#he sits like a refined gentleman

[forgetmaenott]

i need caine to give me therapy fr

[i-like-loserz]

honey, baby

synopsis: san needs your attention

pairing: husband!san x afab!reader

warnings: SMUT (18+), jealousy, handjob, begging, teasing, sub!san, dacryphilia, pet-names, house-wife!reader, messy endings, light marking kink, reader does not get off..., not proof-read :0

word count: 2.5k

note: i'm sorry, we all need some sub!san in our lives... right...

masterlist

How delicate his hand is, adorned handsomely with understated rings, pressing gently against the small of your back as he leads you through the room. Artificial chatter, decorated with an occasional bout of posh laughter, settles finely above the jazz playing in the background. 

Your heels click softly against the marble flooring, each step lining up perfectly with his. 

Together, you’re a vision of excellence. 

San is the man that everyone wants. The definition of a gentleman. He’s charming, polite, and patient. But also unbelievably beautiful. He comes from a background of old money, but his legacy never stopped him from looking elsewhere for love.

Then there’s you. A woman who can blend into any crowd, disarming even the most stuck-up aristocrat with an easy smile. No one knows where you came from, but they don’t really care – or rather, they stopped caring once they realized how easily San would drop them for bothering you. 

The two of you act as the personification of refined love. 

Modest, refined, and lovely. Rarely sharing even a single kiss in front of an audience. 

San nods to a few guests as he passes them, politely acknowledging their existence, but never making a move to engage with them. He exudes this aura of cool confidence – as if every breath he takes is calculated and perfected. This way, no one ever questions his decisions or fights his whims…not like you anyway.

The wine glass in your hand has a bare sip of red left in it. The rim is spotted with the seductive print of your lips, reflecting the small tastes you took throughout the night to keep yourself relatively sober.

You would have gone for another but a heated whisper, pressed exquisitely against the edge of your ear, drew away any thoughts of humoring your husband’s guests. You settle it gently on a counter, no longer needing the prop of a hostess. 

San’s leading hand presses more insistently against back with each step he takes. His breaths grow deeper, his body draws closer. 

Usually, he’s able to wait until the party ends – watching you with dark eyes as you see the last of the crowd off, thanking them for visiting with that polite smile you’ve perfected. You’re so good to him, putting up with the lifestyle he was born into and taking the role of the perfect housewife and hostess that pays attention to every need her guests have.  

But now, San needs your attention to be directed at him. 

—

He broke while you were in the middle of a conversation with somebody’s plus one. And San knows he was a plus one because he didn’t recognize the man…or his name…or his “successful tech” company. 

He’s not usually a jealous man, but something about this guy…

San was sitting next to you, charming yet another investor of his father’s business, when he heard a low voice speaking to his beautiful wife, “Please, call me Yunho, Mr. Jeong is my father.” 

It peeved him.

You laughed politely, displaying your easy going nature by complying with his wish, repeating his first name before offering your own. San bristled at the sound of another man’s name coming from your lips. 

Who even is this guy? 

There were no Jeongs on the guestlist – and he would know, he’s the one who checks off on that stuff. This is a business party, not some get together that can be crashed so unpleasantly by an overnight millionaire like him.

The investor he was once trying to woo was getting pulled into a different conversation. And thank god for that. He wouldn’t have been much fun to talk to when he’s distracted like this anyway. 

San took that as an opportunity to turn his body toward yours. He watched intently as you continued your friendly interaction with a handsome stranger – who seems to be leaning closer with every pretty word you speak. 

You looked effortlessly beautiful as you rambled about the recent trip he took you on, excitedly describing your favorite restaurants with that familiar brightness in your eyes. He’s suddenly longing to hold your hand right then and there, to pull you onto his lap and nuzzle his face against the crook of your neck. 

His hand moved before he could think about it, gently brushing over your forearm to get your attention. When you turned to look at your husband, the man in front of you retreated from his slow shift into your space, suddenly uneasy by how San was staring him down. 

“Honey?”

At the sound of your voice, he shifted his attention from the offending man to you, the tension in his shoulders easing at the affectionate pet-name. San rounded his eyes innocently, softening his expression. 

“Baby…” He said timidly in a bare whisper, fully knowing that that name was strictly off-limits in public. You raise a questioning eyebrow, wondering what made your husband so needy all of the sudden.

“San.”

San leaned closer to you, a hand slowly shifting from the velvet couch to the top of your thigh. The guests continued to bustle around the two of you, unaware of the sudden tension settling between you. You let him push closer until his lips barely brush against ear.

“Pay attention to me…”

—

You’ve never left your own party early. You have actually trained yourself to have the same amount of energy greeting the guests as you do leading them out. The party doesn't end until you've seen everyone out.

So will anyone really notice a scant 15 minutes of your absence?

Well, you hope not. 

San couldn’t even make it to the bedroom. Instead, he pulled you into an oversized laundry room at the end of the hall, sliding the door shut before you could protest about being too close to the party.

“Sannie, wait.” 

Your words are lost to the air. 

He’s already pressing desperate, hot kisses against your throat. His broad body effectively pins you to the door as his hands, itching to undress you, drag over your soft curves covered by the fine fabric of your dress. Eager fingers grope over your tits before settling delicately around the base of your neck.

His suit jacket rests in a heap on the floor, leaving him in his unbuttoned vest and wrinkled dress shirt – a view you’d love to devour if not for the people who stand on the other side of the door. 

“Maybe we should stop –” 

“I can’t, I-I need you, baby.” He’s begging you – each word pathetically whined out from his pouty lips. “Need you close to me.”

“What if they notice that we’re both gone? What if they come looking?”

Pitiful moans are pressed onto your skin as he helplessly grasps at your body, scared that you’d leave him wanting and overwhelmed by his need to feel you against him.

At this point, San wouldn’t care if the whole party saw him fucking you against the dining table – least of all that Yunho guy. He doesn’t care if they can hear him whining for you, begging you to let him fill you up like he does every night. He wants to show you off, hold open your cum soaked thighs just to show them that you love him and he’s your good boy. 

But at the same time, letting anyone see you like that irks him like nothing else. You’re his and he’s yours.

“Please.” He implores, eyes glistening with a needy look. He gently takes your hand and leads it to where he needs you the most. You give in easily, pressing against his cock which strains against his perfectly tailored trousers. He’s already throbbing from the faint sensation of your touch. 

“Please…?” You tease under your breath, now fully gripping the shape of him through the layers of his clothes. He watches the way your hand moves over him with a dazed look, appreciating the way your small hand looks, fisting his clothed cock with glazed eyes.

You squeeze him abruptly, nudging him for an answer and he responds with a surprised whine, his hips jerking up against you from the intense sensation.  

“Please t-touch me.” 

“I am, baby.”

His dark eyebrows pinch in frustration, “You know what I mean.”

You hum understandingly, slowly unzipping his pants as you taunt him.

“You’re so needy…” 

He sighs as you pull down his briefs along with the restricting fabric of his pants. His thick cock slaps against his covered stomach, flushed prettily in a deep shade of pink, gently weeping pre-cum at the tip. Everything about San is pretty – especially the enamoured way he stares down at you with his signature pouty lips and flushed cheeks.

Eyes locked with his, you idly run a finger against his bare hip, so close to where he wants you to touch. He stutters out a shaky breath, his body shivering from the delicate sensation.

“K-kiss me.” He cups your jaw and moves impossibly closer to you. Your chest meets his as he holds you close, his hips pressing his hard cock against your body. He dips down to hover his soft lips over yours, “...Please.” He adds in a whisper – drenched in desperation. 

As if you could ever deny him.

“You’re cute…” You whisper back before pressing your lips onto his. 

You feel him immediately melt against you, his cock twitching eagerly against your stomach as he finally tastes you on his tongue. You hope he doesn't notice how you subtly rub your thighs together, an attempt to relieve the ache between them.

Your hands drift from resting on his chest to tangle in his hair, tugging gently at the ends, if only to hear that breathless whine that you adore. 

As you draw away for a breath, you notice a smear of red messily decorating his lips. He doesn’t seem to care though, looking down at a similar mess on your lips with a heated gaze.

You can tell that he’s imagining the same stain at the base of his cock. San has a thing for marks, especially because it’s you who’s leaving them. 

You lift up his dress shirt before pressing the palm of your hand against his aching erection, drawing a cute whimper from him. His stomach flexes from the sudden coolness of the air touching his heated skin.

Oh, how you want to lick over each defined ab, make him cry out from your teasing before biting into the firmness of his stupidly broad chest – but you don’t have time for that right now.

“Look at you,” You wrap your hand around him and slowly start to jerk him off, “almost about to cum from some kissing.” San bites his bottom lip to keep his moans down as your thumb repeatedly rubs over the edge of his sensitive tip. 

“C-can’t help it, you taste s-so good.” His hips thrust eagerly against your hand, cock generously leaking as he feels himself already approaching the edge.

Your wrist moves in quick, practiced motions, slick noises filling the space between you. You can't help but dip your other hand under his dress shirt, feeling up his perfect body with the edge of your nails to make him tremble.

“I'll let you taste more tonight if you cum for me like a good boy."

San nods eagerly, but you can tell by that hazy look in his eye that he'd agree to jump off from the second floor balcony if you asked him.

You can tell that he's getting close by the way he's bucking into your slippery fist, whines growing louder and more desperate. It almost looks like he's about to cry as he stares down at the way your hand is wrapped so perfectly around his throbbing cock.

“About to c-cum,” he pants, eyes glistening sweetly. "F-ffuck, baby… Y-you’re s-so good to me. Don’t want it to get on you, though, and ruin your pretty dress.”

"No?" You tease as you watch him struggle to move a mere inch away, hips still thrusting in want. How cute. His eyes squeeze shut at your honeyed tone, knowing you were going to make it harder for him to back away. "You don't want to see me covered in your pretty mess?"

"Nnghh~" You watch him scramble to hold off his orgasm, legs shaking as his hands grip your waist tightly to ground himself. "please -- !"

You finally let him make some space between you, finding it adorable that even in this state, he's worried about protecting you from the people outside.

You give him one last squeeze, fingers brushing over his dripping tip before whispering: "Okay, baby~ Cum for me."

And he does. Oh, how he makes a mess of himself.

His broad shoulders shake as he curls his body into himself, head dipped while spilling out the most pathetic breathy whines against the top of your shoulder.

His hips shake sporadically as each rope of cum covers your hand, dripping miraculously over his lap and onto his once perfectly-pressed pants. Somehow, he stayed true to his word. Not a drop touched your dress.

"Good boy..."

He groans as you milk him with a tight fist, body shuddering from the overstimulation. Your other hand soothes him, rubbing gently over his stomach as he moves through his high.

---

San's panting, leaning against the washing machine with a fucked-out look on his face. He pulled his briefs back on, opting to leave the pants unbuttoned and barely hanging onto his hips.

At this point, it would be better for him to change – his pants are stained with drops of cum, his shirt is wrinkled and stretched out, his hair has been fluffed into a mess. 

Maybe you should just tell everyone that he wasn’t feeling well…

You press a light peck to the side of his flushed neck before moving away from him in a hurry. You wash your hands in the small sink at the corner of the room and find a few tissues to take off your ruined lipstick and any residual sweat. 

You try to fix your hair to look decent – though there is no mirror to really check – and smooth out your dress. Thankfully, San only made a mess of himself (at least, visually). You were planning to slip into a bathroom on the way to the parlor anyway. 

“Ok, baby.” You throw the tissues away before turning back to your husband. His eyes are still half-lidded with lust, watching how easily you go back to being the refined woman from earlier this evening. “Clean yourself up, I’m going back out. I’ll tell them you’re feeling under the weather.” 

“You’re so beautiful.” His raspy voice is endearing. 

You feel your cheeks heating up at the compliment. You try to stamp it down, try to stay composed, but he always knows what to say to make you feel this way. 

“You are beautiful, baby.” You respond with a gentle smile, walking back to him to give him one last kiss. One turns into many. He shyly smiles back, his dimples deepening as you scatter more kisses around his face.

“Wish me luck out there.” You whisper, running your fingers through his hair to reduce the fluffiness. 

“Come back to me soon, okay?”

“Anything for you, my love.”

[fear-is-truth]

omg could u pls do a how bruce wayne does casual dominance in everyday life (for example: picking what you wear, telling you what nail color to get, what perfume, etc) pls!!! i love how u write bruce 😭😭 WE LITERALLY SHARE THE SAME VISION!!! i love ur blog sm 💞💞💞

ACTS OF CASUAL DOMINANCE

─── BRUCE WAYNE x f! reader. . . headcanons .ᐟ

a/n: tysm anon !! love how we imagined bruce the same way :)

bruce, who is every inch the gentleman when he’s out with you—always placing his hand on the small of your back when guiding you through a crowd or escorting you to his car, a subtle but firm gesture that says, you’re mine, and i’m looking after you. he opens doors for you without fail, pulls out your chair at restaurants, and always walks on the street side of the sidewalk, even if it means switching places mid-walk. if you’re wearing heels, he keeps a steadying hand at your waist when you go down stairs.

bruce, who loves leaving subtle marks of his presence on you, whether it’s adjusting your scarf or brushing a thumb over your lip to fix your lipstick. when you’re out together, his hand is always on you—the small of your back, your hip, or wrapped around your fingers. not quite overbearing, but just enough to let everyone know who you belong to.

bruce, who doesn’t outright dictate what you wear, but his influence on your fashion choices is undeniable. he’ll casually leave a dress hanging in your closet or comment on how much he likes seeing you in a particular shade or fabric. “you should wear that blue one tonight,” he’ll suggest. his approval becomes something you crave, and the smouldering way his gaze lingers on you when you follow his preferences is its own reward.

bruce, who will always shrug off his coat and drape it over your shoulders if you’re cold or if the evening turns brisk unexpectedly.

bruce, who has an unspoken authority that makes you want to listen. if you reach for just coffee in the morning, he’ll gently push a plate of fresh fruit or eggs your way. “you’ll need more than that today,” he says, and it doesn’t just leave there—he’ll sit with you, sipping his own coffee as if to make sure you actually eat.

bruce, who has a knack for choosing the perfect jewelry to complement your beauty. when you’re torn between options, standing indecisively by your vanity, he’ll step in without hesitation. his fingers will hover briefly over the collection before selecting a bracelet. “this one,” he says, gently fastening it around your wrist.

bruce, who has a weakness for lingerie, and he spares no expense when it comes to choosing pieces for you. he has a habit of surprising you with carefully chosen lingerie from brands like la perla or agent provocateur—luxurious silk and lace in colours he knows will complement your skin. sometimes, you’ll find it laid out on the bed with a note in his distinct handwriting: wear this for me. other times, he hands you the box himself, sitting on the edge of the bed as you untie the ribbon. his demeanour is completely calm, but judging from the hunger in his eyes, it’s clear he’s already calculating how quickly he could rip it from your body.

bruce, who has a refined sense of smell, and takes pride in choosing a perfume that is uniquely you. when he catches the scent lingering on your neck or wrist, his lips will brush against your skin as he breathes it in, murmuring, “that suits you.” he loves how the fragrance becomes a signature of sorts, clinging to his clothes or the bedsheets.

bruce, who never misses a chance to come to your rescue when you’re struggling with a zipper or clasp. standing behind you, his hands are deft as they glide up the zipper with ease. but he doesn’t step away immediately—instead, his fingers linger at the nape of your neck, grazing your skin as though he’s savouring the excuse to touch you. he leans in slowly, inhaling your scent before he presses a kiss to the delicate curve of your shoulder blade.

bruce, who shares intimate evening rituals with you. he’ll sit on the edge of the bed, his suit jacket already discarded, watching you with an almost meditative calm as you remove your makeup or adjust your hair. sometimes he’ll step in, undoing your necklace or offering to brush your hair for you.

bruce, who has a way of subtly steering you toward better habits without making you feel lectured. bruce doesn’t argue or insist—he just closes your phone or pulls the book from your hands, setting them aside before cupping your face. “that’s enough. you’ll thank me in the morning,”

bruce, who ensures your needs are met before you even realise them. when you’re tired, he’ll guide you to sit, bringing you a glass of water or pressing a kiss to your temple. his dominance is very subtle, woven into these small, everyday acts, making you feel both cherished and completely under his care.

──⟢  fear-is-truth — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[dollzites]

⏦ﾟ♡︎ “WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHY?”

୨ৎ pairing: boyfriend!seunghyun x fem reader

୨ৎ genre: fluff! so fluff.. so cute :(

୨ৎ from myeong: hello! this is such a cute request and I’m so excited to share this with you! I hope you can enjoy it x

the familiar feeling of a warm and soft hand grabbed ahold of your own and your eyes opened immediately, turning to look over at your boyfriend seunghyun who had been smiling at you. “we’re here, my love.” his deep voice always sent shivers down your spine. always? well, you two haven’t been a couple for too long and this was only the third date but since knowing him and spending the time you already did with him, his voice was music to your eyes and you wanted to continue hearing it until the end of your days. giving him a small nod you fix your hair and outfit making sure everything looked good before opening the door and stepping out of the car. the museum he wanted to take you too was a few hours away from the city you both lived in and though you didn’t mind the drive at all, your feet were killing you. “isn’t this so exciting? I’m sorry about the drive sweetheart.. I hope you’ll be okay to walk around with me. if not I can give you my shoes or we can find a store nearby and I’ll buy you a new pair, hm?” that was exactly how seunghyun was, a sweet gentleman. many thought of him as weird or different but you didn’t see it. you saw him as kind, caring, funny, and so loving. he did a fantastic job at showing such a good side of himself that others weren’t exposed too. you were special that’s why you got to see this side of him.

as you both walk through the large glass doors hand in hand he pulls you closer to wrap an arm around your waist and starts pointing with his other hand, showing you a piece that he was a huge fan of. what he didn’t know is that you didn’t.. how should you say this? particularly care about art and the culture of it all. it was something that didn’t ever cross your mind and even though you were a fan of painting rocks or marbles to make them pop, it was nothing like what was here at the museum. your lips curled up into a gentle smile as you nodded and listened to him speak about the painting that was now in front of you both. “this one here? it’s a newer piece that I have become familiar with.. it’s called solitude and would you like to know why?” seunghyun didn’t give you a chance to answer but you were fine with it anyway and gave a slight head nod for him to continue, “this painting here serves as a mirror, reflecting our own experiences and emotions back at us. it’s reminding us that solitude is not a burden to bear but a canvas upon which we can paint our own narratives, find solace, and discover the depth of our own souls.” you stared at him in complete awe of everything he had just said. both hands found his and gave them a slight squeeze while you turned to take another look at the beautiful painting.

as the both of you continued to walk around he found a bench in front of another painting and gently pulled you to sit down next to him. “I don’t get it seunghyun. I don’t get art and just.. everything about it. what you had told me about the last art piece was beautiful but it seems they’re all so similar in that way.” he wasn’t upset with what you said because he knows not everything he likes you’ll like but he looks at you in shock, “y/n, my love, I know we’ll have different opinions on each subject but the beauty of art is through the deep meanings and how the artist creates them.” seunghyun paused for a moment and turned to look at you with a playful and cute smile across his soft lips that you wanted to kiss so badly but held yourself back for the obvious reasons. “focus on connecting deeply with your subject matter, exploring personal experiences and emotions. utilizing strong composition techniques and.. well considering color symbolism! it’s so important. you have to constantly refine your skills through practice and exploration while also being quite mindful of the message you want to convey to the viewer.” a warm tear rolled down your cheek and you felt like such a idiot for getting so emotional over something like this. his way of words and talking about art was so beautiful to you and all you could do was hope that this would be an everyday thing in the future for you both. his large warm hand reached up to wipe the tear away and he leaned in right after letting his lips meet yours in a sweet kiss before pulling away and turning to look back at the painting in front of you.

“another beautiful painting. I think this one.. fits the both of us quite well, what do you think?” as you stare deeply at the painting from what you could see it was a couple or what seemed to be a couple and all you could do was nod, letting your head rest against his shoulder. “I think it’s beautiful seunghyun, just like you are. thank you for bringing me here even if I don’t understand the art or the process of it all. you’ve shown me a different side of it and I respect that.” a deep chuckle comes from his throat and he kisses the top of your head while pulling you closer to him as he continues to stare at the beautiful painting in front of him. what he was thinking? how lucky he was to have you and art in his life. he wouldn’t ask for anything else.

[timmydraker]

Bruce had never been to The Eclipse before.

The club was similar to that of a gentleman’s club from the starting years of America, filled with dozens of tables all curved and ready for a game or feast. The three floors of the place each had a game room, a bar and a section for private rooms for the more seedy type of talks to be had.

It was one of the few non-criminal funded place in Gotham that was still rich. Deals definitely went down, but it was more fitting for gossip that anything else.

Often people went there for catch ups in a refined setting.

Bruce was there for a catch up, or more accurately, a reuniting with his son.

Tim had sent Bruce a time, date and location and said he was only going to meet with him and no one else. Considering Bruce hadn’t seen his beloved son in nearly four years, including his time in the time stream, he accepted without argument.

Tim said he would look different but that if Bruce was as good of a detective as he says, it wouldn’t be a problem.

Bruce had no idea what his son meant until a woman let him inside and told him that ‘Drake had asked you to find him yourself’ with a confused bend in her eyebrows.

It took him a little longer than he’d be happy to admit, although still less than forty seconds, to find his son.

Or maybe that was the wrong word now, if the regal young woman staring at her drink was anything to go by.

Like something out of a vintage movie, the woman had curled black hair and dark red lipsticks. Her dark eyeshadow matched her sweetheart collar dress, black with thick straps and tight enough that each breath was visible.

The gloves on her hand were long and black, one putting a stark contrast to the pink coloured cigarette lit in her hand.

Everything about her screamed old money.

Bruce only knew it was Tim because of the sweet blue eyes and shape of his jaw, though there was also some kind of… paternal instinct in play.

Tim only looked up when he put a hand on the rounded couch, Jim’s tearing nervously down at his distinguished looking child.

It was when she smiled, a real thing that was just highlighted by her dark red lips, that Bruce knew he wasn’t mistaken.

“Hi Bruce.”

A lighter voice, not soft so much as smooth, and nothing like the more monotone sound he was used to.

“Ti-… hi.”

She smiles and gestures for him to sit before taking a final drag of her smoke and putting it out.

Bruce stares at for just a second before looking at his child. Despite the shock of the obvious changes, he notices something far more important, “You look healthy.”

Well fed, clean, nourished.

Like she’s gotten sleep.

“I am. I’ve done a lot of work on myself and it’s paid off.”

Bruce smiles, genuine and almost a little painful, “I can see that. What… what do I call you?”

“Charlotte. Charlotte Jackson Drake.”

“A beautiful name.”

Charlotte smiles before a serious look comes over her face, “Bruce. I haven’t just changed my lifestyle and body, I’ve changed how I look at the world and I’ve come to understand a lot more in my life now.”

Never has Bruce been so attentive, ears feeling on fire as he does his best to focus on every word spoken to him.

“The main thing I’ve come to understand is you.”

Bruce doesn’t move, scared to make his daughter stop talking to him and so he just does his best to show he’s listening.

Charlotte continues, “I get why you brought all of us in. It wasn’t just to protect us from the world, but from ourselves. I can see now that you are only crazy because you’ve been given the impossible challenge of being a necessity in Gotham and the worlds survival and sanity. It doesn’t change that you’ve made mistakes and fucked up, but I get why now. You didn’t want us to apart of Batman, but we forced you, me most of all.”

Bruce is more than stunned by the honesty and understanding in Charlotte’s words, but the fact that he himself only figured that out after loosing Jason.

She smiles at him like she could read his mind, “It took me a long time and I still have anger towards you, yet I want you in my life all the same.”

A gloved hand comes to hold onto his own, delicate and gentle in a way that reminds him of his mother all those years ago.

Charlottes smiles is far too sad to be hers though, “I’m not the boy you once knew, not just because of the woman I want to be now. I don’t want to help you, to save you and parent you, I want to know you. As my father. If-if you’ll allow it?”

Bruce has cried in public before, several times in fact, but normally it’s to play up his over emotional persona.

This time it’s pure relief.

“Of course. Anything you want, at any pace you want, I- what ever you need.”

Charlotte smiles and squeezes his hand, “Thank you.”

Bruce eventually huffs a laugh and wipes his eyes, “god, you really are good at catching me off guard.”

She laughs, a honey like noise that makes him realises he’s never heard Tim smile and that maybe his daughter could only do that once she be same ‘her’.

The two order drinks and Bruce is given the tale of how Charlotte came to be, of how sometimes she misses being Tim but never wants to go back. He learns that she chose her name based on what she would ah e been if she was born a girl so she wouldn’t feel like she was betraying her parents.

Bruce learns that she is still a hero, operating as Red Robin, but that she focuses on prolonged crimes like trafficking rings and makes sure to take them down in on go instead of busting a few and giving the rest a chance to escape.

He’s not so happy to hear that she isn’t ready to talk to the others and that she only really talks to Cass and Duke as both of them have always been on her side and are truely her siblings.

Yet he respects it, if only to keep her close and show her the love he failed to give.

Respecting his daughter’s privacy, he doesn’t tell his other kids anything about what happened and acts ignorant when there’s a few articles about the mysterious Charlotte Drake and her distant relation to the private Tim Drake.

He meets with his little girl, his Lottie, once a week at The Eclipse and talks with her about their businesses both in the literal sense and more broadly.

He meets Bernard and can’t quite see what it is about the strange boy that makes his daughter so happy, but all he needs is to see her big smile and know it doesn’t matter.

That and the several background checks he did.

[yumeboshi]

hi yume congrats on your follower event, you deserve each one !! <3 can i please order a dragonfruit champagne sundae HEHE 🧚🏻‍♀️

❝ THANK YOU FOR YOUR ORDER、@justblades .ᐟ ⟡ HERE IS YOUR RECEIPT FROM CAFÉ YUME ⟡

𐙚DRAGONFRUIT CHAMPAGNE SUNDAE：sends you right into ‘paradise’!

𐙚 dish desc。．a drunk date gone unexpectedly wrong?

．。𝜗𝜚 labels。smutty, drunk, engaged in Sunday and not yet with blade, im sorry if you were disappointed dhil was not here because of the dragon label (I really can’t write him well lolol i hope I compensated with blade & chicken boy) MINORS DNI

．。𝜗𝜚 ingredients。sunday and blade

#SྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིUNDAY

A FANCY dinner in the Reverie’s most expensive restaurant is nothing but a part of SUNDAY’s “casual date” plan.

he’s a refined man, and a gentleman at that- he knows all the right things to do to swoon you. he knows how to make you flush, he knows just exactly when you expected a kiss from him. and of course, he knows what to say to make you fall over yourself, as if he has the entire script of your dialogue in his hands. things like this are so easy for him to do, and his plans always work out because of how expertly he steers you around.

unfortunately, a possibility he did not foresee was this— a drunk you, wasted and tipsy and giggling at his ‘funny chicken wings—‘ all the while carelessly leaning into him and basically being so difficult. it was difficult for him to restrain the heat that slowly pulses through his entire body when you sloppily say daring things your shy self won’t ever dare say when sober.

“sweetheart, please— we’re in a public area.” he gently tells you at first, trying to recover you back to your original state— although it’s just futile attempts of him trying to make you sit upright and not leaning into his chest because it makes him hot and hard to breathe.

“no we’re noooot, people aren’t around….” you slur, batting your eyes up at him sleepily with an attractive little smile lit up by the dim candles. and lord, he feels tricked. he feels like he’s lost to you for some reason- the way your sleepy gaze and your soft voice pulls on his restraints deceptively gently like a siren’s call- he’s glad the area is dim and people aren’t around, because the head of the oak family not knowing what to do with his evident blush across his face would give away how little control he actually has over himself.

“don’t do that,” he reprimands you. his eyes are blazing with a dark flame that’s far too intense for you to take in-

but your sluggish brain does not register anything- you only giggle and swat his arm that’s warningly on your own. “or else what?” you hiccup with a grin.

lavish silver plates clatter and fall to the ground rhythmically with your loud gasps when sunday’s cock thrusts violently into you once more, a lewd slap echoing across the embarrassingly empty restaurant— chest pressed firmly against your table while you hold onto the smooth sides to barely hang on. “—s-slow down,” you’d plead to him- helplessly dangling to the silky tablecloth, to no avail, since it slips out of your grasps easily when he pounds into you with dangerous speed.

“oh? you seemed keen to tease me earlier. are you already sober, angel?” he slows to talk to you in condescension, but when you try to tell him that the alcohol made you do that— he only picks up the pace, escalating your words into incoherent pleas of release-

“saying such dirty little words in a lovely restaurant. do I have to fuck in some manners into your pretty head?” with another violent thrust and a groan, he drags himself out against your slit to coat it with wet fluids that trickle down your sides to spill all over the table.

yes, he thinks it’s deceptive, the way your pussy struggles to take in his load, the way you mewl and squeal his name for more, drunk and needy— the way your ass moves so lewdly with the rhythm of his thrusts, skin trembling. this is sin, he knows, but you are just too beautiful for him to stop. maybe he will have to feed you more purposeful alcohol when you’re sober again, because fuck, how could you be even more obscenely seductive in this state?

#BྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིLADE

BLADE doesn’t know how to react— because his only recent alcohol experience is when he occasionally joined kafka for wine- and the woman showed no signs of being drunk at all.

but when he sees you- subdued to a giggling tipsy mess, his mind draws a blank. What was he supposed to do? he calls your name out briefly, then realized you were too busy burying yourself in his arms like a cat, smiling dreamily at him while telling him his eyes look so pretty today.

he doesn’t like the way his chest tightens up when you say that. he doesn’t like the way he feels so out of control as if the mara is actually taking him over- guiding his hands to tighten around your waist, possessive touches that make you squeal.

“stop that,” he mutters, indirectly at you and at himself.

“stop what, bladie?” you ask with a playful kiss on his jaw, which visibly tightens. “oh come on, don’t be so uptight. didn’t you plan this date?” you continue to trip over your words and droop all over his arms like pudding so bad that blade had to press your back against him so you won’t tip over.

he did plan the home date, just by Kafka’s constant teasing. she’d told him that wine was the perfect idea, that they would be able to have a “heartfelt one on one conversation.” he thought that part meant you would be able to be coherent but unfortunately no, now you’re drunk and illogical and basically his entire plan to talk to you seriously about engagement just went downhill.

“we have to talk,” he says directly, although his voice comes out so weird, as if it’s being strangled. the weird heat in his body spreads violently when you turn around to face him with a little lovely smile, eyelashes drooping, hands so sneakily fiddling with the hem of his belt.

“what could you possibly want to talk about right n—ngh!”

your sentence goes unfinished, and the next thing you know, your face is pressed flat against the cushion couch. you can’t see anything at all, but you hear hasty movements and a belt clanking to the floor, and suddenly his cold hands are right on you, veiny fingers tracing the outline of your puffy clit before hooking up the strap of fabric with a finger to tear it easily.

when you continue to beg him for an answer, he shuts you up with his thick cock that wedges its way into your gummy walls, stretching you all so suddenly to make you gasp into the pillows.

“b-blade,” you whine, “-s’ too big.”

“ill make it fit,” he says simply, but the primal groan beneath it lets you know he’s not going to stop until he fits it in.

he buries into you at a cruelly fast pace, too lost in his own euphoria to hear you whimper and sob how much it’s hurting. aeons, why is he doing this just now? the way you clench around him draws out a lengthy groan, leaning against the table to calm himself down from such an arousing sight of glistening moisture soaking his cock nicely.

the cold air tickling your ass disperses quickly with his animalistic thrusts that give you burning heat, fucking out your constant whimpers and squeals that you’re going to cum, and he lets you cum, hastily pounding himself in to relieve the bothersome blistering arousal that spurts all over your walls to paint them his.

now he knows that kafka fucking did plan this out, but he’s not angry. in fact, he is almost thankful she set him up, because good lord, he knows he won’t ever be satisfied until your holes are stuffed full with his cum.

[junedenim]

trying to be good

make sense

warnings: angst, smut, piv, i guess fluff

word count: 3.8k

He's perverted wrapped in shame clutching a bottle. He left his embarrassment two hours ago and his eyes stay on you. It's too early to be drinking and he's not, at least not completely. He took two swigs and found himself on a park bench looking for something to do. Something that won't make him feel totally lost and hopeless.

He doesn't usually do this kind of thing so that doesn't make him a pervert, only perverts and weirdos sit and stare at woman every day. He doesn't whistle or make a noise, in fact you probably can't even tell he's there. 

Except you keep looking over at him. For that he should be feeling the weight of embarrassment but he can't manage to tear his eyes away. Maybe that's because he has nothing left. Feeling a mood of embarrassment would mean he could actually feel something. Yet, he doesn't feel embarrassed, he feels compelled.

It's like spotting a deer in the meadow. It's not shocking for the deer to be there but it to show itself to him with no fear of being shot dead; it's a gift of beauty. 

You sit on the grass with two other girls They don't show themselves to him like you have. They're shy with their backs turned to him. You face toward him, you brush your hair out of your face, and look directly at him. You're challenging. It's like you're playing a game of chess and you're close to outsmarting him but not quite.

He'd probably look like a homeless slob if it wasn't for his clothes. His eyes are heavy, there's his unkempt beard, and a cigarette hangs from his lips so sloppy that a slight blow of the wind would send it crashing to the ground.

Your legs are exposed to the sun and to him. He begs to kiss them just like the sun is now. There's enough fabric to cover the rest of you, to leave something to imagine, to make Alex feel like a pervert. God's gift to men wasn't women, it was this woman.

He stands up and your eyes go large. He gets a kick out of freaking you out and he don't know when he became so deprived or maybe he's always been this way, just held back by his own insecurity that he can't even feel anymore.

You break the stare and turn to your friends, sharing a laugh as if you had never strayed away from the conversation to stare at the man walking toward you. Your heart is beating wildly, he can imagine it. He can almost feel it from the desperation he's feeling. All the numbness fading away, wearing off with each footstep.

As his feet meet the grass, your eyes meet his, up through those lashes, beckoning him to move further. And then he keeps walking right past you. Some would say it was that old shyness pulling him away, but he feels the joy that overcomes him from the thought he disappointed you and left you grasping for more and how alive that makes him feel.

The rustle of grass behind him as your shoes hit makes that sick smirk kill him, split him in two. He's tempted to take a swig but the cigarette won't let him. There's a light touch to his shoulder, you not letting him slip away.

He turns around and you stand with less shame than him. You stare. He stares. You leave him in silence and it has thrown him on his back, knocking any ability to breath out of him. "Yes?"

You hold your hand out in front of him revealing money laid out for him. The bill stares at him, taunting him. "I, uh, don't need that, love." He knew he looked rough, the kind of man a woman like you wouldn't approach, but he didn't think he was that down on his luck. He fixes the cigarette and straightens his jacket.

You giggle. "You dropped it."

"Oh," he voices, a sound dipped in laughter. He shrugs, trying to earn cool points back. "Keep it."

You shake your head. "I don't need it either. Not that bad."

"What's that mean?" He questions blowing off smoke behind his shoulder acting like some refined gentleman, trying to scrub the image of a thug.

"I don't know." The bill still lies in your hand pointed to him for the plucking like you're offering him something more than his money back. "Take it. Give it to someone else."

He looks back over at your friends watching the scene. They avert their eyes when they see him looking. He chuckles at his newfound fate of being a chick repellant, at least to some. "We could split it. Get dinner together."

You smile but look with a furrow to your brows at him. "I don't think this is enough for dinner."

"Alright, then let me take you out to dinner. My dime," he offers. Whether suavely or not, he throws his cigarette off to the side. He eases into himself, not feeling a care for what the answer is. He's confident by the glint in your eyes that he doesn't have much to worry about. Even if he did, he could just drown himself after.

But you nod. "I'd have to get my purse."

"Alright, then get your purse," he commands. You dash off and he watches the pull your friends have on you. A mix of confusion and glee for you. You come running back to him in a prance that strikes the same as a doe leaping.

You're locked in a pace with one another. There's an unmistakable space between the two of you. There isn't much warmth in the silence. "You having a good day?" He asks for lack of anything else.

"I think so. You?" You're flirtatious and, as aware of your every move he is, you're even more zeroed in on yourself. So well aware of what makes his insides twist and turn. He would guess that seducing most men is much of the same. People don't tend to vary in what they like. It's all much of the same.

He shrugs. "So-so."

"So-so, how?"

"Well, you see I was over there on that park bench," he points back to his former resting place, "having as worse a day as a person can never and I can't stop looking at this girl."

"Am I girl?" You tease.

Alex lets out a chuckle. "It would seem so."

"Why were you having a bad day?" You ask. He can't tell if you really care or if you're trying to fake concern. He used to not be a person who cared about those things but now he's stuck in this unforgiving mindset.

He tilts his head to try to signal something like maybe the truth will fall out of his ear and not his mouth. He'll lie. There isn't any other way but to lie because what's the meaning in the truth—and god, fuck, he's been so messed up. This isn't how his brain used to work. Why the fuck can't he get back to normal? 

You seem sweet. You have a sweet smile and sweet eyes and you laugh in a way that sounds real, he doesn't think you're faking it, yet, he can't help but believe that you are. He can't imagine you getting any joy from him. He can't imagine being all that funny. 

"Woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he says.

You nod and don't ask further. He can't make up his mind if he likes that or not.

"I don't usually do this," you let out. "I don't feel comfortable around a total stranger, especially a man."

"And you feel comfortable around me?" He has a hard time not thinking of himself as off-putting. It's tough to imagine a person taking interest him because he puts them at ease. He's been called the opposite. Anxiety-inducing and uninviting. His disposition as of late hasn't given off sunshine and lollipops. He's a storm cloud and he dreads it but there's nothing stopping the downpour.

You think it over. You nod. You smile. You say, "Yeah. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."

*

"My father never let me get bumpers," you tell him, holding up the blue bowling ball beside your head. Your tiny fingers slip into the holes looking so fragile like the slightest move might snap them like twigs. "He called it cheating so from an early age I had to learn how to bowl without it. Still, I suck at it."

"You're beating me," he reasons. He spreads his arms out across the orange and yellow chairs. He watches as you lift your arm back and swing it through down the lane. It veers to the left. 

Some might say you aren't wearing the best attire for bowling. The short dress might work for a picnic in the park but it doesn't make well for movement. He doesn't mind, obviously. He doesn't watch the ball, he watches you. It hits two pins but he watches your two legs instead, one bend slightly, your right giant out-of-place bowling shoe rubbing against the left one.

"I'm a frame ahead of you," you tell him. "You got a strike. I got nada."

You sit beside him and take a sip of the water the alley just served you. "We're only a few frames in."

You reach out for the small menu. "Should we get something to eat? Pizza? Do you like pete-za?" You exaggerate, looking to him with big curious eyes.

He chuckles and hides his amusement in his glass of water. "Yeah. Yeah, I like pizza." He likes the way your eyes dart over the tiny menu in an effort to look through every option they have before officially deciding on pizza.

You lift your eyes and meet his dark ones completely fixed on you. A smile tugs on your cheeks. "It's your turn."

He pulls away because you make him, not because he wants to. He wants to stare, he wants to play along. This game—not the one you've bought to play, but the one between words and looks—is placing him back together. "Eager for defeat?"

You sigh, "It would be nice to get this over with."

"And then what we would do?" He picks up his ball and lets it hang at his side.

"Eat pizza." You're matter-of-fact, throwing the menu down and staring at him in the way only a sick person would stare at him when he has a blue ball in his hand. He could drop it then drop to his knees. The undefinable weight on his back has been pushing him down to the ground anyway.

"Why delay the inevitable?" He could be a gentlemen. He could take you on a proper date and after the third date he might attempt to invite you back to his place but all manners have gone. They flew out the window long ago. It's desperation now.

"I don't know what you're talking about." You're serious. You could be an actress if you didn't quiver. Your face is accusatory. You would've terrified him a couple of years ago but he has since lost the shield of caring. There's no use in pretending. He doesn't need in act. He'd leave right now if he didn't pay for the game and has a mouth that salivating for a slice of 'za.

"Uh-huh, sure."

*

Your shoes scrap on the cement and it annoys the fuck out of him. You walk lazily as if you're regaining the ability to walk and he doesn't want to wait. He doesn't want to walk at snail's pace. He wants salvation.

"Do you have a problem with women?" You ask. He hasn't said anything so it can't be about the shoe. Maybe he hasn't fully shaken the shyness and you've mistaken yourself to be the first woman he's ever looked at.

He laughs at the question. It's fake. It's an act. It's a cover-up. Lying. He shouldn't do that anymore. "No. Why? Do I seem like it?"

"No. I think I have a problem with men." 

Oh.

You're being vulnerable and he's the fucking jerk. He's always the jerk and everything makes sense. All those things that landed him on that park bench. They weren't a lie. He is self-centered and he might be a prick. She was probably right. He's been elsewhere lately, long before she even said those things.

"Why?" He can care. He used to. He was sensitive and he cared too much and it hurt him. Feeling numb wasn't a constant. He loved being the shoulder. He loved putting effort in. He loved being dependable. Then, one day, he lost it all. Or maybe it was more gradually then he'd like to believe. He lost parts of himself along the way but it's just easier to blame her than to blame himself.

You sigh and knock into him by accident, at least it looks that way. It might be some seductive ploy you have to get men wrapped around your finger. Fuck. He rubs his forehead and tries to make sense of himself again. Listen. 

"I worry all the time whether people like me or not. Like my sister is so carefree and she doesn't focus on what people think of her. Meanwhile, I spend days agonizing over whether I said the right thing or not. I'll probably look back on this moment, exactly what I'm saying now, and find myself to be so fucking stupid."

"Don't." It's quick and it's final. It's his only word. You glance over with an uncertainty in his eyes. Other people feel this way too, he never thought that before. He thought he was the only one to feel this cut loose from the world, floating off into space. You've grabbed the wire and try to tug him back down. He can catch his breath.

"Why?" Your smile is no longer teasing. It's a friendly invitation. A person in need of reassurance. He sees himself in you. Maybe it's the other way around too.

"'Cause I'm gonna spend all of tomorrow thinking about if I said the right thing."

"You didn't. At least not yet," you assure him.

"So, there's still time to fuck up?"

"There always is." You're laughing at him but he doesn't mind. He can take the brunt of it if it means hearing you laugh. It's what breaks the ice within him. Things feel less big when he finds such enormous pleasure in something so small. 

You tilt your head and look through his eyes into the window of him. "But I'll forgive you."

*

Sex is a savior. All that sin rhetoric is such bullshit because it feels like a cure-all right now. This is the type of sex that leads to addiction. He wants it every which way but he'll take this. Whatever this is. 

You're naked. He's naked. He thrusts into you from above and he feels like he's squashing you like a bug beneath a book. He'd pull away if you hadn't pulled him closer. Every inch is being consumed until there's no space left to separate.

It started slow. Carefully leaning into each other after the front door shut. There were kisses, plenty of them all over, though he can't remember now. He kisses your lips as a reminder. It's sweet, a taste residue provided by your chapstick.

Now, it's fast. Not an unbelievable pace but one that's toe-curling and gives you both a need to catch your breath. He hears yours up against his ear. It's the rhythm he follows. You claw at him. He eats him up inside. Everything feels oddly calm for something so rushed and loud.

The bed creaks. Something that makes him cringe and you giggle. Then, his knee cracks and he feels the weight of age smack itself down on him. You giggle some more, but then you reach out. You trace the scowl lines that cover his face. You smooth out the skin with a soft touch and a careful smile. You know exactly how to mold him. You know exactly how to make things feel alright. 

At least for now. In the middle of the rising action, right when things reach their tipping point. Truthfully, that probably was the tipping point. Not the orgasm that follows but the ability to be seen and no longer feel like everything must be pushed under the rug. There's no need anymore, not in front of you. He can care.

His back rests on the mattress and he brushes the strands out of the way. You lean over off the bed, picking your purse off of the floor. You take out a piece of gum, the long stick kind, crumbling it into your mouth, and offer him one.

 "Does my breath stink that bad?" He questions.

You shake your head. "No, I just like gum."

He takes it. The sugar punctures his tastebuds. Artificial watermelon makes him pucker up, so overwhelmed by the taste. "I can't remember the last time I had bubblegum. You like this?"

You both are on your backs but you've turned your heads to one another, each of you smacking away. "Yeah. Why? You don't?"

"I thought it would be mint. I didn't know people over the age of 10 bought bubblegum."

He's grateful you laugh. He probably wouldn't have. He would have thought the whole time about how maybe he was too old to be doing these kinds of things, even as minuscule of bubblegum. You seem to take it with ease.

"I like it. It reminds me of my youth. It's what keeps me looking so young." You stroke your cheek, even you are well aware of that baby soft skin.

"You are young." He doesn't know your age but it's ease to assume. He reaches out to take the cheek in his hand, giving him the ability to feel that youthfulness, the preciousness, and the vulnerability penetrate him. 

You're still like his hand is a smooth wave passing over you, a breeze taking its time, the mist quenching the heat. You place your own hand over it like you would like to keep him there as if he might possess the same powers you do. "So, do you like the gum?"

Alex chuckles and leans closer with no ability or wish to pull away. "I think so. I've never been able to blow a bubble."

You brighten up. "Really?" Your eyes are wide with a grin to beat him over the head with. "It's quite easy. You just stretch the gum over you tongue, make sure there's no holes, and then you blow."

He ends up spitting it out right onto the mattress. He falls onto his back and you lean over on him in an eruption of laughter. He hides his smile with his hand as the weight of you lands on him and your hand pokes and prods at him, tickling him more.

Somewhere in the process the gum smooshes onto the sheets. You attempt an apology but it just comes out as more laughing. "At least it wasn't stuck in your beard. I got it stuck in my hair once and I had to cut a whole patch of it out."

"Was it noticeable?" You're back to lying side by side, a slight space formed where the gum is now glued on.

"Oh, completely and school picture day was the next week. It was awful."

"I'd like to see that."

"Never," you vow. You shift, sinking further into the mattress and closer to him. "Why is your hair long? Are you growing it out?"

He blows air out, emptying his lungs, and trying to make sense out of something he hasn't be able fully understand yet. "I'm doing something with it."

You hum and don't ask any further. Your hand reaches out and strokes down the strands of his hair. Your nails soothe those never-ending pains his brain has been firing off. You look content, perfectly comfortable here. He could be that. 

"I've kind of let myself go lately. I've been a bit of a mess. Feel like I've been stuck in this spiral that I can't get out of. A riptide of...feelings, uncontrollable feelings. Nothing or everything. I just want to feel like myself again."

You're quiet, attentively listening, stroking his hair. Your breathing keeps him steady and not completely falling off the edge. You smile, just a bit. "This too shall pass."

*

He wakes up before you but doesn't know what to do. He isn't sure if he should make breakfast or take a shower or wake you up. So, he just lies there and waits. You've sunk into the pillow enough to leave marks when you wake up. Your hair is tossed, some falling into your eyes. A touch to move it away could wake you but he touches anyway.

He tried to make this surface level but as you stir and your eyelashes flutter he feels like he has brought all this pain on himself. Everything he tried to avoid is laying right next to him. He shouldn't have engaged in this. 

"Do you wake up with a scowl?" You ask. You fold your arms up and rest your head on them.

He shakes his head, trying his best to rest his face. "I'm just thinking."

You hum. "You do that a lot. See, I talk too much that's my problem. There are worse things to suffer from."

"I'm doing that questioning your every move thing."

You hum again. He almost expects you to take out a pen and paper and start taking notes. You study him. He can feel your eyes trace his skin. "What answers are you getting?"

"What?"

"Well," you sit up and lean over him, "you're asking all these questions of why you did that or said that or what to do next so what's the answer?"

He's silent, unsure of what to say. He feels dumb. He probably does have a problem with women, one that he can't ignore with you leering over him. You answer for him, "I think it's because you wanted to. You don't make a lot of mistakes if you ended up in bed with the girl and she spent the night. Especially when she's telling you she had a lovely time."

Alex cracks a smile. He can't say much else. The truth was in your words so instead of speaking he reaches out and tugs you down to him. With your skin still bare and mind at ease, you rest your head on his chest.

Everything slows down. The slightest touch feels important. It grounds him. He doesn't want to escape this. He wants to relish in it. He can't remember the last time he didn't want to escape something. How desperate he has been to escape this intimacy. But this closeness is what he always needed. To feel someone else understand him.

"I think you're laying on the gum."

*

a/n: i don't know what this is or if i like it but it's something.

[yandereunsolved]

Dissect Me, Doctor - ,, yandere JPM with a psychologist reader

cw(s): yandere themes, dismemberment, suggestive themes, (James) necrophilia, noncon touching, cannibalism, mention of reader having breakdowns & panic attacks

✧ James found you by God's hand one fateful day. You could say it was more than a mere coincidence, eh? He had just finished killing one of the hotel guests. He was about to call Miss Evers in to clean up the mess when he spotted something sticking out of the dead gentleman's breast pocket. He plucked the card out of your pocket and read it allowed, 'Doctor...' His curiosity was the least bit piqued. Psychologists weren't exactly popular in the 1930s. The true study of the mind hadn't emerged, but James had always lived to study humans. To study their fight or flight instinct, how their bodies react to various torture methods, and how fear affects the human psyche. Perhaps he has found someone who shares his fondness for such things. It would be a great way to meet someone new. Considering Elizabeth refuses to speak with him, he has grown desperate. Not even defiling his killings tapered his already suppressed desires. 

✧ He got Sally to teach him how to use this magic witch named 'Wi-fi' who owns the internet—or something like that. Most new technology is just rubbish used to get people to make inauthentic connections. Although perhaps just this once, it can be used for the betterment of his temperament. He has Sally schedule an initial appointment at the hotel. Sally uses the excuse that James is bedridden and terribly ill (non-contagious), but he hates telehealth and just wants someone to talk to in person. You were skeptical because of the rumors surrounding The Cortez, but you were in desperate need of another client, and he was willing to pay extra—a lot extra.

✧ You had your first session in his room, and you immediately got strange vibes from him. He wasn't ill, that was for sure. Perhaps he was a little pale, but he probably hasn't gotten enough sun or vitamin D lately. He was even smoking! He was sitting all relaxed on a couch, dressed up in 1930s-esque attire, with a cane leaning against his lap. He introduced himself as James Patrick March, and you immediately understood why you were called. He either has a personality disorder or is a compulsive liar. Perhaps both. You asked him simple questions, such as his real name and when he was born. You were only getting nonsensical answers. He could not have been born in the late 1800's or early 1900's; that is ridiculous! 

James only felt himself grow hotter with each question you asked. It was like a fire had been lit beneath his skin, and he needed to put it out. Then you asked the question that really got him going.

"Since you refuse to use your real name, I'll just call you Mr. March. How is your personal life going? Are you currently sexually active?"

"I have peculiar interests and refined tastes. How do you modern people phrase it? 'Where there is a hole there is a goal'?"

✧ With that astounded expression on your face, he feels his urges compell him to end this lovely conversation early. That look would look perfect on your dead corpse. He takes the sabre out of his cane and tries to slit your throat; he narrowly misses. Somehow, you unlock his room door and bolt through the hallways. How promising. He walks through the winding hallways slowly. You scramble to find the exit, and he struggles with not just outright chasing you through the maze. No, he must preserve the hunt. After what feels like an eternity to you—only eleven minutes in real time—you finally trip over a stair and hit your head on the railing. Talented fox. You nearly escaped to the lobby. You are too much of a challenge to let go so easily. He's going to keep you to get his release. In more ways than one. 

✧ You wake up in the middle of the night in the same room as before. It's freezing, and your clothes are nowhere to be found. Your head is pounding, and you are barely able to breathe. James drugged you with some cocktail of drugs—some legal, most not. You feel blades ghosting your body. You feel them just barely slicing into your skin. It must be sleep paralysis, you rationalize. Something whispers sweet nothings into your ears. You are barely able to discern what those words are. 

"You taste... a dream."

"Never leave."

"The best prey— never leave me."

✧ You drift off once again before groggily waking up in a different room. You are still in the Cortez, now in room seventy-four. You feel much different today, weighed down and yet free. You don't have any marks on you that would indicate you were harmed last night. You feel the need to escape, but you are also incredibly confused. A maid is in your room, setting down a new set of clothes. She explains that you passed out after you tripped on a stair while leaving the session early. You accuse her of helping the strange man you interviewed who tried to kill you. She chuckles and says that you aren't his type. Her voice has a little bit of spite in it. That was the moment that you were introduced to Miss Evers. Quite possibly the only person who simultaneously envies you for getting all of James attention and pities you for your lack of self-awareness and intelligence in the situation.

✧ Before you are even able to shoo her off this JPM impersonator comes in your room and greets you. You are naturally apprehensive. He is naturally enthralled to see that his trophy prey has awoken. He cannot wait to just see how you react today. You try to leave and he explains that you never finished your session. You accuse him now of trying to murder you. He brushes it off and insists that you at least have breakfast with him before you leave. You are about to answer firmly when Miss Evers folding of a towel loudly snaps together. This 'James' scolds her and she gives him a doe-eyed look. Before you are even able to say no he is ushering you down the hallway in silken pajamas someone put on you while you were passed. The thought makes you shudder.

✧ You both were served a hearty and delicious breakfast. It isn't very filling to you, no matter how much you eat. It must be how queasy you are from yesterday. If it happened. Perhaps you had a mental break due to all the stress you have been through lately. You don't get a lot of time to think because you are snapped from your thoughts. This James speaks about your future together and how you will have a long and fufilling relationship. He asks you to give him a psyche evaluation. When you say no, he subtly threatens you with the thought of not paying because you didn't actually fill his full session. You reluctantly agree.

✧ He's both incredibly frustrated and intrigued by your persistence. How many times must he explain to you that he isn't a 'cosplayer' or someone with a personality disorder. He is simply the great James Patrick March. No matter. It will make you even more fun to play with.

"Your delusions, doctor, are clouding your mind. So I suppose I will have to make you see the truth—one way or another."

He sets up small 'challenges' to see if you can pass them. He wants to test how long your mental fortitude will hold up. 

✧ The first of those was dismembering himself in front of your very eyes. He does it multiple times, and they are all random. He will pluck his eye out and stir it in his tea. He will cut open his chest and stuff his organs into your suitcase. He will remove whatever is covering his neck and finger from his suicide wound. He asks if you would like to feel it, stroke it, touch it, or play with it.

"Doctor, I understand you only deal with the human mind, but would you like to feel this and assess if it is real? Do you believe me now?"

He will stab himself in the heart during one of your sessions and tell you that this is what you do to him. In the most extreme cases, if he isn't getting your coveted attention, he will take himself apart limb by limb and place them on your bed like a cross.

✧ You begin to come to terms with the fact that, at least, this man is psychotic. Perhaps not a ghost, but definitely a killer and wickedly sadistic. You try so many of the phones in the hotel, but so many seem not to work. You try to find your way out once again, but you seem to be trapped within these walls. Which comes to one of his many other tactics: trapping you in The Cortez's hallway maze. He is able to distort the minds of his guests and make sure that they never get out. Like a rat trying to find an escape from a box maze that has no exit. He enjoys just slowly walking behind you and taking in your panic and your quick breaths when your clothing rides up on you. He is able to take a respectful peek at what he will inevitably see time and time again.

✧ He keeps you trapped in the hotel. You never even have a chance to get to the lobby. He has a nice breakfast, lunch, and dinner with you. He has his daily sessions with you. Outside of that? His torture. All of his torture. All of it. He threatens you with it subtly if you do something that he is displeased with. He'll even lock you in that death closet of his and make you stand right near the spike. Sometimes you prefer to be in there because you can hide from him. He likes it when you hide in his death traps. So he totally leaves you alone and totally just doesn't sit right outside your ability to view him.

You are coming to the point where those times when he is cordial are the times you crave. All part of his plan, of course. Although—he hopes that you will keep up the chase, he likes that fiery spirit of yours.

✧ You often find him getting release from his dead victims. You know because your relentless cycle of agony and pleasure stops. At least he doesn't force himself on you when you are awake. You end up doing your best to stay as far away as possible from him during that time. Only you always end up stumbling into the same room as him. You avert your eyes, yet he always has something cheeky to say to you.

"Ngh—darling, darling, wait! This.... this could be us. This could be me. You and me. Nothing could be a replacement for how your flesh feels against mine."

He always turns around and gives you one of those godforsaken winks of his.

✧ That isn't the only time his victims come into play. You are always suspicious of the food he serves you. It's either drugged or the meat could be made from his victims. You first learned that the hard way. You were served meatloaf, and James called in manloaf. He stated that it was made in this very hotel by the very guest who was trying to help you leave. You wanted them so bad, you can have them—in your stomach.

✧ Not even the Countess is able to help. Not that she tries. She is too busy luring more men in. She's forgotten about James mostly, except for the betrayal. She gives you a few warnings and some caution when she can. You are almost like one of her children. Perhaps she would help you if you really were in need. Maybe.

✧ You still get those sensations in your sleep. The feeling of fingertips ghosting on your figure. How the sheets seem to slip off your body. A warm presence keeps you close throughout the night. It often manifests in such strange dreams. It feels like James's thoughts are being injected into your own mind. You dream of him against you—sometimes he is brutally murdering you, and in others he is sensually caressing you. He always seems to tease and taunt you with those tantalizing images in your mind.

✧ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ ⁿ⁰ — You often have panic attacks and breakdowns because of him. Your heart rate quickens as sweat rolls down your body. Your legs shake and give in. The entire hotel seems to spin around you. You have to seek him out for your own comfort. It's so twisted and vile. You can feel bile rising in the back of your throat when it happens. You almost have to crawl on your hands and knees to reach him. Yet, it feels like heaven. His skin is so soft and supple. His suit is always made of the most comfortable materials. His body is always so cool to the touch. In those moments, your body melts into his. That is, until your mind stops its dissociation long enough to realize the trauma you were going through. You are falling for him—a classic case of Stockholm syndrome. You couldn't stand for this. You need to fight against this, against him.

✧ Unfortunately, your non-belief in ghosts stops when you see multiple people you thought were dead trying to warn you. You see your patient, who was killed in this very hotel. They tell you that they're so happy to see you. They are so happy you are here with them. You have to put on your therapist hat again and calm them down. It all clicks. Other people you thought were guests here were warning you. You are being oddly welcomed into the space. The others are cautious of your presence and afraid to upset the owner, the one who holds so much power over them. That strange being that seemed to flicker in and out of your peripheral occasionally. You finally make peace with the fact that James Patrick March is indeed a ghost. You really do need to escape here.

✧ You steal the hotel's shipping schedule for their toiletries and linens. You make a plan to escape. You think you are so clever, and it really makes James hot under his white buttoned collar. He lets you think that you are so much more astute than him. It makes him a little desperate, but he won't show it. He needs your touch so badly. He needs you to love him so badly. He needs you to be his little trophy victim. He needs you to help him chase his highs. He needs you. He needs you. He needs you. You, only you.

✧ He confesses his undying adoration for you and clings to your waist as you try to walk out. He sighs and tries one more tactic before you step out the door. He promises to tell you the entire truth. You are caught off guard by this, and your hand slips off the door. He leads you to his trophy room and shows you his 10 Commandment killings. He directs you to the corner, where your body lies. You are covered in wounds that have long since dried out. Your eyes are lifeless. You have his name etched across your naked chest. You scream, shout, and sob. James gently holds you and soothes you even as you thrash, kick, and gnaw at him.

"You've been trapped here the entire time. Since that night."

As if that makes it any better. You aren't that stupid. You could connect the dots—lack of appetite, coldness, the odd sensations, everything. You are stuck with this monster for all eternity.

"Hmm, yes! I saw you and just knew that I had to have you. Have you gotten my diagnosis yet, my love? It's lovesickness, and your body is the cure."

.ೃ࿐ -ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ- .ೃ࿐

⟿ taglist: @coentinim @bluerthanvelvet444 @cxndiedvi0lets @doll3tt33 @lacucarachapisser @etheral-moon @fear-is-truth @marchsfreakshow @girlyfart @nahoyasboyfriend

.ೃ࿐ -ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ- .ೃ࿐

[bump1nthen1ght]

A Very Monstrous Kinktober: Day 26 (Masturbation)

Kink: Masturbation

Pairing: Mothman x GN!Reader

Other Kinks: Consensual Voyeurism, Mutual Masturbation

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1091 words

Kinktober Masterlist

There is a vivid squelch, silicone against lube, when you press the dildo into you. It’s loud, wet, and perfectly lewd. The kind of sound you’d hear amped up in volume in a schlocky porno or some hentai. It’s the kind of sound you’d avoid making in fear of being caught; But your partner is gone, has been for the past 3 days, to help in the forewarning of an oncoming disaster two states over.

And gods, how you have missed him.

A year ago you never thought you’d be this touchstarved, this desperate for affection for one man’s touch. You thought that kind of stuff was only in romance novels and smutty fanfiction, accepting that no human man was ever going to be that exciting, leaving you wanting so much more.

Well, you had been right about the human part, at least.

Still, your body ached for the soft feeling of your partner's fuzzy wings, his long fingers which always held onto your waist so gently. His ruby red eyes that seemed to stare directly into your soul, always filled with a gentlemanly love, even when he had you bent over a table.

“Hmmm, Atticus.” You moan, feeling the fake balls of your toy nudge against your entrance, sunken full inside of you. “It feels so good.”

Familiar with a…tool this size, you waste no time and begin to thrust it in and out, moaning your sweet partner's name as you do. You imagine his deep, southern drawl. His claws running down the side of your face. His antennae twirling and buzzing as you come undone for him.

You even imagine the familiar tapping on your window, the one he always uses to sneak into your bed late at night. So quiet despite being 7 feet tall.

“Oh my.”

And now you can even hear-

Wait.

Your eyes shoot open, sitting up from bed, realizing you now lie spread eagle in front of your very-real boyfriend who is very much actually present in your bedroom.

His antennas tutter back and forth, hand thrown over his mouth like a shocked 50s housewife. The dildo slides an inch out of you as you scramble upward, something like an excuse on your lips, face red hot with embarrassment.

“Did you miss me that much?” Your partner chuckles, lighthearted, a matching blush lighting up his black fur.

“I-” You stutter, wondering if he heard you calling out his name. You may have been dating for a year now, but still, being caught by your refined, almost-victorian gentleman partner is a little mortifying.

“Well, if it helps.” Atticus’ voice sinks to a lower octave, big eyes narrowed like a smirk. “I missed you a whole lot too.”

The hand around his mouth slides down his chest, leading your eye across his scrumptious body, right to his unsheathed cock.

When did he even get that out?

“C’mon baby.” Atticus drawls. “Keep going.” He sits down in a corner chair, stroking his swollen dick. “Gimme a show.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

My god, where’d he learn to talk like that?

You ain’t complaining, slipping back to your comfortable position, making sure to keep your legs extra wide. You slide the dildo all the way back in.

Atticus hums in approval, hand rubbing at his flushed head.

“How's it feel?”

“Good.” You pant, slowly rocking the dildo in and out, making sure to press it extra hard with each thrust.

“As good as mine?” Mothman chuckles, rubbing some leaking precum down his shaft with his thumb.

You eye up his cock, biting your lip.

“No.” You gasp, the dildo hitting a particular sensitive spot, sending tingles down to your toes. “Not even close.”

“Hmm, but good enough while I was away?” His eyes shoot to the clear bottle of lube on your bedside table, almost halfway empty. “Seems it got put to work.”

“Couldn’t-” You breath hitches, spreading up your pace, “Couldn't h-help myself. Missed your cock so much.”

You throw your hips up, making a show of your entrance clenching around the thick shaft of the dildo. Lube and juices trickle down the curve of your ass.

Atticus remains dignified, silent as he lazily jerks himself off. But you know the signs by now, see the way his chest tightens and his antennae twitch.

“That right?” Atticus’ other hand reaches down and begins rubbing at the slit where his cock protrudes, an extra sensitive spot you're well acquainted with. “This cock missed you too.” He finally shows some sign of his pleasure, a small hitch in his articulation when he squeezes his head. “Missed that tight hole, missed filling it up.” He rolls his neck, a move he knows you love, showing off the sinewy muscle as it cracks. “Hmm, felt like torture, not being able to fuck you whenever I wanted.”

Your wrist aches and goes ignored, your focus solely on Atticus and the burning fire in your belly. You hang off every word like it’s gospel, letting it sink into your chest and stir up your insides.

“You got me addicted, honey. How could I resist coming home early?” Precum squirts out his head, splattering the top of his hand. “Knowing I’d have such a sweet little thing to greet me?”

Your moans are breathy, vision getting fuzzy are your orgasm climbs. Your brain wants to close them to ignore everything else and focus on your high, but you force them on Atticus. His cock twitches in his hands, and you think you can make out a low “Damn.” as he jerks it.

“You gonna cum?” Atticus asks.

All you can do is nod, head stuffed with cotton and legs trembling. You imagine it’s his cock, the cock in front of your eyes, fucking you open. That it's his hands wrapped around your hips, his pelvis in between your thighs.

Atticus leans forward, cock still humping into his palm, but those big eyes only on you.

“Then cum.”

“Ahh-nggh!” You keen, hips spasming as your orgasm wracks your body, exploding across your abdomen and miking your toy.

Your limbs feel heavy, sweat dripping down your chest. The toy slips out of you and you pant, leaving trails of lube on the bed. Its that post-orgams kind of high that has you going “Wait, what was I doing again?”

“Good job.”

You don’t even have the energy to react when you feel Mothman’s palm against your face, not even wondering how he moved over so quickly, now straddling your hips.

“Now, it’s my turn.”

[hello-xiao]

﹒ꪆ୧﹒If he could. He would﹒ꪆ୧﹒

── TWISTED WONDERLAND X READER

( RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS. AZUL ASHENGROTTO. EPEL FELMIER. )

DISCLAIMERS. This has been somewhat proofread. Not edited. Allusions to fragile masculinity ( Epel's part ). Allusions to poor self-care ( Azul's part ). Gender neutral reader. Reader is not defined by gender or any name in this.

WORDS. 582

- - -

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS ++ royal treatment

Riddle is the type of guy who would open the door for you. Whenever you have classes together, he would often walk with you to class. Don't expect hand holding with him, how scandalous. Riddle will open the door for you like any refined gentleman would do.

If you identify as a girl, guy or any other gender identity, it doesn't matter. He will open the door for you anytime, he knows you are capable of doing it, but you must know about the germs people transfer around! He simply can't stand the thought of his rose falling sick when he could easily have prevented it.

That's not the only thing though, if you have to sit somewhere, for example a restaurant or a cafe or anything else, if he is able to, he will pull out your chair for you. Whenever the both of you meet, he will always kiss the back of your hand.

﹒ꪆ୧﹒

He always makes sure to accompany you back to the hall of mirrors whenever you go out together. If you happen to be in Heartslabyul, he will escort you to your room.

If you do any of these things for him when he least expects it, his face will be as red as his hair. You might even find him stuttering and failing to keep his composure.

!  !  !

AZUL ASHENGROTTO ++ (sugar daddy) pays for you

Oh my! Azul Ashengrotto doing something for somebody without wanting something in return? How absurd! Azul thinks of you as his precious pearl, someone who is priceless.

He adores you. He will always pull out his card before you can, oh, and if you think to try to pay? He's already paid. How? You needn't question it.

Azul likes bringing you to nice places, he knows you can pay for yourself, but come on now. You deserve something nice after all the stress you go through, soo, won't you at least let him treat you?

You always take care of him, making sure he drinks water, doesn't push himself too hard, makes sure he eats and drinks the proper amount needed.

He isn't sure what else he can do to repay you, so, this is the only way he can think of. Just let him do this one thing, yeah?

!  !  !

EPEL FELMIER ++ holds your stuff for you

Epel wants to be more masculine, it's well known. He hates being looked down upon by other people for being small or have feminine looks.

But, he did hear from some senior… Ahem, Lilia, ahem. That the manliest thing a man could do, was hold their significant others items for them.

Even if you are capable of it yourself, Epel will insist on carrying your items, anything. Your books, your bag(s), anything you're carrying with you out in the open.

Huh? What do you mean he doesn't need to? He wants to. At first, he does it to appear more masculine, yes, but later on, he does it because he genuinely does want to, not even for the need of being masculine.

I mean, you assure him. A lot. That you love him for him. That he doesn't need to do anything to prove himself, that he's already a man and he shouldn't care what other people might think of him, so.. At least let him do this as a small appreciation.

[adrealucia]

New Beginnings

tags: post Blood Brothers ending, Sean Diaz x Reader, might contain smut in future chapters, lots of fluff, romantic fluff, overall just fucking wholesome, obviously mentions Daniel quite often, sfw in the beginning, maybe nsfw in the future idk, definitely slow burn chapter summary: new ideas, a heavy storm, shadow puppets, and a slumber party. a little bit angsty but I balanced it out I promise.

Chapter three

After you and the Diaz Brothers finish up all of your Tamales and wrapped up the conversation, you return to your modest house, a cozy space with a view of the ocean. Settling down at your makeshift desk—a sturdy wooden table with a stack of papers and a laptop—you begin to structure the business plans for Diaz’s Garage. When you woke up this morning you couldn’t have thought that tonight you would be sitting at your desk returning to your role as a business manager especially not for Sean Diaz the local mechanic. 

The sound of waves crashing against the shore outside provides a soothing background as you spread out notes. Ideas for expanding the garage's services and enhancing its appeal to the community fill your mind. You envision new service packages, partnerships with local businesses, and sustainable practices that could set Diaz’s Garage apart. Sean has been talking about expanding the Garage, so that would be the first idea you will be working on. 

“So, regular maintenance packages…” you mutter aloud, jotting down notes and adjusting numbers on your laptop screen. The possibilities seem endless, fueled by Sean's vision and your own growing understanding of the local market. You work for hours and hours on these plans. Honestly, you totally forgot that you are a master in this field and the Diaz Garage, as well as Sean and Daniel, are so different from the workplace you had back home. It all feels so exciting and new and it makes you want to pull an all-nighter, but that wouldn’t be very smart so after a few hours and many good ideas and plans you decide to wrap things up and go to bed. Excitement bubbled within you as you drove through the familiar streets of Puerto Lobos once again, heading towards Diaz’s Garage. Today was the day you planned to present Sean with your refined business ideas, eager to discuss the future of the garage over breakfast. You sent him a text last night, asking if it would be okay to come over in the morning, and the gentleman that he is Sean answered that he would be preparing a nice breakfast and be waiting for you. The morning sun painted the town a golden hue, and the salty breeze from the ocean filled your senses with a sense of anticipation.

Pulling up to the garage, you found Sean already waiting outside, leaning casually against the wall with a charming smile on his face. His hair, tousled by the ocean breeze, only added to his relaxed demeanor.

"Hey there," Sean greeted you with a grin, his eyes lighting up as he approached your car. "You look like you've got big plans brewing today."

You stepped out of the car, returning his smile. "Big plans indeed. Can't wait to hear what you think."

Sean chuckled softly. "I’m all ears. But first, breakfast."

He gestured towards a small table set up with breakfast under a nearby awning. The spread included fresh fruit, pastries, and a pot of steaming coffee. The aroma of the coffee mixed with the salty air, created a perfect backdrop for serious business talk and playful banter.

As you sat down, Sean poured you a cup of coffee and sat across from you. "So, what’s the big idea?"

You took a sip of the coffee, savoring the moment before launching into your plans. "I’ve been thinking about expanding the garage’s services—regular maintenance packages and eco-friendly options. I’ve also found some potential partnerships with local businesses that could really boost our visibility." Daniel, who had just joined you and already started snacking on some of the fruits, perks up at the mention of new ideas. “Do you think we could start doing custom modifications? Like those cars you see in magazines?”

Sean nods, smiling at his younger brother’s enthusiasm. “Absolutely, Daniel. And I think with your creativity, we could really make a name for ourselves.”You glance at Sean, impressed by his vision and determination. “It sounds ambitious, but I think it could work. Especially with the right partnerships and marketing.”

Sean meets your gaze, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. “That’s what I like about having you around. You see the potential in things.” You feel a warmth spread through you at his words, grateful for the opportunity to contribute. “I believe in what you’re doing here, Sean. And I’m excited to see where we can take Diaz’s Garage.”

Sean nodded thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on you with genuine interest. "Sounds like you’ve been busy. I like where this is going. Sustainability is definitely a selling point around here. And custom mods? That could attract a whole new clientele."

Encouraged by his response, you leaned forward, the playful glint in your eye matching his. "I knew you'd see the potential. With your expertise and my ideas, Diaz’s Garage could become the talk of Puerto Lobos."

Sean chuckled a hint of flirtation in his voice. "Well, we already are the talk of the town, but I’m all for making a bigger splash."

The morning passed in a blur of productive discussion and shared laughter, each idea sparking new possibilities and strengthening the connection between you and Sean. His ability to blend professionalism with playful banter kept the atmosphere lively and engaging. “So, what’s next on our path to world domination?” Sean teased, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

You laughed, enjoying the easy camaraderie. "First, Puerto Lobos. Then, who knows? The world might not be ready for us yet."

Sean leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "Well, let’s start with Puerto Lobos then. We’ll take it one custom modification at a time."

As you and Sean continue to brainstorm and outline plans for the future of the garage, the sky outside begins to darken, signaling the approaching storm. “Looks like a storm’s coming,” Daniel says, worry creeping into his voice.

Sean glances out the window and nods. “A big one, by the looks of it. Maybe we should start securing the place.” Well you think to yourself, this took a quick turn. Nonetheless, you quickly get up from your seat and immediately begin to help.

You and Sean quickly begin preparing the garage for the impending storm. You help move the more valuable tools and parts to higher shelves, while Sean checks the drainage around the building. Daniel, sensing the urgency, pitches in without hesitation. For the whole time that you have been living here in Puerto Lobos, the weather has always been nice, of course, there were some rainy days but Daniel and Sean sure seem to be preparing for the end of the world. 

As the wind picks up and the first drops of rain begin to fall, you realize the storm is going to be worse than you all anticipated. The town’s streets quickly become rivers of muddy water, and the power flickers before finally going out. The Garage is pitch Black and you now really have to squint your eyes in order for you to see something. You wish you could at least grab some candles, but there is just not enough time, the rain is already pouring so heavily you are scared it might flood the whole place.

“We need to get the sandbags,” Sean says, his voice steady but urgent. “We keep them in the back for situations like this.”

Together, you and Daniel follow Sean to the back of the garage, where you haul out heavy sandbags and position them around the garage’s entrance to keep the water out. The rain pounds down harder, and the wind howls through the trees, but the three of you work in tandem, your efforts synchronized.

“Grab that side,” Sean instructs, pointing to a particularly heavy bag. You and Daniel lift it together, your muscles straining but your determination unwavering. The storm’s fury outside seems to strengthen your resolve.

As you work, you notice Daniel’s hands shaking slightly, his eyes darting nervously at the storm outside. You exchange a concerned glance with Sean, who gives you a reassuring nod. 

Inside the garage, the three of you take shelter as the storm rages outside. The power outage leaves you in near darkness, save for the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the room. You find a few candles and light them, their warm glow creating a small island of light in the otherwise dark and stormy night.

Daniel huddles close to you and Sean, his fear evident. “I really hate storms,” he admits, his voice small. Poor Daniel you think to yourself. When you were a little kid you also always were scared of these kinds of storms, especially thunder used to give you the heebie-jeebies. 

Sean wraps an arm around his brother, pulling him close. “Hey, we’re safe here. The garage is sturdy, and we’ve done everything we can to keep the water out.”

You reach out, placing a comforting hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “Think of it as an adventure, it’s like we’re on a mission to save the garage from the storm! And we’re winning. We’re here together, and we’ll get through this.”

Daniel nods, trying to be brave. “Yeah, like a mission. We’ve got this.”

As the storm rages on, you all sit close, the howling wind and pounding rain a constant backdrop. To lighten the mood, you start sharing stories.

Trying to cheer Daniel up, you say, “I remember one time during a blackout, my friends and I made shadow puppets on the wall. It was silly, but it made us forget the storm outside.”

Daniel manages a small smile. “Maybe we should try that.”

Sean grins. “Why not? It might be fun.” He turns to you, a playful glint in his eye. “Got any good shadow puppet skills to show off?”

You laugh, glad for the distraction. “I might have a trick or two up my sleeve.”

As you and Sean make various shadow puppets on the wall, Daniel’s laughter gradually replaces his fear. The tension eases, and the storm outside becomes a distant worry. The living room feels less like a refuge from the storm and more like a sanctuary of shared strength. Hours pass in a blur of stories, games, and moments of quiet contemplation interrupted only by the storm’s relentless assault outside.

Eventually, exhaustion catches up with you all. Sean looks out the window, the storm still raging with no sign of letting up.

“I can’t let you drive back home in this storm,” he says, his voice carrying genuine concern. “It’s too dangerous out there right now.” You glance outside at the torrential rain and nod in agreement. “Yeah, it’s pretty wild out there. I don’t think I’d make it far.”

Sean nods thoughtfully, then stands up with determination. “I’ll set up the couch for you. It’s not much, but at least you’ll be dry and safe here.”

Grateful for his concern, you offer a faint smile. “Thanks, Sean. I appreciate it.”

He nods, his expression softening. “Of course. We’re all in this together.”

With careful steps to avoid the scattered tools and equipment, Sean clears a path to the couch in the living room. He pulls out a blanket and fluffs the pillows, creating a makeshift but comfortable spot for you to spend the night.

“There,” Sean says, gesturing toward the couch. “It’s not the four seasons, but it should do the job. Get some rest. We’ll figure things out in the morning.” As you settle onto the couch, Daniel stands nearby, looking a bit hesitant. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks, his voice tinged with concern.

You nod, giving him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine, Daniel. Thanks for asking.”

Sean ruffles Daniel’s hair affectionately. “Alright, bud. Time for bed. We’ve all had a long day.” Daniel reluctantly heads to his room, and Sean lingers for a moment, his gaze meeting yours. “Goodnight,” he says softly. “If you need anything, my room’s just down the hall.”

“Goodnight, Sean. And thanks again.”

Sean gives you a warm smile before heading to his own room, leaving you in the quiet and comfort of the living room. As you drift off to sleep, the storm’s roar outside gradually fades into a distant rumble, replaced by a sense of safety and gratitude for the unexpected refuge found in the midst of the tempest. Hours later, you’re jolted awake by a loud crash of thunder. Disoriented and groggy, you struggle to get your bearings. The room is dim, lit only by the flickering light of a candle. The storm outside is relentless, the wind howling like a wild beast, and the rain pounding against the windows in a chaotic symphony.

Suddenly, you hear the unmistakable sound of Daniel’s voice, filled with fear. ��Sean! Sean!” His voice is a high-pitched wail, cutting through the storm’s roar. You sit up, your heart racing, and see Daniel standing in the hallway, his small frame shaking visibly with fear.

Sean, ever vigilant, is instantly alert. He emerges from his room in a rush, his eyes wide with concern. “Daniel, it’s okay. It’s just a storm,” he says, wrapping his arms around Daniel in a protective hug. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

You rise from the couch, feeling a deep sense of empathy for the frightened boy. Moving to stand beside them, you gently place a hand on Daniel’s back. “Hey, Daniel,” you say softly, your voice calm and soothing. “We’re all here, and we’re all safe.”

The three of you move back to the living room, where the flickering candlelight casts long, comforting shadows on the walls. The storm’s rage seems slightly muted within the warm, dim glow. Sean guides Daniel to the couch, his arm still wrapped around his brother’s shoulders. You sit beside them, your presence a steadying force.

“I’m sorry,” Daniel whispers, his voice trembling as he looks up at you both. “I just… I got so scared.”

“It’s okay, buddy,” Sean murmurs, pulling him close and ruffling his hair gently. “Storms can be really scary. But we’re together, and that’s what matters.”

You nod in agreement, giving Daniel a reassuring smile. “Yeah, and we’re not going anywhere. We’ll stay right here until it’s over.”

Daniel looks up at you both, his fear slowly subsiding. “Can I stay with you guys?” he asks, his voice small but hopeful.

“Of course,” Sean says immediately, his voice firm and comforting. “We’ll all stay right here.”

The three of you huddle together on the couch, the storm’s fury raging outside but feeling less threatening with each passing minute. You start sharing stories again, trying to lighten the mood and distract Daniel from the storm. Sean tells a funny story about their old neighbor in Seattle who used to garden in his pajamas, making Daniel giggle despite himself.

You join in, sharing a silly memory from your own childhood, and soon the living room is filled with soft laughter. The candlelight dances across your faces, casting a warm glow that contrasts sharply with the storm’s cold, harsh presence outside. The howling wind and the thunder’s roar become background noise as you all focus on the stories and each other’s company.

As the night wears on, Daniel’s eyelids grow heavy, his fear slowly giving way to exhaustion. Sean wraps an arm around his brother, pulling him close, and you find yourself leaning against the armrest, feeling a sense of peace despite the storm outside.

“Remember that time we camped in the backyard, and the tent collapsed?” Sean asks, his voice soft and filled with nostalgia.

Daniel nods sleepily, a small smile on his face. “Yeah… you blamed it on a bear,” he mumbles, snuggling closer to Sean.

Sean chuckles. “It was probably just the wind. But you were so brave.”

You reach out and gently squeeze Daniel’s hand. “You’re brave now, too. Storms can be scary, but you’re handling it really well.”

Daniel looks up at you with sleepy eyes, his fear almost gone. “Thanks,” he whispers. “I feel better with you guys here.”

As the storm continues its relentless assault outside, exhaustion eventually overtakes you all. Sean, Daniel and you nestle together on the couch, finding warmth and safety in your closeness. The candle burns low, its light casting a gentle glow on your faces.

The last thing you hear before sleep claims you is the steady rhythm of rain against the windows, the wind’s howl gradually fading into the background. The warmth of the Diaz brothers by your side and the knowledge that you’re all in this together brings a deep sense of comfort and peace.

authors note: hihi i hope you guys liked this chapter, I mean whats a better way to get to know somebody than being locked up because of a huge storm right? anyway even though Daniel is already sixteen in this fic he will always be a little kid deep inside of my heart. I cant wait to continue this fic and I am excited to hear about your opinions.

[thevoicefromanotherworld]

"I CAN'T RESIST YOU"

Soooo here's THE fic with Friedrich Harding

I hope you like it! I think this fic is one of the best I've written in my entire life (been writting since 2018)

(Photo taken by me when I went to see Nosferatu to the cinema) ☝🖤

(ALSO, LOOK AT THE NEW DIVIDER I MAKE FOR MY FICS, I LOVE IT SM) 🖤😊☝

Every time he saw her, Friedrich reminded himself to behave like a gentleman, which he was, but because of her he found it too difficult to follow his refined English manners when she was in his presence.

Like right now, for example.

She was wearing a gorgeous, and visibly heavy, cinnamon-colored dress with slight touches of white.

Harding thought that at that moment, with her black hair spilling down her back so naturally, she looked like an angel who had just fallen from heaven.

Or a demon, ready to torture him. The funniest thing of all was that she didn't realize how much everything she did affected him, which only made Friedrich desire her more intensely.

Sometimes he found himself thinking about removing her heavy clothes, to find out if underneath it all she was the same version of herself that she showed to others.

In others, he recalled more selfless interactions, such as opening the door for him when he entered the house or leaving a glass of freshly made hot tea on the bedside table in his room.

Sira had been working as his maid for several months, although he did not like to call her that, but rather “housekeeper.”

The title of maid sounded too derogatory. She was in charge of keeping the house clean and tidy while he was at work or traveling on business.

The first time he saw her get out of the carriage, he believed that she was not sufficiently qualified to take care of a house of that size. As the weeks passed, he made sure to remind her that her suspicions were clearly wrong.

Friedrich had never seen such efficiency so well executed in such a short time, which is why he decided to renew her contract.

The months passed, the leaves of the trees fell, the branches came out again, and so on until winter arrived and with it the snowstorms.

Sira was stoking the fire in the living room fireplace when she heard the front door open.

She frowned and slowly looked up to where she had heard the creaking of the wood. Mr. Harding had told her that morning that he was leaving town on a business trip and would not be back for a week, so whoever had entered the house could not be him.

Afraid that it was burglars or something worse, she held the poker in her hands and slowly made her way to the front door. Her steps were slow but firm as she walked towards it, her gaze focused on the darkness that surrounded her.

When she arrived she noticed that the door was closed again, except that there was light in the room next to it, when she had not lit the candle.

She opened the door a crack and saw a figure sitting on the bed with his back to it, a suitcase in front of him. As soon as she recognized him, she tried to hide the poker behind the wide skirt of her dress.

-Sir, I thought you would be on a trip at this time- she murmured, thus announcing her presence-

Friedrich turned quickly with his hand resting on his heart, his blue eyes observing him for a few moments, before speaking.

-My God, you scared me!–he complained, closing the suitcase and placing it under the bed-

-I didn't mean to, sir –she apologized, lowering her head timidly- I… I saw a light in the room and thought there was an unexpected visitor

-I'm certainly unexpected –he said, sketching a half smile- my trip was scheduled for this afternoon, but the roads are flooded by snow –he explained- the horses can't travel normally, and the wheels of the carriage would freeze and slip –he murmured- I didn't want to take unnecessary risks, so I decided that the safest thing would be to go home and wait for the storm to subside

They looked at each other for a few moments, during which Friedrich could see how her cheeks blushed in the light of the candle.

-I'll make some tea - she announced, he nodded slowly-

-That would be very kind of you, Miss Dufresne - he replied kindly-

A few minutes later, Sira came back into the room to leave the cup on the nightstand beside him.

-Be careful, it's freshly made - she warned him not to drink it too quickly-

He nodded and took a soft sip before putting the cup back on the saucer.

-Just what I needed - he smiled - you always know what I need at all times - he added - that's why you've been the best housekeeper I've ever had - he said taking another sip-

-That's very kind of you sir, thank you - she murmured, grateful and embarrassed in equal parts-

He watched her for a moment before speaking.

-Since the snowfall will keep us inside for several days, I would like to ask you several questions, if it is not too bold of me, of course

-It is not, sir - she assured him - I will be happy to answer your questions

-Okay - he smiled kindly - you know you can call me by my name, right?

-Yes, but if I may be so bold, I don't think it's the right thing to do, sir- she repeated, and he looked at her curiously-

-For what reason?

That conversation was beginning to make her nervous.

His eyes shone in the candlelight, and Sira thought that he had never looked so handsome as at that moment.

She forced herself to concentrate and banish all those thoughts about her boss to a deep corner of her mind.

But how could she do that when he was looking at her like that? As if just by looking at her she could discover his darkest thoughts?

-I don't know, a matter of manners, I suppose- she answered, trying to avoid the subject-

-I see -he murmured, taking out his pack of cigarettes from inside his dark brown jacket

-Do you mind if I smoke?

-Not at all, go ahead - she invited, and after offering her one and her refusing it, he lit it-

The flames illuminated his face for a brief moment, before a wisp of white smoke came out from between his lips. He held it between his index and middle finger before speaking again.

-How do you feel about working for me? - he asked, she blinked a couple of times, a little dazed-

-I don't think I fully understand your question, sir - she answered, he took a couple more drags on the cigarette and put it out on the sole of his shoe, leaving it on the table next to his already finished cup of tea-

-I'd like you to tell me what balance you draw from all this - he explained - I'm not sure I'm a good boss

-I'm not continuing to work with you because you're a good boss, which you are - she pointed out - but because above all you're a good man, Friedrich - she finished with great effort-

He smiled before nodding his head in acceptance.

It was the first time she had called him by his name.

The problem was that now he wanted to hear her say it more often, and not in a civilized environment like this one.

No, he wanted to hear her moan his name while he buried himself so deep inside her that he wouldn't know where one ended and the other began.

More than once he had woken up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and with his pajama pants down to his knees, due to the dreams he had about her.

He wanted her so much that it was starting to consume him.

The snowstorm, despite being true, had been the perfect excuse for them to be alone. Friedrich thought it had been a sign from God.

He was the one who had caused the storm so that they could be together.

-I try to be - he answered, fixing his gaze on her delicately - although sometimes certain people don't make it easy for me

-In that case you should put them in their place - she answered, holding his gaze - let them know who is in charge

-Yes, maybe I will - he mused in a low voice-

The tension in the room could be cut with a knife.

They looked at each other for several minutes that seemed eternal, until he decided to make a move. He slightly opened his legs, and patted her right one gently.

-Come, sit down - he whispered, his voice was dangerously low and hoarse-

He gave her time to decide, but when he saw the gleam that took over her eyes, he knew she had already done so.

Slowly, she stood up and sat on his knee. Not knowing what to do, she just watched him, while he gathered a lock of hair behind her ear.

-You're so beautiful - he whispered, tracing the curve of her cheek with his finger - look at you - he asked, pointing at the mirror in front of them, his hands resting on her hips, making her back tense at the sudden touch - and you're all mine - he murmured, his masculine voice sending shivers throughout her body-

-Friedrich, I… - she paused for a moment, thinking of the right words - I've never…

-Shhh, it's okay, darling, we'll go slowly, I promise - he assured her - I won't do anything you don't want, okay?

Sira nodded, and he seconded the gesture with a reassuring smile.

-This dress seems too heavy - he whispered, placing his hands behind her back, where the strings of the garment were - May I?

Sira nodded slowly, feeling her cheeks warm up again. With delicacy and patience, Friedrich slowly undid the ties that covered her back, until she was left only with the white stockings and the corset, which pressed her breasts painfully.

They felt heavy and full, a sensation she had never experienced before. His blue eyes looked over her, taking his time, as if he wanted to memorize every part of her, every mole, spot and stretch mark.

She felt naked under his gaze, so she tried to cover herself by hugging herself.

He gently shook his head, before holding her hands in his to place them on either side of her body.

-Don't hide from me -he whispered, and the way he said it made Sira want to burst into tears-

-I… would understand if you didn't want to continue -she murmured, avoiding his gaze -I'm aware that I'm not perfect, and I don't want you to feel sorry for me, or feel obligated to do this…

-Look at me –he whispered kindly, holding her chin between his index finger and thumb- nobody is perfect, Sira –he began looking directly into her eyes- but it is precisely your imperfections that make you beautiful

-Do you really think so? –she asked fearfully-

-Would I be here if I didn't? –he countered, holding her gaze-

-I suppose not

-Your assumptions are correct –he whispered, running his thumb along her lower lip- Have you ever been kissed?

Unable to say it out loud, she shook her head. Friedrich thought how was it possible that she didn't have those experiences.

Whatever the case, he was glad to be her first. The mere thought of another man touching her like he was about to did made anger want to take control of his body.

-Okay - he said, holding her cheek gently - just let yourself go - he whispered, looking down at her lips - you don't know how long I've been wanting to do this

-Yes?

-Yes - he said - ever since I organized that party where you wore a dark purple dress, matching your lips - he said remembering the color she had painted them that night-

-It was the first time I wore makeup - she confessed - I thought I looked ridiculous

-Ridiculously beautiful, you mean - he corrected her - that night I was unable to look away from you, like now - he said bringing them back to the present-

They looked at each other for a moment and the next Harding's lips were on hers.

Sira closed her eyes at the sensation of his mouth moving slowly against hers.

She didn't know how to act, she didn't even know what she had to do, so she did what he had told her: she let herself go.

She moved her lips timidly against his, trying to match his movements. A sound of agreement escaped from between his lips, as she held his cheeks in her hands.

Sira gathered her courage and placed her arms around his neck, her fingers playing with the curls at the base of his neck.

Sira felt him gently hold her neck from behind, bringing her closer to him. The coldness of his rings made her shiver.

She noticed how he began to grow beneath her, which drew a broken moan from her.

-Friedrich…-she sighed, totally lost in the sensations he was giving her-

His kisses now moved to her neck, which he tilted to give her more access. When he heard her call him, he pulled away to look at her, his big blue eyes focused intensely on hers.

-What's wrong? Are you okay?–he asked, resting his hands on her hips-

-Yes, it's just that I… -she swallowed hard, her cheeks blushed making him smile- forget it, it's stupid…

-I don't believe it in the least –he whispered, searching her eyes with his gaze- say it, darling

-I need you to touch me –she confessed shyly, Harding's smile grew wider-

-Is that true? –he murmured, outlining with his fingers the curve of her lips while he lowered the skirt of her dress to the bottom- Where do you want me to touch you? –he asked, slowly lifting the skirt until he touched her underwear with his fingers-

Sira clung to his strong arms, feeling him so close to where no man had ever been before.

-I see –he observed, looking directly into her eyes- you are very wet, my love. That's good

-Is it?

-Yes -he said- it will hurt less this way

-Will it hurt?

-Just at first, I promise you- he reassured her connecting his gaze with hers- Do you trust me?

She nodded, at the same time that he got rid of his pants to slowly enter her. A scream escaped from Sira's lips, who dug her nails into Friedrich's shoulders.

He stopped, giving her time to adapt to his size, tears of pain and pleasure in equal parts ran down her cheeks.

-Honey -he whispered wiping them with his thumb- shhh, it's okay -he reassured her fixing his deep clear eyes on her- Are you okay?

-Yes it's just that… it hurts -she complained closing her eyes tightly, feeling it throbbing inside her-

-I know my love -he kissed her forehead- I know -he repeated kissing her lips fleetingly- Can I move? –he asked, she nodded nervously-

Sira felt him gently slide inside her, filling the space that no man had ever filled before. She closed her eyes tightly and threw her head back when he hit a certain spot that made her scream again

-So beautiful… -he murmured- you don't know how long I've wanted this moment to come –he growled, withdrawing to sink into her again- you have no idea… and now here you are, all mine

-Friedrich… -you moaned, tangling the wavy strands of his hair between your fingers, while pulling on them- please…

-Ask me, darling –he murmured, outlining a half-smile- be a good girl, and ask me properly –he ordered-

Sira was not able to form a coherent sentence at that moment, but she managed to say:

-Please Friedrich, sir –she corrected herself, he sketched a half-smile- I need… - a broken moan came out from between her lips when he curved his hips at an angle he hadn't done before- God –she murmured biting her lower lip- please…

-Okay, my love –he whispered- I'll give you what you need

A few seconds later they both unloaded against each other, which led to a string of moans and gasps from both of them.

Afterwards, while she was lying against his chest, she felt his hands holding her hips again, while he left kisses on the area of ​​her neck where her pulse was beating.

-Friedrich –she whispered- I'm very tired –she said kindly-

-I know –he murmured separating himself to look at you- sorry, I just can't resist you –he confessed before pulling her back against his chest-

[wholoveseggs]

I don't know if you've talked about this before, but what style of music do you think Elijah would like best?

I LOVE this question, and I have so much to say. I have two answers: one is what he probably listens to based on show canon, and the other is what I want him to like because I think it’s hot.

First, canonically: Elijah is absolutely a fan of classical and jazz. We see him playing the piano like the refined gentleman he is..Someone who has spent centuries honing his craft. I imagine him being a fan of the greats: Chopin, Beethoven, and Debussy for classical, and Duke Ellington or Miles Davis when it comes to jazz. It fits his old-world charm, his sense of elegance, and his love for structure and tradition.

But what I want him to secretly love? METAL

Picture this: it’s middle part menace Elijah in TVD Season 2. He’s sitting in a dark room, wearing one of his perfectly tailored dark suits, sipping some ridiculously expensive bourbon... with a goth girl (me) perched in his lap. And what’s playing in the background? Classic heavy metal or death metal. (This is my ultimate Elijah fantasy ~lol)

I feel like he’d have a preference for 90s/00s stuff (my favorite, hehe) Disturbed, Tool, Nine Inch Nails, maybe even a little System of a Down or Slipknot. The angrier and more intense, the better.

I also think Elijah would have a deep appreciation for the classics. Bands like Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, and Deep Purple. Their groundbreaking artistry and the way they shaped modern music would resonate with him, especially given his centuries of witnessing cultural evolution firsthand.

But 80s metal? Oh no. He’d probably find it far too disingenuous, with all the flashy hair and over-the-top theatrics.

This version of Elijah makes so much sense to me, especially in Season 2. This is a man who spent decades hunting Klaus. He’s angry. He’s violent. That calm and collected demeanor we see? That’s just the surface. Deep down, Elijah is full of rage, grief, and a relentless drive for justice.

And that’s why I think he’d relate to metal. It’s raw, it’s angry, it’s aggressive, but it’s also cathartic. The technical precision of bands like Tool or Metallica would appeal to his love of structure and mastery, while the sheer chaos of Slipknot or System of a Down would let him connect with the storm raging inside him.

I find something so hot about the idea of this super-refined, 1000+ year-old man who exudes elegance and control, secretly loving aggressive, chaotic music. It’s the perfect contradiction.

Here is my fantasy metal playlist for a goth girl who wants to ride Elijah (me):

Land of Confusion - Disturbed

Schism - Tool

The Hand that Feeds - Nine Inch Nails

Closer - Nine Inch Nails

BYOB - System of a Down

Whisper - Evanescence

Crawling - Linkin Park

🥵

[rusted-seas]

Dream Record #2 - Boothill

Synopsis- you meet the cowboy you can't stand while reuniting with your friends.

Tags- fluff, boothill acts like you're best friends while you can't stand him, affectionate boothill

wc- 1.3k

a/n- first boothill fic! i, contrary to how i wrote the reader, love this cowboy. he was my first lim 5* and carries me in game, lol. Again, not experienced with writing, please forgive any errors.

"Nice to see you, ___."

The trailblazer greeted you warmly. You had come to visit your friends on the Astral Express today. Upon entering, you see a gorgeous lady clad in white and a refined older gentleman chatting with who you presumed to be the conductor- you'd heard that Conductor Pom-Pom was a creature similar to a rabbit, nearly stuffed animal-esque, yet seeing such a small and adorable creature piloting a large train came as quite a shock.

"Ah! Is this your friend?" Spoke the lady in white. "It's nice to meet you! My name is Himeko, and this is Welt Yang." She gestured to the man standing next to her.

"Ah, nice to meet you, Miss Himeko and Mr. Yang, I'm ___." You politely greeted the two with a firm handshake. "I recently met the Trailblazer and the other two back on my home planet and thought it would be nice to visit this Astral Express I've heard so much about. It's quite impressive!"

"Of course it's impressive! The Astral Express carries the Nameless, after all!" The conductor stepped forward. Hearing them actually speak sent another shock through your mind.

"...And I suppose you are conductor Pom-Pom?"

"That's right! Why do you sound so confused?! Pom-Pom can easily run a train!"

The rabbit-doll conductor began to tell you off- something you'd later learned to be quite the normal occurrence around here. In the midst of your one-sided squabble, you hear a familiar voice call out to you.

"Well, fudge, guess who's here!"

Boothill casually slung an arm around your shoulder. Of course you just *had* to run into your least favorite cowboy in here of all places. "Ugh, hi, Boothill..." You scoffed, trying to inch out of his iron grip.

"Haha, funny seein' ya here, sweetheart. What brings ya here today?" The steel cowboy inquired.

"Well, I was here to visit my friends on the Astral Express when a certain cowboy decided to show up." You sighed at him, sick and tired of somehow meeting him everywhere you went. "Well fudge, ya don't gotta be so cold! An' here I was, all giddy to see my friend..."

A sharp reply nearly left your lips when you saw three people walking towards you. Finally, the Trailblazer, March 7th, and Dan Heng had finally come to save you...

"Hey, ___, you know him?" March 7th inquired. "Unfortunately, I do." You took the opening to slip away from Boothill, leaving him with a disappointed expression lingering on his face. "I've had the misfortune of seeing this cowboy everywhere I go for the past while, might have been a year or two at this point."

"It seems like you two get along well," Dan Heng interjected. You deadpanned at him, not knowing whether he was serious or not. "We were just talking before you got here, why don't you come sit down?" March offered, trying to alleviate the tension. "Yeah, let's go." The Trailblazer finally spoke, pulling on your arm.

You really thought they were trying to pull you away from Boothill, but no, you got sat next to the "fudging" cowboy. Well, no use running now, you'd just swat him if he tried to pull any punches.

"Soooo, ___, how've you been?"

"Would you like some coffee?"

"Our last stop was the planet of festivities, Penacony..."

It felt like you had been talking for hours when March stood up, stretched, and declared she was going to bed. After all, the Nameless crew- likely just meaning the Trailblazer and March- had an expedition planned for your home planet tomorrow! You bid March farewell, and soon after, Dan Heng went back to his room, leaving only you, the Trailblazer, and Boothill.

"Do you two want some tea or snacks? I have some new tea that I can go fetch..." You wanted to refuse so badly, just so you weren't left alone with this silly excuse for a man that was Boothill. Unfortunately, your stomach demanded otherwise, leaving you two alone in an uncomfortable silence. Boothill was playing some game on his phone while you stared at the wall.

"Hey, ___." Boothill called out in a voice barely above a mumble. You cocked an eyebrow at him, wondering what he was going to ask. "You don't really hate me, do you?"

You'd thought to yourself that you despised this man many times before, so why now were your words getting caught in your throat? Well, you've spent quite a bit of time with him, perhaps he's grown on you. You quietly sighed before answering in a barely audible tone, "No."

Boothill paused before a small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He'd never say it, but he was real happy that someone he quite liked didn't hate his metallic guts. "That's good."

He resumed playing the game on his phone. After a couple minutes passed with no sign of the Trailblazer, you leaned over to watch whatever Boothill was doing on his phone. "Ya interested in this here game? Well, lemme tell ya about it, it's been eatin' up my idle time like no one's business." You listened to him ramble about his new favourite game, somehow decently invested.

"And it'll never kill my phone! I've got a charging port built in and all, so I can charge my phone anytime." ...Would he ever quit yapping? You just listened to him, silently nodding, and after a good five minutes he finally took the hint and shut up, letting you watch him in peace. Seriously, where was the Trailblazer? Had they run into trouble? You decided to send them a text, not wanting to wander anywhere you shouldn't on the express. Perhaps, deep down, you didn't want to leave Boothill's side now, either.

You started to drift off when you felt a cold, hard hand gently grab your shoulder and pull you. Your head landed on Boothill's shoulder, which was not-so-surprisingly a semi-uncomfortable pillow. This time, you didn't smack him. You didn't scold him or jump up. You just laid on his shoulder, occasionally moving to snuggle into his side a bit. He chuckled, stroking your hair.

*Click.*

Of all times the Trailblazer could've shown up. They had taken a picture of you in this state, and to make it worse, March was right behind them.

"Ugh, okay you lovebirds, I regret getting back up." March stormed back to her room, trailblazer standing in the doorway, giggling. You jumped up and ran towards them. "Hey! It's not what it looks like, I can explain..." The Trailblazer only responded with a laugh, placing a bag of chips in your hand and telling you to sleep well for the expedition tomorrow. Resigning to your fate, you turned around and walked back to the couch.

Boothill's hat was jammed in front of his face, leaning down. Guess he was also about to die from embarrassment. You gently removed the hat from his grip, revealing his bright red face. "Hey, give that back, ya little muddle fudger!"

You two managed to forget your embarrassment for the time being and go to sleep. Boothill leaned back,one arm slung around the back of the sofa, the other cradling you as your head rested on his legs. Your sleep, although long and uninterrupted, was plagued with nightmares of your embarrassment.

In the morning, you grabbed your phone, seeing a message notification from earlier that night. The message was an image from the Trailblazer? You opened it, only to see the picture of you dozing off on Boothill's shoulder the previous night, and all your embarassment came flooding back.

Rather than shutting your phone off, you hesitated and saved the image before standing up and smiling at Boothill, watching the latter awaken to shoot that smile right back at you.

*Maybe he could be your favorite cowboy.*

[aiyexayen]

I promise im not a bot, and to prove it i'll ask for a hanzhou kiss 🥺 doesnt have to be wholesome, just whatever strikes your fancy

🥹❤️

The first time happens thoughtlessly, almost unintentionally.

Han Ying is 14 and not yet used to his limbs after his recent growth spurt. He didn't know he could have growth spurts before he had access to regular meals. But he can, and he is sure that's why he screwed up his assignment. Regardless of the reason, he is still responsible for ruining Tian Chuang's entire mission today.

And somehow, he has been forgiven. By a man with more mercy than Han Ying knows how to handle.

Anyone else, he is certain, would have thrown him back where he came from.

On his knees before Zhou-shouling, he finds himself too overcome for words of gratitude, reaching instead for the hand hanging idle at Zhou-shouling's side. He grips it in both of his. It's instinct; hasn't he seen so many servants do something like this when their masters bid them?

Han Ying's lips press into the soft skin for just a second before he feels Zhou-shouling's flinch. He looks up in time to catch confusion, smoothing into understanding and...things he doesn't quite recognise.

Qin-xiongdi tells him later, eyes dancing with mirth, that he should have pressed the hand to his forehead, not his mouth--except he shouldn't have done anything of the sort actually and he really has so much to learn about living in society, doesn't he?

Han Ying nods absently, because it's true, but he goes to bed with cheeks warm from the lingering memory of pressure on his lips and the untameable thoughts of a 14 year old mind.

The second time cannot be called an accident, mere months after the first. But neither is it calculated.

They are celebrating Zhou-shouling's twentieth birthday. Or rather, Zhou-shouling and Qin-xiongdi disappeared up to the palace early in the evening to celebrate and Han Ying has waited up alone for sounds of their return, vigilant, something he pretends is not yearning sitting heavy in the aching pit of his stomach.

When they do return it is...surprisingly loud.

Han Ying is very good at what he does, and still there are days when he cannot hear Zhou-shouling approach. The man is not just merciful, not just understanding and patient and full of barely-subdued humour, but also a refined gentleman, clever and skilled beyond measure.

So why is it that tonight Han Ying can hear not only Qin-xiongdi's clomping but Zhou-shouling next to him, stumbling?

He's out the door and down the hall in an instant, adrenaline pumpung, imagining the worst, imagining Zhou-shouling limping, covered in blood--

"'S Ying'er! What're yeu--you--out of bed! Doing! Hah!"

Han Ying stops in his tracks as a thoroughly wasted Zhou Zishu collapses against his hiccoughing, giggling shidi.

"Shixiong got--hc!--he got so drunk," Qin-xiongdi exclaims in the worst loud whisper Han Ying has ever heard. "Can you--hc!--believe it, Han Ying?--hc!"

Well, certainly he can, because it's right before him. What he can't really quite come to terms with is the fond, playful tone wrapped warmly around the unfamiliar Ying'er.

But when his two superiors almost fall over on their next step, Han Ying collects himself and steps in to relieve Qin-xiongdi of his task before he sends them both toppling to the ground.

"Shoul' get that boy some...that boy some more..." Zhou-shouling doesn't finish his thought, trailing off into a sigh as Qin-xiongdi leaves.

One hand grasping a limp arm, one hand firm on broad leather, it's quick work to get Zhou-shouling to his own rooms. But it's also so much closeness--too much for Han Ying to process: a head lolling onto his shoulder; hot breath at his neck and the smell of alcohol; warm weight against his side, so effortlessly trusting.

Ying'er.

Easier to slide under the mantle of duty and attentiveness than even acknowledge it as real, so in silence, he readies Zhou-shouling for bed; without Qin-xiongdi's energy, he seems content to simply drift.

Hydration--water droplets running down the corner of red lips, a strong chin--

Belt--hard leather hitting the floor, a quiet exhale of relief, a soft hum of contentment vibrating under his fingertips--

Boots--what if he slipped and touched that leg--what if he looked up from where he's kneeling and realised the position was just like--

Han Ying, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, tips Zhou-shouling over onto the bed and lifts his feet up to settle him properly. He's practically asleep already, his breathing deep and slow, stray hairs wisping around his cheeks.

Hands, resting easily across his middle. Han Ying lifts them up to tuck the blanket in under them. But perhaps he has tried too hard to not think at all tonight because as he goes to put them back down, determined to not notice Zhou-shouling's exposed neck, he finds himself ghosting his lips across cool fingertips.

What--what is he doing?! He freezes, drops Zhou-shouling's hands as though burnt, and looks up, breath caught.

But his shouling is still fast asleep. Fast asleep and drunk besides, his brain finally catches up and reminds him. Han Ying lets out his breath. He has no right to such intimacy, but he's been given a stay of execution tonight. He had better not waste it.

Carefully, he flees to his own room and doesn't think about anything else at all.

The third time...Han Ying cannot even guess how the third time comes to be.

He is young, and he strives to be good, to be the best. If not in skill than in obedience. It's no longer about debt, it's about loyalty.

But he is 15, going on 16, and even he cannot beat out of himself the independent streak that kept him alive on the streets all those years.

So he finds himself again on his knees, explaining his actions.

"You are right to tell me the truth the first time."

Who would dare try to lie to Zhou Zishu?

Something of his thoughts must show on Han Ying's downturned face because the man in question snorts lightly and adds, "Not all your fellows are as clever as you."

Han Ying keeps his head bowed, but tension drains from him; he would not be receiving such praise if he were seriously in trouble.

"Your actions are understandable, but not permitted," he is told. "I expect that the next time someone pushes you to the point of retaliation, I will not hear about it."

It takes a second for Han Ying to process the precise words he's hearing. But he cannot be mistaken; there is nobody more exact with his words than the exacting Zhou-shouling.

"Yes, Zhuangzhu," he ventures.

There's an unmistakable note of amusement when Zhou-zhuangzhu confirms, "Consider it your mission."

Permission, then. Permission to do whatever he wants, so long as he doesn't get caught. Han Ying didn't think he could adore him any more, but he does. Every day.

"Yes, Zhuangzhu."

"Come on, then."

And he looks up at last, but he does not see his zhuangzhu beckoning him to rise. Instead he stands directly in front of Han Ying, one hand slightly stretched toward him, palm still facing down. Han Ying furrows his brow.

"Zhuangzhu?"

"Don't tell me you suddenly don't know what to do," Zhou-zhuangzhu says, "Ying'er."

Certainly, he isn't...?

But there's a challenge behind his eyes, sparkling a bit, so similar to the way his shidi looks when he dares Han Ying to do something a bit reckless. Han Ying swallows, but reaches out his hands; he is not a coward.

He kisses Zhou-zhuangzhu's hand and as if they have done this a hundred--a thousand times before this, Zhou-zhuangzhu detaches himself with grace and waves Han Ying to stand.

"Very good. Go report for your chores."

Reeling, Han Ying does.

After that...after that, Han Ying has the great luxury to lose track. He belongs to Zhou Zishu in a way no other Tian Chuang operative does and he may not be one of the Siji Shanzhuang disciples, or even their disciples, but he is something, and there is rarely a time he finds himself on his knees that he is not allowed the privilege of that kiss.

He is 16 and sent to his knees with a sharp word after raising his voice to his zhuangzhu; his kiss is barely-there, ashamed and still prickling with discomfort, but no less sincere.

He is 17 and accepting his promotion; gratitude wells up in him and he allows it only to show in this gesture, determined to keep composure and make Zhou-zhuangzhu proud.

He is 18 and kneeling in spite of his broken leg, true failure heavy on his heart in a way he could not have imagined four years ago; he presses his bloody lips to a hand that he pretends is not ever-so-slightly trembling.

He is 19 and his heart stops in his chest every time he sees Zhou Zishu do, well, anything; he makes every excuse to kneel in his presence, for any reason, just so he can look up expectantly for the hand that is never denied.

He is 20 and letting his lips linger every time a bit longer, leaving these unspoken feelings in the sacred space between them--the only indulgence, he has realised, that either of them will ever allow.

He is 21 and Zhou-zhuangzhu has begun turning up drunk at his doorstep, not from any party he knows about; he leaves the kiss that is his by rights even on the nights Zhuangzhu is too far gone to notice.

He is 22 and no matter how severe Zhou-zhuangzhu gets, no matter how cold, he does not forget to give Han Ying his hand. He is 22 and gives Zhou-zhuangzhu the fullness of his fealty--as if there was ever any doubt he had it--and seals it in secret between them with the briefest of contact. He hopes it is not a greater burden than it is a tool.

He is 23 and Zhou Zishu is gone.

It is only then that Han Ying realises he lost count.

Each week that passes after that, he feels more and more bereft. It should seem silly, or stupid, that he misses something so ephemeral and ill-defined, but it's the most serious thing in the world. It never needed definition or explanation. And it was all he ever asked. All he wanted: to be allowed to cherish, even if not to be cherished in return.

He doesn't shirk his duty, but he loses all trace of satisfaction in it and there is a permanent tension between his shoulders that takes up residence and will not go.

But the worst is yet to happen, because the worst possible thing is the day he finds Zhou Zishu in the forest, heart full of relief and far too much else. Han Ying kneels on the rough ground, strung taut like a bow, and Zhou-zhuangzhu...pulls him to his feet.

And again, even when his companion has left them to their own devices.

And a third time, in Han Ying's own room.

For the first time in almost a decade, he didn't dare touch his drunk zhuangzhu more than necessary to lay him down in bed.

And then Zhou Zishu walks away from every declaration Han Ying frantically tries to make verbal, leaves him there drowning in the void between them.

That could have been the end of it. If it weren't for a collective display of quick thinking and good timing, it would have been; Han Ying is not easily deterred once he has set his mind on something. Not even when faced with the price tag of his own life.

Zhou Zishu should have known that, he thinks, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking down at his...his Han Ying, whatever else he is to him now. It's not fair that he looks so peaceful in his healing slumber when Zhou Zishu is sure his own pulse still hasn't slowed from the clawing panic underneath his skin these past few terrible, frenetic days.

Wu Xi assured him that the little fool will be fine, and should wake any time now. Zishu is reluctant to leave his side before then. Which is convenient, because Wen Kexing of all people has snubbed him, refusing to have a civil conversation until he's "done right by Ying'er" and refusing to even let him at their own disciple.

What the hell did Wen Kexing get out of Han Ying when he was dying, anyway?

It doesn't matter. What matters is that he didn't die.

Zishu perhaps deserves whatever passing ire Lao Wen wants to throw him on behalf of Han Ying who is too...Han Ying to do it himself.

Curling his hand around the still one at rest, reassuring himself of its continued warmth, Zishu watches the blanket rise and fall steadily in the afternoon sunlight.

Perhaps Han Ying was foolish, but if the servant is a fool than the master is bound to be a bigger one. And he was an absolute fool to send him away, to think that if he just tried hard enough, he could truly push Han Ying out of his life and into his own, somewhere off the road to hell. He was a fool to think Han Ying wouldn't just throw himself down that path all the harder. He would burn himself out like a star for Zishu at a moment's notice, even if he believed Zishu didn't care about him at all anymore.

What would Zishu do, if their roles were reversed?

What hasn't he threatened to do for Lao Wen, for Chengling? What hasn't he already done in this life?

For the one who has never so much as faltered a single step, no matter where Zishu led? For the one who tempted him longer than he ever should have allowed? For the one he can rely on at the worst of himself? He knows the answer already.

Han Ying shifts, just slightly, but Zishu can feel the movement ripple on the bed and he is prepared for the groggy, "...Zhuangzhu?"

He has had long enough to contemplate his response.

He lifts Han Ying's hand in his own and without preamble presses a kiss directly to the back of it, holding it through Han Ying's flinch and sharp indrawn breath. Han Ying's other hand is raised as if to do something and he takes advantage of it, drawing that one in for its own display of affection.

Through it all he keeps eye contact, watching the journey of Han Ying's face--mouth open just slightly, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and then narrow, calculating too much on a mind too fresh from sleep.

"I owe you two, Ying'er," Zishu offers simply.

Han Ying's face is red but he's always been a bit quicker than Zishu expects. "I don't get anything for almost dying?" he manages with a hoarse voice.

Zishu snorts. "No. You know well that I don't reward such folly." Then before Han Ying can get comfortable, he leans in closer, lets his gaze flicker down and back up with intention. Waits for the exact moment he sees the disbelief register and says, "But this is for waking up."

It's probably a reckless, ridiculous thing to do, ducking in to set his mouth against Han Ying's and forever changing something that nobody asked to be changed. But Zishu's life is full of reckless, ridiculous things now, and he can hardly claim it's the worst he's ever done. It doesn't even rank in the top fifty. He kisses him firmly, unapologetic, freeing his hands to cup Han Ying's face between them.

He doesn't stop until Han Ying no longer tastes of salt. He pulls back, hands dropping to cover the ones tangled desperately in the front of Zishu's robes.

Nonsensically, Han Ying mutters, eyes closed, "One."

[hypostatic-oath]

I've the post about how you think comps would work and we are allow to ask. Assuming I read that right.

And if so, I was wonder if you had any thoughts on how Dehya, Zhongli, Ei or Nahdia team would interact. Especially when I often joke she the bodyguards to three Archons, even if she doesn't know Zhongli was a former Archon it still funny to me.

DEHYA MY BELOVED-

I can see her being very proud of being Nahida's bodyguard. That one is obvious right off the bat, those two would absolutely adore each other.

Dehiya is thankful for the old consultant on her team. There is something odd about the man, always in those heavy robes that cover his full body - she has no doubt that out of all of them, he'd have the hardest time in the desert. And yet, the refined gentleman never seems to issue a complaint.

They've developed a kinship, she figures, of being the two mortals sided by two gods. Dehiya assumes he is the one meant to watch over the Electro Archon, just as she is the protector of Lesser Lord Kusanali. His shield is nearly impenetrable, and he is rarely ever startled... to her, it makes sense why you'd chosen him to be Eternity's guardian, even though the man hails from Liyue and not Inazuma.

They get along well, too - Ei seems to hold as much respect for him as he does for her, and the two converse with an ease that highlights the consultant's old age.

As for Nahida, she is slightly nervous. It is true that with Dehiya as her protector, and Rex Lapis raisong those shields of his, nothing will ever harm her. But she is still aprehensive to speak to the other two Archons - it has been a long time, and she has no idea how to introduce herself. She wonders if you'll give them time to play hopscotch together sometime amidst your exploration.

When you name Dehiya as the "Archons' Bodyguard", Ei is curious. She has fought for her entire life. Her skills are unparallelled. Why would she need a bodyguard? She's asked Morax about it, confused. Did you think she was weak? The old dragon had only laughed and said it was probably some sort of term of endearment - that Dehiya had been a bodyguard by trade before. Nevertheless, Ei was still curious about the woman's skill. Whenever you're logged off, the two can be found sparring. Both of them appreciate the opportunity to train.

During these times, the God of Wisdom sits next to the funeral consultant. Though reluctant at firstn their conversation ends up flowing. It is widely known that Zhongli likes to talk, and Buer, if given the chance and the encouragement to do so, will ramble about almost any topic. They have you to thank for placing them together in a team - they've become fast friends, and Nahida feels much more confident about approaching the rest of the Archons.

As for Ei and Nahida, it is almost the opposite. Both have been isolated for far too long, and neither knows how to start. The Raiden Shogun is an intimidating god, and her silence makes Nahida wonder if the ruler of Inazuma would even care to speak to her. As for Ei, she simply enjoys that Nahida has chosen to sit beside her, unaware of the God of Dendro's struggle as they both sit in silence. They eventually bond over their shared love for sweets, and as they grow closer, Nahida's worries diminish. It is not that Ei looks down on her - the Shogun is simply just as bad at interacting with new people as she is, or perhaps even worse. Kusanali is instilled with newfound resolve - she will share with the Electro Archon all that she's learnt from you and the Traveler when it comes to talking to others!

After months of traveling together, of being guided by you all across Teyvat, Dehiya has begun to suspect that there might be something odd about one of her travel companions.

You've named her the Archons' Bodyguard - Archons, plural - so what is Zhongli's role? The more she learns about the Shogun, the more she wonders why the Electro Archon would even need a bodyguard, let alone two.

Plus, the man's occupation makes no sense whatsoever. How does a funeral consultant learn to fight like that? He wears gloves, so she cannot thell whether his hands are calloused, but she's willing to wager they might be - he swings his polearm with an ease that tells her he is an experienced fighter. His dominion over his element is astonishing, and there is something... off, about how both her Archon and the Shogun talk to and about him.

Maybe one day one of them will slip off and call him Morax in front of her. Or maybe one day you'll tell her who he is. Either way, Zhongli drfinitely won't open up - both to preserve his secret identity, and because he knows that Dehiya finds comfort in the notion that she's not the only mortal among them.