#it's free real estate prompt just tag me so i can read | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

peakyblindersxx · 3 years

Text

whiskey business - john shelby x reader (part 8 of ?)

gif by @thesoldiersminute can i send you a cake or something cause fuCk!!!!!!!!!!! he's beautiful

a/n: to everyone still reading this fic, my sweet angels, ily!! this fic is so near and dear to my heart and @stxdyblr-2k has just done such an amazing job with it i can't even thank her enough. as per the last part, this one is also mostly her, just me editing but i hope you guys love it as much as i did!!! don't worry, there's gonna be a lot more :) and i apologize for being not as active, i'm gonna try to get a couple of requests up that i'm really excited about this week tysm for being patient with me <3

love, abi xxx

read part one two three four five six seven | my masterlist

prompt: ada has some talking to do, and you're not about to deny her.

warnings: fluff, semi-angst, tommy being the cocky mf he is (let's be real, it's only acceptable cause he's so damn fine), john being cute and in love and jesus i am head over heels

tagging: @datewithgianni, @mayaslifeinabox, @deepdonutkid, @springsoulofengland, @lilymurphy03, @operation-spot

You had planned to go to Ada's after work, but she obviously had other ideas. She didn't even bother walking in and asking to speak to you; instead, choosing to bang on the window closest to your desk and yelling at you to "fucking hurry up!" Your boss opened the door for you expectantly, not offering you any protection; he was firmly in the Shelby's ever growing pocket and as long as he could go home to his children, his sickly wife and their six bed in the country, with a full time nurse and nanny, he had no interest in crossing Thomas.

"Ada, I was coming to see you after work, I swear."

"I know. I was going to let you but..." She trailed off. "We need to talk. I don't know what the fuck is going on with you. John said he'd seen you last night and you asked after me."

John had indeed seen you last night. It was strange waking up with him, used to leaving almost immediately after he was finished with you. Your small bed could barely comfortably fit you both, having to intertwine your limbs with John's to not fall off the edge. You had awoken to John pressing a kiss to your forehead before lazily trailing his fingers between your legs, waiting for you to open your eyes before settling between your thighs, tongue swirling around your clit, making you cum before sunrise.

"Do we have to do this in the street?" You practically begged, the shouting having attracted onlookers.

"I wanted to talk to you before anyone else in the family gets to you because I need you to be honest."

"Ada-"

"No, I'm doing you a favour here, so you fucking listen. Right now, between you and I, no bullshit. No tactics. No white lies. You have to tell me exactly what we're dealing with." She looked frantic, scared for some reason.

You nodded, walking her down the side street, careful not to link arms with her. You knew she was doing you a favour; this wasn't about forgiveness or friendship, much more was at stake here.

"To what extent was Thomas involved?"

That took you off guard. Ada read the confusion on your face and sighed impatiently, her subtle plea for you to keep up.

Shit. You remembered your conversation with John, how she thought this was her brother's way of pushing her out of the company.

"Don't spare my feelings. What did my brother say to you?"

"He said it was in our mutual interest that you didn't find out. He didn't care who John slept with but cared who you trusted so I had to trust him. He said there was no point in upsetting you over one of John's conquests who he'd tire of in a month."

"That all?"

"Pretty much, I didn't know Arthur knew. He never talked to me about it, did laugh at Thomas' digs now that I think on it-"

"Did you know Isaiah and Michael knew?"

"I thought they were aware but no one ever talked to me about it."

"Of course they wouldn't." She hissed, frustration causing a nerve on her neck to jump.

Ada and you had spoken for years about the rampant misogyny of her brothers and any men you two came into contact with. Although you were both far more reserved than you used to be as rebellious and adventurous thirteen year olds, you'd both grew increasingly angry at how you were treated. She'd long written off her brothers as womanisers, who saw women as purely sexual and entertaining, objectifying them. You both long despised how they dehumanised women. She was amazed that Thomas had attempted to settle down and managed a somewhat loving marriage, but resented him for his carelessness and need for power which inevitably killed his wife.

"Ada, I just want to say..." You licked your lip nervously, unsure of how to continue.

"You need to talk, Y/N. No bollocks."

"Before last night, he'd never been to mine or called. I always went to him."

The muscle in her jaw tensed.

"You slept with him last night then?" You met her question with silence and she rolled her eyes. "The second he said he saw you I knew you had, he wanted to tell me that he was going to continue seeing you and that he hoped I'd be able to accept it one day."

"We never intended to hurt you. It was meant to be fun at first, but now..." You cut yourself off with a sigh, unable to admit you'd fallen for her brother.

"Isn't fun for me. It's fucking embarrassing." She paused, lighting a cigarette, nervous to offer you one, conflicted within herself. She raised her eyebrow, prompting you to continue, the mannerism so similar to her brother’s.

"It should never have happened. I am never going to be able to fix this, I'm so fucking ashamed for doing this to you, Ada."

She sulked, silently drinking in your words.

"Obviously it's not going to be the same, yeah? I'm really fucking upset. I'm so fucked off with you but Poll's really worried about a coup. She thinks you're being used as blackmail against John to keep him on side with Tommy while he expands."

"Makes sense."

"You're part of a much bigger game, you know?"

You nodded. "Yeah, and I knew I would lose from the start. Fucking tragic, Ada."

"My brothers keep pushing, keep growing the business. They keep chasing this prize but I don't think it even exists."

"If it does, it isn't worth it if this shit is the cost. I didn't mean to play into his hands."

"You couldn't have known." She said with a shrug, " 'Siah thinks John loves you."

"He told me last night." Several times, this morning also. You would never tire of hearing him moan those words into your neck or being yelled from your front door as he left for the office.

"You love him, don't you?" She said bluntly, a statement more than a question, your face suddenly hot with embarrassment.

Everything you'd suppressed for months, everything that you'd hidden, every time you lied smiling, every knowing glance from a stranger, every degrading comment from under Thomas' breath.

"I do, an awful lot."

She pauses, relighting her cigarette, "The worst thing about the entire situation is it could've been fine if someone told me. I wouldn't have loved it, obviously, but-" Ada sighed, rubbing her temple with her free fingers.

"I thought you'd hate me."

"How could I? I'd be more angry that you'd drop your standards for my brother. Seriously? Him? Mate…."

"Come off it, I've always thought he was charming. He's funny, smart-"

"Don't gush over my brother, it's grim. I'm just so fucked off you all lied to me." She peered at you through her cigarette smoke. "If you love him and he loves you..." she pressed her lips together as she tensed her jaw, "I could get over it. If it'd make you both happy. But that's going to take a long time. A long time."

"Ada-"

"Look I have meetings and shit to sort, I have to run." She interjected, checking her wristwatch, adjusting the cap which sat atop her trendy short haircut. You caught her arm before she could turn away.

"Thank you. For understanding."

She shrugged you off, "I don't get it, I'd never do that to you. But you also don't get to choose who you're attracted to. I'm really hurt, but I do love you and John a lot. He mentioned that after last night you helped him, got him cleaned up. I have to believe that you both do love each other. So I have to believe that this is a good idea for you both and not stand in your way."

"I love you, Ada. Can we hang out soon, just us two?"

She shook her head. "I need some time, I'll be in touch, yeah?"

You nod, stretching out your pinky finger. She sighed and linked it with hers, as you'd done since you were children, a silent signal to each other after a fight that you still had the other's back.

"Right, I've got to get back to this meeting, Tom is getting done by Polly for nearly getting John killed. I need to be there in case one of the lads needs patching up."

"Your aunt has a nasty left hook, I'll give her that."

"She'll be pleased you think so, she wanted Tommy to slice you to bits for crossing me."

"Fuck’s sake, thanks for the warning, I'll keep my head down. Good luck with the meeting."

Ada nodded and you watched her walk away, a Blinder suddenly appearing by her side seemingly from nowhere. This city was crawling with them. They clambered into Ada's car as you watched the car disappear into the distance before walking back to work. Thankfully, with your head still attached to your shoulders.

*******

Ada arrived at Thomas' estate, following the swell of shouting voices to his exquisite library. It was eye roll worthy and typical Tommy to choose the location of his post-fuckup debrief to be where he had the best view of the gardens, river and rolling hills. She could bet he'd sit in a corner and stare at the view, zoning out their aunt's lecture.

An armed blinder she vaguely recognised opened the door. Thomas was making a statement today with the armed guards, she noted. Her brothers really were fucked up. Arthur was an alcoholic killer who couldn't understand that Thomas would betray them all eventually, Finn was letting the tokyo and the razor chasers that circled him distract him from keeping the family together, John was apparently in love with her best friend, and finally, Thomas nearly got Arthur and John murdered last night with his foolishness. At this point only herself and Polly were holding everyone together, keeping everything silently moving along.

The door opened, and she was the last to arrive, Polly glaring as she murmured an apology, standing next to Finn. His eyes were bloodshot, grey-purple smudges under his eyes, he'd obviously had a heavy night. The last thing the poor lad needed was Polly's shrill yelling and the blinding sun streaming through the large immaculately crafted windows, which he'd tried to block with the brim of his cap. John caught her eye, acknowledging his sister with a nod, which she returned with a small tight smile.

Ada couldn't bear to think about the reasoning behind her brother's smug interjections in between Polly's rant to Thomas who was listening wordlessly, smoking.

Y/N and John? It didn't make sense. They had a similar sense of humour, sure, but she was far too intelligent for him. He also had a swarm of children, while Y/N preferred a wild night out only staggering home at daybreak.

It made far more sense for Y/N to end up with Michael, or if it had to be a brother, Finn. They were younger, so had less responsibilities and commitments so they could keep up with her. But John? Of course she knew he was believed to be the Casanova of her brothers, he was kind, he was an excellent father, yet he could never keep anyone around long, usually John was chasing someone new after a month or so. That's why the revelation that John had been involved with her best friend for almost half a year had taken her completely by surprise. Maybe that was why she was open to them being together. That had to be it. This relationship was completely out of character for John; she needed to believe that he was serious about his feelings towards Y/N and wasn't going to fuck her over. Because if he did, John would be a dead man.

"I don't know why you're all bleating at me. Yeah, I overlooked some details in the planning of last night's meeting-"

"Such as warning us that they were really fucked off because you'd helped bomb their warehouse." John pointed out.

"What do you want me to do? Apologise? Grow up, John." Tommy snapped back.

"They had loaded guns against their heads, they deserve an apology." Ada interjected, John giving her an appreciative flash of smile. She did love her big brother. Despite the fact that she'd pretty much only been yelling at him for the past month, John never dismissed her feelings and only apologised. It was confusing to admit to herself, but when Isaiah told her that he was confident John loved Y/N, she felt a wave of relief. At least he cared about her; it was the bare minimum but the Shelbys were notorious for not even meeting the bare minimum for acceptable social interactions.

"They didn't fuckin’ get shot." Thomas stated, his voice matter of fact and condescending.

"Do you ever hear yourself speak?" Polly spit back at him. "They didn't get shot this time. But it was too fucking close."

"It won't happen again, Polly." Tommy sighed. "What else can I say? Sorry lads, take the weekend off?"

"It's a good start." Arthur countered, "You're also paying for the extension on my house and my wedding."

"Fuck’s sake Arthur I was joking. But fine. Sure."

"You can't buy your family off." Polly scoffed at him.

"Think of it as compensation, a settlement." Thomas coolly corrected his aunt. "What do you want, John? A fucking farm?"

John hesitates while Finn whispered suggestions to him, Ada meeting his stare, John raising a brow to her in question. She sighed and nodded her approval.

"You can pay off my mortgage Tom, give me the kids' birthdays off-"

"So you'd never come into work then?" Finn cut in, Ada elbowing him in the ribs. She usually enjoyed Finn's remarks but she knew where John was heading; she could barely breathe.

"Tom, you're also to leave Y/N completely alone. If you have a problem with her, you come to me about it." He said firmly.

Arthur and Tommy traded knowing looks, obviously more aware of the ins and outs of his relationship than Ada was.

"Also if you're paying for Arthur's wedding I want the equivalent in cash." He adds.

Tommy shrugged. "Whatever. As long as we can move past last night and focus on today's order of business."

John nodded, satisfied. He knew Tom wouldn't care, but just saying out loud that he was involved with Y/N and having his family aware was a relief. He hadn't realised until he finally admitted how stressful keeping his relationship a secret was. Now, he could stop worrying about Tommy interfering.

Polly rolled her eyes, lecturing the brothers on their lack of moral backbone to allow themselves to be bought off, but dismissed them. She caught Ada's arm in hers on their way out, pulling her far from earshot.

"So Y/N and John are together now?" She asked, her face firm and scowling.

"Polls, I talked with her, she's aware of what she's done. She apologised and meant it. What more can I ask for?"

"Her not to have fucked him in the first place."

"She said that. Look, Polls, they're happy right? John seems happy-"

"He always is when he gets a leg over."

"You know she looked after him last night? Fixed him up after the meeting."

"Meeting? It was a fucking set up." Polly hissed but her face had softened. "She cleaned him up?"

"Antiseptic, bandages and all."

Polly looked subtly impressed, although she'd never admit it. "He went to hers? Not yours?"

"He wanted to talk to her." Ada shrugs, "I saw her this morning and-"

"What do you mean? You bumped into her?"

"I went to her work." Ada admitted, her aunt shooting her an exasperated glare.

"Why do I bother? Nobody listens to me."

"I had to talk to her, I'm glad I did. She reckons she loves him, he told her last night that he loves her, so..."

"We are talking about John? Our John?"

"I know Polls, I'm as amazed as you."

Her aunt huffed, unimpressed. "Are you okay with it though?"

"I guess, I just want them to be happy. I've told them to give me time with it."

"She was a good friend growing up, but people change, sometimes for the better, often for the worse."

"Poll, it's Y/N; she's my best friend. At the end of the day, we'd do anything for each other."

"Sweet Ada, you're going to be so miserable if you keep letting people walk all over you." Polly said wisely, kissing her goodbye affectionately. "I hope you're right. If she makes you cry again I'll kill her myself."

"Thanks, Polls."

She knew her aunt wasn't joking.

#john shelby imagine #john shelby x reader #john shelby fluff #john shelby series #john shelby fanfic #peaky blinders fluff #john shelby #john shelby x you #peaky blinders imagine

304 notes · View notes

gaiuswrites · 3 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Moon

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | four

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: All relationships are about give and take.

Word count: 7k~

Rating: Explicit (Mature until the last few paragraphs)

Warnings/tags: nightmares, trauma, drinking, fluff and pining, drugs/being drugged (medicinal), wound care, blood, shots/needles, mature themes/language, emo shit, masturbation (f)

Notes: Hi friends. This is broken up in two portions: the first, being in Nevarro, and the second taking place some time later (hopefully that becomes clear when you read it heh). I'm hoping I captured the varying, distinct tones in each of the sections. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) Enjoy x (gif credit: @skyshipper)

They come at night.

The visions.

Your legs are rock, crumbling - eroding - with each weighted step, trudging through the city you once knew, laid bare to waste all around you. The air is grey brown, chalked with dust—with ash. There are bodies lining the road like trimmed hedges, floating by their ankles—ugly, corporal zeppelins. They’re pale. Their eyes are burned to coal and their tongues hang dead and waxy from their mouths.

They begin the same, choreographed like this; you follow the paths your mind has carved out for you, time and time again.

You spot him, plated in silver at the end of the row. Your feet stop. You see him, and he sees you. You feel his eyes - hawkish, piercing - under the murk of his visor. A predator’s gaze. He’s got a man in his fist—you think you recognize him, you might not—held by the scruff of his neck.

Sometimes it’s X’elo, bending to break in his gloved grasp. Other times, a stranger—a half remembered photograph—a memory of a memory of another dream entirely.

And sometimes, it’s you.

You hear the howl of wind scream through your bones—through the bones of the ruins there—but you don’t feel it. There’s only heat—the kind that’s unavoidable and omnipresent, as heavy as guilt. The hunter brings his hands to frame the man’s temples—yours too, sometimes— pebbles and slate trembling off you as you move towards them. You’re running, you realize, immobile but running and you’re not sure how or why—you never get there in time to find out.

He snaps his neck. You hear the crunch in your own ear—inside your own head.

It becomes night—blood moons drip wet from the sky. They splash onto the dirt. It turns to mud, caking the underside of your boots, squelching as you walk. You round a corner and—

You don’t recognize this. This is new. This— no, this is wrong.

A door. Rutted, freestanding—a dark monolith.

You stutter in your sleep, a crease in your brow.

It’s just a door.

No, not here—

A door. Black wood, a brass handle. Just a door, and you’re sweating. Just a door, and you’re suffocating—you’re being smothered—like your outsides are clawing to get back in through your throat and it’s sucking you in—this door, it’s just a door, it’s just a—closer, nearer, looming taller overhead—

You gasp awake, clutching at the scratchy blanket drenched cold with your sweat. Your rasps echo against the hull, sharp pants scraping the hollow metal, and you bring a hand to your chest—steadying, steadying, the fear of your racing heart.

You sit up, throwing your legs over the edge of the cot, and rake a shaky hand through your hair—the damp of the strands sticking to the nape of your neck. Your breathing evens out, tampering, with your forearms braced on the plats of your thighs; the rise and fall of your breasts against your sleep shirt quiet until you’ve stilled.

You roll off the bed, the aluminum frame whining with the shift, and you knock a knee into one of the carbonite pods as you stumble out of the storage room—your bedroom, now.

You couldn’t handle much more of it. You bought a bedroll the first planet you stopped to refuel at after Bajic, hermitting yourself away into the bowels of his ship. It was the only smidgen of untapped real estate left in the Crest, and it was far be it from you to complain about location. You were just thankful to be out of that copilot’s chair—no amount of bacta could unwind the knots in your neck after sleeping there night after restless night.

So you bunked with the bounties Mando had brought in, like one big macabre slumber party—the chrome slabs slotted up - watchful - in their chambers.

You try not to spare it much thought.

Padding through the Crest, soft bare feet leaving crescents on the steel deck, you step into the fresher to splash water on your face, jolting you back into the present and out of the nightmare, out of—

Just a door.

No—

You towel off, patting yourself dry. Inhaling, your lungs expand with the massive rush of air, and you hold it there until it hurts, until it prickles the corners of your eyes, and finally - deliberately - you release.

You look into the mirror.

You blink. She blinks back.

///

You make breakfast now.

It’s not something you both agreed to, it’s just something you do. Funny, how quickly you adapt to new normals, to new routines. You have rituals now—you two. You make breakfast, and you leave a bowl for him out on the counter before you slip into the shower. When you get out, the bowl is empty and the dishes are washed clean, drying face down on a rag. You smile. You never speak of it. Like ivy crawling up cobbled walls towards the sun, it happens— without prompt or feed, it simply is.

///

Nevarro reminds you of Dallenor—the craggy blandness of it, the endless black sands—and you fight the urge to hate it solely based on this principal alone.

You stay on the ship with the little one while Mando goes into town, meeting with some Greef Karga character to sew up Guild business. You have no idea how he ever managed to get any hunting done with the kid always acting up, pulling hijinks and inciting anarchy. He’s nearly torn the whole place to shreds. How such a tiny body can produce such a massive wake of damage is a mystery you will never solve.

You make yourself watch.

You force your jaw, set and held, as Karga’s men haul the quarries out of the ship, hovering eerily down the ramp.

X’elo, the smuggler from Vohai, some two-bit thief, and a woman Mando caught before you met, all parading single file out of the Crest like a funeral procession. They’re criminals, each and every one—they’re violent and they’ve done terrible, irredeemable things—but they’re people, too.

And isn’t that what makes it all so cruel. So sad.

The least you can do is give them an ounce of dignity before they’re subjected to their fate— however harsh, however fair.

So, you watch.

Maybe they don’t deserve it—they’re here by their own hand, after all, a bed of their own making— and maybe they haven’t earned it back any. But perhaps it’s less about what you can offer them and more about what you refuse to let the galaxy take. Because don’t you deserve to stay unfragmented? Complete? Would you rather be robbed of this humanity, your sense of decency—have it stolen from you?

Doesn’t it cost you nothing to be kind?

You pray neither sound nor fury will strip you of this—this open-eyed tenderness. You beg that you remain, undistilled, despite despite despite.

///

You’re so much more relaxed now then when you first came on board. You were as quiet as a church mouse then, tip toeing around the ship like you were afraid you’d ruin her.

Din will never admit it, but you even managed to get the jump on him once or twice—appearing exactly when and where he least expected. And he didn’t - couldn’t have - he didn’t expect you.

This.

And he looks at you now: lit by lamplight—the kerosene filament flickering warm in the dark hull— slotted back and humming to yourself as you swipe a finger over a holopad, feet propped up on a crate by the table, and it all looks organic. Right.

The drink in your hand, sloshing against the amber jug, no doubt eases your mood. You’re drinking it right from the bottle. He thinks it’s fucking charming.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Maker above,” you hiss, startling a foot out of your seat. You shoot him an accusatory glare, but there’s no malice in it—there’s laughter ringing around your eyes.

Honestly, that man needs a bell on him.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he comments dryly, stepping past.

You move your legs from their perch and sit a little straighter. “You- you could join me,” you chime, “if you want.”

His feet slow until he’s stopped completely and he pans over his shoulder to you. You can’t read his expression—it’s steel all the way through— but you think you feel the air around you both quiver - shudder - with something unspoken, something kinetic.

The scrape of the chair as he pulls it out from the table is deafening, the thunk of his metal body sinking into it even louder.

“What are you reading?” Mando asks.

You cast him a sheepish smile. “CoreWorld News.”

“Anything good?”

Your mouth twists, biting the inside of your cheek. “Never.”

He huffs a breathy chuckle.

There didn’t seem to be any good news anymore. You forage for it—scouring the net for just a whiff of it, of something pure. There is plenty of greatness left in the world, but you find that what it lacks most is goodness— humble and precious. More often than not, you come up empty and disappointed—but never so dissuaded that you do not search again the next day, and the day after that, and after that and after that again.

“How’d it go with Karga?” you ask, setting the holopad down and switching off the display.

“Fine. Good.”

“Good,” you smile. He’s terse—sparse. You think it’s endearing now—vexing too, without a doubt, but the two aren’t mutually exclusive anymore.

“Nothing close to Coruscant yet. More outer rim chaavla,” he grits out, swallowing. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a tickle of bemusement in your voice and a quirk to your chin. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I know you want to get back.”

You hope the glow from the lantern in the galley is dim enough to camouflage the tinge sprung on your cheeks. The truth is becoming more and more clear to you, whether you like it or not: with each passing day, you want to go back to Coruscant less and less. You have to—you know you have to. You have your career, your whole life, waiting for you. But—

But.

“You told me it would take a while—longer than I’d like.”

“I know.”

“I’m happy to be here— I-I’m grateful,” you catch yourself.

He clenches his fist under the table, beyond your line of sight, gnarled tight into a ball. It tethers him down, anchoring him in place—because if he weren’t, fuck, he’d fly out of his seat so fast—

“Alright,” he chokes out.

“Alright,” you smile, glassy.

There’s a kind of mist encircling you two, an incense of a sort, intoxicating and sinewy and lulling you into a hushed calm. It’s thick around you - lush - and you can feel it settle like lead behind your eyes.

“Can I pour you a drink—for later?”

It’s late into the evening, well beyond the hour where the lines of decorum blur. You’ve crossed into the Other—that tarred, limber undertow. Dangerously weightless and free. The liminality between here and there— that twilight place.

Shadows bounce along the walls. Your outline—his too.

“I’d like that.”

///

You’re not as tipsy as you could be, but you’re less sober than you’d like.

Subconsciously, buried somewhere deep, you’re aware that Mando is humoring you and that you should let him get on with his night—but you don’t.

You’ll be annoyed at yourself later for this.

“Okay okay, what are your hobbies?”

A deadpan tilt of his helmet. “I—I don’t understand the question.”

You gape at him, your bottom lip glossed as it parts, plush and wet, and you laugh. “Hobbies,” you reiterate. “You know, stuff you like to do? For fun?”

You see the gears under that helm wheel and spin. It shouldn’t take anyone this long. The question is basic and the answer should be relatively immediate—but Mando has to mull it over. In all of his cycles, as hardened as they’ve been, he hasn’t been gifted the luxury of leisure - fun - and he hasn’t been afforded the time to dwell on the lack of it.

Selfless, without a moment of ownership to himself. This is the way.

“I-,” he pauses, mouth clamping shut. “Skip.”

“Fine, fine,” you tut. “What is... your favorite planet?”

Din stretches back, his beskar groaning against the chair.

All the planets he’d visited were out of necessity—out of demand and credit, never because he wanted to be there and certainly never out of favor. They were tainted—made insipid and unremarkable by the quarries he chased to them.

But there is one in particular that stands out; he remembers a planet the kid seemed to like—how he babbled the whole time, slung in the satchel at his hip, entranced and enthralled. He was on his best behavior, too—the little womp rat didn’t even try to stuff his tiny, wrinkled face with anything. Not once.

“Adega.”

“Adega,” you repeat, testing the name. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it. What’s it like?”

He draws in a long breath, his ribs yawning against the corset of his armor.

He should’ve gotten up by now—fuck, he shouldn’t have ever sat down in the first place. It’s not like he didn’t have anything to do; he needs to downshift the Crest’s power converters, switch off the shield projectors, chart a course to his next job, get some damn sleep if he’s lucky…

But you’re here before him. You’re here and he can’t deny you—not when you’re looking at him like that, like the sun shines out from his fucking face—far softer, far kinder than he deserves. Not when you’re here now, and you won’t be for much longer.

He’s racing against the clock—the swinging inevitability of it. Each moment he shares with you, is a moment that brings him closer to taking you back.

Din is a fool. He knows he’ll lose. He races anyways.

“It’s a water planet—mostly ocean,” he begins.

You allow your eyes to dip close, savoring the description, and you tuck your legs up to fold over themselves.

“But there are islands. Some are small, private—with red trees that go all the way to the sand. Others have whole cities on them.”

You remain quiet - patient - like marble, chiseled and sanded as thin as chiffon, veiling over your face in fine, cascading sheets. Transparent - ethereal - you listen to him blind, letting his words guide your sight.

“The kid-"

Your tongue darts out over your lip and he stutters. Din has to shift his hips, relieving the growing heat that’s tightening below his waist.

“T-The uh, the kid loved it. I’d never seen him like that. The bogwing didn’t want to leave,” he chuckles. He conjures the details he thinks you want—the details he thinks you might like most. “The people are honest—generous. The days are long, and the nights are warm.”

He’s no poet, but it doesn’t bother you.

“I can see it,” you say, before blinking your eyes open. "I'll have to go some time." There’s pink on your cheeks, seeping past your jaw and below the neckline of your shirt to the swallow of your breasts.

You look at him— he looks at you.

A noise hums from somewhere inside the ship.

“Are you scared of anything?” you murmur.

Mando lets a beat pass.

“I don’t think so. Not yet.” You smile at that—small, wistful. You’re not even sure why. “You?” he asks.

Your chest rises with a deep inhale. “I used to be scared of dying. I thought I was gonna die young. I was convinced—I had dreams about it all the time as a kid.”

But maybe that’s not it entirely. Maybe it’s not the fear of dying itself, but the dread of living and dying alone. And isn’t that at the heart of it—at all of this?

I just don’t want to do this all on my own.

He’s never been privy to this version of you—this sloping tone, the liquor buzzing through your speech, churning your words to treacle. You sound nonchalant in way that’s jarring, as if you aren’t talking about death— the fear of your own tenuous mortality.

“But I bet everyone does,” you continue dismissively, “just one of those things.”

He’s almost cautious when he replies. “I’m not sure they do.”

Your expression contorts, knotting for an agonizing moment—until the tension all but disappears. “Huh,” you shrug flippantly, and take a swig. That heaviness, that fog, dissipates nearly as soon as it arrived. “Anyways, favorite color?”

He rolls his eyes; you can see it in the way he tilts his head to you. Really, he seems to say, how old are we?

“You’re right, you’re right— that’s low brow. I can do better…” You melodramatically tap your chin, eyeing him pensively.

“Okay. What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That,” you nod to his pauldron, “that symbol on your shoulder.”

Tawny fingertips trace absentmindedly over the emblem. “It’s a Mudhorn. It’s-” Mando hesitates, before his hand returns to his lap. “It’s the sigil of my clan.”

You arch your brow. “I didn’t realize you had a clan— is it- is it like, big?” Stars, you sound dumb—and there’s no excuse. You’re not even that drunk. “How- what is a clan, exactly?”

“In Mandalorian culture, your clan is your family. Aliit. Mine, it’s—it’s a clan of two.”

Something in the pit of you stirs, a sickly warmth, pulling at your gut like a rope. You glance over to where the child sleeps, snuggled away in his pram and your lips curl into a smile, hidden behind the bottle you bring to them.

“You’re lucky to have each other,” you say gently, taking another sip.

“We almost didn’t—shouldn’t have.”

His hands tense into his legs—the creak of leather against his thigh plates is audible even from where you sit.

You narrow your eyes curiously. He heaves.

“He was a bounty and I did my job. I turned him in. I went back for him, but—the kid, he saved my life, and I could’ve left him there—I would’ve, before.”

It all comes out like tires grinding through gravel, bruised and roughened. It’s regret, you realize—this is the sound of guilt, frigid and rued, pushing through his modulator. It makes you want to reach out to him, put your hand on his, comfort him, reassure him—something. But you can’t. He’s too far away. He’s on his own sea—untouchable.

You decide it right then and there: you can’t bare that sound, the wracked timbre of it. You hate it. You think you’d do anything to rid the way in constricts his throat—makes him hoarse and clipped, even through the guise of his helmet. It pains you, a visceral stabbing, right to your core. You could go a lifetime without hearing it, and it still wouldn’t be long enough.

“But you didn’t,” you offer.

“No,” he utters. “No, I didn’t.”

Mando gives you these tortuous, beautiful previews of himself. Like light passing through stained glass, you sneak brief glimpses of the paintings there, the stories and fables and the lessons they teach, until some great cloud drifts past, blotting out the sun, and all goes dark again.

You know this is rare. You know you’ll be home soon. You know to cherish it—to relish what he gives, when he gives it, if he gives it at all.

But—you want more. You’re a simple woman, at the end of all things: all you want is to hold him.

“I think you’re a better man than you let on, Mando.” There’s a knowing twinkle in your eye, a coy lilt to your loosened tongue. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were flirting.

“You don’t know that,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I have my suspicions." You're smirking something awful - deadly - as it sears into him.

He grunts, flames licking up his chest. Din has to bite back his grin, making careful it doesn’t shape the sound of his vowels; grateful for the helmet that buffers him, the mask that seals him away into anonymity, into apathy.

If he can convince you, maybe he can convince himself too. Maybe.

“Next question, dala.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were flirting.

///

Your eyes are blown wide, gawking at him.

“I’m not a medic, Mando—I’m not a fucking surgeon!”

Mando crashes through the Razor Crest, red dollops trailing in pools behind him. He grunts, hand pressed to his side, blood pushing out of the gash that’s torn into him— a canyon down his unplated body, spewing angry and insistent with each spasm of his heart.

With a broad stroke, he sweeps the clutter off the table and onto the floor, spraying across the deck.

“Medkit,” he barks, hoisting himself up to lie, hulking and pained, out on the slab. You scamper to it, ripping it off the wall, and return to his lumbering body. His breathing is labored—he’s forcing it, seething it out.

Mando’s legs bend off the table at an uncomfortable angle and he rasps when you crane them up by his booted ankles – fuck, he’s heavy – to situate a small crate under his feet. They drop with a dulled thud— without muscle, without resistance. The languid weight of a dying man.

You’re stationed beside him, medkit spilled open. “W-What now, what do you need?”

“I need you,” you heard him say, deep and bassy, as he ascended the ramp. With a colossal drum of your heart, you spun around - I need you - a blush stippling your jaw. The pregnant expectation built behind weeks and weeks of stalemates and stolen glances - I need you - all rearing to a head here and now and finally, finally something—until you saw him, doubled over, bracing himself on the wall, a line of blood smearing behind his palm.

“Bacta-“ Mando wheezes, “bacta shot.”

You rifle through the supplies, littering them as you dig through the box.

Sure, you had gotten your first aid certification with the Movement—it was required, and you retook the courses every few cycles. But that was gauze wrappings and mouth-to-mouth and anti-inflammatory tablets—that was not this, and this is fucking surgery. You’re out of your depth—and Mando must be out of his damn mind.

“I nee-“ He inhales sharply, and his body spasms, gripping the ledge of the table like a vice. “My chest plate—take it off.”

He’s told you bits and parcels of the Mandalorian way—of his Creed— and you aren’t under the impression that this would be strictly sanctioned.

“M-Mando, I thought— are you sure?”

“Yes I’m kriffing sure—do it. Just do it,” he snaps. He hates this—he fucking hates this. Soft. Weak—weak weak weak, he’s so fucking weak. Laandur.

You fumble over the armor, uncoordinated as you unclasp it from his cuirass and Mando strangles out a sigh as soon as it leaves him. At last, you fish the shot from the medkit and hold it up to the light, the medicine like venom as it whirls in the tube. It’s uncomfortably large—simply holding it makes you squirm.

“W-What is that?”

Your eyes flit over the needle and then back to the bounty hunter. “What do you mean ‘what is that’? It’s a shot.”

“That’s a lance,” he growls.

“It’s ebacta-”

“It’s green!” he hisses out incredulously.

“It’s all they had!” you bite back, panic skipping through your veins.

You’re practically yelling at each other, the tension winding and coiling tighter and higher as the seconds tick by. You feel each one, tapping along your vertebra like a metronome, keeping time, keeping time, wasting time—all this back and forth is a waste of time and—

You’re nervous—you’re fucking terrified—and Mando doesn’t frequent this position either—this vulnerability. He doesn’t know what to do with it, where he belongs in it. I need you, he said. He hadn’t needed anyone before and now look at him, bare breasted before you, wounded and mewling like roadkill.

You rap the needle with a knuckle, banishing the air pocket, and test the plunger. Droplets of liquid spurt from the tip, and he begins to rile.

“Dala,” he warns.

“Mando,” you mimic.

“Nu draar-”

“Do you want my help or not?” you spit out, and he shrinks, visor trained on the jab, that unnatural chartreuse swirling inside the glass vial. “Okay. Okay, on three.”

“Wait, wait-"

“One..." You try to sound firm - competent - but you’re a fucking mess. Your breathing is erratic, tunic soiled with sweat, and you’re trembling.

“You don’t-“

“Two...”

Mando huffs exasperatedly, “Ah, fuck it-”

“Three.”

You drive the syringe down, stabbing into him. His body seizes—flexing rigid—as soon as the viscous gel is injected, oozing oozing oozing until it’s pumped empty and spent.

And then— nothing.

All that whirlwinded frenzy, that raging tempest, and now silence— dead silence. He lays there motionless, fidgeting ceased, that ungodly needle pitched like a flag pole from his chest.

… Shit.

“Hey,” you touch a hand to his shoulder.

The smug bastard could be having a laugh under that helmet and you’d have no idea. That’s what you tell yourself—that’s what you’d prefer to believe anyways; it’s better than the alternative, better than—than than than fuck—

“Hey, this isn’t funny...” A little rougher now, you jostle him. He doesn’t react.

“… Mando?”

His head lolls to the side.

With a whistle, the room goes mute. Sound and oxygen alike, it all gets vacuumed out, and your senses invert. You can hear every tick of your body: the bone of your jaw as your teeth mash together, the pulse at your wrist, your stammering heart beating beating beating in your inner ear, the bob of your trachea as it grates against your neck.

Kriff. You killed him—you killed the Mandalorian.

Oh Maker, oh shit-

You press down around the puncture site with a wide palm before yanking the syringe out, flinging it away. You’re shaking him now, wrestling with his limp body, and you’re shouting—croaked with worry, with fear.

“Fuck, Mando—Mando!"

The sound is like glass shattering.

He gasps wildly, gulping down air as if he’d been drowned, writhing like the undead from your operating table. You buckle over him, fatigued and slumped, and cry out in blessed relief.

Your instincts, those poor frail nerves, tell you to smack him—but given that he’s bleeding out, you refrain.

“Don’t do that to me!” you exclaim, breathy and strained.

“Don’t do that to you?” Mando retorts, panting. You let out a weak crackle of laughter and he moans. It’s like he’s been hit by a speeder - twice - forward and then reversed over again.

“Maker, what did you give to me?”

“I got it on Vohai. They uhm- they said it was good quality-“

“And you believed them?”

Your mouth twists shyly. “I-I wanted to believe them,” you correct him.

It’s his turn to laugh now, tired and raw. Oh, you sweet little thing.

You swallow, saliva coating your ragged windpipe. “I’m sorry—Maker, I’m so sorry, a-are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, gargled, “but remind me never to have you save my life again.”

That earns him a light slap to his arm. If he’s well enough to dole cheap shots, you figure he’s fit enough to take yours too. He’s spliced open, whole chunks of him missing, and he still has the wherewithal to be an ass.

“Well, you’re not out of the woods just yet.”

///

Regrettably, Mando might have been spot on about the bacta—in fact, you’re starting to question whether it’s really bacta at all.

A delirious grunt ripples through the bounty hunter’s modulator as you cut open his ripped flight suit, careful not to slice him with the vibroblade. His black undershirt is matted to his gaping wound, the blood bubbled over and through the rough material, and you have to peel the fibers out of his coagulating flesh to get to it. You toss the fabric into the bucket next to you with a sloppy, wet plop.

It didn’t even occur to you. You were so swept away by the state of him—by the dizzying carnival of it all as soon as Mando breached the Crest—you didn’t consider the fact that you’d be seeing him. Touching him.

You have to mask your expression when you meet his skin for the first time. He’s golden—he’s golden everywhere—like desert sand dunes sizzling under ripe, afternoon suns—dappled with memories of violence, branded into him.

You’ve never heard him like this. He keeps noising these feverish little nothings— gasping, moaning in a language you don’t recognize—and you do your best to distract him. It’s one of the tenets you recall from your aid training: keep them talking, keep them sharp—engaged.

“Do each of these have a story?” you ask, eyeing the marks that riddle and pucker him.

“Some of them.”

“What about this one here?” You touch a faded ribbon of scarring. It’s older than the others—paler. Your fingertips are cool and he blazes beneath them.

He tries not to twitch. You try not to notice.

“Fell out of a tree when I was a kid—haven’t thought about that in a while,” Mando pants. “B-Broke my wrist, got scraped to shit— my buir, m-my mother, she chewed my ear off.”

“Mm, I bet she did,” you smirk—you can relate to the feeling.

“I-I remember the lines around her eyes. H-Her eyes— they were green, bright green— jade.”

He lets out a wince as you swipe a disinfectant soaked rag over him. You cringe and flash him an apologetic look.

“Sounds beautiful,” you muse, a quiet smile pulling at you as your deft fingers work. “Did you get her pretty eyes too, Mando?”

Something is caught in his throat— a chuckle, or a cough more likely. “No, they’re brown. Just brown.”

Your whole body locks.

Just brown.

Two words - just brown - and suddenly you’re rich— full to the brim with him.

And fuck, if it doesn't feels like a gift. Like he gathered something precious and laid it in your arms and said here, you can have this now. We can share. Sometimes you forget that there’s a man under all those layers; a man— a warm blooded, tanned skin, brown eyed man. You hadn’t often wondered what the Mandalorian was hiding under his armor—he was so finite, so unmovable, the mask he wore became him. He was beskar - indistinguishably - through and through.

But that was before. And now you’re blinded with him— with all the details you cannot unsee.

“S-She was the last person to take care of me—like this.”

It comes over you so suddenly, you’re taken aback by it: that knee-jerking gut wrench. And not because there’s heartbreak in his voice, but because there isn’t. Because he’s had to be so invulnerable—so unyielding and invincible for so long—that he doesn’t even realize what he’s without.

And you, if only for a silly, naïve moment, wish you could give it back to him. Every little ounce of goodness that he’s been deprived of—to dip into his time stream, and rewrite.

To plant but a seed of it there, even if you don’t stay long enough to see it’s harvest.

“Tell me more about her,” you say.

And beyond expectation, beyond reason, he does.

///|||///

This—this is wrong.

He feels pulpy - soggy - wrong. He’s more liquid than he should be—there’s nothing solid about him now. He’s swept away in the tide of it—this green current charging through him and he let’s go - what is there to hold onto anyways? - floating belly up on his back.

Din spills—like the aperture split into his side, he gushes. Whatever dam he’s forged around himself, the beskar and duracrete there, cracks.

The stream trickles until he floods and like any good story, he starts from the beginning.

He tells you of home—his first home. Aq Vetina.

You’re plucking spikes and nettle from his side, and he barely feels it—all he has is this sinking, unending wet—and they hit the tray with dull plunks, punctuated and staccatoed.

He tells you of the adobe dwellings and the domes and columns. Marketplace canopies and caravan bazaars.

plunk

The oak trees, the willow bark, the spires he’d climb until the sun set.

plunk

The tall mountains and the dry, rubbled earth. Of the nameless neighbor children he played with, kicking a ball through the dirt. Red robes trailing, fraying.

plunk

His mother. The shawl she wore. The copper of his father’s ring. The herbs she grew by the light from their kitchen window. How he held her hand while they sat by the fire.

plunk

His tongue doesn’t belong to him—it wags numb and supple. He’s lost his sense of direction, unbound by north or south, and these words are simply happening to him. They keep happening and happening and escaping and—

It’s not just the off-bacta speaking for him, making him pliant. He wants this. He wants to bend—he wants to bend for you.

And now there’s no stopping it—there’s no breaking this, no halting it's downhill momentum. Din describes the attack, the heat of the fire as his town - his world - burned down, of his parents concealing him—a child, abandoned and bunkered away in a cellar to live or die with or without them— being rescued by the Death Watch and raised as a Mandalorian himself.

Your bandaging has long since finished, but you remain, hovering over him as you listen—listen as the jigsawed shards of his life stitch themselves together. Like a moth to a flame, you are drawn in and in and in, until you’re butted against the wick of it. Inseparable.

When the well of his words runs dry, neither of you go to move. Pin-drop silence envelops you. Your hands still on his chest, palms like a weighted quilt—warming him, securing him. He feels-

He feels safe.

“Mando,” you murmur, and the epithet has never sounded so fucking sacred, whispered from you like a prayer. You cripple him; the web of concern along your brow, the sheen in your eyes, the breathy part of your lips.

His throat has gone dry and he shakes his head left right, beskar grating against the makeshift gurney. Mando. No. No, that’s not right—that’s not who he is, that’s not who he wants you to know.

He draws his hand up—it’s so fucking heavy, he can barely lift it—but he tries, he tries, he wants to. You’re right here, you’re touching his chest and you’re healing his body—his mind too, if he’d only let you—and if he could just get to you. If he could just lace his fingers with yours—would you let him? Should you?

“M-My name-"

A warbled wail from the kid’s alcove rips through the cradling hush, and you both react immediately, lurching up to tend to the child. Din forgets—he hears his foundling and his reason leaves him—and he flinches with a grimace. You urge him down, steadying him with a pointed look.

“Rest.”

It’s a command, there’s no question to it, and it’s teeming with all of these unrecognizable concepts— care and assurance, worry and compassion. So impossible to disobey in the way that gentle things are—too soft and too right to say no to. He relents - gives - helmet thudding when it connects back with the table.

Din, he pleads, desperate for you to read his mind. Like a mantra, his subconscious rambles it on a drug addled figure-eight, coming around only to repeat itself again, infinite and wanting. Din Din Din-

Only when the child’s cries muffle into hiccups and his hiccups slur into coos does he let his exhaustion get the better of him. There was too much—it was an assault from all fronts. The blood loss, the drugs, his life like a monsoon as it crushed him open. And all it took was a wound, a brush with his mortality, for him to surrender it to you.

He turns his head, searching for you through the blur of his vision. You’re there in the doorway, rocking his boy in your arms, haloed with light.

I need you, he said. I need you I need you I need you I need-

Din’s eyes shut.

He doesn’t dream. He sleeps like the dead, blissful and undisturbed.

///

You spend hours scrubbing the deck on all fours, spine hunched and aching, cleaning scarlet off silver steel. It got everywhere, the splatter of it—even on the surfaces Mando didn’t come in contact with. The smell of blood, that nickel musk, it lingers long after its welcome—long after the stain of it, the stain of him, has vanished from the Crest. From your skin.

At some point during the night you nod off next to him, curled over a crate, and when you wake Mando is gone—presumably back to his quarters but gone all the same. All traces of him gone - expunged - and the ship feels hollow and gaping— a sterile Mando shaped hole in his absence. You follow his lead, retreating to your bed for a few more hours of sleep.

The next morning doesn’t go as you’d like.

You weren’t sure if he would remember any of it—of what he confided, of what he almost confessed— but by the way the tension ferments between you, you can only assume he does.

They go through their routines, stilted as they are.

He’s up early— unnecessarily early. Mando goes to the cockpit to rouse the ship, plugging in the coordinates from his tracking fob to chase after the escaped bounty. Thrusters set. Repulorlifts and auxiliary engines engaged. Deflector shield generator on. Weapons check. Atmospheric pressure regulator switched.

He’s slower, you note— his movements are crawled—with only half the feline agility he typically possesses and you want to tell him to sit, to take a break—to get off his damn feet and to let you help him—that it’s okay if he rests. That he can take time for himself. That it doesn’t make him any less of a Mandalorian—any less of a man.

But, you can’t.

And so the day is pulled taut like this—a bowed string ready to snap, chalked full of false starts and tinny stoicism. A sharp, intentional air of avoidance with every action. They were out of step, out of sync, and it reminds you of the first days you’d spent on the Razor Crest, orbiting each other—planets apart.

Because he’s shared too much. You knocked, Din answered. He opened the door and he let you past and now he has nowhere left to go but inwards. He’s cornered with no exit strategy - no option - but to close back up again and furl in on himself like a fern in the dark. Curling - evaporating - until he’s nothing but armor—nothing but mirrored edges and metal plates.

But—

you still made his breakfast and he still washed your dishes—and maybe that is enough.

///

You pass each other in the corridor, as you have done before.

You smile gently—soft as sin— and it breaks him, like it always does.

You have a hand on the rung of the ladder when he calls your name, and you turn to him, bright eyed.

“Thank you,” he rasps, “I never thanked you.”

He’s so strikingly sincere— standing there, arms dangling stiff by his sides. He looks different now, somehow— different, but the same. Fuller, bigger—smaller, too.

Human, you realize.

Your heart flutters in your chest. “Of course, Mando-“

“Din.”

You forget to breath. Time forgets to move.

“My name is Din.”

///

Din. Din Djarin.

It takes you almost a week to say it—to even utter the syllable aloud—and you only ever risk it when he’s gone on a hunt and you know you’re alone.

“You like it when I touch you like this?” you hear him say, the fabricated echo of his voice in your skull. He’s got two fingers in you—you can envision them now, clear and potent, the golden hide of them—and he moves slow as he takes you right to the edge, dancing dastardly along that cliff side before retracting himself and backing off. You can’t see his face, but you know he’s smirking; you can feel it in his fingertips, how they mock you—how they scorch into you and leer.

Even in your fantasy, he’s a prick.

“You like it when I make you cum on this filthy fucking cot?”

You keen into your hand, whimpering into your bitten raw lips. The scene is playing on without you now, writing itself. All you can do is lay here and take it, succumb to it, starved and desperate and vile as you thrash on your bedroll.

You rove your palm over your chest—

He snakes up your shirt, twisting your nipple until it’s peaked and perked under him, until you yelp with that muddled jolt of pleasure and pain. He’s lazy and fitfully unhurried, each movement sauntered and proud. He’s coaxing it out of you, this orgasm, as he kneels over you, your vision flooded with the cold menace of his beskar. Finally, tortuously, he traces his thumb over your clit, toying with you in small circles until you’re shaking—vibrating, every molecule of you—like you’re going to burst, incinerate there in your bed. He’s urgent now, demanding, and thrusting into your swollen cunt and the pressure mounting in your heat swells until, until, oh my st-

You fuck your fingers until they prune, drenched with the thought of him teasing you, stuffing you full with anything he’ll give you; his hands, his cock—Maker, his tongue. You let it roll around your mouth when you touch yourself like this in the dark belly of the ship—heels digging into your thin mattress, knees steepled together—and you’re panting, wanton and velvet, before a fist shoots up to muffle the moaned name wafting from your lips like smoke.

“Din”

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #mando x female oc #mando x you #mando x reader #mandalorian smut #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x female oc #din djarin x female oc #din djarin smut #King of Cups #pedro pascal #fanfic #mandalorian fanfic #slow burn #smut

198 notes · View notes

wellfine · 3 years

Text

hey, I love fanfic, big props to everyone who writes it, but uhh... fanfic authors, please know that not everything exists on the Internet to be fodder for your writing

I have had multiple uncomfortable experiences of people either implying or outright stating that they wanted to/planned to take the concepts I explored in my art or my comics and reuse them for fics. not as in they were inspired by me, or that they were going to ask me to collab with them, but just... “I am going to take this idea and turn it into a fic”

That’s. That’s plagiarism? and you shouldn’t do it lmao?

I know the line between being inspired by another person’s content and straight up just reproducing it in written form can be a fine one, and you may ask “but how can you tell if something is inspired by someone else’s work?” and to that I say, well, the AUTHOR knows, lmao. if you KNOW you have been inspired by someone’s fanart, fan designs, or especially fan-comics, then the LEAST you can do is credit that someone, and what you really SHOULD be doing is asking them permission first. And accepting it if they say no, because, again, creators don’t share their content with you just to serve as your next story idea.

Like, if I took your fanfiction and turned it into fanart or a comic without asking you, and oftentimes without even crediting you, just presenting it as something “inspired by some story I read”... that would be stealing. And you could rightfully be pissed off with me (whether you personally think you would be or not), even though the medium/genre has changed. Because it’s still your idea that I took from you without any acknowledgment.

If I wanted something to be a written story then I would write it that way. Comics in particular take a lot of work, and are... I mean, they’re already a written work. Just because I’ve executed an idea in a different medium doesn’t mean it’s free real estate for you to reproduce and present as if it were your own idea, your own baby.

Again, the line here is very blurry, and I’m not saying you’re never allowed to spring-board off of someone else’s fan-content to create something several degrees removed just because they share one common idea. Everyone borrows from someone, and I don’t think anything I’ve ever made has been unique. But what I am talking about here is the sentiment of “this very specific, intricate concept is now Mine” that reproduces my work so closely it’s basically a transcription, not its own work, or even a transformative work.

I’ll also say that I HAVE had people reach out to me to say they’ve written things based on/inspired by my work, and asked if they could share it, and each time I’ve said yes! And I love reading those things!! But a big part of it is that they acknowledged they were taking something from me, and that my content wasn’t just free for them to pick over and use for themselves. It became sharing instead of stealing, which I wish I saw more of, instead of tags/reblogs/replies saying “I’m totally using this for my next fic!” as if the idea just fell out of the sky from some prompt generator and into their lap and wasn’t, you know, a concept someone already put their time and feeling and work into.

Anyway. Love fics. Love to stay up til 3 AM on my phone reading them when I should be sleeping as much as the next guy. And I have nothing but respect for the amount of work, skill, and effort that goes into them. But I wouldn’t steal from you, so please don’t steal from me just because we both choose to communicate our ideas through different mediums. Please!!!!!

#if you are one of the ppl who has reached out to me please know this is not about you at all!!#this is about the tags/replies that are basically just like yoink! :3 and I'm like... haha.... but don't actually please?#the only reason I started making and sharing fan content was in order to express my ideas #the idea behind my art is the most precious aspect to me. if you take that and use it as your own it cuts deep #it really really helps if you ask first #personally I credit anyone who inspires my art even if the end product has no signs of it lmao #I just feel like it's the right thing to do... and if you love someone's art enough to be inspired by it then why not?

189 notes · View notes

twokinkybeans · 3 years

Text

MAKE IT LAST - STARKER MOB BOSS/COFFEE SHOP AU

HERE IT FINALLY IS! So, a few months back we did a prompt line fic thing. This means this one shot is wayyyy late, but it also got wayyyyyyyyyyyy out of hand and is now nearly 11k words long omg.

The prompt line @jeranasblog gave me was: "He had spilled his coffee on the suit of the most dangerous man in New York City." I hope you enjoy! <3 -Lien

Warnings: Adult!Peter Parker, Mob boss!Tony, Barista!Peter, No powers!AU, Peter is a little dense but we still love him, angst, fluff and smut, near the end there are some gruesome threats, abduction, guns, May is mentioned, Obadiah Stane is the bad guy, Bucky and Steve are there, Coffee Shop boss is an OC and has a gambling addiction. Smut tags: NFF, teasing, sexting, masturbation, orgasm delay/denial, hand job with much lube lol, hand & finger kink, praise kink, daddy kink, possessive kink, dry humping, finger sucking, anal fingering

Read “Make It Last” on AO3! Taglist: @the-secret-avenger @ironspiidey

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Two minutes, Peter- hurry up!” Mister McDougall’s high pitched command reverbs through the coffee shop. In two minutes, it’ll be two PM on the Tuesday afternoon. Peter’s been working here for three years now. Just yet, he tried to quit, but that wasn’t taken kindly. He can still feel the eerie presence of the tip of a knife on his cheekbone. How Peter got himself stuck in this job is a long story. A very long one. You see, the owner of the coffee shop, Mister McDougall, made a deal with New York’s biggest mafia boss to be able to keep the shop and… He wasn’t able to pay back on time. Lucky for Mister McDougall, Peter was working when the Big Boss came to collect. At two PM. On a Tuesday afternoon. A few months ago...

The bell of the front door rang and Peter walked in from the back, smiling kindly. He greeted the rich looking man. “Good afternoon, Sir,” he said in his regular chipper voice. The man cocked an eyebrow over his sunglasses and pursed his lips. His neatly trimmed beard moved along with his expression and he sniffed once. “One black coffee to go,” the man demanded. Peter’s mood didn’t falter. He was used to stern customers, New York generally wasn’t a kind city. Peter smiled and nodded, immediately getting to work. It wasn’t a difficult one to make, after all. He’d ring this guy up in less than a minute. “You know what,” the man suddenly said. “Make that a caramel Frappuccino. Extra whipped cream. Drink here. Make it last.” Make it last? Peter wondered what the man meant with that. It was only then that Peter realized that the man was studying his every movement a little more closely than a regular customer would. It didn’t necessarily make Peter uncomfortable, though. The man was at least twice his age, but it was undeniable that he was the hottest man Peter had ever laid eyes on. Even though his eyes were covered by an expensive pair of sunglasses. Peter quickly moved to pour the milk, but the man’s deep voice filled the empty space again. “Make. It. Last.” Peter blinks, dumbfounded. “You… You want me to work slower?” The man then raised his hand to pull down his glasses slightly, so he could look Peter in the eye properly. Infinite whisky browns stared straight into Peter’s soul. “Yes.” “A-alright,” Peter stuttered and went back to work, tearing his gaze away from the man. If Mister McDougall were here, he’d kill him for working at this pace. But ah well, the customer is always right. The customer is king. And the man he was making the coffee for sure looked like he was in charge. Maybe he would leave a nice tip. “Where’s your boss?” There was a hint of annoyance hidden in the man’s voice. “Mister McDougall?” Peter replied as he turned to grab the caramel. “He’s at a convention on the other side of the country. Was pretty vague about it, to be honest. Something to do with beans.” “Beans,” the man scoffed. “Sure.” He rolled his shoulders and walked to the other side of the counter where Peter would ring him up. His eyes never left the young man. “And he left you in charge of the store on the day he knew I’d show up?” Peter glanced up from his work questioningly, but then shrugged. “Apparently.” “Do you know about our deal?” “Oh!” Peter exclaimed softly as he placed the large cup on the counter. “He mentioned he was working on a business proposal with someone, but I didn’t pry, cause this isn’t my store. I’m sorry, Sir, did he have an appointment with you?” The man gritted his teeth and pushed out his reply. “Yes.” “I could call him now? If you want?” A slight smirk crept up on the man’s face. “Please do.” Peter didn’t hesitate to grab his phone from his back pocket. There usually weren’t any other customers at this hour of the day anyways. He looked up the number of his boss and hit call. “Hey Pete-“ “Hi, Mister McDougall, there’s someone here to see you, but you must’ve forgotten your appointment.” The other end of the line stayed quiet and Peter pulled a face at the customer. “Sir?” More silence. “Do you want me to reschedule it for you?” “Peter,” the customer interrupted them. It didn’t matter how long Peter wore that name tag, he never got used to strangers saying it out of the blue. “Hand me the phone and go to the back. Mister McDougall and I can discuss our arrangement here and now, but I do require some privacy.” Peter blinked once. Twice. And then he slowly moved to give his phone to the man in the suit. “Don’t let your coffee go cold,” Peter said with a curt nod before rushing off to the back. He shuffled to the dishwasher and turned it on to give them some more privacy, the loud rumble of the water inside the machine drowning out any other sound in the back. Not even five minutes later, the man walked into the back with Peter’s phone in hand, a dark smirk plastered on his face. “Your phone,” he said politely, placing the piece of technology in Peter’s palm. Peter smiled warmly. “Thank you, Sir.” He walked passed the man back to the front. The man followed. “No, Peter, thank you,” he chuckled. He grabbed his coffee from the counter and sat down at one of the tables. “Did the arrangement work out okay?” Peter asked innocently. If this man was working together with his boss, it was probably smart to stay kind. Though, that wasn’t all that hard, somehow. There was something about him that lured Peter in- made him feel warm and at home. The man grinned even wider while placing his sunglasses on the table. “Perfect.” His smile turned sour after he took a large sip from his coffee. “Is- is something wrong?” “Eh, no. I’m not one for overly sweet coffees.” Peter swallowed a sassy reply. If he didn’t like Frappuccinos, why would he order one? “Would you like me to make you another one?” “Still got that black coffee there?” “Yes, Sir.” “Very good.” The man left, just as hoped, a big tip and walked out the door with a promise. “See you next week.” Somehow, that made Peter’s stomach tingle. He did want to see the man again. There was something mysterious about him. Alluring. Their conversations were interesting and surprisingly eloquent. The man was very smart and Peter found himself loosening up more as the chat went on. The man let him. It was nice. That night, when Peter wanted to message a friend, he wondered when he added “TS” in his contact list. He didn’t recognize the number, but he couldn’t be bothered to look it up either. From then on, every Tuesday at two PM on the dot, the man walked in. Mister McDougall was always nervous about his arrival and usually fled to the back, leaving Peter to take care of the customer. But more often than not, he’d leave Peter in charge of the store entirely, leaving for appointments or errands whenever the man was bound to come in. Peter learned the man’s name is Tony and their conversations were always pleasant. Interesting. They talked about Peter’s life, mostly. Tony always managed to make everything about the college student, earning his cash as a barista. Peter didn’t mind, but he couldn’t help that he was curious. Tony offhandedly said he worked in real estate, when Peter asked. That and ‘some other things.’ He learned Tony was a tinkerer and a scientist in his free time. That he enjoys fixing up old cars, modern art and what he called ‘a good fuck.’ The comment had Peter blush a bright red. A blush Tony would always compliment whenever it crept up to his ears. Something about Tony drew Peter in. Maybe it was their casual conversation. Maybe it was his compliments. Maybe even his smile? Though, Peter’s smile always faltered as soon as other customers came in, since Tony would usually leave the store when they did. One day, the customers appeared to be his employees. And they all stayed. Two men, both tall and wide. One was blond, clean shaven and the other had slightly longer brown hair and a trimmed beard. “So, this is your Tuesday retreat, boss?” the blond quipped before ordering an americano. “Shouldn’t you be working?” Tony sassily replied, leaning back in his chair. “Coffee break,” the brown haired man said simply. Tony scoffed and waved it off. The three men were awfully picky about what they said and how they said it, Peter could tell, but that might just be private business stuff, so he didn’t pry. After they finished their drinks and walked out the door, Peter blushed again when the brown-haired man spoke. “That sure was a good coffee. I’d come here every Tuesday too, if I knew I’d be served by such a good lookin’ young man.” The compliment was paired with a wink. The door closed and Peter laughed softly to himself when Tony gave the brown-haired man a gentle slap at the back of his head to scold him. … One Tuesday, Peter called in sick. He lived to regret that. Mister McDougall was furious, but Peter couldn’t help that he was down with the flu and he didn’t want to make other customers sick. Especially not the man he’d grown to like so much. He got a text, later. TS: Are you okay? Peter: Who is this? TS: Tony. TS: Black coffee Tony. Peter: Oh! Peter: Sorry, I wasn’t at the shop today. Caught the flu, I think. Hope not worse. Glued to bed rn. TS: Got it bad? Peter: Can barely stand, tbh. Coughing a lot and it sounds weird. Don’t wanna make anyone sick. TS: That’s sweet. Peter: Just lookin out for the little guy. TS: I’m not little. Peter: Didn’t meant it like that, omgg, im sorry! TS: I’m messing with you. Peter: Ohh 🙈 It was quiet for a little bit, and Peter nearly fell asleep again if it weren’t for his screen lighting up. TS: Can I get you anything? Peter: I’ll be okay, I promise. I’ll be fine. I mean it. TS: Peter. Tony wasn’t even in the same room as Peter, yet he knew exactly how Tony would’ve said his name if he were. Peter: I’m a college student. Meds are out of the picture. Don’t have much cash. TS: I do. And after not even half an hour, there was a doctor on Peter’s doorstep to check on him. Pneumonia in its early stages. A few days of antibiotics and he should be good as new. He wasn’t sure how Tony knew his address, but figured he got it from Mister McDougall. True to the doctor’s words, Peter was up and running again in a few days and on Tuesday, two PM on the dot, Tony walked into the shop with a wide grin and spread arms. “Good afternoon to my favorite barista,” he quipped. Peter grinned and cocked his head. “Good afternoon to my favorite customer.” “Oh,” Tony gasped, placing his palm on his chest. “You flatter me.” “Do I? With the tips you leave, everyone must like to see you.” “Most rather see me go, trust me.” Tony loudly cleared his throat and evaded Peter’s gaze to collect himself, before he casually leaned over the counter. “Black.” His coffee order is followed by his usual command. “Make it last.” “All I do is press a button, Sir, it’s pretty hard to make a black coffee last.” Peter laughed quietly as he started rubbing a cloth over the counter to clean it while the coffee set. “Then make yourself what you like.” Peter stared at Tony for a second before turning to grab another, taller cup. “Would you laugh if I said it’s a caramel Frappuccino.” He licked his lips. “With extra whipped cream?” “No,” Tony replied immediately. His voice was lower. Darker. Hotter. “It fits you.” “Does it?” Peter chuckled as he handed Tony the black coffee. “Overly sweet,” Tony said with a nod, toasting and raising the cup to his lips. He glanced at Peter and then repeated himself. “It fits you.” Peter slowly moved around the bar, preparing his own Frappuccino. “Thought you didn’t like caramel Frappuccinos?” “I like you.” Peter didn’t halt his movements as he worked himself around the coffee machines, though, his body went at a whole different speed than his brain. Did Tony actually just say that? “I think I like you too.” The reply had left Peter’s lips before he could even process the thought. “You think?” This time, Peter stopped. “I’ve never done anything like this before.” It was barely a whisper. His hand was stuck on the lever and he bit his lip. “Wha- dating?” Peter opted to ignore the implication of what Tony just said and instead, replied honestly. “Flirting.” “Oh, pretty boy, you’ve got a lot to learn. And experience.” Goosebumps spread over Peter’s body at Tony’s words and he closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was because he felt embarrassed or… Something else. This was the first time Tony called him anything like this and it felt like they both stepped over some sort of threshold they had both been ghosting by for a while now. Tony brought him back to the present with his trademarked sniff. “I have no need to rush things. If you’re interested, we’ll take it slow.” Peter finally turned his head to look at Tony with big eyes. Tony just smirked and quipped with a wink. “We’ll make it last.” … Peter: You up? It was two AM. Two Tuesdays later. Tony had become a lot more flirty and a lot more forthcoming with his sweet words and suggestive praise after they addressed their interest in each other. Most of it was via text, but whenever he was at the store, Peter could see Tony’s dilated pupils, could feel the man’s hot breath as Peter explained how one of the machines worked with Tony right behind him. He admired Tony for holding back too. He knew Peter wanted to take things slow, heck, he even suggested it. And he never snapped. Never broke. Never did anything out of line. Sure, his words were suggestive, but he never acted upon any primal needs. He was a gentleman. And it made Peter respect him even more. It also made him want Tony even more. Peter bathed himself in the compliments Tony peppered him with and Peter realized the man knew everything he said and did made Peter… Needy. Peter was fairly sure Tony was already asleep, but after all the sweet and… slightly filthy things the man had been saying to him that day, he couldn’t help himself, he had to jerk off. And he needed Tony to help him with that. TS: Been working. You’re up late. Don’t you have uni tomorrow? Peter sighed gratefully as he typed one handed, the other already creeping down to cup his half-hard shaft through his sweatpants. Peter: I do. TS: Hm. TS: Then why would you message me so late, huh? Peter wanted to scoff. Of course, Tony knew. The man just wanted Peter to say it. And… Peter kind of liked it. No matter how embarrassing. He typed and erased. And typed and erased. Typed and erased. He really wanted to send Tony what he wanted, but he felt like too much of a chicken to actually say it. He needed Tony’s sweet words. His… His filth. Peter: I’m,, eh… TS: Hm? Peter: Talk to me like you do in the shop? Please? TS: How I talk to you in the shop is a lot tamer than what I think you need right now. Peter hid his face in his pillow for a second, before taking a deep breath and finding the courage to reply. Peter: What do I need then? TS: You need me. Without a filter. But before I tell you anything… Where are you right now? What are you wearing? Talk to me, first. Peter: Alone. Bedroom. Bed. Sweat pants. T-shirt. TS: Turn off autocorrect, baby, how am I supposed to know you’re losing yourself if I see full words? Peter: happyy now? TS: Yes. One-handed, huh? Already touching yourself? Peter: mhm, thruogh fabric. TS: Alright, first things first, pretty thing, take off all your clothes. TS: Make it last. Peter complied immediately and he both loved and hated the slow movements he used to slide off his shirt. When his sweatpants were down on his knees, his screen lit up. TS: Are you making it last? Peter: yes TS: Good boy. Peter didn’t expect to moan so loud, but he did. The praise blasted through him and went straight to the cock that now rested against his abdomen. Stiff. Twitching. Leaking. Peter: say thatagain TS: Earn it. Peter: how TS: By being good for me, my sweet. Are you naked? Peter: almost TS: Let me know when you’re done. Peter was almost afraid that when he finally finished undressing after another minute, it was still too fast for Tony. He decided to make the jump, though. Peter: done TS: Lovely. Hard, baby boy? Peter let out a soft growl and was already struggling to type. Peter: ys, for you TS: Touch yourself for me. Go on, hump the hand you make my coffee with, Peter. It felt perfect – absolutely perfect – to wrap his fingers around his cock, now that he was doing it on demand. He couldn’t even hold back if he tried. His thrusts were relentless, straight away. Peter: Yyes yes TS: Oh, I wish I could see how pretty you look right now. How you roll your hips and fuck your fist. TS: Want to see the sweat drip from your temples, want to hear your soft gasps and moans. TS: Want to hear my name fall from your lips. Say my name, Peter. Say it. “Tony- O-oh-“ Peter gasped and he barely managed to keep his eyes open to watch the next few messages come in. TS: Don’t come. Not yet. TS: Slow down. Peter: nn tony please TS: Make. TS: It. TS: Last. Peter felt the tears stream down his cheeks. He felt so good. But he couldn’t come. Not with Tony right here with him telling him not to. Peter: yes sir TS: Good boy. Peter: feelsso good when u callme that TS: Mm. It does, doesn’t it? You know what makes me feel good? Peter: ?/ TS: When you call me Sir. A dreamy smile spread across Peter’s face as he lazily stroked his cock. His hips kept rolling, arching his back and lifting off the mattress with each thrust. His intellect had melted away. All he wanted was to feel good for Tony. TS: You know what else would make me feel really good? Peter: nno? Sir TS: If my good boy called me Daddy. Peter had to stop his hand or he would’ve cum right then and there. And he couldn’t. He shouldn’t. He simply had to make it last. Instead, he moaned obscenely. Peter: ggod, nearlu came TS: Did you now? Peter: yes daddy Peter: held back TS: Oh, you’re so sweet for me. Wish I could taste that awful Frappuccino on your lips. Suckle on your tongue as I squeeze your cock, run my thumb over the head. TS: You have no idea how much I want to make you come for me. Peter: wanna cum for u Peter: faster?????????????/ TS: Speed up, baby. Show Daddy how desperate you are for him. Such a good boy for asking permission. The fact that Tony’s messages were still put together as opposed to Peter’s near button-mashes had another rush of arousal flow through Peter. Everything about what was happening was so hot. He’d never done anything like this before. He never even had sex in his life. And now the hottest man in New York was sexting him. God, he wished he could see Tony right now. Was he naked too? Was he stroking himself? Maybe he was fingering himself. Or fucking himself on a dildo so he still had two hands to type his coherent sentences with. Shit, that’d be so hot. Though, the image of Tony at his desk, working while casually messaging Peter all these things as if it’s just a regular chat about their day was even hotter. Tony, in his tailored suit, barely bothered by Peter’s desperation. Fuck. Peter: Yes yys ddaddy thanku TS: Mhm. It didn’t take long for Peter to get near the edge again. He was barely able to contain himself, phone shaking in his hand with every jerk of his other fist. Peter: close TS: Are you now? Peter: ya TS: Do you want to come? Peter: eys yes so badsoo bad TS: What do good boys say when they want to come? Peter squeezed his eyes shut, gasping and writhing on his sheets. His toes curled as he whined and begged while typing. “P-please-“ he muttered. “Please, please, please-“ Peter: pleease TS: Please, what? That’s it, Peter couldn’t type anymore. Didn’t want to type anymore. Instead, he hit the voice record button. “D-daddy, wanna cum, I wanna cum so bad, please, may I?” His lines were paired with moans and sobs. Desperation dripped from every word. Every thrust of his hips, every squeeze of his fingers, had him see stars. He had to come, he simply had to. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Lucky for Peter, it didn’t take long for Tony to reply with a voice message of his own. His deep, dark voice, coated with lust, like fresh honey, echoed through Peter’s simple bedroom. “Come, Peter. Come for Daddy.” … As time went on, Peter realized that Mister McDougall didn’t like to have Peter around anymore. Every chore he had to do, every command he had to follow, everything McDougall asked of him; he was never good enough. Peter felt like a nuisance. And he wanted out. He felt a weight fall off his shoulders when an on campus lab learned of Peter’s skills and offered him a job. So now, a few weeks after Peter and Tony started sexting, Peter told Mister McDougall he wanted to quit. “You can’t,” was the short reply. It had Peter nearly explode with frustration. “I can, though? I got a job offer in one of the labs on campus, I’m not letting this fly by!” Mister McDougall grabbed Peter’s shoulders and dragged him to the back by his shirt. He nearly flung the young man against the large dishwasher. “You’ll ruin me! You’ll get me killed!” “Don’t be so dramatic!” Peter yelled back. He was done working for Mister McDougall. So done. Peter swallowed his next words when a knife was suddenly pointed at his nose. He stared at it wide-eyed as he got ushered into a corner. “Tony owns this building, Peter, and the only reason I’m allowed to stay here is because you work here.” “Wha-“ “SHUT UP! You shut your mouth! I’d have fired you ages ago if it weren’t for him!” Tears pricked in the corners of Peter’s eyes. “If you leave, I’m going to pay your aunt a visit. And none of us will like what I’ll do to her.” What was happening? What was going on? Why did his boss threaten him like this? “S-sir?” “You’re not quitting, you hear me? You’re gonna get your ass back on the floor and you’re gonna do your job. As long as Tony doesn’t hate you, I can keep this business. You don’t want me to lose this business do you?” He waved the knife, pushing it towards Peter’s left eye and resting the tip right below it. The young man leaned back as far as the wall allowed him to. “Do you?!” Peter didn’t even dare to blink. “No, sir,” he lied. “Why are you so scared of him?” Mister McDougall laughed maniacally. “Why aren’t you?!” He yelled. “That’s Tony Stark! He owns sixty percent of New York!” The world stopped spinning. Tony - Peter’s Tony - is Tony Stark. The biggest, baddest Mafia Boss of New York. Known to be vile, relentless and cruel to anyone who dares to cross his path. And Peter… Peter had fallen in love with him. No. No, he didn’t. He fell in love with Tony. Not with Stark. But if they were one and the same, maybe the stories were wrong? Maybe- “You didn’t know?” Mister McDougall stepped back and let his arm down. Peter finally allowed himself to breathe, even if it was the worst intake of air he’d ever done. He held back his tears with everything he had. “No.” “Jesus Christ.” Mister McDougall threw his hands up, flailing the knife around. “You’re an idiot!” “But-“ A quiet beep came from McDougall’s wrist. He looked at his watch and turned. “Two minutes, Peter- hurry up!” Mister McDougall’s high pitched command reverbs through the coffee shop. In two minutes, it’ll be two PM on the Tuesday afternoon. Peter’s been working here for three years now. Just yet, he tried to quit, but that wasn’t taken kindly. He can still feel the eerie presence of the tip of a knife on his cheekbone. How Peter got himself stuck in this job is a long story. A very long one. “Get to work.” Peter swallowed and blinked away his tears as he walked into the front of the store. He took a deep breath and fumbled with some of the cups on the counter. Mister McDougall stayed in the back, as usual. Peter looked up, startled, when the bell rang. Tony walked in, blissfully unaware and leaned on the counter like he always did. Peter was bad at hiding his fear, he knew that, and it didn’t even take a second before Tony caught on. “Did you cry?” His question was blunt. Straight to the point. “I’m alright, I hit my head.” Peter had to pause to clear his throat in the middle of his sentence. His words were small. Unsure. Tony didn’t buy it. “Who hurt you?” A shiver ran up Peter’s spine. He couldn’t tell Tony about what Mister McDougall did to him. As much as he disliked the man, he didn’t want the deadliest man in the area to… To hurt him. Peter didn’t dare think of the k word. But more importantly, he didn’t want anything to happen to May. “Me,” Peter tried to sound cheerful, but his voice shook. “I hit my head. I hurt me.” Peter finished up the black coffee and turned to give it to Tony, so he could start making his own Frappuccino. Tony wanted to take his hand, but Peter swiftly turned around. He played the machine to make his own drink, but he couldn’t focus. He couldn’t make it last. He had to get it done. As fast as possible. He had to get this over with. Tony spoke, but Peter didn’t hear it. He could already feel the tears threatening to glide down his cheeks. He couldn’t pretend. He couldn’t- Tony grabbed Peter’s wrist from over the counter and the Frappuccino cup slipped from the barista’s fingers. Peter stared wide-eyed at how the scorching hot liquid gushed onto Tony’s suit. The stain was evident, but Tony seemed unfazed by the heat. Peter’s lip trembled and he was certain there was no oxygen left in the store. He had spilled his coffee on the suit of the most dangerous man in New York City. Peter barely dared to look up, but when he saw Tony’s expression, his shoulders fell. The way the man looked at him was… Vulnerable. “You’re afraid.” Tony’s voice was fragile. “Of me?” Peter squeezed his eyes shut, letting the tears flow freely now. He screwed up. He screwed everything up. “I don’t know,” Peter replied honestly, through quiet sobs. Tony swiftly jumped over the counter so he could embrace Peter. “Talk to me, Bambino.” “I- I didn’t know-“ “Didn’t know what?” “S-Stark-“ “Yes, Frappuccino, that’s me.” “Did you just call me-“ “Yes, did it make you feel better?” Peter scoffed, but managed to smile. “A little.” Tony then pushed Peter away from him to force the young man to look him in the eye by holding Peter’s chin between his thumb and index finger. “Did you really not know?” Now Peter feels stupid. He should’ve caught on, obviously. Everybody knew Tony Stark. Peter pushed his lips together and gently shook his head. “Oh, bother,” Tony mumbled as he pulled Peter against his chest to hug him tightly. Peter’s insides were in a struggle. Every part of his rational brain told him to get out of there. To push Tony away. The man was bad news. He reeked of danger, yet… He smelled so wonderful. His cologne invaded Peter’s nostrils and there was no way the young man could let go of him. The way his arms were wrapped around Peter’s shoulders, the way he held him, kept him warm and safe... No matter how frightening Tony might be, Peter felt protected. He was exactly where he was supposed to be. Peter’s face was pressed against Tony’s shirt and he could feel the wet coffee stain from Tony’s suit seep onto his own pants. A hand found its way into Peter’s hair and gently started massaging his scalp. The soft lips Peter had only imagined up until now, pressed themselves onto his curls and stayed there, leaving long, slow pecks. Sometimes, Tony hummed. With every passing second, Peter’s muscles relaxed more and more until his body practically went limp against Tony’s. “Now…” The man finally spoke. He gently pushed Peter away from him until he could look Peter in the eyes, hands cupping his face. His thumb gently stroked away the drying tears and he smiled kindly. “Who hurt you?” Peter’s pouting lips were pressed together. He tried to hide the truth, but one quick glance towards the back and Tony knew enough. “Please, don’t kill him,” Peter whispered. Tony scoffed softly. “Is that why you’re suddenly afraid of me?” Tony pushed forward slightly, until something long and hard pressed against Peter’s thigh. And it wasn’t Tony’s cock. “Cause I’m not just happy to see you?” Peter whimpered and closed his eyes, still not wanting to leave Tony’s embrace, even though he was afraid of what might happen next. “Do you know why I own 64.7 percent of New York?” Peter shook his head lightly, focusing his attention on Tony’s warm hands still keeping his face up by his cheeks. “Because I don’t just shoot whoever gets in my way. I give people a chance,” Tony said matter of factly. “Take your boss, for example. This building? It’s mine.” The way Tony enunciated the word, not just verbally but also with a soft squeeze of his hands, had a shiver run down Peter’s spine. “Ex-gambling addict who wanted to get back on track. Promising fellow. Clean for years. He loaned a chunk of my money to start his business. All was good. A thriving coffee store can make quite a bit of money in this area in New York. During my first visit I learned that not everything I offered him went into this shop. Told him I wanted the money back that he didn’t spend on the store. He also couldn’t pay rent. Somehow.” Peter breathlessly listened to everything that came out of Tony’s mouth. “I gave him another shot. Told him to have my money ready in a month. That’s a fair time to make what he owed me. And when I came into the store to collect… I found you. And your boss? Well, he wasn’t exactly at a convention. He was at the other side of the country, though. In Vegas.” Tony sighed and broke eye contact for a few seconds. “This is where it gets embarrassing…” He mumbled. “Embarrassing?” “I was completely enamored by you, Peter.” Tony’s eyes reconnect with Peter’s and they lock gazes. “And I decided that, when you called McDougall, I’d change the deal. He’d get a delay on his debt as long as you would be there to serve me coffee. On Tuesdays. At two PM. Figured you’d stick around for a while, give McDougall enough time to cover his ass.” “So,” Tony cocked his head. “After half a year, he still doesn’t have my money. And I’m guessing you want to quit the job?” Peter nodded, face contorting. “He had a knife and-“ “A knife?” The energy in the room changed abruptly. From loving and caring to dark and aggressive. Peter immediately pulled back, but Tony’s grip on him tightened. “He threatened you?” He seethed. “No- Tony, please,” Peter begged, but he didn’t fight. “Is he in the back?” Tony stared Peter down with an intense gaze. The young barista froze. “Peter.” “Yes.” Peter felt small, yet his body betrayed him when his cock stirred at Tony’s authoritative voice. Tony guided Peter to one of the chairs and gently sat him down. His hands caressed Peter’s curls before he pressed another kiss on top of them. He bent down until he squatted in front of Peter and looked up reassuringly. “I will not physically harm him, I promise. I just want to have a word with him, okay?” “Okay…” Tony smiled and nodded before standing up and making his way towards the back. Before he disappeared, Tony looked behind him one more time and winked at Peter. Probably to relieve the tension. Not long after Tony went to the back, Peter was startled by the doorbell. He looked up and quickly collected himself before greeting the customer, wiping the remainder of his dried tears away. “Good afternoon, Sir, how can I help you?” Peter barely managed to put up his customer smile. The man was a bit scruffy looking, dark haired and he had a slight beard. There was a strange look in his eye. Peter wanted to walk around the counter to his usual spot to take the order, but the man stopped him. “Hold it there.” Peter paused his trek and turned back to the man with a questioning look. The man suddenly bolted for him, but Peter realized too late he was holding something in his hand. Peter tried to yell but before any sound could leave his mouth, it was covered by a damp cloth. His eyes went wide as he stared straight into the other man’s. He had no choice but to inhale the strange and intense, sweet scent of whatever was in that piece of fabric. The man didn’t smile, nor did he look angry. He seemed rather indifferent. The man’s other arm wrapped around Peter’s body, right before he lost the strength in his muscles and dropped against the man’s chest. Peter’s mind suddenly felt over-stuffed with fuzz and it was only a few seconds before his muffled scream died out and his eyes rolled back. Right when Peter lost himself, the man spoke softly, with a mocking tone, before carrying him out of the coffee shop. “Night night.” … Peter’s head felt like it was going to burst. He could barely open his eyes, but the hand that pulled him back at his hair in the uncomfortable chair forced him to wake up. He gasped for air, squinting his eyes into slits in the bright light. “Wakey, wakey.” A dark voice echoed through the room, ringing Peter’s ears. He finally managed to open his eyes when the light was blocked by a shape. A person. “Eh…” A soft whine escaped Peter’s lips, but the sound wasn’t taken kindly. The person- man- yanked at his hair, causing Peter to wince in pain. The man was bald, but had a thick beard. A scowl pulled the strangers bushy eyebrows together and Peter’s entire body tensed when he spotted the gun in the man’s other hand. “So…” The man leaned in and cocked his head. “All this trouble for a twink.” Peter tightened his jaw even further and kept his lips glued together. The man quite forcefully let go of Peter’s hair, allowing Peter to take in his surroundings. They were in a plain room, nothing too interesting. Peter could hear seagulls outside. They were probably close to water? The door was guarded by two imposing looking men, one of them Peter recognized as the guy who took him out. In the darkness of the room, a camera seemed to be recording them, judging by the red light flickering in the corner. “Barista,” Peter mumbled, staring at the gun in the guards’ hands.. “Excuse me?” The man pushed into Peter’s space again, seemingly offended. Peter held his breath, but replied anyways, eyes locking with the bald man’s. “I’m just a barista.” “Just a-“ the man interrupted himself, put his hands on his hips and leaned back, letting out an over the top laugh. When he finally calmed himself again, he bolted forward, pressing the gun against Peter’s neck. The young man instinctively tilted his head up, eyes wide at the unexpected aggression. “You,” the man spit out accusingly. “Tony seems to think more of you.” “He doesn’t,” Peter bluffed, silently swearing at himself for his reckless bravery. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through his nose. “I just make his coffee. Black. Every Tuesday.” “Right,” the man scoffed and revealed Peter’s unlocked phone from his inner pocket. “And does just making his coffee include a happy ending?” “N-no-, it’s-“ “Nighttime sexting? Then?” The man sauntered around Peter, casually scrolling through Tony’s and Peter’s chat. “Was hoping to find some intel, but all I got was your disgusting conversations.” Peter swallowed hard. He angled his head to look down so that he wouldn’t have to meet the man’s judging eyes. “I’m not gonna lie,” the man sighed. “Those voice messages? Your moans? They’d rile up anyone.” Peter gently tugged at his restraints, pressing his eyes shut. To say he was afraid of what the man could and might do to him was an understatement. The thought alone paralyzed him. There was a pressing ache in his chest and a growing need to get out of there. If only he could move. “What do you want from me,” Peter managed to push out. The man chuckled darkly. “I want at least 75% of what Stark has.” The man stopped circling Peter to gently push the tip of his gun through the young man’s hair- toying with it. “And you’re going to make sure he gives it to me.” “As if,” Peter replied simply, immediately swallowing his confidence. It now weighs heavy in his stomach. One short glance at the guards made them leave the room. They shut the door behind them and Peter couldn’t help but hold his breath. “Tell the camera-“ The man gestured at the red flashing dot. “-Tell Tony- what to do. If he doesn’t give me what I want, I will take what he wants most.” Peter looked up at the man confused, but the man’s smirk made the student’s legs burst with adrenaline. He wanted to run away, but he couldn’t. He’s bound. The man’s eyes sparkled and turned to slits. The wide toothy grin plastered on his face had Peter’s heart drop. “You.” “Oh, don’t worry about that ol’ camera.” A familiar voice said from the door opening. Peter and the man turned their heads towards it surprised. There, Tony lazily stood against the door post, the two men that Peter had met one Tuesday accompanying him. The guards that were there before were now laying on the floor. Peter quietly hoped they were nothing more than unconscious. “You can ask me, right here, right now, Stane.” Tony absentmindedly studied the pistol in his hand, turning and twisting it. Loading it. “Tsk. Answer’s gonna be no, though.” He moved to stand up straight, confidence oozing off every inch of him. “I’m here to take back what’s mine.” A shiver ran down Peter’s spine and he gulped when the gun that was still aimed at him pushed under his jaw. He dropped his head backwards in an attempt to get away from it and whined quietly. Peter’s breath quivered and he squeezed his eyes shut again. “If you want your boy to live, you’re gonna do exactly what I want.” “Hmm.” Tony grinned. “If you put a bullet in his head, I’m not even gonna use my gun.” He squared up, tightening every muscle in his body. The look in his eye was dark and resolute. “Will let you pick how you go, though. Could snap your neck- stick a knife through your brain. Wiggle it around a little to make your corpse spasm. Heck, I’ll rearrange your guts first if you want me to. Bet that’ll feel real nice.” Peter could barely believe the words falling from the man’s lips were Tony’s. Apparently, neither could the guy Tony called Stane. “You’re all talk, Stark. Never seen you hurt a damn fly, that’s what you got your goons for,” Stane sneered accusingly. “First time for everything,” Tony replied collected. Stane then pulled loose the ropes around Peter’s body and pulled him up, forcing him to stand with his back flush against the man’s chest. Stane wouldn’t allow him to stand comfortably, keeping him up on his toes as the nuzzle of the gun pressed up under his chin. As free as the lack of ropes made Peter feel, the presence of the gun annihilated any feeling of liberty. “Obadiah, I swear to mother Maria, if you so much as leave a scratch on Peter, you will regret it.” Stane didn’t seem fazed by Tony’s threats. He had the upper hand after all. He had Peter. “We’re leaving now. Don’t think I won’t shoot. I will.” Peter complied the nudge in his back, taking small steps in the direction of the door. Obadiah moved the gun until it rested against Peter’s temple. “Step into the room.” Tony’s jaw tightened, but after a few seconds he cast his eyes downward, entering the space. His bluffing hadn’t worked and the soft shaking of his clenched fist betrayed his frustration. He genuinely seemed afraid to lose Peter. In return, Peter was afraid to lose him. The two men Tony had brought with him, joined him silently. When they were all far away enough from the door, Obadiah shuffled Peter to the opening. They reached the hallway and Stane forced Peter to step over the – hopefully – unconscious guards. All Peter could think was ‘No-no-no-no-‘ at the mere idea of being taken to another location. One Tony might not be able to find him at. One he might actually die at. Peter took a deep breath and decided to do something reckless. He could only die once anyways. The second Obadiah pulled the gun back a little to give Peter more walking space, the barista ducked away from the gun, pivoted on his feet and pushed Stane back into the wall with all the force he had. There was a gunshot. One that had Peter’s eyes go wide. With the lack of pain or blood, Peter realized Stane had missed. Adrenaline pumped through his body at an incredibly rapid pace. Peter fell backwards on his ass and saw Obadiah’s gun that had been dropped in the process. The student scrambled to grab it in a reflex. He pushed himself back against the wall, knees up, eyes unblinking and wide, as he aimed the gun two-handedly at Stane who laid there with his hands up. The feral look in Peter’s eye told the small gang leader enough. No matter how scared, this kid would shoot if he had to. Peter couldn’t blink. He just couldn’t. He barely heard the footsteps next to him. Barely felt a hand rest on his shoulder, as another lifted to be placed on Peter’s shaking hands, holding the gun. All Peter could do was stare at Obadiah, stinging tears nearly obstructing his view. His breathing was quick and erratic and he didn’t realize how much he was vibrating until Tony’s voice pushed through the veil, clouding his mind. “I need you to let go of the gun for me.” Peter only clutched the weapon tighter, his finger twitched on the trigger. His breathing was loud and fast, making his entire body buzz with tension. “Boss, he’s in shock, he won’t-“ “Peter,” Tony said a little softer. “I’m right here, Frappuccino, look at me.” The hand that was on his shoulder before, now cupped Peter’s chin, gently forcing him to turn his head. Peter’s eyes didn’t leave Obadiah, though. He held his breath, hearing his heartbeat thump in his brain. “Peter…” For the first time in what felt like forever, Peter blinked, which caused the tears that had been threatening to spill up until now to glide down his cheeks. He found himself staring at Tony’s face as his body slowly lost tension. The man’s brows were furrowed, but his expression was soft. He carefully took the gun out of Peter’s hands and pulled him in for an embrace. Peter hid his face against the man’s chest and couldn’t help but sob into it, adding another stain to Tony’s expensive suit. “Oh, Peter.” Tony’s voice was muffled against Peter’s hair. “You’re okay, we’re okay.” Just like he did earlier that day in the coffee shop, his fingers tangled in Peter’s hair and started massaging his scalp. “You’re with me now, ‘s all good.” Another time, Peter would’ve been embarrassed for being pulled into Tony’s lap in front of all these strangers, but right now he couldn’t care less. His arms wrapped tightly around Tony’s torso as the man left his dragged out, flat kisses on Peter’s head. “M-sorry,” Peter mumbled between sobs, curling up into Tony’s embrace and tugging in his legs. “Sorry-“ “Ssh, ssh- you have nothing to be sorry for, my sweet.” They stayed like that for a short while, Tony rocking Peter back and forth until his heartbeat settled and his muscles relaxed. Eventually, Tony stood up, carrying Peter bridal style. “Let me take you home.” … Peter woke up among the softest of silk sheets, surrounded by an abundance of throw pillows, wearing nothing but his underwear and an oversized white T-shirt with a V-neck. Everything smelled like Tony. Peter groaned at the stiffness of his muscles and turned around, half surprised by Tony sitting on an armchair next to the large canopy bed. “Morning, sunshine,” he said with a smile. Tony was wearing sweats and a similar T-shirt. The corners of Peter’s mouth curled up too and he instinctively folded into himself, pulling the sheets up to his chin. “Morning.” “How are you feeling?” Tony leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Little stiff,” Peter answered honestly. As if on cue, his stomach growled. “And hungry.” “My cook’s making us breakfast as we speak. Should be here soon.” “I knew you were rich, but a personal chef?” Peter chuckled. “Isn’t that a bit overkill?” “Look, kid,” Tony laughed, sitting up straight again. “I don’t have time to make my own meals. I’m a busy man.” “Busy enough to visit me every Tuesday at two,” Peter teased, the sparkle in his eyes evident. Tony seemed relieved Peter was acting like his usual self. “Hey, hey,” he said, shaking his head. “I scheduled in that time. I always wanted you to have my undivided attention. That was my me-time.” Peter’s smile faltered. “Was,” he parroted quietly. There was no way he could go back to his barista job. To mister McDougall. Not that he particularly wanted to work for that man anymore, but it felt like this pleasant chapter of this life ended with a terrible cliffhanger. Now, Peter was at the start of the next chapter, going through the repercussions of what happened before. “Pete, I-“ “Where are we?” Tony seemed taken aback by the interruption, but collected himself swiftly. “Home,” Tony replied matter of fact. “My home, to be precise.” He cleared his throat and looked away uncharacteristically shyly. “Could be yours too if you want.” Peter didn’t reply straight away, which caused Tony to stand up and raise his hands in a defensive manner. “But we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.” There was a knock on the door and Tony cocked an eyebrow at it. “Breakfast,” a muffled voice spoke. “Come in.” A man with a giant tray opened the door. He walked in quickly and placed it on the table next to Tony. “Take the rest of the day off. Paid leave. Tell the others the same, save for the guards outside. I want this house empty within an hour.” The cook nodded and thanked Tony for his generosity. Not long after, Peter and Tony were alone again. Peter stared at the over-filled tray and licked his lips. “Anything that tickles your fancy?” Tony’s words are accompanied with a smirk. “A coffee sounds good right about now.” Tony immediately perked up and turned to grab the carefully made Frappuccino, but before he could curl his fingers around the cup, Peter continued: “Actually-“ Tony looks at Peter surprised. Peter grins and nods at the other cup on the tray. “After everything that happened, I could go for something stronger.” “Peter Parker, are you taking my black coffee from me?” Tony chuckled. Peter pulled himself up so he sat up straight among the throw pillows. He then reached forward with both arms, making grabby hands at Tony. “Mayyybe,” he teased. Tony laughed as he complied, handing Peter the black coffee. Peter gratefully took a sip and pulled a face at the bitterness burning his throat. “Sure you don’t want the sugar, sugar?” Peter snorted and nearly spilled the coffee on the bed. He looked into the deep black of the cup in his hands and then up at Tony. “Fine,” Peter said with a grin, offering Tony the black coffee. Peter waited for the older man to give him the Frappuccino, but instead, Tony stood up. “Here,” he said, lifting the tray and placing it on the bedside table. “Mind if I join you?” Peter didn’t answer, he just lifted the sheets. Gratefully, Tony slid in, placing himself flush against Peter and handing him the Frappuccino. For a short while, they just sipped their coffees, not exchanging any words. Peter occasionally glanced at the food on the bedside table, unable to choose where he’d even start. He let go of his thoughts for a little bit, letting his mind wander to yesterday. To Obadiah Stane, to the rope burn on his wrists, the feel of the gun against his head, in his hand, the trigger under his finger. Tony. Tony was there to save him. “I’m here to take back what’s mine.” Peter was his. And while his rational brain was scared of this mob boss side of Tony that he only just learned about, there was something exhilarating about it too. Tony was still Tony- still the same man Peter made all these black coffees for, the man he had late night conversations with via text. Peter thought back to before he lost himself to sleep, how he was being cradled by Tony, sitting in his lap. The memory made him feel warm, somehow. Peter swallowed and took a breath. “I felt safe,” Peter whispered. “Hm?” Tony turned his head slightly and put down his now empty cup on the nightstand. “Yesterday.” Peter’s brows furrowed as he kept staring ahead. “In your lap.” He paused, trying to put his thoughts in a row and say something a bit more sophisticated. However, he couldn’t think of the right words, so he just repeated himself. “I felt safe.” It was quiet for a second. “Do…” Tony sniffed once and tugged at the tray on Peter’s side of the bed. “Do you want to sit on my lap now?” Peter’s mouth went dry, even though he just finished his coffee. The tension between them hung thick in the air. He looked at Tony wide-eyed, but quickly averted his gaze again. “Yes,” he mumbled, nothing more than a whisper. “What was that?” “Yes… Please?” “Good boy.” Peter shivered and closed his eyes, but only until he felt Tony gently pulling at his arm. He didn’t struggle as Tony guided him to sit on his thighs, back pressed against the older man’s chest. “Oh, Bambino,” Tony cooed as Peter’s ass pressed against Tony’s already hardening shaft. “Been through so much. Let me help you.” Peter wanted to ask what Tony meant, but the man had already taken the mug from Peter’s hands, placed it on the bedside table and grabbed a blueberry muffin from the breakfast tray. “Hold this,” he ordered, giving the muffin to Peter. Their hands grazed past each other, eliciting a small gasp from the younger man. Tony immediately moved to rip a small piece off of it and brought it up to Peter’s lips. Peter stared entranced at Tony’s rough hand. “Go on, my sweet,” Tony whispered into Peter’s hair. “Eat up.” Peter leaned in and opened his mouth. He carefully maneuvered himself in an attempt not to touch Tony’s fingers, not wanting to be weird or gross, but Tony had other plans. He pushed in his fingers to help the piece into Peter’s mouth and then brushed his fingers over Peter’s lips. Peter didn’t realize his eyes were closed, but there wasn’t much to see anyways- save for the lusciously decorated room. Peter was more occupied with feeling right now. And boy, did Tony’s lips on his neck feel absolutely perfect. He chewed slowly, savoring the sweet taste on his tongue. Tony’s free arm was possessively curled around Peter to caress his neck from the front, grazing past his Adam’s apple and gently squeezing right under his jaw until he swallowed. Tony presented Peter with another bite, but this time he really pushed his fingers in. Peter wrapped his lips around the digits and sucked, moaning softly. “That’s it…” Peter absentmindedly spread his legs on Tony’s lap, arching his back to grind into Tony’s groin. Tony’s other hand found its way down Peter’s body until it cupped Peter’s balls through his underwear. Peter immediately pushed into it and gasped at the gentle rubbing of Tony’s thumb. “Thaaat’s it…” Tony took his fingers out of Peter’s mouth, a small string of saliva dripping down, to take the muffin out of Peter’s hands, put it on the tray and then stick his fingers into the small bowl of jam. His other hand fondles Peter at a steady rhythm and Peter rolls his hips along with it. “Feeling good for Daddy, Peter?” The young man smiles lazily and nods, letting his head fall back against Tony’s shoulder. “Y-yes,” Peter whimpered. “Feels so good.” An overly sweet scent filled Peter’s nostrils. He opened his eyes to see Tony’s jam covered fingers. He stared at them transfixed, mouth already opening, tongue hanging out, ready to take it all. “Atta boy,” Tony whispered, suckling on Peter’s skin. “Don’t hold back. It’s all yours…” Peter didn’t hesitate and grabbed Tony’s hand with both of his own, pulling it toward him to lick the sweet strawberry jam off of Tony’s fingers. The fingers of one hand were curled around just the thumb, while the other gripped onto the man’s palm. “Don’t hold back,” Tony repeated with a squeeze of his hand around Peter’s clothed cock. The young man immediately moaned louder, pressing himself against Tony harder and licking the man’s fingers clean in a near-obscene manner. “Aren’t you a good boy?” Tony growled as he slowly started to push up against Peter’s ass. Peter groaned and clenched around nothing, working his way down Tony’s hand and suckling at the golden ring on his index finger. “Yours,” Peter gasped between licks. “Your good boy-“ Apparently those were the right words, because Tony let out a guttural moan and within seconds, they were flipped over with Peter lying on his back on the bed and Tony possessively hovering over him, caging Peter with his arms. Peter was met with Tony’s dark pools and twitching nose. There was something animalistic about the otherwise so collected man Peter had served coffee to. It had Peter’s cock throb with anticipation. Tony’s wet fingers pushed under Peter’s shirt to tweak and tug at one of his nipples. “Mine,” Tony pushed out, immediately moving in to ravage Peter’s lips himself, tasting the flavors Peter had only just taken in. Peter, in turn, could taste the bitter coffee. “My sweet.” Peter pulled at Tony’s shirt, quietly telling Tony he wanted them to get naked. The man seemed to understand and within a minute all clothes were discarded. Tony’s cock stood tall and proud and had a girth that had Peter drooling. He wanted it in his mouth. ASAP. “Eager, eager,” Tony chuckled darkly as he saw Peter’s eyes locked on the swaying dick in front of him. Peter’s gaze broke free and he gave Tony a pleading look. “Next time, my sweet.” Tony leaned in to give Peter a short, passionate kiss while his hands squeezed nearly half a lube bottle all over Peter’s groin, slicking him up as Tony massaged every inch of skin. Peter immediately granted Tony access into his mouth and Tony eagerly licked the insides. He pulled back again and grinned. “You first.” Tony’s free hand grabbed hold of Peter’s cock, squeezing it until Peter saw stars. His hips bucked up into Tony’s touch while his hands grabbed at the sheets in an attempt to ground himself as Tony’s hands pleasured him. He moaned with every loudly-squishing jerk of Tony’s hand, but it wasn’t going fast enough. “More-more-more, please, Daddy-“ Tony seemed pleased with the begging, because the hand at Peter’s nipple slowly travelled down his toned body, grabbing and coating itself with the excess lube. “Sure you want more?” Tony had a wicked grin on his face. “Cause I can give you everything.” He curled his tongue up to lick his own teeth. “If you think you can handle it.” “Yes,” Peter gasped, arching his back more, pressing his head into the throw pillows. “Please, please, want everything, want it all, want you-“ “Good answer.” Tony’s praise goes paired with him mercilessly pushing his index finger into Peter’s tight hole. The young man gasped at the sudden sting, but his expression turned to absolute bliss in an instant. He clenched and unclenched around Tony’s digit and soon enough, Tony started pulling out and pushing back in, curling his finger in the process, in search of Peter’s… Sweet spot. “God, yes, T-Tony, Daddy-“ Peter moaned as his body rocked under Tony’s attention. “Mr. Stark-!” Tony’s eyes went wide, revealing a previously unseen aggression behind them. His movements became more forceful and he lowered his face until it was right in front of Peter’s. “Yes, boy, call me that again. Do it.” “M-Mi-“ Peter squeezed his eyes shut, completely overwhelmed by all the sensations and the tightening knot in his abdomen. His balls were tight and his heartbeat throbbed everywhere. “Whose cock is this, Peter, tell me who it belongs to-“ Tony let his thumb glide over the tip of Peter’s cock as he quickened his pace and the intensity of his jerks. “Yours- Mr. Stark, it’s y-yours!” Peter’s reply was rewarded with Tony’s mouth sucking marks on Peter’s neck. “And this hole? Huh? Who does this belong to?” Right when Tony uttered the words, he found what he’d been looking for. Peter opened his mouth wide in a silent scream as his body convulsed. “Yes, yes, yours, yours-“ Tony attacked Peter’s prostate without remorse, not halting any movement. He was good at this and he owned it. He owned Peter. “And your mouth? Your chest and your arms and your legs and your neck-“ Tony cut his own rambles short by biting into the skin right below Peter’s jaw, eliciting another loud moan from him. “Mr. Stark’s, his- his, yours!” “That’s it, good boy, it’s all mine. You’re all mine!” “F-fuck, I’m gonna come, Mr. Stark- Please, please-“ Peter’s gasps were erratic. The complete polar opposite of Tony’s near robotic movements. Along the way, he had added two more fingers into Peter’s sopping hole and he kept pumping mercilessly, curling his fingers at just the right moment. The young man was practically folded in two on the bed, taking everything Tony was giving him. He’d never felt this good in his entire life and he basked in the hot sheen covering his body. All his fantasies, all their sexts, were now reality. Tony stayed true to his word. Everything he had promised Peter, he was now giving- almost forcing- upon the young man and he loved it. They both did. “So close, my sweet, stay on that edge for me, don’t tip over just yet-“ Tony growled. “Make...” The young man found himself humping into Tony’s fist, moaning at the trademarked line that had started falling from the mob boss’s lips. “It…“ Peter whined as his body shook, trying to hold onto the last bit of sanity that he had left before he would lose it all and spill. “Last…“ Every part of Peter’s being writhed and convulsed at the scorching pleasure pumping through him. He had to make it last. He had to wait. Had to drag it out. Felt so good. Too good. Yes, yes- yes! “That’s it… Just a little longer,” Tony encouraged. Peter’s eyes rolled back and to his dismay, Tony sped up even more. “Haaa-,” Every muscle in Peter’s body shook with tension, ready for that blissful release. “Yeees, good boy, such a good boy, hold on…” Tony’s breath was hot on Peter’s lips. His deep voice vibrated through Peter’s body, sending even more surges of arousal through him. “Open your eyes. Look at me.” Peter’s jaw was locked as his eyes fluttered open. He stared straight into Tony’s and the sight had his toes curl. “Come.” Peter’s vision went white at the intense eruption bursting from him. If he screamed, he didn’t hear himself. All he could do was experience it. White streaks covered his abdomen and Tony’s hand and the overstimulating sensation of his orgasm seemed to last forever. After who-knows-how-long, Peter came down from his high, panting and twitching on the mattress, body completely limp. Tony was lying next to him, whispering sweet praise into his ear and slowly bringing Peter back to reality with his calming voice and caressing hands. Peter blinked a few times, his vision sharpening again until Tony was completely in focus. The man smiled. “Good morning, sunshine,” he repeated himself. Peter chuckled and cuddled up against Tony’s chest. Tony immediately embraced him, tangling their legs together. “Morning,” Peter laughed softly. It was quiet for a minute while Peter cleared his mind, basking in the afterglow of what was the most intense orgasm he’s ever experienced. “Thank you,” he whispered against Tony’s body. The man kissed the top of Peter’s head, humming softly. “No, my sweet, thank you.” After another hour of cuddling together Peter shuffled back so he could look Tony in the eye. “We should probably get out, don’t we?” Tony smiled kindly, pressing his fingers through Peter’s curls. “Work can wait.” “I wasn’t talking about work…” There was a playful sparkle in Peter’s eyes. “I want to explore this place.” “Can’t we cuddle a little longer?” “I’ll stay naked,” Peter teased. “We’re alone anyways… And I’ll make you coffee?” “Are you trying to bribe me with coffee that requires pressing one button?” Tony teased right back. Peter moved to sit up straight and tossed the sheets on top of Tony. He jumped out of bed, his cock already hardening again and bouncing with every movement. Tony grinned and seemed to be enjoying this newfound confidence Peter had. “I don’t know, Mr. Stark, am I?” Peter sauntered towards the door and opened it swiftly, arching his back and showing off his toned body as he walked through. Tony’s cock, that had started softening up after not getting any attention last round, sprung back to life at the sight. “Could make the coffee last, but… I’m sure there are other rooms in this place where I could make it last?” Tony laughed positively wicked and crawled over the bed towards Peter. The young man squealed delighted and ran out into the hallway. Tony stepped out of the bed and started chasing his good boy through the mansion.

261 notes · View notes

yeojaa · 4 years

Note

Hi miss erin! Can I have jk x reader with #18🥺

❪ 💜 PROMPT ! ❫

things you said when you were scared

[ read they don’t love you like i love you ]

pairing. jjk x f!reader. rating. general. tags. fluff. the barest hint of angst if you squint really, really hard. wc. 0.9k.

Love is scary. It’s never been something you could look at and say “see, that’s love.” It existed in too many forms, presented itself in too many ways.

It terrifies you - and Jungkook can do nothing about it. He tries though and with time and patience and all of his shitty corny jokes, things have gotten better. You’ve softened, fallen in love despite yourself.

Sometimes, you’re still a little out of reach - just a little too far. (On more than one occasion, he’s wondered if he’s asking for too much.)

It’s easier when he thinks how much progress you’ve made.

“Your number in exchange for my troubles?”

“No.” You’d said it so clearly, not an ounce of hesitation. Even with him dressed in your coffee, you’d refused him. “Sorry.” You hadn’t sounded very sorry.

Imagine his surprise when he’d met you again, a week later, at a mutual friend’s birthday.

“Can I have your number now?” Jungkook was nothing if not persistent.

You had refused to budge, sipping politely at your cranberry vodka and studying him over the rim of the glass. “No.”

It’d only been at the end of the night, when you’d been making your rounds - saying goodbye and swinging hands around shoulders - that you’d finally said yes. Probably because you were maybe, just a little, slightly under the influence.

When you’d smiled, though - he could’ve sworn you were just as happy as he was.

It was the first snowfall in the city, nearly three months since you’d started seeing each other. You’d pouted and whined, staring out the huge industrial windows with your chin in your hand.

“Snow sucks,” you’d huffed, puffed like a big bad wolf.

“Let’s go away then.” He’d been meaning to ask - had looked at tickets just that morning, in his free period before his students had come milling into his classroom babbling about their weekends. There’d been a deal somewhere tropical, somewhere you’d mentioned once in passing when he’d been looking at the weather forecast.

“Or not.”

“Why not?” His insistence was the same as it always was, creeping up your spine and sitting comfortably around your shoulders. A woolen scarf that’d keep you warm even on the coldest of nights.

“That’s like…” You’d shrugged, pushed your way out of bed to busy yourself with something in the kitchen. He could read you like a book even then, practically mouth the words you’d speak next. “Kind of serious.”

“We’re kind of serious, aren’t we?”

He hadn’t expected the look you’d tossed his way, fleeting but terribly clear in the dim light. Worry.

You’d said yes, again, by the end of the night. Even when you tried, you couldn’t say no.

“Move in with me.” It’d been your sixth consecutive hour in bed, a lazy Sunday morning that’d stretched into the afternoon. You’d even cancelled your standing brunch reservation, opting to stay cozied up in bed together. He’d held you like you were precious, treasure, the most important thing in the world.

You’d done the same, though you pretended not to. You hated being vulnerable.

“Why?” For once, not a no. He remembers the surprise, the lack of an outright denial spurring his eyebrows into his hairline. You’d scowled at him, whacked a hand across his pec as if aiming for the thing that beat for you. (Only you.)

“You’re always here anyway.”

“You just want someone to help you with rent.” Well, that’d been true. As much as he loved you, you took too long showers and always forgot to turn off the light when you left. His bills had somehow skyrocketed.

But that wasn’t why. The why was you. It was always you.

It’d taken another two weeks but you were moved in before summer, all your hangers hung up beside his, your unnecessarily extensive skincare routine taking up all the real estate on his bathroom counter.

He’d thought it’d happen how it always did, starting with a no and ending with a yes.

For once, Jungkook was surprised. You’d packed your bags and left, taking his heart with you and leaving the little velvet box on the counter.

“I’m not marrying you,” you’d said with an air of finality he’d never heard before.

He’d thought that’d be the end. He was wrong then too.

“Baby.”

You’re half asleep on his chest, book having fallen out of your grip sometime over the last half hour. He’s been stuck watching YouTube autoplay, too afraid of waking you up to try to grab the Apple remote stuck under your butt.

“Hu-u-uuh?” You’re bleary-eyed, beautiful. When you speak, he feels the little puddle of drool on his skin spread, pushed around by the shape of your mouth. The sound you make is hilarious - decidedly not very sophisticated, a world away from the you that sees the rest of the world.

“I want a baby.” Jungkook’s nonchalant about it because he’s learnt what the worst case scenario is and knows you’ll never be back there. You’re stuck with him forever now. You’d promised.

Even in your exhaustion, you’re incredulous, staring up at him like you’re not sure whether everything’s a fever dream or reality. “You want a baby?”

“Yeah.”

“You are a baby.” It’s not a no. He latches onto that with his teeth, bares them in his adorable bunny smile he knows you can’t resist.

“I’m twenty-eight, actually.”

“Baby.” You’re mocking him, dropping your head back against his heated skin. He can feel you smiling, even as you try to hide it.

“Exactly.”

174 notes · View notes

crimes-and-gelato · 4 years

Text

Title: Leave Room for the Unexpected Rating: M Pairing: Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian Chapter: 1/5 Tags: Mpreg, A/B/O, Fake Dating, Modern Setting AU Summary: Wei Wuxian would be anything but ordinary. And being second gendered as an omega doesn’t stop him from bending the laws of society on what to expect from his kind. He might say he’s just applying his adopted family motto — “to attempt the impossible” — but many would say that, naturally, he’s just unrestrained for an omega. Sometimes he himself thinks that maybe in his past life he was an alpha, he clearly has the traits of one. That’s why some people call him unorthodox. But nonetheless, he will live his life as he likes: untamed by what is expected of him.

‘And having a baby is another attempt at defying society’s expectation. How exactly?’ Nie Huaisang, another omega, raises one delicate eyebrow at Wei Wuxian, taking a sip of his tea.

or Wei Wuxian asks Lan Wangji to be his baby Daddy, but things go different from what he had planned.

Chapter 1: Starting at the Beginning with You

I tried to write you a love poem but it ended up looking like a grocery list

an inventory of all the things we’d need for breakfast. I tried to write you a love poem but it ended up looking like a thank you note tucked underneath the heart shape fridge magnet.

I still don’t know how your name found its way into my prayers

how your silence ripened into something this soft and pure

how this sky is no longer mine but ours.

-Mariah

***

Wei Wuxian would be anything but ordinary. And being second gendered as an omega doesn’t stop him from bending the laws of society on what to expect from his kind. He might say he’s just applying his adopted family motto — “to attempt the impossible” — but many would say that, naturally, he’s just unrestrained for an omega. Sometimes he himself thinks that maybe in his past life he was an alpha, he clearly has the traits of one. That’s why some people call him unorthodox. But nonetheless, he will live his life as he likes: untamed by what is expected of him.

‘And having a baby is another attempt at defying society’s expectation. How exactly?’ Nie Huaisang, another omega, raises one delicate eyebrow at Wei Wuxian, taking a sip of his tea. The four of them — Wei Wuxian, Nie Huaisang, Wen Qing, and Wen Ning — are gathered outside of Wen Ning’s bakery, enjoying cupcakes and afternoon tea, and the rare sunshine of mid-Spring.

Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes and licks his fingers free of chocolate icing from the cupcake he’s eaten. ‘By not having to tie myself to an alpha,’ he explains in between licks. ‘While having an offspring of my own.’ He wipes his hand on a napkin. ‘Just how many single parent omega is there? Most of them are widowed. There are no omegas — that I know of — that have kids just because they can and want to, since the rest of the world thinks an alpha is needed to be a parent. And don’t get me started on their endless praises on alphas who choose to be single parents. They act like it’s the world’s most heroic decision.’

‘So, you’re starting a propaganda,’ Wen Qing points, merely stating a fact and not at all condescending like most alphas. She supports Wei Wuxian’s progressive lifestyle as long as it’s not him being an idiot, which is often since Wei Wuxian has some complicated hero complex that gets him hurt for the sake of those he loves. Sometimes, she wants to either wrap him a blanket and protect him, or stick her needles into him so he cannot move and make rush decisions that would send him to an early grave. Not that she’s ever going to tell him of the first because she’s got a reputation to uphold, that’s why she often threatens him with the latter.

Wei Wuxian shrugs. ‘Not really.’ He takes a bite of his new cupcake. ‘I just want to have a baby without an alpha.’

‘How is that even possible?’ Wen Ning asks innocently, because he is their group’s youngest member and their sweet summer child. The beta looks very confuse as if he’s recalling what he learned in Biology class in case he has missed something about reproduction.

Wei Wuxian sighs and focuses on his cupcake instead of answering the question.

‘Wait a minute.’ Nie Huaisang stops Wei Wuxian mid-bite of his treat, hand clasps on Wei Wuxian’s wrist. ‘How _really _are you going to have a baby without an alpha?’

He glares for a second at Nie Huaisang and pulls his arm away to eat his dessert in peace. ‘I’m gonna have sex of course,’ he says in frustration and rewards himself with a bite of his cupcake.

‘That we know,’ Nie Huaisang points out. ‘To whom is the underlined question?’

All three pairs of eyes curiously focus on Wei Wuxian as he chews his cake. The father of Wei Wuxian’s child should be a big deal. He can’t just get someone despite him being one of the most sought after omega because of his family background and his genius brain.

‘To create an offspring that would put all other offspring to shame, because let’s be real, any child of mine would be the paragon of beauty and intelligence,’ he announces haughtily that has Wen Qing and Nie Huaisang rolling their eyes. Wen Ning gives a small nod because he’s supportive like that. ‘I have found the perfect seed to match mine. And together our offspring will be perfect.’

His three friends all wait with bated breath for Wei Wuxian to say who, only that the arrogant bastard keeps prolonging it too much.

‘Wei Wuxian, if you don’t say it this instance I will stick my needles in you,’ Wen Qing threats.

‘It’s Lan Zhan, okay?’ Wei Wuxian answers abruptly because he doesn’t doubt that she will surely follow through since she’s often with acupuncture needles on her person. Wei Wuxian believes she’s some sort of Black Widow spy in her past life. And if he leans away from Wen Qing it’s because he’s smart enough to be cautious than be sorry.

All three have their mouths gape at Wei Wuxian, he doesn’t notice, still wary of Wen Qing.

‘Lan Zhan as in Lan Wangji?’ Nie Huaisang inquires just to be sure he heard it right. ‘He agreed to be the father of your child?’

‘Only biologically,’ he explains. ‘I just need his genes.’

‘And he agreed?’ Wen Qing’s eyes are wide, eyebrows almost up to her hairline.

‘What are you implying?’ Wei Wuxian frowns at the question. ‘Lan Zhan and I are friends. Best of friends actually. He’s been very supportive of me since the beginning when people don’t see omegas beyond their second gender.’ He smiles at the memory of being rivals with Lan Zhan in high school and university. The other man had always been respectable to Wei Wuxian and other omegas, never seeing Wei Wuxian as someone who is beneath him or fragile like others do just because Wei Wuxian is an omega.

‘What exactly did he say?’ Nie Huaisang prompts, edging closer to Wei Wuxian. ‘And how did he take it?’

Wei Wuxian shrugs again. ‘He just agreed.’ He takes another cupcake from the plate. ‘We made a contract so it’s all professional and all that… Plus, I think I wore him down after whining to him about it for so long. I even had to make a back-up plan, if in case he doesn’t agree within my time stamp.’

‘And what exactly is your back-up plan?’ Nie Huaisang reaches for his tea blindly, still trying to absorb the news, and holding himself back from the other questions he wants to ask.

‘I’ll either ask Da-ge or Xichen-ge to make the baby with me.’ He ignores how Nie Huaisang chokes on the tea and the Wen siblings’ saucer eyes. ‘I told Lan Zhan this just so he doesn’t have to feel pressure, and also, so that he knows I’m serious about this whole pregnancy.’

None of Wei Wuxian’s three friends move, still processing the shock of their friend’s news. They dumbly blink at him as if to make sense of his existence and the insane information he’s sharing.

‘Lan Zhan agreed after that,’ Wei Wuxian states, ignorant of his friends’ current turmoil. ‘I believe he also realised that his genes and mine would be extraordinary.’ His lips form a smug grin. ‘He was my first choice to begin with. And he would know better how right I am since genetics is his field of expertise. Right?’

All three of Wei Wuxian’s friends groan in frustration on Lan Wangji’s behalf. And he ignores them, thinking that they’re mocking his brilliant idea and instead focuses on his third — fourth? fifth? oh, who cares — cupcake.

‘Oh, right.’ He wipes his fingers again and unlocks his phone. He’s quite pleased with himself that none of his friends have yet to notice the change in his scent. ‘Do you guys want to see the ultrasound?’

There’s a lot of screaming after that.

*****

6 months ago…

‘Lan Zhan,’ Wei Wuxian greets, all formal and business-like, sitting across Lan Zhan’s wooden desk. They’ve decided to do the contract signing in Lan Zhan’s home office because Wei Wuxian is often at the alpha’s estate than he is at his own penthouse.

‘Wei Ying.’ Lan Zhan’s eyes never leave his as he pulls the manila envelope closer to himself. He fishes the document inside: two A4 white paper, not quite filled with scribbles. He already knows what it contains but reads it thoroughly nonetheless.

‘My heat is coming next month,’ Wei Wuxian states as Lan Zhan reads, the man continues on but Wei Wuxian knows he’s heard him. Despite it being the end of their work day, Lan Zhan is still looking all pristine in his baby blue turtleneck and white blazer. Lan Zhan had always been unfazed since Wei Wuxian knew him in their youth. Not even his schedule at teaching in university and doing research in his lab seems to fluster his ever-so immaculate countenance. Wei Wuxian loves how sturdy Lan Zhan is all through the years he’s known him. Anyone would be lucky to have such a dependable alpha. ‘I think it’s the perfect time. Don’t you agree?’

Lan Zhan looks up to him, eyes wide but not in panic. There’s something in there that Wei Wuxian cannot fathom, he thinks it’s because of the low light in Lan Zhan’s study that’s only coming from the desk lamp which hinders his ability to read Lan Zhan fully. He’s sure it’s not because Lan Zhan is having second thoughts about their arrangements since the man’s usual scent of sandalwood and grapefruit remains pleasing. He fervently hopes not, because he really wants Lan Zhan’s baby and no one else, even when he did voice out before that he’s willing to try with Nie Mingjue or Lan Xichen. He’s not above begging the two older men. Wen Qing, despite being an alpha, is out of the question, she’ll probably skin him alive before he can even finish his request. Plus, she’s like a sister to him.

‘Lan Zhan?’ Wei Wuxian is slightly nervous, for reasons he doesn’t know of. He’s never felt so helpless in a boardroom full of alpha and beta who looks down on him for being an omega. ‘You’re not changing your mind, are you?’

Lan Zhan shakes his head slowly and composes himself, the unknown expression is changed into Lan Zhan’s normal jade-like profile that some would call: cold. He thought of it, too, before, when they weren’t close friends as they are now. But it’s just Lan Zhan’s normal face — well, if you can call an ethereal beauty normal, but that’s just Lan Zhan and his older brother, Lan Xichen — close off because he doesn’t say much or when he does it remains the same. People often brush things off that they don’t understand, or when it’s not in their taste of normal, not knowing that it creates a gap between individuals that turns into prejudices, or worse: hate.

Wei Wuxian’s quite intimate with these biases ever since he’d presented as an omega, and an orphan at that. He was luckier than others when he got adopted into the prominent Jiang family since his late father was close friends with Jiang Fengman.

Other orphaned omegas are usually wedded off immediately by eighteen to any capable alpha, that is if they’ve never gotten adopted. And most often they are not since it’s hard to raise an omega; too many responsibilities and they need a lot of taking care of especially that they have heats once every three months. They need suppressants, too, to keep off their smell and so that they don’t get pregnant.

So, maybe Madam Yu will never win Best Aunt Award — ever — but at least she tolerated Wei Wuxian’s and took him into her household, and never once complained about him being an inconvenience because he’s an omega. As an alpha, she has more power in the Jiang family than her beta husband and it would have been easy to kick Wei Wuxian out if she wished to. But she let him stay. And Wei Wuxian will forever be grateful for her benevolence, however little it may seem to others, it meant the world to him.

He’s not the one to look at the gift horse in the mouth, so he’d never actually asked Madam Yu why she never turned him away even when she clearly wasn’t happy with his presence since she’d always been jealous of his mother, Cangse Sanren, for being Jiang Fengman’s first love (as cheesy and childish as that sounds). But he’s heard of Madam Yu’s older brother, an omega, who was sent away by their parents — wed off to the richest alpha who proposed since these were the older days when omegas don’t have much rights. He’d like to think it’s because of that dear brother who had to leave because their parents were tired of having an omega child. Too difficult. Too needy. Too much.

‘Wei Ying?’ Lan Zhan calls.

‘Huh?’ He can’t believe he got lost in his own thoughts again. He needs to stop thinking of things that he can no longer change and focus on what he can do now. The sad reality of omegas before — and even until now — will only upset him and it certainly won’t aid him in fixing what he wants to improve.

‘Are you okay?’ Lan Zhan’s put down the contract, all his attention on Wei Wuxian.

He beams a smile at Lan Zhan. ‘Just thinking of who the baby will take after,’ he lies half-heartedly, wanting to erase what he’s been thinking and also realising that he’s quite curious about his baby with Lan Zhan. ‘What do you think, Lan Zhan?’ He puts both arms on the table, enjoying Lan Zhan’s startled expression at the topic. ‘Will they have your eyes? I wish they would... And your features? I would love that... Can you imagine how cute they will be if that happens? A mini you pouting about wanting sweets and whatever strikes their fancy that are totally bad for them.’ Wei Wuxian can already imagine them and can’t help the smile growing bigger on his face.

‘They’d look cuter if they have Wei Ying’s smile,’ Lan Zhan states seriously.

Wei Wuxian’s heart tripped thrice in his chest as he tried to process what Lan Zhan had said. Lan Zhan sounds genuine with his declaration, golden eyes focus on Wei Wuxian. Sometimes he forgets how honest Lan Zhan can be that often it does weird things to his chest. He had to visit a cardiologist thrice to be sure that there’s nothing wrong with his heart.

And his only excuse right now is that he’s making a big decision with his best friend, so it’s possible to be nervous and easily flustered over simple words. That’s it. He doesn’t need to be weird about it because that would be uncomfortable to Lan Zhan if Wei Wuxian thinks too much of it, the alpha is already doing him a big favour.

‘I think any kid of yours and mine would be cute,’ he adds casually because he’s not going to be weird about it, and missing to notice the reddening of Lan Zhan’s ears.

#wangxian #wangxian fic #lan wangji #wei wuxian #a/b/o #mpreg

3 notes · View notes

saxxxology · 5 years

Text

As Nature Intended

An anniversary camping trip prompts you and your husband to get more in touch with nature… and live life as nature intends.

PAIRING: Sam Winchester x Native American!Reader

WORD COUNT: ~1200

WARNINGS: semi-public sex, breeding kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, quickie, brief fluff

NOTE: Edited by @crispychrissy and @kittenofdoomage - please heed the warnings and enjoy!

Buy Sam’s scent from my Etsy shop

Become a Patron for just $3

THIS WORK IS 18+ ONLY. DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY OTHER SITES.

You and Sam had been hiking for almost three days. It was warm, and you’d accumulated a good amount of sweat and dirt on your skin to actually feel gritty when you moved.

It was Sam’s idea to hike part of the Appalachian trail for your second anniversary. You went along with the idea, having finally gotten reasonably in shape enough to take a week-long excursion through the mountains. No hunting, no research, no stress… just you and Sam alone on a nice (albeit very long) hike.

The two of you finally stopped in the late afternoon when you reached a secluded spot a few hundred feet off the trail. It wasn’t strictly a camping spot, but the large circle of bare ground and exposure to the slowly flowing stream made it the perfect real estate for your small tent.

“God, I need a bath,” you said, dropping your pack to the ground and stretching your arms over your head. “I feel gross.”

Sam chuckled. “We’ve still got a few hours of sunlight left. Go dip in the river, I’ll get the tent set up.”

You gratefully kicked your hiking boots off before stripping out of your clothes. Fortunately, you were secluded enough that anyone just walking by wouldn’t see you. The moment you were free of your clothes, Sam let out a low groan. You turned to see him looking up at you with eyes full of lust.

“What?”

“Just…” he chewed on his lower lip and shook his head, “fuckin’ gorgeous.” He reached up to give one cheek of your ass a firm swat, watching as you giggled and danced away towards the river.

You quickly adjusted to the temperature of the water and perched on a half-submerged boulder, lathering soap in your hands and scrubbing your skin clean. Sam only took a few minutes to set up your small tent and unfurl the large sleeping bag you both managed to share before stripping bare and joining you. His large hands pressed against your shoulder blades, long fingers splaying out.

“You look fuckin’ gorgeous,” he murmured, sneaking a kiss on your jaw. “But y’know, you shouldn’t be using soap.” He nipped at your earlobe. “Could screw the environment.”

“It’s biodegradable,” you answered as he sat down on the rock beside you. “I got it before we left. REI has your back.”

He grinned and leaned over to pull you into a deeper kiss. “I love you so much, you know that?”

“I love you too,” you replied, casting your gaze downward to where his cock was steadily filling and thickening. You returned the kiss and sucked on his lower lip, brushing a hand over his thigh. The feeling coaxed a soft sigh from him.

“Are you really gettin’ me hard out here, baby?” he asked. “All exposed… you know anyone could see us.”

You shook your head. “Nuh uh. We’re too far down the bank… all we gotta do is be quiet.”

Sam growled and reached up to tangle a hand in your wet hair. “God, you’re a little minx, you know that?”

Another giggle escaped your lips as you stood up, dancing just out of reach. He stood up, not caring that he was buck naked as he chased you through the shallows. He caught you within seconds, wrapping his arms around your waist. He spun you around, bending you over the boulder and caging you in with his wide chest pressed against your back.

“Been wanting to do this for a real long time,” he growled, reaching down to stroke himself, “couldn’t wait ‘til we got in the tent, wanna fuck you out here.”

You pushed your ass back against him, feeling him angle the tip of his cock so that it slid through your soaking folds. He grunted, shuffling closer so that he could line up. The heat of his body on your damp skin made you shiver with anticipation, and you obediently spread your legs for him.

Sam pushed inside you with a heavy, animalistic grunt. You whimpered as he stretched you, not stopping until his hips were pressed against your ass. Arching your back, you used your positioning to push yourself back, encouraging him to move.

Sam wasted no time. He wrapped an arm around your waist, adjusting the other around your shoulders, and snapped forward. There was nothing slow or tender about the way he fucked you; he lost himself in the moment, bucking frantically into you. The thick, heavy slide of his cock repeatedly punching into your already clenching pussy made you moan louder, and his own sounds grew to match yours in frequency and intensity.

“Gonna fuckin’ breed you,” he growled, “gonna fucking cum in your tight little pussy.”

Normally, you might have wanted to talk about the idea of him knocking you up. Granted, you’d been married for two years and had been hinting at babymaking, but you’d thought he might want to plan for a Christmas due date or something cheesy.

Now, with your husband frantically slamming himself inside you with nothing on his mind but the thought of impregnating you, all discussion was out the window. The condoms you’d packed were useless now.

You wiggled your hips receptively, bracing your hands against the rock. “Cum inside me,” you moaned, “cum in my pussy, Sam, fill me up.”

He growled, holding you tighter. His bony hips snapped against your ass, and you knew you’d have bruises the following day. When he shoved a hand between your legs to rub circles on your clit, you let out a keening whimper, your legs shaking.

Sam’s body stiffened when he came, his hips the only part of him moving as he spilled into you. You felt warm spurts of his seed splashing against your walls, the final nudge you needed to cum as well. He grunted when he felt you squeezing around him and buried his face in the crook of your neck, panting wildly against your skin.

“Fuck,” he breathed, shifting behind you. “That was fast…”

“It was good,” you assured him. You knew that Sam liked to take his time with you, making you cum before he even thought about getting his dick inside you. Quickies like this worried him that you hadn’t fully enjoyed the encounter, and this time you hadn’t used protection that both of you were normally adamant about.

Sam straightened up with a huff and pulled his cock free, watching his impressive load make white streaks down the insides of your thighs. You stood up straight, stretching your arms over your head as Sam placed a palm over your lower belly.

“And you’re okay with this,” he murmured, “what could happen…”

You pulled him into a deep kiss, cupping his lightly stubbled face. “I want it,” you whispered, “I want a baby.”

Sam groaned and slid his arms around your body. “Gimme an hour and I’ll do it again. We can have…” he paused to slide his tongue over your lower lip, “...campfire sex… knock something off our bucket list.”

You smiled against his lips and wound your arms around his waist, pulling him close. “I’d like that.”

If you liked this, reblog and leave a comment! Feedback is my fuel!

This work was available on Patreon for $3. If you want to read more work like it, head on over and subscribe for up to 3 months of fic access!

Forever tags: @atc74 @becaamm @bamby0304 @crashdevlin @crispychrissy @closetspngirl @emoryhemsworth @ellen-reincarnated1967 @kittenofdoomage @kickingitwithkirk @kayteonline @littlegreenplasticsoldier @lunarsaturn88 @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @meganwinchester1999 @mrswhozeewhatsis @oneshoeshort @our-jensen-ackles-love @polyamorous-winchester @percussiongirl2017 @rainbowkisses31 @spnwoman @serpentbaby @smallgirlbigpersonality @shaelyn102 @squirrelnotsam @thecleverdame @thelittleredwhocould @winchestersaltandgun @winecatsandpizza @zombiewerewolfqueen @67-chevy-baby @85natalie

#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction

536 notes · View notes

the-resurrection-3d · 5 years

Text

So anyway I edited my fic masterlist to procrastinate. This is only the Eddsworld portion, divided up by ship. The very end has my multi-ship collections, so if you want ficlets of X ship, check those. Includes nsfw links. I’ll keep this post updated!

Gen

melty future - it’s hard out here for a lost time traveler and a bunch of mutant freaks | rated T | 1.5k | Tags - 3-sentence fic collection, found family

tasteless - tom takes a demon to Denny’s | rated T | 2.3k | tags - fantasy / CB AU, underage drinking, brief eye horror, arson

thank god I’m pretty (in bits and pieces) - when Matt is fourteen, his aunt tells him the world is going to end. | “finished”, 6k | Tags - misgendering, gender fantasy AU, minor character death

we buffer, we suffer - edd and Tord try and write a reader-insert fanfic about their favorite OC, Clownius Thundercock | rated M | 1.2k | tags - cock slapping, tentacles, rescue, breast fucking, bukkake, characters writing fanfiction

sunshine sparkle - matt wonders what it would be like, living someplace other than a gremlins’ den | rated T | .6k | tags - background polyworld, matt gets irl cyberbullied

went for the kiss and got the bite - tord and Matt spend the last hours of Christmas together, and maybe set a guy on fire in the process. | rated T | 1.2k | tags - implied drug use, zombie AU

TomTord

bezoar -“Fine, whatever, but if he pukes on me I’m putting all your heads on pikes.” Instead of his giant robot, Tord gets the flu, and Tom tries to get even | rated T | 1.2k | Tags - sick fic, canon divergent, post The End, vomiting | FFN mirror | Wattpad mirror

Dumb / I stole my dad’s fic and made it tomtord because I like giving him a stroke - fuck you, dad you suck | rated M | .3k

Only God Forgives - what a lovely, useful idiot | rated E | 1.2k | Tags – A/B/O, Cervix Penetration, Vaginal Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Angst

orange | rated M | .5k | tags – gentle sex, fluff, cockwarming

EddTord

and everything you say gives me a real bad feeling – five times Edd lost Tord and the one time he found him again. (tonight, I am pleased to announce a comedy in six parts) | wip, 7.5k | Tags – canon divergence, high school AU, zombeh AU, creatures and monsters AU, green leader AU, post-canon, alternate timelines, pining, one-sided relationship, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending | FFN mirror

crush - “i’m gonna get Matt to burn that,” Edd says...Tord runs his fingers gently over Garfield’s face, the white thought bubble asking, Why me?, before he simply says, “You wouldn’t. You think my pain is too funny.” | rated E | 1.7k | tags - omegaverse, cannibalism, vaginal sex, weird biology, metafic, mild gore

peter pan syndrome- edd asks, what do you want to be when you grow up? it sounds better than so where the fuck have you been? and I dreamt an even uglier version of you made me eat lead. | rated T | 1.3k | tags - minimalism, drugs mention, sexual humor, morning after, reminiscing | FFN mirror, Wattpad mirror

nobody - he didn’t buy that old cloning machine for nothing | rated E | 1.5k | tags - exhibitionism, referenced TomMatt, oral sex, fingering, over-stimulation

show me your blood - "see, we have all worked very hard to put value down on paper, and I am not going to dishonor our efforts by never stealing from another man.I said yes to the world and I have never been told no since.” | rated T | 7.3k | tags - established relationship, time travel, green leader au, hurt no comfort

The Pinnacle of Romance – “I just wanted to have a romantic evening” | rated M | Tags – gun kink/play, power play, roughhousing, reunions, porn with feelings | FFN mirror

werewolf heart - this is the part Green Leader finds easy | rated G | .6k | tags - implied brainwashing, noncon kissing

MattTord

interlude to a guiltless exile - matt looks into those haunting eyes – silver pools without white, only large cuts of black. Shark’s eyes. Looking for too long makes Matt feel like when he’s dreaming and the tide’s pulling the earth out from under his feet. “How long can you survive out of water?” | rated T | 1.5k | tags - mermaid AU, fluff and hurt/comfort

TomMatt

mortals sipping nectar at five cents a glass - tom needs help relaxing, and Matt is happy to indulge him... | rated M | 1.1k | tags - experimental style, implied alcoholism, massages, fluff, angst with a happy ending, non-graphic smut, background polyworld | Wattpad mirror

EddTomTord

survivors - “the premise is that this doctor gets stranded on an island and eventually has to start cutting off his own legs and stuff for food” | rated T | .5k | Tags – sexual humor, zombeh AU, references to drugs, references to cannibalism, pov second person

EddMattTomTord

always said I'd be famous (guess that I lied) - sssh, it's okay baby, he soothes, petting Tom's hair; I have a dick big enough for all of us. Matt snorts, hides his grin behind his hand. Tord inspects his nails. Before Tom can chip in (holding onto him tight enough so he can't move his arm back for a good gut punch), Edd snaps at Matt, Just read the damn story. | rated T | 1.1k | tags - pillow and blanket forts, reading aloud, mild sexual content, fluff without plot

birthday cake - "you ungrateful —" Matt goes in for the side of Edd's stomach, the kill zone. "It's my birthday and I'm not only giving you head but a piece of modern. art.—" a few quick cuts of his hand to frame his face "—to commemorate the occasion." | rated M | .9k | tags - oral sex, foursome - m/m/m/m, shyness, hand jobs

[insert neutral milk hotel quote] - matt gets fucked ; a direct sequel to ‘stupid fucking bullshit’ | rated E | 2.8k | tags - gangbang, oral sex, metafiction, monster tom, bottom matt, dirty talk, subdrop, over-stimulation, trans male character

Paultryck

but I am home - maybe in this story the wolf doesn’t have to die | rated M | wip, 2k | Tags - subdrop, aftercare, nightmares, hurt/comfort, implied pet play, self harm mention, rape mention, red riding hood AU, bookstore AU

damnatio memoriae - shakespeare was wrong; most of us are not players. | rated T | 1.2k | tags - one-sided attraction, army life, public execution, first person pov

daze - "and then they fucked." - William Shakespeare | rated E | .3k | tags - vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, porn without plot, triple drabble

our love gorges - while Red Leader and his unlucky human friend negotiate over dinner, Paul and Patryck are left to their own devices | Paultryck, background PaulTordtryck | finished, 10.4k | Tags – fantasy AU, bdsm, scratching, comfort sex, dom/sub, aftercare, mild blood, burnplay, blow jobs, outdoor sex, unhealthy coping mechanisms, suicidal thoughts, body horror, control issues, praise kink, consensual but not safe or sane, dead dove: do not eat

soft boy hours - let’s be young for a while | rated M | 1.6k | Tags - massage, frottage, fluff and smut, foreplay, post-canon | FFN mirror

PaulTord

the ren and stimpy show - on today’s episode: Tord has very strange fantasies | rated T | 1k | Tags - domestic fluff, post-canon, sexual humor, minimalism | FFN mirror

lain with holy wars - do you want kids? | rated T | .6k | tags - post-canon, implied child abuse / domestic violence, fluff, light angst

Paul/Everyone

some fuckin stupid bullshit just read the tags and get off my balls - I reach into hat labeled “story ideas.” It says, “Everyone gangbangs Paul.” Again? Hat falls and spills. They all say, “Everyone gangbangs Paul.” | PaulEdd, Paultryck, PaulTord, TordPauPat, PaulTom, PaulMatt, MattTom | rated E | 2.5k | Tags - gangbang, ruined orgasm, anal sex, blow jobs, handjobs, creampie, bondage, dom/sub undertones

Tordtryck

A.T. Field - “show me where you wanna be touched.” It’s disgusting | Tordtryck, background Paultryck | rated E | 1.3k | Tags - vaginal fingering, angst, implied character death, implied traitor AU, unhealthy relationships, consensual but not safe or sane

TordPauPat

a real crowd pleaser - there are a lot of advantages to fucking your boss. | rated E | 1.3k | Tags - threesome- M/M/M, blow jobs, dom/sub, bondage, orgasm denial

presented without context - who’s going to tell their fuckbuddy they probably caused their parents’ divorce as they’re getting blown? Never mind, Tord would. | rated E | 1.5k | Tags - threesome, praise kink, spitroasting, dom/sub

violence – you’ve made this place unbecoming. Do I have to stay? | rated G | .6k | Tags – sharing a bed, cuddling and snuggling, hurt/comfort, minimalism fluff | FFN mirror

Multi-Ship

clowns, all of you clowns - You fall asleep with his arm clutched to your chest. Various eddsworld ficlets/scraps from the last year | EddTord, TomTord, EddTom, Paultryck, TordPaultryck, Tordtryck | wip, 9.3k | Tags - high school AU, zombies AU, fantasy AU, hurt/comfort, humor, fluff. First chapter is the table of contents. | FFN mirror for chapter 18 [TomTord], FFN mirror for chapter 24 [EddTord], FFN mirror of chapter 20 [Gen, Rejects]

warped tour - dreamwidth doesn’t have any Eddsworld presence so I’ve declared the 3-Sentence Fic-A-Thon free real estate. First prompt: Tordtryck, there was a hidden message in their miserable Christmas presents | Tordtryck, MattTom, Edd & Matt & Tom & Tord, Tomatoredd & Scribble Tom | finished, 1k | Tags - 3 Sentence Fiction, college AU, bookstore AU, sexual humor, angst and humor, post-apocalypse, zombies | FFN mirror of Rejects parts

#eddsworld #tomtord #eddtord #paultryck #polyworld #and a host of others #long post #fanfic #eddsweenie

42 notes · View notes

mittensmorgul · 5 years

Note

I recently read a fic on ao3 and it was funny and great and then I thought of a few major changes that would make it even more hilarious. Problem is, I don't know the etiquette here. Should I just go ahead and write my own version? Add a link to the original story and credit it as inspiration? It was based on a prompt so the idea isn't exclusively the author's I suppose. Anyway I'll only be borrowing the start scenario (which is the prompt) and there will be no other similarities. Please help

Hello there. I’m gonna start what I expect will be kind of a long essay by saying there is an awful lot to unpack here… Starting with the fact that there is a chasm of difference between taking inspiration from a prompt fill fic and imagining an entirely different scenario, and starting that from a mentality of “I can do better than you.” The first is at the root of all of human creativity. We all bounce off one another and take inspiration from each other, and the entire history of human storytelling is essentially one long conversation. But the second part of this historically leads to fisticuffs. No, really. Google “famous literary feuds” for all the reasons why.

It’s not so much a difference in practical terms, but in your approach and understanding here.

So this is why I saw this ask in my inbox late last night and decided I needed to go to sleep rather than trying to answer you right away. But now I have coffee, so let’s give this a try. :P

I’d start by asking what the source of the prompt was. Was it a tumblr post? A prompt from a prompt list? Even one of those “pick a pairing and a prompt and I’ll write a short ficlet” posts? If so, you’re probably free to use the prompt by going back to the original fic prompt list. People publish those as jumping off points to write fic, and they actively WANT people to use them this way.

If the prompt, however, was given to a specific author by someone, you might want to at least ask that author if it would be okay for you to write something of your own based on the prompt. And at least try not to frame it as “I can write something better than you did” when you ask. That’s just rude and demoralizing for the author who’s already published a fic for that prompt, you know?

I get fic ideas all the time from random places, but there’s a different etiquette for each of them.

Sometimes a random tumblr post will give me an idea, and I’ll go talk to the OP privately, both because it’s FUN to talk about someone’s wild headcanon with them, and because you’re approaching the person who had the initial idea with courtesy and in the spirit of collaboration, rather than from this place of “stealing their idea.” The first builds good fandom feelings, while the second tends to do the opposite. I have a couple of experiences here that will hopefully illustrate the difference.

A few years back, when Lizbob was running the Great Meta Scavenger Hunt during s12, it led to the creation of the Great Fic Writer Scavenger Hunt. The theory behind it was that any number of authors could take the same fic prompt based on a single trope paired with a single distinctive character trait and the results would all be entirely unique stories. The intent was to prove that just because an idea had been written before, it becomes a new story when written by someone else, you know? And it was TRUE.

http://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/tagged/the-great-fic-writer-scavenger-hunt/chrono

We had DOZENS of authors participate, and despite all writing “the same story” every week, NONE of the resulting stories were even remotely the same.

On the other hand, I posted an insomnia-inspired headcanon a few months ago, and within five minutes after posting it, my insomnia brain– with an assist from a more rational point of view thanks to lizbob– had taken that little notion and spun it out into long fic in my head. I went back to my original post to laugh at myself in a reblog, announcing that I was gonna write long fic of the thing and for people to stay tuned for more, but other folks had already reblogged the original with comments to the effect of, “Someone should write this fic!” The worst thing was that other authors were tagged into it. As if my highly specific headcanon was suddenly communal property. Because the implication behind it– whether it was the truth or not– felt like “I like this headcanon, but have decided that I don’t want the OP to actually write this story because I like XYZ author’s writing better.”

And I know that was not the intent of the folks who added those comments to my post, but as someone who actively writes fic for this fandom, it felt like a slap in the face.

Now if those same people had replied, “OP please write more of this!” or “What a cool idea!” or even if they’d come to me privately and said, “Hey this is a cool idea, do you mind if I use it to write a longer fic?” I would’ve been HAPPY about it.

Can you see the difference here, anon?

The result was a rather frustrating back and forth where I was told that because I posted the idea in public it was effectively free real estate for anyone else to squat on. I mean, isn’t that what we’re all doing with the source material we base all our fan creations on anyway? We don’t ask the Supernatural writers for permission to use their characters, their settings, their intellectual property to create our own stories and art, right?

But the difference here is apparently too subtle for some folks to grasp. The Supernatural writers aren’t part of our fandom community. And the culture within fandom operates on different rules. Fandom creators are not source creators, and yes we all collectively “steal” from the same source, but it sort of defies the underlying premise that fandom creators as a whole are operating on the same level to suggest that “stealing” from another fandom creator is the same thing.

From my understanding, the entire point of fandom creators doing what they do is to build a community together around the thing we all love. There is a way to do that in good faith, through collaboration and the free sharing of ideas and creations.

I hope this makes sense.

The result of all of that was that I set aside another project I’d been wanting to write and instead began spite writing my own headcanon post. It was like pulling teeth at first, because there was so much Bad Fandom Feeling attached to the concept that the words just didn’t want to come. It’s FINALLY flowing now, though (after several months of the aforementioned teeth-pulling), and is nearing 18k words. I’m hoping it’ll be done and ready to post by the end of March, so I can FINALLY go back to writing the thing I’d originally wanted to work on before this nonsense blew up.

I’ve also unfortunately been one of the authors tagged in on someone else’s headcanon post in the past. I know the folks who do this think it’s flattering, and they’re just excited about an idea and want to read more of it, but the correct etiquette is ALWAYS to approach the OP in PRIVATE before taking their idea and writing it yourself, or pointing another author in the direction of the post and suggesting they write it for you.

I can guarantee you that 99 times out of 100, the OP will actually be flattered you enjoyed their idea so much you want to read more of it if you frame it from a place of appreciation and excitement, rather than from a place of selfish entitlement or superiority.

I’ve talked about this before, but this is how I have always approached fic writing. I got my first idea for a long fic from the Valentine’s Day Collab fic that Winjennster ran back in 2015. I told her I had an idea based on her prompt that I wanted to write as a much longer fic than would fit into the 3k limit for the collab, and she told me to go forth and be fruitful with my words. Actually, I think her exact words were more like “HELL YES! YOU DO THAT!” or something, but the spirit was the same. :P

The next fic I wrote (Project Beyonce) was inspired by a series of tumblr crack posts about “what sort of tumblr blogs would each member of TFW run?” And I reblogged them with commentary about how this would make a hilarious fic, because they were that sort of “conversational thread” of crack headcanons where that sort of addition was more than welcome. Not to mention I was already on friendly terms with the other participants in the thread, so it wasn’t strange for me to zoom in out of the blue and announce I was writing fic inspired by those posts. Even though my fic was set in an AU, and the only commonality was the fact that Dean and Cas were on tumblr. Nothing else about my fic was even remotely similar to the canon crack headcanons from those posts, and I don’t think that anyone involved in the original threads was upset that I’d written fic based on Dean being Cas’s favorite tumblr anon…

My first DCBB (Revenge of the Subtext) was inspired by a crack post made by @nicelimabean. One single sentence about Jensen and Jared walking into a con dressed like Sam and Dean and covered in dirt and blood, and suddenly I had 80k of fic running through my head. I sat there and stared at her post for like five minutes and then went immediately to the chat bubbles to ask– nay, beg– to use her post as a fic prompt for the DCBB. We talked it over for a good long while, both of us growing more excited as the ideas spun out, and long story short, not only did I make a wonderful fandom friend, she ended up beta reading for me and being an ongoing source of encouragement and support in fandom. We even met in person at a con (!) and spent the weekend cackling about how everything felt like a reference to RotS (since at the time we were the only two people on the planet who’d read the fic or even knew what it was about, because DCBB rules of secrecy).

Since then, I’ve gotten ideas for fic from tumblr (and always asked the OP for permission to write their idea– like for fic such as Plotbunny which was based on the combination of ideas from @bluestar86 on a WONDERFUL way to confirm Dean’s bisexuality in canon and Lizbob’s long desire for an Easter Bunny episode, combined with the fact that Easter fell on April Fool’s Day last year… to ideas for The Terminal Job based on chats with @truebluecas about an airport AU WHICH I AM SO SORRY STROB I STILL HAVE IT ON MY LIST TO WRITE AND I SWEAR I WILL WRITE IT EVENTUALLY D:

I’ve also had the reverse happen, where someone read one of my fics and was inspired to write their own fic based on Revenge of the Subtext. They approached me in private with the idea and asked for my blessing to write it. Honestly, I was FLOORED that anyone would be inspired by my words like that, and eagerly encouraged them to write their idea. I’ve also had people give me fic ideas in comments on AO3, in chats both on tumblr and Discord, which turned into longer conversations and eventually more fic (or at the very least to ideas on my To Be Written list). But I always ALWAYS ask permission from the other person or people before writing their ideas. And I have NEVER been told that I was not permitted. People are usually PLEASED that their ideas are deemed worthy by another writer, you know? It’s exciting!

This also goes for art inspired by fic, but in a slightly different way. If someone (anyone!) was inspired to draw something based on something I wrote, I will UNIVERSALLY BE THRILLED that my words inspired someone’s creativity in a different medium. But the key here is it’s a different medium. Nobody ever has to ask permission to art my fic. But that’s not the same as wanting to rewrite my fic into a different story, you know?

Not to mention, collaborating and asking permission and sharing the enthusiasm for an idea or a story like this with others has the potential to boost ALL of your creations. You could build resentment in fandom from other creators, or you can all lift each other up. Starting from the standpoint of communal excitement can result in mutual promotion of each other’s works, you know? Do you want a built-in cheerleader for your work, to build connections in fandom that will eventually support ALL of your works? Then your approach to sharing ideas this way is the key that could potentially unlock that door, or conversely lock it behind you. Your choice, really.

Wait, what was I talking about again? OH right. The whole entire point of fandom. We’re all of us in this same boat, sailing the seas of our chosen Source Material together. You can use your creative abilities for Good, to build communities up, or you can be That Asshole who tries to build themselves up while effectively shading or demoralizing other fandom creators in the process.

So what I’m saying here isn’t necessarily about your desire to write something based on someone else’s idea, but more about the approach you take to it. It costs zero dollars to be polite about it and approach it from a direction of good will and joy in creating for the thing we all love together, you know?

#fandom problems #writing is hard #Anonymous

18 notes · View notes

panur · 7 months

Text

AU where Geralt gets his wish when he asks life to take Jaskier off his hands: Geralt gets isekai'd to an AU where Jaskier never met him and thus didn't spend 20 years cleaning his reputation and those of other witchers/nonhumans by extension

some headcanon highlights of this AU (feel free to use or discard):

this world is Awful, the way they treat Witchers in general (and Geralt in particular) is HELLA bad. Refused service and entrance in more than half the towns he enters and being paid poorly if he gets paid at all, people terrified and hateful towards him

He finds out Pavetta jumped off a tower after her mother had Duny killed (guess you're finally free of that child surprise, Geralt...)

Calanthe has become an unhinged warmonger having nothing to lose, particularly against elves, who are even more decimated than usual

Eskel was killed as result of witcher propaganda getting MUCH worse after the raise of the white flame + the whole Blaviken thing

Vesemir is a shadow of himself, living alone in Kaer Morhen, not having talked to anyone for years

Lambert moved permanently with the cat caravan and blames Geralt for Eskel's death

less witchers in general (with a lot having died or retired since continuing in the current conditions is unsustainable) means a lot more monsters, particularly Necrophages and Wraiths

Yen is disfigured and severally weakened/borderline disabled after getting majorly cursed from eating that infant dragon's heart + several botched attempts at making it better (maybe they can use the djinn to fix the timeline?)

#it's free real estate prompt just tag me so i can read

#the witcher netflix #the witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #geraltxjaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #prancing plotbunnies #it's free real estate prompt just tag me so i can read

289 notes · View notes

writernotwaiting · 6 years

Text

Mis-Matched, part 2

(I told you I wouldn’t abandon this. It’s only been, what, a year? aaaarrrrgh!).

Title: Mis-Matched Rating: M (this is subject to change at the whim of the author’s muses) Characters: Loki, Sigyn, Frigga, Theoric, and various supporting OCs Description: This is an attempt to fill the propmt requested by @someillplanetreigns (and now I can’t even tag you!): “you asked for prompts and pairings - I would like to humbly beg for more Logyn? I don’t have a great prompt, but this odd thought is in my head about a way to make the comic plot about Theoric and the marriage into something about marriage by proxy? Maybe something like Loki has the duty of proxy-marrying Sigyn cos Theoric’s in the army, and totally plays everyone by going the whole hog and appearing as Theoric, but then Sigyn, who thought Theoric was dull as ditchwater and Loki is… well, y’know, Loki.” Chapter: 2 of 3 (hope!) Acknowledgements: thank you @icybluepenguin for serving as one of my favorite institgaors and sounding boards – you rock!

See Part 1 here and see both on Ao3 here

____________________________________________

It’s done. I’m married. Signed. Sealed. Now awaiting delivery.

Sigyn stood on the grand steps of her guardian’s house awaiting the carriage that would remove her from his condescending gaze forever, and into the midst of the Aesir court—one tiny victory in exchange for what could easily turn into a lifetime of defeats. She smiled tightly as Loki offered to help her into the cushioned interior of the carriage before he stepped back to salute her guardian and mount his horse.

A week earlier, she’d almost ruined everything. Loki had been showing her some illusions—skillful fireworks. And though they were in an inner courtyard, they were alone—at least Sigyn had thought so. So on impulse Sigyn decided to show him some fire magic. Just a few things, a tiny fireball in the palm of her hand, flames on her fingertips. He was fascinated when he discovered that the flames weren’t illusory, that they threw real heat. She was about to bring up the fireball once more, when the voice of her guardian rang out, “Sigyn, there you are! I’ve been looking for you.”

Sigyn froze in her tracks, quickly dousing the spell. “Herr Braggison! I apologize. What can I do for you?”

“Come with me, girl, I need to talk to you about the packing.”

That was a lie, and she knew it, but what could she do? Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, she curtsied quickly to Loki and followed her guardian into the house as he led her to his office. [read more cut below]

As soon as the door shut he rounded on her. “What in all the nine realms do you think you’re doing, girl?”

“Just making conversation with our guest,” she replied through gritted teeth. “You know, making him feel welcome, just like you told me to.”

“Idiot! What did I say? No fire magic, ever!”

“We were just trading spells. Anyone can do a simple flame spell.”

“Not like that! No one summons fire like that—only you, only your kind. What do you think will happen if they find out?”

She shifted her gaze to the window, eyes full of resentment, still clenching her teeth, so her voice was barely audible. “Banished.”

“Exactly. No wedding. No bride price. No fancy house. Nothing. Both of us will be ruined, and as much as I know you would love to see me disgraced, I think the price is too heavy, even for you.” Iric stuck his index finger right in her face. “No more fire spells. Ever.”

“Yes, sir.” She stayed in the little office for a good half hour after Iric stormed out, just breathing, working hard to get her temper back under control, before she ventured back out into the house proper. By then, Iric had distracted Loki with the promise of a ride through the grounds, so Sigyn was safe to bury herself in her room until supper. Iric was right, of course. She had been showing off and not thinking about the implications. Loki wasn’t stupid, and if her secret got out, she would no longer be welcome in Asgard. But that didn’t mean she made that admission with good grace.

Now that the proxy wedding was over, and she settled in for the carriage ride to court, Sigyn scowled as the door latched shut.

I can ride a horse, guys! At least then I could talk to him. I hate this. I hate the marriage. I hate Theoric. I hate my guardian. I hate my father. I hate everything!And she flopped back into the soft seat with all the grace of a 14 year old.

If no one can see me, I can pout all I want.

And who could fault that logic?

Not Loki.

He would like nothing more than to crawl in the carriage and pout right along with her.

Well, he’s pretty certain he would get to the pouting part, eventually. He would probably start with the comforting part first. Or maybe soothing distraction. Or just outright distraction. Perhaps active distraction. At any rate, Loki had to admit to himself that he was pretty darn distracted, dammit, as he rode next to the carriage and tried valiantly to keep looking forward with a straight face. Somewhere along the line he had lost the diplomat’s objectivity. His mother would be appalled.

How in the name of all that’s blessed did this happen?

After a second day spent in Sigyn’s company, Loki had decided that a real look at the contract was in order. His conversation with Frigga replayed in his imagination, “If the couple are pleased enough with the match to sign the contract, there is nothing to be done against it,” Frigga had said. But Sigyn did not seem pleased.

In private, Sigyn’s laughter was quick, her smile bright, and her company sent something down his spine akin to warm water trickling into a pool. When Loki followed her out to her hiding places around Herr Braggison’s estate, they talked about books, favorite stories, even traded favorite spells—usually by blowing things up (little things, honest).

However, once in the house again, she shuttered everything. Her mouth transformed into a tight line or rigid smile, especially if her guardian appeared or Theoric’s name was mentioned.

And so, of course, he had a professional duty to read the contract. Granted, this was only a temporary assignment until his wounds had finally healed enough to return to the fighting, but as an official representative of the court, he couldn’t permit a vulnerable member of society to be taken advantage of. Frigga would expect of him. His investigation was purely in the government’s interest. There had to be a loophole or a mistake somewhere that would free Sigyn from such a disadvantageous match.

He read it twice.

Unfortunately, all he managed to discover was how thoroughly precise Sigyn’s guardian had been. Every legal contingency covered. Every stipulation specified. Every punctuation mark of her father’s wishes taken into account.

He noticed only one particular omission: the distinct lack of the intended bride’s signature. Loki repeated this to himself like a mantra. Sigyn had never signed the negotiated contract. She hadn’t signed.

“If the couple are pleased enough with the match to sign the contract, there is nothing to be done against it.”

But Sigyn hadn’t signed.

Well, in another two weeks Loki would be cleared to go back to the fighting himself, and then he could do a bit of reconnaissance on his own — a character study of the groom was in order. Perhaps he could locate his second loophole there. In the meanwhile, he would absolutely ensure Sigyn felt more than welcome at the palace.

Perhaps he could serve as proxy at more than just the wedding. He smirked at the thought, then startled when his horse jostled him around a tree branch in the road.

Idiot! Pay attention to what you’re doing.

Loki, however, was nothing if not an opportunist.

No one would criticize him if he chose to take a break from his horse and ride for a bit in the carriage. He was a prince, after all.

Which is exactly what he did on the second day. They talked about books, about what life would be like at court, about the life Sigyn was leaving behind (though this seemed curiously edited, to Loki’s mind), and the shared little illusions. Loki found himself increasingly caught by the sparkle in her eyes when she became excited, by the way the light occasionally glinted off her riotous curls, by the tiny little scar by her eye that got swallowed in a dimple when she smiled. And he thought she might be caught, too, just a little bit—her gaze slow to leave his when they laughed together.

But then her ease vanished again as soon as she sensed a change in the road, from rutted dirt, to smooth hard-packed earth, and then to gravel. Sigyn peered out the window at the large buildings that sprang up before them and her expression became shuttered and her shoulders tense. Loki tried to distract her by naming the more prominent ones, playing tour guide, but where her hands had animated with her interest before, her fists withdrew into a tight knot in her lap.

“Are you alright, Sigyn?”

“Yes, your highness,” with a smile obviously practiced, “everything’s fine. What were you saying about that building over there?” Here actions transformed from something nearly flirtatious to polished politeness.

Loki paused before he resumed playing tour guide, doing his best to hide his own frustration and growing anger at the situation.

This is not right. Why is she going along with something that she obviously dreads. There is some piece I’m missing.

He took one risk, covering her hands with one of his own. He felt her flinch, before she briefly squeezed his fingers and pulled her hands away to hide them in her pockets. She flashed him a tight smile, but he could see the glitter in her eyes before she turned away to face the window.

When they arrived at the palace, their first duty was to pay their respects to the queen. And after brief introductions, Frigga had one of her own attendants guide Sigyn to her room so she could rest a bit and change, “We’ll talk again over a light snack this evening. I’ll arrange for you to have supper on your own—I’m sure you’re exhausted after your travels.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” Sigyn curtsied, “I would appreciate a little time to get settled.”

“Gudren, help Sigyn navigate her way about, won’t you? The place can be a bit of a maze until you’re used to it.”

After the women left, Loki started to leave as well, but Frigga caught his arm and dragged him back with a serious look. “Loki.”

He looked at his mother, surprised at her sharp tone, “Mother?”

“Don’t.”

Again, he frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I do have eyes, dearest, and you cannot hide That Look from me. She’s married. You need to stop looking at her like that.”

Loki was all over innocence as he replied, “Like what?”

“Loki!”

He scrunched up his face in distaste, giving up the pretense. “She doesn’t want this. Everything she does screams it. And I can’t blame her. She’s smart, witty, highly educated. She’ll be miserable. There’s nothing about her that will appeal to Theoric and nothing about Theoric that would appeal to her.”

“She signed the contract, Loki. We cannot judge her circumstances. Love is a completely unpredictable thing.”

“She didn’t.”

Frigga’s tone rose. “What?”

“She didn’t sign the contract. It was drawn up a month before her majority, and her guardian signed for her. Something isn’t right about this, Mother.”

“And you have absolutely no vested interest in something being wrong?” Frigga raised an eyebrow as she spoke.

Loki paused as he tried to read his mother’s expression. This was not a time to be flippant. “Would it be frowned upon if I did have some interest in the outcome?”

Frigga pursed her lips as she examined his face carefully. “I had not planned to think on this for many years to come.” Another long pause. “I’m sure your father would prefer something more politically astute.”

Loki replied carefully, though he had already given it a good deal of thought over the past few days, “Well, I am, after all, only a second son. Does this not give me slightly more leeway in this area?”

Frigga mostly suppressed a smile at that. “Slightly. Why don’t I tell you exactly how much leeway you have after I have spoken with her a bit further?”

Loki bowed his head and smiled, “I have full confidence in your judgement.”

“You are a very naughty young man. Rather than mooning about your room this evening, perhaps you should spend a few hours in either the law or the genealogy libraries?”

“That is an excellent thought, Mother. I love nothing more than tracing family histories.”

Frigga turned him toward the doors and shoved him out, whispering, “Be discreet!”

_____

Sigyn took stock of her situation after Gudren left. Her room was slightly smaller than the one she was used to—the bed took up a good deal of the available real estate. But there was a dresser, a little desk near a large window, and best of all she had her own bath with a small vanity and mirror, separated from her bedroom by a short hall that doubled as a closet.

Then she stared ruefully at the crates full of books stacked on her floor. Perhaps I can ask for some shelves to be put on one side of the closet.

It was already late afternoon, so she went about unpacking the barest necessities, starting with the clothes and toiletries. She tried hard to not think about the day’s ride, which meant, of course, that it was all she thought about. The carriage was small and stacked with boxes she hadn’t wanted to risk to the cart, so Loki sat nearly scrunched up next to her—Sigyn’s skin fairly tingled every time their arms or thighs brushed. She could still call up the clean smell of his leather jacket, and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes when he laughed.

All of the things that could not be hers, for a multitude of reasons. When Loki covered her hands with his own, it nearly broke her.

I hope Iric chokes on his money.

Someone brought in her supper after a bit and let her know the queen would like to see her in three hours. Right. Eat now. Think later. Much, much later.

Sigyn dressed with care, entertaining vague hopes that Loki might keep his mother company at her evening table, but it was not to be. In fact, Frigga dismissed her other women as Sigyn arrived. “I wanted to get to know you without having an audience. It can be intimidating, moving to this crowded place from a country estate. I wanted to get to know you, so I know how best to make use of your talents in the little time I get to keep you.”

And there was the reminder—the little time. Sigyn checked her face to make sure it was still that of the well-behaved bride. “Of course, your majesty, I will do whatever I can to be useful until my husband returns from the front.”

Frigga nodded, giving no indication that she noticed the flicker in Sigyn’s expression. “Loki tells me that you work seidr?”

“Yes, majesty.”

“And that you’re self taught?”

Sigyn blushed a bit. “Not entirely—I started to study with my mother a couple of years before she passed away.”

“But after that?”

“Yes. After that I was left to my own devices, pretty much. And after Father died, I was able to keep Mother’s books. Some of it was slow going, but there’s not much to do on Herr Braggison’s estate, so I could spend as much time in study as possible.”

“So you’re self motivated—I like that.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Tell me about your favorite spells.”

Sigyn had a brief thrill of panic, but the conversation went easily after that short hitch. Frigga was good at that, putting others at ease, drawing them out. Sigyn quite lost track of time, until Frigga broke up their conversation. “It’s getting a bit late, Sigyn. Since you’re here, why don’t you help me get ready for bed rather than calling for someone else.”

“Of course.”

She led her into an inner chamber where her clothes hung on long, well-organized racks, pulling a night dress down and laying it across the back of a chair. “Would you undo my laces, dear.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sigyn reached up to undo Frigga’s breastplate, then untangle the laces at her neck. After Frigga had changed, she sat in front of the vanity.

“Would you unpin my hair for me?”

“Certainly.” Sigyn searched for and then pulled out the pins holding together Frigga’s elaborate up-do, unwinding the braids before gently running her finger through them to pull them apart. When Frigga handed her a brush, Sigyn felt a slight tingle as she ran it through the long, golden locks. Not a single snag.

“It’s magic, isn’t it?” Sigyn marveled.

Frigga smiled broadly. “The brush? Yes, how could you tell?”

“I can feel it. Did you do this?”

“It was a gift. Loki made it for me. He was always underfoot when he was young, and was always noticing things. He saw one of the ladies struggling with the knots in my hair and gave me this brush for my name day.”

“That was very thoughtful. How clever.”

Frigga laughed, “He can be when he wants to be.”

That night Sigyn curled into herself in the new, unfamiliar bed trying to find sleep. Her mind, though, simply would not let her go. She wanted so badly to just enjoy how welcome she felt. The queen had been more than gracious—Sigyn felt real approval. There was no hint of the outlander prejudice her guardian always threw in her face, no disparagement for her studies or magic-sensitivity—far from it. But, she reminded herself, her place here was temporary—only as long as Theoric was needed in the war. As soon as there was a break, he would take her out to his estate. She shuddered. How long would she be able to postpone being alone with him? Never long enough.

If the will hadn’t insisted on marriage, she would have set herself up independently—a little herb shop in town—surely a city as big as the one surrounding the castle could support another kitchen witch. It wouldn’t be glamorous, sure, but a single life where she controlled her own destiny was infinitely preferable to what she faced now. But why Theoric? Surely Iric could have come to an arrangement with someone else—someone clever, perhaps even a magic user, someone with green eyes and sculpted cheekbones with lean muscles and a liquid voice as deep as a forest pool whose touch felt electric on her skin . . .

Arrrrrhg!

Thatwas exactly what she should not be thinking about. As if she weren’t in enough trouble as it was, now her brain readily produced vivid alternatives to her oaf of a husband, and the more pleasant those dreams were, the more miserable she became. Even if she weren’t married Loki was a prince. Princes marry for politics not money, which was all she had to offer. There was certainly no prestige attached to her breeding. They both of them should be wearing big signs: Do Not Touch!

Oh Norns, it would be so easy to get into so much trouble!

And unfortunately, part of her really wanted to get into trouble right now.

Sleep took a long time to find her.

_____

Frigga, on the other hand, found herself quite satisfied by the evening’s conversation, and made a note to herself to gather as much gossip as possible about Herr Braggison and Theoric—after all, she had vast resources with which to do so. Loki was right, Sigyn was wasted on Theoric, and something about that marriage contract definitely smelled of three-day-old fish.

#Loki #Sigyn #Logyn #fan fiction #my fan fiction #holy shit it's been a long time #sorry #I'm really sorry #I protrate myself and await my pennance #I am a horrible person

32 notes · View notes

huangels · 6 years

Text

eleven questions tag ☼

tagged by: @lstkpopflsgood ty babe !

rules: answer the eleven questions if you’re tagged, and then list another set of eleven questions for the people you tag to answer!

⇢ What do you think it could win on a battle: Water or Fire?

ever since i was little, i’ve ALWAYS wanted to touch fire…and i have once (well almost). i stuck my hands into a fire place when i was like 5 y/o ? but my mom saved me before my hand can touch the fire. anyway, weird ass story aside, i love fire but i guess it depends on the amount. like if there was an equal amount of both elements, then maybe water would win but it all comes down to the science of it because if the amount of fire is vast and of high enough temperature enough, it can evaporate the water quickly into steam which means it wins. but if there’s a small fire and a whole firetruck (wHOOP WHOOP) hose then of course the water wins. i would call it a draw, both elements are super powerful.

⇢ What do you love and hate the most? and why?

love — ok you’d think i’m exaggerating but i’m gonna say renjun. he’s my bias for a reason, he’s my ult of all ults foR A REASON. of course i mean he’s maybe not the thing i love MOST in the world but there’s just so much to love and appreciate i have for renjun. he’s beautiful and ethereal, he has so many cute features about him, like his snaggletooth (rip), and his dimple, and the two front teeth that kinda stick out, and his birthmark/mole on his hand. he’s also amazingly talented and caring (even when putting members in chokeholds). i just love him so much :’)

hate — hate is a strong word and i like to live my life without using the word hate too much so there isn’t really anything that i hate but for the sake of this question and this tag, i would say that i dislike slow walkers (maybe not the most but) they’re really annoying, especially if they’re walking in the middle of the sidewalk or hallway like hELLO people (me) have places to go.

⇢ Do you thing it’s really necessary for us to live with another person? To have a couple life?

honestly, there are many people that live their life without a significant other (wife/husband/boyfriend/girlfriend), so no i don’t think it’s necessary. a person can find love within other people and things without having to date or marry anyone. for example, love shared by friendship or families or pets or hobbies even. i mean it’s different for everyone too, some want the love shared in a romantic relationship. but it’s definitely not necessary to have a significant other. it’s whatever makes one happy that they should pursue it.

⇢ Are animals better than humans?

i don’t know if they are any better but they aren’t any worse than humans. of course, some might think that yes, animals are better and have more morals or something but that’s mostly because we have yet to discover or invent technology to understand animals. so it seems as if they are portrayed to be pure and innocent though it is nature and predators feed on prey and prey feed on plants that are needed for oxygen. so i don’t really know the answer but i do know that humans are corrupt in a way that animals are not.

⇢ Do you have a favorite something? If yes, what is it and why?

this is so broad my three brain cells are working hard to try to find an answer but i’ve got nothing so i’m gonna be boring and say my favorite animal is a dog bc they are precious and pure and deserve the world

⇢ What is your favorite music? Why?

i don’t particularly have a favorite genre of music, i mostly listen to what sounds pleasing to my ears ? but i do have a ‘style’ of music that i lean towards more and that is more pumped up/groovy/funky/unique/etc songs (ex: romance - shinee, fallin - mx, get it - tbz, monday blues - cbx, pretty boy - taemin, thunder - exo, etc.) it might seem like a weird description but basically songs that aren’t too slow or too fast, songs that have unique beats or melodies or lyrics. i don’t particularly like slow sad songs because it makes me kinda…sad ? like if i listen to sad or slow music, i just get emotional and think too much idk anyway. i prefer more upbeat songs because it’s like a dance party everywhere i go. (i still listen to sad music anyway bc [REAL EMO HOURS] also listen to baby by the rose thnx)

⇢ If you read, what is your favorite book?

i’m gonna be quite honest here…i haven’t read a book that i wanted to read (like picked out at the library or bought) in like years… i’ve just haven’t had the time to read books lately and the books i do read are for my classes or for reports that i didn’t particularly pick out for myself. but from the books i’ve read through my life, i really enjoy reading mysteries, thrillers, and sci-fi books. a good favorite of mine is ‘american pyscho’ (i love really fucked up shit i’m weird don’t judge) but i also like the book ‘the bell jar’ (also kinda fucked up story). i guess that’s what prompted me in my interest in writing mysteries or thrillers but i don’t have much experience in it so i’ll stick with fluffy short fics for now

⇢ Where do you would like to visit/live in?

i really looooove traveling !! though i haven’t traveled to that many places, i’d love to visit literally everywhere, doesn’t matter if there’s barely anything to do. living wise, if we’re being realistic, probably texas because real estate is cheaper and basically everything is cheaper, but if we’re pushing money and bills aside, probably back to china, up north somewhere idk lol ?

⇢ What is your zodiac sign? Talk a little about it and say if it fits you or not.

my zodiac is scorpio, and honestly i don’t know much about astrology except for the sprinkles of zodiac posts i see on instagram or tumblr sometimes. but from what i’ve seen around, scorpios are supposed to be sex driven, mysterious, cold, and bitchy, and i don’t think i fit into any of those traits lol. but my friend, who’s a big astrology nerd, says that my appearance is the LITERAL definition of a scorpio (idk what he meant so i just went along with it). i mean i guess i get it kinda ? bc my outer appearance is kinda cold and i’ve been told i have a resting bitch face so if i don’t smile then i look angry or mean (so i try to smile more now heh). but if there’s any other traits you guys know about scorpios, feel free to tell me bc i’d like to know !

⇢ What you think it’s your funniest moment til now?

my life is just a big fat boring so this took a while to think of (idk if this is the funniest bc i have the memory of a goldfish) but recently about a few weeks ago, i went to this cafe to have lunch with my friend and as we were eating my fucking statistics professor came in and my friend points it out to me. i didn’t know if i should say hi or not bc i didn’t know if she knows who i even am (bc i rarely attended that class since attendance wasn’t mandatory and math is my good subject) so i just ignored her. then she sat down at the table RIGHT NEXT TO MINE and then the fucking TA’s for the stats lab joined her and it was just hella awkward bc i think the TA’s remember me (long story short i was late for my final bc a bitch slept in and i basically begged while knocking continuously on the window for the TA to let me into the lab to take the final and they did eventually) so anyway i think they remembered me but i still didn’t want to say hi. my professor got up later and i thought they were gonna leave and i can finally breathe but then SHE FUCKING WALKS UP TO OUR TABLE AND ASKS MY FRIEND IF SHE CAN TAKE A PHOTO OF HER AND THE TA’S and at that point, i was about to scream. so my friend took the photo and i STILL didn’t say hi even though i SHOULD’VE then. and the whole thing was a mess and it wasn’t funny then but looking back at it now, i’m laughing my damn ass off at myself

⇢ Milk before cereals or cereals before milk?

if you pour your milk before your cereal, i’m gonna push you down a well and leave you there to rot

questions for you:

what is the first memory you remember? like from birth or when you were young?

what is the line between art and not art?

what job would you be terrible at? why?

what is your zodiac sign? talk a little about it and say if it fits you or not.

when people come to you for help, what do they usually want help with?

what age do you wish you could permanently be? why?

who is you ideal boy/girl? describe him/her if you can’t think of a person (list physical traits and characteristic traits).

what’s the most annoying question people ask you? why do you find it annoying? how do you usually answer them?

can money = happiness?

as the only human left on earth, what would you do?

what is your guilty pleasure? why is it your guilty pleasure and what sparked it to be your guilty pleasure?

tagging: @ohdaddy-nct @jaeehyuns @hyucko @jencto @jeno-screaming (only if you guys want to !! ) + anyone else who wants to do it :^]

#tags #personal #this is honestly a mess hfdfhsh #i should be watching my lectures and taking notes for my next class #i should also be writing a request so i can post it #but guess what im lazy and a mess #im tired let me be im gonna sleep now

12 notes · View notes

biofunmy · 5 years

Text

Sex and the Subway Ad

There is so much sex on the New York City subway now. Have you noticed? If you’re here, you must have. It’s inescapable.

Sometimes, train stations are just coated in phallic cactuses. They jut out in every direction, advertising a company called Hims that sells not plants, but pills to help treat hair loss and erectile dysfunction.

Within train cars, an ad for the linens company Brooklinen shows three pairs of feet tangled together under a sheet. Brooklinen originally wanted to tell riders that the sheets were meant for “threesomes” but was made to tweak it by the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. The advertisement now says that the sheet is for “throuples,” those in a committed relationship of three.

There are so many more. The Museum of Sex. Breast Augmentation. Lola prompts riders to talk about “condoms, lubricant and wipes,” under an image of two women happily discussing “the weirdest thing I’ve ever felt.” OkCupid uses a common acronym for being willing to have casual sex. Roman asks if you’re subject to (again!) erectile dysfunction.

When did this start? Where is it going? Do we really need this much sex on the subway? And what do we tell the kids?

Graffiti Out, Nudity In

In the 1980s, the subways were perhaps the least sexy place in New York, unless you were turned on by dirty, broken things. In 1984, the M.T.A. hired a superstar of the transit world, David L. Gunn, from Philadelphia to improve the system.

At first, Mr. Gunn focused on the most serious problems: derailments and dangerously hot cars. But eventually he got around to cleaning up the interiors. By 1989, the eyesores of the previous decade — broken windows, trash all over the floor — were all but gone. A graffiti artist told The New York Times then that he barely had time to take a picture of a finished tag, or signature, before a worker popped up to scrub it away.

Three years later, the M.T.A. lost a major source of revenue when it banned tobacco advertising in subways and buses, which had made up about 16 percent of the $27 million the agency earned from advertising annually.

A new class of advertisement soon emerged to fill all those empty spaces. In April 1993, New York Newsday ran an article with the headline “SEXY BUSES, SEXY SUBWAYS” on its front page. It reported that the city’s subway and bus system would soon get its “raciest ads ever,” for the radio station Hot 97. They were to feature eight embracing couples, some of them nude to the waist.

The next year, Gay Men’s Health Crisis, an AIDS nonprofit, began running subway ads that showed same-sex couples canoodling, with the tag line “Young. Hot. Safe!”

The organization received bomb threats that specifically cited the ads, said Krishna Stone, then a volunteer with G.M.H.C.

Hot 97 ads used sex to sell an image of the radio station. Gay Men’s Health Crisis was compelled to mention it by way of addressing a public health epidemic. In 2019, the companies that advertise on the subways frequently blur the distinction between these very different categories of ad.

The M.T.A. has long used contractors, companies like New York Subways Advertising, TDI and (these days) Outfront Media, as its first line of defense when it comes to determining what is decent enough for the public eye.

It’s always been a balancing act. “We recognize that advertisers have a right to get their message across,” Larry Levine, then a director of real-estate operations for the M.T.A., told Newsday in 1993. “At the same time, we don’t expect our contractors to put up things that are totally offensive.”

Four years ago, tired of losing in court, the agency again changed its advertising policy, most significantly banning all political advertising on the subways and buses. That helped convert the legal status of the transit system from a designated public forum into a limited public forum, with more ability to self-regulate.

These days, the process is supposed to work like this. When Outfront Media believes that an ad violates the M.T.A.’s advertising policy, it is supposed to forward the ad to the agency’s advertising review committee of three: a director of external affairs, a compliance officer and a development officer (two women and a man). The committee, which sees a tiny percentage of all the ads submitted to the subway, is advised by a lawyer who specializes in free speech.

If advertisers are rejected, they can appeal the committee’s decision, asking the authority’s chief development officer, Janno Lieber, for a formal written ruling. Not many companies get to that point.

Next Stop: Your Undies

It is a classic, if risky marketing strategy to get attention through provocation. (See “You want to know what comes between me and my Calvins? Nothing.” and its variants.) If advertisers can get publicity by feuding with the subway, it may serve them better in the long run than the neutered ads that the authority would permit them to run.

The year the subway changed its advertising policy, Thinx, a company that makes products for women, like special underwear for periods, took a combative route after being rejected by Outfront. (This was before Miki Agrawal, a founder and the chief executive of Thinx, was ousted from the company after being accused of sexually harassing employees.)

Ms. Agrawal told Bustle that men were afraid of the period. She told Mic that, seemingly, it was fine to objectify women as the menstrual cycle went unacknowledged. (Consider the ads for local plastic surgeons who do breast implants.) And she told The Times that the rejection was “a double standard we were not going to let by.” On the same day, the M.T.A. told The Times, referring to the ads, that “of course they will be approved.” They went up.

“We feel like we paved the way for many other brands to really push the boundaries of their advertising,” said Siobhan Lonergan, the chief brand officer of Thinx.

Indeed, many other companies selling intimate products or referring to sex seem to be getting easy clearance from the M.T.A. In fact, the agency is more lenient than transit agencies in other cities, said Melissa Hobley, the chief marketing officer of OkCupid, the dating company.

Its recent campaign was kept off the Bay Area Rapid Transit system in San Francisco and Oakland. Chicago rejected it, as did Austin, Tex. But while the New York subways didn’t take the ads right away (Outfront kicked it up to the M.T.A., which then negotiated changes with OkCupid), the ads eventually began to run.

And yet, despite the M.T.A.’s increasing permissiveness, two companies that make sex toys have found a line that the agency, so far, has been unwilling to cross.

The M.T.A. says in a posted list and questions and answers about its policy that advertisements for sex toys straightforwardly violate a rule against what it calls “sexually oriented businesses” introduced in 2015, at the same time as the rule prohibiting political advertising.

In the spring of 2018, Polly Rodriguez, a founder of Unbound, a company that makes sex toys, thought the subways would be a good place to advertise. She submitted mock-ups to Outfront, but was told that the ads would not be approved under M.T.A. guidelines.

Ms. Rodriguez did not hear from the M.T.A. directly. She heard only from an employee of Outfront, David Luna, who said that “our committee” decided that the ads did not meet M.T.A. guidelines. The ads violated sections of M.T.A. rules that prohibit dissemination of indecent material to minors and the public display of “offensive sexual material,” he said.

Like Thinx before it, Ms. Rodriguez’s company went to the press, accusing the M.T.A. of sexism. After several articles and lots of social media fervor, a spokesman for the agency told The Times that it would “work with the company toward a resolution that is agreeable to all parties and allows their ads on the system.”

Over the summer things with Outfront continued to drag along. For a time, Ms. Rodriguez gave up.

“Everybody’s allowed to use women’s bodies and sexuality to sell since the dawn of time, except women themselves,” she said.

Encouraged by the agency’s public diplomacy in the press, another female-led company that makes sex toys, Dame Products, submitted an ad campaign to the M.T.A. in August, and went through several rounds of edits.

In November 2018, the authority posted a “frequently asked questions” page that specified that advertisements for sex toys or devices were barred from the subways. A month after that, Dame’s ads were rejected in a final determination by Mr. Lieber.

Alexandra Fine, a founder of Dame and a friend of Ms. Rodriguez’s, received an email from Andy Byford, the president of New York City Transit (the branch of the M.T.A. responsible for day-to-day operations). He told her that he “cringed” when he read of her experience but that he did not have the authority to do anything himself.

Ms. Fine did not give up. Earlier this summer, Dame sued the M.T.A.; its chairman, Pat Foye; and Mr. Lieber. In the suit, Dame asked that the court compel the M.T.A. to feature its ads. The litigation is continuing.

Ms. Rodriguez and Ms. Fine have consistently contrasted the M.T.A.’s treatment of their companies with Hims and Roman, which also sells pills to combat erectile dysfunction. The subway justifies allowing those companies’ advertisements by saying they offer medicinal products while Unbound and Dame offer products only for pleasure.

“Fifty-five-year-old men don’t need erections,” Ms. Fine said. “Those erections make them feel alive and that’s beautiful, but same with my sex toys.”

Emma Freeman, a lawyer representing Dame in the suit, said that “the notion very broadly that advertisements like Roman and Hims serve a public health interest that Dame doesn’t is nonsense,” adding that the M.T.A.’s decisions represented a “pretty egregious double standard that stems from patriarchal and sexist cultural standards.”

Asked to comment on the Dame lawsuit, the M.T.A. said in a statement that its “advertising policy and its decision not to display the Dame Products ads is not gender-based or viewpoint discriminatory,” adding that its advertising policy clearly states “that advertisements for sex toys or devices for any gender are not permitted. Advertising for FDA-approved medication — including sexual dysfunction medication for any gender — is permitted.”

More generally, the agency says that advertising “provides a critical revenue source” and that its advertising policy allows it to “maximize ridership and fare revenues and maintain a secure, orderly and welcoming system.” In other words, it runs ads to make money, while also running a transportation network that serves a huge cross-section of the public.

Mad as Heck

Along with all the other trouble facing the M.T.A., like suspended service during a recent heat wave, total unpredictability from line to line and the saga of the L train, the agency says it hears frequently from organizations and individuals upset about sexual content in advertisements. Occasionally, passengers’ interactions with them pop up on social media, too.

But even if a judge rules against Dame the increasing permissiveness of the last 50 years suggests there will come a day when ads for vibrators will not offend enough New Yorkers for the agency to bother rejecting them.

Hims’s chief executive, Andrew Dudum, expressed support for Unbound and Dame. “If there is any sense of gender bias, then it’s exceptionally offensive,” he said. “And I would encourage the M.T.A. to take women’s health issues and women’s sexuality with the same degree of importance that they would take anybody else’s.”

Mr. Dudum added that his own ads should not bother anyone.

“You wont ever see ‘sex sells’ with Hims and Hers,” he said. “You won’t see crazy nudity or things that are graphically vulgar that when I walk the streets of New York I’m shocked have been allowed anywhere.”

Dan Gluck, the founder of the Museum of Sex, which is advertised on the front of buses that sail past elementary schools in Brooklyn and elsewhere, has four children: two teenagers, a preteen and a toddler. He said that ads that promote sex are “just part of the conversation of life.”

“Why not expose people, even at a young age, to the idea that sex is part of their lives, their world and their culture, and it’s O.K. to talk about it?” he said. “I don’t think there should be pornographic ads in the subway. But I think its O.K. to have sexually oriented ads in the subway that initiate conversation. I have zero ethical problem with that from a parent’s perspective.”

Katherine O’Keefe, a spokeswoman for Brooklinen, said that the company did hear from “moms and people who are concerned about what image we’re selling,” but said that far more often the company got laudatory feedback from customers who were excited to see themselves represented in the ads.

Still, it is clear that the ads are uncomfortable for religious communities, many parents and teachers shuttling children from classes to museums (not the one of sex) on the subway.

In May, The Jewish Press lamented the Museum of Sex ads in an editorial: “Nearly every day, at least several hundred thousand people — including tens of thousands of innocent teenagers and children — see these ads,” the editorial read. “Among them are many hundreds (perhaps thousands) of yeshiva boys and Bais Yaakov girls who ride on trains.” (The phrase “Bais Yaakov” means school age.)

Elana Taubman, who teaches middle-schoolers in the city, said she was put in an uncomfortable situation by one of the companies that sells erectile dysfunction pills during the past school year. One of her students asked her what erectile dysfunction was. She told him to ask his science teacher. But the students continued to talk about the advertisement.

“It made me realize that my students were pretty old compared to all the students who take the subway every single day,” Ms. Taubman said. “A 13-year-old, that’s not even that crazy. To think that there are 9-, 10-, 11-year-olds being exposed to this every day? I’d say it was a very explicit ad, and I thought it was a lot for them to see.”

Ms. Fine, the Dame founder, understood this perspective. Referring to Hims and Roman and all the other companies permitted to allude to sex in the subway (however subliminally), she said, “If nobody could run ads, if they couldn’t run ads either, I would not feel nearly as indignant about it.”

In an email later in the day, though, Ms. Fine returned to her initial stance.

“Sex-focused products SHOULD be allowed to advertise because sex is a healthy part of the human experience,” she wrote.

Sahred From Source link Fashion and Style

from WordPress http://bit.ly/33rsKYw via IFTTT

#IFTTT #WordPress

0 notes