#anyway they are perfect and i missed them

[thedovesaredying]

Gnawing on Ghost like a rabid dog as we speak. God, I need to tear him to pieces with my teeth. He's so upset that his precious princess was sullied in his defence, but she'd do it a thousand times over if it meant keeping him alive and by her side!! Just, the imagery of Ghost holding her hand, USING her as the weapon to strike Graves down? I'm on my knees, reaching for the skies like a man praying for answers from their God. I'm not sure if I want them to make gentle and tender love to one another, or to fuck dirty like wild animals no longer burdened by the chains of human decency.

Also, I've really been turned off König recently, but he's a real one. He's me while reading this fic frfr. Telling the king he's a little bitch and approving of Princess getting her hands dirty to secure her man and future. König complaining about missing his wife was just perfect lmao, he's bored and misses his (future) queen :(((

Anyway, eat shit Graves, you won't be missed!

Your Failure, His Rebirth

Tags: knight!Ghost x princess!reader, blood and violence, minor character death, medieval medicine, terrible parenting, allusions to Ghost's past, knight!Keegan x f!oc, king!Konig Summary: Sometimes the universe works in your favor, sometimes it forces you into a role you were never meant to play. a/n: look I know he wouldn't say that, that's why he's reading off the teleprompter while I hold him at gunpoint.

Blood hits the ground and is covered by Ghost’s armored knee as he struggles to stay up. Struggles for his next move.

It happens so quickly.

Your hands shake where they press to the fence keeping you from the field 

but your feet are sure

and your body knows how to jump the barricade as surely as it swings onto a horse.

You’re deaf to the shouting behind you. Uncaring of the hands that grab for you as you run. The ground lurches under you. The wind roars in your ears, racing your blood for which can leave you faster.

Your fingers wrap around the hilt of the knife on Ghost’s hip, ripping it from the sheath as you turn to face your would-be husband.

Your breath comes in hiccups, gulped down with the same fear that threatens to paralyze you. Your hands shake but your grip is tight as you hold the knife up towards Graves’ throat.

The blade of his sword brushes your dress, the razor’s edge leaving thin slices in the fabric. You hope it cuts you, gives you some bite to gnash your teeth against. You don’t see how it would be any more painful than his win.

The stands are raucous. Screaming and shouting hits your ear like the crash of waves, ebbing and flowing with each breath. Everything is too loud, too bright, too alive when you feel like you’re dying, like your belly’s been slit and it’s everything you can do just to keep standing.

You grip the hand holding the knife with your other, trying to stop the shaking. All it does is double it.

“Come on now darlin’,” Graves coos, his voice dripping with mirth, “What do you think you’ll do with that?”

“I’ll kill you,” You assure him, “I’ll kill you and then I’ll kill myself.” After all, if Ghost is going to meet his end, it’s only fitting that you follow him.

Graves tips his head to laugh. Malice fills the air. Ghost says your name, the only softness that could find you in this grave you’ve dug, and Graves twists his hand. Hearing the squelch of Ghost’s skin turns your stomach, frays your nerves. Ghost grunts against the pain, you’re sure it must be torture.

“Hush now. Royalty is talkin’,” Graves reminds him, holding a finger to his helm, uncaring that your knife hovers dangerously in front of him. His hand drops to his side before he turns his attention back to you.

“I like a little fight in my horses too, makes it more fun breaking you in.“ He tilts his head, showing you the soft pink of his neck. “Go on, let’s see if you can do it.”

You can feel the tears stinging your eyes, pushing forwards against your lash line. You will the knife forward. Grit your teeth with determination and beg your body to just move. Your hand feels so unsteady, your nose clogged with the scent of iron, he’s pointing the way, it should be easy to kill him. 

The memory of blood seeping over your hands pulls at you. The warmth of it, almost sticky the way it clung so desperately to your skin. That damn Baron’s last attempt at keeping himself alive, blood released from his body in a way it never should have been still trying to stick to the body, any body really, in a plea to cling to life. Skin had never broken so easily, had never felt so penetrable, so delicate, had never changed itself from barrier to entryway, had never sickened you quite the same as it did when your knife met it.

You remember the bile rising in your throat, the same as it does now. You know the panic still. You’re not meant to hold such instruments.

Ghost had saved you then. He dealt the killing blow. Or, at least said he did. But the blood that pooled under the crumpled body had reached towards you. A damning accusation. It had known, as well as you did now, the sins that had been committed by your hand. Sins you could still feel under your fingernails, pressing at your skin in the hopes that it too would part.

You can’t do it.

Your breath shudders.

Your knife lowers.

You feel the sick unseen smile that Graves wears under his helm, the knowledge that he’s won, like a death shroud.

And you feel Ghost’s hand just as fast,

the wrap of his fingers around yours,

And the thrust of your knife, 

his knife, 

into Graves’ throat.

The blood that comes now is like a fountain.

It sprays over you with a sickly gurgle. You hardly have time to blink and your eyes sting with the shock of blood you couldn’t avoid. Ghost’s hand wrenches yours to the side to slit his opponent’s throat, and your eyes follow it. The jagged edge of Grave’s neck, the wheeze of his windpipe, the instant drop of his sword to grasp at his neck, you feel your body shudder with the convulsion of it. 

You can’t drop the knife, Ghost’s grip makes sure of that. Your knuckles creak under the strain of his hold, your fingers going numb the same way the rest of you is. 

You can’t keep a breath in. Each gasp feels tighter than the last.

Ghost leans his weight on you as he stands, and you feel blood soak your back, your dress cut to the skin as he rips Graves’ sword from his side. You barely feel the warmth of your own blood under the rapid cooling of theirs.

Ghost points Graves’ sword at the priest, his weight against your back, his hand still holding yours, your world holding himself up on your shoulders. Your Atlas passing you the Earth.

“Call it,” He growls.

“Sir- Sir Simon Riley, is- is,” The priest stutters, glancing at your father still back in the stands, his face is white with the same shock that grips you, “has bested-” he tries again, “-Sir Phillip Graves is unable to continue-”

“Dead,” You correct, your voice little more than a whisper, “he’s dead.”

The priest nods, gesturing to the crowd with a flourish, “Your victor: Sir Simon Riley!”

The explosion of rabid excitement from the crowd deafens you, each voyeur throwing their own comments into the ring. Some cheer. Others curse. You couldn’t piece any single voice together, all of them seemed to bleed into the ringing that filled your ears, but you got the gist: villain, beast, heel. Blood they begged for, but murder… You didn’t understand the line that they drew, what was the difference? They cheered for Ghost’s injury, but screeched at Graves’ death. Blood was blood. Wasn’t it?

It all felt the same sticking to your skin.

Tunneled your vision until you couldn’t see anything but the blood soaking your empty fingers.

Your lady-in-waiting holds your face in shaking hands. Her handkerchief wiping your brow, over your cheeks, her lips move silently as she takes your hands to wipe them as well. Keegan swipes your --Ghost’s-- knife from where you’d unfeelingly dropped it to the dirt and slips the blade into his belt. 

The ringing is starting to leave your ears, replaced by your lady-in-waiting’s sobbing. “My lady,” repeated over and over through her tears. It’s only then that you realize the weight of your knight has left you.

You turn to look at the dirt, praying you don’t find him lying there, dead.

“Where’s Ghost?” You find your voice long enough to ask. 

“With the physician,” Keegan replies. His hand finds the back of your lady-in-waiting’s neck, turning her sobs to sniffles. She keeps wiping at your hands, the bloodied handkerchief doesn’t clean anymore, it smears. Bloodying and unbloodying your hands with each swipe.

You cast your gaze around. They land on the retreating shoulders of your knight. His armor hanging awkwardly off his body, his side still bloodied and leaking. He leans his weight onto another knight, one arm around the man’s shoulder, the other around the doctor that helps him limp back towards the tents. You pull your hands from your lady-in-waiting to run after him, and she pulls you right back.

“My lady,” Her voice rises in a panic.

“I have to make sure he’s alright,” You tell her thoughtlessly.

“You’ll have to do more than that,” Your father’s voice booms behind you. Again you feel your blood drain from your body. Your shoes squish in the bloody mud, you’re sure most of it must be from your own shock with how quickly it seems to rush from you. You turn to find your father, your mother beside him, her hands clenched so tight in her skirts that the fabric is starting to protest. 

“Have you any idea of the mess you’ve made?” Your father asks, his teeth grit. “Throwing my kingdom to a dog with no master. Who knows what he’ll do to us.”

“And you’re any better? Bringing in foreign brutes to try and- and-” You gesture vaguely to König who hovers behind your parents, then to yourself, “You think a man like that wouldn’t kill me before my wedding night?”

König scratches his cheek under the chain mask he wears, muttering in German, “Ah, I miss my wife.” You don’t know what the fuck he’s saying but the weary-nostalgic look he gives your bloodied dress doesn’t make you think it’s anything good.

“You think Graves would have been any better?” You ask, your gaze steadily kept off the corpse at your feet.

“Graves was loyal to-”

“To himself!” You cut your father off, “You truly think that man had the kingdom’s best wishes in mind while brutalizing his opponents?”

“And you think a Riley does?” Your father asks, his tone flat, accusatory. 

“No,” You relent, anger rising in your throat. You’ve never cared where Ghost came from, the reputation that hung like a sword over his family’s crest. Ghost has more than proved himself, more than shown his capabilities, and more than shown where his allegiance lies. “But he doesn’t have to care about the kingdom,” You harden your voice, Ghost doesn’t care for the crown except when it sits on your head, “he’ll care for the people because he cares for me.”

Your father shakes his head, opens his mouth to speak, and freezes. König’s knife dimples his neck, exerting the slightest pointed force to press the skin without breaking it. The German looms behind him, bending over his shoulder to cock his head and watch the pallor of your father’s face as the blood drains from it. The chainmail of his mask hangs haphazardly to the side, and you watch the sickly smile that splits his mouth, showing his teeth as he speaks.

“You are a weak fool,” He seethes, “What battles have you fought to earn your kingdom? What foes have you slaughtered?” The knife presses more firmly against your father’s throat and you feel your stomach flip, your heart clench, at the blood that blooms and falls over his skin. As much as you may hate the man, you don’t want to watch anyone else die. “I have often thought that crowns should be won.” 

Your father, proud and steady, has never felt the kiss of a sword. His throne was handed to him, and though he once trained in fighting, he’s never seen battle. You watch the man that you have always looked at as a pillar of steadfast rule, of divine right, crumble in the face of a little blood. A man who would sell his own child in a time of peace, looks like such a small evil next to König.

You’re starting to think perhaps thrones should be won too.

“But the-”

“Do not start caring for your people now Herr König,” König drawls, the words thick on his accented tongue, “it is-” he pauses, looking for the word.

“Embarrassing?” You suggest, your father tries to glare, any malice already snuffed by his fear.

“Yes, embarrassing.” König agrees. He points his knife your way and gestures at you, “Go on little maus, go find your prize.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice. You grab your skirt in still shivering fists and run towards the knights’ lodgings.

The losing knights are licking their wounds when you get to their tents. They nurse scrapes and bruises, split lips and cut brows, bruises already purpling over their ribs as their pages assist them in discarding their armor. They pay you little mind, but those that do… You can feel their eyes tracking you, imagining what they might have had if they weren’t up against such formidable foes. 

You don’t give them a second thought, pushing the flap for the physician’s tent to the side in order to duck inside.

Your eyes find Ghost immediately. Stripped down to his breeches, the wide plane of his back tensed as the physician pokes and prods at the deep gash that runs through his side. Blood oozes out of the hole in his back, the tensed muscle so beautifully displayed under his skin now fills in a deep red between its torn edges. The physician leans in to sniff at the wound and Ghost’s already tensed muscles seem to tense further, as if even the sound of it might hurt him. No. His chest expands a fraction before the tension is back, squeezing tight at his ribs like a vice. It’s breathing that’s hurting him.

The mess of his blond hair is drenched with sweat, his skin smeared with blood and dirt, he looks the picture of a man beaten into the ground, and yet he positively glows in the dim light of the tent. Your new king. 

You take a hesitant step forward and the physician glances at you. Only to stop his work and dip his head in a bow that forces Ghost to turn and look as well. You watch the painful twist of his muscles as he moves, the squeeze of blood from his wound. There’s a darkness in his eyes, a pale-ness to his cheeks, it must be excruciating. You can’t help hurrying to him, throwing your arms around his slick shoulders and burying your face against his neck. 

Your dress is already bloody, your nerves already frayed, what else can you do but look for his pulse’s quick thump.

Ghost’s hand squeezes your wrist. Clean. 

“My lady,” He murmurs, “Let the physician work.”

He has more hair on him than you’d thought. You feel it vaguely when you shake your head, the light strands of hair on his shoulders tickle your nose, and you can feel where it’s been slicked close to his skin running down his spine the same way you feel your dress stick to you. You feel terribly childish, failed somehow. Why do you still feel like you’ve lost even with your prize in your arms? 

His hand doesn’t leave you, doesn’t push you away, he makes no noise of discontent at your flagrant disregard of his order, and you wonder how much of his comment was more for the physician’s benefit than his own. 

“She’s alright sir,” The physician informs Ghost, “Can move to your lap when I tackle the back.” Ghost grunts and you peek over your arms to watch the physician. His fingers are prodding Ghost’s wound again. The cut looks just as bad from the front, the skin bowed in and sliced long from the wiggle of Graves’ sword, and the muscle streaked with blood. Pulling your own needle and thread through his skin feels like a distant memory now.

How had you managed to hold your stomach then, when you find it so fragile now.

“I’m sorry,” Ghost grits, as the physician packs herbs into the wound and pinches the edges, “There’s blood on your hands because of me.”

“Royalty mustn’t apologize.” You mumble. His fingers squeeze your wrist lightly.

Ghost is quiet, only the wet pull of threads through skin filling the silence between you. There’s no comfort in the rub of his thumb over your wrist, and the longer you stand there the more pointedly you feel the drying mud of blood and fabric congealing against your skin. It’s unignorable and uninterrupted. There is only the chill of tacky discomfort that sticks to you.

“Ghost?” You ask nervously, the air feeling heavy, bearing down on your shoulders like a terrible weight.

He breathes and it feels like a noose being fitted to your neck. You squeeze your arms tighter around his shoulders, begging him to be as selfish as you feel, to give you this one thing, to not let you go now. 

“It will follow you,” He says finally, his words cutting through the anxious tension in your shoulders, “You’ll scrub your hands and still feel blood under your nails, you’ll ask yourself if there wasn’t someone better, a hand that didn’t hold you like a weapon.”

“I made my choice,” You press, “you’re my sword, and if I can’t be-”

“I’m your knight,” He clarifies, “and I have loved you far past what is acceptable for a knight-” he hisses through his teeth at the physician’s work, his voice faltering for only a second, “-but I’m still your knight. Not the other way around.”

Despite yourself you smile, your cheeks hot and your stomach giddy. He’s reprimanding you, his voice anything but sweet and yet you can only focus on one thing. Love. You repeat it to yourself like a mantra. Love, love, love. Far past what’s acceptable, far past what’s expected, what’s necessary, far past what’s proper. Love, love, love. From your knight who’s always held his hands steady and now seems to shake down to his fingertips as the physician presses herbs between the stitches of his wound.

“I love you,” You whisper, sure he’ll hear you. He always has.

“I know,” He tugs at your wrist, raising it to his lips to scrape his teeth over your pulse, you wonder if he can feel the way it hammers under his lips, “and I’ll be dead in the fucking ground before I let anyone take you from me now.”

[fashionteahouse]

Angel, could you write a Paul x reader story where she invites the pack to join her at a costume party (she’s dressed in a sexy jaguar costume)? They agree to go, but until this point, Paul has been denying the imprint bond. However, at the party, he gets jealous seeing her dancing with another guy and almost kissing him. I’d love a conclusion with smut, either in the bathroom at the party or back at her house, as long as there’s a conflict before the climax. Only write it if you feel comfortable doing so—I adore your writing! 💋

of course and i appreciate you so much 🥺💜

or what - paul x reader

Arms were tightly crossed, the glare could burn a hole through the floor.

Disappointment, anger, and frustration seeped out of the man that stood sat in front of you.

He knew you well, you knew him well. But not well enough to spark any conversation. However, one look seemed to change things.

Everything was starting to make sense. You seen him around the neighborhood, but often wondered how he had gotten so big and muscular and only stuck around the same group of people.

You’ve known him to flock to many others rather than sticking to a core group.

It all made sense now.

“So…This is…Forever?” you speak out. The very tall man who you found out to be Sam, nods at your answer.

“Oh.” you say and sit back in your chair.

“The secret cannot be told to anyone else. You’re an imprint and this is the pack.” he says.

You make a quick zipper motion with your fingers on your mouth. It’s not like anyone would believe you anyway.

“Are we done? Can I go home now?”

He was annoyed. You were a bit annoyed as well. He was so rude.

“Paul.” Sam warns him before taking the conversation back to you, “What do you think?”

“Nothing. I won’t say anything.” you say and Paul rises up with a scrape of his chair and makes his way out of the door, with it slapping to a close behind his absence.

“Sorry about him.” Sam apologized.

“It’s all good.” you say and rise up, making your way to your own home.

One person didn’t spoil the bunch, the pack welcomed you with open arms.

You were grateful.

You met the other imprints. They allowed you to be yourself. They all were a breath of fresh air and you suddenly felt sad.

People spread rumors and they didn’t know what great company they were. They didn’t know that they risked their lives to protect the very people who ridiculed them.

“Come with me, please!” you say with a smile.

They all sat around the table at lunch.

“Will there be girls there?” Quil asks with a mouthful.

“Duh.” you say.

That’s when agreements were made amongst the group. All except one.

“You going?” you heard Jacob ask him.

“I’m good.” he muttered. He didn’t bother to look up not once since you sat at the table.

Jacob frowned a bit and you caught this.

“It will be fun without the attitudes anyway.” you say, looking at Jacob. You missed the glare that came from Paul.

You smooth out your costume with your hands and turn in one circle as you stood in the mirror.

“What do you think?” you ask nervously.

“Hot.” both Kim and Emily speaks out.

“Y/N. Look at you!” the guy who threw the party says.

“Hey. Thanks for inviting me.”

“I knew to invite you. You brought company. Good looking company at that.” he says as he eyes the people that you came with.

You playfully roll your eyes at his statement and merge and mingle with others.

Flickering your eyes around to spark up conversation, Paul was there.

You ignore him. He ignores you.

A song that you liked came on. It made you excited, however, a guy found your excitement to be adorable. You danced a bit on your own and he made his move.

He wasn’t bad looking at all. You give him attention.

“Do you know how to dance?” you ask and he nods confidently with a grin. You both dance. Song after song, you both laughed together as hands began to not be shy of one’s bodies.

Paul was stagnant on the couch. He had perfect view of what was happening on the dance floor, watching as a foreign feeling started to bubble inside of him.

Jealousy.

He felt it was personal. His fists were tight against his knees. A girl flopped down next to him as he stared ahead.

“Wanna dance?” she asks with a smirk.

He looked at her.

“Yeah.” he says.

She thought his bitter tone was hot. Paul allowed her to take his hand. He got closer and close to the spot where your hand was around the guy’s neck, your hips rolled and swayed to the beat.

Paul didn’t like the greediness that reeked from the guy you were dancing with. He didn’t even pay attention to the girl who danced up on him.

“Damn, you’re driving me crazy.” the guy says to you. Paul picks up the sultry giggle that bubbled out of your throat. He had to watch as the guy’s hands traveled down your waist, feeling you up and you allowing it.

Heads were tilted as you both lean in closer and closer, staring at each other with interest. Lips were inches away from each other and he knew what was about to happen.

He couldn’t take it anymore. His wolf couldn’t take it anymore.

Grabbing your arm, he ignored your protests.

In the hallway, you push him.

“The hell is your problem?” you yell. It was muffled from the loud music.

“We need to talk.” he grits out.

You walk away with a groan.

He grabbed your arm again and you both were standing on tile floor in the bathroom. He shuts the door.

“I don’t want to talk to you!”

“Why?” he asks angrily. He steps closer, “You were going to hook up with him?”

Meeting his fierce gaze, “You jealous?” you say with a teasing grin.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment before he huffed out softly.

“You wanted me to dance up on you like that, huh? All you had to do was ask.” you say and end it with your hand cupping his chin with your hand for a moment and you close the bathroom door behind you.

You shook your head.

You didn’t know where that came from. You knew that he didn’t want the imprint, so why you still kept the door of opportunity open for him, you weren’t too sure.

The guy you were dancing with comes back into your view.

“Hey, where’d you go?” he asks with his hands slightly up.

“Nowhere. I’m here now.” you say returning the smile he gave you.

He then displayed a look as he looked behind you, “That guy..I could talk to him if you want. I didn’t like him roughing you up like that.”

“Oh he didn’t-“ you start but you were interrupted.

“You’re gonna do what?” you hear Paul boom out.

Paul was now standing in front of you, pushing you behind him. You looked up at his back and the back of his head as you couldn’t believe that he would do such a thing. He acted so disinterested and now here he was, standing in front of you in a protective stance.

“Oh, so you heard me. Leave her alone.” the guy you danced with says.

“Or what?” Paul grits out.

One mistake happened. It was a shove. Paul barely budged but it was enough to make him snap.

He didn’t have to use much power but his shove made him stumble back hard onto the floor.

Crowd of eyes started to look.

The guy didn’t want to be embarrassed, not in front of his friends so he scrambled up fast to his feet but Paul was faster.

One punch in the mouth made him groan out in pain as Paul peered over him. Crowds of oohs surround the party and you grab Paul’s arm.

“We have to leave.” you say in panic.

Paul turns, walking right out of the door, but he makes sure that you are walking right with him.

Your feet tries their best to keep up with his steps. He’s fuming.

“I need to calm down. I don’t feel like phasing. Fuck!”

You watch him as he paced the empty lit up street, he tried his best to push the anger down.

“I’m sorry..” you say.

“For what? You didn’t even do anything.” Paul says but continues to pace.

“You can go back to the party. Go back to that guy. I don’t even care anymore.”

You snort a little, “Looks like you do care.”

He glared up.

“Paul. Why are you fighting it so much?” you ask.

“Fighting what? What are you even talking about Y/N?” he asks impatiently.

“You know what I’m talking about….” you say. He doesn’t say anything and you then turn to walk away.

You felt some type of way. He was making things hard for no reason.

“Where are you going?” he echoed out.

“Home.” you mutter.

You continue to walk. When you turned the corner onto your street, you didn’t expect him to be following you.

“Okay, you can leave now.” you say as you face your front door with your key.

“I don’t feel like it.” he says.

“Of course.” you mumble but the excitement fluttered about in your stomach as you unblocked your door.

He sat on your couch comfortably as you went to your room.

You struggle. You sigh in slight panic as your fingers tried their best to zip down the zipper. It was stuck.

You call for him.

He’s there.

“Do..Do you mind?” you ask and he’s walking towards you, “It’s stuck.” you continue.

His fingers fixed the zipper with ease and his fingers zipped it down.

He heard the fast racing or your heart.

“Thanks.” you whisper. He just looks at you. You look at him. It felt like a magical thread was attached to the both of you. So many pent up emotions were let out as you both slowly leaned in.

To you, his lips were perfect. To him, your lips were perfect. Both lips moved in sync as you both then clutch to each other. His dominant tongue swirled around yours and your knees buckled from such talent.

Falling backwards on the bed in your room, his knee was placed between your legs as he leaned down to continue to savor the taste of your mouth.

His hands felt up your body and your body screamed for more. The soft caresses that was inflicted upon him, made him and his wolf purr in satisfaction.

He didn’t know why he fought it for so long. All that he knew was, to claim you.

Your rolled side to side as you clutched onto his arms, his thick fingers pumping in and out of you. The sounds that uttered from your throat went right to his dick.

The same flesh that sprung out stiffly as he pulled his pants down.

Pumping into you carefully, it was you that clutched to him as he held you tight. He picked up the pace that made you sigh and whisper out his name. Gripping each other’s skin, his thrusts were powerful but full of passion.

As you both sit up and hugged each other, a deep and passionate kiss was shared between you two. You both saw stars as both set of hips met each other again and again. It looked and felt as if you two were all time lovers.

He kept his eyes open. He begged you to keep your eyes open. He wanted you to remember this moment, remember that you were making him feel this way. He didn’t want you to forget. You didn’t want to forget.

[melankkholy]

what size does love wear? (part 1)

✎ The lights, the podium, and the spotlight are all yours. As an upstart model, your life went by pleasantly with the girls, but maybe you were too dim to realize that you were living in an illusion. Could Leon, the one and only rockstar of the hearts, be the man you were waiting for in a milieu full of counterfeit people, or are you too much of a hopeless romantic?

cw: NO MINORS AND I MEAN IT WHEN I SAY IT, messy messy messy, drugz, fem! model reader, family drama aka daddy and mommy issues, very uncanny and might be disturbing for some people idek, vom!ting and possibly or (implied eating disorders), p in v, oral (fem! receiving) praises, reader is going thru some shii, MDNI, that's all i can come up with, but please let me know if i missed something very vital, and find the song lyrics:3

It all unfolds that night at a soirée to which you were invited in the most gingerbread-like language.

You don’t have a clue how fat cats hang out at such a lavish icebreaker. That these people took you in very recently, right after your meteoric rise to superstardom, and with a wham bang. You didn’t quite make it onto the Hollywood Walk of Fame with all those big golds and jet-set stars, sure, but your killer legs, waist, and pretty tits promised you a chance to eavesdrop a wee bit on Victoria’s secret. Well, who knows? Maybe one day, even without any formal studies in acting, you could star as an aspiring actor in some movie and kiss the handsome and beefcake famous guys. You could be the next lead in a new goofy movie like Fifty Shades of Grey. Hollywood is full of pretty model casts these days, anyway. 

So many possibilities. 

Mostly with your height, physique, and poise, which would make most men who can’t be more than 5 feet and 7 inches tall (barely) outclass them in every way (never mind the grandfatherly inheritance that your mother inherited from whomever-whatever-who-cares and your surname that unexpectedly gained a notoriety, even your daddy abruptly switched to your mother’s maiden name on paper), you’re the size perfection angel of the runways. Precious, precious you. 

A happy family tableau with your mother, who doesn’t listen to your advice to break up with that man, who happens to be your father, and he has a mania for alcohol and the girls younger than him of late. 

The only vestige of this particular and domestic picture is you here, dressed in the elegance of a collectible piece from a costly collection of so-and-so, to the party you were summoned to. 

“It tastes like shit.” 

Claire’s whining in front of you, idly brandishing a hurricane glass full of bubbly as pale pink and powdery as her rosy cheeks. Thankful for the leverage of your elbows on the bistro table between you, you lift your chin, planted in the inner cushions of your joined palms, and give her a passing glance. Then your starry eyes drift back to the human orgy you’ve been tracking since the moment you stepped in the venue. 

A myriad of eminent names. How exciting to be able to see their imperfect skin up close under the veneer of make-up. Turns out there is a huge Photoshop business going on in this particular circus. 

Still, it’s hard not to get caught up in the allure of their luster. Thinking about how you were unanticipatedly plunged into a world of gold and silver, of all the thesauri that connote the existence of riches, you should absolutely bask in it—if they’ll let you. 

“You’ve had too much to drink.” Jill gives Claire a little mouth joke from beside her, which elicits a muttered snort from Claire. 

“What else was I supposed to do?” 

“Dunno. Maybe snort a line or two. Together.” 

“You could’ve told me from the start, Valentine.” Claire rolls her eyes and surveys you with her big blue lenses. 

“Hey, you.” 

You look up at Claire, a giddy smile lacing your lips. 

“Huh?” 

“Get in the back room. Jill, you and I are getting the motherfucking sniff on some good coke.” 

Coke. Oh, great. 

The hot “sport” of your demographic. Once your wacky mom’s, too. 

The poison you swore you’d never put your mouth (actually your nose) on, or the antidote to survival, as your father would call it. 

A silly little girl’s dumbest and greatest fear. 

But you’re too much of a sucker to risk losing a high-profile group of friends like Jill and Claire, the only two girls you respect in this game of whatever. Just reject them, and in a fraction of a second, you’ll be all alone, and people here would pulverize you raw. 

So without saying a word, you tag along behind them on a whim, as if cocaine is your passion. Since your friends are here, you just came to kick it.

The proverbial back room turns out to be really far back. 

The smell of weed is tangy and mixed with other substances you can’t name the second you walk in. The scent of perfume adds a different festivity. Leaves a seductive melody and holds promises to give you airborne wings. 

This must be the precise definition of getting wasted. 

A few familiar faces greet you, occasionally stopping your group of three to take a quick photo—a social media travesty, for a photo that implies that the girl who wrapped her arms around you in nylon hugs with her platinum blonde and padded lips, whom you haven’t even said a word to yet, is a hoot on your social media account. Is it worth it? 

Hell, maybe. 

Followers are everything, even for you. 

Chris, ass up, nose to nose in the coarse dust strewn on the glass surface table of the Boeing 707, straightens up as three pairs of heels materialize in front of him, oozing through the see-through transparency of the glass table. 

“You’d be a great big brother if you didn’t always finish the best one ahead of us.” 

“I’m always a big and great brother.” Chris Redfield, big and virile, stretches up in front of your eyes and wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve like a credit card sliding horizontally and smoothly through a POS machine. 

Just like a goddamned joke. 

In flesh and blood, Chris Redfield, the lead guitarist—a member of the very band you’ve been a diehard fan of since you were a teenager and whose songs have lulled you into slumber—is in front of you. Yes, you really were sleeping with rock music playing in the background. 

His pupils are vacant. Like his cranium. 

“You all look like those three girls from that cartoon where a professor accidentally creates three special strong girls—ahhh—what was the name again?” 

“Powerpuff Girls?” Jill interjects at Chris’ reference with a wan grin, leaning her leg over the glass tilt table. Claire also crouches in front of her and clasps onto Jill’s knees. Almost as if she’s biding her time to eat her out. She might do that. Later.

“Yeah!” Chris snaps his fingers. 

“Uh, I...” You spring forward to introduce yourself before the conversation drifts. Girls are already nose-dipping in the dusty spill on the table, and you stick your hand out to Chris. 

Surprisingly, he accepts the handshake straight away. In the course of these formal introductions, whenever you were to extend your hand to someone, they’d be looking you over from head to toe like you were a little bit of a poseur. Ironically, Chris welcomes you with a genuine smile. It seems modesty hasn’t kicked the bucket. 

You’re being all polite, handing Chris your name, and then—cue dramatic music—someone crashes through the pivot door like it’s a Hollywood blockbuster. 

Every head turns in the cumulative direction of the sound, all but assured by the door’s dramatic swoosh, all collectively. 

Turns out it’s none other than Leon Kennedy, the finest and equally “big-time rockin’ rock star of the twentieth generation,” as they say. 

“His ass again?” Claire pipes up from where she’s sitting. She’s not a big fan of Leon. She has her reasons. In the interest of brevity, Claire and Leon had, in fact, dated in the interim. Once upon a time, there was a ship named Cleon, a name the adoring admirers nicknamed their own ship name in all corners of the tabloids. 

While you can understand how ticked off she is, you might as well not do it at all. There is, at last, a deck of cards in front of you that you may see for the first and last time in your life. In fact, he is even moving towards you with his own confident steps. 

For you, it’s a moment of blimey, but for him it’s as natural and insignificant as the instinct to pee when he’s drunk too much stuff. 

“Hi there.” 

Now you can understand people amplifying at the mere sound of a certain voice and, if necessary, wetting their pants, pussies, and dicks—Leon isn’t the pickiest about it, really. Now everything makes total sense. He must be getting laid as much as he’s making money with his mouth. 

And he is. Add a pinch of that buzzing singing voice to a muscular body, a tall stature, and money in swollen pockets, and Leon gets what he wants in a jiffy. Kiss his ass if you will. 

“There’s my cutest groupie.” Leon waves at Claire, heading for a fall. 

Claire draws her middle finger at him and bites back a repartee. 

Not a single name he doesn’t speak in the narrow circle of this social outlet. Then he sees you, and the wheel of fortune takes a reversal. 

A newfangled face, delicate facial expressions, and striking beauty. Clearly, you’re the precious neophyte around here. 

The art of the soft soap in the eccentric azure of his eyes is hard to miss. A depth to be dug into with picks and shovels. 

How he greets you with a small mental shake of his head in contrast to his expressive gaze is enough for the conventional first pleasantries. 

It’s hard to calculate how much it’s right to cast pointed glances at your friend’s ex-boyfriend. On a more cursory inspection, you and Claire weren’t that close, at least not close enough to make those ground rules—chicks before dicks ones. (Excuses!) You definitely need proper shrinks. 

“Fucker.” Claire coughs up any remaining resentment in an epithetical whisper under her breath.

The exes find their way out of the scene, separated, and Claire tugs on your arm and flings herself straight into the dance floor. Leave it to Leon to steal a glance at you. He stares long and hard at the beauty next to his ex as you stomp off the scene. To Leon, the past is in the past, and the present is here to be remade. It’s nerve-racking when you leave, but he loves to watch you walking away.

And Jill is too doped up on cocaine to join you all. 

─────────────────

“We never would have come if we knew he’d be here.” You tell Claire as she strums her hips to a peppy groove. You just want to bring your girl back to earth, even if it’s just a pulse.

“What? Jesus! Can’t hear you, gorgeous!” Claire curls her hands at the corners of her mouth as she lets it out. Of course she can’t hear you over this hubbub. You’re such an airhead. 

But point taken. You shrug your shoulders as if to say it’s nothing and dance in unison to the song along with her jigging dance moves.

─────────────────

The DJ gets you moving with the record and the tempo of his tunes, the laser disco lights blinking on and off like thunder, making you dizzy from the jetlagged fatigue of the fateful night. For how many hours have you been standing in these Pigalle Follies and guzzling Silver Oak? God, you’re a mess. A hot one, that is. 

The flashing disco lights alternately brighten and dazzle your eyes. You can’t even take a step, let alone do the dance. Sure, you’re running on fumes, but at least you look cute doing it. 

That’s what happens when you drink on an empty stomach. Stupid bitch, you’re chewing yourself out. 

Lights are moving sideways and up and down. 

The sweat beading on the hair gathered at the nape of your neck is cold. You blink your eyes and cast them around for Claire, dim and desperate. Not a single facsimile of a peer stands.

Okay, but where’s she?

You push your way through the flesh and blood horde and find your way out of the club to the back door. Threshing, you flounder out of a dented metal door. The pit of your stomach is parched, as if tiny worms have colonized your entrails and organs.

Your hand pressed against your midsection is of no help.

Leaning against the wall, you’re propped up; you squint at the figure of a man (?) that now unfolds in front of you with the swoosh of the door. A lighted cigarette in his hand, he makes a knife-edge turn and spots you right off the bat. 

Sewn into his eyes is a tapestry of something akin to concern. They are adumbral but bloodless and ultramarine.

Voices buzzing in your ear burst the bag of intricacies with a sharp pinprick. When you can feel the echoes finally reaching your earbuds, you can vaguely feel the man reaching for your forearm and tracing circles on your skin with soothing strokes.

“What the hell are you so tipsy for?” 

Tipsy? Hell? He’s probing something about you. 

“Leave me alone.” 

“What? Leave you like this in the middle of an alley? What are you? Five?”

Your stomach produces a strange twinge, right there, in that very second. 

You totter, but the man holding you by the arm means what he says.

“Look at you. What a fucking mess, huh, girl?” There he goes, tutting you like it’s his favorite sport.

“Don’t push it, Leon. What’re you, my mother?” 

You just frown and shoot him a syringe of Claire’s inherited hatred but in your style. 

“Go away. I’ll be fine.” 

With all the audacity of a brilliant I-fucking-hate-my-best-friend’s-ex-boyfriend, you pull your arm free of his reach. 

“They’ll eat you alive in here. You know that, right?” His voice is scratchy, preaching to you, but it’s emptier than a banker’s heart. His gaze, as in. 

You don’t know. Makes you edgy, this one fucker. 

“Why do you care?” 

Really. What’s it really to him? Leon, too, in the clash of a second and a spontaneous question, unexpectedly finds himself striving for words. 

When you push off the wall against which you were leaning, balance beats the hell out of you. Standing on the spikes of your heels is like an arsenal of iron nuts. So much so that Leon sucks in his breath in sheer exasperation before gripping you tightly by the forearm and flicking the glowing amber stub to the ground. Savior complex moment perhaps; he’s a martyr to his savior complex, not even understanding why he’s going this far.

“Where’re those girls you’re always stuck with? Claire and Jill?” 

Obviously you don’t have an answer to that. You, for that matter, don’t have an answer to anything in the preamble. You just gawk at him with a vagabond animus.

You brush it off with a dejected shrug, and the withering stare you garner from him is quite enough to put you in your place, and then more. The abject skeleton in the closet that follows is beyond telling. 

The puddle of bile that you can’t hold in any longer gushes out of your mouth. There and then. Luckily, courtesy of your miraculous reflexes, you turn your back on him and excrete the stagnant liquor in your system. 

Leon retaliates by stepping back, as your arm falls out of his hands and you stoop, knees sore. A nervy and explosive burst of emotion is impinging on his face. You can’t see it, but you can more or less picture what kind of acrimony he’s donning.

What a perfect first impression spectacle. 

Your gagging voice dies from throwing up in the empty streets; warm, misty tears well up in your eyes, the usual stuff, but the averse touch of his hand brushing your hair back from your face is a special ooh. 

“You’re so fucked up.” 

He couldn’t be more serious. 

“You’re so pretty.” 

You can’t be serious either! 

But just as you lift your head to give him an answer, your stomach lurches to your feet one more time. So yes, you called your close friend’s singer boyfriend “pretty” in its truest essence, in all its pomp and circumstance. Delirious and graphic, hats off to you. You feel dizzy and more than ever dead. Like dead dead, open mouth, insert foot. The nebulous valance in front of your eyes is as opaque as an unaesthetic Instagram filter. Your balance is in tatters, and you slump, and then a thickset arm supports the back of your head securely. 

─────────────────

How you made it through the dawn is a big red question mark.

The bundle of sunlight struck by the zenith of the alarming number of the morning is bright and citrusy. Almost no trace of its golden amber flavor. That’s because it’s not a morning sun. This is a midday sun. 

You finally open your eyes at two o’clock in the forenoon. The sight that awaits you... what the hell is this? 

This certainly isn’t your house, but whose residence is this? 

And most importantly, where are your clothes? Why are you in your underwear? 

You swallow the venin on the underside of the tongue, finding no strings as you idle around because you don’t even have any clues to connect the pieces together. 

Could you have gotten so hammered yesterday that you fucked someone like those people in the movies? 

At least he’s rich.

The interior is lavishly decked out; your restless eyes drift from the bed to the rows of frames on the wall. Pictures and hyperlinks and whatnot. Why would anyone hang a picture of the fucking Golden Gate Bridge in their bedroom? 

What kind of moron did you fuck last night? 

It’s up to you to figure out the equation. 

You slip on a tacky jacket and spring out of bed. When you pick up your phone and peer at the screen and see that the digital numbers are advancing by leaps and bounds, you dash out of the room. Whatever the fuck you did in this bed yesterday with whomever you did it with has to be consigned to the past. No time for any of that. That’s what one-night stands are all about.��

“Oh, fuck. Claire, I overslept. You gotta help me sway Ada so she doesn’t give me a hard time, babe.” Your fingers are rapidly drumming, and your eyes are on the screen as you thump into someone’s fucking chest. 

It’s like lightning is spinning in your head. The phone falls out of your hand and thuds a heartbeat on the floor. Ouch. No shit. Apple, what a shitty marque of ass. 

“My phone!” 

It seems no matter how much money is just a green piece of paper to you now, or digital numbers with fat zeros in your bank account, there will always be a staunch ghetto in you. Somewhere deep in your very psyche.

“Jeez. Relax.” He crouches down and picks up the very remnant of your hapless phone.

“What happened to ‘hi’ and ‘hello’?” 

No, but wait a second. 

The distinct sound of yesterday’s “tryst.” 

“Leon!” 

Apparently your memory has erased all the barf memories from last night. Give them a little time, and they’ll chip away piece by piece and roast you in vile hell for the rest of the day. 

“Leon!” He’s impersonating your voice, or rather your holler. Pretty much verbatim. It’s disturbingly good. He hands you your phone. The screen is cracked and spiderwebbed, and you take it reluctantly. Cough it up. You have to get a new model. 

“Is this your place?” 

“Eh. Like what you see?” 

He’s acting like it’s all fun and games, and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash if the sky fell. His arrogance is of a priceless candor. 

Just take a deep breath, in and now out. Everything’s all right. Everything is right as rain. 

No way you fucked your best friend’s ex-boyfriend. You refuse to believe that. 

“Why am I here?” 

Leon gets the message.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t want to spoil your good mood by regaling you with your yesterday throw-up story, and he doesn’t want you to start your day like that. Everyone deserves to have a good day, and especially after a night of fuckery like last night, you need a whole Mediterranean circumnavigation. 

“Look, sweetheart,” he begins, “let me buy you a brunch, yeah? There’s this place, okay? Down the block. Oh, they whip up scrambled eggs so fine. I’m talking about finger-licking good.”

He really is treating you over for some “brunch.”. 

But why does everything have to be piled on top of each other? He just leaves you high and dry. 

“Come on. Omelet and coffee. Yummy. Huh, and a special mix for you that’ll sober up a hangover.” Leon reaches out his hand to you as if in a desperate bargain. 

“It’s a special Kennedy remedy.” 

Your eyes fall on his outstretched palm while he’s grinning winningly. 

“Sure. Why not? You do owe me an explanation anyway.” 

There you go. He’s got you under his thumb now—like a walk in the park. 

“Nice bra.” Leon can barely avert his eyes from your cleavage. “But don't forget to change, sunshine. I reckon I can find a spare shirt for ya.” 

What a dipshit. 

Rest is a moot point.

─────────────────

You’re not exactly sitting with the shittiest man in the world and chowing down on a portion of omelette. Really, the place where he brought you for a meal isn’t bad enough to be described as decent. 

“So last night—” 

He derails the conversation. 

“No. We didn’t.” He sips his coffee, which dribbles down his parched throat. He’s been telling you this story for what seems like forever, even though it’s downright laughable—something hard to believe. 

Pleasantly enough, you manage to shake off the blues, but now Leon’s hot under the collar. 

The truth is, these bitter coffees are not his cup of tea, ’cause he loves tea more, but when he saw you getting a heavy Caffè Americano, he ended up ordering one too, just for a little spice. 

Now Leon regrets his decision. Never again. Vanilla all the way, long live crony capitalism. 

“I can’t even bring myself to believe it.” 

“Neither can I. Who knew you had a little Viking god in you?” 

“Viking god?” 

Leon nods in approbation. The musing is rather sweet, but too much sweetness makes your cheeks fat, and that’s the absolute last thing you need. Pounds. Swollen face.

“They drink heavily too, don’t they?” 

“I don’t drink that much,” you rectify him. 

“You do. I know a blackout drunk when I see one.” 

You palm your face in dismay, because how long can you put up with this charade? 

“Why did you drink all that?” 

For what does it matter to him? That you have to implicitly profess to him that you detest him. Can’t be buddy-buddy with someone Claire hates; blood and guts be damned. 

“Nevermind. I mean, you don’t always get some chivalrous knight on a white horse coming to your rescue. Watch yourself. Get your shit together next time.” 

Get your shit together.’

You’re not planning to get your life together, which has never been in order, on his say-so. 

This is no picnic.

─────────────────

That day, after that specific coffee date, not only were you tardy for the last rehearsal, but you were also vituperated by Claire. 

“I don’t trust you.” 

“Claire, I swear to you—” 

“Oh, not this again!” 

Sheva’s writhing between you and Claire, her head is cracking open, so to speak. She keeps one hand on your shoulder and the other on Claire’s forearm, but her arms draw back, both of you rebuffing her every gesture. 

“You showed up in his jacket. For fuck’s sake. You’re looking me in the eye and fucking lying to me.” 

“It’s not what you think.” 

Your words have always been meager in expressing your true self-defense. It’s no better now. 

“So you really are fighting over a guy. This is really happening. Girls, this guy bleaches his hair regularly!” Sheva chimes in and maintains her equanimity. What you are doing is quite puerile in her eyes. 

“I wonder how you’d react if your best friend fucked your ex-boyfriend, Sheva. Would you be so cool and mighty about it?” 

Aww. She still considers you her BFF. 

“Yeah, that’s what it’s called, an ex! Why can’t you just believe her? If you can’t trust your best friend, who else can you trust?” Sheva nudges Claire with a little gust of force, and Claire slumps down on the couch. She’s cross and indignant and doesn’t care that her butt stings when Sheva pushes her. 

Seems calmer, or that’s what you’re praying for. Please let it be so. Please, please, friendship Gods and Goddesses.

“You need to believe me, Claire. I told you.” 

Not a word comes out of her mouth, and she purses her million-dollar lips closely. Looking like she can’t decide on what might fall out of her tongue.

“I didn’t sleep with Leon.” 

You grovel on your knees; just how pathetic you can be when you want to be. 

Another last whine, forlorn (you may have already said the same thing a hundred times since you’ve arrived home). 

“You saw it on my dress. Full of fucking retch, Claire!” 

More details to go, and you wish you could explain to her how utterly incapacitated you were last night. From under her pretty eyelashes, she gives you a downcast appraisal. 

“I went out for some air after dancing with you. I was a mess, Claire. I looked everywhere for you. Then he came, and, you know, silly me, I fucking dozed off.” 

Sheva hugs her arms across her chest, monitoring a hushed and more subdued conversation between the two of you. Probably best not to interrupt. 

“Ugh. He always loved being the big hero.” Claire finally swallows her reticence, endearingly vacillating. Thank God. 

“Don’t fall for him. Don’t be a moron. God, you’re so stupid. You don’t even know it. He’ll set you up in a game, and before you know it, you’ll be stuck in the mud.” 

Well, you weren’t expecting a herd of counselors from your best friend. It leaves a peppery ginger on your tongue. 

“Pfff. Claire, don’t be ridiculous. You really think I’m hung up on Leon? He’s not my type. Piers is my type, duh.” You say it like the kookiest thing you’ve ever heard in your life. 

For all the things you don’t know, you speak with the vanity of a clueless nepo baby, as if you’ve been in this line of endeavor since the day you were born. 

“I saw the way he looked at you. I know that look.” 

Ha. Now she’s channeling the ultimate Daenerys Targaryen speech. 

“Very well, Claire Targaryen.” You smile dotingly at her, thinking it wouldn’t harm sharing a witty little tidbit. 

“Seriously... just go, okay? Leave me alone.” 

That’s where the rubber hits the road. Claire, your dearest friend, wants you out of here. It’s unbelievable. In your head, your memory is bare and there are no words, but your heart is crushed in a tearful pain that you can’t articulate. There are no labels or names for this feeling in your vocabulary. 

You blink at her, twice and your smile frazzle subtly.

She won’t change her mind, that is for sure. She wants you gone. 

You get up and walk out of there while you can. Sheva lingers behind you, but you’re fast and rightfully upset.

─────────────────

Wearing Leon’s Schott jacket and the t-shirt combo he provided is not exactly the kind of fancy getaway you’d want to pull off, but you’re quite adamant.

You go to the only place you can go. 

To home. 

It’s been years; you haven’t seen your parents, and who knows what it’s like now? In the car, your model face, admired by millions, the one you bequeathed from those two people who hated each other like a curse on their souls so passionately, is in a state of shambles. 

Walking into the garden of a vast estate your mom bought for a pittance, you can spot your father’s nifty all-black Stellantis. It sparkles in the glow of the porch light just above the main doorjamb. 

You cringe and then look at the door and the gold-engraved “welcome” inscription on the double sash of the wooden door. Just how “cozy” would it be to step in here again after so many years? 

As you muster up the guts within yourself to ring the doorbell, the door itself flies open. Two pairs of eyes you’ve never seen before, but who instantly identify your face, are staring at one another. 

“Oh my God! It’s you!” The girl is the walking example of the L.A. accent itself.

Since she’s wearing a skintight “daddy’s girl” tank top and a short denim skirt, odds are good that you’re talking to one of your dad’s new dollies. You know, the bimbo and the Barbie ones. 

She envelops you in a bear hug. Sweet, toffee, and mucilaginous undertones of muscat perfume overwhelm all your senses. 

“I’m your biggest fan. Oh, my room and my walls are full of your latest Vogue photoshoots. Versace was such a fantastic choice for your palette. That dress... ah! I-uh. Was. In. Love.” 

There’s a certain luster in the girl’s eyes as she goes on and on. Really, Dad, how old could this poor girl be? You can’t stop thinking about it, but the more you think about it, the more deeply it sickens you. 

“Thanks.” 

As riveted as you were by the prospect, you had gotten far enough in this biz to learn how to keep those around you at bay with fake cheerful smiles. Perhaps you really do have that rampaging Hollywood blood coursing through your veins. 

“I came to see my dad, but—” 

She sweeps her arm down from your shoulder to your waist, and with her free hand, she whips out her flip phone, smiling at the camera. 

“Say cheese!” 

You don’t. 

Your pose with a faded pallor mirrors on her screen, and you catch a dubious glance from her. She’s plainly querying you. 

“A little smile would do you good...”

“Bitch.” She nags the last word in a barely audible coo, clammed up more than any of the preceding chunks of words that came out of her mouth. 

Excellent. 

Like you have no problems, and you have to put up with this horseshit. Why did you even bother coming here? This house isn’t even your home. Not anymore. They’ve carted away everything from your childhood, and a handful of crumbs of fragmentary images of the past are all that’s left of any of it for you. 

No point insisting on three drips of memories in a life that takes many liters to survive. Nostalgia is frivolous. 

Besides, you feel bitchy enough to give this girl her paycheck. 

Except your dearest father does intervene. His noisome mug never dims a morsel, not even when he sees you. 

“What a strange coincidence, sweetheart.” 

“Certainly is.” 

Forget it.

Could a man who never knew how to be a decent father suddenly, by some strange turn of fate, come to discover what it means to be one? You’re a delusional one. This is just one of your little glitches—the very first instinct of a little girl running to her daddy any time she’s hurt. He never knew how to mend and heal those little wounds in the first place. 

“Why did you come here?” Your father’s brows shoot to his hairline. A horrible sight for his hair is receding. Reprehensibly. 

Doesn’t look like he’s going to let you in, though. He appears quite happy with his new girlfriend on his arm, and his common-law wife, your mother, is somewhere who knows where. 

“Well. It’s Mom.” You perjure, drawing a blank verse or two. Moments like these are precisely when the words essentially latch at the base of your throat. 

“She’s not here.” 

“Ha. Yeah. I can see that.” Your facial tissues, your lips, they all start to ache from ersatz smiling arts and language. Poker face can only do what it costs. 

“I think—” 

“You need to—” 

Your words and your father’s words jar with one another. It’s a mess. Even for a glimpse, it baffles you how much emotion there is in the old man’s face. And him too. His girlfriend rolls her eyes, a numbing distaste for the father and daughter in all this kerfuffle. 

“Ugh. This is so boring.” 

She walks inside. 

You nervously fidget with the folds of the jacket Leon gave you as a provisional. 

“I think I’d better go.” 

“You’re right.” The old man clears his throat as if he were about to overcome an obstacle. He’s silently begging you to put an end to his misery here, and you’re doing that just fine; you’re always ready to walk the tracks. 

“Good night, Dad.” 

“Night, kiddo. I’ll call you when your mom gets home.” 

“Sure. I’ll be waiting.” 

You won’t. How would anybody give a fuck? It’s too late. 

It’s nothing but a night alone for a wounded heart and the coveting of a whim that never had a chance to bloom. 

Either your menstrual cycle is nearing or the end itself is near.

The billboards are lit up with crystallized lights. It’s a visual. Makes your eyes glaze over a bit. 

The sign just above it reads “THE END IS NEAR!” in capital lettering. Above that are plaques with the new single releases of Leon and his group. He’s the talk of the city, and the world for that matter, so his face is in the foreground, a cerebral display, and Chris and Carlos’ faces are hot on his shoulders. The chorus of their million-selling track on Spotify is rasping in your frostbitten ears. Leon’s voice is a smooth crossover riff, raspy, and he’s making love with the bass guitar. 

On the terrace where you are sitting, a breeze gently caresses your face, leaving the crisp touch of snow on your cheek. The cold sinks into your veins, blue-tinted blood rushing through your body, no thanks to the booze. You feel queerly toasty. 

Leon’s jacket definitely lasts through the cold winters. It’s like your personal furnace. 

The traffic is hectic past the glass handrail, jostled by the car lights streaming down, and the first baby snowflakes of January are pelting down from the sky. It’s quite late, the rush hour of hungover midnight. 

Even as the elliptical chases the minute hand, you watch the passers-by. The prominent and whitewashed faces are just names. They greet you, acknowledge you with gracious smiles, but that’s it. Never so genuine that they would actually sit down next to you. 

Except for one name.

Except for Leon, who, in what must have been an illusory twist of fate, casually crosses the table with a flute of champagne in his hand. 

He doesn’t recognize you at first when he passes by your booth, but on the second glance, he captures that swan-like grace at once. 

Stepping backwards, as if he’s moonwalking, he skips over to your side to forestall your horrified side-eye.

“I shoulda known you were a vampire. You never sleep.” 

He thinks he’s made a stylish enough debut with these words. Whatever it takes to charm you. 

“No, come on. Are you stalking me?” 

“Nah. I’m too much of a busy man for that kind of thing, sweetheart. Though I’ve heard on some fanfiction sites that there are people out there. They write me off as a complete weirdo.” 

He slides into the chair straight across from you. 

“Check it out when you’re feeling like it.” 

Absently your eyes wander over his shoulder and zero in on the mass of light in the distance. In shimmering floodlights, people are laughing and making TikTok videos, some twerking, others striking jaunty poses for the camera for their thirst trap edits. Bread and butter for the fans. 

“’s rude to overlook someone when they’re talking to you. Didn’t your mother tell you that?” 

In your consciousness, you realize that even Leon’s name is lost in the cacophony of your milieu. You still do have a problem named Leon at this table.

“I don’t have time for this.” 

“Time for what?” 

Thoughts pile up in the back of your foggy brain, but they don’t coalesce into a harmonious, final answer. The blurry words worm their way out of your mouth, and they evaporate in the bitter cold air. 

Should you be kind and remind him that you’re weak? 

“I don’t know.” You bluntly say, but Leon can smell the suspense. 

“Are you drunk again?” 

The arch of your eyebrow furrows instinctively, automatic as the blooming of a flower when you water it—flourishing and blushing. But drown it too much, and it wilts, fades. He just doesn’t grasp it, can’t get it through his thick skull that you don’t want to chit-chat. 

Be that as it may, there’s one fact that’s indisputable: you want to fuck him. You’re simply at odds with yourself. 

The more Leon comes at you, the more you’re falling into error, but beggars can’t be choosers.

It’s unfortunate that you can roll over when you feel a stone. 

That thing you’re ruthlessly searching for could quite possibly be Leon. He’s the one who has reduced you to the devil’s quarry himself. Either that or you’re the one in extremis. 

Right now, however, it’s a bet neither of you care about. Unworthy of further discussion. Mouths are otherwise occupied. 

Your mouth shamelessly hyphenates his name while his mouth ecstasies on the honeydew betwixt your spread legs. Your eyes roll graphically as the tip of his nose, which looks good when he takes a snort from the lining of vanilla icys, bumps against the nacre of your clit a crack or two. It’s like you’re possessed by something, by demons or poltergeists.

The sullen and muffled fumes of profanity are belching out of the bedroom door where he’s propping you up against it. This is the very public domain information; Leon Kennedy is an excellent pussy eater. 

It’s one thing to hear from the women he’s slept with that he’s that swell; it’s quite something else to have the saccharine taste of your cunt melting in his mouth like cotton candy on the tip of his tongue just then.

“Leon... fuck. No. Want it.” Your tongue is all dry. 

You can’t remember the last time you felt the highs of ecstasy from a tongue fuck like this. Hollywood is full of people with small dicks, and the whole insertion and pull-out game sucks here, foreplay is long gone.

Luckily, you can always take a chance on someone (actually your best friend’s ex-boyfriend) who at least knows how to worship what he sees, and you reap the rewards of the risk you take. And he feels generous enough to let you have it all tonight. 

With a touch as sensuous as a butterfly’s wing, his thumb meanders through your aching bundle of nerves, igniting a fire of euphoria through your body. When he lightly palms your opening, when he feels the plushness of your slick walls, a delicate breath escapes your mouth, akin to a prayer of subservience to this very moment of pure pinch and rapture. 

“So sweet when you cum.” 

He blows your mind, the story of how you got here, the blowjob you pulled on him in his car — all that’s in the past. The only thing that matters is that you need to forget everything that happened tonight in the morning and the painstaking labor of that commitment. Pulling his belt on and off takes no extra time flat. His aching erection takes a toll on Leon, both psychologically and physically. 

When he tucks you properly into his bed, he casts a phantom over you like he’s your own exclusive brand of ghost. Kissing on a first date was never his thing, but he can’t let you go when his lips are still tantalized by your moreish taste. 

He’s making a nicer entrance than you’d expect and then some; you’re squeezing him so tightly, and he’s stippling hot kisses across the tender flesh of your throat. 

Breathless and forehead to forehead is too romantic and superfluous for a debut tryst, but that’s what rebound sex is for. 

“Fuck. Oh, fuck.” 

Maybe he’s louder than you are in these seconds— in these very seconds of his whet of thrust followed by the seconds of him pulling out soon to only bully back into your dewy cunt.

Makes your head reeling, and he wallows in the sin of the tightness stretching around the sheer girth of his cock. 

“Pussy’s so fucking good. She’s all swollen from me.” His whisper is fervid and sweeping against your cheek.

Yes. Indeed, his mouth doesn’t seem to be shutting up here either, even when he’s fucking you deep in his own bed. 

The deep azure shade of his eyes is clouded with pearlescent blue; his pupils are pitch-black orbs, and he watches his cock slide in and out of your drenched pussy in chaotic upheaval, the metal of his frenum piercing taunting your swollen clit as you drape his dick in a warm cocoon. 

“Pretty, pretty pussy suckin’ me so nice, yeah?” His voice is a throaty whisper that makes your poor, mushy brain tingle tunefully — an acrid, itchy scab that has just covered the wound. 

“Fuck,” he grunts crassly, “been thinking about this all—ungh!—night—this fucking skirt up and fucking you real loud, baby.”

Seriously, he could just write a song or a lengthy poem for your lovely pussy right here and then. 

A hubristic tinge variegates his pink lips, a wicked one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s enjoying this; hell, he’s fucking loving it. His laugh-like treble is a low rumble as he pounds into you with a little more force, a little more urgency. The bed rocks under you, groaning abjectly. 

“C’mon, baby, cum on my cock. Y’know I got you. I got you so good.”

He knows how to do it.

Once bodies and emotions are merged, they move into a harmonic coherence, and just like that, he makes you cum for the second time tonight. A string of bland events that are frozen in your brain, clinging to your fiber, you feel your own tears trickling down your cheek in an attempt to get rid of them in one fell swoop, barely blinking open your eyes. 

You cradle his cheek closer, pushing away the wisps of hair falling in curtains in front of his blues. You want to kiss away the cruelty that cloaks his lips, but Leon, unable to tear himself away from your pussy that is still squeezing him, is too engrossed for such kisses. 

One blink and you’ll miss that fleeting moment as the seconds tick by, Leon barely pulls out a shred from you and strokes his cock on your belly until he finds comfort in it, painting white ribbons on your dainty skin. 

Seconds afterward are spent on your own, burdened by the cost of your one night’s slip-up, and you two stare at each other wide-eyed.

Two pairs of eyes, parted lips, and a kind of rare prettiness you usually find in men that will haunt you for a while. Ken blonde hair aglow in the light of the dawn and buried layers of emotions locked away in secrets that are too debauched to divulge.

Pearls of promise on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t dare spill them out. Heaven will hate you. Claire will hate you. 

In Leon’s estimation, per contra, you’re a damsel in distress, big eyes, and a girl who has somehow succeeded in wrapping all her depravity in the thin threads of her angelic eyes. Seraphic but dangerous. An inner part of his brain keeps hammering into his thoughts that everything has only just begun. 

[viperify]

Smutmas 2024 | ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ X ᴍᴜɢɢʟᴇʙᴏʀɴ ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Celebrating Her.

Short summary: after spoiling you the entire day, Tom makes sure your special day ends in a blast.

Warnings: 18+ only! nipple play, fingering, slight degradation, choking, rough sex, unprotected p in v, ooc Tom but it’s okay because it’s my birthday.

A/N: leaving my teenage years behind. Today’s been super stressy, but I am happy to finally have time to post my birthday fic!!! Also happy birthday to my birthday twin, Severus Snape 🫶🏻

wordcount: 2,2k

celebrating him.

London. He has taken you to London. To your favourite restaurant to be exact, one that you have not visited ever since you moved to the wizarding world. Tom wasn’t the person to go to the muggle world, not if he didn’t have to at that. Too many bad memories have been made there, especially back in his orphanage days. So, for obvious reasons, you were surprised when he told you where you were headed to.

The clock strikes 9pm when he waves a waiter over and takes the courtesy to pay. Not that he would let you pay anyway, especially on your birthday, but you are still grateful. You feel people’s gaze on you as you both get up, your burgundy, crystal plated dress easily catching people’s attention as you stand out from the crowd on this seemingly so ordinary day. Ordinary for them, anyway.

Your eyes meet Tom’s, who is matching your attire with a black suit. The corner of his lips tugs up just the slightest bit at the attention you are receiving, and his arm wraps possessively around your waist. “Ready to leave?” he asks smoothly, and you nod, following him towards the exit.

However, he doesn’t take you back home like you had expected. No, instead, you are strolling through the city, finding your way through the crowd of people waiting to get home after another long Thursday. There are entire queues waiting for taxis, and suddenly you don’t miss your former, “normal” life in the slightest. London’s always been loud and busy, so when you received your letter for Hogwarts and got to know the most magical, hidden place in the Highlands of Scotland—you wish you could have lived there since your birth.

Being a muggle born isn’t easy. It’s come with its challenges, especially back in your first year at Hogwarts. It took time for you to find friends, to adjust to the change. And God, you missed your parents. Then, being exposed to all the hatred and bullying muggle borns had to endure definitely didn’t make it any better. Especially if you end up falling for your tormentor.

Being in love with Tom Riddle as a muggle born isn’t easy. But you two had somehow—after years of bickering and rivalry—made it work. It wasn’t until your seventh year that you got closer and essentially ended up being a couple. And no, you couldn’t believe it either. Not in your wildest dreams would you have thought the day would come that your strongest feeling for Tom would be love.

It’s always been hate, after all.

It was subtle at first, from stealing glances in classes to blatantly staring at each other, to—well. Him cornering you when you exited the girl's lavatory, whispering a soft “What are you doing to me?” as he leaned in. And before you could react, his lips were on yours, capturing you in a heartfelt kiss, pouring his feelings into it like he had to prove they really existed—firstly to you, but himself as well. Even when, in the end, of course you did love him too.

Tom’s love often is rough, distant. But you make it work, and when he does soften up—it’s like a plant sipping its first drop of water after an agonizingly long drought. You relish in it, your dynamics making you a perfect match for each other. And just like that, the boy you once hated with every cell in your body turned into your lover you wouldn’t even think about letting go.

That’s how you ended up spending your 20th birthday in London. Away from the wizarding world for once, back in your home city. You almost couldn’t believe when he apparated you both to the restaurant your parents used to take you to for birthdays. Tom Riddle, organizing a birthday dinner in the muggle world. A subtle smile brightens up your face at the thought. He leads you through the crowd, arms still around your waist. It’s not until he stops that you realize where you are headed.

One of the finest hotels in all of London, if you may. And he doesn’t just stop in front of it, no, you enter. Tom doesn’t respond when you ask him what you are doing here, instead withdraws a card from his pocket and leads you up the marble stairs. The setting feels special, too special to be true. It’s silent besides the clicking of your heels as you ascend the stairs, a chandelier dimly illuminating the hallway. There is no one around, no receptionist, no other guests. It seems as though you two are there alone, the property reserved for solely you two.

It’s not long until you arrive at door 464. As soon as he opens it, a smell of roses and lit candles floods your senses. The room, kept in an elegant vintage style, is illuminated by candles, the high ceilings decorated with baroque carvings. With you trying to take in the magic of the room, you don’t realize Tom stepping further into the room. Only when you hear muffled voices, followed by soft strains of classical music, your eyes flicker to where he is standing—adjusting a modern radio.

“Tom Riddle using a muggle device? This might be my best birthday present yet.” you snicker, walking towards the brunette. It’s then when he turns around, his deep brown eyes meeting yours.

“First and last time.” he answers, his voice low as his hands settle on your waist. Leaning in, he places a soft kiss on your lips. Without another word, Tom’s left hand intertwines with your right, the subtle notes of a violin and a piano resonating through the room as he guides you into a slow dance.

You can’t help but wonder how he’d learned to do that. At the two yule balls you experienced, he had never asked anyone for a dance. As you sway to the gentle tones, a memory plays in your head, taking you back four years to your 5th year at Hogwarts.

Being asked for a dance by one of the most popular boys in Gryffindor had its perks—you had been the center of attention the entire evening. Many people asked you for a dance, complimenting your looks as they took in your sapphire blue dress, adorned with tiny crystals.

In a brief moment of solitude, your eyes swayed around the hall, just for you to lock eyes with Tom. Merely a split second later, he averted his gaze, though the intensity of his eyes on yours lingered—and for the rest of the night, no one else asked you to dance again.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks you, and you are forced out of your thoughts, returning to the present. The dim candlelight casts a shadow on his sharp features, and you once again get lost in his eyes.

“Was it you? Back then, at the ball?” you murmur, a slight smirk playing at the corner of his lips at the question, and it’s almost as if you could see the memory replaying in his eyes.

“Nobody touches what is mine, darling.” Tom replies, and there is this familiar possessiveness in his voice, the one that you have grown to love. Another kiss later and he is tugging at your zipper as he leans in, his hot breath on the tender skin of your neck sending a shiver down your spine. “Let me take care of you now, just like you deserve.”

You don’t complain as he is leading you towards the bed, dress long discarded on the floor. Tom’s hand wanders, slipping under the waistband of your lace underwear as he settles down beside you. Finding your swollen bundle of nerves, the pad of his thumb rubs tight circles on it, having you take a sharp inhale at the sensation.

His other hand frees your breasts, pushing the dainty material of your bra to the side. His eyes wander up and down your almost entirely exposed form, muttering praises under his breath before he lowers his head to trail gentle kisses from your collarbone to your breast, gently wrapping his lips around the hardened peak.

“Oh— oh Merlin, Tom—“

His tongue flicks over the sensitive skin, drawing small whimpers and moans from you as your fingers thread through his silky brunette hair. You tug on it slightly, massaging his scalp as he continues his ministrations, nibbling and kissing your skin.

Your fingers dig into the sheets, firmly clenching around the fabric as two of his digits slip inside of your tight heat. “So wet for me,” he groans lowly, moving at an agonizingly slow pace as the heel of his hand rubs on your clit with every thrust of his hand. The sensations he is providing you with, fingertips massaging the one spot inside of you that has you grow dizzy with pleasure, the coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter, and you are just there on the edge when—

“No, no please! I want to— want you to—“ you gasp, hand closing around his wrist, attempting to still his movements. His dark eyes lock with yours then, and he stops. “Use your words, sweetheart. What is it that you want?”

“Want you inside of me, please.” you murmur, and his lips curl into a knowing smirk at your words, shaking his head just slightly. He withdraws his fingers then, a small whimper falling over your lips at the loss. It doesn’t take long until he has undressed himself, parting your thighs before he positions himself between them, hovering over you.

“I really wanted to be nice to you today, darling.” he remarks, though his tip nudging at your entrance has all sane thoughts leave your mind at an instant.

“Merlin— you know I don’t want you to be. Please don’t be nice.”

Tom’s hand snakes around your throat at your response, mumbling something inaudible under his breath as he presses down on the sides of your throat, slowly splitting you apart on his hard length as you both groan. “This better? Want to be fucked like a whore even on your birthday?”

All you manage is a nod before he buries himself inside of you completely, not letting you adjust before he sets a harsh rhythm, his eyes darting down to his cock disappearing in your heat. Tom’s lips part slightly at the sight, a low growl rumbling in the back of his throat.

The classical music playing in the background is a stark contrast to how he is fucking you, hips snapping into yours from an angle that has you see stars, your nails digging into his toned shoulders, sure to leave behind crescent marks.

“So— good!” you cry out, hands holding onto his biceps as he thrusts into you from above, the sound of your combined moans echoing around the hotel room. It’s not long until your pleasure is building again, eyes rolling to the back of your head as his tip brushes against your sensitive cervix.

“Eyes on me, darling. Let me see how good I am making you feel. Let me see you come,” he demands, hand squeezing down tighter on your throat. You do as he says, eyes fluttering open just for you to meet his stern expression, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as his brunette curls stick to his damp forehead. His gaze burns into yours, the limited blood flow making you feel just slightly lightheaded, intensifying the feeling of his length slipping in and out of your sensitive walls.

You’re right at the edge, your cunt greedily clenching down on his thick cock. Tom seems to notice, his free hand reaching between you two, softly swiping over your needy clit with the pad of his thumb. “Tom— please!” you cry out, and he lowers his head, resting it in the crook of your neck. “Go on. Come for me,” he groans, and that is all you need to finally tumble over the edge, the intense feeling in your lower stomach leaving you a trembling and whimpering mess beneath him. Tom follows soon after, emptying himself deep inside of your warm, welcoming walls with a low grunt.

He collapses on top of you to catch his breath, though soon after pulling out of you, getting up to fetch a warm, damp towel to clean you up. It’s not long until he scoops you up in his arms, entering the bathroom where an already filled bathtub awaits you, lowering your spent body into the pleasantly warm water. He soon gets in as well, massaging circles into your shoulders as your head rests on his chest. It’s mostly quiet between you two, savouring the moment of intimacy you only rarely get to experience with him.

Before you drift off to sleep, he places a tender kiss on your head.

“Happy Birthday, love.”

[isagispuzzle]

CONGRATS ON 200 🤍 you deserve that and so much more !!

for your event, even tho it's rlly hard to pick just one trope, i would say that the second chances trope has been one of my recent favs lately!

HEHE THANK YOU NISHIII anyway are you in my walls.... because i've been thinking about doing a part 2 for my oliver angst piece like this timing is too perfect HAHAHA

oliver might have played it cool when his teammates found your makeup bag, but now, his heart is about to explode.

it hasn't been long since you moved out of his life. he found your makeup bag in his backpack the day after you left, but he didn't reach out to you till a month later. he told himself it's to give you time to rebuild a routine without him, to let your heart start to miss him a little before he re-entered your space. of course, he knows that's just an excuse, and he only hesitated to text you because he wanted to hold onto the remnants of you for just a little longer.

oliver doesn't fear much, but when his thumb hovered over the send button on his phone, it trembled at the prospect of giving up this last piece you've left him with, the last relic of your love.

yet, despite his selfish reluctance, he arranged to meet you at a cafe to return your makeup bag, because he knows how much the earrings inside mean to you.

(did he hurt you enough for you to give up retrieving a piece of your heart just to avoid speaking to him again?)

he reaches the cafe at four on the dot, like you agreed to. he scans the room and is surprised to see a jarring lack of you. you're not at the counter, nor at the window seat you loved, nor at the shelf on the inner wall, admiring the owner's memorabilia from across the globe. so he finds himself choosing the table, staring at an empty seat in front of him, without any sign of you.

barely a minute passes and his leg starts bouncing restlessly under the table. oliver checks his texts to see nothing new from you. he looks out the window just to see a new wave of strangers exiting the subway station, and when he doesn't see you in the crowd, he starts to pick at the nail on his thumb. his thoughts start to race. oliver wonders if he's been stood up. he doubts you'll ever break a promise with him, but what's to say that hasn't changed, now that he's no longer someone special to you?

oliver's palms start to sweat and he feels his pulse in his neck. this sucks, he thinks. he hates feeling like this. like he's grovelling for your scraps, like he's hanging off every little thing that could be related to you. he's always been the one to care less, the one with nothing to lose, the one who left the other begging for more.

yet here he is, breathing the biggest sigh of relief when you finally show up, five minutes past the agreed time. you're straight faced and composed, and you haven't done anything to your hair. in the fleeting moment when you walk past oliver, he notices that you smell different.

"you're early," you say as you sink into your seat, and his stomach drops.

you're echoing his words back to him, from back when he'd turn up late for dates and never utter a word of apology.

oliver sees the satisfaction billowing in your eyes. he recalls all the times there were tears in them instead, when you'd beg him to love you more.

(which, he never understood why you ever doubted his love for you, because you're the only one he's ever held onto for this long. you're the only one he could truly be himself with, the only one he never got bored with, the only one he wanted to build his life with. you're the only one he's ever truly loved.)

it's only when oliver catches himself apologising for everything he's done to you and promising he'll do better that he finally realises you were never a gamble to him. there was never any doubt that you're the one for him, and there was never any chance that he'll truly let you go. you were never a gamble to him, but a promise, which he now swears to keep like a vow.

you might be repeating the mistake of letting oliver into your life. but you see the sincerity in his eyes and the desperation in his words, and you convince yourself that he's learnt from his mistakes. the walls you prepared around your heart for this day crumble when you realise they had only kept him in your heart, not out.

so you reach out a hand for him to take, a peace treaty and a warning, a second chance and an ultimatum.

instead of the red string of fate, oliver sees a thin, translucent fishing line around your pinky and down his throat, because you've got him hook, line, and sinker.

[mothlau]

hello, for the kink meme, could i humbly ask you for leztappen and watersports/piss kink please? (and, if possible, with little to no desperation/humiliation?)

also, i wish you a happy new year, may it be filled with joy and good things for you!

hiii beloved!!! this one got out of control and also I hope it has enough humiliation. I tried to tone it down but honestly, it's piss play, you need the humiliation. anyway, happy new year to you too! 10 days too late but oh well! enjoy the piss play, puppy play, daddy kink and gp!max combo friends:3 (kink meme here)

6451 words :3

Most of their friends assume that it's Charles who's wrapped around Max’s finger. That she cannot say no to Max no matter how extravagant the demand may be, that whatever Max says or wants is final. To an extent, they're right. After all, she’s the femme, and according to people’s heteronormative minds, the one who is more feminine in the relationship is the one who cares more, who’s more attentive. 

Charles is wrapped around Max’s finger. But just as much, Max is whipped for Charles. If someone were to compare the amount of fondness they have for each other, people will quickly realize that it's not Charles who's wrapped around a little finger 24/7. 

It's Max. 

Max cannot deny Charles’ wishes; Max bends the whole world to give her lover the happiness she deserves. It's Max who spends nights upon nights to plan perfect getaways for their anniversaries, it's Max who gave into her wishes and got Charles the Steinway and placed the piano directly in their living room.

And, at the end of the day, it's Max who does everything in her power to make sure Charles enjoys herself. 

Whenever she notices something that Charles may find pleasure in, she stores the information away, making sure to bring it up when they're discussing scenes or new interests that may have sparked. Even with Charles’ overbearing eagerness to try new things with her, she  rarely initiates ideas. 

She's still shy, in spite of the time they've been together. It's endearing to Max, that Charles still blushes bright red when Max takes her bra off, that she’s still a mess when Max slides her hands down her thighs.

The list of things she wants to try is getting long, something that Max doesn't mind, per se. She doesn't, because in the end she can twist Charles into the perfect little puppet for her to toy with. They don't mind, because they’re certain Charles will like whatever they propose to her. 

He's toyed with an idea before, almost put it into action too, but in the end it didn't seem fit to make Charles piss herself without any rules set in stone yet. There's no doubt that the woman won't agree with it, but Max will rather postpone their play than do something that may make Charles even a little bit uncomfortable. 

So, despite her wishes and desires to break Charles, Max keeps everything under wraps. 

Whatever thoughts Charles shares with them during heated sessions and foggy mindsets, Max notes all in their head, safe to be used later on. Where to hit Charles, how to press her buttons theoretically, when to push, when to pull. Every little idea, all of them organised in Max’s brain, nicely and orderly. 

The last thing Charles told them about seemed easy enough when she first uttered her fantasy. Slap Charles’ pussy until she was cumming and begging for mercy. Simple, Max's done worse in her relationships. 

But with Charles, it wasn't as simple. She’s hit her lover before, tied her up and used whatever she fancied to break her, but it was always kept under an invisible, unspoken line. 

In spite of his cruel hands and words, Max can never truly hurt her beloved Charles. As much as it turns Max on, it pains her to cause her harm, even when Charles begs for that torture. Unless she's positive, one hundred percent and then some more, that at the end Charles will be drunk on pleasure. 

It's not unusual for their plays to be hit or miss, but Max prides herself in them being hits most of the time. 

They mention wanting to try new things during a relaxed dinner, when they’re almost sure Charles forgot about the things she's babbled on during a previous scene. And, of course, Charles agrees readily, albeit a bit timid and flushed. 

After that, it's smooth sailing on Max's side, at least. Charles is stuck with anticipation bubbling under her skin and the fear of uncertainty tearing at her conscience. 

To Max, who likes the waiting game, it's beautiful. To Charles, who is used to getting whatever she desires with minimum effort, it's hell. 

Every other day he makes Charles drink more than she can usually handle, slowly but surely trying to train the woman into holding her piss longer and longer. Most days it's a hassle which ends up with Charles whining and rushing to the bathroom, Max not bothering to stop her. But then there are some days, rare and in between, when Charles manages to go hours upon hours without running from Max's hold. 

The praise Charles gets also helps her, no matter how much she's trying to deny the humiliating claims. 

Almost a week later, Charles pushes a full bottle of water into Max's hands, making her look away from the laptop. Max doesn't need any clarification as to why she does this, nor does he need any pleas or guilty looks to nod at Charles' silent request. 

She trusts Max enough for the blonde to gain complete control over her bodily needs. Max can't help but smile fondly at it as they let the bottle rest on their thigh. Charles sits on the ground, head thrown back on the edge of the couch, minding the poorly balanced laptop. 

"Whenever you're ready," Max whispers, hand reaching out to tug at a few matted strands. Charles simply nods and allows herself to fall, Max's soothing touch being the only thing keeping her afloat. 

It takes Charles only an hour to finish the water, drinking obediently every time Max urges her to. She's even quicker to bring Max another one and one more, all whilst finishing them without any fuss. 

And then, as Max closes his laptop and opens his arms for Charles to crawl into, it only takes a few minutes for Charles' eyes to get cloudy and for her touch to get needier. The sight before her makes Max euphoric, an undeniable call to protect and please the withering woman in her lap. 

"You still with me, darling?" The words are barely above a whisper, but even so they grasp at Charles' conscience and pull her in just enough for the brunette to nod against Max's chest. All pliant and soft in their hands, Max isn't sure whether or not to move their play away from the couch and into their bedroom, where towels and mats lie specifically for what's to happen next. 

"Hurts a bit, Maxie," Charles says, voice all hushed and feeble. The hand resting on Max's bicep tugs and squeezes, a poor attempt for Charles to regain control over herself. 

"Colour, pretty?" 

It takes Charles a moment, already gone and drifting, but soon, she mumbles a simple and clear, "Green." 

"Do you want me to carry you to the bedroom, angel? I don't think we'll like our couch smelling like piss after this." 

Despite how embarrassing the words should be, Max doesn't find them shameful anymore. She’s been fantasising about this for months now, the idea of watching Charles crumble under her orders and hands, her lover losing whatever ounce of self-control she still has and letting it all loose. That's enough for Max to push away any shame that might've been left inside. 

With Charles, it's not the same. The woman’s face flushes a bright red, the color travelling under the collar of her shirt, painting the hidden skin in beautiful hues of reds and pinks. Almost as beautiful as the marks they flush over. 

Almost. 

When there's no answer coming from Charles, Max gets the unspoken message. As always, Charles wants Max to carry her, manhandle her as if she's nothing but a lightweight in Max's hold. Which, undoubtedly, she is. 

With a quick movement, Max stands, gentle hands reaching out to lift Charles with ease. Her perfect little girl whines and squirms, the sudden change already too much for her sensitive state. 

"This ok?" Max asks, voice full of worry. 

Charles can only nod again, words lost somewhere in her head, muddled by thoughts full of desire, lust, animalistic instincts. After the quick answer, Max takes her time getting them to the bedroom, mostly because with each sickeningly slow step she takes out of the living room and down the hallway, Charles becomes that much more responsive to Max's cold touch. 

In preparation for their scene, Charles spread out the puppy mats they’ve gotten, while Max took his time to make sure that nothing of value could be ruined. The pillows were all sitting on the reading nook next to the window, towels have been placed close enough to the bed that Max didn’t have to look around for them and amid the whole mess of colorful cotton and stark white paper, now lies Charles. 

Charles, her perfect girl, who looks up at Max as if she’d hung the stars in the sky and then proceeded to create a whole universe just for Charles. Charles, her lovely girl, who is barely able to hold back tears as Max refuses to touch her just yet. Charles, her divine lover, whose back arches off the puppy mats when Max's knees hit the mattress, wanton moans and whined pleas falling from between bitten lips. 

"Puppy," Max bites back a smile. "Puppy, can you sit up a bit?" They crawl on the bed, remaining above Charles without their knees touching the woman’s sides. "I want you to drink some more, can you?" 

"Yes," Charles breathes out, fingers tightening around the puppy mat underneath. "Yes, daddy. Anything for you, Maxie." 

Max's face fills with love and adoration for the woman writhing beneath. Such a perfect, responsive being, all belonging to Max alone. He couldn't be happier. 

Helping Charles sit up, back leaning on the hardboard, Max reaches for the bottle left on the bedside table. Another thing Charles prepared, in hopes that Max would make her drink it and push her to the edge. 

"You're being so good for me, Charlie. Making me so proud right now." 

"I am?" Charles asks, a look full of hope blooming on her face. 

Max kisses the smile off her face, gentle and careful. "You are. My best girl, perfect little one. That's what you are, Charlie."

"Maxie–" the human whines, pressing her face into their open palms. "Need you." 

Unable to stop herself, Max pushes with her malevolent teasing, a vicious smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “You need me? How? Need me to touch your greedy cunt? Need me to slap it? Want me to press here?” Max's fingers push on the swollen bladder, light enough to simply make Charles cry out. “Or maybe you need me to fuck your dumb hole until you’re pissing all over yourself.” The woman sobs again, nodding along with Max's words mindlessly. “Which one is it, puppy?” 

“Yes,” she answers, muffled by her own hand.

“Dumb puppy,” Max smiles, feeling his chest overflow with butterflies and flowers. “Let’s finish the water first, then I’ll decide what you deserve.”

The silence that fills the room feels deafening as Max watches Charles. She is struggling to twist the cap off, fingers white with how hard she’s gripping the bottle. Max makes no move to help her, smirk still plastered on their face, eyes ranking up and down Charles' shaking body as she gets more and more annoyed. 

She lets out an exasperated whine, head hitting the wood behind him, “Max.”

“Yes, pup?”

Suddenly she has a handful of plastic to deal with, all while Charles stares at her with the same hurt expression she abuses whenever Max refuses to immediately give in. He can’t say no to her, no matter how much he’d like to watch her struggle some more. One simple twist later, the warmed liquid spills onto Charles shorts, seeping into the cotton and making Charles tremble.

Without uttering a word, Max grabs Charles face, fingers digging into the woman’s flushed cheeks to hold her mouth open. Charles tongue lolls out, expecting Max to spit on top of it, to push their finger past her lips and fuck her mouth ruthlessly. 

From her place above Charles, Max laughs. Her weight falls atop of Charles thighs, sweatpants clinging to her legs, making the restrictive touch feel worse. If he could, he’d take the pants off in an instant, but right now Max has to focus on Charles and Charles alone. 

Pink lips attempt to close around Max's fleeting forefinger, but the force Max has stops Charles before she can even whine. The water bottle feels heavy in her hand, and though it would feel rewarding to dump it over Charles' head, humiliate her further, Max knows that what’s to happen next will be even sweeter. 

“Charles,” she says, tone icy cold. Max sees her lover swallow, fear budding in her eyes. “Tilt your head back for me, mutt.”

That’s all the woman needs. Eyes fall shut, mouth slips open with little resistance and her head falls back. Max's hand still resides on top of Charles’ cheeks. She can’t stop herself from moving it lower, enticed with the beauty presented so effortlessly in front of her. It rests on the column of his neck, barely touching the trashed skin. 

Underneath him, shudders run down Charles’ spine, lips agape in a soundless moan. They’ve never seen something as beautiful before, not once in their lifetime have they witnessed such perfection falling apart mere centimeters away from them. 

Bright red spreads down Charles neck, skin hot beneath Max's hold. The woman’s cheeks, dusted scarlet and covered by a thin layer of sweat, invite Max to press kisses on the crimson expanse of her face. A promise of being able to do so after he breaks Charles consoles Max's urge to revere the angel. Her pretty girl shifts under her touch, eyes opening slightly to see why Max is not painting her skin in hues of purple and red. 

“Daddy…” Charles sounds wrecked already. “Why aren’t you touching me?”

“I am, silly,” Max answers simply, hand tightening around the brunette’s neck. “See?”

A pathetic whine rips through Charles sobs, fingers closing around Max’s wrist. It is so unbelievably easy to toy with Charles’ feelings, to push her buttons until she’s begging like a mindless, broken mutt. Max loves it, almost as much as she loves the gentleness that engulfs them after. 

“Let’s drink the water and then I promise to touch you however you wish.” His thumb presses in the neck juncture, eliciting a pitiful moan from his beautiful lover. “Colour, Charlie? You still with me?”

“Green, daddy,” Charles breathes out, her hold on Max's wrist relaxing. “Please, Maxie… Please ruin me. Need-- Need it s’ bad, baby. S’te plait”

Something about the slurred speech, the glazed look in Charles’ eyes when she pins Max under a lustful glance, the slight tremble in Charles’ hands and shoulders stops Max from pulling the woman’s head back. He’s never had Charles this far gone before they even started. Part of them wants to stop, pull their lover out and make sure she’s alright and coherent enough to know what’s happening to her. 

Reluctantly, she lets go of Charles, scooting back enough to loom over her while still presenting a form of comfort for her shaking lover. 

“Charlie, I need you to check in one more time. Can you do that for me, please?”

“‘M green, Maxie. Promise.”

The look that Charles fixes Max with is one of pure lust, undeniable desire burning hot in molten emerald. It sets Max back a few steps, a carnal desire spreading in her blood, wrapping around each and every organ inside of her. It tugs painfully at the ravenous wish to destroy Charles. 

Holding back those sinful impulses, Max leans back in, hand on Charles shoulder as she carefully presses a kiss on the woman’s nose. Soft and gentle, exactly the opposite of what Charles asked for. 

Charles mewls, fingers tightening around the material of Max's shirt. “Max. Fucking fuck me, you idiot.”

He moves without thinking, the ear splitting sound of a slap resonating in the room. “Impatient mutt, you have to wait for what you want or else I’ll leave you. Do you want to be here alone, without my help or permission to touch your pathetic pussy?”

“No!” Charles all but cries, thrashing under Max's weight. “‘M sorry, daddy, didn’t mean to be rude. Please don’t leave me.” 

The tears streaming down Charles’ cheeks ignite the fire further. Their body feels aflame, possessiveness spiraling inside their chest. Max is the only one who can make Charles cry like this, the only one who can light her body a bright vermillion with few and in between touches and stares. He is the only one who will never leave Charles, not in a time of need, not in a time of sickness. 

Never. 

“I’d never leave you, darling,” Max reminds her, voice dripping in honey. “I’ll stay with you for as long as you’ll have me.” 

“Forever?” Charles asks, gaze shy, yet hopeful. 

“Forever,” Max easily agrees, sealing the deal with a short lived kiss. 

The tenderness is just as short lived, mean fingers wrapping around Charles locks and finally, finally pulling her head back. The woman’s lips fall open as she swallows dryly at what’s to come. 

Max wishes she could capture the work of art unraveling in front of her, keep it forever with her, tucked into her phone for her to enjoy when apart from her lover. Shaking her head, Max pushes those thoughts aside. 

“I’m going to make you drink all of this water, Charlie. Gonna make you drown on it until you’re sobbing and pissing all over yourself, understood?” Her voice leaves no room for argument and Charles can sense the strictness. She nods, attempts to despite the hand holding her head still. 

Not a single breath escapes Max while he pours the water past Charles parted lips. Mesmerized, he watches the woman struggle to swallow, her Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp she manages to take. Tears fall from her closed eyes, breathing becomes more erratic. Still, Max doesn’t stop pouring. Not when water leaks down the sides of Charles face and onto the mats, not when Charles closes her mouth to calm herself, the two simple taps the woman places on his bicep fueling Max's sadism. 

The last few drops fall on top of her closed lips, running down heated skin with ease. Flushed skin seems to make the water evaporate, heating it up and leaving Charles hot and bothered before Max. Her eyes, though shut tight, twitch with every momentary touch. 

What a sight Max made of Charles. What a beautiful masterpiece he had created, all for himself to marvel at. This angel, this holy being that’s at Max's mercy is the embodiment of deadly sins. Lust and gluttony and pride and greed, all paint the insides of Max's chest in shades of green and bleeding red. 

Hypnotized, Max stares. 

She is so in love with this woman, so in love that no one could understand her devotion. No other can compare to Charles, no other can even come close to how dear Max holds this woman.

A whimpered whisper of his name breaks him out of his day dreaming. Their eyes focus on Charles’ face, red and blotchy with dried tears, trails of water and saliva going down her chin. She’s splendid, perfect in each and every way imaginable. She’s more than Max deserves, more than what she could’ve asked for. 

In any way, shape and form, Charles is her God, her angel and muse. 

“Max, please.” And despite not knowing what Charles is begging for, what she’s holding onto Max for, he cannot deny her precious love. When she’s pleading and sobbing for Max's touch, she’d have to be mad to ignore such saccharine requests. 

“Yes, my love, I know. You want me to touch you and make you cum. Your greediness never fails to impress me,” she sighs mournfully, putting on an act to rile her pretty girl up even more. “Say, you think you deserve to cum? You really think you’ve been good?”

“Yes!” Charles sobs, digging her fingernails into Max's shoulders. “I’ve been s’ good for you, daddy! Drank everything and-- and held my piss like a good girl.” She’s crying again, choking on her own sobs and spit. It’s a pitiful image, but Max relishes in the loud weeps. 

Charles is just so bewitching when she’s reduced to nothing but a sobbing mess. 

Max hums, deep in thought as she pretends to weigh the limited options she has. They don’t want to tease Charles for much longer, doubts they even can do it without giving themself blue balls, but God, they want to. Briefly, she thinks back to the list of things she’d planned out to do with Charles today and suddenly she doesn’t care about teasing Charles. She’d rather overstimulate her until she’s blabbering nonsense and shaking. 

“Colour?” 

Charles frowns at him, pout tugging at her lips. “Green,” she mumbles, chin tucked into her chest. “Please, daddy. It hurts!”

“Oh?” Max quirks her eyebrow, smirking down at the corrupted little thing. “Where does it hurt, baby girl?”

Her hand flies from Max's shoulder, resting gently above her own bladder, careful as to not press on it. Max can’t have this. Without much care, she moves Charles hand aside, pressing her thumb into the woman’s swollen abdomen. 

Charles’ sobs rip through her body, writhing as she tries to get away from the pressure Max is putting on her. In one swift move, she pulls her lover down, shirt riding up along with the mats. He moves from his place atop Charles’ thighs, momentarily sitting on the mattress while observing her. 

Without the weight on top of her, Charles lifts his head, confused and dazzled. She spots Max quickly, and without much thought she gives Max her best puppy eyes, bottom lip jutted out to effectively pull on Max's heartstrings. 

“Daddy, please come back and touch me,” her girl demands, face smushed into the pillow. “Wanna cum, please.”

Gods, Max will never tire of hearing her beg. 

He doesn’t utter a single sound while maneuvering Charles to sit between her legs. Doesn’t sprinkle any mean comments in when Charles wraps them around Max's waist, ankles crossed behind her back to hold Max close. Even when Charles buries her face deeper into the pillow, Max doesn’t say a word. 

They’re observing, committing every detail unfolding in front of them to memory, tucking away the pictures for later. 

Charles whimpers into the cotton covers, holding back another sob. “Hurts, daddy.”

“Does it?” Max asks. Her fingers itch to touch, to claim what’s hers with dark bruises in the form of Max's palms. “Should I make the pain go away, puppy?” The woman nods minutely. Had Max not been paying attention, he might’ve missed it. “Alright, darling. I’m gonna take your shorts off now, ok?” Another easy to miss nod. “Can you check in with me real fast, angel?”

“You can take them off, daddy. I’m green, j’st really hurts. Wan’ cum but it’s too much.”

As soon as the shorts and soiled panties are off, Max holds Charles’ foot gently, bringing it to his lips. She presses a single kiss in the middle of her sole, making the woman giggle despite the discomfort she is in. It brings a smile on Max's face, hearing her pretty girl laugh like this, all shy and soft. Charles covers her face, hands hiding the beautiful blush Max's put on her cheeks. 

Still, she can’t hide her pretty pussy, bruising red and leaking down her thighs, making for the most unholy view, nor can she conceal the flush on his neck, going under the shirt and coming back on her hips and thighs. Charles blushes beautifully, Max has come to know. Her whole body turns the loveliest shade of red, from the tips of her ears when Max leans in to whisper sweet I love you’s in public, to her thighs, burning red under Max's ministrations. 

It’s truly and absolutely fascinating, to say the least. 

“How do you want this, Charlie? On your back or on your stomach?”

“Back,” Charles answers eagerly. 

Max chuckles darkly, amused by the woman’s enthusiasm to piss all over herself. “Well, pup, go ahead. Wet yourself like the dumb mutt you are.” 

It’s an interesting progression, what happens next. Charles’ eyes shut tight, a deep frown creasing her forehead. She’s silent, panting while she struggles to let go. Under Max's loving gaze, Charles breaks. Frustrated sobs wreck through her, fists balling into the mats. The image is enough to make possessiveness spark underneath Max's skin, igniting their desires to keep these moments safe and away from anyone else. To keep Charles to themself. 

“Max, I can’t.” 

In a way, Max understands her pain and frustrations. She can imagine how hard it must be to let go, how humiliating the idea of pissing herself must be for Charles. Worry seeps into her bones again. 

“What can’t you do, angel?”

“I can’t--” Charles cuts herself off with a loud mewl. “Can’t go, daddy!”

“Can’t?” The fingers rubbing soothing circles on Charles' ankle ghost over her leg, moving to her hip, touch cold and brief, before stopping on the woman’s abdomen. “Or won’t?” The press is just a brief, a green ticket for Charles to call it quits in case she changes her mind. 

She doesn’t. 

“Can’t, daddy! It’s too ‘mbarrassing,” she mumbles into her hands, hiding behind them as a form of faux-comfort. “Help, Maxie…” The hushed and broken tone makes Max blink at his lover. 

Realization floods him. “Oh, you’re such a naughty thing, love,” he says with a laugh. Her previous gentleness is gone, thumb pressing roughly into Charles bladder, making the woman squirm in discomfort and pain. “Needing me to make you piss,” Max tuts, shaking her head at the crying beauty laid before her. “Naughty, messy little one. You never fail to impress me.”

Back arching off the mattress, Charles thrusts her hips in the air, oh so close to Max, yet so far away. She humps the air, ivory teeth biting the back of her hand, canines digging into tanned skin without an ounce of self-control. And yet, she’s still not letting go. 

It’s a wonder, how she’s managed to keep it in for so long, despite Max's continuous teasing. It makes Max just that more hungry, craving to see Charles come apart at his hand. 

“Daddy--” Charles stutters, the frown on her face only deepening with each second in which Max tortures her slowly. “Can’t do it, Maxie. Need your hand on my clit, daddy! Hurts too much!” She sounds so completely and utterly broken, so distressed and in this moment, Max swears she’s never been more in love with the sounds someone makes, let alone with the person letting them out. 

“Since you’ve asked so nicely,” she agrees without a fuss, right hand moving between Charles’ thighs, finger pressing into her swollen clit, squeezing it harshly to draw out more needy noises from Charles. 

“Thank you, thank--” Charles whines loudly, teeth pulling at her fingers, bitemarks imprinted on them. Desperate sounds bleeding into the room plague Max's mind. “I’m gonna--”

But Charles doesn’t get to finish her warning. With Max's hand moving faster and faster over Charles’ clit, she finally comes undone. Her whole body goes rigid, before relaxing into the sheets as a hot stream of piss leaks down her thighs, soaking the sheets, the mats, Max’s sweatpants, everything. 

Max didn’t know what to expect when he was planning this. Piss, surely; a mess, of course. But she didn’t expect for it to be so… enticing. The idea of Charles pissing herself did fascinate her, but she never thought it will be this hot. Watching Charles break turns her on more than she’d like to admit; it’s maddening, intoxicating. 

The stream doesn’t seem to be ending, liquid glistening atop Charles skin, seeping into his shirt, the mats absorbing as much as they can. Max is surprised that not much gets on his own clothes, only his knees wet with how he’s standing on the bed, the shirt he’s wearing remaining dry, safe for the edges pooling around his waist. 

She’s impossibly hard in her sweats and the sinfully erotic image of Charles panting, eyes shut tight, pussy spasming and leaking, piss drenching her clothes and the bed she’s resting on… It takes everything out of her to not devour the woman, but despite her best efforts she can’t stop her fingers from twitching with need, moving from Charles abdomen down her thigh, squeezing the fat with brute force. 

“Charles,” Max breathes out, voice strained. “Can I fuck your thighs?”

Charles legs tighten around her waist, hands gripping at Max's forearms. They’re bound to be bruised the next day, but neither care. Max loves being marked and purple just as much as she adores putting them across Charles' perfect body. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Charles chants, head thrown back in pure bliss. “Please touch me, daddy. Wanna cum now, daddy.”

Laughing to herself, Max reaches into their bedside table for the lube, fingers still massaging and squeezing at Charles thighs. “What, pissing yourself wasn’t enough to make you cum?” There’s no time to wait for the woman’s response. Max needs to cum just as badly as her sweet girl. 

The pretty blush spreading across Charles' body stops them for just a moment. A moment they uses to gawk at Charles, put some more images away in their head for later. She’s gorgeous. Thoroughly and unconditionally so. 

And Max, Max whose heart beats faster each time she steals a glance at her beautiful girl, Max whose stomach fills with butterflies and whose organs are wrapped in flowers and crystals and vines so thick they're making it hard to breathe, Max who cannot do anything but fall deeper in love with Charles, falls. She falls again and again, until she’s bruised and her knees are bleeding, yet she cannot stop. She wants this perfect woman, her perfect girl forever. Wants to fall for her more and more as their bones grow weak and the soil reclaims what belongs to it. 

The lube is cold when it hits Charles’ thighs, if the hiss she lets out is any form of indication of it. Not even the hotness that Charles emanates is enough to warm it up while Max sheds her sweatpants, cock springing free. He’s redder than Charles, untouched and begging to be buried in between Charles thighs. They’re both silent as Max guides Charles to squeeze her legs together, feet thrown over Max's shoulder to make it easier for her. 

Soft moans fill the room, Charles saccharine noises coating Max's dazed mind with a thick fog. Charles is a fuel, a fuel for unprompted decisions leading to handprints bruised on a tanned neck and fingerprints atop wide hips. Charles burns her, her touch burns deep into Max's skin, melting hardened walls with ease. It feels like she's boiling alive, underneath her skin. 

All because of Charles. 

His cock aches as he pushes its head past Charles' thighs. The press is astonishingly tight, so much so that Max feels the air being knocked from her lungs the more she pushes. God, she loves Charles’ thighs; she cannot get enough of feeling them around her, squeezing her, pulling her cock farther in. They want them wrapped around their head, their waist, their cock. Everywhere. 

“Angel,” Max moans, grip on Charles hips more secure with each shallow thrust. “You feel so good around me, angel. Your thighs were made to be fucked.” As an answer, Charles whimpers, biting on her bottom lip to keep the loudest noises away. “Made entirely for me to use, isn’t that right--” Max prides herself for the amount of self-restraint she has, but once she’s touching Charles, it all dissipates. 

“Yours, daddy. Only belong to you,” the woman agrees mindlessly. 

The drag across hot skin is rough, even with the amounts of lube and piss still on Charles legs. It’s mind numbing, uncomfortable enough to make Max hiss in pleasure as he increases the speed minutely. 

Charles' eyes are glued to her own legs, watching Max's cock poke out between them hungrily. If Max didn’t know any better she’d even say she’s salivating, mouth slightly open, tongue sticking out. But she’s not, because in moments like this, when Charles gets so focused on something that she doesn’t even blink, it’s almost like all her bodily functions shut down. All but her ability to stare and burn each detail into her retina. 

“You like watching your thighs swallow me whole, baby girl?" Max asks with a soft chuckle. “You have no idea how good you feel, love,” his words get stuck in his throat, another frail whine escaping Max. 

“Want you to touch me, daddy,” Charles whispers into thick air. It takes Max a moment to realize she’s spoken and then another one to take in what Charles said, but once she does her hand immediately moves to rest against Charles' clit. 

He doesn’t move it yet, waiting for Charles to break once again and beg for Max to make her cum. The thrusts don’t slow down, each one pulling Max closer to the edge. Volatile reds bloom across Charles' body, tainting Max's pale skin in its progress. She’d rather have the woman’s teeth stain her ruby and violet instead, but this will do. 

The sight of her beautiful lover alone can make Max cum. Seeing her so transfixed on the part where her cock peeks out, eyes glazed with want and lust only adds to the carnal effect she has on Max. 

Max is close, thrusts coming to a halt every time her navel touches the back of Charles’ thighs. He’s close and Charles is surprisingly quiet, yet just as spellbound. Without hrt own accord, Max's fingers rub over the woman’s clit, drawing out a series of rich whines and sobs, each more delicious than the other. 

She swallows them all with a hungry, starved kiss. 

In a flurry of chasing their own orgasm, Max's hand begins moving faster over Charles, sweet noises escaping the woman with each thrust and every press. The position is uncomfortable, Max's neck hurting as she leans down to press kisses on Charles face. She doubts the way Charles is folded is any better, but her lover’s only complaints are about needing to cum faster and harder. 

“Max, Maxie--” Charles chokes on her own spit. “Can I cum? Please, let me, daddy!” She’s sobbing again, beautifully so. Face red, with streaks of tears upon streaks of tears, saliva dripping down the corners of her mouth. 

Max almost doesn’t manage to give her permission, voice dying in her throat before she can get the words out on the first try. Their movements get that more clumsy with every pull back, the hand on Charles’ pussy stopping its strokes for a brief moment.  “Yes, sweetheart,” she says after her hips still enough for Max to recompose herself. 

That is all Charles needs. The granted permission, the grazing kissing Max continues to press all over her face, the hand that resumes its fast paced stroking. All of them tilt Charles over and with a single, loud keen, she cums all over Max's hand. 

Max isn't far behind. The woman brings her legs closer, impossibly tight, wishing to have Max's cum mix with hers. Max can barely breathe, air coming out in short puffs as he struggles to keep himself above Charles, lest he wants to collapse on top of his lovely girl. 

Charles' thighs are Heavenly around him. 

"Maxie," Charles moans, a quiet sob coming out of her. "Cum for me." 

With a whimper, Max goes still, spilling all over Charles' perfect thighs. The room is silent, safe for their heavy breathing and occasional whine Charles lets out. 

Blissful afterglow seeps into Charles' features, red bleeding out and leaving only coral pink behind. She's breathtaking, basking in her own orgasm, eyes closed and head tilted back. She's breathtaking, thighs still shaking around Max, hands letting go, without meaning to, of Max's arms.

Max's hand pulls away, moving up towards the woman’s mouth. The cum is already drying on her fingers, but that doesn't stop her from pushing two of them past Charles lips, watching with so much love as she sucks them into her mouth without a single complaint. 

God, Max just keeps on falling. 

"You're so pretty, Charlie. Been so good for me today," Max's tone is quieter, scared of breaking the moment they've created. Charles stays silent, only smiling up at her lover, completely blissed out with the fingers slowly pushing in and out of her mouth, resting on the brunette’s tongue every now and again. 

“Thanks, mate,” she whispers around Max's fingers. 

Max stops altogether, a stunned expression on his face. “Did you… just call me mate after I made you piss yourself and fucked your thighs?”

The smile Charles offers him is so stupidly endearing that Max can’t even find it in her to be upset by the absurdity of it all. 

“Alright, pretty girl, let’s get you in the shower. You reek of piss and I’m too tired to do anything else tonight,” Max says with a soft laugh. Her fingers leave Charles mouth, and though the whine the woman gives her does tug at her heartstrings, Max doesn’t give in. Charles can always fall asleep sucking on their fingers if she really does want that, but right now they’d rather take a long, hot shower and not think about the smell seeping into their mattress. 

“You have to carry me, though,” Charles informs him, matter of factly. 

Max scoffs, but nonetheless she stands and picks the woman up, throwing her over her shoulder. “I always carry you, idiot.”

“Yes, because it turns you on that you can manhandle me,” Charles scoffs back. “I’ll blow you in the morning if you wash my hair.”

Max sighs. “Fine,” she agrees, not bothering to tell Charles that she would’ve taken care of that without the promise of a blowjob. Charles doesn’t need her ego inflated any more than it already is. “It better be the best blowjob of my life, though.”

“Oh, you’ll love it, mon chou,” Charles laughs. 

Max doesn’t doubt it, but it’s nice to play the role sometimes. 

After all, Charles still hasn’t caught up on the fact that Max is so in love with her she’d give up everything to make her happy.

[microwavesaferat]

I'm so unexcited for the Christopher Nolan Odyssey Film.

There's so many things I'm just dreading, like as a mythology buff (admittedly, not an expert, just a bit of a special interest), I'm gonna lose it if a film guy starts mansplaining about Homeric hymns to me. Like, keep talking about how the suitors were actually doing what was right for the time and I will kick you in your shriveled nutsack.

I also saw the cast list and nearly shed a tear. They all have fucking iPhone face. I'm sorry, Tom Holland as Telemachus (potentially)???? Like, oh it's so sad your dad is missing and stuff, but did you remember to take your ozempic today? Like all the cast have iPhone face. Unless this is gonna be a weird modern retelling (which also worries me), I won't be able to imagine Zendaya as Athena (potentially) without her whipping out a Google pixel to text Zeus.

I was talking to people and we ended up making our own cast list of some of the major roles.

Cast List

Odysseus - Antonia Banderas

My mother saw him in Paddington 3 and has instructed me to include him as he is, in her words, "fit". In my opinion, someone like Liam Neeson, Mads Mikelson or Michael Fassbender. I just don't want a poorly disguised American accent. Like I get you might not get a Greek actor or even one with a similar accent, but please not a straight American accent or badly done accent.

Penelope - Michelle Yeoh

Nolan is rumoured to have cast Anne Hathaway, which I am also kind of fine with, so I'm not too worried about that. I think Michelle would be great as a cunning, loyal wife to Odysseus and I also think she could channel a great amount of contempt towards the suitors. I never find Anne Hathaway to be convincingly angry in scenes, distraught and afraid, yes, but I think Michelle could really embody that disgust Penelope has.

Athena - Cate Blanchet

I think Athena needs to be played by an older actor. I get the Gods are ageless, but she needs to give the appearance of wisdom and I think Cate Blanchet always looks like she's planning and thinking. The issue with Zendaya is not just that she has iPhone face, but she is too young. Your mind immediately says that she's too young to be that wise. It's a trait commonly associated with older people as it relates to experience, and Zendaya just doesn't look experienced.

Poiseiden - Gerard Butler

Hear me out, I think the Gods (other than Athena) should only appear in voice and not in person. For the scale of things, an actor floating in the air with cgi waves doesn't really look that menacing in the scale of things, especially compared to 50 boats. And I don't want a big cgi water monster thing either. I think the voice should carry on the waves, a shout accompanied by a crash of water, the temper rising as does the waves. I think it's more threatening to hear his voice booming as the boat is rocked, there's a fear of pissing him off more cause, if he gets much louder, you might just capsize. My mother wanted to also say, in a perfect world, it would actually be Billy Connolly, but he hasn't acted in years now due to Parkinson's. The rumour is that Nolan has cast Robert Pattinson and, while he was threatening as the Batman, I don't think it's the right kind of threatening required for the role. If he was doing this as a voice acting role, maybe, we know he has amazing range from the Boy and the Heron.

Zues - Patrick Page

Listen to Little Songbird or Hellfire and tell me he doesn't sound like Thunder. Moving on.

Circe - Nicole Kidman

Circe is a complex character and I think she needs to be portrayed that way. I don't want a young actor who beguiles older Odysseus with her youth. I need Circe to have that wisdom and experience that Penelope also has. I think it could be an interesting idea to even have them played by the same person. This all depends on how close the movie will be to the original epic anyway. My main stipulation is that she needs to remind Odysseus of Penelope.

Calypso - Lupita Nyong'o

The articles I've read actually suggest her as Circe, which I wouldn't mind either, I just wanted someone older for Circe. I think Calypso is also a complex character that must be portrayed as such. Essentially I think Lupita would be able to embody both the woman madly in love with Odysseus and also the Goddess keeping him here for her entertainment. From seeing her in Us, I know she has an amazing range and is able to show the threatening side to Calypso required. It doesn't work if it seems like Odysseus has the upper hand at any point.

Telemachus - Thomas Brodie Sangster

I really struggled here cause a lot of young actors look too modern for a lot of period pieces. It's also important that Telemachus isn't some chiseled, huge guy. I also think, given we would probably check in on him multiple times during the movie, Thomas is good at looking young and old at the same time. Another option would maybe be Joe Locke.

This post is long already so I'm not doing the rest of the characters. I have nothing against the actors Nolan has gone with, I just don't think they fit well. I'm also heavily biased from listening to Epic and Hadestown a lot.

Lmk your suggestions, as always, these are just my thoughts and a lot of them aren't even well thought out.

[eris-norwega]

HOLAAAA, VI TU PUBLICACIÓN PIDIENDO PEDIDOS O ESO CREO. POR FSVOR HAZ ALGO EN DONDE ALSSTOR VE A SU AMSDA O AMIGA EN EL CIELO IDKK POR FAVOR

En el Cielo

Español: ¡HOLA HERMANO! ahora, antes de empezar, quiero advertirte. no hablo español muy bien, pero estoy trabajando en ello. mi objetivo es incluir más lectores latinos en fanfics de hazbin hotel. este fanfic no sera en español😔mi escritura en español todavía no es tan buena. ¡pero! voy a hacer este lector hable algo de español para tú :)

English: HELLO BROTHER! now, before we start, i want to warn you. i don’t speak spanish that well, but i’m working on it. my goal is to include more latino readers in hazbin hotel fanfics. this fanfic will not be in spanish😔my writing in spanish still isn’t that good. but! i’m going to make this reader speak in some spanish for you :)

Notes: if y’all see ANY mistakes, english or spanish, let me know! i don’t find it annoying, i find it constructive. that being said, hi, i’m Eris! i’m now taking alastor x reader requests because i’m losing my goddamn mind :D

Synopsis: Reader has been living in Heaven peacefully—but a little empty—since their death. That is, until a group of unlikely demons are escorted by the seraphim. Little does reader know that one of the demons is a long-lost friend—and maybe something more.

CW: reader speaks some spanish (doesn’t necessarily have to be latino)

Word Count: 2462

Heaven. A place of perfection and peace for all eternity. Not a soul up here suffered. No one worried. We didn’t have to. Everything was okay and good. I couldn’t remember how it felt to feel the burdens of mortal life, because then what would be the point of everlasting tranquility?

And yet…

Something was missing. I remembered, I knew, for a time here in Heaven what I was lacking. That’s if time even exists here. But at some point, it faded away. Is anything really wrong in the first place if you can’t remember?

Now all I feel is a bit of an ache. Is that normal in Heaven?

There wasn’t much I could do about it anyway. Until there was.

I whipped my head around as I heard shouting from beside me. I scrunched my face in annoyance, my angelic wings fluttering behind me.

¿Que carajo? I mumbled in my head, returning to my book as I read in the outdoor café. I tried to tune the yelling out, but it only got louder and louder. I groaned, snapping my book shut, glaring at the forming crowd in the promenade.

I drummed my fingers on my book, my eyes squinting and frown deepening as I watched angels upon angels gather around an unknown source. Some even began to take to the skies, wanting an overhead view.

Suddenly, a bright flash of light enveloped the square. I covered my eyes with a hand, peaking behind it to see two seraphim appear in the midst of the crowd.

I watched as Sera shooed the crowd away, wings flapping in the array of bodies as angels scooted back.

I finally managed to see what the kerfuffle was about. A group of…odd looking people stood in the center of the huddle, some looking grumpy, others excited, others anxious.

I blinked in confusion. They didn’t look like they were from Heaven. Maybe the mortal plane? But who dresses like that on Earth?

Then they must’ve been from…

Cold fear washes through me as I make the connection. Hell? Were those odd people from Hell?? But how? And why was Sera letting them in?

I snapped my book away, my attention fully on the newcomers. I got up from my seat, warily making my way towards the group. Once I made it to the edge of the dispersed onlookers, I shuffled towards Emily, the younger seraphim.

“Psst,” I hissed. “Chica. Behind you.”

Kind blue eyes met mine, a wide smile overtaking her face as she floated towards me. “Hey!” she presented herself. “What do you need?”

“You’re supposed to keep us happy and joyful, ¿sí?” I asked, my arms folded. I nodded my head to the bizarre group. “It would make me happy and joyful if you explained who they are.”

Emily’s smiled wavered for a second as she glanced behind her. She turned her gaze back to me. “Well,” she started, wringing her hands, “they’re uh. They’re from…Hell?” she shrugged nervously.

My wings twitched behind me, not entirely surprised but not pleased either. “Why?” I asked bluntly.

She chewed her lip nervously. “I don’t know if I can tell you that…” She twiddled with her fingers before blurting out, “They’re here to get sinners redeemed!”

I recoiled, my wings flapping in alarm. “What?” I hissed. “But that’s impossible!”

Emily shushed me, giggling excitedly. “Keep it quiet, okay? I just couldn’t hold it in anymore!” She squealed. “You know one of the new arrivals? Sir Pentious?”

“Yeah,” I grumbled suspiciously, understanding where this was going.

“He was a redeemed sinner!” she whisper-yells. “Their plan worked!”

My face drops in shock. So it was true?

“How?” I asked incredulously.

“Okay, okay, so they have this hotel, right?” Emily starts excitedly. “It was started by Charlie, the Princess of Hell—she’s right over th—”

“The what?” I yelled.

Emily clamped a hand over my mouth. “Shh. Yeah, I know, it sounds crazy, but she’s sweet, I promise.” She points to a girl in the small huddle, one with long blonde hair and large, optimistic eyes. “That’s her. Next to her is her girlfriend Vaggie and…” she trails off.

“And what?” I stared in awe.

“Don’t freak out but…that’s…Lucifer,” she winced, gesturing to a short blonde man with many of the same features as Charlie.

My wings drooped. “The Lucifer?” I whispered harshly.

Emily nodded solemnly. “Yeah. He’s helping her now.”

Unease churned in my stomach. That was Lucifer. The Devil. The beast parents warned their kids about. And he was…just a tiny blonde dude?

I shook my head, turning my attention to the last group member. “And him?”

Emily scrunched her face. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, inspecting the tallest figure adorned with red and black. “He must be important if he’s here.”

I shrugged. “What’re they gonna be doing while they’re here?”

Emily clapped her hands together. “Well,” she said excitedly, “they have to settle into their rooms first. Then I think we’re going to, like, a theater or something? Then a meeting with the higher-ups.”

I eyed her. “Which theater?” I grumbled.

She turned and pointed her finger down the street. “The one that way. Saint Peter’s I think?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Mierda,” I growled. “I am too,” I sighed.

“Really?” Emily beamed. “That’s great! Maybe you’ll get to meet them there!”

“I really don’t want to,” I groaned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A wide circle of seats around the demons in the theater stayed open. Angels cowered away, not wanting to sit next to the hellspawn. I hummed, getting up from my seat near the back and sitting in the now vacant chairs. Better seats were better seats.

The demons chattered behind me, waiting for the show to start. Charlie in particular seemed enthralled to be here. Vaggie and Lucifer? Not so much.

Still didn’t know what the red demon’s name was.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god, DAD!” Charlie rambled. “We’re watching HADESTOWN! I’ve heard such good things about it from sinners!”

“Yeah,” I heard Lucifer chuckle. “Let’s see how inaccurately they depict the underworld in this one.”

“Daaad, it’s not about that,” Charlie whined.

“I’d certainly take Hades as a king than this fool!” came a staticky cackle.

My body froze, the argument brewing behind me lost in a haze as my eyes widened. Why did that voice feel so…familiar?

I slowly turned around to watch the bickering demons, Charlie and her girlfriend uncomfortably smushed between the two men. I stared at the red demon, large ears laying flat on his head as he hissed insults at the king.

“Guys!” Charlie shushed, pointing in my direction. “You’re causing a scene!”

The two men turned in my direction, the king looking guilty and muttering an apology. The other froze, much like I had.

We locked eyes, and I tilted my head as I tried to identify the odd feeling in my mind. Who was he? And why did he feel…important?

The demon looked at me in shock, large toothed smile twitching along with his ears, his eyes flickering over my face. He seemed tense.

“Do I…know you?” I questioned.

His smile wavered, ears flicking down for an imperceptible moment. “Yes,” he said softly.

The other demons stared in confusion, their eyes bulging out of their sockets.

I shook my head slowly. “Lo siento. I…I can’t remember who you are.”

His eyes looked away for a moment before he vanished into shadow. I recoiled in confusion before he reappeared in the seat next to me.

“¡Mierda!” I screeched, backing away from him, hand on my chest. “¡No me asustes así!”

The demon let out a laugh. “Just as fiery as I knew you in life, my dear.”

I frowned. “Who are you?”

His wide smile faded, replaced by a smaller, sadder grin. “You don’t remember.”

I shook my head.

He sighed, looking down. “Ah, it’s probably better that way.”

I scowled at him. “Well don’t keep me waiting.”

He chuckled softly, looking back up at me. “I’m Alastor, my dear. We met when we were quite young.”

I furrowed my brows, my mind beginning to swirl. Alastor. I had heard that name before.

“Alastor?” I repeated softly.

He nodded. I stared at him in confusion. I knew him. How did I know him? Subconsciously, my hands went to his face, cupping it gently, like he might break. His eyes darted around, backing away slightly in fear.

“Alastor,” I murmured. The second my fingertips met his face, all the memories came rushing back.

Alastor. We had met when we were kids, two young souls playing in the warm Louisiana rain. Life was rough for the both of us, born to poor, struggling families. He was a troubled young boy, always getting into fights and being the target of abuse both in and out of his home. He was an angry, angry child. But I was determined to be his friend.

He had no toys. He sat in that rain, watching the water flow into the ditches, throwing rocks and watching leaves drift on the water. My parents had forced me outside, saying I needed to get some of my energy out. I found him. He would be my best friend right then and there.

He hated me at first. I wanted to run around, but he was just content to sit there and seethe. After flopping down in defeat, I finally had the grand idea to construct little leaf boats and float them down the ditch.

I built with determination as he watched silently. When my first boat sailed successfully down the stream, he quietly started to build his own. We built more and more and more until the rain stopped and we had to go our separate ways.

We were inseparable after that.

We stayed friends throughout our school years and into adulthood. We had grand dreams for our futures. I wanted to travel, to see the world. He wanted to be famous, to get his mother out of poverty. I went to college, hoping to get a high paying job so I could travel. He went straight to work, getting job after job to finally achieve his goal.

There were moments along the way where I would feel something more than just friendship for him. He was charming, smart, determined, and fiercely loyal to those he cared about.

But he never seemed interested. I gave it up a few months before he was found dead in the woods, a bullet in his head and a body next to his.

Oh, that’s right. He was a serial killer.

Tears filled my eyes as I looked at him now. “Alastor?” I whispered softly.

He laid a hand over mine. “Yes, my dear?”

I choked on a sob, bringing him closer and crying into his shoulder. He stiffened for a moment, wrapping an arm around me. I knew he wasn’t too fond of physical contact, but to hell with it. I missed him.

“I can’t believe I forgot you,” I cried.

“It’s alright my dear,” he soothed. “I knew you wouldn’t have done it on purpose.”

“I missed you,” I mumbled.

A pause. “As did I, my dear.”

I pulled back, anger filling my eyes. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill all those people? You could be here. With me.” I sniffled.

He gave me a wry smile. “I assure you I did not kill good men, my dear. But perhaps that’s a conversation we’ll have another time.”

I closed my eyes and let out a breath. “But how long will you be here?”

He smiled sadly at me. “Only a day.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the day we stayed glued to each other, just as we had when we were alive. The meeting with the seraphim went well, and the Hazbin Hotel got full support from Heaven.

So now it was time for the demons to go.

A portal swirled in front of me as I held Alastor like a lifeline. I clutched his back, nails digging into his coat and face buried in his shoulder as I stared in fear at the churning vortex leading to damnation.

“Please don’t go,” I whispered weakly. “I just found you again.”

Alastor squeezed me tighter. “I’m afraid I don’t have a choice.”

“Will I ever see you again?” I squeaked.

“I’ll make sure of it,” he promised.

“Alastor!” Charlie called. “The portal closes soon!”

Alastor begrudgingly pulled away from me, a regretful smile on his face. My lip wobbled as I stared at him.

He cupped my face with a hand, his thumb running soothingly over my cheek. I leaned into his touch, my eyes wide with tears.

He smiled softly down at me. “I should have told you sooner,” he whispered.

“Told me what?” I hiccuped.

Alastor let out a soft hum, his thumb brushing over my lips. He looked so at peace as he leaned down and captured my mouth with his.

A surprised noise left my throat before I felt my heart pound in my ribs as my eyes fluttered shut. I pulled him closer, tears running down my face as I poured all the emotion of a lifetime into the kiss.

A pulled away just so, tears he would never let fall gathering in his eyes. “I do it all for you, my love,” he whispered. “All the pain and suffering, all the power I accumulated down there…it’s to reach you.”

My eyes widened as I looked at his deep crimson ones, eyes that held the same fire and determination as they did when he was alive.

Alastor clutched my hand. “I will find you again, even if I have to tear down this whole place to get to you. I swear it.”

“Alastor!” I hear Vaggie call. “It’s now or never!”

Alastor groans with a roll of his eyes. “One day the worlds that separate us will be nothing but myths.” A pained expression crossed his face as he leaned down to give me one last peck. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when we were alive. I was a scared and selfi—”

I silenced him with a finger, giving him a small smile. “I know. I don’t blame you.”

He smiled at me. “One more thing before I must go. I lo—”

I cut him off with a kiss, a final tear escaping my eye. “I know, mi amor. Save it for when you find me again.”

His eyebrows shoot up and a faint blush creeps up his face. He lifts my hand and places a gentle kiss on my knuckles before he steps through the portal, looking at me longingly.

“I will.” he whispers.

And then the portal closes.

[miimo96]

I've seen a lot of people pair Sanji with so many characters like Violet, Nami, and even Zoro surprisingly, but out of All characters I think the 1 Sanji the Most has a chance with has without a doubt got to be HER right here, like they just have So much in common, like the fact that both of them are basically outcasts/ shunned by their family, the fact that they both Love cooking, and the fact that out of all people, Sanji was one to truly see and accept Pudding for Who she is rather than just by her appearance, like in all seriousnes I think they'd make an actual Great couple, so much so that when One piece finally ends, depending on the situation, I think Sanji better go back for her because if he doesn't, then bro missed out HARD, like how you just gonna reject basically the PERFECT woman for you, ESPECIALLY when you got her like THIS everytime she sees you

Like this is supposed to be Sanji"s trope yet here she is doing it instead like bro, She's an EFFING KEEPER, I swear if Sanji fumbles this he will undoubtedly be the STUPIDEST person in anime, I understand that the Strawhats aren't technically allowed to get into relationships but that only really applies to strawhat crew members themselves, like they can't date each other because that's not how Oda sees them or their relationship, and Luffy is DEFINITELY out of the question when it comes to any type of relationship with him, however, that doesn't apply to them getting into a relationships with other people outside of the crew, so in my opinion, if oda really wants to, he make some of the straw hats get into actual relationships with people AS LONG as they're not part of the crew, it's actually a perfect loop hole if ya think about it ^^;

I just think that for a character like Sanji, if you're gonna have him end up with someone, it should definitely be the person that he already proposed to and actually fell In LOVE with him in the end, like my boy Definitely deserves to have happiness and Pudding's already been through enough with her Toxic family and having to play "Monster" everyday, like just them be already PLEASE! But anyway that's just what I think but what about you, do ya agree?

[spotaus]

Okay okay, rb time!!

For context (I was going to reply I'm the comments but it got too long lmao-)

You are such a genius in motivations, I swear! And the way you wrote in each situation was so so tasty too. Like, Fresh being in the woods so often that he wasn't sure what Error liked to do to relax that first weekend? And then the next one. Ough. Error trying to reach out, reassure himself that Fresh doesn't hate him (because at that point he was obviously looking for comfort in the absence of Geno + the awkward previous weekend) and Fresh, not noticing that end of things, continuously pulling away?? Ofc it's to protect him, but Error doesn't know that!!

And the letter was such a good touch as well! Fresh acting as soon as he possibly could (Also the shade thrown at Fresh by the academy lmao-) but it still being too late, almost exactly paralleling the situation between him and Error? His pause before he read the rest of it? Revealing Monday??

(Side note: Fresh looking for Error was heartbreaking. Like, not even the town search, just inside the house. It gave me the vibes of being a lil kid and going to look for my parents in the house w/o realizing they went to the store or were out in the yard. Progressively getting more anxious the more rooms you search? The quieter it is? Ough poor Fresh... (and probably poor Error, because I have to imagine he did the same thing...) Oh and the fact that the three of them shared a room makes so much sense for the story, but is also so sweet! Do you think when Fresh is camping he lets his beasts curl up near him because he misses his brothers? That Error likes the tower because he's finally alone in his own space, but sometimes still naps in his hammocks in occupied rooms because the tower feels empty? That Geno sometimes wakes up at Reaper's glancing around, doing that tired check-in on his brothers? That he panicked for a split second when they're not there, just to remember that they're not living together anymore, and instead he finds himself alone or by Reaper's side? Do you think he checks on Reaper like that sometimes, or when he's particularly feeling worried he rolls out of bed to check on Fresh in his room? Consult the crystal ball to see Error? Okay I'll stop-)

Anyways, yes, Error had plenty of reason to convince himself to leave after Fresh's odd behavior!

And his travel path too! Fresh searching through town was a treat! Long Furby inclusion, him searching the alleyways (and the encounter with the guy who tried to mug him, draining some of his natural magic unintentionally, proof to the reader that it *is* actually dangerous, tasty!!!), the dangerous hill with the hungry beasts (and Fresh slipping felt like a perfect little addition. Even in his own element, he's tripping and stumbling just trying to find answers-), the wrapper that seems super old and is still the newest scent marker?? Fun!! And Fresh's magic manifestation, is awesome too, the trail he could faintly see, track, and follow. His concern about the entertainment distract too, gut-wrenching!

And ofc tye bit about Orchard again!! I didn't mention it initially but the bit about Whistling being so close was fun and gave me the chills (smth about how you wrote it, even if I wasn't the one who made them I think I'd still be spooked!). And Fresh being able to recognize the damage as sonething Error was capable of. Of smth he little brother had definitely done. (I skipped it but the mention of Fresh only being gone a few days and finding a parasite l, Error being gone for a week in comparison, it's so tasty...) And asking about it, only for Orchard's natural hatred of other kingdoms to shine through? Between that and slight linguistics differences? All of it? Fresh believing Error had been killed feels SO right!!!

Oh, and, slight side-note? I think the other reason the scent trail ends there, aside from Error having gotten into the carriage and no longer traveling on foot, might have to do with the fact that Nightmare's magic just Does Things sometimes. Like, if he wanted Error to go unnoticed by the crowd (ex. Anyone seeking him out)? His magic might've done something subconsciously. The handshake masking Error in some way. Like, next time they meet, Fresh notices Error's scent is different. Just ever so slightly, and not because he's been living in the castle. But idk about that haha! Just another fun idea to play with- (Like, Horror notices it once he starts working with Night that his own scent is slightly different too. And it matches, somehow, with Killer and Dust's-)

And ohhhhh, Fresh searching?? I think you're right that he's really really in denial. He's expecting, in his soul, to pick up the trail again when passing a guard or some peasant cemetery, but he's hoping he'll stumble into his little brother as he keeps looking. Alive. And when he finally admits it to Geno? Yeag, I don't think he'd be able to bring himself to say it, that Error was dead. He knows that Geno was always looking out for the both of them, but Error was both of their pride and joy. (Geno genuinely doesn't have favorites between his brothers, but Fresh knows that and would still willingly let Error be the favorite sibling haha-) It would break Geno's heart to know Error was dead. Fresh knows Geno is strong, but he doesn't want his brother to fall down, so he 'lies'. Besides. Geno was always the better older brother. If anyone could make a miracle happen, find Error after months missing? It'd be him. He found Fresh, after all.

And!!! Bonus thought!! Because I just realized it. Fresh isn't actively doing harm in his searching, aside from, y'know, scrumptious meals from passerby. But he'd be around Orchard, probably wouldn't leave until he finally has to tell Geno what happened, and then he moves to Sanctuary when Geno says Reaper will help them. So, in the meantime? All the Knights have been recruited (even if Cross is still a trainee) and Error is comfy cozy up in his tower. The Knights still have missions. All the time. Do. Do you think Fresh ever got a slight whiff of Error's scent again? Wafting off a location the Knights had been in? Like, it wouldn't be often, but it'd be something to tell Geno, right? Hotspot? Signs of their brother, no matter how faint? He wasn't there, but someone who'd been near him, or his things, had been. And ofc that leads Reaper to assume the worst (trafficking rings) but the spies report their contacts are missing, the black market seems to have either hidden deeper into the darkness, or it was entirely missing. And they can't find out what happened there. Just, little things. Fresh rationalizes it as Error's belongings (backpack, clothes, etc) being toted around by new owners perhaps. Geno is sure there's something up. In reality, it's just Dust, who was chilling in the study around Night and Error, wafting off some of Error's residue magic/scent during his missions lmao-

Okay I'm done now!!! This was so so nice Ancha, thank you????

Gifted Drabble - NewAgeAU - Gone

So. This idea just came to me! And I got cooking! @spotaus I hope you are happy! Because this time?

I am actually AIMING to make this a gutpunch >:D

Enjoy. The middle brother. Fresh :) (Also spot!! I couldn't find the art you did on Fresh so i had to wing it a litle bit lmao!)

Also warning. Unbetad and unedited :D

*-----------------------*

Fresh is running through the streets.

He is an idiot and a horrible brother.

He just thought!

Fresh groans as he taps his foot. Very impatiently waiting for the bridge to lower to pass the canal. Heck!! The night before he had been convinced it was still Wednesday! He had been planning on leaving towards home on Thursday morning so he would be home before the evening to do some grocery shopping.

To make sure he was prepared for when Error came home for the weekend from school.

Only! To realise when the morning actualyl hit! That it was Friday already! He was late! So very late!

The bridge is finally down and he rushes over it, pushing other people aside to make room as he runs down the streets.

Fresh is an idiot!!

He promised Error that he would be there when Error came home! That they would do the home chores on the Friday he got home and to get some nice pick up to eat! Then the whole Saturday would be for them to enjoy and hang out with before Fresh would have to walk his little brother to the ride back to his school!

Fresh had just... He had been so nervous. The first weekend that Geno had been gone. That it had just been Fresh and Error... Fresh hadn't known what to do. Fresh is so used to being out and about and now he had to step up as older brother instead of just letting Geno do it.

In his defence! Geno is really good at it. and Fresh is very unsave. Which is very unrad of an older brother to be.

Fresh jsut... can't help but see his little brother. His baby brother! As a source of energy and food thanks to that rude thing in his skull.

Fresh had been jealous of his own brothers and messed around with something too strong and now he can't even hold his little brother or older brother without fearing he will end up eating their magic and hurting them.

Fresh wanted magic so badly... Well... he got it... and he hates it.

Fresh turns another corner as he rushes home. Making sure not to nudge or touch anyone as he goes. A glance at a passing clock and he winces. It is already past eleven. Error should have gotten home at ten in the morning. meaning his little baby brother had been home alone for the last thirteen hours.

Fresh really is the worst brother...

He promised!! He promised after the disasterous first weekend he would be there for Error the next one! But well, the second weekend Fresh just hadn't known waht to do with Error. They just did chores together and that was it. Fresh just couldn't deal with Error being near. With that thing in his skull just wanting to use Error as a source of food. Error would sit down next to him and Fresh would have to think of another excuse to move away! He didn't even know what to say or what to talk about with Error.

Fresh hadn't wanted this weekend to be the same. He wanted to do better this time. So when Error had been picked up for school Fresh had set out, even if Geno specifically asked Fresh to remain home. Fresh needed to do this! He had been planning to camp deep in the forest to let the parasite thing feed on natural magic. Then by the time it was Wednesday he would be safe to be around! Go home on Thursday and do the chores needed. Then when Error got home on Friday he would have gotten groceries already and be able to at least make him some breakfast to eat while he got his stuff washed. They could check Error's school supplies and make sure his homework was done. Then Friday night they would relax and play some games and eat nice take out food.

The Saterday would have been something fun! Some outing or something and Fresh could give Error the surprise he promised last weekend-

Fresh freezes. He forgot the surprise!! He forgot to get anything!!

Okay. it is fine! Maybe. Maybe they can go get some nice ice cream and go star gazing!! Wait... did Error still enjoy star gazing? Fresh glances up and frowns. Right... rain and cloudy.

Not that either of those matters as stars were hard to see around here... Something about the smoke from the many facturies and the magical and fake lights ruining the nightsky view...

Maybe... Maybe Fresh can take Error out to the forest with him? Go camping! Oh that can still work- Except it can't as Error needs to be home early on Sunday to make sure he is packed for school and on time for his ride.

Why is this so hard?! How did Geno do this so easily?!

He finally gets home and pushes the door open "Error I am so sorry-" the room is dark?

Fresh frowns as he looks around. He doesn't spot Error anywhere and doesn't spot any candles lit. The fireplace isn't even lit. Did... Did Error go to bed- wait he didn't do groceries yet. His little brother went to bed hungry? Not only did Fresh fail with being here he didn't even make sure that Error had stuff to eat!

Fresh groans as he rubs his face. He wnats to smash his own skull against the wall. This is so stupid! He should have!!

Maybe he should have just stayed home. Like Geno asked him to do. To be here in case Error needed him while Geno got their new home ready. But... Fresh had just wanted to do this weekend better. To actually be able to be a brother for once. He had wanted the parasite pacified and...

Fresh goes towards side of the room as he rubs his hands together. It is really cold in here... Why didn't Error start a fire?

Fresh gets to the cabinet holding their firemaking supplies and checks it. Only to find it empty.

Fresh groans as he just lays his face in his hands. Great. Not only did he let his brother come home to an empty house when he promised he would be there. He also left the house bare of both food and fire supplies. Meaning his little brother was not just alone and hurt by Fresh breaking his promise, again. But also was hungry and cold.

He is the worst. He is the worst brother ever.

Fresh looks at the door towards their small shared bedroom. He pushes himself up and inches over. He wants to rush in and apologise. Promise he will be better. But what if Error is asleep? Maybe it is better to let him rest as Fresh tries to fix what he can? Get some groceries and stuff? Maybe he can find Error's bag and clean his things still! Maybe they can still have the whole Saturday at least!

Fresh nods and slowly opens the door. He glances around and frowns. Three empty beds. That... That isn't what he expected. Fresh glances up towards the small string made hammock near the ceiling. Error did enjoy being up high... Fresh inches closer and slowly climbs on top of the bed "Error? are you awake?" barely above a whisper.

Fresh slowly rises to full height as he gathers his nerves to look at his little brother "I am so sorry. I swear i will do better and make it up to you.".

Fresh half expects Error to speak up and remind him that he already promised that twice and failed at it. That Fresh should jsut leave.

But no answer comes.

Fresh finally dares to look into the string nest to meet Error's rage or see his brother sleep peacefully. Only to see no one is there.

Fresh stares at the empty nest. He checks all three beds again. Finding no one. Fresh checks the closet to see if Error hid in there. No one again.

Fresh feels panic start to overtake his soul as he rushes out of the room. Looking around desperately for Error "Error!? Where are you hiding broski!" Fresh looks around and can't help but notice that he doesn't see Error's jacket on the coat hanger. He doesn't see Error's backpack anywhere.

No. No no no no. Maybe... Maybe he jsut got hungry! Maybe he is just getting some food from somewhere!

Fresh rushes towards the kitchen and checks their emergency jar. All the gold that had been in there is gone. Good. Good!! That. That means that Error took the gold to get some food! That is great!

Fresh leans against the counter and sighs in relieve. He can just use the time now to clean some stuff up then. Maybe he can still make this weekend right.

Fresh grins as he looks back to the door to get his bag when he sees it. Some kind of letter on the table. Fresh frowns as he walks over. There is a very thin layer of house dust on it and Fresh brushes it off.

Huh. the seal keeping it close is from the academy. Fresh shrugs as he uses his clawed finger to open the letter. He grabs the paper and with the light from his eye lights reads it.

To Error's Caretaker.

Huh. Right. as they don't have a family name Fresh supposes they would do it like this. Though Fresh is very sure they used to just address Geno directly. Seems like this was their go to when Geno told them Fresh would be serving as main caretaker for Error.

We are regretful to inform you that we have been forced to make the hard decision to expel Error from our esteemed Academy and curriculum.

It was a hard decision but after all that has happened and the past problems Error has had with the easier classes it seems best to not continue Error's education at our establishment.

We understand that this is a shock and for this reason we will allow a grace period where you are able to apply for us to reconsider our decision. If you want to appeal to us make sure to write us a letter before Friday to ensure we have enough time to process your request and prepare a response.

Fresh doesn't even wait. His hands shake as he searches the room for things to write with and finds the smaller magical envelope to send his reply in. He finds some paper and writes the letter as quickly as possible. His soul pounding wildly. He quickly writes how it is a stupid decision as Error is amazing with magic and complex spellwork. That he just doesn't feel challenged in the easier classes and needs something more challenging to keep him engaged in the classes. Fresh makes sure to remind them that Geno is Error's brother and Geno was their best stupid they had ever had with perfect marks for his classes and having been able to craft complex spells beyond even the level of the professors. That Geno reassured them that Error was just as talented in magic and would make unbelieveable things.

Fresh checks his letter quickly. it isn't the best handwriting but that had always been terrible and Fresh doesn't have the time to reconsider. He isn't sure what time it is but he refuses to be too late for this. He puts the letter into the envelope and closes it up by alligning the seal on it. The letter starts to float and twirls around before disappearing.

Fresh quickly grabs the letter and keeps reading.

We understand this is a huge shock but we request you to rememebr that this was not an easy decision for us either.

Fresh glares "Yeah that is just a lie! You guys were always mean and rude and uncool to Error." Just because Error's magic is different and Error uses it differently. He had heard enough talks between Geno and Error this. Maybe Error is hiding soemwhere in the house? Worried Fresh won't get it and will get mad at him?

Which is stupid. Fresh could never be mad at him.

Fresh looks around "Error? I promise and swear I am not mad. These guys are just stupid and unrad for not seeing how amazing and talented and skilled you are!" No answer.

Fresh looks back at the letter and finds where he left off.

We also understand that it will be a shock to have this happen at the start of the week.

His soul feels like it stupid pulsing. No... No...

But we made sure he was brought home safely even if it is much earlier. He will have all of his supplies with him and we have enclosed a list of all of these items. If anything is missing please send a copy of the list included back with a letter to explain the missing item.

Thank you for your understanding Yours truthfully,

Afterwards it is just the principles name but that isn't what catches Fresh's attention. Becuase the date that is next to the signature. To signal this was writen and send with Error to him. Dates back to Monday... Four full days ago.

Error... Error had gotten home on Monday...

Fresh drops the letter as he looks around in a panic. The house doesn't feel lived in. There is some dirt and dust already gathering because nothing was used and it hadn't been aired out. Error's jacket and shoes aren't near the door. Error's bag is gone as well. He took some money.

Fresh runs outside as he whistles loudly.

A rumble from the ground and moments later his beast frees itself from the ground. It doesn't look like any normal animal. It is a strange large worm thing with fur and bright colours. The eyes are strange and it has a beak.

Fresh stares at it "Find Error. Find his scent or trace or trail or anything! As soon as you find it come back to me and lead me there." His large creature tilts its head all the way in a circle much like an owl before disappearing into the ground again.

Fresh meanwhile starts running. He prays Error is by the shops in main street. Maybe he is just hanging aorund the stores to steal things and hide nearby. Fresh knows all three of them have gone that before. Fresh just also knows that gangs tend to hang around there and Fresh does not want one of those heathens to hurt his brother!

He gets there and checks the stores first. Ntohign looks broken into but Error can also do magic to make himself invisible as easy as breathing. Fresh makes sure to be obvious about being there and searching. If Error is watching he may see that Fresh is looking for him and come out? hopefully?

No Error however and Fresh rushes into the alleyways around the stores. Checking every single one carefully. Making sure to grab some guy waiting in said sidestreet. Seeing as the other tried to stab Fresh.

The guy sputters and looks terrified.

Fresh just glares "Who else have you attacked this week?"

The guy sputters and tries to breka free from his hold but Fresh just holds on tighter "Tell. me."

The guy shudders and tries to shrink in on himself "Jsut some humans! Rich folk that had no right to be here! Just stole some money but didn't hurt anyone! I swear!" Fresh can smell the scent of fear. It reeks but a tiny part of himself, the part of his soul that is now directly connected to that parasite, purrs at the scent of fear. Like he is hunting.

Fresh drops the other. Barely taking note of the fact the other looks exhausted and is a lot paler. Fresh leaves the sidepath and looks around. Error isn't here.

Fresh gorans as he rubs his sockets. Trying to think. Where could he have gone. Maybe he went to the hill just out of city limits? On the edge of the forest?

Fresh doesn't like that idea as there are some wild animals and beasts in those forests that can and will try to hunt his brother. Fresh knows that Geno told Error to stay away from there. Fresh still turns and starts running. it is best he checks. just in case.

Getting out of the city always takes a while but getting up the hill is just annoying. It is slippery thanks to the rain and Fresh loses his footing quite a few times.

But he gets there with only a bit of mud on his jacket. It doens't matter however as Fresh searches the area. He doesn't see or smell anything that could suggest Error has been here. Fresh still walks afew steps into the forest to check those just in case.

The amgic had done a lot to him. It had changed him. First and foremost was his connections to animals and his beasts. his new magic affecting the animals that become close to him and turning them into one of his beasts. He has a special connection to them.

But he himself had changed. He was stronger, faster. His senses had improved tenfold if not more. His phalanges having turned sharper and clawlike. The way he could now feed on the magic and energy of others. Steal it like a leech.

There is a good reason Fresh tries to stay away from the city. to stay at a distance from his brothers.

Fresh manages to get back to the city when he hears the sound of digging. Fresh turns and waits with held breath as his worm beast comes out of the ground. It stares at him and Fresh knows it. It has found a trace of Error.

Fresh doesn't even need to give the order. It already knows what Fresh wants and leads him back into the tunnel. The tail at the end closing the hole behind them as Fresh remains on its back.

It is dark and everything smells of dirt and garbage. The city really needs to spend more time on keeping the streets clean.

The worm stops and digs up and Fresh is back on the streets. He ignores the few shouts of fear and running steps as he lands on the ground. He looks around as the fur covered worm raises this small wrapper. Fresh takes it with care and takes adeep breath. It smells of greasy food. a burger. Seems like they used the off brand cheese. But he can also small it. Something that almost smells like strings nad wool of materials Error always carries and his jacket. a very tiny bit of wood which should be his knitting needle. the scent of bones of course. The potent magic that he is so used to smelling and being near.

Fresh frowns. It is old. This is an old trace. He looks back at his worm "This is old." the worm looks a thim and then at the warper and then back at him.

Fresh frowns. This... this is the newest? Fine. Fresh will work with it then. He takes a deep breatha nd concentrates. Trying to filter all the other scents out and just focus on the scnet of his brother.

He opens his eyes and is happy to note his magic is active. The way there is this swirling misty trail int he air. it is weak and barely there but still there. THe scent trail. Fresh looks back at his beast "Keep searching." THe worm digs back into the ground as Fresh runs after the trail.

He rushes through the streets and ignores anyone shouting at him for bumping into them. Fresh looks around as he keeps shouting error's name in the hope of getting his attention.

As he runs it becomes more and more obvious that error had been making his way towards the outskirts. Which. No?! Fresh knows that the... entertainment district is over there! And Fresh does not trust those kind of sick pervs anywhere near his little brother!

Sure Error had been starting to start his growspurt and shoot up in height but he is only twelve! Fresh does not trust anyone with him!

Fresh is so relieved when it becomes obvious that Error hadn't been aiming to that direction after all. Instead the trail seems to lead towards an old abandoned factury. Why would he go here?

Fresh shakes his skull. He doesn't want to think about it. It doens't matter. He will ask Error when he dragged his younger brother home and got him comfortable in about five blankets.

Fresh gets to the building and frowns as the scent trail keeps getting thinner. At least it seems like error didn't actually went into the old building becuase it is close to falling apart and Fresh does not want to think about how hurt he could have gotten if his magic got explosive again and the building came down on him.

Fresh continues moving and reaches the edge of the city. Realising that... Error left... He left the city.

Fresh stands at the edge. staring into the distance. the open road with nothing there. Fresh pants as he stares ahead. His skull spinning. That does he do now? What does he do?! Fresh puts his face into his hands. Error... Error ran away? He left?

Then again... What did he expect? Fresh hasn't exactly been a good brother at all. In matter of fact. Fresh had been a terrible brother. He wouldn't even show affection to Error. He didn't even make sure things were taken care of for when error got him.

Geno ASKED HIM! Geno BEGGED him to remain home. To just skip the far away feeding and feed the parasite by going into the city. Geno had told him so many times that Error would need Fresh. That Geno is so sorry to place this on Fresh but Geno needs to go to Sanctuary to get everything ready for them.

This was suposed to be their break!! Geno had already pulled the strings he could to make sure bother Fresha dn Error could move with him. Geno told them he was going to get their new home ready and look for the best tutors for Error with his magic and for the best healers for Fresh. Sanctuary is a very magical country with many many skilled individuals. Geno had high hopes to finally get them settled somewhere good. Somewhere where they could be happy!

And... and Fresh ruined it. Because Fresh decided he knew better than Geno. Because Fresh couldn't deal with being near his little brother and he is just the worst. Error had been so sad to see Geno go and Fresh ahdn't even tried to comfort him.

Fresh shakes rubs his sockets harshly. a strange singlike grumble from beside him and Fresh realises his beast is back to his side.

He needs to fix this. Fresh sint'sure if he can but he needs to try. He owns it to Error. He owns it to Geno.

Geno had found him wihtin an hour and Fresh had managed to get hismelf infected with a parasite.

Fresh doesn't want to know all the trouble Error could run into in the four, by now almost five days he had been on his own.

Fresh takes a deep sigh and nods. He is going back to the house and pack lightly for another trip. Leave one of his beasts at the house and then get traveling.

He can track. He can follow trails. He will use everything he can to find his brother.

No matter what it takes.

----

Fresh wants to cry. Though he had been crying for the last three hours already.

He had followed Error's trail all the way from Ironfields to Orchard over the course of a full week. And that had scared him more than anything. Wiht how close Orchard lays to no-mans land around the Whistlers territory. Not to forget Fresh thinks there was this whole thing about some crazy king in this kingdom? He isn't sure he isn't big on politics.

Fresh had searched. He had searched the whole city the trail had lead to. But nothing.

The trail just... ended at a dead end.

He had ended in some kind of arena. The scent of Error's magic had been so strong there and he had felt so hopeful. He had searched the whole area but nothing.

Aside from the very obvious blasted top of the arena. Fresh asked around and while most people jsut looked at him disgusted by his accent some people mentioned how there were wizard try outs.

Fresh asked specificially about a young skeleton. black bones. powerful magic.

Some people looked thoughtful before mentioning how they think they heard something about it but that the guards took care of it.

Took. Care. Of. It.

Fresh had tried to find other stories but it came down to the same thing over and over. Some young skeleton did a too large spell. A lot of damage got down before the guards got to them and stopped them before they could hurt anyone.

Fresh was shaking. Error wouldn't hurt anyone unless they gave him a reason.

Fresh sobs as he srubs his sockets. He was too late. He messed up and now... Now...

How is he going to tell Geno this? How is he going to tell him that he failed in every single aspect of being a brother and got their baby brother killed?

Fresh sobs as he jjust throws his stupid glasses away. it shatters somewhere. He doens't care.

He doesn't want this stupid power. He wants to go back to being weak and boring and normal.

He doesn't want to be special anymore.

He just wants his brother back.

Please. Please give him back.

He is sorry.

So sorry.

[fandomestuff]

[nipuni]

Once again I bring you some Eriks 😊

[jennalouisecolemans]

just some doctor/clara:  [13/∞] The Doctor and Clara + The TARDIS "I always imagine that I'm back in my TARDIS, showing off, telling you how I escaped, making you laugh."

[favoure]

maybe i'll find you in some other life we won't be heartbroken half of the time

[amourninghost]

panel redraws

[nicolibbyquotes]

Nicolibby: