s barely midnight!”

“I know, bro, but check it, Darcy just invited me to go check out this new club downtown with her. It’s hella exclusive, you gotta come with us, Matt! I need my shotgun brother there if I’m gonna club all night!! Plus, Darcy’s got a friend. Brianna, I think you’ll like her…”

“She cute?” Matt asked with an eyebrow raised. Dave nodded. “Cup size?”

“Double D’s, AND she never wears a bra when she goes out! Trust me bro, you gotta meet her, I know for a fact y’all are perfect together!!”

Matt was convinced the moment he heard “D.” He was always a boobs over ass kinda guy after all. Matt quickly got dressed, then went out to have the best night of his life at the club with his bro Dave, ending with them tag teaming Darcy and Brianna in bed. All while Matt was completely oblivious to the fact that the Reality Wizard had granted his wish. Matt definitely got laid just like his straight roommate Dave, just like he wished, although he probably didn’t expect the online genie to twist his carelessly worded wish. Not that Matt really cared about his former self, after all, he had a girlfriend with two very big reasons why he should enjoy the new reality he wished for himself.

#male transformation

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buckevantommy · 2 months

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https://www.tumblr.com/buckevantommy/757878657756872704/btw-i-dont-think-we-need-to-worry-about-buck-and

Agree 100%. But, to further expand that, and going outside the world of the show.

From a GA perspective, or the audience full stop, how many partners are we willing to watch before we lose interest? By this I mean - if the writers are spending screen time / several episodes introducing a new character and a new relationship, usually we get invested. And when that person disappears, it can be frustrating, and the introduction of a new person (thus the start of the cycle again), can feel a bit tiring. Every time they need to find something that makes the audience go: okay, it’s worth for me to care about this character.

Buck’s case is a bit particular, because his relationships haven’t been all that well received (until now). Either it was an ‘okay’ situation, without much interest, or an okay reception but controversial at times (for me, Taylor - I do think the GA was okay with her, but ultimately the couple was not good). Tommy has been imo the first relationship that truly has brought in lots of positive and good reviews and a good investment of attention from fans and even GA. Tommy’s clips in any social media are usually the ones with most views, and in things like IG it goes to talk about the GA more than a focused fandom.

This to say - if Buck was to break up with Tommy, I think a lot of the audience would be frustrated or even grow bored of the constant change of partners. Even, they would be less receptive to a future new partner, because if Tommy (so well received) is gone, who would even stay?

Not to say this means Tommy is Buck’s endgame, because no one knows. But at some point the constant change of partners gets old, and we know Tim agrees when he expressed wanting to get Buck off the hamster wheel (something Oliver agreed on), and Tommy is a really strong character to have Buck settle with.

Long story short: not only from a SL perspective, but Bucktommy being long lasting makes sense for the overall image of the show.

You're absolutely right nonny.

bc if we think about bucktommy in terms of it being Buck's relationship aka. a main character's relationship, enough is enough on dragging him from illfit to illfit - that guy deserves to be settled, at ease in himself, as Bobby once told him, and we've already seen Tommy help make that happen for him.

and if we look back at Buck's relationship history: we're 7 years into poor matches for a guy who has always wanted to love and be loved - and Tommy can be that for him! he has been that for him so far and could so easily fit into the narrative as Buck's significant other moving forward indefinitely. Tommy already feels like the missing piece to Buck's story the same way Karen was for Hen and Maddie was for Chim and Athena was for Bobby - and he's a fleshed out character in his own right just as those partners are.

enough screwing around with Buck's relationships. sometimes it feels like just bc he started out as a fuckboy he somehow doesn't deserve a stable, healthy, loving relationship, like the narrative is going out of its way to ruin any chance he has at that for the sake of drama (but again: none of his previous partners were the right match for him).

i'm going to mention dear dean winchester again bc he has so much in common with Buck, and these kinds of characters (male, strong, macho, attractive, swagger, charming, sexually active, presumably bisexual) always cycle through relationships that never pan out - bc they're not the right fit, but moreover bc these partners seem written in just to be eventually written out, there to help the main character's plot along, aid in some personal growth and add drama, maybe attract more viewership for those interested in seeing more (temporary) female characters.

but it is.. *sigh* tiresome, indeed. let Buck have a stable partner - like Hen, and Chim, and Bobby do - and let their relationship be woven into the narrative to create a richer tapestry like those other pairings do. that is so much more satisfying in terms of storytelling and character growth, than trying to insert drama snags that threaten to unravel things. you can still have drama with committed pairings - every other committed pairing in the show is proof of that.

and if we take off the shipper googles: Tommy is good as Buck's partner, he makes sense, and he has great potential in the longrun both as Buck's boyfriend/husband and as his own character within the wider narrative of the show. he's a natural fit, but he's also entertaining and he has history with most of the main characters already.

i really do see Tommy as Buck's endgame btw, bc they work so well together as a pairing but also as independant characters. BUT i wouldn't be mad about them breaking up/taking a break (as i mentioned in that post: uncertainty about having kids; a potential permanent job position out of state) and then come back together stronger for it. we saw it happen with Henren (but i don't want to see cheating with our boys bc it doesn't fit who they are) so we know if they do breakup it doesn't have to be permanent - and i actually would love the mirror to Buck's first serious relationship where Abby leaves him - only Tommy comes back to him.

#asks #evantommy #bucktommy #.txt #911 abc

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starb3rrys · 10 months

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I've read your Tecchou breaking down... so would you mind doing the same but for Chuuya?(if it hasn't been done yet)

Like our baby needs to, considering how much he had gone through...

(Also, the comforting person can be either a genderless person or maybe Dazai... your choice)

Thank you ❤️

Aww, you’re right, poor Chuuya needs more love! I have never read stormbringer so take everything I write with a grain of salt. In addition, I apologize for the long wait but I do hope you enjoy this! ＼(٥⁀▽⁀ )/

☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆

Tired Nights

Chuuya x GN!Reader

Slight angst, Fluff/Comfort

Scenario: The death anniversary of the flags was right around the corner, Chuuyas mood always seemed to be at an all time low around this time of year. Hateful thoughts, regrets, and pain flooded his mind...I suppose even the strongest of people could admit defeat at the eyes of the past || Tecchou Ver.

☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆

On a quiet afternoon, the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the numerous graves of once lively people. Your eyes scanned the quiescent area, locking onto a familiar figure sitting by five lone tombstones atop a hill.

Leaves crunched under your feet as you walked, alerting the once calm man. "Oh, it's just you.", the man said with a small sigh. "Yep, just boring old me.", you said with a neutral tone as you sat on the grass next to the man. "How'd you even find me here? Stalking me now?", the man said with an unintentionally annoyed tone.

"Oh come on, Ive known you for how many years now, Chuuya? I know you like the back of my hand...just like how I know that around this season, every year without fail, you disappear without a word and come to this graveyard.", your voice was confident as you looked at Chuuya, taking notice of his tired eyes.

Your gaze switched to the five untouched gravestones, each reading a different name but sharing the same death day. "Were they close to you?", the question left your lips in a quiet whisper. Chuuya scoffed, "That doesn't even scratch the surface...", Chuuyas hand softly swiped some dirt off one of the gravestones. "They were like my family, honestly, the only real family I've ever had."

Your once confident smile faltered into a small frown, it was rare to see Chuuya like this as you could practically hear the sadness dripping in his tone. "What happened to them?", you asked curiously.

Chuuya let out a shaky breath, "Selfish acts made by selfish people.", he grimaced. "Do you miss them?", sympathy present in your voice.

"Of course I do.", Chuuya said with a serious yet gentle tone."They were good people--maybe not in the eyes of others--but they lived fighting for my happiness...and died for my well-being...", his voice wavered. "Hey...it's not your faul-" "BUT IM NOT INNOCENT EITHER!!", Chuuya cut you off.

Your eyes widened at the sight of Chuuyas face; tears streaming down his face, teeth clenched as his eyes were glaring at you.

"I SHOULD'VE BEEN THERE! I SHOULD'VE KNOWN!", Chuuya let all of his frustrations out. "Chuuya you couldn't have known-" "BUT I SHOULD'VE! I SHOULD'VE DONE MORE! IF I CANT EVEN SAVE THOSE CLOSE TO ME, THEN WHAT IS THE POINT OF HAVING THIS OVERPOWERED ABILIT-Mnh...", Chuuya is cut off as he felt your soft lips on his, after a few seconds he melts into the kiss, instantly calming him down. You pull away and caress his hair, tucking a strand behind his ear, "Its okay...".

Chuuya tears up and moves into your arms, his head resting against your chest as quiet sobs left him. "I miss them so much..." "I know, shh... I know...".

Chuuya let out a broken chuckle, "If they could see me now, they'd probably laugh."

You kissed the top of his head, "They definitely would, you have a lot of snot and boogers right now", a giggle following your playful comment.

Chuuya rolled his eyes and sniffled against your chest, "Shut up..."

"You know you love me, Chuuya~", "Do I?", he asked sarcastically.

You both snickered, bodies close to one another as night overtook the sky...

EXTRA:

"The flags would have definitely liked you..." "Really? How so?" "Cause you're a huge pain in my ass, they'd find you funny." "I mean- not to BRAG or anything, but I make one of the port mafia executives laugh on a daily." "Really? What idiot would laugh at your lame jokes?" "I WAS TALKING ABOUT YO-"

☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆★ ☆

I love the pookie Chuuya, sadly I'm too lazy to read the translated version of stormbringer without the pictures. I always like making the reader playful yet kind with the characters, mostly because I find that dynamic funny. (Im sorry.) Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this story I did in the backseat of my car...16 hour roadtrip!! SEND HELP

#bsd chuuya #chuuya x reader #chuuya angst #bsd x reader #bsd fanfic #bsd #light angst #comfort #anime

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ronniaugust · 1 year

Text

How To Write Good Dialogue (Part 1)

I'm gonna start this by saying I'm not trying to sound like a know-it-all. I am just tired of posts like these being absolutely fucking useless. I am aware this is basically me screaming into a void and I’m more than okay with that.

This guide is meant for intermediate screenwriters, but beginners are also absolutely welcome. :)

(about me)

-♠︎-♠︎-♠︎-♠︎-

I've noticed a rise in film students who want to make films that have no dialogue. Probably after your professor showed you Doodlebug, right? Fuck that.

I'll make another post about writing a short film, but all you need to know is: Don't waste the audience’s time. Most of these no-dialogue shorts have very little substance and take way too long to tell the shortest possible story. Not a good idea.

Useless Dialogue

Plain and simple, don't write useless dialogue. Useless dialogue is dialogue that just doesn't fucking matter. Dialogue matters by having ✨subtext.✨

What is subtext? Subtext is the meaning behind the action. That's it.

If I tell you that I love you and I got big doe eyes while I say it, it means I love you. If I tell you I love you through a clenched jaw without looking at you, I don't necessarily love you right now.

Simple, right? Great.

Now think about the subtext behind every line. Does your character mean what they're saying? Are they doing it to get what they want? What is going through their mind as they say it? As long as you know your character, you’ll have these answers ready to go. If you don’t, you’ll figure it out eventually. Just keep writing.

When you write your character walking into a Starbucks and saying, "One venti iced coffee," does that do something? Why do I need to see someone's boring Starbucks order? Do I need to know that your character's boring? Why are you writing a boring character? [Of course, in the rare situation where this is some revealing clue to the massive crime investigation, then it makes sense.]

Useless dialogue is any dialogue that has no meaning or purpose in your script. Delete and move on. You don't need to write entire conversations or scenes that bore us, just write what we care about.

I took a class once where my professor called a version of this "trimming the fat." Get us into your scene and out of your scene in as little time as it takes to have it achieve its full purpose in the script.

[P.S. You don’t “inject” subtext into your lines. Idk who started that vernacular in subtext teachings but I hate it.]

Show vs. Tell

I remember a glorious fight I got into with a Redditor last year about show vs. tell… TL;DR: Dialogue is “show” if you write it with intention and subtext. If someone says that dialogue is inherently “tell,” they’re wrong and can go fuck themselves.

Dialogue that is “tell” is expositional dialogue. But, hot take: Exposition isn't just in dialogue. It’s also those annoying clichés that make you roll your eyes in the theater (which we just call clichés and not exposition). I’m sure every professor I’ve had will disagree with this and then get me into a long conversation about it, but let’s ignore that for right now.

Have you ever seen a movie where a character rubs an old, worn-out photo of a young girl while looking depressed? That's exposition. That character has a dead daughter. No shit.

Clichés are incredibly annoying. We all know that. Assume that any cliché you see - in this context - is exposition and try your best not to write it. (Tropes are different and sometimes necessary, so I’m not talking about that.)

Point blank: When you have subtext in your lines, they are "show,” not “tell.”

Before moving on, I'll bring up that while technically the dead daughter photo is subtextual, it is as close to the character saying “My daughter is dead,” as you can get. Don't treat the audience like we're fucking stupid.

The First 15

If you don’t know what the Inciting Incident is, please look up “3 Act Structure” before reading this.

The first 15 pages of your script is the part that comes before the Inciting Incident. This is the part you want to get right because, although people probably won’t leave the theater, they will absolutely find something else on the streaming service they’re using. The people making said movie will also just toss your script in the trash before it’s even produced, so it's best to get it right.

Dialogue in the first 15 generally follows the same rules, but carries a heftier additional rule. All dialogue in the first 15 minutes must, must, must tell us something about your character.

Remember when I talked about that boring Starbucks order? Why is your character boring? Don’t write that. Don’t write nice characters. Or pleasant characters. Or friendly characters. No one cares.

You want empathy. This does not mean “relatable.” It means “empathetic.” There is a difference.

I personally relate to Vi in Arcane, but I empathize with Theo in Children of Men. Both are excellent, but one personally resonates a bit more with me. You cannot write a character that deeply resonates with every single person, it is impossible.

With each line of dialogue, you must be saying something about your character that generates the empathy. Instead of telling you how to do this, I’ll direct you to a movie that will do better than an explanation: Casablanca.

Watch how Rick interacts with the world. What kind of man is Rick? Watch what he does, what he says, and how he treats people and himself. Watch that empty glass on the table. Watch his contradictions. Everything. Those things matter and it’s what makes you want to watch Rick for the entire duration of Casablanca.

“Realism”

This is maybe more directorial, but make your characters human enough, not too human.

Too human is when you’ve tried your best to capture all those little life-like speech patterns. You know, the ones that no one fucking cares about.

If your character coughs, they’re sick. If they clear they’re throat, they’re uncomfortable. If a bruise isn’t going away, they’re going to die. Simple.

Every moment on screen matters. Everything the audience sees is meant to lead them to a conclusion. Not the conclusion, just a conclusion.

The realism you want is in the choices your character makes, not how many times they say “Uh,” in a sentence.

Conclusion

Dialogue matters and should not be treated lightly or without care. Once you have this all engrained in your mind, dialogue should become effortless.

If you want an excellent way to think about this, Robert McKee's Story has an excellent chapter that helped clarify this all for me. Here's an excerpt and the context.

Warning, spoilers for Chinatown.

"If I were Gittes at this moment, what would I do?"

Letting your imagination roam, the answer comes:

"Rehearse. I always rehearse in my head before taking on life's big confrontations."

Now work deeper into Gittes's emotions and psyche:

Hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, thoughts racing: "She killed him, then used me. She lied to me, came on to me. Man, I fell for her. My guts are in a knot, but I'll be cool. I'll stroll to the door, step in and accuse her. She lies. I send for the cops. She plays innocent, a few tears. But I stay ice cold, show her Mulwray's glasses, then lay out how she did it, step by step, as if I was there. She con-fesses. I turn her over to Escobar; I'm off the hook."

EXT. BUNGALOW-SANTA MONICA

Gittes' car speeds into the driveway.

You continue working from inside Gittes' pov, thinking:

"I'll be cool, I'll be cool ..." Suddenly, with the sight of her house, an image of Evelyn flashes in your imagination. A rush of anger. A gap cracks open between your cool resolve and your fury.

The Buick SCREECHES to a halt. Gittes jumps out.

"To hell with her!"

Gittes SLAMS the car door and bolts up the steps.

Story by Robert McKee, pg 156

The context of this page is McKee's way of explaining how to write characters. I found it very helpful.

-♠︎-♠︎-♠︎-♠︎-

Thanks for reading! I probably forgot something, so I made this a “part 1.”

I hope this helps someone since I’m really tired of finding short films on YouTube that are all fucking silent. The few who have done it well have been copied to death, so please write some dialogue. I promise you it’s so much better if you do.

Asks are open! :)

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bahrtofane · 5 months

Note

dialogue 7 trope 8 with tchouameni pls. so happy that ppl are finally writing for him 🥹❤️

- "ooohh you wanna kiss me sooo bad." - Bodyguard au

happy to write for him! he needs more love enjooyyyy

word count - 800+

watch it - flirty tch and weapon mentioned like once enjoyy

You know you're not a very stereotypical bodyguard. Shorter than most, no rippling muscles that tear shirts apart. It does give you the advantage of surprise. No one expects you. Even more so for the man you've been tasked to protect.

You know they hired you specifically to blend in and so you do. Still keeping close but you look like you could be anything from a part of the crowd to a friend and whatever more. You've seen yourself on a few gossip pages and on news articles here and there.

They have yet to put the pieces together and you want to keep it that way. You have a job to do and a man to protect. A man that for the life of you you can't understand.

He's an enigma on a good day. Aurélien keeps a curious eye on you, eager to watch you. But yet so hesitant.

He doesn't talk to you all that much, but when he does he manages to squeeze playful words in between each sentence. Always catching you off guard. He goes from being honed in and focused to letting his shoulders loose in a laugh.

Today seems like no exception. You wait in the wings backstage of an event. It's just a rehearsal for the actual thing yet you're here. Its empty save for stage screws running about with wires and microphones tangled on the floor.

You stand arms crossed a few feet away from where Aurélien is being fitted with different wires and what not. He speaks, arms waving lazily and nodding along to whatever his agent is saying. You haven't talked to him today yet.

He spots you soon enough, giving you a wave while you respond with a curt nod. He gets shown to where you stand, told to “hang out” here for a second while they adjust the lighting.

“Didn't know they dragged you here too?” he says, hands resting inside the pockets of his jacket.

“I have a job to do.” you shrug.

“Does it even get boring? Being around the same person all the time. I know I get tired.”

Your expression remains neutral, though a spark of amusement flickers in your eyes. "Perhaps," you hum, "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm here to protect you, whether you like it or not."

He grins, gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before turning back to watch the lights cycle through the different settings. "Well, in that case, I suppose I'll just have to make your job as interesting as possible," he says with a lazy shrug.

You roll your eyes, but cant help the small smile that tugs at your lips. "I have no doubt you will," you reply dryly

Aurélien gives you a playful smirk before leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "You know," he says, amusement dancing in his eyes, "sometimes I wonder if all this protection is just an excuse to be close to me."

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed by his attempt at flirting. "Don't flatter yourself," you retort, though you can't stop the smile that seems between your words. He's bold today.

Leave it to Aurélien to find a way to wiggle into your personal space and under your skin with his words so early in the day. And you have so many more hours left with him. How thrilling.

He chuckles softly, leaning even closer until his breath brushes against your ear. "Oh, come on," he murmurs, "we both know deep down, you wanna kiss me sooo bad."

You can't help but laugh, shaking your head at his shameless antics. "You wish," you reply, giving him a playful shove before straightening up, feeling the waistband of your pants for your weapon. Old habits die hard you suppose.

Aurélien grins, the playful glint returning to his eyes as he steps back, resuming his role in the rehearsal.

You don't know what game he really plays. If his words really hold any meaning. If you should listen. So you choose the safe route and brush them off and try to do your job. Even if he insists on making it near impossible.

He sends you knowing looks from the other side of the backstage area. Ones you know would easily strike up talk. But you can't talk your eyes off him. Partly because of your job and partly due to him being so- what's the word- dazzling.

You do want to kiss him, but he doesn't need to know that. Not now at least.

For now you watch him do his thing while you try to do your job and push away his voice from ringing in your ears over and over.

we both know deep down

#bahr footy #aurelien tchouameni x reader #tchouameni x reader #tchouaméni x reader #tchouameni #aurelien tchouameni #bahr 300 event #aurélien x reader #aurélien x you #aurelien x reader #YAY #footballer fic #football fanfic #footy fic

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hjparisian · 1 year

Text

bad idea right?- harry j potter x reader

p: ex! harry j potter x fem!reader w: modern au (phones exist at hogwarts dont question how), everyone is friends, small mentions of drinking and smoking, slight sexual implications (no smut) summary: (y/n) and harry have been broken up for a while now. while at a party (y/n) gets a message from harry asking her to come over. its a bad idea, right? a/n: based on the song by olivia rodrigo, which has been living in my head rent free and brought my first idea in weeks. currently trying to get through a few requests and ylm part II and seeing what'll happen from there. also im on pinterest and tik tok so come find me (has nothing posted on either lol)

There was nothing like a good old party after the Quidditch games. This game was between Hufflepuff and Slytherin, the latter being victorious, which meant the Slytherins would be hosting the party. All the houses were invited.

(Y/N) sat on the couch with Hermione, Pansy, Daphne, and Cho, a drink in her hand. She had tuned out what the girls were chatting about, observing the surroundings of the party. From the people dancing, couples making out, people taking shots and smoking, and Ron doing a keg stand with Blaise and Theo, Draco laughing at them from the side.

(Y/N)'s thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of her phone, which had also caught the attention of her friends. She picked it up to see who it was. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately to her, it was her ex-boyfriend. Harry.

5 missed calls

hey

feeling a bit bored rn

no ones at the dorm right now

come over?

"Who is it?" Cho asked.

"Oh erm, no one important," (Y/N) said.

"Well your phone was buzzing for a good minute until you finally picked up so it has to be someone important," Daphne chimed.

"Really it's no one," (Y/N) tried telling them.

At that moment, Pansy took (Y/N)'s phone out her hand and looked at it.

"Yeah no one important, unless it's your ex Harry fucking Potter wanting to see you tonight!" Pansy said. The girls gasped.

"Harry?" Hermione asked. "Harry's texting you? But you guys haven't spoken in a couple of months."

"Yeah, I know," (Y/N) said.

"How come Harry isn't here anyways? Doesn't he usually go to parties with Ron?" Daphne asked.

"Said he didn't feel like it," Hermione told her.

"Well, are you gonna do it?" asked Pansy.

"Do what?" (Y/N) asked.

"You know, see him?"

Cho chimed in. "Oh (Y/N), I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Yeah, that would be a bad idea, he is your ex after all," said Daphne.

"I never said whether I was going to or not!" (Y/N) exclaimed. "And if I were why would it matter? I know he's my ex but can't two people reconnect?"

"Well, they could," Hermione started saying. "But a lot of the times it doesn't work out."

"Besides," Pansy starts. "There's a bunch of other men out there waiting to have a chance with you. Men hotter than Potter."

(Y/N) didn't know whether to agree or disagree with Pansy. Well sure, there's other men out that there that could be more attractive than Harry, but there's just something about him that draws her to him.

"Okay, okay! I only see Harry as a friend anyways. Also we're at a Slytherin party right now and I'd much rather be getting drunk with you guys than continue this." (Y/N) told them.

Her words rang in her head as she took a shot that Pansy brought her. Does she really only see Harry as a friend? Or is that a lie?

The temptation to see Harry was only getting stronger with each drink she took. It wouldn't be a horrible idea to visit Harry right? They probably wouldn't do anything anyways so what's the harm?

While the girls weren't paying attention, she texted Harry back, telling him she would be over in a little bit. It didn't take long for Harry to get back to her.

cool, see you soon then

(Y/N) waited until the girls were done with another round of drinks, hoping to be unsuspecting with her need to leave.

"I think I'm going to head to bed, I'm feeling a little bit tired," she said.

"Already?" Pansy asked. "Come on we're having fun!"

"Pansy, leave the girl be. It is starting to get a little late anyways," Daphne said to her fellow Slytherin.

"Do you want me to walk you to your dorm?" Hermione asked her, being one of the more sober people of the group.

"No! No I'll be alright. I'll see you guys tomorrow though alright?" (Y/N) said as she wave goodbye to her friends.

Once she exited the Slytherin common room, she quietly made her way towards the Gryffindor common room. Curse Harry for being a Gryffindor and making her walk so far, but it'll be worth it, at least that's what she's thinking.

(Y/N) finally made it to the entrance of the common room without any setbacks. The Fat Lady had woken up from the sound of her footsteps.

"Password?"

"Quid Agis," (Y/N) said, having remembered the password from when she visited Hermione earlier in the week.

The portrait opened and (Y/N) walked in. The common room was empty, most likely due to the party as well as it being late in the night. She made her way to Harry's dorm, memorized where it was due to the countless times she's gone over.

The girl knocked on the door before going to grab the door knob, but the door had opened before she could. In front of her stood her ex-boyfriend in sweats and a black shirt, contrasting her party dress she wore tonight.

"Hey," Harry said to (Y/N) when she walked in, closing the door behind her.

"Hi," (Y/N) shyly said. It was a bit awkward being in Harry's dorm, considering the last time she was there was a few months ago, before their break up.

Harry guided (Y/N) to his bed, the two sitting at the edge. She could feel Harry's eyes taking her in. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't doing the same just before.

"So you came from the party I assume?" Harry asked.

(Y/N) nodded.

"How was it?"

"Good. You know how Slytherin parties are." The girl said. "Exciting. A lot of drinks."

"Do your friends know you're here?" Harry asks her.

"No." (Y/N) felt a hand touching her thigh.

"Where do they think you're at?" Harry asks her. "They think I'm in bed right now." She said. But she never specified whose bed.

A faint hum of acknowledgement came from Harry as he began rubbing her thigh, his hand slowly getting higher and higher.

"You know, I've missed you a lot (Y/N)."

(Y/N) could feel her heart racing at Harry's sudden confession. "Really? I've sorta missed you too." She didn't know if it was the alcohol talking that made her say that or what, but something made her want to see where this was going.

A small smirk appeared on Harry's face before he brought the girl to his lap. His eyes flickered from her eyes to her lips.

"How about I show you how much I've missed you?"

This definitely was not going to be a bad idea, right?

#harry potter #harry potter x reader #harry james potter #hjp #harry james potter x reader #hjp x reader #hp fanfic #harry #hp imagine #harry potter x fem!reader

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captaincryolicious · 2 years

Text

Desert Scum

➳ Cyno x gn!reader

➳ Oneshot ; 1.5k

➳ Hurt/comfort ; Reader is being attacked

Helping out the chief of Aaru Village doesn't go according to plan, but Cyno is there to save the day. [20.10.2022]

Zep's Note ; This isn't much, just something small to see if I'm capable of writing for Cyno lol.

content under the cut | masterlist

Collecting scarabs for medicinal use was a noble cause, or at least that was what you kept telling yourself to keep the flimsy bits of motivation you had left from dissolving completely. You already caught a few, but it was a tedious task – even more so because these little critters knew very well how to bury themselves and hide in the dry sand of the desert. They outsmarted you with ease, and frustration was slowly getting the best of you. You had been here for a couple of hours now, judging from the sun’s lowering position, and the results didn’t please you. The wicker basket you brought with you was still fairly empty, the revenue wasn’t fantastic. The Village Chief would probably be disappointed when you would return to the village. Why did the old man ask you instead of someone more experienced in this field? Surely, there lived people in Aaru Village who were more agile in scarab-catching.

You heaved out a sigh, ambling through the loose sand without paying as much attention as you initially did. This job was tiring you, and on top of that you were beyond bored. It was as if those scarabs knew that you were looking for them, and you found not a single one anymore. Had a warning call resonated through the population? Or was it simply a case of inexperience and bad luck?

It’s for a good cause, you reminded yourself, knowing very well that the way you were staring at the sand at your feet was pretty much useless. You used the front of your shoe to stir the sand mindlessly. Well, six scarabs were better than no scarabs, right? You just had to look at it from the bright side.

Nah, six scarabs wasn’t all that bad for a rookie like you. You tried to muster up a sense of satisfaction. It was getting darker, and despite the short time you lived here, you knew very well that the desert was cold and perilous at night. It was about time you headed back to the village. The sun was already setting, and it wouldn’t be long until its warmth would dissipate.

You turned around, ready to pick up your basket, but a movement caught in your peripheral vision had you riveted to the sandy desert floor in fright.

Deep laughter broke through the silence, and sheer horror overtook your entire being as three men approached you. Their pace was leisurely, as if they only came for a little chat, but the malice in their sickening grins gave away that they weren’t there to play the nice guys. You were surrounded by a ternary of Eremites, and your heart froze over in fear.

“Well well, what do we have here,” the man in the front jeered, his hand ghosting over the grip of his dagger before he took it out of its confinements. “All alone in the desert, friend? Not a smart move, now you’re left at our mercy and we have none of that.”

They all laughed, as if the man just told a funny joke. It wasn’t even remotely funny to you, and you realized gravely the mistake you had made. You were terrified, and even more so, you were doomed. The setting sun sunk behind them, and they stood tall as stark silhouettes against the darkening sky. Their long shadows cast over you, wrapping you in the dark. You glanced around, panicking. Was there a way to escape? Could you possibly outrun them if you were to make a mad dash for it? The chances were slim, and you knew that. It was merely out of instinct that you desperately sought a way to flee.

“P-Please let me go,” you pleaded, but it only elicited another round of laughter.

Then there was a dagger under your chin, coaxing up your face as the Eremite soldier forced you to look at the malicious grin he wore. A sob escaped your throat as anxiety racked your body. Your heart pounded wildly and you closed your eyes. Just be done quickly, you silently pleaded. Every fiber of your being was expecting to die right there and then, for you had nothing that could possibly satisfy them enough to let you go. What could you offer them? Six scarabs?

“Just checking, kid,” the man spoke roughly. “Do you have anything of value with you? If not, we’ll just take you with us. Maybe that godforsaken village of yours is willing to pay a nice sum of Mora for you.”

A growl ruptured through the twilight sky, and a flash of purple set everything alight. With a yelp that held both surprise and pain, the Eremite who had you cornered flew backward and you sank to your knees, panting heavily. Thunder crackled all around you, bolts of purple lightning painting the sand a violet glow. Another man fell to the ground with a groan, and you gasped when you saw a familiar face engage in a deadly dance with his trusted polearm in his hands. He moved swiftly, the eyes of his Anubis mask glowing voraciously as the last man, too, fell to the ground with a cry of pain.

A pair of red eyes landed on you, partially hidden by the shadow of his mask, and your heart jolted in relief. They were smoldering with anger and bloodthirst, yet the familiarity of them warmed your body that had been chilled with fear before. He was breathing heavily, his bare chest rising and falling after having to fend off three skilled Eremites. You saw the relief in his eyes, despite the glowering hatred they held within, before he averted his gaze to look at the bodies that rested in the sand.

“Lay one more finger upon them and you’ll die by my hands,” he growled, and the tassel of his vicious spear caught the final light of the setting sun, shimmering dangerously. But his words fell upon deaf ears, for his opponents were long unconscious.

Cyno twirled his spear, burying the blade in the desert sand before coming over to you. He helped up your shaking form gently and slowly, supporting you to prevent you from collapsing again. You were still in shock, and tears welled up in your eyes when you looked at your savior.

“Fool,” he scolded you, his hands driving up to cup your tear-ridden cheeks. “Do you have any idea how worried I was when I heard that you left Aaru Village on your own?”

“I’m sorry,” you muttered with a frail voice, for it was all you could muster at the moment. “The Chief asked for help and–” you trailed off, knowing all too well that Cyno didn’t want to hear any excuses.

“You’re so naive, wandering off into the desert alone,�� Cyno groaned, his red eyes – that were calmer now that he had you in his arms – glided over your being to check for any injuries. “These surroundings won’t treat you nicely, nor does the scum that roams here at night.”

He sighed, wiping your tears before his hands dropped to the small of your back. He pulled you closer, taking you into a soothing embrace. You instantly buried your face in his fluffy white hair, a strangled sob leaving your throat. For a few minutes, you simply stood like that, relishing in the feeling of safety that washed ashore. With his hands resting on your trembling figure, you finally grew a little more at ease. Cyno was there.

“You’re too kind, Y/N, putting yourself at risk for the sake of helping others,” he murmured, resting his cheek against the side of your head. “Next time, I’m going with you.”

You nodded; you liked that idea. There was no way that you’d ever set foot into the desert alone after tonight’s events, at least not for quite a while. You’d only venture into the vast plains of sand and sandstone when you had your Cyno by your side. The nauseating laughter of those Eremite soldiers still echoed in your mind, and you shuddered in your lover’s arms.

“I think I’ll catch a lot more scarabs with your help,” you attempted to joke.

Cyno didn’t laugh. He clearly wasn’t ready yet to bring a lighter note to this tense situation. Instead, he let go of you, opting to take your hand instead.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine now that you’re here,” you replied. “I just wanna get out of here as quickly as possible.” You allowed your gaze to wander towards the crooks that lay in the sand and pursed your lips. “I don’t wanna be here when they wake up.”

“It’s probably better for their sake if they won’t wake up for as long as I’m still here,” Cyno muttered darkly. He gave a gentle tug on your hand. “Let’s get you out of here, Y/N.”

You obediently followed him, more than happy to leave the desert behind and get back to the safety of Aaru Village. You had learned your lesson; the desert couldn’t be trusted. Cyno had warned you many times regarding the matter, but you only realized the weight of his words when you experienced it first-hand. You were so, so grateful that he showed up right on time.

Where would you’ve been without Cyno?

You didn’t even want to think about that.

#genshin impact #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact scenarios #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin impact imagine #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact cyno #cyno genshin impact #cyno #cyno x reader #cyno x you #cyno x y/n #cyno imagine #cyno imagines #genshin impact cyno x reader

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sakasakiii · 1 year

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Hi!

I love your work!! Your art is very pretty. Do you have a specific idea of how old everyone is ? Do you lean more towards canon or do you have your own dates in mind ? If don’t wanna a answer it’s ok!

Hope u have a nice day

(Remember to drink water!)

hiiii nonnie!!! thank you for checking in, and im happy u like the stuff i put out!! when it comes to ages, it's difficult to answer sometimes bc of the way professor tolkien's timeline is-- it makes gauging one singular place where most of the cast can be compared something that makes my tired brain go 😵🤧🤕 but i love the prompt youve given! and thus heres my attempt at it

with most of my tolkien stuff, i always try to stick to canon wherever possible emphasis is on try lmao and the topic of ages is one such place. i do make exceptions to the Professor's canon sometimes for a few reasons: 1) i like some of the scrapped ideas in his drafts, or 2) i just prefer other options. with ages, i think the only charas with canon-established ages i deviated from are fingolfin, finrod, turgon, and aredhel. i try to keep cases like these minimal tho, so i hope it doesn't bother anyone too much... 👉👈

anyways i figured just dropping a list of numbers would be kinda boring to look at so heres an illustrated guide to what the ~rough~ ages of the finweans are in my head whenever i write or draw. Y.T. 1495 (the year Finwe dies) is the controlled medium ive used to enable a fair comparison of the Finweans

note: "born Y.T. xxx" means this is the canon date of birth listed on Tolkien Gateway. "est. born [xxx]" means this is a noncanon estimate:

the First Age gets a lot more muddled from there due to the hullaballoo of everything going on, so ill only be including the doriathrim and a few other denizens of nargothrond:

it's mostly the older elves that are more undefined/vague with their ages (i.o.w. others like elwing, earendil, the peredhil twins, and most Men all have set dates of birth), so they're all i'll be doing for now. but it's that vagueness which makes hcing all the more enjoyable, isn't it! plus since we’re on this subject, under the cut are just a few headcanons and musings ive had that i wanted to put somewhere 😙

Finarfin and Earwen were born within months of each other! Finwe and Olwe made a Really Big Deal out of when they found out their wives were pregnant at the same time. As a result, the two were often sent on many playdates with each other to “bolster healthy relations” between the Noldor and the Teleri. It wasn’t an arranged marriage situation, but I like to think they were goofy for each other from the start… Resulting in the two eventually getting married as soon as they came of age, the fastest out of all of Finwe’s kids to do so.

The reason the Ambarussa are significantly younger than the other Finweans (especially the Feanorians-- there’s a 100 Valian year gap between them and Curufin alone!) is because I imagine they were accidental babies that even Feanor didn’t expect to conceive. too bad morgoth said "its morgin time!" and started Messing Things Up shortly afterwards.....

Anaire was Lalwen's good friend long before she married Fingolfin; they met through Lalwen who wingmanned Fingolfin the whole time. i like think Anaire'd be the best out of all the wives at keeping good, healthy bonds with all the women of her family :DD

luthien's potential 姐姐/big sis dynamic with all the younger doriathrim elves is something i daydream about a lot 😌 but sometimes the fact that she's older than finarfin keeps me up at night

this has been really fun, so thanks again for asking-- annnd yessir, i am chugging water as i write this so you better be doing the same ❤️ have a great start to your week!

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penaltyboxboxbox · 1 month

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ab the ferrari suits, there are a few things I'd change like the little square around the shell logo and the saturation of hp (what could they have done realistically lbr that's a title sponsor) but I??? Like it?? I think the dedication to the engineers is cute?? And the kits honestly ate idc same w the trophy

I really like the traditional trophies but sometimes trying smth different it works out and sometimes it doesn't (zandvoort sorry some of the messages were nice but overalllll ehhhhh)

at the end it's just personal preference but I do think it's getting disproportionate hatery

imo they could come out in actual trash, but if the car is fast I'll take it

literally i get people hate logos but they need to move on from it because at the end of the day sponsor logo readability and adherence to brand standard will always come first...like they are Not Allowed to display sponsor logos in "incorrect" ways its just part of what they agree to when they bring on a sponsor and that means bright blue hp and shell being displayed on a solid color bg. i actually think they managed very well with shell by putting it in the yellow square, it fits in very modularly and reads well into the overall concept w using yellow as the dominant color there...like they couldve just slapped it on a white square like some other teams are stuck doing for their sponsor logos cmon..theyre overall really lucky to have so many sponsors who DO allow them to display their logos in a color like yellow that is most certainly not in their brand guidelines. personally i think that alone speaks to how well these sponsors view ferrari as a brand and a partner, its like kind of insane to imagine a huge company ALLOWING the recoloring of their logo like that, easily they couldve been required to keep every sleeve logo white or something..

I think we are way too harsh on ferrari when they are LITERALLY the only team that even tries to do anything interesting with race suits and has pretty consistently given us a bunch of different designs. and not even just recolors!! new designs! its great and i wish more teams would take the risk, it makes it a lot of fun. I think the hate on the carbon fiber look is lame, its a pattern thats so quintessentially racecar, i think the sleeve on the jerseys looks great and very fashionable. and I think the race suits are FUN i think they feel kind of old school and are very striking, they almost remind me of like a subtle jockey silk. i already love the vintage racing stripes feel of the regular suits this year, and i think the yellow striping + the pattern looks great and is really bold and refreshing. so much fucking better than a boring ass black race suit. try thinking about sports gear as something meant to be eye catching, iconic, memorable, collectible, and not just like. idk...sexy for an aesthetic post...idk

dont get me started on trophies, i really do view the trophies, especially ones by contemporary artists, as just that. contemporary art. and while im all good w people having their opinions and having discussions on that art, i hate how often it turns into just like. the tired old takes of Modern Art Bad, Classical Art Good. i actually really loved the zandvoort trophies lookswise, the sentiments written were a little eh, but i thought it was a great way to refresh the trophies, a very cool technique used, and a great way to get people talking! I love the monza trophies, as I said, i think theyre really beautiful n compelling sculptures...

i just think generally a lot of people do in fact have narrower vision if what they believe is "good art" than even they think they do, and i think a majority of people completely misunderstand sports design and just don't like seeing things that are different/not sexy 🤷‍♂️

#i actually am extremely opinionated on all of this lol.#ask

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johnwickb1tsch · 6 months

Text

THE DEVILS' TRIANGLE

A Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick (& now John Constantine) Imagine Part 8 by:

@treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake @johnwickb1tsch and @tammykelly (with honorary dream weavers / shit stirrers @lilspookymeh & @kurai-hono-blog 😘)

Warnings: So many dead doves! Do not eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. You're in good company here. 😘 Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, dubcon, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘

ALL CHAPTERS

PART 8

Johnwickb1tsch:

"Come on, we've got to get you somewhere safe," says John Wick, trying to hustle you down the street.

"No," you protest, resisting. "We have to find John and Tex. They might need us."

You were skeptical about demons and the occult, God and the Devil and everything in between, at first. But after hanging out with Constantine, you'd seen a few things. Just enough that you had sense enough to be scared. You clutch the protection amulet around your neck that John had given you. You'd laughed at him at the time, but now you were glad to have it.

"They're both grown men, honey. I told Tex to leave you alone. This is what he gets."

Suddenly you're angry all over again. "Oh, you told him, huh?" You push John's chest--its like having a disagreement with a brick wall. "Do you have any fucking idea how much I've missed you? How it destroyed me to be thrown away like an old shirt you had no more use for?"

He is still as a mountain as he holds your wrists, preventing you from striking him, but not hurting you. Those dark eyes bore into you, through you. How does he not see you? "Y/n...I did what I thought was best for you."

"But you didn't fucking ask me! Or at least, you didn't listen! But you know what, it doesn't matter right now. John had to put some kind of a curse on Tex in self defense, because Tex is such an asshole, and now they're both in danger!"

"A what?"

You pause to think, and you're pretty sure you know where Constantine would go. There's an old church a few blocks over. Consecrated ground. It's where he's always told you to go if something came after you. It would be a good place to regroup.

"Come on," you say, pulling John in the opposite direction down the street.

For once, he actually listens, a shadow at your back ready to protect you, but he lets you lead the way.

--------------

The old building looks like it should probably be condemned. It's definitely seen better days, and hasn't seen a congregation in at least a decade. However, the ground is still holy, untouchable for the Unclean, and when you burst through the doors after John has already shot down three demons, you are so relieved to see Constantine and Tex sitting in some of the old pews. They definitely look like they've been through a battle, disheveled and beat up. You wonder how much was demons, and how much they did to each other.

"Thank God!" You run to them, and Tex's expression rises and falls as you go to Constantine, pressing your mouth to his in what you know is a needy kiss, assuring yourself as much as him.

He smirks down at you, well aware of the death- stares he's receiving from both sides. It's possible he makes a show of grabbing your ass, just to rub it in to your two Ghosts.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah. You?"

You nod. Then Constantine rolls his eyes upward, over your head to John Wick. He is quietly forbidding in his black suit, standing watch by the door. "That your other Ghost?"

With a tired sigh you nod.

"Ghosts? The fuck is Harry Potter here talkin' about?"

The urge to punch Tex or kiss him is strong as ever.

"The two of you ghosted me, didn't you?"

"Baby girl, I missed you. That's why I came to get you." He shoots a telling glare over at John Wick, who only returns a disinterested look. Maybe the master assassin had been keeping tabs on you, but he hadn't shared everything with Tex, it seems.

Constantine looks between the two assassins, then you, with an infuriating smirk.

"What?" you demand, more than a little exasperated with everthing.

"Nothing. Just seems like you have a type, angel."

You can't even argue.

"Angel?" Tex snorts at your pet name. "Does he even know you?"

"Does he ever shut up?" asks Constantine, raising one dark eyebrow.

"No, never," you sigh.

There is a howl outside that lifts every hair on your body, an unearthly sound that makes your fingers grip in Constantine's suit jacket.

"What are we going to do?"

"Good question." Constantine tugs you over to a different pew, sitting down with his arm draped around your shoulders. His message is obvious, and it's new to you. Constantine rocks your world on the nightly, but he's never been possessive before. It really shouldn't, but it ignites a warmth in your chest that makes you feel ridiculously, stupidly, giddy inside.

"Seems like we're at an impasse, gentlemen."

Tex frowns. John seems less than impressed.

"Sorry, what's stopping us from killing you and taking her?"

You tense, watching the gun John holds loosely at his side. You know Wick can move like lightning, and your heart leaps into your throat. You are ready to fling yourself between them if you have to.

"John..."

"It's ok, sweetheart. He's not going to kill me."

"No offense, but I've heard that before from lots of people who are dead now."

Constantine snorts. "You can't kill me, because I've put a curse on your friend here, and you need me to lift it."

"So lift it."

"Can't. Got a friend who can though. You'll never see him without me."

You know Constantine must be talking about the famed and powerful bokor, Papa Midnite. A chill runs down your spine. You've met him precisely once. He was polite--and hot as fuck, if you're being honest--but you knew he was not to be trifled with.

"So let's go, then," says Tex, his patience lost about three dead demons ago.

"Hold up, Howdy Doody. We got to talk first."

"Bout?"

Constantine nods down at you. "Maybe I don't know all the details, but I've heard enough. And as much as I've enjoyed filling the hole you assholes left--I can't let you hurt her again. I'll let the demons feast on your souls first."

Almost on cue, that demonic howling sounds again outside, and a chorus of hellish hissing rises. It sounds like you are surrounded.

Tex leaps to his feet. "You smug little fucker--"

"Shut up, Tex." It's Wick who shushes his friend. "What do you propose?"

Finally, Constantine looks down at you. "It depends on what she wants."

Your mouth drops open at that. You have to decide that, now? As though he can read your thoughts, and sometimes you're convinced he can, Constantine pays you an infuriating smirk.

"I...don't want them dead. Or...devoured."

"That's a start, I guess. Do you ever want to be with them again?"

Your eyes go wide as saucers. The simple answer, of course, is yes. You love them. You miss them.

However, answers are never so simple, with your Boys involved. Like an idiot, you dare to look at them, taking in Tex's hang-dog puppy-eyed look, and John's quiet but intense yearning. Then, of course, there is the man beside you, who despite his aloofness and his prickly manner, has been nothing but good to you.

You've never said it out loud, but the truth is, you love him too.

"I don't know."

"Yeah. I figured." He smirks at you, inexplicably smug, and you kind of want to smack him too.

Which always leads to interesting things, with John Constantine, your stupid lady parts sing out. Jesus Christ on a cracker, what a fucking mess.

"You got a point, Gandalf?" demands Tex, paying a nervous look to one of the cracked stained glass windows. Ominous dark shapes are flying past outside. This is not good.

"I want you assholes to accept a Spell of Submission to her."

"The fuck does that mean?" demands Tex with a thunderous frown. John remains neutral as he listens.

"It means, if you ever try to make her do something she really doesn't want to do, again, she can say the magic words to fuck up your world. Pardner."

"No fuckin' way," Tex scoffs.

At the same time, John answers, "I'll do it."

Your eyes meet across the aisle of the church. That he would take such a leap of faith-- for you-- drops the floor out from under you.

Tex, of course, interrupts your moment of soul- searching eye contact with John.

"Wait, so we could be havin' an argument and she can drop me dead with the evil eye or somethin'?"

Constantine snorts. "It would probably serve you right, Hee Haw, but no. Cause you extreme pain? Yes. But it comes at a price. All magic does. I know she wouldn't use it lightly."

It would potentially even the playing field quite a bit between you three. The balance of power amongst you had never been fair.

"What's a matter, Tex? You don't trust me?"

"Only as far a I could throw you, darlin'." But his hawk-like look softens for you after a moment, and then surprisingly he grins. "Got me over a barrel now, don't you?"

You shift a little in your seat, so that you're flush against Constantine. The solid line of his lithe warmth beside you is anchoring. You glance up at him, finding he looks arrogantly amused-- and surprisingly, a little sad. If you didn't know him so well you would have missed it, like ripples in a pool.

You turn back to Tex, an uneasy excitement thrumming in your chest.

"If the curse fits?"

The cowboy sighs, frowning at the hellspawn waiting to rend his flesh and eat his soul outside. "Alright, fine. Guess you might as well take it all." He can't look at you while he says it, but you sense his surrender-- or at least, his resignation. It's not exactly a victory, but it's something, and it pulls at your heartstrings.

"Alright, wizard boy. Hoodoo me up."

Constantine snorts, leaping up from the bench. "First we've got to get out of here. You're going to want to cover your eyes." He starts muttering an encantation and walking in a circle, sprinkling a powder on the ground from his pocket. "When this goes off we'll have ten minutes. Either of you assholes have a car nearby?"

"Yeah."

"Great. Hope you like to drive fast."

His chanting gets louder, and you see he's produced a lighter. He never uses it for cigarettes anymore, but portable fire to a magician has its uses. You can tell he's reaching the crescendo of his spell, and you scrunch your eyes closed. Even through your eyelids you see the flash, and the boom of a magical fireball that should have burned you all to dust.

However, only the things outside incinerate, their agonized cries echoing through the cavernous stone building.

"Let's move."

****

As it turns out, John Wick can drive very fast.

You already knew this, of course. Constantine, however, seems to be regretting his life choices as Wick weaves in and out of traffic, trying to find a hand hold as you are whipped around in the cramped back seat of the vintage Chevelle. He clenches his square jaw and glares daggers as Wick makes a quick left juke, the force of it pushing Constantine into the side of the car furthest from you.

You think it's a coincidence, until you meet John Wick's eyes in the rear-view mirror, and you see a glimmer of amusement. On anyone else, it would be all-out gut-busting laughter. You open your mouth to tell him to play nice, but Tex interrupts you—just like old times.

"3 o'clock," barks the cowboy assassin from the shotgun seat. It's fitting, because he quite literally has a sawed-off shotgun in his lap, something from Constantine's cabinet of goodies with arcane symbols scratched into the barrel. Tex and Constantine fought over this seat like it was worth a million dollars, and only the interruption of the literal Hell’s Angels roaring up on you on motorcycles re-focused their attention.

They’ve been trying to run you down for blocks like wolves on a caribou, and with a whip of Wick's wrist on the steering wheel, now you’re being pursued by one less. It over-corrects and crashes into a concrete barrier. Constantine laughs under his breath at the thing’s demise.

However, there are still three more to contend with.

“The club is just ahead,” directs Constantine. “Good luck finding parking.”

“Hold on.”

There's nothing to fucking hold on to in the bare bones back seat—except for Constantine, so that's what you do. He holds your hand with a white knuckled grip that betrays his nerves far more than his expression does

John tricks the motorcycle-riding demons by suddenly slowing down, then gunning the engine, running one over with a sudden burst of speed, then smacking the other two like a pinball flipper with a sudden shift and drift turn.

The car is totally fucked, but so are the hellspawn, so it feels like a win.

When one of them tries to stagger from the wreckage towards you Tex shoots it from out the window. The sound is deafening—and the ball of fire from the barrel of the gun makes you all jump.

“What the fuck is that, John?” you demand.

“Dragon's breath,” he answers you with a little smirk. “Nice work, Hee Haw. You should hunt demons instead of people.”

“What's the pay?”

“Absolute shit with possible stock options in Heaven.”

“No thank you then.”

The four of you pile out of the car and hustle towards the doors of Midnite's.

“This place is supposed to be neutral ground,” says Constantine, “but it's going to be full of demonic half-breeds, so walk fast and stick close.”

Tex turns to you with an incredulous frown. “Baby, I seriously gotta question your taste. Where did you find this wizard boy?”

Constantine looks at you with a smirk, no doubt thinking about your first animalistic tryst in that alleyway by the bar, and how he’d made you cum on his dick with your back chaffed by the hard bricks behind you, your legs wrapped desperately around his slender waist while he pounded inside your needy little cunt.

It had been glorious.

Just the memory of it floods you with a searing heat from your loins to regrettably, your cheeks.

Constantine loves it when he manages to make you blush, and a wicked gleam sparkles in his jetty dark irises.

“Shall I tell him, dear?”

You can tell that Tex’s head is about to explode.

“Not while he’s holding a fire-breathing shotgun, honey.”

Constantine has never really used lovey pet names with you before. It’s almost the weirdest thing that’s happened today.

As you push through the doors of the club it’s almost like entering another dimension, the red lights and bass thump of hedonistic music beyond, the steps down down down like a descent into a nether realm. The bouncer holds up his tarot card, the entrance exam, that Constantine passes like a breeze. “Rat in a dress.”

Bouncer turns to Wick and Tex with a new card, who look at Constantine with almost comical consternation. “They’re with me.”

“Still gotta pass.”

A beat later Constantine punches the burly bouncer out, shaking the sting off his hand. “Sorry,” he says to the unconscious man on the ground. To the rest of you, “Shit. Move fast.”

He bursts through the doors to the main club, striding with purpose on those beautiful long legs. You always feel too cool for school, when you’re on a magical side-quest with John. His broad shoulders part the crowd around you all, and when you’re with Constantine, everyone is looking at you. Half-breed angels, demons, and who knows what in between. Their eyes glow eerily in the low crimson light of the club.

Neither Wick nor Tex betray any fear or surprise at descending into this eldritch side of the City of Angels, intimidating towers at your back, glowering at anyone who looks your way.

Maybe it’s stupid, but in this moment you feel pretty fucking invincible.

It’s definitely stupid, because the creatures on Team Lucifer start to take an acute interest in Tex, their eyes glowing. Even you can feel them pressing closer around you. Constantine is standing at the tufted leather wall, what you know is an illusion hiding a door.

A tall, unfairly hot half-breed saunters into Tex’s personal space, reaching up to touch his cheek with a sultry come-hither smile. Succubus, is your guess, though the possibilities are literally endless. For a moment Tex seems utterly entranced, and it’s all you can do not to roll your eyes. “Sorry, he’s taken,” you say, pulling Tex back with your fingers in his tooled belt to sandwich him between you and Constantine.

Are they going to open the door for you or what? Any time now would be excellent…

Suddenly the half-breed seems a foot taller, looming over you with glowing red eyes. With your heart in your throat you hold up your amulet between you, and though she doesn’t exactly flinch and hiss like you’d hoped, you can tell she doesn’t care for it, her fine features twisting in a sneer like she tasted something nasty.

“Fine,” pouts the demoness. “Change your mind, handsome, you know where to find me.” She punctuates the offer with a flash of razor-sharp teeth before she saunters off with extra swing in her hips.

Tex makes a small sound of pain behind you as he watches her go, and you know he can’t help it. Desire is the Succubus’s power, and she was clearly hunting tonight. It doesn’t stop you from rolling your eyes though, turning to catch John Wick’s gaze. You can tell he’s keeping watch on the room, but he’s also got his eyes on you; that weighty, yearning look that never fails to tie your heart—and your lady parts—up in knots. A wholly inconvenient throb of lust between your legs makes you shift where you stand; suddenly you are soaked, so aware of the solid warmth of Tex at your back, and John towering before you.

Just like old times.

A part of you wants to reach for him, location be damned, an ingrained urge that would be a terrible idea at this time in this place, because if you touch him you’ll have to kiss him and who knows where that will end.

Jesus, was the succubus’s energy affecting you too? Or is it just…them?

There is a heady weight in the air, like something malevolent is about to descend upon you all. With your heart in your throat you clutch at the talisman around your neck, and though you’re not really sure which deity you’re entreating for salvation, you pray.

At last the door swings open, and Constantine finds your elbow, tugging you none too gently with him inside Papa Midnite’s inner sanctum. Naturally, where you go, the boys follow close behind.

“John Constantine,” says Papa Midnite in his melodic baritone. “Been some time. I see you’ve brought friends.”

“Wouldn’t go that far,” snarks Constantine with a baleful look at the two assassins at your back. “But I need your help.”

“The Great John Constantine needs my help?” mocks Papa. “Must be sometin’ bad.”

You’re not proud of the panic that rises in your throat at the sound of Midnite’s reluctance to help you. You know that pretty much everyone in the supernatural world has been pissed off at Constantine for some reason or another, but you pray this man can rise above his grudge. If not…Tex is fucked, and maybe it’s stupid after everything he did to you, but just the thought leaves a hollow ringing inside your heart.

You dare to peek around from Constantine’s imposing form. “Please, Papa?” you entreat, your eyes wide. You have met once before, and on that occasion the powerful witch doctor seemed to like you, though he didn’t cease to deride what a girl like you could possibly be doing with the likes of John Constantine. “We really need your help.”

Papa Midnite tilts his fedora-topped head to regard you with curiosity. He is wearing one of his delightfully loud shirts with a fur collared jacket. A gold necklace gleams against the dark skin of his throat. “Who needs my help, little girl? You, or him?” He points at Constantine with the jut of his chin.

“I do,” you both answer at the same time. You realize Constantine doesn’t want you to owe the powerful Bokor a favor—but you’re reading the room, and you’re pretty sure if the magic is for Constantine, Midnite is going to tell you all to pound rocks.

Midnite, understanding all of this, sits back in his throne of a chair with a little chuckle, drumming gold-bedecked fingers on the carved wooden arm.

“What is it you need?”

“A curse lifted,” answers Constantine. “And a spell cast.”

Midnite whistles at hearing that, and only then does his attention turn to the assassin at your back. “I can sense the dark mark from here,” says the witch doctor. “Let me see.”

With a grumble Tex pulls at his collar, pearl snap buttons popping to reveal the blackened circular pentacle, its 8 radii tipped with symbols, embedded beneath his skin. At the sight of it Midnite smirks, his eyebrows lifting high.

“Set thou a wicked one to be ruler over him, and let Satan stand at his right hand,” cites Midnite. “That a powerful curse t’set on someone, Constantine.”

“It was a heat of the moment thing,” grumbles the demon hunter.

“I can tell. Takes some big feeling, to conjure a curse like dis from thin air.”

That’s when Midnite looks at you, and that stupid blush of heat ambushes you again.

Feelings were not something you and John Constantine talked about. Sure, they were there, but you never really gave voice to them. You demonstrated them, physically, and often. Midnite seems bent on embarrassing both of you.

“Yeah, yeah,” grouses Constantine, only daring to glance in your direction. But in that single moment, the raw look on his face makes you feel like you need to sit down. “So can you lift it or not?”

“Course I can,” says Midnite dismissively. “What you bring me in return?”

“’Fraid I’ll have to owe you.”

“Hmm. I’ve heard that one too many times from the likes of you, Constantine. I’ll need somethin’ up front.”

“Do you like gold?” asks John Wick blandly, producing five glittering yellow coins from his pocket, setting them on the table in front of Papa Midnite in a neat stack one by one. The pretty tink tink tink of metal fills the air, and Midnite nods with his lips pursed, paying Wick an approving look. However, as he examines the death’s head emblazoned token, it is you he speaks to.

“How did a nice girl like you get tangled up wit Underworld boys like dis?”

A shuddering sigh escapes you, as a montage of the absolute fire you walked through to get to this moment flashes in your mind. The murder, the kidnapping, the chaos and corruption. The passion, the pleasure, and the quieter moments that made you think you might be content to stay with your Boys forever—until they forced you to go.

“It’s a long story, Papa,” you answer, barely able to raise your voice over a whisper.

“Some other time, you’ll tell me, then. Step into my office.”

Midnite leads you to his back room, a cavernous space built in the breathtakingly ornate style of the Moorish palaces of Andalusia. At first you don’t know where to look. The arabesque carved walls, the scalloped arches, the honeycomb vaulted ceilings, or the cacophony of antique relics stacked high on all sides. There are statues and busts and boxes and dolls, this and that and bric-a-brac and every category of precious old junk you can imagine, is here. Your eye is drawn to an old wooden chair against the far wall with leather straps that for some reason gives you chills.

The center of the room is empty, the demarked circle where Midnite performs his workings outlined with bones, half-burnt candles, and rusty lines on the tiles that look like blood.

“Now then,” says Midnite, taking a sip from a bottle of dark rum before offering it to Tex. “Drink up, man. Dis not gonna feel good.”

***

When all is said and done, the four of you all feel like pieces of chewed up gum. You are utterly wiped, and it’s all you can do not to fall asleep in the back of the car with your head on Constantine’s shoulder. Fingering your new tattoo, a mystical symbol that binds Tex Johnson and John Wick to your will, you think on what Papa Midnite said to you before your departure.

“Hard to live with a heart divided in three pieces, girl. You playin’ a dangerous game.”

“It’s not a game to me, Midnite. It’s just…my life, somehow.”

“Dat fair. So you know, I told that silly boy of yours to put a ring on your finger ‘fore he lost the chance. Never seen him like dis, wit any other.”

You’d paid him a grim smile, amused at the thought of Constantine asking you to be his wife. What a laughable prospect. Sweet, but there was no way he felt that about you. “Are you telling me not to break your friend’s heart, Midnite?”

He’d snorted and taken a drink of rum. “I know better than that. But you might tink about what he’ll turn into, if tings go badly.”

Truth be told, you didn’t want to think on that, because it terrified you. All you wanted right now, was to curl up in the bed you shared with John Constantine, and sleep for about seven years.

Midnight had given you a herbal potion that had to be administered to Tex every six hours for a week, and a magical salve to apply to the burn upon his chest where the symbol had, at one point, burst into white-hot flame. You’d feared he’d been at death’s door, until he took your hand with a smirk and mumbled half to you, half to himself, “The things I do for my little rattlesnake.” It had squeezed your heart with a fist, utterly wrecked you, and you knew you couldn’t kick him to the curb just yet.

You were headed back to Constantine’s house, (which you had helped him get together the down payment for, with no strings attached, so…) and the four of you would have to figure out how to co-exist, at least until Tex was back on his feet.

Then…who the fuck knew what was going to happen.

You’d think about that, tomorrow.

Tammykelly:

- a flashback -

Sleep long forfeited to yet another night full of vigorous dance that is the celebration of passion and ever growing connection and affection between two souls who’d found one another amidst chaos that unfailingly enters one’s life book when it flips through the pages onto the next chapter. Gradually, chaos learns the code of order, tamed by the new rules and beginnings, sought after by you and Constantine in an unhasty pace.

You feel the blossom of his soft lips on yours for a while, before you pull away to take a long look at him, running your fingers along his sweaty forehead and through his slightly damp hair. He feels his chest tighten at the way your gaze moves across his tilted up face and lingers on his eyes, entering beyond the physical and reaching for subliminal.

“Hi”, - Constantine croaks, his arms draped around your waist, steadying you, as your heated bodies stay impossibly close.

“Hey, baby”, - you breathe out, your touch leaves traces on his skin in feather-like movements, making his heart flutter.

“You call me that like it means something”, - he wonders out loud.

It must be true, that the eyes are the windows to the soul, for when he says that, you feel the heat of your body grow stronger when his irises light up with an inexplicably warm spark that transforms into the taste of him on your ever waiting lips, while your hips drag out the sensually slow pace. You try to find the perfect rhythm again, having felt yourself folding under the intensity with which your heart blooms and expands every time his dark eyes capture yours.

“I…uh…I’m….”, - you blurt out, the right words stuck at the edge of the said sacred dilation.

Maybe it is love. Love that sprouts across the silver lining that is the tenuous punchline between sanity and deliberate madness of passion. Constantine’s body reacts to yours before his mind has to think about it, as he gently tugs you closer. He doesn’t let you finish, his lips connecting to yours, catching your love on his tongue in a long deliciously flavorful kiss.

He touches your bullet scar, his jawline playing, his eyes darkening.

“They’re gonna pay for what they did to you”, - he quietly tells you again, voice filled with determination that invites more ephemeral warmth into your chest.

“They already did”, - you reply, reminiscence of their absence dissipating into the background of your subconscious when your tongue slides along Constantine’s jaw, tasting tiny droplets of sweat.

“They gotta pick someone their size, yeah?”

His reply makes you smile: “Please, we’ve talked about this, baby”, you feel goosebumps arise at the back of his neck at the nickname, no matter how nonchalant he wants to appear each time you call him a random pet name.

“You care about them? Even after everything they’ve done to you?” - his raspy voice is low but the tone sets a prelude to a gradually boiling point.

“They’re the best I’ve ever had”, he leans back and quirks his eyebrow at your tease, “after you, of course”, you add, smirking.

He lets out a sigh of frustration: “Jesus, it’s like talking to a fucking brick wall”, you feel his fingers dig deeper into your soft skin. You lean closer, your breath over his mouth.

“Calling God’s name when you’re balls deep in me?” your voice akin to a purr, “what a profanity”, a smirk curls up.

“Mhhmm, funny thing is He made this happen”, Constantine’s tone matches your game.

“And is Jesus present in the room with us?” your head tilts.

“Oh, you think it’s funny?” he bucks his hips up.

“You literally just said it is”, an involuntary moan escapes your mouth, lost in the grunt of the man underneath you, when you match his cheat code with a harsh movement of your own.

“It’s an expression”.

“Okay and?”

“Watch your mouth”, - Constantine’s eyes transform into a pair of two burning coals, sending shivers across your whole body, accompanied by the way his fingertips trace down your spine.

You can barely make a sound due to his manipulations: “Can’t read minds, baby”, making it his turn to shudder.

“What, don’t have any better ideas?” he recuperates, the warmth of his arms leave you, as he places his hands behind him on the bed to support his weight. You don’t wait to connect your mouth to his, your teeth sinking into his lower lip before you lightly tug at it and let go. A cocky grin instantaneously leaves his handsome face when he feels your tongue crash into his mouth, which he reciprocates with twice as much force and eagerness, his arms lock back around your waist, and he notices a triumphant smile display itself on your features.

“An angel risen from ashes picked up by the devil reborn”, you answer his question, teasing the idea of which one’s which when you first met. Him - a cancer free phoenix-like angel of death, or you - a devilishly sweet temptress, who, unbeknownst to herself, exchanged two deadly ghosts for the black cat of a man, stuck in between both realms.

You continue: “He always had a rotten sense of humour. And His punch lines are killers”, Constantine’s gaze darkens at the mention of your ghosts.

“Ha-ha, very funny”, his tone less than amused.

“Oh, you find this funny now?” you bite his neck, which makes a deep husky groan erupt from his throat.

“Don’t tell me you believe this fate bullshit”, you say, as you fight the urge to speed up your pace to chase the way his sultry sounds bounce around your insides.

His low growl nearly shatters your self control when he tells you: “Fate or not, you’re mine now. Mine”, you feel his teeth sink into your skin, “you hear me?”, his gaze when he looks up akin to the explosion of a sleeping volcano underneath an already blazing ocean, edging you onto the border of a slippery slope that is the point of no return once you process the 3 magic words that are glued to your tongue.

Instead two short words roll off, as a soft moan:“Yes, baby”.

“Gonna give you everything you want”, you feel his hands roam all over your body, “all of me”.

You lean back.

“All of you?”- your expression flickers with darkness, showing him your devilish desire, as his silent gaze shaves off the outer layers down to your core.

“You son of a bitch”, you breathe out, smiling, after a brief pause, for your racing heartbeat shifts to a contracting and pulsating firework, overtaking all of your senses. You study his handsome face, drinking in all the details you’ve grown so attached to, florescence of affection tugging your lips upwards in a gentle smile.

Constantine’s eyes set the fire in the pit of your belly ablaze on the scale that you’re sure will be the death of you some day, for being with him is like Heaven on Earth and being apart now seems like a cruel tool of a ghostly destruction.

His playful grin pulls you back in: “Calling me a son of a bitch when I got you on my dick? You’re brave, kitten”.

“That’s exactly why I can call you that. You’re my son of a bitch”, you grab his hair and give it a nice pull before you lean down to lick up his neck, placing a gentle kiss right under his ear, feeling him twitch inside you, “and Devil’s right hand, yeah?”

“More like his puppet”, Constantine grunts, as you look down at him, sensing him barely able to maintain the slow[ish] pace you’ve set, holding onto the last threads of self-restraint.

“So, no rewards for that, I suppose?”, you tease further, testing the limits of the mind games he’s been playing with you all day long.

“Afraid not, angel”.

“Let me be the one to send you to Heaven then”, you whisper right against his ear and kiss his temple.

All the blurry lines of will power come tumbling down, when the sound of him sucking air through his teeth enters your inner space, as Constantine’s hand finds its place between your jawline and neck.

Gradually, you encourage his index and middle fingers between your lips, his irises unable to focus anywhere else but the way you take them in, his whole body akin to a molten liquid metal, his fingers melting on your tongue. You giddily lick them, your tongue swirling around them, playing with his digits like lollipop toys, until you let go and take care of the saliva under Constantine’s furnace of a carnally hungry gaze.

You feel your hips stuttering against the increasing pace, when you hear his raspy voice: “Fuck, kitten, you feel like Heaven”, the energy between your bodies and feverish kisses multiplying in increasingly all consuming vehement abundance that can crack the earth open.

“Touché”.

A half smile coats his lips at your cute quip.

“Watch”, you tell him, his eyes shifting to the mirror somewhere behind you.

The heat of his hips rolling against yours at the speed that finds you both panting and sweaty messes is more than enough for him to tip over the edge but as his eyes take in the scene of your power over him, his body proceeds to come apart under you when your fingers wrap around his throat and apply pressure, slightly tipping his face up.

“Open”, you say, your thumb glazing over his soft lips, and he raises an eyebrow, “don’t you wanna cum, baby?”, you sweetly inquire.

“Fuck”, his voice is barely audible, Constantine’s eyes glimmer under your watchful lust, the darkness in the depth of the bottomless abyss that is him transcending what has become of his power over you. His eyelids flutter slightly, as your spit falls on his tongue.

“Swallow”, you reward him with a particularly harsh snap of your hips, seeing his Adam’s apple bobble.

“You’re gonna pay for that”, he growls.

“You’re a drama queen, you know that?”, you point out, leaving a love-bite mark on his collarbone, knowing damn well at the way he’s twitching inside you, he won’t be lasting long. You smirk, as you slow down the pace to a damn near full stop, eliciting a low and deep whine from him.

What the fuck, his eyes show you, roaming over your face hungrily.

“Tell me how much you want me”, you purr, feeling his fingers next to your scalp, tugging you closer.

“Fuck, angel, wanna feel you so bad”, an angelically evil smile plays on your face at his response, “need you on biblical level”, he finishes, the butterflies inside you catching aflame, their fiery wings spreading across every fibre of your being.

Constantine feels like he might go insane without you, your whole existence being the lone salvation he’s been seeking his entire life. He twitches again.

“Say that again”, your sultry tone pervades his mind, the pace picking up just a tiny bit.

“Need you to move, right now”, he begs.

You look at him expectantly.

“I can’t control myself any longer. Please, fuck me”, he looks up into your eyes that have turned into blazingly bright gates to the oblivion that is his path to purgatory. His gaze diverts back to the mirror and your goddess-like form against his.

“God, you’re sexy when you beg”, you whisper, Constantine can practically hear the cocky smirk in your voice, as a loud moan erupts from his throat, while he watches himself get ruined by everything that is you.

“I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel”, you exhale, listening to the way your name exits his lips akin to a gust of wind, blowing across an infinite ocean.

“Cheeky little girl”, he barely replies between the chain-smoke of moans.

“Fuck you”, you breathe out.

“Say no more”, he chuckles, his lips and teeth leaving bruises all over your sensitive chest, his hips meeting yours at an increasingly high speed.

“Fuck me harder”, he growls, his lips soliciting moans from yours.

“What a good girl”, he purrs and smiles against your neck, feeling your speed folding, as you attempt to gain the upper hand.

“My beautiful angel”, Constantine praises, kissing down the valley of your breasts, enjoying every single breathless moan that you leave for him to treasure, “you’re doing so well”, he continues, “I love it when you fuck me like this”, his lips graze yours before another storm of a kiss unfolds itself.

“Oh, yeah?”

“So good, I need you to fuck me like this every day”, his teeth tug your lower lip and let go, his open-mouth kiss then imprinting a picture of his love for you on your tongue.

“Need this pussy for breakfast, lunch and fucking dinner”, - a husky growl of his makes your insides deliciously twist.

“Say less”, you giggle after the kiss breaks apart, only for a yet another wave of kissing, biting, hair pulling and power play, resembling a balanced match, surpass the two of you.

You feel as if the sun that is the man, obeying your all desires, is scorching you with a strong nurturing vitality, meeting you halfway anytime you slip.

The sun, sometimes deadly, shining its light on you and sharing the experience of birth of the stars with you, until all you and Constantine know is that you can’t tell where one begins and the other ends.

“Cum for me, baby”, you whisper, your eyes hazily gazing into his.

“Fuck”, he moans into your mouth, as you and him become one in an endless explosion of lustful starlight.

You both take a moment to steady your breathing, the pulses of your bodies streaming along the lines of your silhouettes akin to the red string of fate. Suddenly, you feel yourself getting lifted and plopped on the bed, the heavy weight hovers above you.

“My turn”, Constantine growls, worshipping you and your body in a form of myriad of kisses, adoring your skin.

“I’m not finished with you”, you chuckle, pulling his face to yours.

“Wanna ride your pretty face so badly”, you breathe out shakily, watching his pupils dilate, turning his dark chocolate eyes into jet-black colour of the night outside your windows.

He kisses you deeply before teasing: “Should’ve said sooner, princess”, and flips you.

Before you know it, his lips are connected to your nether ones, placing sweet kisses on God’s bewitching and intricate creation.

“Oh, fuck!”, a scream leaves your mouth, as you lose control over your limbs when Constantine demonstrates his vicious payback for all of your previous manipulations, the delirious temptation to play him exiting your body like it was never there.

The way his tongue devours you till the last drop like a man starved, you assume you’re not the only one losing yourself to this trick of devilish pleasure, pulling you deeper into the whirlpool that keeps expanding wave by wave until it comes thundering through your body like a tsunami, then crashing onto a shore over and over, the sound of your screams mixing with the magnitude of Constantine’s sonic savouring of your most precious parts till his immeasurable hunger for all divinity that is you is satiated beyond your limits.

Songs for the delulu meal:

The best I ever had by Limi

Obsessed by Zandros ft. Limi

Dangerous woman Call out my name mix

Treedaddymcpuffpuff:

You don’t know if it’s some kind of magic, or if you’re just this petty. But, damn, that succubus did piss you off. Even worse than her, with her silky black hair and sweet milk skin and inviting, rosy eyes and cheeks.. You catch yourself mid thought, determined to pluck her from your brain.

Yes, even worse than that half breed bitch - Jesus, who are you? - was watching Tex suffer and bleed. Blue lips forming around a silent scream; a beg for the ritual to stop. Tan, supple skin turned ashen gray and tented. Dark eyes blown milky and wild with terror.

There’s another memory you have to get rid of somehow: Tex dying a slow, grueling death in some hellish, accelerated time loop. In front of you. Powerless you.

You have his take home medications clutched tightly to your torso as the Johns lug him inside, one under each arm, his feet stumbling and dragging so much that Wick decides to just pick him up.

Why in the world did that make you so delighted? To see John Wick carrying Tex Johnson bridal style across Constantine’s threshold?

Your smile wipes clean, though, when you realize that Tex has not made a witty quip or even grinned at this show of brotherhood. John deposits him on the couch, and you sit on the floor beside, holding his hand. Your stomach lodges into your chest when you feel how cold he is. Your human heater turned ice box.

“Tex,” you say softly, brushing the untamed thicket of hair from his eyes.

He keeps his eyes closed, but that fond little tick of his mouth lets you know he hears you loud and clear.

You swallow your pride. “I missed you, too.”

You hope to God he’ll harass you for saying that, later.

For now, a grunt will suffice.

This man has put you through hell, but fuck, if he hasn’t been heaven all the way through it. You had really thought he was dying back there, and it…. put things into perspective.

Wick is in the kitchen dwarfing the tiny dining table with Constantine. Not talking, not even looking at one another. Some kind of tension exists between them, but at least it’s not the awkward or homicidal kind… well, at least as far as you can tell.

You grab some cold bourbon from the fridge, pour 3 glasses, and dish them out. Then, you hop up on the counter and join this sinewy silence game.

Wick breaks the skin, twin eyes meeting Constantine’s. “Thank you,” he says.

Constantine grins tightly. “Consider it repayment.”

“For?”

Oh, here we fucking go.

Constantine, the bastard prodigy of Lucifer himself - or, he might as well be - doesn’t answer, instead nudging his chin and shoulder toward you, as if you’re some prize Wick handed to him on a silver platter.

Now, you don’t really know what to expect from John. Fiercely protective, aloof John. But it’s definitely not a grin. A fucking grin. Yeah, he really has gone totally batshit. Terrifying.

Constantine looks stumped, and so do you.

“I’m gonna get going,” Wick says, standing and draping his jacket around his arms. You get a strong wiff of delicious leather and diesel and gunpowder.

“You’re leaving?” This comes out of your mouth before you can stop it.

“Yeah.”

“What about Tex?”

“I’ll be near.”

No use fronting now.

“What if something happens? What if we need you -“

Constantine cuts off your increasingly frantic voice. “I think you should stay.”

It’s Wick’s turn to look stumped. He raises a dark eyebrow. Constantine rewords.

“Please. Stay. We may need you.” Constantine looks over at you, giving that you owe me leer.

Your nerves settle when Wick puts his jacket back on the rack and slips his shoes off, looking at you all the while.

John Wick sleeps in the little broom closet turned guest room, and you and Constantine retire to your bedroom. This place is purely a you sanctuary, with incense burners and tapestries and little trinkets you’ve collected from your travels. It’s a souvenir from your limited therapy sessions, and a much needed safe space.

Before you can shut the bedroom door, you hear John’s monotone voice turn doting. It reminds you of being soothed through an orgasm, him cradling you when you cried - the hum that disarms and breaks you.

You go to him, peaking inside the narrow door that he had to duck to get through. Killy is rubbing against Wick’s torso, purring, headbutting, her tiny fluffy body practically vibrating from the attention of his big hand.

He smiles at you. “Who’s this?”

“Oh, meet Baby Killy. She’s so shy usually.”

“Pretty kitty,” John coos, scratching behind her ears as she chirps for him.

Great, you’re jealous of a cat. Which is stupid because you have a whole other man in the next room that can’t keep his hands off you. You’re selfish, you realize.

“Sorry it’s not comfortable,” you tell Wick, looking at his calves hanging off the tiny mattress. “I can buy an air mattress.”

He twirls Killy’s tail softly around his finger. “It’s fine, y/n. Get some rest.”

“Yeah. Night John.” You leave him, pretending it’s not reluctantly.

Constantine is already in his boxers, cigarette nipped between his teeth. You pluck it from him and take a long drag. “Thought we were supposed to be quitting?” Blowing smoke over his lips.

He tugs you down into the bed with him. “I’ve had a long day.”

“Aw, poor thing.” You kiss his jaw, shimmying the white stick back into his mouth.

Your lips trail feather light down his quivering throat, nose pausing, nuzzling against his quickening pulse. A shy, involuntary smile slides into his collarbone divot. Your magic man shivers under you, makes you feel like you can kick God’s ass if it really comes down to it.

He gently fists your hair in his fingers while you suck the hard day off his skin, hand trailing south on his tight twitching tummy, lazily perusing in search of a swelling, sensitive, beautiful cock trapped in cloth.

He smushes the half cigarette out in your little pearlescent ashtray, tips your face up, kisses you soft. Kisses you like you like you’re some being of fleeting, fragile light and hope. “Hey.”

“Hey.” You grin against his mouth, using that familiar formal, ironic greeting that he favors when you’re both wading knee deep into eachother’s personal space already.

You pull away to look down at his tenting boxers, but your eyes snag something on the way. A big, fresh bruise to his opposite collar - wide and diffuse as if from a large hand. It’s normal for Constantine to have bruises, and he did fight demons today. But this mark? Fresh. Just blooming. Plus, the only one on his long, expansive body.

Your mind thinks back to the kitchen, how they were both so quiet. Looking far too innocent. You feel stupid for not expecting this.

“Did John hit you?” You’ve gotten really good at talking before thinking. Just one of many Constantine mannerisms you’ve picked up along the journey of knowing him.

“We talked.”

You go to get up. No plan in mind except hurting Wick. Really hurting him. Either with words or a quicker fist than he can catch. Probably the latter, since John excels at catching fists, but you still think you can slice him just as much with a few well placed sentences. Of course, you could also try out this nifty new spell of submission..

Constantine holds you in place. “I started it.”

“I don’t give a fuck.” You see him wince at the sinister growl in your voice, and your spiked fur smooths a little bit if only for his benefit. “He’s a fucking asshole. He thinks he can just bully people into submission. Let’s see how he likes it.” You’re talking loud enough that you hope Wick can hear it. You know he’s not scared… because it’s John Wick, but, you at least hope he knows you’re coming for his throat.

“Angel.” Constantine’s long, careful fingers cup your face. “It’s alright. Not tonight. Let you kick his ass tomorrow, okay? Right now, I need you with me. Hey, look at me…. There you are. You hearing me?”

You lean into his touch and kiss his wrist. “Yeah, okay.”

“C’mon.” He pats his chest and you lay your head on it. “Now, where were we..”

You give a little chuckle. “In the pit of despair?”

He gathers your hair and pulls it off your shoulder, tickles his fingers over your neck. “I think…” he murmurs.

“Yeah?” It thrills and scares you a little bit that this man can make such a breathy, desperate mess of you from just a tiny touch.

“Think you should put on some pajamas and let me read to you.”

Suddenly, your anger runs dry, replaced by excitement. He laughs at your hopeful, mystified expression.

“You’re gonna read to me?”

“Yeah, yeah. Better hurry before I change my mind.”

You love it when Constantine reads to you, always mesmerized by that smooth, baritone voice, and it’s not often that he’s up for it.

You don’t bother going into the bathroom to get dressed, which you can tell he appreciates. You can also tell that he loves the fact that you bypass your own clothes entirely and instead throw on one of his big flannels.

You cuddle beside him, wrap your arms around his waist and tuck in for your after dark entertainment.

“Hey, hey, Angel.” It takes you a minute to open your eyes. Constantine assists this process with a pleasant rub between your shoulder blades and a hushed voice.

“Huh?” Your voice is groggy, far away, brain still swimming in twilight.

Constantine gives you a patient stretch of time to wake and groan and wipe the spare drool from your chin. The blue dawn outside tells you that it’s early - way too early. You don’t remember falling asleep, and it must have been a glorious one judging by your wicked bed head and sore voice.

“What? What’s going on?”

“Clint Eastwood won’t let James Bond give him his medicine. He says he wants you to do it.”

“Are you serious?” You ask.

Constantine opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He sighs. “Yeah.”

“What the fuck,” you mumble.

Tex, eyes open, sitting up, cat on his lap, looks at you like you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread. Big, appreciative grin. You can’t be annoyed for too long when you see that he has color back in his face.

“Hello, nurse.”

Damn his infectious grin. “What? John’s not a good enough nurse for you?”

“He’s alright. Not very cute, though.” He sizes you up as you roll your eyes and snort.

He gives you a little wink. “See you still hate wearin your own clothes.”

You look down at yourself - at the big cozy button flannel that falls mid thigh with nothing else on under or over it. You really didn’t even think about how exposed you were when you got up and came out here. But, now, you’re flushing and shifting on your feet.

“Oh, don’t get shy on me now, rattlesnake. I’ve had all of it in my mouth anyway, yeah?”

Sinful reels flit through your memories. And, fuck you, but even that makes you so wet you can feel it in the crease of your thighs already.

The reality hits you that this could be a thing, somehow: Johnson and the Johns with you pressed between. You short circuit thinking about it for a solid twenty seconds.

Tex chuckles, pets Killy. “Your momma’s too easy,” he tells her, and the traitor purrs and merrs and pushes into his doting palm as if in agreement.

Great, two treasonous pussy’s in this house.

Plus, you’re about ninety nine percent sure Constantine will do more than curse them if he sees their hands on you in any carnal way. Even though this thing between the two of you is unestablished and unlabeled, your magic man is more than a little possessive.

You remember, fondly, the time he pissed you off, so you went on a date with a nice young gentleman who also happened to be a cop - Johnny, you think his name was. Jesus fuck, you really do have issues - and Constantine blew every fuse in that restaurant with a spell. In the pitch black, no one saw him come pick you right up and carry you out. That night started with “fuck you, Constantine” and ended with “no no agh fuck please m’ sorryjohnsosorry.”

Wick’s nowhere to be found, which you don’t really mind. If you see him again, you might just try kicking him in the dick. You mix Tex’s medicines in the kitchen, heating up the thick herbal soup in a little pot. It smells bad, kinda like fish, draws Killy’s attention really quick.

She brushes against your legs and reminds you that she’s hungry and that oh, that smells good, mom.

You scoop her out a cup of kitty kibble while the stove simmers, then give her a few pets. It’s not often that she’s so doting on you - she prefers Constantine and solidarity over your company. But, she must know something’s up - either that or it’s the fishy concoction steaming up your little kitchen.

Tex winces when you rub the salve into his burn. It looks awful - dry and necrotic, little charred skin flakes sticking to your fingertips.

You scrub them off on a towel, grimacing. “Does this hurt?”

“Numb,” he shrugs. Reaches out to tuck hair behind your ear. Your body reacts violently and insistently. Constantine’s touch, pleasant and warm and diffuse; that’s what you’re used to. You forgot about Tex’s sharp edges, the scary thrill of him. Like the first drop of the roller coaster.

“Tex,” you warn.

“Sorry, darlin. Just so fuckin pretty. Forgot how beautiful you are, is all. How good ya smell. Christ, even with Houdini’s scent all over you.” He pinches your chin in his fingers and makes you look at him, at the sincerity in his blown black pupils and hooded, lustful gaze. “He eatin your pussy right, huh? Need me to show him how to do it?”

“You know,” you say, hating yourself for the thick in your voice, “I have this nifty new spell I can use…”

He chuckles. “Settle down, honeypie, I’m just trying to be nice, is all.”

“Nice.” You glare at him and he lets you go.

The fishy stuff in the mug wipes the grin right off Tex’s face. He chokes and sputters. “Good God, what in hell’s name is this Guacala shit.”

You smile at him and take the empty cup. “Every six hours, cowboy.”

On your way back into the bedroom, he watches you unabashedly. Killy is back on his lap. “You got a shower here, rattlesnake?”

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” you tell him.

“Think I need some help.”

“Uh huh. You can manage.”

“Alright, you got me. I don’t really need help I just wanna fuck the shit outta ya.”

“Sorry, Tex, but that’s-“ you look pointedly at the purring feline in his lap -“the only pussy you’ll be getting in this house.”

You shut your door before you can catch his mumble: “we’ll just see about that.”

Constantine is in his study. You debate going and fucking him on the desk chair, working off this sticky arousal coating your cunt and inner thighs. But, also, you’re still sleepy, and laying down in the bed already has your eyelids fluttering closed and brain going mushy. You struggle between options until your body eventually decides for you.

You wake up to the delicious evocation of salt and fat and heat. John Wick is back. He’s in the kitchen cooking one of those five star breakfasts that are worth letting him live. For now.

Bread pops up from the toaster, startling you. “Hey, that’s been broken.”

“Fixed it,” he says, dexterously flipping his pan. “Got the faucet to work in the bathroom sink. Your drain’s here are built wrong. I’m gonna take a look after I finish breakfast. There’s fresh orange juice and chocolate milk in the fridge. Coffee on the warmer.”

“That’s not my coffee pot.” You eye the expensive looking, silver, sleek appliance with steaming black, delicious smelling brew under.

“I got a new one.”

Are you really surprised at this point? You grab some orange juice from the fridge, and find the once bare shelves stocked and organized with fresh fruits and veggies, eggs and jams, healthy pre-made snack boxes.

The cupboards have also magically filled themselves with canned fruits and veggies, organic breads, high end trail mixes, protein bars.

The place is spotlessly clean. New microwave, an ice maker beside the stove. Real glasses and plates stacked in the cupboards.

Wick has been busy, it seems.

Constantine walks into the kitchen, paying attention to the newspaper in his hand instead of his surroundings until he sees you. “Hey, Angel-“ looks up, takes in the practically brand new kitchen. “What in the fuck.”

#wicked johnson fic #john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick fic #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #yandere john wick #tex johnson #tex johnson x reader #tex johnson x you #yandere tex johnson #constantine x you #john constantine x you #constantine 2005 #john constantine x reader #constantine x reader #keanu reeves

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bozawarriorsposting · 5 months

Text

Following up from my last post about this AU, this is some info about the four damned souls on 'probation' and their Overseer

Mudclaw

The ““““Leader”””” of the group

Spent his entire life with the ambition of becoming leader, grew up with stories of his great ancestors and what a Warrior should be

Devoted himself to his clan and lived every second of every day as the ideal Warrior cat, revered the Stars and it seemed it payed of as he was made deputy

Stolen from him and given to some sniveling coward making googly eyes at a Thunderclan kittypet

VERY bitter

Tries to take charge in every situation, the other three tend to fight him on this depending on how dire it is

Gruff, blunt, cold, and easily irritable

“Ends Justify the means” as a lifelong motto, and they are doing Starclans will, so the Ends MUST be good

Despises the other three, but this goes for all of them

Does find some enjoyment in these missions, it's something to do, a chance to prove himself,

makes it feel less like his life is over

Can manipulate mud and physical matter as a spirit, very good for dropping trees on cats, Starclan has a sense of humor

Ashfur

Felt fully vindicated by Starclan’s decision to let him in, and was happy to watch as Squirrelflight and her wretched family suffered

Yet… they did cope with it, and while everyone back in the real world recovered, Ashfur was still dead, still alone

His obsession emerged again as Ashfur found that his death was as empty as his life

He HAD to do something…

Yeah, Starclan decided to nip that one in the bud

PISSED at them for shunting him here

He thought he was proven right with his entry into Starclan, then they let his murderer in too

WILL try and take revenge on the stars… at some point

Dubious honor of being the most amoral out of the four

I mean, its neck and neck all the way down

Tends to keep his unhinged nature in check

Pretty good liar, capable of disguising his true self

Still gives everyone else the creeps so they still don’t trust him

Thinks he is far more clever then he actually is

Generally acts as a moody, if very vindictive. Will sometimes just get very Overdramatic about something tho.

Ability to possess living cats, that and also limited emotional manipulation for more discrete methods

Needletail

Out of the four, the one that most recognizes she messed up

Which isn’t saying much, she still sees her rebellion as justified, and Rowanstar as being more culpable just because of how weak he was

Rebellious teenager turns into a very rebellious ghost

She isn’t doing this for Starclan’s approval, she wants to be in Starclan when Violet dies so she can apologize for everything

Has something resembling a moral backbone

Still self serving in the end, and it’s not hard to have moral standard higher then zero

She tends to go along with the plans, but makes her displeasure abundantly clear

Is very caustic, snapping at everyone more than the others usually do

On the lighter end, she might play pranks on the rest of them, the others will find it funny as long as it doesn't happen to them.

Sometimes plays contrarian just for the sake of it

She is surrounded by stuck up fanatics that will do whatever Starclan tells them to, so why not screw with them a little?

Doesn't actually mind this As much as the others, She was bored and tired in Starclan with nothing but constant reminders of her mistake, now she is a ghost and gets to do spooky stuff occasionally, kick ass.

While Needletail is bothered by some of the stuff they do, doesn't mean she doesn't enjoy scaring some apprentices out of a forest because "Starclan's Will" or something.

Power is either luck control or something that similarly is unpredictable and upends everything

Appledusk

Is having the worst time

Was looked down upon in Starclan, he was an average warrior, and is now solely remembered as a consequence in what is the equivalent of an old wives tail

He wasn’t particularly ambitious or anything, but it does sting to be known as nothing more than what happens when you have a cross Clan relationship

Then suddenly THIS happens

Out of the four, he is the most afraid of ending up in the dark forest, for obvious reasons

Would have the thing most resembling a moral compass, but has absolutely zero spine

Is essentially resigned to doing whatever Starclan tells him so he can get back up there

Has also been dead the longest out of the four, so there is some disconnect between him and actually living, more like a loose memory at this point

In life was a smooth talker, real womanizing charmer, a real sleazy asshole

And he still acts like that occasionally

But under the surface he is just exhausted, wants to go back up to starclan and rest until he fades

But nope, he is going back down to the mortal plain, risk getting murdered by his ex, and have to work with a bunch of War Criminals

His power is warding of some kind, while the other three affect the physical world, he makes sure they don’t get attacked by the things lurking in the forest, or for other starclan spirits to find them and ask exactly what they are doing

Clear Sky

Very much enjoying getting to lord over other cats again

This was more or less his idea with what to do with at-risk Starclan cats, is trying to keep it on the down low in terms of activities

Not a secret, he did get the thumbs up from the rest of Starclan, but he does keep their operations vague in terms of what exactly happens

Starclan gets what it wants, prophecies come true, who is paying attention to the details

What does it matter if some mortal lives get ruined

Been dead for so long that the idea of a mortal life is almost unimaginable to him

Is proof of why Fading exists

Represents Starclan at both its most self righteous and amoral

He is morally right because he is the stars

You know the Vast from TMA? that's essentially what he can do

If you piss him off, you will be getting the worst case of vertigo of your life at best

Falling forever in a pocket dimension at worst

Falling from the very real sky and into the very real ground as a sort of midpoint between experiences

On the mortal plain, a clear sky means that he can observe almost everything from above

The Four learn to fear a bright sunny day and a cloudless blue sky, for it means that their “Benefactor” is watching

#warrior cats #warrior cats au #appledusk #mudclaw #needletail #clear sky #ashfur #wc

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annkamol · 2 months

Text

关于融合

Dream I was thinking that maybe Dan wanted to take the initiative in the relationship with Clockwork at the beginning to emphasize that he was not a pet or prisoner who could be petted by anyone. But when he felt some "pleasure"…well, maybe he would take the initiative to ask Clockwork for it. Maybe he would ask Clockwork to touch him more, or deliberately come close to him? He narrowed his eyes as Clockwork's fingers gently ran through his flaming, pale hair and stroked it gently, like a big cat enjoying himself. It's like when you reach out your hand, a cat will come over and put its head in your palm…

skull I think Clockwork could also be worried about unnecessarily antagonizing Dan if he sexually harassed him, and his advances were unwanted So they both have compelling reasons for why it makes sense for Dan to make the first move…

Dream Maybe Dan doesn't realize he's sexually harassing Clockwork🤭 Yes! Do you think Vlad will be a virgin? Assuming Vlad has no sexual experience either, then Dan won't have any either… Dan seems like a vandal. I don't think he would be interested in such things before this, nor would he give anyone a chance to get close to him

skull Certainly, one could contrive a reason that Clockwork might bully Dan… For example, if he only saved Dan so that he could have a new toy to play with… But if clockwork's job is to protect the timeline, antagonizing Dan puts it in unnecessary jeopardy 🤔

skull This one I'm a little unsure of… He was a very eligible bachelor for his money. Maybe he slept with women after all…

Dream I think this should be like what you wrote, a challenge to more possibilities, plus a sense of responsibility, plus the fear of causing more trouble

skull But this one is definitely true 😭

Dream Also, even if Clockwork's will is indestructible, he doesn't necessarily want to be fused and then separated. Indeed, he looks like he has some scars on his body, and I guess he will still be in pain and tired. He is not a masochist, so it is logical for him to do something to try to avoid such a future! For example, let Dan out early and give him proper care🥰

skull That’s right! He's an old man who lives alone… He's not looking for trouble 😭 Yes!! His behavior may be playful, but his soul and the motives behind his actions are compassionate…

Dream The topic we discussed is even funnier when you think about it this way… When Dan already looks like a good cat who can stay docile, he sees the future of fusion from the "movie", and then he says to Clockwork: I'm interested. Want to try it? Clockwork:😨

Why is everything back to square one? ?

skull

Dan, flirting: Do you want to give it a try?

What clockwork hears: Do you think you can take me? :heh: (in a fight)

Dream

Then Dan slowly walked towards him… Clockwork backed away nervously… 😋

skull

(Note: there's a joke in English that starts with a picture of a big strong man, and someone comments, "I could take him." As in, "I could endure his strength and defeat him in combat." But "take" has several sexual meanings, too, like "fuck"…

So the exchange goes,

A: 🤔… I could take him.

B: In a fight, right?

A: … :)

B: … IN A FIGHT, RIGHT…?)

——Yes… If Dan moves slowly, he's allowed…!! I like that you included that detail!!!

Dan very slowly backs Clockwork up against the console… The very slow pace would definitely heighten the tension…

Dream

I know that! ! !

skull

Dan slowly covers Clockwork's hands with his… Dan slowly leans in, and breathes cool air over clockwork's lips… Dan slowly brushes his lips along clockwork's jaw… Even though everything is happening very slowly and gently, I'm sure clockwork would be thinking something like, "Isn't this still moving too fast?!"

Dream

It would be more fun if Dan was bored and watched some programs such as SU…

He will think they formed a new gem... Ghost can do it too?! He must try it...

He has only eaten ghosts before, but he didn't expect that he could fuse like this [? ]

It's hard not to think about how Clockwork would feel. Clockwork would definitely think it's too scary. How could he still be unable to escape?

skull

Right... Technically, Dan himself was already a fusion.

Dream

Yes…

skull

Imagine if he watched the show, and sat up when the first fusion with Opal happened. And then he gets suspicious about the fact that Garnet has two gems…

Dream

So when he says: Should we try it?

What Dan means: Should we have sex on a deeper level?

What Clockwork understands: Can I kill you/eat you?

——

Yes!!!

Will he try to separate himself into Danny and Vlad? Then it turned out that no, he was already a complete individual...

skull

He starts to wonder, is Garnet a fusion?

No, that would be too obvious...

But what if she is? Why would two gems be fused all the time...?

Were they locked in fateful combat when something catalyzed, and they fused permanently? Were they forced together like cellmates?

Maybe they were both grievously injured, and could only survive by staying together forever …

——

You understand me 🤭 But after all, I think this was your idea, too 😉

Dream

But he will find it's because LOVE

skull

Dan would be totally blown away by the revelation that it was for love...

skull

RIGHT... He's going to stare at the screen so confused (I'm sure he likes Jasper :rolling_eyes_but_smiling:) What do you mean love is stronger than me?! I'll kill you

Dream

Yes…not attack but love

skull

In fact, maybe Garnet's future sight and mysterious personality remind him of Clockwork... So it stings even worse that Garnet defeats Jasper (even though Dan may have begun to cheer for the protagonists, they're all too goody-two-shoes for him)

Dream

Go and take him

skull

LMAO

That's right...

He has to get revenge... For Jasper...! 😤

Dream

Go get him😌

skull

Dan discovers Clockwork in the tower and corners him... Clockwork looks up and asks if he's done watching television.

Dream

What will Clockwork do

skull

Dan pushes him against a wall, and speaks very close... He says, "Don't think that something as pathetic as 'love' can defeat me... I could still kill you at any time."

Dan: (defending his and Jasper's honor)

Clockwork hears: (Dan just discovered he's in love with Clockwork and is really mad about it)

Dream

Omg… LMAO

Go get him! !《Stronger than you》😌

skull

Hmm... What could Clockwork say to descalate in usual fashion...? :KittyFrog:

Dream

Maybe he asked Dan what he wanted? and lowered his voice softly...

He tried to figure out what he had done to make Dan so crazy all of a sudden…

If it was because of what he had done, he wouldn't mind doing more, as long as it satisfied the beast

skull

Clockwork slowly (slowly!) lifts a hand and touches Dan's wrist, because his fist is twisted up in Clockwork's cloak...

"Dan," he says gently, "I've never forgotten for a moment what you're truly capable of."

Dream

OMG...

He's really in control!

Acknowledge Dan's strength... Instead of trying to avoid

skull

he has to be! If he says the wrong thing, Dan could become enraged and lash out...

Dream

Dan looks like a domestic violence man who beats his wife if he gets the slightest bit of trouble😒

skull

Clockwork: (saying he knows Dan is capable of incredible destruction, and everything he does is BECAUSE he knows how dangerous he is)

Dan: (he hears the same thing (Clockwork acknowledging his strength) but CW says it so tenderly and knowingly that Dan is immediately soothed, flustered, and flattered . for some reason, it feels like a love confession...)

(true intimacy is mutual knowledge, after all)

Dream

He tried to maintain his pride, and Clockwork satisfied him perfectly, providing him with the greatest emotional value…

skull

JGDUTWRAI5S

Dream

Maybe he will kiss Clockwork again uncontrollably... Although he doesn't know why he should do this…

skull

Yes!!! 😭

Dream

Clockwork was shocked to think: He really loves me??

skull

Fortunately, he's also a sad puppy in the rain, so when Clockwork praises him he suddenly gets shy and sweet... Looking up hopefully for more attention...

Dream

Yes... For he had lost everything, and every cell in him was screaming for love...

skull

Dan: I could kill you... 😡

Clockwork: I know, it's very impressive.

Dan: R-Really...?? :flushed_cat: (feeling like his strength has been acknowledged)

Dream

He couldn't help kissing Clockwork, which actually meant: Please love me

skull

Wow... It's so poignant...! 😭 He definitely wouldn't be able to stop himself from kissing Clockwork after that...

Dream

Yes... Maybe sometimes, he will use his tiger teeth to gently bite the lips of Clockwork... Clockwork accepted in silence, he was not sure how to respond, just feel the ethereal blank... But once, when he regained consciousness, Clockwork suddenly found his hand around Dan's neck...🥰

Dan 's hair burned between his fingers, but it seemed to burn to his soul😌

skull

Wow... Thesetwo can completely misunderstand each other, while still understanding one another perfectly, and having kisses intense enough to explode distant stars

Dream

Yes! !

And I'm thinking! ! Even though Clockwork was wearing gloves, he could still feel the flames licking his fingers clearly and energetically... Would he feel confused and take off his gloves and touch Dan's hair again?

If he did so...🤔 he would find that whether he touched Dan with gloves on or without them, the feeling was the same... vaguely, he seemed to have discovered something…

————————————————————

中文：

Dream

我在想，可能一开始丹想在和发条的关系中占据主动，以强调自己并不是一个任人抚摸的宠物或者囚犯

但当他感受到了某些“乐趣”之后……嗯，也许他会主动向发条索取

可能会要求发条多摸摸他，或者故意贴过来？发条的手指温柔穿过他火焰般的，苍白色的头发，并轻轻抚摸时，他眯起眼睛，像是享受中的大猫

就好像你伸手，猫就会主动凑过来，把头放在你的手心……

skull

我想Clockwork也可能担心如果他性骚扰了他，而他的追求是不受欢迎的，他会不必要地激怒Dan

所以有令人信服的理由，证明为什么Dan主动采取行动是合理的……

Dream

也许Dan没有意识到他在性骚扰Clockwork🤭

是的！

你认为 Vlad 会是个老处男吗？

假设 Vlad 也没有性经验，那么 Dan 也不会有……

丹看起来像是一个破坏狂，我觉得在这之前，他不会对这种事情有兴趣，也不会给任何人接近他的机会

skull

当然，人们可以想出一个理由，说 Clockwork 可能会欺负 Dan……例如，如果他只是为了有一个新的玩具可以玩而救了 Dan……但如果 Clockwork 的工作是保护时间线，那么激怒 Dan 会让它陷入不必要的危险 🤔

skull

这个我有点不确定……他是一个非常有资格的单身汉，值得花钱。也许他毕竟睡过女人……

Dream

我觉得这个应该就好像你写的那样，一种对更多可能性的挑战，加上责任感，加上怕惹出更大的麻烦

skull

不过这一条绝对是真的😭

Dream

而且，就算发条的意志坚不可摧，他也不一定想被融合再分开，的确他身上看起来也有一些伤痕，我猜测还是会有痛苦和疲惫的

他又不是受虐狂，所以他做点什么来尝试让自己避免遭受那样的未来是很符合逻辑的！比如把丹提前放出来，再给予适当的关爱🥰

skull

没错！他是一个独居的老人……他不是在找麻烦😭

是的！！他的行为或许很顽皮，但他的灵魂和行为背后的动机却是富有同情心的……

Dream

这么一想我们讨论的那个话题更好笑了……当丹已经看起来像一只能保持温顺的好猫，他从“电影”中看到了融合的未来，然后他对发条说：我很感兴趣。要试一试吗？

Clockwork:😨

为什么一切都回到原点？？

skull

丹，调情：你想试试吗？

发条听到的：你觉得你能拿下我吗？ :heh:（打架）

Dream

然后丹慢慢地朝他走去……Clockwork 紧张地往后退……😋

skull

（注意：英语中有一个笑话，开头是一个强壮的大个子男人的照片，有人评论说，“我可以打败他。”比如，“我可以忍受他的力量，在战斗中打败他。”但“take”也有几个性方面的含义，比如“fuck”……所以对话是这样的，

A：🤔……我可以打败他。

B：打架，对吧？

A：……:)

B：……打架，对吧……？）

——

是的……如果丹动作慢，他是可以的……！！我喜欢你加入了这个细节！！！

丹非常缓慢地把 Clockwork 在控制台上……非常缓慢的节奏肯定会加剧紧张感……

Dream

我知道！！！

skull

丹慢慢地握住发条的手……丹慢慢地俯下身子，冰凉的气息拂过发条的嘴唇……丹慢慢地用嘴唇轻抚发条的下巴……虽然一切都进行得很缓慢、很轻柔，但我相信发条一定会想，“这还不算太快吗？！”

Dream

假如丹闲得无聊，看过一些节目比如SU，就更好玩了……

他会认为他们形成了一颗新的宝石……幽灵也能做到？！他一定要试试……

他只吃过幽灵，没想到还可以这样融合【？】

我很难不去想发条会是什么感觉，发条肯定会觉得太可怕了，他怎么还是难逃一劫

skull

是啊……从技术上讲，丹自己已经是融合体了。

Dream

是的……

skull

想象一下，如果他看了节目，在第一次融合成欧泊时坐了起来。然后他对石榴石有两颗宝石的事实产生了怀疑……

Dream

所以当他说：我们要试试吗？

丹的意思：我们更深层次地性爱吗？

发条的理解：我能杀了你/吃了你吗？

——

是的！！！

他会试图把自己分成丹尼和弗拉德吗？随后发现不行，他已经是一个完整的个体了……

skull

他开始怀疑，石榴石是融合吗？

不，那太明显了……

但如果是呢？为什么两颗宝石总是会融合……？

当某种东西催化时，他们是否陷入了宿命般的战斗，然后他们永久地融合了？他们像狱友一样被迫在一起吗？

也许他们俩都受了重伤，只有永远在一起才能活下去……

——

你理解我 🤭 但毕竟，我认为这也是你的主意 😉

Dream

但他会发现这是因为爱

skull

丹会完全被这是为了爱而启示所震惊……

skull

是的……他会如此困惑地盯着屏幕（我敢肯定他喜欢Jasper：rolling_eyes_but_smiling:）你是什么意思，爱比我更强大？！我会杀了你

Dream

是的……不是攻击而是爱

skull

事实上，也许 Garnet 的未来景象和神秘的个性让他想起了 Clockwork……所以 Garnet 打败 Jasper 让他更难过（尽管 Dan 可能已经开始为主角们加油，但对他来说他们都太善良了）

Dream

去拿下他

skull

哈哈哈

没错……

他必须报仇……为了 Jasper……！😤

Dream

掌握他😌

skull

Dan 在塔里发现了 Clockwork 并将他逼到角落……Clockwork 抬起头问他看完电视了吗。

Dream

Clockwork 会做什么

skull

Dan 将他推到墙上，非常近距离地说话……他说，“别以为像‘爱’这样可悲的东西可以打败我……我随时都可以杀了你。”

Dan：（捍卫他和 Jasper 的荣誉）

Clockwork 听到：（Dan 刚刚发现他爱上了 Clockwork，并且真的很生气）

Dream

��哪……哈哈哈

去抓住他！！《Stronger than you》😌（歌名）

skull

嗯……Clockwork 能说什么来以通常的方式缓和局势……？：KittyFrog：

Dream

也许他问丹想要什么？并且轻柔地把声音放低……

他试图弄明白自己做了什么，让丹突然如此疯狂……如果是因为他做了什么，他不介意做更多，只要能让这只野兽满意

skull

Clockwork 慢慢地（慢慢地！）举起一只手触摸丹的手腕，因为丹的拳头正在 Clockwork 的斗篷里扭动着……

“丹，”他温柔地说，“我一刻也没有忘记你真正的能力。”

Dream

天哪……

他真的掌控一切！

承认丹的力量……他必须这样做，而不是试图避开

skull

如果他说错话，丹可能会变得愤怒并大发雷霆……

Dream

丹看起来像是稍有不顺心就会打妻子的家暴男😒

skull

Clockwork：（说他知道丹有能力造成令人难以置信的破坏，他所做的一切都是因为他知道他有多危险）

Dan：（他听到了同样的话（Clockwork 承认他的实力）但 CW 说得如此温柔和知情，以至于丹立刻得到了安慰、慌乱和奉承。不知为何，感觉就像是爱情的告白……）

（真正的亲密关系毕竟是相互了解）

Dream

他尝试维护自己的骄傲，而发条完美地满足了他，给他提供了最大的情绪价值……

skull

JGDUTWRAI5S

Dream

也许他会又情不自禁地亲吻发条……虽然他也不知道自己为什么要这么做……

skull

是的！！！😭

Dream

Clockwork 震惊地想：他真的爱我？？

skull

幸运的是，他也是一只在雨中悲伤的小狗，所以当 Clockwork 称赞他时，他突然变得害羞和可爱……抬起头来，希望得到更多的关注……

Dream

是的……因为他已经失去了一切，他体内的每一个细胞都在为渴望爱而尖叫……

skull

Dan：我可以杀了你……😡

Clockwork：我知道，这很令人印象深刻。

Dan：真的吗……？：flushed_cat：（感觉他的实力得到了认可）

Dream

他忍不住吻了Clockwork，其实意思是：请你爱我

skull

哇……好凄美……！😭 以后他肯定忍不住吻Clockwork了……

Dream

是的……也许有时候，他会用虎牙轻轻咬住Clockwork的嘴唇……Clockwork默默地接受了，他不知道该如何回应，只觉得空灵的空白……但有一次，当他恢复意识时，Clockwork突然发现自己的手搂住了Dan的脖子……🥰

Dan的头发在他指尖间燃烧，但似乎烧到了他的灵魂😌

skull

哇……这两个人可以完全误解对方，却又完全理解对方，而且他们的吻热烈到足以让遥远的超新星爆炸

Dream

是的！！

而且我在想！！明明发条戴着手套，他还是会感觉到火焰清晰又充满活力地舔舐着他的手指……他会不会感觉到困惑，并且摘下手套，重新去摸丹的头发？

如果他这样做了……🤔他就会发现，不管他戴着手套摸丹，还是摘下手套，那种感觉是一样的……隐约间，他好像发现了什么……

#meddling minutes

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