#but really actually not fic at all

[annebd]

this is not!fic. it’s just been bouncing around my head for a while now and i needed to get it out.

daniel is a professional trip sitter. he’s officially a licensed psychotherapist, but that’s more of a side effect of the trip sitting. he kind of fell into it by accident. he had a couple of friends who got into some seriously bad shit when they were younger, and he told them that whenever they were going to partake in anything, they needed to call him so that he could make sure they were okay. they did, and he was really good at keeping them safe and keeping the vibes chill. word got around, and eventually he was trip sitting for friends of friends of friends and it became an actual thing. he got the therapy degree mostly just to make the whole thing seem more legit.

max is max. but he’s max without daniel’s influence to temper and even him out. so he’s max, but pointier. it’s the second summer break of 2024, he’s fighting for his fucking life out on track, the team is doing nothing to help him win this wdc, the media is hounding him constantly, and he’s fraying at the edges. he’s lashing out and has no idea how he’s gonna get through the next two triple headers to finish the season.

maybe rupert is the one who takes him aside one day and hands him a business card and is like “if anyone asks, i will deny this with my dying breath, but you need to calm the fuck down. please call this guy. he will help you.”

or maybe it’s martijn. they’re on a facetime and martijn is like “motherfucker, we aren’t even on the same continent and you’re stressing ME out with how high strung you are. please sort your shit out. i know a guy who knows a guy. i’ll send you his contacts. please call him. for the sake of my sanity.”

or maybe it’s both of them. and when max finally gets around to looking at the details that they gave him, he realizes that it’s the same guy. and he figures that if both rupert and martijn have independently heard of him, maybe there’s something to it.

so he calls and speaks to someone who sounds very perky and very australian and schedules a time to meet so that they can talk about the plan and stuff

they meet. something something something. the maxiel of it all.

daniel is a professional and takes his job super seriously so he knows he can’t act on these feelings at all, but omg, this is the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen in his entire life. he’s got these broad shoulders and pouty lips and the tiniest waist and the cutest lisp and he’s so grumpy, omg so grumpy, but he laughs at daniel’s dumb jokes and makes his own dumb jokes back

and max is like, immediately and irrevocably in love. end of sentence. but even he realizes that it’s probably not a great idea to try and bone the therapist who’s gonna trip sit for you. he’s not happy about it, but he gets it.

so they set it up and he drinks the tea or whatev and has the floatiest happiest bestest time and daniel is there with him and basically it’s everything he could possibly have wanted. good job, psychedelic mushrooms.

he comes down and feels amazing and thanks daniel and tips him entirely too much when he gets the invoice two days later and puts his head down to finish out the season

he wins

six months later, he’s back in LA and he calls the number on the back of the card and asks daniel if he wants to go out for a cup of tea. without the shrooms this time. <3

[somnimagus]

My page for @sheikahzine; about Impaz's duty to her village, empty of people and full of memories.

[id in alt text]

[sceletaflores]

slippery when wet!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: “so who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank. a shocked laugh bursts from your lips. “what?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “me or art? don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than i do.”

—or: patrick puts you in your place three months later.

word count: 4.3k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, p in v, fighting as foreplay, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), rough sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (m!receiving), fingering...kinda (fem!receiving), very light spanking, choking, degradation, creampie, throat fucking, mean!reader my beloved, art donaldson is there in spirit, patrick is gay for art, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: no one can stop me from writing rough sex patrick fics. it's all i think about 24/7, and you guys are no help but like i love it so it's fine. i'm here to serve you and this is clearly what you want so who am i to deny you that? thank you to the beautiful anon who requested this, i hope you don't mind that i changed it from a locker room scene to a bathroom scene but that was just calling to me hehe. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

psst! tftw series masterlist!

You’ve been on the court for at least an hour and a half, running drills and trying to sweat out all of your stress. You were the only one in the building, but it was always less busy during finals week. Most people were camped out in their dorms cramming for fifty question tests or four part lab practicals. 

Art politely declined your invite, too busy studying for his business final on Monday. So you rented a tennis machine and worked on your backhand that way. It was a nice distraction, emptying your head enough that all the anxiety of finals started to melt away as you slid into a steady rhythm with the machine.

The door bangs open with a loud creak behind you, bursting the little bubble of tranquility surrounding you. The back of your head burns with the unmistakable feeling of someone glaring at you.

You hear him before you see him, a loud call of your name followed by heavy footsteps quickly coming towards you. The sound of his voice immediately grates on your nerves, all angry and shouty. You choose to ignore it, focusing on hitting each new ball the machine spits out.

It may have been a couple months since you’ve seen Patrick, but you’d always recognize the familiar way his voice wraps around each syllable in your name.

Three months, to be exact. It’s been three months since your big fight over the phone with Patrick. You blocked his number right after you hung up, so you haven’t spoken to him in just as long. He never tried to reach out, never messaged you on AOL or Facebook. The petty fuck actually went out of his way to unfriend you on both, so you knew he wasn’t exactly torn up about your abrupt split. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Patrick shouts over the loud humming, sounding closer to you than he was before. You pointedly keep ignoring him, eyes fixed stubbornly on the machine. “You deaf or something?” he mocks, stepping up so you can see him in your peripheral vision. You say nothing, swinging your racket harder with each hit.

Patrick scoffs, stomping over to the machine and slamming his hand over the stop button. It makes a loud beeping sound, before shutting off completely. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking baby.” you groan, throwing your head back in annoyance. When you finally turn to glare at him, you’re shocked at the state he’s in.

Patrick’s dressed in a tank and the almost too short shorts he’d usually wear to a match, and he’s dripping sweat. Curly black hair plastered to his forehead with it, his cheeks red and blotchy like he’d been in the sun. You raise your brow, looking at him with a confused expression on your face. “Where the hell did you even come from? How did you know I was here?” 

He walks back over to you, hands balled into fists by his side. “I was at a tournament in Mountain View,” he explains, jerking his head in the vague direction he came from, ”it was so close I thought it’d be wrong of me to not stop by and check up on you.”

You laugh, nodding your head lightly. “Okay, so you flunked out of another tournament and hunted me down like a creepy stalker to what? Yell at me some more? Call me a cunt again?” you step closer, lightly swishing your racket through the air dismissively. “I’m not fucking interested in whatever it is you have to say Patrick, we’re over.”

He smirks but you can see the way his jaw clenches, ticking in anger. “But you’re interested in what Art has to say?”

There it is. You really should have known it would all come back to this eventually.

You sigh, casting your eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “What’s your point?”

Patrick takes a step closer. “My point is that you’re not fucking stupid, and Art can’t lie to save his goddamn life. You knew exactly what he was doing.” His tone is accusatory, his brows pinched together hard enough to crease his skin. 

Your heart beat picks up in your chest, anger beginning to bubble up inside you. “I didn’t need Art’s help to realize that you’re an arrogant piece of shit and a gigantic waste of my time, you made it easy enough to pick up on all by yourself.”

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “No, you just didn’t care.” he states darkly, shaking his head back and forth a few times. You can feel a few drops of sweat fling from his hair to land on the bare skin of your shoulders as he does. “You’re so easy that you’d spread your legs from him to stroke your own ego. You’re only playing into his whole kicked puppy charade to justify acting like a fucking whore, ‘Poor Art, he’s so sad and pathetic, I’ll let him fuck my slutty pussy to help his raise his self esteem!’.” He mocks, voice pitched up in an exaggerated impression of you.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your racket, knuckles turning white with it. You feel hot all over, anger simmering under your sweaty skin. “You’re seriously trying to lecture me about egos? This has nothing to do with Art! This is about you being a bratty little rich boy who’s never been told ‘no’ before so you can’t handle rejection. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Patrick nostrils flare, brows pinching together in anger. “Art has nothing to do with this, really? You’re delusional if you actually think that he’s just this saint among men or some shit. He’s not, he’s a fucking snake.”

“Trust me, Art doesn’t have to be a saint to be better than you.” you sneer, voice sharp and unwavering. Your hands are shaking, blind rage racking through your body like thunder. “The only redeeming quality you’ll ever have is dangling between your legs so you better get used to this, because sooner or later everyone will leave you once they see past all your bullshit and realize that you’re nothing more than a worthless loser.”

Patrick’s jaw works furiously, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. You think something like hurt flashes through his eyes, but only for a second. It's gone just as fast, replaced by a mocking smirk that stretches over his lips slowly. He crosses his arms in front of him, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“So who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank.

A shocked laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “What?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides limply. The completely one-eighty of his mood sends your head reeling. 

Patrick takes another step closer, invading your personal space. “Who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “Me or Art? Don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than I do.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “God, everything is always a dick measuring contest with you. It’s so pathetic like, seriously–”

“Answer the question.” Patrick demands, cutting you off sharply. He’s practically looming over you now, so close that you can smell him. That natural, manly, musky scent he always has after a game that drives you fucking crazy. 

It reminds you of when he’d come back to your dorm fresh off a match, still in the same clothes and not showered. Pumped full of adrenaline and so pent up, needing something to take his energy out on. You were always that something. He’d fuck your mouth like he’d fuck your pussy, like it was just another hole for him drain his balls into. You’d be face down in his crotch for what seemed like hours, right where his smell was the strongest. Forced to breathe it in so deeply you’d feel high off it, your brain turned to mush every time.

Heat swirls deep in your stomach, you haven’t been this close to Patrick in what seems like forever. You kind of forgot how much he affects you, especially like this. The sex was always better when you’d fight before.

“You’re a child.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

You huff, narrowing your eyes at him. There’s a sort of crazed look on his face, his pupils blown out and dark. It makes you pause, it’s the look you’d get right before he’d pounce on you. You’ve seen it enough times to know that something is different about it. He looks needier, more hungry. 

It has some of your anger subsiding, twisted amusement swiftly taking its place. If Patrick wants to ambush you like this, after weeks of radio silence, you might as well use it as a chance to fuck with him.

You smirk, cocking your head to the side slightly. “Art,” you say slowly, taking a small step towards Patrick, “is a better fuck than you ever were.”

Patrick pouts like an honest to God child, sticking out his bottom lip in indignation. “I told you not to lie–”

“I’m not lying,” you say innocently, voice dropping down to a whisper as you lean in even closer. You can see the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, darker than usual thanks to all the sun he’s been getting. “Last night he ate me out for hours, made me squirt all over his fucking tongue.” 

For the first time since you’ve met him, Patrick Zweig is shocked into silence. His eyes darken, you can’t even see the green anymore, the solid black of his pupils swallowing it entirely. “Bullshit,” he says quietly, clipped and skeptical. His breath fans hotly over your lips, it makes your spine start to tingle.

You smile sweetly, giving a small shrug of your shoulders. “I’ll send you the video.”

Patrick physically reels back, blinking slowly with the realization of what you just said. His lips barely part in surprise, pink and enticing. You revel in it, smirking at him smugly. His eyes flit across your face like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying or not. You stare back at him unrelenting, all the proof you need is sitting in the video gallery of your pink motorola razr. 

Patrick swallows hard, you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs with it. He shifts his lower body subtly, but you’re too close to not notice it. Your eyes immediately dart down, and you’re almost giddy at what you find. 

He’s hard, the fabric of his shorts stretched over the length of his dick obscenely. You can see the faint outline of the tip pressing against the seam, a wet patch seeping through the gray material around it.

“Oh my god, you’re actually getting off on this!” you laugh wickedly, eyes glued to the lewd tent of his dick. “You’re calling me a whore when you’re the one getting wet just thinking about your best friend's mouth on my pussy. That’s fucking pathetic even for you, Ricky.”

Patrick is silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he stares you down so intensely you can almost feel the heavy weight of his eyes as they bore into you. 

It happens in less than a second, Patrick closing the distance between you and taking your arm in his strong hand so he can force you in the direction of the showers. His grip is tight on your bicep, fingers meanly digging into your skin and forcing you to walk with him. You put up a fight, kicking and scratching but he’s stronger than you. Not letting your slaps to his chest or nails sinking into his arm deter him from dragging you across the court. 

“Let me go asshole!” you snap, trying in vain to yank your arm out of his grip while you stumble over your own feet. “You’re such a fucking psycho!” Patrick ignores you, bursting into the men's showers and marching you into the first stall. He drags you inside, whirling you around to shove your back against the door of it roughly. It knocks the wind out of you for a second, the lock digs into your back hard enough to hurt.

“Art doesn’t have any fucking idea how to deal with a bitch like you.” he grates, fisting a handful of your harshly. “He’s too soft. Too busy letting you lead him around by his dick to try putting you in your fucking place.”

The sting of your scalp only adds to the warmth pulsing in your pussy, sticky arousal dripping wet in your panties. You meet his eyes, all the fire and want swirling in them mirror your own. “Art has a bigger dick than you bitch.” You spit, standing on your tiptoes to lessen the distance of him tugging on your hair. It’s a low blow, immature and basic but you don’t care.

Patrick just hum noncommittally, roughly hooking his fingers into your cheeks and dragging you forward until the tip of your nose is touching his. “Then your throat is still nice and stretched out for me.”

He drops his hands to your shoulders, forcing you onto your knees. You hit the ground with a heavy thud, a dull ache blooms in your knees at the force of it. “Fuck,” you hiss, pulling back instinctively but the hard plastic of the shower door pressing onto the back of your head keeps you pinned in place. Your hands fly up to his legs to try and push him away.

Patrick grips your hair tight, tipping your face up to look at him. You have a perfect view of him pushing his shorts down, letting his hard dick slip out as the fabric stretches taught across his thick thighs. “Open your mouth,” he demands, yanking your head to the side meanly.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, teeth bared in anger as you fight to stand up. Patrick’s strong hand on your shoulder keeps you down while the other starts to idly stroke his dick. He’s just as big as you remember, thick and hard only a few inches away from your face.

The tip all red and weepy when he pulls his foreskin back on each tug, a thick vein running up the side that you want to trace with your tongue.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he coos softly, rubbing his leaking tip across your bottom lip a couple times, smearing his pre-come around your mouth like lip gloss. “We both know you love it.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself that you want to keep denying him. But he’s also right, you can feel your resolve slowly start to crack when he pushes the head between your parted lips. The familiar heady taste of him oozing onto your tongue has you sighing contently, jaw relaxing the tiniest bit almost like a reflex.

The second you give Patrick an inch and he’ll take a mile. 

“There we go,” he mutters sweetly, pulling back slightly and then thrusting forward until your nose is buried in the short curls at the base. 

Your whole body tenses, throat constricting over the length of his dick as your fist his shorts in your hands. As quickly as he thrust in, he pulls out, letting you sharply gasp for air before it’s back and pressing insistently on your tongue. You let him in, forcing your throat to relax as he slides forward to press his hips into your face.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he bites out, thrusting down your throat roughly. “Pussy’s so greedy it jumped on the next dick that perked up around it.”

You could only whine around Patrick’s dick, mouth too full to do anything but try and work your tongue over the throbbing length of him.

Your throat burns, spit flowing down your chin messily along with his pre-come still steadily leaking from the hot tip of his dick.

His big hands have an iron grip on either side of your head, his balls slap against your chin as he thrusts over and over and over. The back of your skull throbs, knocking into the stall with each pump of his hips.

��Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead down to the stall with a small thunk. “You look so good like this,” he breathes, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes, “so fucking pretty with my dick down your throat to shut you up.”

Your pussy aches, so empty that you want to shove your hand down your shorts and stuff yourself full of your own fingers to dull the need. Your thighs glide together slickly, the wetness of your arousal soaking through your clothes.

It gets harder to breathe. Your choked off, spluttering gags start loudly echoing off the tile walls. Your hand slaps Patrick’s thigh a few times, he thrusts hard once more before he finally pulls back, smearing spit all over your tongue and out of your mouth.

“God, that was good baby.” he praises, slapping his dick against your right cheek lewdly. “As much as I want to pump this load down your throat,” he says casually, stroking his spit slick dick lazily, ”I want it in your pussy more.”

“I fucking hate you,” you growl weakly, voice absolutley wrecked. The tears sitting in your waterline blur your vision, you blink them away to see Patrick’s smug smile beaming down at you. 

“Then tell me to stop,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side condescendingly. You glare up at him, but you don’t say anything. He snorts, brow raising in amusement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

He shoves his shorts the rest of the way down, stepping out of them and hauling you up to your feet. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you cough and gasp.

Patrick rips your shirt over your head, flinging it over the stall along with his own. He turns you by your shoulder, pushing you against the wall as he yanks the shower handle to start the stream.

Water rains down around you, shockingly cold for a few seconds before it finally starts to warm up. Patrick makes quick work of your shorts and panties, yanking them down your legs and off your feet, tossing them in the corner of the stall with a wet thwack.

He kicks your feet further apart, one hand on your shoulder and the other lining his hard dick up with your tight hole, letting the leaking tip press into you with the smallest amount of pressure.

“I know you missed my dick, slut,” he says, bringing his hand down on your ass quickly, kneading the stinging skin roughly. “Art could be the best fuck in the world, he still can’t give it to you like I can.” He pops the head in, groaning quietly before he bullies his thick dick the rest of the way into you.

Your hole shakes around him. Patick is right. Patrick is always right, but you’d never tell him that. You wanted this. You missed this. The burn of Patrick’s dick forcing you open, stretching you so wide your toes curl. Him not giving you even a second to react before he’s pulling back and pounding into you brutally.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut at the sharp sting. You can tell through the haze of you brain that this won’t take long at all, the both of you already so worked up from Patrick fucking your throat. His right hand drops from your shoulder to your hip while his left slides up your torso, sliding along your skin to wrap around the column of your throat firmly. You keen loudly, throwing your head back to give him more room.

“I taught him how to use that fucking dick,” he goads into your ear, grip tightening on your throat. “Did he tell you about that? Huh?” He takes your earlobe between your teeth, biting hard enough to make you squeal into the wall.

The tile digs into your cheek, roughly scraping against your skin every time Patrick fucks back into you. 

You’re hovering over the edge, pussy throbbing with the burning need to come. Your clit pulses, swollen and sensitive but you can’t find the strength to drop your down hand between your thighs.

They’re too busy scrambling for any kind of purchase on the slippery wall of the shower, manicured nails scratching against the tile uselessly.

You gasp for air, fighting to speak up under the intense pressure of his hand, “I could tell,” you choke out, barely audible, “you both fuck like you have something to prove.”

“You think?” he sneers, thrusting harder, your ass stinging each time he slams his hips into you. “Maybe that’s because we do. Maybe that’s because we both like seeing you fucking fall apart like this, seeing you beg for it after you finally stop being a little pissy bitch.” 

Your breath hitches as his other hand drops from your hip, delving between your thighs to slide the calloused pads of his fingertips over your swollen clit.

You moan, thighs clenching together as he rubs fast circles over you. “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a fucking toy.” His hand squeezes just a bit tighter. “Say it. Tell me you love being our little slut.”

The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them, a mix of desperation and raw honesty, “I love it,” you cry out as loud as you can, “I love being your slut.”

“God, you sound just like him,” Patrick chuckles into your ear, low and sinister. His hold on your throat tightens, cutting off your air entirely. You sputter, hand coming up to clutch his wrist like a vice. Your pulse thunders, hard enough that he can probably feel it against his palm. “Who do you think made him come harder?”

The image alone of Patrick and Art like that sends you flying to the edge. “Ah— Patrick! ” you moan, voice hoarse and strained, “Pat, I’m gonna— fuck—“

“Do it,” he goads, sliding his hand from your clit down to where your pussy is spread open on him. He pushes his thick index finger right up next to his pulsing dick, hooking it inside or you and stretching you that much wider. “Come on my fucking dick like the greedy whore you are.”

You let out a sharp cry as your forehead hits the wall, thighs shaking violently as Patrick’s hips become relentless. Your whole body tensing up as you come so hard your vision blacks out.

You think you’re screaming, but it’s hard to hear anything over the white noise buzzing in your ears. Patrick’s hips don’t stop, fucking your abused pussy into overstimulation as he chases his own orgasm.

His hand drops from your throat to dig into your hip to put more power behind his thrusts. You’re immediately gasping for air, taking in greedy lungfuls of it.

Patrick’s chest is plastered to your back, face buried in your neck as he rambles out more nonsensical obscenities. His dick pulses and twitches in your pussy, so close to filling you up.

An idea pierces through the fog of your brain, an idea so fucking filthy it has your pussy clenching weakly.

You think back to the first night Art fucked you, how he almost came all over Patrick’s pants just because they were his, just because you said his name. How worked up and hard Patrick got when you started talking about Art. 

“When he fucked me for the first time, I was wearing your sweats, the green ones,” your voice is scratchy and quiet, barely audible over the shower’s spray, “he noticed.”

“Fuck– fuck you,” he grates out, hips faltering ever so slightly. “God, gonna come,” his hold on your hip tightens, strong enough that it’ll be sure to bruise.

You keep talking, spurred on by his reaction. “He almost came right there, he wasn’t even inside me yet, just rubbed his dick all over them like he could fucking feel you.”

Patrick gives one final slam of his hips, burying himself as deep as he can in your pussy. His low groans and curses fill the room as he unloads into you, pumping you so full of his come that you can feel each hot splash of it painting the walls of your pussy. 

He slumps down against you, hips twitching as he works through the aftershocks. You can feel his breath puff over the shell of your ear. 

You and Patrick say nothing for a long few minutes, running water the only thing to keep the room from being completely silent. Patrick is still pressed to your back, his chest heaves against your shoulders. You think you’d collapse if his hands weren’t still on your hips, practically holding you up.

You’re the one to break the silence, voice low and wrecked, “Art lasts so much longer than that…”

Patrick snorts against your back. “Fuck you.” he says, biting your shoulder hard and pulling his dick out of you in one swift move. You gasp sharply as his come floods from your puffy, wrecked hole. Thick streams of it dripping down your thighs until the water washes it away to swirl down the drain. 

You turn on unsteady legs, hair plastered to your face with water. Patrick is right there, knees knocking against yours as he shifts the two of you closer to the spray. He looks like a marble statue, water dripping down the tip of his nose and between the hard planes of his abs.

He grins smugly down at you, “I’m staying at a hotel close to campus, unblock my number and I’ll send you my room number,” he wagers, hands sliding up and down the wet skin of your back. “I think you, Art, and I have something we need to work out.”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding your head with a small grin. “I think we do”

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[giantkillerjack]

Me: hm, I want something to put on the TV as background noise... Huh. Looks like YouTube is recommending something called The Last Unicorn. That's perfect, it's probably some old shitty animation that has aged poorly! I can watch it ironically!

Me, 2 hours later as the credits roll: *crying, cheering, buying the book, composing the songs*

Me, 2 weeks later: So I have compiled all of the quotes from the book that I think could make good tattoos, and also, HOW HAVE I NEVER LEARNED ABOUT HOW THE LAST UNICORN FUCKING SLAPS??? This gay-ass little fairytale fed my soul! Watered my crops! Transed my gender! Can't believe I heard of this story from youtube recommendations, of all places!!

[psqqa]

yes, yes i know edgeworth’s big wet eyes and loser boy personality have captivated us all, but listen. listen.

phoenix wright

phoenix “genuinely unable to reconcile the girl on the stand with the girl he dated for eight months, a cognitive dissonance so profound it’s ultimately explained by them being literally two different people, but which he first sits with for five years and does not talk about at any point to anyone” wright

phoenix “don’t mention that name to me. i don’t want to talk about it. i don’t want to think about it. i am just going to keep myself in this state of perpetual crisis mode focus on other people’s problems until eventually i die and get to hang out with mia on the astral plane and never have to deal with any of these emotions ever again” wright

phoenix “overnight loses his career and reputation and sense of identity while gaining an adopted, probably pretty traumatized eight-year-old daughter, and rather than leaning on his friends for help, or getting therapy, or taking any time to process any of this, he *checks notes* spends seven years dedicating all his free time and energy to investigating the weird fucking circumstances around it and maintains a friendship with the guy he suspects was behind it all” wright

phoenix "runs across a burning bridge and falls through it, half a day after the game establishes that he is terrified of heights, because his friend is on the other side of that bridge" wright

phoenix “i sure felt surprised. maybe i had my poker face on” wright

phoenix “looking back on it that was actually a pretty dark period in my life” wright

phoenix “don’t ask me how i got started. i don’t remember” wright

phoenix “only you stood still, your eyes calmly watching” wright

phoenix “sometimes, life just sucks” wright

just

phoenix wright

crunchiest man in the world

and all i wanna do is chew and chew and chew on him

[the-witchhunter]

DP x DC: Clown Car

Based off THIS

Danny, having gotten really into circus and clown history, culture, and craft, has decided to mess with the Joker. Not just because he’s a villain, but because he’s a shitty clown. And Danny is willing to out clown him to prove his point.

The Clown Car incident

No one knew what to expect when a small car drove up to the Joker in the middle of his dramatic villainous speech. By the look on the Joker’s face, he didn’t know what to expect either. 

The mysterious clown had been harassing him for a few weeks now. A foiled heist here, a botched plan there. So it wasn’t entirely unexpected for the clown to climb out of the car. What was unexpected was when another clown came out of the car talking to goofing with the first. Then another, and another. Soon a flood of clowns came pouring out, all in different costumes and slightly different shapes but with the same makeup. Some even had “construction” equipment, large rubber mallets, a wooden board carried between two, a bucket of whitewash. One after the other they came, until the Joker was lost amongst a sea of clowns, shouting and fuming, trying to be heard over the honking and shenanigans. 

Joker was pissed, but kept getting caught up in the various bits the clowns engaged in. He got wacked with the board, and managed to get flipped over it, the bucket of whitewash landed on his head. He kept getting tripped and moved about as if he was simply a part of the act. 

In the crowd, Tim Drake recorded the whole thing. A few minutes after it had started, the clowns had packed up and left in their tiny car with a disoriented and confused Joker facing Batman.

Tim sent the video to Dick and Jason, and the mystery clown gained two new fans that day

or

Danny used intangibility and duplication to pull of the clown car solo after spending two weeks making enough unique costumes for each duplicate. 

[starflungwaddledee]

from: @starflungwaddledee to: @post-it-notes7

message from santa: "happy holidays post-it-notes! 🎄🥳 i know you very politely only wished for a few modest things- characters high fiving, or struggling in christmas attire- but i hope you'll still enjoy this given that i kinda went the opposite direction entirely! i'm an enormous fan of your work and most times you post anything i wind up browsing your art tag from tip-to-tail in enraptured delight. as such, i thought it was only fair i give back something a little more significant in gratitude for all the joy your work has given me. i knew i wanted to do a comic, so i was thrilled you already had a whole storyverse for me to work from!! this scene seemed the most obvious choice (chapter 8 of "wishful thinking" on ao3) given that i enjoy a dramatic fight scene 😂 i tried to stick as beat-by-beat to the writing as i could and worked in as many details as possible; i hope it'll be fun to see it envisioned this way! merry christmas! ~starflung 🎀🔔 "

[shrimpchipsss]

read Living With a Tiger by x_los !

[demaparbat-hp]

When I saw you making For the Spirits art I was so excited, wow, one of my favourite artists is reading this too, how nice!! Then I realised you’re actually the author and I just want to ask, how?? Are you so talented???? I love this fic and I love your art so so much, thank you for sharing it all with us. Can’t wait for the next update!!

Ah, thank you! This is literally so sweet! For the Spirits (adding a link for the curious folks out there!) is my love child. This project owns my heart and soul, and it's truly so rewarding that you like it! I want to sketch so many different scenes, really, but I'm doing my best to give you some quality artwork of my favorite moments in the story. It's a slow process.

As for next chapter—soon! I'm working on some sketches for this particular scene, and I am so excited to share it with everyone! Things start to pick up from here... But, for now, have a (very little) sneak peek ❤️

Zuko stood at the end of the world, surrounded by miles of snow and the resounding echo of his own shallow breaths. He took everything in, closed his eyes to receive Agni’s light, and howled.

Something howled back, and he smiled.

[baekhyunsbestie]

──★ god is a woman ˙🧸ྀི ̟ !!

જ⁀➴ᡣ𐭩 sum: you and your husband are completely smitten with your newborn baby, soaking in every moment of this new chapter in your life. but underneath it all, you can’t help but feel a lil insecure about your postpartum body. baekhyun, however, won’t hear any of it. what you don’t realize is that after watching what you went through bringing his beautiful, healthy daughter into the world, he sees you in an entirely new light. you created life—endured so much for him, for her, for your family. in his eyes, you’re a goddess, and he’s utterly devoted to you. and he's more than ready to show you just how much power you have over him.

જ⁀➴ᡣ𐭩 content: SMUT. 18+/MDNI. 5.6k+ words. baekhyun x f!reader. you're a milf, baekhyun's a dilf, and he calls you "ma" + "mama" :'), married!au, new parents, slice of life, angst + fluff, pet names, body worship, breastfeeding kink, fingering + oral + overstim (f! receiving), unprotected sex, p in v, breeding kink, and a whole lot of baekhyun talking you through it 😮‍💨 phhheeeeewwwww

it’s a quiet evening at home. the low hum of the baby monitor fills the air as your newborn sleeps soundly in the next room. life had changed so much in such a short time, and yet, you couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful than this—being a mom, seeing baekhyun as a father, holding the tiny miracle the two of you had created together.

watching baekhyun cradle your baby, his soft voice murmuring sweet things as he gently rocked her to sleep, oh!—it melted your heart. he was so tender, so attentive. each time you saw him interact with your little one, it made you fall in love with him all over again. falling deeper and more intensely than you thought was possible. his fatherly side brought out something new in him, something that made your chest tighten with comfort. every smile, every quiet “i love you” he whispered to your baby girl made you feel incredibly blessed to say the least.

but there was something else—a heaviness you couldn’t shake, a shadow that loomed just behind the love and joy you felt.

the changes in your body had been gradual, but now, two months after giving birth, you couldn’t ignore them anymore. your body wasn’t the same. your belly hadn’t returned to its pre-pregnancy shape, your breasts were constantly swollen and sore, and your hips felt wider. you couldn’t even look at yourself in the mirror without that persistent sense of imperfection creeping in. you were supposed to feel proud of what your body had accomplished—bringing life into the world—but instead, a growing discomfort and insecurity washed over you every time you caught a glimpse of your reflection. it got to the point where you avoided mirrors altogether. while brushing your teeth, you’d stare down into the sink, and the same went for washing your face. on the rare occasions you did glance at your reflection, it was only for a fleeting moment before the negative thoughts made you turn away.

you loved your baby more than anything, and the life you had with her and baekhyun felt like a dream come true. but the nagging thoughts kept creeping in—what if he doesn’t find me attractive anymore? what if he notices how much i’ve changed and doesn’t want me the way he used to? fifty percent of marriages end in divorce... what if he ends up finding me so undesirable that we become part of that statistic?

it was a silent war within you, a conflict between the pure joy of motherhood and the insecurities that threatened to swallow you whole.

baekhyun had always been loving, supportive—everything you could ever ask for. but lately, you found yourself pulling away. since the baby was born, the intimacy between you had dwindled, and even after your doctor cleared you for sex a few weeks ago, you couldn’t bring yourself to let him in. every time his hands grazed your skin, every time he tried to initiate something, you instinctively recoiled, overwhelmed by the insecurity tormenting you. it wasn’t him—it was you. you couldn’t stop feeling embarrassed, ashamed of the way your body had changed, of the woman you saw in the mirror.

tonight was just like any other. lately, you’d developed a bad habit of comparing yourself to others on social media. as you mindlessly scrolled through instagram, your feed was filled with photos of celebrity and influencer moms. your curiosity got the better of you, and you started looking through their pages, feeling a wave of jealousy with each post. 

they seemed to bounce back to their pre-baby bodies so quickly, showing off toned figures as if nothing had changed. each post served as a painful reminder of how far you felt from that ideal, feeding the insecurities already eating away at you. the more you scrolled, the heavier the feeling became, your own reflection feeling like a striking difference to the perfect images on your screen. you couldn’t help but question your body even more.

with a heavy sigh, you flung your phone across the room, no longer able to bear the relentless comparisons gnawing at you. it landed with a dull thud, but the weight in your chest remained, harsh like a gray storm cloud hovering just above you. you sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over with your elbows pressed into your knees, as if the weight of the world was pulling you down. your head rested in your hands, fingers curling through your hair like you were trying to hold yourself together, piece by piece, before you fell apart.

a whirlwind of love for your baby and frustration with yourself raged in your mind, drowning out everything else. you were so lost in the chaos of your thoughts that you didn’t even notice baekhyun’s return from the nursery until his gentle touch on your shoulder pulled you back to the present. startled, you glanced up, praying he wouldn’t see the sadness lodged in your eyes like shards of glass. but the worry etched into his features sent a sharp ache through your chest, and you could see the panic begin to flicker in his wide eyes.

“hey, what’s wrong, mama? you feelin’ alright?” he asked softly, kneeling in front of you, his hand brushing against your thigh.

you forced a smile, nodding, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “yeah, just tired,” you murmured.

baekhyun frowned slightly, his hand moving up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your soft skin. “you’ve seemed distant lately,” he said, his voice low but filled with concern. “is everything okay? i mean… besides the baby and the lack of sleep?”

your throat tightened, the familiar lump of emotion rising as you struggled to find the words. you didn’t want to burden him with your insecurities, not when he was being such an amazing father and partner. but the weight of it all was too much to carry on your own.

“i just…” you began, your voice shaky as you looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “i don’t feel like myself anymore.”

baekhyun’s hand stilled, his eyes softening as he waited for you to continue. you took a deep breath, the words spilling out in a rush before you could stop them.

“i love her so much, baek. our baby… she’s everything to me. and every time i see you with her, it makes me fall for you all over again. you’re such an incredible dad, and i couldn’t have asked for a better partner to build a family with.” your voice trembled as you twisted the sheets between your fingers, the pressure behind your eyes building with unshed tears. “but... but i just can’t shake this feeling that i’m not enough anymore. i look at myself, and my body isn’t the same. i’m not the same. and i don’t know how to feel okay with that when i don’t recognize who i am in the mirror.”

baekhyun’s expression changed as he listened to you pour out everything you had been holding in, his heart breaking with each word. he had sensed the distance between you, the way you had pulled back, but he hadn’t fully understood the reasons behind it. he thought you just needed time to adjust to this new chapter in your lives. it was a significant change, and he knew how much you valued space when processing things, but he hadn’t realized it was tearing you apart like this. now, as he heard the depth of your pain and insecurities, guilt tightened in his chest for not recognizing it sooner.

the silence that lingers between you, coupled with your downcast gaze, speaks volumes. how could you possibly believe you weren’t beautiful anymore? he struggles to comprehend it, taken back by the thought. in truth, he has never found you more attractive than he does now. to him, you are a goddess, a magical being who has created and nurtured life. he holds you in the highest regard, without question.

“hey,” he whispered, his voice steady yet filled with emotion. “you’re more than enough, and you always have been. you’re still the same woman i fell in love with. and when i look at you... all i see is someone who’s perfect. you’re the most beautiful thing in my life.”

you shook your head, the tears finally spilling over as you buried your face in his shoulder. “you don’t understand, baekhyun. i don’t feel beautiful. i look at myself, and all i see is someone who’s… different. i don’t know if you can love me like this.”

“do you really think that?” he asks softly, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. “that i don’t think you’re beautiful? that i can’t love you the way you are?” his arms tightened around you, his breath warm against your hair as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “baby, i love you more now than i ever have,” he said softly, his voice filled with sincerity. he pulls away enough to look you in the eyes, “you gave me the most beautiful gift—the life we made together. how could i not love you more?”

you sniffled, your heart aching with a mix of love and insecurity. “but i’m not the same. my body… it’s changed so much.”

“i think you’re being too hard on yourself, 'ma,” he whispers softly. you can’t bear to meet his gaze; the moment you do, you know you’ll break. “it’s only been two months since you gave birth—just two months. it took you over nine to create her. even if it takes longer than that for you to feel like yourself again, i wouldn’t care. honestly, even if you never return to who you were, it wouldn’t matter to me. as long as you, my love, are happy and healthy, nothing else matters.”

his hands, warm and gentle, glide down your arms and rest on your waist, anchoring you in his affection. he leans down and presses a tender kiss to your stomach, his lips lingering as if savoring the bond between you.

baekhyun pulled back slightly, his fingers tilting your chin towards him so you were forced to meet his gaze. his eyes were filled with so much love, so much respect, that it nearly took your breath away.

“you are everything to me,” he says firmly, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears that finally escaped. “and this—” he gestures to your body, his eyes never leaving yours “—this body gave us our child. you carried our baby, you’ve sacrificed your sleep, your comfort, everything—and you’re still the most devastatingly beautiful person i’ve ever seen.”

he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against yours, his touch so tender it made your heart swell. “why don’t you let me show you?” he murmured against your lips, his hand slipping down to cup your waist. “let me show you how much i love every inch of you.”

you hesitated for a moment, the familiar insecurity rising in your chest, but when you looked into his eyes, all you saw was honest love and pure devotion. there wasn’t a trace of doubt, not an ounce of anything but pure adoration for you—for all of you.

with a soft nod, you gave in, letting baekhyun lead you further onto the bed, his hands moving slowly, reverently, as if worshipping every part of you. a rush of vulnerability washed over you as he slipped off your oversized shirt, revealing your post-pregnancy body in all its glory, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. despite the insecurity that bubbled within, his lips found your skin, kissing you as if he were rediscovering every curve. each kiss, each gentle touch, was infused with such deep care that it made your heart ache in the best way

when his lips found your breasts, swollen and sore from breastfeeding, you tensed for a moment, the self-consciousness flaring up again. but baekhyun paused, his lips pressing soft kisses to your skin as he whispered, “these are so beautiful.”

he gently kissed your sensitive nipples, his tongue flicking out to taste the sweetness there. you gasped at the sensation, your body responding in ways you hadn’t expected, the embarrassment fading under the warmth of his touch. 

baekhyun's eyes darkened, a heated gaze sweeping over you. his breath caught as he took in the softness of your skin and the gentle curves of your body drawing him closer. in a husky whisper, he breathed, “god… you’re incredible. this body—how could you ever think i wouldn’t find it breathtaking?” 

you try to cover yourself, but he gently pulls your hands away, pressing a soft kiss to your wrist.

“don’t hide from me,” he whispers, his voice loving as he presses his lips to the curve of your stomach, right where the stretch marks are the deepest. “these marks… they’re so pretty. they’re proof of everything you’ve done.”

his words make your heart clench, and when he places another kiss along the line of your abdomen, your breath hitches.

he looks up at you, his hands running gently over the soft skin of your hips before dipping lower to caress your thighs. his touch is slow, intentional, as if he’s taking his time to worship every part of you.

“you don’t know how much i love this body,” he murmurs, his hands sliding upward to cup your breasts. his thumbs graze over your sensitive nipples, making you gasp as a rush of pleasure shoots through you. “the way it’s changed… the way you’ve changed. you’re more than i could have ever asked for.”

you bite your lip as you watch his soft, slender hands continue their agonizingly slow exploration, your body responding despite the insecurity still clinging to your thoughts. he leans forward, brushing his lips against one of your breasts, his tongue flicking out to taste the milk that’s already beginning to leak from your nipple.

“baek—hah” you gasp, but the sound turns into a moan as his mouth closes around you, gently suckling.

the sensation sends a jolt of warmth through your core, your hands finding their way into his hair as he continues to worship you. his tongue is slow, deliberate, drawing out each drop of milk as if savoring the taste.

when he pulls back, his lips are slick, his eyes dark with a mix of love and desire.

“i could do this all night,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. “you don’t know how much i want you. how much i crave every part of you.”

is words wrap around your heart like a cozy embrace, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you begin to believe him. baekhyun shifts closer, bringing you face to face, his hands cradling your cheeks. the tip of his nose brushes against yours as he continues, “you’re perfect, and ’m gonna keep reminding you until you believe it.”

before you can respond, his lips crash into yours, a slow, consuming kiss that melts away every insecurity, every doubt. he kisses you like he’s trying to prove something—like he’s trying to show you just how much he means every word.

“relax f’me,” he whispers against your lips, his voice thick with need. you obey, sinking into the soft sheets as baekhyun hovers over you, eyes dark and focused entirely on you.

“you have no idea how much i’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, his hand sliding down your side, sending shivers across your skin. he presses a kiss to the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking out to circle your nipple, the sensitivity from breastfeeding making you gasp.

the sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever felt—raw, intimate, and so deeply connected that it makes your head spin. he groans softly against your skin, his hand kneading your other breast, coaxing out the milk that begins to flow. “ya taste s’good,” he murmurs between kisses, his tongue lapping at the milk that escapes. “so sweet.”

your cheeks burn at his words, but the way he worships you makes the embarrassment melt away, replaced by a deep, aching need. his lips continue their slow assault, drinking from you like he’s savoring every drop, and you’re helpless beneath him, your body responding to his every touch.

the pleasure is almost overwhelming, a slow, simmering heat that builds in your core. baekhyun’s free hand drifts lower, slipping beneath your underwear, his fingers sliding through your slick folds. you gasp at the contact, your hips bucking into his hand, desperate for more.

“you’re so wet f’me,” he whispers, his voice thick with desire as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. his fingers tease your entrance, his touch gentle but firm. “you like it when i drink from you, don’t you?”

you can only nod, too lost in the sensations to form a coherent response. baekhyun smirks, his thumb circling your clit as he presses a soft kiss to your chest, milk still glistening on his lips.

“i wanna hear ya say it,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding inside you slowly, stretching you in a way that makes your breath catch. “tell me how much you love this.”

you moan softly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “i love it hah—i love it when you nngghhh—when y’drink from me.”

baekhyun groans in response, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. “that’s right, mama,” he whispers, his voice low and rough. “i’m gonna make ya feel so good. you deserve it.”

his fingers pump into you steadily, his thumb never leaving your clit, and you feel yourself spiraling, the pleasure building higher and higher with each stroke. his mouth, his hands, the way he’s so focused on you—it’s all too much.

“b-baekhyun, i—” you can’t even finish the sentence, the words caught in your throat as the tension in your core tightens, pulling you closer and closer to the edge.

he looks up at you, his eyes dark with lust, and the sight of him—his lips wet from your milk, his fingers buried deep inside you—is enough to send you tumbling over the edge.

your orgasm crashes into you, your body trembling as you cry out his name. baekhyun’s mouth never leaves your breast, drinking from you as you fall apart beneath him, his fingers continuing their steady rhythm, drawing out every wave of pleasure until you’re completely spent.

he finally pulls back, his lips releasing you with a soft, wet POP! making you shudder at the loss of contact. 

but baekhyun isn’t done yet. 

in fact, he’s just getting started.

he glides down your body, his hands leaving a trail of warmth across your skin before settling between your legs. and with a swift motion, he’s ripping your underwear off, leaving you utterly breathless and completely vulnerable. you barely have a moment to catch up, still trembling from the orgasm he just gave you. before you can process what's happening, his mouth is on you, his tongue teasing your overly sensitive clit. a gasp escapes your lips as your hips instinctively buck up into his mouth, but he holds you steady, his grip firm on your thighs as he devours you.

“holyyyy fuck—baekhyun, p-please!” you whimper, but you’re not sure what you’re begging for anymore. his mouth is persistent, his tongue swirling and flicking in all the right places, sending shockwaves of pleasure all throughout your already overstimulated body.

he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice low and rough, “mm mm,” he shakes his head, moaning into you, “not stoppin’ ‘til ya understand how much i love this body.”

his words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and before you can respond, his mouth is on you again, sucking your clit into his mouth as his fingers return, thrusting deep inside you.

you’re spiraling again, the pleasure building impossibly higher, your mind, body, and soul completely at his mercy. it wasn’t long before he had you cumming again with his name on your lips, your body trembling as he pushes you over the edge once again.

when he finally pulls back, you’re left breathless, your body spent and trembling from the intensity of it all. “i love you,” he whispers, planting soft kisses up and down your thighs, “every part of you. don’t you ever doubt that.”

you nod, still breathless. “i love you. i believe you.”

but the tenderness of the moment vanishes as quick as it came. once you lock eyes, you notice that his are dark and filled with something raw, primal. his lips are wet from your orgasm, and the sight alone sends another surge of heat through your body. he presses one last kiss to your trembling thigh, his hands gripping you possessively as he pulls back slightly, his gaze never leaving yours.

"i've missed having ya like this," he rasps, his voice thick with desire. his fingers continue to ghost over your sensitive skin, sending shivers through you. you can feel him, hot and hard against your inner thigh, the fabric of his gray sweats doing little to hide his need. the dark spot of precum soaking through makes it all the more obvious. "i’ve been waiting to be inside you, ‘ma. been drivin’ me crazy thinkin’ about it."

your breath catches at his words. you’ve been so wrapped up in your insecurities and exhaustion that you hadn’t realized just how much he’d been holding back. the yearning in his voice is unmistakable, and it sends a thrill down your spine.

“oh? is that so?” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, still coming down from the back to back orgasms he’s given you. you feel overwhelmed by how much he wants you, how much he’s been waiting for this moment, for you. 

“it is so.” he presses his forehead against yours, breathing you in like he’s trying to ground himself, but the tension in his body is evident. “you have no idea how badly i need this,” he groans, his lips brushing against yours. “how bad i need you.”

his words give you goosebumps, the weight of his need making your body ache with anticipation. you can feel how hard he is, his dick pressing against you as he rolls his hips, the friction making you moan softly into his mouth.

“well, hurry up then,” you whimper, your impatient hands slipping down his toned chest, tugging at his waistband. he lets out a low chuckle, but there’s nothing playful in the way his eyes darken with pure, unfiltered hunger.

“you’re gonna be the death of me, i swear,” he says, pulling back just enough to slide out of his sweats, his cock springing free and brushing against your thigh. you gasp at the heat of him, the anticipation building with every second that passes.

his hand slips between your legs again, his fingers sliding through your wetness as he positions the pink tip of his aching dick at your entrance. he’s teasing you, slow and with purpose, as if savoring every second. he nudges his tip against you, and you gasp, already so sensitive from everything he’s done to you.

“i’ve thought about this every night,” baekhyun continues, his voice husky as his fingers dig into your hips. “about feeling you wrapped around me again. how perfect your pussy feels around me.” he slowly inches inside you, his length stretching you in a way that feels both familiar and completely new after so long.

you let out a shaky breath as he pushes in deeper, filling you completely. the sensation is overwhelming, his body pressed against yours, hot and solid, and for a moment, all the doubts and insecurities vanish under the sheer weight of his desire.

“oh—fffuuuck,” baekhyun groans, his voice low and strained as he stills inside you. his hands grip your hips tightly, as if he’s struggling to keep himself in check. he thinks if he starts moving he just might cum. and he can’t have that. not when tonight is all about you. “missed this so much. god, you’re so f-fuckin’ tight,” he groans, voice strained. “i’ve been hah—dying to be inside ya again, ‘ma.”

your hands slide up his arms, holding onto him as he slowly begins to move, each thrust deep and calculated, as if he’s savoring the feeling of being inside you again. his pace is unhurried, but there’s an intensity in the way he moves, a desperation that has been building for months.

“you’ve been drivin’ me crazy,” he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot against your taut skin. “every time i look at you, i just wanna nnghh—make you mine all over again.”

your nails dig into his back as he thrusts deeper, his hips pressing flush against yours. he’s slow, almost torturously so, drawing out every sensation until your entire body is trembling beneath him.

“hah—and ya wanna know what else i’ve been th-thinkin’ about?” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “i wanna put another baby inside you.”

the words send a shockwave through your body, your breath hitching at the intensity in his voice. his hips snap forward a little harder now, his movements more purposeful, more driven by the raw need to claim you in every way possible.

you gasp, heart pounding at his confession. you feel dizzy with desire, his words igniting something deep within you.

“i’ve thought about it s-so many times,” he whimpers, his voice rough with need. “about filling ya up, nngghh—watchin’ ya grow round with our baby again. hah—y’looked so fuckin’ beautiful carryin’ our child. goddamn.”

each thrust punctuates his words, and the idea of him wanting to put another baby inside you only fuels the fire burning between you. you can feel his need, his desperation, and it pushes you closer to the edge with every movement.

baekhyun leans down, pressing a kiss to your parted lips, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub gentle circles over your swollen clit. “i’m gonna make ya mine again,” he groans. “mmnnghh—’m gonna fill ya up, ‘ma. you’re mine—all mine. and every time you f-feel my cum dripping down your leg tomorrow hah—you’ll remember. just. how. much.”

the pressure builds rapidly, the combination of his praise and the way he’s holding you tightly as he’s rearranging your insides sends you spiraling. his thrusts quicken, and you can feel him losing control, the weight of his desire crashing down on both of you.

“oh, yes! f-fuck nnngghhh—baek!” you can’t even form the words, your body tightening around him as the pleasure builds higher and higher. his name falls from your lips again and again and again, your voice breathless as you grip his shoulders, your nails digging marks into his soft skin.

“’m so close,” baekhyun groans, his voice thick and rough as he pounds into you harder, his hips slamming into yours with a desperation that mirrors your own. “cum f’me, baby. i wanna hah—feel you.”

his words push you over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you with an intensity that leaves you breathless. your vision turns white, body clenching all around him, hips bucking up into his as he continues to relentlessly thrust into you, chasing his own release.

baekhyun’s movements grow erratic, his hips snapping into yours with increasing urgency until he finally stills, his body shuddering as he spills inside you, coating your walls in a pretty white shade. the heat of him filling you makes you shiver, as he groans your name, his grip on your hips tightening as he rides out his release.

baekhyun collapses against you, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, his forehead pressed lovingly against yours. he’s still inside you, both of you completely wrapped up in each other, the weight of his body grounding you, making you feel safe, loved. for a moment, the only sound in the room is the ragged breathing of both of you, tangled together in the aftermath of your shared release.

“i love you,” he whispers breathlessly against your lips, his voice raw with emotion. “i love everything about you, mama. you’re everything i need.”

after the intensity of the moment eases, baekhyun lifts his head, planting a tender kiss on your forehead. you both wince as he pulls out, the overwhelming sensitivity leaving you breathless. he settles close beside you, propping himself up, his hands gently gliding over your sides. his fingers trace the delicate curve of your waist, drawing you closer to him. his gaze softens, filled with affection as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. his fingers linger on your cheek, and you can feel the weight of his thoughts, the unspoken emotions swirling in his eyes.

“y’know,” he begins, his voice low, still catching his breath. but there’s a depth to it that makes your heart skip a beat. “i didn’t think it was possible to love you more than i already did.” his thumb gently strokes your cheek, and he gazes at you with a mix of awe and appreciation. “but seeing you pregnant with our baby, watching you go through everything you did—physically and mentally—it just... changed everything for me.”

you feel a lump form in your throat as his words sink in, the sincerity and raw emotion in his voice making your chest tighten with warmth.

“i don’t think you truly understand how incredible you are,” baekhyun says, his brown eyes locked onto yours with unwavering intensity. “you endured so much to bring our baby into the world. i saw every moment—the pain, the struggle—but you were so strong. you did it all so well, and i’ll forever be indebted to you for that.

he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, but it’s more than just a kiss—it’s full of gratitude, admiration, and love.

“and now… seeing you like this,” he murmurs, his hand sliding down to rest on your waist, tracing the beautiful curves of your post-pregnancy body, “you’re even more beautiful to me. so much more. every part of you.” his eyes roam your figure, and there’s nothing but love and desire in his gaze.

baekhyun’s acknowledgment of your strength, of everything you endured, fills you with a deep sense of gratitude and relief. his touch, gentle and meek, tracing the parts of you that you’ve been insecure about, feels like a silent reassurance that you are enough—more than enough. his love feels like a weight lifting off your shoulders, and you couldn’t be more at ease

your heart swells with emotion, and his kiss, filled with gratitude and love. his confession was the tipping point, breaking down the walls you had built around your insecurities.

“thank you for loving me the way you do, baek,” you whisper, cupping his face as your noses brush together, savoring the warmth of each other’s presence and inhaling the scent that feels like home. “how did i get so lucky?”

“i could say the same about you, my love,” he murmurs between gentle kisses that he scatters across your cheeks and forehead, each one a soft reminder of his unwavering devotion.

he holds you gently yet firmly against his chest, your heart racing with excitement, filled with butterflies. each flutter reminds you of the deep love that grows stronger between you both.

“oh, and i meant every word i said earlier, by the way,” baekhyun’s voice breaks the comfortable silence, soft yet serious. “every word. i want more of this with you—more of us. i can picture it: a whole litter of mini versions of us running around.”

a smile tugs at your lips, your heart swelling at the thought of a future filled with love and chaos. “yeah, yeah. we’ll see,” you tease, fingers threading through his soft, dark hair, enjoying the way it curls around your hand.

“awww, come on, wouldn’t it be great?” he continues, eyes sparkling with mischief. “there’d never be a dull moment! and i want them all close in age," he adds, his excitement bubbling over without pause—like he’s the one who’s going to be pushing out watermelon-sized humans. "they’ll be running around, constantly yelling, ‘mommy, mommy, mommy!’ nonstop. 24/7, 365 days a year. sounds fun, right?"

you snort, rolling your eyes. “the only thing that makes me want to do is call up my obgyn and schedule a total hysterectomy, baekhyun.” his laughter is contagious, and you can’t help but grin. “i can already feel my hair graying just thinking about it.”

“fine,” he sighs dramatically, feigning defeat. “just four more, then.”

“FOUR?!” you exclaim, eyes wide, utterly incredulous.

he looks at you like a child trying to convince his parents to buy him a toy, except instead of a video game, it’s a whole team of children. “well, with the one we already have, we’d just need four more to form our very own basketball team.”

“byun baekhyun, do you even hear yourself right now?”

he presses his lips together, mock seriousness creasing his brow as if in deep contemplation. “...three?”

“what the hell? no, baekhyun,” you deadpan.

he chuckles, his toned arms wrapping around you, feeling like home as he leans in to press a gentle kiss against your lips. "oh, you won’t be able to resist me," he murmurs against your mouth, playful yet intense. the twinkle in his eyes makes it clear that he’s already decided, and deep down, you know he’s not letting go of this dream anytime soon—if ever.

and as he holds you close, still connected, you know that no matter what the future holds, he’ll always love you exactly as you are—beautiful, strong, and undeniably his.

જ⁀➴ᡣ𐭩 a/n: as a leading member of the milfy trophy wife™ committee, i felt this request in my soul. this one really hit home for me, nonnie!!!!! :') i hope i did it justice for you <3 also, i think i’ll turn this into a series—little drabbles and such with dilf!baekhyun/husband!baekhyun hehe 🙂‍↕️ oh, and p.s., i’ll be updating the layout for all my fics to match this one! :") i just think it’ll be so pretty to have everything match hehe. anyway, i hope you enjoyed this one! <3

ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* masterlist ° ᡣ𐭩 . 

[trashydez]

like a phoenix. (2.7k words)

what if phoenix- instead of being virtually indestructible, actually wasnt? what if he was actually incredibly prone to death, but he just… never stayed dead?

(trigger warning for a multitude of causes of deaths!! some in detail and some not. other tw’s include implied suicide attempts, implied child neglect, derealisation and thinking one is already dead. be warned! take care of yourself!)

at 9, he wakes in his bed after having a high fever and his mom ships him off to school hours after it began. he finds it odd, because last he’d checked his temperature (that morning, when he told his mom he felt like he was going to die and his mom had left to go run errands, barely sparing him a glance), his temperature had been at 107 degrees farenheit. that was definitely high, but after he slipped into unconsciousness, writhing and restless and in a lot of pain, he woke up to his mother checking his temperature and saying he was fine to head off to school. he didnt feel fine, but his temperature had gone down significantly enough that his mother felt like he had no excuse not to go. hes glad he went to school though, even as he shivered, sneezed and sniffled, because there he found a friend in a boy with a funny bowtie and a heart made of gold.

he crunches and chokes on glass shards and poison but doesnt die. the doctors dont find anything wrong with him, aside from feeling a bit ill, so he goes back into the courtroom and dollie is convicted of murder. hes happy his roommate is away for some theatre troupe thing, because the sickness eventually catches up to him and he throws up shards of glass, acid and blood. it cuts into his throat and burns his eyes and he swears, he swears he dies right then and there, freezing and shaking and everything hurts. but when he wakes up hours later, the sun having set and the only light source in his dingy dormroom the moon outside, hes amazed to not feel sick anymore. but the puddle of sludge is drying beside his face and he considers himself lucky, or maybe unlucky, because unlike dahlia’s other victims, he actually lives to tell the tale.

phoenix arrives early to the office, having been in the public library nearby reading a book on reincarnation. he enters the office and promptly has his skull caved into his brain. he does not see his assailant, but when he wakes, theres an oddly dressed girl crying, crouched over his boss’ cold body. he doesn’t think about the drying blood in the back of his head, or how cold mia’s body is (and why he can even tell, considering the fact he has not touched her corpse) or the chapter in the book he’d been reading that talked about quantum immortality— all he thinks of is proving maya fey’s innocence.

as it turns out, being constantly anxious and terrified of mortal peril actually has its perks. maybe the fact he’s a lawyer whose only ever dealt with homicide cases definitely wasn’t benefiting his mental wellbeing either. in any case, its that fear of literally everything and constant feeling of impending doom that makes his body react before his mind does. taser! danger! maya! so, he gets tasered. and it fucking HURTS, but he feels more relieved than frightened as the searing pain shoots through him, because he’d been able to push maya away before von karma got to them both. wasnt a symptom of death by electrocution an overwhelming feeling of helplessness and imminent death? maybe he was going crazy. when he comes back though, its to his head in the lap of a crying spirit medium, so maybe a psychotic break isnt too bad if it means everyone else gets to escape with no damage to their own psyche.

its only after she stops screaming in terror- oh my god, nicks a zombie!! kyahh!!!- and nearly beating him with her bulky magatama necklace, that she tells him what she saw. (“like, there was a sudden bright light and then i realised it was coming from you! but when i tried to touch your glowing skin,” she says it like its the most absurd thing she’d ever seen, which really said something considering the fact she was from a family of people who could channelthe dead “it was HOT! like, japanifornia summer hot! blazing! i was only able to check your pulse after you cooled down a bit…”). maybe its this that makes him less alarmed by the way his skin glowed in the dark of his trashed bedroom, after drinking himself to death following a certain phone call from a terribly sad, newly bossless detective. he doesnt think he can bear the taste alcohol ever again, after that.

maybe the number of times he’s died of blunt force trauma to the head should be a cause for concern, even more so when he wakes up without any of his memories. he’s terrified, and doesnt even knows who he is, until he does, and is able to prove maggey byrde innocent. fun times! he should probably watch out to make sure his next death wasn’t to the head, lest he be as mentally impaired as a number of people liked to say he was… (and he should probably also be concerned by the fact he was already thinking of the next time he’d die, but ah well, blame it on the concussion).

as it turns out, getting whipped to death was not on his list of ways he thought he’d die next, but life liked to mess with him like that, it seemed. still, dragging his delirious self to the bathroom of his office to try and save the infected wounds from killing him wasn’t all that fun, and he’s immediately reminded of his first death, slow and painful, alone and scared of what came next. he feels bad for feeling relieved when maya shows up and screams upon seeing the state he and the bathroom (that’d he’d accidentally trashed when his legs gave out after he opened the door, a number of bottles fallen to the floor beside him) were in. he stops her from calling the police- there was no point, he didn’t have much time left. but when she asks what she could do, he goes quiet. (…just… stay here? i dont- he coughs up a distinctly red shade of spit. maya makes a noise between a choked cry and a whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck. but phoenix was shivering worse now, and hugs himself tigher. i dont want to die alone.) so she stays with him, on the cold bathroom floor, as his labored breathing eventually slows. when he awakens, he finds maya asleep leaning against him, and promises to get her burgers as a thank you.

who knew death by a monkey throwing a giant bronze bust of max galactica at you could happen? at this point, he’s almost glad he was basically immortal, because there was no way in hell he’d allow his autopsy report to say ‘cause of death: monkey manslaughter’! edgeworth would laugh himself to tears if he saw! not that he could see. or cry, because he was dead. and not coming back. damn.

so edgeworth isnt dead! yippee? he thought it was his thing to get reanimated after death, not edgeworths. when he saw him, standing in the middle of the police department, alive and breathing and very much not dead, he nearly started laughing. he must’ve finally gone insane! curse the amount of times he’d died of brain related injuries, not that he knew how many of them there were at this point. he might actually have laughed a bit, because pearls was looking at him like he was losing it (he was) but he couldnt really bring himself to care as he had more pressing issues at hand, like saving his best friend from a crazy serial killer holding her hostage, and punching his other best friend in the face for faking his own death (because really, dying was his thing! not edgeworths!). and if he pulls edgeworth into a hug immediately after, throwing caution in the wind (you only live once, right?), the warmth- a normal, human temperature, unlike his burning hot when he came back from death- is enough to stabilise his harried mind for just a moment, before he has to return to his guilty client and his hopeless situation.

by some crazy turn of events, he actually doesnt die from having boiling hot coffee thrown at his face. it burns, and maya screams when she sees the boils on his face after that first trial with godot, but after throwing a wet towel over his face and putting him in timeout on the sofa for 12-hours, the burns go away as if they were never there. he fell asleep at some point, and after alot of back and forth debate, they eventually came to the conclusion that 1. his body heat rising to burning levels when he dies must have caused his body has to grow immune to heat and 2. since sleep was like a ‘temporary death’, a ‘temporary wound’ would just heal like it did when he died of normal wounds, right? he didn’t want to dwell on it too much, because maya was looking at him like she wanted to test that theory for real, so he quickly changes topics before things got out of hand.

so their theory on the immunity to heat thing was correct! …almost. larry had tried to stop him, but it was fire and he was basically immune to heat, right? nope! his skin burned and boiled but he didn’t die as he tried to run across the burning bridge. even so, nothing hurt more than falling through one of the burnt planks and slamming onto the surface of the freezing cold rushing stream below. luckily the death was near immediate, but unfortunately he came to while in the water still, so he swallowed a sizeable amount of water before paramedics arrived. he hears the doctors find his survival miraculous, despite the scorching hot fever he was now under. he blacks out again, and comes to in the hospital, feeling absolutely terrible.

the horribleness feels familiar though, and when edgeworth walks in, he realises what it must be, when the man presses the back of his hand to his temple and quickly pulls his hand away as if burned. (oh. he thinks, tearing up despite himself. it must be the fever. i’m going to die like this again.) his internal monologue must’ve been external though, because edgeworth balks (‘again?!’). but phoenix was crying in hiccups and sobs, feeling terrible and like he was nine years old again, wishing his mother were there to nurse him back to health like she’d never done before. he faintly hears edgeworth sitting down on his bed and reaches out, gripping the mans waist like it was a lifeline. in a sense, it was. “don’t go.” he whispers, gripping the man tighter like he’d disappear into thin air (again). “please, please don’t go.” in his delirium, he nearly wails in despair when he feels edgeworth move, but he was only moving to readjust himself so he’s lying next to him, their bodies so close that it must burn, but the only sign edgeworth shows that he’s in pain is a wince and the crease of his brow. he allows himself to be cried on, curling a protective arm over phoenix’s burning body. “i- i dont know what’s going on, wright, but i’m not, i’m not going anywhere, okay?” he seems to be attempting exasperation, but it comes out terrified and concerned, but phoenix is fading quickly, so it might just be his waning mind making up things that don’t exist. “i am terrified. your body is life threateningly hot and— wright? wright!”

he comes to with nurses surrounding him, and a distressed edgeworth swearing on his life that that man was dead, his body was seizing and on fire and- and his heart stopped beating! but phoenix couldn’t dwell on it, because the mention of fire immediately brought him back to why he was in the hospital at all. and plus, it gave him the chance to use his best friends sensitive treatment of him afterwards to convince him to play defense attorney, so that was nice. still, he feels like he dies when he finds out dahlia had actually been iris and that godot was actually his dead mentors apparently not dead boyfriend. oh, and he was also a murderer. he also feels like he dies when dahlia- actual, serial killer and dead by execution dahlia, was exorcised from maya’s body. but that had more to do with his soul leaving his body in terror rather than actually dying, so that was a nice change of pace… probably.

later, he’d had to have a conversation with edgeworth to give him an explanation on just what the hell he’d witnessed in that hospital room. although, apparently his re-aliving symptoms must’ve started becoming more dramatic, because miles describes it as his whole body glowing as bright as the sun, and then his eyes opening for a moment to reveal nothing but white, glowing eyeballs with no irises. phoenix has to convince him to still board his flight the day after, that he was okay… probably. maybe not safe, but definitely okay. (still, edgeworth stays the night at his, and they hold eachother close, basking in the shared warmth of two alive bodies in heat equilibrium, listening to eachothers breathing and rhythmic heartbeats, no signs of impending mortality in sight, save for, what did the french call it? la petite morte? most of all, phoenix basks in the promise miles makes to him. “i’m not going anywhere,” he repeats, over and over like he was trying to convince himself as much as he was phoenix. “i’m not going anywhere, i promise.”)

and when he loses his badge, he thinks he really does die, permanent and definitively. he feels far away from his body when the forger is called to the witness stand. feels like a ghost when the council walks out the room and past him, making no eye contact and answering the unanswered question on the tip of his tongue. feels his life crumble to pieces when a blonde man with a pleasent, almost saintly smile gives him the most maddeningly sympathetic look and tells him he is sorry for his loss, as if there really was someone dead. only, the only one dead must’ve been him, because there was no one else there who had just lost their life. he couldn’t even hear himself as he laughed, which turned into sobs, as he excused himself and fleed to his bicycle. not one pedestrian bats an eye at the state he is in, so he must really be a ghost, cycling past speeding cars and large trucks and buses as if it couldn’t kill him, because he wasn’t there, he was already dead. when he reaches his office, freezing and quiet and dreadfully void of any human life, he passes by the window his boss had died at and sees his reflection, unkempt and red faced and badgeless. he wants to scream, but he couldn’t because no one would hear a ghost scream, so instead he just sits down in the spot his mentor had lost her life in, and mourns.

when two weeks later a warm, incredible alive life falls into his hands in the shape of a little girl with a too big tophat and a joy for being alive that he’d lost years ago, well, maybe he is glad that he couldn’t die for real, if only to be able to wake up to that beaming grin as his little girl tries to pull her daddy out of bed because she’d made breakfast, and it only smells burnt because of the magic something she’d added as a special ingredient. he eats it, char and all, because he can’t taste the burnt-ness of it anyway, but he could taste the love and care put into it, and that was more than enough to take his mind away readying himself for his next death. instead, he thinks of his daughter’s next performance at the wonder bar, and their next trip to kurain, and miles’ next visit. for once, he thinks of living.

[benevolenterrancy]

Swords pining for each other's cultivator is my new favorite type of pining. Love your NieYao content! <3

I don't suppose we could get Baxia or Hensheng throwing a tantrum while Jin Guangyao / Nie Mingjue are away, leaving their owners to deal with the embarrassing aftermath?

Also, do you have any recs you'd recommend with these two?

this is the exact moment Nie Huaisang realised he was going to have to start meddling in his big brother's love life (con't: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5)

Hensheng, on the other hand, doesn't throw tantrums but WILL sulk...

[xxplastic-cubexx]

cant stop thinkin bout charles and erik readin together on the couch but instead of reading with him charles is listening to eriks thoughts while he reads. Live mind commentary ……..

[sluttyten]

I was working on a new fic that I was really looking forward to, but in light of recent revelations, I'm gonna be taking a step back I think

also i removed him from the member masterlist and all of his fics, excluding things like YIMA and the poly series which I'm considering re-editing to get rid of him

[theminecraftbee]

There are several things Martyn realizes, all at once, when he opens his eyes:

He is dreaming.

It's one of those in-between dreams, the ones that aren't quite dreams.

He is sitting at a green felted table. It is sitting on a stage. The lighting is dim, and no one is watching, but out of the corner of his eye he can see the stagehands dressed in black, waiting.

He is not the only one sitting at the table. There is a Watcher, draped in purple. There is a Listener, draped in yellow. There is someone he recognizes in a red sweater. There is someone he thinks he should recognize, but can't quite, shuffling a deck of cards.

"Right. What's all this, then," he mutters.

We are playing blackjack, the Listener says.

We are deciding the rules, the Watcher says.

"It's not like we have anything better to do. Honestly, I'm glad you're here. Do you know how boring these guys are?" Grian says, and Martyn decides to quietly file Grian away as a dream-Grian, as opposed to real-life-Grian, so he doesn't go insane and/or stab him when he wakes up. He waits for the almost-familiar dealer to say something. He does not. After another few moments of awkward nonsense dream-silence, Martyn sighs and leans forward on the table.

"Sure, this might as well be happening," Martyn says. "Deal me in. How's the betting work, again?"

"You put your bet on the table. If you beat the dealer, you get to add it to the game," Grian explains. "If you don't beat the dealer, it takes it."

"Yeah, but like, that's abstract, isn't it? What does that mean, exactly, me losing what I bet if I don't beat the dealer," Martyn says.

Grian shrugs. "Don't ask me. To be honest, I'm hardly the storyteller you are."

"Me? Why are you acting like I have any control over these things when you're--"

Are you ready to play?

Martyn shuts up, looks at the Listener, and sighs. "Yeah, sure, I'm ready to play. Why not."

The dealer looks to its left. Grian sighs. "Why are you making me bet first. Again. We should rotate where we're sitting--fine, fine, I know it's an advantage because I'm the worst at this. Uh. Hm. No trading or giving away lives again. Not even as time or something. It makes the dynamics all weird, and I think we could use a nice straightforward death game next time."

(Martyn wants to roll his eyes. Nice and straightforward. Sure.)

The Watcher goes next. I would like there to be deep and wonderful bonds between the players. I would like those bonds to seem unbreakable.

"Coming from you, that's ominous," Martyn says.

Can I not just miss the alliances of the early days? the Watcher says.

"Never left the desert," Grian says, rolls his eyes, and looks at Martyn in commiseration. Martyn just stares back. So sue him, he's a bit more worried about this whole concept than an eye roll and a pithy phrase. Things Watchers want are rarely good.

When the bonds are enforced, they're less interesting, complains the Listener.

Martyn looks over sharply. Hey, wait, he thought--

I didn't say they had to be enforced by rule. I said they had to be deep. Encouraged, as opposed to discouraged.

Just saying. You'll never recapture Third Life.

Martyn swallows. His throat is dry. Weren't the Listeners supposed to be the good guys, here?

Besides, what I want is for each death to be meaningful again. They've felt too meaningless, lately, the Listener continues.

Martyn thinks the dealer raises an eyebrow, but it strikes him he's not exactly sure. Grian snorts. "Meaningful deaths. That's rich for you to say. I mean, I guess they're meaningful sometimes? I don't know, Martyn's the one who understands dramatic sacrifices, I just like killing things."

"Why do you keep on looking at me when you say those things," Martyn says.

"Look, you wouldn't be here if you weren't helping write," Grian says.

"What?" Martyn says.

We're here to play our cards for the story, the Watcher says. Aren't you also one of the authors?

"Me? What? No, I'm--what are you talking about," Martyn says.

Oh, well. I also hope your meaningful deaths make it in, the Watcher says the Listener.

Thanks, even if I disagree on the bonds, the Listener says.

"They hardly ever talk about real, concrete rules they want," complains Grian. "It's easier to understand the consequence if they bring up actual rules. Like boogeyman or no boogeyman."

"We're all just betting on cards!" Martyn says, throwing his hands up. "You're giving me a headache!"

It's your bet.

"Fine!" Martyn says. "Fine! You know what? Screw all of you. I hope this is the last one. I hope we never have to go back to that stupid death game. I hope it's miserable to watch or to listen to or to play and everyone just gives up. How's that for a bet?"

You're no fun.

Is that what you really want?

"Suit yourself," Grian says. "Honestly, if I still had that to bet, I guess I probably would."

"What do you mean, if you still had that to bet?"

"Well, I mean, that's not how blackjack works, is it? I don't just get back my in when I play it."

The dealer nods, and then silently, with a long bony hand, deals the cards.

Grian is dealt the four of diamonds. The Watcher is dealt the nine of spades. The Listener is dealt the five of clubs. Martyn is dealt a jack of spades. The dealer deals itself a seven of hearts. The dealer deals Grian a six of clubs--

"Hey, isn't that supposed to be face-down?" Martyn asks.

"Not here," Grian explains. "They're all face up so we can't touch the cards. So we don't have to. So we can't cheat."

"Who said anything about cheating?" Martyn says.

"Please," Grian says.

The dealer makes a hand motion. Martyn, grumpily, falls silent. He supposes they're playing by casino rules, then. He hasn't been in a casino since--he wouldn't know. Hard to remember anything that isn't this, isn't it? Isn't killing and dying and things out of his control and things very much in his control and, apparently, bizarre dream sequences designed to make him want to strangle Grian.

Anyway. Grian is dealt a six of clubs, giving him ten. The Watcher is given an eight of spades, giving it seventeen. The Listener is dealt a king of hearts, giving it fifteen. Martyn is given a six of clubs, giving him sixteen. The dealer deals its own second card face-down. Martyn stops to try to speak, and then shuts his mouth. Right. Dealer's advantage.

He stares at the numbers.

Grian sighs. "Well, I've got to double down, don't I? Fine. I want the whole 'red lives can kill' thing to be enforced somehow. I don't care how. There's my double down."

The dealer nods.

"Why would you want that," Martyn says blankly.

If we all win, that will be interesting with the bonds, the Watcher says mildly.

Grian shrugs. "I mean, we've enforced red names not befriending green names, but not the murder thing before. Figure we should switch up the game, right?"

"Why?" Martyn says again.

Well, it wouldn't do for it to be boring.

"No, not that. Just... isn't it easier to handle when the rules are laid out properly?"

Martyn throws his hands up, but stops arguing. The dealer gives Grian a face-down card. The dealer moves to the next party at the table.

The Watcher looks over at the dealer and makes a cutting-off motion. I stand.

The dealer moves on. Hit me, the Listener says, and is dealt the queen of diamonds. The Listener gestures to Martyn. It seems I bust. Pity. I suppose there will be no guarantee of meaning, then. Not what I'd prefer.

The dealer looks at Martyn. Martyn looks at the other hands. Martyn pauses.

"Wait, this is like, casino blackjack, yeah? I'm only playing against you, not the whole table?"

"Why would you be playing against us?" Grian says. "Writing's a collaborative process."

Martyn looks entreatingly at the Listener, but the Listener is a little too caught up in the bad hand it has been dealt. Martyn looks entreatingly at the Watcher, but the Watcher just looks somehow confused.

"I was under the impression that, I don't know, you all were adversarial."

Why? All we want is the same thing as you: the story to be told a certain way.

Martyn's not sure if he's furious or just numb.

"Fine. Got a sixteen, don't I? Hit me."

Two of spades.

He's furious. He wants to win against the dealer. He wants to win against everyone. He wants his idea to make it through. He has an eighteen, though. There are only two numbers in the deck that will not bust him, and he's no fool. Hitting on sixteen is a risk enough; if he wants his stupid bet of everything finally ending to make it through, he's got to hold here.

"I hold," he says through gritted teeth.

The dealer silently deals itself another card. A three of hearts. Distantly, Martyn's ears rush. He could have taken that. He could have taken the hit. He could have won. He could have had blackjack, and he doesn't know what the extra payout for blackjack even means in a game like this one, but he could have had it, and he held back, he didn't take the risk, he didn't--

The dealer flips up its cards. Seven, eight, three. Eighteen.

Martyn's heart pounds. A stand-off.

Grian flips up his own card and groans. It's a five of diamonds. "There goes that bet," he mutters.

The dealer makes a sweeping motion around the table. The Watcher smiles, a terrible, terrible thing. Martyn, all at once, realizes that he can't ask again. He can't say 'this is guaranteed to be the last one' again. He backs out of his chair. To the sides, he sees the stagehands change the lighting. A spotlight, on him and the dealer--

"That isn't fair," he says. "It's a tie. I should get my bet back, right? It's a tie!"

THAT IS WHERE WE DIFFER FROM THE HOUSES IN VEGAS, the dealer says, and Martyn's heart stops.

(The voice is familiar. Familiar, but he cannot place it.)

YOU SEE, IN THIS GAME, THERE IS ALWAYS ONE THING THAT HAS AN ADVANTAGE. ONE THING THE STORY IS ALWAYS PLAYING AGAINST. ONE THING, THAT INEVITABLY, AFTER LONG ENOUGH PLAYING, WILL WIN.

There, the dealer looks Martyn in the eyes, and Martyn, all at once, knows exactly what the dealer must be.

AND THAT IS ME.

Martyn stares Death in the eyes.

Then, in a cold sweat, Martyn wakes up.

He does not sleep again for a long time.

[dukeofthomas]

I hate the insistence in pushing Jason into the batfamily.

If he doesn't wanna go to dinner, he doesn't have to. If he doesn't wanna hang out with them, he doesn't have to. If he doesn't want to see them, he doesn't have to. If he doesn't even want to contact them, he doesn't have to.

It's so annoying to read fic and always see it presented as his Family Knows Better. Jason is just being silly by not realizing how much they love him and he just needs to let them break into his home and comms and life because they want him there.