#I know it doesn’t make sense but just go with it

[themareverine]

Screeching because I love your writing and can’t wait to see where you go with this!

Logan Howlett, PG-13 (I’m thinking WW or trilogy Logan, but go where Lo takes you 😉)

Logan walking in on you taking an everything shower or a bath (candles lit, playlist on, etm.), dealers choice on at what point he bumbles in (or maybe NOT bumbles?) and where the muse takes you from there…

— All of You

Worst!Wolverine x fem!wife!reader

tags: fluff, some mentions of Weapon X, pre-established relationship, some heavy-handed innuendo.

a/n: and here it is, the last of my Valentine's Day requests! thanks so much for requesting my favorite variant, honey. hope you like bathtime with Logan! It isn't quiet PG-13, but it's hot enough for me.

☆ ── 💌FROM MARE WITH LOVE

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Logan is aware of exactly two things as he breezes through the front door after a long day on the job.

First, it’s the quiet of the house. Long shadows splay golden fingers of light across the kitchen linoleum from the single light over the stove, curtains mostly drawn across the house.

Typical for the house on a Friday night.

There’s the quiet hum of the fridge and the rhythmic tick of the clock that deepens this sense of loneliness in the shadows, and for some strange reason, it probes the hair on his arms. Shouldn’t, he can smell her around the house – and that’s the second thing he notices.

The scent of her. 

Filling up the rooms, plastering the walls. She’s really in every bone of this house, and they’d barely lived here a year. More and more Logan thinks the place was built exactly for them, for this marriage, for this life he, somehow, magically came to possess. 

Down to the studs, he believes in his soul there’s no better Eden on earth than this house and all its homey things.

It would never be the life they'd left behind in Alberta, but it was a close alternative — he could outlive a thousand suns here and be just as thrilled as the day they turned the key at the homestead, he thinks.

Her scent, and the fresh kick of mint that manages down the stairs. He smiles. No, he doesn’t just think he could be happy here for the rest of the days God gives him. He knows. Deep inside the adamantium that haunts his better parts, Logan knows. Viscerally.

Anywhere with her is home, and home is the only place he’ll ever actually want to be. 

Stopping at the stairs, he coyly smiles at the quiet hum of music floating through the walls, bringing life back into the still haven of their nest. She sings off key, but that’s alright. Most precious sound in the world is hearing her alive after what feels like a lifetime apart. 

A sour note makes him flinch, smiling again. His chuckle of amusement hangs out low in his chest as he slips out of his jacket, drapes it over the railing. 

At the kitchen island he takes off his boots, toes them over to the corner by the fridge beside the others. Washing the day from his hands at the sink, he scrubs his face with cool water – listens halfheartedly as the water rushes through old pipes rattling with the effort.

The house is old but packed with so much character – he can’t quite bring himself to change anything, not yet. Measurements on the doorway’s woodwork from children that aren’t theirs, worn-away paint from crown moulding. 

Everywhere he looks, there’s so much of him in the old bones of this place. Kinship he can’t quite place, familiarities he can’t put a finger on. Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s stepping into a new world from a time he was more than ready to leave behind.

Marriage, family, settling – maybe it’s the wild blood in his veins finally breaking.

He doesn’t know, and maybe he’ll never. It makes little difference. 

Scratching through his beard, he breathes deep of the cool air and pauses. There’s a whiff of moisture in the air, humidity that isn’t the norm for their house. Both of them run hot, usually – he keeps this place cool.

And it’s never humid, if there’s one thing Logan can’t handle it’s humidity — that shit is a hard pass. 

He’d drowned on air enough in his lifetime. Duty and pride had taken him to Vietnam, China, the Amazon; Weapon X had forced him around the world as a weapon. The X-Men – Charles sent them everywhere, God knew.

Every and all had landed him in the sweaty armpit of the world, and of all the places he’d ever seen, the humid ones burned the worst. 

But despite the bad memories the humidity recalls, his lip curls in a smile. At a subliminal level, he knows what this is—his sweet little wife has drawn a bath nearly every day since finishing the remodel.

Logan doesn’t remember a time where he’s ever seen another soul so excited over plumbing fixtures, but she had been – she’d almost been giddy when the claw foot bath had arrived at their doorstep, delivery boys looking strained from just wrestling the thing out of the back of the van.

Another sour note from her happy singing has him shaking his head. Logan allows it to pull him up the stairs, down the hallway. Fusty shampoos and the fresh scent of warm water sirens him to the half-cocked bathroom door.

Peeking inside reveals a half-steamed mirror, shed clothing toed off the side in a pile – gym clothes, from the looks of it.

Gently nudging open the door with his foot, Logan works off his watch, grinning crookedly as he slips into the space lightly, with ghost-like grace.

Her back is to him, looking out the open window – she’d never be able to hear a thing with headphones on, which explained her singing off key. 

She has no idea, and at some base level of him, that worries Logan. Her contentment with such vulnerability concerns him in ways he hasn’t worried about before – this visceral, almost instinctual need to protect is so strange. Foreign, almost.

A part of him that isn’t him, demands he look beyond his own skin, protect someone else. 

In all his lifetimes he’s never worried about it before, until her. Until this quiet little cathedral of a home he calls his own – this life they’ve resurrected from the ashes. It’s his now, innocent and pure.

Demands a protector, a guardian which returns. 

Finally, something worthy of everything he’s been made to be. All the things he is. 

Never had he imagined anything in the world would actually demand his abilities, this thing that lives in him and around him. The Wolverine, Logan, James, Patch — this thing, this weapon weaved into his flesh and knocked about his adamantium bones.

His entire life he’s always been better being someone else – one of the X-Men, a living weapon. A killer, a soldier, a fighter. Always spinning out of control trying to take it. 

Until her.

She demands all of him, in ways the world never has. She wants him. She asks for him.

She doesn’t demand or require, her words aren’t sentences that enslave him to what he can do. She takes all of him, regardless – she would have him, if he wasn’t everything else. Unconditionally. 

If he were just Logan, just James, simply Wolverine.

Logan believes her when she says she wants all of him. Freely. She doesn't love him because he's Wolverine, because he’s an X-Man.

She loves him because he is. 

And there’s power in this enough to drive him to his knees. 

Quietly he discards his watch beside the sink. Logan begins unbuttoning his flannel, stained with the day’s sweat and grime of the welding shop and a 12-hour day of grinding in all the places nobody advertises in school.

It drops beside her discarded clothes; he works the t-shirt over his head. Fluffs his hair with calloused, thick fingers. Empties the pockets of his jeans. 

His pulse picks up a little at the sight of her leaned back against the tub, hand playfully skipping over the luminescent bubbles that catch the light in just enough of a way that it is Eden incarnate.

She’s radiant with a dewy rosiness that sends a punch of warmth to the base of his gut. 

It takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to just haul her out of the bath and have his way with her — it would be fun. It would satisfy the baser, Wolverine parts of him.

Fills that primal ache that gnaws continually at the bottom of his spine, knocks heat into his cock. Would feel spectacular.

And she’d let him do it, she’d enjoy the baser part of his sexual drive. 

But that’s not Logan, not today. Not right now. 

Right now, he could use a bath. 

Slipping up behind her, he chuckles down his nose at the sight of her, naked and fully oblivious to the world around her as her head bops side to side with whatever she’s listening to. 

The rumble of his amused chuckle bleeds through his fingers, which dust over the tops of her shoulders lightly. Jarred, her attention snaps upward and she slingshot’s the headphones off.

Her heart rabbits behind her ribs for all of a few seconds—he can feel it beneath his hand as it curves around the back of her neck as he lingers beside the tub. 

Smiling at him as a blush creeps up the length of her neck to her cheeks, she moves to face him, arms dripping over the side of the tub. Almost nose to nose, her wrinkles a little with a smile. 

“Well well,” there’s not an ounce of shame, just the way he prefers her, as her eyes skate over his bare chest, finger tracing the lines of muscle in his arm. “You’re back a little early,” there’s no clock in the room, but that’s hardly the point. 

Her eyes move from her hand on his arm to hold his, their light beckoning him like a lost moth to brazen flames.

Nails catching on his skin, she leans a little over the tub to discard the headphones, Logan’s fingers grazing his beard at the sight of pearlescent soap clinging all the places that belong to him on her frame – his places.

All his. 

There’s a little lilt in her voice as she sighs, slinking back into the steaming water.

“I didn’t know what to make for supper – I thought we could go out?”

Her brow lifts as she plays with the wet hair sticking to the back of her neck, rolling it around and off a finger.

“You hungry for something in particular?” 

She’s not being flirty, not directly.

Logan doubts she’s even aware that his blood flies with heat at the sight of bubbles and water swirling around her chest, the dewiness on her skin. He can hardly think past the idea of lathing the water from her collarbones, it sends a zing of bestial hunger stabbing into his balls that makes him almost shudder. 

Knuckles ghosting white as he grips the side of the tub, he shrugs.

“Nothin’ that requires goin’ anywhere, darlin’,” his hand drops to unbuckle his belt, and her smile quirks a little wider as it falls open with a light jingle. 

“Oh. Let’s just order in then,” her shoulder shifts, hand flitting through the foamy bubbles, “I bet if I check, Sylvia's will still be running that special for Valentine’s Day.” 

Her brow snaps up at attention as he stands to his full height to peer down at her. He discards the belt with little more than a flick of his wrist. Forgetting jeans and socks, he slowly drops into the bath and beckons her to slot between his legs with a crook of his finger and a smile. 

Obedient, she falls back against his chest when his arms wrap around her. Pulling her close, she props her foot up against the opposite end of the tub and he matches her effort, dripping sock making her snort in amusement. 

Dissolving into laughter as he gently nuzzles the soft of her neck with his scruff, he hums low and presses a soft kiss to her collarbone. 

“You even hungry for pizza, Logan?” Off a laugh, the giggle is soft, light. Strangely it sends butterflies to his chest when she sighs deeply, relaxing against his ministrations fully. “Or is there something else you want for supper?” 

His growl is dark, low in his chest. He can feel it ring against her breastbone as his arms snug around her chest, protectively. On fire from the heat of her so close and the temperature of the bath, he ignores the sweat the rises in his beard, as his temples. 

“Got everythin’ I need right here, baby,” gently nipping at the soft of her shoulder, she playfully pulls away on a sharp inhale that catches in the back of her throat. Hand skimming her side beneath the cloud of soapy bath water, his palm presses softly to the low of her stomach, making his point. 

Chuckling, he sucks in a sharp breath as she gently moans beneath the heat of his hand. 

“Who needs supper when I can eat right here, for free?” 

[sylvieisoffline]

Steamy Interrogation

word count: 3k words

tags: 🔞 Explicit sexual content / NSFW (18+) MDNI! | Slight Gunplay (used as a prop)| Dubcon | Improper Use of Evol | Power Imbalance | Mild Objectification | Overstimulation

Please only consume what you can handle.

note: Aaaand I'm back with another Sylus fic! I swear I have the other LIs in my drafts, it's just that I'm so inspired doing Sylus' ones first haha. Have y'all seen Magnum Opus? It's soooo good and I'm so satisfied with how they gave us a peek into sylusmc's dynamic in a free 5-Star Card. Hope you enjoy this one and please let me know in the comments what you'd like to read from me next. divider by: @cafekitsune

You text Kieran after a particularly arduous mission, asking if you could use the hot tub on their penthouse again. You were already in front of the unit but insisted on waiting for his reply before you go in.

It had been a sort of an after-mission ritual. When after one mission had you very sore and your gym buddy / best friend Kieran started offering access to one of his brother's places. You were reluctant at first, initially overcome with embarrassment with the idea of taking baths on another person's place. Someone you haven't met moreso.

"My brother doesn't stay there anyway. He just bought the place 'cause it looked nice and wanted to have someplace to stay whenever he's here in Linkon—which he rarely does now by the way. Even Luke is sulking with how busy he's become that he doesn't even visit now."

You agreed then, asking him, like, ten more times after that even if he kept reassuring you that it was fine.

You were pulled back to reality when your phone pinged with a new notification.

“Sure, left the doors open. Make yourself at home ;)”

You thanked him, entering the unit and depositing your stuff on one of the couches. The place is quiet—sunlight slicing through the tall glass windows, steam already curling from the water’s surface. You strip without much thought and slip into the heat, letting it swallow the tension in your shoulders. After a while, you climb out and sit at the edge, towel draped lazily across your lap as you dry your hair.

That’s when you hear the bathroom door open.

Heavy, deliberate steps echo into the space, followed by the unmistakable sound of a safety catch clicking off.

“Don’t move.”

You freeze.

Your breath catches as you look up—and see him.

Not Kieran.

Someone else. Taller. Sharper.

Ruby eyes locked on you, gun aimed steady and unshaking.

“Who the hell are you?” “I—I thought this place was empty,” you stammer, arms instinctively tightening around your towel. “Hands where I can see them,” he says coldly.

You raise your arms slowly. The towel lifts with you, but slips slightly—your bare body catching in the low light.

His right eye glows as he's scrutinizing but his expression doesn’t change. You can't help but marvel at the sight.

You momentarily hope that he doesn't sense the ugly feeling other than fear simmering in your system after being entranced in his eyes like that.

“Drop it.” “What?” “The towel.”

You hesitate. But he doesn’t lower the gun.

Your fingers loosen, the towel falls in a soft heap by your feet. You stand there, completely bare under his gaze.

“Turn around,” he commands.

You swallow hard and obey.

Behind you, the silence stretches—then breaks.

You hear the rustling of clothes. Heard the sound of his belt being unbuckled. Something heavy hits the floor as goosebumps crawl through your skin.

You hear footsteps again—bare this time. He comes closer.

The cold press of the barrel nudges the small of your back.

“Move.”

You step forward, slowly, heart racing, body burning with both dread and something else.

He deliberately walks behind you, still holding the gun to the small of your back while nearing the tub. You hesitantly dip yourself back in the bubbling water and hear him follow suit.

The soft click of metal resounds in the bathroom as he sets the gun down on the ledge. Then, you hear something unfamiliar—an electric hum, faint and low. A red current crawls up your limbs before you can react.

You gasp.

Your wrists are yanked back behind you—locked in place. Your ankles drawn together, suspended in a precise tension as your body floats slightly above the water’s surface.

“What—what is this—?” “It's my evol, miss.” he murmurs, voice low and unreadable.

You struggle, but his Evol holds firm.

Then suddenly—he’s behind you.

You feel him.

The weight of his chest just barely grazing your back, his breath curling against your ear, and lower still—the unmistakable, thick heat resting against the dip of your ass, barely sheathed by the water. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t truly touched you, but your body reacts anyway—muscles twitching, skin hypersensitive, breath stuttering.

“You didn’t answer me,” he says, and this time, his hand grips your jaw, tilting your head just enough to expose your throat. “Let me ask again—why are you here?”

“I—I didn’t know—Kieran said—”

The second his name leaves your lips, the man scoffs.

“Kieran.” His voice dips, a bitter curl at the edge. “Of course.”

The tension in the air shifts—something sharper than suspicion settling between you.

He clicks his tongue, almost amused. His hand leaves your jaw, his breath brushing your neck as he trails his lips along your skin—just barely grazing, barely touching. Then, he parts his lips and nips.

A sharp little bite just beneath your ear.

You gasp, your hips twitching again despite how sensitive you already are.

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.” He breaths,“Why you’re shaking.”

Another nip—this time lower, right at the curve of your throat, then down along your collarbone. Each bite is purposeful, not deep enough to bruise but firm enough to sting just slightly, a wicked contrast to the warm water sloshing around your body.

His hands slide up, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing lightly over your nipples before he skirts around to let his mouth follow. His teeth scrape one, then he sucks it into his mouth with slow, deliberate pressure.

You arch into him with a choked whimper, the mix of pain and heat making your thighs tense under the surface.

“Why you’re so fucking wet.”

Heat sears through you, your body betraying you with another twitch. Your lips part to deny it, but he’s already moved.

His tongue circles your nipple again, slow and wet, before he switches to the other. His Evol tugs your arms tighter behind your back, just enough to make your chest arch out toward him—putting everything on display, just how he wants it.

“Look at you,” he purrs, mouth trailing back up to your throat. “Bound, dripping, squirming…All from a little teasing.”

Another sharp bite at the side of your neck makes you moan, your head falling against his shoulder. He moves back to the spot behind you as he repositions your body to not sink further into the tub. He chuckles low in his chest, the water rippling as his hand disappears beneath the surface, his fingers ghosting over your folds—barely a touch, but enough to make you squirm.

One slow stroke.

Another.

You gasp, your knees buckling in the water, but the Evol keeps you suspended, helpless.

“Sensitive,” he notes, fingers teasing your bud. “How convenient.”

You barely register the meaning before his fingers press more firmly against you, slipping between your folds. You jolt. Your Evol-bound wrists twitch, but the restraints hold firm. His thumb brushes your clit, expertly timed with another push—your body jerking as sparks shoot up your spine. You cry out, unable to contain the sound this time, trembling violently in his grip.

“Interesting,” he muses, stroking once. Twice. A slow, torturous pace. “You’re not denying it.”

A humiliated moan leaves your throat, and he chuckles—a deep, quiet sound that makes your stomach twist.

“Too easy,” he murmurs. “Is that all it takes?”

A slow drag of his fingers up and down. Dipping inside, teasing at your entrance but not pushing in anymore. His thumb brushes your clit in the lightest touch, barely a graze, but it still sends a violent tremor through you.

You bite your lip, trying to stifle a moan.

“Don’t be shy now.” His free hand grips your chin, tilting your head back against his shoulder. “I want to hear you.”

He presses his thumb down fully this time, circling once—slow, precise, devastating. You scream, hips jerking into his touch, body desperate for friction.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, dragging his lips against the shell of your ear. “So desperate. Maybe I should just leave you like this. Struggling. Needy.”

The thought makes you whine. Your fingers flex uselessly, your ankles twitching against the unrelenting grip of his Evol.

“Or maybe,” he breathes, “I should push you a little further.”

You barely have time to process the words before he thrusts two fingers inside you.

A cry rips from your throat, your body clenching down instinctively around the sudden stretch.

He hums. “Tight.” Another stroke, deeper this time, his fingers curling just right. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

You shake your head desperately. “N-no—”

“Liar.”

A sharp thrust. Another. His pace is still measured, still controlled, but every movement is meant to unravel you, to keep you right at the edge.

And it’s working.

Your thighs tremble, the pressure in your core winding tight, pleasure building so fast it’s nearly unbearable. Your breathing turns ragged, broken moans slipping past your lips.

“You gonna cum already?” he taunts, his fingers pressing deep, thumb rolling slow, teasing circles against your clit. “So quick. Is that all it takes?”

You shake your head again, but your body betrays you—the telltale tension coiling impossibly tight.

“Come for me.” His voice drops to a whisper, dark and commanding.

“Now.”

And you do.

Your body jerks violently against the restraints, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you convulse around his fingers.

But he doesn’t stop.

His fingers keep moving, prolonging every aftershock, pushing you straight into overstimulation. Your legs shake, another cry spilling from your lips.

"S-sir, 's too much. Pleas—"

“Too much?” he purrs, amused. “You sure?”

He finally withdraws his fingers—only to drag them up, pressing them against your lips.

“Open.”

You hesitate, but the look in his eyes leaves no room for refusal. You part your lips, your own taste spreading over your tongue as he pushes his fingers in.

“Good girl.”

Then—he shifts.

The water moves as he steps even closer, his Evol releasing your legs just enough for you to feel him lining up against you. You choke back a sob, realization dawning through the pleasure-drunk haze.

“You already took my fingers so well,” he breathes, his cock pressing against your entrance now, thick and hard. “Let’s see how much more you can handle."

When he finally presses himself against you again—thick, hard, ready—you’re already dripping around nothing.

“You’re going to take every inch,” he says lowly. “And you’re going to thank me for it.”

He pushes in slowly, deliberately. You dig your nails into your palms as you struggle to accomodate his girth, each inch more unbearable than the last. You moan, helpless under the flood of sensation.

Your entire body arches—mouth falling open in a silent scream as your walls stretch around him, the sudden intrusion overwhelming. He’s thick, hard, relentless from the first stroke, and your Evol-bound body can do nothing but take it.

Then he begins to move.

“Fuck—” His voice finally drops from its usual cool tone, his grip tightening on your waist. “So fucking tight.” he growls into your shoulder. “You’re taking me so well for someone who wasn’t expecting company.”

Slow at first—just enough for you to feel every ridge, every pulse. Then faster, deeper, brutal. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air again, water splashing around your bodies. Your voice is a blur of moans and gasps, lost in the sound of him fucking you like he owns you. Every thrust is deep, purposeful—like he’s trying to brand his shape inside you.

“That’s it,” he growls, hips snapping against yours. “Take it.”

Your mind is blank, fogged with the blinding edge of overstimulation. Pleasure coils violently in your belly—shame and ecstasy twined too tightly to separate. Your climax crashes over you before you can stop it, hips jerking in the water as you sob through it, Evol still locking you in place.

But he doesn’t stop.

If anything, he thrusts harder, riding out your orgasm only to build another. His hands grip your hips now, fingers digging bruises into your skin as he pistons into you, his pace brutal and fast.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let go. Come for me again."

Your body locks around him, shaking with every thrust as he fucks you hard, water splashing around both of you as the pace builds again. Each slap of skin sends sparks through your body, and your climax slams into you harder than the first—violent, uncontrollable, teeth letting go of your lip as you scream.

But the man doesn’t let go. Not yet.

His grip is bruising on your waist as he thrusts through your orgasm, chasing his own release, panting now—low, guttural noises ripping from his throat until finally he drives into you one last time and groans, spilling into you, body tight with tension.

Your Evol restraints dissolve, and you slump forward, boneless and shaking. He catches you, pulls you against him, your bodies still half-submerged in the water.

But he’s not done.

You barely register movement until he lifts you—just enough to sit you on the edge of the tub, legs spread, dripping, glistening in the soft steam-lit glow.

“Don’t move.”

His tone is lower now, huskier. Almost reverent.

He kneels in the water between your thighs, hands parting you again, spreading you wide for him. You flinch from the contact, still sensitive—but that only makes him smirk.

“So soft,” he murmurs, fingers stroking your swollen folds before his tongue finally presses flat against you.

Your head drops back with a cry, the sudden rush of wet heat too much, too sharp. He licks slow, dragging the flat of his tongue up and over your clit in lazy, deliberate strokes.

You buck against him, fingers digging into the tiled edge of the tub, helpless to the fire blooming again in your core.

“Still sweet,” he mutters between licks. “Still twitching for me.”

His tongue circles your clit again, over and over, switching between soft teases and sudden hard flicks that make your thighs jerk and close around his head—until his Evol restrains you again, keeping your legs spread wide open for him.

He moans into you at the same time he presses two fingers back inside, tongue working in perfect rhythm, dragging you toward the edge again.

“Come on,” he growls against you. “Give it to me. Again.”

You don’t stand a chance.

You cum again, thighs shaking violently, your cries echoing in the steamy air, body collapsing into shudders as he licks you through every aftershock—until you’re a wrecked, panting mess above him, still twitching from the overstimulation.

Your body gives out the moment it’s over.

Every last drop of strength drains from your limbs—your mission fatigue, the emotional whiplash of being interrogated at gunpoint, the overwhelming pleasure wrung out of you in waves—it all crashes down at once.

You collapse into his arms.

His hands shift under your legs and behind your back, lifting you gently from the tub. You hear water dripping off you both as he carries you across the marble floor, steps unhurried, expression unreadable—but his hold is firm. Protective. Possessive.

He sets you down on a soft surface, kneeling beside you. He begins to wipe you down with a patience that doesn’t quite match his earlier ruthlessness. You flinch once, still sensitive, and his touch instantly softens.

He doesn’t say anything. But his eyes linger on every part of you he touches, watching the way your body reacts—memorizing you all over again, even now.

When he’s done, he scoops you up again, walks you into the bedroom, and lowers you onto his bed.

His sheets smell like him—amber, leather, gunmetal.

You barely register the soft rustle of fabric as he dresses you in one of his button-downs, sleeves swallowing your arms. He tucks the hem under your thighs and smooths it out over your belly. It’s oversized, but warm. Familiar.

He pulls the covers over you and leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering a moment.

He then leaves the room, shutting the door with a soft click.

In the living room, Sylus towels off, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a loose black shirt. His fingers run through his wet hair before he picks up his phone and dials.

The line rings once.

“What?” Kieran’s voice comes through groggy and irritable. “It’s late, man.”

“You didn’t think to tell me you've already met my Beloved?” Sylus says flatly.

There’s a pause. Then an incredulous laugh.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Sylus’ jaw clenches.

“The woman you’ve been letting use the penthouse. The one you’ve been hiding from me.”

“What? I wasn’t hiding—wait.” There’s a beat of silence. “You met her?”

“I did more than just meet her.”

“Sylus,” Kieran says, voice rising with panic. “What did you do?”

Sylus groans and rubs the bridge of his nose.

“What didn’t we do?”

There’s a choked sound on the other end of the line.

“Are you fucking serious?! You better not have hurt her or els—”

“Calm down,” Sylus cuts in, voice cool again. “If anyone’s ass needs to get handed back to them, it's yours—for letting strangers use my property without telling me.”

“She’s not a stranger,” Kieran snaps. “She’s the only one I’ve let use it. You’re lucky it was her and not, I don’t know, someone actually dangerous.”

“Hmph.” A rare hint of amusement glints in Sylus’ tone. “Then you’ve made your one good decision today.”

“Sylus—seriously, just…Be gentle with her, okay?”

“I always am,” he replies smoothly, ending the call before Kieran can protest further.

He returns to the bedroom quietly.

The lights are dim now, your breathing soft and even beneath the covers. He slips in behind you, sliding an arm around your waist and pulling you into his chest.

His nose brushes your slightly damp hair. He inhales deeply—like he’s grounding himself in the scent of you, the warmth of you in his bed.

You shift in your sleep, instinctively curling toward him. He smiles against your temple and presses a soft kiss there.

“We’re finally reunited,” he whispers. “My Beloved Sorceress.”

And he holds you tighter—like he never intends to let you go again.

© sylvieisoffline's original work | all rights reserved | translation, plagiarization, and copying is strictly prohibited

[fixated-cookies]

(Ignore this if this is too much to post but I think it’s ok I just REALLY needed to yap-)

okay. shadow milk.

that mf has overtaken my mind again like last year accept it’s “worse” now. (hashtag non con, yandere😇)

Shadow Milk is nothing but a powerful menace in bed i SWEAR. That sadistic jester is gonna do everything to make you scream while your getting pounded. He absolutely loves it, bonus points if your tied up by his strings because he has a bondage kink you can’t change my mind. He will turn you into his puppet weather you want it or not he doesn’t want you to escape. Oh.. he’d be throwing degrades out at you left and right you just whimper with tears falling out of your eyes not knowing what to say back. The roughness of his cock has overtaken your senses.

“Aww~! Look at how pathetic you are so vulnerable and tied up like this. It’s sad really~!” *the man chuckles*

Omg he’d wipe them tears away like he gives af about you crying from his hard dick, he just wants you for himself. I mean he does care about you in his own interesting ways but not when your tied up looking oh so submissive and on display for him.

Once he’s done he will apologize to you and try his hardest to help you recover. (your still tied up) but that’s definitely not the last time your gonna see that hardcore fucking from him.

i am Insane i need this good day/night fellow black pearl enjoyer.

ahh, he definitely would pull something like this, especially after an escape attempt. it's just a little silly, really, how you think you could trick HIM, out of all people to try this with.

MDNI

Dark content ahead- noncon, yandere, bondage

Now your face down ass up with your arms tied behind your back because of your own stupidity. He's pulling moans and dirty whines from you while drooling into the pillows. Just imagine Shadow Milk Cookie sneering down at you with that infuriating grin as he drinks in your helplessness. he’s so proud of his handiwork. His sweet favorite puppet trying to runaway from him? not going to happen.

"Oh, my dear, sweet little puppet… do you know what happens to misbehaving toys?" he'll purr into your ear while thrusting deep into your sopping cunt. His fingers cause indents into the skin of your hips. His hips keep moving, harsh and deliberate, dragging out every sensation until you’re trembling. You feel his smirk against your skin when he presses a kiss just beneath your ear, followed by a sharp nip that makes you jolt.

You try to muffle your mewls by trying to bury your face in the pillows? nope! His movements halt—but not for mercy, no, no—this is punishment. Before you can react, your world flips. He yanks himself away immediately, hands gripping you with almost effortless strength as he turns you over in one swift motion. The sheer force of it knocks the little air you had left straight from your lungs, leaving you gasping beneath him.

And through your blurry vision from your tears you can see his grin—it’s positively wicked.

"There we go~" he purrs "Don’t tell me you forgot who this show is for? Hiding those darling sounds? Unacceptable. I want to hear you." you squirm as you feel his cock once again entering, stretching you out to create a full sensation.

Oh, Shadow Milk Cookie isn’t just cruel—he’s ruthless. Every single mistake you made during your little escape attempt? He’s going to shove it in your face until it’s all you can think about.

"Really? Really? You actually thought you could get away from me?" His voice is full of mocked disbelief, like he finds the very idea laughable. "Ohhh, sweet thing, you must be even dumber than I thought! And trust me—that’s saying something!" He gives you a rough thrust as he laughs, a sharp, biting thing that makes your face burn with humiliation.

"Tell me, did you actually think you were being clever? Sneaking out in the dead of night like some tragic little hero? Oh, poor, naive you—running right into my strings, like the idiot you are." He takes in your cries and whimpers gripping your jaw, forcing your teary-eyed gaze to meet his.

"And now look at you. Back where you belong—right under me, whining, trembling, all because you thought you were strong enough to leave. Tsk, tsk." He shakes his head, letting out a long, drawn-out sigh feeling your warmth tighten around him. Oh and like you said anon, Shadow Milk Cookie does love it when you cry. Loves the way those fat, helpless tears roll down your cheeks, proof of how thoroughly he’s broken you down. But does he care? Ohhh, not in the way you’d hope.

he'll cup your face, his thumb swiping oh-so-gently beneath your trembling eyes. "What’s the matter, sweet thing? Regretting all those dumb little choices now?" tilting his head and studying you, focusing on the way your lips tremble and uneven breaths. "Mmm, no, I don’t think so. I think—" he leans in, grinning as he presses a feather-light kiss to your damp cheek"—you’re just upset ‘cause you finally realized how pathetic you are without me." listening to another sob fall from your mouth once he hits your cervix.

"It’s cute, really. You’re cute. Crying like this, all tied up, nowhere to run—" his voice dips, eyes glinting with something dark, something possessive— "all mine."

And when another tear spills free? He doesn’t wipe it away.

He just laughs.

And once later comes, when your wringed out of all the orgasms you can give him, laying bare, your mind empty, and feeling like a pile of jello. Do you truly believe he would feel bad?

"Ah, my poor little puppet…" His voice has lost that razor-sharp edge, now dripping in something too soft, too mocking to be genuine. He leans over you, tilting his head as if to study the mess he’s made of you. Your body, still trembling, still bound, your chest rising and falling with uneven, exhausted breaths.

His fingers trace your cheek, a feather-light touch too tender for a monster like him. "I suppose I should say sorry, huh?" He hums, tapping his chin in thought before flashing that infuriating grin. "Buuut… I don’t really regret it." Shadow Milk Cookie's aftercare is… complicated. Twisted, but in his own way, sincere. Even if he knows he’s pushed you to your limit, even if he’s relished in your helplessness, the moment it’s over, he doesn’t just walk away. He lingers, watching you—taking in the trembling of your body, the way your breath hitches, the quiet little whimpers still spilling from your lips. A teary-eyed glare hurtles his way. "Now, now… don’t look at me like that." His voice is softer now, a stark contrast to the sharp, mocking tone from before."You’ll start thinking I’m some kind of villain!" His fingers pause at your wrist, where the bindings were, and he gives a mocking little sigh as they curl around them, then bringing them lower to different parts of your body, massaging the stiff muscles with slow, deliberate movements.

"So tell me, little puppet… have we learned anything?"

--

I learned that the best way to write shadow milk is for him to make you annoyed at how much he speaks. HE NEEDS TO SHUT UP! They say black sapphire likes the sound of his voice? well it seems like he has competition from his own master!

[whytheylosttheirminds]

this is where i leave you (1)

"You do what you want, he takes what he gets...that's the deal."

another from my wips in which I reimagine where we leave Rafe at the end of each season, starting with season 1, if the first person he searched for after the fight at the phantom was you...

cw: smut, angst, mentions of blood and violence, reader slaps rafe, dom!reader x sub!rafe with a switch, pinv, mutual orgasms, light degrading, just generally sort of dark themes, 18+ minors do not interact

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“Jesus Rafe, what happened?” You said with a half-chuckle, finger circling your own face to call attention to the blood splattered across his.

“Where have you been?” A non-answer, anger and betrayal consuming his whole body, his posture aggressive as he stalked closer toward you, noticeably not meeting your eyes as he clenched his jaw, hard.

You crossed your arms, partly out of indignance and partly out of self-protection. With a shrug you answered, “I don’t know, Charleston, the Caribbean for a bit, other places…”

“You never come back anymore. It’s like you don’t even fucking care what’s happening…” His voice was dripping with accusation, and something more childlike - fear, maybe.

“I’ve had shit going on Rafe, I don’t have time for this island’s bullshit -”

“I’VE HAD SHIT GOING ON!” The bomb that’s been ticking inside him for the past twenty-four hours finally explodes, his booming voice hitting the walls of your room like shrapnel, catching you in the blast. But you don’t cower. He continues, or tries to, “You have no fucking idea what I’ve-”

“HEY.” Your voice comes out strong, but not loud, yet the sound is harsh enough to finally draw his eyes up to yours. Your anger mirrors his, a synchronized double dive you’ve done together a million times, always finding each other seconds before your bodies slam into the water. Rage courses through you, your arm moves before your brain gives it permission, hand grasping his face forcefully, fingers curled tight around his jaw. “You don’t yell at me, ever.” 

It was a command, not a statement of fact. Of course he yells at you, but never without consequence. With his father off somewhere looking for Sarah, you might be the only one left on the island he’s actually afraid of.

You expect him to shove your hand away, to meet your outburst with another of his own like always. But instead of fury, his eyes fill with sorrow, watery edges quivering in sync with his bottom lip. He’s fucking crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and you get the chilling sense that he’s talking to someone else entirely, someone who isn’t in the room with you.

As if it was waiting for the words to set it free, a tear slips from the corner of his bloodshot eye, falling fast down his cheek before colliding with your fingers, which stay on his face but loosen at the sight. The droplet crawls over the ridges of your hand, making its way down your arm, covering you in the salt and sting of his pain.

Your fingers shift from bruising to caressing, the pad of your thumb brushing over a spot of dried blood, even with a little more pressure it doesn’t come off, it’ll take warm water and a cloth.

“Fuck, Rafe,” you whisper, taking in the way his shoulders are beginning to shake as his eyes drop from yours in shame. You move your hand down his arm until your fingers find his own, flinching at the sudden gentleness. Hand in his, you guide him to the bathroom, where you’ll fix him up, like always.

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“Hands off,” you remind him.

Obidently, albeit resentfully, he removes his hands from your hips. His jaw clenches, he knows the rules. They’re there to protect you both, as you always remind him. That’s the arrangement.

Still he’s looking up at you with welling, vulnerable eyes - completely unprotected. Ego as bruised as his jaw. Your hips roll against his, burying him deeper, a reward for his good behavior, but it feels just as good for you as it does for him. You throw your head back exposing the column of your throat to him. He doesn’t grab it, but he wants to, trembling from the fear of his newly discovered power and the way you’re wrapped around him like a noose.

Your hands are everywhere, no restrictions against that in the unspoken rules you established when this thing started so long ago. You do what you want, he takes what he gets. That’s the deal.

Your hand finds his jaw, tilting his head to the side, your thumb pressing into the blue-purple patch where someone or something must’ve hit him hard. He winces, a cry of agony rumbling through his bare chest. It shouldn’t feel so good, you don’t revel in hurting anyone else like you do him, but the pain makes him pulse inside you, makes him buck up helplessly to force himself deeper and it’s fucking electrifying.

“You like it when I hurt you?” You lean down to whisper in his ear, hot breath making him whimper. “Yeah, you do. Need more?”

Normally, he’d nod, beg for more, tell you how desperate he is for you to destroy him. But he’s quiet now, still avoiding your gaze even when you release his jaw. His eyes are glassed over, haunted, somewhere far from here. His body is beneath you where you like it best, but Rafe is long, long gone. 

You’ve never seen him like this. You don’t care, you shouldn’t care, this is the rule of another silent agreement - the one you made with yourself. The only time you think of him is when he’s inside you, begging you to ruin him, or later when you’re replaying his choked moans in your mind with your hand between your legs. 

But now, for the first time ever, you’re worried about him. Something’s wrong with him. Something’s always been wrong with him, that’s what started this twisted, toxic little affair in the first place. This is different, though. He’s hurt somewhere you can’t see, something deep and spiritual is broken within him. You shiver at the instinct to comfort him, to lessen the pain you usually seek to intensify for the sake of your own pleasure.

Mentally, you add an addendum to your internal contract - this one time, and one time only, you’ll put his needs before your own. 

His eyes finally meet yours again when you halt your grinding, hands planted softly and tenderly on either side of his face.

“What? Are you done?” He’s so confused and disappointed it almost hurts your heart.

Without answering, you swing your leg over his torso, climbing off and allowing him to slip out of you. He lies back, letting his head fall onto the pillow and his chest cave in, immediately defeated and resigned to your whims. You almost smile at the sheer control you have over him, you would be pleased if you weren’t so busy being terrified of the thought of giving it over to him. It’s not compassion, you don’t feel bad for him, but you ache to be his comfort, and that’s the scariest thing in the world. 

You’ve never cowered from your fears, though. You won’t start now.

“Rafe,” you whispered.

His head snaps towards you, his face so deliciously contorted in confusion, never having heard this kind of softness in your voice.

“What?” He mumbles, perplexed.

You turn toward him, your hand returning to that swollen spot on his jaw, though this time your fingers merely ghost over the wound, sparking goosebumps all over his weary body.

“Fuck me,” you whisper against his lips, careful not to close the distance between them - another rule you were bending but swore not to break.

“Wh-what are you talking about?” He stammers, unsure and so terrified to make a wrong move and risk your wrath.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but something’s wrong,” you observe.

“I just -” he starts.

“No, no,” you cut him off with a shake of your head. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. But you can use me if you want, take what you need to get right. That sound good?”

Eyes blown wide with disbelief, he nods quickly. You smile at his eagerness.

“Okay, then, just this once, you can fuck me,” you grant him permission.

There’s no need to extend any further invitation, he’s on you in seconds. His large frame blankets you for the first time ever, and you almost feel small underneath him, like maybe he really is in charge. It’s new, and surprisingly thrilling. 

“You’re so big, and strong,” you observe, praising him for the first time ever. “This is your chance to show me what all those muscles are for, yeah?”

With a shaky nod, his hand ghosts over your waist, flexing in restraint, not actually touching you. He won’t unless you tell him he can. You grab his hand, the direct contact making him inhale a sharp breath, and guide his hand over the curve of your hips, letting him feel you fully in his palms in a way he never has before. Lips parted, a gentle groan falls from his mouth as he squeezes your flesh.

“Just once, Rafe,” you tell him. “Then we’re never going to speak about it again.”

“I can just do whatever I want?” 

You’re almost as shocked as he is when you nod your head yes.

Your legs spread for him, granting access, and a view he’s never gotten before.

His hands find you again, just one second of hesitation before they finally touch you. And then no time at all before they’re everywhere, feeling and exploring like he’s never felt a woman before. Like he’s discovering you for the very first time. He’s gripping your waist, and your hips, and your tits, and then he’s rubbing between your legs, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of your slick - warm and waiting for him.

Then he’s sinking in and groaning in your ear as he hits you at an angle you’ve never had him before. Experimentally, he jerks forward, seating himself fully inside you, watching with delight as you jolt with unexpected pleasure.

“That’s it, that’s good,” you coo. “Keep going. I’m yours, just this once. Don’t waste me.”

Finally following his whims is intoxicating, his heart rate is through the roof and he almost can’t see straight. His eyes latch to the same curve of your neck he was mesmerized by while you rode him. Experimentally, he places his hand over your throat, fingers so long they almost wrap all the way around. Your eyes go wide but you still don’t withdraw your permission, so he starts to squeeze.

Your head is swirling with pleasure. Your breaths get shallower as the grip of his fingers gets tighter, the wildness in his eyes making you pulse around him, the pressure squeezing his shaft matching that of his fingertips against your pulse point. It feels so good, you try and fail to gasp, a cracked squeak escaping you instead. At the helpless sound of your choking, his chest jumps, like his heart is going to beat right out of it, and he pulls his hand away like you’ve burned him. 

There’s a flash in his eyes, for a moment he’s not with you but somewhere else, lost inside a memory. His movements stop and his body goes rigid, his once burning skin running cold under your touch. He’s panicking, he’s lost, he looks like he might scream.

“Hey, hey,” you clutch the back of his neck, kneading the skin helplessly to try to return him to the moment before whatever storm is brewing inside him destroys you both. “Stay here. Stay here with me, please.”

Your words bring him back, his eyes meeting yours, the fog in them clearing just slightly before it’s replaced with stinging salt water. He buries his face in your neck, but it’s too late, you already saw it. You need to do something quickly before this man is weeping on you. 

“No, no, you’re okay, you’re fine. Just,” you roll your hips, reminding him that he’s hard inside you right now, that your bodies are meeting in a way they never have before, that you’re so wet for the animal that’s taken over him that he’s drenched in you. “Give it to me, just give it all to me, please. I want it, Rafe.”

A few more rolls of your hips and you're both moaning again as he’s sliding in and out, so thick and rigid that you can feel every inch of him rubbing against your walls, his leaking tip kissing your cervix with every arch of your body up into his.

He groans against your neck, like he’s awakening, like he’s remembering he’s actually here with you. Finally, his hips snap forward, meeting your writhing with a powerful thrust. Your jaw falls slack.

“Yes! Yes, that’s it, just like that, baby. Give it to me, please,” you coax him.

His once sloppy, broken thrusts fall into steady rhythm now, granting a graze to your throbbing clit with each smack of his skin against yours.

“Is that good?” He asks, his voice muffled by the soft skin of your neck. 

“So good,” you assure him. “You’re doing so good for me. Giving it to me just like I asked. I love the way you’re filling me up, baby.”

“Please keep calling me baby. Please,” he begs, his breath hot and wet against your ear. “Need it. I, I need-”

“Mmmm, yeah?” You manage to say through broken moans, his pace now punishing, sending your body jolting up the mattress with each stroke, filling you up to the fucking brim every single time. “What do you need? Tell me - oh god, fuck - tell me what you need.”

He pulls back, tears in his eyes replaced by pure wildfire, “you.”

His lips chase yours so hungrily, they miss a little, crashing into the side of your mouth. But he doesn’t care, doesn’t pause to try again, just drags them over, teeth and tongue shameless against you until they find your lips. 

“Mmm, Rafe!” You mumble against his mouth, pulling back, pulling him off. Your eyes study him. Has he forgotten the rule that he isn’t allowed to kiss you? Or does he just not care anymore?

His glare is pure madness, like if you tell him he can’t kiss you he might just kill you instead. The thought makes your toes curl. You don’t scold him, and he finds you again, meeting your open mouth with his own, tongues immediately clashing like they’d been preparing for this battle for a lifetime. Your kisses wrestle each other’s, not quite in sync, the final struggle for dominance. And when he pushes forward, pressing your knees down so you spread completely and he can finally hit that spot inside you that you’ve both been dreaming about, you let him win.

You let him win over and over, taking you - his mouth devouring your mouth, his hips crashing into your hips, his hands gripping your flesh so tightly as he pounds you down into the mattress that you’re sure you’ll have matching bruises tomorrow.

You asked him to give it to you, all the pain, the panic, the pure fury of him, and now he was. It was almost too much, but it was so consuming you were lost in it, lost in him, and your mind stopped searching for answers, going completely blank as pleasure took over your whole body.

“Rafe!” You sob, “it’s so good. Please, please don’t stop.”

“Yeah? You like me like this?” His voice has a hard edge to it you’ve never heard before. “Maybe if you’d let me take you like this I wouldn’t have had to do what I did. Maybe it’s all your fault. You think of that, huh?”

You have no idea what he was talking about, but the new, sharp tone in his voice sends a bolt of fear straight through you as he continues rocking into you as hard as he can.

“I don’t - ahhh - know what you’re talking about,” you whine.

“Yes you do. You did this on purpose. You made me like this, it’s all your fault -”

You reach up and swing without thinking, palm crashing into his face with a thwack. The side not bruised is now bright red with the mark of your slap. His eyes flare, so do yours. For a moment your bodies are still and you glare at each other with the bright blaze of a house on fire. 

You pull your hand back to hit him again, but he catches your wrist, grabbing the other with his free hand, pinning them both above you against the mattress.

You thrash and squirm beneath him now, but he has you completely, his strength overpowering yours. 

All this time, you’d been pretending, really. Both of you. Pretending that you were the one with the control, pretending you could do more harm to him than he could to you. Now you were living out the truth, that he had all the power, that when he finally snapped, he could overtake you completely - just as he was doing now. 

It’s what you’d spent years avoiding, and maybe it was the build up, or the angle of his hips, or the swelling of his cock inside your walls, but it feels better than anything you’d ever experienced. 

“You wanted all of it? All of me? Fucking take it,” he growls, the sound of him entering you over and over the only thing you can hear over the noise of your own pleasured cries.

“I’m close, I’m so close, please, Rafe,” you beg.

“I told you what I wanted you to call me,” he reminds you, his own clenched jaw and increasingly erratic movements telling you he was right there with you.

“Baby,” you concede, so far past the point of caring who’s in charge. “Baby, please, be good and give it to me. Fill me up.”

“Say that you need it,” he instructs, biting his tongue before revealing what he really wants to hear: say that you need me. But you don’t need him to ask for it, you already know.

Your hands rub up and down the side of his neck, meeting his eyes as you say, “I need it, Rafe. I need you.”

That does him in. Every muscle in his body flexes, veins pulsing in his neck, a cry ripping from his raspy throat as he unleashes, releasing into you so deep you can feel it everywhere. The cry of pleasure from his lips is so satisfying that you follow him quickly into that sweet oblivion, coming undone completely. You lose track of where his body ends and yours begins as you finish together, crying out into each other’s open mouths until you’re entirely spent. 

Rafe collapses onto you, too far gone to worry about his weight crushing you. You gasp for breath underneath him, your head swirling as you try to come to terms with what just happened. Everything you’ve done to protect yourself, every brick in the wall you’ve built between you and him, now rubble and dust.

His eyes fall closed in quiet satisfaction. Yours remain wide open, frozen on the cracked ceiling above you as panic rises in your chest. You need to get off this island, fast. And this time - never, ever come back.

[that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction]

I need a fic where Lancelot gets hit by a curse that makes him extremely honest/completely removes his thought to speech filter.

Like, he doesn’t blurt secrets but he’s got no sense of fear for saying things he probably shouldn’t and just starts saying all the quiet parts out loud.

Merlin’s immediately worried about him. I kinda imagine it like:

Merlin: Do you think you’ll say anything about..?

Lance: your secret? No. Definitely not. It’s your secret to tell. Arthur should know how much you do for him even without it though. You should remind him you’re not obligated to do so much if he keeps taking advantage of your kindness.

Merlin: That…

Lance: I clearly mean it. It’s your choice of course. You know I love you too much to betray your trust.

(I’m a sucker for Mercelot but take that however you want)

Then when they all get back to Camelot and one of the towns people is struggling to fix a cart with a broken wheel.

Lance *goes over to help and starts berating the knights*: we’re knights. We’re supposed to help people. If you just want to beat people up, we’ve run into plenty of bandits that would probably take you.

And we all know he doesn’t like the structure of statuses and how power is distributed in Camelot so while he’s still respectful to Arthur as a king, the rest of the lords not so much. He avoids them as much as possible to avoid causing unnecessary problems but when Arthur asks if he’ll be at a council meeting, he’s gotta say no:

Lance: I don’t think that’d be a good idea.

Arthur: why not? I could use someone honest on the council.

Lance: I am honest with you. Mostly. You definitely shouldn’t ask what I think about magic until I can be tactful about my answer. But If I get a chance to be honest in the same room as Lord NoName I’m going to ask him if he doesn’t want to pay taxes because too much of his coin already goes to his mistresses and his wife will find out if he’s forced to document it.

Arthur: …

Lance: …

Arthur: … I don’t know which part to focus on first. If Lord NoName isn’t there will you attend?

Lance: he’s not the only one. Personally, I think they should hear it, but I don’t want to be callous about it. Their wives deserve better and forcing them to find out through gossip and rumours just seems unnecessarily cruel.

Arthur: I’ll call a round table meeting later.

Lance: Probably for the best. You should give Merlin a seat, he’s braver and has done more for you than anyone. I’ll see you later, sire.

I can imagine the magic thing would keep coming up too, just little comments about how he’s frustrated that he’ll be used as an example for why magic should be banned when it’s not all bad and can actually be quite amazing.

Everyone’s confused but he just asks Leon if he likes being alive because he wouldn’t be without the Druids and the cup of life.

Heaven forbid anyone says anything bad about Merlin. He never out’s Merlin’s secret as promised, but he absolutely makes sure everyone is aware how much Merlin does for people out of the goodness of his heart.

I also want him to shit on Uther at some point. About his parenting style or how he ruled Camelot, I don’t mind which.

I imagine someone mentioning how well Lance is handling the curse and “taking it like a man” and getting immediately shot down.

Noble: he’s handling it well, taking it like a man.

Lancelot: Hypocritical coming from you, Lord He-Payed-Less-Than-I-Did-Even-Though-It-was-Proportional-To-Everything-Else. (I don’t pretend to understand how a fictional court set in about 5 different historical eras is run) Actually, not complaining about a situation that sucks isn’t a manly trait at all. All of the problems we’re dealing with are because something happened and someone “took it like a man.” Tax evasion, wars, uneven distribution of wealth, *putting reports on the table for each one* The last time someone “took it like a man” we ended up with an entire people being murdered because a king fucked up, lost his wife, and didn’t want to admit fault and grieve like a sane person.

Everyone’s just silent for a moment.

Lance: … *thinks about what he said for a second*

Lance: No, I stand by that. I’ll apologise for my lack of tact, but not the content.

Meanwhile, watching in horror and barely contained glee:

Arthur: Should have let him sit this one out.

Merlin: Absolutely not. This might become the most productive council meeting we’ve had in years.

Anyway, I just want Lance being able to lean more into the unhinged side of his character sometimes.

He’s still got to fundamentally be a good person, he’s just less filtered in watching the casual stupidity of the nobles, or more honest about people not thanking servants enough (especially to the knights who seemed to forget that they were once common born too) and isn’t afraid to call people on their bullshit when necessary.

Everyone learns to appreciate it too so when the spell wears off, he’s less anxious about giving his opinions on things.

Just let Lancelot be the unfiltered chaotic good that he is.

[tsunodaradio]

unless you call tonight ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

THIS IS: FORMULA ONE, A MILESTONE EVENT 📀 lando falls for a busy woman and it ruins his life.

♫ starring: lando norris x pilot!reader. ♫ word count: 4.3k. ♫ includes: romance. suggestive content/off-screen smut, profanity. friends with benefits. @norrisradio requested busy woman by sabrina carpenter. ♫ commentary box: unfortunately, i will never be normal about anything tara asks of me. ever. all my lando's are hers and this is proof. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Lando stares at his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. The chat is open— your name at the top, a string of texts below. Nothing crazy, just a couple of messages exchanged over the past few weeks. Enough to keep the line open but not enough to call it anything solid.

He exhales sharply and locks his phone again, as if that will stop him from thinking about you. Spoiler alert: It doesn’t.

He unlocks his phone. Reopens the conversation. Scrolls up, reading over the last thing you sent. Been up since four. Dead on my feet. Talk soon. 

That was two days ago.

Lando flops back onto the hotel bed with a huff. He should text you. It’s not like you’d ignore him. Every time he’s reached out, you’ve answered, even if it’s just a short reply before you’re off somewhere again. 

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? 

He already knows how this will go. You’ll take hours to reply, if you reply at all. Not because you’re uninterested— at least, he hopes not— but because you’re busy. 

You live in the sky, chasing time zones while he chases apexes. He doesn’t even know where in the world you are right now.

You’d met briefly. One of those moments that should’ve been forgettable but wasn’t. He was waiting for his flight, slouched in an airport lounge, when you walked past in uniform, checking your watch. Someone had called your name, and you’d turned just enough for him to catch the hint of a smile. 

He knew, then and there, that he had to at least try. 

“Give me your number,” he had said, leaning against the airport counter, all charm and easy confidence. “So I can let you know when I land safely.”

You had laughed, shaking your head as you tapped your name and number into his phone. “Is that your way of saying you get nervous on flights?”

“No,” he’d grinned, locking the contact in. “It’s my way of making sure I see you again.”

“Don’t be boring,” you warned before handing him off to be handled by some attendant who had probably tried to flirt with him. He couldn’t be sure; he was so caught up with you that he couldn’t see past it.

Lando had planned on being anything but boring. And yet, here he is, stuck in his own head.

He drags a hand down his face, annoyed at himself, at the situation, at you for being so goddamn unavailable. Not in the emotional way. No, that would be easier. But in the literal, physical sense. 

It’s ironic, really. He’s the one in a different country every weekend, but somehow, you’re still the one he can’t seem to pin down.

Maybe that’s what makes this feel different. He’s used to things being easy, casual, within reach. 

You slip through his fingers before he can decide what to do with you.

He types out a message. u free?

Then he deletes it. 

Tries a different approach. what country are u in now? 

Lando deletes that, too. 

His fingers dance across the screen as he jams out yet another thing he won’t send, typed out with the belief that simply putting it out into the world might suffice. 

i miss being inside you, he types, and then he backspaces until it’s just i miss you, and then he just trashes the whole thing all together. 

Lando rests his phone on his chest.

And waits. What for, he’s not sure.  

It’s not like he’s asking for much. A conversation. A distraction. A sign that you might be thinking about him, too.

With a sigh, he locks his phone and sets it aside. 

Not tonight. 

The first time you slept together, Lando hadn’t really thought about what came after.

You’d been in the same city by coincidence. One of your flights aligning with his race weekend, just by sheer luck. The two of you had figured that out quickly enough, and from there, it had been easy.

A drink, a conversation that flowed too smoothly, a brush of your fingers against his when you took his empty glass from him. By the time you were both back at his hotel, neither of you had pretended it was anything but inevitable.

Lando had been more than happy to take his time with you, to let things build and stretch into the early hours of the morning. And, fuck, it had been good. 

You were the kind of person who made everything feel easy, like you’d known each other longer than just the past handful of hours. Like you’d done this before, even though you hadn’t.

So he’d fallen asleep next to you, pleasantly exhausted, fully expecting to wake up to a warm body curled into his.

Instead, he had woken up to the rustling of sheets and the quiet clink of a zipper.

Blinking through his sleep-heavy haze, he had turned over to see you by the foot of the bed, pulling on your jacket. Your bag was already slung over one shoulder, your phone in your free hand. The bedside clock read something ridiculous— barely past five in the morning.

Lando frowned. “You’re leaving?”

You glanced at him. “Yeah. I’ve got a flight to catch.”

“Right now?”

You huffed a laugh and adjusted the strap of your bag. “That’s usually how flights work, yeah,” you had shot back. 

He narrowed his eyes at you, still groggy, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you were actually about to walk out the door like this. “So you’re just gonna disappear before the sun’s even up?”

“I’m not disappearing,” you corrected, “I’m saying goodbye.”

Lando scoffed, unimpressed with the technicality. “Right.”

A brief pause settled between you. He could still see the soft marks of his fingertips on your skin, the messy imprint of the night before. He thought, just for a second, that maybe you’d hesitate. That maybe you’d crawl back into bed, let the morning stretch a little longer.

But you just smiled instead, already halfway to the door. “Good luck on your race.”

And with that, you were gone.

Lando sat there for a long moment, listening to the faint click of the door shutting behind you.

He wasn’t used to being left behind. 

He had finished on the podium that race. Everybody talked about his car, about strategy, but he knew he’d been fueled by spite and the glorious afterglow of a good fuck. 

A part of him had wanted to reach out and ask if you’d seen him win. He didn’t, of course. He liked to think he had some dignity. 

Tonight, though, Lando is convinced that all of his dignity will be damned.

He steps out of the bar, the night air cool against his flushed skin. The noise from inside spills onto the street— laughter, the bassline of some song he should probably recognize, the occasional burst of applause from a group in the corner. He exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders as he leans back against the brick wall, phone in hand.

He shouldn’t be checking his phone. Shouldn’t be waiting for anything.

But he is.

He flicks his thumb over the screen, unlocking it for the tenth time in as many minutes. No notifications. No messages.

No messages from you.

His jaw tightens. He shoves his free hand into his pocket, tilting his head back against the wall. It’s stupid. You have a life, a job that doesn’t leave you glued to your phone, a schedule that barely aligns with his. But it doesn’t stop the frustration from simmering under his skin.

Then, as if the Universe is sick and tired of his moping, his phone vibrates.

from: little ms. pilot ✈️ You good?

Lando exhales through his nose, half in disbelief, half in relief. He should let you wait, make you sit in silence the way he had. But he doesn’t. His fingers move before he can think better of it.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ i was starting to think you forgot about me

The dots appear immediately.

from: little ms. pilot ✈️ Don’t be dramatic. Long flights, long days.

He runs his tongue over his teeth. Yeah, he knows. Doesn’t mean he likes it.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ am i so easy to ignore, hm??

A bit too honest. But he lets it sit.

from: little ms. pilot ✈️ Poor baby. Want a kiss to make things better?

A sharp laugh escapes Lando. He glances back toward the bar, but the thought of going back in— of pretending he’s not the happiest he’s been in days— feels unappealing.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ ure lucky i’m a forgiving man from: little ms. pilot ✈️ Oh, are you? to: little ms. pilot ✈️ wouldn’t be texting u rn if i weren’t from: little ms. pilot ✈️ And here I thought I was doing you a favor.

Lando scoffs, rolling his eyes at his screen.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ by what? keeping me on my toes? from: little ms. pilot ✈️ By giving you something to look forward to.

He shakes his head. You’re good— he’ll give you that.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ u make it sound like u’re doing charity work from: little ms. pilot ✈️ Aren’t I?

Lando’s stomach tightens at the way you always manage to flip things back on him, like you’re the one indulging him instead of the other way around.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ u r a menace from: little ms. pilot ✈️ You like it.

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers hover over the keyboard as he exhales, glancing back toward the bar. He should go inside, forget about this conversation before it pulls him in deeper.

Instead, he types:

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ i like a lot of things about u :)

A beat.

The dots appear. Disappear.

Reappear.

from: little ms. pilot ✈️ Careful, Norris. Sounds like dangerous territory.

He smirks. Gotcha.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ only if u make it out to be

No immediate reply this time. He waits for a second, then two, before locking his phone and shoving it back into his pocket. If you want to keep playing this game, fine.

But he won’t be the only one chasing.

Lando sees your name light up his phone, and for the first time in a long time, he considers not answering.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. The problem is that he does—badly. He wants to see you, wants to hear that teasing lilt in your voice when you make some offhand remark that he’ll spend hours thinking about later.

The phone buzzes again.

from: little ms. pilot ✈️ Layover in your city. Few hours to spare. Busy?

He stares at the screen, jaw ticking with impatience.

This is the moment where he should say no. He should have some fucking dignity, tell you he’s got better things to do than be at your beck and call.

But he doesn’t. 

Because Lando’s never been good at resisting things that feel good in the moment, and right now, there’s nothing he wants more than you.

He barely remembers the drive over, only that his knee bounced the whole way, his mind running in circles around the same thought: He should’ve said no.

When you open the door, it’s as good as over for him.

You're fresh out of the shower, hair damp, hotel robe tied loosely around your waist. You smirk when you see him, leaning against the doorframe like you already know he was coming the second you hit send.

Lando tongues the inside of his cheek. “You’re trouble.”

“And yet you’re here.”

You step back, letting him inside. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the two of you in. He watches as you cross the room, and there’s a fleeting moment where he wonders if this will be the time it finally breaks him. If this will be the time he won’t be able to pick himself back up when you leave.

Then you tug him forward by the front of his hoodie, pulling him into a kiss, and he stops thinking altogether.

Lando’s hands find their way to your waist, pulling you closer as if he’s trying to ground himself in the moment. His fingers press into the soft fabric of your robe, but it’s not enough. He’s desperate for more, for the feeling of your skin against his, the way you always seem to make him forget about everything else.

You laugh softly against his lips, a teasing sound that vibrates through him, and for a second, he thinks maybe you can hear the way his heart is pounding.

“Impatient,” you murmur, your voice low and smooth, as your hands slide under the hem of his hoodie, feeling the warmth of his skin underneath.

“You started it,” Lando replies, his voice rougher than he intended, his breath hitching when your fingers graze his chest.

You grin at him, and he can’t help but mirror the expression, even as he watches you slowly step back, eyes flicking between his and the space between you. It’s like you’re daring him to follow, to push this further— and God, does he want to.

Before he can take another step toward you, you pause, looking at him with a glint in your eye that makes him hesitate for a moment. “You’re sure you want this? You know how this goes, Norris.”

His throat closes up. 

There’s that voice again, the one that whispers that he’s being a fool, that he’s walking right into the same trap he always does. The same trap you’ve set so many times before, and he’s willingly fallen for it each and every time.

“I’m not going to regret it,” he says, the words tumbling out more firmly than he feels.

His eyes are locked on yours, searching for any sign that you’re not on the same page. But you don’t look away. You’re not pulling back. You’re watching him with an intensity that almost feels like you’ve already made up your mind.

You nod, slow and deliberate, and then you’re moving toward him again, your lips meeting his in a searing kiss that makes his whole body hum.

There’s no talking after that. No hesitation.

The next thing he knows, he’s pulling at the knot of your robe, hands shaking as he exposes more of your skin, his mouth following the trail of fire you leave across his chest. You tug at his hoodie, almost impatient in the way you’re stripping him down, until he’s left standing in front of you in nothing but his jeans and the fast-fading remnants of his composure.

At this point, Lando’s not sure it matters. Not with you this close, not with your hands tracing the lines of his body, not with the heat between you building to a point where it feels like he can’t breathe without you.

And when you pull him into another kiss, your lips just as desperate as his own, it doesn’t matter anymore. There’s no more thinking, no more wondering. Just the feeling of you, here, with him.

Lando doesn’t think about tomorrow. Doesn’t think about the empty space he’ll wake up to or the way he’ll check his phone, hoping— pathetically— for a message that won’t be there.

For now, all that matters is the way your breath stutters when he kisses down your neck, the way your hands press against his skin like you need him just as badly.

For now, he lets himself believe that you do.

Patience has never been his strong suit, and he sure as hell doesn’t have any left when it comes to you. It’s been— what? Two weeks? Maybe three? Since the last time he saw you, since you last texted, since he last even felt like he existed in your world.

And fine, he gets it. You have a life. You have a job that keeps you moving, that pulls you across time zones and continents with no regard for whatever flimsy thing the two of you have going on.

But it’s starting to get to him.

He’s been staring at his phone for the past twenty minutes, scrolling through old texts, checking to see if maybe you had responded and he somehow missed it. (He hasn’t. You haven’t.)

Before he can talk himself out of it, he taps on your contact and hits FaceTime.

It rings. Once, twice— he’s already regretting it.

Then, you pick up.

You’re in some dimly lit hotel room, the glow from your laptop screen casting soft shadows over your face. You look tired. You blink at him like you weren’t expecting the call.

“Lando?” Your voice is thick with exhaustion.

“Hey,” he says, gripping the edge of his couch. He hadn’t exactly planned what he was going to say— just that he needed to see you, to hear your voice, to remind himself that he still exists to you. “Where are you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your temple. “Singapore. Just got in a couple of hours ago.”

He bites back the urge to apologize. Singapore. The other side of the world. Not that it should matter. Not that it ever has.

“You could’ve texted,” he says, and it comes out rougher than he means it to.

You frown. “I’ve been working.”

“For two weeks?”

You hesitate. It’s brief, but he catches it. “I meant to,” you say eventually. “I just— Lando, come on.”

“No, seriously,” he pushes, his grip tightening on his phone. “Do you even think about me when you’re gone?”

Your brows furrow. “Of course I do.”

“Yeah? Then why does it feel like I don’t exist as soon as you leave?”

That gives you pause. You glance away, like you’re searching for the right words. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Lando laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You could start with the truth.”

You inhale sharply, sitting up a little straighter. “Lando…” There’s something warning in your tone.

He shakes his head. “Forget it.”

A beat of silence stretches between you before you finally sigh. “I thought we were on the same page about this.”

There it is. The thing he didn’t want to hear, the thing he’s been trying to pretend doesn’t exist.

You’re not in a relationship.

You’ve made that clear from the beginning, in the way you never linger too long, in the way you leave before the sheets even cool, in the way you go weeks without speaking to him like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

But it’s not easy for him.

Lando swallows hard, forcing a tight smile. “Yeah,” he says. “We are.”

And then, because he can’t help himself, because frustration is curling hot and tight in his chest, because he wants you to hurt the way he does, he adds, “Must be nice, though.”

Your brows knit together. “What?”

“Not having to think about anyone but yourself.”

Your expression shifts instantly. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, it must be convenient,” he continues, his tone sharp. “Keeping me on standby for when it suits you, for when you’re not busy. Must be nice to just disappear whenever you want and not have to deal with the mess you leave behind.”

Your lips part slightly, disbelief flickering across your features. Then, just as quickly, your face hardens.

“Lando,” you say, voice steady, firm. “I’m not doing this with you.”

His jaw clenches. “Doing what?”

“This,” you snap. “Whatever this little tantrum is.”

Lando opens his mouth, but you don’t give him the chance.

“You don’t get to act like I’ve done something wrong just because I don’t orbit around you,” you say, and your words cut deep. “I told you what this was from the beginning. If you thought it was something else, that’s on you.”

He flinches, but you’re not done.

“And before you ask— no, I don’t have a flight to catch.” Your voice is like ice now. “I’m ending this call because I don’t feel like listening to your bullshit. I’m too busy for it.”

And then, just like that, his screen goes dark.

TWO DAYS AFTER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ yo

FIVE DAYS LATER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ look, i was an ass. i know that just... idk. lmk if i can make it up to u or something

ONE WEEK LATER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ u still mad? tbf i’d probably still be mad

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ sooo does that mean i shd wait longer before texting again

TEN DAYS LATER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ ok i’ve done some thinking. i’ve concluded i deserve to be ignored, but also i don’t like being ignored

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ i feel like i shd at least get points for self-awareness

TWELVE DAYS LATER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ just tell me u hate me so i can sleep at night

TWO WEEKS LATER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ alright. u win. won’t bother u anymore

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ unless u text first. then it’s fair game.

ONE MONTH LATER.

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ saw a plane today and thought of u

to: little ms. pilot ✈️ i feel like that should earn me AT LEAST a pity response

Lando tells himself he’s fine.

He throws himself into racing, into training, into anything that doesn’t involve picking up his phone and staring at a dead chat. He convinces himself that it’s better this way. He’s faster on track, more focused in meetings, less distracted.

At least, that’s the lie he repeats to himself.

But then, one afternoon in Monaco, he sees you at the grocery store. Every carefully constructed wall he’s built around himself crumbles in an instant.

You’re standing by the produce section, inspecting a bunch of grapes like they hold the answers to the universe. It’s almost laughably ordinary— no pilot uniform, no layover rush, just you in a sundress, vacationing like a normal person. 

And for some reason, that stings.

He almost walks past you, pretends he hasn’t seen you. But then you turn, eyes meeting his, and there’s no escaping it now.

“Lando,” you say, like you’re surprised to see him. Which is ridiculous, because this is his city. His home.

He swallows hard, nodding. “Hey.”

An awkward pause stretches between you, filled only by the low hum of the store’s music and the distant chatter of other shoppers. Lando clears his throat, gripping the handle of his basket like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Didn’t know you were in Monaco.”

“I’m just here for a bit,” you say. “Taking some time off.”

“Right.” He lets out a breathy chuckle. “Guess you’ve been too busy to take a vacation before now.”

The words come out sharper than he intends. Your eyes narrow, just slightly. “That’s not fair.”

He wants to argue, to remind you of all the unanswered messages, of how he felt like a complete idiot waiting for a reply that never came. But what would be the point? You’ve made it clear before that this was never anything serious. That he wasn’t supposed to care like this.

“Yeah,” he exhales. “Maybe it’s not.”

Silence again. Then, you shift your basket higher on your arm. “I should go.”

Lando nods, watching as you turn on your heel and head for the checkout. That should be it. That should be the end of it.

But suddenly, he’s moving.

He doesn’t even think about it, just grabs the first bouquet of supermarket flowers he sees, throws some cash at the self-checkout, and jogs out the door after you.

You’re halfway down the street when he catches up. “Hey— wait.”

You pause, glancing at him over your shoulder. He’s out of breath, which is embarrassing, considering he’s a professional athlete. He thrusts the slightly-crumpled bouquet toward you.

“Are you busy today?”

You blink, staring at the flowers like they might explode. “Lando…”

“I just— I don’t know,” he rushes out. “If you’ve got time, maybe we could—” He hesitates. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking. To talk? To fix things? To ruin himself all over again?

You exhale softly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. He watches you carefully, desperately, like a man on the edge of a decision he has no power over.

Lando lets out a breath, his grip tightening around the plastic-wrapped stems in his hands. “Look, I know I was out of line that night. And I know I’ve been acting like— like I don’t get what this is. But the thing is, I don’t think I know how to be casual about you.

“I’ve tried, and I’m fucking terrible at it. I want more, and I know that’s not what we do, but—” He shakes his head, his jaw working, like the words aren’t coming out right.

A passing car honks in the distance. The world moves on as if this isn’t the biggest thing happening in his universe.

“But I like you,” he says finally, voice quiet but firm. “I like you more than I should. And I know you’re busy, I know your job takes you everywhere, and maybe that means this doesn’t work. But if there’s even a small chance that it could—” 

He looks at you like he’s never wanted anything more. “Just tell me if I should stop.”

Your lips press together, and for a long moment, you say nothing. Lando’s heart beats in his throat. He braces himself for rejection, for you to tell him this was a mistake, for you to hand the flowers back and walk away.

Instead, you take the bouquet from his hands, inspecting it like you’ve never seen supermarket daisies before. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips, small but real, and you shake your head just a little before looking up at him.

“You’re an idiot,” you murmur.

Lando’s stomach twists. “I know.”

You step closer, lifting onto the balls of your feet to press a kiss to his cheek. His skin burns where your lips touch, and he barely has time to register the warmth before you pull back, meeting his eyes.

“I might be busy,” you say, holding the flowers loosely in your hands. “But I think I have a little bit of time for you today.”

He’ll take it, he decides. 

Today, tonight, tomorrow— for however long you’ll have him. ⛐

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Cindereddie

Written for the @steddiebingo

Prompts: Slipper on the main card | Argyle on the Get Lucky bonus card

Rated: T

Tags: Post-Vecna; Steve Harrington has a crush on Eddie Munson; Recreational drug use; Jealous Steve; Idiots in love

“I lost my shoe,” Eddie declares, overjoyed and giddy. 

Sure enough, a look at his feet reveals one worn combat boot with the laces undone and one muddied sock with a toe poking out from a hole at the tip. There’s cartoon figures printed all over it. The sock, not the toe. Garfield, probaby, though it’s hard to tell with all the mud. 

“Huh?” says Steve. It’s pitch dark and raining, and he had just fallen asleep when the doorbell rang, and now Eddie is here - sopping wet, dragging a trail of muddy footsteps all over the front porch and aiming that wide, toothy grin at him that always makes Steve’s heart skip a beat. 

He feels like he missed something. 

Eddie’s smile, impossibly, goes wider. “I lost my-” 

“Yeah,” Steve interrupts him. “I see that, just- …What are you even doing here? I thought you were gonna hang with Argyle tonight?” 

He tries his best to keep the sneer out of his voice, to ignore the ugly twist that his stomach gives at the thought. Argyle is a decent guy, and there’s absolutely no need to feel jealous of this newly formed friendship between Eddie and him. Because that’s all they are. Just friends. Exactly like Eddie and Steve are just friends, so Steve has absolutely no right to get all moody and possessive like that. 

“Oh, I did,” Eddie nods, wet curls bobbing. “We sampled his new strain. Fairy Godmother. The Cali stuff has the wackiest names, but the way it hits? Metal as fuck, man.” 

Which … okay, that actually explains a lot. Like the way Eddie quite evidently can’t stop grinning. Or the way his eyes are even darker than usual, pupils almost entirely swallowing the browns and caramels of his irises. Or the southern drawl that has crept into his voice - barely there but just noticeable enough around some of the vowels. 

“Okay?” Steve says, valiantly attempting to keep his mouth from twitching, but what can he say? Eddie’s smile is contagious. “So you're high as balls. That still doesn't explain why you're here.” 

Eddie shrugs. “Wanted to see you. Don't you wanna see me?” 

His bottom lip juts out and his eyes go huge. Steve rolls his eyes. 

“I'm always happy to see you, idiot. Just… you couldn't have waited until tomorrow? You absolutely had to walk all the way here in the rain and the mud?” 

“Would've taken the van,” Eddie mutters around a fistful of hair. “Except I thought that was too risky.” 

Steve crosses his arms at him. “Well, I'm glad we agree on one thing at-���

“It might turn back any second.” 

Steve stares. “Pardon?” 

“Into a pumpkin,” Eddie says, like it makes sense. “It's almost midnight, right?” 

A look at his watch tells Steve that this is true. What it doesn't tell him is what the hell Eddie is on about. Steve pinches his nose. 

“What the fuck? Why would your van turn into a-” 

And then it clicks. 

“Oh God,” he groans. “Don't tell me you mean the fucking Fairy Godmother?” 

“I'm Cinderella!” Eddie beams. Then, his brow creases. “Cindereddie? Look, I even lost my-” 

“Your shoe,” Steve snorts, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to usher him inside. “I know. Pretty sure Cinderella wore glass slippers though, not combat boots.” 

Eddie scoffs and waves him off, but he does allow himself to be pulled into the entrance hall and maneuvered onto the little bench there. 

“Shit, you're freezing,” Steve mutters. “Hold on, I'll get you something to dry off.”

By the time he returns with a stack of clean towels and dry clothes, Eddie has already peeled out of his flannel and jacket and is sitting there in all his wet, bare-chested glory, humming to himself and idly kicking his muddy feet. 

“Jesus,” Steve mutters, throwing a clean sweater at his face. “I don’t believe you. What are you trying to do, get pneumonia?”

He doesn’t wait for Eddie’s reply, just drops to his knees on the marble tiles and pulls off the muddy sock. It makes a wet squelching sound as he tosses it aside. He has just finished towelling off the naked foot and moved on to removing the boot from the other when Eddie speaks again.

“Will you help me find it?” 

He is speaking from inside the sweater, so his voice comes out a bit muffled. Steve frowns up at him. 

“Find wha- … your boot?”, he asks. Eddie pops his head out of the sweater, all disheveled hair and adorable puppy dog eyes. “What? Argyle can’t help you with that?”

“I’m sure he would,” Eddie shrugs, wiggling his naked toes happily. “But he isn’t my Prince Charming, so …” 

Steve feels himself flush. Suddenly, he’s acutely aware of the picture they’re making - himself kneeling by Eddie’s feet and taking off his boot, like some weird reenactment of the prince putting the lost glass slipper on Cinderella. 

“Let’s get you to bed,” he blurts, yanking the boot off a little too roughly and shooting to his feet to pull Eddie up and towards the staircase. “We can find your stupid shoe tomorrow when it’s light. Right now, you need to sleep that high off.”

Eddie leans into him as they wobble up the stairs, hair tickling Steve’s neck. 

“Will my prince give me a kiss goodnight?”

“Shut up,” Steve grouses. 

And if he does bend down to sweep the damp curls from Eddie’s sleeping face, once he has tucked him into bed in one of the guest rooms? And if he does press his lips to his forehead?

Nobody but him needs to know. 

If he’s lucky, maybe Eddie’s lost boot won’t be the only thing he finds tomorrow. Maybe he’ll actually muster up the courage to tell him how he feels. 

More Steddie Bingo

[shanklin]

Stan and Ford never actually lose contact after the summer. Sure they don’t talk as much as they used to and it’s a bit lonely but some time apart did them good!

Ford tries not to be hurt by the fact that Stan was doing so well without him and found friends of his own the moment Ford’s presence stopped holding him back.

Ford also tried not to be hurt by the fact that Stanley refuses to come visit them. Even when their father called and ordered them to take Stan off his back for a summer, Stan wouldn’t budge. He made other plans with his new friends, who were normal and fun and nothing like Stanford.

Ford still only had one single friend to call his own. Don’t get him wrong, Ford loves Fiddleford but he made one big miscalculation when he told Stan to go back to New Jersey alone. Fiddleford wasn’t Stanley. There is no possible way for him to fill the void that Stan left behind.

Ford ignores Stan’s calls for three weeks straight after Stan refuses their father’s order to visit them the first time. 

Three weeks and one day later he picks up the phone and lets Stan apologize and make up excuses. He’s too tired of missing Stan to argue. If their calls are all Stan could spare for him, Ford will take them, those little scabs that, just for a couple of minutes, make him feel whole again.

Just like always they end their calls by slapping their palms against the phone in a makeshift high six and hang up. 

Stanford cries for a long time after.

Another year passes and Ford is pissed. Fine. If Stan won’t visit him, he’ll go to New Jersey himself and knock some sense into the knucklehead.

Grunkle Dipper and Grauntie Mabel ask him if he’s sure. They know how hard it was for Ford in New Jersey with all the bullies but Ford waves them off. He’s 14 now, almost 15, not a little kid and he managed just fine living in Jersey for the first 11 years of his life.

He doesn’t tell them that the only reason he survived those years was because of Stanley’s fierce protection.

Ford is pissed at Stan but he’s also excited to finally see his brother again. He’s gonna surprise him and then yell at him and then hug and go to the beach and see how the Stan o’ War is doing. Stan told him he made some improvements and he is excited about what ridiculous upgrade Stan came up with.

When they finally arrive at the pawnshop they’re met with police cars and an ambulance. The paramedics carry out a body bag and Stan is let out by the police in handcuffs. 

Stan's eyes widen in surprise but his expression closes off not a moment later. 

Everything happens in a blurr. 

His father is dead. His brother in custody and they’re being questioned by the police. 

Grunkle Dipper and Grauntie Mabel do most of the talking while Ford is not listening, hiding his hands in his pockets and looking at the ground.

“I want to see my brother.” is the only thing he manages to say. He ignores the concerned looks the adults give each other. He’s here to see Stanley and nothing else.

***

Then, finally, he gets his wish after days of waiting.

The social worker leads him to Stanley and tells him that she managed to get them some time to talk in private. 

It’s the first time in three years that Ford gets a good look at his twin. He’s not sure he likes what he sees. 

Stan is bigger than him, has more muscles. But not the kind you get from boxing. The kind you get from doing hard labor for a long period of time. Stan mentioned a part time job at the docks but now Ford fears there was more to this than Stan let on. Much much more, looking at the new scars Stan never mentioned. There was one on his forehead. One on his arms, a hidden one on his shoulder. Ford dreads to know what else Stan is hiding.

The worst part, however, is how despite all the muscles and scars Stan looks small. Pitiful even. It’s unsettling the way he won’t meet the social worker's eyes, the way he shies away from her kind touch. It’s nothing like the Stan he remembers. Nothing like the Stan he's been talking to for at least once a week for the past three years.

The social worker leaves them alone with a reassuring smile and Ford tries to find the right words. He thought this would be easy. That they would be able to talk with each other just like they always did.

“Stan-” Ford starts unsure of how to continue. Luckily Stan is two steps ahead and moves in for a hug. Okay that's good. Ford can do a hug. Ford opens his arms to let his brother in, only for Stan to open Ford's jacket and inspect the inside.

Ford blinks, arms still open.

“What are you doing, Stanley?” Ford asks, bewildered.

“Checking for bugs, genius.” 

Stan's voice had lost the quiver that had made him so pitiful just a moment earlier and took on an irritated and condescending tone instead.

He lets go of Ford's jacket as if he touched something especially nasty and throws himself into one of the many chairs in the meeting room and leans back. 

“Guess the bitch really did tell the truth, huh?”

Stan stares out of the window and frowns. 

“So what the fuck are you doing here? Pretty sure I told you I was busy again this summer.”

“Stanley..what happened to you? What did you do?”

Stan leans forward, looks deep into Ford's eyes and grins.

“Nothing they can prove.”

Stan laughs and keeps on laughing as Ford tries to make sense of it all.

Stan is mocking him. Just like their former classmates, just like the bullies.

Ford storms out and refuses to talk about the meeting.

Grauntie Mabel and Grunkle Dipper keep throwing each other concerned looks and Ford knows they're not only for him, but also for Stanley.

His brother has everyone fooled. He pretends to be a victim, hurt and afraid, telling lies about their father abusing him. He makes a show of it during the hearings and has the adults wrapped around his little finger. Some, Grauntie Mabel and Grunkle Dipper included, shed tears for him.

Stanford just watches and seethes. What game is Stan playing here? Why is he doing this?

In the end they let Stan go, judging their fathers death as an accident. 

Before they leave for Oregon Mabel sends them both on an errant run, which Ford knows is just supposed to function as some more bonding time between him and his brother.

The moment Stan leaves the adult's sight he drops his charade and stops looking like a kicked puppy.

“You never answered my question. What the fuck are you guys doing here?”

“We came to visit you, but clearly we shouldn’t have bothered. You were doing all so great by yourself it seems.”

“You only got that now? After I spent the last three years coming up with weak excuses not to see you?” Stan laughs. “And they call me the dumb one.”

Ford flushes in anger but holds it in. It makes no sense. If Stan really didn’t want anything to do with him, why the frequent calls? Why bother pretending missing Ford and all the apologies for not visiting. If Stan really didn’t care he would’ve just ignored him completely. It would’ve been easy.

Stan moves to leave but Ford grabs his arm and holds him back.

“Stan, enough with the lies. Tell me what’s really going on. Whatever it is, we can figure it out together. As a team.”

Stan twirls around and pushes Ford hard against a wall. For a moment he looks around at the empty street before gritting his teeth and almost growling.

“Don’t touch me, you freak!”

Ford barely registers the words as he kneels over from a punch to the gut.

Stan walks away and this time Ford lets him.

It’s the last time Ford sees his twin for a very very long time.

If only Ford had followed Stan that day, secretly stalked him through the hidden alleyways and closed off passageways. 

He would’ve seen Stan enter an abandoned building guarded by armed men on each side. 

And if he listened closely he would’ve heard Stan shouting for a man named Rico to show himself and demand to see the kids.

But Ford doesn’t follow Stan and so he will never find out what that was all about. 😌

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

“Where are the kids Rico?! If you did anything to them I swear-”

Rico throws up his hands, feigning innocence.

“Relax, Stanley, relax. I’m a man of my word. I don’t hurt kids.” Rico puts an arm around Stan's shoulder. Stan tries to wiggle out but Rico holds firmly in place. “I’m not like your dear old Pa, after all”

Rico slaps Stan on the back and ruffles his hair. 

“You’re welcome by the way.”

Stan uses the moment to put some distance between them and glares at the stronger man. 

“You nearly got me put in jail for murder!”

Rico grins and spreads his arms.

“I had full faith in you getting yourself out of it, my boy. And the show you put on? Simply wonderful. I almost shed a tear myself at your performance!”

“Where. Are. The. Kids. Rico?!”

Rico sighs and waves his hand. Some of his henchmen lead two kids, a couple years younger than Stan himself, into the room. The moment they see Stan they shout his name and run up to hug him. Stan holds both of them tightly in his arms.

“I missed you, dude!” The boy cries and hides his head inside Stan's shirt while the red headed girl glares at Rico standing behind Stan.

Stan looks them over and smiles.

“Soos, did you take good care of your sister?” Soos rubs his eyes and nods. Stan looks at Wendy, who gives him a thumbs up.

“Yes, very touching. Now let’s discuss business. I need all three of you on a plane to New Mexico in about 2 hours.”

All three of them? 

“What's the catch?”

There is no way Rico would let them go just like that. He must know they’ll run away the moment he lets them leave.

“There’s no catch. Do your job and no one gets hurt. If you choose to betray me though and run away.” Rico pulls out a knife and tips it underneath Stan's chin. Stan pulls Soos and Wendy behind his back. “Well I might just have to let my frustrations out on your dear twin. You two look so much alike, he’ll do nicely as a replacement.”

Stan snorts but schools his features and takes on a worried look.

“Eh, boss.” One of the henchmen butts in.

“Pines just beat up his brother before coming here. I don’t think that threat is gonna work”

Rico rolls his eyes and throws up his hands. 

“See what morons I have to deal with on a daily basis?” He tells Stan and then turns around to the henchman.

“He was obviously acting, you idiot.”

“Oh believe me. That wasn’t an act. You did your research. My family abandoned me. Hurt me. Why the fuck should I care about what happens to them?”

Stan takes both Soos and Wendy by the hand and drags them towards the entrance.

“But who am I to tell you how to do your business? So we’ll be off catching that plane and all that.”

Rico snorts.

“Oh Stanley, you’re a gambling man just like myself. That’s why I like you, but you’re a bit too young to fool me just yet. You will do just as instructed or it’ll be your brother who suffers. Maybe we’ll cut off his hands and sell them to one of those tourist trap freak shows. That way you can visit him while I’m hunting you down for betraying me.

Stan stops walking and deflates.

“Good boy.”

Selfish Shellfish AU - Masterpost

[shalomniscient]

“dearest, you really should be sleeping.”

arlecchino murmurs, fingers idly stroking down your side. her eyes are half-shut, face illuminated by the pale glow of your phone screen as you scroll away. her nose is half buried in your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. your legs are tangled together beneath the sheets, and she’s so very close to dozing off.

you make a small noise of protest at her words. “just a minute…”

“you’re worse than the actual teenagers in our house,” she adds dryly, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “pray tell, what is it that has captured your attention so?”

“just this thing i saw on twitter,” you reply, distracted. “it says that the first animal that comes up when you search ‘animal’ is what your partner sees you as.”

arlecchino arches a brow at that. she’s not one to indulge in these online trends—she’s often simply far too busy. she knows they exist in a peripheral sort of way; the kids, especially the twins and somewhat surprisngly, noe, follow them with an unexpected faith. she doesn’t really understand the appeal, in truth, but she lets them do as they please, so long as it isn’t of any concern to their safety.

“oh? and what did your search yield, hm?”

you crane your head to look at her, nose wrinkled in slight distaste. “a bat.”

you show her a picture, and she snorts. it’s not a… terrible picture, but it certainly isn’t the most, well. flattering, in a sense. the unamused look on your face deepens, morphing into almost a pout.

“don’t laugh,” you say petulantly, lightly smacking her arm. she chuckles, a low rumble in her throat.

“it is quite amusing, you must admit,” she replies, drawing circles on the skin of your stomach, slipping beneath the oversized t-shirt—her t-shirt—that you’ve chosen to wear to bed. she pauses briefly, then adds, “and fitting, too, if you ask me.”

“fitting?” you ask incredulously, and she nods, a lazy smirk tugging on her lips. there’s an almost offended look on your face, and it makes her want to kiss you a little. well, a lot, really, but that would lead to other things and she really is too tired after a long shift on her feet at the wards to put you through the mattress tonight.

(next time for sure, though.)

“mm, fitting. you sleep at such atrocious hours, my dear, you may well be nocturnal,” she drawls, and you huff, bunching your shoulders stubbornly. “tell me, what time is it?”

“…almost one in the morning.”

she smiles. “my point exactly.”

“yeah, well,” you huff again, the slightest bit flustered. “it’s not like i stay up of my own volition every night. sometimes you’re the one keeping me up.”

she snorts at that, shifting lower to nose at the nape of your neck, warm breath spilling over your sensitive skin. “you’ve never complained before.”

“you—“ you stammer, flustered, then groan, dropping your phone on the bed. you don’t refute her though, and her smile broadens against your skin. “ugh, anyway— still, a bat is… i don’t know, weird? i guess? i was expecting something cuter.”

arlecchino hums for a moment, savoring the warmth of your body. she kisses the smooth skin there, over one of the many moles adorning your back like little constellations.

“perhaps they are not cute,” she agrees, “but i quite like them.”

you pause, turning your head to look over your shoulder at her curiously. “really?”

“they serve a vital role in their ecosystem,” she points out, eyes tracing the arch of your cheekbones, the slope of your lips. in the dark, she’s not really sure how much of you she actually sees and how much she simply knows to be there from years of drinking in the same sight of you. “insect control and the like. we would be worse off without them, no?”

“well, yeah,” you admit, lips curling upward. you’re so easy to convince sometimes—it’s terribly cute. “when did you learn so much about bats anyway?”

“you talk about them,” she answers simply, and you go still for a beat. she notes the way your breath catches ever so slightly before you let out a small, almost bashful sounding laugh.

“you remember?”

she almost rolls her eyes. what a silly question.

“it’s you. of course i do.”

something flashes in your expression, and then you’re turning in her arms to snuggle up against her, chest to chest. she lets you into the gentle castle of her arms with familiar ease, tucking your head beneath her chin as she runs her hand up and down your spine.

“smooth talker,” you say, voice muffled against her collarbone. she only hums in response, finally letting her eyes drift shut. she could stay like this forever.

“only for you, my dear.”

[smllbunny]

Read this if you're struggling to commit.

It's easier to say, "I'll do it tomorrow" or "When I reach a certain point in life where I'm out of options, I'll start then." And then you hate yourself even more bc you're not following through with your so-called life-changing plan.

Do you know why we keep repeating these empty promises ? Bc our words lose meaning when we never follow through. We see ourselves as clowns, trying to make sense of our pathetic lives. A laughingstock in our own eyes. We never take ourselves seriously.

The truth is that most of us are afraid of change. It’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable, and it takes a lot of time and energy to make it stick. Most of us are either too lazy to commit or we start and never finish bc t’s too hard.

Well, guess what? You have every right to drop everything and walk away rn. No one gives a Fck about how you live your life or what you want to do. That’s the easy way out, so take it. Take it.

But if you do, don’t tell me I didn’t warn u about the relapse. Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you about slipping back into your sluggish behavior. Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you when you find yourself crawling back to your ugly habits. This is ur doing.

You’re choosing this lifestyle: your choices, your patterns. No one is forcing you to be this way. This is all on you, honey. So go ahead and applaud yourself for continuing to treat yourself like sh!t over and over again.

It doesn’t feel nice, does it ?

So take yourself more seriously. Show up for yourself on the days you wouldn’t normally. On the days you’re barely managing to climb over the hurdle, but you’re still pushing. Stop treating yourself like crap and start treating yourself like royalty. You’ll start to notice a difference in your attitude, behavior, and mood. Change won’t happen overnight, but it will come gradually. It just takes time.

It’s easier to walk away from it all, but ask yourself, how many more days must you endure the suffering you’re causing yourself ? Is 'rɔtting in your own filth' really worth it ? Do you genuinely enjoy watching yourself slowly become the worst version of yourself ?

If the answer is no, the least you can do is try. It’s not going to k1ll you to dip your feet into the deep water.

You’ll survive, babes. I promise you, you’ll be fine.

[revelboo]

Can we please have an update on Drift's story? We're literally dying as we wait for an update! You're killing us Revel!

but like only if you want to no pressure I love how you already put out so much for us to read like I'm so excited when I see updates even if it's someone I knew nothing about before or had no interest in then I'm suddenly a fan i just love your writing oh wise giver of fanfiction please don't burn yourself out and feel pressured even though I'm sending an ask just ignore it if you need i understand completely

Sure! 🤣

The Samurai Code Pt 7

Drift x Reader

• No? Staring down at you as you frown up at him, his spark aches. You must not have heard him right. Or, whispers that cynical voice in the back of his processor, you can sense that darkness in him, how no matter how clean his hands are, they’re stained with spilled energon. “This could fix everything,” he says, voice dipping coaxingly. Bonding you will save your life. At the cost of you never trusting him again once you know the things he’s done. Can feel Ratchet staring at him, hear the medic’s annoyed rumble.

• He’s so sweet, your heart aches as you stare up at those optics. Seeing the desperation in them, that he wants to fight for you. That he is fighting. Trying so hard to take care of you even though he doesn’t even know you, even though you’re nothing more than a burden to him. And you love him so much for that. It’s tempting to take what he’s offering, to let him save you, heal you, because you don’t want to die out here so far from home. Want to survive to go back home one day, see your family and friends. “Why do you want to save me so bad?” You want to live.

• Because it’s a chance at redemption. A willing sacrifice of himself to save another. And it might be enough to finally kill that voice whispering in the back of his processor. Might finally be enough to make amends for everything he’d done as Deadlock. Aware of Ratchet also listening, he’s not sure how to explain that to either of you. He’s not proud of what he’s done. The choices he’d made. Not sure that he can ever truly make amends or be forgiven, but needs to try for everyone who tried for him. Who saw how awful, how broken he was and still reached out. For Wing. “I need to.”

• Because he feels obligated, like you’re his responsibility. Really, you’re strangers for the most part. “Need to,” you repeat, eyes drifting almost closed as exhaustion weighs you down. “I won’t be your burden.” See his jaw working as something that might be surprise flicks across Ratchet’s face. There and gone before you can be sure and his optics meet your eyes. What is that expression on the medic’s face? Looks like gratitude and guilt?

• “You’re not a burden.” But you’re not listening, head lowering to rest on his servos, eyes closing as you shudder and curl your legs up against yourself. He’s not explaining it right, but he has the sense that you’d still deny him regardless. Even if he opened up to you and Ratchet. Admitted to his past. To who he was. Optics shuttering, he can feel the warmth of you in his hand, so insubstantial. He’s been living up to his name for so long, drifting the fringes of the universe with no real home to call his own, waiting for a purpose. Crossing paths with Rodimus had been purely accidental, but hearing the younger mech’s excitement, his easy trust and smiles, he’d gotten pulled along in his gravity. Found a new home. A purpose. And now you, placed into his hands by the universe. By Primus. It can’t have been just to watch you die and do nothing.

Previous

[idontevenlikedragonage]

Let’s talk a bit about the Solas-Rook Fade conversations! I feel like those are some of the most consistently written parts of the game, and they’re also the most video game-like in the best possible way.

First off, we have this cool setup where we, as players, know Solas as a character, but Rook doesn’t. Rook only has Varric’s account to go on, which is already colored by his personal biases and limited knowledge. This creates an interesting dynamic where the player’s prior experience with Solas in Inquisition inevitably shapes how they interpret these interactions. If you saw Solas as a tragic figure before, you might be more willing to trust him; if you already viewed him as manipulative, you’re likely to be more wary. But the real trick here is that the game expects you to play along with Rook’s ignorance. If you fight against the setup too much—if you refuse to engage with Solas at all—the conversations can lose some of their impact.

What’s really clever is how the game re-establishes a rapport with Solas in a way that wasn’t fully possible in Inquisition. He’s still the same character, but this time, the player has more freedom to push back, joke with him, or question his motives. Despite that, Rook remains dependent on him, at least in terms of information. And it doesn’t stop at just knowledge—Solas offers what seems like genuine help and support, further complicating the dynamic. The game makes sure that every interaction feels like a choice, like we’re shaping the relationship ourselves.

The Regrets of the Dread Wolf quest is a great example of this. It gives us more insight into Solas and his regrets, but it also reinforces the sense that Rook and Solas are being paralleled in some way. The game constantly blurs the line between manipulation and mutual understanding, making it difficult to tell whether Rook is being granted true agency or just being guided down a predetermined path.

On my first playthrough, I felt completely in control of my relationship with Solas. It felt like Rook was an equal partner in these exchanges, someone who could hold their own against him. But on a second playthrough, I started noticing the ways in which Solas manipulates Rook—just as the game itself manipulates the player. The Fade sequences are especially effective at creating this illusion of control, only for the game to pull the rug out from under you.

And no matter what you do, no matter how combative or trusting you are, the “Earned the respect of the Dread Wolf” message still pops up. A message not aimed at Rook, but at the player. It’s a brilliant, a meta-level trick, reinforcing that even when you think you’ve outmaneuvered Solas, you’re still playing right into his hands.

[messrs-padf00t]

I feel like school and a lot of the students - maybe the ones who are more aware of regulus and James’ personalities or are in the same year as either of them - question how James got regulus to fall in love with him. To them the pairing doesn’t make sense.

The Gryffindors are worried that regulus has lured James into a trap and that he’s being meanly seduced Becuase Regulus to the other students is disconnected and sarcastic to no end and is often very insulting, all of them has witnessed him Potter himself on multiple occasions so they wonder how Regulus has attracted someone like James Becuase they don’t believe that he’s capable of being romantic.

The Slytherins share disbelieving looks and questioning glances Becuase all of them have born witness to some of the chaotic, ridiculous and often times bizarre things that James does on a daily basis and they question why someone will willingly attempt to keep up with the whirlwind that is James Potter.

Remus Lupin and Pandora Rosier just roll their eyes whenever the topic comes up Becuase they know the whole school hasn’t had to put up with the obscene amount of pining and admiration that goes on between the couple and are just relieved that they finally bucked up the courage to actually go out with each other Becuase James and Regulus are obsessed with each other.

Seeing Regulus Black, a proud Slytherin, wearing James Potters quidditch jersey at a match against Ravenclaw causes the majority of the school to stop and stare because how did the heir of the house of black manage to get the golden boy to fall for him

It’s as scandalous as a woman showing her ankles in the 1800s

[moghedien]

I think one of best underrated parts of milf Moghedien was that protagonists and Aes Sedai checked in repeatedly and were forced to admit that 1) Moghedien was telling truth, she didn't like steal kids from families or kill their caretakers, they really were just random homeless orphans she took in 2) kids were traumatized, but it was ''ordinary'' trauma of, again, being homeless orphans, nothing to do with Darkfriend business or Compulsion 3) kids actually liked Moghedien and kept asking after her

Ok I don’t remember #3 being the case. Maybe it is but I don’t remember that I’ll have to reread the entire series to find out I guess no choice

But also another overlooked funny detail is that the kids started getting better after Birgitte started help taking care of them and Birgitte and “Marigan” were also sharing a bed in Salidar, so to everyone who doesn’t know what’s going on, it straight up looks like Elayne’s weird fruity ass Warder got with Nynaeve’s widowed maid and adopted her two kids

I cannot stress enough how all of Salidar must have looked at the Elayne/Nynaeve/Birgitte/Marigan situation in Salidar like that was all some gay ass kinky polycule because that actually makes the more sense than what was actually happening

[spearsillustration]

Younger Cecil Stedman X Secret Wife/Hero Reader

Summary - This takes place immediately after Cecil gets hurt, following all the intense surgery and necessary medical procedures to patch him up. The wounds are still fresh, and the lingering ache from the ordeal is a constant reminder of how close things came to going horribly wrong.

------

Notes - Oay since this is my first time writing for him it might be ooc, but I’m trying my best. Though after reading all the other fanfics about him (which isn’t enough) I think I did enough research. Plus rewating every scene he’s in I think I’m ready. Alright, enough ranting I hope you enjoy. 

P.S. I rushed to finish this after work so there might be some small mistakes here and there. I'll edit it in due time.

Word count: 2,510

Page number: 7

It had been two weeks since I’d heard anything from Cecil. I called and texted him till my fingers went numb. We might go weeks without seeing each other due to work but he’d always try to call or message me so we knew the other was alright. Last I knew he went on a solo mission when they got a tip, but I was sure he would be fine. If it was something life-threatening they would have sent me in to assist as his partner. 

After I hadn’t heard back from him I knew something was wrong. I had to keep our marriage a secret for both our safety, but It was hard to keep a level head not knowing if my husband was okay. I made calls asking about his whereabouts in a way that didn’t scream desperately worried. 

It was another week before I got any information and…It wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I was told the entire mission was confidential information. But was told that Celil got hurt pretty badly.  They reassured me of his excellent care, and their voices receded to a faint hum in the back of my mind, the shock numbing my senses. He had been in the medical facility for the past two weeks and I hadn’t been told a single thing. I had to control myself as my blood felt like it was boiling. But the anger quickly passed and despair followed. I thanked them for finally getting back with me.

I asked if I could see him. I joked that I needed to make sure my favorite partner wasn’t dead yet. I worked with most of the higher ranked agents but I worked with him the most. Noone needed to know the real reason, to any if them we just worked well together. It was hard to put on the fake smile and laughter that followed. 

They weren't sure if he was ready for visitors. I have to ask someone higher up to get anything done around here. I rubbed my temple in frustration and with a deep sigh thanked them before hanging up the phone. 

I had to make an appointment with the medical facility desk the following day and fill out paperwork explaining why I was visiting and so forth. The process was excruciating as it was time-consuming. Guess being a hero who works for the GDA doesn’t get you ahead of anyone else around here. I rushed through everything making my handwriting sloppy as all hell but I got it finished and quickly gave it back so I could see him as soon as possible. 

“In a hurry (Y/N).” The person working at the desk joked with a smile. 

“Y-Yeah plenty of work to get done, people to save all that,” I responded as normal as possible. 

“I understand that. I’ll get these sorted out as quickly as I can for you. But for now, I’ll need you to wait over there for me.” She said gesturing to the seats where I just was.

I held back an annoyed sigh as I thanked her. I returned to my seat in the corner. Every minute dragged on making me worry even more. After a while, I pulled out my phone looking for a distraction so my mind didn’t wander too much. But that made it worse when I ended up opening my gallery and looking at the few pictures I had of Cecil and me. I had some cute selfies of us together, a picture I took when he fell asleep at his desk that he thinks I deleted, date photos, and things he sent me from work. 

“(Y/N),” She called from the desk. 

My head quickly shot up as I heard my name.  

“You can see him now. The doctor says he’s well enough for visitors”

“Thank you,” I quickly responded and I calmly walked to his room, well until I was out of sight then I practically ran. 

Once I got to his room I froze unable to move for a moment. It took me a good minute before I brought my hand up to knock on the door. I heard a strained voice.

“Come in,” Cecil said voice sounding deeper than the last time I heard him. 

I slowly opened the door expecting the worst. 

When I opened his door his face was inflamed and raw from previous reconstructive surgery, marred by a prominent scar that ran across half of his face. Despite the shock and pain, a surge of relief washed over me—Cecil was alive, albeit heavily sedated. 

"Cecil..." I mumbled as my eyes watered in relief. 

A hoarse, gravelly whisper escaped his lips, his voice cracked and rough. "(Y/N)...?"

I slowly walked over the the hospital bed he was lying in and sat down on the chain that was beside his bed. I gripped his hand with both of mine lovingly as if I was gonna lose him now. 

“Yes, I'm here,” I said with a smile as tears fell down my face.

His fingers trembled ever so slightly, but he managed to squeeze my hand. "Don't...cry." he rasped, his expression tightening with effort. "Look...at me."

I looked into his eyes weakly unable to stop the tears from streaming down my face.

His gaze softened as he noticed my tears, a pang of anguish flashed across his eyes. He slowly raised his hand, movement restricted by lingering pain. He gently swiped his thumb against my cheek, attempting to comfort me.

"I'm okay," he whispered, his voice hoarse and laced with weakness. "I'm... here, (Y/N)."

I leaned into his touch and caressed his hand. “I-I could have lost you. I don’t even know what happened to you for two weeks I’ve been driving myself insane not even knowing if you were alive.” I said between weak whimpers almost unable to stop myself from sobbing.

The sound of my voice, trembling and filled with sobs, pierced him deeply. He squeezed my hand again, a silent act of reassurance. Even in his pain-muddled state, he loathed seeing me this distraught.

His gaze bore into me, unflinching and intense. "You...didn't lose me." His voice, though rough, held a steely resolve. "I'm here...I'm not going anywhere."

“I should have been there. You might not be stuck in this damn hospital bed if I went with you.” I said sorrowfully, deeply regretting my absence. “It's never safe to go on missions alone, why were you alone?” I wined out painfully.

His grip tightened on my hand, a mix of annoyance and concern crossing his expression. "Stop." His voice held a touch of firmness. "Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault."

He sighed, looking away momentarily, his gaze fixated on the sterile, blank hospital wall.  "I...went...alone because...it was supposed to be...low risk. The intelligence was wrong."

I looked away in shame. “I still wish I was there for you.”

"Stop," he repeated, his voice stern but not without a note of vulnerability. "You...can't always be there."

He shifted his gaze back to me. "I don't want you...risking your life...just for me. I need you...safe."

“I know, but I was so scared. They didn’t even tell me you were hurt till the other day. I was worried to death.”

He winced at my words, his expression etched with pain both physical and emotional. The intensity in his eyes softened as he realized the depth of my concern.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I...didn't consider...how scared you would be...waiting for me."

“Of course, I was worried. I’m not just your partner Cecil, I'm your wife. It's my job to worry about you. On and off work.” 

The corner of his lip lifted in a small, tired smirk.

"Worrying isn’t on the list of your marital duties," he retorted weakly, trying to infuse a hint of humor into the situation.

“Well with you it's at the top of the list.”

His smirk broadened ever so slightly, his eyes softening with affection.

"You're hardly the stereotypical doting housewife," he pointed out.

“Well, a stereotypical wife couldn't handle you.”

A chuckle, low and rumbling, escaped him, though it was followed by a wince of pain. "Ain't that...the truth," he agreed, his eyes gleaming with affection.

Seeing him wince in pain made my smile fall. “How are you feeling... really?”

His expression sobered, the amusement in his eyes fading as he sighed heavily. "Like... I got hit by a goddamn truck," he admitted. "Whole body feels like it's on fire. And my head hurts like a sonofabitch."

“Even with all the painkillers they most likely got you on?”

He nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Painkillers...take the edge off," he muttered, his gaze distant. "But they don't...fix everything." He shifted uncomfortably, wincing again as the movement aggravated his already sore body.

I scooted the chair I was sitting in even closer to his bed. I’d be in the hospital bed with him if I didn’t have any self-control. 

“Are you gonna tell me what happened or is it to confidential?” I asked turning to look him in the eyes. 

“Look you know I can’t tell you, and…you don’t want to know.” He answered the way I expected him too.

“Then it’s probably for the best then,” I responded meekly but pushed past that feeling. “How much longer till you can leave the medical facility and I can get you some real food?” 

“Probably another week before they finally let me go.” He sighed in annoyance. 

“Well guess I’ll have to come visit you every day till they finally release you.” I teased knowing he hated sitting around doing nothing in a bed all day. 

His gaze fixed on me, and a soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I know you will," he murmured, his voice gruff but lacking any hint of annoyance. "Can't get rid of... you that easy."

“Oh, so you thought getting hurt and almost dying would get rid of me. That some facial scar would bother me. Hell, you married me, and it's gonna take far more than that to run me off. Till death do us part is literal with me sweetheart.”

He rolled his eyes with a smile as I continued. “You’re too stubborn.”

“Well, I have to be when It comes to you or you’d never listen,” I said with a smile before gently kissing the new scar on his face.

He flinched at the touch of my lips against his sensitive scar, though his expression softened as he felt the love in that tender gesture making his cheeks turn a light shade of pink that was almost too light to notice. 

"Careful," he murmured gently "It's still a bit tender."

I bit my lip playfully with a wink, “It's kind of attractive.” 

He let out a huff of amusement, his smirk returning. "You always did...have peculiar tastes," he said, a slight edge of teasing in his voice.

“Well, I married you if that tells you anything.”

"You must've...lost your damn mind,"

“Maybe a little,” I responded before hearing a knock at the door. I quickly shot up and made myself presentable since our marriage was a secret to almost everyone else.

His attention shifted to the knock on the door, his expression slightly alarmed. Despite his injured state, there was a guarded wariness in his gaze. He discreetly gestured for me to step back, not wanting outsiders to witness the intimacy of your relationship.

 I moved the chair back and stood up to answer the door. A GDA nurse entered, her expression professional and her voice courteous.

"Good evening, ma'am. I just need to check on Mr. Stedman's vitals." She briskly moved to the side of his bed, affixing the blood pressure cuff to his arm without sparing either of us a second glance.

"Of course." I stepped back so I wasn't in her way and continued speaking to Cecil but only about the stuff he missed at work while he was gone so we wouldn't give away our relationship.

He nodded, shifting slightly to allow the nurse access to his arm. As the nurse proceeded to take his vitals, he engaged in the conversation with you, keeping up the pretense of a casual work update. His gaze flickered between you and the nurse, aware of the need to maintain discretion.

Once the nurse was finished and left us alone I let out a sigh. As the nurse departed, closing the door behind her, the room fell silent once again. He relaxed slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing now that she was gone.

"Close call," he murmured, his gaze flickering from the door to me. 

"It not like we were making passionate love to each other." I teased.

"That's not the point," he retorted gruffly, trying to maintain a stern demeanor. "We're trying to keep things... under wraps."

"Trust me I know more than anyone," I responded before my watch started beeping alerting me of trouble. I sighed in annoyance and looked up at Cecil painfully.

He noticed the beeping of your watch and the expression of annoyance on your face. A frown creased his brow as he recognized the sound.

"Duty calls?" he murmured, his voice tinged with resignation.

"At the worst times, as usual, People always need saving at the most inconvenient times I swear," I mumbled. "But I'll be back as soon as I can. And don't almost die on me again while I'm gone please."

His expression softened, his gaze fixed on you intently. "No promises," he said with a hint of a smirk, though his words held a note of sincere concern. "Be careful out there."

“Always am. But let's not forget something.” I quickly remarked before walking back over and leaning in for a loving goodbye kiss.

He leaned into the kiss, his hand gently cupping my chin. When I pulled back, a ghost of a smile played on his lips.

"Don't do anything reckless," he murmured, his gaze locking with mine.

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet + ch 48

a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... all chapters

WARNINGS FOR THIS FIC: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, VIOLENCE, YANDERE SH!T. Minors DNI. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘 (Thank you Scarlett for uploading the beautiful don John gifs, you're so amazing!! ❤❤❤)

48.  hostile takeover

You find yourself stuck in the middle of a fuck ton of drawn weapons, both crime syndicates distrustful of the other. The paranoia of the group is surely only made worse by the party tray that made its way around the circle, and you sense the room is one wrong twitch away from erupting. 

“What the fuck was that?” demands don Juan, clearly expecting a double cross. The drug kingpin has his arm around your neck, using you as a human shield with a gold plated gun gripped in his other hand. 

“I could ask you the same question?” demands Dante, clearly shaken by the explosion, his eyes saucer-wide. 

“You think I blew up my own boat? When were you going to tell me you pulled the tail of the fucking Baba Yaga?” snarls Juan beside you, fierce as a cornered jaguar. “You took his woman? Are you loco?”

“It wasn't your business,” Dante insists, and the lie so infuriates Juan that he squeezes you in his strong hand, hard enough to bruise. 

“Ow, hey, watch it motherfucker,” you protest through gritted teeth. 

“Shut up, puta,” snaps the jefe. “Or I'll do worse.”

That's when Juan’s head explodes beside you, and the room erupts into chaos, broken glass showering all around.

Everyone's first instinct is to dive for cover. Splashed in blood and you fear, bits of Juan’s brain matter, you snatch up the golden gun and do the same. Unclear on what is transpiring, the two organizations start shooting at each other. Under a hail of bullets, you keep your head down, and fire at anyone who presents you with a target. 

John’s here. 

You believe it to the marrow of your bones. He's out there somewhere in the darkness, maybe even on the boat. If you could just get outside…

Can you make a run for it? Ironically, you think that maybe this was the best fucking timing to try a lil’ Columbian bam bam–if your heart doesn’t explode first. You have plenty of energy, so much that it's hard to sit still and wait, even if deep down you know your survival depends on perfect timing.

Somehow, you have to make it all the way across the lounge, past several heavily armed trigger-happy people, to the door outside–or the broken window–or the staircase that will take you down a level. 

The good thing is: you feel invincible. 

The bad thing is: you feel invincible. 

Fuck.

One of Dante’s thugs sticks out his head and you fire off a round, only clipping him, your aim fucked by shaking hands. He retreats with a string of curses and a trail of blood. Someone tries firing over the couches at you, and it’s your turn to use every blistering bad word you’ve ever known, plastering yourself to the floor, trying to make yourself as small a target as possible. You hear it when their gun clicks empty, and you hope it's your chance. You slip off your ridiculous shoes so you can run, and you make to scramble past. 

Someone tackles you to the floor, knocking your gun from your hand. Your training with Mariko finally kicks in, and you fight to hurt, throwing your head back in a vicious headbutt as hard as you can. You feel his nose crunch against the back of your head. “You little bitch!” 

You realize it's Luca again, and you fight twice as hard, biting his arm that he tries to get around your throat. You grapple on the floor, and a wildness rises in you like nothing you’ve ever known, fueled by drugs and all your pent up rage. Not even when Dante’s commandos raided John’s cabin, did you feel this feral determination to survive at any cost. 

All you can think is that John is out there, and you want to see him again.    

You manage to get on Luca’s back like a spider-monkey, your arm latched around his throat and your legs locked around his middle, squeezing as hard as you can. He’s bigger than you, so much stronger, and in a ditch attempt to dislodge you he stands up. 

One of the cartel soldiers sees a target, and puts three bullets in his torso. Somehow the bullets miss you–at least you think they do–and Luca collapses back to the ground. Your gun is in reach, and you grasp for it. When he tries to prevent you with a hand on your ankle you twist to put a bullet in his head. 

As horrified as you are relieved, you hunker down to catch your breath, your heart racing.

That's when you see him. 

Through the bank of floor to ceiling windows, you watch the man you love mow through mafiosi like blades of grass on the outer deck. He is savage poetry in motion, shooting, kicking, striking–he blocks a punch, uses the momentum to turn to get off a shot, uses the first attacker as a human shield, before moving on to the next. One by one, they all fall down. 

Mesmerized, you watch, unable to look away from the carnage. You witness him commit murder, again and again, and your heart is filled with nothing but unadulterated love for that man. He is your monster, and now these fuckers get to feel his wrath. 

Unfortunately, you’re not the only one watching him through the windows. Someone opens fire with some kind of submachine gun, and John throws himself over the side in a quick bid for cover. 

“John!” 

He doesn’t climb back up, and all you can think is the worst. Was he hit? Did he fall to the deck below? Or even into the ocean? You have to get to the lower deck, and without any more thinking you run for the aft staircase, laying down cover fire as you go. Bullets rain all around, but somehow none find you. 

A cartel man is just making his way up the stairs, and you launch yourself with two feet forward and a battle cry, knocking him down and landing on his ribs with all your weight. You’re both stunned upon landing, but you get your wits first, and you empty the rest of your clip into him. 

You take his gun before running to your next point of cover. 

In your manic state you almost feel like you are stuck in a video game, as you duck around corners and shoot at Dante’s men, hyper-focused on your task. How many fucking bodyguards did he bring on this yacht? 

He definitely broke the twelve passenger rule. 

Pinned down behind a bar, you trade fire with someone ahead. You’ve lost count of how many bullets they fired. Your mind feels like a tilt-a-whirl, hopped up on cocaine and adrenaline. They let off another salvo of shots, and you scream as loud as you can, going very still in hope of baiting them into leaving their cover. You wait…and you wait, your heartbeat like a snare drumroll in your ears.  

Finally, you hear footsteps crunching broken glass, and you prepare to fight again. 

You hear a squelching sound, and the thump of a body hitting the ground. 

Confused, you watch the puddle of blood seep across the floor, fixated on the spreading pool of crimson. Then, you see a foot cased in shining black patent leather. Your gaze travels up a long suit-clad leg, and by the time your eyes reach his face they are filled with tears. 

“John!” 

He seizes you, dragging you into his lap behind the cover of the bar, his arms like bands of steel around you and his ravenous mouth on yours. He kisses you like you are the oxygen he needs to live, licking into your mouth, eating you, consuming you. Gladly you take the fury of his passion, even as your lips become sore and your teeth clash and he grips you so hard it hurts. 

This is the truth of your love with John Wick. It is pain, and pleasure, not always in equal parts, but you know more than ever that you would pay any price to have him, and maybe you wouldn’t even change a thing. 

Every fire you have walked through to get to this moment has tempered your love into something hard, sharp, and unbreakable. This man is your alpha and your omega. 

He is the reason you breathe.  

“Are you alright? I saw that fucker hit you,” he demands when at last he surfaces for air, holding your face in his blood-stained hands. His thumb traces the spatter on your cheek, all that’s left of don Juan’s head. 

Crying and laughing, you nod rapidly, your words spouting like automatic fire. “I’m fine. Everything is fine now. I knew you’d find me. Jesus Christ I missed you!” 

Through the shadow of his chagrin he seems amused by the delivery of this tirade. “Not as much as I missed you.” Then his eyes narrow, looking at you in a way that has never failed to make your tummy flutter. “Young lady, you are in so much trouble.” 

Once, this might have scared the piss out of you. 

Now? You’re not sure if it’s the drugs or the pure elation of being reunited with him, but all you can do is laugh. “Am I?” 

“Yes. I should bend you over my knee right here.” His big hand caresses your bare thigh, up to trace the high high hemline of your sparkly blood-spattered dress. He glares down at it with a fixation that could start a wildfire. “What the hell are you wearing?” 

“I think it’s a bedazzled napkin.” 

“Hmm,” he growls, unable to stop himself from groping your ass under the dress. “Somehow I hate it and like it too much.” 

You whine, clutching his lapels desperately as the tips of his fingers drift towards your center, his lips on your neck. On a scale from one to ten, how bad an idea would it be to fuck during a firefight? You’re having a hard time talking yourself out of it as his middle finger tests your aching hole, finding you wet and wanting. 

“Fuck, baby.” He forces himself to draw back to look at you, his eyes blown midnight dark with desire. From this close he studies you again, sweeping over your features, your eyes, to your mouth, to your eyes again. You're not the only one having trouble remembering where you are. “Your pupils are huge. What are you on?” 

“They made me do a line of cocaine to test the product and I’ve never tried it before,” you say quickly, unable to stop yourself. Your heart is a neutron star, spinning, spinning, burning bright. Now that John’s here, you’re not half as scared as you should be. 

John lifts his eyebrows, smiling wryly at you, the source of your high-energy revealed. 

“It probably won’t last much longer. You’re going to be fine, honey. Where’s your necklace?”

“They took it. But I swallowed the tracker. How long has it been? I’ve barely eaten anything in days, I was afraid to.” 

“My clever girl. It’s been over a week.” He continues to inspect you as you talk. When his search reaches your hand he frowns, regarding the damage with an excruciating regret shining in his dark eyes. “Kitten, I am so sorry.” 

However, you just shrug tearfully, buzzing inside like a happy hive of bees. You didn’t know it was possible to feel so happy, as you do reunited with John. You don’t think it’s just the cocaine that’s making you feel like you’re made of pure dopamine.

 “I’m ok. I’ve got nine more.” This wins you a huff of laughter that is a balm for your soul.

“I brought you something.” He reaches into his breast pocket again, producing something small and shining. 

Your ring. 

“Oh John…” More tears spring up in your eyes, clouding your vision as you offer him your right hand, knowing it won't fit any other fingers in your left. He slides it on, and maybe it's silly, but it does feel like a crucial piece of yourself has been restored again. “Thank you.”

Again, he holds your face in his hands. You know you must look like a wild creature, wide-eyed, wind-blown, spattered in the blood of your enemies. And yet he still looks at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. 

“God, I love you.”

You feel like the richest woman in the world. 

“I love you too. Can we go home now?” 

The corner of his mouth pulls in that rueful smile, and he nods. “Yeah.” 

Naturally, that’s when a fresh wave of combatants arrive, someone shooting your way from the corridor whence you came. “Go,” says John, draping you with his kevlar-lined suit jacket, pointing towards the front of the boat. “I’ll be right there. If you see a Chinese man in a suit killing gangsters, don’t shoot him, he’s with me.” 

“What?” 

“Caine. He’s on our side. Go. You’ve done so good, baby. It’s almost over. Go.”  

You don’t really have time to think about what he’s told you. He shoves you in the right direction, and you run, ducking low, trusting John to cover you. When the enemy starts shooting at you he picks them off ruthlessly with deadly precision. You don’t see the aftermath, because you make it down a hallway and then out to the deck again. 

The chaos feels more distant there. You hear people shouting in Spanish and Italian, fighting over the other smaller boats that arrived with Juan’s flotilla. You hope John has his own secreted away somewhere on the dark ocean. You creep along, not really knowing where you should go, waiting for John to catch up to you. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

You hear fighting around the curve of the deck ahead. Gripping your gun, you move forward to get a look, ready at this point to mow down any mobsters or narcos who might get in your way. 

But someone’s beating you to the punch. A Chinese man in a suit, as John so aptly described him, is making mincemeat of five men [attempting] to stand against him. His deadly movements are poetry in motion. He has a gun, but he barely uses it, opting for the lethal grace of a sword cane instead. As you watch him you realize he is pulling this off blind, and your amazement skyrockets. 

You cannot look away from the carnage, and this proves to be a very big mistake for you. 

You feel something hard poke you in the back. “You stupid puttana.” 

You recognize Dante’s voice as one of Caine’s opponents falls at his feet. 

As you try to turn he shoves the barrel of the gun into your ribs again. “Don’t fucking move.”

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all chapters *loco - crazy *puttana - bitch, whore