#if I can figure it out or articulate my thoughts well

[narratorsandall]

I have so many thoughts about Midsummer Misty Mountain…I eat that mirror demon stuff up but oh my god everyone is so interesting I either need to do a full analysis on the story or just draw some stuff based on certain lines from the event…

[stylishanachronism]

In other news after sitting on some very wild ideas I might actually produce that essay about tax fraud.

[just-let-me-see-accounts]

The following is mostly conjecture + draws from this post, which is now noncanon.

GOING INSANE OVER WALLY!!! He's so full of love he loves his friends so much which means that he is so WORRIED and TERRIFIED! Like, he is the first and only one so far to realise that their situation is not normal and that it's messed up. Nobody else knows.

And it just kind of happened one day. Something didn't make sense and then as the days went on less things made sense until he realised that something was seriously wrong.

And now it's up to him to find out what's wrong exactly, how much danger they're in, and what form that danger takes, exactly. Nobody else knows, it's just him, and he better find out the rules quick before anybody gets hurt.

Now he's stuck trying to figure out how to save everyone and keep them all safe. He's doing his best but clearly it's hard and long and he keeps hitting roadblocks, like how nobody answers the phone or lets him in.

Well, no actually. He has Home at least, there's that. I don't know what his relationship with Home is, they're obviously entangled with eachother, but I'm unsure if it's healthy. Are they giving a united front? Or are they only hurting eachother. Personally, I think they're in it together, since all of their interactions seem amiable so far.

But like, dude, Wally really seems he gets caught up in the "Oh god. They don't even know." dread spiral a lot. Like, he's grappling with the fact that their reality is wrong and they're all in danger and he's just supposed to? Go back? And hang out with everyone normally?

And yet, he can't tell anyone else about it, because he doesn't know what'll happen. What if they take it badly? What if the world they're trapped in retaliates? There's too many unknowns. He can't risk it.

Wonder if he knows any safe places to freak out about it. Home seems relatively safe, at least. But it's not like he can write this stuff down. What if someone finds it? He might write anyways. I bet he talks to Home a lot about their situation. Try to hash things out, make game plans.

What Wally's realised is obviously a huge weight on him, and it's affecting him day to day. He keeps spacing out when he hangs out with his friends. His usual quietness and non-expressive face are protecting him for now, but how long until someone notices that he's being off. One person is "all it takes".

Barnaby notices something in the last audio. He asks if everything is alright. We're nearing the end of the prologue. One person is all it takes. I worry about how Wally and Home will handle this. Will Wally be able to successfully deflect? Can they keep this going a little longer? Or will Barnaby come away knowing that something is wrong, and that Wally isn't telling him everything.

MAN IDK. As someone who's in a toxic/abusive home with siblings who are (or were, rather) oblivious to anything wrong, I relate to Wally heavily. Oh god, they don't even know. Not wanting to tell anyone because there are too many variables. Constantly worrying about how to make sure everyone stays safe and how to get everyone out of the situation. Spacing out a lot, because it's just too big. Even if you're not actively thinking about it, even if you're doing something fun and enjoying hanging out, for long stretches of time, even, it's something that lingers behind you. The context to everything.

It's just. I relate to him. A lot. And I truly hope he pulls off his plans flawlessly. But we know he won't. Things are going to get worse before they get better, if they get better at all.

I don't think Wally's a villain. I see him and I'm like "Oh, of course, he's just trying his best to get everyone to escape a bad situation".

He loves everyone!! He just wants everyone to be okay!! But it's hard and frustrating to figure out how to do that, and it can feel helpless sometimes. And doing all that while grappling with his very reality being a lie? Tough break!

Whether he makes bad decisions, whether intentionally or accidentally, in the name of this, however? That's a different story.

[irisintheafterglow]

itoshi sae has no idea how you do it.

classwork, homework, midterms, exams, two jobs, and a lively group of friends? it all sounds so unnecessary to him, these things that would be distractions from his dream. but for you, it sustains you and encourages you to keep going. how differently our minds work, he thinks to himself when he has a rare day to spend on your couch and you're typing away at some assignment on your laptop.

"why do you do that?" you don't respond the first time he asks and he gently calls your name, even though you're barely three feet away. you turn to him with a tired look and something pangs inside his chest. "why bother doing that?"

"bother doing what?"

"whatever it is you're doing right now." he nods at your glaring laptop screen filled with words he can't even begin to understand, some final before your university goes on winter break.

"because it's part of my degree?" there's no malice in your words, just genuine confusion, just like there's no accusations in his words, just concern. "if i fail this class, i don't graduate."

"why do you need to graduate, or have a degree in the first place?"

"because i need a job, my love," you explain patiently. "we've had this conversation before. going to school means i can get a well-paying job to sustain myself."

"why do you need to sustain yourself when you have me?" you blink at him and his blank face. the only sign of emotion is the slight pinch between his eyebrows; he was truly puzzled why he couldn't just set you up for life. dating itoshi sae is like being an unwilling sugar baby.

"i'm not going to leech off your earnings," you chuckle in disbelief. "i'm not going to use you to make sure i have a comfortable life. i love you, and my kind of love stays whether we have money or not." he shifts awkwardly in his seat and his mouth pouts the tiniest amount. he obviously didn't like your reply.

"whatever i'm doing, it isn't enough for you," he states quietly.

without another word, you exhale through your nose and shut your laptop. you place it on the coffee table before crawling over and maneuvering your way into his arms. he gladly accepts you, sliding down the couch's armrest so that you're nearly lying on top of him. it's quiet for a few moments, not in an uncertain way but in a way that said both of you were figuring out how to articulate your thoughts.

"i just think that--"

"you don't need to--" you both begin your explanations at the same time and the huff of his laugh vibrates against your cheek. "you go first," you tell him.

"i was saying that, if you wanted me to," he inhales and tries to tiptoe around what he wants to say before deciding to just crush it with his foot, "i can take care of you without you needing a degree." a certain selfish part of him wanted you there for every single victory and ladder rung he ascended, not because he thought you owed him, but because he owed you. you, who weathered his darkest of moods and harshest of snaps. he owed you for dealing with his bullshit, so he figured, why should you need to lift a finger when you've already done so much for him? "i owe you that much for everything that you've seen me through."

"you don't owe me anything, itoshi sae. loving you is not transactional, nor have i ever wanted it to be."

"everything is transactional, mi amor," he argues and the pet name makes your heartrate increase. "give and take, it's how the world flows. shouldn't your university classes be teaching you that?" your eyes have fluttered shut on his chest, but you still hear the smirk in his joke.

"believe it or not, mister 'fame is the only thing that matters to me,' there are transactions beyond material goods."

"i know that," he says indignantly. "i also know that you're wrong."

"am i?"

"yes," he affirms. "i don't only care about fame. i care about you too, obviously."

"see, sae? give and take. i give you all i am--"

"and you take all i am."

"body and soul?"

"and everything in between," he finishes, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before settling into the pillows. "rest, mi amor. you've paid more attention to school than to me lately, and that's an unequal transaction."

[clockwayswrites]

Birds in their nest Part 18

masterpost

Danny woke relaxed. From his brow to the tips of his toes he was relaxed. Which was the first sign something was off. Relaxed was then followed swiftly by confused and wary. He stayed carefully still and silent as he took the space around him in.

The room was darker than his, heavier somehow in that darkness. It was quieter too. There was no noise of the city seeping through the annoyingly thin windows that looked out over the streets of Gotham. He was in a bed, though, and a very comfortable one at that.

(He forcefully pushed back the part of his mind that was still a scared boy worried about being captured and vivisected or cloned again or something else horrible.)

Slowly, Danny opened his eyes. The bed was more than comfortable, it was impressively ornate dark wood that almost faded into the dark blue walls. Somehow even the walls felt expensive. Danny figure it must be the wood detailing that ran around the room.

As he sat up up just slightly, everything clicked into place: the ballet, Bruce insisting on giving Danny a ride, and not remember the end of the ride. He must be at Wayne Manor. He must have fallen asleep in the limo. It was beyond mortifying. They Waynes had just been doing him a favor out of some sense of charity or pity and he’d ended up being a burden.

Danny collapsed back into the bed and covered his face with a groan. This wasn’t even some one night stand where he could slip out quietly or something; he had to see them. He had to say thank you and sorry and please don’t fire me for being weird. Gods, why couldn’t he just be normal for one night?

Even without wings or turning into a giant, eldritch bird he was a mess, Danny thought, slightly hysterically. Well, he might as well get up and face the music so that he could call a ride leave.

If only getting up wasn’t such a problem. Now that he was moving, Danny felt the ache of the missed doses of medication in every thread of muscle. He didn’t even have anything to take, not having one of his usual bags with him. Slowly, Danny got his feet under him and got himself standing. He breathed through the shaking muscles.

The change of clothing was a welcome sight. The suit (that he was totally going to have to get dry cleaned now) felt more than a little stale after sleeping in it. The provided leisure were was much more comfortable and, somehow as he pulled on the over sized hoodie, familiar feeling.

As he stepped out into the quiet hallways, Danny have wondered if he could make a break for it, pain and all.

“Good to see you awake, sir.”

Danny jolted so hard at the sudden voice he might have pulled something.

The stately elderly man that approached looked less than sympathetic. “My apologies, sir. If you will hand me your suit, I will see it dry cleaned and send to your office.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine, I’ve been enough trouble already—”

“I insist.”

Meekly, Danny handed over the suit after he had fumbled out his phone and watch from the pile. The other man took it with far more grace.

“If you will follow me, sir, I will direct you too breakfast on the way.”

“Right. Thank you Mr…?”

“Pennyworth, sir,” Mr. Pennyworth said and started off.

Danny scrambled after him and tried not to hobble too much even though he could feel his left knee threatening to buckle with every step. It was just a twinge. He would get home (after breakfast apparently) and take his medication and he’d be fine.

He’d be slowly turning into something eldritch and unknowable, but he’d be fine.

When Danny got to the able, it was already rather full though not everyone seemed that awake.

“They’re not morning people,” Duke explained with a sunny smile when he spotted Danny.

“Hn.” Bruce agreed articulately.

Danny smiled despite his current embarrassment. “I can see that, but I don’t think that I can talk considering last night. I am so sorry that I fell asleep in the car like that. I swear I don’t normally just crash like that. You should have just woken me up so that I wouldn’t be—”

“Danny,” Bruce interrupted. His voice was a low, sleepy rumble. Danny felt himself blush. “It’s no burden on us. You obviously needed the rest since you didn’t even wake once. I just hope that we didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“Best sleep I’ve had in a while,” Danny admitted. “But I really don’t want to be any trouble to—”

This time it was Cass cutting Danny, off as she swept into the room and pressed a quick kiss to Danny’s cheek, then Bruce’s, and a few of her siblings as she made her way to a seat.

“Sit. Eat,” Cass signed and motioned to a seat next to Bruce.

Danny felt it best to give in and do as he was told. This family was just very confusing.

[vultbae]

negroni ✩

art donaldson x female reader

↳ summary: After winning against Patrick, Art takes the night off to grab a few drinks at the Ritz Carlton lobby bar. There, he meets a profound admirer. 

OR

Things go wrong with the girl who bought him a Negroni.

↳ warnings: fingering (minors dni), age gap (reader is 22), manipulation, infidelity, angst towards end.

↳ extra warnings: english is not my first language pookies + my first fic + yall I'm messyy so I added drama out of nowhere. if u read this I love u thank u for giving me a chance

word count: 4.9k

✩

"Excuse me, no smoking."

The blonde man lifts his chin to encounter a young waitress warning him about the cigarette dangling off his mouth. His middle and index fingers immediately approach the cigarette and gradually pull the filtered end from between his lips. "Sorry." Art frankly apologizes.

The waitress's purposeful avoidance of directly looking at him makes Art borderline giggle. He can't help but discreetly give her a comprehensive look; the girl is attractive, with velvety skin that impersonates caramel and peaceful facial features. He shushes all the pushy thoughts resembling the waitress to his wife staying upstairs. He is not that desperate, plus, everyone knows he is married to the Tashi Duncan.

Art audibly clears his throat and articulates before the young woman strolls away, "Can you get me a Negroni, please?" He requests, showcasing a courteous smile. The woman nods.

He didn't even realize when he positioned the cigarette between his lips. He had been anxiously waiting for an instance when he could be alone -at least since the match against Patrick. Tashi cheerfully agreed to let him descend to the lobby bar to grab a few drinks.

✩

Art had been attentively scanning his frame on the wide mirror and adjusting strands and strands of hair as he paid more attention to his hairstyle; his somber eyes descended from his impeccable hair to the unfastened buttons of his seersucker shirt, revealing a fraction of silk-like, gloomy skin from chest to lower stomach, his well-grooved muscles casting shadows under the bathroom's dim yellow lighting. 

"I'm going out!" Art shouted from the bathroom as he fastened the remaining buttons of his shirt.

From the corner of his eye, he sensed Tashi approaching the bathroom doorframe and standing by it. Art tilted his head up to encounter Tashi, his wife, silently grinning, dressed in a beautiful pearl-white silk robe, "I won't be gone for more than an hour-

"It's fine," Tashi interrupted. "I'll watch a movie with Lily. We can talk about it later."

Art nodded. His eyes stared at her with minor fascination. Tashi couldn't figure out why, but the feral spark on Art's orbs evaporated. She walked away.

Art slightly opened his mouth to say something but suddenly cut himself off, lips slamming together. He didn't say anything. He allowed the slim figure of his wife to vanish from his eyesight. He authorized himself to go out alone for the first time in years and think about his relationship with Tashi and tennis -if, at this point, they were not equal. And his relationship with Patrick, of course. 

After today, he felt things he hadn't felt in a while.

✩

An insistent tap on his shoulder provokes Art to flinch and abruptly land on earth again. 

"Excuse me, Negroni..?" Another waiter says in a quivering voice—a statement rather than a question—hardly maintaining eye contact. He is holding a tiny round silver tray with a bloody-looking Negroni sitting on it. 

Before the amateur waiter can shakily grasp the crystal glass to place it on Art's table, Art raises his arm and moves the Negroni himself. As soon as he places the glass on the marmol table's surface, his long fingers seize the thin wedge of orange embellishing the glass, bringing it to his lips and sucking on it instantly.

He doesn't realize that the one time he and the waiter are maintaining eye contact is while he sucks on a slice of orange -slowly.

"Thank you." Art says, dragging the wedge out of his mouth, detecting the scarcity of color on the waiter's facial canvas. "Why is he so pale?" Art thinks. The meddling stare from the waiter endures for maybe five seconds before Art frowns his eyebrows slightly in confusion; the poor guy nearly jogs away from Art's table.

Does he carry that much power over people? It has been long since Art calculatedly flirted with or attempted to gain someone's attention. To be accurate, since Tashi entered his life. He has officially lost the "open-to-the-public" charming spark and neglected his intrinsically flirty side. 

But today, for some reason, he feels different than usual. Not that he is trying to test it...

The Ritz lobby bar is moderately quiet. Art peeks at a few travelers relaxing with their baggage as they sip cocktails in miniature glasses and couples drinking -"probably pre-gaming before a night out," Art assumes. His gaze disembarks over two guys in their premature 20s, brunette, and blonde, chuckling and vividly chitchatting about topics he can't overhear properly. Art is hooked to the scenario in front of him as he stares enthusiastically: it bitterly reminds him of his friendship with Patrick, whom he hasn't heard of since the match. 

As he finds himself —once again— daydreaming about what once was, Art takes decent-sized sips of his Negroni, with his right hand hugging the crystal glass just right. He is sitting on one of the many hickory brown leather armchairs dispersed across the bar, manspreading as his left hand lays over his lap. 

Suddenly, a personal reflection pops into his mind like a light bulb unexpectedly turning on; what is he doing? Sitting submerged in loneliness in a 5-star hotel lobby bar will not change anything. It simply won't. He would rather go back to the suite and have some pleasing fucking sleep. He is feeling tired, and confused, and depressed, and—

Well, If anything, people who recognize him could come and disturb his night. 

Art locks eyesight with the first waiter wandering across his vision field; he pitches a writing motion with his hand and requests the bill. As the waiter walks in his direction, he chugs down the leftover sips of cocktail in the glass.

"Bill?" Another waiter wearing a burgundy uniform asks Art. The tennis player shakes his head up and down, murmuring a yes please, "Don't worry, on the house."

"I can afford it." Art stresses, with a robust sarcastic undertone tinting his voice tone while attempting to maintain the most benevolent smile on his catalog. 

The waiter chuckles in exaggerated glee. "I know, Mr. Donaldson. Your bill has been cleared by another customer," he clarifies, standing in front of Art with the straightest stance and hands intertwined in the manifestation of hospitality. The waiter clears his throat, "Actually, by the young woman over there," and discreetly points his finger at the stools by the bar gantry.

Art's gaze dashes over to a woman standing by the bar gantry. He can only see her back, not her complete complexion. Although he has internally accepted this demeanor as improper, he allows his eyes to scan over the woman's silhouette freely, lingering a little longer on her legs. In the background, he can faintly attend to the waiter talking about hotel-specific branch issues and how stays such as his and Tashi's benefit the hotel's branding -isn't this the Ritz Carlton?

"Yes, I agree." Art blurts out as soon as he realizes the waiter has concluded his monologue, his gaze glued to the enigmatic female standing five meters away from him.

"Thank you, Mr. Donaldson. Have a great night." Just as Art opened his mouth to greet him in return, the waiter had already shifted on his feet to approach another table.

Art reevaluates what he is about to do. Should he greet her, thank her, or gently communicate how unmannered it can be to buy a married man a drink? 

But also, what if it's an obsessed groupie attempting to instigate drama?

It doesn't matter. Buying Art Donaldson a drink is disrespectful. Literally everyone —quite literally everyone— who knows Donaldson knows he is married to Tashi Duncan!

Come on, a woman, unattended in a bar, buying me a drink? Art thinks.Of course, she has hidden intentions, he reassures himself. Art shifts on the armchair, resting his elbows on his knees, still pondering whether he should approach her. 

Why isn't he simply disregarding this and walking away?  

He hadn't felt so much excitement about something so childish in a while. It felt like being nineteen again. After hugging Patrick today, he sensed a heartwarming relief regarding Tashi cheating on him. But, on the other hand, he's a fucking human.

Fuck it. He just wants to chat with the girl and perhaps communicate that she shouldn't do that again. Right, that's it. 

Art picks up his belongings and strides towards her.

"Hey, sorry..." Art speaks, dragging the stool beside the woman and grinning warily at her. His soothing, recognizable tone of voice instantly captures her attention.

Art expected many things, but not a drop-dead gorgeous woman. A girl. She looks...young— not underage kind of young, but unquestionably not over twenty-five. On the other hand, as a well-known tennis player, he's had plenty of exquisite-looking women begging for attention; Tashi herself is stunning. Somehow, this woman left his lungs tightening for a sizzling second, which is concerning. 

Plus, her aroma. Jesus, the scent, Art thinks. He would continuously go weak on the knees when Tashi wore that damn tangy, dark cherry fragrance she had. He immediately identified the distinct smell.

"Mr. Donaldson, oh my god..." The girl's voice pitches high, and she extends her right hand in his stomach direction as if she had been rehearsing for this moment. "I didn't believe you would accept the drink," she adds enthusiastically. 

Her voice is too harmonious for his ears. 

Art stretches his hand and shakes hers. "Well, I didn't." Art retorts, unconsciously smirking at the girl's harmless bliss, "I was pretty much obligated to accept the free Negroni."

"Well, either way, I am honored," she says with a slight shrug and giggles, "Names Y/n; by the way, very nice to meet you, Mr. Donaldson. Big fan of yours"

"Nice to meet you too, Y/n," Art unpretentiously expresses. His facial expression goes abruptly blank as he realizes he might be snitching on himself. "Uh, Y/n, I don't wanna sound rude, but what you did... with the drink," he struggles to word it nicely, worrying about coming out as unpolite. He laboriously swallows as Y/n raises her eyebrows, expectant. "You shouldn't buy drinks to married men," he concludes.

Y/n lets out a gigantic gasp, "Oh my- this is so embarrassing," her hands fly over to her mouth, covering it in mortification, "I am so sorry, Mr. Donaldson-

"Please, call me Art," Art interrupts, a smirk rising on his face.

"Well, Art," Y/n corrects herself, now speaking with a mischievous undertone, still with an infectious grin plastered on her face. "I go to Stanford. I couldn't stop hearing about you —your skills. Well, I grew up in a household of tennis enthusiasts, and I, myself, am a tennis player. I just wanted to show my appreciation for what you've done for the tennis culture."

Art's cheeks feel hot. Heck, they are burning. 

"Oh.." he mumbles, mainly to himself out of amazement.

"I would never, don't worry, Mr. Donaldson- I mean, Art." Y/n reassures, emphasizing the never. But as she justified herself, a sad half smile crooked on her plump lips, "I mean... No one can deny you are very handsome, but I am a respectful woman-"

He unmistakably heard the last sentence but will bypass it for his mental stability. "It's fine, Y/n." Again, he runs over her words, interrupting, "I should be apologizing; I don't want to come across as an entitled asshole."

For some reason, Art can't stop feeding the conversation. You are a fucking horndog, Art internally insults himself.

"Let me buy you a drink as an apology," Art says bluntly, requesting clearance but simultaneously demanding. Y/n, on the other hand, has her eyes set on the blonde man in front of her, both gazes perforating each other. "I mean, if you are of age.."

She giggles.

"Twenty-two. Took a gap year," the girl admits, "and I wouldn't mind a Negroni," she adds, now faking a nonchalant accent.

Y/n can hardly believe the circumstances she has put herself in. She observes the man standing before her, deftly moving from how he calls the server to how he licks his lips after ordering the Negroni. He's so fucking hot, she thinks. She had only seen him through flat screens and once attended one of the numerous lectures he gave back on campus. 

But no, Y/n wasn't an obsessive stalker. Earlier that day, she had been at the New Rochelle Tennis Club with her father and the new newbie guy he was coaching —she can't even recall his name. Long story short, the guy had asked her on a date, and as a grandiose concurrency, Y/n had suggested the Ritz —they serve finger-licking cosmopolitans at their bar. It wasn't until she reached twenty minutes earlier by mistake that she contemplated bailing on her plans. Why? Because she laid eyes on the mouthwatering blonde man sitting by himself, ingesting a depressing ass-looking Negroni. 

She knew it was a hit or miss. But she would rather miss if it came to the possibility of messing around with the man of her most soaked dreams.

Y/n's nostrils pleasingly burn as she inhales a warmish, spicy fragrance emanating from Art's clothes and skin. She can't dodge the impulse to frequently peek at the opening of his shirt, revealing milky skin. Her breathing becomes erratic just by fantasizing about him without the fucking seersucker shirt. She knows he's fucking ripped.

Y/n chews on the bottom of her lip anxiously, contemplating her words. "By the way, what you did today was insane."

Art arches a brow. "You mean playing tennis?"

"That wasn't even tennis; that was an entirely different game," Y/n responds as if Art had offended her. "It felt as if the court was entirely yours," she overpraises him, feeling rewarded by the minuscule giggles escaping from Art's lips.

Art feels his heart warm up at the familiar sentence choice. "It is not a big deal, just a good tennis match," he elucidates. 

She rolls her eyes. "Sure... or maybe you are just too skilled for other players." Y/n softly laughs.

Art bits back the tiniest groan of frustration. He feels his dick hardening underneath the light-washed denim jeans he's wearing. He tries to comprehend if it is because of the sudden sensual undertone in her delicate voice, her unmistakable submissive look penetrated deep into her big eyes, or the fact that Tashi had not touched him below the hipline in months and turned him into a precocious motherfucker. Or it could be the alcohol making him horny. He hadn't noticed before how tight her clothing was —it took one swift glimpse at her body for Art to see her thighs spilling out of the hem of the strapless mini-dress. It took another one to realize she was now gently caressing his arm.

Art was convinced there was nothing left to wipe the carefully crafted agitated expression from his face. "Could be, yeah," he says, subsequently coughing to avoid strangling on his own spit. "I don't want to be seen as some kind of God."

"Well, you move like one," Y/n affirms, chuckling at her own filthy sentence, her fingers playfully stirring the brand-new Negroni sitting on the bar table with the cocktail straw. She licks her lips, "You know what I mean."

Bullshit. There is no way this girl doesn't want to fuck.

She dodges eye contact, but there is a peculiar shift in the air, and a smirk exponentially extends her lips.

"I know what you mean." Art snaps back, incapable of looking away from the cocktail straw now entrapped in between her glossy lips. 

His muscles and head feel more lightweight, but his ocean eyes remain entirely tied to her outline. 

Their bodies have shuffled negligibly closer—inappropriately closer. Art senses warmness filling his face from the subtle friction of their knees: the coarse texture of his denim and Y/n's smooth, bare skin.

From her peripheral vision, Y/n glimpses a security guard patrolling the hotel lobby. She makes eye contact with the robust man for a split second, whose facial expression reshapes in dull stunner as he peeks at who's sitting next to her. 

Y/n sets her crystal glass on the bar counter. "Thank you so much for the drink." 

"Wait. Are you leaving?" Art questions, with feigned etiquette that reeks of desperation. 

Y/n's eyes dart to the man standing near their stools. Art tracks her gaze and sighs. "You already gifted me minutes of your time and a Negroni. That's enough coming from Art Donaldson." 

Art hesitates. "They are not in my business." He practically whines, progressively revealing his despair to the young woman sitting before him.

"I still need to Uber home," Y/n excuses, pouting at her words. "A woman can't be alone that late-

"I can drive you." 

✩

The drive is around twenty-five minutes. 

Y/n quietly sits in the copilot seat of Art's Bentley Bentayga. By her left side, Art grips the steering wheel confidently, his fingers switching effortlessly over the controls as they drive through the streets of the suburban county of Westchester. She peers through the shadowy window glass on her side —there's a winter storm outside. 

"How many days are you staying in Westchester?" Y/n asks while her gaze stays fixed on the passing scenery framed by the window.

Art clicks his tongue. "Not much. Most likely leaving tomorrow morning."

"Did you do anything fun around the county?" 

"Well, a rich-people county isn't the most amusing place to visit." Art jokes, speaking with a devilish tease.

Y/n doesn't reply. Instead, her eyes quickly flicker to his silhouette under the fuzzy skyglow leaking through the car's transparencies. Art's blonde hair captures the faint illumination beautifully, each strand seeming to shimmer under the dim light. His muscles tighten at—

Red light.

When the car stops, Art twists his head to the right, his and her gazes collapsing. He runs his tongue over his upper lip before talking, "You mentioned something earlier..." he begins to say. 

In the stillness of the moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the engine idling.

"I mentioned many things," Y/n corrects. 

A faint crease of discomfort crosses Art's brow, and he shifts slightly on the red leather seat. Y/n examines each of his subtle hip and torso motions as he gets rid of the discomfort. Finally, again sitting still, he resumes. "Let me be specific. You mentioned I am handsome."

A sudden warmth spreads across her cheeks, an unmistakable flush of embarrassment.

"I don't think this is appropriate."

"I don't think neither of us cares about what's appropriate anymore." 

It feels as if the world has stopped for Y/n. It feels as if a spell had caught both of them, leaving them besotted, and fucking horny, and awaiting the other to give the—

Green light.

"I think there's a parking lot next to a store that shut down recently 3 minutes away."

That's all Y/n says. Art presses down the gas pedal and tightens his grip on the wheel to suppress some exotic sensations that rocket down his spine.

Raindrops splatter against the windshield and the car's roof, and the blonde guy continues to drive through a road of infinite rain-soaked side trees swaying in the wind's rhythm and closed shops. 

It takes four minutes and fifty seconds to reach a gigantic parking lot beside what once was a Dollar Tree. Although Y/n can scarcely appreciate the space due to the weather conditions and the tinted glass, she can see some faded, bright yellow parking lines now covered in dirt and droplets of rain. The place is totally empty.

Y/n's heart sprints ten times faster when the engine settles into a contented hum. Goosebumps flourish on her skin as serenity inundates the car interior—complete silence. The SUV has parked on a random corner.

And she doesn't want to look in Art's direction because she knows he's already looking.

She plays it credulously. "I think this is a great place to talk in peace," Y/n murmurs, finally turning her head towards him. 

The fleeting moment her eyes cross with his evokes a sense of vulnerability for the girl. Art's orbs shamelessly spark with a glimmer of mischief, like a predator stalking its prey. The unbridled desire is nowhere near disguised now, and Y/n knows the guy won't keep playing the innocent role anymore. Is buying him a drink disrespectful? Bullshit. But she's grateful the poor, troubled man will have some fun. She knew he'd surrender faster than expected. 

Yeah. Art had lifted the white flag as soon as he reached out a hand to grasp the door handle of his sexy ass Bentayga to open it for Y/n, and his eyes had flown by instinct to the girl's ass when she was hopping on his car.

Now, he can't tear his eyes off her lips. 

"I've had a fucked up day." Art suddenly breathes out. There's a steady rise and fall of his chest, but Y/n can tell he's struggling to maintain it. His eyes ascend to lock in with hers. "I want to forget who the fuck I am."

Y/n is drowning in the noise of her own accelerated heartbeat. "I can help you." Y/n's words shoot out in submission, haltingly batting her eyelashes at him.

It's humorous mainly because she has no idea what is happening in his life. She doesn't know the mess between Tashi and Patrick; the fact that Tashi allegedly fucked Pa—well, whatever. Y/n doesn't know. She understands the man is disturbed, though, because the instant she stepped inside the luxurious lobby of the Ritz Carlton, she could tell the man had no emotion on his face. She recalled watching his matches when she was younger, and one thing about Art Donaldson was the radiant vitality his presence brought to any room he was in.

It's evident that the radiance was gone. For whatever reason.

Their bodies draw closer, the only barrier being the gear stick and seat partition between them. Y/n can feel Art's warm breath clashing against her lips, a slightly intoxicating and crisp scent of gin climbing to her nostrils. She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue before grabbing Art by the collar of his shirt and pulling him into her mouth. He briefly widens his eyes but reciprocates instantly.

He is the sort of kisser who goes slowly but deepens as much as possible, inserting his tongue everywhere attainable. Y/n tastes good and, heck, excellent —sweet and spicy, as if she chewed cinnamon gum before assaulting his mouth. The flavor and the satiny texture of her lips push him to near insanity; Art pumps his tongue in and out, desperately, sweeping against hers because of the faint, delicate moans leaking from her side every time he does it —it makes him vertiginous.

It isn't until Y/n sucks on his lower lip that he splits off to breathe. "No marks." Art forewarns with his face dropped in soberness, heavily panting.

He discerns something shifting inside of him when Y/n's beautiful features soften for a beat, casting a veil of a peculiar sentiment he's too emotionally dumb to interpret —bitterness? sadness? He can't tell. The fuzzy thoughts fade when her lips attack again, parting his with ease, allowing her tongue to slip inside. "Shut up." Y/n spits lowly between kisses.

A couple of sizzling minutes of pure, obscene french kissing pass before Art realizes the pressure underneath the light-washed denim over his crotch is tormenting him. His left-hand glides over Y/n's thigh and gently squeezes, letting her know he needs to move forward. At this point, he has readjusted the position of his body over the red leather seat, facing Y/n straight; the hand resting over her thigh gradually shoves the hem of the mini-dress upwards, revealing more skin and dangerously approaching her pussy.

The tempo of Y/n's kisses becomes unsteady with the sensation of his physical touch near such an intimate area. It felt weirdly mortifying for her to be this wet this early —her pussy felt slippery and willing to take whatever Art proposed. She breaks off the kiss out of involuntary reflex, with her gaze immediately descending on Art's left hand, too big for her, and skillfully positioning the lace of the light-pink panties aside.

If Art was a magician and opening her legs was a challenging magic trick, goddamn, he'd be a good magician. Y/n had no idea how, in such an undersized space, her legs had managed to spread that wide. The specific moment when Art's middle finger comes in contact with her wetness is a blur, but the filthy, low-pitched groan that his mouth emits as the first finger rubs her pussy lips will never be forgotten. Y/n unconsciously rocks her hips in search of more friction-

"Stay still." Art demands, chest rapidly going up and down. Although he attempts to sound demanding, his voice is weak in want and ridiculously desperate. Y/n's cheeks flame up when he begins toying with her clit, rubbing slow circles, with an equally attractive and irritating cocky grin resting over his face.

But she wants that one finger to go in. Y/n sighs in eagerness, muttering a series of pleasepleasepleases.

"Art..." Y/n mutters between choked moans, bucking her hips forward into his hand. Art gazes at her, intoxicated by her facial expressions and the mild tone of her voice, delivering such nasty noises. His eyes don't leave Y/n's face as he thrusts his middle finger past her slick folds. He feels his dick twitch at her exaggerated facial response.

What was one finger quickly became two, picking up their speed and twirling inside, hitting the sweetest spot. "Not a virgin, right? " Art abruptly asks, terrified but astonished at the tightness her pussy held, clenching down on his digits and squeezing. 

"No... oh my god—" Y/n yelps, hardly managing to articulate words as his fingers keep steadily penetrating her pussy. 

Y/n tilts her head back and instantly feels a trail of sloppy, wet kisses on her jaw; Art is nearly over her body, working his way downstairs and upstairs, too. The accelerated rhythm of his fingering ceases for a hot second as his available hand reaches her chest to unashamedly pull down the neckline of Y/n's mini-dress, freeing her tits and letting them bounce out of the expensive cloth. 

As a sheer coincidence and dissolving in pleasure, Y/n's eyesight dismounts in one of the tall buildings in front of the parking lot. What she sees is practically ironic. An immense billboard with Art's face crammed inside, by his side Tashi Duncan's iconic facial features, and an oversized Aston Martin logo. "Game Changer," the thing reads. Funny, she thinks. He is a game changer, though —not sure if he is the same kind Aston Martin broadcasts. 

But seeing his face and Tashi's painfully reminds her the man is not hers. 

In fact, the man has a whole wife.

"Fuck me." Y/n requests, still a complete mess, moaning, arching her back, breathless. 

And nothing happened where she thought the fire test lay. Art obliged. In fact, he seemed enthusiastic. He wants to make her his. Y/n modestly smiled at the thought.

"Yes... fuck, yeah." With a deft hand, he reaches down and unfastens the button of his pants; he eases the zipper down, and the faint sound of it sliding makes Y/n nauseated of anticipation.

Art reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a beautiful, black leather wallet. He flips it open, his brows furrowing in concentration as he sifts through its contents. With a muttered curse under his breath, he begins to dig deeper; Y/n doesn't understand what's happening —is he searching for a condom?

After eternal seconds, the blonde guy lets out a frustrated sigh and shakes his head, resigned.

Y/n sits beside him awkwardly, unhurriedly pulling up the neckline of her dress, covering her now shivering body.

"...So?" she questions.

He remains silent.

"I don't have condoms." 

"I'm on the pill." Y/n offers.

The look Art shoots at Y/n isn't gracious. In fact, it triggers a big spark of frustration on his face, eyebrows knitting together in a light scowl as he looks at her incredulously.

Then it turns worse when, by mistake, his gaze falls on the same billboard Y/n had seen earlier.

"I can't. Sorry." 

Y/n slowly closes her legs and adjusts her neckline. "Why?"

Art's eyes fall to his lap. "Well, starting from the fact I have a family-

Y/n interrupts. "Well, you didn't seem to care when you offered to drive a total stranger."

It was most likely the sassiness and the blaming in her voice that unexpectedly threw him off. Really threw him off.

"That's none of your business. I just took the opportunity of a warm hole."

In one swift, rampant movement, her hand connects with his cheek with a resounding crack, the sound echoing through the air like a crash. His head jerks to the side. A slap.

She had fucking slapped him.

With a trembling breath, Y/n doesn't think twice before she pushes open with unmeasured force the door of Art's fucking ugly car —or that's how she thinks of it now. The storm still persists, rain pouring down in sheets. Tears accumulate over her eyes as she steps out into the downpour, grabbing her purse tightly.

"Hey, hold on..."

She completely ignores Art's words, which get easily lost in the roar of the rain. 

But she turns to face him one last time, sitting on the pilot seat, visibly ashamed of himself —and still with unbuttoned pants.

"Fuck you. I hope you lose every single fucking tennis match." And with a forceful push, she slams the car door shut. 

As Y/n steps away from the vehicle, leaving a splash in the puddles on the floor, she wishes the man she met two hours ago had run after her and begged forgiveness. But of course, he didn't. Instead, she watched as the vehicle got started again and drove past her, quickly rejoining the road and disappearing in the darkness. 

✩

[backwzzds]

can we talk about how konig would be someone who’s quiet when he gets jealous…then when y’all get home he js absolutely goes HAMMMM….

the way i got so excited to write this…it’s actually way longer than i intended but idgaf! part 2 soon 😏

NO BC YOU LITERALLY WOULDNT GET HOW HE’D BE SO QUIET LIKE ???

“papa, i don’t understand what i did wrong,” you’d frown at your man with an annoyed whine. könig, who was a whooping 6’10 would only give you a heavy grunt in response. you’d be on the way back to his car from the mall, dozens of your victoria’s secret and H&M bags held in his visibly large hand. the moment könig reached before you (with help of his tree-like long legs anyway), he opened the door for you, the balaclava on his face making his features ten times harder.

no matter how mad the big bear was at you—or more so, what you happened to get yourself involved in—he’d never disrespect you. anything other than sexually, at least. stepping on the custom made step for your smaller figure, you slide into the huge seat of his completely blacked out bmw suv, allowing him to shut the door behind you. you nearly jump at the visible shake of the car beneath your bottom.

you play with your curls as könig carefully sets your bags on the floor behind your seat. because his was set all the way back to accommodate for his long legs, your seat had the better amount of space for your things. when könig finally got back in the car, he immediately started it, causing the monsterous growl of his deleted muffler to come alive.

and he wouldn’t even break a sweat at you !!! you’re over here going over all your actions for the day, step by step, and all könig could think through his mind was what positions he was gonna force you in when you two got back home.

the sound of könig’s car matched the energy that was coursing through his veins. he know you didn’t do anything wrong; not intentionally at least. but the selfish ass part of him wanted nothing more than for your pretty little ass to sit in the passenger’s seat, overthinking on what the fuck you possibly could have done to rile him up this much.

the ride home is everlastingly silent as the small of your voice breaks the thick tension, “baby,” you don’t know how to further articulate your words. “i know you’re mad at me. i wanna fix it, but i can’t it you won’t talk to me. and you’ve been dead ass silent since we been in the mall.”

könig keeps his cool, though. he knew his silence was practically eating at you alive, shaming you with guilt for something you didn’t even intentionally mean to do. but with the way your pretty body sits in the black skims dress you’re in, accompanied by your black and white dunks—his eyes could practically frame your nipples right through the see through fabric, and he was sure that fucking doorman at victoria’s secret could have as well.

you keep talking. “was it the dude at VS? i swear, i made it very known that you were my man and—“ your words are endless blabber to him as the disgusting and pervasive thoughts cloud könig’s mind.

he looks so sexy in his balaclava, protecting his face from the harsh upcoming winter temperatures. he’s sported in an all black outfit, helplessly matching yours. anyone who saw you two together would automatically know that was your man. i mean duh, he walks around with his hand on your ass protectively 99% of the time.

when you get the sense that the brute isn’t listening to a fucking word you’re saying, you let out a frustrated sigh and turn your body away from him. but the sudden placement of a large hand on your knee takes you by surprise as you eye the man who’s ice blue eyes refuse to falter from the darkening road before you.

the moment könig pulls up in the driveway of your shared home, you can’t help but twiddle with the polish on your acrylics. anxiousness is bouncing off you, and könig could tell. you turn your head and open your mouth to speak, only to be cut off for the first time that night.

“go inside.” könig’s voice is very low, but you don’t miss the command in it. there’s no emotion behind the dark eyes of his balaclava. usually you could decipher exactly what and how he was feeling, but in the moment—

“kö—“ your boyfriend’s snow blue eyes harden at your talk back. with softer features, you whisper, “will you be inside?”

“soon. need to make a call first,” you watch him pull out a fresh cigar pack. “be ready for me when i get in.” you open your mouth to talk back again, but wire it shut when könig lovingly grabs your face. leaning in so the pink of his lips ghost over your full brown ones, he whispers, “now, mama. i won’t ask again. can you listen to that one thing for me?”

with a small gulp, you give him pretty doe eyes, feeling between your legs tingle at his masculinity radiating onto you. in the most confident voice you could muster up, you nod your pretty head at him. “yes daddy.”

könig gives you a nod of approval and runs his hand along the curve of your ass. “good girl. go on, liebling.”

you exit the huge car, already getting idea of what was to come when könig came back inside. with a heavy heart, you head upstairs to your room and slowly begin undressing, hoping that the slower you went, the more your punishment would be delayed.

your hopes were proven to be false the minute you were completely naked and turned around to see könig leaning against the threshold of the door, silently watching you.

you jump in fear at the sudden sight in front of you, but feel your heart beat calm down when könig strolled over to you. naturally, your head tilted backward as a way to get a full view of his face. his balaclava remained on, so you knew he was still upset about the events from earlier.

könig takes his large hand and rests it on your cheek, giving it a comforting rub. “you know i love you and respect you more than anything on this earth, right?” the brown of your skin instantly heat up at his words as you slowly nod your head at his sudden expression, unsure of where he was going with his words. könig’s lips can’t help but lightly turn upward into a small smile. you had no idea what was gonna come.

“good. because for today, libeling, i’m gonna fuck you like you mean absolutely nothing to me.”

[vesearlee]

──── 𝑭𝒖𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝑨𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒕

It was the duty of an assistant to assist in all matters their employer may need — paperwork, errands, fetching things from near and far, but this mischievous feline took the role and ran with it, and you had no choice but to rewrite the definition of demanding when she had her way with the busy doctor.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ── Zayne x F!Reader 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ── 2.5k 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 ── T 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ── Tooth Rotting Domestic Fluff, humour, flirting, established relationship, Zayne is the best cat dad, Zayne’s sweet-tooth can never be defeated 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ── HERE 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ── I couldn't get this scene out of my head for weeks and I finally articulated it just how I wanted it, I am free!

───  𝑳𝑨𝑫𝑺 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕  ───

The bottom of your shoes crunched over the fallen leaves scattered by the wind on the front steps of Zayne’s home, a soothing sound that caught the attention of your companion who watched with bright, wide eyes. “Pretty, isn’t it?” you asked, shifting your grip over the small body. 

A small purr was your only answer, given the trail of a burnt amber leaf falling from the sky was far more interesting. 

“Ah, there she is,” a voice called, muffled behind the wooden door. The handle clicked and swung inwards to reveal the source — Zayne. And to your surprise, he was dressed in his classic slacks and dark dress shirt, with his signature glasses perched on his nose. “Just when I thought you wouldn’t come back home.”

You scrunched your nose and furrowed your brow, indignant at the accusation. “It was only a small walk!” The bundle of fur in your arms: a fluffy, white kitten, agreed with you loudly — the mewl at the sight of her second favourite human made Zayne smile softly. “We missed you.”

“Is that so? I wouldn’t have imagined Jasmine could miss her second favourite.”  

“Of course she did,” you replied, walking forward and taking the steps one by one. When you reached his tall figure in the doorway, you leaned in towards him and he gently kissed you on the lips before closing the door behind you. 

The space that made up Zayne’s living room and adjacent kitchen was spotless as usual. A few pillows were misplaced on the couch — the touch of home your doing — and you raised a brow at the sight of a couple of small cat toys in a basket: a small mouse, a bell, and a stuffed toy that looked suspiciously like a macaroon. “You’ve been busy…”

Soft footfalls came up behind you, and the feel of his hands encircling your waist sent a shiver up your spine. “I only picked them up the other day. I thought she’d like them,” Zayne chuckled, his voice quiet in your ear. 

The pad of his index finger traced up from your waist to your arm, and towards the kitten in your hands where it scratched the fur between Jasmine’s ears. A loud purr made the furry kitten’s whole body vibrate with the intensity. “Hello, you.”

Wordlessly, you maneuvered Jasmine and held her against Zayne’s chest, who stumbled back a step with a grunt of surprise. “Hmph–”

“C’mon, you said you had work or reports or something to do today and we’re here to keep you company.” The sound of your footsteps echoed in the large space, and you headed towards the kitchen for a warm drink. “She’s your assistant—she’ll be perfect to help you with them and whatever else you need to do.” 

“...Very well.” Zayne followed behind you, his voice barely above a whisper while he cooed at the kitten. 

You glanced over your shoulder to find Jasmine rubbing against the side of his face and up towards his ear. The contrast from the snowy-white fur of her coat and his raven hair only made you smile, and when Zayne caught your gaze, you witnessed how his hazel eyes held such adoration for the creature. 

A smile tugged at your lips, and you gestured towards his office down the hall. “Well, chop chop! Get to it, that’s what she’s saying.”

“Assistants shouldn’t be so demanding,” he huffed, turning away from you to start walking towards his work. 

“Just you wait.” The clink of your favourite mug and his far duller one against the countertop made you giddy with excitement — given the doctor’s sweet-tooth, he was always guaranteed to have acquired the best hot chocolate, and you busied yourself with preparing the two treats with a flourish. 

With both mugs in hand a few moments later, you started to make your way towards his office, only you stopped short at the melodic sound of his voice. 

“And here,” Zayne said quietly, “is where we put— No, stop it, you tyrant.” The sound of plastic scooting over the wooden surface of his desk was followed by a deep, regretful sigh. “You are so much like your mother. She’s a bad influence on you.”

You bit your lip to stifle your snort of laughter, and you leaned closer to the door, both mugs in hand and a book you snuck from his bookshelf held snug to your side by the crook of your elbow. 

“Come here, little one,” he teased, and you heard the tap of a finger against something that rustled softly. “You can play with these instead, I need that pen.” The soft patter of paws followed his compromise, and an almost silent trill. “There you go.”

The temptation to peek was far too much to bear. 

Slowly, you peered around the doorway and towards the window, where a large desk was placed. Shelves of files and books lined either wall, as well as small props and figurines were scattered about, livening the space with touches of personality. 

On the desk, you could spy a photo frame by the monitor screen — one of the many photos you had insisted upon taking at the ski resort. It was one of your most favourite moments: seeing Zayne’s hair covered in snow while you held his face between your hands truly had been memorable. 

A slight shuffle of footsteps brought your attention back to the matter at hand, and you struggled to keep quiet at the sight of Jasmine batting at Zayne’s wrist and shiny watch while he typed. Her small behind sat on the permitted stack of papers, while her even smaller, fluffier tail curled with her playful intent in time with the clicks of the keyboard. 

You could see the minute movements of her head while she watched his fingers move, and before you could warn him of a potential attack, she pounced. 

Zayne let out a noise of shock and froze — from his knuckles to his forearm was covered in the whole of Jasmine’s body, the white fur of her coat sticking to the black sleeve of his shirt like a second skin. 

You couldn’t hold back the laughter any longer. “Oh no, she’s at it again.”  

“Will you–?” he asked, his voice strained against the urge to laugh with you. “She’s a handful, just like someone else I know.”

“You poor thing.” The mugs fit perfectly on the coasters at his desk, and you leaned against the large desk drawers with your hip to take in the scene. “Asking me to take care of an unruly intern? Has the serious, frowning chief grown soft and sweet after so much sugar?”

The side-eye glare Zayne shot you made you almost buckle over in mirth — the glow of his eyes seemed to brighten with the taunt, and you dramatically wiped your cheek from pretend tears. “I can’t believe my eyes,” you breathed in awe — his admission truly astonishing.

“Just take her, please. And I will have this,” he said, deft fingers wrapping around the handle of his mug, “as my compensation. You should prepare more, for if I have to sue for damages…”

Your hand flew to your chest in mock offence. “How dare you! I run a tight ship with my assistants, it is not my fault that you can’t bear to tell her no.”

“Troublemaker.” 

You sneered and poked his shoulder. “Grouch.”

From that moment on, the office was filled with the occasional chatter and whispers of taunts to the playful feline; bets of how many treats she would receive for distracting the other. The mugs had long been emptied and refilled several times, and you couldn’t help but feel content at being cosied up on the lounge chair Zayne placed in his working space just for you. 

It truly felt as if the simple, unassuming piece of furniture had been in place for longer than it truly had been, but when he had surprised you with the gesture, you could recall just how you felt: the flutter of your heart in league with the butterflies in your stomach, as well as the love you held for him and the fact he noticed your need to be closer. 

Over time, the couch had been broken in with many late nights reading books or binge watching a show with headphones, if the busy doctor couldn’t be disturbed. 

Not to mention, the longer you stayed nestled into the cushions, the more suspiciously new blankets and pillows appeared. Your favourite was currently draped over your lap, the side of your hand that held your book resting on top of the crisp white plush fabric, whiter than snow. Light blue polka-dots were scattered in a carefree, artistic way, and you couldn’t help but pet over the soft areas with your palm absentmindedly. 

Zayne swore he bought it purely for the reason of: “It matched what you described as my colours, darling.” 

You rebuffed with the fact: “It looks like the snowman plushie on your desk.” The truth of that argument was discovered when a subtle tinge of pink moved from the tips of Zayne’s ears to his high cheekbones. 

Sighing, you turned the page of your book, humming with content at the origin of your comfortable couch, when it happened. 

“Jasmine.” Zayne’s tone was uncharacteristically sharp, and you looked up from the words of the page you were currently invested in. 

The kitten, ever meddlesome, had wormed her way beneath the monitor and started to bat at the smaller cords that led from the screen and down the back of the desk. She didn’t listen, too engrossed in her mischief making. 

Zayne rolled his eyes behind his glasses and reached out to wrap his hand around her middle. You couldn’t help the slight chuckle at the loud whine of protest that came from the kitten. “She’s just trying to help,” you insisted, though you failed to hide the amusement in your tone. 

“She’s only causing trouble,” he grumbled, and he placed Jasmine on his chest, her paws pushing against the muscle there hard enough to wrinkle his once pristine shirt. His large hand pet down her back and held her bottom half so she wouldn’t fall. “Hm? Your only intention is to distract me and cause chaos.”

Jasmine’s pink nose bumped against the tip of Zayne’s. 

“I know, you are cute, yes, little one,” he murmured, his free hand now moving the mouse of his computer. “But I have to get this done—afterwards we can play.”

The sight warmed your heart more than any hot chocolate could, and just when you thought it could not get any cuter, Zayne kissed the top of Jasmine’s head gently and placed her down on his desk closer to you. “Why don’t you bother your mother so I can get this done faster?”

You scoffed, but placed your book down, nonetheless. “Yeah, sure, use me as a scapegoat.” Jasmine tottered towards you, her ears perked forward at the sound of your voice, and you smiled at the little kitten. “C’mere, sweet girl.”

A comfortable silence stretched once more after Jasmine settled in your lap, her ears and nose twitching slightly as she investigated your book. Every now and then, you read a sentence aloud and watched with amusement as she looked up at you, curious as to the events of the story, no doubt. 

“How can you be so sweet?” you asked her quietly, scratching her chin after she yawned. 

“What a coincidence. I ask myself that every day about you. When you have the answer, do share,” Zayne mused aloud, his gaze homed in on the screen, though a slight smirk pulled at the visible corner of his lips. 

The sudden heat of the room made you gaze at your lap shyly, but you couldn’t deny the swoop of your stomach at the sweetness of his words. “I eat too much sugar, that’s why,” you replied quietly, and he chuckled, shaking his head. 

Time still seemed to slip by as you sat comfortably settled on the couch, Jasmine in your lap and the story evolving to be mysterious and full of turns. Though, the kitten had grown restless again, the absence of any ability to cause trouble while in your lap had gotten to her, and her patience began to wear thin. 

You glanced from your book to Zayne, who was busy typing away on reports, his hazel eyes reading through line for line what care he provided to the patient, when it came to you — as an assistant, Jasmine was to be delegated important tasks to better the workload on her charge, which just happened to include the necessity for rest, and the dire need for laughter. 

He always said your laughter could be the cure for all of his ailments…

The book closed quietly, and you moved to hold Jasmine with one hand, the kitten unusually still and cooperative as you maneuvered you both off of the couch. 

“What are you up to?” Zayne asked suddenly, but his gaze did not shift from the screen. 

You startled. “Uh– Nothing, I was just thinking of getting a snack…?” It was a flimsy excuse. 

He only said a quiet, “Hm,” in reply before his typing resumed at the fast pace he was exceptional at. Only when you felt his focus was wholly back upon his reports, did you dare to move again. Your feet were silent over the floor as you padded towards his chair, your accomplice in hand — silent and ready to strike. 

“I know you’re behind me, love.” The click of keys continued, nonplussed nor slowed in their rhythm. 

It was time. 

Jasmine let out a victorious mewl as you placed her upon her target, and you giggled as she wagged her tail. 

Zayne made a choked sound of shock and indignation, ducking down at the sudden weight on the crown of his head — soft paws held fast, however, and she followed where he moved with a purr louder than ever before. 

To say the sight was comical was understated. In the reflection of the monitor and the windows behind it, you saw Zayne’s expression turn from dumbfounded into playful annoyance, the curve of his grimace resembling more of a grin. The kitten was bright eyed once more and kneaded her paws into the black hair, tousling it from its normal neatness. 

“Is this my assistant’s demand that it’s time for a break?” he asked, arching a brow while one of Jasmine’s paws slid from his mussed hair to his forehead, knocking his glasses askew and forcing his eye to close. The open one stared at you from the reflection of the monitor.

“It sure is, Doctor Zayne—we say it’s time for sweets.” 

“Oh? It’s ‘we’ now?”

“I meant she says–” You backpedalled. 

Zayne took off the crooked glasses and stood from his chair, turning around while one hand steadied the kitten on top of his head. “A good doctor always listens to the orders of his superior.” He kissed you on the lips and pulled away, laughing at the way Jasmine batted at your forehead. “Come on, before little miss becomes too unruly for being left out of any treats.”

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 ── Tolkien Edition Bingo (@fandom-free-bingo) ⠄⠂⠁⠁��⠄⠄ Play Fighting • B2 ── MASTERLIST ── Eclipsing Bingo (@eclipsingbingo) ⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄ Playing With Someone's Hair • G3 ── MASTERLIST

[ir-abelas-vhenan]

Something Something Yeah It's Still Solavellan Hours (Mythal is kind of here, too)

I've seen a few very beautifully articulated posts talking about the conflicted responses players are finding themselves having in regards to the decision by writers* to have Solas' atonement route possible because of his conversation with one of the remaining fragments of Mythal.

(*honestly I hesitate to put the weight of bigger game events on their shoulders because of how much I know bigger players in the company were involved, so when you read 'writers' know I just mean whoever had final say on plot)

I love reading where people are at on this, and having now breathed, re-played the scene, cried, read some more theories, and then played the scene again enough times I think I'm now able to figure out where I'm at.

TLDR: in my humble opinion, the conversation Solas has with Mythal doesn't bring him any actual closure at all. It is only the version of the atonement ending that has Lavellan in which he is actually set upon a road to redemption.

This, like everything else where I lose my mind, will be long. I tried to restrain myself and here we are, unhinged as ever.

I was unhappy at first that Mythal's incredibly brief conversation with Solas where she releases him from her service seemed to be what finally allowed him to make a decision based on his wants and not hers. My concern stemmed mostly from the fact that a lot of us are trying to be active participants in a society that recognizes patterns of abuse and seeks to establish channels through which individuals can pursue healing without the approval, consent, or demise of their abuser.

But the more I look at the scene, the more I wonder what would have happened in a world where Veilguard got just a little more time in development. Could we have gotten a scene that more elegantly conveys the theme that we cannot heal every part of our loved ones, much as we might like to?

In an imperfect world it isn't always up to us how someone finds closure, which really sucks when you'd like to ensure a loved one finds it in a way that preserves their dignity and limits exposure to the individuals who have harmed them.

And while it could be left there, I'd like to actually push back on the idea that Mythal is in any way responsible for "healing" Solas in this moment.

I went on a different tirade a few days ago about how at the end of Inquisition, Mythal says words to Solas that on their surface seem well-intentioned or placating, but they actually just serve to further bind him in guilt and a position of servitude. In Veilguard's finale, she still does not take accountability for exactly how much of a role she played in the pain that Solas, a man others have revered and feared as a god, has gone through as he cowers, actually cowers before her.

Mythal's interaction with Solas conveys exactly two things to him as far as I am concerned (I'm going to botch these quotes but my laptop is dying so please accept some paraphrase as I rush to finish this before I go cry about this analysis to my uncaring dog):

"The terrible things we did, we did together." You are forever tied to me.

"I release you from my service." But what am I releasing you to?

Because up until Lavellan joins the fray here, all I take away from the physical and unwilling emotional cues Solas gives in this scene (he is a master in trickery, for goodness' sake, the thought of so many witnesses seeing him unable to hide behind a mask has to leave him feeling anguished on top of everything else) is that Mythal has once again reminded him of everything he did in her name and telling him that all that's left for him is to go back to the fade prison and, as he as always done, endure the crushing weight of his failures alone.

To me, in my interpretation, the Solas that hears this from Mythal with no Lavellan intervention may choose to willingly step down from his original plan (and yeah, that's gonna do some damage) but he is certainly not free of his past. He's going to be reminded of it every time he turns a corner and finds more blight to try and soothe, and even the moments that he rests will be filled with more manifestations of his regret. He says it himself: where he's going? It's terrible.

Enter Lavellan. Yeah, he couldn't bring himself to listen to her at her first plea (but like damn how many times are we going to have to watch her give a heartfelt speech only for him to be like 'something something beautiful elven rejection'). But I know that you know that our clever icon knows better than to take what Solas says at face value. She tells Rook plainly that he's absolute dogshit at lies of the heart, and she says it with her whole chest.

Lavellan sees the way his shoulders slump (in resignation yes, but you can't convince me there's not a little bit of relief there, too), she hears the agony in the "vhenan" that escapes his lips (which, don't even get me started on the fact that it's been like nine years and he has no hesitation at all calling her his heart, it just spills out of him). It is not the sound of a man delighting in the steps he's about to take. They're certainly not steps he does not dislike that lead to a destination he enjoys.

And then she watches Mythal (who I can't imagine she feels any sort of fondness or respect for) pull some weird nonsense on her love one final time, and she knows it's her moment to shine.

Mythal, I would argue, pushes Solas down one more time, shames him into seeking atonement, into once again being alone.

It is the romanced Lavellan that kneels so that he cannot fail to meet her eyes. It is she who invokes their connection, not to remind him of his failures but to reaffirm his greatest strength: their love and their love alone is inevitable. Not the consequences of his past, not the regret he thinks will consume him as he seeks to mend what has been broken. It has only ever been them.

"There is no fate but the love we share". We are forever tied together.

"There is no fate but the love we share." *I* am releasing you from everything else save for this love.

Put colloquially: get absolutely fucking wrecked, Mythal.

Body language comparison to chase up the dialogue one, anyone? The way Solas shrinks before Mythal as opposed to him walking off into the fade with Lavellan at his side and standing tall, and he does not flinch when she lifts a hand to his shoulder?

Ultimately, Mythal is a part of the atonement endings no matter what. But it is only Lavellan that refuses to let him walk alone. It is only Lavellan that guarantees that his dinan'shiral ends not in a prison of regret, but a place of promise.

Mythal bends Solas until he breaks one last time. Lavellan takes each piece, claims it as hers, and uses them to build the beginnings of a future.

[two-white-butterflies]

coaxed you into paradise - c. 33

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of Daemon, whose loved her all her life.

masterlist for this series

Chapter Thirty-Three: Born With Sharp Teeth

In his day there was not a man so admired, so beloved, and so feared. To his enemies, he was the blackest of villains. There was not a rebel in the Stepstones that lived after his crusade.

But fatherhood has softened him to some extent.

Having children made him want to become a better person. When a man reaches his age, they only yearn for a warm home filled with healthy sons and daughters.

The old crown has chipped, but fragments of his past remain. He still acted upon impulse, allowing his fury to govern over rational thought, or in this case governing over his ability to do the right thing.

He closes his eyes, 'what would his wife do?'

He licks his lips, taking a sip of his wife's wine that Elinda Massey generously laid out for him.

Saera would return to Harrenhal, gather their losses and remain in the castle until the war is over. She'd do that to protect their other children. Saera would do the good thing.

There was a voice in the back of his ears, preying upon this vulnerability. All these years you tried to be a good person, but this is what fate gives in return. Set this ghost of yours free. Peace can only be achieved through violence.

An iron fist that would rule Westeros.

'I am not my wife' he told himself.

And therefore his actions must hinge upon what he desires to do.

He took mammoth strides towards Rhaenyra's chambers; the Dark Sister twirling around his fingers as he prepares for easy battle. He was not a sentimental person, he didn't feel love for anyone outside of his family. He believed that he loved Rhaenyra, because behind her eyes he sees his brother, Viserys.

But that love has turned into hatred now.

"Daemon," her lips turned into a thin line.

She knows that he knows.

"Rhaenyra," he replied.

A member of the Queensguard stands in front of him. Ser Erryk, a follower of his oaths. "- I apologize, uncle, but it needed to be done." she articulated, the aura of command radiates her figure.

"You have slaughtered your legacy," he responds coldly. "- those bastard sons of yours will not birth trueborn dragons." he added.

She laughs at him.

"Daegon and Alyssa are bastards too, fathered by your very own." she raises her voice, the madness of dragons behind her eyes.

"I'm tired of your whitewashing, uncle - tired of Saera boasting her children's Valyrian features when their claims stand upon lies." she gritted her teeth. "- you are greedy, the both of you have always been." she berated, not a shred of guilt behind her eyes.

"And what would that make you? The court of Dragonstone believes Jacaerys to be your heir - a child fathered by Ser Harwin Strong." he responded, the years have not stolen his wits.

"Those that are born with sharp teeth must use it well." she used his own advice against him.

He feels his vision blur, the feeling of drowsiness invades his being. Rhaenyra takes a step forward, and he remembers that Elinda Massey was Rhaenyra's handmaiden - not Saera's.

'The fucking wine.' he cursed in his head.

"When Saera and I were younger, you told us about a story: The Dragon and the Sheep..." she breathed.

The forest animal run away when they see the Dragon's shadow. The hares swiftly hide under their forms, the monkeys gecker and stay close to the trees. The runaway sheep does not know why the animals cower at the sight of a shadow.

But she knows that she must protect her lamb.

She tries to follow the hare and the monkeys and the bears, but all bend at the shadow of the dragon.

And the dragon feasts on sheep and lamb alike.

To the animals of the forest, the dragon is the blackest of all creatures. But when you are born with sharp teeth, you must use it.

Daemon awakens inside of a cell.

He sees nothing but darkness, smells nothing but shit. He remembers the commotion that happened hours days ago.

Issa ābrazȳrys.

His chest tightens, the room seems to have grown smaller. What if Rhaenyra were to happen upon his wife? He closes his eyes, not a firm believer of the gods, but he prays.

He prays to the gods that his family remains safe.

Daegon. Alyssa. Viserra and Daelon.

He opens his eyes, but is greeted with darkness once more. "I need to get out of here," he mumbles to himself. He will rot in this place if he stays for too long and he cannot stay for too long.

He needs to be in Harrenhal. He needs to protect his family.

"How long do you plan to hold him there, my Queen? Prince Daemon is an asset to the crown, without his military prowess - we'll lose." Ser Erryk speaks as the Queen's conscience.

She takes a sip of her tea.

"We'll leave him there for a few more days, allow the cells to soften his resolve, then I shall strike a proposal." she surmised. She remembers his advice again: give them pain so they're thankful when they're not in pain.

She breathes for a second.

"There was a time, you know, when Daemon adored me the most. He'd tell me stories and let me sleep in his bed. He was more of a father than my own, but things swiftly changed when he was exiled. My sister was whelped into this world soon after. I loved Saera, she was such a demure little thing who barely misbehaved - she listened to everything that I told her to do." she chuckled bitterly.

The ages have changed the sisters.

"When Daemon returned, I was no longer a child. I thought that he'd give me the same attention as before, but then he saw my sister and decided that she was worthy of better love. I was so angry at her, I barely spoke to her - I spent my time around Lady Alicent. It was unfair, our mother loved Saera the most and my father only wanted a son. I thought that Daemon was for me." she continued, feeling the tears pool around her eyes.

She wanted to speak about her sister further, but she prevents herself. She prevents herself from saying the whole truth, that she hated Saera, no matter how kind or obedient she is.

In Rhaenyra's eyes, it was just unfair.

How Saera had the freedom to choose her husband and live a happy life, while she's forever burdened by the weight of the crown.

A crown that she will fight for.

"She has everything, Harwin, Daemon, and she wants to take everything." she finished, but there were still words left unsaid.

(THE RED KEEP. KING VISERYS' REIGN)

Daemon takes a deep breath, the scent of the Red Keep was unique. A mixture of lavender and sandalwood oils that the handmaidens used on linen to ensure that fresh scent. "Uncle," he hears Rhaenyra's voice from behind him. He smiles.

"Rhaenyra, the sight of you is good for sore eyes." he places a hand around her shoulder. Daemon adored his nieces, he often brought gifts from the many kingdoms that he visited. "It's been far too long," she replied as they continued walking down the halls of the castle.

"Where is your sister?" he inquired, finding himself searching for Saera. While Rhaenyra has the same fire inside his veins, he finds peace with the younger niece - he finds tranquility in her.

"She spends time with mother sewing and embroidering. I cannot find myself to enjoy that hobby, no matter how hard I try." she chuckles, eyes suddenly filled with loneliness. She cannot relate to her own mother, and she doesn't know why.

"I came bearing gifts," he informed and Rhaenyra smiles - happiness finally reaching her eyes. "Her nameday is coming soon, and I figured that she deserved to have a lot of gifts." he added implying that all the gifts he bought were only for Saera.

"I'm sure she does," she mumbled.

She sees the way Daemon's eyes light up at the mention of her younger sister. She plays with the rings on her fingers.

Is she losing him?

Is he slipping through her fingers?

next chapter>>

[merchelsea]

took care of my girl - max verstappen

pairing: max verstappen + fem! driver!(charles gf) reader

summary: after a lifechanging turn in your plans, you need to sort things out with charles to be able to get together with your true love, max. things can't always get so hard, can they?

author's note: the so required part two is FINALLY out. a massive thank you to every one that asked for this, i hope you enjoy it! (a HUGE thank you to @stupidandunnecessary for helping me outt)

word count: +1,6k

previous part

last night, charles and you exchanged less than ten words. you wanted to talk to him, but you didn't know how to start, nor how to do it without hurting him.

it was clear that his feelings were not love, maybe some attraction and friendship, but not love. still, you didn't want to hurt him.

you loved max, but you were in a relationship with charles. you weren't quite sure if he would understand, and even if he did, things were a lot more complicated since you were three public figures.

charles woke up to find you, very dizzy and confused, staring at the ceiling of the room in silence. he regained his sences before you thought of moving, and he soon started talking.

"you love him." he stated, looking over at you. startled, you turned to look at him, taken aback by his smiling face. "I- what?" you asked him.

"max. you love him." with that smile planted on his lips, you struggled to articulate something to tell the him. your well-prepared speech for this very moment seemed to vanish, and your words failed you.

"I'm sorry." it was the only thing you could say after having your mouth half-opened for seconds.

"what are you sorry for? loving someone? that is not your fault." he reassured you. "I'm not angry, if that's why your apologizing. I'm happy for you." you couldn't quite comprehend what he was trying to tell you, and he noticed it by the puzzled glances you shot at him.

"I'm happy for you both. I know I've never been a top contestant to the 'best boyfriend' award, quite the contrary. but I also know we both started this relationship out of loneliness." he claimed. it was evident that you weren't the only one preparing for this moment.

"I'm still sorry." you persisted. he chuckled, but you never even gave him a trace of a smile. you couldn't.

"you don't have to be. you deserved to be happy. to be loved in the same intensity that you love someone. that is something only verstappen can do." leclerc understood this situation a whole lot more than you expected him to, and you were starting to wonder if he might have a female max in his life.

"its a fact, even tho it pains me to admit. I could never make you happy the way he does." he added.

"you deserve that too. I know this probably means nothing to you right now, but it's true." you smiled sadly to him, and he shook his head in disagreemeant.

"it will never mean nothing to me. apart from everything, you were my friend first, and I would hate for that to end." you smiled softly at him, the sadness now less evident. you two stood silent for a while, just breathing and thinking. "look, I'm sorry for not being the boyfriend you deserved." he appologized, breaking the akward smile.

he was ready to continue, and he would have done so if you hadn't interrupted. "it's not entirely your fault. we didn't work out because we didn't love each other. period." charles too was sad about how your realtionship was ending, but he was also grateful that none of you had to get hurt before it happened.

"now, I think we are both mature enough to recognize that and begin another chapter." you continued. he nodded softly and you both stood quite looking at the ceiling.

"y/n, you should really go get him. I still have a headache to deal with but I'll try to pack everything and leave before you return home." he advised with a warm smile. he rose from the bed, moving around it to bend over and kiss your forehead.

"you deserve this, mon chéri." he whispered as he exited the room to confront his weary reflection in the bathroom mirror.

after changing, you left the bedroom with the intention of grabbing a bite to eat. however, you decided that sharing a meal with Max might be better, so you sent him a text. within seconds, he responded, as if he had been awaiting your message his whole life.

the truth is, max could deny all he wanted, but he panicked when he got home and realized charles would be sleeping in the same bed as you, and probably trying to get you back. although he now knew that you loved him, it didn't change the fact that you had been with charles while still harboring those feelings, and that thought terrified him.

that's why he left his hotel without even hesitating and met you at a coffee shop near your house.

"how did he react?" he was clearly trying to avoid the subject, and noticing it, you respected his decision and never brought it up. but he has his limits, and he clearly crossed those. he needed to know, and if you were being real, you needed to tell him as well.

"better than I expected." you replied with a smile, which wasn't what he had anticipated. he couldn't decipher whether your smile meant "we broke up" or "we got back together."

"better how?" he asked, not so sure now that he wanted to know.

verstappen didn't think of himself as an anxious person, but when it came to you, he struggled to conceal his apprehension. He yearned to know every detail, and he might have even fainted if you hadn't filled him in.

"well, he told me to come and get you." you were finding that whole situation a lot more funny than you should, max acting all calm when it was so clear that he was freaking out could be ranked on top of the most entertaining things in the world.

he let out a heavy breath that he was holding for god knows why and you finally could see the beautiful smile he was hiding behind the seriousness.

"really?" he asked, smile still playing on his lips. you nodded, smiling too. anyone who passed by would think you two were a couple on the best stage of your relationship, smiles so wide that everyone could see were genuine.

"well you already have me, so…" max points with a joking tone, every word coming out of his mouth being the most truthful. "why do i always want to kiss you in situations or places where i can't?" he throws his head back, frustrated.

"oh why can't you kiss me now?" you asked. cofusion and also frustration kicking in when you realize its not going to be today as well. you begun to think max might be actually afraid to kiss you.

"there's people here. and i know it's a discreet place, but still…" you almost grasped what the dutch meant, were it not for your intense desire for his lips to meet yours. "what? I don't care about the people, you know I don't."

it's true, he knows you never cared about people's opinions. that's why, from the both of you, he was always the one that helped you with everything you thought of putting out to the world. most of it not coming out thanks to him.

"you may not, but I do. you know how this things work and I don't want my gi- your name associated with sleeping around for a seat."

your smile didn't fail on showing up. he could have just said the most horrific thing ever, you hadn't listened. max verstappen calling you 'my girl' was something out of this world for you. you covered your face with your hands as the gleam in your eyes intensified.

"but, you know, you could always take me home." he added, grinning with both his lips and eyes. "let me finish this and we'll go right away." max nodded and took his phone out, pretending to be composed on the outside while feeling like an exuberant child within. he eventually even snapped a few pictures of you to keep for himself and immediately changed his locked screen. he's not familiar with the concept of going slow.

exiting the coffee shop, you and max laughed like a pair of joyful fools, unable to recall precisely what was so amusing. at some point, you found yourselves laughing at each other for no apparent reason. what you both knew for certain was that spending time together was effortless—it brought a profound sense of peace.

as you closed the door behind you, max took your hand and pulled you close to him. his free hand found its place on your cheek, his thumb tenderly caressing it. "after all these years, I can finally kiss you."

the smile on the red bull driver's face emphasized his happiness. although your smile wasn't as broad, your eyes spoke volumes.

in the end, his focus remained on your eyes. for three years, max had gazed into those same brown eyes, yet each time felt like he could continue indefinitely. and, indeed, he could.

from his prespective, it was the greatest view one could have. and he was genuinely sorry for everyone that would never get the chance to do so.

when he finally let go of your eyes, he foccused on your lips, not as mesmerizing, but equally breathtaking.

before he kissed you, you got a good look at his deep ocean blue eyes. had you not been studying them since the day you met their owner, you might have easily lost yourself in their beauty.

you almost cursed max for closing them, but if that meant you got to study his lips too, you could never complain.

once he guided you into the kiss, one of your hands instinctively traveled to the back of his neck, while the other one squeezed his, trying to be sure that this was really happening.

it became evident that your lips were made solely for each other—the way they fit perfectly, moved in harmony, and how max's lips embraced yours as if he had been doing it for a lifetime. every element aligned to create perfection—this is what love felt like.

with max, it felt right. with max, it was love.

taglist: @mehrmonga @yourusername1 @lexiecamposv @electrobutterfly @miakatharinaa @jeconnaismeslimitesus

[esoteric-crow]

hey actually isn’t there something kind of really sad about the fact that the hardest difficulty (that isn’t just like. hell or hell. which is just ‘haha hehe Blow up.’) is called Dante Must Die. i think about it a lot. i can’t quite put my finger on why it makes me miserable but maybe someone else can.

but you know what i CAN talk about and i DO have actual fully formed thoughts about?

regenerating like crazy is great. but isn’t there something kind of inherently fucked up about the fact that, because of the regeneration dante and vergil have, neither of them will ever have tangible evidence to themselves or others of their suffering? asking themselves, was it really that bad? did it even happen at all? no matter how much you put vergil through hell and how afraid he is inside, there will never be a mark on his skin that says “i have suffered”. the world leaves no proof, nothing to take home from this experience aside from a more broken mind. vergil doesn’t say his feelings, or even allow them to surface properly, because that’s a kind of vulnerability he cannot handle. the only way he could perhaps earn someone’s sympathetic care is by expressing what he has suffered through, but he cannot verbalize that. and he looks perfect. unmarked by time or trauma. there isn’t a single part of his body that could scream out for him that something horrible has happened that he cannot figure out how to deal with alone.

and dante is just as poor off. and he’s very difficult to figure out emotionally to a passerby. dante purposefully puts on a happy face every day, and to the majority of the world, it’s convincing. there’s certainly no evidence to themselves contrary. not a scratch on him. but he is like kind of constantly getting the ever loving fuck beat out of him. stabbed and jabbed. when you look at him, you see happy, sweet, goofy dante. for all the years of pain he’s gone through, there isn’t a single marred inch of his skin that could tell you even a day of the agony unless he told you. and why would dante do that when he can pretend it simply isn’t happening until he’s alone and can sit with the terror that’s constantly in him and the loss he’s been living with, over and over losing people and being surrounded by the ghosts of their presence. whether the ghost is a wayward descendent, a gun, or just a lingering smell of ash in his childhood home. but that will only be private. he can be the walking dead, he can treat himself like shit, but his body refuses to show anything for it. and he’s certainly not going to die.

obviously, the same thing can be said for the opposite side of the spectrum: scars can be a constant reminder in the mirror of what happened that you cannot erase, always to some degree a part of you. among other stuff. so both sides of the coin are full of The Pains and The Anguishes.

on a side note, i really like when people give them like, one scar. i don’t really have a favorite one that people give vergil but i really like dante with just the one bigass gnarly one in the middle of his abdomen from the rebellion gettin jammed in there. his One scar. a treate. like it defies his regeneration somehow.

i love making a scarred up guy. i have plenty of scars n marks myself, and i feel like they should definitely be more normalized, so like, no this post isn’t anti scars or something. they’re normal and not ugly or whatever the hell people try to say. this side note is probably entirely unnecessary, but i’m tired and i’m worried about someone misunderstanding me i think. anyway i’m trying to say ooh scar angst yeah but sometimes No scars is also fucked up too. that’s the point here.

to sum up: i believe there can be something Fucked Up and angsty to be said about the fact that the sparda boys heal perfectly fine, but only externally. it is 3am. this is not articulated as well as it could be i don’t think. aaaand post.

[kimarii-00]

Hi Can write one when Armando was projecting Callie but instead it the reader 19 or older But also skilled and help out him. The tension (We can't let him take all the hit I thought he was going to die)

Stop her sister from killing him while they both hold a gun toward each other.

Savior

❥Summary: Your sister despises this guy for killing your father, and you were supposed to too. So you can’t help but wonder how you got into this situation; Armando standing behind you as you separate him from your sister and her gun, pointing your own in her direction.

❥Warnings: Blood, violence, kidnapping, language, guns

❥Word Count: 2.1k

Unedited

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

You’ve got to say, you didn’t plan on getting kidnapped when you dcided to visit Mike’s wife to try to express your feelings about the situation. Mike, Marcus and Mike’s son, Armando were wanted men, with none other than your own sister on their case. You’d seen the news and how frantic your sister was about catching the three.

“I’ve got to do this, (Name). This is the man that killed father, I swear, I will make him pay.” She’d told you before she grabbed her gun, stuffed it in its holster and scurried out of the door.

Now, the situation is getting serious, and you felt awful that there was nothing you could do to help, so you did the next best thing– extend your condolences to Mike’s wife and hope for no hard feelings…

That obviously did not go as planned, because now, you and Christine are being held captive, about to be transported Cuba, according to what you overheard in a conversation between a man and another one, who seemed to be their leader of sorts. You decided to take the silent approach. Not wanting to say anything that could potentially piss these people off. Though it seemed Christine had a few questions for your captors.

“What happened to your hand?” She articulated.

The man seemed stunned for a moment, probably surprised a kidnapping victim wanted to make small talk with the kidnappers. You kept your head down.

The man lifted his hand and looked at what she was talking about. He was missing fingernails. “They call that a Columbian manicure,” He began, “What’s so great about it is it’s the maximum amount of pain, but you don’t die.”

“So now you’ve decided to be the one holding the pliers.” Christine declared. You didn’t know what her plan was, or if she had one at all. But you stuck with the ‘if I can’t see them, they can’t see me’ method, and kept your eyes glued to the ground.

The man leaned in close to Christine, and you felt the urge to push him away from her, but decided against it, “Everybody breaks,” he said, “Everyone. Your husband, they’re gonna kneel down in front of me and beg for your lives. And then you’re gonna watch me kill him.”

“You haven’t met my husband,” She said in a meek tone. You knew she was trying to be strong but you could hear in the way that her voice cracked that she was scared. Maybe not for herself right now, but for her husband.

“Well, not officially but, I look forward to seeing him again.” He ominously said. You get chills everytime something comes out of his mouth.

You could only hope that Mr. Lowrey shows up soon. You aren’t sure how much time you two have left.

You struggle a bit, but not achieving much as the burly man secures his grip on your two arms, making sure you don’t go anywhere he doesn’t want you to. You and the man follow behind the one holding on to Christine. Today is the day that the two of you are transported to Cuba.

You spot a plane that was docked on the water, and a man in a suit that stood outside of it. You all walked down the stairs toward him. Looking up and around, you spot many different types of weapons your kidnappers are sporting, machine guns, pistols, snipers, and probably more hidden elsewhere. You look to Christine, trying to figure out if she ws planning something to try to escape but it seemed she was just as unsure as you were, not putting up any kind of fight.

For some odd reason, the group that you were being held in stops on a bridge, just a little ways away from the man in the suit. You look around, trying to make out what coul be the hold up. Maybe they were having sudden change in heart, and they were going to let you two go? (Wishful thinking, you know.)

You watch as the man holding onto Christine slowly follows something he must’ve spotted in the water, and as you look down, you realize you can definitely see something too. But so what? It was probably just a fish or something, why does that warrant such a reaction?

It’s not until one of the kidnappers’ men was shot that you realized what was happening. Where was an alligator in the water, and it had spotted someone. And whoever it was in the water had killed the man who’d discovered him. The body dropped into the water and you averted your eyes to not see what happened afterward.

You and Christine were rushed back into the building that you were being held in before, and all you could hear was gunshots flying back and fourth. Was it Mr. Lowrey?

The kidnappers are in somewhat of a panic at the suprise attack, and they separate you and Christine. You try to struggle as much as you can, attempting to run a few times after escaping the grip of the man holding you, but all it got was a punch in the gut, literally.

All of a sudden, a man makes his way up the stairs that you were being held at, gun blazing, and you quickly realize who this man was.

Armando Aretas.

You knew that he was trying to help you right now, but all you could think about was your father. Your sister, and her hatred for the guy saving you. It caused you to not pay attention, and just barely miss the helicopter that smashed through the window behind you. You felt a weight push you out of the way and then land on top of you protectively. Your eyes were wide as they landed on Armando, who used his own body to shield you from the debris, and the eyes of your fathers killer stared at you back.

“Listen, I’m going to need you to trust me,” He said, grabbing you by your shoulders and stabilizing you, making sure you understood what he was saying. After a bit of hesitation, you nodded.

He grabs your hand and starts walking, but doesn’t get too far when you run into more of the kidnappers. Spotting someone coming in from his left side, he flings you behind him to take the slice of the knife that would’ve instead embedded itself into you if he hadn’t done that. You realized that despite not even knowing you, this man would be willing to damn near lay down his life to safe you, and regardless of you or your sisters feelings towards Armando, you’d decided in that moment, you would not let him die here.

You stood up from the initial shock, using a nearby banister as support. You see him struggling with a man with a knife, so you put aside your fear and muster up your remaining strength to fight. You rush behind the man, taking advantage of the fact that he’s distracted with Armando.

You wrap your arm around his neck with an iron grip, tighter than the one that was holding you in place before. He seems shocked and confused at the sudden attack from behind, but that played in your favor. You snatched the knife from his hand and stabbed it into his neck, instantly ending him. You silently thanked your sister for teaching you basic self defense and fighting skills after you begged her (it took a lot of begging).

Armando looks at you, bewildered but he doesn’t get to breathe for long since more men come rolling in through the open door in front of you. You quickly took action, and Armado stridded behind you.

You still held the bloodied knife in your hand and made quick use of it, stabbing into the leg of one of the men so Armando was able to get the upper hand on him. One of them managed to sneak up behind you, but you saw in your peripheral that he was near you. You grabbed his wrist and twisted around so that you were the one behind him, and quickly took his life. You made sure to grab the pistol that laid in the pool of blood underneath him.

Together, you and Armando made quick work of the men, and made it out with only a few serious injuries. You’d noticed Armando had a slight limp, so you wrapped his arm around your shoulders and helped him walk away from the room that was overpowered by the stench of blood.

“You didn’t have to help back there…” He grunted.

“Your welcome” You retorted.

You and him reached what seemed like a safe area in the forest nearby, and set him against a tree to rest. You took a seat next to him.

“...Thank you.” You said before turning slightly to look at him, only to realize he’d already been looking at you.

You two sat in a comfortable silence, both unsure what to say to each other, but also not wanting to say anything. The quietness mixed with the sounds of the wilderness was nice.

“...Where’d you learn to fight like that?” Armando asked suddenly. You were somewhat startled. He didn’t seem like the type of person to start small talk.

“My sister. Had to beg her to.” You chuckled and you caught him express a smirk of sorts.

Just then, you heard a sound from a radio, but it wasn’t coming from Armando’s. You looked to your left to see your sister, and your heart dropped. She fired, and you flinched hard, and so did Armando. You recalled your sisters promise, “I will make him pay”.

You regather yourself and quickly put yourself between your sister and Armando, “No, no don’t!” You say, unsure of how to get your sister to understand. She’d been so deadset on finding him, and you were sure she wasn’t just going to listen to reason now that he’s sitting, defenseless in front of her. You were sure you only had one option.

You wipped out the gun that you’d taken from the man before, “Stop.” You said. You made sure that it was lined up to hit her vest, just in case it really came down to you having to shoot her. You were sure as hell not letting her get to Armando, “Listen to me, you don’t understand…”

“Put the gun down and get away from him,” She says, keeping her gaze trained on Armando. You could tell she was waiting for an opening, whether you were in the way or not, “I need you to listen to me. I need you to walk slowly toward your right and walk towards me.”

“Not until you put the fucking gun down.” You pleaded, “Please.”

“I need you to move out of the way–”

“Put your gun down! He saved me, please!” You say, tears threatening to fall. You moved your finger toward the trigger slowly, ready to shoot should your sister try anything.

Mr. Lowrey comes in from behind her, “Judy, Judy!”

“Back up!” Your sister says, “Put your gun down!” Mr. Lowrey complies and sets his gun on the ground, not wanting to aggrivate her further.

“He saved my life!” You exclaim again, “Please…” You can’t stop the tears at this point. They’re freely flowing. You couldn’t live with yourself knowing the man who rescued you was dead because of something you could’ve prevented.

There is silence filled with nothing but the heavy breathing of your sister.

You watch as she slowly removes her finger from the trigger, so you remove your own as well. She then fully puts down her gun, therefore so do you. You quickly turn your back on her to check on Armando. “Are you okay?” You ask frantically, checking to make sure that your sisters first shot hadn’t hit him.

“I’m fine,” he says.

You breathe in and out, and nod your head. “Yeah… Yeah, okay.” With the comfort of knowing that he hadn’t been hit, you turn back to your sister who’d been watcing your interaction. You dash to her and give her a long awaited hug.

“Fuck, I love you but if you ever pull a gun on me again I swear–” You let out a relieved laugh and hug her tighter. Her radio goes off again though, ruining the bittersweet moment.

“Howard, where are you?” The person on the radio asks. She looks to you, as if asking, “What do I do?”

You shake your head, and she understand what you mean immediately.

“Go. Before I change my mind.” She says, directing it to Mr. Lowrey and his son.

You turn to them, giving Armando one last goodbye stare before he leaves with his father.

TAGLIST (if there’s a strike through your username it’s because I couldn’t tag you probably due to settings!)

@dasaniswrlddd @thedarkworldofhananerea

@taylormcguire282

[wholoveseggs]

I am begging you can you please make a Damon and Elijah fic? I didn't know this ship even existed but I'm so fuckin invested in it. You can make up the story line and everything, the only thing I ask is that Elijah is the dominant one and that Elena doesn't support their relationship but they simply don't care what she thinks anymore?

Thank you thank you thank you🫶🫶🫶

Respect

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Elijah puts Damon in his place, and demands he show him a little more than respect.

♡♡ Thanks for the request anon! I was giggling like crazy writing this (its my fav Elijah ship) Unfortunately I didn't include Elena, but we all know she would be jealous as fuck... (of who? well... that's up to you...) ♡♡

2.9k words - Warnings: smut, this is just a alternate version of the iconic pencil scene, Elijah in his middle part menace era, dom!elijah, sub!damon, blowjobs, face-fucking, Damon being an Elijah simp...

At first, Damon just saw Elijah as the enemy, simple, straightforward, an asshole that just had to go.

He was a threat and Damon was an expert on handling threats, especially when it came to the safety of those he cared about. He wasn't afraid to throw punches, not afraid to pull out the stops and go all out.

But then things changed.

Things changed and he realized that maybe he and Elijah had more in common than he thought, the man was cunning and calculating, he could be dangerous when he needed to be, and Damon would be lying if he said that it didn't scare the hell out of him.

Elijah was a mystery that he wanted to solve, he wanted to figure out just how deep his intelligence went, how far his knowledge spanned. He was curious about him, he wanted to learn every little detail and find out what made him tick.

Damon knew what he was to woman, he would wield his good looks like a weapon, his charm was another weapon, his wit was one too.

But now he truly understood what it was like to be on the receiving end of such charisma, it was addicting, and he was hooked.

Elijah's power and dominance was something that drew him in and held him there. He wanted nothing more than to submit to him, to surrender and let him do as he pleased. It was a foreign feeling, one he wasn't exactly comfortable with… but he couldn't resist him.

The way Elijah was able to command his attention and keep it was intoxicating, his presence alone demanded respect, but when he opened his mouth, the words that came out were pure elegance, and Damon found himself captivated by his smooth tone, his articulation was flawless.

He was a true gentleman.

He was everything Damon was not.

So what did Damon do? He took all these new and uncomfortable feelings and did what he always did. Antagonize.

He would try his best to push Elijah's buttons, hoping for a reaction, an emotion, anything to give him a clue on what was going through his mind. But to his dismay, the man would not budge, and it just left Damon wanting more.

He knew he needed to get his attention, and Damon still was determined to protect Elena at all costs, so he decided to take it further, the more dangerous the stunt, the better.

Damon sauntered into the Lockwood mansion, his signature smirk firmly in place. Today was a simple fact finding mission. All he wanted to do was suss out Elijah's weaknesses, find out if he could be manipulated, maybe find a way to control him.

That's all. He told himself, making his way deeper into the house, looking for the original.

It wasn't long until he spotted the older vampire, who was chatting away with Carol. He watched him, noticing how his body language screamed regal and refined.

Damon didn't want to admit it, but he was nervous, this was the first time they were officially meeting. The last time Elijah ripped out the hearts of two vampires right in front of him and the time before that Damon drove a coat hanger through Elijah's heart. Not the best first impression.

He could feel his heart beat quicken, and he knew he needed to calm down, otherwise the vampire would notice. So he took a deep breath and plastered his smirk back on, striding confidently toward the pair.

"Damon," Carol gave him a welcoming smile, happy to see him. "What a surprise," she greeted, reaching forward and shaking his hand.

"Carol," he returned, nodding at her.

"Elijah, I want you to meet Damon Salvatore. His family is one of Mystic Falls' founding families." Carol introduced.

"Mmm," Damon looked at Elijah, whose expression was impassive, his eyes scanning him briefly. "Such a pleasure to meet you."

"No. Pleasure's mine," Elijah replied, taking Damon's hand and squeezing tightly, just a tad bit too tight, causing the younger vampire to wince slightly.

"Excuse me," Carol interjected. "I should probably attend to my other guests," she smiled, giving them both a nod before leaving the pair alone.

Damon could feel Elijah's eyes almost burning holes into him, the older vampire seemed to be sizing him up, as if trying to decide whether or not he was worth his time.

"So," Damon drawled, his smirk still present, he motioned towards a private study off to the side, the door slightly ajar. "Shall we?" he suggested, his tone dripping with honey.

Elijah followed behind him, watching as he made his way inside. This young vampire was going to be quite the handful, but that was okay. He had dealt with others far worse.

Once they were both in the room, Elijah closed the door, grazing his fingertips along the leather sofa, not even bothering to look Damons way.

"What can I do for you, Damon?" he inquired, his voice low, but smooth and controlled.

"I was hoping we could have a word," Damon replied, his tone slightly less confident than before, the way Elijah spoke and held himself was unnerving.

"Where's Elena?" Elijah questioned, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

Damon didn't like the way Elijah asked after her, like he had some sort of claim over her, and he didn't like the way he said her name either.

"Safe with Stefan. They're laying low, you know, bit of a werewolf problem," Damon explained, his tone nonchalant.

"Oh, yeah, I heard about that," Elijah responded, finally looking at Damon, his expression stoic, almost unreadable.

"I'm sure you did since it was your witch that saved the day." Damon couldn't hide the bite in his tone, he didn't like the way Elijah seemed all knowing, as if he was privy to everything that went on in Mystic Falls.

Elijah finally looked at him, and it sent a shiver down his spine. His eyes were cold and calculating, and it made him uneasy and a little aroused.

"You are welcome," he replied with a smug grin, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Damon leaned against the nearby desk, trying his best to stay casual. "Which adds to my confusion on exactly why you're here?" he questioned, hoping his voice didn't betray the nerves he was currently feeling.

Elijah was bored by this conversation, the infamous Salvatore was not worth his time. "Why don't you just stay focused on keeping Elena safe and leave the rest to me." He replied, looking away from Damon and smiling softly, he then turned and headed for the door.

But Damon wasn't going to let him get away so easily, he was determined to get his attention, so he sped to the door, blocking Elijah's way.

"Not good enough," Damon stated, his voice firm.

The look on Elijah's face could of melted steel, it was cold, his eyes were hard and his jaw clenched tightly.

Before Damon could blink, Elijah's hand was around his throat, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into the wall, his grip was like a vice. Damon couldn't breathe, he struggled against the original, clawing at his hand, gasping for air.

He grabbed Elijah's throat, trying to choke him in return, but it was no use. He was strong, and the fact that the older vampire could effortlessly hold him there, only turned him on even more.

Elijah peeled Damon's hand off his throat, crushing the bones in his fingers, and causing the younger vampire to cry out in pain. Damon was shocked at how strong Elijah really was, how easily he was able to handle him.

"You young vampires, so arrogant." He growled, pushing Damon's hand away with ease. "How dare you come in here and challenge me?'' His voice was full of venom, his tone menacing.

"You can't kill me, man. It's not part of the deal." Damon managed to wheeze out, his words slightly slurred from the lack of oxygen.

Elijah was amused by his statement, his face contorting into a gentle smile, his eyes dancing with mirth. "Silence," he whispered, his tone dangerously low.

Damon's mouth snapped shut, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He was in a compromising position, and he wasn't sure if it was the adrenaline, or the fact that he was literally at the mercy of an Original, but his body was buzzing with anticipation.

Elijah could hear Damon's heartbeat racing, the blood pumping through his veins. He knew what the young vampire was feeling, the fear, the arousal.

Elijah grabbed a pencil and jammed it into Damon's neck. He needed to teach this vampire a lesson. He was a mere child compared to him, and it was time he learned his place.

Damon cried out in agony, the pencil lodged deep in his neck. He was utterly helpless, and Elijah could tell.

He dropped Damon, letting him pull the pencil out of his neck and stumble forwards, he clutched at his throat, groaning in pain.

Elijah smiled slightly, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the blood off his hands, "I'm an Original. Show a little respect," he ordered.

Damon could feel his pants getting tighter, the bulge in his jeans growing with every passing second. Elijah's dominance was a major turn on, and he couldn't stop the arousal coursing through his body.

Elijah handed him the handkerchief, their fingers brushing, causing Damon to shiver. He took the cloth, wiping away the excess blood.

Damon wanted to be angry, he should be furious, but instead he was excited. His blood was pumping, his adrenaline was high, and he couldn't hide the fact that Elijah made him feel things he never thought possible.

When their eyes met, Elijah knew that he was in for a fun time. He could see the desire swimming in those bright blue eyes. He smirked and stepped closer, invading his personal space, causing the younger vampire to swallow nervously.

"On your knees," Elijah commanded, his tone deep and seductive.

Damon felt a jolt of pleasure go straight to his dick, his mind was screaming for him to leave, but his body was already sinking down to the floor.

Once on his knees, he looked up at Elijah, his heart hammering in his chest, his breath coming out in shallow pants.

"You know what to do." Elijah encouraged, his eyes full of lust.

Damon hesitated, his hands trembling slightly as he reached up and began undoing the belt and button on Elijah's dress pants. He was a bit nervous, not because he had never been with a man before, he had, plenty of times, but this was an original, and he wasn't exactly sure how far he was willing to go.

"Do you require a written invitation?" Elijah questioned with a teasing grin.

Damon frowned and swallowed thickly, pulling the zipper down slowly, and carefully removing Elijah's cock from his pants. It was so hard, so thick, and Damon couldn't deny that he was intimidated by its size.

Elijah grunted slightly, looking down at Damon with hooded eyes, his gaze filled with dark lust. He didn't usually have his enemies submit in this way, only when he was in a charitable mood, but Damon was an exception.

Elijah ran his fingers through Damon's dark hair, tugging gently at the strands, causing the younger vampire to wince, it wasn't rough enough to hurt, but it was enough to pull a reaction.

Damon leaned in closer, his hot breath ghosting across the sensitive skin. Elijah smelled like pine and leather and a hint of cologne, he was pure man, and it made his head spin.

So Damon, using all his experience from previous encounters, ran his tongue over the tip, earning a small groan of approval.

Encouraged by Elijah's moan, he started to slide his mouth along his shaft. Giving him gentle licks and wet kisses, tasting the bitter flavor of the pre cum seeping out.

The pace was slow at first, Damon running his tongue down to the base and back up to the tip, swirling his tongue around the head of the shaft, eliciting more beautiful sounds from Elijah.

Elijah dug his fingernails into Damon's scalp, gripping his head, and guiding him down further, moaning softly as he hit the back of his throat.

Damon gagged a little, causing Elijah to chuckle. "Hmph, there we go," he grunted, looking down at Damon's face and meeting his heated gaze.

He then forced his cock deep into his mouth, holding his head in place and listening to him gag, spit dripping out and down his chin.

"Ah...good boy, that's better," Elijah cooed, easing his grip slightly and allowing Damon to adjust. "Just like that." He praised.

Damon closed his eyes and relaxed his throat, letting Elijah use him the way he wanted, the way he desired.

As soon as the noises stopped, Elijah removed his dick, giving Damon the opportunity to breathe. Damon gasped for air, coughing, his throat was raw, he hadn't let someone treat him in this way for decades, he was completely and totally dominated.

But it was so hot, so arousing, and he loved every minute of it. His own erection pressing painfully against the seam of his pants, he wanted more.

He swallowed heavily, looking up at Elijah who was stroking himself, enjoying the sight before him.

"Mmm, very good, such a pretty face, a perfect mouth for my cock," Elijah growled. "Now suck," he ordered.

Damon surged forward, his mouth wrapping around his shaft once more, but this time he pushed himself all the way to the base, swallowing around him, letting him feel the tight squeeze of his throat.

Elijah thrust his hips, and Damon could tell he was close to the edge, he wanted to taste his cum, wanted to feel the power and authority of him.

"Fuck, yes," Elijah muttered, holding Damon's head and slamming his hips into his mouth. "Just a little bit more," he groaned, his words broken by ragged moans.

Damon's jaw was aching, his entire body was shaking, and he could barely breathe, but the pressure building between his legs made the pain all worth it.

Elijah grunted, slamming his hips forward one final time, spilling his load down Damon's throat. The vampire eagerly swallowed down the warm thick fluid, breathing deeply, and trying to regain his composure.

When the spasms subsided, he pulled out, and Damon collapsed, his body trembling, his cock painfully hard, his breath coming out in sharp gasps.

Elijah smiled down at him, his cock glistening with the young vampires spit. He tucked himself away, straightening his suit and clearing his throat.

"Now, get cleaned up," he commanded, tossing his handkerchief at him.

Damon scrambled to wipe himself off, he didn't even have the decency to ask if Damon needed help getting off. The thought didn't even cross his mind.

Elijah fixed his hair in the mirror, making sure his appearance was perfect, that his part was just right. When he was satisfied with his look, he gave Damon one last glance and left the room without a word.

Damon sat there, stunned and aching. He had never experienced anything like that before, and it left him wanting more. He couldn't believe what had just happened, how easily Elijah had put him in his place, how willingly he had submitted.

He was a vampire, a strong, powerful vampire, and yet he was completely at the mercy of another. And that scared and thrilled him.

He shook his head and stood up, his legs shaking. He quickly composed himself, adjusting his clothes, wiping away the stray tear.

He wondered what Elena would think, or Stefan or even Alaric. Would they understand? He didn't even understand it himself.

He sighed and walked out of the study, heading towards the bar. He needed a drink. A stiff one.

Elijah was leaning against the bar, a glass of scotch in his hand, his expression unreadable. Damon could feel the tension between them, but he ignored it, instead focusing on pouring himself a glass.

"Enjoyed yourself?" Elijah inquired, his voice laced with amusement.

For once Damon was at a loss for words, his mouth opening and closing, no sound coming out. He didn't know how to respond.

"The moment you cease to be of use to me, you're dead, so you should do what I say. Keep Elena safe." Elijah continued, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

Damon somehow found his voice again and his snarky side made an appearance. "Well, thank you for being so gracious," he quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Elijah chuckled, shaking his head, he took a sip of his drink, savoring the taste.

"I like this town, there are so many interesting people," he commented, his eyes locking with Damon's, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Interesting?" Damon repeated, arching his brow.

"Indeed," Elijah replied, his gaze lingering on the younger vampire for a moment longer before he stood and set his glass on the counter.

He leaned in close, his breath hot against Damon's ear, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin, "it was nice meeting you Damon Salvatore, I'm sure our paths will cross again,"

Damon watched him walk away, his heart racing, his mouth dry. He wasn't sure what had just happened, but he knew one thing, he wanted more.

♡♡ Tag-List ♡♡

♡ @gorgeouslydangerous ♡ @starkleila ♡ @lydia1369sworld ♡ @notleylaaa ♡ @vampiresluv ♡ @myanmy ♡ @xflowerbombxo ♡ @maryvibess ♡ @always-and-forever-daydreaming ♡ @criminallminds ♡ @theesexystallion ♡ @rosemarypotion ♡ @spnaquakindgdom ♡ @amournoir ♡ @loving-and-dreaming ♡

♡ @meeom ♡ @damienmorton ♡ @wickedmuse ♡ @sunkissedebony97 ♡ @idk00sblog ♡ @savannaounana♡ @cs-please ♡ complicatedandconfusing-25 ♡ @hamiltimes ♡ @akala6670229 ♡ @yeaiamme2 ♡ @itsjulzandmydiamonds ♡ @spideysbabe ♡ @witch-of-letters ♡ @elijahmikaelsonsboy ♡ @rosecentury ♡ @sekaishell ♡ @ziayamikaelson ♡ @amanda08319 ♡

[no-psi-nan]

Now that I've been thinking about Kusuke more, I think I can better articulate what makes Kusuke different from Makoto.

My latest understanding is that while Makoto doesn't think he's doing anything wrong and wants to escalate his involvement with his sister, there's a lot of evidence that Kusuke is actually trying to END his weird fascination with his brother and shift to a normal sibling relationship.

To support this theory, I'm gonna roughly describe Kusuke's appearances / timeline and what I think his motivations were.

Obviously this all starts when Kusuo is born. Pretty normal sibling rivalry for a while, though it escalates as they both get older and stronger and their parents don't stop them.

Kusuke creates the limiters. One limiter was supposed to stop Saiki's powers while inserted, and the other one was to keep Kusuo hostage for their games. I believe Kusuke thought that by suppressing Kusuo's powers, he could establish the "proper" hierarchy of older brother beating younger brother. But it wouldn't be a complete win for him without beating Saiki at full power, so the second limiter ensures Saiki will still compete with him. Kusuke's trying to get better at games and fighting, so he's thinking that if he can beat Kusuo with the limiter in, then he just has to train until he can beat Kusuo with the limiter out.

Up till this point, there's no evidence that there was any sexual component going on. And conveniently, right as he would be hitting puberty, Kusuke high-tailed it to Cambridge. At this time he still thought that by working with other scientists, they could figure out how to completely remove Kusuo's powers.

After that, Kusuke doesn't make an appearance until Kusuo goes to him about the broken limiter. He's left cameras all over the Saiki house which is bizarre and wrong, but to be slightly fair to him, he grew up without any privacy due to Telepathy, so it kinda makes sense. And technically if something went wrong with Kusuo, Kusuke is the only person who could help, so it would make sense that he should keep an eye on things. Still fucked, but he's not exactly an ethical guy overall.

Once Kusuo needs his help, Kusuke tests to see if he can finally beat Kusuo conclusively. He hasn't done this since he left Japan, and it's actually entirely possible that this is the first time that he ever reacted like that to a loss. Still, despite apparently having the best time of his life, he's annoyed enough by the next morning to bully Nendo and Kaido for no reason. Perhaps he realized that his excitement was messed up??

After this, Kusuke doesn't show up again for a while, except to warn Kusuo and their parents that there was a defective part in the limiter. The fact that Kusuo accidentally screwed up the past and met the WWIII AU Dr. Kusuke isn't technically Kusuke's fault and was definitely not his intention.

Almost every single Kusuke appearance after this point is directly related to The Final Game, in which Kusuke will defeat Kusuo in a super epic battle and then cement his dominance forever (and destroy the rivalry / humiliation kink potential) by slam-dunking the power deleter into Kusuo's brain.

Kusuke's next appearance is scamming his grandpa. Not very nice, but I think he was actually testing how much his grandpa loves him before moving in with his grandparents and launching his "elderly robot gang" plan of attack on Kusuo. Notice that his grandmother, who Kusuke likes better and brings gifts for, doesn't get put in a robot suit later on, she gets eternal youth like she wanted (well, at least Kusuke's best shot at it). But Grandpa was definitely going to be used against Kusuo as a hostage and to Kusuke it's justified because his Grandpa doesn't love him.

The elderly robot gang plan is revealed and fails, so Kusuke has to think of some other way to defeat Kusuo in a super cool matter.

In the next new year's chapter, both Kusuke and Teruhashi show up at the Saiki household. It's not clear why Kusuke showed up (perhaps he just wanted to hang out with his family and mess with Kuniharu), but he does seem to test whether Teruhashi could be good hostage material - the grandpa plan failed and we know he later recruits Toritsuka. Luckily for Teruhashi, she's able to prove that she is NOT to be messed with, so that's another angle that's been shut down.

Next Kusuke sends the birthday bomb trials. This is explicitly to measure Kusuo's strength as Kusuke comes up with the perfect counter weapons. He's not trying to kill Kusuo after all, and later he actually gets nervous that the cat tank blast might be too powerful.

Then there's the KochiKame parody chapter, where Kusuke has a little fun getting Kuniharu his job back. No attempts to mess with Kusuo in this one and they interact super normally.

Then Warp the robot cat debuts. Since roboticizing humans didn't work for him, it seems Kusuke is going all-in on developing robots with as much functionality stuffed into them as possible. While Warp also serves as a gift for Kurumi, I think its also a step towards developing Kusuomega.

Ok there's also a chapter where Kusuke tries to get his grandma to divorce his grandpa. Just Kusuke being an asshole lol.

Kusuomega appears!! Since Kusuke's original plan was to throw a bunch of robot old people at Kusuo, it makes sense to test whether throwing a bunch of normal robots at Kusuo would work. Yeah, making Kusuomega lick his shoes is fucking bizarre and making him "fully featured" is also messed up. But Kusuke does also have to prove that he's willing and able to make Kusuomega do freaky shit at Kusuo's school to "properly motivate" Kusuo to fight back at full power. Kusuke puts a lot of effort into ensuring Kusuo doesn't half-ass their games and fights, going all the way back to the installation of the limiters.

Kusuomega was easily defeated, but instead of making more robots, Kusuke realizes he can use Toritsuka as both a weapon and a hostage. He immediately gets to work on that.

Then the cat tank arc, The Final Game. Kusuke was going to win Once And For All.

Except he didn't. Still, he gives Kusuo the option of whether to use the power deleter or not, without the leverage of publicizing his powers. Kusuke has accepted that he can't beat Kusuo, and that he's never going to get another chance to beat him full strength, because he knows Kusuo is going to use that power deleter. This is the ultimate sacrifice for Kusuke, since Kusuo's powers are his one interest and passion in life.

From then on, Kusuke is completely cooperative, helping Kusuo with the volcano problem and giving him genuine advice in trying to prevent his powers from returning. Naturally he gets a little excited at the prospect that Kusuo's powers might be back, but he does respect Kusuo's attempts to deny them back out of existence, setting up Kuniharu to fight the meteor instead of insisting Kusuo do it, even if this might mean they all die.

So in summary, it seems like:

Normal sibling rivalry -> limiters to try to end sibling rivalry -> escape to England -> Kusuo shows up so Kusuke tries to beat him for the first time in years and gets off on the loss -> Kusuke works towards a final conclusive game where he can win and then delete Kusuo's powers

While Kusuke justifies it as older siblings should always be superior to younger siblings, he clearly senses there's something wrong about their dynamic and he works hard to "fix" it in the only way he knows how: with an overwhelming win. And when even his biggest efforts fail, he accepts that he'll never win this way and lets go of their rivalry, shifting into a more normal sibling relationship. And Kusuo recognizes that and even seeks his help with the volcano for the first time.

So while their situation is definitely fucked for most of the series and Kusuke definitely did pretty much everything wrong... Things aren't QUITE as bad as they seem and it looks like the "bro-con" issue is gone by the end of canon.

Which sets Kusuke pretty far from Makoto, imo, who never recognizes for a second that his attraction is problematic and that even if that wasn't his sister, he should never treat another person that way.

Anyways, I figured it might be helpful to explain my thinking on Kusuke in more detail like this, so hopefully this was interesting and makes sense!

[angelshizuka]

One of the many reasons I love the ending scene in The Full Moon so much is because of how well articulated Stolas is at first, because he probably spent weeks scripting that interaction. But once things didn't go as planned, his thoughts and feelings come out through messy wording.

And boy... that's a mood.

I LOVE mentally scripting things and trying to figure out the right words in a way that make sense and get my thoughts and feelings across the best way I can. But if you'd ask me to do that on the spot, with no way to sort it out first? I'd be a babbling mess that no makes no sense, too.