#m . dc musings

[dthroned-sameurl]

smol but will fight u . doesn't care if you're 8ft tall , she will take u down .

[creepling]

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ dating digger harkness headcanons

this is a very specific reader because i love the idea of this grimy hobo having a cute, smart girly partner that is the candy floss to his raccoon energy OKAYYY. also tcm shenanigans will be back shortly, i just had to give some love to a dc rogue like the old times<33

tags: feminine reader (wears dress, skirt, heels, mild makeup and has breasts and v) but gn pronouns. sugar daddy digger if you squint. reader is a jailbird. cuddling. pet name: birdie. smut under the cut - minors dni. polaroid nudes. (m) masturbation. thoughts of: oral (m receiving) and cowgirl.

If you were to ask Digger the first thing he noticed about you, his caveman mind would be objectifying. But your ass did look very flattering in your skirt and the smile you shot his way was the cherry on top. He likes them sweet and innocent, you like them rugged and dangerous. It was a match made in hell heaven.

After a few dates spent in dingy pubs and lover’s lanes, he was enamoured by you. He’s never had someone look at him the way you do. Eyes full of light, glistening at the sight of him. You always welcomed him with open arms, practically throwing yourself at him. He liked how easy you were to pick up, and the way you wrapped your limbs around him. How your soft skin blushes red against his scruffy neck. No matter the setting, you sat so close to him that you were more or less on his lap. He wraps his arms around you, or has a hand on your thigh, letting nearby acquaintances know you belong together. Digger thinks to himself, “I got so fucking lucky.”

His love languages are primarily gift-giving and physical touch. More times than you can count, Digger has fallen asleep on top of you. Either on the couch, while watching a movie or he found a way to snake between your legs while sleeping, he has a habit of using you like a pillow. You developed a kinship in moments like this where you play with his hair, massaging your fingers into the nape of his neck or twirling the strands that curtain his temples. You muse at his sleep-full hums, watching this rogue unwind under your touch, satisfied like a dog receiving pets. The gift-giving is when his rogue side is on high voltage. He wants to give you the world, shower you with jewels, let you wear the best of gear. “You want diamonds? Yeah, I’ll get you diamonds,” He’ll muse, mixing his pleasures with yours. When he robs a bank, the majority of his stolen dollars has been spent on you since you met him. Did your car get towed? He bought you a new one, along with the insurance. Need a new dress for the weekend? He’s got you sorted, along with heels and a bag to match. “Can’t have my bird in peasant clothes!” He protests, “Not with that cracken’ bod.” Queue the wink.

He loves showing you off, chuffed that he proved his doubters wrong that he could settle down and have a gorgeous significant other. “What they see in you, I don’t know . . .” They say, whether that be Deadshot, King Shark, heck even Amanda is amazed by it. He keeps candid polaroids of you in his pocket on the job, looking at them when he misses you. He squeezes the unicorn plushie you gifted him when he is stressed, anything to feel your presence when you’re half the world away. A shit-eating grin on his face when people tease him about his love for you, using it to embarrass him. “Awh, it’s puppy love,” Harley cooes, and Digger nods, all chuffed with himself.

Digger gave you the nickname “Birdie” because well . . . You’re a jailbird. He is in prison for heinous crimes, after all! Oh, is he touched-starved when you’re standing there, pretty face to the phone, separated by glass and talking in your voice that melts him like butter. His eyes are eating you up, desperate to have his hands on you. He’ll do all the suicide missions going to shred off the jail time, to get closer to the day his lips are kissing yours. Blackmailing Amanda to get you the best of the best, pay off college debt, holidays abroad, and spoil you when he cannot. “Oh, Birdie, when I get out of here I’m not letting you out of my sight, you’re stuck with me.” He groans, drunk on love. All you do is smile, sliding a pack of Polaroids under the screen when the guards aren’t looking. “Have these to tide you over in the meantime,” you tease. Digger rushes back to his cell, flipping through the photos. First were of you in dresses that were his favourites, the type of ones that are flowy and floral, framing you so delicately. They get more desirable as he flips them over, and his eyes lull in lust.

Digger loves the dirty photos you send him, it drives him fucking insane. It’s good to keep you fresh in his mind, but it borders on teasing just having you to look at. He didn’t have the brightest imagination, but this was good practice. Imagine how soft your thighs are under his callous hands, what your lips taste like with the lipgloss you have on. Your delicate hands trace his bulge, your touch replacing his heavy-handed grasp. Bucking into your hands as he sucks your breasts, teasing your nipples, muttering how perfect you are. His sweet little birdie, all belonging to him. Your eagerness proves your devotion. You take his infamous size so well, your spit coating his cock as your tongue swirls around his pulsing tip. As he wanks himself off, muffling his groans, he has the faintest memory of your cunt. How wet you always were for him, how eager you bounced on his cock. His eyes closed as he pumped his cock faster, edging to the echoes of past moans you chanted in his ear.

[heroesyoulove]

HEROES YOU LOVE. ( an independent multi muse for comic book heroes with a smut / erotica focus. ) mun is 25+ / minors will be blocked. muses under the cut. ( dark themes possible )

All muses are bisexual. I'll write m/f or m/m, no issues whatsoever.

MARVEL Steve Rogers / Captain America ( FC: Chris Evans ) Bucky Barnes / Winter Soldier ( FC: Sebastian Stan ) Luke Cage ( FC: Mike Colter ) Danny Rand / Iron Fist ( FC: Luke Mitchell ) Matt Murdock / Daredevil ( FC: Charlie Cox ) James Howlett / Wolverine ( FC: Hugh Jackman ) Peter Quill / Star Lord ( FC: Chris Pratt ) Clint Barton / Hawkeye ( FC: Max Thieriot ) Pietro Maximoff / Quicksilver ( FC: Aaron Taylor Johnson ) Scott Summers / Cyclops ( FC: Theo James ) Frank Castle / Punisher ( FC: Jon Bernthal ) Reed Richards / Mr. Fantastic ( FC: John Krasinski ) Johnny Storm / Human Torch ( FC: Jesse Williams ) Flint Marko / Sandman ( FC: Alan Ritchson ) Alex Summers / Havok ( FC: Alexander Ludwig ) Erik Lehnsherr / Magneto ( FC: Michael Fassbender ) Peter Rasputin / Colossus ( FC: Josh Seggara ) Remy Lebeau / Gambit ( FC: Fabien Frankel )

DC Bruce Wayne / Batman ( FC: Pedro Pascal ) Clark Kent / Superman ( FC: Henry Cavill ) Oliver Queen / Green Arrow ( FC: Stephen Amell ) Barry Allen / Flash ( FC: Matt Barr ) Hal Jordan / Green Lantern ( FC: Oliver Jackson Cohen ) Roy Harper / Arsenal ( FC: Richard Madden ) Slade Wilson / Deathstroke ( FC: Jason Statham )

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 7: Heart Attack]

A/N: Hello all! Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥰 Thank you so much for loving this fic and giving all my eccentric AU ideas a chance. I’m currently in Washington DC visiting one of my best friends, so if I’m a little bit tardy replying to your comments/messages then that’s why. Don’t fear!! I will check in as soon as I can, and I am still amazed by and will forever cherish your support. 💜

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (+18), drugs, alcohol, smoking, Shelby being a bigger plague than the locusts of Egypt, mental health struggles, references to violence and abuse, New Jersey, pregnancy, mini golf, lots of content for the Cregan girlies.

Selected Chapter Quote: “We’re meant to be together. We have so much history.”

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: ​​@doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @bhanclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​ @mariahossain​ @echos-muses​ @padfooteyes​ @minttea07​ @queenofshinigamis​ @juliavilu1​ @amiraisgoingthruit​ @lauraneedstochill​ @wintrr13​ @r0segard3n​ @seabasscevans​ @tsujifreya​ 

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

You type into Google as you hide in the public bathroom stall, pink tile walls and mint green porcelain, very 1950s, phantom drips of water and humming florescent lights: Can Plan B make your period late?

You scroll through the results, clutching your iPhone with both hands. Faintly, you can hear the rest of the band outside, chattering, laughing, slurping on Slush Puppies, smacking trees and rocks with their golf clubs. Yes, the consensus seems to be; Plan B can delay your period. Incidentally, so can pregnancy.

“Fuck,” you whimper. You peer down at your panties, as if you can force bloodstains to appear: sparce rosy threads of warning, dark red splotches like rust, you aren’t particular. You’ll take anything. “Fuck,” you say again, defeated. You get dressed, wash your hands, and head back out into the cloudless afternoon sunshine.

“Stargirl, it’s your turn!” Aegon shouts as you trot over to them: tenth hole, shaped like an L, featuring an intimidating loop de loop. The course is dinosaur themed; Rhaena picked it. Aegon points to Jace. “This deformed bastard wanted to skip you.”

“I told you,” Jace moans. His speech is garbled and lisping, his face comically swollen, bruised yellow-emerald-indigo and drooling blood, stitches above his left eyebrow. He just had his dental implants placed yesterday; the four teeth that he lost at Club Camelot could not be readily located for reattachment. “I can’t keep track of who’s next. I’m on like four different opiates.”

Baela frets over him. “Shh, shh, baby. Try not to talk.” There’s something about watching someone get almost-murdered that makes you want to forgive them, you suppose.

You grab your club and golf ball, dark blue, from where you left them by a tree. Rhaena gives you a covert little thumbs up and raised eyebrows. Everything good? You smile—too widely, insincere, a liar—and nod. Technically, you have yet to obtain concrete evidence to the contrary.

You take your turn, somewhat awkwardly due to the splint that still encumbers your dominant hand. You are thinking about anything but mini golf. Your ball goes halfway through the loop de loop and then comes rolling back. How many strokes? Four, five, you lose count, it doesn’t matter. Aegon is snickering, though not in a mean way, never in a mean way. Aemond is watching you. He does this constantly; you can feel his eyes—river water, otherworldly atmosphere—on you all the time, you can see him on the periphery of your vision. But when you glance at Aemond, he looks away. You’re wearing flip flops, a black NSYNC t-shirt, and bright pink shorts that Baela insists are of the very short variety. Aemond is staring a little extra hard today. Shelby alternates between glaring at him and at you.

Jace putts next. He misses the ball twice. On the third try, he hits it into a nearby pond. Golden koi fish scatter beneath the rippling sheen of the water.

“Loser,” Aegon declares mildly. “Criston, why the fuck are we in New Jersey?”

“Because you’re playing three shows at the MetLife Stadium in East Rutherford,” Criston says as he putts; his green golf ball sails through the loop de loop, bounces off a wall, and then rolls straight into the cup, a hole in one. “One Direction did it, Taylor Swift did it, and now you’re going to do it too. And if you don’t make it too unbearable for me, I’ll even take you to the beach while we’re here. Okay?”

“Okay,” Aegon agrees. He slurps on his Slush Puppie. “Oh, Aemond, I need the Netflix password.”

“You forgot it again?!” Daeron says. Jace, groaning softly, lies down on the ground in a patch of shade. Baela gets a bottle of Orajel rinse out of her purse and starts pouring it into his mouth.

“Get your own account,” Aemond snaps at Aegon. “I think you can afford it.”

“Bruh, that’s not the point! I don’t know where I left off in Grey’s Anatomy!”

They keep bickering. You stop listening. You can only hear the sounds of rustling leaves, squawking seagulls, the whistling of the warm August wind. You can only feel the weight of Aemond’s half-fascinated, half-resentful gaze on you. He wouldn’t believe me, you think. If I really am pregnant, he would never believe that it was an accident. He would never believe that I was that guilelessly, unambitiously stupid. Hell, I did it and I barely believe it.

You steal a glimpse of Aemond—black shirt and black sunglasses, white shorts, Adidas sneakers—and he turns away, pretending to pick dirt off his golf ball. Interestingly, he will talk to you about things not related to that night in Tokyo; perhaps it would be too suspicious not to, a neon sign for the rest of the band to read. But he never allows himself to be alone with you. And he never touches you, not even a grazing of hands or an absentminded bump as he passes you in aisles or hallways.

Bump, you think miserably. An inauspicious choice of words.

“We should watch Se7en,” Aegon is saying now. “Comet fam movie night.”

You mutter: “We’re not watching Se7en.”

“What’s Se7en about?” Rhaena asks.

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“What’s in the box?!” Aegon shouts dramatically—quoting the beautiful yet doomed David Mills, a name he once borrowed to schedule a Zoom meeting with you—and then cackles. It’s his turn. He clobbers his golf ball and sends it flying through the loop de loop; it pops over the barrier and disappears into a bush. Startled squirrels dart out of the leaves.

“Loser!” Jace slurs as he lies sprawled across the ground, vindicated.

“Stop spitting blood everywhere,” Aemond says. He putts next, and badly: poor depth perception. “You’re getting it on my sneakers.”

“Watch it, cyclops.” Jace points to his own stitches, bruises, surgically replaced teeth. “I let you have this one. Now we’re even. But next time I won’t be so charitable.”

“You’re not even,” Aegon tells Jace, abruptly severe. He whips off his aviator sunglasses, crouches over Jace, glaring and thunderous like a storm. Baela observes this warily. “Not even close.”

Jace is intrigued. “No?”

“No. Your face will heal.” Then Aegon pokes him in the jaw and Jace screams, tears slithering down his puffy, mottled cheeks. Cregan yanks Aegon away before Baela can scratch his eyes out. Criston repossesses Aegon’s blue raspberry Slush Puppie as punishment. Luke wins the game, five under par.

Comet’s first shows in the United States this tour start just like the last few in Asia: Jace is iced, painted with concealer, thoroughly medicated, numbed into semi-consciousness. He does lines of coke in the bathroom under Cregan’s supervision. He can’t perform without it. Criston tried to negotiate a month off for Jace, but the label’s message was clear: get him on stage, we don’t care how you do it, we don’t want to know about it, here’s a blank check, figure it out or we’ll find another manager who can. Now Criston watches Jace with his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes wounded and anxious, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of what he believes is failure.

The story released to the press is that Jace fell down a flight of stairs but is recovering smoothly. He can barely sing; his mic is turned up, and during Jace’s verses Cregan or Luke layer their voice with his. He wobbles and flubs his way through Night 1 in East Rutherford. You spend the show staring up at the stage without seeing it. Baela and Rhaena are with you, but you aren’t really with them; you feel like if they reached out to touch you, their hands would find only translucent emptiness like a mirage. Shelby is flocked by fellow influencers that she’s invited in from New York City. Aemond is somewhere, somewhere: lurking in shadows, brooding, avoiding, musing, suffering, jotting down starlight-colored judgments in his black-paged notebook.

Per tradition, the band and their entourage coalesce in Jace’s suite after the show. Jace himself, the gracious host, promptly collapses on a couch and lies there senseless as the party spins around him like the planets of a solar system. Baela is perched dutifully beside him, holding ice packs to his jaw, wiping away drool the color of one of Aemond’s Brambles. A tattoo artist is inking a goldfinch, New Jersey’s state bird, to the top of Jace’s right foot. Criston is across the room and speaking—rather tensely, it seems—with cigar-smoking label executives. Shelby is snapping photos with her friends; they take turns posing each other out on the balcony, adjusting elbows and wrists and knees, swiping away stray flecks of mascara, rearranging hair, recommending plastic surgeons. Aegon is typing WhatsApp messages—mostly emojis, from what you can see—to Miley Cyrus. At Luke’s prompting, Aemond begins sharing his comments to the presently sentient members of Comet. He puffs on one of his Benson & Hedges cigarettes as he reads aloud. He kindly skips over any criticisms of Jace’s performance.

You can’t stand hearing Aemond’s voice; not because there’s anything wrong with it, but because there isn’t, because you can’t stop remembering what he said to you in that florescent-white bathroom at Club Camelot in Tokyo, because he uses his words on so many people who aren’t you, because sooner or later your time with Comet will be over and you’ll only ever hear him again through Spotify songs and YouTube clips from before the accident, because he will one day be a ghost who haunts you, rattling doorknobs and chilling pockets of air but never speaking. You escape to ask the bartender: “Can I get a Coke?”

“A rum and Coke?”

“No.”

“Like…white powder coke?”

“No, a Coca-Cola. With nothing else in it.”

“Okay, whatever,” the bartender says, perplexed. He fills a glass with ice and dark liquid that pops and fizzes with carbonation, then slides it across the counter to you. You meander out into the hallway where you can be alone, where you don’t have to pretend to be okay.

The carpet is gold but frayed, the walls adorned with faux marble columns and scuffs from recklessly handled suitcases. Even the hotels are worse in New Jersey. You sip your soda—nonalcoholic, huh? you think, then push it aside—and roam past suite doors and vending machines until you reach the cove of elevators. There’s a full-length mirror hanging on the wall there, gilded, gaudy. You frown at yourself, a reflection that suddenly looks a bit like a stranger. You’re wearing a short seafoam green dress, gold earrings and sandals, and an eerily vacuous expression. You turn and move your hair aside so you can peer over your shoulder at what’s been indelibly penned there since Rome: the tiny comet, the lyrics that encircle it.

I wanted to remember this band forever. To remember Aemond. You can feel your stomach drop as it grows heavy with dread. The pulsing music from Jace’s suite has followed you down the hall, Sugar by Robin Schulz and Francesco Yates. I think I might just have more than a tattoo to remember him by after all.

One of the elevators dings and opens. A man lumbers out, towering, broad, monstrous. You gape up at him: brown threadbare coat, heavy boots, unruly dark beard, grey eyes like a bleak winter sky. There is a miasma that colors the air around him with smoke and alcohol, sweat and earth.

“Hello there,” he says, politely enough. His voice is such a baritone rumble that it’s difficult to understand. He has a British accent, but not like Aegon’s, not like Aemond’s. He reminds you of someone you can’t quite place. “I’m looking for a certain young gentleman. I’m hoping you can point me in his direction.”

“Sure,” you reply, trying to disguise your shock so you don’t offend him. He could be someone important. He could be an eccentric producer or a consultant. Or a drug dealer. “Who…uh…who was it you were hoping to speak with…?”

He smiles: sharp canine teeth yellowed by nicotine, glinting eyes like silver coins. “Cregan Stark.”

“Okay,” you stammer. Drug dealer?? “Okay, okay, I’ll…uh…I’ll go get him.”

You hurry down the hall and into Jace’s crowded, smokey suite, clinking glasses and flirtatious titters in dim lighting like late twilight. You return your empty drink to the bartender, then tap Cregan on the shoulder and inform him that someone out in the hallway is asking for him. He doesn’t seem surprised to hear this. Drug dealer, you think confidently. Cregan gulps his vodka shot and follows you out of the suite. He steps through the doorway. He turns towards the stranger. And then he stops dead. His eyes go wide. The blood drains from his face. And Cregan—immovable, inscrutable, unflappable Cregan—shrinks until he is a child again.

Immediately, you know you’ve made a mistake. You reach for him. “Cregan, wait—”

“My son,” the monstrous man sighs. And of course now you’ve realized exactly who the mirrorlike grey of his eyes reminded you of. “My son.”

You can’t stop him. How could you stop him? Faster than you can think, he has crossed the space between you and entombed Cregan in a stifling embrace. Cregan stands paralyzed, his eyes shifting, searching for escape. Tentatively, appeasingly, his hands slowly rise to hug the man in return.

“Criston?!” you shout. But within the suite, he cannot hear you over the music and the berating of smoke-veiled, bejeweled label executives.

“Did you forget about me, huh?” the man asks Cregan gruffly. And as he steps back he grips one of Cregan’s shoulders: not like Criston would, not like a father, like a vice, like a bear trap. He shakes Cregan once, not too hard. “You can fly your private jet all over the world but you can’t call your own father back? Huh? Huh?!” He shakes Cregan again, harder.

“Criston!” you scream. “Security! Somebody!”

Nobody can hear me. Nobody is coming.

You sprint into Jace’s suite, seize Criston by one hand, drag him out into the hall. On the blurry periphery of your vision, you can see Aemond getting up off the couch to follow you. The second he spots the monstrous man, Criston is roaring. “No no no, get away from him!” He pushes between Cregan and the giant, terrifying, wrathful. The man dwarfs him. Criston doesn’t seem to know it. “You can’t be here. We’ve been over this, you’re not allowed to be here—”

The man tries to reach around him to clutch at Cregan’s shirt. Aemond pulls you away from the scuffle. Criston hits the man in the solar plexus; he is momentarily stunned, wheezing. By the time he straightens up, Criston—louder than you, bellowing and fierce—has summoned security. They are swarming the man and escorting him back down the hallway towards the elevators. Aemond goes to Cregan. Criston looks at you. You’re quivering, penitent.

“I had no idea…he asked for Cregan…I would never have…I thought maybe he was a friend of the band…”

“He’s on our no fly list,” Criston says. His voice is tired yet patient. “But you wouldn’t know that.”

You try to apologize to Cregan, but he isn’t listening to you. He’s listening to Aemond. Aemond is speaking to him, low and calm, too quietly for you to hear. “I’m okay,” Cregan says unsteadily. “I’m fine.”

“It’s alright if you’re not,” Aemond tells him.

And you know that right now you are unnecessary, intrusive. Criston goes downstairs to figure out how Comet’s security guards in the lobby didn’t catch this and—presumably—to ensure that the invader is properly dealt with. Aemond slings an arm across Cregan’s shoulders and leads him back to the party where he is cared for, welcome, valued, safe. You hide in your own suite and try not to think about the dates on the calendar—missing blood, summer days ticking down towards zero—as you steep in a hot bath and attempt to scrub everything you’ve done wrong, today, yesterday, ever, off your skin. Then you change into an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants.

You try to sleep but of course you can’t, surrounded by a silence that only gets louder. When you hear the swipe of a keycard and the creaking of your door, you don’t know who to expect: Cregan, Criston, Rhaena, Luke, Baela, Jace, Daeron, Shelby, Aemond, ghosts. The clopping of his Crocs gives him away, neon pink to match his tank top. “I’m really not in the mood for anything resembling sex.”

Aegon replies as he kicks off his Crocs: “Did I ask, succubus?” He crawls into the bed, throws an arm casually across your waist, rests his head on your belly as your fingers thread through his chaotic blond hair, fond and tender. He burrows into you, into your softness and your warmth and your truth and your mysteries. Sometimes you feel like you’ll give until he falls into you like a trapdoor, the bones of his hands tangling around your spine, his blood vessels spilling into all of your rage-scarlet cavities, hollows of the flesh, hollows of the soul. “You’re sad.”

You stare up at the ceiling. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what. That’s the strange thing. Usually I can tell.”

“You’ve been gone.”

He looks up at you, confused. “I’ve been right here.”

“You know what I meant.”

Aegon doesn’t argue with you, doesn’t try to defend himself, doesn’t make promises both of you know he could never keep. He only lays his head down on your belly again and pulls himself closer to you, closer, closer, melting into your melancholy, dissolving into dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I was eleven when he broke my arm. Thirteen when he cracked my skull for the first time. Then I got big enough to hurt him back.” Cregan looks out over the waves: blue currents, white froth, sunbeams like glinting blades. As Criston promised, Comet is spending an afternoon in Seaside Heights. You and Cregan are sitting on the sand together twenty yards from the others. “I grew up in a two-bedroom cabin with no electricity or running water. We had a metal wash tub outside, ate deer and squirrels and rabbits, never had clothes that fit, never saw a doctor except when what was wrong might kill us. We had a woodstove and chopped down trees to burn in the winter. I had eight siblings, six of whom are still alive. Barnett overdosed. Courtland drove his friend’s Nissan into a brick wall. I’m not sure it was accidental.”

Your words are soft like a whisper, like gentle hands. “Cregan, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not…” His voice breaks. He stops for a while, composes himself, begins again. “It’s not something I talk about. Not because I’m trying to forget it. I can’t forget it, I’ll never be able to, I understand that, believe me. There’s just nothing to be gained from talking about it. I never feel better afterwards. I always feel worse.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that?”

You wait, watching him. There’s something he needs to say. Down the beach a ways, Baela is doing yoga, her bare feet sure and agile in shifting sand. Rhaena, Luke, and Aemond are flying kites in the breeze: black dragons, green dragons. Shelby is, predictably, filming them from where she stands on Aemond’s good side. Aegon and Daeron are swimming so far out that you’re beginning to worry about sharks. Criston is parked under an umbrella with an unconscious Jace, reading Memoirs Of A Geisha and eating a sandwich full of something called pork roll.

“After Comet happened, I got all of them out,” Cregan continues. “My mum, my siblings. Good houses in safe neighborhoods. Security in case Dad makes an appearance. He does, every once in a while. He’s locked up, he’s free, he’s locked up again. He has nothing else to do but haunt us. I’ve been waiting for him to die since I was old enough to understand what a graveyard is.” Cregan looks at you. “Does that make me a bad person?”

“No,” you answer immediately.

“The thing is…” He holds out one large hand, palm down, like he’s resting it on a table. Then he shakes it. “Nothing ever feels stable. Nothing ever feels safe. No matter how much money I see stack up in accounts, I lie awake at night wondering what I’ll do if it disappears. So many people rely on me. I can’t stop worrying I’ll end up back in that cabin somehow. I can still hear drops of rainwater seeping in through the gaps in the roof. I can still smell burning wood.”

“The fact that you feel this way, given your history, is completely logical…even if the fear itself is not. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Cregan says. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Do you think it would help if we sat down and looked at the numbers and did some math? Because I suspect that even with a hundred dependents, you’d easily be able to float them for the rest of your lifetime just using the money you already have. And there will be royalties from Comet’s songs forever. Maybe if we can show you exactly how improbable your worst case scenario is, that fear will begin to fade a bit. Not go away, not completely, maybe not ever…but I think you’ll be able to quiet it down.”

“I’ll give it a try. If you recommend it.” Cregan lights a cigarette and takes a drag. Criston glances over and then pretends he didn’t notice. “I have a daughter,” Cregan says; and you can’t stop the shock from hitting your face like a fist. He smiles faintly, wistfully. “I know. I’ve worked very hard to make sure she is kept away from…” He gestures broadly. “All of this.” Fame. Debauchery. Tabloids. Reddit threads. “I was way too young. And her mother and I…we were never really together. It was contentious for a while, but we’ve sorted through things. I support them financially, obviously. And when I’m not on tour or in the studio, I disappear up to Lancaster for a few weeks at a time and no one is the wiser.”

You study him as wind tears in off the Atlantic Ocean, as seagulls swoop and screech overhead. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate how you’ve protected her once she can understand.”

“I don’t know how to be a father. Not a good one. But I try. I don’t just show up for movie nights and birthdays. I take her shopping for school supplies. I put her back to bed when she has nightmares. I take her to the dentist, to the park, to the library. She really likes pigs, so I adopted a few from a farm animal rescue and we learned how to raise them together.”

“You caring about being a good parent puts you ahead of a lot of people already,” you say. “Nobody in Comet knows?”

“Just Aemond. Once, years ago, her mother needed something and I was out of the country. I had to let somebody in on the secret, somebody I could trust. I chose Aemond. I chose right.” Now Cregan is amused. “He’s the one who suggested the pigs.”

“Of course he did,” you say; and you can’t help but smile. “How old is she?”

“Six and a half. Do you want to see a picture her?”

“Absolutely. If it’s alright with you.”

Cregan pulls his iPhone from his pocket, swipes around for a while, and then turns the screen so you can see. She looks like him, a lot like him, but with round cheeks and long dark lashes. And Cregan is beaming as he says: “Her name is Iris.”

“So you didn’t have to do the Maury paternity test thing.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I knew from the second I saw her she was mine.”

“She’s lucky to have you.”

Cregan shrugs, pensive, evasive. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” And he believes that you mean it; you can see it on his face. Aemond is watching you and Cregan, you notice now. He glances over, pretends he didn’t, glances again. You gesture to the crashing waves and say to Cregan: “If Aegon gets attacked by a shark, will you jump in and punch it or something please?”

Cregan chuckles. “Yeah. That’s my main job here, I think. Stopping people from dying.” And then, seriously: “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything that warrants it.”

“No. Really.” Cregan reaches out, takes your uninjured hand, squeezes it briefly before releasing you. “Thank you, Stargirl.” Then he stands and walks to the water’s edge, letting the surf rush up over his ankles, for just a moment feeling nothing on his shoulders but the sunlight.

Aemond gives Shelby his kite and, as she glares bitterly, makes his way over to you. He takes off his sunglasses so he can see you better and hooks them on the waistband of his swim trunks: black, of course, his usual color. You’re actually wearing black today too, a flowing coverup over a pink swimsuit. You feel very much like hiding. When Aemond speaks, there is perhaps a hint of envy, green like leaves of poison, gleaming like snakeskin. “What were you and Cregan talking about?”

“Fatherhood.” And then you realize how it might sound.

There is a split second where Aemond looks startled; then he remembers Iris. “Right. Not so easy for people like us to navigate.”

People like us. Celebrities, boy band members, haunted men. You scramble for a nonchalant way to feel out the subject with him. “How does Louis Tomlinson handle it?”

“He’s a saint,” Aemond says. And you think: Patron saint of baby daddies? “Freddie was very, very unplanned. The mother was a nobody, a rebound. And a lot of people assumed she did it on purpose to try to keep Louis. Or to get eighteen years of a luxury lifestyle out of him. Or to just get fame in general. Personally, I believe it was all of the above.”

“Right,” you say, sweating heavily beneath your coverup.

“But none of that is the kid’s fault, and Louis is a good enough guy to realize it. So he plays nice with Freddie’s mother and they don’t go to war through tabloids anymore.”

“So, uh…” How can I put this? “You’re good with kids too. Cregan told me you had the pig idea.”

And the look that crosses Aemond’s face, the look: caustic, incredulous, night-dark, self-loathing. “Are you insane? Have you met me? I terrify kids. And I should, but not just because of the eye and the scar. What the hell do I know about being a decent father? What do I know about being a decent anything? I’d have no idea where to start. I’d fuck it up even if I tried desperately not to. I’d end up with kids like Aegon: addicts who hate themselves, people who are irrevocably lost.”

You say meekly: “I think Criston is something like a father to you. He could be a role model.”

“I’m not half as good a man as Criston is.”

Change the topic, change the topic, before Aemond gets suspicious. And there’s something else you’ve been meaning to ask him. “Aemond…after you almost murdered Jace…when we didn’t know if or how he was going to be able to perform until he healed…did anyone ask you to come back to Comet and fill in for him?”

“No,” Aemond says. And he’s thunderstruck by the thought, appalled, petrified.

“You don’t think that it might have been a good idea? That it might make sense?”

“No,” he says again instantly.

“But…in Tokyo…when Daeron made that speech at the last show…I think the crowd’s reaction was pretty powerful, don’t you? People still care about you. They love and respect you. And I think…maybe…it might help you with what you’ve experienced. To get back on stage—even just one last time—and prove to yourself that you still have what it takes. To know that if you do leave Comet, it’s your choice, not anyone else’s.”

“They love who I was,” Aemond says. “Not who I am now. And that’s easy to do. They don’t have to look at me.”

“Goddammit, there’s nothing wrong with how you look, Aemond!” you burst out. “You look fantastic. I never get tired of looking at you. I want to look at you all the fucking time. I’d hang life-sized portraits of you on every wall in my apartment in Kansas City. That’s how much I enjoy looking at you.”

He thinks you’re joking, he thinks you’re trying to make him feel better. You can’t stop him from thinking these things. And yet still, as he turns away, he is smiling: just a whisper of a curl at the corner of his lips, secretive, fragile.

As Comet is leaving the beach, you stop at a souvenir shop on the boardwalk to buy your keepsake for this tour destination. You settle on a pink frisbee that has I love the Jersey Shore! embossed on it in large, abrasive letters. You think your parents’ Australian cattle dogs will enjoy fetching it when you get home. Home feels so much closer—both literally and figuratively—than it did just a few weeks ago.

Criston is browsing through the t-shirts. “Hey, what size is your mom, Aegon? Medium?”

“How the hell would I know? Probably.” He holds up a pair of red, white, and blue bikini bottoms that say Firecracker across the ass. “You think my dad would mind if you sent her these?”

Criston is blushing. “Aegon, stop.”

“You could get her a bikini top too. Oh look, that one over there is red, it matches. And it says MILF across the tits. So that’s pertinent.”

“Stop!” Criston cries, distressed, and flees the store.

Halfway through the hour-long drive back to the hotel, Aegon insists that Criston stop the Escalades so he can get a hoagie from a Wawa. Aegon has never had a hoagie before. He says he cannot truly experience America without one.

At the ordering counter, Jace—slightly less bruised and swollen today, and thus in better spirits—taunts Aegon: “Are you sure you need all that bread? You’re going to be wearing a muumuu on stage by the time we get to the Midwest.”

“You know, just because you said that, now I’m going to get two hoagies…”

On the television mounted inside the Wawa, CNN is reporting on a group of tornadoes that just struck Wichita. And it occurs to you that tornadoes don’t have trajectories to calculate like hurricanes or airplanes or comets; they are climatological sharks. They strike quickly, indiscriminately, and then they’re gone again. They aren’t named. They aren’t enshrined. They don’t even have a belly to cut open and retrieve pieces of your loved ones from. If they take someone, they’re just gone.

While the rest of the band is in line to order their food, and Aemond is scrutinizing the dried fruit and nuts selection, you sneak through the other aisles.

It’s time. I have to find out eventually. I have to know.

You pluck a pregnancy test—cute, pink, nausea-inducing—off a rack, purchase it with truly impressive speed at the checkout counter, and race to the bathroom. It’s surprisingly difficult to piss on a tiny stick of doom, especially when your primary hand is in a splint and only partially useable. Eventually, you manage. You put the cap back on the pregnancy test, set it on top of the toilet paper dispenser, and stare at the metal door of the stall. The Wawa speakers are playing The Fray’s Over My Head.

It won’t be positive. It can’t be positive.

You think of pregnancy test commercials you’ve seen: happy couples rejoicing, happy single women getting negatives. How are you supposed to react to bad news? Nobody ever tells you. Do you scream, sob, beg for forgiveness, schedule an appointment at Planned Parenthood? Do you kick the bathroom stall door down in mindless feminine fury? Do you throw yourself off a balcony?

There’s no way it will be positive. It was one time. Just one goddamn time.

And who knows if that will ever happen again with Aemond. This does not improve your mood.

You pick up the pregnancy test. It is unequivocally positive.

You shove it into the small rectangular trashcan for pads and tampons, things you won’t be needing in the immediate future. You get dressed, leave the stall, go to the sink and wash your hands. Then you grip the cool, slick, white porcelain and gaze at yourself in the mirror under nowhere-to-hide florescent lights. What do you feel? Everything, nothing, things you can’t name yet. You’re a raw nerve, you’re completely numb.

The bathroom door swings open. Shelby enters. She squares up with great purpose. Your eyes roll to her, slowly, with no tolerance left, not a drop of it. “Stay away from Aemond,” she demands.

“Make me.”

She is in disbelief. “I’m sorry, what?”

You turn all the way towards her. “Fucking make me, Shelby.”

“I knew you wanted him,” she says, she seethes. “I saw you in those paparazzi photos from Reykjavik and I knew you were already twisting your claws into him.”

You hold up your hands to show her; your thoughts are fuzzy, dazed, without inhibition. “I have no claws whatsoever. If I did, you’d know about it. Believe me. You’d be able to look down and watch your heart beating through the gashes.”

“You don’t belong here. Some Midwestern farm girl running around in flip flops and Cookie Monster pajama pants? You’re trash. You’re a user. You’re a nobody. And if you’re trying to steal a taken man, then you’re a whore too.”

“I’ve been called worse things by better people.”

“I can make them hate you,” Shelby says indignantly. “Comet. The world.”

“Good luck with that, Malibu Barbie. Nobody even knows I exist.”

“Stay away from Aemond,” she says again, trembling with her futile bleach-blond rage. “We’re meant to be together. We have so much history.”

“And yet no future.” You smile sweetly, breeze past her, step on one of her perfectly pedicured feet with a thoroughly unpretentious flip flop. By the time you return to them, the band is almost ready to leave Wawa.

You’re not hungry, but Aegon coaxes you into taking a few bites from his hoagie. You’re not able to focus on what people are saying, but you hear Aemond mention that he wishes Comet had time to visit a planetarium in some nearby town called Toms River. You think about what it would be like to lie side by side with him under the stars, under the sky where comets appear again after vanishing for centuries. You wonder if there’s anyplace where you and Aemond could ever be truthful with each other.

At night you can’t sleep. There is no shortage of reasons why. You wander from your bed to the gold-carpet hallway to the vending machines, where you stare brainlessly at the options. Am I supposed to not be drinking caffein? Did I get any Vitamin D today? How much sugar is too much? You buy a bottle of apple juice—surely a safe bet—and head back to your suite.

As you walk by Aemond and Shelby’s door, your steps slow. Some nights you can hear them in there arguing: Shelby reiterating all the reasons why they’re perfect for each other, clearly a rebuttal to an accusation you weren’t privy to. Some nights you hear muffled casual conversation or episodes of Cosmos. Some nights you hear nothing at all. Some nights your imagination colors in the gaps before you can stop it: his hands on her, his mouth on her, things you know you have no right to dread and yet you do. But tonight, Shelby is momentarily removed from the scene. You can hear the distant pattering of the shower, and then Aemond alone in the living room gathering up plates and glasses. He’s singing something very quietly, so quietly it takes you a while to recognize it. It’s not even a Comet Donati song. It’s Through The Dark.

You sit down in the empty hallway, your back to his door. And you lean your head against it as you listen to Aemond singing softly to himself, doubt sinking into you the same way that trapped blood fills a bruise: Maybe it wasn’t as good for him as it was for me. Maybe he doesn’t talk to me because he doesn’t want to. Maybe I don’t belong here anymore. Maybe I’ve invented a history that we don’t really share. Maybe he didn’t mean it when he said he loves me.

“What am I going to do?” you whisper, scalding tears brimming in your eyes, shivering hands settling on your belly. In a few months, you’ll be showing. “What the hell am I going to do?”

[beneaththemidnight]

Howdy hey, tags. 20+ M, discord-based writer looking for Marvel and DC universe stories. I am a huge fan of worldbuilding and scene setting, and primarily write canon male muses, preferably opposite female muses.

Mains: The Batman, The Incredible Hulk, Wolverine, The Punisher, Superman, Gambit & many more!

Preference for dark themes, slow-build romances, smut, and I'm a fan of aesthetics too. If you're interested in writing, give this a like.

[arcastralisly]

searching for long-term discord roleplay partners! status: open. 18-25 only.

hello, i’m astralis! i’m nineteen (she / her) and my timezone is est. i’m currently looking for writing partners to roleplay on discord with me, and since this blog has been revamped and everything have been updated, i thought i’d redo this post. below is a bit about me and what i’m looking for!

my writing style. literate to novella. third person, past tense, multi-muse and ship, character-driven, plot-centric. i write only in private discord servers; i do not tolerate godmodding or use tupperbot. expect dark, mature and potentially dead dove themes. i write canon / canon, canon / oc, oc / canon m / f, f / f and m / m; trans portrayals are welcome!

what i’m looking for. i’m looking to write with others who have a similar writing style as me! i’m very active myself, and i would prefer that to at least an extent with my partners! however, i am very commutative and i know life gets busy. angst, smut—i prefer around a 80-20 plot smut ratio—and fandom-appropriate violence and themes are expected! i write a variety of canon and original muses.

ooc. i love being friends with those i write with! talking ooc, coming up with lore and headcanons and worldbuilding, sharing fics, etc, are all very dear to me.

fandoms. a song of ice and fire, avatar, call of duty: ghosts, dc, house of the dragon, marvel’s spider-verse, overwatch, rwby, star wars, transformers.

if this interests you, feel free to like this post or message me! my carrd has more information about my writing style and ocs!

[cherrylng]

100 Albums to understand Muse - Part 1 [STYLE Series #004 - Muse (August 2010)]

The members of Muse started as a band in the heyday of Britpop, but their strongest influences were the US alternative scene, as well as the Grebo music scene such as Ned's Atomic Dustbin. Their musical interests broadened, especially Matthew's, as he travelled and met people in different countries, and he dabbled in tango, flamenco and even Italian folk music. Muse were, of course, greatly influenced by the greats of the rock world, including Queen, but they also greedily embraced classical music such as Chopin and Rachmaninoff. Here we introduce some of their influences and the artists they were involved with. These are 100 discs for a deeper enjoyment of Muse's world, and you'd be remiss if you didn't listen to them!

Text by Sumi Imai (I), Masataka Oguchi (K), Junya Shimofusa (J), Akiko Mima (M/board selection), Hisashi Murakami (H), Tomoo Yamaguchi (T), Shiho Yamashita (S)

AC/DC Back In Black (1980) The sixth album from Australia's greatest treasure, AC/DC. The riff of the classic ‘Back in Black’ on this album is one of the first phrases that every boy who picks up a guitar learns. A great rock basic, so to speak. Of course, the [guitar] prince is no exception [to this]. He performed a cover of the song here and there at the Australian festival Big Day Out. -J

ADAM LAMBERT For Your Entertainment (2009) Adam Lambert was born and raised in the US, and his dramatic vocals are a feature of his US TV show ‘American Idol’. His major-label debut featured songwriting contributions from Lady Gaga, Pink, Weezer's Reeves, Darkness' Justin and many other well-known names. Matthew also contributed a song called ‘Soaked’ to the album. -H

ANDRÉS SEGOVIA The Art Of Segovia (2002) Matthew once travelled to Spain to study flamenco guitar, but it was Francisco Talega of ‘Memories of the Alhambra’ fame, born in Spain, who laid the foundations for classical guitar in the 20th century. This is a collection of masterpieces by Andrés Segovia, the master who took up many of Talega's works and popularised the classical guitar. -S

AKSAK MABOUL Un Peu De L'âme Des Bandits (1980) Belgian avant-garde progressive band. The band's diverse style is characterised by the use of piano and strings in tangos, contemporary-style suites and fast-moving punk, all of which make full use of the high skills of the band members. The band's wonderfully chaotic sound, where materialism and realism collide, is too good to be described as ‘only known to those in the know’. -M

Translator's Note: I'll be putting whole albums of the selected albums listed on this article. I'm of the belief that the best way to enjoy an album is to listen to it from start to end, so that we can understand the influences far better. Also, I'm doing this because I want to mess with YouTube's algorithm and leave it very confused on what it's supposed to recommend to me in the near future.

[foxhopfics]

Hey! I'm Nathaniel/Spiral/Fox and i write things sometimes!

You can find me @/spiralsystem on Ao3!

This blog will mainly be posting requests, as my main fics that I'm working on will be posted directly to archive, however I'll still post finished fics here!

For x reader requests I will likely use the pronoun "you" over "they" (I just think it's fun)

HOW TO SEND A REQUEST: please send the pairing you want, any tropes or whatever (not obligatory), and pick from one of 3:

- Headcanons: a quick page of headcanon points

- Drabble: quick blurb between 200-500 words

- Short fic: 1000-3000 words

Please don't be shy with requests!

IMPORTANT NOTE: IF YOU DON'T SPECIFY WHAT TYPE OF FIC U WANT, I CANNOT WRITE IT FOR YOU.

Request types I will take:

X GN!Reader

X Male!reader

X Trans!reader

Character x character

Main fandoms I'll currently write for:

Baldur's Gate 3

911/911 Lone Star

Dishonored

Ace Attorney

Vocaloid/Project Sekai Colourful Stage

Critical role seasons 1 & 2

Dc

Jujutsu Kaisen

Genshin Impact

All For The Game

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare

Merlin

& Many more!

More about my writing under the cut so this doesn't get super long :)

Views on shit for writing: I reaaallly don't subscribe to the whole concept of proship/antiship. I take requests on what I'm comfortable writing.

I DO accept nsfw requests, but only within appropriate age ranges. I am comfortable writing age gaps but please dm me and i'll write something on a different site, same with any other typically "taboo" requests. I will not release a "will not/will write" list because that's just inviting problems.

If you'd like nsfw x a minor!character, please specify in the ask if you are also a minor. If there is no age, I will deny the request. I won't write underage smut for adults. I also probably won't push it past an M rating.

Minors I write for:

ProSeka: Honestly realistically most of these characters are minors, but like we don't all know teenagers aren't celibate. Vocaloids don't canonically have ages but since they're all kinda minor-coded, I'll just stick to M max for proseka.

Genshin - Qiqi and Klee, Sayu, and Yaoyao. Diona is NOT a minor, she runs a bar 🙄. Bennett/razor/fischl/anybody who uses the "teen model" I consider 18 at least.

Ace attorney - pearl, trucy. If you want ema I'll write her as her older self unless specified, sorry.

9-1-1: I'll write any of the kids as a side accessory to their parents, unless you want a Gen piece about the kids. I love writing Chris & Denny :)

Dc: Ages are played with a lot in DC, so any characters that are generally accepted as minors/adults will be treated as such. I.e: Damian Wayne, Jon kent will be treated as kids unless you specify a universe where they're older (like when Older!Jon came to that one Earth)

BALDUR'S GATE 3:

The ONLY characters I won't write for this are LAE'ZEL and MINTHARA:

Minthara: killed her and saved the tieflings. No real interest in having her as a companion so I haven't seen any content with her.

Lae'zel: get back to me when she doesn't excuse slaughtering and colonizing entire towns lol. I'm native and the gith creche slaughtering the entire temple of lathander (as. As a cleric of lathander also) and she was like 🤷‍♂️ we live here now. I was not cool with that. I also really don't know how to write a romance for someone who is constantly combative towards the player.

BSD: I can only write for the ADA characters + aktugawa because. I have only seen season 1 :,) sorry

Muses & character's I'm great at writing for:

Bg3: Tav, Wyll

911: Eddie, TK

Dishonored: Corvo, Outsider (and Garett from Thief 2014)

Ace Attorney: Edgeworth, Klavier, Apollo, Clay, Simon, Diego

Vocaloid/Proseka: Len, VFlower, GUMI, Shiho, Toya, Mafuyu, Mizuki

Critrole: Percy, Vax, Caleb, Jester

DC: batfam, superfam, flashs & rogues gallery, teen titans, young justice

JJK: Gojo, Nanami, Itadori, Inumaki, Fushiguro

Genshin: Diluc, Zhongli, Alhaitham & Kaveh (and 4ggravate), Traveler twins, Pantalone, Wriothesley

AFTG: Neil, Aaron, Jean

[a-fantastic-time]

Guide to a Fantastic Time!

Hello everyone! Thank you for coming, I hope we have a grand old time. First things first, this is a 18+ Rp area, so I hope you please respect that we should do just fine. Rps do not need to go down that route, I am 100% down for SFW rps, but I mainly prefer NSFW. Just pointing that out now. Also I will absolutely will not do anything with anyone under age, characters or people.

Muses! Unfortunately I do not have a set listing for muses. I actually love to play as many characters as I can from different fandoms, or OCs that I have sorta made up and never really put them to pen and paper. So feel free to ask me about them, and I will gladly talk your ear off. Note that I do play any gender, be it Male/Female/Herms.

Fandoms! I will do my best to get as many of my favorite Fandoms/interest listed down, I will be editing this when I can, so if you ever have an interest, or show, or game that you like and you do not see it on my list. Please feel free to ask me about it, and maybe I can add it to the list.

List of Interests-

She-Ra The Dragon Prince Glitch Tech Transformers (series, not movies) TMNT(series, not movies) Steven Universe Big Hero 6 RWBY Marvel(Comics/Shows) DC(Comics/Shows) Halo Pokémon Digimon Mortal kombat Mass Effect Dragon age Final Fantasy (Any game/series) Boku no hero UnderTale DeltaRune Sonic(Series) Ben 10 Diablo League of Legends Wakfu Miraculous Ladybug Bleach D&D Yu-Gi-Oh Gargoyles Aliens(Franchise, and in general) Kaiju(Monsters in general, not just the franchises) Gundam (any series) Hazbin Hotel Helluva Boss Murder Drones Starwars Critical Role Destiny Warframe Panty & Stocking Resident Evil(all series)

RULES: More may be added at a later time. But for now please read and follow.

I absolutely do not "one line", I have told many people this and sometimes I do make exceptions depending on the situation like if you are tired and its late, or you are not feeling up to rp. If you continue to one-line after I give you a warning, After that, I will simply not reply.

I do not in any shape or form condone rape. I am ok with rough sex or maybe being dominate with my partner, but I will not participate in rape of any kind sorry.

I will do my best to message you first as soon as possible. If you do not get a message from me right away, its most likely because I thought I did or I forgot. So please let me know if I have yet to talk to you yet. I do not treat anyone as a number.

If you have a problem with the way I RP, then please let me know. I have no problems changing things to make the rp more pleasant for both parties. Whether it be either grammar, or possibly with how you prefer actions or talking to be placed in either ** or "". Please just let me know, and I will see how I can change it to make it more pleasing to you.

I am completely fine with rough to kinky sex, but I hate abusive sex. Examples: forcing me to suck, ride, fuck you when I do not want too. cussing me out while we fuck for the sake of demeaning someone during it to make yourself seem superior or saying you can do that just because your Dom/alpha is bullshit. If you do this I will tell you to quit it, but if you whine about not being allowed to be yourself you will be blocked enough said.

I enjoy futas/shemales/dickgirls as much as everyone else. But if you plan to stick anything in me, you will get the same treatment in return. Its how I see its fair. I do not care of your "DOM" or "Your only comfortable with giving". With that said, I do have a preferences towards woman, and futas.

Sorry guys, not into you! Especially not into fembois, sissies, or traps. With that stated, didn't think I would have to emphasis this, but I am not into Men. I will play them, but will not ship with them. So to make it clear. I do not do M/M, nor Futa/Male. Trans is questionable, and needs to be discussed with me.

[multimusehq]

Introductions

Hello, my name is Diane. I am a 32 year old female who uses the pronouns she/her. I've been on this hellsite we call Tumblr for over 10 years now. I've had many urls (and many different mun names) and now I've consolidated all of my muses (past and future) on discord. Here is what I am looking for.

The Basics

- I currently only write on Discord. - I will only write with muns over the age of 21, preferably 25+. - All writing will be on a private server between myself and my partner. I have a server set up with areas for OOC chat, plotting, muse info (yours and mine), inspiration, para threads, text threads, and random oneshots (just in case). - I prefer to write m/f but have written m/m in the past. - I have canon and original characters. - I love to world build. Modern. All Human. Fantasy. - I am also heavily smut motivated when it is incorporated into the plot. - I am also very angst motivated. If it hurts our muses, chances are I want to write it. - I've never really given much thought to FCs I want to use since I just make my characters for myself but I'll have a list soon. - Same with wanted opposites. I'll have a list soon. I'm really open to any FC that is a real person over the age of 21.

Old Accounts

artemisxargent - Allison Argent hydrasperfectweapon - Bucky Barnes noyoumove - Steve Rogers theagecfheroes - Clark Kent defenedarcher - Clint Barton bloodiedballerina - Natalia Romanova illegitimatestark - Jakz Stark (OC Daughter of Tony Stark) drunkhistorybuff - Alaric Saltsman stuckbeingavillain - Enzo St. Claire (TVD) thatdickyvampire - Damon Salvatore

Current Characters

HIGHLY ACTIVE

allison argent︰teen wolf︰FC︰crystal reed bucky barnes︰marvel︰FC︰sebastian stan

EXTREMELY SELECTIVE

frank castle︰marvel︰FC︰jon bernthal steve rogers︰marvel︰FC︰chris evans jaime mcneal︰OC︰FC︰jessica parker kennedy michael keller︰OC︰FC︰clive standen beau sutton︰OC︰FC︰ian bohen

REQUEST ONLY

peter hale︰teen wolf︰FC︰ian bohen lydia martin︰teen wolf︰FC︰holland roden derek hale︰teen wolf︰FC︰tyler hoechlin chris argent︰teen wolf︰FC︰jr bourne clark kent︰dc comics︰FC︰tyler hoechlin chloe sullivan︰smallville︰FC︰chelsea kane

Note: I am willing to create OCs as well, given the chance to world build and get inspiration for them. And that I have a FC we both want!

[dthroned-sameurl]

📏 (ruler) + 5'0"

send me 📏 (ruler) + HEIGHT to see the height comparison between one of my muses & yours !

@walkeddeath

[liaromancewriter]

Feeling Wicked

Premise: Sienna Trinh is tired of everyone thinking she’s a goody-two-shoes and decides to change her image.

Book: Open Heart (post series) Pairing: Sienna Trinh x Max Valentine (M!OC) Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff. Words: 1,420

A/N: I'm using @choicesflashfics week 18, prompt 1 (in bold). Submission for @choices-february2023, day 12 prompt: Marriage. Late submission for @choicesjanuarychallenge Day 5: Drink.

The bar was packed with the after-work crowd enjoying Happy Hour specials. Max Valentine parked himself on a bar stool with a clear view of the door.

He ignored his cousin’s attempts to convince him of the merits of having a bachelor party. No matter how many times he said no, Tony just kept going.

His day had started at six with a conference call, and he was tired. But Sienna had texted earlier to ask if they could meet for drinks and welcome her old roommate from medical school who had recently transferred to Sibley Memorial.

Max knew how hard it was for Sienna to uproot her life in Boston and move to DC. So, he was doubly committed to seeing her settled and happy here, with her own friends.

When his wife walked in a few minutes later, Max left Tony mid-sentence to grab Sienna before the crowd swallowed her up. When she saw him, her face lit up with a smile that likely mirrored his.

She reached him first, placing her hands on his arms for balance as she stretched on her toes to peck his lips. It was too short and not satisfying at all. He hauled her up to give her a proper hello, his lips capturing hers in a searing kiss.

“Hi,” she whispered dreamily, her fingers trailing the edge of his jaw.

“Hey.”

“Are you two done?” A woman asked, amusement coloring her tone.

Max glanced at the tall brunette standing behind Sienna and extended his hand. “Not even close. Max Valentine.”

“Kelly Macintosh.” She shook his hand. “I know who you are. You’re on Si’s Picta feed a lot. A huge improvement on Wayne, by the way.”

The last was directed at Sienna, who grinned cheekily and nestled against Max. When Tony joined them, she made quick introductions.

“You look nice,” Tony said, greeting Sienna with a friendly kiss on the cheek. “Now that you’re here help me convince Max that he needs a bachelor party. It’s a time-honored tradition, and the guys are looking forward to sending him off in style.”

When Sienna looked at him in confusion, Max just rolled his eyes.

“I keep telling you, cuz, I’m already married.” He held up his left hand and pointed to the wedding band. “I don’t need a stag party, not anymore.”

The hostess interrupted to tell them their table was ready, and they followed her to a corner booth. They exchanged small talk while they waited, ordering drinks and appetizers for the table when their server arrived.

When they were alone, Sienna stared at Tony with a steely-eyed gaze. “What kind of stag party? Vegas and strippers? Just how, exactly, are you planning to send my husband off in style?”

Tony sputtered, and Max settled back to enjoy his discomfort. He let Sienna grill his cousin while he turned towards her friend, who was trying to hold back her laughter.

“So, you must have lots of young Sienna stories,” he mused. “What was she like in med school?”

“Studious with a hint of mischief,” Kelly replied. “She was always baking muffins for everyone when we had early morning class and cookies for our weekly study group. Definitely had a reputation for being a good girl, willing to help everyone out.”

Max laughed and winked at Sienna. “So, she hasn’t changed at all.”

“Don’t know why everyone thinks I’m a goody-two-shoes,” Sienna complained. “I can be bad too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Max grinned wickedly, picking up the drink the server placed in front of him. “Just how bad are we talking here?”

Suddenly, there was a commotion near the bar, and they looked over to see a woman lying flat on the bar while her friends did belly shots.

“I can prove that I’m not Little Miss Nice,” Sienna insisted stubbornly, nodding towards the bar. “Body shots, here and now.”

“I know med school was a few years ago, Si,” Kelly cut in with a rueful shake of her head. “But I don’t believe people can do a complete a one-eighty in personality. You’re not the type of person that strips down and does body shots in a bar, surrounded by a bunch of strangers.”

Max raised Sienna’s hand to his lips and bussed the inside of her palm. “You have nothing to prove…Killa Cream.”

Sienna flushed when she caught his reference to the tag name she’d graffitied on Edenbrook’s back wall. The incident had been part of a Boston Bucket List she and her friends checked off on Kyra’s last week in Boston. She and Max weren’t talking then, so Cassie must have told him.

The conversation topic changed, but Sienna wasn’t paying attention. She watched the woman at the bar, now standing upright and laughing, and her frustration rose.

Okay, so she had never done a body shot in her life. Science geeks never got invited to those types of parties in college. And med school students preferred getting drunk and spouting Latin medical terms. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t do it if she tried.

Besides, who said she was the one who had to strip? Body shots were an equal-opportunity game.

A considering look entered her eyes, and she gazed up at Max, not even trying to hide her eagerness.

“Nope, puppy dog eyes are not going to work this time!” he said vociferously, reading her thoughts perfectly.

“But Max…” she pleaded. “You always say you’ll do anything for me.”

“What’s going on?” Tony asked.

“Body shots,” Max bit out, not taking his eyes off Sienna, and then he sighed in resignation. “Tony, get the tequila and lime.”

Sienna knew she looked smug, but she couldn’t help it. Kelly caught her eye and grinned, raising her glass in a toast.

Tony returned with a bottle of tequila, a couple of shot glasses, lime wedges and a salt shaker. Max cleared space on the table, took off his jacket and set it aside. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off his shoulders, but not stripping down completely.

“Sienna, you lucky girl,” Kelly wolf-whistled, but Max ignored her.

“We’re going to keep it beginner’s level,” he told Sienna pointedly. “Abs, pecs or neck, dealer’s choice. One shot, in a glass. Lick, shoot, suck. Got it?”

Sienna nodded and stepped back as Tony helped Max get horizontal. His torso was flat on the table, but his legs dangled off the edge and she stepped between his thighs.

Max cupped her jaw and his green eyes peered into hers. “One more thing. If we end up in the tabloids, I will take great pleasure in saying I told you so.”

“Whatever,” Sienna said, unconcerned, and shushed him by shoving a lime wedge between his teeth.

She stared down at her husband and thought about where to start. But she knew that if she got one chance only, it would have to be her favorite spot.

Sienna threw him a wicked look and sprinkled salt along his abs, giggling when she saw the laughter in his eyes. She leaned over him, licked the salt from his skin and took a shot of tequila. She bit into the lime and gently pulled the wedge out of Max’s mouth, enjoying the tart flavor before she tossed it away.

She moved closer to kiss him softly and could still taste the lime on his lips. She felt him smile through the kiss, and his hands gripped the sides of her waist.

She coursed her fingers through his blond hair, enjoying the feel of his warm bare skin beneath her and completely forgot where they were.

Sienna abruptly broke off the kiss when Tony coughed loudly. She stepped back and sheepishly peeked at Kelly and Tony standing beside them, shock and awe on their faces.

She had been this close to climbing on top of Max, which would have landed them on HS Tea for sure.

Max pushed himself off the table and started to button up his shirt. He smirked, once again reading her thoughts.

“I stand corrected,” Kelly teased, fanning herself exaggeratedly with her hands. “Med School Sienna would have never done something like this.”

Sienna blushed when everyone laughed and buried her face against Max’s chest. His arms enveloped her, and his lips grazed her earlobe.

“When we get home, Si,” his voice dropped to a whisper, making her shiver, “it’s my turn to show you exactly how bad I can be. I promise you that it will be downright wicked.”

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

All Fics & Edits: @a-crepusculo @annfg8 @bex-la-get @bluebelle08 @choicesaddict5 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @doriopenheart @genevievemd @headoverheelsforramsey @lucy-268 @jamespotterthefirst @jerzwriter @lady-calypso @mainstreetreader @mysticalgalaxysstuff @openheartforeverinmyheart @peonierose @takemyopenheart @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @rookiemartin @socalwriterbee @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction @vi-writes-stuff @zahrachoices

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Max & Sienna only: @aallotarenunelma @storyofmychoices

[therealmofamorus]

My Mood

Original Male Stud AU: Barbarian AU: Raider AU, Prison AU: Guard AU, Clone AU, Married AU, Smol AU: Shortjack AU & Shortstack AU, MHA AU: Villain AU, Beach AU: Lewd Beach, Breeding Stud AU, Slavery AU: Slave AU - Gladiator AU/Breeding Slave AU, Lust Virus AU, Free Use AU

Alpha Male Stud AU: Barbarian AU: Warlord AU, Cyberpunk AU, Stepford AU, Misogyny AU, Stolen Hearts AU, Clone AU, Prehistoric Age AU:Bronze Age AU, Medieval AU: Royal AU: Ruler AU & Commoner AU: Merchant AU, Slavery AU: Combat Slave AU/Sex Slave AU, Farmer AU

General Moods: Dom/Sub: Maledom/Femsub & Femdom/Malesub

Muses: My Hero Academia, Capcom: Street Fighter/Darkstalker, DC Universe, Marvel Universe, Kanokon, Arc System Works: Guilty Gear, Kuroinu, Total Drama Island, Sonic the Hedgehog, Cyberpunk 2077, League of Legends, Code Geass, Mass Effect

Main Male Muses: M!Commander Shepard, Izuku Midoriya, Bruce Wayne/Batman, Demitri Maximoff, Ed (Street Fighter), Thor Odinson, Sol Badguy, Cody (TD), Sonic the Hedgehog, Adam Smasher, Garen the Might of Demacia, Lelouch Lamperouge

Main Female Female: Melissa Shield, Liara T'Soni, Felicia (Darkstalker), Selina Kyle/Catwoman, Chizuru Minamoto, Jam Kuradoberi, Lady Sif (Marvel), Blaze the Cat, Panam Palmer, Katarina the Sinister Blade, Maia, Bridgette (TD), Juri Han, Maia, Kallen Kozuki

Meme: Crossover Crack Ship (Free for All), Normal Date vs Horny Date, Hate Fuck, Alpha Virus, The Domain of Velvet Pleasure, Switched Attributes, Big [Redacted] Disability, Endless Orgasm, Smash or Pass (Free for All), Pornhub, Mating Season, NSFW Color Potion, Porn Title & Tag, Orgasm Headpat

[rhodanthez]

꒰ multimuse indie blog. penned by ty, she/her. +21. pt-br/eng. ꒱

e aí? aqui eu vou soltar todos os meus personagens que foram reciclados de comunidades, jogos dropados e coisas do tipo e deixar eles disponíveis pra vocês. sintam-se livres para interagir comigo a vontade e me chamar sempre que quiserem. aqui embaixo podem encontrar as minhas guidelines.

muses. ⸻ memes. ⸻ starter call.

guidelines.

gosto de seguir o bom senso, não me importo de abordar conteúdo/temáticas sensíveis contanto que todos tenham respeito com o que estamos jogando. não jogo com personagens e nem com players que sejam menores de idade! de resto, sempre podemos conversar.

jogo apenas pelo tumblr, mas caso queiram levar algum nxn para o discord basta me chamar que dependendo do tema estarei topando.

as dinâmicas de shipp que estou jogando no momento são apenas f/f, f/m ou f/nb. eu apenas me sinto confortável fazendo personagens femininas. mas claro, também topo dinâmicas platônicas ou qualquer outra coisa que não envolva romance!

minha disponibilidade pode ser um tanto instável, mas costumo aparecer sempre pela parte da tarde/noite. peço que por favor não fiquem me cobrando respostas pois isso me deixa ansiosa.

quanto as interações, eu gosto de escrever turnos mais curtos por facilitar a dinâmica pra mim. fico entre pequeno/médio. turnos extensos demais acabam me cansando e tem mais chances de eu dropar.

amo jogar em qualquer tipo de universo. adoro o bom e velho slice of life e seus clichês, mas sou apaixonada por fantasia e plots de época. tudo que for sobrenatural pode me mandar porque eu amo. também topo jogar com personagens canon de universos já existentes como senhor dos anéis, dc comics, marvel, hoyoverse ou de animes.

a única temática que eu tenho vetada no momento é o universo de harry potter/qualquer coisa que tenha vindo da jk rowling.

sobre fcs: gosto de usar os mais variados de diversas etnias/nacionalidades, assim como também usaria fcs 2d sem problema algum. mas novamente peço o bom senso, se aquela figura pública já tiver cometidos crimes, se envolvido em polêmicas pesadas, apoiar isr4el e coisas nesse sentido não vou me sentir confortável de jogar com.

[goldeycs]

hi there! i’m k, i only write with people 21+, and i’m looking for some new writing partners on discord! i’m open to writing f/f, m/f, and any nb. i am obsessed with pinterest (you’ll find that out quickly), and i love being able to headcanon and ramble and send inspo/boards/playlists/etc. with my partners!  as much as i love darker themes, i also love fantasy, slice of life, domestic, anything really! i don’t like writing one-liners and typically i don’t do rapid fire. i write anywhere from one-two paragraphs to... capping out the character limit on dis.cord. most of my writing will be with ocs but i am open to writing some dc or marvel muses. (open to other fandoms potentially). i love smut but i like to have some chemistry/relationship building first before jumping right in. think... p*rn with plot. right now i’m favoring my f/nb muses but i’m really interested in writing some boys again too once i’m comfortable with you.  feel free to like this if you’d like to plot with me!

muses | guidelines and more info | wanted opposites | wanted plots

[arcastralisly]

MOVED.

updated roleplay search. status: open.

astralis. nineteen, est, she her. hello! this is where i search for long-term writing partners to roleplay on discord—private servers for organization—with, and occasionally engage in media. below is information regarding my fandoms, roleplay style, what i’m looking for, and more!

my roleplay style / what to expect from me.

literate to novella, lowercase, third person, past tense, multi-muse and ship, character-driven, plot-centric. fandom roleplays only, no tupperbot. i reply at least once a day, though i enjoy talking ooc consistently. expect fandom-appropriate violence and potentially dark, mature and dead dove themes. i have a huge love for shipping: canon / canon, canon / oc, oc / canon m / f, f / f and m / m; trans portrayals are welcome! i prefer around a 80-20 / 70-30 plot smut ratio. i write a variety of canon and original muses. i love to ramble about the story and i’m huge on worldbuilding, creating lore and headcanons, making ocs just for the roleplay, etc!

what i’m looking for!

i would like those i write with to be somewhat active, as i am very active myself; both in writing and ooc. however, i am very communicative and i know life gets busy. talking ooc, sharing fics, making pinterest boards, etc, are all very dear to me. let’s be friends! i don’t want to write with someone who only writes women, mxf, or bottoms. let’s make it interesting!

fandoms. avatar, blue eye samurai, call of duty: ghosts, greek mythology, dc, house of the dragon, invincible, marvel’s spider-verse saga, overwatch, percy jackson and the olympians / heroes of olympus, rwby, star wars, transformers, voltron: legendary defender.

if this interests you, feel free to like this post or message me. my carrd (no longer available) has more information about my writing style and ocs, please check it out! limits, basic overview of ocs and ships, etc, can be discussed here before we move to discord!