#i drew it so that they have different eyes

[torlibram]

The broth plot thickens...

I was sitting at the bar when he walked in. He was tucking his collar back up over the costume beneath, nobody gets into Joe's without a flash of the mask or cape, and his gaze flicked around the room as he strode towards the bar. I guess he didn't see any challenges to his authority because the stride took on an extra swagger for the last few steps.

"Vodka, no ice," he said flatly and Joe nodded, placing a glass before him before turning to pull the bottle down from the shelf. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he tensed up, then forced relaxation as Joe up-ended the bottle over his glass. Joe made to turn away again, but the newcomer's hand blurred as he caught Joe's wrist. "Leave it," he told Joe coldly. I saw the colour of his sleeve as he took the bottle and I knew.

"You're him," I told him, raising my glass in salute. "Razorfin."

"What's it to you?" he snarled. I raised my hands in apology.

"Whoa, no offence intended, man." None out loud, anyway, I thought. "Just that you're the guy that took Flashflood all the way out to sea."

Razorfin smirked. "Yeah. What were Team Ultra thinking, putting a water hero up against me?"

I laughed and tipped my glass to him again. "Heroes? Thinking with something other than muscles?" That drew an actual laugh. "What was it you actually did to him, anyway? All I heard was the usual scuttlebutt and that you had killed him."

He refilled his glass and held it up to the dim lighting, studying the way the alcohol clung to the sides. "Poetic justice," he said quietly. "A tank of water small enough to stop him getting any strength behind his waves, sealed to stop him pushing the water out altogether, and a grating with four dozen piranha behind it. I'd cut him a few times during the fight, naturally, then lured him into there. All those leetle, teeny fishes with leetle, teeny teeths." He chuckled malevolently. I did my best to hide a shudder.

"Who are you, anyway?" he asked. I sheepishly pulled up the old hoodie I was wearing to show the bowl with the 'S' stylised above it in wisps of steam. He raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know you were still operating. Captain Crouton, isn't it?"

I winced, the local rag had dubbed me that after the big heist four years ago; I was still trying to live it down. "Might as well be," I shrugged, "my original codename got lawyered to death."

He thought for a moment. "Souperm-"

It was my turn to snarl, I tried to put as much effortless menace into as he had, but even to my ears, it rang hollow. "Don't finish that word."

"Or what?" he sneered. "You'll garnish me?"

I sneered right back at him, but again there was the difference between us: He was out-and-out violence, barely restrained by a veneer of manners. I was of an older school of villain, better suited to rough and tumble with a few cops every now and again, give them stories they could tell their kids, give their uniforms stains that would take weeks to get all the way out. Maybe I would get a hero's attention now and again, splash the papers, remind everyone that I was still around, but I wasn't exactly an A-list threat.

And that was the problem, I realised. Razorfin was, if you'll pardon the expression, a big fish in a small pond. The local squad from Team Ultra were B- and C-listers, just like me. He would go through them one after another until he drew some heavy attention. The New York squad, even. Then most of the town would get flattened in over-enthusiastic super-shenanigans and the game would be over for all of us, even the survivors. No, Razorfin had to go, and it had to be permanent. Not like those A-listers who turn out to have been a clone or a robot duplicate or whatever. My gut churned at the thought of what I was going to have to do.

I raised a finger at Joe. "His bottle's on me," I told him. "Fair play for getting Flashflood off the scene." Joe nodded.

"He was just for starters," said Razorfin.

I nodded as if in agreement. "So who's next?" He shrugged.

"Whoever gets in my way."

I stood up and reached out to my power. Maybe it was something in the set of my shoulders, maybe he was just wired and edgy, but suddenly he was in a combat stance, the coat shredding away as his fins flicked out to attack positions. I never gave him a chance to move any further, my power rolled out of me and enveloped him in a cloud that only I have ever been able to see.

He managed a single scream as he melted. Most of his body from ribs to knees was dissolving, losing structure and cascading to the floor. I kept out of arm's reach, just in case and steadied myself on the bar. I'd never killed before, but it was the only way I could see to prevent him from running amok. He managed a last word: "Why?"

"Because you don't want to play the game." I told him. "You just want to hurt people and then hurt more people and hurt them worse and so on until someone manages to stop you. Because that's what you call fun. Well, that someone is me. Because I like this town. I like the people, I like a quiet life with what remains of my ill-gotten gains from a life of crime. And you? You couldn't give a shit, could you? Which is why I did this now before anyone else gets hurt."

I took a deep breath and coughed. What? The smell rising from the pool of villain-turned-soup was unexpected. I mean, I don't get to choose the flavour, but thematically, I would have thought it would be some kind of chowder, a bisque maybe. But no, all that was left of Razorfin were his feet, shins, arms, head and a gallon of minestrone.

You pretend to be a small-time villain. At most, you annoy the local supers, but your crimes never hurt anyone. To you it's all good fun. Things change when a truly sadistic supervillain invades your turf and murders a few of the supers. No one has seen the extent of your true powers until now.

[00valentina-writes00]

Walk with me here

Pirate sevika x siren/ mermaid reader

I’m walking. In fact I’m running.

♡♥︎ The Siren’s Song ♥︎♡

Warnings: slightly (if you squint) suggestive content, light humor, Sevika being a confident badass, siren reader with magical abilities

The sea is a siren’s home, a place of beauty, danger, and intrigue. It is where you thrive—where your voice dances with the waves, and your melody sinks deep into the hearts of those who dare sail too close. For centuries, you’ve woven your enchanting song to lure unsuspecting sailors to their doom. But today, something about this particular ship caught your attention—a ship that refused to succumb to your song.

The Black Sable.

From your perch on the jagged rocks along the shore, you could see it: a mighty vessel slicing through the waves, its crew hard at work. There was something different about the captain, though. She wasn’t like the others. While most men would’ve been lured to their deaths, this woman seemed… unfazed.

Sevika.

She was a pirate captain, known far and wide for her ruthlessness and cunning, her strength a match for the fiercest storms. Her ship was as much a part of her as her own limbs, and her crew—loyal, feared, and well-disciplined—followed her without question. But none of that deterred you. In fact, it intrigued you even more.

Your song had always been a powerful tool, one that could make even the strongest fall at your feet. So why hadn’t it worked on her? You had to find out.

It took little effort to draw the ship closer. You sang softly, weaving your voice through the air like an invisible thread, guiding the ship toward the rocky shoreline where you waited. The crew had no idea what awaited them.

You didn’t just want Sevika. No, you wanted to understand why she was different. Maybe if you could figure that out, you could use it to your advantage. And if she refused to be swayed by your voice, well, you could always turn to other methods.

As the ship drew nearer, you flitted from rock to rock, your iridescent tail shimmering beneath the surface, catching the sunlight in mesmerizing ways. With a final sweep of your voice, you ensured the ship was drawn into the bay.

Now, it was time.

You surfaced, emerging from the water like a phantom. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks and the smell of salt filled your senses. You waited for the crew to see you, for them to fall under your spell.

But instead of panic or wonderment, you saw confusion.

“Captain! We’ve… we’ve got a visitor!” one of the crewmen called out, pointing to you. The others looked toward you, bewildered, as if something wasn’t right.

Sevika, standing tall at the helm of the ship, narrowed her eyes as she surveyed you. Her first mate—an imposing, strong figure—moved to stand at her side, but Sevika merely raised a hand to stop him.

“Let her come,” Sevika said, her voice a low growl of authority. “I want to see what she’s got.”

With confidence only a pirate captain could have, Sevika strode toward the edge of the ship, her boots making a heavy thud against the wood. She wore a long, tattered coat, the fabric billowing out behind her in the wind. The look was unmistakable—pirate chic, with a touch of Jack Sparrow’s flair, but designed to show off the strength she carried. A dark vest hugged her figure, showing off her muscular frame, and the long bandana tied in her hair completed the iconic look.

But it was her eyes that caught you the most—piercing, sharp, calculating. She wasn’t afraid of you.

“You gonna sing for me, or what?” she called out, leaning casually against the railing, her smirk daring you to try.

The audacity.

You smiled, swimming closer to the ship, your voice rising in a low hum. The song was soft at first, the melody haunting, seductive. Your words—no longer just whispers but a call—wrapped around her like a siren’s embrace.

“Come to me, oh sailor bold,” you sang, your voice echoing across the water. “Let your heart be mine to hold.”

Sevika didn’t flinch. She stood there, unwavering, her arms crossed as if bored by your charms. The rest of the crew was still, captivated, but not by your voice. No, it was the captain who held their attention.

You frowned, the frustration mounting in your chest. This was supposed to work. Why wasn’t it working?

Determined to bring her to her knees, you slipped beneath the water, reappearing beside the ship, your lithe body rising up just enough for her to see your face. The water clung to your curves, shimmering like liquid moonlight. Your song grew louder, a more intense, powerful spell designed to break even the hardest hearts.

“You’ll come to me, whether you want to or not,” you whispered, as the song wrapped tighter around Sevika’s heart.

Her eyes flickered briefly, a flash of something—interest, maybe—but she quickly regained her composure.

“Is that so?” she muttered, more to herself than to you. Her gaze remained on you as she walked to the side of the ship, looking down at you with an unreadable expression.

You smirked, thinking victory was near.

You slid closer, your body rising from the water in an elegant curve, until you were almost level with Sevika. Your breath was steady, your heart pounding as you prepared to press the final note—before you kissed her, claiming her soul for your own.

You leaned forward, lips parting as you made your move, but in the instant you closed the distance—she grabbed your throat.

You froze, eyes widening. Her grip was iron-tight, her fingers digging into the delicate skin of your neck as she yanked you toward her.

“Thought that would work, didn’t ya?” Sevika whispered, her voice a low growl, the smirk never leaving her lips.

Your breath hitched as you tried to squirm in her grasp, but her hand held you in place with terrifying ease. She was stronger than you’d anticipated. You hadn’t planned for this—hadn’t expected her to fight back.

You let out a strangled laugh, your eyes darting to her face. “You… you don’t fall for it?”

“Not everyone can be swayed by a pretty song, sweetheart,” Sevika said, her voice teasing but laced with an edge of amusement. She pulled you closer, her thumb pressing gently against your pulse point as her grip softened just a bit. “I’ve seen enough to know when someone’s trying to lure me in.”

Her eyes gleamed with mischief, but there was no fear in them. Just pure confidence, and a bit of fondness that you didn’t expect.

“Shame,” she added, her hand slowly sliding from your neck to cup your face, the gesture surprisingly tender. “I was kind of hoping to see where this was going.”

You blinked, taken aback by the soft touch. “You…”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grinned, leaning in closer. “You think you can charm me with that voice of yours, but I’ve got my tricks too.”

You were caught off guard. Most sailors who encountered you were helpless, mesmerized by your song, but not Sevika. She was a woman of the sea herself, hardened and immune to the tricks of lesser creatures. She wasn’t afraid of your powers.

And yet, she didn’t seem disgusted either.

“So,” Sevika continued, her grip loosening, “how about we do things my way?”

You narrowed your eyes, struggling to regain your composure. You hadn’t expected her to turn the tables on you like this.

“And what way would that be?” you asked, trying to keep the frustration out of your voice.

Sevika smiled knowingly. “How about we skip the whole ‘charming’ bit and get to the part where I get to kiss you? No magic involved.”

Your eyes widened bewildered. “You want to kiss me?”

She raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Yeah. But first, I think you owe me an apology for trying to kill me.”

You blinked, taken aback by her directness, but something inside you stirred—something deeper than your siren instincts. You saw the genuine curiosity in her eyes, the amusement, and maybe something else.

Maybe this woman was more than you bargained for.

You licked your lips slowly, meeting her gaze. “Apology… accepted,” you said, your voice low and playful. “But no promises after that.”

Sevika chuckled, leaning in until her lips were only a breath away from yours. “We’ll see,” she whispered.

[kingkat12]

forever (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: angst, mentions of blood, ANGST (SORRY IN ADVANCE)

summary: nothing will ever be the same again after you've find out what Roman truly is-- you can be sure of that now.

word count: 5,093

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 12, PART 13

a/n: GOSH I'M BACK! 13 is the lucky number (not). this chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but it's more than enough for this scene... I can't breathe omg. thank you to everyone that has helped me with brainstorming and clearing my mind about this scene, specifically @mentallyscreamingsincebirth who read about 7 different drafts (poor soul), and I'M SO SORRY. SO SO SORRY Y'ALL. ENJOY... tbh that's not the right word, so, good luck!!!

Loving Roman had consequences right from the start.

However, I never imagined it would lead to this. 

My hands trembled as I clutched the knife, though I couldn't tell if it was from fear or the sheer weight of the situation. Roman hadn't moved an inch since I'd pointed it at him, but the way he loomed in front of me made every second stretch unbearably long. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the fridge-- my breath caught in my throat as he tilted his head, his green eyes flickering with something unreadable, something quiet.

Then, without warning, a slow exhale left his lips as though he was indifferent-- Roman's shoulders slackened, the tension bleeding from his frame as if this entire moment had bored him. And then, just like that, he put his tux jacket on the kitchen island before he turned away.

I flinched at the movement, but all Roman did was step toward the fridge, peeling it open with a lazy sort of ease. He bent down, rummaging through the shelves, shifting the milk aside like I wasn't still standing there, terrified.

I turned with him, still pointing the blade in his direction as my pulse threatened to rupture my ears-- this was the biggest mind-fuck of the century. This night was. My brows drew together as I dared to speak, confusion drowning my anxious words; "What are you doing?"

Roman shrugged. "I have a feeling this is gonna take a while, and I'm really fucking hungry. Do you know how many calories you burn from beating up assholes?" Another sigh followed--  he continued to speak into the fridge as he shuffled through the vegetables; "You're not wearing your dress."

It sounded like a casual remark, yet I knew it was loaded with the intent of getting me to explain myself. The longer I stayed quiet, the more I could hear my heart pound. "I changed,"

"Where?" 

"... Here?" 

Roman shook his head, remnants of a knowing smirk painting his lips-- it didn't reach his eyes. "I don't think we should be starting this conversation off with more lies," 

His words were chilling. I struggled to find mine. I cleared my throat over and over as my hands got clammy around the knife I had yet to lower; "I don't know what you're talking about,"

"Come on," Roman huffed, rolling his eyes as he straightened up, reaching for the handle of the fridge. When he turned his head to meet my gaze, I felt my breathing knot itself in my chest-- I hated this feeling. I hated being scared of my boyfriend. I hated that I couldn't bring myself to put away the kitchen knife I was still pointing at him. Roman continued; "I've been waiting for you for about... what, fifteen minutes? You didn't change here, and those clothes aren't yours."

Fighting the urge to stay tongue-tied, I snapped; "And you shouldn't have broken into my house in the first place! That's crossing all fucking boundaries!--"

BOOM.

The fridge door slammed shut with a force that rattled the shelves.

I jolted. A sharp, pathetic squeak clawed up my throat before I could stop it. My pulse jumped, breath hitching-- fuck.

Roman had never looked more intimidating; "I see we're past talking about boundaries!" he hissed, glancing down at the knife in my trembling hands. His attempts at containing his anger were cracking.

"Fine," I bit back. "Let's talk about the important piece of information you so conveniently failed to tell me, then!"

Roman blinked. I knew him too well; I could see his mind racing behind those big, beautiful eyes. I shouldn't be looking into them. "The car crash?" he asked, attempting to soften his voice. Something told me he got hopeful that he had hit bingo about the subject, and that he could somehow salvage this; "I'll tell you everything you want, baby. No problem, okay? Where do you want me to start?--"

"Don't fuck with me, Roman!" One of my hands left the knife as my tremble subsided, and I steadied my stance. "Enough!" 

Roman's fists clenched, and his gaze pierced mine with rays of ice. It took him some time to let it sink in-- we were about to have this conversation, whether he wanted to or not. We were going to talk about what he was. Despite the horror of the situation, my body filled with a satisfaction unlike anything I had ever felt before; I had pieced it together. I had cornered him. I had caught the liar, and I had done it all by myself. 

However, the liar in question didn't want to relent so easily; "This is about Daniel, isn't it? The little shit who confessed he'd get off to snapping your neck in half?"

"It's... What?" My frustration possessed me as I gestured with the knife, exasperated. "No, Roman! It's not that, and you know it!"

Roman let out a quick, icy breath as his fists clenched and unclenched-- deny, deny, deny. "He had it coming," he breathed. "I don't get why you're holding a knife at me for giving that guy what he deserved!"

"That's not why I'm!--"

"You think I went too far?" Roman scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. Deny, deny, deny. "You think I should've let him walk away after hurting you, is that it?"

This was beyond frustrating now. It was infuriating, actually. Roman's dismissal of the real topic of concern drove me into a state I hadn't been in before; it almost made my vision go red. Then, it took me a second to realize my vision was blurring because of more causes than one-- with tears pooling in my eyes, I watched as Roman continued his angry rant;

"I don't get you! Why the fuck are you pulling a knife on your boyfriend for protecting you?! I was the one who saved you, I was the one who made sure you got the revenge you deserved, and what do I get in return? That terrified look on your fucking face?!" 

Roman was yelling now. 

Yelling.

I kept telling myself he didn't mean it, that he was simply anxious to face the truth that I knew his biggest secret, but... now that I knew what he was, it only made me grip the knife harder. What if he suddenly pounced at me? What if he got so overcome by anger that he lunged my way out of pure instinct?

I flinched when Roman raised his hands, yet I let out a shaky breath of relief when they went to his hair, ripping at the tips of his brown locks in frustration; "I have done everything to protect you! I-- I messed him up, okay, but!--"

Enough. "Protect me?! You think this is protection?!"

The panic Roman had painted across his face for sympathy got wiped away the second I raised my voice too. His act wasn't working. His distractions weren't working. Nothing was. "It is," he hissed.

"No!" The tears that had welled in my eyes threatened to spill. "You should've left me alone the second you started feeling anything for me! That would've been protection, that would've mercy!" 

Roman closed his eyes and sucked in a sharp line of air-- "Don't say that," he breathed. "You're crossing the line."

"Crossing... the line?!" 

"You are," he continued, blindly gesturing at the knife. "Point your knives, call me whatever, say all the shit you want, but not that. What we have is damn near holy to me, so keep that out of your mouth."

I had half the mind to throw the knife at him. Enough was enough, I couldn't stand it anymore; "You're insane!" I yelled. "You're batshit crazy, and you're out of your fucking mind if you think that you were protecting me all this time! You've only put me in danger!"

Roman's eyes widened with offence. "I have not!--"

"You urged me to slice my hand in front of you, and you sucked my fucking blood that time you decided you wanted to blood-bind us or whatever the fuck those vials were for! How dare you put me in that situation when you know what you are?!"

Silence.

In the void of sound we had created, I could hear a light tapping against the windows-- it was raining. Outside, the grass was given the opportunity to grow. At this very moment, flowers all around were watered with new energy for life; yet here I was, being drained of all of mine.

Roman's face twitched with multiple emotions, unable to decide which one to settle for as he lowered his gaze. Had he ever prepared for this moment? I wondered if he had. I wondered whether he had ever laid in bed at night, riddled with guilt and the weight of the world, and whether he had ever thought about coming clean. Had he thought he could get away with it, that I would never find out? 

Finally, Roman opened his mouth; "I..." 

It didn't take long before it shut again.

A shaky breath escaped me when I realized my knuckles were going white around the knife. I was about to say something, maybe even dig deep into my soul to search for words of comfort; yet when Roman's eyes fully focused on mine again, I felt my whole world freeze over.

Roman's pupils widened, fixating on me as though I was prey, a big deer in the wilderness. He knew the act was up, that the game was over, and instead of facing it, he fixated on the one thing he felt he could still control. His words came out with a low growl; "You have something of mine,"

... What? 

He took a threatening step forward. 

My breath hitched; I readied my brain for possible combat. 

"The vial," Roman hissed. "Where is it?" 

Another step.

"It's mine. If this is how you want to do this, I want it back,"

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "Back-- Back off!--"

With Roman's next step, my body tensed up with the realization that he was speeding up--

It was now or never.

With a shriek, I tossed the knife in his direction out of pure fear, and ran out of the kitchen as my screams emptied my lungs. The pounding of my heart filled my ears as I heard the clashing of pots and pans, possibly the sound of Roman jumping over the kitchen island to get to me, and it only made me panic more.

He called out my name, a yell of rage, as I made it past the living room and into the hallway. 

I was running for my life. 

I was running for my life. 

A ragged scream tore from my throat as I snatched the nearest object, a flimsy umbrella, and flung it behind me without looking. It didn't matter. He'd dodge it. He'd always dodge it.

Tears burned down my face, blurring the steps ahead as I bolted up the stairs. My chest heaved, my legs burned, but I pushed-- pushed like my life depended on it, because it did.

I was going to die, wasn't I?

This was it.

But for a second, a stupid, desperate second, my brain tricked me; maybe I could make it? Maybe I could outrun him? Maybe, maybe I could get out of this alive?

I chanced a glance over my shoulder--

Roman wasn't there.

My heart stopped. Relief slammed into me so hard that my knees nearly buckled.

Too soon.

I saw it too late-- the flicker of movement at the edge of my vision.

Roman's hand, appearing at the top of the banister.

He hadn't run up the stairs. He'd jumped. From the first floor to the second in a single, monstrous leap.

A scream ripped from my throat as he vaulted over the railing, his body a blur, his weight crashing into me before I could even think to run.

My back hit the ground hard, but before I could even feel the pain, something else registered.

His hand. Between my head and the floor, cushioning the blow.

My breath stuttered, my body locked in pure terror as I fought, thrashed, pounded my fists against his chest-- but it was useless. He didn't budge.

My heartbeat was a deafening drumbeat of panic; I wasn't getting away. I wasn't getting away.

I wasn't getting away.

Then, Roman grabbed my hands and slammed them to the floor, pinning me down with a groan. His voice was sharp, teetering on the edge of control; "Stop it!" he yelled. "Stop fighting! I'm not going to hurt you!"

I squeezed my eyes shut, the tears still coming. I didn't believe him. I couldn't believe him.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he continued. "Since when do you throw knives at me?!" 

I kept trying to kick him off. It didn't work. Nothing did.

Roman's chest heaved above mine, his grip tightening before he seemed to catch himself-- his fingers loosened just slightly. His voice dropped, a thread of disbelief woven through the frustration. "You're really afraid of me, aren't you?"

I let out a quiet sob, unable to speak.

Roman's breath shook, his head tilting as if seeing me for the first time. He exhaled through his nose, but his next words wavered; "After all this time... you really think I could hurt you?"

Something in his voice made me pause. He wasn't just angry anymore, he was... wounded. 

"After everything?" he breathed. His fingers curled around my wrists, but this time, they trembled.

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

That silence, that awful, confirming silence, broke him. Roman's expression crumpled as he clutched my wrists like a lifeline, his breath uneven. The anger drained from him in an instant, replaced by something desperate, raw, broken. 

"You're breaking my heart," he breathed.

The words shattered between us.

I stilled, my own heartbeat stammering.

In the muted space of my lack of words, Roman let out a quiet, shuddering laugh, his green eyes glossing over. "Letha told you, didn't she?" His voice cracked, barely above a whisper; "You're wearing her clothes, and you kinda smell like her expensive incense for crazy people. Don't tell me she performed some ritual on you?"

I swallowed hard. Telling him the truth felt dangerous; I needed to protect my last ally, didn't I? "No," I whispered. "No rituals. There was no Letha. I figured it out by myself... I-- I read a book." At least there was some truth to what I was saying.

Roman uttered something between a scoff and a choked breath, shaking his head. His lips curled, but there was no humor in it. "All by yourself?" he muttered. "That's my girl."

Acid filled my next words, overcome by emotion; "You left me no choice,"

"I didn't?"

"You didn't,"

"That's nonsense," Roman mumbled. "We could've avoided all of this. We could've had a few good years with you in the dark."

His face was too hard to read. His expressive eyes were so cold and hard with his conviction-- he really believed that, didn't he? "Years?" I whispered. "With me... in the dark?"

"Yeah," Breathless. He was breathless. "A decade, maybe."

It didn't take me long to piece it together. It would take a decade until he looked considerably younger than me. Would he have let me in on his secret then? 

"That wouldn't have been enough," I said, choking back my tears. "I wanted a whole life with you, Roman."

His next inhale was shaky, yet quick-- finally, he could be sure that he had lost. "So you... you really know, now?"

I knew.

I knew. 

And I could barely speak it; "That you're a upir? Yeah,"

Roman had yet to let me go. "Fuck..." he breathed, nodding to himself. "There goes that."

There it goes.

All the stolen glances, all the kisses, all the joy, all the love.

It was draining the life out of the both of us. "I'm not going to ask you to forgive me," Roman tried. "But can I at least... please have the vial?" His voice broke at the end of his sentence, and he bit down on his bottom lip to keep it from quivering.

My words came out with a tremble; "I-- I threw it away. It was affecting you horribly, and I don't want that for you... I don't want you to be in pain, Roman, despite everything you are,"

He sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body locking up as if my words had just stabbed into him. "I'll have nothing of you, then?" His voice was barely there, so fragile it made my chest ache. "When you leave me, I'll... I'll have nothing?"

I blinked. When I leave?

Was he... planning to let me go?

"You're breaking my heart," Roman echoed, his shoulders trembling as he let go of my wrists to cradle my face in his hands. 

The touch nearly made me flinch. Had I not been so intent on my survival, I would've pushed him away with a shudder. I didn't want him touching me, not now that I knew who and what he was, yet I endured it for the sake of my life. 

Roman's grip faltered as he watched me fail to hide my fear, and his fingers trailed to my cheeks as he took in the look on my face.

"I can never trust you again," I whispered. "Never hold you, never kiss you... Not now that I know what you are."

Roman's fingers slowly brushed over my cheek, shaking. "But... it was supposed to be you and me," he breathed. "Forever."

Forever.

The word sent a sharp ache through my ribs.

Roman's eyes shut, his face twisting with something too deep to name. "I know I should've stayed away..." A shuddering inhale. "I should've just kept on being miserable." 

I choked down a sob; "Rome," I whispered. What else was there to say?

The nickname hit him like a bullet. Roman's voice was rough when he dared to speak; "I wasn't supposed to feel like this for anyone... That was my one rule," He pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were bloodshot, and his jaw was tight like he was forcing the words out. "I don't know when it happened, and I don't know how it happened, but I woke up one day and realized that I-- fuck!" 

Overcome by his emotions, Roman let out a sharp, bitter laugh; "I didn't want this, okay? I didn't-- God, I didn't fucking want to feel anything for you at all! I didn't want us to ever happen in the first place!"

The words should've hurt. They were meant to hurt, why else would Roman say them? But the way he said them, so wrecked, so lost, made my heart ache instead.

Roman exhaled hard, tilting his head back like he was trying to keep it together. "You have no idea how much I fought feeling anything for you... You have no idea how many times I told myself that it was nothing, that it would go away, and that you were just!--" He stopped, his breath hitching. "That you were just some meaningless girl, something temporary, a distraction at most, and not!--"

He didn't say it.

He couldn't. 

Not yet.

"And I--" Roman stopped, like the next part physically hurt to say. "I should've told you about this, I should've told you who I am. You deserved that much, and I tried, I swear! I-- I wanted to. But every time I got close,  every time I thought, this is it, tell the fucking girl, be a man, I'd look at you and-- and I got scared."

Finally, I could be sure the world was going under. The notorious Roman Godfrey was scared, and even worse, admitting to it. 

"Because if I told you, you'd leave!" he said, voice raw with pain. "And I couldn't-- I can't!--"  He was shattering right before my eyes, shattering into a million pieces. "Fuck, you have to understand! I didn't keep it from you to hurt you, I kept it from you because I'd lose everything!"

Roman swallowed hard, and in the smallest, quietest voice, he whispered; "I never, ever wanted to lose you. Nothing else matters like this, I-- I love you too much to function,"

Silence.

Thick. Suffocating.

Roman Godfrey... loved me?

He loved me.

Roman loved me.

And here he was, looking down at me with those big, pleading, green eyes like it would fix everything. Like it would fix the fact that he could kill me within a second. Like it would fix his blood-thirst. 

"Please," he breathed, heartbroken with my lack of response. "You're not saying anything. Please say something."

All the times I had sensed something was wrong and convinced myself I was crazy rushed through my mind, clouding my shock at Roman's confession. It was torturous how he had let me remain in the dark for so long. Was that love, or was that selfishness?

I knew the answer.

"That's not love, Roman," I whispered. "That's fear."

His face fell. "No," he tried. "Don't-- Don't say that, it's not--"

"You say you didn't tell me because you didn't want to lose me, but what do you think this is? What do you think is happening right now?" My voice wavered, heat rushing to my face. "You talk about love like it's this big, tragic thing you had no control over, but you chose to lie to me above all else! You chose to put me in danger every time you were ever near me!"

I pushed against his chest, my body trembling with the force of my anger; Roman could've easily stayed put, could've easily kept me pinned to the ground, yet he relented, his eyes wide with hurt as he allowed me to push him away and sit up.

"You let me walk around and doubt myself for months, Roman! You let me drive myself crazy, trying to understand what the hell was wrong with me and why I was even doubting you, when this whole time-- this whole time, you were lying to my face!"

Roman ran a hand through his hair, looking wrecked. "What did you want me to do?!--"

"Anything but this, you fucking asshole!" I shoved myself off the floor, feeling my heart pound. "And you don't get to look at me like that, like I've wrecked your life! You don't get to act like this is just something sad that happened to us when this could've been prevented all along if you'd just stayed the fuck away!"

"That's not fair!" Roman yelled through the tears welling in his eyes. "You were basically throwing yourself at me!--"

"And you shouldn't have let me!" 

"Come on!" Desperate, Roman reached for me, but I jerked away so fast that I nearly tripped.

"Don't!" My voice cracked, but it didn't matter. "Don't you fucking touch me, how dare you!" Every nerve in my body was screaming at me to tell him that I loved him too, that we could find a way to make it work, that I would always love him no matter what... but Letha's warnings ran through my head.

She had told me he was dangerous. She told me about his urges, how he would forever be hungry for blood, and that I risked my life every minute I was near him. Letha explained how Roman could hear the heartbeats of everyone within a certain radius, and that every thump reminded him of how hungry he was.

But now, as I looked into his hurt eyes, I could only see...

Pain.

I couldn't look at him anymore. I couldn't hurt him any longer, as Letha said I needed to do-- I had to move. Roman's voice was a faint echo as I started taking shaky steps toward my bedroom; there was no chance I'd outrun him if he wanted to chase me again, so I walked. It didn't take long before I heard him scrambling up from the floor as well, following me into my room. 

I could feel him behind me when I stepped inside.

The door clicked shut.

My heart pounded, and I knew he could hear it. I knew.

"Baby--"

"Don’t," I breathed, stopping in the middle of the room before I turned around to face him. Even at this moment, he was beautiful. He was breathtaking in his shirt, even though his previously neat hairstyle had fallen apart with all the running and struggling. How was this fair?

I heard the shift in Roman's breathing, and how he tried to swallow the desperation in his throat. "You’re scared of me,”

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Yes,”

"You don’t have to be," he whispered. "I would never--"

"I do,"

A sharp, broken exhale. He took a step closer, daring to get in my personal space, and I flinched before I could stop myself.

Roman froze.

Silence. Again.

And then--

He dropped to his knees.

I gasped. His hands clutched the fabric of my shirt, Letha's shirt, his forehead pressing against my stomach like he was praying to me. His breath was shaky, his fingers curling and uncurling as if he didn’t know whether to hold me or let me go.

"Please," His voice was wrecked, hoarse with unshed tears. "Please don’t do this."

I stood frozen, my hands shaking at my sides. I wanted to cradle him, wanted to sink down to the floor and hold him, but I couldn't move.

Roman pressed a kiss to my stomach, then another. Then my ribs. Then my hip. A desperate, reverent kind of touch. Not to seduce, not to possess-- but to beg.

"I love you," His voice cracked, his lips ghosting over the fabric of my shirt. "I love you so much, I can’t-- fuck, I can’t lose you!--"

"Roman--"

His body shuddered against mine, his fingers twitching where they clung to me, like if he just held on tightly enough, none of this would be real. "I can control it," he pleaded. "I swear, I swear, baby, please!--"

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. I wanted to believe him so bad, wanted to relent, yet Letha's voice echoed in my head; "He will hurt you,"

"I won’t hurt you," he choked out, contradicting my every thought. "I’d rather die."

My breath hitched as my hands trembled, longing to reach for him. I pressed my lips together, trying to force down the sob rising in my throat; "If you don't want to hurt me, you-- you have to leave. You have to let me go," 

Roman's fingers clutched the fabric of my shirt as he shook his head, a frantic, shattered movement. No, no, no. "I don’t want to," His voice was raw. "Don’t make me. Please don't-- please don't make me."

I squeezed my eyes shut. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. "Roman..."

He knew he had lost. It was over. There was nothing more to say. Slowly, painfully, he pulled back, looking up at me with wide, devastated eyes, silent tears streaking his face. He pressed one last, trembling kiss to my hip.

And then--

Roman let go.

He pushed himself up onto unsteady legs. Stumbled back, one step, two.

Heavy. 

Everything was, until I felt the relief of his eyes leaving mine. It felt like the weight of his attention lifted a ton from my shoulders. But the momentary solace quickly left me when I watched Roman's gaze shift--

He stilled.

The change was instant. His entire body locked up so tight it was like something inside him had snapped. His breath came shallow, his shoulders rising and falling in sharp, stuttered movements. His fingers flexed and curled like they didn’t know what to do.

I followed his line of sight with my breath catching in my chest, and my stomach dropped when I saw what he was looking at.

The book.

That fucking book. 

The Avoidable Vampirism - The Upir.

It lay there on my nightstand, its pages still open, marked by the frantic creases my fingers had pressed into them over and over again. There was no hiding it now.

With a sharp turn, I glanced back at Roman with huge eyes, wondering whether anger would take over his body and trigger him to chew me to death. But alas-- nothing.

Roman didn’t move.

He just stared. His lips parted slightly, his lashes fluttering as he blinked through the tears in his eyes, but he didn’t speak. I could see it, the way the pieces started clicking into place in his mind, how the dots connected in a way that destroyed him.

Finally, we both knew it was over. 

Then--

Defeated, Roman turned away.

It was sudden, almost violent, the way he ripped himself away. He staggered toward my window, one hand swiping at his face as he smeared his tears into his skin, his breath a sharp, hollow sound. His entire body shook like he was barely keeping himself together, like the second he stepped outside, he would completely break apart.

Roman reached for the window.

Shoved it open.

But just for a second, he hesitated.

For a second.

For me.

He waited.

He was begging me to say something, to stop him, to tell him he didn’t have to go.

But I didn’t. I couldn't.

So, Roman climbed through the window I had snuck him in through countless times. We had shared countless kisses there; kisses of passion, kisses of joy, kisses goodbye, kisses hello. But now, there would be no more. 

With one final look back, his green eyes seared into mine with a look I would never forget.

And then--

Roman Godfrey was gone. 

I stood there for longer than I'd ever admit to anyone, staring at the empty space he'd left behind, waiting for him to come back. I could still smell him-- the deep cologne and the faint, metallic tinge of blood clinging to my shirt where he'd been pressed against me just minutes ago. It was Daniel's blood, a trace of what had happened earlier tonight. I couldn't believe I had been happy just a few hours ago. A few hours was all it took to unravel everything. 

It was like he had left a ghost of himself behind--- something half-alive, something that would never quite let go of me.

Nothing but the sound of my own breathing filled up the room. It sounded too loud, too shaky. My fingers drifted into my pocket without thinking, curling around the cold glass buried there.

The vials clinked together as I rolled them between my fingers-- his blood, my blood, trapped inside two fragile little prisons, always touching but never quite meeting.

I brought them to my lips, squeezing my eyes shut— I could never get rid of them. Never.

If I crushed them right now, if I just closed my fist and shattered them into a thousand tiny shards, maybe this whole nightmare would shatter with them? Maybe I would wake up and he would still be here, begging me not to send him away? Maybe I could've made a different choice? Maybe he would wrap his arms around me again and swear that he would never hurt me, and maybe this time I would believe him?

But I didn't crush them-- I couldn't.

Instead, I pressed the glass harder against my lips until I tasted the salt of my tears on the rim.

At least in this form, we could be together.

Forever.

(a/n: ... sorry not sorry. this was heartbreaking to write, believe me. but this isn't the last chapter, that will be the next, and y'all are in for a RIDE!! thank you so so much for reading this, aaaand just quick psa, I will not be compensating anyone for their possible need for an ambulance or any funeral services cause I'm obv evil:))) JK MWAH🥹🌸 THANK YOUUU<333)

here are all the chapters!<3: PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 12, PART 13

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[chleem]

Flashing Lights #8

Series; actor Drew x actress reader

Summary: Drew gets involved in the worst scandal of his career. One way to solve it? Proving to the whole world that he’s the sweetest lover to exist. Who better to help than the one person he can’t stand? You, an A-class actress with an alcohol addiction. So, will Drew clear up his reputation, or leave with a bigger mess to clean up?

Genre: fake dating, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, smut, fluff

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, swearing, mentions of k!lling oneself, mentions of rape & sa, mentions of drug usage, smoking & vaping, (read at own caution

⋆.˚ please dont copy or translate my work!

♡⸝⸝ chapter7 | index | chapter9

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

9:04 p.m

“I ordered, um, room service,”

You start, to which Drew just nods, while drying his hair with a towel. 

You sit awkwardly on the couch, not sure of what to say now. The two of you rushed back to the hotel due to the pouring rain, and now that both are done showering, the realization of what was said is sinking in. 

How does one start a conversation? You had no idea. 

But, you’re glad Drew knows. 

“What did you order?” He asks, coming to sit down next to you. 

You glance at his naked upper body, quickly averting your gaze back to his face. He looks flushed from the shower, and he smells really good. “Um, just the usual.”

“‘The usual’?” The corner of his lips curl up. 

“Wine, steak, etc,” you shrug, lazy to elaborate what you usually eat. 

“What about mine?” His blue eyes stare into yours, a mischievous glint in them. 

“Whatever I can’t finish,” you smile, leaning back in the couch. 

He shakes his head, reaching for the tv remote. The tv opens, and there’s Netflix on it. The both of you stay silent as he logs into his account, and soon, you see his homepage. 

Oh.

Oh. 

A series that you filmed recently released, and it was in the category of shows he was currently watching. 

It was the only show that was in there. And if you looked down, you could see some of your other movies in his watchlist. 

You snicker, glancing at Drew.

You don’t miss the redness forming on his ears, and his clenched jaw. His eyes stay glued to the screen, his hands clicking on the remote. “Someone’s a fan.”

“I share this account with my siblings,” he replies, eyes still glued to the screen. “They…they like you.”

Is he lying or being honest right now?

Either way, you feel good knowing he (or his siblings) like watching your shows. You don’t know if the movies are good or not, but at least someone’s watching them. 

You turn back to the screen, watching him scroll through the different lists of shows underneath. 

“These shows suck,” you mindlessly comment based on their covers. Truth was, you knew nothing about these shows. 

A loud scoff leaves Drew, and you watch the screen as he stops at Nottinghill.

“I met her once,” you brag, the words rolling off your tongue carelessly. 

“Of course,” he murmurs, pressing the play button before laying back and letting the credits roll. 

You feel a flash of irritation, but you keep it in check. Drew's comment is subtle, but the way his tone is makes it clear that he's not impressed by your fame or connections. 

“We talked a lot,” you mumble, eyes glued to the screen now, pretending to focus on the movie. “I have her personal number.”

His continued silence only seems to make the air thicker; the narration of the movie filling in for it. 

You glance over at him, catching him in the act of rolling his eyes—just barely, but it’s enough to get under your skin. His posture is so relaxed, as though he couldn’t care less. Maybe he really doesn’t care. 

A ding is heard; not from the movie. 

Drew stands up, walking to the door. 

You ignore the staff as he walks in to place the food on the living room table; at least, you try to. The staff keeps glancing over at you, with curious eyes. 

Drew sits down next to you, the staff leaving as soon as he’s done. 

You immediately reach for the wine over at Drew’s side of the table, but a gentle slap gets sent to your arm. “Ow,” you comment, to which Drew ignores, opening the bottle himself. 

“Let me do it,” he mumbles, pouring it into the wine glasses. 

He hands it to you, and when you stare into his eyes, the curl of your lips automatically goes up. 

“What a gentlemen,” you tease, taking the glass from him. You take a sip, the wine smooth and cool against your tongue, but your gaze never leaves his.

The familiar feeling of relief curses through your bones, comforting enough to feel like ‘home’. 

You glance at him; watching as his Adam’s apple throb as he drinks his. 

It’s awfully weird; this calm atmosphere.

Screw it, this whole day was weird. Crying in front of someone? Staying sober? Shit, you must be going nuts. 

Drew starts cutting the steak, and you watch as his biceps flex with every move. You try to focus on the movie, letting the smoothness of the wine distract you, but your eyes keep darting back to him.  

“That’s mine,” you whisper, poking his shoulder. It feels just like how it looks; firm and solid under your touch. 

You pull your hand back quickly, but the warmth from his skin lingers on your fingertips, making your pulse pick up.

Drew glances at you, his brow lifting, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "What’s mine?" he asks, his voice low, teasing. His eyes flicker down to the steak, then back to you.

"The steak," you say, your voice a little sharper than you intended.

Drew shakes his head, pushing the cut steak over to your side of the table. He steals a fry, before redirecting his attention to the movie. 

You start eating, just realizing how famished you are.

Right now, Julia Roberts kisses Hugh Grant, after reclaiming the bag she forgot. 

You snicker at that; finding the plot boring and predictable. “It’s like she wants to get caught,” you murmur, reaching for the bottle of wine again. 

You lean forward, your body angling toward him, stretching just enough to grab the bottle from his side of the table.

As you do, you feel the heat of his presence behind you, his breath faint against your skin.

Your arm brushes his as you grab the bottle, and you catch the faintest scent of his shampoo. You pause just a second too long, fingers gripping the neck of the bottle. Fuck. 

You pull back quickly, pouring the wine into your glass. 

You can almost feel the weight of his gaze, even though he hasn’t said a word. 

Then, he speaks up, just as Hugh Grant apologies for his word choice of ‘surreal’. “Just..watch, it gets good.”

“That usually means it’s bad,” you shoot back, gulping the wine down. 

“Internet's’ not gonna like you for that,” he says. 

You hate how you chuckle at his lame joke, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. The pit of your stomach feels uncomfortable; an easy feeling flowing through you that for once, isn’t because of alcohol. 

“You enjoy this shit?” You ask instead, suppressing your smile. 

Drew’s eyes remain on the tv. “Guilty pleasure,” he mumbles between chews. 

“Really?” You fail to hide the skepticism in your voice, “this predictable, unrealistic shit?”

That makes Drew lean back, turning to face you. His blue eyes stare into yours in amusement, and there’s a slight curl on his lips. “Like your taste is any better.”

That makes you scoff, ready to challenge him back. 

Except…well, you don’t have a favorite movie genre. 

You don’t even have a favorite movie. 

The realization hits you in the gut, unexpectedly cold. You pause, your lips parting to respond, but your mind is blank.

What is your taste, anyway? An easy question, yet you can’t answer.

The tension in his eyes further adds to the ache, so you turn towards the movie. “Not this, for sure.”

There’s a long pause before Drew speaks up again, the screen now showing Hugh Grant going to visit her at a hotel, also a press event. “Thriller. Second best.”

You don’t respond; trying to drown out this conversation. Is he trying to needle you, or is he genuinely curious?

“I know a great thriller movie,” Drew presses, “we can watch it after this.”

No response. 

"I think you’ll like it," he says, quieter this time, but his words feel heavy, as if he's saying more than he means to.

Finally, you turn to look at him. His eyes are steady on you, and there’s something comforting in the way he’s watching you, like he’s not just offering a movie suggestion but a kind of unspoken support. 

It’s the same comfort from earlier today—the same softness in his gaze that almost makes you feel safe in a way you’re not used to.

“Better be good,” it sounds restrained, reflecting the feeling you have in your stomach. 

“The best,” he assures, a small smile slowly appearing on his face. The familiar feel of warmth coarse through you just like at the beach; all because of his simple smile.

You turn your gaze back to the movie, hoping to play it cool. That him spending time with you, is nothing. 

——

11:26 p.m

The Conjuring. You never thought much of it, shrugging as Drew pressed play. 

You figured you’d probably doze off halfway through, especially after two bottles of wine.

But you’re…wide awake, next to Drew, your gaze fixated on the screen. The camera focuses on a dark, deserted hallway of the haunted farmhouse.

You’re completely oblivious to how close Drew is. 

Who scooted closer was unclear; just that there was no space between you two. 

Drew could feel the tightness in your posture, the way your body stiffened with every creeping moment on screen. His arm brushed against yours, but neither of you moved away.

Suddenly, the camera zooms in on a cracked door. The tension builds as the whispers grow louder—until the door slams open and the spirit appears.

You gasp, and before you can even think, you bury your face in Drew’s shoulder, finding sanctuary in his arms.

The loud noise goes on, but you just press yourself deeper into his warmth. 

He freezes for a moment, caught off guard by your sudden movement. His gaze shifts to you, seeing your face pressed into his shoulder. 

For a split second, Drew just watches you, his chest tightening as he feels the way your lips, nose, cheeks, everything, brushes against his skin.

He stays still, caught somewhere between wanting to hold you closer, or move away. 

Then, a soft chuckle escapes him, as if breaking the tension. 

“Shit, you scared?” he teases. 

Realizing how close you are to him, you pull away, scooting back to your side of the couch. 

Drew catches the subtle shift, noticing the space that’s opened up between you.

And he almost wishes you hadn’t moved. 

You lift your chin, eyes darting to the TV screen, trying to act casual. 

“I’m not scared,” you mutter, your voice light but a little defensive. 

You try to steady your breath, glancing at the screen. But just as you do, the spirit’s face suddenly flashes across it, its hollow eyes staring directly at you.

You scream again, louder this time, and practically jump out of your seat. Heart racing, you grab for the cushion next to you, clutching it like a lifeline.

Drew watches you, and a chuckle escapes him, “right. You’re the bravest.”

You send him a glare, meeting the blue eyes of his through the dark. “Shut up,” you say, eyes flickering back to the screen. 

An amused grin tugs at his lips, his tongue pressing against his cheek. You’re hiding behind the cushion, eyes wide in fear as you stare at the screen.

After a beat, he speaks up, “I can’t watch this.”

He leans toward the remote, and when he clicks exit, there’s no fight from you. 

——

11:40 P.M

Andy makes his way upstairs with his new toys, the toys in his room freaking out. It’s his birthday party, and the thought of ‘newcomers’ send the toys into a full-blown panic attack. 

The toys scurry to hide, to return to their original places. 

You’re focused on the movie, and you find yourself more intrigued than you’d admit. It’s a children’s movie, but in your drunken state, everything feels a little more intense.

But you can feel something burning the side of your face, a warmth that doesn’t fade. Even when you sip your drink, it lingers.

Turning toward the source, you catch Drew’s gaze. He’s staring at you, intense and unwavering.

“Stop that,” you immediately say, eyebrows furrowing. 

“What?” He blinks, acting innocent. 

“Doing that—staring at me," you say, your tone sharp but betraying a hint of nervousness.

The door of Andy’s room bursts open, and something is placed on the bed, causing Woody to fall underneath the bed. 

“Hey- this part, this part’s good,” Drew comments, his attention back to the movie. 

You scoff, shaking your head before shifting your attention to the screen as well, “you’ve watched this before.”

“Yeah, and it never gets old,” he replies, and you could almost hear the smirk tugging on his lips. 

A new toy comes into the screen, one that’s in an astronaut suit. 

‘Buzz-Lightyear to Star Command, come in Star Command. Star Command, do you read me?’

You feel the same heat on the side of your face again, and turning once again, Drew’s staring at you. 

“Oh my god- stop staring!” You practically yell, the frustration in your voice unmistakable. You turn back to the screen, doing your best to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

“Sorry- just wanna make sure you’re focused,” he murmurs, yet, he can’t pry his eyes away from you. 

As Woody and Buzz meet for the first time, Buzz freaking out and pointing out his laser, you can’t help but let out a light laugh.

Drew laughs too, but not because of the scene.

Woody proceeds to crash out about the ‘cool new toy’, and you’re still smiling, clearly enjoying the scene.

Drew notices the way your eyes light up with that simple joy, and for a second, he’s quiet. 

Then, he smirks, leaning a little closer, “you’re kinda- kinda like Woody.”

You lean back into your seat, a pleased smile spreading across your face, “Really? Because I’m such a hero?”

He chuckles, shaking his head, “because you freak out just like that.”

Your smile drops at the sudden insult, and you quickly come up with something lame to save face, “well…well you’re such a…Mr Potato Head.”

Drew raises his eyebrows in amusement, the smirk on his lips only growing wider. 

“Because…because, you’re such a loser!” You hear it in your own mind, the lamest comeback to ever be said. 

‘To infinity…and beyond!’

His throaty laugh echoes through the room, adding to your embarrassed state. 

“Fuck off,” you murmur, hitting his shoulder. 

It doesn’t get him to stop, his chest vibrating with laughter. 

Annoyed and flustered, you turn your head to the movie, watching as Buzz makes the perfect landing on the bed. 

“Hey, don’t get me wrong,” he gives your shoulder a playful poke, his voice teasing, “I’m honored to be Mr. Potato Head.”

“Yeah right- getting teared apart every five seconds.”

“So you can pay attention,” Drew says, stretching his arm across the back of the couch, his hand brushing your shoulder.

“I am, so stop distracting me,” you say, your voice tinged with agitation.

He chuckles under his breath, and as the movie goes on, his eyes still find themselves attached to you, watching your every reaction. 

——

12:34 A.M

‘You are a cool toy!’ Woody exclaims, looking over at Buzz. Then, the realization slowly sinks in, ‘as a matter of fact, you’re too cool.’

‘I mean- I mean, what chance does a toy like me have against a Buzz Lightyear action figure?’

‘All I can do is…’ Woody pulls on the string behind his back, initiating his voice box that plays his most famous catchphrase. 

‘Why would Andy ever want to play with me when he’s got you?’

It’s a sad moment, sure, but not enough to jerk a tear out of you.

However, you do hear a sniffle beside you. 

The faintest kind, the kind that you think you might’ve hallucinated.

You turn back, seeing Drew fixed on the screen, but there’s a slight tightness around his jaw, and his eyes are shining. 

Shining with tears. 

“Are you- crying?” you ask, your voice a mix of disbelief and amusement.

He doesn’t look at you at first, his gaze glued to the screen, but the corners of his mouth twitch, and you can hear the slight hitch in his breath.

‘I should be the one strapped to the rocket.' 

“I’m- I'm not crying,” he mutters, though it’s clear from the way his voice shivers that he’s not fooling anyone.

Your gaze doesn’t leave Drew as you watch the slight tremble of his lips. A single tear slips down his cheek, betraying the tough act he’s putting on.

Your lips curl up in a teasing grin, and you happily exclaim, “you’re crying!” 

His eyes (teary eyes) meet yours, and he furrows his eyebrow, denying, “I’m not.”

“There’s a tear right here-“

“I’m not crying-“

“Please, you so are-“

“No-“

"You are!” you insist, leaning in and poking his cheek. His eyes narrow, the softness disappearing, replaced with a sharper look. “You’re a little bitch.”

Drew’s lips part, ready to say something, but you stop—just for a second. Your gaze lingers on his face, noticing how the tear glistens on his cheek, how his eyes, even with the sharpness, still hold something vulnerable.

You suddenly feel too close.

A flush creeps up your neck as you realize how pretty he looks like this, the mix of emotions playing across his features. Your teasing grin falters, and something gentler takes its place.

“…you’re…a little bitch,” you say, your voice softer now, trailing off. 

You don’t know why, but your heart races, caught in the intensity of being so close to Drew.

Sure, you’ve shared tight spaces before, but this… feels different. 

This time, it’s real. 

No cameras, no crowd, just the two of you, alone in this moment.

Maybe it’s the alcohol in your veins, or just purely Drew, or something else entirely, but you’re convinced you should kiss him.

Kiss. Drew.

Your eyes flicker down to his lips, noticing how red and plump they look in the dim light due to his soft crying. 

Then back into his eyes- and how they stare deeply into yours. 

You close your eyes, leaning in, heart pounding as you brace yourself for the contact you’re certain will change everything.

Then—ding. 

The doorbell rings, cutting through the tension like a cold splash of water.

Your eyes snap open, and you jump to your feet, the sudden rush of clarity sobering you up.

Shit, shit, shit. 

“I’ll- I’ll get it,” you force out, your voice a little more high-pitched than you intended.

You don’t look back as you head to the door, not even bothering to check who it is. Your mind’s still buzzing from the near-kiss, and you just need something to pull you out of the tension.

When you open the door, it’s the second round of room service. 

You let the staff in, unloading the food onto the table. 

You stand there by the doorway, suddenly hyper-aware of your senses. Your heartbeat feels too loud in your chest, and the sound of the movie starts to feel suffocating.

You almost kissed Drew. Drew? Out of anyone, are you serious?

“Y/n?”

You blink, snapping out of your thoughts to realize Drew’s still seated on the couch, his eyes fixed on you.

It’s also when you realized the staff left, and you shut the door lightly. 

“Yeah?” you ask, trying to act normal, though your voice feels tight. You’re standing awkwardly in the doorway, the last few moments replaying in your mind.

Drew tilts his head slightly, studying you, a small smile playing on his lips. He doesn’t move from the couch, just watches you from where he’s sitting. 

“You good?” His voice is low, almost playful, but you can tell there’s an undercurrent to it—something more serious.

“Yeah…” you force out, your voice sounding more unsure than you want it to. You look away, avoiding his gaze for a second, your eyes flicking to the food, to anything that can distract you from this.

It doesn’t help with how naked his upper body is. 

“Then come back, back to my side,”

He almost purrs, while his hands mix the sauce of the pasta. His biceps flex with every slow stir. It’s almost hypnotic, the way his arm moves, but you quickly look away.

You hesitate for a moment, but the gentleness in his tone pulls you toward him. 

Quietly, you walk over, and sit down on the other side of the couch, the space between you two wide again.

The table full of foods sitting between you now, and the movie’s playing, but your attention is still fractured.

The silence stretches.

A push of plate across the table echos through the room, and it’s the plate of pasta that Drew just mixed. 

The pasta that you ordered. 

You steal a glance at him, his jaw tight as he focuses on the tv. 

Your breath catches. You should say something. Anything.

You look down at the plate. The pasta looks perfectly mixed—cheese and sauce swirled in just the right way. It’s simple, but it feels oddly... thoughtful.

A knot in your stomach tightens, in a way you’re not used to. 

And so you reach for the bottle of wine, finding it the perfect solution to these weird thoughts you’re having. 

The warmth of the liquid as it swirls in your glass is a small comfort, something to hold onto while your mind races.

You take a slow sip of the wine, the bitterness slipping down your throat, trying to ignore the way your thoughts keep circling back to Drew. 

Your eyes fixate on the screen, watching Buzz sit at a tea party with Sid’s little sister.

There's something unspoken between the two of you, a silent agreement that whatever almost happened is just... off the table. 

An agreement to act like that moment never existed, and neither of you is going to bring it up. Not now, not later. 

It’s gonna be locked away somewhere, sealed off behind a wall neither of you are willing to tear down, even though the tension lingers in the room, thick as ever.

Instead, the movie plays on in the background, the clinking of silverware and the occasional chuckle at the screen filling the gaps where words should’ve been.

——

1:03 A.M

After Toy Story and way too many bottles of wine, you’ve officially fallen asleep. 

Your gentle snores catch Drew’s attention, and he glances over at you. It’s the way you’re curled up on the couch, eyes closed, breaths steady, lips slightly opened that draws him in. 

He watches you for a moment, not wanting to disturb you. 

Drew replays everything from today, his mind circling back to how it all felt too real.

The ‘date,’ if you could even call it that, the movie marathon, the way it all seemed to blur together in a mix of laughter and quiet moments. 

But then there was the almost-kiss, too. He can’t stop thinking about it.

If there were no interruptions, he definitely would have kissed you. 

And then there's the memory that stays with him, sharp and vivid—the way you looked, eyes red and teary, standing in the raining beach. Your crying wasn't ugly, not at all, but it hit him in a way he didn’t expect. 

Even through the storm, he could see your vulnerability, raw and open.

He’s careful not to disturb the stillness as he reaches for the remote. He turns the TV off, the soft click almost echoing into the room. 

A soft sigh escapes your lips, your head tilting slightly against the armrest. Even in your sleep, your brow is furrowed, that familiar expression Drew's come to know so well— you're either annoyed, confused, or tangled up in some unwelcome thought.

Without thinking twice, he shifts closer, leaning in just enough to carefully slip his arms under you. One hand slides under your knees, the other curling around your back. 

He lifts you with surprising ease, trying not to jostle you too much.

You stir slightly, but your eyes don’t open. 

His heart skips a beat at the way your body relaxes against him, even though you’re asleep. Your head rests against his chest, and he finds himself pausing, feeling the weight of you in his arms. 

The closeness, the softness of your breath against his chest, makes him feel oddly protective, in a way he’s not sure he understands.

He carries you to the bedroom, and when he finally sets you down on the bed, he tucks the blankets around you, making sure you’re comfortable. 

He lingers for just a moment, watching your peaceful expression, before he steps back, quietly leaving the room.

And when Drew sits back down on the couch, he knows for sure that after today, something shifted. 

Something, that he hates to admit, has shifted inside of him. 

-------------------------------

word count: 4.2k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: this chapter took me wayyy too long to write T_T anyway, this is my attempt at writing a movie marathon

and yes, this story has plot holes which i chose to ignore

elevator | other | index | ch7 | ch9

official taglist for this series aka the best ppl ever: @maybankslover @ditzyzombiesblog @xcinnamonmalfoyx @haruvalentine4321 @wearemadeofstardust0 @akxkr4st4l @percysley @stars4birdie @padf00ts-l0ver @sadheartjellyfish @darklove2020 @claudiamoscatoo

[sully-s]

Open in a different window to zoom in. So this is just a deep dive behind all the stuff I put in my last post I rolled back my picture before I did all the lighting and color changes to make certain details more visible. Fun fact I almost scrapped this whole picture at this stage because A. I was just burned out; this piece took me forever. B. As I kept getting more and more "neat" ideas to stuff in, I lost any real focal point, especially with the color scheme. After hours of trying to fix it in PS and failing, I was about to give up. I was like fuck it make it a night scene. Let me tell you all a world of lighting makes lol.

Anyways, enough about my struggles, let me give you the tour.

I love the idea that this corkboard was originally Phoenix's mood board in the beginning it just had his childhood pics from like the yearbook and that one time Larry got a polaroid camera. Then, a new year clipping about Edgeworth being Demon Prosecutor which led Phoenix to make his thesis about court drawings just so he could watch and see with his two eyes how much Edgeworth changed. - Then, later, he added Mia because she was his mentor. then Vinny (from the movie "My Cousin on Vinny") because like Vinny, Phoenix never understands court procedure but has very good instincts; and last Elle Woods who also went to law school for a boy basically his spirit lawyer lol. - Later, after Maya joined, she thought it would be funny to replace Phoenix's real reason to Steel Samurai. Also, it was fun because Will Powers was their client, so he should be their reason. Phoenix let them stay because it made Maya happy, and Phoenix knew that with Mia's death, she needed it. - I was going to add a sticky note from Miles that he approved, but I do like that Miles will never admit out loud or in writing that he enjoys the show. - A year later, Pearls tries to replace all the Steel Samurais with her drawings of Maya. Which Phoenix encouraged her to make during Maya's disappearance because facts. - Tid Bit: I was sad to cover up Will Powers' signature I really liked how it came out

Moving away from the mood board idea, I like that the cork board just became Phoenix's catch all. So his Law Degree which isn't the original it's just a sad printed-out version of what should've been his fancy embossed one. I like the idea that Phoenix never went to graduation. (Can't be bothered he's on a mission to save his childhood bff.)

Lastly are postcards from Edgeworth, his way of making up for all the years he couldn't write back to young Phoenix. - Also, this picture takes place some time after the 3rd game but before the disbarment.

Calendar whiteboard that I forgot to add the last row too so I guess in Japaniforina the months are only 25 days long.

I spent a frustrating amount of time trying to figure out the logistics of this paper trail. It really doesn't need to make sense It just has to make the room messier. - You can imagine Phoenix is looking over phone records or court stenographer's record.

So Edgeworth is a nerd; we all know this. But it annoys me just a tad that his nerd-isum is always just Steel Samurai (like I get it, it's canon), but all geeks have many fandom loves, okay. - So I just love the idea that Phoenix and Edgeworth (who are in a relationship at the time of this pic ) watch Better Call Saul, and they both bought each other a little plushie of the character they joke is them. -Edgeworth bought Saul for Phoenix (because of Saul's heart, not because he does shady practices), And Phoenix bought Kim (because she a really good lawyer who seems cold and is a workaholic who would break the rules for their Saul (used phoenix's badge in the third game )) - They keep each other's plushies in their offices, and if one of them stops by when the other isn't in, they put a sticky note on it. - Which we can see that Phoenix did need reminding because, as you can see, the date is 18th, and no mention of a dinner ;)

7. Now the whole reason I drew this picture was too show off my headcanon that Phoenix has a Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law action figure that you know Gumshoe got him after Edgeworth vs. State happen because of Polly. And we all know that man would be a fan of old Hanabara cartoons. - I've loved this stupid tid-bit of a headcanon that it's been haunting me for years. That's it; that's all I really wanted to say with this piece, and look where it got

[fix-me-sixteen]

how dare you forget to post this

There’s a possibility I forgot to post this. Um.

[alwayzadorbs]

I see what you're wearing

Summary: Lucifer's reactions to different articles of clothing on you, and his personal favorites.

Rating 18+ (poetic porn) pt. 1

Your Pajamas drive him wild, he loves to see you in your most comfortable, and natural element. He basks in your beauty, astounded how somebody like you could be so elegant. The way the fabric warps to your curves, outlining the silhouette of your enchanting body. You drew him in, like a moth to a flame, he couldn't stop himself from kissing you. He would drag you into his room for a restless night, he'll take it slow.

RAD uniform gives him the hots more than he'd admit, you somehow make the uniform more....alluring, captivating, and sensual. Even if you weren't doing anything to make the uniform revealing, his mind took his time undressing you. imaging the naughtiness of stripping your uniform off in the student council room before a meeting or after a test.

micro bikini Loves it, the allure of not being able to see your most private parts, but he doesn't think its very practical, he'll just tear it off in the heat of the moment. "If I find out you're dressing like this for any other demon, ill have to reprimand you." he'll say before pulling you in, he wont let you go until he's had enough.

his clothes, When he first saw you, The morning after you spent the night in his bed. He thought you were the most beautiful being he'd ever seen, especially now that you'd adorned your body in his clothing. He reveled in the fact you were wrapped in his scent, there's no doubt its his favorite way to see you.

your garter belt drove his eyes up. He started down, noticing your sock choice, long, black stockings. hugging your thighs perfectly, skin muffining at the top, meeting with the clip of the garter, a thin black line of fabric guiding his eyes up, before disappearing behind your skirt. He instantly thought about what you were wearing underneath your outfit, where your underwear matching your stockings and garterbelt? He had to know, pushing you inside his room, peeling your clothes away from your body to uncover the delicious sight of your underwear, black and chic.

scanty, Lucifer Loves to see you in the nude, scantily clad, if you will. He couldn't care less about your looks, they were hardly a priority when choosing you as his partner. However, this doesn't mean he won't care when presented with your body, He'd worship you, loving every nook and cranny, every indistinct "imperfection", but to him, there was no imperfection. Every piece, every fold or dip, He loved. He didn't just sexually enjoy your body, he loved it because it was you. Even if somebody looked exactly like you, he wouldn't love them, because they wouldn't be you. You were the only Human for him, and he hoped, that he was the only demon for you.

꧁🙟⎯✣⎯⎯⎯⚜⎯⎯⎯✣⎯🙜꧂

i apologize for not posting, also for a short post,, I write at night and I end up too tired by the time I remember to write again.. XD

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. “ you're coming with me ” : 

﹙ yandere demon x gn reader ﹚.𖹭 ݁

. . . valerius ariti x gn reader !! 🍓 : ﹙ demon lord ˖ rhytaari character ﹚

you catch the eye of a demon. it's more than that. it's obsession. so much so that he intends to drag you down to hell itself with him.

﹙ cws ﹚: dark content ˖ yandere tendencies ˖ forced kissing | wc : 0.8k 

﹙ receipts ﹚: some sides tp valerius that you should see <3

꒰  other treats : guidelines ˖ m.list ˖ characters ˖ our lore  ꒱

When light knows dark for long enough, it may see it long enough for itself to become the abyss it has stared at for centuries

It feasts away at anything that comes into contact with it. The shine of stars, the shimmer of light that lives way below the surface and inside of the soul.

The prince of failure knows such concept better than anyone. One as himself, who faced rebirth in the darkness and feasts away at it like the rest of the devils and gargantuans that haunt the grounds of the abhorration.

Pure light like you. . . Oh yes, a taste of the ages that he loves to savour and corrupt slowly, and ever as sweetly at times. He's drunk on the taste of your skin, the feel of your body against his. Demonic urges be the winner of him. You are someone who he has to have.

A pretty new gem to his collection of broken lovers and pretty past time worshippers that have come far and wide to see themselves with the prince who has discarded them long ago and left them nothing but devotees and advocates of his causes. Spreading his cult across different lands like the plague.

You weren't aware of his obsession towards you.

All but a mere inhuman artist in the vast world of 781. A 3rd year attendee of the ECU, with the art class major. His infatuation had grown to grave lengths after conversing with you.

There was something about you. Touch, voice and laugh. Why, they were each and on their own enough to make the flowers of the earth sigh in refreshment. And whenever you walked away from him in the hallways to get to your other classes, he felt this need to reach out and grab you. Preventing you from making another move.

That would not be enough, and he would not wish to damage the foundation of friendship the two of you had built. He craved for something more, however, and his urges got him before sense did.

Such is the life of a rhytaari, who dwells the grounds of the abhorration as not only a demon but a man who strives to have back something pure in his life each time the old breaks.

"Valerius—"

Delicious. . . The panic in your voice was absolutely delectable.

Gently, his knuckles made long strokes down your cheek, to soothe and reassure you that you were going to be alright. You'd looked so beautiful in your sleep, and he was able to be quiet for the most part as he drew the circle around your bed to open a portal straight to his temple in the realm of the abhorred.

He could have taken you simply, sure. With the possibility of dizzying you at the sheer amount of power he uses normally to teleport himself from place to place.

A portal would be easier. Less straining and worrisome on your soul.

"Shhh,"

Shivers shoot up your spine. Nausea cranked up to a max in your gut. Every part of your intuition is screaming at you. About how none of this is normal, about how you need to get up and run.

But run where?

Gods of the realms might as well come laugh you into your face at the notion of trying. You're not getting out of this regardless.

"It shall be alright, I will take care of you."

You thought you knew the man in front of you. Yet from now to when you last saw him. His entire appearance has changed. Gold litters every part of him, be it jewellery or makeup. His hair floats in the most enamouring manner possible. Yet you find yourself too disturbed to care much at the very moment.

"I don't want to do what you want." You let out. Regretting it instantly, as his eyes go from having hopeful glee in them, to darkness that pitted the deep vapour of the abyss.

"You will do what I am doing for you. This is for you." He calmly responds, as his hand shoots up to take hold of your jaw in a firm grasp. It brings you forward into a kiss. Golden lips drunkenly feeding off of the small cries and sobs you let out. The fear makes him feel high.

"You're hurting me—"

"I would never put you to any harm, stop crying." He sneers against your lips, teeth grazing against your bottom lip to bite at it. Your body stiff and for his taking the second his left arm swoops you into it's hold and he tilts back into the portal.

As the both of you fall through skies of red, skies of the damned, he grins at you like a madman. Hearts in his eyes as though you are his most beloved.

You are, to him. Why can't you accept that? He just wants to love you.

"Mine." He cries out in glee, clawing golden wounds into your skin. "All mine at last,"

"None will hurt you here."

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[kumeko]

A/N: For the @damianwaynezine R Stands for Redemption zine! I ‘m not entirely happy with how this turned out, I was trying to go a bit more stylistic (as you can see with the start) but then didn’t really carry it through.

…

…

…

…

0.

An early memory. The earliest, possibly. Damian stood stiffly in a cave. Even as a toddler, he knew how to fight, to kill. Discipline was second nature to him. In Ra’s training grounds, it didn’t matter if one was a child or an old man. All were expected to be combat ready.

In front of him, his mother stood tall and proud, her hands clasped behind her back. Her black, skin-tight suit blended in with the shadows. Some likened her to a venomous snake, poison dripping in her very words. He couldn’t see anything other than a sharp hawk, ready to swoop down on her prey. Her eyes were cold, calculating, with only the barest flicker of warmth behind them. Here, in this cave, she was a teacher before she was a mother.

“There is one important rule,” Talia al Ghul said slowly. Despite how softly she spoke, her voice filled the room and coiled around him. “It is more important than anything else. Trust no one, Damian.”

Damian stared at her, not sure how to respond. He opened his mouth.

Before he could say anything, she continued. “No one. Not your grandfather. Not your teachers. Not even me. As it is, you can barely trust yourself. Senses can be manipulated, memories altered. We live in a world of magic and science.”

Talia reached down, her hand cupping his cheek, her nails digging into his skin. He felt a sharp sting of pain as they drew blood. “Trust is a folly of the weak. You are the grandson of the demon and the son of the great detective. You are many things, but you will never be weak.”

1.

Damian did not like fighting with other people. Against them was fine, there were no restrictions then. But fighting with someone? It was annoying. Other people were useless and slow and clumsy. They more often than not got in the way. He especially hated fighting with Dick because the buffoon always bounced all over the place. Whether he was dressed as Batman or as Nightwing, the man could not keep his flighty nature in check.

Tonight was no different. As they fought in the warehouse, the lights flickering above them, Dick tumbled and flipped through the air with ease as he took down henchman after henchman. It was a graceful performance worthy of the spotlight on a stage. It had no role in the dark taking down villains.

Yet even worse than his fighting style was his mouth. Dick talked a mile a minute, as though he didn’t need to breathe. Dodging a punch, he kicked a woman in the face. At the same time, he praised Damian. “Nice hook.”

Damian grunted as he jabbed the man behind him, knocking the wind out of the mook. It was a miracle no one had ever recognized Dick’s voice. “Has no one told you you talk too much?”

Instead of taking offence, Dick chuckled. Perhaps that was the most annoying part of him: none of Damian’s barbs stuck. He swept the feet of his next attacker. “Lots of people, actually! The big man especially.” Dick’s grin grew brighter. “They got used to it.”

No wonder he was insufferable. Bruce should have curbed the man earlier or at least put a collar on his stunts. It was too late now; Damian was paying the price for his father’s ineptitude. He’d have to train this so-called successor himself. Damian scoffed. “Weaklings."

Dick laughed wholeheartedly as he tackled a man. “I’d love to see their faces if they heard you.”

There was another henchman approaching from behind and Damian tossed his batarang at the man, knocking him out. Deriding Dick, he barked, “You should pay more attention.”

“That’s what I have you here for.” Dick winked as he picked up a nearby crowbar and tossed it over Damian’s head. It hit an surprise attacker, knocking her out. “And that’s why I’m here too.”

Damian scowled. “I can handle myself. I was aware of her.”

“Didn’t say you weren’t.” Damian held his hand up in mock surrender. “Just…if we can help each other, why not? Not everything has to be hard, does it?”

Damian scrunched his nose. “If you want to make my life easier, talk less.”

2.

There was a rap on the bedroom door. A sharp, single rap. It was not Cassandra; despite his best efforts, Damian still couldn’t sense her approach. It was not Bruce; he hesitated before the door every time he approached, as though he still wasn’t sure of what lines to cross. And Dick just barged in, not caring for even the most basic modicum of manners.

That left only Alfred.

“You may enter, Pennyworth,” Damian commanded. Alfred was perhaps the singular most useful person in this entire household, despite his physical inadequacies and age. Perhaps he should see to it that the man got an apprentice. It would be a waste to let such skills die out.

The door quietly opened, and Alfred entered the room holding a white first aid box. His expression was gentle as he closed the door behind him. “I’ve come to tend to your injuries, Master Damian.”

Damian scoffed. What an absurd thought. “I don’t have any.”

Undeterred, Alfred gave him a withering look. It was the expression of a man who had seen through every excuse in the book. “I have not looked after Master Bruce for so long only to miss the same tell-tale signs from his son.”

He took it back. Alfred was as worthless as the rest of them. “I don’t require your help.”

Alfred’s expression gentled once more. For some reason, Damian was suddenly reminded of his mother, and a warning bell rang somewhere deep inside him. Without missing a beat, Alfred replied, “If you say so, Master Damian. I will inform Master Richard that he may patch you up instead.”

Damian paled. What a nightmarish offer. Dick would be even more annoying. The man wouldn’t keep quiet about it for weeks. He gestured at the bed. “Just leave the box there. I will take care of it.”

“As you wish.” Alfred set the box down on the edge and stood still next to it.

When it was clear he wouldn’t leave, Damian gritted his teeth. What more could the butler want? “Pennyworth?”

“I am simply remaining here until I can take back the kit.” Alfred smiled benignantly. It was like watching a predator before it struck. “Master Bruce has given me the same excuses while not tending to his injuries. I will not see the same happen to you.”

Damian had been wrong again. Age had clearly not affected his determination or steel will. The absolute moment he took over, he was firing the man. Provided the butler lived so long.

3.

The second purple appeared in the corner of his eyes, the second Damian realised that Stephanie Brown had entered his vision, he immediately clenched his jaw and said, “No.”

Then, without a second thought, he resumed his pull-ups. The Batcave was large enough for him to get his workout without having to entertain Batgirl. He thought she would have joined the Clocktower or found her own hiding spot by now, instead of slinking back to the Batcave at any opportunity.

Then again, why should he be surprised? Stephanie had debased herself by dating Tim Drake, of all people. It was disappointing how ill-trained and ill-mannered all of his father’s apprentices were. It was a flaw his mother had not prepared him for.

Stephanie pouted as she stepped into his line of sight, her hands curling into fists. “But I didn’t even say anything.”

He didn’t have to hear anything to know what his only response should be. Just her smirk was enough for him to recognize that she was up to something frivolous, and he wouldn’t want any part in it. At. All. “I already know you’re about to say something moronic.”

“Come on,” she cajoled, walking closer to him, hands clasped behind her back in the picture of innocence. Sweetly, she added, “It could be fun! You never know.”

Damian gripped the metal bar tightly and pulled himself up. It was a mistake. At this height, they could see each other eye to eye. Never had he wanted to be short more than he did right then. When he got his growth spurt, he had better tower over her. Her wicked smirk was even worse close up.

He breathed out and slowly lowered himself. “I do know. Go away. Some of us actually want to be competent for our work.”

“And some of us are workaholics,” Stephanie retorted, unphased. Insults rolled off her like water off a duck. No wonder she got along with Dick. “You’ll like it, I promise.”

“I have not liked anything you’ve done to me,” Damian grunted, hanging at the bottom. Sweat rolled down his arms. He still had a hundred more to go.

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. Annoyed, she retorted, “You’ve smiled—well, smirked, I guess—every time. On the bouncy castle, when we looked at the fireflies, that time I took you to the park. Don’t lie, you just like complaining.”

Damian had heard she’d been a Robin once. He wasn’t sure which was worse, sharing the mantle with her or that buffoon Tim. She must have begged her way into the suit; it certainly couldn’t have been through her skills. Though, if his father gave in to a little whining, then he was even weaker than Damian had expected.

He scrunched his nose, displeased. “Go bother Pennyworth with your drivel.”

“It’d be better if he doesn’t go….” Stephanie shuddered as though remembering something unpleasant. “He’s actually too good at it.”

Despite himself, Damian paused mid-curl. However pathetic Stephanie’s skills were, they were miles better than an old butler. “What?”

It was a mistake. Like a cat cornering a mouse, Stephanie sensed his curiosity and pounced. “Yeah, he’s better than all of us at it.”

Her expression was clearly goading him to ask her. He shouldn’t do it. He would regret it. She would never shut up ever again.

“What is it?” Damian asked reluctantly.

Stephanie brightened and clapped her hands. “Paintball!”

“Paintball.” It was even more inane than he imagined. The name even sounded stupid. “We fight actual villains.”

“I know, I know, but with the right restrictions, it can be really fun, I promise. We can even fight each other.” Immediately, she crossed her arms. “Nonlethally. We can fight nonlethally. And there’s puzzles because it’d be too ‘boring’ otherwise.”

None of that was persuasive. Damian rolled his eyes. “Sounds moronic.”

“Come on,” Stephanie pleaded, her hands clasped in front of her. “Just give it a shot.” She cracked a smile and laughed. “A shot, get it?”

“I wish I didn’t.” Damian’s eyes narrowed as she didn’t leave. She was going to interfere with his training at this point. “Why do you keep coming to me with these stupid ideas?”

“They’re not stupid,” she grumbled, glaring at him. “We’re friends. Kinda. Friends do things together.”

No wonder she was Robin for only a week. That was the worst lie he’d ever heard. “I don’t have friends.”

“That’s a little tragic.” Stephanie gave him a pitying look, rankling him further. “Fine, we’re becoming friends.” She shrugged. “Honestly, I just think you could use some loosening up.”

Damian scoffed. “That’s it?”

“What other reason could there be?” Stephanie rested a hand on her hip, giving him a look.

If she had been anyone else, he would have called foul and sniffed out the trap. But this was Stephanie Brown, a woman as guileless as a dog. No, that was insulting to dogs. Ace was far cleverer than her. “Still a no.”

Stephanie sighed. “I didn’t want to have to pull this card butttttt…” She dragged out the word as long as she could. “…you can nonlethally shoot and kill Tim as much as you want.” A pause and she added again, “Nonlethally. That’s really important.”

Damian let go of the bars. “What are you waiting for?”

4.

Cassandra punched. Damian dodged narrowly, her fist just grazing his hair. Not missing a beat, she twisted and kicked, her foot aiming for his gut. He hadn’t trained as an assassin for years to get caught up in such a simple trick. As he backflipped away, he kicked back.

Unfortunately, she had also trained as an assassin. Cassandra caught his foot with ease and whirled around, tossing him toward a padded wall.

Damian grunted at the impact, the wind knocked out of him. Feeling boneless, he slid to the ground, his back throbbing, his head aching. It was a small hit. They’d been at this for hours. His sweaty shirt stuck to him like a second skin. The only relief was that Cassandra looked as tired as he did, her breath coming out in small pants.

Unfortunately, she was still standing and his legs refused to cooperate. Damian glowered but all the death glares in the world couldn’t force body up.

Today was another loss.

Against her, oddly enough, he didn’t mind the string of failures. If there was someone amongst his father’s litter of strays that was worth the keep, it would have to be Cassandra.

“I will have a rematch later,” Damian said, the closest to actually admitting his defeat as he would get.

Cassandra wiped her brow and relaxed her stance. As usual, her words were slow and pulled with care. “I will…look forward to it.”

Not that Damian will ever acknowledge it, but he did too.

“You’re a good fighter,” Cassandra added, running a hand through her messy short hair. Her cheeks were red from the exertion.

Damian snorted. It was a pity his father had taken in Cassandra before his mother could have. Her skills were wasted here and her time with others was ruining her. “We’re both assassins. Our skills are beyond ‘good’.”

Cassandra shook her head. “We’re not assassins.”

Damian bit back a sigh. Just what nonsense had they filled her with?

“Those are…tools.” Cassandra explained, mulling over her words. “We are not tools.”

“I have never been a tool,” Damian refuted immediately.

“No. You are not.” She smiled softly. “We are heroes. We…choose our own path. Every time.”

It was idealistic nonsense.

He couldn’t—didn’t bother to rebuke it.

5.

It was strange playing house with Bruce Wayne. It was a side of his father Damian didn’t know what to do with. The rich socialite who slept with every woman in town and adopted four children before revealing a blood heir? The façade that controlled the company and wealth that kept the Batman in business? The mysterious man who got into scandals and accidents every other day?

For the most part, the only value in Bruce Wayne was how he was a puppet.

Which left Damian lost when Bruce deviated from the script. Such as now, when he was eating breakfast in the dining room, his silk robe hiding the bruises from last night’s fight. Alfred had insisted they eat together as much as possible.

It was a promise Damian had thought little of. He had no use for Bruce, just of the detective and Batman.

It was a promise Bruce tried to keep for some reason. No matter how battered and bloodied he was, the man would traipse down the stairs every morning punctually.

Damian watched him from the corner of his eye as he spread jam across his toast. Their meals were silent affairs. Aside from their night adventures, there was nothing to talk about. It was almost a relief on the days Dick or Cassandra joined in.

“Damian,” Bruce said, breaking the silence.

Another oddity. Damian set down his knife. “Yes?”

After holding out a cream-coloured envelope, Bruce slid it down the table. “It’s from your mother.”

“Oh.” Damian slid the paper right in front of him, though he didn’t bother to pick it up. He recognized the elegant cursive scrawled on the front. Even without reading, he knew what it’d say.

His stay with his father was always meant to be a temporary thing. For good reason too; a prolonged visit would turn him soft, and if there was one thing his mother couldn’t abide, it would be if Damian turned out as useless as the rest of Bruce’s ‘children’. Already, Damian could feel his skills deteriorating.

This summons home couldn’t have come at a better time.

He traced a finger across the envelope. Something in him made him turn to his father and ask, “And?”

If asked, Damian couldn’t say what response he wanted. They were family in name only, their interactions jilted and awkward. His mother had told him enough times not to look to others for answers.

And it wasn’t Bruce but Batman who he should ask, if he really wanted a response.

Bruce stared at him, the silence a thick wall between them. Then he got up, his chair scraping against the marble floor as he stood. His footsteps were quiet as he approached Damian. Damian could only watch as his father rested a hand on his shoulder.

It was warm. It was heavy. It was strange.

He didn’t shake it off.

“It’s up to you,” Bruce said. The letter was still sealed shut but his grandfather didn’t call him the world’s greatest detective for nothing. He must have realised the letter’s purpose the second he saw it.

Still, Damian kept silent, his gaze focused on the hand on his shoulder.

“The choice is yours,” Bruce added, squeezing gently. “Your room will always be yours too.”

A choice. His own, this time. Damian looked at the envelope once more.

It was strange. Everything he heard here was the exact opposite of his mother’s teachings. It was a house full of soft people. His skills were growing rusty. There was still more to learn from his mother and grandfather.

His mother wouldn’t have given him this choice. Her words were an order, a command.

Damian pushed the envelope away. “I will stay a little longer.”

[billthedrake]

LINEAGE (PART SIX)

We hit a rough patch. I guess it happens in every marriage. Braden and I made sure not to fight in front of the boys, but we were arguing more. Some of the usual stuff, about me being a workaholic and not doing enough parenting duties for our youngest, Evan and Keith. It was like me and my eldest son's earlier dynamic was coming back in a different way.

But behind it all was Brade still wasn't pregnant. He and I had decided to have a fourth son, and it just wasn't taking. We'd come back from our belated honeymoon fucking like bunnies, but after a year, the sexual intensity had faded. We still had sex once a week, but maybe that wasn't enough.

I'd talked to the younger Dr. Fiedler about it, and Todd said that fertility starts to decline in a man's mid-30s. He said he could write a script for some fertility pills, if Braden and I wanted to try them. But I figured I'd hold off on that. I didn't want Braden to feel I was putting pressure on him to conceive. For all we knew, my swimmers weren't doing the job.

Todd Fiedler was the one man who I could unload my problems to and I knew he'd keep them private. I suspect one part of the marital issues was that Braden didn't have a close confidante when it came to incest marriage. And my husband was starting to resent the Saturday tee times with my golf buddy.

Still, I wasn't going to give them up. Junior had taken to golfing, in a big way, and at 14 was pretty damn good. It helped that the Fiedlers had a son Junior's age, Sam, so we became a regular foursome.

"He's gonna beat you today, Bill," Todd said with a grin as he slid his club into the bag. The boys were walking ahead of us.

"Seems that way," I said. "Guess my game is off."

Todd patted my shoulder. He could be flirty with me, in an understated way though Brade and I never fooled around with the Fiedlers like with did with the Connors men. "Maybe. But your son's a natural." He got a playful look in his eye. "Took Adam a lot longer to beat me." Adam is the oldest Fiedler son, just then starting college. "But I'll tell ya, the sex was fuckin incredible that day."

Todd's eyes fixed on me as he dropped that bombshell.

"You mean...?" I asked.

He nodded. "I figure I can tell you and Braden. But yeah, that's developed and it's pretty incredible."

I was trying my best not to get hard in my golf shorts, but it was probably going to be a losing battle. "Jesus, Todd... we're gonna have to talk more about this."

He smiled. "You got it. Dad and I still have to pinch ourselves that it's happening." I sort of resented we didn't have the time or full privacy for him to share the full story.

We walked along. "I've been meaning to bring this up, Bill... but a friend of mine is doing a study of incest families... it's all confidential... I told him I'd see if you were interested in being part of it, too."

"What kind of study?" I asked. From anyone else the request would have seemed far-fetched but I trusted the Fiedlers.

"Psychology, mostly interviews with me, Dad, and our sons. I'll just say Mark is, um, sympathetic to our kind of families."

I chuckled. "Is that right? It's funny how I spent years thinking Brade and I were the only ones, and gradually we find more sympathetic family men."

"Besides the Connors?" Todd asked.

I had never told him about the Newcombs, the father and son we'd met in the Caribbean. I'd half forgotten about them myself. Only..

"Braden and I met these guys on our honeymoon. We drew them out of their shell a bit.""

"Yeah?" Todd's eyes gleamed. He knew Braden and I were open to playing with the Connors and suspected that was the case here.

I didn't spell it out though. "They kind of freaked out on us, but I just got a LinkedIn message from the dad."

Todd was listening with rapt attention.

"It was all coded, but basically he was thanking me," I continued.

"Seems like we both have some stuff to talk about," Fiedler said. We were now catching up to the where the boys were already setting up their tees on the next hole.

Sam hit a good shot, but Junior's was the incredible drive right down the fairway. Yep, my son was gonna beat me that day, for sure.

***

The next couple of weeks were busy. That's why the news came out of the blue for me.

"Dad... can you come in here?" I heard from the master bathroom one morning. It was a weekend, and I was putting away folded laundry.

"What is is, buddy?" I asked, stepping into the bathroom. Braden was still in his pyjama pants and a worn T-shirt that hugged his ex-Marine muscle body. If we hadn't had sex first thing that morning, I would have been initiating something right then.

He had a nervous look. "Shut the door... " he said softly. "I just have this feeling, call it a daddy's intuition."

I'd barely shut it, when my son pulled down the flannel pants and hauled out his soft dong. He grabbed the stick of the pregnancy test and let his piss stream hit it for a few seconds.

"You mean...?" I asked excitedly.

Braden looked at me with nervous hopefulness. I realized then how much he really wanted this. Wanted to be impregnated with our fourth.

I was getting hard just waiting for the result, and I could see Brade chub up. I stepped up close and placed my hand on his shoulder as we both watched in anticipation. Then, clear as day, a plus appeared on the stick.

"God, Dad..." Braden said. He was 38 years old now, but he had almost the innocent enthusiasm he showed when he was 18.

We kissed. I'd missed this romantic connection, but it was like riding a bike. Braden was the best kisser I'd ever known, and his tongue dancing against my own, sucking me into his mouth before nudging back, was driving me wild.

"I need you inside me, Dad," he hissed. Already he was pushing those pyjama pants down.

"The boys..." I warned. We had to be restrained with even a quickie during these weekends.

"The door's shut," Brade hissed. He was turning away and leaning over the bathroom vanity slightly. Ready to be taken.

The lube was in the bedroom, but I opened the medicine cabinet and found the petroleum jelly, which we'd used a couple of times before. I smeared my breeder cock and got into position.

"Ooff!" Braden grunted at the sudden penetration. Then, "fuck me, Dad." He braced his hands on the sink ledge. "Fuck your son."

"My oldest son," I hissed. While Braden and I had kept up at least some regular sex life, it had been WAY too long since we'd indulged the verbal.

"Oldest of four... now five... oh fuck!"

I was thrusting now, and Braden was opening up for me. Our eyes locked on the mirror. At the vision of me mounting and fucking his newly pregnant muscle body.

"I love fucking breeding you, Brade... knocking you up."

"My hot fucking dad. Fucking stud patriarch."

God, Braden was gonna get me off quick. That and the pregnancy news.

"My hot fucking pregnant son." My hips were piledriving harder. We might not be able to get this hard later in Braden's pregnancy so I felt an urgency to take him like this while I could.

"Gonna keep barefoot and pregnant, Dad?"

Fuck, I was cumming, my hips locking and my dick spurting a heavy load inside Braden. His eyes watched my O face in the mirror as he stroked off to a heavy cum himself.

I gave my son a playful pat to his muscle ass when I withdrew and we kissed softly once more. "If you wanna clean up, Son, I'll go check on the boys."

"Yeah. Thanks, Dad."

"For what?" I laughed.

He laughed back. "For being my father. For giving me another kid. For that fuck. I don't know."

We kissed again then Brade started the shower.

I made myself presentable and went to the family room. There was inevitably the emotional whiplash of going from sex and romance time with Braden back to parenting mode. I had an intuition and sure enough Evan and Keith were fighting over the iPad.

"Dad! Keith is hogging it" The two brothers were just a year and a half apart in age. That meant they could get along famously one minute and be at each other's throat the next.

I had to play stern dad. "I'll take away both your screen time, fellas. Don't think I won't."

Junior's attention was on his phone but even in my peripheral vision I saw him smirk.

***

We did that study. Or at least we started. Fiedler's psychologist friend Mark said it was a long term study, though we could drop out any time. He assured us he'd only ask the boys general questions, whereas Brade and I would each be asked more probing questions.

It felt freeing to talk about my sex life and what incest meant to me in the privacy of his office. I had to hide my boner, but then realized it probably didn't matter.

"Do you feel normal?" the man finally asked me.

I had to think. "I know I'm not the norm," I said. "But deep down, what I have with Brade, our family, feels normal to me."

"What's been the hardest part for you?"

I didn't have to think, I knew right away. "The secrecy. Pretending I'm a coparent rather than Braden's husband."

The shrink wrote in his pad, then set it down. "That should be enough, Bill. I really appreciate you taking the time and opening up about your family."

It was weird being studied this way, but I liked the doctor's nonjudgmental approach. Reading between the lines of what Todd Fiedler told me, I wondered if Mark had an incest history of his own, or if it was something that turned him on. I almost asked.

Braden seemed in a quiet mood when I got home. But we enjoyed family time, watching a movie until it was time for Evan and Keith to go to bed. I'd had to lay down the law about a reasonable bedtime, and I could see Braden amused as I dealt with their pleading to stay up late this time.

But finally they went to brush their teeth and get ready for bed. I checked on them and when I came back, Braden was talking to Junior about starting up high school in a couple of weeks. It was the most animated I'd seen our eldest be in a while.

"I just know homework will get harder," he said.

"You're a good student, Junior," Braden said.

Our son smiled at the compliment. I didn't even have to get on his case, Junior was diligent when it came to school. "I just worry about balancing school and golf, you know?"

Already Junior was anticipating joining the golf team.

"You'll do fine," I said. "It's the dating life which might suffer," I teased.

Junior blushed but tried to be part of the grown-up conversation.

"I guess that's another good thing about high school, huh?" he said.

"It was for your dads," Braden said, leaning into my arm as we sat on the couch. I could tell he was feeling far more relaxed talking about these things with Junior.

Our son took that in and with hesitation asked. "Dad.... Daddy... how did you first start dating?"

Braden looked at me in a "should we tell him?" way.

I figured our son was old enough. I wouldn't give all the details, but I could start.

"Well, your Daddy was attracted to me, and deep down I was attracted to him, but I had to be a father first, you know. But when he was a senior, we let it happen. And pretty quickly, we knew it was serious."

"That's cool," Junior said. "I hope I find someone special like you two have."

"You will," Braden said.

Junior paused. "Dads... I haven't told you, but I'm pretty sure I'm gay."

"Pretty sure?" Braden asked.

Junior chuckled. "Well, completely sure."

I don't know why the news surprised me, but it did. "I'm proud of you, buddy... for realizing who you are. It took me a long time."

"Gosh," Junior said. Then thoughtfully, he added. "You know, I guess I worry what people with think. Having two dads, and if you made me gay."

Braden chimed in. "If your Dad and I cared what people think we wouldn't be happy."

That made Junior smile. He'd been lectured on the need of secrecy and the taboo about incest since he was young. "I guess not."

We made some more talk, mostly general stuff about dating, then Brade and I said it was time for bed.

As my husband and I got ready and stripped down, the conversation weighed heavily on us. "He's gonna be trouble," Braden said.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know," my son replied. "He's a good looking kid... smart, maybe too smart." He snuggled up to me. "I wouldn't be surprised he if ends up a teen father like you."

Maybe it was the warm feel of Braden next to me, but I won't lie, my cock went rigid. Rock hard against my son's softly furred abs. That got a chuckle out of Braden.

"You like that idea," he said.

"Come on, Brade," I objected. It was an idle fantasy, not reality.

Braden didn't press me on, it though. Nor were we amping up to sex quickly. Instead my son kissed me softly. He was in a romancing mood, and I did my best to respond.

"Sorry if I was moody earlier," he said. "It was that interview with Mark."

My protective streak kicked in. "We don't have to participate, Brade," I said.

He nodded. "It's fine... only... did he make the moves on you?"

"No. Why?" Did Mark hit on Brade?

"He and I talked. The dude has SO many daddy issues. Jerks off to pictures of his dad each day. Only goes for guys who are older as a substitute."

"We didn't get personal, not like that," I said. I reflected. "Maybe it's common."

"I'm sure it is," Braden said, relieved. "I'm lucky as hell I have my actual father."

We kissed more intensely then Braden pushed me on my back. "Lie there, Dad," he said and reached over for the lube. "It's been a while since I've ridden that dad cock."

I placed my hands behind my head and grinned. "Pregnancy hormones kicking in?" We'd had sex that morning and usually didn't find time for twice in a day.

Braden smiled. "In a big way, Dad. Maybe that's why I got turned on hearing the doc talk about his father."

"Incest is really hot, isn't it?"

Braden slicked up my hardon and straddled me. "God yes." He settled back into place. I thought back to those homecoming fucks when Brade was in the Marines, coming back on leave, or home from deployment. And after our conversation with Junior, I realized how much Brade and I had almost forgotten about that phase of feeling each other out, trying to decide how much was physical transgression between father and son and how much was true love.

My dick penetrated him. Brade's hands were on my chest, feeling me up as he lowered down. "I love your cock, Dad. So much."

"I love your ass, buddy. Can't ever get enough."

"I wish more people could see us, Dad. See how a father and son mate." He settled further down. Lost in his sexual fantasy but also very much in the moment.

"Like Doug and Eric Newcomb?"

His eyes went wide. "You hear from those guys again?" I'd told Braden about

"From Doug, yeah. He and his boy want to visit sometime."

"God, I want you to fuck me in front of them... with my big pregnant gut..." OK, Brade wasn't kidding about the pregnancy hormones. His voice was getting louder.

I held onto his hips and pumped gently as we got deeper into the sex talk. But this was mostly Brade's fuck, his hips driving it like he wanted. He fucked himself on my dick to a hands-free cum. The very sight pushed me over the edge. The post-fuck kiss was amazing and we took our time to uncouple.

***

The next morning Junior had a knowing look on his face when I came into the kitchen to pour my coffee. We had one of those coffee makers with an automatic time. It took me a second to realize the pot was a little short.

"You drinking coffee?" I asked Junior.

"That's OK, Dad, right?" he asked, a combination of innocence and challenging me. Junior was a good kid but Braden was on to something. He was going to be a challenging teen to raise in his own way.

"Yeah, buddy, it's OK," I said. Pouring my own cup.

"Dad..." Junior said.

"Yeah?"

He stood up from the counter and dropped his voice to a whisper. "No disrespect. But you and Daddy might want to be quieter. I could hear you guys..."

I gulped, while trying not to act like things were out of the normal. Brade and I kept our sex life private, but we never wanted our boys to see anything unhealthy about our relationship. "Sorry, kiddo," I said. Trying to give a conspiratorial smile. "Though I guess you have something to tell that shrink next time."

At least that made Junior laugh. "Don't worry, Dad, I can keep a secret." He passed me and put his mug in the dishwasher. And he walked out to get ready for school.

***

I almost didn't make Braden's obstetrician appointment, and I was five minutes late. Everything seemed routine, until after a few tests when Doc Kennedy called us into his office.

"Braden... Bill... it turns out Braden's carrying twins."

I looked over at my son, who was stunned by the news. I, meanwhile, couldn't hide the big smile. Doc could tell and he chuckled at watching both of us.

"It'll make for a more physically exhausting pregnancy, Braden, but many men bear twins each year and have healthy young babies. Particularly since you're in your 30s still. We'll set up extra appointments to check in, and I'll give you some websites to read."

It was sinking in. "Wow, twins... " The smile was forming on Braden's face as he looked at me.

"Not the news you expected," Dr. Kennedy said with a chuckle.

"No, sir," Brade said.

The doctor explained, "It often happens when men take fertility pills."

"No fertility pills, Doctor," I said. "Just the old fashioned way."

He shrugged. "Like I say, it happens."

Braden and I couldn't wait to get home. I was supposed to go back to the office for a meeting, but I called out instead. My son and I had about forty minutes before we had to go pick up Evan and Keith from school.

"Goddamn, Dad," Braden said, excitement building in his voice as we stepped into the house. "We went right for number five, didn't stop at four sons."

"I'll be my fifth and sixth," I reminded Brade. I adjusted the hardon in my suit trousers.

"Guess I wasn't kidding about the barefoot and pregnant thing."

Brade and I kissed, hard. Our bodies connecting through our clothes, then the impatience as we stripped each other.

"Brade... Sport... I want you to go off the pills."

He didn't get it. "I'm already pregnant dad. Knocked up with twins."

I tugged his arm to guide him back to the bedroom. "I mean, once they're born. I want us to fuck unprotected from here on out... let the chips fall where they may."

"Jesus, Dad!" Brade really liked that idea.

"Your natural womb giving us a son whenever it happens."

"Yes, sir," Brade growled.

I wish I could say we consummated the news with a nice long romantic mating, but it was maybe three hot minutes of missionary sex. Brade's way. Legs wrapped around my waist, us kissing deep. Envisioning the two sons that were gonna grow inside Braden. And the future ones we gonna make.

It was hands-free for Braden, which seemed to happen more and more during his pregnancy, and I was three strokes behind, loading up my son-husband deep.

"I can't believe I'm getting two more grandkids," I said as I lay in the afterglow, stroking Braden's chest. Even those pecs would get full again, and I'd be able to milk feed from my son's bosom.

"Gonna need a bigger SUV, Dad. And we only have one car seat."

I mussed Braden's hair. "I thought I was supposed to be the practical one, Sport."

Braden laughed. "I guess you're rubbing off on me, old man." He leaned up and checked his watch. "Time for pick up duty."

"I got this, Brade," I said, sliding out of bed. I dug into my drawers and found clean underwear and a casual T shirt. "Why don't we go out as a family tonight, to celebrate? We can tell the boys the great news."

[unintentionaloracle]

Ulterior Motives [Fic]

And now for something a little different! I got hit with a steel chair of inspiration while working on something else and now here we are.

Summary: A heated exchange about The Rock's proposition leads to Drew making Cody his own... spicier proposition. But it's just for mutual gain...right?

(Note: There's also mentions of past Candy (and suggested one-sided/unrequited current Candy))

Drew stormed after Cody as the latter went to his tour bus. He stopped him before he could enter, trapping him against its garishly ad-laden body with one arm. Looking at it almost answered Drew's question for him as he glared down at Cody:

“Are you seriously considering selling your damn soul to The Rock?”

Cody's blue eyes met Drew's own with defiance. “Like I said, it's not off the table, yet. I still need to think about it.”

“Still need to think about it!?” Drew parroted. “The Golden Boy’s really considering taking the easy way with his championship reign?” Drew poked Cody's title belt. “Whenever I wear the championship, I fight tooth and nail to defend it. You have to damn near kill me, play dirty, or both to pry it off me.”

“Really? Are you pissed about me potentially insulting the honor of the championship? Or are you pissed at the idea that if you win the Elimination Chamber, you'll have to deal with whatever being “The Rock's Champion” entails?”

Drew clenched his fists. The thought of being screwed over by Roman's extended family yet again, let alone when he got to the main event of WrestleMania, had crossed his mind. And yet, it wasn't the main thing bothering him.

“That isn't you, Cody. At least, not anymore. You're the man who fought hard to get to where you are. Now you want to do things the easy way!?”

“I AM TIRED, DREW!” Cody shouted. It made Drew almost shrink to Cody's height.

“I’ve had to deal with The Bloodline at every corner. Been tricked. Dealt with spoiled brats. Watched as people–my friends–suffered on my behalf to get and keep me where I am. Had a once dear friend betray and nearly kill me. And now? For the first time in a long time, I’m alone! Jey's got his own story to finish. Sami...hurts to think about. Seth is...well, he's Seth. And Randy...I don't know when he’ll be back. So forgive me if buckling to a higher power sounds tempting, Chosen One.”

Drew twitched at both his former moniker and the mention of Randy. Cody looked genuinely distressed after listing his woes. Something inside the Scotsman, something he long thought dormant, bubbled for the first time. Cody turned to try and leave, only for Drew to fully pin him to the wall. “Having The Rock's hand up your ass like his puppet sure as hell won't fix that. Things are hard? Then why not just quit again like last time?”

Drew could tell he pushed another button, and got his mind off his troubles. Cody, however, seemed ungrateful for the tough “love”. “Forgive me if I'm not eager to take career advice from the man well on his way to getting fired twice.” He sniped back.

Normally, a comment like that would get someone a one way ticket to Claymore Country. But when Cody did it here, away from prying eyes, it was almost fun. Being alone was also nostalgic, whether he wanted to admit it or not. It even gave him...ideas...

“Ya know, if you're so stressed and lonely, I have a better solution. Not that you'll ever let me...”

“Try me,” Cody bit back.

Drew smirked. Now it was fun. “Alright, but remember: you asked for this,” he said, chuckling in a low rumble. He cupped Cody's face, his palms fitting his cheekbones nicely, and gave him a kiss for the first time in a decade and a half. It was meant to be quick...

...were it not for Cody grabbing him as soon as he pulled away and sending his lips crashing back into his, trying to press himself to Drew as close as he could.

Damn, you really are wound up tight if just a kiss has you like this... Drew thought, a little amused and pleased with himself. Still, who was he to deny the poor man? He pressed Cody against the bus, reasserting control as his hands drifted to the back of Cody's neck and his hip. Drew escalated the kiss to a make out, enjoying a soft sigh from Cody before shutting up that oh-so-noble mouth of his.

It was a far cry from years ago, their short fling where they (mostly he) fumbled around like awkward teenagers when they held the tag titles. They were practically boys back then, compared to now. Drew pulled Cody's leg up to his hip, hand drifting down his thigh as he tried to send a message: Drew McIntyre was more than a man now, and one hell of a lover. Especially compared to the ex he'd been in the shadow of back then.

A thought crossed Drew's mind. He broke the kiss briefly, letting his hand drift back up Cody's thigh. “Is your pet Viper gonna throw a hissy fit when he finds out about me kissing his precious little Nightmare?” he purred.

Cody panted. “He shouldn't. Me and Randy are just friends now. It's not his concern.”

Could've fooled me, Drew thought, the way he looks at you.

“Good. I don't like sharing,” he said, about to dive back in. Cody stopped him with a hand to his face, lowering his leg.

“What's your game here, McIntyre? What's in it for you?” Cody said, raising an eyebrow.

Drew removed Cody's hand from his face and placed it on his chest, making Cody blush (despite Cody moving it from Drew's leather jacket to his bare chest on his own accord). His free hand rested against the side of the bus above Cody's head as the other went to Cody's waist.

“If you don't take Rock's deal, I'll be your stress toy. I'll screw all the tension right out of you on the regular,” he moved the hand above Cody and opted to hold Cody's chin, causing him to get that cute confused look on his face whenever anyone touched him affectionately. “I’ll take care of you. No soul required, and the people keep their champion. I might even get to prevent another Seth or Roman from happening, so it's better for everyone, really,”

He then leaned into Cody's ear. “Just give me one night to show you what you'd be getting, so you can “think about it”. What do you say, Champ?” He whispered, making Cody visibly shiver.

Cody said nothing at first, then pushed Drew away gently. He started to go for the bus door again, not looking at him. When he hit the steps, he spoke up. “Well?”

“Well what?” Drew asked.

Cody turned around, loosening his tie before unbuttoning his vest and shirt. “Are we doing this or what?” Cody said before pulling Drew towards him by his belt buckle.

Drew grinned wolfishly. He scooped up Cody and threw him over his shoulder, giving him a quick swat to the rear before entering the bus and closing the door behind them. He found Cody's bed and threw Cody down on it. The American Nightmare looked up at The Scottish Warrior with a mixture of annoyance and arousal.

Drew licked his lips at the gorgeous sight before climbing on top of him, eager to claim his prize and get to work.

---

When they finished, Cody was trembling, lying limp on his belly as he caught his breath. Drew smiled, leaning into his ear as he rubbed Cody's back. “Ah, poor Cody. So neglected. Going so long without a good railing. And with an ass like that, too...”

Cody just continued to pant.

“You know, if you became Rock’s or corporate’s or The Bloodline’s or whoever's little sugar baby, I doubt they'd let you have any release. Let alone twice. They'd just take what they want and leave you to take care of yourself...” He surveyed Cody's prone, naked frame. “A damn tragedy, because they'll be missing out on this beautiful sight.” He said, kissing Cody's neck tattoo on its lips. (He still thought it was stupid, but he was high on afterglow and enjoying his “victory lap”. Besides, a little extra seduction couldn't hurt.)

Cody still didn't respond. Drew might've broken his brain with his dick. One more thing for him to smug about.

“And don't get me started on aftercare. I said I'd take care of you and I meant it. Hell, I'll even stay the night and cuddle you if you want it. Do you want that, Cody?” He asked, running his fingers through his short, bottle blond hair.

Cody nodded.

“Alright, want to get started?”

Cody shook his head. “Not yet.” He finally managed to rasp.

Drew chuckled. “Alright. I'll let you enjoy the afterglow a little longer. I'm gonna go use your shower because, honestly? I think I've earned it.”

Cody nodded. Drew smirked, then leaned over and kissed Cody on the cheek before excusing himself to the shower.

He didn't take long. Apparently, despite having a shower on his bus apparently being a luxury, Cody's sponsorship did not include a decent shower in his bus. The height was manageable enough, despite the cramped space, but the water pressure and temperature were abysmal! How did Cody live like this on the road?

If this goes on, that'll be something I want to talk about... He thought with a chuckle as he exited the shower, toweling off and wrapping one around his hips as he took another to his hair. Of course it was going to go on. He was Drew bloody McIntyre! He just satisfied the hell out of Cody!

He glanced at the mirror, leaning against the sink the best he could in the small space. (Note to self: maybe also insist on doing it at a hotel instead of the tour bus.) Drew smirked and winked at himself as he removed the towel from his head, some of his dark locks falling in his face. Yeah, the locker room had better thank Big D for his—

His thought was cut off by another, intrusive one. Cody's question from earlier: “What's in it for you?”

Drew brushed his hair back with his hand. It was such a dumb question! Lots of things! Keeping the playing field level come WrestleMania! Taking something from the damn Bloodline for once! The satisfaction that, whether he won or not (somehow), he’d been hitting that and probably would after! If word got out, it was something to hold over the locker room's head! To once again prove he was better than Randy! The sex in general!

Seeing Cody in the state he was in now, knowing it was all his. Hearing him desperately moan his na–

He gripped the sink. Where'd that come from?

This thing with Cody was transactional, nothing more. A mutual means to an end. Why pretend it wouldn't be? He shook it off and made his way back to Cody. “Alright, let's take care of–”

Cody had apparently dozed off, clinging to his pillow. It was almost cute, really. Drew smiled and climbed into Cody's bed (he'd given him permission, after all). “Alright, you're the boss, Cody...”

Cody rolled over to Drew, placing his hand on Drew’s chest. Drew adjusted himself and Cody accordingly to get comfortable. Somehow, they ended up with Cody's head on his chest, as well. Drew held him in his arms. Cody ran his fingers through Drew's chest hair a little, briefly surfacing from the throes of his exhaustion.

“Thank you, Drew...” He said sleepily, before succumbing to sleep again.

Something warm sparked in Drew. He rubbed his back gently and kissed the top of his head. “You're welcome, Cody...” He said, softly.

Sleep wasn't going to come as easily to Drew that night, however.

There was a nagging thought in the back of his head.

The feeling that somehow, some way, there might be more in this for McIntyre than a means to an end and ego.

And he dreaded that thought.

[broodwoof]

wip wednesday!

tagged by @flowersforthemachines and @greypetrel ty both!!! this fic is currently shelved until i get a little more familiar with writing mythal, but here's the first chapter from the mythal-pov solythal fic a whole first chapter is probably too much but idc 😂 about 1k, and i've shared an excerpt from this before that some of yall might recognize c: tagging: @waterdeep-weavemoss | @sentientpinkfrosting | @mickeysalamander | @volkoss

She twisted the fine, gossamer fabric of her dress in her hands. Tapered fingers played across its surface, teasing at the weave. The dress was form-fitting and spare, as was the style now, but it had an outer-skirt she could worry at. She could not permit herself to show this much unease in public eye, but in her private rooms, her hands immediately sought a relief from her rushing thoughts.

Those, too, she needed to keep tightly contained. She could not let her anxiety spill out, neither in physical action nor in emotional resonance. Her emotions were, as always, leashed. Despite the remove, the containment, she still felt them. Still felt the uncertainty, the tinge of muted, distant panic, like a discordant note that kept her eternally on edge.

She was failing.

It was not easy to admit, even in the privacy of her own thoughts. It was not hubris that made it challenging, but the particular weight of her own failure, the knowledge of who all she was letting down. If she failed, she failed them. If she failed her nature, then Benevolence failed those she had taken form to protect.

Thus, she could not permit herself to fail. She twined the fabric around her fingers, pulling it tight. Long ago, she had committed everything of herself to tempering Elgar'nan. She could not—would not—forsake that commitment now. She would give all of herself to this.

Even in flesh, the dissonance that was her, the dissonance that was all spirits, had softened and blurred at the edges but was no less tangible for it. Retribution raged in her now, coloring her thoughts with fury and vengeance, fantasies of bold assaults on Elgar'nan himself, or on Arlathan. Would that she could burn it down and make something new and better rise in its place. Would that she could do so without destroying those she was committed to.

Would that she could.

Benevolence eased forward, soothing her rage just as she soothed Elgar'nan's. It was not time for Retribution's cold fury. Not yet. Hopefully, not ever. But she was failing, and she could not fail. Thus, she needed to employ a new tactic.

Her flesh sang with eagerness and guilt alike. It made sense. It was the obvious solution. But it was wrong, terribly wrong. She should not ask. But she could not succeed, not alone, not with the way that Elgar'nan increasingly drew the other Evanuris to his side. Wisdom would not want to come, she knew.

It had protested her decision to take form. It saw the toll on the earth—they both did—and it did not want her to aggravate the matter further. But, as was its nature, it did not seek to control or direct, only counsel.

Its nature. The exact nature that would sit and observe while the Elvhen were remade in Elgar'nan's image. She pulled at the dress, the tension against the back of her thighs serving to anchor her.

She had yet to grow accustomed to such things. There was much she had expected upon taking flesh—the inherent physicality of it all, of course; the need to eat, to rest; those differences she could observe. But there was an incredible amount she would never have been able to predict. As a spirit, she had of course had feelings, so the fear itself was not foreign to her, but its expression was.

As a spirit, fear had been a dulling of her edges, a twisting knotted tension in her very being, something that sought to transform her. In flesh, her fear manifested as a dull, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, a painful tension stretching across her shoulders and neck, and a restless anxiety that made her want to overreact to the slightest sensation.

As different as the manifestations were, the responses were equally so. As a spirit, she had needed to grip tighter to that which defined her, to find and strengthen her edges. Not unlike, she thought as she continued to twist the dress, hemming this very material. Without the edges being sealed, time would see it increasingly frayed, until eventually it lost its own shape. She had needed to find and reaffirm her own boundaries.

Flesh, although physical, was somehow more amorphous than spirit. There was no fraying edge to repair, no clean separation. Instead everything was a muddy and distorted mass inside her, contained by an immutable structure. All of her reacted to this stimulus, internal and external, emotional and physical, and the lot of it unique. That a length of fabric drawn against her skin could ease the flighty sensation of panic blooming in her chest was absurd.

It was as if one refilled a pitcher by setting down a bowl. The two sensations should be entirely separate, unrelated and irresponsive to one another, but the muddied nature of flesh was rife with such contradictions.

No less were the contradictions in her mind, the dissonance between what she desired, what she needed, and what she felt would be the kindest. She wanted Wisdom with her, at her side, as they had been for so long. Flesh held myriad distractions, and the goal she had taken such flesh for held even more, but its absence felt like a persistent ache which grew harder and harder to ignore.

She needed Wisdom at her side. She needed its insight in court, she needed its eyes and its direct perception, she needed it to help her succeed. To help her protect the Elvhen people. To quell Elgar'nan's control.

Yet, the greatest kindness she could grant Wisdom was to leave it alone. To let it remain where it wished to, to continue to observe. It would be cruel to ask it to come, crueler still to ask it to take form, but she had tried so hard and for so long and had nothing to show for it. Neither Benevolence nor Retribution were sufficient for the task. She needed Wisdom. She needed Pride.

She needed her friend.

[humming-fly]

He was feeling left out

and the higher rez stills, since gifs always export as if you're sending messages through a metal can~

[saeiken]

the anime announcement has me so excited abt wha again :>

[boarloved-art]

lil continuation to this post bc it haunted me...!! save me wangxian clothes shopping montage!!!

oh lan wangji ur excuses to flirt with and tease wwx at the beginning r so important to me...........

[hey-heigo]

taking first watch

the wip doodle and lineart. in my mind they're waiting to get picked up by the future foundation at a safe location (the airport) and trying to get some rest before then - out of the three of them, byakuya is faring the best (kyoko hasn't been sleeping well since even before the last two trials, makoto fell down a trash chute) and so volunteered for the night