#<- OH MY GOD YOU EVIL GENIUS I LOVE THIS!!!

[prosebushpatch]

Okay so I recently, finally, watched Wish and I have some thoughts. Overall, not as bad as everyone makes it out to be, but still has a lot of fundamental story problems and I've got to get them off of my chest. I'll mostly be focused on Magnifico because I think his motivations and arc largely represent the problem with the overall theme.

Okay so my biggest problem with Magnifico is his motivation. His tragic backstory. How on earth does he go from losing his whole family to thinking, the only way he can prevent that from happening again is to grant wishes? The logic doesn't track. It almost makes sense in his creating a kingdom where he protects everyone and "doesn't even charge rent," but it does not make sense with his wish granting. Having a great need to be control to make sure he doesn't lose anyone ever again can be a compelling motivation for a villain, where we see lines crossed that don't justify the intent, but in the movie, he's too self-absorbed to seem to have any actual care for the people of Rosas.

I think if the motivation was changed to something like Magnifico had once been a bright-eyed, enthusiastic wish granter who blindly believed all wishes were good but learned the hard way that that wasn't true could have been a better fit for the overall goal of the movie. Imagine that he granted a wish for a wicked person who used that wish to hurt others, or if Magnifico granted a wish but that wish ended up ruining the person's life because what they wanted wasn't what they needed (i.e. Remember The Princess and the Frog? Dig a little deeper) and that person could have went after Magnifico and blamed him for their troubles (harkening back to We Don't Talk about Bruno). This would be an understandable tragic backstory for Magnifico, and better explain why he's so careful about the wishes he grants. And, perhaps the reason he keeps the wishes he doesn't want to grant is to keep the people in his kingdom docile. No one will be angry with him for not granting their wishes if he makes them forget them and lose that drive and motivation, which makes more sense than the unexplained hording them like he does in the movie? Why does he keep them in the movie other than admiring the wishes? It doesn't make sense to me.

This would give Asha more of a reason to oppose him, if it's shown how his desire to not get hurt or to inadvertently cause hurt turned into a paranoia where he drains people of wishes to fly or play music that inspires others. And, as a side note, we need to see more of how Rosas is a kingdom of people who lack drive and motivation, where only those younger than 18 have that special part of them that inspires them to chase after a dream (something that Astor Rhymemaster touched on). Because that's the point of wishes, right? That's the point of the entire Disney canon. A dream is a wish your heart makes. That star can only get you so far, it takes hard work and determination. It's wanting something better in life, it's dreaming of leaving behind all you know to chase after a tangible light. It's finding a new dream, it's finding a new wish as you grow and learn about yourself and the world.

I don't think the movie Wish understood what makes wishes so important in Disney stories. You know what wishes do? They ignite change. It's not about getting what you want, it's about finding the courage to chase after something better. Ariel wants to be where the people are, but really she wants to be somewhere where others are willing to understand her and in the end, she finds that and makes amends with her father, who finally is willing to see her for who she is. Rapunzel wants to see the lights, and that desire pushes her to leave a tower she's been trapped in her whole life, learning that the world is not as cruel and cold as her abusive mother told her. Cinderella wants to go to the ball, to dance with people who treat her as a person and not a servant of cinders and ash. That wish is granted by a fairy godmother and gives her a hope that is worth fighting for, a hope that helps her reclaim what is rightfully hers; a glass slipper that fits only her and the love that comes with it.

Wishes inspire change. The movie should have been about that. Magnifico could have been right, that some wishes inspire negative change that can drag down multiple people. The kingdom of Rosas could have been so placid because change is scary. Maybe Magnifico could have convinced people, after taking their wish, that it wasn't worth it. Maybe the wish ceremonies could have changed so it wasn't portrayed as some sort of lottery everyone looks forward to, but Magnifico would grant wishes on the spot if he decided they were good and worthwhile, and he would lock away the wishes that would cause trouble and tribulations. 18 year olds could be enthusiastic to give him their wishes, thinking they were surely good and worth granting, only to forget their wish and be told that their wish would have only brought about their unhappiness, this would have justified a more solemn tone in the kingdom, setting up a world where people are mostly downtrodden, thinking their wishes are bad and pointless and they're better off without them. Imagine Cinderella or Rapunzel being told their wishes weren't good, reinforcing all the things their abusive families tell them, taking away that hope and courage to find something better for themselves.

Here's where the true conflict could come in. Asha could be onto this from the beginning, and her opening song could have been about this concern that the people who didn't get their wishes granted aren't willing to try at all. (Because, after all, why doesn't Sabino play music at all? Having that taken from him would take so much joy and creative expression from his life!) But why does Asha know something is amiss?

Simon.

Imagine that Magnifico has a strict rule not to ever share your wish with another person because then it wouldn't come true. It makes sense with our own superstitions, and then makes it so that no one knows anyone else's wishes. Maybe your best friend changes so drastically after giving up their wish, but you believe, like everyone else, that their wish would have only caused suffering. What can you do about it? Well what if Simon told Asha about his wish? What if Asha knew his wish wasn't dangerous and couldn't imagine a way that it could go wrong? That would give her a reason to doubt Magnifico and put more emphasis on how Simon has lost his drive like all the other adults in the kingdom. And it can also emphasize in the end that sharing your wishes and dreams with others can be a powerful thing. Just the act of sharing your dreams can inspire others to go after their own, and they can give you the encouragement to chase your wish too. Wishes inspire change, love gives you the courage to make it happen.

Imagine if the star boy used to be a human, who wished to help others and lost his humanity to do it. Imagine his wish confirms Magnifico's belief, that wishes cause suffering because star boy lost his tether to earth and is separated from the people he loves. Imagine how he foils Asha who also wants to grant everyone's wishes. Imagine him ensuring she doesn't make the same mistake he did while she gives him a reason to change again, to anchor himself to humanity again because he loves her enough not to leave for forever.

Imagine the movie confirming that, yes, change is scary. Chasing your dreams won't always make things better. You might fail more than you succeed and some wishes cannot coincide with each other, leading to grief and strife. But some wishes are worth it. Sometimes, chasing after something better and failing is worth leaving a worse situation. Sometimes taking that chance is worth it, and, like in all fairy tales, if you are kind and generous and act with love, that will make all the difference in the end.

Also, I know everyone wished for a Magnifico and Amaya evil power couple, but imagine if Magnifico was truly in love with Amaya, as he is in the movie, but that love is eventually his undoing. Like Amaya leaps in front of Asha, and Magnifico stops or redirects his attack because she's the one thing he loves more than himself and that is the weakness that Asha and co can take advantage of. Imagine Amaya keeping Magnifico in the mirror and he gets to dote on her from his imprisonment for forever. I'm just saying. At least 30 sickos like me would be into that. Imagine the depth it would give to the themes of love and change and wishing and how acts of love make all the difference.

Alright, I'll get off my soap box. I just really wish Wish could have been stronger because these fairy tales Disney is famous for matter. They really do. But the movie feels too stale and shallow and too much of a cash grab that knows the outline of a disney musical, but is unable to understand the heart of why they work.

[cherry-bomb-ships]

I get that his plans always fail so it might be hard to but its not faiiiiir that no one takes Mojo seriously as a threat like sure ppl probably don't like him but they dont feeeaaar him, when he's not doing evil he can just go around town and no one rly cares, like put some RESPECT on my ape he is EVIL YOU SHOULD FEAR HIM. You don't get it if I was there I would be hyping him up SO badly I would make SURE ppl knew how great and wonderful and evil and scary he is I wouldn't want anyone to EVER underestimate him I am his partner and also his biggest fan!!!!! I love him!!!!!!!!!

[niwaart]

Hiii i really love your writings can you please give us more of the doctor reader pleaaase🙏🙏🙏🙏

Doctor! Male! Reader X Batfam

[Part1 - Part2 - Part3 - Part4 - part5]

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Bruce has a severe headache, and the family dinner turns into a family war. Damian and Tim try to kill each other, Dick passes out on the floor, Jason and Stephanie die laughing while filming Tim and Damian fighting and filming an unconscious Dick, Cass helps Alfred gather edible food before Tim and Damian destroy it while Duke tries to talk them out of the fight, and Y/N tries to salvage the remaining food (cake) and puts it in her bag. How did this all start?

It all started when Y/N arrived at Wayne Manor, before pressing the bell button he made sure he packed everything he would need today in his bag. What did he pack? He packed several things, first the pepper spray, why? Because what if they accused him of stealing? Or decided to lock him up inside the creepy mansion?... Well he knows he's exaggerating and the reason is because of the series he watches but there's no time for regrets. Second he packed papers proving that he's an adult and can live on his own and has a good salary and job, and third he has lollipops, why? Because he's sure his father is evil to the point that he won't serve candy and cakes early... So Y/N is ready, he was going to take the hospital scalpel but Sammy stopped him and beat him up for that idea... But that's okay.

Y/N took a deep breath, pressed the bell button and waited for someone to open the door, as he expected and saw in his TV series the butler opened the door!... He should really expect from watching those TV series... "Welcome Mr. Y/N, please come in, Mr. Bruce is waiting for you." Alfred stepped aside to let Y/N in, Y/N entered with closed eyes... Why is the house glowing from the inside? Did they buy the sun or something?... Y/N made a note to himself to take sunglasses with him next time... He was sure that if he got out of here alive that meant there would be a next time... Y/N followed Alfred into the dining room, as he walked behind the butler Y/N was looking at the paintings, Bruce and his children... Why are they all wearing black in the pictures? Y/N didn't think much about it, all he wanted was cake... The world is hard sometimes.

When they arrived at the dining room, Bruce greeted them in a formal suit and a bright smile with a model's pose... Y/N wanted to leave now. Bruce approached him with the same smile "Hello son, glad you came." Y/N nodded "Yes, hello, Mr. Wayne." Bruce frowned at Y/N's formal response "You can call me dad you know, no one here but family..." Y/N ignored Bruce's words and sat down in one of the chairs before they forced him to sit next to Bruce. Bruce sighed and sat down in his chair at the head of the table "Well, that's okay, maybe later. Now I want you to meet your siblings, not everyone is here yet but they will be soon." Y/N looked around the table, there were only two people who hadn't arrived... "First off, this is my son Damian." Bruce pointed at Damian, Y/N remembered all the pictures taken of Damian and Bruce, Damian didn't smile once... Creepy. "And this is Timothy." Bruce then pointed to Tim who nodded in greeting and said, "You can call me Tim." Y/N nodded and Bruce continued, "And this is my daughter, Cassandra." Cassandra waved and Y/N did the same. "And this is Duke" Bruce pointed to Duke who smiled shyly at Y/N and Y/N smiled back at Duke. Bruce then pointed to Stephanie who introduced herself before Bruce could. "Hi!! Oh my god, nice to finally meet you!! I'm Stephanie, you can call me Steph." Stephanie extended her hand to shake Y/N's who laughed at her enthusiasm and then shook hers in return. Bruce smiled as he watched his son integrate so seamlessly into the family. Timothy's plan to bring Y/N here via cupcakes was genius.

Maybe bringing chili pepper was a bit much, the family seemed pretty normal… except for the kid, he still looked scary to Y/N, if looks could kill, Y/N would be dead. “Well, time to serve dinner.” Alfred said as he brought the plates with Cassandra’s help. “Cake?!” Y/N said excitedly as he looked at the plates Alfred was holding. Alfred laughed and said, “No, dessert is after dinner, Mr. Y/N.” Y/N’s smile faded, he knew they would keep the cakes late… that’s why he brought the lollipops… He pulled one out of his bag and it caught Damian’s attention. “Aren’t you going to eat Alfred’s food?” Those were Damian’s first words to Y/N and he felt the tone was familiar… Y/N didn’t think much of it, the point was to answer the kid before he choked him. “I came for the cake, so I’d rather keep my stomach empty for dessert.” Y/N said as he put the lollipop in his mouth.

Damian raised an eyebrow at Y/N's words and everyone at the table turned their attention to Y/N who felt like he was in exam class. "We know you love cake but we didn't expect it to be this bad." Stephanie said with a playful smile and Cassandra nodded at her words. Y/N said nothing as he looked at his plate, his pasta... well it looked delicious... but he still wanted cake first. So he pushed the plate away from him. "Can't I have cake now?" Y/N looked at Alfred sadly. But Alfred has strict rules, no dessert unless you eat the main course first. Y/N sighed and looked at his father... then a brilliant idea came to him.

“Dad… can you help me with my plate?” Bruce who was about to choke when Y/N called him dad, looked up from his food to Y/N… Y/N was looking at Bruce with big sad eyes. Bruce was confused… he didn’t know what to do, because his children had never looked at Bruce that way before… in fact no one had… he wasn’t trained to handle this “Okay, I’ll eat your plate.” Bruce sighed in defeat and took Y/N’s plate. Stephanie, Duke, and Tim laughed at Y/N and Bruce’s actions. “Oh man, I can’t believe you made B do what you ordered!” Duke said looking at Bruce who now had two plates and Y/N who was smiling proudly at his great accomplishment. Damian was watching Bruce in shock. Had his father just given in to the demands of someone who had come to the mansion for the first time in his life? No way... Then Damian looked up at Y/N... He should be careful of him in the future, he wouldn't let him take the Robin suit.

While everyone was asking Y/N about himself and his job, he heard the door open, Y/N turned to the door to see two people… oh Bruce’s sons. “Sir Jason, Sir Richard, you’re late, please sit down so I can serve you dinner.” Alfred said who immediately went to the kitchen. “Thank you Alfred. Sorry for being late, but Jason is not an easy person to bring here.” Richard said smiling cheerfully as Jason sighed as he sat down lazily in his chair. “I didn’t want to waste Alfred’s food, that’s why I came.” Jason said aggressively, Jason was sitting next to Y/N who was now terrified. Jason was huge… to his right was Damian who was terrifying enough… and now to his left sat a huge man who could crush him in seconds… reminding him of Red Hood whom he had met before…

Richard had been excited all morning to meet his big brother, finally he wasn't the big one anymore, he could be pampered... Richard approached Y/N from behind while Y/N was distracted by Jason and hugged him from behind which startled Y/N who screamed in horror and hit Richard's head hard, Richard fell unconscious from the headbutt and at the same moment Y/N accidentally pushed Damian's arm causing Damian to throw his spoon in Tim's face... Tim got angry and threw his spoon at Damian who decided to wage war on Tim, he was angry enough that day. Jason and Stephanie burst out laughing and took out their phones. Alfred had already set out a few plates of cupcakes. Y/N wasn't focusing on the trouble he caused, he was focusing on the cupcakes... He had to take the cupcakes, he got away from Damian and Tim who decided to wrestle on the table, Y/N moved to the other side of the table, where the cupcakes were. And he started to collect the plates, since no one was sitting now, Stephanie and Jason were filming Tim and Damian, documenting Richard who was lying on the floor unconscious while Duke was trying to separate Damian and Tim from each other, Y/N asked Alfred for cupcake containers for the cupcakes, Alfred didn’t hesitate to get them, Y/N immediately took the containers and started to grab the cupcakes so he could leave quickly, Cassandra was helping Y/N collect the cupcakes and keep the food away from Damian and Tim. Bruce stood up to stop Damian and Tim who were literally about to kill each other and Duke who gave up and left them while Y/N collected all the cupcakes, but he still needed to apologize to Richard, so he took the lollipop out of his bag and put it in Richard’s pocket then ran out of the dining room as fast as he could with a bag full of cupcakes. He did it! He left alive!

Bruce sighed as he looked at Y/N out the window, then turned to Damian and Tim angrily while Alfred was cleaning the table and Cassandra was trying to wake Richard up, Stephanie and Jason were sharing pictures of Barbara who couldn't come and editing the videos to make them funnier. "That ended badly tonight." Bruce said in frustration... "But it's okay, there's definitely next time." Jason laughed at Bruce's words and replied sarcastically, "Oh yeah, next time will be more fun."

Bruce sighed again and sat back in the chair thinking of a new plan to bring his son here, and keep him here forever this time.

@roxy776699 @missmannequin @theultimatezazasniffer @chericia @mybones537 @thegothamsiren

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.5.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! (and I can't stress this enough, kids shoo!) Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 6K

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: d/s etiquette (stoplight system), punishment (spanking), slight dacryphilia, cunnilingus, slight overstimulation, word 'cum' (hi Krys!), yearning, yearning, yearning, yearning.

author’s note: Ok, so time for me to explain Baal a bit if you didn’t have the opportunity to check it out. It’s a play that explores the life and fall (I guess) of a drunken poet Baal, that rejects society and dips into the philosophy of Sturm und Drang (yk, Goethe and all that shit). Baal is an anti-hero and it’s basically a study of (an evil? morally gray?) genius that went as far as he could. There is a nice, recorded version with David Bowie in it for anyone who doesn’t want to read but it’s a cool read nevertheless, very poetic. Honestly to this day I don’t know if it’s good or not, it’s just a thing I’ve read a long time ago during my times of Bowie obsession and it stayed with me forever. And as usual, playlist here, @rennethen my beta, massive thank you and artist is @petitesieste ♡

Cross-posted on AO3

—

A light shuffle, then a tickle. A kiss to your temple, dry and warm, a throaty hum, then a hand rubbing your cheek. It would be all sweet and loving if it weren’t for the way he wipes away remnants of night drool before placing a kiss there.

“Wake up,” he says, voice rough with morning gravel, and you breathe deeply against his chest, pressing your stomach into his. “It’s 9 a.m.”

“Oh, no.” You jolt, panicked, eyes snapping wide painfully fast, and Viktor rushes to put out the fire.

“It’s 9 a.m. on Sunday,” he chuckles. “I just really need to pee,” he adds, tipping his chin down, gesturing at the fusion of bodies—your bellies pressed together tight, arms wrapped around each other, yours circling his waist, his draped over your shoulders, one trapped beneath your neck, legs tangled with your thigh swung over his hip. “I’m trapped, you see.”

“Oh.” You blink twice, slowly, catching up, then release him. “Sorry. I don’t really sleep with people too often,” you try to explain your greediness, but he’s already getting up.

Viktor smirks. “That I can tell,” he says, pulling on a jumper, and you say goodbye to his pretty back. “You’re not the easiest nap partner,” he throws over his shoulder as his legs swing off the bed.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know.” Viktor smiles, leaning back on one hand against the mattress. “The snoring, the drooling, eh, some mumbling,” he lists, tracing the curve of your thigh with his fingers. “I think you quoted some Hamlet.”

“Oh, God.” You groan, hiding your face in the crook of your elbow. “Sorry.”

“I don’t mind a bit of gross,” he muses, his hand skimming higher, to your hip.

Your hand falls back on the bed, firm, and you pull your leg away from his touch. “Are you saying I’m an ugly sleeper?” you ask, eyebrows quirked.

“No,” Viktor says quickly. “No, absolutely not.” He corrects himself, crawling back next to you, stopping you from turning away, hands pulling you flush against him. “You are so, so pretty, no matter what you’re doing,” he breathes into your mouth before kissing you. And you are so painfully aware that this is the first kiss outside of sex that it twists your gut. He parts from you with a quiet pop and mutters, “Just a bit disgusting, that’s all.”

“Oh, get lost.” You snort and push his face away with one hand. He chuckles but gets up awkwardly, shuffling toward the bathroom. As soon as he’s gone, you cover your eyes and mutter a quiet, “Fuck,” into the air of his bedroom, your voice a rasp coming from your abused throat.

Moments pass, leaving you alone, staring at the ceiling, thinking, overthinking, grinding everything from last night. Weighing what it is exactly that had you French exit the business dinner and skip to his apartment like a dog, tongue out and panting. Whether it’s just the thrill of it, the benefits that come with it, the absolute freedom of expression that Viktor guarantees, or just… him.

Is it the setup or his praise, the mouth that gives it, the tongue it rolls off, his hands that bruise and cleanse, his stomach that you desperately want to lick all over, his criminally gorgeous nose, his stupid man-smell, the crook of his shoulder shaped for your cheek and yours only, or… or what?

The door creak breaks you out of your self-mind-flagellation as Viktor sighs deeply and returns to bed.

“So.” He plops onto the mattress with a grunt, completely unaware. “How are you?”

“Why do you always ask?” You roll to your side, prop your head on your palm, and pull the covers up to your armpits.

Viktor leans in, lays flat on his stomach, and brushes hair off your neck. “It’s my job,” he says quietly, tracing the fading marks with his fingers. Then, he wraps them around the column of your throat, gently, and asks, “Asphyxiation then? Did you like it?”

“No innuendos with you, I swear to God,” you laugh, the tendons in your neck flexing under his palm. He squeezes tighter, just a notch, and watches with quiet fascination as your skin dents beneath his fingers. For a moment, Viktor seems lost in thought, absorbed in the sensation, before your answer pulls him back.

“Yes, I liked it.”

His grip eases, fingers shifting into a slow, absentminded caress. “We should be more careful, though,” he murmurs, pressing his thighs to yours. “You should tap more. And I got a bit carried away.” His voice is steady, but his eyes are softer, something sorrowful flickering in their depths.

“You didn’t hurt me,” you say, even though you know full well that your throat aches as fuck.

“That’s a lie,” Viktor counters easily, voice dipping lower. “I know your throat hurts, but it’s not about that.” His fingers trace light patterns on your skin now, smoothing over where his grip had been firm. “Some aches are good the day after,” he says, leaving out which aches are not of a good kind. “But this one... it’s a thin line. So if you want this, you need to promise me you’ll tap. Diligently.”

“Diligently tap or diligently promise?” you tease, rubbing your nose against his cheek. Any occasion to steer the conversation into a less serious area—you take.

But Viktor doesn’t. He reaches for a fistful of hair at your nape, gently unplucking you from himself. “Both,” he says earnestly, then gives you a kiss like a man grown—serious and deep. “Promise me you will tap diligently, or I won’t fuck your mouth like that again.”

And that’s a threat, the first one you’ve received. As serious as the kiss, it has you simultaneously scared for the sentence to be delivered and hot between your legs at the chance to prove your obedience. “I diligently promise,” you say, swallowing a gulp that travels slowly through your aching throat.

“Good,” he mutters. “Now, coffee.”

And that’s it. Viktor stands up, reaches for his cane, and marches to the kitchen, leaving you tensed up and clenched up. You scoff loud enough for him to hear, having no idea that your brat point meter is already swelling at the tip.

You go through your bathroom necessities, and before you can turn to join him, his voice reaches you from the living room: “In here.”

He sits on the couch, reading a newspaper—of course. An act so vintage it complements his wardrobe. He holds out a cup for you, not looking up. When you don’t take it for a long moment, just outright stare at him, he finally lifts his head and asks, “What?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, taking the coffee.

Then you sit with your back to the armrest, knees pulled up to your chin, your shorts revealing a slice of ass that Viktor looks at not very secretively. He smiles, leaving you to do whatever it is you apparently need to do to make yourself feel less uncomfortable, and suddenly, you realise you’re getting the skittish cat treatment.

The obvious thing to do would be to sink your nose into work, so you skim through your phone. It feels oddly domestic—again—to be doing this around him, but you push the thought away, along with the unease creeping into your lungs.

Scrolling through emails, you give your hand a break to perform your morning joint-cracking ritual, perfected over the years—one-handed, each finger getting its special time under the thumb, and then the thumb itself skilfully popped by your middle.

Viktor watches from his seat on the couch, eyebrows climbing high onto his forehead. “I forgot to tell you—that’s another thing you do in your sleep,” he remarks, voice smooth, amused.

“What?”

“You pop your joints when you’re asleep,” he states flatly.

“You’re kidding,” you huff a laugh through your nose and roll your eyes at him.

“No.” He lifts his hand, mimicking whatever it was he saw, crude and imprecise, his own joints refusing to cooperate with the demonstration. “You did this—” he attempts again, fingers stiff, useless “—then went right back to sleep.”

“Sorry,” you laugh and clasp a hand to your forehead. “I know it’s freaky.”

Viktor smiles, runs his tongue on the inner side of his cheek, and says, “I told you—I don’t mind it.”

“Hm…” You stretch your fingers, press your knuckles idly into your palm. “Do you… like it?”

“I don’t mind it,” he repeats, a challenge lingering in his tone. Doesn’t mind is possibly an understatement, as the sound has already crawled into the realm of his favourites.

You eye him inquisitively and after a moment, give him a disbelieving grin. “You think it’s hot.”

The newspaper folds with a soft rustle against his lap, long fingers pressing it down at the centre crease. He capitulates with a lopsided smile, eyes flicking up from beneath his lashes. “What does it say about me?”

“Alright, that’s freaky,” now you outright laugh at him. And that’s possibly the last of the last straws that Viktor has kept promising himself to act upon.

“Oh, is it now?” His lips curl. “Amongst all the things, that’s the one that’s freaky?”

“Completely, yes.” You nod, wicked grin in place. “Look at yourself, you are bloody delighted.” A slow shake of your head. “Absolutely freaky.”

The newspaper slides from his lap to the floor, forgotten. He moves, shifting close, crowding you against the armrest. “I am,” he says, a murmur against your skin as he hooks a hand around your neck, thumb brushing beneath your ear. His other hand drags down your spine, slow, pressing the length of his palm to each notch of your vertebrae before dipping lower. “And you,” he continues, voice an easy purr, “have been a brat since yesterday.”

“Have I now?” you ask, feigning innocence, but there’s a tremor to it when his hand coasts lower, over the curve of your ass.

His hum is deep, approving. He palms the swell of your cheek, squeezes, then presses down, a firm, unspoken instruction. Your arms fold, chin pressed to your palms, body angled over his lap. You breathe deep, infinitely grateful for the shift—domesticity dispersing like steam off skin.

“What should I do with you?” he muses, fingertips teasing over bare flesh, lingering at the crease of your thigh.

You smirk. “I don’t know. Tell me how sexy my wobbly joints are—ah!” A slap. Not hard, just sudden, a sharp clap of skin that jolts through you like a shock of cold water.

His fingers fist in your hair, gentle but insistent, tugging your head back just enough to tilt your face toward him. “Colour?” he asks, voice lower now, serious.

“Green,” you breathe.

Viktor’s smile inches toward something near evil, sharp at the edges, gleaming wicked. His hand slips beneath your shorts, trailing slowly down the curve of your bum. Then he yanks them down your thighs, fabric dragging warm skin in its wake—but he pauses, stops at his favourite place, fingers finding slick heat.

“How come you’re already wet?” he asks, swiping long fingers across your slit, dragging through the damp, teasing.

You exhale, slow, measured, pressing back into his touch. “Maybe I’m freaky too.”

His breath is a laugh, dark and knowing. “Completely spoiled,” he murmurs, thumb pressing light against your clit, just enough to make your hips twitch. “I have been far too lax with you.” A pause, like he’s running numbers in his head, then, “From my calculations, it would seem you’ve accumulated eleven brat points.”

You grin into the crook of your arm, half a laugh slipping free. “It’s a wild guess, but… eleven?”

“Twelve, then.” And then his hand leaves you, a brief absence before the first slap lands.

And it’s sharp, bright, a sound that cuts through the quiet and bounces off the walls. It steals a gasp from your throat, hips lurching forward, heat blooming under the heel of his palm.

Viktor hums, a satisfied little noise, fingers tracing the pinking print he’s left behind. “One,” he counts, voice steady. “This one is for nit-picking my words yesterday.” The hand returns, smooths over skin like an apology, then—another slap.

You jolt, breath stuttering, fingers curling into the couch cushion.

“And now, for sulking—two,” he says, like it’s a tally to be kept, a record of your misbehaviour. The weight of his other hand stays firm on your lower back, keeping you in place.

The next strike is sharper. You let out a low sound that doesn’t know if it wants to be protest or plea. The sting lingers, heat rolling beneath your skin, seeping lower.

“Three,” he counts again, sliding his palm over your ass in slow, thoughtful strokes, fingers curling just enough to drag the pain into something worse, something better. “For me having to pull the safety rules out of you,” he explains. “Twelve is quite the number, isn’t it?”

You nod against your folded arms, breath heavy.

He clicks his tongue, unimpressed. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” you manage, voice thin, needy.

“Yes, what?” Viktor insists, positively entertained.

“Yes, it’s a big number.”

He chuckles, a sound full of dark satisfaction. “Pity.” His palm lifts, hovers a moment too long before striking down again. “Four. For the cocksucking remark.”

The sharp sting melts into warmth, deep, insistent, and you shift, thighs pressing together. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Ah,” Viktor murmurs, pleased. His fingers skim between your legs, drag through wetness, push inside with slow, measured pressure. He groans, quiet and low, before pulling back. “I see. It seems I’ve miscalculated.”

You whimper at the loss, at the teasing, at the way he’s making you feel exposed, unravelled. “What—what do you mean?”

His palm ghosts over your skin, grip tightening. “We may need more than twelve, after all.”

The fifth lands heavier, the flat of his palm striking where the sting is still fresh. Your hips jerk, a whimper caught in your throat. Pain and pleasure meld together into one, indescribable feeling that swells in your chest.

“Five, for being a smartass in general,” he murmurs, rubbing warmth into the skin, dragging his nails in light, barely-there scratches. “More to go.”

Six—for calling him freaky—has you moaning out. Seven—for teasing him about it—has your moan breaking into a hoarse curse.

Eight, which you don’t even hear what it’s for, tips something over. The burn settles deep, thick and heady, curling into rawness. Your breath comes out uneven, shaky, and you press your face harder against your arms, squeezing your eyes shut. It’s too much—not the pain, not the way he touches you after, not even the arousal pooling between your thighs. It’s the slow erosion of restraint, the creeping sense of surrender, the fact that every strike is carving you open and he’s watching, watching, watching.

Nine lands and you don’t realise you’re crying until a quiet, broken sound escapes.

Viktor pauses. His hands, always moving, smoothing, measuring the way you react, still against your skin. “Colour?”

You swallow, a sob trembling in your chest. “Yellow.”

A breath, sharp. Then he moves, quick and sure, gathering you up from where you lay, pulling you into his lap, into warmth, into the steady, certain press of his body. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucks you in close, fingers threading through your hair.

“Good,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Very good.”

The shift is instant, from teasing discipline to something else, something solid, something safe. His palm rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades, the other smoothing over your thigh, careful and reverent.

“You did so well,” he tells you, voice a murmur against your skin. “I’m here.”

His hands come to cradle your cheeks, thumbs tracing the damp tracks of tears. He watches them soak into his skin, then, as if testing a theory, he lifts one to his mouth, licks the salt from his thumb, slow and indulgent. His gaze darkens. “So pretty like this, hmm?”

“We didn’t get to twelve,” you mumble, voice small, barely there, as if the weight of it matters. As if stopping short means failure.

Viktor exhales, something close to a chuckle, though fond, though aching. He presses his forehead to yours, the heat of him grounding, anchoring. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, softer now, the edge of control giving way to something more tender. “You’ve been a very good girl.”

His hand skims down, over the sore heat of your skin, soothing and possessive. “Would you like a reward now?”

You look up at him, eyes big and wet, and for a moment he looks so in love it’s almost bone crushing. Nearly undoes whatever fragile thing still holds you together. But you tell yourself it’s just your subspaced brain, that it’s the haze of it, that it’s the moment—because anything else would be too much.

Unsure, you give a slow nod, almost dazed, and Viktor hums in approval, guiding you to lie back against the couch. His hands are steady and sure—one at the back of your neck, the other skimming down your stomach, pressing, positioning. Your shorts are still bunched around your thighs, and he takes his time peeling them away, dragging the fabric down, down, as if unwrapping something sacred.

His breath skates over your skin as he settles, hands bracketing your hips, thumbs pressing gently into the dip there. He takes a moment—just looks, just lets his hands trace over what he’s made of you. The warmth, the slight tremble, the slick evidence of your keen.

Then, with a patience that feels like both a mercy and a torment, he presses a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher, the rough scratch of his stubble making you twitch. His mouth moves slow, open, trailing along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, heating every nerve until you’re shifting beneath him, restless.

“So needy,” he murmurs against you, voice like low smoke, thick with satisfaction. He noses into you, inhaling deep, greedy. “Messy girl.”

And then, finally, he licks into you.

It’s devastating—the first stroke of his tongue, firm and languid, tasting. He works you over like he’s memorising, like he’s deciphering something only he is meant to understand. His grip tightens, holding you in place, keeping you from squirming away from the overwhelming contrast of the ache of your ass pressed into the couch and pleasure that his mouth brings.

His tongue is so precise, lapping up every drop. He sucks at your clit, just enough to make you cry out, then soothes it with broad, slow strokes. And Viktor enjoys it so, so much—pausing just to watch you react, the way you arch into him, the way your hands, unsure, try to twist into his locks and tug, only to shy away and barely skim across his temples.

You feel raw, open, experimented on, but the success of it entails your pleasure and this only. Heat begins to crawl up your spine, and you moan out loud, neck seizing and fingers emboldened, when you finally choose to hold onto his hair. Like a praise, he hums deep into you, and the vibration alone nearly sends you over. His hands tighten on your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, holding you steady as he eats you with slow, devastating precision.

Cunt sealed over with his mouth, you rock your pelvis to meet him and Viktor chuckles into you. His tongue works you over like he’s trying to dig out an answer to a question deep down he already knows, but he wants to hear it from you. Nearly sucking the soul out of you, Viktor is almost in heaven. Knees bent where the couch restricts him, ankles bumping against each other, he lays squeezed against you and the armrest, hips pressing down, trying to find at least a little friction against his aching cock.

You whimper his name, barely coherent, tugging harder at his hair. He groans into you, deep and pleased, and it carries all the way to the tips of your toes. His hands flex on your hips, adjusting his grip, and then he tilts his head, lips sealing over your clit in a way that leaves you shaking, clenching down on nothing.

It crests fast, this pull from the base of your spine to your throat, strong and imminent, stealing your breath as you cum hard, hugging his ears with your thighs. You don’t even realise you’re sobbing out his name, not until he presses his tongue against you again, lapping up the aftermath, and your whole body jerks.

“Too much,” you gasp, hands trying weakly to push him away.

“Mm,” Viktor hums, but doesn’t listen. He presses one last, slow kiss to your overstimulated nerves with the damndest smirk on his slick-covered lips. Then he pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide.

Before you can fully catch your breath, he’s crawling up, pressing you back into the cushions, body warm and heavy over yours. His mouth finds yours, tasting like salt and heat and something uniquely you, and the way he kisses you—messy, deep, like he needs you to understand—has you whimpering against his lips.

“It’s a crime that I only get to do this now,” he says, wrapping his arms around your waist, trapping you in. “You are so sweet.”

“Viktor,” you chuckle, overwhelmed. “How are you so good at this?”

“Which would make you more comfortable?” he asks, voice thoughtful. “That I had a lot of practice, or that it’s easy with you?”

You blink at that and realise—none of the above. The first one digs a pit of dead cold jealousy low in your stomach. The second triggers a reaction tethering between flight and freeze. Seeing no response coming and a slight discomfort settling in, Viktor asks, “Are you alright? What do you need?”

“I’m fine,” you give him a smile, locking your jaw in it. “My ass hurts, though.”

“Show me,” Viktor says between soft pecks left all over your face. When he sees you wincing, he clarifies, “I wasn’t asking.”

With a groan and an eye roll (which triggers the brat point meter back to action), you turn onto your stomach, and Viktor sits back on his heels to admire the painting he’s left on your ass. “I can’t really decide what’s prettier—this or your neck,” he muses, rubbing his palms over the bruised skin. You hiss at the contact but arch into it anyway.

Then, he lowers back onto his belly and rests his cheek on one of yours, red and swollen. His lips press soft kisses into the heat of your body, tongue flicking out to soothe where his hand had been heavy. "Can I ask—what’s your opposition to safe words?" he murmurs into you, voice slow, thick, like liquid band air poured onto a wound.

“Oh, nothing really,” you say, shifting against the couch, arms hooked over the armrest, head turned to glance at him. “I just come up with criminally bad ones, and they get so, so bad I can’t bring myself to actually use them when I need them.”

Viktor hums, a quiet vibration against your you. “And the colour system works better?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you use it?” He presses another kiss, open-mouthed, dragging heat along your bruised flesh.

“What do you mean?”

“I use it. I ask you, and you reply. But you do not say it first,” he says, lips curving against you. “We got to yellow today—would you ask me to stop if I didn’t check on you?”

A lump grows in your throat, dry and insistent, a pang of confused shame follows. “I… I don’t know.”

He exhales a gush of warm air as his hands smooth along the back of your thighs. “Do you promise to pay more attention, or do I have to fuck your throat again now?”

You tense—just for a moment—then breathe out a small, half-laugh. “I promise.” A pause. “Though I thought we’d agreed that I’m not opposed to throat fucking.”

“And I thought we’d agreed that I want you to love it, not be merely not opposed,” he counters, nipping the swell of your ass, tongue following after before you can complain.

“This is my way of saying I… love it,” you admit, voice quieter. “I like everything you do so far.”

He sighs through his nose, lips still against you. “I’m glad.” Another kiss. “And likewise.”

Your fingers twitch against the couch, mind circling back. “Why are you being so careful?”

A beat. Then, his nose lifts your shirt, mouth drags to the dip of your lower back, his breath ghosting the words over your skin. “Hmm. I wouldn’t say that’s being careful.” His palms press down, grounding and reverent. “I just want you to understand that I’m not the one making decisions here. At least not the only one.”

His voice sinks lower, words soft at the edges. “It’s not about how far I will go,” he continues. “It’s about how much you are willing to give me.”

You swallow your breath, fingers digging into the fabric beneath you. “Viktor,” you say, and he hums, lifting his head slightly. “How experienced exactly are you?”

His lips curl into a smirk where they rest against you. “Quite.” His fingers trace slow, absentminded patterns against your hip. “But less than you think.” A kiss, softer now. “I am also quite well-read on the matter.”

"I see," you murmur, skin still alight beneath his mouth, warmth pooling where his lips had been.

Before you can say anything more, your phone buzzes—wedged somewhere between the couch cushions. You groan as you fish it out, flipping it over to see the name flashing across the screen. Mel. A rather unwanted lifeline thrown into the ocean named Viktor, in which you have snugly sunken.

The very reason for your lack of breath is staring at you intently, chin propped against the swell of your butt, his fingers idly tracing the curve of your hip. As if he can read the concern from the back of your head, he asks, "Is something the matter?"

"No," you sigh, thumb hovering over the notification. "It's just Mel. She wants to hang and talk about the play change."

"Ah." He shifts, stretching his arms across your back, like he might keep you pinned if you so much as thought about leaving. "Jayce texted me too."

You glance over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "What did you say?"

"That I'm busy."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," he confirms, expression utterly unmoved.

You huff, rolling onto your side, phone still clutched in your palm. "What do you want me to say?"

He shrugs, casual, infuriating. "To Mel? Anything you want," he says, fully lying to himself. He’d rather throw the wretched phone out of the window now than have you leave, but he promised.

You scoff. "Viktor!"

"What?" His fingers trail up your thigh, dancing light, teasing. "I told you already—as much as you are willing to give, no more."

Your lips press together, frustration curling in your chest. "That's… not fair."

He smirks, dipping his head to nip at your side, the whisper of teeth making you shiver. "Brat," he murmurs, all smug and satisfied. “What play are you changing to? And which?”

“Oh, right,” you say, catching up with the events from your actual life. “We are doing Baal instead of Hamlet.”

“How interesting,” he muses, dragging a slow hand down your ribs, feeling the way your skin jumps under his touch. “Any particular inspiration for it?”

You give him a look, narrowing your eyes. “Are you trying to insult me, or do you enjoy teasing me?”

“Never insult you,” he says, shifting closer, nuzzling into your cheek, his breath warm against your skin. A slow kiss pressed to your temple, soft and lingering. “Always enjoy teasing you, though.” Another kiss, this time at the corner of your mouth, deliberate in its restraint. “And I’m flattered to be a source of your inspiration.” His lips trail lower, catching yours at last, but lightly, like he’s waiting for you to chase him.

Forgetting yourself for a moment, you toss your phone to the couch and twist your fingers into his hair. Lips parted by breath, you kiss him, humming and licking into his mouth. And Viktor responds, pulling you flush and pressing his nose next to yours, melding your faces together.

Finally, with a deep sigh, you settle on moving Mel to next weekend, your excuse as weak as work—put in brackets on the return text message. Guilt settles in immediately, thick and cloying, for lying to a friend. Viktor also sighs, tries to disguise it as a yawn, but you notice.

The day is slow, one of the slowest you've had in the longest time. Breakfast at 1 p.m. A shower later, separate, functional—none of the couple-like washing each other’s backs. It both calms you and unsettles some part of you, standing alone under the stream of hot water, which you later exchange for ice-cold poured over your ass cheeks.

Then, Viktor—wandering around his apartment in just a jumper and boxer shorts, his hair wet, framing his face prettily, barefoot, limping toward bookshelves when he tires of whatever he’s reading. Brief conversations about Baal, more teasing. Some serious, when he finally shares the notes he’s scribbled in the margins.

“Here, it says: The line between submission and subjugation,” he tells you, pointing his long finger at his handwriting. “It’s just something to meditate upon,” he explains, and you just listen, expression serious, free of judgment.

“Here: To be needed is a burden. To be worshipped is a curse. I was in a dark place when I wrote this,” he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Have you?” you ask. “Been needed and worshipped?”

“Not in the way you think, again,” he replies, placing a hand on your cheek. And somehow, even though it’s Viktor baring his soul to you, all he still cares about is you being comfortable. You not getting scared away. And you feel another lump of guilt forming somewhere in your stomach.

“Here, some more. You can use some of this if you want,” he adds with a smile. “He who demands all is left with nothing,” he translates. “And To consume and to care—mutually exclusive, or merely difficult?—and that’s just me theorizing again.” He waves his hand dismissively and flicks through, searching for more. Finally:

“Pleasure without control is a slow kind of death.”

It lances through you, a thought, unbidden—were Viktor ever to love you, it would be a crushing kind of love. One that you couldn’t possibly deserve. One that never gets complacent, always watches, always pays attention. All of this grants you such a large piece of him, you feel inclined to give him something back.

And it’s all incredibly silly, because you’ve known a man for barely a week and feel like you’ve known him for a lifetime.

You nuzzle into him, the book still in his lap, and breathe into his neck, “Thank you.” Viktor places a hand on your bare leg, fingers skimming beneath the hem of your shorts. He puts the book aside and lifts his thighs so you can snug your feet underneath, cocooned in warmth.

“Is that your handbook on how not to do things?” you ask finally.

“Something like that,” he chuckles. “But I also do love this play.”

“Would you come to the premiere?”

“I would love to.”

A long moment passes between you, long enough for the sun to stretch golden arms through his windows, for the dust to dance in its light. You sigh, reluctant. “I should get back. Still some stuff to do.”

“Of course,” Viktor says, patting your hip, but his fingers linger, just for a second, before pulling away.

When you are all set—changed, packed, bag slung over your shoulder, second pair of shoes in hand—you wait in the corridor, shuffling on your feet, caught in the awkward gravity of goodbye. Viktor takes your hand in his, holding it between both of his palms, staring at it like it holds some unspoken answer. He plays with your fingers, brushing a thumb over your knuckles, tracing the ridges of your joints like a map he doesn’t want to forget.

“Do you have to go?” he asks, quiet, like the words might scare you off. Against everything said today, he tries. Where his mind tells him to wait, his heart reaches too fast, too soon—but the thought of letting go of your hand now is harrowing.

“I should,” you murmur, eyes fixed on his fingers threading through yours, unable to shake the thought of how well they fit together.

“When will I see you again?”

“I don’t know. But soon?” You hesitate. “I have, um… work,” you say weakly, unbelieving your own reasoning.

He steps closer, tilting his head, studying you. “Stay,” he says, low and quiet, his voice threading through the space between you like a plea and a command all at once. “Please. I really, really want to fuck you,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours.

Your breath shudders in your throat.

“I’ll wake you. I’ll make you coffee and drive you to work,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your cheek, breathing you in, the barest brush of lips against your jaw. “Just stay and be a good girl for me.”

Your bag slips down your shoulder, forgotten. Shoes tumble from your hand, hitting the floor with dull thuds.

“Oh, God,” you breathe, already dizzy.

“Please,” he murmurs against your skin. His mouth finds your neck, kisses pressing between words, melting the last of your resistance.

“Ah—” Your hands fist into his jumper, grip faltering. “Fuck me,” you exhale, light-headed. “Fuck me,” you whisper into his lips.

And then his mouth is on yours, and he’s walking you back toward the wall, hands sure, touch convincing—but not much convincing had to be done.

By the time you reach the bedroom, you’re both half undressed, clothes marking a scattered trail from the hallway. Viktor’s hands are on your ribs, your hips, burning their way over your skin, rolling his beloved skirt up so he can touch your still-warm ass again.

Moth to flame, you follow him onto the bed, across his lap, and it’s not long before he sits against the backrest, you sink onto his cock until he’s buried deep inside you, guiding your hips over his. Your arms wrap around his neck, tight and needy, mouth to mouth when you breathe out moans for him to breathe in.

The rhythm of it is slow, deep. He moves you like he’s known your body longer than you have, hands spanning your ribs, your waist, guiding you in the way that makes you feel worshipped without being consumed. It’s easy to obey him, to let him set the pace, to fall into the shape of what he wants—because what he wants is you, not just your body, but the trembling, aching need of you, the part that melts and yields beneath his touch.

Viktor’s control frays by degrees, need eroding it like wind over rock. He bows his head to the slope of your shoulder, breath hot, arms tightening around you as if he could press you deeper into himself. His hands flex, grasping, clutching, like he’s trying to commit the feeling of you to memory—soft where he is sharp, pliant where he is rigid, and together something better, something whole.

After, when breath evens and sweat cools, you remain folded together, the fit of you easy, natural, as if shaped by the same hands. Viktor presses a final kiss to your temple, sighs against your skin, and lets his grip loosen—but not fully. He never fully lets go. Sleep comes like fog rolling in, weightless, inevitable, and you let it take you, safe in the quiet shelter of him.

[torusadore]

toru taking care of his sweet girl on her period ^3^

—————————————————————————

“Satoruuuuuu!!!!” ah. He knew it was coming… The great evil… Your period.

How did he know? Well, Satoru knew you like the back of his hand. there was a slight whininess to your voice, and Satoru, always so observant, knew exactly what it meant. He rushed to the kitchen, grabbing supplies for his dearest.

“Baby! Your knight in shining armour is here-“ uh oh.. It was one of those moods. “Hey, hey, sweetheart, it’s okay. tell old ‘Toru what happened.” He got into bed with such gentleness, as if trying not to break you. You’re sniffling, immediately latching onto the 6’3 man, trying to merge with him.

“I-I saw a video of you when you were a baby! You were soooo cute!!!” What? Satoru chuckles, a little incredulously before patting your head and smirking,

“Well, baby, why does that make you wanna cry, hmm? We can always have a baby, yknow, my genes will totally dominate yours~” oops. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that..

“Whatttt?!!!?!?!? You wanna have a baby with me?” you’re on the verge of sobbing, hopeful tears glimmering in your waterline as you grip Satoru so hard. He smiles, cupping your cheeks and cooing,

“Of course I wanna have a baby with you, sweets,” god, Satoru needs to marry you now, get you pregnant, buy a house together, all of it. But maybe now isn’t the time.. “But, baby, we have ages before that,” he flicks your forehead gently, “Why are you crying over silly things like this?”

“Cos.. you were so cute.. and you’ll never be like that again… and I wanna look after you and keep you away from everything..” that makes Satoru laugh more, his eyes crinkling at your sweetness,

“Baby, that’s so silly!! It's my job to look after you. And don’t you worry about me, I'm the strongest.” ..and you’re crying again.

“You’re so sweet!!!! What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you let me take care of youuuuu?!!?!?” You’re wailing. You’re wailing about him. With every second, Satoru falls more in love with you.

“You’re so silly, you know. Come here, baby,” he presses a flurry of kisses all over your face, temple, hair, laughing softly, “My silly girl, you always take care of me, and I appreciate you so much, you know that? And why wouldn’t I be sweet to you? You’re my baby,” he’s grinning so hard, his cheeks hurt. How did he get so lucky?

“I’m not silly…” you pout, offended at the mere thought of you being anything less than sane and reasonable,

“Yeah… totallyyyy not silly.. You’re so cute, crying over all this, y’know? Little crybaby,” Satoru really can’t help it, it’s in his DNA to tease you. It’s also in his DNA to make you happy, so like the genius he is, he decides to try to make you laugh.

“Wait here, sweets, I forgot your stuff in the kitchen,” he gets up, walking towards the kitchen, and then he.. Slips..? Satoru falls to the ground, so convincingly that he almost fools you. Almost.

“‘Toru? Are you okay?” you ask in between your laughs,

“Arghhhhh!!!!!! Baby!!!!!! It hurts so much!!!!! I’m wounded!!!!!!!” Satoru whines dramatically, clutching his knee. You get out of the bed, sitting next to him.

“No, you’re not!!” you’re laughing so hard, Satoru loves it, he wants to savour that look on your face forever. The way your eyes crinkle, how big your grin is because of him. But Satoru isn’t that sweet, of course not (he is). But there’s always room for mischief. Large fingers find your ribcage, tickling you mercilessly, “SATORU! STOPPPP!!!!!” your laugh. Fuck, your beautiful laugh. Can Satoru stay in this moment forever? He stops eventually, of course, he isn’t that evil.

“You’re so ticklish~” he teases as he scoops you up and dumps you into the soft pillows and bedsheets, “Okay, seriously, I’ll be right back,” and he is, he brings the ultimate care package of everything you like - snacks, a hot water bottle, the fluffy blanket from the couch, and of course, unlimited cuddles.

Satoru’s so in love that he would take care of you forever, if you’d let him. No matter how bad it gets, Satoru will be there, supplies at the ready to make sure his sweet girl is given the comfort and care she deserves.

—————————————————————————

a/n: missing satoru hours.. my friend requested this!

[stillalivebydemand893]

Enemies to lovers?

18+(repost)

Story:You hate Erik Campbell. He’s loud, smug, stupidly hot, and somehow always in your space. Everyone says you’re gonna fall in love - you’re just trying not to commit a felony first.

“Why don’t you fuck off for once, Campbell?” You were practically screaming at your best friend’s brother — your archnemesis, your biggest headache, and unfortunately, the hottest man you’d ever laid eyes on.

Erik fucking Campbell.

Tattoos, smirks, muscles, the whole damn package — wrapped in the personality of a smug, overgrown child who lived to piss you off.

Ever since you'd moved to the neighborhood, it was like gasoline meeting fire — a full-blown combustion of insults, shouting matches, and unresolved sexual tension no one dared talk about.

“WHY ARE YOU HERE ALL THE DAMN TIME?!” he yelled back from across the kitchen. Julia, his sister, sat on the counter, watching the chaos unfold like a telenovela. “God, these two are gonna get married one day,” Bobby muttered to her as he passed by, grabbing a soda. “If they don’t kill each other first,” he added with a chuckle.

You pointed at Erik like he was the root of all evil. “Why the hell are you always here? Get a job, Erik.” You turned to storm off, but he followed you, hands on his hips like an offended housewife.

“I HAVE A JOB, YOU BRAT.”

You snorted. “You work three days a week, Erik. That’s barely a job — it’s a hobby with a paycheck.”

“Guys, seriously. I’m trying to swim in peace.” Julia sighed, squeezing between you and your favorite enemy.

“We’re coming,” you growled, turning back to Erik with the fury of a woman on the brink of a breakdown. “But this isn’t over, asshole.”

“Watch it, brat,” he said with a devilish smirk, leaning down just enough to make you blush for reasons you’d rather die than admit.

Maybe it was the way he towered over you. Maybe it was the way his voice dipped when he was pissed. Or maybe it was just your hormones, which clearly had no self-respect.

“Oh, and Briana’s coming over,” he called over his shoulder, heading toward his room. “Try not to light her on fire again.”

“Maybe tell her to stop wearing three pounds of hairspray — she wouldn't go up like a human torch,” you snapped, bolting for the garden before he could chase you down and drag you into his personal hell.

Briana. His occasional hookup and your full-time bully. She had the IQ of a paper towel and the personality of a fake tan. And she hated you.

One time, she actually said, “I don’t think Europe’s a real country.”

You had to physically stop yourself from seizing. “It’s not a country, genius. It’s a fucking continent.” “Whatever, nerd. Maybe you’d stop studying if you got some dick.”

The moment Erik walked in, she flipped like a switch — sweet, giggly, fake as Barbie’s tits.

It was a pool party disaster waiting to happen.

“Hey Peach, can you help me with the BBQ? Can’t find the lighter,” Bobby called — your sweet friend, aka your protector from Erik’s cereal-stealing tyranny.

“Hold on, lemme check my bag.” You fished out a pink lighter, clicked it to test the flame — and right then, Briana sprayed a cloud of toxic-ass hairspray a little too close.

Flash. Boom. WHOOSH.

Her head lit up like a damn torch.

She dove into the pool, screaming, while you tried to pretend you weren’t dying of laughter. She came back the next day looking like Lord Farquaad after a breakdown.

Erik, of course, blamed you. Briana refused to sleep with him for four weeks. Watching Erik suffer without sex was better than Christmas.

He was moping around the house like a divorced housewife with blue balls.

Then came the revenge.

You were finally about to get laid — a hot date set up by your cousin, the guy was packing, polite, and knew how to kiss. You were ready to sin like it was Sunday.

But Erik?

Oh, Erik had other plans.

“OH MY GOD, I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!” he gasped, storming into your driveway like a soap opera star. “What the fuck—” you turned to see him holding his chest like he’d been stabbed. “YOU GHOST ME AND SHOW UP WITH HIM?! AFTER YOU GAVE ME HERPES?”

The silence hit like a slap.

“WHAT?!” both you and your date shouted at the same time.

“Erik, you son of a—” you stormed toward him, ready to rip his nipple piercings clean off.

“Please don’t beat me up again!” he dropped to his knees, hands clasped like a fake Catholic boy begging for salvation.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER—”

“Okay, I’m leaving. Don’t ever text me,” your date snapped, jumping in his car and peeling out like the devil was after him.

Now Erik was in your face. One breath away. You couldn’t tell if you were about to hit him or kiss him. Maybe both.

“I will fucking kill you. We were supposed to fuck, Erik. What the hell?!”

“You left me with blue balls for four weeks,” he said, voice low and taunting. “It’s payback time, brat.”

Your knees buckled.

You grabbed his shirt and yanked him closer, your lips an inch from his. His eyes widened, fixed on your mouth like it held the answers to the universe.

“Listen to me, asshole,” you whispered. “I’m horny, ovulating, and at my limit. Pull one more stunt, Campbell, and I’ll burn you next — and this time it won’t be an accident.”

He swallowed so hard you could hear it. His jeans betrayed him. You smirked.

You let go of his shirt and turned back toward the house, praying your vibrator was fully charged.

Or else you were going to cry.

The Present Day

You were lounging by the pool, slipping off your shirt and revealing your brand-new bikini. The sun hit just right.

“Oh damn, look at you—body tea is burning hot,” Julia gasped, slathering sunscreen on her thighs.

“Thanks, babe. Got it on sale last Sunday,” you giggled, catching Erik’s eyes glued to you. The way he stared made your skin flush hotter than the sun, but you brushed it off—until Briana strutted into the garden.

“Speaking of burning hot—she’s back,” you muttered, collapsing into the lounge chair and sliding on your sunglasses.

“If she touches my skincare one more time, I swear I’ll redo her hairstyle—with hedge clippers,” Julia scoffed.

You giggled but fell silent when Erik placed his hands on Briana’s waist and kissed her like a man starved. You looked away. Whatever. You couldn't explain the jealousy bubbling under your skin. Was it rage? Horniness? Maybe it was just Erik—how he acted soft with her, and with you, like you were the final boss in The Exorcist.

“I’m going for a swim,” you announced and dove in. The water was cold, perfect, and cleansing. Thirty minutes later, you surfaced, refreshed and ready to tan—until the devil herself blocked your way.

“Oh. You again,” Briana sneered.

You grabbed your towel, pretending she wasn’t even there.

“Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing,” she said, voice tight with venom.

“Plotting your next haircut? Sorry, sweetheart—I’ve retired,” you replied, plopping back on the sunbed, unbothered, flipping open your book.

“No—you bitch—”

At that word, you sat up, spine straight, eyes locked on hers.

“Watch your mouth,” Julia snapped, standing at your side.

“Tell your little friend to stop staring at my boyfriend. Or there’ll be consequences.”

You and Julia burst out laughing.

“Oh my god. Babes, you’d make such a good stand-up comedian. That was hilarious—and so sad.”

“He’s mine, you fuck. And he’ll never want you.”

You stood up. Calm. Cold. Knuckles white, pushing hair behind your ear.

“Briana,” you said, voice sugar-sweet and sharp like a blade, “you can have him. Hell, stick a name tag on his forehead. I promise no one’s coming for your boy toy.”

You turned to walk—then she grabbed your hair.

“You bitch—!”

“Touch her again and I’ll break your nose!” Julia shouted.

But you were faster. Reflexes kicked in—thank you, self-defense classes. You grabbed Briana’s wrist, spun, and slammed your elbow into her stomach. She let go with a gasp.

“Touch me again,” you hissed, “and the only makeover happening will be your fucking face.”

You walked off, heart pounding, blood boiling. Erik had seen it all. Of course he had.

He was going to kill you.

Inside, you collapsed on the couch, breathing hard. Your neck stung—you reached back and winced. That bitch had scratched you. Her claws were like knives. You headed to the bathroom for antiseptic. God knows where her hands had been.

You were about to pour it on when the door slammed shut.

“ARE YOU FOR REAL RIGHT NOW?” Erik barked.

“Don’t close the door—hey—!”

Your chest tightened. Panic started to rise. Shit. Not now. The door was sealed shut. Claustrophobia wrapped around your throat.

“I’ve told you so many times—just once, can’t you try not being a menace? You elbowed her like some goddamn Kung Fu Panda!”

You reached for the doorknob, shaking.

“Where do you think you're going? I’m not—wait—why are you—”

He froze when he saw your body trembling.

“Erik, it’s stuck. It won’t open—I can’t breathe—” You slammed your shoulder against the door in desperation.

“Hey, hey—stop! You’re going to hurt yourself!”

He pulled you back and tried the door himself. Nothing.

“Great. We’re stuck until someone comes into the house.”

You curled up on the floor, knees to your chest, hyperventilating.

“Shit. Are you okay? I—fuck—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell,” he crouched beside you, his voice low, worried.

“Erik… I’m claustrophobic… I’m gonna faint…”

“Shit. I forgot—fuck.” He ran his hands through his hair. “The pantry. When Bobby locked you in—dammit.”

He tilted your chin up gently. “Hey. Look at me. Just breathe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Something about his voice, his hands, his eyes—it grounded you.

“That’s it. Deep breaths.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You looked pretty crying, he thought. Not the time to say it.

You shuffled toward him, letting him wrap his arms around you. He held you close, rubbing your back slowly.

“I’m sorry for punching your… girlfriend. But it was self-defense.”

You looked up at him, vision still blurry.

“I’m sorry for yelling. And for slamming the door,” he said, quieter now. “And she’s not my girlfriend. I could barely call that a ‘thing.’ And after today? It’s definitely over.”

You blinked. “She told me to stay away from you. Said I didn’t stand a chance.”

Erik paused. It was like his brain was buffering.

“What? Jesus. I invited her to break things off. What the hell is she—?”

He laughed, rubbing his face. You laughed too. It felt like something shifted.

“You really elbowed her,” he said, grinning. “Like a total badass.”

“Self-defense classes, baby.”

You threw your head back, and hissed at the sting in your neck.

“Ah, shit.”

“Let me see,” he said, lifting your hair to inspect the scratches. His fingers brushed your skin—your whole body shivered.

“Yeah, she got me good,” you muttered.

“Sit up. I’ll clean it.”

You stood. He trailed his fingers along your skin, slow, electric. You glanced at the mirror and caught his reflection—his eyes were dark, predatory.

“Pass the antiseptic, Peach.”

“You haven’t called me that in forever,” you whispered. “It sounds… nice.”

He smirked. “Brat suits you better.”

“Fuck—can you blow on it? It burns.”

“Hold still, brat,” he said, placing a firm hand on your waist.

You giggled—until his breath hit your skin. Hot. Slow. Dangerous.

A moan slipped out of you when he gripped your hips tighter.

“Fuck—” you gasped, steadying yourself against the sink.

“You’ve got to stop,” he growled in your ear, pulling you against him. “Or I’ll ruin you, Peach.”

“Stop what?” you asked, feigning innocence, grinding into him.

“You’re such a needy little brat.”

He grabbed your jaw, tilting your head, and bit into your neck. You were already soaked.

Your bikini top hit the floor, and his hands were everywhere—one on your throat, the other squeezing your breast like he was starving.

“Stop teasing,” you gasped. “I need you.”

He kissed your collarbone, biting hard enough to make you cry out.

“So damn eager for me, aren’t you?” He angled your face toward the mirror. “Look at yourself. Look at what I do to you.”

His fingers slipped into your bikini bottoms, circling your clit. You nearly collapsed, gripping the sink for dear life.

“F-Fuck, Erik—it feels so good,” you moaned, watching his devilish smirk in the mirror.

“That’s my girl.”

He pushed two fingers inside you, pumping hard and fast until your legs shook.

Right before you came—he stopped.

“Asshole—”

You didn’t finish the sentence. He spun you around, lifted you onto the counter, and crushed his mouth against yours. Raw. Desperate. On fire.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed. “Or I swear, they’ll have to drag me out of here in a bodybag.”

You cupped his face, panting. “I don’t want you to stop. Not now. Not ever. I’ve wanted this for too long.”

“Careful what you wish for, Peach.”

“Ruin me.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you like a madman, hands in your hair, your nails clawing down his back. You reached into his swimsuit—fuck. Thick. Pierced. Dripping.

“Thinking of giving me another STD, brat?”

You smacked his chest. “Pull another joke like that and I will bite it off.”

He laughed and kissed you hard.

“Come on, Princess. Legs wide open.”

You obeyed.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, stroking your cheek like he was about to wreck you and worship you all at once.

“Stop being soft—I can take it.”

And then he slammed into you.

You gasped—his piercing stretching you just right. Pain and pleasure crashing together.

“F-Fuck, Erik,” you whimpered, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Breathe, baby.”

His thrusts grew harder, faster, cruel and perfect. He kissed you again as you shattered around him, moaning into his mouth.

He came seconds after—burying himself deep inside you, groaning into your neck.

You stayed like that. Breathless. Bruised. Blissed out.

His cock still inside you.

And you never wanted to move again.

The bathroom was quiet now.

Heavy breathing. Damp skin. The scent of sex still clinging to the air like smoke after a fire.

You were slouched on the counter, Erik still between your legs, his hands resting on your hips like he didn’t quite know how to let go.

You blinked, trying to ground yourself, brain foggy and dazed. Every nerve ending had been lit up like fireworks and you were still feeling the aftershocks.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

He didn’t move, didn’t say anything.

You could feel him still inside you, twitching slightly. His chest rose and fell, forehead pressed to yours.

“Say something,” you mumbled, voice soft, unsure if you wanted him to.

“You ruined me,” he said, finally.

You let out a breathless laugh, still reeling.

“Says the guy who rearranged my guts like IKEA furniture.”

He grinned, lazy and smug. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t knee you in the face mid-thrust.”

“Brat.”

“Asshole.”

He leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time. No heat, just... softness. Dangerous softness.

And that terrified you more than the hate ever had.

You pulled back. “This doesn’t mean anything, right?”

His eyes met yours. Too direct. Too serious. “Does it have to mean nothing?”

That question. You hated it. Because it cracked something inside your carefully-built armor. He wasn’t supposed to ask things like that. He was supposed to fuck you and leave you confused. Not… not care.

You looked away, slipping off the counter as he finally stepped back. Your legs trembled slightly. He noticed.

“Need help walking, Princess?”

You flipped him off while pulling your bikini bottoms back on. “I’m fine.”

“Sure. You looked real stable when you almost collapsed onto the shampoo bottles.”

You scowled. “Don't get cocky just because you got lucky.”

“I think I made you lucky, sweetheart.”

You grabbed the nearest towel and threw it at his face. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet you begged me to ruin you not five minutes ago.”

You opened your mouth to fire back—but footsteps echoed outside the bathroom door.

Voices.

Julia.

Briana.

“Oh, shit,” you hissed.

Erik’s eyes widened slightly. “They’re inside?”

You scrambled to fix your top. He looked down at himself, still half-hard, still glistening, and cursed under his breath. “I swear if anyone walks in—”

“Just act normal!”

“You’re glowing like a slutty Christmas light. What part of this is normal?”

You reached for the doorknob.

It turned.

“Wait—” Erik said, too late.

The door opened.

And there stood Julia.

Wide-eyed. Jaw dropped. Then a slow grin curled on her face.

“Oh… my god.”

Your face was crimson. Erik was flushed too, shirt halfway on, swimsuit still suspiciously low on his hips.

Julia blinked. “I was coming to check if you guys had killed each other. And instead—you killed her coochie.”

“JULIA,” you hissed.

“You’re welcome,” Erik added, smugly.

Julia burst out laughing. “Okay, that’s going in the group chat.”

“No, no, no—Julia, I swear to God—”

She turned on her heel and marched down the hall, cackling. “Erik and Peach just went biblical in the bathroom!”

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “I’m never showing my face outside again.”

But Erik? He just leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching you.

“What?” you snapped.

“That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever done.”

You squinted at him. “This doesn’t change anything.”

His smile faded slightly. “Doesn’t it?”

You looked away.

“Look,” he said, voice quieter, serious again. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing. You know that, right?”

You stiffened.

He stepped closer. “You can keep calling me an asshole. I’ll keep calling you a brat. That’s our thing. But don’t pretend you don’t feel this.”

You swallowed hard.

“You’re not just some girl I fuck in a bathroom,” he added. “You’re the girl I’ve been trying not to want since the day you threw a beer at my head.”

You blinked.

“Twice,” he added.

You nodded slowly. “You deserved it.”

“I did.”

Silence fell between you again. But it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was charged.

Unspoken things lingering.

“I’m scared,” you finally admitted, softly.

He reached up, gently brushing a thumb along your jaw. “So am I.”

And you both knew the war wasn’t over.

But maybe…

Just maybe…

You were done being enemies.

At least for now.

Later That Night

The house was buzzing. Julia had obviously told everyone. The group chat was in flames, and your phone wouldn't stop vibrating from notifications like:

“Bathroom battle ends in bang ✨”

“Y’all owe me $20. I knew they were gonna hook up first.”

“Plot twist: Enemies-to-lovers confirmed.”

“So when’s the wedding?”

You were mortified.

And pissed.

Mostly because Erik wasn’t helping. He was walking around like he owned the place, smug as hell, throwing cocky little glances your way every five minutes like he’d just invented sex and got a Nobel Prize for it.

You tried to act unaffected.

You tried.

But then he had to go and take his shirt off again at dinner.

“Put a damn shirt on,” you muttered under your breath as he passed behind you with a soda.

“Why? You’ve already seen everything,” he said with a wink that made your fork almost bend in your hand.

Julia, across the table, was no help.

“Okay, but why is the sexual tension still higher than my student loans?” she whispered.

You glared. “Because I hate him.”

Erik leaned in behind you suddenly, his breath brushing your ear.

“No you don’t.”

You shivered.

Julia just straight-up howled.

An Hour Later

You escaped to your room, needing air. Needing to forget the way his hands felt. The way he looked at you.

You stood in front of the mirror, brushing your hair, still scowling at your own reflection.

He had no right to kiss you like that.

Touch you like that.

Make you feel—

“Still mad at me?” came a low voice from the door.

You turned.

There he was.

Leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, no shirt, his swim trunks riding low on his hips like he did it on purpose. His hair was damp. His eyes were darker than before—like he knew what he’d done to you and was ready to do it again.

“Go away,” you muttered.

“You don’t want that.”

You hated how right he was.

“I didn’t say come in,” you snapped as he stepped inside anyway, closing the door behind him.

“I’m not here to argue.”

You folded your arms. “Then what are you here for?”

His eyes dragged over your body. “To finish what we started.”

Your breath caught. “You finished. I’m good.”

He smirked. “Sure you are.”

“You’re cocky.”

“You like it.”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer.

“You gonna slap me again?” he teased, voice dropping an octave.

“Maybe.”

He was right in front of you now.

“Or maybe…” His hand slid to your waist. “You want me to ruin you again.”

You shoved his chest—not hard enough to move him, just enough to feel the muscle under your hands.

“Stop playing with me, Erik.”

He leaned in. His lips ghosted over your jaw, not kissing, just close.

“I’m not playing,” he whispered. “Not anymore.”

You swallowed.

His hands slipped under the hem of your shirt. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

“You hate me, remember?” he murmured, voice velvet-dark.

“I do.”

“Say it.”

You locked eyes with him. “I hate you.”

His lips finally met yours.

And just like that—you were undone.

He lifted you up, your legs wrapping around him instinctively, and carried you to the bed like he already knew the way.

You were fire and gasoline.

His mouth was hungry, his hands demanding, like he’d waited years for this moment. Your shirt was gone, your shorts lost somewhere on the floor, his hands sliding down to cup your ass, grinding against you until you whimpered.

“You’re soaked,” he growled. “Again.”

“Your fault.”

“Gladly.”

He peeled off your panties and kissed his way down your stomach, biting, sucking, marking.

“You’re mine tonight,” he said against your skin. “Say it.”

You moaned. “Fuck, Erik—”

“Come on Peach say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped.

And then his mouth was on you.

Tongue circling your clit, fingers inside you again, slow and deep, curling just right. You were writhing, desperate, moaning his name like it was the only thing you remembered.

“You taste like sin,” he whispered. “And I’m starving.”

You came hard, hips jerking, grabbing fistfuls of his hair as you cried out.

But he wasn’t done.

He kissed his way back up your body, lips hot and wet against your neck.

“You want more?”

You could barely breathe. “Please.”

He slid inside you again—deeper, slower this time. His lips brushed yours.

“I hate you,” you whispered, trembling.

He kissed you, slow and devastating.

“No you don’t.”

And you didn’t argue.

[feng-shui71]

YESSSUDHSJDHHUU YESSSSSSS

Hi oomf, just wanted to say your Wesker fics have been the highlights of my day, been having it rough in my personal life and seeing your writing after a long day makes me so happy, genuinely you and Nshtn are probably the best Wesker writers i’ve seen on here by far. ☹️💗💕

If requests are still open could we perchance see how Wesker would act with a baby? his reaction and what not, etc. I know I’ve voiced how I think he’d react on my page but I was curious to see your take ^^ no pressure obviously love you will draw an Elias as compensation I love that little crackhead

Hey oomfie! I'm sorry you've been having a rough time recently. You deserve nothing less than the best, and I genuinely hope it starts to turn around 💜

that being said, this started as headcanons and evolved into a genuine fic, so you get both. As such, I'm holding you to that Elias drawing just so ya know (No I'm not, this prompt was cute as hell and I had a lot of fun)

Wesker never really saw himself as a father. For one, who has the fucking time? For two, he had far grander aspirations than fatherhood for himself. He had plans, big plans for the world, for him, for you, and a child fit into exactly none of those plans.

But, the best laid plans of mice and men ‘oft go ary as they say, and now he’s here; standing over a crib and looking down at what might have been the smallest human he had ever seen up close, and mentally spiralling about it. He didn’t have the best reaction when you told him about the pregnancy. Granted, you were still around so he didn’t have the worst possible reaction, but it was close. A blame filled argument that led to three days worth of the silent treatment. 

If he was a more humble man, he’d admit to regretting that now. What was done was done, you were both to blame in one way or another, and he wasn’t as mad at the outcome as he thought he’d be. Luckily, he wasn’t a more humble man, so he’d never have to say any of that to your face. 

The baby stirred, and he tense a little, bracing himself for the crying he was sure was to follow. It didn’t come though. Instead they just let out a little huff, never fully waking up. Wesker let out a small sigh of relief. He eyed up the baby monitor. Ever since the baby had been born, you slept like he did- waking up at even the smallest of sounds from the child. He wanted you to get a decent night's sleep for once, and he knew if the little one started to fuss that probably wasn’t going to happen. 

He looked back down at the baby -at his baby- and reached down into the crib. He gently rested his hand on the baby, still mind boggled by the fact that his hand almost took up the entirety of the child’s body, and checked to make sure they were still breathing steady, they didn’t feel too hot or cold, and that they were - in fact- still there. It was a mildly irrational fear of his that his son would just spontaneously vanish into the night, but were late nights spent alone in your newborn's nursery for if not stewing over irrational fears?

“I thought I’d find you here.” You said through a yawn, causing Wesker to almost jump. It wasn’t comforting to him that you were able to catch him so off guard. He’d have to make sure that didn’t happen again. 

Wesker didn’t respond to you, just looked at you over his shoulder before looking back at the strange creation you’d made together. You walked over, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “So? Is he still breathing?”

“Of course he’s still breathing,” Wesker said with enough condescension for you to almost believe he wasn’t literally just checking. Almost. 

You responded with a small hum, and a nod. Wesker looked over to you. “What are you doing up so late?” He asked. 

You shrugged. “I guess I’m still not used to him sleeping through the night,” You said, “Normally he’s hungry about now.”

Wesker nodded, placing both hands on the crib as he looked back down at his son. “Well, to be fair to you he is technically advanced for his age in that aspect. Typically, infants start to sleep through the night at around three months old. He’s only two months and a half months old. So, while it’s not an incredibly notable difference, it could account for why you’re having a hard time adjusting.”

Wesker didn’t know any of this just six months ago. Just under a year ago he didn’t give a singular fuck about typical infant development, and he probably would have argued with any new parent that two weeks different was in no way substantial enough to take into account when it came to something as general as human development. He definitely argued with Birkin about it. 

Now though? Now, it was something he cared very deeply about, wanting to make sure that everything was “on tack” so to speak. He suddenly understood exactly what happened to Birkin after Sherry was born. William did, in fact, lose his entire mind. But, as it turns out, all parents were inherently a little bit out of their minds. 

Wesker included. He felt you start to rub his back, one of your hands coming to rest on his forearm. “You should come to bed. He’ll let us know when he needs us. Lord knows you’ll wake up.” You said with a soft chuckle. Wesker woke up to a fly coughing in the night, a baby crying would have him out of bed in milliseconds.

Wesker nodded, but didn’t take his eyes off the baby. “I’ll be there soon,” he said, but didn’t elaborate any further.

He felt your hand tighten ever so softly, comfortingly. “Al,” You started slowly, trying to think of how to put it. You couldn’t think of anything other than just straight forward honesty. “No one’s going to take him from us Al.” 

His grip visibly tightened on the crib, and his entire body went stiff. He wondered if anyone had told his parents that same thing when they were up worrying about him in the night. He wondered if Umbrella ever gave them the chance to worry about him in the night. He wondered a lot about them these days, actually, but without even knowing what his actual name was at birth- he’d never know. He was trying to be okay with that. 

He took a very heavy breath. “I know.” He finally said. And he did, he did know. He knew that Umbrella was gone, he knew that Project W had been deemed a failure, he knew that Spencer was dead. Logically, he knew all of this. 

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation- that’s definitely what he’d blame it on at least- but he wasn’t thinking super logically. He was thinking about all the enemies he made over the years (far too many to count.) He was thinking about how easily you had snuck up on him- when you weren’t even trying to (hard to protect your family when you’re oblivious.) He was thinking about all of the worst possible scenarios.

Gently, your hands came up to cup his face. You knew Wesker enough to be able to tell when he was quietly losing his entire mind. You gently coaxed his eyes away from the infant, and onto you. “Baby, baby look at me.” You continued once you were sure you had his attention, “We’re okay. We’re safe, you made sure of that. No one knows where we are and the house is armed to the teeth. You’ve taken care of anything that would want to hurt us, you can take a breath Love.” You tried to be reassuring. You’d never been a poet, or particularly adept at knowing what to say. But you hoped you got the point across.

Wesker sighed, his hands coming to gently rest on your wrists. “I know. I know,” Subconsciously he tilted his head in your hands, letting you cradle his face. “I know I’m being neurotic.” He struggled. Albert had always struggled to be “emotionally available, let alone vulnerable” as you had so eloquently put it in the past. And while he had no real desire to change that, becoming a parent was bringing out all kinds of vulnerable feelings he really wasn’t equipped to handle.

“I’ll be to bed soon. I promise.” He finally said, moving to kiss your wrist. You looked at him skeptically, but decided to just trust him on this one. You nodded, and left him to his own devices.

Wesker looked back down at his son, sleeping peacefully in his crib. He reached down, gently caressing the baby’s thin blonde hair. He leaned down, giving him a small kiss on the forehead. “I promise,” he said in a ghost of a whisper, “Nothings going to hurt you.”  

With that, he checked to make sure the windows to the room were still locked, and that the baby monitor was still on. Finally feeling somewhat confident that everything really was okay- he finally went to join you in bed. 

Headcanons

Ok, so I feel like Wesker and the “White Picket Fence” dream have a very complicated relationship. I think that a deep, dark, rejected part of him genuinely would love to have the family he was robbed of as a child. A spouse and kids, maybe a cat. A calm domestic life can sound nice

BUUUUUUUT that being said, He’s realistic about his life. He knows the world he’s trying to create, he knows that the white picket fence is simply out of his reach. 

Now that being said, I think that Wesker has never half assed a single thing in his entire goddamn life, parenthood included. If he has a child (that he knows about) he’s going to be involved. He takes his turn in midnight feedings, he’s changed his fair share of diapers, he has incredibly strong opinions on children's shows.

Any show with blue dogs is fine, so long as he’s not around to get the songs stuck in his head. Paw Patrol has been banned- just cause he was a cop doesn't mean he’s going to let his kid be a cop sympathizer. He’s got a few questions fo rMan and Ruby, namely where the fuck are their parents? The Backyardigans is cute enough, and he actually isn’t above watching DocMcstuffins with the kid if it keeps the peace. 

The tv is off for a week if he ever Caillou on it. That little brat has no place in the Wesker household. 

He’s not a PTA parent. He of course has met his kids' teachers, and is incredibly involved in his child's education- but the moment you ask him to help organize a bake sale he checks out. He’s here for his kid. Not the rest of them.

He’s incredibly strict. B’s are unacceptable, and curfew is at 10pm. He gives me the vibes of the type of parent who would make his kid hand write an essay as punishment, followed by them being grounded. 

That being said, I don’t think he’s unfair. He’ll hear out the kiddos side of things, and go from there

I think Wesker is in the “I don’t believe in lying to children” camp. Like, if his kid ever asks who Santa is, he’s going to say some shit like “An elaborate lie that parents tell their children to try and make them behave. They tell their kids that if they’re good Santa will bring presents, and if they’re bad he’ll bring coal. The catch is it’s all hollow threats, so the lie isn’t that effective.” He says all of this to a five year old.

I think Wesker sees his child as both a reflection and an extension of himself, so he is very appearance focused. Definitely the “And where do you think you’re going dressed like that?” Type of dad. 

He insists on extracurricular activities. Piano, karate, student council, he wants his kid involved in all of that. He’s honestly kind of a tiger mom

I forgot this was Wesker with a baby headcanons, not Wesker as a parent headcanons. My Bad!

 Going off of the previous point, Wesker refuses to dumb down his speech for the baby, and gets annoyed when others do. He’s well aware that they’re six months old, but if you speak to the child in the “I’m talking to a baby” accent he’s going to bitch you out about language development.

This is kinda random, but I think he wanted a mini fridge and bottle warmer in the nursery. Man was thinking ahead. 

I find it funny to imagine Wesker reading Camus of Kafka as a bedtime story. He’s not trying to make some super baby or anything (for now) but they’re so little, they just want to hear a parent's voice, they don’t care what the story is. So, he might as well read something he likes 

I think The Stranger by Camus is Wesker's favorite book by the way. That’s related to nothing I just wanted to throw it out there

[fandomwritingbit]

Sweet girl pt.6

Dbf William Afton x (fem) virgin reader

Synop: Your parents are throwing a neighbourhood party, you're looking forward to it. It's too bad you're going to miss all of it.

Warnings: smut, oral, taking of virginity, public sex, coercion, corruption and manipulation. William is pretty evil ngl.

Imma just link to the masterlist, this series is getting well too long lol.

A/n: I've never written cherry-popping before I hope this is okay. This is so far from my experience it's hard to believe it'd be the same even lmao. Also my writer's block has been so fucking bad recently, I need all the slack you're willing to give.

It sounded great when your parents first put it to you: a barbeque a few weekends from now, the whole neighbourhood invited to enjoy some good food and sunshine. The perfect excuse to flaunt a gorgeous lavender dress you bought months ago, it caught your eye on a sales rack, a perfect flowy fabric that clung to all the right places. Your size, a match made in heaven. You can’t help but shiver with the thought of how William will react to it, handsy is the word that springs to mind, not that you are against that. 

~

The day of, you step into that dress, the fabric soft and almost soothing around your body. It’s hot today and you’re glad for the lightness of the material, though you think that maybe the heat on your face is from anticipation. He’s all you think about, the danger of him asking you to touch him with your dad barely 10 feet away, the beautiful feeling of his fingers inside you tearing an orgasm out of you like nothing you've had before, the nights you’ve spent calling him and getting off. You’re addicted to all of it and it has your fingers dipping into your panties at any given opportunity.

You pad downstairs about ten minutes before people are set to arrive, finding your mum and dad hurrying around. “Oh you look lovely, sweetie.” Your dad says in passing, carrying an overly big bowl of salad towards your dining table. It was full of all kinds of buffet bits, but enough space left for guests to contribute things, as tends to be customary. Right now the amount of food seems over the top, but you know that once things get going your house will be full of everyone with a tie to the community.

… 

And you were correct, your house is swarming. People in the living room, the dining room, outside, all chatting and greeting neighbours that ‘they really should see more often’. You’re herded around groups of people by your mum and dad, introductions and re-introductions said to what felt like hundreds, but was likely only twenty or so. You are as polite as you can, smiling through small talk about your education and how much you’ve changed since last year, but your heart’s not in it, your eyes are constantly flicking around for William. It should be easy to spot him, he's a tall enough fella, but your searching keeps turning up empty.

Your glancing around the room is interrupted by a squeaky, “Oh my god, y/n?” You turn to where the voice is coming from, instantly recognising the girl of your age who was squeezing past your dad to get to you. “I haven’t seen you since… school.” She pulls a face at the word ‘school’ which you commiserate with, you can’t place this girl's name but the mention of school makes you frown. Your manners are important to you but it doesn’t take a genius to realise that if you haven't seen someone in years, there’s most likely a reason why.

“Yeah… It’s been a long time.” You agree, giving her a bright smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. In the middle of this awkward interaction you clap eyes on him and your heart jumps in your chest in such a ridiculous way you pray it doesn’t show on your face. He’s talking to a bloke you know from three or four houses down, a small smile on his face that has an air of amusement like he’s laughing internally at the gentleman’s expense. 

You are almost physically pulling away from this conversation but the lass doesn’t stop talking, oblivious to your lack of interest as she tells you all about her cosmetology school and her apprenticeship. You just don’t have the rudeness in you to walk away so you grit your teeth and ride out the conversation, eagerly watching William out of the corner of your eye.

It takes so long trying to get her to leave that by the time she’s got out her phone and is part way through finding you on instagram, William is slinking out of the room. The moment she’s done, you brush her off with a polite see you later, leaving the room in the path your bad influence had used. You’re experiencing some kind of withdrawal from not having his attention, it’s pathetic but it’s true, and achingly obvious in how you walk your house searching for him… again. 

You find him in your living room and you edge through a group of chatting neighbours to get through to him and as you get near still unnoticed you find your mum standing beside him, looking up at him and talking through a wide grin. “It feels like a long time since I’ve seen you properly, William.” It takes you no effort to lock onto your mother’s words, they make you frown instantly. 

“Yeah I’ve been busy with work.” He shakes his head, “I’ll have to come and see you and Chris soon.” And your lovely daughter, he mentally adds, though some of the intention must show on his face because the woman in front of him puts her hand on his arm. His eyes widen. 

“Anytime.” She says, doubling down on it, “I mean it, any-time. I like having you around.” Something about the tone of that turns your frown into a scowl. It’s flirtation, and you burn with anger. Jealousy, yes, you can’t help it, it’s instant, but for god’s sake your dad is right fucking there. You don’t consider how you could be overreacting, the indignation is too strong, so you leave the room in a huff, feeling like a fucking idiot for spending your whole day looking for a bloke who clearly wasn’t looking for you. It stings and in a flurry you remind yourself that all the things you’ve done with him are only your first times, not his. 

You’re out of the house before you know it, keeping your head down as you go far to the bottom of your garden where a hedge gives you respite from turning heads. You’re not crying, but you’re not a mile away from it either. Maybe it’s that withdrawal again, but you stand in the corner feeling let down, lonely and stupid. Anger at your mum outweighs anger at William, but the latter is still strong. 

You stand there for a while, getting a better grip on your emotions, you need enough of a hold to walk back inside and either brave more of the party or hide away in your room. This is when people need a smoke, you think to yourself, wondering if a fag could actually help relax someone in this state.

Calming yourself down takes a good few minutes but once you get there, you decide that yeah, you need some quiet for a bit, then some thought about why you went off the handle so quickly, why you’re so enamoured by William. But to do that you’re going to have to escape this whole party, preferably without being noticed because if someone asks you how you are right now, you don’t know how you’re going to react. 

So you slip out your hiding place, peeking around the hedge to see the silent picture of people through your back windows. Here we go. You cross the garden pretty quickly and soon get your hands on the door handle into the house, you step inside managing to smile at the few heads that turn your way. But that smile soon drops away when he appears. Your heart jumps at the sudden confrontation, so long of trying to catch him but now you don’t want him anywhere near you. 

“So that’s where you’ve been hiding.” William’s voice drips with honey and you try to ignore the warmth already settling in your core, but you know it’s a battle you won’t win.

You turn from his invasive gaze, hands a little shaky as you try to close the sliding door behind you. “Hey, where are you going, hm?” His eyes narrow at the blatant way you’re ignoring him, he can’t hold a serious expression though so a confused smirk rests on his face, how sweet you look with that pet lip. He puts his hand on your arm, halting the process of closing the door easily, no force necessary, the touch is enough. “Come with me outside, sweetheart, come on.” 

You look up at him frowning, partially from previous anger, partially from fear that someone else will see, how he can dare to be so obvious is beyond you. There’s no room to reason with him, not when he’s already opening the door again, already guiding you through it, that grip still present on your arm. It’s not a firm hold, it’s barely there but, the skin to skin contact has you enthralled. 

He takes you all the way back to the hidden spot you left just minutes ago, only this time it doesn’t feel like such a safe space. Once out of view he lowers his head down to look you in your face, not liking when you turn away and so catching your chin with his thumb. “Are you alright, sweet thing? What’s wrong?”

His sickly sweet tone is enough to spark a flash of anger as bright as it is sudden. “Why don’t you ask my mum?” You snap, your voice much more petulant than it is clever, the patheticness of it has your cheeks hot but you double down. William just grins, confusion leaving his brow furrowed. This is new, he thinks, you’ve never taken that tone with him before, it’s fun, shiny-new and exciting. 

You continue, provoked by him not understanding what you mean, “...You seemed to be enjoying her company anyway...” You speak dejectedly, your jealousy running riot with you. You want to pull away from him, the lack of genuineness in his expression inflames you, he thinks it’s all a game and you can’t believe you’ve only just cottoned on. 

William hums in acknowledgement before dropping his hand from you, you’re glad that he’s taking you that bit more seriously but it’s downright shameful how you miss the contact already. 

It takes a lot in him not to laugh, the unfounded envy practically has your eyes glowing. This is good though, such passion all from feeling cast aside, you so desperately want him to want you and that is just perfect. For him. He faces your glare dead on, being very careful not to patronise you too much. “What exactly are you jealous of?”

You open your mouth to protest, hating yourself for being so easy to read. You know your bitterness is written on every inch of you, your closed stance, your harsh jaw, the immature tone of your voice, but you just can’t fucking help it. There’s no point denying it, so you don’t bother. “There…” you stumble, having to abandon your daggers to continue, “You didn’t have to flirt with my mum right in front of my face like that… and my dad’s.” 

He nods, sighing before answering you through a slick grin, “I think maybe your mam was teasing me, a little.” That grin simply blossoms, thorough amusement peeking out of hiding, “But you more than anyone should know that flirting with me isn’t half as boring as that was.” 

You don’t have time to fight the way you flush, it’s not fair, are you really this easy to win over? He’s doing the William equivalent of batting his eyelashes at you and you’re falling for it, you must want to deep down. But you still don’t trust him as far as you could throw him, which is needless to say, not far. 

“Come on, why would I even consider your mother when I have her sweet girl looking at me so moody right now, huh?” You roll your eyes at that, moving to turn away and think for yourself but he stops you, his hands on you holding you still and muting the dull noise around you. “At least tell me what I can do to make it better. How can I earn your forgiveness?” He speaks with a certain glee, prideful of his art form, like you’re some puzzle he’s solved before. And with his face close to yours he adds mockingly, “Or have I got it already?” 

You want to touch him, shut him up, but you’re a mere corner away from the whole neighbourhood. “You’re slimy.” You speak honestly, well maybe you’re sugar-coating it even, “And I’m not stupid.” Your conviction is there, but the physical support isn’t, you’re looking up at him like a doe, breathing quicker than normal, your chest rising and falling fast in your new dress. 

He laughs, “True. But watch it, you’ll hurt my feelings.” He has something else to say, some other mocking teasing syrup, you don’t let him, throwing yourself towards him. Your lips press against his in a sudden desperate way, like you’ve something to prove. Your lack of finesse could be mistaken for hunger but he knows you better than that, he dominates the kiss without much effort, easily pulling you along with his rhythm. He likes you like this, smart, able to see through him, it turns him on. Because what’s better than spoiling a naive young woman? Spoiling one who knows it’s happening and can’t help herself either way. 

William breaks the kiss, hands eagerly taking in your shape, “Let me make you forgive me, right here.” As he talks his touch slides low, over your arse and making your back curve against him. “I’m dying to pull this cute dress up.” You need it, just whining some form of approval, wordless at that predator’s glint in his gaze. He slides his hand between your legs and you’re keen, shivering at the spark of pleasure and eagerly angling your hips for more. 

He pauses his touch for a moment, breath staggering as he thinks about what he’s going to do, you hardly notice for your own need. When you do look at him, you see him shaking his head, snickering at something unbeknownst to you. 

He moves then, debasing himself by dropping to his knees on the grass, hands grabbing your skirt fabric up above your waist band, gathering it there in one to rive your panties down with the other. The cool air invades you, unwarned exposure making you moan. “William-”

“Shush.” He chastises bluntly, as if his thumb wasn’t now resting against your clit and giving it a perfect gentle pressure. He knows what you’re going to say, “You don’t want anyone to see, huh? Well, bite your tongue. I don’t have to worry about mine.” The words are wicked with innuendo and you have to stifle everything in you except a sharp intake of breath when he shows you exactly what he’s doing with his tongue. 

It’s dirty, shame-ridden and debauched, but you’re at the mercy of his mouth devouring your cunt. Parting your seam to toy with the slick plea of your hole. You can hardly stand still, body shaking with fretful want, it’s too much and not nearly enough, you have to battle to keep quiet against the vindictive way your core is tightening. 

His tongue drags through your slit and he sniggers against you before cruelly sucking your bundle of nerves. You’re grabbing him, pulling him closer, trying to push him away, as you tingle with need for your end. He’s relentless, playing your instrument just right and you have no faculty to ask for respite. Your coil clenches tight and snaps, and you come undone right there in your garden, waves of bliss so bright your legs shake and you need his arms to hold you up. There are tears in your eyes and you don’t know if they’re because of your climax or the emotional whiplash you’ve just endured. You don’t have it in you to care.  

He pulls away from you and you watch over-blissed as he wipes your slick from his face on the back of his hand, letting your skirt fall to its rightful position. “Now that’s the perfect thing I’ve missed.” He stands, his eyes dark with arousal. “You’re a good girl on the phone but fuck there’s nothing like it in person.” 

You beam with pride, his praise so much nicer when you’re pliant and glistening from pleasure. How bad an idea that was isn’t lost on you, but it was worth it, even if now you have to pull your knickers up to hide the evidence. As you do, you see how filthy he is, mud coating his knees and you laugh. 

Struggling to explain yourself through the shocked giggles you manage to state, “Your trousers are ruined.” 

He looks down and sees why you’re so lost in laughter, he had weighed up his options though and tasting your sweet pussy was more than worth the dirt. William attempts to brush some away but it’s never going to happen, and so with a sigh he sniggers, “Am I old enough to have people believe I fell?” 

You burst out laughing at that, unable to regain yourself for a while, he deserves that, you think. After some time you are lucid enough to say, “Maybe say tripped instead of fell.” Your cheeks are shiny with both the fit of giggles and the aftermath of your activity, you look so delectable he hardly minds the state of his clothes. 

“Why don’t,” William begins, still smirking, and you give him as much of your attention as you can, “you show me your room? I’d like to see it in person.” He’s testing to see how much forgiveness he’s won, you know that, but the prospect of what’s to come is motivation enough to give him it. 

“Okay.” You agree, the idea of it has your chest tight but your core knows better, “Should I be scared?” You’re joking, mostly, your room is a different beast, much more personal. Somehow more bare than what you’ve just done. 

“Very.”

~

Walking through your house felt dangerous, like it’s written on your forehead that you’re doing something wrong. People are eating now though, too self-absorbed to notice the rabbit leading the fox to its burrow, which is for the best, all things considered. 

He follows you obediently, mind half-focused on your retreating form, the other half pondering just what he’s going to do about this raging erection he’s afflicted with. You looked so sweet taking him in your mouth, so eager to please, malleable. But your perfect unbroken cunt would be just delightful to rut against. As much as he wants to, he won’t- can’t deflower you just yet, not with all these people around to hear the squeaking of bedsprings, hell, the squeaking of you. The idea makes his cock throb and he’s already palming himself before you reach the landing. 

“This one.” You say, opening the door for him, your voice sounds much smaller than it did two minutes ago. You are scared, all jokes aside. 

He moves past you inside, you’re the one to shut the door, sealing the two of you inside your bedroom. How out of place he looks, this huge hulking figure in your untainted room, the walls pastel, the sheets light and the curtain frilled. 

“I could have told you your room looks like this.” His grin is wolfish, the imposition feels very metaphorical and he revels in it. He’s absent-mindedly touching things, a bottle of perfume on your drawers, then a teddy on your bed, you like how they look in his hands, delicate, breakable. 

You find yourself speaking before the words are clear in your mind, “William…” He turns to you, still holding the fucking bear, visibly overjoyed to be in your private space, piece by piece you’ve let him in here, first through a camera now this, it’s all very correct. 

“Hm?”

You’re flummoxed for words, arms folded across your chest in some vain effort to keep yourself together, “I want to t-touch you. On th-the bed.” The request takes a part of your soul with it, it’s unveiled and glaringly obvious, but there’s no other way to say it, that is what you want. Well, some of it. 

Chuckling, he throws the teddy aside, “That is the best thing anyone has ever asked me.” He means it, he could touch the peak now with just how pretty you’re talking to him. 

He moves slightly and you interrupt him, the rest of your want raising its whiny head. “You’ll have to take t-that off.” You’re pointing at his trousers and he laughs, remembering the muck decorating his legs, but the laughter dies quickly and he fixes you with a quizzical look, eyes narrowed as he again reads you like a book. 

“Because of the mud, or another reason?” He teases and you bite your lip, your answer wearing you, more than the other way around. Much like the way smugness is wearing him. “I know you like to see, you’re quite fascinated, aren’t you?” He grabs himself as he speaks, crude, garish and vulgar, and it prickles your sides. 

“You like to see me.” You retort, trying not to feel the embarrassment your brain really wants you to. 

“Very true.” 

…

Fascinated is perhaps the right word, you are fascinated by him. It’s more than just that he’s handsome or you find him attractive, it’s curiosity, desire to understand. The broadness of his shoulders, the muscle on his arms, the hair on his chest, his legs, his cock; it is fascinating. 

You start off sitting beside him on your duvet, enjoying the sight of him with his dick in your hand. Observing what your action is doing, how his breath changes for you, then a deep groan when you smear the precum beading on his tip. It’s driving you crazy and in a sudden realisation you need more. You want it all, want to know how his thickness is going to feel inside you, good, bad, dirty and ugly, you need it. 

And you tell him.

The view of William above you is insane, the dark greying hair trailing down his chest leading your gaze down to the sight of him stroking his cock, positioned above your cunt. He presses against you occasionally, your hot slick beckons for him and he thrusts himself through it, restraint a heavy weight on his shoulders. It’s maddening. 

“Please…” You whine, any trace of dignity you had is long gone, you’re corroded, worn down to your bare minimum and you need him to feel the same way. 

He takes his eyes off your glistening cunt to flash you a devastating smirk, “Please, what?” The teasing makes you shift underneath him, desperate for more, that’s just how he wants you. As he watches you he pleasures himself, it’s bloody stupid how weak your pretty hole has got him.

The lewd words burn in your throat, there’s no debate in saying them, not anymore, “Fuck me… please.” You manage to choke out, but it still fails to convey your need to be filled. His fingers had made you see stars, but you’re greedy for more, you want him to come undone inside you. You want to drive him mad. 

Well, he didn’t expect you to say that. You want him to take your innocence right now? Right on your lacy fucking bed sheets? With your parents downstairs? Clearly you’re not thinking straight, you’re too fucked up and that is just delicious. Your plea makes his cock twitch in his hand, he wants nothing more than to stretch your sweet pussy around him but you could hardly handle his fingers. You hardly know what you’re begging for. 

“You want me inside?” As he speaks he rubs his cock over your pussy lips, there’s an almost sinister quality to his voice that makes your core tighten. 

You nod, squirming away from the teasing of your aching bundle of nerves; that’s exactly what you want. 

William sniggers, “I can’t, sweetheart. Not with everyone downstairs to hear.” You hardly notice the noises you make, but you’re vocal as anything, whining from the tiniest touch, he has no doubt his cock would make you scream. The reasoning falls on deaf ears, you don’t care because his power over you is too strong. You just want his cock inside you so he becomes as pathetic as you are. 

“Please.” You try again, this time shifting your body to roll your hips against his cock to show you’re serious, but your thighs quiver at the stimulation.  

In a sudden movement he seizes your jaw, forcing your gaze away from his cock on your swollen pussy to the dark look in his eyes. The restraint is visible, a clear crack in his in-control façade. He can’t help it, your begging is making him leak again, impatient precum oozing from his tip, begging alongside you for stimulation. How’s he supposed to hold himself back from this perfect untouched cunt right here asking him to deflower it?

“Do you even know what you’re asking for?” He speaks slow, a singsong tone to the words that’s a little sharper than intended due to the continued rolling of your hips. “It’s not to be taken lightly.” 

You watch him wide-eyed, understanding his words is a conscious effort. “It’s not just a quick fuck, sweetheart. It’s me breaking this little pussy. Taking your innocence.” He punctuated the filthy point by lining his cock up with your entrance, eliciting a terrified pang of excitement in your core. “Stretching you open. You know what that means?” 

He pauses but you don’t have the speech to answer, he thought as much, “Means it’s all mine. My little toy to use whenever I want. Break it over and over.” At this moment it doesn’t occur to you that this is the real William, not just slimy but the honest William who knows he’s bad, creepy, gross whatever you want to call it. The man who’s blatantly moulding you into something he can use, using your sexual naivety against you and playing your mind and body like a fiddle. 

You swallow, his words go straight to your cunt making you impossibly wetter. He looks down at you and his control slips from his fingertips, he knows you’re going to feel so fucking good around him, how tight and wet and fucking warm.

“That what you want?” He blatantly asks, the intention thick in the air. 

“Y-yes.” You start, your back arching a little, “I want it to be yours.” You know the words are dangerous, but you have no agency to prevent them from leaving your lips. “I want you to t-take it. Please.”  

He lets go of your jaw, a particularly mean expression possessing his face. “God, you are fucking stupid.” He speaks quietly but you hear, it stings and you’re unable to tell if he’s kidding or not. He wasn’t, you are stupid to let him get this far, and he’s stupid for going along with your begging.  

His cock is still notched tight against your entrance and he holds you squirming still with a hand on your hip. “You’re going to be quiet for me, alright? I’m giving you what you want.” His voice is thick but you hardly notice he even spoke, your heart is pounding and your whole body tense with anticipation. 

He parts your walls, pressing in slightly, just the head and your eyes ping wide. You’re wet, drenched even, ready for it but it still hurts. A noise escaped you, wounded, doubling when he presses just that little bit further. “Shh, fuck.” His curse is very telling, you’re strangling him already in the most perfect way, if he’s not careful he’s going to crack his own jaw with how tight it is in restraint. “I told you.” The words are harsher than he meant them, but seeing the tears already welling in your eyes he knows he was right. 

His hand comes over your clit, drawing a circle over the bundle and it works, a blaze of pleasure drapes over the invasion but it doesn’t distract you when he moves, forcing himself a lot further in your cunt. You cry out and in a sharp movement he covers your mouth, grunting at how you tense due to the sudden action. “Ah-You’re going to do it, sweet thing. Just relax, you’re tight as a fucking vice.” 

You try, blinking through tears, and focus on his rhythm on your clit, it’s better, easing. He moves, slowly pulling out then back in and you see it. The need for him inside, shaping your walls around him, your body squeezes him eager for him to continue. 

Your mouth is open behind his hand, muffled sounds leaving your lips, whining, mewling, hooked on the promise of overcoming the ache and snapping the coil inside you more than ever before. If your mouth was free maybe you’d say his name, or kiss him, or curse him, you don’t really know. His movement becomes better, you can take him, he knows you can. So he thrusts deep, making you accept him, your yelp is stifled and your teeth dig into the palm of his hand, it's unnoticed, overshadowed by the perfect feeling of you cunt swallowing him completely. 

“God,” He scowls. 

The pain dies again, settling back to the muted ache, you’re reeling, full more than should be possible, breathing frantically through your nose. He’s slow, pushing in and out of your hole considerately, as he’d be sure to tell you. And you quickly realise with a startling joy how he digs just right into a spot deep inside you. It’s almost blinding, engulfing you in a doubly quick need to end. 

Your cunt throbs and he flicks his eyes back to your face, what a good girl you are. He can feel the change in you, the rise of pleasure over pain, the way you panic at the growth of your end, your eyes say it all fearful of what’s going to happen. You’re close to an end, body burning and falling rigid underneath him. It hits you like a train, each time he shoves himself deep is electric, it's intense and you white-knuckle just to take the pace he keeps as you cum around him. 

“Fuck, baby.” His words are edged with his own ruin, the rhythm of his pace growing brave, selfish, you’re taking it so well. And he loses it, no sense in him to pull out, he doesn’t care, your perfect cunt wants it. He’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself quiet as his warmth spills inside you, thrusts sloppy to push his cum deep inside you. You whimper, it's a dirty feeling, but a right one and seeing the look on his face you realise that you were right, he looks as pathetic as you feel.

He removes his hand from your mouth, your skin red under his grip, freeing you to moan pitifully. You’re wrecked, somehow exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. You don't know how you feel, your climax was like something unreal and when he slowly pulls out of you, you feel empty. William was right, you’re changed. 

He sits beside your form still laid exactly as he left you, your pretty pussy flushed and shining. “You alright?” 

You blink, like you somehow forgot he was a person able to speak, “Yeah, I think so.” Your voice is hoarse as fragile as the rest of you and it makes him grin. 

He looks down at you, and just laughs, at you, at him, at the situation, “What the fuck are we supposed to do now then?” 

It makes you chuckle and you run your hand over your face. Yeah, what exactly should you do now?

[butchlesbiancosmo]

i'm already posting art on this blog???? fucked up if true

i've seen a lot of people make their own redesigns of AW and i've seen some really, REALLY good ones. like DAMN. to me though, she's gotta be a cowgirl with rabies <3

more ramblings about this southern beast belle under the cut:

when she and AC met (in fairy high school, like Cosmo and Wanda), they HATED each other. like "mauling each other ON SIGHT" hated each other. she literally bit him so many times

(it actually was less hate and more "oh you're deranged. that's hot" except neither of them was able to be normal about it. so)

she teased anti cosmo soooooo much. she was the only one who wasn't afraid of him and he loved hated that. she constantly got on his case about being "so prim and proper all the time like some COWARD" (what she really wanted was for him to go apeshit for once)

after one particularly rough session of "mauling each other like wild dogs" they finally found a mutual respect for each other (and also aggresively made out). from then onwards they became a couple (much to the misfortune of the rest of the universe). Eventually they usurped the Anti-Fairy Council together and have ruled over anti fairies ever since

Wanda isn’t like….particularly a genius; she’s just patient, responsible and kind. Hence, Anti Wanda’s not an idiot: she just acts before she thinks and prefers it that way. She’s got no patience for elaborate plans which sometimes puts her at odds with her husband, but she more than makes up for it by barreling her way through like a goddamn force of nature

She’s also rude and, well….crass. When she can afford to. It drives her husband crazy (in both the good and bad sense lmao)

Personality-wise I picture her being similar to The Noise from Pizza Tower. Silly goofy on the surface but my god she has SO many rabies and will most likely kill you. Extremely chaotic evil <3

Prefers to have her wand be in the shape of a revolver that shoots magic. There is no real practical reason for this other than aesthetics. She’s a pretty good markswoman tbh

She still eats with her feet

She and anti cosmo bring out the worst of each other (affectionate). they match each other’s freak and they absolutely make it everyone else’s problem <3

[feng-shui71]

I am at a genuine loss for words right now oh my GOD???? OH MY GOD???? I LOVE THIS SO MUCH AUGDHHDGHSHSHD NOOO WAYYYYYYY ARE YOU SERIOUS

✦ Strange Happenings ✦

Pairing: RE4 Albert Wesker/oc Jordan Manalang (belongs to @feng-shui71!).

Summary: Once the heat of battle has faded, cold reality and old feelings unresolved take its place. Stuck between her own unraveling emotions and a crushing sense of obligation, Jordan is struggling to do the right thing once and for all. (Intended as a direct continuation to this comic right here!)

Notes: It's finally done! A gift to @feng-shui71 that was supposed to go along with my DTIS entry, but I'm sharing it as a separate thing entirely. I really hope I did this messy pair justice. Written mostly from Jordan's pov, but some small glimpses into Wesker's head are still present. Additional notes at the end of the piece!

Word count: ~ 6.5k words (insane, I know).

Credits: dividers by @/saradika-graphics, additional art in the header belongs to @feng-shui71 .

Jordan's breaths came out as uneven, short puffs of air as she stared down at the now defeated creature that must have been a normal human once upon a time. Her heart was racing wildly in her chest, each dull thump echoing in her temples with its intensity, her hands quivering around her reliable handgun in a manner that was utterly atypical for her usual composure on the field.

Fear wasn't the cause of her shaken state, however. No, the dead, huge monstrosity of a man had absolutely nothing to do with her unraveling state of mind. In fact, it was completely insignificant. Although it was dangerous. Used to be, at least.

She was fully aware that it was the man standing beside her that was the true cause of her non-fading agitation.

There wasn't anything she could say once the fight was over. What was she supposed to do now, exactly? Seeing Wesker alive and well - and apparently fully willing to pretend like nothing had ever even happened - was too much for her already frazzled mind to handle.

Like everything was normal and just how it was before.

This was planned to be a mission with very few surprising obstacles to deal with. Come in, track and rescue the president's daughter alongside Leon Kennedy, and get to the extraction point. No extra distractions or feelings involved.

But instead, they discovered an utterly deranged mess of insane cultists, mind-controlling parasites, and unwelcome ghosts from the past who had their own unknown objectives to accomplish in this strange place.

To be honest, she wasn't sure how she felt about fighting alongside him again, even if it was technically accidental. She could have sworn he moved just a tad bit quicker than would be natural to the human eye. However, she dismissed her observations on some supposed training he had received during these past six years. After all, she was a much better opponent now as well, despite her age.

Even if the thought of him honing his skills for what she could only assume was an immoral purpose made her feel queasy.

She wanted to feel angry. No, she did feel angry. She just wished her hands wouldn't tremble so furiously. She wished she could look as if she didn't care. Like he did. Even if it hurt to see.

"...I didn't need your help," she finally breaks the charged silence with a quiet angry mutter, lowering her handgun at last as she turns away to pick up some valuables she landed her eyes on prior. Somehow, this silence between them felt so much more oppressive than the loud bangs and grunts of battle before it.

...What the hell was she doing, anyway? She should probably be trying to apprehend him. Catch him by surprise and do her absolute damnest to get the upper hand, even if it would be a losing battle. That would be the right thing to do. She didn't think he was here for a good reason. A thought that felt extremely bitter in her mouth.

Nonetheless, her urge to get away from him triumphs over her moral compass for whatever reason.

Wesker pressed the palm of his hand to his chest, feigning offense, although he appeared more amused than anything else. It was honestly a bit humiliating. As if he didn't value her feelings at all. Either way, she didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing the tense look painted across face, instead crouching down to pick up some scattered note laying on the floor. However, she was not afforded the luxury of actually reading it.

"Is that all you have to say to me after all this time, dear?" His smooth voice hit her ears with a seductive tilt, yet it also carried a distinct sharpness to it, too. As if he had any right to be upset with her for anything. Then again, he always had a habit of getting on people's nerves. Especifically on hers. "You certainly looked like you needed the help."

She straightened herself and tightened her hold on her handgun as she heard him take a few measured steps closer to her. When she whirled to face him, she found him looking back at her, a bit too close for comfort, and apparently studying her like you would an ant in a glass jar. There was no doubt that her shoulders were too stiff to seem composed. And she wasn't composed. She never truly was, was she? It was borderline cruel.

Almost as a visual mockery of it all, his completely laid-back posture challenged her to do something she probably wouldn't do, even if she should.

A part of her wished she could have a look into that brain of his right now. She would have liked to say she would use such an opportunity to fish out some vital intel... but, instead, she really just wanted to know if he cared at all.

"I wouldn't be distracted in the first place, if it wasn't for you showing up."

In addition to being irrelevant, her defense was not very strong, either. But it was a familiar one. In some ways, this tugged at her heart, too.

...They would always bicker like this back in the day.

Was she trembling because of him or the adrenaline of the fight? When Wesker was only a few feet away from her, he ceased his approach. His gaze moved up and down for a moment before he spoke.

"...You look like you've seen better days," he said bluntly, raising a hand and touching her cheek before she could tear herself away. The touch of his rough palm was firm enough to indicate that he was still angry, but gentle enough to show there was something else there.

Anyway, that's what her stupid heart whispered to her, frustratingly so.

Jordan wasn't sure whether she wanted to punch him square in the jaw right then and there, kiss him to shut him up for good, or do anything in between. His touch still did something to her in spite of everything, whether it was her genuine mourning for him for all these years, some lingering feelings of affection, or something else entirely. And she knew that he knew so, too.

It was not fair.

But she wouldn't allow him get close to her. This time, it was not going to work for him. So, without looking him in the eyes, she grabbed at his wrist and ripped it from her face. Some part of her was grateful that he was still wearing those shades of his for whatever reason. She was unsure about her capacity to look him in the eyes right now.

But all her angry action really did was simply make Wesker smile at her knowingly. The real truth was that he almost craved this. To be the center of her attention once again, even if it was her being furious with him. Still, he swiftly adjusted his expression to one of coolness and nonchalance, his gaze fixed on her despite her refusal to reciprocate the gesture. He was always better than her at keeping his emotions in check. That's what he wanted to think, anyway. Oh, he fully understood that she was angry with him, enraged even, and he enjoyed it.

"No thanks to you," she retorted dryly, her voice tight and guarded. She was now finally looking up at him, her dark eyes intense and filled with a mixture of anger, frustration, and something else that she desperately tried to repress. "You did not answer my question. What the hell are you even doing here?"

He didn't respond to her inquiry right away, instead allowing a brief quiet to settle between them.

"...That's a bit of a complicated question to answer, Jords," he chuckled at last, the words almost mocking with the use of that nickname. He was obviously not planning on giving out any useful information to her at all. It seemed as though he had only come to toy with her or something.

Her grip on his wrist tightened slightly, her jaw clenching. Of course he wouldn't tell her. Most likely, the answer wasn't even remotely positive. Old frustrations and hurt were now steadily bubbling up in her chest like a boiling cauldron, threatening to overflow and scald them both at any moment.

How long did he spend lying to her face in this way? Was it from the start? Did he show her anything sincere in the years of that life they've built together?

"Save the bullshit. I know you're up to something," she said gruffly. She had a fairly good understanding of him. Too good. At least that's what she hoped to believe. Now, however, she did not know what to believe. So, her focus was on the practicalities. That was easier. "Who do you work for?"

With her free hand raised to put the handgun's barrel right to his forehead, she suddenly yanked him closer in the hopes of catching him off-guard. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. This time, she will not hesitate or fold. She will not.

Because what will it mean for her if she does...?

Wesker's eyebrows raised just slightly in response to her hasty actions, the only sign of his potential surprise, but he still appeared infuriatingly unconcerned about the potential danger she entailed. He even appeared to be almost impressed. And maybe a little aroused, but he was certainly covering that one up well.

It was almost as if she was pointing a plastic toy-gun at him, rather than a real, fully loaded firearm that could take his life with a single movement of her finger.

She was obviously unaware that he could easily break free from her hold in less than a second if he so desired, but he knowingly didn't. It was almost like he was tempting her to do something, anything. Instead of raising his hands in surrender or even just finally taking her seriously, he simply smirked, revealing his canines, and looked down at her with a tiny tilt of his brow.

...Were his teeth always so sharp-looking-?

"Still as feisty as ever I see," he remarked, his voice low and even. Much to her startlement, he boldly took a step closer to her, his body almost crowding her in now. "Always wanting to get your way. But I'll humor you, just this once."

Her heart thudded loudly in her chest as her jaw tightened further. He shifted his attention up to the handgun pressed to his head.

She knew Albert was self-assured, but surely even he was conscious of his own mortality, right?

"What are you-" she started, unable to hide the bewilderment in her tone, but he cut her off before she could even utter her question.

"-You know you won't pull the trigger," he said, now fully serious. Before she could add anything else, he visibly pressed his head further into the barrel of her handgun, almost daring her to do it. "You never could."

It was a little frustrating how certain he was in his remark. Then again, his confidence has always been a huge source of annoyance to her. But things felt... different now. He was more assured, more factual. It was almost as if he was stating the most apparent and ultimate truth to her. Like saying that the sky is blue.

But, as far as she was concerned, this was not a simple black-and-white issue.

"You don't know that," she growled, but even she didn't sound so sure anymore. She swallowed heavily, straightening up. She didn't like the way their physical closeness was affecting her. Not one bit. She had no desire to be impacted by him in this way.

Not anymore.

She tightened her hold on his wrist once more and forced him back into the closest stone wall, pushing him up against it with her body. Wesker merely let out another soft, amused chuckle as his back hit the wall, the sound of it sending an unwanted shiver down her spine. Even though the handgun was still pushed right against his forehead, her eyes betrayed her distress plain for him to behold.

The longer he displayed his indifference, the more she cracked.

"-I hate you."

Her voice was low and gruff, those three words coming out as a sharp hiss. While she did wish she could be as detached as he was, there was something liberating in finally getting to express all these festering emotions she pushed down for all these years. Even if it put her in a bad situation.

Nevertheless, she could still see his enjoyment, the manner in which his eyes unabashedly traversed her figure up and down, conveying more than any verbal response could articulate. He didn't speak, simply allowing her to hold him against the wall with no attempts to push back against her. Yet. Somehow, he still seemed amused despite his situation, as though he enjoyed being pinned by her in this way.

"...Do you?" He asked. His tone was both challenging and almost... teasing. "Because there was a time when you loved me."

Her chest ached from his words in a way that no physical injury could ever match.

She did love him, once.

Profoundly.

With every atom of her goddamn being.

And he destroyed it all in a single night.

She grit her teeth so hard that she thought she could feel them chipping. This close, she could smell his subtle cologne - something woodsy and tangy in a way that would make her head spin if she was to get too close - a familiar scent she'd once found intoxicating. Comforting.

But at this point, it was only making her feel nauseous.

"Don't you fucking dare-" she started, but got cut off by her own shaky breath. One that sounded more like a gasp. Her hands began to tremble again. She was so torn between anger, grief, and old feelings alike. It was time for her to pull the trigger. He was not the man she thought he was, possibly never was. He must be here for something equally twisted as it was back in that cursed mansion. Or worse. If not for her own sake, she must do it for those innocent lives that will undoubtedly be impacted by his actions here. But instead, what came out of her was:"You lied!"

She didn't like how loud and hoarse it came out. Though she found it increasingly hard to care.

"...Sometimes we must tell a lie for the greater good. You know, I thought you were smart enough to understand such things by now... But you still cling to the first explanation there is, I see. Pity, I'd say."

Oh that set her off.

"You lied, and you betrayed me. You betrayed all of us, you backstabbing, lying- Do you have any idea what I felt-" she broke herself off again, her breathing heavy, yet her lungs feeling painfully empty no matter how much air she took in. Now there was too much to say, too many emotions filling up her mind, each one demanding to be thrown back in his face. She was unraveling at the seams.

Wesker's smile finally diminished somewhat in response. Just a smidge, just the tiniest of changes, but noticeable regardless. For a moment, he almost looked... a bit guilty. But that expression disappeared in a flash, replaced by one of indifference. He's always been good at hiding his feelings.

But he also recognized that she was technically correct. It was true that he lied. He did betray her. He did leave her behind.

However, he had no regrets about it.

"I did what I had to do," he said, his voice cool and steady. Still, there was a small hint of remorse carefully threaded through his words, albeit it was twisted. "It was necessary. You wouldn't understand."

Oh, he was well aware of her anger and hurt. But he was also well aware that she didn't understand. She simply could not understand his rationale even if he tried. It was very probable that she'd never understand, even if he'd like to believe otherwise.

Still, from Jordan's point of view, his response didn't give him any more grace, if any.

"How convenient for you," she spat out, words feeling like venom on her tongue, painful and bitter. "But you're right. I won't understand. I will never understand how you 'had' to stab us in the back and leave our partners to be torn apart and die like your 'little piggies'. I will never understand you tearing our family apart with your own bloodied hands."

"...You never could," he repeated, his gaze roaming over her face, taking in every little aspect of her rage. "You were always too naive for the truth. Too soft. That's why I kept you in the dark."

His words made her jaw clench. It didn't even sound like an insult this time around, but it still felt like one, anyways. She was not fond of being referred to as soft or naive. Her entire goddamn life was spent training to be anything but those things.

Yet here he was, using those exact words to mock her.

"Naive?" She snapped in disbelief, "I trusted you. Because I loved you. That's what you're supposed to do with people you love, with family! And you played me like a fool."

She pressed the handgun harder to his forehead, but she still didn't squeeze at the trigger. In fact, her finger wasn't even on the trigger now. Though, neither of them addressed this detail.

Wesker held her gaze, his expression unreadable. He didn't flinch, but his jaw clenched, his muscles tensing ever so slightly under her heated stare. "Yes... You did. And your trust meant a lot to me. Whether you believe that or not."

That didn't help at all.

"I loved you," she breathed out. Something she wanted to say with a snarl, but instead it sounded more like a broken plea. She wanted him to show her anything, any sign that he still cared, that he always cared. "And you lied to me. God knows for how long. Maybe from the very beginning. Hell, maybe none of it was real."

She shook her head, the words leaving the tip of her tongue before she could stop them. This had nothing to do with this. She should focus on getting information from him and apprehending him. Her fallen teammates wouldn't have wanted her to do this. And yet-

"You were the one fucking person I let in like that," she said, her voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, "And you stabbed me right in the back. Or, well, should I say 'shot me right in the face'? And don't even give me that 'I knew you'd survive it' bullshit."

Those final words were more bitter than anything else prior, reminding them both of the blood-stained memories that had tortured her ever since.

And when that was brought up, Wesker's face visibly darkened on the spot. Something that made her feel just a tiny bit of twisted victory in her chest, knowing she finally got to him, hit him where it hurts, maybe. He appeared angry with her, yes, yet there was something else going on, too. Regret? Perhaps. Guilt? Who the hell knows.

Her words did make his heart churn in his chest, even if he appeared to be almost completely unaffected on the surface. He knew he hurt her and he knew he betrayed her in the way that he probably wouldn't have forgiven, either. Even now, despite his own feelings on the matter, he could tell that she was sincerely and deeply hurt.

That was never truly his objective, ironic as it was.

"...You know it wasn't personal," he started, his voice low and measured. "It wasn't about you. It was bigger than us. Bigger than anything we could've had together."

He was still attempting to excuse it. Despite everything, he remained stubborn as ever in his beliefs. Indeed, that has consistently been his nature. He was battling to persuade himself that he made the correct decision. And that irritated her even more.

"You have to understand that-"

"-That makes it worse, you fucking idiot!"

Jordan cried out, interrupting him right in the middle of the sentence, throwing all attempts to appear unaffected out the window. For all these years, there had been far too much that had been simmering and decaying within her. She has exhausted herself so far beyond her limit by keeping it all inside under an iron lock. And his words weren't helping. Not at all.

Her face showed a combination of frustration, pain, and confusion. She was having a hard time understanding, comprehending what he was even saying, and why he thought it would somehow make her feel better about it all.

"I loved you," she repeated, her voice cracking with emotion, "And you threw it all away for... whatever secret bullshit you were chasing! 'Bigger than us' my ass! You know, I hope your children never learn how little they apparently mean to you."

Although hidden under the thick shades of his shades, the vertical pupils in Wesker's eyes narrowed at that, making him finally show a mixture of steadily simmering rage and his own frustration flashing across his sharp features. Oh, that one struck a nerve, she could tell. Well, good. The bastard deserved to feel shitty for once in his life.

Of course, Wesker knew she loved him, hell, he probably still loved her now, although that was a sentiment that remained unspoken. But the complexity of it all was beyond her comprehension. And he doubted she'd understand. Not yet. She was far too emotional, far too fiery, far too raw to truly understand right now.

He will help her to understand in time. But it was still... frustrating right now.

"It wasn't just some 'bullshit I was chasing'," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "It was something bigger, something important."

"Oh yeah? Try me," Jordan snorted, the sound more angry than humorous. "Try and tell me what is more important than your own fucking family, Albert. I'd love to hear it."

The more she pushed, the more his own rage began to surface and the more defensive he became.

"You don't get it. You never could-" He was disappointed and angry. At her, for not understanding. At himself, for caring. As he pressed himself off the wall, she stumbled a few steps backwards, still pointing the handgun at him but predictably not doing a thing to properly threaten him. Somehow, it only frustrated him further. The answer was staring her right in the face, and she refused to acknowledge it due to her own stubbornness. "You see life too simply."

Jordan's eyes widened, her prior anger replaced by a sense of danger that radiated from him in waves. "Stand down-"

He completely disregarded her warning and simply kept moving forward, now being the one to crowd her in.

...Damn it, she forgot how big he was.

"You see everything in black and white. Good and bad. But the world doesn't work like that. It's about power. It's about winning. I did what I had to do to win. I had to make sacrifices. And you just happened to be one of them."

Her grip on the handgun began to slip, and her hand shook slightly.

"A sacrifice...?" She sputtered in pure disbelief, her voice a mix of shock and anger. Somehow, despite everything, that still came as a complete surprise to her. And not a good one. "Is that what I was to you? What, just another... pawn on your game or something? A sacrifice?"

She was still unable to comprehend what she was hearing in spite of everything that had transpired.

All those feelings they'd shared, all the countless precious moments they so carefully created together, big and small...

The pain in her voice was more clear than ever before. It was proving difficult for her to understand his words and reconcile the person she once loved with the man standing in front of her now.

He scoffed, seemingly only frustrated with her hurt response: "That's not what I said, Jordan. Stop putting words in my mouth and listen for once in your damn life."

With the handgun still aimed at his head, she lifted it a little.

"You left me," she repeated, "You left me there to die. And now you want me to listen to you? To understand why you 'had' to betray me? What, did you have to shoot me in the face, too?"

"That's not-"

Her rage and hurt were spilling over as she shook, refusing to let him finish. "Was it all just a lie then? Everything we had together. Was any of it real? Anything at all?"

Wesker's face went dark again. He was still standing there, close, and she could see the visible tension coiling in his muscles under his dress-shirt as he tried to hold himself back from whatever it was he wanted to do.

Perhaps from killing her.

She didn't know anymore.

But the truth was that, if words couldn't penetrate her thick skull, Wesker yearned to reach out and touch her, to grasp at her and make her understand via touch alone. He realized that it was not the appropriate moment for that, though. Not when she looked up at him with such rage and betrayal in her eyes.

She'd probably just punch him, anyways.

"It wasn't a lie," he said instead, the words forced out through gritted teeth. He was struggling, she thinks. "None of it was a lie. I did care. I still care. Why do you think I'm here exactly?"

He took another step forward, reaching out to touch her cheek again. His touch caused Jordan to recoil, as though it had burned her. However, she refused to distance herself or avert her gaze from him. Whether out of pride or something else.

"Don't," she whispered, her eyes pained, all previous fire long fizzled out and crumbling into ash now. "Don't fucking touch me. You don't get to touch me now."

She could sense herself shaking, though, even as she mouthed the words. Her feelings for him persisted, even now, despite all she was aware of. All she was not aware of. Even after all this time, even after everything he has done to her. She was utterly torn between anger and grief because of how she felt for this cursed man. She was angry at him, she hated him, yet she also wanted him. Equally intense was her want to reach out and touch him.

Despite the painful revelations she's faced in their last encounter, she mourned him in the years she believed he was dead. In a way a broken lover would. She mourned him in shame, in secret, unable to even share her grief with a single soul. Murderers and villains aren't mourned, after all. What would Chris think of her if she revealed just how much her heart has bled for Albert all these years? How would Jill feel? How would Barry feel?

She could only imagine the disgust that all the deceased S.T.A.R.S. felt for her from beyond their graves.

Her anguish was a concealed secret, repressed and relegated to the deepest corners of her soul. But, God, did it fester. Like a rotting wound, it gradually spread its repulsive decay over her body and soul, until it threatened to consume her whole.

However, she was too proud, too stubborn, and far too angry to concede.

So, she shook her head, attempting to remove his touch, but she remained there, trapped in place. She could sense the warmth of his skin against hers and the subtle pressure of his fingers on her cheek. So familiar yet so foreign now.

"...Why are you doing this?" She asked, her voice cracking, "Why are you tormenting me like this?"

Wesker's heart clenched as he watched the stormy emotions play out on her face so clear for him to see. Whether she believed it or not, he truly had no desire to do this to her, this wasn't the way he had wanted things to go. She had a habit of ruining his meticulously crafted plans, it seemed. Still, he'd forgive her every time.

However, he was also a man who enjoyed having full control. He was a man who always got what he wanted in the end. And he wanted her.

He drew nearer till their bodies were nearly touching. He silently observed the way she was reacting to him, the way she was resisting her own emotions. It was admirable how determined she was to stay strong, no matter the odds stacked against her. He's gotta give her that. He always liked that in her. That stubborn spirit of hers. Even if it caused him trouble, time and time again.

He knew perfectly well that it was wrong, of course. From her standpoint, that is.

It was cruel.

But he was unable to stop himself. He didn't want to.

So, he grasped her chin, tilting it up to ensure she met his gaze directly. She looked beautiful, even now, he thought to himself.

"Why am I doing this?" He echoed back to her, his voice softer now, almost apologetic. Almost. "Because I can't stop myself around you. Because I can't resist you. Because I need you. I always did. Against my better judgement."

His thumb swept over her lower lip as his fingers started to trace her jawline, refamiliarizing himself with the contours of her face he hadn't touched in so long. She couldn't help but shiver at the subtle touch.

Her resolve began to crumble. The way he was touching her and speaking to her was just... too much. She wished he would keep being that self-absorbed jerk to her. That would be easier to deal with than this. It was a bit ironic, how nothing he did would make her feel satisfied.

Still, her body dutifully responded to his touch. Her heart started to race, her breathing becoming shallow.

Everything about him right now felt too familiar: his words, touch, presence.

Too soothing.

Too right.

And so wrong.

"Albert..." she whispered. Her weak heart betrayed her, and she hated herself for it. Hated that she still reacted so well to his touch after all these years. "You can't... say things like that..."

Her words have completely lost all semblance of a protest to them. They were just a weak plea now. It was absolutely pitiful. She was pitiful.

"You can't just... you can't just come back into my life and... and act like we're fine. Like nothing ever happened between us."

But her willpower was weakening. He was pressing so close to her now that she could feel the warmth radiating off his body. Alive. Real. And she felt the growing want to lean in, to melt into his body as she always has, to feel his arms enveloping her, and to temporarily forget about everything else, even if for a single, blissful moment.

Now, though, she couldn't do that, could she? He stole that comfort from her. And she hated him for it.

Wesker was also able to see it. The way she was steadily weakening against him, the way her body responded to his touch. Not that she was even trying that hard to hide it now.

Finally, she was under his control. She always is, after a little bit of effort on his part, after all.

He leaned forward, the warmth of his breath ghosting over her skin.

"I can say whatever I want," he murmured, his other hand reaching out to rest on her hip, pulling her ever so slightly closer. "And I am aware that we're not fine. But I still want you."

He knew that, with this, he was torturing her mercilessly. But he was powerless to stop it. He has missed her, dear God, he has missed her more than he was willing to acknowledge, and this human weakness of his was seeping into his touch. He didn't want to let go of her after getting to feel her again.

Hid hand gripping her hip in such a way made her gasp lightly. She was steadily losing herself in his touch, his scent, him. She ought not to. But she was.

She did make an effort to put up a fight against it, to the best of her ability. She made an effort to stay angry and resentful, but his touch was breaking down her walls. It has always been this way. He was the only one who had ever seen this side of her. Beneath all of the bravado and carefully crafted independence, there lied a weaker, lonely woman who just wanted to be embraced as she was and soothed from all of her worries.

Because of that, she used to adore him wholeheartedly. Now it just felt humiliating.

"-Stop it," she gasped, her voice strained. "You can't just... you can't just come back and expect me to just... forgive you. Not after everything. I can't."

However, her free hand has grasped the collar of his shirt, her fingers squeezing the fabric with underlying urgency. It was a subtle indication that she was slipping. It thrilled him as much as tugged at his heart. Her other hand that was still holding onto the handgun was also slackening as it lowered slightly from his forehead. Although her mind was urging her to push him away, she wasn't doing so. She should do the right thing and take action. Chris would have made that decision. Jill would have made that decision. Barry would have made that decision. Even Rebecca would. For all the teammates who were killed so cruelly and unfairly. But despite everything that has happened, she still wanted his touch. Despite all the suffering and betrayal.

When she said her final, real words, her voice was nothing but a raspy whisper: "...I hate you. I hate what you did to me."

Finally, he had her exactly where he wanted her.

His own voice was somehow kind yet firm, and as he leaned in closer, his lips lightly brushed her cheek.

"Hate me or not, you still want me. I can tell. You can't resist me any more than I can resist you. We're two sides of the same coin, my dear." His hand tightened around her hip, indicating a possessive grip. "All those years apart, and look at us now... You could call it fate. A rather intriguing concept. What do you say?"

His lips were now steadily traveling down her jaw in quick, sickeningly soft kisses before she could say anything. Jordan was shaken, utterly speechless at the onslaught of sensations that were so subtle, they could almost be written off as figments of her imagination. A taste of something he knew she wanted.

He was quite cruel.

"You act like you can't stand the mere sight of me, and yet you're shaking in my arms. The way you're holding onto me... I think you know why."

Before he could go any farther however, he pulled away after giving her a single, almost tantalizing kiss on the corner of her lips.

She despised the way she reacted to him. She felt completely helpless now as her handgun lowered from his forehead against her will, no longer even pointed in his direction. She was utterly helpless to stop it. Or maybe she just didn't want to, and that was the ugliest truth of it all.

He was correct. Her hatred for him was overwhelming. But with just one push, hatred is readily able to slip into love, much as a pendulum swings back and forth. And right now, her hatred was being overtaken by an even more powerful emotion.Yearning.

With her eyes closed tightly and lips pressed together, she tried very hard to stop the sound that was steadily coming up her throat. A sound of need and longing.

She was fighting a vicious internal battle, using all her willpower to stiffle her desire. However, it was a futile struggle. In addition, she has already failed to act in the appropriate manner the very second she couldn't bring herself to pull the trigger. Maybe she was just not as good of a person as she thought she was.

Maybe none of it even mattered.

She has never been able to stop him from getting what he wants. He had her under his control, and he was very cognizant of it. It's like trying to escape out of a cobweb, only to get tangled up more the harder you try. It was hopeless. She was hopeless.

"...What do you want from me?" She asked, her voice hoarse, the words pushed out past her clenched teeth. It was an implied admittance of defeat, one that certainly did not go unnoticed by him.

He was definitely more that aware of having almost won this wordless battle between them. He was confident that he had her right where he needed her now.

He drew her closer as his hand tightened around her hip. His body was now pressed up against hers, his touch both possessive and demanding, no longer trying to conceal his intentions.

"I want you," he said bluntly, his voice low and rough. "I want all of you. Your anger, your hatred, your pain. Your love. Your need. I want you to give me all of it."

And before she could respond, he closed the space left between them and kissed her, snatching what little breath she had.

He didn't really give her much time to ease into it. His kiss was forceful, controlling, possessive. He was taking what he wanted, what he's been craving for all these years. It was nearly too much. Like she was drowning in him, with his presence actively cutting off all her senses with its stiffling intensity.

She heard the muted sound of her handgun striking the ground, the metal bouncing off the hard rock and reverberating through the walls, as if from underwater. Like a loud declaration of her failure. He did not make her do that. Or did he? She wanted to say he did. Hell, there was still a big, raging part of her wanting to push at his chest as hard as she could and scream her lungs out at him. But now, did she even have the right to do that? Wouldn't that make her a hypocrite? Wasn't the line already crossed?

His words were scathing, penetrating deep into the darkest corners of her soul and eroding all of what was left of her determination. Maybe he was right. Maybe they really were just two sides of the same coin. She didn't know anymore. And it was getting harder and harder to see herself as anything but a failure.

His hand went from her hip and slid up her side, firm and demanding. As he pulled her further against him, he deepened the kiss with practiced ease, making her let out a small, choked noise that instantly got swallowed by him with a sharp breath. His touch was hungry, punishing. In a way that made her knees buckle. She hadn't been touched like this in years, and the familiarity of his scent, his warmth, his everything was just too much for her to bear.

Ah... fuck it.

She pushed all of her reservations away with a single sarcastic thought flashing through her mind, roughly dragging him in by his shirt collar and returning his kiss with a desperate one of her own. Not in any way similar to her heated kisses of the past long lost. She was angry with him, with herself, and with the world at large, and she wanted him to know it, as evidenced by her teeth harshly sinking into his bottom lip with such severity that he sucked in an involuntary gasp against her.

However, he didn't appear to mind it too much. If his small, rumbling groan that followed suit was anything to go by. It certainly sent a sharp shiver up her spine.

The way he held her felt familiar. But it was also different. It had a new edge to it, an intensity that wasn't there before. He was different. Perhaps it's who he has always been. She didn't know.

A tiny, foolish part of her wanted to think that, like in dumb fairy tales with their happily-ever-after's, she could somehow make everything alright again with a single magic kiss. Fix it all with power of love alone. Of course, that was not going to happen. And the sudden piercing sound of her receiver going off felt like a lightning strike on a sunny day, shattering the already frail illusion into a million broken pieces before it could even take its proper shape.

Breathing shakily after the entire experience, she broke away from him with a single gasp. She tried not to think too much about the thin string of saliva that was connecting their lips before breaking off. A good visual reminder of the stupidest choice she could have made. For a moment, she was just frozen, completely unable to bring herself to act.

What the hell should she even do at this point?

It was probably Leon... Or maybe Luis.

Before she could do anything, though, she noticed Wesker smirking to himself, the usual smugness returning to his sharp features. Without any further cocky comments from his side, he merely reached over and swiped his thumb over her bottom lip, cleaning off the remainders of their messy kiss from mere moments prior. It was difficult to avoid shivering at the touch.

"What are you-"

"-You should take it, my love. It could be important. I have some... unfinished business to take care of myself. But, believe me..." She blinked as she felt him sweep a lock of hair behind her ear before stepping back. A gesture that felt both sickeningly affectionate and somehow mocking. "I'll be keeping an eye on you. And I will be back for you. When the time comes."

He disappeared in an instant, leaving her with a raging receiver and a flurry of panicked thoughts flying through her mind at the speed of light. She didn't answer. Instead, she simply slid down the nearest wall till she reached the cold stone floor, her body curling up on itself and her head hidden between her knees.

What the hell does she do now...?

Additional notes:

• I wanted to explore Jordan's state of mind and how it could tie into her future mental decline in RE5. While she is deeply independent and strong-willed, it seems that Wesker is definitely one of those few people she's fully vulnerable with (based on what interactions they had in re1 comics!). And, well, of course she is! He is her husband! He is her family! Delving into her inner struggle between her usual independence vs the familiar pull of someone she never got to get over was very fun.

• I based Wesker's mannerisms mostly off of Jordsker comics/stuff! Not gonna lie, I tend to lean more into a cold, measured type of Wesker, so sprinkling in some sassiness and charm that he seems to share in his interactions with Jordan was a very interesting change (and good practice!)

• My interpretation of Jordan's entire mental decline (both presented here and one that would follow later in re5) is heavily tied to feelings of guilt and inner shame more than anything else. I definitely wanted to incorporate that here. She feels shame for mourning him as much as she did, when she should have mourned all the innocent that were affected by his involvement instead. She feels guilt for her feelings towards him - thus never properly opening up about them and working through them in a healthy manner. She feels shame for her inability to do the right thing and bring him to justice when she had the chance. And her giving in to him here, while unknowingly to her, stemming from these feelings of inner shame and guilt, is just yet another piece falling into place.

• Wesker is never really dishonest with her in the latter part. Even his earlier words were more just teasing fun on his part. You could call it flirting (horrible attempt at it, really). I actually find that really fun with him here. He's not really being manipulative or cruel with her on purpose, he means everything he says. It is just twisted. Does that make the whole thing better or worse for poor Jordan? Who knows.

[glossypolaroidkisses]

thinking about long-term relationship reader and lu and how their interactions would look like right before he cut contact w/ everyone …

Oh my god.. this is so evil but genius I can’t believe you're gonna make me write this. (I’m teasing please spam my requests. I’m yearning to write for you guys).

Part 1/3 - Between Love & Leaving

Luigi admired you, he always did. He would always look at you, his eyes full of love. You’d catch him, an infectious grin on his face purely from him observing you. Whether you had just woken up with your messy hair and puffy face, or all dolled up, his plus one at every engineering event.. He always smiled at you the same way, his dimples making an appearance. When you caught him, you’d playfully shove him, “Stop looking at me like that, goof.” You’d tease. His cheeks would flush a light pink, “Like what?” he’d reply, knowing exactly what he was doing.

In the weeks leading up to his disappearance, don’t get me wrong, Lu would still admire you. But, paired with that sweet smile were his eyes that would gloss over. You would catch him in the act, but instead of reacting playfully he would immediately look away or start blinking rapidly to rid his tears. “What’s wrong, my love?” you would ask, he would shrug it off. In hindsight, you should’ve known. But since Luigi is so smart, you believed his excuses. 

Luigi was the sweetest man you had ever met, you would believe anything he said. He could’ve told you that the sky was purple, and you would have nodded and bat your eyelashes at him in adoration.

It was always something.. “Dust got in my eye,”, “I just yawned”, “The sun is so bright,”, “Computer screen must be straining my eyes”, “It’s just my allergies, amore mio.”, “Wow. It’s really windy today, huh?”. He’d follow one of these lines by casually rubbing his eyes, then taking your hand and giving you a reassuring squeeze or forehead kiss.

You had no reason not to believe him. You were approaching your four year anniversary of being together, why would Lu suddenly start tearing up when he looked at you? Nothing had changed between you in the last few years, or so you had thought. 

Another reason you didn’t pry on him being more emotional than usual, you thought he had plans in mind. 

Your best friend from middle school was in town, so you invited her over on a whim to share great news with her. “Have fun, guys.” Luigi said, watching as you and your giddy best friend Sheila headed to your bedroom. “I’ll just be in the living room. I’ll text you if I head out,”  he said. “Okay, baby!” you reply, giggling as you and Sheila walk into the bedroom. You closed the door behind you. “What did you wanna tell me!?!--” Sheila excitedly asked, barely inside the room. “Shhhh!!” you cut her off. “Oh, oh,” she quiets to a whisper. “Is it about Luigi?”. 

You nod, unable to contain the excitement. “I think he’s gonna propose.” 

Immediately, Sheila lets out some hybrid of a scream and a squeal; Regardless what it is, it was loud. Your hand flies to cover her mouth. 

You shoot her a death glare before slowly removing your hand. “Sorry, sorry.. That’s so exciting, y/n. How do you know?”. 

“Well, I don’t know, but last time we were at the mall, he walked by the ring store really slowly. He never window-shops, ever. Actually, he doesn’t shop at all. He just comes to buy me things. Also, he keeps having these mysterious vague ‘plans’. I even caught him staring at the calendar for a long time. Like.. What is he planning?” you say. Sheila grabs your hands and starts jumping up and down. “I can’t wait to be your bridesmaid!” she says. You laugh, “okay, okay. Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.” you say, still smiling at the possibility. 

“Do you know what kind of ring you want?” Sheila asks.

“No, but I’m sure I’ll love whatever Lu chooses.”

When you had closed the bedroom door and Sheila screamed shortly after, Luigi ran over to the door. He thought that someone was in pain. Before he could grab the handle and rush in, he heard you shush Sheila. He stood at the door, listening to the conversation. As soon as the word ‘proposing’ left your mouth, his heart sank. There he was, carefully planning to disappear from everyone, and you were imagining he’s going to propose. You didn’t know that Luigi heard this conversation. 

Eventually you moved on from the engagement conversation and sat on the bed, where it was difficult for Luigi to hear from behind the door. 

Admittedly, in the final week before Luigi departed, there were signs that were concerning. 

He was overly apologetic, generally more distracted, always shrugging when you mentioned future plans. “I’ll get back to you on that, baby.” He would say, a hollow look in his eyes. 

Regardless, you could have never predicted from these actions that he was planning to go AWOL. Everyone has their off days, and Luigi was always a stable person in your life. One of the only consistent people. Your safe haven, the love of your life. Yes, you lived together, but Luigi himself was truly your home. No matter where you were. His heart, his soul, the way he looked at you. Even with the unusual behaviour, you never would have guessed that he was planning to cut everyone off.

Plus, you're an overthinker. You overachieve at overthinking. Luigi knew this. Another reason why you dismissed your suspicions. He constantly reassured you and provided you with the healing words and gestures that your flawed mind needed. 

3 days before he left, you were eating dinner together. There had been a painfully long amount of space between conversation, long enough to notice the sounds of chewing and forks scratching your plates. Luigi was breathing heavier than usual, trying to force himself to say the words. If he didn’t say it soon, he knew you would notice the awkward silence and ask what's wrong. If you looked at him with your glimmering eyes, filled with worry, he would blurt the truth. Withholding information from you had been eating him alive as it was. Your nails clinked on your wine glass as you picked it up, lifting it to sip your wine. The subtle gulp when you swallowed, Luigi knew it was speak now, or never.

“Lu—”

“I’ve been feeling restless again. I think I’m gonna head out for another backpacking trip soon. Clear my head.”

"Another trip?" You set your glass down slowly, your fingers tracing the rim as you studied him. Your tone was light, almost teasing, but there was a quiet concern knitting your brows together. “You’ve been quieter than usual, but I didn’t think you were planning another escape.” You gave him a playful smile, trying to lift the mood. No response from him, you struggled to read his emotions. “What? Is my cooking that bad? You have to go backpacking again?” you joke. 

Luigi tried to smile back, but it barely flickered before fading. Your words felt like a soft punch to his stomach; not because they hurt, but because they made him crumble. He knew you were trying to make him laugh to put him at ease, like you always did, but the pit in his stomach only grew. He forced himself to take another bite of food, chewing slowly to give himself a moment to keep the nausea at bay.

As the silence stretched, you glanced at him again, beginning to nervously gnaw on your bottom lip. You wanted him to say something, anything. 

The last thing Luigi wanted was to make you worry. He swallowed hard, the food catching as the lump in his throat kept rising.

“You know I support you.. no matter what,” you said softly, your voice laced with concern. You always wanted him to do what made him happy, but this confused you.  “.. Are you sure this is what you need?” you asked. You didn’t want to be a nagger, you hated that feeling of being annoying. But the sirens in your head were blaring.

Luigi nodded quickly, too quickly. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, his voice rushed. He grabbed his glass and took a long sip, hoping the cool liquid would settle his stomach. “Everything’s good,” he added; His tone light, but delivery similar to a robot.

His leg bounced under the table, he couldn’t stop. He could feel your eyes on him, the gentle worry in your gaze.. It made his chest ache. As if a boulder was resting on top of it. “You don’t have to worry about me, my love,” he said, more firmly this time, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He wanted to reassure you more than anything in the world, but genuinely couldn’t.

Before you could press further, he abruptly pushed back his chair, “I’ll, uh, I.. I think I ate too fast. Give me a moment,” he said, his voice hurried as he stood.

You didn’t get a chance to respond before he walked quickly down the hall, his jaw tight as he focused on keeping it shut.

The door clicked shut behind him, and he locked it with trembling fingers before leaning heavily against the sink. All his weight pressed into his hands, relying on them to keep him standing. 

His reflection in the mirror stared back at him, pale, like a stranger who had seen a ghost. He gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white as the nausea twisted violently in his stomach.

Lying to you felt like poison, churning inside him. It rolled around, slowly and heavily, as if threatening to drown him. His chest heaved as he fought the wave of sickness, closing his eyes tightly, but the guilt clawed at him, relentless. He felt like he was coming apart at the seams, each thread of his sanity unraveling faster than he could handle. Never in his life did Luigi imagine he would have to lie to you, of all people. 

The sound of the faucet endlessly running filled the room as he turned it on full blast, a lazy attempt to have as much as he could to cover the sound of what was about to happen. How could he do this to you? How could he look into your eyes, so full of trust, and lie to you over and over again?

 The weight in his stomach weaved, making its way up his body in a matter of seconds. Weak in the knees, Luigi stumbled to the toilet, barely making it in time.

He let his legs collapse on the cold tiles, his hands gripped the rim of the toilet bowl as his body betrayed him. His stomach heaved violently, and though he tried to keep it silent, the force of it left him shaking. He gave into the weakness, resting his heavy head on the seat before his body forced him back up again, projecting into the toilet. 

He couldn’t keep doing this. Every lie felt like a knife, slowly sliding though his skin from the inside, out. The guilt was unbearable, suffocating, making him feel like he was losing his mind. The love he had for you burned in his chest, so overwhelming that it hurt, and the thought of you finding out what he was going to do.. the realization, the betrayal in your eyes.. even just the idea of it        made him want to scream.

He flushed the toilet quickly and grabbed a hand towel to dab at his clammy face. For a moment, he clutched it tightly, his hands trembling as he pressed it to his hot forehead. 

He forced himself to stand, gripping the sink for balance as he splashed cold water on his face. His reflection blurred in the water dripping from his skin, and he stared at it. He didn’t recognize himself anymore. Not the man you trusted, not the man you needed, the man you deserved.

By the time he turned off the faucet and unlocked the door, his mask was back in place, but barely. Each step closer to the table, it took everything in him to keep it together, to keep you from seeing the cracks. What could Luigi do? He had to leave, no matter what. Selfishly, he couldn't have you find out while he was still living with you.

When he sat back down, you looked up at him, your face calm but carefully watching. He gave you a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about that, darling. I think I definitely ate too fast.” He gestured toward his empty plate. “Despite popular belief, your cooking is way too good to pace myself.” he says, taking yoru hand and giving it a gentle peck as an apology. You laugh, taking it lightly as he intended, but Luigi is savouring every meal of yours as if it was one of his last meals on earth. 

Luigi kept the conversation light, deflecting your questions carefully, though every glance you gave him felt like it could unravel him completely.

The night before he fulfilled his plan was one of the most beautiful nights you had ever shared.

a/n: Your last day together will be continued in Part 2, here’s the link to it!  Edit: Now also available, part 3/3 <3 Enjoy.

also, floor plan of how i visualized the appartement when i wrote this, (because I’m insane!);

[monamipencil]

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ my 2024 tumblr wrapped !

i was tagged by @hannieween in her post. this is such a good idea and thanks for tagging me v!

this was one hell of a year lol. and i've also written a lot this year though i lost some passion along the way. but i'm thankful for everyone who reads my work and leaves their thoughts or even just reblogs them. tysm!!

★ most popular and longest fic !

⟢ debauched — 2,472 notes and 4.5k+ words; ofc, it's the step bro fic. as the title suggests, it is absolute debauchery.

★ personal favorite !

⟢ venus in furs — honestly, one of my best works (tho it's pwp), and she deserved better 😔

★ first fic !

⟢ pussy drunk! wonwoo — it's from my prev blog! and also one of my most popular works lol.

★ last fic !

⟢ by his side — this jeonghan drabble i wrote for the secret santa event!

★ best reads !

in front of me — one, two by @wonustars

i fear i'll never read a better wonwoo fic than this. genuinely one of the best fics on this website and it's written by my lovely gf. pls check out her works!!

calendar killer by @miabebe

i love me a good thriller fic. and with joshua? fuck yes. when i tell you, i did not expect that ending at all. it will forever live in my heart. check out this banger by mia for a spooky read!

the curse by @hannieween

nothing more exciting than demon hunter jeonghan and a forbidden love trope. the angst hits in this one and i genuinely love it with all my heart. v also has other amazing works!!

liar, liar ! — one, two by @sanakiras

yes, i know. i read too many thriller fics. but this mingyu fic had me in such a chokehold. i did not expect this ending either and god do i love it so much. check out her works!

getting even by @gyuhao5

this was the catalyst for my seungkwan spiral and the bane of my existence. there are simply not enough seungkwan fics on here and mar rly satiated my need for this man. check it out!

pomegranates by @idyllic-ghost

where do i even begin? man, oh man, i love angst fics and for wonwoo? yes please. the forbidden love element was so good too and i loved the metaphors. this fic is for you if you like wonwoo and historical au.

troublemaker by @whipped-for-kpop-fics

i love gang aus with seungcheol. just 15k of goodness here. i have memorised this fic to the point, i can randomly quote anywhere, everywhere. and i have never laughed so much while reading a fic. chee is one of a kind truly.

heartbreak hotel by @saythenametotheworld

this broke my fucking heart. i read the first three installments and they were so fucking good. the characters had actual depth and were beautifully crafted. i love this so much, check it out!

camp seventeen by @miabebe

my most fav series on this platform. another fic i will quote randomly bcuz it was that good. it's ot13? and the first chapter is named dildo of dionysus? you got me sold. mia is an absolute genius and also evil for this. check out her works if you like greek mythology!

bend and break by @whipped-for-kpop-fics

i apologise for the tags chee but how can i miss out the seungcheol fic. man, sub seungcheol really does it for me. and i just loved their rivalry at the beginning. and i also love chee 😌

lowlifes by @milfgyuu

yes, i love seungcheol gang aus. thanks for asking. this was a banger and my god, the way i blushed and giggled while reading this story. i absolutely loved it!

dark @whipped-for-kpop-fics

i am so sorry for the tags, i just love you ok? now back to chee love train. this fic shocked me in such a way that i couldn't stop thinking about it. this was absolutely genius and i love monster fics. when i tell you, chee is one of the best writers in caratblr.

withering for you by @joonsytip

the bane of my existence. i started annotating because of this fic. enemies to lovers with cheol is my fav. and the way i randomly remember "welcome to hell, my wife" and start giggling is out of my control. sam should do control damage for this fic.

couple's therapy by @muntitled

this got me tweaking and twirling my hair. im a whore for lee jihoon through and through. mean dom! jihoon will be death of me. i read it on my prev blog and haven't stopped thinking about this since.

summary !

my most recurring members were — seungcheol (13 works), mingyu (13 works) and wonwoo (11 works) !

total works posted — 78 !

total words written — 82,476 !

i'm honestly surprised by this lol. and ofc, i wrote the most for these three. and im rly excited to post just as much next year and compare my progress! and we'll be starting off strong next year with when strawberries bloom. i hope you guys look forward to it! again, i'd like to thank everyone who has supported me throughout this year. i love you all <33

tags !

@vitaminkyeom @miabebe @wonustars @tomodachiii @shinysobi

@whipped-for-kpop-fics (im so sorry for the multiple tags hdbcfkharbik) @cxffecoupx @c-oupsie

[arkangelo-7]

No one asked, but I did in fact drag my ass out of bed at 7:30 in the morning to watch the new Superman trailer, so here are my thoughts:

David looks good. As Clark Kent and as Superman. And I don’t mean this in a thirsty way, I mean like he physically looks like Superman.

Did not… love this version of Krypto. I get that he’s based off of James Gunn’s dog, but I would’ve preferred he look more like a lab/shepherd, like he tends to in the comics.

Daily Planet. Metropolis. Luthorcorp. They all look fantastical—like they were plucked from the comic books themselves! And the globe! Thank you James Gunn for your service.

Controversial take (maybe) but I love Nathan Fillion as (a) Green Lantern. And the brief shot we got of him using the ring actually looked fucking sick. But maybe I’m just a sucker for Green Lantern?

Lois Lane cooked. Looks exactly how I imagined. I’m interested to see how she’ll balance Lois’s badass reporter side with her caring, empathic side.

CGI looked good in places but questionable in others. I’m going to withhold judgement till the movie actually comes out, because sometimes things just look better on the big screen.

I’m worried it’ll be overwatered. Like, we’re gonna drown in all these superhero characters, a lot of whom aren’t known outside of the superhero community; like Hawkgirl and Mr. Terrific are fantastic characters, but like no one I know would know who either of those people are, as opposed to how they could recognize a Wonder Woman or a Batman. They’re not niche exactly… but Gunn’s going to have to explain them to the audience and I’m worried it’ll confuse the plot. But he did juggle GOTG so I have faith!

Lex looks kinda stupid. Like too much of a pretty boy, not enough of an evil genius? I would’ve preferred they got an older man, because I feel like that would’ve spoken more to what Lex represents (capitalism, oppression, power and corruption). And in this day and age that could’ve been a really powerful storyline.

The action sequences look amazing. Protecting that little girl? Fighting Mr. Terrific in a sports arena? That last scene where he zooms out of a fire and into the sky? Oh my God, I was grinning so stupid watching those scenes. It looked dumb, but real. I’m tired of the hyper realism shit that we got from Marvel and the Synderverse—give me that wild mystical fight shit that look like a comic book but also like it could happen in my backyard.

Plot… I know this trailer wasn’t really supposed to tell us anything, but I’m still iffy. I have no idea what this is going to be about or how Gunn is going to handle it. But again, I have faith. The man handled the GOTG so I won’t write it off.

Anyway waking up at the buttcrack of dawn was totally worth it, but I’m gonna need a nap. Look up, guys!

[ysaefinn]

I've not read or watched jjk but i know -i know- i would be a fool not to acknolwedge that suguru getou is the patron saint of 2d mother men. the mother men to end all mother men.

SO OF COURSE IM FREAKING OUT WHEN I SEE YOU TAGGING ME IN THE NOTIFS HDJKLSAFHJKDSF OH GOD ITS BEEN A LONG WHILE BUT IVE MISSED MOTHER AND DOG CODED MEN SO MUCH HJKASDHJFHFF AND UR POSTS ARE GETTING ME INTO THE BRAINROT AGAIN I HOPE YOUR PROUD OF YOURSELF.

anyways.... spare thoughts of mommy sugu and mommy johan scheduling a daughter-wife playdate perhaps? 👀 discussing different mothering methods? their darlings being too shy to see other people after being slowly cut off and isolated from the world that they hide and tuck theirselves into their mommy's necks?

Contains: infantilization, mommy lifestyle, yanderes who locked you up

OEBKSGDIDHDIDBDID OMFG SUU YOU SAW THE POSTS TATATATATATATATAT forever and ever grateful to the anon who tagged you a few months ago WHOEVER YOU ARE JOHAN AND SUGURU ARE ON THEIR WAY TO CRADLE YOU TO SLEEP!!!!!!

Ok here's the thing, no need to see jjk, trust me he is mother..he mothers HARDDDDD look

NOT EVEN TRYING HE IS IDLE ASF!!!!!!!! the dog coding part omfg you get it.....we are working on getting him a spikey collar don't you worry hopefully he won't go around biting strangers for long ;v;

OK THE IDEA OF PLAYDATES SLONE HAUNTED ME FOR WEEKS THIS IS MAKING THE BRAINWORMS FESTER EVEN MORE OSBEJBDKDBDJ the brainrot is contagious what can I say,,,,

I really am a firm believer that nothing brings hardcore mommy suguru more joy than feeling you cower and scurry back into his arms, no matter how much he tries to stay solid and shield you from every and all sources of stress, you need company at some point,,,its his guilty pleasure TAT

My hearts tells me that they fuel ans validate the fuck out of each other,,,,, i huge part of suguru's overprotectiveness stems from the belief that nobody will treat you as gently as he would, so meeting his match is gonna make him tap dance from happiness TAT

But imagining them talking while their darlings are sitting snuggly on their laps being petted and occasionally rocked (suguru...suguru thigh bouncing....the bouncing of suguru's thigh when you get cranky...the bouncing..... :<<) suguru definitely brags about how well behaved his baby is tho lmaoo, the occasional mishaps (plotted escape attempts) are never on you tho!!!! It was his fault for ...having glass windows?? If the lock has clearly been tampered with then he hasn't baby-proofed the house enough yet. It makes sense lmao, his entire approach from the beginning was as a caretaker, not really a boyfriend,,, he loves being romantic with you but seeing you as this infantile little thing really fucks with his brain and he loses the plot its veryyy complicated which in turn makes him harder to outsmart (since overpowering him isnt even an option lol)

JOHAN'S FRIENDSHIP DYNAMIC WITH HIS DARLING THO OMFG IT WAS GENIUS,,, the gradual isolation and coddling will mold you into whatever he desires eventually, really TAKES HIM to pull it off huh TAT

Suguru's gonna yap about the importance of nap time in the middle of rocking you to sleep with his tit in your mouth. Stops in between sentences to coo at you, mf has most definitely conditioned you to get all loopy the moment his boobs come in contact with your face too TOT (just all around evil...) they're def sharing recipes too

Im trying to determine which of the darlings has their head above water, I wanna say johan's but...its Johan ;v;

To ms Johan is a master of the gaslighting arts and just so incredibly casual about. in Suguru's case he just slams you full force with his mommying the moment he manages to get his hands on you, adjusting to his rules is how you'll survive, which eventually into Stockholm syndrome, and "well it's not that bad when i think about it, he just wants to make sure I'm safe" further proving his point by not pushing you to talk to johan or the little thing on his lap. "Stress bad for baby but baby must stimulate their brain somehow" he's a gentle parenting mom bless his psychotic ass <3333

A second playdate has already been scheduled tho aahahahahaahahha

[solangelo-is-godsdam-kjut]

I'm watching leverage: redemption season 3 finale "The Side Job" and I'm sure I'll have some thoughts. spoilers below the cut off

wait why is it black and white

"cases with kids set me off a little"

"a little?"

"I may have blown up a building... several buildings. stabbed a guy with a fork. stuff."

bro I'm crying this is so funny

harry will talk about boundaries the whole episodes, won't he?

OMG NOW I KNOW WHY IT'S IN BLACK AND WHITE!!! that's genius actually

the "FOR SOPHIE" pahahaha I knew it!!!!

"there's alot less floor to this floor than I'd like" oh poor breanna

"you don't trust Parker?"

"with my life? yes. with her life? usually."

WHAT IF I KILLED MYSELF?????

welp

the talk about change omggggg "i need you to be an evil lawyer one more time" ahhhhh

PARKER THIS IS NOT

"I'M NOT GONNA TELL YOU ANYTHING BECAUSE I HAVE YOUR BACK" I CAN'T I'M CRYING

OMG HE BROUGHT UP THE MOUNTAIN SCENE AND OMG THAT IS VERBATIM WHAT THEY SAID THERE

THE TRUST ELIOT HAS IN PARKER AND THE WAY THEY CONNECT BECAUSE OF THEIR OTHERNESS IS SO IMPORTANT TO ME YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND OMG AHHHH

Jack mentioned omggg

Harry my god you're so in love with Sophie

yes!!! Hardison!! finally!!

Breanna asking Hardison for illegal robot parts omg

there is the autism I missed the whole episode

"THE SCREENS ARE BORING"

"I TREATED PHILOSOPHY LIKE A HEIST" PARKER THE WOMAN YOU ARE

Hardison is not reading Breanna's reports. rude

"let her cook" facts Breanna, facts

the autism truly is strong in all of them

[hurtspideyparker]

What do you think about Marvel's move bringing back RDJ but now as Dr. Doom. I just wondered how this would affect Peter...

At first I was like OH MY GOD ROBERT DOWNEY JR. because I just adore! him! And of course I would love him back in Marvel, cuz I'm a sap and RDJ as Tony Stark revolutionized superhero cinema. Also "new mask same task" and striking the Tony Stark T pose? Legendary stuff.

Then I actually thought about the implications and the character, and I'm just not a fan. Bringing Downey back as anyone but Tony Stark is really weird, and doesn't make sense. Feels like an insane Tony Stark+Dr. Doom plot, which they made up just to get RDJ back cuz he's the money maker. Plus Dr. Doom deserves a new unique actor, especially a Romani one. I do love Dr. Doom as an MCU villain though, if he is cast properly. If they were gonna bring a Tony variant into the MCU make him a TONY variant, using Dr. Doom isn't it. Although under different circumstances I'd love to see more of RDJ as an antagonist, he's an incredible actor (his 1998 film US Marshalls started a fire in me for him to play more villains).

ANYWAYS - ignoring all the negative stuff, let's talk about Peter Parker!

I'd like to imagine a scene where Peter is fighting Doom - he's using his usual quips, being silly. He thinks it's just another day, another villain. Doom is incredibly strong and it's a tough fight, but Peter just manages the perfect hit to tear Doom's mask off.

Then he hesitates.

While scarred and cruel, the sight is still unmistakably familiar.

"Tony?"

Doom doesn't waver, he strikes Peter with deadly and immediate force in his moment of weakness.

Peter goes flying backwards, smashing through glass and brick.

He's hurt, badly, lying still on the floor beneath Doom. Bloody and torn Doom leaves him there, a pitiful and easily distracted kid. He doesn't know what he said, nor does he care. Von Doom just squashed a bug.

Left alone, Peter suffers from the ache in his body, the hit to his ego, and the biggest question - what did he see?

He questions whether he was drugged, or having a stress-induced hallucination. It doesn't make any sense for this to catch up to him in the middle of a battle. That's usually when he's most focused and level headed.

Sure, he used to see Mr. Stark. In billboard models with goatees, in the kind smile of a professor, in the corner of his eye when walking down the street. He never thought it was really him though, and it's been years since he's been struck so painfully with memories of his old mentor.

This, this is completely different. He stared right at Tony's face as clear as day.

Maybe Peter drags himself to the nearest hero. Still bloody and bruised, but he has to tell someone what he saw. Who is there? Who can he call? Hawkeye? Bruce Banner? Daredevil? They may not know Peter Parker, but he's still Spider-Man. He has a big name, and I'm curious who's taken notice.

Personally, I'd kill to finally get a Spider-Man and Fantastic Four team up in theatres. With the FF movie coming out and Doom being a big nemesis to the team I'm really hoping we get some Fantastic Four and Avengers interactions.

Anyways. Peter warns them, or does research on his own. He obsesses over this Doctor Doom.

Fast forward, maybe Doom and Peter work together against another evil, or Doom's own invention. Or maybe they're just near each other enough to get to know one another.

Doom and Stark do have some things in common, and I think that would strike a chord in Peter. Doom is an intellectual, a scientist, he's a self-absorbed perfectionist.

Doom commends Peter on his genius, his capabilities. Offers him a deal to join him and put his brain to good use. It would hit too close to home for Peter. A kid who wanted nothing more than to be like Tony Stark, to be strong and intelligent. To have his old mentor look at him and acknowledge his effort.

It messes with Peter's head and brings up his unresolved issues with Tony. It makes him sick.

Peter Parker got erased, and now it's like he's reliving his youth and trauma in some twisted and dark remake.

Maybe there's something bigger at play here. Maybe someone is haunting him, torturing him.

Laughing at him.