#Morals are thrown to the wind

[aliencatwafers]

Fallen AU - Planet Shroob

Here is the barren wasteland all the Earthlings are dropped off at. The Shroobs basically told them “good luck” and never looked back.

This is Planet Shroob. It is without a moon and the 7th planet away from the Xivis Star. The planet is outside the warmth zone the Star provides; life was able to exist since the Xivis Star was brighter and hotter so many years ago. Now, many life processes exist independent of the Xivis Star like chemotrophs taking advantage of chemical compounds to survive. Planet Sunnycide is just inbetween the life zone (basically land-locked).

There are three sides to the planet. The first is the bottom which is the safest and served as the Shroobs’ Castle for centuries. Countless bloody wars were fought over the fertile farmland at the bottom. When the Shroobs United under one leader, the fighting stopped. There is still some fertile soil left, so if you get shoved off here you’re in good hands. Most likely you can survive here for generations.

The sides are the Jade Ocean. It was once a vast and vibrant ocean made of fresh Vim. Having been completely drained, all that remains is the treacherous ocean floor. If you land here, chances are you’re very dead. No coming back from that.

On the top is a wide variety of climates. The perimeter has the Veenoria Beach which is pretty safe with soft and compact sand. It is a beautiful coral color. Any Earthlings that land here have a 99.99% survival rate (this is where the Baby Bros land). But there’s not much soil to grow stuff nor creatures to hunt. Heading up to the top is dangerous. Heading to the bottom means crossing the Jade Ocean.

If you go further top, you’re in the Mycotoxia Dunes. While sorta safe for landing, it is very dangerous yet gorgeous. Further in is the Xivis Mountain Range; if you land there you are extremely dead. That is since the ground is rocky and there are spikes everywhere (Fawful lands at the edge where the Veenoria Beach intersects the desert; he still should be dead yet he isn’t).

Further up you have Mountain Amanita. It is named after the Shroob Goddess who the Shroobs respect as the being who created them. It is the tallest mountain on the planet, the peak rises hundreds of feet above the heavens. It is at the very top of the planet. If you travel there, you can survey space.

Moving on, you have the Fungal Forest and Valley. While extremely fertile soil, it is dangerous thanks to its high density of toxic plants and mysterious predators in search for Earthlings to hunt. Further out is the Clawden Craters - these are not as deep as trenches in Jade Ocean, but are still dangerous.

Description for each terrain from drawing:

Mycotoxia Dunes

Pink sand

Ancient Shroob Runes

Hasn’t rained in centuries

Covered in dust storms

Crystal Caves

Crystals float upwards

Has rich but rare oasises

Saccharomyces Flatlands

Violet soil, very soft

Overused soil is gray

Used to be farming land that fed the Shroobs for millennia

Usually rains

Lots of monsters

Safest part of planet

Everyone fought over this for centuries

Fungal Forest/Valley

Fertile soil and toxic plants

Shroobigos wander here

Trees as tall as some mountains

Lots of biodiversity

Blue flowing trees

Rain flows upwards, thunderstorms

Mountain Amanita

Tallest mountain on planet

Peak rises above atmosphere

Has an observatory

Coldest spot on planet

Xivis Mountain Range

Site for abandoned bases

Valley is hot whole peaks are cool

Furious winds - powerful storms are common

Veenoria Beach

Halfway point between top and bottom half of planet

Soft and compact sand

Coral sand

Pretty safe yet dry

Clawden Craters

Deep chasms

Underground temples and forests

Incredibly hot and humid

Has magma flowing

Jade Oceans

Dried out

Trenches lead to planet’s core

Dry and hot

Full of toxic sludge

Having fast travel on the planet would be pretty nice.

As the Shroobs left their dying homeworld, some nature has returned. Baby Mario and co. (Baby Luigi, Stuffwell, Fawful) encounter abandoned villages, temples, towns, bases, and cities now overgrown with vegetation. There are also rival Earthlings trying to survive. If it’s not the planet or Shroob creatures going after Baby Mario and co, it’s Earthlings fighting for resources/power and screwing others over. Some hotspots are the Flatlands and Clawden Craters. Others want Mt. Amanita. There’s also abandoned Shroob tech everywhere.

It is a shitshow.

#mario and luigi #shroobs #partners in time #fawful #baby mario #baby luigi #art #Fallen AU #Took inspiration from Breath of the Wild again #I love worldbuilding #The Shroobs wrecked their home #And it’s a matter of time before Earth is completely demolished (won’t be until thousands of years in as Earth is much safer than Shroob) #Maybe some Shroobs got abandoned too #Fawful somehow survived the fall without much damage into the Xivis Mt. Range #stuffwell #He’ll get a lot of data #Are there Shroob ships outside of range? Possibly? #It’s basically a everyone person for themselves #Morals are thrown to the wind #Society has collasped #Half of Earth got Shroobified #The other half got sent here #Everyone is trying to figure out why the Shroobs assigned each other their fate #Shroobs are sadistic assholes (at least the leaders) #Conquering isn’t enough #They want to destroy the Earthlings from the inside out #Princess Peach is nowhere to be found #Even when the world ends #Fawful is put on babysitting duty #The goal is to survive and rescue anyone the baby bros know

[suprsingr]

I have never in all my life had so many emotions about a tumblr poll but oh my GOD I'm so happy Garak won, lmao. That was so tense.

#remember in the early days when he was winning by a huge margin (as is proper) #and then the memesters and inexplicable union people and actual weird purist homophobes caught wind of it #and lost their gd minds #right up until the very end there were people like “BUT IT WOULD BE FUNNY” and ''BUT M*LES HAD THAT ONE UNION EPISODE'' #dude garak is not something very many people on here feel comfortable joking about #for like a thousand reasons #I adore the m*les meme but that wasn't an appropriate place for one #and you want to support the strike? whole reason garak had ziyal the teenager thrown at him and was essentially replaced by m*les #(even when it made no narrative sense) #was because of evil producers and executives. you know. the people we're PICKETING AGAINST? #out here in the real world? not the fictional ferengi one? #and wtf was all that stuff about him being a working class hero? earning his money? he lives in a MONEYLESS UTOPIAN SOCIETY WHAT DO YOU MEA #HE COULD HAVE BEEN A CELLO PLAYER BUT HE JOINED STARFLEET CUZ HE WANTED TO FIGHT. HE WORKS FOR FUNSIES. HE'S A MILITARY MAN. #he's in starfleet even though it actively makes his family's lives worse. AND his own. i'm so confused what people meant by that. #m*les just likes to suffer okay it runs in his family #if you cared about the working class and unions you a) Would Support Garak and b) Would Have Voted Rom Into The Finals #do NOT act like this was about unions. one person said it was and the rest of you glommed on even tho it made no sense. #and had little to nothing to do w/ whether or not he's the best star trek character. it was just left field and weird and it hurt my brain #then there was the homophobia. the borderline racism. the weird morality arguments that idek how to respond to. #and that's coming from someone extremely self-righteous and annoying about it. garak's my guy #tldr i like m*les ok. ds9 convinced me of his worth. to be clear i do think he's a good character #but no one was voting for him for any reason but weird random shit?? or hateful shit?? #and that was just exhausting. like i'm sorry but that hurt me #i'm just so glad it's over and justice prevailed #my goodness #where's my fainting couch #/rant

[novulen]

𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐓 — *:ꔫ:*

A strong hold on your wandering hand stops you.

“Not here, sweetheart.” Nanami groans, gruff and utterly commanding. You feel yourself shiver involuntarily at his tone, body falling pliable in his hold in bitter defeat.

“But Ken…” you whine, your small, angry fists banging on his chest. “We haven’t done anything in weeks. You’ve barely even touched me.”

A drawn out sigh fills the expanse of Nanami’s office. Had you really come all this way, up two flights of stairs, for such a thing?

“We just can’t.” his hand reaches up to his temple, rubbing, and momentarily, his eyes flicker with sour jealousy.

But Nanami’s not stupid. He’s seen the way the men in the office stare at you–their gazes journeying the curves of your body as if you were on display. And, while he does put you up on a pedestal, men lusting over his wife is something Nanami doesn’t exactly find mirthful.

So, then why would he give them the opportunity to hear your sweet, sultry moans?

“My final answer is no, love,” his voice booms–a deep rumble that you feel ripple against your skin.

You frown. “I locked the door…”

Nanami shakes his head dejectedly. “Some of my colleagues have keys.” he hums, his chair turning towards his desk to resume his work, but you stop him.

With determination in your eyes, you place a delicate hand to his cheek.

Stroking his face, “Can I at least?..” you trail off, venturing your free hand down his sculpted body and rippling muscles to his belt. Your fingertips caress the expensive leather, waiting for a response.

Nanami exhales. You’ll really be the death of him.

“I–” he begins, his mind battling between right and wrong–morality or pleasure. But, surely, this wouldn’t hurt.

Right?

The slight nod he soon gave you was all you needed.

You start to undo the garment, succeeding and tossing it elsewhere. He stops you. “Under the desk.”

Swiftly and almost embarrassingly so, you comply, hissing as your knees make contact with the cold, ceramic flooring. Liquid heat and anticipation begins to bubble in your stomach, your mouth watering at the bulge poking through his khaki pants.

Slowly, you peel down his slacks and soon his boxers. His cock springs up, sturdy and excited, and your abdomen clenches fiercely.

“So big,” you mutter to yourself as you lean your head in to place kitten licks on his tip. Soft and supple against him, your hands twist around him, pulling out little whimpers from his lips.

“Mhm..take it all in, sweetheart.”

Nanami’s hips stutter upwards as you bob your head down his shaft, taking it in little by little. You gag as his protruding veins rub against your throat, the neatly trimmed hair at his base tickling your nose.

Breathing in heavily through your nose, fat tears swell in your eyes.

“Don’t back down now,” Nanami tilts his head, amused. His calloused thumb swipes at your tears, a bittersweet feeling of soft and rough against your skin.

Pleasure courses through the both of you. And although there’s no physical feeling for you, the satisfaction you get out of seeing Nanami finally wind down is just about enough.

Just.

Underwhelmed, you grind the balls of your feet against your core. Your shoes had been discarded long ago since you’d practically skipped into his office.

The moans you emit vibrate flush to his cock, a deep groan as his hands tangle in your hair.

“You—fuck, don’t do that,” he rasps, tugging your head backwards and watching as your tongue lolls out instinctively in an attempt to lick him. “I’ll be too loud.”

His cheeks flush a blush pink in realization…He’d just told you his weakness.

“Too loud, huh?” you grin, taking all of his girth in, purposefully humming around him. And it takes all of his strength not to cum right then and there—and he still fails.

Hot spurts of his seed flow into your mouth, bitter and warm on your taste buds and tongue. Nanami grips the armrest of his chair and swallows hard, head thrown back and mouth pressed into a tight line.

Through his orgasm, he still has the strength to order, “Swallow.”

And you do, proudly showing him your tongue after, clean of any residue.

Satisfied, you both take in a shared inhale. You stand to sit on his lap once again, humming into his skin. Silence as his fingers caress and he kisses your hair.

“Love,” Nanami breaks the silence, and you frown, knowing his next words. “I know, I know,” you interrupt, planting a chaste kiss to his lips as you get up and put your heels back on. “I’ll be waiting for you at home.”

Tasting himself on his lips, he moans, albeit faintly.

Giving him a sultry smile and wave, you exit. Your heart almost jumps out of your chest when you turn around only to be met with a certain white haired person.

“Gojo, fuck,” you whisper under your breath, clutching your heart and things. ‘What are you doing…”

“The same could be said to you,” He grins and arches an eyebrow, pearly whites on display. “Coming out of Nanamin’s office like…this.” He sassily looks you up and down, referring to your unruly hair and wrinkled clothes.

You place a hand on your hip and look up at the freakishly tall man. “And just what do you mean by that?”

“Hm, nothing. I’ll just be going now,” He shrugs, giving you one last look before he begins to strut away from you. Confused by the whole interaction, you stand there, wondering.

“Oh, and…” Gojo turns around to face you again. “There’s something white on your top lip.”

#࿔* : 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 #˗ˏˋ𝐒𝐇𝐔𝐓 𝐔𝐏 𝐍𝐀𝐎𝐌𝐈!´ˎ˗ #novulen #jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento #jjk #nanami x reader #kento nanami #jjk nanami #jjk kento #jjk x reader #gojo satorou #nanami kento smut #kento nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami smut #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujutsu nanami #nanamin #nanami kento x you #kento smut #nanami kento fluff #nanami fluff #satoru gojo #jjk satoru

[ttsukiimi]

ೋ ⎯ synopsis : gojo satoru is a needy man, and seeing you all dolled up does nothing to subside that feeling. Tonight is set for something important—but he can’t keep his need to himself.

ೋ ⎯ tags : smut (mdni!), gojo x fem!reader, hair pulling, mentions of suguru, scratching, cúm, breeding kink if u squint, teasing, unprotected sx, reader referred to as ( good girl, baby)

ೋ ⎯ a/n : ugh needy gojo in a suit and loose tie is a need.

Gaze fixed on the wand coated in shimmering gloss, you slid it slowly over both your bottom and top lip, a wave of attentiveness pouring over you. You'd essentially been nitpicking every minute detail surrounding this night, knowing how important it was, everything simply had to go smoothly. And even with someone so...destructive by your side, Satoru didn't seem to be putting up any obstacles to ruin the occasion.

You placed the container of gloss on your vanity, looking through the mirror to fix your hair for the umpteenth time today. Though, what you didn't expect was the sight behind you.

"'Toru?"

There Satoru sat on the bed, lewdly manspread, staring at you so engrossed that it seemed he had lost every moral thought. His tie, which you'd earlier fastened so pristine and crisp, is loose around his neck, messily draped over the jacket of his suit. Wild strands of hair frame his face, his forehead sticky with hot sweat.

And his eyes. His eyes carried that unmistakable hue of need, practically speaking for themselves.

"Hey," he rasped, noticing you staring back at him, nervously wiping his sweaty palms on the sheets. You tilted your head, unconvinced, and spun around to meet him.

"What's up?" you asked, standing and slowly making your way to him. Satoru couldn't help but focus on the way your hips swayed in the short bodycon dress you wore, seeming plumper--and his mind focused solely on how it'd feel to rest his hands there, grip the meat while he pounds into you.

"Baby, you okay? Should I call Suguru?"

"it's hot in here." he replies out of breath, head thrown back. The erection rubbing against his pants was more than enough stimulation to have him stuttering as he beckoned you closer.

Satoru's hands found their respective place on your hips and pulled you down onto his lap. "Please, I need you. "

-

With enough persuasion, he had successfully shimmied you out of your dress and threw your half naked form on the bed. The double date you'd so meticulously planned with his best friend, Suguru, was now long forgotten as Satoru's cock dragged deliciously against the sweet spots inside you.

"Fuck--'toru, feels so good!" you moaned, your freshly manicured fingers scratching down his muscular back, forming fresh red lines and a tinge of pain in their wake. His body felt so hot against yours, the ridges of his abdomen rubbing against yours as he reached for your hair, taking a handful into his vice grip.

"Takin' it all so well..." he sighed, satisfied with the way you felt so snug around him, tugging the hair in his grasp back until your teary eyes locked with his. "Such a fucking good girl."

By then, your makeup was no more than smudges on your face, your black mascara ran down your cheeks like an inky river, and your lip gloss stuck on the sheets and pillows.

You felt so full it felt almost unreal, and so sensitive it was as if you could feel every fucking vein lining his dick.

And Satoru was cocky when it came to you in the bedroom. And even though he'd essentially begged to take you right there and then, that didn't stop him from teasing.

"I-'m so close, please," you begged, already sensing the slow of his thrusts. Satoru chuckled in front you, giving the side your ass a firm slap before he spoke.

"Yeah? Close to cumming f'me?" he breathed, winding his hips back and driving an onslaught of thrusts into your weeping cunt. His grasp on your hair loosened a bit as he lost himself in the feeling of your warmth, rocks of pleasure coursing through the both of you.

He was hot and thick inside you, pummeling a hole the exact mold of himself into your gummy walls. The room filled with the smell of sex and Satoru let out a guttural groan.

"Fuck--then cum, baby."

And as if acting by command, your body unwound in his hold, your orgasm hitting you in a wave of bliss. You writhed and your legs chook, Satoru following not long after you.

Hot spurts of his seed painted your insides white, and he gave a few thrusts to make sure it stayed. He panted in your ear, his sculpted chest rising and falling in tandem with yours as you both caught your breaths. You both lay there for a moment, winding down from the electricity still rippling through you.

"Baby," he finally spoke. "How're we gonna tell Suguru and his girl?"

You glared, pushing him to the side as you hurriedly grabbed your phone on the nightstand. "We? Satoru, you're telling him."

Pushing your phone to him, you failed to notice the messages from said man. Satoru took your phone and hummed, clicking on the notification and grinned to himself as he read the descending messages.

'fuck we might be a bit late.' - sent at 7:54

'pls don't be mad..are u guys there?' - sent at 8: 21

'i swr it was an emergency.' - sent at 8:21

Seems like you weren't the only ones that got sidetracked.

#ꔫ : ˚ ͙۪۪̥◌⎯ 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈’𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk gojo #satoru gojo #jjk fic #gojo satoru #gojo smut #geto suguru #gojo x reader #jujutsu gojo #jjk #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x you #gojou satoru x reader #jujutsu satoru #jjk satoru #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jjk geto #jujutsu geto #jjk suguru #suguru geto #jujutsu kaisen satoru #satoru smut #gojou satoru x you #gojo x y/n #satoru x reader

[undercoverpena]

coming under the christmas tree

frankie morales x f!reader | masterlist

summary: The way he whispers your name should be a sin—it coating the air, making each letter feel important, essential—as your hands find his belt, undoing it, the sound cutting through all else, even burying a whispered expletive that falls from his tongue. “Do you know how hot you look right now, Morales?”

warnings: explicit. 18+. smut. literal porn from me. oral (m recieving), p in v, praise (jo has a thing, run with it), frankie being gorgeous, minor cock worship, christmas themes.

wordcount: 2.8k an: i wrote this little imagine and then the gorgeous, wonderful @wildemaven created this moodboard (which inspired the banner) and then i decided to write more.

Putting up a tree with anyone is a chore, but with him, it’s a blessing.

It isn’t because it’s him, because you’re dating, because he makes you laugh and makes your toes curl at any time of the day. But, rather, because he wants to do it. Because he’s methodical. Always thinking, turning—planning.

Whether it’s routes to get somewhere, timing on when to leave when the two of you have reservations or whether your grand plans for a room rearrangement, Frankie plots it out and makes measurements in his head. He’s always right, not that he ever gloats—just nods as though it’s entirely normal.

It isn’t—it’s fucking hot.

Something you expect, and thankfully do, come face to face with when the branches are all in place on the half-dressed Christmas tree. The clear plastic boxes strewn across the living room, his fingers slowly undoing and unknotting the lights you’d haphazardly thrown in the box last year.

You know the answer, but you ask all the same: “You want me to help with that?”

He doesn’t answer, just gives you a look. A blend of ‘be serious’ and ‘you’re good’ cuts across his features, making his eyes warmer and his smile kinder.

Before he even sets about winding them through the branches, you can tell he’s created a light-path. Already heard him mumbling that they don’t go all the way around, remember earlier. His eyes glancing up at it, making mental notes, calculating a route—brown eyes skating and shifting side to side.

You just remain on the floor, legs crossed—checking over the ornaments for nicks or scratches—admiring. You do it a lot, admire him, take him in—gawk, trace your eyes over him so when you blink you don’t waste a second not seeing him.

“We can always buy another set?” you offer, watching him bend behind the armchair, plugging them in, plunging the room in a soft, white glow.

Grinning, Frankie brushes some loose strands from over his eyes, “No need, baby. I’ve got it.”

He does. You weren’t surprised his devised path makes the base of the tree already look full—no section unlit, each bit of cable hidden from sight, blending perfectly with the tree. You were even sure if you turned it 180, the back currently in the corner would even be lit.

It isn’t that which makes your mouth drool.

It also isn’t the way the twinkle of the lights has hit the brown of his eyes when he lets his gaze fall to you, making it appear like a galaxy has burst in them—a sky full of stars, all staring at you.

No. It’s the way the entirety of him is lit up. Practically glowing. It enhances how stretched out he is, practically in a straight line. His arms above his head, fingers delicately wrapping the lights around the tip of the tree. It shines light over the slither of skin exposed from his shirt rising; it makes it more evident that his tongue is poking out, resting on his bottom lip, eyes trained on the job at hand, his priority, his task.

You flutter around nothing.

Feel your heart stammer in your chest as you devour the sight of him whole.

Placing the ornament in the good-to-hang pile, you don’t even pretend to glance at it. Too busy drinking in the sight of the lines on his arms from flexing—those strong, arms which carried the tree down from the attic. Little beads of sweat had clung to his forehead then, having needed to shift things around, move them—move baby, don’t want you to get hurt.

You were something akin to pain now. Desperate, needy and fucking feral. Your throat all dry while your tongue felt heavy, eyes sliding down his frame, focusing on the hairs on his stomach, all exposed, beckoning to be touched, to have your tongue slide down over it.

You only blink when he clears his throat, looking up, finding his eyes on you—tracing over your face, slightly narrowed, attempting to read you.

Another day, you might shy away from it. Look away first, wait until he calls your name and pleads for you to look at him. Today, you don’t. Slowly rising onto your knees, holding his stare, commanding him to blink as little as possible:

Watch me, Morales. Keep your eyes on me.

Sliding your tongue across your bottom lip, your teeth finding a resting place on it—fingers sliding to his hips, watching his hand release the lights, forehead smoothing, any and all confusing lines fading away.

The way he whispers your name should be a sin—it coating the air, making each letter feel important, essential—as your hands find his belt, undoing it, the sound cutting through all else, even burying a whispered expletive that falls from his tongue.

“Do you know how hot you look right now, Morales?”

Your fingers undo the button, tracing your tongue again over your lip—hungry, practically salivating—as you slide the zip through the teeth. His gaze is still on you, unwavering, a shadow of surprise in the back of his eyes that this is even happening—as though he is still taken back by the fact he deserves this, deserves you.

“You want me to suck your cock, baby?”

His swallow fills the room—loud, vociferous. Your palm brushes over the hardened bulge, tracing the outline over the thin cotton which remained a barrier between his velvet skin and your tongue.

“I really wanna suck your cock,” you add, purring, practically drooling as you notice the wet stain appearing—blooming, stretching out—as one hand falls from the tree, cupping the side of your mouth.

You like him like this, quiet, taken off guard. So often it is him doing it to you, saying all the right things, whispering all the words which make your skin feel like fire.

When you finally let his cock spring free, you waste no time licking a stripe up the side, tongue flat, brushing over veins as your hands tease the fabric down to the tops of his knees, resting on the jeans that remain there, pointless, likely mildly annoying for him. Not that he’ll care in a second. Less so for now when your fingers wrap around him, take his girth in your palm, warmth spreading over your palm as you slowly pump him up and down, collecting your first few hisses, and a little groan.

You marvel at him—at his cock. How thick it is, how long. How you know it feels between your thighs, how it makes your toes curl. Pressing kissing to the leaking tip, wrapping your lips around the head, hand working the length of him as you make your lips slick, coat them in desire, before you take as much of him as you can. Your tongue pressed to the underside, mouth basked in the taste of salt and just him, as your jaw stretched to accommodate him, to willfully take more, and more.

“Don’t know—fuck, baby—what I did to deserve you.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, burning under the praise, under his praise. Your head bobbing, wanting to show gratitude by taking more of him. Cheeks hollowing, his fingers sliding around the back of your head, a comforting hold, a calming one as you relax your throat, wanting to be full of him. Fiercely so.

Tears even prick at your eyes, and your fingers dig into the back of his thighs, lifting off, swirling your tongue around him, running your teeth lightly over him, before swallowing as much of him as you can. Willing for him to smear your throat in him, leave you tasting him with each swallow for the rest of the afternoon.

“Wanna fin—fuck—ish inside you,” he grunts, curls plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed—neck stained in pink.

You moan in response, closing your lips around him as you’re sure your underwear is clinging to you, drenched in want.

You’re half-tempted to slide your fingers inside the band of your shorts, passed the red lace you chose this morning, not even sure if you’d be unwrapped before or after the erection of the tree. Midway through hadn’t crossed your mind. Had never counted on this, never would have made a bet.

But, then he drags himself out, tip hovering at your lips giving you a look—sharp, uncharacteristic of him. “I want to fuck you, baby. Make you feel good.”

Tongue swirling over, he appears to shudder, eyes fluttering, before he pulls the rest free from your mouth. Spit smearing your lip, snapped in the space between where the two of you had been connected.

“You always make me feel good, Frankie.”

Smirking, his arm flexes briefly as he takes hold of his cock. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

And you don’t miss the reference. Not so drunk on him that you don’t remember your own words from before—but you just nod. A retort growing and dying, as you do.

“Spread your legs and show me.”

And you do. Leaning back, sliding onto your rear, your fingers slide your clothing down your legs, kicking it off past your ankles, passed the fluffy socks you’d stolen from him. Bare from the waist down, just for him—always for him. Letting your arms support you from behind, you tilt your head. In awe of him once again as he wraps his hand around his cock, the size even more impressive when you know how big his hands are—your own nails digging into the rug under your palms and ass.

“C’mon, show me you want me.”

You whimper, spreading your knees, letting them part until they’re hovering just above the floor on either side.

The cool air kissing over you, a gasp desperate to emerge but dies somewhere in your throat—swallowed up by a moan at the way he views you. The way his eyes rake up and down you like this is the first time he’s seen you, and not the billionth.

Like all the things he does, it’s with precision the way he rids himself of being contained by his jeans and underwear. Lowering himself to his knees between yours, you lean forward, lips finding his—messy, needy. Need you, they kiss, fuck me, they plead.

His mouth remains on you, only letting enough words escape to tell you to keep his jumper on when your fingers slide his t-shirt up and over his head. He rewards your obedience by letting his hand fall from himself to you—tracing, languid circles on your swollen clit, until he pushes two fingers in. You shift your hips into him, hearing him moan distantly at the feel of how wet you are, whispered praises given that are too far away as your mind rendered nothing (emptied, lost)—

Because he’s electric, you swear. Not even sure the lights need plugging in, you swear he could touch them and they’d illuminate—at least from the way he sparks enough in you to light the whole house up. Making it run, dart, a heavy current that dashes through your veins.

It’s why you whimper at the loss of him—only stopping yourself from whining when you feel him trace his cock through your folds, teasing, tracing up and down as the head of him nudges your clit, watching you, focused on the way your mouth must be parted and the likely sheen on your face.

And, you’re about to say his name—more in warning, in hunger. His body presses you down flush to the floor, the back of your hips meeting the fluff of the rug, as his mouth slides over your jaw, fingers dancing along your thigh, writing words, with the pads of them—leaving teasing verses against your skin.

“Stop teasing,” you say sharply.

Watching your words have their desired effect—that shy smile that grows into a confident smirk. The one you witness more than anyone else, the one you think of when you’re alone in the bed you share and it’s only his voice you have down the phone when your mind tries to pretend your fingers are his.

It’s slow, gentle, the way he begins to line up, pausing at your entrance—keeping you hanging, delicately placed there, held up by string as his breath paints what he wants to do to you against your neck. But you don’t hear it, can’t untangle the tale, least of all when he begins pressing in, sliding in inch by inch—

He’s big. And it makes you breathe deeply as you stretch around him. It makes you shiver. Makes you moan as he buries himself to the hilt, hips flush with yours.

“So good for me,” he praises before his lips slope over yours.

His hips begin to move, and each drag of his cock in and out makes you moan. The sound of you swallowing him, taking every inch of him he’ll give, is the soundtrack; the backdrop being the halo of lights above the two of you. It lights him, kisses along the varying shades that make up his curls, the browns, the beginning greys.

And you’re soaked, drenched—can feel it around where the two of you are joined, each slow drag in and out making it more apparent as you capture his lips. Breathlessly doing so, looping fingers around his neck, tugging lightly on his hair, curling into him, needing him deeper as your legs wrap around him.

It’s then the tip of him hits that spot, all unhurried. A motion he seeks, centres in on as he thrusts again, abutting it, making your eyes close and your mouth stretch each syllable of his name out in a whine. It makes you forget how to speak, and which language to utter. Barely a word for each finger can even come to mind, it’s mostly just his name. Frankie. Frankie. Please, Frankie as the air crackles around you.

He answers—he always does. His hand slides between your sweaty bodies, and finds the bundle of nerves calling out to him, the place which yearns. Doing so with accuracy, and exactness, as he draws shapes, lines and the fucking alphabet until you’re seeing stars, until it’s so hot you swear the jumper will peel from your skin and your head is nothing but a dizzying mess of him, just him. It makes you frantic to see him, outline his face, all cast in shadows because he’s turned away from the lights which made him look ethereal only moments ago.

His cock throbs inside of you, everything else curling inside your stomach, walls twitching around him as you tighten, vice-like, making him hiss. A sound which makes molten spread through you, more so when his mouth slides to your ear, breath laboured, along your skin, begging for you to come, needing you to, please, baby, please.

“S’close, Frankie.”

“I know—doing so well, so perfect for me.”

The words unlock something as a new pace is set, it more unforgiving, one that’ll likely leave marks on his knees from the friction on the rug, as you writhe and cling, half-moons left on his neck, digging in, marking him in the same way he’ll mark your walls in a moment or two.

Then, it floods over you. Drowns you. Coats you from head to toe as though you’ve been plunged in pleasure, left gasping, breath struggling to be located. Your mouth latched to his, burning your thanks into his mouth, your entire body tingling as he fucks you through it, until he’s thrusting aimlessly, so damn close until your name leaves the back of his throat in a sob, a blend of pleasure and relief strewn across his face as he comes deep inside of you. Hips slowing to a stammer, lowering himself down till he’s flush with you, before they come to a stop.

Then, it’s just his pants that meet your strained breaths, until a little hiss as he pulls himself out of you. Leaving you empty, sore in a way you’re grateful for, as his fingers trace over your chin, along your jaw, words being thought in slow bubbles as he stares at you.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Narrowing your eyes, you slide a hand to his hip, pinching.

“Just love that puttin’ lights up made you wanna suck my cock, is all.”

Smiling, you run your knuckles along his cheek, and brush past the wiry hair that makes up his patchy beard. “Wait till you see me hand the baubles, bet you’ll wanna be on your knees for me.”

“Good,” he replies. “I’m really hoping to taste how good we are together once we’re done.”

an: i freaking loved writing this, oh my.

i don't usually do taglists, but just tagging a few people who seemed interested in the longer version (sorry if this is annoying): @thetriumphantpanda @swiftispunk @5oh5 @morallyinept @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @reddedmiller @yorksgirl @missredherring @tvversionperson @secretelephanttattoo

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales smut #Frankie morales x reader smut #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #frankie morales smut #triple frontier smut #frankie morales x f!reader smut #pedrostories

[cravetive]

𝔸 𝔽ℝ𝕀𝔼ℕ𝔻 𝕆𝔽 𝔸 𝔽ℝ𝕀𝔼ℕ𝔻 | ℂℍ. 𝟙

| 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐮𝐧𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫.

|𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞/𝐚𝐮: 𝐄𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬,𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭,𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐮, 𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭.

| 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐗 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

| 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.6k

| 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐜 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬, 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐬 & 𝐚𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐡𝐨𝐥, 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, foul language ( 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 ), 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 (𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬), 𝐬𝐞𝐱 ( 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬).

| 𝐀/𝐍: 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫! 𝐀𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 does 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲.

𝐂𝐡.𝟐

_

resentment.

bitter indignation of having been treated unfairly.

you had carried that heavy feeling for some time now, weighing you down with each step that you took. you wished you could pinpoint the reason, to have one target to focus on but there had been many things that caused you to clasp onto this feeling, it had become so familiar, you dared to call it a friend.

its warm embrace consuming you when you lay empty at night.

in your darkest hours.

Being raised in an almost picture-perfect home prevented you from completely grasping how you had ended up with the stirring feeling.

 you had been given all that you had ever asked for, your parent's wealth had guaranteed you a life of luxury and pampering that anyone would die for. you had been sent to the best schools, had surrounded yourself with the elites, you had been born into a world that had been hand-made perfectly for you, so was it truly unfair?

yes

besides the fact that you never had to truly worry about anything in life, you had been instilled with morals, morals that your father had soon thrown to the wind the second a business offer was laid on his table that he just had to bite.

 success was not enough for a man like your father, he always starved for more.

so much so that once the Jeon family, one of the wealthiest and most influential families in Korea offered a 98 billion won investment into his company in exchange for the marriage of their heirs, there was no fucking way he was going to refuse.

regardless of the sacrifices his own daughter would have to make for him.

marriage was sacred, this had been instilled in you since the early age of 5, your parents had fallen in love at the sweet age of 18, and ever since they had been inseparable. even after 25 years of marriage they still managed to swoon for one another. They had built a successful company together with blood, sweat, and tears. the dedication and loyalty they had for their business only enforced their ties.

"If you are to marry someone, do it for love"

they would say, funny how that quickly changed the moment money was placed on the line.

it was painful for you to admit that all the glory had gotten to their heads.

they had prepared a wedding in less than a week, forcing you into a marriage with a man you had only met the day you said your rehearsed vows.

Jeon Jungkook

Jungkook was one of the youngest and wealthiest eligible bachelors in Korea, the news of your marriage had shaken society to its core, no one had expected such a thing, he was known for his partying and luxurious life and you were barely known at all, as you always ensured to keep a low profile. magazines and blogs had gushed over your dress and the venue, the celebrities and other elites who had attended, and the expensive wines and food that had been provided. all things that had been chosen for you.

and yet you prevailed, in the sickest way you had convinced yourself that it would all work out for the best, your father would have not set you up for failure, you were the apple of his eye.

 arranged marriages were not uncommon in your circle, many of them had turned out just fine. eventually, you could fall for him, eventually, you could really love him, like a real marriage.

the thought now caused a vile taste in your mouth.

you had been so foolish, so naive to believe such things but given the circumstances, it was the only thing you could hold onto. hopeful thoughts.

the hope that had been snatched from you the moment you had learned the truth behind this entire ordeal.

you see unbeknown to your father, the money that had been used to trade his daughter had come from the illegal sale of firearms to the biggest mafia leaders and gangs in Korea, all the success the Jeon family had obtained had come from a long lineage of fraudulent businesses and crime and your father's company had just become the next victim.

they had used your marriage to strengthen their venomous root within the company, using it to launder their blood money.

98 billion drops of blood at that.

which meant that if they fell, your family fell with them and even though you carried great indignation towards the people who you had once called your parents, you could not imagine bringing them such pain.

therefore, divorce was not an option.

fear had forced you into a loveless marriage, had you harboring secrets for the family that would bring your own down in the blink of an eye.

"Mrs. Jeon"

a delicate whisper flowed into the air, snapping you back into the room in which you sat.

"mhm," you blinked, your eyes falling back onto the woman standing before you holding a catalog for you to view.

"I apologize ma'am" her voice shaking slightly, "I asked if you would like to view the new line of furniture coming out this season" she offered "for the remodelation of your home".

you stared blankly at the photographs before you and took a deep breath, your mind vacant.

"send some options to my assistant and then we will choose from them" you instructed.

the woman nodded and bowed deeply before removing herself from the room.

this was what you had to become. you had integrated yourself smoothly into the role of a stay-at-home wife as requested by your father-in-law who had made it clear that working was not a woman's duty and that you should allow your husband to provide for you.

all the dreams you once had of becoming a successful businesswoman had been replaced by brunches with other wives from high society and charity events. there was no room for your aspirations here and neither was there for any protest.

it made you want to claw at your eyes.

"Myung" you called for your assistant, and she quickly appeared before you. her small frame contrasting against your grand office, her shaky hands pressed tightly against the tablet on her hands and if you looked closely you could swear she was on the verge of an anxiety attack.

"yes Mrs. Jeon"

you cringed at the name that she uttered, wanting to remove yourself as much as possible from that family.

"Myung, please call me Y/N"

you corrected, causing her cheeks to grow brightly red at her mistake. She bowed quickly, her eyes wide open.

"Y-yes Mrs. J - Y/N"

"do I have any other meetings for today?" you inquired.

her eyes quickly scanned the tablet in her hands, the schedule reflecting off her thick glasses.

" uhm, you were free for the rest of the evening but Mr. Jeon actually called and requested to have dinner with you tonight" she announced nervously.

"oh" your lips parted "he's back from his travels, is he?" she shook her head rapidly, biting on her bottom lip, a bad habit you learned she had each time she grew nervous, which was often.

you leaned back onto your chair and pondered for a moment. spending time with your husband was always planned, always scheduled. much like a business meeting, there were many formalities taken at the time.

hell, you didn't even share the same bed.

in the year you have been married, the man had not touched you once.

it could be that he found solace in the arms of other women, many of whom smiled each time they passed you at events as if fucking your husband was some kind of bragging right, or maybe it was the iciness you radiated any time he was anywhere near you.

regardless of the reason, nothing had changed since the day you said I do.

it was visible to you from the first day you entered your shared home that this would not be a marriage that would offer you comfort or warmth.

once the housekeeper had shown you to your room and found no evidence that your husband had even graced his presence there you had concluded that you were doomed to the coldness of an empty relationship.

you scoffed rather loudly, turning your chair to face Myung once more.

"Who does he think he is" You bit "am I a dog that he summons whenever he feels like it?"

she stood still, thoughts bubbling in her mind.

you held out your finger before she could speak "Do not answer that".

you inhaled deeply before reaching for your Birkin bag and standing up firmly.

"call the driver and tell him to take me home"

"but Mrs. Je - Y/N"

Myung protested as you walked toward the doors of your office

"Mr. Jeon will be upset" she concluded.

there it was, that reminder that all those who stood beside you ultimately were under the Jeon payroll, and although they showed the utmost respect towards you, their loyalty remained elsewhere.

you snapped your head towards her and placed the shades you carried in your hands over your eyes in a swift movement, your red lips pulling into a smirk.

it had been a long time coming, your rebellion that was. you had been obedient for far too long, running at their Becking call like some kind of pet. the title of a trophy wife made you sick but that was what you were all along.

smile pretty for the camera Y/N, laugh Y/N, walk Y/N, bow Y/N, be respectful Y/N, don't be too loud Y/N, shrink yourself Y/N.

"then let him"

you had been silent for too long, cowarding at each of their words, in fear they would hurt your family.

but you were your father's daughter and you were starving

for revenge. 

-

𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝! 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞! 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐤/𝐝𝐦 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

© 𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

#jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook series #bts x reader #jungkook au #jin x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook imagine #jungkook x reader

[selfaware-bungou-stray-dogs]

So much planning

Self-Aware! BSD x SAGAU Imposter crossover

Self-Aware! Dazai Osamu x GN! Reader x Self-Aware! Fyodor Dostoevsky

Description: Dazai and Fyodor still don't get along. But they have few things in common. Both are genius. Both have twisted morals. And both will turn to dust anyone, who dared to hurt you.

Warning: OOC. Mewing Dazai. Fyodor sings lullaby to reader. Nightmares. Slight religious fanaticism. People threw rocks at Reader, Neuvillette do some damage on Reader. English is my second language.

"SINNER!"

A rock was thrown at you. You tried to dodge, but braces on your legs and rope around your neck, that was tied to a wooden post. The rock hit your shoulder. You can't even scream or beg. A metal construction in your mouth won't let you close your mouth, or make any sort of sound.

"MONSTER!"

Another rock was thrown at you. This one hit your chest.

You were cold. You were freezing. The rugs they forced you to wear couldn't stand against Shezhnaya's wind and snow.

"PAY WITH YOUR BLOOD!"

More and more rocks were thrown at your direction. And you can't do anything to stop them.

Yet, you knew, that they won't let you die now.

Not for the next week.

Each day, you will be transported to a different city. And, starting from dusk to dawn, you were chained in the main square. And people were taking their anger out on you.

You were in Snezhnaya today.

Six more cities left.

Six more days before your execution.

Your life will end before Creator's eyes.

________

You woke up, sobbing. You blinked your tears away and look around. You were home. In your room. Not in Teyvat.

You took a quick glance at the clock.

11:00 pm.

You went to bed 30 minutes ago.

You put your head back on the pillow, trying to fall asleep again. And then you heard it.

"Meow"

You sat up on your bed.

"Meow"

You looked down.

You saw Dazai.

He sat on the floor, before your bed. He put elbows on your bed, resting his chin on his hands.

Dazai looked... soft. He had a small smile on his face. His eyes sparkled.

And you saw, that he was worried.

Dazai meowed again.

"Meow."

You can't help, but smile. Back then, before you... were transported in... Teyvat, you jokingly called Dazai a cat. Because every time he had a smile or a grin on his face, he looked like he would start meowing.

Dazai remembered that.

That's why, after every time you had a nightmare about Teyvat, Dazai, among other things, would meow, to make you feel better.

Meanwhile, Dazai put his face closer to yours and rub his nose against yours.

"Mrrrrp."

You laughed quietly, raising your arm. You scratch Dazai behind the ear. He started purring.

"You knew, that you shouldn't do the cat act, right?" ask you. Dazai hummed.

"I want to do that. It makes you happy." Dazai pet you on a head. "Want some company?"

You shifted a little, making some space for Dazai. You were sleepy. You lay your head back on your pillow and close your eyes.

Through sleep, you felt, how someone lay down next to you. A familiar scent of almond, rum and cherry filled your nose. Dazai firmly pressed you against his chest. You felt safer. Safe enough, to try to go back to sleep again.

______

Dazai was listening to your breathing. You didn't have a new nightmare. For now. Dazai hopped, that it will stay this way. Still, he won't bet too much on it.

The door to your room was opened again. Dazai didn't turn his head. He knew who it was.

Without saying a word, Dazai pressed you harder against his chest and carefully moved, changing your position with his.

Now, his chest was touching your back. Now, there was an empty spot near you on your bed.

Fyodor carefully lay down next to you, running his fingers through your hair.

They didn't talk.

For now, they were making sure, that you are okay.

"General nightmare. Didn't remember someone in particular." Dazai squeezed your hand. Fyodor slowly played with your hair.

"Panic attack?"

Dazai shook his head.

"No. Just startled."

Fyodor nodded.

"Good. At least, it is something."

Fyodor and Dazai became quiet again.

Dazai broke silence again.

"Others?"

Fyodor hugged you, scooting closer to you.

"Want revenge."

Dazai looked at you with pity.

"Nikolai?" whispered Dazai, listening to you breathing.

Fyodor closed his eyes.

"Still blames himself."

Fyodor and Dazai became silent again.

Despite working together to get to the real world, they still weren't friends. They do play chess together, or have overcomplicated games in their own minds, but, they won't call each other friends.

But, there was one exception.

You.

For you, they were ready to go beyond any possible goals.

All you need to do is ask. And Fyodor and Dazai will make a plan.

But, even their combined intelligence weren't enough to find you, during the month you were missing.

And their emotions went awry, when they saw you on the barn's floor.

Beaten. Tortured. Bloody.

Dazai's eyes shrank, looking somewhere in the distance. The scenes, of what he will do with people, who dared to hurt you, flash before his eyes.

"So. What should we do next?"

Fyodor's gaze was heavy. Similar thought of future massacre flooded his thoughts.

"Let's discuss some ideas. There is so much planning to do."

_________

You can't breathe.

Your heart was beating heavily, your lungs were burning, your legs refused to move.

But you can't stop. You must run.

Or he will get you.

The storm was at its peak.

Rain water greedily licked your skin. Each drop felt like lava.

The river was close. Its waters looked like they were boiling. You jumped on the first wet stone. On the second. On the third.

And your leg slipped.

Immediately, hydro energy curled around your feet, dragging you underwater.

You managed to hold your breath right before waves closed above your head.

*****

It was a torture.

Hydro dragon was playing with you.

Letting you go, letting you breathe in some treasured air. Before dragging you back underwater.

You lost the number of times you almost drowned. You only tried to grab something, that let you stay above water.

Finally, Neuvillette got tired of this game. He dragged you on the riverbank. Right to his feet.

A pair of hands... No... Draconic hands grabbed your shoulders. Sharp claws sank into them, drawing blood. You screamed, when Neuvillette moved his arms to make you stand.

Your vision was blurry. Yet, you manage to make out a pair of draconic eyes and abnormally sharp teeth.

Neuvillette put his face closer to yours.

"Got you, dirty sinner."

Sharp teeth chomped on your left ear.

Your screams and draconic satisfied rumble mixed together.

You were in pain.

Neuvillette spit something on the ground.

You tried not to look at what remains of your ear.

Neuvillette put his face closer to your second ear.

You closed your eyes. You didn't want to look.

You didn't notice a familiar girl, who was running towards you two. She was accompanied by melusines.

Before Neuvillette can tear your second ear off, Furina plunge her sword in his side.

Draconic roar made you stumble back. Falling into the river.

The last thing you saw were Furina and melusines fighting with Neuvillette.

________

You were sobbing.

Your blood was boiling.

You wanted to scream. To run. To hide.

You tried to touch your shoulders and left ear, to call for Furina and melusines. To do anything.

The hand was placed on the top of your head.

And familiar voice start singing.

Fyodor was singing.

"Котя, котенька-коток,

Котя — серенький хвосток!

Приди, котик, ночевать...

И [Т/И] качать,"

You blinked your tears away. You felt, how Dazai embrace became tighter. He started running his fingers up and down your arm.

Fyodor rubbed your tears away.

"Уж я котеньке-коту,

За работу заплачу:

Дам кусочек пирога

И кувшинчик молока."

You didn't want to protest. You didn't care, that you are too old for lullabies. You wanted some comfort. Some stability. Feel safe.

Fyodor put his chin on the top of your head.

"Платок беленький свяжу

И на шейку повяжу;

Шубку новую куплю

И сапожки закажу.¹"

You hide your face in the crook of Fyodor's neck. Dazai's forehead pressed against the back of your neck. You were warm. You yawn.

When Fyodor finished with this lullaby, he started a new one. Then another. And another.

Until you fall asleep.

*****

You were sleeping soundly for two hours now. Fyodor and Dazai weren't sleeping. They choose to look over you tonight.

And, in the dark of the night, they were planning.

Planning a revenge on people of Teyvat.

And on someone, named Neuvillette, whose name you screamed in your last nightmare.

Dazai looked Fyodor in the eyes.

Brown eyes met purple eyes.

"Vampire outbreak."

"Economy crisis."

"Arahabaki and Demonic Beast Guivre"

"Cannibalism"

"Lovecraft"

"Spare someone?"

"Only if Iris Flower want it."

"No letting Myshonok near portal or Teyvat."

"Not even the smallest glances."

Word after word.

Slowly, the plan of Teyvat's destruction will be finished.

For now, they will simply exchange some ideas. And make sure, that you are safe.

______

1. Russian lullaby.

Kitty, kitty-cat,

Kitty - gray tail!

Come, cat, spend the night,

Rock [Y/N]

Kitty, kitty-cat,

I will pay for your work:

I'll give you a piece of the pie

And a jug of milk.

I will knit you white scarf

And I’ll tie it around your neck;

I'll buy you a new fur coat

And I'll order you boots."

******

Tag list: @withered-blossoms , @myluckymoon @cocodrilofeliz @c4xcocoa @vvyeislazzy @whisperingwinters

#self-awarebsd #self-awareau #bungou stray dogs au #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd anime #bsd x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #Self-Aware Fyodor Dostoevsky #Self-Aware Dazai Osamu #dazai osamu x reader #dazai bsd #dazai x reader #bsd dazai #bungou stray dogs dazai #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #bsd fyodor dostoevsky #bsd fyodor #fyodor dostoyevsky bsd #bungou stray dogs fyodor

[ddarker-dreams]

A Chance Encounter.

Yan Scaramouche x Reader.

Loosely based on this concept.

Warnings: Only light yandere themes since Reader doesn't know about Scara's Harbinger affiliation. Word count: 1.1k.

Scaramouche could succinctly describe this assignment as a pain.

Some whistleblower whose conscience got the better of her in retirement, realizing now that she’s living off a measly pension instead of a steady stream of income that perhaps experimentation on unwitting subjects is actually not so dandy. How convenient. Moral epiphanies have the best timing. Or in the Harbinger’s case, the worst timing, since this trip to Mondstadt was supposed to be for pleasure, not business. 

He occupies a space beneath a sizable canopy. Shadows swallow him, occasionally chased off by shy sunlight wriggling through interstices born from the steady wind. The weather is fair compared to the everlasting winter that wrings all life from Snezhnaya. This nation is perfectly idyllic, perfectly boring, save for a single inhabitant who is notably exempt from his criticism. 

If it weren’t for the invisible yet no less present Fatui agents slinking about, he’d give in to the urge to quirk his lips upward. 

At least when this is wrapped up, he can see you. 

The matter shouldn’t take much longer. In written correspondence with the would-be traitor, he played the role of a bleeding heart, successfully blindsiding her into thinking he shares her plight. Now all that remains is to meet up with her and discern if the supposedly damning documents hold any weight or not. The rest can be left to his lackeys, he’d rather not waste any more time when he could be engaging in far more enjoyable activities. 

This is about as cut and dry as it gets. 

Except… 

Rapid footsteps approach. 

Foliage crunches beneath the heel of an exuberant individual, smothering leaves and snapping twigs. 

“Kuuuuuniiiiiii!” A voice he knows very well calls out. 

There is but a single entity throughout all of Teyvat who actively runs toward him, not away from him, and this entity so happens to be you. The concept of shame is a foreign one, you’re far too concerned with utilizing various flourishes to capture his attention. The fanfare is without reason. The instant you enter the scene, Scaramouche scarcely remembers the rest of the world exists, it becomes as inconsequential as the ground he treads on. 

You are a fallen star streaming through the sky, an answer to a wish he never had the courage to make. 

Unfortunately, you’ve happened upon him at a tricky juncture. The Fatui swarming like sharks in the water are prepared to tear into you at his command. From their perspective, you are an unknown variable running full force at their Lord Harbinger. Never in their wildest dreams could they fathom the notoriously spiteful Balladeer has a sweet spot for you, this is by his design. He’s painstakingly taken measures to ensure his little ball of sunshine can’t be used by his many enemies. 

The wave he gives serves two purposes — to greet you and signal his men to stand down. 

As if he wasn’t already thrown off-kilter by your abrupt appearance, when you’re at the appropriate distance, you launch at him with arms held wide. He catches you with an ease unfitting of his slender demeanor, his strength far surpassing that of any mortal. You’re content to wrap your arms around his neck while he steadies you. 

“I knew it was you! The hat gave it away. It always does,” you explain in between breaths. “And here I was thinking that you wouldn’t be in for a few more days.” 

Slowly, he helps ease you back down. You sway a bit, clutching his shoulders to maintain your balance, to which he snickers. “Were you so desperate to see me that running at a reasonable pace slipped your mind?” 

“I thought if I exerted more force, I might be able to tackle you to the ground this time… so much for that.” 

“Hah. As if. What strange fantasies you entertain without me around. The loneliness must rot your brain.” 

“Who says I’m lonely?” You challenge, tilting your head to the side. “I’m more than capable of making and maintaining friendships. That’s what happens when you’re a likable person.” 

He’s quick to reply so as not to betray his irritation at the idea. “You? Likable? The mental deterioration is worse than I feared. I hope it isn’t irreversible at this stage.” 

You shrug. “I dunno, you seem to like me well enough. I consider that my crowning achievement. If I can win you over I’m capable of anything. Maybe I’ll aim for world peace next.” 

Scaramouche is so quick to be swept up in the wild tide that is you that his bumbling underlings temporarily slipped his mind. Lately, there’s been one in particular who seems keen on proving himself worthy of a promotion. He goes out of his way to do extra work Scaramouche never tasked him with. It’s been a minor nuisance yet nothing major has come from it. 

However, in his purview, he senses this sycophant taking a position that’d be advantageous to strike at you from. 

Scaramouche’s retaliation is immediate. On a perfectly sunny day, a vicious bolt of lightning strikes mere inches from the spot he occupies, effectively communicating his lord’s displeasure. The white-hot flash earns your attention. You turn your head in the direction it came from, then shoot him an inquisitive glance. 

“... What did that bush ever do wrong?” 

“You’d be surprised.” 

The warning must’ve made it through the agent’s thick head, for he backs off like a dog with its tail between its legs. 

“Hey. I have some business I need to finish, then I’ll treat you to dinner,” Scaramouche knows you well enough to be confident that the idea of delicious food will successfully distract you. It’s as he predicted — he can practically hear the gears turning in your head as you form plans. He can only hope he doesn’t have to encounter that slovenly excuse of a god who once serenaded you with the story of an abandoned doll, claiming it to be a ‘cautionary tale’. The self-restraint he exercised that day is second to none. 

“Alright, but try to leave some nature standing, this is a trail I enjoy walking. I’d rather you don’t eviscerate it.” 

You begin to part ways, before loudly proclaiming ‘oh!’, like you’d forgotten something important. Then you’re back by his side. He processes the feeling before anything else, the soft sensation of your lips on his cheek renders him speechless. A crimson hue dusts against his pale cheeks as he subconsciously raises his hand to touch the still-tingling spot. Content with yourself, you depart, waving as enthusiastically as you had earlier. 

When his coherency returns, he sighs. That was a bit more than he’d prefer any Fatui-aligned person to see.

He’ll have to get creative to explain the deaths of all his men on such a low-stakes mission. Before that, however, he needs to ask one to hand the appropriate forms over, lest it disintegrate to ash as they’re fated to. 

It’s a pain, truly, but you’re worth the extra effort. 

#yandere scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x reader #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #scaramouche brainrot #my stuff

[xshines]

mizu x reader enemies to lovers

sry for being inactive, im lazy af; also i might continue this one

Falling pieces of snow slowly began to cover the surface of the broken sword, thrown somewhere in the distance on the cold ground, no longer incapable of saving you. The cold snow slowly began to compact and melt beneath your shivering, warm body. The cold metal of your rival's sword blade hugs your thin neck. You dared to look up at her as she hovered over you, her expression blank. She finally has you. She looks at you lying so pathetically in front of her now. She squints those blue eyes of hers to scan you once again, your scratches, your torn clothes, a moment longer she lingers on your torn side, which stains your clothes and the snow beneath you with a dark crimson. But finally her eyes land on your face, finally able to take a closer look at the face of one that has been getting under her skin so much lately. Her enemy. Oh, how she hated you.

You know your fate very well, you are very aware of what is about to happen. Even though your body is shaking from exhaustion, from the snow and cold wind, you try not to show your fear. Despite your increasingly throbbing wound, you don't even hiss or whine. You're not asking for mercy. On the contrary, you frown and even give her that defiant look. Like you're daring her to cut your neck.

She hesitates, hesitates the longer she looks into those big eyes of yours. She has killed countless men, but their facial expressions were different, they were afraid, they were begging, they were screaming, asking for mercy. You are different. The sight of your helpless body, covered with blood dripping from your side, invokes sympathy and nostalgia in your eyes. For some reason, she finds in them a strange innocence that she herself was stripped of a long, long time ago. You look so soft. You look so pretty. “You’re so young…” her voice whispers while her eyes stare into your face. You could only wonder why she hadn't yet swung her blade and sliced your neck cleanly once and for all. "Does it matter now?" You answer in an equally quiet, hoarse voice. The cold wind blows strands of hair and sticks them slightly to your forehead.

Your words echoes in her head. She is brave. You haven’t shown fear nor pleaded for life, which makes her feel…something. She is strong. The cold blade still doesn't pierce the soft skin. "Why didn't you ask for mercy...?" She speaks quietly, only a silent breeze passes by, whispering snow in her hair. She is special. Not many survive an encounter with her, even those who have begged and fallen to their knees.

More and more you felt the blood flowing down your side, staining your clothes and coloring the snow. You just snorted at her question. Despite how much blood you've already lost, you still collect the remaining energy to growl in response. "I am not a dog. I'm not going to whine for mercy." You even dared to give her that determined look again.

All sorts of thoughts were running through Mizu's head now. She’s not afraid. She doesn't know her place. She's just like me. She lowers her katana. Her enemy is more than just an enemy.

"What are you doing?" The question falls from your lips as your eyes follow the blade as it moves away from your neck. „You should kill me.”

The moral monologue battles deep within Mizu. She still wants me to kill her. I should kill her. With the sound of the blade, Mizu raises her sword and returns it to its scabbard. Her gaze falters — a rare moment of weakness. "How old are you?" She steps closer as her voice echoes in the snow-covered landscape, while her blue eyes scan their enemy's body, taking in every tiny detail — bruises, scars, wounds. A glance at the blood that continues to seep down your side and stain the snow. An unexpected feeling, unknown to her, wells within her. An urge to protect this young person, as if you had reminded her of her younger self.

This sudden change in attitude surprises you. You swallow, gritting your teeth as you consider whether to answer the question or ignore it. After all, you no longer have a weapon, and even if you wanted to get up and run away, with this wound by your side, it wouldn't be difficult to catch up with you. "… 20." Mizu frowns when she hears the answer. She really is just like me. You are only a few years younger than her, but you have already chosen this terrible path of violence. “Stand up” she demands quietly. You look sharply at Mizu, as if trying to feel the catch. Slowly, you tuck your legs and push yourself up into a sitting position with your arms. You grit your teeth and widen your eyes as now your wound reminds you even more of its existence. After a moment of deep breaths, you gather yourself to get up. You'd rather bite your tongue than hiss in pain in the presence of your enemy, and finally you slowly, swaying slightly, stand in front of her.

Mizu’s gaze remains fixed on her rival, not taking her eyes off you for a single second. She sheaths her katana entirely, and a soft snow breeze fills her senses. The sound of snow crunching beneath her enemy’s feet resonates inside her mind, echoing inside of her heart. "What is your name?"

You think for a moment. You don't have the strength to think about why she's suddenly asking you so much information about you. The only thing you focus on is the throbbing pain at your side. "[Y/N]" You reply quietly, your head slightly bowed as you grab your side and try to apply pressure to your wound. “[Y/N]…” Mizu repeats after you. Her enemy’s name echoes in her mind, as if a whisper. The cold wind passes by, caressing her senses, touching her face with invisible fingers, carrying a hint of fresh winter air. Her blue eyes soften, as if looking at the most beautiful thing in existence. “Your name…is beautiful…" she sighs, unable to take her eyes off her enemy. “…like you,” Your face relaxed slightly at this sudden compliment. It's been a long time since anyone complimented you or your appearance. You opened your mouth as if you wanted to say something, but after a while you remembered the situation you were in and frowned again. She is your enemy. „Shut up” You groaned, unable to hold in the pain any longer. You lowered your head and clenched your eyes and teeth. When you looked at your hand, entirely stained with blood, you shuddered. Mizu watched your reaction very carefully. Deep down, she admired you for still having the nerve to tell her to shut up despite bleeding profusely and being on the verge of death. She's strong. She’s beautiful. “I’m taking you with me,” Mizu said sternly, as she approached you. She lifted you, her enemy into her arms.

Her closest enemy. Oh, how she adored you.

#bes mizu #blue eye samurai #mizu #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu x reader #bes #blue eye samurai x reader #mizu bes #mizu x s/o #mizu x y/n #mizu x you #enemies to lovers #enemies #lovers #mizu enemies to lovers #enemies but not rlly enemies #wlw #wlw x reader #mizu fanart

[gatheringbones]

[“Turns out that being a lesbian outside of the privacy of your own home was quite hard. I’m not talking about the various manifestations of homophobia—oh, that old thing. I’m talking about scoring. Picking up chicks. (As it turns out, I would come to prefer the type of woman few would recognize as female, the type who would cheerfully deck you if you called her a chick, but might, if I were lucky, see me as such: a chick, a babe, a femme fox.)

In the oeuvre of Mr. Spillane, being a lesbian seemed so easy, like shooting fish in a barrel. In my favorite lesbian novels, No Blonde is an Island and My Gun is Quick, all a gal had to do was brush up against another woman by the water cooler and, watch out, the sapphic sparks would surely fly. Lesbianism was something any woman could do, no special equipment, messy creams or liquids were required.

But when I walked into my first dyke bar in New York City, I had a rude awakening. It was like transferring to a new high school. No, it was worse than that. A new junior high school. You walk into the class on the first day and everyone turns to stare. Your clothes, your hair, the way you move, it’s all wrong. You have to change everything or die a horrible and lingering death.

I guess the moral of this story is that there are some pursuits, such as lesbianism, that one can’t learn from a book, no matter the author. A more crass sort might make some tasteless jokes at this juncture about “boning up” on lesbianism, or about “hands-on experience,” but the reader can be assured this dyke will not sink to that level.

I watched the other women dancing, talking, flirting. All transactions were conducted in a lingo as incomprehensible to me as straight guy sports speak. My late-seventies disco fever look was out of place here. Everyone looked like they’d raided the closet of their bigger, older brother while he was out repairing refrigerators.

I was the only one wearing makeup.

Someone approached me: “This is a gay bar.” I shriveled up and a gust of wind blew me out into the street.

I had no skills. No lesbian skills. I was stared at, rather than cruised, at the bars. I couldn’t find a way of singnaling to another dyke that I was open for business, a friend of Dorothy, in the life, on the bus. Let alone desperately horny.

Somehow I managed a few invites to lesbian parties. I’d figured out that wearing lipstick was wrong, but I was still doing it. I’m such a congenital WASP that my lips disappear without makeup; I couldn’t imagine having sex without lipstick. I had tried to pull a lesbian look together: oversized second-hand men’s clothes, an unbuttoned black vest, but Annie Hall does not work on someone five feet tall.

Nor could I play softball. When something is thrown at me, even if it is specifically designed for that purpose, I automatically duck. All I had going for me in the lesbian skill department was ownership of a cat. Enough to break the ice, but not cinch the deal.

Certainly I couldn’t just come out and ask some other dyke to show me the ropes, so to speak. The seventies were still going on even though it was now the eighties. Feminism and lesbianism had kind of merged, become one big multinational entity with Andrea Dworkin as CEO. You had to be sneaky to get laid.

Yikes. It had been so easy with men. All you had to do was bend over at the bowling alley and something would happen.

After two years, the drought ended. I saw a sign that advertised: “Double-X-Rated Christmas Party for Women.” The party was held in the basement of a Catholic church. Perhaps the priests had passed out upstairs and had no idea what was going on. Or perhaps the priests were the drag queens working the bar. Nevertheless, I was there as soon as the doors opened. And the doors were not the only thing that opened.

I walked into the basement where the party was taking place and saw rows of thrift store tuxedoes, second-hand prom dresses. The doorperson made it clear that these outfits could be borrowed for the evening. After they checked their coats, many party-goers were borrowing outfits from the racks and disappearing into the bathroom to amend their attire. As the evening went on, I noticed more and more women trading in their flannel and denim for sharkskin and taffeta.

At this, my first encounter with the women who produced the WOW Festival and would later open the WOW Cafe in a tiny linguini-shaped storefront on East Eleventh Street, I fell in love. In love with all of the women, with their outrageousness, their unruly desire. I wanted desperately to be a part of whatever it was they were doing…if the WOW Cafe had been a support group for lesbian skeet shooters, that’s what I’d be doing now.

Instead, I found theater, or it found me. And the theater, it seemed, offered a wonderful solution to my involuntary celibacy: the casting couch. In theater you are encouraged to have sex with as many people as possible; it’s an integral part of the process. At least at WOW it seemed like the shows were almost an afterthought to the flirting, a byproduct of the endless parties where women of every imaginable gender rubbed up against each other.

This last paragraph reads like a natural cue to cross-fade to the Story of the First Girlfriend, doesn’t it? At this point, I should see a stranger across a crowded room, our eyes should lock, and the violins should swell like wieners on the grill. But this scene isn’t part of my coming-out story. Who even remembers my first girlfriend? Not me. I remember lots of bodies, I remember rooms lit by lots of small lights, and above all else, I remember lots and lots of Rolling Rock. This movie doesn’t end with a soft-focus closeup on two women kissing; this is a coming-out story that crescendos into a crowd scene. It’s a wide-angle shot. The climax of my coming-out scenario isn’t a closeup on a lesbian couple but a panorama of a lesbian world.”]

holly hughes, from what comes first, from a woman like that: lesbian and bisexual writers tell their coming out stories, 2000

#holly hughes #lesbian literature #history stuff #gender stuff

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

(For your lovely rollo event.)

Rollo, how do you feel about children? Either just in general or perhaps.. if you would ever want to be a father in the future?

Like Fire, Hellfire.

“Children?”

He handled the word as though it were a skunk—innocent and harmless for now but primed to spray at the first hint of danger. A muscle in his face ticked. It was though he wished to shift into a different emotion but hadn't yet decided which one.

Handkerchief out, Rollo sucked in a breath through his teeth. The usual disgust or disapproval was not present in full force. Today, it was tempered by hesitance as he tip-toed around the subject.

"They have the capacity to be rambunctious. Like fire, difficult to tame. I’m not certain I can match their energy," he said vaguely. “The children in the City of Flowers are free-spirited, and that tends to result in acts of mischief. Whether their pranks and games disturb public peace depends on the time and place. I'm not fond of the instances when they do."

A slight grimace crossed his features. "There was once an incident when a boy blew hard into a magically charmed handkerchief, and the noise it produced startled the baker at the cafe I was frequenting. He had just pulled out a fresh batch of croissants from the oven. The croissants ended up all over the floor... What a waste of perfectly good food. The baker, too, was quite upset, as you can imagine."

"What happened to the boy?"

"Ah, him. He attempted to abscond from the scene of the crime. In his rush to escape, he paid no attention to his surroundings and collided with me." Rollo waved a hand. "The baker's rage was upon him in an instant. The boy was shaking like a leaf in the wind—he grasped onto my robes to keep himself upright.”

Rollo drew out a sigh that ended in a small smile. “I managed to smooth things over with the baker, though I also spoke with the boy and had him apologize. One must atone for one’s crimes—that lesson was surely instilled in him that day.”

"Aw, it was nice of you to step in and speak on behalf of the little guy." You found yourself smiling as well. Even though Rollo-san always has this stern air about him… "You really have a soft spot for kids, huh?”

His frown quickly returned. "No, I wouldn't say that. I was merely holding the boy accountable for his actions. Children can so easily be led astray without proper instruction and moral guidance. Who is to say he wouldn’t be a repeat offender if he was let off the hook?”

"Someone's in denial," you said in a teasing singsong. “It’s okay to confess that you’re good at taking care of kids, you know.”

“… I am not,” he insisted. “I am most content observing the children go about their simple days. I do not wish to take a larger part in their lives beyond that.”

A terrifying thought nipped at him from the dark crevices of his mind.

I don’t have a right to.

If his heart were a house, then a window had been thrown open, letting the outside in. A hole opened in the dark, and incriminating light rushed to fill it.

A flower of pain blossomed in his chest, its thorns driving deep into his flesh. The blood that rose to the surface was both hot and cold. Burning scorn, icy remorse.

A deadly duo.

Spiraling.

I wasn't able to protect the one that mattered most of all. My magic came too late. I'm in no position to be a big brother, let alone a father, a grandfather, an uncle, a guardian of any sort…!

I’m not worthy.

Rollo gritted his teeth. His soul ablaze, his mind jumbled with emotions running high. He pushed back with teeth and nails.

It’s not my fault. I’m not to blame!! The one who cast this flame is…!

“Rollo-san?”

You were staring at him, concern seeping into your eyes. Curiosity, too, had bloomed there. It was the same sort of expression one makes at a a stray on the side of the road. Sorry for it, but uncertain about drawing near to check its condition.

He gasped—realizing he had been making a most frightening face. Rearranging his features back into some semblance of calm, he cleared his throat.

“… Suffice to say, it is impossible in this current state of affairs for any child to grow up safe and free of sin. Around every bend and corner, there is temptation of magic calling out to them. How cruel!” he lamented pityingly. “The poor things, like lambs led to the slaughter.”

You shuddered at the gruesome image—human children like lambs.

Poor things, echoed your head. Poor Rollo, echoed your heart, thinking such things.

“Until I can bring about that magic-free world into fruition, I cannot commit my efforts toward any other endeavors,” he concluded. “A world without all the pain and suffering of this one… I intend to see my goal through to the very end. That is my utmost priority.”

A fairer world for all.

For the children.

For him.

#twisted wonderland #twst #Rollo Flamme #twst x reader #Rollo Flamme x Reader #angst #spoilers #disney twisted wonderland #twst interactions #twisted wonderland interactions #Reader #self insert #Rollo at the Writing Desk

[writers-potion]

hey, can you do a circles of hell post like the heaven one?

The Nine Circles of Hell 😈🔥

Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy is divided into 3 parts: Inferno, Purgatorio and Paradiso. The Inferno presents us with the popular concept of Nine Circles of Hell.

Ante-Inferno

Think of this as the Ground Lobby for Hell.

The Gates of Hell have this inscription: "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate" (Abadon all hope, ye who enter here)

Souls who couldn't choose between good and evil reside here, tortued and chased by hornets and snakes. (Seems like indecision is also a sin, haha)

There are angels here as well who chose to be on the side of neither good and evil, and they're also tormented.

After crossing the river on the boundary for hell with Charon, you meet the first level of hell:

First Circle: Limbo

The first circle is home to the unbaptized and virtuous pagans, who simply didn't know that Christ exist.

These souls have lived morally, but failed to accept Christiantiy as a religion

No physical torture, but waves of sadness flow through the souls, lamenting the fact that they're close to Heaven but aren't in it.

Retirement community of the afterlife: Hippocrates, Aristotle, Virgil, Homer, Horace, Ovid, Socrates, Plato, Saladin

Second Circle: Lust

The wind-buffeted second circle of Hell is the final destination of the lustful and adulterous.

Souls are blown about in a violent storm, without hope of rest. They are torn in a raging storm and thrown against rocks.

Cleopatra and Helen of Troy were among its most famous residents. Francesca da Rimini and her lover Paolo.

Third Circle: Gluttony

Those who overindulge themselves are forced to lie in vile, freezing slush, guarded by Ceberus

Unable to move, they lay on the ground forever while being hurled with sweage and dirt.

Ciacco of Florence is here.

Fourth Circle: Avarice & Prodigality

This section of Hell is reserved for the money-grubbers and overly materialistic among us. Those who hoarded money come here.

The greedy battle each other, forever rolling giant boulders on each other. When they push the heavy weights, it rolls back and the process starts all over again.

Plutus guards them.

Fifth Circle: Wrath & Sulllenness

Dante tells us that the wrathful and angry souls of this circle spend eternity waging battle with each other on the banks of River of Styx.

The sullen are forced to breath below the dark waters, chocking on the black mud derived from the world above.

Fillippo Argenti is here.

───〃★ Door to Lower Hell: gate guarded by fallen angels ★〃───

Sixth Circle: Heresy

Heretics spend eternity entombed in flaming crypts in the sixth circle. Think of a graveyard with burning tombstones.

Heresy is the sin of having beliefs opposed to the Christian belief, which can be a little vague in modern times.

Florentines Farinata degil Uberti and Cavalcante de' Cavalvanti are here.

Seventh Circle: Violence

The Seventh Circle is sub-categorized into 3 smaller rings: Oter, Middle and Inner.

The outer ring is filled with blood and fire and reserved for murderers and thugs. Centaurs guard the Outer Ring, shooting criminals with arrows.

The middle ring is where, according to Dante, suicide victims go. They’re transformed into trees and fed upon by harpies.

The inner ring, a place of burning sand, is reserved for those who are violent against God and nature (blasphemers)

Eighth Circle: Fraud

Geryon, a creature symbolizing fraud, welcomes you to the eighth circle. He has a human face, a scorpion tail and giant wings.

The eighth circle is subdivided into ten trenches, where you’ll find con artists of all sorts. These trenches are called Malebolge (Evil pockets) and each contains different types of criminals who commited fraud.

Panderes and seducers, flatterers, sorcerers, false prophets, liars, thieves, people who created false money, counterfeits, impersonators, schismatics, etc. reside here.

Ninth Circle: Treachery

The final circle is a frozen wasteland occupied by history’s greatest traitors. Betrayers of are frozen in a lake of ice, and most of Satan's body is also immersed in ice.

It is divided into 4 stages: (1) Caina - traitors to family (2) Antenora - traitors to nation or politicians (3) Ptolomaea - hosts to betray theiur guests (4) Judecca - those to betray their lords/masters.

In the very center, Satan punishes the greatest betrayers of all time: Judas Iscariot, who betrayed Christ, and Brutus and Cassius who betrayed Julius Caesar.

Satan has three mouths, each of which eats a specific person: with left and right devouring Brutus and Cassius and the centre mouth devouring Judas. 

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

#writers and poets #writing #creative writing #writers on tumblr #creative writers #helping writers #let's write #poets and writers #writeblr #resources for writers #hell #dante #inferno #writers block #writers #writerscommunity #write #writer #writing advice #writing prompt #how to write #write every day #write anything #write up #write it #write that down #writing inspiration #writing community #writing tips #on writing

[trulybetty]

Flings | Frankie Morales x f!Reader

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader (no use of Y/N) Word Count: 3,975 Warnings: Mature, no smut smut, but illusions to maybe some smut? Talk of food, alcohol, and a little angst - I think that's it, I apologize if I've missed something, please let me know if there's something needing adding. Summary: Five times things were supposed to be a fling between you and Frankie until it wasn't... AO3: Linked

A/N: Bookstore Frankie has taken on a life of his own, the original piece that this all came out of will be finished soon and I hope it lives up to expectations - I'm determined this week to get my WIP list down!

Fling. noun 1. a short period of enjoyment or wild behaviour. - a short, spontaneous sexual relationship.

1. Just a Fun Night Out

You had thrown caution to the wind and sent Frankie a text message that night after Cat had left your apartment. As she had said, different was good and what was the worst that could happen? No sooner had you sent the message, you had a response almost instantly. 

Frankie: I thought I wasn’t going to hear from you Maverick ;)

You hadn’t gone to bed until three am and called in sick the next day.

When he wasn’t participating in ‘military stuff’ the two of you were engaged in a back-and-forth of messaging. Seeing him again would have come sooner, but between the both of you, your schedules didn’t align until two weeks later. It had been intentional on Frankie’s part to arrange to meet at the same bar you’d had your first chance encounter.

Neither of you were under any false pretenses that this was going to be more than just a night of drinks, laughs and maybe, just maybe a nightcap at your place when closing time was called. 

No sooner had you closed the door behind you his hands were in your hair, his body pressing you up against the door. It was a furious tangle of limbs as you both tried to free one another from your clothes. His hat was the first thing to go, thrown across the room. His fingers fought with the button of your jeans causing him to curse furiously in Spanish before your fingers took over. The air was thick with want and need, your bodies aching for each other. With precision, you unbuckled his belt and slid it off him, throwing it aside after his hat. 

As you stumbled down the hallway towards your bedroom, the anticipation between you and Frankie grew more intense. At the edge of the bed, his hands roamed over your skin, leaving a trail of hot kisses on your neck and collarbone.  The atmosphere was electric as his hands slipped under your shirt, swiftly pulling it off. Your hands mirrored his actions, fingers deftly navigating the buttons of his shirt. Desperate to feel his skin against yours, you made quick work of them.

Together, you fell back onto the bed in a tangle of arms and legs. Taking a moment to catch your breath, Frankie framed your body with his, his arms holding him up over you. He dipped his head to kiss the tender spot between your neck and shoulder. His lips tracing your neck before his teeth nipped at your ear.

Your fingers snaked up his back, his shoulders before they tangled in his hair and with a tender tug you pulled his face to yours, your lips meeting his in a hungry and passionate kiss. There was a weight behind it, something more that neither one of you were able to think straight about, more focused on something more physical.

“I’ve been thinking about doing this since the moment I saw you tonight,” he said, his voice low and rough when you finally broke apart.

You smiled at him and ran a hand through his hair. “Likewise,” you replied.

As Frankie kissed you goodbye in the morning, you’d both smiled and agreed to meet up the next time Frankie was in town.

Somehow, conveniently, your schedules never had an issue of conflict from there out again.

2. A Chance Meeting in a Different City

A couple of months later, fortune seemed to pull you and Frankie together again in a momentous twist of fate. You found yourself in San Francisco for a work trip, your nose buried in a book at a coffee shop down on the pier. Frankie was there too, a coincidence that neither of you could have planned. Military aviation drills were taking place that week, and he was in the area for the events.

The day had been long, and you were lost in your thoughts when an imposing shadow suddenly crowded your space. Annoyance bubbled up inside you, but as you looked up, ready to voice your irritation, you were stopped in your tracks.

Standing there, looking just as surprised as you felt, was Frankie.

“Maverick,” he said, flashing that teasing grin of his.

“Frankie!” You exclaimed, jumping up and nearly knocking over your coffee. “What on Earth are you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you.

The initial shock quickly turned into pleasure as you both recognized the serendipity of the situation. Plans were hastily rearranged, and the two of you decided to seize the opportunity to explore the city together.

Over the next few days, you found yourselves walking the bustling streets and enjoying the tourist sights of San Francisco between conference meetings and Frankie’s own commitments. 

Nights were spent in your hotel room, it seemed no matter the city you both seemed to gravitate towards your bed. The past months had consisted of frequent visits to Seattle by Frankie and you'd even made the journey down to Pierce County to see him once or twice.

“You ever think about how this all started?” Frankie murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

“With your pilot pickup line?” you teased, snuggling closer to him.

He rolled his eyes, “Yeah, that, and everything else. I mean, what were the odds we'd meet like that? And then run into each other again here?”

It all felt so natural, so effortless, that neither of you questioned it.

3. New Year's Eve

Cat and her husband were throwing a New Year's Eve party and you had casually asked Frankie what his plans were two days before. He had told you that he was free and so you’d asked him if he wanted to join you, and you told yourself it was because no one should be alone for the new year and that was the only reason you’d extended the invitation.

The insanely large Costco-sized TV illuminated the living room playing the start of the countdown of the New York Times Square ball drop.

Ten.

You laughed at the party hat Cat had just unceremoniously placed on Frankie's head, she told him that it was strange seeing him out without his standard hat on, so in her tipsy state had written Standard Oil on the paper cone hat in Sharpie and plopped it on his head before giving you an equally garish one to wear also.

Nine.

The bubbles of the champagne tickled your lips as you brought it up for a tiny sip, ready to toast the New Year once the countdown was complete.

Eight.

Frankie reached around you to grab his own glass, he shifted closer, his hip knocking into yours, he didn’t step back.

Seven.

Your heart started beating a little faster, a mix of excitement from the impending new year and the unexpected intimacy of Frankie's proximity. The scent of him, familiar yet always exciting, mingled with the festive air around you.

Six.

The room was getting louder as more people appeared from around the house to watch the ball drop. Frankie’s hand rested on your hip as he turned you to face him.

Five.

You tried to dismiss the fluttering in your stomach as just the champagne, but deep down, you knew it was something more to do with the man in front of you.

Four.

The countdown was nearly over, and the room was filled with anticipation. But the only thing you could focus on was the look in Frankie's eyes.

Three.

As the countdown was close to reaching its climax, the room started to fill with shouts of excitement. But amid the festive chaos, you were drawn into an intimate bubble with Frankie. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, and whispered, “I'm glad I came tonight.”

Two.

You turned to face him, your eyes locked, the world around you forgotten. “Me too,” you whispered back, your voice filled with emotion.

One.

As the crowd around you erupted in cheers, and the New Year was ushered in, Frankie's lips met yours in what started as a sweet kiss before your arms wrapped around his neck and his around your waist. The kiss deepened and the two of you tried not to spill the drinks in your hands.

“Happy New Year Mav.” he grinned as he pulled back to look you in the eye.

“Happy New Year Frankie,” you echoed, your voice catching a little.

Frankie's hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours. He leaned in to kiss you again, happy that you had messaged him two days before with an invitation to see in the New Year's. He hadn’t cancelled plans so fast before, furiously texting Santiago that something had come up and wouldn’t be attending the arranged party on base.

“Want to get out of here?” he asked before draining his glass. 

You nodded enthusiastically as you finished your own drink, “Let’s go.”

4. Valentine's Day

The salty taste of the bacon from your sandwich left its mark on your lips, and Frankie couldn't help but admire your quick tongue poking out to lick them away. In response, he licked his own lips appreciatively. 

You were both in your bed, the sheets dishevelled and the only reason Frankie wasn’t as naked as you were was because of the breakfast you were both eating. He’d not long returned with the food and coffees for you both from the bakery down the street after the two of you had enjoyed a lazy morning bed. You'd fallen back asleep and the breakfast was a welcome surprise.

What had also been a pleasant surprise was the bouquet of red roses that had turned up at your door the day before his arrival in town, Valentine's Day, with a card attached that simply said: “Just because.” You hadn’t questioned him on them. Just breathed in the aroma of the fresh flowers before finding something to put them in. Then spent the day working from home admiring the display out of the corner of your eye

You glanced up shyly from your sandwich as Frankie’s gaze on you grew more intense. 

“What?” you asked, feeling the heat creeping up your skin.

He leaned forward and brushed his thumb over your bottom lip before pressing his own to yours. He pulled back, smiling. “Nothing, I just can’t take my eyes off of you.”

You feigned indifference to mask the effect his words had on you, trying to make light of it.  Placing your now empty plate on the bedside table you looked back to Frankie, laid out on the bed next to you. His arm was folded under his head and you could see the bottom half of his tattoo poking out from under his shirt sleeves. The lines of which you had become very familiar with over the past months.

Shuffling over you straddled his hips, your knees nestled on either side as your hands pushed up his shirt to pepper kisses over his chest. With little fight, it wasn't long until his shirt was up and over his head and flung to the floor. He buckled his hips up and there was no missing the small "mm" that escaped from his lips. 

“Mav,” he breathed as his hands pulled you down to crash his lips against yours.

His kiss was a sudden rush, igniting butterflies in your chest. Your lips parted instinctively, and the soft touch of his tongue against yours sent shivers down your spine. In that moment, all resistance melted away as he gently guided you onto your back, his weight settling above you.

“Thank you for the flowers,” you murmured quietly as he trailed your jaw with kisses.

You could feel the smirk forming as he continued his trail to your ear where he nipped your ear, “No clue what you're talking about.”

5. A Wedding

You weren't sure when you both started relying on phone calls rather than texting one another. But it had become commonplace for either of you to carry out everyday tasks with the other's voice in your ear, chatting about any and everything.

It was during one of those calls that Frankie had asked if you would be his plus one. Get out of town for the weekend, free drink, free food, good company and two nights in a swanky hotel he'd jokingly said he had no business staying in, and maybe your presence alongside him might bump up his status allowing him to get away with staying.

You don't know what made you say yes - but you did.

You'd danced, flirted, enjoyed one another's presence and finally met the elusive men that formed the operative group Frankie was a part of.

“So,” you grinned over the glass of wine in your hands, “you're all real then.”

“Yes ma'am,” Will replied from across the table, tipping his drink to you.

“For a while here Francisco,” you said his name slowly and deliberately, savoring the way it rolled off of your tongue. You'd noticed that each time you called him by his full name, he'd let out a slight smile at the corner of his lips, “had me believing that his whole pilot thing was some elaborate ruse.”

Frankie chuckled, taking a sip of his own drink. “I'm not that good of a liar,” he said with a wink. You knew he was telling the truth about being a pilot; after all, the private tour of the barracks he'd given you shortly after you met cleared that suspicion.

You shook your head smiling, “No, you're not.”

Santiago smiled widely as he gave Frankie a friendly pat on the back, “She's a catch, Frankie.”

Frankie held his hand out to you, beckoning you sincerely. “C'mon Mav, come dance with me.”

So you allowed him to lead you out to the dancefloor, it was a slow song that the two of you swayed along to. His hips pressed against yours, his hands at your waist, yours around your neck.

As the song ended, Frankie didn't release you from his hold. Instead, he dipped his head down, his lips brushing against your ear. “You look stunning tonight,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “Thank you for coming with me.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, his words sending a shiver down your spine. “You don't look too bad yourself,” you replied, a hint of teasing in your voice. “and you're welcome.”

Amidst the laughter and the champagne toasts, you both found yourselves watching the newlyweds with a strange sense of longing, though neither of you mentioned it to the other. Choosing instead to brush it off as nothing more than a fleeting emotion, but it lingered, nagging at you both for the remainder of the weekend.

The One Night.

He never came into town on a weekday, it was always between a Friday and the weekend. That should have been your first indication that something was up. He also hadn’t used the ridiculous nickname he’d bestowed on you, Maverick, that outwardly you voiced your displeasure at but inwardly you had grown quite fond of it. 

The other bigger tell that something was going on was the fact that he hadn’t kissed you. He’d kissed your forehead when he’d walked through the door, hugged you a little longer once he made it through the threshold and was now sat as far as possible at the other end of your sofa.

It was just a year shy of the night the two of you had first met.

Your relationship had defied conventional labels, existing in the spaces between dates and casual encounters. Though words had never been exchanged, the unspoken understanding between you both was a bond that had grown stronger over the last year. But with the way he was acting, you were convinced this was it. That this was him telling you that he'd met someone.

So when the words, “I'm being stationed in Colorado next month.” came out of his mouth, he'd had to ask if you'd heard him because you were still processing that there wasn't another person. 

“You're...what?” you finally managed to stammer, looking at Frankie, his eyes filled with a complex mixture of excitement, fear, and uncertainty.

“I've been reassigned to a new base in Colorado,” he repeated, his voice firm but his eyes soft, searching your face for a reaction, “but I... I don't want to go without talking to you about it.”

You blinked at him, your mind still reeling, the weight of what he was saying sinking in slowly. This was more than just a fling. It was more than just a casual thing between two consenting adults. This was real, and the very real possibility of losing him was hitting you like a sledgehammer.

“You want to talk about it?” you asked, your voice trembling, tears threatening to spill over. “What is there to talk about? You're leaving.”

Frankie's face fell, and he moved closer, reaching out to take your hand. “It's not that simple, and I know you know that.”

“Know what?”

Removing his hat and tossing it onto the coffee table, he ran his hand through his hair with a frustrated sigh. His gaze fixed on you with a mixture of exasperation and affection. “Come on Mav, I know you're not this obtuse,” he stated with a playful grin, as if the answer to the unspoken question was written across your face.

You swallowed hard, “Frankie, I–” you attempted to find the words as your brain struggled to catch up. 

“Look, whatever this is,” he didn't wait for you to find your voice, “I'm not ready to walk away, at least not without at least asking you first,” you watched his shoulders raise in a deep sigh as it let it go slowly, “will you come with me? To Colorado, will you come with me?”

The air was sucked out of your lungs and the room was filled with silence, your mind racing as you processed what he was saying. It was true, the two of you had become more than just a fling, but this was big. This was a life-altering decision.

You stared at him, disbelief written all over your face. “Come with you? To Colorado? Frankie, I have a life here. A job, friends, family.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking, “I know it's a lot to ask, but I can't imagine being there without you. I, I can't imagine my life without you.”

The tears were flowing now, and you were unable to stop them. A year of emotions, a year of denying what you felt, what you wanted, was crashing down around you, and there was no escaping it.

“You're asking me to give up everything,” you said, your voice filled with doubt. “You're asking me to take a huge risk.”

Frankie wiped away your tears with his thumb, “I'm asking you to decide if this is something you want, if you're willing to take a chance on me, on us… me.” he took in a deep breath, “But if you're feeling anything like I do about you, then you know that I'm serious about this, about us.”

When you didn't respond he sighed, “Look, I'm going to go and let you think about this. I'm not leaving for another month. If you don't want to come, then–” he drifted off, he hadn't really contemplated the possibility of you saying no, “then it's been an amazing year and–” his voice caught in his throat, “and I think I can be happy with that.”

He leaned in and kissed you. It was a deep embrace, his lips lingering on yours. His stubble gently scratched your face as if it were the last time he would feel you this close to him. He lingered for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he took in a deep breath before he stood and left your apartment.

You sat in the silence of your living room, the click of the front door an echo as you processed what had just happened. 

Frankie was leaving for Colorado in a month.

Frankie had asked you to move to Colorado.

Frankie loved you?

You looked at the coffee table, Frankie's hat was still there where he'd left it.

You snatched the hat from the table and grabbed your keys before sprinting to the door. With no time for an elevator, you took off down the four flights of stairs. When you reached the lobby, it was empty. 

You opened the door to your apartment building and frantically scanned the street, looking for Frankie. There he was, standing beside his truck down the street, his hand in his pocket for his truck keys. You watched him run a hand through his hair and curse when he realized he didn't have his cap. You didn't waste any time as you watched him fish his keys out of his jacket and unlocked the door of his truck.

“Frankie!” you shouted, he looked up startled, his hand on the door handle.

You continued to run towards him, your heart pounding in your chest. When you finally reached him, you practically collided into his chest, wrapping your arms tightly around him. He stumbled back a few steps, but quickly regained his footing and returned the embrace.

You were talking into Frankie's chest, a rapid, breathless spill of words that tumbled out in a rush. He couldn't make out what you were saying, but he held you close, his arms strong and reassuring around you.

“Mav,” he said gently, trying to calm you down. “I can't understand what you're saying. Please, slow down.”

You stepped back, your eyes wide and filled with a mixture of fear and determination. You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

“Frankie,” you said, your voice trembling. “I'll go with you. Wherever it is, I'll go with you,” you said with more conviction to your voice. “I don't know how this is all going to work and logistics,” You said with a small laugh, “but I do know,” you took in a deep breath, “I love you and I'm not okay with the idea of this between us just ending here.”

“That's all I need to hear,” He dropped his forehead to yours, there was no missing the smile that lit up his face, “I love you too Mav.”

He slipped one hand around your waist as he softly thumbed your lips with his other, before leaning in to kiss you. The kiss was sweet at first, but soon turned into something more. Something hungry, something desperate to make up for the both of you failing to acknowledge what had been growing between you for so long.

“Do you have to be back on base tonight?” you asked breathless.

He shook his head, letting out a laugh. “I took a couple days off,” he admitted with a shy smile. “I wasn't sure how this was going to play out—it was either ending in your bed together or drinking beer in mine alone.”

“I think I have a couple of sick days I can cash in if you still want to finish this in bed? I mean, I have beer too.”

Frankie chuckled, “I'd like that,” he leant down to place another kiss to your lips, the admittance of your feelings for one another giving him no restrictions in letting you know how he really felt. “I think we have some catching up to do,” he said softly

You nodded, smiling through the tears that still lingered. “Yeah, we do,” you murmured, and hand in hand, the two of you headed back to your apartment.

#frankie morales/f!reader #frankie morales/you #frankie morales/reader #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #triple frontier fanfiction

[undercoverpena]

rainy world, blanket days

frankie morales x f!reader

summary: “Yourewet.” It escapes, muffled between your mouths, as he smiles against your lips. “It’s raining, amor.” 

wordcount: 1.8k an: written for anon, with a huge thanks and dedication to @thelightsandtheroses who let me ramble a lot to her, without complaint. and sorta told me i could do this, even when i didn't think i could. warnings: none. just sweet!frankie, soft vibes, nice ending (real cute, tbf)

When it rains, it pours. 

A sentiment he knows all too well with how his day has been going. 

You and your grand ideas, where simple DIY soon gets out of hand: first, a photo frame, then the guest sink, and now he’s retrieving shelving because you need more space for your books. 

Frankie doesn’t mind. Not really. 

He likes being busy—likes making you smile and how it always hits your eyes and coats him in a warmth that no winter can ever take from him. 

When he'd left, there had been sunshine. By the time he pulls into the car park, the clouds have grown grey and heavy, fingers tugging to pull his collar around his neck to fend off the wind. Hat tugged down, hiding, as he saunters around aisle after aisle, an image in mind of what he wants—what he needs. 

He clambers it all together. Some under his arm, some lodged against his chest, hugged there by his arm. Somewhat wishing he hadn’t been so quick to turn down a bag. All to step out of the automatic doors and be met with a downpour. 

The kind that soaks everything it touches and makes the air smell of petrichor, all fresh earth and mire. A scent which could so easily take him back to jungles and covert missions if not for the way he gripped the wood until splinters threatened to dig into his hands. 

He’s been better recently—more rooted. Finding himself less troubled and minus the haunting of ghosts. 

But, sometimes, they hang in the background. The memories that become nightmares, waiting for a weaker moment to suffocate him. 

You fend them off—doing so without trying. 

You and the smile he thinks of as he throws everything in the truck, slamming the driver door behind him as droplets fall down his neck, sliding from the ends of his curls to run down and settle on his collarbone. 

Palm across his forehead, wiping the beads from his brow as he removes his hat—the one soaked to the bone. He knows it’ll take hours to dry, trying to hang it off the passenger headrest as he wrestles with how naked he feels without it. 

You like it off. 

Often whispering it to him, having done so the other night when you were straddling his lap, pushing it back, taking it in your fingers before placing it backwards on your head. 

“Do I suit it, Frankie? Your hat.” 

He wished he’d taken a photo, made it his background. 

You in his oversized shirt, a pair of boxers turned shorts, and his hat on your pretty little head. The thought alone sparks warmth through his chest, suddenly turning the key more eager, more determined. 

Desperate.  

That’s what he was: desperate. To see you, get home to you. 

The work-in-progress which changes month by month before their eyes as vision and his handiwork being it to life. 

He likes working on it, your two's home. But sometimes, in weather like this, he wishes for blankets and candles, no lights—just the flicker of a movie he’ll pretend to watch for the first act before he silently studies you. 

Or music, soft, lulling music that floats around the walls. The occasional raps of the branches from the tree on the window, the one you refuse to have Frankie cut down. 

He craves one today, never really being one for lazy days, but now it’s those days he loves the most with you. The ones which are easy, a gift. They come along infrequently, but when they do, he tries to clutch on to them too tightly—in the same way, he likes to have you close. 

Whether it’s bare legs thrown over his thighs, fluffy socks twitching under the blanket, or you slotted against his side, hand playing with his fingers as his lips twitch into a smile periodically. 

It’s those memories, that wish, that carries him home. The car windows steam up under the clamminess of his skin, the radio humming songs he barely listens to when he finally swings his truck on the drive. Forgetting the items beside him, including his hat, as he steps out, not even doubling back when he presses the key to lock it—just desperate to get inside, and when he does…

It’s all he’s been wishing for and more. 

The scent of a burning wick hits him first, followed by hot cocoa. Shutting the front door, locking it—and keeping the world out—he slides his feet from his boots, leaving them in a state on the mat. Then he begins his hunt for you, fingers brushing down doorways, leaning into the kitchen, and then the living room.

Frankie frowns as his fingers scratch at his damp hair. Something akin to worry begins to needle at his chest, making his heart stammer—rattling in his chest. 

His next stop, the only one truly left, catches his eye as droplets fall from his jacket, painting the wooden floor in dots from the outside. The door, all half-open and ajar, as it had been this morning when he’d followed you out of it, sleep clinging to his lashes as you excitedly talked about decor and needing his help. 

Now, he worries he didn’t lock the door. That something had happened. Not even remembering the last time he checked his phone or—

You collide into him suddenly, all quickly. 

In a way that forces all of the pieces of him to slot back together, making the worry dissipate. Your grin growing at the sight of him, hitting your eyes as you begin to beam as though he’s your sun and not just a man you met one day and never got rid of. 

He thinks of speaking, whispering a hi and then pulling you close, but he gets tangled up—thoughts balling and knotting in his head at the sight of you. 

You look so comfortable and relaxed, your face clean and free of anything—one of his tees adorning your frame, hiding your curves from him. 

There’s something about seeing you undone that he'll never grow used to. How at ease around him you are, have been since early days. It’s almost his favourite sight, taking it over summer dresses and painted lips—almost. 

Frankie’s favourite has more to do with when your lips are parted, thighs on either side of him—pupils blown, skin warm, sweat pebbling on your hairline and collarbones. You make the prettiest noises then, too—an array of Francisco’s and Frankie’s pecking the air. 

Your eyes are narrowing, confusion mounting at his stare and empty hands. He knows you—about as well as you know him. 

Frankie knows that you’re beginning to worry with how your brow slides up your forehead, that concern-laced words will fall from your tongue as your mouth starts to part. But he moves, pounces, rids the air of comments that aren’t please and more. 

Slanting his lips over yours, he steals your thoughts. Intentionally, his tongue licks into your mouth to wipe up the remainder of any words that had been forming. It’s only as he nips at your bottom lip, tasting the whimper you let him have, is he aware of your arms coming around his neck, feels fingers scrape against his hair, his scalp—

“Yourewet.”

It escapes, muffled between your mouths, as he smiles against your lips. “It’s raining, amor.” 

Frankie slides his fingers across your cheek, keeping you close, letting him take his time to kiss you, enjoy you. His other hand is busy sliding up your frame—fingers brushing the overwashed, seen-better-days t-shirt of his that you love—all to find purpose on your hip. Wishing to grip it, his thumb digging ever so lightly—not enough to bruise, although he could (enjoys doing so, too), but enough to inform you what he wants. 

You. Always you. 

Rainy days and sunny ones. The difficult ones and the easy ones. 

“Frankie…” 

He kisses the side of your mouth, humming—indicative that he’s heard you. 

“I’ve got the blankets out. Queued a movie and—“

“Lit the candles,” he finishes, one last kiss to your jaw before he retracts, letting you go to look you up and down as he folds his arms, leaning against the doorframe. 

The silence allows the sound of rain hammering against the window panes to find his ears—doing so to a beat similar to how his heart thumps at the sight of you. The way it has done since he woke up one morning and couldn’t get the thought from his mind: 

I want to marry you. 

He’s been thinking about it for weeks, months.

Moments adding to other ones, collecting them like stamps. Letting them layer and layer—

You drag him from his thoughts, shifting on the balls of your feet, an unreadable expression flushing out the one he’d put there a moment ago. “Is that… okay?” 

He nods, slow at first before a grin accompanies it. You pull it from him easily, and do so all the time—a thing the others have noticed. 

“All I was thinking about at the hardware store.” 

“You were thinking about a blanket day?” 

His lip twitches. “Thinking about you under a blanket, yeah.” 

You try to hold it back, but you smirk. Eyes latched on him as he shrugs his jacket off, your hand gesturing to take it from him, pulling it close to you. 

“I’ll let you pick the movie,” you say, moving past him, holding his eye line as your hand brushes his chest, taking his jacket with you. “And I’ll hang this up to dry.” 

He smirks knowingly. 

Because you only let him choose when you have no intention of watching it. 

“I’ma just change,” he calls out, heading into the bedroom—passing the mirror, the wardrobe. Shifting around the end of the bed as he hovers near the bedside table. 

Letting his fingers find the handle, he pulls on the top drawer, glancing at the door. Nervousness prickles, mixes with the drizzle sliding down his spine, as he opens it, peering in. 

At first, he sees nothing, and then just the corner of it. 

Just how he left it, smothered in clean, holey socks and receipts—the blue box which stares up at him. All 4.7 x 3.9 of it. 

The one which had been heavy in his pocket the day he picked it up to bring it home. How it began burning a hole in his jacket until he hid it, stuffing it in the back of the nook for the right day. 

Today though, he lets his fingers pull it out from the corner it’s been trapped in. Feeling how light it actually is, for the weight it has on his shoulders. 

“Frankie, y'coming?”

He smiles, both at the box in his fingers and your impatience. Nudging the drawer shut with his knuckle, a scar catching his sight—one you always stroke, never asking, yet reading the story behind it with each touch.

He calls back that he’ll be a minute, placing the box on the bed, opening other drawers and slamming them shut once he'd found sweats and a fresh tee. Dressing, he feels the warmth slide up his neck, reaching his ears as his pulse thunders.

Having decided today will be the day the ring finds a new home—hopefully, one on your finger. 

an: hope this was fluffy enough, anon.

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales #francisco morales #triple frontier x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #francisco morales x you #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedrostories #frankie morales triple frontier #francisco morales fanfiction #francisco catfish morales

[readychilledwine]

Sorry if this is a dumb question! Who is the one true morally grey character?

Not a dumb question! I feel like morally grey is a term so loosely thrown around in the world of current book culture we've all forgotten what it means.

I think we need to start with stating that morally grey is what writers would traditionally call true neutral. A morally grey character does not have clear-cut motivations. They do not side with good or evil unless it is of benefit to them, we very rarely receive explanation regarding their actions, and authors do not try to paint them in a positive nor negative light. They allow readers to make that choice.

That being said.

Eris Vanserra.

He does what he has to do. No apologies, no long-winded explanations to validate his choices, and his motivations aren't clear if they're for the greater good or not yet. Siding with Prythia against Hybern benefitted Eris, taking Nuan's anti-fae bane remedy benefitted Eris, siding against The Mortal Queens and Koschei is to benefit Eris. Even saving Lucien is a benefit to Eris. He has a brother who he knows is powerful and may be willing to fight with him against Beron. Siding with Amarantha, saying he'd give up Feyre's name if he knew it, under the mountain was to benefit Eris.

All we really know about Eris is he loves his mother, hates his father, and possibly cares for Lucien. We have no clue if Eris will truly be better than Beron or if that's a front. We do not know what his true motives for asking for Nesta's hand in marriage were. We don't know Eris, and SJM is not allowing us to. She is throwing negatives and positives to Eris each time we possibly get to know him more. He is easily her most complex character.

I know everyone thinks it is Rhysand, but Rhys can not be considered morally grey due to constant validations of his choices and how SJM is fighting for us and all the other characters to see him in a positive light. Rhysand's character alignment would be closer to chaotic good. Even with his treatment of Nesta.

#elizabeths.updates #send asks #send anons

[delimeful]

give me mercy no more (1)

G/t July Day 1: Enchanted

(Full Prompt List)

patron prompt: virgil hugging a crying janus!

warnings: arguing, tension, betrayal, mentions of assassinations, offscreen character thomas, it's a g/t fic but i didn't actually get to the g/t yet LOL, self sacrifice, crying, angst

-

“You can’t do this.”

Janus paused for the briefest moment at the sound of his closest friend’s voice, before continuing to pack away rations.

“Can’t I?” he asked airily, not turning around to face Virgil.

He’d known this confrontation was inevitable since they’d come up with the only possible solution to their kingdom’s problem. He hadn’t realized how unprepared he’d feel even now, with the hour of tribute rapidly approaching.

“It’s not right. Thomas needs you,” Virgil insisted, stepping closer.

Without even looking at him, Janus could picture the scowl he was wearing. Terrified and defiant in the face of impossible odds, as always.

Bringing up the heir apparent was a low blow, however.

“Yes, he does,” Janus snapped, a bite to the words. “Do you think anything else on this continent or any other could possibly move me to do something like this?”

A short, stagnant pause as Virgil struggled to find a retort.

“His Highness will be alright,” Janus added, softer. “Of course he will. You’ll be there at his side.”

A year ago, the idea of trusting any of the knights of this kingdom would have been laughable at best. The Sanders kingdom was a pit of vipers, and Janus had blended in with the best of them, climbing the ranks to the position of advisor through means that would make any moral man weep.

He’d still only barely been in time to prevent Thomas from perishing in a political assassination, one initiated by the same mage faction that had orphaned the young boy originally.

Janus didn’t have to do any investigation to learn that particular tidbit; it was an illuminating and concerning letter from the queen, an old friend of his, that had brought him back to the kingdom.

He’d been too late to save her. He’d made sure that the same couldn’t be said for her son.

Back then, he and Virgil had constantly been at each other’s throats, both expecting the other to betray the prince at any moment. Virgil saw right through Janus’ sly facades, and Janus knew that the rank and file of the kingdom’s army were only loyal to the highest bribe.

That was what they’d thought, anyhow.

When the next attempt rolled around, Virgil had been forcefully diverted from his usual patrol route, and was halfway across the grounds when the alarm was raised.

He’d torn through any opponent in his way in a desperate frenzy, and burst into the prince’s quarters expecting to see the worst.

Instead, he’d found Thomas whole and unharmed, positioned solidly behind Janus, who stood ready with two narrow, poisoned blades. The room already had a handful of would-be assassins collapsed on the ground, some in the same exact livery Virgil wore.

“Come and try,” Janus had hissed, keenly aware of the slash along his side and the way blood was already darkening his doublet.

Virgil, bigger and stronger and less winded even after a sprint across the kingdom, had taken two steps forward and knelt before him, head bowed.

The fool. Janus had almost stabbed him on reflex alone.

“Thank you,” he’d said, the back of his neck well and truly exposed, “for protecting him.”

Janus wasn’t used to being trusted. It had thrown him off for long enough that he’d stayed his blade, and before he knew it, Virgil had managed to worm his way under his defenses and become not only a trusted ally, but a snarky, paranoid, invaluable friend.

They grew to be called the Two Hands of the Future King, a title probably invented by some of the more pretentious court nobles. Virgil hated the attention, and Janus leaned into it just to annoy him.

They’d have to come up with something different, after Janus was gone. He wondered if his death would be referred to as something garishly insensitive, like The Amputation. Hopefully not; Virgil might actually come to blows if he heard that sort of thing.

He dragged his mind out of the past, sliding another ration he would likely never eat into his bag with the same smooth calculation he’d done everything else in his life.

“Besides, there’s no cause to be dramatic. I’ll be fine,” he said, voice full of a certainty he didn’t feel.

He held his breath as Virgil stood silently at his back for a long moment. His lies had never worked on the knight, but now he silently begged that for once, Virgil wouldn’t shatter the illusion. That he wouldn’t make this harder than it needed to be.

“Tell me how you plan to convince them,” Virgil finally said.

Janus let out a breath, his shoulders sagging in relief. “I already went over my strategy at the council meeting, didn’t I?”

“I was too pissed off to pay attention,” Virgil replied bluntly. “Tell me again. The way you’ll tell the beast.”

It was a rare occasion for Virgil to want to embrace a lie instead of the painful truth. Janus could grant him that, at least.

“With the damages from the invasion, we find ourselves unable to provide our usual tribute without starving to death ourselves,” Janus began, the speech long-memorized in the agonizing past week of waiting. “In order to preserve the existence of our kingdom, and by extension, the existence of your future tributes many years to come, we have provided an alternative offering that we hope will please you.”

He turned and spread his hands in an elegant flourish, his posture loose and pointedly unwary. “Along with precious heirloom riches, you are offered His Highness's own most trusted advisor, with vast wisdom and knowledge gathered from this continent and others.”

To do with as you please, he completed silently in his head. That would be no comfort to Virgil.

After all, everyone knew what most dragons pleased to do to humans that inconvenienced them.

Virgil stared at him with a deep wrinkle in his brow for a moment, and then snorted. “I should have guessed that you would flatter yourself even in a time like this.”

Janus smirked, repeating his favorite retort. “I speak only the truth, Honored Knight, and I’d thank you not to imply otherwise.”

Virgil smiled despite himself, but as the silence stretched it collapsed into an expression much more desolate.

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” Janus lied, and then, after a beat of hesitation, lifted his arms in a wordless offering.

Virgil crashed into the hug with enough force to nearly bowl Janus over, but he didn’t bother with a single complaint, only savored the warmth of his best friend safe in his arms.

He was doing this for both of them. His two most important people.

They stood like that for a long moment, and then with a low, pained sigh, Janus began to pull back.

Only to find that his limbs had gone strangely numb.

A jolt of surprise went through him, but all Virgil did was slowly shift them over to the nearby armchair, giving him somewhere to sit heavily as the prickling feeling spread further through his body.

“Something’s wrong,” he managed through lips he could barely feel.

Virgil, usually so quick to check him over at even the slightest sign of injury, spent a moment longer with his head tucked over his shoulder before withdrawing.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his eyes were eerily lit up from within by magecraft. “But we both know who Thomas needs more. And it’s not me.”

The enchantment didn’t hurt. It settled soft and heavy on him like a blanket with the weight of stone, keeping him stuck in place even as his mind began to shriek.

“How?” he managed.

“I was born into a bloodline with the gift. Got kicked out. I didn’t want anyone to know,” Virgil said, letting a few sparks flick off his fingers. “I probably could have told you, I was just… afraid, I guess. I know it’s not fair to ask, but don’t tell Thomas? I don’t want to bring back bad memories for the kid.”

Janus had moved rapidly from shock to anger, not at the secret of Virgil’s nature, but at what exactly he planned to do with it.

“Don’t,” he said, a desperate tilt to the word even as it came out slightly mangled.

“You were right, Jay,” Virgil said with a wry tilt of his lips. “You’ll be fine. So take care of him, okay?”

Janus managed the slightest shake of his head, and whatever expression he was making was enough to make Virgil’s own composure crack slightly.

“You hypocrite,” he said, voice choked, and pulled him into another hug.

Janus hadn’t wept when he’d realized that the only way to keep Thomas safe was to sacrifice himself.

Now, with Virgil’s arms wrapped around him, he felt his stinging eyes spill over.

His breath hitched, the only version of a sob that could make it through his body’s current stasis.

“I know,” Virgil murmured, clutching him tightly. “I know. I won’t change my mind, but I’m sorry. I don’t— I don’t want to leave. But I have to.”

He couldn’t do anything to stop this, Janus realized blankly. He could only clutch back at his best friend’s arms with the barest curling of his numb fingers. He could only see the slight tremors that shook through Virgil’s frame, the pallid cast to his skin.

He could only watch as Virgil released him, picked up his bag and walked to the door, stopped to look at him with fear and stubbornness in equal measure.

“I’ll see you around,” he said simply, giving him a simple salute and a small smile.

And then he was gone.

#sanders sides g/t #ts virgil #ts janus #fantasy au #g/t july #g/t july 2023 #my writing #writing #give me mercy no more #gmmnm #posted late again. sory. #“why are you posting g/t july in september” this is an ADHD task completion simulator and you're all invited to participate