#anyway hes rotting my brain from the inside <3< /div>
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THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY 𖤐 [trailer]

One summer. 4 boys. Follow Y/N as she navigates her first heartbreak, first love, friendship and forbidden romance. (Or, before parting ways, y/n and her sister decide to have one last summer together. With her best friend since diapers, her sister's boyfriend, her sister's boyfriend's brother, and your best friend's older brother--the boy she's been in love with since forever, there's really no way this could go wrong. Right?)
ᢉ𐭩 acts i | acts ii | release date: tbd (soon)
word count → trailer wc: 741 | full fic: tbd starring → heeseung lee as the sister's boyfriend, jongseong park as heeseung lee's younger brother, sunghoon park as the first love and jake's older brother, and jaeyun sim as childhood best friend, side characters from other groups tags → tsitp au, slice of life (ish), love squares, trope galore, smut, angst, jealousy, some fluff, rivalry, sexual tension, yearning/pining (always) rating → 18+ a/n → i've been wanting to write this since the first season came out but never got around to it, so what better time than now! i had a wip i was working on as well, and decided instead of the og idea it'd be perfect to start this one! i know many people are waiting for parts of my other works, but this has been rotting inside my brain for so long hehe.. so excited to write this one :3 cr. to yanalee for the hyungline picture! taglist → open! pls send ask or reply to be added to the taglist for this (if u r not alrdy on my perm taglist) fic playlist here! | back to my masterlist
♪ 'cause i took so much time to reset my life, but in just one look, i'm back, now all i remember is what we had nobody, nobody, nobody compares to you somebody, somebody please help me get over you
Every summer since you can remember, there’s been a tradition.
It started with your family’s beach house, somewhere a couple hours away. Every summer, your family and your mom’s best friend’s family stayed there together, making memories—a tradition your mom and her best friend didn’t want to die out.
For the first couple of years, it was just you, your sister—Yunjin, your best friend Jake, and his older brother. You can’t even remember meeting Jake. Your parents are best friends which made you two best friends automatically, so in hindsight, you’ve been friends since birth.
Jake was born first, a fact he makes sure to hold over you at any given moment, but it doesn’t really make a difference. “Thirty seconds doesn’t mean anything!” You’d say. “I came out first, suck it!” He’d reply.
Jake is also Yunjin’s best friend, obviously, but deep down, Jake was your best friend first. You guys are closer, anyways, ever since Yunjin and H—pause. We’ll get to this later.
Anyways, there was a point in your life where you absolutely hated Yunjin. It’s a rite of passage to sisterhood, you think. You hate each other until you don’t, and then it brings you closer together. You don’t really remember how or when it started, all you remember is that’s just how it was. Maybe it was the fact that she was way more popular than you and had too many friends that weren’t you, but you were also eight and she was nine, so it must’ve been something stupid and petty.
You can’t even remember why, but you both laugh about it from time to time.
Even so, you, Yunjin, and Jake were always stuck together like glue. You spent almost every waking moment together. From being sisters and best friends to being seatmates at school, all of your memories are painted with Yunjin and Jake right beside you. Their parents used to even joke about Jake and Yunjin getting married and growing old together. Yunjin would roll her eyes, Jake would laugh, and Jake’s older brother would tease them without end.
Ah, Jake’s older brother. How could you forget to mention him?
Sunghoon Park is… you don’t think there are enough words to describe him. Although ninety-nine-percent of your memories were made with Yunjin and Jake, the one-percent that will always stand out the most to you are the ones you’ve made with Sunghoon.
During the small period of time that you drifted from Yunjin out of spite and pettiness, you found yourself finding solstice in Sunghoon. You’d always thought that Sunghoon was the coolest person you’d ever met. Jake thought Sunghoon was a huge loser, but you felt like you saw through the whole cold-hearted, chic vibe he tried to give off.
That was all crushed the day you realized that the adoration you felt was actually a big, huge crush.
You liked Sunghoon years before you even knew what a crush was, only realizing it two years into middle school. You remember it like it was yesterday: a hot summer day, Sunghoon smiling at you a certain way while passing you a glass of crisp, ice water, and the feeling that erupted like an explosive damn volcano in your stomach.
You finally understood what your classmates were saying when they talked about crushes and butterflies.
From then on, the four of them were as follows: you and Yunjin, your older sister. Jake, yours and Yunjin’s childhood best friend. And Sunghoon, Jake’s untouchable, cool older brother who you will forever be in love with.
There are no secrets too big or small between you, Jake and Yunjin, but this feeling is something that you wanted to keep to yourself. A small, curious and self-indulgent garden of flowers in your heart that you wanted to tend to alone for once.
You had thought that this was just a harmless infatuation. You never planned to actually do anything about it in fear of rejection and losing Jake, but from spending time with Sunghoon in your younger years to growing up beside the Park siblings, you had been hopelessly falling in love.
Looking back now, you wish you had fallen in love with anyone else. Either way, anything would’ve hurt less than this.
Wait, you haven’t even gotten to the rest of the story yet. Well, buckle in, because there’s two more boys you haven’t mentioned yet and a whole summer ahead of you—and it’s going to be one hell of a ride.
© all rights reserved to chamisulgrape. pls do not translate or repost elsewhere.
#chamisulgrape#enhypen x reader#enhypen smut#enhypen imagines#enhypen scenarios#enhypen hyungline#sunghoon x reader#jake x reader#jay x reader#heeseung x reader#enhypen fanfic
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a. hotchner x reader - crawling through your window
i saw someone post about their fav crawling through a window in the rain and the long-form spencer fic is rotting my brain so enjoy hotch crawling through your window <3
i don't think there are any warnings, lmk if that's wrong. also, not proof read, I am back to my usual bullshit
The knock on your door was probably easy to miss. You wouldn’t know, though, because you didn’t hear it.
You were in the kitchen, hunched over the counter, forehead pressed to the cool marble as you debated whether or not another cup of coffee would actually be helpful at this point or just make the buzzing in your head worse. The case had been brutal. Messy, exhausting, the kind that left shadows under everyone’s eyes and an ache in your bones that no amount of stretching could shake.
Nausea builds deep in your navel, a resounding sign that you need to go to sleep, and soon.
You had ignored your phone when it rang earlier. The thought of answering it, of extending your exhaustion into another conversation, had felt impossible. And now, lost in your haze of weariness, you missed the second attempt at contact.
It wasn’t until the faintest creak from somewhere inside your apartment—somewhere that shouldn’t have been occupied—reached your ears that you felt the first tendrils of alarm coil around your spine.
You straightened, heart picking up speed, blood surging in your veins as your mind catalogued the possible explanations. The locked door. The windows—
Your bedroom window had been cracked open to let the storm air in earlier.
And now, standing in the dim light of your apartment, soaked from head to toe, rainwater dripping onto your floor, stood Aaron Hotchner.
Your mouth opened, words tangling, tripping over each other, before settling on a very eloquent:
“What the—Aaron?”
His expression didn’t change. If anything, the faintest flicker of exasperation crossed his features, a barely-there pinch between his brows.
“The door was locked.”
A beat of silence.
You blinked.
“I—” You shook your head, taking a step back like that might help you process this. “Are you breaking into my apartment?”
He sighed, heavy, dripping water like a crime scene in your doorway. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“…So you climbed through my window?”
“I took the fire escape.”
“Oh, well, that’s so much better.”
You stared at him, stunned, watching the way his soaked dress shirt clung to his arms, how his tie was askew, his hair darkened and sticking to his forehead from the rain. His jacket was nowhere to be seen, and he was standing there, entirely unbothered by the fact that he had just climbed into your apartment in the middle of a downpour like some kind of brooding, law-abiding criminal.
The absurdity of the situation was just shy of sending you into a laughing fit. Instead, you rubbed your hands down your face, exhausted in a way that felt almost separate from the case now.
“I can’t believe you,” you muttered, shaking your head as you finally moved, stepping around him to grab a towel from the hall closet.
When you turned back, he was still watching you, carefully, the way he always did—assessing, reading, cataloguing your reaction. The way you hadn’t been answering your phone. The way you were still drained, that bone-deep exhaustion sitting behind your eyes.
Aaron never failed to make you feel seen - for better or for worse. With your messy hair, smeared makeup, and stained sweats, you're not sure how you feel about the in-depth examination your boyfriend is currently giving you.
Aaron would never do anything to make you feel even remotely uncomfortable or ugly but self-consciousness creeps through you, anyway.
You shoved the towel at him.
“You’re actually insane,” you informed him.
He took it, finally moving to scrub some of the rain from his face and hair. “And you should answer your phone. You know, before I feel the need to crawl through your third-story apartment window to check on you.”
"You can just say you miss me, you know." Teasing him is easier with your back to him, planning on warming him up some tea - coffee was out of the question now that he's here, there's no chance he's letting you caffeinate yourself further.
"I missed you," Aaron says, arms snaking around your waist and nose settling in the curve where your shoulder and neck meet. "And I was worried. And I wanted to ask if I could spend the night before we're thrown back into work tomorrow. Is that wrong?"
Fluttering at the base of your stomach erupts instantly at the tone of his deep voice, tone open, honest, and raw.
"Someone's tired," you say, voice soft, hands reaching up to grasp at his forearms. It's not that Aaron isn't affectionate, far from it, but he usually goads into your teasing, resisting for the fun of the give and take. Instead, he's leaning his weight on you, breathing in your scent heavily.
He also climbed through your window to see you. There's that, too.
"Exhausted. And wet. And now so are you." With a flex you can feel through his soaked dress shirt, Aaron lifts you easily and begins walking backward into your room. "I think that means I'm entitled to a shower."
"Aaron!" You giggle out, leaning back against him in lieu of fighting. Your incredibly loving, handsome, and usually-stern boyfriend is carrying you to the shower - who are you to complain?
#bubbs.writes#criminal minds#cm#x reader#fluff#criminal minds x reader#aaron hotchner#hotch x reader#aaron hotchner x reader#hotchner x reader#fem!reader#probably could be read as gn!reader#but just to be safe bc its how i usually write#um#aaron hotchner fluff#why have i forgotten how to tag#goofy shit#idiots in love#maybe ooc#anyways#enjoy aaron hotchner#aaron hotchner is a good bf#bf aaron hotchner
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Strong Drinks & Broken Links 🍺⛓️💥 CH. 1
Gray Hair & The Absence of Care
(Gif creds: me <3)
Pairing(s): Vander x Reader
Pronouns: GN!Reader (for now— please see this post for details)
Rating: SFW, except for strong language and consumption of alcohol (drink responsibly, people). Reader is old enough to drink, despite what Vander thinks.
Word count: 4.7k (the rest are going to be far longer, so be prepared)
Tags: Slowburn, Reader is implied to be 21+ years old, Age Gap, Heavy Use Of Language/Alcohol, Reader might be a little too angsty (I’m sorry), Tense Situations, Vander being the caring mentor type he is but in a poorly thought out way.
Notes: I don't think I've ever posted a fic on this account. So, welcome to my only outlet for the brain rotting obsession I have for this man. ALSO I SWEAR TO GOD NO ONE MENTION ANYTHING ABOUT SEASON 2, OR I'LL FIGHT YOU.
((If any of you want to be added to a tag list for this fic, please lmk!! Ask box is also open for requests/suggestions/comments 🤍 feedback is always appreciated 🤍🤍))
It had been a terrible night so far.
Not only had you been shortchanged more than two-thirds of the agreed-upon pay for a job you’d completed—but that paltry sum had quickly slipped from your grasp entirely, taken by a gang of thugs.
You had to give the undercity credit—it had an uncanny ability to remain a perpetual cesspool. You’d managed to take down two of the muggers, but the third—the one who’d made off with your coin—had slipped away while you were dealing with the others. Just your luck. The payout had been pathetic to begin with, and now you were left with nothing but the bitter taste of failure. It looked like you’d be scraping the dregs of the city to find enough for your next meal, yet again.
That is, unless you decide to drink your dinner. As well as your sorrows, in the process. The idea struck you as you neared the central bar of the undercity, still sulking as you were making your way back to the shack you called home. The Last Drop. A name that said it all. If there was any place where the undercitizens of Zaun gathered, it was here. No doubt the owner had to be the wealthiest man in the area, though that wasn’t exactly saying much in a place like this.
You made your decision. A warm meal might be out of reach, but liquor could suffice—if you drank heavily enough, that is. Or at the very least, it might dull the sting of the night’s failures.
The bar was an eyesore, a hulking building among the rundown structures of The Lanes. A garish neon sign blinked above the entrance, buzzing like an angry fly, casting sickly light on the grime-streaked pavement. Inside, the din of loud music and the clatter of drunken chatter spilled into the street. It was a haven for folks with any background, no matter if they sought business or pleasure within its walls.
You pushed through the door, noting how no one even bothered to glance your way. That was how you liked it—under the radar, always out of sight, always out of the mind of untrustworthy beings.
Then again, you didn’t trust anyone anyway.
You duck and weave through the crowd of rowdy patrons, eyes scanning the bar for a table or booth at which you could hunker down and nurse your drink in peace. Your frown deepens beneath the hood of your jacket when you come up empty-handed. Typical. No matter, though. You’d have to order at the bar anyway, regardless of where you sat.
It’s when your eyes settle in the direction of the bar that luck seems to briefly shine upon you—there’s an empty stool. Without hesitation, you make a beeline for it, not wanting some drunken fool to snag it before you could. You practically dive-bomb onto the seat, landing with a small grunt, air knocked from your lungs. After the night you’ve had, this stool feels like an oasis, despite the new absence of oxygen beneath your chest. You settle into it like it’s the only thing left in the world, clutching the seat as if someone might try to commandeer it if you let your guard down low enough.
The realization dawns on you that, in order to get a drink, you’d have to interact with the bartender. You hold that fact in high regard with contempt.
Chit-chat? Not tonight– or truthfully any night. You’ve never been crazy about casual conversation. The events of the evening have only soured your mood further, and the last thing you need is some eager bartender trying to make nice. Normally, you’d avoid sitting at the bar for that reason alone, yet here you are.
Thankfully, the bartender pays you no mind, his attention fully set on the patron he’s currently tending to. That is, until said patron leaves and the barman finally turns to you, his new source of focus.
The sheer momentum with which you rolled your eyes almost knocked you out of your seat.
“Welcome to The Last Drop. What’ll it be?” His voice is deep, and heavy, garnering a thick accent that clung to every word.
He’s an older man, though exactly how old is hard for you to pin down. His hair’s gray, his eyes tired, the lines of age having etched themselves into his face long ago. However, there’s something youthful about him—something that makes it hard to tell whether he’s an old-looking thirty or a young-ish fifty. Frankly, you don’t care enough to continue your mental evaluation of him. Age shouldn’t matter when it comes to bartenders. They either know how to pour a decent drink, or they don’t.
You don’t waste time with pleasantries.
“Something strong.” You mutter, your voice mostly flat, but with a hint of irritation that danced along the edge.
The bartender scratches at his graying beard, his gaze thoughtful as he considers your request. You grit your teeth, hoping he won’t try to scam you by giving you something weak and overpriced, just to line his pockets with your hard-earned coin. You’d seen it happen to others, and you’d be a damned fool if you let it happen to you.
The bartender studies your face, or at least what he can see of it beneath your hood, before his gaze shifts to the shelves beneath the counter. After a moment of deliberation, he selects a bottle with thoughtful ease, pulling the cork out with his teeth. With his free hand, he grabs a tin cup and pours in a copious amount, sliding it toward you with a swift flick of his wrist. You’d almost call it a generous decision on his part, considering the fact that you hadn’t even paid your dues first. His choice to serve you first goes a long way in easing your suspicion, at least for the moment.
You dig into your pocket, retrieving the few gold coins you’d managed to hold onto when dealing with the aforementioned thugs. They weren’t enough for one measly meal, but they were enough for a drink or two– or three, but who’s going to keep track? Certainly anyone but you. You’d only stop once your pitiful wealth ran out. Without a second thought, you toss them onto the bar top, making it unspokenly clear to the bartender that you were hoping for much more than just this one drink. You grab the cup, lifting it to your lips and downing the lot of it in one quick, greedy gulp. The warmth spreads through you almost immediately, and it feels like a small victory over the obnoxious turn your night has taken.
The bartender watches this with a faint chuckle before you slam the empty cup back down onto the counter. He takes it without a word, refills the tiny tin chalice, and begins passing it back. Without missing a beat, you grab the cup from him, draining the contents in a second gulp before he even has time to set the bottle back down.
“You look like you’ve seen better days,” he remarks casually, his voice low and steady as he finally reunites the bottom of the bottle with the countertop.
“I’ve seen a lot of things.” you mutter, your eyes fixed on anything but him. The words come out flat, though there’s a weight to them. It’s more than just a refusal to talk—it’s a refusal to let anyone look too closely. You avoid eye contact like the plague. Eyes, after all, are the windows to the soul. And letting someone peer through them is a risky gamble you’ve never been apt to take.
You were clearly beyond uninterested in the beginnings of this conversation. The lack of willingness to be friendly reigning clear as you shove the tin cup towards him yet again. He grabs the empty cup and refills it once more—your third drink in under five minutes. He seems reluctant to hand it back. He maintains a grip on it as he eyes you again, this time much more thoughtful.
“Care to chat about it? Might be healthier than drownin’ yourself at the bottom of a bottle,” he offers plainly.
You give him a sidelong glance, not even trying to mask the edge in your voice.
“Doesn’t sound like a good business strategy, encouraging your paying customers to cut back.” You fire back quickly, the sharpness of your words outpacing even your annoyance at the unwanted conversation.
The bartender chuckles again, a spark of amusement flickering in his tired eyes. There’s a glimmer of understanding in his smile—maybe he’s seen more than a few like you in this dive. Or maybe, he knows in the same fashion as you, that sometimes it’s more palatable to fill the silence with alcohol than with words.
“Fair point, but I’d prefer to keep my patrons alive. Helps me sleep at night, y’know?” The bartender shoots back, his eyes fixed on you, all too curious about what’s hidden beneath your hood. The conversation quickly turns uncomfortable, a painful reminder of why you’ve never liked bartenders—they always talk too much and ask too many personal questions. As far as you’re concerned, they should stick to the charade for the sake of their regulars, and leave all unsuspecting customers alone.
The momentum of yet another roll of your eyes causes your head to bob ever so slightly— your hood creeping back towards the line of your hair. The new, incredibly subtle, view of your face made the barman clench the cup in his hands with rigor.
His eyes narrow slightly, the amusement fading from his voice.
“Where’re your parents, kid?” He asks, his voice low and in demand of an answer.
The question hits you like a slap, and for a brief second, you find yourself caught off guard. You’re not someone who’s usually thrown by imbecilic remarks from the residents of The Lanes, but this one? It’s different. Not just the audacity of asking such a personal question, but the clear assumption of your age being made so boldly.
Your head snaps up, and before you can stop yourself, you push your hood back, breaking your own rule about eye contact. Why? Who knows. Today has already gone off the rails, and you’re too far gone to care. The liquor’s sudden grip on your senses began to cloud your judgment, and honestly, it was far from shocking. To be fair, you had asked for something strong… Not to mention having no substantial food in your belly to dilute the potency you sought after. All in all, there was no ignoring how the liquor was starting to pummel you like a brick to the face would.
You meet his gaze, eyes scanning his face for any sign of what he’s gunning after by asking such a question. But there’s nothing obvious behind those gloomy eyes of his. No clear motive. You can’t tell if he’s purposefully trying to get under your skin or if he’s just another fool with a quick tongue.
“Rotting in their graves,” you mutter, voice sharp and, in addition, spiteful.
“Which I’m sure you’ve got one foot in, yourself, Gramps.” You make a mockery of the decades that are clearly stacked against you, hoping to push him back into his corner.
He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he practically snorts, running a hand over his silvery beard as he crosses his arms; resting them across his stomach with the casual authority of someone who’s seen it all. He’s not rattled by your quips—no, not in the slightest.
“How old are you, kid?” His voice is flat now, a hint of something more serious creeping in, though you can’t figure out why. You’re even more unsure now about his intentions. Constantly expecting the worst from people was your lot in life.
“Too young for you.” You snap back, pushing forward with your usual sharpness, trying to regain some control over this ridiculous conversation. You reach for the cup he had refilled for you, but before you can even graze it, he snatches it away, clicking his tongue like a disappointed parent.
“Tsk, tsk,” he tuts at you, as if you’ve done something wrong.
“I asked how old you were.” he repeats, his voice now devoid of any amusement.
He watches you carefully, his gaze inspecting your face as if he’s trying to peel back layers you didn’t even know were there.
You roll your eyes, irritation growing, and narrow them at him, unwilling to back down. You can’t tell if he’s probing for something deeper, or if he’s just getting off on making you uncomfortable. Either way, you’re done playing his game.
“Why are you so curious, huh?” you scoff, leaning in and making a bold decision to double down on your irritation. “I’m just another patron here to drown in my sorrows and drink them away. Not to mention, I’m paying for the privilege.” Your words are bold, and with that same boldness, you reach across the bar and rip the cup from his grasp.
You try to bring the drink to your lips, intent on finishing it off. But just as the cup nears your mouth, the bartender’s large, rough hand slips over the opening of the cup like a solar eclipse.
He glares down at you, his eyes narrowing as he sizes you up with a look that could strip paint. In that moment, something clicks in his mind. The defiance in your voice, the way you’re carrying yourself—it all reinforces his suspicion. You’re not old enough to be here. When you walked in, your hood had obscured most of your face. But now that it’s gone, he can see it clearly: you’re just a kid, trying to score some alcohol. The only thing that kept him from throwing you out on your ass, was your cadence. You looked young, and spoke carelessly, but you sounded grown. If you were in fact grown, he’d ease up.
However, with the way you look—bloodied and bruised, no less—he’s convinced you’re in some kind of trouble. The kind of trouble he doesn’t want being drug through his bar. He doesn’t know where you’ve been, who you’ve pissed off, or what kind of people you run with. But this? This is his bar, and he’s fought too hard to maintain the fragile peace that reigns here. He won’t let you ruin that for him and his loyal patrons by dragging your poor choices in with you.
“Seems I’ve struck a nerve,” he says, his voice no longer playful but flat and serious. “Either tell me your age, or you’re cut off.”
The room seems to hush around you. The muffled chatter of patrons behind you fades as the bartender’s tone sharpens, leaving no room for argument. It’s a quiet threat now, the kind that lets you know exactly how much leverage you have—and how little he’s willing to tolerate.
“You didn’t strike shit,” You hiss. “and I don’t need to answer to shit.” You add.
The bartender bends over the counter, his face inches from yours. The bitter scent of smoke hangs thick on his breath, hot and rancid, and it presses against your skin like a physical weight. The damp air in the bar swirls around you, brushing your cheeks with an uncomfortable warmth that feels suffocating, as if the room itself is closing in.
“Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll have no problem lettin’ my loyal patrons cut your tongue out for us to hang above the bar.” He says fiercely.
You glance over your shoulder, catching the eyes of the dozens of patrons who have fallen silent, their conversations and business abruptly halted. It’s clear—they’re waiting for a signal, ready to back up their beloved bartender if things escalate.
“You can call off the cavalry, Gramps. I was just leaving,” you retorted, swiping one of your coins from the counter, as if to refund yourself for the drink you’ve yet to have. You release your grip on the cup, almost slingshotting it backwards from the sheer force you two had each been bestowing upon it.
“Sit down.” the bartender commands, his voice low and final, as you attempt to abscond.
You don’t reply, instead moving to shoulder through the row of patrons who are standing like silent sentinels, waiting for the slightest nod from their bar’s gatekeeper. It’s not like you expected them to part, but the way not a single person dares budge makes your blood boil. The crowd might as well be a wall of stone.
“Sit. Down.” the bartender demands again, his tone sharper this time, a razor edge cutting through the haze of the bar.
You grind your teeth, your patience wearing thin.
“I’ll take my patronage elsewhere—”
You don’t even finish your sentence before a hand, seemingly out of nowhere, pushes you roughly back. You stumble, barely managing to stop yourself from falling flat on your ass. The sudden movement sends a rush of heat to your head, the anger spiking through your veins like fire.
You seethed at the touch, the anger burning hot in your chest, every muscle in your body coiled with frustration. But you knew better than to keep pushing your luck. Not today. Not in a situation like this, with dozens of hungry eyes watching, their hands twitching near their weapons of choice, waiting for the slightest excuse to make a move.
Biting back a torrent of curses, you forced yourself to swallow your pride, choosing to stay quiet—at least for now. It wasn’t worth the fight. You could practically feel the heat of their glares digging into your back as you turned on your heel, eyes locking once more with the bartender’s. You reclaimed your seat at the bar with deliberate flair, each movement oozing a sense of defiance and attitude. It was a performance, one you were used to. To you, it felt like you were playing the part of someone tough. But you knew, deep down, that to anyone else—especially the bartender—you probably looked like nothing more than a naive, immature idiot who didn’t know when to shut up. It wasn’t a great look, but at least it kept people from getting too close.
“I’m sat,” you muttered, voice brimming with the remnants of your irritation.
The bartender shook his head slightly, a hint of amusement creeping back into his expression. You could feel the tension in the room dissipate, the energy shifting as the crowd behind you resumed their rowdy conversations. The noise began to swell again, and for a moment, it almost felt like the bar was returning to some semblance of normalcy.
He grabbed a dirty glass from the counter, handling it with practiced ease, and pulled a rag from beneath the bar. As he began polishing the glass, he didn’t so much as glance your way. His focus was on the glass, and for a few moments, it felt like you were nothing more than a background detail to him. You could feel your impatience growing with each passing second. If he had something to say, you wished he’d just say it already. At least that way, you could get out of here—and maybe keep some of your pride intact.
The bartender continued his slow, methodical motions, running the rag around the rim of the glass with an almost exaggerated calmness. He didn’t bother to look up, yet you could feel the weight of his gaze on you through the silence.
“I’m gonna ask you again,” he said, his tone neutral, almost too much. “How old are you?”
You weighed your options. If you didn’t answer, you had no idea what would happen next. If you did answer, you still had no clue. It was a gamble either way.
“(Insert age here),” you muttered, the words slipping out begrudgingly, each one like a weight lifting off your chest.
The bartender scoffed lightly, a soft laugh escaping him that made your skin crawl. Your fingers began tapping impatiently on the bar’s edge, the rhythm a soft counterpoint to the growing tension between you.
“____ years old and still so naive… You really are just a kid, eh?” His words hung in the air, his eyes still locked on the glass in front of him, but you could see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“There are worse things I could be,” you shot back, your voice laced with a mix of defensiveness and defiance.
“S’pose that’s true,” he replied, finishing up his polishing with the air of someone who had all the time in the world. He set the glass down next to the others—clean, polished, and waiting to be used. With a fluid motion, he slung the rag over his shoulder, then placed one hand on his hip and the other on the edge of the counter. He shifted his weight, leaning just slightly into the bar, his posture relaxed yet somehow still imposing.
“But on the other hand,” he said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone, “what you already are ain’t too good either.”
It wasn’t a threat—more of an observation, one that hung heavily in the air, like the smoke in the room. You felt the weight of it, but you couldn’t quite tell if it was a warning or just another way to mess with you. Either way, you could tell this conversation wasn’t over.
You could feel the first few bubbles of anger rising in your chest, the heat creeping up your neck as your blood threatened to boil. You’d always been quick to anger—an unfortunate side effect of your temper and stubborn streak. They were the crosses you’d carried for as long as you could remember.
You scoffed again, the sound sharp and biting, as if it were the only defense you had left. You had already rolled your eyes a dozen times tonight, but it felt like you were on the verge of an explosion.
“What’s your goal here, Gramps?” you spat, your voice dripping with sass, every word a little jab. You didn’t care to hide your bitterness. You liked to fight with words just as much as you did with your fists, and the bartender was starting to see that loud and clear.
“You got the answer you were looking for. Whether you believe me or not, you’ve already served me twice. If my age was such a concern to you, you would’ve kicked me out long before I even sat down.” Your words hung in the air once more, and you could see the gears turning behind his eyes, but he didn’t speak.
He just let out a quiet laugh, as if your logic amused him. And he didn’t bother to answer, not even in the slightest.
The silence stretched, thick and tense, and it was clear he wasn’t going to explain himself. He wasn’t about to give you the satisfaction of an explanation. He simply leaned back, eyes flicking over to the rowdy crowd behind you.
It was infuriating.
You stayed silent for a beat, but only because you knew you’d have more to say. And damn right, you did.
“Do you do this with every new customer?” You snapped, your voice rising now, the frustration boiling over. “’Cause if you ask me, I’m not sure how this shithole’s still in business. You discourage your customers from drinking, even though this is a fucking bar, and that’s all people come here to do. You make it impossible to drink peacefully, just like you make it impossible to drink at all!”
The words spilled out like fire, each one more forceful than the last. Your temper was no longer something you were trying to hold back—it was running rampant, and it felt good to let it out, even if it was in the form of a scream. You weren’t about to let this bartender—this stubborn old man—have the upper hand. Not when it felt like he was deliberately pushing your buttons.
“So if it’s alright with you, Gramps, you got your answer, and I don’t owe you shit. I’m leaving.” You actually raise your voice purposefully this time, slamming your hands down onto the counter as you push yourself off of the stool once more.
The bartender wasn’t fazed by your outburst. In fact, he’d dealt with feistier, louder, and much more difficult people than you—people who could out-shout you or out-punch you if they had to. He wasn’t bothered by your temper. He had raised four kids on his own, after all. He’d learned a thing or two about handling stubborn personalities, whether they were kids or grown adults who carried themselves like children. And you, in his eyes, were just another brat testing his patience.
“You’re not going anywhere.” His voice was steady, calm, and authoritative, with an edge of finality that cut through the noise of the bar.
Before you could react, his hand shot out faster than you expected, grabbing your shoulder with an unexpected gentleness. He tugged you back into the seat with a kind of effortless force that made your breath catch in your throat.
You shot up from the bar stool in a flash, but his hold was stronger than you anticipated.
Instinct kicked in, and your own hand shot out like a snake, grabbing his wrist with a quick, almost violent motion. You shoved it off your shoulder, irritation flaring up like wildfire.
“Don’t touch me,” you hissed, your chest heaving as you glared up at him, the heat of the moment burning in your eyes.
You huffed, your fists clenching at your sides, teeth grinding. The room seemed to close in around you, but you weren’t backing down—not now, not after all of this. The tension between you and the bartender was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. You could feel the weight of the crowd’s silent attention being drawn to you once more as they waited for your next move, but you weren’t afraid. You didn’t have time to be.
The man let out a heavy sigh, the sound thick with disappointment.
“Look, kid—”
“By the fucking god’s, I’m not a kid!” you snapped, your eyes flashing a level of ferocity that sliced straight through him.
He pressed his lips into a thin, hard line, his gaze cemented on you still as he took a long, steadying breath. Patience was his virtue, and he was willing to endure this sparring match for as long as it took.
“It’s clear you’re in some kind of trouble,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Maybe, just maybe, instead of lashing out, you could let someone help—”
You cut him off mid-sentence, your words an unpleasant interruption.
“Help? You want to help? Surely that’s the wrong word. Surely, I heard you wrong, cause, from the way I see it, you’ve done nothing except cage me in here, threaten me, and withhold what I paid for. So if it’s with any consolation, take your ‘help’ and fuck off.”
Enough was enough. Without another word, you climbed atop the stool, bracing yourself for what came next. You steadied your balance, then launched yourself toward the crowd with calculated precision. The dismount was quick—intentional, forceful. You tucked your legs in, soaring over their heads in a perfect flip, and extended them just before hitting the ground behind them. Without pausing, you bolted for the door, heart pounding in your chest.
To your surprise, you made it—flying through the door and slamming it shut behind you with a satisfying crash. Finally, you were free, never to be seen within a hundred yards of this bar ever again.
The patrons had made a half-hearted attempt to grab at you as you rushed past, but a sharp, deafening whistle from the bartender stopped them in their strides. He shook his head softly, a silent message that it wasn’t worth the chase. That it was better to let you go. If you were in trouble, it would catch up with you soon enough.
Deep down, the bartender hated seeing someone so young seal their own fate in such a way. But, in the end, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t save them all—no matter how badly he wished he could.
He couldn’t help but wonder— if maybe, just maybe, he’d been a little too assertive, or downright impetuous with you after all.
But it didn’t matter now. You were gone. All he could do was hope you’d survive out on those streets.
taglist: @blogforhoes @committingcrimes-2047 @dirtandcrime @eternalgoddessofart @woozulo @lutaaaslostacc-d8 @heidiland05 @sugaaawaraaa @glenn-slayer
#arcane#arcane x reader fic#arcane x reader#vander arcane#vander x reader#vander x reader fic#vander x reader smut#vander x gn!reader#vander x reader arcane#vander x female reader#arcane imagine#vander x reader imagine
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Fun-sized [1/?]
(Jack Reacher X Fem!Reader)
Note: God this franchise rots my brain, reading the novels gives me serotonin and watching the show makes me want to bash my head into the screen <3 I couldn't decide which variant of this man I wanted so I mixed traits from both Alan's Reacher and Lee's Reacher because I love them both. Anyway have the man dealing with a competent but very little shit Reader featuring Finlay because that man doesn't nearly get enough attention and he's so cute for naming his dog after Reacher(granted Reacher's the reason he even has the doggo in the first place but it's still cute asf)
Summary:
Jack Reacher meets one of Finlay's contacts and almost regrets it. Almost. You're a five-five gremlin fun-sized little shit compared to this six-five block of muscle and maybe— just maybe he's a little bit okay with that.
Word count: 1,390
一
God knows Reacher didn’t go looking for trouble. It just found him. Like gravity. Sooner or later, it always pulled him in.
Somewhere between the start of this mess and the disaster blooming in the middle, he’d met you.
Five-five. All spitfire and sass. More bite than your size should allow.
The place was small. Quiet. A bar set off the road. Inconspicuous. Silent from the outside. Looked like a decent spot to unwind. Not remote enough for criminals to nest. Not close enough to the bright lights to attract attention.
Finlay’s choice. Reacher wouldn’t have picked it. He didn’t like being boxed in. But Finlay had dragged him here anyway. Said there was someone he needed to meet.
Reacher agreed. Anything that could get this case closed faster was worth his time.
And judging from the reports Finlay had passed along— the files he’d read on you— it made sense. Your skill set wasn’t just good. It was surgical. Precise.
Inside, Finlay slid onto a stool like he owned it. Regular, Reacher thought. Confirmed when the bartender delivered bourbon neat without asking.
Reacher followed. Took a beer. Kept scanning the room. Eyes moving, slow but deliberate. Habit.
Nobody stood out. No threats. No shady customers. Then again— if you were anything like the reports claimed, you wouldn’t stand out. That was the point.
It was one thing being ex-military. Another thing entirely being ex-MI6. Ghost work. Shadows.
He wasn’t about to ask why or how you’d ended up here. That would come out sooner or later. It always did.
Reacher caught Finlay’s raised brow in his peripheral vision. The man was comfortable. Too comfortable. Reacher exhaled through his nose. Quiet. Controlled. Gut instincts buzzing, sharp beneath the calm exterior.
“Skeptical?” Finlay asked.
His tone carried a note of mockery.
Reacher narrowed his eyes. Leaned back. Arms folded. His companion sipped bourbon like they weren’t in the middle of a hornet’s nest. Like complacency wasn’t lethal.
“You could call it that.”
“Paranoia, then?”
Reacher didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Took a slow sip of his beer instead. Kept his gaze moving.
He hated waiting. Standing still only made sense when it was tactical. But this? This felt loose. Undefined. The variables unsettled him.
Reports only told part of a story. Yours were polished. Professional. Too clean. Dated, even. No recent intel.
That alone was a problem. A big problem.
Because if you were a mirror— someone like him— you’d be dangerous. Predictable in the worst way.
The chime of a bell.
Old-fashioned. Brass. A clean, sharp ring that cut through Reacher’s thoughts like a blade.
Figures. Finlay liked these kinds of places. Wood floors. Antique fixtures. Something nostalgic about it. A Harvard man’s idea of quaint.
Reacher didn’t shift in his seat. Didn’t need to. He already heard the door swing open.
She walked in like she owned the ground.
Baggy hoodie. Faded jeans. Combat boots— worn. Steel-toe, by the weight of her gait. Reacher clocked it fast. Feet a little wide apart. Balance steady. Left knee stiff. Old injury. Nothing serious.
She passed them by. Didn’t look. Didn’t need to. She’d already assessed the room when the door opened. Quiet. Efficient.
The floor creaked beneath each step. The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask questions. She picked a seat two stools down. Ordered her drink.
Not a regular.
But her posture was all wrong for a civilian. Too disciplined. Shoulders relaxed, but ready to roll forward. Hands loose, but always near center mass. Like she’d trained herself not to flinch when things went sideways. Like she’d seen things.
Ex-military. No doubt. Trying to blend. Almost succeeded.
Reacher almost missed it. Almost.
“That’s her, isn’t it?”
He didn’t really ask. Just said it. Voice low.
Finlay finished his bourbon. Smooth. Casual. Like the woman at the bar wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room. Like Reacher hadn’t just picked apart everything about her without a word exchanged.
Finlay stood. “Yep.”
No other answer. No need.
Reacher grabbed his bottle. Left the stool.
They approached together.
“Drinking alone again, [Reader]?” Finlay asked. Tone like a man who knew better but asked anyway.
That wasn’t her real name. Probably hadn’t been for a while.
Reacher had seen the black boxes. Page after page inked and redacted. Even his own files weren’t that bad. Hers? Like staring into the void.
Still, she didn’t look surprised. Just smirked. Raised her glass— whiskey on the rocks. Strong choice. Not for show. Preference. Reacher could tell. He’d known soldiers who drank to forget. She didn’t. She drank because she liked the burn.
A face wearing a name she didn’t own. But claiming it anyway.
“I’d ask you the same, detective,” she said. “But it looks like you’ve brought a gorilla this time.”
Voice crisp. A hint of British buried under sarcasm. No venom. Just amusement. Testing. Measuring.
Reacher didn’t bristle. He didn’t care about names. But he watched her eyes— sharp, calculating. She wasn’t picking a fight. She was gathering intel.
“To whom do I owe the pleasure?”
She offered a hand. Casual. Controlled. A move as deliberate as every other choice she’d made since walking in the door.
The smirk said everything. She already knew who he was. Finlay would’ve briefed her. She wasn’t the type to meet anyone blind. That wasn’t her style.
Sarcastic. Getting on his nerves already.
Still, Reacher shook her hand. Firm. No hesitation.
“Reacher.”
She tilted her head. Slowly. Curious. Teasing. Eyes flicked toward Finlay— a silent question.
“He doesn’t talk much,” Finlay supplied. “As you’ve probably noticed.”
A small laugh escaped her. Dry. Fleeting.
Reacher took in the details.
No makeup. A few small blemishes. A scar on her lip— intentional. Could’ve covered it. Chose not to. A face that didn’t seek approval. Didn’t need it.
She wasn’t dressed to stand out. She was dressed to work.
No purse. No bag. No satchel. Most women carried something. She didn’t. Just one hand in her pocket. The other wrapped around her drink. Whiskey on the rocks. Practical. No frills. Minimalist.
Like him.
“Oh, please,” she said, voice light but edged. “I’ve seen corpses talk more. You’re practically a walking one anyway, gorilla.”
Asked for his name. Still used the nickname.
Great. It’s going to be one of those.
“At least I’m not some low-altitude aristocrat with an attitude problem.”
The words snapped out before he could stop them. Not quite a joke. Not quite serious. Instinctive. Measured.
She snorted into her glass. The whiskey rippled against the rim. Her eyes gleamed— not anger. Amusement.
She was needling him. Testing for weaknesses.
She didn’t get much. Just the bite of his reply. But it was enough.
“So he does speak.”
The teasing lilt wasn’t accidental. Intentional. A provocation wrapped in humor.
Reacher’s patience thinned. Fast. Every second in her orbit felt less like building rapport and more like walking into a waste of time. He was here for an ally. Not a pint-sized problem.
“Just so you know,” she added smoothly, “I prefer fun-sized.”
She glanced back at Finlay. Downed the last of her drink. Set the empty glass down with a quiet thunk.
“I’m interested, detective. I knew you were calling in a favor. Didn’t think you’d hand me a catch.”
Reacher ignored the bait. Finished his beer. Warm now. Not the best. Not the worst.
Finlay shook his head slightly. Longsuffering. He turned back to her.
“We’ve got a situation. I trust you read the file I sent.”
“Of course,” she replied. “Who would I be if not prepared?”
“You’d be fun-sized.”
There was a pause.
Reacher could feel the incredulous stares from both of them. Like he’d somehow walked into the punchline of a joke without hearing the setup.
He didn’t dignify that with a response.
She huffed a quiet chuckle. Rolled her eyes. Lightly. Almost playful.
Then she turned back to Finlay.
This time, no smirk. Just a small, genuine smile. Finlay caught the change. Subtle. Important.
“My pleasure to be working with both of you.”
She turned toward Reacher. Nodded once. Respectful. Intentional.
“Detective.” A quick glance to Finlay. Then, “Reacher.”
Acknowledging them as equals. No sarcasm. No games.
Reacher glanced back. Scoffed. Barely. A breath through his nose. But the corner of his mouth edged upward.
The ghost of a smile.
Maybe they could get along after all.
“The pleasure’s all mine.”
一
Note: This could be taken as either romantic, platonic, or something in between. Make of anything as you will and interact with this post or hit up my inbox if you think I should continue this!
#jack reacher x reader#reacher x reader#jack reacher x you#jack reacher#reacher#Alan Ritchson Jack Reacher#Lee child Jack Reacher#Amazon prime video reacher#amazon prime video#amazon prime#Jack reacher fanfiction#jack reacher oneshot#jack reacher story#reader insert
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hi!! same anon here you dont have to take this as a request bc i just wanted to get this out of my chest yandere or at least obssesive averatio where both overstim the hell out of reader (lowkey mindbreak if you're comfy about that??) after reader rejects their advances NOT OUT OF HATE or anything but bc their insecurities got the best of them and either thought the two were just messing w them or they have abandonment issues (i do not have the second one whatever do you mean i am not projecting do not percieve me) no offense to these two but they look like the ppl to mess w your heart n leave you to rot
mb some predator/prey (they both hunt you down after you avoid them both and as ratio wisely said "what do you do with a cornered prey? hunt it to death" AUGHAHSGA) aphrodisiacs, drugging, etc. anyways after that you best bet you'll be too dumb to ever think of something as stupid as that, and sure, yes ratio hates idiots but well..... you will be the only exception given how cute you look all fucked out and broken on their bed with their cocks deep inside you <3
SKLDJALSDJAL HELP i feel awfully embarrassed w writing this lmao scuse me while i bleach my head.
i am very sorry this took so long </3 i wrote this as a fic at first but i lost motivation so now it’s just in the form of brain rot :(
oh no :( poor reader with insecurities from your past relationships thinking every man out there is a liar, especially the two that gave their hearts to you :( running away from them is a smart move because we don’t trust men in this household!
but you forget how annoying they can be when it comes to getting what they want, and they want you (´▽`) so don’t be surprised when you find yourself feeling scared out of your mind walking home alone and feeling like you’re being watched! or when you find certain luxury items randomly appearing in your room! or the slightest hint of their cologne when you wake up every morning! because you asked for this by running away 😵💫
this was supposed to be holiday for you — coming to penacony, but the headache and blurry room before you has you panicking! you best know that no one is coming to save you when you’re running through the reverie hotel like a lost bunny when you receive a letter saying they’ll have you tonight! and if you think you had any chance of escape, you’re so wrong 😖
oh, and don’t let them know that you’re afraid, it only spurs them on! hunting you down through the corridors of the hotel is so adrenaline inducing for them <3 running shouldn’t be so hard though, so why do you feel as if your legs are going to give out any second? oh right, the drink! they probably drugged it, seems like something they would do
an exasperated gasp leaves you when you finally let your body fall, eyes closing, preparing for impact. and the next thing you know you wake up, hands tied above you to the headboard, your body completely bare. you’d struggle with all your might, soft whines sounding at the back of your throat when you spot the two of them hiding in the shadows, staring down at you with those bright, lust-filled eyes
oh, you’re so dead
your body feels like it’s on fire, desperately needing release, needing someone to touch you, anyone. your voice betrays you as whimpers leave you when they stalk towards you, their burning gaze not helping with the burning sensation.
you really did think you could escape! so why’re you here, tied and unable to move? tears fall as you lock eyes with veritas ratio, your fight or flight kicking in when he reaches out to caress your cheek, wiping the tears away. laughter sounds from aventurine on the other side of the bed, you’re just so naive! all he wants to do is to love and break you until you’re a sobbing mess beneath him 😵💫 so don’t blame him when he kisses you, he just can’t help it anymore, not when you’re already shaking when all they did was drug your drink and reveal themselves to you after months of stalking :(
the aphrodisiac is making you incredibly sensitive to their touch, which is perfect for them because that would mean hearing your sweet cries of pleasure! you best prepare yourself though, because they’re not stopping until you’re about to pass out 🧎🏻♀️ they haven’t had you for months, nobody is going to stop them from worshipping you, not even yourself.
you’ll be so overstimulated by the end of the night that even just innocent touches can have you whining and trembling like a leaf (^^)
“you really think you can run from us?” — veritas ratio
“who you knew you were so filthy, hmm? you wanted us to hunt you down, didn’t you? dirty, dirty girl.” — veritas ratio
“missed you so much, pretty girl.” — aventurine
“stop? now why would we do that? you’re clearly enjoying this. look at you, making such a mess on my cock.” — aventurine
#anon you are so big brained#such yummy thoughts in your head#i can envision everything EVERYTHING in my head#but it just doesn’t feel the same when i write them down as a fic#so drabble / brain rot format it is 🙁#I HOPE YOU LIKE IT#☃︎ anons!#🀥 lan’s writings!#hsr#honkai star rail#aventurine#dr ratio#veritas ratio#aventurine x reader#dr ratio x reader#veritas ratio x reader#honkai star rail smut#aventurine smut#dr ratio smut#veritas ratio smut
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We literally have no information about Anaxa and yet I find myself simping for him, how great.
Anyways, I have a feeling that Anaxa is going to be cursed or something along those lines, he gives off those sort of vibes, doesn’t he? Plus, he has some weird mark on his hand and an eye patch, there is no way that this man is an ordinary scholar. How about you, Harmony-san? Any ideas for Anaxa? :o Also, I like to imagine that yandere! Anaxa is delulu lol.
Darling: How- Why are you in my house, and who are you!?!?
Anaxa: ……You’re my lover, isn’t it obvious to spend time with your beloved?
Darling: I don’t even know who you are…..
I would go absolutely feral if his pet name for darling was ‘beloved’ or something along those lines, like aaaaa I love him so muchhhh orz
(And, if possible, can I please be 💫 anon……? I’ve always loved your works, but never had the courage to send an ask…. But I do plan to send more since I have severe brain rots, so I think you’ll be seeing me lurking more in your posts lol)
Of course! Welcome to this... uhh brainrot dump 💫 anon! Have a cup of tea <3
Not so much as being delulu but, there is the popular hc of Anaxa being autistic, which I agree with as well. There's npc dialogue that hint towards a Chrysos Heir who is very nitpicky about the water's temperature in the baths, there's also some that suggest that Anaxa might not be very well-received around Amphoreus. Which, him being a heretic and all, makes sense. They also call him a yapper, but I think it's a bit of an exaggeration on the npc's part. He's a fundamentally quiet man, but he's simply passionate (in his own way) about the topics he has interest in.
So, my current perception of him is that he's someone who doesn't conform to societal standards without strong (preferably logical) evidence. This bias has contributed to a detachment from human and emotional connection, making him inexperienced and frankly, quite dense towards those prospects. Even if he understands the concept of loving someone on paper, he isn't bright in processing the emotions that are stirring inside right off the bat. And this lack of understanding makes him a bit unintentionally impulsive when it comes to the outer reaction part.
For Yandere!Anaxa, I've been on board with him being devoted to his darling to counteract his lack of faith since they revealed him. You could either go with him having fully accepted darling as his savior or, just keep him in that ‘conflict’ zone where he's questioning his whole existence from the mere realization that he's that endeared by someone. For nicknames, I like the sound of beloved as well, especially if it's said very sarcastically. But I think a concept or object that is very particular to him would be even more precious. We'll just have to wait for the details.
#──⚝💫 anon#ngl he kind of sounds like alhaitham#i want him to be absolutely INSUFFERABLE. would make bullying him so much more fun#anaxa#anaxa brainrot#anaxa x reader#yandere anaxa#yandere anaxa x reader
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This took so long to make buuuttt, your Soul Eater au idea fed me good so I made this ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎
Honestly, I started getting lazy and made the ocotrio just mini versions. But my thought was I wanted Jade and Floyd to be combined weapons, also I thought Floyd being a long chain fit him cuz of his squeezing <3. I took some inspo from your ocototrio swimsuit preferences and combined Jade and Azuls likes into readers design (Floyds asking them to shed some since he needs some skin)
Honestly, this was just a huge blurb of your little thoughts cuz I also thought it would be cute making Azul readers rival, while Riddles his weapon AND readers childhood friend, hence why they wanna work together instead of the fish mafia. And the tweels, well since they’re, yknow themselves, reader hates working with them but unfortunately netaly she works the best w/ them compared to anyone else. They have their upsides though, they scare people inside and outside of their weapon forms <3. Anyways sorry for the blurb I just had big brain rot abt twst x soul eater ^^
OMG OMG!!!!!!!! (≧ᗜ≦) THIS IS AMAZING!!!! ABSOLUTELY PERFECT AND BEAUTIFUL!!!!!
Eating your brain and your art and your thoughts!!!! It's too delicious,,,, reader crying when matched with the tweels is so real and true. T_T the only valid reaction to have when you're now paired with two of the biggest menaces in the school. ;;;;; and the weapon choices for both eels are really good!!!! Very fitting for Floyd to be a chain,, even in weapon form he can still squeeze. <3 I love how you've drawn them. Floyb's longer hair.......... ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!
I love your designs and outfits for everyone, especially reader's!!! The beach theme, the swimsuit, the accessories!!! ⸜(。˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ AAAA all of it is just marvelous!!! I'm so in love.
Reader and Azul being rivals is a scrumptious flavor. Imagining poor tako trying to have friendly competition while also being so down bad for her all while Reader would drop anything and everything the moment she sees her childhood bestie Riddle. They're so cute. Such a fun dynamic!!!!
#twisted chit chat#lustlovehart#meraki faves#not the trio scheming in front of reader LOL#'they can't get married if she's under the sea' OHHHH THEY ARE THE WORST <3#the biggest haters of the riddlereader ship
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Eyes On Me (Chris Fehn x Fem! Reader) FLUFF

So, in the midst of the holiday craziness, one of my dear friends decided to ignite this bombshell of a hyper fixation in my brain. So, uh, maybe add a bit of Slipknot to the rotation since some other things have been put on hiatus.
You're on tour with Slipknot, Chris likes to flirt with the pretty girl that works with the band, chaos ensues.
WARNINGS: Swearing, suggestive comments, Chris is a bit of a perv, but honestly if you're reading this you probably expect all of this anyways lol, tooth rotting fluff of my favorite percussionist 🖤
My Masterlist! ~ Tip Jar! ~ AO3 Link!
Divider credit: @adornedwithlight
Waking up in a hotel on tour was always a strange experience. The band had stopped to play 3 shows in the same city back to back, meaning that for a few days you would be freed of the cramped confines of the tour bus. You squinted, slamming your head into the pillows in an attempt to block out the assault from the early morning sun. You could hear your neighbors talking loudly through the wall. Chris and Sid were already full of energy. You jolted up in bed as there was sudden banging of a fist behind your bed. “Anyone alive in there?!” Chris yells.
“Chris it is 8 in the morning!” You shout back. “Unless you're buying me breakfast you better shut up!”
“If you want breakfast, get your ass out of bed!” You freeze at his words, was he seriously offering to take you out to eat? “Be ready in five, sweetheart, I'll be right over.” You could hear Sid struggling to hold back his giddy laughter. You scrambled out of bed, of course he would pull some shit like this. You rush to the bathroom, quickly washing your face and throwing on some of the fastest makeup you've done in your entire life.
“Shit!” You cursed, tripping over yourself as you struggled to pull on your pants, Chris’s loud knocking on your door ringing through the hotel room. You and the band’s percussionist had been flirting for a while. Chris, albeit unsettling at first, couldn't keep his eyes off you from the beginning.
“Well, good morning beautiful.” The same eyes that made your heart stop every time you met them.
“Good morning, yourself.” You snap back playfully.
“Aw, did I wake you?” He coos, cupping your face in his hand, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Poor baby. Come on, I'll make up for it.” He wraps an arm around your shoulders, leading you out of the hotel tucked safely into his side.
You found yourselves at some hole in the wall diner, serving up the greasiest breakfast food you've ever witnessed. Plates piled high with bacon, sausage, eggs, and a multitude of other sides, whatever you ended up deciding on surely wasn't going to disappoint. The morning with Chris flowed by effortlessly. He kept you laughing the entire time, every so often tossing in a compliment about how pretty he thought your smile was, teasing you whenever he had noticed your flustered state. “Are you going to come watch me play tonight?” He asks with a mischievous grin.
“You're acting like I'm not there every night.” You respond with a smirk.
“Yeah, but you're there to watch the band, you're not watching me.” You could hear his fingers nervously drumming on the counter top.
“Do you really think I could possibly keep my eyes off you?” He breathes out a laugh, shrugging into his jacket. “We should get going, you’ll be late for sound check.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“He better be out here in five minutes or I'm going to personally go in there and kick his ass.” You laugh as Corey yells.
“I'll get him out here, don't worry!” You reassure him as you slip inside the dressing room.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” You can't help but roll your eyes as you watch the smirk immediately spread across his features. “A pre-show visit from you, I must’ve been a good boy.” He chuckles. You wordlessly grab the black grease paint from his bag, perching yourself on the arm of his chair. It was irritating how good he looked, his jumpsuit mostly unzipped, his skin glowing with the thin sheen of sweat he had worked up from warming up before the show.
“You need to be out there in a few minutes and you’ve barely started to get dressed, someone has to make sure you make it out on stage.” Despite trying your best to seem annoyed, Chris didn't miss how you were struggling to keep the flustered smile off your lips. You had been working with the band for a while, originally having started off as a roadie, but it quickly became apparent how good you were at wrangling the band’s more hyperactive members. Chris clocked you instantly. At first he thought it was funny. He would sit somewhere backstage and stare at you, chuckling to himself when you would eventually scurry off. It's not that you minded, his staring was never malicious or mean in any way. But, goddamn, was it distracting. After a little while it finally dawned on him that you weren't running away out of fear, you were running away because you were flustered. Every so often he would watch the blush spread across your cheeks when he had been caught staring, how every time you would run off to take care of something else you would always glance back at him just one more time before disappearing.
“What would I do without you?” He says with a teasing smile. You craned over him, haphazardly covering his skin with the paint. You let out a surprised squeak as one of Chris's hands wraps around your waist. He pushes you off the arm of the chair, you bounced slightly as you landed in his lap. “Probably a little bit more comfortable like this.” He raises an eyebrow playfully at you, waiting to see what kind of response he would elicit. Your face burned, your mind completely blank as you tried to process just what the hell was happening. He was so warm, you could feel one of his legs bouncing anxiously underneath you as he sat and wondered just how royally he had fucked up. You try to return your focus to applying his paint, a task that only becomes more difficult as you feel one of his massive hands wrap around your thigh. He enjoyed having you so close, being able to trace over every detail of your features. “You are stunning.” He states under his breath.
“Thank you.” You reply with a flustered smile. “You didn't,” you cleared your throat, your voice cracking slightly as you spoke, “you didn't forget your mask did you?” You jump as he slaps his hand down on the table at his side, he smirks as he holds up his mask.
“Did I forget my mask?” He mocks, he watches you relax as he manages to make you laugh. “Put it on me.” It wasn't a request. The buckles clink together as he lets it fall into your lap. His striking blue eyes hold you frozen in place as you timidly pick up his mask. The metal was cold against your palm, the leather smooth between your fingers as you moved the straps out of the way. He pulls the hood over his head before allowing you to sit the piece carefully over his features, making sure it was properly in place before tackling all of the buckles. He doesn't take his eyes off you as you make quick work of securing everything in place.
“Hang on, this one’s a little stuck.” One of the straps had gotten caught on its buckle, halting your process momentarily. You gave it one firm tug in order to free it. Chris hisses as the mask catches, the strap noticeably digging into his skin. You hurriedly begin to apologize, moving to undo the strap only for his hand to grab both of yours, pulling them away from his face.
“Don't worry, pretty girl. I'm alright.” His eyes flicker over your features. “Hurt me all you want baby, I like a little pain.” Your cheeks burn as you stare down at him. He breathes out a laugh as his gaze drops to your lips.
“Chris, come on! We gotta go!” Sid freezes when he sees the situation at hand.
“Animals.” He spits through a cackle. “Chris is getting FRISKY.” He bellows, slamming the door behind him.
Chris chuckles, helping you stand. “Guess we should get this show on the road. Wouldn't want them getting any angrier.” Your heart was racing as you followed Chris out of the dressing room, wiping your sweaty palms down the front of your pants. It didn't take long for him to get back to his usual antics. Every so often Chris would walk up to you, sometimes giving you a reason, other times just staring at you in silence until you acknowledged him.
“Need something, Chris?” Silence. You look at him, a smirk playing on your lips. “You know, you make it a little hard to do my job sometimes.” He takes a few long, fast strides towards you, causing you to stumble back slightly until you were trapped between him and the wall. He leans down, bringing his face level with yours. He presses the nose of his mask against yours, making you giggle. You playfully swat at him, “I have work to do.”
“Has anyone seen Mick’s extra pics?!” You shout, rifling through a case that had been tossed in the side. Suddenly, something cold and pointy pressed into your cheek.
“You're looking a little stressed, baby.” Your ears are met with Chris's playful tone as he pokes your face with the nose of his mask.
You let out an exasperated sigh, “Chris, I don't have time for this, I need to find–” He opens your hand, dropping three pics into your palm. You cringe slightly, realizing he was just trying to help.
“Just relax, sugar. I'll take good care of you.” A shiver runs down your spine at his flirty tone. Your eyes meet his before you slowly let your gaze drop down to his lips.
“Play a good show and maybe I'll let you.” A strangled sound escapes him as whatever crass response he had come up with died in his throat. He watches as you carefully press your lips to the nose of his mask. “Knock ‘em dead for me.”
“You got it, angel,” he breathes out through a laugh, “just make sure you keep those pretty eyes on me, okay?” He responds flirtatiously as you flit past him, hurrying to deliver Mick his missing picks. He can't help but smile as he catches you glancing at him over your shoulder.
Chris took your request to heart, hoping his rockstar status was enough to keep you from punching him in the face for what he had planned. He played his soul out that night. Jumping and thrashing around like you had never seen before, he was mesmerizing to watch. At one point meeting your gaze across the stage, the two of you share a moment, screaming the lyrics from your favorite song off the setlist. He loved watching you dance just off stage, you were stunning, and you were looking only at him.
After the concert was over he powers up to you. His shoulders heaved with every labored breath, sweat dripping down every exposed inch of skin. “Get this fucking mask off me.” He growls, grabbing onto you and pulling you close. You waste no time granting his request, his hands hot against your skin where they cling desperately to your waist. The second you finish with the last buckle Chris rips the mask from his face, throwing it on the floor to focus on the task at hand. He grabs your face in his hand, his fingers pressing into your cheeks with near bruising force as he crushed his lips against yours, his black paint smearing across your features, officially marking you as his in his eyes. His free arm circles around your waist, pulling you flush against him. There were various cheers, screams, and a few gags from the rest of the band.
“Jim, you owe me money!” Mick yells with a laugh.
“What the hell are you– oh... Dammit Chris, you couldn't have waited until we got back on the bus?!” You can't help but smile as you feel him chuckle against your lips.
“Did I play a good enough show, sweetheart?” He asks with a smug smirk, not giving you time to answer before kissing you again.
#ghost writes#slipknot#slipknot x reader#chris fehn x reader#chris fehn x reader fluff#chris fehn slipknot#chris fehn#3 slipknot
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✰ ━━━ scara brain rot <3
FEATURING scaramouche x fem!reader
WARNINGS dom!scaramouche, overstimulation, squirting, cunnilingus, rough sex, degradation, praising, choking
NOTE listening to chase atlantic at 2am made me feel things whdbyw anyways here's some scara smut cuz why not? not proofread, just typed out what my brain is thinking fr
"want more of that, don't you?" he says teasingly as he gazes down on your tired figure on his bed, where you've been for the past hour as he's been toying with you nonstop. to his question, you respond with weak whimpers instead of full sentences. "yes... more, p-please- ah~" he cuts you off with a sudden lick on your swollen clit, followed by more movements of his tongue at your sensitive area. inserting two of his long fingers, making you moan louder for him. "fuuuckk, you really are such an adorable little slut for me, huh?" he chuckles in a seductive way, " i'll never get tired of playing with you, my love." he says before focusing back on your pussy in front of him. having his fingers knuckle deep in you accompanied by his lips sucking lovingly on your clit to drive you crazy until all you can think about is him. after a few seconds, you feel your high coming. "go on, cum on my face. i know you want to, sooo badly. i'll indulge you this once." scara's voice husky as he helps you reach the feeling of pleasure you crave and squirt all over him. scara chuckles and gets up as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
still calming down from the intense climax, you close your eyes and try to catch your breath as your heart beats faster than ever. a few moments later, you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading them apart as he easily slipped inside your soaking wet cunt. "shit, you're still so wet for me, my love." he says with a small laugh and pushes himself the furthest possible. you moan out loud as he's deep inside of you, you can definitely feel where it's at. pulling all the way back before slamming himself into you again. he basically folds you in half and kisses you in a gentle manner as his hand cups your cheek lovingly, all the while slowly thrusting in and out of your hole. slowly but surely picking up the pace as he pulls away from your heated kiss to watch your reactions as he pounds his worries away into you. "such a whore." he comments at your already fucked out state. "g-gonna... cum- mmh! ah~" once scara heard your words, his hand made it's way to your neck, not even hesitating to start choking you. but don't worry, he loves you so much so he'll stop when he has to...he won't choke you to death <3
"wanna cum? all over my cock?" he says with that hot as hell deep voice, "beg for it. you know you want to." and so you did. with the best you could, you begged and begged him to let you cum as he continued to fuck you senseless, watching closely how your body reacts to his movements along with your facial expressions. he laughs at your begging, but not in that way- he just finds it cute~ "cum on my cock like the good girl you are then." your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your body spasms as the feeling of euphoric pleasure take over. after a few seconds, he spills his own seed deep inside you, making you whimper as the warm feeling gets to you. removing his hand from your neck, he pulls out gently, looking in awe at your dripping cunt then turning his gaze to you, giving you a sweet smile. "you're so pretty... especially like this." he says before kissing your forehead, your cheek, and then your lips. "i love you, my dearest."
"now, let's continue, 'til the break of dawn. i want more and more of you, come here."
#☾★ written »#☾★ kuni »#genshin smut#genshin x reader#scaramouche smut#scaramouche x reader#scaramouche x you#scaramouche x y/n#genshin imagines#fem!reader
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An angry summary of Speak the Ocean by Rebecca Enzor -Part 1
Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8
(well more of a combination of a summary, a rant, a critique/review and nitpicking, but you get the idea)
Because in my eternal search for more books about dangerous mermaids, I found this little book with such an interesting premise (it’s essentially mermaids in Seaworld) that i just had to read it. And since those sorts of stories don’t tend to be pretty good, I had high hopes for this story.
However, not only did it waste such a cool concept, but it disappointed and pissed me off so much that I decided “you know what? If I had to contend with this thing, I will bring everyone else down with me!”
… and also to spare anyone who doesn’t want to read it, but it’s curious about it , from suffering the same (not good!) brain rot I have thanks to this.
I’ll be doing this two or three chapters at a time because I noticed that my summaries… ended up a bit long.
Anyway. Lets begin.
Preface 1
The book starts by showing us an in-universe training manual for employees about interacting with the mer, as well as what to do if someone falls into the tank with them.
It tells us that unless they are doing a certain task (like using an electroshocker- yes, that’s its name), personnel must remain at least 3 feet from the water - which contradicts what we see a few chapters later, but we’ll get to that eventually - and if they need to work near the water, 4 personnel must be present and the water must be cooled and spiked with sedatives if necessary.
It follows up by saying that if someone falls into the tank with a mer inside, the person closest to the electroshocker ™ should place it in the water, and if the mer doesn’t react to it, they should shock them… while the person is still in the water. Yeah sure, that will help a lot with keeping them alive!
Meanwhile two people should use a net to separate the mer from the person while a third (the one with the shocker or the one in the water? Idk) keeps an eye on them. If they can’t trap the mer however, they are allowed to use the electroshocker ™ liberally- while again, the person they are trying to save is still in the water!
I get it’s a quick life or death situation, but come on! Tranquilizer guns and darts exist for a reason!
Chapter 1- Finn
This chapter introduces us to Finnegan Jarvis aka Finn, our human protagonist and a worker in Oceanica, the only mermaid marine park in the world. Also as you will see from this point forward… I hate his absolute, bigass di-
The story starts with Finn’s narration telling us that contrary to what Corporate - aka Delmara/ Aunt D, the owner of the place - tells the public, the mer they work with are very dangerous. which is proven by the fact that one of them killed Craig, one of the trainers, just the night prior. Which is why they are now preparing to euthanize it.
His friend Serge notices he’s nervous about it and tries to reassure him by telling him that Bismuth the mer (they name them after the elements of the periodic table) and his companions, the twins Fluorine and Chlorine, were already chilled. It doesn’t help much.
In his narration he says that six years have passed since humans have discovered merfolk, and in four of those years he’s been forced to kill six mers after they killed an equal number of his companions. Though in spite of his nervousness and current sadness for Craig, the fact that he can bring up the death of people he knew about so casually means that he’s pretty desensitized to it.
They both go to the room where their practice tank is stored and meet with two of their coworkers Madison and Natalie (Maddy is the only important one here, trust me). And since the mers have already been placed there, they get to work.
Btw all that i have summarized so far takes place within 8 paragraphs (one of which is just for one of the character´s dialogue), none of which give us a clear idea of how the characters or most of their surroundings look like.
And as expected, this chapter also shows us the mer for the first time, with barely, if any build up to their first appearance. And much like the humans, there are no noteworthy descriptions that could help us visualize how they look like save for specific details that apply to just one individual, with those being Bismuth’s dark green scales and the twins’ icy blue eyes and hair.
Speaking of the twins, apparently they are part of Oceanica’s second most famous show, and are only here to watch their companion die so they’ll be discouraged from misbehaving like he did. According to Finn that strategy worked on previous mers… although sometimes it just backfires completely.
As they prepare the net and electroshocker ™ (the process being described in just one paragraph btw), Finn says that euthanizing a mer isn’t easy since they are huge, they are many regulations with dealing with them and, according to him, they are the perfect predator… although there are no scenes in the story to support that idea, nor at the very least shows us why he has come to such conclusion.
Anyway, in the span of just four paragraphs that look more like a draft listing actions rather than a proper final scene, Serge electrocutes the trio, allowing the other three to trap Bismuth in a net and lift him from the water while his tank companions swim around and do nothing to help him.
And after snapping at Maddy for not moving with him by reminding her to pay attention or she’ll end up like her recently deceased companion — Finn injects Bismuth with a liquid that kills him instantly, which also causes him to dissolve into foam.
However, as he’s dissolving faster than my initial hopes for this book, one of the lines holding the nets unravels, and in the chaos Finn slips in a puddle of the mer’s remains , hits his knee, and falls into the tank with the twins. Like he deserves.
He tries to flee, but the mers hold him down with their claws. But instead of immediately going for that soft, vulnerable throat, Chlorine, this supposed “perfect predator”, just pierces his shoulders, giving Finn the opportunity to reach for her gills and fucking rip them off. And before her sister can retaliate, Serge electrocutes them both.
Unsurprisingly, this has consequences.
Finn ends up comatose for two days, and even though his mother is worried sick - since she has lost her husband who disappeared while in a trip to find the merfolk, and is justifyingly worried that her son also works with them - and the doctors told him to not swim while he still had the stitches from his shoulder wound, this guy insists on going out for a swim in a reef in spite of Serge’s protests.
Oh and he also says that “he can’t let his sister make fun of him for getting his ass kicked by girls.”
… oh and those living family members he has have almost no importance in the story. They are just. There.
As they are traveling in the fishing boat that used to belong to his dad, Finn asks Serge what became of the twins. And he casually, very casually, reveals that the stars of their second most popular show are now fucking dead.
There’s no talk about how the public is gonna react to this, nor how this very huge loss will affect their finances, not even if they held a funeral for their recently deceased coworker. Just that they gotta pull more mers out of the ocean to replace the twins and they’ll need a new trainer for them. Which Finn, in spite of his current medical orders, plans to become.
Though he does bristle at the memory of killing Chlorine… And also says that this isn’t the worst way in which he has killed a mer.
…WHAT-
Oh and also it’s revealed to us that Delmara used to be his father’s teaching assistant, and Finn has been working for her since he was fifteen years old after helping her document the existence of the first mer they’d found.
On their way, the pair come across a beach that has been vacated due to a recent mer attack the night prior, which Finn mentions is the time that the mer tend come out to attack (probably to evade people).The reasons as to why it happened, nor the attack itself are ever explained or brought up again. Not even in the chapters with the mer pov, where we see where their kind - which should include the attacker - lives.
Finally they arrive on the reef, and as he swims through it, Finn muses that if the stories about people becoming mer were true, he’d stay in the water forever. But as it stands, working with them is the closest he’ll ever be to being a part of the ocean … even though he recently killed and constantly tortures the same creatures he says he wants to become.
#as you can see i got…. very passionate about this#and no just because the book is self published doesn’t mean it’s immune to criticism#mermaid books#booklr#books#mermaid book#romance books#an angry summary#speak the ocean#mermaid#merfolk#book review#kinda#book summary#that’s gonna be my tag for this#ma stuff
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I would like a story on the topic "jealousy" with .... of course Scarecrow :3
A Flicker in the Dark

Summary: After his encounter with you, Jonathan realizes he might just want you for his own. A slight continuation of Damaged Goods.
Content Warning: Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Minor spoilers for Cat & Mouse.
Word Count: 1.3k
A/N: A slight continuation of Damaged Goods. Not canon to the official Cat&Mouse!Verse, but it might be one day? My brain is a mess now that I've got the Detective x Jon brain rot. Someone send help.


The GCPD was still. An odd thing, for this time of night, but there was an eerie silence cast over the entire precinct. Jonathan Crane was quiet as he packed up his things, stuffing his work papers into his briefcase: documents all on the latest case that he had been pouring over for hours, trying to figure out the chemical compound this new criminal was using. He was getting closer to discovering it, but still; pain throbbed behind his eyes, a dull ache in his damaged retina. His entire face often ached from the numerous surgeries he’d had, and from the brutal assaults from Batman. He frowned at the thought of the Dark Knight, and yet, there was still a sick sense of satisfaction bundling in his stomach at knowing he’d won three years ago.
It felt like so long ago now, but Jonathan shook the thoughts from his mind, finished gathering his things, and quickly headed out of the GCPD. A dozen eyes averted from him, and numerous people leaned to whisper things to one another, but he ignored their stares. Not like he cared much about what people thought of him. He had far too much on his mind, anyways – but as he came into the lobby and headed towards the front door, something caught his eye.
He lifted his head slightly, gazing through narrowed eyes as he watched you and Edward wander down the hall, arm in arm, whispering to one another as his footsteps came to a slow stop. He couldn’t help but notice the way you clung to Edward, so tightly, as if you needed him to ground you to the very stone underneath your feet. Edward leaned down, whispering something into your ear, that made you laugh. Even from here, Jonathan could see the flush that crept across your cheeks, a rosy hue. He knew you were involved with Edward – well, the whole precinct knew – and Jonathan couldn’t deny his fascination and curiosity as to why someone like you would be involved with someone like Edward. Of course, the little incident he’d had with you down in the forensics lab had answered some of his question, but it didn’t quite fill the void he was seeking. A void, which Jonathan discovered, he could not quite explain.
You and Edward disappeared out of the GCPD and into the night. Jonathan tightened his grip around his briefcase and continued on his way, his thoughts once more straying back to the case at hand he’d been recruited to help with. But as he called a cab and made his way back to his court mandated apartment, he found his thoughts once more straying back to you. He could not deny that you were an attractive woman; even someone like him could see that. Not that he paid attention to such things, but he couldn’t deny that you’d caught his eye.
As he arrived at his apartment and made his way inside, he shut and locked the door behind him, taking a look at his bare, empty apartment. A cold chill clung to the air, and he sighed, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on the coat hook beside the door. He rolled up his sleeves and headed into the kitchen to pour himself a stiff drink. He filled a tumbler with ice, and some top shelf whiskey, taking a slow sip, letting the flavor linger on his tongue. Glass in hand, he wandered over to the window and took a long look out at the city, a city he’d once bathed in his fear toxin, desperate to show them all how ruled by their own fears they really were. He’d wanted this city to be his domain, their King of Fear. Interesting how things had changed so drastically in the last three years, and he found himself picking apart the events in which they’d happened – and how he’d come to be here.
Taking another sip of his drink, he found his thoughts straying to you once more. It’d been an interesting conversation he’d had with you, and a part of him found himself curious to pick apart your fears once again, to get to know you better, to understand just what made you tick. He wanted to study you, and if it was up to him, he’d slip you a nice little injection of his toxin and relish in just what your nightmares might show him. But the more he began to think on it, the more Jonathan began to question these strange feelings stirring in his stomach, awakening something foreign within him he had not felt in a very long time, something even he was struggling to understand. But what was it?
He turned away from the window and sat down in the nearby recliner, bathing himself in the darkness as he swirled his drink around in his glass. The clinking of ice filled the silence. And yet, no matter how hard he tried to vanish you from his mind, he found he could not keep his thoughts from straying back to you. You’d stared at him with such defiance in your eyes, a fire that burned brightly – a fire, he suddenly realized, that he wanted to consume for his own.
And that was the moment Jonathan suddenly understood what he was feeling.
Jealousy.
It was jealousy stirring in his stomach. An emotion he had not felt in years. Jonathan was not a jealous man; in fact, it was an emotion that often alluded him entirely. Jealousy was simply a symptom of someone’s fears, and he had mastered his long ago.
So why was he feeling it now?
He had not experienced such an emotion in so long that it was hard to pinpoint where it was stemming from – but the more he pondered it, the clearer the issue became: he had come to see why someone like you would capture Edward’s attention, but he could not understand why someone like you would give him your attention at all. Was it the simple fact that you feared no one else would give you attention like Edward did? Or was it rooted in something else, some deep-rooted trauma you tried to suppress? And what was it about Edward that held you so tightly in his grasp? Jonathan knew the man was egotistical, full of bravado, something which annoyed him more often than not, but he’d learned how to navigate Edward’s ego long ago.
But…Jonathan knew Edward would not let you go so easily. The man was possessive, and he would not share you. But if Jonathan wanted to understand you for himself, if he wanted to come to consume your fire and study it under his own gaze, he’d need Edward out of the way.
Another bolt of jealousy stirred within his stomach, spreading through his veins, blossoming in his stomach like a balloon. Your fire was enough to bring a man like Edward Nigma to his knees, and Jonathan wanted to exploit that for himself: your vulnerability, your fears, your fire, the things that he knew he could bring to the surface and exploit for his own. It was simply too bad Edward had gotten to you first – and another sliver of jealousy rippled through Jonathan’s veins, wondering what it would have been like if he’d have met you before Edward, if he’d been approached about this silly reform first.
He took another slow sip of his drink, and when he lowered it back to his lap, a smirk touched the corners of his lips. His jealousy was like a flicker in the dark, a match lightning gasoline, a small flame being stoked to life.
And that was the moment Jonathan realized he wanted you for himself.
Everything about you – he wanted for his own. To consume. To nurture. To help you master. To take and exploit, to mold you into the image he wanted you to be.
His own Mistress of Fear.
All it would take were a few words, a few whispers, a few thoughts planted in your head. He wanted to watch you squirm, to watch those fears rise from the depths of your soul, and when he finally hade you where he wanted you…
He would take you for his own.

#caesariawrites#cat&mouse!verse#arkham jonathan crane#jonathan crane x reader#jonathon crane x reader#jonathan crane x you#scarecrow x you#arkham scarecrow#scarecrow x reader
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Little Monsters
rating: 18+ Explicit
pairing: dieter x f!reader
word count: 5K
summary: A phone call home to your family has you missing them desperately . . . especially your husband, who always knows exactly what you need.
warnings/tags: pregnancy, Dieter has children and is actually a really good dad, director!reader, 1st half is mind numbing tooth rotting FLUFF, 2nd half is straight filth and dieter has a nasty nasty mouth, masturbation, camera/phone sex, slight breeding kink, one single use of ‘Daddy’, if I had an ounce of shame left in me I would not have posted this
a/n: special shout outs go to @spookyxsam for showing me about how babies work and to @lunapascal and @mysterious-moonstruck-musings for talking me off the daddy dieter ledge. this is my first pregnancy fic and i do not know what came over me (she lied, knowing damn good and well what happened to her brain chemistry)
from @yoursoulsunbreakable 's request: Hello sweetie, congratulations on your milestone <3 Here's my request for the little drabble: 5. “Tell me what you would want to do, if you were here right now.” With our precious Dieter and smutty? Hope it'll inspire you 😘
🤍Masterlist
“Tell me what you would want to do, if you were here right now.”
“Oh, Dieter, I’d – I’d –,”
“Yeah?”
You let out a burst of air from your lips, flopping back against the pillows. “I’d ask you for a foot rub,” you whine into the camera.
He chuckles, the sound a bit garbled through the speakers. He leans forward into the camera, as if trying to see down your body, the angle of the phone against the hotel’s lamp not quite right.
“Is Bravo Baby number three giving you trouble?”
You eye your swelling feet over the steadily swelling bump. Well into your second trimester and the list of shoes in your closet you could still wear is shrinking rapidly. This also happened with your second child and when Dieter made one joke about keeping you barefoot in the kitchen, you nearly threw a butcher’s knife at his head. You stroke the left side of your stomach to preemptively soothe the little brat before they start wailing on that spot all night, sighing into your husband’s sympathetic, pixelated face.
“They’ve been grouchy all day. Tom had to leave me in the car for a bit after we scouted a potential place for the exterior shots to finish taking pictures because somebody was having a grand old time wearing me out.” You narrow your eyes at him through the camera. “As if there was any doubt this was your child.”
This is a constant inside joke between you. Your first kid, a girl, was a beautiful blend of both you and Dieter. His eyes, but your hair, your cheeks, and his nose. He also got to name her – said it came to him after he bought some chocolate and water at the hospital lounge –
“Zelle, Dieter, ‘Zelle’?? Like the money transaction service?”
But you had been too zonked out on painkillers and endorphins to object (you thought it was beautiful at the time), and he signed the papers anyway. Neither of you had come up with a fitting name before then and he swears the instant he held his baby girl in his hands for the first time, it came to him, as if the stars rearranged themselves in the sky with that name. Incurably a romantic at heart – your husband – you found it sweet and also idiotic, but it was too late now.
Your second one, Orion, had his name written down on a post-it note you carried in your purse for months and you made sure to show the nurse when you were admitted. Not that Dieter would intentionally go against the name you had agreed on if the baby was a boy, but there was a slim chance he’d get so caught up in the moment and, with watery eyes, tell the nurse to write something like Mars Bar on the birth certificate.
And, for all that, Orion could have been a carbon copy of you.
The joke started when Dieter picked him up from his crib one night and brought that gurgling little mouth right up to his nose. “Are you sure you didn’t just spontaneously create this one? I don’t see a single hint of me in this little guy.” To which Orion giggled around a drool-damp fist and promptly bopped his father on the nose with it.
“Are you saying you don’t remember what happened the night he was conceived?” You asked with a smirk over your shoulder as you returned some baby bibs to the drawer.
Dieter snorted and slid Orion into the crook of his arm, those onesie-white feet seen kicking over his forearm. “Now Mommy is just being plain silly.”
That was five years ago and you couldn’t exactly deny you were excited for the smell of newborn to be all over your husband again.
“I’ll be glad when we hit the last trimester,” he says, chin propped up on his wrist to stare down at you in his other palm, “so I can wave that doctor’s note in your face when you try to work too hard . . . like you are now.”
You shift onto your side to face him, rolling your eyes. “You only like the third trimester for the sex hormones.”
After spending most of your first pregnancy, and at least half of your second, trying to claw Dieter’s eyes out if he so much as breathed in your direction, he was delighted to find that by month seven, the hellcat who had taken over his wife’s body turned into a needy, whiny little kitten.
Some of the best orgasms of his life come from those months, he swears up and down.
“I’m not going to complain,” he grins, peering down at you from those prescription sunglasses. The Dieter you used to know wore them because he was constantly hungover; your husband wears them because he keeps accidentally misplacing his actual prescription glasses. “All I’m saying is you better be back in time so Daddy can play house with Mommy.”
The shrill cry is heard through the phone, the closed bedroom door, and at least one hallway:
“Is Mommy on the phone?”
Barely a second later, you watch over his shoulder as the door flings open and a wild blur of arms and legs dogpiles Dieter onto the bed. You hear him grunt, the camera flips up to the ceiling, as Zelle and Orion clamor for the phone. Chuckling to yourself, you take up the phone from the bedside table and hold it in your palm as you lean back against the pillows and your children’s faces flash over the small screen.
“Mommy, I made a bug out of noodles and string today.”
“Mommy, I saw a cat that looked like a cow today.”
“Mommy, Daddy’s broccoli tasted funny - you cook it better!”
“Hey!” He lunges for Zelle’s little ankle and pulls her up around her waist as she giggles helplessly.
You can barely see them, Orion’s pudgy little finger over most of the camera, Dieter’s hair and Zelle’s kicking feet visible only in flashes.
“You better go help your sister, Orion!”
Needing no other prompting, he drops the phone against the pillows and leaps onto his father, squealing at the noise Dieter makes. Where Orion got your looks, he had all of his father’s mannerism. You blinked twice when as a toddler Orion’s purposeful pout had looked so similar to his father’s, you wondered if they had practiced it together. Orion is ruthless when it comes to the tickle wars and immediately goes for Dieter’s neck.
“Help!” he chokes, “I’m being overrun by tiny monsters!”
Zelle roars at his hip and Orion howls – he’d be a werewolf for Halloween a third year in a row if the tradition continued. Despite more frequent and loud protests about his poor back, Dieter lunges forward and yanks Zelle under his arm like she’s a football. He does the same to Orion and faceplants with both of them successfully pinned. It’s the oldest trick in the book and you muse what he’s going to do when they are too big to do that to anymore. But, as Dieter likes to say, one colossal nightmare at a time.
“Peace treaty?” His voice is muffled by the blanket.
“Stand and deliver,” they repeat, breathlessly and red faced. He lets them go and the two bodies barely move, grins still plastered to their faces. Cheeks pink, Dieter crawls over and snags the phone.
“See, darling?” he says between heavy breaths, “this parenting stuff is easy.”
“Mommy, when are you coming home?” Zelle pops her head between Dieter and the phone, her cheek pink and her little hands pushing her hair off her face.
“Yeah!” Orion pipes up, crawling over Dieter’s back, hooking his tiny hands over his father’s throat. Dieter’s eyes bug out for a moment before adjusting the five year old’s grip. “Are you done chasing the dragon?”
At that, Dieter snickers and you can’t glare with fire in your eyes like you’d like to so you plaster on an overly sweet smile on your face.
“Rori, we asked you not to say that. It’s a stork, remember?”
Orion frowns into Dieter’s curls. “But I want a baby brother or sister that comes from a dragon’s egg.”
“Yeah, Mom, a dragon baby is way cooler than a stork baby.”
Oh, you are going to kill him.
This was another ongoing joke . . . for Dieter. Orion’s teacher called home one night after Orion proudly announced that his mommy was off chasing the dragon. Understandably concerned about the phrase, she called to make sure everything was alright, only to find out what he meant was that his mother was expecting a new baby and instead of a stork, his father told him that Mommy was going to find a dragon to put a new egg inside her tummy, and then the new baby would eventually pop out from the egg.
This was something you had to relay through the phone to the teacher . . . because Dieter was curled up on the floor, laughing so hard he went mute, tears rolling down red cheeks. This had been his ‘stork’ story for Orion, and apparently unaware of just how impressionable a five-year-old is, told him that Mommy was chasing the dragon for a new egg. Dieter says his greatest regret in his life is that he wasn’t there to see the look on Orion’s teacher’s face.
After that, you (and Dieter once he recovered) tried to alter the story enough so that he wouldn’t accidentally imply his mother was off on a drug binge, but evidently too much stuck.
“I’m meeting with the dragon tomorrow, okay? I’m not chasing after anything. We’re having lunch. Right, Dad?”
“Absolutely.” He nods seriously at Orion and kisses that fat little cheek.
“When is the dragon gonna give you the egg with my baby sister in it?” Zelle asks, matching Dieter on her stomach. Dieter’s confidence manifested perfectly in his daughter; you and him had told her many times that the baby might be a little brother, but she just stuck her nose in the air. “I know it’s a sister,” she said, with a characteristic roll of her eyes.
“A couple more months, baby,” you smile, unconsciously rubbing at your stomach again. Baby Bravo is suspiciously quiet. Not soon enough. “But I’ll be home tomorrow, but you two have to be good for Dad until then, okay?”
Orion nods from Dieter’s shoulder, but Zelle smirks up at her father in a way that is well beyond her six years.
“I promise to eat all of Daddy’s nasty broccoli!”
Dieter’s own impish nature, thrown right back at him. The one solace you found is that your husband might have finally met his match.
He grabs her, flips her on her back, and blows a strawberry on her tummy as she shrieks with glee.
“Alright – that’s it – it’s bath time for all naughty monsters!” He hikes Orion over his shoulder and picks up Zelle by her waist. He glances back over at you, his eyes bright and a giant smile on his face.
You swear every time you see Orion, there’s less and less baby in his pudgy face, his little hands. Zelle is constantly saying and doing things that surprises you with the depth of their awareness and you know it doesn’t all come from you or Dieter.
Your heart actually aches from missing them so much.
“Monsters, say goodnight to Queen Monster–,” more yelling, roaring, “I’ll call you later tonight, okay, baby?”
You nod, your eyes suddenly hot and tight. “O-okay – love you all.”
“LOVE YOU!” The three-headed monster yells in unison as it lumbers out of the bedroom.
You end the call, just before the tears spill. Again on your back, you stare at the ceiling feeling incredibly sorry for yourself when the baby rolls over and kicks you in the ribs.
Hey, I’m here too!
You laugh, a little watery, and you wipe your eyes with your palms. Just get through tonight and you’re home.
“Okay, okay, I’m up. Let’s get ready for bed, would you like that?”
It’s late. You know you should be asleep already, but the shower had taken longer than expected. The phone call with your husband and children lingered in your mind when you turned on the water and stripped down. Your heart was so full to see Orion’s pout and Zelle’s mischievous grin, especially after such a long day on your feet and for all his teasing, Dieter’s own ease and confidence as a father, as well as a husband, left you feeling . . . warm. In fact, your mind’s eye lingers on him in the memory of the call: his beautiful, rich curls – those square black glasses that made him look annoyingly mysterious and so goddamn hot – his biceps flexing as he throws around his children with ease, his shoulders broad and straining against his shirt — his bulging forearm making his triangle tattoo pop – his wedding ring that replaced all the other rings –
The good news is the baby was almost here. The bad news is that you’re suddenly irrationally horny and your all-too-eager husband was a plane ride away.
Entirely naked besides the white hotel robe around your shoulders, you sternly ignore the plush tingling between your legs and try to focus on rubbing in lotion into your legs, your hips, over the old and new stretch marks over your stomach. Your fingers rub underneath the curve of your stomach and accidentally brush the damp curls, sending tiny shock waves up your pelvis. You gasp lowly, freezing, eyes tightly shut, fighting back that wave of arousal.
Goddamn it.
At first you think the ringing is between your ears, your blood rushing hard and fast, and then you realize it’s actually your phone going off.
Daddy Dieter, the screen reads.
You frown at the clock – if it’s late for you, then it’s very late for him. When he said he’d call you later, you didn’t think he meant literally later tonight. Still frowning, you put down the bottle of lotion and answer the phone.
“Dieter?”
“Hey, baby. How’s your night?”
He pulls back the phone and your mouth flushes with spit. He’s shirtless, sunglasses replaced with his actual glasses, that silver earring glinting in the low light. In the center of your bed, he’s propped up on several pillows with his arm tucked behind his head. He has thickened over the years, his chest and shoulders taking on a new weight as if he physically grew into fatherhood — and God, if his bicep was bulging before –
“Dieter –,” your voice is hoarse at first and you have to clear your throat to get anything out of your mouth that isn’t a whine. “Dieter, what are you doing up?”
He shrugs like he’s just been bored at home. “Bath time was easy. Orion wanted just one story and Zelle didn’t put up a fight when I told her it was bedtime and she had to put away the crayons.”
You narrow your eyes. “Did you slip them Benadryl?”
“Wow! No! Did you ever think that maybe I’m just that good of a dad?” He scoffs, mildly offended. And then he smirks. “I told them you’d come home sooner if they were good.”
“Ah, the old Santa Claus trick.” You nod sagely and sit down on the edge of the bed, the movement tugging the robe slightly. “Always a classic.”
“Yeah, I –,” Dieter’s eyes widen, edges going dark. “Are you naked?”
You swallow, his sudden shift in tone causing your thighs to clench. You cross your legs as tightly as your belly will allow, your chin held high.
“I’m in a robe, Dieter. Took a long shower.”
His eyes glitter with interest, the tip of his tongue running on the edge of his bottom lip. “How long?”
Feeling hot and swollen for months now, you flush pink, an overripe peach beneath the slightest pressure of his thumb.
“Dieter–,” it’s a whine but you shake your head. “Please don’t tease. I’m so . . . sensitive right now, and I won’t be home until tomorrow and–,”
“Baby, baby, breathe. I know it hurts.” He sits up, his eyes big and dark. “I remember how wet you get around now.”
Your cunt drools onto the robe below you, thighs sticky, his words ringing in your ears.
“Dieter, don’t –,”
“I know I can’t help you but what if I showed you how to help yourself?”
You whimper, arousal now hot and warm in the pit of your stomach. The strength of it makes your pelvis ache. You know it won’t be the same as him, but his voice, it might be enough. You nod, your heart pounding, hand holding the phone shaking.
“Then lie back, baby.” Dieter purrs and it’s almost like he’s pushing you back with his hands. You shift up the bed, careful to not step on your robe with your heels as you center yourself in the covers. But Dieter’s moving, off the bed, and he’s adjusting something behind his phone.
The baby inside you can feel your heartbeat racing and they turn, uneasy. You soothe them with small circles just above your hips, your lips between your teeth. But that touch on your skin, the look in Dieter’s eyes, you brush lower on your skin and immediately you shudder.
“Baby, please, hurry, whatever you’re doing, hurry –,”
You drop your fingers over your thighs, curling and uncurling, drawing imaginary lines like he does in the mornings against your shoulders and back.
“Just a second, sorry, almost got it.”
Then he steps back, the phone hovering in the air. Dieter sits on the bed and the camera holds the entire bed in view. Dieter is nothing if not a performer, bringing a tripod into the bedroom when he knows you need him the most. He’s so fucking hot.
“Can you see me, baby?”
You nod stiffly. “How do you want me?”
“Whatever way is comfortable,” he smiles and it’s almost as hot as his smirk. Fuck, he loves you so much. You slide the robe off your shoulders, exposing the tops of your breasts as best you can and still keeping your phone up. “Perfect, baby, that’s perfect.”
Your hand drops to your thigh again, dragging your nails up under the swell of your belly and you twitch.
“T-tell me what you would want to do,” you begin, your voice shaking, arousal smooth as it licks up your spine, “if you were here right now.” You feel warm all over, the sheets cool against your calves.
This far away, you can’t see his eyes clear enough to watch them darken entirely, but his low grunt is enough. It’s time for him to perform for his pregnant and insatiable wife.
He slips his glasses off and tosses them onto the bedside table, where they land with a clatter. You can’t even think of scolding him when he lifts his hips and yanks his gray sweatpants down his knees, then to the floor. He’s half-hard as he shuffles back to the pillows, nearly in the same position you are. You shift to match him entirely, needing the immersion to be total and complete. You’d cry if he could actually touch you.
“Are you comfortable?”
You nod again. But Dieter shakes his head, his fingers digging into his thighs. “I can’t see you this far away, baby. I need you to say it. Talk to me.”
He was usually the one vocal enough for both of you, any coherent language impossible with the mess he makes out of you. You can’t imagine what you’re going to sound like, not when you’re this needy and desperate already.
“O-okay, Dieter, I’ll try.”
“Good girl.” You whimper again, trying to restrain from touching yourself before he tells you to. But you’re throbbing, the heat blooming from your cunt rushing to the rest of your body, the baby in you restless. As if mother and child can only be soothed by their father. “Now, breathe, darling, you’re flushed.”
You inhale, the air notching on every bone in your spine, and exhale, your lungs shuddering, eyes shut. “Dieter, please, tell me what you’d –,”
“I’d touch your thighs,” he says with such immediacy, your eyes spring open. He’s got the knee farthest from you bent up, as if putting himself on display, turning his hips towards the camera slightly. His other leg is stretched out long beside him and his left hand strokes his cock. Hair and shoulders backlit from the far lamp, the image of him like this alone — just for you — has your cunt clenching, a moan spilling from your lips. “Touch your thighs, baby.”
You can’t grab as much skin as he does, but you try. You lift your knees, and massage the backs of your thighs, then up to your knees, and back down. You can almost feel his breath on your calves and you shudder. “What else? W-where else?”
“I’ve been thinking about your tits for days,” he groans, the sound strangled, his cock now fully-hard and red. He cups himself, twisting as slow as he can take it. “Tell me what your tits feel like.”
“Sensitive,” you gasp as you draw two fingers across your nipple and squeeze gently. Dieter only uses his mouth now on them, so you wet them with yours and return them to your swollen bud, slowly twisting and pulling.
He’s watching you through the camera, eyes wide, breath sharp when you suck your fingers into your mouth. “Fuck, yeah, that’s right. Get them wet. What are you thinking about?”
“You. Your lips around my nipple, under my breast. Your teeth. They’re so heavy, Dieter.”
His hips jerk under his hand, his fingers moving faster now. You can’t quite hear what he’s muttering, but you catch weak mumblings, “gonna feed our baby”, “yeah, your tits”, the baby” —
“Dieter, please–,”
“Touch yourself with your fingers wet from your mouth. T-t-tell me what it feels like.”
With a relieved cry, you slide your hand down from your tits, over the swell of your belly, and in between your thighs. Wetness clings to the curls, to the curve of your ass, your body so ready to take him, and it locks up when you slip a finger inside.
“So wet. Warm. How many fingers can I put in?”
“One, but – can you already do two?”
You nod, the huff arching into a whine. “Yeah, baby. You have no idea how wet I am. I can slip in two with no resistance.”
“Jesus,” he pants and slows down, his hips rocking of their own accord. “You’ve got me so hard.”
You curl your fingers inside of you, searching for that spot made and found and praised by him. Your folds plump and achy, you twist your wrist, scissor your fingers, but it’s not the same. It’s not the same as his three fingers plugging you up, readying you to take so much of him, it’s enough to ease the sharp ache for a bit. You moan, fucking yourself more. He hears it, sees it, and grunts.
“You can come wherever you want, baby,” he murmurs, his own hand hesitant to match your speed. He tugs on his balls and his toes curl, his neck long and tense. “Fuck, I need your hands.”
“Me too,” you sob, real tears pricking the corners of your eyes. It feels good but it’s not the relief you need. It’s pathetic but you don’t want to stop. You can’t get in deep enough, even if you could get around your big belly. “Dieter, I can’t reach. It’s – I’m –,”
“Breathe, love, it’s okay.” His voice is soothing, calming. The same one he uses when you’re in labor and the sweet honey warmth of it sinks into your bones, easing the panic. You slow, gasping, tears pooling down your temple. Your orgasm is harsh, sunken in the dark, waiting for you to draw it out.
“What can you reach?”
“My clit.”
“Then touch that. Can I see?”
You nod, angle the phone down as you rub that electric nub.
“Oh, fuck, baby. I know it’s frustrating and I know it hurts, but you look so fucking good. So wet for me. Your pussy is perfect, pink, just how I like her.”
“Yeah?” you spin your fingers faster. That hot arousal returns steadily, melting back the resentment towards your own body the longer he praises.
“Oh yeah.” You can hear the slap of skin on the other end of the phone and you can picture Dieter flat on his back jerking himself off to your pulsating cunt and you moan, loudly, tension evaporating from your body. “How do you feel?”
“Good. Tight. I just need a bit more.”
“Me too. Let me see your face, pretty girl.” You turn the camera and gape at the sight on the screen.
Precum drips out of his now-purple cock, his chest flushed and neck sweaty. He’s twirling the head around with his thumb at the pace you’ve set with your fingers against your clit.
“Look at what you’ve done to me. You’re so fucking gorgeous. Can’t wait for you to be home so I can eat you out for hours.”
“I want your cock in me, Dieter,” you gasp, furiously rubbing on your clit, sending wave after wave of pleasure coursing through you. Your cunt clenches in time with your thudding heartbeat. “You’re so thick. I wanna feel the stretch.”
“Oh, I’m gonna fuck you hard.” The confession is a low snarl, a promise made between the ridges of his teeth. He fucks his fist faster, the noise over his labored breathing obscene. “Gonna put your hands on the headboard, your pussy in my lap and I’m gonna fuck up into you until I fill you full again. Wanna make you pregnant twice.”
Arousal floods your veins, your thighs a gooey mess. You toss your head back, back arching, and you moan as loud as you can.
“Oh– shit, oh, oh, shit–,”
“You’re gonna leak all over my thighs and when you’re done coming so hard you can’t see straight, I’m gonna lick it up all off you, my wife. Mine. My baby. Mine. Fuck, you look so good full of me.”
He’s never this possessive, never angry that he can’t have you but he sounds livid. He fucks his fist, his hips bucking into nothing, his other hand squeezing his thigh so hard his knuckles go white.
You circle your clit one more time and finally — your orgasm crests, your body locking up, your cunt gushing – and it leaves your mouth before you can stop it –
“Oh, Daddy–,”
You hear him gasp as if electrocuted, and you have to drop your phone to steady yourself as the weight of white-hot pleasure explodes across your body. You rock, breath gone from your lungs, mouth open in a silent scream, and everything slams back into you and you gasp, high and loud, every inch of your skin hot and trembling. You don’t realize you’re sweating until you feel it drip off your neck.
All you can hear is Dieter panting from your phone amongst the covers, the sound muffled. Your eyes flutter as the warm waves languish, then curl, and finally, you sigh as the last waves drain out of your body. If you weren’t lying down you’re sure you’d be dizzy.
“Oh my god,” you mutter breathlessly to no one in particular.
“B-baby, you still there?”
You blindly feel around for your phone, arm so weak it’s trembling as you pull the camera towards your face
Dieter looks about as fucked out as you feel. Cock limp and still dribbling, his stomach and chest are covered in cum. He pushes his damp hair off his forehead, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling.
“Holy shit, baby, that was …”
“Yeah,” you nod, swallowing your dry tongue, wishing again he was here so he could get you a glass of water. “I hope that wasn’t all of it because I really want you to say all of those things again tomorrow when you’re inside me.”
He groans and adjusts his limp cock. “You say that now but wait until Baby Bravo kicks you in the kidneys. You’ll be feeling a lot less generous towards this,” he gestures aimlessly to his naked body, “then.”
You chuckle. “Let’s just hope for the best. Besides,” you say, groaning a bit as you sit up to wipe the sweat off your neck with the robe, “I’m pretty sure I can have you eating out of the palm of my hand. Now that I know your secret . . . Daddy.”
Dieter groans as you laugh. He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be so surprised by now when you make me discover new kinks.”
“Mhmm hmm.”
He rolls his eyes as he gets up and picks the phone off the tripod. Holding the phone to his face, he wipes the cum off with his sweatpants before turning his attention back to you.
“How are you? Feel better?”
“Much better.” You stretch and lean back in the bed. If he was here, you’d probably be asking to eat you out, but at least the knife’s edge of desire has dulled. You can at least wait until nap time to jump your husband’s bones.
“Good,” Dieter sighs, satisfied. “I’ll be there to pick you up from the airport tomorrow, okay?”
He always gets like this the nearer the due date comes, as if he can’t stand to see you lift a finger unnecessarily. You smile and nod, never wanting it to be any other way.
“I’ll text you when I land.”
“Okay. Good night, my biggest love. I love you, so much.”
“I love you too, Dieter.” Goddamn hormones, making you cry again.
“Now lemme say goodbye to our little traveler.”
You wipe your eyes with your thumb as you tilt the phone to your swollen belly.
“Good night, Baby Bravo. Can’t wait to have you around.”
And, at the sound of their father’s voice, they stir. Not kick or hurt. Just a tiny foot against your tight skin.
You are officially crying now.
“They said hi, didn’t they?”
You’re nodding, crying, and he can’t see a damn thing. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “They said good night, Dad.”
He’s patient with you as you wipe your eyes, cheeks flushed again.
“Baby, don’t cry, you’re breaking my heart.”
“You’re just a really good dad. And I’m so lucky,” you blubber. “This is it! I’m never leaving to go scouting again. I can’t take it.”
“Mhmm. Let’s revisit that when you’re about two months postpartum and clawing at the walls.”
You laugh with him, your own sticky and goopy. “Fine.”
“Go to bed, love, and for the record, I’m the lucky one. Don’t forget that. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night.” You blow a kiss and he catches it. You roll your eyes. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
You stay like that for a bit, cradled by the pillows, and your phone on your chest, thinking about everything from Dieter to the next school picture day, to the next family vacation, and of course, the zillion things you have to get done with work before the baby comes — hopefully all from the home office.
She kicks.
You smile, wondering how you and Zelle both just know it’s a girl. Dieter has his own suspicions, he says, but he’s saving them. Orion would probably be thrilled to have a dragon in the family. You snort, hand over the place where she put her little foot.
“I miss them too, sweetie. And once you’re here, we’ll outnumber those silly boys. Maybe we’ll have to get a dog. You’ll like dogs.”
She’s silent, maybe sleeping, maybe thinking about what the heck a dog is. You smile, turn off the lamp, and peel back the covers. The sheets are cool and soft.
You fall asleep, dreaming of little feet, and hands, and wedding rings.
#dieter bravo#daddy dieter#gonna make this an official tag if its the last thing i do#dieter bravo x you#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo x f!reader#dieter bravo fic#dieter bravo x female reader#dieter bravo fanfiction#dieter bravo x oc#pedro pascal character#pedro pascal character fanfic#the bubble fanfic#the bubble#100 followers event
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Finally, I am able to continue this series.
I started doing The Butterfly Ball analysis as a way to get it out of my head because it had burrowed deep inside my brain that it was rotting my thoughts (which still hasn't stopped).
To understand my ramblings fully, you can go to the other parts here:
Start here | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
Here we go for: PART 5: BLOCKING AND WHERE COLIN WAS WHILE PEN WAS REVEALING HERSELF AS LW
I've decided to chop this part into smaller pieces too because when I started part 5, the whole thing was way too long for my attention span. I really am so sorry about the deluge of thoughts that I have for this scene. I'm half tempted to copy Sammy Bates and create videos but I do not have the same talent that she has. So, you're stuck with me and my barrage of written thoughts.
Anyway, Part 5.1 - The stage layout
We've talked about the shape of the venue. We've talked about the aesthetics of the event. We've talked about clothes. And we've talked about music and dances.
Now, let's get to the nitty-gritty of things. Let's talk about the blocking of the whole scene. To start it off, we have to understand the layout of stage.
Just for context, at one point in my life, I studied cinematography and I love movies so I get keyed up with blocking and camera angle choices.
To give importance to how important this scene is, sweeping/panning shots that is 360 degrees in motion with about 150, maybe 200 people, in one room is a nightmare in logistics. Every shot has to matter and every shot has to be reviewed and set up precisely. Most of the ball scenes takes 1 week to shoot because of how technical it is. There is an interview of Tom Verica talking about plotting the whole scene (I think it was the Vanity Fair one).
The particular weight of this ball is shown in how it's set-up like a centre stage. Even the lighting and the floor design draws your attention inward. Out of the three seasons' Ep 8 balls, this is the only one elevated and without anything disrupting the centre.
I've drafted a diagram to fully understand how the whole stage looks like.
**you guys are allowed to call me crazy after this post.
There are 4 major sides that I will call anchor points as we go around this layout.
Entrance (in between the two bug cages)
Side entrance 1
Side entrance 2
Ostrich feathers
One particular stand out for me are the pillars around the stage. The pillars hides and distinctly divides each of the 4 anchor points. While this might go past a regular viewers' head, someone looking for it (or a crazy person like me) will understand the significance of each anchor point. It helps easily assign people on each side and and use blocking (+ camera shots) as a great storytelling device.
These 4 anchor points become very important when Pen goes on stage.
Because every single one of it stands an important woman in Pen's life.
(going clockwise from the entrance) Anchor point 1: Prudence by the entrance
Anchor point 2: Portia by side entrance 1
Anchor point 3: Philippa (+ Albion) by the Ostrich feathers
and Eloise (next to Fran, Alice Mondrich, and Lady Danbury) right by Anchor point 4: Side entrance 2
I just loved that every time Pen turned around, there was someone for her to look at and ground herself. Because what she did, being vulnerable and exposing that part of herself she has kept hidden for a very long time, couldn't have been easy.
(We will get to Colin after the next post if you're wondering where he is in all of this).
I understand that some people were disappointed in how the LW reveal/fallout was portrayed but just for a while, let me help you appreciate that in Pen's most vulnerable moment, these women had equal parts surprise and awe on their faces as they watch their sister/daughter/best friend own up to her mistakes and face the Queen herself. And while we didn't get much out of them in the aftermath in terms of communication, it was still wonderful to know that in the end, all these women become/is important for Pen to fully embrace who she is.
I'm hoping to put all of these out every 1-2 days so I can finally move on to writing other things.
Next up: Part 5.2 The Queen and the bugs
#the butterfly ball#the butterfly ball stage layout#polin#bridgerton#netflix#bridgerton seaosn 3#bridgerton season three#bridgerton s3#bridgerton season 3#netflix bridgerton#colin bridgerton#penelope featherington#penelope bridgerton#portia featherington#the featheringtons#philippa featherington#prudence featherington#eloise bridgerton#peterpanbutterflyball#polin analysis*
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I <3 scp dreams : sarkicism edition
(TW: MENTIONS OF ANIMAL DEATH AND SOME GRAPHICNESS/BL00D IN LAST SECTION)
every once in a while brain will rot so bad that I will have dream feat. favs (in this instance, the 4 klavigar - ion is mentioned by wife but isn't actually there😔)
Setting: Giant venue with tall ceilings, beams, and massive windows. It's almost like a smaller cathedral, now that I'm thinking about it. The hall has more structure to the right, moving into a large medeival dining area aswell as a western clothing store for some reason? With a large loft above the transition area. Birds are nesting there, just a pair of Canadian geese - but likely some smaller ones like sparrows or pigeons. If you have ever gone to cathedrals or just big old buildings in Spain, you know what I'm talking abt. There Is always some sort of birds in there.
Background infos/jolic try not to yap and actually get to the interesting part hard edition: So this was back in time where for some reason, the klavigar were hiding out in this venue far back in like medeival or sumn times idfk there wasn't any signs showing what era.
Lovataar and Orok:
Imagine, walking into said venue from the store side like "omg so wow" then you glance over to the main hall and theres a GIANT, ELABORATE SWISS ROLL. Like those cake rolls but with shitton icing and golden details , chocolate cake with berry filling Idk what the berries was. To the untrained eye, this is just a 3.5 story high 50 meter long Swiss roll. WRONG.
ITS FUCKING LOVATAAR. LOVATAAR IS A SWISS ROLL.
She dosent have a mouth or face or anything but she can talk, and she's talking to a much smaller Orok next to her. Instead of questioning why she is infact, a giant dessert, she is asking:
"Do we know where Ion is?" DUDE WHAT. I MEAN A FAIR QUESTION TO ASK BUT ID BE MORE CONCERNED ABT THE STATE OF YOURSELF.
She never changes back actually. She's a Swiss roll for the rest of the dream untill she just up and dissappears.
Nadox:
Nadox is only there for a snippet unfortunately, I wish he was there more being my fav klavigar and shit but all we see of him is just him napping in a very big, dead, leafless tree. It's inside somehow, and he's just curled up in the branches absolutely SLEEPING IT UP (snoring ofc) like.
Yass sir get that beauty sleep u deserve ong.
I think later on he was talking to Saarn but honestly I can't remember so much shit was going on this entire dream - the klavigars were just a little part of it.
Saarn:
If u know me well u are aware I don't really fw Saarn that much 😒 but omg this part of the dream changed my whole perspective on them like why she kinda awesome sauce now.
You may recall geese being mentioned at some point. This is important, as I was going to check on them at night in the dream. I'm walking up to the loft, hand on the ladder other hand holding a flashlight I'm about to hold in my teeth when.
To my left
Drip.
A tiny bit of blood falls from far above me and splatters on the wood floor.
A bit nervous - obviously who wouldn't be - I shine my light up towards the rafters when two silver eyes reflect back at me.
Its Saarn. Perched up on the ceiling beams, tail swishing below her(important to note, she is her animal/anthro design of mine in this dream) clutching a goose in her teeth. It looked like a very clean kill, no shed feathers or anything just hanging from her fangs.
Dude I was so scared I just stared at her for a hot minute expecting her to come for me next and just rocket down straight for my neck GOOD LORD SAARN WHY ARE YOU BEING SPOOKY.
I think the dream cut to another section at that point, but I continued seeing her out of the corner of my eye for the remainder of the dream. Just there. Stalking.
She kinda badass to me now tho like wowww I see u girlie.
Anyways, not much happened after that. Pretty cool tho, I really enjoyed seeing my hyperfixations in dreams. Thanks for reading!!<3
Psst. Fun fact. I'm gonna do a really in depth drawing of that saarn in the rafters desc. Stick around for that :3 (if I get the motivation to actually finish it ofc)
#scp#scp foundation#sarkicism#klavigar nadox#dream#scp fanart#klavigar lovataar#klavigar saarn#klavigar orok#dream art#artwork#nälkä
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Oh No (part 3)
AN: Guess who’s back! Yeah, it’s me heh. Guys I’m so sorry for abandoning you for a year, everything has been a bit hectic with my family and my studies and stuff, still is, but I’m trying to manage my time better (key word: trying). Anyway, I leave you with another part of Oh No because I was somehow able to watch ESC again this year and my brain rot came back, gifting me with a smudge of inspiration that I had to wring out as much as I could.
Warnings: none I think? Bad English (I’m sorry, I promise I’m trying), implied thoughts (iykwim), I don’t know if there are any curse words here but I warn y’all just in case.
Pairings: Bojan Cvjetićanin x fem!actress!reader + a tiny bit of Bojan x Käärijä + a tiny bit of Käärijä x fem!actress!reader
Words: 1700+
Part 1, Part 2
Without further a due, here is part 3! Hope you enjoy!
As soon as Jere woke up, his first thought was about having lunch with Bojan and the Slovene’s girlfriend. His stomach did somersaults at the idea.
He cursed to himself when he took a look at his phone, seeing that it was later than he would’ve wanted.
He got ready as quickly as he could, taking a little more time choosing his outfit, since he wanted to look presentable and, when he was done, took everything he would need to go out and exited his room.
He knocked twice on Bojan’s room door and waited patiently (not) for someone to open the door.
“Just a second!” He heard a feminine voice from inside, sounding breathless.
The girl opened the door with a smile on her face and Jere couldn’t help but notice the light freckles across her nose bridge and cheeks. Since when did she have those? He hadn’t noticed the night before.
“Sorry, we slept in,” she said sheepishly.
“Don’t worry.” He smiled back.
When he looked towards the rest of the room, he could make out Bojan putting a shirt on and closing the closet door, smiling at Jere when he noticed him.
“Good morning!” The Slovene exclaimed cheerfully while the girl went towards the bathroom.
“Just gonna put on some makeup to fix my zombie face,” she excused herself.
“No need fix,” Jere murmured under his breath at the same time Bojan grumbled something along the lines of “what zombie face? You look like a princess in the mornings”.
She giggled cutely and singsonged a “thank you boys”, making the two men flush and widen their eyes at each other.
Bojan and Jere looked at different restaurants in the Slovene’s phone to decide where they would go beforehand while the girl finished up in the bathroom.
Exiting the hotel lobby with both Bojan and his girlfriend made him feel floaty and he couldn’t keep the dopey smile out of his face, small chuckles leaving his throat at any stupid comment one of them would make.
~~
She couldn’t help but smile as soon as she woke up, the warmth enveloping her being way too familiar for her not to know who it was embracing her from behind.
The girl stretched and snorted when Bojan grumbled something incoherent, a bad headache probably on the way to full development after the night before.
“Good morning, my love,” she whispered against his temple before kissing the warm skin there.
The grumbles grew louder in volume and she chuckled, amused, getting up and heading for the bathroom.
Finishing her morning routine was easy, as she had been doing it automatically for years. However, the fact that there was a dull ache at the back of her head made her choose to be safe and not sorry, taking out a couple of pills and swallowing one herself.
The girl took the room card and, when she was out in the corridor (pyjama-clad and all), she fist bumped when she saw what she caught a glimpse of the day before: a water fountain -with paper cups and all!
She took one of the cups and filled it with fresh water, making her way into the room again and leaving the glass and the pill on the bedside table for Bojan.
Then she checked the time.
“Shit!” She turned towards the bed and climbed on it, gently shaking her boyfriend awake. “Come on, my love.”
“Nooooo,” he whined, “five more minutes.”
“We’re gonna be late for lunch with Jere,” she explained, making him sit up instantly.
“Ugh, my head hurts,” Bojan complained, running a hand down his face and messing up his already messy bed hair.
“Swallow this, it’ll help.”
“You’re an angel sent from Heaven, dear.” He kissed her cheek and took the pill with a big gulp of water.
She chuckled while searching for something cute to wear, deciding on a floral dress, to match the spring weather (although cold, so a jacket would have to do).
There were knocks on the door and she laughed at Bojan trying to put on clothes quickly while getting detangled from the bedsheets.
~~
They finally found a restaurant they all wanted to try and they were lucky enough to be told that it wasn’t full.
“What are you gonna order?” The girl asked her boyfriend, a small pout on her lips when she couldn’t choose just one dish from the menu.
“Probably the chops,” Bojan answered.
“Of course, you Balkan dad.” Her chuckles made Jere smile with a confused tilt of his head.
“What is Balkan dad?”
Both the girl and the Slovene crossed glances and started full on laughing, a couple of heads turning in their direction.
“It’s a stereotype,” she started, but continued explaining when he just stared at her, “apparently, all dads in the Balkan countries behave the same way; and that includes loving barbecued meat!”
“Ah,” he let out eloquently.
The conversation kept flowing after they ordered their food, the sound of their amused laughter filling the small restaurant with lively energy.
“I do! I love Rammstein!” She tried to convince the other two after Käärijä mentioned his favourite band.
“There’s no way, I’ve never heard you listening to them, ever,” Bojan countered
“That’s cause I always wear headphones, duh!”
Jere was wheezing when they kept going back and forth, his cheeks hurting from how much he was smiling that day.
He chanced a look at Bojan when he couldn’t hear them arguing anymore and caught him staring with a soft smile.
“What?” He couldn’t help but ask. The smile on the other man’s face grew wider and he flushed a little.
“Nothing.”
“For real though.” The girl seemed to not have seen any of it. “A lot of people on TikTok edited me to Sonne when the last episode of The Enemy came out.”
“I get it,” Bojan agreed, suddenly, “The Enemy was way too good and the vibes of that song kinda fit.”
When Jere didn’t answer them, the Slovene turned to him with bright eyes and started explaining the plot of a show his girlfriend starred in.
“Stoooop, stop it, Bojan.” She pushed his arm as if to get his attention. “That’s enough, you don’t have to tell him everything.”
Her face was so red, and the rapper stared at the way her eyes seemed shinier.
“She looks beautiful when she blushes, right?” The Slovene teased when he saw the face Jere was making.
“No! Yes, yes,” he stuttered, blood running towards his face, “very pretty.”
She blushed harder at the comment, her eyes looking anywhere but at the two men.
“Okay, that’s enough, the both of you,” she stammered out, a small smile on her lips making it obvious that she wasn’t mad.
“Sorry, love, can’t help it,” Bojan said with a childish grin.
The conversation went towards the rehearsals and the schedules the Slovene and Fin had the next day, trying to make plans to hang out but finding they couldn’t due to everything being overlapped.
“Excuse me, I apologise but we really need a table and, since you have finished already, would you mind continuing your conversation by the bar or somewhere else, please?” A waitress asked them politely with a sorry smile on her face.
“Sure, sorry miss, we’ll be leaving now!” She announced with a flourish.
They kept discussing the next days’ schedules and ended up with a dinner plan and the idea that the girl could take turns to see the both of them during the day, as she insisted on watching them both practice.
“So, Jere, up to join us for a Netflix and chill session?”
“Bojan!” The girl stared at her boyfriend, bewildered, frantically looking around the lobby of their hotel to see if anyone else had heard.
The expression on the Fin’s face must have told the other man that he actually knew what that meant and a smirk started stretching Bojan’s lips.
“Just kidding,” the Slovene singer relented after a good laugh.
“We could watch something on Netflix, though, if you want, Jere.” The girl smiled at him, a pink hue decorating her cheeks.
Käärijä chanced another look at Bojan’s little smirk and looked away immediately after they crossed glances, slowly nodding at the girl and following the couple towards their hotel room.
He was sure Bojan knew that something was up with him, and he worried a bit (a lot) about making the other man uncomfortable.
He didn’t want to lose their friendship just because he developed a small (?) crush on him and his girlfriend. However, he told himself it didn’t seem like Bojan was mad at him; in fact, it looked exactly the opposite, as if the other singer wanted to get a reaction out of him.
He didn’t want to speculate or overthink too much, though, so he let it be for the moment.
When the subject of his thoughts opened the door with his key card, he immediately regretted his decision. There was no way the three of them would fit in that bed.
“Do you guys want snacks? We can order room service- or… didn’t we have a bunch of chocolate stuff around here somewhere, babe?” The girl started walking around and searching for something in the small fridge.
“What do you wanna watch?” Bojan asked him with a small smile directed towards his cute (what? Stop it!) girlfriend.
“You want, is fine,” he answered, trying hard to control where his eyes went.
When the girl stood back up with a quiet ‘aha!’, Bojan had already decided what to watch, setting up the laptop.
“Guys,” she started, biting her lip, “shouldn’t we at least change from our outside clothes? We sleep there, Bojan.”
“That’s very true.” He raised a hand towards his face and pushed away his hair, leaving it tousled (cute- no!). “Do you want some of my clothes, Jere? So that you don’t have to go all the way to your room.”
“Okay,” he said, ears flushing at the thought.
The girl went inside the bathroom with a set of clothes and Bojan handed him a pair of sweats and a black shirt with a smile, turning around and starting to take off his own clothes.
“Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look!” He told himself, widening his eyes and quickly turning around, changing as fast as he possibly could.
AN2: hope you enjoyed it! If you want any more parts, give it some love!
#esc 2023#esc x reader#bojan cvjeticanin#bojan cvjetićanin#bojan cvjetićanin x fem!reader#bojan cvjetićanin x reader#käärija#käärijä x bojan#käärijä x reader#fem!reader#fem!actress!reader#eurovison 2023#eurovision#joker out
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Take it from an Old Man from the Waitress Broadway Musical written by Sara Bareillis is another song Heimerdinger could sing, specifically to Ekko.
some jokes but mostly I just really love their interactions
╔═*✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧-✦-✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧*═╗
Take it from an old man (man's is old) Time's just sand slippin' past (time=ekko's element, they time-traveled together) We wanna hold it in our hands But no one ever sees what falls through the cracks (Jayce and Viktor making HexTech and it resulting in Everything) Take it from an old man My mistakes have made me (Him going over how the arcane was terrible in his youth for communities) And I am what I am And though I don't believe in silver linings (He didn't believe in HexTech at first, but does believe in evidence)
Ooh
I believe that there's something in you (He recognizes how smart Ekko is)
I believe in you
Something good is tryin' to break through (He saw how hard Ekko worked for the firelights and the undercity)
Through
You might have to fight the good fight And when you think you can't
You can
Take it from an old man Take it from an old man The days don't stretch any longer (He admits to Ekko that he hasn't felt like he truly lived before him)
They've left tracks upon my skin (he explodeded)
But I reckon made me stronger
But I believe there's something in you Something you should be seeing to (Ekko doesn't believe Powder is there inside Jinx in the beginning of the show, but he fights for her anyways. Especially after his time in the Alternate Reality where he realizes that he shouldn't have given up on her) Bet it all on yourself at least one time (When he returns with invention, he is trusting his invention. Himself! to change history and fight)
'Cause honey, win or lose
Win or lose
It's one hell of a ride
It's one hell of a ride
And if you lack the strength of your own Honey, hold out your hands and take it from an old man (He BandleCity/Sacrifices himself for Ekko to go back)
╚═*✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧-✦-✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧*═╝
------------‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙· Master Fic List *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊--------------
Anyways, this show is eating me alive from the inside out and I have other songs I want to break down like this for this show, specifically for Viktor because he is my biggest brain rot rn. Okay bye thanks for reading <3
#arcane#heimerdinger#ekko arcane#song lyrics#fanfiction#ekko league of legends#viktor arcane#song analysis
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