#doing the impossible exactly like they shaped him to do and he can’t stop this from having happened to him. so he might as well follow the

[quietwingsinthesky]

you ever just think about. “You are diseased, albeit a disease of our own making. No more.” you ever just. oh, they made him and they discarded him. it’s never going to be quiet again for him, and that’s just collateral. they let the sound rot through his whole life, his whole timeline. because that’s the kind of easy sacrifice you can make when you want to save yourself above everything else, one that doesn’t ask anything of you. you dig open a child’s mind and you bury your survival inside him and when he follows the noise back home, when he does exactly what you groomed him for, you call him ruined for it. that’s. you ever just think about that.

#it’s genuinely such a horrifying sixkening thing that they unveil. what was done to the master. #and it’s like. it’s so important that he is awful. he really is. but he still does not deserve to have had this done to him. #the drums are a tragedy that cannot. would not. be a punishment earned no matter how terrible he is. #they’re such a violation of his mind. isolating and constant and violent. and it drives me insane that this is just. in the show. okay cool #ill never be normal again. #they literally pulled his head open. during a ceremony that we. as far as i know. have to assume is not exactly voluntary. and is at the #best of times. already traumatic and horrifying. but they went into that moment and they put the drums in his head and they made him into #something repulsive to them. because they did that to him! in this thing alone the master had no agency and no way out and this thing that #was done *to* him is what makes him. to them. a broken thing now past its usefulness now that he’s done what they wanted him to. #sorry im rotating him in my head again and again. this is the thing that makes him ‘diseased’. it’s that they chose to do this to him. there #is nothing he could do to not be this. he was a child and there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening. he’s an adult and he’s #doing the impossible exactly like they shaped him to do and he can’t stop this from having happened to him. so he might as well follow the #drums. and then. and then rassilon calls him diseased. and im going to. lose it. #there was nothing he could have done………….. #everywhere else he has choices to make and he can burn the world and keep it as a toy and he can fuck with the doctor and he can do. #anything. anything he wants. but he can’t. there’s nothing he can do to make it stop. there’s nothing he can do to make it so this never #happened to him. and i am spinning in circles here do u see why he makes me insane. #and the doctor doesn’t even really fucking believe him that the drums are real until the master makes him listen……. oh im going to be ill. #doctor who #simm!master #the master

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

It genuinely keeps me up at night that when Van Eck attempts to reveal to the Merchant Council that Wylan can’t read, they all react exactly as Wylan feared they would. (Spoilers ahead!) Of course since they don’t believe him and Wylan’s brilliant memory for Jesper’s words protects him we don’t see the full force of their response, but it is made PAINFULLY clear that they all would have responded the same way Van Eck did - “How could you say such things about your own blood?”. It’s an incredibly meaningful and arguably subtle detail that Bardugo implements to remind the reader that although Van Eck was our main antagonist in this case, there is no singular villain in this story because what the characters are fighting is an ultimately unbeatable source. The system is impossible to truly defeat because it is a hydra, we see that when Dryden’s father died he took on the role of the Council and acted the exact same way he did, and if Van Eck had raised Wylan to one day take over from him then he too would have been forcibly moulded into that shape by the poisonous environment of this governing body. The defeat of Van Eck, had Kaz not amended his will to name Wylan his inheritor, would have been only that: the downfall of a singular man, to be easily replaced by another with the same dangerously capitalistic values and crude methods of implementing them. It would not have been any change in the system that oppresses the main characters - I think it’s kind of similar to the Hunger Games (spoilers ahead) when Katniss chooses to kill Coin instead of Snow because she realises that killing Snow doesn’t actually change the system if someone else will simply step into his shoes. We also see this reflected in Kaz and his mission to destroy Rollins, since by doing so he too has taken the actions Rollins did. When Inej points out their similarities he denies it, saying “I don’t sell girls, I don’t con helpless kids out of their money”. Inej replies with the gentle, HEARTBREAKING sentence: “Look at the floor of the Crow Club, Kaz”. And this is so important because Kaz has no consideration for what happens to those people once they step outside his door. How do they fair after he scams them? How many of them have had no other money to fall back on? Did one of them sell their daughter to be able to pay off their debts to him? He’d never know, he just had the money and that’s all he thinks about. But if that girl survived long enough to want revenge, who would she blame? Say she didn’t want to blame her parents, like Kaz doesn’t want to blame Jordie, then who becomes the manifestation of all her hatred, the one thing she has decided that destroying will cure her? Kaz does. Just as Rollins has for him.

Every system of this city is a hydra, and there are so many beautifully written reminders of this without forcing it down our throats, but there is also the hope of genuine, real change. In Wylan, joining the Merchant Council as someone opposed to its views, as someone who has lived in both sides of this city and been abused by both of them, as someone who understands that real change is hard to implement. In Inej, as she journeys against the system that abused her not for revenge, but for the protection of all the children who have been hurt and killed, of all the children being hurt and killed, and of all the children who would have been hurt and killed if she didn’t stop the slavers who sought them, as someone who knows that real change is action. In Jesper, as someone raised far from the suffocating closed-minded atmosphere of the Merchant Council and who can support Wylan through it, as someone who knows that striving for real change is messy and chaotic, but that it’s where he thrives. In Matthias, who died believing that the world could truly change, who died believing in Nina, believing in himself, and believing that his death was a necessary sacrifice to real change, even though he wanted it to be peaceful. In Nina, as someone who had learned that real change cannot always be won with violence, as someone who will learn to use her new power to restructure a civilisation, as someone who will spend the rest of her life striving for change because nothing could ever be worse than her beloved having died in vain. And in Kaz, in the small ways, in the fear of what he could become that will hold him back from becoming the next head of the hydra, in his love for Inej shifting his perception of the world, and in his slow journey of healing, maybe one day killing Rollins will be enough. And if that doesn’t work, he’ll burn the world down and start it all again.

#every so often I start to think I’ve run out of posts for you guys #then something like this hits me #there’s always something new to say #i love it #grishaverse #six of crows #leigh bardugo #crooked kingdom #inej ghafa #kaz brekker #nina zenik #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #matthias helvar #kanej #wesper #helnik #book analysis #fantasy books #soc analysis #soc analyst #soc meta

[rose-tea-and-strawberries]

To Catch A Falling Star (Idia Shroud x Reader)

Inspired by a scene from Criminal Minds

Masterlist

Reader is intended to be female

If Idia had to describe you in one word it was unexpected.

He still remembers the day he met the magicless prefect who appeared out of nowhere in a fiery blaze of glory like some leveled up shounen protagonist about to fight the final boss, how Ortho had directed you into his room before he could stop him. And instead of being repulsed by the many, many posters, figurines and merch he had scattered around his room, you were in fact…elated?

“You’re an otaku as well?” you beamed at him, your starry-eyed gaze of awe rendering him speechless before he flinches as you yell, pumping your fists in the air, “Finally! A worthy opponent! Our battle will be legendary!”

Yeah, he does not have the energy to unpack that.

Anyway, he never expected you to appear in his world, and he never expected to find himself comfortable with you, his new gaming buddy and fellow animanga enthusiast. You never judge him for his tastes or his behaviour or less than ideal personality. You were someone he could genuinely call a friend andabsolutelynothingmoreOrthoIloveyoubutpleasebequiet.

And having you around a lot, both because of you just barging into his room or by Ortho’s multitude of invites, just felt natural, your chatter being something that he could call soothing. Which is how he found himself absolutely dominating his current multiplayer playthrough with you doing your own thing by his side.

After his team had won the game, he turned to you, ready to receive your subsequent praise, only to find that your attention was diverted towards a wooden toy thing, your face scrunched up in concentration as your fingers fiddled with its many vertices.

“What are you doing?” he asked and you paused your twiddling, looking up at him. 

“Oh I got this star puzzle in Sam’s shop earlier. It reminded me a lot of this thing we have back in my world so I thought that I’d try it out,” you look back down and resume playing with it, “it’s practically impossible to figure out. You’ve got to put all of these pieces together to form a perfect star. It’s a bit of a headache really but it’s got a really sweet backstory.”

“So that thing’s got lore?” Idia raised his eyebrows and held out his hand. You gently toss it into his open palm.

“Well, you see it’s this romantic story where a young prince wanted to win the heart of the fairest maiden in the land, so he climbed up to the top of the tallest tower in the kingdom and caught a falling star for her. But, since he was so excited to give it to her, he dropped it and it smashed into all of these small pieces. So he frantically put it back together again to prove his undying love to her and he succeeded and they lived happily ever after.”

“What a load of normie nonsense,” Idia scoffed.

“Excuse me?!”

“You can’t catch a falling star,” he deadpanned, “it would burn up in the atmosphere.”

“Really?” you ask, unimpressed, “you live in a world that has flying broomsticks and magic mirrors and plants that can yell loud enough to kill someone - I really don’t think you can argue about the concept of reality when there are children here who are capable of breaking the laws of physics on the regular.”

“But still, it’s stupid,” he grumbles, “why does catching a star make you a shoujo manga male lead.”

“It’s romantic,” you argue, “he loves her so much that he would do the impossible for her. Besides, the point is that it’s impossible to do because you have to take all of these pieces and fit them exactly into the shape of a -”

You trail off, dumbfounded, when Idia smugly presents to you the completed puzzle, a small brown star sitting idly in his hand. 

“You were saying,” he smirked at your flabbergasted expression, preening slightly when it shifted to annoyed, “it doesn’t seem all that hard to me.”

“Why do you have to be like this,” you lamented, pouting as you grumbled about ‘high and mighty otakus who think they’re so cool just because they’ve beaten you in every one-v-one you’ve played’.

“Just take the L,” he said, not without a hint of condescension, as he turned back to his screen. Thankfully you were too busy wallowing to notice the magenta glowing along the edges of his hair. Why do you have to be so cute? You’re dangerous, you know.

Yeah, you’re a pretty unpredictable person. But that doesn’t mean that he can’t pull any epic gamer moves of his own.

#twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #idia shroud x reader #fem reader

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 26 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

-The next day, he does not even try to ply you with the promise of release. He is not cruel, but he simply takes what he wants from your increasingly sore body, offering nothing in return. You almost prefer this, at this point, except he is absolutely running you ragged. You’d thought you could wear him out with your advantage of youth, but this man is fucking insatiable.

By the next day, you can’t stop yourself from begging, when he wakes you with insistent kisses on your neck and sweet nothings delivered with a growl in your ear. “John…I can’t,” you whine. “Please, I need a break.”

He dismisses this with a disbelieving snort, thinking you are crying wolf, no doubt. But when he flips you to fuck you from behind, something he’s grown increasingly fond of over the past few days, because he likes the shape of your ass, the tight angle—or that he doesn’t have to look into your accusing expression—you find yourself crying into the pillow.

It hurts.

You are bruised to the point where you cannot sit comfortably, and even with the impossible buckets of slick your body has somehow produced in his presence, he has rubbed you raw.  

And he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

This is the litany that runs through your mind, and it breaks your heart more than anything else he’s done to you so far. That he is so far gone in his madness that you hardly recognize him…

This is the thing that breaks you, and certainly not in the way he intended.

You start to cry even harder into the pillow, the wound in your heart far more devastating to you than anything physical. You feel it in your chest like you did take a blade or a bullet, an agonizing ache that makes you wish for numbness more than anything that has transpired. This is worse than the kidnapping, worse than him dangling you on the edge of pleasure for days on end.

This is the thing that will sap your will to live, and you can almost see the spiraling dark maw of the abyss that looms before you.

This is also the only thing for days that has given him the slightest pause. He drapes himself over you to gather you in his arms.

“Are you crying, baby girl?”  

“Yes,” you sniff.

You’ve pretty much taken everything he’s thrown at you until now with a lifted chin and a do your worst. Tears of despair actually seem to throw him.

“Why?”

“Because you’re hurting me, and you don’t care.” You know you sound as despondent as you feel. “The man I fell for protected me, he killed for me, but I never thought he would hurt me. Who even are you?” A new wave of anguish makes you sob into the pillow. It is not pretty crying, sweet glittering tears sliding down your cheeks. This is ugly crying, the expulsion of pain from the darkest depths of your soul, and once it starts you cannot stop.

He goes still as a statue behind you, ceasing even to breathe, the only motion the throb of his rock-hard cock still buried inside you. You do not know if you have displeased him, and he’s dreaming up some new punishment—or if just this once, he actually hears you.

You’re not exactly a religious person, but you find yourself praying to whatever laughing god that might take mercy on you, that he finally hears you.

He stays like this for what feels like an eternity, but can’t be more than a minute at most.

You are shocked, when carefully he slides out you, rolling to pull you against his chest, his big hand protectively cradling the side of your head, holding you hard enough to squeeze the breath from you. You realize, to your astonishment, he is shaking too, and he lets out a long, slow breath, pressing his lips to your hair.

This would have inspired excitement in you, if you weren’t so goddammed exhausted. Wrung out, body and soul. As it is, it takes all your control not to break down and weep again. He doesn’t say he’s sorry outright, but he holds you like he is. At this point, you’ll take what you can get amidst this madness you’re trapped in.

He kisses you again with a promise of, “I’ll be back,” and disappears into the bathroom. You hear the taps of the bathtub running. This too, you have learned to dread. But you cannot fight him, when he returns to scoop you up in his arms, and lowers the two of you together in the rising warm water.   

You wait for the usual shenanigans—but they do not come. He just…holds you, and you only keep yourself together by a thread. With a tremulous sigh of relief you dare to settle further into his arms, savoring this closeness without the threat of sex in the air.

“I’m sorry,” he says against the top of your head. “You just…you make me crazy.”

It’s perhaps the closest thing to the truth he’s said since you’ve gotten here.

“I’ll give you a rest,” he promises, and if you hadn’t been sitting you might have fallen over with surprise.

“Thank you,” you say, relieved to the tips of your toes, kissing him sweetly. It’s a gentle press of lips that curls your toes, and a strangled little sound escapes from somewhere deep in his chest.

You pretend not to see it, but there is a glitter of a tear in the corner of his eye too.

After a little while he kisses your cheek, saying again, “I’ll be back.”

You watch him exit the tub and cinch a towel around his narrow waist. Despite everything, you admit that you have yet to tire of the view. Water beading on that man’s skin is a thing to inspire the songs of angels.

Or demons, perhaps, but either way it is divine to behold.

You wait, but he doesn’t return.

You linger in the water until it begins to cool, wondering what he’s up to.

It is telling of what a cautious creature you’ve become, for the way you are reluctant to move from the place he left you. But your fingers are turning to prunes, so you get out of the bath, drying yourself off and slathering yourself with the wonderful smelling lotion he’d gifted you, that cost a whole day’s pay from your time at the coffee shop.

It is hard not to gauge the cost of things against hours of your life, when you work in service. What are your hours worth now? You realize you don’t even know what day it is.

For the first time in a while you take a moment to actually look at yourself in the mirror. Your body is riddled with constellations of love bites in various states of healing, bruises in every shade of the rainbow. John Wick has marked you in just about every way a man can, yet still, you hold out.

Perhaps it is you who is delusional about this situation.  

When you exit the bathroom you freeze in your tracks, hardly believing your eyes. The door—THE DOOR!—is hanging wide open, almost in invitation.

Rather than excitement, your first reaction is a thrill of fear running down your spine, as you wonder if it is a sick test.

But in the end, you cannot resist.

Wary of appearances, you throw on one of your numerous new silky nighties and a blue robe that is impossibly soft upon your skin. What mad woman would attempt to make an escape dressed like this? You hope the odds are in your favor. 

On soft feet you pad to the top of the stairs, peeking over the landing. The smell of fresh brewed coffee wafts up towards you, and the sound of something frying in the kitchen. Cautiously you descend, making your way towards the promise of culinary delights.

For the second time in ten minutes, the sight before you makes you freeze in your tracks.  

John is busy cooking in the kitchen, wearing a black kimono-style robe that gapes over his bare chest. He is very intently reading a recipe, whipping something in a bowl, and watching a sizzling hot pan.

You stand there, still as a statue, drinking in the sight until Dog blows your cover, trotting over to greet you with a wagging tail. You get down on your knees to hug him and scratch his ears. You have not seen him since your first escape attempt, and though you strangely hadn’t really doubted John would keep his word, you are relieved to receive proof of life.

“How does French toast sound?” John asks, as though today is a normal day in a string of normal days, and you live and eat together like two normal people who cohabitate.

“It sounds lovely,” you admit, cautiously perching on one of the barstools. “Can I help?”

“No, sweetheart, let me take care of you.” You wonder if this is more to keep you away from the potential weapon of a heavy, hot pan full of bacon and grease, but you are fine to sit and watch him.

You notice the knife block is completely emptied of blades.

When you are seated together in the breakfast nook, your legs tangled under the little table, dining off melamine plates with plastic utensils but enjoying a very good meal none the less, John throws you for yet another curveball.

“I’m sorry, that I’ve been so…insatiable,” he says. He could have knocked you off your stool with a feather. “I…” He shakes his head, clenching his fist on the table, the tendons in his forearm popping. “I just want you, so much.”

Your lip quivers at hearing that, and the truth spills from your lips before you can even think to hold it in. “I want to be wanted by you, John! It’s all I’ve wanted, since…the first moment I saw you.” If you’re being honest. “But all this…?” You wave your hands in an encompassing manner, unsure how else to express what he’s put you through.

It’s a lot, would be the understatement of the year. You’re not able to get it out though, because there’s a stone lodged in your throat, and suddenly you’re not sure if you want to cry or throw up.

Seeing you’re distressed again, he opens his arms to you. “C’mere.” It’s like walking into the claws of the dragon, you know, but you shuffle over to fall into his lap anyway. How insane is it, that this man is the flame that burns you, and the only balm that soothes you? He holds you tight against his chest, rocking you gently. You manage not to cry again, but you can’t stop shaking for a long time.

Only once you settle down does he speak again. “You are tough, you know that? I didn’t realize I was hurting you.”

You blink, unsure for a good minute what the fuck to say to that. The truth is that it is unfathomable, what savagery women can endure, when they have to. You’re not sure you want to say that aloud to him.

It might come off as a challenge.

You are hardly winning any trophies for fastest comeback, when finally you quip into his collarbone, “You forgot you’re dealing with a junior blackbelt. We are trained in the ways…”

He looks down at you for a long second, as though he’s not sure if you’re joking or not. And then it is like the sun breaking from the clouds when he smiles, a genuine, toothy flash of mirth that mercilessly squeezes your heart in your chest. He looks almost boyish in that moment, and it is beautiful to behold.

“So I forgot,” he admits, kissing your forehead. 

“I guess you’re like…50th dan or some shit?” you ask, referring to his own belt ranking.

He chuckles at that, though there is a note of melancholy beneath it. “We don’t count dan where I trained, sweetheart. Just bodies on the ground.”

“That’s a lovely thought over breakfast…”

He snorts. “You remind me of me, you know, when I was younger,” he tells you quietly.

“How so?” you ask, thinking you’re not that tough.

“Too stubborn for my own good.” He smiles again, softer this time, but no less heartbreaking. He is not making fun of you. It is almost like he’s…commiserating with you, and it’s weird as hell. “I’ll give you a week to heal. Alright?”

You didn’t expect him to give you an hour, much less a week. “Okay…”

“Ok, what?” he prompts with a smirk, that breathtaking twinkle in his eye that makes you want to throttle him and kiss him all at once.

You can hardly refrain from rolling your eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Wick.”

He sighs at hearing it, like a sated lion.

You wonder if he’ll keep his word.

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #john wick fic #yandere john wick #bittersweet john wick imagine

[noonswrites]

Honesty

synopsis: you’re in Xavier’s studio and he senses something other than your homework is troubling you…

warnings: oral f!receiving, handjob, fingering, penetration

you’ve been staring at your homework for some time now, trying to remember the name of a carnivorous plant while chewing the eraser of your pencil. Xavier studies your face, penciling in your furrowed brow down on his sketchbook. he could probably do this drawing with his eyes closed and document all of your features perfectly, but he chooses to watch you, for “practicing” purposes. you let out a groan of frustration and lay down on the floor next to him.

“need some help?” he offered as he shut his sketchbook, leaning over you, with his hands on the floor on either side of your head. his tall frame sprawled over your horizontal one, face inches from yours. your eyes flitted down to his lips.

he stays hovering over you for an annoyingly long amount of time; his stupidly soft hair brushing your face while his eyes scan your features looking for something in them. he finally rolls off of you “love, i can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong”. Xavier knows exactly what’s wrong— he could tell by the almost nonexistent glance you snuck to his lips. he’s decided to be insufferable about it before you can even choose how to respond.

you sit up and he does the same. your eyes shift downward as your fingers make their way to the hem of his shirt. you begin to play with it and let out an exasperated sigh. his hand crawls to the back of your neck and gently pushes your chin to face him, and while caressing your cheek he teases “if you don’t say anything now i’ll just make it harder for you to later”

“i needed help with my assignment” you let out hurriedly. he can tell he’s getting to you now, and slides his hand down to your waist.

“that’s it? you sure?” he whispers in your ear and you shiver. Xavier watches you intently as you avoid his eyes, your cheeks tinted pink. he considers what this would look like on his sketchbook, and concludes that your features aren’t wanton enough for his liking.

he kisses along your cheekbone and hovers above your lips, taunting you in hopes of earning a kiss. the playful psychic leans in impossibly closer, and now your lips are touching and he can feel your short breaths. a hand writhes up under your shirt, caressing your bare back while he does this. you finally concede, giving him the kiss he wouldn’t dare ask for himself.

it’s cut short by him pulling away “i don’t like liars…” a smug look sits on his prideful face. you don’t reply to this, which prompts him to lean over you again, pushing your weight to the floor. he starts to press chaste kisses along your neck and eventually down to your chest, stopping at your lower stomach. hands slide up and down your thighs and you jump at how gentle his touch is. his lips curl again at your reaction and he slides back upwards so he’s face to face with you again.

you pick up on the hungry look in his eyes, his pupils blown out. “kiss me” he says, and you oblige. he’s much more vigorous with his lips now and you’re afraid yours will bruise. he nibbles on your bottom lip and you feel yourself getting dizzier by the second. Xavier is flushed, still not satisfied with the glazed look on your face.

“ahh… so you do listen?” he teased. you’re panting now, and his sly smirk softens into a genuine smile “my pretty girl…” you hope this is a sign of defeat but Xavier would never let you off that easily. his long fingers make their way down to your stomach, right above your crotch.

“need you to tell me what you want now so i don’t hurt you okay? no more being stubborn” he says earnestly. his fingers draw comforting shapes on your skin.

“n-need you to t-touch me please” you let out. he rewards you by rubbing circles in between your thighs, eagerly awaiting your reaction. his eyes have never left your face since you started kissing him, and although he’s being mean, he can’t help the ingenuous look of adoration he wears as his face lays on your thigh. you let out an inescapable moan as your hips involuntarily twitch.

“so eager” he hums in between kisses on your stomach “so what were you saying about that assignment earlier?” you cover your face with your hands and groan. “need to see you my love, i want to watch you fall apart while i’m winning this argument” you reluctantly lift your hands as he pulls down your underwear.

“god i wish i could paint you like this” you’re on the verge of tears now, overwhelmed with all of the teasing.

“please xavier” you can barely recognize your own voice, so desperate and strung out. he finally flattens his tongue against your pussy and licks a stripe upwards, stopping at your clit and wrapping his lips around it. your whole body tingles and xavier is so hard it hurts, but he pushes through, just as desperate for you to come as you are now. he changes his approach, and you recognize what he’s doing. Xavier kisses your clit as softly as he kisses your lips, pulling away every so often to look at you. you feel like you could melt into the mattress. you watch as he does it again, leaning down while his eyes gently flutter shut as he envelops your sensitive spot, sensing your pulse as he passionately suckles it. your hands search for something to hold on to and xavier notices, gently reaching over to hold them.

his tongue dives into your hole and you whine “feels so g-good” prompting him to lean into you more. you know if you weren’t so lost in pleasure, you’d be slightly embarrassed of the position you’re in now, with Xavier fervently working his tongue in you and your uncontrollable moaning. Xavier is not unaware of this, taking advantage of you being blissfully unaware of how you look and sound as a chance to make you as loud as he can, curling his tongue upwards and repeating the action a few times. your hand squeezes his when he licks circles around your clit, amused by how it makes you squirm. His boyish grin makes another appearance.

“pretty girl… are you… embarrassed?” you turn your head away helplessly and squeeze your thighs around his head. he giggles and you peek over at him again. xavier takes this opportunity to slowly insert two of his fingers into your cunt, curling them upwards, causing you to twitch. he pauses before pulling them out slowly, as they are completely soaked even before he puts them in his mouth and sucks on them.

“stop” you let out unconvincingly; as the previous action was responsible for making you somehow wetter than you were before.

“if that’s what you want-“ he starts to say honestly “no please- need you- need to c-“ he hushes you with a kiss and a tear rolls down your cheek, which he wipes away with his thumb.

“i know my love, i only did it because i needed you to be honest” he says while your foreheads are pressed together. “wanted you to learn your lesson okay?” you nod. Xavier doesn’t really mean this, if your dishonesty led to the current situation, he never wanted you to be honest again. he gazes at the evidence of his actions in awe: your tinted cheeks, tear stained lashes, puffy lips and slightly furrowed brow, and decides he needs to watch you fall apart from this angle. you wrap an arm and leg around him and start to kiss his neck as his fingers make his way down to your pussy. he slips two of them back in and you suck on his neck harder. he curls them upwards and you bite him softly because you can’t help it. he moans and attempts to keep moving his fingers, but you grab his wrist and look up at him.

“need you inside” as he looks down at you, you can tell he’s losing his composure. his mouth is agape and eyes lidded with rosy cheeks to match yours. whatever restraint he had left vanishes as you pull his dick out of his pants, ready to do whatever you ask of him. you begin to pump it a few times, taking advantage of the fact that he’s distracted. xavier’s eyes roll back and he lets out a soft moan, and you kiss the bruised spot on his neck. he’s hard as a rock but the rest of him is limp, pliant to your ministrations. you slip your other hand up his shirt, softly caressing his chest, and this is what finally forces his eyes back down to you. you’re surprised to find him teary-eyed, and Xavier can’t control his urge to kiss you in that moment. It’s soft but urgent, gentle and clumsy. you rubbing your thumb over the tip of his cock is what causes him to pull away and gasp.

“g-gonna cum” he says desperately. you take this opportunity to finally guide him inside of you and neither of you can control yourselves anymore. you’ve never seen Xavier so frantic, his hair a mess all over his face and you do your best to shakily move it out of the way. you lean over and kiss all over his face as he thrusts into you hurriedly. he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you impossibly closer. even though he said it before, you know this is a sign he’s close because xavier gets adorably clingy when he’s about to cum. your foreheads press together as xavier eagerly brings both of you closer to orgasm. the grinding, mixed with your proximity and sensitivity has you nearly wrecked. there’s still something almost affectionate about the way he fucks you, attentive to your reactions and trying to gage how close you are despite being almost over the edge himself.

Xavier has lost his control of this situation, but still finds himself saying “th- this is what you wanted huh pretty girl? s-still not g-gonna let you c-um until you beg me” you’d definitely laugh at him if you weren’t so close, the sight of him delirious with pleasure was unfortunately turning you on more than amusing you currently.

“please Xavi i n-need it- you f-feel so fu-fucking good baby” he can’t take much more of the way you sound and how you feel, finally being sent over the edge by you squeezing yourself around him. you’re surprised that he keeps going, so determined to make you cum that he does his best to ignore his own orgasm. watching his cheeks get impossibly redder and feeling his release deep in your cunt brings you fatally closer. Xavier can barely process a thought through his head, but still manages to be headstrong about your impending orgasm.

“you’re n-not gonna try to l-lie to me a-again, huh?” he barely manages to let out, shaking with over sensitivity.

“no xavi i promise, please!” a tortured moan escapes you and Xavier finally gives in to his pity of your current state, your tear-stained cheeks too much for him to handle.

“i’m sorry my love, you can cum now” he thrusts into you apologetically, quickening his pace so he can put you out of your “misery”. you finally do as he says, blacking out momentarily. Xavier holds you with concern and awe, his hand on your cheek wiping away your tears as you convulse. your nails leave long red streaks on his back as your eyes squeeze shut, missing the doting look Xavier has in his eyes. He checks on your limp form before reluctantly pulling away from you, finding a towel to wipe both of you. you finally lift your head, silently watching him clean you up.

Xavier can’t hold back the smile on his face at the sight of you “welcome back”

#xavier thorpe #xavier thorpe smut #xavier x reader #xavier thorpe x reader #xavier thorpe x y/n #xavier thorpe fanfic #wednesday #xavier thorpe wednesday

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

I Knew You Were Trouble When You Walked In 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, medical procedures including dialysis and chronic illness, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Pete Brenner, short!reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Another appointment. The routine is both reassuring and defeating. That you have to devote so much time to sitting in one place having your blood cleansed just to function feels inhumane, almost oppressive. Yet those three or four hours also feel like an escape, an excuse to just be there and focus on a book or some work or even just close your eyes.

That day, you have an important report to get through. You find yourself fidgeting and tugging against the IV. You really can’t be late with this. You’re in budget season and your supervisor is on a Teams rampage. If she could stop messaging for two seconds, you might actually get something done.

The time passes in a dash. Louise brings you back to the present as she removes the tube from your arm and confirms your next appointment for Sunday. Not exactly how you like to spend your weekend but you don’t have anything else going on. Sometimes it feels like your condition is your entire existence.

You pack up, yawning. You’re impossibly tired. You didn’t sleep much and your blood pressure tends to dip at the end. You lift your bag and sling it over your shoulder, stifling another yawn as you say goodbye to the receptions and head out into the hall.

The building is mostly quiet. The businesses all operate on an appointment basis and walk-ins are uncommon. The jeweller near the back of the place never seems to be open but that day, the door is open and you hear voices coming from within. You keep your steps light as you pass, trying not to disturb the conversation.

“That’s a real Rolex, bud,” a man snorts, “your loss.”

You hit the wall with your shoulder as you dodge the body that emerges from the jeweller, the door snapping at his back. You cling to your bag and back up, blinking at the man who crowds you. Your chest sinks, no, not him.

It had been two weeks since your run-in with the stranger and maybe foolishly, you thought you’d dodged him for good. You press yourself against the plastic and sputter dumbly. You look down the hall towards the stairs.

“Sorry, excuse me,” you utter and go to slip by. 

You’re stopped as his arm stretches across the narrow hall and blocks you, his other hand on his hip, “hey, you again,” he intones, adding your name on the end.

You back up and cross your arms. There’s no alternative route out of here, he’s got you trapped.

“Pete,” he pats his chest, “you remember, don’t you, dolly?”

You flutter your lashes and look at your fitbit, trying to imply your rush.

“Er, no,” you lie, “sorry, I have somewhere to be–”

“No, no, I know you remember me,” he insists, keeping his arm in place, “you helped me find that wellness hoo haa whatever. Real con artists, those ones.”

“Sorry, I don’t–”

“I get it, you’re shy,” he chuckles, “you don’t gotta be. I’m a nice guy.” He looms over you, “how about I walk you to your train?”

You look up at him and he winks, the stubble of an ungrown goatee trims his jaw and mouth, “no thanks.”

You try to step to the other side and he quickly pens you in again. “Hey, hey, come on, I owe you. You were so helpful last time, how about a drink?”

“Uh, I don’t drink,” you touch the outside of your jacket pocket, feeling the shape of your phone, “really, it’s fine. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“So you do remember,” he smirks.

“N– look, I…” your head is swirling, you just want to get to the station and get on the train. Once you sit down, you’ll mellow out, “it’s a nice gesture but I’m not… I’m not interested.”

“Hmm,” he still doesn’t budge and his eyes flick up, scanning the wall behind you. “Oh, man, you’re here for that?”

“What, I–”

“Dialysis. Tough shit,” he sighs, “never would’ve guessed. Must be hard.”

“I don’t– I need to catch my train-”

“I got a car,” he offers, “so if you want a ride–”

You swallow as your neck itches with heat. You want him to get out of your way. You don’t like the way he’s got you trapped or how he seems to assume to know you.

“No, thank you,” you enunciate clearly, “please, I need to go.”

“Alright,” he puts his hands up, “like I said, I’ll walk you. Make sure you get there safe–”

“I don’t need you to do that,” you ring the strap of your bag and his gaze focuses on the gesture until you stop yourself.

“I make you nervous, sweetie?”

You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’re going to boil over. He’s frustrating and constantly changing the subject, never quite responding to what you’re actually saying. You swallow your breath and hold it in. You’re going.

You put your elbow out and jab it into his stomach as you force your way past him. You quickly scurry by as he grunts in surprise and you hurry towards the stairs, pushing through the door as he calls after you. You ignore him as the metal door clangs shut in your stead.

You catch yourself against the top of the railing and hear a cackle from the other side of the wall. He’s laughing. At you. Well, you don’t think he’s very funny. In fact, he’s a bit scary.

#pete brenner #dark pete brenner #dark!pete brenner #pete brenner x reader #pain hustlers #i knew you were trouble when you walked in #drabble #series

[hollandorks]

haven

battinson! bruce wayne x f! reader

chapter one

Summary: After the sudden deaths of your mother and grandmother, you’re forced to return home to Gotham…and to the man who broke your heart three years ago. Back in Bruce Wayne’s inescapable orbit, you vow to get to the bottom of your former best friend’s new cold personality. But Bruce’s secrets aren’t what you’re expecting. a

a/n: look a new series! Two things inspired this (besides my everlasting love for the Batman): @bellaxgiornata's angsty Daredevil fic All These Years, and @neutron-stars-collision's Waiting For the Night (which also features an investigative reporter reader, but is set during the film). If you're here because you loved motn, welcome back! If not, check out my other battinson fics here!

(side note: I know this is a reader insert and Dory is canonically white, but reader could be adopted. I never clarify that)

Series Masterlist

word count: 3k

“Both of them are–?” Y/n choked on the last word, unable to get it past the back of her throat. But she thought it anyway. Dead. 

It was early, too early, her pajamas and hair still rumpled from sleep. Three hours until her alarm would go off. The faux hardwood floors were cold beneath her feet. The warmth of her bed was a thousand miles away. Her heart still pounded from being woken by a harsh knocking at her door. When she’d checked the time on her phone, she had four hours of missed calls from Alfred and two from an unknown number.

Alfred put a gentle hand on her shoulder and squeezed. He was the last of her family now, though he didn’t share her blood. “I’m so sorry, darling girl.” 

Y/n’s grandmother, Dory, the woman who raised her, gone. Along with her daughter, y/n’s mother, the woman who abandoned her as a child. Both gone in one fell swoop. She can’t find it within herself to grieve too much for the woman who gave her life. She’d already abandoned her, over and over, the grief lessening each time. 

But her grandmother–A strangled noise passed her lips and Alfred hurried to step in to embrace her.

“She had a great life,” he said gently. “She lived long and lived well.” 

And somehow, it helped. Alfred had been in her grandmother’s life longer than she had, and therefore knew her better. She had lived well, her life long and full. She was eighty-five years old and had still been in relatively good shape, physically and mentally. 

Alfred held her while she cried, the minutes stretching long yet sharp. They pierced her over and over, each one a moment in which her grandmother no longer existed. She didn’t know how long she cried, only that it was nearly impossible to stop. 

“Bruce is covering all expenses, of course,” Alfred said as he released her. 

The name raced through her like a bolt of electricity. Bruce. Of course she had to see Bruce. Dory had worked for his family for nearly fifty years, after all. Her mind flashed back to her last conversation with Bruce, almost three years ago to the day. Hurt washed over her all over again. This one was different than the grief but just as sharp.

“That’s…too kind.” It’s the best she could do. Besides, her income as a journalist in Bludhaven wasn’t exactly enough to cover one funeral, let alone two. So she couldn’t tell Bruce to take his money and shove it. She knew it was a gesture of obligation not of goodwill. 

“You know you and Dory are our family,” Alfred said, his familiar accent a balm to her nerves. He hadn’t missed the almost visceral reaction to Bruce’s name. He had always known, even though he hadn’t ever said a word. 

She almost scoffed at the word family, but held it back at the last moment. Alfred was her family. Just as Bruce had been her family, once. 

I don’t have time for you, he’d practically snarled the last time she saw him. 

The words still ached. 

“Do you want to drive back with me?” Alfred asked, his voice pulling her from thoughts of the past. “Or I can get a hotel for the night if you need time to pack.” 

She hesitated. Part of her wanted to refuse, to wait until the absolute last minute to leave, to delay seeing Bruce again for as long as possible. But she owed it to her grandmother, at least, to be present for the plans honoring her life. And she was sure she needed to sign some paperwork to have the bodies released. 

Bodies. It’s a shock to think of them that way. Two people, two souls, reduced to shells in one accident. 

Her mind jumped to her last conversation with Dory, the previous Sunday. Four days ago. Now she was simply…gone. Had she told her she loved her? She couldn’t remember now, no matter how hard she tried. 

The ache was back, the tears flowing without her express permission. 

“No, let me just–grab a bag and we can go now. I’ll call work on the way.” It helped to have a manageable list of things to do. Pack. Go with Alfred. Call work. Sign papers. One step, one breath, one moment at a time. Which would be the same way she would handle seeing Bruce again. 

Thankfully the editor of The Bludhaven Tribune was more friend than boss and would completely understand. Besides, if it came down to it, she had a couple of weeks of unused vacation time saved up. Dory had always made the trip to her–at least for the past three years. She had understood the need to stay away from Gotham and the man who had broken y/n’s heart. So her vacation days were rarely used. 

Within an hour, y/n’s bags were packed and a fresh cup of coffee was waiting in the cupholder of Alfred’s car. The cold air was a shock to her overloaded system. Her chest was too tight, her breathing labored. She couldn’t tell what was hurting worse–the grief for her grandmother or the anxiety of seeing Bruce again. 

A silly, hopeless crush, he’d said three years ago. 

A silly, hopeless crush that still hadn’t gone away, despite the fact that he’d effectively ground her heart to dust beneath his heel with the words. 

A few minutes into the drive, another question bubbled to the surface. “Alfred…” she began, unsure how to find the bravery to ask. “Did she suffer? Did they suffer?” Because, as many times as her mother had broken her heart, she was still her mother. 

Alfred was quiet so long that she feared the worst. But then, finally, “I don’t believe so, no. Your mother was driving. Dory was the passenger, where the impact was. And before you ask, your mother was clean.” 

She did flinch this time.

It had been her first thought. She was glad of the answer though, twisted as it sounded. 

She knew exactly why they were driving together. Because she used to take her grandmother to her appointments, but after leaving Gotham three years ago…it became harder and harder to make the time in the middle of the week. 

And, surprisingly, y/n’s mother had stepped in. She wanted to make amends, her grandmother had told her. She’d scoffed at that, but couldn’t deny the relief that had washed over her. She loved her grandmother, but having to pick her up from Wayne Tower was a particular kind of torture. The place held too many memories, both good and bad, now so inextricably linked that the pain bled into the happier memories. 

“How long has it been since you’ve been back?” Alfred asked quietly, as if reading her mind. 

Her hands knotted in her lap. “In Gotham or…?” She let the rest of the question hang in the air. Or at Wayne Tower? Or in Bruce Wayne’s presence? Because all three had slightly different answers. 

Alfred gave her a look before turning his attention back to the road. 

Y/n sighed softly. “Three years, give or take a few weeks.” 

“You never came inside when picking up Dory?” 

“No.” Her heart clenched with pain. “That’s why my mother…” 

Alfred nodded in understanding. “Maybe this can be…a new beginning,” he finally said. “Things are different. I think he needs you more than either of you realize.” 

No need to ask who he was. She wanted to roll her eyes, but Alfred meant well. Of course he wanted her and Bruce to make up, to go back to the way things were. 

He didn’t know how thoroughly Bruce Wayne broke her heart. 

“Then Bruce can apologize.” She crossed her arms. Because, as much as she still loved him, Bruce had been in the wrong, not her. It had taken him a long time to turn his anger on her, but he finally had…right after she had confessed her feelings for him. 

Y/n spent the rest of the drive in silence, the grief for her grandmother numbing her inside and out even as it warred with the anxiety gnawing at her gut. 

She thought about how it would feel to step into Wayne Tower again. How it would feel to step inside and not be greeted with a warm embrace from her grandmother. With her love. With her understanding. With her gentle manipulations to get her to help her with the housekeeping duties for free.

A few tears slipped out. God, she was gone. Y/n would never again hug her or speak to her or have her tell a story to help her fall asleep–something that happened even as an adult. Something she had done to help ease the heartbreak of three years ago.

She startled as a hand took hers. Alfred said nothing, merely squeezed. 

When she looked up, the city of Gotham was spread before her. She saw the neon lights from Gotham Square Garden near the city center, bright despite the early morning hour. Fog wound its way through the streets, a proper gloomy Gotham welcome to suit her mood. 

Though Bludhaven wasn’t far, it was much sunnier than the city of her birth. 

In the past year since the flood, Gotham became even gloomier. The streets were dirtier, darker, half the streetlights still broken. She remembered suddenly, vividly, the fear she’d felt upon hearing the news. She’d been called into work late at night last November. The office had been chaotic, frantic, Gotham’s nearest big city neighbor gearing up to help but also to tell the stories. 

Y/n is ashamed to admit that her first thought hadn’t been of her grandmother. 

It was of Bruce. 

Alfred, she had known, had been safe in the top floors of the hospital. She’d returned from a visit only the day before. The panic from the news of the explosion, caused by a serial killer, had barely worn off. Even after seeing Alfred was okay with her own eyes, she felt a lingering panic. Even after Alfred told her that Bruce hadn’t been home at the time and was perfectly fine.  

But Bruce–and by extension Dory–were unknown variables in the flooding. Had they been evacuated? Had either been present for the new mayor’s event? Had they remained safe in the tower, partially blown up as it was? 

She had waited sixteen excruciating hours before finally hearing that they were safe. Unharmed, even. 

The air around y/n suddenly darkened. While she was daydreaming of the past, they had reached their destination. Alfred pulled into the private, street level parking garage reserved for family only. There were several other cars there, including Bruce’s favorite classic sports car. The sight of the car alone made her chest ache. 

Y/n stared vacantly at the car. She startled as Alfred suddenly opened her door with her bags in his hand.

She blinked slowly, dazed. 

It was too much to deal with. Losing her family, coming back to Gotham, back to Bruce…She wanted nothing more than to go back to bed. It felt like eons since the Alfred at her door woke her, though it was only a couple of hours at most. 

As she followed Alfred to the private elevator, she wondered if Bruce would avoid her. If he would hide from the uncomfortable as he so often did. Part of her hoped he did. Part of her hoped she could get through everything without seeing him. But that was stupid. He would be, at the very least, at the funerals. 

Another wave of grief nearly knocked her over. She had to bury the last bit of blood relations she had. Had. The past tense was another unavoidable wave threatening to drown her. Her mother and grandmother both only existed in the past now. 

Y/n suddenly realized that that was how Bruce had been feeling for two decades. The feeling of being utterly alone in the universe, no one but himself left with his family name, his family legacy. But his was worse, so much worse. She had, at least, had her family for twice as long as he had. And that counted for something. 

The elevator ride was long and slow. Or maybe that was grief and panic warping time until she had no idea if the ride had just started or was about to end. Despite getting almost seven hours of sleep from a rare early night, she was exhausted. Her limbs were made of lead, her eyes heavy, her brain begging to be switched off. 

The smell alone, the particular blend of dust and old paper, was enough to make her knees weak. Ten thousand memories flooded back all at once, so many of them that she couldn’t fixate on any single one. 

The doors slid open and Alfred stepped out with her bags. 

But she had to press a hand to the wall of the elevator to steady herself as a familiar deep voice rang out in the silence. “That was fast,” Bruce said. God, his voice. “Did she decide to stay until the last moment then?” 

Alfred didn’t answer, because y/n’s presence stepping from the elevator was enough. 

Her heart was somewhere in her throat, or maybe her knees. She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t. She couldn’t bear to look at him and see the indifference he now felt for her. She couldn’t look at him and hold a thousand more memories. 

She couldn’t look at him and love him, knowing he didn’t feel the same. 

The silence was deafening and finally, finally, she tore her eyes from the floor and looked up. 

There was a rush in her ears as she beheld him for the first time in three years. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of a pair of dark, well-worn jeans. His shirt was too big for him and his hair–his hair was longer. Her eyes skipped over him hungrily, noticing more and more differences in the person she used to know better than herself. 

He was taller, for one. She thought men stopped growing at twenty-five years old, or something like that. Or maybe it was the way he held himself, like he was more sure of his place in the world. And his shoulders were more broad, his arms more muscular. Bruce had all at once become…a man. Not that he hadn’t been a man three years before, but something about him was…more.

There were heavy bags beneath his eyes, like he hadn't slept. And, she supposed, if he was the one who had answered the call about her grandmother and mother, he likely hadn’t. 

She realized that they both had been staring at each other in silence. Alfred half-stepped out of the foyer like he couldn’t decide whether or not to give them privacy or stay to make sure they wouldn’t tear out each others’ throats. She wondered what Bruce had told him about their fight. Had it been the truth? Or had he played it close to the vest, like always? 

“Hi,” she finally said. Her mouth was dry and her voice cracked on the word. There was so much she wanted to say to him. Thank you and I’m sorry and I still love you even if you hate me were all warring to be first. 

“Hi,” he said back. His blue eyes pinned her to the spot. They seemed bluer, or maybe she had forgotten the exact shade of them. She wanted to close her eyes and sink into the familiar comfort of him, but those days were far gone. Three years gone. 

“I–” She wasn’t sure what words would come out but the need to fill the silence was too great. 

He beat her to it. “I’m so sorry,” he said. She knew he meant about her family and not about three years before. She knew it in the way she knew most things about him, born of the sheer amount of time they spent together throughout their lives. Even with three years separating their last interaction, she could still read him. Maybe not as well as she used to but still well enough. 

She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She couldn’t say It’s okay, because it wasn’t. Or, I missed you, even though she did. Or even Thank you, because he hadn’t done anything other than offer to pay for the funerals. 

“Your old room is ready,” Bruce said and his eyes flickered away. Was he so tired of her already? 

I don’t have time for you and your silly, useless crush. The words seemed to echo in the air. Was he able to hear them too? 

“Who–” 

“She kept it ready for you,” Bruce said and his voice softened, easing the blow. 

A stray tear escaped.

Of course she had. Y/n’s grandmother was nothing if not optimistic. 

She had to take a breath and close her eyes against the wash of pain. Dory had kept her room ready for her, even knowing that Bruce Wayne broke her heart, even knowing she wouldn’t step foot inside Wayne Tower again unless absolutely necessary. 

As always, y/n’s grandmother had ensured that she always had a place to come home to. You’ll always have a home with me, she had said the day y/n left Gotham. 

She stepped away, eyes still closed, feet knowing the way by heart. When she opened them, she saw Bruce’s hand fall, as if he had reached out, perhaps to comfort her. 

The pain of that missing touch was too much. 

She simply nodded once. 

And then she fled. 

Her childhood bedroom was exactly as she had left it three years ago, free of dust, the linens on the bed so fresh she could still smell the detergent. 

She threw herself onto the bed and finally let herself cry. 

Next Chapter

taglist:

@ktficworld

#the batman x reader #battinson x reader #bruce wayne x reader #the batman 2022 #battinson #the batman #bruce wayne #batman x fem!reader #battinson x fem!reader #battinson x y/n #battinson x you #robert pattinson batman #robert pattinson bruce wayne #reader insert #x reader #haven #haven fic

[extasiswings]

Time to play the game of “in an episode full of deranged writing choices, what is making my brain go brrrrrr the most” and this week we have landed on: Christopher’s Mission Building Project.  

Now, for those of you who have never gone to school in California, this may require a bit of explanation.  Basically, anywhere from around 5th-8th grade or so, it used to be traditional to have a social studies/state history section on the California missions/Spanish colonialism which would involve picking one of the missions and building a model.  If you’re wondering at all if these lessons have historically involved very little critical reflection and a lot of glossing over of the treatment of indigenous peoples, you would be right, and that’s partly why at least from my understanding, that practice had fallen out of style a bit in more recent years (or at least in certain areas).

In sum: of all the school projects that they could have given Christopher to send Eddie to the hardware store, of any subjects, they chose to make it a history project, and one that is very traditional and at least arguably outdated at best.  But it doesn’t stop there.  Because again, what exactly is this project?  It’s building a model.  A replica.  Recreating a massive, towering, monumental piece of history in a way that, frankly, will never match or live up to the real thing (and could not be expected to).  Because it’s a fake.  A pale imitation.  How could it ever measure up?

That’s exactly what Eddie is doing in his love life though.  He says so.  He’s trying to recreate and recapture what he had with Shannon.  And Bobby even tells him that he can’t.  It’s impossible.  You have to build something new, you can’t go back, you can’t make something lasting and real if all you’re doing is trying to imitate what came before.  

And see, Eddie has learned a little bit.  He and Christopher aren’t using the premade models that you just buy and stick together.  He’s not going down the same “readymade family” path he did with Ana.  At least he’s trying to build something from scratch.  But it’s still a replica.  He’s still stuck in the past in his own way, still stuck in this narrow box of what’s traditional even if it’s outdated, even if he’s evolved as a person to a place where that’s no longer what he actually wants or needs.  

Eddie had a great love.  A real love, a young love, a complicated love, a love that died.  That love is part of his history, his past, and has shaped him as a person.  But the next great love, the love that’s meant to define his future, that’s not going to come from looking back at the past.  He can’t build a model, he has to build a whole new structure.  And the last little loud tweak of Christopher being an engineer...the implication that even in following his heart, not Christopher’s, Christopher is fundamental to helping him figure out what that new structure (for life, for family, for love) looks like?  Yeah...yeah...I’m OBSESSED.    

#chapel for ts #911 spoilers #eddie diaz

[milkyhub]

Ok maybe their kinks for Dainsleif, Baizhu , enjou , zhongli and whoever else you want to add?

And maybe dick size headcannons?

— [KINKS THE GENSHIN BOYS HAVE. ] +18 mdni.

♡⃕ note. hii, ty for requesting. dick size hc’s on another post. ♪ and two kinks per character bcs they are a lottt. also ty and enjoy!! likes n rb highly appreciated. <3 mailbox open. <3

♡⃕ featuring. dainsleif ﾉ baizhu ﾉ enjou ﾉ zhongli ﾉ thoma ﾉ ayato ﾉ childe ﾉ kazuha ﾉ albedo ﾉ xiao ﾉ heizou ﾉ itto ﾉ diluc ﾉ scaramouche ﾉ dottore ﾉ venti ﾉ kaeya ﾉ gorou ﾉ al haitham ﾉ tighnari ﾉ cyno + f! reader.

♡⃕ cw. kinks used will be mention ahead!! scroll to the next character if you're uncomfortable with anything!!

⌗ DAINSLEIF — face sitting & cumplay.

always repeats that you’re his pretty princess. therefore, you must count with the best of the seats — what better place than his own face? he goes absolutely wild whenever you put all your weight on his mouth, your wet entrance at his free disposal over his lips. dain grabs your thighs firmly, forcing you not to get up from his face for a single second as he begins to lap your folds with his tongue, wet muscle giving a long lick to your delicious pussy, too intoxicated by your scent to even care if oxygen begins to lack when he starts kissing and sucking on your clit, eating you out like it’s his last meal — he’ll devour your sweet cunt over and over again until you’ve come so many times that your fluids start dripping down your inner thighs and soak all his face. dainsleif loves to scoop up all of your cum with his tongue just to shove it back into your pussy, waiting for it to fall all over his jaw again. he just can’t have enough of you, you taste so, so good. <3

⌗ BAIZHU — aphrodisiacs & orgasm control.

how could it be otherwise, baizhu controls many substances due to his work, and knows the perfect combinations to increase your libido effectively fast, if you allow him to try his... weird recipes with you, of course. he’ll give you the necessary dose to keep your head spinning, too agitated to think properly except how much you need him to fill you up and relieve the need that your pussy asks for with each clench against nothing, until you’re clinging to his clothes looking for his attention desperately. it’s so amusing for him seeing you in that pathetic state of yours. for good measure, he can control you well, knows exactly where and how to touch you, when you are going to cum, only to stop a thousand times before you get your desired climax, until you cry out how much you need him to put his cruelty aside and please you a little. oops, too bad you’re too out of your mind to even utter a single word. :(( he can be so mean sometimes.

⌗ ENJOU — dumbification & size kink.

the way you squirm under his claws, the way your eyes roll to your skull, the way you’re only able to scream his name with every thrust makes him go feral like never before. enjou knows exactly what he’s doing when he decides to fuck you in his abyss lector form. his hands are able to hold all your waist and hips, they’re so big, not to mention the size of his cock — just by looking at it you’re already sobbing that it’s impossible for it to fit in you. little do you know that he’ll do whatever it takes to make your walls adapt and mold to his shape and length. no matter how many tears you waste, he’ll ram into you relentlessly, cock twitching everytime ininteligible babbling escapes from your mouth. how delightful seeing a pretty girl like you repeat his name like a mantra all night long. <3

⌗ ZHONGLI — corruption kink & begging.

something’s unleashed inside him every time you beg on your knees how you need his huge cock to fuck you dumb. zhongli makes you shudder as he looks down at you, his pupils dilated like an animal watching its prey, his tongue running over his lips scheming where should he start with you. only his cute darling manage to make him lose his composure like that. when you kiss the tip of his cock you get a growl to escape from the depths of his throat, clutching the sheets with enormous force quieting his impulse to shove his hard cock right into your mouth. it’s when his eyes start to glow golden flames that you know you’re totally fucked up, and praying won’t save you this time — the one that’s gonna destroy your insides is a literal god, because with you he’s not the zhongli we all know, no. you get to awaken the shadow of rex lapis that awaits in the darkest part of his corrupted soul.

⌗ THOMA — teasing & praising kink.

thoma gets so frustrated but it makes him so fucking horny when you tease him throughout the day. when he’s busy cleaning something and you walk right next to him, brushing your bodies together as if there wasn’t more space in the room, on impulse he’s bumping his pelvis against your ass... ‘inocently’. how can you get him so worked up? thoma’s just trying to do his job, but every time you bend down in front of him, your short skirt reveals that tight underwear of yours, that one that marks your folds oh so deliciously clearly, and it’s impossible for him to think about anything else for several hours. that’s why when you finally pay attention to him, his cock is already painfully hard. when you press your hand on his crotch, when you touch his clothed cock with your digits, or when you lean to press your lips against his covered tip giving it a soft kiss, you can feel it throbbing despite the several layers that separate you from his cock. there are times that he even cums untouched! poor thoma tries so hard to hide his face, flushed with embarrassment, but it’s no use — your eyes are fixed on his pants as a wet stain grows bigger and bigger over his crotch, hips sloppily bucking up as his warm seed is wasted. next time don’t be so mean!! he wants to cum inside you so bad!! :(

⌗ AYATO — bondage & forced masturbation.

ayato, who’s greatly entertained by having you tied up. you look so vulnerable as you squirm under his figure, back arching as his slender fingers dip under your pretty lace-up underwear of his special choosing. sinful sounds slip out of your mouth every time he flicks his digit over your clit, causing the appearance of a sly grin on his face knowing that this will only get worse for you. yeah, that’s not over yet even if you cum from his fingers alone. he needs more entertainment you know? sometimes working only with papers can be a bit heavy, but he has you — his sweet doll that won’t stop rubbing herself against his foot as he signs the documents nonchalanty. you just want some relief, even if your puffy clit is already swollen from overstimulation. you’re weak and you get tired very quickly but all he has to do is give you a few gentle taps on your head to get your attention, only to command you when you look up at him with those doe eyes. “did i say we’re done? continue.”

⌗ CHILDE — breeding kink & dirty talk.

childe, who has you in a mating press position, in which he allows can hit your sweetest spot every time he pounds hard into you. he’s looking down at you with great weariness, drops of sweat trickling down his forehead, removing his hand from your thigh only to brush his bangs away from his soaking wet forehead and thus resume his fierce thrusts into your abused pussy. he may be tired, but won’t stop until your womb is filled with his seed, until it spills all over the sheets from how full you are. his main motivation? to fuck a baby into you and get you pregnant. his desperate pants fills the room, raspy voice coming out of his throat talking about how much you like to feel his cock inside you, how you like to be fucked dumb by him and him alone. well, he’s not lying, is he? also tells you to thank him that he’s exhausted, otherwise he’d have used his foul legacy form on you, and his dick... well it’s huge. there’s no way he can make way into your folds without you feeling like he’s ripping you in half.

⌗ KAZUHA — vanilla sex & eye contact.

this boy seeks above all things to please you and to feel loved by him whenever his hands lay softly on your face, his thumbs caressing your soft skin while he slowly shoves his cock in you, taking special care not to hurt you in any way. he’s always reassuring you, shushing you and kissing all the tears that roll down your cheeks while he tries to make you feel better with his cock. but most of all, kazuha absolutely adores it when you make eye contact with him, when only for a second your embarrassed eyes meet his, immediately looking away at the sweet boy’s shocked gaze. you can feel his cock throbbing inside you at this action, a small angelic moan leaving his lips as he gently grabs your chin to get your attention once again, whispering that please don’t look away from him, please, he just wants you to keep your pretty eyes on him and tell him how good he’s making you feel in every possible way. <33

⌗ ALBEDO — blindfolds & toys.

something lights up in him seeing how your muscles tenses at his inconsistent groping on your body while your sense of sight is deprived by a blidfold he previously put over your eyes. his hands are cold, but won’t stop roaming your body looking for your most sensitive part, the one that makes you squirm every time his fingers find your weakest spot. it’s all for... the sake of the investigation, of course! it’s not like albedo gets hard just by seeing you in that state... not at all. his experiments don’t end there tho. albedo goes further, for the sake of comprehending your body and what makes you feel better. that’s why every time you drop by his camp, he always has...some new toy for you that he’s looking forward to trying out. of course you don't have to do anything... he’ll do the honors of playing with your pussy using various objects, and if he feels especially interested on your reactions, he’ll use his hard needy cock as well, bending you over the table he uses to experiment. <3

⌗ XIAO — body worshipping & biting kink.

xiao loves to take his time observing your naked body. you can feel his gentleness through his golden eyes, and until he gains more self-confidence with you, he won’t start touching you, fearing of hurting you with his hands. once you reassure him that everything will be fine, everything changes drastically. xiao practically lunges at you. the only thing that goes through his mind? “mark her. make her only yours.” and that's exactly what he does, he pleases the voices in his head by leaving marks all over your sensitive body, hickeys and what he likes to do most: biting you. he licks your skin preparing it for when he sinks his teeth into your flesh, guttural grunts coming from his throat as he leaves the mark of his teeth and fangs all over your shoulders and inner thighs. xiao can be a little rough with you, but then he’ll comfort you with the same tenderness that he used before, kissing all the marks he did on your skin. <33

⌗ HEIZOU — fingering & cunnilingus.

because just fucking you with his tongue is not enough for heizou, he needs to hear more moans and whimpers from your mouth!! at the same time his mouth is pressed against your pussy lips, his wet muscle making its way between your walls, his fingers begin to tease your entrance. loves it when you rest your thighs on his shoulders as he sucks on your clit and slips two of his fingers into your glistening pussy, widening your walls in a scissoring motion inside you and then curling his digits to reach your most sensitive spot, his eyes never leaving yours while he eats you out and fingers you at the same time with great amusement in his eyes every time you hide your face in shame. it's just that your scent and taste drive heizou crazy, and he can't let go of your pussy until you've cummed at least ten times all over his tongue, until your juices are dripping down his jaw!!

⌗ ITTO — outdoor sex & exhibitionism.

if you think that itto is not gonna show you off, you’re so wrong!! he’ll do it 100% and what better way than to fuck you outdoors while his gang walks around freely. it’s worth mentioning that they try very hard not to look at you, but they can’t prevent the occasional furtive glance from landing on you for a few seconds, long enough for itto to realize and laugh breathless, “what's up? wanna join? well you can’t, she’s mine!” itto probably thinks that by fucking you like that in front of their gang members, he can teach them how to fuck a woman properly. he only does it for ‘educational purposes’!! oh and the way he rams into you so hard you’re sobbing that it’s too much for you, that he’s going too hard, that just sends his ego through the roof. he makes you cum in a matter of seconds, a loud moan leaving your lips as you cling tightly to itto’s back. “did you hear that, my guys? it’s the cry of happiness of a princess!”

⌗ DILUC — hair pulling & cockwarming.

is there anything more intimate than having diluc’s cock buried inside your cunt while he’s working on some boring paperwork? he’s balls deep inside you, chest against chest as he nimbly moves the pen over the papers. absolutely loves the feel of your walls contracting against his cock and squeezing it, getting the occasional groan from his throat only to then tell you to stay still for a while, that he’ll fuck you properly later but he has to finish his responsibilities first, you’re distracting him!! it’s when you’re in bed that his thrusts are unmatched, it’s literally impossible for him to stop bumping his pelvis against your ass relentlessly, all while managing to lift your upper body off the bed, pulling hard on your hair at the exact point that makes your eyes roll and your mind spin. he’s still a bit angry at you for distracting him from his work. “you should’ve stopped when i told you, love.”

⌗ SCARAMOUCHE — dacryphilia & degradation.

exactly, this guy right here will degrade you to the point of tears, because let’s be clear, we all want that. he’ll be taking care of making you cry and scream with pleasure later, but what makes his cock hard now is seeing your little tears fall from your teary eyes when he tells you that you are nothing but a useless whore. he’s very hard on you verbally, but it’s just that you look so pathetic, it’s even cute. he even feels a little bad for you, but you have asked for it, next time maybe if you behave better in his presence, he’ll be more benevolent with you. anyway, scaramouche loves treating you this way, and the best way to realize it is to look at his crotch, how the bulge under his pants grows bigger after hearing your sobs. for the way he looks at you, you know how the night is gonna end. scaramouche looks at you as if he already also knew in advance that he’s gonna fuck you until you lose your voice.

⌗ DOTTORE — drugs & somnophilia. tw.dubcon

it’s just the way you look while sleeping that has him down bad for you. so pretty, so weak, so vulnerable. and all thanks to the drug he gave you minutes ago that took effect quickly. you agreed to take that pill, so will you also let him go further when you are in the dream world? when you don’t know what’s going on around you because your senses are numb and your mind can’t even wake up? when he begins to creep toward you, touching your skin like you’re a delicate ceramic doll, like you might break at any moment. don’t worry, he’ll take care of making your dreams a more pleasant place for you.

⌗ VENTI — foodplay & drunk sex.

our sweet venti goes wild when you both drink in the tavern, he gets so aroused by your presence, imminently needing to steal a bottle of wine, leave the place with you and go to a more private place to do everything his dirty mind doesn’t stop thinking about all the time. venti also likes teasing you a bit too much, you can’t even walk a single step without tripping over your own foot, but there he is, spilling some reddish liquid from the bottle onto your chest, just to lick your skin and run his tongue over your sensitive nipples in its path, finally sucking on them. he spills the wine over your boobs again, this time his tongue is positioned under your areola to gather the liquid and further flicker his wet muscle over your hardened nipple. it feels so good that you can’t help but press his face against your boob, causing him to choke on the wine a bit. he’ll just laugh and get on with his work once more. <33

⌗ KAEYA — choking & spit kink.

kaeya is a true gentleman, but when it comes to you... we’re talking about a kaeya who leaves behind any hint of chivalry. he loves fucking you hard and fast, having you bent over on his office table, his hand on your back to keep you steady on the wooden surface, only changing position to lift your body and grab your neck, your back pressed against his chest. while the grip of his hand makes it difficult for you to breathe, he whispers in your ear how filthy you are for letting him choke you and manhandle you at his will. finally he allows yourself to fill your lungs again turning you around like a rag doll, his hand threatening to press down on your neck once more as he orders you to open your mouth. he spits into it, his saliva on your tongue until he allows you to swallow, only to resume his hard pounds on your cunt, making his table creak due to his roughness.

⌗ GOROU — scratching & dry humping.

poor gorou can end up very stressed many times, needs to exhaust the energies he has left in you. more specifically, rutting against you like an animal in heat, his underclothed cock throbbing every time he rams into your covered cunt, like he wants to rip your panties in two. moans and whimpers fall from his mouth as you cling to his back, digging in your nails each time his tip rubs against your clit. he’s so needy, even the pain in his back brings him closer to his orgasm, balls pulsating as he finally releases his warm cum against your panties, white seed seeping through his fabric making your crotch noticeably wet from the hard load he just released.

⌗ AL HAITHAM — finger sucking & riding.

it’s the way you look down at him every time you sink his hard cock into your pussy yourself, already dripping from your two mixed fluids and from the multiple times you’ve both come in that position. al haitham doesn't know how you do it, but you surprise him with by how much stamina you’ve got. that’s when you’re finally about to collapse on top of him from exhaustion, he grabs your waist with one hand holding you, while with the other he introduces two of his fingers into your mouth, pressing on your tongue while a sly smile on his face, eyes darkening at your shocked and flushed face. “suck on ‘em and shut up. i know you can take more.”

⌗ TIGHNARI — marking & fem domination.

tighnari really likes it when you take the lead of the situation, when you get on top of him and start to taste his skin, his ears immediately tense at the simple touch of your cherry lips against his flesh, cheeks flushed like never before. he becomes a blabbing mess as you lick and suck his skin, leaving marks all over his neck. tighnari allows you to mark his entire body with your teeth and lips, leaving your pink lipstick mark all over his skin, but when you start to stain his face with it he’ll try to wriggle out of your grasp. poor boy becomes very, very embarrassed in case someone sees him marked by your lips, but he looks oh so pretty!!:(( i don’t need to mention when you try to kiss his cock, right? he’d literally collapse.

⌗ CYNO — face-fucking & overstimulation.

cyno tries, he really does, but the warm inside of your mouth sucks on his cock like it never wants it to come out. he’s out of control as he grabs your head with his hand to keep you steady as he begins to fuck himself into your mouth like his life depended on it, his balls hitting your jaw every time he sinks his whole length between your lips until he reaches with the tip of his dick the deepest part of your abused throat. his cock is sore from all the times he’s cum in your mouth, you swallowing it all like his good obedient girl. when cyno finally finishes he’ll apologize for being so rough with you, and will promise that he’ll make it up to you once he has recovered from that hard session. <33

#genshin smut #genshin x reader #genshin headcanons #genshin impact #milky.delivers #genshin thirsts #dainsleif x reader #baizhu x reader #enjou x reader #zhongli x reader #thoma x reader #ayato x reader #childe x reader #kazuha x reader #xiao x reader #heizou x reader #itto x reader #diluc x reader #kaeya x reader #scaramouche x reader #dottore x reader #venti x reader #gorou x reader #cyno x reader #al haitham x reader #tighnari x reader #tw.smut #tw.nsfw #genshin x you

[venusandsaturnsrings]

Cute chubby warm little reader with her disgusting incel bf Ajax :(( Ajax is always admiring her perfect chubby thighs, cute tummy and big breasts:((( he just can't help himself she's just SO cute always greeting him with a smile and excitement and even doing little jumps when extra happy<3 or maybe even incel bf with her she's just so sweet and innocent yk! So polite, sweet and well trained :(( she'd make such a cute little house wife for him not having to worry about anying from money to what's happening around her :(((

(I COULDNT FIND RULES OR IF YOU WERE OPEN SORRY)

hehehe anon u know EXACTLY what i crave what i desire <33 yucky icky incel childe and his cute soft lil gf he foams at the mouth over <3 bee tee dubs, i don’t rlly have rules n such!! ppl can send me whatever whenever n i’ll probably respond at some point maybe!! i have month old things in ma inbox n drafts whoopsies!! but i was quick with urs bc incel childe <3 ^u^ blurb btc!!

Ajax is… slimy. gross. greasy. he’s what most would turn their noses up at but you didn’t. it almost felt as though you pitied him with the way your already doe eyes softened towards him. he knew you let him into your heart and that should’ve been enough but… he had to stay there. had to carve out an Ajax shaped hole to rest for eternity. you were his most beloved and to let you go was a crime, one only punishable by death.

your hands are soft, he notes. softer than his boobie mousepad, softer than his body pillows, softer than… other things. Ajax wants to hold them forever. he adores when you cling to him, wrap yourself around his hand or arm, and stay there like it’s your home. he thinks it’s just adorable the way you giggle and smile up at him, swaying around and chattering away about something that he isn’t listening to because god you look so kissable right now. he wants to kiss you until you’ve both passed out from lack of air and love shared. your lips belong against him in all sorts of ways but right now they should be on his own though, he can’t bring himself to end whatever rant your on for it would stop the sweet melody of your voice. Ajax comforts himself saying he’ll have plenty other chances to kiss you.

he spoils you to bits. his sweet girl is fawning over a little trinket or a new dress? consider it yours! any money spent is worth it to see the happy claps and bounces you respond with and that adorable smile on your face. he’d run his bank account dry, which is nearly impossible, if it equated to seeing your joy.

and oh, your body. he’d love you in any form but your squish tummy and tits? good luck prying his hands from you, you’ll need the jaws of life to get out. Ajax adores being able to nap on your just as squishy thighs while kneading your stomach and breasts like a cat. you’re his own personal stress ball!

Ajax adores his sweet little wifey. he’d go to the end of the universe and back should you request it. <3

#cw: incel #i miss him #i need to write more abt him bc he rlly is my most beloved #so stinky yet i adore him :(( #thank u anon for feedin me n indulgin in my incel boy brainrot #incel childe #childe x reader #genshin impact x reader #tartagalia x reader

[dialovers-translations]

DIABOLIK LOVERS ZERO Animate Tokuten Drama CD “A Vampire’s Late Night Snack Terror” [Kino ver.]

Original title: 夜更かしヴァンパイアの食テロ飯 [キノ編]

Source: Diabolik Lovers ZERO Vol. 7 Animate Tokuten CD

Audio: Here

Seiyuu: Tomoaki Maeno

Translator’s note: I went into this fully expecting a repeat of Kou with Kino setting the kitchen on fire but he’s actually a decent cook??? It was also really cute how he wants to be more independent and stop relying on Yuuri to do everything for him. I swear this guy keeps on winning me over again and again ever since I played his Lost Eden route.

Kino burst into the room.

*Thud*

“...God! What does he mean ‘You can’t do it, Kino’...!? Who does he think I am, huh!?”

You ask him what’s wrong.

“It’s very simple! I was looking for a change of pace and casually offered to make a meal...but what do you think Yuuri said in response to that? ...That it’s impossible for me! I can cook though! It’s just that I usually choose not to!”

You tell them it’s not good to fight.

“We’re not fighting or anything...Well, I guess it’s true that I don’t exactly cook very often. Yuuri does it for me after all. But he didn’t have to just flat out doubt my capabilities like that! Aah...It pisses me off! Can’t I get back at him somehow? ...Right! You’re a pretty good cook, aren’t you?”

You suspect that he might want you to teach him.

“Yes, exactly! ...Teach me! How to cook!”

You seem hesitant.

“...Are you going to tell me that I can’t as well?”

You tell him that it’s too late to cook now.

“Who cares that it’s the middle of the night? Besides, I’m a Vampire, so I’m active during this time of day. ...Ah-aah...That really stings. You’ll have to do something now to make up for this emotional pain.”

Kino approaches you.

*Rustle*

“So...Where do you want me to bite you? It would seem to me that you’re dying to have me give you a taste of pain, so I’ll gladly take you up on that offer?”

You protest.

“I won’t wait. So, where do you want my fangs? Ahー Perhaps I should go for your ear? It’s a very sensite spot, so I’m sure it’ll hurt a lot?”

You continue to fight back.

“Then...You’ll teach me, right? I don’t care about the dish itself.”

You agree.

“There we go. You should have just nodded in agreement from the beginning.”

*Rustle*

“Well then, let’s go to the kitchen then. Just a heads up, pick something fancy but possible for me to make, okay?”

*TIMESKIP*

*Rustle rustle*

*Thud*

“You’ve started...lining up some strange things. These odd vegetables and...cheese? What are we going to make with these?”

You refuse to tell him for now.

“That’s something to look forward to? Okay, sure. I guess I’ll follow your instructions this once. ーー So, where should I start?”

*Rustle*

“What...is this?”

You tell him.

“Eh? This is lotus root!? I had no idea it had this sort of shape...”

*Rustle*

“Oh, you’re right! Now that you mention it, the cross-section looks like lotus root! I should slice it, right?”

You tell him he has to cut it thinly.

“Eeeh? You have so many requests. Yeah, I know. I’ll cut thin slices.”

You tell him the amount you need.

“One hundred gram!? So what does 100 gram of lotus root look like exactly!? Could you stop giving me all the difficult tasks!?”

*Cling*

“Hmph...God. I’ll just wing it...”

*Chop chop chop*

“About this much?”

You praise his knifework. 

“Guess so. I mean, obviously I know how to use a knife. So, what’s next?”

You turn on the stove.

“Ah...We’re going to bake these? ...You can hear the sound of the oil sizzling. Can I add the lotus root now?”

You give him instructions again.

“There you go asking complicated things again...Fine. I should line them up leaving as little gaps as possible...and bake them until the surface is crispy, right?”

*Pshhh*

*Rustle*

“Mmh! Looking good! It’s got a nice brown color and gives off a rich fragrance. What should I do next?”

*Rustle*

“Are these leftovers from dinner? Can I put them on?”

You nod.

“Then I’ll place these bite-sized pieces of bacon all around...and sprinkle the finely chopped pieces of tomato on top as well, okay? The rings of green pepper as well. ...Mmh! A nice array of colors! As to be expected of me! Why don’t we add in some konpeito as well while we’re at it? I really like these ones!”

*Cling cling*

“See? Aren’t they pretty? I’m very fond of the star shape as well. Let’s try mixing it in here!”

You stop him.

*Rustle*

“Eeh~? Party pooper! ...Fine then. ...So, what comes next?”

You had him a bag of grated cheese.

“Oh? This is...grated cheese, no? Eeh? But if we put this on top, it’ll ruin the nice color palate we had going on, no? ...Ah, right! The key is to put an even, thin layer! ...I’ll put it on top then, okay?”

Kino adds the cheese.

“Sprinkle it all over...”

*Rustle*

“There! It’s starting to melt, look! Uwah~! It looks really delicious already!”

You tell him that it’s not quite ready yet.

“Fine. I’ll put on the lid, okay?”

*Cling*

“Now we just wait, right? I’ve gotten kind of hungry even though I had dinner earlier. Well, I guess I don’t technically need to eat since I’m a Vampire but I can’t wait for the finished product!”

*TIMESKIP*

*Cling*

“Uwah! It looks scrumptious! Although you can tell by the scent alone that it’s going to be delicious. Is it done now?”

You nod and plate it.

*Cling*

“Hooray! It’s done! ...Quick and easy, lotus root pizza!”

You seem surprised that he could tell what it’s based on.

“It’s pretty obvious that it’s meant to be a pizza. This is the first time I’ve seen someone use lotus root for the crust though. Say...Why don’t we give it a little taste before we go show it to Yuuri? It’s really tempting me.”

You give him permission.

“Hehe~ Well then...Time to dig in~!”

Kino takes a bite.

“Mmh...Nn...Mmh~! What’s this!? Holy shit! It’s super delicious!”

You ask him if he really likes it that much.

“Yeah! It’s out of this world! The lotus root crust is really crispy! Even though it’s thin, because it’s been crisped up in the pan, it has a really rich flavor. Kind of like vegetable chips...? 

I really like the melted cheese on top as well! You should eat it while it’s still piping hot. Similar to a cheese fondue, I love how the cheese wraps around the vegetables and brings out the sweetness! 

Also, the smoky aroma from the bacon has seeped into the lotus root. The fat from the meat melts inside your mouth...”

*Crunch*

“Mmh...Delicious!”

You say that you’re glad he likes it.

“Mm~ Way to go! You hit the nail on the head by choosing this recipe! It’s easy to make and delicious. Just like what I asked for!”

*Rustle rustle*

*Thud*

“Huh? Is that...jelly?”

*Rustle*

“Uwah! There’s konpeito inside! So pretty...It looks like stars floating in the sky.”

You ask if he likes it. 

“Of course I like it! I was wondering what you were up to earlier, but you were making this, huh? You really are a great asset with how you’ll take all of my requests into account. What more could a man ask for (1)?”

You get flustered.

“What are you blushing for? I honestly wouldn’t mind marrying you right here, right now?”

You panic even more. 

“Hahaha! What are those weird movements for? Honestly, I never grow tired watching you. ...Oh well, let’s leave that topic for another day.”

*Cling*

“I’m positive Yuuri will be shocked when he sees this table!”

You agree.

“Mmh. ...Well, I know this all started after I got into an argument with Yuuri but I actually had one more reason to want to cook. I realized that I should start becoming more independent little by little...I decided to stop thinking in terms of ‘a master and his servants’, remember? I don’t want to use Yuuri as a personal butler forever, you see. That’s why I gotta at least be able to cook by myself.”

You chuckle.

“What are you grinning for? It’s creepy. Are you mocking me, perhaps?”

You shake your head.

“I wonder. ...This is your punishment for making me upset.”

*Cling*

“Here, say ‘aahn’.”

You refuse.

“I’m not taking no as an answer. Now open your mouth?”

*Rustle*

“Fufu, very obedient now, aren’t we? ...Here you go, ‘aahn’.”

*Crunch*

“Good, right? I made it myself, so be sure to savor it thoroughly, okay?”

You nod.

“Right? Come on, feed me some as well.”

*Cling*

“Aahn~”

*Crunch*

“Mm...Mmh...Yeah, delicious! If we eat too much, there will be none left but...Oh well! We’ve still got plenty of ingredients left, so we can always make a new batch! I want to share the very first dish I made together with you anyway. ...Right~?”

ーー THE END ーー 

Translation notes

(1) Kino calls her a ‘ryousai kenbo’ which literally means ‘good wife, wise mother’ and which is kind of seen as the ideal for woman in Japan and a lot of East-Asian countries. 

#diabolik lovers #dialovers #kino #diabolik lovers translation #diabolik lovers drama cd #drama cd

[mousy-nona]

All of God's Angels p. 3/5

I think you will like His newest creation, Gabriel mused. I’ve foreseen a challenge for you. An equal. A partner, tall and beautiful and terrible, and crowned in red. // Or Lucifer tries to save a life, and ends up making a deal instead.

All parts up on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53800450/chapters/136173307

Contrary to popular belief, Lucifer hadn’t always hated humans. Truth be told, he still didn’t. He was disappointed in their bloody, chaotic, meaningless choices, but he didn’t think they were all bad. 

Humans fought. They felt. They changed. They dreamed. Angels, on the other hand, were like static figurines, perfect from inception, nothing but boring old tools meant to forge the Father’s holy vision. 

Was it little wonder why he was so drawn to Alastor? On the outside, the demon was everything he despised about humanity. He was cruel and sadistic to the extreme, selfish and cutthroat. Hell had been made to contain sinners like him. He was exactly why Lucifer regretted setting Eve free — the embodiment of greed and pride and pain for the sake of pain.

But he was also everything Lucifer loved about humans. The ingenuity. The ambition. He could sing like the goddamn stars and whip out a sonnet or two after. He was genteel and sophisticated, with a quick wit and a silver tongue sharp enough to cut the Devil. And he was already starting to change – not a lot, not at his core, but the gentle atmosphere of the hotel and Charlie’s endless optimism were softening his hard edges. 

A monster and a gentleman. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, for the price of one. Had there ever been a more fascinating man? 

He could not die. He could not die. Not now, not when Lucifer had just found him. 

But oh, Death was close. Lucifer could feel his scythe trembling nearby, ready to swing. This injury…even in the dim light of the fireflies, he could see it ran to the very heart of Alastor. Literally. His chest gaped open where Adam’s blast had run him through, exposing him down to his very bones and his twitching cardiac muscles. An inch to the left, and he would have never walked away from the battle. An open heart, flayed open for all the world to see! 

Good Lord, the strength it must have taken to walk around as if nothing was wrong. Lucifer shuddered, blanching at the mere thought. If their positions had been reversed, would he be able to do such a thing?

(No. He wouldn’t.)

“This isn’t a freak show, my good fellow,” his radio static came from the darkness, somehow, impossibly, still measured and even. “If you’ve got an opinion, now’s the time to share it.”

“Y-y-you–” Lucifer shook his head, annoyed at the stutter. How was he the one showing weakness when Alastor was laid up in bed with his chest carved in half? “It hasssn’t healed at all!”

He stopped abruptly at the hiss and felt his tongue. It was forked. What the Hell? Slowly, he reached up and felt his head…where twin horns protruded from under his hat. 

He’d transformed? When? 

With an effort, he managed to shrink himself back to his normal shape, puzzled at his complete lack of control. That kind of behavior was unlike him. 

“I assumed that’s what you were here for,” came the exasperated reply. “Considering angelic power is your area of expertise, not mine.” 

“I’ll need to come closer–” 

“No need. You can see perfectly fine from where you are.” 

“I can’t help you if I can’t see!” Lucifer snapped.

“Then leave.”

Static and green symbols flashed across the room. The muggy warmth of the bayou turned ice cold as a surge of shadow swept the door open. It banged mournfully on its hinges, letting out a ghostly wail of protest. 

Lucifer straightened, feeling his own fire flicker in response. “Do you really want to die so badly? Why are you being so goddamn stubborn?”

“Why. Are. You?” 

Twin radio dials lit up the far corner with a hellish red beam. Lucifer could see Alastor’s face in full for the first time – and it scared him. 

He wasn’t scared for Alastor. He was scared for himself.

Alastor was grinning. It was the smile of the void, the smile of the shadow and the dark and the monster beneath your bed a second before they struck. It was the smile of a Dealmaker, right before they revealed their hand. Somehow, impossibly, it was Alastor that held all the cards – even though it was Alastor who was knocking on Death’s door. 

How? How the Hell was he doing it? 

And maybe something was deeply wrong with Lucifer, but he found himself leaning forward, a shock of affection washing over his long-dead heart. This was what it meant to be human. This is why he gave Eve the apple. 

All that potential. Finally realized.

Then Alastor said it. Those famous last words. “Let’s make a deal, shall we?” 

Lucifer gulped, his heart beating double time. He was sure Alastor could hear it. “A deal? For my soul?” He was torn between laughing incredulously at Alastor’s sheer gall and fighting the urge to finish the job Adam had started. Did he even have a soul to give?

(Why was he even considering it?)

“Why no! Why must everyone jump to such severe conclusions?” The fucker sounded downright jolly. “Just a gentleman’s agreement, that’s all. A promise for a promise. No souls involved!” 

“And why should I agree to that? I’m trying to help you.” 

“Yes, that’s true. But you seem rather…insistent on this healing business. And while I must admit I’m in a hurry to, ah, be whole again – I’m in no hurry to do it your way!”

Lucifer gaped. “You must be joking. You’re bleeding out in front of me!” 

“A small miscalculation. I’ve gotten out of worse scrapes before, I assure you.” 

Was he bluffing? Was he serious? Try as he might, Lucifer couldn’t get a read on him. Alastor was like this – always half-there, a shadow that flitted away every time he tried to get close, defying reason, defying explanation. 

Would he really risk death – just to one up him? 

Lucifer didn’t know. And Jesus flipping Christ , why did that excite him so much?

There was no reason for him to play the Radio Demon’s games. He could leave. He could leave right now and he opened his mouth to tell that smug, no-good asshole exactly that –

But what came out of his mouth was, “What kind of a deal?” 

The air turned hot and sticky. Shadows swirled around him, barely-there faces licking their chops in anticipation. Alastor’s voice seemed to grow and deepen, his presence so thick it was a wonder Lucifer didn’t choke on it. “Like I said before, just a promise. You get to heal me, and I – well, I haven’t quite decided what I’d like to receive in return.” His smile was neon green and eager. “Perhaps you’ll take a carte blanche?”

The bastard wanted a blank check to cash in on a rainy day. That was dangerous. Lucifer would basically be handing him the keys to the castle. He couldn’t agree to this. 

“There must be something you want,” he tried to reason with the beast. “Power? Wealth? Your enemies destroyed, in a matter of seconds?” 

But Alastor, that black-hearted creature of the deep, shook his head. “My bargain, my terms, your Majesty . What do you say? Do we have a deal?”

He should leave. He needed to leave . But he could still hear Alastor’s lifeblood drip drip dripping away on the floorboards – see every beat of the man’s heart pulse against the muggy bayou air – sense Alastor’s power ebbing at the edges, being spun away into nothingness that even his jovial facade couldn’t hide…

Alastor had upped the stakes with his life. And Lucifer wasn’t quite willing to take that wager. 

“On one condition. I choose the method of healing. You aren’t allowed to fight me on it.” 

Alastor pondered those terms for a minute, then held out his hand. 

“We have a deal.” 

#hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin lucifer #radioapple #appleradio #lucifer x alastor #alastor x lucifer #duckiedeer #radio demon #platonic romance

[katyawriteswhump]

The power of love pt 6 (steddie, stobin, steve whump fic)

Steve has a habit of surviving near death experiences then getting sick for no reason. And Eddie and those fatal bat bites? After an impossible feat of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from Steve, he’s mysteriously fixed. So, Eddie’s back to being banished, this time with Steve and Robin in tow. Eddie’s healing, but Steve isn’t… and life gets even more confusing, when Eddie develops feelings for Steve, which aren’t entirely unrequited.

Part one Part two Part three Part four Part Five Part Seven Part eight Part Nine Part Ten Part 11 Part 12

Steve POV

“Hey!” shouts Steve, the next morning, as Robin hauls a mass of supplies onto her back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He half-runs, half-skids down the slippery rocks outside the cave. He tries to wrest the pack from her. She turns sharply, and he loses his grip.

“Steve, chivalry sucks and should’ve died in the Middle Ages.”

“What? I’m not being—”

“I can totally manage! Most of its bedding, and Eddie’s got half the water. You’re sick, remember?”

He rakes his fingers through the hair he’s just wrested into some sort of sub-standard shape. “Honestly, I’m good.”

Honestly, he feels dead rough, though better than yesterday. Anybody would feel achy after a night in some dingy cave. Even with Eddie Munson’s lap as a pillow.

Not that he spent the whole night there. Hell, no.

He woke up with Eddie spooning him from behind, Eddie’s chin tucked on his shoulder. Which screwed him up big-time. Fortunately, Robin was also cuddled up with him, which… helped. Yeah, he’d been kinda nestled on her boobs, but it wasn’t intentional. And it was Robin, and she’d laughed when he’d apologized.

Thinking about snuggles with Eddie is waaaay more problematic—underlined by the swift and silent fashion they’d extracted themselves from each other, both apparently awakening simultaneously.

Both far too groggy to deal.

Almost as bad, he can’t recall exactly what he’d said to the guy last night. He’s pretty damn sure he made an idiot of himself.

He’s still squirming when they set off, neither he nor Eddie having exchanged more than a passing word. Steve insists on taking his turn with the luggage, as well as using the compass and reading the sky. He’s terrible at it, mainly because squinting at the bright sun gives him an epic headache. He ends up walking behind with Robin, while Eddie disappears off ahead.

“By my reckoning, we took twice as long as we should’ve to reach those caves yesterday,” says Steve to Robin. “Do we really trust him with this pathfinding shit?”

“He’s shockingly decent at it. Not sure I trust him with you. Or vice versa.”

Steve stops dead. He can’t cope with walking and with any Eddie-Munson-related bombshells. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on! I could carve the sexual tension between you two with a knife then sculpt a little love-heart with it. He literally can’t stop flirting with you.”

“That’s total bull. Eddie flirts with everyone.”

“Uh… no. He really doesn’t. I mean, without belittling your troubles, I wish my love life had ever presented me with such straightforward opportunities.”

He facepalms. “Oh Christ, I’m sorry. I-I just can’t right now.” He pushes his increasingly sweaty hair from his eyes. God, he’d kill for a shower. And why didn’t Eddie pack more hairspray?

“Steve?” She hooks her arm through his, and they trudge on together.

“Okay, I surrender. I like him.” He sighs. Why do they seem to be walking forever uphill? “I don’t see how he can be into me, how I’ve been the past few days, and I’m not sure I want to go there. Period. And before you lecture me, it’s not because I think being gay is bad, you know that. It’s because… I honestly don’t know what I am.”

“You’re bi, Steve,” says Robin, very quietly.

“Yeah, and it’s a lot to get my thick head around.”

“You’re not thick, you know—"

“Whatever.” He swipes his wrist across his brow. “We’ve talked this over a billion times. I really don’t need any more meaningless sexual relationships.”

“Why would it be? You reckon you wanna jump his bones, and it’ll flush him out of your system?”

Steve pauses again. Robin’s questions stab his brain, and yet… He finds he can answer the last one, easy enough. “No,” he says. “I don’t want that. I mean, I got urges to be with him, but it feels different… from Nance or whatever.”

“That’s ’cos he’s a dude.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Slowly, they walk on again, both breathing hard. “You know, I’ve had fantasies and stuff, but they were just that, and…” I want Eddie to jump my bones and... Oooookay, that’s a revelation he didn’t want to deal with this morning, on top of the rest of the shit. “Why are we discussing this now?”

“Because the pair of you are driving me ment—"

A loud roar scythes through the quiet woodlands. Steve barely hears Robin’s terrified squeak. He grabs her bodily, makes a dive for the undergrowth. A chopper passes low overhead, setting the trees shaking, the ground juddering. They’ve landed hard—on Steve’s injured side—and bracken prods everywhere. Extra bruises and scratches, however, are the least of his concerns.

Another large chopper is about to pass directly overhead.

Eddie! Has he been spotted? Are they all about to be rounded up and frogmarched straight to jail? Steve crouches, squints ahead and realises the forest thins out into a clearing. There are only bushy tree stumps, no real cover. The sky above is clear as summer… and he still can’t see Eddie.

Steve’s desperate to sprint on, to find him. However, even hunkered down, he starts to feel sick. Jesus, not now! He squeezes his eyes tight; squeezes Robin tighter, kinda prays, because he’s that desperate. He’d do anything to protect them both. Anything. Anything! Pleeeease? Apart from he can’t hardly breathe, let alone move. There’s a freaky-ass electric crackling in his head, and he’s on the verge of…

Steve blacks out, but only momentarily. He slams a palm to the earth, stopping himself crumpling.

The roar lessens, as the second chopper forges on. A third follows noisily in its wake. Steve glances up. A thick cloud has settled, low enough to obscure the top of the trees.

“Do you think they saw us?” asks Robin, when it’s quiet enough to be heard.

“Nah,” says Steve, forcing himself to think straight. “It’s military, heading toward Hawkins. Bet they didn’t even look down.”

“If they did,” says Robin, “that cloud couldn’t have arrived at a better time.” They extract themselves from the foliage. Robin offers Steve a hand, which he ignores, clambering up himself. “I mean, it’s beyond nuts. The sky was blue—totally clear—a moment ago.”

She folds her arms, narrows her eyes.

He tosses a hand up, exasperated. “What are you driving at, Robin?”

“I don’t know. Weird shit is afoot.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Jesus, is Eddie, like, taking a slash or something?”

They both yell his name, while Steve surreptitiously checks his bandages. Blood hasn’t soaked through them, so that’s one thing. He’s even more relieved, when Eddie comes thrashing back through the trees.

“That was waaay too close.” Eddie’s totally spooked, and Steve restrains a burning desire to both hug him and pick out the dry leaves that have gotten stuck in his hair. “Is this logger camp really such a great idea? I mean, we’re rounding back on ourselves—getting closer to Hawkins again.”

“I reckon it’s sound.” Steve rolls his shoulders back with a click. “It’d be beyond tricky to land a chopper round here. Too many trees and slopes. If this place we’re heading for is as remote as we hope, it’ll be impossible there.”

“You sound better,” says Eddie, eyes narrowing, like Robin’s had.

“That’s because I am, moron.” Unable to withstand Eddie’s sudden intensity, he turns to Robin. Who remains staring at him, pretty much the same.

He wants to yell, What now? On the other hand, he is indeed feeling more himself. He might test the waters concerning his ‘thing’ with Eddie. Not with Robin AND Eddie gawking at him, like he’s some kinda freak.

Sure, he’s thought about what Robin said concerning Lover’s Lake—about him asking to go there when he was sick. He really doesn’t want to think too hard on it. Yeah, he’s had a couple of close calls there, and yeah, there’s a gate to the Upside Down in Lover’s Lake, but there wasn't always one, and...

“Look, if you two have a problem with me, I really wish you’d come clean.”

“No problem,” says Robin, perhaps a little too quickly.

Frustration flushes through Steve. "Be honest with me, Robin."

"I am! It's just... what with supernatural creepiness swallowing our lives on an apocalyptic scale, I'm so hugely relieved you're okay. It's hard to trust in anything good being real these days."

Yeah, he buys that, and he sure as heck trusts her, plus Eddie's nodding vigorously. He believes them. Maybe too readily, but he does.

Then he hears it—the merest rustle in the undergrowth. Followed by the patter of footfalls. On reflex, he slams into Eddie, hustles him behind the nearest thick-trunked tree. They tumble to the ground, Steve on top. You were wrong, Harrington. Those choppers landed men after all, and… Shit, Robin!

She hasn’t followed. He straddles Eddie’s upper thighs, straining to see. He hears her cry out, “Oh my God, they’re so pretty!”

A bunch of brown deer streak by, their fluffy white bottoms flashing behind them. Doubtless, the chopper spooked them too.

Steve’s jaw drops. Flat on his back beneath Steve, Eddie hoots, sweeping his hair from his mouth: “Thanks for saving me from Bambi, dude.”

Yeah, he’s mocking him. Eddie’s laugh is still totally delicious. Their troubles forgotten, Steve retaliates with his best dreamboat smile. “You’re welcome. I’m at least 2-1 up again in the lifesaving game, huh?”

“The world is back to rights, Harrington.”

Steve leans closer, revelling in Eddie’s laughing eyes, mesmerised by that gleaming smile... This is where we kiss, right?

A twinge of pain, and the effort of disguising it, totally throws him. He lifts his butt from Eddie’s thighs, then offers Eddie his hand. Which Eddie takes. The strain of tugging sets perspiration dripping from his brow.

“My eternal saviour.” Eddie affects a silly bow. Robin laughs too.

Steve dabs his eyes: “We did that joke, Munson.” He slings his pack up over his shoulder and motions them onwards: “Come on, Princesses. Let’s go, let’s go.”

Part 7

...

tags: @estrellami-1 @kal-ology (thank you, thank you, thank you!) If anybody else would like to be tagged on this fic or any of my writing, please let me know :) Reblogs, comments and likes also very much appreciated :) Thank you for reading so far :)

(also part of my steve whump fic series on AO3)

#steddie #steve harrington whump #steddie fic #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve harrington #stobin #stobin fanfic #steve x eddie #steddie fanfic #stranger things fanfic #platonic stobin #stobin friendship #steve harrington hurt/comfort #steve harrington hc #steve harrington fanfic #eddie munson lives

[radiowallet]

In the Air

Summary:  7 months later, Frankie and you haven't stopped thinking about your weekend in the woods with Marcus Moreno. But how do you take lightening in a bottle and keep it close forever? And what happens when three people try to decide they're ready for more? A direct follow-up to Like A River.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Female Reader x Marcus Moreno

WC: 9.1K

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. References to canonical type violence, military imagery, ptsd, grief, threesome, polyamorous relationship, yearning, cursing, drinking. M/M dynamics, M/F/M dynamics, dirty talk, anal play, P in V, masturbation, frottage adjacent, cum play. Look, this one is...filthy. Please, if I missed something let me know, and I will update.

Series Masterlist II Main Masterlist

It’s a dream. One that seems to start as a nightmare, and Frankie can’t seem to remember that neither one is real.

His rank is high. His uniform is crisp. His hair is short. His face is aged, the years pressed harshly into every wrinkle, each line. Behind him is a line of men. No. Boys. Gangly and wide-eyed and seconds from following him to their death. He wants to scream at them to run, order them away from whatever battle lies ahead, but his lips are sealed shut. A good soldier, through and through.

It’s wrong. It doesn’t fit. This is not where his story ends. It’s barely where it started. 

He was a kid, just dreaming of a way out and up, eyes always trained on the sky above him. A head in the clouds and a heart too big, they would say. He didn’t fit, even when he tried, desperate to have the puzzle pieces fit together. But it only ended with the edges fraying, the mess growing inward, tangling up inside him, impossible to free. Parents – disappointed in a military son, wife – horrified as his pain grew into addiction, daughter – caught hopelessly in the middle.

Then suddenly the nightmare is different. It shifts and shapes around him, leaving him dizzy even in his sleep. And without warning he’s with you, the two of you wrapped together, your trembling lips pressed to his neck, icy fingers snaked beneath his coat, finding warmth just above his heart. Far too intimate for just a friend but still not nearly as much as he dared to admit. 

Frankie knows this place. He hates this place. 

He loves it too. 

You’re cold, wet, the mountains of Colombia surrounding you, a tall cage blocking out everything. It felt hopeless then, just the same now, the fogginess of a dream keeping reality at bay. The road ahead is bleak, the trail behind not much better. A broken marriage waiting for him, another man’s ring for you, neither of you knowing how to settle but so unsure how to ask for more. 

But then. 

Your voice is clear, a sweet reprieve despite the rain, despite the dream, patiently calling his name. 

I can’t marry him, Fish. 

Why he asked. 

He couldn’t see your eyes. Not then. Not now. Here in this dream. But he remembers your tears. 

You didn’t tell him why. Not that night. Not for a while. 

But then there was a kiss. Is a kiss. 

And when it breaks the open air is beneath you both, bright blues melting into soft shades of white and grey, his grip firm around the throttle of his helo. Someone else sits behind you. Frankie knows who it is. He just needs to turn his head to check, and he knows he’ll see a smile, a dimple, a hero. But your voice is still steady in his ear, as patient as ever, asking him to keep his eyes on the sky. 

It’s harder back on solid ground. 

But even on his worst days. Even in his nightmares.

Frankie always feels safer in the sky.

“You’re still thinking about him.”

Your voice floats down to meet Frankie’s ears, your hand making a soothing path through his curls, his head cushioned on the soft pillow of your thigh as you both come down from the rise and fall of your orgasms. The statement sits in the air, mingling with your breath and the patter of rain against the window pane. He knows exactly who you’re talking about, and he knows it’s little use to deny. Both of you always seem to be thinking about him; a pair of brown eyes and plush lips, watching you from across a small tent, shy smiles mixed with gasps of pleasure. 

“Yeah,” he hums, letting the tip of his finger trail up the inside of your leg, biting a grin to the inside of his cheek when the muscle tremors just barely beneath his light touch. After a beat, he asks, “You too?”

You answer back quietly, your voice steady with the confidence of no secrets. One more benefit to facing hell on earth with the woman you love. 

“Me too.”

It should feel strange, Frankie thinks, lying in bed with you, your body pulled loose and so perfectly pliant, a sated fatigue covering you both, while thinking of another man. There had certainly been other people– that cute girl that used to tend bar down at Sam’s, a guy from that salsa club you had begged Frankie to take you to, Benny one night after too much tequila (of which you still tease each other about, a fond protective sort of care in regards to that night) – but none of them had ever lingered. Their presence was simply a ship in the night; an indulgence Frankie and you allowed yourselves from time to time but never feeling the need to discuss it further than just some harmless fun. 

But that day–

Two days, Frankie corrects himself, allowing himself a smile as he sits in the memory of swimming in a river, the water cold, too cold, just like he had predicted. The three of you found warmth in each other’s arms after, pressing your bodies closer and closer, his lips finding his finding yours as you stroked each other to completion, just as comfortable and easy as it had been the night before. 

Marcus had been quiet after, helping pack up camp with a focused silence, lost in his thoughts and hiding it poorly. Frankie hadn’t found the courage to ask until they were saying goodbye, awkward handshakes and an overly polite thank you that were all together too professional and nearly broke his heart in the process. By then it had been too late and the two of you watched as Marcus Moreno walked out of your hangar, head hanging low and fists balled tight. 

“We should call him.”

It isn’t the first time you’ve suggested it. You both have over the past few months, usually in passing, when something or someone reminds you of Marcus Moreno. A new trendy coffee shop pops up that serves the drinks in camping mugs, one of Mia’s classmates is seen carrying a Heroics lunchbox, someone at the bar makes a joke about being afraid of heights. Without even trying, the man is ever-present. A ghost in their lives despite the fact that maybe he doesn’t have to be. 

Frankie wants to agree immediately, actually has to physically stop himself from sitting up and reaching for his phone, choosing instead to turn his face into your leg, breathing in the overwhelming scent of you, letting his nose sit directly in the still sticky mess of your orgasm. 

They could call him. Should. But the time that has passed is enough to sow small seeds of doubt. Quiet on most days, loud on the worst. 

Did Marcus think of them? Miss them? When he looked back on those days together was it with fondness? Regret? Is he content with an itch scratched or does he yearn for more? More love. More time. Just… more.

The hand in his curls tugs lightly, your other tapping his cheek three times to get his attention, until finally he’s forced to turn back up to face you, a somber smile meeting his eyes, and he’s reminded of the water you love so much, flowing around him, a steady beat that holds him up.

“What has you worried, Fish? You’re usually better at saying what you want.”

He breathes in slowly, trying to calm his nerves enough to speak but when the silence goes on a beat too long he looks away. Your teasing voice finds him anyway. 

“The worst he can say is no.”

Frankie nods, eyes unable to rise from where they trace the patterns of the bedspread, again and again in a futile attempt to slow his racing heart, but it’s fruitless. The tears sting anyway. 

“Exactly.”

Marcus leans back in his chair, letting his head lay against the black leather, eyes closed to the late afternoon sun blasting through the windows. He could get up and close the blinds. Maybe that would help kill the headache blooming at the base of his neck? The one he knows is going to follow him home, some terrible shadow hanging around through dinner and homework and the cooking show Missy had been begging him to watch. But he can’t seem to make his legs move. He’s preoccupied. Mind fixated on one, no, two other things. 

Months. It’s been months. And still all he can think about is that weekend in the woods. Lightning in a bottle. Electricity tingling in the air that, if he had wanted, maybe he could have bottled to keep. The thoughts are constant; Your skin, Frankie’s laugh, your kiss. His eyes, your hands, his smile. The presence of you is constant, overwhelming in the best and worst ways. Two more ghosts to hover just behind him, haunting each step that takes him further and further away. 

Selfishly he wonders, do you think about him too? Do the pair of you lay in bed together and remember that night? Do you talk about it? About him?

He leans forward, elbows braced on his desk, unblinking eyes barely focused on the computer screen in front of him. His cell phone buzzes beside him, but Marcus ignores it, instead turning his head to survey the pictures just to his right. Perfectly framed moments of his life, frozen in time, reminding him of everything he had. Has. Annie. Missy. His mom. He considers their smiling faces, and not for the first time today lets himself sink into the guilt of wanting more. It’s a slippery slope, and he’s quick to shake it away, instead focusing solely on Annie’s photo. It was taken the day after Missy was born, her hair tangled, shirt filthy, eyes tired. 

She was so beautiful.

What would she have wanted for him?

Oh, I think you know.

Marcus barks out a laugh, rolling his head left to right before leaning back in his chair again. She would choose now to chime in, her teasing voice digging in his ear, reminding him exactly what he already knows. 

He does know what he wants.

But what about them?

He reaches for his cell phone, remembering the message from earlier that he had stubbornly ignored, hoping work can, at the very least, be a helpful distraction. It’s probably something Heroics related. A news blurb. Or a problem in need of fixing. Ruffled feathers requiring smoothing. 

It has him instantly exhausted.

He blinks the phone awake, only one text message waiting for him on the screen.

F: Drinks tonight? - 🐟🐦

The table is small, but Marcus thinks maybe you picked it on purpose. Something about the way you’re smiling behind the lip of your beer bottle as he and Frankie squish in around you, looking far too pleased at having their large shoulders pressed up against your own. When your hand lands on his knee, giving a gentle squeeze before resting there for good, he finds he’s pretty damn pleased too. 

The conversation is tense, the three of you dancing around the elephant in the room, but it’s getting harder for Marcus by the second. He’s acutely aware of Frankie’s lips, how they wrap around his beer, head tipping back to drain the bottle, neck on display and the perfect angle for him to lean over and sink his teeth into. Your hand is still on his knee, not moving, not an inch, but the weight is present, a persistent reminder of what it felt like on his bare skin.  

He bites at the inside of his cheek, thumb rubbing at the condensation on his own beer, the paper label peeling beneath his finger. He’s certain the whole bar can hear his depraved thoughts but at this point he doesn’t care. All he can think about is your hand on his leg- did it just move higher?- and Frankie’s lips - why aren’t they on his right now?- and suddenly this bar is too crowded, too loud, too everything and he doesn’t know what to say or do next. 

“Hey,” your voice in his ear breaks Marcus out of his panic, and he clings to it, willing his heartbeat to slow and his mind to focus, but all he feels is unbearable heat, his cheeks suddenly too warm. He wishes he had worn his glasses, if only to have something to do with his hands, but his overactive mind told him that neither of you would recognize him with the black plastic hiding his face.

“Hey,” he parrots back, looking directly at you, then at Frankie, and without warning, the pilot says what all of them have to be thinking. 

“This is fucking awkward.”

And just like that, the bubble bursts, all three of them laughing, shoulders and knees knocking as they lean in closer. 

“It is awkward! Why?” You practically shout, before leaning your head onto Marcus’s shoulder, batting your eyelashes, implying you already know the answer and are anxious to hear him say it. You look so pretty beneath the dim bar lights that he can’t help but play along. 

“I can think of a few reasons. How about you, Morales?”

“One or two, Fullmetal,” Frankie chimes in, the nickname filling his belly with a pleasant flutter. The other man doesn’t miss his reaction, licking his lips and folding his large hands around his beer bottle, devastatingly distracting in how his thick fingers overlap. Things get a little easier from there.

“Did you have trouble finding the place?” Frankies asks, his knuckles knocking on the tabletop, his own anxieties betraying him with that one simple tick. 

“No, it wasn’t bad. Just a little ways away from headquarters.”

The word headquarters seems to dig at both of them, Frankie’s knuckles knocking again on the wood, your grip going tight on his thigh for a beat before loosening again. 

“Have you been back out…in the field, I mean…since…?”

The unspoken words sit heavy in the air, your voice tapering off, and Marcus finishes the questions for you, the ridiculously honest thought inside his head sitting on the tip of his tongue – since we fucked each other in that tent?

Instead he bites the inside of his cheek, taps his fingers an inch away from Frankie’s and says, “I have.”

“And you’re being safe?”

It’s Frankie that asks him, the tap of his knuckles close enough this time too graze Marcus’s fingers. He meets the other man’s eyes, tongue dry and eyes wet, jerking his head in time with his answer.

“As I can be.”

It’s reminiscent of Annie, the fear that would shine in her eyes echoed back at him now; the truth that this is what he does and this is who he is. A hero. There are days where it’s more dangerous than silly and here he is, tangling two more people in this world. Marcus takes a long sip of his beer, swallowing one, two, three times, to drown the guilt before it can rise up from inside him. He shakes his head, smiles, and changes the subject.

“How is Mia?”

“She’s starting Pre-K soon! Can you believe it?”

A second round of beers, a basket of pretzels, and endless pictures of the girls traded back and forth fill the rest of the evening. Your hand lingers along his thigh, never going any higher but the warmth of your touch is persistent, a perfect match to Frankie’s eyes, toffee brown beneath the dingy bar lights. He feels safe, protected, just enough that he sets the question he’s been carrying around in his heart free. 

“So where do we go from here?” 

Marcus wishes he could take the words back the minute they leave his mouth, the neediness in his tone filling him instantly with dread. He turns his eyes back to his beer bottle, wondering if it’s possible at the age of 40 to develop a new superpower. Maybe one that gives him the ability to sink deep, deep into the ground. But just like the text message he sent earlier, Frankie is there to save him from the spiraling disaster of his mind. 

“We date.”

It’s said so plainly. The most obvious answer in the world but still it catches Marcus off-guard. It’s in this moment, this exact moment, that he realizes that’s what he wants. He doesn’t want just one more night or two. He doesn’t want to walk away again. He wants the chance at all the nights. Every night. 

He wants the chance for more. 

“We date,” he parrots back, a small grin cheating at the corner of his lips. Beneath the table he feels your hand squeeze his leg, your head still on his shoulder, your voice in his ear.

“We date.”

You sneak up behind Frankie and admire his shoulders, the bright blue button-up pulling tight across his wide back. He’s fussing with his curls, pushing them up and back and down again and you grin like a mad woman, wondering if this is how he was before your first date. All nerves and butterflies, hemming and hawing over what he wore or what flowers to bring. 

It makes your already nervous stomach flip again, just the same as it did the night Francisco picked you up for your first official date, a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in his shaking hands, a reservation at a fancy restaurant that you definitely missed. It feels so similar that you can’t help but smile, knowing in your heart that can only mean you should stay the course.

You, of all people, knew what it felt like when that feeling was missing. It was palpable; a wound, gaping and exposed, barely beating with the hollow pain. It had taken you two years, a diamond ring on your finger, and the cold mountain terrain of Colombia for you to finally admit that’s what you had been settling for. First to yourself, then to Frankie, the two of you huddled for warmth and wondering if you’d even get to make it home to see any of it through.

Even now, it doesn’t feel like you’ve yet to make it to the other side.

But you’re getting closer. 

You cough lightly, alerting Frankie of your presence before stepping behind him, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck, allowing yourself a moment to inhale the woodsy smell of his aftershave before you step back to meet his eyes in the mirror. He drops his hands and matches your smile, waiting patiently for you to speak first.

“Hoping to get lucky, Morales?”

He casts a glance over his shoulder, making a show of looking you up and down, honey-sweet eyes lingering where your sundress hits the tops of your thighs. You know he knows– Frankie always knows– that you aren’t wearing anything underneath.

“Could say the same to you, Bluebird.” 

He turns back to the mirror, hands moving from his hair down to the collar of his shirt, tugging at it as if it’s choking him, a truly ridiculous notion with the top two buttons undone, giving you the perfect view of his chest, the smattering of freckles a perfect constellation trailing from his neck down. Finally you can take no more. You still his hands with your own, placing one more kiss, just a hair more pressure, to his pulse point. 

Frankie does you one better, leaning down and capturing your lips, the kiss centering you both where you stand, bodies pressed together in the small confines of your bathroom. He holds you there, one hand cupped gently around the curve of your cheek, the other bunching in the fabric of your dress, dragging it up, the heat of his thigh pressing between your legs. 

Heat sparks warm inside you, swirling low in your belly, his tongue slipping between your lips and curling sweetly around your own. It’s searing and insistent and when the kiss breaks, Frankie leaves a sigh on your tongue and a need in your chest. 

Any other night you would both say fuck it, canceling any and all plans before leaning back in for another kiss and another and another, until the ground was falling out from beneath you.

But tonight– 

“Let’s go Bird. He’ll be waiting.”

Frankie turns his truck carefully off the road, following the dirt path that’s been carved gradually over time. He can feel the shift of Marcus’s shoulder, moving down and away from his fingertips to look out the window, his hand flexing where it rests in an uneasy way across your knee. 

He’s nervous.

Frankie can tell by the way his tongue is poking at his cheek, his brows pinched beneath his glasses– the ones that Frankie hadn’t been expecting when the front door opened. The ones that had sent all the blood in his brain south immediately, just from the perfectly innocent way they framed Marcus’s eyes. 

He was dressed casually, a tan polo, just a shade darker than his skin, stretched across the width of his chest, only one shiny black button fastened, giving them both the perfect view of his neck, his adam’s apple bobbing as he looked them both up and down. 

His eyes seemed to linger around the hem of your dress, a smirk tilting at the edge of his cheeks, and when he glanced at Frankie, it was with a knowing wink. You watched it all, your own smile wide, bouncing on the balls of your feet, a bouquet of yellow petals hugged tight to your chest. When you offered them to Marcus, his teasing grin softened, not an ounce of embarrassment painting his features as he brought the flowers to his nose, his whole body expanding as breathed in their sweet scent.

Your voice only waivered slightly when you explained their meaning.

“Daffodils are meant for new beginnings.”

The flowers sit in his lap now, Marcus refusing to let go of them, the hand not curled around your knee still clutched around their cellophane wrapped stems, the plastic crinkling in harmony with the sound of the truck tires on gravel. He leans further forward, the sunset catching in his eye line as he looks at the road ahead, but he doesn’t ask where they’re headed, trusting them to lead him the same way they did all those months ago. 

It’s another 20 miles down the dirt path, the three of you quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the creak of the crickets. It’s a comfortable night, both windows rolled down, the wind lifting his curls and playing with the hem of your dress, cool enough to encourage your body to fit in closer to his, but not so much that you pull away from Marcus’s comforting grip. It’s easy to settle into, him and you and him, all pressed inside the cabin of Frankie’s old truck, as if the weathered bench seat was made with this exact night in mind. 

The sun is mostly gone by the time he slows to a stop, throwing the gear shift into park and sliding out of the driver’s seat, his boots hitting the familiar patch of dirt, the grass worn away by years of tread. You and Marcus follow quietly, and without prompting you move to the bed of the truck, releasing the tailgate and climbing up, deviously intentional with the way you let your dress ride up, exposing your bare thighs to the open air. Somewhere behind him, Marcus makes a choked off noise, one that already has Frankie’s mouth watering. 

“You boys gonna help or what?” 

You’re standing now, the box at the far end of the truck bed kicked open, half the pillows and blankets stored inside already piled around your feet. The storage compartment is meant for tools, but Frankie learned long ago he could get most jobs done with what fit inside his toolbox, never feeling the need for anything extra. The pillows and blankets came in handy more often than any electric drill or saw ever could, and allowed Frankie the opportunity to keep you out beneath stars whenever the fancy found its way to his heart. 

The three of you make quick work, spreading out layer after layer of blankets, old comforters, and hand knit throws, pillows piled around the walls of the truck bed, and two camping lanterns and a cooler set to the side to complete the set up. It’s been done a thousand nights in a thousand different ways, but the view still sends butterflies curling up inside Frankie’s belly, the feeling only screaming louder at the way Marcus takes it all in with quiet contemplation. 

You're steady in all things, but especially now, pulling them both down into the make-shift nest, eyes sparkling brighter than the stars that have just begun to blink to life. Cheap beers are twisted open and passed around, a cold bite to parch dried throats, and giving all three of you a chance to gather your bearings. 

“What is this place anyway?” Marcus asks, taking a small sip of his beer before setting it safely to the side. His eyes trace the skyline, the caramel of his irises flitting from star to star, losing himself in the wide open space laid out before them. 

The sky is a melting cascade of dark blues that bleed to purple and pink, a smattering of trees in the distance, and hidden behind it, a small creek they take Mia to on the weekends. It’s as close to an oasis as Frankie knows, and he doesn’t really even know how to say it. 

“We come out here to watch the stars. Probably at least once, twice a week,” Frankie admits, his thumb hooking through the loop of an old holiday blanket, the green and red faded to murky hues, the yarn soft between his fingers. “I brought Bluebird here…”

“On our first date,” you chime in, just a breath softer than Frankie, eyes never leaving Marcus, something caught between a challenge and a promise in your words. 

Marcus stills, his brows pinched beneath his glasses, fists flexing at his sides, the levity of it all seeming to find him yet again. He looks at both of you before glancing back at the stars, and then, like a rubber band pulled too tight, he snaps. 

He presses himself into you, lips smashed together, finesse sacrificed in the name of desperation, your bodies molding together in a tangle of limbs. He kisses you again and again, quick and insistent, your cheeks cradled between his hands. He can’t seem to stop now that he’s started, and it’s only when your hand curls around his wrist, thumb brushing gently along his pulse point does he settle into a more relaxed pace, lips parting for your tongue to taste. 

Frankie watches, can’t help but, his jeans growing tighter with every sigh you pull from Marcus. He palms himself, feeling his cock harden beneath the barely there pressure, moaning in time with your own. It’s enough for him now, content to watch you move together, Marcus’s large frame crowding over you, a fire blooming to life in Frankie’s gut, his mouth going dry. 

Marcus slots his leg between your own, one leg hitching up around his hip, the hem of your dress bunching up enough to give Frankie a view of your ass, goosebumps chasing the cold air across your bare skin. Your hand sneaks beneath Marcus’s shirt, and the change is obvious, his face crumpling in at the tender stroke of your hand along the small of his back, and he pulls you closer, somehow closer, breaking the kiss and burying his head into the curve of your neck. 

A hand, then two, reaches back for him, yours and Marcus’s. Frankie goes to them, his front to Marcus’s back, letting the hook of his nose trace his ear, delighting in the shiver that races up the smaller man’s spine. His cock is fully erect, the head practically popping past the waistline of his jeans, straining in the unforgiving fabric. It’s almost painful, and Frankie can’t help but lean in further, rutting his length into Marcus’s ass.

His body goes taut, caught between the two of you, and Frankie watches as Marcus sinks his teeth into your shoulder, his spit darkening the delicate strap of your dress caught in his bite. Your lips find Frankie’s jaw, a nip and a laugh pulling him, and he melts into your kiss, lightheaded at the fact that your lips still carry the taste of the Heroic. The three of you stay that way, tangled together on your knees, Marcus’s lips on your neck, Frankie’s lips on yours, fingertips just starting to sneak beneath layers of clothing. 

“History loves repeating itself,” you murmur between broken kisses, your hand somehow undoing the last of the buttons on his shirt, fingers skating a trail down to the soft swell of his belly. 

“In more ways than one,” he can’t help but tease back, his memory ensnared between two different nights. One years away, in the back of this very truck, your quivering form opening up for him to slip inside. And another, miles away, three instead of two, crowding inside a small tent, each touch less tentative than the last.

Between you, Frankie can feel Marcus take one deep breath in, the release shuddering through him, a ripple effect that starts with his shoulders and slides down the planes of his back. For a second it feels like the answer will have to be coaxed out of him with a soft touch or a gentle kiss, but without preamble he’s looking up, a cheeky smile catching the corner of his lips.

“I think we had our clothes off a lot faster the last time.” 

It’s a challenge – one neither of you are willing to back down from, your dress is gone in the blink of an eye, Frankie’s shirt sliding off with a quick shrug of his shoulders. Marcus is about to follow suit, his fingers already curled around the hem of his shirt, but Frankie stops him, his palm cupping his cheek, his thumb pushing into the black plastic of his glasses.

“Next time,” he warns, “you’ll keep these on.”

The promise is enough to wipe the smirk from Marcus’s face, a blush slowly creeping upwards. Frankie makes the most of the opportunity, slipping the frames from his face, taking care to slip them safely through the open window of the cab of his truck. 

“Next time?”

You’re behind him in a heartbeat, lips in his ear. “Next time.” 

It’s a blur after that, clothes falling away, all three of you suddenly bare beneath the moonlight. Marcus is having trouble focusing, eyes drinking in the pair of you, fingers trembling as he maps inch after inch with his touch. Your breasts fit the curve of his hand, the weight of them wonderful, your smooth skin catching along his calloused palm. He takes care to stroke at the stiff peak of your nipples, catching your sweet sigh of pleasure in a kiss. 

He feels Frankie move in closer, the three of you shifting until you’re on your back, both men hovering over you, your warm eyes tilted up towards the night sky. Marcus takes advantage, lips following the same path as his hands, a flick of his tongue at your nipple. He maps every inch of you, the luxury of time allowing him an opportunity not afforded last time. Each dimple and fold of your skin, every birthmark and scar. Not a trace of you is left untouched by his lips, and when he finally returns to capture your own in a kiss, you’re shaking beneath him.

“Fuck, you’re both so beautiful,” Frankie growls, his large hands just as frantic as Marcus’s, trailing from your ass to your hip to his cock to his neck and back again. He wants to soothe the other man, assure him there’s no rush, but he’s just as desperate, his cock hard, precum beading at the tip and smearing into your thigh. His hips ache, the urge to rut into your side growing with each pass of Frankie’s hand across his back. 

“Scars,” Frankie murmurs into the turn of his shoulder, teeth sinking in with a thoughtful hum. 

“I don’t usually,” Marcus feels the need to explain, his thumb finding another patch of scar tissue on your skin, raised flesh in the shape of the gunshot, a memory he wishes he could have kept from ever existing. Your hand covers his, pulling his touch up, just as Frankie’s fits over the beat of his heart.

And then, the lightest of touches, enough to send him into a tailspin, the tip of one thick finger trailing across his ass. Marcus arches his back, leaning back towards Frankie, just the smallest stroke between his cheeks stoking the already burning fire inside. He can feel the other man’s smile pressed into his temple, a chuckle and a small kiss following. 

“Not out here, sweet boy,” he shushes. But even as he says it, he strokes a little harder, the tip of his finger pushing in, just barely. 

“Shit,” Marcus bites out, fingers digging into your thigh, trying to ground himself through the onslaught of pleasure. It’s not entirely new. There’s a memory, fleeting, like a leaf in the wind, of Frankie touching him that way months ago, but he hadn’t lingered then. Not like he is now, the intent behind his touch much more obvious, the sensation like molten fire up his spine. 

“Please…Frankie. Please.” 

“No,” he says again. “I want to take my time. Want you in our bed. Open you up, nice and slow, baby.” 

Your voice joins in, patient and sweet in his ear, matching the pace of Frankie’s finger where it continues to stroke his entrance gently. You start stroking his length, thumb slipping around the thick head of his cock with each pass. 

“Francisco’s big, Marcus. So big. Need to take our time opening you up for him.”  

“Need lube, baby,” Frankie whispers, his touch growing insistent. “Want you to feel all of it. Savor it. I want to hear you beg for me. Want you to come untouched, my cock in your ass.” 

The thought alone has him moaning, another promise for the future sending his heart rate racing and his fingers grasping, turning and reaching for Frankie’s hip, pulling him as close as he possibly can. Sweat is already beading at his temple, the sensation mixing with the cool spring air, his body heaving out breath after breath, trapped in a fever he can’t shake off.

Why would he want to?

You’re still stroking him, the lightest touch up and down his shaft, kisses peppered across his neck, each one sweeter than the next. 

“What do you want?” He asks them both, the words strangled in time with the grip of your fingers, the urgency to repay their touch with one of his own welling up inside him.

Frankie’s teeth scrap along his jaw, followed by a tender kiss, a soft press of lips to the hinge of his bone. “Want to watch you fuck her.” 

He moans, wanton and needy, already picturing the feel of your tight heat clenched around him. Your touch pauses where it’s still wrapped around him, his cock pulsing in your hand.

“Is that what you want, Marcus?”

He looks down at you, letting his eyes focus on your soft curves, bright eyes brighter still beneath the open sky, and he groans again, an unrestrained sound sitting at the back of his throat, his heart thumping a wild staccato in his chest. 

It’s such an easy question. Is that what he wants? Of course. All of this, every last bit of it, has been all he’s wanted for months now, and it’s being given in ways he couldn’t have ever dreamed. But at the back of his mind he can hear a traitorous thought sinking it claws in and dragging itself forward in to steal the light. 

There hasn’t been any one night stands, any wild nights out, any half-formed connections that lead to the sheets between his bed. 

In the three years since losing Annie there’s only been the two of you, and that night, while filled with so many firsts, never found its way here. 

“I…shit— is that okay?” 

“Of course,” Frankie whispers, the tip of his finger pressing deeper inside him. Marcus gasps, falling forward, his forearms braced on either side of your head, your neck craned to meet his lips in a mismatched kiss. 

“There hasn’t been a-anyone…else…” he murmurs, the pressure of Frankie’s thick finger stealing his breath away. 

“It’d be okay if there had been, baby,” you coo, smoothing back his hair where it’s started to curl over his forehead.

“No, no,” he rushes out, a messy kiss pressed to your lips between his words. “It’s just been you…the two of you…since…”

He’s saying it all wrong. He wants them to know, to understand how important this is, even when the words won’t come, the blinding pleasure of your lips and Frankie’s fingers searing hot iron into his blood. 

Behind him Frankie nods, his curls tickling at the back of Marcus’s neck. He slips his finger out of him, shushing the whine that parts his lips, petting softly at the small of his back. They stay that way far longer than they should, only the crickets keeping time with their breathing, the levity of the night catching up with them. 

Finally, your voice breaks the silence, both men curling in closer to hear you. 

“We all have scars, Marcus.”

He nods, then laughs, leaning in to kiss you, slotting his lips along your own, savoring the taste of you on his tongue. Frankie is moving around behind the two of you, and before either of you can ask what he’s doing there’s the sound of foil tearing open.

“I need to get you ready. I…I need…,” he tries to argue, fingers already slipping down your body to dip between your folds. He groans, greedy in his touch, pushing in deeper, already addicted to the slick heat of your arousal. You’re soaked, practically dripping, and Marcus licks his lips at the phantom memory of you, suddenly desperate to bury his face between your legs.

“You’re so wet, fuck- so wet for me already.” 

You’re scrambling, grabbing at his hand where it’s still buried between the wet folds of your pussy. Marcus only pushes in further, groaning at the way you squeeze around his finger, the pad of his thumb settling heavy on your clit, eliciting a deep moan from the back of your throat. You spread your legs wide, giving him a better view of your soaked center, his finger disappearing and reappearing as he softly fucks it into you. It’s Frankie’s hand that grabs at his next, a growl in his ear to stop.

“She likes the stretch. Likes to feel it.”

Below them you’re nodding frantically, eyes fever-bright, bottom lip caught between your teeth. 

“I do,” you agree, even as you cant your hips up, your fingers taut where they grip at the blankets beneath you. 

“You’re thicker than me,” Frankie teases, his free hand wrapping around Marcus’s cock where it juts out, precum glistening, pearly white and beading at his tip. Frankie wipes it away with his thumb, bringing it to Marcus’s lips, watching with quiet eyes as he sucks the taste of himself off the other man. 

“I want to watch you stretch her pretty pussy open.”

“Please, Marcus…” You beg, voice candy-sweet as it tapers into a gasp as he pulls his finger out of you and up to his lips. He hums, letting the flavor of you mingle with his own, Frankie’s exacting touch gentle as he rolls the condom down his aching length. 

There’s little flourish as he guides Marcus down to your entrance, the head of his cock notching just inside, pulling another one of those breathy moans out of you. He slides into you slowly, inch by inch, watching with rapt attention as your eyelids flutter, your lips parting, looking at him as if he hung the very moon that floats above them. Frankie’s hands find his waist and hold him steady just his hips as are flush with your own. 

His eyes pinch shut, the feeling of you clenched tight around him bursting sparks into his vision. He reaches back with one hand, holding as hard as he can to Frankie’s forearm, the other finding the curved lip of his truck bed, the metal crumpling in his grasp like a piece of paper. He can hardly breathe, the both of you wrapped around him, surrounding him, so much the same and so different from what he remembers. It’s overwhelming in the best way and Marcus can only cry out, your name and Frankie’s mixing together.

“Marcus,” you whisper, a glance of your fingers on his cheeks encouraging him to open his eyes.

At first he refuses, shaking his head and biting his lip, terrified to move, to take, knowing once he starts he’ll be hard pressed to stop. You persist, your stubborn touch more insistent, thumb and forefinger pinching at his jaw. Your legs snake around his thighs, pulling him impossibly closer, Frankie’s tongue in his ear.

“Move, baby.”

His pace is bordering on frantic, his hips slamming into you again and again, the slick of your arousal helping him jam his thick cock deep inside. Again and again, he spears inside you, your hips rising to meet his pace head on, the truck rocking in time with his thrusts. Your hands wrap around his neck, his head falling down, forehead pressed into your own, hot breath traded back and forth in strangled groans.

“You feel so good, M-Marcus….don’t stop…”

He falls in closer, only able to kiss you, tongue licking into the caverns of your mouth, swallowing your gasps of pleasure. All the while, he refuses to slow down, pumping the entire length of him in and out of you, drunk on your mewls of pleasure.

Frankie is a constant presence behind him, his hands on Marcus’s hips, his voice in his ear. 

“--fucking her so good, baby. You look so good, too. Love watching you stretch her open. Does it feel good, Bird? Does Marcus fuck you good? Shit, what if we both tried to fit…stuff you full of us. Shit…–”

It’s a constant stream of filth pouring out of him, his cock hard and leaking where it rests along the small of Marcus’s back. It’s a tease, reminding him of the promise both of you made earlier in the night, and he’s suddenly feeling impossibly empty, even as he stuffs your pussy full. He can’t seem to help the challenge he tosses over his shoulder at the other man. 

“Is this how you’ll fuck me, Fish? Split me open? Make me feel it?”

Frankie chuckles, the sound low and choked, and Marcus wonders how far he would have to push to break the gentle pilot’s sweet demeanor. Turns out he doesn’t have to wonder for long. 

The larger man shifts behind him, his movements intentional, the fat head of his cock catching closer to Marcus’s ass. 

“Our boy is greedy, Bird.”

Every muscle in his body is shaking, his hips still pounding into you, his fingers cramping where they cling still cling too tightly, the possessive tone in Frankie’s voice edging out the last of his coherent thoughts. And without warning, he begins to beg.

“Fuck, p-please…please…I need…I don’t know w-what…I just need you…both…”

Frankie can’t look away, his eyes glued to where you and Marcus join, the glow of the lanterns and the moon providing just enough light for him to see. Your face is twisted in ecstasy, your fingers twisting in Marcus’s curls, lips finding his between your gasps of pleasure. It’s beautiful and wretched and a million other things that barely come close to describing what he’s born lucky enough to witness. Your hips move together, over and over, legs tangled and lips begging. You’re close. Have been. But Frankie knows you’re waiting for both of them, desperate to have the three of you come together.

I just want us to share that, you had whispered to him the night before, your eyes distant, you heart beat steady.

His own cock is painful, hard and leaking, the tip resting on the small swell of Marcus’s backside. He considers again, wonders if there’s a bottle of lube hidden somewhere in the depths of his truck – in the glove box or beneath a seat– but the thought leaves him quickly. He couldn’t dare break away from either of you now. 

Instead he fists his cock, moaning at the instant relief. He could come just like this, stroking himself while the two of you fuck right in front of him, letting his own release drip down Marcus’s backside and down to meet the sopping wet mess of your pussy. He moans again, head falling back, eyes to stars, as he pictures how beautiful Marcus’s ass will look with cum smeared into his tan skin. 

But before he can let himself, another idea springs to life, filthy and half-formed, and he refuses to let it go. With little warning, Frankie forces himself even closer, his knee somehow fitting in between the tangle of your limbs. His cock in hand, he shifts his hips closer, forcing his girth between your bodies. The friction is intense, blinding white pleasure bursting in his vision. It’s constant pressure, the push and pull along his hard length driving him right up to the edge. 

Below him the two of you are practically sobbing, the added weight of his cock between your bodies pushing you past your limits.

“Francisco…what…”

“I d-don’t know,” he grinds out in response to your broken question, his hands grasping wildly, finding purchase in the mismatched pile of blankets beneath you. “You both look so good. I just needed to feel it…feel you…shit-”

“I’m close…please, Pajarito, please tell me you’re close…” Marcus’s voice is strained, the tendons in his neck pulled taut from where he’s holding back, sweat beading at his temple, the dark of his eyes bleeding away all traces of brown. You can only nod, a pitiful whine leaving you, the heels of your feet pulling him in faster, harder. 

They grind into each other, sobs wracking their bodies as their orgasms crash into them, almost simultaneously, Frankie feels crushed, the pressure almost too much on his cock, but he moans loudly, the feeling of Marcus and you convulsing around him enough to push him equally over the edge. He pulls out from between you just in time to shoot his cum down Marcus’s back, thick white ropes of it pooling in the small of his back and spilling down between his cheeks. 

He moans wantonly, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his cock still buried in your cunt. He arches, needy, pathetic, into the mess, and Frankie can’t stop himself, a possessive beast roaring inside him. He takes his time, smearing his release down his ass and into the smaller man’s puckered entrance before dragging it further down to the swollen lips of your pussy, pushing his cum and the tip of his finger in next to Marcus’s softening cock. 

All three of you whine, interest piqued but bodies spent, collapsing together in a heap. 

Your smaller frame is sandwiched between both men, Marcus laying at your front, Frankie curled along your back. Another sigh breaks your lips when Marcus pulls out of you, his head finding the gentle slope of your shoulder, his lips unable to stop from giving one, two more kisses to your bare skin. Frankie is the last to join you, first reaching over to slide the condom away from Marcus, petting gently along his legs as he does, the muscles still shaking from it all. 

It’s easy enough to curl around each other again, Frankie’s arms draped around your waist, Marcus’s just below, his fingers trading gentle circles between his and your hip. 

“Pajarito?” You manage to ask between yawns, eyes already slipping shut, a smile playing at the swell of your cheek.

“Means birdie. Is that okay?” Marcus answers back, and when Frankie peeks down at him, he spots a bloom of pink rushing up his neck.

“‘Course it is,” you murmur, not bothering to open your eyes, instead following your words with a kiss to his temple.

“Just don’t start calling me Pescar or something like that, please,” Frankie begs, only half-joking, burying his nose where your neck curves down and inhaling deep, already addicted to the way the three of you smell on each other’s skin.

“Lo prometo,” Marcus murmurs, his Spanish cloudy and his laughter thick with sleep. “Should we go…or…?”

“Just a few minutes,” Frankie hums, and even he doesn’t believe his own lie, the comfort of the open air too much to resist. Sleep finds him first, comforting shades of black swallowing him up, and when he dreams, he knows that’s all it really is.

The sun is barely starting to peak past the horizon when you blink your eyes open, the cool air warming just enough for morning dew to bead along the bedrail of Frankie’s trunk. Despite the early hour, you smile, eyes tracing the dip in the metal, suspiciously shaped like the grip of someone’s hand, the memory of that same hand bruised into the curve of your hip. It’s the weight of that hand that woke you, Marcus’s arm across your waist, Frankie’s right above it, a nose pressed to the hollow of your throat, lips resting on the crown of your head, two pairs of legs tangled with your own. 

It isn’t often you wake up before Frankie. His time in the military had left him with more than a few unbreakable habits, just the same as you, but the early mornings had been the easiest for you to shake. He was always content to let you sleep in, a cup of coffee and kiss waiting for you when you finally emerged from the kitchen. It was, until this morning, your favorite way to start the day.

Marcus must share a similar taste for mornings as Catfish, the nose along your neck tracing the curve of it, his mustache tickling where he presses a soft kiss. When he speaks, his voice is still scratched with sleep.

“I think I missed this the most.”

“Us too,” you whisper, eyes still watching the horizon, letting the words breathe into the tilt of his forehead. 

You feel the pull of sleep again, Marcus’s warm breath on your skin, Frankie’s arms around your waist, but his voice pulls you back, hushed in disbelief.

“You did?”

“We did.” 

It’s Frankie who answers him, his lips pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his arms stretching just enough for the tips of his fingers to graze Marcus’s hip. There’s a finality to his statement, the same tone in his voice from the bar two nights ago, the word date declared with a soft intent and a heated promise.

A strangled sigh leaves Marcus at Frankie’s words, at his touch, and without warning his hips thrust forward, barely enough to push the tip of his hard length between your thighs. You gasp at the sensation, Frankie’s fingers digging into your hips to hold you in place, his own cock pressed along your backside. You can feel the ache of last night in your muscles, their release and yours still sticky between your legs, but it hardly matters. You’re hungry for more.

The thought sneaks up on you, and soon all you can think about is the two of them surrounding you, engulfing you, one single word on the tip of your tongue. You’re about to utter it, let yourself beg for it out here in an open field with the clouds passing above and the uncomfortable truck bed below, when something cold splashes on your cheek. 

“Looks like we’ll have to wait, cariño,” Frankie murmurs, tongue and teeth scraping along the sensitive shell of your ear. “Storm’s rolling in.” 

When you roll over to pout at him, his feral smirk lets you know that he could already see the filthy request rolling around inside your head. It’s probably for the best, you rationalize with yourself.

You want a bed the first time you take them both. 

It’s a scramble to pack everything back up and get back in the truck before the skies fully open up, the three of you only half dressed as you slide across the bench seat. You hum in satisfaction, the twin heat of each man on either side of you, more than enough warmth to chase any chill from the rain. Frankie makes a point to roll the windows down, just enough for the sound of the rain to find your ears through the hum of the engine. He finds your hand and squeezes it one, two, three times– hey Bluebird– before lacing your fingers together and letting them rest on the weathered vinyl between your legs. 

Marcus is quiet, but very much present, his arm resting along the back of the seat, his bicep firm beneath the bend in your neck, the tip of one finger tracing the neckline of Frankie’s t-shirt. The daffodils are resting in his lap again, the petals slightly wilted, but he traces their shape with reverence nonetheless. 

“Not sure I’m ready to head home.”

You grip a little harder to Marcus’s thigh, hearing the last word he still seems reluctant to say out loud.

Alone.

Frankie nods, eyes shifting to his right briefly before flitting back to the road, the hand wrapped around the steering flexing in time with the wiper blades as they whisked away the rain. “How about we take the long way?” 

“That sounds good,” Marcus is quick to agree, the smile in his voice beautifully clear, even with the pounding of the rain on the roof of the truck. You match his grin, leaning your head onto his shoulder, eyes pitched forward, watching for breaks in the rain, happy to catch glimpses of the road ahead. And as they come to the turn that will lead them towards the city, Frankie makes no move to slow, his hand steady and his eyes forward, taking you both forward into the open air.

Dedications

To my beloved @magpie-to-the-morning and @write-and-buried who have been listened to my unhinged horny screaming for weeks. This fic came to me in bits and pieces and my torture of both of you was slow and systematic, and I'm so thankful for both of you. Thank you for always supporting me!

To @astroboots Your love of these three idiots is so so special to me. And it's because of them that we started talking regularly and now I get the pleasure of screeching at you about any and everything. Thank you for loving this story, allowing me to bounce snippets off of you, and for supporting my insanity daily. Please accept this as an early birthday offering. 🖤

And to my dearest @jazzelsaur How do I even begin to thank you? For encouraging me to create this world, to continue with it, to write this sequel as slowly as it came. Your constant support and strength in my DM's has been more than I deserve and I don't know if I'll ever be able to properly say how much it means. Thank you for loving these three idiots and for loving me. I would be lost without you and your avocado hair.

#marcus moreno fic #frankie morales fic #pedro pascal #radiowallet writes #marcus moreno x f!reader #frankie morales x f!reader

[gilverrwrites]

Hello, dear! Could you please write something about 2022 Oz with a reader who is insecure about her torso and often chooses to keep her shirt on when they are being intimate? She is particularly shy about her breasts (I don't know if you need this information, but they are kinda large and she doesn't like the shape of them). Doesn't have to be smut, just fluffy comfort! Thank you so much and no pressure at all! ♥️

The Gift

2022!Penguin/Fem!Reader ≈800 words

AN: Thank you for the request, I hope you enjoy the fic, and have a wonderful rest of your day. ♥️

Oz comforts you have you confide him that you don't like the most recent gift he bought you. Rated: M

CWs: Body dysmorphia, petnames: doll, implied sexual relationship.

Please remember: You are beautiful, as you are.

The fabric is unbelievably soft between your fingers. A deep regal purple with fine black embroidery, a cute heart-shaped gem set in gold dangles from the cleavage of the bra. It was such a beautiful set, and Oz had looked so chuffed when you’d opened it. So excited to see you in his gift. 

But as you sat at your vanity, preparing for your celebratory night, you just couldn’t bring yourself to put it on. Couldn’t bear the idea of how you would look in it, so exposed. Underwear this delicate wasn’t meant for bodies like yours, at least in your opinion. 

The worst part was knowing Ozzie was waiting for you, eager for a glimpse, and he’d be disappointed either by your refusal to wear it or by the unsightly image he’d have to look at if you did. 

So wrapped in your thoughts, you don’t notice Ozwald entering or the sound of his uneven footsteps, not until you catch the sight of him in the mirror’s reflection. 

“What’s wrong doll?” He asked, concern furrowing his brow. His eyes scan your face before falling to the lingerie clutched in your hands. “You don’t like my gift?” 

“No, I do, they’re beautiful.” You reassure him, you’d always admired his taste. But… “I just don’t think I can wear it.”

“Why not?” He squints his eyes and tilts his head, puzzled, but laughing, trying to lighten the tense mood. “Did I get the wrong size or somethin’?” 

“Not it’s not that either.” You look down, unable to face him, unsure how to approach the conversation from here. The sight of the underwear isn’t helping, so gently place it back in the gift bag. 

“Then what is it?” He leans down, baring his weight on your shoulder for support as he places a kiss to the back of your head. Trying to comfort you as best he can without knowing what is wrong. “Don’t keep me in the dark here, you got me worryin’.” 

“I just…” You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for your confession. It’s hard; to admit your insecurities aloud, especially knowing you’re likely to disappoint Oz in the process. But the alternative feels impossible. “It’ll show too much, I know I won’t feel good in it.” 

“Is that it? That’s why you never wanna take your clothes off when we’re doin' it?” He shakes his head, dismissively, more to himself than you. With a sigh he turns from you, making his way over to the bed. Seated, with the pressure off his bad leg, he looks relieved, until he looks at you. His face turns sombre. He purses his lips, mulling over what he’ll say next. “Look, I ain’t exactly one to judge, you know?” 

He gestures to his scarred lip before patting his plump belly. You hate the implication, that he might be lesser because of his weight, or his scars. Hypocritical, as is human nature. You open your mouth to object, but he stops you, holding his hand up briefly as he begins to talk. 

“I ain’t done. This ain’t about me.” He has a knack for commandeering a conversation without making you feel small or unheard. “If it isn’t obvious, I think you’re beautiful, all of you, flaws an everythin’.” 

He gestures towards you, finally offering you a smile. Your body grows warm, you can’t help but smile, after all this time he still makes you feel coy under his gaze. His words won't heal everything, but they make you feel at ease in the moment. 

“Come sit with me.” He pats his good leg, and you make your way over, wrapping your arms around his neck as you settle on his thigh. A strong hand settles in the curve of your back, keeping you up straight. 

“I didn’t pick those out 'cause I thought they’d make you look good; I think you look good all the time.” Up close you can feel the warmth of his brandy steeped breath on your neck, he presses a kiss to your skin before placing his free hand under your chin, directing you to look at him as he continues. “Drives me crazy, tryin’ to get work done and you’re just there, lookin’ like sex on legs no matter what you’re wearin’.” 

“But if it means that much to ya, we can take ‘em back, you can pick out somethin’ that makes you feel your best.” He leans in, pressing a greedy kiss to your lips. You sigh into him, embracing the familiar feel and taste of him as he slips his hand up to your cheek, using it to guide your face closer. When you eventually pull away, he runs the back of a thick, ringed finger against your skin and asks; “How does that sound?” 

Request Info || Masterlist || Ko-Fi 

#the penguin #the penguin x reader #the penguin imagine #oswald cobblepot #oswald cobblepot x reader #oswald cobblepot imagine #farrell!penguin #gilverrwrites #scheduled post

[gingerbreadmonsters]

blood sugar, baby!

or: out of the frying pan...

gn!reader, warnings for imperium grimdarkness, confidently unsettling and i love it. at last, the man of the hour arrives!! i’ve said it once, and i’ll say it again: this fic could NEVER have been possible without the combined brainpower (and capacity for keysmashes) of the gang over on discord, and for them i am forever grateful - @zozo-01, @daveyistheloml, @autisticempathydaemon, @haradasaya, @milophiliac, and of course my beloved @sri-rachaa, vampire enthusiast in residence, to whom we owe the ENORMOUS debt of creating the southern siblings AU which this fic takes place in 💕💕💕 i love you all immensely, and i hope this was worth the wait!! 🥰🥰 takes place after the cataclysm finale ‘All Cruel Things’, so beware spoilers for that. william developing terrible coping mechanisms in 4800 words or less.

a handful of warnings: kidnapping, manipulation, implied stockholm syndrome, lovely is restrained and unable to move (and not in a sexy way), non-consensual trancing, grief and bereavement, extended discussion of blood, light gore, murder, and dead bodies.

i strongly encourage you to mind the warnings, and to stop reading at ANY point if you feel uncomfortable. reader discretion is heavily advised. minors dni. please consider yourself warned.

“Time to wake up, little one.”

It hurts.

If you could find the energy to move, you would. Is that someone talking? The voice isn’t entirely unfamiliar. Your eyes don’t want to open.

“Come on, there you go,” Gloved fingers gently run across your jaw, soft leather smooth against your skin, and an involuntary shudder slices down your back. “Wake up for me, darling, that’s it.”

You’ve heard this voice before. But where? And why can’t you- why can’t you move your- why are your hands-?

"Ah - hold on, darling, don't sit up just yet."

God, your head is spinning. What happened? You were on your way to… wait, what were you trying to do? The fighting, the video, the- the video! You were going to see Sam, that's it, he'd sent those vampires to come and find you, you'd been on your way when-

"We wouldn't want to test those bindings too soon, would we?"

-when it had happened.

It had all been so fast. You're not really sure exactly what had happened - just that sound, rippling through your body, and the world falling away. You can’t run from that sound. You hadn’t wanted to. The sudden rush of displaced air that you know means something coming and fast - for just a single, wonderful second, you’d almost been able to believe it was him. Impossibly fast footsteps coming down the basement steps, echoing through your brain, the promise of warmth and teeth and water. Your mind, full of the world you know best, until all of a sudden your blood turned to ice and the empty earth fell away.

Down, down, down. Yes, that’s it. That was just falling. This is hitting the ground.

“I do apologise for the… circumstances of our meeting. I’d hoped it would all be a bit more civilised, but you know what they say about best laid plans.” Blearily, you squint up at the figure next to you - it feels like you’re lying on a bed, neat lines of rope holding you flat and helpless, and the mattress dips where they’re sitting on the edge of the bed next to you. “Thank goodness I found you in time, hmm?”

Who is this? Everything’s still a little blurry, but you can just about make out the vague lines of the face, the hair, the clothes - although none of it rings a bell. Sounds like a man’s voice, softly accented, but from where? The shape of the vowels, letters sticking and sliding where you don’t expect them… There’s something off about the things he’s saying, too. The cadence of it all is slightly old-fashioned, formal but strangely fond. It doesn’t make sense. Who do you know who speaks like that?

"In any case, do allow me to introduce myself to you.” The man leans down to politely kiss your hand where it’s tied above your head, ever so lightly, and all at once you remember where you’ve heard this voice before. Of course. His face comes into focus, and you understand. He sounds different when you’re not eavesdropping on his phone calls.

“My name is William Solaire, darling. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you."

Sharp teeth in the freezing water. You’re never going to get away, are you?

It’s a question you already know the answer to, but it doesn’t change the fact that both of you feel it when your heart rate starts to climb - he inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment, but thankfully he has the good grace not to mention it. It’s always a bit embarrassing when they point it out. What can you say? It’s not like it’s really your fault. Of all the things you can’t control, your heart has never been the issue.

(...Well. Actually, the jury’s still out on that one.)

“Breathe, little sweetheart,” His smile is soft and easy, deep red eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. Belatedly, you realise that you probably shouldn’t have looked him in the eye. Although, does it really matter? It didn’t help the first time. You wouldn’t be able to do anything either way. “There you go, that’s better. How are you feeling? Not too overwhelmed, I hope.”

If only. It takes you a minute to clear your throat, but you shake your head at the offered glass of water, watching as he places it gently back onto the nightstand by your head. Like hell you’re drinking anything he gives you.

“Where is this?”

He laughs, and it stings a little. “The bedroom, darling. I would have thought that was obvious.”

“No, but-” you press, a little more forcefully this time. “But where? Where are we?”

“Hmm. You must be confused.” Why won’t he tell you where you are? He looks over to the clock on the mantelpiece behind him, and makes as if to get up. “Perhaps I should leave you to rest a little m-”

“No!” Both of you are surprised by how quickly you refuse, but you know that if he leaves, there’s no telling when - if ever - he’ll come back for you. Call it personal experience. And perhaps it’s coming on a bit strongly, but you’re never letting it happen again. Does this one have a murderous other half too?

“I, uh- I’d rather stay awake for a bit.”

William raises an eyebrow at that, but doesn’t push it. “Fair enough, little one. I’m more than happy to keep you company.”

He turns away for a moment, slipping his gloves off and placing them in the box on top of the chest of drawers by the window, and you might as well take the opportunity to look at him properly. He doesn’t look anything like him - although, thinking about it, you probably shouldn’t have expected him to. His hair is much longer, for a start, falling loosely over one shoulder, and the colour is a little lighter too. Physically, he must have been older when he was turned, right? He looks to be in his late twenties, maybe mid-thirties at most. Or maybe that’s just the way he carries himself? You’re not sure. William is all angles, where his face was curves. Ruby studs, long eyelashes, silk and wool and brocade. The sort of gentleman that belonged to times gone by.

Beautiful, so very beautiful, but not quite in the same way. Still, something about the set of his mouth, the arch of his brow - he tilts his head as he catches you staring, and for a split second you’re reminded of him. Maybe this is where Vincent got it from?

Idly, one elegant finger skims back and forth along the line of rope that keeps your middle down against the mattress. “I suppose we ought to address the elephant in the room, while we’re here.”

Here it comes. What’s he going to want? They always want something. “I can g-”

"You were Vincent's, weren't you?”

Laughter. The name burns through your blood, a lit match dropped in petrol, and the words don’t come. Vincent. Locks turning and hands grasping and it’s so, so cold. Hours and hours in his arms, and even more spent wishing that you were. Spinning, drifting, light as air as he anchors you down, your helium head floating as his lips leave your neck. The world outside sounds better in his voice. Vincent, Vincent, Vincent. Honey, I’m home. Footsteps down the basement stairs. How long until it’s dinnertime?

“It’s alright, little one.” Oh. You should probably have actually said something. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, which is nice. “You don't need to say anything. I can tell.”

Of course he can. You’ve never really thought of yourself as an open book, but maybe you ought to reconsider. These vampiric sorts seem to have a thing for knowing you a little too well.

Silence, for a little while. You take the chance to look a little more closely at the room around you - it looks old, like the set of some kind of period drama, all rich and dark and plush. An elaborately-carved armoire, tasteful paintings in ornate frames, a dark inkwell over on the writing desk. How unusual. You didn’t realise anyone still wrote with those any more.

“You were with him for quite a while, weren’t you? One of the longest, I believe.”

The curtains are drawn so you can’t see outside, thick and heavy to keep the sunlight at bay, but that’s not really a surprise. Is it even daytime at all? The mantel clock ticks away, and you shift a little bit under your bindings. They’re not tight tight, but they’re kind of uncomfortable without something to distract you.

“Forgive me, but I feel I ought to ask.”

Distraction, however, doesn’t take long to arrive. A heavy breath and a heavier question, spoken into the still air like a death sentence, and there’s something strange about the executioner’s voice.

"Did you love him, little one?"

You're not sure you know the answer. Love was something different in the basement.

"I’ll tell you the truth, darling. I couldn't tell you exactly how he felt about you. The bond doesn't work like that - I could feel a little of his emotions, the strong ones, but not all the time.”

The strong ones. Makes sense. It always was about strength, with him. Tested and tied up and taken apart until it all made sense again, the power in blood and the blood that bestows power. A warm meal, or a bedwarmer, or sometimes both at once. What was it all for, then? Devotion? Loyalty? Obsession? A legion of puppets, lovers that never were, fighting and dying to die by his side. Heartstrings all in a web, the ghost of a spider’s soft, bloody touch hanging over you.

In your mind, all the time, Vincent had been everything. At first it had been scary, until it wasn’t anymore. When had it happened? When had you known? The pieces falling into place, his hand in yours as you kiss the key that holds you cuffed to him. Had you loved him? Do you love him now? You can’t say for sure, and somehow that’s scarier than any yes or no you could give.

Soft lips, sharp teeth. Everything has its price, and love is no exception.

"He cared for you, that much is certain. In what way, I don't know for sure. But - oh, darling, don't cry - here, let me get you-"

The handkerchief is soft and delicate, trimmed with elaborate lace, and his touch is impossibly light as he brushes the tears from your face. Ugly, ugly crying, pretty thing. If you could hide your face, you would - as it is, you’re resigned to your embarrassment. The blade doesn’t stop swinging, and the axe speaks again.

"I don't know if he loved you. Love and vampires don't tend to run in the same circles, nowadays. But he was my son, and he couldn't lie to me - you were special to him, little one, even if he never told me how."

Perhaps it’s just wishful thinking, but he almost sounds… sad, in a way you don’t really know how to describe. Maybe sad isn’t the right word at all - regretful? Mournful? Bittersweet? You can’t find the words for him, and for some reason the thought makes you sad too. He doesn’t sound like a murderer, or a kidnapper, or a monster. Just a man. A father, waiting at the door for a son who won’t come home.

"Indulge me for a minute, won’t you?” He asks, and you agree - although, to be honest, it’s not like you have many options right now. “Let me tell you about my children."

"My daughter's name was Alexis, and she was my pride and joy. I found her some time ago, now - it must have been maybe fifty years or so? A long time, I imagine, for you. But for me, it feels like only yesterday. An empty, lonely sort of girl, even if she tried not to show it. We met, and I felt at once a great sadness in my heart to know her pain - after a little while, I offered her a choice, and she took it freely.”

You’d never known Vincent had a sister, and the thought that he’d never bothered to tell you… It stings. What had she been to him? Listening to William talk about her, it’s hard to figure out what sort of person she must have been, but you think you get the picture. Lonely. Empty. Nowhere to go. You know a little something about that.

“My first progeny. It was an… unusual feeling, to begin with, but not an unwelcome one. I have always felt that family comes first, above all else, you know. It was a relief to once again find myself with the beginnings of a real family again, although perhaps it’s a little misleading to call us blood relatives. It was no matter. I loved her all the same, despite those who didn’t believe me.”

He must see your confusion on your face at his words, palms upturning as if to say there was no choice. “I gave her to the Department, you see. And yes, I know. A callous, rotten thing to do to my own daughter, betrayal on an unforgivable scale. But you have to understand - I did not hand her invocations over for nothing. My clan was growing, and as their king I knew that we could not survive without a place for us to stake our claim.”

Oh. Of course, he’s a vampire king. Vincent had mentioned it a few times, but mostly just in passing - and he’d never bothered to explain what it really meant. “I needed territory, and for that I needed to appease the Department. And what the Department wanted, more than anything else in the world, was the mind of the Solaire princess.”

“They thought she would not be loyal to me any more, that they could turn her against me and I would be helpless to defend myself against my own daughter. Or perhaps they simpy assumed that we held no love for each other, as happens to so many Makers and their progenies these days.” He laughs, gentle and a little bit mean, and you get the feeling that the joke isn’t at your expense this time. “They sent her to kill me, and… well. Let me assure you that neither of those things were true.”

He reaches across to offer you the glass of water again, taking a sip from it himself when you shake your head. Long fingers wrapping around the glass, eyes closing for just a second. If he notices your gaze fixed on his throat as he swallows, he doesn’t say anything.

“Vincent, on the other hand, was less intentional, I suppose you could say. Did he ever tell you how he was turned?”

Did he? “No, I don’t think so,” you say, shaking your head slightly. He hadn’t said, and you hadn’t asked. “It never really came up.”

“I see. I’ll have to tell you the full story another time - it’s quite a long one, and I wouldn’t want to bore you, darling. Suffice to say, I turned him only a short while ago, about twenty years, but what wonderful years they were. Difficult at first, but wonderful all the same.”

“I can’t imagine he mentioned me much to you, but I don’t begrudge him that.” A quiet sigh, resigned, and your heart breaks a little further. “Vincent and I did not often see eye-to-eye on certain matters, it’s true. But he was my progeny, always, and I loved him anyway.”

His tone turns bitter, smile souring in his voice, and the air thickens like a storm rolling in. Lightning striking the sea, waves thrashing in the darkness of the open water, and the spray threatens to swallow you whole.

“My son is gone, now, and my daughter too. I felt it as they disappeared, and do you know what it was like? Little one, I am very, very old, and yet it was like nothing I had ever known.”

“I found Alexis the night she died. The King-Imperial,” he spits, like the words themselves are poison, “thought he had taken her from me, but that has never been true. She was my daughter then, and she is my daughter still. I will always know her, and I will always bring her home to me.”

“My beautiful girl, in pieces on the floor, and not even the dignity to close the door behind them. I wanted to close her eyes and pretend that she was sleeping. I wanted to kiss her face and make sure she had peaceful dreams. I wanted to smooth away her hair and place her pillow underneath her, so that when she woke up, she would wake up happy.”

He smiles, ice and grief and rage, and all at once the earth is cold again.

“But I could not do those things, because the creatures that killed my daughter had also stolen her head.”

Oh.

There’s nothing you can say to that. You cast your eyes down politely, sympathetic silence, and give him a second to compose himself, if he wants it. Some things should not be intruded upon, after all, even if he’s the one who brought it up. It would be rude to stare.

“Don’t worry, little one.” A half-hearted, hollow sort of laugh. “I told you I would always find her, and I did. Do you know where I found her? Now that I think about it, you might even have seen her - although you probably wouldn’t have realised it at the time.”

…What?

“Those wolves that took you from Vincent’s house. I assume they didn’t let you look.”

You nod. You don’t remember his name, but the one who had unlocked your door had been very careful to cover your eyes as he brought you up and out of the house. He hadn’t told you why. You hadn’t asked him, either.

“Well, they did not extend the same courtesy to me. After I brought you here, I returned to Vincent’s house, and I found what I was looking for.”

Oh, God. You can see where this is going. “They may not have been twins in the traditional sense, but they have always been cut from the same cloth. When I found my son, torn to ribbons in the hallway, cooling in his own blood, I found my daughter’s head alongside him.”

…So it’s true.

So he really is dead.

So he really isn’t coming back for you.

“My Vincent, my only boy.” Close as he is to you, you can just about hear the faintest tremble in his voice as he speaks again. “I had never had a son before, you know - but for him, I would have done anything. I will still do anything. My blood is his as well. If there is one decision, in all my many years, that I will never come to regret, it will be the choice I made that night - to give that boy my name.”

Tears gather, but don’t fall. You look up at him, at this man who by all logic you must despise, and he looks so very sad that you can’t help but feel sorry for him. Nobody deserves that. It must be very difficult to keep a crown upon your head, especially when your head is no longer attached to your body. The children of William Solaire lie dead and rotting, royal flesh dripping off of golden bones, and a father learns how it feels to not be a father anymore.

(It doesn’t make sense. Who in their right mind would feel sorry for their kidnapper?)

(...On second thoughts, don’t answer that.)

He leans over to pick up the glass again, free hand discreetly brushing across his waterline, and takes another sip. Once again, he offers it to you, but after a little hesitation you refuse once more.

“I’m sorry, dearest,” he says mournfully, “But I can’t tell you why they died. To tell you the truth, I wish I knew myself. Perhaps, then, we both might be able to find a little peace.”

So he doesn’t know either. Will you be left wondering forever, then? “I have my suspicions. Some die as they lived, and my children were always at each other’s throats. Alexis and Vincent are gone, and I know how. But there’s no way of knowing why - you and I will simply have to settle with that.”

He reaches over to stroke one hand softly over your cheek, cool palm cupping your jaw. “That being said, all is not lost, little darling. Don’t worry. I know who I’m looking for.”

A cruel grin, all fangs. “I’ll get us both revenge.”

The promise of revenge is a tempting one. The small, rational part of your brain tries to tell you that it won’t bring him back. An even smaller part of your brain tries to tell you that you probably shouldn’t want him back at all. Neither voice is difficult to ignore, especially not when you nod in agreement and William’s satisfied smile answers you.

“I- ah-” Behind him, the mantel clock chimes on the hour, startling both of you - he looks faintly annoyed as he turns to look. “Sorry about that, darling. I’d completely forgotten the time.”

“It’s, uh…” Again, you’re not really sure what to say to that. It’s not like you could really go anywhere right now. “It’s fine.”

In any case, it seems to have reminded him of something. Glass still in hand, his fingers tap against the cut crystal. The pattern seems deliberate, but you don’t recognise the rhythm.

“I confess, my dear. I may not have been entirely forthcoming about my reason for bringing you here.”

It’s almost funny, how aware of your own pulse you become. Deja vu, maybe.

“I don’t know if he ever told you, but my son did not care for very many things, in his time. I believe you were one of those rare exceptions. It might not be much, but I hope you can find a little comfort in that.” Delicately, he rests one hand on your side, in the gap between the ropes that span your waist and your hips. You don’t move at all.

“I have been alive for many years, little one, and in that time I’ve learned a great many things about what it means to disappear. Names and faces and stories that I thought would last forever, which now only I, alone, remember.”

“It is said that as long as a person is loved, they are alive, is it not? I have seen what happens when that love, too, disappears. The torch-bearers meet their ends, and the flame is lost forever. Love only lasts as long as the life that remembers it, and my life has been very long indeed. My blood has always known the sun, and I wonder that my heart has not yet turned to ash with all the love I force it to hold.”

He raises his nearly-empty glass to you, a polite suggestion of a toast, charming and melancholy in equal measure. “You love him. I love him too. In us, may he never disappear.”

To that, you have no reply.

“You and I, bearers of the flame.” An empty glass, placed lightly back on its coaster. “Perhaps I did not know him as well as I should have, and that will be my burden. But what little of my son remains, I have no choice but to protect.”

“Vincent, Alexis. I have already lost them once. Never again.”

He shifts slightly, angling himself to face you slightly better, and you have the sudden, urgent sense that whatever you do, you must not look him in the eye.

“Proof, that my son existed at all. That he lived, and was loved, and was known. He cared so much for you, and I cannot hold him all on my own.” His voice, so impossibly soft and kind. “Won’t you help me, little one?”

“I…” He makes it sound very tempting, but there’s doubt still. “What should- what are- what do you want me to do?”

“Not very much, darling,” he replies. “All you have to do is look at me.”

He must hear your heartbeat quickening, as he presses a gentle hand to your chest. “I know it’s scary, little one, I know. But I’m giving you the choice, no? I did the same for Vincent, when I met him, and Alexis when I met her. Do you think they regretted it?”

“...No?” It comes out nervously, eyes firmly fixed on the mantel clock behind him, but he seems pleased nonetheless.

“Exactly. I know what I’m doing, sweet thing, it’s alright. I want you to be happy, don’t I? I don’t want to hurt you. What on earth would I want that for? A sweet, precious little thing like you - I don’t want to make you cry, or make you scared, or make you sad, darling. There’s just one thing I want from you, my dear, and it’s very simple.”

One more time, a kind hand comes up to hold your face. Gentle pressure lifts your chin, turning your gaze upwards, and as ever you are powerless to resist. You look, and look, and keep looking - dark crimson eyes catch your own, and for some reason it’s impossible to look away.

“There you are. My little thrall-to-be, hmm? Aren’t you good.” Mesmerised, you’re only faintly aware of the rope that still binds your body to the bed - the whole world shrinks until there’s just this room, and this voice, and these eyes. You shiver slightly, but you’re not sure why. “Oh, is that it? That’s what you want - to be good for me?” A playful smirk. “You spoil me, darling.”

The haze in your mind is thick and heavy, swirling through your brain, taking any words you might once have had along with it. Vaguely, you remember having something you wanted to say, but what was it?

“I know, I know. It’ll only be a second, I promise.”

Oh, it can’t have been important.

“Can you focus on me, my dear?”

It’s difficult, but you try your best. Gradually, the world comes back into focus, and he’s so very, very beautiful.

“That’s it. Breathe, sweetheart,” he smiles, and your lungs obey. “I’ve got you.”

If anyone asks, you don’t really know what happens next.

It’s funny - the waves crashing over you, tide winding around your waist and pulling you out to sea. Wood and salt and sand, the moon on your mind and blood in the water. Life is soft, all of a sudden, and it’s a pair of kind, red eyes that create reality. You’re floating, washed smooth in the ocean, and that’s all that matters.

Maybe the mantel clock chimes again, once or twice or not at all. Who’s to say? Easy, easy, easy. Cool hands lowering you into sleep, and the faintest kiss, pressed against your salt-soaked hair. Your head spins in the surf, and for a moment it feels like deja vu. Perhaps history really does repeat itself. Unfortunately, you wouldn’t know.

He leaves, and you dream.

There’s a house in the woods, a very long way away, to which no living person owns the key. It’s a very nice house, or perhaps it used to be - there are not many people left who have ever seen it, so it’s difficult to say. Leaves tumble to the dirt, and the lock freezes in the bitterness of night.

Nothing moves, in this house. Not any more. The bedroom curtains are still closed, and the tap drips eternally. Clothes that will never be ironed, a cabinet door that rusts still half-open. A kettle that doesn’t boil. A calendar that never reaches year’s end.

Dark wood for a hallway floor - a shame that not all stains can be hidden. Spilling, gushing, splashing, and can you really call it lifeblood if there’s no life left in it? The floorboards soaked in blood, dried down to a thick, tacky film that clings to the roof of your mouth like toffee. How sweet. A man who was a boy who was a monster, black eyes forever open, the pieces of him all but stuck to the floor. William Solaire leaves the lights off as he cries, carrying the spun glass that used to be his son in his arms, and nobody ever finds this house again.

Houses in the woods are supposed to be haunted, people say. This one is not. There are no ghosts in the house of an undead man.

You, perhaps, are the exception.

masterlist

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted lovely #redacted william #redacted imperium #redacted angst #redacted vincent #redacted alexis #ginger writes #gingerbreadmonsters #ginger after dark