#A shame he was only in it for a little bit

[seumyo]

thinking about the aftermath of the final war with bakugou.

It’s more often that you and Bakugou are the only ones left in the dorms after the war. The others chose to go back to their homes when the school’s implementation of mandatory dorm living lifted, and some decided to stay a little longer.

“Taste this.”

Bakugou raised a brow but didn’t protest as you walked over, spooning some curry towards his mouth. With a slight huff, he leaned forward, lips parting just enough to take the spoon. The moment it hit his tongue, his nose scrunched slightly.

“Careful, it’s still a bit hot.”

“Mild,” he muttered after swallowing. “You could barely even taste the richness of the sauce, too.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, frowning. “Are you serious? I followed your recipe.”

“Still mild; you brought shame to my recipe.”

You gave him an unimpressed look before turning back on the pot. “Wow, then maybe you should’ve been the one cooking here. I’m gonna check what went wrong.”

“I would if I could, dipshit.”

“Just get over here and check, too.”

“Nuh-uh. You said you’d cook tonight.”

“And you’re the one who keeps on complaining that I didn’t do your recipe justice!”

“That’s a fact.”

“Starve.”

He huffed, shaking his head as he went back to his writing practice, but there was something in his expression—something almost amused.

-

Bakugou sat by his study desk, his left hand gripping a pen tightly as he tried to force his stubborn fingers into writing something readable. His handwriting had always been sharp and textbook-pristine penmanship that you could mistake it for being printed, but now, with his right hand still recovering, it looked… awful.

You sat a good distance next to him, watching with an unreadable expression.

“Oi,” Bakugou grunted, not looking up. “The hell are you staring at?”

“Your letters look like a baby bird scratched them out,” you said bluntly, not even bothering to hold back on your words.

He clicked his tongue. “Like I don’t already know that.”

You reached over, grabbing his notebook before he could protest, flipping back to his first attempts from a few weeks ago. The letters were uneven, practically illegible. Then you held it up next to his latest attempt.

“See? You’re getting better.” You turned the notebook toward him. “You can actually read this one.”

He scoffed but didn’t deny it. Instead, he reached for the notebook, but you yanked it away at the last second, grinning.

“You don’t get this back until you admit I’m a good teacher.”

Bakugou glared at you, debating whether this was worth a fight. Finally, he sighed, leaning back against the chair.

“Fine. You’re not the worst teacher.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Don’t get too cocky.”

“Me? Never. That’s more of a you thing and not a me thing.”

“Like hell it’s only me.”

You laughed. “Let’s try numbers this time; I even bought a tracing book.”

“That shit’s for kids,” he scoffed.

“It says three and up,” you argued. “You’re three and up, are you not? And—who knows? Maybe after this you’ll be ambidextrous.”

“Shut up.”

-

“Run.”

That was the only warning before Bakugou grabbed your wrist and bolted.

The sound of rapid footsteps and excited squeals filled the hall behind you. A group of first-year girls was hot on your trail, giddy with the thrill of chasing UA’s most popular second-year student.

“Why the hell do they keep following me?!” Bakugou barked as you rounded a corner, his grip still firm on your wrist.

“Because you’re literally their idol,” you said between breaths, peeking to see as the girls went the opposite direction. “They see you as some kind of bad boy heartthrob ever since the Sports Festival. It’s kinda cute.”

“It’s not cute—it’s annoying!”

You found an empty classroom and slammed the door shut. Both of you stood there, panting. Outside, the sounds of giggling and footsteps faded down the hall, the first-years continuing their search elsewhere.

You let out a breath and leaned against a desk. “Could be worse. They could be chasing you with cameras like the paparazzi did.”

Bakugou groaned, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “Don’t even joke about that.”

You nudged his shoulder, smiling. “You didn’t have to drag me with you, y’know? Or is this an excuse to be alone in a room with me?”

He glared at you, opening his mouth to argue—but then he caught the teasing glint in your eyes and scoffed, shaking his head.

“Fucking idiot. You’d get trampled over by that mob.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll tell Iida to see if he can scout the area to make sure no one’s going to jump at us when we leave.”

You laughed, and despite himself, Bakugou didn’t find it all that annoying. He actually found it... familiar and worth something he can’t put into words.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[anqelrafe]

— ୨ৎ bsf!rafe showing your date what he was missing out on.

synopsis: after getting stood up by your date, your best friend decides he's gonna show him what he could've had. authors note: i'm honestly not sure how i feel about this but i wanted to get something out before i lose motivation. anywayss, enjoy!!. . .♡ content warnings: not proofread. a little rushed cause i'm tired lol. contains smut, mdni. unprotected p in v. dirty talk. oral f.receiving. fingering. praise. on call during sex.

rafe laid on his bed, his head resting comfortably on his pillows with his arm draped lazily over his eyes. he had been listening to you talk about your day for the past hour, just barely listening to bits and pieces. he was really only waiting for you to skip to the lunch date you were supposed to have that afternoon, but you were so stuck on the topic of wanting to try out a new lip combo—whatever that was. so he decided it would just be quicker to just ask you himself.

“what about that date?” he cuts you off mid sentence, moving his arm from his eyes to peer over at you while you leisurely span around in the swivel chair at his desk. “with uhh...what was his name? ayden?” your glossed lips pull into a frown, stopping your spinning “andrew,” you correct, your finger twirling around a loose thread on your shorts. “and it didn't happened. he never came”

rafe's eyes shifted to yours, an annoyed furrow in his eyebrows forming at your admission “you mean that asshole never even showed up?” he scoffed, now fully sitting up against the headboard.

“nope,” your murmur, shifting in your seat “not only that, but he texted me an hour later to tell me he didn't feel like coming.”

“what a pussy,” rafe muttered under his breath, pushing his greasy hair away from his forehead as he tried to suppress an eye roll. he hated it whenever someone wasted your time or let you down. he always thought any guy who you even batted an eye at was incredibly lucky. “he just doesn't deserve you then. n i already told you that you were too good for him. don't know why you don't listen to me. you need to go after guys who would treat you better.”

your lips purse, tilting your head sideways as you toy with the polish on your manicured finger. “uh huh. and who would that be, hm? you?”

“yes.” rafe’s answer is almost immediate and without hesitation. he had no shame, no remorse, no fear. he was straightforward and honest to a fault. “i’d never let you down, you know that. and i'd show you what your date should've done.”

your fingers stop picking at your nail polish, your lips pulling into a thin line. you knew rafe was a good friend, he always had been. but boyfriend material? you weren't so sure. you've seen the way he's run through girls like t-shirts; and you refused to be one of his discards. “rafe—” you started, but he cut you off, waving his hand dismissively.

“nah, nah. don’t ‘rafe’ me. i’m serious. you don't wanna date me? fine. understandable. but at least let me help ya out. y'know, as your friend. i could be uh...setting a standard or...whatever you wanna call it. i could give you a better time than he would've.”

you weren't stupid, you knew what rafe was trying to do. it's how he got all of the island girls to flock over him─manipulation. but was it really manipulation if you wanted it too?

‎ ‎ ─── ✷ ⊹ ࣪

“you taste so fuckin' good. shit — you're drippin for me.” rafe groaned, his eyes trained on drenched folds before they locked on your face, watching the way it contorted in pleasure with every swirl of his tongue against your clit. “feel good, yeah?”

you were only able to force out a few incoherent sounds, the overwhelming pleasure making your brain fuzzy. any guy you've ever slept with never offered or made the slightest effort to eat you out like this. so the new sensation of rafe's tongue had you seeing stars and gasping beneath him. “c'mon, i asked you a question, i want actual words, alright? i want you to tell me how good it feels. and look at me when i'm taking t'you.” rafe spoke against your sex, the vibration of his words making your hips twitch.

“mngh....y-yes.” you breath out, forcing your eyes open to lock to his, “feels good...s'good.” you whimper, glossed lips parting as you stare down at him.

“mmh, there ya go, that's my girl. when i ask something i expect a real answer, yeah?” rafe murmured as two of his long fingers easily slipped into your soaking hole, pulling a mewl from your lips and making your back arch off the mattress slightly. “fuck baby, you're perfect — s'fuckin tight.” he groaned, watching the way your narrow pussy sucked in his fingers, a ring of your slick coating the base of his digits. “y'been giving this pussy to amateurs i bet. don't worry though..i'll stretch ya out real nice.” rafe murmured, wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking on the sensitive bud, your eyes rolling back while his fingers moved in slow, deep strokes, finding the spongy spot that made you cinch around his fingers.

“mgnh...fuck, rafe. i—” you gasp, hands fisting the sheets under you, your words being punctuated by rafe purposely humming around your clit, the vibration making your hips twitch. “mmh yeah i know, pretty girl. gonna cum, yeah? go on baby...make a mess f'me.”

his hands squeeze your thighs as they start to tremble, a loud whine falling from your lips as your orgasm hits, your cunt fluttering around his fingers, glossy eyes squeezing shut. rafe groans against you, lapping your juices as he helps you ride out your orgasm. “yeah, that's it, baby...good girl.”

you felt completely boneless, muscles trembling and skin buzzing all over as you slowly try to come down, catching your breath as he pulled himself up to hover over you, his hand tapping your trembling outer thigh “open up f'me baby.”

your eyes flutter open, thighs shaking as you slowly let them fall open. your eyes half lidded as you stared up at him. rafe groans softly at the sight before him, positioning himself between your legs and slowly slid his leaking tip up and down your glistening lips, teasing your clit slowly.

“fuuuck” rafe groaned as he started to slip his twitching member into your leaking cunt, his eyes fluttering at the sensation of him bottoming out. “shit baby, you're so fuckin' tight...suckin' me in s'good” rafe grunted, his hips starting to snap against yours as he drove his cock in and out, watching your lips part and eyebrows furrow in pleasure.

your head falls back onto the mattress as you mewled beneath him, your lips opening but no words leaving your mouth, already too cock drunk to form any coherent sentences. “bet you needed this, hm? needed this pussy taken care of s'bad, you just had to be fucked by your best friend — you like that, don't you, baby? you like your best friend's cock stretching you out?”

before you could even process what rafe said, the sharp, jarring sound of your phone ringing pierced through the air. the loud and harsh sound causing rafe's eyes to snap up in annoyance, his grip on your hips tightening. “fuckin' christ — who's calling?”

with your brain slowly working to catch up to the situation, the persistent ringing of your phone seemed to finally sink in. your hands fumble around as you search for the phone, eventually finding it. glancing at the caller id, your eyes flutter in surprise, and you let out a whimper, forced to keep your eyes open as rafe's hips continue their relentless rhythm. “w-wait,” you stammer, struggling to catch your breath as you see andrew's name flash across the screen. “i — shit — i need to-”

“answer it.” he ordered, smirking down at you as he watched the name flash on the screen. “let him know your best friend's takin' good care of this pussy.” rafe murmured, noticing the hesitance in your expression.

“wasn't a question.” rafe grunted, taking your phone from your hand without any consent, his thrusts getting rougher as he answered the phone, putting it on speaker. “mmh, y/n's busy. fuck— y'know you're really missin' out though, man. this pussy's a fuckin' dream.” rafe spoke between breathy moans, the sounds of skin slapping and both you and rafe's moans clearly heard on the other end by andrew. “hear that? s'the sound of quality pussy, she’s sucking me in so tightly. bet you wish you were me huh?”

“hey, what is…” andrew's voice comes through the other end of the line, his words trailing off when he realized who he was talking to. “rafe?” rafe's smirk only widens at the sound of the obvious confusion and uneasiness in andrew's voice. “uh huh..” rafe groaned, “fuck man, she's takin' my dick so well; she even makes the prettiest noises f'me wanna hear?” the condescending, almost faux sympathy in rafe's voice was clear, it was obvious he was getting off on this.

he angled the phone closer to your face, making sure the sound of your lewd, almost pornographic moans and whines were clearly heard over the phone. “mmh yeah, all those pretty sounds just for me. but i uh— fuck, she might need to call y'back, man. gonna fill this pussy up soon.”

true to his word, rafe led you through four quivering orgasms after he hung up, letting himself go after your fourth one, his hips stuttering as his cock twitched, his warm liquid spilling inside of you.

“that definitely wasn't our last time...pussy's mine now.” rafe breathed out, collapsing next to you.

taglist 🪽: @bunbun-3 @drewscoquette @untitled10351 @rafesweetie @meetmebehindthemallrafe @supercutelovergirl @drewswife @plaidcowboy @missquantic @rafesdiorperfume @minitarayummy @this-one-weeb @akobx @mystianqel @lacebambidoll @dolletebun @milamilkie @ch6rm @rafesprecious

[william-t-sickofyourshit]

Molly pouted a little, but didn’t say anything. Sonia assumed everyone knew, but this was new information for Molly. Ah, and there she was, thinking she has a chance with Sebastian. What a shame. And what a waste for the ladies of the world! Big win for the guys, though. Ronald seemed to notice that Molly was a little bummed by this revelation, so he was quick to reassure her that this is a common mistake. Without directly addressing that he noticed her crush. “Heh, oh I remember when he just moved to St Michael’s. All single moms and even older students were pinning after him. Big disappointment for the ladies of the town.” he laughed casually. Well, at least Molly was cheered up a little bit, knowing that she wasn’t the only one to make a fool of herself.

The three of them finished their food and coffee, and then Molly stayed for a little bit longer to help with cleaning. The least she could do in return for being able to sleep over at Ronald’s place. And once the house looked half-decent again, she got a cab and drove back home. Well… at least she had very good friends at this new job of hers, even if she wasn’t going to find a boyfriend.

And said never-to-be love interest currently lounged in bed with his own beloved. Sebastian and William were munching on some toast with jam and Nutella, watching a light movie on the laptop while tangled in the bedsheets. Very lazy Sunday indeed.

For I have sinned...

The principal cleared his throat, eyes scanning the notes that he had wrote down before this meeting. It already lasted an hour, and the teachers gathered in the faculty room were becoming restless and bored. But indeed there were some things to discuss, with the concert that the senior class was supposed to perform at the end of the semester, and with recent staff changes. 

William glanced down at his watch, sighing softly. His class was starting in 15 minutes, so at least, whether the meeting will be done soon or not, he will get to excuse himself. He looked out of the window, his mind wandering. Principal’s voice turned into white noise in the background. It was a pleasant day, late summer. But William was looking forward to a slightly cooler weather. Wearing all black could really be bothersome at times. 

“And lastly, I am pleased to announce that we have finally found replacement for the violin teacher. Dear Mr Tanaka, may he rest in peace, was with us for so many years that I’ve been concerned we won’t be able to find someone as good as to fill this position.” the principal spoke. “But Mr… Michaelis, was highly recommended to me, and he indeed has impressive references. He will be starting this week, so please welcome him warmly once he will arrive. Ah yes… about that. He will arrive today at noon, I need someone to pick him up from the train station and bring over for the tour around the school. Any volunteers?” 

William was barely listening, and definitely not paying much attention. He glanced at his watch again, and saw that it was time to leave, as his class was about to start. He raised his hand to excuse himself, and little did he know, he just volunteered.

“Father William! Excellent!” the principal exclaimed. “Just don’t be late, the train arrives at noon.”

“Train…?” William questioned, raising his brow. He had a feeling he was missing something…

***

Right after the meeting, William had to run for the class, so he had little time to clarify what exactly he had volunteered for. He was a piano teacher in this Music Academy, but also he served as a priest in local church. Well respected, and rather liked. So when he later found out it was about the new violin teacher, he didn’t refuse. Who, other than himself, would be a better choice to introduce a newcome to their community?

So even though he raised his hand by accident, he accepted this fate.

After classes, at noon, William took a taxi and drove to the train station, to pick up their new teacher. Wearing black trousers, and a black shirt with a thin tie, was absolutely dreadful in this weather, so William quickly found shelter under the roof of the station platform, that provided some shade.

The train had just arrived. William had no idea how Mr Michaelis looked like, but he figured he will just look for someone carrying a violin case with them. 

He was in for a bit surprise.

@crazyvik97

[reignpage]

Frat Boy!Gojo

Old Fashioned: swallow that bitter taste

Word Count: 2.7k Contents: angst, cursing, some dark themes, which include slut shaming, abuse, both physical and verbal, threat of violence, not proofread

The beep beep beep that echoes around the empty, dusty room strikes at your equally empty and equally dusty heart. You try to visit the hospital as often as your schedule permits, but these days, with all the wedding preparations, you could really only dedicate an hour every Thursday, between lectures. 

It’s pathetic. He deserves better than this half-hearted display of love and guilt, the natural combination. If he was awake, he’d undoubtedly make a snarky comment about how the wilting flowers you can barely afford is a representation of your friendship going down the drain because he obviously deserves more than carnations, of all flowers. 

Oh, how you wish he could tell you off right now. 

“Hi, Asahi. You’re looking shittier than last time,” you muse with a chuckle, a shaky smile pulling at your lips. 

There he is, lying in some drab hospital gown, tucked all nice and warm in a rigid bed, with only you, a dull lump of black lace as his only company. He can’t roll his eyes at your pitiful tone or fire back some insult about how your eyeliner is far too thick for your eyes and you more closely resembles a panda than any sexy vampire you’ve been trying to simulate. 

“Remember the boy I’ve been telling you about? Well, we got into a bit of a disagreement the other night. I don’t know, I guess he got fed up with this play acting thing we’re doing. And I don’t really blame him, y’know? We’re barely adults and we’re getting married. Isn’t that crazy? God, I wish you could be there, you can laugh at me and throw rice or confetti or whatever it is they do nowadays. Maybe even purposefully get it in my eye, knowing you.”

No reply. 

Just like all those times before, there is never a reply, only a beep beep beeping that drives you crazy and you can never seem to tune out, try as you might. Sometimes, at night, you hear that mocking sound hooking itself into your spine and carrying you away from the guiltless comfort of sleep.

With a sigh, you carry on. “Well, anyways, I think you’d really like him. He’s a little stupid. Okay, maybe a lot stupid, but I don’t know, I think it’s endearing. He has these annoying eyes that are just so bright and God, do you ever just wanna rip off someone’s eyes and stomp on them because they’re too dazzling? ‘Cause I do. Every time, I look at his. And his laugh. Oh, God. You won’t believe it. It’s the most obnoxious sound in the entire world. I actually get nightmares, I swear. He laughs like he doesn’t care how loud he is, like he thinks people should laugh more, like it’s a crime not to find laughing easy. What an idiot, right?”

You don’t mention how since that evening, he hasn’t blown up your phone like he usually does, in fact you received no notifications from him at all. Within the first hour or two, you thought he still needed some space, and you understood. But then as hours turned into a whole night, then a whole morning, then a day and another, you started to think that maybe, just maybe, he’ll never text you again. 

And can you blame him?

He wasn’t wrong, about him being used. From the very beginning, he always represented wealth and what that can bring. Surely, he was aware that even if people did genuinely like him for who he is, the strength of his name, of what courses through his blood, will always hang in the air, this infinite void shielding him from everyone who tries to get too close only to end up further and further away. 

“I think I should apologise and give him that second date he’s been begging me for. Yeah, actually begging. I told you he’s stupid.” Your voice is trailing off, a slight wobble that you can’t seem to command away. “I think I hurt his feelings. I know, surprise surprise. But I just can’t help but feel like, out of everyone involved in this thing, he’s the least deserving, y’know? Ugh, I’ll talk to the guy when I run into him on campus — he’s kinda hard to miss.”

Even paralysed and in a coma, you’re certain Asahi can tell you aren’t convincing yourself with the fake bravado. Truthfully, you’re not sure you could bring yourself to mutter an apology. No, it isn’t that. You can’t bring yourself to come face to face with him, lest you see something that doesn’t quite match up with your vision of a sincere expression of happiness, at seeing you.

Fiddling with a loose thread on your dress, you pull it taut, tighter and tighter, until it snaps. 

“Here again?”

Your head snaps back. 

“Mother, w-what are you doing here?”

Beep beep beep.

She waltzes in, clasping her snakeskin handbag closer to her, as if the cramped room would snatch it off her manicured hands. Burgundy pencil skirt clashing with her neon blouse, those staple bright red lips curl into something that makes you gulp. You don’t dare bring up the fact that she desperately needs a stylist — that is the least of your issues.  

Pursing her lips, her disapproving eyes roves over your body, before she scoffs and looks away, focusing instead on a framed print photo of tomato soup cans in all sorts of colours. You shuffle in your seat, the plastic squeaking. 

“You’ve disappointed me once again,” she begins, settling her bag on the table where your flowers droop over the vase. You recognise this tone of hers, the one that’s too calm, too flat to ever mean anything other than trouble. “You were given one task and one task only, and somehow, either by natural ineptitude or wilful rebellion, you’ve failed at something so simple. Goodness, what ever did happen to that brain of yours?”

It’s clear she isn’t here to chat about the weather, so you stand up, pulling a glove further up your wrist and exhale as quietly as you can. 

“Now, mother, I know the dinner didn’t end very well, but he just needs a second to cool down and then he’ll be on board again. I’ll go on another date with him and show him we can work together. I’ll fix it, I swear.”

Her glare pierces you, forcing you to stumble back. 

Scoffing, she waves a hand in the air. “‘Fix it?’ You will fix it? God, Y/N. It is not the time for your sarcastic little jokes. You can’t fix anything. You proved that the other night with whatever you had texted him as we made plans for your wedding.”

“Y-you knew?”

The laugh that escapes her lacks any real joy — the only one she’s capable of. Cold, mocking and scathing, you can do nothing but wince under its weight. 

“It’s hard to not notice you typing away under the table like some whore playing footsie! I raised you better than that, no? Where did all those etiquette lessons go anyways? Hmm? It’s certainly not towards your uncouth behaviour. Goodness, look at you. You’re in your final year of university and you still haven’t matured.”

When she gets into these rants, there’s no stopping her. You learnt that when she snapped at you for tripping on your own dress in front of a ballroom of people at the age of eight, and at twelve when she overheard you use a swear word with a friend. 

“Still bumbling about, pretending to be indifferent and nihilistic, like some child playing dress up. And what have I said about this all black look? You look ridiculous and not to mention hideous. When are you going to grow out of this phase? You couldn’t even lose those repulsive piercings? Even just for a couple dinners? Maybe if you did, the Gojos would have been more keen to welcome you into their family.”

Beep beep beep.

She continues, taking a step closer towards you, and you feel the room get smaller like the walls are shifting in, “We had him. Him and the rest of his family in the palm of our hands. You were so close to marrying him and fixing all our problems and then you ruined it. This is all your fault.”

Your mother’s voice grows louder, pitchier, more shrill, and you clutch your dress tight in your fists. She’s been drinking. You don’t know how you didn’t notice until now but she reeks of alcohol. Perhaps, the natural smell of death and deep levels of sanitation that permeates the air of this hospital masked that scent of hers she never bothered to try to shake off. 

“Why couldn’t you just be a good girl, hmm?” Her hand reaches for your face and you flinch. Ice cold, her touch brings the hairs on the back of your neck to a standstill. It’s been many years since she had last touched you, in any kind of soft, maternal way at least, and this foreign feeling leaves you holding your breath. 

“Why couldn’t you just give him what he wanted? Flirt a little, flash him a smile, slide those legs and let him take what he needed. Anything! Anything to make him yours. The way I did with your father.”

Falling to your chest, her hand curls, digging itself into your dress and you stagger forward with her powerful yank. You gasp. And then, eyes wide, you clutch your heart, watching the lace collar that had once been a part of you dangle in her grasp. She casts it aside. 

A cry rises up her throat, like bile, and she spews it at you. “Boys like him only want one thing, my dear. Do you know what it is? Did I ever teach you?”

Her nails are sharp. 

You notice that as she leans forward, skimming them against your cheek once more. Clammy, you feel the material of your gloves stick to your skin and you feel a sudden itch to keep it on even in death. There’s no one here. Nurses rarely come to check up on this room, not when the patient has so little wants and needs. And there’s not anyone you can text and call, no one who’d understand, who’d come at the drop of a hat.

“Answer me!” 

She wrenches your sleeve in a blur, her movements jerky and sudden and too unpredictable. That too falls to the ground, lifeless. 

Beep beep beep.

Bottom lip quivering, you stammer out, “S-sex?”

You feel the burn of your cheek before you hear the sound of her palm strike you. And you sob with her, just as she soothes the skin with a cooing sound. Her expression softens and for a second, no more and no less, she actually looks like a mother. 

“No, my dear. All boys, whether that Gojo boy’s age or your father’s, want thrill. They’ll seek it anywhere. If not from their wives, then from common whores, or from sports cars, or violence, or casinos, like your daddy — it’s why we needed you to marry that boy, remember? We have no money, our family’s fortune is scattered in the vaults of seedy casinos all over the city. We needed their money, to get back to where we used to be. They were our last chance.”

“L-last? B-but the wedding’s still happening, isn’t it?”

Was that even your voice? 

It sounded so meek, so frail, so young. 

“No, dear.” Her smile is sharp, one corner stabbing into your heart and the other twisting. “This morning, your little fiancé went to the press and informed them that you two were so-called victims of a forced engagement and would like the public’s support to maintain your ‘liberty’. The Gojos have already begun doing damage control, claiming that you broke up with him and he’s a classic college student — drunk and seeking revenge. So that’s that of your love story. Such a shame.”

Beep beep beep.

“B-but he wouldn’t. No, he wants to be with me, h-he just needed some time to cool down.”

You’re running out of breath, you can feel it seeping out of your lungs. It’s too tight in here, there are too many machines making all sorts of noises, and you just need air, you need something, anything. There’s nothing to clutch, nowhere to lean against, and when you turn to the one other person there, the eyes you wish would look at you aren’t. 

Beep beep beep.

There’s simply no way Satoru would go to the media. No, he was finally accepting the marriage, accepting you. You were so sure of it. It was clear as day in his eyes. You could even feel it pulse in that minuscule gap between you when he had fitted your gloves back onto your hands. 

He can’t be done with you. 

He just can’t. 

Beep beep beep.

Holding up a bedpan, she inspects her face in the reflection and her lips purse once more. Taunting, she giggles. “Oh, but all women learn eventually that time does nothing for us.”

She’s ran out of steam, much faster than she usually does, and even though parts of your dress lay in tatters on the hospital floor, you feel fortunate that she hadn’t decided to rip out your heart instead. You’re not sure she’d find anything in your chest cavity anyways. 

Detached once more, she slurs with bewildering high, “Don’t look so deviated, goodness. You’ll forget all about that Gojo boy soon. You must. Because you’ll be marrying into the Zenins. A nice, young man, just a little older than you. I believe his name is Naoya.”

The blood drains from your body. 

“No,” you gasp out. “No, mother. I can’t. H-he’s abusive. You know this. Everyone knows this. He’s sadistic and cruel a-and —“

Beep beep beep.

“And he’s on the market looking for a wife.” She cuts you a look, one that forces your mouth shut. It’s a talent of hers. “The Zenins reached out. Apparently, whatever’s good enough for the Gojo’s is good enough for them. What great luck, wouldn’t you agree, my dear?”

Beep beep beep.

You’ve heard stories of how he used women like dolls, dressing them up and tearing them down as he pleased. There’s always scandals and blind items making rounds online about girls he’d left battered and bruised, disoriented and silenced by copious amounts of money. A man like him would never love you. He’d never even respect you. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew it would turn out like this. Having met the man once, at some yacht, a couple years ago, you recall the pure repulsion in his eyes when you bumped into him. He saw the beginnings of your true style coming in, like adult teeth, and something flashed in his eyes. A recognition of your rarity in these parts. A sparkle of challenge. A barely restrained desire. 

You could never forget the way he had looked at you — you were a trophy at the end of a marathon and there was a spot in his collection waiting just for you. 

Like a fool, a naive, pathetic little fool, you thought you had outran him. That, in the arms of another man, a stronger, richer man, you’d be safe. But that man doesn’t want anything to do with you. 

You’re alone.

Beep beep beep.

Sighing, she makes a tutting sound and focuses back on you. “I did say to behave, no? I told you it was in our best interest that you drag that boy up to the altar no matter what, and you failed your duty as a daughter. This is the consequences of your actions, dear. But despite your frightening appearance, you’re still desired. How nice. So, smile, yes? You’re getting married, after all.”

A machine flatlines. It’s not Asahi’s heart who fails and dies right there and then. You don’t even hear anything but that incessant beeeeeeeeeeeeep that knocks you back into your seat, jaw slack and cheek stinging.

“When?”

She smiles again. 

��Tomorrow!”

[drdemonprince]

What do people do about dom guilt/shame after engaging with “hard” kinks? I just tried knife play for the first time last night and I had a really good time toying with my sub and just seeing this other side of him that really wants to get cut up. I’m worried I crossed some kind of invisible line and I’m evil now even though we both liked it.

We’re both inexperienced with engaging with “hard” kinks and we have some mutual friends and I’m unsure what they’d think of me if they knew. So that adds to the stress a little. At the same time though, I love that he trusted me enough to ask for that and the look he got in his eyes was incredible.

aftercare! Doms need aftercare! especially after doing darker or more serious scenes. One Dom that I know has his subs message him the day after a particularly intense scene to check in and reassure him that he is not a bad person, that they actively wanted everything that he did, and that they are doing well (or if they are struggling in some way, he wants them to tell him so that they can work through it and he can offer support). so much of the focus gets put on the needs of the sub in these matters, and on protecting the sub from harm, but it is equally important to make sure that the Dom is given space to self-regulate, reassurance, comfort, or whatever it else it is that they need to process this stuff.

you'll come to know a lot better with the more practice that you have. some people are really fired up energetically after a big Dommy see and what they really need is to eat a meal and take a walk and cool down a bit. other people like the conventional cuddling while watching a movie and eating sweet snacks form of aftercare that comes most readily to people's minds. but psychologically the impact of being a Dom is quite different from that of submitting, and so you may need things like seeing your sub exercise agency, having somebody else take care of you and making decisions, a lot of detailed feedback on how the scene went from the subs perspective, everybody to switch out of role and to act relatively normal and jokey, or some combination of these things.

for now, continue talking it through with your partner, ask them for support and care, and maybe journal a little bit on how you're feeling in the days after a scene. It is completely normal to experience a drop and to feel tired, disgusted, ashamed, we're like you're a bad person, and you can learn to anticipate this and work with it to minimize how much it bothers you and prevent a lot of larger meltdowns from occurring. but the only way we figure this stuff out is from learning! feeling a little bit bad or even a lot bad it's not a sign that you've screwed up here. it's just data. and so it's all very worthwhile to get.

[thelov3lybookworm]

Teddy Bears

Summary: She... doesn't dislike him?

•○●⛦●○•

Word Count: 2186

Warnings: tiniest bit of angst? no angst? idk but it is kinda chaotic lolll i love it

A/n: based on this request 😋 @mellowmusings ily thank you for giving me this idea hehe I HOPE U LIKE IT POOKIE 🥹

also @potatoplace and @sapphicmsmarvel, dedicated to u two cus i love u lots ur the best 🥹

(also something funny to distract tato from cramps hehe)

ANYWAYS, ENJOYYYY!!!🥳🥳🥳

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

If there was such a thing as Fae Going Mad List, Azriel was sure he’d be on the top of it.

He was not sure how to describe the feeling of helplessness that he had been feeling for quite some time now. Some days, it was barely a speck of awareness in the back of his mind. The others, he didn’t even want to leave his bed. It took sheer willpower, his shadow’s encouragement, Cassian’s constant nagging and the hope that maybe, that day would be the day Y/n finally gave him anything other than her signature condescending glare that she wore when it came to him that got him out of his pity party most days.

The fact that the person evoked such feelings in him did not care also gave him a bit of a reality check, enough to break out of the haze of self hatred.

Remember the plan.

Azriel glanced sideways at the little shadow that floated next to his ear as he climbed up the steps to the training ring, brows furrowed. Of course he remembered the plan. Or whatever half assed thoughts he called a plan, anyways.

Waking up, he had been filled with dread and determination, telling himself that enough was enough, today was the day that Y/n will have to tell him the reason she always had her nose turned up at him, as if she could not be bothered to look at him without contempt.

The training ring was mostly empty, as it usually was when the sun was high in the sky, except for two figures on the far end towards the edge. Cassian’s wings towered over the two, casting shade onto the smaller figure sat beside him.

Once again, the sight of the back that should have been proudly carrying her own set of wings stabbed a dagger of guilt into his heart, making Azriel wonder if he should even have the right to talk to her.

After all, it had been his fault she had lost her wings.

It was well known that after a female became eighteen years of age, her wings had to be cut off. Knowing the traditions, Rhysand had gathered Cassian and Azriel and decided that one of them had to be with her at all times of the day. She had been like a sister to Rhysand, and the only friend outside of each other, so the need to protect her was not questioned.

The day it had happened, Azriel had been on his resting day after a week of training. Back then, none of the three Illyrians were allowed to train on their rest days, or else the Lady of Night would have their arses.

Naturally, Azriel was supposed to follow Y/n around.

Of course, she didn’t want him to.

"Azriel, I am not a baby. You will leave me alone-"

"I won’t."

She huffed, pausing her angry march up the side of a hill she was trekking to get water from a nearby river. "You will."

Azriel glared right back. "It is my duty to Rhysand. I-"

"Fuck off!"

She had thrown a wooden bucket at him, fury radiating off of her, and it had infuriated Azriel, how she acted like she was oh so better than him. He knew she was, sure, but it maddened him all the same.

And in a bout of frustration, Azriel spread his wings as far as they would go, then beat them and flew off, back towards the house where he planned to spend his ‘rest’ day doing exactly that and not wasting precious time on someone who was too ungrateful to accept protection.

Deep in his heart, he had dreaded the future, somehow knowing he would live to regret his decision.

And he did. Regret and shame had become best buddies of the shadowsinger, following him around more closely than his shadows did. If only he had not listened to her, he could have saved those beautiful wings he wished he had the chance to cherish.

But thinking about his shortcomings and faults was not going to help him today, so he pushed those thoughts in the back of his mind, to be picked up and inspected later. For now he needed to focus.

What’s your problem with me?

Why do you not like me?

Why do you always fight with me?

How can I make it up to you?

Azriel repeated the words in his head as he marched towards the edge of the ring, pushing his shoulders back and lifting his wings. Eyes focused, fists clenched.

When he was almost upon the two, Y/n turned, lips parted as if mid-sentence. She stared at him, dissecting each part of him with just a glance. Disarming him with just a glance.

And all words flew out of Azriel’s head. The only that remained were extremely unhelpful.

She’s beautiful.

No, what was it?

How’s your problem with me?

"Hey, Az."

Azriel blinked, nodding at Cassian, not missing the sight of the smirk on his brother’s face as he stood. Cassian ignored the lack of words from Azriel and walked closer, clapping him on the shoulder and leaning in to whisper. "Lover boy finally got balls?"

Azriel shot him a sharp glare, pulling his shadows closer to himself. "Shut up."

Cassian grinned lazily, lifting his hands placatingly before walking off, whistling an infuriating tune.

The same one Azriel had mentioned reminded him of Y/n.

Asshole.

Azriel watched Cassian disappear through the archway into the dim interior of the starwell, swallowing, before turning back to Y/n, who was drawing her legs back up over the edge, beginning to stand.

Those thighs-

"Wait-" She paused, glancing at him. Azriel swallowed, feeling his stomach flip and trying his best to ignore it as he moved closer to Y/n. "I wanted to talk."

"To me?" She mumbled, brows raised. Her voice did things to him, as it always did, but the surprise in her voice distracted Azriel.

"Well, do you see anyone else here?"

She scowled, lowering her legs back down and letting them swing. "I have no obligation to listen to you, you know. Being nice would do you a favour."

Azriel sighed, settling down next to her, faintly noting how the sun was hitting her back, making her hair look a shade lighter. He also noted the way she was squinting to see, peering up at him.

That wouldn’t do.

He spread his wings, lifting them slightly until she was sitting in their shadow. He did not miss the quick glance she shot behind her, nor did he miss the slight widening of her eyes and faint blush on her cheeks.

That could be from sitting in the sun too long,but Azriel liked to think the reason for her blushing was him.

"I’m sorry."

She hummed, turning her head to stare down at the city. "What did you want to say?"

"I…" he paused wondering how to go about this, then decided it would be best to get straight to the point, seeing as Y/n herself had mentioned, she had no obligation to listen to him and could very well walk away if he beat around the bush. "I just wanted to know why you dislike me so much."

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I’d like to know and maybe apologise. I’m tired of this- this cat and mouse chase."

She snorted. "What’s the point in apologising if you have to ask me about the mistake you made?"

Azriel looked down at his lap, chagrined as much as he was frustrated. "I cannot remember what I did, I am sorry. Please tell me?"

Surprise flickered over Y/n’s beautiful features before she straightened, clearing her throat. "Oh, um… you said please."

Azriel raised a brow. "And?"

"I didn’t think you would, this is a surprise."

Immediately, Azriel felt his lips turn down at the corners. "You’re so funny."

She smiled coyly, the fire in her eyes was at complete odds with it. "Do you or do you not-"

"Fine, fine. I’m sorry."

She huffed, shaking her head. "Now you’ve annoyed me and I don’t want to tell you."

Frustration bubbled over, and Azriel pushed to his feet, glaring at her when she tilted her head back, confused. "Have a good day, Y/n."

He turned away, knowing he should stay and let her bully him to her heart’s content, but telling her, again and again, how he wanted to repent and make things up to her, being vulnerable enough to let her take jabs at him and not fight back was unfamiliar. It made unease crawl under his skin.

It made him worry that if he let his mask drop enough to make her comfortable talking about what had bothered her, she’d see how weak, how pathetic he was and be disgusted.

Maybe this whole plan was useless, pathetic.

"Az- wait!" He paused, glancing back at her. "I’m sorry, I went too far."

Azrie ducked his head in a shallow nod, looking away from her.

"You were trying to make things right and I- I’m sorry."

Azriel shook his head. "It’s fine. You have the right to-"

"That’s right! I do." Brows raised, Azriel turned back to her, surprised at the sudden change in her tone. "You did the worst thing ever to me and never apologised. I have the right to be angry."

Azriel swallowed, nodding. "I shouldn’t have left that day. I should have apologised and begged for forgiveness sooner."

When she didn’t say anything Azriel lifted his head, scared of her reaction. But she simply stared at him, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you talking about? Shouldn’t have left where? When?"

"Your wings? This is about that, no?"

Her eyes widened, lips parting. "Oh my- mother, no! Not at all, no, Azrie! Why would I ever- you dumb male, I would never hold something like that over you!"

Azriel swallowed again, unable to look away from her. "Then- why not? If I hadn’t left, you wouldn’t have lost them-"

"And maybe I would have lost something more precious. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe if I hadn’t lost my wings that day, Rhys wouldn’t have made rules to ban wing clipping his priority. I do not care about that. I am not mad about that. What I am mad about is far more important than that."

Azriel blinked, shifting on his legs. "Oh… then what made you dislike me, if not that?"

She rolled her eyes before poking him in the chest. "You fucking stole my teddy bear and pushed me after you did."

Azriel blinked, then blinked again. "I- what?"

"And you still haven’t given it back to me."

Azrie’s lips parted, then closed, then opened again. At this point, he was trying to remember if someone had mixed up some sort of drug in his food, because what in the hell?

"I- I don’t remember."

She huffed, wrapping her arms around herself. It took all of Azriel’s willpower to not look. "Of course you don’t remember, asshole. I was playing with my toy, and you snatched it from me, and when I fell, you didn’t even help me up."

Azriel stared at her, incredulity dripping from his voice as he tried to hold in a snort but failed. "Y/n, are you being serious?"

She scowled, pushing him back. "Stop laughing. I am being serious."

"I’m not laughing!" Despite the words, Azriel’s lips twitched, lifting.

She huffed, turning away. Azrel instantly felt bad, so he lunged to grab her hand, tugging lightly.

"Sorry, sorry. I will get you that teddy back, yeah?"

Y/n peered at him, frown still in place. "What if you don’t?"

"I will."

The burn of a mark made Azriel wince, making him pull back the lapels of his shirt. There, over his left pectoral, was a small mark in the shape of a bear. Just amazing.

"Hmm. I believe you, then."

Azriel refrained from rolling his eyes, feeling himself break out in a fond smile. "So am I forgiven?"

"Give me a reason to forgive you."

"I’ll get you three new teddy bears."

Her eyes lit up. "Really?"

He nodded dutifully, placing a hand over his heart. "Really."

She smiled then, the sight ethereal, almost otherworldly in its beauty. Azriel couldn’t help but stare at her lips. They were so- so beautiful, mesmerising, he wanted to-

No. Stop.

He forced himself to look up into her eyes, his focus finally shifting to his rapidly beating heart. He could almost win a racing competition, he was sure.

Y/n smirked at him, a knowing look in her eyes before she turned, heading to the stairwell, and this time, Azriel said nothing, just watched her go.

Right before she disappeared through the archway, though, she paused, glancing back. "By the way, I never disliked you. It was just funny seeing you squirm. See you later, shadowsinger!"

Azriel blinked. So all that… effort, for nothing?

She’s funny.

A shadow whispered.

Mother help me.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

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[angelbby555]

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ got you coupons

Summary: Bradley forgets it's Valentine's Day and with the kid's help, they craft something up last minute.

Word count: 1k

⋆. ୨୧˚⋆

Bradley just had to accept his own fate. He forgot it was February 14- Valentine's Day. The moment of realization was when he saw his two kids shuffling through their Valentine's Day cards. His heart had fallen right to his ass, and his eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

There was twenty minutes on the clock before you would return home from work. No chance would be able to speed to the closest pharmacy, and buy you flowers and a little gift. With age Bradley was slowly starting to forget things like, what day it was, where he placed his keys, or names of the friends his kids brought over to the house for a play date.

In a couple of minutes there wasn't much Bradley could whip up. He needed a little assistant from his two little kids. Kennedy's idea sounded pretty solid; write his wife a letter on how much he loves and adores her. Meanwhile his 5-year-old son's idea was to give you his toy monster truck.

"Buddy girls don't like monster trucks." Bradley was trying to not chuckle at the thought of handing you one of his sons well loved toys. Lucas lips pulled into a frown once Bradley denied his idea. "Got another idea?" He ruffled his sons hair, kissing his forehead.

The little boy stared up at him with his twining puppy eyes. "Mh you can make her a coupon book?" The kid suggests resting his small head against Bradley's arm. No way was he about to make all his gift out of paper.

"We can do that." Bradley agreed going to grab a sheet of paper to start writing his letter. This would be a very shameful gift to hand to you. Instantly you would know he put it together last minute.

With the kids help, Kennedy made a uneven envelope out of pink construction paper to slip his letter in. Meanwhile Lucas full fisted a pink and red crayon coloring a white piece of paper multi color, for the coupons. His son was about to start making the coupons for him, but Kennedy stopped him.

"Wait daddy you should write the coupons so mommy knows you did them." Kennedy handed him a black sharpie.

"You're smart. I like the way you think Kenny." Bradley high fives his daughter and then his son and he started to write the coupons down. But it was a bit hard to write coupons when he would give you anything for free.

That why Bradley didn't take these coupons too seriously. Writing down stuff like, one free ride with a dirty smirk on his face.

One free candle lit dinner.

Gift for one free bend you over the kitchen counter.

Good for one morning sex.

Gift for 2 pairs of sexy lingerie.

Love coupon for a free nude.

Before he knew it he was having fun filling out the rest of the uneven cut paper coupons with an erection and a smirk on his face.

"What did you write?" Lucas beamed up at his father, while opening a heart shaped sucker.

"Oh you know the usual." Bradley answer, not wishing to let any of these dirty coupons fall into the wrong hands.

⊹☆~⟡⋆

You and Bradley stood in the living room, while the kids were outside playing with the sprinklers.

"Okay it's not much-" Bradley started off only to be cut off by your wonderful giggles.

"You forgot didn't you?" Your bottom lip was pulled between your teeth to keep yourself from laughing. A playful glitter shined in your eyes. Bradley knew you were a forgiving and easy going person so you wouldn't pin this too hard above his head.

"Yeah." He let out a deflated laugh rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Bradley felt so shitty, but kept telling himself he would pick up something nicer tomorrow. "But what I crafted was made with a lot of love and did it with my whole heart." He nodded confidently knowing that much was true

"It's okay. As long as you made it out of love Daddy." You giggled through your bitten bottom lip. Oh gosh how was he gifted with such a sweet wife?

Bradley pulled out the uneven pink envelope out of his pocket. It was decorated with stickers that were used for a stamp, and multiple pieces of tape to keep it closed. He could see the way your teeth sunk into your lip you were holding back a giggle.

"Don't disrespect my craft." Bradley pointed at you with a scolding finger, but was laughing himself. He pressed a kiss to your temple as, you pulled the folder piece of paper out the envelope.

In silence he watched your eyes scan over the page. Even seeing your gaze softened at some of the words you read. He was gonna have to take Kennedy out for ice cream for such a life saving and simple idea. You read the last part of the paper out loud.

"I will be here for you, forever and always. Sincerely Yours, Bradley Bradshaw." Your smile reached your eyes, staring at the letter for a beat or two before looking up at him. "I love it!" You announced throwing your arms around his neck. "I'm gonna get it framed." Your lips brushed up against his face multiple times, as he kept you engulfed in his embrace. And here he thought the holiday was about consumerism and marketing.

"Wait I got something else for you." Bradley pulled back, digging his hand into your back pocket.

"It keeps getting better doesn't it?" He couldn't tell if your tone was sarcastic or genuine but you were still enjoying yourself. Bradley pulled out the bundle of square papers out of his pocket and handed them to you.

You gazed at the blank side, cover in harsh permanent marker dots that bled through the thin page. "Wow Brad you really shouldn't have." You did no attempt to cover up you laugh this time at the sore sight. Bradley kissed your forehead and flipped the paper over for you. "Ahhhh!" You sang out realizing that the paper wasn't just sharpie dots.

Bradley watched your face as you went through each one of the papers. A smirk over taking your lips, leaning closer to him reading the dirty words. You even moaned when you read 'one free daddy takes care of it'

You hummed savoring the coupons like they were the best deals to be known to man kind. "Oh I see okay. So I have to pay up now for affection? Cruel world." You rested your elbows on his shoulders.

"Well that's why you got the coupons baby." Bradley replied being the one to laugh now. He leaned in pressing a sweet kiss to you lips. "Do you like them?"

"Love them." You grinned looking at the coupons over his shoulder. "I think I might cash them out right now."

"Yeah?" Bradley asked amused not even thinking you were gonna spare them a second glance.

"Yeah, starting with, bathroom sex then candlelit dinner then bend me over the kitchen counter then..." How did he get so lucky?

A little late on the valentines day celebration but thought of this yesterday :) Read the 3 gas station teddy bears blurb if your still in a lovey dovey mood!

[growth-opportunities]

Your wife gave you a hall pass for any woman over an L cup. She couldn’t possibly fathom the idea that such a woman could exist!

When I agreed to it, I suppose I never fully believed that he'd meet someone that busty. I was a G cup and I just assumed that I'd be the biggest tits my husband would ever see in person. And playing up his obsession, leaning into the fact that just a bit of cleavage was enough to get him riled up, was so intoxicating and empowering. So, with his cock buried in my cleavage, I looked up at him and said, sure, if he ever met someone nearly halfway down the alphabet in cup sizes, he could hook up with her. Just the potential of it was enough to make him cum as hard as I had ever seen him. It was honestly a little hot, but I pushed those thoughts aside. He thanked me and called me the best wife ever. I just chuckled and stroked his hair while he suckled and relaxed. Best wife ever for agreeing to something that would never happen? Sure, I'll take it.

As weeks went by, I occasionally reminded him of the arrangement just for a quick power trip, smirking as his body reacted to the prospect. To me, at least, there was no concern about him following through on it, so I didn't feel any shame in teasing him about it. Winter faded into spring and, as the weather warmed, we shed our thick coats. It was around that time when I was at the end of the driveway, fetching the mail, and I saw our neighbor Anne digging in her garden. I gave her a shout and a wave and, as she turned around, my jaw dropped open.

Up until that moment, I had known her as a tiny, waifish thing. She was 5'0 in heels and her slight frame made her B cups look big, but that was all there was to her. Her curly brown hair and her bright smile were the biggest things about her. Now a pair of massive breasts bulged out of a slightly inadequate bra, putting her overalls through their paces. DD, I'd later find out. Not big enough to properly threaten my own large bust, but a significant growth, especially for someone otherwise so small. Over tea at her place a week or two later, she confided in me that her body was undergoing a sort of second puberty, except everything that was supposed to make her grow taller or wider was simply being fed back into her tits to make them huge. I gradually came to understand my husband's obsession, seeing her tits grow a bit more every time I saw her. I could tell when she upgraded to a new bra and when, a few days later, she was in desperate need of another.

Last summer, Anne had invited me over to sunbathe out by her pool and the offer was renewed this year. Except, this time, my superiority was replaced by a sense of awe. They were massive. They had to be bigger than mine by now. And the way that dominated her torso, bigger than her own head... Watching her lather them in suntan oil was almost a religious experience. My hips squirmed on my pool chair, my thighs rubbing together, trying for any kind of stimulation. My fingers twitched as I imagined kneading them, squeezing them, matching her movements as my hands moved over her skin. Even my lips tingled at the thought of sucking on them. If my bikini bottoms had been a lighter color, the wet spot would have been painfully obvious.

Once I came to terms with her growth and the fact that she might be big enough for my husband to call in that agreement, I couldn't stop thinking about it. Couldn't stop thinking about his cock between her tits, his big hands kneading while he suckled with greedy abandon. Couldn't stop thinking about how roughly he would worship her little body, pouring every ounce of devotion he had into her massive, growing bust. Thinking of her tits jiggling and bouncing as he thrust between them was enough to make me slink off to the bathroom at work and rub one out, too overwhelmed to stop myself. By now, all other questions had been silenced. I really only had once concern:

Would they let me watch?

[catinasockinsideabox]

In Dickbabs defense:

I can try explaining most of the pictures here in really short, I hope:

First picture, Barbara is kinda right being mad. Second, Dick was being a bit arrogant and all in that comic. Third picture, I might be mistaken but wasn't her father in danger? Sure, she's not completely excused for kicking him of course, still, try to understand her. Fourth picture... What is wrong with that? That's basically training? Those aren't even real spikes. She's yelling because in A REAL situation like that he needs to be fast. Fifth picture, did you guys even read the AFTER of that one?

Like every relationship, especially at the start, it has their problems. Barbara is holding back because of her legs, because she's in a wheelchair. However, she asked him for some time, he said he's gonna give it to her.

Next picture:

Again, have you read the after?

She's not being serious, she IS mocking but not with actually mean intentions.

"Barbara is jealous and shows her disdain for Koriand'r" um, okay? As if Kory was never jealous of a girl and Dick?

"Barbara dated Bruce!" Another universe.

"Barbara married Tim!" Another universe.

"But Barbara and Jason!" But Jason and Kory?

"Barbara also slut shamed him!" I can't 100% defend her, but she didn't know what actually happened on the rooftop, did she? I think no one knows what happened to Dick that night, Barbara only knows that he and Tarantula kissed. Of course she wasn't happy.

As said, I can't completely defend her over that, however, you can't completely hate on her. Also, that's probably bad writing by Devin Grayson. Helena once kissed Dick in front of Barbara, she wasn't really happy about it but didn't lash out. Plus, if I'm not wrong... Kory slept with both Jason and Roy in the new 52. Yes, that's bad writing and people don't count that, so why do we count this? Please be coherent.

Barbara to Kate Kane: "War? Pfft. I've dated Dick Grayson. You dated Dick Grayson?" How...is that sentence a reason to hate on the ship? I think it is pretty complicated to date our boy. Always missing dates or running off in the middle of them, for good reasons, but you can't blame the girls for feeling bitter about it. And before someone says it never happened with Kory or stuff like that, I'd like to remind you that he and Kory dates when they're in the Teen Titans. A team. Where there's always someone to help out and you're not alone. In Blüdhaven, Dick was alone, he used to mention it quite a lot too.

"Barbara blamed him for getting shot and forgetting about her" Okay, again, can't 100% blame her, but I feel like that was the stress talking. She was worried about him, she tried to get him back, now that everything is over, the whole situation hit her HARD, aka, she's stressing. Which is something I believe they both do a lot. You know... Being vigilantes and all, can you blame them?

You can't base their relationship as a normal one, how it would work for us, because it's not that simple. They both have a stressing and complicated life.

Last note, a little plus.

I've seen people hating on Barbara for this:

Now, I'd like to ask you, have you ever met someone who can't read? I'm adding this bonus because I did know someone like that. And let me tell you: It wasn't easy. If you add the importance and stress of the situation the characters are in, it's even more understandable why Barbara got stressed and lashed out like that.

Overall, you can't tell me she doesn't care about Cass, because she does. Like she does with Dick.

Dick and Barbara have a complicated relationship, but a good built up. It has its flaws, but they care about each other. And I feel like Tom Taylor isn't "trying to brainwash us into believing their relationship is all good and rainbows", obviously I can't say he wrote them all that good. Still, their relationship developed. You know, it happens.

It is built on retcons? Yeah. Is DC built on retcons? Absolutely. Their relationship is NOT the only thing that gets affected by retcons. I do believe that DC trying to erase Dickkory is a bit shitty though.

But in the end, why are you guys so unhinged about a fictional relationship? And a fictional character (Barbara). Some people act like she's a real person who committed war crimes, what in the world did a fictional character do to you? People take this stuff too seriously.

I've seen Dickkory fans acting surprised if someone agrees about Dickkory being better than Dickbabs, as if when you open the comment on YouTube, TikTok, Twitter, Pinterest, Tumblr under a Dickbabs post you won't see the typical comments:

"Kory >>>> Barbara"

"Dickkory >>>> Dickbabs"

"I prefer Dickkory"

"I hate this ship"

"I hate Barbara"

"I prefer Dickkory but..."

To be honest, I always see more posts and comments against the Dickbabs or Barbara instead of ones against Dick and Kory.

[nasturtiumloom]

Can you please write Rex splode with a subby and whiney reader??

ofc! hope u enjoy ˆ𐃷ˆ

MDNI

Rex Splode was never exactly patient, but something about you—your soft whines, your needy little sounds—drove him absolutely wild. He loved the way you looked up at him, all big eyes and trembling lips, squirming under his touch like you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

“God, you’re needy tonight,” he muttered, voice dripping with amusement as he pressed you back against the couch. His gloved hands gripped your waist, firm enough to make you gasp but not enough to really hurt. Not yet, anyway. “What, can’t even sit still without me, sweet stuff?”

You let out a pathetic whimper, cheeks burning as you buried your face against his chest. “N-No! Just—need you, Rex,”

He chuckled, low and rough, running a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah? You need me to think for you too, baby?” His fingers trailed up your spine, making you shudder. “Don’t tell me you’ve already gone all dumb on me.”

The heat pooling in your stomach twisted, shame and arousal tangling into something you couldn’t quite control. You bit your lip, shifting under his grip, and Rex groaned as he watched you try to form words, only to end up with another desperate little noise instead.

“Shit,” he breathed, eyes darkening as he leaned in closer. “That’s it, isn’t it? You just wanna be my dumb little thing, huh?” His hands slid up to cradle your face, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Just wanna whine and let me take care of you, my little bunny?”

You nodded weakly, barely able to think past the haze in your head. “Please.”

Rex’s grip on your waist tightened as you started grinding against him, desperate for friction. The feeling of his firm body beneath you only made the ache between your legs worse.

“Fuck, you’re desperate,” he groaned, watching you with hooded eyes as you rocked your hips against his lap. “Look at you, grinding on me like a needy little thing. You that desperate for me, sweetheart?”

You exhaled shakily, gripping his shoulders for leverage. “I just need you, Rex, I can’t take it anymore—”

He smirked, hands slipping lower to grab your hips, guiding your movements. “You’re gonna have to beg a little sweeter than that, baby.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, the frustration mixing with your arousal. “I want you to fuck me already, stop teasing.”

His breath hitched, and he groaned as his fingers dug into your skin. “Fuck,” he hissed, kissing you hard. “You’re gonna be the death of me, doll.”

The room was filled with the slick, rhythmic sound of skin meeting skin, the deep, breathless groans from Rex and the broken moans spilling from your lips. He had you on your stomach, one arm wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding you in place while his breath came hot and heavy against your ear. His other hand gripped your hip, keeping you exactly where he wanted as he thrust into you, hard and deep.

“You feel so fucking good, sweet stuff,” he murmured against your ear, his voice rough with restraint. “Taking me so well, just like that.”

Your fingers clenched into the sheets, your back arching as a whimper escaped. A bit of drool slipped from your lips, smearing against the pillow. “Rex... fuck... please, s’too much.”

He chuckled lowly, his grip tightening just slightly. “Too much? You were begging for it a second ago, baby. Now you can’t handle it?”

You whined, body trembling as the pleasure coiled tighter. “I can, I can take it, I swear. Just—just go faster.”

The wet slap of your bodies filled the room, punctuated by your desperate, needy cries. Each deep thrust sent his balls slapping against your clit, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through your overstimulated body, making you tremble beneath him.

Rex’s grip on your throat remained firm, grounding you as he fucked into you harder. “You gonna come for me, hm?” he rasped. “Wanna feel you squeeze me.”

Your breath hitched, a needy whimper breaking free as another drop of drool slipped from your lips. “Y-Yeah, I’m—fuck! I’m so close... gonna come... please don’t stop!”

His low groan vibrated against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “That’s it, baby. Give it to me.”

Your body clenched around him, pleasure crashing over you as you came with a sharp cry, the tension snapping all at once. A deep groan rumbled from his chest, but he didn’t stop. His hips stuttered for a moment before regaining their relentless pace, still chasing his own release.

You gasped at the overstimulation, body twitching beneath him. “Rex! wait I—”

His grip on your hip tightened, keeping you in place. “Not done yet, sweet stuff,” he muttered, his voice strained. “Didn’t cum yet—so you’re gonna take it.”

You let out a choked whimper, another thin trail of drool slipping past your lips as your mind fogged over. “Rex... please... need you to fill me up.”

His breath turned ragged, his pace growing more erratic. “Yeah? That’s what you want? Wanna be stuffed full, huh, sweet stuff?”

You nodded frantically, nails clawing at the sheets. “Yes, please, Rex, I need it! please, please!”

A guttural groan tore from his throat as he slammed into you harder, his body pulsing deep inside. “Fuck, take it, baby, take all of it.”

The moment he came, buried deep inside you, your whole body clenched around him, the sensation sending you over the edge again. Your moans mixed with his deep groans, the pleasure overwhelming you both as he filled you to the brim.

Your whole body went limp, completely spent as you melted into the pillow beneath you. Rex’s arm was still wrapped around your throat, but now it was just holding you up, keeping you from collapsing entirely. Your weight pressed into him, exhausted and boneless, your breath coming in shallow little pants.

He held you close, pressing hot, lazy kisses along your shoulder as he caught his breath.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

what did you think about wiege miss raven …

It was cute 🥰

BRO 💀 LUKA IS SO HOPELESSLY IN LOVE AND DOWN BAD FOR HYUNA… He’s smiling like a kid in a candy store and blushing like a schoolgirl with a crush when a GUN is pointed at his head??? Wanting to run to her and embrace her anyway, with zero regard for his own situation or how she might react negatively to him??? Kissing her missing poster (even though kissing isn’t really a thing in their society?) He’s literally SO mentally ill and obsessed with her… This is toxic and codependent het, I KNOW IT IS 👁️👄👁️

The song this time was admittedly not my favorite, honestly (its tone is sort of haunting)—but I love what it represents… A pure lullaby, holding all the hope for a peaceful and happy future. It’s probably one of the few songs Luka ever sang without intent to manipulate or harm his duet partner.

I loved seeing more gaps in the story being filled in!! Mizi after being rescued and Hyuna trying to calm her down, Hyunwoo’s presence in general, Hyuna competing in Alien Stage, Luka and the other children in Anakt Garden… Ooogh, and those flashes to an alternate universe where everyone is alive, well, and involved in their passions… Luka and Hyuna with their matching rings (not sure if they’re promise bands, engagement rings, or wedding rings)?? It was nice but I feel like I might not be as invested in their relationship if that AU lacks the ✨ spice ✨ of being enemies.

LITTLE LUKA WAS SO PRECIOUS BUT ALSO SUCH A LONER LOSER OTL Laying his head against her… Him sitting under that tree alone and huddled up, counting his fingers to pass the time… Hyuna casually joining him… The pure joy that brings him… Hyuna going in for what seems to be a hug, only for the scene to cut to her body slumping on his AFTER BEING SHOT WHILE PROTECTING HIM 💀 That was absolutely FOUL…

TILL, MY BELOVED SON… He didn’t show up a lot this song, but I loved seeing him having so much freedom and creativity. Spray painting, drawing, just acting like a Normal Human Being and not constantly lashing out and being violently subdued 💦 I always feel like I’ve been punched in the gut myself when he’s harmed. Poor guy… He deserves all the happiness in the world.

dhjsvajFagfDah DONmT yhINK i FORgoT MIZI eiThER. Girliepop is fr going through it??? Still having trauma visions of Sua… LOSING HYUNA NOW… and now she’s left with that fucker whose ass she beat in a fit of rage 😭 which does NOT bode well. THE MURDER IN MIzi’S EYES AT THE ENd, HOLY ShIT. I am half expecting the next installment to just be her wailing on Luka, maybe blaming him for what happened to Hyuna and still holding a grudge for using Sua’s death in such a despicable way.

Hyuna’s final words to Luka were so 👌 It wasn’t too long, it wasn’t too short… It was the perfect length and it conveyed everything she needed to tell him. How important he truly is to her, how she hates him because she loves him; he is and always was her one and only weakness, how all she wishes in her final moments is for Luka to live life to its fullest—even the ugly bits. That he should forgive himself and love himself no matter what…

“Luka, live with love. Embrace the pain, the frailty, and the moments so unbearably shameful. Forgive yourself… Again and again, endlessly. Because everything… begins from there.”

P.S. I feel like I definitely got lost on some parts of the story 😅 I wasn’t sure how to interpret that scene where Luka was covered in blood and there were a bunch of his dead clones (?) in tanks?? Is the implication supposed to be that the aliens were trying to make the perfect performer and the Luka we know now is the ideal test tube baby…? I see his hand on what appears to be a control panel of some kind?? So did he accidentally kill the clones?? And I’m not sure why the random gunman tried to shoot Luka. Isn’t Hyuna the leader of the resistance? Why didn’t she command them to stop? Why did she throw herself in harm’s way instead? Was it a spur of the moment or adrenaline fueled move? Did the gunman really dislike Luka or what he represents + want to kill him so badly they disregarded orders to let him go?

P.P.S. Sorry to Ivan fans… I do not have much to remark on other than the opinion I have always held, which is “Man has killer eyelashes.”

P.P.P.S. I actually didn’t cry! 👍 vxjsneksksk I live for angst like this, so I was eating it all up like a bag of chips.

Really looking forward to seeing where things will go from here on out! The resistance is lacking a leader now; will Mizi step up?! What’s going to happen to Luka, is he going to be taken as a hostage and slowly come around to join the resistance? How are the aliens going to retaliate? Will the competitor even continue at this rate? So many interesting questions!

[morimemichael]

Walks up to the microphone and gulps nervously…… can you write a daisuke x Reader with him possibly eatingthereaderout preferably a gender neutral reader… ok sigh walks away in shame

- 🦇

I got you anon… 😏😎

DAISUKE X N!READER

Warnings: smut! Reader receiving oral! Cunnilingus! Orgasm!

Daisuke’s muffled moans we’re filling the empty room. Laying on the couch in his back, he has his mouth attached to your core. Napping at your juices. You were hovering over his face, moaning his name at the top of your lungs. The tip of his tongue circling that spot you love so much.

“Daisuke!! God! Babe, just like that!” You screamed once more, making the young boy hum against your wet and throbbing core.

“You’re so wet, I can’t get enough of you. Please lemme keep eating you sweetie….” He begged.

“Please, please, don’t stop!” Your hips start rocking forwards, meeting his tongue midway. You let your head fall back whimpering with pleasure. Daisuke’s hands gripping your hips tightly, desperate to please you, wanting to know if he was doing good.

He starts to lick your wetness and granting at your own flavor.

“Mhg-fuck, your taste…want more.” He let out a grunt-kind of noise, from deep back of his throat.

“It’s all yours Dai…” You coo him.

“Please ride my face darling.” He asked, almost begging.

You didn’t have to be told twice, when you start moving a little bit faster, he didn’t have much experience, but he learnt what he knows form you. Moving your hips to help you ride his face faster. You feel the peek of your orgasm getting closer.

“Dai!” You moan, a subtle warning that you were getting closer to your climax.

“It’s okay, beautiful, it’s okay. Cum on my face, I wanna taste your orgasm.” He whimpered.

A few more moves was all you needed to explode and cry his name, sobbing a little bit as you come hard on his face.

“D-Dai!! Babe-God….!” You cried out, riding your orgasm as long as you could.

Once you were done, Daisuke kissed your thighs gently, workshopping every inch of your skin. Soft lips trailing a soft path of kisses upwards, heading to you face.

“You’re so beautiful…” He reassured.

“Cheesy…” You teased.

“Come on! It’s true. You’re a magnificent, intelligent and cool person. How did I get is lucky? Me? From all the guys you could’ve had if you wanted to…”

“Yeah, but only you make me laugh like a seagull.” You giggle and he laughs.

“Geez…I love you.” He confesses again. He flash him a big smile as you kiss the tip of his nose.

After that, you stayed the night in his sleeping quarters, having his arms wrapped around your waist, as he cuddle you to sleep.

Okay, THIS SUCKS 😭 I’m sorry! I wrote this last night in the middle of the night 🥹 I promise I’ll do better next time ✨ I hope you liked it tho! 😊 see ya around guys!!

[monstersinthecosmos]

Vamptember Day 24 - Divorce

{black light burns - drowning together, dying alone}

Daniel’s headphones are on, but he still hears the muffled rhythm of their voices from the other room. Noise canceling only goes so far for the preternatural, it seems. He turns the volume up, and stares down at his book, and tries not to hear what they’re saying. 

Awkward, overhearing it. Reminds him of his parents fighting when he was a kid.

He hears Marius slam the balcony door, the way it rattles the windows. He lays his book down atop his chest and stares at the ceiling, heart racing from the noise. 

It’s not that he doesn’t know Marius has a secret temper. He can taste it when they drink from each other. Feels it like a charge crackling through the room when Marius is trying to hold it back, senses his suffocating shame when it burns up to the surface. But he’s never truly seen it, has he?

And not now, either. In the other room, away from him. Just the shouting, and the rattling windows. 

Daniel doesn’t feel him out there on the balcony—he must have taken off. Too pissed off to take the stairs, or even wait for the elevator. No, straight up to the sky, and he could be anywhere by now.

His fingers tap idly against the book cover. No noise over the headphones anymore, but he can feel her in the next room. So strange, being near someone Marius’s same age. How heavy their energy feels, even though hers is wholly different. He wonders how long she’ll stay.

The song in his headphones ends, and he tears them from his head, tosses them to the other side of the bed. Digs into his pocket to click the iPod off. Sets his book aside.

Despite the shouting match, Pandora seems relaxed when Daniel pops his head into the living room. Stretched across the green velvet couch like nothing is wrong, leisurely turning the pages of the Gisele Bündchen book. Her shoeless feet plant against the couch cushions, knees bent so that the book can lay open across her thighs.

Daniel leans in the door frame, watching her. Waiting to see if she’ll say anything. Her toes tap gently to the beat of the radio, and her eyes narrow at one of the photographs.

“Marius went out?” Daniel finally asks. 

“For a tantrum, I’m sure.”

“He only acts like this when you’re around, you know.”

Her mouth twists into a half smile, eyes alight as she glances up at him. She taps the couch cushion with one of her feet. “Come sit. Are you defending him?”

Daniel scans outwards again, checking that Marius really left. How good is his hearing, anyway? He scratches the back of his head, chuckling out of nervousness as he obeys her. She lifts her feet so that he has room to sit, then crosses her ankles over his lap.

He’s not sure where to put his hands, if he should tuck them beside himself or fold them over her cold legs. She’s wearing an ankle bracelet and her nails are painted dark purple.

“I think you’re mistaken, baby boy,” she says, and Daniel can’t help laughing a little louder. “He only behaves when you’re around.”

“Baby boy,” Daniel scoffs. If there were fresh blood in his body, his cheeks might get warm. 

She slowly closes the book. Folds her hands on top of it. Stares at Daniel’s face. He can’t hear what she’s thinking.

“You look just like him, you know,” she says, after a pause. “Have any of them told you that?”

“Any of who?”

“Any of them.”

Daniel laughs nervously. “Apparently not.”

“If you’d been turned a bit younger, you and Lestat could pass for his sons. You know that, yes?” When he doesn’t answer, she flexes her foot, rolls her heel back and forth against the top of his thigh. “You must have been a vision when Louis found you.”

“Come on, that’s…” Daniel looks away from her. Chokes on the forced laughter, stares down at the shapely bones of her ankles, unable to watch her face. And, what? That’s what? He crosses his arms over his chest, whole body tense as he tries to keep his hands to himself. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I’m being unfair,” she says, after a pause, and Daniel glances towards her in time to see the way she tilts her head in thought. “You look young. You could still pass as his son. We didn’t age so well when were alive, you know.”

His son. Daniel’s stomach flutters, and Pandora’s eyes glint in mirth.

“You knew that, then.” 

He tries to keep his thoughts hidden, but the memories cascade inside too fast. How many times Marius has been mistaken for his father out in public, the way neither of them ever correct it. The amount of times Daniel has called him daddy.

“It’s a rite of passage, I suppose,” Pandora says. There’s a useless, warm ache where she presses her foot to his groin. 

“What is?”

“That whole father business. He was like that when he was young, too. Perhaps he grew out of it, in his old age. Now it’s his turn to be the father,” she sets the book aside, and Daniel looks towards the noise as it thuds against the coffee table. She folds her arms behind her head as she stretches. “You can touch me, you know.”

Daniel can see it, sort of, in his head. Something foggy that he’s caught in the Blood before, something he stored away deep down in his head from years ago. It surfaces as he laughs a little bit, and lets the tension down from his shoulders, uncrossing his arms and resting his hands against her.

The hair on her legs is so soft, with all this time. Short enough that he can tell she shaved when she alive, but she was turned in such a hurry. Not like Daniel, with every detail obsessed over. Not like Marius.

His fingers curl around her ankle, then over her arch. Marius touches him like this sometimes. He tries to repeat it, massaging her the way he imagines that Marius would.

“You weren’t much older than me when you were turned,” he says, thinking about it. He studies her face, trying to find a clue, but she’s too inhuman to tell.

Her eyebrow quirks as she hears the thought slip out. Daniel chuckles and drops his head, watches the work in his lap as he rubs her feet.

“Sorry. It’s not a bad thing,” he breathes through the awkwardness, feeling the strange hardness of her body. Marius is the same, it’s not that it’s unfamiliar to him. Just… 

“I understand,” she says. “It was that way with the Parents. Or with the twins. It’s hard to see, once we become like this.”

“Marius… feels old,” Daniel mumbles. “You both feel, I don’t know. Ancient. I can feel you in the room, I can tell that you’re something… but Marius. I don’t know. Maybe it’s his paterfamilias bullshit or something.”

Pandora’s laughter is sharp and sudden. She offers a little kick to his hip bone.

“He looks old, maybe. In his face. He just wears it in his face, I think.”

“Well, there aren’t many of us who lived to see thirty. Maybe we just spend too much time around perpetual children.”

“Yeah…” 

Daniel’s motions slow as he stares across the room at nothing. Sore spot, that Pandora couldn’t have known she was pressing on. Not sure his life counts as living to thirty. It had ended that night in San Francisco, really.

“Not that Marius is the paradigm of maturity,” she adds a moment later. She’s grinning when Daniel sneaks a glance at her, like they’re sharing a secret. 

“Has he always been like this?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s different for us. He’s my maker.”

The words curl around his middle spine. He stares at her again, studying her face, realizing for the first time that there’s no photos of her in their apartment. The size of it swells in his chest, too suffocating to imagine. Marius as your maker. Marius as your maker.

“Most of us just have that one person, you know. One person who knew us when we were alive. Marius is lucky in that way, he has a few of us. So do you.”

Daniel shudders. 

“Did you have a big family when you were alive?” she asks, continuing along as if she can’t feel his discomfort.

“No… I was an only child. My mom had a sister that lived nearby, and I had a cousin. That’s it. No one else had come to the US.”

“You’re special, you know.” And her voice is soft, not teasing for once. So sincere. She leans forward to touch him on the chin, to hold him where she wants him, to stare into his eyes. “You met all of us, right away. It’s like having a whole house full of aunties and uncles that want to see you do well.”

Ridiculous. Daniel wants to laugh, but he can’t find it. 

“Most of the time you guys feel like my divorced parents.”

Her fingers pinch him harder. “Were you parents divorced?”

“No, it’s…” he tries to shake his head, but there’s no give. His voice falls flat, too distracted by the shape of her eyes. “It’s a joke.”

“You should call me Mommy some time.” For a moment, Daniel isn’t sure if she’s telling him what to do or it’s another joke. Isn’t sure if he’s supposed to laugh. 

“Oh.”

Her eyes glance towards the open windows, and the curtain swaying in the breeze, out to the city noise and night sky. She and Marius have the barrier between them, but he wonders if she can hear his heartbeat out there somewhere, the only one that’s been there the whole time. 

“Do it in front of him. I want to see what he does.”

[daylighted]

Do u think baby would mention the things she’s seen dean do in the car? I feel like that would be the most funny and awkward (on deans part) conversation

omfg yes 😭😭 yes she would bring it up bc she has no semblance of shame and yes it would be just as awkward as u are imagining. something like ...

"dean?"

that innocent voice never meant anything good, dean had come to realize, so it's with great reluctance that he turns to face you, that typical brace-for-impact wince on his face.

"how come when sam drives you're not back here with me?"

literally, you could not have caught him further off guard, because what kind of question is that? your questions tended to have a million hidden meanings and things he was just supposed to innately know, and so he smiles a little. "word that better for me, will ya?"

common occurrence. some of your questions became a tad more intelligible with the request, sometimes they only ended up confusing the both of you more.

expectedly, your face contorts into wild irritation. it's amazing how much attitude one person could have within them, especially one that did not even know that you were acting bratty. "you like girls in the backseat."

dean blanches. "what?"

your face is more furious now, somehow. at this point, though, he really is avoiding the question at hand, so at least your irritability is justified. "i am a girl. and you always used to have girls in the backseat, laying on them."

laying on them. yeah.

"naked."

there it was.

sam glances up from behind the laptop screen with a grimace. he meets dean's eyes and shakes his head, grabbing the convenient investment he'd made and plugging the earbuds into his ears. great. so this was all on dean.

you are still going though, taking his silence for the avoidance that it was. "i can get naked! i do not care. if you only sit with the naked girls, fine. i will—"

"you are so damn cute, baby," dean says, muffled by the hand he scrubs over his face, "i can't stand it."

"then sit it," you shoot back at him, lips twisted into a fiery pout. "every other girl in the universe has had you sitting back here with them. but you won't sit next to me."

dean frowns. every other girl in the universe is a bit of an exaggeration, but, sure. he'll take the bait. "it's not been that many."

"it's so been that many. i remember."

your memory was about as selective as a toddler's hearing, so that evidence was out the window.

dean crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in the wooden dining chair he sat in, rocking on its back legs. "and what do you wanna do with me in the backseat, huh?"

"sit!" borderline shouted, like it was the easiest answer in the universe and not something that was practically life or death for dean. "i want to sit next to you. i hate leaning forward in the middle to talk to you guys. that is not safe."

now you were schooling him on road safety.

it's the genuine hurt on your face that makes him take pause. sometimes, these conversations were funny, or amusing, or just as uncomfortable as this one was. sometimes, though, dean didn't take in the account that every word out of your mouth was genuine. no corners cut, no beating around the bush.

"every other girl in the universe has gotten to sit next to you," you repeat, slower this time, your voice so much smaller. god, you really were so damn cute; he couldn't stand it or sit it. "and they were so happy about it. they were saying yes so many times. i wanna say yes."

his lips thin to try and repress the smile. it was not funny. this was serious. you felt like an enigma (and you were, but that certainly wasn't going to make you feel any better right now. the least dean could do was pull his head out of the gutter and grant you the reassurances you needed.

"how about, next car ride, i sit back there with you?" dean asks, raising his eyebrows to punctuate the question. "or we kick sam to the backseat and you sit up there with me? then you can talk my ear off."

you stare at him for a long while, seeming to contemplate it. without answering, you reach over to tap sam on the shoulder, prompting him to tug an earbud loose. "dean wants to kick you to the backseat so i can sit up front this time."

sam's mouth opens and closes a couple of times, completely lost. "...okay?" he looks over at dean with that same grimaced wince from earlier.

dean shrugs. "you were incapable of defending yourself. shut yourself out of the world, lose your freedom of choice in seats."

"new car rule?" sam's cheeks dimple with the force of his thin smile. "it was fine when you made up all those rules when we were kids. not fun anymore."

another shrug. "baby's choice."

he was right, though. dean hadn't implemented car rules since he'd inherited (hijacked, really, but semantics) baby from his dad's clutches, years ago. the fact that your arrival was causing dean to make up new things to make you happy and comfortable was...

not something he wanted to think about, thanks.

expectedly, that happiness radiates off of you like its own heat source, warm and inviting. your hands clap together quickly, grin wide enough to blind a car driving by the motel.

"yes, yes, yes!" you say, all of that genuine joy on your face somehow keeping dean's head out of the gutter, too blinded by it to care about any sort of innuendo. "see? i already sound like all the other girls in the world."

sam closes his eyes, breathing a sigh out of his nose. "alright. i'm done here." the earbud goes right back in, leaving dean and you staring across the table at each other.

fuck. he was screwed.

[crazycurly-77]

Flowers for Mrs. Gibbs - Alternative Ending (Chapter 2)

Fandom: NCIS

Pairing: Gibbs x reader

Warnings: pure fluff

A biiig thank you to @ilovemark1951 for the request for this chapter!!! Have fun!

A few weeks after your wedding, you transferred from the lab to the research department.

It wasn't quite as interesting as your previous job, but research is also a lot of fun.

There was one small disadvantage, though: you saw the team, Abby and Ducky, much less now. Your office was also on the second floor, so you didn't run into each other anymore.

The change was a shame, but it reassured Jethro to know that you had nothing to do with any danger, such as weapons or chemicals, during your research.

And if he was worried about how you were, he only had to go down one floor, because you were always close to him.

Yes, it was a bit strange, but given that his family had been the victim of an assassination attempt, he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks and you didn't want to burden him unnecessarily either.

The work went well and the new colleagues were great too. The married life of Gibbs and you was also very harmonious and beautiful...it couldn't have been better.

Although...you had to revise this opinion several weeks after your transfer, because it actually got even better and you were crying with joy and happiness.

You could hardly wait to tell him the big news and in the evening it was finally time.

Beaming with happiness, you told Jethro that you were pregnant.

At first he couldn't believe it, but just seconds later he burst into loud cheers of joy and beamed with pure happiness too.

He exuberantly picked you up and danced through the house with you in his arms. He would have loved to hug the whole world.

It was wonderful to see how free he was from all worries and this expression of pure joy suited him very well. You tried to memorize this sight, but at the same time you also hoped to see this joy on his face more often during your life together.

What was a little difficult about the situation was that he turned into a worried mother hen and looked after you from head to toe. He meant well by looking after you so much, but sometimes he got on your nerves a little.

Of course you didn't let it show, because that was his way of calming his constant worry...he just had to do something to make sure his family was okay. 

He put locks where they were needed, built a cradle and lots of toys.

But this cradle was only the "second cradle" for the living room, though, because in your bedroom was the former cradle of his first daughter Kelly.

Besides the usual discomforts of pregnancy, luckily everything went well and Jethro looked after you lovingly.

Your colleagues didn't notice anything, though, because you hardly saw each other anymore. It was just noticeable that Gibbs was now going home earlier and that he was in a better mood, but they attributed this to your marriage.

Whatever the exact reason was... they were all so happy for the two of you that you had found happiness together.

The months went by and your new addition to the family slowly began to show. But before anyone could notice anything, new carpets were being laid in your offices on the second floor, which not only took a long time but also meant that the entire floor had to work from home.

But returning after the carpets had been laid was out of the question, as materials that were harmful to health were used, which meant that everything had to be removed again.

That was fine with you, because you felt most comfortable at home and could lie down for a short time in the last months of your pregnancy when you were exhausted.

And your husband looked after you selflessly. He was the best and most loving husband a woman could wish for and he will also be a wonderful father, you were absolutely sure of that.

With each day that the birth of your little darling drew closer, Gibbs became more nervous. Hopefully everything would go well. But every time he looked at you with his child - no, the child of you both - under your heart, which was proof of your eternal love, he knew: he had found peace.

He looked at you with looks that spoke of his undying love, like he looked at Shannon. But he was surprised to discover that his love for you and your child went even deeper.

In order to protect your happiness as best as possible and because he simply didn't like to reveal his private life, he hadn't told his colleagues anything... until one day...

... his cell phone rang and he ran straight past Tony to the elevator.

DiNozzo looked after him irritated and said: "Boss, the suspect is in interrogation room 1."

But Gibbs laughed and shouted:

"No time. I'm going to be a FATHER!!!"

Wow. What? Gibbs? Father? Tony was speechless. THAT was news.

But before DiNozzo could react in any way, his boss had already disappeared and was on his way to the hospital.

A few hours later, Tony received an email with a photo. This photo showed three people who represented the epitome of a loving family.

And underneath it was written:

“Gibbs family - Y/N, Natalie Shannon and Leroy Jethro.”

The End

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Here you will find the other chapter of this story.

Masterlist stories Part 1 (finished ones)

Masterlist stories Part 2 (finished ones and ongoing ones)

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Tags: @ilovemark1951, @hobby27

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[aldisobey]

Alright. Present. Here. I couldn’t stop the buzz in brain to make things more coherent, I suspect they barely are. This is one I go to pull a quote I love and I read the paragraph, and on, and on, the spiral down and in. I’m reading the whole story again. I love it. And every piece I pull wants to grow, because yeah that sentence too, and this bit here I like that sound.

Fuck. What balance, what bounce. Fully unsettling and discomforting creep but also, funny. I’m chuckling. But maybe that’s how I respond. I’m. Capable. I did it I pulled quotes. words and some favorite bits below.

Tears in my eyes, waving goodbye, Stuart is that you? You’re so much more than I ever could’ve dreamed or raised. Bless your mother. Bless all the sister-wives. Look what you beget. It’s magnificent. Her mouth is dry but oh im moist. I know I’m not the only one I see you.

There’s pity or sympathy here too. fuck your actions skullrich but. but Damn. Ouch. (TW: sad dog death stuff) It’s like seeing a really old dog, and you’re mad at the family, just say goodbye, for his own good. Please I’ll pay for it. I’ll see him out. Crush that skull between my thiiiiiiighs. It’s a loving embrace.

I want the dreadful thing pls. I want the book in the book. Fic in the fic let’s go deeper. Call in the Rooks. Holy shit look at those Hades like escape attempts what. That’s for me later but I want to see what’s in your dreadful thing. And I can’t help but quote all of that. I love that. Distinctly terrible given when kindness and reassurance intended. Hit me again.

Holy. Holy shit. My god. I’ve got the crawly skin. He’s going full Dennis implication. You’re on a boat Rook aaaah that pause after couple. I’m hooked. Emmrich how could you. How dare you. But also yeah I get it. I do get it a little bit. But shame on you. And how terrifying. Lich prisoner in the heart of Nevarra. There’s no help for ya. Is there? Gotta dig yourself out. But uuuuuh.

Alright. Friends. As we all know this shouldn’t be new information. First step. Never a second location. This poor Rook. Has already done that. Second step. At least for SERE hostage training. Humanize yourself. Use your name a lot. Share similarities ah fuck he’s a skeleton. And he knows way too much. But look gain trust yeah. Learn their name talk their interests schmoooooze. Use their name. Have them use your name and learn about…none of this works on skullrich he knows it. Because last step is fucking fight when you get the chance. Negotiate with the terrorist survive fight. But this is a lich. Also, again. IM NOT AN EXPERT consider this creative writing trying to think Rook a way out and I can’t.

Yes. This is exactly what you’re looking for Rook. Ignore the fear for a moment. Get him giddy. Get him stupid. Get OUT. maker the cards are stacked though aren’t they. And fuck. the fixing the latter thing earlier? THAT has an ominous feel. Twists the gut in a warming way, an embrace within caressing between intestine. Measuring their length through hands or something.

And this. This right here just feels so absurdly blood curdling. The rest is snuggling into the tubes of gut. Some sleepy feel thinks how delightful a vacation. Wait. Wait wait wait wait. Nope. Sleep here long and you’ll die in a way.

Sleep Inside the Cold of You

Rook returns. Again and again. He never minds the waiting—he is patient, inexhaustibly so—but she no longer stays. Not like before. Not like she used to.

Inspired by my sister-wife @aldisobey's unfinished WIP. This is all thanks to you, babe, and entirely for you. Lich Emmrich x Rook, reincarnation trope, but make it unsettling.

Originally meant to be a one-shot, but, as usual, I have thoughts, so now it’s a three-parter. Tee-freaking-hee.

Read below or on AO3

It is one thing to glimpse oneself in a mirror. Quite another to find one's image cast in stone, immutable, reduced to the palm of a hand. She turns the miniature effigy between her fingers, its cold surface absorbing none of her warmth. The craftsmanship is grotesquely precise, almost leering in its accuracy: her nose, her mouth, the exact tilt of her head. But the hair is wrong. Longer, heavier. As if it belongs to someone else. 

The altar is unremarkable, small, its presence more insidious for the lack of ceremony. It does not gleam, does not command reverence. And yet, it is untouched. Pristine in a way that feels unnatural, as though the dust that settles upon all things has simply chosen to ignore it. As though it has existed under glass until this very moment, preserved in some invisible stasis, waiting for her eyes to find it.

There are other things. She moves through them quickly, with the detached efficiency of someone rifling through a stranger’s pockets. A gold coin, soft with age, warmed by her skin as it glides between her knuckles, a magician’s trick, cheap in its ease. A dagger, slight, dainty almost, its sickly blue blade neither metal nor anything she can name, its edge humming with something that makes her fingers hesitate before they close around the hilt. At the altar’s periphery, a cloth pouch. She lifts it, inhales. Peppermint. Lemon verbena. Oregano. Licorice root. Rivaini. A blend for settling the stomach. Or dulling the mind. 

"I know you do not like her, and she does not like you in turn, and, frankly, I am beginning to sympathize with the sentiment. Her sentiment, mind you. Nevertheless, we must proceed this way. If you would be so kind?" the creature mutters. He says it all—to the Necropolis? Yes, it appears so. He speaks to it as one does to a stubborn dog, half-scolding, half-affectionate. 

She supposes he is a man, judging by the voice, at least. It is difficult to be certain when all that remains of him is bone. No flesh, no pretense of life, only the stark architecture of a skeleton, ribs gilded, skull crowned. His gestures, though economical, have a certain fluidity to them, an old-world elegance that makes his impatience seem almost indulgent. 

He lifts his staff—an ornate thing, absurdly baroque—and taps it against the stone. The Necropolis rumbles in response, shifting, sighing, its bricks slithering apart like something that has only just woken. 

"Ah," he breathes, pleased, though the sound is weightless, without lungs to carry it. "Much better." 

For a moment, he stands still, head inclined, as if listening to some distant music, some hidden frequency woven into the stone. Then, with a quiet sort of amusement, he says, "It is quite hopeless, my darling. Time and time and time again, I attempt to reconcile the two of you, to soften this little enmity, to foster, if not warmth, at least civility." A flick of his fingers, graceful, dismissive. "And yet..." 

He beckons, and she obeys, not quite knowing why. As she steps forward, his wrapped hand—those long, tapered fingers swathed in fabric, hiding whatever remains beneath—settles at the small of her back. A light touch, barely there, but with a certainty that suggests he has done this before. Many times. 

Through the threshold he guides her, chattering all the while. "And time and time again, you bicker," he muses, half to himself. "I fear you will never learn to get along." 

The walls shift behind them, a deep, seismic sigh, stone sliding over stone. The passage is gone. His hand lingers a moment longer, trembling a little, before it withdraws. 

The new room is more inviting. The sort of comfort that feels prepared, orchestrated, like a stage set designed to put the subject at ease. A small table, set up for a luncheon. A silver pot of coffee, steaming faintly. A plate of delicate pastries, dusted with powdered sugar. 

He insists she sit. She does. She lifts one of the cakes between her fingers but does not eat it, only holds it. Across from her, the lich—yes, the lich, that is what he told her he is—folds himself into his chair. He crosses one leg over the other, arranges his fingers upon his knee, and watches her, his skull tilting at an angle just thoughtful enough to unsettle. 

"All of this," he begins, a vague sweep of his bandaged hand encompassing the room, the table, the carefully constructed charm of the setting, "ought to be to your liking. But if anything displeases you, why, you have only to ask."

She does not look at his skull, nor at the crown resting upon it. She does not want to think about the empty sockets where his eyes should be, about what it means for a thing like him to watch her. Instead, she fixes her gaze on his fingers.

They appear normal, if one does not look too closely. But it is the rings that hold her, that give her something solid to grasp. Emeralds, rubies, clear stones cold as ice, all set in heavy gold, the metal worn smooth by time.

"All of this," she echoes at last, "is displeasing." 

A sigh. Long, weary, expelled between bared teeth, though the source of breath remains a mystery. The fingers she cannot stop watching continue their absent rhythm, tips teasing the fabric of the tablecloth, drawing it ever so slightly out of place. 

"Oh, please," he implores, the syllables drawn, elongated, touched with a tired fondness. "I beg you." A pause, a shift, his fingers now smoothing the cloth they had only just disturbed. "Must we always begin this way? It is always the same, always. You scowl, you refuse, you insist upon your discontent, but then, inevitably—" His eyes—if they could be called that—flick toward her hands, toward the delicate, untouched pastry. "You eat. You smile." The drumming resumes, faster now. "And then, my love, you die." 

A flutter of nausea stirs in her stomach. 

His fingers still. “We cannot keep doing this,” he says, and for all his refinement, all his elegance, there is something sore in his voice now, something weary and worn and just barely bruised. “The repeating and the dying alike. The latter, I believe, I may soon correct. But the former…” His thumb cracks as he folds it. “The former, I fear, is entirely up to you.” 

She swallows. Her mouth is dry. 

"What do you…" She falters, tries again. "We've done this before?" 

A slow nod, gentle, patient. “In a manner of speaking.” 

She grips the edge of the table. “How many times?” 

A deliberation. He lifts his fingers, lowering them one by one, counting, but before he reaches any conclusion, he stops. Sighs. Laughs, a small, intimate thing, something just for her, something that feels oddly familiar. “I cannot say,” he admits, as if confessing to some harmless forgetfulness. “Though this time is rather curious.” 

He studies her for a moment longer than necessary, then shifts, leaning slightly to one side, as if examining her from a different angle might yield something new. When it does not, he settles back. 

“You have never before struck your head just as I found you. A tragic little accident." His hand sneaks forth, walking over the table like a many-limbed spider. The touch, when it comes, is the barest brush, his fingers resting just barely over hers. "And now, my darling, you remember nothing at all. I must admit, I am not quite sure what to make of it... Ah, but perhaps it is a blessing in disguise. Fewer explanations. Fewer protests."

She pulls her hand away, pressing it to the back of her head, and—yes, there it is. Wet at first, then merely sticky, her hair clumped together over the spot. Her fingers return red. Blood. Dark, drying, familiar in the way that all wounds are familiar. She stares at it for a moment before wiping her hand against the tablecloth. A beat later, she realizes the impropriety of it, but the lich does not seem to mind. 

He retrieves the pastry she has dropped, brushes it off with a peculiar sort of care, then picks up a butter knife, dipping it into the small silver dish beside him. A simple stroke, the press of pale gold against soft layers of cake. The movement is entirely unremarkable, save for the fact that his hands glide with the kind of patience that belongs only to the dead or the deeply in love. 

He hands it back to her. She takes it. 

"Thank you," she says, though the words feel misplaced, as if they belong to a different scene, a different woman, one with clearer thoughts and cleaner hands. 

The room presses in around her, unthreatening, but too warm, too heavy with something she cannot name. A feeling like recognition without memory, like an actor stepping onto a stage and finding that the lines will not come. 

She looks down at the pastry, at the soft smear of butter, glossy under the light. 

"I…" Her voice is thin, unpleasant. A raw little thing, scraped from the inside of her throat. "I don’t know what to do. Or where I’m supposed to go." She grips the pastry too tightly. The edges break apart in her fingers. "Where was I going?" 

Across from her, he clasps his hands together with an air of thoughtful consideration before, unexpectedly, laughing again. 

It is a bright, delighted sound, so at odds with everything that it makes her wince, as if she has stepped barefoot onto something sharp. 

"You are always some kind of thief or other," he muses, sounding utterly charmed by the notion. "An artifact, a document, a secret slipped from the wrong tongue into the wrong ear... You take it all without asking." He trails off, his voice dwindling into silence, his shoulders lifting and falling, like a thought has caught him mid-step. 

He does not move. 

For a moment, he is so still that she has the terrible urge to knock on his skull, to see if anything remains inside, or if the light has simply gone out, snuffed by whatever process governs the interior of the dead. Or undead. Whatever he is. 

At last, with the methodical precision of an automaton recalling the motions programmed into it long ago, he shifts in his seat. A pause. Just long enough to suggest that the mechanisms within him have clicked into place. When he resumes speaking, the words are almost drowsy, their edges softened by something that might, in another man, be a chuckle. "I have grown accustomed to it. That is why I no longer keep valuables on my person, you know. You have taken so many keys from me over the years…" 

Tsk-tsk-tsk.

No tongue, no breath, and still, the sound emerges, as if his voice itself had been shaped by the habit long before the body it once belonged to had crumbled away.

"Opening all those doors…" His voice fades, his gaze drifting past her, unfixed, as if watching something stir not in the room but in some distant, long-dormant corridor of memory. "Doors I locked, doors I never meant to lock, doors that led to other doors—well." He cuts himself off, fingers now idly smoothing a wrinkle on his robes. "At the very least, doors not meant for you."

"All right?" she says, though she does not know what she means by it. She takes a bite of the pastry just to have something to do. 

He watches her, his head resting against his knuckles, waiting. "What were you saying?" 

"Where was I going?" she says again. "You said you found me. Where was I going?" 

"Oh." He waves the question away before it confuses him further. "I do not know. I do not particularly care, dear." 

There is no cruelty in his voice, only mild disinterest, the kind one might reserve for a misplaced hat or an unfamiliar name. "Rivain, perhaps? You have always had a particular fondness for the peninsula, but really, who can say? You find your way here, in the end, every single time." He moves as if to feed her another pastry but notices she hasn't even finished the first. "I cannot leave the Necropolis for extended periods of time," he continues, conversational. "So you will forgive me, I hope, for being largely indifferent to what occurs beyond its walls."

The way he speaks makes her want to press her palms against her eyes until the darkness behind them thickens, until the room and the table and him all dissolve into nothing. Not because he evades her; no, evasion would suggest intent, a certain craft. He does not dodge her questions so much as wander away from them, like someone absentmindedly setting down a book mid-sentence, meaning to return, only to drift instead toward some other thought, some other detail that has, for reasons known only to him, taken precedence. He begins to answer—always, he begins—but then, somewhere along the way, he is distracted by something adjacent, something close but not quite the thing she asked.

She opens her eyes to the soft clink of porcelain as he pours her coffee. 

"I am so very glad to have you back," he says, pushing the cup towards her. "But alas, duty calls. I must be off." 

He gestures lightly, and her gaze follows his hand before she can stop herself. The nightstand. The book. The bed. 

She had not noticed them before, and now, suddenly, terribly, they are all she can see. 

All of it screams permanence. The quiet arrangement of a life expected to continue here, as though she had been placed back into a long-abandoned routine, the dust carefully wiped away before she could notice its absence.

Her stomach turns. 

"I have kept your book," he says, and she has the distinct and terrible sensation that he is offering it as a kindness, as a reassurance. "Though I did replace the bookmark. I seem to have misplaced the last one you were using." 

She hardly hears him. The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls closer, the bed waiting.

"Yes, yes, I read the dreadful thing," he admits, raising his hands slightly, as if to preempt some imagined protest. "As far as serials go, this one is worse than usual, but you have your tastes, and I have mine. And they do say that for a couple to share interests—" a small lull, the kind designed to let her sit with the thought before it is completed, "—well, even when they do not align perfectly, it is a kind of communion, is it not?" 

Her fingers tighten around the armrest of her chair, but she does not stand. She does not move at all. 

Because there is nowhere to go. 

Even if she refused—if she pushed back her chair, let the barely-touched pastry fall from her fingers, turned away from the lovely arrangement of the room—there would be nowhere to go. No doors to throw open, no cold night air waiting to swallow her, no streets stretching endlessly beneath her feet, burning and blistering and carrying her somewhere.

She does not know. She simply does not know where she was going before this, before him. What had she been after? What was it she had risked her life to steal? Something valuable, surely, but to whom? For whom? Or was it for herself, for some cause she now cannot recall, for some pay, some favor, some promise that must have seemed worth it at the time? 

Nothing. 

Nothing, nothing. 

Her own home, if she has one, does it look like this? Is it as well-kept, as polished, as quiet? Does it have a bed as soft as the one behind her, the sheets as crisp, folded down as though someone had been expecting her all along? 

Nothing. 

Nothing, nothing. 

She searches the empty corridors of her mind and finds only locked doors, hallways that lead back to where she started, shadows that refuse to take shape. The past does not belong to her. 

She watches him rather than listens, his hands moving through the air with a conversational fluency of their own. He is standing now, his staff balanced against his shoulder. He is telling her something, that much is clear. Something about the cold? A bath? Hot water? 

It floats past her.

"Rook," he says, with a brightness that suggests he has already called her name once before. "Rook, darling, are you listening?" 

"Rook?" she repeats, as if he has handed her an unfamiliar object and she must first turn it over in her hands to understand its shape. 

Another sigh. Why must he keep sighing? It is not impatient, not precisely, but weary in a way that suggests repetition, the dull ache of a conversation looped one too many times. "Yes, yes, Rook," he says, gentle but distracted, as if checking an old ledger, confirming figures he already knows by heart. "Your name, dear. We have been over this before."

Have they?

She blurts out, "And yours?"

He flinches, as if she has done him some grievous injury, before answering, "Why, Emmrich, of course."

His voice is soft, wounded, but not with the raw edge of true pain. It is something quieter, something closer to the heart. The wound of a ritual unfulfilled, of an expectation set so carefully only to be, once again, disappointed. 

"Why do you ask?" he asks without really asking, already resigned to the absence of an answer. "Why must you always ask?" 

"I'm sorry," she says automatically. Not because she understands, not because she means it, but because it is the expected response, the natural reflex when someone’s voice bends and trembles, when something tender is revealed, however briefly. An instinct, an offering. A formality. 

The effort exhausts her. Her head hums dully, a persistent ache blooming at the base of her skull, spreading outward in pulses. A pressure, not sharp but thick, like something pressing against the inside of her bones. She should stand. She should move. But the mere thought of it makes her dizzy, and so she stays. 

Emmrich reaches out. His fingers brush lightly over the crown of her head. 

"Get some rest," he murmurs. "We have time now—so much of it. Take as much as you require." 

"Wait," she says, suddenly feeling very desperate. "Wait, Emmrich."

The name jumps from her tongue way too easily, as if it has passed her lips before, though she is quite certain—or at least she thinks she is—that it has not. The familiarity does not soothe her. If anything, it frightens, curling around her like an old coat she does not remember owning but finds, inexplicably, fits her perfectly. 

It seems to have the opposite effect on him. He straightens, his grip tightening ever so slightly around his staff, a minute adjustment, but she sees it. There is something almost eager in the way his weight shifts onto the balls of his feet.

"Yes, dear?"

The term of endearment is bright, buoyant—giddy.

Oh, gods. He sounds giddy.

This, more than anything else, terrifies her. That particular shade of delight, effervescent and innocent, does not belong to something like him, something built of silence and stillness, of lacquered bone and linen-wrapped fingers. Excitement is a thing of skin, of blood that rushes, of breath that catches on its way out.

"I don’t want to stay here," she says. Quickly. Bluntly. The words stripped bare, nothing left to cushion them. No ambiguity. No invitation for interpretation. 

For a moment, nothing. No reaction, no change in expression—though, of course, he has no expression. The fire flickering in the hollows of his sockets does not waver, does not dim. A flame without air, without fuel, burning purely because it has always burned and always will.

Finally, a response. Not admonishing, not scathing, just faintly, almost delicately, perplexed. 

"Well," he says, as if pondering a fascinating thought, not quite confounded, but wondering. "Where else would you go?"

"Not here," she says defensively. Not in a tomb. This, at least, she knows.

"Nonsense," he says mildly, as if she has simply made an impractical request, as if she has asked for dinner at an impossible hour. "You are thinking about it all wrong."

Without warning, his head turns sharply to the side. His entire posture shifts, the fluidity in him suddenly interrupted, redirected.

"Do you hear this?" he asks, though not her, his voice thinning into something remote. 

Suddenly, a shift. Not from him, but from the room itself. 

And just like that, she ceases to exist for him. 

"I really must be off," he mutters, already half-turned. "I will return soon enough, love. Make yourself at ease. Perhaps a bath, as I have said. Yes, that would do. Steam curling, water just shy of scalding… You must warm yourself, I always say, though you never seem to listen."

The wall rearranges at his approach, unbidden. No groaning stone, no violent fracture; just a smooth reordering. The bricks unlace themselves, the mortar loosening. He steps through, unhurried, without a glance back. She thinks she hears him hum, a pleasant little tune, lifting, dipping, wandering without urgency. The Necropolis, ever dutiful, rethreads itself in his wake, bricks knitting back together, smoothing over, restoring the illusion of permanence.

She is left staring at the pastry she abandoned, at the tacky stain of blood drying in the creases of her fingers, at the coffee cooling in its cup, the surface undisturbed, blank as a mirror that refuses to show a reflection.