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doobea · 5 months

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♡‧₊˚ i got my eyes on you ೄྀ࿐ˊˎ ─ MILESTONE MASTERLIST

HI EVERYONE!! I hope everyone is excited to this milestone event hehe! It ended up being 10 reqs in total and I just wanna send everyone a HUGE thank you again for sticking with me throughout the months on this crazy site hehe. I tried to keep most of the tropes relevant to the original requests but I added my own ideas/flare to some of them!! any of the ✰'s you see are added hehe

For those who are out of the loop, please refer to this OG post about the event! Anyways, I hope you guys look forward to this!! I've been dying to write some new ideas hehe

COMING SOON:

OF THREADS AND RIBBONS ─ MEGUMI F.

synopsis: you can see the red strings of fate holding people together, but no one is allowed to know that. that fact didn't stop you from using your knowledge to nudge soulmates together. of course, this led to you getting a reputation as the class matchmaker, which isn't an issue until your soulmate, Megumi Fushiguro, asks you to set him up with someone else.

tropes: soulmate AU, college AU

ALWAYS BE MY MAYBE ─ MEGUMI F.

synopsis: upon graduating and landing your first job outside of college, you soon realize that being in your twenties suck. outside of working nine hours everyday, setting time for the gym, and making shitty home cooked meals, you have a new stressor joining your team on monday - your ex.

tropes: second chances, office romance

NOT LIKE GOLD IN YOUR DREAMS ─ SUKUNA R.

synopsis: your tycoon family has done you the favor of finding the 'perfect' bachelor, aiming to strengthen their connections and net worth. and who is your future husband? cold, brash, and down right dangerous. he is the definition of devastation poured and disguised in a suit.

tropes: arranged marriage, slow burn, billionaire!sukuna ✰

BUT YOU'RE A MASTERPIECE ─ SATORU G.

synopsis: when your friends urge you to take up a new hobby, you decide on figure drawing. you convince yourself that it'll be a good way to make friends, to let your hands and mind run loose for three hours, and maybe you'll find the passion for art again. what you didn't expect is to fall in love with your nude model.

tropes: slow burn, model/artist AU ✰

NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS ─ SATORU G.

synopsis: the last thing you'd expect after moving to raccoon city is a zombie outbreak. but good thing you have a hot police officer to look after you, right?

tropes: zombie AU, christmas AU, police officer!gojo ✰, resident evil AU ✰

YOU'RE A MEAN ONE, MISTER GOJO ─ SATORU G.

synopsis: satoru gojo is spoiled and arrogant. he's also the next in line to inherit his family's fortune. his father sends him far away in a small town for a week in hopes that he'll 'change' for the better. instead of the usual five-starred hilton hotels, he stays at a local inn and starts to befriend the owner's daughter.

tropes: small town romance, christmas au, golden retriever x black cat

SPITTIN' OUT LIKE LISTERINE ─ RIN I.

synopsis: sae is great at a lot of things, his brother... not so much. when sae calls you up to tutor rin for his upcoming exams the first thought should've been 'yeah, sounds like easy money' rather than 'why does it look like he wants to kill me right now'.

tropes: best friend's brother, forced proximity, tutor!reader ✰

FROM NEW YORK, WITH LOVE ─ RIN I.

synopsis: new york city is always depicted as the place to be, known for its big hopes and even bigger dreams. but when you and rin reunite, after being apart for two years, you're both surrounded by broken promises and empty wishes. maybe coming here was a mistake after all. because exs can't just be friends, right?

tropes: second chance, hurt/comfort, college AU

NEW GAME PLUS ─ RIN I.

synopsis: ranked number three on the top streaming platform, twitch, rin hides his secret identity pretty well for a college student. during the day, he's studying non-stop and, when night comes, he's getting headshots left and right while yelling into comms. he absolutely hates losing, which is why you're on his shit list - AKA the second top streamer and the second best sniper in all of asia. so what does rin do when he finds out that you're suddenly his new project partner?

tropes: esport AU, rivals to lovers, college AU, overwatch ✰ (i picked this game bc i know a lot of it lol i hope you don't mind)

ICE, ICE, BABY ─ YOICHI I.

synopsis: you don't do spontaneous and you hate it when things don't align with your routine. so when the school's hockey team messes up their rink and has to settle with the figure skating one, you'll do everything in your power to make sure you'll reach the nationals - even if it means distracting the hockey team's star player.

tropes: hockey player!isagi, figure skater!reader ✰, enemies to lovers

#doobea writing #doobea milestone - masterlist #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryoumen x reader #sukuna ryomen x reader #isagi yoichi x reader #isagi x reader #rin itoshi x reader #itoshi rin x reader

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irkimatsu · 2 months

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I love your Husk works! Could you please write one where fem!reader gets along with everyone and Husk doesn't even realize that he's catching feelings, but maybe on a night out with everyone, someone comes up and starts heavily flirting with her. Ends with confessions and sugary sweet tooth rotting fluff please. 😍

God damn, anon, do you have any idea how hard it is to wring a confession out of this man? I was going along at a steady pace and then I got stuck for hours! I genuinely hope you like slowburn, because Husk doesn't go from zero-to-love easily. I think he's gotten a nice start here, though. It's definitely fluffy!

Husk/Fem!Reader starting a relationship. Mentions of drinking and attempted sexual assault that Husk interrupts before things get too heavy. SFW, 2.8k words. Enjoy! I hope this is what you had in mind, anon! Thank you so much for reading my works!

Your first few months staying at the Hazbin Hotel have gone quite smoothly; as smoothly as anything there can ever go, anyway. Charlie took an instant liking to you - she takes an instant liking to everyone, so it’s nothing special, but still. She can be a bit overbearing, but you know she means well, and she’s grateful to have someone who doesn’t immediately write off her trust exercises from the start.

Still, after all the sharing circles and art therapy, you occasionally find yourself craving more “adult” fun, and that’s where Angel and Cherri come in. It’s not that you don’t want to be redeemed, but what could be so sinful about enjoying yourself a little? You’re not doing anything dangerous or drastic, no drugs and no getting involved with the wrong people; you’re just having fun drinking, dancing, maybe smashing up some abandoned property if the opportunity strikes. Charlie can’t get mad at destruction if no one cares about the thing you just blew up, right?

The bartender, Husk, isn’t nearly as keen on those nights on the town, but you’ve still managed to bond with him on nights where you prefer to stay in. He’s a surprisingly good listener underneath his gruff exterior. (Perhaps too good of a listener; you hope he keeps ignoring whatever bullshit you might have spouted off after one too many of his cocktails.) He also has plenty of stories of his own, mostly from the time he spent alive. When you could get him talking, he’d weave incredible tales of nightlife, both from his home city in Las Vegas and all the other places he’d visited in his life. He seemed especially wistful when talking about a woman he knew back then. He could talk for hours about all the famous sites he was able to take her to, all the songs he would sing for her, and all the starry skies he’d dance with her under.

“It’s not like I blame her for leaving. I’m the one who screwed it up. But being in love… it was nice while it lasted.”

You try to encourage him with the hope that he could fall in love again, but he shakes his head with a bitter smile.

“I lost the ability to love years ago.”

—-

Your friendship with Angel and Cherri is so different compared to your friendship with Husk, so it took a few months before you could have a night out with all three of them. Charlie is once again less enthused about the idea of you four going out to party, but you promise to be relatively well behaved.

You promise, anyway. You can’t make promises for Angel’s sake, and as much as you love her, you know better than to have any faith in Cherri.

You’re surprised Husk agreed to come to a sex club at all. He never seemed like the type to be into that sort of thing. You’re less surprised to see that he has no intention of flirting with anyone and is instead perfectly happy to sit by the wall and knock back shots as quickly as the bartender can pour them.

Couldn’t he drink himself stupid back at the hotel, though? Why did he even come?

Is it just you, or has he been watching you the whole night?

The hours tick by, and you, Angel, and Cherri become progressively more wasted. Angel is currently hanging off of a muscular bull demon - damn, good for him - while Cherri tells you about another resident who used to stay at the hotel before he tragically lost his life during the last extermination.

“He was such a fucking idiot that it was charming, ya know? God damn I should have gotten to know him better when he was still around! I heard this rumor about him and never even got to find out if it was true!”

As she speaks, Cherri catches sight of a cobra demon who is currently chatting up a cluster of punk girls.

“Well, damn… maybe I’ll get to find out tonight. Don’t wait around for me, I’ll find my way back!”

With that announcement, Cherri is gone, leaving only you and Husk with about a dozen bar stools between you. He’s definitely keeping an eye on you; there’s still liquid in his glass, and he’s watching you instead of guzzling it.

What’s his deal? If he wants to spend the night with you, why doesn’t he just come over here? You decide not to go over there yourself; no sense in rewarding him if he’s playing mind games.

You instead turn your attention to a handsome wolf demon who has taken Cherri’s seat. “Drinking all alone, love?” he says, his deep voice smooth as butter. Right away this man gives you the air of a natural-born charmer who can win anyone’s trust within seconds, only to break their hearts within hours.

He’s hot, and you’re drunk. You’ll let him break your heart a little.

Your conversation starts normally enough, with low stakes topics like the music and the drink selection in the bar. You’re in no hurry to tell this man anything personal or leave this spot with him, but you’re enjoying looking at him and hearing him enough that you don’t mind being a bit of entertainment.

He bumps your knee with his at one point, but you pull your own knee away. At first he seems to take the hint, and time passes without any more advances.

Soon, however, he grows more bold.

“Why don’t we go somewhere else, baby?” he asks as he lightly squeezes your thigh. “Somewhere more private?”

“No thanks,” you say as you jerk your leg away, though the motion doesn’t make him let go. “I’m fine talking here.”

“You know this is a sex club, don’t you?” he says. His smile and voice haven’t changed, but somehow he seems much slimier than he did five minutes ago, and the strong paw gripping your leg that seemed so enticing in your head feels suffocating in reality.

“I’m not here for that, I’m just hanging out with friends-” You try to leave the stool, but the man throws his arm around your shoulders and pulls you in.

“Come on, babe! What did you think I was after by chatting you up like this? You’re not gonna leave me hanging, are you?” He’s holding you closely enough that his hot breath is hitting your face, and the stench of his cologne is making you gag. “C’mon, baby, I’ll show you a good time. You won’t regret this-”

“She said no.” Husk had somehow snuck his way to your side without you noticing, and was now glaring daggers at your pursuer. “Back off.”

“Who are you, her grandpa?” the wolf laughs, refusing to unhand you. “Or just a nasty old man who likes ‘em young?”

Your captor’s laughter is quickly interrupted by a high-pitched howl. His face is now adorned with four jagged, bleeding lines.

“What the fuck, old man?” he yells as he unhands you. Just as quickly as you’re unhanded, you’re grabbed again, this time by Husk grabbing your waist and pulling you away.

“I knew I fucking hated this place,” he growls. “Where are Cherri and Angel?”

You have no idea, but your first guess has you looking toward the sex rooms in the back of the club.

“Jesus Christ… they’ll find their own way home. Come on, we’re going back to the hotel.”

You don’t appreciate being dragged out of the club like a misbehaving child, but as the alcohol clouds your thinking, you can’t quite formulate a protest.

Considering how pissed off your admirer must be right now, maybe it’s for the best that you don’t stay.

—

The walk back to the hotel is blurry; if Husk had anything to say to you besides pissed off obscenities muttered beneath his breath, you don’t remember it. Your next memory finds you laying on the couch in the lobby, your head aching from a combination of a hangover and the time spent laying on the couch’s arm with your neck at a weird angle.

“What time is it…?” you murmur as your eyes try to adjust.

“About noon,” answers Husk from the bar.

As you continue to look around the lobby, he appears to be the only one here. “Where is everyone?” you ask through a yawn.

“Angel and Cherri still aren’t back, but I’m sure they’re fine. Charlie and Vaggie left to give you some quiet. Alastor and Niffty…” Husk shrugs after their names, then falls silent.

You groan as you push yourself into a sitting position, one that has you facing Husk. He doesn’t appear to have anything to do, and is instead standing with his chin resting on his crossed arms atop the bar. An awkward silence falls between the two of you, giving you plenty of time to observe Husk’s body language, particularly the way his tail is lashing behind him while his ear gives the occasional twitch.

He is not in a good mood.

“Are you okay?” you ask. Your well-meaning question only seems to piss him off further; he answers not with a word, but with a growl. “Is this about last night?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he insists.

“I’m sorry I caused you trouble…”

“Wasn’t your fault.” His tail lashes even harder. “Just don’t worry about it, all right?”

You’re going to keep worrying about it until he stops looking so on edge.

“Thanks for getting me away from that guy last night,” you say, just in case you didn’t thank him in your drunken haze.

“Hey, it’s what a good bartender does. When you see someone starting shit with another patron, even if it’s not your bar, you take care of the problem. That fucker had no right to put his hands on you after you told him to cut it out.”

He may be gruff, but at least he has standards.

“Can’t believe Cherri and Angel left you alone in there… those two better not take you to anymore fucking sex clubs, you don’t need to be around shit like that…”

“I’m a grown adult,” you protest. “I didn’t want to sleep with that guy, but if I did want to get with someone at that club, that’s my business.”

Husk’s eyes widen for a moment, before he returns to his original dour expression. “Yeah… guess you’re right.”

“And what about you? You didn’t look interested in picking up anyone last night. Why’d you even come?”

“How do you know I wasn’t interested?” he shoots back. “Maybe I was interested in someone! Maybe I just… didn’t have the balls to go for it.” He stands up straight and shakes his head. “Look, can we drop this? Hang out in sex clubs if you want, I don’t fuckin’ care.”

He’s speaking with the tone of voice of someone who very much cares.

“I’m done with ‘em, though. You’re right, you’re an adult, you don’t need me hanging around like some fuckin’ guardian angel.” He pours a glass of clear liquid, and you expect him to down it himself, but he instead steps out from behind the bar still holding the full glass. “I overreacted last night. Shouldn’t have made it your fuckin’ problem.” He approaches the couch, takes a seat, and offers you the glass. “Here, one last favor. Drink this and I’ll get off your ass.”

You take the cup, wondering if for some ungodly reason he’s trying to get you to down straight vodka.

“Why are you looking at me like that? It’s water. That headache’s only gonna get worse if you’re dehydrated.”

You take a sip of the water, and after only a few swallows you’re already regaining a bit of your desire to live. “Thanks,” you say before taking another large gulp.

“No problem,” he responds. You expect him to return to the bar, but he remains next to you on the couch. His body language has gotten no less agitated. What is going on with him?

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you doting on Angel or Cherri like this,” you observe before finishing the glass.

“They’re used to it, and they’ve got each other,” he says as he takes the glass from you. “You want some more?”

You shake your head, and he remains seated with the glass.

“You, though… I don’t know, something about that guy just pissed me off,” he says. “Even before he started touching you I didn’t like him. Bartender’s intuition, maybe? I’m still not over the awful feeling he gave me.” He sighs heavily. “I just… hate the idea of seeing you get hurt in a place like that. I know Angel and Cherri can take care of themselves, but you’ve never seemed as wild as they do, so I wasn’t sure…”

“Is that why you were watching me the whole night?” you asked.

Husk’s body jolts. “Shit, you noticed?”

“I kept looking over there wondering if you’d ever move from that spot, and if you weren’t actively drinking you were staring at me,” you said. “You weren’t subtle.”

Husk groans as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. I know you’re capable. I was just…”

“You weren’t there because you were interested in someone at all, were you?”

“I never said I wasn’t. I mean it when I said I just didn’t have the balls to say anything to ‘em. Instead, I just wondered… what I’d do if someone else asked ‘em. Knowing it’d be my own damn fault for not speaking up sooner. Trying to tell myself it wasn’t that big a deal if they went with someone else… until someone started flirting with ‘em, and touchin’ ‘em, and-” His body tenses as he growls, but relaxes after a moment. “Damn it, I haven’t had to do this in years...”

“Done what?”

“You know what I said about losing my ability to love years ago?” He turns his head and looks directly at you for the first time since he sat down. “...I think I’m remembering how to do it again.”

Things are starting to fall into place. “And the person who helped you remember is…?”

The slightest of smiles crosses his face. “Who do you think?”

You wouldn’t have guessed it before today, but it all seems so obvious in retrospect. He’d spent so many nights with you when he could have been in bed, just chatting with you or comforting you after a bad day. You’d really grown so fond of his smile, and Angel had told you before that he used to never smile.

But surely, you thought, he couldn’t have been smiling because of you…

“What am I even saying?” he asks as he turns away from you. “You died in the prime of your life, and down here you can have that prime forever. You could do so much better than a washed up old drunk.”

“You’re not washed up,” you assure him as you place your hand over his. “I think it’s great that you got to live such a full life! You have so many stories to tell, and so many talents… I bet there’s so much you haven’t told me yet.” You try to reassure him with a smile and a light squeeze to his hand. “So much you haven’t shown me, either. You talk a lot about when you were in a band, but I’ve never gotten to hear you play…”

“I haven’t touched an instrument in years,” he says. “I bet I don’t even remember how to play anymore.”

“Well, you don’t know if you don’t try, right?”

You don’t think you’re just saying that about instruments.

“It’s been such a long time… what if I screw up?”

You don’t think he’s just talking about instruments either.

“It can’t hurt to try. Maybe… maybe you’ll enjoy it even more than you remember.”

“Hmm…” He doesn’t seem fully at ease, but he hasn’t taken his hand back yet. “If I can get my hands on a saxophone, and I really haven’t forgotten how… sure. I’ll play for you.

…you just have to give me some time, okay? I’m not used to it anymore… especially with another person…”

“Take all the time you need,” you assure him.

He turns his hand around so he can hold yours back, and his smile seems to grow slightly. “Just gotta start slow… get used to things again…”

“You’ll be fine, I know you will,” you assure him. He seems content to leave the conversation there, but there’s one more thing you need to say. “Husk?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think I’ll be going back to that club. No point when I’m not interested in picking up dates anymore.”

He squeezes your hand. “Glad to hear it.”

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin husk #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel husk x reader #hazbin husk x reader #irk blubbers about nothing #irk got asked a thing #irk talks to strangers #irk huskposts

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sublimecatgalaxy · 1 year

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Read It and Weep- Part 1

Pairing: NFL!Player!Rafe Cameron x Journalist!Reader

Summary: Sports journalist Y/n is covering a pro-NFL football game when she gets knocked down by wide reciever Rafe Cameron. He helps her up and immediately can't seem to take his eyes off of her as they celebrate their win. After, at the post game conference, him and the reader share an interesting conversation and he learns (earns) her name.

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Violence, swearing, I think that's it honestly.

Song: "My Ordinary Life" by The Living Tombstones

A/n: This might be the most excited I've ever seen @tee-swizzle get over a fic I've written. This is some serious hot and cute and angsty shit, buckle up, it's quite a ride. This is part 1 of 10!

I always thought the only time I would enjoy men running around in costumes would be on Broadway.

The sophisticated, planned, calculated moves, the falsetto notes they hit while running around in expensive costumes that took hours and hours to create. Men on Broadway are just a whole other breed- don’t get me wrong, all actors and actresses alike are all impressive beyond belief, it’s a hard field to be a part of. But there’s something so groundbreaking and heartwarming to see men of all backgrounds doing what they love to do.

There’s just an art to it- Broadway- a beauty that a lot of people brush off and denounce as girly or even something that’s remarkably easy. They call theater kids loony (which coming from one, I’d have to agree just a bit), they’re constantly bullied and harassed but not when they make it to the big times. No- then they are set up on this pedestal where they are to be paid hundreds or thousands of dollars to get on stage, to dance and sing their favorite show tunes together where all of a sudden they’re people to look up to, forgetting all about their high school days and all the failed auditions that teared them down. But once they’re on that stage together, creating music and art, they’re a family in a sense. Leaving it all on the stage for the viewer, us, to enjoy.

A brotherhood.

My new stage looks a little bit differently than it did when I was sixteen.

My new stage consists of something similar- men, running around in matching outfits, same bright lights shining on them, sweat pouring down their necks, and they’re still a brotherhood- maybe even more so in a sense. But with this stage, there’s profanities, there's violence and, most of all, there are too many balls in one place at one time.

Pun so intended.

The world of sports is not one that I saw myself getting into at the ripe age of twenty four, let alone football. I’ve always had a bit of a thing against football players but that happens when you grow up in the theater world where you’re constantly pushed around by the ‘higher class’ of the horrible high school hierarchy, being called names, shoved down stairs, having your lunch tossed into your lap. But the job that I was offered through a local journal in my hometown was just perfect for me- I couldn’t not take it. There would be no other job that could've come around that would’ve given me the same freetime and the ability to still have control over my schedule, all while supporting my home team. It gave me a chance to travel, to learn, and to be surrounded by attractive, sweaty men doing their thing.

There’s a bit of a silver lining to it, I guess.

Working as a journalist for a professional football team was not the intended goal when I got my Bachelors degree in Journalism, nor was it the plan for my Masters. I wanted to go into freelancing or maybe dabble a bit in the socioeconomic crisis our country’s suffering from- maybe even write a few articles on how to save the turtles or some shit.

But football?

I spend most of my days on the sidelines, sketching down stats, learning plays and keeping up in the personal lives of our devoted players. I’m like one of those cheerleading girls I used to hate, practically a groupie of the team at this point. Even the coach and the other behind-the-scenes workers are on a first name basis with me at this point.

Sixteen year old me would be disgusted- repulsed.

Current me? Not so disgusted as I’m watching a bunch of tall, bachelor-like men run around the field at top speed, tackling each other as the crowd colored in all different jerseys scream or boo in unison. I can’t fight the proud smile that’s on my lips as I look out at the field, just right there in front of me- I could reach out and just be a part of it. There’s something to home games that just gets your blood pumping in a special way, especially so close to playoffs, so close to glory and a big old fancy ring for our quarterback and team. It’s every team’s goal for the year but every news agency’s eyes are on us, watching us and the players so closely, betting and guessing that we’ll be the one to win everything this year. No pressure, right?

It’s an honor to be traveling with them all, I couldn’t have been paired with a more respectful group of men, even though some of them don’t even know my name or that I exist. They might see my name occasionally at the bottom of an article I’ve written about their triumphs or losses or they know me as the girl that they accidentally mistake for the water girl and who they then apologize profusely to following the mix up.

Sarah the water girl and I look awfully a lot we’ve learned.

There’s not a lot of time left in the game now, less than two minutes in the last quarter and it’s tight, too close for comfort as the men in the front row of the stands scream their asses off, acting like their words will have any weight in the overall game. With how we’re playing right now, the defensive line tuckered out beyond belief, we’re not looking at winning, especially if they hold possession of the ball like they have been. The other team is smart, I’ll give them that, gnawing down at the clock, running down the time so if we did get the ball, we’d barely have the time to do anything remotely impressive. We’re down by 6 and if we’d just get a touchdown we’d be good and we would win, but we just need to get possession of the ball.

I write down the numbers of the players who’ve stuck out to me the most on this team to calm my nerves; number three Cameron offense, number seventeen McHarley defense, number 4 the quarterback- wait.

Why is everyone cheering?

What just happened?

Looking up from my notepad, I watch as our defense runs the ball in the opposite direction that we were going in before, instead towards the opposing team's endzone, indicating that, indeed, there was a turnover of some sort while I wasn’t paying attention. If that’s all it takes, my job just became a whole lot easier.

The play resets, our offensive line and our quarterback stumble onto the field with a bit more pep in their steps compared to their previous run. They’re cheering and high fiving the defense as they pass each other in the middle of the field, bright smiles calming everyone's general anxiety and setting the record straight that we’re still in the game. There’s still a chance.

They set themselves up within seconds and in moments they’re hiking the ball. I watch number three, one of my favorite wide receivers to watch, simply because of his overall spunk and sass for the game, subtly loving when he gets into little fights with people because I can always manage to hear his silly, boyish insults. He tries so hard to act tough, when he's really just the biggest puppy of all time.

I’m so caught up in thinking about him, I completely miss him barreling my way just as the quarterback throws the ball in his direction. Cameron is wide open, no one even close to tackling him and I can hear him whooping as he runs towards the end zone. I grin wildly as he catches the ball, solidifying our win, and before the refs even signal for a TD, the whole crowd erupts in giggles and cheers. I go to clap and cheer for him but before I can, an opposing player is giving him one last shove for good measure and he is tumbling onto the ground, the ref beside me immediately throwing a flag into the air, just as Rafe slides in my direction full force.

Before I can move, he takes me down to the ground. Hard.

I hit the floor with a loud thud, ears ringing as my head slams against the turf and I can hear muffled voices and hands grabbing at me, brain rattling around in my head as I shove my eyes closed as tightly as they can, hands reaching up to cradle my aching skull. I can feel people trying to pry me up onto my feet, to help me up but I’ve barely even processed that I’ve fallen or that my favorite wide receiver is currently laying on both of my legs, trapping me to the ground.

My eyes pop open moments later at the realization and I see cameras around me, mostly pointed at Cameron who’s kneeling in front of me, soft, blue, worried eyes gazing back at me as I struggle to find my voice. He looks at me, waiting for me to speak and, when I don’t, he simply reaches out, placing a firm, protective hand on the side of my head, steading my spinning eyes. I feel my body warming up at his touch, the loud, thrumming music playing in the stadium as an attempt to celebrate is drowned out by his voice filling my ears, his whole body leaning towards me so he can speak directly against the shell of my ear.

“You good?” He yells over the cheering, thumb brushing against my temple, and I realize he’s not even celebrating the fact that he just won the game that’s sending us to playoff games, mapping the road to the Superbowl. I give him a half assed nod and a flushed smile and before I can say anything else, his teammates are pulling him up and into their arms, screaming loudly as boys can, all for the cameras as they pat each other on the helmets, knocking them together every once in a while.

“Yeah, I’m good.” I mutter to myself, pressing my pointer finger and thumb to the bridge of my nose to aid the headaches that’s creeping up the back of my neck, taking deep breaths and praying I don’t have a concussion. From across the field, through the mess of players and confetti, I can see number three looking over at me with kind, worried eyes that seem to want to say more than what he’s already said to me.

His eyes make me nearly forget that it’s my job to interview them.

I guess I’ll ride my headache out and wait till the post game conference.

–

From the time I got knocked down to the time when I stepped foot into the conference room, there were at least twenty-six different people who asked me if I was the one who was ‘tackled’ by Rafe Cameron after he caught the winning touchdown. After the third time, I started to feel a bit sheepish and honestly a bit embarrassed, wondering how long they’re going to string this out and ask me what it was like to be tackled by America’s most loved wide receiver.

It was rough, I hit my head, it hurt- what else do they want from me? Do they want me to say I’m honored that he was so close to me, fangirl over his presence, that he made eye contact with me? Hell, he’s human and so am I. His reaction was purely a moment of humility and humanity shining through.

But I totally did get butterflies.

But, to be honest, he is probably the most wholesome, mama’s boy you’ll ever see.

Dirty blonde, shaggy hair, blue shining eyes, overall toned to a T and he’s all meathead minus all of the misogyny and toxic masculinity. He’s always respectful in interviews, polite to women- it’s obvious he was raised well and anyone with a brain can tell that he’s wildly intelligent from his masters degree in Sports Communication. It’s impressive, his story.

“So, you won the came, Cameron- how does it feel?” An interviewer calls out from the audience beside me, the happy smile on his face only feeding into the fact that he’s definitely a fan, and Rafe smiles handsomely, looking out across the audience with a simple, humble shrug.

“Felt good taking the team to the playoffs. I couldn’t have done it without my quarterback, number 4, Greg Abernathy.” He reaches over to slap Greg on the back and I grin, scribbling down some words on my notepad, a small smile on my face as I listen to the boys commend each other in a bro-mance type love. They’re always very supportive of one another, having a type of relationship where you really don’t see one without hte other. They’re constantly training together, getting dinner together, having literal sleepovers at each other’s apartments (or so I’ve heard). They’re brothers, there’s no better description for the boys. “But I really have to give it up to the nice lady that I tackled, I feel horrible. I’d like to dedicate our win to her today since she obviously was a part of my excitement. You can put that in writing.”

I’m sorry?

Dedicated?

What?

All eyes turn to look at me and I feel my face drain of any color, every hair on my body sticking up as I suddenly feel so small in this room full of my very own coworkers and competitors. I can hear Rafe mutter a quiet ‘shit, she’s here?’ away from the mic and to Greg, who just chuckles and points in my direction, the direction that everyone happens to be looking in. I can see the looks in other journalists' and reporters' eyes, they want to talk to me, they want to shove microphones in my face but based on the ‘deer in headlights’ look I’m giving everyone, I think I’ll be safe from their interrogations. Rafe looks at me and his smile only grows, fingers reaching out to wrap around the mic to pull it closer to his lips as I anticipate what’s to come.

“Hi nice lady that I knocked over, are you okay?” His voice is ten times deeper than it was just moments ago and I can feel my brain melting just at the feeling of him looking back at me, matching my gaze as if he’s just as excited to be speaking to me one on one.

Me.

“I’m okay, just a bit banged up.” I call out, shakily shoving my pen and paper into my bag beside me to give him my undivided attention which, it’s not like he has to fight for it, I’m practically drooling simply because he’s gazing at me, giving me his complete and utter attention as hands raise around the room. The way he’s staring at me, eagerly hanging onto every word I say and I can see it, it’s not like he’s even trying to not seem completely enthralled with my every breath.

“Man, you traumatized the poor girl.” Greg mutters into the mic and the room erupts in laughter and I bite back the laugh that wants to escape me but I don’t dare allow the giggles to leave me when Rafe is just staring me down with a soft look and a gentle smile, something completely opposite of his rowdy behavior and profanities on the field. But after a second, a look of realization passes across his expression and he turns to look at Greg with a worried expression before glancing back at me.

“I did not- you’re not traumatized, right?” He asks me and I laugh, waving him off as I reach up to knock at my own head. What a stupid move, Y/l/n, get it together.

“No, god no. It happens.” I chuckle, brushing off his concerns of injury and he visibly relaxes, head bobbing in a gentle nod as he laughs sheepishly, almost embarrassed that he seemed to care so much in front of a room of random people. “It could’ve been worse. Could’ve been the other team, they wouldn’t have helped me up.”

“So you’re saying his charisma and manners is what saved him from being brutalized all over the internet?” Greg interrupts before Rafe can say anything with a wide eyed, shocked, teasing look.

“For sure.” I grin proudly, already thinking about how excited I’ll be to call my dad after this conference and tell him all about how I got to talk to and compliment one of his favorite players in the NFL. He’s going to shit his pants. He’s been gushing about his stats for the two years that Rafe’s been on the team, every Sunday, blabbering about his stats, his goals, his story- hell I probably know more about him than anyone else in this room right now.

“Well, I appreciate that. My step mom will be happy to hear she did something right.” Rafe blushes warmly, the redness creeping down his neck and under the polo that he wears as another rumble of laughter rolls over the room like a wave and I keep it in the back of my mind to make it known in my article that he’s definitely some sort of mama’s boy through and through. No wonder he’s so respectful.

“Happy to help.” I smile warmly, the room falling awkwardly silent again before the reporters buzz with questions like angry bees, eager to move on from Rafe and I ogling each other oddly from across the room. I can’t fight the butterflies fluttering in my stomach at the conversation we just had; there was no hint of annoyance, only eager questions and concern that I genuinely do appreciate. He didn’t need to follow up with me, he didn’t need to call me out in regards to their win, all that without even knowing I was here.

But he did.

That matters for something, right?

Right?

“Hey, before we move on, I just wanna get your name- what’s your name? Are you one of our journalists?” Rafe asks, quickly grabbing hold of the mic firmly in his fist before Greg can pull it away from him and I nod firmly and proudly.

“My name’s Y/n Y/l/n and, yeah, I’ve worked for you guys for nearly eight months.” I swallow my nerves, now suddenly aware that he knows who I am and can talk to me and look for me in any crowd and just know who I am. Rafe Cameron knows who I am.

It takes a second but I’m slowly realizing that he’s truly just a person and not anything to be afraid of.

Right?

“Oh my god she’s the one who wrote that article about your tweets on twitter like two weeks ago.” Greg gasps and the room turns to me once again, confusion and shock written across all of their faces and, I’ve got to give it to him, I’m shocked that they even read articles about them. I assumed they just filter it out and try not to pay attention to the news headlines with their names in it but, now that I know that they read them, I’ll be more careful when throwing the word ‘handsome’ around in my pieces.

“Guilty as charged.” I breathe a sigh, reaching up to rub at the back of my neck awkwardly and a sort of tension falls over the room as everyone waits for a more in depth answer from me, their eyes (especially Rafe’s) practically begging for why I wrote the article. “I think it’s nice for young viewers, especially young boys, to see someone who’s a better influence than most of the sports players that are in the media.” A nod of agreement falls across the room and Rafe smiles wholesomely, looking at Greg with a happily proud expression written across his face, like he’s made it.

“So I’m a role model, that’s what you are saying?” He asks but there’s no cockiness or arrogance to his voice- no- just pure and utter pride and vulnerability at the thought of doing right by the football world and, in my opinion, he definitely has.

All of the gala’s he’s attended, the hospitals he’s visited to talk to and to comfort young children, the way his smile lights up the locker room- even if they lose- the beaming smile he shows if they do win, and all of the money he’s donated to so many important organizations- my point, and the point of my article was, is that he’s what the NFL should be fronting, not the garbage-like, questionable, geriatric old men who need to retire.

“Exactly what I’m saying.” I smile firmly, not tearing my gaze away from his as he nods, leaning back in his chair and he finally appears content with our conversation because he finally allows Greg to take the mic back, but his eyes do not leave me as the room fills with questions once more.

“Hey, that was sweet and all, but can we talk about football now?”

#rafe #rafe x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #outerbanks #outerbanks fic #rafe cameron smut #rafe smut #rafe fic #rafe cameron fic #outerbanks series

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ponyartistbrainiac · 8 months

Text

I know this won't mean much to y'all but after over 10 years of trial and error and practice and experiments my art has finally gotten to the place I wanted it to be since I was a small girl. I always wanted to make beautiful emotional pieces that i pour my heart and soul into that showed my passion with every stroke and despite being mostly blind I made it.

These pictures gain very little traction and get virtually no notice at all but despite it all I pour hours upon hours of blood sweat and tears to make pieces I can be proud of.

And even though no one understands me or my work (outside of my boyfriend who is the amazing light of my life I can't seem to stop myself from making them from time to time marking occassions only I understand but I always wish people would enjoy the art anyways for what it is.

Perhaps one day people will appreciate my work. Perhaps I will just be a blip in history that no one remembers or maybe some sort of cautionary tale about being autistic and having a passion that burns hotter then anyone can handle. Either way I am proud of how far I have come. Being mostly blind and autistic no one ever believed in me but maybe thats what fueled my urge to want to prove my worth to everyone by showing them how powerful my imagination truly is.

Even if it scares them...

Im not sure why I am writing this tbh my grandfather just died and I have been thinking about my life up until now quite alot this week. Where do I go from here? What do I do now?

My friends are all moving to live around me and its wonderful and crazy and everything is happening so fast. But I wish to push myself even further beyond.

Maybe someday i can make something that everyone can appreciate or atleast my peers. But for now perhaps I should look into new horizons perhaps maybe practice more on my aliens that I love to draw thanks to Outer wilds or maybe work on my animation skills so I can make moving pictures no one understands.

Anyways thanks for sticking around through everything if you have been here a while. The internets on fire and I am doing my best and if you are new... Hi I'm Pepper and I am glad you are here.

And thank you for everything

I started making these paintings after recovering from covid which I honestly thought was the end

I was so over joyed with being alive i painted that first painting of derpy and rarity and I have been chasing that level of zen... that high... ever since and I can finally recreate it consistently. Thank goodness

I was worried it was lightning in a bottle for a while...

Never give up!

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babygorewhore · 9 months

Text

Tied up. Stan bowes Smut.

You’re tired of working your useless job. Until one night you see an advertisement listing. You accept. What happens next?

WARNINGS! Bdsm themes. Daddy kink. Fingering. Oral! Fem recieving. Ropes. Age gap! Pnv!

You took another swig of the drink in front of you. You had worked late again. Your clothes were wrinkled, you needed to shower but you had to stop at the bar first.

“Another round?” The bartender asked, raising his brow when he saw the empty glass. You opened your mouth to say no, considering you had to work again tomorrow, but you decided to say fuck it.

You nodded and he proceeded to pour the liquor into the glass, sliding it over to you.

The television played the news, showing the same tragic events that happened yesterday. You hated watching it. All the negativity. All the people turning against one another. It made you sick.

You were a housekeeper. At a hospital of all places. You’d been there for two years. Your back permanently tilted from lugging around buckets and a trash can all day. Your scrubs were stained from bleach, your hair thrown up in a bun and you hadn’t worn real clothes in a week. You were only 21 years old, living in a shitty apartment downtown.

If you quit your job, you’d have to move back in with your parents and that’s not what you wanted. You wanted independence and freedom yes but you also wanted security and the ability to enjoy things around you. Everything was so fucking depressing.

You hadn’t been on a date, other than driving through a parking lot with some football player who tried to shove his hand up your skirt an hour later and you slapped him across the face. Your life wasn’t interesting. But you craved intimacy. Something. Something to make your life more enjoyable.

As you rode in the Uber, scrolling your phone you saw a ad on a job search that you forgot to unsubscribe too. “Wanted housekeeper.” It said. The pricing was more than you made and one day less than you worked.

Biting your lip as you walked inside your apartment, you looked around the room. You kept it tidy, given your job but you groaned when you saw it was after midnight. You’d have to be up soon. You glanced back at the add. Cleaning a house? Verses a hospital. Again, you decided to say fuck it. You clicked on the application and added your resume, contact information and photo. Throwing off your shoes, snapping off your bra, you climbed into bed and turned on your comfort show you’ve watched for the 100th time.

Your eyes drifted shut before you felt your phone buzz.

Groaning, you rolled over and selected your phone. It was an email. The message from from a name, Stan Bowes. And you skimmed the text before opening it. “When can you start?” It read. You sat up, surprised at the fast response. Normally that would be a red flag but you were desperate.

You typed. “Two days.”

Waiting, you shimmied out of your scrubs and laid back down. Your phone lit up and you checked it. “Done. Here’s the address.” You breathed harder. That’s it? You had a new job. Sighing, you curled into a ball and fell asleep.

You arrived at the house two days later, wearing your stained scrubs. It was big, bigger than the house you grew up in and you realized something as you reached underneath the welcome Matt for the key. As you opened the door, the entrance welcomed you. This guy was rich, you thought while closing the door behind you.

Modern furniture, art and shiny hardwood floor adorned the living room. Your feet padded the space and you frowned. It was pristine. You went into the large kitchen, an island was wiped off. The dishes put away, and it even smelled clean.

Was this the right address? You checked again on your phone. It was the right address.

You climbed up the stairs, opened up the first door on the right. Finally, you saw the mess. Clothes thrown everywhere. The bed unmade. Trash bags everywhere. You nodded to yourself and set down your cleaning supplies. This would take you a few hours, with that including vacuuming, dusting and cleaning the window. You knew how to extend your time, making the pay fair.

The hours went by, you finished the bedroom and made your way to the downstairs. You felt unsure of what to do, you could vacuum and mop the already clean floor. Deciding to do that, you started humming to yourself as you twirled the cord. This was significantly more peaceful than scrubbing blood off hospital floors but you worried. Was this is? Cleaning a bedroom and tidying an already clean rest of the house?

The door opened and you turned, wiping your hands on your pant leg. A man entered, holding a briefcase and he was wearing a suit. He was handsome, brown hair, brown eyes with a strong nose. He was taller than you, lean muscle. 30s, you guessed. Younger than you imagine for having a house this big.

“Oh, hello, Y/N, right?” He asked. You nodded, and extended your hand for a shake.

He gripped your palm, shaking it gently. “Stan. Stan Bowes.” You smiled in greeting, feeling nervous by his attractive face.

“You’ve done a wonderful job.” He noted, glancing around the room.

“Well-honestly it was already clean when I arrived, Mr. Bowes. I’m a little worried to be honest. There wasn’t much for me to actually clean.” You confessed.

“I know. I wanted to be private about this job, because I couldn’t advertise my real intention.” He said, sinking onto the couch.

Your head tilted. “True intention?”

“I…advertise cleaning to keep things subtle. But really, my real hope is to have someone’s company.” You almost groaned when you realized exactly what he meant.

“So, you’re a sugar daddy? Is that what you’re saying?” You asked, withholding a cackle. You couldn’t believe you fell for something too good to be true. Granted you were a little tipsy, tired and you were about to fall asleep.

“I-I don’t care for that but…I-“

You held up your hand. “Let me guess. Cheating on your wife?”

He stilled, his shoulders dropping. You knew you hit a nerve. “My wife. We’re not together anymore. But she has my children most of the time. And I-I’m desperate. I’m desperate to have someone near me. My wife was more like a roommate. And after a while, I wanted to leave but she didn’t want that. I filed for divorce, she fought me the whole time and finally I’m here.”

You sigh, believing him. But what were you supposed to do with this information? You couldn’t just sleep with him for money. Well, you honestly could, he was hot as fuck but…would to be worth it? You needed the money. Badly. You hated your job. You hated your life.

“What would I have to do? Sleep with you?” You asked.

Stan shook his head rapidly. “No, no. Just…keep me company. Talk to me. Spend time with me. And I’ll take care of you in return.”

You went home after that statement, you got out of the shower and put on your robe. You hadn’t made a decision yet. Promising to text him after you did. Walking to your small bedroom, you sat on the bed and sighed.

Just spending time with him? Talking to him? That’s it. That’s all he wanted. A paid girlfriend basically. You would be responding to a 30 plus year old divorced single dad. It was every teenage fantasy you had but this was real life. How would you explain this to anyone? “Yeah, mom. My boyfriend. He um pays me.” You laid on your pillow.

You debated this. This wouldn’t last forever, who knows how long. It wasn’t guaranteed. But you couldn’t help the urge to try it. He seemed like a nice guy. Lonely, but nice. He saw you in dirty scrubs and still asked you to be a his sugar baby.

Picking up your phone, stopping yourself from thinking about it too long, you brought up his contact information on your phone.

“I’ll do it.” You typed. You pressed send.

“Meet me at my house tomorrow. 8 o clock. Wear whatever you want.”

You bit your lip, your heart quickening in pace. You didn’t have much to work with but you did have an idea.

The next day came, you rushed home from work, jumped into the bath and scrubbed yourself clean. You wore your hair down, threw on some eyeliner, lip gloss. You wore all black as you rode in the Uber on your way there, you dressed the same as you did in high school.

You arrived at his house, 2 minutes to spare and you jumped out. Walked up the stairs and knocked on the door.

He answered, wearing a white suit shirt, black trousers and his tie was loose. You felt underdressed. “I hope what I’m wearing is okay?” Stan guided you inside with his hand on your back.

“Of course. It’s perfect. You’re perfect, I mean.” He chuckles awkwardly and you both go into the living room. Sitting down, you press your knees together and wait for him to tell what was going to happen next.

“How was your day?” He asked you, settling next to you.

“Oh, it was-okay. Boring honestly. My life is boring.” You shrugged.

“Boring? You’re so young and you think your life is boring already?” Stan questioned. “Tell me more.”

“Tell you about me?” You parroted and he licks his lips. Nodding.

“I was a good kid. Always stuck to the rules. Pretty good parents. But I had a rough time in high school.”

“Why do you say that?” Stan asked and you could see his sincerity through his brown eyes.

“Oh you know, I was bullied. Asked out as a joke. Just typical high school shit.” You laughed.

“Someone asked you out as a joke?” Stan asked, disgust evident in his tone.

“Oh, more than once actually. The first three times, I actually fell for it.” You leaned back on the couch. Stan leaned forward, resting his hand on your knee. He gave it a soft squeeze before he pulled away. “I’m sorry that happened to you. You deserve better.”

“What’s your story? I mean. I know you’re lonely. Divorced. With a couple of kids. But what else? What makes you Stan?” You inquired.

“I’m as uninteresting as they get. I’m afraid. My life is meaningless. I go to work. Come home and go to sleep. Start it all over again.” He rubbed his hand over his face.

Now, you were curious. He was sitting with his legs spread. He had muscular legs, you had to admit. He was desperate. Paying a stranger to spend an evening with him, just talking. “Who do you work for?” You quipped.

Stan quirked his eyebrow. “Donald Trump.”

“Oh shut up,” You laughed. “No you don’t.” Stan’s eyes slid over to you before he reached inside his pocket. He pulled out his badge. It was an identification from the building downtown. One that Donald, orange trump owned.

“No way. So, that’s your secret huh? You work for him, you make a bunch of money and you’re a sugar daddy? I don’t think that’s meaningless.” You giggled and he rolled his eyes before smiling to himself.

“Yeah, well. Tell that to my ex wife.”

“When was the last time you went out, Stan? Got out of your house that obviously doesn’t need cleaning?” You flashed your eyebrows at him, the words flowing off your tongue like honey. His veiny hands extended down his legs as he leaned on his knees.

“It’s been two years since I’ve partied. What about you? A shy, young girl, living in a studio apartment. Working as a housemaid. Surely, you like to go out?”

You hummed and pulled your legs up to your chest. “Last time I went out, it was to a rock concert. A tour of three bands. I stayed out until 3am. I had just turned 20. It was the best night of my life.”

“A rock concert huh? For some reason, I took you as a Ed Sheeran fan. Or Taylor swift?” You smirked.

“I like other things too. And I’m not just some young girl. I have dreams, goals, you know.” The more you spoke, the easier it was.

“I’d love to hear them.”

“I want to get my psychology degree. I want to help people. Make a difference actually. Instead of what I’m doing. I’ve always to reach someone. Pull them from the darkness.” You spoke with your eyes focused on his white ceiling. You felt him shift.

“I want you to do that too. I can tell you would be good at helping people.” You turned your head to look at him. He had moved closer.

“Why?”

“Because you’re helping me. Right now.” He whispered. And glanced at your lips. Your heart thudded louder against your chest. You knew what he was thinking. But would you let it happen?

“Can I kiss you?”

The request hung in the air like a ringing bell and everything went silent. His eyes flickered down to your mouth, to your eyes. Then down again. What would happen if you said yes? Would that be it? You wouldn’t know unless you gave in…

You nodded.

Stan leaned in slowly, his hands still on his laps as he breathed in your scent. His lips encompassed your lower one, softly sucking on the flesh. Your hand went to rest on his chest, gently gripping the fabric as he deepened the kiss. Turning his head to the side, he brushed his tongue against your lip, asking for entrance and you granted it.

He groaned into your mouth, his hand reaching to cup your jaw. His mouth was warm, his hand calloused as he ran his thumb across your cheek.

Stan leaned his weight down, pinning your back against the couch as he kissed you, hungrily and desperately as his hand moved from you face, to your neck, squeezing softly.

You pulled back at the contact, breathing heavily and glanced at his hand encircling your neck. Stan leaned back, almost ashamed of his actions. “I’m sorry. I know…it’s not part of the deal. I just couldn’t seem to help myself-“

“It’s okay. I liked it.” You whispered, caressing your neck.

He looked at you again, eyes darting to your own hand. “I haven’t-kissed a woman in a while. I know this situation is extremely complicated. You don’t owe me anything. And if you want to leave, you can. I’ll still pay you for everything. But-“

“Stan, it’s okay. It’s just a kiss.” You reassured him before biting your lip. Kissing him, your core tightened at his heavy breathing. Soft romantic eyes…

You went to your hands, crawling over to him and you straddled his lap. Either legs on the side of his pelvis and his eyes widened. Your hands settled on his shoulders, before trailing to his hair. It was soft underneath your fingertips. Could you do it? Your hips rolled against his, you felt him harden beneath you and you smiled at him. You didn’t know where this confidence was coming from, but you didn’t want it to end. “Mmmm,” You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his neck. “You seem so nervous, Stan? What’s wrong? You’re not used to being wanted?” Your mouth settled on his sweetspot by his collarbone and he shivered at your tongue brushing against it.

“I-I don’t know. You’re so young. So inexperienced.” You gently bit down, and he moaned, his hand moving to your lower back. His other went to your breast.

“Stan?”

“Yes?”

“Shut the fuck up. And do as your told.” Your hand went to his neck, squeezing the sides and your other hand went to his crotch. You started massaging his cock outside his pants, giving the erection a slight squeeze. Stans head lulled to the side but you straightened it, gripping his jaw.

“Stay still.” You whispered in his ear.

You went to lower yourself down, before his hand went to your hair. He maneuvered you over his lap, his arm pinning you down over his knee and you gasped in shock.

“I think you have me mistaken for some little boy who likes to be dominated. But I think you’re mistaken, baby.” His voice was soft and commanding.

But his hold on your hair tightened, pulling your head back, your breasts arched above his knee and his other hand settled on your ass.

“You know, I want you to count. Count to 10. And if you don’t, I’ll stop touching you. And I don’t think you don’t want that.” Your breath shuddered as his hand came down. Hard.

“Ah! Fuck!” You cried out at the stinging. But you obeyed him, any urge to take control was futile. “One.” You winced as he continued spanking, but you counted to ten.

“Good girl.” He leaned to whisper that in your ear before releasing you. You went to the ground on your hands and knees, shocked at the sudden turn of events. Your head whipped to him as he stood up.

“You have two options, Y/n.” He started, resting his hands on his hips. “You can walk away right now, like I said. Or,” He trailed towards you, leaning down to brush his thumb across your lips. “you’ll do whatever I want.”

You were speechless as his eyes narrowed hungrily. “You seem nervous, Y/n. What’s wrong? You’re not used to someone wanting you?” He repeated your words and you inhaled sharply.

“I’ll do whatever you want.” You whispered, looking up at him with your mouth watering. Stan nodded. A new, dangerous confidence building inside him.

He aimed his head towards the stairs. “Go upstairs. On your hands and knees.” He ordered softly.

It took more time, going up the steps on your hands and knees but you made it to the hallway with Stan behind you. He remained silent. “We’re not going to my bedroom. We’re going to the spare room.” You turned and saw him holding a key.

He walked ahead of you, his posture stiff as he turned the key to a door at the end of the hall. “One last chance to back out.”

You shook your head. “I want to see.” You insisted. He sighed and opened the door.

“Oh my god.” You whispered.

It was red. A red room. Dozens of tools hung from the walls, fake candles flickered around and in the center was a large bed that had black bedding but underneath were crimson LED lights. A black chandelier hung on the ceiling, but what caught your attention were whips, riding crops and robes that adorned the wall.

“This is…my secret. This is why most people run from me.” Stan sighed and clicked his tongue.

“Your secret? That you’re super kinky and you have some sort of sex dungeon?” You realized the hypocrisy of your statement, given you were on all fours but you couldn’t help it.

Stan chuckled and put the key in his pocket. “I’m waiting.” He said to you and you entered the room, crawling forward.

“Stop.” You did and you sat on your heels and Stan approached you. Holding rope. Surprisingly, despite the situation, he still seemed somewhat unconfident.

“Stan,” You began as he secured the rope around your wrists. “I want to do this.” He paused and looked down at you. “I want you to use me. Anyway you want.” You pleaded.

Stan grounded his teeth before he yanked you from the floor, crashing his lips to yours in a fevered kiss of tongue and teeth. Blood quirked from your bottom lip as he tugged it with his teeth, pushing you onto the bed. He pushed your hands above your head, holding you in place. Your center pooled as he ripped himself away.

“I want you to spread your legs.” Stan growled. His hand flexing.

You separated your knees, your underwear sticking to your pussy as he licked his lips. Stans fingers circled around your pants, pulling them down slowly and your underwear. Your pussy glistens and he flicked his pointer finger, inside the wet walls before trailing your clit.

You trembled as he inserted it into his mouth, his eyes drifted shut and he hummed to himself. “You taste so sweet.” He groaned before leaning down.

He trailed kisses along your inner thighs, close but not close enough. His tongue moved along your pussy but pulled away last second.

“Fuck, Stan. Please don’t tease me.” He launched himself up, his fingers plunging inside you. You threw your head back, as he went knuckle deep and sank into you.

“You don’t order me around. Do you understand?” He pumped his fingers inside you, and your back arched as he went deeper, impossibly deeper.

“Yes-yes I understand.” You squeaked.

“Yes what?” His thumb grazed your clit before pulling away.

“I-I don’t know.” You whimpered. Stan removed his fingers and shoved them into your mouth.

You tasted yourself on his digits and you tried to fight against the ropes but they were tight. “What did you call me that first night? I want you to say it.”

You realized what he meant.

“Daddy?” You questioned. He nodded.

“Now, ask me. What do you want from me? You can ask me. Nice and proper.”

“Daddy…please. Taste me. I need it. Please?” You begged.

Your begging killed him and he forced your legs apart. “Moan nice and loud for me okay?” Stan whispered as he laid on his stomach, lifting your thighs over his shoulders.

He laid his tongue flat against your pussy, kitten licking your clit repeatedly, before diving down to your entrance, then bringing it back to the top. You moaned, loudly in your chest and throat before you turned your head to the side, your eyes squeezed shut as Stan increased the pressure on your clit.

You shuddered as his fingers swiped against your entrance before he slid two fingers inside, pumping slowly as he slowed his pace on your sensitive bud, torturing you as you neared your climax, before he would change paces again.

“Daddy-please don’t tease me-“ You inhaled and Stan chuckled against you.

“I don’t think you should tell me what to do right now, baby. Do you? Not when I have you splayed out like this.” He licked a long, stripe against you before he pulled away. Keeping his fingers deep inside you.

Sweat gathered on your forehead as your back arched into his hand. His free one settled underneath your midsection as he hovered over you.

“You’re being so good, taking my fingers like this baby. You’re being such a good girl, right now.” His mouth went to your neck, he peppered kisses along your skin. “Such a pretty little slut. Doing whatever I want.” You were about to burst.

“Let go for me, it’s okay. And then I’m gonna fuck you like an animal.” Stan reached over to the drawer, selecting a plastic wrapped condom. Sliding off his pants and boxers, he wrapped his dick inside the protection. His hand locked on your shoulder as he turned you over on your stomach, forcing your tied hands on the bed with your ass up.

His hand pushed down on your head, “Spread your legs. Nice and wide for me, okay?” He ordered softly and you listened, breathing heavily as he pressed himself inside you.

You buried your head down, exhaling long and hard as he thrusted inside you, shifting to hold your hips in place as he moved deep and hard into you. “Fuck.” He moaned as your walls clenched around him, welcoming him in the deepest parts of you.

You stayed like that for several seconds, him moving roughly against you with his hard cock pounding you, animalisticly like he promised. He gripped you in place as you tried to move your hips to create friction. He leaned down, whispering in your ear. “I’m gonna play with your pussy now, okay? Can you hold out a little longer for me? You’re doing a good job, princess.” He groaned.

You couldn’t hardly see straight as his fingers circled around your clit as he continued thrusting, you weren’t going to last much longer. This was better than anything you had, better than your own pathetic fingers.

“I’m gonna-daddy I’m gonna come-“ You managed before your release came over you with a powerful rush. You stilled and then felt Stan stop moving as he came, releasing into the confines of the condom.

He pulled out of you, releasing your fullness and he collapsed next you. You turned over on your back, panting heavily as he started untying your hands. As they were free, you stretched out your arms over your head as he laid next to you.

You both stayed silent, breathless and then you moved over, leaning your cheek onto his chest. He glanced down at you before pressing a kiss to the top of your head, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Was that submissive enough for you?” Stan asked and you chuckled with a blush.

Soon after, you ended up falling asleep.

The next morning, you woke up late, still naked on the bed. When you sat up, you noticed a note next to you.

“Had to leave. Hopefully…I see you soon on your next work night. Maybe we can make this a regular occurrence…S.B”

You bit your lip. It was the most passionate night you’d ever had. But he had to leave. Without establishing the next step.

As you left the house, you turned one last time before making your mind up. Next time? He would be the one tied up and helpless.

Taglist. @spill-the-t @icannot3 @howtobesasha @ifeeltoofuckingmuch @demxnicprxncess @evanptrss @randodummy tagging @frankenkyle19 and @scene-and-dandylover because they requested it tonight

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anjelicawrites · 4 months

Text

A quiet life

Paring: Billy Washington x reader

Synopsis: a quiet evening between you and Billy.

Warnings: kissing, fellatio performed on a dildo, a bit of face fucking, ass play, strap -on usage, a dash of overstimulation, Billy’s insecurities.

A/N: reader is AFAB but not described. Where needed, they/them pronouns used.

When you return home, Billy is already back; he’s wearing his trademark jogging bottoms and ancient T-shirt. He hears you open and close the door, turns around and heads your way to give you the hug you’ve been waiting for the whole day.

“How are you, love?” He gently asks, his lips on the crown of your hair.

You breath his masculine scent in before answering.

“Beaten. Thank God is Friday baby.”

Your arms sneak around his chest and hold him as tight as possible as he slowly starts walking backwards, away from the drafty door, towards the kitchen and living room area, where the TV is blaring.

“How was your shift?” You mutter against his chest.

“Hmm. Not the worst.” He sounds drained. “I only had one Karen today.”

“I’m so proud of you baby.”

When you had met Billy, he was just the cute guy working at the Tesco nearby your office, you didn’t know about his past. It had taken him time to open up, and tell you about what had happened to him, his eyes not meeting yours, his head sunken in his shoulders, trying to make himself as small as possible, and you had realized why he looked familiar.

It still hurts your heart to imagine in what dark place he had been, how hard it had been for him to build back his life, brick after brick and you never let pass the chance to uplift him, because he deserves it.

“I’m just so tired all the times.” He admits, blue eyes not meeting yours.

“Baby.” Your hands frame his angular face, making sure he’s looking into your eyes. “You’ve gone back to school, while working full time. Of course you’re drained!”

He stares at you from under his long eye lashes, soft, a puppy in human form.

“And,” You add. “You work your arse off at home as well.”

This is something you praise him the most, since he told you how his house used to be in those dark times. Now, even when he feels blue, he still tries to pull his weight at home, which tells you all you need to know about how hard he’s trying to do better for himself.

“I just wish I could give you more. I wish I could support you and your art, so that you don’t have to go to that corporate job that drains you.”

You can hear the defeat in his voice, and that’s not going to fly.

“You know I would never accept that?” You say gently, not wanting to offend him. “Not because it’s you, but because it’s not how I was raised, right?”

“Not even if I could buy all of your paintings? Would you ban me from doing so?” He answers, a tentative smile on his beautiful lips.

“Well, that could be negotiable.” You angle yourself to kiss his nose. “I love our life. It’s quiet and all I ever wanted.”

You wish you could pour all your feelings into his heart, let him experience first hand how you feel about your relationship, to wash away his insecurities. Make sure he knows that you still believe that slipping him a note with your number, was the best idea you’d ever had in your entire life.

“I still mean it. When I told you that all I wanted was a normal life, have some mates to go to the pub with, a job, someone by my side, that didn’t change. I just wish I could do more.”

Oh your Billy, ever the people pleaser, always insecure, the need to prove himself still haunting him. Always looking at himself with a critical eye, never seeing the good that he has done and he’s still trying to achieve. Still believing himself a failure, even after all the hard work he has done on himself.

“But you do, every day when you hit the books after hours at work, when you clean up after yourself, instead of leaving the bulk of the housework to me. You are choosing every day to do more, to go to your psychologist and face all that’s happened to you. You don’t see the results now that you are planting all these good seeds, but you will.”

When you’ve first met him, he would have shied away from your words, as if he was unworthy of your praise, now he blushes and tries to stop himself from making himself smaller than what he is. If things go your way, one day he’ll accept your words with pride in his blue eyes, you just need to be patient: he can’t just unlearn a lifetime of insecurities and inadequacy in a snap of fingers.

“Do you want to go to the pub? I can shower quickly and change in something more casual.” You ask, you both need to chill and the weather is nice, why not take advantage of it?

“Can we stay home?” He answers, a blush creeping all over his face.

Oh, you think, I see.

“Do you want me to take care of you?” Your voice lowers without you even realizing it, he blushes even harder, the splotches of red visible under the neck of his T-shirt.

“Yes, please?”

You heart swells with pride: it took him so long to be open about his sexual needs, to state what he wants, instead of blindly accepting to follow your lead. You wish there was a way for you to fully express your happiness; the only thing you can do is kiss him, your hand on the back of his neck, your lips passionate and hungry on his, until he whimpers and his knees wobble.

“What do you say baby: I go shower while you choose which toy I should use. You can join me, if you want, once you’re done.”

Billy’s body visibly sways, to the point you fear he might lose his balance and fall on you, but he manages to get a hold of himself, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Yes, thank you.” His voice is slurred and you can see the hunger in his eyes, his pupils enlarged, the black bottomless.

“Good boy.” Your hand reaches his stubby cheek to caress his warm skin. “Do you think you can walk?”

“Yes.” He slurs as he nuzzles your palm with his cheek, like a cat.

You’ve thrown your clothes in the hamper and are enjoying the warm water of the shower on your body, feeling all your muscles relax after a week of grueling work, the radio barely audible over the shower running.

You don’t hear Billy opening and closing the door, you see his distorted shape through the glass of the shower, him discarding his clothes before joining you under the stream.

Billy is silent as he puts his hands on your shoulders, massaging the stiff muscles with deep, slow movements that make you moan, your pussy already warm for him, wetness pooling the longer he kneads the knots tightening your back.

“Do you want me now?” You ask, your back arching sultrily, ass pushing against his half-hard cock.

“Always. I want to take care of you now.” He responds, heat in his voice.

The desire in his words makes your head spin and your hole clenches around nothing, goosebumps blossoming on your skin when Billy starts washing your hair, his fingers strong against your scalp. With the utmost care he rinses the shampoo and uses the conditioner to untangle the knots in your hair, his hands move the loofah like a feather on your body, he teases your nipples and engorged clit, until you turn around and kiss him, devouring his lips, your tongue proprietary in his mouth, his hard cock trapped between your bodies, the drops of water dripping from your bodies tease his bulbous head.

“Please.” His eyes burn with his need for you, enhanced by the devilish way you move against him. “Please, I need you.” He adds with a whimper.

“Have you chosen how I should take care of you?”

“Yes, please.”

Billy sways again, he has to push his hands against the shower walls, eyes closed to center himself again: you two truly don’t need to run to the A&E.

“Billy?”

He doesn’t respond, he simply takes your hand in his and leads you out of the shower, your fluffy towel on the heater, ready for his use.

“Let me?”

He’s already wrapped you in the warm towel and helps you sit on the small stool near the wash basin, before kneeling to start dry you with long strokes on your skin, his lips following the movements of his hands, until your fingers find his wet hair and move his head to look into his big eyes.

“Thank you baby. Now, show me.”

The need in your voice makes him shudder with his own desire, pride pooling in his belly with the knowledge that the hunger darkening your voice is caused by himself: he’s made so many mistakes in his life, but choosing to fight for himself by your side is not one of them.

He still blushes, though, when you two enter the bedroom and you see the items he’s organized on the bed; your fingers brush against the lacy, black set, the one he gifted you for the first Christmas you two spent together and the harness you bought when you two decided to move in this flat. The dildo he’s chosen lies next to the lube, on a stack of pillows in the middle of the bed: he’s set the scene, you only have to follow his lead.

You turn around and open your arms, Billy has to bend his long back to make himself small enough to fit his head under your chin and squeeze you in a tight embrace that becomes teasing when his fingers find the towel and remove it from your body.

With wet, open – mouthed kisses, Billy follows an imaginary path down your torso, until he’s on his knees, your cunt in front of his face, panties in his hands, ready to help you wear them; your hands tremble when you find purchase on his wide shoulders to balance yourself as he dresses you in the pretty lace first, the harness second.

You sit, legs spread so that he can help you with the bra and hooking the dildo on the harness, the sex toy in front of his pretty lips, his tongue wetting his mouth, his cheeks ablaze.

Your hand finds home in his hair again, ruffling the short strands, his head following the movement with soft whimpers.

“Please?” He wails.

“It’s all yours baby.”

His fingers curl securely around the fake cock, his tongue already out, licking a stripe on the underside, spit on his lips when he reaches the head, ready to envelope it with a lewd moan; you couldn’t believe he had never sucked cock, you guessed all the porn he had watched during the years helped with the task, now he’s a pro, his lips the perfect ‘O’ shape around the dildo, his cheeks sucked in to offer more friction. He moans when the fake head reaches the back of his throat, lips moving up and down the shaft, following the gentle canting of your hips, lewd, wet sounds spilling from his mouth when you grab his head firmly, trying to breach his throat.

“Swallow it baby, I know you can do it.” You drawl.

His tearful eyes meet yours, the blue as clear as crystal, a whining sound almost choked by the dildo, when he manages to take it all in.

His hands grab your hips, pushing his face against you as much as he can while you fuck his willing throat, fingers in his hair to keep him there just a tad longer, when he starts trashing around, eyes desperate staring at you, until you let him go.

“Such a good boy:” You praise him and he preens. “This is the biggest you managed to swallow so far.”

He uncoils his long back, red, abused lips searching yours for a searing kiss that makes your head spin.

You fall back and he follows, arms bracketing your head, his tongue playful against yours, his cock slides against the dildo with haste, his moans reverberate in his chest: he needs you badly, until he’s sated.

He whines when your lips disconnect, torn between grinding against you and position himself on the bed, for your taking.

His cock hangs between his legs, heavy and red as he crawls towards the pile of pillows on the mattress, where he lies, hands running up and down his thighs as he watches you grab the lube and crawl towards him.

He’s beautiful in his need, the blue of his eyes eclipsed by the enlarged pupil, his whole body trembling under your gaze, back arched when you let the lube run down from his cock to his hole, he whimpers his pleasure and your cunt clenches around nothing.

He fucks himself on your fingers, desperate to be breached, he curses and moans when you start hitting his prostate, scissoring him until he gapes and begs, promises he’ll do whatever you want, as long as you fuck him.

“I will remember that, baby.” You growl.

You have to grab his hip with a hand, he’s squirming and trembling too much for you to breach him, his ass sucks the head in when you manage, his hands grabbing his short hair as you stop him from bucking up to you, to force you to enter him faster.

He babbles your name, and pleases, voice high pitched, his feet scrambling on the bed with each inch entering him, his upper body a trashing mess with every pull back and push in movement you make, until you’re fully inside of him and he moans, his big hands grabbing at your body, your skin his only tether.

“Good boy Billy. You’re such a good boy.” You say, grinding lazily against him. “Taking me so well. You were hungry, weren’t you?”.

He wants to answer, but the only sounds from his mouth are inarticulate moans and groans, spurred by your slow movements.

You help him curl his long legs around your hips, your hands go to his trim waist, thumbs caressing his hipbones to calm him.

“What’s your color, Billy?” It takes all your self control not to start fucking him like the hungry, desperate man that he is.

“Gr… green.” He groans, heart beating so fast in his chest he’s afraid it might burst.

“Good boy.”

You grab his hips with a tighter hold and moving with deep, slow thrust that have him whimper, high pitched with every pass, his ass trying to suck the dildo in as you start moving faster, one leg over your shoulder as you push mercilessly against his prostate, his hands grabbing at your arms, torso lifted to desperately reach your lips. When you change the angle to kiss him, he screams, the dildo reaching deeper than ever, splitting him in two, his body arching under yours when you grab his cock and start jacking him with fast movements.

He looks ravished, his cheeks aflame and pink lips open in a silent scream, his whole body trembling under yours when he comes, copious spurts over your fingers and his contracting belly. You fuck him through it, the overstimulation has him groan and whimper as tears stream down his cheeks, hands grabbing uselessly at the bed sheets.

“Don’t.” He begs when you try to shuffle backwards.

“You might get cramps.” You try to reason with him, but he’s stubborn.

“Just for a moment, please.”

He looks at you with the most pathetic, desperate expression on his handsome face, you can’t help but turn your bodies on the side and hug him, your noses touching and he breaths you in, the sweat and sex on your body; he fancies he can her the beating of your heart, he knows it’s drumming like crazy in your chest, because his does.

Billy knows he can fall asleep like this, feeling your presence around him and he almost does, his eyes fluttering close with each breath he takes; you slowly grind against his hips and his eyes open abruptly, whimpers spill from his lips, pathetic sounds of pleasure and pain that stroke the warmth of your desire in your belly.

“Be good now, Billy.” You murmur, pulling your hips back, until he is empty and you can quickly throw the harness in the general direction of the floor.

Billy’s face finds refuge against your breasts, his long legs entwined with yours, as his hands caress your sweaty back: he’ll never be able to put into words how grateful he is for this, for your acceptance of all his desires and mistakes.

He will thank you later, when you legs will be over his shoulders and he will be drowning in your scent, now he simply needs to feel you.

#billy washington x y/n #billy washington x reader #billy washington

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alezangona · 3 months

Text

The Shadow of Khansar (Salaar Fic)

Part 6 - Wrought Iron

Part 5 | Part 7

The first thing that Deva notices when he starts to gain consciousness is the rhythmic clang of metal meeting metal. A part of him believes that in the state he is in, the constant clashing should be annoying and more than enough to give him a headache. If anything it feels reassuring, as if he was back in his forge in Bharuch. It starts to dawn on him just how much he’s missed his routine of grinding away in the stifling heat as he works to create intricate shapes out of metal.

Not many people would enjoy the hassle of blacksmithing, not in a day and age where everything was automated. To this day he can hear the advice provided to him by older colleagues who urged him to leave the forge and work in the factories where work would be just a little less strenuous and the pay just slightly higher. Deva couldn’t initially pinpoint why he liked his trade enough that he refuted their advice and spent years dedicated to honing his craft despite how niche it seemed.

With age however, come epiphanies that should have been obvious from the start. Some of his best childhood memories included his time in the forges of Khansar, where his father and him spent hours working in the grueling temperatures. Dhaara was a busy man said to have been taken under the wing of Sivamannaar for his unmatched wit and integrity. He was almost never home and Deva couldn’t remember Amma and him faulting Dhaara for not being around. Probably because even during the short periods of time he was available, he would shower them with love in the only way he knew how.

While Amma situated herself in the back of the workspace to share with Dhaara the instances of everyday life he couldn’t participate in, Deva would stand next to his father, watching as he used his brute strength to create mesmerizing works of art that would later be displayed in their home, or in the homes of their loved ones. Once, when Deva begged his father to let him make something too, his father smiled warmly, pride shining in his eyes as he led them to the forge. He remembered just how often he messed up that day, his still developing body not used to the strain of handling such bulky tools. Yet, Dhaara patiently stood by his side, correcting any mistakes along the way. The final result of their time was a small trinket in the shape of a wonky letter D, if it could even be considered that.

When he dropped the piece of metal into Amma’s hands later that day, she ruffled his hair telling him just how much she loved it. It wasn’t till much later, after the death of his father, that the misshapen D returned to him. His mother had taken the time to thread the pendant, along with some smaller pieces of metal from their workshop, to a leather cord and hung it around his neck when they celebrated his first birthday away from Khansar. His first birthday without his father.

As his body begins to adjust to the sounds, he tries to pry open his eyes despite the heaviness that strains to keep them lidded. As they open, Deva observes something yellow shining through a haze of green. He blinks a few times, trying to clear the blurriness and is able to successfully deduce that he’s in a green tent facing towards a large fire. Behind it seems to be a large, looming statue that he can’t quite make out through the brightness, so he turns his gaze down towards his body and holds in a sigh of frustration when he sees the shackles binding his limbs.

The other part of living in Bharuch he misses is not being tied down every few days. A luxury he never considered he would miss.

“Finally, you’re awake.” Deva looks up in confusion when he hears the obvious relief pouring out of a stranger’s voice. The man standing in front of him looks vaguely familiar, though he can’t exactly place from where. His long curls are gathered into a bun that rests loose at the back of his neck, drawing attention to his striking facial features. The length of him is draped in gray fabrics that hang loosely over his torso and he is void of any distinct marks or jewelry that would explain his descent or affiliation. Despite this, there is an aura of power that radiates off of him, symbolizing the status of a leader who knows his place.

“I was worried that we had miscalculated the dose for the sedative.” He goes on to explain, pulling up a chair in front of Deva and taking a seat. “Are you doing okay? Can I get you anything? Water?”

“This might be an obvious series of questions from my side, but I’m going to go ahead and ask anyway. Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here?” Deva’s eyes flick to the pitcher of water on the side table and hesitates for a second before choosing to concede. “And I’ll have that glass of water now, if the offer is still on the table.”

“Yes, of course.” The man nods, standing up to fill up the glass before handing it over to Deva. “I’m not surprised that you don’t recognize me. It’s been 25 years after all and even back then, we didn’t know each other too well. You were always with Varadha.” At the mention of his name, Deva tenses, eyes narrowing immediately as he considers the possibility of a threat. “Even now, you’re choosing to focus on him instead of the bigger picture I’m trying to provide you with. Do you remember Agira? I’m his son.”

The blood in Deva’s system runs cold as the implication of what this means washes over him. “You can’t be. All of the Shouryangas were–”

“No, not all of us.” He gestures outside of the tent, where Deva can make out the forms of blue-covered bodies wandering around the fire. His gaze is once again drawn to the statue located directly behind the flame and all at once, the shape of it registers in his head. The wolf. Their wolf. “We survived. Our parents made sure we survived.”

“So that means that you’re–”

“Bhaarava. I go by Bhaarava now. You’ve seen me before at Velamgadi. Well… maybe you caught a glimpse.” Then he waves towards Deva’s body. “It might make me sound crazy to you, but don’t take any of this to heart. It’s all for our own safety. With everything you’ve done since stepping foot in Khansar, I figured it’d be best to take all the precautions necessary. You aren’t in harm's way though. I just want to talk.”

“Funny. I’ve been away for so many years that I forgot the traditions of our land. I can’t believe I ever found more comfort in a regular conversation than in one where I am chained against my will.” Bhaarava doesn’t seem amused by the dry humor.

“You’re not alone anymore Devaratha. You’re people are here. We are alive despite the injustice that was inflicted upon us. We’ve spent the last decade plotting our revenge against the crown that took so much for us. We’ve changed our identities, infiltrated the government, and spent years plotting to destroy our enemies. Now is the time for us to take back what belongs to us. To burn the throne and make way for a new empire.” He leans closer, a fire burning bright in his eyes. “The Shouryanaga Empire. Join us in our battle for justice. Avenge your father and the people we have lost. Stake your claim to the throne that is your birthright.”

Deva stares at Bhaarava, unable to move. The emotion that flows through him is too much to handle as his memories flash back to that night. He doesn’t remember much other than the fact that he was terrified. He startled awake at the sounds of shrill screams. One look out his window showcased his neighborhood encapsulated in flames and people running out in hoards only to be murdered viciously on the streets. Later, of course, there were the men. There was him trying to save his mother as best as he could, fear crushing his heart when he realized he had failed, and then there was Varadha.

Varadha who had sacrificed his birthright to save Deva and Amma. Who faced the burden of humiliation at every turn, unappreciated in a society that idolized power over kindness. Who cared for Deva enough not to come calling even in his deepest moments of despair because he wanted him to live a good and happy life.

“No.” Deva utters, meeting Bhaarava’s gaze. To his credit, Bhaarava doesn’t look surprised. He takes a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back.

“So you what? Promised the throne to the son of the man who murdered our people?” Deva’s skin prickles.

“You said so yourself. It was a decision made by his father, not him.”

“The throne in his hands is no better than the throne in his father’s. The Mannarsi cannot be trusted, Devaratha. The throne belongs in the hands of our people because we are the only ones who can do right by Khansar.”

“So your solution is to put power over the kingdom in the hands of a man who hasn’t even lived within the confines of Khansar for twenty-five years?” Deva scratches at his temple. “You realize how insane that is right. The kingdom would be in better hands if Varadha ruled than I did. He’s the leader this city deserves. And since none of you bothered to ask for my opinion regarding the matter of birthright, let me clarify right now that I don’t want the throne.”

“A part of me hoped you wouldn’t do this,” Bhaarava stands wiping his hands across the fabric of his thighs. “I hoped you would realize where your loyalties should lie and that you would join us in our quest for a better, brighter future. I should’ve known though, that hope is useless in a land confined to the virtues of revenge and enmity.”

“Where are you going?” Deva sneers as Bhaarava stands, his back facing towards him. Slowly, Bhaarava looks over his shoulder at Deva, his face painted with disapproval.

“If you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a war. It’s time I lead my troops to battle. I trust you’ll stay here if you know what’s good for you.”

“And if I don’t?” Deva can’t help but to challenge.

“Trust me Devaratha Raisaar, you don’t want to make an enemy out of me. You have too much to lose.” With that final statement, Bhaarava swoops out of the tent and begins to call out to his troops, leaving Deva to sit by himself in the confines of a green tent.

~*~

Deva’s not proud of how long it takes, but he’s finally able to break himself out of the cuffs once the camp has been cleared of everyone but two guards stationed outside his tent.

During the span of his childhood, he’d heard the many merits of the Shauryanga tribe. Overall, of course, they were known for their strength, intelligence, and camaraderie. What they actually should have been known for, in Deva’s opinion, is their superior craftsmanship because those shackles were the first ones in Khansar that he hadn’t been able to break himself out of. No wonder why Bhaarava had left him behind with such confidence.

He silently thanks his mother for the small pieces of metal she attached to his necklace that allowed him to pick those locks.

As Deva carefully plots his escape, he hopes that he can get around the guards without creating a scene, but the stars must not be aligned that night because before he knows it, the guards are crumpled to the ground and are thoroughly unconscious. Deva makes out the form of a jeep parked not far away and searches the guards’ pockets, sending a prayer of thanks to Kateramma when his fingers wrap around the sharp edges of a key.

He peels off the license plate before he hops into the car, opening the GPS to see where he’s located and how to make his way out of the remote forest. Once he has the location set, he adjusts the mirrors, catching a glimpse of the wolf statue in the background. A feeling of unease settles within him as he looks into the eyes of the creature and he has to force himself out of the stupor.

Right now, he needs to get back to Varadha. He can worry about everything else later.

And with that final thought, Deva zips out of the forest, making his way home.

~*~

Deva stands in front of the mansion in Pathran, nausea overtaking him as he tries to process the scene around him.

It all feels too familiar. The suffocating smoke twists, turns, and fills the space around him, taking with it any illusion of freedom as it confines him to the reality of battle. Loud sirens ring in the background but with how panicked Deva is, he can’t register them as being anything more than a small nuisance. The streets are lined with the bodies of men, their blood pooling through the streets, gathering to form a sickening river that drowns everything in its path. Deva knows that the wise thing to do would be to glance at the faces of the dead men so he could gauge what exactly happened in the time he was gone. But fear grips at his throat and he worries just what he’ll find there. He worries that one of those faces could be Varadha’s, and the thought itself is enough to bring him to his knees.

He doesn’t know how much time passes by when he tucks his face into his knees, breathing deeply and cowering in on himself, the tang of rust filling his lungs. An abrupt tap on his shoulder forces him out of his reprieve. He grabs the hand and turns sharply, fist raised in defense.

It falls to his side however, when he notices the face of Chintu standing in front of him, eyes wide with fear and full of tears. Once again, nausea overtakes him as he realizes just how horrifying this scene must be for the child, and he pulls him into an unyielding hug. Chintu cries into him, arms grasping tighter, looking for any kind of comfort. Deva doesn’t know what he can do to provide him with it.

Finally, once his sobs have settled into low hiccups, Deva leans back and signs to him. It’s a little choppy but Chintu understands and signs back at him slowly.

I don’t know where they are. I was with Surabhi and her family. When I came back…

It’s okay, we’ll find them. You’re safe with me.

Deva knows for certain, if nothing else, that part is true. The determination must show through on his face because Chintu nods, taking a sniff as he gathers himself.

“Come on,” Deva says aloud, more so for himself than Chintu, leading them into the mansion. He is careful to keep the boy tucked into his side, a hand covering his eyes as a precaution and Chintu doesn’t protest. Soon, they are in Varadha’s room and it takes all of Deva’s willpower not to scream in frustration at the sight in front of him. The room is a wreck. Antique furniture that Varadha had inherited from his mother’s family is broken or damaged beyond repair. All of his belongings are scattered across the room in enough of a state of disarray that they almost distract him from the bullets lodged into the walls.

He continues to examine the room looking desperately for any sign that would indicate Varadha was okay. That’s when he sees it. Hidden away in the corner of the room, was a wrought iron dog ornament. It was something he had made for Varadha when they were children and he was able to refine his skill enough to create something more intricate than his previous works. Not that it was amazing of course, or anything to brag about for that matter. It was just a small frame of a dog that was too heavy on one side and would keep falling over, never able to stand on its own. Deva had offered many times in the months following to take it back into the shop so that he could adjust it and gift it back. Varadha would always refuse, not willing to part with it, and saying that he liked it exactly as it was.

It was leaning up against the wall, a small piece of paper rolled into the curve of its paw. Within seconds, Deva makes his way over, pulling out the piece and reading through it. The distress drains away immediately and Deva is filled with the comfort of knowing that everything might be okay after all.

Chintu taps at him from behind, a curious tilt to his head as he gestures at the paper.

They’re okay. We found them.

#salaar #varadeva #devaratha raisaar #salaar fanfic #salaar fic #varadha rajamannar

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tamelee · 6 months

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As a beginner artist im only happy when people reupload and share my art. I don’t want to be arragont enough to think im like samdoesart or something and you’re not really on that level either no offense though your art is inspiring me a lot

Okay, I'll address this then... (Art-rant for anyone who cares;)

... no offense taken. I'm very aware of my (skill)’level' in art and definitely feel a certain type of way about it ;-; .... but that aside, what is your argument here?

Is anyone who doesn't want their art reposted or uploaded on other accounts considered arrogant? Is there some kind of popularity threshold you need to cross before you can request something as simple as this? And if so, what's that threshold to you? I'm genuinely curious.

When does someone become "good" enough to have the right to say that their art is theirs and protect it from being stolen or decide where it gets shared? Who has any say in it, other than the artist or creator themselves? Isn't that extremely subjective to base it solely on that?

Hm. If you're a beginner artist, I'd like to offer some advice....

It's entirely up to you whether you read it, give it any thought, or find it valuable in any way. I'm no Sam, after all. But there are plenty of ways for others to support your art, engage with it, or share it even in their own accounts without taking anything away from the original creator, whether it's art/writing or any other type of creation. However, it's also perfectly fine if you personally don't care about it or if someone allows it only with proper credit because that's your decision as.. you know- the original creator.

You mentioned that you're happy when your art gets reuploaded as a form of "sharing." But do you know what makes me the happiest as an artist Nonee?

Do you know what really brightens my day? 🥹

...It's knowing what people are saying about my work because I can read it on my own posts that are on my own accounts. When I can respond and take it in fully. When I see people using tags that make me snort my drink or when I have to stifle a laugh to the point I’m choking because it's just SO funny! (I genuinely need to make a compilation!!) Sometimes, I get comments that are cursing me out in a playful manner, and it's often followed by an incoherent keyboard-smash. I end up making embarrassing alien-like noises because of it that makes me more grateful than ever to live alone. Other times, I bawl my eyes out because someone left a comment or tagged it with something that just hits differently. A while ago, I got an ask that said I should stop saying 'thank you' on everything because it got repetitive/annoying(?), but I genuinely feel so grateful for all of it 😭!!

I get new ideas because someone suggested something different. I see friends having entire conversations under a drawing that I'm not even a part of because apparently, what I drew resonated with them personally, or it made them feel a certain way, which is oddly fulfilling with art ;-; Just so you know, I read everything... and all this feedback (because it's all feedback in a way) can be very inspiring, don't you think?

Honestly, when it comes to activities like drawing, it's true that it is better to never do it solely for the sake of engagement. Drawing, or more specifically, living as an (aspiring) artist is incredibly lonely.

So, so lonely...

Relying on engagement alone to keep you creating for hours, days, years, or maybe even decades is just not sustainable. It takes an enormous amount of time and dedication to practice, come up with new ideas, and endure the inevitable frustrations that come with it. With anything, keeping yourself inspired at times takes effort also because it requires for you to be in a state of mind that allows new idea’s in the first place which in itself takes practice because you won’t always feel like drawing. You might even encounter nasty comments or discover that something you poured your heart into gets criticized, YOU as a person may even be criticized because what you drew with your current skills (and such a journey is never-ending) in a single moment could get paired with your entire personality or even your humanly morals (ffs) to judge. Which can be more hurtful than you'd expect... especially in the beginning.

Although it may sound silly, the saying "the fun is in the journey” is very real and likely the most important thing to keep you going as an artist. No matter what, you gotta have fun or find a way to have fun.

Yet, even so, now more than ever, the process of creating is very underappreciated as many are looking for “content” that's quickly generated for entertainment. Tsk, some even call art “content” which, IT IS NOT. It's a proven fact that we, as humans, currently have become dopamine junkies with short attention spans. (I totally understand this – I was diagnosed with ADD, hence my extreme hyper-fixations also 😆 it's both a blessing and a curse, tbh.) So, right now, the very thing that can support artists (which means you as a beginner also!) on their creative journey is letting them know you appreciate their art in any way or just let them know your thoughts maybe even by specifying what it was you liked about it so they can carry that into their next drawing.. which is only truly possible through your own accounts y’know? :’) I'm being sincere when I say this really can help.

I get that many people believe that creating should be satisfying in itself, and everyone may expect you to think that way because, after all, you want people to see what you've made and a reposter ‘helps’ you with that, so, it should be enough and you should be happy and grateful actually. Anything beyond that might be considered "arrogant."

And... based on your ask, it seems like you might view having your art reuploaded as a form of 'help,' and if that's the case, it's totally fine. But I want to share a rather harsh reality, because even if those who repost your art provide credit...

They don’t do it for you and it’s not necessarily because they love your art so much 👀 rarely anyone cares to go through a description full with useless trend-based tags or promotive texts they always use only to put in the effort to find your name and most likely, if they follow such accounts there is zero connection with the original artist/creator which means it is WAY more likely in this case that the art you worked on for idk how long ends up becoming a forgettable blur as it is scrolled past 🤷🏻‍♀️

And even if the reposter likes your art personally, that's probably not their primary motivation to share it (except for a very few who are in it for a fandom, sns has a few also). Art that gets ‘selected’ for reposting is typically selected with a specific, often trend-oriented, goal that has little to do with the artist. It's frequently shared with the mindset of a rather poorly-driven marketer. Especially on platforms like IG- many of these accounts exist to benefit the account owner only by making high(er)-follower accounts that later get a different purpose. Many of these accounts will discard all art once it has reached an engagement goal to then move onto something new that's more financially profitable to the account owner, which original art by others is not. And yeah, a lot of these accounts are sold after. There are especially many now due to the IG affiliate program, and recently tiktok also. The same is quickly happening on X with its monetization... and guess what :’)!!! Although original art is hard to monetize, Ai is completely approved.... 🤨🙄 But I won't bore you with all the specifics any longer.

Me not wanting my art on other platforms/accounts, has little to do with credit nor do I think in the very least that I have some sort of control over it by making that decision... but still. I refuse to willingly take part in anything that currently takes ‘art’ (any creative form) and makes a mockery of it, using it for mere "content" or treats it as this ‘thing’ that appeared out of nowhere to then just use any way people like and participate in the narrative that gives the impression that investing time in creating something isn't valuable or a cherished part of human expression that brings and promotes joy.

Because rarely do people take the damn time anymore.

I want all artists/writers/creators/etc- to be acknowledged for their work in general, or, even in the least, acknowledge the work that isn't seen that goes into the final result for others to enjoy. I don't want to continually see art stolen and exploited so rapidly. This phenomenon enables tech bros who don’t have a single ounce of argumentative skill or self-proclaimed "entrepreneurs" to generate their little stolen jpg’s for their absurd 3 a.m. morning-routine videos and use them as banners on their get-rich-quick schemes, scamming the unsuspecting and spamming the internet with this bs, largely thanks to AI making this partly possible... for example. There's not a single platform left that supports artists or helps them fight for security and protection for their work. I know and I'm aware. At the very least, we can say 'no' to reposting because giving up completely makes no room for possible solutions... and then we can work from where we are at all times to find ways to protect a right (because it is) that some might perceive as trivial.

Nevertheless, it is a right, and it definitely isn't an issue of arrogance or skill.

#asktamelee #art talk #anti ai #personal #art theft

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delaware-lemme-smash · 8 months

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Hi sweetie! Rewatching the series has stirred ideas. 😁 Pretty please, SFW NSFW headcanons for Aizawa with a quirkless fem s/o. Although she has no quirk, she does have an amazing human talent. For example, maybe she composes amazing music, or she paints incredible paintings, maybe she has an incredible voice and sings, maybe she writes award-winning books. Whatever you choose for her talent, it’s something that she’s dedicated years of hard work (since childhood) to being the best, building a career, and she’s famous for her talent. Thank you! Sending lots of love & hugs! ❤️🤗

Hello, lovely! I still need to catch up on the new series, but my Aizawa simpery has been rumbling in the back of my head for a while now. I feel like this man is about to make a comeback in a big way.

Characters: Aizawa Shouta/Eraserhead

Contents: afab!reader, quirkless reader, mentions of quirkless discrimination, nsfw

Aizawa Shouta/Eraserhead

SFW

Of all the people least likely to judge someone for not having a Quirk, Aizawa Shouta is your man. Others, even with the best intentions, might have some lingering sense of pity that you don't have a special ability like the rest of the population. Or they might just not be able to deal with stupid comments other people make about their Quirkless partner.

Aizawa doesn't give a shit about you not having a Quirk or about what other people think. He doesn't consider his Quirk-having ass as superior to you in any way—the only advantage his Quirk gives him is to remove other people's, so he's not all that different from you, really.

Now, this talent of yours. The one you've been working on since childhood, the one you've poured hours of sweat, blood, and tears into and now have a thriving career in? That commands enormous respect from Shouta. He appreciates hard work in any form, but to gain such achievement in a skill you weren't born with, that you had to learn and grind and improve slowly, over time? Hell yeah.

That work ethic of yours is probably what drew him to you in the first place. People mischaracterise him as lazy, when he's just exhausted most of the time. When you consider his actual skills—hand-to-hand combat, his capture weapon fighting style, teaching, finding the perfect nap spot—you realise he's got a similar mind set, because none of those skills were part of his Quirk. He can only be a Pro Hero because of the amount of time and dedication he's taken to complement his Quirk and make sure he survives.

You have his full support in your career. Due to his schedule, he might not always be able to attend any associated events, but you knew that when getting into a relationship with a Pro Hero/teacher. He'll be there for you at the critical junctures, and he fully appreciates and supports whatever you create. He'll read your books, listen to your music, etc. It's something you've created and he's all about it.

People call him dour, but we've seen plenty of times where he isn't afraid to give praise that's deserved. You can always rely on him to give constructive criticism and praise what he likes about a certain thing. And he'll straight up admit when he doesn't know enough to give advice. It might not be the effusive, gushing praise you get from your fans, but if you're with Shouta, then you appreciate it nonetheless.

NSFW

Aizawa likes watching people do things they're good at, and this naturally extends to you. Whether that be you at your book signing, at a concert, or an art gallery hosting your latest exhibition, something about seeing you in your element makes him...excited.

You'll be at your event, performing on stage or mingling with your fans, and you'll look up and meet a pair of dark eyes across the room. Shouta, lingering on the edges as always, but watching you with eyes as warm as coals and this smirking smile half-tucked into his scarf. And you just know.

He waits patiently until the event is over, possibly even until the taxi home. But as soon as he has you somewhere semi-private, Shouta's hands are sliding around your waist and he's gonna be leaving stubbly kisses on your neck, muttering about how he doesn't know how you put up with all those people. How he's barely seen you this evening.

"You liar, you were watching me the whole time."

He gives a husky laugh. "True."

The cats are gonna be shooed out of the bedroom, because Shouta needs some private time to show you just how much he appreciates your talents.

#delaware-lemme-smash #aizawa shouta #eraserhead #aizawa x reader #bnha headcanons #bnha imagines #Mod Rig

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ogurizz · 8 months

Text

my magnum opus: metalocalypse x transformers crossover

aka the most metal death metal band in the galaxy

separate designs + a bit of lore under cut

it's geared more towards metalocalypse fans, but if you haven't watched the show or don't feel like reading just enjoy the designs :)

it would be weird if they still had human names so 60% of my creativity went into making up new ones

au is based on idw 2005 comics, i'll put the canon lore into square brackets

[short history summary:

cybertron was ruled by functionists. they believed you must live according to your vehicle mode. so if you're a cement mixer, you will mix the damn cement until the end of time or else

eventually, a miner-turned-gladiator megatron said: "guys this is bullshit, everyone should have equal opportunities in life". a lot of people shared his opinion, so he gathered an army, named them decepticons, assassinated the government and the civil war broke out. it lasted four million years, a whole bunch of war crimes was committed on both sides. also megatron stopped giving a shit about equality and turned into a tyrant but that's irrelevant

post-war cybertron population was like.. 100 times smaller and had a hard time adapting to civilian life. maybe death metal wouldn't fix them but it would sure be cathartic]

SCRAGMUG, being a humble cement mixer, really vibed with megatrons ideas about equality and emancipation and all that. in reality decepticons assigned him on construction work again, with the only difference that he could get caught in artillery fire now. he compensates with making up heroic stories about losing his arm every chance he gets

war was kind of a social lift for DETONATE: he went from odd security guard jobs to elite decepticon storm troop. while he never cared about ideology, end of war still leaves him confused on what to do with his life now. therapy is for pussies, so he pours his ptsd into gory poetry on his secret datapad

he met scragmug once in a prison cell before the war, they both got into a mass brawl. the cement mixer talked his audial off while detonate stoically listened. decepticons soon opened the prison gates and scragmug left thinking they are besties for life (he didn't even get yelled at!)

DOUBLEKICK is from junkion, a literal garbage-dump of a planet where all fauna will try to eat you! its culture is 15% scavenging, 15% cannibalism and 70% earth tv. he had a pretty good relationship with his twin triplesnap, until this rat accidentally burned down an important storage building and blamed it on his bro

conveniently, decepticons were recruiting junkions at the time, so doublekick escaped the ostracism by enlisting as a mechanic. he became fast friends with scragmug and after the war they went to cybertron together, where he set up a workshop.

[short digression on spark bonds since this pair of fruits has one:

sparks are transformers' souls and hearts simultaneously, extuinguished spark = death. it's located in a spark chamber in the middle of a chest and powers the body.

there are two kinds of spark bonds: conjux endura and amica endura. first is similar to spouses, second - to best friends. to become amicas, you must perform a ritual: bare your spark to your friend, invite them to share your light and tell them how much you appreciate them :]

the guitarists are from camian, cybertron's long-lost distant colony, so the war didn't touch them at all. luckily for them, camian places a lot of value into art and culture. unluckily, it is also required to find an amica in 10 megacycles (about 93 hours!!) or face ostracisation. it's a religious thing

WINTERSUN has a total of three interests in life: flying fast, playing guitar fast, and fragging. social stigma would significantly limit the pool of sexual partners, so he chose his amica based on guitar skill. turned out this doesn't make a solid foundation for a healthy relationship. after a particularly nasty fight wintersun compulsively left for cybertron

SCRAPFANG has always dreamed of flying, he used mountains as springboards so he could get into the air for a few seconds. with this comes fangirling about planes, so he was ecstatic when a magnificent white jet became his amica, and making music together was amazing! he's determined to find wintersun, apologise and fix everything

... ok i also have a 1000 word google doc on how they all got together but no one will read that shit so i'm planning to illustrate some highlights from it. and design charles and maybe some other characters too. follow me for more robot art

+ bonus height chart, they're big boys!

#metalocalypse #dethklok #my art #pickles the drummer #skwisgaar skwigelf #william murderface #toki wartooth #nathan explosion #metalocalypse au #dethformers #transformers #i'm unreasonably proud of this haha

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renren-006 · 2 months

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Love Lost | Part 2: Heart Strings

Negan Smith x fem reader

plot: being in Virginia has sent your heart thumping, will you ever figure out why?

word count: 1166

a/n: hey! this is part 2 to Love Lost I hope you enjoy it!

Part 1: Atlanta- Virginia

Living in Alexandria had set your heart ablaze. You had no idea why your heart would thump away when you walked outside your shared home into the Virginia air. You had never even visited the state let alone DC. Negan always wanted to go to DC together one day and walk around the museums and act like we had never met and meet at a painting. You smiled at the sweet memory of talking about going to DC one day. That's all it was you though, just the idea and memory of him making your heart beat, but even after that it continued to be a problem.

“We should go to DC once you get some time off” Negan has said from his spot on the couch. You turned your head away from the book in your lap. You were only a part time nurse at the hospital in your area, you didn't work too much but you both needed the money so you worked more hours than you should have. While Negan was teaching basketball to the highschool, even he didn't make enough to keep you two afloat.

“What?”

“Let's go to DC when we both have some time off. Lets go to the museums”

“You want to go to DC? For the Smithsonian?” you asked him, wondering how long he held this obsession.

“Yes! Let's go and look at the art and we can do a little role play” he joked. Him and his role play, he loved when you flirted in a way where you didn't know the other, where you just so happen to fall head over heels for him instantly.

“You and your roleplay” you laughed, “Okay! Okay! Well go I promise. Only if you take me to the natural history museum” you told him. He smiled and pulled you into his lab holding you close and kissing your cheeks.

“Whatever you want sweetheart” he told you, kissing you hard and sweet.

Throughout your time at Alexandria it never stopped and only got worse the further you left Alexandria. It wasn't until one day you realized why.

You did your best to distract yourself from your fast heart beat. You hunted, you helped patch people up in the little hospital they had. They welcomed your help there, learning that your stitches were far neater than theirs. You worked in the hospital for two years before the world ended and then again was trapped with no other option but to patch those cops up even though they trapped you. Within the walls of the alexandria hospital you felt calm, finally being in a place that didn't hold you there and wanted your skills to help the others. You felt at peace for the first time, in a long time.

With the rest of the group you tagged along with Sasha and with Maggie occasionally. Shasha usually asked for you to watch her back when she went out to shoot at the walkers to get her sorrows and anger out. You worried for her, as the others did, but you let her handle her grief how anyone would. You handled yourself how you see fit, including working long hours in the hospital or even taking calls to houses at night if kids were sick or something happened.

There was a time where the integrity of Alexandria was compromised and it terrified you. You held up in the hospital watching as walkers poured in from all angles into the community. You saw people running, dying and you saw those things eating. What was worse was when Carl was brought in, the look on Rick's face was something you won't ever forget.

“Calm down Rick! Calm down” you told him, pushing him back so you could work on Carl's eye. It was nasty and hard but you managed to save his life but not his eye. That night was the first time you charged out behind Rick and Michonne and killed your way through the dead letting yourself feel the anger you felt towards the world. You let those tears fall with no regard to people seeing and when Sasha came up behind you and saw the look of hurt in hers, the two of you continued blazing through the dead.

The community's life changed around after that. A new group was discovered, the Hilltop. Rick had an idea to the Hilltop with their problem with a whole other group of people, but it backfired. It wasn't for a few weeks before the real repercussions came. Maggie had a problem with her baby and wanted to get to Hilltop. You offered to tag along to keep her company and help her, she smiled and warmed the journey together. Maggie was different and alike to her sister, you took that as a good sign that the two of you could become closer friends.

This journey was interrupted at every road, blocking your way forward. You were worried for Maggie, with the way she was looking and the pain you saw behind her eyes, you didn't know how much more of this turning around she could handle. When you tried leaving the van and running, even then you were trapped. The van was driven in front of where you kneeled with the others. Your heart like before was beating fast, boom boom boom, you didn't understand, you thought it was the nerves. A man stepped out of the van, leather jacket and bold boots stepped down out of the light. There the man's face became visible to you, although a face hardened by the years of the apocalypse those eyes and those lips were still the same.

“Negan” you said, whispering your lover's name, he looked at you and froze. The others were all staring at you and the rest of the men gathered didn't so much as move when Negan kneeled down.

“Y/N. Is that…is that really you?” He asked, the face he had on was instantly broken and the mask fell. There he was the man you loved now looking at you.

“Yes…”you said not wanting to say more, but desperately craving too. He didn't so much as look at the others in the group.

“Pack it up boys, we're done here” He said, every man's voice yelled over each other cursing and bargaining to make them pay. They wanted to watch us bleed for their friends' lives that RIck and the others took.

“I said pack it up” Negan snarled, everyone stopped and everyone got in their trucks. “Tonight consider this a blessing” he said turning to Rick who for the most part was terrified and confused. Negan stood a hand outstretched for you to take so you did. You walked with him to his car, the others watching.

“Y/N!” Maggie called, you turned back, Negans boots stopped as you did, “How..?”

“He's my husband” was all you said before you let him lead you to his car, towards his home.

#negan is a good character #negan smith #twd negan #negan x reader #negan fanfiction #the walking dead negan #jeffery dean morgan

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star1117-archives · 2 years

Note

Non-sexual possessiveness is icky but in the bedroom 👀

just like… what would each member be like with it? What would they do to show you belong to them?

➵ Pairing : OT8 X Gn!Reader

➵ Genre : Smut

➵ W.C : 700

➵ Warnings : Breeding kink, Body painting, Edging, Dumbification, Praise, Begging, Manhandling, Fingering, Cockwarming, Degradation, Marking, Grinding, Rough sex, Choking.

➵ A/N: Under 16’s DNI

𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐰𝐚: Breeding

“Shit.. gonna breed you like the bitch you are. Pump you full of my kids.”

He’ll pump you full of his cum and finger it into you, saying he’s gonna breed you since you’re his and his only. Kinda seems like someone who’d make you cockwarm him all night just to make sure hardly any of his cum drips outta you. Depending on your mood it’ll either be hard degradation or the most heartwarming praise.

𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠: Drawing

“Unless you want people to know who your body belongs to, I suggest you don’t wear that crop top love.”

Since we already know Joong is the artsy type, I could see him getting a fat black pen and drawing all over your body. Cumdump, insert here, master’s plaything, etc etc. He’ll put you infront of the mirror as he works, colouring you carefully like the piece of art you are.

𝐘𝐮𝐧𝐡𝐨: Making out

“Look how swollen your lips look babe… bet they’d look even better around my cock.”

Yunho seems like a guy who’d have the wildest fascination with your body, and especially your lips. He’s spent hours at a time kissing you, biting your lips, sucking them gently. He just loves seeing you get all worked up about something as small as kissing. He just absolutely loves pinning you down and holding you in place as he grinds onto you as he kisses you roughly.

𝐘𝐞𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐠: Edging

“Just say it baby. Give in and tell Daddy what you want, you know you want to.”

This man craves to see you whimpering on the bed, clenching uselessly around air as he steals yet another orgasm from you. He wants to see you beg for release, thank him for the pleasure, promise to never leave him. Yeosang will stuff you with his fingers again and again until you finally suck it up and tell him what you want. He’ll give you the world, as long as he’s the center of your universe.

𝐒𝐚𝐧: Dumbification

“Tied up all pretty for Daddy, you’re just my dumb little slut aren’t you? Can’t even deny it you’re so fucked out.”

San’s only goal in life is to fuck you so hard all you can think of is him. He’ll pour a truckload of whispers into your ears, filling your mind with only him and his cock. He doesn’t want a single other thing to be up there. Just him, only him.

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢: Praise

“Such a good doll, can you come for Daddy my love? Cum over him and mark him as yours? Cause you know damn straight I’ll be doing it to you.”

Mingi just wants you to know you’re his pretty little doll, so beautiful and so fucking tight. He’ll run his hands over your ass, squeezing and moulding your cheeks as he fucks you slow and deep, hips rocking into you precisely every single time. He wanted it to be perfect, especially since he was gonna be the only one you fuck for the rest of your life.

𝐖𝐨𝐨𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠: Begging

“Come here my sweet babe, come ride Daddy’s dick like a good little cocksleeve. Or do I have to give you another facial to refresh that memory of yours?”

Similar to Yeosang, Wooyoung wants you on your knees promising all his heart desires just for release. Watching you cry for him, cry for pleasure, shit that turns him on. He’ll sit there with his dick out, masturbating until he comes all over your face. And shit it’s so arousing seeing his cum flowing down your face. Arousing enough that he gets hard again almost instantly.

𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨: Manhandling

“Beautiful. You look so fucking hot covered in my marks cub. Now hold still, let me taste that sweet nectar of yours.”

Pinning you against walls, choking you until your head swims, bruising your hips with his tight grip, marking your neck in a feverish uncontrolled state. Jongho almost turns animalistic when he’s with you, wanting to just cover you in his marks. When you wake up with your bruised hips, shaky legs, and marked neck, he wants you to know who you belong to. What he did to give you a permanent reminder you’re taken.

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krikeymate · 2 months

Text

one, two, three

Scream past-6 fic - part 3 of this is how the story ends

They say once is an accident. Twice is a coincidence… Three times… well.

Tara stares at the knife, fascinated with the way the night sky reflects in the now tarnished blade, blood glittering before her.

It’s oddly captivating.

Holding it up to the moonlight, she finds herself enchanted by the blood slipping further and further down, until the still-warm droplets kiss her skin. It feels like a hug from her sister, safe and burning and leaves her craving for more.

Death shouldn’t be so pretty, she thinks, glancing over to the lifeless body sprawled over a park bench.

It lies like a work of art. But not quite perfect. Tara finds herself wondering how she can make it perfect, she wants it to be perfect. Perfect for–

And just like that, her heart begins to show itself, thumping away in her chest. The calm detachment that had led her here to this moment starts to fade, horror creeping in in its place.

She wonders how she could describe the experience. Coming back to herself? Like watching someone else controlling her body? Is it like she’s two different people all at once?

None of them feel right, none of it describes what it’s like to slip a knife into someone’s skin without a second thought, to then choose to do it again, and again, and again. To feel satisfaction at the damage you’re inflicting, to know what you’re doing is wrong. To want to stop, but being unable to, just needing to… just needing a little more. Just once more.

To slip.

She can feel it inside her.

Something hungry.

It gnaws away. It’s tasted this treat and now it wants more, needs more.

Tara closes her eyes and tries to breathe deep, to push down the vomit rising in her throat.

She feels guilty, oh so guilty. The knowledge that some poor soul will have to stumble across this horror scene – some jogger in the early hours of the morning; a commuter on the way to work; a student taking a shortcut – someone will have to find something straight from their nightmares, and it will all be her fault.

She wouldn’t wish this trauma upon anyone.

Tara’s always been selfish, from the day she was born. She knew because her mother always said so. And she is. So so selfish.

Because she just walks away.

Tara wonders what Sam would say if she walked in right now, as she tries to scrub blood-stained hands clean in the kitchen sink.

There’s a moment when she contemplates pouring bleach over her skin, for fear that the dish soap won’t help. But just like her fear of Sam coming home, of sirens edging closer, it’s unwarranted.

Sam’s still out, the body hasn’t been discovered yet, and the Dawn washes away her sins.

She’s been counting the days.

One.

Two.

Three.

Waiting, always waiting, for that knock on the door. Waiting to be carted away, locked up, separated from her sister again – the worst sentence she could imagine.

The hours stretch on endlessly, with nothing to do but pace and spin the memory around in her mind, over and over until it’s painted behind her eyelids, tattooed onto her skin like her scars.

The sensation hasn’t left her. The small knife in her hand, the blood between her fingers, the burn in her chest as she tried to lift the body. Even the smell, it follows her everywhere. Garbage and metal and death.

Tara thinks she might be going a little insane. She must be insane.

It hasn’t gone unnoticed.

Sam is always so careful to make sure Tara knows she isn’t unnoticed.

It worries her, she knows.

That’s the worst part of all. Knowing she’s worrying her sister, knowing she can’t stop it, can’t even pretend to herself that she’s fine – let alone anyone else.

And she can’t even tell her why.

Oh she wants to, she longs to. She has to bite her tongue every time Sam looks at her, inquisitive eyes asking silent questions she can’t bring herself to answer, the way Sam can’t bring herself to ask.

They exist on this see-saw, precariously balanced. The slightest nudge will leave one of them falling. She can’t take the risk, can’t rock the boat.

Sam did her term, choking back the truth for the sake of her sister. Now it’s Tara’s turn.

She can be strong, she can. She has to be.

She can’t do this anymore.

She really can’t.

If Sam knocks on the bathroom door just one more time and asks if she’s okay, Tara knows she’ll finally give in, that her secrets will all spill out if Sam opens that door.

But she doesn’t.

She lets Tara hide, let’s her process the therapy session by herself. Sam lets her go.

Half of her cries out in relief, the other cries for her to come back. Tara doesn’t know what she wants anymore, what she needs. She needs– she wants… she can’t have it. Not anymore. No more.

6 weeks, 5 hospital trips, 4 therapy sessions, 3 bodies.

Two ghosts haunting her.

One fucked up nightmare of a life.

She loses herself in the mirror, its reflection a park not a bathroom. Her face blurs until it’s unrecognisable. She doesn’t know where she is, who she is.

She didn’t know who the drunk lying on bench was, not until this morning, his name plastered across the local news. She didn’t know how hard it would hit her. Didn’t know how to explain away how it affected her, not to Sam, not to her therapist. Not to herself.

The other two had been… they were… accidents. She hadn’t meant it, not like this time. This time… she’d wanted him to be found. She couldn’t keep it hidden anymore, she’d wanted what she’d done to be recognised, acknowledged.

She had to know it was real.

It’s so hard to know what’s real these days.

Like the faces she spots in the crowd, from the corner of her eyes. The whispers at night, even wrapped up in Sam’s arms.

“You’re not real,” she’ll whisper to herself when she’s alone.

“Aren’t I?” the phantom following her replies.

#/mp #Scream #Tara Carpenter #my writing tag #TIHTSE tag #thanks i hate this but whatever got it in before midnight

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