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oneforthemunny · 11 months

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gone fishin' |dad!rockstar!eddie munson x nepo baby!reader|

prompt: doing my own prompt again from #munnysummergame. domestic fluff with dad!rockstar!eddie :)

🐙- domestic blurb!! any of the dad!eddie’s take their kids to stay with wayne for a mini vacation (or staycation if they’re in hawkins). I love grandpa!wayne and dad!eddie make my ovaries cry.

contains: fluff lol. that's it no warnings just sweet dad!rockstar!eddie and grandpa wayne :)

"I mean... if you want to." Eddie's grimacing face says it all, eyes darting from his uncle back to his youngest.

Vega bounced on the tips of her toes, a grinning, bubbling ball of energy, ecstatic to be back with Grandpa Wayne. The summer trip back to Hawkins, before spending the remainder of July in the Hamptons, was annual for the Munson family. Wayne traveled to you when he could, but in his older age you wanted to make it easier on him, more accommodating; the opposite of keeping baby Vega.

At four years old, she was...energetic, and that was generous. Eddie had invested in a leash after her dash down Rodeo Drive, the ever chaotic child that kept you all on your toes. While you didn't doubt that Wayne would take care of Vega, you knew he would, you worried, truthfully, if he could.

Wayne lifted a brow. "Well, of course I want to, boy." Wayne gruffed, eyes rolling over Eddie's rigid frame. Even as a grown man, a father, he could tell when he was uneasy about something, read him so easily. "You don't want me to?"

"No," Eddie shook his head. "It's not that. It's just...I mean as long as you feel up to it-"

"I feel fine, Ed." Wayne rolled his eyes with a huff.

"Yeah, Ed." Vega parroted with a far greater attitude than she should at four. You blamed Persephone, Vega was observant- copying the seventeen year old's every move.

"Vega Jo," Eddie glared at her, a stern warning glare that had her giggling, hanging on Wayne's leg, laughing maniacally at his expense. Not quite the reaction he was hoping for, only praying that the name didn't stick. Not the way 'mother fucker' had- the drop off line at the elementary school is brutal, ok?

Wayne pressed his lips together to fight back a smile. "You go on. Go to Mike's party, and I'll take care of this one." Wayne petted Vega's unruly curls, already puffing and frizzing in the Hawkins' humidity.

"Are you sure?" Eddie asked again.

Wayne huffed in annoyance. "We're goin' fishing', Miss Vega. Tell you Daddy and Mama bye." Wayne glared at Eddie lightly, pushing off the wall to head towards the garage.

"What's going on?" You emerged down the hall, lipstick in hand. "Where's Vega going?"

"Grandpa's taking me fishing!" Vega cheered excitedly, a wide toothy grin dazzling up at you.

"Is he?" You asked, brows raised and voice lilting to that high octave you fell into when you baby talked. "That sounds like so much fun, baby. Is it just you and Grandpa?"

"Yes." Vega lisped, swinging her arms back and forth by her side. "Jus' me and Grandpa. Not you, or Sicily, or Sephy, or-or Ed." She giggled wickedly.

You hid your face to hide your smile. Fuck, kids were funny sometimes. It was hard not to snicker at Vega every now and then, especially at Eddie's expense. Sicily and Sienna didn't hold the same courtesy, doubling over each other in the hallway. Eddie glared at them, turning back to Vega.

"You better stop that, Vega. Or you're not going anywhere. I'll make you come with me." Eddie pointed at her in warning.

You watched it unfold in slow motion, the same scenario. Vega's little grin melting into a sweet smile, swaying until she scampered and hugged Eddie's legs tightly.

"I jus' kiddin', Daddy." Vega grinned, chin resting against his knee to look up at him with a sweet look. She patted his calve with childlike gentleness, the final nail in his own coffin.

You could practically see Eddie melting before your eyes, reaching down to hoist her on his hip. You hid your eye roll, shaking your head lightly. Your heart swelled nonetheless. How was this the same man you met nearly twenty years ago? The same rough and mean and nasty man, who now could be so gentle, not just with you and the girls, but with himself.

Eddie gave her an exaggerated mean look. "You better be kidding, Vega Jo. Better be good for Grandpa Wayne."

"Yes," You nodded, your hand rubbing over the cotton material of her little shirt. "Look at Mommy, baby. You have to be very, very good for Grandpa, ok? Listen to him and no running, Vega. That's not a funny game at all."

"I won't." Vega sighed heavy, like she was bored of the conversation.

"Vega, I'm being serious. You gotta stay close to Grandpa. Do what he says- are you listening to me?" You watched her tip back in a backbend, Eddie's arms holding her in place on his hip. She looked up at you, upside down with a grin.

"I'll be good." Vega repeated. "I'll listen."

"Yeah, right." Kensington muttered, passing the two of you to get to the kitchen.

"Kensie." You grit, eyes cutting to the fifteen year old, so angsty and moody all the time.

"I am good!" Vega growled, scowling at her older sister with a furrowed brow, a scrunched nose- the same expression she got from you. The look on Eddie's face told you that.

"Ok," You held your hands up. "You are very good. Very, very good, and you're gonna have so much fun catching fish with Grandpa, aren't you?"

"I-I'm gonna catch a big fish, like this big Mama." Vega stretched her arms out wide, nearly smacking Eddie's nose in the process.

"Yeah? You gonna bring it home? We can fry it up tonight. Dinner's on you." Eddie teased, tickling her sides so she shrieked.

"Ready to go?" Wayne called, holding a tackle box and two fishing poles- an old, black one and a bright pink one with various Disney Princesses on it.

Vega squirmed out of Eddie's grasp, flip flops smacking against the hardwood of the lake house towards the front door. "Be good, Vega!" You shouted after her, nervously pressing your fingers to your mouth. "I have my phone, Wayne, if you need anything-"

"-I got it, darlin'. You all go have fun. Don't worry 'bout us." Wayne gave you a warm smile, shutting the door with his foot behind him.

You hesitated for a moment, looking over at Eddie carefully. "She'll be good, right? He's got it."

"Vega? No way." Eddie scoffed, shaking his head. "But he's got her. He won't let anything happen to her." You frowned, lips jutting in a pout. Eddie sighed heavily. "I'll go check on them after a little bit, ok? In case it gets too much."

***

Eddie wasn't sure if it was the heat or surely someone had slipped something in his drink. He'd felt fine, pressing a kiss to your cheek before excusing himself, climbing in the car to go check on Vega. The best part about Hawkins was everywhere took ten minutes to get to, at most. The lake house was on the outskirts of town, a farther drive, but nothing he couldn't get to quickly.

Eddie didn't hear shrieking or crying or cackling, only hearing the eerily quiet sound of the breeze through the trees and the water rippling. His heart lurched, heavy steps pounding towards the back yard. The lawn that backed up into the lake, the bank meeting the soft grass where he saw them; Vega and Wayne, sitting in their own little chairs.

Vega was calmly sitting there, watching the bobber in the water, her own little pole slipping while she chatted with Wayne softly.

"...You don't like them Webkinz anymore? They not doin' it for ya?" Wayne asked gently, reeling in his line.

"No. I don't-I don't really like them anymore, because I like to play on the Wii. Me and Zarah play Just Dance a lot, but she alwaaayyys beats me." Vega sighed heavily, shoulders deflating. "She's so good at it. She can hit all the moves."

Wayne snorted lightly. "Yeah? You'll get there soon, Vega. She's a lot older than you, bigger. She's got more coordination."

Vega paused, nose scrunching when she looked over at Wayne. "What's coorginmasion?" She stuttered out the word with a grimace.

Wayne laughed. "Coordination. Means you can move quick. You'll get there. You're still little bitty. Got lots more growin' to do."

"Daddy tells me that too." Vega hummed. "He's really tall. Got lotsa co-or-di-nation." She sounded it out slowly, in between deep breaths that had Eddie grinning.

Wayne grinned. "Yeah? You'd think he would. Your Daddy can be a little clumsy sometimes."

Vega giggled loudly, nearly dropping her pole. "Yeah..." She sighed, far too heavy to be four. She'd definitely heard that from you or Eddie.

"Catch any big ones yet?" Eddie asked with a grin, arms crossed over his chest when he stepped forward.

Vega perked, curls whipping her face. "Daddy! You sneaked!" She giggled, swinging her pole around, ripping it through the water to point at him accusingly.

"Easy, Vega, easy. Gotta be gentle. Scarin' all the fishies, baby." Wayne cooed calmly, maneuvering his own pole away. "What're you doin' here, boy?"

"Just came to check on you. Make sure everything was alright." Eddie hummed. "Catch anything yet, Vegie?"

"No." Vega pouted, shaking her head. "No big ones. Grandpa said they're probably in the middle of the lake 'cause that's where all the sunshine is."

"Yeah?" Eddie grinned in amusement. "He's probably right."

Eddie sat down on the cool grass next to them, under the shaded trees, a hand on Vega's back to steady her on her makeshift chair, a turned over bucket. "Guess no dinner then, huh?"

Wayne huffed at him. Vega shrugged. "Grandpa has honey buns so we're good." She said easily, eyes cutting over to Wayne's, copying the way he slowly reeled his line in.

"Honey buns?" Eddie gasped. "And you didn't share any with me, Grandpa?"

"No. They're just for us." Vega declared.

"That's right." Wayne nodded. "Vega said we should use 'em for bait. The fish might like 'em." He grinned at the younger girl.

Eddie watched in awe as Vega sat peacefully, not fidgeting or bouncing or trying to jump off the bucket. She sat, chatting with Wayne, calmly and slowly, careful with her reeling and casting- well, as careful as a four year old could be.

Eddie felt his phone buzz in his back pocket, a text from you, no doubt. "Well, if you two are good, I'm gonna go back." Eddie hesitated, standing slowly.

"We're alright." Wayne nodded, eyes not leaving the water.

Eddie hesitated, leaning down to press a kiss to Vega's head, before ducking over to Wayne. "Did you... Did you give her something?" Eddie asked quietly. Wayne's head snapped to him in question. "Like to calm her down? I don't care if you did just-"

"Boy, get out of here." Wayne scoffed, shaking his head at Eddie. "We're just having a nice, relaxin' fishin' day, right, Vega?" He glared at Eddie.

"Yes." Vega chirped, tongue poking out in concentration, turning the gears around.

"I got it handled." Wayne nodded. "Handled you for many years, boy, think I can handle this one."

Eddie nodded, raising his hands lightly. "Just call me if you need me." He said, backing away slowly.

"I got it." Wayne huffed. "Get outta here so we can get another honey bun. Let's see if them fishies like it, Vega. Maybe that'll help 'em bite."

Sure enough, Vega was bounding towards the two of you hours later, buzzing with excitement to show you what she caught. A bass in the bucket, swimming in the half filled orange container.

Wayne grinned proudly, patting her back while she rambled and showed off her fish to you, Eddie, and her sisters.

"She caught this?" Eddie asked, lifting a brow carefully.

"With her pink fishin' rod." Wayne laughed. "Caught that damn fish. Wouldn't touch it and didn't want it to die, so we put it in the bucket 'til you got back. She wanted to show ya." He boasted.

"Damn honey bun trick worked. 'Bout to use that one on my next fishin' trip with Roy." Wayne laughed.

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st-juliet · 1 year

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Can I request an nsfw fic sitting on Sherlock Holmes’ lap while he explains a case to reader, she start kissing his neck and he starts stuttering 😩😩 (also, Im literally in LOVE with your works 😫 😭)

Pulse Point

Fandom: Henry Cavill as Sherlock in Enola Holmes

Summary: To help him relax in the midst of a trying case, Reader exploits Sherlock’s only vulnerability.

Content: 18+ for smutty smutty smut, Sherlock’s filthy mouth, unprotected sex, and pure domestic bliss.

Notes: My first prompt! Thank you thank you thank you, Anon; I love this so much. I wrote it quite quickly and unedited, so apologies for any imperfections!

“Come, sit with me, darling girl.”

Standing in the door of your husband’s study, you fall even more in love with Sherlock Holmes. He sits behind his desk in his leather wingback chair, attired in his shirtsleeves, coat discarded, posture tense—it has been hours since you saw him come home, carrying a crate of papers and wearing the expression of determination and passion that lets you know the game is well and truly afoot.

Eager to be of help, you follow his directive at once, crossing the room to his side. He settles you on his lap and places a chaste, gentle kiss to your temple, pausing to breathe in the scent of your hair. A little of his tension seems to melt away with your closeness, and you return his kiss—but on the lips, this time—with a smile. He smiles, too, and whispers, “I love you so.”

“As I love you! Now, tell me the matter of the case,” you prompt, with another light, teasing peck. “Begin at the beginning, and perhaps some new detail will reveal itself in the telling.”

Sherlock smiles, a little wearily, but with a clear relief at your presence and enthusiasm.

“Yes, pray lend me a little of your brilliance, Mrs. Holmes, for I am at my wit’s end.”

“Nonsense; your wit is endless,” you scoff, and at last he laughs, too. You share another kiss, deeper this time, and he settles more comfortably into the chair.

“It is Moriarty,” he sighs, loosening his cravat and tossing it aside. “It is always Moriarty, the spider in the center of the web. But for once, he torments me with leisure, not urgency. There is no captive aristocrat, no explosives planted, no threat of impending murder; and thank god for it. But instead, he spins me an ever-expanding list of riddles, each more obscure and particular than the last. To what end I do not know.”

He tips his head back against the chair, exposing the long line of his throat to your gaze. Though you would find it nigh impossible to select a favorite part of your husband’s body—for truly, it seems that every night as he fills your aching channel so perfectly, so completely, there is some new, glorious detail of his physique thrown into prominence—Sherlock’s neck is especially tempting. It is a singular point of vulnerability in such a massive, muscled man, and one you love to exploit: you know well that so much as a single kiss can bring the man to his knees, or else drive him to bend you over the nearest surface and make you his in the most primal, profound way.

“He boasts of the reach of his accomplices by infiltrating those systems in which we have the greatest trust, so much that the average man may not even notice anything has changed.”

You simply cannot help yourself.

Delicately, you shift upon his lap, wickedly delighted that he has fixed his eyes upon the cluttered wall opposite his desk, where his series of pinned-up schedules, diagrams, and ciphers distract him from your intentions.

“But I first noticed that the regular seven o’clock train from Trafalgar to Charing Cross was delayed on Tuesday—“

With a slow deliberation, you kiss the point where his pulse beats steadily beneath his jaw.

“—initial—initially—by seven—“

You part your lips ever so slightly and kiss him again.

“—by seven—se—“

A large, lissome hand lands heavily on your thigh. You do not let this deter you; no indeed, it only incites you further, and you press your lips more firmly against his neck.

“By seven minutes!” he concludes in a rush, and you take advantage of his pause for breath to trail your kisses lower, pulling aside the collar of his shirt for a better vantage.

You lightly sink your teeth into his flesh, just at the juncture where his neck and shoulder meet, and he moans.

“Angel—oh, my g—god…”

As you work your way back up to his pulse point, he still stutters out a little more on the subject of the case: “Angel, the—the trains—I am—tr—trying to—explain…“

You raise your head up innocently.

“Shall I stop, sir?”

Sherlock kisses your lips hungrily, squeezing you tighter, and you wriggle in delight, feeling him grow hard at your ministrations. It gratifies you to no end, when this stern, controlled man falls prey to his own lusts, unable to help the way his length strains at his trousers—and all for you.

“No, no—“ he breathes, and you take your cue eagerly, shifting to straddle his thighs, their breadth forcing your legs wide apart. “Don’t stop, my sweet—ah—angel.”

He fumbles with the fastenings of his trousers, but can’t seem to manage the simple motor function, such is his arousal, especially as your lips return to his neck.

“Let me help you,” you offer, murmuring against his throat as you pepper it with more kisses. “Let me please you, please, Sherlock…”

“God, lo—look what you’ve—done to me,” he sighs, throwing up his hands. Laughing breathlessly, you finish the job yourself, a rapturous smile of triumph gracing your lips as your hand wraps around his freed cock, already leaking and flushed with desire. “You…you undo me completely,” he groans, thrusting up into your grasp. “Fuck, please, my darling girl, please, let me feel you—“

“Yes, Sherlock, anything you want!”

This seems to reinvigorate him, and he growls, pushing aside your skirts roughly. He does not allow the time for you to rise and doff your undergarments, but instead simply tears the delicate fabric at the seams to reveal your dripping petals.

“I’ll buy—buy you more,” he promises, as you rock your wet heat against his achingly hard cock. “What do you want, angel? What can I give? All the lace in the world. A dozen gowns, a hundred, anything for you—emeralds or pearls or—oh, Christ, you are so fucking tight I can hardly—“ This as you sink down on him, sheathing him to the hilt with your own a cry of ecstasy. “I’ll give you the world. Oh, my love…”

You continue to besiege his neck as you ride him, finding out each sweet spot that makes him clutch your hips all the harder, with Sherlock babbling out a litany of absolute filth mixed with romantic nonsense:

“That pretty, pretty mouth god your lips—you will be the death of me, angel!”

Sherlock hardly lasts a moment more after your climax causes you to clench around him, holding him tight and deep and perfect, and he gasps your name and a stammering profession of love as he spills himself inside you. You gaze into his eyes as they come back into focus, and you share a little panting laughter, for you are both an absolute mess of half-discarded clothes, dripping seed, and riotously disheveled hair. You have even left a clear mark on his neck, which makes you feel as grand as the empress of the earth, to have laid such an intimate claim upon his otherwise unassailable body. Murmuring quiet, loving little praises, you help one another to undress fully, till you stand before one another fully natural, each drinking in the sight of the other.

“My god. Just look at you, Mrs. Holmes.”

“You are the most beautiful man alive!” you cannot help but exclaim, and he tosses his head in evident pride at the compliment. How you love to make him vain.

“And at last, I am thinking clearly—for the first time all day!” he says, making you laugh again, then he lets out an exultant “Ha!” and strides over towards the gallery of evidence pinned to the wall. “You’ve done it. By Jove, Mrs. Holmes, you have knocked the scales from my eyes. I see the whole design now…”

“Then let me fetch you fresh clothes—and some water to wash, hmm?”

“Yes, give me leave a little while to dole out justice upon Moriarty. And then turnabout’s fair play for you, wife: I think your lovely neck deserves a mark or two of its own…”

If you enjoyed, please do leave a comment, reblog, or visit my Masterlist!

#Sherlock Holmes x Reader #henry cavill sherlock #henry!sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x ofc #enola holmes fanfic

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killedpink · 1 year

Text

[02:22]

felix lee is gonna be the death of me

🏷 contains: dom leaning felix x sub leaning reader, slight somnophilia, oral sex, tease felix, domestic setting, sex dreams, slight fingering, orgasm denial, mentions of cum consumption

felix had only recently woken up himself, barely having enough time to fully wake up, wash up and check his phone before he heard you. a sigh here, a hum there. it wasn't often you were loud in your sleep, so naturally he was curious as to what was going on in your pretty mind. when his eyes fall to your sleeping body, he notices your hips, lazily wiggling in the sheets and the blissful look on your unconscious face. an urge crept up on him, one that he had never acted on before — even if he always had your consent beforehand. but now, it was too strong to resist. felix took a deep breath, his fingers ghosting over your skin as he dipped his hand into your shorts and panties, letting out a noise of surprise once he felt the significantly damp cloth and your warm, wet sex. you let out a pleased hum, a tiny smile from your lips gracing felix's eyes as he saw you enjoying his touch even in your sleep. and that's when he heard it.

"hm, lix.. 'm close.." his eyes widened. you were having a sex dream? about him? felix felt his cheeks redden, the tips of his ears burning, his free hand checking his pulse out of habit. you leaned into his touch subconsciously, his fingers slowly stroking your clit, feeling the swelling bud between his fingers. your thighs started to close, your hips rising up to chase felix's ever so talented fingers. he chuckled fondly, leaning down to your cheek to press a loving kiss to your soft skin, "just relax, love, i'll make you feel good," he whispered softly into your hair, the pads of his index and middle finger circling your clit with an added amount of pressure, easily slipping around your slicked, wet cunt. and it was all from him. the thought made felix dizzy with pride, grinning to himself bashfully.

you squirmed, your lips parting and your thighs tensing as you started to cum into felix's hand. noticing this, felix moved his hand away from you swiftly, smiling wickedly once you started to rouse from having your orgasm cruelly torn away from you. "felix?" you muttered, eyes slowly opening, squinting from the morning sun. he hummed in acknowledgement, running his hands along your sides teasingly, "good morning. you sleep well?" felix enquired, a knowing grin on his face, his cheeks still holding a rosy flush to them. you nodded silently in response, before pausing for a moment to let his question soak in. with every passing second, you were growing more and more aware of your surroundings and responsive to them. you leaned into his warm, familiar touch, sighing contentedly when he leaned right back, feeling his skin on yours.

"how was your dream, love?" felix said into your neck, his hot breath leaving you tingly, goosebumps erupting from your body. you could feel his smirk against your skin, "wanna tell me about it? i hear it was really good." he was whispering at this point — his deep, sultry voice sending chills down your spine. "was i too loud?" you muttered into the palms of your hands, which were covering your face from embarrassment. felix let out an amused laugh, his hands wrapping around your wrists as a way to pry them from your face, "you weren't loud enough, actually. i'd love to rectify that, though." he pressed a kiss to your nose, leaving a tingly wet spot on the tip of your nose, exactly where his lips had been. you nodded, slowly, a small smile on your lips, "i'd like that, lix."

it was no doubt he was eager to please you, even more to feel you, but once his hands pulled down your shorts did he only realise just how desperate he had been for you — nothing extravagant or mind-blowing, just you. felix almost gasped once he saw your panties, the thin cloth practically stuck to the sticky arousal of your sobbing cunt. using the pad of his thumb, he stroked the wet patch, feeling you through the material with ease. when he noticed your thighs twitch between his legs, he kissed your inner thighs softly, stroking your skin and rounding out at the curve where your ass started, venturing up to sit at your hipbones, his skilled hand splayed out on the juncture where your hips met your thighs. you squirmed and squealed once his hot, thick tongue prodded at your clothed cunt, the heat from his tongue seeping into your sex even through your panties.

felix's head popped up from between your legs, "i can taste you through these, you know," he teased, his finger hooking under the elastic waistband and letting go, allowing the band to flick back against your bare skin. "so take them off," you urged, voice thick with excitement. "is that what happened in your dream — or are you just needy?" felix pressed his tongue to your cunt once more, prodding at your sex and furthering the wet patch on your panties tenfold. "in my dream," you started, before getting cut off by a moan, "you were mean to me. you kept.. uh, eating me out really good, but then you'd stop just before i got to come, and then you made me suck you off." felix hummed to indicate he was listening, his fingers yanking your panties from your sex, leaving open-mouthed kisses all over your shiny cunt, his tongue peeking out from his full lips to kitten lick your clit. "you came inside of me, and.. well, you ate me out when i was full of your come. you woke me up before i got to finish it, but i think it was probably going to lead to me riding you." his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, soaking up every detail of your story, eager to recreate it all with you.

he looked up at you, his lips glossy from your arousal, "well, i guess i'd better get to work, then."

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nitpickrider · 5 months

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a bit silly, but if you had to fill an Avengers roster, who would you pick?

Wooof, oh me oh my. Let's lay down some ground rules before I do this. 1). Only people who have been Avengers at some previous point in time. Doesn't narrow it down a LOT but this list would be a jigsaw of my favorite Z-Listers otherwise 2). Limiting it to seven people. That's the magic number with superhero teams and it gives me a reason to stop

Steve Rogers, AKA Captain America: Sometimes you just cannot beat a classic and when it comes to Avengers line ups there is no one that I think is more integral than Captain America. The pathos that he brings to the table no matter what character he is interacting with is palpable and reading through his first big volume has given me a deep respect and love for the character. He's our leader for sure, the axis of solid, steady service I can hang my weirder picks on.

Dr. Walter Newell AKA Stingray: You all saw this coming and don't act like you didn't. One of my favorite if not my FAVORITE Marvel Characters of all time. He's a doctor with an interesting specialization. His "I'm only a part time superhero" hangup is even funnier and more interesting if forced into the limelight on THE hero team. Not to mention he comes with his own swanky Hydrobase we can use for an HQ and with his wife and four kids running around underfoot we have the kind of domestic adorability I think any good team needs.

Miguel Santos AKA Living Lightning: The first time I can ever remember reading about a comic book hero being gay, as just like, part of who they are. A tiny detail in their rich inner life. Not to mention the less respect a character gets the more I want to lift them up on my shoulders. He could be the sweetheart with a little chip on his shoulder from not getting the respect his objectively awesome powers objectively deserve.

Angelica Jones AKA Firestar: Something you may not know about me. The first piece of media that really opened my eyes as to the potential and depth and scope of the Marvel Universe was Spiderman and His Amazing Friends. It was cheesy, it was cheap and yet Angelica was the first character that I felt SPECIAL for knowing and caring about. She's happy, she's passionate, her simple classic costume kicks ass and the New Warriors need their goddamn respect. 'Nuff said.

Sersi, Just Sersi: What little I have seen of this character fucking FASCINATES me. This woman is chaos incarnate. It's like she is actively making on the fly decisions with everyone she meets whether she's going to kill them, screw them, turn them into a small mammal or some combination of the three. She's *Instant Plot Complication Just Add Water* because she saw a butterfly and that somehow translates to her blowing the entire team's cover.

Dane Whitman AKA The Black Knight: I love everything about him. I love his vibe, I love the fact that his backstory is built partially around recontextualizing the lore of a mostly forgotten Atlas fantasy comic. I love that he has a wickedly evil cursed blade that comes with the side effect of basically holding him hostage to a heroic moral code. And on top of that he's a dorky intellectual who can't see a social cue if it's blaring at him from oncoming traffic.

Jennifer Walters AKA She-Hulk: ...I do not feel the need to explain or justify this choice. YOU know Jen is awesome. *I* know Jen is awesome. She-Hulk does not need justification. She shows up in stories and makes them better by existing. Also yes this is the bodytype I'd use. Yes, I have an addiction. No, I don't feel the need to explain that either. RESERVISTS: Characters I really like but either don't know enough about or don't think they make good Avengers

Marc Spector and System AKA Moon Knight: One of my favorite dudes but does NOT play well with others. Was interesting for about 10 seconds as a member of the West Coast team but I'd prefer he never touch the ranks again.

Flint Marko AKA Sandman: Marvel did Sandman fucking dirty by never letting him fully reform and be the good guy. I want Sandman to be the good guy dammit

Maria de Guadalupe Santiago AKA Silverclaw: I know literally nothing about her outside of reference books but her powers are dope and I dig her vibe.

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pascalsbby · 1 year

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come on in, sweetheart

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader (afab, use of she/her, use of the word girl)

rating: explicit. (18+. mdni.)

word count: short

summary: joel was never patient, but especially so whenever he was already dripping for you. he didn’t know that your eyes had missed his lips this time at your hello.

warnings: smut, fingering, domestic joel, dirty talk, praise kink, tbh im fucking st*ned so we’ll see tomorrow if any of this is coherent.

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

joel was never patient, but especially so whenever he was already dripping for you. you weren’t surprised as the door swung open, barely leaving you enough time to knock your knuckles against it in warning that you had arrived.

he didn’t know that your eyes had missed his lips this time at your hello. they had instead travelled to the hollow soft spot in the crook of his neck, your favorite place to warmly whisper and moan his name into his skin. give small, deep kisses that always made him moan your name- a wickedly deep honey tone, suggestive, dominant. then, they settled at the precum that had stained his pants an even darker color of black- made more visible because of how tight they’d become trying to hold his manhood in.

he was smirking now.

“come on in, sweetheart,” he said, settling his brown eyes first on your chest, and then directly into your eyes, simultaneously running his calloused hands up your arms to finally thumb your chin and slip his fingers across your lips. his hands grasped your head softly, setting into your hair- but you knew any moment now they would grasp a little harder at the nape of your neck, acting as a reminder, a threat that he knew you were even wetter for him.

he knew the moment he slipped his finger over the top layer of your underwear that any semblance of you being in charge, was done. your shoulders gave out a little, as he burned lazy circles into your wetness, coating himself with. he tickles the outer rim of your pussy, teasing your too-sensitive hole, then dipping himself into you.

the warmth of his palm was burning your scalp while the other was inside your panties, the way he purred your name so softly into your ear, whispering. you could feel every shaky breath.

he was closer now, towering over you as much as possible with his fingers still inside of you. his gaze fell down at you, looking between your lips and the tips of his long fingers filling you.

the tingling pain of your nipples hardening beneath the kiss of your shirt was almost unbearable. you wanted him to touch them to ease the feeling of unrest, pure need. you didn’t have the patience to even ask him to take your bra off, he apparently didn’t either. he pulled your shirt up, off, and then slid your bra down and watched as your nipples were set free. he kissed each one, then moved his head back a little before sticking out his tongue and started spelling his name on your nipples.

“you’re being so good for me baby girl.”

#joel miller #tlou #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller tlou #joe miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro x reader #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller x oc #joel miller x reader

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red-riding-wood · 1 year

Note

Hi)

Saw that you’d like to write something angsty or maybe dark on Peaky Blinders🙂

Maybe Luca Changretta x reader where they slowly fall out of love with each other but meanwhile realize that they still will never leave because they’re so used to the way things are

(Also looking forward to your fic with Dmitri from The Grand Budapest☺️) 😘

Absinthe

Luca Changretta x F!Reader

Peaky Blinders

Warnings: sexual references, mention of kidnapping/violence, mention of domestic abuse, language, very vague allusion to suicide, lots of angst (this is not a happy story lol)

A.N. Thank you for the request!! I hope this is what you had in mind. I sort of wrote this on a whim at 5 am when I couldn't sleep and I ended up projecting a lot of my own shit onto both characters so I don't know if it'll be to your tastes 'cause I'm a bit iffy on this one myself. And thank you; I really hope to start writing Dmitri x Alice soon and am so excited for it!

WC: 1504

“You will not survive on your own, amore mio.”

You hesitated, your heart sinking into your gut as you feared his words to be true. A shiver danced wickedly across the bare of your flesh.

And then, tugging the Italian silk of your dress over your body, you stood, his hand falling from where it had sat cradled in your lap. The empty in your chest split a little wider; those fingers used to squeeze your hip and pull you back to bed as he’d beg you not to leave. Now, they seemed to possess no love, perhaps not even want.

You cast a glance to where they lay limp against the mattress, and dared to observe his sullen look, his clenched jaw, the way that eyes that used to be so bright with adoration now wouldn’t even look at you.

When was the last time he’d really looked at you?

It was probably when you were kids, just barely out of school, and the gloating smirk of the boy had fallen around his cigarette, and his green eyes had glittered like peridot, as you told him yes.

Yes, to marrying him. Yes, to loving him in sickness and in health. Yes, ‘til death did you part.

And this, this sickness of the heart, it had not released you from your oath. Instead, it killed you, slowly, snapped the threads of your soul one by one, seized one shard of your heart each time you looked at him.

The times that hurt the most were always when you looked him in the eye, because you saw your own need reflected in their decaying depths. It might’ve been easier if they were vacant, if they were as cold as his loveless touch and his bitter disposition.

“I may not,” you said. Silences weren’t uncommon between the two of you anymore; you never had anything to say that was joyful like you had in your youth. Breaking it felt like the air had simultaneously returned to your lungs while also being held captive, for you always couldn’t help but hope that he’d say something kind, but also didn’t know how long the silence would stretch afterward.

“But I’m hurting, Luca,” you said, your voice breaking now as a tear threatened to bead on your eyelash, and your chest tightened. “And this is the only way I can think of to be free of my pain. Other than…”

You swallowed a cruel lump in your throat. You didn’t wish to think about the alternative you had once considered.

Animated suddenly by a burst of raw yet barely caged violence, Luca tugged his robe sharply around his shoulders and fumbled for the box of matchsticks on the desk. He wedged one between the teeth he used to knead at it, his inhale deep. Both efforts to soothe a soul darkened by rot.

“I have to leave,” you said, but you had hardly made it more than a few feet to the door before his fingers had wrapped themselves vice-like around your wrist, yanking you back so that you nearly tripped over your heels. His wedding ring bit into the delicate flesh, chilling as it was painful.

And you had no choice but to look him in the eye.

“You’re not leaving,” he growled, his tone almost predatory but that gaze, green like absinthe, entrapping you in a sea of emotions, pleading to you in morose glimmers that peeked past umber stripes of rage.

As you fought your tears, you conceded to his grasp, knowing he could easily overpower you if he wanted. And you shook your head, your lip curling bitterly upwards at what you had to utter,

“I’ve changed. I’m not your wife anymore.”

“The papers state otherwise.”

“Is this really what you want?” Your lip trembled with your own fury now – a fury that stemmed from your agony because you had nothing tangible to blame it on. And you struggled against his grasp feebly. “Do you really want a wife who’s unhappy? A wife who goes to bed every night with a hole in her chest?”

Luca’s grip softened, and for a moment, you thought you saw hurt flash across his irises. He turned his head away and brought his fingers up to brush across the faint stubble of his jaw.

And when his grip released, your wrist had never felt so wretchedly cold, and when he slammed the door behind him, your chest had never felt so achingly empty.

---

He had been so close to hurting you that time. Really hurting you, like he did the men who crossed his family or offended his honour.

But he could never hurt you. At least, he told himself such things, because in some ways, when he looked at you – still a stranger to the scars of violence that riddled his own flesh – he could sometimes see a ghost of the girl who used to be his lover, who used to be the girl with the shy smile and the beguiled gaze.

His fingers travelled across his chest to his lips, as he uttered his final prayer. The incense of the chapel burned nearly as thick as the smoke of the cigarettes he used to worship. Before you had made him quit.

And what had he done for you? He had done everything. He had given you a marriage, when you had nothing to your name, had given you the finest silks and jewelry and had taken you on a perfect honeymoon to Italy where you had made love with his name chanting from your lips like a prayer.

Luca twirled the toothpick in his teeth bitterly.

But in saving you, he had condemned himself. Even in the solace of this moment, he found himself craving your touch, however frigid it had grown. Found himself incomplete, numb.

He’d taken an interest in another broad recently – a maid, but beautiful, with a soft, heart-shaped face and gently curved hips that begged to be ruined.

But it sickened him to touch her.

Because she wasn’t you.

---

With Luca away, you had had time to pack your belongings – just the ones that you needed. All purely practical, except for a letter, its ink bleeding at the edges of its handwriting, the love draining from the words he’d once written you when away on business.

Though you knew you’d regret taking it, it had felt wrong to leave something that used to make you smile with so much joy.

You waited for the train in the dead of night, the wind your only companion as it howled through the archways of the station. But it was not enough to quell the fear in your gut or ease the weight that pressed harder against your suffocated chest with each passing second.

You stifled a sigh as a sharp whistle split the distant, foggy air. And you once again fought back tears that welled in your eyes.

And then the winds shifted, and the cedar and ambrette notes of his cologne stirred something in your chest. You shivered as the warmth of his body settled behind you, long fingers running down the sleeves of your arms. The weight lifted only slightly on your chest, and oxygen returned to starved lungs.

“I told you you weren’t leaving, amore mio.”

You shut your eyes, swallowing against the knot in your throat.

And you thought, with this weight no longer sinking into aching ribs,

I’m not gonna make it on my own.

Your luggage was dropped to the concrete as the train came chugging along, rearing its head of iron and steel from the mists.

His fingers laced through your own, squeezing gently at them, tugging wickedly at a frayed thread of your soul, and you reciprocated, remembering a time when you had worshipped this very hand.

When you turned, his hot breath was exchanged with yours, and the full scent of him washed over your tired bones in a bittersweet familiarity.

And when he kissed you, an ember sparked in your gut that only he had ever been able to ignite, and the heat that pooled in your core was not a desire but a need.

Iron spiked your tongue as you pulled apart, some wrath that still brewed inside you having drawn blood from his lip while your hand cupped his cheek in an almost reverence.

Absinthe eyes sank intensely into yours, and though you knew from that gaze that he wanted you dead, he also needed you just as much as you needed him.

“You were right,” you breathed, your voice a mere whimper against the noise of the train. “I can’t survive on my own.”

Locks of his dusky hair teased your scalp, and his thumb traced the flesh behind your ear soothingly. And you had no idea that, had you boarded that train, his men would’ve been ordered to gag you and deliver you screaming back to him. And though as your foreheads pressed together and your tears spilled from shuttered eyes, it did not banish the pain from the hole that split wider in a chest that bled as slowly as the ink of the letter.

MASTERLIST • REQUEST

Please let me know if you would like to be added/removed to any of my taglists and notified of new works!

TAGLIST: @eclecticwildflowers @emotionalcadaver @evita-shelby @minaethrym @shelbydelrey

#luce changretta #luca changretta x reader #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #adrien brody #dark fic #angst #requests #asks #oneshot #peaky blinders imagine #absinthe

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reallyromealone · 2 years

Text

Nahoya x male reader

Omegaverse

No one expected Nahoyas "smiley" Kawata to be absolutely whipped for his mate, the smiling alpha doing anything the omega asked with only minimal snark.

" 'h-hoya..." (Name) gasped out as he leaned over the counter, nahoya crouching behind him with a leg lifted to get better access of (name)s sweet little ass as he ate him out, groaning at the taste as slick coated his chin "taste so fucking good baby" nahoya said cheekily as he pinched one of (name)s ass cheeks, grinning as he continued his feast of eating (name) out and making him moan like Nahoyas little whore.

The Toman executive had just gotten home when he saw his sweet lover making dinner for the two of them, finally home on time to enjoy his meals hot and just the sight of (name) do domestic and pure...made him want to destroy him on his cock.

His blazer was abandoned on the kitchen Island and his chin soaked with slick, eyed dialated and dinner completely abandoned as he wanted dessert.

"Fuuuck..."

"What a fucking delectable fucker you are, always fucking needy for my mouth and cock"

"Please...."

"Please what? I'm not a fucking mind reader baby"

"Please alpha... Fuck me"

(Name) knew the affects of calling Nahoya by his secondary gender had, holding back a grin only to yelp when the pink haired man man handled him and tossed him over his shoulder "now you're getting it you slut" and smacked (name)s thigh as they walked to the soft and plush couch, being a Toman executive pays well.

It pays for this nice penthouse.

It pays for the fine foods.

It pays to keep his Omega happy and safe.

Nahoya would never admit it but he would do anything for his mate, the two had been bonded since high sxhool and Nahoya never regretted a second, how could he? His pretty Omega was absolutely perfect in every way.

He was an angel compared to Nahoya.

"God I'm gonna fuck you till you're properly pupped"

"Please alpha... Fill me with pups..."

Nahoya grinned wickedly as he unbuttoned his dress pants and freed his cock and pumped it a few times, rubbing the tip against (name)s slicked hole before pushing in with one thrust "F-FUCK!" (name) cried out as his body convulsed and climaxed as Nahoya bottomed out "always tight like a god damn virgin..."

"Alphaaa~" (name) was already babbling as Nahoya began fucking (name), harsh and fast thrusts that had (name) beinf pushed back and forth against the couch as Nahoya lifted a leg over his shoulder and began fondling (name)s cock and biting and sucking at his chest and moaning at the thought of them being filled with milk.

"God can't wait for you to be full of my pups.."

"Alpha..."

"Take what I give you"

(Name) came a multitude of times and was shaking when Nahoya finally knotted his babydoll, filling him with cum "gonna get you knocked up"

"Do you really want pups 'hoya...?"

"I wouldnt lie about wanting you full of my pups baby" nahoya said with his usual smile "you ready for another round"

At the nod Nahoya began fucking again.

If (name) didn't get knocked up, Nahoya would be surprised.

#tokyo revengers x male reader #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers fluff #nahoya x male reader #nahoya x reader #nahoya smut #smiley x male reader #smiley x reader #smut #omega male reader #omegaverse

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sweetly-yours-and-mine · 2 years

Text

Rare Hearts - Oneshot

Pairing: Marc Spector x Reader, Steven Grant x Reader

Word Count: 8.8k

Summary: Marc takes you to the beach, and rocks your world and your relationship with him in the process.

Warnings: talk of sex, birth control, conception, doctors, and a brief mention of Marc's childhood

A/N: This is a second part to The Dress, which takes the night before this oneshot. It can be read on its own, the first part may provide some context. I've quoted the lyrics from Rare Hearts by the Growlers as well as stole another quote from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's The Little Prince.

I don't own photos, dividers or characters.

Marc’s lips are stained pink. The breeze from the ocean and the humidity in the air serve to ruffle his curls and make them more unruly than what they usually are in the city. He’s wearing the sunglasses you’d gotten him as a gift a few years back. All-in-all, it’s a nice domestic look on him, with the book he’d been working through propped open in his lap, pages turning backwards and forwards in the story until you’re sure his page is lost into the ether.

There’s a cup of ice cream in his hands, a small spoon with the face of an elf on top of it, comically grasped between his fingers. He’d gotten four scoops of dark chocolate, not budging when you’d told him that strawberry would go with the chocolate really well. Steven may have been the one on your asses about the smoking, but Marc was always nagging you and Steven about your ridiculous sugar habits. Marc would often front after the grocery shopping was through, holding up packets of cookies and chocolates with a glare and a scoff, silently asking you to explain yourselves. You wouldn’t. Instead, you’d lean up and kiss him senseless.

So, he’d gotten the dark chocolate, and looked at your pineapple and mango flavoured scoops with an upturned nose. Though he disapproved, he was never as vocal about it as Steven was, probably thinking that with his nicotine habit, he wasn’t one to judge.

After he’d paid, and was heading back, you had sneaked in another order for strawberry. And though he’d complained and groaned at you the whole walk back to the sandy ocean, he’d plopped the extra scoops in his own cup and swirled them together as they rapidly melted and morphed in a brown and pink myriad.

You weren’t sure what exactly had been put in the ice cream, but there must have been a food dye. The colour had latched onto Marc’s mouth and teeth worse than your lip stain did, and no matter how much water he drank and swirled around in his mouth, it wouldn’t go away.

It’s only once you reassure him that it’s not that bad, and yes you’ll stop laughing at him, that he relented, stealing a heaping spoonful of your ice cream and grinning wickedly, his teeth an unnatural shade of synthetic pink.

You realise too late that you’ve been staring for too long, too lost in your thoughts to realise that he’s no longer looking out at the water, his shadow casting over you and protecting you from the sun. Marc looks down at you now, brows furrowed a bit, trying to read you. You’re lying down beside him, propping up your head using your elbow. The breeze that’s fluttering his hair is playing around your dress.

“Hm?” He’s been talking all this time and you’d been too preoccupied in the slope of his shoulders to notice. Marc tilts his head down to look at you better, precise in his motions to make sure the sun doesn’t fall in your eyes. “What is it, baby?”

All that sugar had gotten to you, so you blink up at him slowly. Finally with a sigh, you hold your arms, a silent plea for something that you both need.

Marc moves without complaint. He leans down so his nose brushes yours, tilting his head moments later to brush your lips together instead. Sneaking your arms around his neck you pull him down, impatient and needy, so you can kiss him properly.

He moves so pliantly against you that it makes you doubt whether this really is Marc, and not Steven practising his American accent. The thought makes your skin crawl and you push it out of your head, deciding to trust Marc and the bits and pieces of himself that he seems willing to hand over to you today. The ocean air seems to have done plenty to better the both of you, the ever present frown and hunched shoulders disappearing from his body, your soul at ease.

It’s when you whine and shift towards him, begging for his hands, one currently resting at the side of your head farthest from him, the other cupping the side of your face, to move further down, that Marc moves away. He pulls back and murmurs, “Wanna tell me why you were starin’ at me like that?”

“Like what?” Your eyes flick down to his ridiculously-coloured mouth, tracing his bottom lip with your thumb. Frankly, you want to kiss him again, push him down and keep going until you can’t get off his lap without pressing a towel to cover up what you’d done to him. To prevent your thoughts from getting worse, because he can see you right now, can see the way your pupils will blow to the size of quarters, your gaze flicks back up to his and your breath stops momentarily at the pretty sight above you.

Your fingers drift up to trace his eyebrows, the sides of his nose, and you say exactly that, “Marc, you’re so pretty.”

Underneath your fingers, his face twitches. It does it so many times that you think this is what it takes to make Steven front. No mirrors around and the ocean a good walk away from you. You want to apologise, to say that you didn’t mean it. But that would all be wrong. You did mean it, and you’d never apologise for something you meant, particularly when it came to Marc.

So, instead, as a sort of compromise, you pull your hands away from him. A silent apology for going too far. But Marc shifts suddenly, putting his weight back onto his legs, freeing his hands that come to clasp yours, keeping them where they are. He doesn’t say anything else, his mouth, eyes, still occasionally twitching, the lingering embers of a dead fire, threatening to come to life and wreak havoc.

You take it. It means the worlds coming from him. Marc who would usually bring out Steven in the blink of an eye, and Steven, who’d sit there bashful and ashamed, trying to pick up where Marc had left off. It’d never be the same, the three of you knew that. Words that were meant for Marc were never as sweet going to Steven. Steven had once confessed to you that in those moments, the sudden shift from the loving to the defensive, that he felt like an intruder on you and Marc.

Regardless, Marc doesn’t do that now, battling through it in front of you and so, you push it to the side, not bringing it up again. “You enjoyed the ice cream?”

It must catch him off guard because never in your life had he ever admitted to enjoying sugar, even if he really did, because he says, eyes dark with gratitude focussing back on you, “Wonderful. Great idea. The strawberry and the-uh-” he clears his throat, he’s so close to you that you can feel the vibrations in your chest “-the chocolate. Really good.”

You only grin back at him, eyes glowing as much as your chest does at the thought that he liked something you suggested. Liked it so much in fact that he told you. In stuttering fragments of sentences, but he did it nonetheless.

It’s one of those thoughts you treasure away for the nights when he wakes up panting, pushing you away and stumbling out the door, only to come back a few hours later with coffee and a shameful expression. The mornings afterwards were the hardest, where he’d take your hands in his and pepper kisses all over them until you cried. Sometimes, the worst times, Steven would front then, and Marc would hide away, sometimes for days.

He’d often tell you that making you cry was the worst thing his hands had ever done. And you weren’t sure what to make of it.

Marc’s fingers are now tracing your lips, mimicking your actions from moments ago, tugging them out from between your teeth. His gaze goes back up to yours and flicks down to your lips again. You nod imperceptibly and he takes the hint, swooping down to kiss you.

You’ve always loved the way he kissed you. Devouring you whole and as intimate as if your souls had already done this for millenia. He makes your head spin and your heart beat erratically against your chest.

Marc’s hand now goes to your chest, right on your heart and he feels its indecisive tempo. You can feel him smiling against you as he says, interrupting himself with small, butterfly kisses, “My little hummingbird.”

The only thing, the truth, that you can tell him now is, “Yours. Yours.”

It’s codependent and needy. But you want him to know, want Steven to know as well. That you’ll be theirs for as long as they have you, that getting rid of you might be a problem, especially if Marc doesn’t stop kissing you like you’re life itself. You hope he won’t, hope he’ll want to keep doing this for forever and a day or two more. He shifts and lays down, his lips never straying from yours.

Ever attuned to your body, he pulls back suddenly and murmurs, “You getting horny on me now?” You whine and shrivel up like a flower in his arms, pulling away from him and hiding your face behind your hands. He hums, smoothing his hand down the side of your head, you can see how soft his eyes have gotten in between the gaps of your fingers, “I don’t mind. Fuck you real good when we get home.”

You purse your lips to the side, stretching your arms above your head, “Promise?”

Something flicks over his eyes, a fleeting thought that’s too quick and foreign for you to notice. “What if I knocked you up tonight?” His words. His eyes. You love them with all your life and right now they’re hurting you too much. Clasping your hands behind his head, you bring him down to your chest, pressing his forehead to your sternum. “Just a thought,” he murmurs.

You don’t know what to think of it. Of both the fact that he wants kids and that he’s been thinking about having them. That this isn’t some whirl-of-the-whim fantasy of his that he’s created on the spot to get you talking. You wonder what else he’s thought about. Maybe. There’s never knowing what goes on in Marc Spector’s thoughts, but you feel like you’re qualified enough now to make semi-accurate guesses.

A house in the suburbs. Baby names. Dog breeds.

Diamond rings.

You wonder what Steven has thought of it, if he was the one who had suggested these things into their mind in the first place.

If, by some turn of fate, it did happen, Marc would truly have to quit smoking, Steven would need to start buying healthy things, fill the fridge with protein, the pantry with medications and gummy vitamins. The whole flat would need a good scrub down, the thousand and one sharp corners rounded out. Steven’s book collection would have to go into storage, if you were to stay in the city. Otherwise, there’d be no room for a crib.

It’d be a lot of work, doubt and worry. And it seemed so far away from where you were with the both of them at the moment. Surreal. A future that could happen, but didn’t have a set timestamp. Like that one stack of mismatched books that will get cleaned up eventually, at least, that’s what you’ve been promising Steven for the past year. That you’ll get around to it, you’re just not sure when you’ll get the time to. And now that so much time has passed and there’s been yet another Ikea bookshelf filled to the brim, the when has turned into if you’ll get the time to.

There was so much to consider, fertility, genetics, Steven and how on board he would be with the idea. God. You’d need to schedule an appointment with the doctor, the dentist, and a gynaecologist. You’d have to find that last one first. One that both Steven and Marc approved of, two people who’d quipped back and forth about pizza toppings for three hours once.

“Hi, love.”

Your eyes flit down to his head, and you let your hands go, “Hi, Steven.” Steven props the upper half of his body up, support coming from his elbows, his nose hovering a few inches away from yours.

It had been too long. No response from you had left both you and Marc too long in your thoughts. Too long considering what ifs and and thens. A dangerous combination. And now, Steven was here to coax you out of it gently, with a wary hand, while Marc took a breather.

Were you even on board for a baby?

Steven’s voice calls you out of your head again, a lifeboat in the middle of the storm, “Don’t you mind Marc, alright? He just festers in his mind for so long that he can’t control a bloody thing that comes out his mouth.” He pushes up the sunglasses that Marc left on, to the top of his head. You comb one of his curls into his hair, heart delighting when it jumps back to where it started.

“M’know.”

Steven’s heart is tender in places where Marc’s has gone hard. He sees things that his alter can’t, knows what to do about them, how to make them better and when it’s time to let go, not push you on it when it’s still too soon. “I like the strawberry, really liked it. It left a splendid aftertaste in my mouth n’all.”

You smile, cupping his face and closing the few breaths left between yours. “That’s good, m’happy ‘bout that baby. Know you don’t like it when Marc eats dark chocolate,” you kiss his pink mouth then. Gentle and mellow. Marc’ll probably have your head for that comment, probably claiming that, unlike the two of you, he’s trying not to dig himself an early grave, what with his alter’s insistence on consuming sugar with sugar, and the least you can do is help him with that.

Pulling back moments later, you smile and tip the edge of your nose to brush against his. Being with Steven is like being wrapped up in cashmere blankets, fuzzy and cosy, the inside of your chest warming up to the point that it’s fit to burst. “Steven,” his eyes had wandered away, to the ocean, your dress. At the sound of your voice it falls back on you, and you pause for just a brief moment before murmuring, “I love you.”

Marc’s sensitive about how often you tell him you love him, often sent spiralling as he tries to summon up the courage to repeat it back to you. It hurts him, you know it does, when you tell him so. Though you have no doubt about the sentiment being returned, you still want to tell him, no matter if he wants to say it back.

Steven, on the other hand, loves it. Steven loves love, loves it more than you do. So, his eyes crinkle, and he repeats it back. “You know, love,” like Marc, his hand smooths down the side of your head. “I don’t think it’s bloody fair you two went and got ice cream without me.”

You giggle at that, at the glare that’s settled in the back of his eyes, “And what do you want me to do about it, Steven?”

“Apologise first of all,” he quips playfully, rolling onto his side and turning you with him. Eye contact is never broken. He sees you squint as the sun blares down into your eyes and he cups his hand beside your eye. You want to cry. But that would seem out of place right now, breaking down into tears over a seemingly inconspicuous conversation about nothing at all. What’s more, Steven will get worried, and you haven’t seen him this relaxed in months; the city seems to have gotten to the three of you bad. “And get me a cone all for my own, none of that cup business and certainly none of that sharing with Marc now, alright?”

Sighing, you push his sunglasses down for him, tracing his hairline and the edge of his jaw as you smile, “Well, I’m sorry, for not letting you know, and-” your hand falls down to his shoulder and you squeeze affectionately “-I’d get you a cone right now, but I’m not on the best of terms with Marc at the moment, and he’s gonna have my head for sure.”

With a groan and a grumble, Steven rips the sunglasses off, turning them around to face his reflection. His hand is gone from the side of your face, and your lungs constrict in the bad way.

You turn on your stomach, to keep the sun out of your eyes.

Steven calls out Marc’s name a few times, daring him to explain himself, but he gives up about a minute later with a tsk.

“No luck?”

“Sorry, love, none.” Your mood darkens before you have the chance to control it. Steven comes to mirror your position, propping his chin up on top of his stacked hands. His eyes fall on you, you can feel them, but you’re already wallowing in quite deep in your emotions, bubbling up from inside of you and you can’t bring yourself to look back at him. “You know, you shouldn’t blame yourself for what happened, you weren’t supposed to find out like that.”

You ask him what, and you hear a faint smile in his voice, “Marc and I have been thinking about it for a while, really we have. Ya know, it all started this one day where he was in the park with you, and you kept holding those babies.” You spare him a glance then, and his eyes are on your dress. You’d known Marc liked that dress, seen the way his eyes glowed the day in the park. You hadn’t known of the association he’d made with it, what it meant to him now.

Things start to fall in place like puzzle pieces, why he’d asked last night for you to wear it today, his semi-confession today. You hope it was deliberate. That he was truly planning on revealing this to you, and not the other way around. That he’d seen the dress and hadn’t blurted out the first thing that had come to his mind.

“He didn’t really tell me anything about it all either, the bastard,” he glances back to his reflection in the sunglasses. “But I picked up on it, ‘course I did.”

You don’t know what to say to him, an overwhelming sense of homesickness washing over you as you yearn for your bed, for Marc and Steven in it. The safety of the shadows and rooms lit only by candles and laptop screens. The looming threat of the future gone, tucked safely away in a room, the door bolted and locked.

A baby.

A little human, half you, half them, and yet, entirely it’s own being, with a separate will, that will, hopefully, grow up to have hopes and dreams and goals, all on its own and nothing to do with its parents.

You’re not sure you can take that, the going away, you, Marc and Steven left behind to grow old and frail, forgotten by the rest of the world. The passage of time.

“What do you think about it then?” You turn your head to get a better view of his face, and he, like a sunflower to the sun, follows.

“I think it’s lovely, always wanted kids, really,” he winks and smiles at you, taking one of your hands in his, kissing the back of it. Steven and Marc may be opposite sides of a coin, but they’re still the same coin. The love behind their actions is always the same, even if they are executed differently. “And there’s no doubt about who’ll be the favourite parent. You.”

Even if you don’t want it to, heat rises to your face as you mull over the fact that Steven’s gone as far as to picture the life after the baby’s come, where the both of them are fathers, you a mother. It doesn’t bother you as much as you expect it to.

“...so, of course, I’m on board for it all. Whatever you decide to do, of course,” his gaze flickers down quickly and up. “It’s your body, and you know, you’re doing all the hard work-”

Fear clutches at your throat, “You’ll be there to help, though?”

“Oh, lord, yes, yes, love!” Steven’s eyes are wide, shock evident in his features. Usually when he’s with you, he talks slower, takes his time in choosing his words and accommodates the silences in the conversations. Now, he races off, miles ahead of you “I-of course, we’ll be here through it all, if you decide that’s something you want. Oh, bollocks,” he smacks his forehead, and with a small whine, you stop him from doing it again, soothing over the spot immediately with your fingers. “‘Course I manage to make it all jumbled up, like I always do. I just meant, just meant that-” he stops and takes a breath “-just don’t want to pressure you. Ya know, there’s enough pressure from society n’all, don’t let Marc’s brooding get to your head alright? He cares about you more than he’ll ever admit, and you’re always more important to him than any other bloody baby.”

His spiel ends, and his face cringes, words echoing back through his mind. The top corner of his upper lip curling he looks at you exasperatedly, “Don’t let me go on like that again, alright? I always manage to muck it up. Think I do more harm than good.”

“You know you could never do that Steven. Never.” You wonder if Marc is listening and add on, “Not even Marc.”

“Regardless,” he sees the way your eyes drop at the thought of him, and he tries to lighten the mood, nudging your side affectionately until you look at him again, really look at him, and smile, even if it is a little forced. “Doesn’t hurt to tell me to quit yacking all the time, give you a bit of a break every once in a while.”

“I like your yacking,” you sit up and reach for your bag, pulling yourself out of your overthinking and determined to make the most of the rest of the day. There’s a bottle of sunscreen and it’s cooler to the touch. You also take out a thermos of water, condensation forming on its sides. “And it hurts me very much when you call it yacking.”

“Then what should I call it, love? It’s not like it’s really very any good, now is it? Just noise,” his voice goes even more high pitched. “Squack, squack, all day long.”

He’s relatively covered, shorts and a short sleeved button down on top of a cotton singlet. But his ears and neck, calves and forearms and face are exposed. Though he doesn’t burn, cancer is always a risk, and you try to keep yourself accountable and stay on top of sunscreen today. “Hold still, ok?” He nods and you get to work, rubbing in the lotion.

There had been struggles, lots of them, that arose when you had started dating Marc, and subsequently, Steven. Difficult conversations, tears sometimes. But one of the only problems that never arose between the three of you, was the love for touch. To see that they both craved it as much as you did, that they didn’t mind the way you’d want to simply lie in bed and trace shapes on their chest, sometimes for hours on end, made the rest of it, the harder troubles, easier. Worth it.

So, he doesn’t mind when you reach underneath his shirt and spend a few minutes working on his shoulders, always sore from the way the two of them hunch over all the time, tense and anxious. He thanks you multiple times, telling you to go to the left or right, harder or softer. His voice is going sleepy, almost foggy.

As you start on his arms, he starts humming, murmuring lyrics underneath his breath. When it seems clear that he’s not going to sing louder, you ask him, “What are you squawking about now, you little bird?”

“So give the stars to the lonely city, give the ocean to the country,” he sings louder, his accent always fading away when he sings to himself, instead mirroring the original recording. “Ain’t seen anything so pretty, than a girl who gives me all her lovin’.”

The words are sweet, the crash of the waves, the seagulls matching well. You wonder if Marc will come back at all today, if he might take you in the water. You’re sure Steven would only go so far as to get his toes wet, averse to water like a cat. It’s been a point of contention a while with him. Since he has two fishes, you claim he should be nothing if not a water-lover. He only shudders at the thought of the ocean, the pool, the river, claiming he’d much rather stay dry.

Besides, the water is always so bloody cold.

Because of both Steven’s worries, and Marc’s protective nature, you’d rented out wetsuits for the day, and had bought the two of you swimming caps so your hair wouldn’t get wet. It doesn’t seem likely that you’ll use them, but you wanted to hold out a little hope.

You wonder then that even if Marc fronts, if he will be in any mood to deal with you. Maybe he just wants the body, his will back in the palm of his hand, and he doesn’t want to talk to you. There’s no way in knowing what he interpreted your initial silence to be, when he brought up the matter.

The baby.

You suppose you should get used to saying it.

The thoughts aren’t settling well with you, and you focus back into Steven, the feel of his skin against yours. The coconut-scented sunscreen that you know Marc will grumble about, even if he loves the smell, “S’pretty. Where’s it from?”

He doesn’t respond and he seems to have nodded off. Glad that he’s at least face down, that the sun can’t get to him that badly, you place a towel on his head, for a little shade, and finish up his legs, working the muscles with your knuckles and getting them to loosen.

Content with your work you’re about to clean your hands and get your book, when Steven shifts around, his body suddenly is much more tense. He takes the towel off and you catch his eyes, your hands tangled in a cleaning wipe.

Your heart knows that’s not Steven. But, for a few seconds, you don’t want to acknowledge Marc right now, at least explicitly. Want to keep living in this little bubble of coconut and sun, no hard conversations and babies to be had.

“C’mere, I need to touch up your face.” You wonder when Marc had fronted, if he was there the moment Steven had gone silent. He moves silently, eyes downcast and only giving you brief, wary glances. Your eyes fall down, back to his pink mouth and reach for the wipe first, finding a clean corner and working at the ice cream stains.

An hour or so ago he’d claimed that he didn’t mind, had laughed along with and encouraged your teasing, but you know it bothered him. Even if it didn’t, the sticky, sweet layer hanging on his skin couldn’t have been comfortable.

The stains come off easily enough, “You’ll have to brush your teeth for it to go away completely, I think.” He nods, sitting up crossed legged in front of you. One of his hands goes forward, shaking almost imperceptibly, hovering above your knee. You nudge your knee forward, encouraging him. His palm falls down on your skin and you sigh audibly, the pit forming in the pool of your stomach melting away.

You dab little streaks of sunscreen around his face. His forehead, his nose, cheekbones and his chin. The remaining you rub into the tender skin behind his ears. His eyes are on you now, his hand still on your knee. He’s looking as if he can see into the very recesses of your mind, see the thoughts in there that you don’t want to think about at the moment. You wonder what he makes of them, if there’s anything in there to offend him.

For a breath you consider leaving the sunscreen where it is, giving him possibly the worst tan ever.

It’s a petty, low thought, and you throw it away when it comes to mind. Instead, you focus on Marc, on massaging his face as the cream gets worked in, bringing him a little pleasure as he first goes slightly cross-eyed and then slowly closes his eyes.

He picks up the melody from before, humming quietly. Your hands are on his neck now, applying another layer for good measure, and you can feel the vibrations of the song. It’s not the same as hearing him talk, one ear on his chest, so you can hear both his heartbeat and his muffled voice at the same time.

It’s different. Another moment where you find something you like about him, like doing with him, and you fall in love with him even more. You’re done a few seconds later, and close the sunscreen, tucking it away and handing the water bottle over to Marc, his mouth always going dry after something sweet.

He stops the song and murmurs his thanks, taking a break to drink probably half the water inside it. You take this time to lie down, on your back, closing your eyes so the sunlight hits your eyes and all you can see is red.

“Ain’t seen anything so pretty,” Marc’s fingertips are cold from the bottle, as they trace down the bridge of your nose to your top lip. “As a girl who gives me all her lovin’.” The words are familiar from before and they make even more heat rush to your face.

Steven’s called you pretty millions of times, Marc a million times on top of it, his eyes speaking for him when his words fail him. Still, it lights you up inside, to think about how Marc and Steven had listened to this song, cherry-picked lyrics that reminded them of you. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe that you’re on their mind, maybe not as much as they are on yours, but close.

The red passes away from your eyes, and you open them to see Marc leaning over you again, his face soft with worry. You’re both in the same position you were at the beginning, and yet, everything seems to have changed.

“Been so since the beginning,” he tilts your chin up, making sure you’re truly looking at him. “She stopped my world from spinning.”

You suppose there’ll never be a ‘good time’ to talk about this, if there ends up being something to talk about. Maybe he’ll just chalk it up to the sugar, to the cigarettes, to the dress or to a thousand and one other factors that could have led him to make a statement like that, with such a heavy implication behind it that still sent your mind reeling whenever you thought about the way his eyes had darkened at the thought.

You wonder if Steven had forced Marc to front, that maybe he felt like you two needed to talk about this before anything else. Maybe Marc decided all on his own.

“Marc,” the melody stops and he looks almost ashamed. You cup the side of his face in your hand, hoping he knows that you’re not mad, that doesn’t need to create a non-existent blame out of nowhere to only place it on his shoulders. “We need to talk about this.”

“Is it too much to dream, that we can forever be-”

“Marc.” Your voice is a little harder, a bit harsher than you want it to be. You’re wired and strung tight right now, and frankly, you’re not sure if you want to talk with Marc, or even Steven if they just don’t sit down and talk about the inner workings of their minds and hearts.

“Rare hearts that never disagree.”

Guilt wracks your soul in a heartbeat, a bucket of ice water poured on top of you. You’ve been too caught up in your own head, spiralling down your compulsive thoughts, to notice Marc, Steven, and the fear laced into their body. The fear, that in a second, you’d take off and flee away from them.

Because dating Marc and Steven was alright. There was always an out for you, even if they were torn apart in the process. But giving them a baby, a years long commitment that required that, at the very least, you see them twice a week, if not anything else. Recitals, sports games and graduations aside.

“Oh, Marc,” you sit up and push your forehead against his. Your eyes fall closed together. “Marc, we need to talk about this, I need to think about it a little more. But I still love you all the same, whatever happens.”

“But you’ll think about it?” He’s not sure why that comforts him so much. To know that your initial reaction hadn’t been one of immediate rejection but shock. Steven had been swearing at him in his head when Marc revealed his little dream like that. Something along the lines of him not knowing how to break news to people that he was worse than a cold, emotionless slug. He wonders what you would say to Steven if you’d heard that, whether you would agree, or if it would make you laugh. He’d happily take the short end of the stick if it meant he could make you laugh.

It doesn't cross his mind that you would defend him and claim that he was the sweetest man you'd ever meant, even though you'd warded off Steven's teasing multiple times before.

He must have fallen silent for too long, and at a crucial time, as you abruptly change the conversation topic again, “Remember our first date?” Sometimes it seems like you don’t know that he knows you do it on purpose. Sometimes, like now, there’s a level of understanding between you two as you accommodate him and his peculiar whims and needs beyond what he thinks is reasonable.

Sushi. He’d taken you to a sushi place. Had bought you tulips beforehand because he wasn’t sure if roses would be too much for the restaurant you’d suggested. Marc had checked it out before the date, scoped out the kitchen for any severe health regulation violations, and was pleased when he saw each one was met.

The food there was good, no doubt about it, but there were no white tablecloths and no dim, candle-lit nooks.

It wasn’t exactly first date material. It was jostling, bustling with energy and life. It reminded him of you, though most things usually did.

He felt himself anticipating the date, thinking and rethinking through his lines with Steven, what to say, how to say it, how to kiss your cheek at the end of it and what to say right afterwards, when a sudden stake of fear pierced through his heart, moments before he headed out the door for the flower shop.

Maybe you weren’t being serious about this, were just trying to test the waters, maybe get a free dinner out of it, at the end of the night. The walls had shot up around his heart in minutes, and he stopped the florist from taking out a dozen long-stemmed roses, as he went for the safer option as well, the option that didn’t make him look like a fool at the end when you inevitably reached inside his chest and crushed his heart. Tulips.

“Yeah,” a lot went down that night. For one, waves upon waves of guilt and shame as he got to know you better and realised that you were just as much falling for him as he was for you, and that he should have gone with the roses, just like Steven said. Then the panic, where he thought that you would think that he wasn’t serious about this, that he was just testing the waters and trying to get a lay at the end of the night. “What about it?”

Which was why he got you the roses as well, and didn’t even kiss your cheek good night, barely touched you until five dates in.

“You were so nervous,” there’s a smile in your voice, pained and nervous, but there. Marc doesn’t need to open his eyes to see it. Like that quote you were always mumbling to him. It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye. “I thought you’d gotten food poisoning or something.”

That was probably why you kept asking him if he was ok, if he was feeling alright. For a brief moment, he ponders telling you the truth, and he does it. “I was nervous,” he swallows and breathes in and out once. “I…I thought you weren’t serious about me-”

“Marc-” you sound shocked, as if three years hadn’t passed since that date, and you hadn’t proven to him, over and over again, that you were in it for the long haul.

He shakes his head, still pressed against yours, “That’s why I got you tulips first, then roses. Wanted you to see. I was serious too. Still am.” You sigh and it sounds like what am I going to do with you Marc? He wants to tell you that all you have to do is keep him forever, that whatever way you want him, he’ll give himself over to you. Just as long as he was yours.

On the way back from the restaurant, he hadn’t just bought you roses. There was an art fair set up shop a few streets away, and there he had bought you a poster and a CD too. The poster had caught your eye, the CD was one of Steven’s favourite bands that Marc had passed off as his own. He bought both for you. The poster still hangs on your room wall, and Steven has bought you the rest of the band's discography.

But the roses were from him. Truly from him.

Truth be told, it’d been so long since Marc had listened to music that he wasn’t sure what it was he liked anymore. Even before the military, the majority of his childhood was spent in silence. Whispers and tiptoes around the house. He’s not sure if he can really enjoy music anymore, if his singing earlier had truly been singing or just off-key mumblings that you’d accommodated for his sake.

He just knows that he hears things sometimes. Pretty sounds. On the radio, passing through stores, something that Steven had stuck in his head when he took the body. He hears lots of things, but it’s only the ones that remind him of you that stick with him.

As if by magic, you can tell when he’s done thinking, if that was even possible for him. At the very least, you can distinguish between his trains of thought, when they change tracks and when they stop. Because you pull back and look into his eyes, “You want me to have your baby?” You stop him from getting lost in his own head.

He loves you. That much he knows for sure. He also knows that, “Yes. I do want that.” Steven’s voice rings through his head, and he adds on, “Only if you want it too.”

The corners of your mouth twitch upwards, a light is lit inside your eyes, “You want me to have your baby.” He likes it when you say it like that. Like it’s a fact just waiting to happen.

In reality he’s not so sure about the waiting to happen part. But it doesn’t matter. All he wants at that moment is to record your voice and set it as his ringtone. To take your phone and call himself over and over again, just to hear those golden words repeated back to himself as much as he wanted, without seeming needy and having to ask you over and over again.

“Yes,” his hand comes to rest on top of your stomach, the other at your lower back. “I do want it, if you want that too. Do you want it too?” He knows Steven must have talked to you about it as well. Must have told you that they were both on board with the idea, that Marc had been suffering from baby fever for more than a year.

“We’re going to need a house,” you muse, twirling one of his curls in your finger and letting it go, letting it spring back to where it was. You move on to the next one. Marc has spent hours, with his head on your chest as you went through each and every one of his curls one-by-one. “Maybe we could go back to the States. Could get a transfer to our-”

“No,” that part’s decided. He knows you think it is because of the past, the nightmares that still haunt him. It’s not. Marc knows that if were to go back, with you, with Steven and with a baby, he wouldn’t mind it in the least. But he’s read too many articles, looked at the statistics and mortality rates during childbirth to say, “No. They’ve got shit healthcare.”

It’s said so morbidly that you can’t help but smile at him, the gruff tone of his voice. He knows you’re taking him seriously, that you agree with him as well, spending hours debating the matter with Steven, devouring sociology books about women’s rights alongside him. But he’s not sure you know just how serious he is about this. That he doesn’t need to read the books and watch the interviews.

He wants to be in a country where your health isn’t compromised because of the expenses at the end. He’s already lost too many people to lose you to a fucked up system, a system that can be easily avoided.

There were many reasons he decided to move to England.

“How about the countryside then? Someplace up North?”

“I’ll see if Steven knows any estate agents, we can let out the flat.” Steven cries out in protest, throwing another insult his way. Marc knows, however, that if it were you the one asking him to give up the flat (which frankly, is quite unlikely, given the way you are pouting at him right now), Steve would do it in a heartbeat.

It’s a wonder the three of you manage to get anything done.

Marc can’t stand another minute with you like this. With so little of your skin touching his, when you’re sitting there look as pretty as a picture, wearing the dress he wanted even when you should have done anything but. Softly, he takes you in his arms, folding your legs to your chest like a little ball and places you on his lap. His nose nudges the side of your temple and kisses the spot right afterwards. Nothing can compare to holding you like this. Nothing.

Maybe holding you like this, in bed. Where he wouldn’t have to police his hands to keep them in public-appropriate places.

Just as he’s about to suggest applying a layer of sunscreen on you, a guise for touching the non-public-appropriate curves of your body that he loves, a guise that you’ll see straight through let him do so regardless, you shift a little and look up at him.

“I…Marc, I-maybe if we…” There's a crease forming between your eyebrows and Marc is quick to press it away with the pad of his thumb, sealing it with a kiss a few moments later. You start again, and it’s not much better than before, “I know that…Steven n’all and really, I-I don’t know.”

He smooths his hand over the top of your head, letting it rest at the back. Your stuttering tone is all too familiar, the panic radiation off you hitting him straight in his chest, “What is it, baby? S’just me.”

“Well that’s the problem now, innit?” you mumble, hiding your face in his chest, in what he supposes to be a poor rendition of Steven’s accent. His stomach drops. Maybe this is your subtle way of asking for Steven. He pushes the thought out of his mind, wraps his arm tighter around you, gently patting the back of your head and tucking it underneath his chin.

He’ll let Steven front if that’s what you want, what you ask of him. But until then, he won’t ask for him to show up, will try to see if, like last night, he can handle things on his own. Not as well as Steven, but maybe like him.

By now, Steven would have already gone off at a mile's worth of words a minute. Chattering and making you laugh, distracting you momentarily from the topic at hand until you were able to come back to it. Marc often did that with you. You often did that with Marc.

But there are no jokes that can come to his mind, Steven gone quiet for the first time in decades. He can’t think of anything more important right now than the matter at hand, what it means to him, what it, potentially, might mean to you.

So, he stays quiet. Kisses along your hairline and then the crown of your head, going back to humming his song. It��s a break, a pause in a game of jeopardy where the music plays and you’re given time to think of an answer.

Except this is different, so much more different than the game. If you wanted it, Marc would give you the whole day, months or years to think about your answer. There was no one watching at home, screaming out the correct answer for you. It was just you and him, you and Steven, Steven and Marc. Simple as that, and as complicated as that. Because having a baby wasn’t some random trivia fact about the 29th president.

“I…” he looks down at you, but you’re struggling to look up at him so he looks away. Does what you do for him when his thoughts become too much. “There’s a lot to consider, we can’t jump into buying a house right away.” He murmurs his agreement, and runs his hands up and down your arms. “I need a gynaecologist, at the very least, before anything.”

“You don’t have one?” Concern rips through his body at breakneck speed.

He feels you shake your head against him, “No, never got around to it. Never thought it was necessary either.” He bites down the urge to scold and chastise you, demand why you hadn’t been sooner, why you hadn’t been keeping tabs on your health. “Also gotta see if I’m healthy enough, and then there’s the-” you pause and catch his eye “-Marc this…it’s a lot of work. From all of us.”

Nodding, he searches your face with his eyes and wonders if it’s possible to love someone as much as he does in that moment. “I know. Whatever you need, whatever you want. You tell me, ok? Steven and I’ll sort it out, arrange it for you. We’ll-”

“Marc, I want to wait a little,” he sees you cringe, as your eyes fall back to your lap again and your muscles tense. As if he’d kick you out of his arms, and you’re getting ready before the demand. “I-” you run your hands down your face “-I need to think about this more, need to think about my job and fertility and we need genetic screenings and…I just don’t want you to be disappointed if this falls through.”

It feels like, still, you haven’t answered his question. You’re talking about this like it’s something you want to give to him, like wearing a dress he likes, making him a cup of coffee. Pushing past the lump in his throat, he hopes that he makes this sound as genuine to his feelings as possible. “But, sweetheart, is this something you want?” You’re about to answer, before he hurriedly adds on, “Because if it’s not, even just a little, I don’t want it either, not even a little bit.”

There are tears filling your eyes, and he’s already threatening Steven to show up before he never lets him take control again, when suddenly, all his thoughts come to a screeching stop like they always do when you smile at him like that. “You mean that? Really?”

“Yes, yes,” he swallows, keeping your eyes on him. “I love you. And that’s enough for me.”

“Oh, Marc,” your voice cracks and you lean up, hiding your face in his neck. Steven murmurs a Knew you had it in you in his ear. “Marc, I love you too. And, and-” you pull back, playing with his hair between your fingers, pushing it behind his ear “-I just need time, some more information.”

“Take as long as you need,” he says it so simply because it’s the truth. It passes out his mouth like water. Essential and vital for you, for the love you share with him without qualms or conditions. A love he’s never truly had, “We’ll go to all the doctors’ offices in the country. If you change your mind,” he pauses, chooses his words carefully. He likes this feeling, of having so much to say, but trying to decide what to say, “I’ll still be here. I’ll never go, unless you want me to.”

You shake your head fervently, “Never. Never. I’ll never want that.”

The conversation has taken such a turn for the serious it feels wrong to have it here, on a beach full of people, the sun shining. So, he teases, lifting up a corner of his mouth, “Offer still stands though. You’re free to sack me whenever you want.”

“Spector.”

Your tone is reprimanding, laced with love, and back to the sarcastic quip he knows it to be. There’s much more to be talked about, he knows that if anything. Steven needs to sit down with you seriously as well.

The house up North should be the last thing on his mind, but he hopes blindly that there’ll be a skylight, so you can see the rain falling at night, that there's a yard big enough for a puppy, an empty wall exactly the size of the fish tank.

But, for now, he’s promised his girl a day at the beach, and he’ll give it to her, if it’s the last thing he does.

So, he stands up with you, smothering sunscreen all over your face and helps you into the wetsuits and swimming caps. He’d seen the way you’d been eyeing the water, when Steven had been talking with you, he knew what was on your mind.

Your hand in his is a familiar, comforting weight as the two of you run along towards the edge of the water, not stopping until you’re waist deep.

There, breathless from the cold and the run, Marc turns to you and kisses you hard, the way you like it. Reminding you of his promise to fuck you good tonight, with a condom.

“Is it too much to dream,” you sing softly, still breaths away from his mouth. “That we can forever be, rare hearts that never disagree.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, and he only kisses you again, hoping that you end up being so breathless that you can’t manage to say things that make his heart go haywire and all the blood in his body to rush to his face.

But you do it again, when you pull back, and say, another wave threatening to tear the two of you apart, “Marc, Marc, you’re pretty. So pretty, it makes my heart hurt sometimes.”

“Well,” a smirk forms and he cups the sides of your face. “How can I help with the pain?”

This time, you lean up and kiss him. You kiss him and you breathless. He’s happy to stay like this forever, even if his feet are already going numb from the cold water.

He would have stayed like that, kissed you until the sun went down if Steven hadn’t interrupted. Marc frowns, grumbling something underneath his breath and subsequently rolling his eyes. A wave crashes into the two of you, but his grip on you is strong.

“What is it?” you grin up at him. He looks good in the sun, droplets of water running down his nose and neck. “Steven jealous?”

He shoots you a look that sends you into a fit of giggles, “Same shit, different day.” He thinks you’re glowing, he wants to cover up the sun because there’s too much light in the world, that people will surely get blinded. There’s nothing you can ask of him at that moment that he won’t tear apart the world to give to you.

It scares him a little that you seem so oblivious to the fact, as if it were reversed.

Marc can’t imagine asking anything of you.

Just your love.

You take his hand in yours and wade back to the shallower bits, where the water laps at your ankles, occasionally at your calves with a stronger wave. It’s obvious what you’re doing, what’s happening and Marc complies accordingly. He turns you around and presses your body into his, warmth radiating into you from both inside and out.

“Hi again, love.”

You smile and close your eyes.

You’re not sure who kisses you. But you know things are going to be ok.

And that you love them and their rare hearts.

Part 3 here!

Thanks so much for reading and a special thanks to everyone who interacted and commented on the original post. I saw each and every one of your comments and they warmed my heart!

If you liked this please consider leaving me some feedback, I obsess over it constantly!

Part Two Tags: @elliaze, @whats-belay

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sublimecatgalaxy · 2 years

Note

HELLO AGAIN HAHAHA

(still haven’t seen s4… oopsies)

prompt 7 and 14;) with Billy Hargrove, do whatever it is you please!!

<3 da duck

THANK YOU DUCKY FOR MY SECOND BILLY REQUEST EVER. I NEED MORE.

This is not canon, Billy never gets unalived. I genuinely feel like this is accurate if Billy did live, I think that he would have a psychological breakthrough lol. Not proofread, I'm exhausted and feel like shit.

"Max! Get your ass out here!" My fists slam against the door as a cocky smile spreads across my lips, lifting on my toes to look through the window. I watch as Billy approaches the door, shaking his head and I take a step back, resting my hands on my hips. The door swings up revealing Billy, handsome as ever and he leans against the door.

"Hiya, handsome." I flirt, watching as his brows lift, his lip tucking between his teeth as I smile softly at him. He looks to be healing nicely, the bruises and cuts along his exposed skin now just small and pale. But the large wound on his side, that's the one I worry about and I haven't been able to stop worrying about it since the incident at the mall just weeks ago.

"How's my favorite 'pain in the ass'?" He asks, lifting his arm for me to step into the house. I just shrug, turning back to him as the door shuts, his back leaning against it as his eyes trail over me.

"Hanging in there, stitches came out today so feeling good." My fingers lift the end of my shirt, showing him the pink scar on my abdomen, catching his gaze as his lips tug up into a soft smile.

"Lookin' good." His voice is mildly strained, probably from the anxiety of knowing where the scar came from, knowing that he could've prevented it. But at the end of the day, I jumped in front of him and pushed him out of the way, that was my decision. "Max has taking a liking to you. You're all she talks about." He laughs, kicking off the door to step up to me.

Max and I have been close since the night at the mall. Maybe it's because I saved Billy and allowed him and her to get close, to forget the torment of the past. Or maybe it was because her mom has been taking a break being a mother for the time being, diving into the liquor cabinet since Billy's father left. Maybe she was in need of an older sister figure.

"Yeah, I'm sure have that effect on her brother too." He grins wickedly at my joke, bumping my shoulder with his as he passes by me, stepping down the hall as I follow in his footsteps.

"Shut up, short shit." He throws over his shoulder, watching me intently as I pass by him, tossing myself down onto his bed. He just smirks and sits at the end of the bed, toying with his short strings in his lap.

"I'm pretty cool Hargrove, you should know this." My foot nudges against his thigh as he chuckles, tongue clicking as he looks over at me.

"Saved my life once and you got it in your head that I owe you shit?" I can tell that he's being insincere, knowing better than anyone that he owed me the world. I gave him more time with Max, to finally mend that relationship, I allowed him time to see his dad go to prison for domestic violence, and most importantly, I gave him a chance to change.

A chance he's taken.

A chance I know he's appreciative of.

"You don't owe me. I just get off on the fact that you were a damsel in distress and I saved your ass from a interdimensional freak." He sends a wink my way, scooting back on the bed as he pulls my legs into his lap. His hands soothe over my calves, fingers tracing over the bruises left from where debris fell on me. His lips tug down in a disappointed frown, his eyes seemingly stuck on the blotchy skin.

"How will I ever thank you." He mutters, the sense of teasing and taunting that were once previous in his voice gone as I sigh.

"I can think of a few ways." Sitting up, his eyes flicker back and forth between mine but a genuinely smile appears on his lips, not a smirk, not a snarky comment leaving his lips at my flirting.

"I give you a lot of shit but I never got to thank you." His eyes dip a bit as his cheeks redden, embarrassed and nervous. He looks gentle and boyish, two words rarely ever used to describe him. He's always been so tough and so guarded but as I'm looking at him now, just feet away, he looks as if his heart is aching in his chest. "Don't give me that look." He grumbles, running his fingers through his unruly curls and I giggle, leaning over to shove his shoulder.

"Vulnerable is a nice look on you, Hargrove." I coo, scooting impossibly closer to him as my thighs rest against his, his hands now resting on my knees. He just bashfully grins and shakes his head.

"Just cuz I’m the retired bad guy doesn’t mean I’m a bad guy." It was hard to see him as such after knowing him for so long. He was never the bad guy, just a racist asshole who needed to have something happen to him that changed his world views. Apparently getting involved with the bullshit we've been dealing with in Hawkins for years was just the cure for his bad boy persona.

"Maybe you'd actually get a girlfriend is you did this more often." My fingers inch to reach out to him, to engulf him in love and hugs that he's missed out on in his life, only ever receiving hard hits from his father.

"Who says I'm looking for a girlfriend?"

"The magnet in your pants that seems to attach to any living female." His cheeks redden even more, the embarrassment creeping down his neck and he runs his hands over his face with a groan.

"Maybe I've grown out of that." He offers and I shrug incredulously, tilting my head tauntingly at him.

"Oh yeah? Near death experience slap some knowledge into you?" He cringes at the memory but nods his head anyways, his eyes softening as he looks back up at me, tongue sweeping out over his lips.

"That and hanging out with you so much."

"You love it."

"I do." He responds politely, his eyes flickering down to my lips before slyly playing it off, clearing his throat. A few silent moments goes by, his eyes now locked on my fingers that are clasped in my lap.

"So where is Max?" I break the silence as he stretches, biceps straining as he leans back into the wall, folding his arms over his chest.

"Not here." My jaw drops at his cocky tone, the realization hitting me that I completely abandoned my original plans to hang with Max because I got too caught up with her annoyingly handsome step brother.

"Then why the fuck have I been sitting here, talking to you?" I chuckle, going to move off the bed but Billy's hands firmly secure around my thighs, tugging me back onto the bed and onto his lap.

"Cuz you love me."

"Fuck off." I whisper breathlessly, allowing myself to relax as my flattened palms travel down the planes of his chest and abdomen. He gazes at me softly as I bunch up his shirt, looking at the still black and blue wound lined with stitches and medical tape. My brows furrow, hating that, even though I saved him, that he still received worse injuries than I intended. "Being alone together is not the best idea." I whisper, tired eyes looking up at him as he shrugs playfully.

"Or maybe it is."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- Taglist: @bubblebuttwade @rafelover2405 @leslienjazzy @sorceresss @grxnde-dwt @alex–awesome–22 @bunnietoof @niyamar1e @serialghost @plantlungs @geniusohn @akaliltimmytim @lilaalouuxx @xshariex @elliotsbeigeguitar @elle4404 @lelieja @srhxpci @joselyn001 @taysirene @spinkspanther @thedivineuphoria @peter-maximoffs @tsukishimawhore @poohkie90 @szlaco @distantsighs @nstyles4299 @wolflover384 @givemefoodandlovesstuff @vane28282 @yeswhatever33 @amirrahfranson @vvaalleennttiinna @f-mu @yaspillz @jeyramarie @skylievin@abbybarnes17 @jointherebellion215 @visiondaddy @steezysimfinds @its-ya-gay-boi-luigi @crunchytoenailsyum@glizzymcguirex @beth123lg @melovesmut @rafecameronswhore @ariianelle @write-from-the-heart @vampviolets@haylee-e@popehaywardssecretgf @honee-chai-tea @lokiandbuckywife @smoke-and-fire @officiallyunofficialperson@heyaitsklaudia@rosepetalsparks @bluetreecloud20 @scenesofobx @double-shot-of-tequila @1dluver13xx @colbysbrocks @iamasimpingh0e @smoke-and-fire386 @loveshineslikethesky @id-3-kbro @diorsitgirl @errorfound101-allideasburnedout @neverwillknowme18 @ellyskey @taylors-folk @loversjoy

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #stranger things #stranger things fic #billy #billy x reader

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fandomxpreferences · 1 year

Text

Drink Up Chapter Seven: Beginner's Luck

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x female!reader

TW: drinking, allusions to sex, I think thats all

Summary: There's more to you than Jake realized.

Word Count:1.3k

The team watches as Jake leans over you and guides your hands while whispering in your ear. He's showing you ins and outs of playing pool and they can't believe that you're letting him. Actually, they can't believe he's willing in the first place.

They've all known Jake a long time and they have never seen the man do anything remotely close to domestic, let alone be so whipped. You two are like peas in a pod, both too stubborn and confident for your own good.

If you would have told them when they were called back here that Jake would actually win you over, and that you would willingly let him teach you, they would have laughed.

"Okay Red, this is the important part." Jake begins and you push your ass back into him in acknowledgment. He nips your earlobe playfully and you smirk. "Watch it." He growls and you chuckle.

"Hit the top of the cue ball if you want it to roll in the same direction you're shooting. Hit the bottom if you want to it bounce back and roll in the opposite direction. If you want it to stop after it knocks the ball, hit it in the middle." He explains and you nod dutifully.

"Okay, I think I understand." You confirm and he kisses your cheek. "Why don't we put some skin in the game? If I lose, I'll give you that blowjob while you're driving." You suggest and his eyebrows shoot up

"And if you win?" He asks and your lip quirks up. "If I win you have to let Rooster give you a hurricane shot."

You hear a chorus of "oohs" in the background and your smile grows. Jake thinks over it for a second, weighing his options. You've never played pool before, for you to beat his undefeated winning streak would take insane beginner's luck. He nods with a laugh and hands you his pool stick.

"Break first, baby."

You do as he says and watch as the balls scatter in different directions. Jake sinks two balls with his shot and you frown. He's really good.

You miss on your turn and pout while turning to Jake. He smiles lightly and kisses your forehead. "It's okay, darlin. You'll get better. I've been playing for years." He soothes and you huff, unsatisfied.

Everyone looks on as you continue the game. Jakes down to two balls and you've only sunk one the entire time. The group is prepared to watch you get your ass handed to you and confusion washes over them when you smile wickedly behind Jake's back.

His turn is over and he gives you a reassuring grin when he faces you, mock innocence back on your features. He has a cocky smile on his face, itching to get you in the truck. His face drops slightly when you take the pool cue with a mischievous glint in your eye.

He watches your every move as you confidently chalk the tip of the pool cue and strut up to the table. You'd have to sink six in a row plus the eight-ball to win. There's no way.

You line up your shot and his stomach drops when you shoot him a wink over your shoulder. You hit the cue ball and it sends two balls flying into opposite pockets. The squad's conversation dies mid-sentence when they see it and they all turn their full attention back to the game.

They watch in awe as you sink the next four balls and Jake's face blanches. You pick a pocket for the winning shot, and even Jake doesn't think he would pull it off. Everyone watches with bated breath as you lean down before standing back up.

You close your eyes and turn around, lining up your shot blindly.

"There's no fucking way." Bradley laughs and you inwardly smirk.

Time seems to move in slow motion as your pool stick strikes the cue ball, sending the eight ball flying. It bounces off the edge and rolls straight into the pocket with a muted clunk. Cheers ring out and you laugh loudly as you’re rushed by the pilots, all clapping you on the back and shaking you around excitedly.

When the commotion dies down, your eyes land on Jake and he looks completely dumbstruck. Not only did you knock him off his throne, but you did it while letting him get in the lead and then pulling off an insane trick shot.

You watch as his expression changes from shock to awe to horror as he realizes what this means. You turn to face the bar and wave your hand to get Penny's attention.

"One hurricane shot, please!" You shout and she shakes her head at the shenanigans. Bradley looks like a kid in a candy store when the shot and glass of water are set down on the table and you look at Jake.

"A deals a deal, Goldilocks." You tease and you're sure you'll pay for this later. Worth it.

Jake drags his feet as he makes his way over and stares at the drink in front of him. "Drink up." You mock, echoing your words from that first night.

"How?" He asks, ignoring your statement. You shrug with a shit-eating grin and lean in towards him.

"I've been working in bars since the day I turned 21. Picked up a few skills. Not my fault you assumed I couldn't kick your ass." You taunt and he swears he's in love.

He sighs deeply before swallowing the tequila and Bradley eagerly grabs the cup of water. Everyone watches as it splashes off of Jake's face and Bradley's hand connects with his cheek loudly.

His face snaps to the side, the force of the impact immediately leaving a red welt. Bradley had one opportunity and he wasn't going to waste it.

The bar erupts with cheers and laughter as your eyes lock onto Jake’s, and you know he'll never live this down. You block out the noise as his eyes darken and suddenly you think maybe this was a bad idea. He looks mad.

"Let's go." He states firmly and you gulp. You glance over at Bradley and he gives you a reassuring smile before you grab your things and walk over to your boyfriend. Normally you would argue but you know when you've pushed your luck, and right now isn't the time.

The walk to the truck is silent and you hesitate when Jake opens the door for you. He notices and nods his head towards the seat.

"Get in." His voice is raspy and you oblige without any more protest. He rounds the truck and climbs up silently, starting the engine and peeling out of his parking spot.

You peer out the window as he turns in the opposite direction of your house and turn to him with pinched brows. "You're going the wrong way." You tell him and he chuckles darkly.

His hand lands on your bare thigh, mere centimeters away from your heat and you resist the urge to moan.

"I'm taking you back to my place." He informs you and your thighs clench involuntarily. His eyes shoot over to look at you with a knowing expression and you almost don't recognize them. The usual emerald green that swims with adoration is gone, replaced with blown-out pupils.

"Oh." You whisper meekly and his gaze returns to the road. He hasn't even done anything and you're already reduced to a puddle next to him. The ride is silent the rest of the way and before you know it, he's stopping in front of a cute two-story bungalow.

Any other time you would stop to think that it's nothing like what you would expect from the blonde aviator. However, you don't have the time as Jake rushes around to your side and rips the door open. He reaches over you and unbuckles your seatbelt before picking you up and slamming the door shut again.

As he carries you up the walkway, there's only one thought your brain can form. You're fucked.

@drakelover78 @manyfandomsfanvergent @ssprayberrythings @disturbedbeautywrites @desert-fern @one-sweet-gubler @callmemana @luckyladycreator2 @bookchik26 @taytaylala12 @michalkasimp @xoxabs88xox @loveless-simp @withakindheartx @formulapierre @ccristata @shanimallina87 @chair-things @k-k0129 @izz-ayes-world @kajjaka @oxxolovemelikeyoudooxxo @turningtoclown @phantomxoxo @rosiahills22 @gspenc @benhardysdrumstick @potato-girl99981 @dempy @cookielovesbook-akie @wellshit6

#jake seresin #top gun maverick #hangman top gun #top gun imagine #jake seresin top gun #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin series #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin fic #jake hangman seresin #hangman x reader #hangman imagine #drink up

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atinylittlepain · 1 year

Text

Of Saints and Sinners - Chapter 8

Joel Miller x f!reader/f!oc

series masterlist

chapter summary: it continues to be a push and pull between her and Joel. Will they be able to overcome each other's steel?

warnings | 18+ canon-typical violence and gore, references to smut, angst

a/n | happy TLOU night :) I consider this chapter to be sort of a set up for the next leg of plot to this story, but there's plenty of angst to sink your teeth into here

Spring has pulled her verdant arms over Jackson, and Summer is close on her heels. The days are getting longer and brighter. The greenhouses are dizzyingly full of fresh produce. Ellie brings home a bowl of strawberries one day, and the taste makes Joel’s eyes water. But it’s not just the landscape that’s been set in a full thaw. She has all but officially moved in with him, each week a few more of her belongings finding permanent residence in his space. There’s a stack of her books on his nightstand, a folded pile of her clothes in his closet, two toothbrushes sitting in his bathroom.

While they go their separate ways in the morning, she is always at his place for dinner, talking easily with Ellie, helping in the kitchen. The first couple of times, Joel had found the scene strange, almost absurd in its domesticity. But, perhaps dangerously, he had easily gotten used to it because he liked it so much. She always spends the night, and when they tangle together, it’s like the first time all over again. He’d devour her if he could, that’s how much he wants her. The way she sighs his name when pleasure strokes down her spine, her nails grazing the expanse of his back, the taste of her and the way she preens into his mouth. They fall asleep most nights bare and slick with the salt of pleasure.

It’s in this position, a tangle of limbs and sighs, that they find themselves in tonight. She rests her cheek on his chest as he grazes his fingers down the length of her arm. His eyes trace the swirls of ink and scar that laces down her back. She no longer hides from him, and he knows it’s no small gift that she has given him.

“Can I ask you something?” She hums at his question, craning her neck to peer at him. He clears his throat before continuing.

“Will you tell me about these? All this ink?” He’s still careful about how much he pries, though she’s certainly been more willing to talk, he never knows when he might have pushed a bit too far. For a moment, he worries that he just has, but she offers him a small smile and nod. She sits up, kneeling between his legs. He still has to catch his breath seeing her bare body before him.

“What do you want to know, Joel?” He tentatively reaches a hand out to brush along the birds that sit below her collarbone, tracing down the swirls of ink on her one arm.

“Do they all have meaning?” Her smile brightens and she nods again. She takes both his wrists to guide his palms to splay back over the birds.

“These I got for my mother. Magpies were her favorite birds. Have you seen magpies before?”

“They’re a kind of crow, right?” She snorts, squeezing his wrists.

“They’re way cooler than crows. Bigger, and smarter. And wickedly loud.” She draws his one palm to her shoulder, down along her bicep where a swirling branch is inked.

“Cherry. And plum on the outside of my arm. My grandparents owned an orchard in Bend. We spent most of our summers there.” She twists in his old, her back facing him as Joel sits up. He doesn’t know how he didn’t see it before, but it’s now clear how the branches on her arm twine across her shoulder blades, following into the twisted trunks of trees that span down her spine. For the first time, he wholly takes in the expanse of her back, the twisting, silvery scars that lay under swaths of ink. He traces his fingers down the branches and she shivers under his touch.

“Alex is one hell of an artist.” She huffs out a laugh.

“He’s been working on a new tattoo gun. Putting it together out of scrap parts. Figure I’ll get something over the fresh scar.” His eyes instinctually dart to the puckered skin on her forearm. It’s healed over, but she keeps it bandaged during the day to keep prying eyes out. He draws his attention to her back again, and his eyes catch on a small figure in the one tree.

“Is that a–”

“Squirrel? Yeah, that’s for Jack.” A heavy silence falls after her words. It’s the one thing Joel knows not to ask about, that she’ll tell him scraps in time, when she’s ready. He knows that Jack was her little brother, and he knows she lost him, and that it destroyed her. He doesn’t pry, instead laying his palm over the inked creature.

“What’re you gonna get, when Alex’s gun is ready?” She turns back in his arms, nudging into his lap and drawing her fingers through his hair with a hum.

“Not sure yet. If you have any ideas, let me know.” She presses a chaste kiss to his mouth to seal her words. She seems to be thinking something over, thoughtlessly playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Squirrels were his favorite animal.” Joel’s hands still where he had been skating them up her sides, letting them rest at her hips. He tries to keep his expression steady as he searches her face. She won’t quite meet his eyes as she continues.

“I would take him to the park after school and he never wanted to play or run around, he’d just sit and watch the damn squirrels.” She lets out a breathy laugh.

“I was always trying to get a laugh out of him, or just some reaction. So one day, we went to the park and I brought a bag of trail mix and just started throwing nuts and raisins to the squirrels. By the time we left, we had them eating off the toes of our shoes. It was so fucking weird, but it was his favorite thing, I think. We did it all the time afterwards.” She takes a deep breath, her shoulders slumping with the exhale.

“Anyways, um, yeah, the squirrel is Jack’s.” Joel knows there’s nothing he can say right now that’d be right. Even as she offers him a small smile, he can see the pain laced through her eyes. He dips his head and lays a kiss to her sternum before pulling her into his embrace. They don’t talk anymore that night.

…

The next morning, Joel is not pleased with what Ellie tells him over breakfast. Her old patrol partner is switching shifts and she’s now been paired up with Roger. He doesn’t miss the way she winces when she hears Ellie say his name.

“He’s not gonna be your partner for long, kid. That boy is an idiot. I’ll talk to Tommy today. Get the partners rearranged.” Ellie just shrugs at Joel, finishing her bowl of oatmeal before hurrying off out the door to get to her shift. Joel glances at her out of the corner of his eye, catching her smirk.

“Roger may be an idiot. But I’ve heard he’s good on patrol. You don’t have to worry about her, Joel.” He huffs, taking another swig of coffee.

“I’m still gonna talk to Tommy, find her a better partner. Would you wanna take shifts with her?” She looks taken aback by his question.

“I mean, do you think that’s a good idea? To have us put together?” Ellie still doesn’t know that she’s immune like her, nor does she know that it had been her immunity that had put her in so much danger previously. Joel hadn’t really even been thinking about that when he posed the idea, but now, remembering that day that Alex rode back by himself, without her, his stomach starts to churn. He shakes his head to clear the thought away.

“No, you’re right. I don’t like that idea at all. What about Alex?” She quirks an eyebrow at him.

“You trying to steal my patrol partner, Miller?” A smug grin settles on his face.

“Well, I may know someone else who’d be happy to fill the position.” That earns him a laugh, a sound that sends a giddy sweep up his spine.

“We did make a pretty good team, huh? Alright, I’ll talk to him about it. Pretty sure he wouldn’t mind.” She slips her palm into his. That’s new, the simple touches that they’re starting to share. Joel thinks it might be better than the sex, or at least a close second.

“I gotta go. I’m helping Maria with some new security plans. See you tonight?” He nods, watching her stand and clear her plate away. She sweeps back and presses a quick kiss to his lips, rubbing her palm on his chest.

“Be safe, darlin.”

“Bye, Joel.”

…

The sun is starting to set, and Ellie hasn’t come home from her shift yet. Joel is beginning to panic. He’s getting ready to set out looking for her himself when the front door opens, though it’s not Ellie. She looks just as worried as he feels.

“Have you seen Ellie?” “No, I heard that she hasn’t come back though. Joel, it’s getting dark, I think we need to go look for her.” He just nods, grabbing his gun and following her out into the quick darkening evening.

They don’t make it far on horseback before they see a figure cresting over the hill that lays before them. She keeps her gun cocked, but sure enough, it’s Ellie. There’s no sign of Roger. They set off at a gallop towards her, quickly dismounting when they come upon her. Joel’s on her in an instant, cupping her face in his hands and looking her over for injury. She doesn't appear to be hurt, just shaken.

“There was a cluster of them up near the dam. Jesus– they came out of nowhere. Roger’s dead.” Joel thinks to himself that he doesn’t give a fuck about Roger.

“Are you ok?” She just nods, but her eyes flicker down to her leg and Joel sees blood pooling in the ankle of her sock. He knows right away that she must have gotten bit again, trying to hide it in the presence of someone else.

“Ellie, it’s alright, she knows. About you.” Ellie’s eyes go wide and she shoves Joel away, her gaze darting between him and her.

“What the fuck, Joel? You’re the one who told me not to tell anyone. But apparently that doesn’t apply to your lady friend.”

“Ellie!” She steps forward then, placing a hand on his shoulder before he can bark out anything else, stepping between him and Ellie.

“It’s fine, Joel. Ellie, your secret is safe with me.” The girl scoffs.

“Oh yeah? Why should I believe you?” With that, she’s rolling up her shirt sleeve and unwinding the bandage on her forearm, bearing the still healing bite that wraps around her skin. Ellie is stunned speechless.

“Because I’m like you, kid.”

…

Ellie is silent the whole ride back. Joel goes to tell Tommy what happened while she hustles the girl home. She grabs their makeshift first aid kit and shuffles her into the bathroom, ordering Ellie to hop onto the counter while she sits on the ground to get a better look at her ankle. She pulls off her boot and sock, rolling up her pant leg, and sure enough, a fresh bite smeared across her calf. She lets out a low whistle.

“Got you good, kid. Let’s clean this up, alright?” She glances up at the girl, still nothing. She sighs and gets to work cleaning the wound. As she’s getting ready to wrap a dressing on the bite, Ellie finally speaks up.

“How did you find out?” She pauses.

“About you?” Ellie shakes her head.

“About yourself, how did you find out you were immune?” She sighs, standing up and pulling the collar of her shirt down to expose the top of her shoulder.

“If you squint you can see it under all that ink.” Ellie’s face draws closer to her shoulder, peering at the skin. She can see it in her face when she finally makes out the scarring, letting out a “woah” under her breath before backing off.

“Is that why you have all those tattoos?” She just nods, sinking back down to the floor to finish wrapping her calf. She considers not saying what she’s about to, but goes ahead anyway.

“You remember a couple months ago when I went missing?” Ellie nods.

“Well, it was because some people found out what I am, what we are. I think you know just as well that we have to be careful about this thing. Ellie, I want you to know that I would never, will never tell anyone, ok?” She smooths out the gauze on Ellie’s leg before standing, patting her knee.

“Now, you keep that clean and covered, and when it’s healed maybe we can see about getting you some ink, if you want.” Ellie grins, and it’s a relief to her.

“Oh, I want. You’re like the coolest person in this town and like forty percent of that is just ‘cause of your tattoos, so, hell yeah. Sign me up.” She snorts at that, squeezing the girl's arm before stepping aside and letting her hop down.

“Are you feeling ok?” Ellie shrugs, eyes settling on her feet.

“I mean, s’never a good day when someone dies on your watch, but I’ll be alright.”

“Hey. It wasn’t on your watch. Your da– Joel was right. Roger was a cocky idiot. He was gonna get himself hurt eventually. I’m just sorry it happened when you were around, kid.” Ellie just huffs, but still offers her a small “thank you” before walking off, headed towards her room in the garage. She feels her shoulders slacken from where they had been pinned up to her ears.

…

When he finally gets home, he finds her sitting at the dining table reading. She cranes her neck around to look at him as he enters.

“Told Tommy. Said he wasn’t surprised that Roger got picked off.” She huffs at that as Joel sits down beside her.

“Well I concur with Tommy. You hungry? I made dinner for Ellie and there’s leftovers.” He just shakes his head, letting out a long exhale.

“Joel? Did something else happen?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a massive headache rushing in.

“He, uh, wants you and Ellie to work patrol together. Sees you both being immune as a strength. I told him to forget it–” he cuts himself off when he looks at her and sees that she doesn’t seem as repulsed by the idea as he is. She shrugs.

“I don’t know, Joel. After today, maybe Tommy’s right?”

“You’re kidding, right?” She holds his gaze, steadfast.

“I’m serious. I mean, face it, as long as that kid is going out with people that aren’t like her, the chance that she comes back and they don’t is always going to be huge.”

“And just why is that a problem, so long as she’s coming back?” He can feel the frustration rising up in his throat at this conversation, the exhaustion and stress of the day pushing his limit.

“She may have come back this time, but I’m telling you Joel. Everytime she watches someone else die while she gets to live just because of the dumb luck of her immunity, another part of her is gonna get chipped away until she doesn’t come back at all.” He runs a ragged hand across his face, tugging at the roots of his hair. He can’t believe they’re actually having this conversation.

“You speaking from experience?” Her face twists up at that.

“Lose a lot of partners, huh? Had to come back alone?” He knows he’s being taunting, cruel even, but he can’t help it anymore, too lost in his anger.

“I can protect her, Joel. In a way that other people can’t. She doesn’t have to come back alone ever again.”

“So what, you’re gonna be some power team, huh? You may be immune, darlin, but you’re sure as shit not invincible. Already learned that the hard way.” It’s harsher than he wanted it to be and he can see the slight fall in her expression, but she steels back up.

“Now you’re just being a dick for the hell of it. I’m going to run patrol with her, Joel. Whether you like it or not.”

“No you’re not! Goddamnit! This isn’t some fucking game, don’t you see that? Quit trying to play the hero, trying to make up for the past. You can’t bring any of them back. You can’t bring him back.” It’s a shot in the dark really, an assumption he makes but it seems to hit the target as her face immediately goes slack.

“You can’t bring Ja–” She’s on him before he can even get the whole name out, her sheer strength taking him by surprise as she hauls him by his shirt collar and shoves him against the wall.

“You don’t fucking say his name. I’m taking patrol with Ellie. But you and I? Whatever this was? It’s over. Go find someone else to boss around.” She shoves him, hard, into the wall before turning heel and stomping out the front door before he can even get a word out.

Joel keels over for a moment, hands on his knees as he lets out a string of sharp curses and he can’t help thinking that he’s been somewhere very similar in the recent past. He slowly rights himself, dragging both his hands down his face. Before he can think better of it, he’s whipping around and punching his fist straight through the wall she had just slammed him against.

Everything goes silent for a moment as he studies his bloodied knuckles.

“What the fuck?” He swears he jumps a few feet in the air, finding Ellie staring at him like he’s crazy. He feels like he’s going crazy.

“Don’t ask, kid.”

…

Joel’s done caring. At least that’s what he keeps telling himself. He doesn’t look for her outside the childcare center, doesn’t ask Maria how she’s doing. If he sees Steve or Alex in the bar he heads home, not wanting to risk seeing her there. One day, he went out on patrol in the morning, and when he came home that night, all her books, her clothes, even her toothbrush was gone. He had broken two of his knuckles that night when he stupidly punched clean through the wall, and the pain is a constant reminder to keep his head down and mind his own business.

For once, Ellie doesn’t bug him about it, seeming to sense how torn up he really is. She does start taking patrol shifts with her, but she won’t tell Joel anything about it. He lets it be, so long as she keeps coming home safe.

A few weeks pass in this fugue state. His hand finally heals. Ellie keeps coming home in one piece. He’s slowly realized that it’s going to take practice, forgetting about her, and so his days are spent trying to forget. He takes on as many shifts as he can, working from sunup to sun down most days. They even elect him onto the town council with how much he’s been working with Tommy on shoring up security.

Spring has fully rolled over to summer, and Joel is starting to accept this life of forgetting until he’s forced to remember. Once again, Ellie doesn’t come home from her shift on time. He doesn’t wait around this time, immediately going to Tommy who agrees to go with him up into the mountains to look for her. The long summer days are to their advantage, keeping it light out still into the evening as they set out on horseback. Joel’s trying to swallow down the frantic panic in his chest. Tommy breaks the silence.

“You gonna tell me what happened between you and her?”

“Shut up, Tommy.”

“Easy, brother. I’m just trying to understand is all. It seemed like you two had a good thing going, then all of a sudden you’re avoiding each other like the damn plague. I don’t get it.” “Yeah, well neither do I. So just shut up and ride.” For once, his brother complies.

They’ve just made it up past the foothills of the mountain when they come across a horse. Joel immediately recognizes it as Shimmer, the horse Ellie likes to take out. He feels sick to his stomach. They dismount and start looking around, but there’s no one in sight. Just as Tommy goes to say something, the sound of a gunshot rings out through the trees. Joel doesn’t even think, already slinging his gun off his shoulder and getting it loaded as he starts to jog towards the sound, Tommy close on his heels. Another shot rings out, and Joel can just start to hear the sounds of shouting up ahead.

Before they get any further, something, or someone, is running smack into Joel, knocking them both onto the ground. He quickly rolls them over, pinning the person down, but his grip slackens when he sees that it’s Ellie. There’s blood splattered across her face and she’s gasping for breath.

“Ellie? Are you hurt?” She shakes her head hard.

“S-she told me to run. It’s a bunch of raiders. They would’ve already killed us, but– they s-saw the bite on her arm, w-wanted answers, how the f-fuck she was still alive.” Joel’s head is spinning as Ellie speaks, but just then another round of gunshots resounds through the trees. He quickly hauls Ellie up, barking at Tommy to get her back to town before turning back towards the sound of gunfire.

There’s a break in the trees, and sure enough, he sees her holding her own against a pair of men, two bodies already dispatched on the forest floor. He puts a bullet through the one man’s head, turning his attention back to her where she’s struggling with the other raider. Joel’s trying to aim for him, but they’re too close together in their fighting and he can’t risk it. She finally gets the upper hand, sending her knife up and into the fleshy softness beneath the man’s ribs, letting him fall to the ground with a gurgling moan. When she finally looks at Joel, it’s as if she’s in a daze. Meanwhile, Joel keeps opening his mouth to say something, anything, but promptly coming up with nothing. The relief he feels seeing her alive scares him into a stunned silence.

But then he sees that she’s bleeding. There are slicing gashes across her forearm where her fresh scar had been. The cuts look deep and he thinks to himself that it looks purposeful and it makes his stomach twist. She follows his gaze down to her arm, lifting it up to look at it in the quick fading light. Her voice is hoarse when she speaks, but still steely cool.

“Guess they wanted to do a little science experiment.” He could drop to his knees, her words make him feel so sick. She glances at him again.

“Is Ellie–”

“Tommy took her back to town. She’s fine, because of you.” She huffs, not acknowledging his last words as she starts gathering knives and guns off the dead bodies. She keeps her gaze down as she moves. Joel swallows hard around the thick pain in his throat.

“Are you ok?” She freezes where she stands. Joel can see the shake in her hands, the weapons she had been collecting clattering to the ground.

When she looks up at him, there’s tears collecting in her eyes. All she manages is a broken whimper of his name before she’s collapsing to her knees in a sob. Joel is on the ground with her in an instant, wrapping her in his arms as she wails into the evening air. Her words crack, punctuated by gasps and shuddering cries.

“I’m so sorry, Joel– I’m so sorry– I–” She can’t even get the rest of what she wants to say out, heaving breaths wracking her body. He pulls back to hold her by her shoulders, dipping his head to catch her watery gaze.

“No sorrys. It’s ok, you’re ok.” She just shakes her head, pressing her clenched fists into her thighs. He pulls her back into a crushing embrace, trying to press stillness into the way her body shakes with each sob until her shudders start to slow. She murmurs into his shoulder that they need to get back to town. He sighs, loosening his grip but keeping his hands wrapped around her arms as he pulls back to look at her.

“I’m so tired, Joel. I’m so tired.” Something in him shatters at her words, and he takes a sharp inhale to try to keep it together. It has become painfully clear that he was never done caring for her, that he probably would never be done caring for her.

“I know you are, darlin. I’m gonna get you home.”

…

Once again, Joel finds himself in his bathroom taking care of her wounds. She was quiet the whole way back, the occasional shaky exhale all he heard to let him know she was still with him. She won’t meet his gaze, not even when she winces as he cleans the gashes. It’s coming out of his mouth before he can even think better.

“We gotta stop meeting like this, darlin.” There’s a beat of silence, and then she’s letting out an incredulous laugh, finally looking up at him. For a moment, there’s a ghost of a smile on her face.

“We really do.” Her smile quickly fades, a crease settling between her brows as she looks at him.

“Joel, I’m so sorry. For everything. I just– I’m no good. I’ve tried so hard to just keep moving– to not think about– to not think at all. A-and because of it I hurt you and put Ellie in danger and– I’m just so sorry.” She’s clutching his wrist as she speaks, and Joel slides his hand to twine with hers, squeezing hard.

“Stop apologizing. Because of you, Ellie’s asleep in her own bed right now.” There’s a whole lot more he wants to say, but for now he settles with bandaging her forearm. She lets out another sigh before speaking.

“Been trying so hard to leave you be. You don’t deserve to get stuck with all my shit, not when I’ve been so awful to you.” His hands stop.

“You haven’t been awful to me–” “Joel.” “No, I was out of line that night. What I said– I just– the thought of you and Ellie heading out together– everything I– I lost my head. It was wrong, what I said, and I’m sorry. Hell, if someone talked to me like that about Sarah, I’d probably– I’d–”

“Punch a hole through a wall?” There’s a slight smirk tugging on the corner of her mouth, Joel huffs.

“She told you about that, huh?” Her smile cracks a little wider as she shrugs. He squeezes her hand again, letting out a laugh.

“That little shit.” They’re both laughing now and it feels impossibly good. Joel lets out a sigh, finally letting go of her hand to finish wrapping her arm. His voice is a low murmur as he speaks.

“I don’t mind. Being stuck with you. Long as you’re ok being stuck with me. Don’t think I can really help it, to be honest.” He presses his palm into the bandage for good measure before looking at her again. She slides her hand along the scruff of his jaw and feeling her touch like this again is like finally coming up for air after all these weeks.

“I guess we’re just gonna have to be fucked up together, huh?” He smiles, tilting his head to lay a kiss to her palm.

“I guess so, darlin.”

They strip down to nothing before getting into bed, pressing as close as they can and letting their steady heartbeats slow the ebb and flow of their breathing.

“Joel? Wanna introduce you to someone tomorrow, can I?” She peers up at him from her place on his chest and he nods.

“Who am I meeting?” Her fingers brush down his arm before taking his hand.

“His name is Will. He lives at the childcare center.”

#joel miller angst #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller x oc #the last of us #tlou fanfiction #tlou

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queenlua · 5 months

Text

saw yet another retread of the great “why do ppl hate Skyler BreakingBad so much” battle, so here’s my 2023 take ig:

i think Breaking Bad suffers from the “no such thing as an anti-war film” problem: just like it’s kinda hard to make a film critical of war without making war look *cool* and *sexy*, it’s pretty hard to make a story about an everyman becoming a powerful mobster-killin’ druglord without making… y’know… being a druglord look cool n sexy

yes, walter is *supposed* to be a monster. and the show is *often* quite clear about that. moreso near the end than at the start, but even in episode 1 he is obviously this simmering bundle of resentments.

but also…

you are definitely supposed to think it is kind of cool when he uses his Huge Overlooked Genius Brain to make the extra-good meth, right? and you are supposed to shout “fuck yeah” when gus gets blown up. it is supposed to be (wickedly, guiltily) satisfying when he poisons lydia.

the show wants to be a cool neo-western action piece *and* a thoughtful critique of a particularly toxic (and disappointingly common) manifestation of masculinity. those two things are somewhat at odds—“watch this sad pathetic man ruin his life for five seasons” is a hard sell in the primetime slot, to anyone who’s not already *into* that kind of story, so they marry it to the “underdog uses his Huge Brain to succeed at the drug business” story, and pattern-matching especially against the kinds of shows that were in the cultural milieu at the time… you *do* expect Huge Brain guy to be the hero! and succeed! generally after multiple petty non-Huge-Brain ppl told him he couldn’t do it!

and man Skyler does pattern-match pretty well against the “hater of Huge Brain” guy template, right, if you’re only interested in one of those stories

so yeah when ppl are like “omg skyler is the WORST i hate her awful character,” *yes* there’s absolutely misreading there, *yeah* there’s ppl who just hate on any woman in a vaguely domestic role, etc… but i think chalking it up to *just* those things lets Breaking Bad itself off too easily. they chose to smash together two plots that were inherently in tension (cool, but risky!), and i think they *mostly* managed that tension well, but also, it goes on for 62 goddamn episodes, so the quality is not consistent throughout, and there are definitely times they make Walt look too cool or let him off too easy, and the show *itself* doesn’t seem hugely interested in Skyler’s interiority (like, they certainly didn’t intend for her to be *hated* the way she is, but they also… don’t write in many likable moments for her, the way they do for, say, Hank?)… yeah, it’s not surprising the popular misreading is as popular as it is, and that’s not entirely the fault of poor cultural literacy or whatever imo

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1000punks · 4 months

Text

bonding. //dating

bonding. //masterlist

pairing: spawn!Astarion x named!Tav (non-binary OC)

warnings: 18+. nsft. mdni. fluff. mild sexual harrassment.

word count: 2,360

summary: two gays remodel a house domestic fluff and some character background building, set in post-game baldur's gate. two people who are weird and traumatized work on their relationship and reclaim their sexuality through a shared kink. lots of gooey romantic smut while these two slowly figure out their future together.

named!Tav is my non-binary tiefling ranger, Festé. i was seeing far too few fics with tiefling!Tav and i thought it was crucial, nay, critical to include them in the headcanons. i hope you all enjoy! ♡

Festé had dozed off after a short while, and Astarion moved gingerly, laying next to them and pulling them into his arms. He tensed as they stirred slightly, holding his breath, but they didn't wake up. The elf relaxed, reaching to brush Festé's hair back from their face, his lips curling as their eyebrows furrowed and smoothed out at his cool touch. Astarion wished he could still see what they were thinking in these small moments, what dreams they were having; but he relished the change of circumstances and the relative safety he felt now compared to before. He watched them for several moments, taking in all of the expressions they made in their sleep, mirroring them unconsciously. Festé shifted, rolling over and pressing their face into his shoulder, and he ducked the imp's horns with a soft smile, leaning up on his elbow. He reached out hesitantly, resting his cool hand on their shoulder. Gods, how he savoured their warmth, physically and emotionally.

"Darling," he whispered, rubbing slowly down their arm, giving it a squeeze. "My sweet love, I know you're not used to the night shift, but wake up; I don't feel right showering you in kisses when you're passed out..." Astarion spoke in a soft singsong voice, tickling his imp and laughing when they squirmed against him. Their eyes fluttered open and fixed on his face.

"Star..." Festé pouted blearily. "I'm sorry that I fell asleep." They moved closer to give him a slow kiss.

"Mm..." he hummed into the kiss, pulling them on top of his chest and tracing his fingers down their back. "All is forgiven, my love. Are you hungry? There's a few hours yet before dawn. Can I treat you to dinner?"

As if on cue, Festé's mouth screwed up in an embarrassed smirk while their stomach growled. They pursed their lips and spoke softly, "Well, yes, I suppose. It's a shame though, all of those lonely vegetables in the kitchen will have to wait until tomorrow." The two chuckled together quietly, Astarion sitting up with resolve and helping his imp out of bed.

"Well, shall we?" He led them to the bureau, opening it and picking out a clean shirt and breeches for them, holding them out before pulling them away suddenly when Festé made to take them. He smirked, wrapping one arm around their waist and pulling them close, murmuring, "Wait, here's a tasty little thought, love: I'm taking you out on a nice date while you're still full of my cum." He popped his lips and laughed wickedly.

Festé smiled widely, taking the clothes from him and shrugging into the shirt, lacing it up. They tugged on the breeches and tied them, letting their hands linger against their waist, subtly framing their crotch. Astarion's gaze followed the movement of their hands, and he licked his lips. "That you are, dear. Does that get you hot?" They asked innocently, moving one hand to his chest, feeling it rise as he inhaled with a shiver. He had only gotten his own shirt halfway up his arms, and he was debating taking it off once again. With a swallow, he watched Festé pull it on with a smirk. He seized the opportunity to kiss their neck as they laced it up, brushing his nose against their skin.

"You have no idea, darling." He wrapped his arm around their waist, leading them to the front door, and draped the tiefling's coat around their shoulders. He pulled his own on and offered his arm to Festé. The pair strolled off into the chilly night, their pace relaxed despite the looming threat of dawn. Festé looked up, taking in the soft lights of the street as they made toward the Elfsong. Astarion inhaled deeply, the scent of his beloved imp mingling with the chill in the air. "You know, it may just be cold enough to frost over tonight, love. It was a good call, harvesting the garden today." He squeezed their hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss with an admiring smile. "I can't say that I particularly enjoy the thought of snow just around the corner, however. Awful cold stuff; I've no idea how other people handle it. Not to mention some awful memories to pair with it," he grumbled, a look of consternation twisting his pale features.

Festé nodded, chewing their lip as he spoke. "Well, it's all the more reason, I think, to make new memories together. Happy ones, to boot. I'm excited to do that with you, my love." They sighed, tilting their head to the side and shrugging. "It might not erase the bad, but I hope to at least balance them out." They leaned up, kissing their elf's jaw softly and squeezing his hand in return. Astarion gave them a sad sort of smile.

"Very well, darling. I will do my best by your side." He turned, putting a hand to their chest before pulling their body against his firmly, kissing them enthusiastically. Festé heard scattered whoops and wolf whistles from behind him, surmising that they must have reached the tavern and that there were drunken onlookers nearby. They both smiled as they broke apart, Astarion rolling his eyes at the sparse attention before leading his imp indoors. "You sit, my dear, and I will hunt you some dinner," he purred against their ear, kissing their neck softly before disappearing to the bar. Festé obliged, taking a seat at one of the corner tables and taking a slow look around. They watched Astarion lean over the bar, no doubt putting the charm on the keeper for a free meal and drinks. A smirk played over their lips, shaking their head at their favourite rogue's antics and reaching up to chew at their thumbnail, only lifting their gaze when they felt someone smack their shoulder.

"Oi! You ignorin' me, you little morsel?" The tiefling turned, their eyes narrowing when they saw a rather burly-looking half-elf standing over them, with two human cronies in tow. Festé's nose wrinkled; all three patrons reeked of ale, and the large one's eyes were bloodshot. They grimaced as they took the man in fully.

"Beg pardon?" they snarled, crossing their arms, looking the men up and down, and wondering how sharp the chair leg would be if they broke one off.

"I said, ain't you one of 'em heroes that went on savin' the city and all'at?" he spat, sloshing his ale in his cup as he pantomimed swordplay. His friends snorted, and he turned halfway around, continuing in his beer-soaked accent. "Imagine it, mate, beddin' a hero. 'Specially one of 'em devil-spawns? 'Ave never 'ad it all red meself, what abouts you lot?" He chortled loudly, and the other men joined with hearty guffaws as he turned to face them once more, a sleazy smile plastered across his lips. "What say ye, love? Ever 'ad 'un as big as this?" He reached for their arm, gripping it uncomfortably as he wrenched it toward his crotch.

Festé let him, though they were thoroughly unimpressed. "I am." They sneered, cupping his crotch. "And believe me, I've had bigger." The half-elf looked confused as they smiled, their tone much more seductive, tilting their chin up and glancing over the man's shoulder before their eyes flicked back to his. "But, if you would like to embarrass yourself with this pitiful little tadpole, I would enjoy laughing at you somewhere more private." They couldn't believe he hadn't noticed the red eyes staring daggers into the back of his neck.

The half-elf's face turned beet red, then a deep purple as he worked out what they had said. He redoubled the grip on their wrist and shouted, "You fuckin' handle-head, I'll- "

"Gentlemen. I would choose your next words very carefully, you great stupid bastard." Astarion had wound his arm silently over the man's shoulder, his dagger pressing against the skin of his thick throat. Festé surveyed the table next to them, where their dinner and drinks sat untouched, and grinned. He hadn't lost his touch. The pale elf tapped his dagger against the largest man's neck as his friends made to turn around. "Ah, ah. I wouldn't do that either. Let go of my fiancé's hand before they tear your useless cock off." He sounded surprisingly calm, given the situation.

The half-elf looked down his nose at the tiefling, who licked over their fangs slowly and chuckled. "He's seen me do it. That's nothing though; I've seen him bathe in some poor innocent's blood." Festé grinned, clicking their teeth. The man slowly released their wrist, and they crossed their arms once again.

"Good job." Astarion crooned, "Now, I'm going to give you five seconds to leave the tavern before I bathe in your blood, darling." Festé could barely hear him whisper above the din of the other patrons. Astarion slowly removed his dagger from the half-elf's neck, who looked as if he were about to turn around until Astarion began to count. "Five... four... three..." The man's eyes went unfocused for a split second as he turned and faced Astarion, taking in the red eyes and the pallor of his skin. He was gone in less than a moment with his friends in tow, knocking over an empty table in the process. Astarion calmly sheathed his dagger, turning to pick up the food and goblets and setting the plate down with an adoring grin in front of his imp, caressing their cheek before sitting down himself. He took a long drink, closing his eyes and taking a deep whiff of the expensive wine. Festé watched him silently, resting their elbows on the table and steepling their hands. Astarion looked sidelong at them, raising his eyebrows and looking pointedly at their plate. "Go on, dear. You look peckish, and you more than earned dinner after dealing with that brute." He bit his lip, leaning closer. "Don't you like pot roast?"

Festé took the leg of beef, furrowing their brows at him with a strange little smile, taking a bite, and shaking their head slowly as they chewed. Astarion's lips parted slightly, his forehead wrinkling in concern and confusion. The tiefling swallowed, picking up the spoon on the plate and pointing it at him, their voice low. "You said 'fiancé'." They beamed at him, starting to tuck in to their mashed potatoes, chewing thoughtfully, and watching Astarion lift his drink to his lips once more, his eyes wide over the rim of the goblet. "Did you mean to say 'fiancé'?"

Astarion laughed a little too boisterously, taking another deep drink and setting his goblet down hard. "Well! I..." He trailed off, looking away with a tight smile as he moved his hands to his lap. Festé grinned, taking another scoop of potatoes.

"Are you wringing your hands under the table, my love?" they asked airily.

Astarion whipped around, scowling as he banged his hands on the table. "No, I'm not," he hissed. His tiefling laughed, setting down their spoon and taking another bite of the beef. "I... it was a slip of the tongue," the elf whispered. Festé knew that if he could, he would be blushing.

"Is that where you see this relationship going?" they asked, keeping their voice low and scooting their chair closer to his. They took one of his hands and laced their fingers with his. "Is that what you want? Truly?"

Astarion grimaced as if in pain, taking a breath to answer but choking instead when his eyes met theirs. Festé played with his fingers idly, giving him a polite nod and waiting. Astarion's face softened, his tone subdued when he spoke again. "I bought you a ring months ago, darling. Before we even faced the brain. I..." He looked up, taking another breath. "I didn't know when would be a good time to ask you, because I've never done this before. But... I do. I do want this." He smiled, though his eyes were watery. "What is it that you want, darling? Is this what you want, too?"

The tiefling ducked their head, attempting to hide their broad smile. "I do," they said simply.

"You're not serious, are you?" He snarled, his voice shooting up an octave as he reached shakily for his goblet. "Is it really that easy? Here I thought it was a grand gesture, and that I had to get down on one knee, and... and- "

"Well, some people make grand gestures, my love, and arguably, you've done a number of them. But..." they shook their head, reaching out to cup Astarion's cheek, "I don't think you and I are like other people. If you like, you can still get down on one knee. Do you want to?"

"Can I just put the damn thing on your finger?" he sighed, taking a final drink from his goblet, his eyes flicking to theirs. He set it down, his fingers seeking the inner pocket of his coat. Festé had barely blinked before they felt the cool metal against the skin of their finger. Astarion kept their hand covered with his own, avoiding their gaze. "I saved a bloodstone from when we first started wandering on the coast. When I... when we made the decision to be together, I took it to Dammon, and I asked if he could cut it into the shape of a..."

Festé slipped their hand out from under his, giving him a devious smirk before they looked down. Their other hand shot up to cover their mouth, tears springing from their eyes when they saw it. "...a coffin. Darling..." The tears made silent tracks down their cheeks as they looked back into Astarion's eyes.

He took their hands in his once more, a half-smile catching his lips when he glanced down. "I thought it would be perfect." He leaned over, kissing their forehead and nuzzling it. "Death, and rebirth, the shade of your lovely skin, and my eyes. Your... odd commitment to loving little dead elves like me." He chuckled wetly, wiping his eyes. Festé stood up halfway, throwing their arms around his neck.

"It's perfect," they whispered.

"You're perfect, darling."

a/n: hello all! thank you once more for your continued support for this fic, i really appreciate everyone who's read it!

i hope you enjoy the fluff, the next chapter is going to be racier, stay tuned!

GIF CREDIT: bg3astariononlydeok (go support them too!)

#.txt #.fic #i'm all pointy ears #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion acunin #astarion x tav #spawn!astarion x named tav #bg3 astarion #astarion #fic: bonding.

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weirdmorefics · 1 year

Note

the same person who asked this

Hi there. Can I request a Anthony Bridgeton x ftm reader slightly set in modern era where they have twins and Anthony's family loves the reader and is okay with there relationship. I just want fluff with a (little too big of a) dash of angst. Something domestic where they go on a vacation and them all running around the garden and at the end of the night after the twins go to sleep y/n and Anthony spend time alone just talking, cuddling and swaying to music while looking in each other's eyes...im just a simp for fluff and angst.

Sorry if this is too specific or non-specific and if you don't feel like writing it then it's cool. Thank you ❤️

Just Shut Up and Kiss Me

FTM Reader

Pronouns- He/Him

Word Count- 523

Summary- After a long day at the ocean with the twins, you and Anthony finally get some quality time together.

A/N- MODERN TIME PERIOD! It's not exactly like the request I hope you still like it :)

Sorry for the lateness I've said in another post but it is due to the Flu and I have many chronic illnesses so it took me a while to get back to baseline.

The twins were more rambunctious than they were at the estate which I did not even know was possible. I guess vacations bring out the energy in all of us. We spent the day together at the ocean and they could not contain their excitement.

To be honest, though any public body of water raises my anxiety. Even after top surgery, I feel like I should be wearing a shirt but Anthony eases my nerves. He has been with me through it all even if he was a bit uneducated about the subject at first. Eloise helped him research everything about top surgery and we played board games all throughout my recovery. Anthony acts as quite the buffer as well, his handsomeness certainly distracts from me. Anthony still encourages me to feel good in my skin with the salacious comments he whispers in my ear. Even with his encouragement, it is still very tiring to fight those feelings all day.

I am grateful that the kids poured all their energy into creating intricate sand castles and destroying them. By the time we got to the summer home, the kids were so exhausted they passed out the minute their head hit their pillows. I felt exhausted myself from the sun, the crazy twins, and many emotions of the day. After tucking the children in I planned on going to sleep but Anthony had other ideas.

"Come on darling I have something to show you," Anthony says dragging me away from the twin's room practically giving me no choice.

"Anthony what has you in such a tizzy," I laugh at his usual antics.

"I just want to show you something as mesmerizing as your eyes," He says with a goofy grin.

I blush and try to hide my face, "Stop you're going to make me gag."

"You know you love my romantic words," he laughs deeply.

I roll my eyes, "Don't get too full of yourself."

"You already know I am full of myself that's why you married me handsome." He smirks

"Yeah, sure that's why," I laugh.

"Enough of denying how perfect my personality is look up," he says gesturing to the sky.

I go to make some stupid witty remark when I look to the sky.

"There are so many stars here you never see this many in London!" I gasp in awe.

"I have always wanted to take you here ever since I met you Y/N. The moment I saw your eyes they always sparkle when you are talking about something you are passionate about just like these stars."

I feel my whole face start to turn red which in turn makes my face even redder because now I am embarrassed about being embarrassed what a vicious cycle. I try to turn away to sass Anthony about being too gooey again but he pulls my face towards his.

"Don't you ever hide your feelings my love because you make every emotion a work of art." He says suavely making me want to smack him.

I roll my eyes, "Just shut up and kiss me."

"That I can do," he smirks wickedly.

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bluerose5 · 3 months

Text

Hunger

Word Count: 1,927

Ship/Pairing: Astarion/Male Tav (High Elf, Wizard)

Other Tags: Hurt & Comfort, Dhampir Tav (more cursed dhampir than vampire dhampir), Headcanons & Backstory, Communication, References to Past Domestic Violence, Blood Magic Ritual

Summary:

Circumstances force Falorin to reveal the truth about himself to Astarion.

Astarion's only insulted that it took him this long to mention it.

Link to read on AO3.

...

When Falorin approached his tent that night, Astarion squinted up at him from within, red eyes instantly narrowed in suspicion.

“Need something?” he asked, curious what brought about the spontaneous, late-night visit.

With his face shrouded in shadows, Falorin watched him closely, lips pursed.

“May I join you in your lair for a moment,” he joked, going even so far as to offer him a mocking bow, “o great vampire lord?”

Snorting at his antics, Astarion rolled his eyes, unable to keep his smile at bay.

“About time someone around here showed proper respect,” he said, but something felt off about the whole exchange. When he tried to lean in closer to get a good look at Falorin, the latter shied away into the darkness. He kept his head bowed, fidgeting with his fingers while his hair shielded his face from view. After a heavy pause, one fraught with tension, he shifted to the side to make room for Fal. “Oh, fine. You are permitted to enter.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, much more hesitant compared to before.

It took him some time, shifting from foot to foot, before he mustered up enough courage to take Astarion up on the offer.

The instant he sat at Astarion's side, brushing away empty jars of blood, Astarion knew then why he had been so cautious.

Even in the dim, magical light that Astarion's tent had to offer, Falorin looked…

He looked ill.

But not in any way befitting a mortal.

What was once warm, tan skin had been drained of all radiance in the span of only a couple of hours, now pale like the moon, taking on a sickly, grayish undertone.

A sheen of sweat clung to his skin.

While Volo's prosthetic remained entirely unchanged, Falorin's other eye was nothing but an endless pool of darkness. Both sclera and iris turned into an empty, black void of nothingness, threatening to swallow up anyone who dared to stare too long into its depths.

His breaths were quick, shallow.

Each one brought along a painful wheeze with every rise and fall of his chest.

Under Astarion's scrutiny, Falorin curled in on himself with his arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, rocking back and forth ever so slightly.

A hand shot up to grip his throat when he swallowed, the agony unbearable.

“Astarion,” he rasped, slow to meet his eyes. “Could you keep a secret for me, if only for the night?”

“Fal,” he warned, concerned when his lips parted to reveal wickedly sharp teeth, shorter than Astarion's fangs yet more numerous, more easily concealed. “What in the Hells is going on with you? What is the meaning of this?”

“I—” Stammering, he winced at the pangs of hunger shooting through him. His lower lip trembled as he bit back a cry of pain. “When I killed my husband,” he snarled, “it changed me.”

“Changed you?” Astarion asked. His hand hovered in the air between him, uncertain how to even begin comforting him, before it fell back to his side. “What do you mean?”

Falorin squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Then, he focused on his breathing, focused on his words.

“It was one of my first attempts at casting anything more powerful than a cantrip,” he explained, his responding laugh dry and bitter. “Zykan had plenty of material on dark, ancient magics. He didn't notice one tome go missing.”

He shook his head at the memory, reaching up to tug at the roots of his hair, its color now a dull imitation of what it was mere hours ago.

“It was a ritual,” he continued. “Blood magic.” His words boiled with a seething rage, flowing with a deep-seated hatred. “That bastard robbed me of my life for so long—” When he and Astarion next locked eyes, Astarion found that he couldn't look away. “—so I took everything that he was away from him. I absorbed his life's essence down to the very core. Every fiber of his being now belongs to me.”

Falorin's expression fell.

“And I've been paying the price for it ever since.”

A sob clawed its way through his chest.

“I didn't realize at the time that he had been feeding on the energy of others to extend his own life.”

Astarion blinked at that, summoning vague recollections of what he knew about the aasimar in question.

“There were definitely rumors among certain circles about him,” he said, wary at once, “but no one ever seemed to know anything for certain.”

“No one until me, that is,” Falorin whispered. “I uncovered a lot in the days after his death. He achieved immortality in his own way, I guess, but ‘want’ oh so easily became ‘need.’ He had to have another's life energy to sustain him. It became his addiction. His need consumed him.”

“And now it threatens to consume you,” Astarion interrupted, struck by the realization.

Falorin nodded.

“I took everything from him,” he repeated. “His power. His magic. His strength. His life.” Falorin's lips curled into a sneer. “But his hunger, most of all.”

Speechless, Astarion let Fal work through his thoughts, the latter eventually continuing on with a dark chuckle.

“His last words to me were, ‘I will always be with you, my heart.’” So few words for all the meaning they held, forever ingrained into Falorin's mind. After all, did Zykan refer to the hunger? To the fear he instilled within Falorin, even in death? Perhaps a bit of both or neither at all. Maybe he did it just to get inside his head one last time, and it worked. “Sick, sadistic fuck. I should have just bashed his head in while I had the chance,” he snapped, “hangman's noose be damned.”

“Why didn't you?” Astarion asked.

Falorin opened his mouth, then closed it, considering the question carefully.

Eventually, he came to the conclusion, “Because I wanted to survive.”

He shrugged helplessly at Astarion, sparing him a tearful smile.

“Because there had to be doubt. Because I knew that people underestimated me. They would have never believed that ‘sweet, innocent’ Falorin Verwin would be the one behind his husband's death if it was said to be due to ‘mysterious circumstances,’ and I was right. Most suspicions were cast more towards his political rivals than myself.”

“Then, I am glad for their stupidity, if it meant your survival,” Astarion said. “Although, remind me to never get on your bad side.”

Both of them chuckled at that, but Falorin winced when his throat ached in response.

Astarion frowned at him, all too familiar with his current state, more than he cared to admit.

Shooing those thoughts away, he stated, “You're starving.”

Falorin averted his eyes, but he couldn't ignore that gnawing emptiness growing inside him.

He gave Astarion a tired nod.

“I am,” he admitted.

“Do I even need to tell you how reckless that is,” Astarion scolded, “letting yourself get to this state?”

“I know,” Falorin said. “Trust me, I know. I don't—I don't usually feed like that unless I have to, though. Most foods can sustain me for a while. This time, I was just so distracted with everything else happening, I kept setting this aside without thinking about it, and now it snuck up on me! It was an accident, one that won't be happening again, I swear!”

One pitiful, wide-eyed look from him left Astarion's willpower crumbling.

“Ugh, okay, fine, I believe you,” he conceded. “Now, stop pouting. I'm still upset with you for waiting until it got to this point to tell me.” He sniffed in disdain, glancing down at his nails. “I told you about me being a vampire, did I not?”

Falorin stared at him, unimpressed.

“After you tried to bite me.”

“Details, darling.” Astarion waved a dismissive hand in his direction. “Details.” Peeking over at him, Astarion eyed him up and down, deep in thought. “Not to state the obvious, but you do realize that the only ones around at the moment who can sate your hunger are our illustrious companions, correct?

“I know,” Falorin groaned, frustrated.

“I mean, I wouldn't mind letting you take a nibble out of me with those teeth.” Astarion flashed his fangs at him in kind. “To repay you for all the times you've been kind enough to keep me fed and happy, but —from how you describe your condition— I doubt undead flesh is what you have in mind.”

“Fortunately for you, no,” Falorin said, “but you see, that's why I came to you tonight.” He took a deep, bracing breath. “I need to ask a favor of you.”

“By all means.”

“Watch over me tonight. Please,” he begged. “The last time I remember being this bad off, it was when I first discovered I was something… different. For days, I was hungry, so I ate, and I ate. Nothing helped, though. Then, a young man saw me fall down in an alley. When he tried to help me up, I—”

A whirlwind of emotions choked him up for a second.

“All it takes is a single touch. He was the first person I could remember ever offering me a helping hand in years, and I repaid his kindness by killing him. I watched the life drain from his eyes, and he was nothing but an empty husk by the time I was through with him.

“Astarion.” He reached out, resting a hand upon his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “You will be safe with me tonight, but the others will not. Promise me that you will watch over me and keep them safe.”

“So much responsibility,” he sighed, but he knew that feeling all too well, how wretched it was to be reduced to some feral creature of the night, to be a slave to the hunger that was supposed to empower them. How could he possibly deny Falorin his request? “I promise you that I will keep them safe, but you must promise me that, come tomorrow, you will feed upon the first enemies we encounter.”

Falorin nodded eagerly in agreement.

“I swear.”

“And, Fal, my dear.” Astarion's expression gentled. “You should probably consider telling the others, too. Sooner rather than later.”

With another nod, he shifted closer to Astarion's side, suddenly bashful. Vulnerable.

“I will,” he mumbled, then glanced up at him, hopeful. “Astarion, can we—can we lay together?”

Astarion raised a brow at him in amusement.

Of course, Falorin realized a second too late how his words held a double meaning.

For a moment, Astarion swore he saw a hint of color find its way back to his cheeks.

“Well, I didn't think you would be in the mood for that tonight,” Astarion teased in a purr, “but if you insist…”

“Oh, you!” Fal gave him a playful nudge, then crossed his arms over his chest in a huff. “You know that's not what I meant.”

“One can dream, at least,” Astarion joked, but he was already lying down as he spoke, tugging Fal along with him. “Now, I know the pain is uncomfortable, but do try to rest, my dear.”

Once Falorin curled up against his chest, Astarion slowly wrapped his arms around him, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead.

The aches never relented.

His stomach gurgled. His throat burned.

He knew no relief that night.

That spark of darkness inside him spread into an all-out inferno. It thrashed, and it writhed. It gnashed its teeth and tore his insides to pieces.

But Astarion held him through it all.

And that meant the world to Falorin.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #bg3 tav #astarion ancunin #falorin sungleam #my oc #tavstarion #astarion x tav #bluerose writes #in which i torture my darling elf some more

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