#but look at how much fizz has grown

[birdy-babe]

I kinda really love these outfits but not just because they are adorable and Fizz looks great

It’s also because I feel like this is Fizz being himself. This outfit feels like something FIZZ wants to wear- not something he feels he NEEDS to wear in order to appeal to the image his fame gave him. He’s no longer dressing for the public, he’s not dressing for Mammon, or for a show. He’s himself!!! It’s the first time we’ve seen him in an outfit HE wants to be in!

I love him <3

[luveline]

I love ur writing 💕 can I request something where reader is dense sortof/has low self esteem, so she likes hotch, admires him and would love to date him but can't imagine he would view her that way,, so he has to be really obvious with his advances? Not self indulgent at all 👉👈 no worries if not. Love u!

Hotch has to break the news that he’s been pursuing you. fem, 2k

Hotch would like to call you unassuming in the kindest way possible. Unassuming, in that not everyone who looks at you would find themselves immediately aware of your beauty (an old-fashioned way to put it, and true), because your poor self esteem leaves you shy. 

You don't believe anyone would want you. It doesn’t matter to Hotch beyond a weary heartbreak for you, as he doesn’t mind if it takes time to convince you. He only wishes you’d have more confidence. You’re pretty and you deserve to know it. 

“Hello,” he says, with intent to try again. 

You like him. He’s a grown man and a good judge of character, better of action, and he’d like to think that your sudden grimace whenever he speaks is again this cloud of insecurity rather than a true dislike for him. You have to warm up to him every day, but you do warm. 

“Hi, Hotch.” 

And listen, he’s not one to flirt at work, but if he ever wants a real shot with you, he has to be heavy-handed. “Hi,” he repeats, smiling, “how are things today?” 

You’re assistant office administrator for the BAU, and so Hotch isn’t technically your boss, but you do work beneath him. “Things are the same as always.” 

“Not too hard for you, then.” 

You catch his teasing, which is a new development. “Not too hard for me,” you say.

He doesn’t pretend he has reason to hang around. He thinks it might’ve contributed to you not believing he’s interested; he’d drop by with coffee because you seemed tired, or checked in on issues that didn’t need his supervision, and you’d taken every extra minute spent at your door as his attentiveness to his job, rather than an affection for you.

He stands with his hand on the doorway and just looks at you. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“You look beautiful today.” 

You touch the button at your neck. “It’s too much for work.” 

“No.” You’re wearing normal business casual clothing. You’ve pulled a necklace over your sweater, soft collar of a shirt kissing your throat. He imagines you’re wearing regular pants and flats or maybe a skirt and short heels beneath the desk, it doesn’t matter. “It’s not just what you’re wearing. You look pretty.” 

You could catch flame if something sparked near you. Lost, your lips part, and eventually you squeeze out a timid, “Thank you, Hotch.” 

 “Aaron.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Can we get coffee?” He dislikes the panic in your eyes and regrets how casual he sounded. “Can I get you a coffee?” 

“I’m okay.” 

“Well, maybe we can take lunch together?” 

“Have I done something?” 

“Have you?” he asks. 

He feels… young. Haley was the only woman he’d been with at a time, and casually there have been others now, but you’re the first woman he’s attempted to woo like this. He sometimes forgets that you’re shy and that he’s been married, distracted by his fizzing, almost joyful feelings for you. Flirting with you is a pleasure. 

You lick your lips quickly. “Where did you want to go? For lunch?” 

He was thinking you could bring your sandwich to his desk, but what you’re asking is a thousand times better. “Where do you want to go? Melanie’s?” he suggests. 

You breathe out in a strange laugh. “For lunch?” 

No, perhaps not. It’s rather fancy. “Somewhere nice, at least,” he says. 

“I don’t know where’s nice.” 

“Well, we can find somewhere. I’ll try to find somewhere before one, what do you think?” 

“Okay.” 

He smiles. “Okay.” 

He’s pulling away from the doorway when you stand up from your rolling chair and say his name, a near yelp, “Hotch! Wait, uh, wait a second.” 

He immediately turns back. “What?” he asks, giving you a quick once over. 

“Are you sure I’m not in trouble for something?” you ask. To your credit, you give a bashful little laugh. “I feel like I’m walking into a trap.” 

“I have no intentions of trapping you anywhere.” 

“Please don’t fire me at Melanie’s.” 

He smiles at you again and leaves your alcove of the office to head back to his own. Around the desks and the bullpen where his team sit doing their paperwork, up the stairs to the landing. He pauses before he goes inside.

JJ’s standing behind Derek’s desk. They’re chatting, JJ sipping at a mug, a small smile on her lips. Spencer watches her from his own desk. He doesn’t like her anymore to Hotch’s knowledge, but it doesn’t stop him from smiling at her with that slight thread of lovelorn shyness when she asks him what he’s so busy doing. 

Hotch has a moment of clarity at his desk when he realises he needs to find somewhere perfect to take you come lunch time. You hadn’t seemed convinced of your job security when he’d left you, and he spends some time pondering how best to accommodate you as he sorts thought Quantico’s best cafes and restaurants. 

He has emails to answer, phone calls to take, and to make. Time moves quickly, and by 1:02 he’s all sorts of late. It’s almost 1:12PM when he’s again at your office door, a warm plastic bag against his side. 

You’re looking at your lap. Coat in your hands, lip nibbled raw, there’s an internal conversation happening that he’s not privy to. He doubts he’d like it very much —the agony of self-doubt is written plainly in your slouch. 

He knocks your door, feeling very sorry for your startled jump. “Hi. Sorry, I’m late, I know. But I thought I’d bring dinner to you.” 

He thought of it like this: if he were to take you to dinner, you could explain it away as a professional superior who was going to fire you and changed his mind, or a superior checking in on his employee, or a superior simply being kind. He has, on occasion, taken different members of his team or office out to discuss things in their lunch hours because he was busy and needed their time at a convenient hour. You might not think anything of it. 

Right now, Hotch really wants you to think something of it. 

“What?” you ask. 

“Is that okay with you, if we stay here?” 

It’s a little much for you, apparently. You finally tip into incredulity. “Aaron, is everything alright? I really don’t understand what’s going on.” 

“I’d like to eat lunch together.”

“But why?” 

“Because you’re good company.” He’s sat knee to knee with serial killers, and his next sentence is still scary, “Because I like you, and I’m not sure how else to show it.” 

You press your coat to your stomach, frowning. “You like me.” 

“I was under the impression that you liked me too,” he says, smiling despite you and himself. Hotch might be a drill sergeant and a bully all those terrible moody stations as a boss, but he’s also just a man, and there’s little room for stoicism in love. 

“But you…” 

He waits, but then feels too sorry for you to let you flounder. “Honey, I don’t know how else to put it. I’ve tried compliments, I brought you that plant,” —he points to the still blooming orchid on your window— “I ask you what your plans are every weekend.” He looks swiftly behind him. Alone, he edges into your office to close the door and allow some privacy. “And every weekend I ask you if you want to get a drink. I’d think you didn’t like me if it weren’t for your tell.” 

“What’s my tell?” 

Your hand. Whenever he’s around, you take something into your hand and squeeze at it or feel it like you’re going to explode with nerves. He saves you the explanation, and instead lays his most gentle look on you. “If I’m wrong, please let me know. I’d never want to put you in an uncomfortable position, but you’re lovely.”

“You’re not making me uncomfortable,” you say, semi-disbelieving. “You never do. I'm just confused.” 

“I’d really like to get to know you as more than a colleague.”

“You know me,” you mumble. 

He does. He knows what your favourite colour is, your favourite food, your soccer team. He sent you flowers on your birthday, asks after your sick neighbour, and checks your office light every night when he goes home, though he knows what time you leave each evening. And he knows that you’re scared to admit to liking him or anyone, because you worry you’re not allowed. 

“I do,” he agrees, giving the plastic bag a jostle. He doesn’t need big answers now. “Can I sit down?” 

You might not have a big answer to give, but your expression tells a story nonetheless. You wheel your seat backward and he pulls a spare chair toward your desk, your smile like an adornment as you push aside your things to make room. You smile so hard it changes your entire face. 

“Do you have napkins?” you ask, not so subtly breathless as he places the bag down and pushes the plastic back. 

He pulls out a wedge of them. You pinch them, and for a second the both of you hold them, your eyes meeting, your cheeks appled with matching smiles. 

“I thought the orchid was for secretary’s day,” you say quietly, taking the napkins. 

“You aren’t a secretary,” he says, holding out a plastic fork. 

When you go to grab it, he moves it up out of the way. Your startled laugh is beautiful. Totally stunning. He hadn’t realised how badly he’d wanted the quiet intimacy of teasing you over lunch until he had it. 

You grab the fork before he can move it again. “Too slow,” you say. 

“Oh, you think so?” he asks. 

“I know so, Aaron. Who has the fork?” 

Aaron, he thinks. Finally, Aaron. “You have the fork, but I have your lunch. I’d tread carefully if I were you.” 

[p0orbaby]

Not Nineteen Forever

summary: co-parenting with two kids? light work

warnings: are exes a warning ?

a/n: i smell reconciliation in the air…

word count: 1.1k

-

“He’s forgotten his boots? What time is his lesson? No sorry don’t answer that, I’ve got meetings for the rest of the day, I can’t leave the office. Can he play in his school shoes? Can I just ask, have you tried getting in contact with Alexia? No, you just called me, got it. Well it looks like he will have to miss football then doesn’t it. Yes, it’s such a shame! Okay, thank you, bye”

You hang up and smash the phone back into its receiver, frustration boiling over. This is the third time this month something has come up with the kids while you are at work. Balancing a full-time job and single parenthood was taking its toll. You sigh, running a hand through your hair, and try to refocus on the mountain of tasks waiting for you.

It has been a year since you and Alexia divorced. The decision was mutual, borne out of necessity rather than any particular wrongdoing. Her career had always been demanding, but as she rose to greater heights, the time she could spend at home dwindled to almost nothing. The distance, both physical and emotional, had grown insurmountable. You had drifted apart, slowly and painfully.

The kids have taken the separation surprisingly well. They are resilient, adapting quickly to the new arrangement of split weeks and alternating weekends. But despite their brave faces, you can see the strain it puts on them. You miss the days when the four of you were a team, tackling life’s challenges together.

As you stare at your computer screen, trying to immerse yourself back into work, the phone rings again. It was the school. Again.

“You should have Alexia’s number on file but if you need me to confirm-“

“I’m sorry?”

“Luis’ boots. If it’s that much of a problem I’m sure my wife- ex wife, can drop them off”

“Apologies Ms Putellas, but I'm ringing about your daughter. This is the school nurse…”

-

You arrive at the school to find Alexia already there, uncharacteristically nervous as she waits. Despite everything, she always manages to be present when it truly matters. It’s one of the things you admire most about her, and also one of the most frustrating – her ability to show up at the critical moments, even if she couldn’t be there for the day-to-day.

Silently you’re both ushered into the head's office, where your daughter sits with a bandaged arm and teary eyes.

“How did this happen?” you ask suddenly, directing your question to the principal as you crouch down to inspect Liliana.

“She was climbing on the monkey bars and lost her grip,” the older woman explains. “It was an accident. She’ll be fine, but we thought it best to have you both here, given the circumstances”

“An accident?” Alexia echoes sharply, her voice edged with anger she normally only reserves for the pitch. “She’s only four! Why wasn’t she being supervised properly?”

The principal shifts uncomfortably. “We do our best to keep an eye on all the children, but sometimes with kids these things happen. We deeply apologise for any distress this has caused”

Alexia’s face tightens with frustration. “My daughter could have been seriously hurt!”

You place a calming hand on Alexia’s arm, feeling the tension radiating from her as she fizzes on the spot. “Ale,” you say softly. “We can talk about this later”

Alexia finally takes a deep breath, her eyes softening as she looks at Liliana, who is now clinging to her like a lifeline. “Are you okay, Cariño?” she asks, her voice gentler for your daughter's sake.

Liliana nods, though her eyes are still wet with leftover tears. “It hurts, Mami.”

The principal nods. “She’ll need some ice and rest, but otherwise, she should be okay. We just wanted to make sure you both were informed and could decide if she should go home for the rest of the day”

You glance at Alexia, your mind racing. It’s been a long time since you’ve had to make a decision like this together. “Do you think she should come home?” you ask.

Alexia looks down at Liliana who hugs at her leg, thinking as she strokes the top of her head. “I have the afternoon off. I can take her and keep an eye on her”

You’re surprised. “You have time off? I thought you had training”

“I managed to get the rest of the day cleared,” she says, her eyes meeting yours. “I wanted to be here”

For a moment, the tension between you eases, replaced by a shared concern for your child. You nod, before turning to the woman sitting behind her desk. “We’ll take Luis with us too”

The principal smiles, relieved. “Thank you both for coming in. We’ll make sure her things are ready to go”

-

“I finish at five, I’ll come straight here after” you say as the kids run past you into Alexia’s house. Liliana magically healed at the thought of being able to miss the rest of the school day.

Alexia watches them go, then turns back to you with a look that’s hard to read. “I know it’s been… different”

“Yeah, different is one way to put it,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light, inoffensive. “But we’re making it work”

She nods, her gaze drifting to the door where the kids disappeared. “They seem happy. That’s what matters”

You follow her eyes, watching the kids through the window to where they’ve migrated to the garden. “They’re stronger than we give them credit for. It’s us adults who complicate things”

Alexia laughs softly. “Isn’t that the truth?”

There’s a moment of silence, filled with all the words neither of you have dared to say. Eventually, Alexia breaks it. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about everything”

You feel a twinge of something you can’t quite identify, hope maybe, but you push it aside. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes meeting yours in a way that makes your cheeks flush. “I miss them. And I miss… us”

You swallow hard, trying to bat away the emotions rising hopelessly within you. “Alexia, we’ve talked about this. Your career, my job, it just didn’t work”

“I know,” she replies, frustration creeping into her tone. “But just because it didn’t work then doesn’t mean it can’t work now. People change. Situations change”

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. “I don’t know, Alexia. It’s not that simple”

She steps closer, a dangerous move. You can smell the lingering scent of her soap, the gum she chews. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be complicated either”

You look at her, feeling the familiar pull you’ve tried to ignore for the past year. “I need to get back,” you say finally, peeling yourself away from her.

[tealvenetianmask]

Hell's royalty has a culture that enables Stella's abusive behavior.

Point 1: Keeping up appearances is valued above all else. And I specifically mean the appearance of things being the way they're supposed to be. Conformity basically.

Conformity in this culture seems to include a kind of stoic dignity ("you know excitement is unbecoming of a goetia"), an air of superiority ("don't bow to that one- he bows to us!"), and, of course, some good old fashioned toxic masculinity ("cease this bitch crying").

Individuals at the very top are not immune. Even though he gets past it, Asmodeus seems to spend a lot of time and effort on keeping his relationship with Fizz quiet in order to keep up the appearance of fulfilling his "lust" role.

Point 2: The members of the aristocracy who don't conform are seen as the problem, not the members who are being cruel.

Speaking of Ozzie, there's a chance he'll face real consequences for getting out of line . . . Mammon seems pretty confident about getting revenge. Also, if Ozzie had decided that his reputation was important enough to avoid stepping in to help his partner, well . . . I'm just saying. Cultures of conformity create bystanders who stand by and let abuse happen. So it's good that this guy has the courage (and a good heap of privilege and power) to enable him to step out. Yes, I realize that the crowd at Mammon's celebrated Ozzie and Fizz, but the crowd was distinctly NOT aristocratic.

Now look at Stella's party- this woman is not subtle about being cruel to her husband.

She calls the party a "Not Divorced" party. She openly talks negatively about Stolas in a blatant attempt to humiliate him. She's not trying to hide that she hates the man.

Because he's . . . an oddball. Gentle, not as polished as others in his social sphere, awkward and mostly friendless, probably autistic. And importantly, I think, not traditionally masculine.

So Stella has no need to hide that she treats him poorly. She's proud of it. And her social circle seems to support her in it, or at least, they don't push back. Because based on the aristocracy's unspoken (or if we look at Paimon, very much spoken) value system, Stolas's failure to fulfill all of his expected roles gracefully is worse than Stella's cruelty.

Point 3: Stolas's parenting, while much better than his own father's, still reflects this value system in some ways, and that's . . . complicated.

In some ways, Octavia is doing great. She has her own interests (music! gothy fashion!) that don't seem to be based on any role prescribed to her by others. She has a genuine bond with her dad that's based on care and not on molding her into some ideal princess.

But Stolas still puts on an facade in front of Via. We know that he pretended things were fine when they distinctly weren't for most of her childhood. We could argue endlessly about whether Stolas was right (as Georgia Dow explained in her video) or wrong to stop himself from explaining the situation with Stella to Via in Loo Loo Land, but honestly, the man could let his nearly grown up daughter know that abuse was happening without all out trauma dumping. It would enable her to make more informed decisions, and I think she would want to be able to do that.

Instead, Stolas keeps it to himself. Because he feels like Via SHOULD have this picture perfect childhood. Look at the pictures that are up in his palace. Look at his attempt to gloss over the fighting in the household by taking Via to an idealized childhood destination.

A part of him still thinks that good parenting is keeping up appearances, and that the ugly things are best kept hidden. Look at how hard he still tries to avoid crying in front of people. The values he was taught as a child are part of him.

And while it's not his fault (it's Stella's fault, obviously- these are HER actions), his inability to be open allows Stella and Andrealphus to scheme and (we'll see . . .) probably manipulate Via because of her lack of knowledge.

We're meant to see the moments where Stolas breaks expectations and behaves raw and even a little unhinged as triumphant. Sleeping with Blitz. That is the sound of a fucking divorce. Actually going through with the fucking divorce. Insisting on it. Appearances be damned.

And yeah, more of that please. Because if the people around Stella stop caring about aristocratic social trappings, all she'll have going for her is her shitty personality.

Thanks @akirathedramaqueen for inspiring this post with a conversation.

[weepingwillowwonder]

#1 Helluva Boss Thoughts/Imagines: NSFW [Minors DNI!! 🔞]

I'm pretty sure one person said no in the poll haha, ANYWAY!!! Here it is! These two are so cute, I can't help but want to be sandwiched in the middle~~~

<3 Fizzarolli x Shy!Reader x Asmodeus

CW: Daddy k!nk, dirty talk, fingering, a bit of embarrassment, voyeurism, size k!nk

---

“Fizz..!” You can't help but whine at the obscene noise of fluids and slapping of skin. Your body feels like it's on fire knowing Asmodeus is watching all of this unfold in front of you. You bury your face in the blanket, lifting your ass a little higher to meet the fingers buried inside of you. Fizzarolli curses behind you, rhythmically pressing his fingers deeper into you, “Babes...you gotta loosen up if you're ever gonna take Ozzie..,” he murmurs, placing a gentle kiss on your back. You can’t see the shit eating grin on his face as he watches Asmodeus from across the room, receiving a wicked smile in return. 

They’re both bent on convincing you to stay in the lust ring, perhaps with them, instead of accepting an offer with the up and coming Vees. Knowing the reputation Valentino specifically has, Fizzarolli tried his absolute hardest as a close friend to be supportive of you. However, when expressing his concerns to his partner, they both were in agreement to use “other tactics” to get you to come to your senses. It was only right for him as your friend to show you how much he cares about your well being right?

So after a few drinks, you found yourself in the bed of someone you’d grown to be good friends with over the years and his partner, who also happens to be the sin of lust. Fizzarolli’s fingers drag against your walls, adding another to make way for more room. He hisses at the muffled sounds you make and the way you’re dripping onto the sheets below you. “Fuuuuck princess, you’re drooling all over my fingers…So fuckin’ messy, Oz you gotta come see this!” 

You start to tremble as Asmodeus, gets up and makes his way over to you. Biting your lip in an attempt to quiet yourself, he gently slides his hand under your chin to make you look at him. He’s always so gentle with you, knowing how shy you seem to get around him. It’s a wonder you are so close and open with Fizzarolli because you couldn’t be more different when you’re around him. “You’re doing so good letting Fizzy stretch you open sweetheart,” he coos, pressing your cheeks together slightly. The tears building up in your eyes fall at his words, feeling overwhelmed by embarrassment and the sensation of Fizzaroli roughly finger fucking you. 

Asmodeus lets go of you and comes around behind Fizzaroli to observe what he’s seeing. “Shit, he wasn’t lying...” he breathes out, When he reaches down to explore your core, Fizzaroli pulls his fingers out, opting to stoke himself instead. You jerk when you feel the much larger fingers stroking your folds, making you rock yourself back into them. Asmodeus toys with you, quickly swiping his fingers against your clit before slipping one into your cunt. You curse loudly and gasp trying to catch your breath. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck..!” 

You’re sobbing now, begging for more as Fizzaroli growls behind you, “tell big daddy how it feels..his fingers are so big…making you feel so good, huh?” You try to sputter out a response as your orgasm grows rapidly. You’re lewdly riding Asmodeus’ as you plead with him to help you finish, “so close,,wanna cum..need it so bad…feels good oh my gosh, so good..!” Both the fingering and Fizzaroli’s stoking increases as your whines press them forward. Asmodeus’ level voice pulls you out of the headspace you’re overwhelmingly slipping into, “Come on baby, be good for daddy, yeah? Make a mess on his fingers…” He uses a free hand to pull Fizzaroli close to him by the hip and takes over stroking him off as his finger continues to slip into you. 

Both you and Fizzaroli become whiny messes as you’re pushed over the edge at the same time, hips bucking in tandem with Asmodeus’ movements. His essence spills over your ass and your own leaks out of you as the fingers slowly move inside of you. Asmodeus kisses Fizzaroli’s temple and smooths a hand over your ass before asking suggestively, “Did so well for us…are you ready for the main course..?” 

[chaifootsteps]

Looking back on that childhood “friend” episode im actually stunned at how unnatural and uncomfortable it all is. Especially compared to fizz, who was left behind at the circus all alone :(

The dialogue is bizarre, stolas has such an annoying accent and he talks like a fully grown adult, half the time he is fact checking and lecturing Blitzø about something. While Blitzø doesn’t want to be there and he finds stolas boring, weird, creepy, and annoying. He seems amused by how easy it was to trick him. He also smiles when he tosses the bag of stuff to his dad. Lol. Then the chandelier scene, what was that? Why did stolas get excited as if he’s never seen his own furniture before? Then they say “oh yes!” “Yeah woohoo” about…a chandelier? And they fall down. What was that dude.

The tree scene - ugh. Stolas lectures about the grimoire, with his finger pointed up in the air. Blitzø says it’s cool. Okay. But he doesn’t have any strong feelings about his own future or his life. Blitzø talks about his dreams, which is cute, but stolas laughs not with but at him, the entire time. The funniest part to stolas is the idea of an imp hiring him. Which irritates Blitzø as much as “is this an imp game” he just grumpily replies “yeah if I feel like it..” And when he says he’d be a good boss and a great business, he’s talking as if a parent is saying “that’s great sweetie, we’ll put your drawing of this cat-dog-thing..right on the fridge” and Blitz�� says “you say that with sarcasm” was stolas just always a pompous jerk? I don’t think the ‘he was raised that way it’s not who is’ excuse is true at all. There is zero bond and zero chemistry here.

It's insane, isn't it? Blitzo is literally plucked from his moment with Fizz, the two of them happily playing their little balloon horse game with no hard feelings about Fizz having to swoop in to upstage him, and dropped in front of this little rich boy he hates being around and we're told that the latter is the childhood friend romance that's written in the stars.

[ronearoundblindly]

Hi Ro! I know I'm late to this party, but can I get B and F for Steve?

Thank you! 💜

Never too late, darling! This is tumblr, not a job 😁

This one got away with me. It got weirdly sappy for the categories asked, but I went with general Steve from no particular universe here, plus a nondescript part of the timeline or beyond, could even kinda be AU--if you squint--except Steve is definitely famous in some capacity and was small when young. (I just think he happens to look very cuff-able in this gif so we roll with it.)

These dirty asks from this game are aptly titled, so MINORS DNI.

B - Bondage

He can't exactly be tied up, not by anything commercially available, but Steve surprisingly likes the chance to sit still, take a backseat, and enjoy experiencing your enjoyment. He used to be so small. He assumed he'd never have the power he does now.

The restraints, as useless as they are, work as a calming tool to shut off his brain for a while. He's not responsible for anything. That's nice. Very freeing. The act of binding him is in itself roleplay; he's playing small and weak.

He's noticed something else, too.

Over the weeks and months you two have repeated this ritual of tying him up, and you both understand just how much it doesn't remotely hurt him, you've grown...more aggressive with the bonds. It's only when you're tying them--never an ounce of it in anything that follows--but he watches and realizes that you relieve frustration by pulling harder, knotting tighter, heaving around until their just so.

At this point, since Steve can do nothing else, he loves to see it. He's heard short and vague accounts from you, of shitty behavior, of innuendo, of back-handed compliments about how you do so well even with Steve. How his reputation must boost you. How you don't have to work so hard or be good because he'll carry you. How your accomplishments are all tied to him somehow.

It's not true, but they say it. They mean it. Steve can do nothing but let you physically yoke him down in your life, even for a few minutes. The weight it seems to lift from your shoulders is worth any momentary sting he might feel.

No. Steve doesn't mind the bonds at all. He even hates that you can't restrain him for real. He wishes he could give you that. Then people might see that you're just that powerful and you've always been that strong. He had nothing to do with it.

Okay, one sec, let me pull myself together here. YIKES.

IT BECAME ITS OWN FIC! [Entwined]

F - Food Play

[Fools Rush In Steve a.k.a. Sketch is notoriously anti-crumbs-in-the-bed, so he is 1000% not a part of this convo. Sorry, bub.]

YUP. Steve loves to feed you. It's a care thing. He always wants your opinion of all the food on the table, so you have to try everything. Here! Try this. The fork is already by your lips and he's smiling eagerly.

In the bedroom? Oh yes, he is very fond of licking sweet things off you and having them licked off him. It's one of the things that seems to tickle Steve the most--body and soul--and it's so playful. He even gets to lean into having a fast metabolism and needing calories after his workouts. If he drizzles honey or chocolate syrup on you, or hilariously fizzes too much whipped cream out of the canister he has not gotten the hang of yet, then that's a snack and a half. That's multitasking. That's just good time management, ya know?

Savory stuff is for meals and the table though. There's none of that that gets played with during sex. He's never outright said that's a rule, but it seems obvious when there's never been a crossover event.

Super random shout out to Steve having a bit of a thing for champagne and licking it off your neck after he deliberately splashes or pours it there. The bubbles tickle like hell and the cold is so shocking, but whatever, he loves it.

🙄

Thank you for asking!

Ack, I can feel in my bones that the bondage one might end up as a one shot. I am in so much trouble.

[Main Masterlist; Dirty Asks Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[fayes-fics]

Somewhere Only We Know

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: Five hours of snowfall, four miles from the nearest paved road, three weeks before Christmas, two old friends and one bed….

Warnings: 18+smut, minors DNI, fingering, handjob, vaginal sex, passing mention of oral sex, all sorts of feelings.

Word Count: 7.9 k I'm so sorry...

Build a blurb prompt 1: Benedict 👅 smut 🌲 mutual pining 🛌 only one bed - from @amillcitygirl Build a blurb prompt 2: modern Benedict 👅smut 👥friends to lovers 🌲mutual pining 🛌only one bed - from anon

Authors Note: *beep beep* make way for the trope bus, it’s coming thru!! Is this original? No. Was it fun to write? Hell YES! This thing was supposed to be 1k follower celebration Drabble (HAHAHA) but it grew its own legs and took over my brain for the last week. This is my winter epic and I even listened to the namesake song as I was editing it. I hope you all enjoy. Betaed by the total trooper @makaylan and beautiful artwork above made especially by @bridgertontess thank you 🧡

“You’ll just have to stay here,” he shrugs, peering out at the falling snow.

You glance at your watch. It’s 5pm and already dark, snowflakes swirling furiously in the glow cast by the window.

This was not your plan. You are booked onto a late flight back to London tonight. You only came out to the beautiful Highlands for a day in nature after your business trip to Glasgow. OK, and a dose of time with the most handsome friend you have, but mainly for the scenery.

He’s rented a tiny cottage for a week as a painting retreat. Why he would do that in early December is a slight mystery. However, the scenery will undoubtedly be even more breathtaking with a blanket of snow tomorrow—an artist's dream.

“Look, the roads here are tiny and treacherous. It’s too risky to attempt the airport drive tonight in the dark in this snowstorm. I will pay for you to fly home tomorrow instead,” Benedict assures, “penance for not checking the forecast before inviting you?” he winces in the hopes of forgiveness.

“But…” you protest weakly, not exactly hating the idea of being trapped in a remote cottage in the mountains with the man who has haunted your dreams for more years than you care to remember.

“This place is warm,” he points to the roaring fireplace. “And well stocked, in more ways than one,” he adds, gesturing to the kitchenette full of supplies and, with a flourish, to the small selection of single malt bottles on a nearby shelf. “There’s even some festive decor,” he argues.

You are entertained that he believes some sprigs of holly, which he has obviously collected on one of his hikes, count as Christmas decorations. Although, to be fair, wrapped around the bookshelves and candles the way it is, it does look lovely.

‘Yes, but… there's also only one bed,” you argue, nodding to the not-exactly sizable double bed at the other end of the room, partially obscured by a room-dividing bookshelf. Even as you mention it, your belly has a warm fizz at the fleeting thought of waking up pressed against him.

“I can sleep on the sofa,” he says hurriedly in a reassuring tone.

“Ben, don't be ridiculous. You are six feet tall, and that thing is barely five. We are not so young we can just sleep anywhere and still be okay anymore,” you remind him.

“Yeah, thanks for that reminder,” he deadpans.

“We are grown-ups; we can share a bed,” trying to keep your tone breezy, but it feels like the reassurance is for yourself as much as him.

You pretend not to see how he swallows thickly at your suggestion, his Adam’s apple bobbing heavily.

“If it makes you more comfortable, I can fashion a barrier with some throw cushions,” you shrug, a short nervous laugh bubbling up as you secretly chastise yourself for suggesting such a thing.

“No, no,” he rushes out very quickly. “What I mean is… it’s not a big bed, so by the time we do that, we would both be clinging to the edges. Let’s just, as you say, be adults about this and share the best we can.”

“Agreed.” You give a business-like nod, wanting to change the topic.

“Besides, the night is young,” he states, clapping and rubbing his hands together as if reading your mind. “What do you say we cook dinner together? Then, well, it’s card games or jigsaw puzzles, I’m afraid,” he skews his mouth with an apologetic twist.

“Sounds delightful on all counts,” you assure and bump him with your shoulder.

The evening seems to fly by, and the snowstorm outside somewhat abates as you make a delicious spaghetti bolognese together. Even though it's a tiny kitchen space, you make it work, moving around each other with an almost balletic fluidity as soft music plays from a Bluetooth speaker. There's no Wi-Fi or even much phone signal out here, but he came prepared with songs loaded onto his laptop. You exchange easy chat about mutual friends and what has been happening since you last saw one another a few weeks before.

As you sit down to eat together, the conversation flow continues. It's one of those meals you sop up the sauce from your plate with the warm bread rolls you serve as a side. Lingering in your chairs long after eating is complete, chatting amiably and animatedly about anything, everything and nothing all at once, with a delicious bottle of scotch.

Later, you take turns in the bathroom, cleaning teeth and changing into pyjama bottoms, and then you drift to the living room area. You watch as Benedict pours you both a nightcap into scotch glasses and glance outside to see the storm has picked up again, large clumps of fluffy snow gather in the corner of the window pane; you feel very cosy in this small but perfectly formed little rustic cottage.

“So, how have you been entertaining yourself all alone here for the last four nights?” you inquire, enjoying the smooth, smoky burn of the single malt.

Benedict is now sprawled across the nearby armchair in the most Benedict way, legs akimbo.

“I’ve read two books, and I’ve slept for nine hours every night,” he confesses, taking a sip of his drink and looking at you over the top of his glass.

The room feels like it's getting warmer regardless of the fire; how much is due to the delightful fog of whisky in your veins versus the handsome man across from you is indecipherable.

“Are you not lonely?” you blurt out.

“I live alone in London. What's the difference?” his brow knitting in confusion.

“Alone in the city is very different to alone out here,” you offer, “you can’t be that lonely when you’re only twenty feet from your neighbour through a wall.”

“Hmm, never thought about it like that,” his mien turns thoughtful, scratching his palm on the shadow of stubble on his chin.

You hear the rasp from where you sit, and you almost squeak in surprise as your treacherous mind supplies a vivid snapshot of that stubble teasing the soft skin of your lower belly as he looks up at you with a seductive smirk. You have to shake your head to get rid of it.

“Fear of murder out here is different,” you offer, trying to reroute your thoughts.

“Morbid,” he shoots back, raising an eyebrow with a bemused expression on his face.

“Out here, no one can hear you scream,” you jest, aping the movie line.

He guffaws into his glass. “Sometimes that can be a good thing.”

“Murder?!”

“The ability to scream and not be heard,” he clarifies, his tone markedly more languid than before.

“Painting not going well?” you ask with a chuckle.

“It’s going great, but not what I was referring to,” he argues, and you can’t seem to look away from his mouth all of a sudden.

Damn, how much whisky have you had?

“Had a girl here, Bridgerton?” your venture, a flutter in your chest even as you ask.

“Not until now,” he scoffs, but the intensity in his hazy blue stare causes a riot in your stomach.

You have to look down at your feet before you do something stupid, like climb into his lap and suck on his luscious bottom lip.

“Have you been masturbating loudly?” you quip, still looking down, the thought leaving your lips before you can censor it.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, making you look back at him—big mistake. His eyes look stormy, and you can see a vein in his neck pulsing hard. Like you’ve awoken something.

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” you stutter even as your mind floods with images of just that—him stroking his cock and panting, preferably your name.

The atmosphere feels a little too thick, and you briefly curl your lip into your mouth and bite it to give yourself something else to focus on.

“More whisky?” you offer, standing up and changing the subject.

“Sure.” He holds out his glass, and you swear his fingers intentionally slot between yours as he passes it to you.

You use the few moments it takes to refill your drinks, with your back turned, to gather your thoughts and slow your breathing. Having served, you sink onto the couch again but intentionally shift to face him more directly. The alcohol makes you bold and intrigued to know where this might go. He seems to do the same, his feet looping over the armchair's edge and almost touching yours.

“Hey, do you remember that summer when we were, l think, maybe twelve and…”

“Excuse me, point of order,” you butt in, “If you were twelve, I was ten. OK? Continue…” you motion with your hands for him to go on.

“Yes, thanks for reminding me I am older,” he snarks and skews his mouth into an affectionate pout.

“You are welcome, old man,” you tease with a slight smirk.

“Well, anyway… do you remember that summer Colin came home with headlice? And Ant’s answer was to shave all of our heads? Mum almost had a heart attack when she walked in on that. She was forever grateful he’d only gotten around to doing us three boys. She might have died if we’d made it down to Daph or El…” he is laughing heartily around his scotch glass at the memory.

“Remember it?!?” you pipe up, “of course I do! Don't you remember you were trying to push me in front of your sisters in Ant’s barber line? You seemed concerned to ensure I either got rid of or never got them in the first place; I don't remember which,” you laugh, an ache of fond nostalgia in your chest at little Benedict.

“Well, of course, I’ve always looked out for you,” he rolls his eyes as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

You smile a genuinely warm smile at him. He's been a wonderful person in your life for as long as you can remember.

“But you’ve always looked out for me too. I remember you brought me a Malteser every day when I was sick with the mumps.”

“I did?!” your voice incredulous; you do not remember doing so.

“Yes, and I've never forgotten it,” he voices sincerely before he takes a draw of his drink. “But then there is so much about you that is unforgettable, isn't there?” he adds, looking at you with an intensity you don't know what to do with.

“Stop it,” you answer bashfully, embarrassed to meet his gaze, staring beyond his shoulder at the snow falling heavily and sticking to the window in fluffy clumps. “And if we’re on this flattery train, what about you? You think I don’t know it’s been you sending me an ‘anonymous’ rose every single Valentine's Day?”

He gapes at you in surprise. “Wait, how did you know it’s from me?’”

“You are the sweetest person I know. It could never be anyone but you, Ben.” You shrug as if the answer is obvious, “and I know it was never out of pity for the times I’m single because you sent one those years I was with Dan, which used to make him so mad, by the way, and when I was with Julian and Paul….”

“Urgh, Dan deserved to be mad,” his tone dismissive, and his face ticked, “I always hated him.”

“You hated everyone I dated, that you met anyway,” you point out, that fact just dawning on your as you speak it.

“But him the most,” he grouses with a sour expression.

“Why?”

“‘Cos he got the closest to marrying you. And I really didn’t want to have to do that whole stand-up in church and object thing. But, by god, I would have.”

His powerful words stun you; you had no idea how deep his feelings on the subject ran.

“Y… you would?” you stutter.

His eyes are so intense now. Even as he takes a swig, he doesn't look away. “He was not worthy of you,” he declares, slow and deliberate, enunciating each word crisply.

“So, who is?” you ask quietly as you take a sip, the question echoing hollowly in your glass.

“I haven't met anyone yet,” he notes with finality.

You had no idea he had judged every single one of your boyfriends and, what’s more, found all of them to be somehow lacking. In hindsight, he was correct, but he never said anything to you at the time, and you can't decide if you want to hold that against him. It might have saved you a lot of heartache and possibly a lot of money.

“Well, if you meet someone that has the Benedict seal of approval, you’ll be sure to send them my way, yeah?” you volley, your voice light.

He breaks into a smile that makes something flutter strong in your ribcage.

“Certainly. I hope you don't mind waiting until possibly your eighties for me to find a worthy suitor,” he jokes.

“Oh god, really?” you groan, “but I can’t not have sex until then,” you lament and kick your legs out as if in a fit of pique.

“Oh, you can have all the sex you want,” he lobbies back, waving his hand dismissively, “you just can’t fall in love,” his eyes twinkle with mischief you’ve always found beguiling.

“Duly noted,” you giggle.

There is a beat where you just look at each other with a shared fondness that makes your heart ache a little—perhaps under different circumstances, he could be the one person worthy of you, as he puts it.

“Well, that is the last log on the fire dying down. I'm not going out in that damn snow to fetch more, so I think the safest thing to do is get under the covers before it gets too cold in here.” he opines.

“Ben, it's 10:30 pm… really?” you whine, “are you really going to bed already, grandpa?” but as you complain, you stifle a yawn.

“Haha, I saw that yawn!” he retorts triumphantly, “and I've got news for you, missy. You are going to bed too.” He grabs both of your hands and easily hauls you off the sofa.

“Why?!?” you scoff but are secretly enthralled when he rounds behind you, his sizable hands landing warm on your hips and propelling you towards the bedroom area.

“Because I’m not having you crawl under the covers later bringing in all that cold air with you, nope, no thank you, not happening,” he chimes over your shoulder.

“So I have to go to bed now?!” you throw your hands up in the air, but he keeps propelling you forward.

“Yup,” he grins, popping the ‘p’ rather obnoxiously.

You capitulate with a weary sigh. “Urghhh, fine. But I will be up reading for a few more hours, so I hope you can sleep with the light on.”

“Fine with me,” he chuckles, herding you towards the bed. “I once slept in your dorm room when your flatmate was having a full-on dance party. I think I can sleep through your reading.”

You collapse onto the bed giggling at that memory, tugging off your shoes and socks but nothing else as he does the same. He pulls the covers back, and you both settle under, still in your fleecy jumpers. Without your socks, however, your feet feel freezing, and with a wicked grin, you cook up a solution.

“Oh my god, what the hell is wrong with your feet?!? Why are they so cold!!” he exclaims as your toes wrap around his exposed ankle.

He twists to try and get away from you, but your feet chase him under the covers, you laughing, him shrieking.

“My hands are cold too,” you chortle, clamping them onto his surprisingly muscular forearm.

He squeals in the most undignified manner, trying to shake your grip, but you just limpet on harder, giggling in that way only tipsy people do.

There is the most delightful resulting tussle, him trying to wrestle your hands and feet away as you try your damndest to keep them on him—the duvet entwining around all of your limbs.

You end up with his weight and warmth partially on top of you, pinning you down, him triumphantly ensnaring your wrists and holding your hands firmly onto the pillow. Your joint heavy breathing and giggles slowly die out as you stare at each other. Your faces have never been so close before. You have no doubt your pupils are as blown as his, and you are certain that he can feel the racing heartbeat at your wrists where he pins you down. His breath is warm on your cheek.

After a few silent moments, his gaze drops to your mouth; he suddenly mutters an apology and starts to pull away.

As if in slow motion, you push up and press your lips to his. You are not thinking at all, just going with your instinct. His lips are warm and plush, and you want more. So much more.

You feel the moment his whole body freezes; he is stunned in the truest sense of the word.

You pull back quickly, sinking into the pillow under him.

“Oh god. I’m so, so sorry,” you whisper, mortified, “please forgive me, I….”

Your words die out as he makes a noise you’ve never heard before. It seems to come from deep inside him, making every hair on your body stand on end.

Then he is on you. Closing the gap between you and capturing your lips with a passion that steals your breath and thoughts. He is kissing so hard, so quickly, you feel lightheaded, pressing you into the mattress under his body. His lips open over yours, his tongue teasing against your lips. He tastes of toothpaste, traces of whiskey and something that is all him, and you flood your underwear; there's also a noise from your throat that doesn’t sound human. He kisses like a storm, hot and electric, and you want to drown in him.

Suddenly his hands are everywhere, and so yours follow suit. It’s a desperate clambering of wanting more. Before you can completely acknowledge it, his hands are questing under your jumper, squeezing your waist, sliding up and over your bra, and tweaking a nipple as his tongue parries with yours.

“Please, please take this off,” he implores passionately into your mouth, tugging at your top. His voice, this close and breathless, is lethal. He is everywhere, surrounding and covering you, and your focus narrows to just him as he sits up to peel off his jumper and t-shirt together, exposing his torso. You freeze. Your arms crossed, halfway through taking off yours.

“Fucking hell,” you exhale before you can stop yourself.

You figured Benedict would be in shape from the feel of his body when you hug, but you haven't seen him shirtless in a long time, and just how much in shape he is, is a revelation. He smiles demurely at your outburst, which makes you want him even more if that were possible.

“Take yours off,” he sounds impatient, and you realise you are still frozen in the same position. You quickly whip yours over your head; his responding noise is your new favourite sound. You feel so grateful you only brought nice underwear on this trip; your lacy bra appears to work for him.

“The knickers match,” you murmur, revelling in the flash in his eye.

You grab his hand and move it to the drawstring on your pyjamas. His long slender fingers pluck the bow tied there; his gaze is on your face the whole time, his kiss-damp lips glowing softly in the low light. You breathe deeply and can’t look away from his captivating face. When the string relents, he winks. Rather than pull them down, his hand quests inside and between your legs.

You gasp and buck up off the pillow as warm, strong fingers press on your clit through the lacy fabric. You know he can feel your heat, just how wet the material is.

“I’ve wanted you for years,” he rumbles low and sinful as his fingers tease a circle over your clit. “Although this seems unreal - I half assume I’m going to wake up in a minute with my hand wrapped around my cock, alone.”

Hearing him say the word cock makes you moan. He licks his lips, and his fingers curl firmer on you.

“Tell me this is real; I’m not dreaming again,” he pleads fervently, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing your air. He is achingly beautiful this close up, his eyes just a thin ring blazing around dark inky pupils staring into your depths. This man has always been able to make you feel seen, but this close, this intense, it feels like he’s peering into your soul.

“You’re not dreaming, Ben,” you reply shakily, trying not to lose all composure at what the word ‘again’ might imply as he gradually tortures you with unhurried, steady movements.

He is watching your face, so closely observing, cataloguing your micro-expressions. His fingers move, spidering along the lace trim before pushing under the fabric this time, sliding down through your trimmed pubic hair and into your naked, soaked folds.

“Ben!” You call out, grasping that strong forearm again, biting your lip and staring into his fiery gaze.

“What do you need?” he questions. It’s the first time anyone has ever asked you that in bed.

“You,” you reply honestly.

“You have me, 110% you have me,” he asserts in a tone that melts something in your chest. “As if you don't know it, you’ve had me for many years,” he admits as his hand slides lower. You cry out as he pushes two fingers just a fraction inside you.

“Fuck, you are on fire,” he exclaims, a shaky exhale across your lips.

“Only for you,” you answer, knowing you’ve never been this turned on before in your life.

He growls, actually growls. And then his lips are back on yours in the most potent kiss yet. You pulse around him and groan into his mouth as he sinks his fingers deeper. When the kiss ends, you glance down your body, seeing the stiff peaks of your nipples poking insistently through the lace and his sinewy forearm buried into your pyjama bottoms.

“Do you like what you see?” his voice a velvety tease.

“I’d like it even more if we were naked,” you respond honestly.

He chuckles at that, and his lips descend, dropping light kisses down your neck as his fingers tease you, surging in and out of your body so achingly slow. His thumb rests on your clit, a little nudge of pressure every time his fingers rock into your channel.

“I need to make you come like I need air,” he confesses, his voice resonant, his warm breath skittering over the sensitive skin of your throat. It’s the hottest thing you've ever heard.

“Please do…” it’s a quiet plea.

You feel the curve of his cheek as he smiles, and the fingers inside you flex.

“I suppose if you’d like to be more naked, then I’d better strip you down first,” he remarks, gently withdrawing his fingers.

Warm hands hook into your underwear, and he scooches away, pulling them down your legs, taking your PJs with them. Suddenly, the image that flashed in your mind earlier becomes a reality, his stubbly chin grazing your belly as he crawls back over you.

“You look amazing,” he sighs over your belly button and leans his forehead on your stomach as he takes a deep breath. “You smell it too.”

He runs his nose and lips over your skin as he surges up and nuzzles your bra, pleading with his eyes for you to remove it as he pulls the straps down over your arms, kissing along the lacy cup edge.

When his lips wrap around one of your nipples, you grab his hair and push up against him, the swoop of sensation in your belly like riding a rollercoaster, the thrill tingling along the back of your scalp.

He moves to lay beside you, and you watch the duvet move as he strips off his bottoms under it. Suddenly there is a thick wave of body heat as he rolls next to you; you feel something sizeable and solid brand your hip.

“Oh, Ben,” slips out on instinct, but he stops your questing hand.

“Not yet,” he shakes his head and smirks at your corresponding pout. “When you have come, preferably screaming, then you can touch my cock. Okay?”

You physically feel the shiver down your spine at that line. Who even says things like that?

He smiles against your temple as he slips his fingers back into you, and you moan at the sensation. He curls his body around you, legs twining around your right one to hold you open. That cock is still rigid on your hip; it feels sizeable and delicious.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, his thumb rubbing a circle over your clit his fingers stroking in a come hither motion.

“This… exactly what you are doing,” you reply breathlessly, “just please don't stop and maybe go a little harder?” you request timidly.

He smirks and pushes his fingers deeper; his motions get stronger and faster. You close your eyes and nod, licking your lips.

“Yes, that oh god Ben, thattttt,” you stumble as his magical fingers spiral you higher.

When they jab a spot inside, a bloom of pleasure hits you, and your eyes fly open, going wide.

“Oh, that’s the spot,” he preens, redoubling his efforts as you start to pant loudly, clinging to his arm and whining his name—the hot and intense pleasure building remarkably fast.

“That’s it come on,” he encourages, whispering into your hairline right above your ear; his tone is both soothing and achingly filthy.

“Ben… I,” your words morph into needy noises, drunk on the sensations rippling through your body, fanning out from his fingers buried inside you.

“Yes, yes,” he hisses, “you’re close now; I can feel it. Look at me,” he orders.

And you do. Mouth hanging open, squirming on his fingers, feeling something primal washing over you. His eyes burn into yours.

“Don’t fight it,” he warns.

It's almost like permission; you feel something inside you give way. You scream loudly as a tide of orgasm washes over you. Blood rushes in your ears, and you feel his leg bear down over the apex of your thigh, holding your pelvis onto the bed as you cry and convulse. Your body fights his fingers, trying to push them out as your whole channel clenches in strong waves.

After a few moments of deep breaths, you open your eyes, and he kisses your cheek, then your lips.

“Wow… that was…. absolutely amazing,” he confides, kissing more. “And it's a damn good thing no one can hear us here. You scream like a horror movie queen, and I mean that with all the very best compliments.”

You laugh a little abashed and bury your face into his armpit, loving the smell of his deodorant and just him.

“Your turn,” you mumble, deciding to be bold and snake a hand down your side to grab his cock at your hip.

It’s large and thick enough your fingers don’t quite meet when you wrap around it. It makes your insides melt at the thought of how it would feel sliding into you. He makes the neediest huffing noises as you twist onto your side to face him and begin an unhurried rhythm, watching that pretty cock twitch in your hand.

You tease him with a gentle twisting motion, squeezing a little as you reach his head, swiping a thumb over the bead of precum that appears, gently massaging his frenulum as he lets out a faint moan. His hand covers yours, stilling your movements.

“This is so wonderful, but I need you to stop if you want sex. Do you want to… have sex?” he asks so demurely your heart clenches.

“Yes, Ben, please,” you whisper.

“I didn't bring any condoms with me,” he says quietly, “I didn't think I’d meet another soul up here, let alone well…” he trails off, pitching forward, so his lips are warm on your cheek.

“I didn't either, but I'm on the Pill,” you shrug. You've never had first-time sex without a condom, but this man isn't a stranger; he's a lifelong friend, and you trust him with your life.

“I know,” he says softly, kissing your nose.

“Wait, how do you know that?” your brow knitting lightly.

“I know everything about you,” he asserts against your skin, staring into your eyes. “How you take your tea - English breakfast before 2pm, Earl Grey after, both with milk and one sugar. I know how the tip of your tongue here,” he softly trails his nose over the corner of your mouth, “sticks out of your mouth when you type on your laptop. I know you always loop your glasses into the neckline of your top,” a finger tracing gently over the swell of your breast, “and somehow always forget they are there and have a ten-second panic every time.” He laughs gently. “I even know how you prefer plain Hobnobs over chocolate; I have no idea why, and you are so wrong on that, by the way,” he shoots you a devastating lopsided grin. “And I know you are on the Pill because I've watched you take them religiously for years; when I stay at yours, and you make coffee in the morning, it’s the first thing you take before your multivitamin.”

His casual recounting of so many little, human things that make you, you, astounds you. This man knows you better than you know yourself, and you get a weird swooping sensation in your chest. Of elation that you've finally figured it out, he might just be the one - your human, but also a crushing regret you haven't done so sooner. You could have been doing this, intimately entwined with this wonderful, thoughtful, sensitive, handsome man, for so many years.

Not wanting to waste any more opportunity and so very desperate to have him inside you, you use all your strength to roll him onto his back and climb on top. Surprised and aroused, he looks up at you devotedly, his pupils blown wide.

Silently and without breaking eye contact, you reach between your bodies, line up his weeping beautiful cock, and sink onto him without another thought. The needy noise he makes is like poetry.

He feels perfect, and you close your eyes to revel in being stretched around him, a solid hot presence filling you up and holding you so open. Just the perfect length and girth for you, almost like his cock was made for you.

Warm hands grasp your hips, and your eyes fly open and look down at him, his expression pleading with you to move. Gradually you rise up, then drop down just once, savouring the sensations as he drags against your walls.

“You feel perfect,” he groans “please….”

You know what he is asking, begging for - more. Something in you wants to draw this out, go so achingly slow both of you get mindless. Luxuriate in this carnal, sensual meeting.

“Talk to me,” you implore, starting a leisurely pace.

“What about?” you watch him glance down between your bodies, watching his cock disappear into you as you sink down.

“Talk to me, Ben,” you repeat but pointedly, grabbing his chin to look at you and raising an eyebrow.

There's a lightbulb of understanding behind his eyes, and that killer crooked smile spreads across his face.

“You like my voice, don't you?” he says, pitched low, and you bite your lip, grabbing his hands as leverage for your movements.

“Yes,” you admit quietly, gasping as the pleasure grows between your legs just as he says those few words.

“I know,” he smirks, “I’ve known for years.”

You look at him in surprise. “Wait, how?” you breathe, disbelieving.

He grabs your shoulders and pulls you down on top of him: so much heat and warm flesh.

“I have noticed your pupils dilate every time I drop my voice just like this,” he murmurs low and sinful into your ear. “The temptation to say so many dirty things has been so strong. God, I love it when you are aroused, and you think you can hide it. I knew you were getting wet; it would take all my willpower not to grab and kiss you senselessly. Especially those days when you are only in a little floaty skirt, I could actually smell it. Delicious and sweet and so fucking sexy. That little squirm you would do. How you move your body is fucking sinful. And now I get to enjoy it. You riding me like this. Fuck, if this isn't every fantasy I've ever had coming true.”

By the time his filthy soliloquy is done, you are panting hard, not from the exertion as you rock on him but the way he has pushed you so close to orgasm with so little effort - just his voice and words.

“Ben,” you shudder, “I….” words fail as you feel your body flush.

“I can feel you are fluttering. Are you going to come so soon?” he exhales, impressed. “Oh god, please, please do it,” he urges. “I need to feel it.”

You sit up and reach down to touch your clit, and he swears at the sight. You are tipping over the edge, stilling your movement as you sit with him at your hilt and clench around him. He feels impossibly huge inside you, twitching and pulsing.

“Fuckkkkkkkk,” he groans long and loud, clenching his teeth. You know he is also fighting the urge to come, wanting this to last much longer.

Greedy for more, for another stronger climax, you go to move again, but he stops you.

“Please don't move, not yet,” he pleads, grabbing your hips and quelling your movement. “I need… a few moments, please.”

You smile down at him indulgently and link your hands again, bringing the back of his hand to your mouth and kissing it delicately. Then to be a tease, you envelop his middle finger in your mouth, running your tongue over it, tasting his tangy skin. He growls as you add his pointer finger and suck hard, staring down at him heatedly.

“This isn't really helping,” he warns reluctantly with a playful pout.

You let his fingers slip out of your mouth and guide his hand to your breasts, pressing his now-damp fingers against your nipple. He enthusiastically grips your flesh, and you throw your head back and moan as he teases your sensitive buds, pinching them between his fingertips. You gyrate your hips, dragging his tip against your cervix.

There is another growl, and suddenly you are tipped over onto the mattress, him still buried inside you. He grabs your legs and loops his arms under them, pulling your body so open under him.

“Hold onto me… twine your arms around me,” he instructs.

You do, fingers digging into his smooth, muscular torso. Panting in anticipation; at the feel of him holding you down, his pelvis crushed against your engorged clit.

He begins to move, and you can't help but make noises; he just overwhelms all your senses. His kisses, his skin, his arms, your legs held high and wide. He is almost delicate in his motion, but you can tell he is holding back.

“Don't be too gentle, Ben,” you beg, bringing one hand up to cup his jaw and running your thumb over his bottom lip. “Please just fuck me.”

His mouth captures your thumb, and you gasp as he spears into you hard. You hiss your approval as he crowds over you to kiss you fiercely. Then everything is a haze as your mind switches off, and you are rooted in your body, chasing sensation as he takes you hard. He feels so hot and rigid, pounding into you as you lay under him, pinned and almost helpless to this onslaught but wanting nothing more than being right where you are. For a first time together, it’s not awkward or timid; it's exciting and mindblowing but somehow still safe, knowing you can trust him with everything, including your body.

Between kisses, there are whispered encouragements against lips and hands grasping so tight to each other as movements become more frantic and fast. He is hitting your clit on each stroke and panting, so present in the moment, eyes boring into yours. You know he is so close, hanging by a thread when he screws his eyes shut and pleads with you to come with him. A few more strokes and it is happening, your orgasm hitting you hard and breaking over your body in waves, fanning out from your core as you clench around him, making your muscles spasm and your toes curl. You feel him coming hard, too, a warm bloom inside you as he jerks a few heavy thrusts, then stills, mouth open over yours and huffing gulps of air as he twitches.

After a few moments of deep breaths and slumped limbs, he pulls his face up to kiss you tenderly.

“Wow,” he breathes, and you giggle and nod your head. “Why haven't we been doing that for the last god knows how many years?” he shakes his head, his voice a little ragged and rough-edged.

“I don't know, but we should be doing a lot more of it,” you respond brightly, “make up for lost time?”

He laughs warmly and agrees, taking his weight off you and rolling and rearranging your bodies so you are both on your sides, facing each other, hands laced together, noses touching. And that is how you fall asleep.

—

You awaken to dazzling sunlight streaming in, reflecting off all the snow. You wince against the brightness and clamp your eyes shut, burrowing back into Benedict. You feel surrounded, in the best sense of the word. He is a warm solid presence behind your back, an arm slung around the dip of your waist, a hand curled around your breast, legs entangled, downy hair tickling your calves. And best of all, a hard cock nestles the back of your thighs. You flex your hips and shuffle until his tip is poised right at your entrance. He stirs, and there is a hot exhale on the back of your neck.

“Get inside me, please,” you petition quietly, voice scratchy from sleep.

Wordlessly, he rolls his hips, surging into your body in one swift stroke. You moan so loudly that he huffs a laugh, then stills, buried inside you.

“Now go back to sleep,” he grumbles affectionately, arm pulling you into him tighter, your whole body flush to his, curling his legs up so you are almost in the fetal position.

“Like this?!” your tone incredulous, as his fingernails trace an idle ellipsis around your areola.

“Mmm hmmm,” his hum vibrates into your spine.

“Bennnn…” you protest, clenching around him, so he groans deeply.

“I promise to fuck you so hard you forget your name… later, if you let me sleep just a little more,” he proposes, nuzzling your hair.

What a lovely thought. You lay still in his arms for a few minutes, but his cock holding you open is far too distracting.

“Bennn…” you try again.

“Shhhhh…” he reacts, but you can tell he's not sleepy anymore; there is a smile on the nape of your neck.

“You feel too good; I can’t sleep,” you whine, slightly petulant.

“You’re not even trying,” he chuckles richly.

“You can't do this to me,” you wheedle, your breath hitching triumphantly as he tilts his pelvis and slips a fraction deeper.

“If I fuck you right now, will you stop complaining?” his tone laced with amusement.

“Hmmm, maybe,” you shoot back, twisting to glance at him over your shoulder, seeing his eyes dancing with mirth.

Your lips meet, and it's a breathy passionate kiss, all open mouths and tongues, teasing each other and fighting for dominance.

As your mouths dance, he starts to move at a languid pace, just rocking into your body gently, and it’s the best wake-up you have ever had. You cover his hand on your breast, and he intuits what you are asking, squeezing the swell, your nipple snagged between his middle and pointer finger. You break the kiss, and his teeth gently skim the cord on your neck as he speeds up a little.

“Will you wake me up like this every day, please?” you sigh, not thinking about the implications of your words, just drunk on the sensation.

“Happily,” he rumbles and spears a little stronger, making you call out his name.

“The sound I really want to wake up to though….” his voice teasing and low. “is this one…” and his hand slips from your breast to between your legs.

You moan and writhe in his strong hold, little sparks of pleasure firing where he touches.

“That’s it, that’s the sound,” he encourages as you both move together in sync.

It’s a wonderfully sensual experience, growing in intensity until he rolls you over onto your front, still inside you, fucking into you from behind, covering your entire body with his. His hand is trapped between your body and the mattress while teasing your clit.

“Oh god, Ben,” you cry as he seems to slide deeper than ever, your thigh trapped shut together, his legs bracketing yours, using all his effort to drive into you, the tone shifting from languid to vigorous. You’ve never been taken in this position before, and at this angle, he is hitting all the right spots inside you to make your eyes roll back and bite the pillow.

It hurtles you fast, beginning to pant raggedly, and you urge him on, asking for more and harder, and he obliges, thrusting so strong your whole body rolls and the bed squeaks loudly in protest. Your voice becomes one long moaning sound; you are pushing back onto his cock as much as possible, a chorus of please don't stop as he drives you fast towards a climax. His body is bowed, breathing hot puffs of air across your upper back, with an occasional kiss, his lips soft and wet.

He holds you on a precipice for a moment; you crane to look back at his face pleadingly; his expression is wild and so gorgeous it catches your breath.

“You are magnificent,” he rasps against your skin.

Then the hand not on your clit suddenly spanks your butt cheek while his teeth sink into the top of your trapezius muscle, pushing you over the edge, calling his name as you pulsate hard around him. Him grunting and thrusting deeper, fighting your clenching muscles. Then he stills, and every muscle tenses as he empties into your body, almost shaking from the intensity.

He collapses onto your back, breathing in wracked sounds.

“Fucking hell,” you both say almost in unison, then giggle at your matching assessment of the experience.

He pulls out of you reluctantly and flops down onto the mattress to your left, wrapping an arm around you and manoeuvring so are the little spoon once again.

“That was intense,” he voices, and you make a noise of agreement, lacing your fingers with his and holding your joined hands up, watching his fingers sink between yours and curve over, his fingertips resting on your palm.

“We are awesome at sex,” you opine. Benedict chuckles at that, hooking his chin over your shoulder. “And you know what that means?”

“What?” his tone lilting.

“We just have to keep doing it all the time,” you observe with a mock, burdened sigh.

“What a terrible hardship for us,” he concurs with an ironic laugh, nuzzling your neck with a grin on his face. __

Half an hour later, you have showered together - which proved almost as distracting as morning sex until the hot water tank ran out, and you jumped out squealing as the water turned ice cold - and are now leisurely making brunch. You both only wear towelling robes you stole from your Glasgow hotel room, the fireplace roaring again. You agree to go for a walk in the snow later, neither of you mentioning booking your flight home.

“Wait, why is this sofa so bloody uncomfortable” you bemoan, taking a sip of coffee and flicking idly through a book you took from a shelf. “I don't remember it being this bad last night,” you ponder aloud.

“Well, you had had a couple of whiskeys by then,” Benedict points out as he cooks an amazing-smelling breakfast a few feet away in the kitchenette.

“True, but honestly, what is going on with it?” you grumble, putting the book aside, not yet sufficiently caffeinated.

“Sofa beds tend not to be comfortable. As either a sofa or a bed,” he rattles out, flipping a slice of bacon in the pan.

You grind to a halt in your efforts to get comfy.

“Sofa bed…?” You echo out loud.

He suddenly freezes and realises what he has admitted.

“Benedict bloody Bridgerton!!” you exclaim loudly, standing up, “did you trick me into sharing your bed?!?”

He turns around slowly, knowing he is foiled and pulls a sheepish face.

“Yeahhhh, a lil bit…” he admits as you gape at him, attempting his most winning remorseful smile. “But, in my defence…” he adds, waving the spatula, “you are the one who kissed me first. I just stacked the deck; you drew the first card.”

He expertly swerves the cushion you throw at him before flicking off the stove and pushing aside the pan.

“Right…” he charges at you as you squeal.

He corners you with ease in the compact space and throws you over his shoulder.

“We are using this stupid sofa bed right now,” he instructs and, rather attractively, casually flicks a handle on the side with his foot to open it. He practically throws you onto the (admitted thin, rather uncomfortable) bed and tugs open your robe, snaking his way down your body and throwing your legs over his shoulder, shooting you a molten hot gaze from between your thighs.

You have no arguments with this development. None whatsoever.

—

You return to that tiny cottage every year for that same week as a ritual—a little private anniversary. Sometimes you stay through New Year, just the two of you ringing in the entire festive season.

He buys it for you as a wedding gift, and you cry at the sentimentality of the man buying you the place you first got together. (One thing you do early on - buy a new, comfortable sofa.)

It becomes a haven for your lives together, even when you have to bring cots and camp beds for your children, all sleeping communally in that one room. (You don’t tell them, but all of your children are named after characters in an obscure old book he finds hidden in the rafters when you are renovating while pregnant with your firstborn.)

Nothing brings you more joy than when you can escape to that little cottage in the Highlands. You never tell anyone besides your children where it is—it’s your escape, your sanctuary. The “somewhere only we know,” as Benedict always called it.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld

[lulublack90]

Prompt 24 - Candy

@jegulus-microfic March 24 Word count 995

Previous part First part

They arrived at the boundaries of Malfoy Manor, dressed in their best dress robes. Walburga had insisted that Remus be left at Grimmauld Place, locked in his room. Regulus hadn’t protested. He knew better than to defy his mother. He had locked Remus in himself. That way, he knew Remus wouldn’t be hurt if he tried to escape. If his mother had set up the wards and Remus had tried to break them, he would have been cursed. 

Regulus had also left his mirror with Remus and his walkman. Then he could talk to Sirius or James if he wanted and listen to music. Regulus hadn’t realised how much he actually liked Remus Lupin. He’d pulled a face when he realised he cared that Remus was comfortable while he was locked up. 

Walburga snapped him out of his thoughts with her sharp tone. 

“Best behaviour tonight, Regulus. Do not disappoint me.” 

“Yes, Maman.” He said, his back straightening slightly as he slipped into his posh little pureblood Lord role. 

Orion stepped up to the door, and it instantly opened. A tiny house elf greeted them. She was wearing a tea towel emblazoned with the Malfoy family crest. 

“Lord and Lady Black and Young Master Black, please be following Candy to the drawing room.” She bowed low and turned. They followed her, the front door magically closing after Regulus had entered.

Candy led them to the largest of the drawing rooms. Walburga would have settled for no less and taken offence if anywhere else had been suggested. 

Narcissa was well aware of her Aunt’s temperament and had gone all out. Magical cocktails waited for them. A deep red one that slowly shifted to green and left the drinker smoking at the mouth called dragon’s breath. It was quite refreshing, with a spicy hit that Regulus found surprisingly pleasant. And a blue shimmery one that fizzed and popped, named after the famous sweet’s fizzing wizzbies. Regulus thought Remus would enjoy that one. He had to quickly shut down that thought. Figuring out that he liked Remus was already becoming an annoyance. 

Candy kept popping in and out, bringing more and more alcohol. Regulus had taken to vanishing small amounts of his. He needed to be clear-headed for what he had planned.  

Orion’s voice had grown steadily louder with each drink. But when no one else was looking, he winked at Regulus. He realised that Orion was doing exactly what he was. He knew how important tonight was. 

Candy reappeared and whispered something to Narcissa, who stood opening her arms, letting her silk dress robes flow around her and proclaimed that dinner was served. 

The meal was just as exciting as the drinks had been. Narcissa may be married to a Malfoy, but she was a Black at heart and loved drama. 

Seven courses later, Regulus was feeling sleepy with the amount of food he had eaten. He hadn’t taken that into consideration. 

They retired to the drawing room, the fireplace now blazing. Cognac and coffee were passed around, and they settled in for the rest of the evening, discussing politics and his mother’s favourite topic, the Dark Lord. 

“Regulus has a wolf staying in our guest room,” She complained. “But it is at the behest of the Dark Lord, so I can not go against his wishes. But it makes me feel physically sick thinking that halfbreed is lurking in our ancestral home.” Regulus kept quiet, waiting for his chance.  

Candy had just refreshed everyone’s drink, and he made his move. 

He stood and excused himself, saying he wouldn’t be a moment. He made sure to sway slightly, as officially, he’d drunk quite a few of those lethal cocktails. 

He didn’t even know if the last Horcrux was here. He’d spent enough time around the others to hopefully be able to pick out the dark magic that surrounded each of the ones they’d found. The only problem was Malfoy Manor was enormous. Far bigger than anything Lucius and Narcissa could ever need, but Regulus also knew the Manor like the back of his hand. He started in the collections rooms. There were some very dark artefacts in there, but nothing that felt familiar. He slipped down to the hidden rooms beneath the Manor where the really dark stuff was. Again, nothing stood out. 

He checked Lucius’s bedroom and Narcissa’s, just in case. Lucius had a lot of portraits of himself in his, but other than that, it was pretty boring. 

He was about to give up and head back to the drawing-room when a shiver ran through him. Almost as though he was being led, he opened the door he’d just walked past. It led him into the vast library. 

He was running out of time. They would notice he was still gone soon and come looking for him. He closed his eyes and tried to feel out where he needed to go. It was definitely the same magic. He walked towards the centre and the round bookcase. It was beautiful, all dark wood and rising right to the ceiling. 

The books on it were the pride of the Malfoy collection. He didn’t want to think what some of them were bound in. But there on the display shelf was something completely out of place. 

A small black diary stood pride of place on its own stand. The dark magic was dripping off it. Regulus picked it up and flicked it open. It was blank. But he knew it was a Horcrux.

He did something next that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He grabbed the nearest book that just happened to be a first edition of Moste Potente Potions and tore a page from it. Quickly, he transfigured it to look like the notebook and replaced it. He checked his work one last time and was about to leave when. 

“And what exactly are you doing, Regulus?” Lucius Malfoy purred just behind him.  

Next part

[pinkertinn]

CleonWeek - Day 5 Daughter, Not by Blood

Title: Weddings Always Make me Cry Summary: Father - Giver of unconditional love and unsolicited advice WordCount: 1,700 Cross posted to AO3

The soft glow of candlelight filled the chapel as everyone stood, their eyes fixed on the bride. She moved slowly, gracefully, the train of her dress whispering over the floor. But Claire’s gaze wasn’t on the bride—not entirely. Her attention kept drifting to the man walking her down the aisle. His broad shoulders, the set of his jaw, and the way he moved with quiet strength stirred something deep in her chest. That quiet strength reminded her of someone she’d looked up to her whole life, someone who had always been her rock. Watching him now brought a familiar ache—an echo of the past.

It was hard not to draw comparisons. Looking up to a man only a few years older than yourself, yet one who’d shouldered the weight of the world for you. They grew up too quickly—because they had to.

In another life, Chris would have been the one walking her down the aisle, guiding her toward something new, something filled with hope. She blinked back the sudden sting in her eyes. The memory of growing up with Chris was always there, like an anchor. But seeing this man at Sherry’s side today, stepping into that same role, brought back too much—too much love, too much pain.

There was a time when it had been just the three of them: her, him, and Sherry. A makeshift family, fighting to survive in a world that had turned against them.

But this man wasn’t Chris. He was something else entirely. He could’ve been an older brother to Sherry, with how fiercely he had protected her, but that wasn’t quite right either. He was more than that—had always been more than that. He was her father in all the ways that mattered, just as Chris had been a father to her when she needed one most. The parallel struck her deeply, and her chest tightened. If she ever found herself in Sherry's place, it would be Chris walking beside her. Just like this. It was a role that could only belong to someone who loved you as deeply and unconditionally as they did.

Later, after the ceremony, the crowd had dispersed to the reception, the laughter and chatter mingling with the clink of glasses. She found herself gravitating toward the bar, her fingers wrapping around a champagne flute. The bubbles fizzed quietly, like the tension she hadn’t quite let go of, still tangled up in her chest.

And then, there he was. He approached slowly, hands tucked into his pockets, his stance hesitant. They hadn’t spoken in so long, the air between them filled with the weight of things unsaid, but here he was, as if time had only pulled them further apart and yet closer together all at once.

"Hey," he murmured, eyes soft yet distant, the same way they always were when he wasn’t sure what to say.

"Hey," she replied, barely above a whisper. Her voice caught, as if stuck somewhere in the space between past and present.

He ordered a drink, something dark and simple, and they stood there for a moment, not looking directly at each other, but aware of the other's presence.

“It was a beautiful ceremony,” she offered, breaking the silence, trying to bridge the awkwardness that clung to them.

“Yeah,” he nodded, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “She… she’s really grown up.”

“She has,” she agreed, though the words tasted bittersweet. For a moment, she was back in Raccoon City, holding Sherry’s small, trembling hand, telling her everything would be alright even though nothing was certain. That girl had been so strong, so much stronger than they were at the time. She had survived, thrived even, because of him. “She’s everything we hoped she’d be.”

He looked down at his glass, swirling the liquid inside slowly, his brow furrowing slightly, lost in thought. “She is.”

The quiet between them stretched, filled with unspoken memories. It was impossible not to feel the weight of what they’d once had—brief and fragile, a shared life that had unraveled far too quickly.

Her mind wandered back to the day they broke apart. 2001. It felt like a lifetime ago, but the details remained vivid. They had been living together for a while, trying to make it work, but she could feel the distance growing. Boot camp, missions, obligations—his life had swallowed him whole, and she had been left in the margins. She’d made a mistake. Something so stupid. A kiss with someone she worked with. She couldn’t even remember the guy’s name anymore. It had meant nothing, but she’d told him immediately, expecting it to end them.

She had done it on purpose, pushing him away so he wouldn’t feel like he owed her anything. He had sacrificed too much already, for her, for Sherry, for a life he didn’t choose. She had wanted to give him an out.

Instead, he had begged her to stay. He had asked if she loved the other man, his voice quiet, steady, but she could see the hurt in his eyes. She had lied, told him she did, hoping it would be enough. But he had seen through it, his gaze full of a resignation that broke her heart. He didn’t push after that. He just let her go.

As she packed up the remnants of their shared life, her fingers brushed against a worn envelope, half-hidden beneath a stack of forgotten papers in the back of his dresser drawer. It was creased from being handled too many times, the ink on the front faded but still legible: Leon Scott Kennedy. Her heart stuttered in her chest as she opened it, expecting to find something mundane—some forgotten bill or letter.

But the official seal at the top caught her eye immediately—Department of Child Welfare. She read the first few lines and felt the breath leave her lungs.

"Petition for Adoption of Minor: Sherry Birkin."

The words blurred in front of her as her throat tightened. Attached was a letter, tucked into the folds, typed neatly but full of raw, personal hope.

Her hands trembled as she held the letter, the depth of what he had been trying to do washing over her. He had never mentioned it, never asked her for advice or told her how much he'd fought for Sherry behind the scenes. He’d always carried the weight alone, shouldering the burden quietly, just as he did with everything.

She sat on the edge of their bed, her vision swimming with unshed tears. He had been ready to take on a life that wasn’t his, to fight for a girl who wasn’t his by blood, to keep her safe, no matter the cost. He was always like that. Always willing to sacrifice more than anyone asked of him.

Her chest ached with a confusing mix of guilt and sorrow. She never told him she found the paperwork, never revealed how much it broke her heart to know what he had been through, what he had been denied. He had tried, but the petition had been blocked, a cold bureaucratic stamp at the bottom of the page rejecting his application. The government had their hands on Sherry and wouldn't let her go.

It wasn’t fair.

And it was then, sitting there with those papers spread across her lap, that she realized she couldn’t let him keep sacrificing everything for her, for Sherry. He deserved a life that was his own. He deserved more than this—the life of obligations that had been forced upon him.

But now, as they stood together at the bar, that moment felt like a lifetime ago. She looked up at him, seeing the traces of that same man who had fought for Sherry in every quiet glance, every careful word. He hadn’t changed much, except the shadows under his eyes had grown a little deeper, the lines around his mouth more pronounced.

She let out a soft breath, a bitter smile forming on her lips as she finally spoke the words she had never said back then. “I found the adoption paperwork once, you know. All those years ago. I never told you.”

His eyes flickered in surprise, his brow furrowing in the way it always did when he was caught off guard. “You did?”

She nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. “You were trying to adopt her. To get her out from under the government’s thumb. You were doing everything you could.”

He exhaled slowly, the weight of the memory pressing down on both of them. "Yeah. I tried. But they wouldn’t let me.” His voice was rougher now, thick with emotion he rarely let slip through.

She could see the frustration, the helplessness that had gripped him back then, still simmering beneath the surface. It was the same feeling she carried—the knowledge that they had tried to save Sherry in every way possible, only to be met with walls too high to climb. They had both done their best, and yet it had never felt like enough.

But she met his gaze again, this time with a soft smile, a quiet warmth spreading through her chest. “You know… it doesn’t take documentation to make someone your family.” Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. “It doesn’t take blood, or papers, or a judge’s approval. It just takes loving them.”

He looked at her, eyes searching, as if trying to understand why she was bringing this up now. But then, something in his expression softened, and he nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Then…” he said, his voice quieter now, almost tender, “you and Sherry will always be my family.”

The words settled between them, heavy and real. They had both been through so much, and somehow, even after everything, even after the break-up, the distance, and the years apart, they still shared this—this unspoken bond. This family they had built together, even if they hadn’t realized it at the time.

And as the hum of the reception carried on around them, she felt a gentle warmth settle inside her, a quiet understanding that perhaps, like family, some bonds weren’t made to be broken—not by time, distance, or even blood. They simply endured, unshaken and whole.

[occasionaloverboy]

don't you hear me howling, babe?

steddie • wip • explicit

In the fall of '91 Steve comes home - and the past finally catches up to him.

🖤•🖤•🖤

Steve turns on his heel and wanders back over the same eight tiles he's been wearing a hole into, casts a hopeful look towards the gate. There's a group of people trailing through it and Steve perks up, searches for Robin's sandy hair. He's wondering how much it might have grown out in the space of four months when a glimpse of long, dark curls and worn leather flits across his vision.

It's like a chemical reaction in Steve's chest. It doesn't matter that the person is already turning to reveal a stranger's face - Steve's blood still fizzes along insistently, trying to convince him that he's seen a ghost. 

It happens more often than he'd like to admit. Apparently seeing Eddie in his dreams on the regular isn't punishment enough - Steve's subconscious has to whisper that he's in line at the grocery store, or lurking at the back of the bar. Haunting the arrivals gate at IND.

Steve is startled out of his thousand-yard stare by someone barreling into his back. He laughs in surprise and nearly stumbles as Robin hangs off of him, snorting out her own laughter into his ear. 

“Hi, dummy.” 

“Hi, Rob.” 

She releases him and he spins around to get his arms around her in a proper hug. The last few months have been the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other since the summer of ‘85 - by a long shot. Steve has the sudden and distinct sensation of being able to draw more air into his lungs.

[r0b0s-robos]

Disrepair Park (Amusement Park AU):

This AU would follow mainly Gregory, Cassie, and Vanessa. In this AU, the animatronics from SB are instead, working at an amusement park that’s essentially abandoned. All of them are in their disrepaired/broken states.

Cassie and Gregory sneak into the Park after hours because Gregory was bullied and called a “baby” at school. His goal is to go into the rumored bunker under the park where (supposedly) the Park’s founder is buried. Vanessa, however, finds them and begins chasing them through the park.

Gregory and Cassie get separated when Cassie gets caught. But surprisingly, Cassie and Vanessa become semi-friends. Eventually, Gregory rescues Cassie from the guard’s quarters to continue their shenanigans.

The kids find safety in one of the warehouses and discover that's where the animatronics go at night.

Eclipse explains (quite bitterly) that the animatronics have been going missing. Bonnie is missing and presumed decommissioned. They all blame Vanessa and Cassie, who has heard how Vanessa cares for the animatronics and is looking for clues to Bonnie’s whereabouts, promises to clear her name.

Character Roles:

Eclipse: clown + manages the “strength” tests, carries around a giant inflatable hammer. he’s quite silly and still loves entertaining children, but has grown a bit resentful and bitter due to being left “broken”

Monty: Dunk tank. You get to throw things and dunk him. (no worries, he doesn't fizz out… much).

Freddy: Rollercoaster Mascot. He cant actually ride the ride because he’s too heavy. Design is up to interpretation, but I imagine him w/ the gaping hole in his chest and a semi-attached head.

Bonnie: Ski-ball mascot. He's missing an ear.

Chica: basketball/hoop games mascot. She still rummages around for food in the trash cans and also is a mascot for the food vendor areas.

Roxy: manages the Bumper Cars. Because. Because when she lost her eyes in SB she had to run and bump into things. I thought it made sense.

Staff Bots: miscellaneous carnies/game managers. They’d probably be called “Game Bots” instead. Each is designed for a specific game.

Cassie: Followed Gregory into the park as back up despite being told to stay behind. She adores Roxy and Chica and gets along amazingly with Eclipse. She truly feels for Vanessa and doesn't believe Vanessa would ever hurt an animatronic for any malicious reasons.

Gregory: Just a kid who snuck into the park after dark to prove he wasn't a “baby” and find the supposed resting place of William Afton. He’s still a big fan of Freddy, but he is a rulebreaker and unintentionally or not aggravates all the animatronics.

Vanessa: Night security. There's no virus in this AU, so don't worry about “Vanny”. She started working there because the night shift paid well. She genuinely doesn't have anything against the animatronics, but she's very off-putting and cold. She's definitely being framed and the animatronics (and Gregory for the most part) fall for it.

William Afton: Late CEO of the park. He died mysteriously and disappeared with his daughter and wife, leaving his son alone. There's a rumor that his body was found and buried in the bunker in the park.

Micheal Afton: Current CEO/Owner of Disrepair Park. He wants to figure out what happened to his missing sister, Elizabeth, and suspects that his late father had something to do with it. He keeps the park open so he can snoop and try to uncover what sort of evil his father was.

[elvensorceress]

Wednesday WIP⚡️

tagged by @alyxmastershipper @spaceprincessem @jobairdxx @hippolotamus @messyhairdiaz @ebdaydreamer @monsterrae1 @sibylsleaves @911onabc @honestlydarkprincess @spotsandsocks @rewritetheending @wikiangela @buddiearemydads

tagging @heartbeatdiaz @shortsighted-owl @bigassdiaz @rose-buddie @wh0re-behavi0r @babytrapperdiaz @fleurdebeton @cowboy-buddie @eddiescowboy

from Catching Lightning (which is now over 30K 🫠) Eddie returning home from another failed date...

Eddie drives home in the rain to an empty house, and what does he know about any of this? Maybe he’s not cut out for this. Maybe he’s supposed to be alone. The rain is mocking him but maybe it’s not wrong. 

Everyone dies alone. 

He texts Chris goodnight and doesn’t receive displeased messages from Pepa this time, but the raining picks up and turns into a storm that knocks out power to his whole neighborhood and leaves him in the dark. 

There’s lightning in the dark. 

And thunder loud enough to make his house creak and tremble. He curls up in his bed and his hands are fine. They’re not shaking like the house. His lungs aren’t wailing like the wind. His stomach is tight and tense, churning acid and emptiness, but he had a strong margarita and no dinner. Everything tastes like metallic fizzing on his tongue. There’s no flavor to anything. He didn’t want to eat, and it’s probably good that he didn’t because there’s lightning outside and he just feels like throwing up. 

His phone has only 24% power left and he shouldn’t do it. He shouldn’t. He’s a grown man and it’s just a stupid storm and everything is fine. They’re not out in the bad weather. Lightning doesn’t strike twice? 

It doesn’t have to. It kills everything on the first try. 

Eddie was sore and bruised black and burned in a faint fractal for a week or so, but it was nothing like what happened to Buck. 

Nothing is happening to Buck. He’s fine. He’s probably still on his date and fucking his new girlfriend in the middle of the storm. Or something equally stupid. Eddie’s not going to do anything. Because he’s fine and nothing is wrong. 

And somehow his hands have other ideas because he’s picked up his dying phone, typed and sent a text before he’s even realized what he’s done. 

Hey. Did your power go out? Ours went out. Mine I mean. Chris isn’t here. Everything is dead.

It’s stupid. Eddie is being so fucking stupid. And the longer he stares at the words and the little “delivered” under them without it changing to “read,” the worse it is. 

Everything is dead. Everything. Everyone dies alone and lightning kills everything and Eddie doesn’t know how to feel, how to spark, how to chemistry, how to magic, how to build, how to love. 

The things Eddie knows are gunfire. Helicopter crashes. Car crashes. Bombs and explosions. The earth collapsing and burying him alive. Freezing cold water. Drowning. Bleeding. He’s always bleeding. And then he’s ripped in half by cruel sudden nightmarish electricity.

The same kind that cracks and flashes outside his window. The only light that exists anymore. Because everything else dies. 

He has to breathe. Frank taught him breathing. Inhale for eight seconds, hold for five seconds, exhale for eight seconds. 

There are sounds, noises that aren’t thunder. There’s a light thumping near his bedroom door. On his bedroom door? Eddie didn’t lock it tonight. He didn’t need to. He usually doesn’t in case Chris needs something. But Chris isn’t here tonight. And Eddie’s too overloaded to shock or startle when his door opens. He doesn’t look. It’s dark. He can’t see much. 

But he knows who sits next to him and touches him gently. 

Eddie reaches, feels around for that hand resting on his arm. It turns like it might hold his, thread with his, weave them back together. Eddie doesn’t settle on his hand. He finds Buck’s wrist, curls his fingers around it, and presses below his thumb. Until there’s a radial pulse beating steadily against his fingers. 

He has a pulse. His heart is beating. His heart is beating he’s alive his heart is alive. 

There’s a sob that breaks out of Eddie’s chest. And then he’s crying. He’s crying and can’t stop. 

“Hey,” Buck says. Gently. Sweet, soft, worried. Full of something that sounds like, feels like love. He touches Eddie the same way. A hand on his arm, a hand on his side. “Come here.”

Eddie doesn’t know reasons at this point. He doesn’t know arguing. He only knows needing to feel how Buck is alive. 

Eddie sits up and Buck meets him with arms that close around him and hold him tightly. And he’s warm and alive and solid and breathing and real and Eddie breathes in the citrus vanilla coconut that lingers on him, and his own heart beats and beats and beats. 

“It’s okay. I got you,” Buck whispers and rubs a hand over Eddie’s back and then strokes Eddie’s hair as he cradles the back of his head. “I’m okay. I’m right here.”

Eddie doesn’t ask how Buck knew, but of course he did. And with Buck in his arms, holding him tightly, the storm outside isn’t loud anymore. It’ll fade and burn out. Buck is safe. He’s alive. The tension melts away and Eddie is done crying and panicking. He’s not alone. 

“Here. Scooch over.” Buck nudges him gently until Eddie moves backward into more of the middle of the bed. Buck takes his place, Eddie’s usual spot on the right side of the bed, and motions for Eddie to lie down with him. 

It makes Eddie’s heart beat too hard. It’s not used to beating anymore. But Buck tucks his socked feet under the covers and he’s wearing dark gray sweatpants and a long-sleeved navy blue shirt. Clothes he sleeps in. And when Eddie lies down beside him, Buck directs Eddie’s head onto his own chest. Until Eddie can hear the clear, rhythmic thumping of Buck’s heart. 

His heart is beating.

It’s loud and perfect and drowns out everything else. A fresh wave of tears leaks from Eddie’s eyes, too sudden and too much for him to stifle it.

[ghost-infestation]

I fear I may have birthed something into the world. Something horrendous, incomprehensible, and eldritch.

Here's how it began.

The other day, my good good friend @my-ceiling-is-tilted blessed us with a discovery he made on Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia that anyone can edit. You see, he ventured on there in search of information on a specific type of cocktail: The Gin Fizz. We can hardly recall to what end this original investigation was directed, for what he found by complete accident overshadows the expedition's original goal like a looming elder monolith.

You see, there in the section so innocently titled "Less common gin Fizzes", something caught his eye.

Now do you notice anything wrong with this image?

No, it's not the "Spezi"; that is simply the name of a German brand of orange cola. That in itself is a respectable pick for fizz additive, though perhaps somewhat locationally limiting.

The pickle. Why the pickle?

Because, you see, for starters, you cannot freeze a dill pickle. Not with standard household means, at any rate. There's all sorts of chemical bullshit preventing this eventuality. And more to the point, what kind of bar, in any part of the world, would just have frozen dill pickles on standby in case anyone orders a Tillhammer?!

And that's the thing, friends. That's the horrifying truth that has spurred Mr. Ceiling to pass on this eldritch knowledge to us.

The Tillhammer does not exist.

We went looking, and we went looking hard, in both international and German webspace. And we found not a single mention of the Tillhammer anywhere safe for this wikipedia page. There is no evidence that anyone, at any time in human history, has ever sat down to enjoy a nice, cool, pickly Tillhammer.

Until now.

Mr. Ceiling has tried desperatley to dissuade me from my path. He begged and pleaded on his little knees that I do not manifest this... thing into existence.

Unfortunately for him, I'm not a little bitch.

So behold: My infernal creation! Mothers and fuckers of the jury, I present to you, for perhaps the first time in history:

The Tillhammer!

The Tillhammer is a popular drink originating in the city of Luxhaven, Rhode Island in the 1920s. Allegedly first served in the Wanderlust Hotel to expel a rowdy visitor in the night, it has since grown popular all across the globe... if you know where to look.

The Tillhammer gin fizz packs quite a punch, though it is a quick-footed fighter and won't hit you where you were expecting.

Total Time: 5 minutes mins

Equipment

some form of liquid container (glass preferable)

a mechanism by which you might induce a pickle into a state that could charitably be described as "frozen"

Ingredients 

a quantity of gin, as yet unhaunted by the unholy spirits

a fizzy German beverage that proclaims itself to be your friend, but don't trust it DON'T YOU DARE TRUST IT

a pickled cucumber, petite yet potent, brought as close to a state of frosty solidity as your equipment permits

Instructions 

Pour your desired quantity of gin into your container of choice. No need to fuss, you are out to impress absolutely no-one. Just do how much you feel.

Add a little bit of bubbly joy by pouring your liquified orange-tinged friend to mingle with the gin.

Brace yourself for what comes next.

Insert your frozen pickle while chanting ritualistically; if not with your tongue, then at least with your faltering mind.

Consume.

And, lest anyone accuse me for spurring my pickle-adding responsibilities:

And it is done.

I know not what I have unleashed into the world by bringing this potion into existence. Have I broken the chains of something long buried, forgotten for a reason? Or perhaps, more realistically, I have simply played into the hands of an unusually conniving miscreant roaming the wikipedian plains.

All in all, it just kinda tastes of gin and cola.

[tealvenetianmask]

More about Blitz and anger . . .

Anger is a super stigmatized emotion. That's for a reason- it's powerful. When we see it from other people it's usually externalized- it's ugly, aggressive, shows up in abusive situations- it sometimes leads to violence. But when we talk about righteous anger, or the anger of marginalized people, we sometimes praise it. That's because anger can be empowering too.

I want to talk about how Blitz's anger, while it's also destructive at times, has empowered him.

Personal note: when I was a kid, I was yelled at frequently by my mother. The house I grew up in was a 60's rancher with a long hallway in the center, and she would chase me down the hallway yelling. As I grew older, I learned to yell back. Feeling anger and externalizing it didn't make the hurt go away, and it didn't solve our problems- it turned us into two people yelling at each other- but it did make me feel less helpless.

So let's look at Blitz as a kid. In addition to guilt tripping him, his father tells him that "there are scarier things," than stealing from a wealthy and (literally) powerful family, and he doesn't disagree. I think this screenshot captures their relationship pretty well.

We see moments of defiance from Blitz though, even as he's very much under Cash's control. Georgia Dow pointed this out in her video about how Blitz learned resilience in his childhood. Here, have some defiant expressions:

Notice Blitz's eyebrows here, mirroring his father. I suspect that as he grew older, Blitz learned to push back harder, to argue, maybe even to yell. He learned to channel his anger- at being used, diminished, devalued (very likely yelled at and probably physically hurt too) into expression, into fight (I don't picture him physically fighting Cash, but the guy has fight in him- of all kinds).

He learned to feel angry at the world and express that too- for treating imps as lower than other demons, for limiting his options in life, for filling the road to success with exploitation (as we see in the Mammon flashbacks with Fizz).

Speaking of that flashback, he's very ready, as a teenager, to express anger exactly when he needs to for the purpose of protecting a loved one.

Fast forward to the present.

Blitz's anger helps him stand up for the people he cares about- see Fizz in the present at Mammon's show but also Moxxie in Spring Broken.

It helps make him good at his job too. When we see him fight, he doesn't tend to seem all out enraged, but he's super determined and all in. He's at home in a conflict. When he's doing his best fighting, we see a mix of the "angry" facial expressions and pure confidence.

Anger also helps him manage a lot of difficult emotions. Disclaimer (and idea I'll get back to soon)- I said manage, not deal with.

When he interacts with Verosika and with Robo Fizz early in season 1, there's genuine underlying pain from how the relationships with Verosika and the real Fizz ended, but he channels that into anger. The anger makes him take action (Good action? Eh. But still action- he's not crying on his couch.) rather than get consumed by more painful emotions. He's able to keep going.

It also gets in his way, even as he uses it as a coping mechanism. Is his anger at Muffy and the Karen in the doctor's office understandable as he's dealing with his frustration about the inaccessibility of healthcare for Loona and his worries about losing Stolas? Yes. Is it helpful? No, probably not.

It isn't useful with Stolas either. Stolas is this person who's kind and beautiful and quirky and able to match his wit, and who Blitz has grown genuine feelings for, but who is also deeply entwined in the unfairness in Hell's society that Blitz has grown to resent throughout his life- AND Stolas unknowingly participates in some very familiar microaggressions himself.

Blitz channels a whole range of complicated emotions- love, fear, despair at the thought that he isn't loved back- all into anger because he HAS been wronged and his world IS unfair, and anger is COMFORTABLE because anger is ACTIVE, and with it he doesn't have to just let things happen to him!

So we end up back here.

[uninformedartist]

Quick note the kid plays Young Leia in a Star Wars show so...

1. We know how Hollywood tears kids apart so Brandon needs to be fucking extra careful

2. She works for Disney. Now while she's not on the Disney channel the only known actress to come out of that unscathed is Zendaya but Disney is EXTREMELY controlling of young stars so Brandon may have ruined her employment chances there.

3. This photo doesn't just ruin her future employment with Disney but other places since most of the time kid actors get most of their jobs with shows aimed at kids or families. Having her make art or promote an adult show or be associated with a creator/actor with exclusivy adult content might make some companies be less likely to hire unless she has done a bunch of acting already since they don't want that stuff to mix with their family friendly shit.

4. This also reminds me when I was still in the fandom how weirded out I was that they casted child actors for the young versions of Stolas, Blitzo, and Fizz. Like Helluva is animated... You don't need to that especially when the grown up versions are VERY NOT CHILD FRIENDLY. Like get a grown woman to voice the kid versions instead for gods sake.

Don't have much to add as I'll be repeating what you said anon but 100% agree. Looking deeper into this situation is all that you mentioned above, they put this child at risk career wise present and future, her safety (posting her pic on a public platform associated with an adult show/ as you said Hollywood), Brandon were so ignorant and irresponsible doing this, yeah he can't forsee all the repercussions but as an ADULT in the industry he should know and used his discretion. On the child VAs they used... sigh. Leander Lewis who voiced young Stolas is 14/15, Mason Blomberg who voiced young Blitz is 11/12, Juliana Sada is minor who voiced young Octavia. These are children Voice acting in an adult cartoon show. And its not like you can say they're used to doing VA work on adult media, this seems like their 1st time doing such work

Mason Blomberg: (9-1-1 is an adult show but it doesn't compare to helluva with its raunchy humor and content)

Leander Lewis:

Juliana Sada (again wasn't in raunchy adult shows)

And this is the post on Mason's insta announcing it and sighs to the moon, why is a child a VA on an adult show, Viv should NEVER have reached out to them to do va work, "adult cartoon, not suitable for kids" but has kid VAs on it you could've easily gotten an adult to VA your young characters.

Comes back to what I say, Viv and them don't make rational decisions like an adult should. You know your fandom is full of minors, be more active and she can since Viv is more prominent in her fandom than other creators, reprimand fans bullying and harassing minors in fandom and stick by your word and remind minors that this aint a kids show because again Viv is VERY active in her fandom. In conclusion /try to keep minors at all costs away from your adult raunchy shows. Be it them doing VA work, at cons, in fandom ect TRY TO KEEP THEM AWAY.