#but on the other hand. he wouldn’t trust himself in the slightest not to fuck it up

[jaycecore]

yeah I definitely think jayvik aren’t the parental type; but the uncle type? oh yeah no question

[gay-dorito-dust]

https://www.tumblr.com/gay-dorito-dust/758338609223991296/does-anybody-have-any-bill-cipher-or-stanford

Hi, I have a request!!

Bill’s current obsession has fallen into a love triangle (haha) between Stanford and Stanley pines? Hijinks, insanity and three different levels of possessiveness ensues!!

Where to begin with this one…

The only way you gained Bill’s attention was merely coincidental, at first you were just any other human who the dream demon was only going to use for his sole entertainment, not something that he would ever get attached to in a million lifetimes.

And yet he was more than willing to lock you up in his ‘love cage’ if it meant keeping you away from those fucking senior citizens, Stanford and Stanley Pines. Two gigantic thorns in his nonexistent ass when it came to you and your attention. Bill could give you anything and everything your dark little heart desires in comparison to Stan and Ford, what could they give you that bill couldn’t?

Love and understanding was what they’d both give you, seeing as how Bill often thought that love and fear were one in the same. so whenever you had evident fear in your eyes, panicked breathing and a body language that screamed out that you were terrified, bill though it was actually love and adoration and that you couldn’t bring yourself to part from him because you were that paralysed by the love you felt for him. (He’s delusional)

Bill wouldn’t let you leave his sight for a signal second and even if he ever did find you talking to another person, they’re more then dead in his one eye and you were back in the love cage ‘for your own good,’ as he would claim, believing that you shouldn’t have betrayed the limited amount of trust he had given you. He was clingy, obsessive, wanted to know where you where -even though he already knew the answer- and who you were with to the point where any ounce of freedom given by bill was just another bigger cage to keep you in…

Until you met them…

Stan and Ford did promise each other that they’d never fight over anyone ever again after one incident where they both liked the same girl back in high school, but both of them turned out to be hypocritical liars when they both found themselves fighting each other over you.

You most likely met these two after managing to escape bill for a bit, bumping into poor Ford as he was on his weekly monster chase and you had to say for a man pushing 70, Ford was handsome, a silver fox if you will but you assumed such terminology would fly over his head. (The fact that this man gets called a silver fox will never not be funny to me, the people of gravity Falls know what’s up and I respect them)

‘Are you okay?’ Ford would ask when he noticed the paranoid look in your eye as you kept looking behind you, almost as though you were feeling as though you were being watched, a feeling Ford himself was familiar with as his face becomes serious. ‘It’s him isn’t it?’ He would then say.

‘What? I’m sorry for bumping into you mister but I’ve got to get away from him.’ You stated frantically as you could almost feel the triangular demon’s eye on your back, almost burning into you with its sheer intensity.

‘Does he have a triangular form, top hat, one eye and a pension for causing chaos?’ Ford quizzed you and noted how you looked at him as though to ask how he knew, in which he was quick to reply with, ‘I’m…familiar with the thing haunting you my dear, please let me help you get away from him.’ Ford then proceeded to lend out his hand, you failed to notice was six fingered due to your panic, and you immediately latched onto without hesitation as anywhere was better than being stuck with Bill for any longer than you already have.

You thought that you were bound to go insane if you heard him sing his own rendition of ‘we’ll meet again’ for the hundredth time. He could play a piano but couldn’t sing in the slightest, but then again you guessed it came with the territory for Bill to have everything be a little off kilter and somewhat off balance.

Stanley would’ve been in the living room, watching his shows when Ford came in with you in tow, locking the door behind him.

‘Hey you’re finally done- who’s the cutie?’ Stan would ask as his eyes immediately land on you and Ford was needlessly unimpressed with his brother’s almost instant attraction to you; he didn’t feel like sharing your attention with him in the slightest.

‘Bill’s newest obsession.’ Ford replied straightforwardly as Stan winced.

‘Yeesh, I hate that triangular freak,’ Stan began as he then looked at you with reassurance, ‘but don’t you worry toots, the mystery shack is practically the only place that little twerp can’t get within radius of unless he wants a repeat of what happened last time.’ He then flashes you a smile and you couldn’t help but feel a little more relaxed then before, the feeling of being watched had all but disappeared when Ford then began to show you where you’d be staying the night after seeing how dark it had gotten, that and he didn’t feel like letting you leave when Bill was actively looking for you.

He places a comforting hand on your shoulder. ‘It’ll be okay, he can’t get you here like my brother Stanley said, you’re safe.’

You smile at him. ‘Thank you…I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Ford, just call me Ford.’ Ford replied as he smiled softly at you and for once you didn’t feel frightened or afraid, you felt more protected and safe than you did in a long while.

Yours and Ford’s relationship took a bit getting off the ground, seeing as how Ford was determined on getting Bill to leave you alone but soon enough after some time spent with each other; Ford found himself unable to part from your side for long periods of time without fearing the worst that his brother was flirting with you behind his back.

Stan was indeed flirting with you behind Ford’s back, he couldn’t help it! You were a catch and he could see in Ford’s eyes that he knew they too, but where Ford lacked in flirting, Stan excelled in it as he’d often found new ways to talk to you in hopes of making you smile and or laugh. And to his credit it does work and you do laugh and place your hand on his shoulder to keep yourself stable, but it would always happen whenever Ford was walking into the room and Stan sees his brothers face contort into one of annoyance and frustration.

‘Y/n dear, I have something that I would love your secondary opinion on something if you’re not busy.’ He would raise his brow at Stanley who was staring back at him with a look of annoyance at the fact that he was cockblocking him from making a move on you. The tension between them was palpable but you were just glad that you were far away from Bill as possible, who at this point was on the brink of making Weirdmagedon 2.0 at this point when he couldn’t find you at all.

‘Sure Ford.’ You’d chirp as you follow after Ford down to the lab while Stan is left fuming and planning on how he could get you away from Ford once again.

Ford is awkward when it comes to flirting but he makes up for that by being comforting and respectful of your inability to understand the stuff he deals with, and when he sees that your frustrated or upset, he’s quick to put his hand on your shoulder or your hand and squeezing it softly while muttering ‘it’s okay, you’re doing great.’ Now and then. All thoughts of warding off Bill had left his mind as he kept you practically tucked against his side with how close you both were to one another.

There would be times where you’d look over at Ford and he was mere inches away from your face, and it makes the air leave your lungs as you feel his breath wash over your face. Stuck looking into his kind, soft, intelligent eyes that could absolutely degrade and or belittle you if you gave the command but you knew that wasn’t in Ford’s nature, the man was soft touched by calloused hands and conceded eyes that could easily read your entire body with ease and give you what you needed.

Stanley may or may not have walked into these moments himself when he wanted to take you on a drive in his car to the waterfall, something that he was certain would make you swoon into his arms, only to see you and Ford within kissing distance and looking like two lovers admiring each other up close as though you couldn’t get enough of one another.

The twins never wanted to fight in front of you, and they never do as they spoke to one another in low tones towards each other as they came to realise just how deeply they both felt towards you. They both agreed that the moment you chose one of them to guard your heart, the other would be respectful and wouldn’t let anything sour the bond they spend long enough rebuilding after thirty years apart.

However they seem to keep forgetting their competitor for your heart: Bill Cipher who was more then willing to posses people just to look for you and he doesn’t plan on stopping until he had you back where you belonged, after all he saw you first and won’t let Stan or Ford take you away from him if it was the last thing he did.

[sharkenedfangs]

— ☆ “IN THE IMAGE OF YOU.”

— #. synopsis. all in all, the entirety of what was meant to be said, thoroughly snuffed out by a stuttered curse is hastily stifled in favour of carefully processing what he’s currently being greeted with, once again. little shit that dared to impulsively walk upon an important moment meant to be properly spent with himself, and of course— it’s you of all people responsible for that result. well, not exactly you— but, still you. 

— #. content warning! dub-con, anal fucking, degradation, brief mentions of past bullying entailing physical abuse, coercion, implications of medical malpractice, doctor harper behind the scenes, former bastard or not— neurosurgeon male whitney, amnesiac male reader and some actual pining on the blonde’s part.

— #. word count? 5.2k — longer than initially intended.

— #. what is it this time, asher? : “pretty sure you’re not supposed to trust the filthy doctors in this town, including your ex-bully. better luck next time. this one is for my dear shoku, @shoknsfw.”

Though, perhaps the very last of things Whitney would’ve predictably expected there to be, patiently awaiting for him at the end of the day, would be— well, this thing. Not that he necessarily knows what the actual fuck ‘this’ is, but he’s getting the slightest idea that his boss is as fuckin’ insane as he had initially thought of him to be. Or others, in the past, have repeatedly warned him so of, too.

Sure, he’s not a mindless moron and he remains acutely aware of the shady rumours carelessly thrown around here and there amongst the nosy patients, accompanied by that fuckin’ Sydney profusely muttering out against his boss. Some incoherent tangent, he — himself, wouldn’t genuinely understand either way, fuck. Still, this.. This wasn’t in the goddamn job description nor did he ever truly expect it to be cuz’ there’s no way in hell he would’ve so easily accepted a simple offer such as this one. Seamlessly roping him into another one of his sick experiments, notably those involving others without their spoken consent, and would’ya look at that? 

Naively fell for it this time without sparing the slightest thought as to why — doctor Harper of all people — would be in potential need of his gracious help. Idiot, ever heard of that freak selflessly askin’ for one’s hand in a time of desperation, openly expressing his innate admission to defeat? Real funny, huh? Not so fuckin’ funny when he’s awkwardly left to deal with this complex issue within his own working hours, said time originally meant to be taken as a mere moment of solitude, of some much-needed tranquility in exchange for his gruelling hours tirelessly spent in good efforts, now solely ruined by this unfaithful encounter. 

Okay, cutting the entire crap up— it was originally intended to be spent miserably jerking off alone in the middle of his office like some crude loser. Not that he’d ever truthfully admit it to anyone, this.. otherwise unhealthy habit or perhaps, addiction he’s progressively took on due to the sheer amount of stress burdening him as a surgeon, weighing upon his slouched shoulders everyday. It’s— It’s not like it’s fuckin’ bad! Coping mechanism or whatever, it beats the stinking scent of nicotine faintly lingering on the material of his coat, a hint of the godawful smell, repeatedly going out for a ‘quick’ smoke whenever things gradually took its toll on him to the point it’d annoyingly kept him from getting some precious shut-eye at night. Like he possibly needed more on his already, busy and stuffed plate too, of all times. 

All in all, the entirety of what was meant to be said, thoroughly snuffed out by a stuttered curse is hastily stifled in favour of carefully processing what he’s currently being greeted with, once again. Little shit that dared to impulsively walk upon an important moment meant to be properly spent with himself, and of course— it’s you of all people responsible for that result. Well, not exactly you— but, still you. 

See, the tentative peering of your gaze, quizzical cock of your head noticeably tilting to the edge of the doorway to openly display your shared confusion at his presence, the same way he, himself, is not entirely amused by your sudden pop-in either. “Hello— Oh, you’re not mister.. Harper, are you?” Stupid fuckin’ scanning of his slouched frame sat atop the creaking, wooden chair audibly squeaking throughout the otherwise narrow room and— god, why do they build these things so damn loud?? Not the point here, y’a moron. 

Sputtering out a cuss out of pure habit because sure, he’s a professional doctor now or should be notably referred to as such, however, doesn’t mean he’s about to fully give out on his old, habitual gestures. Nearly had a heart attack at the ripe age of twenty-one due to your sheer incompetence and, ah— he’s becoming like those old folks repetitively reprimanding younger people for their lack of care and attentiveness or.. something. Fuck, either way, therein lies the single question in his mind; what are you, of all people, precisely doing here? In the staffs room of all places? 

“Shit, you scared me..” Huffing out annoyingly at your unwanted arrival or maybe, it is a good coincidence that he’s luckily granted with a long-awaited reunion with one of his memorable victims in high school. Fleeting days he had long since pushed past by then, but.. he’s not entirely against the mere idea of sneakily revisiting that foggy era solely for the sake of recollecting those notable, cute expressions you’d make, all scrunched up and flustered.. Spurred on further by the fuckin’ sounds of yours too, in the narrow stalls of the bathroom and, fuck— Enough of that, gotta get to the point one way or another to initially receive a reply to his beckoning curiosity itching to be answered. “Why’re you even here? What? Got an appointment with Harper or somethin’? Well, he’s not here and I don’t know where he is, so either you come back later or just—“

“An appointment? No, no. I just was supposed to put these— here, and— Sorry, was I not supposed to come here?” Plainly interrupting him with your oddly.. formal way of speaking. Since when the fuck do you even speak like that again? Last time he’s checked — which was years ago— you’re not exactly the eloquent type like that goody-two shoes Sydney nor overly polite like Robin either. You’re just. Fuck, well— you’re you with a hint of defiance. Not this. Whatever this is.

“..No, this is the staffs room. I don’t see why the hell you’re even here to begin with. Do you need something? I’m sort of in the middle of my break right now.” He grunts in return, visible scowl appearing upon his sharp features to then, thereafter, dissipate entirely when met with your confused face to his gruff response.

Right, right. Supposedly obligated to keep up with all that polite etiquette crap which he miserably fails to do so in the face of your presence. How your pathetic, little self comes and numbly reduce him to the rebellious bully he previously once was truly fuckin’ messes with him. Because, there’s no goddamn way that your reaction towards him, after all these years— after every shitty thing he’s done to you, especially the whole sucking off thing — would be so minimal, right?? Or has he become so unrecognizable in the span of just a few years that you, yourself, don’t precisely know who he, in fact, truthfully is? Surely, a slight shift in his usually messy, ruffled hair now mildly slicked back to intently follow hospital’s policies and a pair of glasses isn’t that major of a change, is it? 

Unless you’re as stupid as he had thought of you to be, blatantly ignoring that minute detail of forcibly shoving his every homework and assignment on you too. Hah, funny. Even funnier is that blank look you absentmindedly regard him with, as if you’re not quickly getting the fuckin’ hint that he’d like some alone time now. Real fast on that area, aren’t ya? Slut. Get on with it already.

“Huh, I could’ve sworn I got the right room though..” Your subtle head shakes and spared glances around to anywhere but him shouldn’t be so damn cute to him. Fuck, he sure as hell would like to redirect your precious attention to him only. Like a petulant child secretly throwing a tantrum for the lack of importance currently being given to him here. 

Arms expectantly crossed across his broad chest, foot idly tapping against the tiled floor below in a pure display of his ever burgeoning impatience. “Well? Answer the question. Do you need something or not?”

“Um, well— yes. Mister Harper told me to put these here and gather a sample from.. someone.” Mister Harper? Why’re you even.. referring to him as that, unless.. Hesitancy lacing your tone as if he isn’t carefully hanging upon every lull within your voice, ah— how he’s actually missed the lilt of it during the excruciatingly long lessons of math class being boringly taught to by that.. one teacher. What’s their name again? Right, River. Something like that. 

“Um.. I’m sorry, have we.. met before? Are you Whitney, by any chance?” Promptly blurting that out of the blue, puzzling gaze deftly meeting his as his own eyes immediately widen in exchange. Finally recognized him? Is that it? Was about damn time already and he’s not one to particularly lie in situations such as these ones, right? More like he desires to hungrily drink in the mere sight of your face, the slightest flicker of recognition amongst your softened features when reality fully settles in. 

That meek demeanour you’ve adopted so abruptly towards him does irk him however, to say the least. Never really been the timid type nor the likes when it came to him, if anything, you’d openly be opposed to his every cruel method of tormenting others. Hell, he’d know it— he’s grown familiar with your childish antics by now despite the warping time easily slipping past his tight-held grasp. Hah, knows it better than anyone else when it comes to you, as cheesy and downright ironic that might appear to others. A bully cheekily aware of their victim’s peculiarities and this, right here, is bound to take its due course.

“Yeah, that’s right. That’s me. Long time no see, huh?” Clicking his tongue in this unadulterated need, itch meant to be satiated— fuck, in utter disbelief that he almost called you by that old nickname once again. Slut. As much as he’d like to dumbly feign ignorance considering the circumstances at hand, that this is the most uncomfortable way you could possibly reunite with someone of your high school days— he knows better than to do so.

Continuing on further, maybe as an idle distraction for the aching hard-on fervently twitching against the front of his trousers, hopefully concealed enough by his slouched posture or otherwise awkward angle from below here. Wouldn’t want you taking notice of that, would he? “So, are you going to tell me what’re you actually doing here or not? I’ve got things to do and only staff are permitted to enter this room.” Skip the formalities goddamnit and just get to the fuckin’ point! He’s got one to rub out here and the annoying, pretty face he’s used to stupidly jack off to, in high school ��� suddenly appearing before him out of nowhere — isn’t necessarily helping matters here either!

“Oh— I see, so that means you’re.. the guy that—” Jesus Christ, he’s uncertain whether to sarcastically repeat your dumbfounded expression in a snarky remark or simply shut himself up in favour of awaiting for your next move. Though, of course, you promptly do the honours for him in return to the affirmed confirmation to your confused questioning. And truly, nothing could’ve properly prepared him for the next set of your unpredictable actions as your peering gaze soon shifts to that of unbridled shock at the sudden discovery of his identity — to then, take on that oddly bright glimmer within your eyes. Little scrunch of your nose, ah fuck— shouldn’t be so cute — as if carefully processing this newfound fact, innocent tilt and frown ever so slowly creeping up to the corner of your rosy lips in a pure display of perplexity in face of this.

“Excuse me, sir.. But I really need to do this real quick, if you don’t mind.” Why’re you suddenly settled atop the barely dusted ground, on your knees and— and, fuckin’ looking so goddamn methodical for?? Blatantly discarding the mere fact that you’re also, brazenly acting like a complete stranger in this instant, impulsively throwing yourself onto him — whether it’d be with open arms invitingly welcoming you or not — openly placing your oddly cold palms against his sides, practically clinging upon his frame for no reason whatsoever other than.. God, actually why’re you fuckin’ tugging at the hem of his— his pants, right now?! Fumbling at his zipper, hastily unbuckling his belt with a light jingle to irresponsibly sprawl across the tiled floor.

“H-Hey! Wha—What the fuck’re you doing??” Blubbering out, in sheer, utter shock when his legs should’ve notably been begging him to move, kick you away like some other stray cat uselessly pawing at him in one of the deserted alleyways, yet his feet remain firmly planted onto the floor — paralyzed even, reeled off his initial tracks as this naturally plays out to the likes of a.. cheap, porno film. 

Y’know, the ones he’d absently flip through whenever work drew on a bit too slowly for his tastes, randomly picked the nearest magazine idly displayed on his side and there you go; Bunch of freaks fuckin’ bringing shitty porn in a sacred place, namely the clinic he dutifully worked in. Ain’t that funny? Not that he can’t similarly sympathize, he’s just as much as a pervert as those lustful patients, just better at concealing it.

Oh, who’s he fuckin’ kidding? Conceal? Like the painfully evident hard-on visibly twitching against his boxers, soaking wet patch of sticky pre-cum darkening the shade humiliatingly bare for your eyes to calmly take in. Feathered breaths wistfully close along the outline of his aching dick insistently throbbing in response to the puff of heated air blown out— god, way too fucking close for his tastes. Yeah, he’s known you for being surprisingly crude at certain times, specially when you’d actually readily obey to his orders in math class like sloppily sucking him off, messily coating his cock in a layer of translucent spit underneath the wobbly desk while slobbering all over his fat balls as he made no effort to stifle his guttural groans, but— but, damn.. Thought you would’ve left those slutty tendencies long behind you after those few years, slut. Guess he’s thought wrong and been disproven once again.

“I’m taking a sample as I promised mister Harper that I would. Now stay still for me, it’ll just take a second — a couple minutes, to be exact if all goes well.” Mister Harper this, mister Harper that, he’s got half a mind to curiously question you as to what’s up with the unnatural, formal name calling because since when did you refer to the local doctor in town — partially known for being a freak by a limited bunch, though few actually made it out to tentatively whisper out the tale — as Mister?? Which, his main objection should logically be plainly getting you off of him, but with his arms hanging limply at his sides, instead settling upon reluctantly tugging at the silky strands of your hair, he’s not making much progress to say the least.

“S-Sample?? Sample of what— fuck! Get your hands off my fuckin’ pants before I report your ass to security!!” Preferably, he would’ve unavoidably settled with knocking the lights out of you— still, is a tad bit too far lest he wants to get fired from his prestigious job — ah, since when is being a surgeon tirelessly worked to death exactly seen as an accomplishment again? To hell with this, he should’ve been a smuggler or some shit. 

“I need a sample of your semen, so you just gotta keep still for a second.” As you assertively claim your reasoning for this all which still makes no sense, by the way— why the fuck would you or should he say, doctor Harper need his fucking jizz in the first place anyway? “What was it again.. Need to stimulate this part of your dick till you climax, correct?” Alright, now you’re just being too clinical with your wording, shivering into your touch, the delicate trace of your supple fingertip running along the curve of the veiny underside of his shaft nearly enough to have him push aside the unbelievable logistics of what this is inevitably leading to.

Beyond that puzzling rambling, a tinge of disgust lurches in his heart, towards himself for being unable to lay the slightest hand on your angelic face due to how adorable you appear in this moment. Pretty, stupid fuckin’ pretty boy, god. Said it twice cuz’ that’s just how pretty you are to him. Despite literally forcing him to be naked from the waist down against his will, okay— not fully convinced about that last part. This is playing out too well like one of his depraved fantasies, you, all obedient and pliable, pushing him to his withering limits. 

And if your insistent, albeit nonsensical explanation is meant to supposedly soothe his frantic panic and bewilderment of this unfavourable situation, then that’s immediately thrown out the window as your invasive hands shamelessly strip him down to basically nothing, save for his boxers that’s also— ah, fucking shit.. swiftly being chucked down too. Muttered curses and maybe, the meanest swears and insults that would’ve put a seasoned sailor to shame, aimlessly falling upon deaf ears. After all, he’s but a man, is he not? So, don’t fault him for his body to instinctively experience a natural reaction when a pretty mouth is so stupidly close to his bare cock, springing free of its unbearable confines to then audibly slap against his toned stomach, smear the already present, pearly pre-cum along the curve of his tummy with a sigh. Fuck, he’d just about pin you down and fill you to the brim right then and there, as if.

So what’s stopping him from doing so anyway? 

Clearly, you’re asking for it, if not in the weirdest of ways. Cleanly popping his leaking cock between your too soft lips, outwardly hissing at the wet warmth he’s sought to crave late at night with his sheets haphazardly thrown aside to give way to his fat, drooling cock frustratingly squeezed in the cup of his palm. Red, hot tip dribbling out thick globs of pre-cum along his tense tummy, arm lazily thrown over his face to stifle his ever growing curses of dissatisfaction. Not enough though, not fucking enough— because nothing truly beats the squishy, tight insides he’s come to secretly cherish, if not take for granted, of his stupid, little slut. An addict is what he is, pathetically yearning for the chance to at the very least, indulge himself once more in that sickly, tight heat one last time, just one last fuckin’ time, god. Upper lip curling upward at the sheer thought as he miserably drives himself to shoot his spent seed, messily splattering along his stomach to then paint his chest white in the same crude manner. What a fucking sight, huh. Whitney, former bully in the making, stained in his own cum cuz’ no other bitch does it for him much like you do.

But, as often spoken by most— old habits die hard, do they fuckin’ not? It’s instinct on his part, so you really shouldn’t cruelly place the fault onto him when he’s practically manhandling you on the squeaking bed instead, usually meant for carefully inspecting sickly patients and the likes. New purpose found, he guesses. “Fine, you wanna do this then? I’ll give y’a my fuckin’ cum you’re so desperately askin’ for, you whore— so, don’t start crying now.”Crinkly, thin, barely translucent sheet of paper laid atop the surface, audibly shifting underneath your sudden weight. Thought you had him beat? Well, guess what? He’s kept you snugly stuck beneath the heel of his foot during the entirety of high school, so what’s the goddamn difference if he does it now as older adults? 

Just.. a slight change in the way it’s done and, you wouldn’t mind, would you? By the looks of it, familiar squeaks he’s recurrently heard, partially muffled by the thumping blood hurriedly rushing to his head— and fucking south too, though that doesn’t need to be said twice, y’know. Heaving groan at the feel of his bare cock already instinctively rubbing himself against the outline of your own, cute cock incidentally stuck in your pants. Collective, shared gasps slipped out in tandem with each full rub of his twitching length smearing a sticky mess across the patched outline of your shorts. 

“Fuck.” Cute. Unconsciously cursing to himself at the welcoming warmth your soft body provides when encompassed by his own bigger one— know how much he’s missed ya all this time? Pawing hands that he somehow can’t manage to keep to himself when you’re around, and it’s not his fault, really. Zeroing gaze descending downwards to where your leaking cock rests so cutely against your tummy, fuckin’ asking for it, aren’t you?

Did ‘mister Harper’ make you wear those all-too tight, fitting shorts to accentuate your plush thighs or somethin’ too, huh? Prepped you all up and pretty for him? Speaking of that freak, he’ll make note to visit the little cunt later once he’s done with you, either punch the lights out of him or reluctantly thank him for the opportunity made by him— maybe both, actually. Far too busy in greedily inhaling the dizzyingly sweet scent exuding out of your frame, no matter how weird that may seemingly appear to others. Comfortably tucking his nose in the crook of your neck in favour of mindlessly humping himself stupid between your forcibly spread legs to actually catch the slight tilt of his glasses slipping downwards, on the verge of falling forth before coincidentally caught by your fumbling hands slicked in sweat. Aren’t you so helpful? Gotta hand it to ya, your preventive action merely spurs on this creeping idea in his disgusting mind, itch meant to be satiated as he coldly dotes a single, rather simple order upon you. 

“Put ‘em on.” He simply grunts out of the blue, gaze fixated on the quiver of your bottom lip, ah— fuck. He’d like to suck on it and stain it sticky with his cum and spit, give it a little bite while he’s at it too, watch it prettily bloom red beneath the sharpness of his teeth. Would look so cute like that, wouldn’t y’a?

“Huh?” Wide, puzzled eyes confusingly blinking back at him cuz’ isn’t it obvious what he’s asking for? He wants you to slip on those pair of glasses, his glasses, to be exact. 

“I said, put ‘em on.” Even if the gesture itself, despite not being that big of a deal brings a certain, feverish heat to his cheeks as it’s sort of intimate for a man like Whitney to be willingly shoving his property onto another, generously sharing it with you his own possession like the glasses he routinely wears to work everyday. Useless to repeat himself any further, but like a good boy, you abide to his crystal clear instructions— shakily placing the rims onto yourself, breath immediately caught in his throat at the sight of your averting eyes stubbornly set downcast to avoid his piercing gaze boring a hole into your flushing face. 

God, you’re way too cute for your own good, aren’t you? Something— something about you wearing those— his glasses, to be exact, has his mouth dumbly hanging open, palms eagerly pawing at your supple legs, tender flesh beneath his grasp that’s so fuckin’ delicate it might as well break, decisively ripping your shorts down to display your soft, wanting hole for his awaiting, throbbing cock. “W-Wait! Don’t look!��Cutest squeaks he’s ever heard as your palms instantly cover your puckered entrance and cock like that’ll actually stop him from repeatedly slamming his entire length inside your fragile body, openly snarling at your measly attempt to hide your wet and ready hole from his prying eyes greedily drinking in the pretty sight that greets him in return— etch it to memory if he could and oh, he will. Whether you want it or not.

“Fucking shit— and you act like you don’t want it. Don’t go lying to me when you want it just as bad as I do.” It’s a bold admission on his part, yet he remains intricately aware that he’s the one who’s right here, isn’t he? Hand raising upwards to meet your face, hopefully untouched by that other freak’s claws or he might as well bust his face in too. Calloused thumb uncharacteristically tender in its strokes along your blazing cheeks. Little, heated sighs of apparent relief once you’ve eased into the blonde’s abnormally soft touch to then, suddenly morph to a rougher form as his fingers harshly dig in the softness of your cheeks, forcibly keeping you in his hold so that he may direct your gaze to his own figure towering over yours. Bitten lip meant to fuck, loudly sighing at your annoyingly cute face accompanied by his smudged glasses resting atop your nose. “Look what’ya do to me, gettin’ me all hard and shit, and then you suddenly wanna back out now? No fucking way, slut. I’ll give you what you want— I’ll give you my fuckin’ cum, so keep still for me.”

Not a heeding warning, but a command which you should notably be listening to, by the way, if you’ve retained any foggy memories of the shit he’s cruelly had you endure back in high school. Plush thighs firmly pinned against your chest, full view of your tight, little hole, ass and balls to appreciatively take in for the briefest of moments. Ah, he’s missed this so goddamn bad, y’know? Directly lining up his pulsing cock head dribbling out fat globs of pre along your entrance, relishing in that curled, wide-eyed expression of yours, parted lips he’d like to just shove his slippery tongue into— fuck. Either mixed with utter fear or maybe, actual, shared desire for this as much too, that he’ll settle upon it being both for the sake of his sadistic mind. You wear fear pretty well, don’t’cha think? 

So much so that he can’t help, but precariously crane his head over to fully paint the sight to mind like the prettiest of pictures he’s ever been graciously blessed to witness. “Pretty.” He muses inwardly, subconsciously, without the slightest sense of awareness of the overly soft praise he’s just given you. Too fuckin’ busy in cutting himself off as the slippery wet tip of his fat cock so effortlessly slides in your tight hole with ease,  no sense of handling you with care when you’ve been such a damn tease about it too— because ah, fuck— know just how long he’s been waiting for this opportunity? Fucking, slicked walls instinctually clamping down around his throbbing length, hissing at the burning stretch of your hole gradually accommodating to the girth of his cock. Muted whines, fluttering lashes wet with bubbling tears threatening to spill forth, pink tongue discreetly peeking out to delicately lick away at the sheer proof that he’s potentially hurting you, or maybe not. Looks more like you actually enjoy having a fat cock up your ass— your ex-bully’s too.

Conflicted between the helpless babbles the sharp, punishing snap of his hips flush against your backside draw out from you and the scrunch of your features undeniably spelling pleasure. “Fuck— hah, fuck.. D-Don’t look at me like that. I’m fuckin’ giving you what you’re asking for, aren’t I?” God, he looks just as dumb as you right now, head thrown back, eyes automatically rolling to meet his skull from just how goddamn nice it is to be snugly stuffing your whorish boy hole full of his twitching length— fuuuuuckkk. Golden locks of hair unceremoniously tumbling forth to conceal the strained expression etched along his face, biting of his bottom lip and the sharp puffs of air endlessly being exhaled out of his hanging mouth. Palms locked upon your slutty waist, practically using your lithe frame as though you were a squishy flesh light— which, by all means, you definitely beat the actual feel of it, shit, only your stupidly warm hole would’ve gotten him this dizzyingly high off of the wet sensation enveloping his cock. Only stupid, little, ol’ you— really. 

Frustratingly gritting his teeth at your feeble head shakes despite the full-on body shudders of your quivering legs held— no, fucking raised high, feet resting atop his shoulders mainly used as a means of support. “N-No— ah, don’t l-like it. Uh, I don’t like it—” Alright, keep telling yourself that then, with your fists decisively clenched upon your chest, rosy, pink nipples evidently erect in the cooling air of the closed room. Hard cock cutely bobbing up and down in times with each of his sloppy thrusts accompanied by the squirming bulge of the outline of his cock fully sheathed in your slippery warm insides, protruding against the flesh of your tummy. ‘Don’t like it’ my fucking ass, you’re about this close to cummin’ hands free from your old bully’s cock harshly shoved up your hole. 

And truly, he’d be nothing more than content to aid in that— it’s where your rightful place has always been, hasn’t it? Glasses somehow not clumsily knocked off your drooling face, smudged with the heated huffs steaming up the air. Within arms reach, in his unrelenting grasp that his self-deluded mind has dumbly convinced Whitney of so. ‘Course, why wouldn’t he have thought so of it earlier? Dotting smile, lashes prettily staring back at him with a rosy flush adorning your cheeks. Outstretched arm gleefully welcoming him in— your fucking husband in, to be exact in that matter. Wouldn’t you be so kind to carefully reach for his worn coat, seamlessly slip it off his taller frame as you dutifully greet him like a caring husband should? Timidly reward him for the tireless efforts he’s put in after a long, torturous day of work. Pouty lips lovingly tracing his jawline, your soft palms he’d wish for nothing more than to constantly cling upon his body everyday, every second actually — comforting warmth he’d fervently seek out and easily find when you’re so tenderly embraced within his arms. 

It’s stupid, so fucking stupid that it’s that single thought that merely drives him to the edge. Whitney, fuckin’ him of all people to be experiencing such domestic thoughts, never been much of a family’s man or so others predictably think so of him, but— fuck, would it be so damn bad if it were you instead, happily greeting him at the edge of his doorstep every day— for the rest of his godforsaken life?? Devotedly stuck to his side? Yeah, hah. Actually, he’d like that a whole lot, really. “God, ah— fuck— fuck, cummin’— hah, fuckin’ cumming inside you, ‘kay?” High-pitched whine, all too soft to be a sound belonging to the blonde’s parted lips, stuttered curses at the slight twitch of his full length noticeably quivering deep inside your slutty hole. Hot, white spurts of his sticky seed uncontrollably squirting out of his fat cock to messily stain your insides tacky with his cum— ah, shit. Really is no better than that fucker after all, is he? 

Still, he can’t go letting your weeping cock miserably go neglected, can he? Thumb insistently nudging at the flesh of your pouty lips, snidely grinning at your reluctant obedience as your shakily part your mouth open for the spit coated digit to slip in. “Good boy.” Haven’t cum yet, have you? Well, that would be too bad if he were to cruelly leave you be as you are, though good thing Whitney has changed for the better, right? Previous bully reformed and all that— thanks to society, right? 

Oh, who’s he kidding— hah. Change? Progress slipped way off the second his gaze landed upon your all too nosy one in his office. 

You look better with his cum lodged in your hole, wobbly lips and tear stained cheeks anyway.

[allgoodnamesrgoneee]

can you do one where kylian can’t stop touching reader?

Clingy

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — The one where he can't let you go

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Kylian Mbappé x you

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 5.2k

Warnings! FLUFF, Drunk!Kylian, he's super cute and sweet in this one, suggestive words but no smut, special Ashraf Hakimi appearance, I think that's it

It's 2:27 AM and you're getting tired.

You glance at your phone for what feels like the hundredth time, rereading Kylian’s last text from hours ago: "Don’t wait up, bébé. I’ll be home late. Love you."

You huff, your thumb hovering over the screen as you debate texting him again. You trust him completely, he’s out with Ashraf and some of the other guys on the team—but it's getting really late and he's usually home by now.

You sigh and toss the phone aside, deciding to just close your eyes and wait for him to get home.

The TV plays softly in the background, the sound filling the quiet living room as you lay curled up on the couch, wrapped in one of Kylian’s oversized hoodies. The faint smell of his cologne lingered on the fabric, giving you the slightest comfort as you fight the pull of sleep.

Just as your eyelids start to droop, a sharp knock at the door jolts you awake.

Frowning, you sit up.

Kylian has his keys—he wouldn’t knock.

Your heart skips a beat as you approach the door cautiously, the soft glow of the hallway light spilling through the crack underneath.

The knocking grows louder, and you can hear a muffled voice saying something, but you can't hear what it said.

Then the person knocks again.

You hesitate for a moment, wondering if you should answer it, and then you hear that voice again.

This time it's louder and clearer.

"Y/N! Come on, open up! He can’t walk!"

Ashraf Hakimi.

Confused, you pull the hoodie tighter around you, shuffling closer to the door and peering through the peephole. On the other side, you see Ashraf Hakimi holding a stumbling, clearly wasted, Kylian upright.

You quickly undo the lock and yank open the door.

“Thank fuck,” Hakimi exhales, voice heavy with relief and exasperation the second you pull the door open.

He looks as though he’s just run a marathon, his expression caught somewhere between amused and desperate, clearly eager to pass Kylian off to you. His hand tightens briefly on Kylian’s shoulder as if to keep him upright for just a few more seconds.

“Kylian?” you ask, your voice gentle but laced with confusion, eyes flicking between the two of them.

At the sound of your voice, Kylian’s head lolls forward like a puppet with its strings cut, only to jerk back up a moment later, his eyes brightening as he zeroes in on you.

“Bébé!” he cries out, his tone so boyishly elated it makes your heart clench, the way it always does when he looks at you like you hung the stars. Your name slurs off his tongue, a little wobbly, but it’s accompanied by the sweetest, most dazzling smile that spreads across his face like a sunrise, all teeth and crinkled eyes.

Your stomach dips in response, a warmth blooming in your chest that you can’t quite fight. For a moment, you forget the situation entirely, caught in the spell of how devastatingly soft he looks right now.

But before you can say another word, Kylian shrugs out of Hakimi’s grip with an unsteady lurch, his body tilting as though gravity itself is trying to take him down. He stumbles toward you in a half-drunk stagger, arms already reaching out like he’s afraid you might disappear.

You barely manage a surprised gasp as he throws himself at you, his weight nearly knocking you off balance. His arms wrap around your neck in a vice-like grip, his broad frame warm and solid against you despite the way he sways.

He smells like the club—of sweat, alcohol, and something fruity—and you don't even have to look at him to know that his skin is hot, flushed from the alcohol that’s coursing through his body like molten lava.

You can feel the heat of him, seeping into you through the thin layer of fabric between you.

Then he presses a kiss to your hairline—a messy, clumsy press of lips that lingers far too long to be neat but feels oddly reverent nonetheless.

“Je t'aime, bébé, tellement” he mumbles, the words thick with alcohol and affection as they spill against your temple, his breath warm on your skin. “I missed you so much. I’m home.”

His voice is soft, almost childlike, and it strikes something tender in you. Your heart melts all over again, the tension in your body slipping away as you sigh and hug him back.

“I love you too, baby,” you murmur, your tone light but edged with concern as you adjust your grip around his waist, steadying him against you.

You glance over his shoulder to where Hakimi stands, his arms crossed as he chuckles and shakes his head at you. "The man's in love,” he says with a snort, as though that explains everything.

You frown, slightly more concerned now than confused. “Did something happen?” you ask, brows furrowing as your eyes narrow at Hakimi. “How drunk is he?”

Hakimi shakes his head, an expression that’s caught somewhere between amusement and frustration crossing his face. "He's been asking for you all night," he tells you, a note of apology creeping into his tone. "And I’m pretty sure he’s more gone than he should be. We tried to get him to eat, but…” He trails off, hands lifting in a gesture of surrender that’s both helpless and fond.

You sigh, eyes flicking to where Kylian nuzzles against you, his grip as tight as ever despite the fact that his eyes are already drooping in the middle of a long exhale, his head lolling back into the curve of your shoulder. His arms tighten around you again in an uncoordinated jerk, his mouth finding your neck for another sloppy kiss.

“Alright. Thanks for briging him home” you reply, nodding, lips pressing into a thin line as you meet Hakimi’s gaze. “Are you okay to drive? Do you want me to call you an Uber?”

Hakimi’s smile is quick and bright, his mouth curling at the corners as he waves you off. “It’s fine,” he replies with a quick headshake. “My driver is waiting outside. But I’ll call you tomorrow to check in, yeah?” The question is directed at you but his eyes move to Kylian.

You nod, smiling softly, "Yeah, okay.”

“Alright, goodnight,” he calls out, tipping his chin at you both.

The front door shuts behind him seconds later, and you shift Kylian more fully into your arms as you turn to carry him inside.

“Come on, baby, let’s get you inside.”

Kylian doesn’t reply, just nuzzles his face further into the crook of your neck, his lips finding your skin and pressing a kiss there, the stubble on his cheek scratching you gently.

You make it to the couch without any mishaps, sinking onto the worn cushion with him still in your arms, his heavy weight solid against you. You hold him there for a few minutes, running a soothing hand up and down his back as he shudders, his whole body vibrating with the force of his emotions.

“Hey,” you try to reassure him, your tone soft and calm, “what happened?”

“Just…just so happy,” he mumbles after a minute, his tone utterly euphoric. “I love you so much, Y/N.”

“I love you too,” you tell him again, smiling as you tip your head to meet his eyes. They’re glassy and bright, swimming with emotion, and you feel a little tug in your chest.

“I know,” he breathes out, smile softening. “I just… I miss you when we’re apart, okay? That’s all. I'm sorry I'm-I'm always g-gone.” He slurs and hiccups as he says the last part.

Your heart tugs in your chest, and you nod, reaching up to smooth his hair. “I know, it's okay” you tell him. “I miss you too.”

He hums in response, the noise soft and low in his chest. For a moment he simply nuzzles his cheek against your palm, his eyes drifting shut as he relaxes back into your arms.

But then a few seconds later, his eyes flutter open again. He's still smiling at you, his mouth tipped up in a goofy grin. “Bébé,” he murmurs again, voice husky and affectionate, his eyes squinting adoringly at you.

“Yeah?” you prompt after a minute, because he just stares at you for long seconds like he can’t look away.

“T'es vraiment belle, tu sais? I'm so lucky.” His voice drops, grows quiet as he speaks.

You feel a flutter in your chest, but then you shake your head, your lips twitching into a smile. “Kylian, bébé, you’re drunk, let’s go to bed” you say instead, dodging the topic.

Kylian’s face scrunches up for a moment as though he doesn’t understand what you're saying. Then his eyebrows rise, and his mouth falls open.

He looks affronted, the picture of scandalized drunkenness. “Non!” he protests, voice loud and outraged as though you've suggested something truly heinous. “I don’t wanna sleep! I wanna…” His brows furrow. He frowns for a moment, as though he can't remember what he wants.

Then his eyes light up. “I wanna fuck you,” He rasps the words against your skin, nuzzling his face into your neck with another long exhale.

He tries to move his mouth up to yours, but misses by a good few centimeters, his lips pressing against the hollow of your throat instead.

Your breath catches at the feel of his mouth on you, his warm lips dragging against your skin.

But you shake yourself out of the daze that threatens to pull you under at his touch, reaching down to cup his chin and tip his head back until he's staring up at you once again. His eyes are glazed, his cheeks pink, and his lips look swollen.

He looks like he wants to devour you whole.

But instead of giving in, you try again, your smile soft but firm. “Baby, you're drunk,” you repeat.

He shakes his head. “Non! I'm not” He repeats his protest, his voice adamant and thick with a slur. "I just…” He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as his eyes drop from yours to stare at your mouth.

His tongue darts out, wetting his lips in an unconscious gesture that makes your stomach flip in your abdomen. Then his eyes move back up to yours and his face crumples, the look of pure distress on his features making you chuckle.

“Bébé, s’il vous plaît?” he begs. “J'ai besoin de toi. Je suis tellement…” His voice is anguished, like he's holding himself back. the strain in his tone making your breath catch. “I want you so bad, tresor,” he slurs. “so bad.”

He leans forward then, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks, his eyes dark and intense as they find yours.

“Je t'aime tellement, it hurts, bébé,” he confesses, his words a messy slur of French and English that make your breath catch. He's not making any sense but you understand him.

You nod, but his arms tighten around you, and he nuzzles your neck, planting sloppy kisses along your jaw. "I love you, you know that? You’re my everything. Mon cœur."

"Yes, I know," you say, cupping his face to look him in the eye. His chocolate-brown gaze is glassy, but the sincerity in his words melts you. "I love you too, but you need water. And maybe food. Come on, let's get you something to eat. "

His brows draw together at first, a flicker of thought crossing his face, but then a wide, knowing smirk spreads across his lips, lighting up his features in a way that makes your heart stutter. “You’re right,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with heat. His gaze, dark and smoldering, locks onto you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. “I am hungry,” he continues, leaning just a little closer, his tone laced with wicked intent. “For you.”

You let out a long-suffering sigh, though the way your lips twitch betrays your amusement. “Kylian…” you begin, your voice edged with a mix of exasperation and fondness.

“Oui?” he interjects smoothly, cutting you off before you can even finish. His eyes, impossibly large and impossibly dark, seem to glitter with mischief as he looks at you, completely unfazed by your scolding tone. For a moment, you falter, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of his expression.

“Come on,” you manage at last, your voice softening despite yourself. You shake your head, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation. “Let’s get you food first, then we’ll get you to bed.” You’re firm but your voice is more gentle than you intended, your gaze soft on him.

Kylian beams up at you like you’re the sun itself, and nods, his expression serious as he tries to pull back. But he ends up swaying a little, his legs tangled in yours and his arms around your neck. His eyebrows draw together, and he looks a bit dizzy for a minute.

But then he swallows hard and tries again, managing to untangle himself with a huff. This time, his smile is sheepish when he meets your eyes. “Whatever you say, bébé.”

“Okay,” you say with slight chuckle. You shift out of his arms, standing as you offer him your hand.

Kylian takes it with a warm smile, rising to his feet unsteadily. The action seems to take a lot out of him—he staggers a little on the way up, his knee bumping your thigh. And when he’s finally standing, his hand grips yours tight, as though he needs your support to keep himself upright.

You nod at him, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze before leading him into the kitchen.

He trails behind you like a lost puppy, following you without question and looking vaguely disoriented whenever you glance back at him.

When you reach the kitchen, you slide onto one of the stools, gesturing for him to take the one across from you.

“Sit down and let me get you something,” you instruct. You nod at the stool opposite, watching as he lowers himself into it, his movements slow and clumsy.

“Merci, bébé,” he mumbles as his back hits the stool, a look of relief crossing his face.

You smile at him warmly as you turn toward the fridge. “You’re welcome,” you tell him, opening the door to peer inside.

He's silent for a minute, watching you with a sort of childlike fascination. Then, when you bend down to pull out the eggs, his voice calls out again.

"Nice ass,” he says, his tone full of appreciation. "You have the best ass." He slurs the words, sounding more than a little drunk and awed.

You let out a startled laugh at that, your hand stalling in its reach for the pan. Your head tips up to meet his gaze, your smile stretching wide across your lips.

"Thank you," you tell him with a chuckle, cheeks flushing lightly at his praise.

But he just laughs, his face alight with a radiant grin. His voice takes on an almost conversational quality, like you're not standing in your kitchen at 2:53 in the morning talking about your ass. “Do you know how many times I've jacked off to it?” he asks, sounding utterly sincere. His brow furrows. “Maybe hundreds?”

Your breath catches, and you let out another laugh, a little more helpless this time. Your body flushes, heat rising in your cheeks as you fumble a bit with the pan, your gaze darting to his to gauge his reaction. His eyes are wide and earnest, his grin still soft on his face as he watches you.

You shake your head, the motion a little helpless. “Kylian,” you say again, letting out another laugh as you try to ignore the fluttering in your stomach.

But instead of relenting, he just grins harder, his expression one of pure adoration. “What? It's the truth, bébé!” He leans forward, his elbows hitting the counter as he braces his body with his arms, his gaze still fixed intently on you. “You're so beautiful, I just want to eat you up,” he mumbles then, his tone filled with a thick slur and a wealth of affection.

Your face burns, and you try to look away, but it's hard to ignore the way his voice makes you feel. Like you're the only person in the world.

“Baby…” you try to chide him, but he's having none of it.

“I’m serious,” he protests, his brow furrowing in a scowl as he slides off his stool. He sways a little as he makes his way over to you, but you barely have time to register his movement before he's sliding his arms back around your waist, his chest warm against your back. “You have no idea, do you?” he asks, his breath a gentle caress on your neck as his lips find the slope of your shoulder.

Your stomach tenses under his grip, but your hands pause in their reach for the eggs, your body leaning back into his. “No idea about what?” you murmur softly.

His arms tighten around your middle, squeezing you gently against him as his nose nudges your hair out of the way. You can feel his breath against your neck as he inhales, his lips skating across your skin with a featherlight touch.

“How gorgeous you are,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice warm and thick. He exhales again, the air drifting against your skin in a caress that makes your whole body shiver. “How much I love you.”

You turn in his arms then, reaching up to cup his cheeks with your palms. He looks down at you, his dark eyes soft and fond, his features more boyish than anything else right now.

You smile up at him, running your thumbs over his cheekbones in a soothing stroke. “I know,” you say, your voice soft, but firm. “I love you too. So much.”

A brilliant grin spreads across his face at your words, his gaze going soft with adoration as he gazes down at you. “Je t'aime,” he whispers, his tone full of conviction and emotion. “Plus que tout.” His eyes meet yours, and you can see the sincerity, his feelings plain on his face.

Then his arms are wrapping around your back, pulling you tight against him.

“Plus que tout,” you repeat, nodding as you lean up on your toes to kiss him.

He meets you halfway, his mouth moving over yours in a warm, wet kiss that makes your heart flutter in your chest. His lips are soft, and gentle, and they move against yours in a kiss that’s more affection than anything else.

Then you're pulling back, and he's letting out a long exhale, as though the act of breathing itself is exhausting.

You glance up to find his eyes still closed, a look of utter contentment on his face. He doesn’t look drunk anymore; he looks like he's floating.

But then his eyes blink open, glazed and in love making you smile at him, feeling your heart nearly explode at the love you have for this man. “Salut,” he murmurs softly. His hands cup your cheeks again, tilting your face up toward his as he leans down to press another kiss to your lips. “You're mine.”

You nod, smiling up at him again as you slip your arms around his waist. “Yes I am,” you repeat. “Now sit down so I can get you some food.”

Kylian nods, his smile still soft on his lips as he does as you ask, sliding back onto the stool he vacated earlier.

You turn to the stove then, pulling the eggs onto the counter and moving to the fridge for milk as he stares after you with wide, affectionate eyes.

You work quickly, but efficiently, moving through the motions of making him scrambled eggs without a hitch. It's not hard, and in a matter of minutes, you've got a plate of fluffy yellow eggs slid in front of him along with a glass of milk.

He grins at you, a bit more subdued this time as he digs in. His eyes still follow you around the kitchen as you move, but there’s a hungry gleam in them now that’s more interested in the food than anything else.

You smile at that, taking a seat on the stool next to him as you watch him eat. “How’s that?”

“Mmm,” he mumbles around his mouthful of eggs, nodding, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he swallows. “That’s really good. Merci, bébé.” He smiles, grateful.

You hum in response, smiling softly as you nod back at him.

His shoulders sag a little as he eats, but when he finishes, he still looks a little unsteady as he pushes the plate away. His mouth twists up into a sheepish grimace. “You're the best cook. Never leave me,” he mumbles, the last part coming out thick and slurred.

You laugh at that, leaning over to take his plate. “I won’t,” you reassure him. “Not unless you leave first.”

His eyes dart towards you with shock, as if offended you would even suggest such a thing. “Jamais,” he replies, his voice full of a fierce denial.

“Okay,” you murmur, your voice gentle, barely above a whisper. Your hand reaches out, fingertips brushing softly over his hair, gliding across his scalp with a touch so light it feels like a caress. “You ready to go to bed now?”

He nods immediately, his answer quick and eager, as though the very idea of rest, as long as it’s with you, is the best thing he’s heard all day. His lips curve into a bright, unrestrained smile, one that lights up his whole face. “Oui,” he agrees, his voice filled with quiet enthusiasm. “Only if you're coming too.”

Your heart warms at his words, and you offer him a small, reassuring smile. “Of course,” you say simply, extending your hand to him.

Kylian doesn’t hesitate. His smile grows wider, impossibly so, as he reaches for you, his fingers slipping into yours with a natural ease. He holds your hand firmly, as he pushes himself to his feet.

This time, he manages to stand without much trouble, though his movements are still clumsy, a slight stumble here and there. But you’re there to steady him, your hand leading him gently out of the kitchen, guiding him down the hallway to your shared room.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost hesitant, like he’s laying his heart bare with those few words. They hit you squarely in the chest, a rush of emotion tightening your stomach and twisting your heart. He's been saying it all night but this time it’s almost too much to bear.

Your fingers tighten around his in response, a small squeeze that says everything words can’t. “I love you too,” you reply, your voice just as quiet, just as honest. “But let’s get some sleep, okay?”

“Okay, trésor,” he answers without hesitation, his head dipping slightly as he leans into your touch. There’s a tenderness to his movement, a reliance, as though your presence is the only thing keeping him steady.

You nod, saying nothing more, and continue guiding him, step by step, until you both reach the sanctuary of your bedroom.

As soon as you open the door, Kylian all but collapses onto the bed, his body sinking into the mattress like it’s a cloud ready to catch him.

He stretches out across the sheets, limbs sprawled in utter contentment, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. It’s a sound of pure relief, one that fills the room as you watch him settle, his smile still lingering even as his eyes flutter closed.

He looks so relaxed and peaceful it makes you feel bad for the words coming out of your mouth, but you say them anyway. “Babe, you have to change.”

“Non, bébé,” he groans, his head rolling to the side as he opens his eyes, a sliver of dark brown peeking out from under thick lashes. “I’m good,” he mutters. His tone is low, like even the act of speaking is a chore. “Sleep now.”

You smile softly at that, reaching for the hem of his shirt. “You can sleep, just let me help you get out of these first, okay? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable in the morning.” You’ve seen him before when he passes out drunk in his clothes; it’s not pretty.

His eyes crack open a little wider at that, and his mouth drops open in a soft protest. But then a slow smile spreads across his features, a soft sound of agreement escaping his lips. “Okay.” His head tips back, eyelids falling shut again as he raises his arms above his head.

“Good,” you say quietly, your hands moving to strip him of his clothes.

He’s easy to undress, not putting up much resistance as you slide his shirt up and over his head. His undershirt follows soon after, and you pause, just for a moment, to appreciate the hard planes of his torso.

He really is gorgeous, you can’t help thinking, your gaze drinking him in. Tall and lean, with broad shoulders that taper down into toned hips, he’s perfect.

Looking at you like you're the answer to every prayer he’s ever whispered, his smile so dazzling and pure that it makes your chest ache. “You’re the best, bébé,” he declares, his voice thick with emotion as he leans forward to press a kiss to your collarbone. “The absolute best.”

You sigh again, biting back a smile as you maneuver him to sit upright on the bed. His long legs splay out in front of him, his posture utterly relaxed in the way only someone completely plastered can manage. He watches you with a sort of drunken adoration that makes your stomach flutter and your cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Wait here,” you say, patting his knee gently as you straighten up. “I’ll grab you something to wear.”

But the second you step away, his hand darts out to grab yours, his fingers curling around your wrist with surprising strength. You turn back to him, startled, and his face is suddenly heartbreakingly serious.

“Don’t go,” he pleads softly, his eyes wide and imploring, his bottom lip jutting out just enough to make him look like a kicked puppy. “I need you here.”

“Kylian,” you murmur, your voice caught somewhere between affectionate and exasperated. You lean down slightly, brushing your free hand against his cheek, melting when he leans into the touch. “I’m just going to the closet. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

He pouts, his brows furrowing like a sulky child. “But what if you don’t come back?” His voice is small, his grip tightening just slightly as if the thought alone terrifies him.

Your heart softens instantly. “I’ll always come back,” you tell him, the promise slipping from your lips without a second thought. You kneel down in front of him, cupping his face with both hands so that he has no choice but to meet your gaze. “Always.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, his big brown eyes shimmering with emotion. Then, slowly, a small, sleepy smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Always?” he repeats, his voice so quiet it’s barely more than a whisper.

You nod. “Always.”

He seems satisfied with that, finally letting go of your wrist with a little sigh of contentment. “Okay,” he murmurs, leaning back against the pillows with his eyes already fluttering shut. “But hurry, okay? I don’t like being without you.”

Your chest aches with affection as you press a quick kiss to his forehead before making your way to his closet. As you rummage through the racks, grabbing him some sweatpants and a shirt, you can’t help but smile to yourself.

When you return, Kylian is half-asleep, his head lolling to one side and his mouth slightly open. But the moment he hears your footsteps, his eyes snap open, and he sits up straighter, his expression lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning.

“You came back!” he exclaims, his voice slurred but filled with unrestrained joy.

“Of course I did,” you reply with a soft laugh, setting the clothes down on the bed in front of him. “Now get dressed, mon amour, before you pass out entirely.”

He grins at you, picking up the shirt with a clumsy hand and pulling it over his head with an endearing lack of coordination.

By the time he’s struggling with the sweatpants, you’ve moved to help him, slipping them over his legs and sliding your hands up the soft cotton of his shirt as you do.

“Merci,” he mumbles softly, his voice filled with gratitude as you help him settle in under the covers.

You lean over to press a kiss to his temple, but instead of letting you go, his arms wrap around your neck, pulling you back for a deeper, more meaningful kiss.

He sighs against your lips, a soft exhalation of pure contentment that fills your chest with warmth. When he pulls away, it's just enough to speak, his voice breathy “Trésor,” he says suddenly, his voice soft and serious as his dart back and forth into yours. You raise a brow at him in question.

“I meant what I said,” he continues, his gaze locking onto yours with surprising clarity for someone so inebriated. “You’re my everything. My whole world.”

Your throat tightens, and you can only nod, unable to find the words to respond. Instead, you lean forward, pressing another kiss to his lips.

“Je t'aime,” you murmur against them.

He hums back in response, his arms wrapping around your neck to pull you down closer, his lips moving over yours in a kiss so warm it sets your entire body aflame.

You’re breathless by the time you pull away. But instead of continuing to press the advantage, Kylian lets out another sigh, his eyelids drooping shut again as his head falls back on the pillow. He grins at you lazily, his voice slurring. “You’re so beautiful.”

You laugh. “So are you,” you reply, standing up with a smile. “Now sleep.”

His smile softens, his lashes drifting to half-mast as his body relaxes against the mattress. “Je t'aime, bébé,” he murmurs one last time, the words slipping out almost inaudibly.

“I love you too.” Your response is automatic, heartfelt.

But he’s already out, his breathing slow and even as you slip off your clothes, pulling on the tee shirt he tossed aside earlier to wear as pajamas.

When you slide into bed next to him, his arm curls immediately around your waist, drawing you into his chest with a sleepy sigh.

You settle in beside him, your back to his chest, your heart filling with affection as his chin rests against the slope of your neck. It’s not long before your eyelids droop, the warmth of his body and the rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you to sleep.

Just as you drift off, you’re dimly aware of a mumbled voice, the softness of his words making your heart flutter even as it slows your breathing.

“I can't wait to marry you.”

-Bianca🌻

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Truly Madly Deeply

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw is madly in love with a married woman.

CW: FLUFFFFFF (Happy Valentine's Day, my loves!!)

WC: 1300+

This fic was written for @roosterforme’s love is in the air tgm challenge! Inspired by the song Truly Madly Deeply by Savage Garden.

Masterlist

“Sorry, I’m married,” Bradley hears you say to the man who’s just offered to buy you a drink. He glances over his shoulder just in time to witness your suitor’s face fall in disappointment. He notices that you give him an apologetic smile and it melts Bradley’s heart that you’re being so sweet to a complete stranger.

He eyes you discreetly as you wave with a couple of fingers at the man now departing sullenly. You turn on your stool to face the bar, revealing the deep plunge of your dress which exposes your exquisite back, and Bradley can’t help but stare at you in admiration. He smiles to himself, biting into his lip. “Married, huh?” he asks, leaning his forearms into the bar.

You glance over at him in surprise.

“And here I thought I could buy you a drink,” Bradley says with a sideways grin.

You stare at him for a moment before letting out a small chuckle.

“Who’s the lucky guy, anyway?” he asks, looking around the bar.

“Strange,” you reply, craning your neck to look over Bradley’s shoulder. “He was just here.”

Bradley shakes his head. “Ill-timed departure on his part,” he says, meeting your gaze. “I would never let a woman like you out of my sight.”

You giggle. “He’s around, I’m sure.”

Bradley watches you mischievously. “And yet,” he says, getting out of his seat. “We can’t let an opportunity such as this pass us by.” He holds out his hand to you.

You give him a piercing look and hook one of your eyebrows. “And what opportunity would that be?”

“Come on.” Bradley grins at you. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you letting me have one dance.”

“You’re probably right, actually.” You shrug. “My husband’s not really the jealous type.”

“Really?” Bradley asks incredulously as you stand up. “He should be.”

You chuckle. “He trusts me.”

Bradley’s eyes sweep over your features when you glance up at him and he tries to recall the last time he’s encountered such beauty. You are, without a doubt, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. But this fact doesn’t intimidate him in the slightest. He takes your hand and draws you out onto the open floor, keeping his eyes locked on yours.

You smile when he takes you by the waist. “Now I feel bad for sending that other guy away,” you say. “If I’m just handing out dances.”

Bradley makes a face. “He wasn’t trying hard enough,” he says. “See, I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”

You laugh. “Is that so?”

Bradley nods. “You know what else?”

“What?” you ask suspiciously as the two of you move gently to the distant music of the jukebox.

“I’m going to kiss you when this song is over,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows as your mouth falls open in shock. “You mean, assuming I’ll let you!”

Bradley’s gaze drops briefly to your lips. “You’ll let me.”

You shake your head with a scandalized smile.

“Think your husband would mind?” he asks.

You fix him with a more serious look. “What do you think?”

“You said he wasn’t the jealous type.”

You lower your gaze and lick your top lip before lifting your eyes temptingly. “My husband would fucking lose it if he saw me making out with a stranger on the dance floor.”

Bradley bites his lip, chuckling. “I bet.”

You roll your eyes, a smile still playing on your face, and Bradley just about loses it himself.

“What’ll it take for you to come home with me?” he asks boldly.

You give him a pointed glance and he pulls you slightly closer. “Gee, let me think,” you respond playfully.

Bradley chuckles. “I’ll do anything,” he says in a low voice, his mouth moving right over your temple.

You shake your head and look up at him. “You’re bad,” you say with a grin.

Bradley brings his face down to meet yours, his arms coming up to wrap around your back. He draws you closer until your head is resting on his chest. “I’m so in love with you,” he breathes.

You giggle into his chest and his heart performs a series of somersaults against your cheek. Your hands snake underneath his open Hawaiian shirt to meet behind his back. “You’re ridiculous,” you respond calmly.

Bradley kisses the top of your head. “I love you more with every breath,” he whispers.

You raise your head slightly and he can feel the warmth of your mouth on his neck. “I think you’re alright,” you say gently.

Bradley snorts, his arms tightening around you. He rests his cheek on your head, his fingers grazing your bare back. “I could hold you forever,” he mutters. “Can’t I just hold you forever?”

He feels you relax further into his embrace. “Okay,” you respond softly.

Bradley’s arms constrict around your body, and he plants several kisses on your forehead. “I bet you’re way out of your husband’s league,” he says with a heavy rasp as his hand starts travelling up and down your waist.

You laugh. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bradley’s hand stops moving abruptly and comes to rest of your hip. “You love him?”

You give Bradley an earnest glance. “Very much,” you say.

Bradley eyes you curiously. “How the fuck did he land a woman like you?”

You laugh. “Well,” you say, “for one thing, he’s unbelievably sexy.”

Bradley smirks. “I bet he isn’t half as sexy as you are.”

You roll your eyes. “He’s smart, and funny, and sweet, and a little crazy sometimes.”

Bradley laughs. “Sounds pretty basic, if you ask me.”

You give him a tight smile, trying to hold back a laugh. “And his confidence is off the charts.”

Bradley raises his eyebrows. “Can he take me?”

You let out a giggle. “He wouldn’t,” you say. “He’s not the jealous type, remember?”

Bradley gives you a skeptical look. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I think your husband would absolutely annihilate anybody who would dare lay a hand on you.”

You watch him with a tantalising smirk. “Is that what you would do?”

Bradley meets your gaze and responds firmly, “No question.”

You rest your head back on his chest and let out a contented sigh when the first notes of a very familiar song ring out through the bar. Bradley looks up to see Jake Seresin winking at him from where he’s standing by the jukebox. Bradley smirks, nodding at his friend in appreciation. Meanwhile, you start humming to the melody absently while Bradley sways you gently from side to side.

When the bridge kicks in, Bradley sings along, “Oh, can you see it, baby? You don’t have to close your eyes. It’s standing right before you…”

You detach yourself partially and look up at him. “I’ve always loved this song,” you say.

Bradley tenderly runs his fingers along the side of your face. “I know, baby,” he says.

“My husband’s not a big fan,” you say with a playful grin.

“Oh, no?” Bradley lifts eyebrows.

“I had to beg him to make this our wedding song.”

“He made you beg?” Bradley asks in outrage.

“Mm-hm.” You nod. “Can you believe it?”

Bradley lowers his head and, placing his hands on either side of your face, brushes the tip of his nose against yours. “Something tells me your husband would do anything for you.”

You giggle. “If only I knew where he was.”

Bradley grins, biting the side of his lip. “Joke’s on him. He’s missing all the fun.”

You reach up to twist your fingers into Bradley’s shirt, pulling him closer. “You promised me a kiss.”

Bradley chuckles. “Oh, you want a kiss?”

You nod, humming in affirmation.

Bradley smirks, rolling his tongue along your open mouth before letting his lips finally make contact with yours. You whimper softly into his mouth and his chest nearly erupts with desire. He loves you so deeply, so madly, so – “You know, the song’s growing on me,” he mutters between kisses.

You laugh. “I knew you’d come around eventually.”

Bradley lets out a fevered sigh, his hands sliding down your arms as the song comes to an end. “Come on, Mrs. Bradshaw,” he says hoarsely, a bit impatiently. “I’m taking you home.”

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[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Fic: Something to Sink Your Teeth Into 28/35

Pairing: Buck/Tommy

Vampire/Witch!AU

Read on AO3 (current chapter)

Read on AO3 (from beginning)

“Can’t leave you alone for a fuckin’ minute, can we Kinard?” Sal drawled. A moment later, a slender hand landed on his shoulder and Lucy poked her head out the window next to him.

“You okay, Tommy…oh shit,” she said, freezing when she caught sight of the state of him.

Sal’s voice was flippant, but his eyes were sharp as he took in the picture in front of him. His eyes flicked between him and Del Marco warily. One eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch in silent question, his muscles bunching as he prepared to spring from the idling vehicle at Tommy’s slightest signal.

Fuck Tommy was so glad to see them.

“It’s fine, guys,” he said, shifting Evan’s weight in his arms to hold him more securely. “Del Marco’s…she doesn’t want a coven war any more than we do.” He wasn’t foolish enough to say that an enforcer for the SoCal high coven was on their side, but he did trust that she was at least no longer actively working against them. “We need to get out of here. Anyone know you were coming to me?”

Sal looked Del Marco up and down one more time before relaxing a fraction. “No one anyone’s likely to question,” he said. Tommy knew him well enough to see there were a thousand questions dancing in his eyes, but to Tommy’s eternal relief, his friend didn’t waste time asking any of them. He looked at Evan again, a worried frown twisting his face as he glanced back at Lucy.

Christ, it would be difficult for Lucy to control her instincts around this much fresh blood. Witch blood, no less. There was no other choice, though. He had faith in her…and worse come to worst, he could hold her off easily enough.

He hurried toward the car, skirting around Del Marco and her familiar, hardly sparing a glance for the sparrow and the dog still on the ground, now held by the same kind of binding that she’d used against him and Evan at first. He paused at the car door. “Could a hospital help him?” he asked quietly, dreading the answer.

Del Marco’s face was not without sympathy when she slowly shook her head. “It’s not that kind of injury. A coven-bound witch would be able to draw energy and strength from their bonds to replenish their magic. He’s banished. The only well he has to draw on is the magic he exhausted casting. Human medicine might be able to buy him time, but Maddox was correct—either he is strong enough to survive or he’s not.”

Tommy swallowed hard, drawing Evan closer to himself as if he could physically shield his witch from the effects of what he’d done to defend them. What Evan had done to defend him.

“Kinard,” Del Marco continued, her voice cautious. “You and the young man…if he lives, I wouldn’t let that become general knowledge if I were you.” Tommy stiffened at the warning, but gave her a short, stilted nod. She glanced down at Evan, and her expression softened slightly. “I—thank you both. For what you did for me and Maddox. I’ll make sure it wasn’t for nothing.”

“It better not be,” Tommy said, his witch’s labored breath in his ears, the scent of his blood sharp on the air.

“Is there anything you need from your vehicle?” Del Marco asked, tactfully ignoring the implicit threat in Tommy’s words. He shook his head, and Del Marco turned toward the ruin of his car, narrowing her eyes and chanting a by-now familiar spell. “Paperwork on this is going to be a nightmare anyway,” she muttered when she was done, and a ball of fire erupted in the front seat.

Sal let out a low whistle. “I’m getting the feeling we need to be gone, like, yesterday,” he said as Tommy opened the back door and clambered awkwardly into the backseat. He sat back against the opposite window, drawing Evan to lay against his chest and holding him close enough that he’d be able to get his body between Lucy and his witch if she lost control. He heard her groan softly as he shut the door, and when he looked into the front seat, she had braced her hands against the dashboard and was taking shallow breaths.

“When’s the last time you fed, Luce?” he asked gently as Sal threw the car into gear.

“Hmmm, doesn’t really matter,” Lucy said through gritted teeth. “It’s witch blood, Kinard.”

“Hey, you got this,” Sal said encouragingly, laying one hand on her back that was as much about being able to get a grip on her as it was a supportive gesture. He exchanged a worried look with Tommy in the rearview mirror.

“Fuck,” Lucy hissed, digging her hands into the dashboard hard enough that it started to dent inward. “Sorry.”

“Don’t even worry about it,” Sal breezed. “I fuckin’ hate this car anyway. The four-wheel drive’s shit.”

Lucy dug her fingers deeper into the dashboard, the metal, plastic, and padding crumpling under her strength. “All right—shit. All right, I’m good. Just—someone crack a window or something?”

Tommy obliged, and Lucy relaxed slightly as the brisk wind swept the worst of the smell of Evan’s blood out of the vehicle. She craned her neck around to shoot him a grateful smile, her fangs fully descended and her eyes solid red. “What happened to him?” she asked, actually sounding concerned.

Tommy blew out a sharp breath through his nose, pressing his palm more firmly against his witch’s chest so he could better feel the beat of Evan’s heart. He was not reassured by the rapid pulse that stuttered against his hand, nor the increasing rattle every time Evan took another shuddering breath. His witch was pale as a corpse in the intermittent flash of the streetlights that lined the highway, the strange grayish tinge to his face setting off alarm bells in Tommy’s head.

“His magic,” he said. “Witches…I never realized it, but witches need a coven bond to cast their big spells. It hurts them otherwise.”

“During the Annihilation, burnout killed just as many witches as our people did,” Sal said. “But what the fuck kind of casting was he doing that he’s that bad off?”

Tommy let out a frustrated growl, pulling at the tattered remains of his shirt and trying to wipe the worst of the blood from his witch’s face. Evan did not so much as twitch at the sensation. “He saved me. Multiple times. Fuck, things are so messed up. This is worse than I ever thought.”

“Must’ve been, to ditch your coven,” Sal said, his voice teasing, but an undercurrent of hurt to it that had Tommy wincing.

“I didn’t—I was trying to protect you,” he said, giving up on wiping Evan’s face and just gently carding his hand through his witch’s hair. “I couldn’t leave him alone…but I couldn’t drag you into this further than I already did, either.”

“Mmhmm,” Sal said. “I get it. I mean, hey, not like I’ve had your back since the fuckin’ Renaissance or anything, right? Or cut my fangs fighting witches with a vested interest in frying my ass. Couldn’t possibly have helped you, right?”

Tommy winced at the other vampire’s tone, a curl of shame unspooling low in his belly. “Sal,” he started quietly, but Sal just waved him off. Tommy knew better than to press. He pulled Evan more firmly against him. “How the hell did you even find me?” he asked, desperate to break the tension that had settled over the vehicle’s interior.

Lucy shook her head, slowly unclenching her fingers from the dents she’d left in the dashboard. “Air tag in the SUV,” she mumbled. “All the coven cars have them.”

“What?” Tommy asked incredulously. “You tracked me with a fucking air tag? You had no idea what you could’ve been walking into! Damn it, Luce, you could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

Lucy shrugged, completely unrepentant. “Yeah, well, you’ve known me for fifty years, so I feel like it’s really on you if you weren’t expecting this. It was Ravi’s idea, anyway. Putting air tags in the cars, not following you. He probably would’ve, but we didn’t tell anyone we were doing it.”

“Guys…”

“Shut up, you can thank us later. Once we all figure out what our next move is. Your place isn’t on any coven paperwork, right?” she asked, and when she looked back at him this time, her eyes were mostly brown again.

“No. No, I’ve kept it completely off-grid. Alonzo knows where it is, though. And the high coven can use my shit at the coven house to pull a locator spell off. Evan did something to let him know if they were tracking me, but…” He trailed off with a helpless shrug. Evan wouldn’t be able to do anything about locator spells. He could only hope that Del Marco was able to get the high coven off of them quickly.

“Alonzo won’t give you up. And good luck pulling locator spells—we stripped your rooms,” Sal said tersely, taking the exit to head back to the bungalow. “That’s why it took us so long to catch up to you. Ravi and Lena took everything we couldn’t carry to Lena’s storage unit.”

Tommy closed his eyes briefly, overwhelming gratitude for his friends sweeping through him. He did not regret leaving the coven—it was the only decision he could have made at the time to protect both Evan and the people he cared about. He could not pretend that he was anything other than breathtakingly relieved that Sal and Lucy were unwilling to let him walk away from them. “Thank you,” he said, the words completely inadequate for what he was feeling. “I’m sorry you got dragged into all this, anyway.”

“You didn’t drag shit,” Sal snapped. “We jumped in all on our own.”

They fell silent, the only sound in the vehicle Evan’s wheezing breaths. Tommy gathered Evan as close as he could, fear spiking through him when he realized how cold his witch’s skin felt. Damn it…what should he do? Evan’s condition was a result of magic, not an injury or illness—would a hospital even be able to help him? Surely Del Marco would have told him to take Evan to an emergency room if it would have helped.

Either he is strong enough to recover, or he is not.

The familiar’s words would not stop echoing through Tommy’s head. Goddamn it…Tommy had seen nearly a thousand years on this fucking planet. He knew languages that no longer existed, had walked on shorelines that had eroded into the sea centuries ago, could vaguely recall what a fucking dodo bird sounded like, and he had no idea how to help his witch. There was an ominous rattle at the end of Evan’s next breath, a weak, gurgling sound that Tommy absolutely refused to admit was familiar.

“Tommy,” Sal said after several long minutes. “He, uh, he doesn’t sound so good.”

Tommy clenched his jaw so hard he was slightly surprised his teeth didn’t crack. “Just get us home,” he said tersely. “I’ll…I’ll figure something out.”

Either he is strong enough to recover, or he is not.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sal glance back over his shoulder at them, and then exchange a wary look with Lucy. He just held Evan tighter, pressing his hand over the weak, thready beat of his pulse, listening to his breathing as it grew shallower.

Shallower.

Slower.

Please, he thought desperately, unsure of who or what he was even pleading to, but doing it all the same. Evan had to be strong enough to make it. He had to be. Tommy could not have found him like this, could not have found him now, only to lose him less than three days later. He refused to believe that the only time he had with his witch would be spent fighting for their lives. Evan’s magic had bound them years ago, had been guiding his witch towards him for most of Evan’s life at this point. It could not end like this.

“Hold on,” he whispered against Evan’s hair, not caring that Lucy and Sal could hear him. “Come on, sweetheart, just hold on.”

*

By the time they made it to the bungalow, it was painfully obvious that Evan was getting worse, not better.

His colorless skin was like ice against even Tommy’s hand, and his eyes seemed sunken into his skull. He didn’t react to Tommy’s voice or touch at all, not even when he rubbed his knuckles harshly against Evan’s breastbone, and his chest barely rose and fell with each labored, rattling breath. Tommy could not recall the last time he had felt so helpless.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t take him to a hospital?” Lucy said quietly when Sal pulled up to the security gate on Tommy’s property.

Sal sighed, sounding genuinely regretful when he said, “You heard the witch. It wouldn’t help—and we’d be risking some doctor questioning what the fuck’s wrong with him and why their treatments aren’t working.”

“She could’ve been lying,” Lucy countered, but Sal just shook his head as he came to a stop in the driveway right in front of the bungalow.

“She wasn’t, Luce,” Tommy said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion even to his own ears. He carried Evan up the porch steps while Sal punched in his security code, shouldering his way through the door and ignoring the other two as he made his way back to the master bedroom.

He laid his witch down gently and stepped back, a wave of helplessness washing through him that nearly brought him to his knees. The power of Evan’s blood was still coursing freshly through him; he could have taken almost anything on right now and come out the winner…and he couldn’t do a damn thing to help his witch. He wanted to rage, to tear the people who had forced them into this position apart with his bare hands. He wanted them to suffer the way Evan was suffering. And all he could do was watch his witch struggle to breathe and pray to a god he hadn’t seriously believed in since the days when he could still recall his mother’s face.

“Tommy, I—listen, why don’t you get cleaned up. Get him cleaned up, too. Lucy’s still struggling,” Sal said from behind him, and he turned to see his friend watching him with a carefully neutral expression.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll…” he cleared his throat, plucking at the torn shirt that was tacky with the evidence of Evan’s nosebleed. Fuck, he’d bled so much. He shook his head. “I need to…”

Sal took a few steps further into the room, shutting the door behind him. “You know he’s not going to make it,” he said, in the long-dead dialect of Italian that had been his mother tongue when he and Tommy first met, the language he slipped into when he was being deadly serious. “I—Thomas I need to know you understand that. You and I have both seen enough death to know when it’s getting close.” He laid a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, his voice gentle. So, so gentle.

Every. Single. Part of Tommy wanted to throw his friend’s hand off. Wanted to grab Sal by the throat and demand he take it back, wanted to throw him out of the room for daring to suggest that his witch wouldn’t be all right. Instead, he stood frozen, the inescapable truth of what Sal was saying holding him immobile. Tommy had seen death, all right. Had seen it in more forms and functions than he’d ever be able to describe or remember. He’d delivered death more times than he’d ever be able to count.

He did know what it looked like when death was creeping closer.

He couldn’t…he couldn’t lose Evan. Not now. Why would the universe let him live so long, so fucking long, send him someone who was everything he’d ever fucking wanted, only to immediately snatch him away? Why Evan? Hadn’t he suffered enough? Everything his parents had done to him, everything he’d given up for his sister, everything he’d gone through since he’d been banished, and he hadn’t let it turn him bitter, hadn’t let it douse the kindness, the gentleness, the light in him. He’d put himself in danger for people that would never ever do the same for him, had put himself in danger for Tommy, and this was his only reward? How? How was that fair?

It wasn’t, of course. Tommy was an expert in just how fucking unfair the universe could be.

“You and Lucy need to leave,” he said dully, clenching his fists so hard his nails bit bloody half-circles into his palms.

He felt Sal tense, the other vampire’s hand tightening on his shoulder. “I’m just trying—”

“I know,” Tommy interrupted, eyes fixed on Evan’s pale, pale face, on the weak, stuttering rise and fall of his chest. “But this isn’t over, yet. You two are still in danger if anyone thinks you’re falling in with me.”

Concentrate on what he could change. What he could do. The steps he could take to ensure the outcome was the best possible. He tried to call up the discipline and mentality that had gotten him through conflict after conflict, war after war, the ability to compartmentalize that had let him survive things that would have crushed a lesser man. He could do this.

He had to. His witch’s sacrifice had to be worth something, damn it!

“We’re not leaving,” Sal said firmly.

“Don’t argue with me,” Tommy said, doing his damn best to not sound like he was pleading and failing spectacularly. “Sal, there’s no reason for you and Lucy to go down with me. We’re not…you’re not my coven, anymore.”

Sal sucked in a breath, his hand falling silently from Tommy’s shoulder. Then it landed heavy on him again and jerked, forcibly spinning Tommy around to face him. “You listen to me you stupid son of a bitch,” Sal hissed, red starting to glimmer in his eyes. “You’ve never been my coven. You’re my fucking brother! And I’m not fucking leaving you.” He stabbed a finger in Tommy’s face. “Neither is Lucy. Just…do what you gotta do for him. Either stay with him ‘til it’s over or, uh, or make it easier for him.”

Anyone else…if anyone else besides Sal or Lucy had said such a thing to him, Tommy didn’t think he would be able to control himself.

His friend—his brother—drew him close in a quick, rough hug, pulling back quickly. He glanced down at Evan, a frown twisting his face. “I am sorry,” he said quietly, before turning on his heel and exiting the room, closing the door behind him.

For a long moment, all Tommy could do was stare down at his witch. Evan was so still. So terribly, terribly still. He swallowed roughly, reaching down to gently stroke Evan’s cheekbone, the way he’d felt so helplessly drawn to do the night before. Only the night before.

They were bound together. Connected. Meant to meet, meant to be perfect for each other. Meant to be together.

How could it already be over?

Evan’s pale face was still smeared with dried blood, and with a surge of anger, Tommy suddenly yanked the tattered remains of his shirt off and stalked toward the bathroom. His hands, neck, and chest were crusted with blood—Evan’s blood and Malone’s—and he scrubbed it all away in the sink, his fangs aching in his mouth, his eyes gleaming red in the mirror. There was nowhere for the anger to go, though, no enemy to tear into and destroy. He wet a few washcloths in the sink, soaking them in water that was a touch on the hot side before wringing them out and then hurrying back to Evan’s side.

Despite the fury pulsing through him, his hands were as gentle as though he was handling spun glass as he slipped the ruined sweatshirt over Evan’s head and tossed it across the room. He cleaned the blood from his witch’s face carefully, every movement slow and gentle, though he knew Evan was beyond feeling any discomfort from the rough terrycloth. Some part of him prayed desperately that he and Sal were wrong, that the water and the movement might rouse his witch, cause some reaction, something…

Evan was so still.

He threw the bloodstained washcloths into the same corner as the sweatshirt before gingerly pulling the blankets out from under Evan and sliding into the bed next to his witch. He tucked the comforter warmly around Evan’s body, resting his hand over the scar Evan’s magic had marked him with to signal that he belonged with Tommy, and closing his eyes. Perhaps…perhaps it would be kinder to do as Sal suggested. Kinder to just end it instead of lying here for hours, listening to the terrible space between Evan’s rattling breaths grow longer and longer before he finally let one breath out and failed to ever take another.

He knew he couldn’t do it. He could not be the one to end his witch’s life, even if it would be the most merciful option. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips against Evan’s temple, shuddering at how cold, cold, cold his skin was.

“Don’t go,” he whispered, the words dragging out of him almost against his will. “Please, please don’t go.”

The life and strength and power of Evan’s blood still sang through his veins, and God he would do anything to be able to share that strength with Evan now. Give him the power of a vampire’s healing the way—

Tommy’s eyes flew open.

A witch couldn’t be turned. Not even on the cusp of death, not even when their magic was drained to nothing. Everyone knew that.

But humans weren’t always given vampire blood with the intention of turning them. Sometimes…sometimes the coven pets other vampires kept were allowed to drink from the vampires they’d given themselves to. To extend their lives. To heal them from some injury or illness. It was rare. Most vampires simply turned their pets if they were in danger of dying, if they cared at all. Witches couldn’t turn.

But did that mean that vampire blood had no effect?

He sat up sharply, staring down at Evan, a thunderous, unrelenting hope trying to bloom in his chest. He didn’t know…witches kept the workings of their magic so damn secret, and Tommy had never had reason to learn anything beyond how to kill a witch that was trying to kill him anyway. Whatever common knowledge vampires might have gained over the centuries had largely been lost in the Annihilation. What if…what if…

He cupped Evan’s face, his mind racing. He had no idea how Evan might feel about drinking his blood…but surely Evan didn’t want to die. And he was. Evan was dying, right before Tommy’s eyes. Surely…surely Evan would understand that he had to try to save him. That he was willing to do anything to save him.

They were bound. They were meant for each other. Meant to find each other. Evan had cast a spell with a simple desire to find someone who would love him…and the spell had brought him to Tommy. Had chosen him. Him as the person who would love and protect and care for his witch above all others.

His wrist was at his mouth before he could argue with himself, his fangs slicing through the flesh as easily as a hot knife through butter. He tilted Evan’s face up slightly with his free hand, gently easing his mouth open with his thumb. “Come on, Evan,” he whispered. “Come back to me.”

He dribbled a little of his blood into his witch’s mouth, desperately massaging his throat to get him to swallow. Anxiously, he scanned Evan for any hint of movement, of awareness. Fuck, he’d be satisfied if his witch’s skin would lose just a bit of the sickly gray pallor. Another few drops and then he had to dig his nails into the meat of his wrist to tear the rapidly-healing wound back open.

“Come on,” he begged. Another few dribbles of blood slid down his witch’s throat and he leaned down at pressed his forehead to Evan’s. “Please,” he whispered, unsure who he was even speaking to. “Please don’t do this. Don’t.”

There was a hitch in Evan’s breathing. A soft, weakened hint of a groan, low in his throat.

Tommy was stretched out beside his witch, pressed close to his side as he held his bleeding wrist to his mouth and prayed like he hadn’t prayed in centuries.

He was lying on his back, staring up at a cloudless blue sky, grass soft under his back and the rushing sigh of running water from somewhere off to his left. Lazily, he rolled over, reaching up to pluck a bloom off one of the many lily-of-the-valleys that grew in this field. The sun streamed down on him, warm and soft and golden.

Strange…there were no lilies in the fields around their coven compound. None that he’d ever seen, anyway. He’d roamed all over with Sally—surely he would have seen them somewhere.

From farther off, down by the banks of the stream he knew was just beyond that small copse of trees, came the sound of singing. The voice was warm and clear, not anything amazing, but pleasant enough. The sound of it sent a wave of longing rushing through him. It had been so long since he’d heard that voice.

He’d never heard that voice. And there was no stream on the coven lands. Where…

He got to his feet, brushing the bits of grass and dirt off the rough cloth pants and jerkin, before leaning down to grab the flax rope he’d spent all day weaving for snares. Hopefully he’d catch a rabbit or two. The singing grew louder as the voice’s owner returned from the stream, and he started jogging toward the sound. No doubt she’d need help hauling the water back to their home

“Thomas? Thomas, where have you got off to?”

Tommy’s eyes flew open, and he pulled his wrist away from his witch’s mouth, staring down at Evan in disbelief as his witch slowly, slowly blinked up at him with hazy blue eyes, blood smearing his lips and color returning to his face.

“Evan,” Tommy whispered, framing his witch’s face with his hands. “Evan.”

Outside the room, there was a sudden clatter, as though someone had dropped something heavy, and Lucy’s voice rose in a startled shout.

“What the—is that a fucking cat?” Sal demanded loudly.

[churchstopsurgeryscars]

Literally nobody asked for it but here's a sneak peak into Red vs Blue: Redux, my rewrite of RvB. I'm hoping to upload the first chapter by the end of this month.

Church sighed and returned to watching the reds stand in a square and jabber on about who knows what. Just like he had done every single recon patrol for the last three weeks. It was like they were physically incapable of doing anything interesting. If he were closer he could at least listen in, but from here all he had was their halfhearted gestures. At least the pink one was pretty expressive with his hand movements.

“What are they doing now?”

“I’m going to give you ten seconds to answer that question for yourself. And if you can’t figure out the answer, I am going to shove the scope of this rifle so far up your ass I’ll be able to figure out where your fucking brain went.”

Tucker stood up, throwing his hands in the air, “Well if you’re just going to be an asshole about it, then I’m going back to base. I was just trying to make some conversation.”

“Fine! This’ll be so much easier without you in my ear anyway.” Church said, slumping his shoulders as he pressed his eye against the scope.

With a sigh of relief, he could finally watch the reds in peace. He watched as the maroon and orange one led the pink one back into the base. As they disappeared inside, the red one, the sergeant, went back to looking at their new vehicle. Church watched in confusion as the red team leader stood in front of the car and gestured occasionally.

Is...Is he talking to the car? Church thought as he tilted his head in confusion.

As the sargent walked toward the vehicle, giving it a loving, sensual pet on the hood, Church dropped the view finder from his eye. Whatever was going to happen next was nothing he wanted to see. With a sigh, he turned to watch as Tucker returned to the base before standing up to follow him.

Church made his way down the slope, watching his feet as he walked. He might as well get ready for the supply drop. They should be arriving any minute now. Not to mention the fact they were going to be getting new recruits and he didn’t trust Tucker to give them a proper introduction. Heaven forbid one of them is a girl; Church just knew his teammate wouldn’t be able to keep it in his pants. Besides, if he wanted to be the leader, he needed to act like one.

He cursed Captain Flowers for up and dying on them, forcing him to take over and be in charge. Church didn’t have the slightest clue what he was doing, and now he was responsible for making sure himself and the others stayed alive. At the very least Command could give him a promotion to make all the headache worth it. But no, all they decided to do was give them two new people to even the teams.

A sonic boom took him out of his thoughts and turned his eyes to the sky. Church watched as the ship landed beside the base, steadying himself against the gust of air that threatened to bowl him over.

Before him and Tucker could even exchange a glance, the bay door was open and a small crew was pouring out to unload supplies. Pushing past the men carrying crates, Church started hunting for the new recruits.

When he entered the belly of the ship, he saw two people in armor sitting beside each other and giggling. He raised an eyebrow in confusion as he realized one of them was in yellow armor. That must be some sort of mistake.

“Are you two Private Grif and Caboose?” Church asked hesitantly.

“That's us!” The yellow-clad recruit chirped, “Are you the Captain?”

Church pressed his lips together as he shifted from one foot to the other, “I'm the one in charge.”

Seemingly not noticing his non-answer, the one in blue stood up and held out his hand, “Nice to meet you! I'm Private Michael Caboose!”

It took everything in Church to not gasp in surprise. Caboose was massive! He was nearly seven feet tall and was by no means skinny. The new recruit could probably break Church in half if he really wanted to. He swallowed before giving his hand a quick shake, gritting his teeth in pain as Caboose nearly broke every bone in his hand with his grip.

As Church began to massage his hand, he turned to the other recruit, “That means you must be Private Grif.”

“Sure am! I'm excited to be here!” She said with a chipper tone.

“Me too!” Caboose chimed in.

Church looked between the two recruits with trepidation. At the very least these two had a much better attitude than Tucker, but they did not seem at all prepared for the reality of war. How could anyone be excited to get shot at?

“Well… How about we go meet the rest of the team?” Church suggested, unsure how to proceed.

The two nodded eagerly before following him out of the ship. Tucker was waiting at the end of the ramp, watching the three of them. Church really hoped this went well. He felt like he was introducing two overly excited puppies to his cat with an attitude problem.

[manyothermusingsofmine]

so huyandere posted this on twitter with the notion of like “did anyone write a detailed analysis of kristoph’s solitary cell already bc why is there a pink chair. Insane.” and like I don’t know if it counts as a detailed analysis but I certainly have Opinions about this. I’m a bit sick though so this is really rambly and not on track in the slightest. and if you click the read more it’s all there so uh like

Okay first of all I’m going to have to fact check this but I feel like the wiki told me Kristoph apparently talked the guards into getting him all this stuff?

-one wiki search later- “He managed to call in some favors to some of the prison guards whom he had befriended to get various items into the cell, turning it into something of an office.”

Okay yeah so that’s fucking terrifying? Kristoph already doesn’t strike me as the type to have legitimate friends because everyone is a means to an end with him, but- bro that’s not pulling favors that’s mafia boss behavior what the hell.

But like the bigger Thought I have about the whole thing that derails a little from huyandere’s original question is just. The fucking paralells between Simon and Kristoph? Like okay no hear me out actually.

They’re the same character archetype, in a way. They’re both cool, collected, kinda detached loners- arguably the flip side of each other’s coin because where their character wildly diverge is in motive. Kristoph’s whole motive in his story is greed and envy; wanting the fame and fortune others have and feeling like his rightful place in the spotlight is being usurped by people who don’t deserve it Simon on the other hand’s whole motive is undying loyalty to protecting someone he cares about. He’s on deathrow for a crime he didn’t commit, but can we not gloss over the fact that he’s doing so to protect Athena, who, at this point if the story gets spun in her direction, would befall the same faith? That’s -deskslam- why I’m so mad actually that Simon and Klavier don’t interact in Dual Destinies. Like, at all. And that’s a fucking crime because no matter how you spin that their dynamic would be so interesting! Like, would Simon’s similar demeanor freak Klavier out and does their coworkership therefor become kind of strained and uncomfortable? Or are you like me and do you think that Simon takes one look at Klavier and goes “-Markiplier voice- oh he’s traumatized” and instinctively adopts this weird rockstar prosecutor as his brother because eh what’s another adoptive sibling at this point. And in that case does Klavier look at Simon’s behavior and just go “well thats similar to what I was used to anyway so yeah you can stick around.”? Also I’m not done you clicked on this that was your choice entirely it’s even more fascinating to think about Simon and Kristoph spending even one day in the same jail establishment because first of all I feel like Simon would look around that jail cell and just go “show off” and leave it at that. And while I think the fandom has a point in that Simon probably wouldn’t like Kristoph, have we even considered how much Kristoph would fucking loathe Simon? Simon is pretty much the better version of him because Simon has honor and loyalty; things Kristoph definitely lacks. Furthermore with his background in psychology and just the general way he is Simon wouldn’t fall for any of Kristoph’s manipulation tactics, and there’s not much else Kristoph can do because there’s no way in hell that he would win in a physical fight against Simon; the man’s build like a fucking tank come on now. Do you have any idea how much it would piss Kristoph off that he has this absolute powerhouse of a man in a cell next to him and the bastard’s completely immune to his manipulation skills?! And before I forget the fucking?? paralell?? between Simon owning a trained hawk that I can only assume he trained himself which takes time and talent and trust and sfmdfmg the sprite of him petting Taka makes me feel things. Vs Kristoph having a dog where the general consensus seems to be that it’s a golden retriever, which makes me feel things as someone who has owned golden retrievers and who knows their unconditional love, because he wants to be loved unconditionally with no questions asked FDS,MFNSDFG,MNDF,GM-

[imagine-silk]

How would companions (+ Proctor Ingram) react to a special doctor that has a knack for making synthetic prosthetics?

Like artificial limbs that look real human

He’s not from the Institute but he’s fascinated by their technology.

He’d join them if it weren’t for their ideals.

The guy is what one would call a Ripper Doc.

I hope you like this, I know next to nothing about Cyberpunk. I asked my brother about instead of reading pages of info. You almost made me read anon. READ! The sacrilege.

Proctor Ingram

That kind of tech is dubious to have in the brotherhood but she doesn’t report you out of a spiteful comradery. She had her legs crushed so who was she to deny people prosthetics. But she wouldn’t ask for leg replacements, again it is dubious technology to have. If you have these enhancements she will not tell another soul about them, because she’s pretty sure the reason you haven’t been reported is because the others don’t know. If you work for her she will always have you around to help her.

Nick

The reason he’s falling apart is because he knows next to nothing about mechanics so he’ll ask for your expertise after you’ve become friends. He’ll pay you of course. To be frank it takes a lot of worry from him knowing his hand won’t fall off. Further down the line he’ll ask if you could replace his skin.

Hancock

He thinks it’s cool and that’s where his opinion starts and ends. He starts thinking any more about it he’ll lose his mind because he doesn’t understand it in the slightest. If you have these implants he is going to stare at it and find every excuse to touch it.

MacCready

There is a part of him that thinks it’s weird and creepy. There’s a bigger part of him that thinks it’s super fucking cool. His comic book brain lights up and all his boyish dreams come to life in front of him. He never tells you that and tries to hide it but it is a bit obvious.

Danse

His views on technology after he left the Brotherhood had been muddled. All he knew was he knew less than nothing. Not being with the Institute was enough for him to look at what you do with an open mind. If you prove to be skilled enough he’ll ask if you could take a look at him, seeing as he’s a synth and everything.

X6-88

At first he considers you a huge asset to the Institute. After he trusts himself with you. He can hardly check himself and you have proven yourself to be trustful. In the regard I would advise you to be kind, the way they treated him in the Institute was borderline or sometimes overt torture.

Codsworth

He’s upset about your tools. Before the war you had much more at your disposal and you’d helped a lot of people but now you are severely limited. The indignity! But don’t worry he’ll go out and search for more and maintain the ones you have.

Deacon

As much as he jokes about it, it is something that makes him count his lucky stars you’re on their side. If you have some that have blades or something that thought increases tenfold. When you become friends that nervous caution dies down. His fear never really was about the tech.

Cait

This is only a good thing to her. You are strong as hell, have built in weapons, and you can replace blown off bits. What more could she want? Honestly, down the line she’ll ask if you’re willing to do it to her, but that’s far down the line.

Curie

She’s gonna have a work crush on you, just a fact. The need to expand her knowledge will have her working with you in the clinic, the combination of medicine and engineering makes everything better with you two. If you have them she’ll help you maintain it.

Piper

Her curiosity beats her disdain for the Institute. When she hears you denounce them she calms down. She does think it’s unnatural but who is she to agree about something she doesn’t fully understand. In fact she’ll allow you to put an ad in her paper if you ask.

Preston

He loves it. It helps people, it looks cool, and it’s mostly ethical under your command. If you weren’t the Sole Survivor he’d ask you to stay in his settlement, hell, he even offers to help you open a clinic or share it with Curie.

Dogmeat

Get an implant that throws a ball. Do it.

[thesakuragarnet]

Easier Than Lying

Summary: Dabi wakes up one morning to see that Hawks left his phone on the nightstand. OR DabiHawks angst oneshot inspired by Halsey's song: "Easier Than Lying".

Tags: Swearing, Paranormal-Liberation War Arc spoilers, DabiHawks angst, implied sexual content, MHA Ch350 spoilers, blood (crying, canon-typical)

Word Count: 1,027 words

AO3 link

Toya would be lying if he wasn’t suspecting it. He’d just sorely hoped he was wrong. Maybe…maybe Keigo wanted him to find out. Surely he wasn’t this stupid. It was early in the morning, and Hawks was showering before he left the Paranormal Liberation Front hideout. He’d been spending nights lately. At first, they were excuses to help with planning…but then, he started to seem more interested in something else…or rather, someone else. 

The minute a proposal of an inside mole was brought to light, Toya knew exactly who he wanted to pick. Keigo Takami: AKA Wing Hero Hawks. He knew Keigo wouldn’t recognize him. After all, his voice had changed, he’d dyed his hair, and, not to mention the piercings and the scars. He’d met Keigo Takami during his years all alone after he escaped from Ujiko’s nightmare of a child farm. Toya lived on the street, and Keigo just so happened to see him as he passed the alleyway. It was in his nature to be kind and help others, so, naturally, he’d helped Toya…for a little while at least. That is…until Toya learned who Keigo was aspiring to be. Then, he dropped even further off the grid; he packed up what little he had, took the bus, and left the city.

Still…Toya knew Keigo’s upbringing. Once he was exposed to the corruption within, surely he’d want to change everything. Surely , he’d see their side of things. 

And so, Dabi got Hawks alone to talk. They met by themselves a few times, building up trust. After the incident in Kyushu, the tension snapped. A few days later, they became… more than accomplices. It was short at first. An innocent flirt here, a lingering touch there. Then, Hawks was regularly spending late nights in Dabi’s bed, leaving before the sun rose so he could go back to his precious Agency.  

But now, their enemies to lovers game is splintering. Toya’s already hardened heart cracks as he reads the text message that crawls across Hawks’ phone screen. It’s from the Commission Leader. 

When Hell breaks loose, kill the Doubler. 

Twice had taken a specific liking to Hawks. He didn’t view him as close a comrade as Toga, but he wanted to be friends nonetheless. Hawks seemed to act the same…what a fucking joke. Toya knew it to be true. Hawks himself had turned into a corrupted Commission puppet. What a fucking waste of potential. But, could he even blame him? After all, he idolized Endeavor . That was the only rationalization. He should’ve seen it from the beginning.

Toya carefully places the phone back on the nightstand, facedown like it was moments ago before he saw the thin veil of light beneath the object. Toya shuts his eyes as the scars beneath them start to burn, and he presses between the staples, feeling the slightest amount of blood wet his fingertips as it seeps out. He’d need to change out his staples once Hawks left; he can’t believe he let the stupid bird have such a hold over him. 

‘Guess I should be glad we decided not to tell each other our real names. Fucking traitor,’ Toya thinks to himself as he hears the water shut off. He sloppily wipes the blood off on the sheets beneath his pillow to avoid suspicion before the Pro opens the bathroom door. Hawks is back in his Pro Hero Suit, and he pulls up his golden visor as he approaches the bed. 

“Oooh, almost forgot,” He mutters under his breath as he pockets his phone. Toya sits up and points to the headphones that are hanging on the bedpost. 

“You’re gonna forget those, too,” The villain sniffs in his normal dry tone; it was eerie how easily he could mask his emotions. 

“I’d leave my head here if you didn’t remind me,” Hawks laughs, tilting forward and putting his hands on the mattress as Dabi stares at him. He wants nothing more than to roast the bird alive, but, if the hero can play dumb, so can he. Hawks starts to lean in, closing his eyes, but Dabi keeps his eyes wide open during the Judas kiss. He used to crave this feeling, but, now, it just fills him with pure rage. His face feels hot as he kisses the hero back, willing to keep up the ruse. Hawks gently cups the side of Dabi’s face, his gloved thumb ever so slightly brushing up against his scars. Toya swallows the urge to flinch at the once-comforting sensation, and, instead, wraps his arms around the Pro, his hand snaking up under his coat and his shirt, traveling subtly until he firmly presses his palm against the small of his back. Toya glares at Keigo’s eyelids with such intense betrayal and enmity that, for a moment, he considers killing him then and there.

All at once, Toya harshly bites Keigo’s bottom lip and slightly activates his Quirk, branding his handprint into the hero’s lower back. 

“FUCK!” Keigo cries out, shoving himself away from Dabi, who changes his facial expression the moment Hawks’ eyes fly open. He smirks devilishly at Keigo as he grimaces, peeking in the mirror at the damage as he lifts up his shirt. 

“Aw, what’s the matter? Can’t handle a little pain?” Dabi snickers, hiding the venom in his voice. 

“I’m not fireproof, Dabs. Be gentle for fuck’s sake,” Hawks grumbles, harshly tugging his shirt back down and straightening his jacket. 

“Make sure you put on a good show, today, Birdbrain. Seven days until our big finale,” Dabi remarks as Hawks walks to the bedroom door, snatching his headphones on the way out. Right as he turns the knob, out of habit, Toya blurts:

“Stay safe, Birdbrain. I love you.” 

‘I loved you…’ 

Hawks pauses before looking over his shoulder with a smile. 

“I’ll see you tonight. I love you, too.”

He opens the door and shuts it behind him, leaving Dabi alone in the silent darkness. A chill runs down Toya’s spine as his glowing cerulean eyes burn, staring at the door frame. 

“No, you don’t. I don’t think you ever did.” 

[gay-dorito-dust]

hello I wanted to ask if you could make Connor Hawke head cannons,I really like your work and I think Connor Hawke should have more recognition. Anyway bye QUEEN or KING.

I had to read multiple things about this character and apparently he’s asexual! ONE OF US! ONE OF US! Also he’s pretty fucking cool. Sorry this took so long for me to get to writing, I hope you enjoy.

You most likely met Connor through Damian and or Tim Drake or even both if you were close enough for the both of them.

However that maybe through vigilantism or just casually as civilians is up to you.

But if you were a civilian friend of theirs, then you wouldn’t be privy to their identities, but if you followed a similar path to them in the art of crime fighting then you were more then likely teaming up with either Damian, Tim with Connor tagging along now and then.

Tim would tell you how indebted he was to Connor, highlighting all the good he is and how skilful he was in a variety of ways.

where as with Damian, he would speak of Connor like you expected him to, with a bluntness that told you his true feelings towards the Green Arrow and how they’ve clashed on multiple occasions for one reason or another.

Which automatically made you have immense respect for Connor as Damian wasn’t an easy opponent to go up against in the slightest, so to hear how closely matched the two were was another thing entirely. If anything both of their stories made you want to meet him.

And soon enough you did when he had aided you out of a really tight spot, showing off his abilities with close quarters combat as well as his abilities with a bow and arrow, he was precise and made it look as easy as breathing; as though all of this came second nature to him.

‘Thanks. You saved my ass back there.’ You said, completely out of breath.

‘I’m sure you had it handled, to an extent.’ Connor replied as he offered you a hand.

Soon you found yourself having a partnership with the green arrow on the odd occasion should you both be nearby, trading smart commentary while swiftly taking down whoever it was you were against before bidding each other farewell.

Nothing more nothing less but during the more quieter nights you and Connor could be found on rooftops trading stories of childhood and the traumas you’ve gone through to become the people you were now.

You wanted to strangle Oliver Queen, you really wanted to strangle the guy even if the fucker was dead. You didn’t care, you had a bone to pick with the man who thought he could escape fatherhood. He angered you greatly.

‘Your father’s a prick.’ You said. ‘A giant fucking prick and a right royal rich fuck up.’

Connor shrugs. ‘He wasn’t much of one to begin with, so how could I expect him to be one when he lacked the confidence to not fuck it all up.’

You patted him on the shoulder. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’re my favourite green arrow.’ You smile at him as he chuckled at your words, finding your ability to insult and compliment someone in the same breath endearing and unique, a breath of fresh air while you found his presence equally as calming and pleasant to be near.

Which made it harder for you to depart when your jobs as vigilantes were done for the night.

So you start hanging out as civilians also!

Once Connor feels comfortable with his bond with you he’ll inform you that he’s asexual, which you valued his trust and bravery in telling you such a vital bit of information of himself in the first place. It was a staple of how much he trusted you and you never saw him any different.

If you’re also asexual you’d start chanting ‘one of us! One of us!’ Before you talked about how you both realised that you were asexual and deepen your bond even more as your conversations went deeper and deeper to the point you both knew each other as well as you knew yourselves.

Deep conversations were a massive part of your relationship with Connor, it shows that you both deeply care for one another and loved to learn more about one another and share little bits of wisdom, making you both just the little more wiser thanks to the other.

You and Connor appreciate what you both been through, always reminding how much stronger you both have been throughout it all, all the while appreciating the new bits of personality you gained from being in close proximity to one another. So much so that it makes fighting a lot more easier for the both of you as you move together as a unit, like one being, and work in such tandem that you could tell what the other was going to do without the need for words.

Connor probably tries to have you learn how to use a bow and arrow, whether or not this goes well is up to you.

So if you’re shit at it expect a playful ‘I think it’s best to leave the archery to me.’ From him.

[violets-and-books]

I have a present for you:

Jesper groaned in frustration. “Well if Kaz hadn’t signaled us too soon-”

Kaz scowled. “Wylan forced my hand.”

Wylan’s head snapped over to him in surprise and confusion. Inej furrowed her brow, and Nina and Matthias glared at Wylan. Jesper scoffed a fake laugh. “Wylan ‘forced’ you? He couldn’t force a cat to eat.”

“Hey!”

Kaz looked at Wylan with no emotion except the slightest bit of annoyance in the quirk of his lip. His hands rested menacingly on his cane. Weighted for breaking bones, he had said right after Inej watched him smash a man’s head in. “You told me to shoot the gun so I had to.”

Wylan frowned and turned around on the couch to face him. “I told you to because there were soldiers coming.”

“It wasn’t your call to make,” he hissed. 

“Then you shouldn’t have done it, if it was such a bad call!”

“I had no choice. Vocal barosie,” Wylan turned around and shook his head, “Can control people with their voice-” He rapped his cane against the floor. “Look over here, Van Eck!”

Wylan flinched and turned around with a sharpness to his eyes Inej didn’t like. She didn’t want Kaz yelling, but it wasn’t like she could tell him to stop, it was dark out. Mistborn and Dhamphirs controlled the night. Wraiths were but a myth to keep children out of the woods. 

“That’s not true.”

Nina scoffed. “Everyone knows baros singers are dangerous because they could convince you of just about anything. 

Wylan grit his teeth and turned to face her on the other couch. “That’s not true!”

“Oh yeah?” She said, “Can you prove it?”

He scowled. “Stamp your foot.” Nina didn’t move, just raised an eyebrow. “See? You didn’t do it.”

Jesper rolled his eyes. “You can control whether you influence someone or not.”

Wylan whirled around to him. Inej saw his eyes dart to each of them like a cornered animal; She knew the feeling. “No I can’t! When I sing I can’t control if it affects people or not! That’s not how we work!”

He crossed his arms and looked bored, if anything. “You can’t prove that.”

“You can’t disprove it!”

Matthias grunted. “No barosie are to be trusted.”

Wylan stood up and whirled on him, his back to Jesper now. Inej only just realized she probably didn’t help him feel any less boxed in. She crept over to the couch and sat behind Wylan so he wouldn’t see her, but to let the rest of them know she was taking his side. She’d never had any reason to disbelieve a baros before. They were nothing but kind to her every time she met one. 

He raised his voice and pointed a finger. “You fucking Drüskelle liar! You know! You know it’s not true! You all spread hideous fucking lies about Barosie because they’re the only supernatural you can’t fight.”

Matthias glared. “I could fight you.

Wylan crossed his arm. “I’d have you on your knees begging me forgiveness with a lullaby before you even got to me.”

“We’re not so easily manipulated!”

“You get my point!”

Matthias scowled. Inej hated yelling. She didn’t like the snap in Wylan’s musical voice or the utter frustration in Matthias. She didn’t like Nina, who was always so willing to help, making Wylan upset. And she certainly didn’t appreciate Jesper, who kept himself hidden from society for rumors about mistborns, treating Wylan like he was any different. She didn’t know what she expected for Kaz, but she was certainly disappointed. 

With slow and gentle precision, she put a hand on Wylan’s shoulder. He flinched, but turned and looked at her and relaxed. He looked at where she had been sitting in the window, then back to her. “Do you believe that? That we’re liars and can make people do what we want?”

She shook her head. The scraping of a chair sounded as Jesper got off the desk and pushed the furniture piece away with his feet. “Inej, come on-” She glared, and he shut up. 

Wylan nodded and hugged himself, looking small, cornered. She guided him to sit down again. He was facing Nina, and he looked up and saw her raised eyebrow and skeptical face. Inej sat next to him and wouldn’t look at her, only at Matthias. She saw it, only for a moment: The brief flash of guilt in his eyes. He was lying. He knew those things weren’t true. 

“Wylan,” Jesper said. “Admit you goofed up.”

He looked at him and spat, “I didn’t.”

Jesper glared and crossed his arms, then looked at Kaz. “Did you want to fire the gun?”

“No,” he said, watching the scene unfold like a chess game. “He made me.”

Wylan stood up again and turned on him. “No I didn’t!” 

“You did, because you were scared, and you know it.”

Wylan’s ears were pink, but Inej couldn’t tell if it was from anger or embarrassment. Perhaps both. “You’re lying!”

“I’m not.”

He looked up. “Kaz, I swear to Ghezen-”

He hummed skeptically. “What? You’ll sing me a tune about how angry you are?”

“Kaz,” he looked back at him, and it was the calmest he had been in the whole argument, “I’m probably the only person in this room who could make you cry. The only person in the world, in fact.” Kaz scowled. “Admit you’re lying.”

“Make me.”

“No! Do it because I know you have a kind bone somewhere in your broken, dead body!”

“Wylan, that’s not fair-” He cut Nina off. 

“Not fair? You know what’s not fair? That seer’s get drugged and then used as mindless middlemen.” She pursed her lips. He pointed at Matthias. “You know what’s not fair? That Moran’s think they have to kill to defend themselves, that that’s in their blood.” He looked Jesper in the eyes, and Inej saw him swallow. “That mistborn are practically extinct ever since the fall of the Great Empire. It’s not fair that people hunt them and use a glass knife to hang their heads on their walls!” Jesper looked away. He whirled on Kaz. “That Dhamphirs are just a stronger species’ bastard children!”

Nina stood and came to him, grabbing his shoulders. “Quit!”

He pushed her away. He looked at Matthias. “Tell them what else isn’t fair: That drüskelle are so afraid of Barosie, they spread rumors about them that are so integrated into society, that we’re not used as anything but performers and prostitutes!”

He looked away. “You’re lying.”

“Matthias, I will sing, and you’ll tell the truth whether you like it or not.”

He glared at Wylan, and Wylan glared right back. It was silent, but it was the worst of silences. It was the silence before Inej died every night, it was the silence Jesper had to bear when Kaz sent him to spy. It was a silence that Nina was forced into when she took Juda Parem, it was the silence Matthias had to suffer when he was locked away with his people. It was the silence Wylan had to live with when he was a child. 

“You know it’s not true,” he said, and the tears in his eyes had rusted the cords in his throat like a worn and broken guitar. 

Matthias looked down. He didn’t speak for a good minute. Finally, he said, just barely above a whisper, because he wasn’t one for a whisper, he said, “It’s not true.”

Wylan stepped back, and Nina and Jesper started. “What?” Nina demanded. 

Matthias cleared his throat. “It’s not true. Wylan is right. The drüskelle started the rumors about barosie centuries ago. They’re not liars, most of them,” he added, with a pointed look at Wylan. “They’re just performers. We’re not allowed to kill them, by code, so it was easier to make them afraid than to fear them.”

Jesper scowled. “If that were true, not so many people would believe it.”

“Some barosie even believe it,” he said. “It was spread everywhere. Barosie were hunted down for a while after a tribe of Moran drüskelle told a city that the barosie there had come to steal away their children because they had lost fertility through sexual diseases.”

“Grolcose,” Wylan whispered, looking at Matthias. “The city was Grolcose, and no baros within their right mind will go there now because they'll hang you from the gate.”

He shook his head. “Music is against the law, in fact.”

Wylan scowled. He looked at Kaz, who simply stood. He said, “So you do have a spine.”

A trick, Inej realized. Of course it was a trick. Kaz knew better than to know anything other than the truth.

I decided Kaz knew, he just needed to test something :)

Kaz fucking Brekker, I'm going to kill you. I'm not even sure if I'm glad he's up to something, I'm just angry with everyone for being angry at Wylan and aaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

"The tears in his eyes had rusted the chords in his throat" - Lore, you dropped this 👑👑👑👑👑

This universe sounds amazing from an outward perspective. But it's probably pretty shit from an in universe perspective and isn't that just the best kind of universe?

Inej 🥺🥺

I love that she can't speak as a Wraith, that's really cool, I think. Symbolism and everything, having her voice taken away, having her agency removed. But I love that she's still on Wylan's side. She knows and I love that

"You can control when you influence someone or not" - Jes, not you too

I hate hate hate hate hate how they all have rumours (mostly likely spread by the drüskelle) about them but they're so eager to turn on their friends because their rumours are worse. It's so like real life in that way, I applaud you

"Admit you goofed up" - ThE wAy He'S sAyInG iT lIkE iT's No BiG dEaL tHaT tHeY'rE bLaMiNg WyLaN fOr SoMeThInG hE dIdN't DoOoOOOOoOOOO, JesPER IM GONNA HURT YOU VERY BADLY BUT NOT KILL YOU, YOU NEED TO REPENT AND APOLOGISE

Okay, it is very Kaz-like and very smart for Kaz to say just the right, calculated thing so they all air their bias but I still DON'T LIKE ITTT

[faded-neon]

It was quiet in the house. Peaceful. Leo couldn't quite bring himself to slip off into dreamland just yet--which, come to think of it, was probably a left-over habit from years spent on the run, constantly forced to be on alert for even the slightest sign of Krang intrusion, constantly forced to be a light sleeper on principle so that he might be able to help with evacuation at a moment's notice. It wasn't as though he was trying to be an insomniac. Sleep simply wasn't something that came to him very easily anymore, if it had ever come easily. And try as he might to follow the advice that the Internet gave of quietly reading or something before he turned in, he couldn't quite shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong.

Leo groaned, swiping a hand down his face as he set the book that he'd been trying to read for the past twenty minutes aside. It was something Lysias had recommended to him, he thought--some kind of mystery novel--and while the book had thus far been interesting, the fact that he'd read the same page about five times by now and still hadn't managed to retain any of the material probably didn't speak well to its use as a relaxing technique. And though he was at least ninety percent sure that everything in the household was fine (because the Krang were gone, for fuck's sake, and they were alive), his ever-present paranoia wouldn't stop him from checking anyway.

Mikey's room first. His little brother laid with his hair strewn every which way and his markings softly glowing, healthy and smiling and so very alive, not dissolved back into golden dust as a part of Leo feared that he'd open the door to see. Smiling softly, Leo closed the door as gently as he possibly could, exhaling. Right. Okay. Time to check on Donnie and then head off to sleep himse---

Thud.

The sound was loud, and near, and Leo found himself reflexively reaching for his katana when he was able to determine that the sound had come from Donnie’s side of the apartment. Scenarios ran through his mind one after the other—Donnie was hurt, the Krang infection had come back, he was having a seizure and he wouldn’t be able to get there in time—and he sprinted to the guest bedroom, flinging open the door and—

Oh. Donnie was just sitting half-sprawled on the floor, wearing a very “deer in the headlights” expression as he twisted his good eye to view Leo. “Oh. Uh. Greetings, ‘Nardo—“

“Don, what the hell are you doing out of bed without your crutches.”

“I was only trying to go to the bathroom. It’s only a few steps away, I can manage that much without the crutches, it’s fine—“

“It’s not! What if you’d been hurt and I was asleep and couldn’t get to you in time?”

Donnie gave a dismissive wave of his hand at that. “Oh, please. Everyone knows your sleeping habits are absolutely abysmal even at the best of times—“

“That’s not the point. Don, you can’t rush through the healing process, alright? Trust me on this. You’re going to fuck up your legs and then you’ll have to spend twice as long in bed, which I don’t think either of us want. And besides, I’m supposed to be looking out for you—“ Like I didn’t before. Like I didn’t get the chance to, because I refused to take your very real concerns seriously. He wanted to say the words, and yet they clogged in his throat, sticking like a piece of food that hadn’t quite managed to go down the right way.

“I’m not rushing. I’m not trying to. I just wanted to prove that I was ready. Maybe then you’ll stop mother-henning me all the damn time, honestly, I got enough of that from Raph—“

“I’m not trying to mother hen you! I know it’s stupid to think the same thing that happened the last time you were sick is going to happen again, I know it is!” He snapped it out before he could stop himself, spinning away from Donnie and pacing and worrying at his scarf. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Alive. Here. That this isn’t just some dream of mine again. I want us to be able to have that bond again, but you keep pushing me away whenever I try to get close. I just….I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong here, Don. I really don’t. Are you angry at me? Did I mess things up somehow? I would get being angry at me for….but at least tell me how I can make up for it. Please. I want to so badly—“

He broke off as Donnie tried to push himself to his feet, tried to take a step, seeming like he was frozen between walking out of the room and going to Leo's side. And then his twin's legs buckled again, and before Leo could even stop himself he was there, holding Donnie steady as they both sagged back towards the floor. For a moment, it was like the years melted away again. He was cradling Donnie through a bad shutdown, or distracting him with bad jokes as he bandaged a scrape, or wrangling him into submission so that he could get his yearly vaccinations, honest to Pete, why were all of his family such babies about getting shots--

But then he blinked, and he was back with a brother who was down a few parts, who had been through hell and back with him, who was currently trembling like a leaf against him. "Don?"

".....It hurts, Leo. Is that what you want to hear? It hurts so much. Fine. You win. Drag me off to observation or. Whatever."

He reached out towards his twin then, words soft. "Hey. Donnie, it'll be alright-"

"No! Nothing about this is alright! Stop saying that!" Donnie spun towards him now, hissing under his breath, words sharp. "You're supposed to....why don't you hate me?"

Well. Didn't that stun him into silence. His arm fell back to his side limply, voice strangled. "....hate you? Wh....why would I--"

"Why don't you! Why are you helping me? Why are you bringing me back and leaving me in this body that's in pain all the damn time and--why are you being so nice--" Donnie's arms flailed around then, karate-chopping the air as if to add import to his statement. "I said....I said I'd never leave you! And I left! All because I was too stupid to listen to reason and give up on the Technodrome mission! We promised each other we'd be there for each other! You're my twin! I'm s-supposed to look out for you and I couldn't even-"

All Leo could do was stare dumbly at the tears tracking down from Donnie's good eye, even as he angrily swiped at them and hissed under his breath. "I could have been here. I could have stopped you from getting so low that you'd use a spell that almost fucking ate you. I could have....I could have fixed things. We promised we'd never....I hurt you. I tried to. And I made you have to hurt me, so why don't you goddamn hate me. Shout, scream, get it out of your system, something! I broke our promise, I....you should....why are you being so....it doesn't make sense--"

Leo couldn't listen to this. He couldn't listen to his own twin spitting out all of this self-hatred. He pulled Donnie into a hug before he could stop himself, ignoring the startled hiss it drew from the softshell. "Yeah. You did leave. And it sucked for a really long time. And I thought I could have fought harder to keep you from going on that mission, but....Don, if there's one thing I'm learning, it's that you can't beat yourself up for mistakes you made when you didn't know any better. You can't plan for everything. Even if you think you can. I couldn't plan for losing the key being the thing that would set off an entire apocalypse, and you couldn't plan for them leaving a weird Krang virus in there for you."

"But I-"

"Don. Seriously. I don't hate you. Hated myself for a while, sure, but I could never hate my twin, alright? No matter what you did. And maybe having you here would have helped more, yeah, but....I still had people who got me through it. And you know me, I'm a stubborn bastard who doesn't want to admit when I'm actually having a problem with something. Who knows whether having you here would have actually made things easier or not.” He cupped Donnie’s face then, gently forcing him to make eye contact. “I’m being nice because you’re my twin and there’s nothing you can do to change that. And I want to make up for promising I’d protect you and then coming up short.”

“You didn’t come up short—“

“If I didn’t, then you didn’t either.” At the snort he got from Donnie, he continued. “Seriously. Remember that stupid song we always used to sing to each other? We’re sticking together through thick and thin. No matter what. Don, I brought you back from being dead. I loved you enough to do that. If I hated your guts, I wouldn’t have.”

Sniff. A swipe at his eyes. “No matter what I do….I’m always stuck with you….”

“Exactly. You’re stuck with me. No matter what. So stop pushing me away. I’m here now and we’re gonna make up for the time we missed.”

“…..okay.” Donnie’s voice was small, wavering, but he leaned into Leo all the same, inhaling and exhaling heavily. “I’m alive. Things will get better. I’m with you guys.”

“Yeah. You are. And we’ll make sure you don’t forget it.” He nuzzled into Donnie, churring softly under his breath, and smiled when his twin responded with a nuzzle and his own soft chirp.

“Make a “Purrytello” joke and you’ll find out whether I’m above throat-punching someone I just had an emotional moment with.”

“You’re no fun.” He huffed out a laugh against Donnie’s shoulder, smirking softly. “Hey. Don-tron.”

“You haven’t called me that since we were teenagers.”

“Well, I’m doing it again. What did the medical examiner say about someone that was attacked with a hammer.”

“No idea.”

“He died of a brain hammer-age.”

Snort. He could feel Donnie’s shoulders shaking against his as the softshell let out a wheezing laugh, singular eye glimmering with mirth. “That’s so stupid.”

“I missed that smile.” For a moment, he sat there, gently rubbing circles into Donnie’s shell while his younger twin nuzzled against him and chirped and let his instincts-driven brain rise to the surface. And then he yawned, stretched, gave Donnie a bit of a firmer pat on the shoulder. “You need help getting back into bed or whatever?”

“Bathroom first.”

“Got it. Alright, hop on, squirt, I’ll give you a ride.”

“I am literally a good several inches taller than you and you have the posture of a toothpaste container—“

And despite his twin’s offended squawking and his own cracking laughter, Leo felt the warmth between them blossoming, brighter and warmer than ever. Donnie was here. His brilliant, hard-working, stubborn twin was here to have his back again. Donnie was here, and so very alive, and the world seemed so much more full of possibility now. They would get through whatever else came their way together now, as they had from the very beginning.

And that old song came to his ears again—

You and me, me and you, two by two—

Only this time, it felt hopeful.

[zoeysdamn]

Snippet tag - Bark, Bite & Break Bones sneek peak 

the adorable @chaosheadspace tagged me, and since I’m very slow at writing these days due to personnal things to take care of, here’s a sneak peek of the next chapter of the Tyler x Van Helsing! reader fic 

---

You weren’t even halfway through your drink when a bitter voice spoke up behind you, “Careful with who you’re cheering, Enid. Wouldn’t want her to poison you.” 

Whipping around you glared at the newly arrived Bianca, in a short gold dress with long sleeves. No matter how gorgeous she looked, the venom in her eyes was enough to make you snare at her. Next to her, a very handsome yet uncomfortable looking Xavier was standing but surely he’d wished to be anywhere but here at the moment, looking for his best friend in the crowd. 

“What about minding your own fucking business, Bianca?” you spat at her, grumpy that she ruined your for one joyful mood. 

“I’m just saying,” she said, ignoring you completely, “you seem to be pretty great at suppressing students from this school, maybe Enid should start to worry.”

Glaring even harder at her you took a menacing step in her direction, “I am good at killing monsters, don’t you fucking forget that before you throw threats at me, princess.”

“You think you can impress me after the shit you pulled with Yoko?” she growled at you, standing tall and getting closer. It was a game of asserting dominance, and you knew it. 

“I have nothing to do with what Yoko brought on herself and you know it,” you said bitterly, trying to control yourself to not tear her branchias out of her throat. “So get the fuck off my back.”

“Don’t you really?”

“Piss. off.” 

“What’s going on here?” 

Both of you turned to Tyler and Ajax who had just arrived, having noticed the tense atmosphere at the bar. The Gorgon gave Enid and Xavier confused glances, trying to understand what the fuss was about. Obviously he didn’t dare to ask you or Bianca, he knew better than to interfere in this hissing game. Tyler on the other hand already had more or less an idea of what was going on. 

“None of your business, murderer,” snapped Bianca to Tyler, “if anything I’ll be doing you a favor by getting the Van Helsing bitch out of Nevermore so back off.” 

“What the fuck did you just call me?” you growled again, knuckles turning white around your cup. 

“You heard me. Didn’t know torturing vampires made you deaf.” 

If things were tense before, now they were downright electric. And if it wasn’t for the whole school around you you would have beaten the shit out the siren already; at least as a revenge for the Poe cup. “Yoko asked for what happened to her,” you spat at the siren, “trust me if I had anything to do with it, she would have a spike through her heart right now.”

Bianca only snarled, “Guess you lost your touch since Jeremiah then. How are you sleeping at night?”

“Jesus fucking Christ Bianca, that was three years ago, drop it for fuck’s sake!” you roared, finally losing patience. 

Anger boiling, you didn’t notice the few pairs of eyes that had turned in your direction at your outburst. But it didn’t seem to frighten the siren the slightest, and she only snared in disdain. 

“You can try all you want to pretend that you’re friendly and redeeming, but no one here is willing to be your friend, Van Helsing. You’re just a bitter, sad, miserable lonely bitch.”

Sensing you were ready to lose it again, Tyler put himself slightly in front of you and put a hand on your forearm to prevent you from gouging Bianca’s eyes out. “Okay, that’s enough.”

---

Hope it’ll make you wait until I finish the chapter uhuh 👀

Whoever wants to join can be considerated as tagged, take care of you ♥

[hellmouth-manor]

and thereby hangs a tale || cedric || 1.12 || re: he's going through it

But it wouldn’t hurt you to trust me every once in a while, now would it?

If it were said to anyone else, by anyone else, maybe it would’ve seemed reasonable. When it’s said to Cedric by Hisashi, he can’t help but fight the bitter, burning feeling in the back of his throat as he swallows down the urge to laugh. Trust? Hisashi wanted to talk about trust?

Before he can even open his mouth to argue, it’s been brushed off. Discarded. Hisashi moves on to the next person, and Cedric’s hands ball into fists at his sides, ducking his head with the same twinge of guilt as a dog that’s been scolded for barking out of turn. His eyes squeeze shut, and he tries to make sense of it all. 

It wouldn’t hurt you to trust me.

But it did. It felt like being turned inside out, realizing in the kitchen who must have been responsible for the murder. It felt like a drawn-out walk to the gallows, trying to make normal conversation with the others as he waited for time to tick down, wishing it had all lasted just a little bit longer. It felt like being ripped in two every time he’d been asked to help and was unable to answer. 

And it still hurts, even now. He feels like a raw, exposed nerve, ready to scream at the slightest touch. How could it not hurt? Unless—

Cedric’s mind scrambles for something, anything, to try and understand. It finds its conclusion at the end of a familiar road:

It must have been him. 

It must have been his own fault. He hadn’t trusted hard enough. He must have fucked it up somewhere along the way. That’s why it had hurt. Why it hurts now. If he’d just trusted harder, it wouldn’t have. If he’d just trusted harder, he wouldn’t have put himself through the hell that still threatens to swallow him whole. Because it wouldn’t hurt him to trust Hisashi. Would it? 

Of course not. It never did.

Nori’s words reach his ears and pull him back out of his thoughts. Some part of him knows that he should be worried. Watching the candles around the circle light one by one, he knows that he should be scared of everything that comes next. But that’s next. It’s not here yet. 

For now, the desperate, choking fear that he tries to shove down with trust takes precedence. If he trusts Hisashi, he should light his own candle. If he trusts Hisashi, he should vote for him. If he trusts Hisashi, it won’t hurt. And yet, his candle remains unlit. He can’t even do that much.

Maybe, Cedric thinks, he deserves for it to hurt after all.

[sloppyplanetary]

rickorty review s3e8 mortys mind blowers

hell fuckn yea, one of my favorite episodes to play with. rick can do and erase whatever the fuck he wants, and that's open to a lot of sandbox interpretations

youd think after all the shit he’s been through, he wouldn’t follow rick down into a creepy sub hatch in the garage, but this fucker keeps making the conscious decision to put his life in ricks hands. Love and trust

morty: “ill do anything to get out of here!” rick: anything?” morty: “anything!” rick: "alright, i'm gonna need you to take off yr shirt” and morty immediately goes to strip lmaooo. Reminds me of the love potion episode where he was ready to pull his dick out. Eager much?

Morty asking rick for a machine thatll make yr urine drinkable is both adorable and incredibly kinky. Ricks willingness to give morty these little gadgets with only the slightest bit of exasperation is endearing as fuck. Wonder what other little shit mortys asked for that ricks made him. Spoiled, aint he

yea rick can pass this off as "just saying that to get the worm outta ya" and that's why it's so easy for him to be honest right here. he knows he can be mean- and he also knows he loves the shit out of morty.

how come every time they fight, morty throws himself at rick like a feral dog with no fear. its hot

why was it necessary for morty to jack off an alien. Why couldn't rick do it. Oh yeah, cause he was too busy combining morty and his xenophile tendencies into one to get a memory he can rewatch whenever he wants. perv

true level bitch. Yr gonna make a true level square, KNOWING the effect it'll have on morty, and just happen to be shirtless while ya let him get on the fuckn orgasm pad, and then cradle him in yr arms and shush him while hes crying to go back to the orgasm pad, and ya shooed summer away to school instead of immediately mind blowing morty- whatd ya need the house alone for, old man? savoring the moment?

oh look, Another gadget made for morty. “why are ya making me do this for you again?” lmaoo rick sanchez lets his teenage grandson “make him” do things. constantly boasting about how he's the smartest man in the galaxy who does whatever he wants, and all it takes is morty to ask him for something, make puppy dog eyes, or yell at him, and rick folds. He's whipped as fuck.

in that squirrel rant, how many times ya gotta say mortys name. simp with morty brainrot

rickorty rating: 10/10

that fuckn orgasm pad. the virgin tube in the background thats had a million and a half theory posts made about it. the fact that rick enjoys mind blowing morty and has done it multiple times. yea, this ones a hit

honorable mention: mindblown morty implying rick was keeping morty in the basement for sex reasons and rick goes "for all I know you could be the fuckn weirdo"