#christ that was more than i thought it was
Text
Your Ride, Best Trip
Summary: You sleep with your boyfriend Marcus for the first time
Word Count: 9,001
Pairing: Marcus Pike x f! afab! reader
Rating: 18+ Explicit
Warnings: 18+ mdni, first time, vaginal fingering, oral (m! and f! receiving), unprotected PIV, squirting, creampie, dirty talk, so much fluff, so much kissing
Betas: @for-a-longlongtime and @perotovar as ALWAYS. Love you homies I'm kissing u both <3
A/N: I have nothing to say for myself this time
Marcus Pike is perfect.
He’s your dream man.
He’s sweet. He brings you flowers just because, and he’s remembered your go-to coffee order, and he never goes to bed without texting you goodnight.
He’s effortlessly kind. He offers to walk your dog for you when you aren’t feeling well enough to get out of bed, and he always does the dishes when you cook for him, and he makes sure his bathroom is stocked with all the personal products you use at your own place.
He’s fucking handsome. His smile is straight and pearly white, and his big brown eyes warm you up, and the way his broad shoulders fill out those suits he wears to work never fails to make you weak in the knees.
He’s so smart, and he’s so funny, and he’s all yours… finally.
See, when he hadn’t so much as kissed you by your third date, you wigged out a bit.
How could you not? He’d been so thoughtful and caring and all you wanted was to feel those pillowy, soft lips against your own.
So you asked him what was up, and he told you.
Divorced. Broken engagement. A whole year of therapy to pinpoint what went wrong, what he could change, and how he could do better, how he could feel better. And then, he said, he found you— like fate— when he wasn’t even looking, when he least expected it.
You had no problem taking it slow. You’re still convinced you’d wait forever for him, as perfect as he is.
After too many little dates to count, he told you he wanted to be your boyfriend, if you’d have him.
You told him you’d love for him to be your boyfriend, of course. You’d be crazy not too.
And then he finally kissed you.
It was slow and hesitant, but it still made your heart race, made your stomach do flips. He cut it off before it could become anything more than chaste, and left your front door with a sheepish goodnight.
You’ve kissed a lot since then. You never really enjoyed kissing that much, before. It always just seemed like a means to and end, a formality before moving on to other things.
But now it’s one of your favorite ways to pass the time with him. Waiting for an Uber to take you downtown, finally getting to his place on Friday after a long work week, cuddling in bed together with an old movie playing.
You haven’t made out with anyone this much since high school. And you enjoy it, you do, but Jesus Christ, he’s been your boyfriend for three weeks now and you need him.
It doesn’t help that he touches you like you’re the last person on earth. His hands are so big and they’re gentle and electric when they find the bit of skin just under the hem of your shirt.
You think it’s going to happen, this time. Friday night takeout has long been abandoned in the living room. You’re in his bed, in his clothes, and his pinky is teasing at the waistband of his sweats that you’re wearing.
His tongue in your mouth is making you dizzy, and there’s no more blood in your brain with all of it rushing between your legs. You whimper, and you arch against him, and you want him so bad but you can’t say it. You’d feel bad, making him rush when he’s made it clear he wants to take things slow.
When his lips leave yours, you open your eyes, and find his pupils obstructing all the deep, dark brown you adore.
You have to squeeze your thighs together for a miniscule amount of relief. He notices. Of course he does. Damn that Quantico training.
“Sweetheart—”
His eyes flicker down to your lips. You’re sure they look obscene, red and slick from nearly an hour of him sucking and nibbling on them.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
You don’t know why you say it, but you are sorry. You feel so bad for wanting him like this, desperate and aching in his bed, over eager.
“Don’t be,” he shakes his head and gives you a reluctant smile, a smile that tells you you’re going to fall asleep extremely sexually frustrated.
But it’s fine. He’s so worth it.
You give him a soft smile back, and lean in to peck his lips. But he pulls away with his brow furrowed.
“What do you want?”
His voice is gentle when he asks. So is his hand on your back, under his shirt you’ve claimed. But it doesn’t stop that fight or flight response from kicking in.
“Nothing! Nothing, Marcus, I’m okay— I’m great. Just wanna cuddle.”
But the creases in his forehead don’t smooth out, and his hand ceases the soothing circles across your spine.
“You’re lying.”
You sigh and close your eyes.
“I’m not lying, I’m just— I don’t want to push you to move too fast.”
You expect him to be angry. But when you open your eyes again, his own have taken on that puppy-like quality you usually love. Right now, it just makes you feel guilty.
“I’ve been lying, too,” Marcus whispers.
It’s your turn to scrunch your face up. Your blood runs cold, waiting for him to elaborate. A million scenarios run through your head at lighting speed— all worse and worse until your breathing picks up and you beg him with your eyes to just get on with it—
“I have a small dick.”
His face is so flushed. He can’t meet your gaze.
He’s staring at the bedsheets between you, and you’re both just silent for a long, awkward moment.
“I mean— the divorce and all that, it’s all true. And I did want to keep from moving too fast. But— the last few weeks I guess I’ve just been… stalling?”
He finally looks up from the threads to gauge your reaction.
“Marcus…”
“I get it, okay? If you wanna go. I know I lied, and you didn’t sign up for—“
“Marcus.”
You watch his shoulders raise and his mouth snap shut, and he looks terrified.
“I don’t want to leave. You didn’t lie. It’s just— you really think that would bother me?”
He lets out a big breath, and the tension in his body eases up a little.
“I don’t know. Most people were… bothered. I guess,” he shrugs.
You cradle his jaw in your hand, let the day-old stubble tickle the pad of your thumb as you think about how to best navigate this conversation.
Because saying ‘I don’t care’ seems too dismissive. But you don’t. You couldn’t possibly care less about what’s in his pants, when everything else about him has made you fall so, so deep already. But you don’t want to make it sound like it’s something you have to even bargain with, like the pros outweigh the cons, like it even is a con. Because it’s not.
“I’m not bothered,” you finally tell him.
He still doesn’t meet your eyes, in fact, he rolls his.
“You don’t have to lie to me. It’s okay, I’ve heard it all. I know I’ve lead you on—”
“Jesus,” you cut him off, “what did— who made you feel this way?”
He finally looks at you. His eyes are wide and he looks vulnerable and hesitant. You swipe away some hair that’s fallen flat across his scrunched forehead.
“Everyone?”
You sigh his name, and you’re tentative when you lean forward to kiss him, softly, when he lets you.
He looks less terrified when you pull back. You try to smile, but this whole interaction has left such a bad taste in your mouth that it feels more like a grimace when your lips turn up.
“That’s— Fucking awful, to be frank. Pardon my French.”
He chuckles, but his gaze falls away from your face again. His sheets are not that interesting to look at.
“Really, Marcus. I mean— maybe if someone’s just looking for a hookup, then I get it. You want something specific, whatever. But why would you ever think you were leading me on?
All you’ve done is be sweet to me, and shown interest in me, and taken care of me. Unless you’re like, secretly an ax murderer, or committing some kind of major tax fraud, you haven’t led me on at all.”
He’s still not looking at you. Why won’t he look at you, and believe you?
“I don’t want to sound dismissive. I understand you’re insecure about it. I’m insecure about some things too. I don’t want to invalidate that. But I need you to know that the last thing I care about is how big your dick is.”
There. He’s looking at you. He looks a little mortified, but he’s finally meeting your gaze.
“Really?”
You scoff.
“Really really.”
A reluctant smile tugs on the corner of his pretty mouth.
“Why?”
“Because— now, don’t go getting a big head about this— you’re perfect. Like, everything about you. You’re sweet and you make me laugh and you’re gorgeous.”
His face flushes, but he lets you continue.
“And I’m in this, with you. I want this to go somewhere. And I think we’re super compatible.”
“Me too,” he whispers.
“Good, so… we’re on the same page then.”
You watch him lick his lips, and his hand that’s been loosely draped over your waist finally starts back up, drawing little circles across the base of your spine.
“And… There’s other reasons,” you mumble, voice low with a hint of mischief.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah… For one, your hands.”
“My hands?”
He emphasizes his question with a squeeze of your hip, and you giggle at the way it tickles, and also with a bit of embarrassment.
“Yeah… They’re uh… big. I look at them a lot. Honestly surprised you haven’t noticed.”
He huffs, lets his big hand travel further up the shirt on your back.
“Your nails are always trimmed, and— your fingers are long and thick. I’ve thought about them a lot.”
He breathes your name, and now you realize you’re the one avoiding eye contact. When you look back, his pupils are all blown out again, and it spurs you on.
“And I love to give head.”
“Jesus.”
“And the bigger it is, the quicker I get tired. I could stay down there all night, if my jaw didn’t get sore.”
“Sweetheart—”
“Really, it’s one of my favorite things, making someone fall apart under my mouth. But I hate gagging and choking my way through it. It’s tedious.”
He says your name again, this time with a warning tone.
You bite your lip to keep anything from tumbling from your mouth unwarranted.
“You’re not lying.”
His eyes dart back and forth across your face, and you shake your head in lieu of opening your mouth again.
“Fuck.”
It’s the first time Marcus has cursed in front of you. Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and your clit throbs.
“I’ve thought about you so much. Your lips, you have to know, right? How plump and full they are… I think about them at night, when I’m touching myself.”
That’s convincing enough, apparently. Before you can embarrass yourself any further with your confessions, he surges forward to press those plush lips against yours and groans into your mouth.
His hand flattens against your back and pulls, manhandling you closer to him. Your fingers find his silky hair and tangle in the strands, holding on for dear life at this shift between the two of you.
You can’t muster up an ounce of shame. Finally, you have Marcus where you want him, pressed against you. You hike a leg over one of his, getting it between your thighs for even the smallest amount of friction.
You feel him gasp, chest inflating to press even closer against yours. It’s a rush, finally getting this after waiting so long.
Your hands scramble to get under his white t-shirt. His skin is hot, even against your sweaty palms. There’s so much to feel, the slight swell of his stomach, and the muscle of his flank, the soft but firm pecs.
You whine when he pulls away from your lips. He shushes you gently, and you open your eyes to watch his slick lips and his hooded eyes and flushed face disappear briefly, just quick enough to shed his shirt.
Smooth, is the first thing that comes to mind. His tan skin has no hair above his belly button, just the errant freckle here and there. His nipples are peaked, and you reach out to press your thumb against one before your mind catches up to the action, before you realize you’re gawking.
But when your hand stutters against his skin and you look up at him, he’s smirking, amused and turned on. You falter a bit, mouth open while you search for something to say, some sort of excuse as to why you’re devouring him like you’re starved.
He saves you though, with his low, grumbled voice.
“I think about you, too. All the time.”
You dig your nails into his soft skin at his admission, scraping against his chest.
“You know that? You think I haven’t had you a million different ways in my head?”
Your heart stops beating, and you stop breathing, and the heat between your legs only gets heavier and wetter.
“You want me to show you, sweetheart?”
Your heartbeat comes back as a rush in your ears, and you squeeze the meat of his pec as you nod.
He kisses you again, licks at your lips until you suck his tongue into your mouth, and now it’s just filthy. No more pretense, it’s been months of pretense, and neither of you have any more patience.
His fingers seek out your own nipple, a tight bud protruding through cloth, and he rolls it between his fingers gently over the material of his shirt.
“You come over and wear my clothes like this, and you think you don’t drive me crazy?”
The words are grumbled into your mouth, against your cheek, then your jaw and your neck as he seeks out more of you to kiss.
“I don’t wash them when you leave. I wear them and I smell you all day and it makes me feel insane.”
You mewl at his admission. Everything he says now is so fucking raw, now that you’ve broken down his walls. He shushes you again, grabs the hem of his shirt to help you pull it over your head.
He curses when he sees you. It’s the first time. You’ve both been toeing this line of modesty, and maybe you’d be more nervous if you weren’t careening toward the pleasure he’s promised you.
He coaxes you to lie on your back beside him, and his mouth works a slow trail down the side of your neck, nipping and suckling until he finally gets your nipple in his mouth. You arch into it, encouraging him with a hand tangled in his thick hair. You feel his groan reverberating around your rib cage when you scrape your nails back and forth across his scalp. You need him, like nothing you’ve ever craved before.
“Marcus—”
“I know, I know.”
His syrupy voice isn’t as soothing as his lips, though, when he cranes his neck back up to kiss you again. He nips there, a sneaky distraction from the way his fingers trail down to circle your navel, and then even farther, teasing the hem of his sweatpants you’re wearing. His featherlight touch makes you jolt when it finally registers, your stomach jumping under his fingers.
“Can I?”
You’re nodding against his lips, into the kiss, and then whining when his hand breaches the waistband. Those thick, long fingers flutter across your mound. Your breath catches on every wiggle. But when his fingers splay out, half on one side of your slit and half on the other, teasing your lips, you exhale hard and press up into his touch.
“Oh, are you that sensitive?”
His voice is half-teasing, half-shocked, as he mumbles into the tingling skin of your neck.
“It’s just you.”
And it’s true. There’s no ego-stroking here. You’ve waited too long to get this and now you’re fiending, any touch is a relief.
And he’s huffing into that skin under your ear, like you’re playing it up too much, but he bites down on the skin anyway and groans.
“So sweet, huh?”
You make a disgruntled noise but there’s not enough blood in your brain to get your point across. Instead, you wrap your hand around his meaty forearm and force his fingers lower, where you know your underwear is a soaking, sticky mess.
He curses and pulls away from his assault on your neck to look at you. You’re certain you know what he sees, blown out pupils and sweat-slick forehead and bitten, shiny lips.
“That’s all for me?”
There’s a sly smile tugging at one side of his mouth, just barely there, but you see it in the way one dimple grows more than the other. You nod in answer, scrape your nails up the hair on his arm and watch him shudder.
But he retreats from between your legs, and chuckles when you squeeze his forearm tighter in protest. The sound makes you shiver, all low and gruff and teasing. But he softens the blow with another one of his kisses, heated and sloppy and needy. His hands, always so gentle and careful and big, find the creases between your hips and thighs. It makes you arch up into the touch and whimper again, and you wonder briefly if you’ll ever not be desperate for him again.
He watches your face twist up when he pulls away from you, watches the way your breasts move with every heave of your lungs. His dark eyes travel lower, where his thumbs sear circles into your hips, and his tongue swipes across his lower lip.
“Can I take these off, sweetheart?”
The tenderness in his voice fills you with a completely different warmth, white hot flames simmering into a blaze of feelings you aren’t sure you’ve ever truly experienced before. You let it consume you.
“Yes, please.”
He hums a satisfied little noise as his fingers hook under the waistband. He takes his time, making sure to catch your underwear as well. It’s a sight, his huge hands working your only remaining cover down, down, until you’re bare to him and he’s gently cradling each of your calves to fully remove the last of your clothes.
Those hands work their way back up, attentive, memorizing the valleys and peaks of your flesh, the nuances of your skin, the way it bends over your joints. Before you know it, he’s propped himself up beside you once again, one arm supporting his weight so his other hand can work its way between your thighs.
You drag your eyes away from his fingers to look at him, only to find him focused on your face.
It’s a few long moments before either of you move or speak or breathe. It’s you who breaks the spell, only because you know you’re at the very edge of control.
“You sure you’re ready?”
You reach up to cradle his neck in your hand. It’s hot to the touch, and so are his ears, the tips of them burning a cute pink where your thumb grazes them. His eyes get softer and crinkle even more around the edges.
“I’m positive… can’t believe I psyched myself out for so long.”
He huffs and shakes his head at himself. You’re ready to kiss that apprehension away again, but his hand on your thigh pulls, as gentle as everything else he’s done, to spread yourself open for him.
The cool air makes your breath catch in your throat. Or maybe it’s the anticipation. So close to what you’ve thought about every single night for weeks. Months– since the day you first met, if you’re being honest.
He keeps his eyes on you, and you hold his gaze even though it burns. But only until his fingers brush you. Your eyelids flutter shut at the feeling, mouth open wide in shock at how electric just one simple touch feels.
His finger glides so easily around your opening, and you hear him gasp as he explores all the slick.
“You’re soaked.”
His voice is thick with awe, as another finger joins in on the fun, gathering up your arousal. But they don’t breach, and you feel like he’s teasing, readying a whine in protest.
The noise gets stuck in your throat when they trail up, gliding through your swollen folds. They find your clit, full and begging for attention, and circle with hardly any pressure.
Oh, he’s fucking good at this.
There’s no apprehension in his movements. It’s like he’s read a fucking manual on how to press all your buttons. The light, slick touches are building up that heat in your gut quicker than you can ever remember with anyone else.
You’re stunned silent, eyes pinched shut and your head tilted back into the mattress, digging in for even an ounce of grounding.
“That feel good, sweetheart?”
Your vocal chords come back to life, finally, as you whimper from the gentle drag of his fingers.
“You have no idea.”
He chuckles, and you open your eyes to see his own still trained on your face.
“I think I do,” he mumbles.
He shifts, presses his hips into you, and the hard line of him digs into your side.
You clench around nothing, and your clit pulses under the pads of his fingers. He curses and responds to the needy little bud, applying more pressure and speeding up those little circles.
All the while he grinds his hips into you, soft little movements that sync up with his hand, and you want him so bad. You’re losing patience by the second, the only thing keeping you from pouncing is the way his fingers work you over so perfectly it’s like you’re touching yourself.
You’re not, though, and that becomes perfectly clear when one thick, long finger presses lower and slips into you. It slides so easily, despite how much girth it has on one of your own. You both make stuttered noises at the feeling, and Marcus’ lips capture your own to let them mingle together.
Your hips egg him on, lifting and shifting, but he is teasing now. It’s a slow drag in and out, his finger pin straight, and if he hadn’t been so diligent this entire time you’d think he didn’t know what he was doing.
But you whine, a soft plea of his name into his mouth, and he obliges. That thick finger crooks up, just as the heel of his hand flattens against your clit, and stars bloom behind your eyelids.
You groan, and he laps it up before his lips leave yours.
“That’s it. This what you needed?”
A pathetic whimper comes out in response as you nod your head. His finger presses harder into that perfect spot, and his palm slides over your wet clit. You’re clenching around him, savoring the feeling of being filled by him, working your hips down and back to meet his motions. It grows and grows, that feeling in your gut, so close that you can’t be bothered to worry about what needy noises you’re making.
He mutters another frantic curse, and his hips jump to press his cock into you harder.
“I gotta taste you, sweetheart. Can I? Will you let me?”
You nod so fast you’re surprised your head doesn’t detach from your neck. He soothes that frenzied part of your brain with another kiss, slips his finger out of you, and moves to get between your legs.
You thread your fingers through his hair to keep him still, even if it’s just for a moment. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and the drag of his sweatpants across your sensitive center makes you arch up into him for more, to seek out more friction.
He just huffs a laugh against your lips and angles his hips away, denying you the simple pleasure of grinding against the tent in his pants.
“Not yet. Let me take my time with you. You’ve waited so long, right? I’ll make it up to you, you just gotta let me.”
You huff.
You should’ve known Marcus would be just as much of an infuriating tease in the bedroom as he is outside of it. The trivia dates and the cocky smirk he always sported when he won, the little bets he’d make on how a movie’s plot was going to twist, the refusal to ever let you pay for dinner— it’s all adding up now, and you can’t believe you didn’t expect it.
Marcus Pike is a smug little prick underneath the humble, sheepish grins, and it’s hot and it’s yours.
“Put your money where your mouth is,” you breathe.
He chuckles and trails said mouth down the length of your naked body. You watch his plump lips explore your skin and leave wet patches littered in their wake, shiny little stakes claiming you. His five o’clock shadow is just long enough to abrade your skin a bit, delightful little pricks that make your muscles jump involuntarily.
He makes it to your mound before looking up at you. His brown eyes are mostly obstructed by his pupils, but they shine all glassy in the dim lamplight of his bedroom. His shitty grin has faded and he looks determined, and it steals the breath from your lungs.
He teases some more, of course he does. His lips peck and tickle the creases of your thighs, the skin of your outer lips, and the very tip of your hood before you finally see his pink tongue slip out.
All of a sudden you can’t watch, can only let your head fall back and close your eyes and drown in the anticipation.
The pointed tip of his tongue just barely grazes you, tracing a razor-thin line from your dripping hole all the way to your mound. It tickles, and your breath comes in faster as he does it again, and again, and again.
Just before you can beg for more, he flattens his tongue and drags it up your slit. He laps at your folds, slow and calculated, and the satisfied noises tumble out of you as you feel his taste buds glide against you.
All you can think to do is find his hair and use it to hang on. Your legs spread wider, and he takes the encouragement. His tongue finds your clit, so swollen and sensitive with need by now. He circles it, then wiggles his tongue back and forth, playing with it, playing with you. He shakes his head from side to side to give you more, presses even more firmly, and the heavy feeling in your gut tightens tenfold.
Your hips start to move on their own, rocking up into his face, helping his motions along. He groans with it, muffled and wet between your legs.
A delirious thought gets stuck in your horny brain. You don’t know how you’ll ever let him leave this spot between your legs now that you’ve finally got him here. It’s so wet and warm and incredible, and your nails dig into his scalp to drive the point home, to try and lock him here forever.
His voice snaps you from your reverent thoughts, thick and deep.
“Fuck, sweetheart. You taste so good, looks so fucking pretty.”
You brave a glance down at him, his red soaked mouth and his dark eyes that are boring holes into your pussy. One of his hands releases its grip on your thigh to glide across the dripping mess of your center. He toys with you, spreading you open with splayed fingers, watching the way your folds bend to his whim. With it exposed and protruding and aching for his touch, he leans down to wrap his plush lips around your clit and suckle. Curses fly from your lips at the concentrated attention, and it’s so so so fucking good you’re sure you’re going combust.
His hand slips lower, and his mouth doesn’t stop, and you’re dangerously close to tipping over the edge. And then two thick fingers slip easily into you, immediately seeking out that spot inside you and tapping there.
It’s blinding pressure overwhelming the two places you need him most. He drums up a rhythm that would remind you of a dance, maybe, if your brain were cognitive enough to form a coherent thought. Down with his head, engulfing your clit, and up with his fingers, squeezing that spongy spot inside you. Over and over, he works you with soft grunts against your cunt until your fingers lock up in his hair and your hips start to shake.
“Please don’t stop,” you pant, “I’m so close.”
To his credit, and this is more than you can say for the majority of men you’ve been with, he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow down, nor does he speed up. He keeps at you exactly how you need it, moaning strung-out little noises into your center until you’re dropping.
All the wind is knocked out of you. Your hips jolt into his face and he takes it in stride, lapping at your clit when the seal of his lips is broken from your erratic movements. You tremble through it, clench around his fingers, and squeeze his head between your thighs as you ride it out on his tongue.
As the shivers roll through you, Marcus’ fingers slow, and though he can’t remove his tongue from you because of how your legs have him in a headlock, he stills his tongue so you can take the last bit of what you need from him.
His breathing is just as heavy as yours, wheezing out moans and muffled words of encouragement. When you feel yourself slipping down from your peak, you let go of the death grip on his hair, and open your legs, and grant yourself a few deep breaths before you dare to look down at him.
He carefully, cautiously pulls his fingers out of you. A comforting ‘shhh’ is cooed into the sweaty skin of your thigh when you make a strangled sound. Both of his hands splay out on either hip, a light and grounding touch accompanied by the kisses he’s dropping all over the skin he can reach.
Finally, you grant yourself a peek down at him. The first thing you notice is how his broad shoulders are, heaving with baited breath. Then, his normally pristine hair, sticking out every which way and then some from your frantic fingers.
His face is red, you guess from exertion. Or maybe you really did restrict some blood flow. Christ. That’s what he gets, being so goddamn good at that.
And then his lips. His lips. Those lips that up until now you’ve only ever kissed or dreamed of. They’re even more plump, swollen and slick with you, shining just like his chin is.
You don’t know what to say. You know you want to kiss him. Funny, considering that’s how all this started, but you’re dying to see what you taste like on him.
Luckily, he breaks the silence, after licking those delectable lips and clearing his throat.
“So… How’d it compare?”
Your face contorts on its own, surprised at the sudden and intrusive question.
“Pardon?”
But then he laughs, pressing those wet dimples into your heated skin to hide them.
“To all those thoughts you told me about. How’d I do?”
You laugh too then, a weary huff of breath as you sit up.
“Don’t go fishing for compliments,” you tease, though there’s not much heat behind it with how out of breath you still are.
He goes to respond, but you get a hand in his hair again and coax him up. You meet him halfway, swallowing his surprised noise when you finally get those pillowy lips against yours and lick at them, his tongue, his teeth, until you aren’t sure what taste is you and what is him. Until you realize you’re flat on your back again as he hovers over you, still between your thighs.
You both hum when the kiss breaks, and you rest your forehead against his, nuzzle his nose and sigh at the floaty feeling in your limbs.
“Better,” you whisper.
You feel his grin bump into your own. You nip at it, playful and languid as you finally begin to get some of your bearings back.
And then you’re shocked back into the realization that there’s all this smooth skin right in front of you, this hunk of a man hovering above, the one who just melted your brain into a fuzzy little mold of itself. You grab his hips as he licks into your mouth and scrape your nails up his flanks, unhurried, while the touch makes him shiver.
You feel out the strength in his pecs, those broad shoulders you often daydream about, and then you push. Catching him off guard, he gasps as he loses his balance and tumbles to the side, and then laughs when you press him into the mattress and straddle his hips.
You laugh along with him, but it slowly tapers off as his hands find your naked skin— your stomach and hips and back and then your ass, where it hovers just above that bulge in his sweatpants.
He’s looking up at you with what you can only describe as horny apprehension.
His eyelids droop over his dilated pupils, but his brow is all pinched up in the middle. His mouth hangs open, like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.
So you kiss him, soft and gentle, as gentle as he’s been with you all night. His sigh washes heat across your cheeks, and you feel him relax under you just a little.
But then you shift in his grasp, lower your ass, and press your soaking center to his crotch. You whimper at the feeling of his sweatpants dragging across your sensitive, wet cunt. He moans and bites at your bottom lip maybe a little too hard.
But it’s okay. He pulls away and pants your name and you settle there, your weight pressed down on his cock. Your lips find that smooth patch in his stubble, biting that chiseled jaw, licking down the curve of his neck, his shoulder, up to his ear. You delight in every goosebump you draw, and breathe in his scent before you speak up.
“Will you let me suck it?”
All his breath rushes out in a big gust. His fingertips dig into your naked sides, and he nods.
“Please.”
It’s a barely-there whisper. You pull away from that silky soft skin where his pulse is hammering to check his reaction.
He’s begging with his eyes. It makes you smirk, sitting up straighter, trailing your fingers down the front of his body until you reach the drawstring of his sweatpants.
You’re still sitting on his groin, though. You give a little playful wiggle, and his hips rock up to grind harder. But you don’t want to tease any more. Every moment spent teasing him, you’re also denying yourself, and you’ve been patient for long enough.
So you shift down the bed, nestled between his legs, and get to work on the tie of his pants. Every time your fingertips brush the hair below his belly button, he sucks in a breath. You finally get the thing untied, and look up one last time for permission before you start to drag the material down, grabbing his boxers as you go.
Your eyes stay trained on his face instead of staring at his crotch, especially as he wiggles a bit and lifts his legs to remove his pants. You don’t want to stare, and you also don’t want to not look, you don’t want him to be uncomfortable at all with you.
You want it to be perfect. You want to make him feel the way he makes you feel.
He nods his head, and you cease averting your eyes to trail down his body, the bushy happy trail and the neatly trimmed hair above his cock and his cock.
His little cock.
It is, indeed, on the smaller side. Probably one of the smallest you’ve seen in real life. Three and half or four inches long, if you had to guess.
And it’s so pretty, cut and on the thicker side, the slightest upward curve that makes your pussy tighten around nothing.
You dive right in, press your nose to all the hair while you kiss at the base of him, humming when his cock twitches against the side of your face. He smells so good and clean, like always, but down here there’s even more of that Marcus smell that always lingers beneath his soap and cologne, salty and warm.
When you drag your eyes up to him, his head’s thrown back against the pillows, not looking at you. You want him to look, you want him to see how much you’re going to enjoy this.
You’ll make him look, one way or another.
For now, you just lathe your tongue up the underside of him, then back down to tickle his balls, all the while enjoying how his prick jerks under the attention.
He’s making little noises, mostly puffs of breath and gasps, and his hands twist up in the sheets beside you. You grab one of them, slow and steady, and lead it to the back of your head.
And then, you finally get your lips wrapped around the head of his dick, and you slowly sink down until he’s entirely in your mouth.
It’s not until your nose presses against the flatness above his cock do you hear him release a strangled groan. That’s when you look back up at him and find him staring down, mouth agape, locked on your mouthful of him.
You pull back up, wiggling your tongue as you go, memorizing the ridges and hairs and veins. Your eyes are locked on his, and his are locked on your lips, so you try to give him a show.
You open your mouth and stick out your tongue, nod your head up and down to let his cockhead tickle your tastebuds. A gruff noise leaves him, hearty and hoarse, and you want to smile but you’re not in a position to.
Instead, you flick your tongue against that little band of tissue just under his slit, and his hips stutter as his grip on the back of your head tightens.
“Fuck, sweetheart.”
Now you do smile, your lips upturned against the head of his cock, and it jerks against your mouth while you kiss it, until you envelop it once more.
You hum around him, at the weighted feeling of him occupying your mouth, how smooth it feels against your tongue and how nice it is to take him all the way in and not gag or choke or drool.
It makes your cunt ache, makes you crave him even more, makes you want to be full of him everywhere.
You reach a hand down to touch yourself. You’re still dripping, can feel it all slipping from your entrance and cooling your skin in the air conditioning. You’ve had just enough time to recover from the mess Marcus made of you. You’re sensitive but not too sensitive, when you trace your clit with your fingertips and moan around the mouthful of cock.
“Oh fuck, are you touching yourself?”
Your eyes flicker open and look up to him. He’s clenching his jaw, grinding his teeth as his nostrils flare. You hum and nod your head to answer, his cock slipping back and forth through the ring of your lips. He whimpers, and his head tips back against the mattress again, and it makes you speed up the efforts on both him and yourself.
He curses, soft little chants, kneading the back of your neck in his big hand as you suck him in over and over. You close your eyes and lose yourself in it for a bit, the way he slips so easily in and out, the way his hips move just a little, like he’s trying not to but he can’t help it. The sounds, his grunts and your sloppy mouth and your fingers working over your slick folds.
He says your name.
You hum, use your free hand to play with the fuzzy skin of his balls.
He says your name again, and this time it’s urgent, almost panicked.
“Sweetheart, stop, please.”
You do, immediately. You open your mouth wide and let him fall from your lips and unhand him while you look at his exerted face.
“Are you okay?”
He huffs, and his cock bobs beside your face.
“I’m so okay. I just— did you want me to…? It’s okay if you don’t, I just didn’t want it to be over—”
“Marcus.”
His heated babbling stops as he clamps his mouth shut. His broad shoulders lift and drop with his heading breath.
“Do you want to fuck me?”
You smooth your hands across the scattered hair on his thighs when you ask. His prick twitches again at your question.
“I— Yeah. Yes. I do.”
He looks almost guilty about it, with his wide eyes and the bashful expression spreading across his face.
“I want you to fuck me so bad,” you tell him, “I’ve wanted it for way too long.”
His breath leaves him in a shuddery exhale, something like relief or awe.
“Yeah? You still want it?”
His hand skates from the back of your neck to your jaw, his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek.
“Please, Marcus. Give it to me.”
You turn your head to kiss his thumb, a sloppy little peck before you take it into your mouth. You smile around it when he groans, and bite it before it slips away.
“Can you get on the edge of the bed for me?”
You can, but not without throwing a cheeky ‘yes sir’ his way. You’re not sure if the noise he makes is from arousal or a lack of amusement, but there will be plenty of time to explore that later.
For now, you do as he says. You scoot so your ass is just about to fall off the side of his bed. The wooden bed frame is the perfect height to rest your heels on, and as Marcus slips a pillow under your head, you’re as comfortable as ever.
The mattress dips when he gets up to stand in front of you. The lamplight from the nightstand is really doing things for him. The slight sheen of sweat on his chest glistens, as does the wetness at his temples where his hair is starting to curl up. All those lean muscles have never been more apparent than they are now, the golden glow creating beautiful shadows across his naked body.
He’s so hot.
It doesn’t help that his big, warm hands snake up your bare thighs as he gets between them. His small dick stands at attention, pointing toward the ceiling, and you feel your pussy spasm with anticipation.
“Please,” you whisper.
He nods, steps closer as you spread your legs wider and wiggle even further off the bed.
“Perfect, sweetheart.”
He leans over you with one hand on the bed to brace himself. The other is wrapped firmly around the base of his cock, and he looks down to watch it as he glides it through your slit.
“Are you ready?”
You nod and hum your affirmative. He takes the go-ahead and his cockhead slides across your clit, down, so slowly, until it catches on the rim of your hole and you both gasp at the feeling.
You look down to watch too, lifting up on your elbows to see the moment your pussy lets him sink inside, fluttering around him, engulfing his prick one inch at a time.
You knew it. You fucking knew his cock was perfect but still you’re shocked at the way the curve makes him drag across your upper wall. And when his hips are flush with yours, all that pressure is concentrated at that bundle of nerve endings inside of you, and you’re going to lose your mind if he doesn’t move.
“Oh fuck.”
You let yourself flop back in the bed, but reach for his hand that’s supporting his weight. Your nails scrabble for purchase against the skin of his wrist as you curse again, your walls contracting around him as you tense.
“Fuck, Marcus, please.”
You’re so far past caring about how desperate you sound. You need him, the textbook definition of it; it’s an absolute necessity that he fucks you.
He curses, and you realize you’ve closed your eyes. When you open them, his jaw is hanging and he’s looking at you, your face, like it’s something he’s never seen before. Like he’s shocked you’re here in front of him.
But his hips are still, and you’re helpless to the way your own cant up to urge him, and finally he’s pulling back out. The slow drag against the most tender spot inside you rips a noise from your throat, involuntary. He pulls almost all the way out, until the head of his dick is kissing your opening and you can feel how he stretches the tight ring of muscles.
And then in again, almost as slowly, and you’re already out of breath. The feeling steals all the wind from your lungs. It’s setting you on fire, perfect friction against just the right spot, the one that’s still tender and alight from your previous orgasm.
“It’s so fucking good,” you manage to choke out.
Marcus moans above you, and his hips snap into you, and his free hand finds your waist so he can dig his nails into your flesh.
“It is, fuck, sweetheart, you’re so fucking good.”
A bead of sweat drips from his nose and lands on your belly, and that seems to make you snap out of it.
“Fuck me. Fuck me hard, please, make me come.”
You watch his mouth quirk up into a pretty smirk, dimples on full display.
“Yes ma’am.”
Your giggles only last for a moment, dissolving into a high whine when he slides out of you and back in, a harsh thrust of his hips that doesn’t let up.
He fucks you. You try to watch; it’s too hot not to. His biceps flex respectively, one with his effort to hold himself above you, and the other where he holds you in place by your waist.
His neck, the one vein there that’s protruding as he bares his teeth. The way his chest is rapidly rising and falling as he drives into you. His big brown eyes, even darker now as he succumbs to the feeling of you.
But you just can’t keep your eyes open for long. It feels too good, you’re too close to the edge. Your insides are so tender and alight from the first time you came. Every single thrust inside you is taking you apart and building your second so quickly. Your eyelids droop closed and there’s already stars blooming behind them.
His little noises are louder, like this. Grunts and gasps and moans, falling over you, all for you.
“Fuck, I’m so close,” you warn him.
Your back arches to encourage his pace. His skin slaps into yours faster as he groans.
“Thank god, me too. What do you need, sweetheart?”
Without a verbal answer to his strained question, you slip your hand down to press against your throbbing clit.
“Shit, yeah, play with your pussy for me. I wanna— fuck— let me see you come. Looks so gorgeous.”
His voice is thick in his throat, and you work your fingers over yourself faster. You’re clenching wildly around him, you can’t help it. Every thrust in sets your nerves on fire, almost too much, but not quite. His grunts are turning into growls, uninhibited and primal. You feel the mattress shift and open your eyes to find him standing up straight.
Both hands grab your hips now, and that little angle change makes him grind even harder into your g-spot, and you’re tumbling over the edge. It’s been building under the surface for so long that when it hits, it’s blinding. There’s static in your toes that washes over you, up, up, dragging a fiery heat with it that consumes your center and makes your head fuzzy.
There’s screaming.
You’re screaming. Your eyes are clenched so tight, as are your fingers, all your joints, your pussy, around Marcus as he fucks you through it with sloppy thrusts.
“That’s it, oh my god, sweetheart, you— fuck. I’m gonna come, I’m— where?”
“In me.”
Your throat is scratchy when you answer, and you don’t have any time to elaborate on why that’s not a bad idea. You’re still coming, wave after wave of warmth rolling across your body, and you’re vaguely aware of how wet everything is, the sound of him fucking you even more obscene.
His shout doesn’t quite rival yours, but you feel it when he empties inside of you. His cock jerks and and twitches, wringing out every little bit of pleasure from you, and you think you’re still coming, the pinpricks of pleasure are still too intense to be aftershocks.
He stays pressed as deep as he can be as his stomach convulses and his thighs shake, just like yours do where they’ve somehow wrapped around him. Your eyes open again, and the lamplight is so bright now, his breathing is so loud. He grunts and pulls out a bit, then presses back in, and again, until it falters and his whole body slumps.
His top half collapses onto you, his little breaths huff and tickle the tingling skin of your belly. Your own breath comes out in a weak moan, and it takes all the strength you can muster just to run your fingers through his sweaty hair.
“Jesus,” he says.
Your name cascading off his lips in such a strung out voice that it makes you clench around him again.
“Huh?”
God, how are you ever going to move again?
“You uh… Is that a common occurrence?”
Christ, why is he using such big words?
“What are you talking about?”
He clears his throat.
“You like— You squirted?”
You laugh, one delirious huff. It makes his head rock on your jiggling belly.
“I what?”
You gather the will to look down at him. His mouth is open, surprised and amused, and his eyes are shiny and bright.
“Yeah, like, a lot.”
He’s still inside you but softening, and his own chuckles make him slip out.
You lift up on your elbows as he stands up straight and the evidence is clear. The hair above his dick and high on his thighs is all dark and soaked.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
The sheets on the edge of the bed are absolutely ruined, and you pray he’s one of those men that has a mattress protector. You’re more than a little mortified, and the way he’s staring at you, silent, is beginning to make you squirmy.
“What?”
“Why do you seem so surprised?”
His fingertips are feather-light across your thighs, and you shiver.
“I’ve never actually… done that? I would have warned you.”
He makes a pained sound, and those fingertips turn into a tight grip just above your knees.
He doesn’t speak up. Instead, he lies on the bed beside you. He holds himself by his elbow, but that hand strokes your scalp while the other traces up and down your thigh, your hips, your breasts, anything he can reach. You avoid the topic at hand to relax into it, and you think you’re finally coming down as that boneless feeling washes over you.
You’re vaguely aware of his cum dripping out of you, but the sheets are a lost cause anyway. You just watch his lax face, the way the wrinkles in his brow are all smoothed out, the way his eyes follow the patterns he’s drawing on your body.
He catches you staring. His gaze meets yours and he smiles and it’s sunny. It warms you through, despite all the sweat that’s cooling on your body.
“Hi,” he whispers.
You giggle, and he does too. He tries to hold it in by biting his lip, but it’s no use. You will your exhausted bones to shift and face him, and he presses his lips to yours and they meld together.
It’s languid, unhurried, just reacquainting after too long apart. It feels a little goofy, with how you’re both smiling so wide, but it calms you into settling down after such a high.
Both of your breathing seems even, when you part.
“That was—”
“It’s never—”
You both chuckle.
“Ladies first.”
You feel shy now. You can’t imagine why, but a fluttery feeling overtakes your stomach.
“I was just gonna say… That was better than all those times I imagined it.”
You didn’t think it was possible, but his smile grows even wider. His eyes flicker from yours to the sheets between you, and you think maybe he feels as bashful as you do.
“It’s never been that good.”
A sigh escapes him when he speaks, and his nervous gaze lands on you when his face falls into something more earnest.
It takes your breath away. Because it’s never been that good for you either, and isn’t that such a perfect coincidence?
You tug him to you by the back of his neck, eat up the surprised little sound he makes against your mouth.
“When can we go again?”
#Pedro pascal#Pedro pascal x reader#Pedro pascal smut#Pedro pascal fanfiction#Pedro pascal characters#x reader#marcus pike#marcus pike x reader#marcus pike smut#the mentalist
326 notes
·
View notes
Text
27 / 1.7k / spreading rumors about dating Gaz, part 2
⬇ nsfw; mention of revenge porn
...
Gaz doesn't negotiate. He doesn't back down. When the situation calls for it, he knows when it's time to escalate.
That's why he fucks you on your dining room table instead of a public bathroom. Partly because he's not a slag. The idea of you possibly agreeing to do it--of giving him the same ammunition you gave your ex to humiliate you--leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Even if you started rumors and risked his reputation.
A growl rises in his throat at the thought of your ex having the gall to send him that video of you. Christ. What on Earth did you see in him?
Partly, though, he wants to fuck you in your own house so that when he next sees your prat of an ex-boyfriend, he can properly rub it in that fucker's face that you invited him in on the first date.
Or maybe he'll take a picture of your panties in his teeth. He hasn't decided yet.
You're strung out with pleasure, your bare back against the table. You’re caught between wondering why he wanted to fuck you after all and letting every last reservation about it vanish into nothing. You’ve always wanted this. You never thought it would happen.
"Sergeant," you gasp out. "Is this-- what about your reputation--?"
"Don't start." His fingers trail the lines of your body, his eyes fixed on the parts of you he caught only blurry glimpses of in your ex's video. It didn't do you justice.
He wants to pretend there's nothing to this besides convenience--you did owe him. Hell, you wanted to sleep with him. You always made that crystal clear. Now he's just allowing himself to give in to baser impulses like a dog snatching up a rabbit thrown into its path.
But you're right. This will look bad if someone finds out. He should worried, but it's hard to care about that when the thing competing for his attention is the filthy way your pussy swallows him again and again, seeing how slick you leave the base of his cock.
He should've used a condom. He knows for a fact you knew he didn't and you said nothing. He'd tell you off for it now, too, but he's absolutely certain it would just make you cum. The nerve of you.
His hips stutter for a second before he can banish that thought from his mind. He shouldn't like the idea of you being that obsessed. Acting like you'd do anything he asked. Christ, work would be a nightmare if this got out. Him actually sleeping with you. But then again, he suddenly doesn't much like the idea of you finding a different rebound. You'd just be thinking of him anyway, right? Wouldn’t you?
Whatever. He’ll deal with the fallout later. When he's not enjoying your body.
“Who’s going to know?” he murmurs, eyes falling to your chest. “Let it go.”
“Mkay,” you sigh out. There's nothing more you want than to please him right now.
"You'd do anything I asked, wouldn't you." It's not a question. You both know it's true. And he likes that--he hates admitting it, but he does. His eyes drop to your pussy again, and his hips pick up their pace.
You've spent months flirting with him, teasing him about taking you to bed. Now you're getting everything you want. He's right. Why would you care one goddamn second about the consequences? “Anything.”
He hates how needy you sound when you say that. You're too trusting. He's taking advantage of you. Don't you get that?
His grip on your hips tightens, pushing into you more and more roughly. Your moans rise in pitch and he has to grit his teeth.
“Good." He says lowly. "Then you won't tell a soul about this, will you?"
"But--ah, ngh..." You bite your lip as he stops thrusting and grinds himself into you. You gyrate your hips, needing friction. "But people already think we're together."
“Do they? That’s a bold claim.” You're overestimating how many people believe silly rumors. Besides, it's hardly your concern anymore. He lays his palms flat on the table on either side of you, bracing himself. Your skin is so soft; your neck tempts him, but he restrains himself. "You're keeping your mouth shut from now on, yeah?"
You let out a sound of frustration as he slows even further. You try to push your hips harder against his. "Sergeant, please!"
"You want this, don't you?" His voice is chilled, but the heat in his eyes as he stares down at your bucking hips is hardly discouraging. "You'll want it again. You'll keep wanting it."
"Ugh, yes," you snap, squeezing your thighs fruitlessly around his toned waist.
"As long as you don't tell a soul about this, I’ll see to it that you get what you want," he growls. "Not your team, your friends, your stupid ex. No one."
You open your mouth to question him again, but he pulls away and snaps his hips hard into yours. Whatever you were about to say dissolves into a string of semi-coherent affirmations. Yes, you'll keep it quiet. Yes, you'll pretend none of this ever happened. Yes, you'll never use his name on base again. Anything he wants. Just don't stop.
"Good girl. Good girl..." Easy enough. Now that he knows how to get his way with you, you shouldn't be such a problem anymore. He can’t help but be a little greedy, though. "You're not going to fuck anyone else, either."
"Never!"
He grunts in approval. "And you'll never--and I mean never --try to get back with your ex. Understand? You'll stay away from him."
You writhe and plead, winding your arms around his shoulders. He grabs your wrists and pins them to the table, the muscles in his arms taut.
"Do. You. Understand?" His voice comes down on you like low thunder, all around you.
"Yes!"
"Good. I'll know if you do. Mm…" His breathing grows shallow. Your heat is impossibly tight, and tightening up even more. He squeezes your wrists. "You going to cum?"
"C-Can I?" you breathe out. "Please, can I cum?"
His hips stutter and he has to close his eyes for a moment. God, he's never been tested like this.
"Sergeant, please!"
"Cum," he says, the word short and sharp like gunfire. "Cum on my cock. Right now."
He presses his thumb to your clit and you wail, clenching around him like you haven't cum in weeks. Your body rolls, practically convulses, your head knocking against your dining table as you arch up. He lets out a snarl, not slowing down despite how painfully tight you squeeze him.
Once you come down from the high, his pace never slowing, your swollen core twitches and spasms with overstimulation. You cry out, but you make yourself stay in place. You want to keep making him feel good. You want to make him feel better than he ever has.
"Cum inside me," you pant out. "I-I'm on birth control. You can-- please--"
"You're a liar," he growls through clenched teeth even as he picks up his pace.
"I promise," you plead. Even if you're a liar, and you are, you're not lying about this. God, you want him to do it so bad you can feel yourself clench up again at the thought.
You're teetering on the edge of another orgasm when he pulls out, spilling his load across your chest and stomach instead.
You clench down on nothing, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction even as your orgasm ebbs out of reach. You let your head fall back onto the table, your breathing heavy. You don't see his eyes running over you, deliberating.
"Sergeant?"
"Mm?"
"Do you maybe want my phone number?" Almost seems like a silly question. He has your address now anyway.
"Hm." He pulls away, picking up your discarded purse from the mess of clothes on the floor. He pulls out your phone and opens your texts, types in his number, and sends himself a quick message. Then he finds your conversation with your ex-boyfriend. His eyes narrow. The last texts exchanged were earlier tonight. And you started it. You told him you were out to dinner with someone else. Just to get a rise out of your ex. It obviously worked.
That's okay, he figures, opening the menu and blocking your ex's number. If there's one person he does want to know about this, it's that arsehole. Maybe now he'll stay away from you.
You sit up. "Kyle?"
His eyes meet yours, steady and unwavering. "Yeah?"
"Were you serious?"
"I was."
"Even about coming over again?"
"I mean every word I say.” He hands your phone back to you and begins to get dressed.
You watch him, grasping the edge of the table. "When will you be back?"
"My squad leaves on assignment tomorrow. Don't know how long it'll be." He zips up and grabs his t-shirt. "I'll text you."
"Right, right." You suppress a sigh. "Always got a job to do."
He slings his coat over his shoulder, then pauses. He knows he shouldn't, but he can't help but reach his hand out to your cheek. He runs the back of his finger over your jawline. Then he disguises the tender gesture by gripping your chin and pulling it up so you're looking him in the eye.
"Behave," he tells you, voice low. "No sleeping around. No flirting of any kind. Is that clear?"
Your heart pounds. You swallow and nod.
"Good," he says, holding your gaze a moment longer.
As he leaves, closing the door behind him, he curses himself.
This is not a good idea. What's he trying to do, fix you? Stupid, stupid, stupid. This isn't going to end well. You're not good for him. But damn if he doesn't feel more satisfied than he has in years.
He has no choice. If he wants you to behave, he'll have to keep your eyes on him. Whether he’s on base or not.
...
part 1 / [part 2]
more Gaz / masterlist tag
#mine#story#fem reader#soft dom gaz#kyle gaz garrick#gaz#gaz cod#kyle garrick#gaz Garrick#cod#cod x reader#call of duty#call of duty x reader#cod mw2#cod mwii#tf 141#tf 141 x reader#gaz smut#gaz x reader smut#cod smut
103 notes
·
View notes
Text
Inspiration Saturday!!
Tagged by @theotherbuckley @diazsdimples who both posted INCREDIBLE stuff y'all should show some love 🩷💚
I'm focusing on Eddie's second oh moment right now, but the other night I was writing for my Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries AU and decided to try something... I made my first moodboard!!! I like it, but I might change it up a bit as I keep writing for it.
Ta da!! And here's a snippet to go with it:
Buck crouched and opened the cabinet by the sink. An opened box of pink packets sat turned on its side in the cabinet. The box read Nerve Powders. Something at the back of his mind told him there was more to it than that.
A sharp knock echoed off the tile in the bathroom.
“This lavatory is fully occupied!” Buck called as he closed the cabinet, stowing away a few packets in his jacket.
“Police! Open up!”
Damn.
Buck stood and opened the door, plastering on his charming smile.
Good Christ.
Detective Diaz from a distance was a sight to behold in itself. Up close? Adonis wouldn't stand a chance.
Coffee brown eyes shone in the light streaming in from the window. A wayward wave fell across his forehead, the only thing out of place in his otherwise immaculate appearance. His bone structure was beyond perfect.
He carried himself with a relaxed confidence Buck spent years faking. How this man achieved it? Buck didn't know.
“You must be the detective,” Buck said. “Apologies for my urgent call of nature.”
“You do realize this is an active crime scene,” Detective Diaz pointed out. Wow, even his voice was gorgeous.
“Forgive me, detective,” Buck smiled. “It's very fortunate I'm wearing gloves, is it not?”
Diaz stepped past Buck and stared at the chalk outline on the floor, his brow furrowed in concentration, the smallest pout on his lips.
Buck turned to the officer standing near the doorway. “Do you think it was poison?”
“Most likely,” the officer nodded.
“We have yet to determine the cause of death,” Detective Diaz said with a pointed look at his officer.
Oh, what Buck wouldn't do to see the man be a little mean to him too. Buck honestly hoped Detective Diaz would arrest him. Buck could show him a thing or two with those handcuffs. Not that he’d ever voice that thought out loud.
Absolutely no pressure tagging: @13shadesofanni @lover-of-mine @monsterrae1 @loveyouanyway @thekristen999
@daffi-990 @wikiangela @kitteneddiediaz @steadfastsaturnsrings @ronordmann
@exhuastedpigeon @spagheddiediaz @actuallyitsellie @tizniz @fortheloveofbuddie
@bidisasterevankinard @rainbow-nerdss @wildlife4life @hippolotamus @daniwib
@alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @likeamollusconarock @smallandalmosthonest @idealuk @jshadow01
@shipperqueen6 @lunarspark-cos @misshiss727 @weareallstoriesintheend11 @lin27 @orangeboxfox92 and anyone else who wants to share!! 🥰🩷
#911#evan buckley#eddie diaz#buddie#911 abc#9-1-1#fanfic#my writing#mfmm au#buddie wip#911 wip#inspiration saturday
67 notes
·
View notes
Note
hello! how are you doing today?
can i request stu macher and billy loomis with a reader who’s love language is giving gifts? specifically they hand make gifts for every little occasion or just because they feel like it, but feel guilty if they get gifts themselves? thank you :)
「 LAME ! 」 . . . 📂
scream : billy loomis, stu macher
w.c : 733
⊹˚.⋆ synopsis . . . You give your first gift to Billy and Stu… except you’re a total nervous wreck about it.
⊹˚.⋆ starring . . . billy loomis, stu macher, & implied!male reader
What were you doing?
You asked yourself that a million times now as you made your way back to Billy’s house. It wasn’t any special occasion. It wasn’t even a holiday! Yet, there you were, outside Billy Loomis’s door, gift in hand.
God, you were lame.
You stifled a groan as you stared at the friendship bracelets you had made for Stu, Billy, and yourself. The teasing from them would be endless! Stu would probably love the gift, show it off to everyone. And.. threaten anybody who dared to make fun of you for making the bracelets, saying how much of a queer you are or something stupid.
But Billy..?
Would he even wear it? All your efforts into making the bracelets? Wasted..?
Before knocking on his door, you paused and looked down and just… stared. Rethinking your life choices; however, was interrupted by a certain loud mouthed boy swinging Billy’s front door open.
“Is that [Y/N], I see?!” Stu exclaimed teasingly. He slung his large arm around your tense shoulders, “I was just thinking about you.”
“Hi, Stu.” You said as you hid the bracelets clutched in your hand as quickly as possible. Stu was more perceptive than a lot of people took him for. And pushy. And nosy. Not a good combo when trying to hide something from him.
However, not quick enough for Stu not to notice. He was practically breathing down your neck trying to catch a glimpse of whatever was hidden in your clutches.
“What’s that?” He asked, eyeing you, trying to draw out your secrets with that look in his eyes. That puppy dog look.. Christ.
Desperate to hide the flustered expression covering your face, you played his question off, “What’s what?”
“Whatever is in your hands.” He said quickly.
Caught red handed. Ouch. Your flustered expression dropped into a frown. There was no backtracking now. Stu wasn’t who you were worried about anyways.
“It’s for you and Billy..” You admitted.
Stu was quick to wrap his long limbs around your torso in delight. His hold was tight. Too tight. However, it was impossible not to melt into his grip. He was albeit a big, sometimes scary, teddy bear. One of the cheap ones from the fair though, you thought with a snort. Not stuffed enough, so it’s all lanky and saggy.
“Okay, don’t make it weird when we get in there. Billy doesn’t know.” You practically beg before reluctantly heading inside. Billy was in his room, lounging on his bed, some stupid horror flick. His dark eyes eyed Stu and you as you guys walked in. Suspicion— for obvious reasons. You looked like a nervous wreck, and Stu was bouncing on the balls of his feet behind you. Something was up, and it didn’t take a genius to see that.
“Hey guys,” he said coolly. You waved at him in return before climbing on to his bed. The three of you sat in a small circle, and you never regretted your life choices more. It was far too late to turn back and run and pretend like you never got them the gift in the first place.
Preparing yourself for humiliation, you ripped the bandaid off. “Okay, even if you hate this, please save me the embarrassment, and don’t make this weird. Just pretend it never happened, got it?” The two nodded. Billy— in confusion. Stu— in excitement. You unclench your fist to reveal three bracelets. Matching, too.
“I- uh. Well- tada??” You said awkwardly before shoving the bracelets in their hands, eager to get rid of them.
As you thought, Stu was like a kid in a candy shop. His smile beamed at you, easing your discomfort. Billy observed the little bracelet before carefully sliding it onto his wrist. You watched in anticipation.
“It’s cute,” he remarked gently. His hand cupped yours as he slid your bracelet on your wrist.
“I’m glad you guys like them,” you said eagerly, “I’ve been wanting to get you guys things for ages, but I thought you guys would think I’m lame!”
“Already do,” Billy teased.
That same flustered expression came right back onto your face, but this time it didn’t feel so mortifying. Maybe being lame wasn’t so bad. Staring down at the matching bracelets on all three of your wrists, you couldn’t help but smile.
You really ought to make them more gifts in the future.
✎ notes . . . this kinda sucks so I’m sorry— still just trying to get back into the groove of writing, so pls give me a little bit of patience! but this was cute, so thank you for sending in the request <3
©️ sethcertified 2024
#☆ — sethcertified#billy loomis#scream#stu macher#scream 1996#billy loomis x reader#stu macher x gn reader#stu macher x male reader#stu macher x reader#billy loomis x gn reader#billy loomis x male reader#☆ — scream#scream x gn reader#scream x reader#scream x male reader
31 notes
·
View notes
Text
MAKING A POST ABOUT MY OLD PJO OCS LESGOOOOOO
Arlo Cannon
they/he, child of apollo
kind of a dumbass. this boy is only alive because of sheer dumb luck. he may be a half blood but you will have to pry "oh my god" and "jesus christ" out of his cold dead southern hands. he can play a few instruments and sing kinda well but hes annoying about it. he once wouldnt stop playing megalovania on the piano to annoy the other apollo kids. has a mental breakdown if he has to think about his feelings for more than thirty seconds.
Maximillian "max" Maxwell
they/them, child of ares
insecure about being insecure. dresses like a lumberjack. will kill you if you call them maxmax. bi disaster. my friend once said theyre giving man on tinder holding up a fish in their pfp vibes. wields an axe. they're 4'8 and yet still manage to contain the rage of a thousand suns.
Sullivan "sulli" O'Malley
she/her, daughter of athena
weird little trans girl. eleven years old. much like an owl shes strange, wise, and has a wide eyed unblinking stare. shes very much an athena kid but first and foremost shes her fathers daughter. aroace icon. homeschooled. has a fucked up sleep schedule to the point of being pretty much nocturnal. thinks camp half blood is weird and would much rather be with her dad every summer. autistic.
Quinn Evangeline
they/she/he, child of aphrodite
thinks hes alot cooler than they actually are. aromantic. loves to give love advice thats either really good or ends up crashing and burning. dyes their hair blonde. holds a grudge against her mom. their mortal dad is married to a man giving them two dads. has THE BEST fashion sense. thought he was a lesbian when they first realised shes not attracted to men.
Cameron Flores
he/him, child of hermes
quinns best friend. the day his executives start functioning its over for you all. gay disaster in all directions. acts and kinda looks like a tiktok fuckboy. often gossips with quinn in the back of aphrodite cabin. quinn made him swear not to date any of the aphrodite kids. devious little fucker. i hate him/aff
tagging @daggerhobbit @possibly-astraeus @fakevariety @o-kye
#ashers writing rambles#i have a few others but these were the main ones#i could make a seperate post about those guys tho
20 notes
·
View notes
Text
The catholic school education is coming in clutch rn. Let me cook I promise I’m not high. There are 12 paladins in VnC right? If not, ignore everything I’m about to say. So Gano is essentially Judas, driven by greed and extremism. Working with an influential vampire because he sees the chasseurs aren’t doing things the “right way”. Judas was working with the chief priests and Roman captains and one popular belief to his betrayal was that he had hoped Jesus would overturn the Roman Empire. Who were oppressing the Jewish people at the time but Jesus wasn’t doing that. He was “too soft” and Judas believed in a revolution. It’s also said he was “tempted by the Devil” and we can go down the devil —> vampire connections rabbit hole all day.
Now I say this, I don’t know how much inspiration mochijun is taking from the bible. Like is Gano gonna kill himself? Probably not, even if he does it won’t be from remorse of his actions. But if we are following some threads here, if Ogier is a paladin I don’t think he’s Spider then because there’s supposed to be only one traitor. Moving onto my next point, is Jesus then Charles or Roland? I’m going to go with Charles, he is the head and I think he also chooses the paladins so yeah. But Roland just embodies the Christ-like values. Unless you want to say Roland is Peter. Because Peter also believed in himself as a follower of God. He made mistakes and thought he was the most faithful apostle yet he denied Jesus three times.
Like Roland trusts in himself and his thinking more than God actually. I don’t know James like that so by default we’re gonna say he’s Olivier.
And John has to be Astolfo.
Because if you didn’t know, John was the youngest apostle. And he’s the only apostle that survived, living to old age. Every other apostle was brutally murdered for their beliefs.Fueling the hope that Astolfo will live. Finally Peter, James, and John are usually named as a trio in the bible. They were the closest to Jesus.
#the case study of vanitas#manga#brainrot#go brrrr#sorry#vnc gano#christianity#les memoires de vanitas#vanitas no carte#jun mochizuki#tumblr#vnc#vnc manga#chasseurs#roland fortis#olivier vnc#anime#Judas#bible parallels#maybe#I could just be losing my marbles#astolfo granatum#apostles
22 notes
·
View notes
Text
So much of Garak as a person starts to make sense once you know his childhood was a fucking gothic novel. His main playground was a graveyard and he'd play pretend by perfoming improv eulogies to an imagined audience. For a long time his main touchstone for most important figures from recent history is 'oh yeah I know about that guy my dad buried him. great flower arrangements for that one'. He finds out later his 'parents' are actually a brother and sister who had to get married to avoid the utter shame and social devastation of having a child born out of wedlock, and they live in the basement of his biological father's house. (the madwoman in the attic vs. the tiny elim in the basement.) His biological father calls himself his uncle and locks him in a closet whenever he fails to live up to his insane and unpredictable expectations and everyone just has to act like that's normal and expected, and his will hangs over everything at all times, unseen but always felt keener than anything else. The father who actually raised him grows the world's most beautiful (and as it turns out, most poisonous) orchids and keeps the mask of a god hidden in a box in his work shed. Everyone in the house is choking down secrets like it's the only air they know how to breathe anymore.
What I'm saying is that right from the get-go this guy never had the faintest shot at turning out normal, so I'm glad that by middle age he's found a way to get a bit silly with it as he continues to be deeply deeply not normal about anything ever <3
#guess who's reading a stitch in time!#star trek ds9#elim garak#a stitch in time#star trek#ds9#I will make a monster post of asit thoughts eventually but just. jesus christ!!! what a start in life lmao#tolan and tain seem to have been... well not exactly friends probably but to have had some connection beforehand#did tain know him or mila first??? how was mila and tolan's sibling status presumably not known publicly?#at what point during all of that did tain start to have sex with tolan's sister. the more you think about it the more fucked it gets lol#under the circumstances... shoutout to tolan and mila for not leaving him somehow even more fucked up interpersonally than he is#and no thanks to tain for anything ever I hate him so much
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
thinking about Cam in BOE custody and holding so tightly onto Palamades' bones before she even knew for sure he was really in there, through BOE torture and electric shocks and Judith & Crown's... everything and how she didn't talk for weeks. "Cam was gone". hollowed out and gutted and razed to the fucking ground by grief. and she was grieving Palamades, of course, but how much of that grief was also for Dulcie, who Cam found out was dead maybe fifteen seconds after Palamades himself exploded?
im thinking about how she and Pal and Dulcie had been exchanging letters for over 10 years and Cam had saved every one. EVERY single one. sharing your whole life your whole self with two people that you love and then suddenly you're alone. two parts of her gone, one of them she didn't even notice until it was too late. she didn't notice. grief and guilt and destruction. she never got to say goodbye to either of them. what the fuck.
#camilla hect#harrow the ninth#the locked tomb#AND NOW SHE'S DEAD. like she's happy and transformed and finally one with the person she wanted to share a heart with but WHAT THE HELL!!!!#this post brought to you by me reading a scene w cam stoically shedding a few tears and i am unwell!!!!!!!!!! hello!!!!!!!!!!!#AND THEN. she had to third wheel not only gideon's suicide but also whatever the hell judith and crown were doing. for months.#i would say she is suffering more than christ on the cross but. well.#jesus is already in this series.#trb.txt#tlt thoughts
385 notes
·
View notes
Text
everything is lit, except my serotonin
"what a time to be alive" is probably one of my favorite songs on the new record. that's not really a hard sell, though; i struggle to pick favorites at the best of times and by this time tomorrow, my favorite track will likely be a different one. but there's something about this track that i keep circling back to, for a multitude of reasons.
this one has proven a little contentious. critics don't quite get it, and even people who love the song will say that it's a little off-putting lyrically, primarily because of those lines in the chorus: "everything is lit, except my serotonin / everything is lit but my lightning-bolt brain". i'm not going to say outright that critics scoffing at the obvious earth, wind, and fire influence is one of those delightful instances of antiblack racism that's so common in music criticism, but i'd be lying if i said i didn't suspect that was a factor. but more to the point, that line in the chorus hit me a little harder than i expected it to.
patrick has stressed repeatedly that the majority of "what a time to be alive" was written before the pandemic. the lyrics to the bridge are the only parts that reference the pandemic specifically, but the rest of the song feels oddly prescient as it discusses how it feels like the end of the world...probably because in 2019, for some of us, especially those on the west coast, it did feel like the end of the world. pete wentz lives in los angeles, and thus probably got a very clear picture of this as it happened in real time. wildfires have always been an issue on the west coast, but by 2017, they started picking up in speed and scope, in large part due to the effects of climate change. the year after that, they got worse. the third year in a row this happened, it cemented that this was going to be a pattern, which is exactly what happened. today, the last third or so of the year is generally regarded as "fire season," when risk of wildfires becomes extremely high, power outages are common, and evacuations are anticipated.
i live in a fire zone. every year since 2017, i've had to evacuate my home regularly, or i know someone else who has. at this point, it's pretty well-established as routine. the first time this happened, it felt like the end of the world - watching neighbors' houses go up in smoke, housing displaced family members or friends who'd been evacuated themselves or actually lost their homes. by the time the pandemic happened, fire season hadn't actually died, either; we were carrying out evacuations while masked, and often without power (and thus no easy way to get news as to what was happening).
here's a thing about living in a fire zone. there are nights when you're going off no sleep and you're watching the ember-glow on the horizon at the early hours of the morning and thinking that it could almost be considered pretty, in a dark and dismal kind of way. there are days when the smoke haze is so heavy that you never get to see the sun but it makes the air hot and thick and it burns in your lungs. the smell of smoke becomes choking and omnipresent.
everything is lit, except my serotonin. everything is lit but my lightning-bolt brain.
i don't know if these lines were written about the wildfires in particular. it wouldn't surprise me if they were. there are a lot of moments in the song, the parts written pre-pandemic, that make me think that could've been the case: neon in the night-time and not caring if it's pretty because the view's so pretty from the deck of a sinking ship. livestreaming the apocalypse, because twitter feeds were literally the best way to get your news on whether your house might be next - if you had power and internet, that is. and not everyone did.
everything is lit but my lightning-bolt brain. it's kind of a silly line, and i understand being put off by it. it took me some time to warm to it too (pun absolutely intended). it's also a quadruple-entendre. everything is "lit" in the colloquial sense of being cool and exciting, sure, but it's also more or less how the human brain works. our brains are really just electricity, passing little bursts between all the neurons and synapses. on top of that, the sensation of feeling like electric shocks are passing through your skull, or "brain zaps," are a common symptom of withdrawal from antidepressants (which, among other things, are used to regulate someone's serotonin levels). and then there's the case of the world being on fire, literally. everything is lit except my serotonin. my lightning-bolt brain.
a memory:
i never actually stopped working through the pandemic, as i was considered an essential worker. the fires didn't let up either. a particularly horrible fire tore through a nearby area and that's the thing about fires: they turn the whole fucking sky vivid orange. i drove to work on a chilly autumn morning, the whole sky lit up in an orange glare. i stood for a minute in the freezing parking lot while flakes of ash overhead settled like snow onto my car, my hair, my clothes. somewhere, people's homes and livelihoods were burning, and in a matter of days or hours the wind could change and my home and friends could be next. so i walked through the falling ash and the sickly orange glow of the sky and did my temperature check at the door with my mask pulled up over the lower half of my face, and i got to work.
i remember that moment vividly because it was strange and surreal and eerie and it was probably the moment that felt most like the end of the world to me, or at least it did then. driving through town with the sky on fire and a disease tearing through the world and having to walk into work anyway. that's what this track reminds me of: the sheer, staggering surreality of watching everything fall apart, and then...you go to work, because what else are you supposed to do? you go to work. the world is ending. you go to work.
what a time to be alive.
#*making poasts#*writing#i dont think ive ever used that tag but i guess this counts. its a bit more prosey/personal than my standard stuff#just thoughts i was thonking about this song....lines that hit different when u have lived in a fire zone#its such a bright happy-sounding song but jesus christ. jesus christ.#anyway u are free to rb this or reply whatever i dont care
275 notes
·
View notes
Text
my research partner and i are huddled in a blanket in paddington waiting for a too-late train i already miss you and you and you
#he keeps falling asleep almost on my shoulder and waking up and readjusting but i want to tell him its ok weve seen a lot#of each other ive seen your brainwaves you called me crying a few nights ago. research partner right now is a potentiality#friend is a certainty. i met a banker passionate about finance. he said his advice made the lives of others better and he likes the numbers#more than he likes anything else. on a high rise near canary wharf the view was wonderful and the people even moreso#he said i loved her but i spent 33 grand on her and i cant do this anymore. his voice cracked talking about her. he did love her.#and she talked softly she grabbed my hand she bought me a pack of Marlborough gold she told me to snap#the russian menthol cigarettes of the tortured polish man near us with my teeth i kept staring at her teeth#bright white and sharp. i couldnt find her heartbeat but i did find warmth and i did find her lips and i did feel#how she felt pressed against a wall. a pretty boy held my hand and i gave him my number. i couldnt stop smiling about her no matter#how many runways youve walked on how many collections youve designed how many students youve taught. senior lecturer teaches me how to do#very unethical things ethically over a double shot of vodka made by the half-persian with broken farsi. she talks softly#and she says her eyes are hazel but they appear a shade of red. pure gold on her hands and leather on her back and her fingers on my lips#(she talks softly sees through me she says something i cant hear but i wont forget the way she flies) she talked to my research partner#about the possibility of moving to sunny dubai with the rest of her family and my heart felt pierced. on her arm i traces a tattoo of a#knife passing through a rose. she told me she thought there was romance in severing so i kissed her some more.#he sat me down and asked me what i loved and i told him and he said no romance no person no tragedy will take that from you.#the room was filled with a collection of people in love with something that wasnt a person and i kept looking at her.#red eyes bitten jawline beautiful hands. it is 3 degrees Celsius my head is on his shoulder i miss my friends#we walked out the lecture hall with arms linked a photo of two years ago and we both said#jesus christ. i miss you all. and i miss logic metatheory lectures. im glad i get to stare at the depth of your eyes#i wish i had met you years ago.#crushposting
41 notes
·
View notes
Text
The problem with the church today is that so many "Christians" do not actually believe in redemption.
#unironically christian#i say this because of all the people who make comments about people's testimony#like saying they don't believe that only fans girl who was saved and baptized was really saved#like... reading through the comments it becomes clear that the “Christians” don't actually accept her#like... my brother in Christ... your good deeds are as worthy as my used pad#that is straight up in the bible#you are not better than her and you do not deserve redemption more than her#her salvation is between her and God#and yes... you say that time will reveal her fruit and you are correct#but guess what#ananias was called to extend a hand to paul *before* his fruit showed#and he was a frigging serial killer who was out for ananias's blood the week before#you do not get to pick and choose which converts you get to except#you are not God and thank heavens for it because if you were we would all be doomed#*deep breath*#i am just so sick of this... farse... that Christianity has become#Christians need a wake up call#oh! and and when you act like its impossible to accept that she could be saved you belittle God's power#you call into question Jesus's blood and it's ability to cleanse and if that is false your salvation is worthless!#also also you go against the things clearly written in the Bible while wearing the title of Christian#which means you are misrepresenting God's nature and intentions which means you are breaking the command to not take the lord's name in vain#wow... i thought i was done at the deep breath... guess not😅#rat rants
28 notes
·
View notes
Text
I know no one gives a fuck about Oliver's actual ability to play basketball but the way he handles the ball, it's not the way someone playing it for fun or who tried to learn for a part plays, he actually knows how to play and I saw about 10 pictures and a video and I feel like I'm gonna die and when the episode drops I might have a stroke.
#basketball is my thing dude#you dont understand#the amount of below average dudes teenage me had a thing for because they were good in basketball and that made them hotter for me is#embarrassing#like legit theres nothing hotter for me than a guy being a good athlete and being good at basketball gives him more points#because it was my sport growing up#Oliver is already a solid 10#i cant do this#i legitimately feel like im gonna pass out#i am sick tho so maybe its unrelated#but I'm hyperventilating#jesus fucking christ#thoughts thoughts thoughts#911 spoilers
25 notes
·
View notes
Text
sorry i need to expel the demon that is comicsverse thoughts from my head w a weirdly structured ramble ive been trying to articulate fdsjkfhkjds
-> miguel is initially alienated from his body post transformation - not just due to the nonconsensual nature of being spidered - but because he views the transformation as alienating him from a claim to humanity
-> however, the identity of spiderman and the ideals that represents seems to be in big part the means by which miguel reconciles himself to the nature of his physical body. not only do his abilities become naturalised to his understanding of himself as Miguel (rather than being thought of as alien) but they enable spiderman to be that force for good and change that miguel so desperately wants to see in himself
-> but miguel simultaneously depersonalises himself from his spiderman identity. he thinks of it as the better half of himself, as something almost ephemeral, that he doesn't quite have a claim to or is able to reconcile completely to Miguel The Human Being and all his associated baggage
-> and that's an interesting internal conflict to have when he simultaneously can never escape the lived reality of his own body and where it diverges from those around him, even as that lived reality eventually becomes something he can reconcile himself to far more easily
-> and what overhangs across this entire discussion is context of (and thus how Miguel would be influenced by) Nueva York's hypercapitalist society and thus the understanding and conception of your physical body in that lens. how much or little your body is owed by you yourself. the access you are told must be permitted to it by others/corporations. how the physical body is policed and politicised. the commodification of the body in the most literal sense via Vulture's cannibalism.
#something something to miguel the change to be a better man is far more fantastical to imagine than turning into a spider mutant#jesus fuckinggg christ this is a mouthful#sm2099#miguel o'hara#am i just insane or does like fjsdfkjhs does anyone see the threads i am gesturing towards in my sleep deprived crazy spiderman posting fkj#also. the longer i wrote this the more i think about what the dimension of transgender or queer gender identity in general would do to the#overall strokes i have outlined here. please feel free to say this crosses a boundary as i am cis but. i just think about how i relate to#stories of alienation from the body as a bisexual person - through the lens of sexuality and queerness#and ig i just wonder if any 2099 trans fans have thoughts on that lens to miguel#apologies for main tagging this im just. very curious as to if im shooting blanks here or not fsjkdhfjksdhjfkd#tunes talks 2099#long post
89 notes
·
View notes
Text
last night i was reminded of one of my extremely few Hater Moments (lighthearted) about this series and i never got around to fully articulating my thoughts on it, so it is once again time for our regularly-scheduled kirby rant:
the spider sectonia reveal was poorly-executed on every level.
to start with, this plot element was introduced when the series was in its worst throes of Not Putting The Fucking Lore In The Fucking Games, but I will happily concede that this reveal was at least in a game; just not the game it should have been in.
I almost wonder if the Sectonia Clone as a whole was a leftover from the fact that Robobot started out development as Triple Deluxe 2, but considering that a) TD2 was dropped pretty early on and b) Robobot is just full to the brim with fanservice and callbacks anyway, I don't feel there's much evidence for such a theory.
at any rate, reducing the otherwise very intriguing reveal of Sectonia's prior form to a blink-and-you'll-miss-it easter egg in an entirely different game is pretty... underwhelming. we've had plenty of "reveals" or cool nods and expansions to other lorebits in similar easter eggs, but none of them were nearly as important as "oh, by the way, here's what the character whose whole arc revolves around personal and physical image used to look like! in a totally unrelated game!"
but that's the tamest complaint. that's just the accessibility of this information, which could have been better but certainly could have been worse.
the biggest problem is Sectonia's design. it's bad. it is just not good, fellas. she is literally just genderbent Taranza. it fails visually, it fails conceptually, and it fails really hard story-wise.
this design was so uninspired that when people in the EN sphere first saw it, tons of people thought it just was Taranza. then when we got screenshots, model rips, etc., it was still so painfully similar to Taranza that it made people assume HAL was saying Taranza and Sectonia were related - which turned into just as much of a shitfight as you might think.
even if this weren't attached to such a crucial character reveal, it's just downright a bad design! instead of taking even the slightest efforts to differentiate Sectonia from Taranza, they did the laziest, most barebones "uhhhhhh what if taranza But Girl" design shift possible. she's wearing the exact same outfit as Taranza, just palette-swapped. so little effort went into both the concepting stage and the modelling stage. she's just Taranza's model with the merest tweaks to make sure you know this is a Girl Spider.
genuinely, I would be a hundred times more amenable to this entire plot point if HAL had just bothered to give her an actual design.
but the problem is, making Sectonia a spider kind of just fucks everything about her story and contradicts itself at multiple points.
the aesthetic and theme language in TD is very clear. this is one of the biggest strengths that both it and Robobot share - the identity and literary through-lines of both games pervade every single visual element of them. Robobot tells its tale of capitalistic tech-fuelled colonialism through every part of the game from level backgrounds, to enemy designs, right down to surgical decisions like mechanising the pinwheel tree that was such a fond image from KRtD. every tiny thing bore the mark of the HWC, whether metaphorically or literally, such that you spent the entire game never forgetting that there was one unified force behind all of this, and Haltmann at the end of the game was the culmination of this aesthetic.
TD did the exact same. every part of TD sells that it's a fantastical fairytale romp through a series of themed locations with a connecting thread of the invading Antr* force.
*(this is a way better romanisation than "antler" this is my hill)
if anything, I'd argue that TD's design language in this respect is tighter than Robobot's, because Robobot had a fairly broad theme of "industrialisation and hi-tech space future sci-fi" to draw its foes from, whereas TD had to condense its antagonists under the stricter banner of "evil insect army".
and they did incredibly. every point of design about the Antrs points straight to Sectonia and draws from her in some way or another. it's absolutely seamless. she's the perfect logical endpoint of Antr design from every angle: she's the literal queen bee of this insect hive and the perfect expression of their anatomy. she's bigger than the biggest Antr. she's more developed. she's more powerful. they were so careful and thorough about this design conceit that Antrs have multiple stages that all march straight up to Sectonia. we go from the tiny bronto burt and waddle dee clones with their little wings and eyes that seem so familiar, to the Antr soldiers, all the way up to the Lord Antrs who are one step away from Sectonia. they have stripes and facial markings to echo hers. it's all wrapped up with the genius bow of combining ants, bees, and wasps: they're all hymenoptera! the metaphor goes even deeper than that because there's a species of wasp that parasitizes spiders! controls them, even!
... except no actually, we've decided she's a spider too and all of that buildup and artful design means nothing.
it's awful. it's taking what is far and away one of the best-executed designs in the series and saying that all of that buildup and blatant connection of ideas meant nothing.
but that's just the visual end of it. Sectonia actually being a spider makes no sense in the lore, either.
first of all, TD's incredible design sense and artistic direction applies to Taranza as well. while he's obviously derivative of Magolor, within the context of TD he's clearly meant to evoke the sky fairies. he's designed to look much more like them than any of the insect characters. he's got the same body type, he moves the same way as them, he's a sky fairy with a spider theme. the game draws visual parallels between him and the sky fairies more than once; this is not unintentional.
this is part of what makes Taranza's role as Sectonia's right hand more impactful: he's only insect adjacent, and the design language would have you believe he's more closely related to the fairies than the insects, so him being with the bad guys is notable and interesting.
so why would a spider character be the ruling monarch of the insect hive? why would the line go ant, bigger ant, fancy ant, armoured ant, spider, wasp?
I mean, shit dude, the miiverse posts directly tell us that Sectonia used to "look like her insect underlings". it really feels like the decision to make her be a spider was a total spur-of-the-moment one, between how badly it interacts with the rest of the story and how lazy the design was. Sectonia's backstory had a couple of holes in it regarding the actual timeline of things, but those were just mysteries regarding what order everything happened in. she was both a bodyjacker and a good queen at one point, which don't exactly jive, so it becomes interesting to think about how those two facts coexist. on the other hand, her being a spider just gets shoehorned in there for no apparent reason other than to... heighten her connection to Taranza?
and that just dovetails into the complete mockery HAL made of Taranza's character development after TD, and THAT is a rant for another time.
there was just no point to it all. Sectonia being a spider adds nothing, removes a bunch of nuance and intrigue, and muddies both her story and the background world of TD.
#kirby#queen sectonia#truly the laziness of the design is the most insulting part#i'm not lying i'd love this WAY more if they put even a shred of effort into it#christ this one was long and rambly. this isn't a topic i have overly-organised thoughts on other than ''wow that's bad''#ANYWAY ENJOY
74 notes
·
View notes
Text
Vanessa didn't even die and yet her story is still sadder and more fucked up than jtodd's. He wishes he was on her level
#may be a controversial one but i dont care this is my house#dont think there are enough of you to get hate over this anything#anyways no she didnt die. she wasnt killed by voter poll. but like the stuff that fucked her up was so much more real than a psycho clown#like im sorry but what is “you get beat up and die” to essentially getting taken and having the bad guys confirm to you that everything you#thought about yourself in middle school was true and everyone thinks youre ugly and worthless and not special and no one loves you. and then#ofc the medical torture. like im sorry but one of these things IS worse than the other imo#especially as the teen girl in the wonder woman comic like jesus christ#and while of COURSE the stuff about diana not loving her and all that is NOT true its something we see her struggle with as insecurity for#years beforehand. and then dc goes and brings her back into continuity in the past few years only to basically say “yeah wonder woman DIDNT#care about her! what a loser to think so and get all worked up about it! abt a vers of her who only has the name in common#like she wasnt dianas baby freaking sister with 100+ appearances#blah#vanessa kapatelis#anti jason todd#she also literally did the red hood arc before he did#with the whole attacking the successor and everything#yet another woman for him to steal from lmao#(this is mostly a joke. i dont think anyone making anything about jtodd canon or otherwise even knows what a wonder woman comic is but the#comparisons are still there.)
25 notes
·
View notes
Text
ABSOLUTELY SCREAMING AT THE WATERLAND ARGUEMENT
#I shall have more coherent thoughts later#but right now all I’m thinking is#omg omg omg#seaweed brain#the first seaweed brain mentioned and it’s only said in defense of his LIFE#Percy honestly admiring that Annabeth is not who he thought but still strong enough to go on without him and better at him than “this#jesus fucking christ#i cannot breathe#screaming crying throwing up#percy jackson and the olympians#Percy Jackson#annabeth chase#Percy and Annabeth#percabeth#pjo#pjotv#pjo tv#pjo tv series#pjo spoilers#pjo tv spoilers#percy jackson tv show#a god buys us cheeseburgers#live reaction#a god buys us cheeseburgers spoilers
23 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
nayanvision21
Untitled
dlrsindia
Untitled
collector-of-sxuls
Great souls suffer in silence
kylo-renofficial
Welcome to my Twisted Mind
exocean
know no shame