#// i just can't put it all into words coherent enough to write them here yet

[armafidelium]

do you ever think about how the support system hs phel has with the group probably was the best thing for him after no doubt the devastation of his voice and just how he probably just feels eternally grateful to each of them or is this just me in my feels?

[amerricanartwork]

I saw your lilypad art post, and I got curious: why do you enjoy lilypad? it's not a common RW ship, so I'd be interesting to hear what about it you enjoy!

Hear me out, guys... I must explain myself before I get onto the Lilypad essay.

I made that original comment because, at the time, I wanted to just get the aforementioned headcanons out as soon as possible. Understand, my reluctance wasn't because I didn't want to talk about Lilypad, but rather the exact opposite: I had so many feelings about it, yet had put so little effort into expressing them in a coherent, presentable format that I just knew it'd distract me for the next week or two if I let it rent too much space in my conscious thoughts. But now that little comment has left me with several people asking me to share those thoughts, and, both thankfully and unfortunately, I simply can't resist indulging in thoughts about the characters I love—!

Keep in mind, I haven’t finished Saint campaign yet, and even then I’ve found like less than half the broadcasts in Spearmaster campaign yet, so there’s likely some extra canon info I may be missing that could add to or change some of what I say here. I also apologize if some of what I write here seems really out-of-character. I try not to let my passion for my little headcanons and scenarios make me disregard the canon, but even so, I might slip and think up some weird things occasionally. Nonetheless, I feel like I’ve got enough of the picture to start confidently enjoying this ship, so I’ll talk about it anyway! 

As always, feel free to add to these ideas if you can! Without further delay, enjoy this 3381-word essay, with a few initial headcanons sprinkled in, on why I adore Lilypad!

Oh, and just in case, if you couldn’t already tell, major Hunter campaign spoilers below.

Quetzalli on Loving Lilypad

I’m gonna start this out with a preface: I can generally find the appeal in a lot of different ships and the art other fans make for them, but for me to ship something enough to actively draw it and make my own headcanons about it and such (outside of, perhaps, gifts for other people), it usually has to contain a variety of “ship tropes” that I personally fancy. Many of my most-favorite ship tropes tend to be the ones that aren’t just cute, but that carry narrative significance and seem poetic in some way, usually because they can facilitate character arcs in the involved characters. The more of these a ship has, or the more ship tropes I can portray it with without it seeming too out-of-character, and the more I like those specific tropes, the better. This principle is a major reason why I’ve gravitated towards Artimand as my main slugcat ship, but for now, I’m going to focus on which of these I see in Lilypad — in canon content, other fan-portrayals, and my personal headcanons — that, as opposed to other iterator ships, has currently won me over.

I’m gonna describe the main general things I like seeing in this ship. Some of them are more due to fandom portrayals than what’s in the canon, but they all play a big role in my current love for Lilypad. 

Synergy

I’ll begin with how I really appreciate just how much synergy Looks to the Moon and No Significant Harassment are shown to have, at least in fan content! I always like seeing pairings where the characters aren’t just romantic, but also work really well together as a team or even just as friends. After all, just because the characters may be romantically in love doesn’t mean they must only show it in explicitly romantic ways. To me, Lilypad strikes me as a relationship where Sig and Moon would make an amazing team in many aspects of their lives, whether it's collaborating on projects, sharing their interests, or trying to maintain order in the rest of their group. And their compliment is just really sweet to me, though I’ll get to that later.

A Shoulder to Lean On/The Lady

One of my favorite ship tropes is “character with a lot of weight on their shoulder who finally gets to lift it off and be ‘normal’ for once when around the other”. I’ve always found it sweet when characters like this, especially ones who are normally very selfless, finally get a chance to indulge and enjoy themselves for once! And once again, this is another thing I imagine in Artimand too, and you could project this onto Trafficlights given Suns’s implied high status, but I think it works especially with Lilypad, given Moon’s role as group senior means she objectively has a lot to manage all the time with no permanent escape from it. Even beyond the whole Five Pebbles rot drama, Moon probably had a lot on her plate just in terms of maintaining order between the rest of the group and setting a good example to the younger generations, especially as the group expanded over time, not to mention trying to find the solution herself. Combine this with how I picture her to be the kind of person who cares a lot about her image as a “proper” and  “dignified” leader, and someone who often sacrifices her own desires to promote the group’s welfare, I just find it really soft for her to have someone to lean on, metaphorically (and in a worm-off-the-string scenario, literally), and who better to go to than her best teammate, who knows the power of a good laugh and will stop at nothing to have fun with those he loves? Not to mention, since I headcanon Sig as slightly younger than Moon (2nd gen, specifically), I just find it rather cute in an ironic sense that the older, more serious Moon is soft around the younger, far more chaotic Sig, especially as Moon would go through the realization that she actually kinda likes this little troublemaker! 

This also comes back to something I mentioned in the tags of that beepsnort post, which is that one of my other favorite ship tropes is “guy who loves/is good at making people laugh x girl who has a REALLY weird/embarrassing laugh”, and that just works so well with Lilypad! It’s admittedly a very headcanon-based thing for me, but given how I’ve already explained my perception of Moon as very proper and serious, I imagine one of the best ways Sig takes the weight off her shoulders is by being the only person who can consistently make her laugh so hard! And with the beepsnort headcanon it’s even cuter, because of course Moon would be super embarrassed every time she even so much as gives a half-chuckle at one of his jokes, because Sig is relentless when it comes to getting the giggles out of her, and he won’t stop until she’s rolling and shaking on the floor of her chamber, her beepy-snorts filling the room! My GODDD I love this trope so much, and for beings who are inherently such workaholics, I think getting to genuinely relax and have fun for a bit, once she gets over the initial shock and embarrassment, would be something Moon would really come to value.

Inverses Attract/The Tramp

I’ve mentioned it in my last Artimand headcanons post, but one of my absolute all-time favorite ship tropes is the classic “opposites attract”, although I prefer the name “inverses attract”. As I like to portray it, the trope not only involves characters who are opposites personality-wise, but those being opposites of the same core aspect, and ultimately helping balance each other out by offering the other half of the equation to each other (hence the name “inverses”). The trope I just wrote about above is how Sig helps Moon to relax and have fun, but as I try to do with all ships, how does it work the other way too? Well, I really like to imagine Sig learning to be more openly serious and dedicated! Don’t get me wrong, Sig is a hard worker (it’s pretty much the nature of all iterators), but given he seems to pretty strongly reject the quest for the Triple Affirmative, I imagine the next problem would be in him finding a new purpose to strive for. And what better new purpose than in standing by and protecting the group senior he thinks he just might wanna be more than friends with?

It already works because Moon, of course, would work to keep Sig in check and make sure he doesn’t go too overboard with his shenanigans. But just imagine how inspired he’d grow over time seeing Moon work so hard to keep the group together and keep them striving for their purpose, even if he doesn’t agree with it. I imagine it’s why Sig’s methods are still rather controlled rather than purely chaotic, and there’s a reason to his rebellion. Thanks to Moon, rather than slaving away at a seemingly impossible solution until his mind collapses with his structure, he’ll use his talents to, at the very least, keep the local group together as long as possible, because even if they’ll all be gone one day, that doesn’t mean they have to go alone!

It’s why I’m also labeling these two tropes together as “the Lady and the Tramp”, yet another ship dynamic that gets me every time! It’s a specific instance of “inverses attract” where the noble, proper lady finds a taste of freedom and courage from the dangerously charming tramp, who from her finds a new sense of purpose and honor! And in my opinion, Lilypad is most definitely the best opportunity for this dynamic among Rain World ships!

The Fated Couple

Slow-burn couples seem to be pretty popular in many fandoms, but what about a really slow-burn? There’s something just so romantic to me about the idea that Moon and Sig, from the moment they met, have always just clicked so perfectly, and have been by each other’s side so constantly ever since, to the point it seems practically inevitable to everyone (except them of course) that they’ll eventually get together romantically. Of course, there are two main roadblocks to their romance being 1.) their whole objective and purpose for being created is kind-of fundamentally opposed to strong attachments like love (I mean, if Karma 3 is Companionship, wouldn’t romantic love be considered the worst example of that?), and 2.) even if they did reject this purpose, being massive immovable structures with the only humanoid part stuck deep inside a box, a budding romance seemingly couldn’t really go anywhere anyway. In fact, because of these roadblocks much of my Lilypad imaginings take place in the ever-popular “worm-off-the-string” scenario, especially since the next couple of reasons for why I like the ship play a lot into the themes I like to incorporate in this story concept. 

However, these issues towards such a romance are also what make it so sweet in the end! Just think of Moon, alone in her chamber, beginning to worry about how she’s actually kinda sorta, maybe, hypothetically, possibly, just a little bit starting to like the carefree and charismatic Gen 2 in the local group as even more than just a work partner and a dear friend, but oh no, that’s indulging in a Karmic Sin, and as group senior she can’t just throw away their purpose like that and set such a bad example to the rest! What’s she gonna do?? And then on the other side, Sig puzzling in his chamber, pining so hard for the group senior yet seemingly unable to confess, because, even disregarding Karma 3 and the fact that giant immobile calculators aren’t about to be snuggling any time soon, why would someone as perfect and powerful as her want someone like him, so dismissive of their core purpose and unorthodox in his methods? Is there even a point in having these feelings at all, when they might very well end up simply fading to dust along with the rest of his structure?

Maybe, they both think, it’d be better to just keep these feelings to themselves and quietly love from a distance. That is, until…

Moon’s Collapse and the Slag Reset Keys

The fourth reason is, of course, the most steeped in canon. It goes back a bit to the “shoulder to lean on” concept, but even aside from that, there is something just so romantic about this on both sides.

Firstly, from Moon’s perspective. There’s no doubt that the collapse must have been very traumatic for Looks to the Moon physically, but I like to think about just how much it’d affect her emotionally, too. I mean, being so painfully destroyed by your own brother, with seemingly nothing that can be done to stop it and no one to help you? And then consider how lonely it must have been in her final moments. The only comfort she does get is from Spearmaster’s visit, and even then she sends him off to go deliver her final words, which has still got to be really depressing. And finally, think about how betrayed she must have felt, trying so hard throughout her operation to help her citizens and the local group and be kind to everyone, only to have it be repaid like this, forced to collapse in on herself, being buried under her own body, unfathomable pain all around, and with not a soul to help her.

So then, think about just how shocking and heartwarming (literally, if you think about it) it must be when that lovable Gen 2, always so playful and carefree normally, is the one to give her a second chance and being her back when all hope seems lost, and using such a unique delivery method no less! I mean COME ON, Sig literally brought her back to life, how could one NOT fall in love with someone who did that for them? It links back to the “shoulder to lean on” idea, in that, for once, someone finally looked out for Moon and gave back to her for all the kindness she gave to the world. Think about this as the moment she truly realizes she’s in love with No Significant Harassment, and how tragic it’d be knowing now, it’s too late to say it. But, even so, if he’s willing to go this far to make sure she’s okay, then maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance her love at least wasn’t alone.

Now, my thoughts about this from No Significant Harassment’s side (which also kinda turned into a mini NSH appreciation paragraph that links back to the earlier Inverses Attract and Lady and the Tramp segment), I think it’s very poetic to see him going out of his way to take his messenger concept, originally used for no more than a trivial prank and at most a very experimental and unfinished alternative communication method, and turning it into a noble last-ditch effort to rescue the one he loves. It doesn’t just clearly show how much he cares for Moon that he worked to save her when no one else did (and if that’s because the odds of being able to do anything seemed very low to the rest of them, that makes it even more sweet) I think it shows off a lot of Sig’s character beyond just being a jokester. Like, I’d seen this kind of personality for Sig in the fandom content before, but this action and the other broadcasts are what first made me truly realize not just that it is based in canon, but that, more importantly he’s not just stupid or unfocused, he’s rebellious. He doesn’t joke around because he just doesn’t care, it’s because he’s independent, he’s got other places he wants to go and plans that don’t fit into what most of his peers are used to. He makes light of the world because he sees what others don’t, and it’s honestly pretty frickin’ funny how blind others can be most of the time (case-in-point: him making a slugcat from a messenger, which no one else thought to do because those creatures seemed too “dull” and “primitive” to ever be capable of such a thing). So think about how significant it must be when he’s openly taking something seriously. This is where that dynamic of the Tramp, and how Sig would benefit from this relationship is really highlighted. I just adore it when the easygoing, carefree character finally finds purpose in their lover, and springs into serious action like they never were before! And it makes sense too given what I said about them not getting together before: seeing Moon collapse would show him directly that even beings as durable as iterators don’t last forever, so if he’s got these feelings for Moon, he’s got to make a move while there’s still a chance! And what better way to show his love than to bring her back when all hope seems lost? Which brings me to the final aspects I’ll talk about here, first of which is…

True Love’s Kiss

Yes, you read that right. The real reason I love the slag reset keys as a plot element so much is not just because it shows Sig’s secret strength of character, not just because it finally gives reward to Moon’s kindness, but because it is a real fairytale come true! 

I know this sounds crazy and probably totally unrelated to Rain World, but think about it! You guys have probably seen Snow White and Sleeping Beauty before, or at least one of the two? Isn’t the whole trope that the beautiful princess, fairest maiden in the land, gets cursed through some means or another to die (or in Aurora’s case, fall into an indefinite sleep), which is only undone when the strong and brave prince, riding upon his noble steed, awakens the princess by giving her true love’s kiss? I already love both those movies on their own for various other reasons, but after my description, is this starting to sound familiar in another way?

I mean, with everything I’ve said about Moon in this post so far, there’s no doubt you could perceive her as the “fair princess”, who through unfortunate circumstances is put to a premature and indefinite death. And there’s no doubt Sig fills the role of the brave prince by working to save her with the slag reset keys, which in this metaphor are undoubtedly the “true love’s kiss” that ultimately conquers all, always longed for, and finally delivered! And hey, given Hunter is the one to carry the keys to Moon, a small yet courageous beast who stops at nothing to meet his goals, Sig even has his own “noble steed”! And even if Hunter is technically the one to actually deliver the green neuron, and the death the “princess” succumbs to wasn’t out of genuine malice towards her, I think the sentiment is still there and the parallel is close enough! 

But yes, as strange as it may sound, the fairytale parallel is the main reason Lilypad resonates with me so much! Those classic fairytale-esque romance tropes and that poetic storytelling found in Disney’s first feature-length animated films has always been dear to my heart, and is even more so now that I’m older and can truly appreciate the beauty of them. So now, even in my fandom experiences, ships that win my appreciation over all others are often those that manage to embody those classic romance tropes and themes as best as possible, and frankly, even Artimand loses ever-so-slightly to Lilypad in this regard! Or, as I also enjoy calling them, “Lifeline”, for reasons that are probably obvious now. 

And it’s even better when you consider…

Some Things Never Change

Another trope I’ve recently begun to love is the idea that some phenomena in the world never truly disappear, but simply manifest in different ways, sometimes unexpected ones. And given the whole Triple Affirmative quest and the Ancients’ mass ascension philosophy, this idea is something I especially love seeing in Rain World content. Even the canon events show this idea, but think about how wonderfully it would work with Lilypad beyond just the slag reset keys, especially taking up that “worm off the string” iterator AU concept some have explored in this fandom already.

Just think about how sweet it would be when Moon and Sig, operating primarily through their puppets now, get to finally hug and kiss and be with each other so directly now! Think of the way Sig would speak to Moon about how, even after her collapse, she's still somehow beautiful as ever, and Moon returning with how even all the trouble the group has faced hasn't put a dent in his charm! And it's even sweeter when you consider it’s against everything their creators stood for! Think of Moon, after everything she’s been through and how much she’s probably changed at this point, now willing to give some of these “worldly attachments” a chance, because you can never truly get rid of them, but she knows better than anyone that you won’t be around to experience them forever, so why not enjoy it while you’ve got the chance? And it’d make sense too, not just for her own benefit, but for Pebbles and the rest of the group’s sake too! She’s always strove to set a good example for them, and since their original quest has left them with nothing but pain and trauma, why not show them that maybe all these attachments aren’t so bad after all?

I just think it’d be really interesting to see Moon joining Sig in that rejection of the Triple Affirmative, and what better way to do that than by finally embracing that love they’ve felt for each other for so long? Because love never truly dies, it just appears in new people. And maybe they don’t have to spend their whole lives as grand iterators, the vast infinitely-advanced mechanical deities who embody perfection in almost every way. Maybe, even just for a bit, they can just be people, falling in love just as their creators did all over again!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

And with that, I think I’m FINALLY done here. HOLY COW, this is easily my longest post yet, and I hope it doesn’t disappoint! Part of the reason it took so long was because I was trying to find the perfect way to express all these ideas without it just spilling out onto the page in some weird half-coherent mess. But eventually I just said “ah screw it, let’s just ramble about this ship and see where it goes!” and my god, did it go far! And I still managed to somewhat organize it, so yay!

But aside from that, thank you SO MUCH to everyone who asked for my thoughts on Lilypad, and everyone who made it to the bottom of this essay! I’ve never really gotten a chance to openly ramble about one of my favorite ships to the rest of the fandom like this, so seeing that some fans, even if it’s ultimately not a huge amount, actually wanted me to do it was such a welcome surprise!

I hope you all enjoyed the drawings and the art! I’ll be around in case someone wants me to write another ship essay or something! And who knows, it’s likely I’ll find more reasons I like Lilypad as time goes on and I see more fan-content and find the rest of those broadcasts! But at least this was a starting point! 

Expect more LIlypad content to come in the future, but until now, thanks again for the opportunity!

[fairyhaos]

How To Fucking Write: a guide by fairyhaos

[masterlist]

this post details:

SLOW BURNS

hi gays and gals! "how to fucking write" is back, with yet more advice and tips for everyone ^^ please feel free to send me an ask if there's something you want me to talk about or if you want to be added to the taglist! and as always, please reblog if you find this helpful :)

# - HOW TO SLOW BURN.

.. bullet point one : word count .

putting this here because i have one thing to say about this.

word count doesn't matter.

you don't have to have over 50k words or some shit in order to write a really, really good slow burn. similarly, you can't just the quality of a slow burn—or a story in general—by its word count.

yes, maybe stories with higher word counts tend to be better slow burns, but that's not because of the word count. it's because of what they do with the words.

so if you've finished writing your story and you're happy with it and it doesn't feel rushed, doesn't feel too slow, and it doesn't mess up the relationship development, that's it. don't try to add words just because it's not "long enough".

word count doesn't matter.

(that being said though, there have to be enough words for it to actually be a slow burn, but. that's a given.)

.. bullet point two : plan .

now i know that there are people who don't like planning, or their writing style means that they feel more comfortable with just winging it and throwing words at the paper.

however, for a really good, well-paced slow burn, it's really really important for you to create a plan.

it doesn't have to include everything! it doesn't need to be an exhaustive breakdown of all the scenes you're going to put into the story, but you need to know vaguely what's going to happen, and how you want your characters to act.

because slow burn is a leadup to a relationship, right? it's about relationship building. their relationship is a castle, and you need to know what your castle is gonna look like before you start haphazardly slapping bricks on top of each other.

plan the milestones you want their relationship to reach. think about what scenes you want to use that will signpost the gradual change in their relationship (more on signposts down below).

think about how you want the slow burn to reach its climax, and also when.

what will that climax be? will it be the realisation of feelings? will it be the confession? maybe a rejection of confession?

all of that can be figured out when you plan. having the climax in mind and having the ending in mind are things i will always advocate for when it comes to writing.

especially with slow burns. because it's all about that heart-wrenching climax, isn't it? when someone blurts out their emotions, and there are tears and shaky whispers and it makes you want to scream because feels.

planning helps with coherency, too. helps everything flow more naturally and make the slow burn overall feel more well thought-out and more impactful.

plus, i dunno about you guys but planning out how shit's gonna go down and cackling over how you're going to make your readers cry with every single almost confession scene and every single mutual pining part is just the most incredible thing in the world.

.. bullet point three : signposts

i mentioned this above, but having signpost scenes that you and your readers can use to identify milestones in the characters' relationship is very, very important.

for example, a very simple set of milestones would be:

the scene wherein X falls for Y

a scene wherein X almost spills their feelings to Y

the situation wherein Y suddenly realises their own feelings for X

a scene where they feel like they're about to lose each other

something that makes someone confess

it's horribly simple, and very vague, but these are the basic milestones that most slow burns will use to influence their characters' relationships.

but nevertheless, do you see how each of these scenes are important?

how all of them help the relationship progress? build up the slow burn, until it finally reaches its peak?

of course, the story would probably include more than just these scenes. if it's a good story, then of course it will.

but these are the most important, and recognising what your important scenes are, and making sure that you know how many you're putting in and in what way they influence the plot is very key to writing slow burns.

.. bullet point four : motive

this is perhaps not a very necessary bullet point, but if you wanna go all-in with your slow burn and make it knock-out spectacular, then i suggest that you think on this bullet point for a while.

why aren't your characters together right now?

---is the question you should be asking yourself to make it a really stellar slow burn.

why can't your characters confess? why can't they realise their feelings? what is stopping them from simply going from being friends to realising they're in love and then confessing?

your characters need a motive.

often, that motive is really simple. there's a whole bunch that are commonly used but, if you do it well, then it'll be as hard-hitting as if it's something no one could have ever predicted.

are they not together because they...

...used to be enemies? have been friends for too long? don't know whether they're really in love or if it's just a fluke?

maybe they don't believe in love. maybe they're loving someone who they think will never love them back. maybe they don't even realise they're in love.

the beauty of it all is that you get to choose. you get to pick your own dilemmas for your characters, and write about their messy path to realisation, through their slow burn, while untangling all their emotions throughout their journey.

slow burn is about feelings, after all. make those feelings complex. truly think in your character's thoughts, just for a moment, and think about how it would feel to be in that situation. think about how they'd react. what they'd do.

and also what's holding them back.

motives make everything even more deliciously painful. you can truly sympathise with the characters' relationship progression then, and can really get readers invested as they try to see how the characters overcome their struggles.

besides. don't we all love when X shouldn't love Y but they're going to love them anyway?

... and that's it ! if anyone has anything else they want advice on (how to structure, how to write dialogue, how to plan etc) then just shoot me an ask, because i'd love to help however i can :)

tagging (comment/send ask to be added!): @mesanthropi @stqrrgirle @weird-bookworm @eternalgyu @blue-jisungs @yumilovesloona @the-nightfox-nest @lvlystars @anemoiant

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

I had coffee my thoughts are all over the place it's not gonna make sense and I'm probably gonna change my mind about some of the things I said later but here's my ramble.

I'm so mad right now. There's so many things that piss me off with Peter B. I keep thinking about all the mess he keeps pulling throughout the first and the second movie. The fact that he betrayed Miles not once but twice BUT THREE TIMES (typing Miles up in ITSV, not telling him about the Spider Society or that he was an anomaly, CALLING HQ ON HIM BECAUSE HE WANTED TO SAVE HIS FATHER. Technically that's 4 but moving on.)

He refuses to acknowledge Miles as a fellow spider(which is probably why he didn't feel bad about finding Miles was an anomaly now he has a reason to not take Miles seriously.) And he keeps trying to insert himself into a mentor role when he's yet to do a whole lot of mentoring. What also throws me here is how he had the audacity to say the trauma builds character while being a mentor to help guide Miles into becoming Spiderman so Miles' could avoid the mistakes that Peter made.

I WILL NEVER BE OVER THAT CHAIR SCENE IN ITSV. How is it you as a grown man. A grown white man no less took a black teenage boy who you viewed as so much of a liability that you had to tie him up. And I know multiple people have talked about everything that's wrong with this scene but there's still something so haunting about watching him just nonchalantly be tied up kicking and screaming about how he wants to be let go that bothers me so much. And I find it hard to believe that this was just a scene we're supposed to just move on from. Did they do this on purpose? Was this supposed to showcase something about Peter's character that I'm not picking up on? Because I find it so hard to believe that the writers who made sure to explicitly show how Gwen's Peter is Christian because he later turns into a lizard wouldn't understand the implications of this scene.

I also don't think he's a strategic as he thinks he is. What do you think was going to happen when you forcefully tied this boy to a chair? You thought he was going to sit still? Also would you think the boy who's trying to save his father was going to do? Actually listen to your words? Sit back and be like, oh you're right I should just let my father die. (This is me going off my reasoning that he didn't plan out that one scene in ATSV. I think that he thought that because he's Miles' "mentor" he could get through to him in a way others can't. Which pretentious much?) His actions do more harm than good and it just works out for him somehow. (For instance Miles saving them in ITSV because he came late.)

These are my thoughts do with this what you will. All the stars decided to align today ig because I haven't been able to come up with coherent thoughts like this in a minute.

(I really need to rewatch itsv. So if there's anything here that I'm wrong about regarding itsv it's been like 5 years since I've seen it.)

I GET THISS SOOO HARD (I waited until I had coffee to answer this lol)

BUT YESSSSS Because like I can understanding giving Peter the benefit of the doubt, it makes plausible sense for a movie to have a certain amount of wiggle room plot wise.

But with writers who clearly understood punk enough to accurately show it in Hobie's arc, repeatedly put in the work to respect Cockney and Puerto Rican culture, who wrote every one of Hobie's lines with PERCISION - would just overlook the glaring hole in their story that is Peter.

Because we as a viewer are continually told we SHOULD look up to him and we SHOULD trust him - but in doing so they accidentally make him the exact opposite. Like.. It doesn't make sense to me.

The Focus on Jess & The Absence of Peter:

aka GODDAMN I hate Peter B. Parker [yet another rant about 'bad' writing, plotholes, and Peter not showing up for Miles or Gwen.

For example,

Jess is Gwen's mentor, and we see her mentor style is extremely different from Peter's and that's suppose to be a contrasting dynamic between them and the relationship between Miles and Peter. Okay, makes sense.

But by NOT having Peter be Gwen's mentor, the writers are implying that he didn't step up as an emotional mentor when all this given - HE SHOULD. Because he's the only adult that she knows, and she a freshly homeless teen who needs to be around people she trusts, rather than working at a society with an auditorium of adults.

But by trying to show off how much we should judge Jess, the writers have inadvertently given us a Peter who just..didn't take responsibility. That's what they're implying - that Hobie and Jess were the ones who came to get aid. And we're suppose to look the other way. I... can't do that, sir.

"Look at how mean Jess is, why not blame her-" Jess is doing her job. Where's the adult she actually knows and trusts. Can we get some dialogue about what he did for her? Or did he just do nothing?

Did they just forget to include that, or did Peter just forget to help?

For me, that's two points in the bucket. Not housing Gwen, and not being her mentor. He could've done one, the other or both.

But because he didn't, we're left asking "What WAS he doing in the Society?"

Missions, I assume. Cause he wasn't mentoring her, so he must have been off putting in legit work for Miguel, I assume.

If we're looking at the characters as full-rounded - which I would hope they are considering the depth of Gwen, Miles and Hobie, it's not a large jump to ask 'How involved was Peter in Gwen's time at the Society? Why is he not her mentor, or why is she not living with him?"

Gwen..should be staying with him. If you're an adult who knows a teen and they become homeless, and it is within your means - yeah, I do think it's a moral obligation to open your home to them, at least temporarily. If you care about them. But that aside, let's extend the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Gwen didn't want to see him.

But then the ratting Miles out thing. This, I can't get around-

Some may say that it was simply for plot development and that Lyla spoke suddenly as a mistake on her part.

And I gotta call bullshit.

Firstly, because this is the same movie where we're shown Hobie stealing parts prior to learning what the parts are for. The same film that literally animated a fight accurately to Bushwick down to the very street. Let's cut it some slack here.

And moreso - I could understand the justification that it was a mistake on Lyla's part.

If Lyla was human. She's not.

She's an AI, and a very sophisticated one at that. Lyla runs on protocol, because that's AI's do. She's made to do things the way that is mathematically most effective, based on her analysis and her code.

It's easy to see Lyla as just an avatar, and a comedic one at that - but Lyla is literally one of - if not the - smartest 'person' in the multiverse. She's the only one who can track Spot in real time. If Jess and Miguel need aid on a mission or with Spot, they call Lyla. And she's handled every Society mission prior to the chase.

Her speaking out of turn suddenly and giving Peter away is an understandable plot mistake, if she was subjected to human mistakes.

So far, Lyla isn't. It doesn't make sense, based on what Lyla is.

I think Lyla would know better than to give Peter away suddenly by detecting Miles' presence and still speaking out loud.

A lot ask 'What motive does Peter have for ratting Miles out?', but we also should also ask "What motive does Lyla have for ratting herself out?'

It's her goal to find Miles no matter what. She doesn't care, she kinda can't - she's an AI. She just has to find him and send Miles' location to Miguel. Her objective.

So her locating Peter without his knowledge and then giving herself away to him doesn't make sense - especially if Lyla knew Miles was that close, from a human standpoint and definitely from the standpoint of the most sophisticated AI in existence.

So I was under the assumption that - like you mentioned now, that before when he gets Miles alone, he may genuinely be trying to convince him still, but by the time they get into that space, I think that's around the time that it becomes a 'Okay, let's just get Miles back to HQ and talk about this' situation.

He genuinely ratted Miles out. In my eyes.

Because at this point, Miguel hasn't assaulted Miles. That comes later. So realistically speaking, his goal was probably to calm Miles down, and get him back to HQ however he could, and talk to him there.

Peter could've helped WAYYYY earlier.

People give Peter credit like 'Oh but he came over to Miles' side at the end-'

NO. YOU DO NOT GET A COOKIE.

Peter could've helped SO much earlier, and if anything, he was THE ONLY ONE in a position of helping.

Gwen can't do anything, like they physically restrain her when she tries to. And there's no point after they come to HQ that Gwen has the chance to turn around and help Peter.

Gwen doesn't get that chance. Peter DOES.

Had Peter helped Miles HERE, IMMEDIATELY, Miles would've gotten away without being assaulted by Peter.

If Peter had turned around and changed course in this moment, Miles would have been better off.

Fuck Peter B. Fuckkkkk hiiiimmmmm. NAWWWWWW

If Peter had let him go here, or helped him escape - Miles wouldn't have been taking hits up on that train. That's crazzzy.

But he wasn't trying to help Miles escape. If he wanted to, he would've. He could've just said "Matter of fact Miles, I think setting the WHOLE Society on you is a bizarre move and you should probably get out of here until Miguel can calm down and I can talk to him."

But he was like 'Nah, hold my baby. Matter of fact lemme tell you story in this pivotal moment when you're actively in danger. Here, look at me. What do you mean - I'm not stalling? I didn't rat him out on purpose.

Like either you did. And even if you didn't you didn't help him when you were literally the only person in the universe who could. In fact, he got away slower because of you. Lovely.

Peter is a grown man. He's not an idiot.

He knows Miles is in active danger. Why would an adult turn the conversation in that direction - about his baby - KNOWING Miles has no time.

As soon as Miles got his hands on MayDay, Peter is trying to change the conversation. Suddenly he's joking and laughing.

Even though Miles is freaking out. Why is Peter joking? He knows this isn't a joking situation. But here he is wasting Miles time, either accidentally or intentionally.

Because that'd be some good ass stalling.

There was nothing stopping Peter from helping him leave. But Peter was still on The Society's side, so he didn't. If he was on Miles' side, he would've helped him. He should've, but he was still for Miguel, because at this point Miguel hadn't assaulted Peter yet.

Congrats, Peter. Big L. Humbling Reality Spider-man everyone.

Like combine all this. AND THEN THE SCENE IN ITSV.

LITERALLY AND PHYSICALLY PETER IS ALWAYS HOLDING MILES BACK.

You cannot expect me to believe that the writers of a movie I can write 10k+ words about, just so happened to leave these two glaring plot holes for ONE character.

That I'm just suppose to ignore that Peter restrained Miles, a black boy, in ITSV. That he betrayed Miles for months, wasn't very active in Gwen's time at the Society, and he actively hinders Miles escape - if not actively ratting him out.

It baffles my mind.

It doesn't make sense, that these writers can write Hobie, Jessica, Miguel, Officer Stacy, Rio, and Jeff as fully rounded, well-thought characters. But for some reason, when it comes SPECIFICALLY to Peter B. - they just forget how to write. They just stop thinking about him the second they don't look at him.

IN BOTH MOVIES?

I don't buy it.

To have every other character be thoroughly thought through but have one of, if not these most iconic character full of plot holes...

I think the likely answer is they wrote him that way on purpose and he's just a bad person.

I'm sorry, and I'm laughing while writing this but like.

Either Peter is the ONE singular character who has a series of emotional plotholes - or he's just a bad mentor. It's one or the other. And it's open to interpretation.

But I wanna cut the writers some slack and say, No - they thought it through. And No, Lyla did not just randomly speak out of turn, he contacted her first off-screen before she replied to him.

And by waiting till the very end to come around, waiting until the person who looks up to you is deeply wounded to finally turn around - that's the same arc Officer Stacy goes through.

And we're not supposed to clap for him. It's lovely, but he doesn't get an award. And neither does Peter, not at all.

Maybe if had helped Miles escape in that moment. Maybe if he was Gwen's mentor or he housed her.

But as far as we know he spent those months of Gwen in the Society doing fuck all. We've seen no sign of his contribution anywhere.

And in a story about mentorship, that says something.

Anyway. This is long. Again fiosfgihrgirturetuier I'm SORRY

Once again, Fuck Peter B. All my Hobies hate Peter B. (not a typo)

He's worse than Jess.

And he's not worse than Miguel but I like Miguel more and it's not because of the ass that's just a bonus Miguel is cool (but also very wrong. but like personality wise we're cool).

Ummm I feel like I got off track here. Oh well!!

Damn he be doing Miles dirty. SMH

Bye.

[elizabethshaw]

hm. thinking thoughts

under the cut for spoiler reasons:

this is literally just me writing stuff up in no real order so there is probably not all that much coherence to it. ah well

loved how unsettling it was having something wrong with the tardis! the tardis (in the tv show at least) is usually the one guaranteed safe place in any given dr who episode and so to have it suddenly a threat like that felt genuinely unnerving

the time window sequence was cool. really liked the fuzzy, there-but-not-quite-there visual effects

i also loved the monologue/prophecy/whatever, built things up very nicely and idk. i just vibed with it. i have more to say but the words are not coming to me right now

"and standing on high is the Mother and Father and Other of them all" i haven't even read lungbarrow but them saying "other" here immediately got my attention lmao

for an episode called "the legend of ruby sunday", it felt like (particularly in the last third of the story), there was remarkably little actual focus on ruby. while i do genuinely like her as a companion, i do feel like she's been one of the biggest casualties of the shift to a shorter series length with less time for "filler" episodes - we simply haven't had the time to get to know her on a deeper level, and i was hoping, given the title, that this story would do something to rectify that a bit. and then it didn't.

saying that, i did appreciate them giving her some more scenes with her mum this episode, i think she has a really nice dynamic with her family and we haven't seen enough of it since the christmas special imo

no trickster :( he got a mention at least but i was hoping he'd be the villain ngl

i have watched pyramids of mars once, four years ago, and barely remember the plot (my main memories of that episode are sarah with a gun ngl), probably going to have to rewatch it before next week. dailymotion you may have to be my saviour once again

not entirely sure how i feel about sutekh as the main villain. this is at least in part because my memories of pyramids of mars are hazy as anything, but i'm just... undecided. to its credit, the episode itself actually did a good job of getting me very excited about the reveal while i was watching, but as an overall thing? i don't know yet. i think i'm going to have to wait until i've watched the finale next week to form a full opinion

i reckon he must have hitched himself onto the tardis around/during "wild blue yonder" though - this is the first time where the tardis starts making The Noises, and is also the first time susan twist turns up, and that can't be a coincidence, especially given that, as previously established, it was likely fourteen's salt trick in this episode that let the toymaker back into the universe

i rewatched "the church on ruby road" earlier this week bc i figured it'd be a good shout and i hadn't watched it since broadcast, and during that i felt like mrs flood was maybe a "retired" companion, possibly a future companion (maybe of a future doctor) that we haven't met yet. after this ep though, i'm not so sure. she seems at least aware of sutekh in some way, and also seems potentially antagonistic, but i'm not sure she's actually directly linked to him. i'm fairly sure as well rtd said at some point she's more of a mystery for later series so. hm. it'll be interesting to see what more we get of her in part two

i can't shake the feeling that they are going to do something with susan further down the line. there have been more mentions of her in this series than in basically the rest of new who put together and i can't help but think that this must be for a reason even if susan twist wasn't her

anyway the real mystery for me: what is the vlinx. i have been thinking about this on and off since december. what is it. how did it get into unit to begin with. i need answers

[disdaidal]

by the way i wanted to stop by and tell u that i feel you very much re: your writing struggles and dilemmas!!! like it's so frustrating having so many thoughts and ideas and plots and headcanons etc and feeling like it's physically impossible to get down into words! and it sucks that it's so clearly and easily visualised in our head and yet when we attempt to put words onto paper/document it's like. this is a Mess.

but also literally every time i start criticising my own work these days i try and pull myself back and be like this is literally for me and when i don't put pressure on myself to try and have it perfect and ao3's greatest hits worthy then i usually end up having a blast typing out all my lil funky fic things and it's fun again. and then i wanna share it with a friend and i realise it's not coherent enough for that then it sucks again. then i tell myself its for FUN and it's a vicious cycle lmao

ANYWAY all that to say i hear you wholeheartedly and i think whatever you've managed to write is amazing and every little fic and au you've ever thought is probably incredible and i hope u always know that ❤️🫶🏻

Aaaand two days later~ 🙈

I already started writing a lengthy answer back to you, but then Tumblr decided to be a fucking 🍆 once again and deleted everything, so. 🤪

Anyway, I wholeheartedly agree with everything you said here. Having all these ideas, all these tropes and AUs, all those scenes and dialogues circulating in your brain and yet you feel like it's not good enough—definitely not good enough for publishing. You keep telling that to yourself: it's not good enough, it will never be good enough, you'll never be one of those popular writers who write these total bangers one after another, so why bother, right?

But I also wholeheartedly agree with that statement that you should primarily write for yourself. I also had a lot of fun recently writing something on my docs that I still haven't fully published on ao3 or anywhere else, and I gotta say, I kept rereading that work over and over again because that one I truly wrote it for myself. Like, it felt so good to be self-indulgent for a change (I honestly can't recall the last time I've genuinely enjoyed reading my own writing before that, which is very telling I think), and when I suddenly experienced that feeling—that pure joy—once again... That feeling was so euphoric.

Like, what even is the point of writing anything if it feels like nothing but pain and misery all the fucking time? 🙈 It should be fun and self-indulgent. Most of the time, at least. It's really fucking hard for sure, but it still should be fun.

Anyway, I'm rambling again here, so, thanks so much for this ask and your words of encouragement. Made me feel a little bit better again. <3 I also want to say that whatever you're currently writing, even just daydreaming about, I genuinely hope you're having a blast at it. And if you ever decide to publish/share any of those stories of yours, I'm 100% there are people out there who are ready to kiss your feet just for writing that story and sharing with them. I certainly feel that way about certain stories, even authors, so. Who knows, maybe our stories could have the same kind impact on other people, too.

Gotta stay positive and just... goddamn write. Right? :D

[moonyslove78]

So here's Part 2 because I have no fucking self control when it comes to these two and have to talk about everything when it comes to @liz-allyn's writing!

🕷️🕸️PART 2 - SUGAR & VICE VOL. 2

LOVE ON THE BRAIN SPOILERS AHEAD!🕸️🕷️

Jesus, the way my brain did a complete 360 in this moment! Completely filthy smutty thoughts to utterly emotional and heart wrenching. The "I love you, Forever. Remember? No matter what." Took me out. ❤️‍🩹😭

And I'm quite positive Honey was feeling the same way. You could see her quickly trying to put those walls right back up and regain her control on the situation.

But, jokes on us & Honey, she's always in control. Even when she's 'not', she actually is. Because Peter will make sure of it. He may play that tough exterior Mob Boss attitude up but when it comes to her, he admitted it himself. He wants it all.

Btw, this small part had such "Bad Romance" vibes and now I wanna listen to Gaga & dance around my kitchen.

🫠🫠🫠

That is all. Thank you for your time. 🙌🏽

Holy. Shit. Liz!

Where do I even begin to start here? I honestly wish I could even form coherent thoughts at this point. This had to have been one of the most filthy, while simultaneously being one of the most beautifully written smut scenes I've read in so long. (if not, ever)

I just can't with Peter's dirty talk. It makes my toes curl, while also making me want to cry from praise. If that's not Honey's ultimate lover, I really don't know who is! 😭

But also... damn... that was fuckin' hot. 🥵🤤

Just a few of my favorite dirty quotes from the Mob!Daddy himself, Peter Parker, everyone... 👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽

Also, same here, Peter... same here... I, too, lose my fuckin' mind when she calls you that name. Cause then you proceed to refer to yourself as such and fall head deep into the role. 🙌🏽😮‍💨

🙌🏽🙌🏽🙌🏽

Yessss... all of it. Give me it alllll!

Or well, give her all of it and I'll just read about it and pretend for that I'm Honey for a few. 👀

Oh and that slightly condescending tone with the "Shit, sweetie..." part... holy hell. 😈

I am always totally down for some gut rearranging when it comes to Peter & Honey. So like, this thought process of his in this moment was a complete and utter wet dream. 👏🏽 The way you've written this scene is just perfection and I cannot get enough! Nor can I put into words how much I truly loved this with a passion.

I'm noticing now how & why I was so enthralled with this scene. His reassurance and love for her shining brightly behind the utter filthy things he's saying and doing to her in the process, as well as her with him is outstanding. And I really cannot wait to see how things progress after this... (🥲 since I already know what's about to happen)

Like I had mentioned to you previously, this was where I simultaneously wanted to laugh, cry and help Peter beat down her door. But his reaction to such a situation was priceless. The way he very calmly decided that he wouldn't cause any scenes and that he wasn't going to give up in his proceeding to win her back. (Even though we all know he's won her back already... she's now just giving him hell. Which, I too, agree he deserves. 👀😂😭)

I just hope she doesn't go too hard on him. 😂

But also, liike... if it's the cause of chapter's such as this... go hard, Honey!! 👏🏽😂

Also... I know we all agree...

I fuckin' love Cat so much. I just wanna be her friend so bad.

And yet another reason I want her to be my friend. 😂👏🏽

The "Sure did." had me rolling though. Cause she certainly did "give him hell"... as well as a hell of a good time. 😈

Okay, so my final thoughts...

I mean, you're fucking incredible Liz. You have literally brought these babies back us and in the best filthy smutty way possible, reunited them.

I cannot wait to see what you have planned for the future and also, take any amount of time you need to do so. Your writing speaks for itself as to the time and dedication you put into it. It's truly breathtaking how you can make a smutty piece be such a well rounded, amazingly written piece of art. And I know so many of us can agree on that.

You have made me and so many other people so happy with the new beginning these two are embarking on. And I am so excited for the ride from here on out. 👏🏽🙌🏽

And for the record, I know @blooming-violets will probably agree, it was our pleasure & great honor to be your cheering squad! You both are such amazing, talented writers and just human beings in general and I am so damn lucky to have gotten to call you both my friends. 🥺🥰🤗

I love you Liz!! And thank you again for creating this amazing world that we can all escape to! ❤️👏🏽

love on the brain: sugar & vice, vol 2 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!OC]

summary: You didn’t think it was going to be easy, did you? AKA The night Peter and Honey reunited—Four. Months. Later. [mob!peter parker x oc!MJ] 

words: 11.8k (omfg)

NSFW/MINORS DNI - ABANDON ALL CHASTITY, YE WHO ENTER HERE (detailed warnings below)

extended warnings (spoilers): p^rn with plot, detailed smut, really just... filthy and deranged. slightly dubcon parts (although consent is clearly confirmed), no Y/N...ever, arguing, anger, jealousy, physical violence (slapping, scratching, throwing objects), almost hate sex, fem!reader with a vagina and breasts and wears a dress, oral (f! receiving), P in V, rough!dom Peter, sub!reader, possessive!peter, mirrors, titty!worship, shame and slight degradation, use of emojis, f! being restrained, discussion of masturbation, slight breeding kink, non-consensual voyeurism, moderate BDSM kink, “punishment” play (spanking, edging) bratty reader, peter parker being a dunce around women, mob!au, furniture harmed in the making of this

names used: daddy, princess, baby, babygirl

A/N: This is a one-shot standalone story that takes place immediately after the Epilogue of Vol 1. And serves as the official beginning of Vol. 2. If you haven’t read Vol.1, you really should. The main OC is AFAB and goes by the name “Honey.” You’ll need to read Vol. 1 to know why.  I try to be loose with my descriptions for people who prefer a Reader-Insert. But I’m not perfect. In this canon, Honey has a Latina heritage (as do I). Take that as you will. Thanks to @moonyslove78 and @blooming-violets for cheering me on through this very long hiatus. 

This is 18+ AF. And if you think the term ‘AF’ shows how old and out of touch you are, then you’re probably not old enough to read this.

This version of TASM Peter Parker is not canon. The relationships here are not healthy and the characters need therapy. Don’t date a mob boss IRL.

#1 - Love on the Brain

>>> heya boss. how’s your trip? 😜

Peter arched a brow as he peeked down at the text message.

>>> ⋯ >>> your trip to pound town? 🍆🍑 

He rolled his eyes, swallowing back an irritated snort.

Real mature, Felicia. 

He almost tapped out a haughty reply but stopped. Corners of his mouth turned down, he found himself unable to respond.

“So many choices. I just don’t know what I want.”

An understatement.

The girl of his dreams sat across from him in the quaint East Harlem Cuban restaurant. They were crammed together at a bistro table near the kitchen. The enormous menu took up the entire surface, and she had spent the last 25 minutes reading the items aloud. 

It was nearly 11 p.m., and they had yet to pick an appetizer. 

The woman he’d called ‘his Honey’ sweetly sighed with a shrug. “Now that we’re here, I just can’t make up my mind.” 

Her voice had a singsong tune to it, purposefully careless. Blissfully ignorant of the fact that Peter was starving.

“Maybe I’m just not feeling Cuban food tonight,” she shrugged, nonchalant.

Peter swallowed hard. Tried to rid his expression of any hint of impatience or irritation. 

“Oh,” he remarked delicately, thinking of all the different dinner reservations he’d made for tonight. It didn’t matter what magazine talked it up, didn’t matter how many “tire awards” it had won. 

Honey was unimpressed. 

“M’surprised,” he said, as emotionlessly as possible. “Thought you had your heart set on this place.”

The place was one of those hole-in-the-wall joints that had less than 10 tables, which made takeout the most popular choice. 

On this night however—a Tuesday— the restaurant was nearly empty, except for the overdressed couple and the loathsome kitchen staff, who didn’t expect to be subject to “este cabrón” and his picky girlfriend strolling in 30 minutes before closing. 

While Peter could feel the heat of their ire over the oven, Honey avoided it. She explained to the manager that Peter was “un ricacho que tiene demasiado dinero.” And with that, they were seated.

When Peter approached her earlier that afternoon in the park, he’d expected a much worse welcome. He nearly died of a panic attack when he spotted her on the park bench. It had been four long months since he’d attempted to communicate with her, and he half-expected her to throw her iced coffee in his face. 

Actually, he had no idea what to expect from her. Terrifyingly.

Peter had lamented to Felicia— “There’s no card that says, ‘Sorry, I ghosted you for a few months while attempting to shake the heat off my back.’ Which flowers say, ‘I apologize that the last conversation we had, I called you a whore in front of a room full of cops’?”

The true challenge came when Peter actually looked into her eyes. He didn’t expect that one look would render him useless. 

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Ethereal. Glowing. The human equivalent of a bouquet of sunflowers, with happy round cheeks and her hair tied back in a ponytail. She was the color of rainbows, and summer, and sunshine. She was the cherries of her red lip stain and the golden rays of her yellow linen sundress.

God, that dress. 

Peter planned for everything—but not that dress. 

His carefully rehearsed speech went out the window when he saw her in that dress: a cotton ruched-waist, tea-length gown in a yellow gingham pattern. It featured a sweetheart neckline that cradled her breasts perfectly between the halter tie-back straps. 

He had no idea where that dress came from, but it was the most perfect piece of fabric ever to grace a woman’s body. He would buy her twelve more of them, no matter the cost. He’d buy every last one.

He’d give her the sun, the ocean, Hawai’i, and all the stars in the sky— if only she’d forgive him. He was ready to throw himself on a bed of hot coals as long as it meant that she would take him back. If she would come back home.

Truthfully, he needed her to come home.

Not to get ahead of himself, he started by taking her to dinner. 

That was Felicia’s advice—women love dinner. solves everything. the fancier, the better, with lots of red meat—u know how they say food is the way to a man’s heart? dinner is the way to the ovaries. works every time.

Actually, Felicia gave Peter lots of advice. For once, he was more than grateful to accept it. 

>>> make her feel like you can’t take your eyes off her. but don’t stare. like a creeper  >>> be a gentleman, but not a pushover. you wanna be the good guy. soft YA novel boyfriend type

Followed quickly by—

>>> but not too soft! don’t be a little bitch. if she plays hard to get, you play offense.  >>> and defense.

Peter had no idea what she was talking about. But he knew when it was wise to trust the advice of more intelligent creatures than men.

Five restaurants later...

“I thought going to dinner was your idea?” Honey asked with pursed lips.

“It was; it was my idea,” he nervously replied. “Six hours ago—it was my idea.”

She narrowed her eyes to slits. “Hmm. Six hours. Long time to wait.” Her eyes fell down to the menu again. Her lack-of-sympathy said everything.

Peter’s pocket buzzed again, and he glanced down at the incoming text message from Felicia.

>>> ...???? 

He rolled his eyes. Tapped out a response.

<<< Not great.

“Am I interrupting something?” Honey asked with a clipped tone.

Peter jumped, pocketing his phone immediately. “No, just... just something... silly,” he muttered. “How ‘bout we get a few plates in, yeah? I’m gonna just order some stuff—”

“Like what?” she questioned skeptically.

“I don’t know,” Peter shrugged, his stomach twisting. “One of everything.”

“That’s wasteful,” Honey said, judgment sharpening her gaze. “Food waste is bad enough as it is in this city.”

“Well, at this point,” he snapped with an exasperated sigh, “I might be able to eat two of everything.” The words floated away from him, and he bit the inside of his cheek, wishing they would come back. Hesitantly, he made eye contact with Honey.

She peered at him disgustedly from over the top of her menu. She scoffed, crossing one leg over the other, and dropped the leather-bound book closed. 

“Don’t let me slow you down,” Honey said icily. “I’m not that hungry anyway.”

Peter’s eyes nearly bulged out of his skull. His pocket buzzed again. 

>>> the fuck? what do you mean?  >>> she was in love with you b4... how hard can it be to take her on a date?  >>> christ. did you fuck this up, parker?

He shoved the phone back in his jacket, nearly punching through the silk fabric. 

“If I’m wasting your time, tell me,” Honey sharply retorted. She crossed her arms even tighter across her chest. He had to force himself to look away from the way it plumped her breasts together. “I’d hate to keep you from something important.”

Felicia was right. He was fucking this up. Before he could open his mouth—

“Excuse me, señorita,” a masculine, smoky voice crooned at them. 

Peter and Honey glanced up to see a chiseled man in his 30s approach the table with a hurricane glass of ice. He was a specimen of Latin American art—a bronzed statue, with carved muscles that bulged out of his floral shirt. Deep brown eyes—no, hazel eyes— fixed on Honey as he reached across the table with rolled-back sleeves. The corded muscles in his arm, toned by long hours of hard labor, flexed gracefully as he gently set a cocktail in front of her. 

A frosted, colorless liquid speckled with crushed mint leaves filled the glass. Honey blinked with delighted surprise.

“Our compliments,” the young, disgustingly attractive waiter explained with a sultry smile and a thick accent. “In case you found yourself thirsty while browsing the menu.” 

A blush colored her skin as she glanced up at their handsome waiter. The sparkle in her smile was as blinding as ever, and she graciously looked back between the glass and the server.  The waiter— no way in hell this fuckin’ guy is a waiter— beamed back at her, enamored. 

“Oh, wow!” she gasped, reaching for the glass with dainty fingers. “Is this a mojito? That’s my favorite! How did you know?”

The waiter graciously chuckled. “Lucky guess. You look like a woman of refined taste.”

Peter felt his blood pressure rising.

Honey didn’t even look at her date, as if he was suddenly invisible. “Thank you,” she grinned, self-satisfied. “I mean, I do know my way around a Bacardi bottle.” The waiter chuckled, maybe too hard, at her silly joke.

“We want you to enjoy your evening with us,” the waiter added politely, sparing Peter a glance but keeping all his attention on Honey. “We are honored to have you as our guest.” 

The waiter spoke gentlemanly as he splayed his long fingers across his chest. “Please, take as much time as you need. No need to feel rushed. It is my pleasure to serve you.” 

Peter could feel a twitch behind his eye. Could have been the fire shooting out of his eyes. Fuck this prick, probably another Broadway reject or somethin’, couldn’t buy himself a decent shirt—His mind churned along with his anger.

Oblivious, Honey beamed up at him with a golden smile. “Thank you so much for saying that,” she replied, endearingly sweet. “You are too kind, um... I’m sorry, what was your name again?” 

“Pedro.”

Honey’s brows shot to her hairline. “Pedro?” she repeated, absolutely delighted. She glanced over at Peter. “Isn’t that something?”

The mob boss’ lip curled mirthlessly. “Oh, it’s somethin,’ alright.” 

Peter continued to burn his stare—fuck his stupid accent— into the side of the aloof waiter’s head. He wondered if Pedro’s handsome, chiseled jawline was sharp enough to cut through a noose.

Buzz..

>>> you’re keepin’ your cool, right?  >>> remember what i said.  >>> anything she wants. no questions asked! >>> don’t get all crazy possessive either

The joyful sound of her laughter ripped his attention away from his phone and back towards his charmed date. 

“Pedro,” she sweetly preened. “Can you give us a recommendation?” She briefly flashed her eyes at Peter before looking back at her new friend. “My date’s clearly distracted. He has no idea what I like.” 

Oh? Peter raised a brow at that. And lost his appetite.

Peter followed Honey down the hallway to his hotel suite while storm clouds swirled in his gut. Lighting crackled with each footfall. Tension clogged the atmosphere, and they shuffled in a silent fog to the door.

Despite Felicia’s advice about controlling his inner beasts, Peter’s hackles were raised, and his stomach growled. Now, he was hungry for more than just food. And simultaneously, he’d never felt so powerless. 

Peter noted how tightly she wrapped her arms around herself. Her face suggested she was deep in thought. He wondered if she was just as tightly wound as he was. Wondered if she could break his heart with just a look.

He was flailing. Pathetic.

Peter’s fist clenched his keycard tight. He had to be careful not to snap the card in half between his fingers. Was it from excitement or terror? Desire or rage? 

He had to focus, to make this work. He had nothing if he didn’t have her. 

Rigidly, Peter pushed the door open and stood to the side of the frame to let her enter. 

She paused briefly, lips tight, as she gazed into the rotunda entryway of the lavish suite. They hadn’t spoken in the car, and he hadn’t had the chance to explain the location. 

Letting out a steady breath, she strode through the threshold and stopped. Her body blocked the doorway. She turned to look up at Peter, defiant eyes flashing.

“This is as far as you go.” 

Peter blinked, looking at her in confusion.

Her tone was curt. Icy. He recognized that sound. It was the tone of voice she used when she wanted to draw blood, and it never failed to inflict pain. Her voice. Her eyes. Even her tongue was razor-sharp.

Peter curled a brow upwards. “Sorry?” 

Honey narrowed her eyes. “Not yet, you’re not.” 

He took a step back, blinking owlishly. 

“What did you think was going to happen tonight, Peter?” The ire of Honey’s question sliced through him. “Did you think you were gonna shave your face, take me to a fancy dinner, and then I’d just... open my legs for you?”

A literal ellipsis formed in his mind. 

Peter swallowed hard. “Uhhh—?”

“‘I’ll wait for forever, Honey,’ she parroted his earlier admission mockingly. “Is that all you have to say to me? You left me! For four months!”

Peter nodded his head, not sure exactly why or when he began. “I know, I know...”

“You know!?”

The walls of etiquette and politeness between them began to crack.

“How many times I gotta tell ya? I was tryin’ to protect ya, Honey—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

It stung like a snake bite. Rage filled her eyes, disdain bubbling out of her mouth. She had only just begun. 

“You buy me all this expensive bullshit!” she scolded. “And you dress up in your ridiculous designer suits and parade me to all these fucking pretentious places! Like I’m some kind of accessory! Like you own the whole fucking city and everyone in it!”

He replied with a string of noises. Or, at least, he thought so.

“Big bad mob boss—all that power—and yet, you couldn’t just talk to me? You had me wait around for you like a stray dog! You can just come and go as you please, but you—you expect me to follow you around on a leash?”

“Honey, please. Let me explain—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Peter!” her voice echoed through the rotunda and down the hall of the hotel. “I don’t want to hear a single one of your lame excuses! I don’t want a fancy dinner, or a new Porsche, or a mansion, or whatever else makes your dick hard!”

Peter blinked rapidly, stunned. His body responded as if she had just kicked him in the place she referenced, “Jus’lemme—”

“And I sure as hell don’t want another apology!” she asserted definitively. “I don’t want you anywhere near me!” 

Peter’s jaw hung open, tongue dead in his mouth. The woman who barely stood at his collarbone stared down at him, making him feel inches tall. 

“Now, I’m going to bed. Exactly as I have been for the last four months.” Her voice thundered, “Alone!”

With that, the door slammed in his face, rattling inches from his nose. The echo reverberated through the empty hallway and inside his chest, emphasizing the deep crack that formed.

Peter let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The shock subsided slowly, and his heart sank. The ache soon sizzled into a burn, boiling his blood. At the same time, the sting of her rejection was raw. Unbearable.

Unbelievable.

Absolutely unacceptable. 

He should break down the fucking door. Throw her over his shoulder and tie her up. Gag her—Anything to get her to listen.

Haplessly, Peter’s eyes fell on his expensive shoes—his Valentinos. Or maybe these were the Tom Ford’s? He had no clue. Just more bullshit.

Fuck—He was going to cry. Maybe he should let himself just do it. Lean into it. Drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Shoulders slumped, he squeezed his eyes closed. 

He was a little bitch.

Peter pictured a door closing on a rocket or an airplane. Whatever it was, it was leaving him behind. He was falling back to Earth, having placed too much faith in miracles. This was his punishment for flying that close to the sun—

The door swung open. 

Two hands grabbed Peter’s jacket, pulling him forward off his heels. It was a surprisingly fluid motion; his heartbreak had reduced the mass of his bones to nothing. 

Honey’s nails practically pierced his lapels. She yanked him through the doorway into the suite, slamming the door behind him, and slamming him into the door right after.

Before Peter could open his mouth to speak, she was on him like a viper.

A sharp, biting kiss swallowed him whole, stealing the oxygen from his lungs. The heat was as intense as he had remembered. This time, they didn’t melt into one another. Honey was like a wildfire, her touch scalding him. 

His skin flushed from the sudden unbearable heat. Before he could react, her lithe fingers started tugging the edges of his jacket. Clumsily, she tried pushing it back over his broad shoulders. As soon as he knew of her intent, he eagerly obliged, shrugging the garment off and to the floor. 

Her hands went to his throat, ebony-painted nails leaving trails on his skin. Buttons popped as she yanked on his clothes. Her goal could have been to draw blood with her kiss.

Every time her teeth tore at his lips, he responded with a groan into her mouth.

Clumsy, he fumbled with his fingers—reaching up to grip her by the hair. Finally, he wrenched her head back, detaching her bite from his face.

Immediately, he was met with an open-palmed slap on the cheek.

Sharp gasps cut through them, and they jumped backward a few feet. Tension and shock reverberated in the chasm they created. Like the barometric pressure plunging before a storm, an eerie calm settled over them. 

Honey blinked at him, jaw agape and her palm throbbing. 

Peter glared at her in silence. He looked a mess—hair unkempt, the top buttons of his shirt torn open to reveal jagged crimson scratch marks across his milky skin.

His heartbeat steadily increased as he gently dabbed his fingertips at the ache in his jaw. The exquisite lines of his face were stained pastel pink, flushed by arousal or anger. His eyes were black as night, so it could have been either one.

She looked just as wrecked. Dress askew, her hairstyle half-unraveled. Goosebumps dotted her skin. She looked shocked at the violence she was capable of, surprised and possibly guilty at her own strength. As the seconds passed, the feelings faded.

Peter watched her, pupils dilating, blood pressure rising. The shadow of a smile curved his mouth. His features darkened into something primal. Something familiar.

There’s my girl.

Slowly, he lowered his hand, studying her threatening look until his own expression began to match.

Physically, his senses were haywire. Danger, excitement, and a sick sort of pleasure rattled his bones and labored his breathing. The hairs on his skin stood on end. Alarms blared in his head. The sound of his own blood was almost deafening to him, thumping like a kick drum. 

Peter could hear her heart, too. Fast. Like a rabbit. He was a wolf in pursuit. 

Maybe the pain of her slap triggered him, a preemptive action against further attack.

She got one in, Peter mused mockingly. He knew she was no match. Not as Peter’s night vision sharpened. Not while he could taste the salt from her perspiration on his tongue. Most intoxicating of all, Peter could smell her desire. Like a rose bursting open.

In another blink, they switched positions. Peter snatched her by her shoulders and slammed her back into the wall, pinning her there. She went feral—hissing and raging at her entrapment.

Not a rabbit. A honey badger, then.

“Get off of me!” Honey spat.

“Shut up,” he ordered. Quiet and fierce.

Fingers gripping her forearms tight, he attacked her lips, teeth colliding. The ferocity stunned her. For a moment, it seemed like she finally submitted to him before she wriggled her mouth free.

“Mmffucker—Let me go!”

His body might as well have been a brick wall. His face was stonelike, eyes just as cold. 

“No.” 

Honey’s brow scrunched up like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. “I’ll scream!” she countered.

Peter smirked, the hickory in his eyes igniting. “Baby. You have no idea.”

Peter’s guarantee sent a shiver down Honey’s spine. He saw the gears turning in her mind as she carefully considered pushing him further. 

He hoped she would. 

His fingers tightened around her forearms. He crucified her under his gaze. And yet, despite the danger anyone else would have felt... A glimmer of curiosity flickered in her eyes.

It set his mind reeling. A tiny sign of weakness to temptation made Peter’s stomach trapeze. He zeroed in on it, licking his chops. 

Not to make it easy, Honey brought her knee up, attempting to make contact with his groin. There was nearly a foot of difference between their heights, and she paid it no mind.

Brave girl. 

Peter admired her tenacity. She had balls. Smart, too, he pleasantly recognized. Honey went for the weak spot first. Good call. 

Pointless, though. 

Nothing below Peter’s belt was weak when she was around.

Unfairly, Peter picked up on her attack before her leg was even bent. He snatched her above the knee, lifting her toes off the ground and prying her thighs open. 

He pictured the bruises on her skin that his fingertips would leave behind. Just the thought made him rock hard. 

A year ago, Peter would have been ashamed. He would have shied away from her, for fear of repulsing her, and took out his frustration by himself in the shower. 

Grinding his teeth at those memories, he pressed Honey’s hips into his waist, forcing her legs around him, and—Fuck—her heat.

Peter’s brain nearly short-circuited. She was like a bonfire against his belly. His cock pushed against his trousers, straining for her warmth. He secured her hips to his with a tight grip, which only pissed her off more. She thrashed, enraged. 

She really needed to stop doing that. It only made the burn worse. 

A few months ago, Peter would have been ashamed of the rush he felt from manhandling her. Ashamed of how his cock ached and twitched at her fruitless tantrums.

“Fucking asshole!” Honey sneered.

“Yeah?” he said with a bitter laugh. “You're a spoiled little brat!”

“Fuck you!”

“See what I mean?” Peter scoffed, holding her tighter. He breathed hotly into the shell of her ear. “Not even a ‘please.’” 

His pride was short-lived. Inexplicably, Honey arched her neck and buried her teeth into his shoulder. He roared—“Fuck! What the fuck!!??” —surprised she didn’t bite through the silk of his collared shirt.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only beast in the room.

They tumbled down ungracefully. Peter landed hard on his back, with Honey crashing on top of him. She collapsed on his lungs, knocking the wind from his chest. Sputtering, he reached out to grab her, his fingertips barely missing the hem of her dress. The small woman scrambled to her hands and knees, then to her feet. 

Honey dashed into the suite while Peter’s voice echoed—“Goddamnitareyacrazy!?”—after her. 

Padding on her toes, she ran into a darkened living room with vaulted ceilings that might have been large enough to fit her entire apartment. Outside glass walls, the Midtown skyline surrounded her. The Metlife and Empire State Buildings glittered proudly in a breathtaking view.

The room was situated in the corner of the building. Velvet curtains framed the floor-to-ceiling windows, providing an unobstructed view of the city. The Dark Academia-Meets-Glam aesthetic seating area featured a sleek, modern leather sectional and mod velvet chaise lounge chat set. 

Without time to admire any of it, she scrambled to the first piece of furniture she could reach. She grabbed the first thing her fingers could find—a designer fruit bowl centerpiece made of polished stainless steel and brass pomegranates. 

It was exquisite and expensive. 

Honey spun on her heel and flung the heavy metal at Peter.

He dipped deftly, his spine bowing back, narrowly missing the bowl as it whipped past him. The object barreled through a crystal chandelier, glass shattering like raindrops as they came down.

“Hey—!” he scowled, facing her with an indignant glare.

A moment later, he quickly shielded his face from another flying object: an asymmetrical crystal-and-Riverstone candelabra that crumbled against his forearm. It might as well have been a brick, with ceramic shards tumbling off of his shoulder. 

Peter bristled in aggravation, brushing the pieces off. Now, she was really pissing him off.

He glanced up just in time to see a glass vase containing two dozen roses—meant to be her gift—hurtling towards his head. Reflexively, he snatched it from the air with one hand, water and all. He palmed the crystal vase like catching a baseball. Didn’t spill a drop. 

His quick reflexes stunned the both of them. Peter’s jaw went slack—partially at his ability to save the flowers, but mostly with indignation that Honey had somehow destroyed $1,000 worth of the hotel’s tchotchkes in a few seconds. 

“Enough!” Peter barked, carefully setting the vase down. Ignoring him, the woman darted toward another side table, already reaching for another expensive object to throw at him. 

Suddenly, Honey’s ankle was caught in a sticky grip. Both legs pulled out from beneath her. She flattened immediately with an ooof—her belly dropping to the wool carpet. 

Dazed, she glanced back at her legs with a crease in her brow. With a jolt, she was pulled along by a stringy, spongy substance on her ankle. It felt the way canned compressed air feels when shooting skin at close range. 

Her nails dug into the carpet fibers as she was dragged back. “Agghhh! What the—Getitoff!” 

As soon as the pulling stopped, Honey was on her back again, gazing up at the sharp lines of Peter’s cold gaze. He towered over her, even on his knees, as he mounted her hips. Protesting, she pelted him tirelessly with her fists.

The smell of sweat loomed in the air as he finally restrained her. He caged her in, pinning her wrists to the floor. Nerves buzzing and tempers flaring, she continued to writhe and wrestle with him to no avail. Peter quickly overpowered the more petite woman, fomenting her anger. 

“You’re hurting me!” she sneered breathlessly, teeth gritted. 

Peter was unimpressed. “Liar.”

“M’not lying—!”

He glared back, barely breaking a sweat. “You’re so full of shit—!”

“Fuck you! What do you know—?”

“I know you, Honey!” he charged, silencing her. 

She went still, subdued beneath his dark gaze. Peter loomed over her like a stormcloud. “I know the games you like to play,” he said—both teasing and sinister, toying with his prey. He lowered his lips until they breathed the same air. 

Honey’s focus was split between Peter’s intense stare and glistening, kiss-ravaged mouth. She tried not to notice the sensation of her nipples brushing against the fabric with each labored breath. He could easily reach down and touch her. Tried not to focus on how solid his chest felt against hers, like carved marble. Tried not to focus on the dark chocolate of his eyes melting in the heat of their gaze. 

Just as intensely, Peter watched her watch him—zeroing in on the idle way her tongue darted to wet her lips. The tiny action shot electricity down his spine, straight to his groin. 

Honey felt that, too. A tiny gasp escaped her, her lashes fluttering. The fight suddenly left her arms as she noticed the heavy bulge against her hip. 

He was hot. Not just figuratively. Feverishly hot. He was so hard, too—and just for her. The lewd image of him splitting her open on his cock made her insides clench. 

Peter eyed her dangerously, his voice a dark abyss. “Think you can hide it from me, eh?” The teasing smile on his lips bordered on a snarl. “Gonna sit here an’tell me... that if I were to reach down between your legs right now...” Her heart hammered in her chest, hanging on every word. In her mind, she was begging him to follow through with the threat. “...Those panties won’t be soaked?” 

Honey failed to swallow back a little mewl as he leaned down closer.

“Ya think I can’t feel ya, huh?” he mumbled, lips ghosting the curve of her throat. “Think I can’t smell how wet you are right now?” Another wanton exhale left her belly as she leaned into the heat of his breath on her skin. “Y’know I can already taste you on my tongue, babygirl.”

Honey’s mouth and legs seemed to part further at his vulgar words. She shivered at the sensation of his slick tongue traversing her pulse point.

“You’re... an asshole...” she murmured breathlessly. She sounded half-asleep.

Peter hissed, “And you’re a needy little slut, aren't’cha?” 

The sudden ferocity made her eyes unintentionally roll back. A second later, Peter’s fingers collared her, choking off the small mewl in her throat. He turned her by the chin, wrenching her attention to him. 

“Hey—Eyes on me,” he commanded.

Mesmerized, Honey blinked up at him like a fawn.

“How ‘bout that little stunt you pulled with the waiter?” he prodded. There was an icy edge on the last word. Her throat bobbed while she kept her face neutral. The bright amber of his glare penetrated her. Peter continued accusatorily, “Those flirty little giggles while he gave ya fuck-me eyes? Y’think I didn’t see that?”

Honey sniffed, stiffening her upper lip. This was a power move; she knew better than to back down. “Look who's jealous,” she scoffed. 

With a jolt, she again attempted to wrench her wrists free. He simply held on tighter, closing his talons as she twisted like a snake.

“Jealous?” Peter repeated calmly, narrowing his eyes into slits. “Me? Nah.” His hands suddenly seized her hips as he forcibly jerked her up off the floor. A slew of profanities spilled from her mouth, bucking against him as he carried her.

In a few strides, he was at the edge of a dining table. With little regard for his barbarity, he plopped Honey on the surface, shoving her flat on her back. Peter arched over her as if to dominate her, spine bowing until he filled her periphery with his fierce gaze. 

Honey’s eyes sparkled, cheeks colored from the rush. “Threatened, then!”

Peter’s face softened inexplicably. Blinked at her for a moment, head tilting. Then, he landed an open-palmed smack against her ass. 

It was a surprisingly heavy blow, as close as he’d ever come to intentionally inflicting pain on her. Honey yelped, hissing from the sting on her upper thigh. Right after the strike, Peter’s fingers began kneading her flesh, soothing the welt that was bound to form.

“See, if I were a jealous man,” he noted with an evil sneer, “I woulda gouged his eyes out with a salad fork.” 

Peter swallowed up her gasp with a forceful kiss. A few moments later, he broke away.

“If I felt threatened?” he added breathlessly, “I woulda bent you over the table and fucked you dumb. Let everyone in the Five Boroughs hear you beg for my cock.”

Once the filth rolled off his tongue, Peter went back to using it to lash against hers. Honey was overwhelmed by the soft, wet muscle invading her mouth. Not only that, the violent edge to his words felt like standing in a river and grabbing a livewire. A shiver racked through her body, a current of pent-up anger and desire sending blood rushing to her core.

As if on cue, Peter’s fingertips made contact with the lace fabric between her thighs. She tremored at his touch, heart skipping. He toyed with the soft, stretchy material. Snapped it lazily against her flesh.

His voice was hypnotizing. “I woulda shoved these dirty panties down his throat just to never hear his stupid fuckin’ accent again.”

Honey felt drunk off of the vitriol he poured into her ear. It was violent and possessive... and it shouldn’t have made her so horny, and yet—

Honey trembled with anticipation, panting like a bitch in heat. “I-I... can’t... ugh, fu—” 

The pads of his fingers ran firmly along her seam. She let out an embarrassing whine. Peter's prediction was spot-on. A shameful amount of wetness coated the inside of her thighs. He played with the soaked fabric and smeared her mess across her skin with a smug smirk.  

“Think I don’t know what you like?” he muttered darkly, echoing her earlier jab. 

RIP!

The lace bunched at her waist. Honey’s wet skin felt particularly chilled being exposed to the air. She quivered with anticipation. Her head was spinning, pussy throbbing. She felt worshiped and simultaneously defiled. 

Peter pressed his forehead into hers, skin-to-skin. She stared into the black of his eyes in suspended silence, like the pornographic thoughts in his head were being projected into her mind.

Her own pupils were blown black. “Fuckin’ hate you so much—”

“I don’t care.”

“—re’such an asshole—”

“I don’t care,” he repeated more firmly. Then, “You belong with me.”

“You left me!” she fired back.

The sharpness of her tone sobered him a little. He blinked and sighed. “I couldn’t leave you. I didn’t leave you.”

She attempted to sit up, trying to lift her shoulders unsuccessfully. She writhed with spite, “Fuckin’ selfish prick, I outta cut off—”

“What was my drink order?”

He blurted the last sentence out with a mind-blowing level of calm. At once, their bodies went still. Still pinned to the table with a hummingbird beneath her breast, Honey stared up at him in confusion. 

Her brows pinched together. “Huh—?”

“My drink order,” Peter repeated, his expression void of the aggression he had the previous moment. 

It was like a mask had fallen away, and the man on top of her transformed into a different person. Maliciousness evaporated, replaced by eagerness. Desperation. 

Peter stared at her, intently searching her gaze. “At the shop,” he whispered, eyes soft. “What you used to make for me every time I came t’see you..?” The words fell away as he stared at her expectantly. 

She arched a brow. 

It had been black coffee, bitter and dark. Just like Peter’s entire world. How it had always been. Until—

“You said I should try something new,” he added, with urgency like reminding her of a forgotten dream. “So you made something for me—something... special.”

Peter’s heart swelled through his eyes at the last word. Honey stared up at him, perplexed. He was looking for the answer on the tip of her tongue:

Honey and Lavender. 

Confusion ceded to aggravation. A line formed between Honey’s brows.

“You remember, right?” he asked, hopeful.

She did. He knew she did. He could see it at the corners of her eyes, pooling behind her eyelids. Sobering memories flooded her, cooling the heat between them. A different sort of ache settled in.

Reluctantly, she nodded.

He took a breath, relieved but still anxious. “Say those words,” he said, “if you really want me to stop.”

Her damp lashes fluttered as Honey blinked up at him in surprise. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, he swallowed dryly. His stomach lurched at the thought of being sent away like this. 

Still, it was a risk he had to take. 

“I can let go, walk away,” he offered tenderly. “Right now. No questions asked.” Each word felt like sticking needles through his tongue. He gave her an out, needing confirmation that her reciprocated lust wasn’t imagined. 

“Say the words,” Peter whispered in lament, “and I’ll leave you alone.”

That word settled like a boulder crushing his chest.

Despite Peter’s heart telling him her rejection would be unbearable, the thought of truly harming her was more so. 

Honey studied him with thoughtful eyes, contemplative and curious. He had won. He subdued her. Restrained her. She remembered when he threw a piano like a toddler throwing a toy truck. 

She could do little to stop him if he wanted to force her. And yet—

There he is. 

This was the man she remembered. The one that was ready to die for her. To die by her hand, if that’s what she wanted. 

“Two words,” Peter sighed, his nose brushing against hers. It was a sweetly affectionate gesture. “Say the words, and this can end right n—”

Honey captured his lips, stealing his breath like it was her only source of oxygen. Static filled Peter’s ears, his body tensing and relaxing simultaneously. He was soaring and plummeting. Rising and falling. 

Her tongue slipped past his lips, dragging along the pad of his mouth. Soon enough, the sweetness melted off in their flames. 

Honey pulled her mouth away, barely able to get out her plea. “Touch me, Peter. Make me feel it.”

And she dove right back in. This time, Peter plunged with her, deep beneath the waves of lust. He sank into her current, dragging her with the tide of desire.

Peter’s hands were frantic travelers. Flitting from her wrists to her shoulders. To gently cup her face. To smooth over the mounds of her breasts. To dig his fingers into the linen fabric of the sweetheart neckline.

“Love this dress,” he idly mumbled between kisses, abusing the neckline. “Mmm—where’d ya say ya got it?”

“Oh…uhm—?”

The question caught her off guard. She blushed, brain foggy with lust. Her instinct was to say something like ‘thank you,’ but her tongue fumbled the words. “Uh... it was, I think, Old Navy—?”

A ripping sound shocked her. She squeaked as a flurry of cotton fibers burst from the top of the dress. 

Peter yanked the linen bodice apart like tissue paper, his tongue chasing away any protest from her lips. Gooseflesh broke out as her skin was exposed to the air. Driven by lust, he shoved the ruined material down to her waist. 

“Fuck, Peter...” she gasped, scandalized.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not sorry.

It was his turn to be greedy. Peter dug his hands beneath the cups of her bra, toying with the peaks of her breasts. 

With a snap, the bra was torn in half. The strength in Peter’s long fingers stunned her. Puzzling her as much as it turned her on.

He laved at her left breast with his tongue, drawing an obscene moan from her. His hand pinched sadistically at her right nipple. The delectable sting traveled from her chest to her cunt. She arched—”ughhh, god”—her spine bowing beautifully.

He held the cleft of her left breast delicately in his hand while lapping at the ridges of her peaked flesh. Warm tongue caressed the tip, drawing shapes and discovering pathways to her pleasure. Every little flick inspired something new. She cooed and twitched beneath him. He was desperate to memorize her taste. 

Languidly, he massaged each of her tits inside his mouth, his cock aching as he imagined licking her pussy with the same fervor. It was almost unbearable. A strangled moan vibrated through his chest at the picture in his mind. 

Her reaction to the sound came out as an agonized mewl. 

Oh.

He needed more of that sound.

Peter felt her push on his shoulders. Trying to wriggle away from his mouth. 

This time, he had no tolerance for misbehavior. He grabbed both wrists and forced them above her head. Honey yanked back, stunned at being glued down to the table surface by his palms. 

The peach of his pouty lips curved upward as his eyes took a turn ravishing her. She was a sight of wicked debauchery. Her hair was a mess, and her nearly-naked body lay across the table like a feast. Her thighs locked around his hips.

He used one hand to rub circles into the delicate skin of her restrained forearms. The other hand mischievously dipped lower and lower, sliding through her wet heat. Calloused, dexterous fingers spread her lips open, playing in her slick and prodding her tight hole. 

Honey was finished. Ruined. Past the point of no return. Unconditionally surrendered. Helpless and eager to subjugate herself to her conqueror. Filthy sounds filled the room, punctuated by weak cries from his new loyal subject.

“So pretty,” he sighed breathlessly as he coated his fingers in her cream. “All this for me, princess?” He cooed at her, edging on cruel.

A broken gasp fell from her lips, her chest pulsing involuntarily. 

“Aww, what’s the matter? Does this little pretty pussy ache, baby?”

A vortex formed deep in her belly, dragging her in. He licked his dry lips, salivating at the image.

“I know it hurts, baby, I know. I know,” he teased. “It’s been hard playin’ all by yourself, huh?” The sunniness of his voice was eclipsed. “All alone. Screamin’ out my name into your pillow. Fingers buried deep in your wet cunt.”

Honey’s eyes snapped open. Before she could respond, the breadth of his middle fingertip penetrated her. She gasped as his finger speared her open. All the while, he wore a devil’s smile.

“Ain’t that right? Only for me.” Entranced, he watched her every twitch and shudder. “This pussy belongs to me, doesn’t it?”

It was a question feigning the need for her confirmation. She couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe. 

No, that can’t be right—had he been watching her masturbate in her apartment? Was he watching her the entire time he was gone? 

The possibility enraged her. Ten orgasms from the King of New York’s Underworld couldn’t even quell that fire.

Peter smiled wickedly, playing with her pussy. Taking his time toying with her flesh. He was a tyrant-king, dominating her pleasure. With a calloused hand, he held onto her cunt like it belonged there.

But she was his wild colt. Difficult to break.

“Oh-n—ohh god,” she gasped. Unbeknownst to him, an evil plot bloomed in her brain. Her lips curled into a smile.

“Fuck—gah—ohhhhh…”

He licked up each broken syllable.

“Yes! Oh, god, yes! Oh—” 

Sweat beaded on her chest, sin oozing through her pores.

“...Pedro.”

Halt.

Brakes squealing. Full stop. Not only in the physical world between them but also in Peter’s living fantasy.

Mischievously, Honey’s grin widened. 

She got him, alright. 

Flawless victory.

Dark eyes flashing, Peter withdrew his fingers from her. “Fuckin’ brat…”

In one fluid motion, Peter flipped her over to her belly, stunning her. He followed with another forceful slap to her ass cheek. This one was more punishing than the last, drawing a puppy-like yelp. His voice was ice. Eyes black. 

Now, she was in trouble.

“Think that’s funny?” he said through gritted teeth.

Peter manipulated her limbs like a rag doll. He maneuvered her forward until her cheekbone pressed against the table. She panicked for a moment at being in such a compromising position. 

The chill of the air across her wet pussy made her shiver. At the same time, she clenched at his roughness.

Peter kneaded her sides, pressing fingerprint bruises on her waist. He yanked her hips towards him until her knees were on the table’s edge. Honey’s face burned, stricken with modesty and flustered by how he hoisted her ass in the air. 

Her hips were propped up like a rack of lamb, and he licked his lips at the sight. It was too vulnerable, being bared to him like this. Obscene, on display, inches from his face. 

For a half second, she considered using the safe words. 

She squirmed uncomfortably while her mess dripped down the inside of her thighs. Peter denied any attempt to escape, eventually gathering her limbs and pulling her hands behind her back. 

Short puffs of breath fogged the glass surface of the table. Her heart pounded beneath her. Honey had only witnessed this side of him a few times—and never directed toward her. 

She was in trouble. But was she in danger?

The buckle of his belt clinked as it came free. Honey quivered at the sound, pussy aching in anticipation.

And if she was in danger, why did that make her wet?

“Pete—” Honey muttered, a scream bubbling at the back of her throat. Leather nipped at her forearms as he used his belt to tie her hands behind her back. 

“Ple-please—“

He fisted her hair, rearing her head back. Her neck arched beautifully, her chin dangling above the table surface.

“Listen to me, princess,” Peter snarled, hot in her ear. Spite peppered his tone. “If you ever call out another man’s name when I’m inside ya again— I’ll make ya wear nothin’ but my cum for the next week.” 

The savage tone contrasted with the glow of his eyes. 

It was always opposites with him.

This was the same man who coddled and worshiped her. The same one who kidnapped her, drugged her, blindfolded her, and gagged her. 

He forced her, a willing participant, into his bed—by asking her permission. 

Peter was more than capable of keeping her chained to his bedpost if he wanted it. 

Or… if she wanted it.

Peter snickered at her expression. “Ooh, yeah… Betchu’d like that, huh?” He taunted her like she was broadcasting her dirty thoughts. “Such a needy little slut for me, ain't that right?” 

Honey felt his warmth leave her back, like being plunged into the Hudson in winter. His hands reappeared at the back of her thighs, and her first instinct was to try to close her legs. 

That was a mistake and an impossible endeavor. 

He split her thighs like opening a book. Grinned at the sight as if he stumbled across gold.

“Fuck, babygirl, you’re soaked. Just talkin’ about it and look at the mess you made…”

Embarrassment and want ravaged her. The conflicting experiences had her ovaries twisted into knots. Honey bit her tongue, unsure if she was going to scream or moan. 

Instead, it came out like a pathetic mewl. “Pe-Peter, please—”

Then he open-palm-smacked her cunt, fingers landing directly on her labia. 

The wet sound it made was humiliating, and the sensation triggered all of the reactions above. She squealed at the sting on her folds. This was a delectable torture. For Peter, it was an appetizing sight. 

“Ya like that?” he grinned over the sound of her whimpers. He already knew the answer.

Another slap to her cunt made her whole body shake. 

“Like bein’ my kept girl? Tryin’ so hard to get my attention. Drivin’ me nuts. Well, you got it now, Honey.” 

Slap. 

A third strike had her pussy clenching. Honey had never experienced such an erotic rush before. She shuddered with embarrassment, afraid she’d cum from this—

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Honey gasped for air, a scream breaking through her voice. She was drowning in sick pleasure, tears in her eyes.

The mob boss gripped her thighs again, pulling her knees off the table and lifting up the weight of her lower half. The action was as easy as lifting a sheet of paper. 

God, his strength was impossible. She struggled to comprehend it while picturing herself being broken apart by it. A slew of tiny pleas fell from her lips. She didn’t even know what she was begging for—his mercy or punishment.

“Shh, shh, babygirl,” he purred with a candy voice. Brought his lips to where she was split, equal parts seductive and sinister. “Be still for me. I gotcha.” He wore a Cheshire grin. “Lemme kiss it better.” 

Slowly, he licked a line from her clit to the entrance of her cunt. She shuddered, followed by a lewd wail. She bucked her hips as he let the tip of his tongue toy with her. 

“Mmmf—so fuckin’ sweet,” Peter mumbled between languid strokes around her vaginal gate. His grip was inescapable. “Can’t help myself, s-sooo hungry…”

Honey felt an evil smile against her skin before his mouth went back to work on her. Tiny, stinging nips and kitten licks tormented her flesh. With her hips locked in place, he lashed her clit with his tongue.

Honey squirmed against the leather belt, her nails digging into the grain. She wanted to be bound like this forever. 

Peter had no intention of letting her go any time soon. 

With her thighs spread open, he dragged her toward the edge of her ecstasy. As soon as he felt her body begin to shake, he pulled away. The punishment ended with another smack to her swollen clit.

Honey cried out in frustration at having her release snatched away. 

Oh, yes—He was weak for that sound.

“What’s’a matter, baby?” he smirked with a dark chuckle. This was becoming his favorite pastime. “You mad now that you’re not the only one who can play games?”

“Gahh—Peter… fuck, plea—don’t tease—!”

Peter’s fingers slipped inside with a squelch, shutting her up. Simultaneously, he lapped at her juices while massaging her walls. Soon, he settled into an unbreakable focus.

Each kiss to her nether lips sizzled with passion. Fueled by devotion usually only reserved for a wedding day. 

“—mmmm, tastes so pretty,” he murmured into her flesh, “my pretty girls...” 

In her dazed state, Honey wondered with a pang of jealousy who the ‘she’ he was referring to was. 

“—sooo sensitive; she likes it when I kiss her like that, yeah?—” He said, in between languid, open-mouth kisses to her slit.

Jesus Fucking Christ, he’s talking about my pussy? In the third person? 

Honey gasped, scandalized at the preposterous thought. It was the most deliciously erotic moment of her life. Enraptured tears budded her eyes, the coil in her belly nearly suffocating her.

“—Fuck, oh god, Peter, don’t stop, don’stop, donstop, donstah—”

Preoccupied with his own intoxicating thoughts, Peter was eager with his tongue and steady with his hands. The room filled with the filthy, wet sounds of his carressing and French kissing of her cunt. He pleasured her with his fingers and mouth, passionately— reverently— as if making love to two different brides. 

Soon, Honey’s pleas were barely more than breathless whining. He smiled like the devil, lips coated with her slick. 

“Patience, Honey,” he admonished, sing-song and patronizing. “If you’re a good girl, maybe I might let you get to taste Her, too.”

Fuck—she was going to come from this. 

The more perverse his words were, the closer she was. So, so close—

Then, another sharp slap. 

Honey wailed, fingers digging into the leather of her restraints. Her whole body protested. The cycle repeated so many times she lost count—until her flesh was puffy from his torture. 

“Please, don’t—please, Peter, don’t tease,” she frantically begged, tears streaming. “No more— Please, I wanna come so bad—” 

He sucked on her clit.  “Yeah?”

“God, yes, please—Nyahhh-need you—Need you... inside—“

Peter hissed behind his teeth, struggling to keep his pace even as his cock jerked at her pleas. He flashed an evil smile. “S’at right?”

“Pl-please, f-feels so good, ple—gah-I need it—!”

He was in no hurry. It was almost greedy, the way he ravaged her. His fingers pressed Merlot bruises into her hips and waist while his mouth left raspberry welts on her thighs. 

Honey cried out around a moan as she felt his fingers deepen. His loving touches to her sensitive spots turned wicked, reminding her this was also a penalty for her bratty transgressions. She wept and squirmed, practically drooling on the table.

He simply grinned.

“—Mmmhm, that’s it—scream for me, princess—”

Honey’s tiny little hip thrusts fit easily in his palm as he groped her. He found it adorable, really.

“Mmm...m’sorr—ow—agh!”

“Sorry’s not gonna cut it,” he panted, eyes blown black. Shadow returned to his voice. “You’re mine now, ya hear?” His eyes traveled to where his fingers were buried to the knuckles. “Gonna fuck you every way I want—”

“Pleasepleasepleaseyes—it’syoursit’syoursallyours—”

His eyes swam over her body, drunk with lust.

All mine. 

The sinfulness of his thoughts tugged his insides into a vortex. This was wrong, he reasoned. Not how he wanted this to go. Poor girl sounded brainless, begging to be fucked.  He wasn’t much better off. This wasn’t how he planned this to go. 

But he was willing to pivot.

Hands shaking, he fumbled with his fly. It wasn’t until his cock bobbed free, glistening with precum, that he felt any sort of relief. Peter grabbed her hips and lifted them off of the table, repositioning her so he was lined up with her slit.

“Fuckin’ need you so much, Honey—” he muttered mindlessly, focused on pushing the swollen, leaking crown of his cock against the silk of her pussy. 

Her hips’ weight rested easily in his hands, and she keened at the sensation of his head pressing against her entrance. 

And god, she'd forgotten he was thick.

Honey tensed up, even as her pussy throbbed with want. It was as if all her muscles were reaching for him, heart included.

It was too much. Mascara trailed faintly down her cheeks. Her heart soared. And ached. She felt spoiled with pleasure, delighting in this penance.

More. She wanted more.

“Fuck—wanted ya so bad,” Peter mumbled, watching his cock slip through her lips. He sounded airy, hypnotized by the view. “Wanted t’crawl through your window like the goddamn—ahh— boogeyman... fuck ya in your own bed. Wanted t’take’ya home with me and keep ya there— Never let you leave.”

Honey swallowed back a sob. Then why did you send me away? 

He paused. 

Uh-oh. Did she say that out lo—?

“Because I’m an idiot,” Peter huffed, his voice fragile. 

He leaned forward and lovingly kissed up her spine, each tender press of his lips an apology. 

“I’m a stupid fuckin’ fool.” The heat of his breath ghosted across her back. “So stupid—Thought I could protect ya if I kept you away. Thought I could somehow live like that—without you.” He shook his head. “Goddamn fool.”

Peter felt the sting of tears flooding his vision. Instinctively, he squeezed his eyes shut to keep them out. “I can’t live without ya,” he nearly whimpered. “There is no life for me if you’re not in it.”

“Peter,” she said, feeling her heart lurch. Her spirit was a ship being tossed in a hurricane. One more wave, and she would break. Honey’s voice trembled, “St-stop t-talking—”

“Not until I’ve said what I shoulda said—!”

“If you don’t shut up and fuck me in the next five seconds—”

Peter cut her off by pulling her up by the shoulders and standing her upright. Honey fought it—because, of course, she did—desperately clutching the steel armor around her heart. 

Overpowering her again, he tugged the naked woman closer until her back lined up to his chest. It was an awkward position with her bound arms crushed behind her against his abs. He towered over her, eyeing her face from the side, seeking her gaze. Hooked a finger beneath her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye. 

Always the fighter, Honey tried to wrench herself from his hold. Peter’s body was like a Greek god’s, with pillar-like arms and marble fingers keeping her from wriggling away. But his soft, soulful eyes are what pinned her in place. 

As soon as she peered into their oaken color, she was trapped again. 

“No,” she sneered, shaking her head. The tears weren’t from pleasure anymore. “Don’t—”

“‘Honey and Lavender,’” he whispered, featherlike. “Those are the words. All you gotta do is say ‘em, and I’ll stop.”

She gritted her teeth, bucking against his sweetness. His arms wrapped around her torso, pulling her in.

“I thought you wanted to fuck me!” she revolted, voice getting weaker by the second. “What the hell do you want from me, Peter?!” 

His features softened. Serenity pressed between his lips. “I want all of you, Honey,” he answered with resolve. “Body and soul. Wanna spend the rest of my life with ya. If you don’t kill me first.” 

He said the ‘if’ part with a teasing lilt in his tone and a half-smile. The same smirk that she loathed—and fell in love with. 

Honey squeezed her eyes shut. Peter’s thumb came up gently, wiping a messy tear from her cheek. That loving and pure act was worse than any torture he could inflict.

Walls tumbling down, her body loosened. She went slack against his arms, instead fighting to keep more tears from flowing.

“I love you,” he whispered, pouring his soul into each word. “Forever. Remember? No matter what.” 

Peter waited for her eyelids to peel back, revealing glossy eyes and a weary expression. They stayed still for eons. Nothing but their breaths and heartbeats between them, eyes locked on each other.

“Even if you’re mad as hell at me,” he added. “Even if you hate me—I want it all.”

Her lower lip wobbled. “And what then, Peter? What now?”

A moment passed. He leaned around her shoulder, bringing her chin close, and answered her with a kiss. Gentle at first, his tongue explored hers as she relaxed against him. She felt her toes leave the ground before she realized what was happening.

Peter broke the kiss. “Now?” he breathed into her hairline. “I’m gonna show you what it means to be mine.”

One of his hands left her torso—borrowed to push the head of his cock into her gate. An overwhelming burn erupted between her legs. She arched her back away from his abs as best she could while being split open.

Honey wailed brokenly, voice shattered, as he bottomed out. Peter’s hand instinctively came up to cover her mouth. She let the scream out into his palm, just as he’d promised.

Peter hissed, letting his head fall back in agonized ecstasy. His eyes drifted shut, feeling both relief and torment buried to the hilt in her warmth. 

He barely ground out, “Shh-shhh, s’alright... that’s it, s-so good, so good for me...”

His Honey was already writhing on his cock, and he hadn’t even begun to move. She was so goddamn tight he wasn’t sure he wanted to move at all.

Still, he couldn’t help indulging himself. Never could, around her.

The arm bracing Honey’s torso snaked back across her body. His hand, burning hotter than a branding iron, stretched out and smoothed over the curvature of her belly. Her pussy clenched tighter as his palm found the trophy he was looking for—an obscene bulge in her lower stomach.

A slow, sinful curve played upon his lips. “Fuck, babygirl. Look at you.” When he uncovered her mouth, her roars had quieted down to a wanton purr. He gently tilted her head downwards so she could witness the depravity herself. “Just look at how you take my dick, Honey.” 

She shuddered at the sight, nodding rapidly, unable to speak. She wondered if this was just more teasing, but she couldn’t think beyond the penetration. 

“God, you look so beautiful like that,” he muttered breathlessly. His amber eyes were fixated on the sinful spectacle beneath her waist, unable to avert his gaze. “So pretty with my cock stuffed up inside your tummy...” 

Peter sounded unhinged, even to himself. His abs twisted into knots. Vile, perverse images eclipsed his sense of decency—her body naked and wrecked, with his seed spilling from her holes. Then, her belly round with his children. Just the thought devolved him like his civilized nature was sucked back into a black hole.

Wordless whimpers poured from her lips as her taut muscles succumbed to his girth. Calloused fingertips reached further down, brushing against the hood of her clit. She jolted in his arms with the slightest touch.

At that moment, Honey’s world disappeared. Nothing existed but the exquisite ache between her legs. 

The conquerer inside him preened. “Is that the spot? Is that where it hurts, baby?” he purred into her ear with a filthy, predatory voice. Her body answered him, rewarding him with a delicious squeeze around his shaft. “That’s it,” Peter groaned, insatiable. “Good girl. So good for me.” 

His praise, even if it was teasing, was too much. Peter’s affirmations, paired with his ministrations, tightened the coil in her stomach. Exhaustion crept up on her body even as the bubble of desire swelled.

Ever so slowly, his hips pitched back and then forward. He bottomed out again at the end of the languid stroke. A shattered mewl burst from her lips, pussy pulsating around his dick.

She was magnificent. 

”Fuck, baby. Feels s-so fuckin’ good—ahh, I missed this tight pussy so much. Wanted to play with her so bad…”

Peter’s hips moved of their own accord. They were a pornographic masterpiece in the decorative mirrors situated around the room. He stole a greedy glance at the couple’s reflection. Smiling wickedly, he turned her head, making her see what he was seeing.

Honey’s stomach fluttered at the sight of her body—glistening and restrained—slotted against him. Her head bobbed as Peter gripped her hips and fucked into her like a sex doll. 

Perverse. Debauched. Divine. It made her lightheaded.

Slowly, he increased the pace of his thrusts, panting into her ear. At some point, she started muttering. Broken and embarrassingly desperate pleas and pet names tumbled unwittingly out of her mouth.

One of them must have caught his attention. But she honestly couldn’t remember what she had said.

“Ugh—I lose my fuckin’ mind when you call me that name,” he growled, throwing his head back. “Ya know that, precious? Such a good girl for me. Good girls get spoiled.” 

Honey’s body thrummed at his baby talk. In all its depravity, she started to suspect what she must have said in all its depravity. Slowly, she was losing the ability to be ashamed.

The slick-coated pad of Peter’s thumb circled her clit, before traveling down further. He curiously prodded where they were joined—“Fuck, look at how good ya open up for me.” — His fingers trailed the outline of her stretched hymen wrapped around his cock.

Honey closed her eyes and turned away, blushing from his praise. Timid about how she relished in the filth. Peter brought his lips to her ear as if there was a secret the two of them shared.

“Don’t worry, baby. I gotcha—Daddy’s gonna make the ache go away.”

The spring snapped. She was nearly knocked over by the wave of pleasure that followed. Her pussy fluttered around his cock with no warning, body trembling and toes curling. Her cream gushed down his shaft. 

He snickered as if he’d won a prize. 

Honey could vaguely recognize her pathetic voice through the bells in her ears. She squealed and cried out over his repetitive, patronizing chants — “Awwgoodgirl, fuckin’ so-so perfect— squeezin’ me so tight” — while he fucked her through her orgasm.

It felt like several moments of pure pink haze, herself a willing victim to his delicious, relentless pull. 

“Shit, sweetie, did you just come all over my cock?” he asked, exasperated.

Embarrassment flooded her despite her persistent mewling. 

“Don’t cry, baby. Don’chu worry,” he murmured affectionately, himself obsessed with the cavern of her divine flesh. “When I said I was gonna make you my toy, I meant it.” She whimpered, nodding her head as it rested back against his shoulder. “M’not finished with you,” he said, dropping an octave. “Not by a long shot.”

Time ceased to have true meaning. Peter rammed into her steadily.

“Please don’stop, please use me, please, wan’more—” She yelped like a puppy.

He smiled against her sweaty skin. “Yeah? Ya like bein’ a good girl? My good girl?”

“I’llbegoodI’llbegoodm’yours—fuck—yoursyoursyours—”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he groaned, with another curse beneath his breath. Eyes drifted shut. “Good, good girl.”

All he could think of was more. 

More of that sound. More of her juices. More of her staccato breaths as he fucked her tits into a steady bounce on her chest. More of her whining, whimpering like a bitch in heat.

“All mine, all mine…”

Peter needed more of her. He needed to watch her fall apart on his cock again. Honey was so close already; he could feel it. He’d give her another orgasm, one that leaves her in tears. Then another. He was going to fuck her into submission atop the throne he built for her. She was already his queen. 

Then—He’d make her his whore.

Flip her on her back against the table—or couch— countertop—fuck, maybe the bed if he could remember where it was. Whatever he could reach first. 

Then he’d split her open again on his cock. That way, he could see the enraptured awe on her face. The neediness. Big, round, wet eyes pleading for his touch, calling him filthy names, as his cock bulges below her pubic bone. Begging him to rearrange her guts.

It was heavenly to witness. Peter loved watching her come. And he would, over and over. Once he relocated her to his bed—as soon as he remembered where it was— he could tie her to it.

Not that Honey was fighting at the present. There was no fight in her body, except maybe the will to keep conscious. With every strike against her cervix, she spread herself wider for him. 

But Peter knew she would like it. Honey wanted his unforgiving ecstasy. To take out the mounting frustration of the last few months on her wet pussy. 

“M’gonna fuck you so good, babygirl, m’gonna use your body like my fucktoy—make me feel s-sogood, don’worry—“ 

Honey full-body shuddered with a sob, her head thrown back against his shoulder. 

“S’okay, baby, you can scream if y’want, makes it feel better, doesn’t it, huh—”

Cock-drunk, she nodded, her words coming out as puffs of air.

“Don’stop—don’stop—please, fuck— fuckmehardDaddyIneedit—“

Oh. 

More. Of. That.

“M’not lettin’ you get away again…” he muttered, voice emerging from beneath his twitching abdominal muscles. With possessed eyes, he was glued to where they joined. “Never—never gonna let you go again… All mine now, Honey—you’re all mine…”

Her arms came up to circle the back of his neck as she panted into his throat. “My-my pussy is yours…”

“Everything,” he corrected.

“Everythi—god—I’m yours, Pete—ahh!”

Peter was getting close. No matter. He’d let himself come inside her soon. There was plenty more to follow. 

He barely recognized his own wrecked voice. “’m not leavin,’ baby. I’m not leavin’ ever.”

A gust of wind followed him as the front door to the suite slammed shut. Peter stood alone in the hotel hallway wearing a sheen of sweat... and nothing else. 

He flushed pink, fumbling to cover himself behind his hands. The cool air made the task easier.

Peter sighed. He’d need to talk to maintenance about better insulation up here.

But not right now. Not while Peter Parker stood ass-naked outside of his door, having been kicked out like a cheap fuck. 

Which might have been Honey’s point, he recognized.

The evidence of their past hour together made his skin sticky. She’d tousled his hair and etched into his back with her nails. He felt sore in places he hadn’t felt in years.

Peter also looked thoroughly fucked. A mixture of pain and relief surged through his muscles. His brain was branded with erotic images of her. He wanted them there.

The door opened again, lifting his hopes. He only caught a fleeting glimpse of Honey, wrapped sloppily in a bathrobe. The rest of her didn’t look much better than Peter. She wore a sour yet adorable scowl on her face.

With a huff, Honey hurled a tight wad of fabric at his nuts, unintentionally intentional in her aim. 

Peter oofed, doubling over to catch the ball of his clothes. At the same time, an Italian leather shoe smacked him in the head. Probably his Tom Ford’s. He heard the door slam closed again, rattling against the frame.

Perplexed, Peter gazed at the molding of the door and the gleaming golden script marking the room number. 

He wondered. 

Would she open the door again to throw him the other shoe? 

Or perhaps the slacks that went along with the dress shirt covering his balls?

Unlikely.

He marveled. 

The nerve of this woman. This goddess-barista who served him his soul in a paper cup. Who held the keys to his heart, his home, and presently, his hotel room. Who somehow managed to kick him out of the penthouse suite of his own hotel. 

Within the confines of his ruined dress shirt, Peter felt another buzz. He fumbled with the shirt, reaching the smartphone concealed inside.

>>> have you moved onto the main course? >>> or are you still tossing the salad? >>> pouring ranch on her hidden valley

Felicia. Peter’s eyes nearly rolled out of his head. With a sigh, he tapped out a reply.

<<<  Kitchen’s closed.  <<< Need clothes. And a new room.

He saw the ellipsis bubbling up on his screen. 

<<< Not another word.

As soon as the message was sent, Peter took another glance at his empty surroundings. Haplessly, he looked toward the closed door. A river of memories flooded him. It surged, swelled, and finally, came to a low simmer.

This was never going to be easy. Nothing ever was with her.

Nothing worth waiting for ever is.

“See you at breakfast,” he whispered aloud lips curled into a smile. “Sleep tight.”

Holding her breath and her ear to the door, Honey waited until Peter’s footsteps faded. When she could no longer hear them, she sighed with exasperation, overcome with exhaustion. Eyes falling closed, Honey leaned back against the door, body aching in places she would feel for days.

After taking a moment, she heard a buzzing sound further in the suite. Honey jumped with alarm, then stumbled on Fawn’s feet to reach the source.

Quickly, Honey waddled to the remains of her yellow dress, fishing out the buzzing object: a 10-year-old smartphone with a black glittery hard case. A holographic cat sticker was fixed to the back, shimmering in the dim light. 

Not just any cat.

She unlocked the phone to see the latest message.

>>> how’d it go? u give him hell?

The heaviest exhale left Honey’s chest, shame creeping up her chest. With her thumb, she scrolled up to review the text messages sent to her. The oldest of which dated back almost four months.

Weeks of correspondence and reassurance from Felicia, not to mention very clear instructions about Peter Parker and how to play his game. 

There was the one from last month:

>>> don’t let him think for one second that you’re gonna let him get off easy!

Then one from last week:

>>> make him suffer. make him grovel. make him lay down in a puddle so you can cross

And these:

>>> go to dinner, but don’t eat anything. order wine, the most expensive one, take one sip and refuse the rest. you pick the restaurant. if he picks the restaurant, hate everything about it >>> play hard to get— but don’t be too cold >>> be flirty. but not slutty.  >>> give him bedroom eyes, but don’t let him stare at you too long.

Finally, there was a clear instruction sent earlier today.

>>> under no circumstances >>> no matter what >>> you need to remember this >>> DO NOT FUCK HIM!!1

Honey frowned as she gazed at Felicia’s text message bubble, sent with so much hope and good intention. A notion soundly defeated. A truly hopeless endeavor, if there ever was one.

Biting her lip, Honey tapped out a reply to her confidant:

<<< Sure did.

Thank you for everything you do. Please keep fanfic healthy and support my writing with a reblog.

[captainkurosolaire]

You often post at length in near-incomprehensible language about why you do or don't create. The duty of a creator is to make their message pellucid to an audience. And yet, you have a large number of devotees here on tumblr. Do you use more coherent language in actual RP, or are those you RP with accustomed to your inscrutability? I respect your screenshot practice, but for goodness sake, please pay attention to legs and feet when characters are seated. If you're going to make yourself and other characters unrecognizable through mods, at least make them look alive.

Are you okay? You sure do ponder a lot about me and trying to pin point some flaw if I had any... But there's nothing I haven't spoken of. Your concerns although It's something that I perceive as flattery. But that should perhaps be used on yourself more. To administer so much foul venom only to bite a turtle's shell... I won't waste your energy, I'll feed you equally a response. Since you seem troubled. Your words they covet such an inferiority, it's the taste of jealousy. First off, I don't think it's too difficult to understand me. I'm quite simply passionate. If that is your version of creator then you've got me wrong. I will never be that image. It may shock you but some people create for themselves above all other things. Not to pander or warrant. Times have changed and social media has influenced that attention and the merit of others = value. But originally a blog used to be what used to showcase and just share and express. I express myself. I put my heart into canvas and that isn't some catch-phrase or some odd term or exaggeration. I love what I do. And since you're so hung up on my "large number of devotees" that revealed this is written of envy. it may again surprise you but some people can read that I actually value in what I create, they can FEEL it and that intelligence is above comprehension and the actual essence. Again I've RP'd for an incredible long time, I've had more sessions and a lot of partners and it's never been a compliant ever, I've written in every style imaginable. So I wouldn't speak for others, again this is on you. Listen I respect the criticism, truly. But you're not a good enough critic for me, you strike with a mask on, foremost. Understand -- I am my best critic and worst critic. Not sure which particular thing you've eluded too, but nearly everything I have conjured lately is doable. Oh here we go --- the last desperation act, the -mod- thing. Everyone uses that to try to invalidate something or they try to find something of the similar sort in every creative field or sport. The purpose of the mods is to attempt to exactly make something more alive, to get an image. At this point modding has been a thing for a very long time, its standard, I know... that's a reality pill. I've done and used a lot of vanilla stuff and I'm equally as appreciative of square but modders also worked hard on their own creations, I showcase anything, It's all the game to me. I've literally the dates back before I even used a single mod, it wouldn't make much of a difference in my creativity, the dates are there. You can always discredit those for doing it but won't change it. It's a choice and you're forcing yourself into limited situations of making something, and expecting everyone to conform, that's the most unrealistic thing. ...I get it. This works often probably for you, but this isn't Twitter. A lot of your like-minded have went there and worry about trending there. They prey and feast together in mobs there. But you won't find your meal here anymore. Cause it's just not cared about what you think. Nor does it matter. I prefer you chose me. But you can't swallow me. Never any lifetime could you. I write characters more in-depth than you every second in my mind. I write true villains, those mentalities that are broken, I know trauma, I'm a survivor. I have portrayed myself in your attire, your indeterminable mask outlined in cowardice and it's far better written in stories. That is where only it's meant to be. You can universally believe tearing and making people believe your attention seeking truth is what's real and ALL. But it's not. My mind may be whacked, different, alien to you. I'd choose that preferably over being blind. I hope it gets better for you and in-turn, you become just that, BETTER. You have my sympathy and prayers. Much love. I hope this attention services you, I do validate your existence. Although you cannot impact mine.

[synmorite]

Good Girl, Bad Boy

Characters: F!Reader, Jared, Jensen

Pairing: J2 x F!Reader

Summary: Jared can't follow Jensen's rules, so Jensen uses Y/N to punish him.

Word Count: 2.2k+

Warnings: polyamory, orgasm denial, cock cages, dom/sub relationships, daddy!kink, dom!jensen, switch!reader, switch!jared, M/M sex, anal play, anal sex, oral (m/f receiving), a miniscule dash of fluff. Y'all this smut from the onset!

A/N: So @hoboal87 and I absolutely LOVE to discuss and theorize fics on Bee's Discord server. We work so well together that @writethelifeyouwant challenged us to collaborate on a fic. @negans-lucille-tblr provided the prompt, "Jensen needs to punish Jared, and he's using Y/N to do it." This was written through a series of reblogs, with Alex and I only writing one part at a time with no discussions about what the other was going to do. The original post is here.

Special thanks to @hoboal87 for putting all of the reblogs together, creating such an awesome graphic, and for finishing the fic when I had to tap out to go to sleep. 😂 This was so fun and I'm excited for the next time we do it. (I also highly recommend checking out Alex's masterlist. She has got some amazing fics on there.🥰)

My Masterlist

Alex's Masterlist

“Since you can’t do as you’re told, we’ll have to use this instead,” Jensen grunts as he fastens the cage around Jared’s now softening cock.

Y/N leaned forward and pulled Jared’s wrists up to hook them into the handcuffs attached to the headboard. Jared whined as Jensen grinned and said, “No touching now, baby boy.”

Y/N moves onto Jared thigh, positioning her bare pussy on top of him as Jensen ties Jared's ankles, keeping him spread eagle. Slowly, Y/N starts to rock forward on Jared’s thigh, spreading her slick along his skin. Jared’s gaze zeroed in on his shiny flesh as he let out a low moan at the sight.

"Nuh-uh, babygirl," Jensen scolds you, letting his voice drop. You were already tense from a day full of teasing and you both know its not going to take much for the coil to snap. "If you're gonna get off, you'd better have my cock in you."

Y/N stopped moving immediately with a small whimper.

“Remember that we’re punishing Jared for coming without permission. You don’t want to be punished too, do you? Now you know what to do next.” Y/N nodded as she ran her hand down Jared’s caged cock, to his balls, to his still gaping hole.

Slowly, Y/N started to tease Jared hole. Jensen had instructed him to keep a plug in him while he was in quarantine, edge himself over and over again, but no cumming. Jared, the brat, of course couldn't help himself, sending you a video of him jerking off, spilling himself onto his tan and taut stomach. He'd begged you not to show Jensen, but you knew better than to hide this from him, lest you get your own punishment.

Part of you just wanted to help Jensen punish Jared though. It was one of the few times that Jensen gave you some control. You still had the rules to follow, of course, but it meant that you could play with Jared and watch him become desperate underneath your hands, your fingers. You smiled as you teased a finger into Jared’s hole to press against his prostate as he jerked beneath you. Jensen laughed, “Better hold on tight if you’re gonna play that game Y/N.”

Your mouth waters as you watch Jared's cock twitch in its cage, and he lets out another whimper as you hit his prostate again. Jensen moves behind you, his hand connecting with the bare flesh of your ass. It's not enough to leave a mark, only to remind you that you might be currently domming Jared, but Jensen was the alpha in the room. You let out a low moan when Jensen's fingers run through your slick, and you can practically see the smirk on his face.

"My two perfect little cock-sluts," Jensen works his thumb over your tightest hole. "Whaddya think I'll be the best way to show Jare that he should always follow Daddy's orders?"

You shivered as you pressed back against Jensen’s finger. You worked another finger into Jared and pressed against his prostate again without letting up. Jared’s back arch and he let out such a delicious whine that had goosebumps rising all over your bare skin. Jensen slowly pushed his own thumb through the tight ring of muscles at your hole and you let out your own gasp. You worked yourself back and forth on his thumb before turning your head and asking Jensen, “Can I pick something from the toy box to use on him, Daddy?”

"I dunno, babygirl," Jensen tsks, slipping two fingers into your dripping pussy, causing you to gasp out. You'd been under the same orders as Jared; two weeks without cumming, and the feel of his thick digits inside of you almost sends you over the edge. "Our baby boy wants to be fucked, and I don't think it'll be much of a punishment" -- Jensen slides a third finger into you -- "if we give 'im what he wants."

Jensen twists and pumps his fingers inside you, searching until he finds that spot inside you. You pull your fingers from Jared’s hole unable to continue playing with him as you moan out. You lean forward draping yourself over Jared’s sweat slick skin as Jensen thrusts his fingers in and out, faster and faster. “No coming yet, baby girl. ‘Member what I said? Can’t come till it’s my cock in you.” You whined and nodded before pressing your mouth against Jared’s chest. After Jensen hit that spot again, you bit down into Jared’s chest leaving teeth marks as Jared gasped out and his cock twitched in its cage.

Jared tugs against his restraints, "please, Jen," he begs, "lemme touch." You love seeing Jared like this, desperate and needy, giving all control up to you and Jensen. You want to have his hands on you as well, but you'll have to wait until Jensen's done doling out Jared's punishment. The most you can settle for at the moment, is a rough and sloppy kiss from Jared. You run your hands into his hair, giving it a tug as your tongue licks into his mouth.

“No, no baby boy. Y/N was a good girl, she waited like she was supposed to. You were bad. You don’t get to touch. You don’t get to decide.” Jensen taunted. He came around the side of the bed closest to Jared. Jared looked up at him as you ran your fingertips down his chest, sucking dark marks into the tan skin as you went. Jared whined at Jensen again. “Please Daddy? I can be good!” Jared pulled involuntarily at the restraints again as you tugged a nipple between your teeth. Jensen smirked down at you both before leaning down taking Jared’s mouth hungrily with his own. You watched the kiss, feeling the wetness pooling even more between your thighs. Jensen pulled away and Jared chased his lips, but Jensen stayed just out of reach. “Why don’t you prove it, baby boy?” Jensen said with another smirk.

Jared nodded eagerly, and Jensen let out a barely audible good boy. Jensen brought his lips to yours and smacked your ass again with a command of ‘up.’ You lift your ass into the air, straddling your body over Jared’s, letting your breasts just barely touch his chest. The sound of Jensen removing his belt is like music to your ears, and you can feel yourself getting wetter by the second. Jensen wastes no time, swiftly entering you and burying himself to the root. You’re glad he started to open you up with his fingers, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to enjoy this nearly as much. He holds himself there for a moment, before grabbing you by the nape of your neck, bringing your back flush to his chest. “Bet it won’ take ya long to cum, will it, slut?” he grunts as he starts thrusting into you.

You reach your hands down and grip onto Jared’s hips to hold on as Jensen thrusts grow harder and deeper. You can feel the coil tightening and tightening in your belly as Jensen’s hand slides around the front of your throat gripping just tight enough. His other hand slides down over your breasts and belly to start circling your clit harshly. You close your eyes and lean your head back on Jensen’s shoulder, panting. You feel Jensen bite at your neck before whispering into your ear, “Open your eyes baby girl. Look at what we’re doing to our boy.” You open your eyes and look down at Jared. His knuckles are white as his large hands are wrapped around the chain of the handcuffs and his hips are jerking up softly as his cock leaks precum onto his beautiful stomach. He’s making soft whines and whimpers that immediately make you remember the video he sent to you. The one that got him in trouble. Your gaze moves up from his cock and belly over all the little marks you left on his chest, and over his throat that is tensed as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down with each deep swallow. Finally, your hungry gaze meets his and you cum with a scream as you meet his lust black eyes.

“See?” Jensen grunts, moving one of his hands down your belly and over your clit. He starts rubbing you, working you through your orgasm and straight into another. You’ve barely come down before the coil snaps again and you sag against Jensen’s body.

“Those who follow the rules get rewarded.” If you weren’t on cloud nine, you’d feel bad for Jared, his cock straining against the cage. “Whaddya want now, babygirl?” Jensen groans as he slows his hips. You’re too orgasm drunk to form any coherent thoughts, all you want now is Jared’s mouth, and Jensen seems to notice when your eyes fall on them and you lick your lips. “You wan’ Jared to eat my cum out of you?” Jensen taunts, and you nod your head.

“Okay, baby, because you’ve been such a good girl, we’ll let Jared use his perfect mouth.” Jared hums in approval, and Jensen speeds up his thrusts, and after a few moments, he’s cumming hot and sticky inside you. He pulls out quickly, and you can feel him dripping down your thighs as you crawl back over Jared, placing your pussy above his mouth.

You grip the headboard next to the handcuffs and lower yourself down. Jared leans forward and licks up your inner thighs collecting the cum that escaped your pussy. He hums happily at the taste as he makes his way to your still dripping hole. The chain rattled as Jared pulled against them again. His long tongue dipped into your hole as you pushed down onto him more.

“Would you like me to remove the handcuffs?” Jensen asked from behind you. Jared pulled back a little as you moved your hips to follow his mouth and said “Yes, Daddy.” Jensen chuckled.

“Oh, baby boy, I wasn’t asking you. I was asking Y/N. Do you want Jared to be able to hold you still? While he eats every last drop of my cum?”

“Yes, please daddy. Please let him touch me.” You whined out.

“Ok, baby girl. For you.” Jensen reached forward and opened the cuffs, releasing Jared’s wrists. His hands immediately flew to your hips and yanked you further down onto his mouth. You let out a gasp as Jensen warned, “That’s the only place you can touch for now, baby boy. No where else.”

Jared agrees happily against your pussy, humming as his tongue moves frantically through your folds. His grip on your thighs tighten, and you’re sure that there will be imprints of his hands bruised on you tomorrow, not that you mind. You grind your pussy against his face harder, chasing one final orgasm, but you wanted to be able to see Jensen when you came-- another punishment for Jared. His name, not Jared’s, is the one you’re going to scream out. As you feel your third orgasm start to crest, you stop, and reach behind you for Jensen, you don’t feel him there, and you let out a needy whine. You turn your head and see Jensen on his belly, tonguing Jared’s hole, and slowly stroking his now-released cock. You reach out and tug on his short strands, not enough to elicit a punishment, but just to get his attention.

“What’s a-matter, baby?” Jensen pulls up, and Jared groans at the loss of Jensen.

“Need you, Daddy,” you moan. “Wanna see you when I cum.”

You turn yourself around so that you’re now facing Jensen, who starts working his cock into Jared. You lean forward, so that Jared’s cock is right under you, you look up at Jensen with wide eyes, asking silent permission to take his cock in your mouth.

“You don’t cum until I say so,” Jensen places his hand on Jared’s thigh, and you know he’s talking to both of you. “If you do, I’ll only be using those slutty mouths of yours for the next two weeks, and you won’t be able to cum that whole time, is that understood?”

You lift off of Jared slightly so that Jensen can hear a “Yes, Daddy,” from each of you.

You work Jared into your mouth, swirling your tongue around him, hollowing your cheeks and taking him as deep as you can. One of Jared’s hands disappears from your thigh as starts teasing your hole, working you into a frenzy. Jensen either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, but you’re sure that he’ll make Jared pay for his disobedience later. When Jensen gives him permission, Jared cums with a groan, hot and salty down your throat, and you greedily swallow every drop.

Jensen then pulls out of Jared, stroking himself as his spills over Jared’s stomach. “If you’re good, next time I’ll cum in this tight little ass of yours,” he scolds. “Now, since Y/N is the only one who can be a good girl, you’ve got 30 seconds to make her cum, or you’ll be wearing that cock cage for another week.”

Jensen scoops up his cum with his fingers, and brings them to your mouth, where you eagerly suck them dry. It only takes another moment before you cum a final time on Jared’s face. You take a moment to catch your breath before crawling off of Jared, and lay down next to him, Jensen appearing at your other side, sandwiching you between the boys.

“Y’all miss me?” Jensen breaks the silence.

“You know it’s not the same when you’re not here,” Jared speaks over you. “Now that The Boys is done, you can have a role on Walker. Come home to us every night.”

[huntective-kyeo]

❗Warning❗ TYPOS, SPELLING, AND GRAMMAR. And English is not my first language. Kinda angry hehehe

This is my first time to post it here and I hope you like it. Feel free to criticize my writing so I can improve.

So enjoy.

FIRST FANFIC

My Father is Dean Winchester

Dean POV

I sat down on the chair and open the lid of the beer. It's been hectic two weeks. Sam and I hunt a witch in Colorado and it took us a week to find the witch and killed it. That witch got Sam to bruise his ankle, and a concussion but thankfully nothing major injuries that needed stitches and so. Most of all the sonavabitch wore witch almost touch and probably hex my Baby which I did make her pay for it.

All in all, it took us a few days to get back at the bunker and now I'm sitting on the chair, probably wanted to eat some pies and get drunk.

My thoughts interrupt when the door opened and I looked up wonder who that person is. My instinct is to grab my trustful gun and aim it towards that intruder. However instead of getting alert, and hunting instinct it exactly quite opposite to what I feel right now.

Third POV.

A girl took a deep breath and with her shaky hand, she holds the handle and she pauses before she opened the door.

She didn't know what to do or what to say. She felt nervous to face them all. She wants to keep it secret however it keeps harder and harder to hide all the symptoms she felt during the last few months.

with heavy heart and soul, she opened the door and wish that bunker is well as empty as when she leaves it a few hours ago.

She didn't notice that the Impala, her first love park on her usual spot, she didn't notice a man sit on the chair seem like thinking something, she didn't notice her dad.

Dean POV

" y/n? " I blurted out. I didn't notice that my daughter y/n leave the bunker without telling us, or wasn't I?

Y/n my precious daughter, my little sunshine, and the only reason aside from my little brother who keeps me alive. 16 years ago Her mother and I met at the bar and happened to have one night stand. I was drunk to forget us condoms. I didn't realize it until, nine months later, Kylia found me and she shove the newly baby born into arms. I didn't hear her rants about not wanting kids because I was so fallen to my baby girl. I swear y/n is the most beautiful baby girl that I've ever seen. From that fateful night, I swore that I protect and love her no matter what.

With the help of my brother and my family, we did a good job raising a finest and yet mini-me y/n which kinda bit frustrated when she becomes a rebellious teenager and seeking for a new way to hunt.

I know that being a father and hunter ain't hood to raise a child in a world full of darkness but I did try my best to become a father that she deserved and not the father that I used to grow up

I again clear up my throat and by the time that I saw her, I know something is terrible up. Called it father instinct. My stomach began to feel something that I don't know if it's about the food or the worriedness about my daughter.

"Where have you been, I told you not to go outside not unless if you needed something but should-" I stumble and am shocked by a sudden hug coming from my daughter. My eyebrows meet and speculate more thoughts about what happened to her during a few weeks.

Then suddenly y/n cried up and my heart broke up thousand of pieces. Through I used to her cry of nonsense but this is different. I can feel it.

I began to think of a different reason why she cried like this. Is she on her period? Did a boy break her heart? If it is, then who? Oh god, my baby girl is heartbroken?! No-no-no.

" Hey, baby girl what's wrong? " I managed to ask a few words as I stroke her hair.

I didn't get her reply as she continues sobbing and sniffing on my chest. I continuously stroke her hair and rubbed a small circle on her back. With her tears I heard, I began to tear up which probably I got hurt when my baby girl gets hurt.

I saw Sam holding a can and some books and gave me confused look. I know he was confused about what is going on and the same as me. I only gave her shrug off before concentrate on keeping her calm down.

I sigh and sing a song that makes her calm down. It's a song that I always sing to her whenever she feels scared and upset. it her lullaby and till now I always sing to her when she felt like this. And now even though she's growing up ain't stopping this.

'Hey Jude, don't make it bad

Take a sad song and make it better

Remember to let her into your heart

Then you can start to make it better'

I sang softly and smile. I heard her sobs subside and her shoulder is no longer tensed. I kissed her head and quietly sing the rest of the song

By the song ends, y/n look up to me and hate to see her red-rimmed eyes and red nose face at me.

" Daddy... "

Y/n POV

After the song finish, I felt quite comfortable and my heart no longer pains me.

" daddy" I called up again. I hate seeing my dad worried glances and I wanted to back down but I know it's too late, now that I cried to his chest, and makes my father worried.

" what's wrong, princess " I nearly chuckle to hear the old nickname that I used to love but hate now. I should give my father annoying and death glares to him but I'm drained and tired to argue with my father.

Instead of the reply to his question, I took a piece of paper inside my leather jacket. With my shaky hand, I hesitate to give it to him. I saw my father unfold the paper and read it.

I know he reads it as I saw his face turn to a worried and horrifying face. I bit my lip as teardrops start to stream to his face and suddenly it aches my heart.

I didn't realize that my uncle Sam was there and he took the paper that my dad read it. My dad was frozen and saw Sam has the same reaction but he stumbled a bit and luckily sat on the chair or else he would hurt more.

The air was tense and several minutes seemed like a century to me as I was forced to see my dad and uncle of their horrifying reaction.

I was about to leave them and lock them up in my room but my dad grabs my wrist and put pressure on it, so I couldn't shove it off, I hesitate to look at his now red-rimmed eyes just like mine.

" Is this true? "

My heart broke as I nod

" when... When did it start? "

I flinched to hear a tone when my dad wanted a straight answer but I could see the difference of it. Instead of deadly and threatened, it's a broken and saddened tone that probably haunt me the rest of my life.

" honey, when did start... " I look up to him as a surprise to hear the familiar fatherly sweet tone that only me can know.

"a few months ago. When you just back from purgatory dad... " I mumble but I know that dad heard it because he mumbles coherent words that I know he's cursing, I wish it's not from me.

Then suddenly my dad sat down on the chair and then he hugged tightly couldn't breathe but slightly loose the tightness but still hugging me

" We can pull this up alright, we will. N/n we will fight this together okay, we'll find ways to rid this shit. We will be on your battle. " I then look up at my father and saw the tense and urging look " we will fight this out but you'll do your job ok, you'll kick this shit out, and keep fighting. Don't give up okay please, little n/n. " I heard him crack as didn't say anything considering, I was crying again and the inky response I can get is nodding.

Then I hug my father again and I feel another wrapped strong arms. I smile softly that uncle Sam joined the party. Now we are Complete, I feel like I'm ready to fight this shut out.

" Winchester is hard to kill, not even cancer. " I chuckle to hear uncle Sammy spoke.

"Yeah right, so you gonna do your part little princess, aright. Don't give up. " My father kiss my forehead. We parted away and wipes the tears we have. We laugh as we sniffle then finally our tears died down.

My father, Dean wipe the remaining tears and I look up to him confused. I saw him sad and regret my eyes and my heart sank.

" I love you N/Niepie, " then he kisses my forehead.

----AND CUT!!! ---

" Nice work J2 and Jodi damn there are no dried tears here " Robert yelled as all the staff and crew wipe their tears. " okay thirty minutes break, Jared, come to me I gotta asked you something" he added.

A group of assistants swarms the actors and did their task. Some wipe their sweats, do makeup, fixing their hair, and so on.

Jensen chuckles a little bit and wipes the remaining tears from his eyes.

" nice job dude, seem like the Days of our Lives gig paid off huh" A sixteen years old, young actress Jodi Smith tease him.

He rolled his eyes and ruffle her hair. " nice try but no you not riding my Baby" Jodi groan and about to reply when her assistant came and whisper to her ear "You're lucky, Mr. Ackles. Robert needs me now but I won't stop bothering you not until I sat on the driver seat and ride the impala".

When Jodi is out of sight, Jensen Ackles began to walk through his trailer. The thirty minutes of break is not enough of yearning for his daughter.

By the time he got inside. He locks it and sits on the couch. He rubbed his tired face as he grabs the old filthy Cinderella wallet. Today scene was emotional to him, not because of the scene itself but because he truly did miss his daughter y/n

In the finale of season 12, alongside Jack Kline played Alexander Calvert, and y/n Winchester played Jodi Smith we're both introduced and a new cast of Supernatural. Jensen was supposed to be glad that there are two new members of their family, but instead, it replaces guilt and dreadful feelings.

It's not the new cast members but the fact that Jodi Smith portrays is seem a great punch to his heart that he starts to realize he still has a daughter that should be taken care of.

No one knows not even Jared. Danneel and the kids, the crew nor the fans knew that the great Jensen Ackles has a secret daughter and only his close family knew about this truth.

" I'm sorry princess, How I wish I was there for you but you know I can't."

Jensen stroke a faded picture of an eight-year-old girl holding a doll whilst hugging the twenty-year-old Jensen Ackles.

" I'm sorry, I love you" he kisses the picture with so much love and tears began to stream down his cheeks

Hope you like it keep safe everyone. Reblog and like will yah.

[cherryblossomstars]

IV. Sky (W. Ushijima)

Taken from my AO3 series of one-shots & reposted here; this part is more Oikawa centric

Pairing: Ushijima x F!Reader; platonic Oikawa & Reader

Word count: 2,305

Genre: Hurt/comfort (from oikawa)

Summary: Aoba Johsai's volleyball team has never been able to defeat the Great Ushiwaka of Shiratorizawa. Their manager, however? She can bring him to his knees in mere seconds.

Or, Ushijima Wakatoshi is helplessly in love with Seijoh's Ace's twin sister, and the Aoba Johsai VBC is not appreciative of it.

Previous | Next

Dating Ushijima is not easy. Especially when Oikawa is your best friend.

Especially in situations likes these. Aoba Johsai vs Shiratorizawa in the Spring Interhigh Preliminaries. You sit on the benches with the coaches, towels, and water bottles. Your boyfriend may be the ace and captain of Shiratorizawa, but your team is Aoba Johsai. You promised to wear Oikawa's blue jersey in support.

It took three sets, Shiratorizawa coming out as the victor. Unlike a usual sweep of two sets, Aoba Johsai almost won this time. Instead of smiling at your boyfriend on the court, you paid attention to Oikawa's bowed head.

He would not cry on the court. But you know that later tonight, when he is alone and watching the video of their match he will need a friend with him.

After quickly cleaning up the water bottles and towels, you make your way to the foyer. Shiratorizawa is out of the gym first.

Ushijima does not know how to read the atmosphere, but he can tell from your worried expression he will have to talk to you later.

"I'm sorry, Wakatoshi, I just..." You avoid making eye contact with him out of shame. He's your boyfriend, after all. You should be happy for him, and yet... "congratulations, though. Really."

He nods in understanding, he already knows who your mind is on. "go take care of him. I'll see you tomorrow." With a kiss pressed to your forehead, he leaves the stadium.

When your team finally walks out of the gym and makes their way to the bus, they are dead silent. The frustration was oozing off of them.

"Next year, guys." Oikawa perks up, slapping Hajime on the back. "We'll be at nationals next year. No doubt about it."

You're not sure if he's really convincing the team or himself. On the bus ride back, you take Hajime's usual seat next to Oikawa instead. Despite your smaller frame, he still finds enough comfort in you to fall asleep on your shoulder (even though his body is practically halfway slid down the seat). Under normal circumstances, either you or your brother would have shoved him off of you. Your arm wraps around his shoulders and your hand gently cards through his soft brown hair instead.

When you all make your way home after having a dinner with the team, Hajime is silent. Your parents feel the tension upon immediately stepping inside your house and decide to leave the both of you alone.

Rather than changing into pyjamas, you change into something else to prepare to head out. You carefully fold Oikawa's jersey, keeping it in hand.

When you walk into Hajime's room to check on him, he's laying on his back and staring at the ceiling blankly.

"I'm supposed to be the ace..." He doesn't even look at you, "so why...?"

You sit on the edge of his bed setting the jersey by your side, "I can't say."

"You're always with him. Is he just a better ace than I am?" Hajime looks at you expectantly.

"Wakatoshi is... one of the best aces in the country." You hear him grunt in response. "But you're every bit as good of an ace in your own right. You keep Oikawa in line. You even keep Kyoutani in line."

He's silent for a moment, "do you think... that I'm nothing as a spiker if Oikawa wasn't my setter?"

You frown, "what? No, of course I don't think that." You sigh, "no matter who your setter is, that doesn't change the fact that you can definitely hold your own against Wakatoshi. I don't doubt that. Sometimes a defeat is left to luck. Sometimes it's teamwork. But when it comes to Shiratorizawa and Seijoh... the both of them have skill on par with each other. It's not about who the better setter or server or spiker is. Your both amazing in your own right. Seijoh's teamwork is practically flawless. Shiratorizawa's main weapon is Wakatoshi. If he didn't have the stamina he has, they would've fallen apart years ago. Not to mention Satori's blocks..."

You continue on with your speech, trying to keep your brother's morale up. By the time you finish, his breathing is even and his eyes are shut.

You make sure to grab the jersey before leaving the room. "Next year." You whisper and shut the door.

"Hey, I'm going to Oikawa's." You mention to your parents on your way out of the house. When you get the okay, you make your way out and begin your walk. You've been to his house so often that the way there is practically muscle memory by now. You no longer have to look at signs or bring up your maps or rely on your brother to find your way to his house.

When you knock, his mom is the one to answer the door.

"Ah, Iwaizumi." She greets you with a knowing smile. She already knows why you're here. "He's in his room. I think he's still awake. Come in." She makes room for you to enter.

The smell of the Oikawa household is familiar to you. You smile, the smell always reminds you of home. You can point out everything in this house by memory. The TV stand has a cabinet with a glass door that, when Hajime was much younger, he had slammed closed too hard and shattered the glass. At the kitchen, there was a particular corner of one of the counters that, when you and Oikawa were play-fighting, he had slammed your head against on accident and you lost consciousness. Oikawa's mother had to bring you to the emergency room. You had a pretty bad concussion and when you regained consciousness, Oikawa was next to you, trying to apologize through his sobs and hiccups.

When you enter Oikawa's room, it doesn't surprise you how dark it is. The only light comes from his computer, blocked partially by his frame. He sits there, dead silent with his knees raised to his chest.

"Mom, please, I already told you-" He stops short when he feels you snake your arms around him from behind.

You lay his jersey in front of him, the #2 glaring almost accusingly back at the both of you. "Hey." You murmur against his back.

"...shouldn't you be out celebrating with your boyfriend?" He practically spits out the last word.

You furrow your brows, "I can't come over and make sure my friend is okay?"

"I'm fine. I have next year. I'll win. Go congratulate Ushiwaka. He's the winner, you don't have any business here." He doesn't turn back to face you. The video continues to play.

Your heart sinks. You release him from your hold. "Tooru-"

"Go!" He yells. The venom in his voice is clear. "Shiratorizawa won. Ushiwaka's the winner. You don't have to be here! We didn't win. Just leave!"

"I want to be here!" You shout back, trying to keep the tears from falling.

"Why?" He finally, finally turns to you.

There it is. You knew he would cry. "You shouldn't be alone, Tooru, and you're my friend is it so bad to want to make sure you're doing okay?"

"I- How- How can you still call me your friend?" He's glaring at you.

"Excuse me?"

"You're dating that bastard Ushiwaka. How can you date someone wh-"

"Do not turn this on me, Oikawa." Your tears fall freely now, "that's not fair. Don't you dare bring my relationship into this. That's low, even for you."

"Why not?! How can you like him?! You're our manager, for god's sake! Why don't you just go to Shiratorizawa? Huh?" His words cut deep.

You open your mouth to say something. When your voice cracks instead, you decide it's pointless to argue with Oikawa when he's like this. You leave without another word.

The volleyball team immediately knows something is wrong when you don't sit with the third years during lunch like usual. Instead, you sit quietly with your other friends in the lunchroom. To add to the confusion, Oikawa is very clearly in a bad mood and quickly shoveling down his food and ignoring the conversation before leaving and going outside to grab a volleyball and practice his sets.

When they turn to Hajime, he simply shrugs in confusion. He's not sure what's happening either.

Oikawa's serves are much more powerful, but lack any control. He keeps setting a little too high, putting too much power behind them. He doesn't speak.

You come to practice and do the bare minimum. You write and hand out towels and water bottles to everyone (excluding Oikawa). You don't care, he could call you petty. He's an asshole. You also don't speak.

"Iwaizumi." Your coach calls over one day. Both you and your brother turn to look at him. "Hajime."

He nods and runs over.

"What's wrong with those two?" He points at you and Oikawa.

Hajime shrugs, "I don't know."

"Can you fix it?"

"The situation will probably fix itself, coach. [Name] has a date with Ushijima today and Oikawa's probably already started to get antsy since he hasn't been talking to my sister recently."

The coach nods in understanding. "Oikawa and Iwaizumi seem a little unstable right now, so until they both solve their problem, I need you to..."

Ushijima wasn't sure what to expect on this date. He knew you were upset, sure. He knew what Oikawa had done, of course. He just thought it would blow over by the time the both of you went out to the park.

Admittedly, he thought it did. The date went smoothly, but by the time it was time to go home and you both stood at your driveway, your tears wouldn't stop flowing.

He pulled you into an awkward hug (after a small internal debate), rubbing your back as you sobbed freely. "I don- Wh- Oika- He-" You blabbed pathetically. You couldn't even form a coherent word.

Several minutes had passed when you finally calmed down. "Ah, I'm sorry, Toshi... Your clothes..." You cringed at the sight of the dark spots on his shirt where your tears had fallen.

He shakes his head, "I don't care. Don't apologize."

Before you can say anything else, you hear someone clear their throat behind you.

Lo and behold, Oikawa stood there next to your brother. You'd never seen him look so uncomfortable before.

Ushijima gives you a nod of encouragement before he makes his way to leave. Hajime slaps Oikawa, pushing him forward and towards you and heads inside to your house.

You and the subject of your distress are left alone.

"I-" The both of you begin. You quiet down, letting him go first.

"[Name], I... Uh..." He's nervous, that much you can tell. "You're one of my best friends. I just... I don't think we should be friends anymore if I can't even keep my promise to you. I told you I would make it to nationals this year, and I couldn't even do that. I asked you to wear my jersey because I was so confident we'd win and..." He looks at you with a pained smile, "and we didn't. Pretty humiliating, huh? Sorry I put you through that."

Oikawa Tooru is not a genius. What he lacks, he's made up for through hard work. His bad knee can attest to that. He comes off as having an inflated ego, when it's really just the opposite. He's the most insecure person you've ever met. He's a perfectionist who knows that he can't be perfect. His drive to become the best is a result of knowing that he isn't the best and he likely never will be.

Your heart breaks.

"I don't care about whether or not you won, Tooru. I care about you. Wakatoshi can win hundreds of matches but that doesn't make you any worse. I didn't wear your jersey because of your promise, I wore it because I wanted to support you. You're the best at what you do. You taught me to set. You held me when I cried. You played with me when I was bored and you tutored me when I was failing classes. I'm not your friend because you're a great volleyball player, I'm your friend because you're a great person. I want to be there for you, so please just let me. You've always been there for me, let me return the favor. Your value to me doesn't depend on volleyball."

"...When I..." He steps towards you, enveloping you in his warmth with a hug. "When I think back on everything that's made me who I am today, everything that has made me do what I do and love what I love, you and Iwa-chan are always standing next to me in those memories. So I... I just wanted to go to nationals while we're all still together. I'm sorry I lashed out at you. I'm sorry I couldn't achieve what I've been promising for years now. Next year will be different. We'll win. And even if we don't..." He steps back from you, holding you by your shoulders at arm's length, "I'll go pro. And then you can cheer for me while I win every game from that point on."

You laugh, "I look forward to it, Tooru. Until then, do you think you can handle another loss?"

He tilts his head in confusion.

"I know you're a sore loser and you're sulking and all, but I'm still gonna kick your ass at Street Fighter."

"I'm not sulking! Iwa-chan! Your sister's being mean to me!"

"I am not! You're just pouty!"

"Pouty?! We'll see who's pouting when I beat you at Street Fighter."

Iwaizumi opens the door, "the both of you'd better shut the hell up before I lock you both outside."

"Eheh... Sorry, Iwa-chan."

"Sorry, Hajime..."

Fin.

[biillyhargroves]

May I request a fic? Harringrove with an established relationship, post s3, and Billy gets sick with a fever and totally flips out when Steve gets him into a cold bath. I'm sick as a dog myself right now and need me some hurt/comfort, but I can't manage to write it atm!

oh gosh, I hope this cheers you up a little and I hope you feel better soon, friend!!!

holy water(fic requests open)

It starts with a noise- something between a whimper and a groan. It is quiet at first, but then it grows, and Steve, grumbling, blinks blearily awake to find Billy twisted among the sheets, his breath quick, his hair plastered to his face by a soft sheen of sweat. His mouth is open and that strange, strangled sound fights its way out. A nightmare, Steve thinks; Billy hasn’t had one in months, but Steve is no stranger to his terror. His annoyance thaws. 

“Hey,” he says, voice strained with clinging sleep. “Billy.” Billy’s only response is a moan. Steve reaches for him, but Billy evades his grasp by rolling over, back rounding as he curls away. “Billy,” Steve says again, and this time he grasps Billy’s shoulder and- “Holy shit.”

This is no mere nightmare. Steve bolts upright as he starts to understand: it’s a fever dream.

“Billy?” Steve leans over him. He puts a hand to Billy’s forehead and hisses at the touch. Billy is boiling hot all over; his face, his arms, even his back as Steve leans against it. Steve reaches across Billy to flick on the light and when he does he sees that Billy’s shirt is two shades darker than it was when they went to bed, now soaked through with sweat. 

Billy squeezes his eyes shut at the sudden assault of light. He groans, louder this time. Steve combs his hair away from Billy’s face. Billy’s breath hitches. He thrusts his elbow weakly against Steve’s chest, almost whining with the effort, and Steve grabs his arm. 

“Off,” Billy mumbles. 

“Hey,” Steve says softly. “Hey, hey, hey.”

Billy doesn’t quite wake up- not all at once. He fights against Steve, and Steve doesn’t let him go, and he mutters words that are unintelligible and disconnected until they melt into a long, pathetic kind of sigh. He falls onto his back, Steve guiding him, and when he opens his eyes they are glossy and red. He looks startled, maybe even scared, and he shrinks away from Steve like a child from the dark. 

“It’s okay,” Steve says. “It’s me. It’s just me.”

Billy says nothing, but recognition flickers- ever briefly -across his face. He is not trusting, not quite; he is still somewhere inside a dream Steve can’t yet understand. 

“Shit, you’re really out of it, aren’t you?”

“Wh-” Billy starts, but he never gets the whole word out. Steve presses his hand against Billy’s forehead again and thinks his palm might burn right through. 

“Stay here,” Steve tells him. “Don’t move.” 

Billy obeys, though whether he means to is another question entirely. Steve fishes his mother’s first aid kit from beneath the bathroom sink. He takes out a thermometer, shakes out a few Tylenol, fills a glass with water. He sets these things on the lip of the sink and then he turns to the tub, running the faucet as cold as he can get it. He lets it run, the tub slowly filling, and returns to find Billy with the blankets, still tangled, drawn up to his shoulders.

“Hey,” Steve says. “Uh-uh. C’mon. You gotta cool off.” Billy startles when Steve pulls the blankets away and the look on his face makes Steve chest ache. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But you’re burning up, man.”

He can tell that Billy doesn’t trust him- not really, not truly -and it deepens the ache in his chest. Steve sighs and he squeezes Billy shoulder, hoping that Billy might find comfort in the gesture. 

“It’s okay,” Steve tells him. “Okay? We just have to cool you down. Can you stand?”

Billy does try, but just sitting upright seems a challenge. He sways and when he tries to get to his feet he can’t seem to keep them beneath him. Steve catches him, and he drapes Billy’s arm across his shoulders. 

“I got you,” he promises. Billy lets himself be guided down the hall. He deposits Billy onto the toilet and he reaches for the hem of his shirt. Billy tries to curl away, but Steve gently shushes him again. “You gotta get out of this, okay?” Steve says. “It’s drenched.” 

Billy weakly fights him, but Steve manages to peel Billy’s shirt off him. When he does, Billy curls in toward his middle, hiding the criss-crossed map of scars carved across his middle, dragged down his sides, thick and raised over his hips and beneath his ribs. His desperation to hide them makes undressing him a near-insurmountable task. He’s shivering, too. He looks pathetic. Small, and scared, and so unlike himself that Steve almost feels guilty bearing witness. He cups Billy’s cheek in his hand.

“Hey,” Steve says. “Can you look at me?” Billy does. “You know I’d never hurt you, right?” Steve asks, and Billy doesn’t seem to know how to answer. He says nothing. He only blinks, eyes flitting down to Steve’s mouth and then down to the floor and then back up to Steve’s eyes. “I wouldn’t,” Steve says. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says, and when Billy drops his gaze again Steve gently lifts Billy’s chin and presses a kiss to his forehead. “I love you,” Steve tells him. Billy blinks slowly, and when Steve asks if he understands Billy nods his head. “Okay,” Steve says, satisfied. “Come on. I’m gonna try to make this quick, okay?”

He offers his hands, and Billy shakily takes them. He lets himself be drawn into the bath, though when his skin hits the water he hisses, rocketing forward and falling against Steve’s chest.

“I know,” Steve says. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. You gotta get in.”

“I don’t-” Billy starts, but the thought is never finished. He is tense and wracked with shivers and he strains against Steve hands as Steve lowers him into the tub, apologizing all the way. Billy swears, though his voice is not as angry as Steve is accustomed to. It is small and weak and heartbreaking and he clings to Steve’s arms as the water washes over his legs, his hips, swallows up his middle. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve keeps telling him. “I know. You can curse me out.”

“Good,” Billy groans, the first clear word he’s spoken, though it is said through chattering teeth. Steve holds him, lets Billy rest his head against his shoulder. 

“That’s it,” Steve says. “Just for a few minutes, okay?”“Steve,” Billy whines, and Steve’s heart jumps at the sound of his name. Billy buries his head in the crook of Steve’s neck and Steve lets him. He sits on the edge of the bathtub so that he can hold Billy tighter- hold him closer. He rubs his back and buries his fingers in Billy’s hair. He shushes him, rocks him, feels him relax as much as one can in a bath of ice-cold water.

“You’re okay,” Steve tells him, over and over again. The water laps over Billy’s skin and Steve frees one hand to cup some and pour it over Billy’s back and across his broad shoulders. Billy’s breath hitches with each pass of the water, but he doesn’t fight, doesn’t push Steve away, doesn’t try to escape, and again Steve tells him, “You’re okay.” 

When Steve decides his time is up, Billy lets himself be lifted from the tub. Steve dries him, dresses him in borrowed clothes that don’t fit quite right, gets him to take the Tylenol he’d left on the bathroom sink. When he takes Billy’s temperature it reads as a fever, but his skin doesn’t feel quite as fiery hot and he’s more coherent than he’d been before.  

And, where he’d been fearful before, now he clings to Steve. Even as Steve gets him back into bed, Billy won’t let him go far. He hangs onto to Steve’s arm, so Steve climbs in beside him. He wraps his arms around Billy and Billy burrows into him. 

“You feel any better?” Steve asks him. 

“Dunno,” Billy mumbles. 

“You’ll tell me if you feel worse?” Steve asks. Billy says nothing, but Steve thinks he feels Billy nod against his chest. He squeezes him closer and kisses his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, and again Billy says nothing, but he does press himself firmly against Steve, and perhaps that is answer enough. 

Billy won't remember this by morning. He will wake up in Steve’s arms, feeling sick and exhausted and awful, but his fever will break. And Steve will hover, of course, because he fears another bad dream, another sweat-soaked tee shirt. He’ll dote on Billy, and Billy will tell him not to, will complain that he’s too motherly, will even tease him for it, and Steve will be grateful; grateful that Billy is okay, grateful that Billy trusts him, grateful that Billy will still curl up in his arms when night falls again, less sick but still seeking safety, seeking comfort, and trusting Steve to give it. 

[justherefortaylorswift]

there’s glitter on the floor after the party...

Taylor,

*About 9 days ago, on May 22nd, 2018, I had just arrived home from your Seattle show at CenturyLink Field. It was 4am and I couldn’t sleep. I had so much on my mind and was still on a high from your show. So, in the early hours of the morning, after my friends had long gone to bed, I began to write. I’ve revised my original note quite a bit since then. I’ve also had the opportunity to do some additional reflecting since tour, and I have some thoughts. So, I guess this is the end-result of a mash-up of 4AM overly-emotional rambling, combined with well thought-out, fully coherent, mature writing. I feel like I really over-explained this. I could have been a lot less-awkward in setting this up. Let's just get into it:

[SO. I just got home from your Seattle show. It's 4 am and I can't sleep. This was my 6th tour, and I made what seems like an infinite amount of unforgettable memories with a group of incredible people I call my ‘Swiftie Fam” (the name needs work...). There's Cecil (my long-time, Canadian Swiftie friend, you’ll see him in earlier posts), Wanda (Cecil’s wife), Kaeden (7. Cecil & Wanda’s son. Major Swiftie. His first concert!), and finally the beautiful Maile (a recent addition to the fam, and now a life-long friend!).  It’s hard to explain in words, but we all have developed a connection that’s special and unique because of what we experienced together. I couldn’t have asked for a better group of people to stand by my side tonight. We danced, laughed, and cried together… I don’t think I’ve ever felt more understood. These people ‘get’ me.

Not surprisingly, I screamed every single lyric at the top of my lungs and subsequently lost my voice almost IMMEDATIELY. With that in mind, I suppose a more accurate description would be: I wasn’t so much singing, as I was gasping for the remainder of the show. I literally danced with until I was out of breath. I cried (ok, SOBBED) all of my make-up off (a Long Live/NYD mash-up… are you kidding me?! I FEEL ATTACKED). 

By the end of the night, I resembled a pathetic, overly-emotional, glittery, drowned rat.

and I was living my absolute best life.

Also, I was REALLY proud of our outfits this time around! I think we did a decent job of recreating your Direct TV commercial, with my rainbow two-piece, and Cecil’s interpretation of Olivia Benson dressed as a Caticorn (I can’t say I ever thought I’d use that in a sentence). It consisted of around 8-10 hours total of gluing, painting, and hand-sewing, leading up to the show. Everything turned out awesome, way better than expected. Totally worth the man hours! Wanda hand-made matching these adorable matching t-shirts for her and little Kaden (Big Rep & Little Rep), and Maile constructed a beautiful MASTERPIECE from the mountain LYWMMD outfit- it was freakin’ incredible and HOT!

There was something a bit different about this tour for a couple of reasons:

[The production.] I don’t think I’ve experienced such sensory-overload in my LIFE. The whole time it was like a constant stream of frantic, internal dialogue with a lot of run-on sentences, like, “WHAT IS HAPPENING SHE’S GIVING US CHOREO OMG YAAASSS WERK HONEY IF A MAN TALKS SHIT WE DON'T OWE HIM A DAMN THING OH MY GOD ITS RAINING CONFETTI I MUST COLLECT IT I HOPE THESE MULTI-COLORED FLASHING LIGHTS DON’T GIVE ME AN EPILEPTIC ATTACK WHERE THE F-CK DID THESE GIGANTIC SNAKES COME FROM THERE ARE LITERALLY STAGES EVERYWHERE I’M OVERWHELMED OH SHIT SHES PULLING A SPEAK NOW BY WALKING THROUGH THE CROWD WHAT'S GOING ON OH GOD F-CKING FIREWORKS THESE VOCALS ARE LIT THO I'M SWEATING I’M DEFINITELY GONNA NEED THERAPY AFTER THIS NEW YEARS DAY/LONG LIVE MASH UP IS THAT A FOUNTAIN WHATS HAPPENING OH GOD IT’S REAL WATER AND SHE’S IN THE FOUNTAIN I’M HAVING A 2008 SHOULD’VE SAID NO ACM AWARDS FLASHBACK MOMENT HOLY SH-T MORE F-CKING FIREWORKS SO MUCH PYRO IS THIS EVEN LEGAL” I’ve gotta say, you have BEST band (Paul, Amos and Mike..OGS), vocalists (Eliott and Kamilah…the TALENT), and all the dancers. Every single person on that stage was on FIRE, and their talent, passion, and individual personalities made the night sparkle.

[The fans.] I freaking adore this fan culture. I’ve never met a Swiftie who wasn’t ridiculously friendly, welcoming, and super relatable. The vibe was so positive. I’ve never smiled, waved and taken pictures with so many random strangers in my life. It felt as if we were literally in a different world that day. It felt like home.

[YOU!.]  We need to talk about this major GLO UP you’ve got going on, honey. You exude SO much confidence and you're just pure sunshine. When I think about the way you’ve carried yourself these past couple of years through all of the BS drama, I can’t help but feel damn proud. You’ve successfully converted pain into art, into music. Real music, that’s poignant, raw, and just BAD ASS. Your lyrics continue to foster a special connection you maintain with the audience...a connection that often times breathes life into brokenness.

I felt like the luckiest girl in the entire world tonight. 

This may have been my best concert experience ever, which is actually pretty ironic because:

Unlike Red, I wasn’t in the Pit

I didn’t have VIP seating, like 1989

You weren’t close enough for any potential high fives, waves, or eye contact like I experienced at Speak Now at B-Stage

We were not chosen for Rep Room (or T-Party, Club Red, or Loft 89)

…But, it was OK. It was way more than OK. It was truly a dream.

Listen: Something I've always deeply admired about you is that you make it a priority to maintain a personal relationship with the fans.  It’s clear you want to meet as many of us as possible, and you make a conscious effort to do so. You get to know us as individuals and you CARE, and that means everything us and makes such an impact. I mean, you invite us into your HOME for crying out loud, you walk through massive crowds and give high-fives, you lurk our Instagrams and Tumblrs and interact on social media, and you always make a notable effort to meet as many of us as possible at tour.

However, this can sometimes turn into a bit of a "Catch 22" situation for people. The downside, is that it’s honestly SUPER easy to fall into the “trap” of being consumed with the possibility of meeting you after your shows. Due to the fact that the “selection” process is both intentional, yet also random. To be transparent, it's quite difficult to not obsess with the idea of ‘trying’ to get chosen. I witness this behavior so often, in others and in myself just as much, if not more. Selfishly, I often feel not only jealous, but UPSET when I see photos/read experiences of other fans meeting you. I sometimes feel like the only one who hasn’t yet gotten the opportunity.  It can quickly turn into a mind-game if you're not careful, which has the potential to become toxic if we allow the idea of meeting you to rule supreme over what it's actually about...which is the MUSIC. And, this amazing show you put on for us night after night. And somewhat understandably so, I've witnessed the obsession with being chosen to meet you become a main focus point for a lot of us (including myself a bit!). It's pretty stressful, and can easily dampen or cheapen the concert experience, if you're not careful. As dramatic as this probably sounds, Tumblr (and social media) can be brutal within this fandom, and dare I say ‘cut-throat’ at times. It's easy to get upset watching (what seems like) literally EVERYONE get that opportunity, except you. 

That said, I had a wake-up call/mini-epiphany recently, which manifested while driving home from your show at Midnight on May 22nd with my friends, feeling so amazing and so grateful for what I just experienced…but also a little guilty because I feel like I’ve spent way too much time worrying about the possibility of meeting at you when you come to Seattle, how to get the attention of Taylor Nation, where to find Mama Swift, getting that guitar pick from Papa Swift, and this time was no different. Granted, my intentions are 100% pure and it’s only because you’ve meant so freakin much to me for so many years, and it's almost as if my life won’t be complete until I finally get to tell you in person. That said, there is certainty a valuable lesson to be learned here. I am confident that you and I will come face-to-face one day (hopefully with my Swifie fam!). The stars will align at the exactly the right time, and I will have my moment with you, and it will be SO worth the wait. You can't "force" stuff like this, you know? The privilege of meeting you is almost ‘sacred’ in a sense. At least in my opinion. Anyway, my point is: I refuse to a continue to attempt to “create fate” by attempting to "earn" my worthiness in fandom. It’s not productive, it's not healthy, and it’s not cute.

Alright, this is getting out of hand. I need to wrap this up. 🤣 I’m not sure whether or not you’ve seen any of my throwback photo-posts I posted the week leading up to the show. They definitely explain a lot more about me, and my history being a fan. Either way, I must reiterate how grateful I am to have you in my life, and that support you 100% and will always be here. The amount of hope, joy and comfort you've given me over the past 10+ years is insurmountable, and I'll never be able to repay you for that. And I mean that in the most sincere way. Not a lot of things make me as happy as you make me (especially lately). This experience was the ‘boost’ I needed, I think. And like I said, the relationship I have with my friends/Swiftie Fam is invaluable, and I look forward to making memories with them at your shows in the future. You’ve brought the most random group of people together and created a bond that’s unique, unconditional and unbreakable, and I think that’s so cool.

This was A LOT longer than I originally intended it to be. This escalated quickly. Haha. Thanks for listening. 💗

Don’t read the last page…]

Love you, T

Crystal

@taylorswift

@taylornation

@ceunit

@maileswiftie

[photos]:  1) The whole crew: Cecil, Wanda, Kaeden, Maile and myself at our seats. 2) Kaeden the night before the show. SO EXCITED!! 3) Testing out the Caticorn onesie w/ Cecil 4) Cecil and myself FULLY DECKED and ready to go. 5) Wanda and Kaeden: Big Rep & Lil’ Rep! 6) the girls! Maile, Wanda and Me pre-show 7) Us at the end of the show! And yes, that’s me in the middle..in disbelief, exhausted, sweaty, and a physical and emotional wreck (see also: ‘drowned rat’ description above). 8) All of us after the show literally in a hotel lobby (and glitter on the floor after the party!), waiting for traffic to die down before we headed home.

[veterveter]

Hey hey, it's gay bike anon again! I'm more than honoured to get my own tag!!! I definitely would like to keep talking to you <3 And only love for you too <3

I'll gladly wait for your response to my ask (or asks??? we'll see one day ehehehe)! I feel you, when people cite some of my text messages from a few months (or more) ago I'm often like "nope, nah-ah, that's not me, you're wrong". Same for older essays, I often can't believe I wrote those. And even with things I wrote late at night a few weeks ago, sometimes I'm like "I wrote that? That monstrosity??? Okay, I need more sleep before writing". (My capacity of writing in correct English grammar usually goes to sleep before I do, same goes for varied word choice). But sometimes I'll see this project I've worked on YEARS ago and exactly recognize the pieces I wrote? Since the ask would be fairly recent, I suppose I would recognise my writing style and word choice and since I didn't wrote it whilst sleep deprived (I hope??) I'm setting my chances of recognising it pretty high. But we'll see one day, the mystery will marinate for a while... [I am rereading this in the daytime, and this is EXACTLY what I meant, at night I make the weirdest word choices?? I’m definitely not changing it though because I might find it kinda funny]

I snorted so hard about the way you talked about your almost-name, I'm giggling here like crazy. Apparently my name means something alike 'dedicated to God', but my parents aren't really believers, so gotta love that. The meaning of my sibling's name is 'summer', but I'm the one born in the summer, whilst my sibling is born in autumn, oops. Guess my parents never checked one of those sites/ books where you can find the meaning of a name hahaha.

I love how my ask was so weird and chaotic that you sent a screenshot to a friend. I LOVE that she had no idea what was going on. Then again, I watched the semis (obviously hahaha) but I had no idea what was going on either... But honestly it was peak Dutch culture, water and bicycles, I would just add an ode to 'hagelslag' and voila, the entirety of Dutch culture summed up... [Also: if you don't know: 'hagelslag' is just sprinkles which we eat on bread, yes, on bread, we do not not only eat sprinkles as on cake or on donuts, like in any other country, no, we put it on bread. It's actually a really popular sandwich topping here. My ultimate favourites are the chocolate ones, but you also have them in several fruity flavours (like forest fruit) and anise flavour.] Thank you, perfect chaotic energy is an ultimate goal I strive towards *bows like I'm Victorian royalty or something*

You're absolutely right, it went EXACTLY like that. Specifically, I would be studying for my exams, explaining topics to myself like I always do, so I'd tell myself "The six possible origins of economies of scope are indivisibility, specialisation, marketing, research and development, GUESS WHAT.. SUBWAY DRIVER GANDÍA... ehhh... what was I doing again??" OR: "one of the most detailed and most used models of responsive regulation is Brathwaite's piramid. His enforcement piramid visually shows, nope not important, SUBWAY DRIVER GANDÍAAAAAA" And I'd laugh, continue explaining theories and calculations to myself until my focus started lessening again and my thoughts would wander off again. I am VERY glad I'm not the only one who thinks about it from time to time, and I'm glad you're not suing me for any mental harm yet.

Yess, those pictures I saw from Promising Young Woman look so beautiful and aesthetic!! I'll probably watch it somewhere after the 16th, because I'll most likely have finished my last exams by then. I'll tell you what I thought about it! Thank you SO SO SO much for all the luck wishes!!!! I had an exam last Friday and I absolutely rewarded myself, because it went better than I expected and I passed an earlier exam and a paper too! I didn't buy myself a tricorne (yet), but I did buy funko pops (my inner economist said it was 100% rational because it was a really good deal hahaha). I still have two exams to go, so I could always buy a tricorne for finishing either of those, OR. EVEN BETTER. I'll ask my parents (or my grandparents) for one for my birthday. I mean, that would be hilarious. They'd be so confused. They've never seen S3 and S4 of LCDP so they'll have no idea, even if I tried to explain it. It would be so incredibly funny (and really really weird for them), I am laughing like crazy just at the thought of it.

I've never been in Finland before, but those temperatures do not sound legal indeed. I have no knowledge of Finnish law, but maybe article 3 of the European Convention on Human Rights, the prohibition of torture, would work? If I was the judge I’d 100% agree, so we should all sue the weather sksksks. I'm glad to have brought you rain though (and that I apparently possess the power to do so - magic weather controlling pirate seems like a nice enough job to me)!!! I hope the temperature has become at least somewhat lower. You're right, climate change should just... stop... right away. The weather is pretty weird here, right now: one day it will be super sunny and (at least) around 27 degrees and almost melting away, and the other day it will be raining and I'll be wearing my warmest sweater. Like, why the extremes??

I love that I am able to make you lose your coherent thoughts (that's probably why we have one brain energy about Underwater, because I, too, have the ability to make myself lose my coherent thoughts). I'm glad for your faith in my impersonation of Martín. I even started Duolingo Spanish again, and now know the phrase, "Yo bebo leche" (I drink milk) which obviously would be very important to him. Now I'll just need an Argentinian accent to go with it. Leaning menacingly on a cane would be GREAT, I love the idea. I'll open job applications for a Denver. Maybe my cat could help me, she, much like Denver, is super loud and she is super aggressive towards other cats, so there is potential there. And guiding dogs and even tiny guiding horses exist, why not a guiding cat?

I always assumed I would follow a more... you know… legal... career path, maybe even literally a career in law. But, my accounting professor also showed us how to manipulate financial statements ("so you can notice when people are doing this", uh-huh sure, sure that’s why) and another professor of mine also said that a criminal career sometimes could be the more rational, rewarding choice over a legally acceptable career. So, I suppose I should not be surprised by this sudden change of career plans. I should have seen this coming. And what better way to be able to avoid the laws than by knowing exactly what they are and how far you can go. And if that plan doesn’t work out, the books of law I have (they’re combined in two huge hardcover bundles) are really heavy and you could probably harm someone with them if you hit hard enough… Well, I suppose you can even leave “hard” away, just by hitting someone softly with those books you can bring serious harm to them… Ah, and like that one professor would say: in this scenario it would be a rational choice to become a pirate instead of a privateer. Oh dear, not Arturito :/ Mutiny would seem like a good option, I’ll take over the ship and become Palermo the Pirate. Sounds much and much better than “Arturo the Pirate”, since that isn’t an alliteration, sooo mutiny is reasonable even for that reason. And then there’s the fact that it’s Arturo, I mean, that says enough.

YOU LOVE UNDERWATER TOO????!!!! I completely forgot that you posted that! It seems we do indeed already have one shared braincell energy my friend <3

Last week has been pretty good (except for having to make a test at 9:30, what a godless time, I’m usually barely awake by then ehehehe), I think I aced the test I had, got back some good grades and finally got my first Covid vaccination (and only shortly slight dizziness as a side effect, so that's pretty great). And thanks so much!!! For now I’m safe from Gandía, but somewhere in mid-July I’ll have to take an exam on campus, so I’ll might be able to bring out my inner Palermo then.

How was your week? If the weather is still unkind to you (well, also if the weather *is* kind to you), treat yourself to your favourite ice cream and a break every now and then <3 Do you already have holidays or hasn’t your academical year ended yet?

You’re also right - this is conversation and we’re friends now <3 And I absolutely do like cookies! I would say my favourites are american cookies (though stroopwafels are reaally good as well) but honestly there are only a few kinds of cookies that I don’t love that much. And anything with chocolate in it is GREAT. I do also love apples and bananas, though grapes (which I just had) are even better! What’s your favourite kind of cookie?

Also, I know I have been giving you so many prompts already, but I saw this one in that list you reblogged and it gave me so much Berlermo energy: you live in an apartment with your best friend. the two of you always fall asleep in each other's arms, but one day, your friend isn't there. they've fallen in love with someone else. it's your other best friend, who recently moved in with you. and that's when you realize, that those nights you spent together, weren't so platonic after all. I would love it if you’d write it, but if you decide not to that’s absolutely fine too, no worries <3

By the way, I was going to post this quite a bit earlier, but my laptop (unlike me) decided yesterday night, when I was finishing writing this, that it was time to sleep, so I had to quickly dump this whole rant in Google Docs (it’s almost two and a half pages what the heck) and I was busy all day so I only was able to upload it just now. I swear I can ractually espond faster than after a week :) Have a lovely evening, much love from the gay bike country <3

Heeeeeeey you are back!!! How happy am I to see my favouritest gay bike anon return to my inbox!!! 💕 [Author's note: You can tell I started this reply right away because you've sent me three or four asks since this one and one can tell you are indeed back hahaha]

Yeeeeeees this is how one makes friends!! You know, I was just thinking the other night of how "gay bike anon" shortens to GBA, like the Game Boy Advance, you know. Make of that what you will, but it pleases me to know that you can also have a cute nickname for your cute nickname. Nicknameception.

Yes, exactly that, "I did not write that, and if I did in fact write that.. No I did not." Also, "the mystery will marinate"??? That's an amazing word choice and some day I will absolutely use it for something, just you wait. I think it just goes to show that you should write everything while tired, haha.

Haha I love that naming convention for you. It may make very little sense, but....... but. Also, happy birthday for whenever it is, presumably in the nearby past or future!! Lots of love!! You're the summer child while your sibling is... a summer child, but like, different.

Since you appreciated my almost-name story, I'll reward you with the rest of it: so my name is Tuuli, which is Finnish for "wind". My mum originally wanted to name me Pilvi, which means "cloud". And then she was like oh no this child is not at all serene and cloud-like??? and thus, a new me. I'm glad she had second thoughts, although I wonder if having such an ill-fittingly chill name would've done anything to alter my personality? Nomen est omen and all. There's some kind of an alternate universe where all of that played out, but I'm glad it's not this one.

Yeah either you watched the semis and have no idea, or you didn't watch them and have no idea. There is no way to get what was going on there, I'm certain they themselves also didn't get it. I had no idea about hagelslag but thjipgnhefjpihjo that's amazing, I love that for you!!!! There was absolutely no reason to go there but you as a country just... did that. Amazing. Please have some and report to me so I can live through you. And also, you are absolutely legit Victorian royalty [or something] *bows in return*. Also, I do love how you say "I watched the semis (obviously)." Imagine if you didn't and this entire time I was tragically misinterpreting the nature and intentions of your ask and you were just rolling with it because you've no idea what I'm on about but are also too polite to tell me that. Khhhhhhh

Your brain has priorities!!!! And they're honestly beautiful. Well done, brain. Subway driver Gandíaaaaaaaaaa~~~ My brain is filled with Berlermo quotes that come @ me at random times during the day and leave me just a tad shell-shocked, remembering how it all went down. I'm eating my morning yoghurt and my brain goes yo te propuse fundir oro juntos, and I'm just there like :)))))) Real nice, brain.

Have you had the opportunity to see Promising Young Woman yet? Hhhhh it's so pretty, every time I work on this reply [it's a lot of times, okay, I'm very diligent about this, I stare at this ask and craft snazzy replies in my head all the time, that's why I'm so slow in... actually replying] I'm reminded of that. I'm not a very visual person but the colours and the framing... that was really nice.

I am somewhat glad you've not been to Finland yet, you must hit me up when you come visit, I'll take you for coffee!!! It's actually cooler now (bless!!!!!!!!!!!), the last... four days have been reasonable 14-20 degrees, after four consequtive weeks of 25+. Kkhhhh thinking back to it makes me feel a little ill, but now beret weather is back. I own a lot of berets, dear gay bike anon. I'm going to my university city for the weekend and I'm already wondering which beret(s) I should bring with me. This is an important decision with potential long-lasting consequences. I don't know if you've played any of Telltale's games (The Wolf Among Us and the first two seasons of The Walking Dead are the best ones, fight me), but when you make a decision and the game goes "This character will remember that." and you instantly go oh no what have I done??? That's how I feel about choosing the perfect beret for my city outing. But yes, weather extremes are just the worst. We've been having the longest drought I've ever seen here (it's still not properly rained, for the record, on Tuesday it rained for an hour or so) while in other places there's awful flooding. That's awful.

Ahhh I'm so happy you're continuing your Spanish-learning!! I took a beginner's course at uni in the spring semester, I'm going to take the next one when uni resumes in September. And yes, I'm studying it for LCDP. I mean I love languages in general, but I never had a particular need to study Spanish, until this year I suddenly did. I'm also Duolingo-ing it! Very slowly and steadily. Also, I adore the idea of your cat being your Denver. What's your cat's name??? What do they look like?? Tell me everything, you can't just leave it at my cat, you simply must allow me to meet them. Also, you know why guide cats aren't a thing? Because cats are the worst. I love cats, but you can't just teach them to do useful things. They'll do them if they want to. As I type this, my cat is trying to catch flies at my feet. Her name is Muusa.

I studied accounting for my undergrad!! So I can join you in [[[preventing]]] tax fraud and [[[recognising]]] tampering with financial statements. We can make a totally legitimate business out of it. No but truly, I'm certain we were taught some of those things with the expectation that our future employers would expect it of us. Capitalism is so fun :)))))) And you shouldn't be surprised, academia is but a stepping stone to crime, honestly. Any dark academia book will tell you this. You start out learning Latin and wearing turtlenecks, you end up with murder. That's just how academia works. And you seem to have already chosen your weapon... you're well on your way. :) Palermo the Pirate sounds great!!! I support your mutiny. I don't think I said, but this is my favourite word of the English language. Mutiny. Mutiny????? It doesn't sound very serious. It sounds cute, actually. I love it.

I'm so happy to hear you got your covid vaccine!!!! I had mine a month ago or so - I typed you a reply to the subway Gandía thing on the train ride back, actually. I was really stressed about getting it on my right arm, because I'm left-handed, and last time I got a vaccination (like a decade ago) they insisted on giving it on my left arm and I was sad :( But this time!! I got it on my chosen arm and was very pleased. So anyway, that was a segue. I'm glad you got your covid shot and were side effect -free!!!

My week has been good, thank you!! I went to my uni city for my niece's birthday on Monday, and as said I'm going back on Friday (tomorrow). So this time in between has felt like exactly that, time in between. I started reading Call Me By Your Name. I had my Korean class last night. Now I'm hanging out with my cat (she has stopped chasing flies and climbed to my lap) and talking to you. My holidays started already in May! And uni resumes in the beginning of September, but I'm a tutor for new students so I need to show up three weeks earlier for the orientation weeks. Yes, we do three weeks of orientation (read: three weeks of drinking). It's a bit insane.

Now I need to ask you again how your week has been, since I'm so slow. How has your week been?? Are you free from your exams?? When does your uni resume?

Stroopwafels are so good ahhh I'll have to buy them when and or if I see them. Possibly when I'm in central Europe but haha I can hope to be lucky and see them at a store with imported stuff, you know. My favourite cookies??? Omg maybe these ones - they have this truffle filling, and they're fun to eat (this is important in cookies, you see):

And of course they're Fazer. Because Finnish people have only one setting, apparently. Or maybe that's just me. But all cookies are great, honestly. I like making American cookies, that's always a fun pastime (and you get to have cookie dough, that's like half the fun). I've actually not made them for a lifetime??? Maybe I should, soon. I'll keep you updated. Also, brookies. I love making brookies, they're great.

I really really appreciate being given prompts, I hope you know that!! Thank you!! Consider me pocketing this prompt and maybe eventually some day theoretically getting back to you about it!! You're right - it has Berlermo energy. Insofar as either of them actually have other friends. :)

Thank you for this kind message, dear gay bike anon <3 I'd apologise for my slowness in replying but I think I'd rather you just assume that I'll get back to you, and thank you for your patience <3 Your kind and funny and chaotic asks always brighten my day. I hope you'll have a great rest of the week and just... all the nice and fun and good things and great vibes in life. All the best, dear gay bike anon <3 Take care!! And greetings from Muusa as well - she just yawned and I presume that means "greetings".

[mocacheezy]

Wanted to make a seperate post for this, because this stuff will go under a readmore. (damn it got long)

Added my two cents on this post, but here is what I do when I do have the energy leave comments on fics (and some extra thoughts on my kudoses):

Comments

There is such delight when I find a fic that I have to write my thoughts down while reading, because I love to scream my joy @ the author in the comment once I am done with the chapter/fic itself.

And hopefully by the time I reach the end of the chapter I can calm down enough to actually write something coherent aside from screaming and keysmashing.

Some fics get me that excited!

Some fics I had to put down while reading, so I could pace around the room, because the possibilities for where the situation could go are ENDLESS!

Some fics I've put down and picked up MONTHS later, because a chapter was just so good and made me feel SO MUCH, I was unable to read further!

There are fics I forgot about and returned to years later and was DELIGHTED to see them finished or still going (there was this one back on fanfiction.net that I adored with all my heart, and I plan on checking out what happened to it. The author went on a break around the time another fandom took my attention, but the fic was so good I still remember it from time to time. It made my life more than just bearable, it made me laugh to tears at some points. )

When a fic gets me that excited, I noticed I tend to either comment short excited comments before nyooming to the next chapter, or read all of it over a course of a couple of days, gather my thoughts and leave an almost essay long comment, because the whole fic was just so good and I want to say it all in one place!

There were a couple of fics that I actually WANTED to write essays on, because I appreciate the authors writting style so so so much! For some I still do, because holy hell, the writing and characterization is great, while ALSO gives us things canon/source material didn't explore. But, if I do that, I wanna do it good because KUDOS TO THE WRITERS!

There are also fics that have me grinning and commenting on what's happening outloud, but there isn't really that many questions popping up for me.

It's the delighted gasp and a "Bitch, you said WHAT? 8D".

It's the "Ohohohooooo this is going to h u r t".

It's the grimace or a snort of "You fucking bastard, I knew he was planning something."

With fics like that, I can sit still or do something that isn't too demanding attention wise.

It's relaxing. It's nice, it let's my usually very active and overwhelmed brain rest, WHILE ALSO giving me serotonin and the excitement/feels, but on a smaller scale.

With fics like this (especially one shots), I tend to leave shorter comments, because if I want to comment, but don' t have much to say, I'll still comment and tell what the fic made me feel.

"I liked/loved/really enjoyed this fic, it had me experience x"

Because I do like it! And so far almost every fic I read gets atleast one kudos because this stuff is so good and the authors are amazing.

I just don't have much to say at that moment. Or what I want to comment is missing something and feels too flat to me.

If I know I'll want to reread a fic, I usually bookmark it and write down some highlights/what I liked about it/make a comment of its own in the bookmark! Because looking at older bookmarks/bookmarks from a fandom you are no longer involved with can bring back quite the laughter... AND get you back into the fandom even!

Reading fics is supposed to be a thing you enjoy. If you are starting to dread it because you feel obligated to say something, hey.

Take a step back for a while. This kind of fear happened to me at some point when I was younger, especially when I started interacting with active content creators. They appreciate comments and those comments help so much when an obstacle presents itself and it seems like abandoning a story will be it. Comments and encouragment bring back the fire and joy of writing.

There is a comment I have yet to reply to, that's been sitting in my Ao3 inbox for 160 days (ALMOST 6 MONTHS, MOCA, GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER AND REPLY ALREADY!).

It's from an author who really wasn't feeling motivated and the comment brought them such joy and excitement!

Why is it taking me so long to reply?

I never expect/wait for a reply from authors. ESPECIALLY not if it's a fic that's older (there are some amazing fics that were posted in 2013!!! Who knows if the author is still active in the fandom!*), or if it's an ongoing one that gets alot of comments. In the second case, it's because the author is already writing the fic, editing said fic and uploading it, could also be working on a bunch of different fics (because writting inspiration strikes at the weirdest of moments and as someone who has around 4fic ideas happening simultaniously, people who ACTUALLY WRITE THEM? Kudos. You are amazing.), not to mention most fic authors do this in their free time. So there's also their jobs, social circle outside the internet, on the internet and the amount of energy they have for social interaction with strangers online. Who am I to expect a reply to that behemot of a comment I left on their fic? If it made them happy, great! If it made them go "woah, that's alot of words" *shrugs*, eh. I am a rambler, it's what I do, if they like it they like it, if they don't they don't. Not much i can do about that, though I did leave a note on my ao3 profile that they can contact me if long comments/ramblings annoy them, so I can stay off their comment section and scream about my love for their works somewhere else. Noone has asked me to stop as of yet, but I like to offer just in case.

Most of my comments are actually posted as if I was at cafe or a restaurant, and was offered the Book of Complaints, Suggestions and Compliments/Thanks.

Complaints? I don't have complaints to leave, because it's my decision on what content I consume, and if I don't like it, I can always search for something else.

And if I didn't read the tags? Well, that's on me. That's like ordering a new dish when you have a food allergy, not reading the provided and highlighted allergen notes and warning, and then screaming at the staff when your food arrives. It's not THEIR job to know what kind of allergies their customers have. It's the customers.

Suggestions? Is the author asking for those? If not, no suggestions from me! If they do ask, and I don't have an answer I usually take some time to see if I have anything to offer.

Compliments/Thanks. That is the thing I love and what I click the comment box for. If a fic made me FEEL something, I will let the author know.

Do you know how amazing it is to read a fic and sit staring off into space after you finish it because "woah... that. That made me feel so much at once that I can't even name it." ?

When you read a crackfic, and keep snickering and chuckling, before you finally burst out in laughter or wheezing or snorting with tears in the corners of your eyes because "OH THIS GOLD, I haven't laughed like this in a while!" ?

When you read angst that tugs at your heartstrings and causes actual tears to run down your face and feel the anguish the characters feel?

When you read angst, but the story has a happy ending? Any you get to see the characters claw their way towards it, and actually reach it?

When you read hurt/comfort and there is that gentle care and love and safety that makes your heart melt?

When you read a fic that feels like sitting by a window with a cup of warm coffee while relaxing music plays? (this last one is becoming my favourite of them all and is actually the one I struggle to comment on the most.)

There is such a variety of works out there! So many talented and amazing writers, with their AUs and a billion different ways of writing!

3. I am a very forgetful person, who has to check her inbox more often. Plain and simple. Nothing more to it.

4. Some of these authors write back such lovely comments that make me smile everytime I open my inbox. I think I might make a scrapbook of some sort, to keep track of them, because getting the feedback of "HEY YOUR COMMENT MADE ME HAPPY/EXCITED!" or "I really appreciated this comment, thank you." makes me smile. ^u^

Seriously fic authors are amazing, and this is why "Kudos to them." has become a thing I say irl as well, and in any conversation where someone creating a thing is brought up. I may not know or have a strong opinion on the stuff someone enjoys creating, or have nothing to really say, so "Woah, Kudos to them." is my way of saying "I admire their work (but don't have anything else to say about it)."

Learning it means Glory? Hell yes, those works are worthy of praise,and the authors really are glorious.

So here's where that lovely button comes in.

Kudos

I use the kudos button both when I have a comment to write and when I don't. I spam that button when I like something so much words fail me, and I click it when a fic reads like I have just finished a cup of coffee.

If I use the cafe/restaurant thing I talked about before as an example, leaving a kudos, to me, is like giving a smile or replying to the waiter with "It was great." when they asked if you enjoyed it.

I enjoyed it, but I don't have anything else to say.

Maybe it was just an interesting read, even if not to my usual tastes. It might get a kudos.

And if I read something that I thought I would like but it turned out I didn't like it or I felt meh abput it?

Well, *shrugs* well.

I don't have anything nice to say, and I probably won't read stuff from that author. There are others who will and others who will leave a kudos.

I don't think much about it because I read fics for fun.

I ramble about them because I am having fun and finally know I can share my experience with others.

You guys have probably seen the "Holy shit two cakes!" comic, which was originally about how artists/writers feel bad when creating something with a concept that many other more skilled creators used.

I remember that comic at some point also being used to explain that "It really sucks when you bake a cake, but noone wants to eat it."

I can't speak as a writer, because I don't post the fics I daydream about (yet! I don't post them yet!), but here's a little thing my daydreamer self likes to think.

I baked my cake, and I can eat it too, but I hope the cafe I frequent has something similar too.

Translated?

I wanted to read a fic like this, I made a fic with the idea I wanted, I enjoyed the process and the result, but I sure do hope someone else also makes a similar fic in the future.

I do however mostly daydream my fic ideas. So again. These are just my thoughts on the whole thing that is Comment > Kudos/Like > Reading > Not Reading

[queerwalrus]

You Can't Shake The Devil Tree And Expect An Angel To Fall Out

Remember this post? Yeah, I needed it so much I wrote it.

Read it on AO3 H E R E

After a week aboard the Walrus, late at night, during a game of cards, Logan calls John Silver a bastard. It’s meant with affection, the teasing smile already plastered on his face before he opens his mouth, but John flinches nonetheless, draws back from the word as though he expects it to hit him.

No one on the Walrus thinks much of it. Every man aboard had one reason or another to have turned his back on civilisation. Apparently, they had tripped over Silver’s, and as far as they were concerned, that was that - John Silver told society to fuck off with emphatic cannon fire and larceny because he was, factually, a bastard. A simple explanation for a far more complex man.

John Silver is deeper than the sea, more vengeful than a ghost, more tangled than a gordian knot, and none of them know it yet.

***

He’s tiny, is the boy in the door to Thomas and his brothers’ schoolroom, like an imp or a fae from the Irish fables the kitchen maid is all too happy to tell Thomas while she peels potatoes and pushes her red hair back from her freckled face. He’s got curly dark hair that falls long into his face in such a manner that blocks it from view, a style that Thomas knows his father would never allow, but his eyes - the eyes that peek through those curls, alarmed and disbelieving - those eyes are the most familiar thing Thomas knows. He sees them in the mirror every morning, after all.

“This is John,” says the nursemaid, “and he is to be your brother from now on. Your father the Earl has agreed to take him in as his ward, to give him his name and his care.”

Thomas reaches out for the tiny boy without thinking.

John returns the embrace remarkably eagerly, clutching at the back of Thomas’ shirt with small, chubby hands.

He wouldn’t let go for many, many years to come.

***

John Silver steals and lies and cheats and does it all with a roguish wink and a smile so charming it could melt the collar off a priest, and James Flint is going to kill him with his own two hands as soon as that gold is safely stowed, those fucking blue eyes be damned.

No, that is a lie.

John Silver lies and steals and manipulates and does it all with a roguish wink and a smile that could melt the collar off a priest and tempt a Saint down the wrong kind of path, and James Flint is fucking screwed because John Silver has eyes that are just the same shade of blue as Thomas Hamilton’s had been, and James has always been powerless against eyes like that.

John Silver, at least, doesn’t have unsupportable ideas about bringing law back to Nassau, and James will always be grateful for small mercies. What John Silver does have, however, is a fucking death wish.

Between attempting to sell the schedule to Vane and then memorizing it to deliberately fuck up everything James had planned for the next six weeks and then somehow getting involved with a plot that included both Anne Bonny and Eleanor Guthrie,  James is certain that Silver’s ultimate goal is tricking his way into an early grave.

An early grave that will in fact be well-funded, because he’d looked up at James and said ‘we might be friends by then’ and James had seen those eyes and heard ‘are you the liaison sent by the admiralty?’ and found himself agreeing to something he’d never wanted, but seemed to have ended up wishing for anyway.

And so here they are, James with a musket ball in his shoulder and John with a botefeux that’s still lit and a cannon that’s still smoking and both of them with a mutiny playing out in front of them, and the only thing that is still clear and unhazy in James’ sight are those eyes - John Silver’s bluer than blue eyes that are so familiar and so unknown all at once.

When he goes under the water, he sees Thomas smiling and reaching out to him, and then suddenly he’s become Silver, a transformation that seems to happen around the eyes without them ever changing. He’s dying and he knows it and all he can see is those eyes, and if you asked him he couldn’t tell you which of them the eyes belonged to, because the crinkle at the corners and the adoration are the same. The world goes dark in a gradient that starts with blue, and James can feel the weight on his chest and welcomes it for the peace it offers.

He wakes with the taste of salt on his tongue and the sky expansive above him, just the same shade of blue as those fucking eyes.

***

Thomas Hamilton at twenty, if you asked John Silver, is not all that different from Thomas Hamilton at ten, in that he is touch-starved, impulsive, idealistic, and reckless in the way that is going to get him killed one day, although that last has progressed from “due to his own stubbornness” to “likely at their father’s behest”.

Thomas is sitting on the stone steps of College Dorm with his coat pulled tight around his torso when John sneaks out somewhere between the bell chimes for one and two in the morning, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Oxford?” says John, because it is the first of many things he wants to know.

“I suppose I am, yes.” says Thomas, and he stretches his hands out to pull John towards him. John dances back, out of his reach.

“Father is going to be so angry with you.” he hisses.

“Yes.” says Thomas, looking inordinately pleased with the idea. “He will be.”

“Why the fuck do you seem happy about that?”

If Thomas is surprised by John’s newly-enlarged vulgar vocabulary, he doesn’t show it.

“Because if he’s angry about me running out to you, then he won’t ask about why I actually ran out.” Thomas answers, as though this makes perfect sense. To a then fifteen year old John, it made about as much sense as the old greek poetry Thomas loved, written in a language John had yet to be taught.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I - well, you see -” says Thomas, and it is in fact the first time that John has ever heard Thomas lost for words.

“No, I don’t see.” says John, who has been a little shit ever since Thomas introduced him to the concept and practise of sarcasm at eleven.

“I left in order that I have a good explanation for why I can’t have been where the Earl of Kent’s son and heir is about to claim I was.”

“And why would you need that? Thomas, please tell me you didn’t punch the son and heir of the Earl of Kent. There are too many people here who like Henry.”

“I - definitely did not punch him.” says Thomas and he sounds - smug?

“What did you do?” asks John, suddenly nervous about the answer.

“I - well - I -” Thomas begins, and then he stops, and swallows. “I fucked him.”

John sits down, right where he’d been formerly standing.

“Oh.” he says.

“John?” says Thomas, and now he sounds nervous.

“I - well -” says John, trying to put the thoughts rushing through his head into a coherent sentence.

“Johnny -” says Thomas again, and now it sounds like he’s pleading, and John pushes up and over his knees so that he can wrap his hands around Thomas’ waist.

“I didn’t know you were like me.” says John, tightening his grip.

Thomas clutches at John’s shirt, this time, and they stay like that until the bells ring four and John’s hair is wet where Thomas has been crying into it, and rather than part, John sneaks Thomas back into his bedroom and they wrap themselves around each other under John’s veritable mountain of blankets, with their foreheads pressed together until the House Master in charge of the boys finds them in the morning. They have a leisurely breakfast before John’s morning classes, mostly because John’s House Master is Thomas’ former House Master, and he remembers Thomas as an intelligent and endearing young man.

“A pleasure to have in class.” teases John, before dodging to the other side of the table to prevent Thomas from ruffling his hair beyond all semblance of order.

“I’ll write to you, darling brother!” Thomas calls as he departs, at last, his voice echoing against the stone, and John hides his grin with his hair and balls his fists until his knuckles turn white so that he doesn’t call back to beg Thomas to recount every detail of his conquests in those letters.

“So nice of him to visit you.” says John’s House Master. “He is a stalwart example of the best that Eton can produce. Now, off with you, Hamilton, noun declensions wait for no man.”

***

James and Silver are going to steal a warship, and they are not going to die in the process. Maybe if James says this to himself enough times, he might believe it.

James and Silver are going to steal a warship, and - and Silver is going to get them both killed for a fucking tin whistle.

James kills a man in his hammock and pulls Silver outside by the collar of his shirt, leaving rust-colored smudges on the linen with his bloodstained hands, and Silver tells him exactly what he’s stolen and why he’s stolen it, and he’s looking at James with those damnable blue eyes while being damnable clever and it’s too close to another day, in a room lined with bookshelves and art that still smelled like oils, rain on the windowpane and James the one against the wall while Thomas pressed close and purred his filthy plans into James’ ears. James lets go of the linen and presses his lips together until they hurt and moves on with the plan. Silver blows the whistle and raises the signal flag and James kills another man, adds another layer of blood to his hands, and then he’s surrounded.

James and Silver are going to not die, and maybe steal a warship in the process.

James and Silver are not going to die.

Silver is a backstabbing, thieving bastard, and James is, in fact, going to die.

Silver is a man of hidden depths and loyalty, and is simultaneously the smartest and the least intelligent man that James has ever had the misfortune of working with.

“Well, what the fuck did you think was going to happen?” James yells, and Silver shoots. The rest of the day passes in a blur of things that James has to plan for, and then they are alive and will stay that way thanks to two votes, and Silver is looking at James while James looks out at the sea, and Silver sees through every veil James has hung between himself and the world, and he looks up at James through his lashes.

“I think you need me to do it.” he says. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Strange pairs, Lieutenant.” James hears. “They can accomplish the most extraordinary things.”

***

At three-and-twenty, pockets lined with scammed coin, John Hamilton, known to the aristocracy as That Seductive Bastard, puts his feet up on the empty chair residing opposite his to prevent yet another young noble looking for an exciting piece of rough to lord it over for a night from taking it.  

“I’m waiting for someone.” he says, firmly.

“I can guarantee he’s not anywhere as good as me.” says the lordling, and John rolls his eyes so hard they might roll right out of his head.

“That’s a far cry from what you said while I was studying here.”

The lordling spins with a look of horror on his face and John tips his head back and starts to laugh.

“Dear Christ, Johnny, don’t do that.” says Lord Thomas Hamilton, known to the aristocracy as The Madman of Whitehall. “I’ll be beating them off with a stick all night, and that will be quite the disruption to our conversation.”

“I don’t know.” says John, contemplative. “It would be a lovely view. And I’ve always had a soft spot for you playing the White Knight for your little brother.”

Thomas grins and opens his arms, and John walks right into them. John never hit the growth spurt Thomas did, and so his face ends up pressed against Thomas’ chest, but it’s such a pleasant feeling that he can’t bring himself to care.

“I have so much to tell you!” Thomas says.

“Whose son have you despoiled this week?” asks John, returning to his seat. Thomas flings himself down in the other with the greatest possible flair.

“His father was a carpenter in the Navy.” says Thomas.

“You’re fucking your liaison.” John says, voice flat.

“Yes, I’m fucking the liaison.” says Thomas.

“It’s about fucking time!” says John, slapping his hand on the table for emphasis. “If I had to hear you compare his freckles to constellations or his hair to fire or silk threads one more time I was going to take a pleasant stroll on the bed of the fucking Thames.”

Thomas goes a very pretty shade of pink.

“Was I as obvious as all that?” he asks, and John laughs and pushes the drink he’d bought for Thomas towards him.

“Yes, brother mine.” says John. “Am I to assume that this means you are renouncing all others?”

Thomas shoots him a glare.

“Oh.” says John, suddenly taken aback. “Oh, you are genuinely serious about this. You - you love him?”

Thomas goes even pinker.

“You did something gloriously dramatic, didn’t you.” says John.

Thomas tells him about the book and the meaning of it and the inscription, and John lets his forehead fall to the sticky wood of the table.

“My truest love - you romantic shit.” he tells Thomas, and Thomas reddens more.  “You utterly absurd romantic shit.”

“It is the truth!” says Thomas, and John beams as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“I am so very happy for you, brother mine.” says John, and Thomas smiles.

Thomas is incandescent when he’s happy, and John has never seen him this bright.

“He’s - he’s something else, Johnny.” says Thomas. “I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

Now, that’s new. Thomas has never wanted to introduce any of his flings to John - he never wanted anyone to know the truth about John’s parentage, to challenge the accepted truth that John was a Hamilton ward. It was a dangerous secret to know, Alfred Hamilton’s indiscretion.

“You want me to meet him- you just told me sailed for the Bahamas, Thomas.”

“When he returns, little brother. I would like to have you for dinner, so that you might meet him.”

John finds himself smiling to match Thomas.

“Alright, then. I would like to meet your James.”

“My James.” says Thomas, his eyes wide with wonder. “Isn’t it just marvellous?”

***

The liars of yore who earned the epithet of Silvertongue must all be gathering in spirit to confer their collective titles onto John Silver, who stands in the middle of a room of men who shouldn’t give a single, solitary fuck about what James wants and makes them want it more than they want air in their lungs or food in their bellies or a beat in their hearts. John Silver makes the promise of free land under your boots and a back unbowed sound like the promise of a return to Eden, and the men eat from his hand as he does it.

James Flint knows the danger of men with power - he has been their victim and their pawn - and he is more afraid of the power in Silver’s tongue than he ever was of Alfred Hamilton and his ilk.

John Silver weaves webs out of words and traps you in them in such a way that trying to unravel them only leaves you more tangled. James listens to Miranda and then argues with Miranda, and then declares he never should have listened to Miranda, and then listens to Miranda, and Abigail Ashe looks horrified when he enters the tavern, right up until he puts down his sword and introduces himself. Until he says his name is McGraw. They sail to Charlestown with Abigail and she spends her days writing while Miranda reads, and the journey is uneventful, save for the fraying of the mainmast footrope and the rigger they lose to the afterlife and the sea as a result. Silver seems somewhat distracted by the man’s death, but James has bigger concerns than the contentment of his liar, and so he thinks nothing of it.

With a day to go before they arrive in Charlestown, he joins Miranda on her evening turn about the deck.

“I think you should go alone to see Peter.” he says. “I am worried that even with Abigail’s safe return, I will be hung for what I have done as Flint, regardless of who I once was.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” says Miranda. “Peter will recognize us. We are not that far removed from who we once were.”

“I fear that I am.” says James.

“Peter always liked you.” says Miranda, resting a placating hand on James’ arm.

“Peter always liked Thomas.” says James, perhaps more sharply than he needs to.

“And we will be doing this in Thomas’ name.” says Miranda.

“Thomas would not want me to risk your life.” says James.

“We have something to fight for.” says Miranda.

“Believe me, I know that.” James snaps.

“And you are a good man, fighting for a good cause.” says Miranda.

“I am rather afraid you seem to have confused me with your husband!” yells James. “And I am not your husband!”

Someone behind them gasps, and James realizes that their conversation has been held at a louder volume than he had first thought.

“I know you’re not my husband,” yells Miranda, who seems not to have noticed the gasp, “because my husband is dead and you are not.”

It hurts - that comment hurts just the same as it would had Miranda cut James open with a sword like Singleton once had.

“And who’s fault is that?” James roars back, darkness and guilt and long repressed anger guiding his tongue. “Who said we had to leave him behind?”

“We would have died!” yells Miranda.

“And Peter might still kill me - kill you - kill us both!” James yells.

“Miranda?”

Both James and Miranda fall silent, turning to look at the speaker. Not a man on this ship knows Miranda’s first name - she has only ever been Mrs Barlow - and yet there, at the railing, clutching the ropes with a white-knuckled grip, stands John Silver, looking like he’s seen a ghost.

“Miranda?” he asks again.

James is across the deck and in Silver’s face before he’s aware what his feet are doing.

“How the fuck do you know her name?” he demands.

Silver reaches out, rests a hand on James’ shoulder, moving slow all the while like he’s trapped in molasses.

“James.” he breathes. The whole ship is silent, watching them. “You are his James.”

There’s a wonder in Silver’s face that James has never seen before.

“His James.” says Silver again, voice faint, eyes unfocused, like he’s in some kind of trance. The hand on James’ shoulder moves to cup his face.

Silver’s eyes are as unreadable and dark as the sea. Thomas’ used to look like that on the days when lightning arced over London.

And just like that, James understands.

***

John only ever used the servants’ entrance to the King Street house, entirely from force of habit. The night that he was to meet Thomas’ James was no different. The city was grey and wet from the persistent drizzle that had been coming and going all day, and John was done up in the best finery he had brought to Oxford with him, rumpled but still presentable after the long journey. Brighid the kitchen maid met him with a delighted squeal and a tight hug.

“Master John!” she cries. “Master John, it is so good to see you!”

“You’ve lost weight.” says Martha the cook, who used to slip John extra cookies in the afternoons. “What are they feeding you at that university?”

The servants know. The servants have always known. They know that John is more than a ward, that his mother’s name was Da Silva and his father wasn’t a dead sailor but alive and, on occasion, under the same roof as them. The servants know John is one of theirs.

“They feed me well, Martha.” says John, smiling, “but not as well as you. Thomas says you have something special for us tonight?”

“Of course!” says Martha. “The Lieutenant’s home today, isn’t he?”

“You like him, then - Thomas’ James?”

Brighid giggles.

“He’s very handsome.” she tells John, and then she leans in conspiratorially. “And he’s very - obedient.”

John sniggers too, at that, and then yelps when Martha whacks the back of his hand with the wooden spoon she’d been carrying.

“No gossiping in this kitchen.” she says, voice stern.

“Come on, Martha, you must have an opinion on tha man.” John cajoles.

“Well,” says Martha, leaning in, eyes dancing, “I overheard -”

The doors at the back of the kitchen bang open with some force, and two men John vaguely recognizes as being in his father’s employ march into the kitchen, dragging someone with them.

Someone tall, and blond.

“THOMAS!” yells John, scrambling over the table to get between the men holding his brother and the door. Brighid screams, and Martha gasps out something that might be ‘Lady Hamilton’ and runs for the other door.

“THOMAS!” John yells again, and throws himself at the man holding Thomas’ right arm.

“John, no -” gasps Thomas, and John gets a first look at the bloody lip and swelling eye already present on his brother.

Which, naturally, is when the third man punches John in the back of the head.

He hits the floor hard, and tries to get his hands and knees under himself so that he can stand up, only for a booted foot to catch him in the ribs.

“JOHN!”

The next three kicks are also aimed at his ribs, and then someone stomps down on his hand, and he cries out in pain.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” yells Thomas, slightly fainter, this time.

John drags his head up enough to see the men carrying Thomas kick open the back door.

“JOHNNY!” yells Thomas, fighting wildly against the men holding him.

“THOMAS!” John yells, reaching out for him in a gesture he already knows is futile.

Someone fists a hand in his hair and slams his face into the floor, and blackness swallows him down.

***

“You knew him?” James asks.

“I loved him.” says Silver. He pauses, studies James’ face, laughs quietly. “Not like you, James. I loved him because he was my brother.”

“I knew all of my husband’s brothers.” says Miranda. “I did not know you.”

“But you never met his father’s ward, did you?” says Silver.

Miranda’s lips part in understanding.

“Johnny.” she says. “Thomas called you Johnny. You were at Oxford - he said you’d be a fantastic help to our cause as soon as you graduated.”

Silver’s smile only tugs up one corner of his lips, and doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I never did manage that. Graduating. Turns out, once you’ve institutionalized your heir, you realize you can just tell your bastard to go fuck himself and withdraw his funding.”

James can’t get enough air into his lungs.

“But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Lady Hamilton?” asks John, nonchalant. “You wouldn’t know the first thing about what happened to the rest of us, because you took a good man, a noble man, a man of righteousness, if you were to listen to Martha and Brighid and Matthew and Luke in the stables, and you made him leave. You made him abandon my brother.”

Miranda shakes her head.

“And you!” says John, whirling on James, stabbing a finger into his chest. “You let her!”

“Silver-” says James, and his tongue feels heavy as he says it, to the point where he doesn’t know if he said it at all. “John -”

“You let her convince you to leave him! He told me about that book, you know - told me all about it, what it said, what it meant.”

James flinches.

“He loved you, and you abandoned him!” John yells, tears pricking his eyes.

The crew is watching them like a tennis match, completely silent.

“John -” says James, with barely breath behind it.

“You abandoned him!” says John, and jabs James in the chest again. “You abandoned him, you left him, you left him-” with each jab, John gets closer and closer to James’ chest. “You left him, you left him, you left him you left him you -”

James wraps his arms around John’s shoulders, pulls him close, holds him so that John’s face is pressed to his own shoulder.

“We couldn’t have saved him.” says James. “Miranda saved my life by making me leave. The Earl would have had me hung.”

“For what? Adultery? You heard the story they put about.”

“He knew. So did the Navy.” says James. “He knew the truth.”

John pulls back from James’ embrace just far enough to look him in the face.

“How?”

“We always thought it was one of the servants.” says Miranda, quietly.

“Not a fucking chance.” says John. “They all worshipped the ground he walked on. They were devastated. Who else knew?”

Miranda looks at James. James looks at Miranda. They both look at John, still wrapped in James’ arms.

“There is an obvious answer here, and that answer is my father.”

Everyone on the deck turns to look at Abigail Ashe, whose gaze is steady.

“That fucker.” says John, and James finds himself growling his agreement.

***

“James.” says Peter Ashe. “Miranda.”

“Hello, Peter.” says James. He knows he’s standing more like the naval officer he used to be than the pirate captain he has become, but it’s hard not to, now that he’s got a Hamilton Lord to protect once more. “There’s someone you ought to meet.”

“Oh?” says Peter, the picture of unimpressed politesse.

“You remember Alfred Hamilton’s ward, John?” says Miranda, fake smile firmly in place. James steps aside, steps to the asshole guard who’d met them at the dock, the only armed man in the room, and drives the knife he’d stashed in his coat sleeve between his ribs to his heart, and John Silver raises the pistol in his hand.

“You got my brother killed, you son of a bitch.” John snarls, and Peter raises his hands and backs towards the wall, terrified.

“He’s alive, please, James, Miranda, please, he’s alive. The letters are in my desk, he’s in Savannah - please, I didn’t mean -”

John stays where he is, aim unwavering, until Abigail returns with the papers.

“They seem to be in order.” she says. “If Mister Silver’s brother is alive, will you go fetch him, Mister McGraw?”

“We definitely will, Miss Ashe.” says James.

“We can’t leave my brother there, Abigail.” says John. “The Captain would die of want for his true love.”

Miranda buries a smile under her hand, and Peter continues to shake with fear.

“We’d best be off, John.” says James. “The wind we sailed in on could take us to Savannah.”

John raises an eyebrow at Peter, who flinches further back into the corner he’d backed himself into.

“Don’t play with your food, Johnny.” says James, stepping up so that he’s pressed against John’s back. “Didn’t they teach you manners at Eton and Oxford?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” John purrs back.

“Please.” says Peter, and it’s almost a sob.

“Shall we do it together, then?” asks John, before cocking his head. “Miranda, would you like to help?”

Miranda has drawn the sword from the dead guard’s belt.

“This seems like a better weapon for all three of us.” she says.

John and James’ fingers interlock when they grasp the hilt with her.