#green-madden-pumps

[your-divine-ribs]

Breathe

Words: 1.2k

Request from these NSFW prompts: 65. “I know baby, I know. I’m right here, just breathe” // and this ask I received which I’ve copied below // sorry it’s short and a bit crap I’m struggling to write new stuff at the moment xxx

I was thinking a really intense session with Van, like say you’ve just had a really shitty day and want a release and Van just wants to take care of you and distract you. Properly pin you down and have a safe word and everything, and you’re nearly going into subspace, crying at the pleasure and he’s just hovering above you one hand on your cheek getting him to focus on him while he makes you cum again and again and again.

Imagines Masterlist Main Masterlist

Van was a perfectionist and very thorough in everything that he did, so when you approached him that evening in your melancholy mood, telling him that you wanted to forget all about your stresses and your woes just for one night, he was only too eager to try and help obliterate those troublesome worries from your overwrought mind...

"I know you got one more in you babe. Just breathe through it, c'mon... focus on me. You feel unbelievable."

He's hovering over you, slick with sweat, pumping into you at a maddening pace, doggedly determined in his endeavour to fuck every last scrap of worry out of your head, just like you'd begged him to.

You've lost track of how many times he's made you come, how many times he's built up your pleasure nice and slow, hot sticky waves of euphoria that mount and mount uncontrollably until he tips you carelessly over the edge into a void of mind-shattering bliss.

He'd started off using his fingers and tongue, probing into every wet inch of you, spreading you wide so he could take his fill, pinning your juddering body down as you'd bucked and whined helplessly beneath him. Now he's fucking into you slow and deep and steady, your cunt so wet and swollen like an over-ripe fruit, dripping with the sweetest nectar that he'd coaxed from you time and time again until you thought you might shatter into a million pieces.

"I can't... I don't think I can... not again... please... oh god please..."

Your words are stuttered and choked, punctuated by pitiful whines and gasps, your head lolling from side to side on the sweat dampened pillow as heat churns in your core like molten lava. Despite your impassioned pleas your legs are still wrapped tightly around his slim hips, heels pressed into the small of his back, keeping him close.

It's your overstimulated body that's begging him for mercy, your hips trying to instinctively retreat from his insistent thrusts as your body shudders uncontrollably. Your mind's on another page entirely, the dark and twisted part of you that relishes being completely under his control. He knows this of course, it's the reason you have a safe word for occasions like this.

"You're doing so good for me love," he praises, soft and sweet, words like honey oozing into your pleasure-saturated mind. "You're so fucking pretty like this... but we can stop if it's too much? What colour are you? It's important you tell me... green or red?"

He's braced above you with his elbows on either side of your head, your writhing body pressed into the mattress by his body weight, his lust laden gaze never faltering as it bores into yours.

"G... green," you stammer, tears pricking at your lashes and blurring your vision. You whimper as his hips snap up against yours, driving his cock even deeper, his pelvis grinding deliciously against your over-sensitive bud.

"That's my good girl," he cooes down on you, a hand raising up to stroke tenderly over your hot, tear-stained cheeks. "You feel so good. Always so perfect f'me."

You're sure his favourite place to be in the whole world is right between your spread thighs, and you wouldn't have it any other way. He's addictive. No matter how much he gives you, you always want more. And he's always willing to give.

"You gonna come all over my cock pretty girl? Wanna feel you let go for me one more time."

You eagerly nod, and his hand drops back down to curl around the crook of your leg which he presses upwards between your two bodies, spreading you even wider for him.

"Ahh... fuck," you gasp, the new angle punching the breath from your lungs at every thrust, the friction on your tender clit sore but blissful, mind-numbingly so.

You're beautiful like this he thinks, skin hot and flushed, sticky with the heat of your arousal, eyes wide and glossy, unfocused and brimming with tears. It's all because of him, and he can't get enough of that fact, an arrogant smirk stretching wide on his lips when you whine like you can't take any more. He wishes he could take a snap-shot of you like this and commit it to memory forever.

"Van... please," you croak out, your voice hoarse and cracked, not even sure what you're begging for.

You're in danger of becoming totally lost, incapable of any coherent thoughts apart from the dizzying pleasure that soaks your fucked out brain. The air around you is a furnace, chokingly thick and sticky, heady with the scent of sex. The sharp slap of his hips clashing with yours and the obscenely soaked sound of your sopping pussy fill your ears. It heightens everything, your mind spinning away to a hazy realm of pure sensation. And he's right there with you, ever watchful and ever mindful, guiding you through each high, not letting you lose your focus.

"I know, baby, I know. I'm right here, just breathe. Look at me... don't close your eyes now. I wanna see you... stay with me."

And at that moment you feel the coil in your core snap once again, a raw groan spilling from your lips as bright white stars burst across your field of vision, your pussy fluttering and clenching around him, squeezing him tight. Every muscle in your body tenses and shakes, your finger-nails digging tiny furrows deep into the skin of his back. You cry out his name again, hear him hiss out curses as he finds his own release, his expression creased in euphoria.

"Fucking hell, that was unreal," he groans as his hips finally stutter to a stop, his eyes dark and hungry as he looks down at you in awe. He untangles himself from your limb so he can cup your face in his hands, thumbs gently brushing away your tears. "Love you so much babe. Are ya okay? Are ya feeling better now?"

He eyes you carefully as he gently shunts his hips back to slip out of you. His skin's all tacky and sticky with sweat as his body slides over yours and he pauses, hovering there again, his gold chain dangling in the space between you and catching the dim lamplight as it twirls.

"Mmm..." you hum dreamily, catching the small semi-circular pendant between your fingers as you gaze up at him, sleepy and hazy-eyed, satisfied and worn in a way that you feel your limbs might melt into the comforting softness of your mattress. "So much better. Can't even remember what I was feeling stressed about in the first place now if you must know."

He chuckles at that, hair all shaggy and mussed, falling messily around his handsome face. "It wasn't too much for you then?"

"Maybe I like it when you're too much."

"Oh really? You want more then? Because that's a service I can certainly provide." He leans over to kiss you and his eyes are heavy-lidded and glazed when he pulls back. He looks inebriated… woozy… drunk on love.

"You're not actually serious are you?"

Your voice comes out high-pitched in disbelief as you look up at him, watch the slow, teasing smile spread on his lips.

"Never been more serious babe. You know how it goes when it comes to you... you know I'm up for anything. Anything that you need... I'm yours any time you want.”

[glxyqst]

Paint me a picture

Part 7 of RK1K Prompt Week.

Connor’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he examined his work in progress. The sunlight-dappled scene of Sumo snoozing in a field of tulips was cute, but nowhere near as adorable as the artist himself—paintbrush lightly tapping soft, pink lips; splotches of paint splattered on clothing and skin; tousled brown curls waving gently in the breeze from the open window. Markus, content to simply watch the subject of his secret affections, smiled as he leaned against the doorway. As if sensing Markus—and his model probably could, come to think of it—Connor turned and beamed at him, radiance and warmth lighting his lightly scarred face. It had taken a lot of time, and a lot of trust, but Connor’s mental health improved significantly over the course of his therapy. Though he had long since switched to a licensed therapist where he explored other avenues of expression, Connor continued to paint for his own enjoyment; often spending the day in Markus’ art studio.

“Hi.”

It was maddening, really, how Markus’ thirium quickened in his synthetic veins from just one small word from the other.

“Hey, there.”

Straightening from his position, Markus crossed the room to stand at Connor’s side. Seemingly without thinking, Connor tilted his head and rested it against Markus’ shoulder, as if from this new angle he could preconstruct the next thousand brush strokes.

Markus wanted to kiss this android silly.

Instead, he nodded and gestured towards the painting. “I like it.”

“Do you?” Lifting his head and turning to look at Markus, Connor hummed. “What do you like about it?”

“The brush strokes are clean but not mechanical… the colors are vivid but not overpowering… something has changed in the way you paint. Your love for Sumo is very evident in your expression.”

“I must admit my walks with Sumo and Hank are one of the highlights of my weekly routine.” Connor stepped closer to Markus. “I was thinking…”

Long lashes fluttered, and Markus swallowed. “Yes?”

“I was thinking about the subject of my next painting.” Connor’s warm brown eyes searched Markus’ blue and green; seeming to like what he found there, he placed a hand on Markus’ arm. “I would like to paint you.”

Markus felt his thirium pump skip a beat. “M…me?”

“Yes, I…  I’ve been talking with my therapist, and… and they agreed that perhaps now might be a good time to tell you… how I feel.”

What was happening? “How you… feel?”

Sliding his hand down to take Markus’ hand in his, Connor’s fingers squeezed gently.

“I like you.” It was the barest hint of a whisper, his cheeks blushing a soft blue. It seemed that the android sent by Cyberlife, the advanced prototype with a Social Relations program and profiling skills, the Deviant Hunter and perfect machine, had feelings for Markus.

Markus was speechless.

Connor mistook Markus’ silence for rejection. “I… it’s okay that you don’t like me, let me just pack up my art supplies and I’ll—”

Markus silenced Connor with a kiss, his lips crushing Connor’s with gentle passion. They didn’t need to come up for air, but after several minutes of soft tongue probing, Markus broke off and looked Connor in the eyes.

“I like you, too.”

Blushing even brighter, Connor blinked at Markus, his mouth curling up into a lopsided smile. “...Oh.”

Taking Connor’s hands in his, Markus pulled Connor after him, laughing as he went. “Come on! I’ve got another art project we can do. I hope you don’t mind getting paint on you.”

“I’ll paint anything, Markus, as long as I paint with you.” Connor smiled, and followed after his love. /the end

...or is it? :3

@rk1k-prompt-week

For @leelany-world <3

[justa-rat]

Banshee.

May 8th,

Word Count: 624

You thought of her.

The last time you saw her.

How her hair slicked with sweat stuck to her face, perfectly framing her beauty. How her wide-stretched eyes stared directly onto yours. They were such a pretty shade of green. It was rare you were granted the pleasure of staring into green eyes. Her complexion was fair, her skin was so, so smooth. Not a blemish in sight, you would have said she were a goddess, had you not been wiser.

She lay in a pool of her own dark blood. The shade of crimson it embodied was near black, you only knew it was red due to how the light hit the reflections in the pool. Her mouth was still open, utterly frozen in an eternal scream. 

She looked so normal now, despite the shotgun-shell sized hole that ripped through her abdomen. Your hands still shook, the offending weapon resting in your white-knuckled grip. 

You hadn’t moved since firing the shot, your eyes stared at her form. You had to be sure, everything in your body told you she was not dead. You pumped the shotgun, leveling the sights to her skull. 

A bead of sweat dripped down your forehead, your index finger sliding over the trigger. You took in a breath.

A high-pitched screech filled the room, your eardrums ached with the noise. You staggered back, the shotgun misfiring into the stone walls. Water splashed at your feet, wetting your clothing. You felt something drip down the side of your head, vertigo, nauseam.  

Relief flooded you as the assault finally ended, but everything sounded… a little more muffled than it had before. The woman now hung in the air before you, dark hair splayed out as if she were underwater. The wound on her stomach began to slowly knit together, razor sharp teeth being bared at you. Her true form had been revealed now, her true power. 

Your fingers clumsily fumbled to reload the shotgun, backing away all the while. You missed when her eyes were green. 

You ready your aim once more - only for another ear-shattering wail to come forth. Crimson tears now streaked her cheeks, you could hardly make out the words. You still question if she uttered any,

“WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?!” Her voice came out in a choked sob.

You would not be fooled. You had heard of banshee’s from your town. Her words were not true, but rather the words of another lost, poor soul. You wonder whose tragic end she had both incited and recorded. She would not have yours. 

Fighting the maddening squeal, you lift the gun into aim once more. Peering through blurred vision, you swallowed the sick slowly threatening to crawl up your throat. You aimed at her skull.

The gunshot was silent., all you could hear was the sudden relief to her horrific wails. 

Her body crumpled in the air, and once again returned to the earth. What was left of her face now flowered into gore. You stand there shivering, unable to hear your own footsteps through muffled silence. You pull out a knife, and slice away a lock of her hair. 

You don’t remember why you thought of her, of what she took from you. 

What you took from her. 

Yet as you sit next to your favorite old record player - your fingers resting on its case… You can’t help but think of her final words. How you brushed them off then, only to have them haunt you now.

Your eyes look to the horizon, your bones are old and weak now, and you can only enjoy the gentle vibrations of the music you once loved.

Why did you kill her?

[breedaboyd]

56 + Cori + ftm 💕 (tumblr user breedaboyd you are my everything)

Prompt: "I'd like to breed you."

Pairing: The Corinthian × FTM!Reader.

Word Count: 824.

CW: Breeding kink, car sex, dirty talk, vaginal fingering.

A/N: Honestly, I just love writing Corin being a teasing bastard and getting people all riled up.

You're sitting in the driver's seat of your car, the engine humming softly beneath you. The night is dark and quiet, the streetlamps casting a dim glow on the deserted road. Beside you, the Corinthian sits in the passenger seat, his presence captivating and distracting. His eyes — or mouths — gleam with a mix of curiosity and mischief behind his glasses. You can feel his gaze on you, his intense scrutiny making your skin tingle. As you shift uncomfortably in your seat, his lips curl into a sly smile.

"Y'know, have you ever thought about how much goes into creating another person?" He asks, his voice a low, seductive murmur that sends shivers down your spine. "How much two people have to want each other for it to happen?" His words hang in the air, heavy with a forbidden allure. You can't help but feel a rush of excitement, a curiosity mingled with apprehension. He leans closer, his breath warm against your ear and the scent of his cologne fills your senses. "There's something primal, something raw about it, isn't there?" He continues, his voice dropping even lower. "The sweat, the hunger...sometimes the blood." His words linger in the air, his tone filled with a mix of fascination and desire.

His hand brushes lightly against your thigh, a teasing touch that sends a jolt of electricity through your body. You can feel your heart racing, your breath hitching. His voice, like velvet, continues to weave its way into your ear. "You can imagine it, can't you? Your legs wrapped around my hips, breath coming hot and heavy, as I pump you full. Ooh, it feels good, doesn't it?" His words hang in the air, a tantalising invitation. You can't help a small whimper escaping your lips at the thought.

As you continue to drive, his whispers become increasingly lewd, his words painting vivid images; bites covering your neck to claim you, hands pushing your thighs open so he can bury himself deep, nails raking down his back and he shudders and cums. The tension in the car grows, the air thick with anticipation. You can feel the heat between your legs, a throbbing ache that demands attention. The Corinthian's voice, dark and smooth and rich, guides you deeper and deeper.

The car comes to a stop at a red light on an empty road, the silence broken only by the sound of your heavy breathing. The Corinthian's hand slides higher up your thigh, his touch both gentle and possessive as he rubs two fingers along the crotch of your pants, feeling the heat seeping through the fabric. "I'd like to breed you." He says finally and you turn to look at him; he's just as turned on by his own teasing, saliva dripping from his empty sockets as the tongues writhe excitedly behind his dark glasses.

Before you can fully process the moment, the Corinthian's hand is at the front of your shirt, fingers curling possessively as he pulls you towards him. His lips crash onto yours with a fervour that sends a jolt of heat straight down your body. His kiss is fierce, demanding, and you're powerless to resist, your fingers curling into the lapels of his coat as you pull him closer. As his lips move from your mouth to your jaw, his fingers trail a blazing path along your thigh, teasing through your pants and feeling you buck your hips. "I'd love to get you all knocked up, see how sensitive you get." He whispers against the skin. The sensation is maddening, a heady mix of pleasure and frustration that leaves you gasping for more.

The stoplight turns green but the world around you is momentarily forgotten as the nightmare's touch becomes all-consuming. "And you'd love it, wouldn't you? Letting me fill up your tight boy-pussy, hm?" He growls and you whine, desperate for his touch, The sound of another car approaching doesn't even register in your mind; all that matters is the relentless rhythm of his fingers between your legs and the intoxicating taste of his tongue. Your mind is a blur of sensations, your heart pounding in time with the heated tempo between you. The Corinthian's lips move lower, tracing a path down your neck as his fingers finally dip into your pants, his long, delicate fingers pressing inside you, feeling just how desperate he made you. The world outside might be moving but, in this suspended moment, it's as if time itself has frozen. You gasp, head falling back against the head rest as you fall victim to his insistent touching.

As the light changes again and the car behind you honks impatiently, the Corinthian finally pulls away, his gaze dark and hungry as you try and level your breathing. You pull away from the stoplight and let the car behind overtake you before pulling over in an empty parking lot.

"I sure hope that wasn't all talk, Corin."

[steve-madden-vala-pumps]

hot green pumps

[gaiuswrites]

Ashore

Part one | Open Waters

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader

Summary: You and Frankie leave the beach with only one thing on your minds.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 3.6k~

Warnings/tags: smut, ✨butt stuff✨, oral (f receiving), some lovey-dovey shit

Notes: Here we are friends. You don’t necessarily have to read Open Waters to understand the contents of this chapter (considering it’s mostly just booty bumpin’). You can thank heathens @javierpcna and @whataperfectwasteoftime for the debauchery to follow. It’s been a while since I’ve written and I’m genuinely nervous to post this lol but alas. We have arrived. Is it shit? Is it pure filth? Who’s to say hehehe. Cheers bebes x

Masterlist | read it on ao3!

The worst part was, you had to get gas.

Frankie drives. You sit beside him.

The return trip is hushed with anticipation—with sullied stain-glass imagery occupying the void. You've said next to nothing since you packed into the car; the only noise comes from the radio—the preset station phasing in and out as you wind along the backroads leading away from the shore—Journey, Jimi, Led Zep and the like all crackling dry through the speakers.

Everything, each micro-movement, feels stifling— like burning ants under a magnifying glass— each gesture riddled with intention, Frankie’s words echoing clear in the caverns of your mind.

He glances left right at an intersection.

‘Anything?’

He flips on the turn signal, blinking one two one two one two.

‘You gonna let me have your tight little ass?’

He steers the wheel with the heel of his palm.

‘When I cum, it’s gonna be here—filling you up.’

The engine rumbles as you idle at a red light—stalling. Dawdling. The sun spills lazily from the horizon, draining the last of the afternoon’s light with it, bleeding the sky scarlet—emboldening the horizon— and you watch as the setting glow catches the hair on his arm—there, resting on the console between you. His hand fists over the gear, knuckles creasing as they tense around the worn, leathered head. You’re playing a game—a silent, ruleless game. You know he can sense you observing him, can feel the heat of your gaze weigh on the flex of his fingers—the same fingers that had ripped an orgasm out of you not two hours before.

You almost unbuckle your damn seatbelt and fly out of your chair. You nearly break with it, with the unspoken tension filling the car like gas and fuck, how you crave him; how you yearn to put those fingers in your mouth and suck—lave the summer clean off his digits and bob around the long width and—

The light turns green.

Frankie resumes his hand to the wheel, your lewd fantasy dissipating along with it.

It’s minuscule. You would have missed it save the fact that you’re so acutely aware of every fucking breath you two share in the aluminum confines of your old Jeep. It’s a subtle thing: Frankie adjusts his hips— innocent enough— but your eyes flicker over to find the groin of his drying swim trunks tented.

You’re not ashamed to say it— your mouth fucking waters, you salivate— and as if on cue, he squirms again, seeking relief from both the blood rushing south and the blister of your stare. His lips part— the rasp of an inhale as he prepares to speak—before his focus is torn down to the dashboard, an orange symbol popping up in the gauge stealing his attention.

“Shit,” Frankie mumbles under his breath. Looking around, he scans for a nearby station and groans at the realization that he’s just passed one, spotting it in the rearview mirror. “Shit.”

You swivel towards the passenger side window, attempting to hide the I told you so expression pulling wry at your mouth. Not that you’ll hang it over him, but you did inform Frankie that the tank was empty on the way to the beach. You hear another muffled curse come from the man beside you, and the world goes topsy-turvy and reverses itself— the act of Frankie making a grumbled U-turn.

He puts the gear into park with a huff, Van Halen’s solo abruptly cut short mid chord.

The car door opens with a rusty squeal and Frankie clambers out, fishing his wallet from his back pocket and swiping his card through the reader at the pump—but not before he squeezes a palm into the plush of your thigh, thumb searing like a brand into your skin. I’ll be quick.

Fuck, you could have cum right then.

Your gaze follows his movements, dogging after him as he waits on the gas to fill— arms folded across his chest, strong build leaning on the frame of your car.

It’s not a novel concept to you, but God is that man broad. The ratty t-shirt he wears clings to him, pulled taut between the plane of his shoulders, the cut of his tricep apparent even from your vantage point; the corded muscle running up his neck flashing as he watches the digital numbers on the screen tick higher.

Shit, you’re aching for him— you can feel yourself throb into the crotch of your swimsuit. You’d have him right here—in the backseat, steaming up the glass— if it weren’t for the overencumbered bags and rickety beach chairs crowding the space.

With herculean effort, you wrench your eyes off him in search of a distraction, letting them drift to the dark flooring of the car. It’s been dirtied—white flecks speckling the interior—and you won’t be able to get the sand out of the matted carpets for weeks. It’s a nuisance, to be sure, but you have to admit that you’re sort of fond of it; little memories, vestiges in the grains, lingering long after the season ends.

Hello, remember me? each granule chirped, remember when we laughed giddy for hours, maddened by the grace of the sun? Remember when we burned red that time we forgot sunscreen? Remember when we bought soft serve from the surf shack and it globbed sticky down our wrists? Remember when we when we when when when…

Frankie, ever practical, hates it. It’s a pain in the ass, he’s told you, regaling you with the woes only a mechanic would care to know. It ruins the upholstery.

You’ve had your exchanges about the topic—your faux-squabbled back and forths—and yet despite himself, he can’t help but like that you like it. Conceptually, he gets it—it annoys him to kingdom fucking come and he’ll almost certainly take the vacuum to the mats first thing tomorrow, but he understands. He understands it.

He understands you.

You’re like that, you and him. You’re different. You are made of different things, a compository of fractures and fragments. Mosaic tiles. You don’t quite fit—not all of you—but you never force the pieces into any sort of place. You admire each other’s mismatched bits, those sweetly quilted jigsaws, and you hold each one up to the light and point at the unique curves, the notches and swoops there, and say I love you, I love this, I love this too.

When Frankie keys up the ignition and puts the car in drive, he keeps his hand on your lap. Arm resting over the median dividing you, calloused palm sealing over your quad, his fingertips knead a pulse into the meat of your leg with each bump in the poorly paved road— a reminder. A vow. Almost home.

You think he does it just to torture you.

It fucking works.

/

The sound of laughter parts the front door as you enter— Frankie had made some colorful comment about your absolute favorite neighbors, the ones who always leave their damn garbage bins in front of your driveway— and your key ring clatters as it hits the bowl on the side table.

You discard the bags, plopping the sandy things down in the entryway, and kick off your sandals— bare soles padding along lacquered wood paneling as you head to the kitchen for some much needed water.

The sound of the tap running camouflages Frankie’s movement, you don’t hear him behind you. He’s got stealth in him, harbored there from before. He’s light on his feet when he chooses to be—nimble-like, bordering on feline—and you startle with a bubbly chuckle when you spin around to discover him far closer than you anticipated.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping us hydrated,” you grin, as if it were obvious. You’re welcome.

He hums, the note rumbling against the cage of his ribs, and lessens the distance between you with a single stride. “That can wait.”

He rids you of the glasses, hurriedly placing them on the counter, and meets you in a kiss—and fuck can that man kiss. Frankie, like with all things, is responsive—attentive. His lips are fever-laced and wanton, and he roves against yours like they’re designed to— fated for no one else’s but your own— nipping and tonguing at your honeyed whines, orphaned there in the well of your mouth.

His hands vine up your body, so deprived of the luxury of your form - of touch - and he grabs at anything he can— your hips, your waist, your breasts through the cotton of your shirt— their half moon curves sitting ripe in his palms.

After ushering you up to the countertop, he strips you of your jean shorts, your bikini bottom sloughing down your calves along with them, and hoists your feet onto the fake granite, prying your legs wide for him.

When he gets an eyeful of your gleaming pussy, pearled with arousal, the wind gets punched straight out of him.

“Jesus honey,” he groans, “you been like this the whole ride home?”

Your brain is numb, lagging with lust. You don’t trust your voice to speak—all you can do is nod.

“Poor thing,” he simpers. “Poor pretty thing, all wound up for me—all wet.”

You whimper at his tone—graveled, just shy of condescending—and your knees weaken shut before he snatches them apart.

“Sit still.”

It’s a command, there’s no room for disobedience; he orders it with a soldier's voice—that dead thing he wears like dog tags around his neck. Vice grip widening your legs, Frankie sinks down onto his shins, head leveled with your core, engrossed with the sight of your damp sex quivering.

Blotchy warmth creeps up your neck, like ivy crawling over brick.

He’s staring at you— hungry and possessed and simply staring at your open cunt and you begin to fidget once more—riling under his umbered appraisal.

“Sit still baby girl,” he murmurs, softer now and desperate too—intoxicated with the heady perfume of your heat. “Lemme just— fuck, I gotta taste you…”

When he swipes the deft muscle of his tongue through your slit, your head careens back onto the cabinets, plates and bowls rattling behind the wood.

Oh god, Frankie.

He’s got a talent for this— an excruciating, body wracking talent. He thirsts for you something dangerous, something unquenchable; he tugs at your labia, forming his lips around your clit, lapping at your essence— the ocean musk, that sea foam wet.

You fumble through his hair, mussing the saline woven strands with urgent fingers as you grind grind grind, rolling your hips to meet him in a covetous show of want and he purrs into your pussy as you fuck his face, the scratch of his stubble chafing at your legs.

It doesn’t take long, not with the fervor of how he’s claiming your cunt with his mouth. You soak Frankie’s chin— you nearly fucking drown him with it—and he’s glistening with you when he finally emerges for air, pulling you to him to slant his lips against yours, letting you savor your own taste on his hot tongue.

“Bedroom. Now,” he husks, breath hitching as his nose grazes along your ear, and with two hands under your armpits, he gathers you off the countertop. Frankie lands a swat at the plump of your backside, sending you scurrying through the living room with a shriek—completely bypassing the abandoned pile of laundry left lying on the couch.

He smirks—delirious and ramrod stiff—sauntering behind you, enamored with the pendulum sway of your hips as you lead him to the bed.

/

You’ve never been here. You’ve never gone this far. You both have tiptoed this narrow line for months; he’s fingered your ass plenty—you have even gone so far as to don a butt plug. You’ve discussed anal—toyed with the idea, flirted in circles around it like tittering birds.

But you’ve never taken Frankie’s cock. Not yet.

He’s been working you loose and limber for the better part of fifteen minutes, delving himself knuckle deep into your slicked hole until you’re sputtering for more— until you’re downright sopping and fucking shaking— and not with trepidation but with desire. Frankie’s made you gluttonous. Frankie’s made you voracious.

You’re starving for him.

“You gonna let me have this now?” He presses a digit over your ass, kissing his thumb into the knot there.

You tremble, nodding frantic.

“Think this pretty little ass can take me, baby?”

He serves you a slap, plush skin jiggling and pricking pink under his palm. You keen into him, in search of the promise he’s been baiting you with and you arch your hips, gyrating back onto fucking nothing.

“Yes. Yes—” You twist, chin corkscrewed around to see him. You want to watch. You want to watch as he disappears inside you— as you swallow him.

“A-Are you sure?” he asks, suddenly gone gentle around the lines fraying from his eyes—those wrinkles he’s hard-earned and won, like badges, like medals—from all his years spent under an unforgiving sun, all of that which he has seen and endured. Survived. Your Frankie, always thoughtful, always checking. A goddamn gentleman, even now—even as his dick brays hard and angry against the soft of his tawny stomach. “Because really, we don’t have to—”

You cut him off with a whimper, splaying your pelvis up to him—spreading yourself, letting him see the filth dripping from your seam, dappling your inner thighs. “Fuck me,” you whine, both holes puckering for him. “Fill me up, like you said you would— please.”

Something shifts across his features like a shadow and his expression morphs until it steels— his pupils dilating to a predatorial onyx— and he spits into his palm, coating his shaft, jerking himself with it.

He hisses as he guides himself into you, as you accommodate around him, as you envelop him entirely— inch by veritable inch. He has to station a hand to the base of your lumbar, struggling to maintain his composure—air rattling in and out his lungs as he attempts to breathe.

“Shit,” he gasps, “t-this okay?”

You fist the comforter, coiling the fabric into a ball. It’s a stretch— it’s a real goddamn stretch— and briefly you consider that he might, in fact, snap you in two...

Francisco Morales is going to split you clean in half—and God, if you don’t you love it.

“Yes - yes baby - keep going. D-Don’t stop.”

He pitches into you, setting a legato tempo— transfixed by the lurid juncture where you converge into one. “You- you’re so tight. Shit, you’re—”

He silences himself with a delicious moan, biting at his lower lip until the vessels there burst and it purples, and deals a particularly aggressive thrust— one you respond to with an ugly wail of your own, eyes somersaulting in their sockets.

You’re both impatient, verging on rabid, and it doesn’t take long for him to set a rougher pace and fuck you faster - harder - hammering into your ass until you see stars, popping and fizzing in front of your retinas, a symphony of guttural grunts and carnal praise fogging up the bedroom.

Your pussy feels so empty you could cry—weeping and gaping and fluttering for him as he takes your tight ring of muscle, fucking himself to the hilt. It’s like he’s behind your brain—like he’s carved his way up your spine and nudging at the nape of your neck with how deep he’s driving into you—restless. Ceaseless. His balls slap slap slap against your puffy cunt and you pant— girlish and buoyant with the dulled smacks to your sore clit.

“Please,” you sob, “Please, I need—”

You can barely push the words out—your mind is of no help and your tongue lolls useless, languid in your mouth. Your motor functions have all but puttered to a halt, every scrap of you fighting to stay above the sensation that’s threatening to drag you under its current. The rip tide of it all, of Frankie’s cock, coursing through your ass, tempting to hurdle you out into the dark, wet blue.

“Tell me,” Frankie rasps, scraping through his throat. “Tell me, pretty baby.”

Your response is pathetic—you can hardly dignify it as a response at all. Your temple is pressed into the mattress, hair knotted with brine and sand, and all you can do is coo.

Frankie folds over you, angling himself to graze his teeth over your shoulder—savoring the salt and sex tang bathing your skin, all those pheromones and velveteen chemicals anointing you—baptizing you anew for him. He’s gruff when he murmurs, his beard grating your freshly tanned skin.

“C’mon sweetheart - hng, fuck - what do you need?”

“My clit,” you rush out, needy. “My clit. Please, oh my god Frankie I-I need you to, I need – oh fuck—” And your pleas are mummed by a rapturous moan as he trails his hand from the hollow of your hip to the apex of your cleft and flicks.

Fuck. Fuck, oh Christ—

There’s a ringing in your ears, buzzing you deaf, making you dumb—or maybe it’s just your heart, beating loud and errant against your skull—you can’t say. You don’t feel human. Frankie’s pounding into that cinched channel and playing with your clit—swiveling eddies into your swollen nub—and you feel like an animal. You feel debased. You feel disgusting and perfect and you’re fucking drooling; cheek squished and mouth agape, saliva pools from your wagging maw, darkening the white linen you’re being driven into.

“You need me in your pussy, too?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer him— he already knows what you need, how you need to have every part of you gorged on him— and Frankie dips his fingertips into your entrance, hooking them up and up and in, fucking in time to the cant of his hips.

He’s in you. Everywhere, everywhere—every possible neuron and synapse consumed with him.

“You need me like this—fucking you this deep? Fucking both your pretty holes?” he growls, weaving his hand lower to grab a fistful of your hair, rucking your head up. Throat stretched bare for him, your mewls muddle to cock-drunk cries as he spears you on himself again and again and again.

Yes yes yes fuck harder please please Frankie

You're pleading with him—you’ve been reduced to meager begging— and a chorus of slurs sings your release as you contract around him and cum, the cradle of your hips bucking reflexively.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he seethes, “you’re so good for me baby, Jesus fuck—”

He’s close now—his blissed finish drawing nearer and nearer with each sharp snap of his hips. Frankly, he’s shocked he’s managed to last as long as he has; it’s a small miracle he hadn’t cum the instant he slotted himself inside you with that very first stroke.

“Baby,” he warns, losing his rhythm. You saddle your spine, hollowing out the valley of your back and arch pretty and supple for him— preening under his weight. He moans at that, and through your fucked out haze you have the wherewithal to smirk at him, devious and prideful, a wild look owning your eye.

Frankie has to brace himself on your hips, untangling from your locks to bruise into the pillow of your skin— gripping on for dear fucking life as he plows you. You’re strangling him. You’re strangling the thick of his cock until he’s dizzy with it—until he’s feral and blind and he can’t hold on, can’t keep fighting this fucking monsoon that’s raging in his core.

“Baby, I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna—fuck me, oh shit—” He shouts, spurting inside you thrust for thrust, painting your virgin walls with his seed. It’s too much— after all that, and you’re still too tight— and he’s overstimulated to the point of delirium. Frankie roots himself still, cum dribbling out your stuffed hole while he rides out the high of his orgasm—his vision, his senses, his goddamn soul, slowly oozing back into him. When he slides free from you, he does so with a pained heave, leaving you yawning with his absence.

You feel shredded. Vacant. You’ve been sent to another fucking dimension all together.

Without wasting another second, Frankie claws you up. You’re easy and malleable, bones and muscles too strung out to protest, and he whirls you around to bar you to his chest—crushing your sweaty body to his with bullet marred arms— the same arms that have taken lives, that have spared them, too. The same arms that link around you, delicate and daisy-chained, like you’re the most precious thing he has.

And you are.

You are.

Frankie kisses you breathless, drinking rich from your cup— tongue greedy and reverent as he kneels there at your altar, praying his sins into your mouth.

So gorgeous, he croons, peppering your face—your flushed cheeks, your perspired brow—with his lips as he tells you over and over and over again.

So good for me, pretty baby

Was that okay?

Fuck, you’re a dream

You’re my best girl—you’re my only girl

Was that okay?

God, you’re my whole fucking world

Was that okay? Was I okay?

Are you okay?

You swoon, helpless to the contented sigh that seeps out from you like mist. You’ve gone limp against the breadth of him. He has reduced you to rubber, left wobbling in his grasp, and you’re so damn full—your heart and your body—all of it. You feel unequivocally complete. You feel safe, you feel home.

You are home. Francisco is home.

He’s flattening out the nest of your hair, taming the damage he previously delivered to it, earning from you a sleepy grin into the muggy crook of his neck. And with the last of your waning strength you hold his pieces up to the light—the light you left on in the hall as the night grew dark around you, the one who’s yellow glow your naked bodies bask in now, and you say

I love you

I love this

I love this too

tags:

@krissology @heartsofbeskar @madhattervanessa @andiesturgss @sharkbait77 @tenderwhat @javier-pena @pedros-mustache @frannyzooey @chasingdreamer @djarinsbeskar @thosewickedlovelies @juletheghoul @not-the-droids @filthybookworm @pilothusband @letterfromvienna @keeper0fthestars @greatcircle79 @day-off-inkyoto @mermaidxatxheart @lawfulgranola @heatherbel @quica-quica-quica @stuckonthefiction @janesbrontes

[fishstyx]

“put the maid outfit on.”

featuring. sub!nagito komaeda x fem!reader

wc. 2.2k

genre. smut

tw. nsfw, penetration (pegging), orgasm denial/edging, praise kink, mild (mild!) toxic masculinity

synopsis. peg nagito 2021 + everyone’s favorite e-boy trend.

“You really think I look good in this..?” 

Your jaw slackens as Nagito materializes in the doorway, fingers fiddling with the hem of his skirt. His shoulders hunch over and his legs bend at the knee, but if he’s trying to make himself smaller, it does little to obscure your view. The costume fits him so well, corset detailing and silk satin bows lining his midriff, white ruffle trim splayed out against his wrists and thighs. Flouncy frills flare from his shoulders, jet puffed sleeves rounding out his sharper edges and broader sides. A pink flush creeps across his cheeks when you fail to respond, teeth locking his bottom lip in place like he’s trying to keep himself from saying anything more.

“I think you look great in it!” 

You clasp your hands together in an attempt to ward off your trance and he cracks a smile in spite of himself, relief washing over his features—but your next words have him standing stick straight. “It makes me feel like I should dress you up more often.” 

Suddenly his brows are threaded with vexation, Mary Janes clacking across the floorboards as he makes his way towards you.

“Please don’t joke about that. Even I take some pride in my manhood,” he pouts, somewhat unconvincingly. “But as long as you’re holding to your end of the deal—“

“And whatever deal could you be talking about?” you ask ever so sweetly, lashes batting away all too knowingly. He stiffens at your feigned ignorance, legs knocking together when you tilt your head pointedly. 

“...You know what deal.” 

Nagito averts his gaze, though unable to escape your own, hands clutching at the lacy material as he sucks in a sharp breath. “The deal we made… where I put this outfit on…” You wait patiently, silent stare urging him to finish the sentence.  “...and you pound my unworthy hole into oblivion.”

“Oh? And what exactly am I going to pound you with?”

However fake your play-pretend innocence, the curiosity in your eyes is very much real, blazing with the vehement desire to hear him say it aloud. The remaining shred of his so-called dignity is slashed to pieces, the hopefulness in your voice too compelling to defy.

“My favorite toy. Please, mess me up with it.” Nagito eyes you nervously, expecting rejection or derision or snide, heart fluttering when he gets only an warm smile in return. “The dildo that I can’t live without. I want it—I need it so bad it hurts,” he continues in a near whisper, but it’s good enough for you. You pull him in immediately, your chin nestling itself in the crook of his neck as your lips come to rest at the shell of his ear.

“Such a good boy, using your words so properly.” He shudders against you as you trace the fabric where it lies snug against his waist, mesmerized by the words of encouragement that spill from your lips. 

“I’m gonna make you see stars.”

Nagito practically bursts with anticipation as you snake your fingers up his skirt, unmoving from the spot where you pushed him onto the bed. With bated breath he lets you kiss up his inner thighs—lets you because normally he wants to do all the work, wants to be your little joyride fuck toy, wants you squirming under his touch. It’s all he can do just to watch, cock already twitching from how good it feels, how utterly starved he’s been of hands besides his own between his legs.

You push at his thighs, pressing them far apart for easy access, chaste kisses becoming damp squeezes as you traverse up the length. A silent smirk tugs at your lips as he throws his head back, the tent beneath his apron growing taller by the second. You palm it instinctively, rubbing circles through the fabric and inviting blood to his sensitive member.

But it’s more of a distraction than anything else, your other hand uncapping the bottle of lube with skill, lathering itself up with ease. Nagito pays it no mind, instead drinking in how you fondle him with eerie similarity to the most despicable of his favorite fantasies. So when a lone finger begins to circle at his entrance, he reels with an unexpected jolt, back arched like a cat. You waste no time in sinking a digit inside, sinful groans following one after another.

And then you’re pumping him with two fingers, swirling them in tandem and scissoring them apart a knuckle deep, then another. He’s biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, fighting the maddening urge to move on his own, to just take the reins and ram you inside of him. He’s already coursing with the need for something more substantial, and it’s obvious that he’s ready to take additional girth.

“Used to me already?” you ask, more statement than question. Nagito hesitates before nodding, sheepishness written into the slow bob of his head. “You’ve been playing with this lonely hole behind my back, haven’t you?” But he can’t bring himself to confirm or deny it, the way he peers back at you answer enough.

You reach for the harness in turn, untangling the heaps of straps right before him, his dildo of choice following soon after. You snap the towering thing into place with a satisfying click, swaying your hips as you guide the thigh straps to their final resting place. The fit is snug, belt of the strap just about digging into your flesh—but not quite—and you turn your back to add the finishing touches.

You’re dripping with lube when you face him again, glossy slick accentuating every vein, every bulge that graces your makeshift cock. You chuckle at the way his legs are spread already, the way he’s waiting on you with a look that says take me now, hold me down and fuck me silly.

But he’s ahead of himself as usual, and it’s inevitable that he chokes back a whimper when you disappear inside of him. He gives the prospect of pain no heed, silently pleading for you to move, and you click your tongue in distaste.

“Breathe,” you command, waiting for him to loosen. Green eyes shift expectantly from the strap-on to your own, an exasperated whine starting to form at his lips, but he knows his place and does as you say.

Nagito complies with the rise and fall of his chest, evidenced by the soft sway of a centerpiece bow. His muscles begin to relax even as you’re splitting him in two, and you angle your hips up in preparation. The tip of your silicone cock has barely brushed against his sensitive gland, yet it already has him quivering, hungry for more.

It’s in the middle of a deep breath when you finally deem him ready, doubling back before bucking into that same spot that has his jaw dropping and his eyes squeezing shut. A shaky exhale stutters from his wide-open mouth and he melts into a panting mess as you find your pace.

“Good boy. Such a good boy, making all that noise for me,” you repeat, chant-like words a melody to his ears.

“Y-you really think so?” he struggles to get out, little mewls escaping him even as he speaks. “Even when I’m… being so… selfish?”

“Shh, don’t say things like that. I feel it too, baby boy,” you’re quick to say—and you’re not lying, far from it in fact. The hilt of the dildo rocks against your clit each time your hips meet, the pulsating pressure tempting you to plunge even deeper. And with the face that he’s making, all reddened cheeks and parted lips, how could you not?

You’re snapping into him now, reveling in the challenge posed by the sheer length of his choice toy. It’s hard work with the way he clamps around you, but the tingle it shoots up your spine and the squelch it sends to your ears are well worth the effort. The marvelous stretch draws a throaty “f-fuuuuck” out of him, the god-sent sensation making him throb all the more.

But with every plunge you take, you’re met with the bounce of his pretty pink cockhead, a rebounding reminder of what you’ve left unattended. His neglected shaft looms in stark contrast to his black and white garb, breath hitching when you finally decide to wrap around it. Your movements are painfully slow to begin with, building up the pressure before picking up in speed, and he keens his dissatisfaction until you’re jerking him off to the same brutal rhythm of your rolling hips.

“I think I’m gonna cum,” he cries, locks of hair cascading past his pleated headband as you press into a spot so sweet he thinks he just might come undone; but you have other plans in mind. Your movements slow before coming to a lurching halt, the absence of stimulation quick to dampen the mood.

“Good boys cum when they’re told to,” you say, but the explanation does little to appease him. A look of disappointment leaps to his face, his lips pursed in dismay—or perhaps it’s betrayal.

He looks so disheveled like this, staring at your open palm like maybe his wordless begging can coax you back into stroking him. Hazy eyes glaze over, tufts of hair spilling every which way as he sits himself up, but you aren’t done with him yet.

It’s simple to redirect his movement, his weak limbs no match for your own as you turn him over so he’s kneeling on the bed. He tries to look back but you push him down by the neck, hiking his skirt up as you position yourself behind him. His ass is raised in the air without so much as being told, and you align with his fluttering hole before breaking him in again.

You were right to make him wait; he’s shaking in excitement now, tense with amplified arousal as his knees buckle underneath you. Bottoming out is so much easier like this, your pistons devoured whole and spat back out with each and every thrust. You draw back slowly only to bury yourself once more, repeating the motion until his moaning runs incoherent, completely wracked with shivering pleasure. You can’t tell if he’s humping the mattress, grinding against you, or both, but he’s reaching his climax again and the both of you know it.

“Can I finish now? Pretty please?” Nagito asks, so strained and so breathily that you nearly miss it. “Please, it hurts so good, please please please, I’m head over heels for your cock!”

The thought of stopping again is too cruel for you to give even a moment’s consideration, so you pin his wrist against his back and collect a fistful of hair in your hand before leaning in to award him with the magic words:

“Go ahead, then. Cum for me.”

You slam into him as he rides through the peak of his bliss, squirming in wretched ecstasy as he collapses under his own weight. You can only imagine what kind of expression he’s making with his head face-first in the bedsheets, the kinds of shapes his mouth is forming when you pull his hair back like this. Violent spasms render Nagito otherwise immobile, unable to move of his own accord. He’s going completely slack, quivers shorting until you wonder if he passed out from the aftershock.

It comes as a surprise when you notice him barely holding on, eyelids threatening to shut close when you pull him into your arms. He looks like a cheap whore in that kitschy uniform of his, thick white cum smeared all over the black fabric. Beads of drool streak his chin but he’s too fucked-out to notice, let alone care.

“You did so well for me,” you whisper as Nagito nuzzles into your chest, drowsy and spent. I don’t deserve this at all, he thinks, a dull echo reverberating in the back of his mind.

“I’m so proud of you,” you coo as you stroke his cheek with your thumb. Proud of what? My greediness? My utter uselessness?

But he’s too exhausted to fight your praises, self-doubt dwindling away to nothing as you hum your approval. He snuggles against your palm without even realizing it, subconscious of his mind chasing after contact with your bare skin. In his docile state, you can’t help but to hold him close, intimate proximity sating the needs of which he’s too adamant to admit aloud.

But all good things must come to an end, and eventually, your adrenaline dies down, too. You feel as though you’re a husk of yourself, curling up beside him and letting the fatigue tide you over. As much as you’d love to watch your symbol of hope fall asleep, your eyelids feel so, so heavy now, and you expend the last of your energy on little kitten kisses that trail up his temple and dot down his nose. Your collective consciousness fades away until all that’s left is the syncing of your breath, a singular flow of air where you lay wrapped around one another.

He’ll never admit just how good it felt to be pampered this way, but you’ll never regret taking care of him.

fishstyx © 2021 ✸ all content and their rights belong to me. do not repost, reproduce, or modify anywhere.

[acapelladitty]

Riddlebat: Shibari (nsfw)

(Word count 2.4k. No major warnings apply)

“Arms behind you,” Edward demanded as he ran his hands along Bruce’s exposed shoulders, feeling the taut muscle rippling below his fingertips as the other man complied, “nice and tight. Are you ready to be tied up?”

“Sure.” Bruce answered, a subtle cockiness to his tone that made Edward’s eye twitch in irritation as he wrinkled his nose.

“Very confident, Brucie boy,” Edward muttered, stooping to pick up a length of rope from the floor as he quickly calculated the length he would need, “let’s see how that holds up when you’re trussed up like a turkey for me.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His lips curling into a smirk, Bruce straightened his posture as he complied with Edward’s directions. Shifting his hands behind his body, he placed his palms together as he lay the edge of his pinkies against the muscle of his back.

Edward’s fingers were skilled as they wrapped the soft rope around Bruce’s elbows before allowing the length to trail down his forearms as he secured them together firmly. The rope wrapped around itself delicately as he knotted it in place periodically, ensuring that Bruce would be unable to move his arms for anything aside from pressing his fingers together.

“Normally I would leave these bindings a little looser,” he purred into Bruce’s ear as he secured the final knot across his wrists, “but I don’t trust you to not attempt to break free when I’m having my fun.”

“Normally?” Bruce craned his neck to the side, allowing Edward easier access to his neck as he questioned his words. For his troubles he was rewarded with a soft kiss just below his ear, the faintest hint of teeth making him sigh as he enjoyed the gentle touch.

“Query and Echo taught me these little tricks a long time ago,” explaining the origins of his craft, Edward continued to ghost his teeth across the lobes of Bruce’s ear as he spoke, admiring the shiver they created as they left gooseflesh in their wake, “because sometimes handcuffs and basic knots just don’t do the trick they need to.”

Testing the durability of his freshly constructed bondage, Edward pulled at the rope which held Bruce’s arms together in a reverse-prayer position and felt satisfied as it forced his elbows to rise an inch or two before dropping back down.

Moving to stand before his kneeling partner once again, Edward picked up a fresh piece of rope from the floor and tucked the end of it between his teeth. Lurid green and as soft as silk, it was a special purchase from a specialist creator, and it had proved to be worth every penny as he made a mental note to put in for a fresh order.

The subject before him deserved only the best of the best and his body was so broad with rippling muscle and taut definition that it inspired thoughts and designs beyond anything Edward had ever considered before.

Bruce’s gaze was heavy with lust and a slight grunt escaped his lips as Edward ran his hands over his scarred abdomen, taking care to trail his fingers across his defined pecs before his thumbs came to rest atop his rapidly hardening nipples. His slacks were tight against his groin as the blood rushed to his cock at the soft ministrations, trapped as it was, and he shuffled in place; unable to do much more due to his kneeling position and the restricted use of his arms.

Snaking his arms across the wide chest, Edward secured the rope around Bruce’s pecs, just below his armpits, and started his work. The rope moved fluidly between his dexterous fingers as he continued to knot the rope down Bruce’s chest and abdomen as the vigilante arched his back slightly to give him easier access. The pads of Edward’s fingertips took the time to explore the rough scarring which decorated Bruce’s torso with a borderline reverence which left both men panting slightly as Edward lost himself in the focus of perfecting his art.

Pausing to observe his work, Edward couldn’t help slipping his hand into his boxers; the fabric there bulging and barely concealing his hard length as a noticeable bead of pre-cum left a wet patch on the white fabric. Stroking himself leisurely for just a moment to alleviate some of the pressure, he mournfully drew his hand away as he knew that he would be getting his very soon and he wanted to enjoy it as much as possible.

The bright green rope against Bruce’s tanned skin was beautiful; even the white scarring which littered his body did little to tarnish the sight and, if anything, the loss of pigment only served to show up the true colour of the rope as it held Bruce in place.

A stunning gift which only he had earned the right to unwrap.

Possessive by nature, the sight of Bruce trussed up so expertly in his colour by his own hand was intoxicating and it created an almost cloying sensation in his chest even as his cock twitched with interest.

“Almost finished,” Edward announced, voice more strained that he would like as he picked up the final lengths of ropes which he planned to use, “then we’ll see about that smart mouth, Mr. Wayne.”

Edward placed his hands on Bruce’s slacks and adjusted his limbs into the correct position, gently enough to prevent him from falling over as he knew he would be unable to defend himself from the cold flooring with his hands. To help position him more easily, he quickly unzipped the slacks and pulled Bruce’s cock free; the hardness thick, full, and as tempting as ever as it jutted into the open space and bobbed against his stomach.

The temptation to run his hands along it was maddening but Edward had a job to do and that wouldn’t fit with his plans so he pointedly ignored the hard length as he continued with his rope work.

Wrapping the rope around the thick thighs below his grasp, Edward set about securing Bruce’s legs together as he kneeled in position. The rope held on to the rougher fabric of the slacks and Edward felt his tongue poking out from between his teeth as he concentrated. He was set on creating small diamond patterns between the ropes and it was difficult but not impossible.

“Do you know what they call this style? They call this-”

“Futomomo.” His pronunciation perfect, Bruce’s voice expertly washed over the word as he cut Edward off with his own knowledge.

Quirking a brow as he paused in his task, Edward narrowed his eyes at the interruption.

“You’re not the only one who needs a little extra help with restraints, Mr. Nygma.”

Feeling a flush of pink high on his cheeks at the implication, Edward cleared his throat and his hand reached up to run through Bruce’s scalp, mussing the dark hair there messily as he responded.

“Then maybe you’ll just have to show me what you think you know in one of our future meetings.”

“Maybe I will.” Bruce promised, eyes half-lidded as Edward secured the final knot on his legs and moved to stand between his thighs. His eyeline was now on par with Edward’s cock and he could see the clear tent of his length as it pressed against the fabric.

“I’m finished,” Edward announced, “and you look absolutely exquisite. So, are you ready to show some appreciation for my hard work?”

Edward’s tone was husky, his final word trailing off into a soft moan as he released himself from his boxers, his cock feeling heavy in his hand as he gave it some light relief, awaiting Bruce’s response.

“Yes.”

A simple reply but Edward wasn’t one to tempt fate as he pushed his cock towards Bruce’s accepting lips, the anticipation of his skilled mouth making his breath come in short pants as he steadied his footing.

For his part, Bruce slipped his tongue out to wet his lips as he dipped his head down to welcome the tip of Edward’s cock into his willing mouth. The taste was familiar, as was the neatly trimmed bush of fiery red hair which framed Edward’s cock and it never failed to bring him a little amusement as just how bright Edward’s pubic hair was. It was almost unnatural; however, he was quick to focus his mind to the task at hand as he hungrily went to work, his tongue tracing a nonsense shape across Edward’s bloated head before swallowing him past his lips.

“Jesus Christ, Bruce.” Edward groaned, his hands finding security amongst the many ropes which decorated Bruce’s chest as he resisted the urge to push himself further down his throat, “You’re killing me.”

Humming his approval at the comment, Bruce continued to swallow down another inch of Edward as he bobbed his head back and forth, building up a soft rhythm which he knew drove the other man wild. His own cock was almost painfully hard, but he focused on dragging Edward to where he needed to be; the soft grunts and groans of the genius spurring him on as he reduced his fantastic mind to its most base desires.

Above him, Edward was in raptures as the wet warmth of Bruce’s mouth sent shivers of pure arousal through his spine, making his toes curl against the floor as his fingers held a deathly grip of the bondage which he had secured Bruce within. His moaning was quick to dissolve into a high-pitched keen as Bruce pulled away from his cock long enough to lick a filthy line down his entire length before once again accepting him into his mouth.

It was too much and, as Bruce swallowed him further than before, his nose almost brushing against his patch of red pubic hair, Edward unleashed a guttural grunt as his grip pulled Bruce’s torso towards him. His cock buried deep within Bruce’s throat, he felt it jerk messily as his orgasm hit, and his release pumped its way down the accepting throat as Bruce swallowed it down without trouble.

Allowing Bruce’s throat to milk him for every drop, Edward shook his head violently to remove a small piece of red hair which had fallen from his coiffed style to hang down before his eyes. As soon as he finished, he pulled his softening cock free of Bruce’s throat, allowing the other man easy time to breathe as he gathered himself.

Knees feeling a touch wobbly due to the force of his orgasm, Edward skilfully dropped to the floor with some grace as he moved in for a quick kiss; tasting his own release along with the wonderfully familiar taste of Bruce as he devoured the other man for a long moment.

“Excellent work, detective.” He muttered into Bruce’s ear as he pulled away from his lips, “Now, let me show you what happens when you let me win.”

Tracing his hand leisurely down Bruce’s chest, Edward followed the pattern of his rope work until it reached the patch of dark pubic hair which lay just above his goal. Slipping to the side, he paused to squeeze roughly at the covered flesh of Bruce’s inner thighs as he greatly admired his own taste in design.

Taking pity as a low growl from Bruce alerted him to his growing impatience, Edward moved his hand back to Bruce’s groin and cupped his testicles for a moment, admiring the way in which the gentle touch made Bruce strain against his bonds almost imperceptibly. Allowing his fingers to trail upwards slowly, they danced a soft line across the hard length before he secured his fist around it in a gentle grip.

Pumping at Bruce’s cock for a moment as he moved his hand in a slow rhythm, it was clear the effect that the small movements were having on the bound vigilante as he released a long groan while his upper body arced slightly; his panting breath making his chest rise and fall in a hypnotic fashion as Edward pleasured him.

“Riddle me th-”

“Not now, Eddie.” Bruce grunted, his hips bucking into Edward’s hand despite their severely restricted movement, “Please.”

Acquiescing to the soft demand, Edward shrugged with a wicked smirk as he brought his second hand into play, using the tips of his fingers to rub at the sensitive skin of Bruce’s cockhead as he immediately started to writhe in place. With both hands busy, one jerking and one focused on Bruce’s most sensitive spot, that left Edward with little more to do than simply observe how beautiful Bruce was under his mercy.

His prideful veneer was unshakeable, but the faintest hints of weakness could be observed by those who knew what to look for; the bitten lip, the way in which he was desperately attempting to control his breathing, his hesitation to buck freely into his hand demanding more than he was currently being given.

Oh yes, the signs were there.

And Edward was willing to reward them.

His hand moved quickly along Bruce’s length and, as he felt his cock twitch dangerously, Edward dipped his head forward and captured Bruce’s lips in a filthy kiss. The cock within his hand jerked once more and Edward felt the warm spatter of its release across his fist and forearm as he continued to run his fist along the length; his lips expertly swallowing down each of Bruce’s moans as he bucked frantically into his hand.

With both hands still stimulating Bruce’s cock, Edward was determined to draw every inch of pleasure from the man that he could. The light moans and grunts were music to his ears and it wasn’t until he felt Bruce attempt to pull away from the now-uncomfortable stimulation that he took pity and released him fully.

Edward brought his fist to his mouth and his pink tongue flicked out playfully to taste the familiarity of Bruce’s release. Bruce was still panting in place, his legs perfectly spread and his chest and cock exposed for any further torments which Edward wished to inflict on them. However, as he observed the sight of Bruce before him, held in position by his skilled rope work and looking thoroughly sated by his orgasm, he couldn’t deny the swell of pride which matched the lust that swept through him.

A truly stunning gift.

One which he and he alone had earned the right to unwrap.

Full fic also on AO3

[shlutnutt]

Obey.

never really wrote a michael langdon smut so here we go.

warnings: overstimulation, mommy kink, edging, pegging, slapping, sadism, handcuffing, dominant reader, submissive michael !

"Y/L/N, you're up next." called out the announcer, patting off some glitter off of his navy blue vest. "Remember, let your hands run free and smile, smile wide." he continued, annoying you immensely as you already had more than enough experience when it came up to the modeling industry.

Walking sassyly, shaking your hips more than usual you realize you set yourself up for a challenge as you gazed over to the crowd and well, the judges. Allowing your well fitted mermaid-style dress to move freely you hold onto the sprouted ends cautiously as you walked down the velvet steps, towards the judges. Aware of how fabulous you looked in that instant your confidence only grew more as you modeled the wine-colored dress going along with some crystal-clear heels.

"Up to you now, people! Round of applause for Y/N, and this beautiful wine laced mermaid-style gown dress, accompanied by a pair of Steve Madden Lipa clear heeled sandals and one of our most precious layered 4K gold necklaces!" the crowd shouted and cheered for you, feeling like the absolute star of the fashion show an unrecognizable man catches your eye.

His ethereal beauty had you staring gawkly, whilst he scrolled through his phone completely unaware, of your amusing gaze on him. He was wearing a black long-sleeved turtle neck along black dress pants and black dress shoes, his hair was magically curled and his eyes appeared to be a graceful green.

Despite the fact the man had caught your attention in between loud cheers, you felt oddly attracted to him. Not only his beauty attracted you, but his sensitve aura did also. "Y/N?" one of the three evil judges had questioned, reffering to your zoning out of the attention you were bringing onto the stage. Immediately responding, you notice the judges scribbling nonsense on their note pads, as you felt a glare on you coming from a familiar direction.

Turning your head completely to where you felt the energy coming from you catch yourself holding eye contact with the man, him now resting his hands in a waiting manner on his folded lap, following his every gesture it didn't take long for you to realize that the man was indeed, a submissive.

"Misses Green, up next!" yelled the announcer, his irritating voice soon generate your escaping. Walking down the dressing room hallway, you can't contain yourself from exploring the outfits a bit, hearing a soft "Hey.." come from behind you.

The voice shy and angelic, you turn around nervously thinking it was one of the eager makeup artists who'd love to rush people out of the hallways. But, you were wrong, insanely wrong. It was the beautiful man you spotted in the crowd, he only stood infront of you shlyly bringing his hand out for a handshake in which you accept in, almost immediately.

"Im Michael.. Michael Langdon." he introduced himself, giving you an adorable smile. Unable to leave him hanging you do the same. "Im Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N."

"Why'd you introduce yourself exactly the same way I did, Y/N?" fooled around Michael, giving your shoulder a slight push. "Because I can, problem?" you tease only to produce a needy facial expression to oppress on his angelic-like face, sending dominant chills down your spine.

"You want there to be a problem, dont you?" you continue to tease, now massaging your soft hands up and down his muscular chest, rubbing his clothed nipples along the way you accelerate his breathing, knowing all he wanted was for you to peg him and throw him against a desk as you slap his ass repeatedly until he begged for you to stop.

"T-touch me please, Y/N.." whimpered Michael against your touch, nervously looking around for unwanted witnesses. Domination taking full control over your body you look up at him with puppy eyes and order him to call you mommy.

"Mommy?.. I can call you mommy?" jumped Michael excitedly, in which it seemed like he wasn't really able to refer to anyone with that name. "Yes, baby." you reassure now pulling him into your changing room two doors to your left.

Watching Michael in visible panic as he sat down on your metal chair, made you giggle in thrill, knowing you were capable of doing whatever you pleased to the beauty infront of you. "Take off your pants for me, baby boy." you instruct following his every move as he hesitated a little to follow your commands.

"Obey." you pressure, him nodding now inconspicuously getting up to unbuckle his dress pants, pulling them down anxiously. "Good boy." you praised before taking off your dress surprisingly, for him to admire your beauty as much as you admired his, member creating a tent in his boxers, as he bit his lip vigorously, eyes not once leaving your unclothed breasts.

"M-mommy I- please.." panted Michael in between pathetic stutters attempting to ask for your consent for him to ravage your breasts. You clicked your tongue dodging his hand, which tried to swing over your hard nipples desperately.

"Bad boy, Michael. Good boys listen to mommy's instructions. Might need to punish you." you state, producing a murmured complain to fall out of his lips, his eyes not once leaving yours.

Picking up the thrown belt, you harshly adjust it onto Michaels' hands placing them behind the metal folding chair, the belt being replaced by a pair of handcuffs, of course. Not wasting anymore left giving time you rush to pull down his boxers, which were damp in precum. "Needy, hm?" you tease once again as you grip his dripping tip running two fingers around it, not breaking the intensive eye contact you held.

"Mommy please!" pleeded Langdon, with teary eyes, unable to keep his orgasm from releasing any longer. "You can cum when I tell you to, honey." you leaned in for a whisper, your right hand squeezing the leftover precum out of his tip while your left massaged his balls, getting closer and closer to his tightness. His tip now becoming slightly purple from overstimulation, you near your left hand right above his tightness, leaning in to moist it up. The man whimpered loudly to the feeling, soon nearly screaming to your index finger pushing pass his tiny hole swiftly.

"Can I-I C-Cum Mommy, please.. I'll do anything.." insisted Langdon, as you yet again refused, speeding up your fingering onto him as you pumped his shaft. He only cried, boosting your pleasure onto him producing his warm liquids to spit out to your breasts...

You slapped him across his right cheek, hard for his disobedience.

"Oh, what am I gonna do with you, Langdon."

i dont know if i should make a part II, we'll see how much people like this lolz

[foodieforthoughts]

Sand and Stars - Chapter Two

Series Summary: After the water pump being blown up, the insurgents in Baqubah are taking a hold of the food supply to the village. Camp Warhorse is in dire need of reinforcements. It has been eight months of submitting countless requests when the High Command commissions Sergeant Olivia Ross to take her group of men and women and help Captain Syverson and his team to restore a semblance of normalcy. But with the war raging, does it get two hearts closer too?

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC x OMC

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: 18+, Mentions of war, military technicalities, smut in future chapters

A/N: Hello peeps! I hope you are enjoying this series. Please comment and reblog if you like it. It’s always good to hear that your work it appreciated. And massive thanks to @thelastsock for being my beta, who is immensely talented and the sweetest person ever! ❤️

<Chapter One

Title: Chapter Two

As the golden rays of the sun peered from the horizon, the living quarters came to life. Olivia was the first to jump into the shower, with Sloan and Sierra joining in by occupying the other booth, sometime after.

They had the food truck retrieval on their agenda today. But before that, the ladies, and everyone else in their unit had to carry out their scheduled morning workout. 

Olivia walked to the gym downstairs feeling fresh after the much needed shower. Everyone had retreated to their quarters last night, matted with sand and sweat, only cleaning themselves with a wet towel owing to water scarcity in the camp. As she reached the open doorway to the gym, she instantly spotted Schmidt lifting weights with the other men. A boombox sat on a table on one corner, blasting rock music from its speakers.

“The level of testosterone in this place is maddening,” Sloan groaned from beside her.

Olivia whinced as the song played a displeasing high note of an electric guitar. The gruff laughter of the men, along with the loud music was not the first thing she wanted to wake up to. “How about we go to the roof instead?” Olivia suggested, shrugging her shoulders. 

Half an hour into their workout, Sloan groaned under the heat. She pulled her blond hair up in a bun and sat on the ledge of the rooftop. Olivia got a couple more of her crunches done, the back of her t-shirt sticking to her body with her sweat. Sierra was staying put in a plank, Olivia always admired how this woman, even after bearing two kids, had an excellent core strength.

“Look at these guys,” Sloan commented, looking down from the roof. “They so bulky and unkempt.”

Olivia sat up, crossing her legs and grabbing her bottle of water. “You checking out the SF guys?”

“Yeah. Yesterday one of them, BJ was he? Was staring at my ass as I walked past him.”

Sierra stood up from her plank position and walked up to where Sloan sat. She ran a hand through her brown bob and looked down at the men. “I don’t know, they look rough and tough. Like, come on, they aren’t exactly Abercrombie & Fitch, but some of them are easy on the eyes.”

“Syverson, you mean?” Sloan nudged her friend. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you let out that low whistle when he spoke.”

“You know I am weak for the southern twang. And has a buzz cut ever looked that sexy on anyone?”

Olivia rolled her eyes watching Sierra fan herself while Sloan shook her head in disbelief. Pushing herself off of the floor, Olivia stretched her arms above her head. “Tell that to your British husband.” She poked the tip of her empty bottle in Sierra’s belly.

“Come on, Sarge. Tell me you didn’t find the Captain sexy.” Sierra wiggled her eyebrows at Olivia, giving her shoulders a shake too.

“Maybe she’s missing Captain Coop,” It was now Sloan’s turn to wiggle her eyebrows suggestively. She jumped down from the ledge and grabbed her own bottle. “Tell us, Sarge. Is he good in bed?”

“I think he’s so vanilla. Syverson seems like hot chocolate. Yum.” Sierra content with her comment, laughed along with Sloan. With her arm perched on Sloan’s shoulder, Sierra waited for an answer from their Sergeant.

“Guys, we have important work to do today.” Olivia let out her braid, letting her sweaty hair dry. “Come on,” she tilted her head towards the broken door of the roof.

Both women rolled their eyes at her, not stretching the topic further. Although when they were walking away, Sierra added a cheeky “I bet Syverson is an ass-man,” making Olivia shake her head.

But now that she was alone, she allowed herself a moment to think. She wouldn’t lie to herself, she found Sy to be very appealing to the eyes. The command he had over his men was also palpable. He hadn’t addressed them in front of her, but even in a laid-back manner, they seemed to be respectful of him.

With a warmth creeping on her already flushed skin, Olivia's thoughts turned to how he had checked her out. He was trying to be discreet, but she had noticed how his gaze had washed over hers when she had stood in front of him in the office. But, she was no innocent maiden either. Like for instance, when he had been looking down towards the map, pointing out the routes and places to hit for the food truck, she had noticed a few details about him. They were subtle attributes like the bridge of his nose, how his lashes looked thicker than hers, how his scruffy beard concealed most of his face, making her fingers tickle with the urge to touch it.

Olivia let out a slow breath, turning to look beyond the compound. It was not the time, or the place to be thinking about the physical features of her captain. They were in the middle of a war and she was here for a particular mission. Besides, she wasn't sure they were on good terms right now.

Shouldn’t have lashed out at him about being checked out when I was doing the same to him.

Her eyes fell towards the Humvees getting prepped with ammo and men getting ready to head out. She was bunching up her damp hair, to tie it up in an army regulated 'bun' to avoid violation of the dress code, when she caught sight of the Captain.

Sy stood in a black t-shirt and cargo shorts, holding a cup in his hand. A green spray-painted German Shepherd stood near his feet, wagging it’s tail and tongue lolling out of it’s mouth. The more Olivia looked at Sy the more she leaned towards agreeing that Sierra was right. Buzz cut hair never looked so good on anyone she had ever met.

Olivia’s mouth fell open when Sy looked up towards the roof, directly at her. Her hands fell down to her sides as they both stared back at each other. She watched as a smirk appeared on his bearded face while he brought his cup up to his mouth. Even from this distance she could notice how after taking a sip he licked his lips, darting only the tip of his tongue out.

“Yo, Red!” The sudden call from Schmidt standing just below the one-story building, wearing his gear and black sunglasses covering his eyes, broke the semi-trance Olivia had going on with Syverson. “We need to roll out.”

She nodded at her comrade, throwing a last look at a smiling Sy, before heading down towards their room. This was unacceptable. Get your head in the game, Liv. She scolded herself, a frown forming on her face as she ran down the stairs.

It was almost sundown when the troops finally came back to Warhorse. Olivia let the chopper hover over the camp while the last of the Humvee travelling behind the tarp-covered truck, entered the compound. They had noticed a few cars driving up to the mountain while the on-ground crew had spoken to the truck driver. Olivia was aware that they weren’t supposed to fire until they were getting attacked, but her fingers had hovered over the trigger to their machine guns attached to the chopper as a precaution. 

Luckily for them, the cars had driven off without any sort of trouble. The rest of their route back had been mostly uneventful with one of their men singing “Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweepin' down the plain” making everyone laugh over the comms. Olivia, unlike her own no-nonsense superiors, usually let her unit members have fun from time to time. She believed to earn respect, it wasn't necessary to make them bend the knee to her.

As soon as the skids hit the dirt, her eyes seemed to lock onto Syverson. He stood near their main wing in the same clothes, patting on the backs of his men as they walked back to their building.

“That seemed easy,” Schmidt cracked his neck, shrugging his shoulders to loosen his muscles. She could also feel the stiffness in her neck from sitting in the chopper, tensed and worried about the ground force. “This will feel like a vacation, huh Red? Work only once a week.” He laughed, joining the other men as they jumped out of their vehicles.

She smiled at him, stopping to watch the SF men helping her guys to unload the contents of the food truck. She spotted a body walking towards her from the corner of her eyes. She chose to look on ahead, counting the number of crates being offloaded, without glancing to her side.

“You did good, Red.” Sy’s gruff voice sounded from beside her. The use of her nickname sent weird sparks down her spine. “You scared off everyone with your chopper blades.”

Olivia couldn’t help but let herself smile. She would like to believe she did scare off the insurgents. “Would that suffice for everyone?” She jutted her chin, indicating the cartons of food being placed on the ground.

Sy let out a heavy sigh. “Will have to. Can’t let the locals suffer because of us.”

“What if they don’t care about us helping them?”

“We still do it. That’s our job.” She looked to Sy after he spoke. He had his arms crossed over his chest and his lips pursed together as he observed his boys taking the cartons to storage. Her eyes lingered on his, the evening sun making them look like two limpid pools of blue. She was aware she was staring but in a deeply cliched moment, she couldn’t avert her eyes.

“Like what you see, Sergeant?” The smugness in his voice was unmistakable. She quickly looked away and down towards her shoes, vaguely noticing the sand stuck to the eyelets and the scuff marks on the toe caps. 

Even though her ears warmed up from being caught red-handed, she was quick in gathering her wits around the awkward moment. She looked up again without much consideration towards him and turned to walk away. But before she was out of his ear shot, she couldn't resist adding, “I’ve seen better.”

Sy’s laugh, loud and filled with spirits, made her bite her lip as she smiled and sauntered back to their designated wing. Two things she was glad about right now. One, about Schmidt being right, this definitely felt more like a vacation. And two, Syverson and her weren’t exactly butting heads.

Olivia refused to accept it, but it really warmed her heart and she looked forward to the coming days.

Chapter Three>

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[redhoodieone]

Hate You More Part 2

Hey!!! Here is Part 2! Hope you all like it because there WILL be a Part 3! And I didn’t actually plan that lol.

WARNINGS: Language. Masturbation. Sex Toy.

“Do you think she’ll really like it?”

Who is Jason talking about?

Is he talking about me? Is he actually trying to make up for what happened between us earlier? Is this his way of saying he’s sorry and that he doesn’t really hate me?

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. The thought of Jason doing something nice for me makes me suddenly nervous.

What if he smiles at me? What if he hugs me? What if there’s a moment between us?

Just the thought of Jason being nice to me and the possibility of “anything” happening between us sends me into a panic state. I find myself running back up the stairs and slamming my bedroom door shut and locking myself in.

What should I do to prepare myself when I see Jason?

Hiding out in my bathroom that’s privately connected to my bedroom, I stare at my reflection in the elegant massive mirror and begin to list what I should do.

Brush my teeth? I’d definitely need my breath freshly mint just in case we talk very close.

I hastily grab my tooth brush and apply a significant amount of toothpaste just to fresh up my mouth. After the appropriate time of scrubbing my mouth clean, I rinse and spit out the excess fluids and stare back into the mirror.

Touch up my makeup? I could apply more black eyeliner and mascara to make my eyes pop.

After retouching my makeup, I decide to put on my favorite tinted lip balm that’ll make my lips kissable yet comfortable.

I realize then that I should change my outfit. I sigh happily after pulling on my red lady thong. Deciding to slip on my favorite black skinny jeans with the tears throughout my thighs and knees, and my “lucky” red and black sexy corset top. The reason why it’s lucky is because any guy who sees me in it always lets me have my way with him. I chuckle to myself as I put on my black high heel boots because I can only imagine what Jason’s face will look like.

I hope he’ll be shocked as hell. Picturing his mouth hanging open like a cartoon’s and seeing the lustful look in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine.

I then make sure my push up bra makes my cleavage look so fucking amazing, I straighten my long hair and leave it down because I definitely have a hair pulling kink and it’s something I take very seriously.

After the spritz of my go-to hookup perfume, Oud Wood by Tom Ford, I realize I’m at my 150% best and make my way down the stairs. The second I make it to the sliding door leading to the backyard, I freeze.

And then suddenly, I’m hit with a wave of shyness; a feeling I’ve never really felt before. But why the fuck would I feel nervous about around Jason? Because come on—I HATE the fucking guy!!!

The little voice in my mind throws it’s head back and laughs in a tormenting manner at me: because you have feelings for him, you jackass!

No. No, I don’t. I’m not stupid enough to believe that. I should just go outside and see if the fool even flirts with me, because if he does, I can just laugh at him and make him feel like shit.

With one deep breath, I open the sliding door and slip silently outside. The backyard is lit up in a blue hue from the pool and jacuzzi. It’s a beautiful setting, I won’t admit that out loud. I look around and realize Jason isn’t where he was before.

Where the fuck is he?

A wolf whistle behind me alerts me fast.

“Fuck...holy shit. Is today my birthday?”

Spinning around, I’m face to face with a smug looking Jason. I may be frozen in place but I can see that he doesn’t hide the fact that he’s checking me out; like a hunter sneaking up on its prey. Jason licks his bottom lip and winks at me.

“So, what brings you down here looking like...that?” Jason teases.

Why the hell is he making me so nervous?! Out of all the other horrible times we’ve had, I’ve never felt so anxious to tell him to fuck off, but here I am! Standing like an idiot who can’t open her mouth and speak like a normal person!

I find myself pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. Fuck my life. “I...I saw your peace offering. I-I figured if you want to try to play nice that maybe I...I could too.”

There. I said it. Now that wasn’t so hard, right?

Jason stares down at me in surprise. His green eyes so wide and maddening that I find it difficult as hell to breathe. Slowly inhaling some air, I smile at him.

“I saw you got pizza. You also set out my favorite drink. You did all that, right?” I ask, pointing back at the mansion.

“I-uh...I did but-”

“Jaybird?”

We both whip around and see Isabel standing behind him. Isabel Ardila, one of Jason’s many one night stands. My eyes trail down from her curly blonde hair down to her skimpy purple dress with her huge tits practically falling out.

She pouts her pink full lips and flirts at him with her pretty blue eyes.

“Isabel...what-what are you doing here?” Jason stammers out. He instantly looks stunned as if he really wasn’t expecting her to come over.

“It’s a slow boring night. I thought we could hit up one of your dad’s nightclubs and have some fun,” Isabel says, and approaches us. She has a few inches above me, and looks down at me with a smirk. “Look at you all dressed up so sexy tonight, and for Jason...”

I frown and look between Jason and her.

“He is your brother, you know?”

Isabel cringes and grabs Jason’s arm tightly. “Please tell me nothing is going on between you and your sister. That is sooo disgusting!”

I look to Jason and plead with him through our eye contact to say something. Say anything to her! I know Isabel’s right, and that Jason is my brother but he’s also my stepbrother. I also want him to admit that I’m not the only one who is flirting between us...if that’s what we’re even calling it.

I can’t be the only one who has feelings right now. Jason must have them, too.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Of course I don’t have feelings for her! Y/N, you’re my fucking sister, and I think it’s gross as fuck that you’re trying to fuck me. I mean, God damn! We’re family!” Jason taunts. He acts repulsed and pretends to puke in front of me.

Isabel giggles and the two of them laugh their asses off at me. Don’t get me wrong. There is a questionable amount of pain in my chest at what Jason said, but my inner bitch is clawing her way out of my head and I may or may not be responsible for whatever happens right now.

“That’s a bit rich coming from you, Jason. As of this morning, you’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m not in your family. So, if we’re not family, then we’re nothing to each other,” I say with a bitchy grin.

Jason and Isabel aren’t laughing anymore. As a matter of fact, they’re completely shocked at me.

“Oh, and for the record Isabel, there’s absolutely NOTHING going on between Jason and me. I know he’s my brother. I’m not even denying that. But as for him,” I say, gesturing over to Jason, who is staring me down hard. “He doesn’t see me a sister. If anything, he might want to fuck me. He’s completely obsessed with making me hear him fuck other girls. His behavior is disgusting because he’s supposed to be my brother! What he’s trying to do to me is borderline illegal!”

Isabel jerks her head over to Jason. “What is she talking about, Jason?!”

“Go on, Jay. Tell her. Tell her how you always stare at me, tease me, and how you’re always talking about sex with me!” I urge him angrily.

Jason’s eyes darken and for a second, I’m kinda scared of him. He clenches his jaw. “I rather get castrated by the Joker, than ever fuck you, princess.”

It’s like everything around me freezes. My smile shifts into a frown and my confidence is taken away fast like a toy from an adult. Isabel scoffs and shakes her head at me. My cheeks burn with humiliation and I just know I won’t hear the end of this from either of them, especially Jason.

I don’t know whether I’m more embarrassed of the fact that Jason claims he rather get castrated from the Joker, the psychotic clown villain in Gotham than have sex me, or if the thought of having sex with me in general is just so...unbearable.

I didn’t think I was so unfuckable until now.

“That’s fine with me. I rather fuck Dick than you, because he’s Bruce’s favorite son and he’s more of a man than you’ll ever be,” I spit out before turning to run back into the mansion.

——————————————————————————

I slam my bedroom door again for the second time today, but I don’t care. Rage is fucking pumping through my blood and I need a fucking release before I lose control.

Ripping off my clothes until I’m down to my lacy bra and thong, I climb up my big bed and reach into my nightstand to get my dildo and lube out. The thick, veiny replica of a man’s penis is what I’ll have to take out my frustrations on.

I throw myself down; my head hitting the pillow and my hair fanned out around me in a sexy manner as if I’m ready to get my brains fucked out. Popping open the lube, I squeeze a good amount in my hand to smooth it over my dildo. Tossing the lube somewhere on my bed, I pull my thong to the side to reveal my bare pussy.

My fingertips rub up and down my folds. I’m so wet that I know I can slip a finger or two in without any resistance.

“I fucking hate him so much,” I mutter under my breath.

Jason is literally the only guy who could piss me off and make me want to fuck him into submission.

Maybe he could even fuck me until I’m down on my knees for him.

Closing my eyes, I start to push my dildo into me. My walls squeeze around the toy tightly as I gasp at how good it feels to be full.

“Fuck...” I choke out in overwhelming pleasure.

“Fuck princess...”

My eyes shoot open and I’m completely horrified to discover Jason Fucking Todd is standing in MY bedroom, with his mouth hanging open in shock and with wide eyes, and his Fucking hand rubbing against his prominent bulge.

“Jason...what are you doing in my room?” I struggle to say, as I continue to push and pull my dildo in and out of my pussy fast. I just can’t stop. I can’t find it in me to stop when Jason is in my room watching me.

He quickly closes my bedroom door with his foot and makes his way towards my bed to stand directly in front of me. I use my other hand to caress my tits that I so badly want to free from my bra.

“I came to tell you I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Y/N,” Jason begins but trails off when he watches intently when I pull out the dildo and he can see all my slick coated on the sex toy. He licks his bottom lip and bites it. “You’re right though. I don’t see you as a sister or a part of this family because the way I feel for you isn’t the way a brother should feel. I-I never meant to hurt your feelings. I just...I tried so hard to not to fucking fall for you but I did and I can’t stop.”

I look up and notice Jason’s eyes are wet. Despite his usual cocky behavior and sexual advances, he was standing here before me and he appears to regret everything.

I sit up and lean back on my elbows. I drop the dildo in between my open thighs and I force myself to look up at Jason. I expected to see him staring at my obvious insanely wet pussy but his beautiful emerald green eyes were locked on my eyes.

“I really thought you hated me,” I whisper, afraid to hear what Jason says that might hurt me again.

“Oh sweetheart, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. The only person I hate is myself, and that is something I’ve been doing for most of my fucking life,” Jason admits. He tries to smile but it falls when he sees I’m not.

Jason crawls onto my bed and stops as soon as he’s in front of my legs. He’s immediately nervous; his shaky hands run up my knees and stops until he reaches my closed thighs. He keeps his eyes on me.

“Listen to me, Y/N. You’re right. I’m a fucking asshole. I’m always a dick to you and that isn’t right. I’m sorry for everything I’ve said and done to you, and I know sorry won’t even make up for all the hurt I’ve caused you. Just...please,” he whispers and reaches for my hands. He holds them tightly. “Please give me a chance to show you how much you really mean to me. One chance. Please?”

I know our fight is both our faults, and if one chance can fix this, I’m game.

“Okay, you get one chance Jay,” I say and with an evil smirk that I can’t help, I open my thighs and I pat my pussy. “You want a chance? Make me cum. With your fingers. With your mouth. If you can make me cum so hard, you can do whatever you want to my body.”

Jason’s eyes darken with lust. He licks his lips and he gives me his usual shit eating grin. “Oh princess, you are aware of my oral fixation for pussies don’t you? I’m going to make you cum so hard that you’ll be begging to be mine!”

[lady-o-ren]

Hunger of My Heart

//PROLOGUE//  //PART ONE//

A/N:The new chapter for this fic is uploaded on ao3 but its not showing up on the main page. I have no idea why. But you can read it HERE for easier reading.

PART TWO

On that nameless street, in what was once an empty, rundown lot, appeared gates draped in ivy from nowhere - elsewhere, before Jamie's very eyes.

"Must be magic," Claire had grinned, and tugged him past the gates that opened without a touch, gracing him in silvery birdsong as they stepped into a world from centuries long forgotten.

Jamie spoke not a word, too dumbstruck and tongue-tied, as they walked down a dirt cobbled path that cut through a grove of root twisted trees. Ahead in a clearing, he saw a large cottage fit for the Queen's Hamlet in Versailles, patched with ivy and honeysuckle and puffing smoke from its chimney. But they veered off to traverse further into the forest where the trees grew more and more monstrous, towering high to meet the clouds, chase the birds, while their red and green leaves and bright budding flowers scattered below on the sweetest perfumed breeze.

Claire called this wild wood her garden.

But how could this all be?

"We're still in London - though not exactly," she explained to his awed upturned face. "Best not to dwell on it though we're almost where we need to be - Watch your step, lad!"

At her warning, Jamie stumbled and hopped over a bushel of pink muhly grass groping at his legs, only to step on a skittering, nameless thing hidden beneath the bracken that hissed at his heavy-footed clumsiness.

"I'm beginning to feel more and more like Hansel being led to the slaughter," he said, blue eyes darting around his surroundings more carefully though still bright with curiosity.

Claire caught the laughter on her lips between her teeth.

"I'm a healer not a witch. You'll see none of that cauldron nonsense from me," she said, just when a patch of roving sunlight ignited her eyes like a candle wick's flame and gilded her curls like a cloud of burnished gold, hypnotising Jamie like a lovesick moth.

"Besides, my house of sweets is back that way."

"So ye say," Jamie murmured warmly, ears heating pink, when she threaded her arm through his, bringing him close like a dear old friend as they continued on their trek, while he felt something entirely more intimate, steadily growing, enveloping him whole like a tidal wave.

He grasped for even breath. She wondered if he had swallowed a bug. "But where exactly are we headed then in the middle of the forest primeval?"

She patted his arm. "A place where the fresh air along the way will do you some good. You look like a man born to the sun and earth. Am I wrong?"

"No," said Jamie, wondering if she could indeed see the generations of highland farmers and Laird's stamped on his face, flowing proudly in his blood. "Are ye ever?"

The question was left to drift like dustlight in the air when they come upon a grand old yew tree. It's craggy bruised trunk was knobbed with gem colored toadstools and had been hollowed out to fit a rounded bench carved deep into its heartwood, glinting eerily with faint sparks of light.

"I did say I would take you to a bench."

"One made for the faerie folk?" His mouth twitched and she laughed in quickly growing fondness and wrapped her fingers around his pulling the red man inside.

Together, they sat in the arched hollow with their knees bent towards one another, making the old wood seat creak and groan in protest, while above them fireflies dotted the inner wood, twinkling like stars, the source of the eerie glow, Jamie noted, breathing in the quiet serenity.

Then the small hand in his, warm as the blood that pumped life to his veins, gave a gentle squeeze.

"Now start from the beginning, Jamie, if you can. . ."

So he told her. Told her everything. Of the chorus that had once been a lullaby as a child, that grew maddening as he got older. Had him living a heartbeat from squalor as he followed it's command, it's every damnable whim, until finally he found Her, the only one to silence it.

Then with cheeks blooming a shade of deep adoration, he said with halting breath,

"I think it was you calling for me all these years somehow. . . .Like magic," he finished with a crooked awkward smile, one that compelled Claire to raise a tender hand to cradle the dearness of the lads face and thumb the lines of haunted nights that bruised the skin around his eyes.

"I told you before that I'm a healer. People come to me when they can no longer bear their emotions. Their grief and pain, their love. . ." She uttered the last with little reverence, entirely of indifference. "And I do my best to tend to them, to ease their torment. But it's them that come to me, I never beckon anyone to do so yet you. . ."

She trailed off, losing herself in contemplation even though the answer was staring back at her in the most beautiful shade of blue she had ever seen.

If only she were capable to see, to know, the face of his heart.

"Maybe we're meant to do some good for one another," said Claire, making Jamie's heart leap higher than the boughs of the forest trees.

"I am in dire need of friends, at least that's what my Elias tells me."

Then it plummeted like a corbie, an arrow pierced through his breast.

"Who is he, may I ask?" He choked, eyes rooted to the leafy ground.

"My apprentice, but he's dear to me as blood. You should meet him, Jamie. "

"Now?"

"Of course," she grinned, and brushed a wandering ginger lock back behind his ear. " Fate has brought me a gift and I plan to spoil him with whatever Elias has roasting."

She then softly bopped his nose, a tad too long, and ushered him out from the blissful shadows of the old yew tree.

They walked back to the dirt cobbled path beneath the dwindling evening light sparked now with dancing fireflies, and Claire twined her arm once more with his, as if she had done so for a thousand lifetimes.

At least it felt that way to Jamie and may she do so always, he prayed.

For he could feel this woman engraved in the blood and marrow of his bones, kindle something fragile and marvelous and everlasting in his soul.

It wasn't just destiny that brought him to her.

Jamie knew it was love.

[t-o-m-hollands]

Locksley Hall - Part II

Summery: Tom doesn’t know quite how it happens, but one moment he’s working as the gardener at Locksley hall, and the next he’s run of to marry the lords daughter, a girl he hates. Set in England, 1920.

Word count: 5500 (sorry...)

Pairing: Tom x OC

A/N: Again, this is heavily inspired by the first part in Atonement – Ian McEwan, but the plot is different.  

Music wise: For Madeleine’s parts I listened to Old Money – Lana del Rey and for Tom’s part I listened to NFWMB and Work Song - Hozier.

R E A D   P A R T    O N E   H E R E

Gideon’s cottage - 1920.

Tom is awakened by yet another expensive automobile driving up the road and past his cottage. His brain works slowly, still half asleep, one foot in a dreamland where he’s chasing someone in a labyrinth made out of peonies. Slowly he wakes his body by moving his toes, and then his fingers too, before stretching his arms over his head, letting out a tired groan. His body feels warm and his limbs lethargic and slow, as they do after a particularly long nap. For a long while he lays there, eyes half-closed, staring at the dust aimlessly drifting in the sunlight.  

Another car passes by outside.  

Downstairs he can hear Mr. Higgins doing the washing up. If he concentrates, he can hear the guests from the ball chatting and laughing up at the manor. If he concentrates further still, he can hear the blood pumping through his system, steady and slow.  

The whole world feels slow. Like the air in the room stands still, despite the wide-open window. It is mid-July, and the heat feels oppressively persistent, there is no escaping it. Only now, as the clock is nearing eight in the evening, does the world seem to cool. All morning he’d worked in the garden, preparing the grounds for the ball under the watchful eyes of old Dowager Locksley. When she was finally satisfied that there wasn’t a dead leaf, not a single weed, nor an unwatered rose in sight she’d sent him off, ready to attack the kitchen staff instead. He’d walked down to Locksley bay. There he’d rid himself of his sweaty, earth-stained rags and he’d swam until his body felt cool again before returning to the cottage for a long and well-deserved nap.  

He stretches again and groans. He desperately wants a smoke, but his pack of cigarettes along with his lighter is all across the room, thrown on the cluttered desk along with countless of books and an old typewriter that the library had given away. The letter M was irreversibly lost and therefor it had been deemed useless. He’d taken it with great gratitude, glad to have something he’d normally wouldn’t be able to afford. It had amused him, typing long passages without using any word containing the 13th letter of the alphabet. In a strange way it thrilled him, that some words in the dictionary simply became forbidden for him. Suddenly out of reach.Words like magic, monarch, melancholy, magnetic, maddening, maiden,  

Madeleine.  

Finally he gets up, walks across the room and sits down by his desk. He lights a cigarette. Staring out the window he watches as yet another car makes it up the driveway to join the ball.  

The sky outside is lilac, and the first evening breeze makes its way through the grass like a wave in the ocean and he prays it’ll make its way through the window to cool his head. He inhales deeply, but the sinking feeling he’s had in his stomach all day stays where it is.  

And half of his mind is still in his dream. 

Had he been better at drawing he’d drawn her hands, soft and small compared to his calloused ones. Maybe if he’d draw them, he’d be able to get the picture of them out of his mind. Those hands, gracefully holding a cigarette as her eyes, dark and deep and framed with long lashes, observed him with great disapproval as they’d discussed poetry. She always looked disapproving when she was observing him. She’d worn a evening gown in the finest silk, and his ratty jacket over her shoulders, her normally perfectly pinned hair falling down in cascades over her shoulders. It had felt strangely intimate, seeing her like that, so undone and wearing his jacket

Swearing, he puts out the cigarette. He’d been distracted, not noticing how it’d burnt down to the butt, burning his fingers. He doesn’t light a new one, but leans back in his chair, runs his hand through his hair and tries to calm his breathing.  

It hadn’t always been this way.  

Once upon a time, they’d been friends, hard as it was to believe now. They’d defied gravity when they’d climbed the great oak three behind the cottage. He’d taught her how to swim in Locksley bay, held her up in the water and told her to fill her lungs with air in order to float. She’d taught him how to read. His teacher in the village school had called him slow, so she’d sneaked out books from the library, and with patience of a saint she’d taught him how to recognise each symbol until he could make sense of the words.  

She’d been his first kiss.  

It had only been a small peck on his lips, lasting not more than a second, but it counted. He counted it. 

She’d find him in the greenhouse, crying over the trashing he’d gotten from Mr. Higgins for attacking Francis Locksley. Silently she’d sat down beside him, her long dark hair in a braid and dressed in her Sunday best, having just been to church. She’d taken his bruised knuckles in her hands and she’d kissed them, before kissing each tear streaked cheek, and then ever so briefly, she’d pressed her lips against his. He had felt like a knight, being awarded by the queen for his brave service. He hadn’t known what to make of it, but she’d held his hand in hers and he’d leaned his head against her shoulder and for the longest time they’d stayed that way until he’d forgotten all about stinging bruises and tears.

He lights another cigarette and another car drives up the driveway.  

The sky is now a dark blue, the last evening light turning the leaves in the trees golden. Earlier that day Mr. Higgins had put out lights all along the drive way to the manor house and they now lit up the summer evening. 

Against the evening sky he sees a bird shoot up, rising to the sky.

Once when they’d been children they’d found an injured songbird in the woods. He’d watched as Madeleine with the gentlest of fingers picked the bird up. He’d watched as she held the wounded creature in her hands, as she observed its broken wing. She’d looked at him then, her dark eyes sad, and she’d told him they’d have to help it heal.  

So they’d gone to Gideon’s cottage and he’d sneaked her in, while Mr. Higgins worked in the garden. She’d placed the songbird on his bed. While she was kneeling in front of it, as if in prayer, he’d taken out bandages. He’d watched as she’d gently wrapped it around the bird’s wing. She’d looked at him, and told him to sing. She’d said that it would make the bird feel safer, that it was what she used to do to baby Beatrix when she was crying.  So, he’d sung a song to the poor harmed thing, while Madeleine patted its head.  

For seven days the nursed it, making sure the wing healed as it should. It had been their secret. She’d snuck out of classes with her governess and he’d faked being ill until Mr. Higgins let him be home from school and they’d sat in his room, and he’d sing for them. They kept the bird in a box, on the lid of which he’d put air holes in, and she’d placed her cardigan in the bottom of it, making sure it was soft to sleep on. They’d feed t worms Tom had dug up in the garden and Tom would sing to it every night.

In the end the songbird had healed, and they’d released it in the woods again and watched as it flew away, awkwardly at first, nearly toppling towards the ground before it found its strength again, slowly rising until it was only a speck of black in the distance. He’d held her hand, biting down hard on his bottom lip to keep himself from weeping, while she had cried openly, pressing his hand in hers. They’d hid in the labyrinth until late that evening, far away from nanny and Mr. Higgins. He’d sung her songs until she’d stopped weeping.  

Tom stands up, puts out his cigarette and stretches out one last time. Then he walks out, leaving his memories in the smoke-filled room, heading towards the pub. 

*

The Wild Boar, the village pub

“You ever think about headin’ out of here?” he asks his friend.  

They’re in the village pub, The Wild Boar, throwing back beers. A Victorian pub with murky green wallpaper, beer-stained velvet booths and worn mahogany wooden floors. The atmosphere is always good and someone is always singing. Harrison, who most days works in the bar but is enjoying a rare day off, calls it his home.  

“What, go somewhere else to drink, you mean?”

“No, no, I mean like leave Milchwood, go to London or something, head somewhere else you know”.

Harrison gives him a puzzled look and Tom can tell he doesn’t feel the same. They’re both comfortably leaned back on each side of the booth. Around them the other patrons are talking loudly, discussing this and that, enjoying their Saturday night and the unusually warm summer weather.  

“No” Harrison answers in the end “no, I mean, it’s home, yeah?” He drowns the last drops of his pint, waving to the bar for another before looking back at Tom, “you feel like leaving?”

“Dunno, maybe, sometimes” he says. “’is just, some days I want nothing more than to head out to Milchwood station and take literally any train away from here.” He takes a long gulp of his own pint.

“Well, why don’t you?”

It takes some time for Tom to answer. He keeps his eyes on the dirty window in front of him. Far away he can just make out the silhouette of Locksley Hall. They are all up there now, the lords and the ladies, having a ball.

“’s just hard to leave you know.” He takes another gulp of beer as the bartender places another pint in front of Harrison. “Spent most of my time in France wishing I was back here and now” he waves his hand in front of him, as if this would explain the strange sinking feeling he’d been walking around with lately. “Now it feels like it all stands still, like I’m just walking around, waiting for something to happen.”  

Harrison gives him a worried look “but what’s keeping you here then?”  

“Dunno, it’s just, it’s hard to leave”.

He doesn’t have ties to this place the way Harrison does. He has no other family part from Mr. Higgins. Mrs. Higgins had taken him in when he’d been nothing more than a baby, but she’d passed away before his fifth birthday. He hardly remembered her. Mr. Higgins had kept him on, and despite his stern ways he’d been kind to the boy, and taught him all he knew of gardening and thus ensuring that Tom would have a future secured. But Tom knows that Mr. Higgins wouldn’t mind if he took off, that maybe he’d even expect it.  

“Yes, we saw ‘em, didn’t we Billy!” Owain Murphy’s loud voice booms from the booth beside theirs.  

“Yeah” Billy concurs, nodding his head and staring down into his glass.  

“Yeah, we saw ‘em, all ‘em gently folks up at Locksley Hall”.

“Yeah” Billy nods again.

“They say the ‘eir is being married off!” Owain bellows.

Billy is too busy drinking now to agree.

“She looked a vision, didn’t she Billy?”

Something twists uncomfortably in Tom’s stomach. He drowns his beer and nods to his friend. It’s time to leave. The night air is cool and he takes deep breaths of it as he steps outside. They walk and chat for a while, before hitting a fork in the road, saying their goodbyes and promising to meet up for another pint the next day they then part ways, Harrison walking to the house he shares with his parents and little sister, and Tom steers his feet to Gideon’s Cottage and Locksley Hall.  

He can see the lights from the building, hear the piano music even from outside. Across the lawn people are taking some fresh air, surely they’ve been dancing for hours. They’re all dressed in their finest clothes, heavily bejeweled. Tom closes in on Gideon’s cottage, and he can’t wait to throw himself on the bed and sleep for a few hours. Tomorrow is Sunday, the day for resting, and he’s free as a bird.  

A flash of white moves in the corner of his eye and he looks over.  

By the enormous rhododendron bush stands Lady Madeleine Locksley, wearing a silky white gown that somehow plays tricks with his brain; for when he first lays his eyes on her, it looks to him as if she’s wearing nothing more than moonlight, the diamonds from her tiara glistening in the night.

For a moment it feels as if he’s actually gotten the breath knocked out of him. Owain Murphy had been right, she did look a vision.  

A man joins her, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s tall and blond and even from this distance he can tell she’s bored with the conversation, but she politely goes along with it.  

Tom walks into the cottage, closing the door behind him.

*

The cliffs of Locksley bay

The Atlantic Ocean spread out in front of her, wide and far and impossibly blue. She’s standing on the cliffs beside Locksley bay. If she were to turn her head to her left, she would see the docks with the boats lined up one after the other, each more impressive than the last. It is summer, and high season for travellers. Would she instead turn her head to her right she would see the bay, and the people playing in the water, lying in the beach and soaking up sun. Enjoying themselves and cooling themselves off in the unusually warm weather.  

But she keeps her eyes far ahead.  

Out on the water she can see sailing boats slowly drifting over the landscape. It’s not a good day for sailing, not even up here on the cliffs can you feel anything more than a gentle breeze. The heavens are almost violently blue, not a cloud as far as the eye can see. In the sky seagulls fly, screeching as they go and she inhales deep breaths of the ocean air. She feels so far removed from them all, the people on the boats and the ones on the beach. 

Her lungs feels tighter, there’s a scream in them that needs to get out.

She takes a step closer to the edge.  

A pair of arms grabs hold of her and pulls her in against something hard. “What are you doing?!” A familiar voice inquires angrily in her ear.

He pulls them both a few steps back, away from the edge, before turning her around to face him. Anger clear on his face. His chest, still close to hers, is heaving.  

“What are you doing?” She asks, not quite managing to match his level of animosity. His hands are still holding a firm grip around her arms. She pulls herself free and takes a step back, trying to create some distance between them, though she swears she still feels the heat radiating of his body, his scent, which she’d briefly inhaled, surrounding her.

“Were you going to jump?” he asks in a serious tone, his warm brown eyes intensely searching her face for something.  

“No” she says, voice firm, and he relaxes somewhat, though he still looks angry. That frown, seemingly permanent on his face whenever she’s around. “But it wouldn’t have killed me if I had, people jump from here all the time”

“Sure, but not young heiresses”.  He sounds almost sarcastic and she can feel her blood nearly boiling. Her diamond heart beats faster in her chest.

“Have you?”

He observers her for a heartbeat, like he’s searching for something in her face. The long days spent working in the garden has given him a nice tan. His brown hair looks windswept and he’s not wearing his usual uniform of muddy trousers, suspenders and a dirty white shirt. Instead his clothes look washed and clean; he’s wearing his Sunday best, linen suit trousers, clean white shirt and suspenders that don’t look quite as worn. His arms, well developed from all the hard work, fills out his shirt in a way that makes something inside her flutter, and she hastily looks away.  

“Yes” he answers in the end. “Yeah, me and Harrison jumped it last year”.  

“Yet you’re so against me doing it?”

He’s silent for a few seconds, and she can tell he’s weighing each word carefully. “I just, I didn’t take you for a thrill-chaser, is all. It surprised me”.

Now he’s avoiding looking at her.  

“So, how was the ball?” he asks eventually, having to fill the stale, strange silence.

“Long” she answers and sighs. “Awfully long, and dreary”.  

“Poor girl” he teases, but she wonders if there isn’t real malice underneath. “And how is your betrothed?”  

She narrows her eyes at him. “James is not my betrothed” she says, trying to keep her voice calm. He’s got his hands in his pockets, an arrogant look on his face and she wants to scream at him.

“Huh” he says, “I heard you were being married off”.  

“Well, I’m not. Not yet”

“So, what’s he’s like, this not betrothed man of yours”

He sounds so nonchalant, and it’s making her skin itch with irritation. “He’s nice, actually”.

He scoffs, “nice?”

“Yes! He’s very nice, unlike certain people! And he gave me a book of Wordsworth poetry”

Tom snorts “you hate Wordsworth, you always have”  

“How do you know?” She asks, annoyance clear in her tone.  

“You told me” he answers, and he sound so certain of himself.  

“Yes, when we were children, I might have changed my mind since!”  

“You haven’t though”.

“Funny isn’t? All the things you remember?” She tries to sound superior, but she’s not sure she accomplishes anything. He’s still standing there, hands in pockets and a devil-may-care smug smile on his face.  

“You find him dull”.

“How do you know if I find James dull or not! You’ve never even met him! Maybe I find it fascinating to talk about dog breeding and horses!” you scream at him. 

But he just smiles wider. “I was talking about Wordsworth. You find Wordsworth dull. But clearly I hit a nerve”.  

She’s so angry she’s speechless. From the village they hear the church bells ring.  

“We should go” he says and nods to the path back.  

“No”

“Lady Madeleine, -”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Well, it is your title”.

“Oh, like you give a toss about people’s titles! I’m Madeleine and we used to be friends, or don’t you remember that part?”

“Alright Madeleine” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a particularly petulant child, “we better head home now, they’ll want you back for dinner”.

“I don’t want to” she says stubbornly. “You head back. I’m staying here to watch the sunset”.

“They’ll just sent me out to look for you if you´re not there for dinner, let’s go”.

She takes a deep breath and a step backwards, towards the edge. “You know, I’m so tired of everyone telling me what to do all the time, were to be and what to think, and how to feel”. She takes another step backwards and the smugness on his face is soon replaced with worry.  

“I’m so tired of people telling me that I can’t do things when they have no issue doing it themselves”. She takes yet another step back and as he reaches out for her, realising what she’s about to do. She turns around and runs toward the edge.  

“No Maddie, don’t!”  

But she’s already taken the leap.

*

Locksley Hall

The next morning she wakes early, though it feels as though she’s hardly slept at all. Memories plays behind her closed eyelids from the day before. The cliffs, Tom’s arms grabbing hold of her, the argument, the jump, the fall, the splash, the sinking, the searching for the surface. And then, a hand grabbing hold of her, pulling her towards the light.  

He’d jumped in after her, had thrown himself of the cliff in his Sunday best without any hesitation.  

He’d always been the better swimmer, he was the one who had taught her after all, and luckily it hadn’t taken him long to find her beneath the surface.  

They’d swam ashore, dragged themselves up in their heavy, wet clothes watched by the bathers who looked at them, some agog and some in chock. (“Is that not lady Madeleine?”)

He’d been furious, practically steaming with anger. It hadn’t mattered how many times she’d tried to talk to him, tried to apologise, he’d only ignored her and kept steering his feet forward to Locksley Hall. Only when she tried to thank him for having saved her did he respond.

“Don’t” he had uttered, his resentment almost palpable.

They had been walking through a path in the woods, sun shining through the canopy, painting the whole world a bright green colour, and she stumbled after him, keeping her eyes on his wet white shirt, his suspenders holding of his soaked beige trousers.  

She too had grown angry then. Had tried to argue with him. Tried telling him that he was overreacting, that no one had forced him to jump in as well, that it would have been better if he hadn’t, that they both knew he wished he hadn’t and suddenly -

She’d been pressed up against a tree, his face just centimetres from hers, both their chest heaving with conflicting emotions, his arms on either side of her face, in the most beautiful trap.

Madeleine untangles herself from her many sheets and blankets and walks to the window to pull apart the curtains and let in the morning light. The grounds outside are empty, no one is yet awake. It must be very early indeed, for even Gideon’s cottage seem peacefully quiet.

She opens the leaded window and drags in deep breaths of fresh air, but her lungs still feel too tight. She fishes up a package of cigarettes from one of the pockets of her silk robe and with trembling hands she lights one. Everything is set now. She is to marry Sir James Hatfield, and settle down at Hatfield house in all its ugly Tudor glory. It didn’t matter if she smoked in the house anymore, she wouldn’t stay here much longer.  

With picture perfect certainty she imagines married life with Sr Hatfield. Endless conversation of the breeding of horses, hunting and dogs. Her life spent doing things the way they have always been done at Hatfield house, keeping up with the traditions of a family she has no interest in. And then, several blonde little children would come along. All boys, all taking after their father in looks and manners.  

Her life would surround around them. She would be Lady Madeline Locksley no more, but instead, Lady Hatfield. She would have to leave Locksley hall, leave Benie,  

leave Tom.

The thought startles her, and she gets up from the window ledge, starts walking aimlessly round the cluttered room.  

Using her empty tea cup from which she’d drank her evening tea the night before as an ashtray she puts out her cigarette, and with hands trembling more than ever she lights another, before throwing herself back on the bed.  

Tom.  

Who surely hated her now. The achingly long moments when he’d trapped her against the tree plays again in her head. She’d seen so many emotions on his face, his chest heaving from all of it. First there had been anger, then confusion and then, unless she wasn’t entirely mistaken; because god knows her experience was non-existing in the area,  

- lust.  

But he’d torn himself free, and marched off, without looking back. And she’d stood leaned against the three, feeling like a planet spinning out of its axis, struggling to remember how to breath again.

When she walked into the great hall she’d been met with her mother, Benie and granny. Upon seeing her, they’d all gone completely silent, the only sound to be heard the water dripping off of her, landing on the newly swapped floors.  

“Oh Madeleine!” her mother had eventually burst out “what’s happened?”

She had told them she’d been at the cliffs, and that Tom had come along, but then her granny had interrupted her. “Are you telling me” she’d asked in her superior voice “that you were ‘hanging about’ the cliffs with the junior gardener?” The disapproval in her voice was evident.  

“No” Madeleine had answered, trying to keep her voice steady and calm. “I’m saying that I was there, and he was there, he annoyed me, and then I jumped off the cliff”.

Dead silence again.  

“You, you did what?”

“I jumped off a cliff. And then he saved me. And now, I really must change, so would you please excuse me”. The wave of emotion that washed over her had surprised her, but suddenly she’d been holding back tears.

““Madeleine, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but you need to go and get changed, right now. Sir Hatfield is invited for dinner, and you will behave yourself and you will conduct yourself accordingly” her mother had told her in her sternest voice. So, Madeleine had nodded and walked up the stairs, choking back on tears, her wet clothes leaving a trace of water in her wake.  

And she’d changed and Alice had done up her hair and she’d joined the others for dinner. And she’d sat beside James at dinner and listened to him lecturing her on various dog breeds and she’d smiled appropriately. Then, after dinner, he’d taken her aside. Professed in a dry tone his admiration for her and asked for her hand in marriage. He’d told her that he’d already settled things with her father. She had smiled and complied and tried to press down the feeling of nausea in her stomach, tried to ignore to scream growing ever larger in her lungs.  

She stands up again, puts out her cigarette, takes one of the many dresses scattering the floor and slides it on. Then she’s out the door. With silent steps, as to not wake anyone, she makes her way down the corridor, and then down the grand staircase and the foyer and out the door. The pressure in her lungs grow tenser and tenser and her feet move faster and faster, until her naked feet are sprinting over the grounds, the dewy grass cold under her soles. When she finally reaches the greenhouse, she’s sobbing.

This had always been her secret place. Not even Tom had known about how she’d used to come here when things became too much, when things would build and build inside of her until she had to let it out. Like it was a living, moving thing in her chest, begging her to set it free. Knowing that the old greenhouse was the only soundproof place in all of Locksley Hall it became her safe place to let it out, she’d always steer her feet here. When she’d been to boarding school, and then in Canada, she’d been forced to try letting the scream free under water, no other place felt safe enough, but it hadn’t felt the same.  

She slams the door shut behind her and then she lets it out. Nearly bending over from the force of it she shrieks, for as long and as loud as she can. Her eyes pressed shut and trembling hands in fists. When she finally stops it still seems to echo in her ears, and she feels exhausted. She’s breathing as if she’s just run for miles and miles. Slowly she stands up straight again, unclasping her fists. Opening her shut eyes.

Tom.  

Standing in front of her, looking shocked and horrified, hands and shirt muddy. He must have been in here for some early work before the heat gets too intense. 

They stand there, for a long time, just staring at one another, her screams still echoing in her mind. And then, like she’s a wild animal, he slowly walks towards her. Taking her hand in his, an arm around her waist, he gently guides them towards the pond, on the side of which he helps her sit down. Bending down in front of her, so that he’s on his knees, he looks up at her, a strand of brown hair falling down, framing his face.

It’s so tender, the way he looks at her. So unbearably tender. His earth-stained hands clasped around hers, placed in her lap, calloused and warm.  

“What happened?” He asks, voice soft and low.

She doesn’t know when it started, too distracted by his gentleness perhaps, but she realises then that she’s crying, two tears falling from her cheek and landing on their hands.   

“I’m just being silly” she responds, but her voice sounds hoarse and dead even to her own ears.

“I doubt it, what’s wrong?”  

“I, I” she begins, her lungs feeling tight again “I have to marry.”

His kind eyes blink up at her, and for a moment she swears he holds on tighter to her hands.  

“But you don’t want to.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. “Why do you have to?” His thumbs stroke her trembling hands and it feel and it is the gentlest thing that’s ever happened to her.  

“There’s no male hair. So, if papa dies before I marry, we’ll lose everything”. Her voice is hoarse from screaming and she wonders if he finds her pathetic, but in his eyes she only finds sympathy, and maybe a fair share of pain.

“But you don’t have to marry Hatfield?”

She shakes her head, and more tears fall. “No, but he’s the best option. I can’t afford to wait”.  

Silence for a while as he observes you.

Then,  

“What if I’ll marry you?” his voice is steady, but his eyes are fixed their clasped hands.  

“What?”

“I’ll marry you” he states and looks up at her again. She stares at him in disbelief, for surely, he can’t mean it. He continues. “I know it’s not a good option, but the estate will be safe, and you won’t have to marry Hatfield, you won’t have to leave Locksley Hall.”

When she just keeps staring at him in silent disbelief his cheeks turn pink. “I know I haven’t got anything to offer; you know I don’t. But -”

“Alright”. Her answers comes without her thinking about it and it seems to catch him off guard. “But, are you sure?” she asks, worried that he doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.  

“Yes, Madeleine, I’m sure” he smiles, his hands continuing to gently stroke her hands.  

“But, but” she starts, feeling almost dizzy. “But why would you want to marry me?”

“What?”

“Why would you help me? It would change your life forever.” She keeps her voice serious, knows that it’s of utmost importance that he understands the importance of this.  

He seems struck silent and for a long while his brown eyes stare up at her in disbelief. “Well I, I mean I would, I” he starts, letting go of her hands and standing up, placing them his pockets instead. It is like he’s trying to look as nonchalant as he usually does.  

Turning slightly away from her, eyes fixed on the koi fish in the pond he then continues. “Well, I’d get to live in Locksley Hall, wouldn’t I? I’d be the lord of the manor. No more hard toil in the garden”.  

“So, mostly self-interest then?” She says, not knowing whether she feels more relieved or disappointed. More than anything she feels light headed.  

“Yeah” he agrees, eyes still fixed on the pond. “It’s self-interest".  

Silence spread between them. This is new territory that neither one knows how to tread.  

In the end she stands up and he turns to look at her again, something like worry in his expression. “We, well we’ll have to discuss this. If it’s to happen it needs to happen soon.”

“It is to happen” he says, firmly, but then his cheeks turn pink again. “As long as you want it to”.  

“Well then” she says, a small but genuine smile on her face. “It can’t happen here; Gretna Green is our only option. We have to come up with some excuse so we can leave for Scotland for a few days”.  

He nods, but he too looks more relaxed now. “I’ll think of something”.  

“So much to be fixed” she says, mostly to herself. “Wedding dress for example, though the wedding will be so small only something simple will do.”

“Could you” he begins, and he avoids her eyes again. “You could wear that dress you had on at the ball” he asks awkwardly, fidgeting slightly where he stands.  

“Oh, yes of course” she says, just as awkward. “If that’s what you want”. She smiles at him, and he smiles back. Its embarrassed, but it’s tender too.  

“Meet me at the fountain tonight?” he asks, and that strange fluttering sensation she’d felt when he’d pressed her against the tree makes another appearance. “To discuss how we’ll do this?”

She nods “yes, I’ll see you then. I better get back now, or Alice will notice I’ve left when she brings in breakfast.”  

She turns to leave, but changing her mind mid stride she turns back to him. When she reaches him she stands on the tips of her naked, now muddy, feet. She presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you” she whispers.  

***

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[mattzerella-sticks]

metamorphosis (ao3)

What if, when Jack was born, he stayed a baby?

A retelling of season 13, with a few key differences.

No planned schedule, will update when I finish chapters lol

Prologue - Mary I

THEN

           Mary stared out the cab window at hers and John’s home, at the bare branches of their tree reaching towards the sky and at their lawn mower abandoned underneath it, guts scattered about in disrepair. Her heart stirred, suddenly; Mary’s breath shortening as the vice around her chest tightened. She squeezed the handle, frozen in her seat and reticent to depart the safety of this yellowed rust bucket. Instinct, strangely, kicked in; Mary’s gut rumbled like some emergency siren, begging her to run to safety, run and never look back.

           “Hey, girlie,” a gruff voice startled Mary from her reverie, it belonging to the cabbie behind the wheel, “You leavin’ or what?” He tapped one cigarette-stained finger on the meter, fare ticking ever-upward.

           She chewed the gloss off her lips watching it ascend inch by inch, nearing an even twenty. It was an affordable sixteen dollars when they arrived. The cabbie cleared his throat again. Mary finally tore her eyes from the fare to meet his cloudy grey glare in the rearview mirror. He repeated his question. Mary didn’t have an answer for him, not yet.

           There was the obvious answer. Mary could dig inside her duffle, pay him, and leave without another word. But what kept her in his cab, kept the fare running higher and higher, was this selfish urge she fought against. The urge to tell him ‘no’, to keep driving, to not stop driving until Mary spent every dollar she won from hustling pool the night before.

           And she hated that. She hated him. Mary hated how she ditched a perfectly fine, albeit stolen, Oldsmobile at the edge of town for his cab that reeked of tobacco and stale booze. She absolutely loathed how he spent the entire drive lobbing innuendo her way even though every attempt was met with a polite smile and forced chuckle instead of the end point of her hidden boot-knife. She chafed at the thought of asking him for further help. Most of all, Mary despised how if she gave in, if she breathed life into her desires, this cabbie wouldn’t be any wiser to the huge decision she made. He wouldn’t judge her. He would not care. The burden of leaving, of making that choice, rested entirely on her.

           It felt humiliating.

           “Seriously, blondie, is it just air between those ears or –“?

           “I’m leaving.” She handed over what was owed, not bothering to wait for any change. She hurled herself out of the cab, slamming the door shut in her wake. Mary lingered on the sidewalk, white knuckling her duffle, while the cab drove off. The fumes, toxic and tantalizing, tickled her nose. She stayed firm, refusing to look behind her as it left. Mary knew that, in doing so, her resolve would crumble like Lot’s wife in the breeze.

            She was forged of hardier stuff than her.

           Mary began marching, each step bringing her closer to that other version of herself. Each step, and she shed another layer of who she was to become who she needed to be, what she chose. The guts of her being stripped bare like the lawnmower John left in their yard, a shell of what remained unlocking the door with the key in her pocket.

           There’s no fanfare announcing her return. Their house was silent save for the low hum of the television. Mary followed it, dropping her duffel at the foot of the stairs. She found John, alone, in the living room, asleep with stains on his shirt and a beer can in his hands. The corpses of three other cans were strewn about his feet, their lives given at some earlier time when the game on the screen actually held his interest. Mary grabbed the remote on his thigh, John snuffling slightly. He didn’t wake. He stayed sleeping even when Mary flicked the television off and didn’t stir when she collected the empty cans. Mary carried them into the kitchen, leaving them by the crowded sink, stacked high with dirty pans and plates.

           It was empty last she remembered, three days ago.

           “Dammit John…” Mary reached for the dish soap, pausing midway. Her hand hovered over it briefly. She dropped her hand to her side, skipping the chore for the moment. Mary exited the kitchen, another destination in mind.

           Urged onward by a sudden migraine, caught in its early stages where the pain was annoying but bearable, Mary climbed the stairs for her room. She saw it there, her bed visible because John left the door open. It looked deliciously inviting, Mary imagining the soft blankets wrapped around her shoulders, not John’s, not like they always were, as she sank into unconsciousness strewn across the entire mattress instead of the small sliver that John left for her whenever she finished cleaning their messes in the twilight hours of night. Within seconds, she wouldn’t have to imagine what that might feel like.

           That imagination would be her reality.

           On her journey to the bed, however, Mary heard a tiny sniffle; then a second, followed by a large hitch of breath – all coming from Dean’s room.

           She hesitated, glancing between her room and her son’s. Mary stared at the former, soul yearning for nothing more than rest. But when Dean sobbed, an awful keen that pushed the other option out of her mind, she knew where to go. She sighed, shuffling in the direction of her crying son.

           Mary slowly opened his door, a sliver of light breaking through the depressing darkness blanketing his space. The lights were off, and his curtains were drawn shut. She reached inside to flick on the overhead.

           Dean startled immediately, hiccupping in fright. Wide, bloodshot green eyes met her worn hazel, silent conversation interrupted only when Dean rubbed his fists at them to brush away any lingering tears. “Mommy,” he whimpered, the word bruising her already purpled rib cage, “you’re home…?”

           She smiled, fully entering the room. “Yes, baby, I’m home.” Mary leaned all her weight on the doorknob, shifting on her feet. “Why are you in here all alone?”

           Dean shrugged, looking down at the doll in his hands. He swung its arm back and forth, dragging the silence out. Mary waited. She waited, even though her eyelids began to droop. She waited despite the tiny voice whispering in her ear about how sweet it’d be to lay down. She waited, stayed until he was ready. Dean’s lib wobbled, silently mouthing his thoughts. Soon enough, he set the doll aside. “Dad tol’ me to.”

           “He did?”

           “Said I was bein’… loud.” Another sob racked his small frame, Dean shuddering to contain it. “I coul’… I tried not bein’ loud. But I – but I didn’t see the twisty-thingy twist, and when he open-ed it I, I was there, and it hurt. It hurt!” Tears poured freely from him like the tap water at the motel Mary camped in last night, thick and gross and disgusting. She couldn’t stand tears, or criers.

           Though Mary hid her disgust well, covering an instinctive grimace with a heavy cough. She had to.

           “Oh baby,” Mary cooed, lowering herself onto the floor. Her knees protested, the cut from a stray claw on her left calf flaring from the strain. She swallowed her pain, then beckoned Dean close so she could do the same for him. Dean crawled into her arms, wrapping sticky fingers around her neck while burying his face into her chest. “How long have you been up here?.”

           “A while,” Dean muttered, drooling and crying onto her shirt. She felt his warm breath dampening her shirt, the fabric clinging to her skin. “He said if I were good that he’d lemme out but he… I’ve been quiet s’long, an’ he never came.” Dean gasps, burrowing deeper into her. “Di’ he forget about me?”

           Mary clung tighter to her son, remembering how she found her husband. John, soundly sleeping in his chair, drunk, while their son suffered in his room. She trusted him for one weekend. He promised her it would be fine, that everything would be fine. This wasn’t the first time her faith in him had been misplaced. The disappointment never lessened. Will she learn this time? “I’m sorry, Dean,” she whispered, “I’m so sorry.” Mary pressed a kiss to his crown. “I wish I could have brought you with me.”

           She hadn’t meant that.

           Where she went, Dean couldn’t follow. It was a promise she made after the first hunt, after falling into bad habits again. These trips were hers. Outlets for her aggression. Measured doses to feed her addiction. Reminders of why she left that life, why she chose a picket fence that kept those shadows at bay, why she never wanted her new family to know what she really was.

           Dean shined too brightly for that dark hell. Monsters and ghosts and demons would shatter this innocent child into irreparable pieces, ruining him like it’s ruined every Campbell before him, like it ruined her.

           It was depressing to accept, but denial became maddening. Pretending drained Mary of her strength. Repeating lies, staring down her reflection with mantras that one day she’d not judge herself like an impostor, or an outsider, or a fraud, ate at her soul. Motherhood was not what she imagined. Motherhood did not come naturally to her. Motherhood proved to not be the escape she hoped.

           On those days where she felt low, like nothing she did was right, hunting reminded Mary that she was not just a mother.

           But that’s who Mary was to the little boy in her arms. That’s all she was.

           “Mommy,” Dean whimpered, calmer now that he spilled his tears into Mary’s embrace, “Mommy… can I haf’ food now?”

           “What?”

           “I’m hungry,” he whined, tugging on her hair, “Please! I hadn’t eated since Daddy left for his juice!”

           Mary looked down at Dean, her little boy. She watched his eyes shyly poke through his lashes and past oily, sandy bangs; how his fists curled tighter around her golden waves. Her own hands twitched with the dreadful urge to shove Dean off of her and tell him to make his own food. A scream echoed in her throat, trapped, that she was more than that. She was more than Dean’s mother. She was more than John’s wife. A fighter’s blood pumped through her veins and a soldier’s head sat atop her shoulders and it was a killer’s hands this clueless boy asked to prepare his food.

           While that storm whipped inside of Mary, she hardly let it show. Mary fought against her initial reaction, instead scooping Dean into a loose hold. “I’m kind of hungry, too,” she lied, “dinner sounds wonderful.”

           There was more to Mary than motherhood, except those other pieces of herself grew smaller as motherhood, in its frenzy, consumed them bit by bit. It was determined to be the dominant aspect in her life, the sole expression of Mary’s identity. Motherhood was a monster impossible to slay. Worse, it was a monster of her own making, in her own visage. It was much of her as all the others, conceived at the exact moment Dean was.

           But Mary wondered, if this beast that she became, that worked to destroy everything that came before it, had always lived inside of her, biding its time. That there was never an option of being anything else besides a mother.

           Running seemed pointless, then. Hunting delayed the inevitable.

           She stood in front of the stove, a pot of tomato soup simmering over a low flame. Mary watched the fire burn, hotter and hotter as she spun the dial further towards the highest setting. The tomato soup boiled, bubbles bursting and spewing tomato gunk everywhere. Some landed on her hand. Soup scalded her skin, though could not compare to the inferno tearing apart her being.

           Fire burnt away all that ugly, the darkness Mary was mired in since birth. Blistering heat will make her into the perfect mother. Motherhood was a monster of its own design, unslayable, that demanded suffering and sacrifice.

           I chose this, she mouthed to herself, I did.

NOW

           Mary stumbled out of the memory-dream, slowly at first, then thrown into consciousness by a calloused hand. She yawned, stretching, agitating the knot in her lower back. “Yeah?”

           Bobby offered her his gun, gaze darting to the smoldering embers of their campfire. It didn’t add light, or warmth, but it seemed appropriate when Mary broached the topic of stopping for the night. “Your turn.”

           She nodded, hauling herself off the fallen log she slept against. Bobby dropped in response, taking her station. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to head out. Sweet dreams.”

           “Unlikely.” He twisted, rolling away from her and onto his side. Mary shouldered the rifle, looking from him to the others around the fire.

           Crowley, in his dirty, wrecked suit, sullenly poked the kindling with a knife Bobby must have given him. He hadn’t moved since Mary closed her eyes; however, he appeared more disgruntled than she remembered. An agonized expression carved into his soot-covered face. She might hazard a guess on what caused it, attention flitting from him to the last member of their party.

           Lucifer studied Mary from his own perch. She didn’t know how long he watched, her skin prickling with that feeling of a thousand stares tracking her every move since she crossed over into this other dimension, the apocalypse world. He raised his hands, shackled by a pair of handcuffs that Mary smuggled in with her. He winked, then blows her a kiss.

           Mary spun on her heel, advancing to an outcropping perfect for scouting and a good distance away from the devil’s cold, calculating glare. Her grip on Bobby’s gun tightened. She thought of her boys, of Dean and Sam. How gutted they must be because of her decision, of her sacrifice.

           If only they knew she had no choice. Motherhood demanded it, craved such violence. It was the only aspect of that beast she understood.

[ilyamatic]

A Spoonful of Sugar

I am back? With more smut? Who am I?

CW: (Magical) Toys, a collar, edging, lingerie, and excessive use of italics

It started with an innocuous statement.

“I would like to see it,” Andrico had said.

Julian removed one of his boots and began his struggle with the other. He had just gotten home from rehearsal at the theater. It was a good night, they had made great progress, but he was tired. He could see himself sleeping for at least six hours for once.

“It won’t be too long now,” he said. “The director thinks we only need another month or so before we can premiere the play-”

“Do I have to wait?”

“To see the play?”

“No, to see you in heels.”

He had said it casually, oh so casually. Julian suddenly found his mouth a little drier than before.

“Well, uh, well I don’t have any here-”

“I can get a pair.”

Julian felt the heat creeping up his neck. “Oh, oh okay.”

The conversation had ended there and they went to bed. Andrico did not bring it back up in the morning or the next day or even the day after that. It soon seemed that seeing Julian in heels was a passing fancy, something pleasant but not worth pursuing. Julian eventually forgot it was even mentioned in time. His days were soon consumed with work, rehearsals, and the eventual play.

So his surprise was genuine when after a fortnight he walked into the bedroom to find his ‘gifts’. There was not only a pair of black pumps, but a matching lingerie set, stockings, and a collar with a tag that read ‘Drico’s baby’ laying on their bed. What was slightly less surprising was the butt plug and the note resting to the side. Andrico would not be Andrico if he didn’t add a little game. Julian walked over to the bed and picked up the note, scanning it quickly. It seemed he was to do nothing but get ready, do some things around the house, and look pretty in his new gifts. He hummed thoughtfully. That seemed simple enough. Had Andrico lost his touch?

______________________________________________________________

It had taken all but an hour for Julian to realize that no, Andrico had not lost his touch. He clawed at the counter, desperately trying to find purchase lest his buckling knees send him crashing to the ground. In hindsight he should have seen this coming. There was no way that it would be simple. Doing some things around the house? Easy. Doing some things around the house with a magical vibrating butt plug inside you that went off at random? Not so much. It was a pleasant surprise at first, a little thrill to break apart the monotony of washing dishes. But as time progressed the bursts got longer and more intense, all leading up to this. Julian panted against the marble surface. He wasn’t going to make it. He was going to die in precum soaked skivvies. No one would come to his funeral if they found out.

“Juju,” Andrico’s concern-tinged voice rang from the living room. “Are you alright?”

Thankfully, thankfully the vibrations stopped and Julian groaned in both loss and relief.

“Never better.”

“What color are we?”

Julian did not hesitate. “Green.”

His voice sounded rough to his own ears but he doubted his lover minded. Andrico preferred to see and hear all the ways that he wrecked him. Collecting himself, Julian made to stand straight. His knees were no longer in danger of giving out but he could little to stop the tremors in his hands as he picked up the other man’s drink. Ah, well. Here’s to hoping he didn’t spill it.

The walk back to the living room was blissfully uneventful. It seemed that Andrico was done tormenting him for the time being. He still made sure to move as quickly as his heels would allow to the armchair lest Andrico change his mind.

“Thank you mon amour,” his lover said as he took the glass.

Andrico took a long sip of his drink, humming satisfaction at the taste. He then turned his eyes back to him. Julian knew that he must of looked a sight. He was flushed down to his chest and his panties left nothing to the imagination. An indulgent look crossed his lover’s face. He leaned back languidly and patted his lap.

“You look tired, love. Come take a seat.”

Julian all but jumped at the chance. Finally. Desire buzzed along his skin as he straddled Andrico and tried to close the space between them. The little cloth that covered him was constricting and Andrico was far too covered. A large, warm hand caressed his thigh.

“Are you having fun Juju?” Andrico asked as he leaned in and peppered kisses along his jaw.

“Please,” Julian begged. “I need more.”

Andrico raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He felt Andrico’s hand move and the vibrating began again. Julian nearly shouted as he gripped the other man’s shoulders tightly.

“Please,” he begged again. “Please, please, please.”

He could feel his lover smile against his throat. The vibrations intensified and Julian swore he saw stars. His hips began to move at a frantic pace searching for something, anything to ease the desire threatening to consume him.

Andrico seemed nonplussed, kissing and touching him like they had all the time in the world. It was maddening.

“Papi please,”

Andrico’s fingers danced across his chest, tweaking a nipple as he went along. “Hm?”

“I need more Papi,” Julian practically sobbed.

The vibrations intensified further.

“Ack, no! I want more of you!”

“More of me,” Andrico laughed. “But darling I am right here.”

Strong hands rested on his waist as he leaned back and canted his hips fruitlessly.

“No, no I want- I want you to fuck me. Please fuck me!” he pleaded. “I want your hard cock inside me. I need it Papi. Please give it to me! Please, please, please-”

As soon as they started the vibrations stopped. Julian leaned back forward but did not stop the movement of his hips. Andrico’s hand teased the edge of his underwear.

“You beg so pretty mon amour. Do you truly want me so badly?”

His love’s hand moved underneath his underwear, teasing the skin of his hip. He keened.

“Yes! Gods above yes!”

He felt as the wandering hand moved further back to his ass. It squeezed a butt cheek firmly before Julian felt fingers find the end of the plug. Slowly, ever so slowly it was pulled out of him and leaving him acutely aware of the loss. He did not feel empty for long however, as one of the fingers teased his hole. Andrico murmured his approval against his throat.

Julian did not see when Andrico slicked up his fingers but it mattered little as the first sank into him easily. Groaning, he buried his face into the other man’s neck. He felt the impatient buzzing of lust coiling in his gut but did not complain. While he felt that the butt plug had stretched him enough, Andrico would always ensure that he was fully prepared.

The second finger slid in. Julian’s breathing became heavier as they began to scissor.

“Please,” he panted. “Please.”

“You’re almost there my love,” Andrico murmured soothingly. “Just one more okay?”

Julian whined but let Andrico work him open. It felt like an eternity of scissoring and the occasional mind numbing sensation of his prostate being prodded. He almost wept at feeling the stretch of a third finger. Fingers stopped their work at the sound of an almost pained whimper.

“What color are we?”

“Please fuck me Papi. Please.”

“Fuck me isn’t a color,” he teased. "Now, what color are we?"

Julian swallowed thickly. “Green.”

“That’s my good boy.”

Andrico’s fingers began to pump once more. Desperate for friction, his hips began to roll in time. He began to think that maybe, maybe he would reach satisfaction. He was worked up enough to do it. But it was not before long he was left empty again and this time he did not stop a few tears from escaping. Full lips kissed them away, whispering ‘patience’ against his skin. The hand that was resting on his waist snaked between them and slid into Andrico's trousers while the other fumbled behind him, searching. Andrico made a triumphant sound as he pulled out the mystery bottle of oil and poured a generous portion in his hand.

It was not long before his lover pushed his panties to the side as far as he could and pressed the slick head of his cock against him. 

“Patience,” Andrico repeated.

They both moaned as the head breached him. Julian wanted nothing more than to sink down but a firm hand on his hip kept him steady. And so slowly they went, millimeter by millimeter, inch by inch, with him feeling every ridge and bump of a piercing. After an eon Julian was fully seated, each neuron firing in pleasure.  His eyes fluttered shut. 

“Julian, are you o-”

“I am not going to last,” he interrupted.

A thumb rubbed soothing circles on his hip. “That’s okay mon amour. You can come. Take your pleasure.”

Julian needed no further prompting.

He began slow, making sure he adjusted properly to his lover’s length. He reveled in the feeling of Andrico's hands on him and the sweet nothings pressed against his skin. But soon it was not enough. He wanted, no he needed more. Soon his hips began to move urgently, chasing the pleasure so graciously offered. Andrico gripped him tightly. The room was quickly filled with the sounds of moaned out praises and skin slapping skin.

"You are so good," Andrico said breathlessly as he palmed Julian's trapped cock. "You are so good for me."

Julian choked out a sob as he rode him harder.

"You are so good and you are so pretty," Andrico continued. "What did I do to deserve you hm? You are the loveliest man I have every seen.. You wondrous thing."

He felt tears prick his eyes once more. Only Andrico, this mischievous yet darling man would get romantic while getting ridden like a bull. He stifled another sob.

Kisses were pressed against his sternum as a skillful hand worked him through the cloth. The other hand found his jaw and angled his head down, bringing him face to face with his love.

"There you are," Andrico whispered.

Julian found it hard to look at him. Andrico's face was full of naked adoration. Brown eyes drank him in like he hung the moon and crafted the stars. Like he was the only thing that mattered in the entire world. He looked at him like he loved him.

It was all too much.

"Andrico!"

His voice bounced off the walls as he screamed in release. Everything coalesced into a single point and nothing else mattered but them in that moment. He was drowning, he was flying. Julian hardly registered Andrico following him over the edge shortly after, the sudden rush of warmth his only indication. 

There was a buzzing in Julian's limbs. He slumped bonelessly against a heaving chest, mind blissfully blank. He rested against his lover's chest for time everlasting, listening as the other man steadied his breathing. Andrico chuckled.

"Well, that was something."

Julian nodded in agreement, or at least he thought he did. A kiss was placed lovingly on his forehead. 

"Do you think you can walk?"

If Julian had the presence of mind he would have snorted. He wasn't quite sure if his soul had returned from whatever plane it had run off to.

Andrico, bless him, figured that his love had yet to return to reality and asked no further questions. He simply wrapped his arms around his thighs. 

"Well, luckily I brought the aftercare kit downstairs. Up we go-"

Andrico only stumbled slightly as he lifted them both off the chair.

"Shit Juju, I've been feeding you well, haven't I? You've gotten heavy! Really glad I brought everything downstairs now…"

Julian hummed as he was carried and gently placed on the sofa. Andrico started to shuffle next to him, taking stock of the things he brought with him. 

"Ah shit," he muttered. "Mon amour, I forgot the water.  Do you mind if I-"

A snore startled him out of his monologue. After a quick evaluation of the man on the sofa, Andrico snorted.

"Yeah, you're fine."

[zeldasayer]

Loving Din XII - Is There Life On Mars?

Pairing: Din Djarin/The Mandalorian x Reader

Summary: THE RETURN OF DOMESTIC DADDY DIN AND THE DREAMIEST LIFE IN THE GALAXY - You and Din fall in love all over again, even through news that is going to change your lives, again.

Warnings: Smut. Fluff. Fluffy smut. So much love. One depiction of vomiting. (Not descriptive)

Masterlist

gif by @djjarindin

Your eyes open to a cooing Baby laying on his back on Din’s chest. His favourite stuffed toy frog spinning in the air above him as his father silently reads his datapad.

You remember when you got Baby the stuffed animal last Christmas. You were back at the cottage and your boy tried to eat it.

You looked up at Din in defeat, “What did we think was going to happen?”

That seems so long ago as you lay here in your fluffy white comforter as the breeze off the ocean seeps in through the open window. You watch Din’s eyes move across the screen from behind thick black framed glasses and he looks so beautiful. Hair that has grown long, greying at the sides and curls around the neck. Skin as exquisite as ever, that you could watch it reflect the sunshine for eternity. He’s stubbly from a shave a few days ago and your heart flutters as he absentmindedly brings his hand up to scratch the top of Baby’s head while he reads. Being back together has made him more delicate than you could ever think possible, he pads around the bungalow in only dark grey linen pants that hang from his hips to combat the heat and he speaks so softly. Words of love and desire, humour and excitement. Everything’s changed again and this time, for the better. The heat is no longer suffocating but welcomed during long days at the beach. Watching Baby make little cyclones in the sand and cackling when he sees yours & Din’s jaw drop. The ocean is no longer a reminder of your immortality but where you toss Baby back and forth in the evening. Where he starts to float in mid air, much to your dismay.

“Baby!” You laugh as he floats down to you, and once in your arms you submerge yourselves in the water, “We’re not playing the same game!”

Din swims to you and wraps his arms around you both. This is how life on the island was supposed to be, and though you went through hell to get here, you’re glad you finally are.

The days are what they once were - trips to the market with Baby in the morning. Your sweet green bean on your hip as you pick out his favourite foods. Napping with him in the hammock Din made between the palm trees. Evenings walking through the sleepy beach town, Din’s hand clasped in yours and Baby up on his shoulders. Staring up at him like you’re seeing his beauty again for the very first time.

Din and you have fallen in love all over again and the love is as vast and relentless as the ocean. His patience and understanding. The smell of his skin and softness of his hair. You can’t keep your hands off of him. You crave the heat of his skin under your finger tips. The voice that groans in your ear and the way your name drips from his tongue. You wake with him early to spend the morning with him standing between your legs as you sit up on the counter, sharing a bowl of tropical fruit. Giggling by the early light of the morning, dragging your finger down the galaxy’s most incredible nose and continuing down over his lips. Along his chin and his neck, through the middle of his chest all the way down to the top of his dark linen pants.

You look up at him as you both hold your breath, listening for any sound that could be Baby already awake.

When you’re sure there’s nothing, Din’s mouth is on yours in an instant, pushing your breakfast out of the way and pressing himself flush against you. His tongue slips between your lips as you fumble with the drawstring of his pants, his mouth tastes sweet like berries, like heaven.

You break away from his mouth to kiss down his chest as you finally loosen his pants and free him from the soft confinement. You take him thick and hot and half hard in your hand as he lifts your face back up to kiss him.

He grows, as you take him in both hands, pulling away once more to wet him with your spit for a more fluid stroke and Din groans low in his throat when he pushes your T-shirt up your waist to find you wearing nothing underneath.

“Oh.” You gasp when his thumb brushes your already glistening clit.

“Are you wet for me already?” He whispers.

“Yeah...” You sigh, nodding.

“Wet enough?” He asks, sinking two fingers inside of you and your head falls back.

He pumps them slowly as you put your hands out behind you to keep yourself propped up, and Din uses his other hand to stroke himself.

“So wet. So perfect.” He mumbles.

“Din...” You whine and he knows.

“Okay, my moon.” He says, pulling you to the edge of the counter. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

You take his wonderful length from his grasp run it along your opening, ready for him.

“Perfect.” He mumbles again, his lips against your forehead. “Put it in, I want to feel you.”

You guide him inside you and with Din’s final push your moan together.

Your love pushes your shirt up to reveal your breasts, nipples budding under the cool morning air and he takes one in his mouth as he starts to thrust long and deep inside you.

“My dads will be here soon.” You yawn, rolling into Din’s side to scratch Baby’s head, too. “Maybe we can catch lobsters for dinner, Madden loves that.”

“He just watches from the beach with you!” Din laughs.

“I love watching you catch dinner.” You say, wrapping both your arms around his one.

Din puts the datapad down and removes his glasses before kissing the top of your head, “Okay, my moon. I’ll catch lobsters.”

You lift your face to grin up at him and you kiss.

Later that evening you bring a dish of asparagus sautéed in garlic and butter out to the dining table on the beach. You smile at Baby, bouncing around in your father’s lap as he reaches for Madden sitting across from him. Your father, so dashing in his black wayfarers asks him what he wants.

“He wants me, darling.” Madden chimes and your father passes Baby to his husband across the table.

The sun is setting and you all glow a beautiful gold as the crystal ocean crashes into shore and you know this is how it was always supposed to be. Indulging in delectable food after days of laying lazily in the shade under the palm trees. Watching your father and Din catch a feast and laughing at their own feeble abilities as Madden reads to Baby his trashy love novels as he pops grapes in his mouth. Baby cooing as if he understands.

Din comes up behind you with another plate of steaming red lobsters.

“Ugh, absolutely beautiful, Din!” Your father exclaims, looking hungrily as Din sets them down. You grin up at your love until the smell hits you and you suddenly feel light headed.

Odd.

You sink down into your seat next to your step father and try to force the feeling to pass as you take a few asparagus spears on a small plate for Baby.

“I’ll de-shell a claw for him.” Din nods, taking a crustacean from the small pile.

You watch Din crack into it and when the juices run from the shell, your stomach lurches. Instantly your mouth fills with saliva that tastes of pennies and your mouth starts to ache but you clench it anyway.

Din pulls the meat from the red claw and your stomach lurches again. Slapping your hand across your mouth, you can’t help but make a gagging noise in the back of your throat.

Din blinks up. “Are you alright?”

You shake your head, as your fathers look at you in concern, and Baby curiously up from below.

You gag once more and you know it’s going to happen. Rising quickly from your chair, you dash quickly across the sand, up the back porch and into the house. Through the living room, kicking sand onto the hardwood but you don’t stop running until you collapse at the toilet in the washroom, ripping the seat up and almost immediately emptying your stomach into the bowl.

When it’s over, your groan and it echoes against the porcelain. Vomiting never gets any easier. Flushing the toilet you stand to meet your haggard reflection in the mirror. Once sun-kissed and lovely now looks pale and sickly. You splash water on your face and rinse out your mouth before kneeling to find the Gravol under the sink. It hasn’t been used in years and you knock over boxes of tampons and bandaids looking for it.

Tampons.

Tampons.

You snap back up sitting on your knees and your heart races. You look around the bathroom but you don’t know what you’re looking for.

When was the last time you had your period?

Your breath quickens as you search your brain for anything, but you can’t remember. It’s been at least two months. You’ve gotten lost in the return of your dreamy little life you didn’t even notice.

“How did this happen?” You whisper to yourself in confusion.

“Oh, Din.” You sigh, as the breeze from the open window rustles his hair. The light of the bright moonlight is all that illuminates the room as Din holds you in his lap on his knees in the middle of the bed. He clutches you, fingers digging into your flesh as he pants into your shoulder. You run your hand up his back and into his hair as he thrusts inside of you, long and hard and slow.

With your chest pressed against his, he kisses up your neck, whispering in between, “You feel so good, my perfect girl.”

You whimper, moving your hips in synch with his thrusts as he kisses up your jaw and across your cheek to your parted lips.

His breath hitches against your mouth, “I-I’m going to cum.”

“Oh, Din. Yes, cum for me.”

“Do you want me to pull out?”

“No, my love. Please don’t.”

Din’s head falls back into your shoulder and you cradle his heavenly face, circling your hips just like he adores as his thrusts become quicker, but erratic.

His nose digs into the space where your shoulder meets your neck and you know he’s close.

“Cum inside me, my love.” You whisper, running your fingers through his flowing hair, admiring how his skin reflects the moon.

“My good girl.” He chokes as you feel him spill inside of you and you both groan in unison.

“Right.” You say out loud. Looking around the bathroom again as every other instance of telling Din not to escape from your snug depth plays over in your mind.

On the balcony in the afternoon during Baby’s nap. On the kitchen counter in the milky morning. Over the sink after lunch. On top of your lover in the sand in the evening underneath the sky so pink and orange. Sinking into his lap in exhaustion after putting Baby to sleep. Slipping into Din’s shower to surprise him. Up against the palm trees. In the Razor Crest. Every night before you went to sleep.

Okay. Okay. Getting back together proved to be even more intimate than ever before. But you never went back on birth control.

“Shit.” You whisper through your teeth, diving back under the sink for the pregnancy test you bought back when you and Din were toying with the idea of trying.

“Y/N?” Din asks softly from the other side of the door. “Are you okay?”

You see the test in the very back and snatch it up before standing.

“Din, can you come in.” Your voice shakes.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, opening the door.

Your mouth twists to the side and you lift the pink box slightly.

“What?” He asks before looking down. “No.”

Din looks back up. “What? No. What?”

“I’m late.” You say. “Months late.”

Din closes the door and stumbles back but he’s trying not to grin. “I still want this. If you do.”

You raise your eyebrows, “I do.”

“Okay.” Din says quietly before clearing his throat. “Do you want me to wait outside, or-”

“No, please stay.”

“Okay.” He says quietly again.

It’s like you’re talking and moving in slow motion as Din paces back and forth. You open the box, carefully, like it will have some input on the reading and when you’ve completed it, you place it on the counter and wash your hands.

Din has slid down the door and is sitting on the floor. You join him and he takes your hand, fluttering his fingers along your palm.

“Do you remember when we met?” He asks lowly.

“Of course.” You answer as reality starts to set in and your heart races but you know, just being next to Din, that it’s going to be okay.

“When I first saw you, singing to yourself in the stream by the cottage - I knew. I thought I had gone crazy because I knew instantly I was going to love you forever, that one day we’d be sitting here like this.”

You push the hair out of the side of Din’s face as your sight goes blurry with tears and your voice is almost inaudible, “So did I.”

Your love looks down, grinning.

“Do you remember when I met Baby?” You sniff.

Din laughs, “He wouldn’t even look at you.”

“He was so shy.” You laugh, “He sat in your lap with his back to me.”

Din snorts and looks at you with glassy eyes as you both keep laughing.

“Do you remember when you moved in?”

You wipe your eyes, coughing through a laugh. “He knocked my easel over!”

“You should’ve seen him years ago, we’d be in the cockpit and he’d touch everything. I would tell him to stop and he’d look me dead in the eye and flip a switch or press a button.”

You both laugh through anxious tears as you take each other’s hand.

“And to think.” Din says, shaking his head. “We could have a little girl who’s going to do all those same little things.”

You turn your head to him slowly. “A girl?”

“Oh.” He stutters. “Yeah. I’m going to be happy no matter what. I just always imagined a girl.”

You smile. “Me too.”

Din knocks his forehead against yours lightly before kissing it and stopping for a moment to smell your hair.

“It should be time.” You whisper but neither of you move.

It feels like nothing has even mattered until now. You’ve hurt and you’ve healed but now there is only this. Another change to your future could be sitting up on the counter right now and you’re just moments away from knowing.

Everything has gone quiet and your ears search for the waves or the birds, your father’s laugh or Baby’s coo but all there is, is Din’s breathing and it is enough. It is always enough because there is no one else you would rather do this with. There is no one else who has soothed your mind like Din Djarin, who has the ability to bring you back down to the planet when you are so far up in your mind you’ve forgotten you’re alive and part of this. You remember when you first saw him, and how that stunning face stopped you in your tracks, he is just as beautiful now as he was then but now you feel like you are on the cusp of being a part of something greater. He has seen the entire galaxy but now he truly exists in it, with you and it has been the most beautiful adventure. You longed for a love like this your entire life, even once believing it was too grand, too extraordinary to exist. But here it is, sitting on the bathroom floor, clutching your hand with his entire strength. You believed Din was the most deserving of an ordinary life, to reach the end of his purpose and be held for that is all he ever wanted. You see it in how he’s raised Baby, in softness and patience. Lessons instead of punishments, learning from each other and you know it would continue to your own child.

Your heart doesn’t race anymore because you are not afraid. It was always supposed to be this way.

“Din.” You whisper.

“Yes?” He whispers back.

You turn, resting your head against the door. “I’m not even scared.”

Din shakes his head. “Me neither.”

He hooks your hair behind your ear. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.” You choke out. Tears forming, but they are out of happiness.

Din helps you up and you take the test off the counter, holding it in both your hands, you turn back to him.

“I love you.” Din says.

“I love you.” You say back and you look down to read the results.

Your heart stops and you look back up in shock.

Din’s jaw is clenched and you don’t think he’s breathing, but neither are you.

You look back down just to make sure, laughing through a sob and you look up again into the beautiful dark eyes of the love of your life.

“Din, we’re having a baby.”

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Love, Zelda