you can call me basically anything beginning with B, i’ve experienced every object and nickname in the book at some point. go for what you like. i’m not bothered on pronouns but i am AFAB and i only write AFAB reader stuff. nonnegotiable.
i’ll write what i’m obsessed with but i have a special spot for lewis pullman characters and all things DC.
if he looks like a nerd then i’ll fuck him.
there’s also a chance i’ll write an ask for a character you like if i think i can do them justice, i might not even be into them. i’m bi so female, male and anything in between is great. give me your asks and i shall fulfill your destiny!
Kurt Wagner who is not abashed, not even one bit, of being nude around you.
Word count: 1.6k
It is with frivolity that he ambles around your sun-flooded room as the morning ripens and swells with warmth, and the great concrete gorges of the city of New York lie imposing and bleak-gray against the low-hanging skies. Rivers of car noise flow unhurried along the avenue, gurgling with intermittent horn hiccups and engine hisses, but it’s muted, sluggish, fading in the air laden with dust and slumber not quite shaken off yet. An eggshell of peace, easily cracked and peeled off; a halt of time between the first alarm and the next, when minutes stretch their limbs like drowsy cats yet seem to fly over your head just as swiftly as a flock of canaries. This wonderfully placid hour of gold, the one you’d keep sleeping through, none the wiser, if not for the promise of a vision that has become the favorite of your routine. A dark blue ink stain against the oranges that paint your mornings — a man basking in the sun’s glory in front of the window.
Before your half-lidded eyes Kurt is bare and candid. A stolen sliver of dusk given form and seemingly for the sole purpose of bewitching impressionable lasses such as yourself. He's all litheness and supple flesh, woven of lax muscle, adorned with ridges and grooves, and as he flexes his neck with a stifled groan, the indigo sea of his pelt moves in languid waves, sheen rippling across the expanse of his back. He yawns, cracks his joints, twists his tail in a mock show of checking its mobility; leisured poise softens every move in a manner that speaks of deliberateness: he knows you are awake and mesmerized by the tango of shadows and morning light on his body.
And who wouldn’t be when the dishevelment of his fur draws a map of your night rendezvous?
Shoulder blades splay like wings — between them furrows of raked hairs mark your nails' trail in a broken line. Your gaze climbs down the soft crest running along his spine, travels past the ravines of his waist and the slopes of his hips, slides across delicate hollows that shape his buttocks, and lingers for a moment too long in the canyon of his mighty thighs. There, beneath the crease of folded skin, shadows lurk, veiling his flesh in a display of modesty of sorts — as feigned as it could be, for the taste of him still coats your tongue in a musky tang, strangely soothing in its bitterish familiarity. You do not hurry to breathe with your mouth, savoring, keeping it in, smeared on the inside of your cheeks.
When you inhale, it’s through your nose, a barely there flutter of air that could have been a rustle of curtains caught in the breeze to anyone else but the man before you. You inhale, the chemical scent of clean sheets swallowed by the fragrant, rain-washed smell of August withering in its cage of brick and glass, and Kurt turns away from the window. Gold outlines the confident, sharp edges of his profile as if attempting to confine the darkness that clings to his features in a half-mask.
Tufts of clumped hair — held together by the remnants of your joined pleasure — frame the curve of his belly and seduce your eye like bold criss-crosses that lead to hidden prizes. His pose is open and blunt, uninhibited with confidence that only comes to those whose soul thrives in its shell, tail coiling and uncoiling in a hypnotizing dance, and a stray glimpse at the shadow-draped softness weighing between his thighs is enough to make you blink away any drowsiness that still lingered.
“Ah, guten Morgen, Dornröschen." Kurt’s voice is a chime, and the settled mischievous coquetry in it rings muted just a tad by unconcealed fondness.
The sun rests its slim palms on the width of his shoulders, running its fingers through his fur, and every hair of it is swathed in gossamer gild. Thick honey of daybreak poured into the blue milk of midnight — like a minuscule solar eclipse. Here he is, standing in front of your window, the light a cloak behind his back and a crown atop his head, and you know not in whose image the Lord could have created such a being, but whoever he was, he was fucking ethereal.
Words are slow to brew in your mouth, so you respond with a stretch of your arms instead. The strain is warm in your muscles, and as you sit up, the duvet slides down helplessly, bunching up at your waist, and the sigil of Kurt’s gaze is almost as tangibly hot on your bared breasts as the fondle of the sun’s hand. His breath doesn’t quite catch, but the flexion of his tail betrays the interest just as plainly. An involuntary little flick up and down — a mental caress born of muscle memory. The shadows swirling between his thighs can’t hide the faint twitch, and you can’t shoo away the smugness from your grin. Two can play at that game.
“Guten Morgen auch dir, Prinz Charming," you sing-song, and Kurt snorts, stepping away from the window.
It is with confidence that he moves around your room, shameless like a cat spoiled rotten, and flakes of dust caught in the golden net float up, disturbed by the movement. His dark figure is a cutout of space amidst the jumble of old furniture you never got around to throwing away and sentimental trinkets, yet your tiny apartment in the heart — or rather in the atrium — of New York City has never felt more like home, this welcomed unearthliness slotting into its dull mundanity like a missing puzzle piece.
Lumps of the tight suit lay cold and crumpled on the floor like patches of shed skin; you watch, head tilted to shoulder in lazy curiosity, as Kurt bends to pick them up and toss them on the chair for later, and the sight of the frizzy fur of his ass is the most tantalizing.
Somewhere in the hallway, one floor above, a front door slams shut, and your ceiling vibrates with the sheer impact of it. Kurt eyes the plaster, cracked enough as it is, and notes with mischievous casualness, “I believe we gave your neighbors quite a headache last evening, Schatzi."
"Headache" would be an understatement. At this point the scandalized side-eyes during elevator rides barely even scald your face with embarrassment, although at first you forced yourself to take the stairs every morning for two weeks straight. Mind-blowing sex and thin walls of American apartment complexes do not mix well, and to everyone else’s misfortune, Kurt is an amazing lover.
You groan.
“We did, yet it is I who will have to apologize to poor Mrs. Tuffin. Again.”
Kurt only chuckles at that — the carefree posture of someone who is not obliged to face a sweet elderly dame next door with a surprisingly keen ear for her age every Sunday. His smile is a scimitar unsheathed, a sharp blade to your poor heart, and the shadows on his face move and fold into lovely crinkles around his mouth. Oh, how shallow your indignation runs for this sly devil, and he knows it all too well, treading in its waters without a worry in that blue head of his.
He makes it to the doorway, an open maw where the sun doesn’t reach, and you call for him in hesitation as well as acceptance.
“You could always come with me, you know. She bakes great wafers”.
Kurt stops momentarily and something smolders in his gaze.
“I’m sure I’m missing out on the fun, Liebling, but you know I can’t." He lingers for another second and offers like a consolation, “I can make breakfast, though. Your favorite, what say you?”
He winks and casts off his golden mantle as the dark hallway swallows the outline of his body, and you swallow your disappointment.
He may not stay as long as you’d want — he barely ever does — but you know he tries to for as long as he can allow. And you know that when, unconcerned with covering yourself, you follow his trail into the cramped kitchen, he will be dancing to some ditty he heard on the TV a few nights back, tail swishing along the whole humble length of the room; that he will use it to pull you closer, your nakedness warm and yielding against his own, and that one of his hands will travel. You know his lips will be creamy with butter, tingly with the fizz of laughter, but just in a matter of half an hour, when the indigo is hidden underneath scarlet and black and the gold is faded pale, they will taste of bitter coffee with one sugar cube and tender oaths.
And you know that one evening — not this one, perhaps not even the next, but some evening — you will walk into your apartment, looming with shadows, dull with quietness, and the bathroom door will be left ajar, just enough for a strip of light to dash the darkness. Inviting wordlessly. And Kurt will be there, a tang of iron dusting the air, exhaustion fogging the crescents of his eyes, yet the sharpness of his smile not blunted and the ambiguity of his pose not concealed with discomfort. You won’t remember who reached out first, but the yearning will run through your fingers in a tremble that will hinder unbuttoning your blouse and make you pull a little too harshly on his hair. He will press himself against you, fur to skin, soothing, warm with rushing blood, and the breathy chuckles will make your skin prickle with adoration. With anticipation of yet another of your personal solar eclipses.
He may not stay as long as you’d want, but you know that he will always come back to you.
Alright venting time. I read and reread this piece so many times, yet I'm still not satisfied with it and I don't think I'll ever be. It was supposed to be a collection of different situations where Kurt is not, quote, "abashed of being naked around you" because we all know he is a freak, but halfway there it transformed into something else entirely, so yeah. I don't like it at all, but I do like the image of butt-naked Kurt walking around my room so I had to get it out of my system in a form of a text that was at least coherent and legible. It's a clumsy attempt but an attempt nonetheless, so that's what counts right?
Anyway I apologize for any grammatical, syntactic, and punctuation errors or any weird phrases, given that I'm not a native English speaker. Constructive criticism is always welcomed.
I’m going to see Ethel Cain with my Willoughby Tucker (in every sense, he definitely does not reciprocate the love now I used to put on him years ago in our relationship)
ecstatic to see Mother but how tf do I stand next to my Willoughby and pretend I’m okay that he left me in my shit? girl.
for the record, I am not into him anymore but just the reflection of what we’ve both been through is…unusually matched to Ethel’s story 🤨
I need y’all to realize that DIRECTING an episode does not equal WRITING an episode. I love that Shawn Hatosy directed Ep. 9 but people are crediting him on the written interactions between characters that SHOULD actually be credited to Cynthia Adarkwa, a Ghanaian American woman. Who wrote episode 9. And the interactions you’re all loving and feeling devastated over.
I think Shawn did an amazing job and helped pull great performances out of the actors, but once again, those performances and dialogues were created and written by Cynthia Adarkwa and the writing team.
trinity santos is a study in fandom misogyny because they gave her all the characteristics fandoms usually salivate for in men, being gruff, quippy and misunderstood with a tragic backstory but a heart of gold beneath it all. they put all this into her AND let her be a lesbian. she's everything you could ever want in a character but she's not a man so half the fandom either hates her or constantly mischaracterizes her as petty, callous and aggressive while doing mental gymnastics to baby the male characters around her
i promise a part 2 is coming to whitaker’s trans fic, i’m at a crossroads on how to steer the reader into which trauma to help with but past that bit i wrote a lot so if i fill that hole then i can finally relax (that’s what she said)
i’ll worry about you Jack Abbot. although, he probably wanted Samira so bad after she inadvertently admitted that she didn’t give a shit he was hurt lol. freak
god, just imagining injuring yourself at work and Jack Abbot being anal about it
he would grab whatever uninjured part of you is easiest to steer, remaining wordless when he drags you so hard that your foot scuffs the shiny floor.
it’s probably a cut of some kind, needle or scalpel, and fuck you if it’s not clean because he would lay you out even if it wasn’t your fault before he takes your blood. not a nurse, no, nobody is allowed to make this situation worse.
and he would do his duty, more than he’s meant to, before giving a signature glare and strutting off, having ordered you to sit and stay for 20 minutes on the bed.
you sit there in shock, maybe a bit of sharp pain if you didn’t need any lidocaine.
it’s not until the shift ends that Jack’s internally processed his unending rage at your injury. not until you step outside and across the busy road to the park where day shift always gathers for a drink.
you don’t make it, being stalked up from behind and yanked once again into a tree before Jack gives one warning, “I’m going to kiss you now.” it’s not phrased like a question but he’ll wait for affirmation before giving the sloppiest make out of your life for two minutes and making off into the night with his usual, barely noticeable wonky walk.
fuck. you need to fuck the hell out of him so bad.
𝓓𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐒 𝓦𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑 Who made it his civic duty as someone in the medical field to be at your beck and call whenever you’re sick. Not a muscle in your body was allowed to move as long as he was taking care of you. Not even to go to the bathroom. That’s what he was there for—to help. And help he did.
“Dennis—I really have to pee.”
“Oh okay, just let me come get you—“
“Don’t need any help in that department, sad eyes.”
He pretended not to have heard the small comment, quickly rushing to your side before grabbing your hand, your weak body unable to fend off his gentle but firm grip.
“I’m not gonna sneeze so hard I fall in, den’. ”
He only squeezes your fingers harder, a pout adorning his lips. “I hadn’t even thought of that one…b-but now I am!?”
𝓓𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐒 𝓦𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑 Who loves when you compliment his cooking, especially since you’re the more “kitchen-savvy” one in the relationship. On the rare occasion he does, he likes to make big hearty meals. Potatoes, chicken, veggies, etc. Being raised on a farm was a perk in that aspect. All the heavy labor he endured had to be kept up somehow, right? And what better way than good food—good food he can now make for you.
𝓓𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐒 𝓦𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑 Who lifts things that seem heavier than Thor’s hammer to you—like its as light as a feather. It has to be that hidden farm strength you tell yourself. How can someone be that strong while being so…gentle..?
You could be dragging in a new package in through the front door—new clothes, of course, but you could barely move the flimsy cardboard box! Dennis? He picks it up with both hands with absolute ease. You swear his shirt wasn’t that tight before. Did his arms always fill out that tee?
𝓓𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐒 𝓦𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑 Who is the most quietest loud person you’ve ever met. He’s a little mouse. Reserved, gentle. You swore he’d come back into the apartment extra quiet after his shift just to scare you…but boy was he the opposite in bed. It was actually a hassle to get him to control his noises—in the end his loud moans only simmered down to low whimpers. He was never truly silent. How could he be!?
𝓓𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐒 𝓦𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑 Who could tell you it was his first time every time you had sex and you’d genuinely believe him. He was a bit inexperienced the first time you met—but he wasn’t an idiot. He’s seen porn. He knows what to do as a man, but…someone else getting him off? Completely different. Might as well write “virgin” in black sharpie on his forehead. He’s a giver—that’s just a fact. He’s so used to the “people-pleasing” mindset in and out of the bedroom it’s just default, but when you suggest he just…lay back instead? God, he’s gone. 7 minutes max.
𝓜𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
𝐀/𝐍: sum dennis headcanons I wrote in class instead of finishing my math work… :3
Right okay but like. The revelation, courtesy of Isa and Gerran, that Trinity suspects Amy Miller is taking advantage of Dennis' kindness, and Dennis is worried that Trinity is going to be hurt by her relationship with Yolanda.
Oh my god that's why there's an undertow of tension between them. They both lowkey think the other is making a mistake and are probably feeling both really resentful toward each other and profoundly worried about each other.
Oh my god these aching, erstwhile children. These hurting wanderers who found each other. I'm never going to be okay about them. I don't think there will ever be another platonic ship like them.
