#I don’t blame them for this at all but it was just a wee bit inconvenient | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

macfrog · 1 year ago

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rack 'em

the girlies watched triple frontier last week and it was the single most inspiring thing i have ever seen so here’s a lil frankie fic to cleanse my mind. dedicated to my babies @gracieispunk (who put this concept in my head for the wee laddies), @hellishjoel & @strang3lov3 🤍

pairing: bbf!frankie morales x f!reader

summary: when your parents ask you to housesit for them, you take the opportunity to spend some quality time back in your hometown, hanging with your older brother and...getting reacquainted with his best friend

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) reader is santiago's younger sister, she and frankie do not get along, teasing & touching, dubcon (reader is a little drunk, frankie is not), oral sex (f receiving), alcohol consumption, quick mention of dr*gs, cursing, frankie's a bit of a dick but reader gives as good as she gets

word count: 6.1k (cause apparently i don’t know how to write short fics 🤪)

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When you were four, a new family moved in across the street. Nobody knew them – your mom spent two straight days trying to scoop for information. Who they were, where they’d moved from, what was with the banged-up Ford pickup they drove. Nobody knew a thing.

You didn’t take much interest, being four years old – two months shy of your fifth birthday, by the way – and too invested in whatever politics a woman of your age finds herself wrapped up in, but you noticed one key thing about them.

The mom had tattoos.

Two full sleeves. Colorful ones, too. A bright red heart on her shoulder, a green snake wrapped around her forearm – among others. It was fucking cool, alright? No matter how much your mom whispered to Ms. Teller over the fence about them.

One night, when you were supposed to be in bed, you snuck out of your room and crossed the landing to your brother’s. Santiago and his friends were all staying at Tom’s, and you knew that in his desk he had permanent markers. You clicked the door open, as quiet as you could, and crept over his matted carpet to the drawer. You took one Sharpie, and spent the night adding snakes and hearts and whatever else came to mind to your Barbies’ arms, legs, faces, necks.

They looked fucking awesome. Just like that mom across the street.

But somehow or other – and I’m not blaming anyone – the next morning, a drawing appeared on the bathroom wall. In Sharpie. Your mom hit the roof.

As soon as Santi got home, she dragged him by the ear into the bathroom and pointed a trembling finger at the drawing. You forget what it was – it’s been years, and you were never much of an artist.

His plea of innocence helped him none; she knew he owned Sharpies, knew he sucked just as bad as you did at drawing, and he was grounded for three whole weeks. No soccer practice, no TV, no PlayStation. Which, at thirteen, is basically a stint in Rikers.

Your brother, though…he was always better than your mom at reading your mind. He saw the guilt on your face plain as the black marker behind the toilet tank. He cornered you in your bedroom as soon as she went back downstairs, and established three key rules going forward.

One: do not enter his room ever again.

Two: no touching his stuff.

And three: anytime he took the fall for you, you owed him. Big time.

You’ve followed the rules ever since. You barely knew what the inside of his room looked like, growing up. But it worked, ‘cause ever since the Sharpie incident of ’99, you two remained closer than most siblings with an eight-year age gap.

So, now, two days into a two-week stay back in your hometown to housesit while your parents head off on a cruise to celebrate their anniversary, you’re in the car with him. Listening to music, bitching about your mom, arguing over the best Cola flavor.

It’s like old times.

“She said, How’s my baby girl?” you yell over Stevie Nicks’s voice, reading from your phone.“And when I said I’m fine, she said, No, I meant the dog. Is she fucking serious?”

Santiago’s head tilts back with laughter, dark curls nudging against the headrest. He’s driving you to Lucky’s, a local sports bar he and his buddies frequent. He promised when he picked you up at the airport he’d take you out, get you drunk, and he was holding to it.

You pull your legs down off the dash as he turns into the parking lot, pulling in right under the white fluorescent sign, four-leaf clover flashing under it.

“She’s looking forward to seeing you when they get back,” he tells you, switching the engine off.

“Oh, yeah? That why she didn’t even hang around to see me before they left?”

He hands you a smug grin, shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t have it all, big shot. You move a thousand miles away, you forfeit your chance of being the favorite.”

You swing your door open and hop out, chasing him around the car to follow him inside. “You say that like I was ever in the fucking running.”

He snorts, pushing the door open, and a loud cheer roars through the bar. You blush as you follow your brother across the room to two tables full of familiar faces.

“Hey, baby.” Your best friend’s arms pull you in, her gold hoop earrings cold against your cheek. She smells like rose and cedarwood.

“Mal,” you hum, smiling as she pulls away.

“My mom said your parents only just made it on board,” she says, detaching strands of her long, black hair from the cuff of your jacket. “Said they had a flat tire and had to race to get to the boat.”

Your head jerks back. “She never told me any of that. Just asked how Ange was.”

Mal snorts.

“Hey, lil Santi!”

You glance over your shoulder to watch as Benny Miller stalks over, almost shoving some old guy off his feet, arms wide open, wide grin spread across his lips. His brother, Will, follows behind, and gives your shoulder a loving slap when Benny pulls you in for a hug.

“How’s Boston treatin’ ya?”

“Good,” you reply. “How’s…MMA treating you?”

“Good!” he echoes, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline.

It’s kinda part of the deal that your older brother’s friends become brothers in their own right to you, especially when you’re as young and easily-influenced as you were. They used to use you in their elaborate plans – send you in as a distraction while they filled their pockets with food at parties, or use your smaller stature to their advantage when attempting to break into places they shouldn’t.

By the time you were old enough to follow their orders, they were well into their teens. Which is basically grown-up, as far as six-year-old you was concerned. They were always allowed to do things you’re still not sure your mom would permit you to do at twenty-eight, like disappear all day without checking in, or come home black and blue after an organized street brawl with the boys from the other side of the neighborhood.

But there was no denying they cared about you. Will, Benny, and Tom, at least. They showed their affection by ruffling your hair as they passed, or sneaking you candy under the table even after your mom had told you you’d had enough. They’d christened you ‘lil Santi’, a name that – despite the embarrassment it always casts over you anytime you hear it – still sticks to this day.

Your brother’s friends were family to him, and, by extension, family to you.

Well. All but one.

Frankie Morales – nickname Catfish: long-time best buddy of your big brother, and long-time fucking asshole. There isn’t one thing on Earth that you two see eye to eye on, except for that very fact: he hates you almost as much as you hate him.

Always have, always will.

He’s in trouble almost regularly for drug-related stuff you don’t bother asking Santiago about. You don’t need to hear details to know he’s a pain in the ass. He’s been antagonizing you for as long as you’ve known him – where the others ruffled your hair, he’d shove into your shoulder as he passed, sending you – and whatever you were holding – flying. Any attempt you made at conversation with any one of them resulted in an argument between you and Frankie.

You hated him. Fucking hated him.

And tonight, you almost think yourself lucky. Almost go over to thank Santi for not inviting him, when you notice the silhouette of his baseball cap and that denim button up hunched over in a bar stool, and your eyes narrow.

You can’t help yourself. It’s been a years-long feud. And you’re old enough to take him on now. So, you stride over.

“You here to poison my drink?”

“What?” he asks, shaking his head. Already exasperated just by the sight of you.

“I bet you cheered the loudest when I walked in.”

He shrugs. “Cheered when your brother gave me fifty bucks to show face.”

Your upper lip curls. When the bartender notices you standing, elbows propped on the bar, he leans over.

“Beer, please.” Your smile twists into a grimace when you catch Frankie watching you. “What are you doing here? You have to be the person least excited to see me home.”

“I told you,” he says, lifting the bottle to his lips, “I’m bein’ paid.”

“Alright, so what do I gotta pay you to make you leave?”

Frankie scoffs, opens his mouth to answer what you’re sure is a comment laced with just as much venom, when Will’s strong arms slap down on each of your shoulders.

“We buyin’ our favorite veterinary nurse a drink, Francisco?”

You take your beer from Nick’s outstretched hand, sliding him the cash in return, and hold it up to Will in reply. “I’m good, thanks. Wouldn’t wanna eat into that fifty bucks, Catfish,” you mutter, turning to wander off.

You weave in and out of bodies, making your way to the opposite side of the bar where the pool tables sit. Doused in the warm strip light over the green felt, Santi chalks his cue ready to play against Mal, who’s already lining up her shot.

You hop up on a stool right next to the table, glancing back over to the bar where Frankie sits, now turned to face your direction. His elbow sits on the wooden surface, head turns from the football game showing behind the bar, over to you. And when he sees you looking, turns back to the TV screen, cool expression never changing.

“You done?” Mal asks Santiago, feeding the cue through her ring-decorated fingers.

He nods, tossing the chalk back over to you. “Better get your purse out, Bennett. Lotta sober people in here, all gonna want a free drink once you lose.”

“As if,” she breathes, and breaks the rack.

Somewhere throughout the game – a grueling and controversial one, by all accounts – Frankie makes his way over, following Will. You’re thankful when he plants himself on the other side of the table, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other around a bottle of beer. Though the light only comes up to his chest, right where the last button is done up, you notice him looking. Every fucking glance.

It pisses you off. Not the glancing. The way it makes you feel having him watch you. Wherever it comes from, you swallow it down with one big gulp of alcohol.

The game ends in a questionable loss. This side of the table swears the white skimmed off of Mal’s final solid when Santi hit it, right before it potted the black. The other side objected, claimed it was a clean shot ‘n you all know it. A winner wasn’t officially announced, but, being that Mallory Bennett is a force of nature where her competitive nature is concerned, Santiago was forced to buy the loser’s round.

She saunters up to you with her free whiskey in her hand, silver jewelry clinking off of the cold glass.

“Proud of yourself?” you ask, smirking.

She hands you your third beer of the night, sweeping her silky hair out of her face. “It hit it, alright? I saw it move.”

“Was that before or after you nudged the table?”

Mal holds a finger to her lips. You swat her hand away and the pair of you giggle, leaning into each other like schoolgirls whispering secrets in the playground.

“You know something,” Santiago materializes over Mal’s shoulder, shaking his head, “if you gotta cheat to beat me, I’ll give you the win.”

“Oh, get out,” you throw back. “Don’t blame her for your bad aim. Ms. Teller could’ve hit that shot and she’s got cataracts in both eyes.”

Your brother nods at you, tongue in his cheek. “Alright, smartass. Grab a cue.”

You scoff. Look around the room, shaking your head. The crowd has dispersed a little, folks have turned back to the TV screens, shifted focus back to the alcohol in their glasses. And then you look back to Santiago, holding his arms out.

“Alright. Fuck it.”

You hop down and snatch the second cue, wandering around the table while he racks the balls. He lifts the triangle, rolls the white over to you, and tells you to break.

The multicolored balls scatter in a fleet, two stripes tumble into pockets, and you stand back to survey your options. There’s a third stripe close to a pocket on the right, so you wander around to your left and turn.

“’scuse me,” you mutter, nudging Frankie’s stomach with the bottom of your cue.

He shoots you a dead-eyed stare, and takes one step back. And then his eyes drop, and you feel like you could slap him.

But you’re three – almost four – beers deep, and there are heads turning to watch how this plays out, and you can feel the bassline of the music rippling up from the soles of your feet all through your body, and you can feel the heat of his stare on the backs of your thighs, right where the hem of your dress sits.

Suddenly, slapping isn’t what you want to do to him.

Your head turns back to the pool table and you bend over, drawing the cue back between almost shaking fingers, and slam it into the white. It fires into the red striped ball, which hits the corner of the cushion, millimeters away from falling into the pocket.

You sigh, straightening up and waiting for your brother to begin his taunting, but it never comes. Instead, he fishes into his pocket for his phone, tapping the screen and holding it to his ear.

“Yep?” There’s a pause, Santiago’s face sours, and then he glances around the bar. “Right now? Really? No, it’s just…” He sighs. “Alright. I’ll be there. Just…I’m coming. I’m coming.”

He hangs up the phone and curses under his breath, then turns back to you, answering the question on your expression with: “One of our informants just got himself killed. I gotta go.”

“You haven’t even taken a shot yet,” you huff, taking his cue when he holds it out.

“I’ll make it up to you, hermana, promise. How are you gonna get home?”

You shrug. Mumble an, “I dunno.”

His eyes scan the room, passing over Will – already worse for wear, leaning shakily against a nearby table slurring to a group of strangers, then to Benny – stumbling out of the bar door with some girl on his arm, and finally land on the figure behind you, sliding a bowl of peanuts across the table to himself.

“Morales,” Santiago calls, and you throw the cues down on the felt.

“No, no way,” but your brother is already pushing past you to get to his friend. “Pope, no fucking w–”

Frankie turns, handful of nuts, cheek full and chewing.

“I gotta go, trouble at work. Can you do me a favor, man, ‘n make sure she gets home alright?”

“No,” you repeat. “He is not taking me home.”

“Baby,” Santi pleads, “just go with him, please?”

“I’ll walk. It’s, like, a twenty-minute walk.”

“No way. Mom would kill me.”

“Well, then, we just don’t tell her. Pope, please.”

He ignores you. “You are not walking home after dark. No.”

“Probably be safer than in the truck with him.”

Frankie’s head stops flitting between the two of you and his glare settles on yours. “Fuck you,” he spits, shaking his head.

“Right back at you,” you reply, insincere smile on your lips.

Santiago puts his palms together and holds them out to you. “Look, just – please. Just this once. I’ll owe you one.”

He doesn’t owe you one often. Makes a point of deliberately trying not to owe you one. This is an interesting offer. You sigh, and roll your eyes.

“Fine. You better fucking pay me back, though!”

“You got it,” he says, patting your shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he whispers to Frankie as he passes, slipping through the crowd toward the exit.

You and Frankie are left, two feet apart, filled with silence and resentment.

“You looking for someone else to hand your ass to you, lil Santi?” he asks, tossing another handful of peanuts into his mouth.

“You’re funny.” You hand him a smile, which drops the second he looks at it.

But when you turn back to the table and lift the cues, you hand one to him. Push it into his chest, shoot him a narrow-eyed glance.

“One game. And only ‘cause I need a sub.”

He dusts his hands together, shrugs. “Shouldn’t take me too long.”

You stalk back over to Mal, who’s giggling into her glass. “You two are unbelievable.”

“Don’t.” You hold your hand up, taking another swig of beer as Frankie lines up.

On his first shot, he pots that same red you were trying to hit before. His eyes lift only for a second, but you catch the cocky look he throws you and screw your face up.

“Fucking…ass,” you whisper.

Frankie’s shoulders jump, his teeth take his bottom lip. He’s laughing to himself when he takes his next shot, and pots another stripe. And then he stands up straight, holds his hands out.

“Just tell me when.”

“When what?”

“To start going easy on you.”

Fuck off. Fuck off, fuck you, fuck this. Fuck!

One more ball potted and finally, fucking finally, he misses a shot. It’s an impossible shot, anyway, there’s no way in hell he was gonna make it, but that’s not what matters. What matters is the way you twirl your cue in your fingers, then lift it and wander around the table, squeezing between Frankie and the wooden edge to get to your shot.

Your ass brushes past his jeans, and when you turn your head to whisper a sarcastic Sorry, he fucking growls. Low, almost inaudible. But just enough for you to notice, and enough for you to keep pissing him off.

The buzz you’re getting from antagonizing him this much must awaken some sort of billiards skillset you never knew you fucking had, because you pocket four balls in quick succession. Red, then green, then blue, and purple. There’s one ball between you when Frankie rounds the table, eyes scanning the felt for the next best shot he can take.

“Hurry the fuck up,” you mutter as he passes by you, on his third lap of the table.

He tsks. “Impatient,” he replies, shoulder brushing yours heavily. You feel the rough denim of his jeans graze your thighs, the weight of him against your backside for the second time. You push back, leaning into him as he moves past, then leans over, slinks his cue between his fingers, and takes his shot.

The yellow sails into the nearest pocket like there’s a magnet pulling it. The purple does the exact same – he barely has to tap it with the tip of the cue and it’s dropping in atop its predecessor.

Frankie turns, shimmying a little up the table, hip nudging yours out of the way. “Move,” he mumbles, shutting one eye to aim for the black. “Come on…” he breathes, and then shoots.

It bounces off of the opposite side of the table, thudding off of the cushion before it’s rolling toward the pocket and dropping in with a plunk.

He stands, fixing his baseball cap, and leans the cue against the table. “Good game, loser,” he says, ruffling your hair as he passes you.

“What age are you?” you sneer as he wanders back off to his beer, waiting for him on the table next to his bowl of peanuts.

Will wraps an unsteady arm around your shoulder as Frankie tips his bottle against his lips. He’s swaying, dragging you left and right with him as if you’re on a boat.

“He’s…he’s always been the best outta us all,” Will slurs, using his bottle to point at Frankie. “’s why he’s such a good pilot. Good aim.”

You sigh, pushing his heavy arm off yourself and slip back over to Mal, who hands you a sad smile and fixes your hair.

“It was a good attempt,” she says.

“Oh, shut up,” you reply, tossing your bottle up and draining the last of it onto your tongue. “I need another drink.”

You cross the room, suddenly less blurry and tilted, more boring and flat, and lean over the bar. “Nick,” you call, and he twists around, “grab me another–”

“It’s alright, Nick,” a voice yells over your shoulder, “I think she’s good.”

You spin around and it’s that stupid fucking baseball cap and the stupid denim button up again.

“What, I’m not allowed to drink now?”

Frankie’s head cocks. “You don’t think you’ve had enough?”

“I’ve had three. Three beers. The fuck is your problem?”

He tuts, glances left and right, and then back to you. “I think I should get you home.”

“I think you should mind your business.”

“Are you this fucking difficult with everyone when you’re drunk?”

“Nope,” you beam at him, “just you.”

He lets go of the grip he has on your arm and starts backing away. “I’m leaving, baby,” he tells you, nodding goodbye to Nick. “You’re either coming, or Pope’s gonna hear all about it.”

You ball your fists, watching the door swing closed behind him. Your feet stay rooted to the ground, eyes flitting from the parking lot over to Mal, who lifts her arms in a question. You shake your head in response, and her shoulders drop.

Sorry, you mouth, beginning to walk off in Frankie’s footsteps.

Mal blows you a kiss, winks once, and then salutes you goodbye. You shoulder out of the bar.

The ride back to your parents’ place is silent, except for the dull drone of whatever fucking music Frankie has choking out of his radio. You watch your hometown pass by, never taking your eyes off of the blurry streetlights or passing mailboxes, refusing to turn your head further than the middle of the windscreen at him.

He’s humming along to the song, jaw swinging as he chews on gum, arm hanging out of his open window. Everything he does is so fucking irritating, like a constant buzzing in your ear, an eyelash stuck in your eye, the feeling of stepping on a wet floor in socks.

So why, every time you do sneak a glance of him out of your peripheral, does the sight of those focused brown eyes, the strands of gray in his beard, the way his curls flick under the brim of his cap – why does it all stir something inside of you?

Frankie pulls up across the street from your house, white wood a milky blue in the moonlight. You unbuckle your seatbelt and let the strap whip off of your body, rattling against the interior of the truck. The most you’re willing to offer him is a nod of the head in thanks, which he returns, and your fingers hook around the door latch.

“Hey, mind if I come in ‘n use your bathroom?” he asks.

You pause. “Uh, yeah. I mind. No.”

“Come on, baby, I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

You scoff, ignoring him and slip down out of the truck. The door slams closed and you wander over to your parents’ drive, hearing a second slam as you cross the street.

“Uh, where do you think you’re going?”

“If your mom knew you weren’t letting me use her bathroom, she’d kill you, ‘n you know it.”

“My mom doesn’t know you like I know you, asshole,” you retort, but he’s still following you to the front door. “Just – alright. Do me a favor and disinfect it once you’re done. I don’t need them coming home to piss all over the floor.”

“You think my aim’s that bad? Just schooled you in a game of pool.”

You sigh, refusing to rise, and open the door. There’s the gentle scuffing of claws on the wooden flooring, trotting nearer and nearer in the dark hallway, and then the weight of your childhood dog shoves into your body.

“Hi, Angie. Hi, girl,” you whisper, scratching the dog’s white fur, her front paws against your tummy.

She jumps down when Frankie slips in behind you, wandering over with her tail swinging back and forth. He crouches down and holds his hand out, cooing, “Hi, baby,” as she nuzzles against his palm.

“She likes most folks who come by,” you utter, hanging your coat over the banister. “Don’t think you’re special.”

“She always loved me most,” he says, still fussing over the pup, “didn’t you, girl? Yeah, yeah you did.”

You roll your eyes and wander upstairs, leaving Frankie to find the bathroom, use it, and fuck off on his own.

It’s been almost eight years since you last lived here, but your room still looks oddly similar. Same bedframe, different sheets. Same wallpaper, only not covered in posters of your favorite bands. Same shelves, too, just that they hold stuff like vases and seashells and other random ornaments your mom’s picked up, rather than a collection of your favorite movies or framed photos of you and your friends.

You pull your dress over your shoulders and kick your boots off, grabbing a tee from your bag to sleep in. The Nirvana logo lies loose across your chest, the hem dancing along the line of your panties.

As you kneel on the mattress, tossing the million and one fucking pillows your mom has stacked down to the foot of the bed, you hear the door creak open.

“Damn,” Frankie mutters, glancing around the room, “haven’t been in here since I was, what, seventeen?”

“Weren’t welcome then, still not welcome now.”

“You still got that Black Eyed Peas poster rolled up somewhere?” He’s walking in, boots scuffing along the wooden floor.

“Are you lost?”

He looks over to you, stood by the bed, t-shirt barely reaching your thighs. “You know something, you ‘n your brother are so fucking different, it amazes me you’re related.”

“I imagine there’s a lot that amazes you, dumbass.”

He scoffs. There’s a hint of genuine humor in it. Like he’s impressed. And then his eyes scan down your body, lingering on the bare skin of your legs, shifting up to the pink cotton of your panties. They shoot back up when you speak again.

“Seriously, dude. What are you still doing here?”

Frankie turns to the dresser by the window, adorned with framed pictures of you and Santi as kids. “Making sure you get home alright, like Pope told me to.”

“Well,” you shrug, “I’m home, ‘n I’m alright. So…”

He picks up a silver frame; inside, faded by the sun and years that have passed, lives a photograph of you and your brother. He’s on his BMX bike, wide, toothless grin, and you’re behind him, standing on the pegs and gripping onto his t-shirt sleeves as you battle not to fall off.

Frankie laughs a little, turning the frame to show you. “You were always so fuckin’ annoying, you know that?” And then, with a shake of his head as he sets the frame back down, “Still are.”

You cock your head, throwing your hands up with an infuriated sigh. “If I’m so annoying, then why are you still here?”

The look he gives when he turns back around answers that question for you, in a way that his words never could. Never would, to be honest. He’d never admit the thoughts running through his head right now, same as you won’t admit that, likewise, they’re running through yours.

It’d be fucking weird. It’d be wrong, hooking up with his best friend’s little sister. Santi only asked him to get you home safe, not follow you inside, walk straight into your bedroom, look at you the way he’s looking at you right now, silhouetted by the streetlight shining through your still-open shades.

So then, why can’t he walk away?

You make to step forward, and Frankie’s already moving. He meets you halfway, stood on some fancy-looking rug your mom probably spent too much money on, his arms instantly finding your waist underneath your short tee.

“You fuckin’ piss me off, you know that?”

“I know,” you breathe, bottom lip brushing against his, “I know.”

He pushes you backward, sends you stumbling across the floor on your toes until the back of your calves hit the mattress and you fall, dragging him down on top of you. You knock the baseball cap from his head and run your hands through his brown curls, pulling him nearer as his hands begin to move north under the worn cotton of your shirt.

His rough hands cup your breasts, kneading and pinching your nipples as his lips fall to your neck, sucking a bruise into your soft skin.

“Frankie,” you breathe, “what the fuck are we–?”

“Shut up,” he whispers back, teeth grazing over your collarbone. He’s moving down, kissing over your tee as he goes, until he’s kneeling on the floor, your legs dangling off the bed either side of his body.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, watching him as he presses fleeting kisses to the insides of your thighs, making his way closer and closer to your center, covering ground painfully slow.

“Would you – just – fucking – get there?” you ask, head tilting back with a groan.

“Always so fucking impatient,” he mutters, pulling your legs further apart. “Makes sense, though,” he whispers, finger hooking around your underwear, “already so wet.”

“Dick,” you hiss, laying back flat on the bed.

Frankie holds the lace off of your core and then dips his jaw, lips lightly ghosting across your folds. You hum with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance, ready to buck your hips up to him if it’ll just make him move faster.

But you don’t have to wait a second longer. He licks one broad stripe up your center, pressing one chaste kiss to your clit before his tongue dips where you need him most. Your legs go to clamp shut, stopped by his shoulders.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you moan, hand coming down to knot your fingers in his hair.

He hums against your pussy, tongue lapping inside you, nose at the perfect angle for you to rut your clit against.

“Fuck…” you repeat, and he fucking laughs against you. “Quit it,” you hiss, and he lifts his head.

Your eyes shoot open, finding his. Alarmed meeting cool.

“Fine,” he says, smirking. “I’ll quit it.”

“Don’t you fucking– Frankie.”

“Your words, baby.” He shrugs, eyes flitting down to your cunt, soaked under his touch.

“I didn’t mean it,” you moan. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”

He looks back up. The corners of his mouth pull his smirk into a grin. Some devilish grin, thick with arrogance.

“I’m an asshole,” he echoes, elastic of your panties shifting up to his knuckles.

He watches your cunt as he does it. Runs two fingers between your folds, coating them in your arousal, dipping them deeper until they’re at your entrance.

Your head hits the bed heavily, your body writhing over the white sheets as he pushes closer and closer. His free hand comes up and pushes down on your tummy, holding you steady to the mattress, then –

“I’m the asshole.”

He inserts his fingers, curled, thick, stretching you out over his hand as he pushes in deep. A gasp passes through your lips, exchanging itself for a throaty moan when Frankie begins fucking you on his hand, lowering his lips to your clit again.

His wrist pumps in and out, tongue swirling over the swollen bud, palm pushing harder into your stomach to keep you from upsetting his rhythm with how badly you want to move around.

Your fingers lock a vice grip around his hair, your hips the only part of your body he’ll let you move. You establish a pace of your own, fucking up to meet his fingers, grinding yourself on his wet tongue.

“I’m close,” you pant, Nirvana logo distorted in ruffles at the base of your neck. “So fucking close, Frankie.”

And he can feel it. Feel you tightening around his hand, feel the rhythm of your hips start to miss beats, move clockwise instead of up and down. He can hear as your mouth stops rounding the words, fading into slurs and breaths and moans instead of coherent language.

“F-Frankie,” you cry out, and it’s like music to his ears. “’m there, I’m–”

“On my mouth, baby,” he mutters, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with his lips again, tongue pushing inside you as you fall apart all over him.

Your back lifts from the bed, fists ball around his hair, pushing his face even harder against your cunt as you ride out your high. You’re moaning his name over and over, echoing off the walls of your little room, escaping out the door and swirling around the hallway.

If you could hear yourself, or cared enough to try, you’d feel fucking embarrassed at what you’re doing – coming apart under Frankie’s touch. It’s Frankie.

The same Frankie you started an argument with one Fourth of July over which was better: ketchup or mustard; the two of you spitting insults over the striped tablecloth, obscene hand gestures being thrown up over plates of burgers.

The same Frankie who’d found out it was you who drew on the wall, and from that day on used it as leverage anytime you set a foot out of line. Used it to shut you up, anytime you so much as thought about talking back, or ratting on the boys.

You’re supposed to hate him. Ask anyone – Santi, Mal, your parents. They’ll all say the same. Like cat and dog.

And yet, here you are. Begging him not to stop, keep his hands and his mouth on you; gasping for breath when he eventually lifts away from you and you collapse back into the bed.

You glance down from under heavy lids, watching as he kisses your thighs again, slowly bringing you back to the room. His chin’s glistening, covered in your cum, beard soaked in you.

You slowly sit up, holding yourself steady with two palms pushed into the mattress. Frankie readjusts your underwear and sits back on his heels, running a hand down his chin and wiping himself clean.

“That was…” you pant, waiting for him to finish the sentence.

He just nods, breathing heavy himself. “Yeah.”

“I gotta…I gotta let…Ange out,” you say, words swaddled by your breath.

Frankie nods again. “I should go.”

You stand at the same time, straightening up face to face. His right side is lit warmly by your bedside lamp, the brown of his eye reflecting a tiny yellow orb back at you; the left side is darker, flecks of hair lit in the pale light from the street, face dark and unreadable. Like he’s two different people, split down the middle now, a before and after.

You’re staring at one another, mapping every inch of the other’s face. Learning it, like it’s new. Like you’ve never really seen each other until right now.

And then he’s turning, picking his hat up from the floor in one swooping motion, and walking out of your bedroom. A deep sigh passes your lips as he goes, relief mixed with satisfaction. And then you follow.

Angie circles him when his boots thud down from the bottom step. He bends to give her more attention, waiting for you to softly pad down alongside him. The dog trots off toward the kitchen, and he turns to you.

He’s back to his unphased self, jaw circling around the gum that he’s still fucking chewing. “Two drinks you owe me, now, lil Santi.”

You cock your head. “Hm?”

“One for showing your ass at pool, ‘n another for that.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Morales.”

He snorts, wandering off down the hall. You spin on your heel and follow the sound of Ange scraping the back door, throwing a glance over your shoulder.

Frankie meets your eye, and like a reflex, the pair of you toss the finger to one another. He laughs, stepping out onto the porch.

“Anytime you feel like losing again, you know where I am, baby.”

----------

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#frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales smut #francisco morales #bbf!frankie #bbf!frankie morales #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #enemies to lovers #frankie morales enemies to lovers

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moonstruckme · 9 months ago

Note

Hey! I have a potentially odd request and I’m not sure if you write stuff like this anyway so if not please just disregard. I am in a strikingly similar situation Sirius with Regulus and for some reason this past week I’ve been feeling guilty as hell. Could you maybe do something where Remus and James are comforting Sirius like it’s okay, it’s not your fault, you had to leave, etc? Or maybe something with Remus James and Sirius comforting reader with the same idea but Sirius being especially emotional and like it’s okay, I get it, you can’t blame yourself etc? Thank you lovely <3 <3

Hi sweetheart! I wasn’t sure exactly which Siri+Reg situation you meant but my first thought was the one where Sirius left Reg alone in their parents’ home, so I hope that’s what you were intending. Thanks sm for requesting! It was a great excuse to listen to regina spektor’s two birds on repeat :’)

cw: implied past abuse, older sibling guilt (also I am a wee bit drunk editing this so if it’s bad let’s blame it on that)

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

“I know,” you croak, and you’re speaking quietly enough that Remus gathers you aren’t eager to be overheard, but you’ve made no move to go upstairs and have a truly private conversation. You lie on your back on the couch, one hand covering your eyes and the other holding your phone to your ear. “Yeah, I know how they are. No, it sucks, I just—”

You press your lips together as the voice on the other end of the phone increases in volume. When it pauses, you hum. “Yeah, I get that. I think it’s a good idea. Just keep to yourself, if you can. It’ll be okay. I’ll try and—no, I know.” You swallow thickly. Remus’ heart heavies.

He sneaks a look at your boyfriends, both pretending to be busy whilst they eavesdrop. Sirius, just on the other end of the couch, has ceased typing on his laptop and is scrolling aimlessly back and forth on the same page. Meanwhile, James is stirring a pot of water on the stove that’s barely simmering. They look about as tense as Remus feels, Sirius most of all. They all know who you’re talking to. They can gauge the subject.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice dips, quiet and abashed. “I want to, I just—wait, don’t—”

You let the phone drop onto the couch, releasing a sigh as you bring your other hand to your face. They hung up.

There are a few seconds of fraught silence before James pipes up from the kitchen, “Everything alright, angel?”

You hum in affirmation, but the sound is pitchy and broken.

Sirius forgoes pretense. He closes his laptop, setting it aside. “What did they want?”

You take in a deep, shuddering breath. It’s not enough; your voice cracks anyway. “For me to come home,” you say, the last word a sob.

James switches the stove off, nearly jogging into the living room to be at your side.

“I’m sorry, dove,” Remus says quietly. “I know it must be hard, but you did the right thing by leaving.”

“I don’t think so,” you choke out. James makes a pained sound as he sits by your feet, between you and Sirius, and rubs his big hands up and down your calves consolingly. Remus sneaks a glance at Sirius, and his boyfriend has his jaw clamped tight, watching you with heartache in his pale eyes.

“You did,” James says. “Sweetheart, it’s not your fault.”

You shake your head, still hiding behind your hands. “I—I can’t—” You nearly lunge for James, who looks all too relieved to take you into his arms. He maneuvers you so you’re in his lap, sitting sideways with your face pressed against his collar. His palm covers the back of your head.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he hushes you, tone fraught with a compassion so intense it sounds like it hurts. “It’s okay. Just cry it out if you need to.”

You do. You cry until Remus is sure your head has to be pounding. You don’t try to breathe through it, don’t wipe your nose as it runs. Your tears come hot and fast and painfully quiet, like you learned how to hide them as soon as you learned how to cry. Sirius doesn’t tear his gaze from you as your shoulder’s shake and James’ shirt grows wet. When he swallows thickly, Remus reaches over from the armchair to take his hand.

Once your tears start to slow, Sirius says, voice uncharacteristically quiet, “The best thing you can do is give them the advice you wish someone had given you.” His free hand twitches in his lap, and Remus realizes he’s keeping still on purpose, not messing with his hair or crossing his arms or doing any of the things that would give away how upset he is. “You can’t go back.”

“I know,” you mumble into James’ shirt.

“Do you?” Remus asks gently. “I understand if you want to, right now, but you just…you have to do what’s best for yourself.”

A powerful sob shakes you, and James’ palm presses into your back with something akin to desperation. “I’m the big sister,” you say. “I’m supposed to be there for them.”

“You didn’t ask for that.” Sirius’ words are inlaid with a quiet ardency. “It’s not—you can’t blame yourself.”

You sniffle, pulling your face from James’ front to look at Sirius. There’s a rawness between you that hurts Remus to look at. “I know you know what it’s like,” you tell him, voice wavering on the edge of a whimper, “and I’m sorry. I just—” you take a ragged inhale “—didn’t think it would feel like this.”

James looks like he is just barely restraining himself from tucking your head back into his shoulder, but he holds still as Sirius pulls his hand from Remus’ to reach for you, pushing a damp piece of hair away from your eye.

“Baby, you don’t need to be sorry,” he promises. “I get it. It’s hard to feel okay about it at first, but you’ll…it gets easier.”

You nod, and even though it’s obvious to all of them that you’re only being a good sport, Sirius offers you a small smile.

“What made it easier?” you ask softly, swiping under your eyes. James coos and bushes your hands away gently, kissing your tears off for you.

Sirius looks between Remus and James, then shrugs. “I don’t know. Drinking, maybe.”

“Fuck off.” Remus sticks out a foot, pushing at Sirus’ thigh harshly. “Does she seem like she’s in the mood for jokes?”

But you laugh wetly, and they all grin for hearing it, James mushing a few quick kisses into the side of your head.

“Gonna turn our sweet girl into an alcoholic,” he says against your skin.

“Fine.” Sirius rolls his eyes extravagantly. “I don’t know, I guess you guys helped a bit too.”

Before Sirius can react, James has an arm around his neck, tugging him close. “Oh, you,” James says, and Sirius makes a horrified squawking sound as his boyfriend presses a firm kiss to his temple, then yours. “Such a romantic. We helped a bit, huh?”

Remus hums. “Ingrate.”

“The point,” Sirius says, wrestling free of James’ grip, “is that it does get better.” He looks at you, features softening. “It’s not that it’s ever easy. But give it time.”

“Got it.” You give him a small smile. Still wan, but more genuine than the last. “Thanks.”

“Do whatever you need to to feel better, sweetheart,” Remus tells you, leaning forward until you meet his eye. “Just stay with us, yeah? Don’t go anywhere.”

You lean into James’ side, the affection in your gaze all too heavy. “I could never.”

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holy-puckslibrary · 9 months ago

Text

━ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠.

main masterlist

pairing(s) — TREVOR ZEGRAS x f!reader (established); JAMIE DRYSDALE x reader; MASON MCTAVISH x reader; trevor x jamie x mason wc — 2.2k synopsis — what better gift on your friends to bestow than the gift that keeps on giving?

note — happy valentine's day, my lovelies!! as my gift to you, i've decided to release whatever the hell this is from the archive <3 i randomly dropped this on patreon post-ficmas '24 because, per usual, i was possessed by the ghost of perpetual horniness! we know it'll happen again, so just know i am totally down to write a follow-up if there's any interest teehee! oh, and to the anons who requested some jd + tz content after the trade (rip), i hope this satisfies the craving!! (and you don't mind masey being thrown in the mix)

and with that... i’ll see myself out 🚶‍♀️

specific content warnings under the cut.

cw — everyone’s a lil bi because why not, trevor is boyfriend of the year, mason and jamie bickering over whose turn it is to munch, tz + reader are switchy and mason + jamie are bratty and subby, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), accidental edging, trevor being a cocky menace and stirring the pot, and a wee bit of a cliff-hanger bc i'm incapable of controlling myself :-) oh, and the current pet name fixation of the week! + trevor calling himself daddy (once) while being condescending to all parties lolz

“—stop getting in my way.”

"or what?"

silence.

then, an exasperated groan.

“i wouldn’t need to be in the way if you were doing it right.”

the long, drawn-out sigh you hear sounds far away, like an echo from somewhere out in the distance, but you know it's coming from behind you—directly behind you.

your boyfriend abandons the soft curves of your chest, which you vehemently protest with a petulant mewl, to massage the tension building between his eyes; if he’d known this would turn into such a headache, he never would’ve suggested this.

“clock’s running, boys. if you wanna waste your very limited time between my girl’s pretty legs bickering with each other, be my guest.”

jamie and mason exchange a glare, united in their distaste for their friend’s tone and attitude in spite of their sudden animosity toward one another.

a pretty girl could do that to a friend group.

only, you haven’t come between the trio in the way one might assume. you might’ve been the catalyst in jamie and mason’s current strife, sure, but that's where your meddling begins and ends. no, you’ve come between them in more of a physical sense, at the behest of your boyfriend and their best friend.

trevor zegras veered toward possessive—territorial, even—most days, but, tonight, he’s feeling strangely generous. it is the season of giving, after all. however, his kindness hardly felt like a gift anymore. the gesture lost its luster soon after the silky ribbon was untied and discarded... and the bitching began. charity work would be a more apt descriptor, in his humble opinion.

he’s expecting an edible arrangement from the ladies of orange county in the near future.

but if anyone deserves some compensation, it's most definitely you, and trevor has just the shiny something in mind. what was originally intended to be the crown jewel of your holiday gifts will now function as a “thank you letting my friends use you as a practice dummy” token of appreciation.

“guess we also need to teach you to share,” you huff, exhausted from the accidental edging and frustrated by trevor's shifted attention.

the worst part is that you don’t think they’re perceptive enough (or have enough experience with a woman’s body, even) to see the agony, the by-product of their inadvertent torture, smeared plainly across your dazed and dewy face. your boyfriend's best friends have unintentionally dragged you to the brink of insanity, and you're reluctantly hanging on by a fragile thread.

said boyfriend's lips caress your temple. “can’t say i blame them. with you freshly unwrapped—just out of the box—and all... i wouldn't know how to share you, either.”

eager is a nice way of putting the boys' behavior thus far, but selfish is a more befitting adjective for their uncoordinated fervor.

two interesting things to note since you were spread wide—presented—to your boyfriend’s closest friends and collegues. the first being that while jamie is enthralled by the way you clench around his lithe fingers, mason favors his mouth; and second, trevor’s harder than a rock from showering his friends with the same domineering aura usually reserved for you in the privacy of your shared bedroom.

(or, the backseat of his car. the abandoned lifeguard tower beside the pier and, on occasion, the recently refurbished dressing room.)

mason also enjoys spitting on your sensitive bits more than he’s comfortable with, the apprehension bright in his eyes. but, watching the run-off of his saliva and your syrupy arousal drip onto jamie’s fingers before both are shoved into your heat is too distracting to pay any mind to the internal chaos of unearthing a new and unforeseen kink.

what jamie lacks in skill and experience, he makes up for in enthusiasm. for all his bashfulness, jamie drysdale is not shy about finger-fucking.

momentarily sat on his haunches, mason watches with feverish intent as his friend curls your toes with the simple curl of his marriage and middle, his pinky and pointer fingers splayed wide to keep his eye on the prize, sight unimpeded by plush, silky distractions.

no bells and whistles, just diligence.

soon, watching ceases to satiate the burly man and mason slips his own thumb into the mix. with his lips or his tongue—or his fingers, it now seems—mason mctavish is obsessed with your clit.

trevor shoots him a knowing wink; that's his favorite part, too. never do you make prettier sounds than when you’re having that special, highly-responsive bundle tended to. fingers, tongue, trevor's thigh... it doesn't matter, you fall apart all the same.

mason nudges jamie to one side and, much to your surprise, he goes without a fight this time, still stroking you closer and closer to the summit.

with his greater access, mason leans down. his nose splits duties with his thumb as he places wet, open-mouth kisses on your inner thighs, mons pubis, and, finally, the coveted pearl throbbing for affection. his mouth wraps around the little bud before pausing. he looks up for approval.

from trevor.

with the dip of his chin and a peck to your balmy cheek, your boyfriend encourages his best friend to suck on his girlfriend's clit.

mason needs no further coaxing. he alternates between suction and kitten-licks; his tongue was beginning to feel left out. all the while, jamie’s devoted fingers keep you pleasantly teetering on the end.

it's amazing the difference time and a little scolding can make.

“i think you’re enjoying this a little too much, bunny.”

“—m’sorry,” you whimper.

his warm, familiar chuckle fills your ear as he strokes your cheek. “i’m only teasing. you know how much i love watching you get all worked up. and, this way, i get to sit back and enjoy the view while they do all the dirty work.”

your eyes roll back, and his amusement grows louder.

“maybe, we’ll do this again? i wonder how fast they could get you off when they already know how the tricks.”

a raw, guttural sound claws past your lips.

trevor growls into your neck between love-bites. “you’d like that, wouldn’t you, greedy girl? is my mouth not enough for you—y’need my friends’ too? such a slutty little bunny i have..."

"no—only want y-you."

it comes out in a few, demure hiccups, the clarity of your protest impeded by those and the frantic shaking of your head.

your boyfriend can't help but twist your mind when you're like this, too weak and preoccupied by pleasure to give him any lip. his brat's gone sweet, fully subdued. and now he can have a little fun.

“—i know, i know. no need to get all worked up over nothing, silly girl. but it wouldn't matter much if you did, though, right?" the hand cradling your chin moves your head in agreement; he knows you're too far gone—too fucked out, to function. "no, it wouldn't because daddy doesn't share his toys. he needs you all to himself."

in this moment, you aren't sure if trevor loves or loathes you.

“lost your voice, bunny? you’re strangely quiet for a slut i know is close. i can hear it, and i know you can too. we all know you're fucking soaked. go on, don't be shy. i think their good behavior has earned them some praise, hm? doin' so good at following my directions—almost as obedient as you are, pretty thing. be sweet, then you can cum all you want."

his words, coupled with the overstimulation between your bent and parted knees, send your brain down a cloudy, all-consuming spiral. too overwhelmed by the boys kneeling at your altar, you can hardly string together cohesive thoughts, let alone speak adequate praise for their efforts.

...as if trevor expected anything out of your mouth other than garbled, pathetic mumbling anyway.

not to mention, jamie found the spot that makes you see stars on the ceiling as his best friend was busy whispering filth into your ear, and he's been bullying it with his deft fingers—three of them now, buried down to the knuckle. he gives it a short, purposeful rub just to show off his treasure.

you shriek and buck your hips into mason's waiting mouth. as his head dips back down to nestle against you, the angle of jamie's fingers changes and your vision blurs just a tad.

trevor's amusement thunders in your ears as he keeps you from shying away from the new sensation, an arm looped around your waist keeping you tight to his bare chest. and good thing, too, seeing as mason's tongue slips in between jamie's fingers not a second later.

they're right and truly pleasuring you now, and you can't wait a second more.

you surrender.

and, as promised, you show them what real moans sound like from a woman—not that fake shit they subject you and trevor to through the walls on a semi-regular basis.

the sounds of you ripping at the seams spur them on, and it's starting to get difficult to discern who's to blame for the puddle beneath you. this are sloppier and more obscene than ever, and you're loving every single second of it, you almost feel like this is your gift and not theirs.

—which is why you nearly write it off as a trick of a pleasure-drunk mind.

you feel it against your sopping, swollen folds before they notice it themselves; in electing to run their tongues up and down the same path at the same time, their mouths mingled along the way—and continue to do so. the delicious, foreign sensation of their mouths tangled in a clandestine dance buys your silence. and easily.

sooner or later, they’d realize and your fun would mostly likely cease—they've never given any indication of feeling either way—and you weren’t about to speed the process along, especially not when you have the pearly gates in sight.

trevor's won't call attention to it either because he's enjoying it as much as you are. maybe more. he's twitching like crazy against the small of your back, and each time jamie and mason convene between your knees, his hips shamelessly rut into you softness like a feral dog.

he nudges you, warm lips against your cheek. "look."

giving your head a downward tilt, his firm hand directs your attention to the object of his—your boyfriend isn't the only one seeking respite by way of aimless grinding.

mason and jamie have their hips flush to your bed, their burning, sweat-stained cheeks glued to your inner thighs, one slightly scratchier than the other—the best of both worlds. their eyes are nearly black with lust. their frantic movements are more pleasure-seeking than precise, driving into the wrinkled sheets with just one thing in mind.

you've never seen anything quite like it before, and your body reacts in kind.

naturally, trevor sees the signs before anyone. he knows your body best, something he takes great pride in. you'd wager he knows more about what makes you tick than even you do. he's put in enough hours, that's for sure.

trevor doesn't bother disgusting the desire weighing on his voice, "beg."

your lips part as if on cue. your boyfriend (selfishly) indulges your pitiful little whines and repetitive pleas—he'll never pass up an opportunity to rub his handiwork in envious faces—but, eventually, he cuts you off before you get too far into the bit.

"—not you, silly bunny. them."

aghast, mason rips his mouth away and you whine at the sudden loss. jamie strokes your walls sympathetically.

"you're joking."

"does it sound like i'm joking, mctavish? you're lucky i'm even letting you see her like this, let alone touch what's mine, and it's a fucking privilege to watch her cum. convince me that you've earned it."

you weren't expecting to find it so erotic, the power trevor wields over them. you're no stranger to his persuasive prowess; his commands alone were enough to get you off some nights. but this is different, and markedly so.

watching him command his best friends—his friends, reducing them to docile creatures eager to eat from the palm of his hand with words alone, is what tips you over the edge.

their persistent chorus of compliance is swallowed entirely by your wanton cunt, but that was by design.

trevor always knows what you need.

when the dam in your abdomen fractures alongside your voice, he holds your wrists tight to his bare thighs, preventing you from grounding yourself in either of his friends' messy mops or finding purchase anywhere on his body. he can't have you distracted. he needs you to enjoy every second of it. your full, undivided attention must be on the pampering you're receiving, and the tender care with which his friends provide it.

it's okay if you're too weak—of mind, body or both—to make that happen for yourself. your boyfriend is more than willing to pin you down as you ride out your first high of the night. happy to, really.

on the come down, jamie rubs light, lazy circles over your sore, swollen clit almost apologetically. mason laps up your release because it'd be a crime to waste a drop—trevor made that abundantly clear earlier in the night. once he's drunk you dry, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"i think i could, um, use a bit more practice?" he announces bashfully—as if he didn't just make you squirt into his mouth.

jamie perks up at his side, fingers and lips still shiny. he's savoring the fruit of their labors like a precious delicacy, knowing it could be the last time he gets a taste. dark lashes shy and fluttering, his puppy-dog eyes blink up at you. "me too."

a wicked smirk forms on trevor's face; they see it, you hear it.

"gentlemen, how's your stroke game?"

💌 if you liked it, pls lmk! 💌

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giggly-squiggily · 11 months ago

Note

okay prompt. uhh tokyo revengers

okay mitsuya brainrot so let’s see if i can come up with something ummm

he’s trying to do something, like sew or embroider or read or whatever. draken and mikey are screwing around and being loud and mitsuya gets a wee bit annoyed (very rare, he’s so Chill) and is like ARE YOU FIVE and draken and mikey are like, sassy mitsuya???? so they start poking him and annoying him on purpose and it turns into them just tickling him so he stops pouting lmao

as per usual, just delete if you aren’t feeling it!! <3

I blame @ticklish-n-stuff and @duckymcdoorknob (lovingly) for this- their Tokyo Revengers love has infected me and made me wanna rewatch/finish the show kjakjrekjarjkejkr I adore Mitsuya- this is so much fun! I've gotcha covered, friend!

Cloud 9 (Taglist Peeps):

@myreygn @cupcake-spice13

“Say that again, shrimp- I dare you!”

“Ooo, that’s so scary coming from the BFG!”

“You wanna die today, Mikey?”

Mitsuya felt his eye twitch, the pattern of his latest project seeming to blur with each exchange going on around him. He was never going to get this done!

“Balk, balk balk! Mother Ken is angry!” Mikey made chicken noises, crossing his eyes and flapping his arms before taking off running, Draken in toe. The room wasn’t that small, but somehow these two managed to make it feel smaller. Pillows flew, a notebook Mitsuya forgot he even had gone soaring high, along with a handful of pens Mikey attempted to throw like ninja stars.

When a spar pin cushion bonked him in the head- thankfully lacking any pins in it- Mitsuya had enough.

“Are you two FIVE?” He snapped, twisting in his seat to glare. Mikey and Draken were in a sort of crouch, the bigger of the two’s hand around Mikey’s ponytail and said boy’s hand pulling Draken down by the side of his mouth. Both blinked owlishly at him. “Calm your asses down! This isn’t the playpen at a nursery!”

With that, he twisted around in his seat, returning to his project. Silence fell upon the room following it, something charged in the air. For a brief moment, Mitsuya wondered if he went too far.

A poke to the ribs told him otherwise.

“Oo, someone’s mad.” Mikey cooed, his face unnervingly cheeky. “We pissed off Taka, Kenny!”

“So we did.” Another poke to his other side made him jerk back, leaning away from the devilish look in Draken’s gaze. “Can’t have that, can we?”

“Go away! You two are pissing me off more now!” Mitsuya tried to stay mad, but each prod and poke tapped away at his mood, forcing his arms against his sides as he struggled not to smile. “Stop poking me, I’m working!”

“Oo, he’s working, Kenny! Better stop it now!” Poke poke poke.

“Don’t look at me, Mikey, you’re the one egging him on. Look, he’s getting red!” Poke poke poke.

Mitsuya was slightly flushed, the efforts to not burst into giggles right there proving difficult. “G-Go away! Bo-oth of yo-ou, sta-ahp thaht!”

“Oo, he’s laughing!” The pokes came to a halt. Mitsuya let out a sigh of relief. Behind him, Draken raised an eyebrow to Mikey. The shorter man nodded.

The next thing Mitsuya knew, twenty fingers were attacking his sides.

“AH! Ahehahahahahahha! Nohohohohoho, dohohoohn’t you dahhahahahahre!” Mitsuya squealed, flailing forward before sinking back in his chair, trying to curl up against the vicious attack. “Dohohohohn’t tihihihihihickle mehehehehehehehe!”

“Oo, why not? We’re only wittle five year olds! We don’t listen!” Mikey cooed at him in his best baby voice, snickering when Mitsuya cackled. “I wanna juice box!”

“And some animal crackers.” Draken added, moving his fingers up to the silver blonde’s belly, making him spasm. “Though that just sounds like a normal thing for you, Mikey. Sure you’re not secretly five? You pass for it being that short.”

“You know what, Kenny-”

“Guhuuhuuhuhys pelhahahhahhahahase!” Mitsuya howled, kicking his feet some when Mikey switched to his neck, pressing in all the sensitve spots. “Ahehahahahaha, dohohohohon’t! Iihihihihiihhm gohoohhoohohnna kihihihiihll yoohohohohohohou!”

“Threatening Toman’s leader? How bold.” Draken snickered, squeezing his hips. “You’re lucky we like you, Taka.”

“Yeah! And you make good brownies in a mug. I suppose I can let it slide.” Mikey nodded in agreement, snorting when the taller boy squealed, voice near silent. “Are you still mad?”

“NOHOHOHOOHOHOO!”

“Gonna forgive us?” Draken grinned, squeezing Mitsuya’s knee and making him kick.

“YEHEHEHEHEHS!”

“...Can I still have a juice box?”

“FIIHIHIHNE NOW STAHHHAHAHAP!”

The tickles finally came to an end. Mitsuya groaned through residue giggles as he sank further in his chair, nearly falling out. His vision was slightly blurred, and his body felt both light and exhausted- tingling from the tickles. Above him, Mikey and Draken laughed and cheered, high fiving.

“Jeheherks.” He groaned, shooting his hands out to jab them in the pits. Mikey all but flailed backwards while Draken jerked with a snort. “I hahahte you!”

“No you don’t.” Mikey recovered, ruffling Mitsuya’s hair until he was laughing once more. “So, where’s my juice box?”

“I don’t have any on me.” He confessed, earning a small pout from Mikey. “But I’ll buy you one. We can go down to the convenience store a few blocks from here.

“Whoo-hooo! You hear that Kenny? Juice!” Mikey cheered, already running out the door like a little kid. Draken laughed, standing up and pulling Mitsuya to his feet.

“He really does act like a child. Heh, you good Taka?” The taller of the two looked around, wincing at the clutter. “Sorry about your room.”

“Don’t worry about it. You two can clean it up when we get back.” The silver haired teen shrugged, smacking Draken on the back as they headed out. “Hey, when I poked you-”

“Want round two?” Draken’s hand squeezed his hip out of nowhere, making the other jump back with a squeak.

“N-Nohoho!”

“That’s what I thought.”

Thanks for reading!

#Tokyo Revengers #tickle #tickle fic #mitsuya takashi #manjiro sano #ken ryuguji #mikey #draken #fluff #I love writing Mitsuya alkjrejakjrekjjarke #He's honestly so much fun?#Between him and Baji I just have the best time akjlrjearjeajkrajekr #And Chifuyu- he's a doll baby

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soulsbleedink · 5 months ago

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𝙊𝙍𝙋𝙃𝙄𝘾 | 𝙍𝘼𝙔𝙇𝘼 𝙓 𝘾𝘼𝙇𝙇𝙐𝙈

Prompt: Callum braids Rayla's hair, and she tells him about the two elves she grew up with at the Silvergrove, and how Callum really reminds her of one of them.

Warning[s]: No heavy ones, I'm sure. Mentions of doubt, perhaps.

Pairing: Rayla x Callum

Word count: 1.5k

masterlist

i missed rayllum, so i had to write them. i have ruthari in the works. i love them so much. and we have rayllum/ruthari parallels!! gosh, i love them <3 have fun reading :D

Callum’s hands brushed over Rayla’s hair, soft as he carded his fingers through the white strands. He hummed to her softly. They were sitting on Ezran’s balcony, she was sitting with her knees up to her chest, back facing him. His staff was discarded a few inches away, and Stella was eyeing them with what Rayla knew as disgust. Bait grunted, nudging Stella, who turned away, sitting down. Rayla’s hair had come undone earlier when Zym kept on bouncing on her, and now that Ez finally managed to take him away, these two were left alone. And Callum kept on fidgeting while she kept on touching her hair. She thought it was a neat deal. And that’s how they ended up how they were, not that she minded one bit. Recently, it had been a bit awkward between them, so to be able to just be there with him, without all of the emotions thick in the air, it felt much nicer than she could say.

“It’s been a while,” She said, about what in particular or to who, she didn’t know either. Callum stopped with his motions, holding together the strands of hair that hadn’t been braided yet. She just knew that if he didn’t already have her hair in his hands he would be fidgeting.

“I know,” He said, finally. The silence was killing her, and with every second of it, she kind of was wishing she hadn’t spoken at all. But his hands continued their way through, braiding her hair. She remembered the last time Ezran had asked how she’d gotten her hair so long, but the thing was, she didn’t know either. She just supposed she hadn’t found the time to cut it. Or just the opportunity at all.

“Has it been lonely?” He asked, she wished he hadn’t. What was she meant to say? Of course it had. It was disgustingly lonely, especially those first few months without him, and she wanted to tell him that, but she partially blamed herself, but there was anger somewhere deep in there, for him, or to him. She didn’t even know that much.

“Yeah,” That’s what she ended up saying. And it didn’t make up for everything she’d like to say. Callum’s breath grew softer, and she knew that he was well aware of just how much there probably was brewing beneath the surface, but he didn’t push.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, tying her braid, but his hands resting on her shoulders.

She blushed, but didn’t move; didn’t stop him. “Don’t be, it had to be done.”

“But did it, actually?” He asked. And that kind of stopped her thoughts. No one had actually questioned her actions. Well Ethari would’ve, but she was turned into a ghost at the Silvergrove. Still, if she ever returned, Ethari would be there. But she couldn’t bear to bother him.

“I was thinking it would.” Her voice had gone quieter. Callum squeezed her shoulder, pulling her closer. Until her head was on his chest.

“Listen to this,” He whispered, pressing her head closer to where his heart would be. “You thought so. And that’s okay.” She noticed from his peripheral vision that he was looking up, right into the moon.

But did he know that she was kind of mad? That she wasn’t right? That no, she definitely was mad. Everything about leaving the people you love, for their sake, and for your own, just to come out fruitless. It stung, like nothing else did. And she also hated that Callum was acting like Ethari had to Runaan. She didn’t remember it too well, she was but a wee elfling. But, she knew that they had a moment that was literally a parallel to this.

“Are you sure it is? Do you think it is? It hurt you.” She was never good at opening up, but she didn’t like—hated how this hurt him. And the fact that she didn’t even succeed.

“Yes, it is. I may not think it is. But, it’s okay…” He sounded uncertain, like he didn’t value his own words enough. She reached back, squeezing one of his hands.

“Then it isn’t—” She tried to declare, but he tapped one of her horns. She stilled.

“Yes, it is. That’s final. Don’t start arguing with me on this,” He said, leaning closer so she could see his smile. “I’ve not had time spent with just you in so long, so, let’s make the most of this.”

She didn’t know how, but she found Ethari in a human, and that was beyond her too. “Okay, Ethari.”

“Excuse me?” Callum asked, ever polite. A bit unlike him, but that was cute as it was.

“You’re acting so much like him,” She explained, leaning back so she could smile up at him. He blushed. She remembered when Ethari had said she was like Runaan, and now this all felt a bit too canny. Her face was growing warmer.

“I’m flattered—” He started.

“You don’t know him, though?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t know him well, but from our brief introduction, and the way you talk about him. I can deduce that he’s a great guy.” Callum shrugged.

Rayla hit him playfully. He grinned lopsidedly, moving one hand away so he could search through his bag, and then he pulled out… flowers. She eyed him with confusion.

“Turn around.” He gently turned her back.

“What are you going to do?” She asked, still just as confused as she was.

“Take a guess,” He said. Her unamused silence was answer enough. “I’ll decorate your hair with flowers.” Oh, they were just Ethari and Runaan at this point. She remembered this so well, she actually had interrupted this very moment before. Albeit, without realising that it was an interruption at all. Heat crawled up her spine, up her neck, and reached the tip of her ears. Callum was ever relaxed, hands already finding their way back into the braid.

With gentle tugs, he did whatever it was he was thinking of doing. She felt the stems as he weaved them in. His soft huffs of concentration were beyond adorable to her. She hummed softly, a tune she recognised Ethari humming to Runaan, a few years back. She would relive that memory every time she felt too lost in the past two years. It was her means of coping. She would think about it when she couldn’t sleep at night, or when she felt so lonely. And like she needed Callum to tell her that she could make it through.

“Rayla?” Callum’s hands were resting around her waist now, and his head was on her shoulder, voice a soft breath against the side of her neck. She hummed. “You zoned out.”

“Sorry, Callum,” She whispered. He chuckled, telling her it’s okay. “You really remind me of Ethari. Should I tell you—”

“Tell me about anything, and I’ll listen,” He said, earnest as ever.

She started recounting when Ethari was braiding Runaan’s hair and she ended up walking in on them. Well, they were sitting in a meadow, so was it considered walking in on them?

Ethari was working, focused, as always. And Rayla didn’t think she would ever see Runaan smiling, but here he was, smiling and even humming. She wouldn’t ever forget that tune. Ethari would hum it to her at night, when he would tuck her into bed.

“Runaan�� hold still please.” Ethari didn’t sound frustrated in the slightest as he tugged on his husband’s hair yet again, slipping the biggest silver cuff on. The last time Rayla had it, she was wearing it like a bracelet. Because of the sheer size.

Runaan laughed while Rayla peeked her head out from behind a bush. He was apparently too entranced to notice the rustling, which Rayla had thought was too loud—She inched forward, Ethari looked up. Oh no. He smiled. Oh. She walked over to them. Runaan finally looked at her, holding his arms out for her. She jumped right in, finding her place there.

“Can you do my hair like that next?” She turned around in Runaan’s arms, peeking up at Ethari. Who smiled, nodding enthusiastically.

She didn’t know when it happened but at some point she’d swapped places with Runaan, and the assassin was sitting in front of her, watching Ethari, absolutely enamoured, just by him simply doing someone’s hair.

“You remind me of Ethari, yeah,” Rayla finished. By the time she was done talking, she was completely relaxed in Callum’s arms.

“Are you saying you’re enamoured by me?” He asked, she just knew he was snickering. And she would be sure to wipe it right off his face. She turned around, hitting him playfully. He burst out laughing, and she tried to maintain her glare, but she grinned anyway, looking away from him.

“Oh, shut it!”

She didn’t actually want him to, though. Being around him helped, it made everything feel less horrible. She felt as long as she could be back with him after everything. She would be fine. She remembered Runaan saying something like that at some point, and she really wondered then about the integrity of it all. But she kind of understood it now. Callum was her Ethari, in some way. Well, he did remind her of Ethari. It didn’t matter. He was Callum, Katolis’ high mage, and her slightly stupid human.

#tdp #the dragon prince #tdp fanfic #rayllum #mentions of ruthari #callum braids rayla's hair #rayla x callum #after rayla returns.#have fun reading #writing #writeblr #writerblr

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swampstew · 1 year ago

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Meet the Kid Pirates HR Director/Emotional Support Human ~ Heat

Ok, look I get it. The Kid Pirates look raving mad and chaotic. I don’t blame you for feeling nervous when you see one up close and personal. They’re tall, loud, violent, and brash, and their outfits! I swear to you though, Heat is by FAR the least aggressive out of ALL of them. Unless you’re an enemy, in which case Heat will roast you like a rotisserie chicken. Within the crew though? He’s the man! He looks a bit like a ghoul, but he’s a ghoul with a heart of gold. He’s Heat the Director of HR.

Meet the Master Strategist Strategist 🡢 ☠️ Meet your Vice-Captain 🡢 ☠️ Meet your Captain -> ☠️

When he’s in work mode, Heat takes his job seriously. With Wire’s assistance, the two run ship operations on behalf of Kid and Killer. They assign tasks to the crew, keep the ship up to Kid’s standards, and handle all the micro inconveniences of being a Captain that Kid doesn’t like want to do.

Since Heat’s super power is his empathy – no, not his fire breathing though that is also very useful – he’s the person who everyone comes to talk to. Be it professional advice, personal help, talk the shit, whatever, Heat is always down to clown or just talk to people. He’s a laid back guy, bit of a people pleaser, who enjoys other peoples company for the most part; unlike his three comrades who are more introverted than him, the guy with deep scars engrained in his face and neck.

Heat loves to party. Any reason is a good one to cut loose, get drunk, over indulge in Killer’s cooking, and have fun. A pirate’s life is grueling as it is awesome, so Heat tries to live every day to the fullest. You can also attribute his laid back attitude to all the weed he smokes. He’s Wire’s best customer! Sober or not sober, Heat’s attitude is the same either way. He might have a melancholy face but the dude is the nicest son of a gun on the entire ship. He once admitted that the crew is his family and being a pirate is everything he ever wanted, that’s why he’s so happy all the time. Awww.

As talented as he is with complex feelings and crew management, Heat also has another super skill. No its still not the fire breathing. The man can do hair. Have you seen his flawless locs? He twists them himself and has been for years. He’s the unofficial hair stylist on the crew for anyone needing help dying their hair. What, you thought the baby blue was natural? HAH. His outfit of choice was of course, like everyone else on the crew, created with an assist by Wire. That’s his bro. His bro would never let him leave the house ship looking like an idiot.

Oh my gods ok enough with the fire breathing, I know you want to know! The truth is…shrugs shoulders…its just a thing he does. He doesn’t have a devil fruit power and he’s pretty positive he wasn’t cursed by a Witch. Ever since he was a wee lad, Heat has had the gift of fire breathing. It does come in handy, its saved his life plenty of times before he was a pirate and before he was a gang leader too.

No one on this ship had a happy childhood. If they had happy childhoods, do you think they’d be sailing around the world with someone who is basically their hotheaded, younger brother with a higher body count than Dracule Mihawk, and actually take orders from him? Fucking ridiculous. Everyone's emotional irregulation and anger issues means Heat's work is never done. His therapist cup runneth over.

He's the person you can relate to the most out of the top brass, the one who handles most internal conflicts within the crew that are not Boss-related incidents. Heat is compassionate but it doesn’t make him a pushover. He’s The Guy who enforced the word BOUNDARIES on the Victoria Punk just so the Captain couldn’t bully the fuck out of everyone smaller than him. Those peaceful and lull moments on the ship? Your bedroom door not being kicked down on Kid’s every whim? Yeah, thank Heat for those.

Heat's heart and soul are devoted to Kid and the crew, don't ever underestimate what he'd do or who he'd cut down to honor their pride.

Welcome to the crew and practice your breathing exercises!

#one piece heat #reader/you as in you are being recruited to the crew #one piece #swampstew.daydreams #swampstew #eustass captain kid #one piece fanfiction #eustass kid #swampstew stories #kid pirates #kid pirate headcanons #one piece wire #welcome to the crew #massacre soldier killer #kid pirate nakama #heat one piece

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bitbybitwrites · 5 months ago

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OK . . am a day late . . . but not much has been done around here, bc I was struggling to finish the latest chapter of Puppy Love. (my RWRB WIP).

But here's what I got for you - snippets from a couple of ficlet fridays I'm working on (one RWRB, one Klaine) that are going to really be a wee bit longer than what I share here and a snippet of the next chapter of my Klaine WIP - If I Can Make Your Heart My Home . . all under the cut.

Also, by the way, many thanks to the following folks who tagged me for this and six/several/seven sentence sunday these past few weeks - you are all awesome!:

@alasse9 @daisyishedwig @onthewaytosomewhere, @thesleepyskipper @forabeatofadrum

@sophie1973 @wordsofhoneydew @porcelainmortal @taste-thewaste @blueeyedgrlwrites

@annepi-blog @duchessdepolignaca03 @softboynick @thinkof-england

And if I forgot anyone I'm sorry!

1.) From If I Can Make Your Heart My Home (Klaine fic)

“Yes, Bradford. I’m curious as well. What are you doing here?” Four heads whipped around quickly to focus on Lillian, her face inscrutable, watching them all from a few feet away. Bradford Anderson stepped through the doorway, forcing Cooper to back away reluctantly and frowning as he did so. Cooper sidled closer to Blaine who had a similar expression on his face. Bradford leaned down to kiss Lillian on the cheek. “Aren’t I allowed to come see my own mother - or even my sons?” Lillian’s mouth pursed as she debated her reply. “I did think you and Pamela were spending the holiday season in south of France this year. You can’t blame me for being surprised at this impromptu visit.” Bradford shrugged as he removed his wool overcoat and held it out wordlessly towards his sons. Blaine tentatively took it from his father. Cooper quickly tore it from Blaine’s hands and tossed it unceremoniously into a nearby chair. “Yes, well, what a lovely day for a family reunion,” Cooper said tightly. “But we were just sitting down with Nan for dinner . . ." “Wonderful,” Bradford said, cutting Cooper off from the rest of his thought. “I think I’ll join you.” And in a display of sheer self-centered obliviousness, Bradford Anderson waltzed out of the foyer and into the direction of the dining room, ignoring the rest of the party gaping at him as he walked by. For a few moments the four remaining in the hallways just stood in silence, unsure exactly what had happened before them. Kurt knew this was bad. Very, very bad. He knew the last person on earth Blaine would have wanted to see right now, besides maybe Kurt, was his father. ‘Perhaps . . .I should go?” Kurt suggested meekly. “I don’t want to interfere with any. . . um, family affairs . . .” he whispered. Lilian sighed deeply as she closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose in an apparent sign of frustration with her own flesh and blood. “No, Kurt, please stay." she said. "You’ve been kind enough to cook for us and before our surprise guest made his appearance, I was going to ask you to join us. I had just wanted to check with Blaine first. Blaine, sweetheart, what do you want us to do?” Lilian quietly asked. The question however, fell on deaf ears. Blaine was all too focused on staring towards the direction his father disappeared to than listening to his grandmother. Kurt could practically feel the tension radiating off of him. “Squirt?” Cooper gently touched his brother’s arm. “Are you alright?” “Oh yeah, just perfect, “ Blaine muttered bitterly. “Blaine?” Blaine’s head quickly tuned to Kurt, who was nervously was twisting the hem of his apron in his fingers. “I can go, Blaine. I don’t want to make things any more difficult for you than it already is.” “Stay. . .go. It doesn’t matter to me,” Blaine said flatly. “Blaine, I can tell your father to leave," Lillian said softly. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” Blaine’s mouth set into a grim line as he squared his shoulders and started walking in the direction of where his father had left. “Let’s just . . .get this over with,” he mumbled loud enough for the rest of them to hear.

*****

2.) Color Me Surprised (RWRB Ficlet Friday)

*I had a fic idea that I had stalled a bit on until I got this Fictlet Friday prompt - so I've decided to combine the two:

“No.” “Yes.” “No, Pez. I think I’d rather eat glass.” Percy cocked a well-groomed eyebrow and regarded his best friend skeptically. “I’m confused. I’d thought you’d be at least a bit interested. It is a rite of passage, especially in this area, no?” Henry sighed as he tipped his head back. “Perhaps, but one I’m not sure I want to partake in.” “Hazza,” Pez chided his childhood friend. “You are young, single and incredibly hot. Why are you not taking advantage on all of this?” He shook his head in confusion. “Stop acting like you're being tarred and feathered. It’s just an extended weekend. You have been cooped up in this office beating yourself up over the writers block you’ve been suffering from. I am giving you a change of scenery, that’s all.” “And I suppose you propose I find my inspiration there?" “We're going to Fire Island. It's like gay Disney World.” Pez elaborated. “I propose there will be many a tight-bodied, ravishing specimen of inspiration to blow not only your writers block out of the water but hopefully your back as well as . ." Pez coughed and tossed in a very pointed look. ". . . well, one could hope. . . other neglected things.” Pez' s rather pointed look was all too familiar to Henry. Henry groaned as he leaned his elbows onto his desk and dropped his head in his hands. Pez smirked. He knew he had won. “There will be vodka involved, won’t there?” Henry said as he mumbled through his fingers. “Of course, my darling. Is there any doubt?”

3.) fire island follies (Klaine Ficlet Friday)

“I don’t know if this is a good idea, San.” Santana looked over at her friend and smirked. “Lookin’ a little green about the gills, Hobbit. You ok?” Blaine took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he clutched his duffle bag close to his chest. The ferry was going through choppy water, and his stomach wasn't faring well at all. No one could blame him; Blaine was from central Ohio and hadn't had much experience being on the open ocean. He opened his mouth to respond, but the moment the boat hit a particularly large wave. The sea vessel bounced so much that Blaine snapped his mouth shut quickly, clapping one hand over it. Santana swore he looked even more pale than he had a minute ago. “Don’t you dare hurl on me, Anderson. I will kill you if you ruin these shoes.” A young couple and their kid moved away from where Blaine and Santana were sitting, looking at the young man warily. Blaine gave them a weak smile and wave before he peered down at Santana's open-toe espadrilles. “Fancy footwear for the beach, don’t you think?” Santana snorted as she wiggled her Burberry-clad foot at Blaine. "I gots to look good for my sweetie.” She leaned over and poked him in the side. He squawked and batted her hand away. “Can you just give me a smile for once and not look like I’m dragging you to your death.” The boat hit another wave and bounced again. “I feel like death,” Blaine said through gritted teeth as his stomach did another somersault. "Just kill me now." “Oh, perk up, sunshine. We're going to Fire Island. It's like gay Disney World."

****

Well there ya go . . am also tagging ( if you are interested in sharing whatever you are working on - writing or otherwise): @spaceorphan18 @datshitrandom @justgleekout @myheartalivewrites @14carrotghoul

@little-escapist @cha-melodius @kirakiwiwrites @caramelcoffeeaddict @almightaylor

@1908jmd @tinyarmedtrex @theprinceandagcd @iboatedhere

@gleefuldarrencrissfan @gleefulpoppet @itsmaybitheway @kurtsascot @mynonah

@esilher @cryscendo @porcelainandthehobbit @hkvoyage @madas-ahatters-world

@sarkyblueeyes

And open tag of course for any one else!

#klaine #kurt hummel #blaine anderson #klaine fanfic #klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #fic: if i can make your heart my home #fic: fire island follies #rwrb fic #rwrb fanfic #rwrb fanfiction #rwrb #red white and royal blue #firstprince #percy okonjo #henry fox mountchristen windsor #fic: color me intrigued

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inourselveswetrust · 2 years ago

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that moving prompt made me cry blood (positively).... can i get something fluffy? maybe from their younger years when August was a wee pining baby?

Three years ago

Two creams, one sugar.

Or was it one cream and two sugar?

August’s steps falter as they begin questioning their memory – no, you’ve always ordered your coffee with two creams and one sugar. A smile spreads across their face as they enter the café, the wonderful smell of coffee and sweets welcomes them.

“Good morning, August,” one of the employees, August recognizes them as Kalea, greets them brightly. “Your usual?”

“Hi Kalea, can I get a medium coffee with two creams and one sugar too?” August asks politely, and Kalea nods before turning her attention to the order. August’s eyes scan the glassed display of freshly baked sweets. The variety is almost overwhelming, especially for someone who doesn’t particularly enjoy sugary food.

But you do.

“Can I get some cookies too?”

“Sure, what kind?” Kalea replies over her shoulder.

August’s mind races, what kind of cookie do you like? Chocolate chip is a classic, but maybe it’s too basic for you. Would you like peanut butter? Are you allergic?

No, you know they’re not allergic to peanut butter, you fool August thinks to themselves.

“Can I get two of each?” August asks, deciding to stick to the safer option. An option where you get anything and everything you could ever possibly want.

“Of course! Anything else?” Kalea asks as she hands August the two freshly brewed coffees. What if you don’t like cookies?

“Maybe some doughnuts too,” August replies as their eyes drift further down the display. “Can I get an assortment of a dozen?”

…

“I think you bought at least one of everything,” Kalea jokes as she bags the order. What started as a simple order of two coffees has now grown to include cookies, doughnuts, brownies and some tarts. “Is it your turn to buy for the department?” Kalea asks as she hands the overfilled bag to August.

“Of course, cops and their sweets,” August lies easily as they gesture to the bag.

“I’m sure they’ll love it.” Kalea smiles before waving goodbye. I hope so, August thinks to themselves.

The walk to the station is brisk, the chilly air biting at August’s cheeks but the sight of you waiting near their desk instantly warms their cool body. A flush creeps up their neck, and they already know they’ll blame it on the cold wind.

“Good morning!” you greet happily, and waves of joy wash through August. “Ooh, anything good?” you ask as your eyes drop to the familiar café bag.

“What makes you think I’m sharing?” August replies teasingly, raising a brow at you. I’ll share anything with you.

“Pretty please?” you answer with a pout, and August struggles for breath for a moment. Those puppy eyes will be the death of me.

“How could I say no to my best friend?” August grins, handing the bag to you. Take what you need, take what you want, take it all.

You scavenge through the bag eagerly, reaching for a bit of everything despite it barely being dawn. Did you eat? Maybe I should’ve brought something healthier.

“This is delicious! I love their cookies,” you moan as you chomp at a cookie. “What’s the occasion?” God, I’m in love with you and I can’t tell you, but I need to show you.

“I figured we deserved a treat,” August shrugs as they settle at their desk and sip at their coffee. “This is yours.”

“Two cream and one sugar?” you ask as you stare at the second cup.

“Of course,” August nods and watches as you practically chug the steaming drink.

“Thanks, August,” you smile the smile reserved just for them, and their heart flutters. “I’ll set these in the break room.”

Right, because it wasn’t all just for you. It would be insane to buy a dozen cookies, doughnuts, brownies, and tarts for just you.

“Sounds good, it’s your turn to buy next week,” August responds jokingly with a smile.

“Oh, I’ll be sure to spoil you!” you laugh. “It’s the least I could do after you’ve spoiled us this morning.”

I would spoil you for the rest of my life if I could. If I deserved the honour.

#ro: august #prompt #anon ask

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walnutofthedead · 1 year ago

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Can you do Yandere Mikoto x Gn! Reader headcanons?

Hahaha hah djbdhddhhdhd

The ask I’ve been waiting for frfr….

I’m so normal about yanderes (they’re fun to write leave me alone)

So uhm I MAY go a wee bit overboard here??? And May or may not have ended up doing the yan alphabet?? This is for Mikoto and not his alter, if you want an orekoto one just lmk <3

Prob will do a shortfic later

Yandere shit under the cut

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

I see Mikoto as a physical affection type of guy tbh- Like, he’s still really sweet! Always nice with his words, but he’ll like randomly hug you from behind, hold your hand, a lot of things that most regular couples do.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Well… in terms of like, actual messes, he tries to be clean! Mikoto doesn’t particularly even want to hurt anybody. He’s not ALL bad…

With that said, sometimes, he has to. If someone is trying to steal you away and doesn’t heed his warnings, or if they hurt you, he has no choice but to put an end to that!

If someone hurts you, he’ll be more brutal.. not above torturing them if they’ve gone that far.

If it’s because he’s jealous, he’s a bit more nice. He doesn’t make it too painful. Maybe a blow to the head, a fast-acting poison…

After all, he can’t blame them for falling for you just like he did! It’s impossible not to~

They just don’t get to take you away from him. Never.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

Nono! He’s a sweetie:c Mikoto honestly would just treat you with genuine respect and love,, be like, he loves you! He knows he’s already done something awful by abducting you and is sympathetic. Prob tries to make it as comfortable as possible.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

Well… he’s definitely do a lot of hugging and stuff like that… but the furthest he’d go without (implied or direct) consent is just a peck on the lips<3

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

So here’s the thing- he’s delusional as fuck. He’ll just treat your relationship like he’d treat any regular one. He’s never invulnerable around you, but there’s definitely times he’s more vulnerable. Don’t hurt him please the silly:(

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

So confused and betrayed. You love him, so why are you fighting him? He only wants what’s best for you!

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

He takes this shit so seriously- istfg bro hates it when you try and escape :((( kind of a pushover tbh- like he’ll probably just try and make it even more comfortable for you whenever you try to leave.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Being abducted is the worst it’ll get. Even while captive, he treats you with such care it’s baffling- he loves you!!!! Cmon pooks love him back ong

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

I feel like he daydreams about marrying them… like he has it all planned to a T. Probably already designed an outfit for s/o to wear at their wedding. We love a ✨ prepared ✨ mans

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

He gets jealous and inhales lethal amounts of Copium. The poor silly

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Nah bro just acts like his normal self but like,, slightly more happy???

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

Just approaching regularly, he has no issue going up and talking to them! When confessions are involved though, he has a much harder time… probably would opt for a love letter. A long, well-written one with little doodles on it !!

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Lmao nope

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

He kinda just.. wouldn’t..? If he got really pissed somehow, he might like, lock them in their room or something… but he avoids using violence when possible.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

Not many! When he abducts them, he’s strict at first, but eventually even lets them go out so long as he’s there with them.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

He’s incredibly patient. He doesn’t get angry very easily, and when he does, he calms down fairly quick. This is assuming he doesn’t switch to Orekoto, of course…

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

Haha no

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

Oh, absolutely. He’d feel like actual shit about it. Even with all the gaslighting himself to try and justify it, he knows taking someone captive like this is awful. And especially for such selfish reasons… that’s why he tries making it up to them by spoiling them!

He won’t let them go though. There’s no going back once you kidnap someone.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

Hm……. I’d say probably just emotional dependency and bad attachment issues. He just happened to get a bit too attached to s/o.

-bonus hc: he gives his friends nicknames to make it feel like they have a deeper friendship than they do so they don’t drift away from him !

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Oh, he hates it- just seeing them sad or afraid breaks his heart. He doesn’t know what to do, so he just tries his best to comfort them with words.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

Give his darling some MOTHERFUCKING FREEDOM-

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

His willingness to trust. As I mentioned earlier, he gives a lot of freedom, and that only increases as his trust in them builds. Once he’s convinced they do, in fact, love him, and won’t try and leave, he’ll begin letting them go out alone for short periods of time so long as they let him track their location. You can already see how that could turn out in an unsatisfactory way for him…

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

Nope. Or at least, it would take a lot for him to lash out and do so. And even then, it wouldn’t be that bad.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

He doesn’t really worship them per se… but he will totally go to extreme lengths to win them over. No amount of time or money or effort is too much if it means a chance at winning his darling over <3

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

Depending on outside factors like other people pursuing them, it could be anywhere between a few months and a couple years.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

Haha no.

#Mikoto kayano #kayano mikoto #mikoto kayano x reader #milgram mikoto #yandere mikoto #Yandere mikoto milgram #Yandere mikoto kayano #Yandere Mikoto kayano x reader #Milgram x reader #yandere milgram #Yandere milgram x reader #Milgram

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im-a-writer-sometimes · 2 years ago

Text

Life Giveth and Life Taketh Away

Pairing: Viktor x Reader (You can always use this extension to change Y/N to your own name, if you’d like)

Description: When a routine test with the Hexcore goes sideways, Dr. Y/N Cole is left with an unexplained power—a gift that might be the answer to the illness eating away at Viktor’s life. But power always comes with a price, and there are no happy endings in Piltover.

Wordcount: 7.5k

Warnings: Major character death, angst, Jayce being a major pain in everyone’s ass, language, a wee bit of fluff, hurt/no comfort

A/N: Welcome to me ignoring canon for the sake of my stupid little plot!

—

The Hexcore was unlike anything Y/N had ever seen. From the way Viktor toyed with it for hours on end and the way Jayce’s wide eyes watched it undulate and glow, she guessed the duo had never seen anything like it either. It was science, living and breathing—magic, caged and yet dangerously unmoored between Viktor’s trained hands.

It was terrifying in a way, but in her career as a scientist, she had learned to live for the terrifying, riding that fine line between madness and invention. It was that trait within her that had pulled her towards the undoubtedly insane men she now worked for, and had likewise pulled them to her.

“I think Heimerdinger is right in a way,” she said, leaning against the end of the desk as Viktor sat in front of the core, head resting on his hands.

“How so?” He asked, his voice flat.

“We can’t employ the core until we understand it,” she said. He opened his mouth to protest, but she continued. “That just means we need to work twice as hard to understand it, to help the people who can’t wait another year or two years before this technology is available to the public.”

Viktor smiled softly, turning his head back to the core, it’s blue light dancing in the reflection of his yellow eyes. That was what pulled her to the softer, ganglier of the two scientists—and what pulled him to her—that willful, unrelenting drive to help others no matter the cost to themselves. The late nights and the bad coffee and the mornings waking to neck aches as they lifted their heads from the desks they’d sat down at two days ago—it all meant nothing. Nothing compared to the things they needed to accomplish.

“You’ve been up for 48 hours,” she said, standing from her spot against the desk and coming up behind him. “You go get some shut-eye, and I’ll run some more tests.”

“I’m your boss, Dr. Cole,” he said with lethargic amusement in his voice. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“When you’re being stupid, I do,” she said, leaning back against the desk next to him. He smiled and closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath. To her surprise, he reached around her for the cane leaning against the desk, standing with a grunt. “I’ll get a few hours sleep,” he relented, his voice deep and slow with exhaustion, his accent thicker than ever. “And then I’ll be back here to relieve you.”

“More than a few hours, Viktor,” she called as he left, knowing he wouldn’t listen to her. His lack of response said just as much. She sat down in his chair and sighed.

She thought about Jayce, the acting head of the council, busy with political endeavors and Mel, although she couldn’t blame him—if the councilwoman showed even the slightest bit of interest in her, she wouldn’t hesitate to fall into her arms. But despite his distractions, Jayce had been the one to tell her about Viktor’s trip to the hospital. He had been the one to beg her to force Viktor to take care of himself. “He listens to you,” he’d insisted. She spent every day with Viktor, but he revealed nothing—beyond the poorly masked coughs.

He needed this. He needed this promise of future, this promise of life. But he wouldn’t make it to that point of discovery if he kept pushing himself like he was. That was what Jayce had explained to her, translated from the doctor’s prescription of rest, rest, rest. As if that would cure a dying Viktor.

She ran her fingers along the edges of the core, feeling the cool, textured metal against the pad of her thumb. The core seemed to thrum in response, the light within it pulsing playfully. She pulled two wilting plants from a shelf beneath her, setting them on the desk on both sides of the core, and she curled into Viktor’s chair, just watching.

Stems of blue light, curious and alive, reached from inside the core, caressing the leaves of the plants until they started to bristle. Brown, papery skin became smooth, became green and waxy and full of life. The plants lifted themselves from their wilted position section by section, until two entirely different pieces of greenery sat on the desk before her.

She picked one of them up and walked it to the other side of the room, leaving the other by the core. She paced as she watched them both. She watched how the blue light burst and blew one plant apart into a sprout of black thorns. She watched how the other plant wilted again in the absence of the core’s life-giving power. It didn’t matter what life it gave—it was gone in a matter of seconds.

Or maybe mint plants were just inhospitable hosts for this power.

She sat back down, making a list in her head of new hosts to try. She hated the thought of animals, but maybe testing on sick or nearly-dead ones wouldn't be too unethical. Bugs were fair game, but their anatomy was so starkly different from a human’s that how the core affected them would be irrelevant.

It took her a moment to realize the core was still reaching, still hungry. It wrapped its light around the now lifeless tangle of black stems in a constricting, almost predatorial way. It took Y/N an even longer moment to realize it had started reaching for her. Her eyes widened, the light growing brighter before her. It took her too long—just a moment too long—to think to stand up out of its way.

It took another three hours for Viktor to find her collapsed on the floor in front of the desk, the core still pulsing on the surface.

—

Viktor told her she had lost her being-alone-in-the-lab privileges as soon as she woke up in a hospital bed, and Jayce frowned at her, as if saying how is he supposed to rest now, genius? She gave him a tight smile that said I tried my fucking best.

Before an entire non-verbal argument could play out, Mel appeared in the doorway, a soft coat wrapped around her slender frame and a vase of flowers in between her hands. “We leave you alone for an hour, Doctor, and look where you end up.”

“What can I say, I have a proficiency for poor decision making,” she said, and Mel laughed, sitting down at the end of her bed after setting the flowers on Y/N’s bedside table. She smiled at the arrangement of roses, some of them closed tight against the cold hospital air. “Thank you, Councilor,” she said. “These are lovely.”

“You’re welcome,” Mel said, before turning her eyes to Jayce. “But I’m afraid there are some matters that Councilman Talis and I need to attend to. I wish you a speedy recovery, Doctor,” she said as she stood, patting Y/N’s shin through the blankets.

Jayce mumbled a goodbye as he and Mel left together, leaving only Y/N, Viktor, and heavy silence that lingered in the air like molasses.

“I appreciate Mel’s sentiment,” she said softly, “but I hate roses.” Viktor looked up at that, watching her with wary eyes. “I don’t like how they close up.” She lifted a hand and ran a fingertip along one of the closed flowers as if to prove her point.

Her hand stilled as the petals quivered beneath her touch, before bursting open in a quick rush. Viktor stopped breathing. She drew her hand back. And then she lifted it again, reaching for another closed rose. It opened much the same, and she could hear Viktor’s sharp intake of breath.

“Find me a dead one,” she said, and it took Viktor a moment to even realize she had spoken.

“What?”

“A dead plant. Find me, uh, a dead plant, to—”

He was out of his chair and limping down the hallway before she could finish her sentence. He returned a moment later, a poor nurse hauling a browning plant in a large planter into the room.

“Beside the bed,” he said softly, and the nurse deposited it there, staring at them both expectantly. “That will be all, thank you.”

Once he left, she reached out, pressing her fingertips against one of the wilting leaves. Like mold on bread, green spread out beneath her fingers until the entire plant was living again.

“What have you done?” Viktor breathed, and she shook her head.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” she said. She looked down at her hands, the same as they were last night, and shook her head again. “I ran the same test we’ve run a million times. The plants—the plants died and withered, but the core–”

“What about the core?”

“I don’t know. It was different.”

“Different how?” He said, scooting the plant away and sitting down in the chair beside the bed. “I need you to explain it to me in detail, Y/N.”

She bristled at the sound of her first name in his accented voice. He always called her Doctor or Cole or Dr. Cole. But she didn’t have time to linger on the significance of it when he was staring intensely enough at her to make a lesser person shrink away in discomfort. But she knew this gaze—his problem-solving gaze. She just wasn’t used to being the problem he was solving.

“The plants were enough to wake it this time, but not enough to satiate it. It was hungry, and then,” she paused. “Predatorial? I saw it reaching for me, and I was just too stunned to move. And then I woke up here.”

“That’s all you remember?”

“Yes,” she said. He reached out to take her hand in his, to study it, but she pulled back. His narrowed eyes met hers. “Don’t—don’t touch me, we don’t—”

“We don’t what?” He asked slowly.

“We don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t want any… unintended side effects.” She thought about the mint plant bursting into wild black and shivered, Viktor’s face hovering in front of hers. She pressed her hands beneath her legs for safe measure.

“Yes, right,” he said. And then he was gone for a moment, returning with a pair of lamb-skin gloves dangling from his fingers. “To prevent any unintended side effects.”

—

Jayce was ecstatic when he returned to the lab later that day, explaining to Viktor’s unimpressed face how Y/N’s ability was a vital step in understanding the core. How she was fine, as the doctor’s had confirmed, and she now had the ability to bring plants to life.

“With none of that turning black and dying stuff,” he added, gesturing to the two plants now basking in the window—the vase of fully-bloomed roses and the potted plant, both still alive.

“Just like we do not understand the core,” Viktor explained, “we do not understand what it has done to Dr. Cole. We need—time.”

“Time?” Jayce said. “Weren’t you the one who said people need help now? Here’s your answer, Viktor,” he said, gesturing to Y/N as if she were a potted plant as well. “Why not take advantage of it?”

“Maybe because it is our friend and our colleague, and there is no need to put her in more danger than she has already subjected herself to,” Viktor said.

Y/N frowned—upset that she was actively being excluded from this conversation, and glad because she truly didn’t know who she sided with.

“What about you, Viktor?” Jayce continued, his voice softer. “You thought the Hexcore was the key to curing you, and now,” he looked over at her, “the key might be Y/N.”

Viktor stood, putting his weight on his cane to stand face-to-face with his partner. “Enough,” he said. “This was an unfortunate accident, an accident we still do not know the full repercussions of. Dr. Cole is not a trinket, she is not a science experiment, and I won’t treat her as such.”

Y/N stood, and they both turned their heads towards her. “I need a glass of water.”

Jayce was quick to fetch it for her, and then both men were watching her intently as she drank, eyebrows raised. She sighed.

“Jayce has a point,” she said, apologetic eyes meeting Viktor’s. “This could very well be a blessing in disguise, Viktor.”

Jayce lifted his hands in an I told you so gesture that had Viktor rolling his eyes.

“But,” she continued, and both the men’s focuses returned to her. “Viktor is right that the risks of getting ahead of ourselves right now far outweigh the potential rewards.” It was Viktor’s turn to gloat, but he just smiled softly. “We don’t know if those plants will blacken and die. It may only take longer for them to do so.”

Viktor’s smile disappeared at that, before he nodded solemnly.

“Let’s monitor your power,” he said. “We will test it on more plants, on dying animals, and we will see what becomes of them.”

“Because sickly rats are more deserving of this power than you,” Jayce said, sharp eyes on Viktor’s profile as he watched her. Viktor ignored him, crossing the room to pull a mint plant from our withering collection.

Jayce’s eyes met Y/N’s, and she shook her head. He clenched his fists and was gone in an instant, the lab door slamming behind him.

—

Viktor’s next hospital visit was less shocking than the first. And the doctor’s advice was the same. Rest, rest, rest, he told Viktor. So your inevitable death will come a little later, was the bit he forgot to add.

By the time a disheveled Jayce walked through the door to the hospital room, Y/N had fallen asleep, curled awkwardly in a chair, her head resting on the foot of the bed. The lamb-skin gloves were on her hands—as they had been for the last two weeks except for when she was curing canaries and mice and mint plants. In her foggy, half-conscious haze, she heard the tail-end of a whispered conversation, voices floating above her like light from the core, reaching desperately through the space in between.

“You have to try,” said Jayce, his voice kinder than she’d heard it in weeks. “What is there to lose?”

“Without thinking about the potential consequences for me, we don’t know what the consequences for Y/N will be,” said Viktor, her first name feeling so out of place, like a confession she wasn’t meant to hear.

“Viktor—”

“She’s been curing plants and small animals, not human beings.”

“The Hexcore never gets any weaker,” Jayce countered. “It never dims, and that same power is in Y/N. You have to trust it.”

“I don’t. Not with her life,” came Viktor’s defeated voice.

She heard shuffling as Jayce stood and felt his warm hand on her back.

“She’d never try something if you didn’t approve,” he said. “Why don’t you give her a chance to choose for herself?” He paused. “Your life matters too, Viktor.”

She fell back asleep to images of yellow eyes closing for good, hands reaching out too late, and a cough somewhere in the distance.

—

A week in the lab until his next episode. A week during which Y/N cured a cat of pneumonia, developed a minor cough which had Viktor—for lack of better terms—flipping his shit, recovered quickly, and tried to convince him to get at least five hours of sleep every night (which he didn’t).

A week until the doctor came into Viktor’s hospital room with a frown and no longer told her he should rest more. There is no more delaying it, he said with just the defeated look in his eyes.

A week until Jayce had the same argument again—only this time with her.

“He’s dying, Y/N,” said Jayce, eyes flitting to Viktor’s sleeping form. “I’m begging you to at least try.”

She watched the way Viktor’s chest rose and fell beneath the blankets—each breath a monumental effort he might not have the strength to make again. She looked back at Jayce.

“It’s his life,” she said. “And he’s right. We don’t know what will happen.”

“I know you won’t just let him die,” Jayce said. “You care for him. Much more than you care for me.” She opened her mouth to counter, but he lifted his hand. “I’m not offended, Y/N. I only ask you to do what you’ve been wanting to do since the moment you made that rose bloom.”

He departed soon after that, muttering something about council business and leaving a kiss on her hairline, as if he was trying to transfer the will to cure him into her.

Viktor was right. Every test they had done had been successful, but they still didn’t know the long-term side effects—on her patients and on her. Viktor understood the ethics of research and nothing would make him flinch from that, not in a way that might hurt someone else. She understood that, truly she did.

But Jayce was right in a more pressing way. They didn’t have years to understand this ability. They had another month, if they were lucky. Viktor was dying anyway, and he would undoubtedly die if she sat here and did nothing. He deserved a chance, no matter how much he said he didn’t want it. And she was the only one who could give it to him.

She scooted her chair towards Viktor until there was no room left between it and the bed. She peeled off the lamb-skin gloves slowly, setting them on the bedside table. She stayed like that for a while, hands suspended in the air above his sleeping form, taking slow breaths in and out. She only shifted to wipe the tears that had started to trickle down her face.

“Viktor,” she breathed. His eyelids shifted, but he made no other movement. She started reaching for the gloves again, picturing his anger when he woke up, anger she never wanted directed at her. She stalled when she thought about him not waking up at all. The anger was preferable, she decided, fingers reaching for his face.

She felt static shock run through her body as her fingertips grazed his cheek. His eyelashes fluttered, and he leaned into her touch. Her other hand reached for his, twining their fingers together until her knuckles were colorless. When his eyes stilled again, she brought her other hand to his, pressing his hand between her palms and bringing it up to her face, planting kisses along his knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” she said into his skin. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

She fell asleep with her head against their tangle of hands.

—

She woke to an empty hospital bed, her cheek resting against the mussed-up blankets.

In her half-consciousness, she thought Viktor must have died in the night, and they’d already hauled away his body. She stood quickly, blood-rushing to her head and sending her on a quick trip to the floor, knees colliding with the cool stone. She cursed, suddenly conscious enough to realize they would have woken her if her dearest friend had passed on in his sleep. But the question remained: where was he? She stood, the action taking much more effort than usual, and stepped into the hall.

“Excuse me,” she said, stopping a nurse as she passed by. “Do you know where Viktor went?” she asked, gesturing to the empty bed behind her.

“He was discharged early this morning,” she said.

“Discharged? He was the sickest he’s ever been. How was he discharged?”

“The doctors are still trying to puzzle it out,” she shrugged. “But he was perfectly fine when he woke up. Left in a rush.”

Y/N stared open-mouthed and dumbfounded at the nurse as the truth dawned on her. The nurse lingered for a moment—most likely concerned by her notable absence of reaction—before continuing on her way. She stood in the doorway, completely motionless, as she realized what she’d done.

She cured him.

It worked.

Jayce was right.

She grabbed the gloves from the table and left, going to the one place she knew he’d be.

The lab was a mess when she got there, notes ripped from journals and scattered along table tops, pieces of hextech dangerously littered about the room. He looked like a mad scientist sitting in the middle of all of it—the mad scientist she had first met, with color in his cheeks and a light in his eyes she couldn’t believe had ever been gone.

But then those eyes turned on her, and the light became fire.

“What have you done?” He said, standing up on his cane and closing the distance between them.

“I don’t know.” Her voice was small, much smaller than she wished it to be.

“You don’t know?” He said, throwing his arms in the air. “Of course you do not! How can you? But luckily for you, I can enlighten you.” He paused, turning away from her. He ran a hand down his face as he considered how to continue. “You have cured me, Y/N,” he said eventually, barely looking over his shoulder at her. “I can breathe, I can walk about without nearly fainting, I can live.” He looked at her, and she found no gratitude in his eyes. “What did Jayce say to you? You said you would do nothing without my wish for you to do so. And I did not wish this.”

“Why?” she said, taking a step towards him. When he turned his face and refused to meet her eyes, she shook her head. “Maybe you had accepted your death, but I hadn’t. You were living on borrowed time, Viktor. Every trip to the hospital was one trip closer to your last, and I couldn’t watch you die. I couldn’t watch you let yourself not die, not when I have this.” She lifted her hands, and he finally looked at her, grimacing. “You said our work could help people, and I have just proven that it can, we—we should be celebrating, you bastard,” she said, her voice growing thinner. She took in a shaky breath. “You should be thanking me, you should—” She groaned, clenching her fists in an effort to slow the painful race of her heart. She sighed. “I don’t know why you were so happy to die, Viktor. But you deserve a chance. And I was the only one who could give it to you.”

“It was not your right,” he said slowly.

“I don’t care!” she said, throwing her arms up in the air. “You’re alive, Viktor! You’ll live for years and years to come; who gives a fuck who has the right? I wasn’t going to give you the right to die.”

He grunted and turned away from her, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I just–I need a moment,” he said. She scoffed.

“Take a lifetime, Viktor,” she said, the door slamming shut behind her.

—

When Jayce heard the news, he was knocking on her apartment door (after visiting a moody Viktor, of course). He crushed her in a hug before she could say hello, lifting her off the ground and twirling her through the air like a ragdoll.

“It worked!” He said, setting her back down with his hands on the tops of her arms. “I told you it would!”

She stepped out of his grasp, walking further into her apartment. “But Viktor—”

“He’ll come around,” Jayce said, following her. “I know he will; he’s just mad he can’t be so morbid all the time now.”

She nodded, grabbing a mug from the cupboard. “Tea?”

Jayce smiled, pulling out a chair at her breakfast table. “You know me so well, Doctor.”

She sat down across from him a minute later, two cups of chamomile between them.

“I’m just—” Jayce started, his eyes fixated on something outside the window. “I’m just so relieved. For so long, we couldn’t do what we love. Everything was about Viktor getting better, as it should have been, and now—” He smiled. “—Now we go back to how it always was.”

She nodded, taking another sip of her tea. She nearly spilled it when a cough immediately ripped through her throat, followed by another cough, and another.

“You alright?” Jayce asked, setting down his cup and reaching a hesitant hand towards her.

“Wrong pipe,” she wheezed, standing up from her seat and clutching a hand to her chest. Jayce stood as well, hands hovering in front of him as if he didn’t know what to do.

“Doctor—”

“I’m fine,” she managed, walking to the sink and cupping her hands beneath the faucet, drinking mouthfuls of cold water.

“I don’t know if that’s going to—”

The water came back up immediately, followed by her breakfast as she emptied her stomach into the sink. Jayce was there, hands on her back as she continued to heave. “I’m fine,” she said again, although she didn’t think either of them believed it.

“You’re fine,” Jayce repeated, his hands going still on her back. “You just need to lay down, okay?” She nodded, following Jayce as he opened the door to her bedroom, peeling back the covers on her bed. He covered her up as soon as she crawled onto the mattress, closing the door and speaking a quiet feel better over her faint coughs.

—

“She needs a hospital,” said a hazy voice as she woke.

“I’m certain it’s just a minor cold or something,” replied a voice she recognized, Jayce’s face coming into view above her as she flitted my eyes open.

“Minor colds don’t have people vomiting and losing consciousness, Councilor.”

“She didn’t—”

She coughed as she woke, and both Jayce and—as she now recognized him—Dr. Haymin, Viktor’s physician, turned their focus on her.

“Dr. Cole, how are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she croaked out, clearing her throat at the sound of her voice and pushing her covers off. It was too hot. She was too hot. “Where’s Viktor?” she asked in her half-consciousness, knowing the last time she’d seen these two men in a room, there had been a third.

“At the lab,” Jayce said after a beat of silence. “I didn’t—he doesn’t need to worry. Right, Doctor?”

Dr. Haymin ignored him, speaking to Y/N instead. “I was just telling Councilor Talis how it might be safest for you in a hospital right now, just while we figure out what’s going on.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“Dr. Cole—”

“I just needed a bit of rest,” she said, standing and pushing past them into her kitchen. They followed her as she pulled a glass from her cupboard and filled it with water, taking slow, steady sips.

“I’ll stay with her for now, Dr. Haymin,” Jayce said. “If there are any further complications, I’ll take her to the hospital, alright?”

Dr. Haymin looked hesitantly between them before letting out a long sigh. “I want you both to know that in my professional opinion, she should be in a hospital right this minute.”

“I understand,” said Jayce.

Dr. Haymin left with a laundry list of symptoms to look out for, mentioning something about Y/N’s fingers turning blue as Jayce closed the door in his face.

“Alright,” said Jayce, walking back into the kitchen. “So, you’re fine?”

She nodded.

“Great. I’m late for official council business. I’ll come back around dinner time to check back on you. Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” she said, lifting her glass in his direction as he quickly followed in Dr. Haymin’s steps.

—

“I just wanted to apologize, even though my reaction was completely warranted and your behavior was—no, no,” Viktor mumbled to himself, hovering in the hallway outside her apartment. “The way I spoke to you was unacceptable, and I just wanted to apologize. I am obviously still infuriated at you, but I respect you, and I should have shown that, despite your complete dismissal of my autonomy and—no, no, no, no, shit.” He let out a deep breath. “Y/N, I want to be alive, I am happy I am alive, and I am sorry. I know you did what you did out of the goodness of your heart, and I am not mad at you, only at your recklessness—the recklessness Jayce inspired. I’m sorry for yelling, and I hope you can forgive me.”

He nodded sharply to himself before taking the final step to her door and knocking twice. When the seconds ticked by with no answer, he knocked again. “Dr. Cole?” He called. “It’s me, uh, Viktor. I understand if you do not wish to speak with me, but I promise I am not here to fight.” He paused, waiting for her to yell back from the other side telling him to go fuck himself. But there was nothing. “Dr. Cole?”

He tried the handle, and to his surprise, it gave, the door swinging open before him. “Dr. Cole?” He called again, stepping into her sunlit apartment. “Are you here?” Once he passed the threshold, he saw her, collapsed in a heap in front of her kitchen counter.

“Y/N!” He rushed towards her, leaning his cane against the counter and crouching down beside her body, his hand on her back rising with a shaky breath that had him sighing in relief. “Y/N, wake up,” he said softly, turning her over onto her back. His hands stilled at the sight of blood dried along her upper lip, one stream still tacky from her right nostril. “Y/N.” He shook her shoulder, perhaps a little rougher than he’d intended, and she coughed, her eyes flitting open and then squinting shut again at the brightness in the room. “Y/N, what happened?” He asked, the quiver in his voice telling them both that he already had a hypothesis.

“Viktor?” She said, opening her eyes halfway, and he opened his mouth to respond before she was overtaken with a fit of coughs, curling into herself and pressing her mouth into her elbow. “I’m–” cough “fine—” cough “I promise.”

He didn’t respond, he simply took a hold of her hand, straightening out the arm she had been coughing into and peering down at her elbow.

The white fabric was bright red—red like roses, like the roses still blooming in the lab window.

He didn’t even have the strength for another what have you done. He just squeezed his hand tightly around hers and closed his eyes.

“Viktor?”

He was silent for a long while before he responded with a broken sob, his other hand coming up to cover his face as he cried openly. Y/N sat up, wrapping her arm around his back and pulling him into her, their hands still locked together between them.

“I’ll be fine,” she whispered into his shoulder, which only made him cry harder.

“This was not your disease to live with,” he said, pulling back to look at her and speaking aloud what they had both realized by now. “To—to die—”

“Hey,” she said, hand coming up to cradle the side of his face. “It wasn’t yours either. No one deserves this, but I–I am carrying it now, so, just—let it be, okay?”

“I–I should have seen this. You were dehydrated all the time from the plants, and your cough from the-the cat—”

She dipped her head, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“Viktor,” she breathed. “I wouldn’t take it back.”

“I wouldn’t have let you do it,” he said, not in anger, but in a remorse so heavy she didn’t know how he carried it on his own.

She turned away to cough again, and Viktor couldn’t find the strength to yell at her for this. Jayce, he would obliterate the next time he saw him, but not her.

“We should probably get you to a hospital,” he said instead, and she sighed once the coughing fit subsided.

“They can’t–they can’t do anything,” she said softly. “I think I’d just prefer to be here.”

He frowned, but said nothing. Instead, he helped her up and guided her to her bedroom, peeling back the covers much like Jayce had earlier that morning. Except Viktor stayed, pulling an armchair to the side of her bed and sinking into it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” she said through a yawn, pulling the covers up to her chin.

“Don’t apologize, Y/N,” he replied, and she closed her eyes. “I’ll find a way to fix this,” he added, but she had already drifted off.

—

He brought Y/N back to the lab as soon as she was rested enough, and she sat on the bench by the window as he worked, resting her head against the glass. When Jayce arrived a few hours later, he was surprised to see them both there, and at the way Viktor tensed at his friend’s cheery hello, she stood and decided to use this opportune moment to use the bathroom. When she came back there was still muffled yelling through the door and she waited outside, wanting nothing to do with this conflict—even if, in a way, she had caused it. Jayce burst into the hallway a few moments later his eyes wide and red-rimmed.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry. If I had known, I would never—”

“It’s okay, Jayce,” she said, resting her hands on his arms. “We both wanted what was best for him.”

“But, I-I left you,” he choked out in a whisper that made her realize he had definitely not told Viktor that part. “I really believed you were fine, or maybe I was just in denial, I—”

“Hey,” she cut him off. “It’s happened and we can’t take it back. I’m at peace with it, okay? Anything you think you’ve done wrong, I forgive you for.”

Jayce pulled her into him, crushing her in a hug, his chin resting on the top of her head. “I’m still sorry,” he said. She pulled back and smiled at him, before taking a step back towards the door. Jayce took a step in the other direction, faltering for a second as he watched her disappear into the lab.

—

For four hours—maybe five—Viktor tossed theories and possible cures at her, most of which she had already researched herself when Viktor was sick. She explained the downsides, the impossibilities, the potential of rumfish oil, if strained properly. But Viktor had more and more ideas. For every hypothesis she countered, he had another one ready, each more desperate and mad than the last.

“Viktor,” she finally said, cutting off his long-winded explanation of an incident involving tempar eels and a woman cured of heart palpitations. “Can we—save this for tomorrow? I’m tired. I don’t know how you were working all the time, because I’m just—drained. I’d like to have dinner and go to bed, if that’s okay.”

Viktor paused, before nodding slowly. “Of course. I’ll walk you to your room.”

She pulled a jar of soup out of her cabinet once they got back to her apartment, Viktor grabbing a pot and placing it on the stove without a thought. She tried to open the jar, her fingers straining against the lid, but she couldn’t get it to budge. Viktor noticed and quietly came up behind her, reaching out his hands.

“I got it,” she insisted, trying again. And again. Why was this happening? She was young and strong, and she’d never had trouble opening a goddamn jar of soup.

“Y/N, let me—”

“I got it,” she said, sharper than she intended. The shock of her outburst made all anger and spite and will drain out of her quickly, and she slumped, placing the jar in Viktor’s outstretched hands. He turned away towards the stove, and she didn’t even see him open it, but she heard the sound of the liquid filling the pot.

“Sorry.”

“No need for apologies, Dr. Cole,” he said.

Dr. Cole. What happened that he couldn’t call her by her first name, the name she’d grown accustomed to hearing from him? What sort of distance did he need? What sort of space was he trying to restore? Maybe before he had distanced himself because he knew any connection wouldn’t last, that soon enough he’d be dead. And now he knew that soon enough she’d be dead in his place. Dr. Cole, Dr. Cole, Dr. Cole. Both a cruelty and a mercy.

“Where are your bowls?”

She pulled two bowls from the cabinet beside her and walked over to the stove, ignoring his raised eyebrows at the second one. He didn’t protest though, pouring soup into both bowls until the pot was empty.

“Tell me what you’ll do,” she said as he washed their bowls in the sink a little later, the soup resting heavy in their stomachs.

“What?”

“With all this time, this life—what will you do?”

For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her, but eventually he turned off the sink, placing the bowls on a towel to dry and turned back towards her.

“I’d had a lot of time to think about how I wanted to die, Dr. Cole,” he said softly. “I didn’t ever consider how I wanted to live.”

“Well consider it now,” she said. “Consider Viktor at forty, at fifty, at seventy-five. What are you doing?”

“Sailing west,” he said almost instantly. “Buying a house on some island in the Morian sea.”

“So you have thought about it.”

He hummed, crossing the kitchen to sit down at the table.

“Would you stay there all year? Or just in the summers?” she asked, sitting down opposite him.

“All year,” he said. “Jayce could send me his theories, and I could send him mine, but I’d never have to hear about the political plights of Piltover. Because this is of course after I have provided plentiful resources to the undercity, and worked tirelessly to erase the stigma surrounding its residents.”

“Of course,” she said. “Any children?”

“Three daughters,” he said, and she chuckled at his certainty. “Alexandra is the oldest, named for her grandmother. And then there’s Danika in the middle, and the youngest, Y/N, named after her—”

Silence swallowed everything around us, enough for the sound of children laughing and beach waves hitting the shore to rise in my mind. A small, curly-haired girl, named for her mother, smiling in my direction. Three children clinging to their father’s arms.

“After her father’s most stubborn employee?”

After another beat of silence, she reached for his hand across the table.

“It was never meant for us, either way,” she said, and he met her eyes. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he said. “Not when I’m the one living to grieve it.”

“Thought you had secured the easy way out, huh?” At her words, he met her eyes with alarm, his gaze quickly softening at the mischief he found there.

“I was counting on it,” he said.

“Well, that’s awfully rude of you,” she said. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you ladies first?”

He smiled, but something flickered out in his eyes. “Let’s not joke about this.” She nodded, and he stood, offering her his hand. “Bed?”

“Bed,” she confirmed, following him to her bedroom and climbing under the covers. He turned to leave and something clenched in her chest. “Viktor?”

He paused. She considered the distance, the Dr. Coles he had given her when he knew he was dying, when he knew any affection he offered would ultimately be ripped away. She thought of his admission, of the future he saw, and the present he had sacrificed selflessly. She thought of how truly good he was, and how she needed to be good too, how she couldn’t ask anything of him, not now. But she didn’t need to, apparently.

He had kicked off his shoes and propped his cane against the nightstand before she asked the question, slipping under the covers without a word.

“You don’t have to—”

“Have me, if you will,” he said, his eyes already closing. As if sightlessly sensing the guilt wracking her face, he continued, “It isn’t selfish, Y/N.” He opened his eyes. “I’ll take any time you’ll give me.”

And so she rolled over and went to sleep.

—

The time she could give him was a month, probably less, according to Dr. Haymin. Viktor had forced her to go to the hospital the next morning—just to see where we stand—and she felt better, oddly, knowing exactly what she had left.

They spent the day at the harbor, and she bought Viktor his first street kebab, laughing at the way he gingerly plucked half-cooked meat from the stick and eyed it with distrust. Y/N spent the night in bed, Viktor spent it in the lab. Jayce and Mel visited her the next day, and Mel brought a bouquet of tulips this time, leaving them on the kitchen table for Viktor to find when he reappeared in her apartment around lunchtime. The circles beneath his eyes and the tired lift of his smile told her he hadn’t found the miracle he’d been looking for. He took her to the art museum, and sat on a bench in the main gallery with her for an hour when she was too tired to keep walking. She invented backstories for all the characters in the portraits, spun creation myths for the landscapes, and Viktor listened. When she fell asleep on his shoulder, he asked an employee if they had a wheelchair available, and then he took her back home. When she crawled into bed, she told him she couldn’t remember where they had been, and he regaled to her her own story of how a fairy grew tired of the nightime and smashed together a thousand stars to make the sun, and that’s why Dialucci could paint the sunrise. She went to sleep, and Viktor stayed with her.

The next morning, she couldn’t get out of bed.

Two mornings after that, she couldn’t keep down any food he tried to give her, and he asked Dr. Haymin to come see her again.

“You have days,” he told Viktor outside her room. “In truth, she could go at any moment.”

“Will you smash some more stars together to make another sun?” She asked when Viktor came back inside her bedroom, the sound of Dr. Haymin closing the front door barely audible. “So it’s daytime for the rest of my life?”

“I’ll do my best.”

She sat up, leaning back against the pillows at the headboard and patted the space before her, beckoning him to sit. He did. “Even if it will dry up the atmosphere and slowly burn the earth to a crisp?”

“Even then.”

She smiled, closing her eyes. “What did he say?”

He scooted back until he was leaning against the pillows as well, opening his arms for her to fall into.

“I’ll name the second sun after you,” he said.

“Okay,” she breathed. “But if it starts killing everybody, rename it.”

He laughed, squeezing his arms tighter around her, letting the silence envelop them both, peaceful and kind for once. “I know you won’t accept an apology,” he said eventually, “But I want to give it nonetheless.”

“Who said I wouldn’t accept an apology?” She pulled back to look at him and he raised his brows. “It all depends on the delivery.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Won’t cut it,” she said, shaking her head.

“You deserved better?”

“Not it.”

“I’ll miss you?”

“Not quite.”

“I love you?”

She paused. “Getting close.”

He lifted his hand, using his finger to brush her hair out of her eyes. When she closed them, he leaned down, the tips of their noses brushing, their breaths meeting in the middle. She was the one to close the distance, but he was the one to kiss her, to press every unspoken thing into her mouth for safekeeping, to take with her wherever she’d go. When she pulled away, there were tears in both their eyes, and her voice cracked when she quietly said, “Apology accepted.”

When Viktor woke up the next morning, the skin of her arm was growing rapidly cold beneath his fingertips, the first rays of light from the one and only sun illuminating the blue-gray color beneath her complexion. He kissed her forehead, and the tip of her nose, and her lips, and her cheek, and her eyelids. “I forgive you too,” he said, her body falling limp against the sheets as he got up.

#viktor arcane #viktor #viktor fanfiction #viktor fanfic #viktor imagine #viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor angst #arcane league of legends fanfic #arcane #arcane imagine #arcane fanfiction #arcane fanfic #arcane imagines #viktor league of legends

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oifaaa · 2 years ago

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Please tell me how Roy’s characterisation was massacred for N52.

I understand how Jason and Roy’s relationship can be annoying where Roy never questions Jason and just follows him around blindly, never second guessing him. Roy is hard on himself and lacks self esteem and so thinks highly of Jason when really he should be angry, maybe even jealous of the power (all caste magic) Jason has. Then i get confused because I’d think someone going through a bout of depression and self hate and self medicating would have low self esteem and would think everyone is better than them and that they are a fuck up so isn’t that accurate portrayal of how awful Roy’s situation is?? Doesn’t that show the way Roy struggles just as he has pre N52?

Additionally Jason always compliments Roy on his greatness and abilities (Not in person which is annoying because grr he has to be manly and can’t compliment a friend) but in his little thought bubbles he’s always talking about how great Roy is and how grateful he is to have him.

Now this is where I get more confused because surely Roy respects Jason and through Jason’s monologues he clearly respects Roy though he may not say it out loud. The point is, people exaggerate so much how Roy is used as a crutch for Jason to look cool but Jason is constantly mentioning Roy and how important he is for the team. (Though I won’t deny there are times he may call him a goofball or undermine him but I mean cmon it’s literally ‘Red Hood’ and the outlaws, not ‘Titans’ where they’re equals, so it’s understandable that Jason would have swords and magic and stuff and save the day whilst Roy is not the main character). Idk I just haven’t noticed Roys character being MASSACRED when he’s with Jason.

People say Roy’s biggest trauma is having to be with Jason but I don’t know why that’s so bad like don’t just say it’s shit writing, fucking give me the evidence. (Sorry for the rant no offense to you what so ever). If the writing is so bad then blame the writer idk why Jason gets so much hate.

Anyway, please tell me how and why Rhato is the worst comics because I don’t think it’s that bad personally and I’d get shit for saying that.

Ps. This isn’t even about JayRoy or Lobdells disgusting history it’s literally just about why Rhato gets so much hate. I’m so confused so please explain /gen.

Thank you, have a nice day :)

Okay im gonna start this off by saying I think your looking at this the wrong way, your treating RHATO as just a stand alone story and if you want to know why people hate it you have to look at it in the broader context of it being a continuation of three different characters stories bc that is what it is - kory Roy and Jason are all pre established characters with rich backgrounds and personalities that have been building up for decades if you ignore these histories your gonna get push back from fans and Lobdell actually took it one step further

I'm gonna be short and sweet with this bc people more knowledgeable about roys character can put it way better then me but lets get straight to the point - the reason why people say Roy harper was massacred in RHATO is bc his whole character was changed- his back story, his relationships, his addiction, a lot of his personality and hell even his tattoos were changed and changed for the worse as a lot of it seemed to get done just to better suit Jason who was also changed a lot by lobdell but not to the extent that Roy was - a lot of it comes off like lobdell didn't even bother to read any comics with Roy in them before he decided to try and shove him into a role that wasn't suited for him which if your a long time Roy fan watching a character you adore get a complete overhaul just so he fits with the character the author uses as a self insert your gonna be a wee bit agitated

When your writing stories in the dc universe you have to be careful as a lot of these characters are main characters in their own right when they team up together sure you can focus on one more then the others but you have to be at least abit aware of each of the characters your including back stories motivations and personalities and what lobdell did was use the fact that the new 52 just happened as an excuse to create whole new characters with the same names as these much loved pre established characters and this rightfully pissed off a lot of people who loved these characters especially bc the things that happened in the n52 have had a lasting effect as these are the comics newer fans are reading and if your favourite character has been given a complete overhaul into a character you no longer recognise too bad a lot of people are gonna go forward only seeing Roy as Jason Todd's side character the guy in the baseball cap

#ask #anon #im one of those people that hate RHATO with a passion #i dont acknowledge it even exists half the time #but yeah if you like RHATO thats fine #nothings stopping you from liking it #just be aware that theres a reason why people dont like these comics #like i didnt even get into kory who imo had it the worst #like all these characters have been damaged by RHATO #but theres definitely a tear system #with jason at the bottom #then roy and at the top kori #and yeah i didnt get into the other stuff that makes RHATO the worst #but this post is already so long #and im not particularly fond of long posts so ill end it here

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he110sweet13 · 10 months ago

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Created by myself an @msmhari this morning. Neither of us have time to flesh out this fic right now, but wanted to share the dopamine.

Casting the OFMD Pride and Prejudice AU. (spoilers I guess? The book is 200 years old, if I spoil it, then I spoil it)

Starting with the major pairings:

Mr. Bingley and Jane- hopelessly in love, of course, Stede and Ed.

Mr. Darcy and Lizzy- Darcy is smart, competent, but generally perceived as an asshole. I give you, Mr. Izzy Hands. But as we all know, Izzy is the fandom bicycle. So who is our clever, cheeky, and a little bit mouthy Lizzy Bennet? Lucius it is.

Lydia and Mr Wickham- This one’s a bit cheeky, but it’s my tumblr and I do what I want. And I fully blame @msmhari for Wickham. Lydia is Archie. Don’t worry- we’ll get back to her. She’ll be just fine. Wickham is Ricky. He dies of natural causes. Murder is a natural cause right?

Now let’s round out our families. First, the Bennet Sisters: Kitty and Mary will be played by Frenchie and Wee John. They share a room.

Lady Catherine is Auntie. Terrifying and knows it. Unless you’re Lizzy.

If Lucius is Lizzy, where’s Pete? Pete is Mr. Collins. I’m sorry Black Pete fans, please don’t come for us.

Spanish Jackie and the Swede are the Gardiners. They love love and just want to see everybody happy. Bonus points if they don’t have to clean up after their family of muppets anymore.

Jim and Olu are Mr. Bingley’s (Stede) “Siblings”. Archie runs off with them. See? She’s fine. No one gives a fuck about Ricky/Wickham. Olu is married to Zheng. #garlicsoup

Fang is Darcy’s cousin Fitzwilliam. A sweet gentleman who softens Lizzy (Lucius) towards Darcy (Izzy)

Mary is the woman that Mr. Bingley (Stede) was rumoured to be courting when he fucked off to London for a bit. Meanwhile Jane (Ed) is moping to Lizzy in her pillow fort.

Not entirely sure what to do with Buttons, but hey, that’s nothing new.

There are two very important characters left. Mr and Mrs Bennet. And personally, my favorite of our little fan cast.

Mr Bennet is the leader of this little mess. He created it. Brought it into the world. This is his circus and these are his monkeys. Thus I give you, the Daddy of our little crew, David Jenkins.

So who is the counterpoint to our producer and creator? The organizer who steers the ship? Mrs Bennet loves pairing up her daughters, and clowns just as hard as any of the fans. Silly and a bit chaotic, and really just wants to see Jane get all Mooney over her husband?

Javid Denkins, aka David Jenkins in a bonnet.

You’re welcome.

#ed teach #ofmd fanart #blackbeard #blackbonnet #stede bonnet #our flag meets death #our flag means death #save ofmd #save our flag means death #renew as a crew #renew our flag means death #pride and prejudice #jane austen

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chloe-caulfield94 · 8 months ago

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Pricefield in the Times of Plague

“Don’t come near me, Max!” - Chloe shouted, mustering the last bits of her strength to raise herself on her elbows above her bed of pain. Her face was red from fever and covered in blisters. Her hair was soaked in sweat. She went into a coughing fit and collapsed on the bed.

Max stood in the doorway of Chloe’s house. Just like every other house in the village, it was built using logs of wood, it had a sloping, thatched roof and the floor was covered in a layer of fresh straw. Inside, it consisted of one large chamber, with a fireplace at the centre. There was little furniture, besides two beds with mattresses filled with hay. The smaller bed was Chloe’s. The larger was Joyce’s and David’s. The larger bed was empty. Just like it had taken William five years ago, the plague now took Chloe’s mother and stepfather. Chloe cared for them when they fell ill. And when life left their eyes, she wrapped them in the best cloths she could find in her modest household and left them outside, to be taken by people collecting plague victims each morning. Chloe fell ill herself soon after that.

When Joyce and David became sick with the plague, Max’s parents forbade her from visiting Chloe. She obeyed. But when she heard the disease had gripped Chloe in its clutches, she couldn’t stay away any longer.

Now, standing at the threshold of Chloe’s house, she had to make a choice.

Chloe had already told her to leave. Now, Max heard her parents. They must’ve noticed her sneaking away in the wee hours of the morning. They stood outside the fence, ten paces from the door.

“Max, please! Don’t go in there! Come home with us!” – Ryan shouted. Vanessa sobbed.

Lying on her bed, Chloe quietly said: “Max, I know you love me. But you don’t have to do this. I won’t blame you. Nobody will. Stay away. Live”.

Everything tried to lure Max the wrong way. Her parents told her to go home. Chloe absolved her from abandoning her. Fear of the plague gripped her stomach and made her limbs heavy. Max made her choice. And she chose well.

She turned around to face Ryan and Vanessa: “Mom, dad, I love you. And I love Chloe, too. Dad, if mom was sick, would you abandon her? Mom, if dad was sick, would you abandon him? If I was sick, would either of you abandon me? I must be with her, for good or for ill”.

Vanessa cried loudly in Ryan’s embrace. Tears flowed down his bearded cheeks, too. But he nodded at Max, understanding her decision.

Max went in and closed the door behind her. She approached Chloe, sat on the bed next to her and gripped her hand. Chloe squeezed her hand too, weakly.

Max said: “I promised to always love you. To always have your back. To never abandon you. Now that you need me the most, I intend to keep that promise”.

“Max, think about your family …” – Chloe whispered faintly.

“Chloe, you are my family now. Isn’t it written in the Good Book that there comes a time for everyone when they leave their father and their mother and become one with someone they chose to love? Besides, if you’re so worried about my parents, look at it that way - I would bring shame upon my house by not keeping an oath I made”.

Chloe smiled, her spirit uplifted both by Max’s love and her sense of humour.

Max cared for her. She fed her, washed her, put cold compresses on her burning forehead. She talked with Chloe to take her mind off the death of her family and of her own death looming over her. And when Chloe was too weak to talk, Max sang her or told her stories. After three days, Chloe’s strength began to come back.

And then Max fell ill and the roles were reversed. Chloe returned all the care and love she had received. After a week, they both emerged from the house, weakened, but very much alive. They held hands. Ryan and Vanessa, who had been leaving them food and water on the doorstep, ran to hug them.

The tiny Romanesque church, the only stone building in the entire village, was full of the plague’s survivors. Almost everyone had lost someone they loved. The dwellers of Arcadia Bay were desperate for some positive development. So when the news spread that there was going to be a wedding, the villagers saw it as a good omen – that the time of plague had come to an end, and the time of healing and rebirth had commenced.

Max and Chloe stood before the altar. Max looked at her bride’s face. Max remarked that not even the pox marks covering her cheeks could hide Chloe’s beauty. Nothing ever could. True beauty is always within, where no scars can reach. Max knew her face was covered in similar marks. She saw her reflection each morning when she washed her face in a bowl of water. Not only she didn’t mind them, she was proud of her scars. She earned them in battle. Fighting for her love, which is the only thing truly worth fighting for.

Sister Kate from the local priory, who was officiating the wedding, asked each of them if they wished to be wedded in the eyes of the Lord. Of course they wished so! They exchanged wedding rings. They were simple steel circles, made by the local blacksmith. They were the best jewellery two peasant girls could afford. The rings were precious to Max and Chloe not because of the metal used to make them, but because of what they meant. Their love. How they defied cruel fate. How Max chose well.

The brides kissed. Ryan and Vanessa had tears in their eyes, but those were tears of joy and pride.

#chloe price #max caulfield #life is strange #pricefield #lis #life is strange fanfiction #fanfiction #alternate universe #au

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sweetcocopowder · 1 year ago

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Day Seven: Drunk Sex

Kinktober Masterlist will be posted after October

Synopsis: The lot celebrate Shay's birthday. Both Shay and Haytham get a little too drunk for their own liking, making sex a struggle.

Word Count: 2.6K

Pairing: Shay Cormac/Haytham Kenway

Warnings: Nsfw/Drunk sex/An*l/Spit as lube

“Twenty-five, sir.”

Maybe Shay thought Haytham already knew his age. Or maybe Gist or someone else in the order had told him. But, the Grandmaster chokes on his ale as he’s taking a sip and the liquid sprays up into his face.

Everyone at the table goes silent, all trying to hold in their laughter. It’s quiet a scene, seeing Haytham shocked still as ale drips form his chin as he bends over forward on his chair. All so he doesn’t ruin his coat and clothing. He retrieves a handkerchief from his breast pocket, flicking it out before wiping his face.

Shay clears his throat so that any hint of amusement is gone from his voice, “I do apologize.”

Haytham holds up his hand as he sets his drink on the table with the others. He does not normally drink with his fellow Templars, but tonight is special occasion. Shay’s birthday. Something that Gist forced out of him a while ago. And only because it is Shay is Haytham here in the Greenwich Tavern.

The Grandmaster gathers himself again, patting his handkerchief into his pocket again.

“It is alright, Shay. I just, did not expect you to be so young,” he says with the slightest hint of a chuckle.

If it was anyone else, no one would have seen the smirk on the Grandmaster’s lips, but Shay does. He sits back in his chair, holding his own ale with two hands on his lap.

“I wouldn’t exactly call twenty-five young, sir,” Shay responds as he feels his cheeks heat up.

“Bollocks, Shay!” Gist cries out, slapping his Captain’s shoulder. “It is the prime of your life and you are still a wee babe in our eyes!”

Shay chuckles at that and tries to his face away. “I don’t feel young no more, that’s for sure.”

“Wise beyond your years,” Haytham responds.

That, has Shay looking his way with raised brows. In all his life he’s never been called wise and it feels, odd. Gist raises his cup and cheers towards Shay. All but Haytham clink their cup with his and celebrate even further. The entire rest of the night, the comment keeps twirling in Shay’s mind. All the way until he drunkenly stumbles down the halls of the tavern to his room.

He had booked a room out earlier that day because he knew for a fact, that he wouldn’t be able to make the trip home. He normally can hold his liquor, but keeping up with Gist is a whole other game. Who knew an American could keep up with an Irishman.

He stares at the doorhandle as he tries to open it, fumbling around with it. It isn’t until a warm hand overlaps his own and takes it off gently to open it with a key does he realise his mistake. Shay leans on the door heavily, his forehead whacking against it. He looks at Haytham with a big smile on his face.

Haytham may also be a little bit topsy turvy. He did notice that the Grandmaster tonight was in such a good mood. A mood that had Shay buying him a drink every time he noticed his cup was empty. Who is he to blame? How could he have such a handsome man buying his own drinks.

“Are you to help me inside, kind sir?” Shay slurs.

This only brings a warm smile to Haytham’s features that makes him look gorgeous. It’s a rare thing to see, but Shay relishes in each moment it happens.

“To make sure a drunkard fool gets home safely so no one snatches them up?” Haytham asks.

Shay only raises an eyebrow, waiting for the other to answer his own question.

“Yes, yes I am.”

“Then snatch me away, sir,” Shay smiles.

At that, Haytham opens the door.

And Shay falls into the room like a sack of potatoes.

He hits the ground heavily with a grunt and a groan. He knows for a fact that everyone in the tavern would have heard the massive thud. Someone across the road would have heard him.

Haytham has to compose himself before he looks around the door frame at Shay laying face down on the floor. Haytham will have to be honest with himself here, he is a little intoxicated himself and this is all a little bit too amusing for him right now. Shay was terrible with buying him so many drinks. But how could he not, he would have hurt the more man’s heart.

He quickly jumps inside and moves Shay’s legs with his boot so he can get the door closed and locked. Shay finally gets his arms under him but the world spins around him. Maybe that last pint wasn’t such a good idea. Haytham gets his arms underneath Shay’s pits and lifts him. But it’s all dead weight at this point and Haytham grunts as he tries his best. He truly isn’t thinking. Something only Shay could bring out in him.

“Shay a little help?” Haytham wheezes.

The Captain gets his feet under him but he trips over himself, pushing Haytham back. Luckily, the bed is behind them and they both fall onto the bed in a heap. Haytham huffs out his lung capacity of air as Shay lands right on top of him. A drunk laugh escapes Shay as he rolls of the Grandmaster.

“Image having the others see us now,” Shay comments.

“I would rather not,” Haytham bites.

Shay’s crew and Gist are still partying downstairs without the main man. The noise can be heard from the second floor where the rooms are. The floors aren’t all that thick in the first place. He’s surprised someone didn’t come up and investigate the loud bang.

Haytham had retired first, and then an hour later Shay had followed suit. Not wanting to make it noticeable but it isn’t like half the crew has their own rumours about the both of them now. Even Gist has asked a couple of times and each time, has narrowly escaped the nearest thing being thrown at him. But none of their comments are out of hate or disgust. Yet. Either way, Shay would hide their asses before any harm came to him or Haytham.

“Did you really think I was older, sir?” Shay picks up randomly as he shuffles up the bed more.

But he’s dragged down the bed quickly by the straps crisscrossing his chest. Haytham begins unbuckling them and suddenly, Shay likes where this is heading.

“I might of. I’m not sure really now,” Haytham comments, his dark blue eyes focused on the straps.

But his normally elegant fingers now fumble of the buckles and straps. He curses under his breath as he gives up, letting Shay take over.

“Why do you ask?”

Shay shrugs as he sits up, throwing the straps to the ground. He then takes off his belt and sash to even begin taking his coat off. Sometimes nights like this, Shay really wished he didn’t wear so many layers and armour.

“Just thinking about how old I look I guess,” Shay responds.

Haytham stares at him out of the corner of his eye. After a few seconds, he meets his gaze with an expression that says “Huh?” For the first time, his quick witted mind can’t catch on. Which is a little odd for Shay, if he was proper sober.

“Do I look old?” Shay asks instead.

Haytham expressions furrow and stares at the Irishman for a moment. Trying to collect his thoughts in his drunkard haze to try and answer correctly. This isn’t the time to be having this conversation, but truly it is the only time they’ll ever speak like this. Outside of rooms like this one, it is strictly formal.

“There are some times where you act your age, Shay. But most of the times, the things you have been through, you act as if you have many years of experience under your belt. Many more than others can say or ever do in their own life times,” Haytham answers back proper, seeming to sober up a bit.

Shay now realizes, he truly is too drunk for this talk. And with the slight sway as he sits, Haytham sees that as well. Haytham comes to Shay, wrapping a hand around his neck and bringing him in for a kiss. The simple touch feels like fire, the alcohol in his system doing wonders.

Haytham pulls away all to whisper, “We’ll speak of this another time, not now.”

“Not now,” Shay repeats, not being able to form any other words.

The hands that glide over his body feel so good. Shay captures the other’s lips in another kiss, needing more, needing to taste the alcohol on Haytham’s tongue, needing to touch the warm skin it almost burns. Shay helps Haytham strips of his clothes and vice a versa, layer by layer, piece by piece until every bit is on the floor of the tavern room. Leaving both men completely nude for each other to gaze upon with a drunkard smirk.

Shay can’t help but feel Haytham’s toned body up, his fingers flittering over old scars and new. The Grandmaster shivers under the touch, breathing shallowing with his mouth slightly parted. Shame is something of the past tonight. All that lies between them is pure adoration.

Haytham pushes Shay back down on the bed with an almost comedic oof. But he stays there, watching and waiting. Not for Haytham to do whatever he’s planning, but for his head to stop spinning. He groans lightly to himself, covering his eyes with the back of his hand. All while he lets Haytham do whatever he’s doing. But whatever this is, he’s very much into it. Because everything in his body tingles.

He just wishes he didn’t drink that last pint so he can enjoy this a little bit more.

But his cock still stands at attention, needy and ready. But he don’t dare touch himself because every single pass of a hand or finger is like a hot fire. A hot fire that makes him want to burst like a firework.

Haytham grabs his thighs and lifts them up so his ass is on full display. Now, Shay uncovers his eyes so that he can watch the first Grandmaster of the American Colonial Rite’s tongue disappear into his ass.

Shay gasps and tenses up, grabbing the bed sheets like some dollar whore. His senses feel like their heightened but sloppy at the same time. It’s an odd sensation but he wants more. And Haytham gives it to him. Eating him out slowly and making sure that there’s enough spit and saliva for the next course of action. Because neither of them bought any oil, and no tavern would supply such a thing in this day and age for an act as sinful as this. For Haytham’s tongue is a wicked devil at that.

Woman must fall at his knees for such a talent.

When Haytham is done, he has Shay trembling in his touch. The Irishman swallows thickly, chuckling at himself. He’s usually so much well preserved in bed. Same could be said for Haytham. But with drink in the equation, all manners seem to go out the window.

Haytham moves up Shay’s body a little lazily, all so he can capture his lips in a sloppy kiss. Their teeth clack together but neither of them care at the pain that ebbs in their faces. Shay runs his fingers through Haytham’s hair, making it a complete mess and ridding him of the cute ribbon he always has in his hair.

Shay moves his kisses to Haytam’s chin, then his neck and then his nape. All until he has the man panting over him.

Haytham reaches down to his own cock, grinding his teeth at the touch of his own hand. He brings himself to Shay’s ass, waiting a moment before pushing in slightly. Shay hisses loudly, grabbing onto Haytham as the head of his cock enters his ass.

“A lil warning next time,” Shay seethes.

“Apologises.”

Shay keeps a hand pushed against Haytham’s stomach, stopping him from moving any further. The burn and stretch isn’t good right now. Something that Shay wants to push away from. If they had oil or literally anything else but spit, this would be so much easier and less painful.

But idiot drunks will be drunk idiots.

When the pain eases is when Shay lets the other move. Haytham grinds softly into him, all too sluggish to do anything proper. But neither is Shay, so he can’t blame the man. He keeps his legs wrapped around Haytham’s waist and that’s the best he can do for the other.

With each shallow thrust Haytham is able to ease more of himself into Shay. He grunts in Shay’s ear, the sensation feeling as good as the Irishman is feeling as well. The burning pleasure that comes with being intoxicated is something that Shay chased a lot when he was just a fresh adult. Going from tavern to tavern and drinking and whoring. But this feels so much better than all those times. It’s nothing like all those quick fucks and girls in Havana.

But by God does he feel good right now. He holds onto Haytham for dear life, because he feels like if he lets go, he’s going to float away. He holds Haytham close so they’re chest to chest all while the other moves his hips, grinding just so there’s enough friction between the both of them. Shay’s dick sits in between their stomachs and the smallest movement as his balls tightening. The noises Haytham is making in his neck is going to send him over the edge let alone everything going down there.

Haytham keeps an even pace for a while before he gets up on his hands and knees, pushing Shay’s hips up with him. He bows his head, hair falling over his face as he quickens his pace. He pants loudly now as he tries to reach his high. And this new angle and pace has Shay gasping and grunting at the tingling sensation. At the coil tightening in his gut that is close to bursting.

He wraps a hand around his dick, matching Haytham’s pace. He wants to come at the same time. Try to at least but they’re both so close. Shay can feel it and by the way Haytham is going at it, he’s close as well.

Shay comes first, his whole body tensing up as he lets himself go onto his stomach. It hits him like a punch to the jaw, making his head spin and spiral. He tightens around Haytham’s cock, stuttering the man’s movements. But Haytham uses the last of his energy to thrust hard a couple more times before driving his dick deep into Shay with a grunt and a moan. The warm sensation of Haytham coming inside of him makes Shay’s own orgasm something that makes the room spin even more. He has to quickly cover his face with a hand to make everything stop, all so that he doesn’t have to lean over the bed and vomit up everything he’s ingested in the past couple of hours. Which Shay thinks would be a complete mood breaker.

Haytham collapses onto Shay, almost winding the man. But the weight is fine, it grounds Shay quicker than what he was doing himself. And Haytham doesn’t seem to notice which is a plus. They both stay still, catching their breath and too tired to move.

Shay makes the comment in his head that they should clean up before passing out. He doesn’t know if he gets as far as voicing it because he’s not sure what his mouth is doing at the moment. Everything seems numb. It’s all lost though as he passes out, slipping into a drunk and sex filled sleep.

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