#but he thinks to himself ‘at least she’s safe’

[clrasecretdiary]

Why does she give a damn about me? | Spencer Reid x Reader

cutesy, cheesy fluff

In wich Spencer thinks reader is out of his league but she could not be more into him.

Content: Garcia is a queen as always, sunshine!reader

Warnings: Maybe some light lack of self steem from spence, but nothing crazy!!

He was used to it at this point. Being the weird kid in high school and college, Spencer never really expected anyone to be into him and, after being rejected a couple of times, he had practically closed himself off in that sense. But then, you came into the picture.

You are one of those girls that everyone seemed to gravitate toward, not only because of your beauty but because of your essence. You were genuinely kind, smart and good with people in a way he wished he was, maybe that’s why he was so drawn to you, you had all the qualities he wished he had and being close to you made him feel complete.

Needless to say that he was in love with you, it had started as an admiration and when he realized he was thinking about you all the time, but he was sure you would never be into guys like him, he was sure you’d never see him as more than friends.

–

You had joined the team a few years ago, you were excited to finally be doing what you really wanted when you joined the BAU, going out in the field and being on cases instead of just working a desk job all the time. When you first met the team, everyone seemed very welcoming but you felt yourself especially drawn to Spencer out of all people, at first he seemed distant but with time you noticed how sweet he was and how much he cared for everyone around him and god that man was so funny, you loved his weird science jokes and his magic tricks. How were you supposed to not fall in love with him? You asked yourself that question every time he brought you coffee in the morning or went on his rambles about some random thing.

After a particularly intense inquiry from a very drunk Garcia in one of the girls' nights she organized at her home, you told her your feelings for Reid and she made you swear you would act on it.

“Garcia, I'm not confessing. He's not into me like that, i’ll just ruin our friendship”

“Oh honey, he practically kisses the floor you walk in, he follows you around the office like a lost puppy and practically kills any officer that dares to be the tiniest bit mean to you. There’s no way he’s not into you, at least try pretty please” She says, doing puppy eyes at you. Garcia took her job as a cupid very seriously and was not going to let this be her first fail.

“Alright, i’ll try but if he ends up hating me you’ll have to bake me cookies everyday until i die” You say rolling your eyes and finishing your glass of wine.

“Ohhh i’ll be cooking cookies for you guys wedding!”

–

So, here you are holding his favorite order from the local coffee shop and gathering the courage to press the button to the elevator

“Hey are you fine?” A familiar voice calls you, when you turn around its spencer.. Great, guess you’ll have to do this right now

“Oh hi yeah, I was just um… meditating”

“Did you know meditanting has been proven to increase your memory and is also great for reducing anxiety. I really should start doing it, what method do you use?” Spencer says while pressing the button to the elevator

“Ummm breath in, breath out i think” You say, unsure how to respond

“That's actually one of the best ways as it oxygenates your brain and helps it work better, it can also help you feel more calm since deep breathing activates the parasympathetic nervous system that sends a signal to your brain to tell the anxious part that you're safe and don't need to use the fight, flight response” He says, doing the little smile and head nod thing he always does after info dumping.

You smile back at him, as you both enter the elevator and press the button to the BAU floor.

“I brought you something” You say, handing him the coffee shop bag

He opens it and smiles at you “I can’t believe you remembered my favorites, thank you so much” You love that smile so much, all you can think about is how perfect he is and how there’s no way you can continue on without dating this man.

“Actually, I need to tell you something spence… I was thinking, maybe we could go out together as like, a date or something” You say, already blushing from the embarrassment you felt and how scared you were that he did not reciprocate the feelings.

“Really? Of course i want, to be honest i’ve wanted to ask you to be honest but i thought you’d never see me like that”

“Are you kidding me spencer? I’ve had a crush on you since we first meet”

The elevator gets to the office, and you both walk in blushing and joking about how you two were so blind to each other's feelings. As you get in, garcia passes by you two stopping to stare

“There’s something happening here…” She says, pointing between you two and pressing her eyes together as if she’s profiling you two

“I asked him out”

“Oh my god finally, you see? I’m always right, I don’t even need to ask what he said, look at Reid, he’s glowing, ohh i’m so happy” She says, walking out to probably tell the news to everyone on the team.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Rock, Meet Hard Place 4

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss makes a deal that proves less than beneficial for you.

Characters: Nick Fowler, Lloyd Hansen

Author’s Note: This is what you asked for so don’t even.

Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself 💜

“His dick is out.”  

The words wake you out of your daze. You barely remember grabbing the phone, but you have it pressed to your ear as Nick snarls on the other end. You put your hand on your forehead and yawn. 

“Fowler, it’s two in the morning--” 

“I said his dick is out, harpy,” he snips. 

You sigh, “tell him to put it away.” 

“Oh, thanks, didn’t think of that,” he retorts sarcastically. 

You shake your head, “I’m sleeping. Figure it out--” 

“Harpy, I haven’t had a blink. He’s been ranting at me for hours. And his robe keeps—Goddamnit, Hansen, close it!” 

You hang up before you can hear the rest. You set your phone to do not disturb and roll back over. You sink into the white noise and another blissful reprieve from consciousness. You work hard when you’re paid to. Outside of those hours, you don’t put thought to it. 

You wake with your alarm. You have your routine; cleanse, moisturise, tone. Then a light glimmer of concealer and gloss of lip oil, a bit of mascara. Many women tend to put on too much in an effort to hide their wrinkles. You never minded the lines. 

You dress; a high-collared boucle jacket and cigarette pants. You put on your usual leather boots and tap out of your house. The heels are thick and pointed but not high.  

You have enough time to stop for coffee. You grab the seasonal flavour and head off to Fowler’s. As you do, you smirk to yourself. You almost forgot about the late-night SOS. You hope he ended up getting some sleep. Either way, he’ll be a treat. 

You claim your usual spot and enter through the gate. All seems as it should be as you head for the door. Still, you feel a sort of unease. 

As you enter the house, your toe meets an empty bottle that skitters over the floor. You close the door and look around. There’s a puddle of liquor near the stairs. It must have been some night. 

You hover your foot over the bottom step as you sense something through the doorway of the front room. Hansen’s naked ass hangs off the couch as he teeters on the edge. You blink and shake your head. You head upstairs.  

You enter your office and put your bag on the desk. Fowler’s door is open. You can hear him snoring. You near and peek inside. He’s slumped over the side of his chair, an empty glass on his desk. His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked. 

You return to your desk. You could wake him up but you’re not his mother. You sit and set to reviewing your roster. Contracts but no meetings. You made sure his schedule was mostly clear for Hansen’s visit. 

You focus on getting through your task list. Eventually, you’ll need him to wake up but you can have mercy. Let him make up for lost sleep. 

As you sip your coffee, you hear footsteps in the hall. There’s a grumble through the door as it opens from the other side. You glance over your monitor as Lloyd walks in with only a pillow to hide his pelvis. He at least has an ounce of shame. 

“Nicky--” he calls then stops himself as he sees you. “Ah, there she is, the shrew. Ready to be tamed?” 

You roll your eyes. “Good morning, Hansen. I’m afraid Fowler’s not taking walk-ins.” 

“Well, aren’t you a peach,” he tuts. “Have a sense of humour.” 

“You’re not a very funny joke.” 

“Oh, ouch,” he touches his chest as if he’s been shot. “That stingggs.” You stare at him. His brows tweak and he winces again, “now that cuts deeper.” 

“I’m afraid Fowler is not up to visitors right now. He had a late night,” you look at your monitor and click around. Those leather boots are to die for.  

You ignore the man as he lurks. “I can wake him up.” 

“I won’t stop you,” you mutter. 

“You know,” he diverts and approaches you, “I’d like you to try. I mean, you sucker punch a guy once and you think you got him figured out--” 

“You come any closer and I’ll snip it off,” you grab the scissors from the pen stand and flash the blade at him. 

He looks down as he keeps his hand around his groin. 

“Hey, if you want a peek, you just gotta say the word,” he snickers. You open and close the blades and he gulps. “No fun.” 

You keep the scissors and swivel your chair. You grab your cup with your other hand and sip. You stare at him dully. He tilts his head coyly. His eyes wander over to the screen. 

“Nice boots. You should get them. I’ll let you step on me, mistress,” he purrs. 

You angle the scissors under his hand and press the flat to his balls, “go put some pants on before you have nothing to put in them.” 

“You’re fucking spicy. I like it.” He snarls and wiggles his hips. 

You retract the scissors and stand. He puffs up his chest. Is he flexing? You put the scissors under his nose and snip the ends of his mustache. He yipes and recoils, swinging free as he feels his upper lip. 

“Woah, ho, what the fuck? You don’t mess with a man’s stache!” He roars as he reels and pats his lip frantically. “Goddamnit! You really are goddamn harpy.” He searches around and runs over to the decorative mirror by the coat rack. “Fuck. It’s uneven!” 

“Not much of a difference. Still looks awful,” you snicker and slide the scissors back in the holder. 

“What the fuck?” A grumble rolls like gravel as Fowler staggers through his office door. He buttons his shirt but one tail is longer than the other. “All this fucking noise—ah, Jesus, Hansen, I’m having nightmares about your fucking taint.” 

“Oh, but your dreaming of me, pretty boy,” Hansen winks and drags his hand from his mustache. 

Fowler growls and his chest deflates. He looks at you, “I need coffee and he needs some goddamn pants!” 

“Should I put on the assless chaps or the snakeskin?” Hansen taunts. He meets only stolid silence. “Holy balls, you two are just lively. Aren’t you? Look, we’re workin’ together. I’m tryna break the ice.” He rolls his eyes and turns to strut away, “fine, better get one last look before I put the cake away.” 

[metalomagnetic]

Either must die snippet

***A dear friend asked on discord if I have some EMD writing left, so here it is.***

----

Harry hadn’t stopped screaming since he entered the kitchen; he’s furious. It’s been a long time since he exploded in such righteous anger.

Cheeks red, jaws set, and those damned eyes of his glinting. Why, it’s almost like before, back in the war. Of course, now at least he can appear somewhat intimidating, what with the size of him. He doesn’t intimidate Voldemort, but it is easy to imagine he could make a random individual cower. Voldemort would like to see Harry going off like this on some pesky journalists or one of his stalker fans. It would be entertaining.

As it is, it’s not entertaining at the moment. It irritates Voldemort to be screamed at.

One flick of his wrist, and he could silence Harry. Another flick and he can send him crashing into the wall. To resist temptation, he drums his fingers on the table, reaches inside to find patience. It’s getting harder and harder to be patient these days. He had to suffer it for a while, but now he’s back in power. A Minister, not a war lord, yet people learned not to trifle with him, not to glare at him, not to talk back.

Even Harry learned, as the years passed by. He minded his business, and he let Voldemort be. Yet it’s not worth the trouble to put him in his place, now. He can already imagine the dramatics that would follow. Harry would break again, and Voldemort will either have to lock him in an attic, never to be allowed in public, or he’d have to put in the effort to build him back up, and he certainly lacks the patience for that. Hermione would be insufferable about it. Delphini would cry.

Harry must be aware of these unpleasant outcomes, too, because while he screams, he doesn’t dare do more than that. He cries, too, tears of pain and frustration and pure despair. That improves Voldemort’s mood a tad. Harry always looks good when he’s crying. “I asked for one thing!” his voice breaks, rough. “One thing! You have everything, and I said nothing- you use me, you use my name, you- I only asked for one thing.”

What a lie. Harry might not verbally ask for much, but those pitiful eyes of his ask plenty, and Voldemort gives it to him. The ungrateful brat.

“And you couldn’t let me have it! You’re a monster!”

Show him, a voice begs, a voice that was dormant for so long, but it’s waking up lately. Show him the monster. Show him how patient you’d been with him all these years. Show him how it could have been.

Voldemort ignores it. His fingers curl around the table, momentarily, because just drumming them isn’t enough anymore, he itches for his wand, but then the crisis is avoided, and he is in control, he won’t snap. He does stand, because it’s safe to do it, his temper is in check, and Harry tired himself out with his tantrum. “You asked for her life,” Voldemort reminds him. “She is alive.” Moly Weasley lives. Thought it seems a misfortune befell her earlier that day. Well earned. Delicious revenge. Harry, sadly, is not the type to enjoy the poetic justice, the mastery in this delivery of punishment.

She lives, like he wanted, she isn’t even in pain, but the score was settled. Fleetingly, he wonders if Bella is happy, if she laughs gleefully in the afterlife. Perhaps not- Bella was never one for poetry, for subtlety. She got her vengeance in blood and screams. Harry stares at him, shaking his head. “I hate you,” he whispers. Voldemort did not want to break him, but he broke, anyway. So fragile, this boy of his, despite his impressive muscles, he shatters like glass. “Nothing new,” Voldemort replies, and walks out of the kitchen.

As soon as he reaches the garden, he feels his anger rising, now that he isn’t focused on not hurting Harry until he explodes into a pile of blood and bones. He gets angrier and angrier with every step. He feels as impotent as Harry must feel. No matter how mad the boy was, how obviously hurting, he did not even think to draw his wand at Voldemort, or punch him, like he once did. He would have- for Molly fucking Weasley, he would have. Harry has few limits, but the Weasleys are one. Harry would crash and burn with them, for them, the world be damned. He didn’t, however, because he must know, deep down, that it wasn’t Voldemort. But he can’t admit it to himself, not consciously. Voldemort is a convenient scapegoat. Voldemort is a monster, rotten and evil, and it’s easier for Harry this way. Easier than the truth.

He Apparates to Lestrange Manor, and he thinks of Bella again. How odd- he hadn’t truly thought of her in years, but now he feels her around; when he walks to Lestrange Manor, is feels like before, like when he’d walk this path and knew he’d find her and Rodolphus inside. He doesn’t, of course. He finds a copy of her, instead. Bella left him copies of herself, echoes that remain to dwell the earth in her absence. Voldemort walks past Andromeda, strolls through the Manor, until he finds Rodolphus’ copy.

Voldemort knows Rabastan is guilty as soon as he lays eyes on him. That stiff posture, the fear in his eyes, even if he keeps his chin up, defiant. “Your wand,” he snarls. Andromeda followed him, she’s frowning, confused, asking what the matter is. The matter is that Voldemort was disobeyed. “Leave,” Rabastan begs her. “Leave,” Voldemort snarls at her. Andromeda is a cheaper copy of Bella, in all senses. Tamer, sadder, broken. But wiser. She leaves.

Rabastan gives up ‘his’ wand. It’s not his, of course, just like Voldemort suspected. He knew, as Harry was screeching, as Voldemort sat there trying not to snap, he was thinking how all this could have been accomplished. Delphini is at Hogwarts, after all. Impossible for her to also be at the Burrow. Unless she Apparated there. But she wouldn’t risk doing all that with her wand. It became quite obvious who would have given her a wand. “It had to be done,” Rabastan dares to speak. “You moved on, but I can’t; not until justice was served. You moved on, but Delphi couldn’t.” Delphini is a far better copy of Bella, compared to Andromeda. But, as Voldemort feared- you do not fear!- as Voldemort suspected, she is no true copy of her mother. Oh, she’s her spitting image, she has some Black traits in her personality, but no- Delphi is his copy. The anger reaches its peak. Voldemort always treasured Rabastan over most others, awarded him more leeway than most others. But Rabastan is no Harry, he’s no Delphini, and Voldemort snaps.

He reminds Rabastan who he serves, whose mark is on his arm. Useless, of course. Rabastan was never one to cow for pain, nor learn from it. Yet his pain serves to soothe some of Voldemort’s anger, lets him take it out on him. Another convenient scapegoat.

(-)

She does walk like Bella, a confident, defiant tilt to her hips. She walks loudly, proudly, as if used to have others look at her in awe, covet her. She brought her heels, even if the path to the Forbidden Forest is not exactly best suited for heels. Whenever she angers him, she knows to make herself look even more like her mother.

Once, when he searched her mind, he saw Rodolphus teaching her this, on the night before he left her at Rowle’s. “It’s best if you look like her,” he told her, advising her to let her hair free, to wear the dresses Bella favoured. “He treasured her above all others, and, in time, I hope he’ll treasure you, too.” She doesn’t stop at a respectable distance, like Bella would have done when she knew she messed up, when she angered him. No. Delphini comes close, closer than anyone dares.

She’s taller than Bella already, and the heels almost bring her up to his chin. She looks up, and those are his eyes, that is his glare, his defiance, his stubbornness. “What potion did you give her?” “My own invention,” Delphini says, and pride flushes stronger on her face. “They won’t detect it.” “And if they do, then what is the problem, no?” Voldemort asks. “Who is going to suspect a perfect school girl? And if they do suspect her, who is going to blame the Minister’s daughter? Who would dare arrest her?” Delphini shrugs.

“If you plan on using my influence to stay out of trouble, if you know you can easily fall back on me to protect you, then you should discuss things with me before you do them.” “Why bother,” she spits. “You would have said ‘no’. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.” He should have tortured Rabastan more, because not all the anger is out of his system. Furry comes back hot, coursing through his veins, going to his head. “Ask for forgiveness, then,” he hisses, and he takes the step that separated them, towers over her. If she wants to play these games, he’ll play them. She will lose. It’s time for her to learn to lose- Harry spoiled her, far too much. He ignored Voldemort’s warnings that Delphini shouldn’t get away with everything she does, that he should push back, whenever she tests them.

As always, Harry’s kind, tolerant heart, explodes spectacularly in his face.

Delphini doesn’t cower, not truly, but he can detect the current of fear that passes through her. Strangely, it does nothing to improve his mood. Terrifying people usually soothes his fury, but now it just taints it with an unknowable feeling. “I thought you loved Harry,” he says, softly.

“I do!” Her fingers curl into fists at her side. Her neck is bent back uncomfortably, trying to keep Voldemort’s gaze. “She’s alive, isn’t she? Like he asked. She loves Harry, didn’t forget him, and she’ll no doubt dote over him, like a mother. In fact, now that she only remembers loving him, she’ll love him even more! I took nothing from Harry! He can have his pretend mummy! I only took away the memories of all her living children! It’s only fair!”

Delphini’s voice gets louder. Defensive. “She stole my mother from me! So it’s only fair she forgets all the beautiful memories she has with her children, memories she didn’t let me form with my mother. It’s only fair she will only remember her dead son, like I have to remember my dead mother, every time I step foot into the Great Hall, where that harpy took her from me. From us! You lost her, too! And now Molly Weasley cannot remember her husband, either! It’s fair, it is!”

It is beautiful, he agrees. It is poetic and it is just. It is perfect. However.

“You knew he’ll blame me for it; you understand he’s devastated; you understand how he’ll avoid me now, how he’ll suffer, how he’ll moan and whine at me for months on end, start drinking again, retreat into his spare bedroom and rot there for who knows how long. You are perfectly aware Hermione will blame me, too. That it could potentially harm my work. You knew this would affect me. And you did it anyway.” He cups Delphini’s face, and she finally flinches, though she doesn’t draw back.

So beautiful, this child. So intelligent. She loves Voldemort, understands him like no other. His perfect girl. If Voldemort would have ever wanted a daughter, if he’d have been given the chance to make her, build her from scratch- this is what he’d have imagined. Only, he still wishes she would have been more like Bella, or Rodolphus, or Harry; it would have been easier. For him, and for her. Alas, she is not like them. She is like him.

“She deserves it,” Delphini insists. “She hurt me!” Ever her tears are perfect, pretty shapes, clear, trailing down her cheeks. “That never works with me, Delphini,” he reminds her, using his thumb to brush one tear away. “I know!” she hisses. “Nothing works with you! That’s why I didn’t ask! Because you give Harry everything he asks, you are so attentive to provide him with what he needs, but you never care about what I want. What I need. I asked you to punish her, you promised me, remember? When I first met Ron. You promised me! But then Harry asked you to spare her, and you did what he wanted. You forgot about me, about my pain-“

“Shut up,” he says, softly. “I allow you far more than I would anyone else. Harry is my prisoner, he does only what I allow him to do, even if he deluded himself into thinking otherwise. I give you freedom. I don’t make decisions for you. I accept you as you are. But-“ he takes his hand away. “Do not trespass against me, Delphini,” he warns her. “If you want to hurt others, don’t use your mother as an excuse to do it. More importantly, don’t hurt people that are useful to me. Ask before you pull something like this again. And when I say ‘no’, better heed it. Or leave. Go far away, and make trouble there. This is my country, and nothing happens inside it without my say so. I worked for sixty years to subdue this island. If you want that kind of power, you will have to work for it, too.”

[daydreamerwoah]

Family Tree (Chapter 2)

Adding on to the next story I want to work on :)

Simon x Y/n <3

Taskforce 141 had just gotten back from their usual mission in Al Mazrah. The guys were exhausted but satisfied with the outcome of successfully taking down another terrorist that had stormed the area. Kate Laswell had just finished debriefing the team on everything when Kyle "Gaz" Garrick asked if they wanted to grab drinks with him and his girlfriend. She was getting off work soon and was very much excited that he was back safe - a slight celebration, what she called it. John "Soap" MacTavish immediately agreed because he wasn't about to turn down an offer for a good Scotch. And while John Price would have just gone home and had a cigar before heading to bed, he decided to go as well. 

All that was left was Simon "Ghost" Riley. The mysterious man who liked to be alone... most of the time. But he'd never turn down a chance to get a bourbon. It took a bit of convincing from Soap - Johnny as he usually called him - to get him to tag along, but he finally gave in. A short huff - that was muffled by his balaclava - falling from his mouth as he shook his head at the sergeant's antics. 

Their usual spot was a pub that was on the other side of town. The locals usually cramped the space, but sometimes, a few soldiers from the base would make the drive to grab a drink and some food. Every once in a while, the owner - an older man who was probably in his 70s, would conversate with the team, having been in the SAS many years ago himself. He'd tell stories about his time in war and service, often making people smile or laugh with his jokes that went along with them. It also wouldn't be as busy as it was with the other pubs that were closer to the base or in the center of town; it was also close enough to each of their homes as well. 

"Baby!" a woman's voice somewhat shouted throughout the bar as Ella pranced in the place and hugged Kyle tightly as soon as she greeted him. She was usually a calm person, but whenever she hadn't heard from her boyfriend in over two weeks, she'd always worry. But there he was with his boys, alive and well; tired but well. 

As they settled into their seats and their drink of choice was brought to them, a weight felt like it was lifted off of their soldiers. They were finally able to relax after spending two weeks fighting, shooting, and sleeping on the fucking ground. 

"How's work, Ella?" Price asked after taking a sip. 

"It's good. Have a new girl that started two weeks ago. She's nice.. quiet, but nice," she giggled. 

"So, like L.T., huh?" Johnny teased, making the others laugh. Even somewhat of a chuckle escaped Simon's lips, although it was muffled by the balaclava. 

Everyone knew that Ghost was a quiet man; an intimidating man. If anyone ever got a chance to even be in his presence for more than a minute, they'd say he was a grumpy ass human being, rarely talked, always gave an answer with a hum or a curt nod, and probably was a real ghost since no one had really ever seen his face before. But those who knew Simon well (which was really just 141) would say he was someone who had gone through a lot of shit in his past, he had a good heart and supported his team, and he had incredibly dark humor. Sometimes, making them indulge in one of his awful dad jokes. 

So it was truly was funny that Johnny made the joke about Ella's coworker being like him; quiet. He even knew that he really was. 

"She just moved here from America cause of family. I tried to get her to come have a drink, but she said she had something to do," Ella said, "Maybe next time you guys can meet her."

They all hummed and continued sipping on their drinks, letting the thoughts of the mission slip further and further away from their minds until they had to think about it at a later time. Ella talked about a few things about work, which was always good for them to listen... at least they didn't have to talk about their own work.

**************************************************************************

When Simon made it home, the first thing he did was unpack his duffle bag with his gear in it. From the hard-shell skull mask he wore to his toothbrush, everything was put back in its place before he stripped out of his clothes and turned the water on in the shower. While it needed time to at least get warm, he glanced at his body in the bathroom mirror. The dark purple bruises that covered his left shoulder and the side of his abs made his pale skin look odd. Well, it was definitely odd to anyone else, but for him, he was used to coming back home with cuts and bruises all the time. No bullet at least, he thought, remembering the last time he came home with bandages on the same shoulder from when he caught a stray bullet on the last mission. Being what he was - who he was - came at the cost of injuries and pain. He was lucky that death hadn't caught up to him since the last time he thought he was going to die years ago. But it was the life he chose.

No. It was the life that chose him. 

Sighing, he stepped into the shower, allowing the warm water from the shower to encase all over his head, face, and body. It was... peaceful in a way. The only time he ever got to really think about anything in his life was the time he would take a shower after coming back from a mission. Each second he washed the grime and dirt off of his body with the wood-scented soap, he thought about his past. He thought about his family - or the lack thereof. Family. A touchy subject that he tended to stay away from. Hardly anyone knew about what happened to them; their deaths. And he kept it that way. It wasn't because of doing what he did after he found their bodies... it was just something that he had no desire to even bring up... with anyone. 

After his shower, he could have gone to bed, but sleep was never easy for the man. Once he dried off and put on some sweatpants to cover his lower half, he walked outside on his patio and sat in the chair. He tossed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the small table that he brought out with him before leaning back in the chair and gazing up at the sky. It was a clear, cool, and breezy night. He should have put on a jacket, but for some reason, the temperature didn't faze him. If he squinted just right enough, he thought he could see the stars that shone through the streetlights in the town. It was peaceful, silent, and lonely. But he didn't complain. He liked being alone. There were times when he couldn't understand how Kyle and Ella had been together for as long as they had. Through the tough missions and long deployments, he thought she would have left him a long time ago. But it wasn't like he could really understand either... he had never been in a real relationship before. Choosing to have one night stands - usually while he was on leave - was something he had grown accustomed to. Especially because it didn't muddle things up. No feelings were attached, and he didn't have to worry about seeing the girl again. 

Pulling out a cigarette from the packet, Simon stuck it between his lips and grabbed the lighter, flicking it to light the cig. The nicotine engulfed his lungs immediately as he inhaled, enjoying the feeling of it going straight to his brain. He knew smoking was a bad habit, but it was one he had yet to even attempt to try and break. Between the stress of missions and being a Lieutenant, the only outlet he had outside of work was a cigarette in his mouth with a glass of bourbon in his hand. Sometimes, he'd watch a football game or rugby match, or he'd listen to his collection of music on the turntable he bought from an old man who was getting rid of some junk. But tonight, he just welcomed the quietness of the air, smoking his cigarette until he finished it. It was going to be a challenge, but he eventually made his way to bed, laying down as he stared up at the ceiling. By some miracle, after an hour, rest seemed to fall over him as he closed his eyes and drifted off into a dreamless but deep sleep. 

The next morning, he was refreshed. His morning cup of tea bringing him back to life a little more as he cooked breakfast for himself. It was nothing special, just bacon and eggs, but it was enough for him. And once he finished eating, he showered and got dressed before heading out to buy groceries. He'd be home for at least the next two months, so stocking up the pantry was better than eating out every single day, even if he could afford it. 

He decided to stop in the cafe that was close to his home to pick up another tea to take while he shopped. He enjoyed their take on the simple tea he usually made at home, so he thought, why not? When he stepped inside, the place was somewhat busy, but no one was standing in line, which was great; he could get his drink and leave. But there was one thing that caught his attention. The flustered and in a hurry woman who was shifting her weight on her feet as she waited for her drink to be called out. 

You. 

As always, you were in a hurry to get to work. Flustered because once again you forgot your umbrella. You slightly cursed the invisible weatherman that seemed to have told you it wouldn't rain today just because last night it was clear. Simon was somewhat surprised to see you again, not that he was purposely looking for you, but there definitely was an awkward interaction the last time he saw you. You basically walked backward into him, stepping on his boot by accident. But god, that soft smile you gave him made his eyebrows draw together a bit. Hardly anyone smiled at him the way you did.. mostly out of embarrassment, but he didn't need to know that. 

When he walked up to the cashier, he could have sworn he felt a gaze on him. Your gaze. And once he placed his order and paid, he turned around, confirming his suspicion that you had been staring at him. Your eyes cutting away, embarrassed for even looking at him. When he walked over to you - the same spot where customers waited for their drinks to be finished - you wanted the ground to swallow you up. At first, you weren't sure if that was the same man you bumped into a couple of weeks ago in the cafe, but the moment he turned around and you saw the black surgical mask over the lower half of his face, your face turned so red. His brown eyes locking on to yours for a brief second made your pulse quicken.

Thank god, your latte was called out, making you scurry over to the counter to grab it before rushing out of the cafe, not even being brave enough to look at him again. It wasn't like Simon had plans to talk to you anyway, but he did think it was slightly entertaining. Maybe one day, if he saw you again, he'd tell you there was no need to feel embarrassed about the awkwardness between you.

Wait, why did he think that?  

It wasn't like you two knew each other, but he didn't like the feeling of making you feel super uncomfortable if he could help it. And that was odd. It made his mind draw a blank for a split second before he internally shook his head. Still, his drink order was called out and he grabbed it before heading to the store. 

What do we think about chapter 2? Still not sure about details on how I want to go with this. I have ideas but let me know if yall are still liking this after this chapter lol! This is going to be a SLOW BURN so just know it's gonna take a while for reader and Simon to develop feelings :)

Taglist: @simp-4-masked-men @dayrin085 @jessicab1991 @kylies-love-letter @kalypsoox @brownlee-22 @firefoxkairan

[diminuel]

Considering Crocodile likes the finer things life has to offer. I imagine he's a good cook (he's also paranoid enough to not trust many people to cook his food without poisoning him), but also if he's gonna eat it will taste good. I also see him as someone who has problems not being good or excellent at things, so naturally he at one point in time went on a whole hyper fixation induce time period where he got really good at cooking. Regardless eventually cooking becomes a nice relaxing part of his day, to destress and listen to music and he learns to love cooking. (He'd probably hate the monstrous appetite Monkey D's have though).

But when the kids get older, cooking becomes a time when they either sit/help their Baba in the kitchen. They talk about their days and work and anything else. If they had homework (do Crocodile and Dragon actually teach them or send them to school? Or they forever wild jungle kids?) they could do it then. Eventually when they are teens, I feel Crocodile makes it his mission to teach his children at least the basics of cooking. No child of his will not know how to season whatever they catch with spices or at the very least know when meat is cooked, what you can eat raw safely, and which mushrooms are the best.

This probably has varying degrees of effect. Ace probably has a tendency to overcook things by cooking them to hot or too fast. Sabo is fine. If Merry (Baby 2) is a thing (depending on AU) she might be the best or the worst. Luffy probably is okay maybe was taught some self restrain to cook one or two more complicated dishes that are his favorites Baba makes...I feel Luffy would have more restrain if cooking for others, by himself he'd just roast meat likely.

But imagine Sanji gets sick or hurt. The other strawhats are debating who should cook now, and without being asked or really thinking much about it, Luffy steps up and cooks for his crew, as his crew argues about who should cook. Luffy makes that one dish his Baba taught, that Luffy likes to cook. Maybe it's curry or something using those Alabasta spices as it's what Baba always liked to use or a simple stew to help Sanji feel better. But Luffy stepping up because he can and as Captain it's his responsibility to help his crew and Sanji shouldn't worry about the crew eating when he's not well. I don't know how the strawhats actually react to their captain doing this, but I feel it would be amusing.

Dragon should probably be banned from the kitchen. Burns everything. He can cook meat over a campfire, and that's it. The man burns his toast no matter what. Poor guy.

Oooh, I love it!

He does love to cook, but preparing Monkey D. appropriate meals is probably quite a bit harder due to the sheer quantity they consume.

I love the idea of cooking time being family time too (and yes, I do imagine that the kids get sent to school. Maybe Dragon wouldn't be too fussed about it but the jungle can't teach them everything they need to know so Crocodile would insist on school.) and that the kids would learn to cook.

And yes! Luffy cooking for his crew when Sanji can't is so good and I do think they'd be rather shocked about it because he never lifts a finger to cook otherwise so they just assumed he couldn't do more than put meat over a fire (which is generally the thing with Luffy, also in this AU I think. He doesn't share information that isn't relevant or do things that aren't necessary - why cook if they have a cook, why navigate if they have a navigator, etc etc).

Dragon's banned from the kitchen for more than one reason. Not only does he seem to be cursed to always burn his toast (maybe he actually IS cursed *lol* Garp has probably made enough enemies for one of the other curse aimed at his bloodline or firstborn to stick) but the curse will infect Crocodile too! (It's not because Dragon is so distracting, with wandering hands and kisses pressed against his neck~) If the kids don't want burnt food they have to get Dad out of the kitchen *lol*

(When it's Dragon's turn to watch the kids on his own they all know it's time to go hunt for food and cook it over a campfire X'D If they need something else they can go to Makino *lol*)

[stelly38]

“I can’t remember how much bonking I did”  —Aidan Turner

With Ross Poldark behind him, the star of Di5ney’s adaptation of Jilly Cooper’s Rivals talks ’80s excess, intimacy coaches and beef brisket.

Here I am, avidly watching the first few episodes of Rivals, the sizzling new Disney+ treatment of Dame Jilly Cooper’s raunchy blockbuster, before my interview with dreamboat-y Aidan Turner, when my 22-year-old daughter walks into the room. “What the actual?” she cries, open-mouthed in horror. “Oh my God! What are they doing?”

I chide her prudishness. “Well, if you must know, Rupert Campbell-Black and a woman he probably just met have reached a shuddering climax on Concorde,” I explain. “Your generation didn’t invent sex, you know, darling – the Mile High Club has been around for…” but it turns out that’s not what’s triggered her.

“These people are SMOKING! On. A. Plane. Who even does that?” Everybody, that’s who. Welcome to the sassy, sexy 1980s, Missy. Double-breasted suits and taffeta skirts, booze, bonking, endless ciggies and hairstyles so fugly (the mullet, for pity’s sake?) as to have recently crept back into fashion. It’s all there: rampant sexism, social climbing and conspicuous consumption, to a banging soundtrack of Eurythmics, Hall & Oates, Haircut 100 and the rest – no idea how The Birdie Song got in there though. Did people really...? Yes, we did. Now run along. From the moment the opening credits roll on Rivals, it’s fair to say we are immersed in a very different, instantly recognisable universe.

I lapped up every transgressive minute. Why, dear readers, the last time I enjoyed a pleasure quite so guilty was when Aidan Turner took off his shirt in…  “I’m not here to talk about Poldark,” says Turner very politely, with a fabulously winning white smile, when we meet. So we don’t. At least for a bit. We are here, after all, to discuss his new role in this very different literary classic – and no, ladies, he’s not been cast as the libidinous blaggard Campbell-Black. As if. County Dublin-born Turner, 41, was a shoo-in for dashing Declan O’Hara, the saturnine Irish journalist turned reluctant chat-show host who finds himself at the epicentre of a battle royale in the cut-throat world of independent television. David Tennant plays Corinium TV boss Lord Baddingham, and Alex Hassell’s Rupert Campbell-Black has ascended to the lofty heights of Tory Minister for Sport.

I could try to explain, but that’s about all the primer you need – rest assured that with this high-budget adaptation, even the most loyal of Cooper’s fans will find themselves safe in its (wandering) hands. “Rivals is about the three things that fascinate all of us: sex, power and money,” says Turner. “That trifecta is especially potent when there’s a clash of status and class. Class informs all sorts of things, including the sex, which is sometimes completely transactional on both sides. From the very top to the very bottom of the ladder, everyone’s slightly on the make.”

Speaking of the top and indeed the bottom, the eight-part series employed not one but two intimacy coaches. “They had a lot of intimacy to coach,” confirms Turner breezily. “I think they really improve sex scenes because they encourage creativity and it all looks so much more authentic. There’s a lot of bonking. I want to say I did a lot of bonking – I can’t quite remember how much.”

Declan is very much the dark-eyed, watchful outsider, his integrity as deep-rooted as his humongous moustache – “artist’s own”, remarks Turner. (He speaks in mellifluous Irish tones and uses his own accent to play Declan.) Amid the jostling for supremacy in the first few episodes, Declan’s only crime appears to be wearing mustard socks on air and having sensuous congress with his own wife (played with exquisite brittleness by Victoria Smurfit).

Such uxoriousness appears borderline scandalous in Dame Jilly’s masterfully constructed world of egos, oneupmanship and serial adultery, which signals that despite being a workaholic, Declan is clearly a good ’un – although, to be fair, I have only seen the first three episodes.

“I hadn’t read Rivals before. It seemed very British so it wasn’t really on my radar, but it’s really fun – although later on it descends into something much murkier. I just read the scripts initially and then was really struck by how faithful they were to the book,” says Turner, who is married to the American Succession actor Caitlin FitzGerald, 41. “You get a real sense of the characters in the first 15 or 20 pages and it’s a mark of excellent writing that you feel you already know these people.”

Whether or not you like them is up to you, but it’s absolutely gripping and Turner’s character is right at the heart of the story. “Rivals is a really truthful depiction of an era that in a great many ways was hugely problematic,” says Turner. “It’s not being refracted through a modern lens and some of it is quite shocking, particularly the way women are treated. There’s also endless back-stabbing; Declan is detached, the one who sees what’s going on, and because he’s not from this class-bound world [he] struggles to understand the playbook – but he’s married to a woman who does and that causes tension.”

To research the role of a broadcasting homme sérieux, Turner trawled YouTube to watch hours of Firing Line, the US current-affairs talk show presented by conservative pundit William F Buckley Jr for 33 years. From 1966 to 1999, he verbally sparred with leading figures of the age.

“I felt it was important to look to older shows, the way they were presented and the communication style,” says Turner. “The interviewee would be given time and space to answer questions in full. These days it’s very different; the nearest we have to that now would be podcasts.”

“Once filming started, to be honest I was channelling my dad the whole time. He’s an electrician, not a journalist, but Declan is very like him – the way he carries himself, the tone of his voice, his passion. He feels very Irish and so does Declan.”

For Alexander Lamb, an executive producer on Rivals, finding the right fit for the pivotal character of Declan was crucial. “The very first person we thought about – the very first person we cast – for Rivals was Aidan. He was the lynchpin because he just felt so right; he’s got depth but also such charm and that was exactly what we wanted. A lot of the cast was built around him.” That cast also includes EastEnder Danny Dyer, Katherine Parkinson, best known for The IT Crowd, Emily Atack of Inbetweeners fame, and Claire Rushbrook, who was in the first series of Sherwood. When it came to Turner, Lamb had been impressed by his previous standout roles as a vampire in the supernatural series Being Human and a clinical psychologist in police procedural The Suspect.

“Aidan hadn’t played sexy-dad-with-teenagers or an intellectual journalist before, so that gave the whole thing a freshness. I think there’s a lot to be gained from getting actors out of their comfort zones,” observes Lamb. “I’ve never really worked with an actor before who was so conscious of his performance. He would come back behind the camera to see if he could improve on what he’d done.” Dame Jilly, adds Lamb, needed no persuasion in casting Turner. “It did not escape her just how good-looking Mr. Aidan Turner was. Let’s just say she became quite the fan.” Turner responds in kind, with unalloyed admiration. “Jilly is so sharp, perceptive and really funny – she’s very kind, but as she was seeing the daily and the weekly rushes I am quite certain that if she hadn’t liked what any of us were doing, she would have told us very swiftly.”

Later, he quietly relates a telling conversation with Cooper at a garden party held at her Gloucestershire gaff (to call it a pile would be too excessive, to call it a house too modest), one summer evening last year, after filming. “I remember a surreal moment when she took me by the arm and led me around the garden, pointing out the place where she would write and how she would look over the valley,” he says. “And then she pointed out the houses where her nearest neighbours and friends lived and said, ‘This is Declan O’Hara’s house, and that one’s Tony’s house,’ and explained how she would visualise the world of Rivals. It was a very special moment.” How magical, I say. He nods very slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching, eyes crinkling at the preciousness of the memory. He’s so unabashedly soulful, I almost have to look away. And so, to business: is Turner really as handsome as they say? Hmm. Maybe that’s what strikes you first but, in truth, it’s the least interesting thing about him.

Born in Clondalkin, a town outside Dublin, before the family moved to a suburb of the city, Turner admits he was never academically inclined. With a low boredom threshold, he struggled to concentrate at school, but when his accountant mother took him along to dance classes, he excelled; he went on to compete in ballroom dancing at national level, but lost momentum.

There was a stint working as an electrician with his father, but it was a job at the local cinema that sparked his interest in acting, entering the Gaiety School of Acting, Ireland’s national theatre school, where he graduated in 2004. After appearing in several theatre productions, including Seán O’Casey’s Easter Rising play The Plough and the Stars, he got his first major television gig in 2008 in the Irish hospital drama The Clinic.

“I was a lowly receptionist and Victoria Smurfit, who is my wife in Rivals, was a consultant,” he smiles. “Let’s just say we didn’t have a huge number of scenes together back then, so it’s great to catch up now.” Soon the BBC beckoned and he was cast as Dante Gabriel Rossetti in the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood drama Desperate Romantics. The six-parter failed to make a mark, but led to a critically acclaimed role in the comedy-drama Being Human, where he caught the eye of director Sir Peter Jackson, who cast Turner as the dwarf Kili in The Hobbit trilogy between 2012 and 2014.

Various other parts followed, culminating in his award-winning portrayal of Captain Ross Poldark in the 2015 revival of the BBC classic, which ran for five series and made him both a household name and a pin-up among ladies (and interviewers) d’un certain age.

After he was shown scything a field shirtless, a sheen of sweat on his ripped – sorry – torso, the Sunday-night concupiscence became so pronounced that media commentators called out the reverse sexism and denounced the reductive way in which Turner was being treated as a piece of prime meat. A decade on, he still seems mildly baffled, but not ungrateful, for the attention, if loath to dwell on it. “There are worse things to be known for than having a nice physique,” he says, philosophically. “But that was a long time ago and I’ve done a lot of fully clothed work since.” Hilariously, in Rivals, Declan finds himself sharing a schedule with a series called Four Men Went To Mow, featuring a quartet of topless hunks – with scythes. Turner almost leaps off the sofa when I bring it up. “I know! I was reading the script and when I saw the Four Men Went To Mow reference, I assumed someone was deliberately winding me up. Then I realised it was actually in the original book, so I took a deep breath and let it go.”

I can confirm he’s fully dressed for our interview, wearing a mustard top by British menswear brand Oliver Spencer, which he dryly describes as ‘drab chic’, Levi’s 501s, and a pair of trainers. He points out they are classic white Reeboks with a natural gum sole. I admit I didn’t know that was A Thing. “To be honest, neither did I,” he shrugs in good-natured agreement. “They were a present from a mate of mine – he’s a musician so far cooler than me, obviously – and he was very emphatic that the soles were a big deal.”

On his wrist is a 1969 Omega Seamaster. “It cost less than £2,000, it was an anniversary gift and the only watch I own,’”he offers, pre-emptively. “Oh, and I’m not sponsored by Omega, none of that.” Would he like to be? I ask mischievously. “Ah well, I’d certainly take the phone call. You always like to have options.” This is all the more interesting because later I ask if there’s any truth in tabloid rumours that he has variously been earmarked as the new Bergerac and the next James Bond. He denies both charges. “But you’d take the calls presumably?” I suggest. A pregnant pause follows. “You know, I don’t think I would. I have to say I think I’d pass on those.” Bergerac I can understand – but intimations of 007 are, like talk of knighthoods, not to be trifled with, much less dismissed out of hand, however cat’s-chance unlikely.

Turner just pulls a slightly apologetic face (possibly for the benefit of his aghast agent reading this). But really it should come as no surprise; Turner has built up a reputation as a protean performer, moving seamlessly between television, film and the stage in a variety of markedly different roles. Last year he appeared opposite Jenna Coleman in a minimalist two-hander, the West End revival of Sam Steiner’s 2015 fringe hit Lemons Lemons Lemons Lemons Lemons, about love and language. Director Josie Rourke says she cast Turner not just because he is ‘brilliant’, but because he has an ability to connect with his character and with the audience.

“Aidan is a very technical and focused actor who really works hard to prepare – in that respect he’s not dissimilar to David Tennant. That might make him sound dour or serious, but he’s very personable and funny,” says Rourke, a former artistic director of the Donmar Warehouse in London. “He’s acutely aware, in a lovely way, of every single person in the room. There’s something fundamentally unselfish about his performances.”

Off stage, Turner leads a quiet life with his family in an 18th-century house in east London, which he famously furnished with the table and chairs from the Poldark set in Cornwall. He looks amused when I wonder aloud if he hangs out – virtually or actually – with the slew of young Irish actors, like Paul Mescal and Barry Keoghan, who have made a name for themselves. “It sounds boring but I work, and then when a project is finished I start reading scripts again,” he says. “I’m not on social media, I don’t get wrapped [up] comparing myself to anyone else. Frankly, it’s hard enough keeping track of my own career. Since the birth of our son, my wife and I have agreed that only one of us will take a job away from home at any given time; we’ve not [had] a clash yet but we’ll have to see what happens when the time comes.”

They did, however, both have plays on in the West End at one point last year; he was appearing in Lemons while she was in The Crucible. “It worked out really well, we headed out in different directions during the day, catching up with friends and getting stuff done, far too busy to see each other,” he recalls. “Each of us did our show then we would meet up afterwards and share a cab home. It was really fun, but that sort of synchronicity is quite rare.” Like a lot of actors, Turner is guarded when it comes to discussing his personal life. Although frenzied interest from the paparazzi has calmed down post-Poldark, every so often pictures do appear in the tabloids – and Rivals will no doubt increase his bankability. It is something he accepts with equanimity.

“If I do get snapped, I don’t make a fuss or get angry, but I try to stay out of the way.” I remind him of a very striking photo of him putting the rubbish out in a frankly extraordinary receptacle. “Ah yes, maybe I should get rid of the fluorescent pink wheelie bin, a bit of an own goal,” he sighs.

I bet he doesn’t. Far too much of a compromise. I do manage to winkle a few details out of him by playing my fellow Irishwoman card and discover that he’s a ‘serious’ pool player – just this week he settled down in front of a recording of Steve Davis and his teammates taking the 2002 Mosconi Cup in Bethnal Green. He plays golf, enjoys music, and is an avowed Nick Cave fan.

“I’d have to say my favourite downtime is having friends round for good banter and food in the garden, weather allowing. I’m trying to perfect the manly art of beef brisket in my [Big] Green Egg barbecue. I think one of the reasons Rivals was such a happy show to work on was because so many of the scenes were us all together at parties. Then at the end of the day we’d kick back and half of us would still be in character.”

And what characters they are, all dressed up in their ’80s finery, jockeying for position, angling for seduction as Tears for Fears belt out ‘Everybody Wants to Rule the World.’ Gen Z won’t understand, much less approve (lock up your 22-year-olds), but as a snapshot of a bygone age, Rivals promises to be TV gold, and at its glittering epicentre, Declan O’Hara, legendary brooding broadcaster with the biggest ’tache in town.

All episodes of Rivals are available on Di5ney+ from 18 October

Interview by Judith Woods from The Telegraph; Photos by John Balsom.

[frozenjokes]

deeply infatuated with them. so much so that you guys can have the full ficlet as a treat. And yeah he wears that dumb fuck lab coat to bed of course he does. he’s also a socks in bed wearer and if you don’t think so we will be dualing at dawn.

zombiecleo and the worst found family in the world vvv

Ow. Ow.

Mosquitos, deer flies, horse flies, bugs, Cub was being ravaged by bugs, he really hadn’t considered the bugs when he’d started this journey. In the Wisconsin northwoods you breathed them, all sorts, but the deer flies were his worst enemies, drawing blood even through the thick layers of.. well, moss didn’t feel like an accurate descriptor. It looked a little like moss, like life had reached toward the sky and captured the stars, brilliant and twinkling and everything good. But moss didn’t have teeth. Sculk did. Cub liked that about it. Whether it hurt more or less than the flies, that was up for debate, but the sculk was consistent, familiar, everywhere, and the flies were in his way.

But with all the bugs, there was some reprieve. Afterall, another source of food meant less of those teeth under Cub’s skin. Less pain, though, somehow, he still managed to miss it.

Sculk was alien. It was not supposed to be here. But it wanted to be.

Sculk was a parasite. So was Cub.

Ow- Fucking- stupid ass dumbass fucking-

Cub jolted awake with a screech, being shaken- dragged out of bed, the monster on his neck- he was falling, a bear- a black bear had got him, he was being dragged through the woods by a black bear- fuck- what bear was it you where you were supposed to play dead? Cub had thought the brown bear, there weren’t brown bears in Wisconsin- He tried anyway.

He realized the floor was not dirt. The paws awkwardly dragging him along weren’t black or brown. Momentarily stunned, he heard Cleo cackle through the darkness.

“Scar- Scar! What are you doing? Wait- No no- No! Scar!”

Cub had the wind knocked out of him as his kidnapper attempted to jump onto Cleo’s bed, his stomach slamming into the mattress before he was unceremoniously dragged all the way up over a howling Cleo. Briefly Cub was released, to which he cautiously began to move until the sheets were pulled so hard underneath him that he fell off balance, only to be grabbed by the throat, then shoved head first underneath.

Cub needed a second to breathe, utterly shocked he was still alive. Then a large weight fell on top of him, and breathing became a little harder. The weight began to purr.

“Scar.” Cleo gasped, sounding just as shaken as Cub felt, though not nearly as dazed. The purring ceased briefly, then began again, Cleo’s bewilderment remaining unanswered. “What- Why?” they tried again, which Scar seemed more receptive to.

“Easier to watch when you’re close together. This is better. Efficient. Safer.”

“We- We don’t need to be watched, Scar. We are safe. This room is safe. There is literally nothing in here that can hurt us.”

“That RenKing is awfully suspicious. It’s watching me.”

“He’s not on! He can not turn on by himself, we are fine.”

“What else lurks in the shadows, Cleo? You never know, you never know. One minute you’re safe, the next minute a hawk has swooped out of nowhere and grabbed your kitten, you gotta be careful, you gotta sleep together. It’s the best way to do it, it’s the best way.”

“I can not argue with you about this right now. Is Cub even alive?”

“He’s wriggling.” Cub was indeed wriggling. He wasn’t even uncomfortable per se, there was something deeply mollifying about having a large weight directly on your back, and he slept face down anyway, so this wasn’t a huge issue. Just adjusting.

“Let him go, Scar.”

Cub was a little offended by the implication that he could not get Scar off by himself- Scar was at least half his weight! “I’m fine.”

“He’s fine,” Scar parroted.

Cleo sighed, long and strained. She said no more. With enough passage of time, Cub stopped going to sleep in his own bed, since no amount of arguing was going to stop Scar from dragging him out of it every night. Though, out of all of Scar’s disruptive quirks, this was not something Cub minded all too much. He liked Cleo’s company, though he was relatively certain Cleo did not enjoy sleeping in a full bed nearly as much. Well, Cub definitely took up more room, but it wasn’t like she had slept alone since Scar had invited himself to sleep at their feet anyway.. then their legs.. then their stomach.. then their chest. Maybe this was always the next step. Cub wouldn’t be surprised if Scar had been planning it from the start. Oh well. No skin off his back.

uh if you like this there’s more of it on ao3 here’s a link

[thatwritterbeach]

One messed up bat .3

Dc masterlist

Batfam x reader x Jason Todd eventually

Summary: the batfam's approach to Y/n self harming. She makes a run for it, doens't get far of course

Warnings: self harm, self hate, innuendos, 18+ talk, Jason making passes at Y/n

A/n: I do not own dc wah

"I'll be out in a second." At least she'd cleaned up quick. Her eyes were bloodshot from puking but that was easy to pass off for just tears, she's already brushed her teeth and the bathroom was free of evidence. With a deep breath she opened the door to Jason leaning against the frame.

"I punched him for ya, Dick wouldn't let me get in more than one but I'll try again later," he tried to joke but she knew from the blood on his knuckles it was true.

"You didn't have to, I'm sorry I put a back slide in your healing-"

"You didn't do shit, pretty, it was all him, sure we'd been slowly makin' amends but I don't need him. I need you happy and safe, and he can't do either."

"I'm fine, or I'll be fine, or whatever it is you wanna hear, thank you for sticking up for me-"

"I can't let ya hurt yourself, sweets. Dick and I have decided on a plan," he said grabbing one of her hands to pull her over to her bed. She sat on the edge ready to bolt if she needed.

"You two making plans is never a good sign..."

"We're gonna move in here-"

"Oh hell no, we'll all kill each other!"

"We'll manage, for you. We'll take out old rooms, I promise not to smother Bruce with a pillow in his sleep and we can take turns sitting with you-"

"I'm not a child-" He stopped her with a pointed look, his eyes dropping just for a second to her chest.

"I know that-"

"Don't look at my boobs when you say that you weirdo."

"Stop interrupting. When should I look at your boobs then," he said then cringed at himself.

"Uh, um, I don't know? Not -I mean, this isn't a porno bro, so unless you wanna help me get unstuck from the dryer-"

"Ha, you saw that one too," he cut her off with a panicked laugh. His hand working through his hair.

"Just the memes, I don't watch-you know what never mind. Don't look at my tits-"

"Why is he looking at your...um," Dick accused in that 'I'm her older brother I will kill you with a spoon voice'.

"Can we just back to my self harm," she begged burying her face in her hands in embarrassment.

"Yes please," Jason said with relief. Dick was glaring at him, then used a finger to slash across his throat in the universal I'll kill you gesture.

"Anyway, Tim is laying out the ground rules for Bruce. Which is he's not allowed to be in any room alone with you, he doesn't get any shifts as your emotional support buddy-"

"Babysitter."

"-and he's grounded from the cave until we track down the joker and cut him into tiny pieces," Dick continued like she said nothing.

"Damian agreed to drug him if we had to, to avoid the no kill rule," Jason clarified.

"You guys are the best, none-legal, half-step-adopted-but-not-really-sibling-friends a girl could ask for. But you don't need to hunt for him, I know just where he is. I was gonna deliver his head to Jason for his birthday."

"You were gonna give me head-shit I mean a head for my birthday," Jason stuttered. The others blinked at him then Dick smacked him upside the head and Y/n started laughing.

"What is it with you? Do you need to get laid that badly? I'm nothing to look at you dork," she said with disturbing ease, shaking her head like she was scolding a puppy.

"Don't say that," Dick chided sitting on the bed and pulling her sideways into his lap. She flopped over onto him awkwardly with her arms pinned to her sides by him so she couldn't wiggle free.

"I think you're gorgeous, sweets." She snorted in disbelief.

"Yeah, right my family says I'm not ugly and I'm just supposed to take their word for it, nice try. The only person in this house that doesn't lie is Damian."

"I'd prove it to you if buzz kill wasn't here."

"Dude!"

"Oh my God, enough with the sex talk! Tim might hear-"

"Hear what?"

"Ok, seriously does the robin training include popping up at bad times did I miss that lesson?"

"Why are you just now getting the sex talk," Tim asked with a shit eating grin, little fucker knew something. She narrowed her eyes at him but his grin stayed.

"No, Jason keeps making passes like a damn player," Dick explained.

"Bout time," Tim said flopping himself down on her bed on his stomach.

"hardly a time for jokes, Tim-"

"No really, he loves you, you love him just kiss already-"

"You are so dead," Dick shouted rolling her off to the side to make a grab for Jason, who's instincts kicked in and had him out the door in a blink. Their footsteps could be heard pounding down the hall followed by a few crashes.

"Alfred's gonna be pissed," Tim said like he didn't just start it.

"Dude what the hell, why would you lie about something like that," she whispered shouted at him.

"I know you love him-"

"But he doesn't love me you little shit, it's horrible for you to start trouble."

"Speaking of trouble just how much damage did you cause before Jason got up here?"

"A little."

"Let me see."

"No."

"Then I'll just have the others hold you down-"

"Fine fine, when did you get so mean. I swear just last week you weren't saying more than two words to me," she grumbled rolling her shorts up to show him the bandages. They were shallow so no blood had soaked through but he pulled a knife from his pocket to cut them away and check any how.

"I'm sorry I've-we've all been distant with you, but you just seemed so...okay. I mean before Dick pissed you off your voice echoed down the halls as you sang. Every time I passed you you were dancing. You baked cookies with Alfred every other day- I just... I'm sorry I couldn't read between the lines," he said wadding up the gauze and letting her wounds get some air.

"Tim, the singing and dancing and the fake smiles were meant to throw you off, there was no between the lines," she explained softly.

He didn't respond just continues to look at her cuts, the burn scars and what he was really hoping wasn't words carved into her skin, they were so faded they blended with the stretch mark but he was sure he could make out a few letters. Dick came back into the room alone, looking smug but his smile dropped when he saw her.

"Tim! You were supposed to watch her," he whisper shouted crossing the room and dropping to his knees on the bed.

"I did this before any of you got in here, one last hurrah," she laughed. Dick wasn't laughing, he'd found the letters too.

"What did these say?"

"Huh?"

"Don't play dumb, you have letters scared, what did they say?"

She yanked her shorts down and became invested in her cuticles turning her body away and getting ready to run. Dick sat down on the bed about a foot from her trying to give her a bit of space but all he did was give her an opening. She was up and out of reach with a quickness only a past robin could have but she'd underestimated them Dick was in her path and Tim was to her side blocking the bathroom door just as quick. With little to no deliberation she bolted for her balcony. Slamming the doors behind herself she all but leapt from the guard rail and scaled the vine covered lattice with ease. They were close behind and she had to really kick it into gear to run, zigzagging to avoid them.

"Hey, what the hell guys," Jason voice said from only a few feet from her.

"Shit," she said to herself, her shorter legs going as fast as they could, just a little further and she'd be off the property. Of course she was in slippers and her feet were getting soaked from the damp grass, she was just thankful she hadn't-shit she jinxed it, she fucking slipped, right before the damn gate too. Three annoyed vigilantes were dog piled on her before she could even begin to stand back up and fell flat on her stomach in defeat.

"Thanks for the workout," Jason groaned at her his body draped over her legs.

"I forgot how fast you were itty bitty bat," Dick said from his position on his knees next to her, one hand on her back to hold her down.

"Just where did you think you were gonna go," Tim asked, he was just straight up sitting on her like an annoying little brother showing off that he'd grown taller.

"Can I get up now?" They all eased up but before she could get her to her feet Jason tossed her over his shoulder in a fireman carry. His ass looked great in his sweatpants damnit.

"Hey," she shouted smacking his hip, he smacked the back of her thigh in response and she was disturbed to find she'd liked it.

"So what did we learn," Dick asked bending down to be eye level with her.

"That I need to spend more time on the treadmill."

(this entire time I keep picturing Tim off to the side sipping an iced coffee like he's watching a 3d movie)

The walk back to the manner took a little while and Jason was sure to give her a bumpy ride. Unfortunately he'd discovered after he'd tossed her on his shoulder she was in fact not wearing a bra. He could feet her nipples, which had hardened from the cold, against his back as she tried to cling to him for a less rough ride. if Dick was going to kill him before, he was going to make him dig his own grave now. Of course, he felt disgusted for the thoughts he had about his technically adopted sister, even more so with what he'd said to her. If Tim was right, and she loved him back he would die happy. Now though, he had to focus on making her happy.

9-26-24

taglist

@stormz369

[sugar-crash]

🍬King Candy (Wreck-It Ralph) x (gn) Reader👑

(Beginning Relationship Pt. II Edition!)

(Just a tad bit different🔑 than it usually is, Have fun :))

- Tries his best to separate him from who he used to be to ward off suspicion of his shady behavior but as we can all see, he’s not exactly the best at it at times. Especially if you knew him when he was Turbo. Johunlz

- His more friendly King Candy look gives him far more leeway than he had as Turbo which he wanted purposely. He uses it to his advantage, especially when it comes to you, literally that one scene from Adventure Time. Shameless about it on top of that. ohcl

- Much like how he was previously, he teases you. But it’s far more lighthearted I guess? Sometimes he just says something absolutely mean as shit and then pats your head patronizingly in the same breath. Hate him. illu

- Being some of the shortest game characters of the bunch, he’s no stranger to being looked down upon, literally, and by then he doesn’t have much of an issue with his s/o being taller than him…

- However, if by some miracle or chance, you’re smaller than him, he thinks you’re so cute, affectionately calling you “snack-sized”, and he’ll say it when he tries to get on your nerves for one reason or another. thkl,

- Lovessss putting others down, when it comes to you, it’s more lighthearted or joking (with that little metaphorical bug in his ear relishing being able to do so), and anyone else??? Not as much. pu

- Lives for the praise you give him, as much as he doesn’t admit it of course, that self-satisfied and smug grin he gets whenever you congratulate him for having majority wins/being chosen the most as an avatar on Sugar Rush says it all. tvyl

- While being the one to establish the paywall and coin prizes (cause he’s an insidious asshole), he kinda hates that he can’t have an actual trophy like he used to— Can’t exactly display them for you to comment on later on considering they are constantly being used and turned into code. But hey, at least they have his insignia on them. aohu

- Calling myself out on this once more, but, the description randomalistic used for him in this YouTube video (which,,, I highly suggest watching if you haven’t already), specifically “a corrupt politician” is frighteningly accurate, he lies, he cheats, he sabotages, a perfect allegory for a corrupt higher power. vul

- And he fucking knows it man, proud of it even, one of his most successful works and he can’t even brag about it, can’t even tell you. wshjl

- We really don’t see what his relationship is between him and the other racers besides Taffyta claiming he wants to keep them safe and uh… The race track scenes. So from what I can ascertain I can fully see him acting like Miss Hannigan from Annie, specifically this one scene (yeah this post is just chocked full of links, bear with me), the mental image of him mockingly saying “she had to go bathroom” with his lisp makes me weak.

- Even in his new and far more prestigious position as King he still longs for more, with his limits and disguises imperfections not helping this inner turmoil, even in a game as big as Sugar Rush boredom takes root and he even his excuses that explain why he stays in Sugar Rush to you have a nearly invisible air of uncertainty to them.

- Makes a point to make you feel good, loved, cared for all throughout your visits to Sugar Rush, nothing is too good for you, there’s always more.

- I think this kind of behavior stems from this deep seated desire to make sure you don’t leave him, you could have everything you want with his help— Why wouldn’t you stay? Please stay.

- Caged. That’s how he feels secretly, I mean, who wouldn’t? He wasn’t exactly coded to be a monarch, all these responsibilities, not even his coding skills could help him with that…. I mean, would he even be himself without it?

- Achievements, what are they for when it’s the same thing over and over again? Validation? Attention? Power?? You maybe? Things he’s been chasing after for all of his life, well— Not you but he’s realized that he’s become far too attached to you, your softness, your sensitivity.

- Each moment spent together is far more significant to him than what he thought it’d be when he first showed interest in you— Thinking it’d be like every other relationship (mostly platonic ones) he’s been in, fleeting, and ending with you hating him, you had every right to after all.

- Sickness, an insult that had been thrown his way over a dozen times to the point where it usually gets a scoff and furrowed brows, but it feels devastating when you say it after his true nature is unceremoniously revealed by his hubris.

- Abandoned— That familiar pang ripping through his newly mutated form as you struggle for your life alongside the others that stayed behind to help every last one of the Sugar Rush people to get to safety from the unruly swarm of Cy-Bugs eating their home into nothing.

- Red. That’s all he sees as he brutally beats Ralph down into a pulp and cruelly taunts everyone else as he holds the overgrown bad guy in the air, eagerly and sadistically waiting for a little girl to meet a brutal end only to meet his own.

(Almr sarqr dprk’s sll lk sar klqr)

[mollywog]

Tomorrow

A prequel to Complicated (can be read as a stand alone) Set the night of the 74th Reaping

She’s wandering home when her ears perk at the sound of heavy footfall approaching. Silently slipping into the shadows along the path, a figure appears several paces in the direction of the still buzzing festivities. The light is low but the broad shoulders and blond waves unmistakably belong to Peeta Mellark. She watches with interest as he meanders alone. Though the path is clear and straight, his feet are unsteady.

She frowns: He’s drunk.

It’s not that surprising, half the kids their age are probably worse off than him, it’s the night of the Reaping after all. With her sister’s first reaping safely behind them, even she had stopped by the celebration, though she hadn’t had more than a sip of white liquor.

She and Peeta aren’t friends, they don’t even know each other really, but she still feels a twinge of disappointment at his current state. She’s always held him in higher regard than the other boys at school.

In the next step he stumbles; Unable to correct his footing in time, he tumbles to the ground, grunting as he lands. He rolls to his back and sits up, cursing under his breath as he inspects his knee.

“You alright?” she says, emerging from her hiding spot.

He startles at her voice, eyes widening as he spots her. “oh, Katniss, hey. I didn’t know you were there.” He pulls himself to his feet, wincing when he puts weight on his left leg.

“You okay?” She repeats, looking him over as she approaches; there’s a tear in his pants just below the knee, but she doesn’t see blood and he was able to stand on his own: all good signs.

“Ah, yeah, nothing hurt but my pride.”

“Good thing no one saw you.”

“You saw me.”

The usually confident boy looks bashful, and she wonders why he would care: She is no one, at least to him. “I won’t tell,” she says in reassurance. His lips upturn in a poor imitation of a smile and she scowls. “Promise,” she adds defensively.

At this, he shakes his head and laughs; unlike the smile, it’s genuine, “I believe you, Katniss.”

Her stomach swoops at the sound and she turns her head to conceal her own smile. “Well if you’re okay...” she trails off, not really wanting to leave, but not knowing what else to say.

“Could I walk with you for a bit? Make sure you get home safe?”

“Seems like you might be the one in need of an escort.”

He chuckles, “maybe so, but I can’t go home just yet… not like this.”

She frowns. Her parents would be none too pleased to see her in his state, but their lecture would be nothing compared to the back of Mrs. Mellark's hand. She shrugs her assent before turning towards the path, looking back to ensure that he follows.

It takes him a moment to register her response, when he does he jogs a few paces to catch up, “I don’t usually do this, you know?”

She doesn’t know: It must be written on her face because he continues, “Drink too much... or at all really,

She shrugs despite feeling a small bit relieved.

“Today was my brother’s last reaping; he wanted to celebrate and was feeling generous... I don’t know, I think he thought he was doing me a favor.”

“By giving you a hangover?” she raises a brow.

“Nah, he wanted me to loosen up. Relax enough so I’d talk to someone.”

She snorts.

“Hey, are you laughing at me?”

“I didn’t suppose you’d need help talking to anyone.”

“It’s a girl.”

Her heart sinks, “You talk to plenty a girls.”

“Not like this.”

She looks down at the plumes of dust her boots kick up as she walks. “So, did you? Talk to her?”

He hums an affirmation.

“And how did it go?”

“Not very well I think. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a drunk… or an oaf, or a clod… probably all three.”

She frowns. A very small part of her thrills at this; Had he succeeded, he might be off with this girl right now rather than here with her. But the greater part of her feels his disappointment. “I’m sorry.”

He grimaces, “and now she pities me, so definitely not good.”

Her eyes go wide and snap to his as realization dawns.

“I should have known the first time we spoke I’d make a fool of myself,” he adds as if in confirmation.

“Me?” Giddy laughter bubbles up, until a breathy giggle escapes.

He groans, “you’re laughing at me? This keeps getting better.”

“Not at you. I’m just… surprised?”

“You know what; Nevermind. Can we just… forget it?”

But she doesn’t want to forget…

Back when she was eleven, her father had been terribly ill but determined to return to work, her mother disagreed. Her parents had argued that night; they never did that. The fight ended with her mother conceding and making their evening tea. But what her father hadn’t known was that she’d added a double dose of sleep syrup to his cup. He slept straight through his shift, only waking when the siren’s had sounded all across town. A section of the mine had collapsed and a number of his crew had been lost along with it, but thanks to her mother’s deception, her father had not been among them.

She’d watched the families that hadn’t been as lucky as hers struggle that winter: some driven to the bottle, others to Cray, and worse still were the children sent to the community home; their neighbors unable or unwilling to help.

She had been among the helpless crowd until the day she noticed the baker’s youngest son sneaking rolls to the starving children that begged at the merchants’ back doors, despite his mother’s ire.

His kindness had taught her that even at eleven she was not powerless to help. As someone who could depend on two meals at home, she had begun forfeiting her lunches to the children at school who had none. Her father too had taken notice, offering guidance and foraging knowledge to any who dared venture past the fence. It was imperfect but it wasn’t nothing.

Ever since that day, she’s kept an eye on Peeta Mellark with a growing fondness she never imagined he could return.

But he does. She doesn’t doubt his sincerity; those years of watching have only strengthened her certainty of his goodness.

They walk in silence for half a minute as she gathers her courage, “So what was your plan? Before your brother decided to help?”

He sighs, “I don’t know. Offer to walk you home, minus falling on my face. Talk about something other than what a fool I am; like our favorite colors or the best time of year to visit the meadow. And by the time we made it to your door, if all had gone well, ask if you’d want to do it again sometime…”

“That sounds nice.”

“What would you have said?”

“Hmm?”

“What if I had asked you out? If things had gone… better than this, do you think you might have considered it?”

They’ve stopped in front of her porch and she stares up at the house to find it quiet and dark: same as the rest of the street. “One minute. Wait here,” she bids instead of answering his question. Ducking in the house, she silently sorts through her mother’s jars until she finds what she’s looking for, measuring and parceling the herbs with practiced hands, the familiarity helping to steady her nerves.

Reemerging, she’s relieved to find him still there. “Make a tea with this tomorrow,” she says as she hands him the packet, “in the meantime drink plenty of water. It should help the headache that’s coming.”

“Sure thing Doctor Everdeen,” he gives a half hearted smile, “thank you.”

He turns to walk away, but her hand shoots out to stop him, landing on his arm, firm and warm under her fingers. His eyes flit from her hand to her face, holding her stare. Her heart flutters, “What if you ask me tomorrow?”

His brows knit together before shooting to his hairline, “yeah?”

She nods, and because the odds have been in her favor so far today, she pops up to her toes, kissing his cheek, “see ya tomorrow Peeta.”

Complicated | What If

[avengerscompound]

Shared Experience - Chapter 11

Shared Experience - A Captain America Fanfic

Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Rating:  E

Warnings:  smut (MF, vaginal sex), blood-drinking

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OFC Rose Astor

Word Count: 1850

Summary:  Rose Astor met her end in 1920, joining the ranks of the living dead two years after the birth of Steve Rogers.  A century later the two meet in battle - a beacon of light clashing with a creature of the night.  Despite their differences, the two bond over their shared life experiences.  Can a vampire become an Avenger?  Can two such different beings create a life together?

Chapter 11

Returning home after the mess she’d made of the mission had left Rose filled with shame in a way she hadn't felt since first being turned. In some ways that shame was a relief to her, being with Steve and becoming an Avenger had made her feel her humanity in ways she’d thought had been lost to her and shame was yet another sign that this curse hadn't changed her completely.

It did mean that things took a few steps back with Steve.  The shame she felt over how badly things had gone, and her need to feed off Steve when he’d spent so long telling her he didn’t want that, made her feel guilty and dirty.  His reassurance that it was fine and he didn’t think differently about her didn’t help.  If anything it made her feel worse because it cemented in her mind that he always had seen her as a predator that would end up trying to eat him.  If he couldn’t see her as at least safe, then how could they stand a chance of working out?

Not to mention that his blood now called to her.  It was like a drug. The way it made her feel was not just more human, but superhuman.  Her preternatural gifts were enhanced and her weaknesses were reduced.  It made her feel both alive and slightly high.  When she was near him, all she could focus on was the sound of his heart beating in his chest and the scent of his blood just under the surface of his skin.  It only got worse over the week as the effects of his blood faded.  She was like an addict jonesing for her next hit and her supply was walking around wanting to dance with her.

She started avoiding him.

After the fourth night of missing training, Steve went to find her.  It wasn’t hard.  Rose had barely left her house.  She needed to detox from people.  She needed to get a hold of herself.

Steve knocked, but he let himself in.  He found Rose in her drawing room, listening to some early 1920s Jazz.  He tapped on the doorframe.  “Rose?” he said.  “Can we talk about this?”

She looked up at him with a frown.  He had a bag of blood with him.  She could smell it.  Stronger than the cold congealing blood in a bag, she could smell his, fresh and hot and pumping through his veins.

She nodded.  “We can talk.”

He approached her then.  His steps showed no hesitation or fear but he still moved carefully, like he was approaching a prey animal that could run at the smallest trigger, not a predator that could turn on him and tear his head off. 

“I brought you blood,” he said, offering her the bag.  She took it and clutched it in her hands, watching him as he crouched in front of her.  “Rose,” he said, putting his hand on hers.  “You know I love you, don’t you?”

She nodded.  “I know.  But I also know that when you look at me, you see something that feeds on you.  Not just since I did, but before that.”

“I look at you and I see Rose,” Steve said, taking her hand in his.  “Rose - my friend and my lover.  Rose who is incredibly strong and brave and sometimes she can be a little scary.  Rose who had something terrible happen to her when she was very young and it’s now changed her and given her extraordinary abilities, but also some strange side effects.  Rose who has been living with that all on her own for more than a lifetime.  Rose who even after all the pain she’s been through and all the urges she has still manages to be kind and brave and who helps protect people - even when they look at her and see a monster.  Rose who knows and can relate to what I’ve been through better than almost anyone else I know.  Rose who I love.  And yes, that means that I recognize that you have unique needs, such as sleeping during the day and drinking blood.  But it doesn’t mean I look at you and see a predator or a monster.  I know you much better than that.”

She frowned and looked at the bag of blood in her hand and back up at Steve.  He was so pure and good.  For every piece of dark in her, he was light and it just made her want to be better. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and break down.  To cry until all this pain was cried out of her as he held her, and then kiss him until she couldn’t feel her lips anymore.  But there was still one major problem.

“That’s all well and good, Steve,” she said as she looked down at him. “But your blood did something to me.  You saw me.  You saw how the light touched me.  It’s faded and I look at you, and I just want to feel that again.”

Steve didn’t say anything for a moment and in that moment, Rose was sure she’d said the thing that had turned him off her forever.  Just as she went to pull her hand away, his fingers tightened.  “You haven’t bitten me, Rose.  Not since I offered.  You might want to, you might think that my blood is calling to you, or tempting you, but you haven’t done it.  I know you think you’re a monster, but everyone has urges they know better to act on.  This is just one of yours.  And the truth is - I liked it.  I’ve been thinking about how it felt ever since.”

Rose wasn’t sure if that was worse or better.  She did know one thing, it made her feel better.  He trusted her and he felt these things too.  Maybe that was dangerous and maybe they could work this out together.

“Thank you, Steve,” she said softly.

He reached up and cradled her jaw.  “There’s nothing to thank me for,” he said.

She leaned in, bringing her lips to his. God - she’d missed this more than she’d realized.  All this time she thought it was the blood, but it was him.  She wanted him.  His affection, and his love.  She wanted to feel the warmth of his body against her cool skin.

She hummed, parting her lips and her tongue darting out to coax his lips apart.  He resisted and pulled back. “Eat,” he said.  “Then we can go up to your room.”

She sighed and looked down at the bag of blood, squeezing it to make the dark red fluid slop around inside.  Her eyes flicked back up to Steve as she lifted the bag to her lips and she sank her fangs into it.  The plastic popped under her teeth and the thick salty liquid flowed into her mouth.  It was lukewarm and while she knew the fact it had been kept away from oxygen meant it couldn’t be congealing, it still felt like it was.  It was completely unpalatable - and yet she drank.  She drank for Steve’s sake.  She drank so that she’d be sated and when she followed Steve up those stairs, feeding would be as far from his mind as it could get.

As she drank, Steve ran his hands up her thighs and around her hips.  They slid up her back and by the time the bag was empty, she wrapped her arms around him, dropping the bag to the floor behind his back.  He leaned in, capturing her lips and lifting her.  She wrapped her legs around his waist and he carried her up the stairs.

Their kiss deepened and became more frantic as they moved up the stairs.  When they reached the landing outside her bedroom, the kiss had become a battle for domination.  He carried her to the bed and dropped her on the mattress, she started to strip right away and he pulled his shirt off and tossed it aside.  She had moved with such speed that she was naked before he’d even managed to get his pants off.  She reached for him, grabbing his belt and unfastening it with deft fingers.  She practically tore his pants off and pulled him down on top of her.

Steve cradled her cheek as he ran the head of his cock up and down her sopping folds.  “Rose,” he breathed. “Don’t push me away again.  I love you.  I want this to work.”

She pushed him onto his back, straddling his waist.  “I love you too,” he said and kissed him.  She ground her pussy on his cock, soaking it with her slick.  He lifted her at the waist and as he lowered her back down, he entered her.

She moaned as he stretched her and filled her.  She began to ride him, kissing as she moved up and down on his shaft.  She angled her hips to try to get the head of his cock to rub her g-spot, but couldn’t quite get the angle right.

Steve flipped her again and pulled her legs right up, so her hips were angled just right.  He could read her perfectly, he knew exactly what she wanted and how to give it to her.  Each thrust of his hips sent pleasure coiling out through her, spreading out from her core right through her, so her edges felt fuzzy and soft.

Her lips grazed down his jaw and when she reached his neck, her fangs popped out and she skimmed them over his jugular.  His pulse beat against her teeth.  It made her shiver and despite the fact she wanted to sink his teeth in, the fact she could resist somehow made it feel better.  It added a sense of need paired with control that intensified everything.  It brought her careening to her release and kept her balanced there right at the edge.

It wasn’t just Rose who felt it.  As soon as Rose’s fangs touched his skin, Steve’s breath caught and his hips started to stutter.  “Rose,” he moaned.  “Rose… Do it.  Bite me.”

Rose pulled back, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back so he could look at him. “What?”

“I want it.  I want you to bite me,” he said.  “Penetrate me, Rose.  Penetrate me as I penetrate you.”

She couldn’t think straight.  The offer was so unexpected and she wanted it.  God, she wanted it so bad.  She looked into his eyes, trying to see if she’d done something to him.  They were blown out with lust, but clear.  His thoughts were his.  He wanted this as much as she had always wanted this.

“You’re sure about this?” she breathed. 

“Yes, Rose,” he begged.  “Do it.”

She opened her mouth, her lips curling back, so she could see the points of her fangs.

She pulled his head back, exposing his throat.  She could see the flicker of his vein as his pulse beat through it.

“Bite me,” he pleaded once more.

She lunged forward and sunk her fangs into him.

// NEXT

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

Hi! I thought for a moment about how Tsumiki could see Megumi's Shikigami. But when I reread the chapter and realized that she was wearing glasses, everything fell into place.

But what I was wondering was, does Shikigami really like Tsumiki on its own? Like, did Megumi summon each new shadow just so Tsumiki could spend time with them? Or are they influenced by Megumi's own feelings, who loves her sister very much?

See, I like it better if I don't give a definitive answer to it.

I will say that Megumi's not like, socializing them with Tsumiki. They love her from the first time they meet her.

But there's still a question of why they like her so much.

We could say that the shikigami are pure extensions of Megumi. They only do what he tells him to do. It's not that they're personally fond of his sister--Megumi is controlling them into acting like they are. He does it so she feels special, so that she feels loved, so that she get all that expression of open affection that he can't give her. It's a quiet way of loving his sister and making her feel good.

Or we could say that he's not controlling their actions when they do this. He doesn't know why they love her so much either. Maybe it's an expression of how much he loves her that he just can't contain. They're influenced by Megumi's own feelings and are a genuine reflection of how much he loves her.

See, I have an interpretation I like best, but I kind of like it being a reader-based determination. Is Megumi doing it to make Tsumiki feel loved? Or is it because he, at the end of the day, he just can't fully hide how much he loves her?

[fideidefenswhore]

Despite relentless pressure to acknowledge her illegitimacy, Mary had always held out. But now, under the very real threat that her dear friends would otherwise go to the block for supporting her claim, Mary finally submitted and put her hand to the document that declared the invalidity of her parents' marriage and her own bastardy. The lives of Exeter, Carew, and their allies were saved, if only temporarily, by Mary's sacrifice, but their political influence had been shot.

Henry VIII’s Last Victim: The Life and Times of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, Jessie Childs

[sanjarka]

god it's all so very shitty and there's nothing i can do about it.

[dutybcrne]

After starting getting back in the swing of being an Archon and gaining the respect of her nation, for some time, Nahida was fully unable to be alone for certain period of time. Her centuries in isolation made her feel incredibly anxious each time it happened, to the point where she would actively seek out people to chat with, even when she herself felt a bit worn out. And sure, she could linger in dreams, but that in and of itself is too reminiscent of the way things used to be. Ideally, she’d have someone’s hand to hold, to better ground her and set her mind at ease, but she’s content enough just having others around her too.

[toasteaa]

It's 1 am...why am I thinking about the time Neuv thought Eclair died in the explosion at the Fontaine Research Institute...