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whoistartaglia · 5 months

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delirious

does a confession count when it comes from someone delirious with fever?

alhaitham x reader

you’re clearly sick with fever, you know it, alhaitham knows it, and even your professor to whom you’ve never said a single word knows it. so why are you, wearing a black mask, coughing up a lung, and a second away from sleep, in lecture?

alhaitham has his own hypotheses to that particular question, but the fact remains is that there’s still about ten more minutes of lecture and he doesn’t know if you’re going to make it. not because of death—at least, he certainly hopes not—but because he meant it when he said you’re a whisp away from dreamland. one blink might send you head first into a fever dream, and you honestly think you might be in one when alhaitham silently packs his bag and silently moves through the lecture hall to sit next to you.

“what are you doing?” you whisper.

“taking you home.”

you cough before responding, and alhaitham cringes at the sound.

“home?”

“back to the dorm,” he clarifies.

you and alhaitham both live in the same dorm, though you only realized it when he came knocking on your door, with only the message of “you’re being too loud, i’m trying to study, please quiet down” when you opened it. your roommate was understandably annoyed by his obtrusiveness, and you were too, to an extent. until you told your roommate the very next day you thought he was cute and recognized him from lecture.

a lost cause, your roommate called you.

a lost cause was right.

“why?” you ask again through another cough.

alhaitham shrugs. “consider it me doing something nice.”

“but you’re not nice?”

alhaitham raises an eyebrow. your face is pale and laced with confusion, and if the statement didn’t come out as a sincere question, alhaitham would be much more offended. presently, he’s a little miffed—of course he’s nice, just when he wants to be, which may or may not be less than the average person—and has just realized something very interesting.

you don’t have much of a filter when sick with fever.

you’re also not very… present. he had to nudge you when the lecture ended and the professor started packing up. he had to subsequently coax you to pack up, because you told him you were so tired you could fall asleep right there and then.

“you can’t do that.”

“but why?”

“it’s too warm in here and lecture chairs are uncomfortable, and another class is coming in.”

“i don’t care,” you told him, a pout gracing your features.

“well, i do,” alhaitham says, standing. he looks down at you. “now, are you going to let me walk you back or are you doing to stay?”

“stay.”

so you have a streak of stubbornness when you’re sick, too. alhaitham rolls his eyes and starts packing your stuff himself, tossing in your laptop (which hasn’t been touched the entire lecture) and notebook (which also has remained unopened) and even takes your phone, plopping it in before zippering the bag shut, tossing it over his shoulder, and heading towards the exit.

it takes you a second in your hazed state to realize what happened before you pull yourself up and out of your seat and into the hallway. alhaitham’s nowhere to be found and you’re about to unleash a string of curses on his good name before you hear footsteps behind you.

“ready to go?”

you glare at him. “isn’t it a crime to mess with someone who’s sick?”

“a crime? no. morally wrong? maybe.” alhaitham shrugs, a slight smile tugging on his lips. “but that’s something for the philosophers to decide.”

you huff as you walk along side him, out of the lecture hall and onto the main campus. it’s a cold winter afternoon and you pull your sweatshirt around you tighter. maybe you wouldn’t have gotten sick if you didn’t insist on not wearing a winter coat when the temperature is near freezing. but then again, if you hadn’t gotten sick, then this serendipitous exchange might not have occurred.

as if reading your thoughts, alhaitham asks, “did your forget your jacket?”

“i didn’t wear one.”

“why not?”

“i am immune to the cold.”

“i assume that’s why your sick.”

“i’m not sick,” you tell him. a following series of coughs proves you wrong and has alhaitham raising his eyebrows. “okay, maybe i’m a little sick.”

“maybe just a little,” alhaitham agrees with you.

you spend the remainder of the short walk in silence, and it’s only when alhaitham leaves your side to open the door to your dorm that you realize you’re back. you think that, if this were any other time, you’d be thrilled and blushing that your crush walked you back to your dorm. he even insisted upon it. a part of you is, but it’s unfortunate you can’t outwardly show it—that is, you don’t really have the energy to.

you also can’t believe this is actually happening and real. your mind is currently afloat in a realm of feverish haze, a sign that you need a nap, but before you can unlock your dorm door, alhaitham pauses ourside of it.

he clears his throat and looks down at you staring up at him, like he’s a comet in the sky. “why did you come to lecture today? you’re clearly not feeling well.”

you stare at him through a sick-filled haze, like you might currently be lost in a fever dream you can’t quite wake up from. like you don’t know if it’s him asking or a fragment of your feverish imagination playing a trick on you.

“because i wanted to see you.”

the words, said so innocently, echo in alhaitham’s ears. you look as if you’ve either forgotten what you just said or unsure if you said anything at all. in the back of his mind, alhaitham wonders if him prying you for your feelings on him would also be a moral debate for the philosophers, but decides to press a little harder, dig a little deeper.

“why did you want to see me?”

“because…” you hesitate, tilt your head, consider the question. “because i like you?”

like the statement from earlier, it comes out as a question. as if it’s something obvious that you’re having a hard time believing alhaitham doesn’t know. as if it’s a simple truth, like the sky is blue, so simple it shouldn’t need explanation.

if you weren’t so sick right now, you might have blushed and looked down at your shoes before blinking up at him through your eyelashes and saying something coy. but like alhaitham realized earlier, you have little to no filter right now.

“i’m going to take a nap,” you tell him, before unlocking your door, waving goodbye, and shutting it firmly in his face.

alhaitham blinks, looks around for a second, then focused on your closed dorm door. he thought you might have liked him—especially when you started glancing at him more during lecture, and even asked to be his partner for a homework assignment. but could he really trust a confession from you in your addled state?

alhaitham shrugs and turns away from the door and walks down the hallway to his own room. when he enters, his roommate looks at him inquisitively, because alhaitham’s blushing, and alhaitham never blushes like this, but he brushes him off. alhaitham decides he’ll ask you again for confirmation when you’ve recovered, just to make sure.

but now he’s starting to feel sick, and wonders if he also might have a fever—from whatever sickness you have or a newfound lovesickness, he can only hypothesize. (it’s probably the latter.)

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scoutswritingcorner · 2 months

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Hey sugar~

I want a full fluff no angst request of alastor in the woods finding a lost reader

Monster In The Woods

Alastor x GN!Reader

Song: Like Real People Do by Hozier

TW: Talks about Murder, flashback to Human Alastor

A/N: Hihi Love! Added a teensy bit of angst. Who doesn't love angst?

You grumbled and looked around Alastor’s familiar bayou that was in his room. Your curiosity got the best of you, it was just seemingly endless with moths and fireflies, mud that sticks to your shoes and vines that hang from the trees that look like snakes waiting for you to let your guard down. Figments of alligators hissing and watching as you struggle to make your way further into the bayou, an old house sitting and waiting..inviting you into its warmth with bright light and smoke billowing from the chimney.

A sense of dread filled your body, one that you were too familiar with and hated with a fiery passion. The same feeling that made the golden ring on your finger feel heavier than normal allowing doubt to creep into your mind and anxiety wrap around your heart. Why weren’t you running towards the house? Towards the feeling of safety wrapped in the comfort of an old home..why were you standing in the middle of an open field? You were an unsuspecting doe about to get shot down…why was this so familiar?

Hands cupped your face, warm and sticky with blood as you sobbed out, whispers of words you couldn’t hear truthfully. You watched as his face- your husband's face twisted in fear and concern but his eyes told a different story, he was angry. Not at you, never at you. His hands brought you to his chest as your senses finally caught up to you. Ringing in your ears, chest heaving from the lack of oxygen in your lungs, your leg and stomach hurt. The same substance that was coating your hands had coated your leg and stomach. You were bleeding. There was so much blood. His words had fallen on deaf ears as a man laid face first into the mud and dirt not too far away, blood mixing into the earth.

Oh right, you were running from the man and a trap snagged your leg good, ripping tendons in your leg. Then a shot rang out as you tried to get your leg out of the trap, distant slurs as the drunken man held a gun up aimed for your head. All you wanted to do was check up on your husband, you made this journey many times before why was this the outcome of it? As you began praying to a god you possibly never believed in, you never really visited the churches when you were younger. But you always did with your husband under the guise you were just going to work with him after. Yet here you were sobbing and panicking, whispering out how you wanted to absolve all your sins to God.

But it never came, the gun was dropped and subsequently caused the gun to go off. Bullet shooting out into the Louisiana swamps, the sun casting its last dying light upon your form as the moon was rising from behind the old shack. Blood spurted out from the neck of the unknown man as your husband stood behind him, clothes drenched in blood as the knife in his was dropped to the muddy ground. You sobbed out in his arms..bleeding out, was this how you were going to die?

A familiar clawed hand squeezed your shoulder as familiar static nipped at your skin, another reaching over to wipe the fresh tears from your eyes. “Come come, let’s not dwell on the past, Darling.” He whispered out as you looked up at him. His crimson eyes that were always watching and moving waiting for the wrong movement, softened as he watched tears stain your cheeks. “I’m sorry..I got curious…” You whispered out watching him wave it off as he grabbed your hand, lifting it to kiss the golden band.

Guiding you out of the bayou easily, he tapped his cane on the ground beside him, “No need to apologize, Darling. Let me go run you a warm bath, yes” He asked, watching as you nodded from the corner of his eye a soft smile graced your lips at the thought. “...Stay with me?” You asked, glancing up at your husband. He let out a soft chuckle and kissed the side of your head, arm wrapping around your waist.

“Of course, Dear.” He whispered out, finally putting those worries in your head to rest. He hated seeing that look in your eyes..the same look you gave him all those years ago in the bayou as he held you during your last moments. You looked so afraid then..but he wouldn’t make that same mistake again, he would make sure of it. Not even death could pull you both apart.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor x gn!reader #gn reader

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eternally-racing · 3 months

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superbowl sunday | logan sargeant

pairing: logan x reader

genre: fluff

wk: 1k (short n sweet xoxo)

summary: you want to do something special for your homesick boyfriend when he misses one of america's favorite unofficial holidays.

----

With the new season just around the corner, the Williams team was in full force putting together their finishing touches on pre-season testing and meetings. Unfortunately for you, that meant that Logan was putting in long hours at the factory, with the most you’re seeing of him sometimes being just his imprint on the bedsheets in the morning since he leaves so early in the morning and comes back even long after you go to sleep.

Moving to Oxfordshire was a big step for the both of you. For Logan it was a no-brainer, even choosing to buy a place instead of renting helped show his commitment to the team, and how could you have possibly said no to him when he asked for you to join him? After all, in his words you are is home, no matter where he is in the world. While Logan may be used to living the European life, moving away from your all-American home was definitely a big culture shock. There were of course fun new experiences - first time getting lost in a new city, trying new cafes that you knew you would subsequently come to every week, and seeing the beautiful sights. At the same time there were the moments that absolutely tore you up to be away from home - Logan cried as he held you on Thanksgiving when all you really wanted was to be able to eat your mom’s Turkey stuffing, but then he subsequently called your mom and got her to send you a frozen portion in the mail. It only arrived 2 weeks later and there was a definite chance that the stomachache you got afterwards may have been due to it being slightly spoiled by the time it made it to your dinner table, but the action itself definitely warmed your heart. Even though you were definitely the baby when it came to missing home, you knew that there were a couple of days that got to him and today was definitely one of them.

Logan’s back ached as he finally got out of what felt like a 10 hour long meeting about company branding that he couldn’t care less about. The one thing he’s grateful for is the plethora of window panes at the factory - if he’s going to be stuck inside all day it’s at least nice to see the sun rise and set each day over the horizon. There are some days where Formula 1 doesn’t feel as worth it, where he wishes that he was in his backyard in Florida playing soccer with his brother, his dad on grill while his mom nags them about not wearing enough sunscreen, but on days like that he at least gets to see you, usually. If only he had time to see you right now. If he rushed back to your apartment right now he would probably at least catch you getting ready for bed, but it feels selfish to keep you up sometimes. He knows just how much you sacrificed to be here with him, including working a remote job in a timezone that meant that you were up at the worst of hours for team meetings.

He expects to walk into a dark apartment, just like he has for the last 3 weeks - but instead he’s met with a completely different sight.

It’s you, which is a sight enough to bring a smile to his face. But it’s not just you, but you’re surrounded by a a scene that he can only describe in two words. While he’s rendered speechless, you’re happy to steal the words from his mouth.

“Happy Superbowl Sunday, babe.”

Your apartment has all the staples from back home; chicken wings, seven layer dip, beer. If Logan’s nutritionist took a look at your dining table right now he would probably have a heart attack, but Logan could care less about that right now.

“I really lucked out that both teams have the color red so I only had to buy one color of balloons to cover my bases.” you giggle as Logan picks you up and spins you around. There’s tears starting to pool at the corner of his eyes and you understand the emotion you see in them all too well.

"I -, wow - , how did you - , I can't believe -" the words keep stumbling out of Logan's mouth as he's just in complete awe of what you pulled off for him.

You both take a second to cherish the moment, that the two of you get to do this together after so many weeks of not seeing each other. But soon after that you both settle onto the couch with more snacks than you could possibly ever consume surrounding the two of you on all sides.

You’re actually only watching a recording of the game with how the time differences worked out, and it’s actually Monday night, late enough to be almost Tuesday in England by the time you turn on the television - but Logan is far too sleep deprived and overworked to notice. There’s definitely a non-zero chance he falls asleep by the time the 3rd quarter even starts, but you’re happy to at least fall asleep together as you cuddle into his side.

“Also we are cheering for…” Your voice trails off as a question since you actually have no idea who Logan likes out of these two teams.

“The 49ers babe, you would love them too if you knew the backstory”

His comment makes you curious and while you’re scared of the can of worms you may be opening of being mansplained the history of the entire NFL, you ask him to explain and luckily he keeps it short and sweet.

“You always love cheering for an underdog, Y/N,” Logan says with a smile.

author's note: my new roman empire is the fact that logan was cheering for brock purdy in the super bowl 🥲 hope you all enjoyed this lil bit of logan fluff, until next time! - Em 🩷

#logan sargeant fluff #logan sargeant #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 #f1 fic #logan sargeant x reader #logan sargeant imagine #logan sargeant one shot #ls2 #williams racing #f1 fluff #formula 1 x reader #formula one #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 fic #williams f1

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camarocarfight · 3 months

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Alastor's Bloody Valentine

Human Alastor x Reader late Valentine's Day special

Rated very mature with sexual content, murder, blood, and gore. Set in the 1930s with human characters. I suppose you could look at this as being a little Alastor back story.

Maybe there'll be a part deux?

It's kinda edited, but I got lazy and lost interest, and I just wanted to finish it. I hope all of you dear readers enjoy!

New Orleans, 1932

There was a chill in the air, carried in on a breeze that whistled through the old willow trees, and rustled their long, spindle-like branches. The trill of grasshoppers and crickets and the occasional screech of a night owl were customary of the bayou. Only interrupted by the nightly steam train, whose whistle echoed for miles until it faded like a whisper. There was no moon - only an ebony sky accompanied by its thousands of starry hosts.

As serene as it all seemed, the bayou was one of the most dangerous places to be in 1932. Not just because of the alligators, snakes, and venomous spiders. The neighboring town was full of talk about the Louisiana serial killer, who lured their victims into the darkness of the bayou to slaughter them, leaving no trace or remains. People simply vanished, though it seemed to be mostly men of diverse age and status. Innocent and not so innocent. The most recent being a younger gentleman who had just gotten married. The papers did fail to mention that he'd nearly beaten his new wife within an inch of her life not long after the wedding, but news traveled fast. He was the thirteenth person to go missing.

With Valentine's Day came the fear of who the next victim would be. Mothers and wives kept tight leashes on their sons and husbands, and the police put in place a mandatory curfew. Temporary police sentinels were stationed on street corners, keeping watch over the streets day and night. Which subsequently made it more difficult to get to and from the only speakeasy in town. The police were happy - killing two birds with one stone.

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, don't let this curfew get you down. Take your gal out on the town for some swing and make the most out of your Valentine's Day. Ladies, keep your gents close, and stay safe-”

“Y’see,” Mimzy turned the cathedral radio off with a huff and crossed her arms over her voluptuous chest. “This curfew is ruinin’ everything!”

You rolled your eyes and leaned your elbow on the bar and rested your cheek in the palm of your hand. Mimzy had been on a tangent for the last week for having to close the speakeasy. Being that it was in the basement of an old sugar mill, it was too risky to keep it running with the police snooping around. In one night, with the help of Husker, all of the liquor was moved under the cover of darkness to the crawl space of Alastor's hunting cabin deep in the bayou. The liquor would at least be safe if the police felt it necessary to search the sugar mill. The only thing they'd find would be an empty stage and bar.

With no speakeasy, the regular meet and greet for you and all of your friends was the cabin. It was a comfortable space, at least. Alastor had used the extra money he made from his radio show to install new, polished wood floors, a nice bar, and even a loft with a decent sized bed when he would stay for the first week of hunting. It also had a decent kitchen, which was Alastor's favorite feature. As for you, Alastor made sure to give you your own bit of space. In the corner of the main room was a stone fireplace with book shelves flanking either side. The shelves were filled to the brim with books of every genre. Hanging above the fireplace was Alastor’s prized Stag - previously occupied by Alastor’s portrait from when he was in the service. You never did tell him just how creepy you found the stuffed creature. Alastor loved the hunting sport, but you appreciated wildlife as just that; alive.

Mimzy sauntered over from the radio and sat herself on a rickety barstool, her brows pinched. “How am I gonna make money? Who knows how long this whole thing will go on for. And where's Alastor? His show ended an hour ago. His ass better not be dead too.”

You sighed and stood from your barstool to round the bar. There was a bottle of, ironic enough, Red Stag that was already open. It wasn't your first choice, but prohibition made everyone less picky. You poured yourself a generous glass, only for Mimzy to swipe it from you, and gulp it down in one swig. Your eye twitched in irritation as you glared at the woman through your lashes. The relationship between the two of you was decent enough, but as of late, she'd been grating your nerves and testing your patience. Mimzy's flamboyant personality didn’t jive well with your own in an enclosed space. You were more reserved, shy, and softly spoken. Not to mention that the cabin had always been an intimate space for you and Alastor. It didn't seem so intimate now - being that it was now shared space with Mimzy and Husker.

“Would you like another drink before I pour my own,” you asked, your voicing clipped.

Your head was pounding now, with a migraine blooming behind your eyes. The little grin that slid over Mimzy's lips told you that she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Actually, Doll, I would,” she flashed you a grin with her nose wrinkling as she did so. “You're such a good friend,” Mimzy cooed and thrust her empty glass in your face.

Your grip on the bottle of Red Stag was white knuckle, and you opened your mouth to give her a piece of your mind, but the words caught in your throat when the cabin door opened. Both you and Mimzy looked over to see Husker coming through the door with Alastor trailing behind him. Your shoulders visibly deflated when your gaze met Alastor's.

Mimzy put her glass down on the bar and threw her arms up in glee. “Alastor! I'm so glad to see you!”

“And I you,” Alastor grinned. “Thanks for holding down the fort and watching over my darling for me.”

“I don't need a babysitter,” you grumbled and nodded your head at Husker when he gave you a sympathetic smile. “Hey, Husk.”

“Cher,” Husk greeted in that deep, baritone voice.

Alastor laughed boisterously and leaned on the bar in front of you. Upon meeting his gaze, his chocolate brown pools started to melt away all of the tension in your body. It was so easy for you to get lost in his eyes.

“I jest, my dear. Husker here is going to drive Mimzy home, and we are going to celebrate!”

Mimzy quirked a brow and made a sound akin to a high-pitched scoff. “I ain't ready to leave yet. I want to celebrate too! We could have a round of drinks!”

Husk had noticed that you and Alastor had yet to tear apart your gazes and were seeming lost in each other. Alastor flashed you a dazzling smile and leaned over the bar to press a chaste kiss to your lips. That was enough for your cheeks to flush and become a brilliant crimson.

“C'mon,” Husk grabbed Mimzy's fur coat off the coat rack and all but threw it into the woman's face. “Before I drag your ass to the car.”

Mimzy put her coat on in a huff, then fussed over her hair, throwing insults at Husker as she did so.

“Thank you,” you mouthed to Alastor and waved to Mimzy as she was all but pushed out the door by Husker. You could hear her nagging as she walked all the way to the door. “Poor Husker.”

“He'll live,” Alastor hummed and gave you a wink. “Mimzy, however,” he chuckled.

“That would be too good to be true,” you mumbled and grabbed the bottle of Red Stag to pour yourself that long awaited glass. “How was work?”

Alastor set about removing his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress. Your gaze was drawn to the newly exposed, tan flesh of his forearms. “Same as always, my dear. I'm sure you were listening?”

“Until Mimzy turned the radio off,” You walked into the main sitting area and sat in your favorite rocking chair.

In your left hand was your glass of bourbon that you then took a sip of. From over the brim of the glass, you continued to study your partner as he made himself comfortable. Alastor's bowtie was now untied, and the top button of his dress shirt undone, exposing a delicious expanse of his neck. Being that it was Valentine's Day, you hoped that it meant that Alastor wouldn't mind taking everything farther than usual. The man would tease you here and there, whispering dirty things in your ear, because he knew it riled you up. The act of sex, however, just didn't fit his idealism. Any affection from Alastor would include kissing and touching, maybe heavy petting, but the two of you had only had penetrative sex a handful of times. Each time it happened was mind-blowing, leaving you craving more and waiting on bated breath to feel him the same way again. You could feel yourself beginning to flush just thinking about it - the heat slowly building up in your chest and rising until your cheeks were crimson. At least you could blame it on the bourbon, which you quickly threw back and tore your gaze away from Alastor.

“So,” Alastor sat down on the couch and crossed his legs, and draped his left arm over the back of the couch. “Quiet evening with a shared drink, my darling?”

Honestly, the man was entirely too distracting. It didn't help either that the bourbon was affecting you far sooner than you anticipated. Your mind blanked, seeing Alastor sitting there - sleeves rolled up, bowtie undone, the red vest that matched his trousers that fit him entirely too well. Alastor was your perfect definition of a sex-god that had a distaste for the very thing that you craved. His smoldering gaze and satisfied, closed-mouth grin told you that he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you.

“Are you alright,” he cocked his head to the side. “You look bothered.”

“You're a tease,” you swallowed.

Alastor’s brows rose in surprise. “Me? I'm just sitting here,” he laughed and beckoned you over with his finger. “Come here, my darling.”

A bolt of red-hot arousal shot right up your spine, and your body moved automatically, seemingly out of your control and under Alastor’s. Alastor moved to uncross his legs and seized you by the hips with his strong hands. You now stood in between his spread thighs, looking down into his brown eyes as he gazed up at you. His lips quirked in a crooked grin, making him look like the cat who got the cream.

“Tell me how I'm a tease,” Alastor whispered huskily.

You brought your hands up to cup his face and ran your left thumb along his bottom lip. “You know what you do to me, Alastor.”

Alastor grinned and wrapped his arms around your waist. “Oh, I'm well aware,” the man's pupils were now blown with his own need. “Would you like me to do something about that?”

Relief flooded you, and you nodded eagerly. By now, the bourbon was really beginning to have an effect on you and how much you needed the man before you. “I've been waiting so long, Alastor.”

“The wait makes it worthwhile,” he growled.

Before your tipsy mind could even comprehend what was happening, Alastor stood, effortlessly hoisting you up by the hips, and bounded towards the spiral staircase of the loft Your arms wrapped around his neck and your legs around his slim waist. Alastor’s arousal was very noticeable against your own pelvis. The heat from his girth radiated through his slacks. When his lips met yours in a fevered kiss, your mind blanked with arousal. Your senses quickly became overwhelmed by his touch, his scent, and his taste as his tongue coaxed your own in a scorching kiss. Alastor eagerly devoured your mouth and every subsequent moan he drew from you. He broke the kiss, nipping at your bottom lip as he did so. His lips then trailed down to the column of your neck where he sank his teeth into the supple flesh. You hissed from the pain and carded your fingers through his brunette hair until you had a handful and tugged, earning a groan from him.

“Fuck it,” Alastor growled and sat you on the steps of the spiral staircase.

Alastor’s hands snaked up your dress to pull your panties down your legs, leaving the silk garment dangling from your left ankle. You gasped when he cupped your dripping sex in his left hand and breathed against the side of your neck.

“I’ll have you right here,” he growled and claimed your mouth once again.

You moaned wontanly into his mouth when he penetrated you with two fingers and curled them against your g-spot. Even though sex was a rare occasion, Alastor had memorized your body from the inside out. Knowing every sensitive spot to kiss, lick, or bite. Alastor groaned and pulled your bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, ripping the most delicious moans from your throat. Each and every sound you made went straight to his cock that was now straining uncomfortably in his slacks. With a tweak of his fingers, Alastor had you coming with his name falling from your lips like the most beautiful prayer.

“Alastor,” you were breathless, chest heaving as you fought to catch your breath. “I need you inside me.”

Alastor’s eyes darkened, and he carefully withdrew his fingers from your quivering sex. “You’ll have me,” he whispered and kissed you chastly.

The sound of Alastor’s belt buckle was like music to your ears, as your body was finally getting the attention that it so badly craved. With your left hand, you reached between you and Alastor and took his now freed, sizeable length in your hand. You bit your lip and looked up at Alastor through your eyelashes. Alastor held your gaze as he guided himself into your tight heat, slowly splitting you open and seating himself inside you. Both of you panted, attempting to adjust to the almost foreign sensation. No, you weren’t a virgin, but Alastor had been your first, and since sex wasn’t a regular occurrence, it took both of you longer to adjust. You, more so than Alastor.

He was thankfully patient, waiting until the pained look on your face was no longer before slowly pulling out and thrusting back into the hilt. The man clenched his teeth painfully and screwed his eyes shut, completely drunk off of the feeling of you fitting around him so perfectly.

You held onto Alastor tightly, with your nails digging into the flesh of his back, even through his dress shirt. Alastor’s hands had your hips in a death grip, and you hoped that you would have bruises left in their place. You wanted Alastor to claim you - mark you - so that everyone knew you belonged to him.

“Come inside me, Alastor,” the words fell from your lips in a pathetic whimper before you even realised what you said.

The look Alastor gave you startled you, and his hips stuttered to a pause. You stared into each other’s eyes for what felt like an eternity, Alastor’s eyes searching your own as if looking for truth behind that request. You feared your moment of intimacy with Alastor was ruined until he started moving once more. This time, he moved slower, taking his time pulling all of the way out and sinking back into you. He continued to hold your gaze and leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Is that what you want,” Alastor asked, but it was barely above a whisper. “To be mine, forever?”

Of course it’s what you wanted. Alastor had been your first, and you wanted no one else. It was difficult for you to imagine your life any different. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about starting a family with Alastor. You brought your hands up to Alastor’s face and looked into those chocolate pools.

“Make me yours, forever, Alastor.”

~~~

You awoke the next morning, nestled in the king-sized bed of the loft alone. Alastor was nowhere to be found, with his side of the bed neatly made. Between your legs was an ache and a stickiness in the inside of your thighs that served as a reminder of the previous night's activities. What little bourbon you had, had also left you with a slight headache that settled over your temples. Coffee would be a good fix, and you wondered why you hadn't smelled it perking if Alastor had already been up.

There was a fire going in the fireplace when you made your way down the staircase, confirming that Alastor was around, but nowhere to be seen. You thought nothing of it and went over to the kitchenette to get coffee perking and breakfast ready for whenever Alastor returned.

You sat down in your rocking chair by the fireplace when the coffee was ready to enjoy your cup. The chair rocked rhythmically on the hardwood floor, nearly lulling you to sleep until you heard a god awful noise coming from the crawlspace under the cabin. Your first thought was that a stranger or the police had found the liquor stash, and you bolted out of the chair to get the pistol hidden among your books.

The door to the crawlspace was in the kitchenette and was flung open, revealing a blood covered Alastor. The man looked up at you with blood splattered across his face and chest, staining his white dress shirt. There was enough blood that you couldn't tell if it was coming from Alastor or not.

You dropped the pistol that was in your hands and rushed over to him, and hooked your arms around his arm. “A-alastor, what the hell? Are you-”

“It's fine!” He laughed and looked down at you with a grin. “It's not mine.”

Your eyes widened, and you took a tentative step away from him and shook your head. “Then, whose is it?”

Alastor ignored your question and casually walked over to the pot of coffee on the stove. He poured himself a mug, all the while humming a song with that same grin on his face.

“Alastor,” you demanded. “You're scaring the hell out of me.”

“I'm sorry,” he put his coffee mug on the counter and turned back to you. “This,” he pointed to his stained shirt. “Is just the latest victim.”

“The latest…,” you paled, with the details finally coming together. “You're him.”

Alastor flashed you that dazzling grin and opened a drawer next to the stove. Without even looking, Alastor pulled a massive knife out and studied it.

“Did you know, my darling, that in order to inflict a fatal wound, you need at least fifteen inches of penetration?”

“Please put the knife do-”

You gasped. Before you could even react, Alastor lunged forward, plunging the knife deep in your abdomen. He stood in front of you, holding the blade in place with his smile never faltering. Pain blossomed throughout your body, and you began to choke on the blood that bubbled up through your throat. You coughed and watched the blood mixed sputum splatter across Alastor’s already stained shirt. Tears fell freely from your eyes, staining your cheeks, and your trembling hands grabbed onto Alastor’s arm that still held the knife inside you.

Blinking up at Alastor through your tears, you saw no remorse on his face. Just that twisted grin that you had fallen in love with so many years ago.

“You should know I'm too much like my father to have children,” Alastor said darkly. “That's a risk I cannot take.”

Alastor pulled the knife out of your abdomen and stepped back as you crumpled to the floor on your knees. The pain was white-hot, but it was nothing compared to that of your broken heart. Your body screamed for his closeness and wanted to hate him for everything. Even after the previous night, after telling you he would be with you forever. In an attempt to stop the bleeding, you held pressure on the wound, but you knew it was no use. You were dying. At the hands of your lover.

“It won't be long, my love,” Alastor got down on one knee and brushed your hair out of your face. “I'm sorry I had to do this.”

“F-fuck you,” you gasped and choked.

Your vision was beginning to fade in and out, along with your hearing. The weight of your body suddenly became too much and you fell to your side. Before your head hit the floor, Alastor had caught you and laid you down gently. The last sensation you felt, other than the pain, was Alastor kissing you. It was a passionate kiss, similar to that of the kiss you shared while making love. He didn't care about the blood that pooled from your mouth, but seemed to enjoy it more than anything. When he broke the kiss, you met his gaze, struggling to keep your eyes open.

“I'll see you in hell,” you spit, using every ounce of energy you had left before going still.

Alastor smiled down at your now lifeless body and ran his fingers through your hair. A single tear ran down his cheek, and his smile grew into a grin.

“It's a date.”

Part Two

#alastor x you #alastor x reader #human alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin hotel x reader

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luveline · 2 years

Note

hello pretty!! i’ve been away from your blog for the past few days so i’m not sure if your requests are open or closed. if they’re closed, ignore this. however, if requests are open, do you think you could write something about the reader finding their picture in steve’s wallet? like steve asks reader to grab his wallet and she realizes that her picture is sticking out? maybe on the back of the pic it says like “my girl <3”

thank you so much for your request! you find your photo in steve's wallet ♡ fem!reader | 1.2k words

"We're gonna be late," you say gently.

Steve, evidently not feeling quite as calmly about it as you do, sends you a remarkably handsome glare. "I know."

You know that he knows. "Just making conversation, sweetheart."

He softens at your tone and pet name, pausing in his frantic tying of his shoelaces to smile. "How mad do you think he'll be?"

"It's Lucas. He won't mind, he's…" You take a step toward him where he's sitting on the bottom step to stroke his hair, though you're careful not to mess it up. "Forgiving."

You tuck a rogue lock of hair behind his ear and he moves upward into your hand, a stolen moment of affection that you certainly can't afford. He's lovely — how can you not get lost together like this? And you feel so lucky that he not only indulges but encourages these gaps in the day.

"You're pretty," he says.

You gasp near fanatically and kiss the top of his head. "You don't have your wallet, do you?" you ask into his hair.

The both of you laugh at his having been caught. "You do look pretty!" he calls as you ascend the stairs behind him. "I wasn't lying!"

Steve leaves his wallet everywhere. The car on the daily, his room practically every time you try to leave the house together. He's even left it on his seat at the movies a handful of times. Because he's nice and sweet and you kind of really like him (he's your boyfriend and you love him), you've become his wallet-keeper, of sorts. If he doesn't know where it is, you do.

You bounce up the steps and into his bedroom, the evidence of your sleepover mostly cleaned away but lingering. The smell of your deodorant and perfume, your dirty pyjamas in his laundry basket, the cup of water he'd brought you this morning on the bedside table. You pull open the drawer and watch the glass ripple with the movement, his wallet exactly where you'd figured it would be next to a box of something you'd rather not share and your hairbrush.

You notice one of your discarded socks hiding just under his desk and bend to pick it up quickly, but Steve's wallet tumbles out of your hand in your hurry, and coins fly everywhere.

"You okay?" he calls.

"Are you putting your jacket on?"

"Don't change the subject!"

"Are you?"

You can hear his low grumbling from here.

You fall down to your knees and scrabble for his lost change, cents and quarters splayed over the floor. Once you've scooped them into a pile, you push open his wallet with your free hand and shepherd the change back into the little coin pocket, making sure to zipper it closed and avoid what just happened happening again.

Scatterbrained idiot, you think fondly. Total ditz.

That's when you notice the photo tucked behind his clear panel. Despite knowing more often than not where Steve's wallet is, you don't look inside it unless he asks you to get a five real quick. There's no need to flatten it out, and so you've never seen the photo he keeps inside.

It's a candid photo of you. You're facing toward him but looking out the window as the first snow of the season came down thick and fine as powdered sugar, a day from your first Christmas together. You'd been in total awe, your hand reaching toward him as it is in the picture, your lips pursed around his name.

Look, Steve, it's snowing.

You'd heard the subsequent click of the camera and his flirting remark. "Beautiful. And the snow doesn't look half bad, either."

Has he had this photo in there since Christmas? How often does he look at it?

Does he show other people?

You pull the photo from it's walled casing and flip it over to see if you're right about when it was taken, but Steve has neglected to add the date. All he's written is 'my girl' in his chicken scratch scrawl. It feels painstakingly tender anyhow.

You can imagine him with his open wallet pressed to his chest and a proud smile stretched over his lips. That's my girl.

"Baby?" Steve calls.

You slap his wallet closed and pull up onto footing made wobbly by giddiness. "Sorry, I'm coming," you say, pushing out of his room. When he sees you at the top of the stairs, he grins.

"Get lost?" he asks mildly, extending his hand.

You intertwine your fingers for those last few steps, an unnecessary contact. He lets your hand drop as soon as you've made it to the front door.

"I dropped it and all your change exploded."

"You could've left it. I would've picked it up later."

You open the front door and turn so you're walking backwards slowly. Steve locks the door.

"I saw what's in your wallet."

"Yeah? What's the verdict? Think I need to pick up the graveyard shift?"

You stop as he turns around. The breeze whips at his hair and jacket, and his cheeks are sensitive to the cold. He looks cute with a blush.

"The photo. I didn't know you kept my photo in your wallet."

Steve's smile turns sticky-sweet. Like honey, his lips barely part as he says, "Of course I do."

Of course he does? Fuck, he really doesn't understand the effect he has on you even know. You try to hold your breath and keep in a flattered laugh, but it bubbles up quick and light, a peel of happy giggles. "Oh, no," you murmur to yourself.

"It's a really good photo."

"No, it's nice."

"Then what's wrong?"

He crosses the last of the pathway to meet you in the middle.

"Nothing's wrong," you clarify, hands cold as Steve pulls them into his own, "I just didn't know you did that. I love you."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I love you too. A lot. Obviously I keep you in my wallet."

He holds his arms out in preparation as you fall into him, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm. He pretends you've knocked the wind out of him, leaning backward under your weight. The facade doesn't last long. He groans, his 'I'm really happy and you're really close to me' groan, ducking his head back. You do the same, holding his baby brown eyes. His returning smile is so loving, so disgustingly, overwhelmingly cheesy that you feel quite winded yourself, and you have just enough time to laugh breathlessly before he's leaning down to kiss you chastely.

He pecks you twice for luck, lips dotting tiny kisses all the way to your ear as he pulls you in tight for another hug. His cheek fits perfectly against your forehead.

"We're gonna be really late, aren't we?" you ask softly.

"No." He rubs his cheek against your forehead. "Yeah, maybe. Wanna call it quits?"

You get your arms hooked behind his neck. "Not a chance," you chastise. Though, if you're honest, around Steve your resolve becomes thin and brittle as sugar paper. If he asked you again, you'd say yes.

You don't give him the option. "C'mon, loverboy. We have a basketball game to catch."

If you cling to him the entire time, that's nobody's business but yours.

#steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington fandom #steve harrington reader insert #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction

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mylevisdontfitanymore · 2 months

Note

I am... fully obsessed with the magic doll story you wrote. Is there any possibility one day getting an expansion (heh) that included other aspects of the ask, like getting Bucky drunk or making him horny and cum from a distance?? Sorry, I had no idea I would like it that much 👀

This magic doll

I'm not sure how much this expands on the original idea, but... I just blacked out and came back with this, so 🤷🏻‍♂️ have it 😂😂

(Also, tagging @bnb-atnite because she went feral for that story 👀)

Warning for unbeta'd stucky belly kink. Mostly rapid and magical weight gain, some vague dubious concent vibes but not really, etc.

I’d like to think that Steve likes to take his boy toy out on the town, showing him off, the media thinks they’re dating, but they don’t know that this pretty, young twink is Steve’s toy. Paid for and still pampered by Steve’s wealth.

As a result of Steve taking him out to the most lavish, expensive dinners, showing him off, alongside Steve’s need to keep his reputation (relatively) controversy-free… Steve has to unstuff the magic doll when they go out for the aforementioned high society vanity and practical reasons. For vanity, paparazzi would ruin them (as hot as it would get Steve) if Bucky waddled out of their building, thighs not only rubbing together but spilling out against each other, all that fat jiggling and forcing his legs further apart than they normally would be when he walks, turning his smooth walk into a wide-legged, ponderous staggering. The whole time he would need Steve to hold onto, his balance so fickle when he’s that fucking big. Steve’s arm fighting to make it all the way around his thick, soft waist and getting lost in between those heavy, overflowing rolls; Bucky’s chubby hand tight on his muscular forearm, clinging to him, complete contrast; Bucky huffing and puffing, his chubby cheeks red and misted with sweat, pure exertion from all that weight packed onto his frame and being forced to walk the short distance from the elevator to the lobby to their waiting, chauffeured car where he needs Steve to help stuff him into the backseat, fighting all his blubber, it’s a good thing that they don’t buckle up in the back because even with an extender… Bucky wouldn’t fit, meanwhile, Steve isn’t out of breath at all, not a hair out of place, nothing but a cocky smile on his lips, after all, with his workout regime he could skip the elevator down from their top floor penthouse, run the flights of stairs, down, up, then down again, and still be fine. But not Bucky. Bucky’s overburdened frame, overflowing with this soft, luxurious blubber, would cause quite the media frenzy, feeding off of him. And God knows there’s enough to feed off of. Steve would get off on it, but he doesn’t do it. For practicality, they can’t leave the penthouse with the magic doll, and subsequently with Bucky so round and heavy, because Bucky can’t move very well when his body is stuffed with fat. When the magic doll - always in Steve’s pocket, ready to be manipulated and played with whenever Steve feels like it - nearly bursting at the seams with so much fiberfill, Bucky can hardly maneuver around the penthouse, much less the outside world. In the penthouse, he knocks stuff over with his shelf-ass, he gets stuck in doorways (and even in Steve’s impressive, huge shower stall), he finds it difficult to waddle more than a few inches before becoming exhausted, he complains about having to use his arms because when he does his heavy, big tits get in the way, and, just, anything that isn’t sitting on his ass, mounding out underneath him like a thick cushion, is hard. So, when he’s so huge, he sits and lets himself be pampered. However Steve wants him, so long as it’s resting, he’s good.

However, as much as it makes Bucky pout when he’s unstuffed, returning to that little twink he was when Steve first bought him, it’s totally worth it once they’re done with their little date and he gets to experience being supersized all over again. There’s nothing like a public dinner date filled with foreplay, knowing that the real fun begins when they get home where Steve can have him to himself and mold his body into whatever form he wants, all for him to play with him. Touch him, fatten him, grope him, spank him, fuck him, even fuck his rolls. Whatever he wants. It’s about what he wants. Bucky is a toy, his needs don’t matter, he’s just here to be Steve’s. And Steve’s going to play with him. Roughly or softly, he’ll play however he wants.

So, their date is foreplay in the form of Steve buying courses and courses and courses of expensive, fancy food that come in tiny portions that Bucky always swears will never fill him up, only to sing (pant, really) a different tune in an hour when the plates are still coming and he’s not so sure he has any more room. If not for Steve demanding that he keep eating - he paid for it, didn’t he? Bucky isn’t sure if he’s talking about the food or Bucky himself. Jesus Christ, that’s hot. - claiming he wants to have to hold him close to his side when they leave so the cameras don’t catch that Bucky’s popped at least one button off of his shirt, the pressure of his swollen belly just too much for the expensive cloth and thread. And if he doesn’t pop a button, if he doesn’t finish all his food, well, maybe he’ll have to go to bed without an orgasm and without all the fat he so desperately wants to be packed back onto him, addicted to how soft he’s grown (ha) used to being under Steve’s pampering care.

So.

Bucky eats.

He eats and eats and eats, always moaning at the rich tastes of the decadent foods, easily letting Steve continue to fill his wine glass until he’s satisfied with Bucky making a pig of himself in public. Stuffing his face. The evidence is clear on his body - his belly distended into a tight, pregnant-looking globe.

In the bathroom before they leave, Steve slaps his tender gut a handful of times, weakening Bucky’s knees until he’s leaning against Steve’s chest, panting hard, his eyes rolling to the back of his head with a whimper as he feels all the food inside him shift and churn, he’s so full and Steve’s being so mean. The burn of his slaps is barely diffused by his tight, tight shirt. The smacks are just to make him focus, though, Steve knows how dumb his spoiled toy gets, and he needs a reminder to suck in as much as he can while they walk to the car. Keep up the reputation. Then, once they’re inside, he can let his greedy belly bloat back out. Nearly moaning into his collar, practically drooling on him, Bucky nods and struggles to right himself.

They stumble through camera flashes into the car to go home.

Bucky whines and moans through the car ride, Steve’s heavy, hot palm resting possessively on his starter belly for the night, the bulk of his body close, leaning into him. His lips are pressed close to Bucky’s ear, whispering about how he can’t wait to watch this chubby belly swell into a real fat gut and… hmm, y’know, maybe he can’t wait. Maybe he’ll pull out the magic doll in the interior pocket of his suit jacket and start puffing him up right here. Wouldn’t that be fun? He could give Bucky huge, big tits again and then force him to walk from the car to the doors of their building with them wobbling and spilling out of his shirt. Wouldn’t the gossip rags have fun with that? Talking about how this tiny little twink went and got himself big, mommy milkers… or maybe, maybe he should stuff his ass, make it huge and give everyone in the city, hell, with Steve’s business being a household name, everyone in the country something to jerk off to. That big, fat ass.

Bucky is panting. Forget foreplay, this is… it’s midplay? Just play? It’s so much more than simple foreplay to get him riled up. He's past riled.

His belly is stuffed to the point that he might burst and he’s so hard in his slacks, his belt biting into his waist, that he’s achy. He wants Steve to play with his dick right now. He doesn’t care that he’s pretty sure Steve wouldn’t do any of that, and he’s just talking. He doesn’t know 100%. And he could. Bucky is his to play with. He could do whatever he wanted to him. If he wanted he could take his clothes and make him do the walk of shame up to their building, streaking with his stuffed, glutted middle bulging out in front of him like Steve’s fucked him so good, so often, that he’s defied the laws of biology and impregnated him despite his lack of uterus.

Steve caresses his tender middle, dragging his fingertips just hard enough over him, that he shudders. A soft, “please,” comes out in a whine.

Steve just nips his ear, hushing him.

Bucky swears that he nearly dies, his heart pounding so hard in his chest, on the way back to the penthouse. He’s too turned on. He’s gonna explode. Anticipation and fullness are so overwhelming together.

Once they’re behind the heavy, solid wood door of the penthouse Steve stops dragging him along, possessive but also reasonable because Bucky’s not sure how he’s still walking, he’s not even that heavy, he’s just too turned on, there’s nothing going on in his head. So, Bucky stops in his tracks, Steve goes to the kitchen for… something, meanwhile, he sticks to the door, leaning against the cool surface, trying to catch his breath.

It doesn’t hit Bucky that it’s intentional on Steve’s part until, oh, God -

He’s squirming in pleasure with the tingling, stretching feeling of his body expanding. It’s magical. Literally. But it feels magical, too. It’s so much better, after a break of being back in his “normal” body, he’s fucking dying here, feeling himself balloon right back up. It will never get old. It’s tight and tingly, his skin fighting to keep up with the pure lard that’s exponentially filling him, almost like the sensation of pins and needles. So, so intense. It’s hot like fire spreading through him. It’s such a stretch that it takes his breath away, he feels like an inflatable parade balloon. Fuck, he’s about to be the size of one, too.

Bucky moans, tortured by the sensation and by the fact that he can hear Steve, his footsteps on the wooden floor, chuckling as he waltzes out of the kitchen and further away from Bucky - it sounds like he’s heading for the bedroom, which, fuck yeah, but Bucky can’t move! He’s still expanding!

Heavier and heavier, wider and wider.

It feels like he’s swelling to fill the whole door frame. Like he’s gonna get stuck again! He moans loudly at the thought, there’s really nothing as sexy as Steve coming up behind him to unstick him, teasing him for “letting” himself get so big (as if he has any choice with the power Steve has over him), and then getting his hands all over his body, sinking into his soft, plush fat, grunting with the effort of shoving and shoving, making the parts of his body that aren’t wedged in tight jiggle and wobble in waves until he stumbles forward, dazed from how turned on it all makes him.

Bucky’s still swelling.

What’s better or worse-? Getting fattened in the blink of an eye, suddenly woomph, hugely obese and incredibly off-balance and so aroused, or having it accumulate just fast enough for him to feel his body struggling to keep up, his heart pounding as he knows what’s coming.

“Buck?” Steve calls, beckoning him forward.

He struggles through a few steps, his new weight making his muscles tremble while his mind weakens. He’s shaking. He’s already so close to begging out loud. He just wants more already. He wants it fast. He wants it now! Fatten meeee! Swell me!

Bucky uses the walls and furniture along the way to the bedroom to steady himself, fighting to keep walking when he really just wants to fall to his knees to enjoy the sensation that’s overtaking his whole body.

Swelling.

Filling out.

Inflating.

Bloating.

Shit, it’s so good.

By the time he gets to the end of the hall that leads back to the master bedroom and bathroom, he’s sweating. Steve is standing there, leaning against the door frame, smirking at him, eyes dark as he watches his struggles. He’s holding that fucking doll and a mass wad of stuffing. Bucky’s heart leaps into his throat, his dick twitching like an excitable pet hearing the word “dinner.”

Then -

“OH!”

Steve forces all of the huge mass of stuffing into the little magic doll, making it bulge.

At first, it all settles right into the doll’s belly, the biggest open space available. It’s so much that Bucky stumbles and falls onto his suddenly massively, massively round gut. The thump sound of his impact would be laughable if it weren’t so fucking obscene. He is so excessive. SO fat. The air is knocked out of him. His head is spinning. He’s so fucking turned on. He could come like this. He could. He’s on top of his gut, his legs forced to spread so wide around the massive shape of his gut, and -

A whole long moan that’s almost more like a wail leaves Bucky, emptying his lungs of all oxygen as Steve takes the ungodly huge chunk of stuffing straining the doll’s limits in its tummy and massages it. He smooths the big ball of fiberfill out, distributing it more evenly throughout Bucky’s frame. Bucky can’t breathe. It feels like there are hands all over him, touching him, touching him, touching him, squishing, squeezing, and groping his fat. He feels like a pillow being fluffed. But a heavy pillow. It's so heavy that he doesn’t think he’s ever going to walk again. Guh. How does he ever get used to this feeling between their public outings? It’s mind-melting. With Steve touching him without touching him, his belly shrinks, but the whole rest of his body thickens, evening out, leaving Bucky much chunkier, but on all-fours rather than resting on top of his gut.

Of course, once he’s done massaging him, Steve stuffs him more. Filling the freed-up space.

More.

He makes his body so thick, his arms and legs blubbery and his belly nearly sagging to the floor while he trembles on his hands and knees. To deal with the weight, Bucky arches his back, but it doesn’t help him deal with how turned on he is - if anything, it makes him hornier because he can feel how his thick ass jiggles and pops out more. He could get fucked like this; if he’s not too fat for Steve’s dick to reach his hole yet, he could get fucked like this; he wants to be fucked like this. So bad. He wants Steve to fuck him, grope him, jiggle him, and fatten him.

More.

He’s so fucking spoiled. Weakly, plaintively whining, begging without words as his arms and legs slide farther apart under the still-increasing weight of his body. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck meee. If Steve keeps pushing him he’s gonna be laying on top of his fat rather than crawling on all fours soon. He’s too soft and weak! Absolutely spoiled.

“Buck, honey-”

Steve’s voice makes Bucky stretch his head up, blearily looking at him through the haze of arousal.

His voice has softened “-quit playing around and come to bed, baby. I know your tummy hurts after dinner, c’mere and I’ll rub your belly in bed, don’t you want me to make it better?” he’s too good at playing the doting, innocent husband of an overdue wife considering that he’s the one doing this to Bucky, fattening him, driving him insane with too much and not enough pleasure.

With a whimper Bucky tries to crawl forward again, wobbling, his body fighting so hard to do something so simple that’s so hard when he’s so fucking heavy. He can’t make it and he opens his mouth to beg for help, he can’t do it! He’s too big! When -

A truly shameless, obscene sound comes out of Bucky. Before he knows what’s happened and why he’s suddenly so hot and so sweaty and so close to coming, Bucky is going down. He’s suddenly crumbling onto the floor face first, putting his weight on his tender gut and belching through another desperate moan. He can’t take it. He can’t -

Steve.

Fucking! Steve! So mean!

Just barely, Bucky can make out that Steve is holding the doll, not passively stuffing whisps of fiberfill into its body but now rubbing it. He’s rubbing the, the…

Oh, Jesus, just looking at what he’s doing to the doll, and thus doing to Bucky, makes embarrassment riot inside him. It’s so dirty!

He’s rubbing the crotch of the magic doll. He’s pleasuring it! Pleasuring Bucky!

His eyes roll to the back of his head, going limp in stunned arousal.

It fucking feels like he’s pouring pleasure straight into his body through his dick. It’s like being jerked off and sucked off and humping his own fat all at the same time. It’s like nothing else, he’s never felt something so good. It’s melting his mind. It’s ruining him for any other pleasure that doesn’t come from being so gluttonous and out of control.

Bucky can feel himself quivering on top of the cushion of his squished, fat belly. He can feel his dick, trapped where he can’t reach it under all his heavy, thick blubber twitching and leaking. He’s sweating so much, running the hottest fever. He’s wailing, voice breaking, when without fucking touching him Steve jerks him off to orgasm. It’s hot and wet against his own skin but Bucky can’t see it, the dirty evidence is hidden by his swollen body. The whole time, Bucky can feel Steve’s eyes on him, focused and burning, as captivated with him as a cat that’s just spotted an impressively fat mouse, deepened with the sadism of a predator whose only pleasure is unraveling its prey like a spool of thread. And just to make it worse, dragging him through the last twitches of his orgasm, Steve pinches the doll’s belly, undeniably delighted to hear how Bucky’s moans change tune.

It hurts to be groped so hard - his belly is under so much pressure already with him on top of it, and adding to it is… it’s, it’s unbearable. It feels so good. All he wants is to be touched and he is being touched but he wants Steve to actually touch him, he doesn’t want magic, he wants it to be real, and he’s already aching for more. Spoiled. He wants to be hefted into bed and turned over, rolled onto his back where he’s pinned and made into a bloated, swollen playground for Steve to touch, grope, hump, and climb all over. He wants Steve on top of him, grabbing handfuls of his thick blubber, jiggling it, and grinding into it, getting red in the face as he reaches his own high, getting off on what he’s done to Bucky. How he’s ruined and perverted him. How he owns him. He can do anything he wants to him, and Bucky will lick it up and beg for more like the greedy boy toy he is.

Me rn:

Did I realize AFTER I wrote this whole thing that I neglected to talk about Bucky's clothes tearing off of him as he got fatter? Yes. Is that evidence of my brain being horny scrambled? You bet your ass it is 😂

#mylevisdontfitanymore #ask #belly kink #text #stuffing #weight gain #magic weight gain #magical weight gain #rapid weight gain #bucky barnes #steve rogers #chubby bucky #fat bucky #stucky #immobility #button pop

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domainedewinter · 3 months

Text

The price of fire

Summary: Aemond meets a mysterious silver-haired girl on the beach while facing Vhagar. But the more he tries to know her, the deeper her secrets seem.

Warnings: DUBCON, TYPICAL TARGARYEN INCEST, profanity, innuendo, he/him pronouns, she/her pronouns, fingering, oral m receiving, oral f receiving, misogyny, toxic behaviour, Dom!Aemond, begging, underage hotd style, nsfw.

(coming soon, I will indicate the chapters containing smut with a 🔥)

Rating: 18+, MDNI

English is not my first language.

Chapter one ⤞⟢⨳⟣⤝ Roxaene ⤞⟢⨳⟣⤝

When Roxaene heard her father, Dorian, talk about an upcoming long journey to the continent - for diplomatic and political reasons - she couldn't help but bring it up to him during dinner that evening. It was a bit challenging to convince him, as he was always apprehensive about bringing her too close to King's Landing, especially the royal family.

She had to promise him not to go out without him and not to be seen without covering her hair. Dorian had never wanted to explain exactly what had happened when she was just a kid, only vaguely mentioning that he had been entrusted with a baby with silver hair and lilac eyes, and he had accepted this gift, having lost his wife and their son a few months prior.

He came from a good family and had always taken care of her properly, even teaching her how to read, write, and a great deal about the Kingdom. Roxaene quickly realized she was very different from the ebony-haired children she used to play with; she didn't blend in.

This was her secret, one of her secrets. Roxaene had spent countless days on the beach, dreaming of discovering what lay on the other side of the ocean, who her parents were, and why they had abandoned her.

Was it because of her silver hair? Her pale skin and violet eyes?

Thinking she might finally find answers to all her questions, she embarked with Dorian - persuading him with her big lilac eyes, begging him not to leave her alone for so long - and after weeks of travel, they arrived in King's Landing.

The city was immense, so different from what she knew and saw back in Dorne.

Of course, she wasn't allowed to roam the streets like she did at home, but it was already more than she had hoped for. After two evenings spent in the establishment where they were staying for their visit - a grand residence of a wealthy merchant and a friend of Dorian's - her adoptive father entered her room, finding her lost in thought on the balcony.

“Dear child, don't linger at the window for too long, someone might see you. I know you’d like to go out, and I’ll take you to see the city soon, but for now, you have to promise to stay here.”

His voice was soft and caring, as always. He was a tall man with a dark complexion and ebony hair, richly dressed and rather untouched by the years. Money had given him this luxury; being one of the main wine importers of Dorne, he had quickly made his fortune by trading with the capital and, subsequently, several other estates of great families.

His hand rested on Roxaene's shoulder, who continued to look outside, smiling, listening to the sounds of the city, imagining the lives of the people who lived there.

She had always been like that; dreamy and curious, two traits that could prove dangerous if one did not take care of where dreams and thoughts wandered.

Dorian knew it all too well and wanted to spare his daughter from falling into the wrong hands.

It was risky enough to have brought her with him.

"Don't worry, father, I'm already gratified to be here." She replied, finally turning to him. A richly decorated silk held her hair tied and concealed, but it didn't take away from her natural beauty, radiant and vivid.

"I have to go negotiate a few days' ride from here, with merchants from the city, and it's not a place for you. Behave while I'm gone. Until then, don't show yourself, don't go out and obey Lady Loyd."

Dorian's hand had quickly moved from her shoulder to her chin, lifting her gentle face. "And promise me not to unveil your face in front of Lady Lloyd. I made sure they take care of you without asking questions, but I could never answer the ones they might ask if it happens."

Roxaene nodded, placing her so pale hand on her father's tanned one.

"I know, father, I'll be careful. You can leave with a light heart."

He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, holding her face between his hands, almost possessively; since the day he was entrusted with this small, silent, and calm baby with large violet eyes fixed on him, full of tears, he had made it his life's mission to protect her.

But staying alone in Dorne was not an option when her head could be so easily put on the line.

People could be such greedy monsters when money jingled, and promises were kept. Stealing babies and killing children didn't faze anyone when it came to being richly rewarded. Dorian refused to take that risk, to return to Dorne to find his house empty and his maids sorrowful and confused if Roxaene were to be abducted.

He left the room as he had entered; without a sound and with a heavy heart, the guilt of leaving her for days darkening his thoughts without him having any control over the situation.

⤞⟢⨳⟣⤝

That evening, Roxaene didn't have the heart to argue, and she watched him depart on horseback. She managed to obey him the first night, but her impulsive and curious nature quickly took over.

When everyone seemed busy elsewhere after dinner, she put on a dress and a cape to hide herself as best as she could from prying eyes, then slipped out through the window, heading as far away as possible.

At first, she didn’t know where she was running, letting her steps guide her, trusting her instincts. It felt so good to be outside, freely, to watch the sun begin its descent into the sea.

She headed toward the beach, perhaps because it reminded her a bit of home, unconsciously, until a towering silhouette caught her attention. Roxaene thought it was some kind of enormous rock, but as her hands started tingling, she realized it wasn’t made of stone. The more she approached, the more she could make out its contours until her breath caught in her throat in surprise; a dragon.

An immense dragon lying on the beach.

Any sane person with a shred of survival instinct would be turning and putting as much distance between themselves and the creature as possible, but Roxaene, unfortunately, didn’t seem very sensible in that particular moment.

Without hesitation, she slowly advanced toward the dragon, her steps determined nonetheless.

Throughout her life, she had dreamed of dragons, strange dreams from which she woke up sweaty, hands burning, and breathless. She could swear she heard their roar on certain mornings upon waking up and smelling the scent of sulfur, feeling the heat of the fire. She had never spoken of this, already being so different from the other children in Dorne, the young girl with moon-colored hair had preferred to keep a low profile, not drawing attention to her dreams in addition to her appearance.

But this time, it wasn't a dream, nor a hallucination or an invisible sensation; a huge dragon stood right in front of her, just a few meters away, lying on the warm sand of the beach on this falling night. Without thinking, Roxaene advanced, again and again, reaching out towards the enormous creature, and her biggest secret began to glow, brighter than ever. Inside her hand, glowing arabesques, similar to the color of fire, had drawn themselves, like molten lava, moving on her palm, becoming brighter as she approached the dragon, which, sensing her presence, began to raise her massive head.

Although her heart pounded in her chest, Roxaene listened only to her courage and instinct, dangerously approaching the fierce mouth that was starting to open in front of her.

⤞⟢⨳⟣⤝ Aemond ⤞⟢⨳⟣⤝

To escape the strange pressure that never left him when he was at the Keep, Aemond Targaryen had done what he did all too often; after the meal, when he wished his mother a good night, he slipped outside, mounting Vhagar to fly over the sky, the sea, the surrounding forests until the cold stiffened his fingers, and he decided to descend to go where no one would find him.

His elder brother, Aegon, had his own ways of escaping their family and the Keep, joining the city's shady neighborhoods as soon as the lanterns began to shine, forgetting his duties, responsibilities, and the expectations of those he could never satisfy, between glasses of alcohol and the arms of whores.

Aemond preferred the calm of the beach, the tranquility of the sea, and solitude.

A solitude that no one had dared to disturb for years, five years precisely, since he had lost his eye - violently torn out by the little bastard.

Until now.

Because as he was lost in his thoughts, the young man had felt a change, tiny and almost imperceptible in Vhagar, but his bond was so strong with the creature that he couldn't be wrong.

Standing up, he had walked cautiously, slightly hunched as he circled the dragon, a dagger in hand until he reached the spot that seemed to attract the monster's attention, to witness a very strange vision; a girl, his age or perhaps younger - he couldn't determine it - hooded, stood in front of Vhagar, reaching out as if to touch the beast. Except that her hand, as pale as it was, glowed in a supernatural, magical way.

A strange fear ran through the prince's veins, imagining that the girl wanted to harm his dragon; Aemond rushed at her, throwing her to the ground as he fell with her.

"Vhagar! No!"

What the girl hadn't seen - or maybe she had seen it but hadn't moved - was the fire building up in Vhagar's throat, the heat rising crescendo, ready to explode like a lava torrent and reduce her to ashes. But at the words of his rider, the monster's maw had closed gently, leaving the animal to rest its head without caring further about the two small humans quarreling in front of it.

Perhaps Aemond had just protected Vhagar; perhaps he had just saved the stranger struggling under his body, her wrists pinned above her face, held in the prince's one hand, her eyes looking at him with a mix of anger and fear. The fall had knocked her hood off her head, revealing her silver hair, braided to the side, with a few strands escaping around her face.

Aemond couldn't ignore the girl's physical characteristics that caught his eye, frowning as he carefully placed his dagger near her to grab her face with his free hand, looking her straight in the eyes, his inquisitive gaze seeking answers.

"Who are you?!" He asked breathlessly, trying to be firm as he struggled to hold her in place. The prince was not used to being denied anything, but the stubborn look the girl shot him almost distracted him. He tightened his grip on her face, being more directive and threatening.

"Answer me, who are you and why were you trying to attack my dragon? Do you seek death? Because Vhagar was about to grant your prayers!"

He almost seemed angry that she had been so reckless, but the girl only struggled more, apparently unimpressed by him.

"I wasn't trying to hurt your dragon, and I don't want to die, so let me go!" She replied with rage, kicking and wriggling her hips to free herself, but Aemond held on and had a clear physical superiority over her; the rigorous training he engaged in daily since the accident had sculpted his body fiercely and effectively.

However, despite all his hours of training with Cole and all the fighters he now beat, nothing had prepared him for such audacity from a woman, let alone one so young and in a definitely delicate position.

#house targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond x oc #aemond x fem!oc #hotd aemond #hotd #hotd fanfic #aemond smut #magic #house of the dragon #dragon

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ideas-4-stories · 3 months

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Inspired by the "buggy gets stabbed with a seastone knife but defeats the assassin" anon and subsequent post.

Buggy really would have had SO MANY SCARS. He's immune to cuts and chops and slices. Not blunt force trauma, burns, bullets, whips, etc. Also he was a pirate apprentice on GOL D. ROGER'S SHIP!! He ate that devil fruit young, sure, but he was still a pirate before then and I highly doubt that that, nor whatever his early life was, would lead to pristine, unblemished skin.

Also - freckles. Give Buggy Freckles 2024.

Anyway, yeah, Buggy would have a MOSAIC of scars and tattoos - many of which have meanings the likes of which are lost to most. Also projection, but Buggy has a medusa tattoo somewhere on his person. Yes the one who did the tattoo for him was on the crew, and still is. Yes they are also the defacto therapist on the island. It's good pay and they get to add Names to the I'll Kill Them One Day list ((it's a whole book. With five volumes. It's on going.))

I have... an angry idea. For Buggy shrugging off seastone wounds and using his own injury as an opening. Roger would have wanted the boys STRONG but happy and safe. He saw so much of himself in Shanks that the attention was perceived as preferential treatment. Shanks was the heavy hitter with potential and skill and charisma -

Buggy was the supporting cast.

Rayleigh, unable to help Roger through the illness, through so many things, projected that onto Buggy ((Very Pearl + Connie, if you know Steven Universe, before Steven stepped in to set that record straight)). Ray would make sure Buggy was strong enough for Shanks. He put that kid through the WRINGER, and it was arguably hell. Buggy came out stronger but also far more terrified - so much so that he struggled to even utilize that strength in any true way. Rayleigh declared it a failure. Apologized to Buggy for 'failing to make him good enough'.

This did a number on him.

One thing that lasted was his frankly unsettling tolerance to water and seastone. He still works on it, and he never quite dropped it. He always has at least one seastone earring in because it's both smth he HAS to do and also it slows down his brain a little, dulling the edge of his normal panic. Like a crystal girlie but far more literal.

This isn't his first rodeo with seastone weapons either - he may have been in the East, but he was still a decently renowned criminal with a hefty bounty. He's an old hand at this!

Still hurts like a bitch though.

He'd absolutely make the dumbest puns too. "Don't worry, I'm in STABle condition! :oD"

"You need stitches, you utter buffoon."

"That wasn't very- hnn- knife of you."

"Please pass out from bloodloss."

"You cut me so deep, Hawkyyy- OW?!"

"Seas save me"

Crocodile is fighting between yelling louder, committing three felonies, laughing, and shutting the clown up. Be it by choking him or kissing him is up for debate. The doctor, used to Buggy's antics, just hands him a fidget toy. "Don't touch the wound, my supplies or try to move yet. Solve the rubix cube before you even consider getting up."

"Boring-"

"I'll tell the kitchen to make hotdogs if you do."

Buggy is now very focused on the pretty color cube.

Oh, referring to this post gotcha!

Yeah, Buggy totally would because he’s a chemist, working with all those bombs and the guy looks like he would trip sometimes while working. Buggy has to have burn scars (I’m pretty sure somewhere, someone said that Buggy has star-shaped, firework burns on his hands. Part of the reason he hides his hands away, I like that idea even that means Buggy got hurt) Now it an idea that I got when I was half-asleep, that I read in the morning with confusion… a cannonball… I don’t why my sleepy brain decided that, but now thinking about it would have to be a ricochet cannonball that he survived from (to be honest Buggy seems like a person who would survive a cannonball to the head, like some Monkey family we know) Then with probably the logical route of bullets, whips, etc… are from being hunted by marines and enemies of the Roger Pirates before he somehow blends into the background and people forgot about him.

I would say Buggy would have eaten his devil fruit around nine years old, for the AU I’m trying to writ… Also freckles… HELL FUCK YEAH!!! I love that idea; it would be so cute on him!!! Scattered all around his body, totally seen him connecting them into shapes and patterns when he’s bored and has nothing else to do.

Definably, he’s a pirate, of course he has many scars, and Buggy having at least 10 tattoos ranging from large too small. I don’t think Buggy ever has sat someone down to explain them, or maybe he has and stopped because people not understanding. Ooooooo, I look up what the Medusa tattoo means, I like to think it’s for survival and strength. With my idea for two long tattoos, I think they would be a mixture of different flowers with hidden things between them - like hidden treasure to find, those tattoos have meanings as well as some funny ones around his body as well. Because it’s Buggy, of course, he will at least have one fucking funny one.

I love an idea their defacto therapist, I think I’ve already have a OC for the job and yes, love the book called I'll Kill Them One Day list. Love that it has five volumes, you know some of those names are crossed off and it continues to grow.

This is an angry idea indeed, poor Buggy… as we see that Buggy is not supporting cast, with his followers (they are like cult followers in a way) and his crew. Basically pushed to the side for Shanks to be the one in the spotlight as the “leader” of the two (I definitely doubt that Shanks didn’t look up to Buggy during sometimes when they were cabin boys)

Oh fuck, no wonder why Buggy hasn’t talk to Rayleigh and makes my idea of them meeting as cold and awkward. Like Rayleigh would greet with nicknames from long ago, expecting the same as what he remembered last of Buggy, only to have Buggy to greet him coldy. Either, with Dark King Rayeleigh or Slivers Rayleigh instead of nicknames that he use to call Rayleigh.

Why…why projected his problems onto Buggy! Like of course that did a number on Buggy, ecspeaily after Ray apologized to Buggy for ‘failing to make him good enough’... You can’t say that to a fucking child, you know they will think it’s all their fault! I mean look at Buggy, he already has enough problems with his self-esteem, he doesn’t need anymore!!!

Poor Buggy, going thtough hell because Rayleigh wants him strong like him to keep Shanks safe because he’s being as stupid as Roger. It makes sense that Buggy can’t use his strength because of being afraid and worrying so much (Buggy is definitely a worry-wort)

I agree with Buggy has an high tolerance to water and seastone, I mean Buggy seemed to of been a really good swimmer from how angry he is from Shanks scaring him and making him swallow the Bara Bara fruit (if not, then it’s a headcanon for me that he’s a really good swimmer before he swallowed the devil fruit) You think he would just stop going into the water? I mean I can see Buggy finding those small pools of water on a beach… I forgot what they are called, anyway you think he wouldn’t go in them to feel the sea? I think Buggy would.

Oooooo a seastone earring or some other type of seastone jewelry on his body. That’s interesting, I’ve never thought about it. The seastone helps him corrals his chop chop powers from doing all the time as well. Calming his brain, dulling the edge of his normal panic is a clever way, bro probably found how much seastone he needs to do so. From this post, Buggy has to have some edibles mixed into brownies or some other type of pastry (it’s now a headcanon for me) Dude has to have some drugs to calm down with the stress that Crocodile and Mihawk have put him through.

Yeah, it's definitely not Buggy’s first rodeo with seastone weapons, I can see Buggy being hunted by people during the time after Roger was killed and I see that’s the time where most of his seastone wounds came from. I wonder now if Buggy hordes the seastone weapons that people attacked him with?… I’ve decided yes, Buggy would keep them.

I stand for Buggy making the dumbest and baddest puns when he is hurt, especially when he gets attacked by seastone weapons. It takes his mind off of the pain they give him (Also the banter between Buggy and Mihawk you made is chefs’ kiss)

Both Crocodile and Mihawk just being done with Buggy and quite disturbed by how Buggy handles his pain. Mihawk wants him to shut up and sit still, while Crocodile is fighting between screaming, committing felonies (like he hasn’t committed felonies more than enough), laughing his ass off, then wanting to either choke Buggy or kiss him to shut the clown up. That’s so them, and Buggy is getting a little shit like always.

This doctor is just like the doctor OC; Kuo-Lee, I’ve created to be the Buggy Pirates medic. Really, being done with what Buggy does and uses things to keep him still. This is so right, handing him a fidget toy, saying that if he is good than he’ll tell the kitchens to give their captain is favorite food. Yeah, that will make Buggy sit as still as he can, to be honest, Buggy isn’t one to sit still.

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aetherprism · 1 month

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yknow what? fuck you listen to my hlvrai headcanons /ref

only tommy and benrey for now, but if you want to hear more than please do ask !

lets start with tommy (and subsequently g-man):

tommy, as we know, is the adoptive son of g-man ! but in hl2vrai’s trailer he seems to be taking his fathers role; i like to think the reason g-man adopts tommy is because he was the first person in a long time that’s like him. theyre not related by any means, no, but tommy is like him. not human, powerful. i don’t think g-man expected to get so attached to tommy, probably picking him up to train him, but he quickly realized he liked the titles of father and son, and what came with it.

tommy actually had a troubled childhood until g-man, he was unceremoniously dropped on earth and had to learn how to be human on his own. he learned pretty quickly that hiding his alien instincts was his best bet, and in the orphanage tried his best to be the most normal human kid there was.

and then tommy’s suddenly adopted by this mysterious man in a suit, and he starts to think he’s been found out by the government or worse. especially when his new adoptive parent, sitting him down in a dunkin’ donuts, tells him without any tact, “i know what you are.” suffice to say it scared the shit out of him.

moving forward though; tommy quickly learns to love his new dad ! he’s just like him, theres someone who understands tommy, and his dad teaches him how to use and not shy away from his instincts too ! his dad supports his endeavors into the sciences too, and even helps him get his job at black mesa. he really won the adoptive parent lottery :]

also extra thing; sweet voice is entirely engineered by black mesa. anyone can be given sweet voice, it was one of tommy’s first inventions !

but that’s tommy, now it’s time for benrey.

benrey wasn’t as lucky as tommy. as stated by himself; he’s not human. and he doesn’t really hide it. he’s never had to. from an early age all he’s known was experiment after experiment, prodding needles, white walls, and loud fluorescent lights that hurt his eyes.

now usually people headcanon that benrey’s from xen, but i’d like to take it a step further because i like to different i guess; anyways, benrey is not a xen alien— he’s alien x, a mysterious alien race from half-life opposing force ! he’s a mystery to the entirety of black mesa, and to himself because of that. so he settles on just saying: ‘im not human’ when people ask.

while kinda pushy in hlvrai, before that he was actually shockingly complacent. he didn’t struggle, didn’t make so much of a fuss, because he thought his treatment was normal. even though he didn’t like it, he grit his teeth and bared it anyways.

because of his complacent nature he was given a job, guard black mesa and he’d be allowed to roam around black mesa all he wants ! this is how he becomes a security guard, he also gets his own room topside like the rest of his co workers, and slowly but surely makes some friends in the circle of security guards.

one of his first friends is actually barney, yes barney calhoun. he was like a tutor to him, and at the time benrey didn’t have his own name; so he named himself after his first favorite human :] ! barney’s also the first person to tell him his treatment by black mesa wasn’t normal, or fair to him. it takes him a while to accept that. (i may take this one back if benrey ends up taking barney’s place in hl2vrai somehow)

with his job to protect black mesa he actually takes it very seriously, even more when he finds he’s just an experiment to the higher ups, fearing that if he acts slightly out of line they’ll take his already limited freedom away from him. until the invasion that is. black mesa has lost their hold on him, and by god he wont hold back anymore.

#SPEAKING COLORS #hlvrai #tommy coolatta #benrey #benry #hlvrai tommy #hlvrai benrey #hlvrai benry #headcanons #also if you can’t tell this is more in line with not a game au’s #but it can be taken with some grain of salt into canon if you try hard enough

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larcenywrites · 1 year

Text

Temptations

Tony Stark x Reader

Summary: When Tony singles you out at one of his many parties, he doesn't mind that you have a ring on your finger. The question is: do you?

Warnings: 18+ | heavy petting | infidelity/cheating | feminine reader? idk you wear a dress

Word Count: 1.5K

When your husband dragged you out here for work, the last thing you expected was to end up being dragged out to some party or event hosted by Tony Stark himself. And then subsequently left alone after a passive-aggressive whisper-fight when he wanted to go off with the few people he knew from work when you didn't know anyone. And from the looks of it, you weren't sure if you cared to know anyone.

That is, until someone unexpected caught your eye, or maybe you were only seeing him because you had caught his. It was the devil himself, and now technically your husband's boss. That interested stare from across the room had you feeling like a deer in headlights, weak legs and all. You pretended too late not to notice, attempting to go about your business that you never had in the first place. He took it has his opportunity, swooping in on unattended prey.

"I don't think we've ever met," a voice that could only belong to one person right now chased after you. A hand carefully cupped your elbow, drawing your attention to the man behind you. You quickly got lost in that too-polite smile, and for all the sin that you knew hid behind those innocent eyes, there wasn't even a trace.

"No, but I've heard a lot about you," you teasingly warned, shyly looking down for a moment to try and chase away your already nasty thoughts, hopefully with him in tow. His touch drifting its way to your hand didn't help.

"Nothing good, I hope," he retorted playfully, not so subtly tilting your hand and glancing at the ring around your finger. There was no apprehension in those eyes when they looked back at you. If anything, they held a new anticipation that had him holding his head a little higher. There was a power in his confidence that was hard to ignore. One that knew he could take what wasn't his. "Haven't seen you around," Tony started, eyes shamelessly drifting over you as if to prove a point. "It's usually the same crowd."

Maybe it was just code for: I've already slept with everyone here and now it's boring! And you were the perfect candidate. It should have been an alarm bell, but you'd ignored all of the others thus far.

"I just moved here." Even after trying your best to keep your stare in check, you couldn't fight the urge to give him a once-over. And maybe a second, just to take note of the glass of whiskey in his hand and the fingers curled around it. "My husband came out here to work for you, actually," you informed him, knowing he wouldn't have any idea or care who worked under him anyway, and that word had just as little effect on him as your wedding band.

"Oh, you mean the guy that just left you alone at a party?" He ignored the topic you were pushing and steered toward what he did care about with a sarcastic bite under his tone, dark eyes waiting for your reaction and bringing his glass to his lips. You were a bit taken aback.

"You don't have to make it sound like such a bad thing," you reasoned with a smile, keeping your tone lighthearted.

"Is it a bad thing?" He feigned innocent curiosity, but you both already knew his intentions. You thought about the question. It was an invitation to something far more tempting- he would make sure it wasn't a bad thing. You just had to give in to those eyes that were already undressing you and thumb rubbing circles into the top of your hand when they could be doing so somewhere else.

"It doesn't have to be," you said lowly. It must have been the right answer because that polite grin now smirked down at you—the type of grin that found satisfaction in getting up to no good. "Let me get you a drink."

"If you can behave," you joked, letting the hand cuffed around your wrist lead you along. He turned to you with a challenge gleaming in his eyes. "Can you?"

Neither of you behaved.

You lifted yourself onto the cold marble of the bathroom counter when he caged you into it, your legs instantly parting to give him room. You barely even got a good look at him in the dim lighting before lips crashed onto yours. It was a mutually and instantly rough connection, with a bourbon-flavored tongue licking into your mouth and heads tilting almost infuriatingly to find the angle that would have you drowning in him. The hand palming up your back and tangling into your hair only helped that goal.

One long press against your lips and he harshly pulled at your hair, forcing your head back with a whimperish moan and diving into your neck. You regretted that you weren't his to mark up. He generously avoided any conspicuous evidence of your current infidelity with wet open-mouthed kisses and barely grazing teeth. But as disappointing as it was, the hot tongue on your pulse and soft lips working at your jaw were still more than welcome to continue.

Your short dress was definitely a blessing for him, easily able to feel up your thighs and press himself between your legs. You flinched at the quick nip below your ear that just couldn't keep holding back and melted at the hot breath making its way across your cheek. It teased at the corner of your mouth, but cruelly drifted away when you turned to meet him. The grip you had on his suit was now tugging at him, begging him closer again with your lips still parted and pleadingly looking up at him. The apprehension that should have been there earlier gazed back.

But thankfully before either of you could get your thoughts straight, lips finally crashed back to yours, and a hand gripped your jaw to keep you from escaping in case you'd thought about it. You didn't have time to think anyway. You didn't even think about it before you were suddenly working at his belt buckle, almost expertly undoing it alongside that pesky button and zipper. You barely brought his pants down his hips, just enough to have better access to his thick length straining to find the extra room in boxers that were now far too tight. You palmed at him, his grunt shooting straight to your core and curling two fingers around what you could, semi-stroking his clothed erection with your thumb and forefinger. His fingers dug into your thigh, feeling a smug excitement at seeing that flash of gold on the hand desperate to get him off.

You couldn't keep it up for much longer, eager to have him fully in your hand and feel him inside you. But he caught your wrist as soon as your fingers found the band of his briefs, thumb digging uncomfortably into the center of your palm. You quickly looked up at him, worried you'd done something wrong. His expression was unreadable, but hungry eyes lingered over the space between your thighs that was still barely covered by your dress. There was a short sigh when he looked back up. "You have someone else to go home with." Those sharp eyes searched yours as if deciding what to do with you. The words shattered something. He'd nearly made you forget. You weren't sure why he was suddenly taking the moral high ground, perhaps rethinking the thrill of getting caught. You didn't have the strength to even care about scolding yourself about it.

He made up his mind when he finally let go of your wrist, instead reaching into his jacket and taking out a business card and pen he'd been hiding. You instinctively lifted your chin up when he pressed it to the space below your collarbones, gently scribbling his personal number (or maybe even a burner). You doubted he cared enough to carry those around other than for convenience in a situation like this.

"You should call me sometime," he casually suggested, never breaking eye contact when he lifted your dress. There was barely a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips when he pulled at the top of your panties, carefully sliding that card in and letting the lace snap back against you.

He gave your wide-eyed stare a wink before stepping back. Neither of you said another word as he pulled his pants back up; the way he pulled and fastened his belt was almost tortuous, locking you out. He spared you one last glance before checking himself over and leaving you still sitting on that cold marble counter in your hot and bothered daze. You were almost envious of how easily he could keep his cool, going back out as if nothing had happened. He was giving you a way out of whatever he was inviting you into, but let's be honest: you both knew you couldn't leave after being pulled in so hard.

#tony stark #tony stark one shot #tony stark imagine #tony stark x reader #tony stark x fem!reader #tony stark x female reader #tony stark fanfiction #tony stark fic #iron man drabble #iron man imagine #tony stark smut #iron man x reader #iron man fanfiction #iron man #marvel headcanons #marvel x reader #marvel

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lookitsaboat · 2 years

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(All I Have to Do is) Dream: Why The Sandman is Important To Me

My first encounter with the works of Neil Gaiman was in 2009 when I sat in a dark theater and was delighted by the Henry Selick adaptation of Gaiman’s Coraline. I immediately sought out a copy of the book and was entranced by his writing, as it was exactly the kind of fantasy writing I enjoyed reading, mixing the magic and wonder of the real world with that of a fantastical world that could only exist in imagination. I was hooked, and soon I had also collected American Gods, Anansi Boys, and several of his short stories. This is when I first became aware of The Sandman, but I wouldn’t actually read it until a few years later when I was in film school. I was roaming the school library for some good reading material, and they had a large collection of the trade paperbacks of each volume of Sandman. I had never been a huge comic book person despite enjoying superheroes on television and film, but Neil’s name meant It was at least worth a look. I tore through each volume (although I admit I got a tad impatient and skipped some of the stand-alone tales to finish the full arc of the story, something I have remedied on subsequent re-reads). For my senior thesis in film school, I focused on a story about dreams and traveling through them, and to say this isn’t influenced by Sandman would be an outright lie. I had written some of the basics before I read the whole of Sandman, but it really took shape when I wanted to tell my own story set in dreams. I even got to discuss it with Neil Gaiman himself when I had the great fortune to spend an evening with him and his wife. He gave me great advice to tell my story, and very kindly signed my favorite volume of Sandman, A Game of You, and his signature had the wonderful advice to “Dream Dangerously” which I have tried my best to do ever since. Throughout my time in Film School I dreamed of possibly getting to adapt Sandman for HBO or some similar television network someday, and while that has not come to pass, I was so thankful for it being a part of my education.

Several years passed, I had graduated, moved to Florida and had spent many years working at a certain Haunted Mansion in a certain theme park, and Sandman still stuck with me. I would go back and reread my favorite bits over and over again, and was excited when they were working on a film adaptation with Joseph Gordon-Levitt involved,and then even more excited when Netflix announced they were making a series out of the show, which I always felt was the best way to adapt the material.

And then my life fell apart. 2019 came into my life like a force of nature, destroying as much as it could. I wound up in the hospital multiple times and discovered that my body was basically destroying itself after I let it fall into disrepair due to a severe bout of depression. Between this and being stuck indoors during the pandemic, it got worse, and I ended up having to leave my job, which lost me not only a place I loved working for but friends too. I started to feel very alone. I wound up back in the hospital and physical rehab. I had to move out of an apartment that had been home for years, into a strange new home with a strange new roommate, and the loneliness continued to mount. I was in constant pain, and often, the only real voice I had to speak to was the one in my head, which was quickly becoming a much darker voice than it had ever been before. I used to tell myself I’d never consider suicide, it just wasn’t my style, but in the dark of lonely nights, trapped in a room by myself, I did. I thought about how perhaps it would just be better if I was no longer here, and that dark voice getting so much stronger than I ever imagined it could. I had one thing I was looking forward to…The Sandman adaptation. It feels silly to say that a television show was the only thing I had to look forward to, but it’s true. I found a small group of fans on Twitter and they were so kind and welcoming to an older guy who just wanted to watch his favorite story become a show. To help with the long wait and anticipation I finally sat down and listened to the Audible audiobook adaptation of The Sandman, which I had been avoiding as I typically have a hard time with audiobooks, but once I listened, I found myself discovering the magic of the world of The Sandman in a new way, and it felt as if for the first time. As I sat in my bed, struggling with my pain and health, I could make all that go away by putting my headphones on, and listening to Dream of the Endless go on his journeys.

When I first read the comics, one of the one-off short stories on my first read-through that didn’t quite click with me was Facade, a story that features Death meeting a woman named Urania Blackwell (Element Girl for comic savvy folk) who was cursed to be made of different elements and it was slowly destroying her life and mental state. As I listened to the Audible version of this story, it suddenly became real. A woman who can barely leave her apartment due to her condition, her only real companion being a weekly phone call, and a desire, but inability, to kill herself. I found myself silently sobbing as Urania spoke with Death about her life being miserable. I then began to imagine my conversation with Death, the kind goth woman who Gaiman imagined to whisk people from this life to whatever comes next with kindness and a smile. I realized that Sandman had saved me. The dark voice started to go quiet in my mind.

I admit, I still struggle with these thoughts sometimes, and I am still finding my way back to what I sometimes refer to as “normal” but it has been so helpful to have this world to escape to, to help make sense of my reality. It reminded me how simple it is to go somewhere special, and reminded me that all I have to do is dream.

Thanks to Neil Gaiman (@neil-gaiman), Sam Keith, Mike Dringenberg, and all the artists who have worked on Sandman over the years. As you have done so to many hundreds of thousands of readers before me, you inspired me. You inspired me in 2012, and then you saved me in 2022. I can’t thank you enough and I can’t wait to watch the entirety of the new show and find myself lost in that world yet again.

May we all continue to dream dangerously

Donald Hallene III

#The Sandman #neil gaiman #tw: sucidal thoughts #sandman netflix #death of the endless #dream of the endless

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kaymarie-bell · 5 months

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I serious don't understand why everyone is assuming Crowley is Levan. If he is, I'm sure Lillia and Malleus would've already found out. Besides, doesn't Crowley have some interaction with Malleus and Lillia wouldn't they of all people would know?

I feel like some of the reasons people subscribe to this theory are

Crowley's actions in general are pretty suspicious, so it seems like he has some sort of hidden goal or motive yet to be explained that could be related to his "true" identity (i.e. accepting a magicless student and a weird cat monster relatively easily into what's supposed to be a prestigious magic school / being relatively useless despite being the headmaster of said prestigious magic school, leaving students to deal with overblots on their own)

He doesn't look human, he's most likely a fae of sorts.

People assume that he is TWST's version of Diablo, Maleficent's raven

Yana is known to pull some moves completely out of left field in her stories (i.e. the twins reveal in Kuroshitsuji)

I don't necessarily follow this theory so I probably missed the most compelling "evidence," but these are the reasons to believe I can think of.

I definitely lean more towards "Crowley is definitely hiding something, but that doesn't necessarily mean he is Levan" because

I agree with the fact that (unless some sort of large scale spell is involved for plot reasons) Lilia should definitely be able to tell if Crowley is his childhood best friend, who presumably died at war.

Maleficent wasn't the only villain with a pet raven. The Evil Queen also had one, and I feel that Crowley himself fits more with her if we look at the colours in his design. There's also the importance twst gives to the Magic Mirror as a magical object and as a motif throughout the game's designs, so it would make sense to have the two be related to each other.

Also, fun fact: as the Evil Queen came first, she served as the blueprint for subsequent Disney Villains including the Queen of Hearts and Maleficent herself. Is not too farfetched to believe that Yana took that into account when deciding on the aspects of the plot (like relating the person who most likely summoned Yuu into twst to her). I mean, look at Pomefiore's cards background vs the curtains in Crowley's office vs the Evil Queen:

...I kinda lost where I was going with all this after thinking about the Evil Queen.

Let me get back to the main topic.

I don't really expect that Crowley = Levan, but would I like to see it? Definitely, both for the angst and the absurdity of it. I love to see people enjoy their theories until canon proves them either right or wrong! 🌻

#twisted wonderland #twst #Diasomnia spoilers #kinda?#Dire Crowley #in case you can't tell: I'm very passionate about the villains #I somehow found myself owning a bunch of stuff related to the Evil Queen in specific. Completely unrelated to Pomefiore itself. huh #anyways I hope this was coherent #I haven't eaten all day and I'm kinda dizzy from the flu #📫📬📧

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raayllum · 5 months

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Moving forward, what do you think is going to be Claudia's motivating Drive?

Viren, at least, was always able to tell himself that he was working for the sake of the Greater Good, but that's not something Claudia has ever cared all that much about-- her first, last, and only real concern has always been her Family. With that pillar removed (not that I think Viren is about to disappear completely, but he's definitely not going to be directly involved with her in quite the same way), what does she have left to fight for?

I mean, obviously Revenge can be a powerful driving motivator-- the whole series kicked off with revenge-induced assassinations, so we know that's not exactly nothing, and I can definitely see it being something pushing Claudia further down her current path.

But (IMHO) the story has also been moving somewhat further away from Cycles of Revenge, and I just can't see that being a strong enough motivator for Claudia when counterbalanced against everything our Heroes are fighting for. (Especially with Soren still holding out hope for her and being a weak chink in her armor.)

What's the piece I'm missing?

In a lot of ways, perpetuating the Cycle has always, indeed, been about seeking Revenge for the loss of loved ones.

Rayla: When I first came here, I was on a quest for revenge. But the minute I saw that egg, everything changed. Now, this is a journey of redemption. / I became so obsessed with revenge that I risked losing the best thing I ever had: you. Ezran: I'm sorry about what happened to your father, and what happened to mine. But we don't have to avenge them. We don't have to strike back. We can't choose peace. Callum: Then it's a cycle. You hurt me, someone will get revenge against the elves. It won't end.

This is also one of the key things that, at first, set Soren and Claudia apart from the bulk of the main cast. At first, Harrow and Viren weren't seeking revenge (the Magma Titan) but then they both succumbed to it (killing Thunder) and it continued to snowball from there. In spite of losing their families, Callum, Rayla, and Ezran chose to shed the cycles of revenge their parents (Harrow and Runaan) had partaken in to try and break it instead.

Conversely, Soren and particularly Claudia have been largely removed from the Cycle of Revenge... until 3x09 and firmly in 5x09. Soren and Claudia lost a family member, but their mother is alive and chose to leave. While they've experienced forms of loss, they've never had to literally grieve a death. Although Soren has complicated feelings about his dad, he's ultimately more relieved than anything else regarding his dad's death ("Dad is dead, Claudia. You don't have to do what he wants anymore"—4x07) and angry/despairing when it's reversed (yelling no in show / Soren snarled. “Why couldn’t you just stay dead?”—TDP Reflections: Strangers).

Aaravos dangled Viren over Claudia's nose like a carrot dangling from a stick, and she followed. He didn't offer her revenge, but a way to save her father. But the same trick won't work twice on her. Claudia isn't going to try to bring Viren back again — it'd be a repeat and wouldn't progress her character any further — but she also can't walk away from Aaravos, because she's our sole primary antagonist outside the mirror and still might have a role in freeing him. And if she walks away from Aaravos, she's also going to be walking out of the plot, and we can't have that. Thus, I think power — and subsequent revenge — is about the only thing Aaravos would have left to offer her.

It gives her an incentive to 1) go after the prison and/or 2) generally do Aaravos' bidding, and if she couldn't defeat the trio without his help the first time, allying herself with him is the biggest way she can level up as a threat in terms of just like, power scaling.

There are also still a few bits of information that Aaravos knows but Claudia doesn't (that Rayla was responsible for Viren's death, and that Viren lied in 3x03; although for the latter, that's more something she couldn't or wasn't willing to accept) that could spur her further into well, going wonderfully apeshit.

Revenge is more of a fine motivator for her in 4x09 (tricking Rayla, although Terry gets her to turn around) and in S5 with the dragon (smirking and smiling about having the upper hand, making it scared of her) and in her altercations with the trio.

So yeah, my vote is on revenge — for better or definitely worse!

Obligatory fanon s6 fic plug in because of Claudia's revenge arc getting underway

#tdp claudia #s6 speculation #predictions #the cycle #ljf613 #idkf i expressed this as eloquently as i wanted to but hopefully it's coherent #thanks for asking #requests #tdp meta #tdp #the dragon prince #claudia #like claudia does have a mean streak to her #it's not massive (she's mostly smug or indifferent when it comes to that shit) but #the 'you made me suffer or worry so now i'm getting even'? yeah definitely there

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jamiesfootball · 3 months

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Have there been any of your WIPs that have not been asked about that you want to talk about? Or one that has that you want to share more about?

As you may have heard, I'm not writing a Leverage AU. Part of this thing that I'm not writing involves digging into how Jamie became a hitter in the first place - and subsequent relationship with violence - which came at the pushing of his dad, a low-bit crook and all-around awful person (who's very Nate Ford's dad coded here):

“He’s a crook; you ask yourself ‘what would a crook do’ and that’s what he does.”

One of the turning points in young Jamie's life was when his foot was broken via unsavory means as a direct result of his dad being a piece of shit crook. He lost his spot in the football academy. Added to that, he had a large number of fractures in his foot requiring multiple surgeries, and he spent a lot of time unable to move around.

Which is how we get this distressing flashback snippet under the cut in which James confronts Jamie about how he's not contributing his share around the place anymore

CW: abuse

His dad’s hand came up. Jamie flinched, and he got a consolation pat on the cheek for trying to hide it.

“What are you going to do, lad? Huh?”

“I don’t-“

A tap to the cheek this time. Quick, like swatting a dog with a newspaper. “I don’t want to hear excuses, right. I want to hear-,” he leaned in close, “-what the fuck it is you think you’re going to be doing to pull your weight around here?”

His throat went dry. The words smudged right out of his head like letters on a chalkboard.

Helplessly, he shook his head, and the next tap to his face came with a smack.

“Don’t you shake your head at me,” his dad hissed. “You think this is funny? You think this is a game? I’ve sheltered you enough and look where it’s fucking got us!”

The bottle went flying past his head, shattering against the wall.

Jamie couldn’t tell if he’d meant to miss.

He kept himself still but pliant as his dad’s hand circled around the back of his head to tug him forward by the hair. He pressed their foreheads together; the warm stench of beer an overwhelming fog threatening to send Jamie flying right out of his own mind – anywhere but here.

His dad spoke softly. “Now I’m not trying to scare you. I’m not, because I don’t have to scare my son into doing what he’s told. Isn’t that right?”

Jamie made a strangled noise.

The hand in his hair curled into a fist. “With your fucking words.”

“Yes, da’.”

“That’s good. That’s real good. So here’s what we’re gonna do.” He let go of Jamie’s hair. Pins and needles popped up to great him in its place. Before he could be grateful, he got another tap on the cheek.

The hand rested there, calloused in its warning.

“I’m gonna go out. Me, Denbo, and Bug, we’re gonna shake down our usual customers. Line our pockets. And when I get back in the morning, my son is going to explain to me how he expects to contribute on the next score, even with his poor little fucking foot, because so help us both, Jamie – this is not a problem you want me to solve. Make me solve this, and you’re gonna fucking regret it, Junior.”

#leverage au #cw abuse #jamie tartt #james tartt sr #fuck jamie's dad #(in every universe)#ask box is always open #behold my flimsy excuse to share a snippet!#writing snippet

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vavandeveresfan · 2 months

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So . . . I was sent these.

A couple of you know I used to have a Beetlejuice x Lydia blog. Used to be into the fandom big time, since the movie first opened in 1988. Then, for reasons I won't get into, I lost interest in all things Beej.

But some people still read my Beej fics on AO3. And one of them sent me these photos from Beetlejuice 2. They also sent me the link to the article they appeared in.

So for you few Beetlebabes who still Follow me -- you know who you are -- here's the article.

“Beetlejuice Beetlejuice”... Beetlejuice returns in first look at Michael Keaton, Winona Ryder

Nick Romano

Wed, March 20, 2024 at 9:00 AM CDT

It's been 36 years, but once again, the juice is loose.

After reprising Batman in last year's The Flash, Michael Keaton returns to another iconic role in Entertainment Weekly's exclusive first look at Beetlejuice Beetlejuice, the sequel to director Tim Burton's cult hit.

Winona Ryder and Catherine O'Hara also reprise their roles as Lydia and Delia Deetz, respectively, while Burton's Wednesday star Jenna Ortega plays Lydia's daughter Astrid, and The Leftovers star Justin Theroux plays Rory. Further details on Rory remain under wraps for now — unlike the titular "bio-exorcist."

The original Beetlejuice (1988) followed the recently deceased Barbara and Adam Maitland (Geena Davis, Alec Baldwin), who enlist the aid of the mischievous demon Beetlejuice/Betelgeuse (Keaton), to expel the current living residents of their home, the Deetz family. All hell, subsequently, breaks loose.

The sequel picks up decades later with a death in the family. "That's all I will say," Burton tells EW in an interview. "There's something that happens that sets things in motion." Could that be the death of Lydia's father, Charles Deetz (Jeffrey Jones)? The director plays coy: "We'll see." One thing's for sure, Beetlejuice comes back into play.

Burton describes getting Keaton back in the classic costume and makeup as "a weird out-of-body experience."

"He just got back into it," the filmmaker behind 1989's Batman (also starring Keaton) and 1993's The Nightmare Before Christmas recalls. "It was kind of scary for somebody who was maybe not that overly interested in doing it. It was such a beautiful thing for me to see all the cast, but he, sort of like demon possession, just went right back into it."

Burton says he and Keaton have talked about a sequel on and off over the years. "Unless it felt right, he had no burning desire to do it," the director recalls. "I think we all felt the same way. It only made sense if it had an emotional hook."

Many concepts were floated around, some dating all the way back to the '80s, including a treatment set in Hawaii. "We talked about lots of different things," Burton says. "That was early on when we were going, Beetlejuice and the Haunted Mansion, Beetlejuice Goes West, whatever. Lots of things came up."

What they needed, however, was time. His actors, including Ryder and O'Hara, had all moved on to other projects after the original came out, and "nobody," Burton notes, "was really pushing for it." The filmmaker also admits he didn't initially (and still doesn't to some degree) understand the success of the first film, so he wasn't motivated to move forward with an idea that didn't excite him.

The hook he was looking for, as it turns out, revolves around Ryder's Lydia and bringing together three generations of Deetz women, including O'Hara's Delia and Ortega's Astrid. "I so identified with the Lydia character, but then you get to all these years later, and you take your own journey, going from cool teenager to lame adult, back and forth again," he explains. "That made it emotional, gave it a foundation. So that was the thing that really truly got me into it."

Other details on the film itself are being kept secret for now, other than the presence of Monica Bellucci (Spectre), Arthur Conti (House of the Dragon), and Willem Dafoe (Poor Things) among the cast. (Dafoe previously disclosed his role as a B-movie action star who died and became a police officer in the Afterlife.) Burton feels "a bit jinx-y" about revealing such things, given that he's still shaping the movie in the editing phase. But he does confirm he'll be using stop-motion animation to bring a lot of the classic Beetlejuice effects to the screen. "It needed a back-to-basics, handmade quality," he says. "It reenergized why I love making movies."

And what about that title? Beetlejuice Beetlejuice. "It's been, what? Thirty-five years. So it didn't feel like Beetlejuice 2 to me," Burton says. "It didn't feel like that kind of a movie. The other one I thought of, because one of my favorite Dracula movies is Dracula A.D. 1972, was Beetlejuice 2024 A.D. But this was a nice simple one."

Just don't say the name one more time, or you risk summoning the man himself.

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice will hit theaters on Sept. 6.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Addendum: Was sent the link to this, too.

I'm . . . fearfully optimistic . . . .

youtube

#Beetlejuice #Beetlejuice 2

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