#bam writes

[qvrcll]

Never Boring — Abby Anderson.

synopsis -> Abby has never taken you this deep but you’ve always turned dumber and dumber despite the decision of whether she does or not.

warnings -> EXPLICIT smut, f ! reader, rough sex

a/n -> this is so incredibly short but i had to write for my gf <3 my babygirl <3 (this was literally a piece written for dead pool but changed course 🫣)

wc: 1.1K (so short, ew, im sorry)

Sex with Abby was never boring.

Never boring, unless you chose for it to be — chose for the stinking slaps of fervent skin dashing against hip to not mean as much as you claimed it did everytime the contact hit, choosing to not break each other with the promise of reinventing the same high-up to pleasure across the blurred line of self-division and lunacy — there was something incredibly wrong with you in the acclaimed name of the action being to sedative to you and somewhere, dangling off the edge of a parapet, was the mantra you prized deeply, a melody of A-Ah, Hnnn-Ah—Abby—don’t-fuck-don’t stop!

“Don’t worry, wasn’t — ah — wasn’t planning to”, she’d grunt low in your ear and you would almost nearly crumble into a frantic mouthful of cold flesh and all panic in the leer that you couldn’t hear her despite the proximity — yet, in her cybernetic grasp like iron on iron, you almost felt yourself curdle to a stage of inflammation that humans had not learnt to navigate as a habitual instinct. But in her hands, under her weight? You were putty. Fucking delirious. Ready to latch onto the third string of human mutation as she drilled another hole into you (you could never say this out loud, it would swell her with unneeded ego)

You wrap your legs around her hips despite the sharp drives of every maneuver, hips locking in and locking out of your own in a cruel attempt to rim you with a taste of a self-concerned grip on reality, the thought of oh fuck, is this sex going to be the reason of my death? But the disappointment never came, it never looked through the books of her catastrophic plunges deep in your puffy cunt, and the only thing that came out, of you (you assumed) was the scream of her name and the presidented truth that no one could drive you quite this insane: she was a formidable drug and all you could do was choke, spit, gurgle across the taste of her, “Abby-Ang—Fuck, fuck, fucccckkk — You’re so good, you’re so good!”.

She smirks — or looks to be smirking — in the centre of your blurry vision, all bleary marked and bleached with streaks of distortion the harder you stared and the harder you tried, the more you cried: there is a gasp, a silent moment of insanity before she takes you deeper than she ever as, ever would claim to have (you would assume it was one of her jokes), because she parallels you against the bedsheets, or the notion of them anyway, because they were half hanging on the floor and half not doing their job at all — but she doesn’t care, much, when she haphazardly angles your lower half higher and higher up the bed, so she could dig you out and be an acclaimed archeologist with the profundity of those waited out, quickly prolonged bruises of her silicone dick wrenching you open from outside and then inwards. Cruelly. Messily, like she was a starved man in search for a single glass of water and you were an oasis, “Shit, you’re the best”, her voice ripples against the meat of your chest when she nearly knocks you unconscious from plunging onto it in weariness, that even her debilitation was causing you to realise just how far gone you are when consulted about her, and her assortment of plastic dicks? A whole different question.

It drills into you, slitting back and forth like a sword teased back into its sheath, and the goading notion of you being anything as so dipartire to her made you shut down onto the girth abusing your cunt — “Babe, you’re squeezing around it, like crazy”, her voice is sounding warbled, tired in a sort of fucked out way that drove you inaudible, and she leans in close to your face to check for any noises to be drilled out of you, but you fear if she begins to try, you would traverse grounds that would only invite more of the same. You would like your lower half as intact as possible, please and thank you.

“Abby—fuck, fuck—Oh god—Abby”, you’re not doing better, and though she’s just as atrocious as you are, she’s stronger. More resistant. She could hide her eyes well beneath her lids, whereas yours were rolled back, coddling the familiar side of a extreme malaise cultivating in your abdomen, a crick threatening to fracture into kaleidoscopic fragments of both you and her, traces of white, evidence of fatigue soon catching up and you tighten around the plastic, rack against her harder and she does the same (to achieve elation through the silicones bruising friction against her, you assumed in hindsight), though you suppose there is no way to tell when you’re turning dumb near towards your end, your salvation.

“Fuck—look at me”, she orders and it’s hard to decipher the tone when her brutish pace goes from bad to worse and you know she’s close when she’s threading her breaths in low ‘O’s and shallow gasps in order to still stay inside you: the strenght to plummel into you several drills than one was, thankfully, invited as extraordinary — and for the fruit of her endeavours and her equally skilled plastic dick, you blink fervently towards her, to satisfy her, to please her, to make her aware of the roads you’d cross to just get to suck her off in a downtown toilet, and she whines at the fact that you merely do.

“Yeah, yeah—just like that, don’t look anywhere else—“, her voice is losing footing and to be honest, you’re too muddle headed to pick any fault in it: finding fault in the crisp knowledge that Abby Anderson goes all messy, delirious and hot in the final ten seconds of sex was hard to find when you do the very same, much quicker and much more destructive.

Ten seconds.

“You’re so good—so fucking good”, she begs, and it almost sounds like self-assurance from her mouth but you know she means every word: the knot intertwists painfully and you’re so close to a nebulic cataclysm.

Seven seconds.

“So, so, so good. So good, this”, she directs her gaze to where her end meets yours, “It’s so good for me, isn’t it?”.

Three.

“Please”,

Two.

“Fuck—“

One.

“Oh my god!”

You scream. Scream till you’re hellbent against her chest like blackwork hugging her skin. Scream till you’re on the equivalent frequency of pleasure as the avocations of Dionysus himself. Till you’re sure you will end up outdoing her, in the form of discoloured and incoherent bawling as you maul her back, serene maroon lines, when you rupture beyond relief.

Yup, never boring.

#female reader #fanfic #bam writes #fan fiction #writing #abby anderson #abby x reader #abby anderson x reader #tlou 2 x reader #tlou 2 #tlou 2 abby #the last of us two #the last of us 2 #the last of us two fanfic

[bambino1294]

Eat Your Young

A Time Travel Fic — Playlist

? Chapters | ? Words | Rated M

“This, however, is not the same boy she reaped the first time. He is not soft and teary, he is warped and hardened. His hands are lightly bandaged, coiled rags disappearing into his sleeves, and something behind his eyes is already scarring, already scarred. This is not the same boy she sent off to a Quarter Quell but, then again, she is not the same Escort he left behind either.”

OR

The prisoners of war try again.

#bam writes #eat your young #hunger games #thg fanfiction #peeta mellark #effie trinket #johanna mason #hayffie #everlark #me vs my hyperfixations #I haven’t even seen tbosas I’ve just been reading some really good everlark fics recently #literally wrote half the opening sequence at work #little old me sitting at the front desk with my notebook in hand #scribbling thoughts as the night wears on and I speak to literally no one for two hours until my manager sends me home early #that was how this fic became more than just a thought #anyway title from the king himself Hozier; because eyy is such a hunger games coded song #throws up because posting in new fandoms is scary #also this first chapter is SO short #and i'm not used to that at all #coping with a below 1k opener *dies on the spot*

[lilacthebooklover]

imagine max killing richie and ruth in hatchetfield high, ready to move onto pete and steph after establishing his power over the school even in death, only,,, richie and ruth are still there. they're ghosts too, bc they died in hatchetfield high, and hh is one of the black altars. so now max just has to deal with them being in the afterlife with him. he can't beat them up or anything since none of them are corporeal, so they're limited to unwanted coexsitence. his plan has backfired horribly and he is very angry about it, but there isn't really anything he can do.

then richie and ruth follow him around and do all they can to get him to stop trying to kill pete and steph, bc those are their best friends, and even if they're dead, they can still try to save the other two. Operation Mildly Inconvenience Max is a-go.

#lowkey tempted to write this #it's such a funny concept #max is so pleased he's killed them #then bam #here they are #but now he can't even beat them up #npmd #npmd spoilers #starkid npmd #starkid #keep it trending guys #team starkid #max jagerman #ruth fleming #richie lipschitz #pete spankoffski #peter spankoffski #stephanie lauter #steph lauter #nerdy prudes must die #aus #fanfiction writer #nerdy prudes spoilers

[bluerosefox]

Fenton Coded

Tim... Tim just stared.

He...

Huh.

He had once entertained the idea that he wasn't really a Drake, a very long time ago when he overheard his mom and dad arguing and some words were said in the heat of the moment, but to be honest Tim always thought the obvious culprit of anyone being his dad would most likely be Bruce (Bruce even admitted he had a small fling with his mother but that was two years before her marriage)

But before little Tim's curiosity could really take hold on the idea, he had saw on the news Robin performing a Grayson flip and the hint of Tim not being a Drake left his mind. Robin was Dick Grayson! And if he was Robin that had to mean Bruce Wayne was Batman!

Then well... his stalking of the Bats started and the rest became history.

But now, as Tim was staring at his own DNA test, something he never bothered to do until that damned Demon brat wanted to make sure he was ONLY blood son of Bruce (and doing a DNA test something even Bruce never thought of doing due to well… how he was towards Tim during his first months as Robin)

He well…

He kinda needs to find out who this Daniel Jackson Fenton is.

(Tim finds out he isn’t a Drake, but also not a Wayne (because Damian wanted to make sure he was only blood son) but is instead a Fenton)

#danny phantom #danny fenton #crossover #dp x dc #blue rambles #danny phantom dc #writing ideas #random idea #dpxdc #Tim drake #this time Danny is Tim’s bio dad! #he meet Janet when exploring a ‘dead’ city #coughhewasspookingpeopleawaysotheydontdisturbthedeadcough #only Janet seemed to take things in stride and not run off like everyone else did #she caught him eventually and they got to talking #and maybe some ghost booze as well #she did leave the next morning when she realized she slept with Danny #then bam a couple months later Tim was born #Danny doesn’t know #he does favors for the dead when they want people OUT of their resting places #but don’t have enough strength to do so #he basically gets commissioned to do it #Tim finds out his insane luck and need to tinker with tech is a Fenton gene #and liking people who can kick butt #he kinda wants to meet his dad #but is hesitant #Danny when he finds out about Tim being his son goes full Jack Fenton hug

[bleeding-seraphic]

who would i be if i didnt make shitty trod doodles

better ones are on the way i swear @bamsara

#narilamb #true devotion #trod #trod au #the redemption of death #cotl narinder #cotl lamb #jesus christ bam with ur writing its banger after banger huh

[lo1k-diamonds]

How to Choose a Valentine 💜

PAIRING: idol!Jungkook x You (You can also read it on AO3)

SUMMARY: Who knew the best company for Valentine's Day would be a lovely Doberman? And who knew he'd get you a Valentine? Well, sort of.

WORD COUNT: 4.3k

GENRE: fluff and light angst

RATING: Teen (for cussing and drinking)

WARNINGS: drinking, kissing and making out while drunk (consensual), hangover, lapses of memory, misunderstandings, JK handles everything well, Bam is the center of this story, the cutest baby, and maybe a cupid, should fill your 💜 with fluff but wdik

A.N. I wasn't even supposed to write this. This is what happens when I wake up at 4 AM and can't sleep. Then I think, Hmm, I read lots of lovely fics yesterday about Valentine's Day. What would I do if I wrote one? X hours later, here we are. I just roll with it at this point, it's almost a way to deal with writer's block 😅 Enjoy 💜

You snorted at the reel playing on your phone while your hand petted gently between the black Doberman’s ears. One girl smashed the phone camera while repeating ‘Girls don’t want flowers for Valentine’s Day’, while another immediately shyly said that yes, she’d like flowers. You scrolled; another of a guy guiding his significant other over a trail of petals; you scrolled, another of a guy explaining how he asked a girl to become his Valentine. Another, with the type of girls on Valentine’s Day and you smirked. Which one were you? Definitely not the spoiled girlfriend, you were single. Not heartbroken, you hadn’t dated for a while, or a heartbreaker. You chuckled; the only guy in your life at the moment was that sweet Doberman sleeping on your lap and you weren’t about to break his darling heart. 

The next options were single and fine with it, anti-Valentine’s Day, and Galentine’s Girl. You supposed you were fine with it but had hoped not to spend it alone, hence why you were at your best friend’s apartment. What you thought could be a day of eating and having fun together turned into dog-sitting because she needed that favor. Something along the lines of the usual sitter being ill and her needing to find someone to do it, and you were available.

You could think of more depressing ways of spending your day. You put your phone down and petted the short fur between the dog’s closed eyes, knowing he was utterly relaxed under your touch. He was the cutest thing and you had a blast walking and playing with him all day. You checked his training and he was responsive, though testy of the limits, and you made sure he understood that he had to listen to you. During your second walk, he behaved so well and was rewarded so much that you thought he wouldn’t have an appetite for dinner, but he surprised you. And now he was sleeping soundly and you didn’t want to get up, but it was time for your own dinner. Maybe you could cook something up for you and—

Your phone buzzed and you checked it; speaking of the devil.

[It’s taking longer than expected so I’ll eat here. Treat yourself sorry see you soon! 💜]

You sighed. In the end, you were going to spend it with that cutie as your Valentine. You stretched your arms and shoulders, pressing your fingers to your neck before gaining the courage to slide under the Doberman. He wasn’t pleased and adjusted his head to get back on your thigh.

“No, Bamie. I gotta eat something, come on.”

You slid again and turned on the TV as background noise before getting to the kitchen and checking your best friend’s fridge. You decided to eat a bit of everything that you could find and got set to eat on the sofa in front of the TV. Not even five minutes in, you became sort of annoyed — stupid Valentine’s Day ads. You told Bam firmly not to even think about snatching your food before you focused on streaming something instead. A corny and sweet romcom should be fun.

And you had dinner as you laughed and cried with it until a scene came up where the main character cried her sorrows over a bottle of soju and you thought, Why not? You had nothing planned the next day, at least you could have a drink.

You started with a single soju bottle, but as the episodes played and the night passed, you didn’t stop. Eventually, there were empty bottles of beer and soju and you were feeling dizzy, despite being sat down on the couch. Your last reasonable thought was to turn off the TV, the only source of light in the room, before holding on to Bam as if he were a pillow and falling asleep.

It was the sound of bottles clicking that disturbed your sleep, and your instinct was to wrap your arms closer around the fluffy dog, “Bam.”

He was wiggling his tail like crazy, and in your haze, you connected that to the bottles falling over. Not to the extra dip on the other side of the chaise longue.

Perhaps it was the fact that you heard your best friend’s voice in the distance that relaxed you, not quite registering that it disappeared after the front door closed. It was only when a different scent hit your nose that you started connecting the pieces: Bam was squeezed between you and someone else, their hand touched your arm ever so slightly while they petted him, and that musky scent was from a man.

You opened your eyes, confused by your conclusions, but not at the top of your game — a quick nap was not enough to make you sober.

“Who are you?”

Bam’s tail kept wiggling as he seemed busy facing opposite from you, looking at the person who answered you, “Who are you?”

He sounded sleepy and you couldn’t see him properly. The city lights from the window were enough but you were still too hazy.

“I asked first,” you voiced, rubbing your eyes. He didn’t seem willing to respond quickly enough, but you could feel him still petting Bam, so you sulked. You wrapped your arms around the pet harder, “Bamie is mine!”

Instantly, a new set of arms did the same and tried to steal him away, “No, he’s not! I’m his dad!”

“And I’m his mom!” The man scoffed and you raised your chin proudly. “Don’t believe me? Look.”

You let go of Bam and scanned around, seeing where you could put your feet safely in between the bottles. Then you got up and walked a bit unsteadily across the living room, standing next to the window. You could see the shape of the man all in black, including his hair, looking at you from his comfortable position with the sweet Bam happily smelling around.

He could see your expression, your baggy tee shirt falling over you and covered with cartoons, but he only cared about Bam staying in his arms. Because of course, he would.

“Bam!”

He gasped when Bam jumped from his embrace to get to you, frantically wiggling his whole body before lying on his back over your feet. He gaped as his Doberman showed his belly, happily licking your face and squirming under your belly rubs.

“Such a good boy,” you cooed, grinning from ear to ear.

Then you straightened up and snapped your fingers and Bam got up too, easily following you back on the couch and splaying himself belly up in between you and the man.

“There you go,” you murmured, scratching his belly and up his chest much to Bam’s delight.

It was when Bam squirmed that his snout ended up under the man’s chin and you saw him clearly for the first time. Then he spoke and you smiled.

You woke up with a groan, drool all over the pillow, and a headache to make you want to run for the hills. But then you sat up, confusion still scrambling your brain as you eyed the bedroom.

“Bam?”

You waited but the sound of paws scratching the floor didn't grace your ears, so you got up from bed and searched for him. You looked everywhere, calling for him every few seconds, but he didn’t come out and you couldn’t seem to find him. In fact, there was no one else at home but you, which made you befuddled — where was your best friend?

Your hangover was deadly, it was trying to pull you down with a headache the size of the world. And so you beelined to the bathroom and stripped hastily to get your head under the water and try to wake up gently.

But there was no gentleness to be found when suddenly you remember something — there was a man. Yes, but— You— kissed?

Suddenly, you were flooded with the memories of you kissing, his gentle hand cupping your jaw, your trembling breath when your tongues touched. The foreign thing that ended up being a lip ring that you felt with your tongue. The way the kiss deepened, and your legs got tangled even beyond sweet Bam lying in between you.

You were hyperventilating, “What?!”

You did what?!

Did you kiss a random man? On your best friend’s couch in the middle of the night? Or did you hallucinate him because of the alcohol?

Suddenly, it came to you — he tasted of beer, and you told him as much.

You felt him smile against your lips, “And you taste of strawberry soju.”

You remembered chuckling before kissing him again, burying your fingers into slightly overgrown strands of hair that curled around your hand.

You rubbed your face under the water; you kissed him. You were both drunk, and you couldn’t remember everything, but you pressed your lips to—

You stopped breathing.

You were feeling his shoulders and pulling him close when Bam started licking both your faces, which made you both break away and laugh.

“I have to pee,” you had said, getting up.

Before you could be mortified about having said that to a random guy, you recognized that after you went to the bathroom, you forgot about getting back to the couch. Instead, you went to bed on autopilot and fell asleep. Because you were that drunk.

Well, thankfully. Otherwise, what could have ended up happening? You were not in your right mind, you could barely remember his face aside from his eyes and lip ring. You were crazy, nuts, and shouldn’t drink that much again.

You got out of the shower and got dressed quickly with more lenient thoughts. Since only kissing happened, it was okay. No harm no foul.

Your stomach was adding to the problem, but you still decided to take headache medicine before your phone buzzed and you grabbed it.

[Meet me at work and have breakfast with me?]

You agreed and got your stuff to go to her. The subway trip was twenty minutes but it was alright at that hour. The HYBE building was in a very busy area, so to already have a direct line there was a blessing.

You gave your name at the reception to get a visitor pass and went to the floor she indicated, smiling when you saw it was a cafeteria with breakfast all around.

She met you at the door and walked you through it before sitting down and watching you eat your broth carefully.

“Lots of people need caring for this morning. Funny what Valentine’s Day does to some people,” she was amused, though her expression screamed exhaustion. “If they’re in couple they drink together, if they’re single they drink alone. There’s no escape, is there?”

You were looking down apologetically until you could talk, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I… raided your fridge.”

She sighed, “I know, I saw the bottles on the floor. Hence why you’re here, to have a power breakfast.”

“What happened yesterday? Why didn’t you come home?”

Your best friend heaved a deep breath, her spirit hanging on by a thread, “My artist went to a friend's dinner last night and got drunk. I got his driver to get him home but they had an accident,” she sighed. Your eyes widened in alarm, but she raised her hand swiftly, “They’re both alright. This all to say that after my meeting got lost into late hours, instead of going home, I had to go and manage that situation.”

“That sucks…” You thought back to the previous night, unsure of how to introduce the topic.

“By the way, thank you for taking care of Bam. My artist and I really appreciated it—”

She was interrupted when a spot of black dashed for you, barking the instant you took a second to acknowledge his presence. You instantly smiled despite the horrid headache the noise was making and reached to pet him.

“No, Bam! No eating!”

“It’s not the food,” your best friend pointed out jokingly, dismissing the manager nearby who tried to admonish the pet.

You were happy to give him all the cuddles that were making him go crazy and whiny; you were happy to see him again too. It instantly pulled memories from the previous night into your mind and you wondered again how to bring it up with your best friend when a voice interrupted your thoughts.

“Bam.”

Bam was licking your hand happily, yet instantly darted away at the call, and you knew before you looked up. It was him. You recognized the longer hair you had gripped, the lip ring, and the eyes. The sweet yet searing eyes.

He got near your table and bowed to you both before starting a light talk with your best friend about the schedule for the day.

And you blinked, wondering why his eyes set on your best friend’s face, or rather why the whole situation felt like a gut punch. He must have been the artist your best friend was referring to, the one she managed. You wouldn’t know, she was secretive about who it was. But the way he was ignoring you couldn’t be mistaken. He didn’t acknowledge you more than that bow, but why would he? You knew who he was.

The moment your lips grazed in a slow kiss while his hand gently supported your jaw came to mind and you blinked in astonishment. You couldn't believe it happened. Even as you remembered opening your eyes the moment he pulled away a few inches to breathe and looked straight into your eyes. It was impossible. Even if you were both drunk, how—

“Excuse me.” The three of you turned to the lady in uniform. “No pets are allowed in the cafeteria,” she bowed respectfully.

It was easy for you to get up, “I’ll take Bam to the rooftop garden.”

You grabbed his leash from the man’s hand without touching him and he let it go, a bit startled. Not that you noticed; you stepped away and called for Bam, who followed you swiftly.

Jungkook stayed behind, eyes still on you leaving with his dog until you were out of sight.

“She’ll take good care of him.”

He turned back to his manager and nodded, “I know.”

His manager was ready to use every argument she had to convince him, so she chuckled, “Funny how yesterday you were borderline going nuts over a stranger taking care of him and now you’re so relaxed.”

He nodded and looked back at where you disappeared with his Bam. You were not a stranger.

“What’s that look?” She asked, eyebrows furrowing ever so lightly.

He pressed his lips and nibbled a bit on his lip ring, but then looked back at her, “When you left me at your place… something happened.”

A mix of fear and ‘oh no’ crossed his manager's face and he sat across from her where you had sat before, ignoring your tray and half-eaten food.

“We were both drunk,” he started, expecting her not to believe him, but she just nodded. “And Bam loves her. We just—” He filled his lungs with air, pushing it back out anxiously as his tattooed hand ran across his hair, “We joked around that I was Bam’s dad and she was his mom. Then, that we were both alone, nowhere close to having a Valentine, and that maybe Bam was our cupid. Instead of meeting and making a baby, the baby— made us—” He became crimson and hid his eyes for a second, then he faced her again, “We were drunk!”

“You said that,” she deadpanned firmly. She was his manager, she needed to know things in black and white. He knew that.

“So we joked. Maybe we should get together, and we kissed.”

Her eyes doubled in size, “Oh no, you didn’t!”

“We just kissed!”

Her features hardened, “Tell me right now. Tell me the truth.”

“It’s the truth! I swear, we kissed— for a while—” His ears were becoming red, “And then she went to the bathroom and I fell asleep.” His manager’s expression had not changed a millimeter, and his eyes became pleading. “You have to believe me. You woke me up and I was alone with Bam.”

“That’s true,” she acknowledged, finally heaving a breath. “Shit, this is my fault. Leave two drunk people alone, and see what happens.”

He frowned, “I don’t just go around kissing people, even when I’m drunk.”

She faced him, “That is also true.” It seemed clear to her, so he relaxed. “So what happened? Why did you kiss her?”

He blinked with wide eyes, startled by the question. “I… I don’t know.”

He looked down, containing the urge to look back at where you had left with his pet. He didn’t even know your name, he knew nothing except that Bam loved you and you tasted sweet.

His manager waited for a proper response, for any additional information. But when none came, she knew what she had to do. She sighed, “Well. I’ll have to contact our lawyers and draft an NDA. She’s my best friend”, she confessed, rubbing her eyes for a second. “Shit,” was all she expressed before getting up and rushing out.

Jungkook pressed his lips and let her leave. He was confused about the situation, about his actions. He knew so little… Why did he think it was enough?

He put away the trays you and his manager had used while he pondered this. In a way, Bam’s heart meant everything to him. The way Jungkook loved him was unexplainable, he was the only soul in the world he could ever love in such a way. His innocence and instinct were enough, and he listened to you like he only ever listened to Jungkook himself. That shouldn’t have been enough, but it was.

And he was drunk, he sighed, leaving the room. It was his fault, he knew that. He shouldn’t kiss people irresponsibly like that, and now his manager was in a tough spot.

He decided to head for the rooftop and sort this out with you. He didn’t know what to say, but he thought maybe it didn’t have to be a big deal. You two just did it and it was… freeing. There were no inhibitions or second thoughts. It was playful and innocent, and then your lips touched. He didn’t know it would feel like that, he hadn’t thought it through. But it felt so good. It created shivers, made him hot, curious, awake, alive. He had no questions, no doubts, it was like jumping out of an airplane and freefalling. It was like the wind was guiding him to fit together with you, there was nothing in him telling him to fight it.

He got to the rooftop and immediately saw you across the garden sitting on a bench with his manager, and your best friend, next to you. Bam saw him too and raised his head and ears, but he was busy grabbing a stick that had just fallen on the floor and bringing it back to you. Jungkook could have expected him to drop everything to greet him, but Bam didn’t.

His manager was explaining something to you and your eyes were glued to the floor, expression closed except for the line between your eyebrows. Only when Bam brought you back the stick and you threw it again, did you look up. Jungkook was walking closer yet slowly, not meaning to intrude, and you had thrown the stick almost right into his path. That was why Bam happily gave it to him instead, and he crouched to pet his baby while his eyes stayed on you.

Your eyes turned away when you said something. He couldn’t hear it from there, but he knew the words out of your mouth were cold. He recognized his manager trying to have you reconsider or change your mind, but your eyebrows drew closer as you bit something back and just got up and away.

You didn’t look at him as you walked in his direction towards the exit. You planned to pass by him without a word, a mix of emotions inside you that you preferred not to address. And yet Bam was what forced you to change your mind when he lit up at your presence. He looked for a pet from your hand and you immediately halted, unable to punish that sweet pup because of his dad.

Still, the words slipped the seam of your lips somewhat bitterly, “Are you a baby?”

“What?” He blinked, eyes wide as he straightened up.

“You kiss someone and your first instinct is to threaten them with NDAs?” You were frowning with a hint of contempt, but your eyes were glistening. You continued before he could say anything, “I won’t sign it. I don’t care what any of you think, this isn’t normal. You regret it? Fine, but then act like a fucking adult.”

He was at a loss for words and movement behind you had him glancing, and so you turned. Your best friend had a serious expression on her, something you imagined was her work persona. Well, too bad you had no sympathy for it.

“No,” you raised a hand before she could say something. “You’re doing your job, and I’m standing up for my principles. I’ll go to your place and get my stuff.”

You passed by him at a hastened pace and the second he turned to say, “Wait!”, the heavy glass door was already closing behind you, muffling every trace of a sound.

He turned to his manager then, seeing the tiredness, sadness, and frustration all over her face as she heaved a deep sigh and hid the tears in her eyes.

His lips twitched with a question, but she spoke instead, “She thinks I’m choosing my job over her.”

“But you’re not,” he instantly said, confused. “This isn’t necessary.”

She sighed, “I’ll deal with this, ok? Get to your shoot.”

She also passed by him quickly inside and Jungkook looked at Bam, who was lying on the floor chewing on the stick with a hard focus. Why were they so eager to get anything done without a proper conversation?

He took Bam with him across HYBE and got inside the car with other managers and assistants. They were waiting for him to continue his schedule, chatting about Bam. It would be difficult to have him on the set, but they’d contact a sitter on the way—

“Take me to Manager Kim’s place.”

“What?” His manager frowned, “Now?”

“Yes, now. To drop off Bam,” he offered, though he knew it was a lie. His manager agreed though because he knew Bam had stayed there the previous day, and being late to the shoot was fixed with a simple call giving them a warning and an apology.

Jungkook left the car first, saying that he’d go and come back quickly, and the team agreed, to his relief. He was upstairs in a beat in front of the right door, yet before he could ring the doorbell, the door opened in front of him and something crashed into his chest. His heart jumped and his hands darted to support your arms as you recoiled back, and then you looked up at him. Such beautiful big and expressive eyes, and he knew then he would have wanted to kiss you anyway.

You broke away from his arms and moved to go around him. He didn’t miss your frown, but he didn’t hesitate, “Can we talk?”

“I’m not going to sign it,” you insisted as you turned to him, adjusting your backpack over your shoulder. “But you don’t need to worry, that doesn’t mean I’ll talk about it. I’m not like that.”

He nodded once, “Okay. But that’s not what I want to talk about.”

You paused, “Oh.”

Your features smoothed in confusion and he was happy he caught your attention, “Can we go inside?”

You shrugged but walked back inside. You petted Bam gently between his ears then put your backpack down on the floor. By then, Jungkook had released Bam’s leash and closed the door. The sweet baby darted to the water bowl and your lips curved before his dad drew your attention away.

“I don’t regret it,” he said, and your eyebrows jumped. “You keep saying that, but I don’t. And I didn’t ask Manager Kim to do this either, I suppose it’s standard procedure or something. I wouldn’t know. But she’s just doing her best because she feels responsible.”

You were skeptical, “You wouldn’t know?”

“No.”

You found that hard to believe, but you didn’t insist. It had nothing to do with you. “Why would she feel responsible?”

“Because she’s in charge of me, I guess. Managers tend to feel like that even when we are, in fact, not babies.”

Your lips twitched at his choice of words.

“So don’t get mad at her. After this, I’m going to tell her to stop it. I don’t want this NDA thing, and neither do you. It’s not necessary,” he sighed. He had told his manager that before, but maybe if he insisted, she’d get it.

You nodded.

“And thank you for looking after Bam,” he finished with a smile. The Doberman had jumped on the couch a bit carelessly, but he was calm. “He’s usually nervous around strangers, but he loves you. You might really be his Mom for all he cares,” he smirked, watching as you stepped to the side to pet Bam. “And I wouldn’t… separate him from a person he loves. If you’d like to see him again.”

Your cheeks instantly caught fire as you looked at him. He held your gaze calmly, the only hint of nervousness in his fingers fidgeting. You didn’t think you were misunderstanding him, then.

“I can make time.”

He smiled, “Good.”

#jeon jungkook #bts fanfic #bts imagines #bangtan sonyeondan #bts #ao3 fanfic #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #fluff #bts fluff #bts angst #bts x reader #Bam #Jeon Bam #bts au #bts au fanfic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook au #jungkook imagine #jungkook angst #jungkook x you #lo1k-diamonds writes 💎

[carmyboobear]

Blood Orange (Ch 1: The Walk-In)

Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

Rating: E (7.3k words)

links: fic playlist, pinterest board, ao3 link

Summary: Losing your job is the worst thing to ever happen to you. Getting hired by Carmen Berzatto is a close second. You tell yourself that The Beef is only temporary, that it's just a replacement until you find something better. It doesn't work. You've stopped listening. You've had a taste of Carmy, and now you don't think you're ever gonna be able to let go. No matter how bad it gets. 

Content Tags: secret workplace relationship/sex, friends/coworkers with benefits, they/them afab reader, miscommunication, mental illness (carmy and reader), dom/sub dynamics, dom carmy (for now), enemies to friends to lovers (eventually), unhealthy coping mechanisms, dysfunctional relationship

A/N: It's finally here! New series! We even get sex in the first chapter! In my other fic, I'm taking care of Carmy. In this one, I'm making him worse. Of course, here's a disclaimer that I DON’T condone or intend to glorify any of this behavior. It's just compelling to write. Enjoy!

You return to The Beef for the first time in years when you're at your lowest.

The only upside to this abysmal situation is that the job was shitty. The job you just got laid off from, to be exact. Retail was never your passion, and there's a certain relief in knowing you don't have to go back to that windowless place. You didn't play an important role in the ecosystem, but it played a pretty crucial role in yours. It kept a roof over your head.

You're sure you could’ve sued them in some fashion for letting you go without any warning, any parachute, but you didn't have the luxury of time. You needed to figure out how you were going to pay rent, and fast.

After the rage boiled over (not to say that it's resolved, the residual anger's leveled into an even simmer), you pulled your hair back, found your cleanest, nicest outfit, and started your job search. With your updated resume in hand and scuffed sneakers on your feet, you've trekked all over Chicago looking for a new job. You weren't optimistic, nor were you hopeful. 

You suppose the only word you could use to describe yourself was desperate, and it was a matter of finding someone that was just as desperate, if not more desperate than you. To put it politely, the odds of that were low. Very low. 

You got laid off that very morning. The rest of your afternoon has been spent walking from door to door to every establishment you could spot. By some cruel twist of fate, none of them were hiring. The ones that were hiring looked unenthusiastic, even adverse to taking your resume. 

“When would you be able to start?” Some of the workers asked. 

“Tomorrow,” was your desperately honest answer. 

“If all goes well, you'll hear from us in a week,” was their response. The unspoken was, of course, the fact that radio silence was more likely than an email or phone call. Places didn't even send rejection letters anymore. 

“Thanks for your time,” you'd say, bringing out a bright smile from a complete lack of reserves, and as soon as you turned around, your face would drop. 

Your hopes were low, nearly non-existent, but damn. Damn. It wasn't looking good for you.

That's why you enter The Beef. You vaguely remember visiting this place a couple years ago, back when you first moved to Chicago. The owner was…pretty nice, actually. You don't remember his name, but you remember having a pleasant conversation with him. Of course, there's nothing you can do if he doesn't have a job opening, but it wouldn't be bad to see a friendly face. Even if that face is from someone who's basically a stranger. 

The doorbell rings when you enter. It catches the attention of the man standing behind the counter, and with how his head jolts up, you'd think the bell functioned as an alarm instead. 

“Welcome,” he says. Your first impression, other than the fact that he seems very, very, tired, is that he's irritatingly attractive. If anything, the eyebags and the greased back waves only add to whatever the hell he's got going on. 

“Hi. Um…” You're briefly caught off guard by his biceps, but you catch yourself. “I was actually wondering if you guys were hiring.”

“We are,” he replies, and it's the best thing you've heard all day. He lights up like the spark of a lighter, bright and instantaneous. It doesn't shake the pervasive exhaustion that radiates off him, though. 

“Thank god,” you mutter, and you want to take it back (it's far too casual), but he cracks an amused smile that makes you want to dissolve like a pinch of salt in a sea of sauce. “Sorry. Do you mind if I talk to the owner? We met a while ago, and—”

“I'm the owner,” he interrupts, and any other words you had planned fall away.

“Sorry?” You repeat. “I swear it was this guy—he had short dark hair, I think—”

“Yeah, he left the place to me. Didn't want it anymore, so.” He shrugs. The light you just saw from him has fizzled away like the end of a sparkler, short-lived and ultimately disappointing. 

“Oh. Got it. Uh…” To your credit, you don't fumble for too long. You have a lot of questions, but you've got more pressing issues. You pluck out a resume from a file folder. “Here's my resume, then.”

He takes it from you, flips it to face him. He's quiet as his eyes lower down the page, and you wonder if it's going to be a guillotine or a pot of gold at the end of this. The only sounds in the entrance are the passing cars outside, the rickety air conditioning, and muffled chatter from the back. 

“You worked as a prep cook.” He says it like a fact, but you know it's a question. 

“Yeah, nothing fancy. Just at some chain restaurants.”

“Right. I see you worked as a line cook at another location. Which one did you prefer?”

“Uh…” They both came with their separate pains. Your honest answer is that being a line cook was one of the most stressful experiences of your life, but if he has a position open as a line cook, you don't want to fuck it up. “They were both fine. I think I was a little better as a prep cook, but I didn't mind either.”

He hums, satisfied by your answer. At least it’s only half of a lie.                                                                                                                    

“How do you work under pressure?”

“Good,” you answer quickly. “Well enough.”

“Willing to learn?”

“Obviously. I mean…” You think you see a flash of a smile, but you're unsure. “Yeah.”

“When'd you be able to start?” You're surprised he's already asking this.

“Tomorrow,” you say, just like you’ve been, and his reaction is different from the others. He nods. He doesn't smile, not like he did earlier, but you can tell this is a good sign. 

Before he can get a word out, there's a sharp, metallic explosion of noises that resounds from the direction of the kitchen. 

“Uh,” he starts, eyebrows pinched in irritation, the voices come in. 

“I told you, you have to say behind!” A woman's voice. She sounds young, but there's no real way to be sure of that.

“How the hell did you not hear me coming?” A Chicago accent, male. Older, maybe. “I was in the middle of having a conversation with Tina—”

“Great, I'm so happy for you, I don't give a shit, now this has all went to waste—”

“Well, who's fault is that?”

“Who's fault is that? You did not just—”

“Guys!” The man you've been talking to gives you an apologetic glance before walking to the back, pushing through the folding doors. You catch a glimpse of the two people arguing on the other side before it shuts. “I'm tryin’ to talk to a new hire here. We can't be like this right now. Not ever, but especially right now.”

Finally, the first sane person I've met all day, you think. 

“Carmy, talk some sense into her,” the older guy shouts, and it gives you a name to the face. “All of this on the floor—”

“You didn't say behind,” the woman repeats, except with more fury in it this time.

“You didn't say behind,” he imitates back. “Carmy—”

“She’s right. Richie, step out,” Carmy says. “Syd, you clean this up.”

“But—” You hear her start to protest. 

“You spilled it, you clean it,” he cuts through, decisive and firm.

“I know, but Richie—”

“Clean it,” he repeats, firmer, darker this time, and there's a beat of silence. 

“...Yes, chef.”

“I told you to step out,” Carmy tells who you assume is Richie. 

“You're just gonna let her—”

“Step the fuck outside right fucking now!” Carmy screams, his patience shooting away like a gunshot. You feel something shrivel inside you, and not in a good way. “Do the one fucking thing you're good at and get out of the fucking way!”

Yeah…definitely not in a good way.

From what you hear, it sounds like Richie has to get wrestled outside by someone, whom you're not sure. After another minute, Carmy returns to the front. 

“I'm sorry about that. Fucking—” He drags a hand across his face. You swear his eyebags have grown heavier in the 5 minutes he was in the kitchen. “What was I saying?”

“Um, I was saying that I could start tomorrow,” you remind him, although the vigor you had just stated it with is a bit fizzled out. 

“Right. Okay. Uh—” He pats his hands on his apron, searching for something. A pen and paper appear in his hands, and he scribbles something on it. This is when you notice his tattoos. A flower on the back of his hand. Surprising. “You're hired. Here's the paperwork you need to fill out, along with the number and email you'll be hearing from me at.”

“What?” You take the sheets, but the smooth paper doesn't feel real in your hands. His handwriting is hasty and dark, like he was running out of time on a test. “I mean, I'm just surprised.”

“Do you not want it?”

“I want it,” you promise, and you feel your cheeks flush. This is a bad time to yet again notice how attractive he is. His pretty eyes, his nose. The little moles under his left eye. “Y-Yeah, I want the job.”

“Good.” He motions towards the sticky note again. “Come in at 8 am tomorrow. You'll be starting as a prep cook, which you've done before.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah, I'll be there.” The reality is setting in now, and an odd cocktail of relief, apprehension, and excitement is settling in your stomach. “Thank you so much.” I just got laid off from my job this morning, so this means a lot, you want to say, but it's too soon. You don't want to say anything that'll make him change his mind about whatever he sees in you. 

“Thank you,” he echoes back. “We need the help. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“See you,” you reply, and with that, the door rings behind you. A customer comes up to the counter, peering up at the menu. You figure this is your cue to leave. He's not looking at you anymore anyway. 

So, I got a job now, you update your friends, texting them on your way home on the metro. As the relieved congratulations come flying in, another remark seems to resound amongst all of them. 

I can't believe you got the job just like that. That place must be desperate, too, is roughly what they've all said. The thing is, they're not wrong. 

You managed to find someone more desperate than you in the job economy. Just one, but that was enough. It makes you think, though. You think about Carmy's weary blue eyes, his brief smile, and his hand tattoos. You wonder if it's just the restaurant that gives him that bone-deep exhaustion, or if it's a smaller part of a bigger picture. 

You think about it for the rest of your commute, you think about it as you smoke on the porch, you think about it as you lay in bed. You think about it as you fill out the paperwork, fingers tracing where Carmy's written his name, number, and email.

Carmen Berzatto

773-555-0901

So Carmy's a nickname, you think. Not about what type of boss he's going to be, not about what it's going to be like working under someone you are obviously attracted to. 

Maybe you should be more worried about this.

If it's bad, I'll just find another job, you tell yourself, and you foolishly believe it.

. . . . .

Your first day on the job starts with introductions. 

At least, that's about as much as you've figured out so far. When he sees you upon arrival, he pauses and stares at you like he's forgotten. Not a great start. Granted, he does snap out of it. That's when he tells you to follow him, which is where you currently find yourself. You're not sure where he's leading to, only that he's introducing you to others as you pass them by.

“They’re working with us starting today,” Carmy tells everyone. “They’re gonna be on prep.”

Right. So that's what you'll be doing. At least he told you that much yesterday.

The catalog of coworkers expands exponentially. You remember Sydney from yesterday, and to her credit, she apologizes about having you witness her fight with Richie, who conveniently isn't here yet. She seems the nicest out of all the bunch, so you decide to let it slide. 

Marcus is pretty nice, too. So are Ebra, Sweeps, Manny, Angel—everyone seems to be pretty alright. It’s obvious they’re standoffish by you being in their space. You find it hard to hold it against them. You’re not really sure how your relationships with them are going to pan out. There are only three that you’re particularly unsure on.

The first and obvious one is Richie. He came in eventually and didn’t give you the best impression, immediately talking over everyone and oozing arrogance. The only salvageable thing is that he’s not even a chef. At least you won’t have to be in the kitchen with him much. You want to avoid the honor of talking to him as much as possible.

Tina is next. She clearly doesn’t enjoy having someone new in the ecosystem, and she’s spent more time ignoring you than talking with you. As you understand it, she’s close to the rest of the staff since they’ve all been together for a while. Minus you and Syd, as you learn she’s only been there for a week. You think Tina will warm up to you…eventually.

Carmy is the last one, and he’s…he’s…

He’s something else.

He has you doing prep for most of the day. After introducing you to everyone and giving you a brief tour, he brings you to your station, scratched up stainless steel.

“You’re going to be cutting onions and carrots today for the stock. The vegetables are in the walk-in I showed you earlier, and when it’s done, it goes on the first shelf.” Carmy’s to your right, set up at his own station. You swear you keep your eyes focused on the vegetables, not his biceps in that shirt, but… “You should already know this, but label everything. I don’t want to see anything without a date. Got it?”

“Yes, chef,” you confirm, snapping out of it. He’s been flinging new information at you like it’s a war and he’s gunning to survive. But so are you. “I’ll do my best.”

“I expect as such.” He slides over a peeler for the carrots and some plastic bins for trash. “It’s just a stock, so don’t worry about an even cut. Just salvage whatever you can, cut off anything that doesn’t look good.” You nod. “Been a year or so since you did this, right?”

“Yeah. I cook regularly, but I’ll need to get back into the groove of things. And I will,” you add hastily. “I’ll combine them into this one when I'm done, right?” You ask, nudging a large plastic container. 

“Correct.” A brief smile flashes across his face. “You're already following quicker than I thought you would.” You’re not sure if he means it as an insult or a compliment, so you decide to take it as the latter. 

“I haven't even chopped anything yet.”

“I know.” His expression is flat again. You resist a laugh.  He plucks an onion from the bin, puts it in front of you. “Show me a rough dice.”

The knife is sharp. You notice this as you place careful cuts into the onion. It's not quite as sharp as his unnerving gaze, which layers pressure upon pressure. It builds up like a pastry puff, thin multitudes of layers expanding upward. You need to be good. You need to be perfect. You don't want to disappoint him, not this early, even though you've barely been here for an hour. 

It's just a shitty old sandwich shop, you tell yourself, but your dicing is uneven and you briefly think about accidentally chopping your fingers off. 

“Not my best work,” you admit, vaguely breathless. Carmy hasn't said anything yet.

“It'll do.” You're waiting for him to say something else, give you some tips, but he doesn't. Irritation prickles to the tips of your fingers. “I'll be back to check in on you later.”

You stand there, motionless and shocked in the aftermath. You're not sure what you expected from today, but being abandoned an hour in was not at the top of your bucket list. 

Man, what the fuck, you think, the thought clear in the silence around you, and that's the last time you can hear yourself think for the rest of the shift. 

There's a prepared stock from yesterday simmering on the stove behind you. It's flanked by boiling potatoes and reducing tomato sauce. The heat from it’s searing your back like a steak, slowly drawing lines of moisture all over the surface of your shirt. Your coworkers constantly invade your space to check on them. You suppose it's not their fault that the kitchen, but it's still irritating. They're also all shouting over each other like it's a competition.

“Who the fuck touched my stock—”

“No one touched your stupid shitty stock—”

“I am trying to find this cutting board, will someone please—”

You move on from the onions with only a thin layer of sweat collected at your hairline. 

Your hands are shaky as they peel the carrots. You know you're not getting as efficient of a shave as you could be, but the caffeine crash from your morning coffee is getting to you. You don't remember the last time you drank water. A cigarette sounds nice. 

“Clean your station, chef.” Carmy materializes next to you. You hear him before you see his hands scooping carrot shavings into a plastic container. It shocks you so much that you almost cut yourself. 

“Sorry, chef,” you reply reflexively. You look down at your station, straightening your tools. You want to ask if you can take your break, but you don't want to look any weaker than you do already. “So, uh, do we get 30's here?”

When you don't get a response, your head snaps up, irritation on the tip of your tongue, but he's not even there. 

Fucking hell, you think, annoyance simmering into something akin to anger, and you go back to finishing your prep. 

You don't see him for another hour after that. It's not even him that tells you to take your 15, it's Syd, who noticed you were half-way through your shift and on the verge of…something. 

“You finished the prep he gave you, right?” Syd had asked. You told her you finished and put it back in the walk-in. “Yeah, then go take your break. Did he not tell you we get 15's here?”

“He didn't,” you say, too annoyed to bother hiding the disdain in your face. Sydney just sighs, rolling her eyes, and you think you love her. 

“Asshole.” She makes a shooing motion at you then. “Go, get a break from this madness. It'll get better, I promise.”

You're not sure if you believe her, but you do step outside to take your break. 

As you stand outside in the back, you take note of tightness in your body that you weren't even aware of. The cigarette smoke calms you, loosens you. Or maybe you owe that to getting out of that hot kitchen. 

This time, you see Carmy before you hear him. You turn to the door to see him stepping out, a pack of smokes in his hand. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hey,” you reply.

“Everythin’ goin’ okay so far?”

“Yeah. It's fine.” Other than everything.

“Really?” His surprise just pisses you off further. “Well, that's good.”

“...Yeah.” You decide if your mouth stays unoccupied, you'll start cussing him out, so you put your cigarette back in your mouth. 

“You're bleeding.”

“What?”

“I said, you're bleeding. Your hand.” 

You look down at your hand holding the cigarette, and sure enough, there's a thin, shallow cut oozing blood near one of your knuckles. 

“Shit,” you mutter, quickly sucking the skin into your mouth. When you pull it back, the red refills. “I didn't even notice.”

“Let's get a bandaid on that.” He puts his unlit cigarette back into his pack. “I have some in my office.”

That's how you end up in the enclosed, dark space of his office, seated on the only chair as he leans back against his cluttered desk. The dingy first-aid kit is propped on top of a shaky stack of papers. Carmy takes out a bandaid from it and peels it open.

“Thought I gave you a sharp knife, it shouldn't have cut you like that,” Carmy comments. 

“It was sharp,” you correct. “Guess I just fucked up.”

“It happens,” he says, which surprises you. He keeps surprising you. You just can't seem to figure him out. “Let me see the cut.”

You only realize that he's putting the bandaid on you when he cradles your hand in his. His hands are warm. 

He has so many hand tattoos. You notice the letters on his fingers first, the SOU curled around your palm. You notice the other tattoo on the back of his hand next, since that's the one carefully placing the bandaid on you. 

He wraps it around your finger just right. Not too tight, not too loose. 

“Is that too tight?” He asks, almost in a whisper. He's so close, and he smells like kitchen oil, cigarette smoke, and a faded cologne you can't place. 

“No, it's okay.” You don't mean to talk so quietly back, but you do. You can't stop staring at his fingers. They're long and marked up with silver scars and burns. If you look carefully, you can place the locations of his callouses. 

“Good.” You don’t know why he does it, but he runs his thumb across the seams of where your bandaid overlaps. Surely it’s just to secure it further…surely.

“Thank you.” He’s still holding your hand. You’re unsure if you’re imagining the tension in the air or not. Everything feels more intimate behind closed doors, especially in low light. “I could’ve done it myself.”

“It’s easier if another person does it.” He lets go, finally, and you try not to mourn the loss. “Did you finish prepping for the stock?”

“What you gave me, yeah.”

“Alright. Let’s go take a look at it, then,” he says, like that isn’t the most anxiety inducing thing you’ve ever heard. 

“R-Right now?”

“As opposed to?” He opens the door to his office, and the muffled noises in the kitchen become sharp and clear again, like emerging from underwater. “Come on.”

You don’t know how it happens, but Carmy gets into five separate arguments on the way to the walk-in. FIVE. To be fair, two of them are from Richie.

“I’ve been telling you guys to sharpen your knives, don’t fucking treat them like this,” Carmy shouts, trudging over to someone’s station. “You see this? This is exactly what we should not be doing! How many times have I said this today?! Don’t—“

“Stop going into my office when I’m not there,” Carmy hisses at Richie next. “You keep fucking up where the papers are put, and I can’t find anything! It’s enough of a mess as it is! No—I said—cousin, listen to me—“

“Everyone shut the hell up, clean your stations, and get the fuck back to work!” Is the last thing he shouts before slamming the door to the walk-in behind you. He slams it so hard the wire racks rattle. You decide not to comment. 

The difference in sound is eerie. You’re always surprised by how sound proof these walk-in fridges are.

“Is this the prep you did today?” Carmy asks, touching one of the clear plastic bins. Sure enough, it’s the one you placed there a moment ago.

“Yeah, it is.” You chew the inside of your cheek. You were hoping he would be in an okay mood when he checked your work. It seemed like he was at first, but now?

“It's on the wrong shelf.”

“What?” You stare at it sitting on the first shelf, just like he told you to. “You told me to put it on the first shelf.”

“It goes on the second shelf.” He's pissed, and there's ice in your veins. He huffs as he takes the container and moves it one shelf up, slamming it down unnecessarily. “I told you—second shelf.”

“You literally said it went on the first shelf.” The ice has melted, and it's boiling. 

“No, I didn't.” You wanna punch him. Badly. You know what you heard. “And you forgot to label it.”

“Shit.” That, you did forget. You’re not above owning up to your mistakes, unlike him. “I'm sorry, I was—”

“We always need stuff like this to be labeled,” he interrupts, rude and abrupt. You can hear the thinly veiled anger in his voice. “I told you.”

“I know, I just—“

“Don’t make excuses. Just do better.”

“It’s my first fucking day!” You snap, finally, and it’s like a firecracker in the dead of night. “I don’t expect to be coddled, but I’ve only been here for a couple hours, and you’re just—“

“I told you to put a label on it, to put it on the second shelf, and you didn’t do either of those things.” This is a different type of anger. It’s quiet, contained. Dangerous. And with your outburst, it’s trembling at the edges. 

“You literally hired me yesterday!” You’re exasperated. “You looked at my resume for like two seconds before hiring me, and you’re mad that I’m messing up?”

“You had enough credentials on your resume. You told me you could work well under pressure and learn quickly. Is that true or not?”

“It is true! You just have to give me a chance first!”

“I just gave you a chance,” Carmy snaps back, “and you fucked it up.”

“Oh my god. I just—“ You take a step back. “I don’t have to take this shit.”

“Are you quitting already?”

“I wasn’t going to.” You move towards the door. “But maybe I should, before you fire me. Doesn't seem like you want me, anyway.”

You were planning on exiting the walk-in after that, to leave on cue, but the door doesn’t budge. You and Carmy notice it at the same time. 

Suddenly, there is a new problem.

“Fuck,” Carmy curses under his breath. The two of you are pushing against the door, but it won’t budge. He slams his fist on it and calls out. “Guys, the walk-in door is stuck! Can any of you open it from out there?”

“Carmen?” Richie's voice is muffled from the other end. There's the sound of frustrated efforts on the other end. “It's not fuckin’ budging!”

“Fuck,” Carmy repeats, seething, and you agree. “Call Fak!”

“I already did! He’s gonna be here in 20!”

“20 minutes?!” Carmy shouts. You close your eyes and sigh, audibly. “Don't we have a screwdriver in here or something?! Just take the hinges off!”

“Why do you think I called Fak?! Shut the hell up and be patient!”

“Tell him to hurry the fuck up,” Carmy barks, and that's where their conversation ends. 

“Just what I needed right now,” you mutter under your breath. Carmy's not looking at you, eyes boring into the door that's trapping the both of you in here with each other. “To be locked in a room with you.”

It's quiet for a minute before he speaks, cutting the silence open.

“...I do want you, y'know.”

“You—huh?” He said it so quietly you're not sure if it was a hallucination. 

“We need you here.” He's still not looking at you. “This place—it's fucked.  We don't have enough hands.”

“I can tell,” you say, and you mean for it to come out bitter, but it's soft. Naively so. 

“I want you here. I do.” He doesn't need to say it like that. You don't want to believe it, neither his words or the way hearing it makes you feel. “I need you.”

“Can you at least look at me when you say it?” 

You’re not sure why you say it. You instantly recognize it for how needy it sounds, but you don't get the luxury of embarrassment. Carmy's already turning to face you. 

“I want you,” he repeats, voice low. You think about the paint you'd need to mix to match the color of his eyes. Blue, white, and the slightest bit of orange to desaturate it. You're not sure what type of orange, though. “I need you.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, despite yourself, and it's too late.

“Are you gonna do better?” You didn't even register him moving closer to you. When did your back end up against the shelves?

“I’m gonna do better,” you whisper, “if you stop being such an asshole.”

“It won't happen again,” he whispers back, and you recognize it for the lie that it is. 

You don't really care, though. 

His face is so close to yours that you can see the separate specks of colors in his iris. You watch his gaze fall from your eyes to your lips, and it lingers there before rising again. Any shreds of self respect or control you were clinging onto disintegrate. It doesn't matter if he really means what it says. All that matters is getting your mouth on his.  

“Okay,” you say, a whisper of foolish acceptance, and you're kissing him. 

Or is he kissing you? You don't know who leaned forward first. It's not important. 

“I saw you staring at my hands today,” Carmy says against your lips. Spit makes your mouths slide easily against each other. “Yesterday, too.”

“What the—no you didn't,” you gasp, appalled, heat rising in your face, “how did you—?”

“You're right. I didn't,” he admits with a cheeky grin. You’re really gonna punch him now. 

“God, you're just,” you mutter, “you're such an asshole.”

“I know.” At first, you think he's being smug, but there's a surprising sense of remorse under it. You don't have time to think about it, though, not when his hand is cradling your face. There's no way he doesn't feel how hot your face is. 

“What're you…?” His thumb passes over your lower lip, and the words fall away. 

“Tell me you want this.” Your eyes flicker to his hand, then to his face. His other hand is at the top of your jeans, fingers resting on the edge of your waistband. Excited arousal hits your gut, sizzling like browning butter, warm and toasted. His eyes are dark, caramel on the verge of burning. “If you don't, I'll pretend like this never happened. I'll never touch you again.”

I'll never touch you again, he says, like it's not the last thing you'll ever want. 

“I want this,” you murmur. “Touch me. Please.”

“Good,” Carmy praises, one quiet word enough to sear your insides with heat, blue flame on the underside of a pan. “That's what I thought.”

His hands slip behind you to untie your apron. The strings fall to your sides, and you tug it hastily up and over your head. It falls to the floor next to you. Surely that's a gigantic health hazard, but Carmy's the one who throws it there, so you don't say anything. You lower your gaze to his fingers unbuttoning your pants. The sight of it makes you woozy. You take note of his other tattoos, noticing the letters on his fingers. You watch as the stabbed hand made of ink on his right disappears under the cloth of your underwear.

“Oh,” you breathe. You didn't expect his hand to be so warm, even though you had just felt his heated palm gentle on your cheek.

“You're wet.” The tip of his index finger dips into where your hot folds separate. It strokes at the fluid that's pooled at your entrance, coaxing it out. “When did this happen?”

“Fuck you is when,” you bite back, but it's all bark. “I don't know.”

“Sure,” he agrees, but not really. His condescending smile shouldn't be hot, it really shouldn't, but your pussy throbs against his hand, and he smiles knowingly. “All you need is me to talk and you get wet, is that it?”

“I—” His finger rises upward, splitting you open and flicking at your clit. You buck against his hand. “Don't ask me a question and then touch me like that,” you hiss, horribly turned on.

“Mm, sorry.” It's barely an apology. You throw your head back in frustration. “I didn't mean to.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” you pant. He's pushed your slick up your pussy to your clit, two slick fingers sliding back and forth on your stiff nub. The pads of his calloused fingers are rubbing you almost where you're too sensitive. 

“Then don't. I don't care what you think of me.” You think he's about to get his fingers inside of you, and your breath hitches, but he pulls back. You regret the frustrated whine that is just audible enough in the back of your throat. He does it again, just barely pushing the tips of fingers in before pulling away.

“You—why—do you want me to beg or something?” Your clenched hands raise by your sides to grip the collar of his white shirt and yank him forward. The shock that flashes across his face gives you a sick sense of satisfaction.

“It wouldn't hurt,” he mumbles. Seeing him stagger like this, even if briefly, sends a rush through your head.

“Is that what it's gonna take for you to get those fucking fingers inside me?” 

Like a coward, instead of answering, he leans an inch forward and kisses you. Or maybe that was his answer. That's when he sinks two fingers inside you, long and thick, pushing until your wet pussy's pressed tight against his palm. 

You moan, a pathetic thing, and Carmy swallows the sound of it.

“You're already begging,” he says quietly. He pulls his fingers out. You whine in protest, desperate and angry pleas on the tip of your tongue, but then he's pushing inside again.

That's the last moment of reprieve you get. His fingers start thrusting into you faster, dragging out slick each time he pulls them out. Paranoia suddenly screams that you’re gonna wet the front of your pants at this rate. The aching pleasure is louder than your fear, though. You can’t help the way his fingers are making you moan.

“More,” you plead, “give me another, I can take it.” Your hips are thrusting forward to meet his hand when they push inside. Your clit slaps against the heel of his palm, and you chase the friction. He must notice, because when he obliges and stretches you out with a third finger, he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit.

“You have to be quiet,” he says lowly when you keep moaning. “They’re gonna hear you.” 

“I—I’m trying,” you whine. You’re squeezing so tight down on him. You feel so full. “Your fingers—“

“You’re the one who asked for more.” He slaps his other hands firmly over your mouth. It silences your sound of surprise. “You said you could take it, so here’s what’s gonna happen.” His fingers are slamming into your now, and your hole spasms around them in pleasure. “You’re gonna come on my fingers, and you’re gonna be quiet. Understand?”

You know how soundproof the walk-in is. You had just witnessed it moments ago. But Carmy’s warnings do something fierce to you, bypassing logic straight into anxious, desperate arousal. He’s right, you think. You need to be quiet. You nod quickly in response, so he takes your consent and sprints with it.

To your credit, you try to be quiet. You said you would. But there’s only so much you can do when he’s fingering you so hard your legs are shaking. You’re whimpering into his hand, the sounds muffled.  Your own moans, his heavy breathing, and the slick sound of your pussy getting railed by his fingers—that’s what you listen to as you come.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing down tight,” Carmy hisses, and for an irrational second  you’re afraid you’re hurting him, but one look at his starved expression changes your mind. His three wide fingers are fucking you slowly through your wildly contracting orgasm. In one of his palms, you're oozing slick, and in his other palm, you're smearing with spit.

You should be thinking about how bad of an idea this all is, having sex with your boss. It’s too bad your orgasm is so potent you can’t think at all.

You lean your head back against the cold metal railings of the wire racks behind you. It’s uncomfortable, but a part of it feels good against the coiling heat that’s unraveling in your stomach. The air around you is cold, but you’re hot, far too hot. You don’t remember the last time you’ve finished this hard.

He finally pries his hand off your mouth once you've stopped clamping down on his fingers. His hand lingers at your face before wiping it on the side of his jeans. His expression has this unreadable, unnamed intensity to it, and you can't tell where that ends and where the hunger starts. Although he is looking very, very starved.

His hand that's tucked into your underwear tugs it upward as it leaves, pulling the fabric taut against your pussy. It sticks like paper mache with the glue of your orgasm, molded to your shape. You make an aroused noise that's a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

You're about to complain, something along the lines of “was that really necessary”, but then your eyes are zeroed in on the sheen of his fingers that were fucking you.

“Don't,” you start, suddenly worried he's going to wipe them on his jeans again, but you don't get to finish. He's pushing his index finger into your mouth, and you taste yourself on his skin.

“Good,” Carmy whispers when he feels your tongue wrapping around him. Fuck, hearing him say it like that does awful things to you.

You don't know why you accept it without a fight, but if you're being honest with yourself, this is exactly what you wanted. You start to suck, but he doesn't linger. When he pulls his finger out, your parted lips expect the other two, but he sucks them into his mouth instead. 

God. What do you even say to that? He even has the nerve to look you in the eyes as he pops his cleaned fingers out of his mouth. 

“Let me touch you,” you decide to say instead, because if you think about him and his fingers in—anyway. 

“It's fine. I don't need it.” He's oddly cagey all of a sudden. 

“Let me return the favor, please,” you insist, even adding in some good manners. It seems to still him for a moment, giving you enough time to lift his apron.

Fuck, you think to yourself, the word resounding like an alarm inside your head. His jeans are tented so tightly it looks painful. All this from touching me, you realize. You can see the shape of his bulge under the denim. The silhouette is vague, but...

It's big.

“Carmy? You still in there?”

A voice you don't recognize calls out beyond the door. As soon as you both hear it, Carmy jerks away. You mourn the loss only for a moment before you remember yourself. You're scrambling to get your pants buttoned and your apron over your head. 

“Yeah, I'm still in here,” Carmy shouts back, instantaneously irritable. His back is turned to you, and you want to feel those muscles tensing under your palm. “About fuckin’ time!”

“You're welcome, by the way! I could've left you in here to freeze and die a tragic death!”

“It's not just me in here, Fak.” A beat of silence. “Are you opening it?”

“Am I fucking—Jesus Christ, Carmen, just give me a second! I'm working my magic!”

That shuts Carmy up. Almost. He sighs before turning to look at you. 

“Sorry for getting us stuck in here.” The apology is equally as surprising as the softness of which he speaks. “Shitty first day, huh?”

“It's cool. It's not your fault.” Other than all the shit that was completely your fault, you think, remembering the way you were shouting at each other just a moment ago. “Kinda shitty though, yeah.”

“Yeah.” He sighs again. “If you wanna leave, I don't blame you.”

“I thought I wasn't getting fired.”

“You're not,” he says quickly. “But I'm—this place is a shitshow.” You're not sure which he really means to say, but you hear both. The restaurant, and him especially, are both complete messes. That much was obvious from the beginning. “So if you wanna take off, just…” He shrugs. “Just go.”

Maybe that'd be for the best, if you left. As far as first days go, you've already broken every rule in the book. You messed up your first task, got into an argument with your boss, and then had sex with him. Nothing about this place is particularly inviting, either. This restaurant wears its dysfunction on its sleeve, unabashed in all the ways it lacks. You had left the kitchen with ringing ears from all the noise and a cut on your hand you didn't even notice. 

But here you are. You're not running. Maybe it's because of the fact that you need to pay rent. Maybe it's knowing that just one more pair of hands here could really make a difference. Maybe you're just desperate to keep food on the table. Maybe it's Carmen Berzatto, beautiful, haunted, and angry. Maybe it's all of that, a combined whole that's become greater than the sum of its parts.

Or maybe it's just that now that you've kissed him, had a taste of him, you refuse to let go. Maybe the reason is as shallow as that. 

Carmy's been waiting for you to speak, tired eyes searching your own. You're still not sure what exact colors you need to perfectly recreate the blue you're staring at. 

“Almost done!” Fak shouts. “Just one more hinge!”

“Heard,” Carmy shouts back. He hasn't taken his eyes off you. “So? What's it gonna be? Are you staying or not?”

Blood orange, you think all of a sudden. That's the orange you would need to make the perfect blue to match his eyes. Just a little bit—that's all you would need.

“I'm staying,” you tell him. “I need to pay rent, after all.”

Yeah. That's the reasoning you're settling on. Rent.

“Right. Of course.” There's a glimpse of that gentle smile you've seen flashes of today. It fades away as quickly as it came. “After this, I'm gonna have you learn how to check produce next.”

“Okay, sounds good,” you say as naturally as you can, given the tonal whiplash.

“There should be some that's about to get washed. I'll show you where that is.” The door's shifting. “But before that…” He lowers his voice, leans in close. Is he about to kiss you?

“W-What?”

“Get a new apron from my office. That one's dirty.” Beams of light stream through the entrance of the walk-in, forced wide open. “You need to keep your apron clean, chef.”

YOU WERE THE ONE WHO THREW IT ON THE GROUND, you want to scream. Just when you thought he started being nice, he does something that makes you want to grab him by the collar and shake him.

But you can't. The walk-in's open again, and you see your coworkers crowded by the door. 

“Yes, chef,” you reply, and the words taste bitter on your tongue.

~

@zorrasucia

#carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #the bear #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #the bear fx #jeremy allen white #carmy berzatto smut #carmen berzatto smut #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto x you #the bear fanfiction #my fics #my smut #YEAHHHH LETS GOOO im so excited to release this!! even had my friend proofread this LOL #which was helpful. i couldn't stop writing and then BAM. 7.3k #i really wanted the chapters to be shorter than alexithymia bc its a lot of words to proofread but. oh well. #we'll see if the other chs are shorter. cant wait to hear yalls thoughts!! its gonna get worse for carmy and reader from here #blood orange #🩸🍊

[save-the-villainous-cat]

Could you do uh some story about villain who betrayed hero but then regretted it, and hero hates his guts for it? I just want to see the world burn.

If u don't want to , that's fine, love ur writing, keep shining queen

“You…” The tears in the hero’s eyes blurred their vision and their mind alike. Their hand shook around the blade as they tried to let their own weight the work, instead of actively pushing it into the villain’s chest.

But the villain was just as determined as always, just as strong. None of them were happy about the situation. The hero saw it in their eyes.

Why did it have to come to this?

“I’m sorry,” the villain whispered and the hero could feel how their resistance weakened. Their weapon was already slicing up the villain’s suit.

For the first time, the hero didn’t have a plan. Their mind was full of rage and urged them to finish the job.

With the villain out of the picture, these feelings would go away. They would be able to sleep at night, they would be able to move on and get into a relationship. They wouldn’t dread the hours.

But they couldn’t. They couldn’t kill them, no matter how intense their pain was. They couldn’t kill this person who had shared a bed with them. Who had cared for them. Who had loved them.

Right before the blade could cut through flesh, the hero cursed and tossed it away. Tears of rage and grief ran down their cheeks and they could barely form any words as they sat on top of the villain and broke down into a million pieces.

Their tears fell onto the villain’s chest as their trembling fingers clawed at the villain’s suit. They wanted to make them suffer, they wanted to make them feel the kind of pain that they had experienced, that they were still going through.

But the hero knew violence wouldn’t ease their mind.

“Leave,” the hero said eventually. Their voice was shaking. “You have to leave.”

“Please, I am sorry. I didn’t lie about my feelings for you.” The villain’s voice was calm and calculated as so often but the hero could hear the little bit of desperation that came through.

“No, you have to leave.” The hero dried their tears with their sleeves. It was as if their heartstrings snapped. That kind of pain was completely different from all the wounds the hero was used to. Torn flesh and broken bones — all of that didn’t even come close to what they were feeling now.

“I am sorry, okay? I am sorry for lying. I’ve fallen for you, I cannot help it. I wasn’t supposed to but I did and I — I think about you and I miss you and it wasn’t supposed to be like this, okay!?” The hero shook their head.

“Leave the city,” they said. They had no other choice.

“No,” the villain said. Their eyes widened and instead of their calm demeanour, they panicked. They sat up and the hero stood up, ready to go. For the umpteenth time, their heart squeezed together until blood dropped. “I won’t leave you a second time. I don’t care if you stab me to death or poison me or beat me. I don’t care if you torture me. I won’t go. I will stay with you this time. I will make it up to you. Whatever you want. Tell me what to do and I will obey.”

“I don’t want you here,” the hero answered. “If you love me, you’ll be gone by tomorrow. You will never come back.”

“No, please.” The villain stood up and reached for the hero. Their hands found the hero’s forearms and for a second, the hero was back in their bedroom, waking up next to them. They were stitching up each other’s wounds. They were kissing at the kitchen table.

The hero pushed them away.

“You’re not welcome here anymore.”

“You know as well as I that we belong together,” the villain said. Despite the shock in their eyes, they seemingly tried to keep it together. To use reason instead of emotions. The hero cursed themselves. Even when they hated them, they knew them. They knew every single habit, every single detail. “This will haunt you.”

“You already do.” The hero paused and took one last look at the villain. “Don’t you ever come back.”

#kinda hate this but wtvr #BAM EXILED #writing snippet #heroxvillain prompt #heroxvillain snippet #heroes and villains #hero #villain #hero x villain #heroxvillain #an answer for an ask #request #angst

[xjustakay]

✺ (2/16) ✺ @jegulus-microfic prompt: tear — 1,058 words (college/uni au; when your boyfriend tries to distract you from working on your schoolwork and you’re so strong about it)

At this point, Regulus is about ten seconds from bashing his head into the table. He’s been in the library study room for hours already, only so much time still left on the max amount that he’s allowed to use it for. Just a little while longer to get some of the piled up work he needs to get done, and then he can take a break.

And yet.

Groaning, he sinks enough in his chair to thump his forehead onto the tabletop. Whose grand fucking idea was it to get a masters degree? Why did he think that was a good plan? This thesis is going to be the death of him.

You could still drop out. There’s still time to do that. You’re smart, you’re pretty, you’ve finished enough school, you’ll figure it out. You can just—

The study room door opens, cutting his spiral short. Regulus lifts his head, automatically ready to snap at whoever’s come to interrupt him before his time in the room is up. Except when he sees that it’s James, his annoyed expression quickly melts away.

There’s a to-go coffee cup and a white paper bag in James’ hand, the other reaching out to push the door shut quietly behind him. He comes around the far end of the large table —too large for one person, really, but Regulus has a couple books, his laptop, and various notes scattered over it, taking up space. James still finds an empty spot beside his laptop to set the bag and cup down then bends to kiss the top of Regulus’ head.

Regulus tilts back to look up at him. “I thought you were at the gym.”

“Baby, I went to the gym at like eight-thirty. It’s eleven now,” James chuckles, sliding his hand back and forth between his shoulders. He nods his head toward what he’s brought when Regulus quirks a brow at him wordlessly. “Figured you didn’t have anything before coming here.”

“I had a coffee already,” Regulus replies.

“And did you eat?”

He drops his chin, eyeing the white paper bag with a barely hidden sheepish look.

“Uh huh, that’s what I thought.” James squeezes his shoulder then moves around where Regulus sits to plop into one of the chairs closest to him. “It’s one of those almond croissants you can never say no to, so.”

Regulus’ lips tick upward into a gentle smile, gaze flicking sideways. “Oh, you’re really going for it, are you?”

“Going for what?” James asks, feigning innocence.

With a knowing roll of his eyes, Regulus reaches for the bag, pulls out the croissant, and settles it on the outside. He tears a piece off and pauses before bringing it to his mouth, swiveling his chair to knock his knee into James’.

“I told you, I have to stay here for at least three hours. I have too much work to get done.” Regulus pops the bite of food in his mouth, chews and swallows before tilting his head. “You don’t get to try to butter me up and pull me away from it.”

James narrows his eyes at him a little, thumbs tapping over his shirt where he keeps his hands folded on his stomach. “Maybe I’m just being nice.”

“Mm, and why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m always nice.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“Come on now, love, you know I’m only mean to you when you ask me to be.” James winks, his grin inching wider when Regulus blushes at the insinuation.

He swallows another bite of food with a shake of his head, washing it down with a sip of coffee —black with one sugar, just like James knows he prefers it. He sets the cup back down and proceeds to point at the door James came through.

“Get out.”

Like the flip of a switch, James goes from playful to downright pouty, huffing petulantly and slumping in his chair.

“Regulus, it’s the weekend,” He complains.

“It’s Friday. Still a week day,” Regulus points out.

“Close enough,” James grumbles. He sits up straight abruptly again, leaning forward to press his elbow into the table, chin propped in his palm. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Your dick isn’t going to write my thesis, I’m afraid.”

James snorts, looking terribly smug as his hazel eyes drop to Regulus’ mouth then dart back up again. “Could write your thesis on it, though, couldn’t you? In more ways than one.”

“Out,” Regulus emphasizes, blushing bright red up to his ears. “I can’t deal with you for at least another hour. Leave me alone.”

“About to shed a tear here, baby,” James jokes, bringing a hand to his chest in further dramatics.

“Then cry about it. Somewhere else, ideally,” Regulus says.

Laughing, James seems to concede to his dismissal because he pushes up from his chair. He leans one hand on the table and tucks the other beneath Regulus’ chin to tilt his head back. 

Despite kicking his boyfriend out, Regulus sighs contently, eyes falling shut when James dips down and presses a lingering kiss to his lips. No matter his insistence to avoid distraction, kissing James is one lovely indulgence Regulus will not deprive himself of. James’ thumb brushes over his chin before he touches their foreheads together.

“An hour?” James checks.

“At least,” Regulus confirms.

“Okay, fine.” James kisses him one, two, three more quick times before separating. “You’ve got this, love. Don’t stress yourself out too much.”

Regulus hums, nodding his head, watching James head for the door. “Thank you for the breakfast.”

“Of course.” James pauses with his hand on the handle, glancing him over one more time, warm smile and fond gaze unfading. “Love you.”

He tries, he really does, to contain the smile that tugs at his lips, making his own affection unbearably obvious when he ultimately fails. He typically does now. Regulus Black, made soft after all. He can’t even be mad about it anymore, not when being with James feels as good as it does.

Breathing in deep through his nose, Regulus mentally steels himself against the swoop in his stomach and a resolve that could crumble fast if James stays for too much longer. 

“Love you,” He says in return. And because he has to, obviously, he tacks on an additional, playful, “Now leave.”

#jegulus #starchaser #sunseeker #jegulus microfic #dedicated to mil who said ‘i love your uni microfics’ and i said ‘okay i’ll write you another one’ #bing bam boom here we are #they’re so sweet and silly and in love #and i love them dearly #kay’s microfics #kay’s writing

[blackcathjp]

draco constantly complains and makes fun of harry's hair. one day, harry snaps and gets a haircut. he comes home and draco just stares. slack jawed. shocked. speechless. harry snaps, "what? isn't this what you wanted?"

draco, with sad eyes, whispers, "love of my life, what did you do?" and bursts into tears.

draco is inconsolable. devastated. heartbroken. yes, he jokes about harry's messy hair, it is most definitely a rat's nest, but seeing him LIKE THIS... that is NOT his harry 😭

meanwhile, harry is still reeling from this revelation. "i'm the love of your life?"

draco pauses, realization setting in, his face turning redder. his voice wobbles out, "y-yes, isn't that obvious?"

harry softens, steps closer. "i love you too."

draco's heart skips. harry loves him back! but all of his teasing, mean-spirited jokes drove harry to cut his hair off and make such a drastic change. his heart aches thinking that he must have caused so much sadness and anger in harry, and oh no, the tears start again.

"oh, my love, i didn't mean it, i loved - love - your hair as it was. it's just so... YOU. and it's still you but it's also not and i'm sorry if i made you think you should change-"

harry kisses him, amused. "i was a little mad about that last joke you made, but i was due for a haircut anyway."

"still," draco sniffles. he pats harry's hair. it was much too short, he couldn't ruffle it anymore like he used to. he didn't realize until now how much he did that everyday. a gentle hand on the back of harry's head, softly petting his hair while he read. an unconscious habitual gesture that was comforting and domestic. he didn't realize how much he liked it until he couldn't do it anymore :(

over the next few days, draco feels bittersweet. he stares often at harry's head. he kisses his temple a lot, a bit as an apology, and mostly because he wants to. if he sheds a tear in private about the loss of harry's glorious hair, then that's his business.

a week later, after his quiet moping and harry worshipping (lots of kisses, lots of cuddling, lots of touching) his magic manifests a miracle (it was just tired of his dramatic melancholy and longing):

harry's head of full of hair, restored to perfection.

#draco mourns and bam his magic is like stfu here i granted ur wish #draco jokes as a defense mechanism for how much he truly feels #hating and teasing is his way of affection but it can come off too much #harry takes and dishes it too but sometimes it's ANNOYING #drarry #harry potter #draco malfoy #draco x harry #drarry blurb #drarry headcanons #writing

[sttoru]

when will porn with plot be appreciated . WHENNNNNNNNN ?????

#sttoru chats. #i read a good smut fic w actual plot and expect it to have blown up bcs of how good it is and then BAM #it had like 100 notes #and 98 are likes #no im not downgrading pwp fics that (usually) have thousands of likes #bcs i write them sometimes too #its just that i hope that smut w plot will get the same amount of love

[qvrcll]

Mornings — ELLIE WILLIAMS.

I — synopsis: God forbid you ever fell into the hands of Ellie Williams in the bright eyes of a groggy morning. Or invite it, perhaps. Either one is charming enough to send a flurry down your spine.

II — warnings: female shy reader, confident and whipped ellie, fluff, no explicit smut but insinuating facets of it at the start + kinda sensual but mostly just physical comfort but ellie is a tease, has some mentions of insecurity on reader’s end but its minor.

III — a/n: this actually took such little time that i’m a bit embarrassed. it’s so messy and gross and COMPLETELY all over the place. i wanted it to take foot into a different route but i thought ending it like this was nice enough. i hope. yeah. yeah? yeah. hm. let me know if you like this, i would love your comments. i love any feedback. ALSO a little note but i wrote ellie to be a little tanned due to missions, ergo “honey kissed” blah blah, so yeah. if ur confused, there’s that! also this was shamelessly inspired by wanna be yours by AM. caution be thrown in the wind. woe is i.

IV — word count ~ 2.3K

“Don’t miss me too much”, she’d whisper, when words felt like too much of a peeve, when her fingers would cavort across the warmth of your skin, which was already gleaming for her to just touch you.

“Already miss me, pretty girl?”, she’d chuckle into the canvas of your neck, heavy and flush against your torse when she’d want to get impossibly close to your skin, wanting to take advantage of the way you coiled into the scope of her body — breath beating incessantly against her cheek.

“Already miss me, pretty girl?”, she’d chuckle into the canvas of your neck, heavy and flush against your torse when she’d want to get impossibly close to your skin, wanting to take advantage of the way you coiled into the scope of her body — breath beating incessantly against her cheek.

“Of course you missed me”, she’d practically carve the words into the scraggy sheen of sweat on your chest, lips bruising the sloppy skin with sincere words. Until the words washed you over again and again and again — a circle, a pandemonium you couldn’t rid yourself of.

This morning couldn’t be more similar, even if you tried for it to be.

When you awoke, you weren’t sure which colours your eyes first caught, keeping your senses peeled on the prickling sensation of tough-skinned fingers guarding your hips, stationary with every breath you took. They had been caked with mud just months ago, bathed in blood that smothered you to pieces but now, they were sallow, kisses of gingerly placed freckles dotting the rough skin — it felt calloused but commonplace.

Routinely, it was Ellie who normally woke you up before duty called. But on this particular day, you were met with the blinding titillation of the sun first instead, groaning softly when you realised you were caged by her cosmic grasp — her snores failed to alert you of her awakening any time soon.

“Mn, Ellie…” you whisper, feeling apologetic to wake her up after scrutinising every rise and fall of her chest, paying close attention to the measured rhythms that strummed against the supple flesh of your back. It felt strange, even after all these months, to feel so incredibly shy under every minuscule morning breath of hers; yet here you lay, melted in her ivory grasp, flesh touching hers and in a way you could have never imagined.

“Ellie, wake up”, you repeat, expecting gold but hitting rock when she doesn’t budge against the incredible volume of your whisper — she’s winsome but one element of the girl that riddled you the most was her ability to sleep things out without waking up through it, not until an anvil dropped at her head. Even now, her breath didn’t stagger and her arms lay flaxen against the pivot of your arm and elbow, grazing the indents with heat.

“Ellie”, you repeat, barely drawling your words anymore, instead, it’s chasmic with impatience when her breath is steady, mites running across the odd hairs on your back — you don’t turn, don’t speak, at-least for a while, soaking in the obsolete air of her arms, which harrow into you, with much invited love. As much as you loved to bask in her shadow, you knew that Ellie was a one minded person who saw no qualms for the things or people she loved, ultimately being her shortcoming or, perhaps, her strength. And coupled with those brawny hands, you knew you would indulge in you for hours before putting a stop to her chambré glances — getting dressed, grabbing her bag and what not.

“Ellie, you have to get up”, you nudge once, then twice and then poke the honey kissed limbs of hers and she finally groans. You don’t see an endpoint in sight, at least not for a while, till she shifts into the plush sinew of your back, and though she’d done this countless of times when she was somnolent, there was a new meaning behind those soft grazes and the heavy weight of her wide spread fingers drawing fixed circles into your thigh. She’s finally conscious and she’s quite unbreakable when she is.

“Baby…?” her voice is unruly, guttural with all the emotions you cannot find coherent; of course, your heart jumps with the gravel texture of her words and she notices when your ears flame a foxier colour of the one before — she’s had you in the palm of her hand several times before, smiling, laughing, squirming. Stroking, nudging, pushing and pulling. But this — this, she admits, is one of her favourites. When you’re placed on the hem of every limb of hers, so out of reach but smelling, feeling and definitely looking so good, within the innards of her reach but still seeming like a dream.

Ellie loved it.

“Naughty girl, why are you so shy?” she teases and every groan that’s held in your heart spills in ghostly wisps of air, sighing when she rubs your skin in her comfortable grasps, ones you could never replicate, no one could. They were numbing with the tepidity of an autumn intrusiveness, but so, so warm that you wouldn’t mind if she ripped the blankets right off the two of you, as long as those reigns of vein would hold you so tight — like you were going to escape her.

You crunch under her gaze, like a poorly made sand castle and groan delightfully when your muscles relax against her, “‘M sorry that you make me so nervous, miss Williams”, you move your hands to grip hers, that still with her confusion when your body shifts, moving left, nudging right and you’re facing her.

If she could summarise this moment in simple words — but that could never be accomplished because you were enigma to her that could only be expressed in the most convoluted of words but she tried — you were her star. Her kettle. Her emotions. Her hands, tongue, feet. You were her bare essentials, her breath when she toothily grins at you and it’s almost enough to sway your heart, almost, if not for her hands snaking into impish slithers up your thigh and you don’t even stop her — yet she stops right near your hip, just still. Stationary.

She drags her eyes to your neck.

“Sleep well?” she’s distracted, and you know it.

“As always” you play along, running a warm hand down her face, stroking the inch of eye bags that paint her skin, but they seem better than months prior, so you tincture her skin with your touch, under her lip, her nose and certainly her jaw. She’s tense, in some way. Or another. You can’t tell.

“Mm, what about you?” she’s all dry bones when you raise you voice again, scuttling within your touch and you swear you see a brush of red beneath those hearty freckles of hers, but you don’t know whether to poke, prod or hang still till she surrenders.

“Good, good” she lies. You can tell, partly due to her intermittent gaze that flows right through your irises, and partly due to the way the silence drags on even more. There’s more. She wants to say more. You know, because the taste is leaving something clumsy on your tongue that you decipher as half-assed fear, something that produced itself in the self conceived theory that Ellie was getting sick of you. Fully. Completely. You’re staring at her. She’s looking back, focused. You’re scared. But then, the taste slicks into sweetness and you breath her in like yesterday’s perfume when she kisses you, soft and unbecoming, like a rose.

“Sorry, I just… I just needed to…” she’s embarrassed. She’s kissed you into a blushing mess and she’s embarrassed. She’s a crocodile, fierce and pulsing. She’s a cloud, soft and unbecoming under your touch, hell, your gaze. You attempt to chase the mist until it comes undone completely.

“You’re too cute sometimes” you curve into a grin, literally, as your body beams at her. And she beams back, exasperated because she just can’t get enough, can she?

“Sometimes?” she grins, a Cheshire cat, too far for something fake. She’s genuine and she’s stretching you, so far past your limits, that you’re tearing. Creasing. Going molten. You decide to stop thinking before you melt.

“Other times you’re like a volcano” the sheets buck against your foot when she sits up, resting wearily against the headboard and you do the same, but the difference is that you scoot down further down the board, shoulders scratching hers. You don’t notice it.

“Angry?” she panics. She’s like an ocean, so easy to read, and right now, she’s open. The light that pours through the window hits the headboard, the sheets and pinballs onto her face and god, she’s never looked more beautiful.

“Hot”, you work to joke lightly, rolling your eyes when she sighs in relief. She moves closer, if that was even possible, and cups a space on your shoulders when her right arm slings around you, bruising the skin with that same old familiar balminess, “Does that make you the core of the earth then?”

You look over to the bed-side clock whilst Ellie breathes you in mindlessly, glass split beautifully like cobwebs on the surface but working just as fine as the day Ellie had stuffed it into her bag, after you wordlessly eyed it through an empty store on a lookout. It had been an eccentric shade of maroon, and also with hand painted flowers all over the sides, back, creases, when you last saw it months ago. Now, it was easily a duller shade, more a light claret and nearly every painted flower looked like a dot, a star in the galaxy. The hands pointed to 9AM, leaving you a time bracket of an hour before any changing, packing or leaving must be done; Maria was crisp with her regimen and her coffee, and if you knew any better, you ought to be on time. But the voice of reason was no longer there, because Ellie’s lips on your neck had killed the instinct.

Normally, you would’ve chose to usher her away in a fit of giggles, enjoyed to watch her slouch all the way to the bathroom to wash up, but your body was alarmingly cold, had been. But with her lips against any inch of your skin, the tantalising heat covered the canvas, and there you were, falling and falling and falling like a snowstorm in the svelte burn of a winter outside, “Ellie”, you breathe.

It’s dangerous, she’s dangerous, her lips are dangerous, sweetly producing sounds just as sweet that you feel embarrassed — rightfully so, because her mouth blends with your neck, the back of your neck, your shoulder blade, and she’s thoroughly melting into you. So abysmally slow, like a static volcano, magma inert. “Y/N”, she breaths, but adds more unlike you, “you’re beautiful”.

Beautiful. Right. She says that a lot. And you? You malfunction, for fucks sake. Your breath? Trapped in your throat. Your hands? Wedged at your sides, where you can’t visibly see but feel as they’re crinkled with profound confusion — no, anticipation, for her chapped lips to score against your ear roughly but she stops. Stops. Fucking stops. You want to be annoyed, you want to cutely nerved to the point where she gives you want you wants. But she’s staring at you and you can almost smell the earth of her scent. You’re shy again.

She notices and grins, “An hour? I need more time” her grin widens. On occasion, Ellie would wilfully pick at your patience like petals on a flower, one at a time, licking her lips in concentration as she watched you get vexed, twisting and turning into dead ends, corrosive sanity draining at her toes when she plucked again. But not now. She’s staring into your eyes, genuine and naked, when she first told you she loved you.

Loved, not liked.

Loved.

It had been so foreign, you thought it was a joke. But Ellie was the last person to fiddle with your feelings for a stupid crumpled dollar and a dare, so you fell. Hard, fast, no chance of landing back on your feet, because you’re no cat. You’re hers. Hers. God, you’re hers, aren’t you?

“Hey”, Her rigid voice on your neck fills you with surprise again, ripping you out of your thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” she purses her lips, breathes you in, holds you like a halo all at once and it feels like a conflicting cycle. But you’re addicted. “About you”, you’re bold and she gives it to you, swiping a messy finger over the top of your hip. You jolt. She doesn’t. It’s monetary but sublime and you swear to not bite on your lip, but you’re only human.

Your steely teeth rub at your bottom lip when you’re nervous, sometimes you draw blood when you’re sure you’ll die. But now, you’re barely pulling it into the butterfly grip your teeth have on the bottom one. Cautious, it misreads as, but in such-and-such truth, you’re delicate in her embrace. Prone to break, shatter into fragments dressed to impair past relief.

But Ellie is careful today, at this minute. She stops. Stares. Stares some more and smiles.

“Come, let’s get ready”.

You don’t know what you expected but whatever she gives, you take. Whatever she touches, you grip. Whatever she breathes life into, it sure as hell always comes back to you — a circle. Undeniable. Unfathomable.

“Help me up then”, you fake a pout and she staggers into confusion, then realisation and then a fine line of giggles.

She’s yours. However many times she inked the words into your skin, however many times she painted her world with the colours of you.

She’s yours and you? Infinitely hers.

#the last of us fic #the last of us ii #the last of us #lesbian #ellie williams #ellie x reader #tlou x reader #god help me this took like half an hour and two waters for my sanity #ellie is lucky i love her #bam writes #tlou 2 #tlou #ellie williams x reader

[bambino1294]

it’s a never-ending summer (it’s getting way too hot)

A Hunger Games AU

16k Words | Rated M

“You’re okay.” It was a voice he’d recognise anywhere and instead of yanking away as he once might have, Sokka sat and breathed quivering breaths as Zuko ran a thumb along his neck and eased him through his breakdown. “You should hate me,” he whispered, broken and cracking. Zuko squeezed, “I know.” He was gone by the time Bato found Sokka again, nothing left of their encounter besides the warmth still etched into his neck and an odd feeling settling into his gut.

OR

As Victors of the Hunger Games, Sokka and Zuko navigate a complicated relationship in a world just waiting to watch them tear each other apart.

#bam writes #it’s a never-ending summer (it’s getting way too hot) #ianes(igwth) #zukka #zukka fic #sokka #zuko #hunger games au #but not in the way you think lol #oneshot #title from a stela cole song #I went with the whole lyric because fics with some tragedy deserve a long ass title #I haven’t written zukka in a hot minute so cut a girl some slack #this isn’t… fun #but I feel like that’s guessable by the setting #just idk prepare to be a bit upset #at least a smidge #(if I did my job right) #am I sorry? #a little #ITS 4AM AND ITS FINISHED WOOOO

[willowser]

my guilty pleasure trope is like. trash reality dating show au LOL

like you and bakugou on love island ??? HELLO ???? he is 100% the show-stopper that comes in as a twist at the very end, after everyone is already coupled up. thinking they're happy in their pair. ready to move forward and get to know one another. AND THEN BAM. bakugou katsuki. huge and tan and toned. probably a firefighter or something, been single for a long time because he finds it hard to put himself out there — and coming on live, national television was the perfect way to get himself out of his comfort zone LOL

let's say. you're coupled up with denki and you love it ! he's great and funny and charming and will make someone happy — but that someone is just not you. from the get-go, your relationship feels more friendly than anything, but he doesn't try to cop a feel on you in bed and he's a good snuggler and maybe you kiss him once, just to see how it feels, and that's not so bad either. but there are no sparks, no fireworks. you'd be content to even ride out the rest of the challenge in a couple, because he's comfortable, but that's not what either of you came on the show for.

after the first week, bakugou couples up with jirou. her sharp wit and dry humor draws him in enough (and he's always kind of liked that edgy look that she has) — but he very quickly realizes that she's really not that into him POOR GUY. bakugou really isn't her type; besides finding his attitude funny every now and again, they really don't have much in common. don't do much of the same things, share hobbies or interests, so it's a little bit of a bust.

i like to think you're just friends for a week or two. another guy comes in, two new girls come in, but nothing really changes for either of you. keeping your respective couples, just because no one else has really caught your interest — and it's not until a challenge has you kissing him square on the mouth that either of you start to take a second glance across the villa.

you watch him work out in the mornings, make a second cup of tea for when he's done. somehow, you both always end up in the same section, leaning back in the lawn chairs or sitting side-by-side on the beanbags as you chat about how the challenge has been going so far for either of you.

the part of this trope that is so funny to me is that — bakugou really is not the kind of guy that should be on this show LOL he's hard to approach and intimidating and if you don't understand his attitude, then you won't like him. and what little game he has isn't played like this: approaching someone in front of everyone else, nabbing you from your couple, having to put himself out there so that he doesn't get sent home. all while on live television.

but — it's not until you admit, casually one day, that you and denki are just friends that he decides to do anything about it. the two of you have gotten along so well in your couple that bakugou didn't think he stood a chance but after talking to you, he's awkwardly telling kaminari in the kitchen, alone, that he's planning on pursuing you. and denki thinks that's great ! thinks you deserve it !

the week continues on much the same: you and bakugou chat here and there, eat breakfast together away from everyone else, he makes you laugh and you make him smile his crooked little smile at the floor, embarrassed, as he tucks his face and pulls his hat further over his eyes. it's cute and you're having fun with him, but the recoupling is surprising, still.

when he has to stand up there, in front of everyone, red-faced, and grit out that you've caught his eye, that he's enjoyed his time with you, that he'd like to get to know you better — and you're floored. ecstatic, but floored. because he is certainly intimidating, and regardless of the fact that you were with kaminari for so long, you might not have ever approached bakugou, because he's just. so huge and handsome and striking.

and then you're settling in for the night, crawling in to your shared bed for this first time. and he's not like denki, not a cuddler, but you still make a point to wiggle around to him, wait until the lights are off and even breathing sounds throughout the room — and then you tell him, quietly, grinning in the dark:

"i'm really glad you picked me."

you feel bakugou sigh, a bit heavy, and you wonder if you're going in to strong — but then his hand skates over your arm, rests carefully against your hip, and he murmurs, "'m really glad, too."

i wrote this a lil bit ago and have since been made aware of luna's love island bkg !! 🥺 it's so detailed !! there's a whole show for the two of them !!

#pleeeaaaseeee #the image of him sitting on one of those lounge chairs !!!! in just shorts !!!! with some sunglasses and a hat !!!!! #i would be head over heels for him #and he's got his stupid water bottle #brings yours to you filled up and cold #you kiss him up on the balcony a few nights into your couple and it's like BOOM BAM POW #sparks fireworks the whole shebang #akfwkfnjaka it's so cute idk what to tell you !!! #imagine him with a red face standing awkwardly over denki like “...'m...fuckin' interested in her or whatever so...just lettin' you know” #and denki is like “oh sweet! she's interested in you too !” #and bkg is all 👀😳 oh really ??? #unintentionally they probably become pals on the show bc denki wants what is best for you and katsuki knows that too #CUTE !! 🥺 #blast from the past: hiatus q #✿ willow writes #✿ thoughts: bakugou #✿ theme: love island bakugou

[pennyserenade]

i have thought in great detail about coriolanus and sejanus, and whether or not coriolanus ever really liked sejanus. i think that the novel/movie are purposefully constructed to make this ambiguous, but i prefer to veer on the side of "yes, he did."

coriolanus' way of loving people was...lacking, to say the least. even with tigris, he thought awful, mean things about her, but it was evident he cared very much for her. the problem with coriolanus was not that he couldn't love -- it was that he could not love without first being assured that his investment would yield positive results for him. at least, he could not readily admit to himself that he was loving until he knew it was going to work out for him.

his character is very succinctly summed up by sejanus, when he tells him, "I remember that from school, watching you watch other people. Pretending you weren't. And choosing the moments you weighed in so carefully" (397). without fully knowing the totality of it, sejanus got it all too right: coriolanus took people in, measured them out, decided what they meant to him, and weighed in when he thought it'd benefit him. coriolanus was calculated in all things, most of all in love—a thing he knew made you vulnerable.

but that's not to say what coriolanus said to himself was the exact same thing as what he felt. if it was, i do not believe he would've done half the things he had done for sejanus--even given the prospect of reward in the end. this is part of what makes coriolanus descent into evil so heartbreaking: a part of him was good. he did want for connection and comfort, even if he had a real fucked up way of going about getting it. coriolanus was a dog that bit without fully knowing why; it was a protective instinct he used, because so much of his life had been filled with loss already.

in the book, after coriolanus snuck his father's handkerchief with lucy gray's scent into the tank of snakes, he went to sejanus' house. this is an incredible detail that so many people tend to overlook when they talk about coriolanus and sejanus' friendship. the beginning of the chapter reads:

"What had he done? What on earth had he done? His heart raced as he blindly turned down one street and then another, trying to make sense of his actions. He couldn't think clearly but had the dreadful feeling he'd crossed some line that could not be uncrossed" (287).

we start this chapter with a frenzied, rattled coriolanus, one terribly afraid of what he had just done and the consequences this action might have later. he was scared and isolated, and he didn't know what to do. a little further on, collins writes: "His feet had carried him far from home, but he realized the Plinth apartment was just a few minutes away. Why not pop in?" (288).i find this construction of words to be fascinating, especially in relation to coriolanus--a character we have come to known as calculated and precise, even in moments when he has to think on his feet. one could argue that during this part of the book, and in this state, it makes sense that coriolanus might wander that far from his home absent-mindedly. it shows how out of touch with himself he had become, and just how much the act he had just committed disorientated him. but i think it was more than that. i think coriolanus wanted to go to the plinth's house, that he was seeking comfort after he had done something incredibly dangerous (something, arguably, that sejanus might have done), and he could not admit it to himself. and his original intention had been to see sejanus, but sejanus was asleep.

the fact that collins wrote "his feet had carried him" and "he realized" is so brilliant. i’ve got lots of opinions about why she chose to write the book in a third person point of view. one of the reasons i think she did it has to do with the fact that coriolanus was distancing himself from himself--shedding culpability through phrases such as these, especially in moments like this. coriolanus did love sejanus, but he simply could not admit it to himself because sejanus was not a safe or wise investment to make. coriolanus refused to give credence to his need for him, and it ended up killing the boy in the long run.

#sejanus plinth #coriolanus snow #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #suzanne collins #tbosas meta #tbosas analysis #didn't mean to write an essay #this fully was meant to be a short post but i had finished all my homework #and suddenly i had my kindle app open and i wrote a page number without thinking (bc i am an english major and this is my lot) #and bam it was an essay

[ganondoodle]

(OC art)

kinda needlessly redid Eadrya's (they/them) demon form design instead of working on any of the other things (why am i like this)

more info (hahaha .. ha .. long post woops); their jaw is unhingable and their mouth can technically open all the way past their gills (?) with the lighter colored part being an extra flap of skin they are widely known as the most powerful demon to exist (not counting their dead demon god who is only very rarely able to possess shargon if given right circumstances but otherwise dont exist anymore) to the point that they generate so much coreblood/energy that excess is constantly being emitted to the environment around them giving them an aura felt even by humans (it generally has no drawbacks ... unless you later have to deal with demon hunters that use devices to detect demonic energy bc it kinda turns you into a lighthouse for them..) that fact also means they pretty much never have to eat or rest, though they are one of the very very few demons willing to eat other livings things and able to digest it (most demons cannot)

they are one of seven Lords, the Lord of Water specifically, and are very proud of that and, while acting like they dont care about anything or anyone, do probably the best job at keeping their world intact and other demons safe than anyone else- Eadrya is also kinda obsessed with strength and thus hates Shargon to the point of having attempted to murder him several times, not just bc he is so weak but mainly bc they think he selfishly took the title of King to essentially doom them all (since that title, only able to be given of demons with the core element of lightning, means that demon must be the one to go into battle alone for the protection of their world as the first line of defence, bc if the strongest demon, able to invoke their god, can defeat a threat alone theres no need to endanger anyone else, and if the king fails and the six remaining Lords cannot do the rest it was a lost battle to begin with--- the six Lords (not counting the King who starts as a Lord if none of the other accept them) also serve as a sort of council, and to put it bluntly, 'battery' for their god-

see, every demon naturally only has one main element, the Lords, if they accept the King as such, can lend the King part of their power enabling them to use more than one, with each acceptance their gods connection to the King gets stronger, and if it is summoned, will constantly siphon off (?) the strength of the Lords- which can kill them if its active for too long

MEANING that with Shargon being so unfit for that role it not only puts them all in danger, it also means all responsibility falls on them) a title like that cannot be undone once one accepts it, so alot of them, while not actively wishing harm upon him, hope a little that Shargon dies and a better King can be chosen

Eadrya, especially for the first part of the story, is an antagonist, and kinda an ass to everyone, the typical powerful, loud and mean guy that despite being never nice to anyone still does good, the only ones they really care about is Thor, an almost equally strong lightning demon and childhood friend who is also the only one Eadrya will listen to and due to Thors pacifist ideals always stops their outbursts, and Jyothi, Shargons daughter, who is a prodigy of a wind demon and has started to learn from Eadrya, much to Shargons dismay

generally they are way less mean to children and a surprisingly good and patient teacher ... if they are willing to teach you

(alot of their problems stem from a deep fear of being powerless and left alone- they dont think of themselves as highly as it seems and are actually very lonely- thinking that no one could actually genuinely like them for who they are and just does their bidding bc of their strength, of the fear they can instill in others-- they became a Lord at a horribly young age, not even having learned how to change form yet, and saw their parent, the previous Lord of Water (titles are not inherited, this was coincidence), slowly waste away with a strange disease, not even really understanding what was happening and after their passing spend months at the side of their corpse all alone)

they later have a character arc (that is horribly underselling it but i do not want to make this post any longer lol) and join the main group, one of my fav OCs of them all and the most detailed story and arc (god its so good i wish i could just show you all the movie in my head argh) besides Shargon :3

#ganondoodles #art #artists on tumblr #ocs #original character #oc art #monsters #i spent an hour writing this all #who even reads this #just wanted to give some character details and BAM devolves into short versions of alot of lore and story #its so late........... i wanted to get the other painting done but then suddendly #did this instead #my other oc blorbo ............ my dearest big baby lad #long post #sorry .........................................