#and I just picked up a blank sheet of paper and did it

[look-at-the-stars-tonight]

I ran this morning AND wrote some AND made art and I’m so proud of me

[niennanir]

Listen to your elders

So last week I posted abut the importance of downloading your fic. And then three days later AO3 went down for 24 hours. No one was more weirded out by this than I was. But while y’all were acting like the library at Alexandria was on fire I was reading my download fic and editing chapter eight of Buck, Rogers, and the 21st Century. And also thinking about what I could do to be helpful when the crisis was actually over.

So first off, I’m going to repeat that if you’re going to bookmark a fic, you really need to also download the fic and back it up in a safe place. I just do it automatically now and it’s a good habit to get into.

But let’s talk about some other scenarios. Last October I lost power for over a week after hurricane Ian. Apart from not having internet or A/C I did find plenty to do, I collect books so I had plenty to read, but maybe, unlike me, your favorite comfort reads aren’t sitting on a bookshelf. So let’s do something about that, shall we?

In olden times many long years ago around 1995 we printed off a lot of fic. It was mostly SOP to print a fic you planned to reread and stick it in a three ring binder. And that’s totally valid today too, but you can also make a very nice paperback with a minimum amount of skill and materials.

Let’s start with the download; Go to Ao3 and select your fic, we’ll be working with one of mine. This method works best with one shots, long fic tends to need a more complicated approach. Get yourself an HTML download

Open up the HTML download and select all then copy paste into any word processor. Set the page to landscape and two columns, then change the font to something you find easy to read, this is your book, no judgement. This is all you have to do for layout but I like to play a little bit. I move all the meta, summary, notes to the end and pick out a fun font for the title: 

No time like the present to do a quick proofread. Congratulations, you’ve just created your first typeset. On to the fun part.

Now you’re going to need some materials:  8.5x11in paper ruler one sheet of 12x12 medium card stock (60-80lb) scissors pencil pen or fine tip marker sheet of wax paper white glue two binder clips 2 heavy books or 1 brick butter knife

You’ll also need a printer, if you’re in the US there is almost a 100% chance your local library has a printer you can use if you don’t have your own. None of these materials are expensive and you can literally use cheap copy paper and Elmers glue.

Print your text block, one page per side. Fold the first page in half so that the blank side is inside and the printed side out:

use the butter knife to crease the edge. Repeat on all the sheets. When you’ve finished, stack them up with the raw edge on the left and the folded edge on the right. I used standard copy paper, because you’re only printing on one side there’s no bleed to worry about. Take the text block and line everything up. Use the binder clips to hold the raw edge in place.

Wrap the text block in the wax paper so that the raw edge and binder clips are facing out. I’m going to use my home built book press but you don’t need one, a brick or a couple of books or anything else heavy will work fine.

Once the text block is anchored down, take off he binder clips and get out the glue.

You can use a brush but you don’t need one, smear some glue on that raw edge.

Go make a margarita, watch The Mandalorian, call your mother. Don’t come back for at least an hour

In an hour smear some more glue on there and shift your brick forward so that the whole book is covered. This keeps the paper from warping. While glue part 2 is drying we’ll do the cover. Get out your 12x12 cardstock

Mark the cardstock off at 8.5 inches and cut it. Measure in 5.5 inches from the left and put in a score line with the butter knife (the back edge not the sharp edge)

Carefully fold the score line, this is your front cover. You have some options for the cover title, you can use a cutting machine like a cricut if you have one, you can print out a title on the computer and use carbon paper to transfer the text to the cardstock. I was in a mood so I just freehanded that beoch. Pencil first then in pen.

Take your text block out from under your brick. Line it up against the score mark and mark the second score on the other side of the spine

Fold the score and glue the textblock into the cover at the spine. Once the glue dries up mark the back cover with the pencil and then trim the back cover to fit with your scissors.

Voila:

I’m going to put this baby on the shelf next to the Silmarillion.

The whole process, not counting drying time, took less than an hour.

If you want to make a book of a longer fic, I recommend Renegade Publishing, they have a ton of resources for fan-binders. 

[tadpolesonalgae]

Bloodlust.[*]

Azriel x reader

a/n: thank you, anon <3, I had a lot of fun writing this 😌

warnings: smut, spitting, hate-sex, slight power imbalance?

word count: 4,170

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“Where’s your report?”

“I thought you were doing it.”

The look Azriel gives you is filled with enough ire to have a hint of satisfaction sparking in your chest, the hollow beneath his dark brows deepening as his classical features twist into an expression of silent hatred.

“You have thirty minutes to get it written up and on my desk,” he says shortly, words icy and clipped in the exact way that has irritation scratching at the back of your mind. “That’s completely unreasonable,” you reply bluntly. “Besides,” you say, holding his dark gaze, “I thought you were my superior. I was just there to offer assistance, so there’s no need for me to submit a formal report.”

“My desk. Half an hour,” he repeats coldly, his tone blunt and unforgiving. “Not a minute later.”

Then he turns, closing the door with enough force it creates a distinct hissing noise on the way shut, leaving you to struggle with the deadline.

————

Twenty-nine minutes later you deliver three forceful knocks to his door, blood hot as it boils in your veins, report still stuck to your clipboard which is in turn tucked beneath your arm.

“Enter,” he calls, and a muscle in your jaw ticks at the tone. Curt and demanding. Still, you step inside, allowing the door to click shut, dropping the clipboard on his desk on top of a file he was writing in, hopefully smudging the ink as the board clatters upon the surface. “Good enough?” You nearly spit, but manage to tone down the venom just enough.

Thunder claps from outside as your eyes meet, and he picks the report up, leaning back in his chair as he begins to read through the hurried scrawl. You bite down a snappy remark, hands clasped behind your back in proper fashion as you’re forced to wait for him to complete his review. You get the distinct impression he’s taking his time.

His dark eyes pause a third of the way down the page, brows narrowing before dragging his gaze to yours. “The disposal was rushed and excessively violent. Diplomacy would have been preferable, and much more suitable?” He reads aloud, voice rough and gravelly with barely restrained ire.

“You asked for my report,” you counter lowly, unable to help the disagreeable twist of your features as you glare at him. “Diplomacy did not guarantee the mission’s success. It would have been a waste of time,” he replies.

“That’s just like you to rush into violence,” you hiss, nails digging into the skin of your wrist with the amount of restraint you’re using to keep from doing something you’ll regret. “You resort to slaughter at the slightest inconvenience,” you seethe, nails piercing the skin. “Fucking Illyrian,” you spit.

Ire blazes behind his eyes, reflecting the hatred burning in your own gaze.

Not breaking eye-contact, he reaches for a blank sheet of paper and places it before him on the desk, jabbing his finger once down atop the page. “Rewrite it. Now.”

A startled laugh barks from your throat as you stare at him in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

“I won’t repeat myself.”

You stare at him longer, furious indignation boiling your blood, able to feel as your temper begins to bubble over with blatant provocation. “You’re a spiteful piece of shit,” you seethe lowly but he doesn’t buckle beneath your rage. You wouldn’t hate him as much as you do if you could so easily get the better of him. “You just want me to write a report in your favour. You can’t stand that you might have made the wrong call.”

“It was the right call,” he replies harshly, a hiss in his voice, “your lack of experience is limiting your understanding. I knew you weren’t fit for this mission—I’ll have you moved to a more suitable position.”

“You’re the one in the wrong position,” you spit, stalking forward so you’re right before his desk. “You’re too prone to excessive violence. You needlessly took a life that could have been saved. It would have been of no consequence to us if he lived.”

“His existence would have only perpetuated the problem,” Azriel repeats lowly, his own temper beginning to show as he stands from his desk, palms flattening across its surface as he leans forward. “Purge from the roots, or it will only return. Now write the report.”

Gritting your teeth any tighter would have surely caused one to crack beneath the pressure, and you can perfectly imagine how it would feel to launch yourself across the desk and wrap your hands around his throat. To squeeze until he’s thrashing beneath you, that indomitable figure writhing beneath you as you begin to pry the life from his body…to set him alight and watch him scream.

You ease out a breath, soothed by the surprisingly violent imagery. You aren’t one to generally resort to that kind of solution, but with him it seems almost irresistible…the call of violence, how good it would feel to watch blood bead on his skin.

Frustration slightly abated, you drag the paper from beneath his hold. “Give me the clipboard.”

“You’ll complete it here, where I can see you,” he replies icily.

“Fine. Give me the clipboard,” you bite out, rage already rising again.

“You don’t need it. You’ll write it here,” he says, gesturing to the desk.

A tinge of red creeps into your vision, and it takes all your discipline not to reach for the blades tucked beneath your clothes. Stiff with rage, you drag the paper to the side of his desk, walking around to his side as you take a pen from the pot, making a point of reaching through his personal space. Then, as you’re retracting, you decide you’ve had enough of restraining yourself. “Illyrian scum,” you hiss out, gaze piercing into him as your hand tightens around the pen, clutching it as though it were a blade.

His pupils narrow into slits and his fingers crush at the soft skin of your throat. Your entire body contracts beneath the brutal touch, the tip of steel already poised to slice into leather and cut through his blackened heart. Stalemate.

“You’re a fucking piece of work,” he snarls out gutturally, expression twisted into picturesque wrath, ignoring the stinging pain as you slide the blade deeper, sharp enough to pierce the leather with ease, poised to cut into flesh. He seems to remember himself, hold lightening only marginally…enough you have to pull back on the blade or else he’ll be justified in his hostility.

“Infighting is forbidden,” you manage to get out, making sure to keep the steel close enough to his flesh he knows you won’t hesitate anymore. “You broke a rule, Spymaster.”

“And what will you do?” He asks, cruel mirth glittering in his dark hazel eyes. “Will you try for diplomacy now?” He hisses, squeezing the sides of your throat painfully.

“Why would I bother with a brute?” You rasp back, neither of you bothering to conceal the venom in your voices. “Clear aggression is the only language you’ll understand, so I’ll just have to act in a way that’ll get through that thick skull of yours.”

“Brandishing a weapon against me is enough to have you permanently removed from your position,” he hisses down at you.

“Fine,” you breathe, coming to the same conclusion as he has for the expulsion of rage that’s been building up inside of you. “Hand-to-hand combat it is.”

His hand releases your throat at the same time the blade falls from your fingertips, his grip sliding to the nape of your neck as your arms snake over his shoulders, nails raking through his hair as you’re magnetically snatched against one another, hardly a breath of air to be found between your bodies as you’re crushed against one another. Teeth flash as canines scrape, but his fingers dig into the tendon at your neck, forcing you to seize as he pries you apart with his tongue and mouth. Your lip curls in a snarl as he pushes into you, able to see how his wings have instinctively flared at his back, shadows writhing and deepening with unsuppressed fury.

Without giving him a chance to defend your arms surge further down his back, nails brandished as they scratch across the intimate skin of his wings, slicing the leathery surface jaggedly. He recoils, a vicious snarl cutting through the room that has satisfaction blazing across your chest. Rage bleeds across his features and his hand returns to your throat, shoving you down onto his desk, papers flying as ink spills across the surface, pens clattering as they drop to the floor. Your hands fly to his wrist, scratching at his scarred knuckles but his mouth has already descended over yours again and you move to grip at his hair, silky and soft beneath your violent touch. Heat swarms your skin as his shadows pin you down, writhing pleasantly across your body in a way that has your insides fluttering.

Azriel again pries your lips apart, tongue sweeping in as his mouth slants invasively over your own, flicking and stroking while his fingers hold your jaw in a vice-like grip. A strange feeling skitters beneath your skin, and you wrap your legs around his hips, minimising the space between your bodies as he presses flush against your centre.

You can feel him.

Oh Gods, you can feel him completely.

Your mouth parts as you push against him, tongue sweeping across his own, the kisses hot and wet as each of you refuse to lighten your grip on the other and your thighs squeeze him closer, determined you won’t be losing this battle.

Azriel pulls away abruptly, and you look up at him, watching keenly for any move he’ll make, aware what kind of beast you’re taunting. “Keep still,” he commands roughly, voice like gravel as his shadows swarm your body, and you snarl as the hand that was pinning your throat to the desk drops to the hem of your shirt. Before you have a chance to counter he’s lowered to your neck, hair having fallen back onto the surface so he has plenty of room as his shadows shove your face to the side.

You inhale sharply as his teeth graze the sensitive expanse, grip tugging on his hair to get him closer, eager to have him working his mouth over the intimate area. “Hurry up,” you hiss, eager to be rid of the burning heat as soon as possible.

“I’ll go at whatever pace I like,” he replies darkly before sinking his teeth into your shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave more than just a mark in his wake. A noise of pleasure seeks to slip from your mouth as he palms at your breast, thumb grazing across your nipple as he targets a spot just beneath your ear, kissing down your neck as he makes his way to your collar bones, littering your skin with deep bite marks that will surely remain for days, even with accelerated healing.

“You’re an arrogant prick, you know that,” you pant, putting as much venom into your voice as you can manage, thighs tightening around his hips so you can feel him more acutely, the thick length of him rubbing over your centre. “And you’re turned on by that?” He counters sharply with a hungry glint in his eyes.

Heat flushes your skin as you make to deny his claim, but his shadows have been untying the laces of your trousers making it easy for him to roughly grip the waistband and shove the material away, dragging it over your thighs and off past your ankles, leaving you with only your underwear to conceal your lower half. “Slow down,” you snarl, searching for a way to regain control of the situation. You hate that he’s the one in charge.

Azriel grips the underside of your thighs, guiding them to wrap snugly around his hips again as his hand slips beneath your shirt again, settling over your breast, fingers skimming your nipple tauntingly. “Hurry up. Slow down. Which one is it?” He goads, something that looks too close to male satisfaction passing through his expression for you to stand. Your lip curls and before you can second-guess yourself you’ve spat at him.

He freezes for a moment, motion halting and you find yourself holding your breath, keeping entirely still beneath him. Waiting for the storm to break.

Fury engulfs his eyes, features twisting in a snarl as he grips your jaw, fingers squeezing at the muscle as he forces your mouth open, spitting down between your lips. Your eyes widen as arousal flutters violently in your lower abdomen, unable to help the way your hips buck as you swallow. Sadism glints in his hazel eyes, his own arousal beginning to filter through into your lungs but to your surprise you don’t hate it.

“Like that?” He croons lowly, leaning over you while still gripping your jaw, eyes dark and dangerous yet there’s an unmistakable heat that he’s not quite able to entirely suppress. Rage pierces through your mind and your palm smacks across his cheek, nails catching on his brow and temple as you snarl lowly. “Try that again,” you hiss in warning, “I’m not against walking out right now if you pull something like that again.”

“Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it,” he replies icily, syllables dragging from his throat.

“Prick,” you snarl.

“Brat,” he bites back.

You make to smack him again but his shadows snare your wrists faster than you can blink, slamming them painfully back onto the table, the impact ringing through your bones but you refuse to show your wince. You open your mouth to hiss something at him—what, you haven’t yet decided—but the intention dissolves on your tongue as you feel him cup you through your underwear. Heat unravels in your lower stomach, liquefying into a torrent as arousal breaks all at once across your skin and you find yourself breathless. Cruel, dark hazel eyes pierce into yours, watching intently as he rests the heal of him palm over the apex of your thighs, his middle finger running tauntingly over your entrance, applying a light pressure to the dip between your legs.

Male satisfaction is written across his features but you find you can’t think of anything to knock it away: your hands are pinned, your legs slung over his hips, and you’re in no state to control the small amount of magic you possess. Azriel’s mouth remains in a loathsome cut, but you can still make out that heat in his gaze, the slight ember that’s the cause of this whole mess—you wonder how clearly it’s showing in your own eyes.

“Nothing to say?” He asks lowly over your mouth, silky hair brushing against your brow like a tender caress—the gentlest touch either of your will ever share between one another, and entirely unintended. “Don’t worry,” he rasps coldly, thumbing your underwear out of the way and your lips part on a sharp inhale as you feel his cock slide through the wetness that’s coalesced between your thighs. “I’ll make sure to fuck the brat out of you.”

“At least my negative traits can be removed,” you manage to hiss out ruefully, wishing to be able to rake your nails across his skin somehow. “There’s no changing what you are.”

You don’t need to remind him of your earlier comment. He’s been hearing the words repeat through his mind since you spat them out: Illyrian scum.

Icy fury glitters in his gaze, fingertips biting bruises into your hips as he lines himself up and swiftly pushes in, the entrance made almost effortless by how wet you are; you’re somewhat relieved when he makes no comment about it.

Your spine arches helplessly, lips parting as he pushes in, filling you up in a way you hadn’t anticipated or even considered. Satisfying the ache that had been thrumming between your legs, giving you something long and thick to squeeze. Your only saving grace is that he seems to be as breathless as you are, brow lowered to the top of your sternum, lips grazing between your breasts as his hands remain firmly on your hips. From another angle you’d think it looked reverent, but then you’d also look in the heights of pleasure, and no matter how Azriel might be able to make you feel physically, there’s no removing the guttural hatred that burns between you.

“Move,” you whisper, panting softly. “Move.”

His wings twitch almost imperceptibly at his back, then he’s dragging himself upright, pulling away from you to stand to his full height as he looms above. You swallow thickly, having enough sense to squeeze your thighs around his hips, legs locking as you urge him to move; to give more. “Hold still,” he breathes, and your muscles instinctively relax, giving him room to shift.

“So you can follow orders,” he muses lowly, holding you tight as he draws back.

“Fuck o—” you begin to say, but he rolls his hips firmly to yours and your head tips back onto his desk, falling to the side as his cock rubs so delightfully against you, pleasure brimming at your edges from being so full, so spread out. He doesn’t give you time to recover. After another firm roll of his hips, as if testing you out, he finds his rhythm instinctively. Hard, punishing movements that allow him to pound into you, shoving the breath from your lungs as he repeatedly slams into you.

Your spine arches, writhing on his desk as you tug at the shadowy constraints, desperate noises being forced from your chest as his cock drives into you over and over again, thoughts practically falling out of your mind as it turns to mush beneath the utterly overwhelming onslaught of pleasure. Your eyes squeeze shut, blocking him out so you can concentrate only on the purest part of the sensations, zero in on the flutter of arousal between your legs, the rightness of being so full up, of having him pressed so tight between your thighs.

You allow yourself to fall deeply into the pleasure, allow yourself to be washed away entirely, submerged in the heated waters as you keep just enough of a hold on him to prevent your legs from falling off the desk. A moan slips from between your lips as your control begins to disintegrate, content to bask in the pleasure and forget who’s providing it. Azriel doesn’t make it that easy, though.

“Things would be so much better if you just learned to shut up and take it sooner,” he mutters down at you, shadows crawling leisurely over your body, pushing the fabric of your top up over your chest so their master can watch as your figure moves with each of his thrusts. Pleasure blossoms as his darkness teases the sensitive peaks of your breasts, pinching and playing with your nipples, and you try to dig your nails into your palm, teeth pushing into your lower lip to keep the noises from becoming louder.

“You’re so well-behaved now,” he muses lowly, and even if his expression wouldn’t show his pleasure, you can hear it the rich timbre of his voice, the satisfaction he’s feeling at getting you to shut up. “So docile,” he taunts, and your eyes snap open to shoot him a furious glare for trying to disrupt your pleasure. For succeeding. But no sooner than you open your eyes, his thumb presses over your clit and any resistance is utterly obliterated.

Azriel hadn’t anticipated how it would feel however, how your body would respond to the intimate kind of stimulation he was subjecting you to, and is unable to bite down on the rough groan that drags viscerally from his chest as you tighten around him, as if trying to pull him deeper so he’ll never leave.

The both of you are near your breaking point though neither wants to admit it. But the signs are there. Your panting breaths, the gleam on his skin, the heat to your cheeks, the tension in his body—it’s all there for the other to read. He rubs against a spot and despite subduing your reaction he somehow knows where to aim, targeting it repeatedly as his thumb soothes over your clit, the pad sliding effortlessly over top from the slick that’s coating the both of you. It’s so much that your discipline slips for a moment. “Azriel…”

It’s softer than a breath, quieter than a whisper, but he hears it. Of course he hears it. And he finds that he likes the way you moan his name. Especially while getting to take his tension out on you so roughly. It’s probably more satisfying than any method he could have thought up on his own.

His grip tightens on your hips, angling them slightly upright as he leans over you. “Say that again,” he commands quietly, but firmly. An intensity in his demand that has your throat rolling. You don’t want to, but you can feel his concentration piercing down on you, the intensity of his focus weighing so heavily that you feel like your skin is prickling.

“Piss off,” you manage to get out, but you can feel how swiftly release is gathering, how close you are to that wonderful high that will knock you clean from your feet.

For a moment he continues with his punishing movements, but it seems like he’s committed now. You hadn’t fully understood what it would mean to have his entire attention upon you, but when he roughly rips you from his desk, jerking you up against his chest as he turns the two of you around so your back is shoved up against his wall, you feel the consequences dawn on you.

From this position you’re forced so much closer, the physical intimacy catching you off guard as your breasts press flush to his chest, staring into cold hazel eyes that can be no more than a few inches from your own, able to feel each puff of breath that’s expelled from his body as it brushes over your lips. He takes up all of your vision, wings flared slightly at his back as shadows crawl up your body, pinching at your nipples, pressing against your clit as his hips buck roughly to your own and you feel yourself unravel.

The orgasm pulses through your body once, before crashing down on you in its entirety, and your mouth parts in silent ecstasy.

His hand slides through your hair, your own having found their place on his shoulders, and he angles your head so you’re forced to look at him. “Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing over yours, and your world is thawed enough that you yield.

“Az…riel…”

A heavy sigh warms your mouth, then his teeth grit, head dropping to your shoulder as you feel him find his release. Your hips buck, hands grappling to reach over his shoulders, pulling him into you as the waves of pleasure continue to pulse through your body, muscles turning custard-like beneath the overpowering sensations. Reaching weakly over his back, you have enough energy to lightly skim the pads of your fingers over the ridges of his wings, and if it wasn’t for his proximity to you, you’re almost certain you would have missed the soft moan that involuntary parts from his lips. He tenses briefly, the only sign that he was caught off guard before his teeth settle over your shoulder, biting lightly at the side of your throat.

Breaths pant between you as you ride out the aftershocks, basking in the waning pleasure for a few moments longer before your hold relaxes on him, and he steps back, hands still keeping your hips pinned to the wall despite your feet now being on the ground.

You bite back a hiss as his cock leaves you feeling slightly cold and empty, but you’d rather take a near-lethal dose of faebane than tell him that. His gaze meets yours and for a second you’re unsure what you could possibly say to one another. But his expression remains cold, your own features shifting habitually towards neutrality.

“You have until tomorrow morning to redo the report,” he mutters, already having his clothes back in place as his shadows push your trousers to your stomach, and your hands wrap around the bundle of fabric.

“Want me to write a report on this, too?” You reply, relieved that the heat is beginning to cool, sensing you’re back in control of yourself.

His brow narrows, the hollow beneath darkening with loathing. “You’re more trouble that you’re worth,” he mutters, stepping back to give you space.

You meet his icy gaze, a sharp glint in your own as victory sparks darkly across your chest.

“Liar.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes

[toxicanonymity]

Let me stay awake.

7.2k, vampy!Joel x f!reader | vampire masterlist | playlist SUMMARY: Joel tries to take better care of you and plans a date night in. Next time he takes your blood, it feels amazing. WARNINGS: I8+, big girthy age gap (440s to 20s-50s), reader is in captivity, angst, hurt/comfort, dark fluff, POV alternates (twice?), a lot of character dev in the first half, a former blood donor joins the cast, chains, shackles, ankle collar, dry humping, groping, perfectly timed ejaculation. Captivity dubcon. SERIES IMMERSABILITY: Reader can menstruate, be lifted by vampire Joel, and has no allergies.

After Joel took your period, you told him he was doing a bad job taking care of you, which was true. But he did a good job at something. You slept like a baby. He was back with when you woke up. Now he’s sitting next to you on the mattress, back against the wall. Against his thighs, he’s holding a pen on top of a book that looks ancient.  He adjusts his glasses and opens the book. The pages are blank, discolored, and thick. Some have been ripped out. He takes the cap off his pen and asks, “What’d ya have at your old house that we don't have here?” then rests his hand on the page to write. His hand dwarfs the page, and you feel a surge of desire recalling his sounds of pleasure. No, you don’t want him, you tell yourself, as if you didn’t fantasize about him on your way to sleep.

“Freedom,” you answer, and he winces. 

He closes the journal with the pen keeping it partly open, then he turns toward you. “If ya just gimme a chance, sweetheart. . . I'm really gonna do my best. . .” 

When you stay quiet, he says, “Ya know. I think one day, we’ll get there.” 

“Get where?” 

“Outside, out in the world together.”

“Really?” 

He nods. “That walk we took was nice, right?”

“What walk?”

“Through the alley, that first night, when I walked ya to your car?” Right. . .what a gentleman. 

“Yeah, I guess.” Now your mind is drifting back to the way he gently pushed you against the brick wall to kiss you on that walk. Did he already know what he was going to do to you when he first pressed himself against you? 

His eyes are earnest.  “It can be like that again,” he nods.  “Just need a little time.”

You nod. 

He clears his throat, opens the journal, and picks up his pen. “So what do you need?” 

Your stomach twists. Answering would feel like resigning yourself to some dark fate. “I'm not gonna help you keep me prisoner,” you mumble. 

“Prisoner?” He dips his head and his brow furrows. “God, no,” he softly reassures you. He reads your face, then stares into the mattress and swallows.

You rephrase, “Well I’m not gonna help you keep me.” 

He looks you over with pleading eyes.  “I'm gonna go out for a while, okay? Can I get ya anything?”

There are things you need, but you still can’t bring yourself to acknowledge you’re there for the long haul. So you shake your head no. He goes to get the chain from the floor.

“Hate doin’ this,” he mumbles. “‘s’just for now.” He drags the chain over and lifts the sheet to expose your feet. He sees the scrapes and irritation on your ankle. “Shit,” he shakes his head at himself. “Hold on, sweetheart,” he mutters. “Stupid,” he mumbles at himself as he gets up.  He goes upstairs and takes the tray from breakfast with him.  He returns with the same tray. It’s holding a pair of his own wool socks in a fair isle pattern, a paper bag, and a translucent teal bottle full of water. “Lunch,” he says as he sets the tray down next to you. He puts the socks on you, and they're toasty. Then, he puts the cuff on over the sock. “Little better?”

“A little,” you answer. 

“Good,” he whispers. 

— JOEL —

He’s gotta do something about that chain. He’s about to lay down on the sofa to think, but when he moves a decorative pillow out of the way, he feels a rush of shame. “Oh my god,” he whispers. He’s so stupid. How did he not think to give you a pillow? He goes straight to a guest bedroom. The tall, oak door creaks as he opens it. The light from the window nearly blinds him. He blocks it with his forearm as he hurries over to close the heavy curtains.  He sneezes. He picks up an old pillow off the bed and fluffs it. Dust swarms around. There's no way he's giving you that. This whole room has a sad vibe. But he could make you a different room, maybe. His wheels start turning as he goes back downstairs - he has ideas for what room he could use, and what he could do with it. 

He says your name as he descends the final steps. “I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking,” he apologizes as he crosses the room.  He hands you the pillow and assures you he'll get a better one. Then he goes back upstairs.

After a little research, he packs a leather, cross-body bag and checks the weather. “Damnit,” he grumbles to himself.  Cool but no cloud cover. If it were another sunny day, he’d stay home, but this is too important. He puts on a scarf and grabs his parasol from the coat closet and tucks it under his arm as he pulls on his gloves. He’d rather endure the strange looks than come home without the energy to take care of you. 

-

-

Joel’s first stop is an erotic boutique. It's been a long time since he was anywhere like this. The mannequins in mesh bodysuits and strappy leather catch his eye on the way in, and he almost forgets what he came for. He can't help but imagine you wearing some of these things, but he'd rather just see you naked. 

He slowly makes his way through the store. Should he get you a toy? It seems like sexual health would be a basic need. No, he decides. It might make you uncomfortable. He doesn't want to assume, and doesn't want to invade your privacy. Plus, he has to be careful. He doesn’t want you to think this is all just to get him off. He knows how it feels to be fetishized.

“Can I help you?” Someone asks. Joel turns around and squints through his transition lenses at the worker’s face, then their name tag. Craig.  Where does Joel know him from?  Joel stays home a lot, but not as much as one might think. He needs some kind of social contact. 

Craig interrupts Joel’s thoughts, “You’re the one with the mansion, right?”

Joel chuckles. “Uhh, I dunno if–”

“Oh, sorry,” Craig  holds his hand up. “Ya know what? I must be thinking of someone else.” His lie is an unconvincing attempt to allow Joel his anonymity after the slip-up. He probably thinks Joel is in disguise. 

“No, no, it’s okay, man. I was just gonna say. I wouldn’t call it a. . . mansion,” Joel feels stupid as he finishes the sentence. 

“Okay,” Craig concedes with a playful eye roll.  “The house with the Christmas party” 

Oh, God. Joel hadn't even thought about his party. It's gotta be small this year, if it happens. Maybe it would be nice. Joel pictures you in a fancy dress sitting next to him at the table. He imagines having someone to kiss at midnight. 

“New year’s, “ Joel corrects him and sticks out his hand. “Joel.” 

“Right, right.” Craig shakes Joel’s hand and asks, “Friend of the Fishers, right?” 

Joel snaps his finger, “Yes! Right. You're in David's choir.” Another thing Joel forgot. His life has revolved around you ever since you stepped into it.  You're all he thinks about.  Joel starts to apologize, “Look, I dunno if I'm gonna make the Christmas concert this year, it snuck up on me.”

“It's okay, it's okay,” Craig reassures him with a wave of his hand. “Can I help ya find anything?” 

“Yeah, uh, it said online y’all have some cuffs and chains and stuff?”

“Oh yeah,” Craig nods. “Come with me.” He guides Joel to a back wall covered in all sorts of contraptions. “Looking for anything in particular?” 

“Yeah, something really comfortable and secure.”

–

As Craig rings up Joel’s purchase, Joel silently worries if this is going to work. 

“Want me to show ya how the lock works?” Craig asks. 

 “Uhh, sure,” Joel says. 

Craig takes the leather cuff out of the package and demonstrates the metal lock. He dangles the two keys. “One for you, and one for them,” he smiles. 

“And both cuffs have the same key?”

“Yep,” Craig nods. 

The cuff seems comfortable–the inside is suede and there's metal over the leather-–but Joel wonders if it's secure enough. What if you get away and he never sees you again? He looks at the metal loop on the cuff.

“Hey,” Joel asks and scratches his neck. “Y’all don't have any, uh, ID tags or anything do ya?”

“ID tags?” 

“Like the little metal ones that hang on a loop.”

“Ohhh, like for a collar.” Craig raises his eyebrows. 

“Or for this?” Joel asks, holding up a cuff. 

“Cool,” Craig nods as if Joel is an innovator.  “Gimme one sec.” 

Craig goes out to a nearby shelf and comes back with a few collars that have their own tag – mostly hearts, either blank or with something generic like princess. “This is all we got.”

“Y’all do engraving here?” Joel asks. 

“No. . .But if ya only need the tag, and it's gotta be engraved, I can tell ya where to go.”

–

When Joel is done with his next stop, he opens his leather bag and slips the metal tag into a zippered pocket. Damn, he thinks.  He doesn't even know your favorite color. He hopes you’re okay with a black heart. Certainly better than a bone shape. He starts his car and heads toward the library. 

-

When Joel walks into the library, he politely nods at the information desk, then heads to the computers. He sits down at one in the back row. He takes his gloves off, pulls his journal and a pen out of his bag, then logs onto the computer. He searches the catalog and the internet. What do you need? Food, water, shelter, this all seems obvious. What do you want? Freedom, he can hear you saying it. How much can he give you? How can he make you stay? How can he make you understand how much he cares? He retrieves a book and opens his journal to make some notes.

-

Joel puts down his pen, looks over his notes, then takes off his glasses, and rubs his eyes. He wishes you’d talk to him. What do you really want? 

He whispers your name out loud. “God I wanna make you happy.” He closes his eyes and rubs his temples. He has a headache. The sun is catching up with him. He shouldn’t have gone out today. He should go home. When he opens his eyes, he puts his glasses back on. Someone is approaching. He swiftly locks the computer screen and closes his notebook. 

“Joel.” It’s a kind, grandmotherly voice.

“Carol,” Joel smiles, and leans back as casually as he can. 

“You alright there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Joel nods, trying not to wince. She looks at the empty computer screen and closed notebook. 

“Okay, well, you know where to find me, dear.” 

“Great sweater, by the way,” Joel tells her. “Perfect color. Really makes your eyes pop.”  

“Oh, Joel,” she coyly pats down her white curls. “Thank you, dear--OH, Christy asked if you came in. Do you want me to get her?” 

Joel didn’t even think about her on his way in. He feels a twinge of guilt for silencing her call, ignoring her text. 

“Joel?” Carol asks, looking concerned. 

He snaps out of it and feigns a little smile. “Uh, no. No, thank you. Don't bother her.”

“Okay,” Carol says in a sing-song voice. “I'll leave you to it then.” She smiles and walks away. 

–

So she was expecting him. Oh, shit - he thinks through his mental calendar - Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. Warmth rises to his cheeks. It’s been so long since he’s felt his cheeks get warm. It must be something in your blood.  Not only has Joel taken blood from Christy, but she’s been his wingman before. They'd go out somewhere, and he'd listen to her drone on and on–she never took a breath–about  her armchair detective community. 

She’s always been a little too into the whole situation. If Joel thanked her for her help, she’d beam, “Any time.” She wasn't with him the night he met you. He wasn't on the hunt. But you smelled special, and he couldn't physically resist. 

Joel hears Christy greet someone. He can't dodge her, he just has to hope she walks on by.  He picks up his leather bag and puts it in his lap. He rifles through it until he finds a stick of menthol balm. 

“There he is,” Christy calls. 

Too late. He stuffs the menthol back in his bag without using it. He looks up, and she’s paused in the middle of the library with one hand on her hip and her eyes wide, even wider than usual.  

“Hey, Chris.” 

She hurries over. “So you are alive,” she teases with her arms crossed, then tilts her head, widens her eyes, and whispers, “figuratively speaking.” She laughs at her own joke. 

She knows as much about him as anyone alive. It's made a big difference having a friend who knows. This has been one of Joel’s better eras, but the era he’s moving into with you will be lightyears better. And it’ll be more than an era. 

“Kinda late,” she cringes lightheartedly. 

“Oh, no, no, none for me. I’m good, thanks. Sorry, I’ve uh – I’ve gotta go.” 

He stands up and puts his bag on.  She’s gonna know something’s up. He scratches the back of his neck, weighing whether to break down and tell her everything so she can help him know how to make you comfortable and happy. Plus, he just wants to talk about you. He wants to tell the world. But today he has one priority: taking care of you. 

“Waait a second,” Christy says knowingly, studying his face. “You’re glowing. You just got some good stuff, didn't ya?” She playfully punches Joel’s arm.  “Good for you,” she beams, then raises her eyebrows and lowers her voice. “Bet it was menstrual, O positive.”

“The blood type doesn't–”

“--You say that, but if you’d let me do my experiment. . .Oh! We’ve got some new microfilm downstairs. 1880s, if you can believe it.” 

“Not today,” Joel replies a little too quickly if he doesn’t want her prying.  

Her lips form a line and her eyebrows go up, then she shrugs it off. “Okay, mister. Hey, can you still take care of Cal next weekend? Nat and I are–”

“--Uh, yeah,” Joel starts to walk off. “If you can drop her off.” You might enjoy the cat’s company.

“Joel!” Christy calls after him. “Don’t forget this!” She’s holding his parasol. 

–

Next, Joel stops by the hardware store to get some supplies to secure you more comfortably. He’s sure he’s forgetting something, but this is a good start, and there’s always delivery. He doesn’t want to leave the house again this week. Thankfully, the hardware store is next to a Walmart, which has groceries, clothes, and pillows. He gets you some loungewear, socks, and new bedding. It’s the least he can do.

—--

When Joel gets home, he brings you four different pillows and some bedding. 

“Wasn’t sure what firmness.” 

He unlocks you and shows you the socks and lounge clothes. “These looked comfortable. Here, I can help. . .”

“I can do it,” you tell him. 

“Right.”  He turns around. While you’re changing, he says, “Let's order in tonight. Too tired to get anything started.”  

“I’m not hungry yet,” you tell him.

Then he shows you the new cuffs and chain. He rings the heart shaped tag onto one cuff, then puts it around your ankle. “Better?”

The chain is much lighter.  “Yeah, I guess,” you admit. “What’s this?” You look at the tag. 

“Oh I dunno, I just–I started worryin’.” 

You stare at him blankly. 

“I dunno, just in case.” 

“In case what?”

He swallows. “If ya. .” He looks around. He doesn't wanna say it out loud.  “If ya left. . . so ya could . . . I dunno, get back.”

Now there’s a hint of pity and bewilderment in your eyes. 

“It was stupid, sorry.” He takes a deep breath and manages a small smile. “Alright, sweetheart. I’ll be right upstairs.” 

-

When he gets upstairs, he looks at his phone and has a message from Christy. His stomach drops when the picture loads. It’s his search history about taking care of adult human women and what makes them stay.

“God damnit,” he curses himself. Of course he didn’t clear his search history. He didn’t even log off. She's typing. She stops, then starts again, and he presses the heels of his palms into his temples. What now? Should he call her? She wouldn't tell anyone, but – Her message comes through with a woosh: “this is what librarians are for.”

“Ha," he scoffs with the slightest smile. He shakes his head and turns the screen off without answering.  He should be relieved, but can’t help but worry. He's seen her at her worst. God, he hopes that was her worst.  What does she want?

Another message comes in: “let me help you."

Of course that’s what she wants. Funny enough, he’s seen her at her worst specifically when she was trying to help. But it’s still tempting, because she’s smart and resourceful. She could tell him everything there is to know about you within an hour. He’d love to know what kind of clothes you’d like, your favorite foods, how to make you happy. But for now, he’s doing alright on his own. He doesn’t text back. 

-—You—

A while after Joel goes upstairs, you hear drilling, then clanking, metal jingling, things being dropped. 

Later, he brings you dinner. He doesn’t eat, but he sits with you.  Then, after you’re done, he faces you, cross-legged on the mattress.  He’s wearing his glasses and has his journal again. There are handwritten notes in it. From upside down, you can see the words “buy” and ���do.” Some items are crossed through.

“I was thinkin’,” he studies the page, then looks up at you. “Ya might need a bed.” He looks at your face for confirmation.   “Right?” he asks. Wow, he really wants an answer. 

“I mean. . . yeah, I sleep in a bed, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Okay, I’m workin’ on a room for ya.”

For the next few days, he’s hard at work. 

—----

He comes downstairs one evening around dinner time and says,  “I was thinkin’, maybe we could watch a movie or somethin’.”

“Here?”

“Uh, no sweetheart. I was thinkin’, if ya wanna come upstairs for dinner, then maybe, after that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he smiles.

“Okay.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. Great.” He goes to the other end of the chain and takes a key out of his pocket to unlock the cuff from the floor.  As he's doing it, he mumbles, “You can, uh, pick the movie. If ya want.” The chain is sliding around on the mattress as he fiddles with the cuff. When the cuff is free from the hook, he puts it around his wrist, then locks it. Your breath hitches. He sees you looking at his wrist. 

“Don't wanna get separated,” he chuckles sheepishly, then puts a hand on your wrist. “Want yours here?” 

“Yeah.” 

He moves the leather cuff from your ankle to your wrist, and it's nice to feel his hands on yours as he fastens it. He smells good. Fresh, woodsy. He opens his palm and takes your hand to help you up. He holds the slack of the chain as the two of you walk upstairs. 

—

It's a large room with high ceilings. It's dark, but cozy. A fire is lit. There are plants, lots of plants. And bookshelves in the walls. He takes you through the main room, to a dining room with a huge table already set for two.  He offers you the head of the table and pulls out the chair for you. He lets the slack of the chain pool between your chairs, and you're both still wearing a cuff on your wrist. 

 You eat mostly in silence, which makes the jingling of the dog tag deafening when you move that hand. He asks where you’d like to travel. You’d love to just travel outside, down the driveway, but you humor him with more ambitious places.

The space is lit with gas candelabras, and it’s hard not to admire his handsome face and the way his eyes sparkle in the candlelight. Sometimes a flicker catches the silver in his beard just right.

After dinner, he takes you back to the main room. There's an oversized sofa with a large, soft blanket draped over it and pillows like the one Joel brought downstairs. There's a big, square ottoman. There's also a side table with two clean, empty wine glasses. The sofa faces the fireplace, which is quite wide, and there’s a screen mounted above it. Joel offers you a glass of wine, and you accept but won’t drink much of it. He starts the movie.

-

Joel puts his arm around you while you watch the film. The chain lightly clinks against itself as he strokes your shoulder, then your arm, and you feel yourself melting. He arranges the pillows and asks if you want to lie down. You do. He spoons you, with his free hand resting over your body. His chained hand is under the pillow, and it finds yours as the movie goes on. Your fingertips brush, and you don’t pull away. Then he fully rests his hand on yours. 

The hand draped over your side gradually begins to wander. He slowly, lightly strokes your side. . .then your hip. . . then your stomach, over your clothes. His breath deepens. His light, meandering touch makes you weak with desire and lulls you half asleep. 

“Thanks for being here,” he whispers. He kisses the nape of your neck. “I know it’s a lot to take in.” He kisses your hair. “But it'll be worth it.” His light touch continues, and you begin to tingle. “Won’t be stuck here forever. . .we’ll travel the world one day.”

His hand travels higher on your body as he moves it in loose circles, until he’s skimming the bottoms of your breasts. His palm grazes the outline of your hard nipple, and a hard shape twitches against your ass. You don’t flinch, but you inhale sharply through your nose, trying to suppress a wave of desire. 

Joel pulls his hips back and tucks the blanket between you, to your secret disappointment. Then he props his head up to admire you. “So many things I wanna do with you,” he murmurs, running his massive hand down your side again where he started. “And for you,” he whispers, draping his hand over your lower belly. Then, barely audible, so quiet you might be imagining it, “and to you.” He puts his head back down on the pillow and inhales your hair, skimming your top with his fingers.

His hand nudges under your lounge top, then his fingertips slip into your waistband ever so slightly, and you’re throbbing.  His fingertips skim your bare belly, dipping a little further into your pants. 

He asks, “You okay from. . .”

Your heart rate quickens. “Yeah, I think so.” 

“I can check,” he quietly offers. “Make sure I got it all.”

“Ok,” you whisper. 

“Good,” he slides his hand down your lounge pants. You’re not wearing underwear. You gasp softly as his fingers reach your clit. He pauses there, and an involuntary push of his hips lets you feel him through the blanket before he pulls back again. His fingertips get lower, then hook between your legs, and he softly gasps when he reaches your wetness. He runs his fingers through your folds, then uses his massive hand to hold the waistband open while he peeks at his fingers. 

“You did,” you whisper. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Shoulda waited, though. I wasn too rough. Shoulda let it happen.” He lets the waistband close over his wrist and cups your  mound.

“You weren’t,” you tell him, closing your eyes, embarrassed at the whole situation. Now he knows how wet you are. 

His middle finger twitches and nudges your clit, then begins nudging it rhythmically. Soon, it evolves toward a more deliberate, pleasure-focused rub, and he inhales deeply, chest expanding against your back. 

“I think I should go to sleep,” you whisper, overwhelmed. His finger stops moving, but his hand stays in your pants.  

Joel offers, “Might sleep better if–” 

“Not tonight.”  You twist your hips away from his, already hating yourself for cutting this off, but knowing you’d judge yourself for continuing. 

He slowly withdraws his hand. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Somethin’ came over me.” 

On the way downstairs, he tells you again, “I’m workin’ on a room for ya. Just gimme a couple days.” 

He chains you back to the floor, then makes up the mattress with a new set of bedding and a comforter. He tucks you in, and leans over you. He wets his lips, looking at yours. You look away. He kisses you on the cheek, soft and slow. Somehow, it feels just as sensual as if it were your mouth.

“Night, sweetheart.” 

—-

The next evening, your room is finished.  He brings you upstairs and shows you what he’s done. It’s an actual bedroom, with a nice, roomy bed. There’s a reading nook with a big, comfy chair and a wall of books.  It’s dim, of course, but he shows you how to use the dials to remotely adjust the flames of the candelabras and chandelier. There’s a window with a curtain. It has steel bars, but at least it’s there. There’s a closet with clothes and some packages not yet opened.  There’s even a fireplace. 

“And here’s the best part,” he says excitedly, gesticulating in a way that makes the chain between you jingle. He brings you outside the bedroom and closes the double doors. There are two dark panels that create a heart where the doors meet.  “Check it out.” He retrieves a key from his pocket, and locks the door from the outside. It’s a heavy, satisfying click. He looks at you like you’re going to be excited. “So you can take this off,” he explains, holding up the chain. 

-----

You see Joel more often once you’re out of the basement. He’s happy to have you close, and you’re glad to have the accommodations. But you’re also confused, and a little depressed. You crave his presence and his touch in a way you know is unhealthy. You know it must be because he’s all you have right now, but your heart tells you there’s more to it. The whole situation has felt like a dream, and maybe that’s how you’ve coped. But the longer it lasts, the more real it feels.

One night, it catches up with you and you have a good cry. You try to be quiet. You try to stop, but you can’t. So you let it go, you just sob. 

After a while, you hear the heavy lock, and the massive door opens just enough for Joel to come in. He closes it behind him, then stands there rubbing his beard.  He looks at you like he’s lost, then cautiously approaches. 

“Hey,” he whispers. He sits down on the bed. You’re curled up, facing him. You don’t turn away. He strokes your arm, and you cry harder. “Oh, sweetheart.” His eyes are sad. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He knows. He lies down, facing you. He hugs you into him and you cry into his soft t-shirt, inhaling his scent with every gasp for air.  “It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

You close your eyes, wanting him to kiss you, and you’re disturbed by your own desire.  You pinch your lashes shut harder, and your whole face tenses. It hurts.

“This isn’t okay,” you sob. “It’s not gonna be.” You try to push him away, but he holds you still. After all the times he’s folded, apologized, and backed off, that’s not what he does. He holds you in his arms, making you stay there. “What are you doing,” you whine, and you push at his chest. He doesn’t budge. You half-heartedly hit and kick at him, and he cages you with his leg, too. It soothes you, like a weighted blanket, but you fight it. 

“Shhhh,” he holds you tight. His voice is deep and quiet against the top of your ear. “We’re gonna be happy one day,” he insists. “Promise, sweetheart.” You exhaust yourself crying, and he holds you. “I love you.” You try to ignore it, but that doesn’t stop your heart from fluttering. Soon you’re nuzzling your head into his neck, gripping his shirt in a fist like you don’t want him to go. He drapes a heavy blanket over both of you. He holds you like that until you fall asleep and your fist releases his shirt. He stays a little longer, then kisses you on the forehead and leaves. 

—--

The next afternoon, Joel approaches you and sits down on the edge of the bed. “How ya feel? Ya look good,” he whispers, and cups your cheek. You don’t shrug him off. 

“I’m fine,” you reply, wishing he would lie down with you again, but not wanting to invite him. 

“What do you want for dinner?” he asks. 

“I don't care,” you answer.  

He sits there in silence and places a hand on your knee. 

“Got ya somethin’,” he murmurs, and stands up for a moment. He appears to get nervous as he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a shallow, velvet jewelry box. He sits down again and holds the box out for you to take, but you don’t. He opens it for you. It’s a necklace. He tells you what the stone is. It’s your birthstone. It’s thoughtful, but he only knows your birthday because he has your wallet. He faces you and puts his hands around your neck as he puts the necklace on, getting his face close to yours so he can see the clasp. With his temple nearly brushing yours, you feel a surge of want. There’s no denying it. The scruff of his cheek scratches you lightly as he finishes fastening the necklace. “There,” he says, and looks at you adoringly.

“Thanks.” 

“You’re one of a kind, ya know.” 

He wets his lips and you notice they’re chapped, dehydrated. He’s pale. You find yourself wanting to hug him, kiss him, but you don’t. He kisses you on the cheek. 

—

One night, Joel makes you a special dinner. He cuffs the two of you together, and you eat in the dining room at the big table with him again. He tells you he needs your blood again. “I don’t have to take much,” he says. “It can be tomorrow,” he offers. “Don’t wanna spring it on ya.” 

“It’s alright,” you tell him. “You need it.” And the truth is, you want it. You want him to take it. You want to be taken back to that moment against your car. You want something that overwhelms your senses and puts you on another plane. You need something to remind you that you aren’t just a girl in a room, and he’s not just some guy keeping you there. If you can physically feel all of that, maybe you can let yourself relax. 

After dinner, he brings you back to your room and unchains you. You sit on the bed. He turns on the fireplace and tells you he’lll be right back. When he returns, he has an old medicine bottle with a cloth. He wets the cloth and says, “I’ll lay with ya, til ya wake up, okay?”

You look at the cloth in his hand and say,  “You don’t have to put me to sleep.” He adjusts the cloth in his hand. “Don’t,” you shake your head. 

His brows knit, and he reads your eyes for a few seconds. 

“Let me stay awake,” you plead. 

“You sure?”

You nod. He closes the bottle again and puts it on your nightstand. 

“Thought it scared ya,” he mumbles. 

“Well it did, when it was a surprise.” 

He nods solemnly. “I’m sorry ‘bout that. I really shoulda. . . I don’t even know.”  If he had asked, you wonder if you would have let him. Surely not, so you can’t exactly blame him. 

-

“Okay,” he looks you over and gets on the bed with you. “You warm enough?” He nudges the cardigan you’re wearing. 

“Yeah,” you nod, and shrug it off. You’re cozy enough from the fire.

“C’mon, let’s get up here.” He guides you up the bed and gets you to lay down with your head on a pillow as if you’re going to sleep. 

He gets close to you, and starts lightly stroking your shoulder as he looks you over. His eyes glue to your neck, and he wets his lips, then he pulls his eyes back to yours. 

“You can choose,” he offers. “Where I take it.” 

You bite your lip as you watch his face and inhale his scent. 

“I can take it here again,” he caresses your neck. Then he holds your arm and lightly brushes his thumb across where you’d normally get an IV, giving you an unexpected surge in arousal.  “Or here.” 

He checks your face, then lays his hand on your waist. His palm skims your side, down your hip. “Or,” he runs his hand up your thigh under your dress. His thumb caresses your thigh, right near your pelvis, and he whispers, “I can take it here.” You’re nearly overwhelmed with desire already. 

“I dunno,” you whisper. 

He gently rolls you onto your back. He takes a deep breath, scoots down the bed, and gets between your thighs. He nuzzles your inner thigh with his nose, then whispers, "up to you, sweetheart."  You're throbbing.

“Tell me what feels right,” he murmurs and nuzzles your inner thigh with his nose.  His hair is fluffy and his eyes are dark and sparkly as he looks up at you. “God, you’re . . .” He reaches up and wraps a hand around your arm. “You’re perfect.” 

“Where do you want?” you ask. 

“Everywhere, anywhere. I want every inch of you.” 

You allow yourself a little smile and hold his eyes for a few seconds. 

He sits up again and offers, “I can make ya feel good.”

“I know,” you nod with a laugh.

“I mean, it’ll feel best, if you’re already feelin’ good.” 

You nod with butterflies in your tummy, telling yourself it’s for a practical purpose, and you might as well enjoy it. 

He nods and whispers, “Okay. . .good.” His eyes rove your body hungrily. He asks, “Anywhere ya don’t want me to touch ya?”

You say "no" so fast your cheeks heat in shame.

His eyes darken and he growls, “good,” as he prowls back up your body.  His triceps swell out from under his shirt.

He kisses you tenderly below your jaw and brings a hand to your breast.  You lift your chin with a sigh. He drags his lips and nose down your throat to your chest, pausing at your neckline. He looks up and you nod. He nudges the fabric aside with his nose, then plants a wet kiss on the swell of your breast, and his eyes close. He moans into your skin. Your gaze fixates on his softwash khakis, and he briefly removes his hand from your chest to adjust himself. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“s’okay,” you whisper.

“‘Sposed to be about you right now,” he murmurs, looking up at you. You tilt your head, trying to look at his pants, but the room is too dim. Truth is, you’re finding it hard to think about anything but his cock at the moment. You only felt the briefest hint of it the other night. You want to feel it all.

He slides his hand up your thigh again, and his thumb nudges just slightly under the crotch of your panties, making you twitch. He takes a deep breath through his nose, then withdraws his thumb and lets down the edge of your panties. He scoots up to lie to your side again, leaving his knee between your legs. He rests his hand on your mound, and slowly ghosts your clit, closing his eyes.  When he opens his eyes again, they sparkle, and his face drifts toward yours.  You don’t flinch, you don’t pull away. You let him kiss you.

With one hand still between your legs, he slides the other one under your head. He kisses you slow and deep, stroking your most sensitive spot through your panties.  Your mouths remain connected as his massive hand slides up to your bare abdomen. He gives your side a little squeeze before sliding back down and nudging his fingers under the hem of your underwear. He pulls his lips from yours and looks at you darkly. It’s not a question, but you nod as his hand slides down.  You gasp and his knuckles strain the fabric as he cups your naked heat.  “Good,” he whispers when he feels how wet you are.  “What if ya just. . .” he kisses you again, then murmurs,  “let your body decide." He plants a soft, open mouth kiss on your cheek, then whispers in your ear, "I'll go everywhere. You tell me when.”

You wrap your wrists around his neck and he catches your inner arm with his mouth. He wetly kisses the inner crook of your elbow, looking up at you. Then he drags his lips down toward your chest, where he pulls your dress down. Your skin hardens with goosebumps as your nipples sharpen, and he groans softly. He kisses your bare breast, then fixes your dress, and kisses your hard nipple through the thin cotton. You arch your back and sigh. He gets between your legs and backs up as he kisses his way down your torso. He lifts your dress and thumbs your panties, sighing “oh, God.” 

He lifts one of your knees over his shoulder and kisses at your cunt through the damp fabric.  Your hips lift into his mouth. He licks along the edge of the crotch, then your inner thigh. He leaves a meandering trail of kisses around your inner thigh, then plants his lips and leaves a hickey. He glances up at you and adjusts himself again, and you let out a little moan.  “C’mere,” You nudge him, pulling at his arms, wanting nothing more than him on top of you. 

He prowls up your body and plants his hands on either side of your chest.  Lays his hips into yours, and when the shape of his warm, hard package presses into your most sensitive place, you gasp and he lets out a low moan. “Should I take-” he asks, reaching for his belt.  You’re nodding before he finishes the question. He uses his left hand to unbuckle his belt. “Sorry,” he mumbles as he pulls away from you enough to take his pants off. Now he’s in long johns, and it’s quite a bulge you’re looking at. Your face and chest burn. You pull him toward you with your feet. He presses his throbbing arousal against your aching heat, and you moan. You card your fingers through his hair. “Feel so good,” you whisper. 

“Good,” he whispers, then kisses your neck again.  

He puts his hand on your thigh and you wrap your leg around him. He lightly grinds into you as he kisses your neck, then your cheek, then your lips again. Your mouths open and draw each other in. You breathe each other’s air and drink each other’s spit. Your lips tingle. Your chest tingles. As you kiss harder, he grinds harder against you. You badly want him inside you, but  you won’t, you can’t, you shouldn’t, you tell yourself. 

The next time his mouth comes to your neck, he teases you with his tongue and a bolt of pleasure shoots down  your spine. Your nipples harden.  He opens his mouth wider against your skin. “Do it,” you whisper, then feel the prick of his fangs against your flesh. “Do it,” you repeat, and his arousal swells against you as he sinks his teeth into your skin. Your hips lift against his. He moans into your neck, and as your blood flows into him, he gets harder. You shudder in pleasure as he takes what he needs. You move his hand from your thigh to your breast, and you lift your pelvis into his, whispering, “yeah.” You’re not lightheaded, not yet. He’s doing this slowly, pacing himself. 

His warmer, harder cock twitches against you, and you reach down to grope it desperately. He groans. You grind up against him and moan, “Joel,” with a surge of need overtaking you. He ruts against you slow and hard, warm and stiff, then his cock pulses right against your clit. He groans into your neck, and you grind back against him, and the whole front of you begins to pulse with him. “Oh God,” you gasp and grab his ass, pulling him against you harder as the warmth of his cum seeps through the thermal fabric, “oh fuck,” you sigh as you cum with him. 

As you finish convulsing, his fangs release you. His breath is humid against your neck. “Fuck, i’m sorry,” he mutters. He leans his cheek against your shoulder, and you can feel how warm his face is. 

“Don’t be,” you whisper. “That felt really good.” He pulls back and looks at you, cheeks blotchy. 

“Really?” he asks. He cups and adjusts his manhood through his damp bottoms. “I never. . .”

“I know,” you reassure him. “It’s my blood, isn’t it?”

He nods with his eyes half closed. “It’s incredible.” 

You nod. “It was good for me too,” you admit. 

“I could feel it,” he puts a hand on your panties.  He sighs and lays half on top of you. He strokes your face. “Can I do somethin’ for ya?”

You shake your head no. “I’m good.” 

He caresses your neck. “I’ll get ya some ice.”

“No,” your hand comes to his back, and you don’t let him leave. “Just stay right here.” 

You lay in silence with him half on top of you. Then he props himself up to look at you. 

“We're made for each other,” he whispers, looking at your mouth. He kisses you softly, then meets your eyes. “You don’t believe it yet.  It’s okay.” 

“It’s not that I don’t-”

“It’s okay. Don’t have to,” he reassures you. He rests his head close to yours on the same pillow, and nuzzles his nose against yours. “Just hope ya feel it one day,” he murmurs into your cheek. “I know ya will.” 

You feel it. You disagree, you think, but you feel the truth in it. 

He puts his arm all the way over you. His arm is solid, and you imagine very heavy, but it's not dead weight. It's tense, like he's actively holding you there, just in case. 

—----

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His parasol was inspired by @gasolinerainbowpuddles mood board. 

Thank you so much for love for vampire!Joel and your patience for his story to continue.

I hear you about notifs not working, and tags too (i'm not receiving a lot of my tags either). consider checking my fic notifs blog @toxicfics or the "latest fics" link on my profile header once in a while to see what you might have missed.

[whisper-in-the-night]

Undesirable

Plot: Thomas is omega who will never find his true mate. Or no?

Warnings: omegavers; slight mention of bullying; deviation from the canon; omega!Thomas Hewitt, alpha!male!reader / Y/N

Note: it's my first work in this fandom and even first work in Omegaverse, so I hope it'll be fine. Thanks for reading. About 3-4 chapters planned here.

Part 1 | Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

•••

It's hard to be an omega. And it's even harder to be an omega when you don't fit the description of an 'ordinary, attractive' omega.

Thomas understood the essence of this system from his childhood, as soon as he went to school. And although, because of his strength and size, Hewitt thought he was at least a beta as a child, fate seemed to mock him. During one of the tests to determine the second gender, his results finally turned out to be positive. The young man nervously looked at the neatly folded piece of paper in the envelope. He carefully pulled it out and unwrapped it. Many of his health data were written on white blank paper, but what caught his attention was the green inscription in the middle of the sheet "Omega".

At first, the boy did not attach importance to this word, his childish curiosity and some naivety accepted it simply as a fact. Other children in the class were violently discussing their secondary genders, sharing their impressions and all that. A couple of minutes after the results were given, Thomas was approached by a group of children who had previously often mocked him because of his external features. As soon as they surreptitiously noticed the inscription in Thomas's results, mocking laughter broke out in the crowd. "Look at him! He's a freak! So also omega! No alpha in your life will look at you, monster," one of the boys said enthusiastically, grinning nastily.

That evening, Thomas locked himself in his room. After several unsuccessful attempts to invite her son to dinner, Luda went up to the second floor and gently knocked on the child's door. There was no response. Then she cautiously opened the door. The lights in the room were turned off and the windows were curtained. The woman cautiously went inside, when suddenly she heard a slight crunch under her feet. Picking up a crumpled piece of paper from the floor, Luda read the unfortunate word. She carefully sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled the child into her arms. The boy allowed himself to cry out loud, burying his face in his mother's chest, clutching the fabric of her dress in his fists.

As the years passed, the Hewitt family was left alone in this ill-fated town on the outskirts of Texas. They had to come to the current of life that we all know about. This family consisted mostly of betas, with the exception of the youngest, Thomas. And yet now, life seemed much easier for him. Since he left school, just for many years, his abusers have grown up and left, and Thomas has become a little easier. Although self-doubt and pain remained deep in his big warm heart. He really believed in their words. Thomas was too big and strong man to be a desirable omega. Too strong, too big, too wayward, too rude. The man has long accepted his place in society. Although sometimes he still sat in his room at night with a heavy heart. Sometimes he wished he had a mate he could rely on, a mate who could protect him and calm his heat, maybe even give him pups. But Thomas knew he didn't have time for that, he had to protect the family.

***

The sun seemed to come out of hell in Texas this year. The heat was incredible, there was a drought all around. The small grass turned yellow, and those rare trees turned into a kind of deadwood. There's not a cloud in the sky.

Thomas was helping his mother in the store, it was damn stuffy in the room. Recently, due to the intense heat, there were no visitors from the word at all, so he did not care about his appearance at all. The sleeves of a light-colored shirt were rolled up to the elbows, dark tangled hair was pulled into a low ponytail, only a few strands fell over a face in a leather mask. The man's brown trousers were slightly damp from how often he wiped his sweaty palms on the fabric.

Suddenly, a light ringing of the door bell was heard, followed by Luda's tired but pleasant voice.

"Hello, how can I help you?" the woman asked the man who entered.

"Oh yeah, hey. I'd like to refuel my car," you replied smiling, scratching the back of your head, "Do you have some gasoline?"

The woman smiled slightly, which caused fine wrinkles to run across her tired face, and turned towards the back room, shouting a short "Tommy!". A couple of minutes later, a dark-haired man came out from behind the shelves, holding a canister of gasoline. His gaze slid down on you, as if assessing you, and his eyes widened for a moment. You were a tall, muscular man, it seemed, even one and a half times bigger than Thomas himself. Your short sleeved high-collared shirt was unbuttoned at the top buttons, and because of the sweat, the outlines of your strong body showed through the damp fabric. You were also wearing beige breeches that hugged your toned ass beautifully. Thomas licked his lips almost instinctively and came out from behind the counter, handing you a can of gasoline. And indeed, you were almost a head taller than him, which made Thomas feel almost small, which had not happened to him for a long time. The man's nostrils were touched by your island fragrance. Something like an orange with black pepper and bergamot mixed with your body's natural scent. Your pheromones, even under a veil of suppressants, made Thomas feel heavy in his knees.

You smiled briefly and picked up the canister, lightly brushing the rough skin of Thomas's fingers. It almost made the man blush. You took your wallet out of your pocket and handed the woman some green bills, so she nodded curtly.

"Tommy, can you help the young man?"

He didn't need to be asked twice. Although Thomas hesitated a little at first.

Thomas followed you outside in case you needed help, which he clearly doubted. You looked like a confident, independent person who didn't need anyone's help. Besides, you were clearly an alpha, given the smell of your pheromones. It was an extra time for Thomas to be in your presence. He had met alphas before, at least because many of his victims were one, but he had never felt such a strange sense of comfort around an alpha before. Your presence calmed his inner omega.

"The summer is too hot this year," you muttered with a slight grin, sorting out the car and seemingly hoping to strike up some kind of small conversation with the big guy. There was no response. Thomas's head was too busy with your pleasant scent. "You're not the talkative type, are you?" There was playfulness in your tone, but you clearly weren't trying to humiliate another man. Thomas frowned a little at first, listening to your words, but eventually relaxed, nodding briefly. The scars on his face always made it difficult for him to speak clearly, but lately, due to the intense summer heat, every word he uttered seemed almost painful.

After ten long minutes of intense silence, you finally finished refueling the car and put the empty canister on the ground, brushing off your hands.

"Well, thank you. I think without you, I would already be stuck somewhere on the road in this wilderness..." You said, looking back at Thomas and smiling amiably. "Well, alright. I'm already a little late. I wouldn't like to be late for my sister's birthday. For missing her 'special day' one more time, she'll definitely stab me half to death," you said with a light laugh and patted Thomas on the shoulder, "Bye."

Finally, you went to the car door, got into the driver's seat and started the engine, driving away from the old shop.

Thomas watched your dirty beige car drive away for a long time. Your touch is still clearly felt on his hot skin, and his head is slightly dizzy from the citrus scent of your body.

[itsabouttimex2]

Deep Sea Sympathies

Yandere Sun Wukong

(Syntax alphabet is up next, then an LSO + Primal . Feeling super down, so I wrote something a little sadder. The villain tiers post I spent two days writing and rewriting again and again got anonymously sent to another user, who skimmed the majority of it, left out my opening and ending points, and called at least one of my criticisms “ridiculous” and even has a reblogger claiming that I “hate Macaque”, that I want “everyone to hate Macaque” and that I’m “salty”. Maybe it’s childish, but that kind of hurts when I’ve spent literal months making content for the show (often involving Macaque) that I genuinely love. I only wrote that list because I wanted to give my honest opinions as a break from my usual content as I prepared to watch and write for Season Five. Maybe I’m in the wrong and my rant was just stupid? Do you guys want me to delete the “Season Five Prep” posts?)

“I still can’t believe MK got me back into this,” the simian before you chuckles. “But I’m kinda glad he did. I really missed drawing. I forgot how good it felt.”

“…I see,” you “answer”, maintaining a stiff and poised position, staring down at the collection of utensils that the hero is using. “Are you… having fun, then?”

“Aww, bud. Come and take a seat, okay? Look, I’ll even put out a little mat for you. Come and take a seat,” he invites, plucking one of his transforming ginger hairs to make a proper cushion for you.

His tail winds lazily around your leg, tugging you closer and closer to the squishy orange padding.

“C’mon, bud,” he says, cutting through your hesitation. His voice has a powerful edge under all the sweetness- reminding you that the Monkey King is someone you can’t say no to. “I want you to draw with me, kiddo.”

Wukong is fond of this- pulling you into little “bonding sessions” that take up the whole day and leave you without time to spend with anyone else.

It’s funny, though, really- you are the last person that need be manipulated away from others.

“The Great Witch of Gloom,” was the title that you had been assigned. Before you had a name, before you had taken a step, before you had so much as uttered a cry… your fate had been decided.

You were to be a wicked soul with dark motives and a darker heart.

As old memories flood into your ever weary mind, Wukong arranges a few sheets of paper in front your mat. The grip of his tail slowly tightens, and you cease all stalling.

Lowering yourself to the ground, the mat provides a cozy cradle to shield against the cold wooden floor.

“…it’s almost Winter,” you mildly comment, tracing a finger against a smooth plank. “It’s getting colder.”

“Oh,” the simian casually asks, scooting his mat closer to yours, “you like the snow?” Here’s chance he always adores- any rare tidbit of info you offer is a chance for him to spoil you, stocking up on presents and snacks in an attempt to drown you in platonic love.

It didn’t help that you always felt so indebted after he was done stacking gifts into your arms and bag.

“So, bud- what’re you gonna draw?”

The curiosity in his voice is almost innocent, almost sweet. He pushes the multi-tiered box of crayons towards you, smiling.

“C’mon, pick a few out!”

Awkwardly; and with a shaking hand to boot, you reach for the box.

It’s… not a comfortable sensation. Waxy paper around thick wax sticks makes for an awkward feeling in your hand, and you slightly recoil from the hueless cylinder.

“Aww, kiddo. No one draws with white- heck, you’d be better off eating it! Not that I’ve, uh, ever done that.”

“…I don’t know what to do,” is your blank confession that leaves Wukong quirking an eyebrow.

“What, you don’t know how to draw? You’vd never had… oh. Oh, kiddo.”

Realization colors his golden eyes, leaving the simian king with a sympathetic frown. Your parents wouldn’t have ever let you have something as fun and bright as crayons, would they? How could he have forgotten that?

It had been a nightmare for the Monkie Kids to pry information out of you, and a further mess to try pushing you towards a healing state.

And, honestly- Wukong’s doting ministrations really didn’t help. All the love and gifts in the world could not undo your traumas- but certainly left you feeling as though you were mired in debt.

Not that you had the words to voice those feelings, leaving Wukong to continue piling on with his affections- all in the futile hope that he could love away the demons of your past.

“Okay, bud. Maybe we stepped out of your comfort zone, huh? Alright, my bad. Tell me what you wanna draw, and I’ll pick out the crayons for you, okay?”

“…I don’t know what to draw, though.”

His frown deepens. It’s hard to think that someone as young as you could be so… he wouldn’t say broken. That was far, far too cruel a word for someone he loved so dearly. You were… “cracked”, maybe. A little “tarnished”.

Like you had given up on seeing a light at the end of the tunnel and decided to instead drift slowly along in a dark ocean.

…actually…

“Bud, don’t you like the beach? C’mon, why don’t you draw something from there, yeah?”

“…could I?”

Your little words break his heart. You shouldn’t have to feel like you need permission for something as simple as drawing a damn picture. But you *do*, so he answers with false cheer-

“Of course, kiddo! Draw anything you want!”

“…how do… how would I draw… a jellyfish?”

Finally, a real smile graces his lips.

“I didn’t know you liked jellyfish,” he says, in a too familiar voice that lets you know you’ll be receiving a loaded armful of themed plushes and stress toys in the very near future.

Another load of guilt, another load of debt.

“I’ll take you to an aquarium one day,” he tacks on, unaware of your growing insecurities. “And we can look at them together.”

To him, this is healing. Love and affection and unending comfort.

And certainly, Wukong is far better a guardian than your parents were. Instead of blaming you for powers you couldn’t control, he was always ready with praise and applause. Instead of resigning yourself to rotted garments rummaged from the trash, you had brand-new clothes and warm shoes. You were never hungry. You were never bored. You were never alone.

And, above all else- you were loved.

But you were not happy.

And you doubted that would ever change.

[bloatedandalone04]

In The Way I Need You | Part 1

Series Masterlist

➪in which joey starts school and clay realizes he might have to listen to his mothers advice of hiring a sitter, but quickly warms up to that after idea meeting a seemingly sweet girl while on his way to work.

PSA: strongly suggested to read the warnings before proceeding.

WC; 3.6k | Do not repost this anywhere, reblogs are fine ♡

“Clayton Beresford, get up,” the sound of his mother’s voice made Clay cringe as he grabbed his pillow and placed it over his head. “Clay, get up. Joey has been asking for his dad for the last half hour, you need to get up.”

Clay groaned as she ripped the pillow away from him and threw it on the opposite side of the bed before walking over to the curtains and pulling them open. “Mother,”

“Don’t mother me, Clay,” Lilith scolds as she moves back around the bed and stands over him. “You need to get ready for work, and get Joey ready for school, it’s his first day.”

With a huff, Clay sits up and throws the sheets off him. “You couldn’t have gotten him dressed for me?”

Lilith scoffs, walking towards the door. “I made him breakfast, you can pick out his clothing,” and then she was gone and Clay was left alone in the bed that felt all too big for just one person. 

Looking around his room, he sighs at how messy it had gotten since his last attempt at cleaning it. He grew up damn near spoiled and never had to worry about cleaning his room or making his bed, so now at the age of twenty seven, he was terrible at both those tasks. 

He looks over at the right side of the bed, and more specifically at how empty it was. That spot should be filled. She should be here, with him and with their son, but life really enjoys playing with him sometimes. 

Sighing again, he gets up and throws on his work clothing, which really felt more like a formal event outfit than anything else. He finishes buttoning up his white shirt as he enters the kitchen, his eyes instantly landing on his son. “Hey, buddy,” he greets as he leans down and kisses the top of his head. “Did you have a good sleep?”

Joey nods and sets the crust of his toast down on the plate. “I’m still tired,” 

Clay laughs and picks up the half eaten toast. “You are?” He asks and finishes his kids breakfast, his mind going back to when he was Joey’s age and also didn’t like crust. “You went to bed pretty early last night. Unless you were just pretending to be asleep when I came and checked in on you.”

Joey shakes his head quickly as Lilith laughs from her place at the sink, her arms crossed as she blows on the coffee mug in her hand. “No, dad,” he answers as he stares up into Clay’s matching blue eyes. 

“No?” Clay hums, picking up the now empty plate and walking over to his mom. 

She stays still as he reaches around her to set the plate down in the sink, a teasing smile on her lips. “He’s got you wrapped around his finger,” she stated. “You’re aware of that, right?”

Clay laughs and nods, looking back at his son as he scribbled on a blank piece of paper with a yellow crayon. “I know,” he agrees, looking down at his mom’s attire. “Are you staying home today?”

Lilith glances down at her housecoat clad body with a shrug. “I’m wrapped around that kid’s finger, too,” she grinned, finishing off her coffee and putting the mug in the sink as well. “I’ll get my work done early so I can be here when he gets home, but I really think it’s time we start looking for a more stable sitter. I know you don’t like talking about it, but I think you should consider hiring a nanny.” 

Clay sighs and moves away, standing behind Joey and placing his hands on the back of his chair. “I said I’d think about it,” he muttered. “I haven’t come to a conclusion yet.”

“It’s not a bad idea to have someone here to look after him while we’re at work. Someone to get him to and from school, helps get him ready in the mornings,” she pointed out. “Like a nanny.”

“He doesn’t need a nanny,” Clay mumbled, reaching a hand up to flatten out Joey’s messy hair. “I don’t want my son growing up in that kind of environment.”

“You had a nanny when you were little, Clay,” she reminded as she moved away from the sink. “You turned out pretty well.”

“I’m a single dad at the age of twenty seven, mother,” he rasped. “And I still live with my mother.”

“I told you I never liked that girl, Clayton,” she scolded as she wrapped her robe tighter around her body. “And I also told you that this is your home for as long as you want it to be. You want to move out, fine, but then who will be there to help look after Joey? No one. Unless you listen to me and hire someone to do it.”

And then she was disappearing down the hall to get ready for the day. Grunting under his breath, Clay leaned down and pulled Joey’s chair out. “Come on, let’s get you dressed,” he held his hand out, grinning when the much smaller one grabbed it. 

-

The phone rang five times before Clay was sent to voicemail. 

He wasn’t surprised, but the silence still irked him. Glancing at his driver, Clay turned a bit and tried to make it a little more private, but he was literally in the backseat of a car on his way to work. How private could it really be? “Hey, it’s me again,” he started, not missing the way Rick, his driver, glanced back at him. “Joey started school today. Can you believe it? Our son started school.” 

Rick straightened up at the harsh tone of Clay’s voice and quickly put his attention back on the busy street of New York, surely sensing that this would not be a nice voicemail. 

Clay paid him no mind as he continued, “He’s four now. Did you know that? You should, he’s your kid, too. You should know how old he is and you should’ve been there for his first day of school,” 

He wasn’t entirely sure if his ex even still used this number, or if he was just making these calls for nothing. She must, seeing as her voicemail hasn’t gotten full yet, and he’s been giving her these updates for the past three years now as a way to cope with not having her in his life anymore. 

Clay knew she didn’t deserve to know about what’s been going on in Joey’s life, and he knew he shouldn’t be wasting time leaving her messages, but he couldn’t help it.

He didn’t know if he wanted to rub it in her face about how good of a parent he turned out to be, or how amazing their son is. He just wanted her to know that she royally fucked up when she decided to leave before Joey even turned one. 

“You should’ve been there, Sam,” he said again, his voice wavering as he let his anger that had been building up since she left get to his head. “How the fuck could you do that to him? To us?”

Clay looks out the window and sees that he’s almost to the building in which he would be spending the next eight hours in. 

Sighing, he wraps up the call. “Whatever, Sam. I hope you realize one day how much you’ve missed out on and how much our son has missed out on,” he muttered. “Not that you even care. Delete this, listen to it, do whatever you want. That’s what you’re best at.”

And then he hung up and was left feeling even worse. 

It always ended that way, with him heated up with anger and with Sam probably feeling great at the fact that she is still able to rile him up without even being there. 

Rick pulls off to the side of the street and looks back at Clay. “We’ve arrived, Mr. Beresford,” 

Clay scoffs quietly, shrugging off his jacket since his skin had begun to sport a thin layer of sweat from how annoyed he got during the one-sided call. “Mr. Beresford was my dad,” he says, leaning back against the seat. He wasn’t ready to go in there yet. He was so frustrated and didn’t want to accidentally go off on anyone in that building because he still isn’t over his ex. “It’s just Clay. You know that.”

“I do,” Rick nods, sending him an apologetic smile in the rearview mirror. “Everything alright, Clay?”

Nodding, Clay looks out the window. “Everything is fine,” he lies as he watches a girl pace back and forth on the sidewalk. New York was a massive place and not easy to navigate through, but it was clear that she was new here. She wore a pale pink skirt and a white top that ended just above the hem of the skirt, which is not something people here usually wear. 

Clay has lived here a long time and the people of New York were stereotypical in the way they wore their favorite sports teams logos on their clothes or baggy jeans and a t-shirt. 

Most of them didn’t care and didn’t put a lot of effort into their appearance, simply because no one would notice. It was why he got a lot of stares whenever he walked around in dress pants and a tie. 

The girl looked confused and lost and Clay felt a bit bad for her. Even he got a bit turned around at times, and he’s lived here his whole life. He owns half of it, too. 

He also couldn’t ignore how pretty this girl is. 

Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen his ex in years and he hadn’t let himself look at any of the women in the city as a potential partner as he was overly protective of both his son and his heart. 

Or maybe it was because he simply felt bad for the girl and her clear lack of directions. 

Whatever it was, it had him opening the car door without much of a second thought. 

-

“Fuck,” you muttered as you looked up at the street sign then back at the paper in your hand. 

After living in New York for the last couple weeks, you were beginning to think you would never get to know your way around it. The place was massive and so confusing to navigate through if you didn’t know where you were going, and you clearly didn’t. 

You had been waiting to hear back from this job for days now and when you were finally given a chance for an interview, you couldn’t figure out how to get there. Your coffee did nothing to wake your brain up enough for you to be able to think clearly, and you debated on just throwing the rest of it away, but you were raised not to waste food or drinks when there are others who are less fortunate than you.

With an annoyed sigh, you stopped walking and stared down at the page again, not paying any attention to the car you were now standing beside as the door opened and someone stepped out. 

You don’t look up from the paper as you move forward and walk straight into another person, your coffee slipping from your hand and spilling onto the pristine white shirt of a man. “Oh, my God,” you gasp, not noticing that the page that held the address had also gotten soaked from the spill. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

It was the least of your worries as your eyes trailed up and met a pair of blue ones. Your breath hitched as the stranger smiled and shook his head as if he didn’t care at all that his white shirt was now stained with warm coffee. “It’s okay,” he said and his voice lived up to his appearance. Dreamy. Hot. Intimidating, even. 

“That looks expensive,” you think out loud when you look back down at his ruined button up, then quickly wipe the worry off your face and replace it with fake confidence. “Which is totally fine, I can pay to have it fixed or cleaned or…whatever.” Really, you most likely couldn’t afford to do that, but he didn’t need to know that.

The stranger laughed and it was probably the sexiest thing you had ever heard. “Don’t worry about it,” he waved you off and took the napkin from you when you held it out to him. 

You chew on your bottom lip as he begins to wipe up some of the coffee, though you both knew it wouldn’t do a thing to save the shirt. “Were you just going to work or something? I’d hate for you to have to wear that for the rest of the day,” you gestured to the mess on his shirt but he just shrugged and threw the napkin into the trash can that was nearby. 

“I was actually debating on whether or not I should go home and skip work, then I saw you and thought you looked a little lost,” he grinned at the way your face flushed and how your cheeks were tinted pink. “Thought I could help you out a bit but ended up wearing your drink, instead.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a small, embarrassed laugh. “I’m so sorry,” 

“It’s fine,” he brushed you off again then looked a bit hesitant as he added, “I’m Clay.” 

He holds his hand out to you, making you look down at it before back up at his eyes. “Y/n,” 

You shake hands and hate how you found yourself wanting to hold his for much longer than a few seconds. “So, in hopes I don’t sound like a total creep when I ask,” he begins, giving you a somewhat nervous smile. “Where were you trying to get to?”

Laughing, you shake your head and look down at the ruined paper. “No, not at all,” you say, throwing the paper into the trash as well. “It’s that obvious that I’m lost, huh?”

Clay shrugged again, stepping back towards the car and opening the backseat door. “Only a little,” he teased and pulled out his jacket, efficiently covering up most of his shirt. “I’ve lived here my whole life. Maybe I can point you in the right direction, if you want.”

You knew you were late for the interview, but you wanted to stay and talk with him for a bit longer. What was wrong with you? Why do you always do this around cute guys? Though, calling Clay cute felt a bit like an understatement. He was by far the hottest man you had ever seen in your life. “Please,” you say quietly, stepping towards him. “I was trying to get to this interview at the Milton Hotel, but the directions were hard to understand even before I got coffee all over them.”

Clay laughs and closes the door, turning around and nodding towards the intersection down the street. “You were pretty close, believe it or not,” of course, you wanted to say but held back. “You just take a left at the lights and go straight for about three blocks until you reach a bookstore that’s across from the old jail.”

He turned back to face you and you realized you were barely paying attention to his directions as you were far too focused on how good his backside looks. 

“The hotel is above the bookstore,” he finished and you gave him a grateful smile. “So, not too far now.”

“Thank you,” you say and look down the street, not quite ready to leave the presence of him. 

Maybe he didn’t want you to leave, either. “What’s the interview for? If you don’t mind me asking,”

You wave your hand. “Not at all,” you say again. “Just some babysitting gig. I finally got my CPR certificate and know how busy New York is. Thought it would be a good place to start.”

-

What are the odds..

Clay nods and tries to come off as casual as he leaned against the backdoor of the car. “Babysitting? Do you have much experience?”

“Yeah, about three years worth,” you answer, fidgeting with your fingers and Clay found himself hoping he wasn’t making you uncomfortable with all his questions. It had been too long since he actually let himself talk to a girl for more than a minute since Sam, so he was glad to see he was still able to decently hold a conversation. “I did it a lot through high school.”

“Yeah? When’d you graduate?” He wasn’t sure why he wanted to know so much about you, but it was clear the two of you got along pretty well for two strangers. He was sure he could hook you up with a job if you didn’t get this one, and now he was once again wondering why he cared so much. 

“Two years ago,” you replied and it didn’t seem like you were uncomfortable with him at all, so he decided to try his luck. 

“Well, I hope the interview goes well,” he says and thinks about how he wouldn’t mind having someone like you around his son for the hours he was at work. Though Clay has some massive trust issues, he knew he would need to find someone to look after Joey soon. “And if it doesn’t, there’s many other opportunities that are waiting for you in this city.”

“Yeah?” You gave him a teasing smile and Clay had to physically hold back a smirk in response. “Like what?”

Clay stiffened a bit as he chose his words carefully. “You said you’re a babysitter, right?” And when you nodded, he continued, “My son started school today, but he still needs someone to watch him until I get back from work. If that is something you’re interested in, there’s an opportunity for you right there. But I’m sure the interview will go great.”

You study his face for a bit, making Clay think he said something wrong, before you grin up at him. “Thanks for the boost of confidence,” you soften your smile. “I might take you up on that offer, if your kid is cool, that is.” 

Clay laughed as he reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone. “He’s the coolest kid in New York, that’s for sure,” he says and hands his phone to you. “Let me know how it goes? And if you’re interested in looking after the coolest kid you’ll probably ever meet for a few hours of your day.”

Your laugh reaches his ears just as you take his phone and quickly type in a number, one he hoped was actually yours and not a fake one. He couldn’t lie, it wasn’t often he asked for girls’ numbers, but you seemed sweet and like you knew what you were doing. Except for when it came to reading directions, but even that was understandable. He was also doing this to give his poor mom a break, and to make sure his son was in good hands when he was gone. “I’ll text you,” you promised as you handed him back his phone. “Thanks for the help. I really appreciate it.”

He took his phone and pocketed it. “It was nice to meet you, Y/n,” 

You begin backing away as you smile at him. “You too,” you wave. “Sorry again about your shirt. You wear that coffee well, if it helps.”

Clay laughs again as you turn around and begin heading down the street in the direction of the lights. 

The window of the car rolls down and he briefly hears Rick clear his throat. “I’ll pick you up at four, Mr. Beresford?” 

And Clay was far too distracted to be able to correct him again, so he just nodded before tearing his eyes away from your retreating form and heading into the building. 

-

Clay had gotten held up today and he had to text his mom and ask if she could pick Joey up from school. He knew it would be so much easier if he had a stable sitter to ask, and he was quickly beginning to agree with his mothers requests of hiring one. 

While Clay wanted to be the one to pick Joey up from his first day, he was glad he would have his grandma there. He knew his mom was probably his son’s favorite person, and he couldn’t even get mad at that fact because Clay had to admit; Lilith Beresford was an amazing woman and an even better mom.

As he began packing up his things, his mind drifted back to you for what felt like the tenth time since meeting you all those hours ago. He didn’t know what it was, but Clay felt captivated by you. 

Maybe it was because he hadn’t let himself get close to another girl since Sam, let alone have a full on conversation with one. 

Maybe it was because he found you cute and sweet and a bit funny.

Either way, he was thinking about you as he shrugged his jacket back on and over his stained shirt at the same time his phone went off. 

He checked it as he turned off the lights to his office, a genuine smile finding its way onto his lips as he read the text, 

The interview was a fail. I think it was over before it even began. Any chance I could set up one with you? Very curious about this supposed coolest kid in New York. 

And when you added a,

This is Y/n, by the way. The one who ruined your shirt because I have no sense of direction.  

He knew he was probably screwed. 

[marksbear2]

David Mcall x Male Reader

So I’m going to post at least one or two more times and just to get myself warmed up and just to get more ideas. I recently watched Fear, so David really interested me.

⚠️Warnings— Clueless and slightly unbothered Y/n. Creepy and weird David , smut, and affectionate. Frotting, humping, skin to skin, grinding, nipple play, cumshot, cum on face and Manipulative werido David, porn with plot, stalking implied basically canon like David. ⚠️

David and your bestfriend Nicole has been dating— more specifically on and off. You thought David was a bit weird, but you just didn’t care much and just wanted to deal with your own life and love life.

You were unaware, you always thought that David and Nicole were a regular  couple, you was one of the only few male friends Nicole had since she started to date David. You never noticed how David’s eyes were never on Nicole…in fact his eyes were burned into you. To David you was perfect, he thought that you was the one for him not Nicole. In his sick and twisted heart he knew that you belonged to him.

So, he began to show up almost everywhere you went with or without Nicole by his side. He showed up at the parties you went to, waiting to pick up ‘Nicole’ after school but really he’s wanting to look and see you. It’s like you saw him at every corner. But you thought it was an strange coincidence and never over thought about it. You didn’t tell Nicole about the coincidences to avoid unnecessary drama or an argument  and just went with it.

So, he began to show up almost everywhere you went with or without Nicole by his side. He showed up at the parties you went to, waiting to pick up ‘Nicole’ after school but really he’s wanting to look and see you. It’s like you saw him at every corner. But you thought it was an strange coincidence and never over thought about it. You didn’t tell Nicole about the coincidences to avoid unnecessary drama or an argument  and just went with it.

You and Nicole and a few other friends had planned on having a last minute group study since the finals was next week and you all wanted to pass and don’t have to be stressed out about it.

You was getting the snacks out and blankets, books, blank sheets of paper and other things you and your friends need for the study. 

Music was playing in the background, to help staying focus while getting everything, before suddenly the door bell rings…weird. It was a hour and a couple minutes left before everyone should had came. So your mind wondered at who the hell came a hour earlier then what the group time planned on.

You got up and went to the door and looked through the peephole and saw…David? You was confused as to why the hell david was here. Who told him? Did Nicole tell him? Why was he— your thoughts was interrupted with another knock on the door with David looking directly into the peephole. You immediately flinch back with your heart racing from the shock and unexpected action.

You slowly unlocked the door and trying to gather yourself back together before giving David an awkward smile. “Y/n, hey what took you so long to open the door?” David asked as he had his signature charming smile as he tilted his head looking at you. “Sorry, the music is pretty loud and I was busy so I didn’t hear the doorbell ring the first time.” You said with a small apologetic awkward laugh before adding. “Why are you here did Nicole invite you?” 

“Yeah she did is that okay with you? I figured I should come by early and help you get everything ready.” David said before uninvitedly stepping inside your home.

That bothered you, but since you didn’t wanna make a huge deal you closed the door after him and quickly went back to the living room where you saw him holding a picture frame of you when you were little. “Wow, I never knew you always liked superhero’s as a kid. I know your room has superhero posters around it but I didn’t know you always liked it.” David said as the picture was you and your dog in superhero costumes for Halloween.

“…How do you know that I have Superhero posters around my room?” You ask you was confused and starting to feel uneasy. David quickly just laughed it off and looked over his shoulder. “Nicole told me about it, she told me a few things about you. I’m protective of her by nature and I wanna make sure it was nothing going on between the two of you but she made it clear.” David said as he put the frame down and walked back over to you smiling.

You hated his smile, it was charming, it suited his handsome features. You heard over a million times about Nicole gushing over his smile and you see why.

“I also heard that you like guys.”

“What.” You said as your thought process was broke. How did he know that, you was a bit irritated since it was the biggest secret you told Nicole and somehow her boyfriend knows!? Before you got respond he already began to speak again.

“Aren’t you? Nicole told me that I didn’t have to worry about you since you were gay. And I’m glad…so since your gay does that mean you think I’m attractive?” You rolled his eyes at his comment and crossed your arms.

“No I don’t find you attractive. Just because I like guys doesn’t mean I—“ David cuts you off. 

“So you like other guys? Who? What’s their name?” *David questions stepping closer and closer as his expression and body language began to change. Before you could speak he started again. “I thought me and you had something special? I mean you always look at me with those eyes, at the carnival you took my hand so I wouldn’t get lost. Even when we were at Nicole’s house getting ready for the body you didn’t leave or get change you stayed in the room and took your clothes off right in front of me. You want me and you know it.” 

You took a step back as you gotten more and more confused. Why was he being so delusional and weird. 

“Look David, it’s nothing going on between us. Just drop it and I won’t tell Nicole about this or whatever fucked up feelings you have for me.” You said before turning around and walking away back to the set up you was preparing before suddenly David grabbed your wrist and pushing you down on the couch.

“Cmon, Y/n…stop playing all hard to get. I know you want this…I know you want me.” David said taking a hold of both of his wrist.

You thought David was attractive, but you would never actually do anything with him right? Your mind was racing with millions of things as you felt David run his hand on your clothed chest and stomach poking and pinching your nipples through your shirt. You didn’t know want to do, this was your best friend’s boyfriend touching you right now now. You shivered with pleasure as he played with your nipples through your shirt.

“David…ngh.- stop!!~ please. This is wrong.” You said with a small bit of shame. You hated this feeling, the way he was making you feel good. Your nipples were never really sensitive and now with bud hands on them touching them through your shirt and the way he was breathing in the crook of your neck it excited you. 

David ignored your words as he slipped one of his hands inside of your shirt touching your nipple as he used his free hand to undo your belt. You gripped onto his shoulders, to ‘Stop him’ but you didn’t make a actual effort to push him away. 

Once he threw your belt to the side he zipped down the fly to your pants, and pushed his hand inside of your underwear touching your soft cock.

You let out a gasp as you felt his cold hand wrap around your cock.

“Your cock fits so good in my hand.” David moved his hand against and jerking the semi-soft cock in his hand. Your body tensed as you felt his hand wrap around your cock. You started to get aroused causing your dick to harden. Everything was catching up, the lust, the thrill of being jerked off to your bestfriend’s boyfriend. David kissed and peppered your neck with small kisses as he stroked your cock until you got fully hard.

David laughed softly as he felt your cock grow and grow in his hand until you were fully hard. He let go of your nipple and used the now free had to tug your boxers and pants down low enough for your cock and can spring free from the pants.

You shivered as the cold air in the air reached your cock. David stared at your shaft for a while slightly admiring the size and the color taking everything in. David reached his own hand to his own belt and threw it to the side as he pulled down his boxers and pants he was already hard.

David went back to stroking your cock as he used his free hand to jerk himself off as well. He leaned closer and closer as you tilt your head and squeeze your eyes shut so you don’t have to face him. 

You feel his eyes burning into your skull, studying you as if you were kind of animal. You can feel his breathe against your skin.

Soon David let’s go of your cock and his own, before grabbing your waist and pushing down more into the couch as he rubbed his own cock against yours.

Both of your cock’s rubbed against each other’s, both tips grazing one another’s. It made your face and body hot from arousal. David stood in between your legs on top of you humping his own cock with yours.

Your tip began to leak out precum it leaked, you began to groan as he thrusted his dick against yours. Sometimes he would pull away and rub his tip against your hole teasing you. David spit into his hand and took both of y’all’s memebers into his hand jerking the both of you off at the time.

Your head fell back as your toes curled as you moaned. David looked down at you admiring you. He smirked and leaned down pushing his own tongue forcefully in your mouth.

You moaned and kissed him back, moving your tongue back against his own. You two’s tongues swirled and moved around one another’s. You began to move your hips into his hand humping into his hand as both of your cocks got wetter and wetter from both precum. David squeezed his hand, it felt so good.

You were lost in pleasure with everything, lust consumed you as you felt the knot in your stomach tighten. You let out heavy and erotic moans with small whimpering. Your body began to jolt and tense as your eyes roll back into your head, your legs shaking as the tip of your cock shot just cum. 

You gasped and held onto David’s shoulders to gather yourself. Your cum got onto your shirt and David’s own cock and hand. You were panting as your cock leaked out all the cum.

David watched as he pulled away and stood up tall watching you slump down the couch. David stood above you jerking his cock off. He was biting his lip with a smirk as he stroked his cock at a fast pace looking down at you while he did it. You looked up at him…oh how pathetic you looked in his eyes. David grabbed a fist full of your hair pulling your head up until you allied with his cock.

David jerked off to he let out a laugh with a grunt and groan. He began to get vocal with the noises of pleasure as he shot the white streaks of cum onto your face. He painted your face with his cum. He held your face in place as you tried to move away yanking your head back down on the couch as he rode off his orgasm. 

He rubbed the cum he had left on his tip onto your lips and shoving the tip into your mouth so you could taste him.

Once he was done he let go of your hair and stepped back to admire you.

He felt himself getting hard again and opened his mouth to speak but it was interrupted with a knock on the door. David looked up and picked up his belt from the ground and stuffed his now hard cock back into his boxers and fixed himself and pants before going to the door. You quickly sat up to fix yourself and fumbled around with your pants trying to gather yourself.

David opened door and smiled inviting his girlfriend and her friends to come inside.

You quickly got up and went to the bathroom and shut yourself inside.

“Where’s Y/n?” Nicole asks and David laughed and shrugged before answering.

“He’s in the bathroom, he’s been inside there since I got here. I should probably go check on him.” David said kissing Nicole’s neck before walking away into the hallway Y/n went into

The house was quiet until the door of the bathroom is opened and shut.

THE END

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Fox. Stockings. I won't ever be the same.

Out of curiosity, would he want his partner to put them on while he watches? Or would he want to be surprised?

I’m so glad you asked, Alli! I’ve never opened a blank doc as fast in my life as I did when I saw this.

In the Matter of Marshal Commander Fox vs. the Stocking Kink, the Court Finds the Defendant Filthy.

A/N: Great news! The insomnia thotting hours are back. Now if I can just harness them to finish my WIPs.

Pairing: Fox x Reader (Fem; has hair)

Rating: M (mature content intended for readers 18+; minors DNI)

Wordcount: 2.5k

Warnings and tags: SMUT; blatant misuse of diplomatic privileges; workplace sex; stocking kink; allusions to bondage and knife play; slight exhibitionism/voyeurism/objectification; minor predator/prey dynamic; oral sex; masturbation; spanking; cum marking; quiet dom!Fox.

Summary: Marshal Commander Fox requires your assistance.

Suggested Listening: 

This fic smells like: Jasmin et Cigarette by État Libre D’Orange (condoms and cigarette smoke)

Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

You’d been reviewing the finer details of a proposed Senate bill for more hours than you could remember. The words seemed to shift and pulse before your gritty eyes, but you were in too deep to notice that you’d reread the same paragraph three times and still didn’t grasp its underlying meaning. A brief knock startled you out of your hyperfocus, and you glanced up from your datapad just as your aide leaned into the room.

“Sorry to bother you, Senator, but a priority delivery just arrived from the Coruscant Guard headquarters. It has a diplomatic seal. I thought you'd want to know right away.”

The kriff?

“You are absolutely correct. Thank you.” 

The aide set the parcel on your desk and withdrew, discreetly closing the door on the way out of your office. You took a moment to stretch and yawn before you picked up the pouch and inspected it curiously. It wasn’t the seal that was unusual; the embassy received dozens of such secure deliveries every day. Nor was it unusual for you to receive missives from the Corries: security alerts; logistical updates; requests for information which you routinely ignored, to the chagrin of the Marshal Commander. But a diplomatically sealed delivery from the Coruscant Guard itself? That was unusual. 

You broke the seal and dumped out the contents: an official memorandum printed on actual paper, and a small, plain envelope. Damn. If it’s sensitive enough to need to be printed instead of sent as a holo, my day is about to get complicated. You picked up the memo, clenching your jaw as you read the heading.

TO: Senior Representative, Planet Haneli  FROM: Marshal Commander Fox, Coruscant Guard SUBJECT: Notice of Compulsory Testimony Under the Enhanced Security and Enforcement Act #192358691 Senator, Due to the Haneli embassy’s persistent lack of cooperation in regards to my repeated official requests for information in the matter of CSF-32610/CG-854201, I have no recourse but to invoke ESEA. Please report to my office tonight at 2100 hours for debriefing. Failure to comply will result in your immediate arrest and detention, and an official investigation will be opened into the matter of your obstructive actions. I trust those steps will be unnecessary. Regards, Marshal Commander Fox

I’m going to murder him. I’m going to make him eat this goddamned sheet of flimsi. I’m going to—wait, what’s in the envelope?

Your hands shook with rage as you tore it open. Inside, you found a brief handwritten note and—you froze, mouth dropping open with shock as you stared wide-eyed at the item inside. Holy Force. You glanced at the clock. Kark, kark, kark. Eight o’clock already. I need to leave now.

You sent a terse comm to your aide to notify your driver that you would require transport immediately, then grabbed the memo and the rest of the delivery, made a quick stop at the refresher, and hurried out of your office. Traffic was kriffed, and you barely made it to the Corrie Guard HQ in time. Luckily, the Commander appeared to have notified his men that you were expected, because nobody stopped you as you strode through the corridors to his office, propelled by adrenaline.

You smacked the control panel to open his door, marched to his desk, and slapped the memo down in front of him.

“What the hell is this supposed to mean?” you demanded.

“Senator, he replied mildly. “So good of you to join me.” 

“You didn’t give me much choice,” you snapped. “Threatening to arrest me? Really, Commander?”

He tapped a button on his vambrace, and the door slid shut behind you, beeping softly as it locked. “That was only half of my message. Did you read the rest?”

“Oh, I read it,” you replied in a dangerous tone. “Every single word.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to repeat myself.”

He stood and moved out from behind his desk. He walked deliberately, purposely invading your space, but you refused to back down. Once he was close enough that his chestplate nearly brushed against you, he stopped and removed his helmet and gloves, meeting your eyes with a hint of a smile.

“You look absolutely stunning tonight,” he murmured, stroking his knuckles lightly across your cheek.

“Thanks, it’s the looming incarceration. Really brings out my eyes.”

He laughed quietly and threaded his fingers through the hair at the base of your skull. He rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes for a moment before his lips met yours softly. “You didn’t really think I’d arrest you, did you?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had me in binders.”

“Nor the last. But I have something else in mind tonight.”

“So I gathered,” you murmured, kissing him again and again as you began to unbuckle his armor. “Any particular reason we had to do this in your office instead of at the embassy in my lovely and very clean bed?”

“My office is clean.”

Your gaze dropped pointedly to a suspicious stain on the carpet.

“Mostly,” he added.

“If it’s an office hookup you’re after, we could have used mine. It has a sofa, you know. Very roomy. Very soft.”

“No good,” he replied as his lips traveled down your throat. “Has to be here. That way every time I look at my desk, I can remember what you look like spread out on it.”

“Fair enough.” You eased open the seal of his undersuit and pushed it off his shoulders, pausing for a moment to admire the view. “You’re so fucking gorgeous. I’ll never get over you.”

He rumbled in approval as you trailed your hands over his exposed skin, tracing the scars—both familiar and new—and lines of ink.

“What happened here?” you asked, flicking your tongue over a recently healed scar on his shoulder.

“Trando bounty hunter. It’s a boring story.”

“I doubt that,” you replied dryly.

“It was only a scratch, my love,” he murmured. “A bit of plastcrete shrapnel. No need to give me that look.”

“No doubt they gave you another medal for your display case.”

“Not this time,” he chuckled. “But it’s a good story to tell the shinies.”

“You take too many risks.”

“And you’re stalling,” he said in a low voice. “Take it off.”

“Take what off?” you asked, the very picture of innocence.

“Take it off,” he repeated, trailing his fingertips along your neckline. “I want to see you.”

“Say please.”

His fingertips reached the bottom of your neckline and slid beneath the fabric to caress between your breasts. He lowered his face to your shoulder, then grazed his nose along your neck, breathing in your scent before he whispered, “Take off the goddamned dress before I cut it off you.”

You inhaled sharply as your heart began to pound. That was tempting. Very tempting. But the thought of leaving Corrie HQ in nothing but the tattered remains of your senatorial robe was enough to persuade you to choose the wiser option. You began to unbutton the garment slowly. 

Fox drew back to lean against his desk, intently watching the progress of your hands as they descended, revealing a hint more skin with each button that opened. At last, you reached the final button and allowed the gown to fall to the floor, fully exposed to his gaze and wearing nothing but the shimmersilk stockings he’d sent in the diplomatic pouch.

His eyes traveled lazily down your body, taking in the sight of you. All the oxygen seemed to disappear from the room. Your skin prickled with awareness, and for an instant, you felt like a prey animal caught in the grip of a dangerous predator. You swallowed as your pulse began to race, but you forced yourself not to cover your vulnerability in the face of his intense scrutiny. 

“Turn around,” he ordered quietly.

You complied, resisting the temptation to look back over your shoulder at his reaction. He moved without a sound, and you nearly flinched when his hand slid around your hip and down your thigh, feeling the sheer, satiny fabric that stretched over your flesh. His breath ghosted over your shoulder, soft and warm, triggering a shudder of desire that raced down your spine.

“You did just as I asked,” he murmured, gliding his other hand up your abdomen to cup your breast, squeezing your nipple softly between two fingers. 

“Your note was extremely clear,” you replied. 

I don’t want to see anything but these when I get you out of that dress tonight. —F.

“And for once, you followed my orders,” he said. His lips grazed along your jaw. “I think that deserves a reward.”

He pulled you back against his body so you could feel his erection grinding against your ass through the stockings. He stroked back up your thigh and between your legs, and when he reached your pussy, he let out a low groan. “Fuck, love, you’ve soaked through them.”

“In my defense,” you said breathlessly, “I had plenty of time to speculate about what you were planning on my drive over.”

The soft puff of his laugh was warm against your skin, and he began to kiss a slow trail down your spine as he knelt behind you. When he reached your ass, he nuzzled against it, rubbing his face over the shimmersilk, kissing and nibbling, taking the fabric between his teeth and letting it snap back against your skin.

“So good for me,” he whispered. “Such a sweet little thing.”

He turned you around, guiding you with his hands on your hips until you stood facing him. Your mouth went dry at the sight of him on his knees for you, gazing up at you with naked desire in his eyes.

“Spread your legs for me, darling. I want to taste you.”

“Who am I to disobey the Marshal Commander?” you asked, your cheeky tone slightly less than convincing thanks to the noticeable rasp in your voice.

He shot you a lopsided grin, and then his hands slid up the backs of your thighs to grip your ass and pull you against his face.

“Fuck!” you gasped as his tongue slid over the gossamer fabric that covered your pussy.

He let out a soft, choked moan as he finally tasted you. The sensation was strange. It felt almost like a tease: you could feel every movement of his lips and tongue over your skin, but it was muted, subdued by the delicate layer between the two of you. His hands roamed greedily over your legs, massaging your flesh, tugging at the stockings, feeling the smooth, satiny fabric.

Abruptly, he pulled away and stood, gripping you by the waist and spinning you around to sit on his desk. He kissed you hard and deeply, then pressed your shoulders back until you were lying down with your legs dangling over the edge. He knelt once again and kissed a path up the inside of your leg until he reached the top of your thigh, then his hands slid up and tugged down the waistband just far enough for his tongue to plunge into you.

Tightening your legs around his head, you let out a hoarse whimper. A deep, satisfied rumble vibrated from his mouth into you as you writhed beneath him. Your fingers found their way into his hair, twining and tugging. All the while, his hands never ceased to explore and tease and play with you, gliding over your thighs as he reveled in the feeling of you wrapped around him.

He sucked and kissed and licked and teased, working you inexorably toward your orgasm, until at last your thighs locked and you clamped your hand over your mouth to muffle your scream of pleasure. With a grunt of displeasure, he reached up and tugged your hand away so he could hear you. He worked you through your climax as your body thrashed, and when you finally collapsed against the desk in exhaustion, he stood to lean over you, kissing you deeply, the taste of you still on his tongue.

“Let me come on your ass,” he whispered.

You nodded shakily, too spent to speak. He helped you to stand, then bent you forward over the desk and pulled the waistband of your stockings back up. His cock prodded against your thigh, and he took a moment to press and rub it against your ass through the shimmersilk before he began to stroke himself in a firm, steady rhythm. His cock and hand nudged against you with every movement, and his other hand squeezed and slapped your ass roughly. A deep groan tore from him, and his breath grew loud and ragged as his speed increased.

You heard a sharp gasp, and then the hot spurt of his cum splattered across your ass and back. A shudder wracked your body, and you desperately wished you could see his face as he pumped his cock until he had nothing left to give. With a soft grunt, he fell forward, catching himself on the desk with one hand just before he would have landed on you.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he panted. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, covered in my cum.” 

He trailed his fingertips through the mess on your back, and then flattened his palm and smeared it across your skin, drawing an appreciative hum from you. Rolling over onto your side, you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him close. He melted against you, tucking his face into your shoulder.

“This desk is hard as kriff,” he mumbled. “I’m beginning to see a flaw in my plan.”

You laughed quietly. “Sofa is sounding pretty appealing right now, is it?”

“Mm. Next time.”

“I can’t wait to see what excuse you fabricate to throw my staff off the scent when that happens.”

“If your staff are anything like mine, they’ve already figured it out.” He kissed your shoulder and moved down your chest to suck gently at your nipple. 

You brushed your hand up his back and neck to cradle his head against you. “I wonder what they’d say if they knew you were abusing the diplomatic seal to send me lingerie and overbearing demands for a hookup.”

“They’d either applaud my ingenuity or have me stripped of rank,” he chuckled. “I should get you cleaned up. As soon as my legs start working again.”

Later, after he helped you back into your gown, he wrapped his arms around you and pressed a kiss onto the top of your head. You leaned into his embrace, relaxing against his body with a tired yawn.

“That was a thorough debriefing, Commander,” you murmured. “I hope I was able to satisfy your curiosity.”

“For the moment,” he replied. “But the case is still open. I might need you again soon. Very soon.”

“Mm,” you smiled. “I’m sure the Haneli embassy will be happy to cooperate in any way you deem necessary.”

“Trying to avoid arrest, my love?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential diplomatic information.”

Taglist:

@secondaryrealm @sev-on-kamino @523rdrebel @wings-and-beskar @merkitty49

@sinfulsalutations @arcsimper5 @starrylothcat @clio3kantarella

@cloneloverrrrr @goblininawig @ladytano420 @arctrooper69 @sunshinesdaydream

@littlemissmanga @stunkbiggu @starqueensthings @marierg @idontgetanysleep

@moonlightwarriorqueen @dudewhynotthis @sleepycreativewriter @tcwmatchmakingau @littlemissbshine

@multi-fan-dom-madness @heavenseed76 @wizardofrozz @bobaprint @sweetcream-coldfoam

@skellymom @pickleprickle @trixie2023 @mythical-illustrator @dickarchivist

@cw80831 @flyiingsly @lightwise @swcowgal

@reader6898 @cdblake1565 @epicy0n @starstofillmydream @msmeredithrose

@totallyunidentified @eclec-tech @euphoriacafe @hipwell @flo-barr

@dangraccoon @transactivecybermemory @etod @ivyyyyy @somewhere-on-kamino

@burningnerdchild @saneabandoned @heidnspeak @maniacalbooper @kimiheartblade

@vrycurious @thora-sniper

[oristian]

So how come we can tell that Elain wants azriel and is attracted to azriel but Eluciens claim they need Elain's POV to confirm she doesn't want Lucien??

Idk it's almost like thoughts and acts and verbal things she has said matter?? It's almost like... we don't need everyone and their mother's POV to tell very basic information??

Y'all acting like she is a complete black box just because we don't have her POV yet 😭😭

What if I said "oh we need Lucien's POV to tell he actual feels a bond and didn't orchestrate a fake mating bond to claim an Archeron sister after she got made?"

"But he wouldn't do that"

How am I supposed to know he wouldn't!! We don't have his POV either 🤪 he could be Koschei for all we know 🤷🏻‍♀️

And nobody better fucking bring up Feyre hating Rhys or Nesta kicking Cassian in the balls. Their words differed from their actions. They might've SAID they hated their love interests at the time, but their ACTIONS differed. Anyone who genuinely thought Feyre hated Rhys or Nesta hated Cassian is literally just lying atp because come on what do you mean you didn't pick up on that?? Nesta was willing to die for Cassian and Feyre was literally thinking Rhys was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Be so fr.

Elain's actions match her words. We don't need her POV to know that.

Good morning! This might be a long response, so hope you enjoy!

Elain Archeron is a book character. Books follow standards enacted by the stricture of narratives, and how stories are told overall—in short, the reader is being told something through a book. A story is told through settings, dialogue, characters, et cetera. While the reader may be able to create their own theories, pick up on literary devices, and generate predispositions, until the reader is fully informed by the intent of the author on page, it is speculation.

When people claim that we need Elain’s POV to understand how she is feeling towards Lucien, that is very much true. There is a plethora of reasons as to why she shifted her composure around him between ACOWAR and ACOSF. From asking if he is alright and inviting him to Velaris, to shrinking around him? Until we are in her inner monologue and seeing what she is seeing, the reader can only speculate. Is she now very horny for him, is the mating bond chafing when he’s around, did she have a vision of their future, is she wildly attracted to him, et cetera? The same way that people claim she is in love with Azriel is the same way we claim we need her POV—neither is true until Elain confirms it herself with her own thoughts, feelings, and words.

Now, I want to bring up “thoughts, actions and verbal things,” because, more often than not, it is misconstrued. The only instance where the reader might be swayed to believe that Elain feels anything for Azriel is the almost kiss in the bonus chapter. However, we only had Azriel’s POV. Compared to Wings and Embers bonus chapter with Nessian, the reader was lacking the female’s POV. With Nesta and Cassian, we read that both were feeling the pull towards each other in that chapter. In ACOSF, we were limited to just Azriel—why is that? As for the other lines of dialogue that are seemingly connected to Elriel, those are regarding Graysen. “I don’t want a male,” would also be applied to Azriel, no? “And that love would trump even a mating bond,” is about Graysen.

I have been asked before how I can confidently ship Elucien when Elain seemingly lost her “newfound boldness,” and, “shrunk in on herself,” when Lucien came during Solstice. While I do understand how some people can read that as a negative for the ship, I once again have to say that we do not know why either of those actions happened. There has been zero indication that Lucien is forcing himself on her, is bad for her, and/or is disrespecting her wishes, so why has Elain suddenly started acting like this? This is why we claim that we need her POV for all of these unanswered questions.

Essentially, Elain is a blank sheet of paper. Could she stay this newfound meek personality and live all her days in a small cottage with a garden, or will she revert back into her old personality and become the socialite that she once was? While the reader can understand some of her character, she is still more shifted towards the background and is lacking the substance that a fleshed out POV and aligned character development would offer to her. This is one of the reasons why so many people seemingly dislike her character, because she has not been able to explain her actions. This was similar to Nesta.

The example you brought up with Lucien and the bond needing clarification actually was solved very quickly in ACOMAF. When Feyre unleashed Helion’s spellcleaving magic and broke the bonds in Hybern, she would have broken any fake mating bond tied to Elain and Lucien. Feyre has also been inside of Lucien’s head while he was experiencing the tug of mating instincts. Elain has felt the tug of the bond and Lucien was able to experience her from the inside due to the bond. They both have experienced mating behavior towards each other. The reader has had a snippet of Lucien’s POV.

Feyre, Nesta and Elain are all similar in how they were reluctant to accept the bond at first—the only difference is that Elain is fully aware of the bond before she accepts it. Feyre and Nesta were stuffed into forced close proximity with both of their mates, which also differs from Elain, and her sisters also had access to their mates before they turned fae. Elain met Lucien the night she turned fae and had very little alone time with him. Feyre and Nesta both experienced firsthand the chaffing of the bond while being so close to their mates for so long, but Elain has not. Elain was in love and engaged to Graysen and was now suddenly tossed a fae male as her mate, while simultaneously losing her humanity? It is only reasonable that she would not be jumping for joy over this new revelation.

SJM is an author that uses similar patterns across her entire body of work. To say that we cannot compare how she wrote Feysand and Nessian to Elucien in the same series makes no sense to me. Now, I do believe that you have contradicted yourself in your paragraph regarding Feyre and Nesta. I agree, while they may have claimed that they wanted nothing to do with their mates, their actions showed the reader otherwise. Elain is similar with Lucien, however, she has not once said that she hated him, wanted him gone, wanted to reject the bond, et cetera. Anything she has said against wanting a fae male was because she wanted Graysen and to return to her mortal life. Her actions towards Lucien have included worriment for his safety, relief that he is alright, inviting him to Velaris, keeping all of his Solstice gifts, the half step, et cetera. Someone who planned on rejecting the bond with their mate would not have done any of the above.

If the reader does not need Elain’s POV, why would she need an entire book? If her thoughts, feelings, and actions are fully explained from another’s POV, why would she need to explain herself in her own inner monologue? She already has hobbies, friends, a lover, a home, joy, purpose, and family—what would be the point of her having a book?

I so hope I managed to answer your question. Have a good day!

[midnightnautilus]

Spoilers for Part 3.

A blink, and the rushing noise of the engine vanished.

It was quiet.

Kal had been banished.

The crew was safe.

His family was safe.

He smiled.

Then he stopped.

But…wait.

What happened?

He thought his eyes were open, but he could see nothing. Not blackness, just…emptiness.

Like a blank sheet of paper.

Slowly, slowly, there became a blurry visage of…something. He squinted with the numb place where he supposed that his eyes were, and soon this something came into view.

He was in a small room.

It was a pleasant departure from the last few days. The blue carpet and the dandelion-colored wallpaper reminded him of their apartment back in New York. Strewn about were books and trinkets, a lamp with an orange glow, and…

A copy of *The Sun*.

He picked it up. It was weathered, loved, and he remembered the calluses he no longer had from handling the stock. It filled him with something he couldn’t quantify at the moment.

*Bzzz*

Samuel looked up and gasped. How could he have not seen it before? In the center of the room was a strange, intricately carved box. It reminded him of Dakkar’s scanner, 10 times larger. It shone its own light the color of the Radiance.

There was something comfortable about it.

He ran a hand over its knobs and buttons. (He thought, at least. He still couldn’t feel his hands.)

He slowly turned one.

He jumped back in shock as it crackled with a noise like thunder.

Then, a voice rang out, as if it was in his head. No, not really a VOICE… more of a feeling. Yet he could understand every word.

Hello, Samuel.

“H-hello…? Who are you? Are you with the Travelers?”

Yes. And no. I am MAIA. I’ve been telling the story of you and your friends. Welcome to the end of infinity.

“Infinity?”

A version of it, yes.

“So that means…” His shoulders rose as he fidgeted with his glasses. “I won’t see them again, huh?”

There was a silence.

No. But you did save them.

He nodded, and even though everything felt cold, a sense of warmth filled his soul.

He sat down on the plush chair and put a hand to his chin. “But… why am I here?”

MAIA hummed. You are a storyteller, Samuel. I need your help.

Besides…

I think you of all people deserve to see how it ends.

Samuel peered out of the windows. The vastness of the cosmos greeted him.

“Well…

Are there journals in the end of infinity?”

[flowercrowngods]

Who even writes letters anymore?

It feels a little ridiculous, interrupting the process of baring his heart and soul to the paper, the pen, and the walls of his room, to ponder the frequency of the hand-written word. It makes him falter, though, the sentence half finished on the paper before him, his desk lit only with candles because it’s two on the morning and long past the time for any kind of lamps, desk and ceiling alike.

Who even writes letters anymore? Letters like this, somewhere between a confession of love and an apology. Emotions that don’t do well, being said out loud, and that do even worse in a text message.

The written word, ink on blank sheets of paper, weeks and months old and nowhere near finished yet, was invented for situations like this. For feelings like this.

For Steve. For Eddie. For Steve and Eddie.

The eternal What If. The little lump in his heart that feels so real even though it can’t be. The thought in the back of his mind, a calling presence that is imaginary at best. The vision of a future that is no more than wishful thinking.

And thinking, he does. Oh, does he think. And always, always about Eddie.

Eddie, who wasn’t brave enough to love him, and whom Steve never gave the space to be. Eddie, who did love him, but showed it in different ways than Steve was used to. And when he realised, when he recognised, it was all in hindsight.

They were both too scared. Twice. Scared and stupid and—

But Steve’s not scared now. It’s late, he knows, and it might be too late.

It’s fine if it’s too late, he writes, and he means it. But I want you to know. I need you to know. I want to be brave, and I‘d rather be brave too late than not at all.

There is no filter, he finds. The ink unforgiving and unjudgmental alike, guiding his hand across the page from one word to the next, until suddenly there are six of them, and Steve could keep going forever.

I want to love you. I think I want to love you, not just the idea of you. I want to give you the space you need and learn to love and be loved. I want to do it right. I want to take your hand and hold it. I spend days just thinking about holding your hand. Holding you.

It’s not a love letter. He doesn’t even mean to send it, just wants to get it all out and not have his friends tell him it’s a bad idea, tell him Eddie doesn’t deserve him, Eddie’s not right for him.

Steve doesn’t believe that.

He just wants a chance. A conversation. They never really talked — not the first time, and not four years later. He wants a real chance this time, wants to be brave and talk and see.

And he wants to give Eddie a chance, too. A chance to mess up, a chance to speak, a chance to be brave and talk and see for himself, and a chance, maybe, to try again.

For real this time.

So he writes the letter; doesn’t care if people even do this anymore. He does. For Eddie. That feels like it’s all that matters.

He ends the letter at the bottom of page six.

I’m not writing you because I want to get back with you. I’m writing because I need you to know that I can’t stop thinking about you. And because I want to talk. A lot. And because I think they’re all wrong.

And I’m writing because I spent the party last weekend looking for you, hoping to see you. My friend told me to finish this letter and send it if you mean so much. And you do. Endlessly.

But it’s okay if all this is one-sided. It’s okay if you don’t even read until this point. It’s okay if it’s too late.

Steve

He takes it with him the next day, just on a whim, not entirely sure if he’s gonna send it or throw it in the trash, the coil in his stomach lightened since the last word’s been written.

In the end, he misses his train back home and has to take the long way with the bus that’ll only take him halfway there. He decides to walk the rest, taking a detour and passing Eddie’s apartment building.

He finds the name Munson on the doorbell nameplate outside. He stares at the door, the drizzle picking up until it’s pouring, and still Steve is staring.

He tries the front door. Another whim. It’s not supposed to open. Someone unhooked the latch. It gives in to Steve’s gentle push, and warmth envelops him as he suddenly finds himself face to face with Eddie’s mailbox.

The letter is in his bag. Secure. Heavy.

His heart, however, is light as he fishes it out and slips it past the lid, the thump as it gently hits the bottom the only sound in the universe.

Outside, the rain is pouring.

Inside, Steve’s heart lies in Eddie’s mailbox.

[sarrsqz]

And I'll be yours until the sun no longer shines

American Horror Story: Murder House

Post-Death Violet Harmon x Dead!Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Summary: When stuck thinking about a world you're no longer a part of, Violet's there to remind you of a world that was created just for you.

I gotta step up cause no one writes for her anymore 😔

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Afternoon sun spilled into the room and cascaded a long yellow gleam onto the floorboards. From years of sun damage -- caused by the open curtains that nobody ever fixed, and the angle of the sun at this exact time in the summer seasons -- the wooden floorboards had taken on a bleached look. Something that used to be a staple of the house's beauty now left to rot with the rest of it.

Your eyes followed the angled sun ray, watching it as it got narrower the further it went through the room. The peak of it hit the very bottom of the leather couch you laid on, which was covered in a thick plastic sheet. It was meant to protect the furniture in case of future buyers, but it's been over a decade since anyone (alive, that is) has lived here, so you doubt that it really matters now. It rustled under you whenever you shifted slightly. It reminded you of the paper sheet they use in doctor's offices, the ones that were left tattered after every patient sat on them.

Or maybe it was the squeaky sound it made that reminded you of something. Like how worn-down sneakers belonging to tired teenagers sounded when jogging through a school gym on a Monday morning.

But it didn't really matter. The only thing these comparisons really reminded you of was the fact that you thought too much about trivial things -- and reminisced about a life that you couldn't be a part of anymore.

The only thing that mattered now was the girl whose head was laying in your lap. The girl who had lightly slapped your hand when she realized you weren't paying attention to her speaking. "Are you even listening?" She asked, sitting up -- the plastic moving under you both -- and leaning on her elbow. Her pin straight hair fell over her left shoulder, framing her face that held a scowl at you for ignoring her.

You sat up on your elbows, eyes scanning over her face. She looked the same as she did when she was alive. Acted the same too. It was rare to meet a ghost who was at all similar to how they used to be. But that was Violet for you -- always the black sheep in every situation.

"Sorry." An apology came from your mouth, one of the many in this relationship. But what can you expect from fucked up dead teenagers?

"Jus' thinking about things." Your voice, again. It was difficult for your mind to catch up with your mouth sometimes, something you had grown accustomed to since dying. It never used to happen when you were alive though.

Violet's expression blanks, the scowl making its temporary exit. She glanced over at the sun beams, which were now shifted slightly due to the sun moving. "Your thoughts are more interesting than my cheesy story, huh?" She joked, the familiar sarcastic tone present in her voice. Her fingers began picking at loose strands on the sleeves of her cardigan, her nails chipped with old polish.

Right. Her story. Some cringy thing that happened when she still lived in Boston. She had been talking about it as if it was a fond memory, but you knew her. She just needed something to pass the time. It was futile though -- time doesn't stop for things like you.

You smiled anyway. "No, no. Sorry," another sorry, "keep talking." The words left your mouth, causing Violet to pause for a moment before continuing her story. Her storytelling was interesting enough. With her randomly thrown in curses and rants about people or things that annoyed her.

But what mainly caught your eye this time was the way the sun hit her face. That afternoon glow hitting the right side of her perfectly. Her brown eyes turned hazel, gold and green making appearances. Her hair looked more blond than ever. Memories of seeing her leave for school -- decades ago at this point -- back when she was still alive and had just moved here. Seeing her in the front lawn with her dad or with their old dog. Leaning on the doorframe of her bedroom, seeing her smile at you from across the room.

Making up new events as well. Seeing her at the beach, sand sticking to your skin and salt invading your nose. Walking through a music store, listening to her ramble about Morrissey and flipping through overpriced albums. Making fun of people buying mainstream music, blatantly ignoring the popularity of our own music tastes.

"Why do I even bother talking if you're not going to listen?" A frustrated voice broke through your thoughts. "Y'know, it hurts when you don't pay attention to me. I need you to be present." Her voice was softer when she said that. Vulnerable.

You shake your head slightly, looking away from her. "I was just... imagining shit." Your eyebrows raised slightly, a tight smile on your face as you looked back at her. Looking for forgiveness and for her to continue on with her stories of Boston.

But instead, you're met with concern. She seemed worried. Normally, she'd say something sarcastic, maybe cuss you out a bit, and then continue on like it's nothing. She doesn't have the energy to fight about something like this anyway. She's already not on speaking terms with some of the ghosts here, she doesn't need you pissed off too.

But no. She's worried. Your face dropped, hers narrowed. She sat up fully. Her legs were crossed, bare knees poking out from under her dark dress. "You can talk to me, you know."

You sat up. Your mind was still clouded with thoughts. Your head was a melting pot of memories and made-up fantasies. Your childhood, the high school you were never able to graduate from, the life you and the girl in front of you deserved to be able to live together.

She was back to picking at the strands on her cardigan. Tying random pieces into knots, pulling them apart, starting all over again. Her eyes shifted from her hands and back towards your face.

You opened your mouth, but this time nothing came out. You moved slightly, the plastic squeaked. Neither of you paid any mind to it. You crossed your arms, glancing down at the see-through material that exposed the old black leather of the couch.

"I just keep thinking about it." It. That's what we called the world outside of the house. The world that had forgotten us years ago. The one that wrote us off as tragic cases of teenagers in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Your voice was low. You looked up at her, seeing her face blank again. Unreadable. The sun is almost gone now. It had passed you both and was now situated in the furthest corner of the room.

"Don't be stupid." Her voice cut through the air. It was sharp but held a logical sense to it. She didn't want you to hurt yourself desiring something you can't have. "I wish I could tell you that it's going to happen, but we need to focus on what we have here." Is it obvious that we've had this conversation before?

But still, she was right. She seemed to always be right. Although it hurt knowing we'd be here forever, unable to grow up, unable to leave, we had to remain realistic. Hoping for something that was impossible would only make things worse.

"I mean, unless you found a magic spell that would bring us back to life or some shit." She laughed at her own comment. Even after everything that had happened to her, her humor never strayed.

You smiled, her laughter getting louder when she saw it. She moved closer to you, the sound of the plastic making both of you breakout in fits of laughter, unable to ignore the sound anymore.

She rested her head on your shoulder, your uneven laughs continuing to fill the semi-empty living room you both sat in. You leaned back, watching the sun finally leave the room. Violet leaned in closer, a smile on her pale face. A genuine one at that, no sarcasm in sight.

The lonely reality of being dead will always eat away at you. You'll always miss everything you once had, always resent the circumstances that took them away. You'll always fear forgetting about things that mean so much to you -- fear losing yourself to the insanity brought on by being stuck in a timeless loop of murder.

But you'll also have her by your side. The weirdest girl you've ever met that accepted her own death years before it even occurred. The girl who remained the same in death, and the girl who understands you better than anyone else in the shitty world you two share.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

this is kinda ass but it's okay for my first post lol

[yuesya]

The darkened screen lights up with a new incoming message.

Sunday immediately lunges for his cell phone, ignoring the scattered sheets of promptly-abandoned paperwork that go flying everywhere as they are knocked over in his haste.

Robin: I found her! Thank you for your help in narrowing down the facilities, brother.

An exhale of relief escapes his lips, and Sunday finds himself slumping down slightly in his seat. The heavy, constricting feeling on his chest finally lightens at the knowledge that his youngest little sister is safe.

Even though he knows that Lyra can take care of herself when it comes to physical confrontations, that does not mean Sunday is happy when his sister –either one of his beloved little sisters– is in danger. Especially not when she does so deliberately.

It also does not help that Lyra knowingly allowed herself to be kidnapped by slavers, because it reminds him of a certain time in their childhood.

A bloodstained warehouse. Dismembered corpses littering the ground. Lyra, blank-eyed and unaffected, standing in the center of it all –and oh, how Sunday’s heart ached for his dear little sister. How fiercely glad he’d been, to find her still alive and well amid the carnage.

Sunday closes his eyes for a brief moment to compose himself, then responds to Robin’s message.

I’m glad I was able to help, he tells his sweet sister. Is everything alright over there?

He sets his phone down to the side of his desk, and goes about the room regathering his paperwork. Given the tone of Robin’s words, the situation was most likely under control. And… all the way in Penacony whilst his sisters were elsewhere among the stars, there was only so much that Sunday could do.

Not for the first time, a sudden jittery, uneasy sensation flutters in his chest. Separation anxiety, was what others had jokingly named this feeling when Sunday described it to them, but–

His phone screen lights up again. Sunday hurries back to his desk, setting down the papers and picking up his pen on autopilot even as his eyes are drawn to his phone.

Robin: All good! Lyra finished things by the time I got here.

Robin: There’s actually very little collateral damage this time, too.

Robin: She also found all of the missing children!

Robin: Everyone is accounted for. [Smiley face]

Robin: [New Attachment: Image file]

Sunday pauses.

… The picture that Robin sent him is clearly one that she’d just taken on her phone. In the frame, there are several children curled up against each other in a small pile, some of whom are asleep, while others hold markers in their hands with mischievous expressions. But more importantly, beside the children–

Lyra.

Soft, silvery hair, and feathery wings. Lyra’s appearance is not elegant or enchanting the way Robin’s is, but no one –not even the other Halovians who incessantly wagged those tongues that they did not deserve to keep– would deny that she was lovely in her own right. His little sister’s beauty is one that’s precious and darling, which has its own charm.

There is a blond-haired young man leaning quite closely over Lyra’s shoulder, his arm reaching over her body to point at something that she’s holding.

Sunday’s eyes narrow at the ostentatious peacock–

Who is he, he means to type to Robin. But as he lifts his hand, Sunday suddenly realizes that he’s dripping ink on the table.

Slowly, he unfurls his fingers. Fingers that he does not recall tightening into a fist in the first place.

Pieces of a broken pen fall one by one onto the polished desk with a clattering sound, ink seeping deep into the wooden grains as dark droplets continue to dribble down from Sunday’s hand.

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

Word count: 1800+

Warnings: none, but let me know if there is something

Well.. I don't know what to say except of 'Enjoy'

Let me know what do you think about it

(Note: editing while having fever so..👀 Sorry for mistakes)

Part V | Part VII

Day before Solstice

It was evening and you were seated in your favourite armchair, wrapped in a blanket, immersed in reading a book that Tamlin brought for you.

The mentioned High Lord was hanging around most of the day, accompanying you on your strolls, helping you with small tasks, returning to his manor only to change clothes or bring a roasted meat for meal. It became a habit that you grew to like. You got even used to his sudden mood swings. There were days he wouldn't say a single word, sadness and pain creating a dark cloud above his head. But otherwise he was kind and pleasant companion, occasionally even funny and playful.

The door behind you opened and closed, heavy steps crossed the room and stopped in front of the fireplace, throwing few logs into the fire and piling the rest next to the fireplace.

The pungent smell of magic filled the air and you instantly knew he cleaned his clothes and the mess he'd made. Your heart squeezed with panic, breathing became difficult. It was incomprehensible fear that had rooted deep inside of you. You had no idea where it came from, but it was always there, making you curl into yourself, locking your muscles in a place. No matter how many times he used magic in your presence, you couldn't get used to it. Tamlin seemed to notice it and refrained from using his powers as much as possible, which you were really grateful for.

"Y/N," he said just a breath away from your ear, making you wince. You looked up at him, surprised he got so close in a blink of eye. A wide smirk plastered on his face. "Do you know what day is tomorrow?"

You blinked not comprehending what answer he wanted to hear from you. "It's Tuesday today, so tomorrow is Wednesday. Is that what you are asking?" you frowned.

"Silly," smiling kindly he patted top of your head, a habit he picked up recently. "It is Solstice." He was looking down at you with expectation.

You tilted your head to the side, waiting for an explanation. Solstice. It's word you had heard before. One of your friends briefly mentioned it once. But you couldn't remember what the little selkie said about it.

Tamlin seemed to be disappointed by lack of your enthusiasm. "It's a holiday, Y/N," he sighed sitting down in armchair next to yours, new addition to your cottage. "Families and friends usually gather, have a festive dinner, exchange gifts, spend some time together. Have you never celebrated it?"

"I guess no, I don't remember it," you said. And there it was again, the emptiness. Tamlin searched your face, your eyes for any gleam of feelings, sentiment, anything, but there was nothing. You were blank as a sheet of unwritten paper. Could it be caused by memory loss?

Tamlin let out a long breath, decided to let it be for now. "Well.. What do you think about having a festive dinner tomorrow? Together. Nothing big, just a small celebration."

You shrugged, suddenly remembering the redhead male. He asked you to not mention his visit before he disappeared and you complied even though you had mixed feelings about it. He also said that he was Tamlin's friend. Did it mean he would come too?

"Will there be.. Uhm.. Do you expect any guests?" you asked carefully.

Tamlin's smile turned sad. "No, unfortunately there's nobody left from my family as well as friends. It will be just two of us."

You had grown used to his smiles and teasing so much recently that your heart hurt seeing him like this. There wasn't much you could do to cheer him up. You placed your small hand on his bigger one, squeezing it lightly. You smiled as brightly as possible. "So what do we need for the party?"

Day of Solstice, Velaris

Lucien walked slowly down the street, heading to the River House. Feyre had invited him to their family party. He didn't want to disappoint her, still feeling to be in debt for everything that happened, especially, for all he didn't do to help her when she needed him. He didn't have anything to do nor anywhere to go, so he couldn't decline anyway.

Family dinner and party. It meant there would be all members of Rhysand's inner circle. That was another reason why he didn't hurry. They made it more than clear how they felt about him. Uninvited guest, that's what he was to them.

He was resigned to being ignored during the entire event, it would actually make it more bearable. But he knew better than to hold such high expectations. There always was someone who found a reason to make a mean comment on his address.

Lucien had to endure it for at least an hour and then he could make up some excuse to leave. He sighed. It would most likely be the longest hour in his entire life.

Lucien checked the contents of his bag. Both presents were there. Since he didn't have good relationship with Rhysand and others, the only presents he bought were for Feyre and her sister Elain.

Elain, his mate. Thinking about her Lucien slightly blushed. He took time to find a perfect gift for his mate. Even though she made it clear she wasn't interested in the bond, he still hoped she would find it in herself to appreciate his thoughtfulness and feelings he put into it, and give him at least one look, one sweet smile. It was all he dared to hope for.

Lucien closed his eyes, praying to Mother for any positive reaction, word, small touch, gaze, anything that could soothe the ache in his chest. Anything that would give him hope for better future, for future with her safely in his arms.

His journey ended faster than he expected and before he realised it, Lucien was standing in front of the doors of the River House. He was about to knock when the doors opened, Feyre standing on the threshold with welcoming smile.

"Just in time. I'm happy you came," stepping aside she invited him in.

Lucien left his coat in the hall and followed her to the dinning room. As expected everyone was already gathered there, leaving a space for him at the farthest end of the table.

Lucien nodded to Rhysand in greeting, his eyes immediately finding his lovely mate who just came in with tray in hands, closely followed by Shadowsinger. Seeing them so close to each other was like kick in the guts. Lucien had to bite inside of his cheek to refrain from doing or saying anything he would be later sorry for.

When she noticed him, Elain froze on the spot for a second, averting her gaze fast. Her lips pulled into a thin line. Quickly she placed the tray on the table and took her place. The damn Shadowsinger slipped to the seat right next to her. Lucien tried really hard to not let everyone know how much this hurt him and rather sat down too.

For a moment there was an awkward silence. Feyre sent him sympathetic look from the other side of table, changing it into a frown as she looked at her older sister. Lucien noticed the sympathy on the faces of several of the gathered members, but the rest most likely thought that he deserved this.

Clearing his throat, Rhysand broke the silence and took the word. He talked something about being grateful that they survived the year, for his family and so on, but Lucien paid him no attention, gazing down on his plate.

"So let's finally dig into this delicious feast. Cheers," Rhysand finished holding up a glass of wine. Lucien dutifully took his glass and drank it all at one go. No doubt he needed it to survive this gathering.

During the dinner Lucien had to grit his teeth and clench fists under the table to refrain from jumping up and punching that damn bat. How he envied all those smiles, small gestures and conversations in a small voice. It was his mate.

Lucien was grateful when the dinner was finally over and party moved to the sitting room. However his relieve was a short lived. Elain took a seat on the couch next to Azriel, so their intimate silent conversation could continue.

Lucien tried to look cool, unmoved by the scene in front of him, but as soon as the gifts were exchanged, he was ready to excuse himself. Unfortunately, his plan was ruined by Feyre who came to sit down next to him.

She gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm very sorry for that," she tilted head towards the place those two were seated at. "I will try to talk with her."

"That's okay," he forced himself to say with a smile. "She made herself clear before. I don't expect her to change her attitude overnight."

Feyre squeezed his hand in a silent support. He could sense there's something else she wanted to say, but she was hesitant.

"I thought we were past this stage," arching a brow he teased her with a smirk.

She chuckled. "You know me too well." Biting down on her lower lip Feyre got serious again. "I.. I wanted to asked you.." Feyre squirmed nervously and clear her throat. "Do you have any news about him?"

"Him?" he teased her, pretending he didn't know who she asked about, but she only nodded. Lucien inhaled sharply letting air out slowly. "Well, I wouldn't worry about him anymore. I think he's going to be fine."

"And why is that so?" a night kissed voice came from behind their backs. Rhys moved from his seat without being noticed, now leaning in with interest.

"Well.." Lucien was hesitant. "He has rather a lovely company now."

"Oh, really?" Feyre leaned closer too, curious. "Who is it? Did you meet them?"

"I had the pleasure," he smiled. "I followed him once. I had even chance to talk with her for a while. She is what he needs right now to get back on his feet. I actually went to the manor today, too, but as expected he wasn't home."

"I'm so glad to hear that," Feyre smiled softly. It seemed that a great weight fell from her shoulders and she could breathe freely again.

"We all were worried," Rhysand kissed the top of her head. "Last time I saw him I had a feeling we weren't entirely alone, but there was no scent, no sound, nothing. Like a ghost. I'm curious who she is. Maybe I should pay her visit too."

Lucien's eyes narrowed. For Tamlin's sake it would be better if Rhysand stayed far from them. "I'm not sure it's a good idea. If you're so curious I can show you my memory."

"Very well," Rhysand purred, his powers already waiting impatiently on the other side of barrier that Lucien built around his mind. As soon as he let him in, Rhysand took a look at the memory.

High Lord paled, horror written on his handsome face. His eyes widened and he stumbled backwards as if Lucien shoved him. "That's..That's impossible," he breathed out, voice low. "That can't be."

[chaifootsteps]

Viv picks the worst characters for the "poor baby" arcs.

Stolas is a powerful demon, he is a Prince and son of King Paimon, who in demonology Lucifer call as brother.

Alastor was supposed to be this fearless manipulator whose name sends chills down your spine, but I guess he is just a misunderstood baby cause some bitch has him on a leash.

Lucifer is a fucking Emperor of Hell who put up a good fight against God and had to be brought down by Archangel Micheal with the help of multiple other angels.

I wouldn't put it behind Viv that she will woobify Valentino too somehow but we shall see.

Meanwhile, what about the real victims?

Octavia is supposedly cockblocking Stolitz, despite being 17 and wanting her father's love and attention

Blitzo is blamed for not loving his abuser

Angel Dust is constantly sexualized and shipped with his abuser and his SA is only brought up when needed in arguments of how serious the show is (even if his birthday present was a remix of his song with the abuser in the background and it's official)

Stella was forced to marry and conceive an heir, but no one cares about a woman who is rightfully angry at her husband, who is ruining the work she did to have a decent life

Vaggie could've been a great example of indoctrination and manipulation in Heaven, but she is a woman, so she is a cheap, blank sheet of paper.

Eve

Stay tuned for Viv's next iconic duo, a sexy lovable guy who hands out poisoned Halloween candy and his abusive harpy of a wife who threw a book at him one time.