#you have no idea what you’re doing to them with that kind of exposure

[great-and-small]

I would rather walk through a subway sandwich shop filled with with several hundred freely roaming pythons than watch any kind of content from a “family vlogger”

[veltana]

Unleashed - Avengers!Bucky/Fem!Reader

✦ Pairing: Avengers!Bucky Barnes/Fem!Reader

✦ Word count: ~4,2k

✦ Rating: Explicit

✦ Warnings/tags: Sex pollen adjacent kinda, smut, a bit fluffy, one shot, possessive!Bucky, co-workers/friends to lovers, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, forced orgasms, orgasm denial, dirty talk, praise, creampie, pet names (doll).

✦ Summary: During a mission, Bucky is exposed to something that removes his inhibitions and all he wants is you.

✦ Note: Previously posted on AO3 since I have basically no time or energy to write new stuff. It was titled You’re what I need before but I always hated that title so I decided to re-name it. Bucky is kind of an asshole in this, but it's just because he wants you! As always, reblogs, comments, and asks are very welcome ❤️

Masterlist | AO3

The worst part about watching from afar as a mission goes to shit is that you feel useless. Even as you dispatch medics for the team all you can do is tell them, "Help is on the way."

Captain America shouts orders that you hear through the comms. The wait feels endless until the crew of the quinjet declares that they have spotted the team and there's not much else for you to do but look at your monitors and wait for an update. When you get the call back that the team is secure you breathe a sigh of relief, but then the next message is to prepare the medical staff to receive multiple injuries and chemical exposure. You ask the crew to clarify, but they are too busy, so when you notify the medical center, they prepare a quarantine room.

Sometimes you wish you had a superpower and could be there with them instead of staring at your monitors and doing endless calculations on whatever the team needs. But then when they return they always compliment your work and tell you they don’t know how they managed without you. You try to remind yourself of those moments at times like this.

Once the quinjet is docked and everyone has been accounted for you push away from your desk and remove your headset, taking deep breaths and trying to calm your heart. A moment later a message pops up on your screen, probably because they couldn’t reach you through your comms. [Bucky wants you to come down here]

Your heart does a little flip in your chest, making you scowl. He is your friend and probably injured, you have no idea why he would be asking for you, but it’s not because he feels the same way you do. You grab your tablet and head to the MedBay.

When you get down you take stock of the situation. Nat and Steve have some scratches, Sam's arm is broken and Wanda has a few cracked ribs. Tony is bruised, his suit had taken most of the damage. You look around for Bucky but don’t see him anywhere and quickly deduce that he must be the person currently in quarantine.

When you get to the wing, you’re almost too scared to go in, afraid to see what could have happened to him. Inside, you find a team of medical personnel discussing Bucky's condition with him through a glass wall. His hair looks damp and he's wearing standard-issue quarantine clothing, soft black pants, and a black sweatshirt. When he sees you standing patiently at the side he says. "You can come back later. I need to talk to her more than I need to talk to you. Go away." His voice comes from speakers in the ceiling.

You're shocked by his behavior but smile apologetically as the white coats pass you on their way out. When you get up to the glass you hiss. "Bucky, what is wrong with you, don't be rude.” "You make it sound like I'm never rude otherwise," he laughs. "You're not rude to healthcare professionals, you know better." You glare at him as you wake your tablet. “Now what did you need me for?”

"Do you like me?" he asks. Your mouth falls open and your heart starts to beat faster. You’re happy your vitals aren’t monitored as you quickly collect yourself and try to deflect his question. "Of course I like you Bucky, you're my friend." But now it feels weird to look at him and you find a spot on the wall far behind him to focus on.

"What if I want more than friends?" is his next question and despite your best efforts, hope warms your chest. This is not happening. Of course you toyed with the idea of you and Bucky, he is always sweet to you, and if he has the chance he brings you gifts from the missions. But you’ve told yourself repeatedly that he needs someone stronger, who can keep up with him in the field and you’re not that person.

"Can we have this conversation when you are not high on some HYDRA drug?” you ask, trying to keep your voice from betraying you. They are monitoring everything in the room. And there is a sheet of unbreakable glass in between you both. If you're going to confess your feelings, it won't be like this.

"I'm not high," he huffs. "My mind has never been clearer." "I still think we should have this conversation later." "Doll, look at me." The command in his voice is so strong you don’t think, you snap your eyes to his and they are so blue and soft.

"I will feel the same tomorrow, and the day after, whenever this drug wears off but now is the only time I can't hold my tongue," he explains. You place your hand on the glass and he does the same on the other side. "It will be fine Bucky, I promise," you say just as the door opens and Steve walks in, making you pull your hand back to your side. He's showered, in a fresh pair of clothes and he swings his arm over your shoulder.

"Stop hogging her time Bucky, I know for a fact that she also needs to debrief," he smiles but Bucky looks as if he's seeing red. Through gritted teeth he presses out, "Get your fucking arm off her, punk. She's mine."

You and Steve burst into laughter because it has to be a joke, but then Bucky punches the barrier with his vibranium arm. The glass doesn't crack but both you and Steve stop short and step away in shock. Steve removes his arm and says, "I'll meet you upstairs." Before quickly heading out.

You turn to Bucky and point at him, anger rising in your chest. "What is wrong with you? Steve is your friend!" "That is what it’s like in here every day,” he points to his head. You're taken aback by his statement and his wide feral eyes. Clearly, whatever he was exposed to had messed with his head and he's not himself. “Bucky I need to go,” you tell him, and before he can protest you continue. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” You smile feebly at him and are out the door before he can say anything else.

After debriefing and having dinner you go to bed early. Your head is spinning with the day and most of all, Bucky.

It's way past midnight when you wake to the soft closing of your door. Since you always sleep with a night light the soft warm glow reflects off his left arm and leaves no doubt about who has entered your room. You blink at him but before you can ask a question he rasps out, pleading. "I need you. So bad. Please doll, help me." He moves closer to your bed.

You quickly remove your covers and get up, glad the giant t-shirt covers you to your thighs, ready to spring into action. "Anything Bucky, what do you need?" You stop an arm's length from him, but all he does is reach his hand out to cup your face, letting his thumb stroke your cheek. There is a wild look in his eyes but you keep calm. "I can't get you what you need if you don't tell me," you whisper, meeting his eyes and watching as his brow furrows.

"I need you. Right now. If I don't get to touch and taste every inch of your body I'm going to lose my mind," he confesses in a low voice. His words shock you and you hitch a breath. You’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. You have this great friendship. If things were different you would not have minded taking it to another level, but with the day in mind and the fact that he somehow got out of his containment room you say, "Bucky, you’re not yourself, you need to get back to-”

"Doll,” he interrupts with a hard voice. “For once, I feel more like myself than I have in a long time. The only thing the drug did, I think, was remove my inhibitions. For once I feel free. My mind isn't controlled by HYDRA or by fear that you'll reject me. All I know is that I crave you and I can't be quiet about it anymore.”

"Bucky… I…" your whole body is flushed with warmth from his words and you're not sure how to respond. "I dreamt about you and couldn't stop myself from going over here. I don't want to hurt you, doll, but I'm not sure this drug will let me leave. All I wanna do is move closer to you.” You swallow hard as he continues, thumb still stroking your cheek. “Ask FRIDAY to get Steve, or the Hulk if you want me to leave."

Instead, you step into him, making up your mind in an instant and resting your hands on his chest. "Stay, I'll be glad to help you with anything you need," you whisper honestly and by the way his eyes widen there was still some doubt in his mind that you would reject him.

Instead of saying anything his vibranium hand grasps your waist and pulls you closer. There is no escaping the smell and size of him and his hands on you got your pussy throbbing for him already.

"I hope you understand what you've agreed to," he whispers, leaning closer. "Once I have you I won't stop, you'll never be rid of me. I'll claim you against every surface of this fucking compound if I need to." That makes you whimper and press harder against him. "Fuck you'd like that huh? Are you a kinky little thing? Like getting fucked where people can see you and hear you moan, do you want people to see my hard dick spread you open?" "Fuck Bucky!" You exclaim and lean your forehead against his chest. Maybe that idea excites you or maybe it is just that the word ‘claim’ sounds so primal.

"You're going to tell me all your little secrets later, doll. But now, I'm going to take what's mine." And with that, he crushes his lips to yours. He backs you towards the bed, kissing you the whole time, letting his hands explore you. When you land on your back, he stands over you with eyes like a predator about to devour its prey.

You shuffle up until your head rests on the pillows, spreading your legs for him. Without taking off any clothes he crawls after you, settling on his knees between your legs and placing his hands on the headboard, crowding you with his large frame. "Mine," he whispers and it makes a shudder pass through you. He ruts his clothed cock against your core, slicking your underwear even more and making you whine, gripping the sheets under you.

"Yes," he almost hisses as the length of his dick presses on your clit and forces a mewl out of you. It's been a long time since you've gotten laid. "Bucky," you plead. "No doll, I'm going to enjoy every fucking second of claiming you, from the outside in. Did you think this would be hard and fast and that I would be gone before you knew what happened?"

He lets go of the headboard to put his elbows beside your head instead, his weight on you, pressing you down into the mattress. "When I leave you will long for me, spend every waking second wishing I was still inside you. I want your cunt to be permanently drenched so I can fuck you whenever I please." He kisses you forcefully and any coherent thought that was left in your head flees. "And when you're too sore to take more of my dick in your pussy I'm going to do the same thing to your mouth and ass."

He rids you off your t-shirt and instead of having to move from between your legs to pull off your underwear, he rips them apart. "Ah!" you exclaim when the force of his movements jolts you but he takes no notice, he just stares at you, letting his hands roam up and down your sides, up to your tits, cupping them and caressing your nipples with his thumbs.

Whimpers are coming from you with every pass of this touch. Then he moves down and lays on his stomach, not saying a word as he sweeps his tongue over your pussy before he starts devouring you with a throaty moan.

It doesn’t take long for the first orgasm to take you, his movements are precise and his words and actions have made you hornier than you’ve ever experienced. Or maybe it's because he is the hottest person you’ve ever laid eyes on and he only wants you.

When you’re finished and sensitive he dips his tongue into your hole to taste you and groans loudly, lapping up the wetness from your orgasm. "Better than I've dreamed of," he says when he pulls away. Now you’re the one that must be high because you can't help but giggle. "You seriously dream of me?" "All the time, doll. Every night when I go to bed I wish you were with me and then you plague my sleep with your soft curves and radiant smile."

You're about to tell him how his laugh makes you warm and fuzzy on the inside but at that moment he sucks your clit into his mouth, cutting out every thought in your brain. He's gentle but not hesitant, it's as if he's feeling you out and when you make a particularly loud sound he continues the same movement, making your whole body go hot.

The second orgasm is intense enough to send aftershocks through for a long while afterward. Bucky lays his head on your thigh as you tremble, caressing your skin and letting the fingers of his right hand skim over your opening.

Despite what he's already given you, you still crave more. His fingertips never come close to where you need them and when you whine at the back of your throat Bucky smiles up at you. "Don't worry, I'm not even close to done with you, but I don't want you to pass out on me.” One of his fingers glides inside, making you take a sharp breath just because it feels so good. Once again he is careful, moving slowly, listening to your breath and your body.

"Please Bucky, I need more.” "No need to beg, I'll give you everything you want… in time," he breathes and kisses the skin on the inside of your thigh. Slowly he moves his finger in and out. You're sure it's a form of torture. The sweetest kind there is. Your breathing is labored and when he finally adds a second, you start to quiver.

He nips at your skin and then kisses it before speaking. "You look like a goddess, doll, eyes filled with lust, your skin is gleaming. I'm going to worship you until you're tired of me.” "Never gonna happen," you whimper. Then his thumb lands on your clit, making you cry out. Everything is so sensitive and overstimulated.

"I don't- Bucky, I don't think I can again," you tell him even though his touches are causing your insides to melt. "Yes, you will," his voice is soft but the command is clear. So instead of trying to speak again, you sink further into the madness that is him playing with you. The third one takes its sweet time but you never feel rushed or stressed that it's taking too long. Bucky isn’t in a hurry.

Then it’s suddenly there, crashing through you. "Fuck Bucky, fuck you're gonna make me come." "So good for me, let me feel you come on my fingers," he urges. "I'm going to lick them clean afterward so make sure you get them nice and wet for me. I want as much as you'll give me." The climax reaches its peak and you come with a cry of his name, body convulsing and your hand shooting down to tangle in his hair.

"Just like that doll," he smiles up at you and holds your gaze when he pulls out his fingers and sucks them clean, moaning while he does. It's a filthy sound, but it turns you on as if he didn't just make you come for the third time. Then he dives in between your legs again, licking at your skin and your soaked hole. Letting go of his hair all you can do is just lie there, writhing, as he somehow coaxes a fourth orgasm out of you.

“Fuck me,” you plead when he pulls back. “I need you inside me Bucky.” This time he takes pity on you and moves away to take off his clothes. When he’s naked he kneels between your legs again and you spread them as wide as you can. "Want me, doll?" he asks with a smirk. He swipes his cock through your mess and then uses his hand to coat himself with you. "Yes," is all you can say. Both you and Bucky stare as he pushes his dick into you, filling you up completely. Of course, he takes it torturously slow this time too.

"This feels better than any dream I've ever had," he whispers almost in awe. You grip his biceps and arch into him, pushing him deeper, faster. That makes him tsk but smiles at the same time as he pushes the rest of the way, finally seating himself. Without giving you a chance to relax he starts fucking you, his cock pushes perfectly against your insides, pulling sounds from you that you haven't made in years.

He sits back on his heels lifting your ass effortlessly until your weight is resting on your shoulders and neck. It's like he is in a trance, pulling you onto his cock over and over again. Your body is his, your mind has fled, and all you see and feel is just him all around you. His eyes keep changing between his dick filling your cunt, your bouncing tits, and your half-lit eyes as if he is not sure where to look. "Mine," he rasps and thrusts hard to empathize the word. "All mine. Say it."

It takes some time for your brain to connect to your mouth and form the words but his gaze never leaves you. "Yours," you whimper. "I'm yours, Bucky." There is a familiar heat low in your belly that's steadily spreading through your limbs. It makes you wiggle and move because it's overwhelming. He is overwhelming in the best sense. Whining you reach down to rub yourself but he slaps your hand away. "I thought I told you, it's mine. I own this cunt. If you wanna touch yourself you have to ask permission." It's as close to a growl as is humanly possible and you don't understand how he can be so cognizant right now, because your brain is like putty. "Can I please rub my clit Bucky, I wanna come on your cock so bad," you cry.

"Good girl," he praises, and when he calls you that, your mouth falls open with a keening sound, gripping the sheets even harder, pulling at them because you want to come so bad. "Do it, show me how you get off when you're alone in bed without me." Everything is slippery and sensitive when you start with your fingers and you immediately know it's going to go fast. With his previous words in mind, you ask. "Can I come?" He meets your eyes with a wicked smile. "Fast learner. Yeah, you can come… when I tell you."

You rip your hand away, afraid you might fall over the edge at any second. The sound out of your throat is almost a sob. "Don't be like that, doll, I thought you said you couldn't do it more times?" "I can-I can! As many times as you want just please let me come." "Fuck, I like it when you beg with my cock in you." But he doesn't say anything else, just continues fucking you. He's not even winded while you're straining your entire body. Your hand wants to move back, anything to relieve the pressure inside you but Bucky was very clear and you don’t want to disobey him.

Then he pulls out and drops you onto the bed, but you don't get to relax because he flips you onto your stomach and pushes one of your knees up to the side before he presses in. His dick hits your G-spot dead on and you scream into the pillow under you. Bucky chuckles right by your ear. "Guess I found it." He's merciless, his hips hit your ass hard and if it weren't for his weight pressing you down you would soon hit the headboard.

"Bucky!" you wail because it's too much. You're losing the last pieces of your mind to the sheer force of the pleasure and you're scared you're never going to be able to come back to yourself. Then his hand presses in between you and the mattress. "Rub yourself on my fingers, make yourself cum. Fuck my cock and come all over me doll." You brace yourself as best you can and move your hips as he keeps almost completely still, just shallow thrusts in stark comparison to what he was doing to you just moments ago.

His fingers slide along your clit, his cock brushing your G-spot over and over again. You're breathless, sweat breaking out along your skin, but the climax you're chasing will be well worth it. You just know it.

"I can't fill you up until I’ve felt you come around me," he grunts, his voice tight with holding back. You whimper, the feeling of fire flushing your whole body, and building up to an eruption like no other. "Yes, yes, yes," he chants low in your ear. "That's it, come for me, make me proud. Fuck it feels so good." And he starts moving again "I'm going to fill you fucking full of my cum. That's it!"

The heat in you breaks and you come with a shout of his name, shaking under him. It gets even more intense when Bucky finishes right behind you, groaning your name. He collapses on top of you but his hips are still moving, slowly, as if he doesn’t want it to ever end. Neither would you but your body is wrecked.

When he finally rolls off, you're so close to falling asleep, but he picks you up and carries you to the bathroom. "Pee." He points and you want to tell him that you know the drill, this isn't your first time, but all that comes out is a grumble before he closes the door behind him and you sit down on the toilet.

When you're done, you stumble out and have a moment of panic, thinking he left. But then the door opens and Bucky returns with two bottles of water, handing you one before leading you to the bed and sitting you down on the edge. Gratefully you drink and lean against his shoulder before asking. "How do you feel?" "Better than I have in a long time," he answers, kissing your forehead. You chuckle. "Yeah I have a magical pussy, it can cure anything," you joke and it makes him laugh. "You should get back to quarantine," you comment. "Before anyone notices." He shakes his head. "No I'm staying here, I'm never leaving you again." He takes the bottle from your hand and places it on the bedside table together with his own. Then he crawls beneath the sheets and you go after him, letting him envelop you in a tight embrace before you fall asleep.

Alarms blare and you wake with a start. "FRIDAY what's going on?" you ask out into the room. “Sergeant Barnes has escaped his confinement.” The voice echoes through the room. You sigh and glare at Bucky grumbling beside you, like the loud signal is just a regular alarm clock. "FRIDAY please inform the team that Bucky is here and everything is fine."

A second later the sound dies and with a sigh you get up to pull on yesterday's discarded t-shirt and find a pair of pants. Right when you're done there is a knock on the door and Steve asks, "Everything okay in there?" You open the door enough to show yourself. "We're fine, he broke out during the night and came here." "Oh," Steve says and there is a hint of blush on his cheeks.

Then you feel a presence behind you and Bucky’s arm goes around your waist. "Mine," he says and you can't see him but he's probably glaring daggers at Steve who backs away. "We'll be okay, I'll alert FRIDAY if I need help," you tell Steve. When you close the door Bucky turns you before pushing you up against it and kissing you hard. "Mine," he mumbles against your lips. "Fucking caveman," you tell him. He grabs you around the waist and throws you over his shoulder. "I'll show you caveman," he says and carries you to the bed

[writing-for-life]

Considering this is a site where so many people have aspirations to become professional authors or artists, I think it’s really astounding that many (often the same) people encourage book piracy. And by that I mean: They don’t just do it behind closed doors (whatever, do what you have to do and keep it to yourself)—they actually package it as some act of immeasurable kindness in the name of “social justice”. And I’d say: If you’re not a professional author and have no experience in or with publishing, hence don’t really understand what it means to make your living as a writer, maybe just… don’t? And if you ever want to sell your books, maybe also just… don’t?

It’s not some cool subversive thing in the name of social justice you’re doing. You’re really hurting authors with it, and it’s in no way comparable to “fighting the big bad streamers.”

Yes, Neil Gaiman will be okay, but if you’re saying it’s okay to do it to him, you’re also saying by extension it’s okay to do it to lesser known authors. And those authors make up the vast (and I mean vast!) majority of authors. But maybe you’re one of those people who think that all artists are minted and picture them in La La Land, entirely possible. If that’s the case, maybe educate yourself what the median income of authors is, be very surprised and wake up. Sometimes, it really helps to think before hitting post. And if rants are not your thing, this is the exit sign because I’m not going to mince my words…

Here are a couple of really good comments from *that* post that people should maybe inwardly digest before they prioritise being oh-so-understanding and supportive of every Tom, Dick & Harry who “can’t afford the book” via piracy (how about buying them one instead if you care so much. No? Thought so) over supporting authors, artists and, yes, libraries:

(Re the last comment: Or use online libraries—they’re also free. That was also part of above post btw. Libby, Hoopla etc exist for a reason.)

If that’s all too hard, then let’s at least stop pretending on here that we care about supporting authors and artists while vocally supporting book piracy. Because really, it’s the same in all arts, even if the symptoms are slightly different—take it from one who is both a published author and used to be a stage performer.

And to say it quite frankly: These “ideas” are probably held by the same people who were tearfully blabbering about the arts being what kept them going during the pandemic and then forgot about it all when lockdown was over. Or maybe they are the same people who think that art is a “jolly pastime”, and that everyone should just be content to “do it for the love of it and give their art away for free because awwwww, so amazing, here, buy food with my exposure bucks.” Go on then, write and consume fanfics and create fanart, problem solved. Just don’t ever ask for the pro art that inspires it again. Ah no, I forgot, it’s all made for money and soulless anyway, innit? Why oh why then do you want to consume and pirate it though?

You’re not progressive and/or supportive of artists. You just have no clue how making a living in the arts works and think your comfort (= “I have to have all the things even if I can’t afford them”) matters more than someone’s livelihood (namely that of the people who devoted their lives to creating that art for you), and it really shows.

I don’t care about anyone’s Google history and even said so several times on here when people asked (this is the latest one, and yes, I see the people who had a “reaction” to this one or the reblog above, but I bet that’s “coincidence”). Do whatever you want to do, it’s your choice, keep it to yourself. But stop pretending that piracy means “caring about the noble cause”, because repackaging entitlement as social activism is performative crap…

[hockeyboysimagines]

would you write #1 from the smut list with Jarvy? I need more of him on this app thanks☺️☺️

So happy I got a Seth request. He’s definitely underrated and if you like reading about him, might I interest you in the fic I have for him? I’ll link it here!

Enjoy🤍

Seth Jarvis was a tease. There was no other way to describe him at this point and he was killing you slowly and he knew it.

His accidental touches and dirty text messages over the last few hours, had finally boiled over the second he closed the car door.

This is how you and him had ended up tangled in the back of the Tiguan, windows fogged up, thankfully because you were parked in a public parking lot.

He was more touchy than normal tonight and what would have been a quick make out any other time, was turning into something else. He had your skirt pushed up around your hips and was attempting to yank down your underwear, and hold you upright at the same time. The backseat was spacious enough to make it possible but not comfortable.

“What-what are you doing?” You asked breathlessly as he slid them down your legs and undid the button on his jeans. Your chest felt tight and your breath was coming out in gasps as you reached forward and gave the hair that hung down the back of his neck a small tug.

He grinned “I’m about to give you the ride of your life.”

You felt your cheeks redden and looked around. The parking lot was not empty, not even close and there were people walking around everywhere. The others were still inside and it would be mortifying is Svech came out looking for you guys and saw something he shouldn’t, but the idea of getting caught was kind of hot. Seth sometimes forgot he was an nhl player and just did things that normal people would get in trouble for, but taking a risk like this was a big one.

“Really? right here? you know people are going to see us...”

The cheekiest smile you’d ever seen spread across his face and he moved his jeans out of the way, patting his knee.

“Jump on babe.”

The sensation of him inside never ever got old, no matter what the situation was. It was chilly and cramped in the car, and you were almost positive you had thrown your back out and had a brush burn on your right knee, but he had one hand fisted in your hair and the other hand anchored on your hip as you moved up and down his length. His lips moved across your chest tongue wet and hot against your skin and you gave a little shiver

You knew people were shooting looks at the car, and they definitely knew what was going on in there, and you were thankful for the window tint and the condensation on the glass so they couldn’t see that it was Seth Jarvis in the car and not someone random.

“Seth I think people know we’re-“ you braced a hand on the window, fingers slipping against the wet glass.

“Let them look.” He said breathlessly “Let them see how beautiful my girl is.”

You didn’t have a chance to respond because he started thrusting harder and your vision went fuzzy as you got smacked with an earth shattering orgasm. Breathing heavily you leaned forward, forehead pressed against his.

“Okay that was pretty hot.” You whispered in his ear, lips grazing his skin. His heart was beating loudly in his chest and he looked down between you, reaching for your underwear and handing them to you.

He smiled “Told you. Now let’s get out of here before someone calls the cops for indecent exposure.”

“Really? No round two in the car?”

He raised his eyebrows “Oh you wanna go again?”

“Just figured since we’re already here, and you’re into exhibitionism now apparently. No one will see us at home.”

He smiled slyly, and started the car “We can open the blinds”

[vaguely-concerned]

Garashir ficlet, PG, context is that Garak is about to go do… Something on his own (specifics very much ????? but probably something foolhardy and secretive and doomed ala Improbable Cause) and Julian is Not Having It this time. Probably fits into some of the later seasons vibes-wise. 

Julian said tightly: “My Kardasi might still need some work, but — ”

“Oh, no at all, considering how recently you started your studies your efforts are downright impressive, if, ah — charmingly archaic at times. If that’s to be laid at anyone’s feet it should be mine, probably, remind me to recommend you something written within the last few centuries sometime soon.” 

Giving this attempt at diversion exactly as much consideration as it deserved, Julian completely ignored him and finished his own line of thought: “ — but at this point I have a veritable doctorate in Garakese. There’s something you’re not telling me.” 

“Many things, I’m sure. If I’d known you had any interest in the optimal soil composition in which to grow Lovalan roses, I would have gladly shared my insight. All you had to do is ask, my dear. In the spirit of cross-cultural knowledge exchange, I always stand ready to chip in and do my par — ”

“Elim.” 

That made Garak blink, just that split second too long, even as his face remained perfectly still and smiling around it. It was subtle enough that an unaugmented eye might not have caught it, but Julian’s did.

No longer bothering to hide his own desperation, Julian pressed on: “Elim, please. You’ve got me worried with this. I want to help in any way I can, and — and I don’t like to think about what might happen if I can’t.”

There was a moment of silence between them in which Julian could hear his own quickened breathing too loudly in his ears. 

“That’s… characteristically kind of you, Doctor,” Garak said eventually, voice slightly hushed, like someone trying not to wake a sleeping child in another room. “But there is nothing to worry about. Really.” 

“Brush me off if you really feel like you have to, but please, at least do me the courtesy of not going out of your way to insult my intelligence while you’re at it,” Julian snapped. “How stupid do you think I am? How do you expect me to just close my eyes and sit back like nothing’s wrong while you — ”

Garak sighed. “You’re right, that was unworthy of me. Please, put it down to old habit, not a lack of respect. Very well, then let me rephrase what I was trying to say slightly, in order to be more precise — whatever might or might not be going on, there’s absolutely nothing you can do, and I really would rather you stayed out of it. Knowing you to be safely out of the line of fire would provide me with infinitely more comfort and utility than anything you could actively do to help. Which, again, is nothing.”

“But — ”

“Julian. Please.” 

Julian would have been thrown less off-balance if Garak had punched him square in the jaw. “Oh, that’s a dirty trick,” he said, unsteadily. 

“And here I thought ‘turnabout is fair play’ was a guiding Human principle,” Garak said, and his tone was light but his eyes were soft and very sad. “I see I have been misinformed.”    

The idea that Julian’s initial exposure to the Cardassian language leaves him speaking it like the equivalent of a Regency era novel or something to contemporary Cardassian ears in the beginning is a headcanon that is so dear to me  

[harry-sussex]

The media has branded Harry and Meghan a “flop” - there’s no coming back from that reputation.

That WSJ article just made my stomach drop. I have no idea how it’s possible that things have gotten this bad. The worst part is that there’s no way up from here - only further down. Rock bottom is a challenge at this point, and it feels like they’re shooting for it every single day.

This is what they wanted? This is better? They’re happy? No fucking way, man. No fucking way. If I know anything about Harry at all - and at this point, we all know Harry a bit too well - he must be outright miserable. There’s no way this whole thing has been worth it. None whatsoever. To someone like me, this is nauseating. I hate it. I hate this. I have always hated this, I always knew that they weren’t going to live the life they thought they would after they left, I’ve been saying for three years until I’m blue in the face - and the reception I’ve gotten from Sussex fans around the world has been horrific (you guys should see some of the shit that’s come through my inbox courtesy of the squad - so much for mental health, Harry and Meghan would be ashamed of them, but I digress).

If you give even a sliver of a shit about Harry, you’ll be able to get your head out of the sand and recognize that leaving was the absolute worst thing he could have done for himself. Look at him! Directionless! Lost! Misguided! Unproductive! Not to mention paranoid, tired, isolated, and he fact that he always looks miserable.

I will say it again and again and again - it. did. not. have. to. be. this. way. 3 years in - what do they have to show for it?:

A successful commercial venture? Nope - almost nothing has come out of Archetypes or anything else, as in the article. Bill Simmons called them “fucking grifters!” If he’s willing to say it loud and proud for the media to pounce on, how many are saying it behind closed doors?

More money? Their income hinges upon content they haven’t created yet. Clearly, these companies have no trouble pulling the plug on their deals and therefore cutting off the income. (Not for nothing - the more this happens, the less money they’ll be able to say they grossed by leaving the royal family. Since this looks like a trend, at what point do they stop and say ‘I probably would have more money at my disposal if I just stuck with the Duchy of Cornwall?’)

More exposure? Yeah, I guess, but look how shitty it is all the time. This is not the kind of exposure they were looking for.

More privacy? Totally goes against everything above, but they’ve never been more vulnerable to intrusive speculation. They invite it! Encourage it! Hand their personal lives over to the media and the public on a silver platter! The only thing keeping them ‘private’ is living in a gated community - imagine how private their personal life would be if they were in a palace instead?

Better treatment from the press? The American media are vultures too. The world media has made a fortune off of their bullshit. Even the gently critical ones that tell the hard truth - like the WSJ - show that the media does not care who you are if you deserve the criticism or if your bullshit is so completely out of this world that the story writes itself. Nothing is sacred, and it’s even worse now that there’s nothing standing in between them and the press.

The opportunity to provide universal service? What the hell have they done? One single Invictus Games? The occasional event? The occasional donation? They spend more time accepting awards for doing something rather than actually doing something!

Being happier? Bullshit, man. Look at Prince Harry. He hasn’t had a genuine smile on his face in public since 2021. I could go down a rabbit hole here, but you’re blinded by adoration if you can’t recognize he’s outright miserable and a complete shell of the person he used to be. That spark is completely gone.

I could go on, but these articles are starting to pop up in legitimate news sources. We’re not talking about the National Enquirer here - this is the Wall Street Journal. A legitimate news source is reporting on the way they’re failing to meet their own standards and the standards of those who control the purse strings - and how they’re nothing without their titles. If the money is the bottom line, then they need the star power behind their HRHs to make it. They don’t have anything else worth marketing. That star power is dwindling more and more as they get closer and closer to rock bottom and as they continue to bite the hand that has always fed them. Look at this from Vanity Fair:

So much for “service is universal.” They don’t get traction for any of their charity work because they spend so much time BITCHING. The world can’t focus on their service and help support those causes because they spend so much FUCKING TIME milking their only cash cow that nobody has any idea what kinds of causes they support! In fact - I’d bet that the only causes recognized by the general public are those they SUPPORTED BY WORKING FOR THE FAMILY. This isn’t about service - it’s about clout, star power, mystique, and the aura associated with the blurred lines between royal and celebrity. The service hasn’t been part of it for a long time. They’ve wronged their ship and there’s no way to right it anymore. That ship, for lack of better term, has sailed. The world doesn’t see them as charitable - the way they were seen when they were working for the family. The world sees them as washed up crybabies who don’t have anything to offer. It’s not just a “hater” thing anymore. They’ve lost their allure and that was the only thing they had going for them. Without that allure, they’re nothing compared to the Hollywood lights.

They’ve completely fucked up. I know it, you know it, Hollywood knows it, the Royal Family knows it. Harry and Meghan are the only people on earth who haven’t figured it out. They haven’t done a single thing they planned since leaving. They’re not happier, they don’t live a more private life, they don’t have more bandwidth to do charity work, they’re not making money hand over fist, they’re not successful in their new endeavors… they’ve completely fucked up.

Harry, in particular, has completely fucked up. He gave up a life of structure, service, wealth, luxury, success, protection, guidance, family, friendship for… this? And he’s pretending that it was the best decision he ever made? Please. He fucked up, and it will continue to come back to bite him day in and day out until he learns to sit down, shut up, get some help, and hire some competent people to make shit happen for him, because clearly he cannot direct the ship on his own.

This is not how it was supposed to be - not for us as fans, nor for them after leaving. It did not have to be this way. I’d bet anything that the part of Harry who wanted this is dwindling more and more each day. Someday, he’s going to regret the whole thing. The more I see him and hear him, the more I think he’s already there. He fucked up, and I think he’s finally on his way to realizing that they have to do something to make the world interested in them beyond their association with the family. That will diminish, and then they’ll really be shit out of luck.

What a complete and utter disaster, Henry. What a mess. With all due respect, Your Royal Highness - you fucked up.

[csuitebitches]

I really enjoy your blog and was wondering if you have advice on one of my biggest mental blocks. I'm 23 but struggle to feel like an adult and being independent deeply scares me even through I want to be "chasing my dreams". I've lived with my close knit family my whole life and still spend a lot of time with my parents. I'm almost going to move away(in the next year) and so I've began the process of getting a car/saving money, etc. But then I find myself subtly sabotaging these efforts because the idea of being alone/moving away also terrifies me. I really want to experience moving to a city and working and traveling and doing things I want and at this point I'm finding it draining being my parents "stay-at-home-daughter". But I also get anxiously sick when I try a push myself for more independence. I've put so much on hold going through school and then living in my home town w. parents and it's kind of scary to imagine dating (never prioritized men + parents didn't let me date in highschool= never had a bf or anything) or living alone even though I'd love to have the experience. Any advice would be greatly appreciated. Basically I still feel like a 15 year old when it comes to my personal life and that feels a bit shameful.

I want to tell you that we all feel what you feel. You’ll only ever feel like an adult when you’ve exposed yourself to the outside world, regardless of whether you can handle it or not.

independence scares you because it’s unfamiliar territory. Often when we look at people who are independent and on their own two feet, they seem to have a sense of self identity, purpose and responsibilities to handle.

I’m always in favour of people moving out of their parents homes for a couple of years at least (the culture where I come from also emphasises on the whole family living together and there’s no move out at the age of 18 concept) because I see the pros and cons of both situations of living in/ out of your parents home.

No book, YouTube video, friends’ experiences will teach you about being an adult. You have to step out and experience it yourself.

Start doing exposure therapy. Basically, slowly, bit by bit, immerse yourself into the traditional adult experiences.

I’ll give you examples. Understand fully how your insurance works. Keep all your medical records in both a physical and a digital file.

Understand how your car functions as a product - which means guarantees, warranties, insurance, emergency numbers, mechanics nearby, etc.

Start tracking all your spending expenses, even if you’re using your parents money at the moment. The earlier you start this habit, the better. Create a monthly budget for yourself and stick to it.

Start doing your own laundry in the house and learn that not all clothes go in the washing machine, some go for dry cleaning etc.

Make it a goal to learn to cook at least 5 dishes properly before you leave. If your parents are good cooks, ask them to teach you or go to every introvert’s favourite site, YouTube.

Pretend that your room is a mini apartment and try to keep it clean at all times.

Start socialising more. Not just with known friends. Sign up for a random hobby class like a book club or a running club where you can meet more people. Yes it’ll be difficult, yes you’ll have moments of awkwardness but don’t give up after just one meeting - go and meet new people to get used to the idea of interacting with strangers.

You can’t rush into feeling like an adult. It takes time. Exposure therapy is the best way to get into it. The more responsibility you can healthily shoulder, even if you fail at times, you’ll still start feeling more confident.

We weren’t born with the knowledge of car tire changing mechanics, insurance, cooking or tidying up. We had to learn them as we grew up. It’s perfectly alright to not know how to do something. The beauty of living in today’s world is that the answer to nearly every question is one google search away.

[mrprettywhenhecries]

don’t waste your time (on me) [g.t]

04. | A Bad Idea

Gator Tillman ✘ Win Lewis (OC)

⇾ w.c. 5.1k words ⇾ warning(s). canon x oc pairing, f!oc, misogynistic themes, inexperienced!Gator, public sex, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, early ejaculation, oral (f!receiving), cum eating, gator being sweet, recreational drug use/marijuana ⇾ a/n. took longer than I wanted to to finish this chapter, and I think I've definitely looked at it for too long. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I could use some kind words 💚

When Roy realizes his son didn’t heed his advice, he changes tactics, telling Gator to invite Win to the ranch.  After a steamy night of sex and drugs, Gator breaks the news to Win and she realizes his feelings run deeper than she thought.  And maybe so do hers.

[ masterlist • win bio ]

“Oh fuck, Gator–”

Win’s voice cracked as her head fell back against the stall door, Gator’s heavy breaths loud in her ear with each snap of his hips, desperately fucking her in the dingy bathroom stall.

“Oh shit, you feel so damn good, Winnie,” he grunted, his brows pinched in concentration and Win couldn’t help but grin as she watched him, her head and heart only tangling further each time she tangled with him, which over the past few weeks had been as often as possible – Gator taking every opportunity he could to fall into bed with her or find some clandestine spot for them to fuck like rabbits at any free second, which at the moment happened to be after breakfast in the diner’s bathroom before Gator’s shift.

For a second, Gator’s expression altered, alarm crossing his face as his grasp on Win began to slip and she let out a yelp, hastily bracing herself before she could fall.

“Gator, if you drop me, I swear to God–” she hissed, gasping as he hefted her up higher against the door to readjust his grip on her thighs, which were wrapped tightly around his waist. “I'm not gunna drop you,” he huffed defensively, resuming his impatient thrusts, making her tits bounce softly beneath her tight top.

“Now quiet down,” we don’t want anyone finding us like this,” he grunted.  “Not unless you wanna end up in handcuffs for indecent exposure,” he teased, flashing her a cheeky grin.

“Wouldn’t that entail you ending up in handcuffs too?” Win pointed out, but Gator’s grin only widened.

“Oh, but you forget, sweetheart.  I’m the law,” he chuckled darkly, his eyes screwing shut moments later as he came, as if it were the thought of her in handcuffs that had tipped him over the edge.

Panting heavily, he pressed his face to her chest while he composed himself.  “Did you cum?” he asked suddenly, as if just remembering to ask, his large brown eyes seeking hers and Win shook her head.

“I was close, but no,” she answered truthfully, and Gator frowned, setting her down unsteadily.

“Fuck, sorry,” he muttered as they fixed their disheveled appearances, his disappointment in himself taking Win aback a little.

By all accounts, Gator seemed like just the type of guy who didn’t really care if his partner finished, as long as he was satisfied.

Except, the more time Win spent with him, the more she realized, Gator wasn’t exactly like she’d expected him to be.  Sure, some of the shit that came out of his mouth was problematic as fuck, but it almost felt parroted, as if he were just repeating what he’d heard his whole life, and it was no surprise to her who he’d heard it from.

“It’s okay, you can pay me back later, Deputy,” Win drawled, slipping her arms around his shoulders as she raised up on her toes for a kiss, sighing as his lips moved against hers.

Gator raised a brow at her as he pulled back, his hands lingering at her waist.  “Later?” he asked hopefully and Win bit her lip, nodding.

“Yeah, I have the night off, you should come over, watch some movies, play some video games, have some hot nasty sex on my couch,” she purred, grinning at him expectantly and Gator groaned.

“Fuck, Winnie, you’re gunna make me hard again,” he whined and she snickered, taking his hand to lead him to the door.

“You go ahead and I’ll follow, that way it won’t look like we just did what we did,” Win said, giving Gator a little shove and he chuckled as he turned back to wink at her before striding back out into the diner.

Fighting to keep a straight face, she stepped out moments later, returning the waitress’ smile and wave before she noticed Gator standing awkwardly at the end of a booth and her blood ran cold as she noticed who had just sat down.

When Roy Tillman’s eyes met hers, it felt like time slowed, the air around her turning thick like jelly and she forced herself to keep walking, Gator’s gaze catching hers helplessly before she pushed open the door and hurried outside.  Something about the Sheriff’s sharp gaze made her feel weighed and judged, like some animal at the county fair, and she didn’t like it.

Gator swore under his breath when he saw his father walk through the door and tip his hat to the waitress, heading to his favourite booth.  He’d taken a gamble meeting Win there, hoping Roy would be having breakfast with Karen and the twins.

As soon as Roy noticed him, Gator nodded to him, stopping at the end of the table to greet him.

“Looks like we had the same idea today,” he chuckled, looping his thumbs through his belt loops as he shifted his weight from boot to boot, hoping Roy wouldn’t notice Win leaving, though she’d have to walk right past them to get to the door.

“Guess so,” Roy mused, half glancing over the menu, though he always ordered the same thing, when suddenly his eyes lifted, fixing on something just past Gator.  He could smell Win’s perfume as she passed and glanced over at her as she hesitated for a moment at the door before pushing it open.

Once the door shut, the bell on the handle chiming her departure, Roy glanced back up at him and nodded toward the seat across from him as the waitress came with a cup and her pot of coffee.

“Sit with me,” he murmured, and Gator did so, scooting into the booth and resting his arm across the back of the bench.

Roy waited for his coffee to be poured and the waitress to confirm his usual order before speaking, his gaze focused on the steaming cup in his hand.

“Am I to assume you expect me to believe that was merely a coincidence?” he murmured, taking a careful sip from his cup before his eyes flicked up to Gator's, his sharp gaze seeming to see right through him.

Gator shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding eye contact.  “That what’s a coincidence?” he asked, frowning in confusion and Roy let out a disappointed sigh, thanking the waitress as she set his food in front of him.

“That was the girl I told you to stay away from,” he continued, taking a bite of the crispy strip of bacon.  “And you ignored my advice because–?  What, you think you know better than me?”

“I don’t know what you’re–” Gator mumbled, only for Roy to cut him off.

“Don’t insult my intelligence, son,” he snapped, his eyes boring into Gator’s.  “You’ve been coming home late, if at all, you’re neglecting your chores, you’re distracted,” he listed off, taking a bite of his eggs.  “It’s not hard to see where your head’s at.”

Gator opened his mouth, a slew of excuses ready on his tongue, but he quickly swallowed them as his father took a deep breath, as if deciding something.

“I suppose you are a man now, and you can make your own decisions, as long as you understand that she’s not proper wife material… as she is now.”

Gator frowned, just the barest downward twitch of lips and knitting of brow, but he didn’t argue.

“Now, I got two stipulations if you insist on continuing to see this girl,” Roy said, holding up two fingers.  “One,” he ticked off, “you pick up the slack with your chores on the ranch, and two–” he brought the second finger down as well– “you bring her to Sunday dinner so we can meet her properly.”

“Uh, I dunno if that’s such a good idea,” Gator muttered, earning himself another sharp look.

“You questioning my judgement?”

Gator gulped, shaking his head quickly.  “No!  No, it’s just… uh, I’m confused.  I thought you said–” he trailed off, stumbling over his own tongue and Roy let out a long suffering sigh.

“It’ll be good for her to spend some time around honest folk, and maybe Karen can show her how a proper woman acts,” he drawled, and Gator quickly nodded in understanding, though he already knew Win wasn’t gunna like it.

“Alright then, get goin’ now,” Roy said, nodding toward the door.  “We’ll see you and your girl Sunday.”

Gator nearly tripped climbing out of the booth, trying to figure out how to persuade Win to go.

When Gator showed up later that night–for it could be no one but Gator, with that booming cop’s knock–Win answered the door in a pair of shorts and one of his black tees he’d left behind, her nipples hard under the dark fabric, having forgone a bra when she’d thrown it on after her shower.  The pungent smell of weed clung to her, and Gator leaned against the door frame, unabashedly looking her up and down as he got a whiff.

“You been smokin’ in here, miss?” he drawled, his lips stretching into a sly grin and Win shrugged, not even bothering to deny it.

“You gunna arrest me, Deputy?” she asked, arching a challenging brow at him.

“I just might have to,” Gator replied, running his tongue over his molars as he shook his head in bemusement.

Win eyed him skeptically.  “You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” she asked, tugging him inside and shutting the door, pressing her back to it when Gator took a step closer, pressing his hands to either side of her head, boxing her in.

“Oh, you have no idea, Princess,” he drawled, watching her lips hungrily.

“I’m really not surprised,” she teased, slipping under his arm to flit past him, leaving him wanting more, and Gator let out a frustrated breath, toeing off his boots and shrugging out of his leather jacket before following her.

“You got any weed left?” he asked and Win threw her head back in laughter.

“You’re such a shit cop,” she snorted, pointing to her pipe laying on the coffee table next to her lighter.

“Hey, I’m the law, remember, sweetheart?” Gator scoffed, snatching the pipe and bringing the mouth to his lips.

“I’m not sure that’s how the law works,” Win murmured, rolling her eyes as Gator struggled to get the lighter to light, flicking the wheel several times before a flame appeared and he took a long draw.  

Win leaned against the wall, trying not to stare too intently when he finally blew the smoke out in a long stream, the effect somewhat ruined by the coughing fit that followed, and she snickered, shaking her head.

“I’ve got a frozen pizza and some wings in the oven,” she said, nodding toward the kitchen.  “You want something to drink?” she offered, telling herself she was just being a good host and not waiting on him hand and foot.

“Got any Mtn. Dew?” Gator asked, sinking onto the couch and grabbing the remote, flipping through the channels til he found something he liked.

Win reappeared several minutes later with two bottles, dropping one in Gator’s lap before plopping down next to him and taking a swig from her own.

“Die Hard, nice,” she murmured, snatching her lighter and the pipe from the table before leaning back and resting her legs in Gator’s lap, the light from the tv screen illuminating her face in the dark room as she took another hit.

She hadn’t been planning on getting high that night, but their near run in with Roy that morning had her nerves on edge and she’d ended up swinging by her dealer’s trailer on the way home before she realized that’s where she’d been headed.  And though she was curious as hell if the Sheriff had sussed them out, saying something to Gator after she’d left, she wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up.

It weren’t as if they were dating…

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” she murmured, taking another swig of her Mtn Dew, her eyes finding his in the dim light.

Gator frowned in thought, his large hand resting on her ankle, thumb drawing circles against her cool skin.  “You know I used to play football?” he asked, not really waiting for her response before continuing.  “I was All County quarterback senior year, a real winner,” he boasted, his gaze turning far away, as if lost in memory.

“So you were a real hot shot, huh?” Win mused, having a bit of a hard time picturing it, if she was being honest.  “I’m surprised you didn’t have cheerleaders falling over you left and right,” she teased and Gator wrinkled his nose at her, clearly not amused.

“Oh, I did.  The only problem was, they were all members of the Abstinence Club,” he huffed.  “The only action I got was over the clothes and awkward handies while making out,” he admitted with a scowl, just waiting for Win’s amused laughter. 

“Aw, you poor thing,” she cooed instead, a hint of condescension in her tone, biting her lip to keep from giggling, just imagining Gator’s frustration.  “Weren’t there any freaky girls you could’ve gotten with?  You know, anti-social goth girls that wouldn’t turn their noses up at fucking the quarterback?” she wondered.

“Unfortunately, no,” Gator sighed, letting his head fall back against the couch.  “It’s a pity you didn’t go to high school with me.”

“You think I would’ve fucked you back then?” she teased and Gator snorted.

“Course you would’ve, you can’t keep your hands off me,” he boasted, a smug grin twisting his lips. “You’re such a shit,” Win scoffed, though she couldn’t hold back her answering grin, knowing he was probably right.

“Can I get another hit of that?” Gator asked, nodding to the pipe in her hand and Win followed his gaze, sitting up slightly.  Instead of handing it to him, however, she brought it to her mouth, lighting the bud and taking a long drawl, the light from the small flame illuminating her face.  Holding the smoke in her lungs, she crooked her finger, beckoning him closer, peering up at him through her lashes.

Frowning in confusion, Gator leaned in, gasping in surprise as Win tilted her head as if to kiss him, their lips nearly touching before slowly exhaling the stream of smoke into his mouth.  

Gator’s eyelids fluttered as he inhaled the pungent smoke, a soft groan catching in his throat before he surged forward the rest of the way, capturing Win’s lips in a searing kiss that took her just as off guard as she’d taken him, pinning her beneath him.

“That was fuckin’ hot,” Gator breathed between deepening kisses, his tongue writhing against hers, exploring her mouth boldly as his free hand traversed her body, slipping under the hem of her shirt to cover her breast, greedily massaging her beneath the dark fabric, his fingers tweaking her pert nipple, playing with her piercing to draw a desperate moan from her.

“Gator–” Win breathed, squirming beneath his touch, arousal pooling low in her gut and seeping through the thin fabric between her legs.

“Hmm?” he hummed, grinding against her, his bulge obvious beneath the rough fabric of his cargo pants and she whined as it pressed against her aching heat, the sudden shrill cry of the oven timer interrupting the moment.

“Shit, I gotta get the food out,” she groaned, half halfheartedly pushing against Gator, a gasp leaving her lips as his mouth found her pulse point, his canines sinking into her skin.

“Ignore it,” he mumbled, grinding harder against her as he pinched at her nipple, his tongue soothing the love bite at her throat.

“It’ll burn,” Win argued, biting back the moan that sprang to her lips before pushing Gator back, nearly kneeing him in the groin as she rolled out from under him.  He let out a frustrated growl, but the rumble in the pit of his stomach reminded him just how hungry he was, the smell from the kitchen making his mouth water.

“Win!” he called, palming himself over his pants before adjusting his half softened length.  “Hurry up, I’m starving,” he whined, leaning back against the couch to peer into the kitchen to see if she was coming.

“You’d get it faster if you got off your ass,” he called back, finally rounding the corner back to the sofa, two plates in hand.

“Oh, you’re an angel,” Gator cried, reaching for the plate she held just out of reach, waiting for a ‘thank you’.

“Close enough,” she snorted in amusement, letting him have his food before sitting back down next to him and propping her feet on the edge of the coffee table.

Silence fell as the two of them dug in, watching the movie as they ate.

“So…” Win mused around a mouthful of pizza, her eyes flicking from the tv screen to Gator.  “When’re we gunna talk about this kink you have with restraining me?” she asked, her lips twitching at the way he froze, half eaten wing still hanging from his sticky fingers.

“What?  Who says I—“ Gator cut off mid sentence at the knowing look in Win’s eyes.  “I dunno,” he mumbled, sucking the rest of the meat from the wing before dropping the bones to his plate.  “Just like the idea of being in control, I guess.  Like seeing you helpless,” he murmured, clearing his throat.

Win nodded.  “I like being helpless sometimes,” she mused, watching his reaction.  “Don’t see why we couldn’t try that sometime.”  She shrugged nonchalantly and Gator had to swallow, needing to work moisture back into his mouth.

“As long as you let me return the favour,” Win added, grabbing her pop bottle for a swig.  “You look awfully cute yourself when you’re squirming under me, whining for me to let you cum.”

Gator flushed, his eyes falling to his plate, not sure he wanted her to know how much he enjoyed that as well.

“Think we should decide on a safe word before we delve into those fantasies,” she mused.  “Maybe something simple as ‘yellow’ for slow down and ‘red’ for a hard stop,” she suggested. “Think you can remember that?”

“Yeah, course,” Gator huffed, rubbing at his nose with his knuckle before making to suck his fingers clean of sauce.

Before he could finish, Win caught his hand, wrapping her lips around the first finger, her tongue curling around his digit before hollowing her cheeks to suck, pulling his finger from her mouth with a soft pop before repeating the process with his next finger, her eyes not leaving his.

Gator’s mouth fell open as he watched, a moan catching in his throat.  “Fuck, Win,” he hissed, his cock once more straining against the confines of his pants.  “You really know how t’make me hard.”

Win smiled, leaning in to whisper in his ear once she’d finished sucking his fingers clean.  “Yeah well, I’m really fucking wet right now,” she breathed, licking a wet stripe along the shell of his ear.

“Oh shit–” Gator groaned, his eyelids fluttering as his hips gave an involuntary jerk.

“Are you gunna be a good boy for me?” Win asked, placing her hand over the bulge in his cargos.  “Gunna let me ride you?”

Gator let out a shaky breath, clearly itching to free his throbbing length, but holding back, waiting for Win’s permission.

“Uh huh, I’ll be good,” he whispered breathlessly, wetting his lips as he pleaded with his eyes.  “Need you so bad,” she whined and Win’s grin grew.  She loved that he was two sides of the same coin–cocky and demanding one minute and needy and submissive the next.

“Good boy,” she purred, grasping the hem of her shirt and lifting it over her head in one swift motion, letting it fall to the floor as she leaned in to kiss him, her hands slipping under his shirt as her tongue flicked against his, her palms sliding up his stomach and chest as she worked the tight fabric over his head.

Breaking the kiss just long enough to rid him of the garment, her mouth was back on his as her hands went to his pants, making quick work of his belt and zipper.  As soon as his cock was free, Win stood, hooking her thumbs under the elastic of her shorts and shimmying them down along with her soiled panties, letting Gator watch, his eyes caressing her body like a man starved before she crawled astride him, too needy to tease him any further.

“Need you,” she breathed against his lips, her tongue meeting his as she ground down against him, coating his twitching length in her slick.

Gator’s answering groan was quickly swallowed and his hands circled her hips tightly, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he guided her movements and Win reached between them to grasp his cock, lining him up with her slick entrance and sinking down onto him, their moans blending together.

“Feel so good,” Gator grunted, his mouth falling open as she began to ride him, her hips rolling fluidly against him, picking up speed as his gasp on her urged her on.

Not bothering to watch her volume, Win’s rising moans competed with the sloppy sound of her pussy as her smooth movements turned harried, instead bouncing in his lap, chasing her pleasure as he drowned in it.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” he gasped, exploding inside her without warning, her tits bouncing in his face as she milked him, pumping her fuller with each bounce.

“Shit—“ Gator whined, his head falling back against the couch as he panted for breath, kicking himself for cumming too soon.

“Sorry, I—“ he began, wincing as he softened inside her and Win surprised him by pressing a weary kiss to his lips, her sweat slicked forehead falling forward to rest against hers.

“Didn’t mean to cum so soon…”

Win shook her head.  “It’s kinda hot,” she murmured, working moisture back into her mouth.  “My pussy’s too good, you couldn’t hold back,” she said, her lips quirking slightly.  “You know, there are other ways you can help me finish,” she added with a shrug and it was Gator’s turn to wet his lips as a thought occurred to him.

“Sit on my face.”

Win’s brows rose at how fast he suggested it.  “You sure?” she asked.  Gator’d had yet to test his oral skills and Win wasn’t exactly expecting much, but the husky way he said it made her stomach flip.

“Okay,” she breathed, helping him slide off the couch to the floor, his head resting back against the couch cushions while Win hovered over him, his spunk mixed with her arousal dripping down the inside of her thighs and he groaned at the sight, hooking his arms around her legs boxing in his face, bringing her down to his mouth.

“Oh–” she gasped as he kissed her, giving her clit an experimental lick, his tongue seeking her sensitive nub, swirling around it as he savoured her taste.  It was so much sweeter than he’d expected and he moaned into her cunt, his eyelids fluttering as he grew bolder, tilting his chin upwards as his tongue pushed into her folds, exploring her already messy sex with fervor, his nose bumping against her clit with each movement.

“Y-yeah, yeah just like that,” Win murmured, her hands gripping the couch back as she rolled her hips, grinding against Gator’s face in her desperation for more friction.

His fingers bit into her thighs as he feasted on her, using his entire face to pleasure her, past caring about the mess that smeared his chin and cheeks, each gasp and moan he pulled from her felt like a badge of honour, driving him on, his tongue delving deeper before returning to her throbbing clit, lapping at it with broad relentless rolls of his tongue, breathing heavily through his nose as he drew her bundle of nerves between his lips to suck until she was shuddering, her thighs clamping tighter around his head.

“Oh fuck, GATOR–!” she cried, her hips stuttering as her climax hit her and she threw her head back, her entire body going rigid.

“Holy shit,” she whispered, collapsing to the couch and letting Gator breathe.  “You can say that again,” he exclaimed, grabbing his shirt to wipe his face and taking a swig of pop before turning to look at her, a smug smirk gracing his swollen lips.  “Seems like you enjoyed that,” he drawled, climbing to the couch with her and getting comfortable, laying half draped over her where she lay, their legs tangling as he snuggled closer.

“Don’t get cocky, Tillman,” Win teased, running her fingers through his mussed hair, the gelled strands half falling into his face as he rested his chin against her chest.

“Too late,” he chuckled huskily, licking his lips.  “You taste really good, by the way,” he mused.

“Glad you think so,” she murmured, relaxing back against the throw pillow behind her, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment.  “That was pretty hot how into it you were.”

Gator shrugged.  “I like making you feel good.”

Win hummed, her fingers trailing down his smooth back, tracing lines between the dark moles and freckles that littered his skin.

“So, I was thinking… you should come to the ranch for Sunday dinner,” he murmured after a moment, his downturned eyes flicking up to hers hesitantly and Win frowned, her brows pinching.

“Gator, are you crazy?  That sounds like a terrible idea,” she exclaimed, half pushing up to gape at him.  “What about Roy?  I thought the last thing we wanted was for him to know about this?” she asked, gesturing between the two of them.

Gator winced, hoping she wouldn’t freak out too much when he told her his dad already knew about them.  “Actually, this was his idea…” he replied reluctantly.

“Really?  Somehow I have a hard time believing that,” Win huffed, an uneasy feeling bubbling in her gut and she let out a soft groan.  “That’s what he said to you after I left this morning, wasn’t it?  He figured it out,” she murmured, reading the truth in his guilt filled gaze.

Gator nodded, the lines furrowing his brow deepening.  “He said he wants to meet the girl I’ve been sneaking around with.”

A heavy rush of air whistled through Win’s teeth and she pressed a hand to her face.  “I dunno, Gator, this all seems very official, and we’re–hell, I don’t really know what we are,” she exclaimed, letting her hand drop while her gaze instinctively sought his in the dim room.

“What do you want us to be?” he asked softly, a worried frown knitting his brows as he waited for her answer, his large brown eyes watching her earnestly.

“Aw Jesus, don’t do that,” Win groaned, snapping her eyes shut against the sight, too much for her to take in the moment—her chest tightening with an emotion she didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Do what?” Gator countered, nearly pouting, his frown deepening and Win groaned again when she opened her eyes.

“You know what!” she whined.  “Stop looking at me with those damn eyes of yours.”

“What’s wrong with ‘em?” Gator asked, a small smirk playing at his lips when he realized the power he had over her with just a look.

“They’re dangerous!” Win exclaimed, trying to turn away, but Gator was having none of it.

“Yeah, and why’s that?” he countered, grabbing her chin to force her to face him and she huffed a sigh.

“Because they’re more beautiful than they have any fuckin’ right to be,” Win breathed, wincing when Gator’s grin widened.  

“Fine!” she huffed, cornered.  “I like seeing you, alright?” she conceded, feeling her cheeks burn.  “But I like how easy this is–how it’s been–and-and I’m afraid putting a label on it is gunna complicate everything.  I don’t wanna get hurt,” she explained, her words growing smaller at the end of her outburst and Gator’s expression softened.

“I don’t wanna hafta hide you anymore, Win.  I wanna show off my girl.  Fuck, I want everyone to know you’re mine.  Is that so bad?” he murmured, searching her face.

“Your girl?” Win scoffed before softening, her resolve weakening—those two little words sending her stomach fluttering.

“C’mon Winnie, be the Ripley to my John McClane,” he uttered with all seriousness, using the line from one of her favourite songs against her and Win barked an incredulous laugh, her doubt forgotten for a moment.  

“I can’t believe you actually just made that reference!” she exclaimed, hiding her face against his forehead and Gator stiffened.

“Hey, I listened to that mix you made me.  Some of it was weird, granted, but I liked that line!” he yelped defensively.

“Now, how the hell can I say no when you compare me to one of the most badass women in movie history?” Win murmured, shaking her head in bemusement.

“You can’t.”  Gator shrugged, half holding his breath as he waited for her answer.

“Alright, fine, I’ll be your girl,” Win relented, rolling her eyes and Gator sobered at her flippant tone, the amusement draining from his face.

"Don’t get my hopes up if you're just gonna leave like everyone else,” he murmured, and Win felt a block of ice drop into her stomach.  All this time she’d been so focused on how he could hurt her, never giving any thought to the fact that she could hurt him just as badly, that his feelings for her might be that deep, and it took her by surprise at just how serious he was.

“I won’t,” she breathed, turning his face toward her, her eyes searching his, the vulnerability in his gaze twisting her heart.  They’d never talked about his mother before, but if her friends were to be believed, she’d apparently run off when he was young, leaving him with his father.

“I mean it,” she insisted, her breath wavering.  “Just… don’t make me regret it,” she whispered and Gator nodded.

“I won’t,” he echoed, letting out a breath she hadn’t noticed he’d been holding.  “Does this mean you’ll come?” he asked and Win sighed.

“Yeah, but they’re gunna hate me,” she reminded him, anxiety prickling her gut.

“Just don’t get political, and wear your nicest dress and those boots you look so good in,” he said, the tension leaching from his body as he rested his cheek against her chest, nuzzling closer to her.

“I hope you know what you’re talking about,” Win whispered, but she felt herself relaxing as well, slipping her arms around him, the weight of his embrace calming her somewhat.

“Trust me,” he murmured.

Win squeezed her eyes shut, hoping she could—hoping she wasn’t making a mistake.  She knew this meant she’d be walking willingly into the wolves’ den, but at least Gator would be there with her.  He wouldn’t feed her to the wolves.

At least, she hoped so.

⇾ taglist. @heartbreak-sandwich @cherrychapsticksteve @super-unpredictable98 @b1tchy3lf

[pumpkinstrawbrew]

.. ...if my nightmare was a shade, it would have been ya. ....

…

warning : a heavy-ish / dark-ish topics down below. nothing too graphic mind you, but just to be safe.

...

(now, just imagine them having the same dream. the same nightmare, but with different pov. from different sides n’ perhaps *bc of it* with slightly different scenarios. 

i often think about what kind of nightmares bruce must have *recurring death of his parents aside*. i wonder, if he dreams about jon at times, but not fully in typical fashion. what if *sometimes* it’s less about a twisted form of a scarecrow attacking him or taunting him. but instead, he dreams of smth more viviscal. submerged. what if he sees jon using a gun? n’ not his usual ft dart-gun, but an actual pistol?

as we know, bruce hates guns. but whichever crane was about to use a gun on someone else or on himself is the sort of topic / idea, that i’ve pondered on for a bit. in retrospect, each variation is scary n’ depressing for bruce in its own way. but what would be more scary about the same scenario for jonathan? that he was stopped or more like caught? n’ was he caught in a more literal sense, before he could hurt people or was he caught in the middle of doing smth irreversible to himself? 

which is more humbling n' scary? which is less damaging? i suppose, that each of them have their own way of viewing it.

anyhow, i adore horror. i love all kinds of horrific things n' trippy scenes, but this time around, i was thinking about a nightmare that is less of a scary visual / unrealistic distortion, but instead smth that can actually happen. it’s like a dream, where you’re powerless to stop smth horrible from taking place n’ you're fully aware of it. you know, that you won't be able to do anythin' at all. a sort of nightmare, where you lose someone n’ in the terms of the dream, it’s final.

n’ while bruce can see such dreams with his parents in it, they’re already dead in a wake world. the dream in on itself is an old trauma, a twisted memory on replay. but the dream, where he cannot stop crane from doing smth awful is still a real possibility, that can happen. in a way, it’ll be harder to swallow vs smth that he already cannot change. as for jon, he's sort of always haunted by batman, awake or not. him dreaming of the bat stopping him is both humiliation n’ relief at once. somewhat of a comfort even?

if jon was stopped short before hurting someone, it’s less scary for him, clearly. just unsettling how easy it is for the bat to apprehend him, once he can size up his arms. as for the scenario, where crane was about to shoot himself, it’s almost like instead of waking up right before ‘the death’, it’s batman who puts it all on a pause, bc of course, it would be him. n' for funny side-note, i don't think that there is version of a dream, where the scarecrow uses the gun on bruce. it feels too inpersonal to be a nigthmare. esp bc i feel like at times the villains do this kind of thing, low-key knowing that their opponent would easily dodge it, so it's almost like a game. adult version of water-guns....

but like whichever scenario it is *crane doing thing to himself or someone else*, in the end they still do end up standing there, hand in hand. basically, holding hands with their personal sleep paralysis demon. even if said 'demon' is just another broken man.

also the possibility, that they see similar dreams due to the same level of exposure to ft is intriguing. misery loves company, after all.)

[tripleyeeet-archive]

DO I KNOW YOU? (3)

SUMMARY: Miguel's been showing up at your house for months. And yet, you still have no idea who he is.

PAIRING: Miguel O'Hara & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 4,810

WARNINGS: Angst, all hurt no comfort (sorry folks, I promise the comfort is coming just be patient), enemies-to-lovers adjacent, descriptions of a panic attack/dissociate behaviours.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, this chapter gave me such grief I'm just so fucking glad it's over. Enjoy! Please! For the sake of my sanity. :')

CHAPTER LIST / LAST CHAPTER / MASTERLIST

-

It’s been nearly two months since that first encounter. Two months of random, bloodied drop-ins, and you still have no idea who Miguel really is. 

At this point, you’ve spent weeks wondering. Every time you look at him it’s like you’re met with this overwhelming desire to discover new information —to explore the contents of his brain in a way that makes your own begin to race at the thought. Like you’re cracking some kind of code. Oftentimes, it takes over you entirely, pushing you further and further over that established boundary line towards the impending doom of another late-night argument neither of you wants to have. So far, it’s happened six times, each argument worse than the last, but despite that, you refuse to give up. 

“Okay, how about two truths, one lie?”

“Seriously?” 

Each time he shows up at your house battered and bruised, you find yourself coming up with new ways to attempt extorting information. Sometimes you outright ask, hoping he’ll simply give in. Sometimes you resort to bribery. Tonight though, after several weeks of partially un-consented arrivals, you’ve decided to try your luck with a game.

“No.”

Or not. 

“No?”

“I come here to rest, not play games.” 

“Okay well, house rules.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not, actually. House rules state you have to participate if you continue crashing on my couch.” 

Without missing a beat, he snorts, throwing his head back against the couch in frustration —something he always does whenever you’re being annoying and he isn’t sure how to proceed. 

“You know I’m still not gonna tell you anything.”

You hum and turn to face him, watching his head fall to the side to look at you. 

He’s got the kind of face that could make a baby cry. Not because he’s scary or unattractive but because he’s mean. With constantly downturned eyebrows and a frown so deep you can see the wrinkles already starting to form, he’s perfected the unimpressed face. The one that always has you second-guessing your intentions at least for a second. 

“Do you know the rules or do I have to explain them?”

“I’m sure I can guess what the rules are.” 

“Good, you want to go first or—“

“You go.”

You can’t help but grin as he motions towards you, offering his palm into the space between. For once it’s bare, along with the rest of his arm. Usually, he always shows up in his suit and nothing else but after last week's incident of almost indecent exposure, you figured you’d offer him something more comfortable from Peter’s closet.

“Okay, two truths, one lie, two truths, one lie…” 

He watches you closely as you slip further into the couch, your brows knitting together as you try to come up with a plausible set of facts, knowing it shouldn’t be that hard. Like you, he knows very little. Sure, he has the slightest advantage of constantly making himself present inside your apartment but like him, you haven’t revealed any big secrets —no defining factors of your personality that could give him the upper hand.

So far, the playing field seems pretty even.

“Okay, my favourite meal of the day is breakfast. Blue Moon by Billie Holiday is my favourite song. I work as a geneticist, specifically in R&D.” 

You raise a finger with each fact you list, noticing the way Miguel’s brow rises ever so slightly with each passing one. By the end, he looks almost surprised by your choices, as if somehow he pegged you as someone completely different. 

“A geneticist. That’s tough work.” 

“It is.” 

“Can I ask a follow up question or is that against house rules?”

You ponder for a minute, taking slight enjoyment over the way his expression slowly becomes more annoyed as time passes. “I’ll give you one.”

“Do you like your job?”

It’s an off-putting question considering the end goal of the game. Its abruptness throwing you off as you stare, confused, taking in the way his overall posture sort of relaxes under your gaze. Like his question, its change is immediate. His body slipping into the couch as he pulls his arms across his chest, mirroring your position. 

He looks weirdly calm —tranquil in a way that has you feeling a bit happy that he isn’t on edge like he usually is. 

“Sometimes.” 

“Why not all the time?” 

You open your mouth to respond but quickly close it. You said one question, not two and you stand by that. 

For some reason it makes him smile once he realizes this. His mouth falling open to reveal those fangs you’ve slowly grown used to —the ones that nearly made your heart jump out of your chest at first glance all those weeks ago. It was his second night staying over that you’d noticed them. You were grabbing all the usual items to aid Miguel’s injuries when he let them slip between his teeth in the form of a yawn, prompting you to nearly drop the scotch in your hand. 

It was embarrassing for the both of you but you never spoke about it, instead choosing to sweep it under the rug in favour of another argument about why he was there in the first place.

“Your turn.”

“Hm.”

He takes his time curating his answers, focusing on the space in front of him with such intense eyes you almost wonder if he’s doing it to annoy you. 

Honestly, you wouldn’t put it past him. As time’s gone on, you’ve learned that Miguel is quite the pusher. The kind of guy who can get a rise out of anyone with very little effort. All he has to do is say a few choice words and inevitably an altercation will arise out of nowhere.

You’re certain it’s a Spider-Man thing because as wonderfully caring as your brother is, most of the time he’s always had the same ability. As kids, he could crawl underneath your skin with just one look and to this day, despite winning your fair share of fights, Peter still lands supreme in overall standings. 

“I’m Spider-Man.” 

You want to punch him in the gut but refrain, noticing the smirk that creeps across his face. 

“My name is Miguel.”

“Oh, my god…”

“And I’d like a scotch, please.” 

This time you really do reach out to punch him, feeling his fist wrap around your own before you can even think to retract. Against your skin, it’s warm —hot even and slick with the kind of sweat that has you pulling away in embarrassment. 

In response, Miguel merely snorts and recrosses his arms over his chest, looking as smug as ever as you stand up, opting to fulfil his wishes. 

“You’re lucky I also want scotch.” 

“Wait, but what if that’s the lie?” 

His tone is dripping in the kind of sarcasm you’re unwilling to entertain as you perform your usual route. Grumpily, you grab two stacked glasses and the neck of the bottle, rolling your eyes when you plop back down, motioning for him to do it himself. 

“I feel like house rules should apply to the owner as well,” he mumbles, reaching over to grab the bottle. Popping it open, he hums to himself as he pours each of you a glass, ignoring the way your jaw tightens at the prospect of yet another night without information. 

“You know it’s kind of unfair that you keep showing up unannounced and refuse to tell me literally anything about you.” 

In unison you grab your drinks and settle, staring at each other with offensive expressions that you can feel escalating —building in tension.

“I told you I can’t,” he says, sighing and sipping and ultimately trying his best not to disturb the one night of peace you’ve managed to have so far. 

“Why not?”

“Because it’s classified.” 

You groan. 

It’s the same answer he gives every time. That’s classified, this is classified, sorry all of my personal details are classified! Every time you hear him say it you want to rip your own ears off and eat them. To scream at the top of your lungs because it’s so unfair that you’re this nice to him. This giving —and for what?

Aside from Peter, if he were anyone else you’d tell them to pack it up and take their baggage elsewhere, barely batting an eye as they left. Closing up the window, you’d smack your palms together as if you took out the trash and go to bed, never to think about their presence again.

You’re not sure why Miguel is different. Why you continue to let him in night after fucking night, regardless of the hour. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s a part of your brother’s overall safety or because you think Peter will get mad at you if you don’t. 

Regardless, it still doesn’t make sense considering the nature of your relationship. The lack of ability to communicate genuinely. Every conversation you have with one another is snarky and laced with daggers aimed to kill. There’s nothing of value to redeem. Nothing to make whatever this is worth it as you stare at each other angrily, trying to defy the constant wall that sets you both apart. 

“God, you are so—“

“What?”

You drop your glass onto the table and move your hands into the air, extending your fingers out as you shake them in frustration, groaning. 

He’s so fucking confusing, you decide then. Conceited and awful and stupid. Ungrateful too, remembering the fact that he’s never actually thanked you for letting him stay over —for being there whenever he arrives, willing to plaster up the pieces of his broken body. 

Without question you’re always at the window, peeling it open with tired hands that later pour him drinks and feed him pills and fucking wash his wounds, and not a single time has he ever thanked you.

“Selfish.” 

You see the impact of your words on his face. As he looks over, his eyes go from immediate belligerence to apologetic, his brows lowering in confusion. Awkwardly, his frame sort of slips, causing him to cave in on himself as he slowly looks away, making you realize he might actually be sorry this time. 

“I know I’m not a part of your secret society,” you tell him, waiting for something —anything, knowing deep down it’ll never come. “But this is my house. My home.” 

“Okay, and?”

His tone doesn’t match the expression on his face. Devoid of anything sympathetic, he sounds like a dog being backed into a corner, canines fully out to defend; his face transitioning into that same old scowl that makes you feel insane for even attempting this time and time again. 

“I don’t know you, Miguel! You’re a stranger and you’re in my house all the time!” 

“You’re the one who lets me in!”

“Okay, and?”

Repeating his words back to him feels like a bit of a low blow but it’s all you got. You’ve already had this same conversation countless times. All that’s needed to be said has been, and if he can’t understand that you’re not sure you can keep doing this. 

Sure, he may be Peter’s superior but he’s certainly not yours. He doesn’t dictate what you can and can’t do and he certainly doesn’t have the right to assume he’s allowed entrance into your home without at least a little exchange of trust. 

“Listen, I get the whole keeping the universes separate bullshit —believe me, I hear about it from Peter at least a zillion times a week. But I don’t know you —I don’t know who you are or what your deal is and it’s getting kind of weird.”

His jaw shifts, loosening ever so slightly at the calmness of your words. 

Oftentimes, during these moments, you find the volume of your voice surpassing the level you want. With him, whenever an argument erupts, it’s like something completely foreign takes over and all attempts to quell the anger inside are shot dead in their tracks. 

“All I want is something —anything. I’m not talking trade secrets. I’m talking like, uh…” You pause, trying to rack your brain for something easy and boring. Something he’d be willing to give up. “What do you do for a living when you’re not Spider-Man?”

“What do I do for a living?” 

He sounds almost offended, as if you’ve just asked the stupidest question on the planet but you refuse to falter, staring at him with interest in your eyes. 

“Out of all the questions in the universe, that’s the one you want to go with?”

“Is there a problem with it?” 

“Uh, yeah, it’s boring.”

“Okay, then answer it.”

“No.” 

Oh, for fuck's sake.

“You know, talking to you is like talking to fucking wall!” 

Suddenly you’re standing up and reaching for your glass, taking a moment to throw the contents back in one swift dip. As it goes down it burns your throat, making you cringe and smack your mouth around before grabbing the bottle and pouring yourself another glass. 

“I mean, am I crazy?”

“I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question.” 

Ignoring him, you down another glass and begin to pace, your mind racing to piece together everything that’s happened between you. Right now the details are fuzzy —whizzing past your head in rapid succession but they’re there. Taunting you from every angle. Reminding you that, yeah, you’re definitely crazy for letting this stranger into your house. For giving him so much when he returns so little. For assuming that offering up even an inkling of kindness would gain you anything but absolute bullshit in return.

“Am I crazy for wanting to know why you’re always here? Why, even when you’ve barely been touched by another one of your stupid anomalies, you always show up in the middle of the night?”

He’s silently staring, looking up through his lashes at your outburst. Somehow throughout it all his face remains completely neutral, barely a muscle out of place as you continue your rant, yelling about him and how he doesn’t care about you —how he’s just using you for something you don’t even understand. 

By the end of it, you’re nearly in tears, gripping the glass in your hand so tight you’re certain it’s about to break. Everything is tense and hot and despite the calmness that washes over your face once you’re done, inside you’re messy. A mixture of emotions you can’t quite place as you watch Miguel stand up, take the glass out of your hand, and slowly lean in. 

“In every universe you are infuriating. Every single one. In my experience, there’s not a single one out there that you reside in that isn’t filled with a rage I haven’t understood. You think I want to keep secrets from you? You think I don’t want to tell you everything each time I step through that window?” 

He’s so close you can feel his breath against your face.

“I know you don’t think I know you, but I do. Trust me.” 

“How?” 

Something in him changes then. A switch of some kind flipping mid-thought, causing him to back away and look towards the window in your bedroom. “I know your favourite meal of the day is breakfast because it reminds you of mornings with Ben,” he says, still looking, avoiding your gaze entirely as your brows perk up. “I know that your favourite song is Blue Moon because it’s on that album that May used to play when she’d do all the housework.” 

There’s no way he knows that based on you in other universes. Taking into account the few spider people you've met, it's obvious everyone is slightly different. Not all of them look and act the same so Peter must’ve told him about you —about your childhood and how the two of you were practically raised on bacon, eggs and Billie Holiday. It’s the only plausible excuse for how confident he is in all of this. 

In how when he finally looks at you with sympathy in his eyes.

“I know you’re a geneticist but your focus isn’t R&D —it’s biotech. I know this cause—“

He stops before he can even begin to explain, leaving you wanting. Yearning. Your mind and heart working in panicked tandem to get him to talk as he rapidly blinks and looks around. 

It’s obvious then that he’s said too much. For a little too long he ran his mouth and now he’s about to suffer the consequences in the form of anxious movements that have him sidestepping around you and moving towards the exit. 

Out of habit, you tell him to stop —to wait for just a second but like Miguel, he doesn’t listen. Doesn’t stop in hesitation as you stand frozen in the middle of the living room, watching his suit form directly over the clothes you let him borrow as he opens the window and leaves.

-

How do you move on from this? 

It’s a question you ask yourself as you lie on the floor, eyes shut tight. Your breath is heavy. Underneath the weight of the information that’s suddenly been thrust upon you, it’s hard to form steadied breaths. Your chest shaking; twitching as you count your breaths and try to come up with a solution. 

You could talk to Peter. Maybe get him to convince Miguel to come back. You know it’s probably the most unlikely outcome but you’re awfully stubborn and Peter’s always been the type to at least hear you out before he inevitably says no. If you could just form enough of a case to get him to help, maybe then he’d take enough pity on you.

Ugh, probably not. Peter’s nice but not that nice, especially when it comes to all his Spider-Man stuff. Aside from the aftermath of fights, he likes to keep all that separate —says it’s easier to keep you safe. The less you know the better and all that bullshit. 

Groaning, you press your palms against your eyes to try and get your brain to focus. To come up with something good and convincing. Something that’ll really tug on his heartstrings or—

You hear the lock of the front door click. Sitting up, you drop your hands to the floor and twist, watching as it opens to reveal a very tired, civilian-looking Peter with the messiest hair you’ve probably ever seen.

“Hey.”

“Hi."

As he steps further into the room, he yawns and throws his stuff onto the floor near the entrance, narrowing his eyes as you quickly shuffle into a standing position. 

“Why were you on the floor?”

“Just stretching.” 

“On hardwood?” 

He looks at you like you’re crazy as he passes by, making a beeline for the kitchen. Once there, he opens the cupboard and grabs a couple of protein bars, opening one almost immediately. 

“It’s good for your back.”

Raising his brow, he takes a suspicious bite, watching the way you fiddle with your hands. You’ve never been a good liar. At least, not with him. Over the years you’ve learned to lie for Peter —to always have an excuse ready for when he’s late or unable to show up at all— but never to feed him false information. It’s too hard with that stupid spider sense of his.

“How was work?” 

You’re not sure if he’s changing the subject to fish for further info or to actually progress the conversation, so you merely shrug, offering him a dull fine as you cross your arms over your chest. 

“Just fine?”

“Mhm.”

Usually fine is enough to get him to stop. As time’s gone on he’s learned to understand the limits of your responses —how fine usually means fuck off rather than yes now please ask me more. Right now though, it’s obvious he knows something’s up. That beneath it all you’re hiding something in plain sight. He can see it in the way you struggle to answer his question. How you press your lips together and awkwardly look away, trying to come up with some sort of placeholder response. 

“Any reason why?”

For a moment you think about coming clean right then and there. You think about telling him about Miguel’s most recent visit and how it went from zero to one hundred all the way back to zero in the span of minutes. It’s not like he’d be that mad, right? Besides, Miguel’s the one in charge, so all that information about knowing you and how you’re infuriating was told to you by him —not Peter. Therefore, no dirt on his hands, right?

But then you think of Peter and how he’s a firm believer in boundaries. How, since day one, he made it clear to you that he never wanted you getting involved in this life. That it was too dangerous for someone so fragile.

At first, you were pissed, mostly because you hated the idea of your little brother being stronger than you, but slowly you began to understand that he was a part of this whole other world you’d never be able to experience. A world too brutal for your stupid unmodified body to handle. 

The same world Miguel is in. The same world other universe you is maybe in too. A thought that makes you wonder if maybe this is all pointless, because regardless of who you try to convince —Peter or Miguel— ultimately one of them will deny you the right. 

The statistics are there, stacked against you, so instead of continuing like you want you just sigh, accepting defeat. (For now.) 

“Exhausting. Harry was on another rampage.”

“About what?”

“Time constraints. Apparently Norman’s on our ass about wanting this project finished so he can present it to some new board.” 

“For funding?”

You nod, watching him finish the rest of his bar and move on to the next. “I guess there’s this new company that wants in? I don’t know. Norman refuses to tell us but Harry says they’re some sort of start up.” 

“Interesting.” 

You pray to god that the details you’re giving him are enough to deter him. To keep him here in this conversation so that he doesn’t decide to explore any further. 

“Did Harry give you a name at all?”

You shake your head.

“Hm.”

The gears in his head are turning then. He’s got that far-off look in his eye he always gets when something piques his interest a little too hard. The one that makes the lids of his eyes sort of slip to the halfway point while his jaw falls slack. Whenever it happens you have to hold in a laugh because he always looks so ridiculous, like he’s about to fall asleep, even though it’s obvious he’s just focusing a little too hard for his brain to remember how to properly present his face. 

“You good?”

“Yup.” He takes another bite, finishing off the second bar before throwing the wrappers in the trash under the sink. “Just tired.” 

Immediately you take this as an opportunity to shift the conversation further onto him. To distract yourself from the creeping thought that’s telling you to keep trying. “Rough day?”

He nods and instinctively both of you move towards the couch, sitting on your usual sides.

“Two robberies and a car chase.”

“Yikes.”

“And in the middle of the chase Jonah kept calling me asking me to get pictures of Spider-Man so afterwards I had to stage some.”

“Were they any good?”

He scrunches up his face which tells you they weren’t.

“Well, at least it’s over?” you offer, flashing him a fake grin that falls once you hear that familiar beeping in his backpack. 

Immediately, it shifts your mind back to Miguel. To how his breath felt against your skin with each accidental confession. You remember how awful it made you feel, standing so close to him, the rage inside his chest reaching out to touch your own. 

Thinking back, it suddenly dawns on you how quiet it all was. How the words tumbling from his lips somehow barely registered through the anxious ringing of your ears. And how regardless of the small, yet empty space between you made you feel like you were being enveloped entirely. You can still imagine every movement of his lips. The curling motions formed over statements you’ll never get the answers to. 

Watching Peter jump from the couch to his bag you’re reminded of this. Taunted by it as he pulls out that stupid watch and Miguel’s masked face suddenly appears, telling him there’s another anomaly in some world you’ve never heard of. 

It makes your skin itch, hearing his voice again. The way it strains through the hologram, prompting Peter to spring into action, ripping both his hoodie and shirt over his head to reveal that familiar spider emblem that now makes you sick to your stomach. 

“I’m, uh —I gotta—“ 

As he hooks a thumb over his shoulder you merely nod, watching the way he sort of perks up at your acceptance. 

“Get home safe,” you tell him then, watching the frantic movements of his hands pulling off the rest of his outer shell until he’s reaching into the front pocket of his backpack to grab his mask.

After he puts it on you lose all focus, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to move on from this. How every day moving forward you’re going to have to sit on the sidelines, watching him live while you’re forced to forget.

It’s not fair, is it?

You can feel the sting of tears beginning to form as you stare at Peter messing with the watch on his wrist. Quicker than you can think to suppress them, they begin to pool at every corner, threatening to break free as your front door suddenly becomes obscured by a warm-toned, octagonal portal. 

“I’ll call you as soon as I get home,” he tells you. 

Pressing your lips together, all you can do is nod, forcing yourself to remain as calm as possible as he waves goodbye and steps through, leaving you there to stare at the now empty space that continues to glow; the portal’s reflection dancing across the room. 

Delicately, it flickers in and out as its existence begins to dwindle, reminding you that once again you’re alone, feeling the same effects of another spider person abandoning you in favour of something bigger than yourself. 

It feels weird to admit you’re jealous. That the envy that creeps through your veins feels familiar yet foreign as you wipe your eyes and cough out the sob that’s been sitting in your throat. 

Embarrassingly, you have to force yourself not to let it overtake you as you stand from the couch and move towards the portal, suddenly feeling the urge to jump in after him.

He’d surely kill you if you did. He and Miguel and probably any other spider person present. These portals aren’t meant for you. Everyone involved has made that very clear that you’re not meant to know about this life and the way it works. 

And yet, as you inch closer the temptation grows. Filling you with a thousand what if’s as you reach out to graze the light dancing before you.

It tingles against your fingertips like static, bouncing off each cell of skin at such high speeds you have to force your hand back in shock, laughing.

“What the…”

You push your hand out again, noticing the portal begin to decrease in size, its slow-moving layers starting to cave in on themselves the longer you stand there staring. Waiting. Debating whether or not to take the plunge into the unknown. 

Not going in should be the obvious choice. Inter-dimensional travel is something you always anticipated to be a myth, so there’s no telling the actual science behind it now that it’s so obviously not. If you step in you could easily die —come out the other side a complete scramble of decomposed elements. You could lose your memories or simple motor functions or the entirety of your soul. Anything’s possible. 

In fact, the only thing you’re certain of is the argument that will inevitably ensue if you manage to make it. It’ll be a big one —an unforgivable one filled with consequences you aren’t sure you’ll be able to handle. Peter will probably give you the silent treatment for a while, if not indefinitely, and Miguel will most likely yell at you until you’re deaf.

Still standing there, watching the portal become smaller and smaller you debate the worth of it all. The potential outcomes and how maybe, for once, it might be best to fight for something you want rather than run away like you usually do. 

It’d certainly make for an interesting experience if you come out of this alive, right?

-

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[sincerely-sofie]

saw your tags on some of my darkrai posts and the possibility of incorporating my take on him for your Dugtrio Day au is fun.. mainly because I wanna see echo tear a hole in his wicked perception of "actually eternal darkness kinda rocks and you suck for trying to stop it".

Darkrai: "Your fight is nothing but a pointless endeavor, child. Soon enough, the darkness will return all to how everything should've been. No longer will everyone be hurt by emotions of folly, and their primordial senses will be sharpened once more! This is how it all should be."

Echo: "you're a sad, strange lonely man, aren't you?"

Darkrai, visibly hurt but not letting her catch up on that: "shut up."

The best part of this is that, depending on which route I take with the AU's storyline, Echo would either have every last one of Darkrai's monologues memorized down to the punctuation marks or absolutely no idea who he is. I haven't decided yet whether the time loop includes the events of the post-game or not.

If it does, Echo is so bored of Darkrai's antics that she keeps herself sane by coming up with creative new ways to mock and unsettle him. He says something menacing about her deepest fears (99% of which she's gone through extensive exposure therapy for by virtue of dealing with Darkrai with every last one of the time loops, and honestly isn't that scared of anymore) and she tells him he's a no-neck-having nincompoop with ninety-nine problems, and his Darwinist outlook on the world is all of them.

If it doesn’t, Echo and Pinna come out of the time loop shenanigans with a newly evolved sylveon Echo who would take one look at Darkrai during the Dark Crater confrontation and, out of the blue, flatly tell him “You’ve never been held by someone while you cried on their shoulder before, have you. You’re alone and have no one who’s shown you kindness and you use that fact to justify a ruthless outlook on life instead of confronting the fact no one’s ever loved you. You’re a pitiful and lonely person who refuses to accept the fact that you’re sad and have nothing and no one, and so you make it everyone else’s problem instead of self-reflecting on why exactly that is and what you can do about it.”

Pinna is just watching this from the sidelines while Darkrai gapes at Echo like:

[butchspace]

Hello, I am going to discuss my thoughts on content/trigger warnings as someone living with OCD. I am absolutely open to good faith engagement and discussion on this topic.

Having some thoughts on the idea that adding trigger warnings somehow ultimately harms the person with the trigger. They absolutely can create an easy tool to obsessively control your access to the topics/to avoid them, but I’ve always felt it should be the potentially triggered person’s decision on what they were ready to do about it. Uncontrolled exposure is just as capable of causing obsession as is avoidance, in my opinion.

I think of the (terrible telephone retelling of a) case I heard about while discovering recounts of actual lived experiences with OCD.

—The following example discusses intrusive thoughts about domestic violence.—

A woman had an obsession with being was afraid of hitting her boyfriend. Her compulsion was that she would have to hold her arms stiffly by her side. She recognized this as OCD and sought exposure response prevention. Her therapist told her to try and ignore the compulsion, or potentially do the opposite. The woman became so obsessed with healing she forced herself to keep her hands away from her sides (almost obsessively) and constantly checked whether or not she “still wanted to hit him.” In the end, the ERP just became entangled with her obsessions.

It takes so much strength to face these types of problems and practice the mindfulness and grace with yourself to recognize it. It’s something you really need to be ready for because it’s going to take a lot of effort to do the hard thing when the easy thing is right there.

How can we claim it’s best to “force” exposure on someone else? How can we go around vigilante therapising people we have deemed too ill to do it on their own (or just be left alone)?

This is not to say that anyone is bad if they can’t or don’t want to tag things. More just my thoughts about how pushback against that idea can swing too hard into trying to prove not tagging was morality correct.

Some articles that articulate so much of my experience with OCD:

Having No Cure for OCD Is the Cure

Help! I Have OCD About What’s OCD

In the spirit of bodily autonomy, I think we all deserve agency in our lives no matter how “incompetent” other people may think we are. When you’re ready, you’re ready. There’s no healing to be had sitting around thinking you’re broken or lazy or whatever for not being ready to change. We all owe each other the kindness to do what we can in good faith, too.

I started doing too much table setting in the tags, so I’ll put it under a read more, lol.

I recognize that this isn’t very radically (in the abolition vs reform sense) anti-psychiatry, and I do have a complicated relationship with that idea. I recognize that I have a good deal of privilege (particularly among people with more stigmatized/less understood “disorders”) but this framework is the only one I’ve ever been able to access that gives me any insight into myself at all. That isn’t something everyone can afford to do in several senses.

As a physically disabled person, I just connect my experiences with chronic illness and mental illness (which I think can fall under the umbrella of chronic on its own) more and more these days. What truly was the difference between not being able to do something out of pain versus anxiety? Our brains are organs, too. Our thoughts are chemical and hormonal, too.

One of the fondest memories I have of coming to terms with disability was explaining my experience with an autoimmune condition to a bipolar friend, and he replied that we were “chronic illness buddies.” And I felt so understood as someone who has suffered with various types of anxieties for their entire waking life.

[wonryllis]

please give writing tips too

sure love! everyone’s different so in no way would the same things work for all but these are some tips that have helped me improve and just you know expand my horizons.

feel free to add your own points to this to help people more!!

001. READ READ AND READ (I CAN’T STRESS ENOUGH ON THIS BUT THIS IS THE MAIN KEY). be it fics, or novels or normal story books even non-fiction. reading will help in expanding your vocabulary and grammar, and give you an idea on how to build words in different kinds of scenarios. how to set the mood and what kind of details will have the most impact.

002. for expanding your vocabulary i would suggest searching up words you come across and don’t know the meaning of. don’t skip them, search them up and try understanding what they mean and look through what other words have similar meanings(synonyms)

003. CONSTANTLY PRACTICE WRITING. even if you’re not going to post it anywhere, just try writing a little bit on different themes. in that way you will be able to find out more about your writing style and flair as well as what points you need to work on.

004. STOP HESITATING TO REWRITE. there’s hardly anything one gets right at the first shot. and the same goes for writing. rewriting pieces will help you figure out what you should’ve added that you didn’t the first time and how changing the order of words or adding new literary devices(metaphors, similes, anecdotes etc) can make more of an impact.

005. DON’T BE AFRAID TO EXPLORE DIFFERENT GENRES. just 100 words can also help with experience. search up different genres that interest you and try coming up with a short scenario if you can.

13 points more under the cut!

006. TRIAL AND ERROR. don’t be let down if you fail to write a specific type of au, theme or trope. it takes certain amount of time and experience to be able to write different genres or anything as such. you need to have exposure to that topic to be able to create imagination on it.

007. with that being said, when you pick up a certain trope, au, theme or any topic you want/plan to write on: DO PROPER AND A LOT OF RESEARCH. trust me, it helps a lot.

008. as well in relation to the point above when writing a story, make sure to plan a rough outline. what kind of characters you’re going for, what events are going to define your story, how do you want the ending and the beginning to be. what your protagonist(s) is going for, what all they would be facing throughout and such.

009. SET A MORAL/POINT OF VIEW YOU WANT TO CONVEY through your writing. it helps you have a basis, a particular aim and drive behind what you wish to leave an impression through. it could be anything complex like dark themes of toxicity or even anything as simple as comfort. you just need to know what you’re writing for.

010. for inspiration i would suggest, LISTENING TO SONGS. any song you’re listening to, try thinking of a story behind it. for example let’s take taylor swift’s “no body no crime” go through the lyrics, the vibe and think what type of story could have this as background music. or what kind of a story could have that type of no body no crime summary?

011. KNOW WHEN TO SHOW THINGS RATHER THAT TELLING THEM. too much of anything is never good. when writing, it’s important to keep the balance between descriptions, narratives and dialogues. try thinking what are the things that would be better when described, for example the relationship between your characters: it’s something which is better shown than told. like how they treat each other, how they see each other, their dynamics in general is not something that can be told through a big lengthy dialogue or JUST one paragraph(short drabbles being an exception)

012. an additional point to the one above would be, try keeping yourself in the reader’s position and see what pulls you in more. what makes you feel the emotions better.

013. PICTURE THE SETTING YOU WANT TO WRITE ON. close your eyes and think of any type of place that you would like to write the story in. a suburb? or an abandoned city for an apocalypse? this will help in brainstorming for ideas.

014. INTO THE CHARACTER’S MIND. this is a very important point. explore the world within the mind of the character, something that defines them. THIS IS ANOTHER BIG KEY TO IMPROVE, pull your readers into the character(s)’ mind, show them the fears, the memories, the feelings, the thoughts, the hopes and dreams. it helps them understand the character and get into the story.

015. when using dialogues keep in mind that the DIALOGUES SHOULD ALWAYS BE MEANINGFUL AND REALISTIC. unnecessary talks aren’t often attractive so write what is necessary, needed. even with humor, excessive fun is not always impressive. and short but impactful dialogues always literally always leave the best impression.

016. CHALLENGE YOURSELF. try starting off strong since the very beginning. strong meaning starting off with words that leave a lasting impression. or words that pull you in with intrigue.

017. LEARN TO PACE YOURSELF. first of all it’s okay to take a break. actually its very important. pushing yourself beyond limits would never give positive results. know when you need to stop, cause being tired is not going to give better ideas or better word building. let yourself go into writer’s block, don’t fight it. you’ll come back better than when you’re forcing yourself to stay put and continue.

018. and last but not least. KNOW THAT IMPROVEMENT TAKES TIME. don’t be disappointed or discouraged if you are not good today. not being good today doesn’t mean you won’t ever be good. keep trying and with little to little progress over time, you will see yourself getting there. don’t lose hope🤗! YOU CAN DO IT!!!

[the-s1lly-corner]

Helloo! I hope you’re having a good day!

I have a request! ^^ (i literally love your writing sm!) I was wondering if you can do head canons of Laughing Jack x Tomie Kawakami like reader? Like the reader having Tomies powers and her beauty?

Please take care of yourself and drink a lot of water! <33

LJ w/ a S/O who's like Tomie!

YAHOO!! this just reminds me i need to get back into junji itos stuff :O i got a physical copy of uzumaki last year; loved it!! gotta reread it soon and dive into the other stuff !!! i admit i haven't read tomie's bits yet, my only info/exposure to her is based around how she was in the anime adaptations, an infodump from a friend ab 3-4 years ago, and a character wiki so i apologize in advance for any inaccurates/misunderstandings on how the abilities work! other than that, i hope you enjoy!

Im not even going to lie I think this dude would think it's a little amusing how people will literally commit dozens of crimes just for you to look their way

i personally dont think he would be affected by your natural seduction thing, mostly in part due to him not being a human, he still thinks your pretty!

he probably calls you doll or some other variation of it because of your appearance

that said lj does have a bit of a jealousy problem, even without a partner that automatically charms everyone around them. bro has abandonment issues and doesnt like sharing at all. sure, hell try to look past it but he hates the way other people fawn and swoon! depending on what kind of reader we're going with, say, one that also k(r)ills for one reason or another he'll *try* to keep it together but boy, does it get hard when you feed into the people's insanity

but that's probably a whole thing for another post since you specified abilities :O!! not sure if you wanted the s/o to fully lean into it or do something else

so some other ideas to fill the post !

first time he sees you die he will freak out

like

he doesnt know youll come back, and as morbid and horrible sounds he'd probably hang on to your corpse until you just

pop back

funny joke haha thing imagine he's lamenting over you and you just. pop back up all "aww you love me :3??"

love little haha funny shit like that

anyways

overall it doesnt mix well with his jealousy and stuff, he doesnt like sharing! nope, not at all

but perhaps you can win him over with some much needed affection and a lotta reassurance

in several ways

winks

god no because

idk

my brain is melting as we speak im so sorry

[dragjunkie23]

Sam if his partner has OCD

A/N: This is personal to me as OCD is the first thing I was diagnosed with and I often see so many misconceptions on the condition. TW as I will be talking about intrusive thoughts which can get dark

He will notice some of your weird “quirks” like double checking to make sure your door was locked or you knocking on wood when anxious

At first he would think nothing of it

Eventually, though, your behaviors begin to get strange

You started to avoid handling objects like knives, guns, and other objects that can be considered weapons

It eventually got you to avoid holding just something as simple as a butter knife

When he asked about it, you would at first deny anything is wrong, but Sam knows you there is an issue and is worried about you, so you finally open up

“Every time…I hold something…I get the idea of stabbing you, Dean or even myself though I don’t want to do it. I don’t know why I’m getting these thoughts! I don’t wanna hurt anyone!!”

Sam would immediately start researching your symptoms and find that you have OCD

“You’re not gonna hurt me, baby girl, nor are you gonna hurt yourself. You’re dealing with intrusive thoughts. It doesn’t mean you’re gonna act on them.”

Will comfort you when the intrusive thoughts come around, no matter how dark or disturbing they get

Knows how to get your mind on something else to help you calm down.

“What’s the name of the monster that comes from Japanese lore where someone who was murdered from a state of rage comes back to haunt?” “Um…Onryō?” “Good. How do you defeat them?

“Name 5 objects in this room that are the color green.”

If you are comfortable with it, he may try to help with exposure techniques

Side note: Do NOT partake in Exposure Therapy without any kind of professional

For a few days you may hold a knife for five seconds and then gradually move into holding it for 10 minutes with Sam or Dean in the room

Yes, Dean will also be more than willing to help out as you’re like a little sister to him

Overall, it will catch Sam a bit off guard when he realizes how dark intrusive thoughts are, but he’ll do whatever it takes to help you.

[orbital-inclination]

Hi! I have a question that I wouldn't be surprised if you had gotten before but as you don't have an FQA to check I'm going to ask now. Is it ok if anyone writes the brothers for Molten!Dream? Their designs are lovely and I like them a lot, though I don't know where I would possibly use them I just wanted to be sure before considering it! If it's ok, do you think you could give a little rough rundown on their personalities? I'm curious about their characterization, though I'll definitely read all the bits you have posted for them <3

It’s good you asked because the last time someone asked me this question it was just after I’d posted about Molt and Rem for the first time. X) Writing the brothers/writing fic is A-OK!

As for personalities, here’s a rough sketch.

Molt: kind-heart, sensitive and downright sweet once he lets down his guard. Tolerant and forgiving. Unresolved trauma from the events that led to his corrupt has transformed him into a quiet and reserved individual. He has deeply internalized the idea that it’s morally wrong for him to express and act on his own (repressed) negative feelings. Struggles to trust and build new friendships out of fear of being used and betrayed again. Courageous but somewhat selfish. About as dangerous as canonical!Dream temperament wise (which is roughly equivalent to that of a kitten.) but the ambient influence of his magic is difficult to resist if you’re unprepared for it.

Warning, over exposure to Molt’s magic may led to the following symptoms: Obsession. Hedonism. Excessive Greed. The compulsion to laugh hysterically. Disengagement with reality. If you or a loved one have experienced the above, please seek his brother, Remembrance, immediately. (Or Baggs I guess, if Rem is unavailable but frankly you’d probably be safer with Sci.)

Rem: driven by guilt and regret. Cynical and pessimistic. Temperamental but more cunning than you’d expect. Secretive. Willing to lie to his brother to keep the peace. As equally willing to sacrifice an AU or four dozen for what he believes is the greater good. Carries himself like the prince he wants you to believe he is. Haughty, and not above being a smug little shit once he’s bested you. Introverted at his core and a massive bookworm. The bane of librarians, archivists, doctors, witches and government officials everywhere. Also, supportive of activities that improve the mental health of his the boys. Kinder than his sometimes prickly and guarded persona may suggest.

Their relationship can be… strained at times. Despite this, Rem primary motivation is making amends for the events that led to his brother’s corruption. Though the two may fight, they care too much to ever truly betray or hurt each other.

I also covered the Murder Trio + Cross and Blue in this ask here. And Killer got his own post too, if you’re interested in that!