#i don't know. i have a really difficult time with processing this shit

[lexicorp]

Exactly^^

So much of these sorta things are incredibly nuanced, and not so clearly cut. (And the thing that can be even more frustrating in the fandom is when they apply the grey area redemption experience opportunity to one but not the other in the fucked up cycle- especially if it's the initial abuser who gets it, like that's so indicative of bullshit like that irl)

Getting that exposure to people who don't coincide with that narrowed lens of perception that isolation tactics very often present when someone is manipulated and other abuse--is just so important to improvement/recovery. Because it breaks that warped reality to affirm that the generalized negatively isn't accurate. That there are people like Arcane and Optimus. Because it's just so easy to get it stuck in your head in this suffocating string of memories that leads to assumptions and anxiety that invoke those things like "I can't say this because they'll think I'm weak/stupid, or it won't matter anyway to say it so what's the point?" iiiiiiit sucks.

I love your points analyzing the Starcane lore cuz it's just so fascinating the dichotomy of him recognizing in part that she's safe (thus engaging in "dangerous behavior" he'd avoid with Megatron), while /still/ being battle ready at any little sign of a threat between them. And how all the intricacies psychologically are processed are so fascinatingly fragged up- cuz it's so hard to break that cycle, and you need someone really patient there for it.

And that is really what I love about writing this sorta stuff is that even if there are so many bad ending situations irl where the person isn't able to get better, where they perpetually self destruct no matter what anyone does, we can seize that control to create the good ending to give that hope that the struggle is possible to get through. Which is why I want a canon focus on Starscream lore approached like this so damn bad.

Also man the thing of someone who you know talks shit coming up being all fake niceties is so dang triggering. Honestly that flavor of reaction is Star and IDW redeemed Megs to me, cuz like--

The salt and just instinctual reflex built upon past disaster is just so palpable

I love the note on "But once the storm calms, everyone's hurt", cuz damn does it encapsulate it all so well. No one ever really wins.

And honestly, I def feel that inclination to exploring the family dynamics a bunch, even if, or especially if, we ain't gonna touch it irl. Cuz approaching things fictionally, is far easier to process, far safer. Least that's what I've found. Hell, the majority of any of my social competency has been built on analysis and research/observations of fictional characters (or true crime-).

And man, those contrasting concepts of seeing the kids as warriors and having that urge to raise them to "be like him" (born a lot from thinking they need to be tough and drawing from how he was made to be so), while also having that underlying knowledge that it was fragged up, and that he doesn't want them to go through what he did. That is just one example of all the types of ways that can create those internal conflicts and confusions that in turn lead to lashing out in different ways, because most of the time it's hella hard to put our feelings and motivations into words, and even more difficult to be sure the answers we give are actually correct. Cuz boy to we know that Decepticon lies to himself- and it's all about feeling in control

Then the doge vs cat struggles geez it rlly just does just come out so much in those moments of frustration. And that regret and reflection on it afterward is something that's just so much /ow/ and guilt and yet, our brains are gonna have the reflex come out yet again when triggered. Its often navigating the aftermath of the inevitable I find is what rlly needs to be shown. Cuz preventative strategies are all great in theory, but for those times when you can't catch it, or don't hear it until after it comes out, what then? And when emotions are really fragging hard already, that part feels impossible.

[Star too having that thought towards Arcane and the kids or Optimus that they're weak/vulnerable and the "I can take advantage of that" controlling nature is so where the spiral falling into the cycle starts. Cuz the want to be on top after having been on the bottom is so real. Its just like that thing of wanting to get them back or eye for an eye of seeking satisfaction/release from the pent up frustration. And even feeling justified mirror behavior cuz the other person got away with it.]

i need to see more starop where starscream is having trouble breaking the cycle, so he falls back into his old habits.

one of the most difficult parts about breaking the cycle of abuse is trying your hardest to not repeat the behaviors your abuser imprinted on to you. speaking from experience, it can be very hard when you enter a healthy relationship and find yourself thinking like your abuser.

so imagine, starscream finally joins the autobots. by some unfortunate circumstance, they lose an important battle. optimus encourages his team, but privately, he retreats to somewhere isolated to think. starscream finds him and asks what he's doing.

when optimus admits that he's disappointed in himself for not doing the best he could on the battlefield, starscream finds himself scoffing. "well, maybe we wouldn't be in the position if you'd done a better job to begin with," he grumbles, his voice slowly escalating. "i thought you were supposed to be some great leader. or is your reputation all a myth? because of you, now the decepticons have the advantage, and we're one step closer to losing this war!" outraged that optimus hasn't said anything, he shouts, "are you even listening to me, prime?!"

when optimus turns his helm to look up, starscream is spooked by what he sees. he doesn't see the face of someone about to drop to his knees and beg for mercy. instead, the look in his normally lively blue optics can best be described as haunted, almost dead, but clinging onto the last shreds of life.

the realization hits starscream like enemy fire. his voice box shorts out as he trips over his own words, trying to take them back. one thought comes to mind, and he knows optimus is thinking it, too.

i sound like megatron.

[nitpick7]

okay so i just caught up on uu finally and i have become somehow even less normal about parrot. specifically about how he is incapable of working in a team anymore. and i. i'm sure someone has pointed this out before but i can't stop talking about it so

okay his first video was mostly him on his own but he was not at all opposed to teaming. he actually actively tried to get people to work with him. he would do shit alone if he had to and still always believed he was right, but he was reasonably quick to trust people and more than willing to team if he could. not at all... whatever he is now.

second video is wifies we all know how that went

they are dating

how is parfies actually not canon i'm. they're so.

anyway, importantly, parrot can always trust wifies 100% of the time from now on. except when they break up but like we'll get there ok

okay hold on this is a long post sorry i am hiding the rest under the cut

then wifies chunkban uhoh!!! parrot tries to break wifies out alone because he's gay and stupid but when that doesn't work he immediately tries to assemble a team. it's specifically people he knows he can trust on this mission, but still. he recruits people, breaks them out of prisons, trusts them to help in the process. and it works. this is important. the team works. (a couple people don't want to join and fantst chunkbans himself, but the team works.)

then we have the brief (two 3 hour long videos) interlude where he's getting hunted down by clownpierce and i haven't actually rewatched that bit so i don't really have thoughts about it? but. there's the reverse prison bit. where his team is supposed to protect him but they just leave him there to die the moment it gets difficult. wifies is the only one who sticks by him because again, they're gay. but parrot lets himself get used as bait for this trap and the team essentially betrays him. he puts his trust in them and they break it. this is important actually.

i remember more of this bit than i thought

parrot almost kills branzy. that's probably relevant but i haven't quite figured out why yet. probably something about wifies. it's always something about wifies.

then we get proton. i love proton i think i've actually rewatched it twice?? proton is one of the last instances of parrot successfully executing a plan as part of a team. even then, it's rocky. ken almost betrays, egg is missing, they don't have enough elytra, they have to leave ken behind. proton barely works.

parrot's abnormal amounts of trust issues and paranoia lead him to Thousands (Millions? I Forgor) Of Blocks Out In The End. end civ! does not fucking work. it all falls apart and people are trying to tear it apart the whole time anyway. they put in so much effort for nothing. also they know about invis mafia now soooooo that does not help anything

mining civ or whatever?? uh???? look i was Not paying attention during that one i think i was literally dying my hair and told my irl (who was watching with me) to tell me if anything important happened while i wasn't looking.

important part is that luigi fucking died. parrot keeps caring about people and terrible things keep happening to them. aha

BUT THEN THE SEARCH FOR FARLANDS CIV AND THAT'S WHERE EVERYTHING STARTS REALLY FALLING APART

wifies not wanting to trust dean really fucks with parrot i think. because these are the two people he cares the most about and they do not seem to want to cooperate ever. wifies is actually weirdly sus for the entire video, i remember that. wifies and dean both. but parrot wants to trust dean. he really wants to. so he ignores wifies warnings until it is far too late.

dean betrays them and i think that shattered parrot's ability to fully trust anyone ever again. he leaves wifies behind and everything. he is having a certified Horrible Time.

actual farlands civ is. bad. bad for parrot. very. it gives him a reason to not trust teams anymore. like yeah he has to be the main character of divergent or something and Unite The Farmers And Warriors! but every single one of the warriors is stupid and they keep sending him out on suicide missions. parrot thinks he's better than them, that his plans are better than theirs, and he's right. this does not help any issues. he's completely right, in this situation, to be paranoid and untrusting and to go against their plans. and then they try to kill him about it so that does NOT help.

and i didn't even MENTION horace. how horace didn't even want to let parrot join because parrot keeps getting horace's builds blown up. how horace said that to his face. how that just contributed to parrot thinking that everything he touches will fall apart.

first war and doomsday uh um. yeah. district 13... doesn't go well. farlands civ also didn't go well but we've been over that. district 13 is what matters here.

the moment things start going wrong, everyone leaves him. parrot places his trust in spoke for one second and spoke doesn't deliver on his promise to find the stasis chambers and every single person leaves him for the mafia. (except wifies. wifies is always the exception.)

ok chat i have to go to bed i'll finish this in the morning (let's see if i leave this in. probably will.)

i'm back. wow i left off at such a moment.

wifies fucking dies.

the one person parrot could always trust. the one person who always had his back. the one person parrot could work with. did they have a perfect relationship? not by any means. but they trusted each other. and wifies died for him. and it's really like the second time this has happened because the chunkban was essentially the same thing, but this time parrot can't do anything about it. he can't save wifies this time.

and yeah he... sort of manages to work with wemmbu, spoke, and co. to take down the mafia. but he mostly just leaves that to them.

parrot's first season 2 episode fucking destroyed me as a person 😁

it's the culmination of everything that has ever gone wrong. all this shit has been happening to him; friends dying, teammates betraying, having to leave people behind, teams falling apart. and now every person that has supported him thus far is gone. not just gone, dead. any semblance of a support system he once had is shattered.

and parrot's never been good at... listening to people, valuing other opinions, admitting when he's wrong, caring about people (especially in a non destructive way), trusting anyone. wifies was the only thing keeping him in check. (we all know how dysfunctional their relationship is and this is the one moment i will admit that part of canon is real. i prefer to pretend parfies is good and happy fjgshbshs)

so now wifies is gone and parrot just goes. fully solo. he's on his batman arc or something he works alone he does not need anyone he can do everything on his own. he's just full paranoia and distrusting everything. that chest that detects when people enter his base was fucking insane he's so far gone at this point

and then leo. leo and co. show up and save parrot and make him join their team, they give him a room, they make him feel valued... and in standard main character fashion, parrot doesn't know how to deal with that. he doesn't know how to let people care about him, he doesn't want to because only bad things ever happen to the people he's close to.

he self destructs so bad. like yeah going behind their backs to modify the trap is pretty bad but to be fair he thinks he's doing the right thing there. he just is currently incapable of trust so he doesn't tell anyone and it makes everything go to shit, which gives him more reasons to think he can't trust anyone else to be competent... but that's not the worst of it

bat gets mad at him, justifiably, but parrot is so fucking deep in his paranoia and untrusting behavior that he just fucking. shuts them out. he doesn't even remotely realize why his actions were wrong and instead thinks that bat are in the wrong here. they try to contact him and instead he breaks his inbox and shuts the blinds on his room.

side note, the shot of just his room covered in lava is really sad but also kind of hilarious i keep thinking about it

at this point the only thing that can make parrot come back to his senses (well. that implies he ever had them.) is a miracle. and this miracle comes in the form of itz trying to kill him. because parrot CANNOT HAVE NICE THINGS??????

but unfortunately this is like the only thing that could fix him at this point. he needs to see that he cannot work alone. he keeps trying to work alone and then people (rightfully) don't let him but then he gets all "ugh it would've gone better if you weren't here" because he's stupid, but no one can disprove that idea because they never let him be alone in stuff. so itz attacking him while he's completely alone in the base is exactly what he needed.

i'm never gonna be normal about parrot trapped alone in a box he put himself in, less than 10 blocks from escaping the airlock, even fewer from dying to itz, whispering a plea for help.

he realizes he can't do this shit alone. and he doesn't have to. because jumper's spies saw his situation and called for backup, and derapchu gets him out and then all of bat shows up and now parrot knows that he needs them, but more importantly that they are always there for him.

ignore his third episode it is not real and cannot hurt me

okay his second s2 episode though?? with mr cube hunting him down??? parrot and derap's friendship means so much to me. where's that fucking quote... "if you want people to see you differently, you have to see yourself differently." it means so much to me. parrot is making connections and forming relationships again, he's trusting and helping people and it's just. so incredible.

parrot's third episode is not real and cannot hurt me.

(... although the fact that parrot is at all willing to trust jumper after everyone tried to kill him, and after she sort of betrayed him once, is crazy. the old parrot would've immediately given up on bat after that, but this time he's actually trying to prove himself to them and get back on the team.)

(also parchu friendship is so good, derapchu was so obviously not on board with killing parrot for the entire video, they mean so much to me)

so like. parrot's never been good at trust. or teams. but he's clearly making an active effort to be better now. he's still very much not perfect, but he's better.

okay yeah that is um. about all. ahahahahahhahaha yeah parrot's season 2 so far has destroyed me i'm kind of insane about it. if you made it to the end of my incomprehensible ramble i love you thank you and you are awesome

[elytrafemme]

(kinda gets 18+ in tags srry. i never know how/where to talk abt it) and honestly it's never like i can pull up and talk about like, emotional abuse either. or like atmospheric triggers and shit. because talking about any of that is hard. but it's specifically fucking impossible to ever talk about sexual trauma to anybody ever, which is fucked because like... i'm trying and i'm doing good at it, i'm proud of myself, but it's so like. idk. when something dominates your entire life for an incredible critical five years of your life and entirely transforms how you approach anything it's like... i don't actually know how to express any of this at all. and i guess it's sometimes hard for people to get it. i dunno.

[fidius]

You know how sometimes the stupidest shit will be happening and you'll suddenly understand something people have been telling you for years?

So yeah (because I have this theory that Cyndi Lauper is awesome enough to redeem even obvious mistakes) I was watching Life with Mikey and this line (and a great read my MJF doing some heavy lifting in a waste of film even Nathan Lane is kinda phoning in) came out and I had to pause the movie and tell you about it. Because that's it, right? That's the other side of the glass that rescues us all from

[sirfrogsworth]

Do you remember that Aussie sword guy who used to talk about medieval weapons?

And, like, he seemed pretty good at talking about swords and shit. He seemed to have a good grasp of the history and tactics. He'd analyze movie weapons for their realism and that was fun. He did demonstrations with real weapons. For a time I really looked forward to his videos popping up in my feed.

He seemed like a harmless sword-fighting aficionado.

But then I guess he wanted to spread his wings. So he started down an anti-woke path. Giving questionable critiques about media and feminism. He started defending boob armor by showing historical examples even though most of those were decorative and not battle ready like in the games.

Then he admitted he was a fan of The Daily Wire.

And that was disappointing.

I missed him nerding out about swords, ya know?

Well, Shad decided to spread his wings again.

He has become...

*bad French accent* An artiste.

You see, he types words into a little box. Then a little robot does a google image search and steals a bunch of art. Then that robot reconfigures that art to be nearly indistinguishable from the source material. Well... aside from the occasional artist watermark.

Whoops!

A.I. art is very difficult. Sometimes when you type words into the box you get a woman with 5 lopsided anime tiddies. Or 20 fingers on one hand. It takes time and effort and experience to type in the perfect magic words so that you get something close to your imagination that doesn't belong in some sort of Lovecraftian horror ripoff.

For example, check out this cool "pirate hat" I asked A.I. to place on my head.

Clearly, I am not skilled enough at typing words into a box to get a proper pirate hat.

It. Is. Not. Easy.

I heard someone say you have to type things in a box for 10,000 hours before you start getting truly masterful generations.

I mean, you can't type "marathon runners" and expect that to actually work.

THIS REQUIRES SKILL, PEOPLE.

And I am a lowly amateur. I can only dream of becoming the box-typist Shad has honed himself into.

The thing is... Shad is very upset.

He is upset that you don't like his "art" and he is ready to die on this hill.

So... before he croaks on a mound of bullshit, he has something to show you. He has created something truly brilliant and when you see it, he is convinced you will validate his considerable efforts.

Before I show you his "Not. Easy." artistic masterpiece I'd like you to sit with what he has said for a second.

Ruminate in the verbiage.

Process the ideas and points of view presented.

Digest his plea for you to accept and love his hard won battle after typing words into a box to manifest his imaginings.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Have you sat?

Ruminated?

Processed?

Digested?

Okay, here it is...

[solelifauna]

So this NOT to imply the writing is bad

But so far the Batfam fic as me genuinely shaking in anger , the fact that dick is convinced that y/n as to prove herself to be "worthy" genuinely got to me to the point I need a pallete cleanser

Could we please get a small drabble of reader growing close with one of the "outside" batfam members?

Like maybe Kate(batwoman) and Luke (batwing) because they are under used

Or hell, maybe to really grind the family gears, reader gets close to azrael

(you know Bruce would've able to do shit if reader got close with Kate, she would fucking eat him alive)

Hey, You're all good bro! I also just want to put out that my fic is based on an au! The portrayals of any characters in my fic are based off of their canon and fanon counterparts, just with my own twist. Since this is a darker universe/au, the Bats along with other heroes are going to be a lot more brutal and jaded.

Also love your idea bro. But, I'll do you one better. Constantine. Bruce absolutely can't stand him and the reader being friends with/getting along with him? Oh, that's bound to grind Bruce's gears. It would also be easier to meet Constantine too.

Let's just say one day the reader gets caught up in some Justice League Dark stuff that Constantine is trying to solve. She gets kidnapped by a cult that wants to use her as a sacrifice. I mean, she is a pretty huge target, being the daughter of a Billionaire after all. Anyways, shes kidnapped, nobody is coming to get her, not from her family at least. Long story short, Constantine arrives too late to stop the ritual, but things don't go according to plan for the cultists anyway. Turns out that the person sacrificed wouldn't be killed, but would instead become a vessel.

Great, now you have some old, eldrich being living rent-free in your mind. The being is old, donning the title "Keeper of Hell", but you'll just call it (they? him? her?), Adam. Yeah, Adam wasn't too happy with the name. When Constantine arrives, however, hes pleasantly surprised to find you alive. When he realizes that you, a 15-year-old, now carry the presence and power of an eldritch being older than Gotham itself, he groans while lighting up a cigarette. Looks like he'd have to deal with you now.

He checks over you making sure you have no internal and external injuries before explaining your situation. He feels a little sorry for you, but he is in no condition to train you. He asks around to other JL dark members, hoping to see if anyone is willing to help you control your new powers. He sighs again when nobody steps up to the plate, too busy with their own sidekicks and quests.

Reluctantly, he tells you he'd help you figure stuff out. And there begins the blossoming of the amazing "Grumpy old man and kid they didn't ask for" troupe. When you tell Constantine your name, he blanks, because of course he gets stuck with one of the bat's kids. However, based on your tone of voice when discussing your family (and the way you begged him not to let Bruce/Batman know of your predicament), he's guessing things aren't all too great between you all. Well, thats not his problem, his only job was to train you and make sure you don't end up accidentally killing someone.

Yeah...like that thought process is going to last. Training sessions start out bleak and professional, he's only doing a job. Then as time continues, he finds himself enjoying your company, your enthusiasm to learn and your rambunctious/sarcastic comebacks always have him fighting off a smile. It's been a while since he's had company like this. Soon, you're both going out on missions, and then ice cream breaks afterward. He lets you fall asleep on his shoulder, drooling all over his trench coat after particularly difficult missions and he can't bring himself to mind.

He's fond of you, although he never admits it out loud. It's okay though, because even though he's never said it out loud, his actions speak louder than words. You could feel his love and pride for you. Although he wasn't exactly your dad per se, he was still something to you, maybe the wine uncle? You don't know, and you don't particularly care to put a label on what Constantine was to you, you're just glad that he's there.

Shit hits the fan, however, when one day you decide to go on a solo mission. It's nothing crazy, just getting rid of some poltergeists and low-level demons and shades. Now, were you given permission to go on this mission alone? No, but in a normal teenage manner, you decide to go anyway. Everything was fine, you got rid of all the poltergeists in the area and even some of the shades too! It's all going well until you realize that the demon mentioned before was not as weak as you were told. You gulped when its blood red eyes turned to you.

"Well shit." Constantine was going to kill you.

It immediately lunges at you, you barely rolling out of its sharp claws. You hit it with a couple of spells, causing the demon to roar out in pain, burn marks now littering its side. Its tail whips at you, colliding with your stomach as you fly into a wall with a loud thud. You groan as you pick yourself up, clutching your ribs, each breath a jagged pain that ripples through your chest. Your arm is slick with blood, the gashes from the demon's claws burning as if its very essence were trying to sear your flesh. You grit your teeth and weave another spell, calling on Adam’s power to knock the demon back. This time, a burst of raw energy slams into it, shattering its leg with a sickening crack.

For a brief moment, you think it's over, ready to strike the final blow. But the demon’s leg snaps back into place, bone and flesh knitting together as if the injury had never happened.

“Of course,” you mutter under your breath. “Why would this be easy?”

The demon lunges again, and you’re just a split second too slow. Burning pain flares through your right arm as its claws tear into you, ripping through your flesh like paper. You scream, the sound involuntary, but you push through the pain, refusing to go down without a fight.

Drawing back, you unleash another spell, a sharp projectile of energy aimed at its neck. The demon flinches, letting out a low growl. That reaction—panic—gives you the first glimmer of hope. Its neck. That's its weak spot.

With renewed determination, you gather every ounce of strength you have left. The cuts across your body throb, and your arm feels like it’s on fire, but you push it all aside. You can do this. You have to do this.

You unleash a volley of cutting spells, each one aimed at the demon’s throat. It fights back viciously, throwing you around the room with a strength that makes your vision blur. Every hit you take feels like your bones are splintering, but you keep going. You keep attacking.

Finally, one of your spells strikes true.

The demon lets out a gurgling screech as your spell cuts deep into its neck. Blood—thick and dark—pours from the wound, and it claws at its own throat, choking. Its body spasms violently, and then, as if collapsing in on itself, it begins to disintegrate. In a few seconds, all that’s left is dust.

You stand there, panting, barely able to process the fact that you did it. You won. A grin spreads across your face, and despite the pain radiating from every part of your body, you let out a weak cheer.

But the celebration is short-lived.

Pain cuts through you like a knife, sharp and sudden, reminding you of just how battered you are. Blood is still oozing from the various gashes across your body, and your arm feels like it’s hanging by a thread. You stumble, nearly falling, but catch yourself at the last second.

“Crap… I’m bleeding out,” you mumble, wincing. “Whoops.”

With what little energy you have left, you remember the spell Constantine taught you, the one that would tether you to him no matter where you were. He warned you not to use it unless it was an emergency—and bleeding out from demon-inflicted wounds definitely qualifies.

You lift your shaking hand and cast the spell, a sluggish flick of your wrist sending out a ripple of energy. A portal forms, shimmering and unstable, but functional enough. Without much grace, you stumble through it, disappearing from the demon’s lair.

What you didn’t know, however, was that Constantine was currently in a Justice League meeting.

The first thing you feel is a sudden drop, like the ground beneath you has vanished. You barely register the sensation of falling before you crash, hard, onto something solid. Groaning, you blink through the haze of pain and find yourself sprawled across a massive table.

You can hear voices—muffled, alarmed—but the world is spinning too much for you to focus. All you know is that you're lying on something cold and hard, and you’re absolutely drenched in blood.

Forcing your eyes open, you see several figures standing around you, staring in shock. Your vision is blurry, but you can make out Superman’s cape and Wonder Woman’s armor. You try to process what's happening, but the pain in your arm and ribs keeps pulling you under.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow. Fuckkkk." You cry out.

Suddenly, the scent of smoke fills the air. You don't even have to look to know who it is. Constantine’s familiar trench coat brushes against your arm as he crouches beside you, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. His eyes flicker with a dangerous mix of exasperation and barely concealed anger.

“What in the bloody fuck, kid?” he snaps, his tone harsher than usual, but the concern underlies his words.

You wince, the situation hitting you all at once. Crap. Now I've got to deal with this.

You muster a weak, sheepish grin, wincing as you turn your head to face him. “Heyyy Constantine, how are ya?”

His brow furrows deeper, and he’s clearly not amused. “What did you do?”

You swallow hard, trying to think of how to explain yourself without getting ripped to shreds—verbally or otherwise. “I—well, promise you won’t get mad?”

“Too late for that, kid. I’m already halfway there,” he growls, his eyes narrowing as he looks over your wounds. “Now get to it.”

You bite your lip, trying to find the least disastrous way to explain. “So… I sorta… mighta… gone on a solo demon-hunting mission,” you blurt out quickly, hoping he’d just move past it.

The way Constantine’s eyes widen, and the immediate twitch in his jaw tell you that he’s definitely not going to move past it.

“You did what?!” His voice rises as he stands up, rubbing a hand over his face. “Oh bloody— I thought I specifically told you not to go by yourself! And this is what happens!”

“Hey, well, I’m alive, aren’t I?” you say, grinning nervously, trying to play it off.

“That’s besides the point!” He throws his arms up, pacing as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Bloody hell, I should’ve known better with you kids. I swear, this is why I never—”

Just then, a dark, grim voice cuts through the chaos, and your heart nearly stops.

“Constantine,” Batman’s tone is low, authoritative. “Why is my daughter bleeding on our table?”

Oh no. No, no, no. Not now.

You freeze, your mind going blank as you feel the weight of Batman’s presence at the end of the table. You slowly, painfully turn your head to see him standing there, cape draped over his shoulders, his gaze icy and locked onto you. His usual stoic expression somehow looks even more intense.

“Ah… shit,” you mutter under your breath, groaning inwardly as you realize you’ve just landed yourself in the absolute worst situation imaginable. “I completely forgot he was still here.” Wait, did you say that out loud?

Constantine gives you a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, kid, you did. And now we’ve got more than just your wounds to worry about, don’t we?” He sighs deeply, rubbing his temples, already anticipating the fallout.

Batman’s eyes narrow, arms crossed as he takes a step closer to you, his voice low and dangerous. “Care to explain yourself?”

You’re still bleeding, your head is pounding, and you’re pretty sure at least a few bones are broken, but none of that compares to the fear creeping up your spine as you look up at your father. Your mind races for an answer, but every excuse you can think of feels flimsy at best.

Constantine clears his throat, sensing the rising tension in the room. “Right. Let’s get her fixed up before this turns into an interrogation, yeah? Kid’s bleeding all over the place, and she’s already taken a beating. We’ll save the lecture for later.” He waves his hand, muttering something under his breath as he kneels beside you again.

The tension between Constantine and Batman lingers in the air, thick and heavy, but Batman finally relents. His eyes soften—slightly—as he watches Constantine work to stabilize your injuries with magic.

You can feel yourself growing weaker, the adrenaline finally wearing off as the pain becomes unbearable. Constantine mutters a healing spell, one that slows the bleeding and knits some of the less serious cuts together. It's not perfect, but it’s enough for now.

“I think it’s time to get you all fixed up, huh?” Constantine says softly, his earlier anger tempered by concern as he helps you sit up, his hand firm on your back to support you.

You nod weakly, not daring to meet Batman’s eyes again. You’re in deep trouble, but for now, at least, you’re still breathing. As Constantine gets ready to teleport you to a safer place to heal, you hear Batman’s voice, calm but steely.

“We’re not done here.”

And with that ominous promise hanging in the air, Constantine picks you up, and the world around you shifts once again.

Constantine gently carries you through the halls toward the Justice League’s med bay, muttering curses under his breath with every step. You could feel his frustration radiating off him, and now, in the quiet aftermath of the fight, guilt begins to settle in your chest. The adrenaline from the battle has worn off, and now you're left with the consequences of your reckless actions.

“Hey, Constantine… I—I’m sorry for not listening to you. I really am,” you say, your voice soft and heavy with regret.

He sighs, not looking at you, but his tone is stern. “I’m not going to lie and say I’m not mad at you, kid. You didn’t just ignore my warnings—you put yourself in danger. There are rules for a reason. What if you got seriously hurt and couldn’t cast a spell back to me? Even worse, what if you died or got possessed?”

His words hit you hard, and you wither under the weight of them. You know he’s right. All those rules and restrictions aren’t just him being overprotective or controlling, they’re because he cares. He’s seen the kind of darkness that can swallow people whole, and the thought of that happening to you terrifies him, even if he’ll never say it out loud.

By the time you reach the med bay, the guilt feels like it’s pressing down on you as much as the pain in your ribs. Constantine lowers you onto a cot, tucking you in with a gruff gentleness that only he could pull off. He sits down on the side of the bed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick of his fingers, his eyes never leaving yours.

“What I’m trying to say, kid,” he starts, exhaling a cloud of smoke, “is that I care. I care about you, I care about what happens to you. I don’t want—” He pauses, his voice softening. “I don’t want to ever have to find your body one day. So please, from now on, let me know before you do something stupid like this.”

His words hang in the air, raw and unfiltered. You nod, trying to process it all, and then something clicks in your mind. Wait… did he just say let him know?

“Let you know? Does this mean—” Your eyes widen as realization hits you. “Does this mean I can go on solo missions?”

Constantine lets out a resigned sigh. “Yes, yes, you can start going on solo missions—”

“Hell yeah!” you exclaim, sitting up a little too quickly. Pain shoots through your ribs, but you can’t help the excitement bubbling inside you.

“—but, only the ones I sanction and authorize,” Constantine finishes, cutting through your excitement with a stern look. You deflate a little at his words, but it’s still a victory in your book.

Without thinking, you throw your arms around him, ignoring the sharp pain it causes in your ribs. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise I won’t let you down!”

He chuckles, patting your back awkwardly before pulling away. “Yeah, yeah, I know you won’t. Now, lay back down and get some rest. You still have dark and brooding to deal with.” He gestures toward the direction of the meeting room, clearly dreading the inevitable confrontation with Batman. “And by extension, I do too,” he adds with a heavy sigh.

You groan, sinking back into the cot, the exhaustion finally catching up with you. “I don’t know why he even cares. If he did, he would’ve figured this out ages ago.”

Constantine glances at you, his expression softening for a moment. He takes a long drag of his cigarette before speaking. “He cares, kid. He just… doesn’t always show it the way you want him to. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.”

You scoff, though part of you knows he’s right. “Yeah, well, doesn’t feel like it.”

Constantine stands, taking one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it into a nearby ashtray. “Doesn’t matter how it feels right now. The Bat’s going to want answers, and if I know him, he’s going to want to have a very long talk with you. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

You wince at the thought of the upcoming conversation, knowing that Batman’s interrogation will be thorough and far less forgiving than Constantine’s.

“Great,” you mutter, closing your eyes and sinking deeper into the cot. “Just what I need.”

Constantine gives you a small, almost affectionate smile before turning to leave. “Get some rest, kid. You’ve earned it. I’ll deal with the big bad Bat for now.”

And with that, he walks out, leaving you alone in the med bay. As much as you’re dreading what’s to come, you can’t help but feel a sense of relief. Despite the pain and the mistakes you made, you know that Constantine’s got your back. And, maybe, just maybe, Batman does too, even if it’s buried under a mountain of brooding and silence.

For now, though, you let the exhaustion pull you under, trusting that everything else can wait until tomorrow.

-

As you rest, your body finally succumbing to the exhaustion, your breathing evens out and your mind drifts into sleep. The med bay is quiet, sterile, but the tension in the air lingers, waiting for the inevitable. Eventually, a dark, caped figure glides into the room silently, his form casting long shadows across the walls.

Batman—no, Bruce—stands over you, his sharp eyes tracing every bruise, every cut that mars your face. His jaw clenches as a million thoughts swirl in his head, none of them offering any comfort.

What the hell happened to you? Why are you and Constantine so close? How did you even know Constantine? How much had he missed—how little attention had he been paying—to not notice any of this?

Bruce sighs, a deep and frustrated sound. He removes his cowl, setting it on the side table with a weary hand. Without it, he seems less intimidating, less imposing. He stares down at you, seeing the cuts and bruises marking your skin, but what hits him harder is the way your face, in sleep, is still so achingly young. You're his daughter, and yet it feels like you're a stranger to him now.

How did you get so far away?

He knows the answer. The fault lies with him, with the choices he made, the excuses he repeated to himself—telling himself he was too busy, telling himself he would check in later. Later never came, though, and the space between you widened, until it wasn't just him you were drifting away from, but your brothers too.

Bruce noticed the way your brothers treated you, the harsh words, the cold shoulders. He saw the distance, but he justified it, telling himself it was sibling rivalry or something that would pass. He didn't step in. And now, as he looks at you lying there, bruised and battered from a fight he wasn’t even aware of, the reality sinks in: he has no excuse.

With a heavy sigh, Bruce reaches out, his rough but careful hand carding gently through your hair. The gesture is tender, hesitant, as if he's not sure whether he has the right to touch you like this anymore. But as his fingers comb through your hair, you stir in your sleep, a quiet murmur escaping your lips as you unconsciously lean into his touch. It's such a sweet, innocent moment, and for a brief second, Bruce allows himself to feel the warmth of it.

But the moment is fleeting.

He feels the presence before he sees it, the unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke filling the room. His jaw tightens as his hand stills. He doesn’t turn right away, but his voice cuts through the silence.

“Constantine,” Bruce says, his tone gruff even without the cowl to disguise it.

Constantine steps into the room more fully, leaning against the wall, a half-smoked cigarette between his lips. He regards Bruce with that same nonchalance he carries everywhere, though there's a flicker of something else in his eyes—something more cautious.

"Thought you’d still be brooding over in the corner," Constantine says, taking a drag of his cigarette. His eyes drift to you, lying peacefully on the cot. “Didn’t expect to see this version of you.”

Bruce doesn’t respond right away. He pulls his hand back from your hair, his gaze hardening. "What happened?" The question is direct, but underneath it, Constantine can hear the concern, the frustration Bruce doesn't voice aloud.

"She went off on her own," Constantine mutters, taking another drag before blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Went after a demon. Got roughed up pretty bad, but she handled it in the end. Strong kid. Stubborn too. Wonder where she gets that from, eh?"

Bruce's eyes narrow. "And you let her?"

"Let her?" Constantine laughs, a short, sharp sound. "Mate, I didn’t let her. She went behind my back, just like she’s gone behind yours for who knows how long. Difference is, I’m the one she actually came back to.”

That lands like a punch to Bruce's gut. He doesn’t react visibly, but Constantine can see the tension in his posture.

"I didn't know she was…" Bruce starts, then stops, shaking his head. The words feel inadequate. "I didn't know she was involved with this stuff, i didn't even know she was a meta. Or that she knew you."

"Yeah, well, she found her way to me," Constantine says with a shrug, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall. “And she's not a meta by the way, she's a vessel for some eldritch being"

A vague expression of surprise appears on Bruce's face.

"I don't blame you, mate. I was surprised to find her alive afterwards. Not just anyone survives that kind of transformation, she's strong.”

Bruce crosses his arms, his gaze flickering between you and Constantine. “I know she’s strong.”

“Do you?” Constantine raises an eyebrow, the challenge clear in his tone. “Because she’s been running herself ragged trying to prove it. To you. To herself. And, hell, maybe to me too, but at least I see it.”

There’s silence for a moment. Bruce clenches his jaw, turning to look at you again, sleeping soundly despite the tension in the room. He knew Constantine was right. You'd been pushing yourself, fighting to show that you didn’t need them—that you were strong enough on your own. And he had let you. He'd let you because he didn't even care to notice.

Constantine sighs, sensing the weight of the silence. “Look, I didn’t come here to throw stones. But you’ve got to get your shit together with her. She’s tough, but she’s still a kid, and she’s your kid. She needs you.”

Bruce doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks volumes. He watches you, the soft rise and fall of your chest, and feels the regret gnawing at him.

“I’ll handle it,” Bruce finally says, though the words feel hollow.

Constantine gives him a long look, then nods. “You better. Because if you don’t, she’ll be right back with me..”

With that, Constantine pushes off the wall, flicking away the last of his cigarette. “I’ll check in on her later. Try not to fuck this up, mate.” And with one last glance at you, Constantine leaves, the tension in the room ebbing with him.

Bruce remains, standing over you, his mind a whirlwind of regret, guilt, and the desire to fix what’s been broken for far too long. He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead—something he hasn’t done in what feels like years—before stepping back, pulling the chair beside your bed to sit vigil over you.

He’s still not sure how to bridge the gap, but for now, he stays. It’s a start.

Well, thats all folks! I really enjoyed writing this au, so thanks for the idea! Maybe ill even make a pt. 2 to this? Who knows? Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it.

[eggrollforyou]

Research

Law x F!reader

CW: NSFW, MDNI, unprotected sex, sex pollen trope, p in v, pwp, that's all I remember idk 😅

“Y/N-ya,” Law calls out to you, tapping his knuckles as he pushes the door open to your workspace. He crosses his arms in the doorway as he leans against the frame, a small smirk as he admires you. “It's late, let's get to bed.”

You're so immersed in cataloguing the latest round of flora the crew brought you on the last island stop, you don't respond as you work. As the crew's botanist, it was your job to catalogue all the amazing new plants you came across on the Grand Line.

You haven't even registered Law’s calls to you, this batch being particularly difficult to process, as you work on trying to identify the bundle of blood red flowers in your hand. They resemble magnolias, with large red petals, pale yellow stamens and a bright orange pistil.

You jump, startled from your concentration when Law gently places his hand on your shoulder. “SHIT!” you cry out, hand reaching to your beating heart, “Oh my god, Law, you scared me!” Coughing as the pollen on the stamens shake loose, thinking nothing of it, reeling still from being startled.

“It's late, you can finish this tomorrow, let's go to bed,” Law continues as he gently rubs his hands along your arms and shoulders. ‘It must be really late if Law is telling me to go to bed,’ you think to yourself. Clearing your throat again, you finally yawn, leaning back into his chest, “Alright, let's go,” you resign as you put your work into their respective containers.

As you both walk back to Law’s room, now your shared quarters, Law listens to you intently as you gab about your research for the day. He doesn't understand all of it, which amazes you considering his wealth of physiological knowledge, but he listens nonetheless. As you approach your room you begin to feel warmth spread across your chest, your fingertips tingling, and a familiar ache building deep in your lower belly.

Law notices that you've stopped talking suddenly and guides you into the room, his warm hand pressing on your lower back. It almost burns. As you rub your hands on your upper arms, you feel the burning sensation increase and suddenly feel flushed and overheated.

You don't know what's coming over you. It couldn't be exhaustion, it's never felt like this before. Before you can say anything, Law looks at you worriedly. Your face, neck, and chest are flushed red and you have a sheen of sweat growing across your brow. “Y/N-ya,” the back of his hand touches your forehead, “are you ok?” You wince at the touch as it burns and makes your skin crawl. “I-I don’t know. I feel SO hot. My skin burns…a-and I-I feel this ache,” you trail off as the ache you feel in your chest settles in your lower abdomen. No way…there’s no way this is happening.

Suddenly, you feel pulses of desire coursing through you. Your mind is hazy, all you can focus on is Law’s hand as he reaches for your face. You see his fingers, and that ache grows stronger. Your gaze trails up his arms, as you fixate on every vein and muscle on it, moving further up to his chest. Suddenly, you’re wracked with intense pain causing you to double over and all you can think about is where you want those fingers. What the fuck?! Your knees buckle but catching yourself causes you to rub your thighs together. You have to restrain a lewd moan at the feeling.

Law catches you as you fall forward, his touch again, burning your skin as you try to come to terms with what’s happening. “L-Law, I think I know what’s going on…” you say through gritted teeth. Your hand reaches for his pants. He pulls back slightly, confused, trying to figure out what you’re trying to say, “This isn’t the time for that Y/N-ya, we have to get to the med bay so I can figure out what’s going on, properly,” he tells you sternly. As he puts his hand out to Room you both, you grab his wrist first. “It’s the f-flowers I think,” you stammer, as you wriggle in his hold, rubbing your thighs together to get any relief you possibly could.

“The flowers?! What the fuck do the flowers have anything to do with this?” His eyes scanning you for any kind of hint to make sense of what is happening. “T-there are flowers out here…t-that have pollen that acts as an aphrodisiac…I-I think when you startled me, I inhaled that p-pollen.” His eyes widen, “W-what do you need me to do?” he desperately asks. “P-please, just make it stop, m-make me feel good,” you mutter as you pull him to you and kiss him.

Your teeth click against each other as you moan into Law’s mouth. It takes him a moment to process that this may indeed be what you need and he begins to kiss you back, barely able to match your urgency. “Mmmph…..p-please,” you whisper between your pants, “p-please Law,” you plead as you grasp at anything to give yourself relief.

His hand finds you as he presses the heel of his palm on your clothed clit. You gasp and as if a switch flipped and you can no longer contain yourself. You grind helplessly on his palm, whispering praises between labored breaths and you feel your orgasm building up quickly. Your skin still burns and you feel overheated but every press on your clit and every nip on your neck, you feel electric. Suddenly, you shatter, your orgasm washing over you in waves as it radiates out from your core.

Soon, the aching pain returns in another wave. “F-fuck, Law, it hurts, please…I need y-you,” you babble. Surprised you're able to string a sentence together. You push Law to the bed, his eyes widen in surprise at your current state, but he doesn't stop you when you rip open his shirt, buttons flying everywhere. You both undress quickly and without any further prep, you climb onto Law's lap, lining yourself up with him.

Desperately seeking relief from your pain, you lower yourself, taking his length completely in one swift motion as you both moan. You immediately pick up a swift pace, trying to chase whatever feeling was telling you to take what you needed from him. Your mind is hazy, only registering how full you feel. Feeling every vein against your clenching walls as you bounce up on and down on his cock. You feel another orgasm, building up quickly.

He hisses as you begin to roll your hips on him, grabbing your hips so tightly his knuckles are white. “Mmmmm, f-fuck. You feel so fucking good,” you moan, your head thrown back as you chase your high. “Ah! Shit, Y/N-ya,” he growls. With one last roll of your hips, you cum again, just as intensely as the first.

Suddenly, your concentration is broken as Law pulls you toward him so your chest is on his. He reaches around you, wrapping his arms around you so tightly, it starts to restrict your breath. He bends his knees, plants his feet and begins fucking up into you at a relentless pace.

“Fuuuhhhck, Law! Right there, just like that, right there!” You scream as he fucks into you like he'd never get the opportunity again. The sinful sound of skin meeting skin filling the room almost as loud as your cries of praise. You feel the familiar pull deep in your gut as he keeps up his pace. The drag of his cock in your tensing walls. He doesn't relent and with one of his moans in your ear, you snap and cum again.

Pulsing and clenching, forcing a growl out of Law as you are barely able to whisper your praises and thank yous, completely lost in this feeling of utter bliss. Law flips you over without ever leaving your warmth. He pushes up and swirls his tongue around your nipple, biting it as you arch your back into it.

He continues rutting into you, grip tight on your waist as you take everything he gives you, his pupils blown wide. One might think he inhaled some of the pollen too. He's less worried now that he's seen how each of your climaxes have reduced the uncomfortable effects of the pollen.

“Fuck, Y/N-ya, I'm gonna cum,” he grits his teeth, “w-where do you want me?”

“I-inside, p-please, Law!”

“Fuuuhhhhck,” he cries out as he finishes, pulsing inside of you, watching where you are connected. As you both pant, desperately trying to catch your breath.

He stills and rests his forehead on yours. Both of you spent, dripping sweat, and utterly exhausted. You let out a breath of content, finally feeling back to normal. He pulls out of you with a wince and you pull him forward to press a soft kiss to his cheek, “Thank you….for helping me….even though you caused it in the first place!” you tease. He smirks, “I'll be more careful, next time.”

Tags: @shy-writer-999 @dreamcastgirl99

Dividers by: @cafekitsune

Did you like this? I'm flattered! Wanna read more? Here's my Masterlist!

[unnameablethings]

god not to get into the discourse but like. we gotta discuss the dialectics of Getting Attention For Art. Two things can be true simultaneously.

1. it is TOTALLY NORMAL AND EXPECTED to really want people to give your art attention/notes/love/care. That is a deeply fulfilling and necessary part of the process of creating art.

2. You are not entitled to attention/notes/love/care just because the art exists, and you HAVE to find a way to drive yourself to keep creating in the absence of those things.

Maybe people aren't paying attention because your art is not good. Maybe they're not paying attention because your marketing is not good. Maybe it's just not the right timing Maybe it just got lost in the vast morass of internet content. The only way to fix these things is to persist in creation and improve in the process.

We can discuss the role of the audience in helping art thrive, but I think it's more useful to focus on your own contributions. Are you leaving detailed enthusiastic comments on everything you love? Are you reblogging with tags and commentary? Are you sharing the things you love? You cannot control the behavior of anyone but yourself. You can take your disapproval of art culture as a prompt for your own behavior, but it's pointless to resent Society for your art not doing well.

Wrt writing specifically, am certain you have all heard/read the stories of your favorite authors getting umpteen rejections by publishers before getting published. I feel like in some ways the system of traditional publishing allows for more ego-preservation. You can think "I KNOW people would love it if The Gatekeepers would give it a chance."

But now it's just out there on the internet and nobody's watching or reading it at all. Turns out maybe the gatekeepers were right about this one. And that's genuinely really difficult to deal with, it's something I struggle with frequently.

But oh my god. oh my god. listen to me. if you take anything away from this post. YOU CANNOT BULLY OR GUILT TRIP OR LOGIC PEOPLE INTO READING YOUR SHIT. It either hits or it doesn't. If you can't handle that, DON'T POST YOUR WORK.

[lynnie-s3all]

Two time x angel!reader maybe one associated with spawn somehow??? Perchance????

SHIT.

( i had to use a bit of chatgpt for some dialogues cause I'm trying to write good. I'm being honest in here.)

In devotion to save my own self...

Two time x Angel reader

Okay first of all, let's talk about respawning.

𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚢:

Respawning is somewhat a belief where you can gain immortality from it. Once you die, your body can ressurect itself and gain back another life. Which means, no matter how many times you die, you would always go back to life. The process is painful on each step you die, and it will repeat itself.

This then had people being devoted onto it, making this a cult of believing that if you pray to the gods above, they would give extra lives each time you die. And it's unstoppable.

Well what about you? You're an angel, and you have little bits of knowledge about this belief, well i guess i would say you're associated with that.

Well little did you know that there's someone lurking and being interested towards you...

They looked at you with a smile, trying to say hello to your existence. You would guessed that they would have come from a cult. Which you did noticed that when you saw their shirt.

When they tried to speak themselves out, he would say it in some fancy type of accent. You barely know half of what he was saying but you didn't really understand him that much. Only a bit.

"Forgive my outburst, but I am truly enchanted by your radiant presence. I have never beheld such ethereal loveliness in all my days. Are you indeed real, or am I bewitched by the most splendid illusion known to mortal sight?"

Okay... probably not like that??

Two time: "Wow, I've never seen anything like you before. You're beautiful."

Angel: "Thank you, that's kind of you to say. But I'm just an ordinary angel."

Two time: "Are you real? I mean, I can't quite believe it."

Angel: "It's okay, I understand. Yes, I'm real. Don't worry, I'm not an illusion."

The two of you gradually begin to spend more and more time talking to each other. As the days go by, their conversations become more frequent and consuming until the point where they can no longer break free from one another's company. Their desire to be together becomes so strong that Two time starts to neglect the other cult members and disappears for extended periods just to spend time with you. This obsession with each other has reached a point where it has become risky to both their responsibilities and the cult they are a part of.

They would slowly grew more devoted towards you, such as through prayer, offering gifts, and expressing their loyalty and respect on you.

When they are deeply devoted to you, they might even sacrifice something important to them in order to please the deity or demonstrate their devotion.

And if they were to sacrifice someone to gain another life... They would need a host. Their closest friend.

Two Time: "I did something terrible. I sacrificed my friend to gain another life.

Angel: "I see... and how do you feel about what you've done?"

Two Time: "I feel guilty. I know it was wrong, but I didn't know what else to do."

Angel: "You made a very difficult and morally challenging decision. But there is always a choice, and you made the wrong one."

Two Time: "I know. I just wish I could take it back."

Angel: "Time cannot be reversed. But you can learn from your mistake and make better decisions in the future. Everyone makes mistakes, but it's your actions and choices going forward that define you.

Two Time: "I'll try to do better. I just don't know if I can ever forgive myself for what I did."

He was guilty. He knows that.

I'm not sure if i want to continue this to be honest...

[meanbossart]

On topic of the previous ask about Drow's emotional reactions to Astarion's past:

You see a lot of bad shit in Cazador's palace. The kennels where he was put through every layer of hell, the pleasure chambers, the utterly miserable living situation... DU Drow isn't a stranger to violence and brutality, of course, but being in a place where you know terrible things were done to someone you love as deeply as he loves Astarion has to hit different. He doesn't seem like he would outwardly react, but what was that like for him?

(ask being referenced)

So, something that might be a little challenging to both explain and understand is that while DU drow and Astarion are In love with each other at the point where they finally reach Cazador, I don't think they yet... Love each other in the way two adults might.

Astarion, while able to be more authentically imself (IE: kind of a dick) around DU drow, doesn't really know what exactly that self even is. Not to mention that regardless of the legitimacy of the relationship, his freedom is still dependent on DU drow's willingness to put his entire life on the line for him, something he could fail at - and losing lovers is nothing new to Astarion. One may even say he expects it to happen.

Meanwhile, DU drow's whole life and sense of identity has had to be (re)formed in the few weeks to months since he started, like, existing again. Time is very difficult to conceptualize when it's only been a thing since 60 days ago - he's killed hundreds of creatures to get here and hasn't had the opportunity to process what that means at all. He has no idea how old he is or where he's come from. He has scars that show he may have had it rough at some point but no memory of pain or suffering - and as far as he can tell, he is doing completely fine regardless of it. All of this to say:

DU drow could not wrap his head around what 200 years of enslavement is even if you shoved it up his ass.

So, when he sees a filthy set of bunkbeds, the immaculately kept pleasure-room, a torture chamber - all that he does is think to himself "Good thing I'm here to put an end this". And Astarion, as much enjoyment as he may get from the guy, still can't help but be glad he's here to do the heavy lifting on his behalf. Pity alone won't save him.

You know what does give DU drow pause, though?

It is undeniably self-centered that of all things, the spawn who speak of Astarion like a crossed lover would leave an impression on DU drow, and yet, that's what happened. And of all things he saw that day, this would be the very first that makes his stomach churn - though not the last.

DU drow is an egoistical man. This doesn't mean that he's incapable of caring, loving, nurturing and evolving - but he is an egoistical man nonetheless. Nothing makes him enter a state of desperation and, dare I say, fear, quite as having things taken away from him - or worse, seeing himself mirrored in something much smaller and weaker.

This will change. It will change a lot. When the dust settles and their relationship has the space to evolve into an actual life partnership, those smaller things and crass comments will come back to haunt him. But back, then you really needed to pass a fine thread through a needle-hole to make the guy introspect for even a second.

[cherryc1nnam0n]

So I had an idea, what about Robin and her girlfriend reader wanting to have a baby so they convince Eddie to breed Y/n while Robin assists on the process 👀

Cw: For anal sex, unprotected P in V, breeding kink, lots of dirty talk, nipple play, boob play, blowjob (m receiving), ass eating (f receiving), voyeurism, masturbation

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It all started when you guys got baby fever from Nancy and Jonathan's newborn, the soft gurgles and coos of the baby had made your hearts melt

"Robs, we need a baby"

"Yeah we need one"

And the hunt for the bebe had started, finding the right way of having him was difficult, until a certain horny thought popped up in your head

"Eddie?! Really?!"

"Yes! He's perfect, tall, good looking, great hair"

"If you wanna call that rat's nest hair"

"Robiiiin" you whined "I'm serious, he'll say yes"

"I don't know..."

So a few days later there you were, Eddie at you guy's apartment looking baffled at your question

"Would you get me pregnant?"

"W-what, how, why, when, why?!"

"We wanna have a baby, our baby, you would be out of the picture"

Having a baby with no responsibility? The chance to fuck a hot girl and creampie her? With no bounds?! Hell yeah! It's what went through Eddie's mind

"Okay but under two conditions"

"We'll do anything" Robin rushed to say

"One, I want Robin to stay and watch and assist..."

"Done" she replied

"And two, you let me fuck you in the ass first"

That's when you froze, you had never been touched in there, let alone put anything in it, never a dick

"Ummm, I don't know, I've never done that before"

"Come on... It's just one time and then you'll have a cute baby to raise..." he raised his eyebrows "It'll be fun"

You took a deep breath and looked at Robin who squeezed your arm reassuringly, so you nodded at him

"Let's do it"

Fast forward to you on Robin's lap, she's basically worshipping your tits, playing with them, sucking on your sensitive nipples, pulling on them, nursing, you name it, while behind you Eddie is going to town on your puckered hole, licking and kissing all over it

"Fuck I can't wait to fuck this tight lil hole" He went back in to tonguing the insides of your ass while you moaned as Robin kept on massaging your tits

"Okay, I'm going in slow babe"

"O-okay" you said holding onto Robin as she held your ass cheeks open for Eddie to go in easier "Ooooh fuck" your eyes rolled back as he thrusted all the way in

Setting a steady pace you made out with Robin while Eddie watched you intently, your ass was so tight he was gonna cum in any second

"Fuck babe keep your back like that yes fuuuuck" Eddie said holding your lower back down to get your ass perked up to fuck it better

"Fuck, fuck so good babe, gonna cum"

"Don't waste the cum in there, put it inside her"

"Shit fuck"

He quickly pulled out of your ass and thrusted into your pussy, jerking off as he came inside your pussy

"Ooooh fuck Eddie" you moaned

"First load babe, I have plenty more to go"

Now being fingered by your girlfriend while Eddie jerked off in front of you did not have to be so hot, but it sure as hell was

"Come on baby, cum for me babe"

As you were orgasming Eddie pushed his cock inside your clenching pussy, thrusting his hips desperately as your girlfriend held your thighs wide open for the man to fuck you into oblivion

"Oh fuck!"

10 months later...

"She's perfect..." You said holding your newborn baby in your arms

"She's beautiful..." Robin said holding her tiny hand in her finger

"She's... She... She looks just like Eddie" Steve said looking at the baby with a furrowed brow "Right?"

"It might seem crazy what I'm about to say" Eddie said with a shit eating grin

[kowbelll]

Rules on request??

Can you do one where Stiles finds out his girlfriend has a chronic illness like lupus or something and he adjust his life to be there every step for her. Even the time in the hospital he stays and sleeps in the bed with her holding her. He always seemed like he would be the golden retriever type 🩷 and she doesn’t or does know about the pack you choose

This is literally the sweetest request ever and so on brand for him! I decided to "give" her something else because I don't know anything about lupus. I am definitely not a medical expert of any kind and I do not claim to be, but I have a couple family members who have the chronic illness I chose, so I am slightly familiar with it. Everyone should always do their own research though! What I wrote mostly focuses on the events before finding out, but I can continue this and go into more detail on what happens afterwards if people would like me to. Also, I apologize, but the last third, give or take is kind of rushed. I hope you like it though! Thank you for the request!

Also, I will take any request with a grain of salt and tweak things if I need or want to. But I'm open to anything!

Battle Together

Word count: 1,658

His heart was racing and falling at the same time. There was no way this was actually happening, right? Not to her.  

His hands shook as he gripped his phone to his ear. Focusing on Scott’s voice was getting increasingly more difficult as he tried not to spiral. Why didn’t her dad tell him? Why wasn’t he with her right then, holding her hand and sweeping away her worries. Shit, he was so worried, and Scott clearly didn’t know all of what was actually going on.  

“Scott, wait, what are you saying?”  

“She’s here. In the hospital. All my mom told me was that she passed out and now they’re doing brain scans.” His friend was plainly shaken up too. 

Brain scans? Stiles felt sick. Everything he witnessed his mother go through when he was a little boy crashed into him all over again. What if this was the same thing? What if she had what his mom had? What if- 

“I’m on my way.” 

Stiles broke nearly every traffic law in existence as he raced to Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, to his beloved girlfriend. He needed to get there as fast as possible; he needed to know what was going on. He absolutely despised being out of the loop. 

Frantically sprinting into the building and nearly running into not one, but two nurses who were going home for the night, he arrived at the front desk. But where the hell was Melissa? 

His feet almost left the floor when the sweet voice broke through his rapid breathing, saying, “Oh good, you’re here. Come with me.” 

Stiles turned to look at the curly-haired, soft-eyed woman. He couldn’t help that his voice trembled as soon as he opened his mouth. “What’s going on? Is she ok? Did something happen to her? Have they found anything yet? Why did-” 

“Stiles.” Melissa placed her aged hands on his shoulders in an attempt to ground him. “Breathe. Everything’s going to be fine. She’s going to be fine.” 

“Do you really know that...?” he asked hesitantly. 

She paused for a moment, understandably. There was no way to know anything for sure. Not yet, at least. 

“Let’s just go see her for now, ok?” 

He nodded and let her guide him to his girlfriend’s room. As they walked, Ms. McCall told him everything she knew. She explained that the poor girl had passed out in the kitchen while helping her dad prepare dinner, banging her head on the corner of the granite countertop and burning her forearm with spilled gravy in the process. Her father practically carried her to the car as soon as she hazily woke up and brought her in to the hospital. Her second-degree burn was cleaned and treated before the doctor decided to check for a concussion. Hearing the true explanation for the CT scan relatively eased Stiles’ nerves, but there was still so much to decipher. He needed to see her, preferably immediately. 

They reached the door of the room she was checked into when they moved her from the ER. However, Melissa did not reach for the handle, causing Stiles to give her a look of curiosity. 

“Stiles,” she started, exhaling a deep breath, “I want you to be prepared for whatever this is.” 

His curiosity deepened and twisted as the spires of concern within him sharpened and stood taller. “Wha- what does that mean?” 

“It means that, sometimes, something as small as passing out isn’t always as small as it seems...”  

The woman’s eyes were filled with a specific type of pain, one that Stiles was familiar with, but hadn’t seen in her for years. Since he was so young when his mother was sick, he never truly realized how much agony Melissa experienced as she watched a dear friend (and that friend’s family) of hers suffer. It brought her a horrible aching sensation to see the damage a singular disease could inflict on three good, genuine people, and not be able to do something significant to help. That was her job – to help. But there was really nothing she or anyone was capable of to improve the situation.  

Stiles swallowed in a faulty attempt to soothe his suddenly dry throat. He simply nodded, and in return, the sweet nurse gave him an empathetic smile. Of course, she didn’t want to scare him with what she said, but she had given bad news too many times that week. 

“Are you ready?” 

He sighed, trying to take her advice and finding it incredibly arduous. “Yeah, I think so.” 

As they quietly entered, Stiles’ eyes softened upon seeing the girl who stole his heart sitting up on the hospital bed. She looked incredibly tired, but watching her mouth curve upwards when her gaze met his made him feel like the luckiest man alive. Not because of the situation, obviously, but because that cute little smile was for him.  

“Hey, stranger.” Her raspy voice was surprisingly gleeful, all things considered. Perhaps Stiles just had that effect on her. 

“Hey,” he chuckled. “You feeling ok?” 

She simply shrugged and glanced at her father who was standing next to the bed.  

Begrudgingly, the man cleared his throat and excused himself from the room.  He supposed that giving the lovebirds no more than a couple minutes wouldn’t result in an utter catastrophe, even when Stiles is one of the pair in question, who hastily sat down on the edge of the bed as soon as the door clicked closed.  

“Are you sure you’re ok? Do you need me to get you anything? What can I do?” He took her hands into his. 

Her smile grew as she saw the love and devotion he had for her, not to mention the worry. She didn’t want him to stress himself out, but she had to admit that those wide eyes were adorable.  

“I’m fine, I swear. Just... stay with me for a while?” she said, her voice turning bashful. 

“Absolutely. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Got that?” His hands squeezed hers as he leaned forward. 

“Yeah,” she nodded, her face approaching his, “I got that.” 

As if he had a sixth sense for his daughter’s desires, the man swiftly entered the room again, causing both of the teens’ head to lurch backwards. Stiles tried to be sly as he slowly and awkwardly pulled his hands away and stood from the bed, backing away cautiously. A doctor stood in the doorway, along with Melissa. 

“Dr. Vandenberg wants to run a few more tests while we wait for the CT scan results, just in case it’s not a concussion.” Her father began pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I have some things I need to do for work, but I’ll be back in the morning, alright? Is that ok with you?’  

The information that was sprung on her felt like a spear piercing her spine and sending a poison of anxiety rushing through her bloodstream. All she could do was nod. There was no other option, anyway.  

He nodded back at her before his eyes locked onto Stiles. “You’re staying with her.” 

It was more of a command than anything, but the boy would never object to that regardless of whose mouth those words left.  

“Yes, sir.”  

Stiles was by her side for as many tests as he was permitted. He could tell that this was more frightening for her than she was divulging; it was harrowing. Therefore, he desperately desired to bring her some semblance of comfort. And he succeeded, to a degree. 

Afterwards, their time together was briefly ceased while he picked up the closest thing to a couple of “real” burgers Beacon Hills could provide. They contentedly ate their late dinner together, squished against one another once she made room for him next to her. He kissed away the condiment that was smeared on the corner of her mouth, making her giggle.  

Additionally, he held her close and kept his eyes glued to her form, making sure she was snuggly falling asleep without interruption. Without realizing it, he, too, was swept away into a slumber. Their trepidations momentarily fizzled and were replaced by fantasy-filled dreams, and morning rolled in fast. 

When her father returned, the doctor explained the various test results they received. Stiles’ girlfriend was officially diagnosed with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), a chronic illness which frequently inflicts dizziness and fainting due to a lower blood volume returning to the heart. It can be managed with an increased intake of salt and water, but will be part of her for the rest of her life.  

Stiles felt a surge of anger at the news – there was nothing he could do to make this nuisance of a disease go away and his girlfriend did nothing to deserve it. However, he swore to himself that he would stay by her side, hold her hand, and keep her safe whenever her body got the best of her.  

He kept his promise throughout the rest of school, their engagement after he proposed, and their marriage. He did whatever he could to help, whether necessary or not. He always went the extra mile for her, even though it wasn’t an illness that would debilitate her from living her life. However, it was definitely inconvenient and dangerous at times. 

There was an instance in which she passed out while driving on the freeway, leaving her car to drift into the guard rails. Thankfully, there was very little traffic, so no one else got hurt. However, she was back in the hospital with a few minor injuries and her husband (for every minute of the stay).  

This battle was never fought alone, and Stiles had a unique talent for making her feel cared for without any semblance of being coddled. He knew how admirably strong she was and exactly when she needed him to step in and hold her. POTS would not break her, nor their bond.  

[lizardsfromspace]

We still think of celebrity callout posts as these sprawling documents with link after link, but increasingly, they involve no citations or links at all. Just people asking "is [name] a bad person?", being told "yes", and saying, wow, I'll make sure not to support them anymore. Which is excusable if they know each other, but people will just ask the screaming void of the internet "can you decide if this person is evil or not for me?" and then accept the yes/no answer they get unquestioningly

This makes it difficult to find The Proof, since it's so often a trail of vagueposts about someone's vagueposts of a discourse they witnessed second hand, and when you get to the source, it's often just embarrassing. "Everyone is doing this" gradually turning into "some people are doing this" until you discover the whole furor was sparked by...some random person's tweet with one or two likes. Days of rage based on something very few people, including most of the people angry about it, ever saw. That's part of why people have gone complete citationless, but also let's face it, when people with a deep parasocial hatred of a celebrity look into them and don't discover anything, they didn't go "ah well, nothing to see here". They would make shit up or take minor incidents out of context to make up a narrative anyway. Fully removing the sourcing and making it purely about vibes really streamlines the process

But I think it's more fundamental since in my experience - both personal and witnessed - people who do this genuinely just seem confused when people ask for sources. They get hostile to the idea that people won't just accept that someone's an irredeemable monster off being told they are with no elaboration. It's nice to think people are so trusting they've naively forgotten that, y'know, people can lie or be wrong, but really, they know, they just don't care. Because these people by and large don't have any real beliefs beyond Disliking The Same Famous Person, and will accept anything said about them into their mythology, and only spend time in a circle of other people obsessed with the same person & don't realize no one knows the mythology but them, and so don't really get why you'd ask for a single citation. What, do you support them? You monster. You're supposed to hear that, yes, they are evil, and then spend time in a bubble of constant dislike of them, where you commiserate with the other obsessive stalkers about how awful it is that pop singers are mad when you obsessively stalk them

[ofstarsandvibranium]

To Have and To Hold: Part 13

Fandom: Marvel - Moon Knight (Mafia AU)

Pairing: Marc Spector x F!Reader, Steven Grant x F!Reader, Jake Lockley x F!Reader

Summary: To ensure you’re always safe even after his passing, your father, a mob boss, makes you marry his right hand, Marc Spector. You don’t necessarily hate Marc, but you don’t get along either. Therefore, this marriage of convenience may be a bit difficult for you.

Series Masterlist

When Marc wakes up, your side of the bed is empty. He hears the shower on in the en suite bathroom, so he knows you're in there.

He stares up the ceiling and lets out a pained, deep breath. He really can't catch a break. Everything with you has been fucked from the start. He never wanted things to go this way. He knew it was going to be difficult, but he didn't think it'd be this difficult.

He thought he'd have more time. More time to get to know you more, more time to process everything. Just...more.

But Marc's life has never been an easy one. He's never gotten anything easy, never gotten any peace. So he just has to roll with the punches.

But fuck, is he tired of getting beat down.

You step into the bedroom, towel wrapped around your body, "Oh, morning," you say with a hint of surprise, but cover it with a nonchalant.

Marc sits up with a grunt, "Guess we should talk."

You nod, "Yup. Let me change first," you walk into the closet, closing the doors behind you. Marc takes the few minutes to gather his thoughts.

He needs to apologize. He might even beg on his knees for you to believe him. From now on, he has to be completely honest with you from now on.

You exit the closet wearing leggings and a loose fitted t-shirt. You stand there, hip jutted out, and arms crossed over your chest. You're guarding yourself. Marc understands, but hates it nonetheless.

"So?" you ask with a raise of your brow.

He clears his throat, "So, yes, I intentionally didn't tell you certain things. Not because I didn't want to tell you at all, but because I didn't want to worry you. You've already been under a lot of stress and I was just thinking about you." You open your mouth to retort, but he cuts you off with a raise of his hands, "I know. I know. I still should have told you about it all: the arrangement, your dad, my now ex-wife. I fucked up.

"I truly am sorry though. I never want to hurt you, Y/N. I care about you."

You had a feeling the conversation was going to go this way. You thought about various scenarios of it while you took your shower. Despite you wanting to paint Marc to be a villain, you know he truly isn't. Despite his rough exterior and "tough shit" you know he has a soft heart. You've seen it first hand the days following your arranged engagement.

You let your arms, and your internal walls, slowly fall.

"I get it...still fucking hurts that you kept all of it from me. And-And I don't know how I'm supposed to trust you-"

"I won't keep anything from you anymore. I promise. Anything that could put either of us or this arrangement at risk, I'll tell you."

"I'll do the same," you say in agreement.

He slowly nods, "Do you...have questions?"

"Who was she?" you ask as you sit at the corner of the bed.

"Layla El-Fouly. I met her back when I was a mercenary...I was ordered to kill her father. I was supposed to get close to her, kill her too but-"

"But you fell in love."

"Yeah. Then she found out that I was the one who killed her father and she left. Didn't see or hear from her in years."

"Did you try looking for her?"

He shrugs, "Not really. I understand why she left. I lied to her," he lowly chuckles to himself, "Guess I really don't have a good track record when it comes to marriages. Both of mine rooting from deceit." He looks down at his lap in shame.

"But you finally found her."

"When your father came to me about the arrangement, he already knew of my marriage to Layla. He gave me contacts to help me find her so I can serve her the papers. She finally reached out a few days ago. She wanted to talk before signing the papers."

You think about when you saw them at the cafe, how he was holding Layla's hand, looking at her. You felt that twinge of jealousy and insecurity crawling into your heart.

"Do you still love her?"

Marc gives a sigh, "I think a part of me will always have some care for her, but I don't love her. Not anymore."

You feel a weight lifting off your shoulders after that. Because, dammit, you know you've fallen for Marc. Despite everything, you really care for him and you know he'd treat you well in this marriage.

It was your turn to release a deep sigh, "Okay."

"Anymore questions?"

"I should have asked about this earlier on, but how long did you know about the arranged marriage before my dad told me."

"Two weeks."

"Did you help create my dad's plan to take Harrow out?"

He shook his head, "I didn't know a thing. I asked him to let me in, so I can help but he told me my strict orders were to get you out of there. All I knew was that he had a plan and it was probably going to end in his death."

"How has Steven and.."

"Jake."

"How has Steven and Jake taken to this life?"

He snorts, "Steven hates it. He's a pacifist, so he's not around often when I'm out and about. Jake...he's a rare sighting. But he's the kind of guy that doesn't care about what measures you take, all that matters is the outcome."

"Aren't you the same way?" you ask him with a challenging tone.

"I do what has to be done, but I do also try to keep in mind the consequences and who I might be hurting. Jake doesn't care so much for that."

"He sounds dangerous."

Marc snorts, "You have no idea, sunshine." He looks at you with soft eyes, "Are we going to be okay?"

You reach out, placing your hand on top of his, "I think so. Just, no more secrets. Got it?"

He makes an 'X' over his heart, "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"No dying anytime soon, please," you murmur and crawl over, pecking his lips, "I'm gonna finalize wedding stuff."

"Let me know if you need any help!" he hollers as you exit the bedroom.

"Will do!" you respond, your voice echoing through the halls.

"That went a lot better than expected," Steven says in relief.

"You're telling me, buddy," Marc murmurs back with a scoff.

"So it'll be happily ever after for you after all?"

"We can only hope, Steven," Marc replies back as he stands from the bed, and heads to the bathroom to shower.

[pedge-page]

Insatiable

Part 3/Finale to Cravings and Crash

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Summary: Frankie and reader spend some time apart before realizing that’s actually really stupid—and solid communication happens for once :) 

Notes: it’s finally HERE! Thank you all so much again for your words of praise and keeping with these two absolute idiots in love. Honestly intended the first one to just be a one-off drabble throw away thought, but I’m glad everyone enjoyed it so much to ask for more! I’m spitting this out earlier than expected. Don’t know if I’ve done them reasonable justice but this is what I’ve got—hope you like it!

Warnings: unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, creampies, mentions of m oral, pussy eating king returns, cum eating, missionary, doggy, cowgirl, overstimulation, fingering, squirting, bit of possessive and jealous Frankie, mentions of drug use, drugs present, language

18+ ONLY

- - - - 

You had cried when you got in your car. And again when you went to your cousin’s house to crash until you signed your new lease. And then again every night for a week straight.

You had NEVER cried this hard over a boy before.

Except this wasn't some boy—this was Frankie. The guy who comforted you through all your dates that stood you up, and shitty boyfriends, albeit few, that left you feeling less than worthwhile. The same Frankie who stood around you like a guard dog when you went drinking together so no one would even think to slip something in your cup, but who YOU have to comfort during horror movies because he's a big scared kitten. Who lets you sleep on his shoulder for five hours in the car no matter how uncomfortable it was for him, never once moving, but still ate the food you didn't like off your plate "because he's a garbage dump who'd eat anything, even mold." 

The first guy to tell you that you were beautiful when you weren't even trying to impress him. Who brings a hair tie with him when you go to eat because you always forget yours and get your hair caught in your fork. Who pushed you to take charge of your life and break up with your loser first love, and it was the hardest and best decision you could have ever made.

And you know what? The ONLY guy who made you cum 9 fucking times the FIRST time he went down on you.

You called Santi that night because you needed to let loose, and the only other person you trusted to hold you up outside of Frankie was Pope.

“So how is he?” Santi asked, as you immediately double fisted your first two shots. 

"I don't wanna talk about him tonight."

Santi nods, eyes widening as you don’t even resist the bitter taste going down your throat. He holds his finger up towards the waitress to order 4 more glasses.

You really didn't want to think about Frankie. The more you thought about him, the more confused you felt, and you couldn't afford to be confused about your purpose in his life right now. You knew battling addiction isn’t a linear healing process. That it would get worse before it got better at times. You're his friend. You're helping him. That's it. 

Frankie spent a whole year being physically intimate with you, but never once asked or made a move for anything more emotionally. So why let yourself get carried away even thinking about something more?

To even consider if you wanted more...

You snatch the shot glass out of Santi's hand right before he was about to sip it and catapulted it down your throat, the burning sensation taking your mind out of the gutter.

Fuck Frankie for not keeping his shit together. Fuck him for being hot and cold. Fuck him for using you when that's exactly what you’re here for.

It's much easier to keep it all that way. Easy to encourage him with sex to avoid overthinking his intentions. Easier to constantly verbalize it, knowing he won’t deny it, as a means of reassurance to yourself. 

But absolutely fucking HELL he’s being so difficult lately. The sex—wasn’t just good. It was fucking phenomenal. you could physically see how much better he was just moments afterwards, even if you were blacking out and falling asleep not too long after. He was so hungry for it too, why deny? But he’d been holding back too much now—getting too tense, crashing, then stressed again. You needed to get things back on schedule with him so he’d be happy again.

And gentle, nurturing, innocent, sober you just wasn't doing the trick for him anymore.

You barely hear Santi over the pounding in your head: "When we was the last time you got laid? You need a distraction from your Fix-a-Fish hobby."

You gulp down the last of the vodka on the table, suppressing a slight burp.

"I'm 'bout to do both tonight."

That was 4 weeks ago. You didn’t achieve either that night.

Fish didn't seem too upset when you left, ultimately making the choice much easier. You looked so fucking stupid walking in there, basically demanding sex from him when he made it clear all year that you were only there for HIM and not the other way around. He didn’t want you like that. 

Good. Makes staying friends that much easier.

Or it did, for a little while. 

You couldn’t get over the way he made you feel when all was well—when he’d serenade you so easily in affection like Querida, Carino, Hermosa, and you could barely contain the butterflies in your stomach each time. You had never once heard him even refer to his dates or ex girlfriends in the same manner. It was both confusing and arousing. He treated you like a best friend some times, but adored you like a lover more. 

Hadn’t the man heard of friendship boundaries? Aside from the fact he made you orgasm every minute of the day, what was Frankie like as a lover? What more could he possibly do to cross that line?

Who the hell treats their friend like that?

That last month, however, felt more realistic. Grounded in the truth of your relation. You didn’t realize how much he had gotten to you with sweet words first that made the change in his attitude so unbearable. 

You wanted to go back to being selfish with his unbridled love.

You hadn’t gotten off in over a week, a new record. But as you lay in bed, conjuring any and all pornos, audio eroticas, pillows, aching fingers, even the dusty vibrator still wrapped in its new plastic, nothing was getting you to that same addictive feeling that Frankie gave you every single day.

You should have called him to return his shirt you had accidentally packed in your bag in a haste to get out of there. But it still smelled like him. You felt perverted getting wet just by holding it in your hands, but it was doing the trick, and finally you could touch yourself without additional lubricant assistance.

All the memories that tumbled from then on only made the ache between your legs worse: The first night, Frankie between your legs, begging you to let go so he could force more orgasms from your shaking body. “Doing s’good for me, cariño. Give me more, fucking starving” ; when he held you in his lap as you grind down on his bulge, his head buried under his shirt that you were wearing as his lapped at your nipples, “Don’t you dare hold back those beautiful moans, wanna hear you singing when I’m devouring you”; when he’d come home from work and didn’t say a word, just grabbed your wrist and lead you to his bedroom, lied on the bed, slapped your ass a few times to get you to straddle him higher, higher, until you were right over his lips. He didn’t even wait for your hesitation, immediately bringing your hips down and crashing his lips on your pussy, shaking his head like a mad scientist at work, hell bent on discovering what makes you cry faster.

You pulled your fingers away from your slick cunt. No amount of memory would compare to the real thing—and it wasn’t all the acts that you needed, but the intimacy, the familiarity that came from Frankie—THAT’S what always sent you over the edge.

It scared you.

Santi was half right. You did need to get laid. Needed someone who wasn’t Frankie to remind you that you don’t rely on him for some shit like getting off (although you had developed a keen preference by now). You needed a new hobby that wasn’t thinking about Frankie all the time. YOU needed a distraction.

He was half wrong, however, because you knew very well that you’d be drowning in lame date after lame lay a million times before you got over the addictive feeling of being around Fish this past year.

It never felt like a chore. Well, obviously, you were getting ate out like a Sunday brunch. But it was everything else that made you want to keep staying around, even after he maybe didn’t need you anymore.

You realized then that leaving was the best for you and him. You had somehow managed to score a  date tonight, the first one in over a year, with a James. Or Jonathan. Or Jimmy. Something J. I think.

I’m excited. I’m going on a date. I’m going to have fun. I’m excited. Im going on a date. Im going to have fun.

You didn’t even have the care to shave tonight before you begrudgingly left for dinner and a movie.

-

He couldn't say it then. Frankie remembered so vividly the image that he wishes he could forget: you standing there, so meek and vulnerable, spilling your tears as you tried to level your emotions with your feelings and confront the fucked up situation he put you in. Maybe if you had screamed, yelled at him and cussed him out for being such a dick, then he could have told you how he truly felt.

He was always better at being shouted at by others from being in the service. The guys would let their tempers soar and just shout, honesty tumbling through like a flood, and then everything would be out on the table, and shit would get DONE.

The apartment is unforgivably quiet and cold.

He's noticing little things you left behind: your nice moisturizer, expensive shampoo, a paper towel holder. He thinks you’re mocking him by leaving bits of you around his place, so he collects them in a bin and waits for you to come retrieve them. But you don't contact him for the first week.

He starts to think maybe you left those things for him. You bought all these things while you were here, forcing him to use them with you:

"Your face is as dry as a desert; you need moisturizer, not body lotion.”

"You can't use a 4 in one hair and body wash!"

"Who the fuck doesn't have a holder for their paper towels?"

It wasn't all just sex when you were here. He remembered coming in to the bathroom when your feet were soaking in the tub, and you explained you were rubbing your calluses off your feet. He joined you, sweats pulled up above his knee as you held him down to get the stone on his crusty feet, the whole time laughing and squirming because it tickled too much. He fell on his ass in the tub desperate to escape your strangely strong grip around his ankle, getting his clothes all wet.

And despite how well he had known you even before your arrangement, he continued to learn new things about you. Like you took night showers, and could only go to bed with your hair in braid. He'd come to see you, agitated in his room all morning, waiting for you to finally wake up so he could distract his craving. He’d walk into the kitchen where you were already cooking him breakfast, slip his arms around your hip, and pull your braids out lovingly to smell scent of your shampoo waft off in waves, closing his eyes and feeling his jitters dissipate, instantly calming him like no other remedy.

Found it funny that you couldn’t use a regular spoon for cereal, always replacing it with a tea spoon because the other ones are “too big” for your mouth to fully close around. A sentiment he suspected to be a load of BS when you had no problem swallowing his cock whole and then gulping down his cum without spilling a drop.

Or when you got red sauce all over the laundry and had to borrow Frankie's shirt to sleep in. He liked that you smelled like him, that it draped over you so pretty, and you'd never wear pants underneath. He'd put you in his lap and make you hold the shirt up with your teeth, showing off your perky tits. His thumb circled your hip bone, large hand clasping your waist to keep you upright while he'd kiss your nipples, and then make you both look down and watch as he rubbed his fingers through your folds, sucking the juices off as he finger fucked you over top him.

He can't help but feel his twitch of his cock stir in his pants at the thought.

Ok. Maybe the sexual parts were a big part—how could they not be? That’s all it was, at first. And he was able to pretend like it was too. But the more time he spent with you. The more time he got to really know you, live with you, breathe you in, unravel you and bind him to you so that you had no sanctuary untouched by him, it was all over before it began. 

He sat down with Pope a week after you left: 

“You look like shit.”

Frankie grumbled, shrugging it off. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten like he used to when you were around. His beard was growing in more patchy and less manicured than before.

“Have you talked to her since?”

“Don’t wanna talk about her tonight.”

Jesus, a broken record with these two, Santi thought. But he knew Fish much better, knew the exact reason why he called him out instead of all the boys together is precisely because he needed to get this off his chest. “She thought you were stressed, needed time. Clearly she was right.”

Frankie’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding so hard that he could form diamonds.

Santi cleared his throat, twirling the ice in his glass casually. “Course, I didn’t tell her you’re head over heels in love with her. Why didn’t you?”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t think he could again. “Imagine how that would have gone? She was crying right there. Right in front of me, BECAUSE of me, after I’d treated her like shit for weeks until her breaking point. Would have given her some fucked up idea that that was my expression of loving her. If I’d said it then, she would never have believed me. Would have ruined everything. Including our friendship.” He pauses, staring down at his rough hands. “She deserves better,” he said weakly, more to convince himself than anyone else.

Santi leans back against the booth. He’d heard the Frankie pity train before, but this was much lower than usual. “And friendship is still good enough for you?”

“I’ll take whatever she’ll give me at this point. I can’t lose her.” 

“You can’t? Or don’t want to?”

Frankie thought about that for a while. He had realized too late he didn’t actually still need you. He hadn’t really “craved” cocaine like before. He no longer needed you tending to his every reaction, overly serving his necessities and desires, always a few steps away to brighten his smile, or warm the house with your laughter, your cooking, your terrible taste in movies, all for the sake of keeping him sane and sober.

But damn it all, he still wanted you.

Frankie goes 4 weeks of the hardest withdrawal of his life. You were right, he was getting better at not thinking about cocaine. But without you here, he's more agitated than before. It's not that he craves it now, but rather craves a substitute to get him through your absence.

He's itching for his phone, for the number of his dealer he should have blocked and deleted so long ago.

He shouldn't. It would devastate you. You'd think it's your fault because you weren't here to distract him, only making the whole lie he’s been telling himself that you could still be just friends more abundantly evident. Pushing that useless tale even further, rooting it in your mind.

 In truth, it is your fault that his entire happiness is now emotionally and physically tied to you, but he can't really blame you for leaving him since he's the big idiot. He had the entire year to make it right, damned be the consequences of your possible rejection.

He’s clenching his fist at his sides, debating whether to text his dealer. He doesn't even want that shit, at least not the way before. He just wants a distraction from the real aches that you've left behind.

And if he did... wouldn't you come back to him to make it right?

You’re so clear in his mind that doesn't even struggle, doesn't hesitate as he pays the money and carries the little pouch in his hands. He gets back to his apartment with vigorous haste, slamming the door behind him, and sits it on the coffee table, staring.

Even if you don't come back to him, getting just a little bit high would help take his mind off it all. He'd be able to stop thinking about you, even for just the night. Just to get some sleep.

Just to stop feeling.

He shakily tries to undo the tightly sealed bag, but few particle traces catch in his finger tips from outside the plastic, and he instantly wafts the infinitesimal scent of it on his finger tips. He stops, feeling something he's never felt before when staring down at the thing thats caused him so much trouble in his life:

Disgust.

-

You considered calling Frankie a million times, but how soon was too soon? Would he think you were just desperate to get ate out again? Would he deny you the second you wanted to see him, thinking it was just a booty call again? You had made some stupid choices, like going on a shitty date with a guy you weren’t even interested in, just to get over Frankie, so that you could avoid thinking about how badly you had shattered your friendship.

And going right back to being his friend, which included sharing one of your reckless decisions you make on your own, was one of them. He’d be interested in hearing about it, right?

You dial him up quickly.

You rock back and forth on your heels, unable to sit still.

The phone rings out to voicemail.

He’s never missed a phone call from you. Not even at 2am on a work night. He's never on his phone, and yet still always managed to answer your calls even if it’s on the last ring.

He's just avoiding you again. It's fine. Santi said he'll get over it eventually. That you’ve done enough worrying for him, and need to take care of yourself for a change.

You glance at the key he gave back to you, and not even a moment later, are soon slipping on shoes and heading out the door with it in hand.

-

You unlock the door and slowly walk in to the familiar layout of Frankie's apartment. It's entirely dark, curtains drawn save for a small crack in the shades. You call out his name tentatively, the eeriness of the place making you anxious. When you see the bathroom light on and door slightly ajar, hearing the rushing sink water running, you sigh relief.

Thank God.

You gently push open the door. "Fish?" You see him, heart skipping a beat at how much thinner, paler he looked now than before, eyes sunk from lack of sleep.

His eyes light up when he sees you, and your heart breaks at how different he looks but STILL has the brightest, softest, loving smile at you.

Your eyes drift down, smile fading, horror quickly overtaking your face at the unopened baggie of white powder sitting at the sink. And his face drops at the realization.

You take one step back, unable to close the gape in your lips, petrified. "Fish—I—holy fuck..."

You had never seen him doing it, never seen him freshly blown high from it. The closest you ever got was what the boys would tell you, or seeing the long aftermath of his crash. They were always first on the scene and quite frankly, ensured you were never the one to find in him these states. You had never been able to mentally prepare to have to handle it now.

"No—no no no! It's not, I didn’t, I didn't! Look—ok it looks like I did but I swear I haven't touched it. It’s still sealed! I’m. I'm dumping it down the toilet."

You don't trust his word, seeing as the bag is here, albeit fully wrapped up, seal unbroken like he said. But here, nonetheless. With him. In front of you with no denial that it was his. 

He gets on his knees and wraps his arms around your waist. “Please don’t leave me. I didn’t want you to leave the first time…”

“And it’s taking you being high right now to admit that?!”

I’m not high, seriously. Check me.” You peer down closer, and aside from his rampant heart beating against your leg and big round eyes, there’s no trace of smell or lingering white powder anywhere on him. But you’re hesitant.

“I bought it but then realized It wasn’t what I really wanted…”

He licks his lips quickly, his brown eyes pleading up to you, biceps flexing against your ribcage.

Your chest is pounding, the encasing feeling of Frankie refusing to let you back away making you feel like a trapped rabbit. 

“Please believe me,” he breathes.

"Your eyes are dilated as fuck Frankie!"

"That's because of you!"

You both hold your breath, a pregnant silence ringing in the air.

“I—I’m. Um. I meant." His eyes trail off sheepishly as a warm blush takes over his face. 

He stands up, rubbing the back of his head. He can tell you’re patiently waiting for him to get over his blubbering awkwardness so he can explain properly. To find the words he’s combing his brain for. And find them he did: 

"I miss you, Querida.”

He breathes slowly, time catching up and suddenly stopping. 

You glance toward the bag, still fearful that he had gotten to this point while you were gone. “Frankie. I’m—I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. For your needs—“

“I don’t need you to fix me. I haven’t craved that shit for a while, still don’t even now. I just wanted you here with me.” He snatches the baggie and chucks it in the toilet, immediately flushing it.

You want to say that might not be great for the plumbing, but Frankie’s hands are on yours, holding them securely to his chest. “I just want you. I should have said it before you walked away.  Should’ve said it a year ago, when I knew I didn’t want to pretend this was just some—some drug replacement.” He goes quieter. “I didn’t want this to be nothing. I thought when we had sex, maybe you’d feel the same, but you didn’t—”

“I was afraid about what would happen to you If our dynamic changed, Fish. I was worried it was just another high. So I tried to make things go back to how they were since it seemed to be working so well for you before,” you rambled. He can see the shininess in your eyes, feel how your body is no longer resisting him and instead, cradling his neck with affection, empathy, nurture, all the things he’d been depraved of for weeks. “But then it made everything worse and I didn’t know what to do—“

He cut you off, as if suddenly things didn’t line up. ”Why did you come back?"

You lick your lips, eyes unable to meet his. “Well I called, and you didn't answer. And I wanted to check up on you, and tell you... um—I mean I always tell you about… I went on a date, my first one in over a year."

Frankie's eyes blankly drift lower, down to your feet, his arms retreating. He takes an awkward step back. "How... how did it go?" He asks slowly, feeling the distance between the two of you growing again.

You throw your hands up in the air, unable to express yourself. “He was…Handsome. Funny. Charming. Paid for me, made me feel pretty, treated me real good—“

He nodded, unable to bring his eyes anywhere else but back to the back on the sink as he listened. “S’good. That’s what you deserve,” he says, jaw tensing.

“Yeah. Yeah it is what I deserve.” You pause, here goes everything. “Except the whole time, I hated the fact that he was nothing like you." 

Frankie’s attention darts back to you as you cup his scruffy face in your hands. "You're irritable, and sassy, and needy and clingy, and you pout when you don't get what you want. And you don't listen to me or stop when I tell you to stop—“

A roasting fest? Now?? “OK, That's, Jesus, I get it—“

"And I love all those things about you.” You hold his gaze, feeling his breath seize in his chest. “And I miss being here. I miss waking up with you every morning, and your smug face being the last I see before I go to sleep. And it took me until after I left to realize how I actually felt about you. This whole year with you has felt like this perfect—“

"High?"

Your brows furrow shyly. “I didn’t want to put it that way, for obvious reasons. But fuck it. Yes. I don’t—I don’t wanna let that go.”

His fingers tense around your waist, almost begging you to say it, spill it out for him and don’t hold back ever again. 

“You got me addicted to you, Francisco."

You aren't aware of how fast he moves, his hands grabbing your neck as he smashes his lips to yours. Your heart is beating out of your chest when he sucks every breath from you, barely separating from your lips to utter "I've waited—so long—for you—“ He hoists you up on his waist and brushes out of the bathroom with your legs wrapped securely around him, his kiss hot and full of passion the entire time. "Wanted you since you first let me have a taste of you.” He slams you on the bed, the familiarity of you two being in this exact situation settles on you. “Wanted you to want me. Want more.”

He continues to engulf your lips with his, his moans vibrating against your tongue. "I shouldn’t—“ he hastily bites your lip with a grunt “—shouldn't have pushed you away—treated you so bad.” He pauses his assault. “I was so scared you didn't want me like that. Couldn't handle pretending I could be okay with it.”

You place your hands on his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart matching yours. "Frankie, I want you."

"Good," he smiles, leaning up to remove his shirt over his shoulders. You whine at the sight. Draping himself over you, his lips never leave your body as he kisses down your chest then back to your lips. You’re unable to bring yourself to action as his body dictates both of your moves.

You feel his bulge pressing painfully against your core, eliciting an obscene moan from your throat. "Frankie—Let me take care—“

"No. Fuck no. I'm taking care of you tonight. And tomorrow, and every fuckin’ day after," he growls.

He kisses you once again but then slowly backs away. "Um, if... if you want that."

He feels your hand tangle in the hair behind his neck as you bring his face back to yours, teeth clashing for dominance. "I want it," you whisper, sucking his lower lip and biting it possessively.

His jaw hitches. “Prove it."

You unbutton your pants, taking his large hand and guiding it down your panties in haste. His digits make contact between your folds, the two of you sighing.

"Oh f-fuck. You want this, don't you?"

"Want you so bad, Frankie. It fucking hurts.”

His fingers dont leave your dripping cunt, spreading your slick around your swollen clit. His other rips your string underwear off with incredible strength. He then helps push your shirt over your head, and you immediately unclasp your bra. Frankie growls lowly at the sight of your perky breasts bouncing from their release. "Fuck, I missed these.” His mouth wraps around as much fat of your tit he could before biting, making you lurch. 

“I—I’m not gonna be slow—I wanted to—“

"Jesus Fish, I don’t care, just take me!"

He plunges two of his thick digits into your soaking heat, making your back arch off the bed. He takes the opportunity to suck a nipple back into his mouth, half his body hovering over you to keep your form perfectly positioned between his mouth and fingers. They teasingly thrust in and out slowly from your hole, intentionally dragging out his torture against you. "So mean to me, baby." His teeth nip at your nipple with a smug grin. "Takin’ my sweet little pussy away from me like that. I barely touched you and you're absolutely soaked. Were you wet on your way here?"

"Frankie I haven't... haven't been able to get off in weeks."

"How long?"

You moan out loud, eyes rolling back as your brain turns to mush. Your hand tries to guide his wrist faster but he slaps it away, continuing his teasing ministrations.

"Answer me!"

"Since the last time you touched me!" You cry.

He haults his movements. 

The girl who bragged about cumming an average of 6 times a day just grinding on a pillow, now telling him she hasn't been able to orgasm in a month, because of him.

Ohhhhhhh fuuuuccccckkkkkfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. “That why you went on your little date, huh?"

You nod shamefully.

"Did you fuck him?"

You whine, eyes burrowing in confusion that he still expected you have coherent thoughts while he had you in this compromising position, teetering on the brink of your much needed orgasm.

"Your date.” He repeats, his wrist slowing down entirely. “Did. You. Fuck. Him."

“No—no! I didn’t even let him kiss me goodnight. Couldn't even get wet for him, that's how bad—Frankie, fuck! please!—bad you've got me fucked up."

He speeds up his hands, satisfied with your confessions. They are thrusting perfectly in and out at record speeds as his jaw clenched around your tit, watching your eyes roll back as your first orgasm in WEEKS overwhelms you fast. You’re shaking violently, legs desperate to close but Frankie pries them open with his strong hand, continuing to dominate your cunt with his incessant fingers.

You feel something else coming as he continues to ram his wrist against you, fingers digging so deep, curling so effortlessly that you can’t stop the gush of liquid squirting out of you. “Oh shit, oh fuckfuckFUCK that’s it! That’s my girl, holy fuck yeah—yeah keep going, Cariño, so fucking good.” He continues to finger fuck you repeatedly, working you through it as your pussy continues to contract and release your spend.

You hardly have time to process your embarrassment as he's shifting below your hips, throwing your thighs over shoulder and giving your soaked pussy a longing look. Your clit twitches excitedly. Cool air is blown on it, making you fist his hair harder. He presses his large nose into you, inhaling your scent like bloodhound, growling like a man possessed at the sticky coating. "I fucking missed you, Hermosa," he groans, and his mouth latched right on to your pulsing cunt. You gasp, hands fisting his hair as he rolls your overstimulated clit with his tongue, jaw opening wide to practically swallow your pussy whole, sucking away everything you're giving him.

Whether he was talking to you or your pussy, it didn’t really matter to you. All you could process was the rough feeling of his fat tongue and scruffy face rubbing perfectly between your legs as Frankie got reacquainted with his former addiction. "FrankieFrankieFranke-ohFUCK!"

You can’t stop him, can’t even warn him as the overstimulation send you into a fit of gasps, cumming again, legs squeezing his head as painful pleasure courses through you. His upper back is littered in your scratches, the red marks raising his skin like tiger stripes.

You're struggling to catch your breath with ragged moans. He slows his licks to draw it out, letting your spasms pass. His sinful, lidded eyes have never left your face, absorbing every reaction from you, committing it to memory.

"You really have neglected this poor pussy," he teases, kissing your clit as his fingers begin to spread your glistening folds once again.

You can only nod, arms covering your face as he starts to rub the pad of his thumb on your swollen nub again. “It’s—not as good—unless it’s you.”

He grits his teeth in satisfaction. “S’okay. M’ gonna take care of you now. Gonna fuck you real soon."

You whine when he pushes his fingers back in to your tight heat.

"And then, when I’m done fucking you—We're gonna fuck again," he laughs.

You’re a bit frightened with how he’s looking at you: like he’s fucking possessed by a hungry, malicious demon.

He makes you cum on his fingers again, then his lips, then both at once. He’s pinning you down so harshly, you have no choice but to take the endless barrage of orgasms he’s forcing from you, almost as if he’s trying to make up for the time you two have been apart. 

By the time his tastebuds are content, he brings himself back up to you, messily kissing your lips so you taste yourself, his beard and stache now soaked in your cum and rubbing along your chin.

You gasp when you feel his hard cock sliding along your folds. He rolls his hips against you, your copious slick letting him glide effortlessly, tip nudging your clit.

“Frankie,” you warn, unable to handle his teasing now.

He grabs the base of his dick. “Beg. Beg me for it,” He commands with a godly voice you’d never heard him use before. He slaps the underside of his throbbing member repeatedly against your pussy with a taptaptaptap. “Tell me you want it.”

You don’t care for the fat tears spilling down your cheeks as you whine like a bitch in heat. “Fuckyou, Frankie,” you seethe, anger building with your desperation. “I fucking want it, want it so bad, want you to ruin me, please, Fish, fucking please put it in already!”

He grins, big and sadistic as he watches your face contort with the first push of his tip into your wetness. “Oh F—“ he breathes, eyes closing as your tight walls do their best to accomodate his size.

Your eyesight is blurry, waves of pleasure rolling throughout your entire body, delirious as he bottoms out. Where he belongs. Where he’s always meant to be.

He presses his forehead to you as his hips start rutting.

He’s hardly fucked you for a few seconds, but the pressure building inside of you, desperate for this moment again after months, isn’t giving you a choice to savor it. “Fish—fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK! ‘M not gonna last!"

He growls excitedly, driving his cock more harshly into you, reaching that special spot he’s decided is only his to abuse. “It’s okay, babygirl. You cum for me. You're always so good at it."

And you are, you really are. “OH FUCK FRANKIE!” You scream. Your body agreeing with him so much that your abrupt orgasm squeezes around him so hard, his movements stop altogether.

“Oh shit—“ he hisses, your pussy greedily milking the cum right out of him. He only pauses for a moment, shaking over you for a moment as his first orgasm subsides before his hips are moving of their own accord, his cum forced out with each thrust.

“Keep goin’, pretty thing. Give me more,” he grunts. 

You nod deliriously, eyes rolled to the back of your skull as he pounds your battered puussy.

He pulls out, the sudden withdrawal making you whine with emptiness. He sinks to his knees again, yanking your knees up to your chest. Your pussy twitches, his cum spilling out and sinking down your ass.

He lets out of primal groan from the back of his throat before smashing his mouth on your cunt, sucking your clit and tongue fucking your hole like a cream filled pastry. You feel the descending bob of his Adam’s apple against your rear as he swallows the mixture of your cum, drinking it like liquid life from the source. “We taste—so—fucking—good, Princesa,” he taunts, tongue lapping your little clit in quick succession before shaking his head back and forth aggressively against your mound, smearing the obscene mixture across your folds and making a mess.

Oh fuck, he’s so gone.

He quickly gets on his knees, turning you over on your stomach like you weigh nothing. His hands grip around your hips, bringing them flush against his crotch again as you arch your back for him. He puts his palm on the small of your back, keeping you right there, pressed tight against him as his cock slides back into your eager and cum coated cunt.

“Fuck yeah,” he groans, setting a faster pace this time. You hadn't realized just how much Frankie was holding back the first time you had sex. He leans over your body, hands splayed past your shoulders, fisting the bed as he rails you deep, his thighs crashing against you with harsh slaps. Your temple lands against his cheek, meeting eye contact. He smiles, breath caught in his throat like running a mile at your fucked out expression. 

He continues to fuck you like an animal. A soft hand grips your chin lovingly, tilting your head further back so his lips meet yours with each punishing grind. You’re surprised by how much you love the hold he has on you, willingly submitting to him without being told. Drunk on each other’s lust.

You suck greedily around his tongue, hand reaching behind the two of you to play with his soft brown curls, refusing to let him leave your mouth. He stutters with a few more thrusts before halting, eyes scrunched closed. “AUUGHHH—haaaahh!” You feel the twitch of him inside you, draining his balls some more of his plentiful seed. 

“Fuck, fuck I love it when you cum inside me!” You confess. The action makes you fall forward, mouth burying into his pillows as you muffle your own cry of your release again.

He pulls out of you and flops to the bed. You think maybe he is done, after having cum twice now, bur Frankie is quick to bring you to straddle him, his dick never once softening as it presses incessantly to your entrance again. He licks his lips, watching his cum spill down your thighs, right to his creamy cock that refuses to fully part from you. 

“Frankie,” you moan, unsure if you can take him again.

“Want you just like this. Ride me,” he breathes. He’s covered in sweat, out of breath and shaking with a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline if it were possible. His hands gently wrap around your waist as he guides you. Eyes so lidded, transfixed on the area where your mound slowly swallows him again.

You’re nodding, body taking over all actions, completely starved for the man under you. 

He leans up to get a good look at you, taking it slow, burning this in head to remember.

"Thought about you... everyday.” He whispers, mouth parted in lust, gliding your hips along with steady rolls. “Couldn't sleep."

His hands down along the curve of your ass, to your thighs spread out over him, before rubbing up the length of your back, holding you as close to him as he can possibly bring you, your tits pressing against his chest. He struggles to breathe evenly as your creamy pussy continues to tighten around him each time he breaches you, the two of you moaning softly into each others’ open mouths. He occasionally catches your lips, slotting perfectly as you grind against him.

His mouth finds its way back down to your pebbled nipple, biting gently before kissing it better. He brings his face back to yours. “So perfect for me,” he whispers.

You start grinding on him more fervently, lifting yourself on your knees ever slightly and baring down on him. He grits his teeth, sinking further down into the bed, eyes never leaving you as his digs his nails into the meat of your hips, forcing you to bounce harder. 

“That’s it, baby. Ride me just like that. MY girl, my beautiful girl.”

You bite your lips, feelings your clit catch on his public hairs. The sloppy squelching of his cum being driven out of your heat by his thick cock is no match to the heavenly sounds you were making atop him. The vein in his neck strains like he’s suffocating himself from air, refusing to slow down, to take a break, to let go for even just a moment.

“More. Give me more,” you moan, confidence soaring as you feel him begin to meet your hips with every thrust. “I want all of you, Frankie.”

He shouts out, lifting you up, his feet digging into mattress as he fucks you from below. “Fuck, fuck!”

You want to throw your head back, ride out this high, but the dangerous allure of him watching you brings your focus down to him, watching the way the two of you are getting off to the other falling apart.

“Just like this. You n’ me. Want it just like this. Forever.” He mumbles repeatedly, ragged pants uneven as he fills you the way you had been unknowingly wanting for months.  

You feel the build of your umpteenth orgasm building in your lower tummy. “Frankie-F-Franke! I’m—I’m gonna—“

“Do it, Querida, do it f-for me.” He thinks he can starve off the low build of his third orgasm of the night, just enough to make you cum for him once more.

You feel the heavy knot in your stomach snap. With absolutely no hesitation, no doubt behind your word, you cry out, “I love you!” as you cum harder than any time before.

Lifting you both practically off the bed, Frankie’s hips seize, pressed so tightly against yours there was no room between you. He shouts loudly, animalistic, snarling with his teeth baring at you and 0 control left in him, immediately emptying his load deep inside with each heavy pulse of his cock against your cervix, painting your walls white with the last of his cum that his balls could give you.

You collapse on top of him, the two of you sucking  air like you were underwater for years. Neither of you say anything, covered in sweat and cum, but finally being able to relax from the pent up release that’s been building there far longer than it ever should have been.

His hand rests against your lower back, somehow pressing your naked body closer to his. 

“I love you,” you whisper again to his collarbone. He brings your eyes to his, and this time he knows you mean it.

-

Frankie wakes to a cold bed.

His arm reaches out subconsciously for your body, but only feels cool empty sheets at his side. His eyes fly open, head sitting upright as he scans his bedroom. There's no sign of you. None of your clothes are scattered on the floor, no immediate trace of your scent. He feels a strong pain in his chest suffocating and stabbing him all at once.

He lies back flat on his pillow, fingers rubbing his forehead. He has two thoughts: the first thought, the one he'd rather think is true, is that it was all dream. You hadn't come home to him.

Before he could bring himself to consider the pain of the second thought, the fear is instantly squashed when he hears the door creak open, your sweet soft smile and gentle eyes landing on him.

‘Hiiiii,” you whisper in a singsong, gentle morning voice. Tip toeing bare foot on the hardwood floor, he see’s you’re dressed in nothing but one of Frankies slightly torn over sized, faded band T shirts that swallows your body. Your bed head still evident, eyes baggy yet happy from the events of last night.

He didn't realize he had held his breath the moment before you walked in, afraid that rather than having dreamt it all, that it did happen, and you had left him anyway.

"I made you tea," you hummed, setting the two cups down by his bedside table.

Your ears go red at the image of him: sheet pulled half way up his hip, his bare chest and torso visible as he props himself up with his elbows to get a good look at you. And the WAY he's looking at you, like you’re the only thing that matters in the world, has you sheepishly avoiding his big brown pupils, sliding in to the covers and nuzzling your head against his shoulder.

He wraps his arms around you, unwilling to let you sneak off again. “Don’t wake up before me like that again.”

You giggle. “Frankie, it’s 4 in the afternoon.” 

He checks his digital clock by the bed, true to your word. You both had fucked so hard, so long last night that he didn’t even realize it was well into the morning by the time you had drifted to sleep. 

He lies back down in bed, encircling you to him again. He can more clearly see the damage of last night’s episode on you: bite marks along your tits, hickies against your inner thighs and swollen lips. he doesn’t even need to touch your pussy, feeling its puffy soreness pressing against his leg. He kisses you gently yet passionately this morning, cradling your head so you can’t back away. Not that you want to—he doesn’t feel any resistance in your movements as you devour his lips. 

“I love you,” he says clearly. He can feel the way your breath hitches, the blush on your cheeks at the confession. “I love you, and I’m so sorry it took me so long to say it. I’m sorry I caused you so much confusion and I—“

“Okay, Fish. It’s okay. I know.” You bite your lip, pushing your hand against his chest so that he’s lying down on his back. “But I’m not sure I forgive you just yet.”

A brief moment of confusion wracks his face before you’re clambering on top of him again, your naked lower body straddling his under the sheet. You fist the t shirt of your head, letting your soft supple breasts fall. Frankie immediately grabs them tenderly with both of his warm hands, his breath quickening. His length twitches, hard as a rock and pressing right against his lower stomach as you glide your slick folds along him.

“I think you should keep making it up to me.” You align the tip of his throbbing cock against your swollen entrance and sink down, hands seeking purchase on his chest, scratching the skin there as he fills your sore cunt, taking him down to the hilt in one go.

You let out the tiniest, sexiest whimper, and Frankie is ready to drop everything he’s ever owned just to hear it again. So smitten with you, he’s grinning harder than he has his entire life. Like a big dumb idiot.

Your big dumb idiot.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Querida: I love you.”

Tagging people who either requested a part 2/3 or directly requested to be tagged. At least what i can remember (sorry if I missed you!)

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[mamawasatesttube]

So I know you’ve mentioned it before but I just wanted to hear again your thoughts on Tim x Ives

ooohohohooo timives the gently doomed romance of it all ♥

in robin '93 and even briefly in rr09 ives is just always kind of there. he drifts out of tim's life sometimes, but he always drifts back in, later. and he's been tim's civilian best friend for so long, and tim knows so many of his secrets. they click. they don't judge each other. they make each other laugh. if tim's gonna fall for anyone he knows in his civilian life, of course it would be ives. who else has been there, been a constant, the way ives has? of course it's ives. but at the same time there's something so tasty about their contrast - the way tim runs headlong towards danger every time, while ives describes himself as a coward. the way tim feels like he has to protect him.

to me, ives is tim's first m/m relationship. it happens in a manner so cliché they both laugh at it: after taking a gap year or two, to wrangle his depression and his ptsd and his Everything, tim decides to get his ged and maybe try college (lucius tells him he'd make a great engineer at waynetech r&d, but he needs a degree for it, and he figures, okay, what the hell, he's already good at tinkering, how hard can getting a bachelor's degree in engineering be?). and then he remembers the difficult thing about being a vigilante and having a full courseload at the same time and goes AUGH. and ives, a year or two ahead of him in university classes (and majoring in something else, but still there) laughs at him. and offers to tutor him. and tim goes yeah fuck okay fine sure yeah. what the Fuck is a free body diagram. and ives laughs at him some more but also really does help him out. (when he gets really stuck and confused, especially on his second semester of chemistry, he phones up zoanne, but that's neither here nor there.)

so tim and ives have this cute little romance over study dates at cozy cafes, over accidentally running into each other at a queer student association meeting and going "oh!" about it, over movie nights at ives's apartment where they squabble over a bowl of popcorn and tim pretends he didn't sleep through the last half of the two towers, disc 2. and it feels nice, and easy, and simple...

...until it doesn't. because tim shows up to a study date with a black eye that even his best attempts at makeup can't fully hide. tim has to miss dinner, and then their rain check dinner, and only comes to the third attempt half an hour late and limping. tim is tired all the time. and he's always been sleepy all the time, but now ives is wondering. and they're making out one day and ives's hand curls over the back of tim's neck and then he recoils, because tim, what is all this scarring, what happened, holy shit is this why you grew out your hair and keep wearing turtlenecks?!

and tim goes. ah. fuck.

and it's only a matter of time. it has only ever been a matter of time. because ives knows him. but he's been lying to ives the entire time they've known each other. the other shoe has always been going to drop. it was only ever a question of when. never if.

so ives finds him out. and he's shocked, and hurt, and betrayed, but then he's even more distraught to realize that he's not that shocked. it makes sense - why tim's always tired, why tim has always been kind of flaky, why tim has always had weird injuries now and then, why tim is so unbothered in the face of things that terrify ives. but what gets him is that these are things he's thought were always just... tim. because tim has been lying to him the entire time they've known each other.

so they break up, but it's softer than it could've been. because ives gets it, he swears. he gets why tim lied. but this is... a lot, and he needs some time to process all of it, and how he feels about it, and about tim. because it's hard to reconcile his goofy gearhead (ex-)boyfriend with a caped crusader who patrols the city by night, fighting crime and solving mysteries. hard to realize just how much tim has boxed up his own life and taken care to only ever let ives see part of it. he gets it - he's not angry, after the initial outburst - but it's hard, and he needs some time. he needs some space.

and so tim's secrets eat away at one more person he cherishes. it was inevitable. they were doomed from the start. but they made each other happy anyways, for a time.

(the coda, to me: tim and ives reconnect and start working on their friendship again a few months later, and tim promises to try not to lie to him anymore, and in an effort to actually show ives the other half of his life, he introduces him to kon. so we have tim sitting there struggling with feelings and complications of feelings and what it means to be honest and to be seen. meanwhile kon says something about his opinions on star wars and ives goes "BRO i am going to KISS YOU on the MOUTH" and tim goes wait. WHAT?)