#practice your writing

[prolibytherium]

One of my all time biggest pet peeves with historical(ish) fantasy is when the writer constructs a religion with a clear bias that it's stupid and false and therefore only the Stupid People and/or commoners believe in it and all the smart/elite main characters are like, quasi-atheists or otherwise just routinely flout established religious conventions of orthodoxy and/or orthopraxy because they're Too Smart for it or etc.

It's usually an extension of assumptions that people in the past were just less intelligent than in the contemporary, just being like "I know that the sun is a star millions of miles away that the earth orbits, but this ancient religion describes it as a chariot flying through the sky" and not really bothering to learn the context and just (consciously or subconsciously) settling on 'that's a crazy thing to think and was probably believed in because they were Stupid'.

And that whole attitude pisses me off so much. People were as 'smart' 10,000 years ago as they are today. These beliefs aren't just desperate, random flailing to explain phenomena that could not directly be accounted for either, it's not like people just looked at the sun and went "Uhhh I don't know what the fuck that thing is, actually. I guess it might be a chariot or a boat or something?? Yeah let's go with that." and based entire religious practices on this. Every well-established belief system exists within broader contexts of cultural values/subjective perceptions of reality/knowledge systems/etc, and exist as part of a historical continuum of religious practices that came before. Even when not Materially Correct, they have context and internal logic, they're not always dead literal with zero levels of allegory, and they're never a result of stupidity.

[anneapocalypse]

So, just curious how many writers and creators will have to be forcibly outed by relentless harassment before we acknowledge that "This queer characters was written by a cishet person and that's why they're bad" is not good criticism.

[skeptical-saniwa]

Jing yuan in a suit

This was a clothing practice!

[wasyago]

kakashi and bull 🥺🤲

[vampireposter]

meeting wyll at the grove, as someone who the tieflings trust enough to train their children, says so much about him. it's so sad that he doesn't get explored in acts 2-3 as deeply as the other companions, when his problems are equally intense. the average player probably long rests once before coming across the grove, but even if not, in that time wyll has already proven to the tieflings that they can rely on the Blade of Frontiers.

this is the immediate first thing he chooses to do after being condemned to slow death via ceremorphosis. his priority list in the first conversations with tav is: 1) hunt down a dangerous devil, 2) help zevlor with the goblins, 3) once nothing threatens the tieflings he will gladly search for a tadpole cure. wyll is perpetually his own last priority, and i wonder if it has to do with the lore about souls.

if he believes mind flayers' souls have been destroyed, and fiend warlocks will all have their souls sent to the hells after death, then becoming a mind flayer isn't the worst possible way for him to die. he would never become a mindless monster to save his own soul, but he's not gripped by horror the way that some of the other origin characters are. lae'zel has been made revoltingly impure to her people, astarion is terrified of losing the scrap of bodily autonomy he just regained, gale is guilt-ridden over the orb detonation if he dies, shadowheart has to survive to prove herself to her cult leader, and karlach has also just regained bodily autonomy and is desparate to live.

this is just another quest for the Blade, whose persona guards wyll ravengard against the vice of self-concern when he ought to be concerned for those in need.

[delusionalisted]

“Low Spoon” witchcraft doesn’t exist.

This is a post for all my disabled siblings. (But it applies to broke or low-income siblings as well.)

By the way, you heard me. What does exist is capitalism, consumerism and scarcity, all things that don’t belong to witchcraft. Witches in the past were mostly poor, unprivileged and unhealthy individuals with just one skill: knowledge. Yes, for today’s americentric standards they’d have been called “low-spoons practitioners”.

No fancy candles? No cauldron? Just one heavily used tarot deck?

Yes, no fancy candles Susan, you can keep those paraffin toxins to yourself.

Cauldron, Deborah? I have no money to waste for your pinterest aesthetics. We cook in this house, I can simply use a kitchen pot.

Mais oui Elizabeth, just one old tarot deck. It’s used my dear Elizabeth, you know… that’s something that happens when you actually use… tarot instead of purchasing 15 decks, then ending up using just one or two of them and leaving the other 13 to collect dust and resentment towards you.

*Sigh*

This is all to say, witchcraft doesn’t need a 9-steps process to be achieved. Calling it “low-spoons” practice just means “high spoons” practice is the norm. It is not. Most importantly, it never was. You don’t need 30 specific crystals to perform a spell, you don’t even need one most of the times.

— Addition: If you fit into the “Low Spoons” type of witch and you noticed that your spells or rituals don’t work, then let me share one of the possible reasons why they fail: you followed a “low spoons” recipe or spell preparation, consciously or unconsciously gave the title “too much power” (your subconscious registered your spell as something lesser than a proper ceremony) and any energy that you and the ingredients released just plopped like a pudding on the floor.

Branding something as “lesser” in spirituality can lead to two results: failure or high delays. Yes, the herbs you use still have, nourish and release power, but without YOUR faith, their power alone can do so much; in most cases, your subconscious skepticism rejects your desired manifestation leading to a delayed or completely failed magickal attempt.

[bonchobrick]

So I’ve seen some posts going around about a ‘Bruce adopts Danny and everyone thinks they’ll finally have a normal family member—Danny is very not normal’ and here’s my late night take on it.

Or

Danny batfam au where they batfam tries really hard to keep their vigilante ass-kicking nightlife a secret from danny because he is ‘the only normal one in the family’ this becomes a problem however when danny gets kidnapped.

——-

The batfam all work together in a deeply serious family meeting to save their boy. After hours of combining their brains together they come up with a plan that will effectively save danny from joker, kick joker’s ass, and also make them look really cool while doing it.

So they bust in that warehouse, guns blazing, explosions fading in the background, a gust of dramatic dust covers the air

Batman steps infront of the rest of the team and demands to the blurry figure somewhere in the distance, “Where is Danny!”

The dust clears–they expect bad guys pointing weapons meancingly at them, they expect a cackle of a wicked clown amused at whatever plot he had planned coming to life, they expected a terrified boy perhaps tied somewhere likely siting in a chair that joker could present to the bats as a way of taunting them.

The dust settles–they observed their surroundings looking around and realize that, there are few new facts to be added into this ‘defeat the villain, get the bro, happy ending equation’

There is decidedly no weapons being pointed at them: In fact, all of the henchmen are already knocked out and tied up.

There is decidedly no evil laughs being echoed their way: In fact, the only noise that isnt coming from them is a light scritch scratch of a pencil

And there is decidedly no terrified little boy, there is a Danny however and he seems to be doing alright–actually scratch that.

Danny is doing wonders for the situation he’s in right now: In fact–

–Danny is sitting criss cross applesauce on-top a knocked out tied up Joker doing his algebra homework

The small blue eyed boy looks up at Batman's voice and visibly brightens, “Oh hey guys, I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Jason says with the utmost of comprehension, “...what.”

“So hi, I’m kinda new to gotham so sorry about beating these guys up, I think they’re villains? I dunno, anyways if you could take care of these guys while I call an uber home that’d be great.”

Danny sends them a blinding smile which would've been adorable if there weren’t a massive pile of bodies he were casually walking away from.

As Danny nears the exit he looks over his shoulder to the baffled group of vigilantes and blinks

“Oh yeah one last thing,” Danny rubs the back of his neck nervously, “Could you guys not tell the Waynes about this.”

Damian speaks up for the rest of his frozen family, albeit hesitantly, “I do think they have already been alerted of your kidnapping.”

“Oh no that's fine.” Danny starts nervously, “It's more about me being the… fighter… in this situation. I was just adopted by them and they seem really nice, I don’t want to scare them away being all grrrr im a scary monster boy and i love to hurt people argh.”

“I don’t think they’d think you're a monster.” Tim adds quietly

“Eh, tell that to my birth parents–they went psycho on me. Like evil scientist psycho, it was not as awesome as the movies make it sound, having scientists for parents.” Danny says bittersweet as he admits with a shrug

There is a moment of silence as the batfamily reevaluate the adoption file that states Danny’s family before they passed were very good people–albeit a bit excentric.

Dick blurts out, “Where did you learn to fight?”

Danny sends him an anxious chuckle, “I actually started when I was fourteen–my town always ran into some trouble so I had to step up. It’s part of the reason I moved here actually. I really don’t want anything to do with that hero vigilante life anymore…” The boy puts his hands together in a pleading motion, “So please don’t tell The Waynes!”

Bewildered at the situation as a whole they nod in a daze

The boys eyes widen at their easy agreement and he grins, “Thank you so so much! I’ve got to go now, it’s way past my curfew. but you’ll probably see me again next time I get kidnapped–I’ll make sure to put in a good word for you guys with my family bye!”

And just like that Danny slips off into the night leaving behind a family who were so sure they finally found a normal addition to their pack.

Jason sighs looking forlornly at the spot Danny had previously been standing, “You could just never pick the just semi-mentally healthy normal kids could you?”

Bruce groans pinching his the bridge of his nose

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Turtle Takedown Teamwork.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[sweeneydino]

Photos.

Has your teeth rotten out yet from all the fluff?

[desertduality]

gigs phasmo but the ghost is just confused mumbo jumbo

physically unable to write a snippet so here's a whole oneshot AKJSDKJ I hope you like it!! Personally I had a ton of fun lmao

-------

The house was nice, as far as haunted locations went. The flowers out front were dead, sure, but that was probably on account of their caretaker being dead as well.

The neighbors had been the ones to call this address in, claiming that although the owner of the property had died quite some months ago, lights frequently turned on and off in the house. The police had been by several times to check for intruders, and had come up empty every time. Finally, some desperate neighbor had given in and called paranormal investigators.

So there they were, Impulse pulling up on the curb just as the sun dipped below the horizon. Prime ghost hunting time, for some reason; Scar hadn’t really paid attention to the science and research when he’d signed up for the job. Besides, the other three had all that handled quite nicely. Scar was just along for the ride. 

“Scar, you know what you’re doing?” Impulse asked, grabbing a flashlight off the wall and clipping his walkie onto his belt. 

“Sir, yes sir!” Scar quipped, scanning the gear for his usual fare. “One paraba-dolical microphone coming up.”

“Grab a thermometer, too,” Impulse suggested, clapping him on the shoulder on his way out of the van. “Let’s try to keep this one clean! The company is running low on cursed items with resurrection abilities.”

“I know for a fact we’ve made the biggest dent in that,” Skizz’s voice crackled out of the walkie, changing to a slight echo as he presumably walked in the house.

“Why do you sound proud of that?” Grian asked, speaking into the radio as he grabbed a salt canister. Scar snickered, reaching over him to grab the thermometer. 

“We’ve got a record going, man! No one can stop us!”

“You have to admire his positivity,” Scar said brightly, clicking his flashlight to make sure it worked. 

“Yeah, I guess he’s got that going for him,” Grian replied, giving a short wave as he left the van. “See you on the inside, Scar.”

Scar gave a jaunty wave, doing one last check on his equipment before starting after him. A voice cut him off before he could leave. 

“Did anyone check the name?” Impulse asked, and Scar turned around to squint at the corkboard, eyes catching on the top. 

Huh. Interesting. 

Scar clicked the talk button on his walkie. “Looks like… Mumbo Jumbo?”

There was a long pause, and Scar almost thought they had missed it somehow. Then the response came.

“Scar,” Grian said, sounding tiredly amused. “If you can’t pronounce it, don’t just make something up.”

“No, It— It literally says Mumbo Jumbo,” Scar replied, glancing up to double check. “Don’t make me waste a photo to prove it. I will, you know I will.”

“Don’t, Scar,” Impulse jumped in, so quickly that the start of his sentence cut out. “We believe you.”

“Get in here before I come and drag you, Face,” Skizz chimed in, and Scar rolled his eyes with a chuckle, stepping out of the van. 

The house was warmer than the air outside, so Scar took that as a sign that someone had gotten to the fuse box. He wandered around with the paradabolic microphone for a few minutes, watching closely for big leaps in the readings. Eventually, Impulse called out from upstairs, claiming that he’d found the room. Scar hurried towards him, making it there just in time to watch him set up the video camera, fiddling with the tripod and muttering complaints about its stability. 

The room was a bedroom, a large bed against one wall and a shelf full of dead plants on the other. Everything was covered with a thin layer of dust, but that was pretty usual. Obviously no one had been keeping up with the cleaning.   

“Anyone done spirit box?” Grian asked, and Scar jumped and whirled around, finding him in the doorway. Grian giggled, and Scar huffed. 

“Not yet,” Impulse said, finally getting the tripod to settle. He looked over at them. “Want us to leave?”

“Not really,” Grian grumbled, starting to power up the spirit box. “But yes.”

Scar walked out of the door and Impulse followed him, closing it and leaving Grian in the room alone. Immediately, they heard the telltale singing introduction of Grian beginning to ask questions. The rest of the house was quiet. So far, everything had been entirely unremarkable.

“I’m going to go grab D.O.T.S and a book,” Impulse spoke suddenly, starting to walk away. “Maybe you could start grabbing some stuff for a polty pile?”

“Sure, will do,” Scar said, and started picking up objects from the table in the hallway. A lot of picture frames and spare wires, for whatever reason.

Grian opened the door to the room just as Scar arrived with his arms full, and Scar tilted his head at the odd look on the other’s face. His eyebrows were furrowed and he was wearing a faint frown. 

“What’s wrong?” Scar asked, curious. Normally, Grian came out of a spirit box session with wide eyes and immediately ran to the van. This was out of character.

“I think…” Grian started, contemplative frown getting more pronounced. “I think the ghost apologized to me.”

“...huh?”

“I asked where it was,” Grian said, spirit box slack in his hand. “And then it said something, and then I screamed, and then it— I could have sworn it said sorry. Like, for scaring me.”

“Oh,” Scar said, tilting his head. “Has that happened before?”

Grian shook his head slowly, staring at the spirit box for a minute before exhaling forcefully. “Let’s just keep going,” he said, shoving the device in his pocket. “We still have a job to do.” Then, into his walkie: “We’ve got spirit box, guys. One thing down.”

They kept doing their jobs like they normally would, but none of them could quite shake the sense of something being different.

Usually, the haunted locations they visited had a foreboding sort of feeling to them. They get in and out of those places as soon as possible, the feeling of imminent danger settling on their shoulders like a heavy jacket. There was none of that, here. It was obviously haunted, but it still just felt like... a house. It didn’t feel malicious at all. 

Impulse put a book down, and writing appeared a few minutes later. Just a single sentence, asking if they would water the plants on their way out.

They laid down D.O.T.S and stayed out in the van for a while, eventually seeing a tall, hazy figure pass quickly through. 

They caught ghost orbs on the video surveillance.

Impulse took the Ultraviolet flashlight and found fingerprints on the side of the video camera, like the ghost had been curious about it. 

The salt Grian had placed on the ground was smeared and scattered, almost as if the ghost had slipped on it instead of stepped in it. 

“If we discovered some new type of ghost,” Grian said eventually, muffled through his own hands covering his face, after hours of pouring over the conflicting evidence. “I am going to be upset.”

“None of this makes sense!” Impulse complained, flipping through the research journal that Scar had never touched. He was scowling at the pages like they’d personally offended him. “It won’t even hunt!”

“He seems kinda friendly,” Scar said, staring at the steady line of the EMF reader on the screen. “The poor guy just wants his plants watered. I don’t even have the heart to tell him that it probably wouldn’t help. Those things are dead dead.”

Impulse’s head thunked down on the table in front of him. “We’re so fired.”

In the silence following that statement, Skizz burst into the van, holding an object aloft in celebration.

“I found it!” Skizz yelled triumphantly, the wrinkly figure of the monkey paw clutched in his hand. “It fell behind some boxes. I told you it was here.”

“Oooh,” Scar said, rushing over in excitement. “What should we wish for?”

“A quick death?” Grian said flatly.

Scar waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve had too many of those. It gets kind of boring, believe it or not.”

“Let’s just wish to see it,” Impulse said, heaving himself up from his hunched position by the monitor. “We’ve done everything else we could do, let’s just do it.”

“Sure, why not,” Grian said, shrugging. “Let’s go out in a blaze of glory, then.”

“That’s the spirit!” Skizz laughed, and together the four of them marched back into the house.

The room was exactly as they’d left it, and Impulse took a moment to turn off the D.O.T.S. Then they stood in a loose circle, tense and determined. Whatever was happening here, it would be over soon. One way or the other. Maybe the company wouldn’t even bother to bring them back, this time. 

Skizz held the monkey paw aloft, dim light casting dramatic shadows on his face. “I wish to see the ghost!”

A finger on the monkey paw cracked and groaned as it bent down, and a chill swept across the room, quick and encompassing. Their flashlights flickered, and then died, leaving them in complete darkness. For a long moment, the only sound was their chorus of quick and shaky breathing.

When the lights turned back on, Scar was face to face with a ghost. A ghost that looked equally as startled as he was. 

Scar yelped and stumbled backwards, tripping over the open book on the ground and hurtling towards the bed. The ghost — a tall man with dark hair and an absolutely wonderful mustache — lunged forward and reached out as if to catch him, eyes wide and panicked. To be fair to the dead man, it absolutely would have worked if his hands were still a tangible thing; As it were, his attempt at grabbing Scar to keep him upright was rather rudely foiled by his outstretched hand passing right through Scar’s flailing arm.

Scar hit the bed with a grunt as various cries of alarm sounded out around him, light bouncing around the room haphazardly as the sound of clattering reached his ears; someone had dropped their flashlight, apparently. Scar laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling, dazed. 

“Oh gosh! I’m so— I didn’t mean to pop in like that, I—”

Scar looked up just in time to watch a crucifix fly through the air and pass harmlessly through the ghost’s head, hitting the wall with a thud and falling gracelessly to the floor. The ghost yelped and ducked — much too late, not that it mattered, anyway — and Scar’s gaze next landed on Grian, still standing there with his arm extended in a throwing motion, hand empty and eyes wide.

“What was that gonna do, G?!” Skizz asked hysterically, fumbling for his camera, accidentally snapping a picture of his own face and swearing when the light blinded him. 

Impulse had knocked over the tripod in all of the chaos, and was now frantically attempting to set it back upright. The ghost — Mumbo Jumbo — turned his anxious eyes on Scar, who for once was struck speechless, jaw slack. 

“Are you alright, mate?” Mumbo Jumbo asked, hands fidgeting together. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but— Well, you summoned me. There’s only so much to be done for that.”

With everyone else still scrambling about the room, Scar allowed himself a few seconds to process things. Most ghosts they’d come across — all of them, actually — had been nothing less than murderous and bloodthirsty. The cordial ghost of a perfectly normal man was not something they had been trained for, but that didn’t exactly mean that it was impossible. Sure, maybe it had come way, way out of left field, but Scar prided himself on rolling with the punches. He pushed himself up from the bed with a sheepish, charming smile. 

“It’s all good,” Scar said, bright and friendly. “For sure our fault, we summoned you and got surprised when you showed up. Kind of rude of us, I think. Your mattress is super comfortable, by the way.”

Mumbo Jumbo blinked, as if surprised by the onslaught of words, a confused little furrow appearing between his brows. “Thank you?” he said, glancing behind him at the bed. “It was…expensive.”

“I mean, hey! We spend a lot of our lifetime in a bed, right? Might as well shell out some cash for quality.”

“What are we doing?” Grian asked quickly, almost like he was talking to himself, hands pressed to his head in utter bafflement. “This is insane, what is happening.”

“Grian! Don’t be rude,” Scar admonished playfully, then turned back to grin at the ghost. “Mumbo Jumbo, right?”

The man nodded faintly. “Just…Mumbo is fine.”

“Sweet! I’m Scar,” Scar said, and then started pointing to his friends, all standing stock still in various stages of shock and confusion. “The rude one who throws stuff is Grian, that’s Impulse by the window, and over there is Skizz!”

“Nice to meet you?” Mumbo said, glancing around nervously. “I would offer to shake your hand, but…”

“God, this is weird,” Skizz blurted, eyes still wide but starting to relax his stance. “You do know you’re dead, right? We never actually get to ask any of the ghosts we meet.”

“Oh, I— Yeah, I’m well aware,” Mumbo said, laughing a little. “You’ve met other ghosts, then?”

“We’re ghost hunters,” Impulse said, and now that the shock was fading, Scar could see a spark of excitement in his eyes. “But I mean— We’ve never met any like you.”

“Mostly they want to kill us,” Grian said, stepping up next to Scar. “Are you sure you don’t want to kill us?”

“I don’t think I know how, much less want to,” Mumbo said, glancing out the window. “Did someone call you to find me? I’ve been trying not to scare anyone, but I suppose the lights might’ve done me in.”

“Yeah, that was pretty much what tipped them off,” Scar said apologetically. “A few too many weird things happen and boom, here we are.”

“What happens now?” Mumbo asked, chuckling nervously. “I mean, you found me. Job done, yeah?”

“Usually we figure out what type of ghost it is and the company sends out a specialized team to evict it,” Impulse answered, brow pinched in thought. “But normally that’s for safety reasons. You don’t seem like a threat. No offense.”

“Oh, none taken.”

“Can I ask how you died?” Skizz asked, eyes alight with curiosity. 

“Skizz,” Grian hissed. “You can’t just ask people how they died!”

“I was just wondering!”

“No, it’s— it’s fine,” Mumbo stuttered, and Scar had a feeling that if ghosts could blush, he would be doing it. “I… fell down the stairs.”

Scar nodded solemnly. “Could have happened to anyone.”

“So what are we actually going to do about this?” Grian asked, vaguely gesturing at the room. “It feels like it would be wrong to kick this guy out of his own house. He’s not really causing trouble.”

“Yeah, I— I do like my house,” Mumbo interjected, awkward smile on his face. “I’d rather stay, if that’s alright.”

“Someone’s bound to move in eventually, you know,” Skizz said, pitying frown on his face. “There’s already a for sale sign in the yard. The new owners might not be super ghost-friendly.”

Mumbo’s shoulders slumped, a dejected look on his face as he frowned at the floor. Scar felt a pang of sympathy grow in his chest, and he glanced out the window at the rows of houses down the street. 

It really was quite a nice neighborhood. 

“...You know,” Scar started, gaze drifting over to Grian, a slow smile forming on his face. “Our lease is almost up.”

Grian looked over at him, eyes already resigned, and sighed. 

Scar laughed, grinning, and Mumbo slowly smiled back.

[mischievous-thunder]

Wade's life's truly hard

[werewolf-transgenderism]

man someone in the notes of that AI post left a several paragraph long response like “but what if students don’t know how to write well? what if they’re socioeconomically disadvantaged and never got good writing instruction? they should be allowed to use AI” no they fucking should not because that is not going to help them develop their writing or benefit from writing instruction if they’re not fucking doing any writing themselves! a student who does their own work and gets a low grade but still actually practices writing is learning at least ten times more than a student who just plugs the prompt into chatgpt and doesn’t write at all

[thousand-lights-temple]

holding it the right way makes his hand hurt…

[hyewka]

dude sub!beomgyu is so hot. but you know what's hotter? bratty, possessive sub!gyu. maybe i'm biased cuz i like my men like that but likeeeee

wanna overstimulate him so bad until he's crying and whining for more 😵‍💫😵‍💫 n he probably acts like a bitch at the start, acting all confident and dominant.. yet the second you start fucking him he just folds :(

literally pushing my obsessive sub gyu agenda on everyone but he'd probably fuck you after seeing you getting all close with someone else as a way to show dominance 😵‍💫 gyu seems like the type who'd overstim himself inside of you too, moaning shit like "you're mine" as he chokes on his sobs.. might as well flip him over and let him know he belongs to you only :))

anyways i'm kinda hungry 😍

warnings; sub!yandere-ish beomgyu, cockwarming, mentions of overstim? hair pulling, reader’s equally obsessive sorta, not proofread

-

You twist your sore wrist, trying to relieve the pain Beomgyu you think, or at least hope, had unintentionally inflicted. But with the way he's been increasingly needy the more time you had spent shopping, the more you're sure it was far from an accident.

So it was no surprise how fast he got you on the bed when you finally went back home.

“You’re so mean to me.” he mutters in the crook of your neck, breath hot against your skin. Beomgyu has you pinned under him, his hold unforgiving, pressing down on your body. “You do it on purpose. Make me so fucking crazy, I hate it.”

You flutter your eyes shut when his lips make contact with your sensitive flesh, the slight nip making you breathe heavier. “Beomgyu.” you try warning, to stop him from going further, but it only spurs him on.

Earlier, you stumbled upon Jeongin-- your old highschool friend, while window shopping with Beomgyu by your side. Naturally, you'd want to catch up as you haven't seen him since the last highschool reunion which was two years ago. The longer you spent enthusiastically talking, the more you felt Beomgyu's fingertip dig into your wrist.

You figured he was jealous, and when Beomgyu was jealous, he was different in the sense that he needed reassurance. A lot of it.

When he starts sucking harshly, marking all over your neck down to your collarbones, hips increasingly grinding against your clothed core, his grunts ceasing to be an act slipping his neediness against your skin, you run up your hand to the back of his head grabbing a fistful— you were always fine with his desperation to give you hickeys whenever he felt insecure, laying pliant and letting him cover you with varying purple splotches but the drawn line was always him fucking you.

And that was exactly what he was trying to do, whore.

You yank his head back and the horny dog has no shame letting the blush creep up his cheeks even when he hisses out a curse. “Who gave you the right to grind against me?”

“What? I can’t try to fuck my girlfriend but you can go around whoring with—"

He shrieks when you pull his hair again, his scalp burning, tears already brimming on his waterline. “You have such a filthy mouth pup, I ought to put it to better use, no?”

His eyes still have the audacity to look down at you. You sneer, a soft scoff escaping your lips. Beomgyu has always been one to try and dom during sex, which you wouldn’t mind if it weren’t for the fact that you knew the poor boy was weak after a single twist to his bud.

After a few beats of silence, you decide to pull him down for a quick kiss, a mix of saliva and tongue, before you abruptly stop reciprocating and Beomgyus left whimpering against your lips urging you to continue. You put your hand on his chest, getting him to reluctantly pull away. “No. You have to fix your attitude first.”

He shakes his head, “You’re the one whos been talking about Jungwoon or whatever his name is—"

“Jeongin.”

“I don’t care! You couldn’t shut up about him the entire way here! I hate it. It feels like he could sweep you off your feet when I’m not paying attention and then—and then you’ll…” his assertive demeanor cracks in a flash, his face flushed, lower lip quivering up into a pout, “You’ll leave me and, and—“

You don’t let him finish, flicking his forehead to which his hand immediately fly up to rub as if you just smacked it. “Ouch? What was that for?”

“You’re such a dumb boy.” You say shaking your head. “I mentioned Jeongin once. Once during our way here because you seemed so bothered by how we knew each other.”

You weren’t lying, proven by the way Beomgyu tries to counter your point, but closes his mouth after nothing comes out. A sly smile, and your hands already sneakily sliding up his loose hoodie, thumb finding their way to graze his already hard nipples, “Baby boy got stupid jealous just because I talked to a guy, huh?”

His arms that were holding him up, pinned next to both sides of your body had started to tremble. So fast, it was almost comical.

“Shut up. He wasn’t just some guy. He was totally into you.”

You rub his bud in circles, cooing at how his hair falls over his face, as he tries to gain composure. “Really? You thought he was checking me out too?” you tease, making sure to catch him off guard with a random pinch.

His body jerks, a strained exhale leaving his lips before hes too weak to keep himself up anymore, head falling to bury itself in the crook of your neck, getting you to feel his bulge against your thigh. He was already giving up.

“Stooop.” he whines, continuing to rub his crotch on your inner thigh. “You’re so mean to me.”

You decide to give it up, instead twirling a strand of his soft hair as he gets more and more feverish against your leg. “N-no more teasing. Have to be inside you.” he finally breathes out, a call of desperation, so needy Beomgyu was.

Beomgyu who’s too impatient to fully take off your skirt, only pulling them up before he bunches up your panties to the side, his tip barely protruding your entrance before he pushes in his red dick in, so inexperienced and stupid, shuddering as he keeps his cock buried.

“You have to move pup.” you instruct lightly, trying to fuck yourself on his dick, but it proves impossible as Beomgyu shakes his head adamantly.

His breathing is heavy, dumb mind already filled with esctasy, head finding comfort in the warmth of your shoulder, cock drilled so deep inside he might go insane with your warmth, “Wanna stay in here forever."

“And ever.” he sighs, sucking on your abused hickeys again. “So you’ll never leave.”

It should’ve been concerning, a red flag to look back on but what happens if you feel the same way? Having him only be by your side.

Beomgyu who finally starts moving, ever so slightly, moaning with each small sharp snap into you. It takes you by complete shock when his pace goes a complete 180, Beomgyu becoming crazed, his thrusts quickly becoming sharp and erratic, so similar to his humping earlier with no particular rhythm, hammering into you, each love proclamation as tears waste no time to stain his cheeks, body shuddering with his head feeling light, drool trickling down under his chin, “Mine, mine, mine. Jeongin can’t have you like this. You’re mine.”

His body presses against yours, leaving no room for breathing, kissing you so roughly, yet his soft lips are a contrast, “I only belong to you. Nobody else—ha!”

His hips stagger, lanky body once looming over you so weak and frail. “N-no! Am cumming, cumming—“ he babbles so loudly, the sight so beautiful, his lashes more pronounced with the wetness of his tears. He belongs to you, he’s right. Just pressing against where his nipples are gets him to cum prematurely. You smirk feeling smug, even when simply the sound of his cute moans has you weak. You feel his hot load shoot inside you, bad boy.

He tries to catch his breath, clearly dumb fucked, chest heaving, as he falls to your side on the bed. You don’t let the boy get away so easily after not even making sure you finished.

The terrified look in his eyes as you swiftly get on top of him, switching positions was enough for you to know that this was going to be a long fucking night.

[peaches2217]

“You’ve gotta take a nap, bro.”

“Then I’d have to stop looking at her.”

“She’ll be here when you wake up.”

“But I gotta make sure, yeah?”

“That’s what I’m here for, you big doofus. You know I won’t let anything happen to her!”

Luigi knew better than to take it personally, his brother’s protests and the silences between them. Reasoning with Mario when he was short on sleep was always an ouroboric cycle; the key to victory was to wear him down, tail him relentlessly in endless verbal circles, until at last he was tired enough to believe that dropping everything for a quick break was his own idea, at which point he would happily concede.

He’d always been stubborn like that. And as Luigi was quickly learning, the only thing more stubborn than an exhausted Mario was an exhausted Mario with a sleeping newborn in his arms. But he’d procured a nap himself and was armed with an endless supply of coffee and a foot-tall stack of Better Toads and Gardens. He could play this game all night long.

When another silence fell over them, he peeked over from an article on propagating winter roses and watched for a moment. Nothing new to observe. Mario still cradled his daughter’s head to his heart, his thumb stroking her cheek; his eyes were heavy yet soft and full of wonder, an equally soft (if slightly dopey) smile on his lips.

Luigi felt a similar smile creep onto his own face. He’d be lying if he tried to deny how precious the sight was, or how it made him want to melt into the loveseat they shared like gooey candy left too long in the sun. Fatherhood looked good on his brother. He’d always suspected it would.

Of course, it would look a lot better once Mario wasn’t visibly on the verge of passing out. And maybe after he took a razor to the stubble prickling his chin and cheeks and neck. And a good shower wouldn’t hurt, either. But for now, one hurdle at a time.

“Remember that talk we had?” Luigi leaned to his opposite side to fetch his drink from the end table, overcrowded with magazines. “You’ve gotta take care of yourself if you’re gonna take care of anyone else.”

“I know,” Mario groaned, dragging the last syllable out like a petulant child who’d been asked to clean his room, “and I’m gonna! You know that! But I gotta make sure she gets rested up first, yeah? All these new sounds and sights; that’s hard work, taking it all in! She’s too little for all that excitement.”

That dopey smile widened, and as Luigi polished off his fifth cup of coffee, Mario began cooing beneath his breath: “Sì che lo sei! Mia bellissima principessina! Mia albicoccetta sonnolenta! Papà adora così tanto la sua bambina! Sì! Sì!”

That was a good sign. A babbling Mario was a Mario desperately trying to keep himself awake, and thus a Mario mere minutes from giving into sleep. Luigi set his cup back onto the table and draped his reading material over the loveseat’s arm so he could commandeer baby duty at a moment’s notice.

“You can barely even keep your eyes open. It’s not safe to fall asleep holding a baby,” Luigi reminded him. “I’ll hold her for you. She’ll probably still be snoozing away by the time you wake up!”

Mario’s smile gradually faded, and he squinted down at his little girl, as if contemplating every divot of her visage. Luigi swore he could hear the squeak-squeak-squeak of rusty, overworked cogwheels rotating deep within his brother’s brain.

“What if she isn’t?” Mario eventually asked.

“Isn’t what?”

“Snoozing. You know? What if… what if she wakes up before I do? What if she needs changed, or…”

“Then I’ll change her. No sweat.”

Mario shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

“Mario, I’m a plumber. You think dirty diapers scare me?”

“No, I mean—” he gulped, catching a quiet, heavy breath. “Won’t she be scared? If she wakes up and she needs something but her mama’s asleep and her papa’s asleep, she’s gonna think she’s all alone, and—” His voice cracked as he spoke, and as soon as he stopped talking, his bottom lip began to wobble, fat tears pooling in his eyes.

That was also good. A weepy and irrational Mario was a Mario on the precipice of surrender. This would be over soon.

“No!” Those tears leaked out as he buried his face into the crown of her head, planting little kisses to her hair between affirmations. “No no no, Papà non andrà da nessuna parte, albicoccetta! Non ti abbandonerò mai!” Mwah! “Mai!” Mwah! “Mai!”

“Stars’ sakes, Mario, you’re not abandoning her.” Luigi made a point to keep his voice even and sympathetic as he scooted closer, draping an arm around his emotional brother’s shoulders. “I can wake you up if she needs anything,” he promised. “But you know she’ll be okay! As long as she’s clean and cozy, she’ll sleep like a— well, you know.”

Mario sniffled. “You’ll keep her cozy?”

“The coziest. She’ll be so cozy she won’t even know you passed her off to me!”

“...But we don’t smell the same! She’ll smell you and know it’s not me!”

“Bro. She’s a baby, not a dog.”

“But she’s so talented! So smart!” Mario hiccupped and turned to wipe his face across his shirt sleeve, already stained and crusty from the fifteen times he’d used it as a snot rag prior. “She stopped crying as soon as she heard her mama! She opened her eyes when I talked to her for the first time! She knows these things!”

If she already knows your smell as well as she knows your voice, then you really need that shower. Luigi bit back a chuckle and cleared his throat. No, he’d be every bit as incoherent and emotionally raw in Mario’s shoes. Comfort now. Snark later.

“Look at me, bro.” He pulled back just enough so that Mario could look up at him, and that alone was a victory, because he hadn’t looked away from his daughter in hours. And looking into his eyes now, red from tears and foggy with fatigue, Luigi knew with even greater conviction that he was on the right track. “If she wakes up — the second she starts acting scared or sad or needy, I’ll wake you up.”

“You promise?”

“On Polterpup.”

“You won’t just grab a nurse, or make Peach—” Something like horror flickered across Mario’s face, and suddenly he leaned in, his brows scrunched and his tone sharp. “Swear you won’t wake Peach up. No matter what. Don’t even think about it! Swear that on Mama’s grave!”

Luigi blinked. Well, if he’d been entertaining thoughts of waking a new mother after she’d spent all day in labor (which he wasn’t, at least not too seriously), those thoughts went flying out the nearest window. Mama Mario would personally descend in a chariot of angels to smack him with a rolling pin for committing such an act in the first place; what wrath would he incur if he also spited her name in the process?

Yeesh. That was an intense request, even (or maybe especially) for Mario.

Still, he clapped a hand against his brother’s shoulder, nodding firmly. “Sulla tomba di Mamma. Lo giuro.”

Finally, Mario’s face softened, and he lowered his head with a sigh. Luigi met him halfway; he cupped the back of Mario’s head and touched their foreheads together, and there they savored a moment of quiet resignation, taking in each other’s calming presence.

Wow. It had only taken three hours to reach this point. Honestly, Luigi was quite impressed with himself.

“Alright.” With one last sigh, Mario broke free and turned his attention back to the bundle in his arms, kissing her forehead gently. “You be good for Zio, okay, sweetie? He’s gonna take good care of you.”

Even in the weariest depths of acute oxytocin intoxication, Mario knew (with minimal convincing) that his own child was just as safe with his twin as she was with him. Luigi cleared his throat again, some fluttery but not unpleasant feeling bubbling in his chest. He knew better than to take that for granted.

Zio. Oh, he loved that title.

He found himself uttering his own stream of soothing nothings as he plucked the baby from Mario’s arms, leaning back against the couch cushion so he could prop her against his chest. Stars Almighty, she was her papa’s spitting image. Her chubby cheeks, her strong jaw, her dark hair — she was Mario if he had Peach’s eyes and nose and shaved off his mustache and was also thirty years younger. A little Mini-Mario.

Luigi clicked his tongue softly at his precious little niece, resting peacefully in his arms, entirely unphased by the transfer. Another trait she’d picked up from her father, it seemed: she was one heck of a heavy sleeper.

He would tear down the sky and blow up the stars for her. Funny, how quickly one can devote their entire being to something so small.

“C’mon,” he said, facing his brother again, “let’s get you somewhere more—”

Mario was out cold. He hadn’t even laid back or made himself comfortable; he just slumped forward, his mouth open slightly, his eyes lightly shut.

Great. Speak of the devil…

“Hey.” He glanced back down to the infant in his arms, ensuring her neck remained stable as he nudged his brother with his shoulder. “Come on. Don’t do this! There’s a perfectly good sofa literally right across the room!”

His rationale went unheard. Mario swayed in place for a moment, eyes still closed, and then slouched into Luigi’s side, his head landing square on his shoulder. A quiet snore escaped him as he made contact, and then nothing.

Luigi stared down at his unconscious twin in stupefaction, eventually casting a longing gaze at his gardening magazine, still open and waiting for him on his opposite side. Mario wouldn’t be moving anytime soon. He could, in theory, free himself, but given how the hypervigilant dad-to-be had trained himself these past months to startle awake at the slightest sudden movement…

Well. Their shared moment of resignation hadn’t just been for Mario’s sake, then.

Ah well. Best not divide his attention while babysitting. With a lighthearted huff, Luigi carefully repositioned himself, pulling his legs beneath him and leaning against the loveseat’s arm (and creasing his poor abandoned magazine in the process) so he could more appropriately support Mario’s bulk. Both father and daughter remained undisturbed as he shifted into a more comfortable position.

“Starai una rompiscatole come Papà?” he whispered to the bundle in his arms. He tried to sound annoyed, if for no one’s sake but his own, but he couldn’t possibly drop the grin that tugged at his cheeks.

His niece smacked her tiny lips, nestling a bit deeper into her blanket with a quiet noise. At the same time, Mario snored again, settling against his brother in his sleep.

A Mini-Mario indeed.

“Oh, sì!” Luigi nuzzled his nose into the crown of her head, planting little kisses to her hair as she snoozed. “La rompiscatole preferita di Zio! Sì che lo sei! Sì!”

[grimesgirll]

hands bound behind your back, you don’t know why you thought you could get away with trying to poison negan.

“you ready to apologize yet?”

you haven’t said a word to negan since he plucked you out of your house after discovering your plot, blindfolding you, tying your hands behind your back, and fucking deporting you to the sanctuary for an indefinite period of time. yeah, you’re not wasting your breath on an apology.

the salt and pepper haired man doesn’t break eye contact with you. it’s a shame. you’d never say it out loud but negan's pretty attractive.

“darlin’, you almost took me out. with a fucking quiche!"

lips poised in a permanent frown, you stay silent. negan's not having this.

he draws a breath, drumming his fingers on the metal table. "silent act. expected that." he reaches under the table to yield that damn baseball bat. "you remember lucille, right?" you give the bare minimum of a nod when he barks your name. "you also remember putting anthrax powder in a quiche and serving it up to me, huh?"

your stare hardens. you really hadn't expected to get caught - hadn't expected that you'd be in this position in your wildest dreams. all because you wanted your freedom back.

"i gotta ask, where did you get the anthrax? that shit is hard to come by."

like i'd tell you, you snark in your head. this was not the time to relay the story of how you'd snuck out of alexandria for a night to hoof it up to a government building complex and scour the shelves of their lab for whatever sinister bioweapons had been left behind once the dead started walking.

"because if that was you, that would make you an extremely valuable asset.” his hand lands on lucille again. "i wouldn't mind having someone around to procure hard to find things like that for me.”

you give him another blank stare. why the fuck would you come to live and procure for the sanctuary? who does he think you are? the flair of your frustration is saved once again by your taciturn lips.

before you know it lucille is below your chin and you’re tilting your head back.

“what the fuck, negan?” you mumble, doing your best to stay still with the bloodstained bat in front of you.

“there we go,” he croons, hazel eyes demanding eye contact. “knew lucille could get you talkin’. girl to girl.”

you roll your eyes. “you caught me, negan. i’m not here to talk.”

“you wanna make me dinner every night, don’t ya’?”

you go tight lipped again.

“well, fat chance. i don’t trust your cooking anymore - no matter how delicious that quiche looked.”

exhaling, you squirm in your restraints. his antics are already tearing at your paper thin patience when he asks, “so, how are you gonna make it up to me, sweetheart?”

“send me home.” you plead. “i’ll go on supply runs for whatever you need - just don’t keep me here.”

“no, i want you here with me.” negan expresses, muscles tensing through his jacket. he drops lucille to the side. “you know, i think you’ll be a lot more useful here.”

you shake your head, confused as he leans down to begin undoing your restraints. “i don’t know how i could be here.”

a grin graces his lips. “don’t worry, doll, i know.”

your eyes widen at the implication when he adjusts his pants and the vitriol is coming back up again like word vomit.

“i wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole, negan.”

you don’t expect him to burst into laughter.

“don’t lie to me, you’re not very good at it. i can tell you that.”

your face twists with a mixture of embarrassment and disgust. you’re disgusted with yourself for the eye contact you’re making with his groin.

“oh, i know you wanna, darlin’, don’t be shy.”

the binds that tied you to the chair fall away. you rub your wrists and observe as negan stalks across the room to the bed of all places. he sits on the plush mattress, legs spread.

“it’s up to you.” he shrugs. “you can deny yourself and stay in that chair and i can call for someone to take you down to the cells or….,”

all negan does is snicker when you begin working off his belt.

“i knew you would be a good girl for me,” negan confirms with a gentle hand guiding the back of your head as you take him into your hand and envelope him into your mouth.

filthy noises fill the air as negan takes his time fucking your mouth. at first he let you go at your own pace, lick up and down, devote time to the nerve endings at the tip of his cock, but one accidental gag from you and suddenly your nose is flush against his pelvis.

“yeah, baby, fuck i knew that mouth could do great things.”

you can only gag in response around him, doing your best to swallow and fight the burn but negan isn’t doing you any favors. he rolls his hips into your face, savoring the pure bliss that is your mouth.

“love seein’ those perfect fucking lips wrapped around my cock. wanted to see you like this from the first moment i saw you.” negan breathes with a hand dug into your hair.

his words shouldn’t be turning you on - not in the slightest. however, you start to feel a tingle beneath you and a pressure in your core. it doesn’t fade as you keep your jaw slack enough for the man to almost send his cock down your throat.

his thick length is cutting off your airway but for some reason your pussy is growing slicker beneath you. despite fighting off the coughing and trying to fit as much of negan’s larger - and girthier - dick into your mouth, you’re getting turned on by this farce.

you finally get into a rhythm and that’s when negan decides it’s time for the next course.

“‘kay, enough of that,” negan declares as he lets you up off of him.

before you know it, you’re sandwiched beside him on the plush, soft bed. you don’t have time to appreciate the satin pillowcase beneath your head because negan is yanking at your pant legs. “gotta get these off,” and soon he’s scraping down your panties. negan is on his elbows next to you and toying with your entrance when you squeeze your eyes shut.

you gasp when a finger’s inserted into you, then another with no warning.

“shit, baby. can’t believe you’re clenchin’ around just my fingers, babe.” negan remarks and curls his two digits, relishing in the way your face contorts at his every movement.

his firm fingers delve deeper into you, taking advantage of your exhales. every movement further screws you open and each wet noise paints your face an even deeper shade of red. the notion of caring gets lost when negan begins to play with your clit.

“gettin’ a lady boner, are ya’?” negan is sure to pay extra close attention to your sensitive nub. the pads of his fingers are instrumental in bringing on the wave of pleasure that overtakes you as you feel yourself let go in negan’s arms.

you’re so wrapped up in your orgasm that you barely notice his dick growing rock hard again between you.

your hands are on his chest, not banging against him like you should be but holding on for dear life as he edges his cock closer to your entrance. the breath leaves your chest when he begins to replace his fingers with his thick cock.

“negan!”

“oh, aren’t you a tight little thing.”

despite you being so “tight”, you still felt like you were being stretched out - no, impaled on his cock and he’s only a few inches in yet.

“you got a boyfriend, baby? not that it matters,” negan questions with an amused look as you struggle to contain your composure between him and his cock bullying into you.

“no,” you croak.

“good.” negan utters the word with a thrust. “couldn’t imagine sharin’ this pussy. not that i’d have to.”

you let out a tiny yelp and your breathing accelerates as he pushes in another inch further. it’s out of your control when he drives the rest of him into you and desperate for any kind of stability, you clutch at negan, not just with your hands on his broad shoulders.

“fuck! pussy feels like it was made for me, babe.”

if you were clearheaded, you would be mortified by the situation, but as long as negan resolves the pressure building up in your core again, he could tell you the two of you are moving to mars for all you care.

“please, negan.”

“what was that?”

“please!” you repeat and plead, over and over until his hips are flush with yours.

an accidental brush of his heavy head against your cervix has you whimpering into negan’s mouth when he takes a break from massaging your breast to kiss you. the heat is everywhere — it’s in your mouth, negan’s mouth, your core, all over.

“fuck, did you just come?”

you simply bury your face into his shoulder. thoughts fucked away, you struggle to register much else besides the mess you’ve made between your thighs.

“yeah, baby, you’re too horny not to have been thinking about this the entire ride here.”

your face lights up with shame - he‘s right. negan had wormed his way into your thoughts like a prion into your brain. every night since the handsome psycho first came around to collect your mattresses and firearms, you’d found yourself wishing he’d return your mattress to you personally just to fuck you into it.

“ugh, gonna have this sweet little pussy molded into the shape of my cock,” negan’s declaring between heavy swats to your rear.

“fuck,” you’re stuttering. “slow down!”

“how? this pussy’s just sucking me in.” negan exclaims, punctuating his words with another spank.

you’re white knuckling the bedsheets as your newest enemy pounds the thoughts out of you. you can’t even try to factor this encounter into your escape plan. the only thing on your mind should be the best way to manipulate the man jackhammering into you right now. but you can’t help but be affected by just how deep inside of you negan is; how he’s squeezing every filthy dumb whore noise out of you and hitting every nerve ending you have down there.

you guess this is better than your community being terrorized. maybe you can convince negan to give everyone their mattresses back.

glimpsing at him, negan is in ecstasy being balls deep in you right now.

and you’re no better.

disappearing in plain sight, you’re getting fucked from the inside out and being tipped into your third orgasm of the night. guilty pleasure coursing through you as you feel boneless. even more so when you feel a warmth pouring into you. barely recognizing the desperate whines that come out of you, you’re shifting your hips to meet his as negan fucks you through both of your orgasms.

coming back to earth, you gulp when you realize that he’s come inside of you. he has to be humane enough to allow you a plan b pill or something; this place is sordid enough, you know they have a stash pile of contraceptives somewhere.

the man slips out of you, spent after fucking your overloaded pussy senseless.

“want a cigarette? i think you deserve one after that.”

you glare at him. “no. i want to go back to alexandria and for you and your goons to fuck off.”

his hairy chest rises with laughter. he reaches for a pack of menthols and a lighter on the nightstand. “doll, you think you’re goin’ somewhere?” he shakes his salt and peppered head. “you and your people are gonna produce for me. got it?”

close lipped, you return his cocky grin with a death glare and crossed arms over your chest.

that doesn’t last long.

the man entraps you in his arms, wrapping them around you and bundling you up to his chest. he starts to ruffle your hair. “i really think you’re gonna wanna stay here.”

“fat chance, negan.”

“oh, honey,” he croons. “i’m not gonna give you a choice.” he whistles. “your grade a piece of ass isn’t walkin’ out of these gates anytime soon.”