#I love them so much and they’re clearly in love

[clockwayswrites]

An abundance of birbs part 33

Masterpost Please no editing or concrit, I know I have missing or swapped words, but I am super fuzzy from this headache. It will get a good edit before ao3. <3

“I’m hiding in here from your children,” Danny said as he came into Bruce’s study. He had a tray of tea and snacks in hand, so he must have been sent up by Alfred.

“That’s more than fair, considering,” Bruce said with a little smile.

Danny just sighed as he set the tray down. “You have video, don’t you.”

Bruce nodded. “Jason sent one and Tim the other. They’re very moving.”

“Yes, Jerry’s love for me is eternal, clearly,” Danny drolled.

“If only Jerry’s father would approve of the union,” Bruce said.

Danny gave a little hum as he poured the tea. “Alas, Damian does seem very resistant to the idea, if the lecture he gave Jerry is any indication. Cream, sugar?”

“A little cream, thank you,” Bruce said and got up from his desk. “And Jerry was being very forward so the lecture may be a little deserved, but who can blame him with those wings.”

“Mister Wayne,” Danny said with an exaggerated gasp, “are you you saying that you’re enamored with my wings?”

Bruce reached out and brushed his fingertips through Danny’s wings. He could play it all off, of course. It could just be part of the rest of their banter. But did he want to? He’s enjoyed having Danny around. The man seemed to just fit with the family. Overall, the children certainly seemed to like him. And, well, Bruce found that he quite liked Danny too. Maybe it was time to take a little risk.

“Yes,” Bruce said. “Though the wings are hardly the only thing about you that I’m enamored with.”

Danny blushed so quickly that Bruce was honestly a little concerned bout Danny’s blood pressure. “I—um, oh?”

“Is it that surprising? You’re kind, intelligent, considerate. You protected my children and even before that were gentle and understanding with them. You have a sense of humor and seem able to handle just about anything,” Bruce said, which was almost an understatement with what Danny has been through lately. “And, more shallowly, you’re very attractive, with or without the wings.”

“That—I—oh come on, you of all people can say someone else is attractive!” Danny sputtered.

“Oh?”

“Have you not looked in a mirror recently? You’re the type of person that ‘devastatingly handsome’ was coined for,” Danny said with a gesture at Bruce. “Which is something that I just said out loud. I don’t suppose you want to fire me so that I can run away to a remote island somewhere?”

Bruce chuckled. “Fortunately, I don’t have that sort of power over your job. All that would fall to Lucius.”

“Fortunately?” Danny repeated.

“Umhum. It means that there’s no company policy we’re breaking if we were to date. And there’s no pressure for you to say yes if you’re opposed to the idea,” Bruce said. He very much wanted to make that clear. “And between the press, my reputation, the large family, and the recent rogue attack I know there are a number of reasons to be opposed to the idea.”

“Bruce,” Danny said before Bruce could continue, “are you trying to talk me into dating you or out of it?”

“I well…” Bruce cleared his throat. “I don’t want to assume anything or imply that I am some sort of catch because I hardly am. I am a stubborn man. I have… a rather deep seated anxiety that verges on paranoia at times. It has and can make me overbearing when I try to protect the people I care about. I come with six children, almost as many pseudo children, and a frankly terrifyingly competent butler who is like a father to me. Every relationship I’m in and not actually in ends up in the paper—”

The spiral of words—of reasons he wasn’t good enough for someone like Danny was cut short as Danny pushed himself up on his tiptoes and across the coffee table to press his lips to Bruce’s. Bruce sighed softly into the kiss as it put sudden stop to the unwanted thoughts. Danny left his hand on Bruce’s cheek as he pulled back a little.

“Too forward?” Danny asked. His words and eyes alike were filled with nerves.

“Not at all,” Bruce said quickly. He followed his words up with a quick kiss as proof. “I am sorry about rambling like that. As I said, deeply anxious.”

“Anxious is okay. You’re aware of it. I’m not exactly a paragon of mental health either. I’ve been going to therapy since I was eighteen,” Danny said. His thumb gently stroked Bruce’s cheek. “First off, fuck the press. I can deal with it. Second off, your family is huge and wonderful and not at all something that would stop me, not unless they hated me.”

“They certainly do not hate you,” Bruce assured him.

“Third off,” Danny continued with a little smile, “I guess the anxiety, which we’ve covered. And fourth off, I am also very stubborn and have no problem telling someone to budge off if they’re being too much. So, yeah, we might have lines to find out and some of those we’d find out be crossing them and fucking up, but that’s just part of dating, isn’t it? If any of them become lines that we can’t deal with, well, we’re old enough that I would hope that we could end things maturely.”

“I have a very good track record of remaining friends with my exes, for better or worse,” Bruce said.

“Better or worse?”

“Harvey Dent, as one example.”

“Ah,” Danny said with a little nod. “I’ve heard that he’s been doing better at least?”

“That or he’s planning something big,” Bruce said with a sigh. “But I even I know I should stop talking about an ex with someone that just kissed me.”

“Generally a good rule,” Danny agreed with a little smile. “Does this mean that we’re going to try dating?”

“If I didn’t talk you out of it,” Bruce joked.

“Like I said, I’m stubborn,” Danny pointed out. “But as much as I adore them, I expect at least one dinner out with no children once my wings are gone.”

“Deal,” Bruce agreed easily and leaned down to give Danny a proper kiss.

---

AN:

I didn't plan for the kiss to happen here, but I'll take it!

[batslime]

I will say the first thing I recognize in this trend is that you can always tell when somebody’s “love” for Miyazaki’s work is surface-level by the way they attempt to imitate his style and EVERYONE is just an average-to-conventionally attractive looking anime character.

Miyazaki has some of the most over the top yet lovingly designed characters to come out of Japan and some of his most famous characters are fat, have very blatant flaws, wrinkles, unique silhouettes etc. Characters Miyazaki gifted big noses and blemishes and double chins and sagging skin and other “uglinesses” that in different movies would mark a comedic relief or stupid or evil or unlikeable side character, but in their world is still intelligent, respected, plot-important, and often antagonistic but develops and becomes a better person, because these things aren’t flaws or failures or ugly, they’re humanities. They’re little things that make people individual and special and even tells their story.

People who engage with this AI only like the visuals of his movies and at that only his more lighthearted films like Spirited Away, Howl’s Moving Castle, Totoro, Kiki’s etc and at that they don’t digest the messages he put so much work into imparting, they just see a pretty picture. They don’t listen to what he’s saying with them and they clearly aren’t familiar with his philosophies or hard work or relationship to art because they would be aware of how insulting this crap is to him.

This may be a strange bridge to make, but when people try to defend themselves against the accusation of cultural appropriation, they’ll often use the excuse that stealing somebody else’s culture is appreciation. I’ve always hated this. If you appreciate something, you don’t feel a need to insert yourself or rip it off. When you really admire something, especially when it comes down to cultural customs and traditions, you enjoy it best and find its beauty in its home, with the people it belongs to. Indian women will always look the most radiant in their saris, adorned with bangles, henna, and bindi. Black hair will always be the most complementary of their intricate and heartfelt styles, telling their stories that span centuries and continents. Native Americans gifted the world with such ingeniously developed textiles and techniques from such wonderfully humble materials and now we get to gaze at incredibly made beading and buckskins, all made from the nature they lived so closely with. These are all examples of small beauties from around the world we have the pleasure of being able to witness, learn about, and empathize with the history and meaning behind them- but we do no honor to them or their people by making cheap knockoffs for the sake of novelty.

Miyazaki is held so highly for his lifelong dedication and even inescapability to his art- his work. He’s known for his long, hard, meticulous, heartfelt work, even just for a few silent seconds of nothingness to reflect as he so famously does in his films. And people spit in his face with this sloppy no-effort mimicry. AI is antithetical to artists like Miyazaki and their craft. He’s voiced his opinion on it in the past and if you’re REALLY familiar with him at all, you’d be aware how much he’d hate this.

:C

I’m so fucking sick of AI

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Yearning

MDNI

Price's love is messy; it comes courting with grave dirt on its shoes.

CW: widow!reader, parent!reader, funerals, graves, hint of obsessive behavior

He watches the mourners file by, squeezing the new widow’s hands with feeling, then moving along, leaving her palms bare, baptized in everyone else’s clammy sweat. A beggar left to fill up on condolences and wrap her children in the warm embrace of near-strangers’ thoughts and prayers. Nothing a young mother can use. Nothing a woman who framed her life around her husband’s career can fall back against.

She needs the world and a table to lay it out on.

No one volunteers. No one steps up. Everyone respects her and her husband’s memory too much to offer the kind of help she and her little girls need.

Price can disrespect her just enough to save her.

Her girls sit in the front row wearing black sundresses – one in polka dots, one with butterflies. Those weren’t bought for funerals. The new widow’s black cotton skirt is a little too casual, at odds with her pressed blouse. They’re unprepared, and he already sees the way the woman is pulling their purse strings tight like she can rub pence together to make a pound. She’s magic, aye, but no alchemist. She’s made life, but she can’t bring back the dead.

When his turn comes, he can’t bring himself to take her hand. With everything in his heart, it would be profane, especially standing beside her husband’s closed coffin.

It had been a bad op. Rotten from the start, and though his taskforce wasn’t involved, grave murmurs of how light the body bags were upon their return echoed across base. He thinks she knows. It’s printed in dark crescents under her eyes, bloodshot despite her best efforts. Most of her makeup is on the balled-up tissue set behind the arrangement of white roses to her right, her efforts to appear collected and strong melted into faint streaks to reveal everything women paint themselves to hide.

She is too real to touch, so he folds his hands behind his back and nods respectfully. “He was a good man. A good soldier.”

Her smile is wan and polite to the point of pain. “Thank you, Captain Price. He always spoke highly of you. I’m sure he’d be glad to have left an impression.”

Nodding, pinching together his own weak smile, he glances at the girls. “How are they holding up?”

“They don’t understand it yet,” she says, taking the opportunity to check on her children around his shoulder. “But they’re upset and hurt. And because they don’t know why it makes it worse.”

He takes a deep breath. “Five-years-old last April, right?”

A little light returns to her flat expression, and he’s glad he asked.

“Yeah.”

They both watch the girls for another minute. They’re surrounded by coloring books, and their respective baby blankets sit to the side, neatly folded and ready for an emergency.

He’s glad he waited for the crowd to thin.

“And you?” He swivels, catching her eyes and angling his head to keep the connection when she reflexively drifts to the side. "Are you holding together?"

"As well as can be expected. I found one of his lost socks in the laundry yesterday and –" She pauses, and it must dawn on her that was a little too honest for polite society, and she backs away from it. “I’m fine, really.”

She’s clearly anything but. Nor should she be.

 Still reluctant to reach out, he sidles a half step closer, ensuring his words are for her alone.

“Just worry about yourself. Take care of your girls. All this, all of them,” he gestures at the wreathes, and the guests, and the stiff funeral director lurking by the door, “they’ll take care of themselves. You don’t owe them anything. Do you understand?”

Her next breath shakes, and he flexes his hands to resist grabbing her, pulling her out of the limelight to a dark corner where she can cry and be a mess without worries or witnesses.

She blinks rapidly, and her hand finds his arm as she smiles through teary eyes.

“You don’t have to worry about us, Captain. Thank you.”

Still prioritizing the performance. Tending to his emotions over her own grief.

It isn’t the time or place, he knows, and he nods again with another flinching smile, stepping back so a new string of mourners can burden her with their razor-wire recollections and hollow words.

He aches to stop and speak to the girls, but they’re safely tucked away in their world of paper and crayons for the moment, and he doesn’t want to disturb them. No extended family babysit while the widow performs her duties, and the twins sit in a bubble of silence and pitying glances. He hopes they’ve had time to cry, that they’ll have space with their mother to figure out what they’ve lost.

Without permission or authority to play another role, Price finds a seat in the back of the hall, eye on the exits, arms folded. This is all he’s allowed for now, so he’ll keep watch until the time comes to speak. It’s his vigil to honor the fallen before he broaches dreams of the future.

-------

There’s no sense in this, not tactically, not practically. His entire plan is to make a selfish mistake. All his training can do is map inevitable risks and try to catch the matches before they strike, before they fall and catch on the dry fuel he’s gathering.

He looks up at the house and imagines it in flames. He’s the torch, standing at the threshold, begging for a soft place to land, even if it puts the whole structure at risk.

A whiskey sounds nice as he festers in his thoughts. But if he can’t do it sober, he shouldn’t be doing it at all. She deserves that much. They deserve that much.

It hasn’t stopped raining since the funeral. The graveside was so foul with mud the twins couldn’t get close enough to throw their flowers into the open pit. The white petals fell short, lying soggy and stained at the edge of the abyss. He’d watched their mother wipe their shoes clean as they sat with their feet dangling out the side of the car. She didn’t bother with her own, just kicking the heels off and slipping behind the wheel in stockinged feet.

She shouldn’t have had to drive herself home from her husband’s funeral. He was sure she cooked dinner when they returned, cleaned up the girls, and found herself too exhausted to mourn or sleep by the time the moon rose.

He waited three nights. He forced himself to, mocking his own rush to step into dead men’s shoes. But he never knew when he’d be called away, and without her anchor, she could be lost to the wind by the time he returned.

The rain drips from his nose and gathers in his eyebrows. His beanie is heavy with it, and as he finally lifts a hand to knock, he realizes just how he’ll enter her home: a fresh mess to clean up.

Too late to think of an umbrella now.

The porch light flicks on. Her shadow moves across the peephole, and he listens with approval as both a deadbolt and security chain clatter free.

The door opens. His breath catches.

She’s in a bathrobe, a thick fluffy thing that looks warm and soft. He can see the seam of a tank top, and her pajamas go all the way to her ankles, but the cozy intimacy is staggering. The kitchen light reflects off the hall mirror, haloing her mussed hair and weary, curious expression.

Beautiful. Effortlessly.

He isn’t here because he deserves her. The reminder barely keeps him from making his excuses and escaping into the night. He’s selfish, and she needs someone willing to selfish for her own sake.

“May I come in?”

“Of course.” She’s looking at the rain soaking his clothes, sizing up the problem she needs to manage.

As he steps through and peels off his soaked hat, she retreats to the guest bath to fetch a towel. He hangs his jacket next to a bomber jacket much too large for the woman of the house, and he unlaces his boots, leaving them beside a fleet of little sneakers and sandals in every color of the rainbow.

“Here you go.”

He accepts the towel, drying his face and neck as she leads him into the kitchen. At least he won’t leave a damp spot on her couch or the living room carpet. She pops on the kettle, and he takes a seat at the kitchen table. A tower of boxes looms in the corner, labeled but empty. A stack of flat containers wait to be assembled beside them.

She catches him looking as she drops tea bags into mugs, and says, “They gave us through the end of the month. It’s hard to pack when it feels like the girls need everything in the house at least once a day, though.”

A hum masks his displeasure. The military’s efficiency is downright criminal at times, especially when there’s an opportunity to trim the budget.

“Know where you’re going?”

“Not yet.”

The tension flows out of him. It disappears down the windows, caught in smeary raindrops that belong outside this little safe haven. He’s making the right decision. He knows it now.

Because he’s managed to wait three nights to approach – lurking at the end of her street, counting the hours like a fairytale creature making a bargain – he manages to wait for the kettle to sing, the water to burble over the tea, and the widow to come to the table with both cuppas in hand.

He accepts his with a smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She isn’t looking at him. She should look comfortable here, at her own table, but she’s diminished, crumbling in, and there’s no confidence left in her slumped posture. Her finger trails the lip of her mug in an infinite circle.

He waits for her to find her courage, and he’s ready when she finally meets his eyes and asks, “Why are you here, Captain Price?”

It’s his turn to adjust his seat, leaning in as they get to the heart of the matter. Hands clasped, resting on the table where she can see them.

He’s waited, and waited, and now –

“Marry me.”

It’s honest and blunt and hopefully romantic in retrospect, but this isn’t the right time for flowers and pretty gifts. Her survival instincts are in control, and he knows he’s the only ship for miles.

“What?” Her eyes flick over his face, bouncing between his eyes, looking for the joke, but it doesn’t come, and waits until the seed roots before explaining.

“I know… a little of your story,” he says, stepping carefully for fear of landmines. He wets his lips, buying a moment between thoughts. “Without a place to return to, life after the military is… challenging for widows. Especially with children.”

Even though they’re asleep upstairs, the twins’ presence lingers. Crumbs that escaped their mother’s eye on the table. A small plastic tiger under the chair to his right. Fingerprints low on the glass door to the back yard.

Their sippy cups sit on the drying rack, and magnetic letter spell their names on the fridge.

Anna and Nora.

He clears his throat, takes a sip of tea.

“I want to marry you,” he confesses. And it is a confession. Good men did not yearn for widows before grass grew on their husbands’ graves. “I don’t expect anything, but you’ll keep military benefits, and you can decide whether or not you want to stay on base.”

“You wouldn’t offer if you didn’t expect anything.”

Her knuckles strain around her mug, and she sits up straight, alert. He doesn’t move. Breathes slowly. Keeps his head and prays he hasn’t fucked everything up in his first few sentences.

“It would be nice,” he murmurs, “to come home to people. I’m deployed more often than not, and that doesn’t leave time to keep a place of my own. If you can keep a room for me – tolerate me when I’m off-duty – that’s all I ask.”

She’s still hesitating, but war widows understand loneliness. They practice long before they bury their partners. And he isn’t lying. He will never ask for more, no matter how much he hopes for it.

He only has to plant the seed tonight. There’s time yet for it to grow. It needs to see sunlight, and she hasn’t seen that since the funeral.

“I don’t know.” There’s a battle in her eyes he has no place in. He doubts she’ll be able to sleep at all. “It’s kind of you to offer, but…”

She trails off, but she doesn’t give him a hard no. It’s time to leave before she battles herself into a corner.

“Think it over. I’m happy to wait. I know this is sudden, but I wanted to ask face-to-face, and there’s no telling when I’ll be called in.”

Moving slowly, he grabs a sheet of construction paper the girls left on the counter and writes his number in army green Crayola.

“If you want to talk more about it, or talk about anything, just let me know.”

He stands and smiles, folding the towel she lent him and setting it by his half-empty mug. “It’s not much of a proposal, but I care about what happens to you and your girls. World isn’t always kind to those it should be, and I’d be honored to help. In any way I can.”

He leaves before he can say anything he’ll regret. In a moment, there’s nothing left of him in her home but the puddle from his boots and a wet streak on the bomber jacket from where it hung shoulder-to-shoulder with the captain’s.

[radlovesfics]

Tbh this is all over the place and took me so long to get out skjfksjfjdk sorry in advance

need poly couple Eve/Mark/Reader so fucking bad I feel like it has so much potential FUCK

So like, maybe you’re childhood best friends with either Mark or Eve going to the same school and everything but to make this more coherent we’ll go with Mark

Growing up as next door neighbors and developing a huge crush on this loser when you’re both in middle school. When you realize what’s happening, you do everything you can to stamp it down and act like nothing changed. Mark is so entirely oblivious it’s genuinely painful!!

this continues for years with no sign from Mark that he reciprocates so you just resign yourself to being the supportive girl best friend who’s there for him no matter what. cheering him on for amber and all!! then you meet Eve!!

You encounter her randomly in school and become fast friends and really close. You don’t know anything about her other identity or powers but it’s not like that gets in the way. You enjoy having a close female friend for once. She’s just so easy to talk to and so helpful and nice and so pretty to look at also she smells so good and you can’t stop staring at her- FUUUUCK. You catch these gay ass thoughts while probs staring at her in class looking stupid and smitten. Id also like to think you don’t talk about Mark with her unless you’re just ranting about him doing stupid shit. You don’t want to fester on Mark not liking you back and you want to force yourself to move on and have fun with your only girl friend. Eve has NO idea you’re in love with him. anyway !!

just like your feelings with Mark, you ignore these too! especially since you’re unaware if she’s even into girls :( you thankfully have a lot of experience in hiding your feelings so Eve is none the wiser. I feel like the only person to know you even have any crushes at all is William, but he’s a ride or die bro he’s got you he ain’t snitching but also he is going to die from how stupid the three of you are

anyway!! back to mark :)

You’re there for him throughout all the good and the bad that keeps happening to him, even when you start to see less and less of him with his newfound responsibilities. Eve is still around but still somewhat barely. That’s when you notice Eve and Mark start interacting in school!! mainly when you’re not around, only because Eve and him are talking about superhero stuff and she hasn’t revealed who she is to you yet. You’re a little put off and hurt by it bc the second you approach the two of them they start acting weird. You do your best to ignore it bc as far as you’re aware, Marks into Amber and it’s not illegal for your two friends to be friends haha this doesn’t bother you at all to be left out nope oh shit they broke up?? Uhhhhh

This doesn’t mean he forgets about you seeing as how you’re the first person he goes to once he starts dating Eve. This is also how you found out about her hero identity bc Mark’s so excited to talk about it. He ofc realizes after he gets done gushing to you about her and freaks out, but you’re just. Staring. Absolutely world rocked rn. Finding out two of your closest friends (that you have a MASSIVE thing for) are together, just about does you in. Mark’s found someone who you know is one of the most beautiful and wonderful women you have ever met. Eve is with the most perfect and sweet handsome guy who you’ve known your entire life and you know for a fact he’s amazing. They have so much in common you will never relate to and clearly understand each other on a level your normal civilian self cant. They’re perfect together, is what logic tells you so how could you NOT be happy for them? It kills you inside but maybe this is what was always meant to happen. You could never stand beside these two in a way that matters.

You start pulling back from interacting with the two of them, just heartbroken and miserable but feeling so selfish for these feelings. You feel like a horrible person and start kinda avoiding the two of them. Helps that they’re already SO busy they don’t notice. You don’t blame them, they’re literally superheroes. Ofc they’re gonna have more important things to deal with right?

Mark and Eve do actually start to notice !! There’s a very big you shaped hole missing and it doesn’t click for them until they see you again but not under the best circumstances.

Idk what exactly but there’s some kinda massive attack that happens and you’re caught in the crossfire. it’s BAD. I’m not sure if maybe they save you during this attack or if they find out what happened later and seeing you so hurt and vulnerable as they stand beside your hospital bed or as you’re being held in their arms after rescuing you, something shifts. They still don’t understand it exactly but they realize you’re their best friend and they haven’t been exactly the best friends back. So obvs they have to fix this

They start to see you more often after this incident and you’re stuck in the mindset that it’s a pity thing. To make sure you’re safe and don’t need saving. Mark and Eve just missed their bestie :( and now they’re being so clingy??? Your heart can’t take it.

I think maybe Eve realizes she feels differently about you first bc she’s more self aware and only brings it up after seeing Mark interact with you. She clearly sees him act the way he has towards her to YOU. Mark is in denial at first but once Eve points it out to him he can’t stop thinking about it. He’s so stupid!!! He’s super apologetic to Eve and like rambling until she shuts him up like “Mark, it’s fine. Honestly feelin’ the same. “ they both have a long and healthy conversation about it !! Final result is wanting to include you in the relationship but they don’t know if you feel the same or even want to be in a poly relationship. so obvs they gotta figure that out !!

Mark and Eve start flirting heavy!! Well. As well as Mark can bc we know that man is awkward asf but it’s so cute and endearing <333 They’re being hella clingy, always wanting to talk to you and hang out. In uniform and out tbh. More free with physical touch, practically hanging off of you at some points. They’re often bringing you little gifts from wherever they’ve just traveled to or taking you on little flights. Mindlessly compliment you, Mark fumbling with his words awkwardly and Eve just being suave as fuck. They are being so blatantly obvious and yet !! You have no idea !!!

You’re actually going insane. You don’t understand why they’re acting the way they are and think they’re either messing with you or just see nothing wrong with what they’re doing. Maybe they know you like them and are just teasing your poor self. It’s hurting you and confusing you bc you’re trying so hard to move on from them but they’re just everywhere all the time !!! You complain to William about it and he tries conveying this shit to Eve and Mark but they’re kinda dumb about you tbh.

One day, you’re hanging out with the two of them and idk the context but Eve hugs you with a kiss on the cheek and Mark swoops in for a group hug, talking about how much he loves “his girls”. They do this so naturally and without hesitation you finally snap and burst into tears, shoving them off of you. You yell at the both of them about how cruel they’re being and to just stop teasing you like this. You’re a mess, telling them off for obvs knowing how much you like them and they’re just making fun of you. You’re sobbing as you tell them it’s so painful to love the two of them when they don’t love you and their friendship with you is making it harder for you to stop. You’re just dumping years of pent up longing on them now. How you’ve felt, how it’s been to be their third wheel or on the sidelines for so long. I love you both so much but every time you touch me like this I die a little inside every time. I’m so happy for you two and your relationship but I can’t do this anymore. “

At the end of your confession, Mark and Eve are like. Bug eyed staring at you bc oh. William might have been right 😔 (never fuckin question William guys cmon)

Their silence and the looks on their faces make you realize what you just did and immediately you panic. You turn to run away bc oh god you fucked up now they know and they hate you and think you’re insane and a weirdo and you’ve ruined your friendship with both of them and-

Your erratic thoughts stop the second you feel a hand on your wrist and suddenly you’re being smothered into Mark’s embrace and Eve’s hand is on your shoulder, both of them staring at you with the most tender and loving expression.

You’re alarmed and want to push them away but Mark’s “Thank god” breathed into your hair as he hugs you close stops you. He ofc takes a step back to face you properly but doesn’t go too far nor does he stop touching you.

Eve is the one to explain how they both feel about you and what made them realize they had both felt this way for a long time, they were just too stupid to realize. They apologize to you, not knowing you had felt that way for so long and wishing they knew sooner. You start crying again as they explain and they think this is you rejecting them, thinking THEYRE the weird ones for both of them liking you and wanting to include you in the relationship.

These fears vanish the second you throw yourself into them, crying and so so happy. Telling them you love them and giggling as they sandwich you in a hug, pressing kisses all over your face and saying the same back.

Your insecurities ofc cause you to step back at times and ask them how could they love you when you’re just…. Regular ole you.

“We love you, because you’re you. “ You’re their best friend, their family, their lover. You’re there for them at the end of a hard grueling day. You’re there when they just want to be the ones taken care of, when they’re stressed or depressed and need something soft and sweet to remind them being a hero isn’t all their lives amount to. You’re their sense of normal and peace. With you, they’re just Mark and Eve and it’s perfect :)

[frownyalfred]

How often do you imagine Bruce actually being able to leave arkham for JL missions/hero stuff, and how often do you think he’s able to actually have. Like. Alone time with Clark in the years they’re properly together. Bc, sure, Clark makes a priority of visiting Bruce as much as he can, but he’s still Clark kent and he’s still superman. He can’t give all his time to arkham and it’s inmates no matter how much he loves Bruce and his scary children.

I think after they’re comfortable with their love for each other and the excitement of it becomes more of a “normal” for them, things might start to get difficult. Because they can’t just- share a bed at night. Clark can’t just call up Bruce and ask to go on some silly date, even if In most other au’s that would be difficult due to their complicated work days. But it’s just something he can’t do. Because Bruce is there and he SHOULD be there and they both know it, but it’s so painful. They both try not to say it, but it’s somehow worse than being long distance because he can go to visit Bruce so much but there will always be this barrier of Bruce being an inmate at arkham.

And thinking about- what about Clark’s off-world missions? Or when horrible events happen that suddenly take up all of the Jl’s and Clark’s time with no warning or chances to prepare beforehand? Because that DOES happen. Bruce could suddenly be without the ability to contact Clark for days or weeks or MONTHS. And sure, Clark can still check on his heart from afar and make sure Bruce is okay, but Bruce can’t do that with Clark. All he can do is hope he gets some news that Clark is okay. That nothing bad has happened to the JL. He just has to sit there and be in arkham and try to pretend nothing bad is happening. And once Clark is back- clearly drained and injured from kryptonite and coming to see Bruce as soon as possible in arkham, all they want to do is curl up together and sleep and talk for DAYS. But they can’t. Even once they’re able to have private meetings, that doesn’t mean they can just lay in a bed together with no consideration for visiting hours. It’s so painful.

I think if anything, that’s what would lead Bruce to breaking out for the first time. Clark being “missing” doing some JL mission, and Bruce is on the edge of losing it because he MISSES Clark and is SCARED for him because he knows what Clark being gone this long means. And it’s a small mention of it in the news when they’re able to watch tv- that superman was injured in some far off country by a villain nobody has ever seen before, and Bruce just can’t do it anymore. He can’t stay in here when he could have left all along and been there to HELP Clark

Bruce breaking out exactly one time during his relationship with Clark (disregarding past break-outs, since he got punished pretty badly for them and can control things from inside Arkham just fine) because Superman was injured and recovering on the Watchtower and he just wanted to curl up around him in the hospital bed and pretend they were a normal couple for ten minutes? I'm frothing at the mouth. Clark sick from Kryptonite thinking he's hallucinating because he can feel Bruce curled up around him, running a hand through his curls. He feels so damn safe and confused he's nearly on the edge of tears. How did Bruce get up onto the Watchtower? It doesn't matter. He was determined to hold Clark, to return that obsession that Clark didn't realize was reciprocal. That's his man, that's his Kal-El, the same way Clark Kent, journalist gets irrationally upset when Bruce gets dragged away into solitary. He's mine.

[fireinmoonshot]

drabble dump 4 | joaquín torres x reader

Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Reader Summary: Two more Joaquín drabbles: your lipstick getting on him when you kiss and falling asleep on the couch together. Warnings: Reader wears lipstick in the first drabble but no pronouns are used. Word Count: 902 A/N: Been a while since I posted a drabble dump and I'm super tired after work so even though I really wanna work more on the jealous Joaquín fic I planned out today, I do not have the energy to write it tonight. Hence, this! Two drastically different drabbles but I love them so much. I hope you all will too! 💗

♡  Your lipstick getting all over him after you kiss. ♡

Joaquin never thinks about the fact that you’re wearing lipstick when he kisses you. It’s the last thing on his mind. When his lips are on yours, the rest of the world goes blank and it’s like nothing else matters. It’s only when you finally pull away from him and then cover your mouth with your hand that he realises something is wrong.

“Angel?” He asks, gently taking hold of your wrist to pull your hand away from your mouth, if only so that he can get easier access when he kisses you again in a matter of moments. 

Then, you surprise him by laughing. “Baby, the lipstick I’m wearing is not smudge proof like the packaging said…” You reach up and touch his lips with one of your fingers and Joaquin has to hold himself back from biting it softly. “It’s all over your face.”

He shrugs, not really caring. He thinks he’s a little drunk on the taste of your lips, if that’s even possible. All he can do is keep staring at them and wanting them back on his as soon as possible. They’re swollen and red – and not just from your red lipstick, which has also smudged around your own mouth a little. But clearly not as much as it’s transferred to him, based on your reaction. 

“Don’t care,” he mutters with a shake of his head. “I just wanna kiss you again.”

You lean a little closer to him, only to hear him better. It’s late at night, dark outside and ever since you’ve left the club and headed back to your car, you haven’t been able to keep your hands off of one another – leading to a make out session against the hood of his car.

“Yeah, but I thought you said you wanted to go get food before we go home?”

Joaquin nods, eyes still focused on your lips. “Yeah, we still can.”

“While you have my lipstick smudged all over your face?”

He grips your waist tighter and pulls you a little closer so your legs wrap around his waist. It takes a lot of strength, but he looks away from your lips to look into your eyes, briefly forcing himself to forget about kissing you. “Angel, I don’t care about people seeing me when I have your lipstick on my face. It just proves that I’m yours. So, can you please stop worrying about that and let me kiss you again?” 

He’s barely even finished speaking when your lips are on his again. He moans into the kiss, finally being able to taste you again after waiting what felt like so long but was really just a couple of minutes. If getting to kiss you like this means he gets lipstick all over his face, it’s a sacrifice he’ll make any day.

––––

☆ Falling asleep on the couch together ☆

Your Friday night movie nights are one of the things both you and Joaquin look forward to every week – but scheduling them on a Friday also means that you’re both exhausted after your busy weeks. It’s even worse when Joaquin has been away on a mission because he’s more tired than usual.

Every week, though, you try and fight through the sleepiness to finish at least one movie.

“Is it just me or is this movie really slow paced?” You ask, leaning your head on Joaquin’s shoulder and stifling a yawn. His arm is wrapped around your waist and his own head rests on top of yours as you speak. 

“It’s not just you, angel,” Joaquin agrees, blinking incredibly slowly for someone who insisted, only five minutes ago, that he wasn’t tired. “Are you falling asleep?” 

You make a noise, signalling to him that you’re not. “I’m wide awake. You?”

“Me too.”

You rest your hand on his thigh and look away from the movie as you start drawing random things on his thigh with your finger. A star, a heart, a smiley face. Joaquin shivers a little at the feeling of your finger on his skin – already having changed into his pyjama shorts to get comfy for bed before you’d started the movie. 

The feeling, though, also makes him a little more sleepy. It’s calming, like the way you sometimes run your fingers down his back when he’s having a hard time getting to sleep. He can’t help it when his eyes slowly start to flutter shut. He can’t bring himself to force them open again, either, as the feeling of you tracing things on his thigh soothes him right to sleep.

You follow him shortly after, your own eyes failing to stay open and your finger stopping its movement on Joaquin’s thigh as sleep finally takes you.

The movie continues playing in the background, completely forgotten, until Joaquin wakes up at 3am to see the menu screen. You’ve moved a little, head falling off of his shoulder and onto the couch behind you, and he can tell that you’ll be waking up with a sore neck in the morning if he doesn’t move you. 

When you wake up in the morning, you have no recollection of coming to bed, but you know that it was Joaquin who carried you there in the middle of the night. You reach out a hand, finding his warm body beside you, and curl up to him once again. 

Joaquín Torres Tag List (Please let me know if you’d like to be added!)

@sidkneeeee @dead-inside-but-happy @lay-lay-5 @marchingicenotes7 @phucboy @davinashifts333 @lomlbuckybarnes @laurenjbb @chansburgah @blackwidownat2814 @mischiefmanaged71 @madzlovez @marvelwitchergilmore @brittnicki @rheas-ripley @bcystar @victorsbathroomstall @giona45-5 @voodoo-tofu @happypopcornprincess @antixsocialx2 @innazra @lllucere @moonxnite @peacefangirl @ahoodgirl @ssinphetel @hiireadstuff

[muiitoloko]

Hey! First I want to say that I absolutely love your work! It’s so well-written! I’m a huge fan of your stories with Franck Benson and Karl Hoffmeister (especially when there’s smut involved)

Could you write a fic with one of them, where he’s a bit possessive and dominant. Or maybe continue one of your previous ones because they’re amazing!

Thank you very much for everything you do!

Title: Old Dog, New Tricks.

Summary: The shirt smells like him. The sheets still carry her scent. And Frank Benson is a man torn between control and complete surrender.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader

Warnings: SMUT, SMUT, SMUT.

Author's Notes: Thanks for your request! 🫶

First and Second part here.

Also read on Ao3

One ring.

Two.

Then, on the third, your voice—soft, warm, groggy with sleep—slid through the speaker like velvet.

“…Hello?” you mumbled, clearly still tangled in sheets, voice husky and low.

Frank leaned back in his chair, letting the sound of you curl around him. “This is Frank,” he said, his baritone calm and dry. “Frank Benson. You know, the man you tricked into thinking he’d picked up a prostitute... then rode until he couldn’t feel his legs.”

There was a beat of silence, followed by a soft, sleepy laugh that made something tighten low in Frank’s gut.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite sandwich sponsor,” you teased, your voice still muffled by your pillow. “Took you long enough to call, old man. I was starting to think I broke your hips.”

Frank smiled to himself, his fingers idly tapping the side of his mug. “You tried. But I’m made of tougher stuff than you think.”

“Mmm,” you hummed. “I remember. Big, broad, a little chubby—like a human mattress, but with a mean streak.”

Frank’s brow arched. “You like that mean streak.”

“I love that mean streak.”

Silence stretched for a moment, easy and charged. He could picture you now, curled beneath the sheets, hair mussed, lips swollen, that same wicked glint in your eyes even half-asleep.

“I was calling,” Frank said, voice steady, “to ask if you’d like to have dinner with me this weekend.”

You yawned softly on the other end, then let out a sleepy sigh. “Dinner, huh?”

He waited, knowing that tone. There was a twist coming.

“Tell you what,” you murmured, voice low and teasing, “make me cum first, and I’ll give you an answer.”

Frank let out a soft, surprised laugh, the sound rich in his chest. “Is that how it works now?”

“You called me,” you purred. “I think that puts the ball in your court, Frank.”

Frank leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. “You really want me to make you cum over the phone?”

There was a pause. Then your voice, playful and challenging, warm with amusement: “What, Frankie? Never had phone sex before?”

Frank’s eyes darkened. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, more gravel in the baritone now, “I’ve had phone sex. But I’ve never been dared to do it.”

“Well,” you replied, already breathless, “then consider this a fucking challenge.”

He adjusted in his seat, slowly, deliberately. His hazel eyes flicked to the note still tucked beside his mug. “Alright, then,” he muttered, voice calm and thick with anticipation. “What are you wearing?”

You laughed, and he could hear the shift of sheets. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Tell me,” Frank said, his tone taking on that quiet command, the kind that didn’t beg, didn’t plead—expected obedience.

There was a pause.

Then, softly: “Just a t-shirt. No panties.”

Frank groaned quietly. “Good girl.”

That did something to you. He could hear it in the breath you drew in. “You like that?” you asked, teasing.

“I like you like this,” he growled. “Lying in bed with your legs spread, waiting for my voice to make you come.”

You whimpered. It was real, raw—and it sent a pulse of heat straight through Frank.

“Slide your hand down,” he murmured, his tone low and commanding. “Touch yourself. Slow.”

“Frank…”

“Do it.”

You obeyed.

And he listened.

Listened to your soft gasps, the way your breath caught when he told you exactly what he’d do to you if you were beneath him. His words painted it all—how he’d grab your hips, grind into you, how he’d hold your wrists above your head and fuck you so deep you’d forget your name.

You moaned his name, and Frank’s grip tightened on the edge of the table.

“Are you close?” he rasped.

“Y-Yeah… fuck—”

Frank smiled, the corners of his mouth curling slowly, deliberately, as your soft moans poured through the speaker. His hazel eyes darkened, the low rasp of your breathing making his cock twitch in his sweatpants. He leaned back in his kitchen chair, thick fingers flexing on the table, his other hand pressed flat against the smooth surface, holding himself still—restrained, for now.

“Good girl,” he murmured again, his baritone voice even deeper, smoother, dragging through you like warm smoke. “Don’t stop. Just like that. Let me hear every sound you make, sweetheart.”

You whimpered, breath hitching as your fingers kept moving, slick and eager. He could hear it now—the wet sound of your touch, the little gasps you tried to muffle but couldn’t. You were unraveling for him, all because of his voice.

And he wasn’t done with you yet.

“You know what I’m going to do next time I see you?” Frank asked, his tone low, coaxing. “I’m going to tie you to the bed.”

You moaned softly, the sheets rustling on your end.

“I’ve got rope. Soft, but strong. I’ll spread you open—ankles to the bedposts, wrists to the headboard. I want you helpless. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do but feel.”

Your breath caught audibly, the sharp inhale music to his ears.

Frank chuckled, slow and low, his baritone smooth with wicked amusement. “You’ll beg me to untie you, and I won’t. Not until I’ve made you come at least three times. You’ll be soaked, shaking, absolutely ruined—and still, I’ll take my time. Let you ride the edge until you scream.”

Your voice was broken, needy. “F-Frank—please—”

He grunted, adjusting his position, rubbing a hand over his mouth to restrain the groan clawing its way up his throat. “You’re dripping already, aren’t you? Bet your thighs are soaked. You touching your clit like I told you?”

“Y-yes—”

“Good. Rub harder, sweetheart. Faster. Let me hear you fall apart.”

You let out a strangled sound, so raw, so desperate it nearly made Frank lose his damn composure. The image of you spread across his bed, tied and trembling, wearing that flushed expression he remembered from the night before—it branded itself into his mind, hot and dangerous.

“Frank…” your voice was breathless now, close.

“Come for me,” he ordered, his voice dipping into something darker, something rough and possessive. “Right now. My name on your lips, just like last night.”

You cried out his name—half sob, half moan—and he closed his eyes, letting the sound wrap around him like a fist. The way you said it, the sheer surrender in it, nearly pushed him over the edge without a single touch.

He let the silence stretch for a few seconds after, your breathing ragged through the phone, broken and uneven. When he finally spoke again, his tone had shifted—quieter now, but no less commanding.

“You alright?”

You let out a dazed laugh. “Are you kidding? I think I saw God.”

Frank smiled again, slower this time, his voice gentling but never soft. “Good. You deserve that.”

There was a long pause—comfortable, intimate. The kind of silence that followed something honest.

Then your voice broke it, teasing, playful, but hesitant at the edges. “Hey, Frank?”

“Hm?”

“I… might’ve done something stupid.”

His brow arched. “Go on.”

You cleared your throat. “When you were sleeping… I may have rummaged through your closet.”

Frank froze. “You did what?”

“I—listen, it wasn’t anything bad. I just—okay, I took one of your t-shirts.”

Frank blinked. “You stole from me?”

You giggled, unrepentant. “Not money. Just the shirt. One of those soft ones. Faded black. It smells like you.”

That stopped him cold. Something hot flickered low in his gut.

“Are you wearing it right now?” he asked slowly, voice dropping.

You hesitated—then: “Yes.”

He let out a long breath, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re lying in your bed, no panties, wearing my shirt?”

“Yes,” you whispered.

Frank growled. Actually growled.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “You’re mine. You hear me?”

You were silent, but he could feel it—the way the air between you thickened.

“I don’t care if we barely know each other,” he continued, his voice firm, dark, dragging. “You put on my shirt like that, wear it while you touch yourself—do you understand what that does to me?”

You whimpered softly.

“That’s mine. My shirt. My scent. My girl.”

He stood from the chair, his body tense, chest rising and falling beneath his undershirt. His hand clenched the phone tighter.

“Next time I see you, I want that shirt on. Only that shirt. And when I fuck you—” he paused, his breath catching, “—I’m going to make sure you remember exactly who you belong to.”

You swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

That did it.

Frank smiled, slow and dangerous. “Good girl.” Because Frank Benson didn’t need to chain you to a wall.

He’d already claimed you with a t-shirt.

The weekend had dragged on like a lazy river, slow and meandering, every hour crawling past like it knew Frank Benson was waiting for Friday night. He wasn’t a man known for impatience—military life had taught him discipline, taught him to wait, to endure—but something about the past few days had tested him more than usual.

Still, it wasn’t all bad. You’d messaged him—a lot. And while Frank preferred to hear your voice, smooth and teasing through the phone, he’d responded the best he could. He was slow with texting, his thick fingers struggling with the tiny keyboard on that damned phone, and by the time he finished typing out a sentence, you’d already sent three more. It frustrated him more than he’d admit, but he never asked you to slow down. You made him smile with the way you rambled in text. Sent photos of the coffee you were drinking, memes he didn’t always understand, one picture of your bare legs under a blanket that had him growling in his car.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, he’d see you in person.

He’d gone home after work, stripped off the stiff, formal uniform with its rows of medals and polished buttons, and let the heat of the shower ease the tension from his shoulders. The day had been long—paperwork, meetings, a video conference with a team that couldn’t stop talking in circles—but the thought of seeing you again had kept him going. That, and the lingering scent of you on his sheets. He hadn’t changed them yet.

Now, he sat at a table in a quiet restaurant tucked away from the busier parts of the city, the kind of place with low lighting and polished wood, candles on each table, and a staff that knew to keep things discreet. He’d chosen it carefully—somewhere intimate, quiet, where he could really look at you. Where you could sit across from him in that confident way of yours, making him feel like less of a soldier and more of a man.

Frank adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, a simple button-down in a deep navy that complemented the silver in his hair. His coat hung neatly on the back of the chair, his posture as straight as always, shoulders squared even in relaxation. He sat with one arm draped along the back of the booth, his other hand resting on the table near a glass of scotch he’d barely touched.

His hazel eyes scanned the room every few minutes, a habit he couldn’t shake, even in peace. But tonight, he wasn’t scanning for threats. He was waiting for you.

And when you walked in, he knew it before he even looked.

He felt it—like the air shifted, like gravity leaned in your direction. When his gaze finally landed on you, something in his chest loosened.

You were dressed with effortless allure, nothing too revealing, but just enough to make his throat tighten. That smirk played at your lips as you spotted him, and Frank straightened slightly, swallowing the urge to stand. He wanted to rise. Wanted to pull out your chair. But he knew you’d hate that. You didn’t want chivalry. You wanted respect.

And Frank Benson was nothing if not a man who understood respect.

You slid into the booth across from him, your eyes scanning him the way his had scanned the room—sharp, amused, curious.

“Nice shirt,” you murmured, your gaze lingering on the way it stretched across his chest. “You clean up good, Lieutenant.”

Frank smirked, his voice low and warm. “I try. Thought I should look like a man worth your time.”

You tilted your head, your smile deepening. “You always do.”

There was a moment of silence—comfortable, charged—before Frank finally reached for his glass, taking a slow sip, watching you over the rim. “Traffic treat you alright?”

You nodded, brushing a hand through your hair. “I came straight from hell. Also known as the subway during rush hour.”

Frank chuckled, that rich baritone sound vibrating across the table. “Could’ve picked you up.”

“I know,” you said, leaning back, stretching your legs out until your foot brushed his. “But if you picked me up, you’d be in charge of the playlist. And I wasn’t in the mood for war documentaries disguised as music.”

Frank laughed again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It was Johnny Cash.”

“It was military-grade gloom.”

He shook his head slowly, amused. You had that effect on him—pulling smiles out of places he’d forgotten even existed.

The waiter came, took your drink order, and disappeared again. The moment you were alone, Frank leaned forward slightly, his expression softening.

“You’ve been on my mind all week,” he admitted, voice quiet but firm.

You arched a brow. “Is that so?”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about the way you left,” he said. “That note. That shirt. That damn smirk on your lips when you said you were going to ruin me.”

Your grin was wicked now. “Did I?”

Frank’s eyes darkened, and he nodded once. “Completely.”

You laughed, the sound smooth and low, your fingers tapping against the edge of the table. “Then what are you going to do about it, Frankie?”

He leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m going to take you home tonight.”

Your breath hitched just slightly. His eyes caught it. He always did.

“And then,” he continued, that baritone steady and dangerous, “I’m going to take back control.”

You smirked, lifting your drink as the waiter returned.

But the look in your eyes said you were already counting down the minutes.

The dinner had gone better than you expected. Better than Frank expected, too.

He wasn’t a talker—not the kind to ramble or fill silences with empty noise—but something about sitting across from you at that table, your eyes lit with curiosity, your smile just a touch too amused, pulled more out of him than he usually offered. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the low lighting. Maybe it was just you.

Between bites of roasted chicken and sips of his scotch, he told you about his son. A grown man now, living in California. Tech something. Frank didn’t keep up with the specifics—“He codes things I don’t understand,” he muttered—but you caught the way his mouth twitched, a mix of pride and distance. He hadn’t seen his son in almost two years. “He’s busy. I’m... not always easy to talk to.” He said it matter-of-factly, not bitter, but not without weight.

And then, as if to balance it, he admitted, “I still talk to his mother now and then. My ex. We get along, more or less.” He paused. “It wasn’t her fault we didn’t work out. It was just... life.”

You liked that he didn’t sugarcoat things.

When it was your turn, you told him about your job—receptionist at a mid-range hotel. “Mostly checking in drunk tourists and trying not to lose my patience when someone asks if the ‘breakfast is really free.’” Frank chuckled at that. The sound of it was deep, warm, and strangely satisfying.

And then you mentioned the paper.

“A paper?” Frank’s hazel eyes sharpened slightly, a flicker of interest rising behind the rim of his glass.

“Yeah. I’m trying to write something. It’s kind of... academic. Personal, too.” You paused, a little self-conscious. “About the morality of warfare. Modern surveillance. Drone strikes. I don’t know why I chose it—just ended up that way.”

Frank blinked, his glass paused halfway to his lips.

He was quiet for a moment longer than usual. “That’s quite a topic.”

You smiled. “Yeah, well. I’ve always been curious about the grey areas. The stuff people don’t want to talk about.”

That seemed to strike a chord. His hooked nose tilted slightly as he studied you over his drink, the corner of his mouth twitching just enough to betray thought. “You’d be surprised how many people live in grey areas and pretend they don’t.”

He didn’t say more. But the weight of his silence said everything.

You wanted to ask more—about his career, about what he might have seen—but the moment passed. And Frank, ever the strategist, shifted the subject with an ease that told you he’d done it before.

Still, by the time dessert was served, you felt like you knew him. Really knew him. And not just the military shell of him, or the man who grunted dirty things over the phone, or the older man with a solid frame and silver hair who made you ache.

No. You knew Frank. Or at least, the parts he was willing to show you tonight.

But you weren’t done with him.

So when you stood from the table and murmured that you needed the bathroom, Frank didn’t suspect a thing.

You were gone for three minutes before his brows furrowed.

Five minutes. He glanced at the hallway.

Then came the buzz of his phone.

Come to the bathroom. Ladies’ room. Now.

Frank blinked. His fingers tightened slightly around the phone, his baritone voice low as he muttered to himself, “What the hell...”

He stood slowly, his white hair catching the soft lighting of the restaurant. His frame was imposing, even in that quiet space, as he crossed the dining area and made his way to the back, glancing once over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching.

He hesitated just outside the bathroom door—God, if someone caught him—

Then it opened.

Your hand grabbed his shirt and yanked him inside.

“Jesus—”

You shut the door behind him and locked it. It was one of those single-person bathrooms, thank God. Clean. Dimly lit. Just enough space for what you had in mind.

Frank opened his mouth to speak—but you were already pulling him, fingers fumbling at his belt, your eyes wild with heat and need. He was stunned. Impressed. Slightly horrified.

“You—this isn’t what I thought you meant—” His voice faltered when your hands slipped under his shirt, fingers splaying over his stomach, feeling the heat of his body through the layers.

“I know,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his jaw. “You thought I wanted to talk.”

He groaned softly when your mouth found his throat, teeth grazing the skin just above his collar. “You’re full of surprises.”

“Good.” You dropped to your knees in front of him, your hands working open his belt, pulling his trousers down just enough. His cock was already half-hard, heavy and thick, twitching with interest. “I like keeping you on your toes.”

Frank groaned, low and deep, his fingers threading into your hair as you sucked him down. The sheer heat of your mouth, the slick slide of your tongue—Christ, it made his knees buckle. He wasn't a vocal man, never had been, but the guttural sounds escaping his throat now were raw, primal. You hollowed your cheeks and moaned around his cock, the vibration of it making him curse under his breath, his hand tightening in your hair to guide the rhythm.

“Fuck… just like that,” he rasped, his baritone voice gravel-thick, wrecked. “Such a greedy mouth. Taking it all, aren’t you?”

He looked down at you, eyes dark with possession, lips parted as you gazed up at him, pupils blown, mascara smudged, his cock stretching your lips.

“You like being used like this?” he asked, his tone dangerously low. “You like being on your knees, choking on Daddy’s cock in a restaurant bathroom?”

You moaned in response, your throat swallowing around him. Frank hissed through his teeth, his grip in your hair sharp now—commanding. Dominant.

Then, all at once, he pulled you back, breathing hard. You gasped, spit dripping from your lips, pupils blown wide with need. His cock twitched, still slick from your mouth, and his hazel eyes pinned you to the spot.

“You clean?” he asked roughly, voice cutting through the haze. “Tell me now.”

You blinked up at him, chest rising and falling. “Yes. I’m clean. Last test was last month. I’m on the pill.”

Frank exhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring. He didn’t trust people easily—fuck, he didn’t trust anyone—but something about the way you said it, so direct, so steady, so real… it cut through the fog.

“I don’t usually do this,” he muttered, voice rough. “I don’t fuck raw. I don’t trust people. But you…”

He looked down at you again, hungry, feral.

“I want to taste you,” he growled. “I want to feel that cunt gripping me with nothing in between. I want to come inside you so deep you’re leaking me for hours.”

You moaned, thighs pressing together instinctively.

“I want you soaked and wide open, stuffed full of me, knowing I chose to give it to you. Not some latex barrier. Me. My cock. My come.”

He hauled you to your feet, mouth crashing into yours, tongue fucking deep like he already owned your mouth, your breath, your body. Then he spun you around, pressing you up against the cold tiled wall, his hand dragging your panties down until they hit the floor.

He cupped your cunt from behind, groaning at how soaked you were. “Christ, you’re dripping. All for me?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes, Frank. All for you.”

He hissed between his teeth, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your wetness.

“You’re mine now,” he growled in your ear, his voice rough silk. “You understand me?”

You whimpered, “Yes.”

“No one else gets this pussy,” he snarled, pushing into you inch by thick inch. “No one else gets to feel you raw.”

You gasped, your body arching, overwhelmed by the stretch of him, the rawness of it.

Frank groaned, burying himself to the hilt, his hands bruising your hips. “Tight. So fucking tight.” He pulled out slowly, then slammed back in, the wet slap echoing in the tiled space.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he growled, fucking you deep, hard, relentless. “No condom. No apologies. Just my cock breeding this tight cunt until you can’t think.”

You sobbed his name, trembling under the weight of him, your hands braced on the wall as he pounded into you.

“Say it,” Frank grunted. “Say who owns this pussy.”

“You do, Frank. You own it.”

“Damn right I do.”

And with every brutal thrust, he claimed you—body and soul, bare and without mercy.

But you got too loud.

The sharp cry tore from your throat as Frank drove into you again, your cheek pressed to the cold tile, your legs trembling from the raw stretch of him inside you. The sound echoed off the walls, louder than you meant it to be. You barely had time to suck in another breath before his large hand clamped over your mouth.

“Shh,” he growled low in your ear, voice thick with gravel and heat. “You want the whole restaurant to hear me fucking you like a filthy little slut?”

You whimpered against his palm, your back arching to take more of him, anchoring yourself to his arm as he slammed into you with a deep, brutal thrust that knocked the wind out of you. His other hand gripped your hip, bruising fingers dragging you back to meet every stroke.

“Fucking hell,” Frank muttered, his breath hot against your neck. “This pussy’s gonna be the death of me.”

You nodded, moaning into his hand, your nails digging into the meat of his forearm. Your body was already raw, slick, pulsing around him like you couldn’t stand the thought of being empty again. He was thick, stretching you to your limits, and each stroke hit so deep your vision blurred.

“You brought the shirt?” Frank rasped, his baritone cutting through the ragged sounds of your bodies colliding. “Tell me you brought my goddamn shirt.”

You mumbled something, but it was muffled against his hand. He leaned closer, his thrusts slowing just enough to let you breathe.

“What was that, sweetheart?” he purred, sliding his hand just barely off your mouth.

“It’s in my bag,” you whispered, your voice breathless, trembling. “I brought it, Frank.”

His hips snapped forward in response, a punishing thrust that made your knees buckle.

“Good girl,” he hissed. “Because when we get back to my place, I’m gonna make you wear it while I eat your pussy.”

You gasped, and he chuckled darkly, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You’ll have nothing on but my shirt, spread out on my bed like a feast. I’m going to pin your thighs open, hold you down, and lick you until you’re sobbing.”

You let out a broken moan, clinging to him, your walls fluttering around him with every obscene thrust.

“I want your scent all over that shirt,” he murmured, his voice like gravel soaked in honey. “I want to bury my face in it after I’ve made you come so many times you forget your own name.”

He shifted, grabbing your hair and yanking your head back just enough to whisper filth straight into your ear. “I’ll eat you slow at first. Suck on that clit until your legs shake. Then I’m gonna tongue-fuck you—deep—messy—until you’re grinding against my mouth like a bitch in heat.”

You whimpered, his hand clamping back over your mouth as he picked up his pace again, fucking you harder, faster. The slap of skin against skin was loud, wet, obscene—but it was nothing compared to the heat in his voice.

“And when you beg me to stop?” he growled. “When your body’s wrung out and soaked, and you’re trembling from how many times I’ve made you come?” He thrust harder, gritting his teeth. “I’ll flip you over and fuck your dripping cunt until it’s leaking down your thighs.”

You sobbed against his hand, your orgasm slamming into you like a freight train. Frank felt you clamp down around him and groaned low in his throat.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he hissed, hips stuttering. “That’s my girl. So fucking tight. So fucking good.”

He came with a deep, possessive growl, thrusting hard as he filled you. Raw. Deep. Nothing between you. He stayed buried inside you for a long, breathless moment, his weight pressing you into the wall, his arm wrapped tight around your waist.

Then slowly, he eased out, breathless, panting. He turned you gently, brushing a hand over your flushed face, his white hair damp at the temples, hazel eyes still burning with heat.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, cupping your face in one hand. “You understand that?”

You nodded, dazed, trembling.

“I don’t care what you thought this was, or what games you played that night,” Frank said, voice deadly quiet. “You belong to me now. My shirt. My bed. My fucking girl.”

And with that, he leaned down and kissed you—slow, claiming, filthy.

The night wasn’t over.

And you hadn’t seen anything yet.

Frank did as he promised.

You were on his bed now—no panties, no bra, no makeup—just one of his old, soft black t-shirts, oversized and stretched thin across your chest, the scent of him wrapped around your skin like a second layer. The fabric clung to your breasts as your fingers played lazily over them, tweaking your nipples through the cotton, your thighs spread wide for him, knees bent, breath shallow. The room was dim, lit only by the soft bedside lamp, golden light casting shadows across the folds of the sheets and the broad line of Frank’s back as he knelt between your legs.

His hands were solid on your thighs—rough, warm, claiming—spreading you open like you were his last goddamn meal. He said nothing, not a word. Just growled low in his throat as he stared down at your glistening cunt, his hazel eyes dark and hungry. Frank wasn’t a talker. He was a doer. A man of action.

And God, was he doing you now.

He leaned in, tongue flat and slow as he dragged it from the base of your slit to your clit, pausing only to suck the swollen bud into his mouth with obscene pressure. You gasped, hips jerking, your hand flying to his white hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as you cried out. But Frank didn’t let up.

He never did.

“Damn sweet pussy,” he muttered into you, voice husky, almost reverent. “Like fucking honey.”

You whimpered, thighs shaking as he buried his face between your legs again, tongue flicking against your clit in sharp, practiced strokes, sucking and licking like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted to do. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open, holding you still. Every time your hips lifted, he growled, low and warning, and pushed you back down with a firm, commanding palm.

“I said lie still,” he rasped, lifting his face just enough to speak, his chin slick with your arousal. His hazel eyes pinned you in place, the sharp line of his hooked nose glistening, his lips swollen and wet. “You want me to stop?”

You shook your head furiously, panting, your fingers still fisting the t-shirt, the fabric twisted between your hands as your nipples rubbed against it. “No, please—Frank, don’t stop—”

“Then fucking behave,” he growled. “You want to come? Then be a good girl and take it.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He dove back in, tongue flattening again against your clit, licking broad, slow strokes that made your toes curl. Then he changed it up—sharp flicks, fast and rhythmic, his lips sealing over your clit as he sucked you into his mouth, tongue tapping rapid-fire until you were crying out, thrashing beneath him.

He didn’t let you go.

“Fuck,” he muttered against you, voice raw. “This pussy was made for my mouth.”

Your eyes rolled back, your legs trembling, thighs slick with spit and arousal. You felt the heat building low in your belly, pressure coiling tight, tighter, until your entire body was one taut line of need.

“Frank—Frank—please, I’m—”

“Do it,” he ordered, voice sharp, commanding. “Come on my fucking mouth.”

That was it. You shattered.

You came hard, a strangled cry ripping from your throat as your cunt pulsed against his tongue. Frank didn’t stop. He licked you through it, sucking and groaning, riding out every wave, his fingers digging into your thighs to hold you still as your body writhed beneath him.

When you finally collapsed, limp and trembling, gasping for air, Frank lifted his head. His mouth was glistening, his expression wrecked and dark and so goddamn hungry it made your core clench all over again.

“You done?” he asked roughly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still locked on your cunt like it owed him something.

You shook your head weakly, chest rising and falling. “No.”

Frank smirked.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not fucking done either.”

He stood, tugging his shirt off in one motion, revealing the broad chest and soft belly you were already obsessed with. His thick cock jutted out, heavy and dark, the tip glistening with pre-come, and your mouth watered just looking at it.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.

He crawled onto the bed, grabbed your hips, and flipped you onto your stomach in one fluid motion, yanking your ass up, your knees beneath you as your chest pressed into the mattress.

“Keep the shirt on,” he growled, one hand gripping the hem and yanking it up over your back, exposing your ass and lower spine. “Wanna fuck you in it.”

You whimpered, arching your back for him, needy and slick.

Frank groaned at the sight, grabbing his cock and rubbing the tip through your folds, pressing the blunt head against your soaked entrance.

“This pussy’s mine,” he said roughly. “Say it.”

“It’s yours, Frank,” you moaned, shaking beneath him. “Only yours.”

He thrust in with one brutal snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt in one go. You screamed into the sheets, fingers clawing at the bed, and Frank groaned behind you, his hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “So goddamn tight.”

He pulled out slowly, then slammed back in, setting a brutal pace, his hips smacking against your ass with every thrust. You were gasping, sobbing into the pillow, completely at his mercy.

And Frank loved it.

“Good girl,” he grunted, slapping your ass with one hand, grabbing a handful of your hair with the other. “You take this cock like you were made for it.”

He fucked you hard, deep, relentless, every thrust knocking the air from your lungs. His balls slapped your clit, his breath hot on your neck as he leaned over you, the full weight of him pressing down, surrounding you.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled into your ear. “You hear me?”

“Yes, Frank—fuck—yes—”

“You’re mine,” he snarled. “My girl. My pussy. My fucking mess.”

And then he reached around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles in time with his thrusts.

You screamed his name as you came again, your cunt clenching around him so hard it nearly dragged him over the edge with you. He cursed, groaned, slammed into you one final time—and spilled inside you with a roar, his cock pulsing deep, thick, hot.

You collapsed beneath him, shaking, breathless.

Frank stayed buried inside you for a long moment, his hand still tangled in your hair, his chest heaving.

Then he pulled out slowly, watching your come-dripping cunt with open, possessive satisfaction.

“Next time,” he panted, “I’m going to fuck you in the shower. Against the wall. And then again in the kitchen.”

You whimpered.

He smirked, leaning down to kiss your neck.

“Better get some rest, sweetheart,” he murmured, baritone rough and satisfied. “Because I’m just getting started.”

[sillylittlgaythings]

I have a bone to pick with the Yellowjackets fandom, more specifically with the twitter community

im just gonna rant here for a bit. oh. my. god. you guys are UNBEARABLE and ANNOYING.

first: “why did they pair shauna with melissa and not with mari/akilah/gen/x/y/z?”

because melissa was a BLANK character with 0 meaningful conversations with shauna in s1 and 2. shauna already doesn’t like mari. “so now you’re her protector? a little late for that” thats mari to shauna after jackie’s death and the girls wanting to burn her body, they could not make mari into the wide-eye girl infatuated with shauna like they did melissa it. wouldn’t. make. sense. (same thing with gen, she always takes mari’s side and it would be kinda interesting to see this dynamic play out, but anyway).

shauna needed someone she had no previous feelings (good or bad) for and that also includes akilah. she was the one helping shauna giving birth, calming her down and trying to save her and the baby, akilah already had a personality being developed in s2 and clearly had a different plot direction for s3, while melissa didn’t. shauna already had her interaction with akilah and has a perception of her.

melissa was a perfect vessel for shauna’s girlfriend. no meaningful interactions before. no attachment. shauna is able to create melissa the way she wanted in her had, make her a replacement for jackie, use her as she sees fits because she doesn’t know melissa beyond that

second: “why did they get rid off lottie for melissa/they fired simone to afford hillary swank”

thats NOT how the industry works. that’s not how budget works, they’re not taking payment from one actress to give it to another, also hillary’s fees (an award winning actress) are much higher than simone’s (an somewhat unknown actress, love her but it’s true) if it actually worked that way it would made more sense to get rid off melanie or christina, the biggest and most expensive actresses in the adult tml along side with hillary now.

“but lottie’s story wasn’t done” one of the main points of the series is that every death was unfair. the people who died in the crash was unfair. laura lee exploding wasn’t fair. jackie frozen to death wasn’t fair. javi drowning wasn’t fair. nat dying from an overdose after battling addiction and finally getting clean is not fair. every death was unfair. i do think it would be interesting seeing more of lottie’s character but lottie was NOT killed off for melissa, let’s be realistic here.

third: “why are so many shauna scenes?” she’s the main character!!! she’s the one we follow throughout the show, of course there are other principal characters but shauna is the protagonist and the main plot will be around her in some way

fourth: “it’s so weird that tai is the only POC to survive” that’s not true, both lottie and travis were survivors and people of color, yes they’re dead now, but they are still survivors. we also don’t know how many made it out of the wilderness, the 8 survivors theory is just that, a theory. mari, akilah and gen might have made it out and choose to hid/fake their deaths like melissa did.

i do think the treatment of non-white characters and actors in the industry needs to be discussed further and deeply, i’m not saying non-white fans shouldn’t complain about things they see as unfair and wrong, i’m just pointing things out and not speaking over them. i’m not saying they’re complains are justified, but it’s not the intention of this post to discuss this issue specifically.

i’m just so tired of people complaining about every. single. damn. thing this season, of course some criticisms are valid and some conversations are importante to have, but it’s just so annoying to see people nitpicking every little thing about s3 everytime a new episode drops and wondering why certain plots were finish, not understanding why things were written like this or that or etc feels like this is you guys’ first time watching a show with one episode per week like WAIT, BE PATIENT, we already know there are 5 seasons planned so it’s obvious some things will be left unknown or a mystery.

yes it’s nice to dissect a show and analyse the writing and the characters, but it feels like some people either don’t actually like the show or are to stuck in their AO3 fanfic dynamics to enjoy the actual show and characters.

anyway, have a good day guys and enjoy the the season finale next week.

[freedelusionshere]

Also notice the first episode Carmy shows up at The Beef (I think he’s been there a week if I’m not mistaken), Richie claps/slaps his face the way Donna did in Fishes and tells him to go make the spaghetti? This has to be how he’s seen Donna (maybe even Mikey) handle Carmy. Mikey and Donna kind of team up in Fishes and force Carmy to say “I love you” and harass him and treat him like a kid, too.

The timing is also interesting how much it seems to intensify when Syd shows up at The Beef and there is zero doubt in my mind Richie felt immediately threatened by Syd and how easily Syd and Carmy seemed to always be on the same page, and yet Carmy won’t listen to him.

I’ve been thinking about how Richie was basically raised by Donna as well and Richie definitely acted like Mikey’s younger brother. He followed him around and mimicked him. Then when Mikey dies, he sees himself as the older brother now who stepped up but he doesn’t get treated that way (not a real Berzatto).

It’s obvious Richie isn’t really speaking with Donna (Donna is around Tiff and Eva, though), and it’s actually Carmy who sticks by him and shows up for him when he gets booked overnight, and never even tries to fire him from The Beef, and also sends him to Ever because he believes in him.

But they’re still fighting over who gets to be the eldest, who gets to have that “respect” as the man of the family. It’s because they haven’t really dealt with Mikey’s death and what it did to them both, not really. Richie has been trapped in a prison of his own design as well, that’s why he sees what Carmy is doing so clearly.

They’re both still playing into the toxic masculinity they grew up around that Mikey never got to be free of. For instance, calling Carmy “Donna” kind of mirrors the way we see Lee talk about Donna in Fishes. Just someone acting crazy and “making scenes”. It even comes up the next day in Next where Carmy insists to the staff he’s not crazy (look at how many times that word comes up in that episode) and Richie is still antagonizing him.

Mikey wore a mask all the time and never let anyone in, I don’t think. The stuff he said to Tina in Napkins I bet he didn’t share with Richie, because by then he’d taught Richie to pretend emotions were for babies like Carmy.

I think something big will happen for them both when they share the real pain and grief they’re in and stop hiding it from each other. I think a lot about Carmy saying the guy asking for Mikey on the phone made it feel like he was alive and Richie said: “No thanks.” Richie did tell Carmy he was all he had as well, but that’s not dealing with grief or processing it, it’s transference.

The Bear (2022-present) Next (S03E02)

[anotherbabyhag]

hii! saw the angst alphabet you got, would u be up to make one for Rio? feeling kind of ansgtyy

Rio Vidal Angst Headcanon Alphabet

A = Anger (What are they like when they’re angry?)

We’ve seen a bit of this on the show. Rio approaches anger the same way she approaches other emotions - intensely. Yelling, insults specifically crafted to hurt you in the worst ways, violence, it’s all on the table.

B = Break Up (If they had to, how would they break up with you?)

She’s unlikely to break up with you. She only would if you betrayed her and it would be via a very loud/violent fight. More likely you would break up with her, which you’d try to do gently but no matter how kind you were about it, she wouldn’t take it well.

C = Cry (How often do they cry? Do they cry over little things?)

Definitely not over little things. Rio tends to turn to anger far more often than sadness. She can count on one hand the amount of times she’s cried.

D = Debt (How do they make it up to you when they’ve done something wrong?)

Grand gestures, large declarations of love.

E = Entrapment (How would they react to you being kidnapped?)

She’d move heaven and earth (maybe literally) to track you down and torture then kill the people who kidnapped you.

F = Fear (How badly do they fear losing you? Do they fear for you somehow losing them?)

Rio fears that her intensity and the fact that she’s Death will push you away. Every time she has to help one of your loved ones cross over she is terrified it will be the one that makes you leave. No matter how much you reassure her and no matter how many times you’ve stayed previously, this is a trauma from Agatha that she’ll never fully recover from. On the other hand shes not afraid you’ll lose her, she’s a cosmic entity, she’ll be with you forever.

G = Grief (If you were to die, how would they react?)

Your death wouldn’t bother her. She can be with you in the afterlife the exact same way she can on Earth. She would only be upset if you refused to let her help you cross over and chose to be a ghost instead.

H = Heartbreak (What would it take to break their heart?)

Rejecting her. Particularly for her job. Rio has a strong sense of justice and cannot cope with the idea that you might reject her for literally just doing her job.

I = Insensitive (How do they act when they know they’ve said something that upset you?)

Rio gets very angry so she definitely needs time to cool off. She is willing to apologise once she’s calmer but it’s usually more for how she behaved during the conflict than for what the actual conflict was about - basically she’s very stubborn and when she believes she’s right she will absolutely die on that hill.

J = Jerk (When can they tell you’re mad at them? Do either of you resort to name calling?)

She can tell you’re mad at her because you tell her so. You know her previous relationship was toxic so you make a real effort to communicate clearly and healthily. As such you don’t really resort to name calling if you can help it. But Rio is definitely willing to insult you if she gets angry enough.

K = Knife (How do they feel about hurting others? physically or emotionally?)

She’s willing to harm people physically to protect herself or others, she wouldn’t do it for fun. She doesn’t like hurting people emotionally and doesn’t set out to do it unless she’s very angry (and in those cases her anger often stems from hurt or insecurity).

L = Liar (Are they a good liar? How often do they lie to you?)

She’s a pretty good liar. But she doesn’t really lie to you. She’s a very honest, straight forward person.

M = Maudlin (How do you cheer them up when they’re feeling sad?)

Cuddles, reassurance, and encouragement. Also letting her talk about whatever is making her sad.

N = Never (What would they do if they knew they could never be with you?)

I feel like she’d raise hell and move mountains to try to change that reality. If it really was impossible it would take her a long time to come to terms with it. She’d basically work her way through the stages of grief to cope with not being with you.

O = Oath (What happens when you break a promise? How do they take it?)

She would be hurt but would express that through anger at first. It would be driven by her feeling like she’s not enough and that it’s somehow her fault it happened.

P = Pressure (How do they handle stress? How do you help them relax?)

Her job is quite stressful so she’s pretty good a coping with it after so long. But when she needs to relax cuddles, sex, or (ideally) both will do the job.

Q = Quiet (Do they ever give you the silent treatment? How do they react when you give it to them?)

The silent treatment isn’t her style. She’d rather scream and shout and fight than make up and move on. If you were to give her the silent treatment she would get angrier and more dramatic until you had to respond to her.

R = Rejection (How would they take it if you were to reject them?)

This would likely occur at the beginning of your relationship so she’d find it easier to handle. It would hurt her though. She’d be likely to assume that it is because she is Death, she’s used to being rejected over that.

S = Self Doubt (What are they insecure about?)

Mainly being Death - she knows mortals (witches included) often just don’t understand and hate her for it. She’s used to their misdirected anger and (to a lesser extent) fear, but it still hurts her. She also often feels like she’s not good enough but also that she can be too much, she feels like no matter what she does it gets a negative response from people.

T = Triangle (What would they do if they were caught in a love triangle with you? Would they fight for you or give you up?)

Oh she would absolutely fight for you. Both by trying to show you that she’s the right person for you and by physically fighting the other person you’re interested in 😂

U = Unloved (What would you do to make sure they felt loved?)

Lots of reassurance, compliments, cuddles, kisses, touches just for the sake of touching her.

V = Vault (Do they keep their emotions sealed tight, or do they let them out openly?)

Depends on the emotion. She’s willing to make her anger known. But she’s far more hesitant to share her sadness, insecurity, grief, and pain.

W = Wound (How do they react when you’ve been injured?)

Her first instinct is to look after you and make sure you’re okay. After that she will be hell bent on finding the person who hurt you and hurting them in return.

X = X Lovers (What happens when they’re confronted with an ex of yours?)

She’s jealous and possessive. Hanging on to you, making it clear you’re with her now (including public displays of affection). She will be openly hostile towards your ex too.

Y = Yell (How often do fights occur? How bad do they get?)

Not often - you understand her and she’s opened up to you about what she’s been through, so you make an effort not to hurt her. However, when fights do happen they can get pretty bad.

Z = Zestless (What happens if you lose that initial spark with them?)

You both decide that you need to spice things up. Rio is full of ideas for this and is also always willing to try pretty much anything you come up with. You always end up with both your relationship and your attraction being stronger the before once you get out of a period like this.

[withsubsplease]

Everyone who’s seen The Ones Who Live knows episode 4 is excellent, start to finish but geez if this isn’t one of the best non-verbal moments. You can see his entire brain collapse on him. He’s so confused and lost.

Rick’s been misdirecting Michonne; pushing her away, “lashing out” and even demanding for her to leave (which even I, someone who hadn’t seen TWD yet, knew was out of character and total crap) but when Michonne says, “Bet. I’m over this. Need to get back home anyway.” It’s beautifully heart-aching to see this response.

What I appreciated so much about most of Rick’s reactions (because he is reacting, not acting) after Michonne’s return, is him not knowing what to do. He’s so off-kilter, scrambling and unhinged (in the best and worst ways when he’s not in soldier mode) and it’s all because he’s madly in love with her. He thinks he’s convinced himself of a way of living, of being but he can’t reconcile that with her in his space, breathing his air. Because she’s apart of his DNA; they are interconnected. He’s used to their world together. It furthers the truth of how much he needs her. Not just physically but he needs her counsel, her words, her mind on the matter.

[Also there’s something to be said that he doesn’t try to persuade or convince her to actually change her mind or her way of thinking. Only to see his point and leave. He knows he hasn’t told her everything. He never intended to from the start. He doesn’t want her to stop fighting for them in her own way, because he is too. That’s why he can say believably later, that he never let go. But he is reacting in terms of her way and his way, instead of their way. Harkening back to Michonne’s monologue in TWD S7— which she clearly still believes and he’s too afraid to trust.]

One of my favorite lines of his in this episode is—I want you to live.

Throughout the previous episodes he’s constantly confronted with Michonne’s life; Okafor insinuates she’s gone, then she’s walking around in front of him like a dream and both Jadis and Thorne verbally and physically threaten her.

We already know one of his main motivations is protecting her, but this line is so raw and sincere and it’s one of the only times he mentions what he wants.

And a reason he runs after her. They’re tethered together so of course he can’t let her walk away, be without her again, all that BUT he also can’t have her out there alone. He knows she needs him. He needs to be by her side. (Michonne later confirms the same feeling.)

When Rick thought he could play with Michonne about her leaving. What did you expect when you keep telling her to go….and when she finally starts to walk out the door…out of his life…PANIC ensuses

[velvet4510]

Yet another Old Cherik appreciation post - there are actually so many little moments in the plastic prison chess scene that I just love to overthink.

the way the sexual tension just sizzles throughout the whole thing.

the way Erik keeps stealing looks at Charles as they play. Looks of exasperation, frustration, and yearning all at once.

the way they hold each other’s gaze as the guard enters.

just look at how Charles gets that little smile out of Erik in the plastic prison after throwing that “questions to which you already know the answers” line back in Erik’s face. Erik cracks a warm and genuine smirk for like 2 seconds before putting the stoic mask back on. All while Charles is giving him that “you can’t fool me, I see right through you” look.

the layers of that “your continuing search for hope” line, like there’s almost no other way of interpreting it other than “hope for US.”

the fact that Charles says “I will always be there” and leaves it at that, rather than adding on “to stop you” or “to fight you”. Just “I will be there” i.e. “every time you try to do something crazy, I’ll put myself at risk to be there, are you willing to hurt me again, will the sight of me make you reconsider? up to you.” This guy is dangling their past history in front of his ex like a hypnotic gold chain, bless him.

also that beat where the guard starts to wheel Charles away but Erik stops them. Their arms and hands are out of frame, but the movement of Erik’s shoulder indicates he’s stopping Charles with his hand. Then when Charles leans in to respond, the movement of his shoulder also indicates he’s reaching out. But we can’t see the details of these touches - if they’re only touching each other’s arms. Or if Erik actually grabs Charles’ hand and then Charles puts his other hand on top of Erik’s. Or if Charles first touches Erik’s arm, then at the last minute slides his hand down to squeeze Erik’s hand, before the guard wheels him all the way out.

Perhaps Erik’s moment of stillness, before toppling his king, is as much a reaction to the feeling of Charles’ hand in his, as it is a reaction to Charles’ words… it’s probably been years if not decades since they touched hands.

It’s incredible to consider how few times they make physical contact with each other onscreen throughout these movies. They never kiss or even properly hug; the closest thing to an embrace is on the beach in First Class, the movie with the most touches between them. In the OG trilogy, they’re almost always far apart from each other even when in the same room or area. The beat where Charles leans in right before leaving the prison is the closest to each other that they ever get, proximity-wise, and it’s the only scene in the trilogy where they touch hands, and it isn’t even in the frame! It’s not until the dark future scenes in DOFP that we clearly see them truly hold hands, finally.

Once again it’s a testament to the actors. We don’t feel their history and chemistry and tension because of touchy-feely moments, but because of the EYES. It’s really all in the eyes, in all their scenes.

AHHHHH cannot wait for more of THE EYES on the big screen in 2026!!!!

[waterdhaviancheeses]

Love and lanceboard

Summary: Tav is determined to spend some quality time with Gale during the tiefling party. Since too much excitement is out of the question, they settle on a game of lanceboard instead.

Gale x Tav, Wizard Tav, mutual pining, some horny thoughts but nothing too explicit, banter. 2K wordcount.

Special thanks to my best friend @viscerah who read my handwritten Sherlock fanfics when we were in high school, and who, now 14 years later, encouraged me to write again. Thank you, buddy, you mean the world to me.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64285801

“You know what, I think I’ve clearly had far too much wine. And you’ve had nowhere near enough. I think this is a conversation best held back on- for now.” Gale couldn't help but take a quick glance over the adventurer before him. Their camp clothes were comfortable, but left little to the imagination. He swallowed. “With my condition as volatile as it is, I fear any undue, er, excitement, may tip it over the edge. So to speak.”

The tension was palpable, even for the two usually oblivious wizards who were standing way closer to each other than strictly necessary. Gale spoke again before Tav could, sensing their hesitation.

“Go, Indulge in the frivolities- they’re good for the heart. And mine will be all the lighter, to see you enjoying yourself.”

“I understand, Gale, but I don’t know.” They tried to choose their next words carefully, and hoped to translate their thoughts into words that weren't too influenced by the wine, or the way the torchlight danced across Gale's neck, beckoning them to come closer and have a taste, to press their lips on the dark lines on his skin and lick down to- focus!

“I don't want to spend this evening with anyone else.” Was the sentence they managed to produce.

“We don’t need to do anything too, um, exciting.” A slight blush tinted Tav’s face. “We could just drink some more wine and dance- with our clothes on I mean.” An intense blush now tinted Tav’s face, and they averted their eyes from Gale’s. “As long as it’s with you.”

“Ah, I see.” Gale felt his heart skip a beat, and indulged but for a moment the thought of pressing his body close to theirs as they danced the night away. To feel their breath on his neck as they swayed… His heart stirred, and as it did, so did the orb inside of him, and he was forced to exercise his well-practised restraint.

“I am flattered, Tav, but I fear even that kind of proximity might, uh, stir something in me and thus be best avoided. Again- for now.”

Tav was about to give up and embrace an evening of self-pity, overdrinking, and embarrassment, but the look on Gale’s face stopped them. Loneliness. He needed them as much as they needed him, no matter how.

“How about something entirely un-exciting? With no proximity at all?” Gale raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

“I suppose, as long as we could ensure the safety of everyone in a rather large radius, there is no harm in an un-exciting activity between companions.”

“I’ll be right back.” And Tav turned around and walked off before either of them had time to overthink and change their mind.

-

Tav opened their tent and dropped to their knees to search through their inventory. Right. Un-exciting. That should be easy enough. It’s not as if they had been thinking scandalous thoughts about Gale every day from the moment they pulled him out of the portal he was stuck in…

They were fucked.

-

It took Tav longer than planned to collect their things, the persistent grinning and stupid butterflies did not help.

The party had started to die down somewhat when Tav returned to Gale’s tent. They carried a small pile of items, and had covered up a bit with a long-sleeved blouse. Gale was nowhere to be seen, so Tav lifted the flap of his tent and peeked their head inside.

The inside of the tent was dimly lit by several candles, and the smell of incense and old books filled the space. Gale was sitting in the center of the tent and was nervously fidgeting with the pages of a book. He was being irresponsible, putting the safety of many people at risk just to spend some one in one time- wait. One on one time on Tav. With Tav.

His spiraling was interrupted.

“Can I come in?” Tav asked sheepishly.

Gale looked up to Tav and his nervous frown made way for a faux confident smile. “Please, enter my humble abode. It's not much compared to my tower in Waterdeep, but I'll do my best to be a gracious host nonetheless.” He said with a playful bow.

“And I shall be a most gracious guest. For starters I have brought this fine bottle of water, aged for several hours in the finest glass you can find on this side of the Chionthar.”

Gale produced two glasses and Tav dramatically uncorked the bottle and sniffed the cork before swirling the water around the glass and taking a sip. “Ah, beautifully full bodied and with rich notes of Sharran conjuration magic if I’m not mistaken.”

Gale's laughter was deep and low. It made Tav question which of the two was at a higher risk to explode from excitement.

They cleared their throat.

“And for entertainment this evening, I offer two options: a dramatic reading of Mordenkainen Presents: a Metaphysical Disquisition of the Domains of Dread; or: Reflections on the Fabric of Demiplanes. Though we might have to skip the blood-stained parts. I found it on the road.”

“An impressive choice, Tav, Mordenkainen’s writing can be very dry indeed. And you’ve managed to pick a tome that even I struggled to get through during my Academy days. Though I did sleep through most of my classes on planar relativism, and that couldn’t have helped.”

Tav chuckled and said: “I use my copy at home to press flowers, it does the job wonderfully.”

Gale ignored the rush of affection that surged through him and continued: “However, Mordenkainen’s descriptions of the Weave as the fabric of reality are nothing short of erotic, if you ask me.” His slender hands gestured enthusiastically in the way they always did when he got to talk about the Weave. “In fact, he makes some really interesting points on-”

Fuck. Tav pushed away the thoughts of sucking on his fingers and interrupted him before this could turn into a lecture. “In that case, I present option number two: a game of lanceboard.”

“Lanceboard sounds like an excellent idea. Though I hope you aren’t a sore loser, I’ve been quite known to shuffle some knights around in my day.”

Tav scoffed. “You are not the only wizard in this tent, Gale.” Their lips turned into a smirk. “I’m going to kick your ass.”

The plan was working so far. They were both sober-ish, they had a lanceboard's worth of distance between them, and the Wizard of Waterdeep was comfortably unexploded. Though a different type of tension was building now. Between Gale's arrogance, and Tav's determination, neither wanted to lose.

“Oh we’ll see about that, Tav. Calimshan rules?” Gale asked while starting to put the pieces on the board.

“I personally prefer Candlekeep rules, but I’ll allow it.”

“Hmmm, I’m unfamiliar with that specific ruleset, but do elaborate.”

“Candlekeep rules state you must take a shot of liquor for every pawn you lose.” Tav hesitated to explain further, but decided it might help them get the upper hand- consequences be damned. “Oh and you take off an article of clothing for every other type of piece you lose.” They looked straight into Gale’s eyes and held firm until he averted his gaze, the faintest glow of the orb visible on his neck. “Now, you never want to play this style of lanceboard against an ogre with a headband of intellect, he will outdrink and outplay you quite easily, is what I can tell you from experience.”

Laughter filled the tent as you finished putting the pieces on the board. “Perhaps I should have taken that elective in Candlekeep after all.” Gale mused. “But let's stick with Calimshan- for now.”

For now. For now. So many promises of what was to come once the Orb was out of the picture. They cursed the Netherese blight for its existence, its residence in the chest of this specific wizard. The one wizard they were in lo- liked. Liked casually. Tav knew that was a lie, but one they needed right now.

“Of course.” That cursed blush again.

Gale moved the first piece and the game started. The competitive air remained, and they exchanged some light trash talk as the game went on.

“Nice move, did your tressym teach you that one?”

“Perhaps the ogre would have defeated you even without the headband.”

The mages were quite evenly matched.

Until.

Gale made the game changing move of slowly rolling up his sleeves and exposing his forearms.

Thoughts about Gale’s arms and hands filled Tav's mind and distracted them to the point of making a mistake. They had moved their cleric one square too far, leaving a gap in their defense. Mate in 5 turns.

It was obvious that Gale saw his path to victory as well. "Interesting move.” He smirked.

Gods, anything to wipe that smirk off of his face. But alas, nothing they could do about it now.

Although.

One move of his Mystra in any direction would turn the tides. And it was getting rather warm inside the tent. Gale had distracted them- purposefully or not- and two could play at that game. Tav vaguely remembered that the point of this game was to spend the evening without taking their clothes off. To ensure they didn’t incite any arousal. But was any of that really as important as Tav's pride?

Absolutely not.

“Hmmm…”

Tav pretended to be in deep thought and leaned over the board slightly.

“It's so hot in here I can barely think.” they said while pushing back their hair and arching their back. Tav's hands moved to the top button of their blouse. “Do you mind?”

With that, the tension returned. Thick and pressing like the air before a summer storm.

“Please.” Gale’s voice was raspy and desperate.

Tav slowly undid the top button.

Gale’s hands turned into fists.

The second button.

His knuckles white.

Third button.

A heavy breath.

A purple glow.

“You know your Mystra is open, right?”

Tav's voice snapped him out of his trance, and his hand reached for the piece and touched the crown without second thought.

“Wait.” The realization dawned on him. “Oh you sly…” He was searching for a solution, a way out, but-

“Calimshan rules, Gale, the first piece touched is the first piece moved.” It was Tav's turn to smirk. “Mate in 3 turns, I believe?”

He was still frantically looking for a way out until he locked eyes with Tav, whose smile was worth losing anything for. Gale tipped his Mystra over in resignation.

The purple glow subsided somewhat. Gale cleared his throat. “You're going to be the death of me, Tav.”

His words were accusatory, but his tone was full of admiration, desire.

Tav wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

Gale wanted nothing more than to kiss them.

They shouldn't. They really shouldn't.

“I should probably leave.” Tav said reluctantly.

“That would probably be the most rational decision, yes.” They both stood up and Gale led them to the tent's entrance. “Thank you, Tav, for this lovely night. If it would have been up to me, I'd have pushed you away as I've become so accustomed to doing in the last year. But this…”

He took a small step towards Tav and slowly reached for their hand.

“This means more to me than you know.”

His touch sent a shock of excitement through their body, running from their fingers up to their arm, neck, around the ears and down to their chest where it settled, vibrating and ready to burst out.

Gale looked them right in the eyes and he gently lifted their hand up, as if holding something fragile, and placed a kiss on their knuckles. Tav’s lips parted ever so slightly and the entire camp must have been able to hear their heart beat.

“Goodnight, Tav.” And he let go of their hand.

It took a long moment to regain their composure, overwhelmed by the tenderness of it all.

“Goodnight, Gale.”

-

“Sooo, how was your night with Gale? Did you have a long, hard, debate?” Astarion teased.

Tav rolled their eyes.

“No, but I did beat him in a game of lanceboard, if that satisfies your curiosity.”

Gale chimed in: “Well, I wouldn’t say you won, strictly speaking, if anything you’d won in cheating at lanceboard. You see, in tournament rules as written-”

“Sounds like you’re a sore loser, darling.” Astarion said with an amused smile on his face.

“Yes, Gale, don’t you know? All’s fair in love and lanceboard.”

[cowboyemeritus]

Can i request brat tamer aether pleasee 😩😩😩

why yes you can >:)

“This is for your own good.”

Thwack!

You jolt as Aether’s large, open hand makes contact with your ass. Mercifully, he’d removed his rings before starting, placing them on his bedside table, but the sting has tears pricking in your eyes nonetheless. Bent over his lap, you whimper, trying to wriggle away, but he holds you down easily.

“I’m sorry.” You’re really not, but it’s so much more fun when you play your part like this.

Aether shakes his head. “Sorry’s not good enough, love. You know better than to distract the boys while they’re trying to practice.” His hand comes down again, and, not expecting it, you yelp. “Damn near ruined rehearsal, you did.”

“It’s not my fault Dew can’t keep it in his pants.” You can still feel his (and Swiss’, and Phantom’s) cum leaking out of you. “If they didn’t want to be distracted, they wouldn’t have invited me to come wa-“ Another spank, this one harder than the last two. You cry out, the pain going straight to your center. He always makes it hurt so, so good.

The large ghoul huffs out an incredulous laugh. “Making excuses now, are we?” He strokes the welt forming on your buttock with his thumb, admiring his handiwork. “I thought I taught you better than that.” This time he goes for the other cheek. There can be no way for you to sit comfortably after what you’ve done. You moan, a tear finally spilling over. “What number was that? Have you been counting like I asked you to?”

You nod, sniffling. “It was five.”

He scoffs. “And now you lie to me! What’s gotten into you?” Two strikes come in rapid succession, and a sob wrenches itself out of you.

“’S not fair!” Not that you mind. “You’re punishing me for something that’s not my fault!” This time, Aether growls.

“I can’t believe you.” He grabs at your ass hard enough that the tips of his claws dig into the reddened flesh a little. With his other hand, the ghoul pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re starting over. Count out loud, since you can’t be trusted anymore.” In your periphery, you see his hand wind all the way back. When he hits you, it echoes off the walls. You let out a strangled cry, thrashing in his lap.

“One,” you gasp, ecstasy twisting your guts. Aether hums, satisfied by this.

“That’s more like it.”

He’s able to keep you in line for another nine strikes, alternating between sides. By the time you call out number ten, your ass burns, radiating heat and no doubt an angry shade of red. You’re entirely too close from this treatment alone, sobbing and moaning and loving every fucking second of it. Aether runs his palm over your tanned hide, soothing the skin with the faintest trace of quintessence. You shift your hips in the hopes of getting a little friction and he takes that as his cue to keep going, clucking his tongue.

“There,” he says. “Was that really so bad?”

“Fuck you,” you hiss, eager for his response. He’s quiet for a moment, then sighs, exasperated. 

“Up. Hands and knees. You clearly need more instruction.” He swats at you one more time when you remain still, and you yip, like you’re a little dog he’s just stepped on. “I’m not asking.” On shaky legs, you comply, Aether threading his fingers into your hair to help guide you, positioning you on the edge of the bed. He takes his sweet time unbuckling his belt, and when you hear his pants finally hit the floor, it’s hard to contain your excitement. You wiggle your reddened ass for him, looking back with a smirk as he spits into his hand and strokes his cock a few times, rolling his violet eyes at you. As he lines himself up, teasing the head against your opening, his tail snakes up your body, wrapping itself around your throat and squeezing. When he finally pushes inside you, it takes everything you have to not fall over the edge. Your back arches as he starts fucking you at a punishing pace, hips slamming into your tender backside. 

“Really, this is my fault,” he mutters, watching your face contort with rabid pleasure. “I clearly haven’t given you enough discipline.”

You laugh. "Clearly not."

In truth, no amount of discipline could ever be enough. Both of you love this little game far too much.

[elainsgirl]

I just know that if Emerie had also lived in HOW instead of Illyria, it’s very possible that Azriel would’ve just given the necklace to her or slipped it under her door or something, leading to people shipping him with Emerie instead of Gwyn. He clearly wanted to get rid of the necklace as soon as possible. It’s a painful reminder of who he’s not allowed to be with so why hang onto it? Obviously we as readers don’t agree with how he gets rid of it but he’s in a very bad headspace at this point so let’s be for real he’s not gonna be making rational decisions.

I don’t think he gave the necklace to Gwyn because he suddenly loves her five minutes after seeing he doesn’t have a chance with Elain (a ridiculous notion as Azriel is canonically someone who pines for a LONG time thus he doesn’t get over someone quickly). So it makes sense then that he may have gone to the nearest person he knows to get rid of it. And since canonically he has the same dynamic with Emerie as with Gwyn, he likely might’ve easily decided to give it to her had she lived there.

At the end of the day, antis ship Azriel with anyone who isn’t Elain (as in— any female he interacts with lmao). They don’t realize how truly flimsy their own belief is in their ship. Because I can tell you for a fact they absolutely would’ve been “emriels” instead had the necklace gone to Emerie and would be looking way too much into any interactions she had with him and seeing things that aren’t there. Because in their world, it only takes a necklace to serve as the entire basis for their ship and not three books of heavy buildup

Exactly. If he had known any of the other priestesses or ran into them, he would’ve given the necklace away. The whole point was he wanted it gone. He didnt care deeply over who it went too. Exactly- should he have just kept the necklace or throw it away into some river like Cass? Sure. But he was hurt and in all honesty- he just wanted to make someone else happy and thought- if not for him, then at least someone else can find joy in the necklace. The fact he gave it away anonymously goes to show he didn’t want to cause drama or even let the receiver know who gave the gift which can lead to misunderstandings as well.

He definitely did not give the necklace away due to any new feelings for Gwyn. He had every intention of giving it away until somehow he “found” himself at the library. It would be 100x different if Az intentionally went to the library to give Gwyn the necklace specifically, that would have been romantic but it went through a 3rd person without Gwyn knowing and going from acosf we know Gwyn doesn’t have the necklace therefore Clotho must have never given it = stopped a gwynriel romance from happening or maybe Sjm’s way of ending anyones’ idea of gwynriel saying “hey they where never meant to be romantic!” Because introducing the necklace into acosf with Gwyn would have set up gwynriels’ stake/tension/angst on page something Mass has done before the couples’ had their love stories.

The simple fact people shipped Az and Emerie despite neither interacting all because they’re both illyrians goes to show antis where desperate and would hVe shipped Az with any straight woman - thats not Elain. Looking at it - Emerie x Az made 100x more sense then gwynriel, at least those two had a solid plot that would have followed on from acosf. Gwynriel doesn’t even have that - if Mass had changed her mind - it would’ve been elriel -> emriel.

You know whats funny? Antis claiming the necklace symbolises Azriels “love” and how it went from Elain to Gwyn except…everything about that necklace was purely Elain. Nothing about Gwyn - not a good start for a love story + most importantly- there is 0 evidence Gwyn hs the necklace therefore its very safe to say that a gwynriel romance is not starting or has even even been foreshadowed. Its sad that gwynriels have to romanticise a necklace brought for another for their ship because Mass couldn’t even have Az do the bare minimum and get his own mate a solstice gift

[riskybite]

For either jesse/reader or jesse/reader/severen: severen's reaction to his maker turning the reader?

anon, i hope you don’t mind that i answered this as a ramble. i just had so many thoughts. couldn’t find a way to neatly contain them all in one little fic.

If you are Jesse’s mate and Jesse’s mate only… more than anything, Sev is gonna be protective of you. Jesse clearly means a lot to Sev, so in his eyes anything Jesse cares about is worth protecting. Not that you’re likely to need Sev’s help. Jesse rarely leaves your side. His presence alone is enough to scare off most people. But if someone does happen to cross you, you’re probably capable of slaughtering that random jackass by yourself. Sev would love to see it. Your ferocity is something he admires. Wouldn’t stop him from lending you a hand in the killing fields, though. He reckons it’s the gentlemanly thing to do.

Jesse turned Sev and Diamondback both, so he’s got a type. Chances are, you’re as ruthless and wild as the rest of ‘em. You fit in just fine. But it surprises Sev whenever he catches Jesse acting soft with you. Before you came along, Jesse used affection as a lure, his touch another set of teeth, weakening the women he aimed to kill before the night was through. Now he kisses your throat and leads you off into the dark only to bring you back alive. Each night he treats you like his most coveted prey. Yet each night you survive him. Sev’s always thought him and Jesse had the same idea about being soft. Affection as a means to an end, and every night ends with dead prey. But you stick around. Sev tries to make sense of it. It takes some getting used to. Of course Sev gives Jesse hell for being soft with you. That’s just his way.

Some nights you keep Jesse all to yourself and Sev ain’t immune to jealousy. Jesse was the first one to ever act like Sev’s life was worth anything. He’s the only real family Sev’s ever had and nobody ever taught Sev how to share. So Sev kinda resents you at first. Especially right after Jesse turns you. In your presence, Jesse’s ravenous and dangerously possessive. He keeps himself and you away from the clan for a while for everybody’s own good. Sev takes it hard. He’s spent countless nights at Jesse’s side. He’s bound to feel lost without him. Of course Sev never admits that. But Diamondback and Homer can tell something’s wrong with him. They know Jesse’s absence is the cause of it. When Jesse finally returns with your hand in his, Sev keeps his resentment to himself. But it itches under his skin all the same.

Nights pass and eventually you win Sev over. Your savagery impresses him. So does your devotion to Jesse and the rest of the clan. He comes to see you as a survivor. He can respect that. And then he starts to like you. One night Diamondback points out you and Sev aren’t all that different. Her words earn a laugh from Jesse and Sev knows she’s right. Doesn’t stop him from feeling a twinge of jealousy whenever Jesse chooses you over the rest of the clan, though. But on the rare occasions Jesse praises him, Sev notices a flash of envy in your eyes. Guess he’s not the only one who’s jealous sometimes. It makes him like you even more.

If you belong to Jesse and Sev both… you’re gonna make those boys so much worse.

Sev was Jesse’s first love, in a sense. He was the first one Jesse turned and it was Jesse’s desire to keep Sev by his side that started the clan. So the fact they end up sharing a mate comes as no surprise to either of them. The only surprise is that they’re capable of sharing. But there’s a bond that exists between you three, unbreakable and supernatural. You know without speaking that you’d burn for each other. It’s a bond stronger than death. You are mates and old dogs can learn new tricks. Sev and Jesse learn how to share.

You three roam the boondocks like a pack of dogs in heat. In a bygone era, Sev and Jesse were known to leave behind some ghost towns. They’re even more gluttonous with you around. Sharing a mate riles them up in ways nothing else ever has. Night falls and you bring out the worst in each other. Sev and Jesse make bigger and messier kills, desperate to impress you. Excite you. Encourage your own dark impulses. They love nothing more than to watch their mate wreak havoc. They love knowing they’re the ones who unleashed you onto this world. And when dawn comes, it finds you tucked between the two of them in some motel bed. Some mornings Sev fights his nocturnal nature long enough to lick the blood off your skin. He wishes Jesse’d found you sooner. Feels like it should’ve always been like this, you three tangled in each other’s limbs and bloodied sheets, each other’s teeth marks deep in your flesh. Sev likes to fall asleep with the phantom aches of your bites across his body. He hopes you feel the same about the bites he left on you.