#and he lives in constant fear that one day his little boy will realize what an idiot lyall is and he'll grow to hate him and resent him

[elysianymph]

thinking about remus being a dadda's boy when he was little but as he grew up he realized how lyall was drifting away bc of the guilt he felt whenever he looked at remus so remus became a mamma's boy in his teenage years

[s-brant]

Three’s Company

When Patrick visits his best friend at Stanford University, Art’s new fling finds herself stuck between two very attractive men.

9k (18+)

Warnings: smut, threesome, unprotected p in v, double penetration, oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, they’re all pervs, and strong language.

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The room is stiflingly hot.

There is no air conditioning in her study/fuck buddy's dorm to keep up with the late April heat that has descended upon Stanford's campus so quickly. Three different fans are plugged into outlets around the cramped living space, yet it does little to keep her body cool enough to feel comfortable.

Sleeping with Art was an impulsive decision. The first time was merely weeks ago after he politely asked if she would share her notes from a class he was absent from. They exchanged numbers to organize the meeting, and she ended up talking to him for the better part of an hour in the dining hall. Although she did not recognize it as flirting—the oblivious little thing she is—he shyly commented on seeing her at one of her gymnastics competitions and refused to let her get dinner with her meal credits. Looking back, his intentions should have been obvious to her, yet she does not think badly of him over it. If anything, she likes how wanted he made her feel. He knew what he wanted and ensured that he got it.

They came back to his room to study—only to study, he claimed with his hands held up to proclaim his innocence—for their approaching final exams.

"Good," she said with a teasing lilt to her voice, slinging her bag onto her shoulder and turning to walk in the direction of his dorm building. "Cause it's way too hot to be doing anything else."

They were both laughing as he set down his racquet bag to unlock the door. It was muffled through the wall, but Patrick heard it just fine from where he was perched on the foot of Art's bed with Tears for Fears playing on the unlabeled CD he dug through desk drawers to find. The sound of a distinctly feminine giggle made his mouth turn up at the corners in a smirk. This will be fun to tease his closest friend over until his cheeks flush pink and he has to hide his face in his shirt.

When the door swung open, the laughter died out as soon as they realized they weren't alone, but it was quickly replaced with wide smiles and warm greetings.

Patrick tried not to look her up and down so blatantly. Instead, he chuckled and said, "Art, you conveniently left out that you had a girlfriend on our last call."

To this, Art set down his bag and tackled him onto the bed, starting a minute-long wrestling match that only ended when they began to sweat from the heat and physical activity. It was then that Art remembered to have manners and introduced her. He scrambled to sit upright on the mattress and met her curious gaze.

"Y/N, this is Patrick. I'm sorry, I forgot what day he was coming."

She smiled.

"It's nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you." A pause, and then she turned her attention to Art. "Do you wanna study another time? I don't wanna intrude or anything."

Before Art could open his mouth to tell her to stay, Patrick aimed one of his charming grins at her, then said, "No, please intrude. I'll just hang out. You won't even know I'm here."

The last sentence caused a disbelieving scoff to leave Art’s lips.

As of right now, as she sits on the chair in front of the desk and the boys share the bed, they have gotten halfway through the study guide they meticulously constructed after one of the two classes they share, but it grew boring once an hour and a half passed. They typically end up getting distracted and make out by now, but with Patrick here, neither of them considers that an option. So, she suggests they take a half-hour break to sit, drink, and talk to allow their brains to decompress from the constant stimulation.

He already had a few beers inside the mini fridge beneath his desk, along with a hard seltzer for her seeing that she finds the taste of beer disgusting but quite enjoys being drunk with him. Also kept in the freezer section of the fridge is a pack of ice pops she bought a few days ago when the heat wave began. They prove to be very useful right now as the midday sun bakes the building alive despite the closed curtains and blowing fans.

The CD has moved onto Nine Inch Nails, and she remains quiet to hear it over the sound of the fans as she holds a red ice pop to the side of her neck to cool herself off. Sometime along the way, both of them had stripped down to their underwear after asking her if it was alright because it was so hot. Patrick joked that he was alright with her taking her clothes off too, which she laughed at while Art playfully shoved him over it. Yet now she isn't laughing. Her small exercise shorts are as forgiving as any item of clothing could be in these circumstances, but the long-sleeve shirt she wore because it was the only clean one left is sticking to her skin.

"So, how did you and Art meet?"

Her eyes open to find Patrick glancing back and forth between them.

"It's a boring story, actually," she says. "He asked if I took notes for a class he missed, and now he's stuck with me all the time."

"No, no, okay, maybe it was boring from her perspective, but I was trying to work up the nerve to talk to her for at least a week before then. I went to one of her competitions and recognized her from class," Art explains. "She won, which wasn't surprising at all."

Although she already knew this, this is the first time he has admitted to it out loud, and her stomach flutters at the idea of him becoming so enamored with her from one glance. The popsicle is sweet on her tastebuds when she raises it to her lips and sucks with her eyes looking between them both. As she expected, Patrick shifts a little in place and looks away for reasons not at all related to how she was looking at them while sucking her popsicle.

She chuckles.

"So, you were just interested in befriending me 'cause I win a lot?"

Her tone of voice is taunting, but they know it's all in good fun. Art is quick to play along, shrugging his shoulders to feign aloofness and taking a quick swig of his beer before responding. Their eye contact grows intense in the seconds before he speaks.

"Well, there were some other contributing factors."

"Mm," Patrick hums in agreement. "I've never seen you compete, but you are really hot, so Art's right about that."

This makes her pause for a second, her gaze shifting to find Art's to see if his friend crossed any lines, but he appears strangely calm about it. What she doesn't know is that he has never had any problem sharing, at least, not with Patrick. They shared a room in boarding school, jerked off together to the same girl, and shared the court together—what was his would always be Patrick's, and what was Patrick's would always be his.

"You're flirting with me right in front of him?"

Art interjects, "I'd be shocked if he didn't."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he's standing up from the bed to get another beer. The dorm room is small, so it only takes a few strides for him to meet her where she sits before the desk and kneels down to open the mini fridge. His left hand braces itself on one of her thighs while the right swings open the fridge door only to find there is no beer left. Rather than complain, he simply grabs one of her least favorite hard seltzer flavors and gives her thigh a firm squeeze before standing up.

The bed creaks beneath his weight when he sits back down on it.

He settles into a comfortable position with his back against the wall and legs spread, balancing the seltzer can on his bent knee. Patrick sits close to him, and she finds it difficult to peel her eyes off the pair of them in their current state of undress. Her gaze mostly lingers on Patrick seeing that she has already explored every inch of Art's lean body in the plentiful amount of times they've hooked up over the past few weeks. But, that being said, she cannot resist looking at Art either. Having two beautiful men laid out before her in their underwear is a treat she never expected to indulge in today. They each have the strong, masculine figures of athletes—showing mostly in their shoulders, biceps, abdomen, and thighs.

When Patrick notices her staring, she turns her gaze to the floor to avoid the embarrassment of being caught. If he did catch her, though, he doesn't call her out for it. Not yet, at least.

With one last bite of her popsicle, she stands from the desk chair to toss it into the small trash can beside his nightstand. It isn't until she lets it go that she realizes how close she now stands to the two of them. Only a foot or so from the bed, her heart begins to hammer in her chest at the proximity.

The way she sees it, she has two options. The first would be to retreat to the desk to let her long-sleeved shirt give her heatstroke while the men get to sit in front of the oscillating fans with their shirts off, or she can strip down to her undergarments and join them on the bed. Needless to say, she opts for the latter of the two.

Y/N lets out an exaggerated groan at the heat and fans herself with her hands for the sake of appearing somewhat innocent in what she's about to do, then reaches down for the hem of her shirt with a huff.

Art and Patrick can do nothing but watch with rapt attention side by side as she pulls the fabric up her torso and over her head. The shirt ends up falling to the floor beside her feet alongside their discarded t-shirts and pants. This leaves her in her most comfortable bra—which is Art's favorite since her nipples can be seen through the mesh material—and a pair of tiny spandex shorts.

Patrick's tongue darts out to wet his lips at the sight of her—almost angelic in her beauty—and tries to burn the image into his mind to hold onto forever. Definitely going in the spank bank, he thinks to himself as his cock begins to harden in his boxers. Beside him, Art has been stunned to silence. Even though they've fucked like rabbits since the first time, he isn't sure if he'll ever get used to seeing her like this. Those shorts hug the delicate curve of her hips, as well as that lovely ass that has been sculpted from years of training as a gymnast, and all he can think of is how badly he wants to take them off.

They sit there, dumbfounded, with their mouths hanging open just enough for her to notice and suppress an arrogant smirk. But to allow herself to smirk would be to reveal her cards, and she doesn't want them to see this as anything other than her innocently trying to cool down. Truth be told, she hasn't thought this through. It's not as though she planned this as she was sitting at the desk. It's more of an impulsive, irresistible urge. And if they will tease her so blatantly with their half-naked bodies, she is entitled to do the same.

"You," she says, jutting her chin in Patrick's direction. "Scoot. I wanna sit in front of the fans too."

Underneath it all, she's thankful that she took the time to do her hair the way that makes her feel the most confident and put a little makeup on. Not that either of them is focused on her damned makeup. No, they're far too busy ogling her figure to notice anything north of her collarbones.

After a delayed second of staring, what she said seems to register within him and spark him into action. He's quick to scoot closer to the end of the bed if it means she'll be inhabiting the small space between them. 

She offers a quiet, "Thank you," and crawls onto the bed, turning around and settling into place with her back against the wall. The cool air generated by the fans blows faintly against the front of her sweat-slick chest, and she can't help but shut her eyes and hum in appreciation of it.

With her eyes shut, Art and Patrick are both scrambling to quietly conceal their growing erections. If they don't, it'll be glaringly obvious when she opens her eyes and sees a tent in their underwear on either side of her. Although the life-long friends don't speak, there's an understanding formed between the two of them. Whatever she allows them to have of her tonight, if she allows anything, they'll share nicely. Patrick knows that if anything happens, he is to assume it is a one-time thing unless she or Art expresses a desire for an arrangement of some sort to be made.

Her eyes open again a few seconds later to find them staring at her.

Breaking the silence, she asks, turning her head left to right to address each of them, "Did your mothers never tell you it's rude to stare?"

Patrick doesn't miss a beat.

"Did you know it's rude to be a tease?"

The sound of Art sucking in a deep breath meets her ears, but she doesn't look away from Patrick. Their eyes are locked, and she can see the mischief present in his. It's almost as if he dares her to do something...like he knows that she wants him just as badly as he wants her. Part of her feels guilty, feeling like she should remain loyal to Art even though they aren't exclusive, but a much more dominant part of her desires it too much to resist the temptation.

"Patrick, don't pressure her. If she doesn't want to—"

Her head turning to look at him halts him in his tracks. The look she's giving him...

Much to his shock, she was a virgin when they met a few weeks ago. He questioned her relentlessly, claiming there was no way someone as beautiful, smart, and talented as her could've gone so long without doing it, but she held firm. It was the truth, he realized after she sheepishly relayed the story of how she made out with a basketball player on Halloween and wimped out before it could go further. That first night, she was a bashful, blushing little thing. He treated her with the tenderness and reverence she deserved, first making her come with his tongue and fingers before fucking her. It was so...intimate. Her nails dug into his shoulders when he made that first, breathtaking thrust into her. Just the thought of it was enough to get him hard the next day, but he knew not to expect anything after how shy she was the previous night. Little did he know, he awakened something within her, and from then on, she would be insatiable.

He almost got whiplash from how quickly she changed from a nervous, flushed-faced girl asking him, "Am I doing this right?" when she got on top to a cock-hungry temptress ready to jump onto him at any moment. Truth be told, he found it so fucking hot. To think that he was the catalyst for this behavior was beyond comprehension. Though Art did well enough in his dating life, Patrick was the one that the girls they liked gravitated toward when they were in school together. But she was his, and he thinks, even now, that he'll always have the satisfaction of having gotten to her first no matter what happens tonight.

Y/N shifts around on the mattress so that she's sitting on the side of the bed opposite the wall, facing them with her hands on her knees and legs tucked beneath her ass. Both boys perk up a little at this, and they watch every minute movement she makes and listen to every breath she breathes with unwavering focus.

She meets Art's gaze first before doing anything. Her brows raise in question, and, in answer, he gives her a slight nod. Those pretty, cherry-stained lips of hers curve into a smirk she doesn't even bother to hide in response to this.

"Have you ever fucked the same girl before?" she asks out of pure curiosity, her tone calm and even. Her hands leave her knees to grab one of their thighs each, slowly rubbing up and down to allow her fingertips to brush the edge of their boxers. "Two guys at the same time is a first for me..."

To say that they are in a state of shock would be a gross understatement. Surprisingly, their mouths are not hanging open, and they aren't drooling at the mere thought of what she's proposing.

Somehow, Patrick finds his voice and says, "No." A second of pause, then—"Is this for real? Like you're not just fucking with us?"

The silence that follows is ripe with tension. All that can be heard is the sound of voices passing in the hallway outside of the dorm room and fans blowing on their highest setting. The hands on their thighs come to a halt at the edge of their boxers, and the softened expression on her face shifts into one of unabashed lust as she looks at Patrick.

In answer to his question, she starts to crawl over to him. Seeing that the mattress is a twin, it doesn't take too long for her to reach him and settle into place on top of him. Her hands slide up to cup his face, forcing him to only look at her when she lowers herself onto his lap. The spandex shorts hugging every inch of her figure do little to keep him from feeling the warmth of her cunt against the bulge that formed the second she took her top off.

That first brush of her lips against his is gentle, as though she has him under a trance, but it doesn't take longer than a few seconds for him to snap out of it. Patrick's hands grasp her hips first to keep her from moving away, then they slide down to knead the soft, supple flesh of her ass as he begins to kiss her back hungrily. The kiss quickly begins to descend from her lips to her jaw until he reaches the soft skin of her neck.

While he nips and sucks at the sensitive spot along the side of her neck, Y/N opens her eyes to find Art staring, unblinking, at the pornographic display before him. The sight of him alone—between his messy blonde hair, piercing eyes, and masterfully structured face—is enough to pull a breathy moan from the back of her throat. One would think that she would get used to the way he makes her feel when he looks at her like that, but she never does.

One of the arms wrapped around Patrick's neck uncurls itself to reach for Art, fingers wiggling to beckon him to her. 

He's already invading her space by the time she whispers, "C'mere, baby."

Art practically melts into the two writhing bodies he kneels beside at the casual use of a pet name from her. The word echoes in the farthest reaches of his brain until it is all he can hear on a loop. Even as she grips the back of his neck and pulls him until their mouths collide, his cock twitches from the memory of her calling him baby.

Patrick continues to suck, lick, nip, and kiss his way down her neck as she slips her tongue into Art's mouth with a groan. He leaves marks behind everywhere he goes with the thought of his friend finding them on her for the next week and a half in mind. It only makes it more thrilling for him to imagine the strange mixture of frustration and arousal that will arise within Art when he rediscovers them the next time they hook up.

Slowly, she is guided onto her back by his mouth slipping down to take one of her nipples into it and his callused hands peeling her shorts, along with her soaked cotton thong, down over the swell of her ass. The freshly washed sheets are soft against her bare back as she lays back and watches Patrick worship her breasts with both his mouth and hands. In the midst of their repositioning, Art took it upon himself to squeeze into the cramped space next to Patrick, slotting himself between him and the wall the bed is pressed against. Without a word of warning, he dips his face down to kiss the breast Patrick is cupping in his hand.

She feels hands everywhere, unsure of which belongs to who. Hands grapple for purchase on her hips, her waist, her breasts, her thighs, and her ass—always moving in search of new territory to claim. Although they have no way of coordinating their actions, they seem to move in sync with one another. The second Art's mouth lowers to kiss down her stomach, which flinches inward at the feeling, Patrick follows. If she weren't so overwhelmed with everything right now, she'd likely laugh at how eager they are to race each other down the length of her body.

Their heads bump every few seconds by the time they reach her parted thighs, but they are too focused on getting a taste of her to care at first. They work with the same synchronized harmony they once had as doubles partners, Art tugging her left leg over his shoulder while Patrick shoves her right up and out until her thigh is flush with her chest. She can't help but silently thank her parents for enrolling her in gymnastics lessons years ago. If they hadn't, this would be a tad uncomfortable.

Finally, Patrick tries to shove Art to the side a little, complaining, "Come on, man, you're with her all the time."

To her surprise, it works for the first moment or so. Art places hot, open-mouthed kisses on her inner thigh as Patrick's tongue makes a broad stroke through her, but it isn't long before he grows dissatisfied with his current role in this impromptu threesome and decides to fight back. He doesn't shove or push like Patrick had, instead, he gently nudges his head against Patrick's until they can share her.

Having Art go down on her alone always feels pleasurable, but having both of their mouths on her at the same time is another sensation entirely. It's indescribable. Spit drools from their lips as they kiss her sodden cunt, taking turns flicking the tips of their tongues against her clit for the sake of hearing her moan over and over. From where she looks down at them, they're nearly kissing each other as they eat her out, and she has to tip her head back onto her shoulders to keep them from seeing her smirk.

When she looks back down, she makes a breathy, gasping sound at the sight of them. Patrick is looking up at her with an intensity no man has ever had when looking at her, not even Art, and there is no ignoring the feeling it stirs in the pit of her abdomen.

"Fuck," she whines and pushes herself harder against their faces, but it's never enough. "More—I need more. Please."

Neither one hesitates. In fact, they seem to form a plan without speaking it aloud. As Art's free hand raises from where it palmed his cock through his boxers, Patrick's lips close around her sensitive, puffy clit and start to suck. The tips of Art's middle and ring fingers brush tentatively against her hole, then, teasingly slow, push inside until they're buried knuckle deep.

The contrast of the men as lovers—Patrick being unforgiving and passionate, Art being tender and desperate—threatens to dizzy her. But Art cannot control himself for too long. He often starts slow and gentle, his eyes flooded with genuine affection for whoever is pinned under his body, then loses his composure the farther things go. By the time he's inside of her, he's almost brutal in how hard he fucks her, and it isn't out of malice, it's out of animalistic lust.

So, as per usual, the pace Art sets to begin with shifts into something harder and faster.

Over the sounds of the fans and music playing on the CD player across the room, a symphony of panting breaths, whines, and wet noises can be heard. It wouldn't surprise any of them if the people who were talking in the hallway could hear it, but it's not like they care right now. 

When she closes her eyes and tries to fall back against the mattress, Patrick stops for a second to murmur, "Don't look away," before getting back to work. Something about the way his voice sounds forces her to submit to his demand without hesitation. There's an edge to it. An underlying promise that he will stop and leave her here to suffer if she doesn't listen, so she does. She watches with a slack-jawed expression at how they work diligently to get her off.

The combined sensations of the fingers pumping into her at a steady, rushed pace and the lips enclosed around her sensitive bud push her closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. Art slips a third finger in and licks between her sticky folds as Patrick sucks her clit relentlessly. Everything they do is motivated by a dire need to take as much of her as they can, as though they can't quite believe what's happening and want to savor it before they wake from the dream. Seeing their desperation only fuels the fire roaring to life inside of her.

They feast on her the way starving men would if presented with food—humming and groaning in satisfaction at the taste of her on their tongues. Through the haze she's fallen under as a result of the present situation, her gaze lifts from where both of their faces are smushed together between her parted thighs to find that they're both humping the mattress. It seems like they don't even realize they're doing it, which, of course, only makes it hotter for her. To think that she wields enough power over them, that she renders them so useless and needy...

Her brows pinch together at the feeling of Art's fingertips finding the sweet spot inside of her.

"Right there," she breathes out in a shaky voice, hand shooting down to grasp anything she can find for support.

It ends up being Patrick's dark hair that is weaved between her fingers and used as her lifeline, tugging nearly every time Art's fingertips find the spot inside of her that makes her throw her head back on the bed and cry out for them. If they didn't have her pinned down, her hips would be lifting to meet every thrust, but she cannot do anything other than take it. Every breath she takes turns rapid, her chest rising and falling dramatically, as the familiar feeling of her impending release grows nearer by the second.

She says, half warning and half pleading with them, "I'm"—The sentence is cut off before it can be said by a high-pitched moan that makes Patrick moan and Art whimper into her—"Please"—What she's pleading for, none of them know, herself included, but she continues to babble nonsensically anyway—"Ah!"

The hand that isn't pulling on Patrick's hair reaches down instinctively for the hand Art grips her thigh with, and she doesn't even need to ask him for it. He entwines their fingers and allows her to squeeze his hand until circulation is lost as she finally feels the wave that was building within her begin to crest.

It hits her harder than she ever knew it could. 

Everything explodes into a sensation of bliss so strong, she loses herself in it. The only thing tying her body down to the earth is the feeling of the hands on her—touching her, fingering her, caressing her, and holding her hand—yet even that is not enough to keep her from floating away into another world entirely for the first few seconds of her orgasm. The muscles in her legs, so exhausted from being forced into a position like this, shake violently with every wave of pleasure rushing through her, and her walls clamp down around the fingers thrusting into her.

If she could live forever in these fifteen seconds, she would, but it soon becomes obvious to her that there's no chance of that happening. Gradually, the intense sensation starts to recede like the tides, and they are both there to help her ride it out to the very end. But once it fully fades, she wriggles beneath them in sensitivity.

Using the hand wrapped up in his hair, Y/N pulls Patrick's mouth away from her clit with a strength he didn't know to expect despite her obvious athletic background, and when Art notices this, he too slows the rhythmic pumping of his fingers inside of her throbbing heat to a stop. Wary of hurting her, he waits another five seconds before slowly pulling them out.

She has gone boneless where she lays on her back with her eyes shut and chest heaving for air.

Knowing she cannot see them, Patrick cuts his best friend a look and jerks his chin in her direction in a silent urging to check on her. Both men start to move at the same time, crawling over her until they reach her face. While Patrick lies beside her and trails his hand up and down her naked, sweat-soaked torso to occupy himself in the time it takes her to recover, Art licks her arousal from his fingers before grabbing her by the chin.

He asks with a teasing inflection, "You still with us?"

Her eyes slowly open to find them both staring at her, and she cannot help the slight smile that comes to her face at this.

"You guys almost killed me," she murmurs. "I think my vision got spotty for a second there."

They allow her another moment to catch her breath and recuperate in the aftermath of what she endured. She takes turns looking at them as she pants for air, laying with her arms above her head and thighs squeezed together due to her current state of sensitivity.

Patrick is the first to break the silence.

"We're not done with you," he says softly, the hand on her chest climbing up until it cradles the side of her neck. "But you know that, don't you?"

"I'd be a little bummed if you were," she replies.

Her head is whipping around at the sound of Art's voice.

"Only a little?"

She pushes herself up from where she's lying supine on the bed, which is now a mess of tangled sheets and sweat, to smack him on the arm. It's all in good fun, of course, and Art is hardly hurt by the playful blow she landed on him. Giggles escape her mouth as they begin to play fight, swatting and trying to pin one another down with Patrick there to spectate. He encourages Y/N to fight dirty, telling her where to strike, which causes Art to curse under his breath and declare him a traitor.

It ultimately ends with her on top, her legs straddling his hips and hands pinning his wrists to the bed. Based on the faraway, longing gleam in his eyes as he looks up at her, Patrick can tell immediately that she only won because Art allowed her to. Because there is something about being pinned to the bed underneath her that turns him on. And she knows it. It's easy to tell by how his erection presses up against her naked center through the fabric of his boxers.

Suddenly, she comes up onto her knees and moves back until she's hovering over his thighs. Her next words are a soft-spoked explanation for why she's reaching for the waistband of his boxers.

"Too much clothes."

But, to her surprise, another pair of hands comes to her aid in shimmying Art's underwear down his hips and legs. The way Patrick sees it, the sooner he helps her get them off, the sooner she'll take his off. And he isn't wrong. As soon as they get the boxers free from Art's body, the garment is tossed to the side without a care in the world. Neither of them looks to see where they landed, they're far too busy leaning in to kiss each other than keep track of their discarded clothing.

Her left hand is wrapped around Art's cock, pumping at a torturously slow pace, as she pulls away from Patrick with a string of saliva connecting their lips.

"Take those off," she says with a pointed look at his crotch.

To say he is sent scrambling to take off his underwear at her command would be an understatement. If this scenario itself wasn't hot enough to make her cunt throb with a desperate need to be fucked, she'd be giggling at his eagerness. But it's hard to find anything funny when she's faced with Patrick standing, one foot on the floor and his other leg braced against the bed at the knee, with nothing to conceal him from her anymore.

It must inflate his ego to heights it has never reached before to see her tongue dart out to wet her lips at the sight of him. The hand stroking Art falters as she admires Patrick's cock. It's about an inch longer than Art's yet equal in girth, curving up a little toward his hair-speckled, defined abdomen. A drop of precome has dripped from his tip, and she has to dip her head forward to get a quick taste. Those pretty lips wrap around him, not pushing down to take the rest of his shaft into her mouth but remaining where she is, flicking her tongue against the slit where the drops of sticky, pearlescent fluid secrete.

A taste is all she allows herself, though.

Her lips pull off of him with a soft popping sound, and she makes sure to maintain eye contact with him as she licks a drop of pre-come off of her top lip.

She turns to look at Art, then Patrick, then back at Art, asking, "How do you want me?"

Seeing that she was a virgin before she started seeing Art, she figures she isn't qualified to direct this in a way that'll be comfortable for everyone involved. No, if she had to bet, Patrick has the most experience between the three of them—with Art following closely behind—and he will have no problem taking control from here based on how he has acted thus far.

To their surprise, it's Art who answers first. 

Patrick was still in a faraway daze from having her mouth around his cock only to be kicked when he was down by the question she asked. How do you want me? God, it's like she's trying to kill them.

"On my lap."

Art pushes himself up from the mattress and repositions so he sits on his knees in front of them, reaching for her hips to pull her closer without a second of hesitation. Her arms instantly reach for his shoulders to steady herself as she maneuvers into the exact position he had in mind. Buried beneath the music that has become white noise to them and the fans running on their highest setting, he thinks he hears her breath hitch in her throat once she's straddling his lap, the tip of his cock nudging against her clit.

Absentmindedly, she starts to grind against him, coating him in the slick arousal that seeps from her, but it's slow. A tease compared to what's coming next.

"Patrick," he says, his voice unwavering despite the excitement that makes his stomach churn. His hand slides down from her neck, caressing her breast as it passes by at a lazy speed, until he takes hold of himself and pumps a few times—as if he isn't hard as a fucking rock already. Over her shoulder, he meets his friend's intense stare. "If you wanna fuck her, you should probably get on the bed."

And while he would usually fire back something equally witty or taunting, Patrick cannot manage to do anything but nod. There's something about seeing Art this way that subdues him. He would like to think that the sole reason he's standing naked in front of his best friend is because there's a girl involved, but that isn't true. Not completely. Although Art would never admit to himself that he feels the same way, there's something familiar about this. Comfortable. Right.

The mattress dips with Patrick's shifting weight, squeaking a little beneath his knees until he settles into place behind her. His chest presses against her back, and his hand reaches up to grab her jaw, guiding her head to tilt so he can kiss her neck while Art lines himself up with her. She feels Patrick's cock pressing against her ass as the broad tip of Art's sinks inside of her.

Having Patrick's face buried in her neck, her shoulder, and back to her neck again provided her and Art a rare second of private intimacy. Her eyes, glazed over with lust, lock into his and refuse to look away. The intensity present in his gaze does not frighten her. If anything, it sends a rush of adrenaline through her body, and she takes a second to admire his soft, wide eyes. She's never mentioned it aloud before, but she has always been fascinated with making eye contact with him due to his right eye. Half of the iris is a striking, clear shade of blue while the other is a warm brown hue.

"Fuck," he says under his breath at the feeling of her squeezing down around him, her tight cunt resisting a little until she relaxes and sinks down until there's nothing left to take.

There's nothing that compares to the feeling of the first thrust he makes.

Every time, it makes her bite her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. To feel him so deep is almost undoing in itself. Then she feels another hand slide between her legs, and her mind goes utterly blank. Everything outside of this room falls away the second Patrick starts to rub her clit in gentle, languid circles to help her adjust to the stretch of Art inside of her. Patrick's lips lavish every accessible inch of her bare skin with kisses as his friend, with a hand on each of her hips, starts to lift her up and down at an unhurried pace.

Their noses and lips brush without completely touching. When she pushes her face closer to Art's, hoping to lock lips with him, he pulls away for the sake of seeing her grow hot in the face from embarrassment. The mouth worshipping the back of her neck curves up into a smirk in reaction to the games Art plays with her. Who knew he's just as fun in bed as he is out of it? Certainly not Patrick.

She mutters, voice breathy and weak, "Feels so good..."

"Yeah?" Patrick murmurs into her skin and presses his fingers hard against her clit. "Tell me how he feels."

If he could see her the way Art can right now, he'd have to suppress a chuckle at how her brows pinch together at the command. Regardless of her sudden shyness, the words he says only make her ride Art harder. Over her shoulder, Patrick searches for those pale blue eyes only to find them staring through him already. Every smooth rocking motion of her hips pushes her ass against his neglected erection, providing him with a brushing touch before pivoting away again.

"He feels"—she says, chest rising and falling faster—"He's so hard." Her sentences are hardly coherent. "Perfect—mmm—fucking me so deep." One of her hands reaches to tug his down to press it against the southernmost part of her abdomen. "Feel."

With her palm molded over the back of his hand and forcing him to push down on her belly, Patrick can hardly keep from groaning at the subtle bulge of Art's cock moving in and out of her. It's strangely intimate for the three of them to share this experience, but for him to feel every thrust through her is more than he anticipated.

Unable to fight what instinct drives him to, Patrick shifts his hips until the angle of her grinding against him allows his tip to brush up against the hole she and Art have yet to touch. He doesn't do anything more, not without her asking for it, but it's clear to both Art and Y/N that he desperately wants to. All of this physical affection shared between the two of them has made Patrick needy and jealous, so she decides to grant him mercy.

She reaches behind herself blindly to guide him elsewhere, nudging him against the hole Art is already filling. It takes them a couple of seconds to understand what she means in doing this, but, once it clicks, they start to go a little crazy. For the moment, she has stopped bouncing on Art's cock for the sake of allowing Patrick to push in beside him, and he has to surge forward to kiss her. If he doesn't distract himself with a kiss, he'll be too tempted to move.

As Art kisses her deeply, his tongue invading her mouth and caressing her own, Patrick's hand wraps around her throat for leverage with his teeth nipping at her earlobe. His hand wraps around where hers grips his cock to guide it to her entrance, and with his help, they manage to squeeze the tip in.

Her jaw drops at the overwhelming sensation, and the sloppy kiss is interrupted when her head rolls back onto Patrick's shoulder. Art doesn't seem to care, though. Now that her head is tipped back, her neck is exposed for him to mark, and he takes advantage of the opportunity as soon as it presents itself. His lips brush against Patrick's fingers a few times as he kisses her fervently, sucking hard on the delicate skin that has already been bruised by his dear friend.

"You're beautiful," Art whispers into her neck between kisses. "So, so beautiful."

Taking it slow for her sake, Patrick has to force himself into her inch by inch, stretching her little cunt to take far more than she's accustomed to. But, as hard as it is, it works. After another few moments of him pushing in and pausing to let her adjust, he finally bottoms out with his cock flush against Art's. Her walls clamp down around them tightly. They both share a nervous look at this, wondering if they'll manage to last longer than thirty seconds if it already feels this good.

Slowly, she raises her head from where it slumped against Patrick's shoulder and meets Art's intense stare with one of her own. His hand raises to cup the side of her face, his fingers grazing against Patrick's, and he brushes his thumb over her kiss-swollen bottom lip. Every breath taken between the three of them is labored.

Pulling her lip down with his thumb, he asks, "Feeling okay?"

A half-second later, Patrick chimes in.

"If it's too much, you have to tell us."

Not a question, not a request, but a demand. The way he said it left no room for debate, so she nods in compliance and responds with an eagerness that neither man can miss, "M'fine, please, just fuck me..."

Patrick does not need to be told twice.

Having been sidelined for too long and forced to watch them fuck without him, he pulls out slowly, then cants his hips back against her ass with a force that takes her breath away. Amidst this, Art cannot do anything but let his face fall forward into her chest and whine in ecstasy. Just the movement of Patrick's cock rubbing against his with every thrust renders him useless. He knew it would feel better than any sex he'd had before, but this...He'll likely spend the rest of his life chasing the hedonism they are experiencing tonight.

One of her arms reaches behind her to grab Patrick's hip and dig her nails in hard while the other closes around Art's neck to pull both of them as close as can be. And now that he has forced himself back from the edge of a premature release, Art begins to move too, searching for a rhythm that feels right. Soon enough, he manages to find it. Both of their heads lift to look at each other, faces inches apart with their chins pressing on her shoulder, and they work with the same synchronicity they had while eating her out not even fifteen minutes ago.

She turns her head to the side to watch their stare-down as they rut into her like feral animals—utterly insatiable and overcome by their baser instincts. And it's only now that it occurs to her that, underneath it all, they want each other as desperately and pathetically as they want her. Patrick's gaze relentlessly bounces back and forth between Art's eyes and lips, and it makes her smirk to herself. The pleasure of fucking her as one, their pulsing cocks rubbing together in the warm walls of her cunt, has lowered their inhibitions, and the idea of being intimate with one another isn't as daunting as it would be if they were fully aware.

Leaning in to brush her cherry-flavored lips against Art's ear, she whispers, "I want you to kiss him."

The arm looped around the back of his neck pulls tighter in encouragement, bringing his body so close to hers that she can feel his ribs expanding with every breath. His only reaction to her request is a quick glance at her face once she pulls away from his ear with a sensuous lick as a parting gift. It's almost as though he doesn't believe what she's saying, but the reassuring expression she wears tells him that it is real. She truly wants him to see him kiss his best friend, not only for their enjoyment but hers as well.

One second, he's looking at her, and the next, he's slotting his lips against Patrick's with a passion previously only reserved for her. Their hands both grapple for purchase on her sweat-slick body, Art aggressively kneading her breasts and Patrick squeezing her hips for dear life, as they moan into each other's mouths.

As they kiss each other hungrily, Y/N has nothing left to do but bask in the tension swelling inside of her. There's something about how wrong this situation feels to her that makes it so much more arousing. Girls are always raised with the idea that promiscuity lessens their value, and she was not an exception. Having been raised in a family of devout believers, she hadn't kissed a boy until she was seventeen years old. The next person she kissed was Art, and in the time since their first kiss, he has thoroughly corrupted her.

And even as distracted as he is by the all-consuming, wet kiss he's engaged in, Art feels her cunt start to squeeze around their cocks and immediately drops one of the hands on her breasts between her splayed thighs. His finger rubs in tight circles on her clit in hopes that she will reach her end before he and Patrick come pathetically soon.

Her body jerks where it's trapped between them when his fingers make contact, pulling their focus away from each other for the first time since their lips touched. Patrick reaches up to hold her neck in one hand and forces her face to the side so both of them can look at every subtle expression she makes. 

"Don't stop," she pleads, eyes glazed over. "M'so close, Art"—Every merciless thrust elicits a high-pitched whine from her—"Patrick, please!"

The body trapped between them has gone boneless and twitchy, utterly useless at holding herself up or aiding them in any way. But they wear it like a badge of honor. With her face falling forward into Art's neck, she loses her grasp on all that is around her and lets them prop her up to fuck her like a toy existing solely for their gratification.

With one hand cradling the back of her head and the other between her thighs, still dutifully rubbing her clit, Art asks under his breath, "Isn't she fucking perfect?"

Although it was a question meant for Patrick, she can't help how she moans and clenches her walls around them when she hears it. Panting breaths from the three of them flood the sweltering dorm room, but they are too far gone to notice or care how much sweat drips off of their bodies onto one another. It's almost hard to get a firm grip on her as a result of it, but they manage to keep her in place by smushing their bodies as close as physically possible on both sides of her.

Patrick bucks his hips up into her with a recklessness that gives away how close he is to his climax.

He says, "Oh, God, yeah." The hand still collaring her delicate neck squeezes just enough to take her breath away for a second. However, once he released his hold on her, that hand moved to wrap itself up the roots of her hair. "Best pussy I've ever had. So fucking tight, it's like she wants us to come inside her." A pause, then, "Is that what you want?"

A second passes of silence from her, and he sharply tugs back on her hair until her face is no longer hidden in Art's neck. This allows them to drink in the sight of her—face twisted up in pleasure and mouth gaping open.

He asks again, "Is that what you want?"

Her response is immediate.

"Yes, yes, yes," she murmurs incoherently and takes quick turns to look between their faces. If the expressions they wear are any indication, it won't be long before her wish is fulfilled. "I'm—mmm-gonna come! I need you to fill me up, please, please!"

To this, Art rubs her clit faster while maintaining eye contact with her and finally lets go of whatever remaining scraps of self-control he has left. Knowing how close she is pushes them closer themselves, and they start to pound her hard. Hard enough that even they, as soon-to-be professional athletes, have difficulty sustaining this intense degree of exertion.

The arm that she looped around his shoulders is still there, but now her hand is sliding down from the back of Art's neck to explore the toned musculature of his upper back. Under her searching palm, she can feel his muscles contracting and relaxing beneath his pale skin.

To both her and Art's surprise, the world begins to shift in their peripheral vision until he falls flat against the mattress on his back with his length still sheathed inside of her. It takes a second for their brains to catch up with what happened and deem Patrick responsible for the position change. He laid his hands flat on her back and pushed with just the right amount of force to pin Art to the mattress beneath them.

Art says, breathless, "I can feel you squeezing us, baby, just let go."

Hearing those words sets fire to her blood, and that, paired with the toe-curling sensation of them pressing deep inside of her, hitting that spot over and over and over, is what tips her over the edge.

Patrick keeps pulling on her hair to force her head up so that they can feel and watch her come, and what a beautiful sight it is. Art, the lucky bastard, is face to face with her as she tenses up with the onslaught of her climax. But he can see the side of her pretty, flushed face and drink up every little sound she makes, so he doesn't feel left out in any way. No, he is experiencing this right beside Art. They're both trapped inside of her, pumping into her throbbing heat and letting themselves be swept away into oblivion by the feeling of her coming undone.

She digs her nails into Art's skin hard enough to hurt as she whines and writhes between them with each pulse of pleasure that runs through her, and it isn't until she's starting to come down, riding out the high, that she feels them spill into her at the same time. Every sensation attached to it prolongs her orgasm—the throbbing, the spreading warmth, and the dying undulations of their hips that grind their cocks together within her. And beyond the physicality of the act, just knowing that they're filling her to the brim with their come makes her head spin from how fucking hot she finds it.

It isn't long before their thrusts slow into a sensuous grinding as they come down from it together, then come to a full stop to keep from overstimulating themselves. They both are starting to go soft, panting and leaning against her limp body in exhaustion, and know they wouldn't be able to continue even if they wanted to.

Her head is laid on Art’s shoulder with Patrick’s nose nuzzling her neck. There's nothing they can do except remain still and try to recover from the euphoria that has rendered them useless, so that is precisely what they do. With their bodies nearly melting together from the heat, the three of them hold onto each other for support until they manage to return to full consciousness after what they went through.

It isn't until another couple of moments have elapsed that Patrick and Art start murmuring to one another while she remains slumped between them. A second later, both pairs of hands are squeezing her hips; lifting her off of their softening cocks, slowly, gently, and minding her sensitivity.

The three of them collapse side by side on the twin bed, bodies squeezed together like sardines, and she finally comes back down from the clouds her head floated into at the feeling of them touching her. It isn't sexual. No, they wouldn't dream of putting her through anything more than she could handle right now. Both touches are tender and featherlight—Art's hand molds over her breast simply to cup it as they cuddle while Patrick brings her hand up from her side to brush a kiss over her knuckles.

The silence continues to stretch on, then—

"We're definitely gonna have to do that again," she says, turning her head to look at each of them before laying her cheek against Art's shoulder. "That is, if don't mind sharing me."

His gaze softens, the hand cupping her breast ghosting up over her skin until it finds her and Patrick's entwined hands.

"I don't mind one bit."

-

Thank you for reading this! I probably won’t write any more Challengers fics but I saw the movie like five times in theaters and needed to crank this out to satisfy the part of me that is obsessed with the hotel scene. I would really appreciate a comment to let me know what you thought if you’re open to that 🫶🏻 The oral part of this fic was inspired by these two (1) (2) I read, so def give them a read cause they're great!

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

They unknowingly bring up an insecurity Seungmin|Pt1

Pt2 Pt3

Your heart was strung in your throat. Seungmin was always one to tease; and for the most part he was good about shying away from topics you were sensitive about so no problems had ever arisen. But as you read over his texts over and over again you felt your heart pinch in a way that was all to similar to what you had felt in your previous relationship.

"You talk too much, you know that?" Your ex had told you that numerous times, and eventually it led to a break up. And your constant yapping became something that made you insecure.

But when you first met Seungmin you felt like you were perfect the way you were. Chan had said you would balance Seungmin out quite well. And up until now you felt as if that were the case.

Now you wondered if maybe you did become to much.

Maybe the constant chatter had become annoying to the quiet boy you loved dearly.

And while you had been in love numerous times before, it hurt more to even think of losing Seungmin than all your previous heart breaks combined. And that was a lot considering you had always been the one to have your heart broken.

You couldn't tear yourself away from your phone screen - rereading those texts and overanalyizing the tone.

Maybe it was in a light hearted way? Or maybe it was the complete opposite and it was fully aggression?

You sat there trying to pick apart every single meaning, connotation, and tone the words he sent could have when your phone dimed again.

"I'm guessing your busy shopping since my phone has been quite for more than fifteen minutes. Haha, I think that's a first!"

You did everything in your power to try and bite back the knot in your throat from coming up and causing tears. So much so your eyes started to burn and you ended up shedding a few quietly.

The rest of the day you busied yourself with miniscule little tasks like dusting the fans and sweeping the welcome mat that you intended to take along with you when you moved in with Seungmin.

You tried to take your mind off of the texts. You figured Seungmin didn’t mean it in anyway malicious sort of way. In fact you knew he meant it as a lighthearted joke. In the time you had spent with him you had easily learned just how kind and loving of a person he was, and how much he cared for you.

You just couldn’t shake the hurt from those words - and more importantly the fear you had deep down that there was some truth to the words he had sent.

By the time Seungmin arrived at your apartment it was early evening. Every Wednesday you guys would cook together ever since you witnessed him and Felix blowing food up by accident on a live. Seungmin followed the normal routine of slipping off his shoes and into his house slippers and immediately changing into a cheap shirt he had bought when you first had started your endeavors since he was smart enough to realize he was a messy cook.

“Hey baby.” He said as he greeted you with a quick hug from behind and a chaste kiss to the cheek before he went to wash his hands.

You have a small noise of acknowledgement as Seungmin dried his hands off on a plaid towel and turned to you with happy anticipation.

“What are we cooking today?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs.” You replied as you started to grab the necessary ingredients. Seungmin followed you around like a happy puppy and helped you a carry everything to the counter you reserved for preparation of ingredients.

“So how do we start?” Seungmin asked. By now he had noticed your face was a little droopy and your responses were short and if there was any conversation it was only in answer to his initiation.

“With the ground beef.” You said as you pulled out a big bowl to put the meat and seasonings in. Seungmin watched you from his peripheral as you poured in some panco bread crumbs and a bunch of other various aromatic seasonings while he opened up the meat packaging.

As he kneeled everything with his hands he tried asking you about your day.

“So did you end up ordering the mugs baby?”

“No, I didn’t.” Silence.

“Oh…maybe after dinner we can look on Etsy together? Or maybe find a website to customize them? It might seem like a lot but I think the guys would really appreciate your sentiment.”

“Yeah, we can do that.” Silence.

Seungmin started to roll out oddly and unevenly shaped meatballs and continued to try and ask you questions as you guys worked, but your answers we short. Not rude. But literally short.

Not thouroghly explained like usual.

Even at dinner you were quiet and barely even touched your food.

“Do you not feel good baby?” Seungmin asked you as you played with a piece of garlic bread.

“I feel okay…maybe a little tired.” You said popping the piece into your mouth as if to show you were feeling fine.

Seungmin sighed and put his fork down.

“Did my text hurt your feelings?” He had been worrying about it all day when he had seen you had left him on read. It was an odd thing but nevertheless endearing when you would finish a conversation over text and send a meme to him just to acknowledge the end of the conversation, and to make sure he “didn’t find it hurtful” that you had left him on read. Even if he constantly assured you it was in no way shape or form a problem.

You hadn’t sent him a meme. And the more he thought about it he realized that his humor might not have translated through text.

“Im sorry if I hurt your feelings. It was a joke, Y/N. I would never purposefully want to hurt you. I love when you share about your day. I was a bit tied up so while you texting me might have been inconvienent at the moment doesnt mean I don’t appreciate you wanting me to know everything about what you are doing. I love that you want me to be a part of your life , even the tiny thing.”

“It’s okay babe.” You replied putting a smile on your face. “I know you didn’t mean it to hurt me. I’m just tired that’s all.” You let out a breath as you stood up and collected Seungmin’s plate. “Maybe we can just watch a movie instead of shopping? I just don’t feel like thinking very much right now in any capacity…” You let out quietly.

“Of course.” Seungmin responded, trailing you into the kitchen as you set the plates in the sink. “I love you.” He said quietly, his voice lilting up slightly. Were you actually okay?

“I love you too Minmin.” You place a a small kiss next to his eye and head towards the living room.

During the movie Seungmin kept stealing glances at you as you leaned on him but not into him. As you laughed but the curve of your mouth didn’t exactly reach your eyes. And how those same eyes were focused on the screen but your mind was obviously some place else.

Although you had said you were fine your silence gave him the answer you actually wanted to give. That Seungmin had struck a nerve more sensitive than he had known.

[itsonlydana]

Anything with Thranduil in it makes me happy. Something about taking Elrond's daughter after he does not accept the wooing our king proposed to him.

This Secret of Mine // Runaways | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x fem!reader 👑

Thranduil asks Lord Elrond for permission to court you - it doesn't end the way he thought

tags/warnings: angst, hurt/little comfort

word count: 1,9k

an: wrote this bad boy in one sitting! The muse of angst made herself comfortable on my shoulders

+ masterlist + rules + 🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

The moon stood silver and high over Rivendell, yet, despite the peaceful sounds of the night, sleep would not come to you. It had avoided you for a while and even if your kind did not need as much rest as the kind of men, the days you spent wandering aimlessly through the halls were beginning to take a toll on your mind and body; a constant ache behind your temple had formed and a pull came from the beating heart behind your chest, ever tugging on you to keep on moving or it shall stretch to tightly and snap. 

So you kept on moving. 

Down the corridors, over steps and stairs, up the open towers that overlooked all those who rested soundless and in a mockery of your state, but that did not distract you much. To be truthful, you were glad no one was there to notice how you walked all of Rivendell, head lowered to watch your feet cross wet grass, rippled stone, even marmor, and woven carpets, or held high to let your eyes wander over the high walls until they inevitably fell to the council, never hidden from your view despite the many halls you passed through. 

The feeling of restlessness had taken over your body, pushing out any hints of exhaustion for what you could only describe as a potion of fear, nervousness, and a bit of hope that remained. Once again you glanced at the open council, at the silhouettes of the two elves you loved most. 

They had been arguing for most of the day and now the discussion had bled into the night, staining the otherwise clear sky with heavy frowns striking deep lines into smooth faces – lightning had no chance against the thunderous expression that slowly chipped away at whatever hope kindled in you.

Great King of the Woodland Elves Thranduil had arrived not long after sunrise, his most trusted guard Feren as well as four others riding through the gates on what could only be a mission.

You, of course, had known all along that this would happen today. As soon as Thranduil had asked for Lord Elrond, keeping his eyes away from yours to minimize the unavoidable chaos and uproar that his presence alone brought forth, you felt your father stiffen next to you for he realized the question Thranduil would call for.

Thranduil had strutted past you, his hand fleetingly brushing yours rather than his eyes though a glance or smile would have probably calmed your father more than this loving and silent gesture of affection, so loudly proclaimed in front of his – so far – unknowing court and even as you had felt Thranduil's fingers on your wrist, had heard the gasps of onlookers and saw the sharp look of, well, disappointment and fury on your fathers closed off face, a rock formed inside your throat and uneasiness came in the form of a heavy hole that ate through your stomach.

Today was the day Thranduil would ask your father to court you officially and fear grew this would be the day this sweet love of yours would end. Thranduil had courted you in secret for years now, always sending letters and whenever you met, he loved you under the stars, whispering promises of proposing even if you both knew Lord Elrond would not be amused. Not after Arwen fell in love with the ranger, devoting herself to one unable to share the long life she had yet to live and always the romantic, Arwen would one day be forced to choose between her family and her ranger. Your father feared for this day to come, already he looked at her as if he had long lost her.

He would not accept Thranduil as your husband, was a bitter realization as you hard heartily turned your back after your father inclined his head in your direction and the distance could not protect you from the pang of hurt that followed his disappointment and spread all across every limb.

The two sides of this love were tearing you apart because there was this soft warmness of Thranduil's touch, the pink hues and bright sunlight, laughter thick as honey and sweet like it, and whenever he looked at you, held you, you believed you would never feel as utterly complete and fulfilled but then he had to leave and darkness took over. This love lifted you yet it had the power to open the grounds and push you down further than you had ever fallen. 

You did not know how long you lingered around in the shadows of walls that had enclosed you your entire life but suddenly a hand grabbed your wrist and you were pulled around a corner.

"He will not allow it," Thranduil growled and confirmed what you had dreaded. His chest heaved from heavy intakes of breaths, infiltrating his voice to sound deeper: "Decades of allyship and solidarity" – he spat out the word like it was acid on his lips, tongue pressing against his clenched teeth – "all for him to stand there and dismiss me. Us" 

Thranduil's anger normally presented itself in arrogance rather than this open display of unfiltered emotions but there were moments that brought out the dragon that slumbered deep inside his ancient soul and now, fist curled into itself and his eyes hardened, you felt the tremble, the roar, the fire that could burn down all around him to ashes if he unleashed the beasts he'd sworn to banish. 

Your hand trembled as you lifted it to his chest, curling right above his racing heart and his eyes snapped to you, and for a moment you thought he had forgotten you were even there but then the corner of his curled lips dropped.

"Let me talk to him," you pleaded.

Thranduil scoffed rather dismissively, "Lord Elrond has made his point rather clear." 

Now it was you who frowned in displeasure. "He is my father! He must listen to me," you argued and Thranduil lifted your hand to kiss your knuckles gently.

"I fear it is no use," Thranduil said, fingers caressing your skin in a language he otherwise whispered into your ear, the meaning more bitter than sweet. He slowed down, deep in thought and his eyes wandered over your face. "I told him I will take my leave." 

"Leave?" You cried out and flinched as if he had hit you and somehow he had, his words strung across your soul and body not unlike a whip, leaving behind echoes of pain and a burn all over your heart. "There has to be the chance of another conversation! He surely is overwhelmed, but –" you stopped yourself only to continue lying for the hope to blossom again even if there was nothing but shade over your future, "he came around to Aragorn! You said it yourself; he knows you! The history of our people is intertwined for longer than we have been witnesses and–"

It was Thranduil who stopped your forlorn rambling with his other hand coming up to your neck, cupping it gently and pulling your face into his shoulder where your words left you in a shaky exhale, damp and into cold fabric. 

You breathed in, nose buried into his red cloak.

His scent brought little comfort in this moment but you were desperate and if you closed your eyes, the pine needles reminded you of the days you ran around the forests, and the salt of your own tears mixed into the fragrance of his musk left you to think of splashing in the sea, his hair floating in the water like reflections of the silver moon. These adventures could only happen because you had been careful to hide all affection toward the King to let your father allow you the travels in his name, to sit in meetings under the pretense of bringing messages while Thranduil's hand caressed yours under the table and he kissed you breathlessly in the shadows of his halls, your fingers digging into the walls you hoped to reign over some day. 

The decision that rested under your breastbone was easy to say out loud.

"Take me with you." You swallowed hard and shifted to look up into his shocked face. "Let us leave together and he shall realize our love needs not his approval."

"You can not leave – your life is here." Thranduil nodded at the buildings surrounding you and you followed where his chin pointed to.

The high arches always had enough room for big dreams, but now there was no space left for what you had, certainly, it would suffocate all that went further and above. Bathed in moonlight the intricate columns held up all except your crumbling composure. The connection you had once felt, the familiarity of paths you could walk in your sleep, and the marks you had carved into the many trees surrounding the place, all those tasted ashen in your dry mouth.

"My life is here!" you pressed yourself closer to Thranduil's strong chest which always proved to be a constant rock in stormy weather, "With you! You are the very air I need to breathe and a pillar that holds me up! I will perish if you leave me in this place, where my father can not accept who I love." 

He opened his mouth to say something but a breath punched the words away. You blinked fast, there was no want for tears, not when you had to tell him what you felt if it was the last thing that could convince him to abandon whatever he thought would be best for you.

"Every time you say goodbye my fëa dwindles –"

"Meleth nîn–"

"No, please let me follow where you go – I cannot withstand another separation from you or the grief will overtake me and I do not want Námo's judgment yet," mentioning the name of Mandos sent shivers across your body and you pleaded further, because now you were still alive and able to declare your love for the life you could build together, "I would trade these cliffs for the leaves of your forest, the waterfalls for the springs that nurture the roots of your kingdom!"

There was a shift in him, you felt him pulling away, and desperate you clung to him, shaking your head frantically as he inclined his head. "No," you said, "No, no–" His fingers started to slip away from your hand, taking away any stability that grounded you, leaving you to grasp at whatever you could get from him, whether it was the robes you fisted into your hands or the threat of love that bound you together, you continued to shake your head, "No, don't you dare do this to me, Thranduil. You cannot do this to me!"

Thranduil crumbled, first his eyes suddenly took you in as if he would never see you again but wanted to keep you in his memory, and then his body followed close. His forehead dropped against yours, an arm wrapped around your middle to pull you close and you gasped at the shaking of his hands. 

"Please–" you whispered.

Thranduil quickly silenced you with a kiss so full of longing and desperation that, although no sounds except whimpers swallowed by his lips left you, allowed tears to well up in your eyes, saying so much more. 

When you opened your eyes his were shining wet as well and a glistening tear rolled over his cheek until it dropped from his jaw, darkening the collar of his blood-red cloak which covered you both. "We will leave together," he finally agreed. His nose brushed yours, "I will do what I have to keep you by my side, even if thus brings forth a divide between the folk. Your love is worth more than any allyship," his lips chased after yours, lightening the fire and hope, "Let me build you a home for our dreams and will face all the consequences."

This was how it was decided. 

You packed no more than what you had on you and when Thranduil helped you in the saddle of his horse and you turned to look over his shoulder, one last look to capture Rivendell one last time, you saw the figure of your father, standing lonely in the nightly mist. You only realized that you were crying when Thranduil wrapped an arm around you to pull you into his chest and then the wind was already there to wipe the drops away to flow back into the night and water the ground of your childhood. 

©itsonlydana 2024, character art by MiracleAna on Devianart

[the-moon-files]

I’m not sure if I’ve said this one already or not, but I wanted to tell you anyways! It’s about the humans-are-not-hylians AU!

You know the uncanny valley evolution? That thing where when you look at something that resembles a living being too closely and some part of your mind is screaming that it’s not whatever it looks like and to get away from it? Imagine that with the reader! They can spot shapeshifters easily because of this, but it instills the same extreme primal fear we’d experience, so it might be hard for the reader to confront them at first and they’ll instead just tell the Chain for a while.

This might be a double edged sword, though, because when Twilight is in his wolf form, the reader still gets that same feeling when “Wolfie” is looking at them, whether or not they know it’s Twilight. In this case, the first time the reader spots Wolfie approaching the camp, they probably freak out and try to avoid him, even if the Links are okay with him or if he seems familiar to them.

The bottom line is that wolf isn’t a wolf, so what is he?

“It’s okay, he’s a really friendly wolf!”

“...That’s not a wolf...”

Sorry i took forever to respond!! im slow as always, life is too busy for even my hobbies lately sobs 😭

bro this is especially true bc someone looked back at TP games and how he looks in his “wolf” form, and apparently he is actually a dog lol - like at most a wolf-hybrid, i added this in to support this Hyrule-is-hella-Uncanny AU lol

Moon: Guide! - Gender Neutral/Masc!Reader (”you”/he/him)

Orbit: Short headcanons

Stars: mentions of most of our Links <3

Comets & Meteors: CWs: typical LU/Loz violence, mild swearing, etc & TWs: mild possible derealization trigger, talk of Link’s Awakening and Koholint.

Please comment if I missed any. /gen

The Yiga clan members have never fooled you, not Once in person, unlike back when hyrule was still a video game

it was the constant smell of bananas, the way their eyes were always a little unfocused or they moved their head to move around their eyes, rather than their actual pupils moving, the facial muscles all stiff, usually stuck in an uncomfortable smile-

it makes more sense once u realize that they technically have a mask under that glamour hylian face, but its never not hilarious to see Wild look over his shoulder at you before approaching a lone traveler on the roads and watch him get increasingly frantic to get ur attention to see if theyre yiga lmao

u bet ur ass every link was relying on you on their adventures to know shapeshifters/illusions/glamours/etc. on sight and tell them to better prep them/warn them

tbh they all got at least a little better at being able to tell the difference the longer they heard you point out stuff/talk abt exactly why it was off-putting

(that said some of ur heroes are better at it than others, both in general, and certain aspects of it: like Twilight isn’t able to pick up illusions/glamours for the life of him, literally, sometimes, but he is more likely to figure out shapeshifters by scent after you Guided him)

(no, your heart didnt crack a little after learning that the boys had a harder time with deceit after you stopped playing the game = “were forced to leave after their adventure” bc while they were better at detecting it, they werent on ur human level yet..)

(…the only deception you ever really fell for was Koholint. It was so painful too, because Legend quietly disclosed to you one late night that you would constantly get strange feelings/uncanny disturbances, but were never able to put a name to it for him, which both made you jumpy/paranoid on the island, but made him regret ever letting his guard down all the more or feel guilty for what felt like dismissing ur instincts the more he relaxed… Legend never doubted your sense for the uncanny ever again. He takes it seriously every time now.

When you feel as if you should apologize, he tells u not to, that these days he takes comfort in it actually, it makes him feel safer. Legend looks to your face for confirmation that something isn’t a dream, and if you look at ease, so is he.)

its the way you casually laugh at Twi being called “Wolfie” when he’s obviously a wolf-dog hybrid or just a big dog

and when everyones confused u just explain smth smth, wolf heads are larger in comparison to their body, their legs are narrow, their paws are big, dogs are like the oppposite, or way more proportional like “Wolfie” is, dogs bob around when they run like “wolfie”, and have shorter legs,

smth smth wolves cant have eye colors like blue, only dogs/wolf-dog hybrids can silly-

and Wolfie is just like, 😐 😑 😐

turning around and walking away, bc hylias knotted fucking braid- he really cant escape the dog accusations now, you literally used ur freaky truth-seeing instinct and read his shapeshifter ass from head to literal toe/paw-

Wild/Hyrule look fascinated, Wind and Legend cant breath theyre laughing so hard, Time is coughing suspiciously into his fist and pops back up smirking, Four is laughing but also encouraging you to keep going, Sky is desperately trying to keep it together while also trying to get Twi to come back lmao, Wars is literally pointing and laughing ashkljdl-

ok but Twi gets his revenge later by tricking you into yapping abt how Hyrule/Four/Time all kind of look “off” sometimes too

like how u swear Rulie is glowing subtly when the moon is full, or how the world distorts behind his back sometimes,

or how Four’s eyes change colors all the time, his fighting style looks like its rotating between 4 diff ppl’s techniques,

or how Time’s face wrinkles like smile lines/crows feet at the corner of his eyes will randomly appear and disappear, how he’ll have some stubble one day then 3 days later despite having not shaven (u literally saw him wake up and do his morning routine) it’ll disappear like it was never there in the first place-

and when Twi has stopped asking you abt the others as they all reel over the knowledge of what all u can tell abt them,

(ur quietly relieved no one asked abt Wild.

You resolve urself to just lie if anyone asks, even to Wild himself.)

☆

hey im alive!! im slow yknow how it is,

ive been doing too much, and i cant wait to be done with this class so i can have free time guilt free again 🥲

god thats one good thing abt getting out of academia i dont miss and would only wish on my worst enemy,

the anxiety of doing smth, even necessary stuff like eating/sleeping/showering, and feeling liek you should be doing homework instead, god its so awful

cant wait to feel like an adult with my own life again lmao

that certification better work and get me a white collar job goddamit 🤞

anyway, hope ur all having a good weekend,

and just to let u know, im so happy acc that im alive to see the first zelda game that actually follows what i originally thought the plot of zelda games was when i was a kid lmao

(zelda as the protag, saving link!!)

Peace out,

🌙

[twistedwonderlandimaginesblog]

Falls First, Falls Harder [Scarabia & Ignihyde Edition]

Kalim Al-Asim

Falls First: You

Falls Harder: Kalim

Kalim has always extended a hand to you, being kind, open, and an overall ray of sunshine on a rainy day. You’re surprised he doesn’t have more people totally in love with him all things considered, as you weren’t exactly a special case. His overly friendly nature extended to everyone which left you with your crush on him feeling a little pathetic. For Kalim, the realization that he has romantic feelings for you is a slow burn, the flame slowly moving down the fuse until it suddenly reaches its conclusion and explodes into a cloud of emotion. Getting jealous when others keep your attention at event he invited you all to was one sign, but the impulse to invite only you was the real impactful point. You could just be living your very normal life as an NRC student, strolling to class when Kalim makes you very aware of his feelings, his confession loud and incredibly embarrassing if you’re the shy type. Now that he finally understood what he was feeling he can’t help but want to explore more experiences with you alone, eager to show you the beauty of the world and all things in it (and wanting to see what you could show him as well).

Jamil Viper

Falls First: You

Falls Harder: Jamil

The king of ignoring his feelings, there’s no chance in hell he’d indulge his own whims with all that he has going on. There’s a deep-seated fear that stops him from getting too close to you, one that whispers like a snake in his ear that he’ll never be enough. So, he decided he does not see you in this way, though it irritated him that Kalim always wanted you so close. It’s hard to ignore your feelings for a person when you were forced to see them every day, and while his constant babysitting of Kalim bred contempt, it’s not quite the same for you. While he did try his best to maintain that distance there’s something about fate that has you chained together, and it agitated him to no end when he thought too much about it. He can’t help but reach a boiling point when the obvious is pointed out to him so many times. So what if you love him? So what if he loves you back? What could you possibly hope to achieve by loving him? There’s a possessive side of him, one that wants to steal you away for himself. His dreams are filled with simplistic yet meaningful things; cheering him on during a basketball game, complimenting the sheen of his hair, laughing as you confessed you wanted his food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He was in too deep once those daydreams hit, the weakest points of his emotional barrier crumbling the more fate wrote in the stars that you were meant to be.

Idia Shroud

Falls First: Mutual

Falls Harder: Idia

The first time you’d ever noticed him was when you were at the opening ceremony, noticing a very interesting looking boy peeking at you from under his hood. When he noticed you staring he immediately tried to hide himself but you’d already caught a glimpse of blue flame and even bluer lips, so how could you possibly ignore him? You knew he had a bit of regret about drawing attention to himself, even from you, but you made it a goal to befriend the loner who’d rather immerse himself in technology than speak to an actual person. He made his pining worse when he tried to avoid you but your persistence paid off when Idia officially labeled you as a friend, seeming shocked you even wanted to earn the title. You at least find that Idia made time for you when you asked (which was for very select situations to not stress him out too much) and though he dreaded it, you being the one to invite him to school activities or social situations made it hard to deny. He still would on occasion but he at least balanced it out by inviting you to just spend that time with him in his room, the gentle pink glow the tips of his hair emit after realizing what he said leaving you with a bright smile as you wondered what it would take to get the full length of his hair to glow like that.

[novamariestark]

Cowboy on a Segway

[A/N] this was written on my phone. There may be spelling mistakes, either due to my fat thumbs or autocorrect.

Summary: you and Madison have been alone since the start. You feel completely responsible for her safety. One day you two meet Columbus and Tallahassee. When they invite you back to their camp, you have a little drink with Tallahassee

Warnings: 🔞, piv (unprotected sex), age gap, Venice mentioned as your name but you can change it, oral, poorly written smut

Word count: 3641

Fandom: Zombieland 2: Double Tap

Pairing: Tallahassee x reader

For the past several years, the abandoned mall had been your home. You had managed to scavenge and collect enough supplies from the various small businesses tucked away within its walls to keep yourself fed and tended to during the winter months. However, your resources were now running dry, and you had come to the realization that it was time to venture outside of the mall and find some more provisions elsewhere. Despite the availability of other housing options, you had chosen to make the mall your home, with the only problem being your persistent little sister who had taken up residence in the freezer. Your living quarters were situated on a catwalk hanging down the ceiling of the mall, which provided you with an excellent view of all the shops and stores below, including the one that your sister wouldn’t leave.

You sighed as you encountered yet another zombie. This was typical for any journey outside - always a few of them that either had failed to make it to wherever they were going, or were too comfortable where they were. You had become used to the sudden adrenaline rush of preparing to face another one of the undead - a reflex that you had grown accustomed to over the years.

You raised your trusty axe, ready to defend yourself against the rotting corpse lurching towards you. In one swift motion, you brought the axe down on its head, cleaving it in two. The putrid flesh and bone crumbled under the force of your blow, leaving a mess behind. You wiped the axe clean on your pants and continued on your way, the cold air filling your lungs as you breathed.

But what if something happened to you? What would happen to your sister without you around? The thought crossed your mind, as it often did, as it was a constant and understandable fear. You felt a bit protective of your sister, and you wanted to make sure she was safe no matter what happened.

When you got back to the freezer, you found it empty. You realized you had been gone longer than expected and your heart sank with worry – had something happened to her while you were away? You scanned the horizon for any sign of movement. You quickly dropped the supplies through the door and set off to look for her.

‘What part of stay here did she not understand?’ you asked yourself aloud. Even before the world was overrun by drooling, undead freaks, you were looking after Madison. In some ways, she was like a toddler, you couldn’t take your eyes off her for a second.

A scream and a gunshot caught your attention, sending your heart into an indescribable panic. You knew who had screamed and terror beyond compare had you sprinting towards the source. Your sister's safety was your sole priority and with that in mind, you cocked your own gun, ready to shoot whoever was attacking her.

The distance between you and the source closed with each step you took, until you could hear your sister's voice coming from a candle shop. You stopped behind a board when you saw a – cowboy? On a segway? ‘How tired are you?’

“Don’t mind me,” he said, putting his gun away.

You stopped outside the doorway and peered into the shop. You make your presence known to the cowboy and stand beside him to find your sister hugging a curly haired boy. A stranger. Typical.

“Maddy!”

She released her hold and turned to you, “Hey Venny, look. Humans!”

“Yes,” you said, drawing out the word longer with a sarcastic nod of your head, “That’s why they’re talking,”

“Is this your dad?” Madison asked, turning towards the curly haired kid she had just been glued to. Gesturing to the man with the Segway and cowboy hat. God you loved cowboy hats.

“For shit’s sake, slightly older, better-looking friend,” he corrected. You loved older guys too but being stuck in a mall after the world ended, didn’t give you much of a social life. In fact, the only person you’ve had contact with was your sister, and sometimes you could feel yourself losing IQ points.

'My name's Venice,' you said, introducing yourself as you held your hand out eagerly for the man to take, desperate for any kind of physical contact. He placed his big hand in yours and introduced himself.

“Tallahassee.” He replied, he nodded his hat towards curly, “Not his dad,”

“Didn't think so,” you smirked, almost unable to take your eyes away from him.

He raised his brow and turned to you, his lips forming a smirk to match yours, “Oh yeah? How?” He challenged.

You looked him up and down, “Well, you’re handsome,” you shrugged then you looked over to curly, “And he’s… well I don’t want to be rude,”

“He’s a little spit-fuck, I know, Darlin’” the nickname caused shivers to dance along your spine. He looked around the shop, “You live here?” he asked you, but your sister answered for you.

“No, Paul Blart. I live in the freezer in Pinkberry, mm-hm,” she replied with a giggle, “It keeps the zombies out. Though it is awfully chilly,”

“Ever consider... turning it off?” Tallahassee asked, even though he was sure he knew the answer.

“Couldn’t find the switch, like anywhere. I was hoping the electricity would run out.”

Curly then added something about how the dams 'keep giving us power' and Tallahassee had quipped, 'Apparently not brain power.' You couldn't help yourself, and snorted in agreement, quickly trying to hide your laughter behind your hands, lest your sister discover that you were making fun of her.

As she spins to face you, her smile fades in an instant. “l feel like you’re being super judgey. Like, I’m getting a real anti-me vibe off you.” she says, pointing at Tallahassee

“Are you?” Tallahassee retorted, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he mimicked the stance of a teenage girl. His voice had even adopted a slightly higher pitch.

“Oh, my God. There it was again. That’s hurtful. I’m like really good at surviving,” Madison whined.

“What are you talking about? You barely leave the freezer. That’s hiding not surviving,” you told her.

 “What about food?” Curly asked, standing beside Madison, “How’d she get food?”

“How do you think?” You asked, pointing to yourself, “Door to door service,”

“I carry a can of mace with me everywhere I go,” she says, “And I can run really, really, really, really, fast. I used to do a lot of hot yoga and Soulcycle and…”

“Cardio!” Curly blurts out, stopping her annoyingly long ramble, “Sorry, I do a lot of Cardio too. It’s actually my number one rule, which is dorky,” he said, to which you nodded, with a quiet ‘yes’ falling from your lips, which apparently the hot cowboy heard, if the throaty chuckle was anything to go by, “But I’ve got a list of rules for surviving Zombieland,”

“Really? So do I!” she yelled in her annoying peppy voice

“You have rules?!” he asked, getting excited.

“Well actually, it’s mostly just ‘Stay in the Freezer.’” She said, twirling a piece of her bleached blonde hair.

“Yeah, and you can’t even follow that rule,” you grumbled.

“Oh and ‘Don’t Eat Nuts.’ ‘Cause I’m allergic. To nuts,” she added.

Curly smiles at Madison as if she charmed him, “We’ve, uh, set up camp just down the road,”

Tallahassee tries to catch Columbus’s eye, waving his arms around, mouthing ‘no’. he wouldn’t mind you coming to their camp. But your sister? No, he’d rather slam his balls repeatedly in a car door.

Curly ignored Tallahassee and continued, “At the White House, care to join?”

“The White House?! I’ve always wanted to visit the seat of government!” Tallahassee shoots Columbus a look.

Tallahassee turns on the segway and you turned towards Pinkberry where you left your supplies, “Aren’t you comin?”

“Aw dang, you noticed me trying to dump her on you,” you said in mock defeat, earning another chuckle, “I am, just getting our things,”

“I could come with you, watch your back,”

“Is it only my back you want to watch?” you asked, catching him off guard, you shrugged, muttering “Shame,” before walking off.

You walked through the hall of empty shops. The only sounds were your footsteps and the whirring of the segway.

“You know, your boy isn’t going to have any backup if he’s attacked,” you said to him as you opened the freezer door, sticking your hand in to grab the supplies, “Just one more stop,” you said before grabbing a rope that dangled from the ceiling and climbing up to your “room.”

“You lived up there?”

“Yup, so I could keep an eye on her,” you said, pointing to the yogurt shop, “Found a cool spot years ago but she wouldn’t leave. Figured if I left it turned on, she’d change her mind. She didn’t,” you explained.

“Wait, you knew you could turn it off?” he asked, you smirked and nodded.

“Why do you think she never found the switch?” You asked, pointing to a poster on the wall.

“You hid the switch?”

“Like I said, I was trying to get her out,” you shrugged. Tallahassee laughed. Although he did wonder why you didn’t just leave her and go off on your own. He guessed it was the same reason he kept Columbus around, not that he’d tell anybody, “That’s everything,” you said before climbing down the rope and jumping to the floor, “Let’s go,”

***

Soon you were at the White House. That was now, white and green. You had tuned out the list of rules that Curly was rambling on about and your sister walked beside him as if she were a golden retriever and he had a treat in his hand.

“And rule fifty-three - ‘Wet-naps.’” He said pulling some out of his back pocket. You rolled your eyes and looked to Tallahassee.

“Does he ever stop?” you asked, he shook his head as he stared at the back of his head, a murderous gaze in his eyes.

“I can’t believe you keep all this stuff in your head,”

“Thank you,”

“It’s amazing,” she said, she stopped and turned to Tallahassee causing you both to come to a stop, “You know, you’re really lucky you found someone so smart to take care of you. Most people your age get left all by themselves, and that can be so hard,”

Tallahassee closes his eyes, the vein by his temple pulsing, he punches him in the chest, “I am so lucky.” He dragged him away, “Can we have a little summit in the Oval Office?”

“You guys. I can’t believe we’re in the White House. This is soy random,”

“Will you shut up? Please?” you looked around the space and spotted a statue, “Look, go introduce yourself,”

“You know why she’s still alive, right? Zombies eat brains. She don’t got one,”

“It’s true, she’s having a conversation with one of the statues right now,” you said at the door,

“In fact, the statue is smarter than her,”

“See,” Tallahassee gestures to you, “I’m not the only one,”

“If she’s so bad, why have you put up with her for so long?” Curly asked you.

“I could ask him the same question about you,” you said nodding to Tallahassee. Curly opened his mouth to say something but you didn’t want to hear his voice anymore, so you continued,

“Maddy’s my little sister. Like it or not, I’m stuck with her,”

“Oh,” Curly said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s just she’s um you know, like really, y-you know and you’re like y-you know, like him,”

“You know I could kill you, right? Without even moving from this spot?”

Before he could respond, your sister walked in, “Could you maybe give you a tour?” she asked, she looked around the room, “Woah, this is the Oval Office. Wait, why do they call it that?”

“For the love of God, take her on a tour,” you spat out, you needed a break from her. You were starting to miss your little paradise that hovered above ground, that gave you much needed peace. A place to escape before your sister’s squeaky peppy voice forced you to put a bullet in your head.

The two rushed out the door and a hand with a glass appeared in front of your face, you took the glass and downed the alcohol in one, “Thanks, needed that,”

“I can tell,” he said pouring you some more, “It seems yours annoys you more than mine does,”

“7 years in that shithole with only Maddy, I mean I love her, she’s my sister, but God I’d have a better conversation with a poodle,” you said, downing another half glass of whiskey, “I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear this,” you popped the glass down and headed for the door, “I’m going to find us some rooms, far away from you guys, give you some space,”

“You don’t have to, relax, have another drink,”

And you did. Or 5.

***

You and Tallahassee were swapping stories about your 10 years of Zombieland. You were sat on a chair, and he was opposite, sprawled out on the couch, you had to stop yourself from staring as his shirt lifted up higher every time he moved, displaying his abs and v-line.

Soon you heard noises coming from above, “Oh my God,” you groaned.

“I believe that’s what she’s supposed to say,” Tallahassee pointed out.

You rolled your eyes and downed the last of your drink. You don’t know what it was that caused you to be so bold and confident, probably the whiskey, but you stood from you seat and straddled Tallahassee’s hips. You lean in close, your warm breath against his ear “When was the last time someone took care of you?” you purred.

His eyes meet yours, a hint of surprise swimming in them. He smirks, his rough hands finding their way to your waist, pulling you in closer. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he replies, his voice husky.

“I don’t?” you asked innocently. He growled and without hesitation, he swiftly pins you down, caging you beneath his powerful body, his eyes burning with raw intensity.

Tallahassee pauses for a moment, his intense gaze locked with yours, “You say the word and we’ll stop,”

“What word? I wanna avoid it,” you smirked up at him a mischievous glint in your eyes.

Tallahassee chuckled darkly before bending his head, his lips finding your neck. His hands traveled up your back, massaging and kneading the muscles there, making you arch into him further. You moaned, feeling his hot breath on your skin as he suckled a trail up your neck to your earlobe. His teeth gently nipped at it, sending a shiver down your spine.

Breathless, you look deep into his eyes, her voice dripping with desire as you plead, "Fuck me," Tallahassee groans, One hand pins yours above your head, the other travels under your shirt. His calloused fingers trace your silky-smooth skin, his touch leaving a burning trail. He undoes the button of your jeans, yanking them halfway down your thighs. Without wasting a second, he pushes your dampened panties to the side, easing a thick finger between your dripping folds. He kisses your neck and along your jawline as he thrusts two fingers expertly inside of you.

Your back arches off the couch, a strangled moan escaping your lips. Tallahassee's thumb teases your clit, circling and pressing until you're on the brink of ecstasy. He leans forward, capturing your lips in a fierce kiss as he begins to thrust his fingers deeper inside of you. You can feel his erection pressing against your hip, hot and hard, and you ache for him to be inside of you.

He started to increase the intensity as he felt your body twitch, responding to each of his movements, “Please,” you whimper, wanting more. Practically begging for it.

Your pleas didn’t go unanswered. He placed one more kiss on your lips before sliding down your body, your eyes following his every move. He pulled your jeans down the remainder of your legs and threw them across the room. As your eyes were looking to see where they landed, you feel something warm and wet seep through you folds. Snapping your head back to him, you see his face buried between your legs. His tongue swirling around your lips as if he’s trying to mop up every last drop of your slick. You can’t help but let out a moan as he bites, licks and sucks at your little bundle of nerves. Your hips buck involuntarily causing him to rest his free hand on your stomach to keep you still.

His hand returns, sliding up your abdomen, cupping your breast and squeezing gently. He licks you one more time, tasting the sweetness that coats his tongue, before looking up at you, his eyes dark with lust.

He stands up and starts stripping himself of his clothes. You clench your legs together to get friction as his cock springs free.

"Like what you see?" he asked, his voice husky and rough. You nod, unable to speak, as your gaze drifts down to the thick length of him. You quickly climb off the couch and onto your knees in front of him.

He groans, his hips jerking forward as you take him in your hands. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking up and down the length of him, marveling at the heat and the size. "You're so fucking beautiful," he breathes, his eyes watching you intently.

You look up at him as you continue to stroke him, feeling his skin slide over your palm. His gaze meets yours, and for a moment, you feel like you can see straight into his soul. You lean forward, taking his cock into your mouth, feeling the velvety smoothness against your tongue. You close your lips around him, taking him as deep as you can, and begin to bob your head up and down.

His hands run through your hair, cupping your head as he watches you work him. You can feel the way he trembles, the way his hips jerk forward as you suck him deeper, the way his breath hitches in his throat. You know he's close, and you want nothing more than to feel him come in your mouth.

Pulling back, you look up at him, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. His eyes are half-closed, his head tilted back, his expression one of pure bliss. You reach out, tracing a finger along his cheekbone, feeling the warmth of his skin against your fingertip. "I want to feel you inside me," you whisper, and he groans, his hips jerking forward again.

He helps you to your feet, his hands on your waist, and guides you back to the couch. You climb onto the cushions, legs spread wide, and watch as he positions himself between your thighs. He brushes a stray hair out of your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone, before leaning down to capture your lips in a deep, passionate kiss. His cock presses against your folds, and with one smooth motion, he pushes inside of you.

You gasp, feeling the stretch of his length as he fills you. He groans, his hips stuttering as he begins to thrust, the rhythm echoing in your core. His hands move to your hips, holding you steady as he takes you roughly, your body meeting his thrust for thrust. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your nails digging into the soft cushion beneath you.

He looks down at you, his eyes dark and intense, his expression a mixture of lust and possession. His lips find your neck, sucking and nipping at your skin, leaving a sting that feels almost as good as the thrust of his hips. "You're so fucking tight," he growls, his words vibrating against your skin.

You arch your back, meeting his thrusts with equal force. Your nails scrape down his back, leaving a trail of red lines on his skin. You can feel the tension building inside you, the familiar ache spreading through your core. "I'm close," you gasp, your body trembling with the effort to hold back.

He groans, his hips moving faster, his cock thrusting deeper. "Cum for me," he urges, his lips finding yours in a bruising kiss. You shudder, your orgasm washing over you in a wave of heat and pleasure. Your inner walls tighten around him, milking his cock as you cry out his name.

His thrusts grow jerky and rough, and you feel the warmth of his release deep inside you. He groans, his body shuddering as he empties himself, his hips still moving even as he collapses onto you, pinning you beneath his weight. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his chest heaving against yours.

For a moment, you're lost in the afterglow of your orgasm, feeling the weight of his body pressed against yours, the heat of his skin seared into your memory. You luxuriate in the intimacy of the moment, reveling in the way he moves against you, the way he feels inside you.

He rolls off you, collapsing to the side, still breathing heavily. You watch him, tracing a lazy finger along the lines of his chest, admiring the play of muscles in his arms and shoulders, "I don't remember it feeling that good,"

"What?"

You laugh, turning your head to look at him. "You know what I mean."

"I think you mean, round 2," he smirked.

"Oh really?" you asked, a smirk of your own painting your lips, "You think you're up for it, old man?"

He swiftly pins you down again, "I'll show you who's an old man, darlin'"

[A/N] I feel like it didn't turn out as good as i imagined.

[reallypleasanttree]

This is an addition from a previous Obamitsu Drabble where Obanai reacts to the news about the demon slayer mark.

Canon divergent. Spoilers for the Hashira Training Arc

“For those who have already awakened the mark,” Amane began, “you have my eternal gratitude and respect. Because of that, I have to let you know those who had the mark died before they turned 25.” She paused, letting her words settle. 

Obanai tried to control his emotions, but his eyes widened. Kanroji and Tokito would die. Their years were numbered. His throat burned from the acid threatening to come up. Kanroji had six years while Tokito had eleven years left. It was a little under half his current age. He was only fourteen years old and he knew he would die. His insides churned. Partially from not having eaten since yesterday morning while the other was the devastating realization his fellow Hashira unknowingly sealed their fate. 

He hid his hands under his sleeves as they began to shake. This was a harbinger of the coming times. Only death and destruction laid between them and confronting Muzan. Behind his bandages he pursed his lips. His scars pulled on his cheeks, a constant reminder of what his family made him. 

Obanai planned to die fighting demons. It was the only way to redeem his wretched self. To atone for his and his family’s corruption. Their fortune was built on a pile of blood, bones, and murders. If anyone deserved to die before they reached 25 it was him. He had already spent too long of this earth, but he would live until a demon cut him down. 

Let him take their place. They had people to live for. People who loved and cared for them. People who would grieve their loss. There would be no one to grieve for him except Kaburamaru, Shinazugawa, and the Master. Possibly Kanroji, but she grieved for everyone. 

Tokito and Kanroji had no intention of dying when they joined the Corps. The Mist Hashira regained his memories after earning his demon slayer mark. His personality was beginning to surface. Obanai saw glimpses of an optimistic boy underneath his stoic veneer. His potential was undefined. He was beginning to come into his own, not only as a slayer, but as a man. He gripped the inside of his sleeve as his palms began to sweat. 

Though, there were aspects of the Mist Hashira that were still childish. His love of paper planes and his gleeful expression when he asked to train with the Wind and Snake Hashira. In truth, he saw parts of himself in the younger hashira. He was steadfast with a dry sense of humor. 

Obanai swallowed. Tokito was only a boy and he had a death sentence. It was not fair, but that’s what life amounted to. A series of horrid events ultimately leading to death. The Snake Hashira knew that’s what fate held for him, but it should not be the same for Tokito or Kanroji. They had so much more to live for. 

His eyes glanced over at Kanroji. For a brief second, her lips pulled back in a thin line before trembling. It was fear and grief. Why did she of all the hashira have to awaken the mark? The woman he adored more than anyone. 

Kanroji joined to save people and to find a husband. A man who was not intimidated by her strength, appetite, or beauty. She perceived herself as an odd woman, but she was the only one to ever look him in the eye and talk to him. He was the odd one, yet she made him feel normal. 

A man meant to die the day he was born to appease the demon his family called a goddess. A goddess who asked to make him in her image. Sometimes he still felt his cousins and sisters holding him down for his mother to slice through his cheeks. Their nails digging into his skin and white robes. Their whispers ensured he was pleasing the goddess and he should be honored. He shut his eyes briefly and inhaled slowly through his nose as a memory surfaced.

<><><><><><><><><><>

His grip on the hair pin was making his hand numb as he chipped away at the cage. He could only work when the demon and his family were not watching him. The demon said he had to get bigger before she would… Bile rose in his throat. Obanai had not eaten anything in a day. He shut his eyes, forcing himself to focus solely on the task at hand. He had to get out. He had to leave. There had to be more to life than these four walls. The lattice wood cage constricting his movement, freedom, and will. 

Though his vision was bad, he had good ears. He heard two women outside of his room. He took the hairpin and slid it under his sleeve for safe keeping. Then he placed one of the food trays in front where he had been working. The wood lined up perfectly with the outside and with more time he would be able to slip through. Once he got out he would run, it wouldn’t matter where as long as he got away. 

The sliding door opened and his mother and sister walked in. They were carrying two trays of fried chicken and tempura vegetables. He held his sleeve over his nose to block the smell. 

“Obanai,” the older woman said. “We brought you dinner. I do hope you like it. Aya and I made it.” His mother beamed at his sister. Both them had the same slight build, black hair, and teal eyes. Everyone looked the same here. All of them were fake and devoid of real emotions. Smiling as they force feed him luscious, oily meat and tempura, never once stopping. 

“Brother, our goddess told us you would soon be ready for her,” she bowed deeply to him as she set the tray down. “You honor us and our family.” 

When she looked up her eyes were soulless behind a wide smile. They looked exactly like the snake demon, soulless eyes and grotesque smile. He hated them. Pretty words, smiles, faces meant little when they carried the sins of hundreds. Their riches built on the suffering of others. Murdering, sacrificing their babies, and stealing the riches and lands from those the demon ate. Obanai wasn’t sure which one was worse between the demon or his relatives. He had to leave tonight. 

That night he realized how cruel fate could be. His freedom and will to live killed fifty women. Obanai learned he was just as despicable as the rest of his family. If he had simply stayed and fed to the demon, they would have lived. How fate loved to mock him with its irony. 

<><><><><><><><><><><>

Fate was mocking him again. It was telling him everyone he interacted with would die. Lead filled his gut. It was his fault for ever loving Kanroji and Tokito. If only Obanai could sacrifice himself in their place. His hands were stained with more innocent blood. He looked away from the pink haired woman and stared at the wall ahead of them. 

—---------

“I won’t live past 25,” Mitsuri said, holding her spoon an inch from her lips. Amane told her the truth of it during the Hashira meeting. After the meeting, excluding Tomioka, she invited everyone out to dinner. Now she sat alone with Iguro-San in a private dining room. Everyone else went home. “They say you’ll never know when you’re going to die, but now I have a time frame.” 

She stared at the wall vacantly. It was surreal. She had six years left if it was true. What would she do with the rest of her time? She wanted to be someone’s wife and have children. Mitsuri set down her spoon and looked at Iguro-san. His eyes watched her with empathy, closing a bit more than normal. 

“I am not sure what to say,” Iguro-San said. Under the bandages his lips seemed to twitch and there were worry lines on his forehead. “It’s a sacrifice I wish you did not have to make. If I could I would switch places with you,” he said, glancing away. “You deserve a happy life surrounded by your loved ones.”

This was why she loved him. His kind words and willingness to sacrifice for her and others. There were rumors he was mean and cruel to the lower ranked slayers, but he would defend any of them. He sought out the tougher missions before he was even a Hashira according to Shinobu. Always willing to risk himself for the corps. She admired his dedication and hard work. 

The pink haired woman licked her lips in thought. Her dream was to be a wife and mother. She didn’t want to be someone’s wife, she wanted to be Iguro-san’s wife. There was clarity in the realization. Pushing her broth filled bowl to the center of the table, she turned her body towards him. Her temperature rose and her cheeks colored as she decided to jump. 

“I am surrounded by those I love,” Mitsuri started. He looked up at her. “I love everyone I have met in the Corps. The Butterfly House girls, the attendants, the lower ranked members, and the other Hashira…” her voice trailed off. She had to say something more to let him know how she felt. Words escaped her. Iguro-San shifted in his seat. Kaburamaru stared intently at her in curiosity and curled tighter around his friend’s shoulders. 

“You as well, Kaburamaru-San,” she added with a grin and reached up to stroke the snake’s head. He raised his head to meet her hand. The touch forced her to relax and clear her mind. 

“Iguro-San, I love you,” Mitsuri said plainly. It didn’t need to be a great declaration of love where she prepared a long poem or gifted him with expensive gifts. No, it was clear cut. 

The man beside her was silent, but kept eye contact. He grasped his pant leg under the table, the veins becoming more prominent. She reached for his hand and held it in her lap. “If I only have six years left,” her thumb swept over the backside of his hand. “I want to spend them as your wife.” 

The man was stunned and the silence dragged. His hand squeezed hers, so he was not devoid of reaction. Her heart hammered. She could not leave this world without taking a chance. 

“Kanroji-San, I cannot offer you anything,” Iguro-San whispered. “My entire family is dead. When I chose to be a demon slayer I swore I would die fighting until Muzan was gone. I would only disappoint you,” he continued. 

“You’ve never disappointed me and you never will. You try your hardest in every endeavor you take. Why would marriage be any different?” Mitsuri asked. 

“It’s not that-“ he turned his head and looked at the wall. “I’m not good. I am a beast beneath these bandages,” he pointed to the wraps. “My family cut my face. They worshiped a demon and the demon wanted to taste my blood. I was raised to be a sacrifice and continue to live as a sacrifice. I'm not meant to live long,” Iguro-San said as his jaw clenched. 

Mitsuri was not deterred by his words. She brought his hand to her face and kissed his fingers. “I’m not either. I only have one question and please answer truthfully, do you love me?” She asked. His posture was rigid. 

“Yes,” he breathed, “I love you.” Thud. Thud. Thud. Her heart fluttered and kissed his hand again, unable to contain herself. 

“Then make a sacrifice for me. Marry me,” Mitsuri smiled at him. He twisted himself towards her, eyes wide. “Marry me. Make me your bride. Allow me to love you for the rest of my life at least what is left of it. Let me love you,” Mitsuri pleaded. 

Instead of replying, Iguro-San pulled the bandages from his face and leaned forward. His lips crashed into hers. She didn’t even have enough time to process what just happened until she felt his hand curl under her jaw. Her hand found his neck and pulled him closer. Warmth spread over her body as they kissed. 

“I’ll marry you. I will make you happy, I promise,” he whispered against her lips. “Until you or I pass into the afterlife.” 

“And in our next life I’ll give you more than six years,” Mitsuri promised, “I’ll give you a lifetime.” 

[cabotwife]

i need a comfort fic and I never see any of this topic🥹

if you could please write a Olivia/daughter reader or Olivia/reader!!! Preferably Olivia catching on to them restricting/failing into an Rd and comforts them about it!!!

City of Angels

Olivia Benson x Foster Daughter!Teen!Reader

warnings: ooc liv? kinda mention of an eating disorder, not proofread

word count: 1788

a/n: this is actually so bad i wanna rip my hair out.

--

living an easy life wasn't something you were entirely familiar with. for the last two years your life had been a chaotic whirlwind, being shuffled from one home to another.

the idea of an easy life becomes complicated when your existence has been laced with a constant stream of pain and the need to run from everything good. it's challenging to imagine such a life when your reality has always been like this.

even before you found yourself lost among the countless faceless children within the foster system, all you had known was a life filled with fear and adversity.

but now, you have your Olivia.

your Olivia who tells you she loves you, but who’re you to believe her? how could she possibly love a child that’s not hers?

this is the question that haunts your thoughts during your countless long, sleepless nights. the painful realization that you're just a charity case to the brunette detective, a lost delinquent she's taken under her wing to "fix" is something you can't shake. she’s never said it outright, but you can see it. it's there, hiding in the depths of her eyes.

—

you've been living with Olivia for almost half a year now. during this time, you and her had been growing closer, your defensive walls have started to crumble, allowing the other woman to step into your world and take you into her arms.

everything seemed to be going well, or at least that's what you thought. but one day, everything took a turn when Olivia brought home Noah.

Noah, an undeniably adorable little boy.

the moment he was brought into the apartment, you could sense a shift in the atmosphere. at first, you managed to adapt to the change. but then, you found yourself being pushed to the side, overlooked for Noah.

the moment you found yourself sidelined, your defensive walls shot back up, leaving Olivia and now Noah on the outside.

and once again, you were alone.

the love you can see in Olivia’s eyes when she looks at the little toddler is a kind of love you've never experienced for yourself. it's a stark reminder of the unfair differences between your experiences and his.

it didn't even take a month for Olivia to officially adopt Noah.

things took a turn for the worse rather quickly.

it began with you avoiding shared meals with the two brunettes. you started eating later or earlier, making sure to finish before Olivia got home. but recently, you found yourself skipping meals altogether.

Olivia had noticed you pulling away from her, but she chose not to do anything in fear of worsening the situation. despite your growing distance, she continued to reach out, hoping to assure you that you're welcome in her life. but your actions have been making it increasingly difficult for her.

—

in the midst of a typical day at work, Olivia sifts through the details of her most recent case, surrounded by the familiar hum of activity in the precinct. the sudden ring of her phone disrupts the rhythmic tapping of her fingers on the keyboard.

answering the phone in a questioning voice, she says, “hello?” the unknown number on the screen does nothing to prepare her for the conversation ahead.

a professional, yet strained voice responds from the other end, “hi, is this Olivia Benson?” the question hangs in the air, causing Olivia to furrow her eyebrows in confusion. she straightens up in her chair, her police instincts kick in.

the change in her demeanor catches the attention of Fin, who is now visibly alert. “yes, it is. who’s asking?” Olivia responds, her tone guarded yet curious.

the voice on the other side of the line calmly explains, “you’re listed as y/n l/n’s emergency contact. i’m calling to inform you that she is currently with us at Mercy General Hospital.” the words are delivered with an air of professional detachment.

the brunette springs up from her desk, grabbing her jacket hurriedly. her mind is a whirlwind of questions. “what? why? what happened?” in her panic, she barely notices Fin rising from his desk, his eyes locked with hers in shared concern.

briefly pulling the phone away from her mouth, she manages to choke out to Fin, “y/n’s in the hospital, i have to go.”

the severity of the situation is evident in her voice, “i’ll drive,” the older detective quickly offers, swiftly grabbing his keys and ushering Olivia out of the precinct, the hum of activity fades as they rush out to his car.

by the end of the call, Olivia is left with a sinking feeling of dread. despite the explanations given, she can't fully comprehend what is happening. her mind is filled with concern for her little girl.

before she knows it, Fin's car screeches to a halt in front of Mercy General Hospital and without a moment’s hesitation, Olivia jumps out, her heart pounding as she practically sprints through the entrance. once the brunette reaches the front desk she slaps her hands down on the counter, “y/n l/n, what room is she in?” she demands, her voice strained with urgency.

the desk attendant looks up, her gaze questioning as she scrolls through the records on her computer. “I’m sorry, who’re you?” she inquires, her head tilted slightly in confusion.

taking a moment to collect herself, Olivia responds, “oh, Olivia Benson. i’m her foster mother, her emergency contact." she leans over the desk, trying to catch a glimpse of the room number on the screen.

the woman hums in response, scrolling for a few more seconds before finally speaking, “y/n l/n is in room 281.” she looks up, meeting Olivia’s desperate gaze.

mumbling a quick ‘thank you’, Olivia speeds off towards the room, her heart pounding in her chest. when she finally reaches the room, she is met with the sight of you, lying in the hospital bed with an IV drip in your arm and a small, untouched cup of red jello on the bedside table.

“y/n.” Olivia manages to breathe out, making her way over to the bed. her voice is soft and filled with concern, “what happened? are you okay, baby?” she gently takes your hand in hers, her touch as soft as her voice.

you simply hum in response and pull your hand away from hers, settling it back in your lap. “yeah, ‘m fine.”

Olivia’s eyebrows furrow as she looks down at you, her maternal instincts kick in. “you are not fine. you’re in the hospital. now, are you going to tell me what happened or do i have to go ask a doctor because i can’t trust my own daughter?”

for the first time, your eyes snap to Olivia, finally meeting hers. “i’m not your daughter, Olivia,” you retort, rolling your eyes.

the sharpness of your words takes Olivia by surprise. her frown deepens and her eyes soften. “what’re you talking about, y/n/n? of course you’re my daughter.” her voice is gentle, filled with warmth as she squats down beside the bed to be at eye level with you. “what’s been going on, sweet girl? you haven’t been yourself.” she takes your hand again, her thumb soothingly rubbing the back of your hand.

you just mumble in response, avoiding Olivia's gaze and instead focusing on the wall, which has suddenly become very interesting. “nothin’..”

sighing, Olivia stares at you for a moment before standing back up. she leans down and presses a tender kiss to your hairline before heading towards the door. “i’ll be back. i’m going to go find your doctor since you won’t tell me anything.”

as she reaches the door, your voice stops her in her tracks. “wait, Olivia,” your voice is louder than you intended. you look up at Olivia, your eyes teary and pleading. “i’ll tell you, please, i’m sorry.”

the older woman turns around, her arms crossed as she waits for you to speak. “okay. i’m listening.”

"you know, i've just been... i don't know how to say it..." you mumble, searching for the right words, the right way to phrase what happened.

Olivia sits on the edge of the hospital bed, by your knees. her gaze, full of concern and empathy, watches you as you struggle to articulate your thoughts.

"i've been struggling with eating recently.." you admit in a whisper, your words barely audible in the sterile silence of the hospital room. heat rushes to your cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and shame. "i passed out while i was with Luka. he brought me here after i woke up.. i'm sorry, Liv, i know how expensive it is and i know you’re mad-"

"oh, my sweet girl," Olivia interrupts, her voice filled with love. she surges forward, wrapping you in a comforting embrace. when she pulls away, her hands cup your cheeks, her words a soothing balm. "my sweet, sweet girl... no, i’m not mad. I'm just happy you're okay," she whispers, her eyes locked onto yours.

and in that moment, you see it — the same love you've always seen in her eyes when she looks at Noah. but now, it's directed at you.

a silence descends on the two of you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Olivia leans forward to hug you again, and you find yourself lost in your thoughts.

after a few minutes of quiet reflection, you break the silence. "hey, Liv?" you whisper, your voice barely audible.

"yes, y/n/n?" she replies after a moment, pulling away to look into your eyes.

"why... um, why did you adopt Noah and not me? are you going to send me back?" you ask, the words tumbling out in a rush, a slight rasp in your voice revealing your fear and uncertainty.

Olivia's eyes widen in surprise before they soften. "oh, honey... i'm not sending you back. you're my daughter, you understand? it's just... it's a little more complicated when your biological mother is still alive," she explains gently. "i've been trying so hard, you have to believe me. it's just that these things... they take time."

you stare at her, tears welling in your eyes. after a moment, you lean forward, hugging her gently and burying your face against her shoulder as you try to hold back the tears. "i'm sorry, Liv."

"you have nothing to apologize for, okay? we're going to get you the help you need. we're going to sort everything out, and we'll be a family," she promises, her voice soft and reassuring. she kisses your hair as she wraps her arms around you in a comforting embrace. "how does that sound?"

"good... sounds good," you whisper back, a sense of peace settling over you.

[inalandofsadclowns]

When Jack asked why Sam and Dean couldn't know about Cas' deal with the Empty and

Cas: They can. I just don't- I don't want them to. They don't need that burden. You don't need that burden.

Jack: Of course, I do. You did that for me.

Cas: You know, the Empty said that it wouldn't come for me until I had finally given myself permission to be happy. But with everything that we have going on, with Michael still out there, I don't see that happening anytime soon. This life may be a lot of things, but it's rarely happy.

I know. I know that Cas was trying to comfort Jack, in his own, sad way, that he won't be leaving for a long-long time, but...how was this supposed to be comforting??

LOOK AT HIM poor boy is barely holding back tears-

Did Cas believe Jack would be like "fair enough"? That he wouldn't just be more concered after this? You see, a couple of days back Jack was in constant pain and fear of the unknown, because he was very much dying. And he knew that, and his three dads and Rowena knew, and none of them could help...Then Dean took him on a little road trip. He taught Jack to drive, he let him drive the Impala, he bought him junk food then he took him fishing - the same picture Dean remembered from his own favourite childhood memory. And then Jack got to live that, too, and it became his favourite memory as well. It was the happiest he ever felt in his life, even though he was one foot out of life's doorstep while the same threat of Michael loomed over the world even then. And he still gave himself over to happiness, because he realized, he didn't need to go to Vegas or Tahiti to get it, in fact, the purest kind of joy is often in the little things and they always shine the brightest. That's right, even standing by the door of death. And now, he's left wonering, what keeps Castiel from true happiness, that he's certain it's not going to happen soon?

If Jack read between the lines, Cas' reassurement had only made Jack recognise something immensely sad and unreachable within him.

Oh, and the bonus

Can't forget this absolute gem.

[martyrdom-and-suicide]

AN EXCERPT WRITTEN FOR ALEX'S CARRD.

SUICIDE CLEANUP - a character study of alexander 'alex' bentley. ❝ the metal hits the ground, it makes a dent. and when he's found . . . he's by himself.❞ TRIGGER WARNINGS: self-harm, blood, eating disorders, hospitalization, sexual themes, religious themes, death. From the day that he was born… God forbade Alexander Bentley from ever setting foot in the Garden of Eden. He was a body of vines held together by the thorns that pierced his skin. This was not just a fleeting discomfort that faded after a few days; the pain was agonizing and constant. It would never go away—why would it? He was a walking sin, never meant to be loved by any man or woman. No, he was an elaborate puzzle that no one could ever solve. He was woven to be irresistible, yet unattainable. He was his own worst nightmare, and he fucking hated nightmares. Dreams of boys who rested their hands on his waist and cigarettes that burned his throat whenever he breathed in the smoke.. He wanted it all, envying those who had already obtained what he desired most. When he should have been face down in the bed of the boy who haunted him, he had his fingers down his throat, trying to become what he assumed that boy wanted. Sinner. Sinner. Sinner. That’s all he fucking heard when all he executed was the art of existence. Self-hatred, sex, power—how could all of those be such strong sins that he craved so terribly? He would do anything to be perfect in anyone’s eyes but God’s and his own. Thrashing within strangers’ sheets, starving himself until his bones protruded from his body, and making himself bleed until his skin became unrecognizable. These actions are what make Alexander Bentley who he is, at least, that's what he believes. Because what is the point of living life if one's entire existence is monotonous and impeccable? What defines a human being is their wickedness, and Alexander was the most wicked of them all. It wasn't because he hurt people intentionally, it was because of his fear of acknowledging that he maimed others by incapacitating himself. Alex doesn't realize it and likely, he never will, but he believes he sits on the highest throne of them all. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing is wrong; he only knows that he views himself as a walking abomination. He runs away when things are good and never processes why no one wants to see him again. Everyone around him is distressed by his well-being and state of mind, but Alex couldn’t care less. Instead, he obsesses over every little detail until he feels himself collapsing: hospital beds, vital signs, a weakened spine, and a faint heartbeat. Oh my God, nineteen is way too young to die.

[black-queen-rising]

Till Forever Falls Apart

(Closed starter for @princeluce)

In the days since House Targaryen, and indeed the whole of Westeros, had begun the long and lonely kind of mourning that accompanied the last days of a fast-deteriorating, aged King, Rhaenyra felt as though she'd been so thoroughly filled with anxiety it's seeped into the very marrow of her bones. There was both her personal relationships and political alliances with her half siblings, who arrived to attend their father two days previous, to twist her stomach into knots. The ways in which the King's decline had sent her stepmother and husband spiraling and scheming in both equal measure and opposite directions, not to mention the toll additional toll it's taken on the rest of their family, the political implications of the looming regime change with dozens of noble families across the Kingdom, and of course, Viserys himself; her father's fears, pain, failing body, and emotional turmoil all fueled the anxiety which had caused her every nerve to stand on edge. Though certainly not an exhaustive list of all the Crown Princess' worries, the top slot had recently become occupied by her second eldest son, Lucerys, who she'd just set off to check up on.

It was hardly a surprise that the specter his grandsire's death and her own ascension shifting from vague, theoretical concept to tangible, fast approaching reality had triggered a stronger reaction in Luke than the rest of her children. Though Jacaerys and Rhaenyra's eldest son with Daemon, Aegon, were both personally closer to Viserys, Rhaena more prone to respond to stressful situations with intense emotions, and their youngest three children still so little coping with something as difficult as familial grief often seemed an impossible task, Lucerys had always been a mirror of his family's wider emotional state, feeding off strong feelings both positive and negative, and bearing a much heavier emotional load than most as a result. The tendency had caused Rhaenyra constant guilt when he was a young child, watching as her own anxiety seemed to seep into him, and so she had endeavored to shield him from the bulk of it. It had worked well for the most part, Luke was a happy child, one who held on to her hand much longer than she'd dared to hope he would remain fond of her company, seeking her out for frequent advice and even more frequent emotional support, and willingly, easily open with his mother in a way that eliciting from her other children usually felt more like attempting to steal an egg from an angry dragon's lair.

Lucerys had always been Rhaenyra's boy, she and Jace, they belonged to the realm, Joffrey belonged to his older siblings by blood and law alike, and almost as much to Daemon as their younger children, who she was more than happy to share with the man she loved. Luke had always been hers, but now, after a slow increase in his periods of introspection, time spent on Driftmark, at the seat he would one day inherit, and more than anything, away from her, what had felt like the complicated, mildly unpleasant, but ultimately encouraging development of her son's personal sense of self and autonomy had spiraled into something much more insidious and--though tried Rhaenyra forced herself to believe this was just her already amplified anxieties making his struggles seem fiercer than they were--more dangerous, when it was declared King Viserys was living in his last week. Rhaenyra is at the door to his chambers now, a set of rooms shared with Jacaerys and Joffrey that still allowed the boys their own bed chamber and a sense of privacy she insisted all her children be given upon moving back to the Red Keep to take up the position of her father's Hand.

She knocked on the door, pushing it ajar on the realization it was not fully shut, then asked softly, "Luke? Are you doing alright, my love? I realized we hadn't had the chance to speak privately in a few days and with everything happening so quickly I--I wished to see if there was anything I could do for you."

[readingrobin]

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

The hero-narrator of The Catcher in the Rye is an ancient child of sixteen, a native New Yorker named Holden Caufield. Through circumstances that tend to preclude adult, secondhand description, he leaves his prep school in Pennsylvania and goes underground in New York City for three days. -Storygraph

I can see why this book is such a divisive title when it comes to classic fiction. It's a work that has been dissected in many a high school classroom, which doesn't do any favors when it comes to appreciating classic fiction. When you spend hours in school brushing a fine tooth comb over something that you are forced to analyze and have some kind of deep opinion about, it's easy to start resenting the title solely because of the amount of work you have to put into it. Luckily, this wasn't something I had to read in school so I didn't go into it with any sort of negative feeling.

And of course, Holden Caulfield has become synonymous for edgy try hard male teens that feel like society has some sort of hidden beef with them and that they are tragically misunderstood to the point of constant woeful lamentation. That gives the book a bit of a disservice as, while Holden is a privileged upper class white boy living in New York City that definitely spends most of his time complaining and being terrible to women, his unlikability is kind of the point. Holden is not the model teen one should aspire to be. He's a hypocrite, displays multiple incidents of bigoted and misogynistic behavior, and generally hates and complains about everything. Absolutely no one in his life wants to be around him because of his attitude and overall personality. He's the result of what happens when someone goes through a great deal of grief and trauma and has had no support system or coping skills whatsoever.

Holden is haunted by his brother's death, experienced numerous implied sexual harassments/assaults, and has no positive relationships other than with his other, distant brother and younger sister. He's maturing in a world that does nothing for him, populated with artificiality and a constant squashing of innocence. He's aimless, floating around New York City not knowing what the hell to do or where the hell to go. When he wants something, he goes and gets it, only to realize he never really wanted it. He's so lost in this path to adulthood and it's easy to see the fear and resentment he has towards the process. I think everyone who has ever been a teen can relate to that, feeling so adrift in a world that doesn't really care for them and desperately clinging to things that haven't been warped by its malice.

Ultimately, I think I enjoyed this book. I liked finally being able to dissect a character that is practically infamous for his teen angst and I can't really say that I'm surprised when I found out that all of that unlikability is coming from a sad place. The writing style feels exactly how a teen would write, which isn't going to appeal to everyone. Honestly, it's a hard book to like, and it's not for everyone, but for those willing to put up with a lot of angst and read a little bit beyond the surface level, you make get a little something out of it.

(4/5)

[yourneighborhoodneighbor]

and you're always free to begin again ch1

(masterpost to my fics while ao3 is down) AO3

fic under the cut

Dick remembered when Damian had first come home.

All blades and murder and so, so much anger in his little body, constantly overflowing, sharpened to a deadly point like his ever-present katana. His little face, still chubby in his age despite the ridiculous amount of muscle his lithe body had, set in an ever present scowl. Constant screaming, constant threats, constant insults.

Like his brothers, Dick could admit he had been afraid. Damian was not just angry, he was capable.

But Dick was not just a cop, or a vigilante, or the Boy Wonder. Dick was a big brother.

And so after a few days of settling, or as much as that time could be called settling, Dick stopped hearing the words Damian was screaming, and instead listened to what he wasn't saying. He looked past the katana into the little hands holding the blade, steady, precise, deadly, but still, little hands. The hands of a child.

Damian was afraid, even if he himself did not realize it. He was probably, somewhere deep in his subconscious, scared he would have to go back. Dick didn't know the whole story of how he suddenly found himself with a new little brother, but he knew enough to be aware that Damian had come here on his own. By choice. The kid had run away, for whatever reason, so it was safe to assume he would not want to go back anytime soon, if ever.

Besides, coming to live in Gotham, with Bruce, and Alfred, and quite frankly a small army of siblings, was a big change. Dick couldn't even imagine what growing up with the League was like, having that as his whole world. And then to come to a place like this… Yes, there was still fighting, both on the streets and common sibling spats, but there was laughter, and freedom, and love, and… and Dick knew the kid had to be feeling some culture shock, was his point. Confusion was probably not helping his fear, and only served to fuel the anger he used to mask it.

There was also the matter of, well, all of them. The kid seemed especially enraged when anyone so much as implied any of them were his siblings, more intensely so if they called him any variation of “little brother”. Those were the moments when he screamed. Usually, he was quiet, a whole life of training as an assassin drilled into him, but on this topic, he raged loudly and viciously.

He had tried to kill Tim outright upon having him introduced as his brother, the teen having had the misfortune of being the only one of them at the manor with Bruce when Damian had arrived, clad still in his League uniform and nothing but a katana in his hand and a small bag at his back. Dick had been told the second Tim had said the words “I'm your new brother” it was like Damian had been possessed, only just being stopped from dealing the finishing blow by Bruce finally managing to grab and immobilize him.

He had also tried to kill Jason once, when the older man had looked him over and after squinting at him a bit in remembrance of his few and foggy memories of his own days with the League after having been resurrected had asked offhandedly if Damian's eyes hadn't been blue instead of green. It was lucky at least that all of them were in the room at the time, to stop both of them from killing each other on the spot.

Dick himself had had a personal encounter with the katana when he first called him his little brother. That had actually been the moment when Dick had a lightbulb go on in his brain, telling him there was something more than just a fucked up childhood hiding behind those angry eyes and deadly hands, something specific troubling this small assassin child.

Point being, Dick remembered Damian's rage, the fear it hid, the confusion such a flip in his life had produced. And that brought him to now, in a position he wouldn't have expected to be allowed to take, arms around a body so much shorter than him in a light but firm hold, trying to keep the shaking child in his arms from falling apart.

For all that Damian was shaking, he wasn't crying, wasn't making a single sound, simply clutching the back of Dick's shirt with all the power his fists had.

“What happened, little wing?” he asked. They had been sitting in one of the living rooms for their weekly movie night, light commentary floating around, when the youngest Wayne had simply stormed out with clenched fists and jaw. Dick had followed. He was glad Damian didn't immediately resort to violence anymore, not after two years living with them, but even with all the work Dick personally had put into helping the youngest, the boy still didn't really ask for help if he had a problem.

Said boy took in a shaky breath.

“Why will they not stop calling me Dami? I can deal with anything else, I can be the demon brat, I can be little shit, I can be anything I need to be, just not Dami,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

Dick frowned. It almost sounded like his brother was holding back sobs, which was alarming on its own. He had never really seen the other cry.

He stopped to think about the question. It was true, he had asked, demanded really, several times to not be called Dami. Nearer the beginning, he had threatened and fought whoever called him that. Mostly they abstained, but there were times they called him that to tease, like when they called Tim Timmy or Timbo. He thought there may be more than just finding the nickname childish or ridiculous behind his aversion to the name, especially seeing as it affected him this much. It was different, to the annoyance and anger he usually displayed.

“Is there a specific reason you don't like it?” he asked back, hoping to find some answers that might help him better deal with the situation.

“No one gets to call me that,” was his response.

The older man frowned. Taking into account the state the kid was in, his response meant more than just the words he said out loud. Lucky for him, Dick had gotten pretty well versed in the language of little brothers who didn't want to bring all their thoughts to reality with words. And so to him, the ending of that sentence was clear as day.

Anymore.

No one gets to call me that, anymore.

Either someone who had hurt him had used that name, linking it to bad memories, or someone who had loved him and he had loved in return had, someone he wouldn't or couldn't see anymore.

Dick wouldn't ask which one. Not at this time. He had more pressing matters to deal with right now.

“Okay. Okay, little wing, I'll tell the others to cut it out,” he reassured his brother. Feeling how he was still shaking, both his breathing and his body, he squeezed him just a bit tighter and added, “And you can cry. It's okay to cry if you're upset.”

Damian only shook harder, pressing his face further into Dickvs shirt.

“Grandfather said we're not to cry,” he said in a small voice. Dick didn't really have time to wonder who “we” entailed in the face of his brother's upset. That line of thinking couldn't stand, not on his watch.

“That is because Ra's al Ghul is incapable of human emotion. You're twelve, cry if you feel like it,” he stated firmly, laying his lips to the top of Damian's head.

With that, the floodgates opened.

Damian cried for a long a long time, unending tears, harsh sobs, loud wailing. Dick knew this was a long time coming, had probably been years in the making, and he was just as sure that as much as this was a general cry for life, there had to be something specific that had Damian wailing. The reason he didn't like to be called Dami.

That was a problem to be solved another time though. Healing didn't happen all at once, and this was a good step in the progress the little boy had made.

For now, Dick simply held his little brother in his arms, silently promising him the safety to cry.

next chapter

[livealittleoc-cb]

As Fate Said

TW FOR MENTIONS OF HARASSMENT, IMPLIED RAPE, SEXUAL THEMES, ABUSE, HEAVY DARK THEMES, BLOOD, DEATH [PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF I MISSED ANYTHING]

Ancient Egypt.

The pyramids were up high, pharaohs ruled and the gods and goddess were in complete rule. Within the confines of Astria gods and goddesses need to live a section of their life in human life to understand humans. In Egypt gods are heavily needed and sought out so even in human form they don’t hide like the Greeks or the Norses might. 

Wadjet the snake headed goddess known as the eye of the moon, with her oracle told of what was to come and what was destined by fate to happen.

Anubis, first son of Osiris, was destined for greatness. Keeping the balance of life and death and helping the other gods in the underworld keep the balance.

Set, the second son, was not so lucky. He was destined for corruption. Told that he was to blame for all the bad to come to Egypt and any other country.

He was shunned, harassed and went through constant hate from humans and some of the other Egyptian gods. He hated leaving, home was his safe place. He loved his parents and his brother, all three believing in his greatness, in his ability to change his fate and become a good god. But once this hate started spreading to them Set couldn’t handle it anymore.

He packed and ran away. 

He was 15 human years.

He wasn’t going to allow his family to get hurt because of him. So here he was, walking along one of the villages near the pyramids. He was famished and thirsty, unaware of how long he actually had been gone for. As he walked, avoiding people as best as possible, making sure his face wasn’t seen until he bumped into someone. A man. A beautiful one. 

Set looked up at him in awe before shaking his head and muttering a soft apology about to scurry away in fear. Until the man spoke. “I’m sorry there little one, it was my fault.” He sounded charming, alluring, safe. He shook his head a little before stepping back to leave again. “Wait. You look hungry.” That’s when he noticed the tail and ears on top of Set’s hair. “Oh? A god…” He looked him over before realizing who it was. “Ah, you’re Set, the destined god of calamity.~” Said man smiled at him and Set looked at him confused.

He wasn’t bidding him away or yelling at him for being a bad luck charm. He smiled at him and Set felt warm. “I…yeah. That’s me.” He said with a nod. The man nodded his head giving him another smile. 

“I see well, Set-”

“Please…Please call me Seth.” 

“Well Seth, come with me and I’ll feed you. You seemed famished and then you can maybe tell me why you’re so far away from the godly village.” He said holding his hand out to the boy. 

Set looked at it and carefully took it. He was led to a big building that looked to have many rooms. He told him why he was there and he was promised safety and a roof over his head. 

That was until he realized where exactly  he was.

At the cusp of 17 about to turn 18, Set realized everything. Everything clicked. The sounds of pleasured screams, men yelling, slapping, yelling.

He was put to work, cleaning rooms, changing sheets and all the stuff no one else wanted to do. One of the workers, Amunet, was a kind woman who secretly helped him do these chores.

That’s when everything started going downhill.

“Mahmoud, you are not doing this! You can not! He’s just a young boy!” 

“He’s almost 18 Amunet, you don’t see how the customers look at him. He can bring us good money.” Mahmoud, Set’s savior, as the boy addressed him, spoke as he shook his head. 

“You’re taking advantage of him! Of his nativity! You should have never brought him he-” A loud slap was heard and the woman gasped. She held her face in shock as she looked at him in disbelief. She glared at him before pushing a finger into his chest. “I hope the gods make you pay for all of this.” She snapped before storming away.

Once at 18 is when he started his training. 

“Seth my Kamilah [perfection]~ It’s a big day today.~” He hummed as he settled Set on his lap, lightly caressing his cheek and neck with his fingertips. Set shied away, Mahmoud frowning slightly at that before sighing. “Now I’m going to teach you your new position here.” His hands went to the boy's hips holding him down, unable to run away. “Starting today you are a worker here and my personal assistant.” He eyed him and Set's eyes widened as he shook his head quickly.

“No. No. I don’t want to. You…You never said anything about this when I first came here!” He said as he tried to push the man away. Mahmoud rolled his eyes as he grabbed his wrists and pulled him forward.

“That’s until customers started to ask for you.~ You’re pretty, Kamilah, I can’t blame them for wanting you. It took me this long to hold back from taking your innocence.” Set started to panic, chest heaving as he tried to wiggle away. This wasn’t real. It wasn’t happening. “Now, you’re going to be a good puppy for me and listen to everything I tell you.” He leaned close to his ear. “You know what bad boys get.” Set froze before tears started to roll down his eyes but he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t fight back, he let it happen and that simple fact made him feel even more disgusted.

That’s how it was for the last couple of months. 

Any time he was bad Mahmoud beat him, left him to starve, locked him in dark rooms with no interaction for days. He was purple and blue, mentally never really there. Being with the customers was one thing…but being with Mahmoud was different. Worse.

The brothel owner ruined him. 

At one point pain mixed with something else. 

With adrenaline. With a rush and tingle. With pleasure. 

He would act out just so the man would purposely hit him, he wanted to surge. The rush he got from being hurt.

He was disgusting.

Set was never allowed to wear gold. His favorite color. He wasn’t ‘pure’ enough for it. Mahmoud made sure to remind him about it every time he got punished, every single day, he was no longer innocent. 

Everytime after the punishment he got praise. He ached for that praise more than the pain. 

“You’re such a good boy, Kamilah.” Mahmoud said, caressing his cheek, tilting his chin up. Set’s swollen lips part as he panted softly. “You behaved so well, did so well for me.” His chest bubbled with pride at the words. “My beautiful Azizi [precious].” He melted.

He was so so disgusting.

Today felt…off. Like today something was going to happen. Set didn’t have any customers for the day and was changing sheets. He had been punished for the last couple days, not having eaten, his stomach growling in pain. Amunet sneaked into Set’s room as he arranged sheets, a bowl in her hand. “Hello my child.” She smiled softly as Set perked up happily and hugged her tight. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes as she softly cooed him. She was basically his second mother and he was so happy to have her. “Please don’t cry little one. Here I brought you something to eat.” She smiled down at him and handed him the bowl. He gratefully took the bowl and ate from it. Normally Amunet came when Mahmoud wasn’t in the building and everyone had a little more freedom. 

Today was different.

He came back earlier and walked into the room. 

Yelling. Screaming. And then it happened. Mahmoud over Amunet, blow after blow as the woman cried and screamed. 

Something broke in the 19 year old’s head. He went to get a knife from the kitchen and the next thing that happened he plunged it into the monster’s back. 

He was seeing red.

Stab after stab. Blood gushed everywhere as the boy cried and screamed. “Die! Die! Die!” Even after he was dead he kept stabbing him, years of trauma coming undone. 

“My child! Please!” Amunet sobbed as she moved behind Set. She hugged him back and calmed down. He dropped the knife and his mind focused. He killed him.

More tears fell from his face as he choked on sobs. Amunet comforted and tried her best to get him to calm down. She quickly started to pack their things, grabbing his hand and dragging him out. 

The oracle was right and fate came true.

He eventually got back home. 

His parents and brother were crying and happy to see him.

Everything became grim when he told them what happened. 

He was the reason Anubis became mute. It was his fault the world is the way it was. 

He was a mistake.

The god of chaos and storms hummed as he sat on his throne, in god form. He sighed, annoyed, wishing that he could leave and not deal with any more foolish offerings. He barely got any as it was. He blew a puff of his cigarette as his inky eyes looked at the human cowering below him. “You want me…for some sex thing?” He snorted before scoffing. “I’m not a sex god.” He growled as his clawed hand went down to grip the human's face making eye contact and blowing smoke into their face. “Pathetic.” He growled as the human shook. Set eyes them before laughing in their face.

Deranged. Crazy. Gone.

“How cute~ Hm, maybe I change my mind.” He let out another puff. “Let’s see your offerings and if I deem them good enough I’ll let you suck me off.~” He grinned, inky black eyes starting to pour golden tears.

Gold. Purity. Happiness. Divinity. 

It was a cruel joke. 

The last shreds of his innocence poured down his cheeks as his mind fogged.

Fate is cruel sometimes.

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[kimosims]

As Florence’s pregnancy progressed, she found herself increasingly indisposed. The young woman required numerous breaks throughout the day, trying to regain her stamina, but always ended the day utterly exhausted, as if she hadn’t rested in weeks. Her constant fatigue drained her once-sunny disposition, and her growing apathy began to worry Albert deeply.

One day, after helping Florence up the stairs for a much-needed rest, Albert was startled by a sudden cry from behind the newly closed bedroom door. Rushing back inside, he found his wife in visible pain and discomfort.

"Oh, call Georgina, Albert," Florence cried between fits of agony. "Quickly!"

Albert didn’t respond—his body simply acted, catapulting him into a desperate sprint toward the neighboring state. What transpired between leaving the Darlington residence and returning with Mrs. Griffith was a blur in Albert's panic-stricken mind, but one thing was clear: he was no longer alone.

"I’ve left a note for Enoch when he returns," Georgina said as she tied her hair up tighter. "This isn't my first time dealing with this, but my husband has more affection and aptitude for medical arts than I do."

Albert couldn’t find the words to respond.

Before entering the room, Georgina paused and fixed her eyes on the soon-to-be father, her gaze steely and commanding.

"If you care for Florence and your future children, you will do everything I say," she warned, her voice firm with an authority Albert had never seen in her before. "If there is any pride that keeps you from following the orders of a woman, leave it at the door. The lives of your family may depend on it."

He swallowed hard and managed to nod in silence.

What followed were hours that Albert couldn’t fully comprehend. The sight of his beloved Florence in such torment, her screams, the blood—it forced him to confront his own helplessness in a way he had never experienced. It was not a pleasant feeling. He stood there, a mere witness to the raw fragility of life, as the weight of his wife’s suffering and their precarious future settled heavily on his chest.

This moment shattered everything Albert thought he knew. All the peace and quiet he had once clung to now seemed trivial. He couldn’t afford to act like a boy anymore—he was about to become a father.

Time blurred. Albert couldn’t tell if hours or mere minutes had passed, but eventually, Enoch entered the room with the help they so desperately needed. Albert was no longer required. In this moment, there was no room in his mind for reflection, only a singular realization: he needed to do more.

When Georgina stepped out of the bedroom, her face softened with a mixture of exhaustion and joy. She approached Albert with a gentle but firm embrace, her voice calm yet filled with warmth.

"Two, Albert. Not one, but two little girls," she whispered.

Albert’s heart melted at the words. A flood of emotions surged within him—love, worry, overwhelming responsibility. He felt both elation and fear, his mind racing as he tried to grasp the magnitude of what lay before him.

With trembling hands, he entered the room and approached his wife, kneeling by her side.

"My love, you did wonderfully!" His voice was soft but filled with awe. "Two baby girls, my love. Two!"

A faint, tired smile graced Florence's lips as her eyes met his. But soon, her expression wavered, and tears began to well in her eyes.

"I'm so tired, Albert," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "So, so tired."

Before he could respond, Florence's eyes fluttered shut, her exhaustion taking over as she slipped into a deep, much-needed sleep.

Panic surged through Albert once more. He turned to Enoch, who had quietly been observing the scene.

"Is she alright, Mr. Griffith? Why is she sleeping so soon?" Albert's voice shook with concern.

Enoch placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "She’s exhausted, Mr. Darlington. It was a difficult delivery, and she’s been through more than her body was prepared for. But she’ll recover with rest and the right medicine."

Albert's brow furrowed in worry, but Enoch continued.

"Georgina has insisted that I watch over Mrs. Darlington closely. You must ensure she rests as much as possible in the coming days. You were unprepared, and this birth took a toll. But with care, she’ll regain her strength."

With those words, a sense of fragile hope settled over Albert. The road ahead was steep, but for now, Florence was alive, and their two baby girls were safe. And that was all that mattered.