#jazz: are you saying that because it's true or because that's what you want to be true?

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[thesacrificialdove]

𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 1.6k words rich yandere x gn!reader — ko-fi | patreon | masterlist | inbox | taglist | home | req. & comms

tags sugar daddy, rich yandere, low-key obsessive behaviour, first meetings, college student reader, age gap, brief mention of a rapist (no description or anything more)

—📜" Being a broke college student, you decide to try your hand at getting a sugar daddy. You find someone who is... quite eager to know everything about you. It's weird because he doesn't seem to be the same person he was online.

They say to spend your youth on nightclubs and partying with friends. But really, they don’t know the true beauty of being in a jazz club and drinking all by yourself. There’s no ill intentions, there’s no partying until the sun goes down—just some nice music and good drinks.

People find it odd, sure. But nothing can beat this feeling for you. As you lay in a couch that’s worth double your college tuition, you drink champagne that's triple your college tuition. 

How you ended up here is another embarrassing story. Hunting for a sugar daddy online is a clear plan for destruction. It could end well with a decent allowance every now and then, of course. Yet, fear gets the most of you. The thought that you end up with a fat well and alive man who asks for sex with his small dick looms over you like a gloomy cloud. That fear is there because your sugar daddy is anonymous.

Sighing, you drink another sip of the champagne as you fix your posture. Again. The seat in front of you is still empty. You’d think he wasn’t really being honest with you but he did have a reservation ready for the both of you.

It’s not bad to wait. Even if you do look dumb getting stood up, at least you’re enjoying yourself.

“You lonely there?” someone asks behind you.

Turning your head behind you, you see a towering man with a smile so bright you think you could be blinded by it. He looks elegant—the way he’s holding a glass like a connoisseur and his long black hair pulled into a slick ponytail. Fuck, is he your sugar daddy? He looks the age for it and honestly, he aged really good.

You tell him, “Maybe. Are you lonely?”

He chuckles and takes the seat opposite. Finally. “No,” he says, “not anymore, at least. All thanks to…?” he gestures to you.

When you tell him his name, he parrots it like he’s tasting it. “Beautiful. Your mother picked it out?”

“I’m sure so,” you don’t know, who the hell would know that? “It’s a generational name, really. In our family we keep reusing names.”

“So are you the second? The third?”

The third was your great grandfather but he ended up being a rapist. Eugh. “The fourth,” you answer. “But I never tell anyone that, actually. Bit embarrassing if they call me the fourth, so.”

He laughs, somehow finding you amusing. “Nicolas,” he says, “very nice to meet you.”

Was… his name Nicolas? You’re not so sure about that. From the site he only revealed his last name so that you could get the reservation. Huh.

“Nice to meet you, Nicolas.” The little twitch in his lips is unavoidable to your eyes, “You look very nice tonight,” maybe that’s why he took almost an hour to arrive here. “Do you live near here or?”

“Oh, no,” he shakes his head, “I come from Bolzano. But I came here from Portofino, where my heart currently is.”

You nod like you know where those places really are. Italy, you assume. “Very nice. I heard it’s a beautiful place.”

“Beatiful even more with company,” he puts his drink down. “How about you? What makes you come here?”

You, actually. You wanted to go here. “I was raised by my grandfather and jazz was his favourite. Every corner of the house Hank Mobley would be playing. I have his old records that he passed down to me and whenever I play it, I can see the way he dances.”

“So, come down here for a little trip to memory lane?”

Before you could answer, you think about it even more. The man you were talking was definitely not Italian, right? No, his name sounded British, at most. And Nicolas sounds like he has little to no knowledge about the fact that you two are supposedly on a date.

Fuck, did you get him wrong? I mean, he is interested, you think.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” you hum. You put your glass down too, clasping your hands. “I think I do need to go now. It was nice to have your company—”

“Going so soon? A bit rude especially if you came here to be mine for a price, no?”

You pause. Though you’re ready to leave this embarrassing meeting, you’re caught. You turn to him in confusion. So you were… wrong? Right? 

“Sit back down, this champagne is a bit too new to me.” He raises a hand and someone immediately finds their footing beside him. Nicolas speaks in his own tongue, requesting something you don’t understand.

You’re promptly back on your seat with a small wave of his hand. “Come on, I think we have a lot to learn about each other. But I know you.”

Did he send in a private investigator or what? Fuck, man. You didn’t think that those things were real in real life. “How much do you know?”

He doesn’t answer. His legs are crossed as he watches the busboy leave to prepare your drinks. “How are your classes?” he asks, making idle conversation of things you’re a bit worried to talk to him about. “Hope you’re dealing well.”

“Yeah,” you say, unsure of this now. “It’s all fine, yes. Just a few projects and classes.” You wonder for a moment how rude it would be to ask for a price on your body right now. “Nothing interesting, really.”

“I’m sure anything you say is of interest,” he says, all too fond of you. “Tell me, love, you mentioned having difficulties with some of your professors.”

He wasn’t interested in all that before when you were talking. “It’s fine. Well, not like I can say no. It’s a bit hard when you’re paying for an education and you’re not being taught,” you laugh, “Self-taught learning, he excuses.”

“That’s simply lazy,” he excuses. “Fine arts is such a nice career path. No reason to be dismissive of students who want to learn it.”

Did you tell him what you’re studying?

The busboy returns and brings a drink to the both of you. The song changes and it sounds familiar. You could almost see your grandfather dance behind Nicolas.

“I’m going to guess that’s your doing,” you say, “Thank you. It sounds lovely.”

He smiles, “I’m not one for jazz myself.” He reaches for his glass and swirls in, taking a whiff of its scent afterward. “But I’m curious as to who you are. How you grew up is one of those things”

When the both of you talked online, you expected him to be more lustful than this. Maybe it’s the repeating innuendo in his messages. All of that persona is gone now as if it never existed. It’s concerning.

Both of you make small conversation. Mostly it’s about you. He asks every little detail about you, asking for things that not even your friends would care about. It’s the little things.

‘Do you like soft cotton or silk?’ You don’t really know the difference but cotton is nice.

‘How often do you see your family?’ Every or so month, you’d wager. But you make sure to keep in contact.

‘What’s your thoughts on caged animals?’ A bit cruel, but you can see where it can stem from. Still, it’s cruel. You’d never do it.

The night come to a close when you start to feel a bit light-headed with the drinks you’ve ingested. Nicolas puts aside your glass as he stands to go on your side of the table. “Maybe it’s time to take a break tonight, love?”

You groan. “Yeah, I guess that’s fine now. I’m really thankful for tonight.”

“I’m glad,” he says, pulling you up and helping you walk. You don’t need it but it’s nice anyways. “I can take you back to your dorm, yes? You don’t need to worry about anything else when you’re with me.”

In your pocket, your phone buzzes. You don’t get to check it when Nicolas wraps both of his arms around your waist. He pulls you to the exit and you swear you hear ‘Signore Giordano’ come out when the men bid him goodnight.

Which is weird, because his surname is Abbot.

The ride was a blur, literally. Maybe you’ve had too much to drink. The next thing you know is that both of you are in front of your dorm. It’s too dark outside. The streets are dead silent. The low rumble of his car is the only thing you can really hear.

He calls your name. “It’s time to go home. You can’t stay with me yet, love.”

You stretch in the seat. A car seat has never been more comfortable. “Been nice, really. Thank you.”

As you unbuckle your seat, he leans forward. His arm drapes over your shoulders as his hand comes to your face. “Then can I get a little reward? Just a little?” He turns his cheek, a grin on his face.

It’s stupid but oh well, he would pay you. You press a kiss on his cheek and he looks like the happiest man alive. He laughs, looking at you with stupid heart eyes. “Thank you. Call me with this number—” he places a card in your hands—”and delete that damn app. I’ll come find you after your classes tomorrow for your contract. You don’t need to find anyone else now.”

He leaves shortly after you get inside your dorm. You hear the revving of his car go in the quiet night. It’s relieving. You’re tired on your feet, unable to really process what happened tonight.

It’s whatever. It’s all done now.

You delete the app on your phone, swiping away a message you got from it. You’re pretty sure it’s from another match you had last time but again, you don’t need it anymore.

do not redistrubute this work as yours/without permission or feed to AI 📷 art by @ L0tus_Ren_ & @ Ivan Belikov

[kroosluvr]

temptation

i lowkey have too many notes to write down properly KDFHKDS but ill write them down for Future Cele so i can read it later and be like omggg past cele ur so fun and interesting

in general, the more "color" the scenes have, the closer it is to "real life" as opposed to the muted/hushed winter blues of maruki's reality

i.e. the dark frames w akira smiling and the very last panel are when reality sinks in: first for akira, then for goro

by the way this is long winter au but sumire is still brainwashed. this also works for canonverse but i just had long winter au in mind:o

youve heard of laundry and taxes now get ready for coffee and pastries

in every panel, akira is smiling! :) and goro is very much not smiling.

intentionally his face is hidden in the last 2 pages so its unclear whether it's the "ideal reality" already (akira/goro's daydreams/wants/desires), or if goro is still fighting akira on making sure he picks the right choice

the smoke from the first page kinda leads into the 3rd page omfg COMPLETELY UNINTENTIONAL BUT REALLY COOL LMAOOO

that's nameless and belladonna in jazz jin!!! i love them. I LOVETHEM. i miss them so bad is it obvious

the cafe is loosely based off of caffe strada @ uc berkeley LMAO. my parents used to take me there a lot as a little kid so that's the first cafe i think of when i imagine one. its like right on the streetside, basically on the sidewalk, so its very bustling and people are always walking by... probably a little disconcerting to see everyones summery bright smiles despite the bitter cold and snow

in long winter AU, the Ideal Reality starts before 1/1 so yeah they get to see the new years fireworks together (or something)

also intentional that they wear the same winter outfits in the whole comic although it Probably does not take place at the same time. in maruki's snowglobe, time seems frozen in place... but akira and goro are both acutely aware that the sands are running thru QUICK

goro's frustrated expression on page 3 is one also of disdain: "don't speak FOR me you fucking imbecile" type of expression.

goro, who's never lived a normal life and therefore doesn't know much abt "normalcy" nor really actively seeks it. this 3rd semester is basically purgatory for him and he doesn't care to try and go through the motions the way akira does. akira what do YOU know about the type of "normalcy" i deserve? how do YOU know if i "deserve" that?

im thinking that this is a naive akira who is mostly set on taking the deal because he feels hopeless... seeing all his friends with good happy lives while goro and himself are alive and miserable and shouldering the weight of the world during the horror of long winter......

oh but if he takes the deal they could all be good and alive and happy!!!.... and goro knows this. i feel like in any other universe (i.e. akira is 100% certain on not taking the deal and goro knows this) then goro would be happy and carefree to do these little indulgences for himself and akira's sake, to just enjoy the snowglobe world while it exists.

but this goro is discontent. he sees how akira is enjoying the snowglobe and knows maruki is depending on this. goro has to be the one to remind akira that none of this is his to keep........ in this fucked up world, routine is dangerous. becoming comfortable is dangerous. they cannot keep any of this.

on that note, goro says "i hate you" in a halfhearted sort of way (it's not true and akira knows that.) but he's trying to think of a way that he can dissuade akira from picking the wrong choice.....

and i think the thing is, goro thinks all of this, but he still falls into the rhythm of routine with akira anyway. in a way, goro feels hopeless too.

all of this is maruki's doing........ paralyzed by the inability to choose... whatever you do, you lose. goro needs to hold akira at arm's length so the stupid sentimental fool doesn't get too attached and falls into the wrong universe. akira needs to make a concentrated effort to detach himself from goro even though he wants the simplest thing in the world: just one more unremarkable day with him. it's lose-lose..........,

also i liked drawing the tentacles in the last pic the freaking blue lines on them were SO satisfying to draw

edit: also the last page: the blood flooding the panel….. the idea of the ideal world being built off of the blood and sweat and tears and bodies of the people who could have been. of those lost in the actualization, of those destroyed, of those stitched together and brought back to life. all just for a little false happiness. goro sees it but akira doesn’t, and it’s a grim sight.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

What about the Doors/Pressure shopkeepers trying to pretend they aren't giving their crush special treatment when in groups. Like, special inventory, discreet discounts, all that jazz

Jeff (Doors)

"Oye, I see what you're doin', Jeff. Thought you weren't one for giving out freebies."

*shrug*

"Don't play dumb! I saw you sneak the skeleton key into their bag! Even Bob's a witness!"

No matter what El Goblino says, Jeff will just wave off any accusations of him giving you "special treatment" whenever you stopped by the shop with your group.

While none of them donated to the tip jar, you were the only one who ever did...and even when you came back again and again, it was always you who showed him charity.

The rest of your group would just argue over what to spend their money on, try to rush ahead, mess with his radio, etc. etc.

But you trust Jeff, and he trusts you <3

So you get small discounts on his wares, and despite him not being able to speak, you could tell he's only looking after you.

The goblin jokes about Jeff's little "crush" on you...then he sees the entity's eyes widen and realizes "wait amigo,,I wasn't being serious do you actually like them?????"

He just shoos him away and will deny it to kingdom come, but it is true.

The moment you realized his feelings for you was when Rush attacked the shop once, and you thought you were done for-

When Jeff instinctively pulled you behind the counter and slammed the shutter down, keeping you uncomfortably close (yet somehow you've never felt safer).

When it's all over, he blushes and lets you go free.

You thank him with a small kiss on the forehead(?) and promise to see him again soon.

The next time you get duped by Dupe, or attacked by Eyes, Timothy, Screech, or a snare and need to heal...you discover a few bandaids in your pocket that weren't there previously...

Huh.

Wonder who gave you those?

Sebastian (Pressure)

Normally, Sebastian doesn't care to make personal connections with any of the expendables.

He's just there as their supplier before seeing them off on their journey, hoping they're putting his resources to good use.

But recently he's been seeing you more often, coming by with a new group or by yourself, trying your best to survive long enough to reach him.

Ofc, you've died to stupid things before (or maybe you're just trying to get all the monster documents..in which he's convinced you're some masochist), but you did have the most common sense out of your group and didn't try to annoy him.

The others just waste flash beacon charges on trying to blind the poor guy and stick the keycard in a medkit they couldn't afford...and for what?

Why do your "friends" do that? Are they stupid or something?

You tell them to stop, and it's...actually kinda nice to hear somebody willing to defend him.

People usually don't give a shit about the giant scary fish's feelings, yet for some reason you do.

Of course, Sebastian was reasonably suspicious about it.

"Are you acting this way just to get a freebie?" He assumes. "Because if you are, then you're definitely as stupid as-"

"No, I'd never do that to you." You shake your head. "You're here, helping us survive out there, risking a lot to get us those supplies...is it wrong for me to appreciate that?"

"......"

He goes quiet for a minute, but after the rest of your group leaves, he asks you to stay for a moment.

"You were looking at this Necrobloxicon for a while...you must reeeeally want it, huh?" He grins, flicking his tail where the book was strapped. "It's a rarity."

"I...can't afford that. I'm fine with this dingy flashlight-"

"It's yours for 70% off. Take it or leave it."

You do a double take. "Wait, wha-"

"70% off. Take it. Or leave it." He says through gritted teeth, impatient, only to smile when you accept the deal without further question. "Good. Now don't go telling anyone I'm offering discounts. That's your only one unless I feel generous. Capiche?"

"Gotcha. Thank you, Seb. This means a lot. I hope to see you again soon." You smile back, holding the spooky book tightly, and leave him alone with his thoughts.

And a warm and fuzzy feeling in his chest-

Wait.

"Oh no....what the fuck am I doing????? That's it! NO more discounts for anyone, Sebastian!" He scolds himself.

Little does he know, he's gonna keep giving them out, but only for you.

[sanguinesmi1e]

A Round Door Like a Porthole, Lazarus Green Pt. 1 Pt. 2 (you're here) Pt. 3 Pt. 4

Art of LBM

Danny was still lying under the Specter Speeder, mind reeling as the words “they opened this portal with a child sacrifice, and bound his death and all the lost life potential to their bloody machine to create a perpetual gateway to the Infinite Realms” ran in a loop through his head. Could that really be true? Is his death attached to the portal, forever lodged in the doorway, preventing it from closing?

The guy clearly knew what he was talking about. The bit about why his ghost friends and frenemies caused so much chaos as they unleashed their obsessions on Amity Park made so much sense. It would certainly explain a lot of his interactions with ghosts after he died. 

 Danny silently cursed himself for not destroying everything in the lab before they got here. He and Jazz hadn't worried about the portal schematics, because they honestly didn't have any way to open a portal, only cycle energy in a recursive loop that shouldn’t have done anything. No one, not he and Jazz, not their parents, not Tucker or Technus, had been able to figure out why it had worked when Danny was inside. But if the machine was able to sustain a portal that was already opened. . . He wondered idly if he could light a fire that looked accidental and would both destroy the lab and leave the two men enough time to escape. It’d probably be too risky. And who knew what destroying the portal would do to him. Fully kill him? Destroy him completely and shatter his core? It might be worth it to prevent anyone from gaining this knowledge. 

No wonder Lex Luthor was interested in this business. A child was murdered in this basement, and for all Tim knew, the child’s soul could still be trapped here fueling a Lazarus Pit that connected the world of the living to the afterlife. What Luthor could do with an interdimensional portal or even a single sample of Lazarus water. . . Tim shuddered to think.

On the one hand, he was grateful that Wayne Enterprises secured the business before Luthor had the chance. On the other hand, he felt rather ill to think his family had directly enriched mad scientists who performed child sacrifices. At least he had full faith that between him and Oracle, they’d hunt the Fentons down and make sure justice was served.

“What is to be done for the child?” Tim asked Constantine. “Is his soul tied to that machine?”

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure it’s just his death.” 

“You’re gonna have to explain the difference to me, ‘cause I’m not sure I see the distinction.” Tim said wryly. 

“I guess. . . Hm. You could think of it as the moment of transition drawn out endlessly like a plucked string whose note never stops vibrating. Like life is the anchor point of one end of the string, and the afterlife is at the other end, and the child’s death is the note created when his soul crosses from one side to the other. The soul is the bow causing reverberations, but the reverberations are the actual death itself. The effect of the soul’s passage. And in this case, the portal is amplifying the death so it doesn’t end like a normal death ‘note’ would.” Constantine leaned in to examine some of the runes that were part of the array. “Not a perfect metaphor, obviously, since you bow perpendicular rather than parallel to the string, and death and souls are nothing like music, but you get the idea, right?”

Tim was still caught on John Constantine saying the words “death note” together unironically in a sentence. He was going to have to share that with Steph later. Maybe with the whole family group chat, even. “Yeah, the metaphor makes sense, as much as any of this occult stuff does to me.”

“Whatever. As for whether there’s anything we can do for the child, I think we’ll have to try and summon him if we can.” The Brit started pulling items out of his trenchcoat’s inner pockets. “We need to ask what the spirit wants done, before we go messing with things we don’t understand.”

“Alright, need anything from me?”

“Yeah, move this stuff out of the way so I can draw a circle.” Constantine directed Tim to shove aside a few stacks of boxes, something called a Fenton Ghost Weasel, and together they shifted a coffin-shaped iron maiden that for some reason was labeled Fenton Stockades. Then he set to work chalking a circle and runes on the ground.

Finally he sat back and dusted chalk off his hands. “That should do it.”

“Will this be bright too?” Tim asked warily.

“Eh, might be? Shouldn’t be too bad.”

Tim grabbed an auto-darkening welding helmet with a green “Fenton” sticker on it off the workbench and slipped it on.

“Alright, here goes.” Constantine began the summoning ritual.

While Danny debated arson, the other two had finished clearing a space and chalked some kind of circle onto the floor. He tuned back into the conversation when he heard the trenchcoat guy begin a traditional incantation for a summoning. Were they trying to summon him? Danny really hoped it wouldn’t work. 

When people tried to summon the Ghost King he could almost always ignore the pull. This pull, however, was very strong and immediate. It seemed proximity made a difference, or this guy was just better at summonings than the average cultist. Before Danny could accept the inevitable, he was pulled bodily — literally! — out from under the vehicle and across the floor, still flat on his back on the Fenton Under Car Creeper, with the Specter Speeder’s ecto-engine hugged tightly to his chest. The wheels of the Fenton Creeper (not to be mistaken with the Fenton Anti-Creep Stick) sped him straight to the summoning circle. Still very much in human form. 

This was his first real look at the guy called Constantine, and he couldn’t help a horrified yelp. “Eugh!! What the fuck is wrong with you, dude!?!!” 

His lapse in attention made him lose the battle with the summoning spell, and it gripped him, pulling him through the convolutions of the spellwork even though he was already lying half across the circle, and forcing him to change into Phantom in the process. It was such a disgusting sensation, like he was one of those squishy water filled tube snake toys that look like a fleshlight, and someone squeezed really hard and abruptly so he turned inside out and went flying to go splat against a wall (or in this case, against the ground inside the circle of chalk). He tried and failed not to retch.

The younger man in the crisp suit whom he’d already identified as Mr. CEO-Timothy-Drake-Wayne looked at him in startled bafflement, while the older blond, still smoking his cigarette, (gross, and was that thing never ending?) was probably looking at him. Maybe. It was really difficult to tell, because he was a frankly vile sight. Danny winced and swallowed down nausea. “What have you done to your soul?”

“I — what?”

“Trypophobia central, man! Ugh that’s gotta be the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. Can’t you cover it up?”

“Who are you?” Timothy Drake-Wayne interjected.

“I’m the dead guy? You literally just summoned me.”

“Constantine said you were a child”

“I mean, I was?” Danny looked down at his obviously twenty-something year-old self and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a while since I was fourteen though. These things happen.”

“Not typically, no. The dead tend to be pretty unaging.” Constantine said. 

“Dude I’m not having a conversation with you while your soul looks like Escher’s swiss cheese nightmare. Anyways, some of us do. Heck, I know a guy who constantly shifts from infant to old man and every stage in between. It’s pretty distracting when you’re trying to get him to let you fix the timeline again.” Danny continued to look anywhere but at the blond man. “But if it’s so important to you, I can —” He got an abstracted look, and slowly de-aged himself until the two men stood over a fourteen year old boy with snow white hair and glowing green eyes.

“That does not help. No.” The guy whose soul looked somewhat like a bleeding tooth fungus said. He turned away and started doing something magical. Danny hoped it would mask his soul in some way, but so far all it did was make Danny feel like he needed to pop his ears.

He also felt particularly uncharitable, so he didn’t revert to his natural age, and instead tried to see how young and cute he could make himself appear.

“So are you just haunting this basement? Seems hazardous, given the former proprietors.” Timothy tried to redirect the conversation. He didn’t seem nearly as distressed to see the ghost of a child, but his eyes darted surreptitiously to the Lichtenberg figure Danny used to always hide under gloves.

“Nah, haven’t been back here in years. I mostly live in my Infinite Realms haunt these days.”

“You . . . live? Is that just a figure of speech?”

“It’s rude to ask about a ghost’s nonliving status, you know. Highly taboo to ask how a ghost died or poke into the circumstances of our deaths without permission.” Danny admonished. Making himself younger than fourteen took more effort than he expected.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Timothy raised his hands placatingly to the boy who now looked younger than Damian. “What brings you back to Amity Park?”

“Uh, you summoned me? Are we still not clear on that?”

Tim looked pointedly at the Fenton Creeper and the engine Danny still held. He’d shrunk down to the size of a four year old, and the engine really should be crushing him given it was bigger than his torso now. He quickly set it aside, and turned his biggest puppy dog eyes on Tim.

“You were in here already, and you looked pretty alive for a moment there.”

“I can look lots of ways!” Danny focused really hard on looking as cute, small, and nonthreatening as possible. He thought it was working when all of a sudden there was a pop! and he was smaller than he’d ever managed before. 

Timothy Drake-Wayne looked like a giant. The other guy, who had thankfully managed to put away his soul somehow, wore scuffed oxfords bigger than Danny. Hell, he could probably fit his entire self into one of Constantine’s shoes if that wasn’t a bizarre thing to do, and they weren’t already full of stinky feet. Holy shit what happened to him!?

Tim blinked down at the cat? Snake? Ghost. . . thing at his feet. What the fuck. A moment ago he was talking to an adult man whom he’s pretty sure was dead and he’s very sure was trolling them. Now his interlocutor had turned into an adorable creature with soft white paws, a long twisting tail, big pointed ears that swiveled like a cats, and a humanoid face that should’ve been creepy but was actually eliciting cute-aggression in him. Tim blinked again. The little baby ghost creature blinked enormous green eyes back at him. Then it yawned, revealing three rows of needle sharp teeth that looked like a cross between what you’d find in the mouth of a shark and a cat. Yikes.

“Does that mean the interview is over?” Tim asked him.

The creature just blinked up at him again, then zeroed in on his shoelaces, pupils expanding until only a narrow band of green ringed them.

Yup. The interview was over. Those paws hid some wicked claws which could apparently slice through leather with ease. Oh, Tim really hoped ghost scratch fever wasn’t a thing. At least the ghost looked sufficiently contrite after he yelped, and it waited while he removed a shoelace to sacrifice as a toy.

If Damian ever met him, there would be a new member of the family. Maybe he should name the creature preemptively so they didn’t have a cat-snake named Bat-Ghost in Wayne manor. 

“Do you have a name, little baby cat-snake ghost? Little baby ghost man?” He cooed as the miniature monster dashed back and forth, intent on shredding his shoelace.

The ghost paused long enough to chirp, “Li’l baby man!” before launching himself at the string. Even shocked, Tim’s reflexes had him whisking the toy out of the way, and the ghost went careening under a cabinet.

He wedged himself in the gap, landing face first in a dust bunny, and quickly wriggled backwards with an indignant squall. His wordless protestations cut off as he fell into a violent sneezing fit that thankfully dislodged him from beneath the cabinet.

Tim suppressed his laugh, and asked, “Little Baby Man? Is that what you want to be called?”

The ghost pawed most of the dust away from his nose, but spider webs covered his face and a big dust bunny perched atop his head like a fascinator with a cobweb lace veil. He looked Tim right in the eyes and nodded, dislodging the dust in his hair and setting off more sneezes.

“Li’l Baby Man” he confirmed. He placed a paw on Tim’s shoe and chirped, “Tim!” Then he pointed his tail at Constantine and said, “Gross!” with narrowed eyes.

[callmerainman]

Alastor in a relationship with a pure hearted s/o

a/n. the relationship can be interpreted as queerplatonic or even romantic if you wish, but not sexual in any nature. hope Alastor is not ooc!

tw! canon typical violence

"cuddled up with a heart condemned, I should love you and I swear I do"

it's true that Alastor is touch averse, but this doesn't apply if it's you we're talking about.

also, we saw that Alastor dislikes physical touch only when it's someone else getting handsy with him. he can be pretty touchy if he wants to and likes to be close to you.

sneaking an arm around your waist, putting his hands on your shoulders, pecking your forehead. also, arms intertwined while walking around the city.

hand holding is more occasional, but not excluded at all.

he likes the sound of your laugh, and has a soft spot for your smile. he thinks that it suits you so well like a perfect-chosen accessory.

veeery protective. he knows you can be naïve and that Hell loves to take advantage of more innocent inhabitants.

he prefers to go with you when you have to leave the Hotel and strikes deathly smiles to anyone who dares to look at you with any kind of intention.

you're the only person who can see him drop his smile sometimes. he doesn't have to use it as a tool when you're around so there's no reason for him to always keep it. he doesn't feel vulnerable around your presence.

sometimes he comes back to the Hotel covered in blood. you don't approve his ways, and he knows, but he's just like this.

you shrug your shoulders, sigh, and then take some towels to clean him up.

"you'll end up ruining your coat and your pretty face like this"

loooves to dance with you. swing dancing specifically. maybe to the rhythm of an upbeat jazz tune in your room.

you were completely wack at dancing the Charleston, but he taught you well since he's an absolute beast at it.

you occasionally slow dance, it's a really intimate moment for you and Alastor and makes you both feel closer to each other. your favourite spot to slow dance is the forest in his room, especially at night under a clear and starry sky.

you like to drink together, he's a classy type of drunk and you make the best conversations while sharing a glass together.

sometimes, he'll start ruminating about the possibility of you redeeming yourself and leaving the Hotel.

he doesn't like ruminating, it makes him feel weird because he doesn't believe in redemption in the first place. so case closed...right?

he says to himself that even if you were to be, he would find a way to let you stay.

but he immediately tells himself that he doesn't want to force you. but he also starts to get concerned because it's not like him to contain himself and his cold heart. more ruminating, more concerned Alastor.

he's aware that he cares about you, and that you're special to him and that he feels a deep rooted love. but he never thought it would affect his evilness and now he's confused.

you like to cook for him, since you're aware that he's a huge foodie. and he loves to do the same for you! he likes to share his mom's recipes.

loves to call you "my darling"

you like to hang out at his radio tower, just listening to him intently while he hosts a program.

sometimes even asks you to join in to talk about jazz!

very occasionally sleeping together, just holding your hands with fingers intertwined.

honestly Alastor doesn't even know what love is, but he just knows that he feels it for you.

[ckret2]

Chapter 59 of human Bill Cipher possibly not being the Mystery Shack's prisoner because he got executed two chapters ago:

Everything you haven't wondered about how Bill survived his execution.

7:27 a.m.

Mabel didn't know why, but figuring out when to ask Mrs. Grendinator to pull over had felt as stressful as trying to throw a ping pong ball into a passing car's open fuel door to land in the little fuel pipe. All she had to do was ask to pull over after they'd passed everything but the last truck stop, but before it was too late for Mrs. Grendinator to make the turn into the Triple Digit parking lot. That was a large window. It wasn't easy to miss. Somehow Mabel still dreaded that she'd speak up too late and Mrs. Grendinator would say she'd have to wait for the next rest stop—by which point Bill would have splatted like a bug against the weirdness barrier while everyone else passed safely through.

But she'd managed to blurt out "I forgot to use the bathroom at home. Can we pull over?"; they'd stopped at the Triple Digit Truck Stop; and Mabel made it inside before her friends could catch her.

She locked the unisex restroom door, set her backpack on the ground, opened it up, and sighed with relief when she saw Bill sitting on her sweater. She carefully pulled him out, set him on the floor, and pointed the height-altering flashlight at him.

For a moment after returning to his true size, he remained seated on the floor, legs bent, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Worriedly, Mabel asked, "You okay?"

"Think I learned what motion sickness is," Bill groaned. "Just—gimme a sec."

"Aww, I'm sorry." Mabel surreptitiously checked in her backpack to make sure Bill hadn't been sick on her sweater. (It was a cool one. It had kissing parrots.)

After a few deep breaths, Bill lifted his head enough to look at Mabel. The first thing he said was, "'Cool big brother-slash-sister,' huh?" He gave her a queasy, but cheeky, grin.

"Shut uuup you weren't supposed to hear that!" She'd just about died with embarrassment when Candy had repeated that where she knew Bill could hear.

"I'm flattered." Bill uncurled himself from his nauseous half-fetal position; and then, gripping onto the sink for support, got back to his feet. "Being smaller again was nice, but I'm never traveling like that again."

"You're such a whiner."

"Yeah, yeah. I have a lot to whine about. I'm dead and about to be executed. Talk about... lose your cake and... not-eat it, too."

Mabel laughed. Bill mussed her hair, grinning, and said, "Hey, you've got no room to laugh, you're the one with the not-setting-houses-on-fire bit."

"Arrrgh, don't remind me!" She pushed Bill to the side so she could use the mirror to straighten out her hair again.

"You did pretty well, though! I'd say that was some of the best acting I've ever seen out of you."

"You too! They definitely bought it," Mabel said. "Even Grunkle Stan was getting worried."

"Especially back in the kitchen, wow! That was really convincing." He paused. "Really, really convincing."

Something heavy hung in the air. Mabel focused on her hair in the mirror.

Bill said, "That bit in the kitchen about me 'depending' on you." He exaggerated the air quotes around the word, distancing himself from the concept. "It wasn't on our list."

"Yeah. It just kinda... seemed right. Improv." Mabel waved unenthusiastic jazz hands.

"It bothers you."

Mabel winced. "I mean... I'm not actually mad at you. But. I want to help, but I don't know what to do for..." She gestured at Bill. "The whole being dead on an alien planet issue."

"Believe it or not, the hoodie helps," Bill said. "Listening helps." But he couldn't meet her gaze; he was fiddling with his friendship bracelet instead. He had to know how heavy even just listening to him could be.

"I'm glad, but... I just... wish you had more friends you could talk to."

Bill nodded morosely. "So do I." It wasn't like he'd chosen to only have one friend, was it? Prisoners didn't get to make those kinds of decisions.

Mabel asked, "Do you really think I think you're just a summer fix-it project?"

"I... pfff... come on, I watched you spend all last summer handing out makeovers and dating advice. You've already done my makeup, taken me clothes shopping, and tried to pump me for info on what kinds of freaks I'm into."

(Mabel quietly filed away the fact that Bill referred to "freaks" as his preferred romantic targets.)

"That's how your summer was going to end," Bill said. "You tame the monster, go home triumphant, and don't worry about it anymore. Like how you patched up Broken Heart's love life and left him to sort out the consequences."

"No!" Mabel huffed, "I mean—maybe a little at the beginning, but... you're really my friend now, I'd hate it if I never saw you again. I don't give friendship bracelets to just anybody!"

Bill kind of thought she did; but he wasn't about to argue. "Well, I've only given one person a bracelet, and I meant it." (Even more now than when he'd originally made it.) "You're never getting rid of me now, star girl. You're stuck with me forever!"

Coming out of Bill Cipher, the promise should have filled her with dread. A month ago it would have filled her with dread. But Mabel just found it comforting. "Good."

(And Ford hadn't felt any dread when he'd sworn "until the end of time," either.)

Bill took off his backpack and rummaged through it. "Now let me make sure I can keep that promise."

He took out a map of the mountains and forest around Gravity Falls and spread it out on the floor for them to kneel in front of. "You know about the spaceship buried under town? When its ring cut through the mountain, a few chunks of the ship dislodged and were buried in one of the mountains. No human has ever found them before, not even your great uncle. That's where I'll hide."

"Are the chunks big enough to hide in?"

"Sure! There's one that'd serve as a decent studio apartment. Well—the cheapest studio apartment in Manhattan, maybe. But, hey, I don't have much furniture."

On the map, he showed Mabel a route to reach the base of the cliff, tracing it with his finger. She couldn't afford to take a map with the route marked; if the adults discovered Bill's escape and confiscated Mabel's possessions, a marked map would lead them straight to him. She'd just have to do her best to memorize the route he described. "When and if the coast is clear, you can come find me there."

"How do I get up the cliff?"

"Don't worry about that. You make it that far, I'll take care of the rest."

And that was all they could afford to discuss. Mabel couldn't hide in here for long. As Bill refolded the map (and Mabel was awed to learn he was the kind of person who could refold maps correctly on the first try), and he packed the map and the height-altering flashlight in his backpack, they each tried separately to figure out how to get around to saying goodbye.

"I uh... I know you're sticking your neck out for me, kid." (Bill wasn't used to this, wasn't used to people who didn't help him due to fear or duty or lies, wasn't used to people who still wanted to help him after they knew what he was really like.) "So, thanks—"

Mabel flung her arms around him. Her voice thick, she said, "I think your manners are getting better."

"Shut up, I've always known how to say thanks." It was gratitude that was new.

"Be safe out there," Mabel said. "Don't die, or else. Remember to eat. And drink water! And do laundry sometimes."

"All right, all right. You'll find me in better health than you left me. All the sunshine and fresh air this body can take."

"I'll miss you."

Keep it together, Cipher. He swallowed hard. "Have you ever heard the song 'We'll Meet Again'?"

"Uh-uh?"

"Old war song. Look it up once you're in Portland, when you aren't busy having synthesizers pumped in your ears."

"Is it about... how we'll meet again?"

"Yes, smartypants. Look it up anyway," Bill said. "I'll miss you too."

Mabel washed her face, left the restroom, and shut the door behind her; and Bill waited in the dark while everyone left.

####

7:45 a.m.

A woman with two children opened the unisex restroom door, and gasped in shock when she saw a human silhouette lurking in the dark, one eye shining.

"Hey, thanks, lady! Couldn't get the door for some reason." He breezed past her. "Careful, it sticks from the inside."

He grabbed an empty backpack for sale, and loaded it up with supplies, food, and drinks. (The good stuff, not the weak cider he got in the Mystery Shack. He was making margaritas tonight.) He headed up to the cash register... veered to a currently-unmanned register, stole a handful of loose change out of a tip jar, and timed his exit so he walked out just as a man walked in and kindly held the door for him.

####

7:55 a.m.

It was a fair walk from Triple Digit back to the cliffs around Gravity Falls. When Bill was a safe distance into the woods, he unzipped his first backpack, retrieved his flattened top hat, and popped it out; and then continued on, behatted and using his umbrella like a cane.

Even with no sleep, even just a couple of days after the worst hiking trip in history, even tired and sore from an hour of frenzied dancing, even carrying two full backpacks with one strap slung over each shoulder, even with the sky gloomy and overcast—this was the best he'd felt since Weirdmageddon.

His steps were sure, his body was unchained, and the future had opened up for him again.

####

8:00 a.m.

Mabel kept glancing out the window, back in the direction of Gravity Falls, waiting and waiting to see the light of some kind of killer laser cut through the sky.

Maybe the Quantum Destabilizer's beam just wasn't visible from this far. Maybe they'd decided to wait to execute Bill. Maybe they hadn't wasted their shot because they'd already discovered Bill and Mabel's ruse. Maybe the "enchantment" Bill had written hadn't done its job.

But if they had discovered Bill was missing, they would've called Mabel immediately, trying to find out what she'd done and where he'd gone.

Her phone sat hard and heavy and silent in her pocket.

The butterflies in her stomach didn't stop fluttering until long after they reached Portland.

####

10:30 a.m.

Plus or minus a few trees, the rendezvous point at the base of the cliff was just how Bill had remembered last seeing it millennia ago. The Trilazzx Betan proximity sensor that had been embedded in the cliff face since the ship crash was still there and still sensing, even after millions of years and a layer of stone had closed around it. He could see it behind the face of the cliff; and it could see him.

He took out the multi-tool pocket knife Dipper had "donated" to Bill's supplies, flipped out the blade, and carved his face in a tree far enough from the rendezvous point to avoid notice by anyone who found this spot, but near enough it could see anyone who showed up. He made it as accurate as he could—hat, bow, limbs, eyelashes. That would unfortunately make it easier for humans to identify the face if anyone happened to walk by, but his ability to connect to his other eyes was still weak, he needed as much of a boost as he could get. He licked the bark, leaving his saliva to connect the eye on the tree to him.

And then he returned to the rendezvous point at the base of the cliff, and, beneath the watchful eye of the proximity sensor, began digging in the dirt with his hands.

Beneath the soil, fortunately not buried too deep, was a stone shaped like a small tombstone with several symbols carved into its surface that superficially resembled common runes. Bill brushed the dirt off of his leggings and rubbed it out of the carved lines in the stone. It was lucky that today was overcast; it would make this thing a lot easier to control.

Bill took out the flashlight, removed the height-altering crystal, turned it on, and aimed the beam at the topmost rune.

The runes began glowing an eerie green.

The ground shuddered; and then a patch of ground five feet in diameter lifted up into the air, carrying Bill with it, tearing the grass at the edge of the circle, propelled by a long-forgotten enchanted stone platform concealed in the clump of dirt.

He rose to the gouge that the spaceship had carved into the mountain; and then he moved his flashlight's beam to another rune. The platform smoothly shifted to moving sideways, gliding beneath the ancient overhang. When he turned off the flashlight, the stone stopped glowing and gently settled to the ground. Bill stepped off, fished a spare shirt out of his backpack, and pulled it over the rune-covered stone so it couldn't take off if the sun came out. There was a reason this buried stone was the only platform of its kind left in the area outside of the deep mountain caverns: leave one outside on a sunny day where the light can hit its runes, and next thing you know it's zoomed out over the Pacific and is quickly rising toward space.

He surveyed the area. Every once in a while humans climbed up here just for the challenge of it, delightful little explorers they were; but he doubted anyone had been up here in decades. He stood in front of what was, to all appearances, a completely nondescript patch of stony ground; and he said, in heavily accented but intelligible Trilazzx Betan, "Let me in, you hunk of junk. Activate emergency crash protocols."

A fragment of ship deep beneath the ground stirred awake, registered the command, analyzed itself and concluded from the fact that it wasn't in space and was separated from 99% of the rest of itself that it had indeed crashed, and activated emergency crash protocols. In acknowledgment of the dire situation, it deactivated its usual authorized personnel list—there was no sense in waiting for the captain to approve new orders if the captain might be dead—accepted the command given by the unknown being above it, and opened its hatch.

Millions of years of solid stone groaned and buckled in protest at being moved; but Trilazzx Betan engineering was strong enough for the framework of a portal capable of ripping a hole between dimensions without being ripped apart itself. The stone yielded first. A hatch swung up, revealing a tilted chamber descending into the cliff.

Bill strolled confidently down the walkway. "Cancel distress signal. Disable life support's air filtering." The fragment of a ship beeped a warning, and Bill responded, "I'm aware of this planet's high oxygen content. You worry about your health, I'll worry about mine. Disable air filtering." The ship beeped a confirmation. "Reconnect to all external proximity sensors in range and display on screens one, two, and three." This broken part of the ship had once handled communications. It had a whole wall of screens. He wondered whether he could jury rig this thing to pick up human satellite TV. Nah, probably not worth the effort.

He slung off his backpacks and started unpacking.

####

12:04 p.m.

It was time.

Dipper sat on the floor and put his head in his hands. He felt sick.

He was dead. In just a few seconds Ford would discover that Bill was gone—Dipper was sure he was gone, they hadn't heard a peep from the room, Mabel must've snuck him out or left him some escape route—and then Ford would know that someone had warned Bill and Mabel, and then Dipper was dead—

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah." Dipper waved Ford off. "Just... didn't get much sleep. Little dizzy." Ford would never trust him again. Stan would be furious. They'd both be furious.

"You can go downstairs if you..."

"No no, I'm fine, I..." Dipper took a deep breath and lifted his head. "I'll face it." Better to get it over with now than to hide downstairs and wait for it. 

Stan nodded. "Good man." He wouldn't be so proud of Dipper in a moment.

Ford nodded, stood, opened the door—and Dipper buried his face in his hands again.

####

12:06 p.m.

Ford could see Bill up in the loft, hood up and shoulders hunched, back to the room. Ford could shoot Bill in the back without him ever waking up.

He climbed into the loft. Bill lay curled up in a ball, a small as Ford had ever seen him.

But it only took a moment for Ford's eyes to adjust to the dark; and even in the dim light through the stained glass window, he could tell:

The shape in front of him wasn't human. Just lumpy clothes.

Ford whipped around, heart pounding, clutching the Quantum Destabilizer's carrying case against his chest, searching for the real Bill lurking somewhere in the shadows. No sign of him. Ford had already looked on the floor level. Was he gone? How?

He was too dumbfounded to be outraged. He walked up to the dummy to pull it apart—

And saw the paper, folded in quarters, floating in the air above it. Four symbols in a cipher were written atop the paper. Ford recognized them: it was the alien alphabet of an interdimensional pidgin used as a written lingua franca throughout the Nightmare Realm and its bordering regions; it was so widespread that Ford had learned the alphabet before he ever left Earth.

The four letters read, "F O R D".

Ford plucked the paper out of the air and unfolded it.

Stanford–

I'll cut to the chase. I need your help. I don't want to die.

I'm banking on the hope that, in spite of everything you've said and done, part of you also doesn't want me to die.

You have a choice. You can walk out there, tell them I escaped, rally an angry mob, and comb everything under the weirdness barrier for me. This town's not that big and I'll need to eat eventually. We both know I can't hide forever.

Or you can tell them you finished the job. No one looks for me. No one knows but you and me.

I don't have rewards or deals to offer. You already know what I bring to the table. If that hasn't persuaded you to side with me by now, it never will. I'm not bargaining. I'm begging.

I'm asking you, as my friend, to help me survive.

Please.

· –·-– -–

Of course.

How dare he.

Had Bill planned this all along? Was this why he'd insisted he wanted to be Ford's friend? Was this why he'd saved his life? Maybe the entire rescue had been staged—the rescue, the performance of fear over a harmless phenomenon, the mental breakdown, all of it. For all Ford knew, maybe the accursed Axolotl was in on the scheme! How clairvoyant was Bill? Had he seen this moment coming?

But if he'd seen this moment coming, wouldn't it have been easier to just let Ford, his executioner-to-be, die? Ford and Dipper both, so Dipper wouldn't figure out how to synthesize NowUSeeitNowUDontium? If he'd saved them in spite of that, didn't that make it a sincere gesture?

But implication was clear: I've been a friend to you, now be one to me. A life for a life. There was nothing sincere in that. It was pure self interest.

(For just a couple of days, Ford really had thought it was sincere.)

But if the only reason Bill had saved Ford was to save himself—then why had Bill endangered his own life in the process?

With every thought Ford's paranoia pendulumed.

He should get Stan. Call the cops, confess who they'd been harboring for the past month, tell them everything, get a manhunt going before Bill could make it any further away. Even if he couldn't leave the weirdness barrier, there were probably hundreds of hidden hidey-holes Bill could dig himself into that humans had never seen—unexplored hallways in Crash Site Omega, uncharted caverns behind Trembley Falls where Bill didn't even need light to see. They could drag him back into the light, tie him up, aim the Quantum Destabilizer straight at him...

But. In spite of himself, he could still see Mabel's drawing hopefully reassigning Bill the role of a superhero. He could still see the crumpled drawing in his pocket—"I BELIEVE IN YOU. YOU CAN CHANGE!" He could still see Dipper tentatively asking whether they might need Bill someday. He could still see Bill playing teacher in the living room. And for a moment, for just a moment, Bill had been so good. He could be so good.

Why couldn't you have been this person?

Why can't you be this person?

What if he could be better? What if he could be decent? What if he could be a friend?

Ford didn't believe Bill was any better today than he had been the day he died. But—at some point, something had slowly turned over in Ford's mind. He believed that Bill could change. Not would change, not is changing, but could. And if Ford started a manhunt, Bill would never be a threat again—but he'd also never be better.

There was a point where the doubt and hope built up to a critical mass—when they became enough, just enough, to stay the trigger finger. Because once Ford fired on Bill, that was it. All chances were gone forever. It was over. If Bill was alive they could always try again to kill him later; but if Bill was dead, they could never try again to better him.

And for the first time in thirty years, Ford wanted Bill to be better more than he wanted Bill to be dead.

Ford looked at the dummy. Looked at the note.

And then he lay the note on the dummy, knelt by the edge of the loft, opened his case, and removed the Quantum Destabilizer.

####

12:09 p.m.

Ten minutes ago, Bill had been in the process of emptying out his backpacks and finding nooks and cubbies amongst the alien communication workstations where he could tuck his supplies, when he'd glanced out the open hatch and noticed the beforeimage of the shot lighting up the sky.

He'd come out of his shelter to watch the moment approach; but he hadn't quite believed it until it was in the present and actually happening. The blue-white beam of the Quantum Destabilizer—its one and only shot—screamed off into the sky.

"Well, what do you know," he murmured, standing at the edge of the cliff, hands on his hips, staring out in wonder over the town. "I really didn't think you'd do it."

Ford had saved his life.

Bill crossed his arms tight and tried to convince himself he didn't wonder why.

####

12:10 p.m.

Ford heard Dipper and Stan come into the bedroom and climb the ladder. He was seized by an urge to sweep away the ashes and the evidence of his trick before they could realize what he'd done.

"Grunkle Ford...?"

He forced himself to speak. "It's done."

"So... Bill is...?"

Ford suddenly realized: Dipper knew Bill wasn't in here. He must have warned Mabel, and Mabel had arranged for Bill to be alone in their room long enough to escape.

Which meant Dipper knew Bill was alive.

(Bill had written, "No one knows but you and me." Bill was covering for the kids.)

Ford turned to look him in the eyes. "Yes, he's dead."

Which meant Dipper knew what Ford had done—and knew Ford knew what he had done.

Neither one of them needed to say anything else to know what the other was thinking. They just shared a look—the two most miserable co-conspirators in Gravity Falls.

####

12:25 p.m.

Bill sat cross-legged at the edge of the cliff and watched until the afterimage of the Quantum Destabilizer's shot had faded from the sky; and then he went inside his shelter, mixed the world's lamest margarita in a coffee mug, took it outside, sat again, and toasted toward the town and the Mystery Shack.

Here's to survival.

He sat outside until the gash the Quantum Destabilizer had cut in the clouds closed and it began to rain.

####

1:10 p.m.

Stan had come and gone a few minutes ago, and already Ford had forgotten everything he'd said, if he'd even registered it in the first place.

His fingers had itched until he'd finally had a moment to steal down to his study, retrieve Journal 5, and bring it up to the guest room; and now for over half an hour he'd been feverishly writing down every single thing he could remember learning about Bill over the last two days. The drawing of his homeworld. His lecture on biangles and psychic powers. How polygons inherited their sides. (Their royalty sounded nigh on Habsburgian; had their political system ever changed?) What little details Bill had let slip about where Edward Bishop Bishop's book was wrong. (Had he told Mabel more about their relationship? He'd have to ask when she was home.) How Bill signed his letter: "· -·-- --", Morse code for "EYM," was it an acronym, was it a code, what did it mean, why did he write it in two colors? How Bill spelled Mabel's name in alien alphabets: Mabelle, Maybell, the varying extra letters. How Bill danced: how he struggled to cross his ankles, how he turned out his feet, how his spine and shoulders never bent, how the complex ways he tilted his legs and pelvis compensated for his stiff spine.

If Bill was sticking around a while longer, then these details still mattered.

He refused to forget a thing.

####

Sunday, 12:02 a.m.

As "We'll Meet Again" finished playing, Mabel turned off her phone, put it back on her nightstand, and wiped her eyes again. Big stupid dork couldn't even say this himself, he had to hide it behind a song. 

Yes. They would meet again. Law of attraction. Believing it was the first step to making it come true.

####

10:20 a.m.

The fearful butterflies in Mabel's stomach had slowly returned during the drive home from Portland. No one had texted her—was that a good sign?—but she was afraid it just meant they'd decided to let her enjoy the rest of her trip before letting her know she was grounded forever for helping Bill escape. When they'd all greeted her at the door, looking so somber, and she was sure she was about to get the bad news, she'd just had to keep acting normal and hope she wasn't gonna get in more trouble for playing dumb.

The last thing she expected Stan to say was, "Weshotim."

"Say wha?"

"We got that—space gun of Ford's working. We shot him. He's... I'm sorry, sweetie."

Mabel stared at Stan. That was impossible—there was no way they'd found Bill. But—if Stan believed he was dead...

She dragged her gaze from his face to Dipper's. Dipper bit his lips, staring at his feet. He wouldn't meet her eyes—too afraid that even looking at her would give something away.

She looked from Dipper to Ford. "Grunkle Ford?" She tried not to hope. "Is it true?"

There was no way he'd believed the dummy was real. The moment she'd read Bill's so-called "enchantment," she'd known making it believable was never the point. Bill's only real plan had always been to get Ford on their side.

For a long moment, Ford said nothing. He dragged his eyes up to meet her stare, took a deep breath, and nodded. "He's dead."

Mabel's eyes widened. Two days ago, Ford had been the one arguing that killing Bill was their only choice. If he'd changed his mind...

If anyone said anything else, she didn't register it in her excitement. She backed out of the doorway, leaped off the porch, and ran around the shack, looking for her bike. 

She had to see Bill immediately.

####

10:21 a.m.

Quietly, Dipper asked, "Did we do the right thing?"

Ford didn't know. His stomach had been twisting with guilt and doubt since yesterday. His conscience had kept him up half the night. "I hope so."

He feared they'd have second-guessed themselves no matter what.

####

2:30 p.m.

Bill was asleep. He'd been sleeping off and on for most of the past day. This was the first time since he'd died that he had somewhere safe to sleep—somewhere nobody could touch his vulnerable body, nobody could move him, drown him, kill him.

And this was the first time he hadn't been helpless and sightless.

In his sleep, he saw his own body, curled up on the tilted floor against a wall, on top of the sleeping bag and under the Pony Heist bedsheet, from an eye he'd drawn on the ceiling.

From another eye he'd drawn on the wall, he saw the ship's open hatch, the overhang above, a small sliver of the gray drizzly sky over Gravity Falls.

And from his eye on the tree, blurry and fading as the rain washed away his saliva, he saw a human-shaped mass of raucous colors exploring the pit in the ground left behind by his hovering platform.

A human? He sat up with a gasp and looked at the screen displaying the proximity sensors. Sure enough, the sensor at the base of the cliff was displaying a Mabel-shaped silhouette.

He grabbed his flashlight and climbed out of his shelter.

####

"Kid, what are you doing out out here?!"

Mabel looked up. Bill was some twenty feet above her and quickly descending on what looked like a chunk of flying dirt the same size as the pit in the ground she'd been inspecting. "Bill!" She leaned her bike against the cliff face. Finally—she'd been wandering around in the trees forever trying to figure out where Bill's rendezvous point was hidden.

"It's pouring rain," Bill scolded. "You could lose your immune system or—or slip in the mud or something."

"Wow, nice to see you too, mom." Mabel ran up as Bill landed his floating chunk of ground.

"Hey, I don't want anything happening to my favorite human!" He scooted over to make room for her on the platform. "Just couldn't wait for a sunny day to meet again, huh?"

"Psh, come on! Like you meant that literally." Near Bill, the rain had mysteriously stopped landing on Mabel. She looked up and saw the rain simply parting in the air over Bill's head.

He noticed her glance and said, "Did I ever teach you the spell to repel rain? Remind me to do that before you go." He pointed his flashlight's beam at a rune on a stone rising from the platform, and it lifted off again. "Nice sweater today." He poked one parrot-winged sleeve, its bright colors darkened by the soaking rain. "It probably looked better dry."

Mabel smacked away his hand. "Bill, guess what! Grunkle Ford decided to protect you!"

"I know, I saw the wasted shot from here." He steered the platform onto the cliff. He landed it next to a hatch that opened into a subterranean tunnel. "Of course, I always knew he would. Didn't I say we'd pull this off?"

Sure he'd known. That was why he'd lied about what the "enchanted" paper really was so Mabel wouldn't worry.

Mabel followed him down into the metal tunnel. "Do you know what this means? You can come back to the shack!"

Bill turned to stare at her in bewilderment. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because... it's safe now? They're not gonna kill you?" Mabel squinted. "Why's it so dark in here?"

"Oh, right. You need this." Bill offered the flashlight.

Mabel turned it on. They were in a metal chamber, about half the size of the Mystery Shack's floor room and nowhere near as tall. One end of it had been torn off and dirt and stone served as the new wall. Most of the walls were dominated by heavy metal consoles, curved metal chairs, and screens, a few of which were on but flickered irritatingly. One chair still had a fossilized alien skeleton in it. Bill had put his top hat on it.

His supplies were piled haphazardly on consoles and the floor; all Mabel saw in his food pile was shelf-stable junk food and drinks. The air somehow felt more damp in here than it did outside with the rain. The chairs didn't have cushions, the floor didn't have carpet; everything was hard and cold and dark. She didn't even see a door for a bathroom in here. This was where Bill was staying?

"The Mystery Shack is safe for now," Bill said. "Just wait until Stanley decides to take another swing at me, or Dolores poisons my dinner again—or Ford changes his mind, dunks me in the bathtub, and doesn't let me back out."

"They wouldn't..." Mabel trailed off. She tried to imagine how mad Stan would be when he found out Bill was alive, and had to concede he might.

"Even if it was safe—why would I go back to that sorry makeshift prison?" Bill hopped up into one of the tilted alien chairs. There was a weird extended bit designed for alien anatomy that curved up at the end of the seat and forced Bill to straddle the chair rather than sit in it normally; it didn't look comfortable. "After almost a month and a half, I'm finally free!"

"Free inside a tiny bubble around the town," Mabel protested. "To live in a... weird little metal dirt room."

"Freely moving inside the entire barrier is a lot better than freely moving through half a shack! Surrounded by people who want me dead! I don't even get full privacy when I'm using the toilet—that's the bare minimum humans offer as basic respect! You don't know how many times I've been walked in on!"

"Do you even have a toilet here?"

Bill hesitated. "There's a—there are gas stations within walking distance."

"How are you gonna get into the restroom?"

"Fine, I'll dig a pit or something, all right? The point is, whatever I do, at least I can do it in freedom!"

He hadn't planned this through at all, Mabel realized. He'd only thought as far ahead as finding food and shelter that would last him the next couple of days. "But..." She gestured at the pathetic room around them. "The shack's got a proper roof and a shower and real food—wouldn't that be better than this?"

Bill scoffed "Only humans care about roofs and showers, and the idea of 'real' food is a social construct I reject!"

He'd be miserable here. Mabel couldn't let Bill do this to himself. "Then don't you wanna be in the shack with your only friend on Earth?" She gave him a pleading look. "Would you really rather spend the rest of summer in some dumb old busted alien ship?"

There was a flash of light reflected in the dark as Bill's eyes turned away from Mabel.

"Bill?"

He didn't respond. He trudged past her, halfway up the walkway out of the ship, and stopped there, his back to Mabel, hands on his hips, staring out into the rain. He sighed. "Kid, you're trying to give me Stockholm syndrome."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means I'll think about it," Bill said, voice flat. "Go back to the shack."

Before Mabel could move, Bill said, "Hold on. Let me teach you that umbrella spell first." He turned and descended back into the ship. "And when's the last time you ate? Human bodies act pathetic if they don't get glucose every three hours. Get some lunch, it's a long bike back to the shack." He gestured at his meager food supplies.

She rummaged through the foil bags and colorful boxes and grabbed some Chipackers and sour gummy dolphins.

Bill sat near her, grabbed a bag of jerky for himself, and said, "And tell me about that concert you abandoned me to my doom for."

####

4:00 p.m.

Bill escorted Mabel down off the cliff—and, at her request, let her borrow the flashlight and wiggle the floating platform back and forth a little as they descended. He took back the flashlight when she nearly crashed the platform and killed them both.

"Where'd this come from?" Mabel asked, poking the stone. "Did the aliens make this, too?"

"Nope! This is good old local Earth magic. Ever hear of Caterpillar Man?"

"Is that some kind of superhero?"

"Afraid not. Well—ever hear of Grendel?"

"Uh-uh."

They were nearly at the ground now. "I think I'll tell you next time."

As the platform lifted him back up, Bill watched Mabel wheel her bike through the trees, slowly heading toward the main road back into town.

For a midsummer day, it was chilly in the rain.

####

Monday, 1:03 a.m.

And it was even chillier in the post-midnight dark when he knocked on the Mystery Shack's door.

####

(Eager to hear what y'all think now that you've seen the full story of how Bill survived—last week once Dipper and Mabel's roles were revealed, I think most folks thought that fully explained how Bill faked his death. ;) Next week is probably a double length chapter, because there's no graceful way to break it in half and also it'd be nice to get this plot arc wrapped up before The Book of Bill comes out lmao.)

[le16erc]

𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✩ 𝐨𝐩𝟖𝟏 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐚𝐲. <𝟑

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞. ’𝐭𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 !

• 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 <𝟑

𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤’𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐜: 𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐢! <𝟑 ……………………………………………………………………………

the moment was perfect. he was more than absolutely sure that he was dead, residing in the divine above with an angel shaped like a girlfriend. jazz was playing as he held his lovers waist, humming along to the smooth sound as he rambled through his overbearing day.

“missed you. we both did.” she cooed, batting her lashes up at her boyfriend as he caressed her stomach.

“I know you did, I missed my girls, too.” he smiled as their puppy, miss grapes, nuzzled happily at his legs. watching his girl prepare dinner while their shared puppy played with her toy should have been more than enough to wipe his brain clean from anything else. still, his mind was running wild with the previous hours of his day.

“maybe if I burned my phone, zak would still find me.” he scoffed, sitting on the bar stool as he watched his pretty girlfriend bake. or cook. or whatever she was doing, he was never kitchen privy anyway. “maybe if you considered that you’re one of the only two McLaren drivers in the world, and that you’re painfully essential to the team, you’d understand why zak needs to reach you.” she teased, shoving a spoonful of frosting between his lips. he groaned appreciatively, taking the small silver spoon between his fingers and sucking happily.

“maybe i should stop waffling on and on. that could be a possible solution.” he groaned existentially, leaning back in the plush stool as he resigned all negative thoughts. he was home, and his heart was focused on his pretty wife girlfriend. he stood up, his long legs easily carrying him over to meet her.

“i think it’s cute when you waffle.” she smiled, welcoming his touch as he held her from behind. their hips swayed to the light jazz playing, the golden hour’s beams kissing them through the kitchen windows. “it proves that my boyfriend isn’t a broody, antisocial near-emo.” she grinned. “boyfriend is a funny word, no?” he said softly, moving her brown waves to the side so he could admire her back. whatever dessert she was making was momentarily forgotten as he lost himself in her softness. “it’s painfully temporary, is what it is.” he concluded.

“this pretty finger would look so much better with a ring.” he hummed softly, more to himself, nuzzling into her shoulder as she resumed her stirring. “you know, ‘m gonna make it happen real soon, babe.” he purred, hands trailing over her stomach as he inhaled her warm scent. it was a new favorite mix of tom ford and yves saint laurent, he learned a few days ago when she excitedly recounted her recent saks fifth avenue spree.

“don’t make promises you can’t keep.” she said softly, tilting her head back to grant his lips more access to lavish her skin with the upmost affection. her hands continued to work, stirring the mixture as promises of devotion and obsession spilled from the australian’s lips. “id miss you far too much if you dipped.” she said softly.

“ouch. i’ve never broken a promise that i have made to you, smarty. i can’t say the same for others, but for you, im honest.” he mumbled, leaving a soft bite on her jaw just to spite her. “you make it sound like you don’t wanna be mrs. piastri one day, which im sure isn’t true because ive got child bearing hips, and you of all people would never turn that down. you do want to marry me, dont you?” he asked gently, dropping the jokes as his lips stopped their way along her neck. he genuinely worried for a moment.

“honestly?” she sighed, looking back at him.

“honestly, sweet thing.” he held a breath, lifting his head to watch her face for any sign of truth.

“i honestly can’t ever see myself being mrs. piastri…” she said softly, looking to the ground.

“you can’t?” oscar’s voice broke slightly, the tears forming in his eyes threatening to realize the moment. if that’s how she really felt, he was NOT stronger than that and was willing to convince her to hear him out. he could cook, clean, learn how to make those damn towel swans. anything to keep her with him and happy.

“no. i don’t know, ive just always seen myself as more of a mrs. pastry. i hope you can understand. it’s not me, it’s you.” she said, feigning seriousness as she tried to hide the prettiest smile. he released a breath held from his innermost workings, coming down from a near heart attack.

“see what I did there? huh? pastry? piastri? you know, because im baking?” she smiled stupidly, playfully gesturing to the unfinished tiramisu sitting on the marble counter.

as he adored her cheesy smile, he knew he was done for in that moment. he knew he wanted to end his days with his soul wrapped around her heart, keeping it warm until its final beat. and even then, he’d love her in whatever came after the grave. he was ruined.

𝐟𝐢𝐧.

𝐚/𝐧: 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝!!!! 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐦 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐤! 😃

[heartfeltcherie]

Human Alastor with an s/o who knows he is a serial killer but was never bothered by it.

human alastor is beginning to grow on me a lot, this is possibly the fastest blurb i’ve ever written <333

☾. °.   ࿐  ` , •

“you don’t have to do this every time i come home, my darling”

you were both sat on the edge of the bathtub, a wet washcloth that was warm in your hand as you cleaned alastor’s face of his victim’s blood. you didn’t know what time it was — all you knew is that it was late. and no one was up at this godforsaken hour.

“i know i don’t have to. but i do it because i want to,” you wipe off the last remainder of red splotches on his cheek, gentle and with care. and he’s staring into your eyes almost as if he’s enchanted by you. “think of it as a way of saying thank you, i suppose”

alastor chuckles at your silly little statement.

“thank you? my dear,” he reaches up to gently cup your cheek. your movements nearly stutter at how flustered you get, eyes widening with a flutter of your eyelashes. “there is no need to thank me in such a way when you know i’d kill anyone who even looks in your direction”

it’s messed up, you know, how your heart skips a beat at his confession, how it warms your heart that he’ll make damn sure that you’ll only be his for all eternity and beyond.

but you can’t help it.

everyone you’ve ever known has always been so prim and proper, made it feel like you were stepping on glass as you had to watch what you said and did so you weren’t damned.

but with alastor? he was a true gentleman; in a dark and twisted way. he danced with you in the living room to soft jazz, telling you how you were the most beautiful belle he’d ever laid his eyes on. you shared kisses in dark alleyways that you knew no one walked through at nighttime. he made you feel like a princess in some sort of fairytale.

it was poetic, bloody, and dark all at once.

and you were addicted to the thrill of it all.

you set the now blood stained cloth down as you took alastor’s glasses off his face, cleaning them with a breath and the hem of your summer dress.

“and you know i’ll always be here to clean you up afterwards,” you carefully place his glasses back on his face. you busy yourself with his bowtie, making sure it wasn’t crooked. “you don’t scare me. and neither does your infatuation with me. it’s rather… charming”

alastor hooks his pointer finger underneath your chin, making you look up at him.

“i suppose that makes us quite the pair then, hm?” he leans in closer with half lidded eyes.

“a murderous chap and his innocent beau”

please comment/reblog if you enjoyed my works, it’s greatly appreciated <3

[inkskinned]

these days, the summer fan is on, and there is a little cricket in you. your mother would say you don't have ambition, but that's not quite true. you just had different priorities: for most of your life, the pain swallowed so much of your energy that picturing a future was almost impossible. it took so much just to render yourself here without evaporating - making goals always felt shallow, far-off.

at 17, maybe you would have wanted to be famous. maybe you would have wanted to kiss every woman and come home late at night and call the dawn to heel like a dog. to meet taylor swift and ask her to collaborate on poems and french-kiss in the rain. to wiggle your fingers at jealous ex-lovers while you lifted the hem of your ballgown and got out of limousines. a life of rooftops, spinning and glittering.

these days, it isn't that you're tired, but that you have learned the weight of carrying things. you have had the good times. you have laughed at the bottom of a pool. you have had your hands on the paring knife. you know the cost of it, like a carcinogen. these days, you want a life like a stone fruit. these days, you want a life that lays gently on your skin, rather than piercing through.

you are going to get a little condo with your friend. the two of you fantasize about basic things: how it will feel to cook in a friendly kitchen. the serenity of picking out wall paint colors. putting plants in the sunlit corner. you want a place that never rings in anger. where the only echo is jazz music. you want a peace like holding your head under the water.

ah. maybe your younger self would be devastated - you got boring?

she doesn't know yet. she has lived her entire life terrified, running. she has grown so accustomed to the threat that she has fallen in love with the scythe. she thinks passionate and violent are synonyms, that anything lovely has to come with a bad side. she thinks life has to break like a wave - that you need to swallow the ocean in order to stay above the foam. she doesn't know about the boat yet. she doesn't know about spending hours at home, quiet, your hands folded, finding peace. she doesn't know about weightlessness. she thinks everything good is everything sharp. that the pain is what makes something satisfying.

one day she will make cookies from scratch. one day when she breaks a plate, she will be the only one around, and nobody will start shouting. one day she will slip her fingers under the sand, and it will make sense to her. the life assembling in little shards: oh. i've been afraid of a quiet life at home because i've never had a quiet home to come to before.

the gentle world inside her, singing behind a door.

[aealzx]

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Update Post

Prologue | AO3

Previous Next

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“...o, he hasn’t woken up yet.”

Someone had entered the room that morning, and now Jazz was talking to someone that could have been them or another person entirely. The haze of their lowered conversation was helping to pull Danny from the fog of sleep. But after the initial part it sounded like the conversation was one sided.

“Clothes?.... Actually, I don’t know what he would like. He hasn’t bought anything for himself for two years now. And never has a response when we ask.”

That response made Danny feel like they were talking about him. Jazz and whoever she was talking to. It was probably on the phone. He felt a little bad, but what she had just said was true. He hadn’t really done much when it came to clothing lately. Sam and Tucker had mostly been the ones to give his Phantom attire an update, and he just hadn’t bothered to address anything else.

“No, I’m not going to wake him up. He needs his rest-”

“Mmm… ‘s fine, J’zz. ‘M awake,” Danny forced himself to mumble even though he wasn’t quite fully alert yet. Relaxing in the study the previous evening had been really nice, and his spirits had risen a little when the few sips of broth he’d had a few hours before bed hadn’t made him sick again. But he still felt like a truck had hit him in his sleep, which made that morning hard. “Izzat for me? Here…” he asked, lazily flopping his hand into the air so that Jazz could give him the phone.

Jazz seemed to consider it for a moment, but eventually sighed and walked over to put the borrowed cellphone in Danny’s hand. Danny couldn’t see, having not managed to open his eyes yet, but Alfred was waiting patiently at the door to get it back. For now Danny just flopped it next to his head and turned his ear into it. “Mm…’ello?”

“Danny! Good morning~”

It was Stephanie. Chiming in a bubbly way that was much too energetic for… what time was it? Still felt too early.

“So, we’re out shopping and getting some new clothes for everyone, but your friends are being unhelpful and keep saying you don’t have any kind of style you like. Soooo, you get to answer. What would you like us to pick up for you? And what size do you usually wear?” Stephanie rambled, anticipating Danny would have more answers than the others.

“Uhhhhhh….,” Danny stalled, both because he was still waking up and she had said a lot of words, but also because he didn’t have an answer. “I dunno. A t-shirt and jeans? I’m usually a size smaller than Tucker though.”

“Seriously? That’s it? That’s so boring,” Stephanie complained.

“See? We told you, but you didn’t believe us.” Danny could hear Tucker’s voice, and figured he was on speaker.

“He just kept wearing the same clothes he had when he was fourteen, and only has new ones because the rest of us bought some for him. But he was so unhelpful then too that we had to settle for just getting him space themed stuff,” Sam huffed, and Danny could hear her folding her arms in annoyance.

“Hey, I got a lot of other stuff to worry about than clothes,” Danny protested to defend himself.

“You like space themed stuff though?” Dick’s voice chimed in now.

“Yeah, I still like space,” Danny confirmed. “Can’t do much with it these days, but I’ve always wanted to be an astronaut,” he admitted, feeling a little embarrassed about admitting his childhood dream.

“Cool. What about puns?” Dick hummed, adding another question quickly.

“No. Dick, don’t you dare,” Stephanie scolded.

Danny could only smile though. “I love puns,” he confirmed, not able to pick out who was all contributing to the chorus of groans and complaints, “Why? You got a good one?”

“Maybe. You’ll see,” Dick’s response was with barely held mirth. “Thanks kiddo, take it easy,” he bid before ending the call.

Well at least that was something to look forward to. Danny’s smile didn’t fade as he lifted the phone from the pillow to hand back to Jazz, who then returned it to Alfred. He ended up rolling over and laying there for a little longer, which made Jazz giggle and run her fingers through his hair for a bit. It was comfortable, and at least he wasn’t so tired he fell asleep right after waking up.

“...Alfred made some more of the broth you got last night. Do you want to try some more?” Jazz eventually asked when Danny finally managed to keep his eyes open and focus on things.

Danny considered how he felt before answering, and ended up nodding. “These help,” he admitted, pointing to the anti nausea patch behind his ear. It was enough confirmation for Jazz to move to help him sit up, stuffing all the pillows she could behind him when he was upright so he wouldn’t have to worry about spilling. The broth really did taste good, despite only being slightly warmer than room temperature. He found that if he only took small sips, and waited awhile between them he didn’t end up with his stomach wanting to revolt again. Maybe eventually he’d want a fat burger again, but for now this was enough.

He soon learned that he hadn’t woken up until after 10:00 am, but while that felt weird to hear he eventually realized there was nothing wrong with it. Apparently the others had been out all morning, Stephanie having come to get them since it was a holiday for her school. Not that her attendance was stellar anyway with all the mishaps she ended up in during the daytime, but it helped convince Bruce to let her carry on. She’d even managed to drag Dick and Barbara to join them. And that and the phonecall earlier led to Dick being the one to burst into the bedroom shortly after noon with the bags he’d promised over the phone.

“Head’s up!” Dick called as the only warning before he tossed a new t-shirt over Danny’s head.

“Dick!” Barbara scolded mildly, having only heard how Danny was doing and not completely sure he was up for being harassed.

To her surprise Danny just snorted. “It’s fine. It’s just a shirt,” he excused, pulling the t-shirt off his face and spreading it where he could see. While Dick grinned triumphantly at Barbara before turning to watch Danny expectantly, Danny quickly read the text on the shirt and promptly half choked on a snort. “HAHAHAHA H-,” he erupted with full on laughter, wheezing as he tried to vocalize the text. “I have - PFFFF HAHAHA - so many prob- HHHHH Jazz,” he howled and wheezed, turning the shirt so his sister could see the astronaut image surrounded by the text ‘Houston, I have so many problems’.

“Oh-.... Ohhhhh that’s great,” Jazz grimaced, giving a thumbs up as the content of the shirt was enough to dampen her own joy over seeing Danny laughing so openly. Considering his current situation, Danny probably thought it was rather fitting.

“I’m so upset we were right that he would love that,” Sam grumbled with a shake of her head.

“I think it’s great,” Danielle chimed in, though not laughing quite as much as Danny since she’d already seen everything.

“Of course you do,” Tucker sighed.

“I have more!” Dick took that as a chance to continue, plopping on the bed and digging out another shirt to pass over to Danny.

“Oh no, I’m leaving. Have fun,” Tucker groaned, quickly heading out the door partially to get away from what he had a feeling was going to be a terrible session of puns and bad jokes, and partially to take care of his own haul. Sam was quick to follow his lead, dragging Danielle after them so she didn’t skip out on helping.

As Danny excitedly held up the next shirt another honk laugh escaped him, though not quite as uproarious as the first. “HA! Just need space. Classic,” he complimented, lowering the shirt to his lap and looking up at Dick again to see if he had more.

“This was the last shirt they had, but if you want more puns after I have plenty to give,” Dick complied, handing the final printed shirt over to Danny.

It took Danny a second to realize the graphic of the earth was suggested to be spinning, staring at the conversation between the characterized moon and their own planet. The moon was asking what the earth was doing, and the earth responded ‘Making everyone’s day’, and as soon as the joke clicked in Danny’s head he was almost crying with laughter again. He didn’t even notice Stephanie joyfully recording both of them.

“Give me what else you have,” Danny requested after getting his breath back, reaching out to tug on Dick’s arm. It felt good to laugh. Even if it hurt his ribs, hurt the still healing burns on his chest, it felt good to just sit and laugh about something stupid. He didn’t want to give it up just yet, and it seemed Dick had actually planned for this in the past few hours after learning Danny loved puns too.

“Alright, get comfy ‘cause I have got a real gemstore to show you,” Dick agreed eagerly, squirming up onto the bed next to Danny and getting comfortable as well where they could both look at his phone. He had a folder saved just for collecting his favorites.

Danny was quick to settle into place wedged against Dick’s side, quickly reading and giggling or outright barking more laughter as they flipped through the saved images of jokes ranging from ‘I’m more confused than a chameleon in a bag of skittles’ to ‘astronomers got tired of waiting for the sun to go down, so they decided to call it a day’. Throughout the scrolling and varying degrees of laughter at the jokes, Danny even added some of his own that he remembered after seeing some of the others. 

Eventually their session was interrupted by Damian pausing at the doorway, getting their attention with a light knock.

“Pennyworth would like to know if you would prefer supper in the study once more,” the youngest Wayne informed, and waited for the response.

“Who…?” was what Danny ended up responding with, having not heard people’s last names yet.

“Alfred. Damian calls everyone by their last names,” Dick thankfully supplied, earning a small noise of understanding from Danny. It wasn’t hard to tell the hours and hours of jokes had worn him out, but he seemed quite content so Dick didn’t feel bad. “You’ve upgraded to the couch already though? Hell yeah.”

The comment made Danny snort again, though he also had to grimace at Dick incredulously. “What kind of lifestyle do you people live?” he asked before giving a quick answer to Damian. “Here is fine for today. If that’s okay.”

“Why wouldn’t it be? Your recovery is of utmost importance to those in this household. If supper in bed will facilitate that, then it is of no consequence to anything else,” Damian responded easily, giving them a nod before leaving to report back to Alfred.

“Eh. We’ve had our fair share of injuries through the years,” Dick admitted to Danny’s question, lifting a finger to tap the small bandage on his own forehead once. “Enough that a knife wound is more like a papercut,” he half joked.

Danny snickered at the response, but wasn’t sure how he really felt about it. Was it really a good thing to be so used to being hurt that they seemed to have started making a game out of things relating to it? Maybe it was just something so inevitable for people like them, that they’d just had to make the most of it in the best way they knew how.

“Does it…,” Danny found himself speaking before he’d fully committed to the question in his mind. He had half the thought to retract his half voiced question, but opted instead to complete it. “Does it ever get to be too much?”

The question made Dick recognize a little more about what state of mind Danny was in, and his brows furrowed in concern before he eventually brought the smile back. “All the time,” he admitted. “Especially when you get all these meta humans and aliens involved. But… it’s too hard to stop.”

For a moment Danny had forgotten that the others, aside from Duke, didn’t have any special abilities that weren’t common for a regular human. It must be very stressful for them to have to deal with people like him that ended up rogue. But also, hearing someone else admit that they too, sometimes, only kept going because it was too hard for them to stop brought Danny a strange kind of bitter comfort. Maybe they were just all doomed together.

But, even if they were, at least he had company.

“...Thanks,” Danny chose to respond, relaxing a little more heavily into the pillows. The laughter had felt good, but the exhaustion and aches didn’t. “For all the jokes. I loved them.”

Dick could only grin fondly, reaching out to ruffle Danny’s hair after sitting upright. “No problem, kid. Anytime you need some more, just let me know.”

“Does that mean I can have your number after I get my phone back?”

Dick could only snort, having not expected that question. “Sure. We’ll figure something out for the whole interdimensional communication thing. I’m sure someone has already figured it out,” he chuckled, scooting to the edge of the bed to get ready to join the others at dinner.

Danny could only hum in acknowledgement, content with that answer, and let Dick leave to get his own food. Having someone to appreciate good jokes with was something to look forward to at least.

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Iiiii struggled a lil with this one too =3= But there were some notes I needed to be mentioned before getting too far along.

Thank you for whoever sent me some puns though XDD they really helped. I love puns, but I'm terrible at coming up with any or even remembering them.

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Tag list: @galaxy-sharks-and-bottled-ships, @starscreamlover, @nerdynonnativenarnian, @dragongoblet, @megacharizardx99

@bellathecatastrophe, @cj-ghostemoji-destielpie, @asexual-insomniac, @wolfeyedwitch, @tkiesai, 

@fanaroff, @raven1508, @nebulainajar, @serasvictoria02, @oliocelottafanfics,

@honeysuckletook, @omniithe-deer, @wolf-under-the-stars, @gingernutcalo, @that-random-fangirl,

@op-sys-chaos, @kirasigncomics, @ehobep, @paranoid-ira

[hello-there-neighbor]

This is my very first Tumbler post, so please forgive me for any weird formatting. @dcxdpdabbles and @rboooks have this amazing DPxDC AU called Adoptive Son; please read it, it is so great! Obviously, there will be spoileres, so ye be warned and all that jazz. Anyway, I had an idea for a scene and really wanted to share it, so here it goes:

This would take place during part 6, after Danny's arrest, but before Tim's attack. Danny gets a phone call, right? (Like that's a thing when you get arrested, you get to make one phone call?) Obviously, he calls Dick. I'm going to say because the Gotham police are mad at him, ya know, being the "child trafficker" that he is and all, they wait as long as they possibly can to let him call, but when they finally do, he calls Dick. I pictured it like this:

It had been weeks but finally, finally, they were letting him talk to Dick. Nothing else mattered to him. They could put him away, and even dismantle the company; he could escape, he'd actually need to finish and then use the portal, which he had, he was ashamed to admit, moved to be a minor priority in his actually pretty great half-life here, but he’d figure a way to make it work with Dick and Tim, and everyone else would be able to find work again... eventually. He just needed to make sure his family knew it wasn't true. That's all that mattered to him. Of course they would know in their hearts, but he couldn't let them worry like that; even a little doubt would be devastating to them, he was sure. The phone rang... and rang... and rang... ‘please’, he thought, ‘please please please, pick up! Please come o-’

"Hello?" Dicks voice was tired and hoarce, he couldn't shake the image it painted of Dick, tearstained and distraught, more sleep deprived than even Danny had ever been.

"Listen! They aren't going to give me much time." Dick remained silent on the other side, so he barroled on into the ramble he had been needing to let out for weeks. "I don't know how much you've heard, but I didn’t do this! Please, you need to believe me. I didn't do this! I don't know where they're getting evidence from, but it's not true! I swear I didn't! You know that, right? You know I could never! You know I didn't do this."

"Yes, you did." Danny's heart stopped, not that he needed it, but still. "I found it, Crowne, the journals, everything. I turned you in." Danny felt his core crack.

"What? No... No, y-you wouldn't!" Tears were falling on his cheeks now, but he didn't bother to wipe them away. "You know me! You know who I am! You know I w-" He was cut off before he could finish. "Yes, I do, and yes, you would." Diletone rang in his ears even after he had been forcibly pulled away from the receiver. His face was blank. Only one word could describe the pain and betrayal and loss he was feeling: CRACK!

So ya… thanks for humoring me! And thank you @dcxdpdabbles and @rboooks, for writing this story to begin with! You are super crazy talented and should be so proud of yourself!!!

[artemismoorea03]

DP x DC Prompt: Backup Plans

Danny had a list of 'backup plans' and plans for his backup plans. If his secret got out and his parents didn't take it well he needed a backup. If the world found out he had a back up for that. If both happened there was a third plan. If the worst came true and his loved ones all died in a fiery blast and he was potentially forced to live with Vlad - there was a backup for that too.

Most of the back ups meant living in Sam or Tuckers house without knowing, leaving with Jazz to another city, moving into the Ghost Zone, or leaving America all together (he was thinking Antarctica because of the cold, distance and frequent Ghost Portals that opened there).

But there were backup plans for that too, because if Vlad was determined enough he would go to the ends of the earth (literally) to find him. So, with Clockworks blessing and very vague gesturing towards one section of the Zone he started looking for backup plans in the Infinite Realms.

Which is how he ended up in Gotham City when a natural portal opened up. It was the middle of the day - not ideal - and he appeared right in the middle of a crowded room - even less ideal. It seemed like some kind of... reward ceremony? There were people in spandex on a stage, looking surprised as Danny got ready to book it.

At least that was until one of the spandex wearers approached him. He was wearing all black with pointy... ears? and some kind of bat symbol on his chest.

"Alien, Meta or being from another dimension?" He simply asked.

"Uh... the third one?" Danny replied, looking around anxiously as the bat-guy reached into his belt, pulling out what looked like a PDA but without buttons. Seeing Danny's confusion he turned it on, the screen lighting up with a form.

"Alright. Come stand over here with me and fill this out."

Danny didn't know what was happening but was even more concerned when he actually read what the not-PDA said.

Alternate Dimension Traveler Documentation Form 301

"Do... you get visitors from other dimensions a lot?" Danny asked, following bat-guy to the corner.

"Occasionally."

"Oh... and that's okay?"

"If they're not here to cause trouble, yes."

Danny smiled at this, "Well I'm definitely not here to do that. I'm looking for a backup plan."

"Backup plan?"

"Mhm." Danny said looking at the not-pda curiously as he tried to figure out how to work it. "You know, in case my parents find out what I am and try to cut me open, my Godfather tries to kidnap or torture me, or my Government captures me and performs legal experimentation's on me as a way to destroy an entire dimension and potentially all connecting dimensions - including yours... say to you have a stylus or something? I'm not sure how this works."

Bat-guy simply blinked slowly, then put his hand on his shoulder as he lead him further from the crowd and sat him down. "You use your finger. See, tap where you want to type and go from there."

"Oh, neat! Thanks bat-dude."

"It's Batman, and you are?"

"Phantom. Danny Phantom. Nice to meet you."

[revelboo]

I see that you mentioned an ao3 account? Can I ask what the name is? I don't mind asking via private message since you had also mentioned warnings and wanting to keep minors away of course. I just absolutely love your writing and would love to follow it sksksksks

The A03 will still be RevelBoo, it’s empty for now until I start fleshing out the Starscream x Reader story.

Over It Now Pt 4

IDW Jazz x Reader

• As the days pass, he gets used to your routine. You work during the day. Doing what, he’s not sure, but he’s tails you daily to an office building in town. Once you’re safely inside, he heads back to the Ark. Back to his duties with that smiling mask firmly back in place. At night, he returns to follow you home. And some nights, you come outside, lingering on the step like you’re not at all certain if you want to speak with him or hide inside. You remind him of the wild animals he’s seen in the woods. Skittish and so fragile you’re almost ethereal. But those nights you do talk with him? You have such a soft voice, it lulls him, draining away the tension of the day. The stress of always carrying on an act. “I know you have better things to do than babysit me,” you say as you carefully lower yourself into the sun-faded rocking chair, mindful of the cast on your leg. “I’m fine.”

• “Nowhere I’d rather be,” he counters, smiling brightly when your eyes narrow suspiciously at him. Knows you think he’s a liar. He is, but for some reason, it bothers him that you know it. That you think less of him. “I like it here just fine.” Sitting in the driveway, his servos flex against his thigh so he doesn’t reach out. Knowing if he does, you’ll just want loose to go hide in your home. Out of sight and leaving him alone with his thoughts.

• That visor glows faintly as he tips his alien face up to the night sky and the silence spreads between you. Not uncomfortable, but peaceful and that bugs you. You’re getting used to the big alien. Getting to like the game of trying to figure out what’s true and what’s a lie, because he lies with a smile as easy as breathing. Teases and flirts shamelessly and that too is a nothing but lies. Like it’s all a game to him. “Do you ever tell the truth?” You ask.

• Helm tipping down to meet your stare, his door panels lift and fall in a shrug. “I’m always honest, doll.” With you, but he keeps that vulnerable part to himself. He owes you honesty, but lies are so much easier. Safer when no one can guess his motives. An obvious spy is a dead one and he’s taken that lesson to heart. “I adore these little conversations of ours.”

• And that’s your lying alien limit for the day. That not-quite mocking, teasing tone pushing your buttons. Disgusted with him and yourself for caring, you push up and grab your crutches. It’s cold out anyway and you’re suddenly very tired. Mostly of trying with him. You almost fall when he moves, a servo thumping against the door to keep you from pulling it open. Heart racing as your grip goes white knuckled on the crutches, you consider smacking his wrist with one. “Jazz, move. I’m tired.”

• He can’t. Not yet. If he does, you leave him alone again and he doesn’t want to be left alone with his memories. Doesn’t want to stress and worry about playing his part and keeping that facade firmly in place, because he’s so tired of it. Just a bit longer, that’s all he needs. He knows it’s not fair to take your time, he has no right to demand more of it. But, still. “Stay. Please.” Your shoulders hunch and he braces for anger. Annoyance. But then you just exhale and slowly limp back to the chair. He wants to reach for you, but he’s afraid to scare you off. “Thanks,” he murmurs, venting softly. Previous Next

[absurdthirst]

The Songbird and the Spaniard {Pero Tovar x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 13K

Warnings: Mafia AU, 1960s, threats of violence, greed card marriage, mentions of communism (McCarthy-ism era), violent assault, anger, rough sex, loss of virginity, communication issues, mentions of infidelity, confessions, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex

Comments: Pero Tovar has a problem, he's being deported. So he solves it by threatening you to marry him. A marriage for a green card, quickly complicated by the possessiveness of the mob boss and the rough taking of your virginity.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

**Follow @absurdthirst-writes and turn on notifications to stay up to date on all new fics.

|| MasterList || Pero Tovar MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The lounge is reminiscent of a 1920’s jazz club. It was the vibe that he wanted and what Pero Tovar wanted, he got. The velvet cushions on the chairs were always bearing the weight of people who wanted to come and have a good time. To gamble, smoke, drink and sometimes fuck in a club that was taboo because it had rumored ties to the mafia. Only people that know that it’s true are the people that work there. As one of the headliner singers, you are well aware of how dangerous the man you work for is, and you despise him. 

You smile at the crowd as you sing, your nerves fading as you serenade the drinkers, the gamblers, the lovers. You have been working at the club for a few years, hired by William, and you love it. The 60’s is in full swing and your mini dress sways around your thighs as you sing. Pero is sitting at the booth in the back, his dark eyes crinkling as he laughs at something William says to him, whiskey in his hand and cigarette in the other. “Boss. There’s a man here for you.” Rita, the coat check comes over to Pero, nervous since he has been cold to her since he fucked her a few nights ago in the cloak room. 

“Why don’t you send him over?” Pero asks, tapping his cigarette on the side of the ashtray. Rita nods and gestures for the man to come over. The man sits, setting his hat down on the table, “you’re a hard man to find Pero Tovar.” He says and Pero narrows his eyes slightly. “And who has been looking for me?” 

The man chuckles, “my name is Mr. Taylor. You’ve received letter upon letter from US immigration. You’re being deported. You arrived from Spain in 1937 as a refugee from Franco but you have failed to disclose if you’re a communist. You have ten days to book your ticket from the US otherwise we will remove you ourselves.”

Pero growls, stubbing out his cigarette and leaning over to grab the wad of cash out of his pocket. “How much to stay?” He demands. “I am no communist, I’m a business owner. This club.” He tells the bureaucratic prick. “I cannot go back to Spain, my life is here.”

Mr. Taylor snorts, “no amount of money will fix this. You have evaded me for too long. You have a week to get your affairs in order before I come back to escort you to your plane. I cannot be bought. We cannot have a communist here and you have not applied for citizenship. You will be leaving the US next week.” Mr. Taylor says as he stands up and hands the letter to Tovar. “One week. I’ll see you here or you will be arrested and detained.” He says before he spins on his heel and exits the club.

“Fuck.” Pero hisses, itching to reach for his gun but it would only make matters worse. William, knowing his friend and business partner, reaches over to take the gun from him under the table so none of the guests will see. “I told you that you shouldn’t ignore the letters.” He snorts, shaking his head and smirking slightly as Lin Mae watches from her sit across the room. His lovely bride is the security for the place and is far better at keeping the peace than even the threat of the mafia. “It’s an easy fix.” He tells the Spaniard easily. “Marry a citizen. Then you can stay.”

Your eyes find Pero and William, a man walking away from their booth, and you see the thunderous look on Pero’s face. He’s pissed off. You smile against the microphone, loving to see Pero not getting his way for once. The band finishes the song and you smile at the applause. “Thank you. I’m going to take a break but I’ll be back in five.” You announce and step off of the stage to walk over to the bar, ordering your vodka soda.

“What about Rita?” William suggests, the bastard laughing at the entire situation and making Pero want to smash his fist into his perfectly straight teeth. “Fuck no,” Pero snorts, motioning for the waitress for his section to bring him another whiskey when his eyes land on you. “Bitch’ll think that I really want to marry her and spit out babies.” He had avoided her after she had been clingy after the fuck in the coat closet, he doesn’t like that kind of shit.

“Thanks, Frank.” You smile at the bartender who  hands you your drink. You sit down on the stool and have a sip, glancing around at the club. It’s busy for a Wednesday but not as busy as the weekend. “What about…?” William jerks his chin over to the bar where you are sitting. “She definitely doesn’t want to have your babies.”

Pero snorts, his eyes sliding along the sleek lines of your dress and caresses every curve hungrily. “She would rather cut my heart out with a spoon.” He grunts, admiring the hatred you seem to harbor for him. It just makes him want you more. To possess you and watch you spit and hiss under him until you start to moan and writhe in pleasure. “That’s perfect.”

You set your empty glass down and make your way back to the stage but before you make it, Tovar steps in front of you. “Excuse me, Tovar. I need to get back on stage.” You huff, wondering what your boss wants. He’s been chasing Rita around the club lately so you don’t know why he is stopping you from getting back to your set. “I need to talk to you in my office.” He grunts and you roll your eyes, “don’t you want me back on stage?” His dark eyes stare at you, showing he’s not interested in an argument and you huff again. “Fine.” You stride onto the stage, whispering to the guitarist to keep playing until you come back. “Boss wants to see me.” You explain and Rico waggles his eyebrows. "As if." You wrinkle your nose and make your way off the stage, down the hall to Pero's office.

Sitting behind his desk, Pero wonders exactly what he needs to say to get you to marry him. Hating that he finds himself in this damned situation, but he needs to stay. He hasn’t been to Spain in nearly thirty years, his home is here and he’s not leaving.

“You know, I was in the middle of a set. William won’t be happy that I’m not out there getting the old men horny so they buy more booze.” You shut the door behind you to see what he wants.

“This is more important.” Pero motions to the chair in front of the desk and makes a show of pulling his gun out from the holster at the small of his back and setting it on the desk before he lights up a cigarette and stares at you for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to tell you. Being blunt is his nature and he decides to go with that. “You will need to be here tomorrow at ten in the morning in a white dress.” He orders, pointing at you with the cigarette held hand. “We are getting married.”

You stare at him for several seconds. “You’re fucking joking, right?” You choke. He stares back at you and you laugh, throwing your head back. Your chortles echo off of the walls of his office until you notice he’s not joking. “You’re not joking.” You choke again, “you’re not joking. Why- what the hell, Tovar? Explain.” You demand, shifting closer to his desk.

“You want to keep your job?” Pero growls, shooting you a dark look. “Fuckers from immigration are trying to deport me. You’re a citizen. We get married, I can stay and you can keep singing in my club.” He snorts. “And I don’t have to worry about you wanting to stay married after I get my green card.”

You shake your head, “I could go and get another job in another club. It’s the 60s. Women have freedom. I don’t have to be married and shoved into a kitchen anymore. I could easily get another job.” You scoff, unable to believe he has the gall to demand you marry him. Pero picks up his gun and aims it at you, making your eyes widen, “you can’t easily get another life.” Your stomach twists at the look in his eyes, cold and emotionless like he could pull the trigger and carry on about his day. If you don’t do what he wants, you’re dead. “O-okay. I- I- I’ll do it.” You whisper, eyes still fixed on the gun that you know has killed many men.

It should upset him that you would believe that he would shoot you, but it doesn’t. He’s getting his way and that’s all that matters. “Tomorrow.” He growls, slowly setting the gun down. “We get married so that prick can kiss my ass when he comes back to try to kick me out.” He smirks and takes a drag off his cigarette. “You can go finish your songs now.”

You narrow your eyes at him, knowing that you’ll do everything you can to make his life hell when you’re his wife. He doesn’t know what he’s signed himself up for. You won’t be some little wife cooking his meals and cleaning his apartment. You stand up and spin on your heel, not saying another word as you leave his office and go back to the stage but not before grabbing another glass of vodka soda. 

****

You sigh as you stand there, the only white dress you own goes down to your calves and it sways as you stand in the club, waiting for Pero who is late. He walks in and you huff,  “you’re late.” He chuckles and you hate that you like how he looks in the blue suit with his hair slicked back. He looks good. “I had to celebrate my last night of freedom.” He smirks and you scoff, “like you’re not going to fuck every whore from here to Harlem anyway.” You shake your head and grab your purse, “can we get this over with?”

“Eager to be my wife, hermosa?” There are witnesses milling around, so Pero grabs your waist and hauls you close to him. He can see the way your eyes widen slightly, your breath catching in surprise. You’re scared of him and while it might annoy him later, right now it’s useful. “Don’t worry, soon you’’ll be mi esposa and I will have you in bed screaming my name.” In order for Pero to stay, immigration must believe that the marriage is real, so he’s already sent guys over to your apartment to pack it up. You will come live with him.

“Screaming to get away from you.” You whisper, knowing you need to sell this otherwise you’ll be going to jail and he will be deported. Or you’ll be killed. His arms tighten around your waist in warning. You lean in to caress his cheek. He’s shaved and you press your lips to his cheek, your eyes open as you do it. “Let’s go get hitched.” You say with a smile on your face but your eyes burn into his.

The entire process is fairly simple, and it doesn’t take long before the two of you are standing in front of a magistrate. Pero holding you close and plastering a happy look on his normally dower face to prove that he’s wanting to do this and not just stay in the country.

You recite your vows, your hands on his and you are surprised when you see the ring he slides onto your finger. You didn’t imagine he’d have one and he hands you the one for you to slide onto his left hand. The magistrate declares you husband and wife and you don’t get a chance to prepare yourself as he leans in to press his lips to yours.

Your lips are soft, much softer than he imagined and the surprise parting them allows him to take complete control and kiss you like he wants to. His tongue sweeps into your mouth to take possession and map the inside with strong, determined strokes while your fingers dig into the jacket of his suit.

Your mind blanks when he kisses you so thoroughly. You never imagined him to be such a good kisser and you are disappointed when he pulls back until he offers you a cocky smirk that makes you barely refrain from glaring at him. After you sign the marriage certificate and Pero hands over some money, “to expedite this beautiful creature having my last name,” you leave the courthouse. “So, I guess I’ll wait until we meet with the immigration agent. I’ll see you at work.” You say, adjusting your purse and spinning on your heel to get away from him.

Pero snorts and grabs your arm, dragging you back against him. “Where are you going?” He demands. “I cannot have someone thinking this marriage is a sham.” You snort but he smirks at you. “My men are packing up your dresses and panties, hermosa. You live with me.”

Your eyes widen, “living with you? Fuck no.” You hiss and he shakes his head, “you have no choice. Unless you want to be six feet under.” His smile drops and you swallow harshly, “fine but I get my own room. I’m not sleeping with you. Or fucking you.” You growl, pressing your chest against his to show him he can’t control you.

While he might not have expected you to fuck him, Pero doesn’t like rejection. He likes to be the one to call the shots. Grabbing your chin, he hisses at you, his dark eyes narrowing in annoyance. “Who said I wanted you?” He spits. “I like soft women, warm and pliant, not a cunt so cold it would freeze my dick off.”

You wince at the way he grips your chin, keeping you close to him. “You have plenty of options you can pay for.” You hiss at him, “you can’t buy me. I’m doing this to stay alive.” You remind him, “let’s go. I want to change out of this dress and prepare for my set tonight.”

Pero lets go of your chin and snorts as he steps back from you. “That’s right.” He straightens his suit jacket and pins you with a dark look, almost glaring at you. “Remember who you are married to now.” He warns you. “I won’t tolerate you being a whore while you wear that ring.”

You want to spit back at him that you’re a virgin. You wanted to give yourself to the man you love but it looks like that won’t be happening anytime soon. You snort, “you don’t own me.” You try to rebel even under the dire circumstances. “That’s where you’re wrong, esposa. I do.” Pero declares and you huff, striding off to his waiting car without looking back at him.

Pero watches you walk away, admiring your ass and hissing between his teeth. You’ve made it very clear that you cannot stand him, yet out of all the women at the club, you are the one he craves. To tame you, temper you. Or maybe he just likes the spit and vinegar you give him, instead of just falling to his feet. Now he has you in name, but he cannot touch you.

You slide into the car and Pero follows, immediately lighting up a smoke when the car pulls away from the curb. “Can you open the window?” You ask and he rolls his eyes, rolling down the window but he exhales away from you. When you arrive at his apartment building, you’re impressed. It’s in a nice part of town. Certainly nicer than your place in Brooklyn, and you sigh when the driver opens your door after he pulls up to the curb. You walk in and the doorman greets you. “Harold, this is my new wife.” Pero introduces you, the cigarette long snubbed out but the smoke clings to his jacket. “Wife?” Harold is shocked and you lean into Pero to sell it, “we wanted to keep it private, you know, because of the baby.” You say, sliding your hand down to your belly and Pero hisses through his smile. “Come on, esposa, let’s get you settled.” He says and his grip on your waist tightens as you head into the elevator. “What the fuck did you say that for?” He growls and you giggle, leaning against the wall. “Wanted to have some fun.” You smirk and Pero shakes his head, “he’s going to know when you don’t get bigger.” He points out and you shrug, “shit happens. He doesn’t need to know.”

Pero lets go of you and stares at the numbers on the elevator as it goes up. Annoyed that you caused more drama than you needed to. Starting to regret this, but then he remembers that he has to have you as his wife, for his future here in America. “Mierda.” He hisses to himself and sighs when the door opens on the top floor, the penthouse suite of the building. “Home sweet home, esposa.”

Your eyes widen as you step out of the elevator, a view of Central Park ahead of the floor to ceiling windows and you are in awe of the luxury he lives in. "No wonder you don't want to leave." You murmur, taking note of the expensive furniture. You walk into the living room and find the door to the kitchen, gasping at the beautiful appliances and space that is almost the same size as your apartment. "Oh, I want to cook in here." You squeal, excited by the fridge and the top of the range stove.

Pero smirks, shucking his jacket as he listens to you go through the kitchen, exclaiming over the latest modern appliances. Even the microwave with the turntable and an electric can opener. He chuckles at your change of attitude but he doesn’t point out that it’s a wife’s job to make meals for her husband, knowing you wouldn’t appreciate that.

You turn to look at Pero as he walks over to the bar cart, "you want a drink?" He asks and you nod, "gonna need one after this morning." You take the glass of whiskey after Pero pours it into a crystal glass. You take a sip, "so where is my room?" You ask and he doesn't say a word as he escorts you down the hall to your bedroom, your things already there. "How did you- never mind." You scoff, knowing he's powerful enough to move mountains...just not regarding his immigration status.

He had anticipated you asking how the hell your things are all here, but you apparently figured it out. He smirks slightly and pulls out a key from his pocket to set it down on the table near the door. “This gives you access to the penthouse.” He tells you. “Don’t lose it.”

You turn to look at Pero after he sets the key down, “I won’t lose it.” You promise and he stares at you. Those dark brown eyes. If he wasn’t such a demanding asshole who chased women, you’d want him, but he’s too wild to tame. “I’m going to settle in.” You declare, hoping he gets the hint, and he does. You shut the door behind him and sit down on the bed. Your ring catches the light and you wonder what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.

It’s strange to have a woman in his apartment. He never has before. Not to sleep. His liaisons normally happened at the club or a lesser apartment he kept for activities, preferring to keep his actual home for himself. He pours himself another drink and listens to you start to move things around in your room and he huffs to himself. Deciding that he should just go back to the club and work so he won’t dwell on the fact that he has a wife and a sham marriage.

****

When you arrive at the club, Tovar is already there. He left hours ago and you thought you had to figure out how to get to the club on your own but you’re soon told by the doorman that there’s a car waiting for you. You arrive at the club and walk in, his ring on your hand, and your head high when you see Pero talking to the bartender, a glass of whiskey in his hand. You walk over to him, “hello, husband.” You greet him, wondering if he’s told the rest of the staff about his new status.

Pero lifts a brow, unsure if you were wishing for the staff to know and glances back at the bartender to see his reaction. “Vodka soda for my wife.” He grunts at the man. “Twist of lime.” He knows your drink, watching you more often than you realize and turn back towards you. “I’ve moved your set up.” He tells you. “You’re performing first tonight.”

“Why?” You huff, knowing that the crowd is always difficult for the first person on stage. He has the jazz trio who usually go first and they warm up the crowd for you. You hate being first. Frank hands you your drink, his eyes flicking down to the ring on your hand and he raises his eyebrows. You shake your head and sip the drink, turning back towards your husband for his answer.

Of course you would be annoyed. “So you can leave early.” He had thought he was doing you a favor, letting you leave the smoky club before the wee hours of the morning when you normally finish, but you aren’t appreciative.

You huff, knowing he only wants you to leave early so he can chase Rita or one of the cocktail waitresses around. “Fine. I’ll go on first.” You down the rest of your drink and make your way to the stage, speaking with the band who are confused that you’re up first. “Boss’s orders.” You tell them and a few minutes later, you’re singing. You can feel his eyes on you, watching you from the front row. It’s not Pero watching you. It’s another man. His eyes burning into you, licking his lips as you croon to the song. You try to ignore him, finishing up the first set and you make your way over to the bar for another drink. 

“You sing beautifully.” A voice coos in your ear and you turn your head to see the man from the front row of tables. “Thank you.” You offer him a polite smile and he leans closer. “Can I get you a drink?” He asks and you hold up your still full glass. “Already got one.” He nods, “maybe when you’re done with that.” He gestures to Frank to get him another round. “So…what’s a beautiful woman like you, doing singing in a club? You should be in an expensive home, my home, having my babies.” He smirks, thinking you should be fawning over him but you wrinkle your nose. 

“I have a rich husband.” You flash your ring at him and he grabs your hand, “that’s a piece of tin. I could get you a bigger rock. And a bigger cock.” He chuckles, his other hand finding your back and his palm slowly slides down until it’s on your ass.

Pero had watched from his booth until the stranger had ordered you a drink. Growling under his breath when the bastard sends you a cocky smirk that makes him get up and start striding over to you. Feeling jealous and territorial over you, even if you are only his wife on paper. You flash him the ring but the bastard just scoffs. His mistake is when he touches you, making Pero see red as the hand reaches your ass and he decides he will break every one of the bastard’s fingers. Not bothering with niceties, he grabs his hand off your ass, not saying a word until the man turns in surprise and then cries out in pain when Pero snaps his wrist before letting go and slamming his fist into his smug face. “Didn’t your mamá teach you not to touch another man’s wife?” He growls, grabbing his neck and slamming his face into the bar before he can react, spewing blood everywhere. “My wife.”

You stumble back in shock, eyes wide at the blood splattering on the counter and Pero doesn’t stop. He gestures to Frank, “get it for me.” He demands and Frank nods, not hesitating to grab the hammer from under the counter. Tovar grabs the hand that touched you, keeping it pinned to the counter and the man cries out in pain from his broken wrist. “You need to learn you should not touch what doesn’t belong to you, cabrón.” Pero growls and grabs the hammer, bringing it down on the fingers of the man who dared to touch you. You can’t breathe, can’t do anything but watch as the violence continues, your husband smashing the man’s digits with the hammer while he screams in agony. 

“Pero.” You choke out, knowing you shouldn’t say anything for fear of your own safety but you need to stop this before he kills him. “Enough. That’s enough.”

Pero doesn’t stop until he has smashed all five fingers with the hammer, aware that the music has stopped and everyone is gapping in horror at the scene. The man’s hand is mangled, bloodied - ruined. His dark eyes slide over to your terrified face but he looks back at the bastard who has pissed his pants as he sags against the bar. Pero drops the hammer and grabs his jacket lapels to yank him closer, ignoring the man’s whimpers of terror and begging for his life. He’s pathetic and no longer the cocky braggart of a few minutes earlier. “Touch her again and I will kill you.” Pero hisses. “Look at her and I will carve your eyes out of your skull.” Sobbing, the man shakes his head. “I won’t, I won’t, please- just- just let me go.” Pero grunts in disgust and pushes him away, letting him fall to the floor as his men surround him. “Get him out of here.” He growls and grabs your hand to drag you towards his office.

You let him drag you to his office, still in shock from the display of violence. You’ve seen hints of it. A punch here, a shove there, but you’ve never seen anything like that. Pero shuts the door behind you, his chest heaving and you stare at him. “Why did you do that? I had it under control.”

“His hand was on your ass and you had it under control?” Pero roars, grabbing you by the arms and pushing you against his desk. Crowding you with his body and trying to get himself under control but he’s failing. Losing his mind at the idea of that bastard touching you when not even he has touched your ass. “No one touches my wife.” He growls, crashing his lips to yours violently.

You should push him away, you should scream at him, but the possessive way he kisses you, the way he owns you. It has you pushing yourself against him, gripping the labels of his jacket as you kiss him back.

He would stop if you pushed him away. That’s what he tells himself as he grabs your hips and throws you up onto the surface of his desk. Hungry for you, his veins still swimming with violence and passion, fusing together and coming out as lust. His cock is already hard and he drags your panties down after pushing your slinky dress up to your waist. Pero’s tongue maps your mouth brutally and he swallows your moans and grunts as he unbuckles his belt with one hand, the other between your thighs and pushing two fingers inside your cunt.

Your cry echoes off the walls of his office as he pushes two thick digits into your shamefully wet pussy. You should push him away, tell him no, but you can’t. His display, his animalistic claim over you has you needing more and when his fingers curl in your pussy, you gush with need and desire for your newly minted husband. “Fuck me.” You beg, not knowing what you’re asking for other than to feel more of him.

Your words snap what little self control he has. Growling as he tears his lips away from yours, he bites along your jaw and down your throat as he pulls his cock out of his trousers, the same ones he had worn when he married you and slots himself between your thighs. He doesn’t ease into you, he can’t. He drives into you with one harsh, demanding thrust and groans your name as he claims you.

Your scream is smothered as you bury your face in his neck, the pain of his intrusion fading after a few moments but he doesn’t stop, pulling out to thrust into you without giving you a second but you cling to him. The pain fading and you moan when he starts to feel good as he moves inside of you.

“You’re mine.” He hisses in your ear. “My woman, my wife.” He knows that after this moment of insanity, you will be spitting and striking at him again, pushing him away. For now, right now, you are his to take. To protect. His lips continue to kiss and his teeth continue to nip your skin. Gorging himself on you while he fucks the tightest little cunt he’s ever had. Groaning your name when you flutter around him, it just makes him fuck you harder, the desk shaking under you from the intensity of his thrusts.

Your nails dig into his back as you slide your hands behind his back under his jacket. His cock pistons in and out of you, his eyes black as he stares at you, words of possession falling from his lips and you shouldn’t find this as hot as you do. He’s an animal but your walls are taking him eagerly, gushing around him with each moan of your name. Your hands let go of him and you lay back on his desk, arching your back as you knock the pen holder and papers from the surface, your eyes closing as the pleasure builds in your belly, his pelvis rubbing just right against your clit in this new angle.

You are gorgeous and pliant under him. Yielding to him in a way he never suspected and he can’t even stop to tell you how sexy you are. Grunting as he holds tight to your hips and uses you as an anchor. He watches you, wanting to push more of those moans out of your pretty mouth as he rocks into you. Looking down to watch his cock push in and out of your cunt, he twitches and ramps up the pace, knowing he will cum soon. 

Your hands find purchase of the edge of his expensive oak desk, your chest pushed up and heaving as he fucks you hard. Any venom you had for him seemed to leave your body as soon as he starts fucking you. Your thighs start to shake and he grabs them, pushing them back towards your stomach, sinking even deeper inside of you. “Oh shit!” You cry when he hits something indescribable inside of you. “To-Tovar. I’m going to - I think it’s-” You can barely speak as his hips hit the back of your thighs and seconds later, you’re clamping down on his cock.

He hisses, eyes rolling back as your walls grip his cock like a vice, feeling the tingle at the base of his spine. Happy that he had made you cum and soak his cock before his own orgasm. You are so tight around him that he can only give another three thrusts before he is pushing deep, kissing your womb with his cock as he starts to paint your walls with his seed. Grunting and groaning as he fills you. 

You open your eyes to watch him as he cums, jaw clenched and eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks as his cum fills you up. You relax, slumping on his desk as he rocks through it until he stops, his hands caressing up your thighs and you shift to sit up as soon as he pulls out. You stand on wobbly legs, his hands gripping your waist to steady you and you manage to pull together enough balance to bend down and grab your panties, pulling them up your legs to keep his cum from dripping down your thighs. “I should - I need to get back to my set.” You choke out. His hand comes to grab yours but you manage to evade his grip, “wait-” He says your name but you’re already slipping out of his office, heading to the bathroom to process the fact that you just had sex with your maniac boss who is now your husband.

Pero frowns as he stares at the door you had left opened, confused by the way you had just run away like he was the devil. You had told him to fuck you, begged him, and now you couldn’t get away from him fast enough. Clenching his jaw, he tucks his cock away and looks down at his hand, the skin bruised on his knuckles from where he punched that asshole. “Hijo de puta.” He hisses, storming out of the office in need of a drink.

You step back on stage after you clean yourself up, another drink in hand, and you are starting your song as Pero stalks through the club to sit in the booth where William is. Your voice seems boxy in your ears as you try to focus on your performance but you’re constantly watching Pero. You shouldn’t have given in to him. Nothing good can come of it. He will be on to the next shiny thing when he’s done with you. When he got what he wanted: his citizenship.

“You made a scene.” Willam comments as Pero downs his first drink and then motions to Rita to quickly bring him another. He cuts his eyes back over at his friend and reaches out to take the Irishman’s drink. “So?” He grunts and William smirks. “Because he touched her?” He asks, making Pero growl, “she’s my wife. You would have killed him if she was Lin Mae.” That comment just makes the other man laugh even more. 

“So why is she watching you now and you are drinking like you are trying to forget?” He asks as the waitress brings another drink over with a sultry smile for the Spaniard that he completely ignores. She pouts as she saunters off and Pero stares down at his drink for a moment before he answers. “Fucked her.” he admits, tossing back the drink in one gulp.

William keeps his expression neutral to not tip you off since you’re watching but his eyes widen slightly, “you fucked her? You know…shit, brother. She’s not the type you fuck and walk away from.” William shakes his head and Pero snorts, slamming the glass on the table. “She walked away from me. Left before I could even tuck my cock away.” 

William sighs, “you better know what you’re doing. She’s not the kind of woman you fuck around. Not like Rita. She’s too good for you.”

His eyes find you up on the stage again, crooning into the microphone and he sighs. “I know it, cabrón.” He admits quietly. “I’ve always known it, that’s why I wanted her.” He pushes his drink away and leans back in his booth, watching you from the shadows as he was meant to do. You had the spotlight on you, he lived in darkness. He had let the darkness touch you because of his own greed and he couldn’t do that again. Not when you wanted to leave just as soon as he got his green card.  

You finish your set and take your place at the bar again, ordering a club soda, no vodka. You need a clear head. Pero doesn’t come over to the bar, and thankfully no one else does. You see Rita rush down the hall to Pero’s office and sigh, knowing that she will always be in his head. She’s a good time and you’re…complicated. When you don’t see Pero, you decide to head home. Grabbing your purse, you figure you’ll use the subway, leave the car for Tovar since he will probably be home late. You have a bath after you arrive back at his penthouse, soaking in the tub with a cigarette to relax and clean yourself after he fucked you. You’re sore, aching, and the hot water does wonders.

“Come on baby- I can suck your cock.” Rita pouts and licks her lips as Pero pushes her away. He had gone to his office after your performance, not interested in watching the band and the clingy bitch had followed him inside. Obviously not getting the hint when he told her to bring him a drink from the bar, she continues to annoy him. Wanting more than he is willing to give. 

“I’m married.” Pero shakes his head, waving her towards the door. “I’m not fucking you again, or letting you suck my cock.” 

“Come on baby. Don’t be like that. She doesn’t have to know. Why the hell did you marry that cold bitch? You could’ve had me. Whenever you wanted. I would’ve given you the world. Kids. Blowjobs.” She smirks, shifting to sit on his desk. “All you have to do is ask and I’ll be yours. You can keep your little wife but I want to be your whore.”

Pero narrows his eyes dangerously, pissed off that she would insult you. “Get the fuck out of my office.” He hisses. “You’re fired.” Her mouth drops open in shock and she gasps. “What? Pero- baby-” Slamming his fist on the desk, he shoots out of his chair. “Get out!” He shouts, making her flinch in fear. “Don’t ever fucking come back!”

She scrambles off of his desk, knowing the look in his eyes is one to not be fucked with. He’d never hurt a woman, his mamá would smack him from her grave, but Rita doesn’t know that as she rushes out of the office, getting her purse and practically sprinting out of the club in tears.

William walks into his office right after Rita runs out, staring at Pero like he’s lost his mind. “Tell me you didn’t-” He starts but the Spaniard cuts him off. “Fire her? Yes, I did.” He grunts, gathering his papers and stuffing them into a rarely used briefcase. “Cut her last check, pay her cash, I don’t fucking care, but she doesn’t set foot back in his club again.” 

William nods, “I’ll get the guys to give her cash. Jesus Christ, my friend. You have got it bad. You need to get this under control before you lose it all. Go talk to her. I’ll make sure everything is closed up here.”

He grunts, sure that his friend is being over dramatic. He’s not going to lose anything. Because of his marriage to you, he will be able to keep what he’s worked hard to build. Still, he nods and strides out of his office, needing to get home and find out why the fuck you ran away from him.

You are in a robe, preparing a cup of tea when Pero arrives home. Much earlier than you thought he would, and he sets his briefcase down on the kitchen counter. “Rita didn’t take long then.” You snort, pouring out the hot water from the kettle as Pero stands there.

He ignores the barb that you throw at him, watching as you make yourself a cup of tea. “You left without letting me know.” He grunts, wondering why you get under his skin as much as you do. Looking softer than you had before, he likes this look on you.

You turn to look at him, “I figured you were busy and I didn’t want to disturb you. I saw Rita heading into your office so I didn’t want to walk in on something I don’t want to see.” You shake your head, turning back to your tea, putting the tea bag in. “Do you need something?” You ask, not looking back over at your new husband.

He frowns at your back, unsure why you keep bringing up Rita like he was still fucking the girl. It was one time. “She’s gone.” He announces, “fired.” Moving over to the cabinet, he gets out another tea cup for himself since you didn’t offer him a cup.

You feel guilty that she’s fired but then you remember how she would brag about sleeping with the boss. “You fired her? She - she used to say that she was sucking your cock every day.” You hand him a tea bag, unable to be too cold to not help him with a cup of tea.

Pero snorts and pours the still hot water from the kettle into his cup and adds the tea bag with two cubes of sugar. “I fucked her one time. In the coat room.” He admits. “She didn’t suck my cock everyday and when she pushed me to fuck her tonight, I fired her.”

You shake your head, knowing you shouldn’t care. Not this much. “Why? She was offering herself to you on a platter. Most men would have taken it.” You stir your tea, looking down at the cup. 

“I’m not most men. I’m married.” 

You frown and look at him, “I never expected you to be faithful.” 

He scoffs, “my mamá would kill me. She taught me that you don’t hit women, you don’t cheat on your wife, and you protect what’s yours.” Your eyebrows raised, shocked at the way he has more morality than most men around. “I- I never would’ve - you seem like the type to love ‘em and leave ‘em.”

“When I was single, I fucked who I wanted.” He shrugged slightly and doesn’t mentioned that he wanted to fuck you and he had to marry you in order to do that. “While you had to marry me and despise me, I will not shame you with affairs.” He promises. “But I expect the same.” That is a warning for you and just a statement of fact. Anyone you slept with, he would kill.

You scoff, “you don’t need to worry about that. I’m not - that isn’t something I do. I was a virgin.” You confess and he frowns, “who did you lose your innocence to?” He asks, wondering why you’re telling him this. “You.” You whisper, staring at your cup of tea.

Pero freezes, dropping his spoon into his cup with a clatter and stares at you in horror. “I- you gave me your innocence on my fucking desk?” He rasps out, feeling horrible that he had not known nor shown you any kind of tenderness when he had touched you. “I- Mierda. I should have treated you better.”

You shake your head, “I didn’t protest and - and I wanted to see what all the fuss is about. I was saving myself for the man I love but with marrying you, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen anytime soon so I figured I’d get it over with.” You shrug like it doesn’t mean anything.

Your words hit him like a bucket of water being dropped over his head. A stark reminder that you hate him. “Right.” He grunts, picking up his cup. “Now you know what it’s all about.” He spits before he turns and walks out of the kitchen stiffly.

You watch him leave and lean against the counter. You don’t know how you’re going to survive being married to Pero. He’s complicated and you regret your words. You sip your cup of tea and decide to take it back to your room. You’re Mrs. Tovar now and you will need to navigate your complicated faux marriage.

****

“I have to say that I’m surprised to see this.” Mr. Taylor’s lips are pressed thin in displeasure as he inspects the marriage certificate thoroughly, as if expecting to find it to be a forgery. “I was unaware you were engaged.” Pero arches a brow and leans back in his chair, taking this meeting in his office and blows a puff of smoke up into the air. “You did not ask.” He points out, his other arm wrapping around your waist and tugging you closer on the arm of his chair. “But you cannot deny I have taste.”

“You certainly do, Mr. Tovar.” Mr. Taylor says, his eyes trailing along your form and Pero pulls you closer, his possessive nature on display. “He’s too sweet.” You murmur, leaning in to press your lips to Pero’s turning his cheek to ensure you can kiss him properly. His tongue pushes into your mouth and you pull back a second later, pecking his lips. “So…this has become a green card situation. One that I find to be very convenient since this is dated after our meeting.” 

Mr. Taylor tilts his head as he looks at you, “would you say your husband is a communist?” He asks and you scoff, “a communist? Mr. Taylor, my husband escaped Spain to avoid being in Franco’s army. He is a pure patriot to our country. He loves America. He loves freedom. He would never be a commie. He abhors the very ideology.” You explain, shaking your head and Mr. Taylor hums, his eyes darting back to Pero. “Very well. It seems that things are in order but any word of you joining a local sector of the communist party or if I get a whiff of anything amiss, I’ll be back.” He promises, signing a piece of paper and handing it to Pero.

Pero snorts and snatches the paper away from the little prick. “Then it will be a pleasure to never see your face again.” He grunts. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Mr. Taylor stands, packing up his briefcase and you offer him a hand, helping him pack up. “Thank you. My husband is very happy to stay here and I’m happy he is. Especially for our family.” You say, sliding your hand down to your stomach. “Congratulations.” The immigration officer says and makes a quick exit from Pero’s office. 

When he’s certain the man is gone, Pero tuts, “can you stop telling people you’re pregnant?” He huffs, taking another puff of his cigarette. “Why? It sealed the deal. He won’t deport the father of an American born baby.” You raise your eyebrows, “just selling our happy union, baby.” You coo sarcastically. Ever since that night that Pero took your virginity, you’ve barely talked. Just a few words here and there between meals and going to the club.

He snorts and shakes his head. He knows you aren’t pregnant, the box of feminine napkins in your bathroom making it clear you had bled since he had taken your innocence. He had been surprised to be disappointed by that knowledge but he hadn’t said a word. “I should get back to work.” He stubs out the cigarette and looks back down at the paper Mr. Taylor had left. “Are you singing the last set tonight?” He hadn’t taken charge of your times since that first night, giving you control over when you perform.

You nod, “yes. Me and the guys have been working on some new songs. I think the crowd will love them.” You say, grabbing your purse, “so I guess we will be divorced as soon as your green card comes in.” You walk out of his office before he responds, not wanting to hear the answer.

Slumping down into the chair, Pero hisses a curse and reaches for his cigarettes again. The silent stalemate between you two is apparently still ongoing and he doesn’t know what to do. He hates that you can’t wait to be away from him. Hates that you are counting down the days until you are no longer his wife.

You are nearly done with your set when your husband comes out of his office to sit down with William in their normal booth. He gestures for a drink to be brought over and you start the song you’ve been practicing with the guys. “Looking out to the morning rain.” You sing, your eyes sweeping across the crowd as you croon the song, “‘cause you make me feel like a natural woman.” You sing the line and look over at Pero.

His grip of his glass tightens as you seem to sing to him. Leaning forward and watching you with the intensity of a starving man hunting his dinner.  The low whistle beside him turns into an amused chuckle but he doesn’t take his eyes off of you. “Still obsessed with your wife, I see.” William teases Pero. “Have you told her you love her?” He asks, making the Spaniard snort. “She wouldn’t believe me.” He murmurs, still watching you as you continue to sing the ballad. “Waiting to divorce me.”

You finish the song to a roar of applause, your eyes still on Pero as he stares at you and your set is over. You take a bow and thank the band before you walk off the stage, making your way over to Frank to get another drink. You feel him before you see him, his body warm behind you as he leans over to snub his cigarette out in the ashtray on the counter. “Are you ready to go home?” You ask him, turning your head to look at your husband. You’ve been traveling back and forth together since that night you took the subway.

“Yes.” Pero nods and glances at the bartender to make sure he doesn’t need anything. “Are you changing, or wearing your dress home?” Some nights you want to change, some nights you want to get home as quickly as possible.

“I’ll wear it home. I’m ready to get out of here. It’s been a long day.” You tell him and he nods, getting one of the girls to grab your coat and purse while you finish your water. William comes over to bid you goodnight, “have fun, kids.” He winks and heads over to see his beautiful wife who is running security. You snort at the Irishman and Pero holds your coat up for you to slide your arms into it. "Thank you." You murmur and he nods, escorting you outside to his awaiting car. "Did you like the new set?" You ask when he is beside you, the streets passing by.

“It was moving.” He loved it, but he also hated it, knowing it wasn’t for him. You hate him and he’s honestly expecting you to quit the club after you divorce him. “The crowd loved it. You did a great job.”

“Thank you.” You murmur, looking out of the window. You wanted him to say he loved it. It was for him. During your time living with Pero, you’ve come to discover the smallest details about him. He donates money to the families of the neighborhood he lived in when he first came to the States. They are struggling so he helps them out. He has noticed what food and drinks you like, ensuring that the housekeeper has them stocked for you at all times, even your toiletries. He listens to the radio intensely, especially love ballads. Something you never expected. Each day, he chips away at the hatred you had for him and shows you the man he is beneath the harsh exterior, the shell he’s had to build to survive in this city. You could even dare say you’re falling for him. That’s what makes this so sad. He will ask you for a divorce as soon as he’s able and you’ll be back in your tiny apartment in Brooklyn wondering what could’ve been if this was real.

The drive is silent and Pero wishes you would say something. Even if it’s to rage at him. The politely stiff, cold semblance of manners between the two of you irritates him. Making him long for the days that you would rage and spit at him. He drums his fingers on the car door and sighs when it pulls up in front of the apartment building. Neither one of you speaks on the elevator, and when the doors open to the penthouse, you move to step out. “Are you hungry?” Pero asks, breaking the silence and making you turn towards him. “I’m hungry. Thinking about making something to eat.”

You nod, “yes. Starving. I didn’t eat lunch because I was rushing to get my hair done for when Mr. Taylor arrived. I wanted to look my best for him.” You confess, “and for you. As your wife…pretend wife.” You add, making your way through the penthouse to the kitchen after kicking off your heels in the hall.

He hates when you make little comments about being his pretend wife. Rubbing it in his face that you don’t want to be around him but he forced you to. Feeling guilty because you are so obviously unhappy even living in the most luxurious apartment he could give you. He follows you and shakes his head. “You go change.” He shrugs out of his suit jacket and starts to unbutton his sleeves. “I will make us dinner. I know you want to get out of your dress.” You told him once that you enjoy dressing up but you preferred being comfortable and he agrees with you. You look gorgeous in the shorts and little shirts you wear around the apartment. Liking it better when you wear no makeup.

“Thanks.” You make your way to your bedroom, taking off your jewelry and you reach behind you to try and pull down the zipper of your dress. You’d barely managed to get it on earlier in the day. “Pero, can you help me?” You call out, grunting as you try again to pull the zipper down but failing.

Pero had been heating up the pan, the chopped vegetables and chicken the housekeeper had prepared labeled in the Tupperware. He sets everything down and walks towards your bedroom. He has stayed away from your bedroom and it’s the first time he’s been inside since you’ve moved in. Your back is to him and you look over your shoulder, almost giving him a come hither look that makes his cock twitch. “Your dress, hermosa?”

“Yeah. I zipped myself into it. Can’t get myself out of it.” You chuckle softly and turn your head so he can see the zip at the nape of your neck. His fingers grip the zipper and slowly he pulls it down. You can feel his warm breath on your back as your skin is exposed, his knuckles dragging along your spine as he pulls the zip down. “Thank you.” You whisper, closing your eyes at how close he is to you, you can feel the warmth from his body.

“You’re welcome.” He murmurs softly, resisting the urge to caress your waist. He is already half hard and steps back. “Chicken and vegetables good?” He asks, wanting to make sure you just don’t want some eggs or something.

You nod, "that's good. I'm starving." You say and let the dress drop. He is your husband so you don't care if he sees your bare back and underwear. You walk over to the dresser to grab some shorts and a t-shirt, feeling his eyes on you. "Are you going to make dinner?" You ask, turning to look at him after you pull the t-shirt over your head.

“Yes.” Pero spins on his heel and rushes out of your bedroom, cock pressing against the zipper of his trousers and he reminds himself that you haven’t wanted him to touch you since that one night he took your virginity. He goes back to the kitchen and moves the pan back to the flame.

You sigh when he leaves your bedroom and you head into the ensuite to wash off your makeup. By the time you arrive back in the kitchen, dinner is cooked and waiting on a plate for you. "Thank you." You smile at Pero, "this looks great." You take a bite and groan, starving after a long day at work and you practically devour the meal. Pero remains silent, watching you while he eats his food. "That was great. Thanks baby." You say without even thinking about it.

Pero nearly chokes on the bite of chicken, coughing slightly and he wonders if you are trying to torment him tonight. “You are welcomed.” He grunts and tries to not look at you, knowing he will stare at your pretty, bare face and want to touch you. He's thought about nothing else but showing you how he should have made your first time, but you’ve not wanted anything to do with him. Not that he blames you.

You stare at him, watching him eat, and it hits you. You love him. You don't know when that happened when you used to think the man was a monster, beating men up without a thought, and the womanizing. He hasn't been with another woman since you've been married, as per his word, and you believe him. Your eyes widen at the revelation and Pero is none the wiser. "When do you think your paperwork will come through for the green card?" You ask, leaning back against your chair.

Pero has a secret and it’s one that will piss you off. He’s had the paperwork for a week. He’s sat on it because he doesn’t want to divorce you yet. Hoping that some kind of miracle will happen to make you realize he would be a good man to you, you will never believe that. He huffs slightly and shrugs. “Hopefully this week. You will be happy, eh?” He smirks slightly, hiding the way it makes his heart hurt. “Have your freedom back and now that you are no longer pure, you can fuck who you want.”

Your heart shatters at his words, knowing he has used you completely. Your body, your heart, your nationality. “Yeah. I can fuck Johnny the new bassist. He keeps asking me to come over to his place.” You say, venom in your voice as you jab back at your husband.

Pero’s fork clatters to the plate and he pushes back from the counter so hard the barstool scrapes on the floor. Not caring, he dumps the dish into the sink, ignoring the way the plate breaks and he whirls around. “I’m going back to the club.” He growls.

“Why? So you can find someone to fuck? The virgin wasn’t enough for you? I gave you my virginity because I - because I wanted you and you’ve never looked at me since. Haven’t touched me even though I just practically stripped off in front of you. I know English isn’t your first language but fuck, do I need to spell it out for you? I wanted you to touch me. I have - I have been hot and cold but that’s only because I didn’t think you wanted me again and now you have the audacity to be mad because I want someone to want me.” You finish your rant, chest heaving as you stare at him.

Pero clenches his jaw, breathing heavily and he growls when he rushes forward and grabs you. “You think I don’t want you?” He hisses, shaking you slightly. “You hate me. You tell me every chance you get that you cannot wait to be rid of me and I hate that I was not gentle with you.” He confesses. “That I didn’t treat you like the fucking exquisite creature you are.”

Your eyes widen at his confession and you shake your head, “I don’t hate you. I never hated you. I hated how you behaved. The skirt chasing, the way you would speak to me. I never hated you. I - shit - you know what I hate now? The fact that I love you.” You choke, “and I thought you were the one who wanted the divorce. That you wanted to be rid of me so you could go back to your ways.”

“I chased skirts because I couldn’t have you.” He tells you. “I’m not a good man. I’m a killer, a thief, a liar, but you are the only woman I wanted so badly I would lie to her to have.” Your brow furrows in confusion and Pero shrugs. “Would have never laid a hand on you if you had refused to marry me.” He confesses.

You stare at him, absorbing his words, and you can’t help it. “You are an idiot.” You surge forward to press your lips to his, your hands cupping his cheeks and you press your body against his, wanting him to know how you feel.

Pero grunts in surprise, expecting you to hit him, not kiss him. Wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly tight against his body and kissing you back with a hunger that shows you every time he’s ever thought about you.

You moan into his mouth, your hands sliding up to mess up his slicked back hair, your tongue sliding against his. You’ve thought of him every night since the night he took you on his desk. “Pero.” You whimper when his lips slide along your jaw, “I don’t care about - about - you being a good man. I just want you. The good and the bad. You’re a good man. You don’t let people see it but I do. I want you.”

Pero pulls back and he stares into your eyes. “Let me take you to bed, hermosa.” He begs softly. “Show you how I can touch you. How you deserve to be loved.”

​​You nod, “take me to bed, esposo.” You order, sliding your hands down to start unbuttoning his shirt, you want to see all of him. You want to strip him down and have him on a bed instead of his desk.

He bites his lips and watches you so he doesn’t grab you up and carry you into the bedroom to immediately undress you. “I love you.” He murmurs quietly, his eyes dark.

Your breath catches at his confession. Something you never thought you’d hear him say. “I love you.” You murmur back, caressing his chest once his shirt is unbuttoned. “I want you to make love to me, like a husband does.”

Nodding, he reaches for your hand and leads you towards the master bedroom. His bedroom. He wants you there. “I have never had sex in this apartment.” He tells you softly, hoping you understand the meaning behind it. “You are the only woman to be in this bed.”

Your heart thumps at the news and you smile, leaning in to kiss his clavicle once you’re in his bedroom. “I love you, baby. I need you.” You whimper, sliding your hand lower from his chest so you can squeeze his cock through his pants.

Pero groans and grabs your hand. “No, hermosa.” He growls softly. “You are my precious little virgin.” He tells you with a smirk. “You are going to strip off your clothes and spread your thighs so I can eat your pretty cunt.”

His words make you shudder with lust and you nod, letting go of him and stepping back to reach for the hem of your shirt. You pull it over your head to expose your tits to his gaze for the first time.

“Fuck those are pretty tits.” Pero groans, reaching down and palming his cock. “My wife is gorgeous and I am a lucky bastard.” He will try to give you sweet words, knowing you need them.

You love his compliment so you push your shorts down your legs along with your panties, stepping out of them to stand naked in front of him for the first time. “You are.” You smirk, “and so am I.” You walk backwards to his bed, crooking your finger at him before you lay down on his sheets. “Come on, show me what you got.”

Shrugging off his shirt, Pero drops it onto the floor and unbuckles his belt. Sliding it out of the loops and smirking as he watches you as he bunches the belt in his hand. “I should beat you.” He growls playfully. “For teasing me. Taunting me everyday.”

You scoff, “teasing you? I haven’t done anything. I’ve been a good girl.” You shift to sit up on your elbows. “You wouldn’t dare beat me. I’d get William to kick your ass.” You tease, spreading your legs to show him your pussy.

“Your perfume.” Pero groans, flicking open his pants to relieve the pressure. “It fills my apartment, driving me crazy. Your face, clean and make-up free is beautiful.” He reaches out and grabs your ankle, kneeling on the bed.

“Pero.” You look up at him as he hovers over you, his dark eyes burning into yours as his hand trails along your calf. “I want you. I need you.” You murmur, wanting him to know exactly how you feel.

He smirks as he nods. “You have me, hermosa.” He coos, fingers sliding over your knees and up your thighs. Humming as he combs through the neat patch of hair covering your cunt. “Now let me show you what I’m going to do with you.”

You moan when his fingers slide through your folds and your head tilts back, your eyes closing at how he’s making you feel already. “Baby.” You whimper when his fingers rub your clit. You’re already wet for him, you need more from him.

“I’ll take care of you.” Pero promises, flattening himself onto the bed and pushing your thighs farther apart. “I promise.” Winking at you, he lowers his mouth to your cunt and slides his tongue through your folds.

“Oh my - shit.” You hiss when his hot tongue flicks over your clit. “That - that feels amazing.” You confess, sliding back on your elbows to lay flat and you look up at the ceiling as his tongue laps at your cunt. You’ve never experienced this before and it feels better than any book has described it to be.

He hums, curling his tongue around your clit and flicks it sharply. Watching your tits heave and your hips rock down. You are exquisite and he’s eager to taste more. Wrapping his arms around your thighs, he holds you open and licks deeper into your cunt.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, a moan escaping your lips as his tongue pushes into your cunt, curling while his nose presses against your clit. “Shit. You - it feels so good. Keep - keep going.” You order, feeling powerful that this powerful man is between your thighs, worshiping you.

He’s not stopping. Nothing in the world would have pulled him away from your cunt right now. He growls into your folds before he pushes his tongue deep into your cunt and presses his nose to your clit.

You cry out, thighs trying to press against his head but he keeps your legs open for him so he can tongue fuck you. His nose presses against your clit and he moves his head from side to side.

He wants to devour you, to completely overwhelm you and make you cry out. He groans and doubles down on how vigorously he licks into you.

“Shit. Pe-Pero. Oh God. I’m - it’s good. So good. Oh baby, I’m gonna - fuck!” You cry out, thighs shaking as you cum, soaking his chin as you fall apart under his tongue.

Pero groans, lapping up every drop of your orgasm with the slow flicks of his tongue. Working you through the release until your moans turn breathless and you are squirming under his tongue.

Your fingers pull on his hair, “come here.” You order and he reluctantly pulls back from your pussy and he shifts up your body. His lips pressing kisses along your stomach until he’s taking your nipple into his mouth. You reach down to squeeze his cock through his pants, wanting to see all of him. “I want to see all of you, baby.”

It makes his smirk turn even more wicked and he pulls up to his knees to open up his pants the rest of the way. Standing on the bed and pushing down his trousers and briefs together to kick off.

Your eyes widen at the sight of his impressive length, uncut, and throbbing. You shift onto your knees, your eyes on him as you grip his cock, pushing the foreskin down so you can flick your tongue over the leaking slit. His groan emboldens you and you wrap your lips around the head, taking him deeper into your mouth:

Pero groans your name, pulling his hips back and making you whine softly. "You should not." He pants quietly. "I won't last."

You pout after you let his cock drop from your mouth. He shifts to kneel, grabbing your waist to lift you up onto his pillows and your hands caress his back, feeling his muscles move as he kneels between your hips. “I love you.” You murmur, “my husband.”

He hums, caressing your waist and he gazes down at you softly. "I love you too, esposa." He leans down and presses his lips to yours. "Now, I will make love to you." He whispers against your lips as he rolls the foreskin back and lines up to slowly sink inside you. Taking his time and pushing in a fraction of an inch at a time.

You moan as he pushes into you. You’re wet enough to take him but there’s still a slight pinch from the girth of his cock. “Oh.” You exhale, eyes closing as he pushes deep, rocking into you inch by inch until his hips are pressing against your thighs, your legs wrapped around him.

"You are so tight." He groans, softly, pushing his arms around your body and pulling you close. "I should have known you were pure."

You caress his shoulders up to his hair, tangling your fingers in to drag his face to yours, pressing your lips to his. His cock twitches inside of you and you whimper into his mouth when he pushes your leg higher up his hip so he can sink deeper inside of you.

Pero groans and kisses along your jaw. Slowly rocking into you and setting a sedate pace. Making love to you rather than fucking you. Kissing every inch of your skin that he can reach while he fills you.

He's taking over your senses, consuming your body with his and you moan when he picks up the pace a little. "Yes. Oh shit. You feel so good, my love. Can't believe - can't believe we wasted so much time. Could've been fucking each other."

He chuckles quietly and nuzzles into your neck gently. “I love you, mi amor.” He murmurs, loving how soft you are for him right now, how you are moaning his name.

He's so different from the man who roughly took you on his desk after destroying another man's hand. This Pero is gentle and loving, a man you're proud to call yours, and you rock your hips up to meet his, finding the rhythm he has set.

The violence is still there, simmering under the surface but he would never hurt you. He would kill for you, hurt on your behalf, but he would never put you through any kind of pain.

His jaw clenches when you start to flutter around his cock. His pelvis drops so he is grinding against your clit, and you grab his hand bringing it to your neck. You want him to squeeze, to show you that he'd never hurt you but he's capable of killing others who would do you harm.

His eyes widen and he nearly drags his hand away but you make a sound of protest. Making him keep his hand there and he starts to squeeze ever so lightly.

You moan when he starts to squeeze, giving you what you want. To know that he'd never hurt you, never do anything to harm you, has you clenching around his cock. You're so close.

You are like a vice around his cock and Pero groans your name, enjoying how dirty you are. How filthy his innocent little wife is. “I could snap your neck right now.” He growls, squeezing a little harder.

His words send you over the edge. The knowledge that he could kill you but wouldn't, has you soaking his cock and you moan his name, shaking beneath him as you cum.

It’s the most beautiful thing that he’s ever seen. Watching you fall apart under him while he slowly rocks in and out of you. Sliding his hand from your neck to your cheek, cupping it gently. “That’s it, hermosa. Cum for me.”

You shudder under him, closing your eyes when the pleasure overtakes your body, and you whimper his name as he works you through it. He slows down, in no rush for this to be over, and you catch your breath. "I want to ride you." You murmur, pushing on his chest slightly.

“Really?” He groans at the idea and slowly pulls out of you. Turning onto his back and reaching for you again. Eager to touch you as much as he can now that things are different between you.

You shift, straddling his thighs and you reach between you, gripping his cock. You lift up to position him at your entrance and you slowly sink down onto him. He feels so much bigger in this position and you gasp, "goddamn." You murmur, "you gotta- show me what to do." You request, not wanting to disappoint him.

You could just sit on his cock and he would be happy, but he slowly starts to grind you down into him. Holding your hips and rocking you onto his cock and twitching inside you. “Fuck, amor.” He grits out. “So tight like this. My wife, riding my cock like a whore.”

You playfully slap his cheek, "only yours. Your whore." You smirk and lean down to kiss him, changing the angle inside of you, and you moan against his lips. You rock back onto him, picking up the movement from his guidance, and you gasp when he smacks your ass cheek.

He chuckles quietly and slaps your ass again. “Ride me then.” He grunts. “Make yourself cum on my cock.” He smirks. “Tomorrow you can ride me at the club. Sit on my cock while I do paperwork.”

"Yesss. Want everyone to know you're mine." You confess, shifting to sit up straight. Your hands on his chest as you rock your hips. "Fuck, Pero. This - it's so good." You confess, throwing your head back. Pero surges up, his hands on your back as his lips wrap around your nipple. He bites and soothes with his tongue, making you cry out. "Fuck baby. I - shit." You choke, your fingers tangling in his hair. His hand slides between you to rub your clit and you're gone. Shaking above him, you clamp down on his cock while he rubs your clit to work you through it.

Pero groans against your breast and takes over. The way you cum for him has him chasing his own end. Bracing his feet, he thrusts up into you harshly. “Te amo, esposa. I love you.” Pero starts to babble, losing control of his mouth. “You’re mine. Always mine. Never letting you go. Didn’t- didn’t want to tell you I have my paperwork. Didn’t want you to leave me.” He presses his face to your chest and moans your name, pushing deep and filling you with his seed in hot, pulsing waves of pleasure.

You collapse against him, panting to try and catch your breath as he fills you up and he kisses along your neck, relaxing beneath you. You take a few moments to recover until you are pulling back to look at him, “wait…you’ve had the paperwork?” You ask, a frown on your face.

Pero’s eyes slide away from you guiltily and he huffs slightly. “My paperwork came in last week.” He confesses, knowing you will be upset at him. “My green card is in the safe here in the apartment.”

You push back from him, sitting up, and you shake your head. "Why didn't you tell me?" You ask, pissed at him for lying to you. "I - I thought you'd leave me. I thought you'd want to divorce and I wanted to delay the inevitable." He confesses, "I didn't want to endure the heartbreak." You stare at his remorseful expression, those dark eyes soft with emotion and you forgive him. His actions were bad, but his intentions were good. "You stupid bastard." You murmur, cupping his cheeks as you lean down to kiss his lips. "No more lies. No more secrets. Otherwise, we are over. I can't handle your lies. I can handle everything else."

“Honesty.” Pero promises, holding the back of your neck to drag your lips back to his once more. He has lied to get you to marry him, hidden his true intentions from you, nearly killed a man for touching you - but the best thing of all is that he has managed to steal your heart. Pero Tovar is a dangerous man, but you are the songbird that has tamed him. He is yours.

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Why did Galadriel jump off the cliff? #2

We had one explanation, yes. But what about the second explanation?

In one of my previous posts I presented one hypothesis to Galadriel jumping off the cliff: to protect Nenya.

Now, I want to explore a different angle: Galadriel jumps off the cliff to stop herself from joining Sauron.

Strange. Because she hates Sauron, it’s Halbrand she loves and all that jazz, isn’t it?

First things, first: let’s not strip Galadriel of her agency here nor whitewash her character (which I see fellow fans do a lot). Galadriel is aware of what she would become if she joins Sauron. She might self-deceive herself on several occasions to dissociate of her own actions; like the “I was deceived” nonsense. But, deep down, she’s aware that she would, indeed, become a tyrant. She would enslave everyone to her will, and make them all her subjects, to worship her, and love her, and despair.

And what’s worse is: this is what she truly wants. This her true heart’s desire. Ultimate power. The superficial meaning is: she wants Sauron’s power to become hers; the subtext is she wants Sauron himself. And this is what Sauron, the “sharer of gifts”, gives her by forcing them to bind together via Morgoth’s crown.

Galadriel knows the effect her beauty has on others, and she relishes on it, she wants to be worshipped by everyone. She loves to be on power trips, and to feel powerful. This is why we saw her being so arrogant (with pretty much every character) and rub her titles on everyone’s faces back in Season 1. She believes herself to be above everyone else, because she’s royalty, she’s a princess, she’s the only surviving child of High King of the Noldor, Finarfin, she was born to rule. And that’s why she doesn’t respect Gil-galad’s authority on several occasions: not only he’s younger than her, but she wants his title for herself. She should be High Queen of the Noldor. Pride is her main flaw of character in Tolkien lore.

And this is why Sauron offers her this. His proposal was to make her “a” queen; the Queen of all Middle-earth (not “my queen”). She’s the one who says she wants him as her king.

And this is why Sauron humiliates her during their fight in 2x08. His mindset was: you think your are powerful? Your power is no match for mine. Join me if you want to have true power.

Sauron allowing her to indulge in sword fighting instead of using sorcery to disarm her is also a callback to their scene in Númenor prison in 1x04, when Galadriel sarcastically asks Halbrand: “Are you really about to advise me in the art of war?” Me, the commander of the Northern armies of Gil-galad?

And he laughs. Because, of course, he does; Sauron was not only Morgoth’s chief lieutenant, but was also in charge of Angband, Morgoth’s fortress on Middle-earth, and had that thing running like clockwork. And in the entirety of the War of Wrath he has only known one defeat (to Lúthien and Huan, the Hound of Valinor). He’s a sorcerer, yes, but he’s also highly skilled in combat, and with thousand of years of experience ahead of Galadriel. This was never going to be a fair fight.

[she] stood before Frodo seeming now tall beyond measurement, and beautiful beyond enduring, terrible and worshipful. 

And like Tolkien said about Gandalf, Galadriel would be a far worse tyrant than Sauron himself. Because Sauron is a demigod, he helped shape the world he seeks to dominate and enslave. He’s the ultimate power himself (One Ring), the “precious” (this is one of the meanings of his true name “Mairon”). But what happens when you give this power to someone else? Pretty much what happened to Isildur, Gollum, and even Frodo. But these characters weren’t powerful immortal beings like Galadriel herself, so the end result would be far more terrifying.

We see this with Saruman (who’s also a former Maia of Aulë like Sauron himself). But Saruman is a servant of Sauron and his wingman (wingmaia?); their deal isn’t absolute power like what Sauron offered to Galadriel. Nor was Sauron in love with him.

This comes from a misunderstanding of Galadriel’s character. And it’s kind of hilarious to read Galadriel stans calling Sauron a “narcissist”, when Galadriel herself is the worst case of narcissism in “Rings of Power” at this point of the story. And she and Sauron are so alike in personality, that if you are going to badmouth one, you have to badmouth the other. They are the same. And that’s why Bear McCreary gave them similar themes: The Galadriel and Sauron ostinatos share a similar contour of upward moving minor scales, though they are each rhythmically and structurally distinct. And they are distinct because they are on opposite sides of the battle of good vs. evil, due to their own choices.

Everyone talks about Galadriel’s light, but this is due to Sauron’s self-deceit. Galadriel’s “light” isn’t truly “her light”, at all: it’s the light of the Two Trees of Valinor, Telperion (Silver) and Laurelin (Gold), shining on her eyes and hair, because she was born during the Years of the Trees (before Morgoth and Ungoliant destroy them). This light shines on every Elf that lived under the Two Trees light, not just Galadriel. And that’s why she’ll craft her Phial and her Mirror, and even wears Nenya, to harvest their light for herself.

The true reason why Mairon was intrigued and drawn to Galadriel in Season 1, and why he’ll keep on trying to bring her to his side for thousands of years has nothing to do with “her light”. It’s actually way darker, and Season 1 gave us the answer (and almost everyone chooses to ignore it):

Perhaps your search for Morgoth's successor should have ended in your own mirror. Adar calls Galadriel out, 1x06

I already talked about this on my Halaldriel post, but I’ll go deeper here: Mairon was attracted to Galadriel because she reminded him of Morgoth. Not because she’s dark or darkness, but due to her chaotic energy. She’s impulsive, aggressive, arrogant and sometimes downright offensive towards the Númenóreans. This is why he wants to be the one doing the talking: Morgoth was the brute force and Sauron the mind. This is why he tells Galadriel not to make any new enemies. This is why he gets impatient with her, and compares her to a “horse in full gallop” and advises a more cunning and subtle approach; Morgoth was “chaotic evil” while Sauron is “lawful evil”.

This mention of “envy” wasn’t random: Morgoth was a envious and petty God. He was envious of the ability of creation, and he wanted it for himself. But since he could not have it, he devoted himself to corrupt Eru’s creation, instead.

Galadriel whole demeanor recalls Mairon, even if on a subconscious level, of Morgoth himself. And this is why Mairon wanted to serve her. He believed it was due to her “light” and saw it as his chance at redemption, but he was deeply mistaken, and deceiving himself, again.

And we even saw Galadriel being the “Morgoth” to Mairon’s “Sauron” several times in Season 1. She’s the one who tempts him with power, when he’s minding his own business, at the forge. This is direct parallel with Morgoth tempting Mairon in Aulë’s forge, thousands of years prior. She’s the one who tempts him into choosing deceit (evil), instead of remaining on his path of redemption.

It has been been confirmed that Eru brought Galadriel and Mairon together. And if this theory is correct, Mawnë sent his Maia and herald Eönwë (in Diarmid form) to bring Mairon home to Aman, and this would be the reason why they were sailing in the Sundering Seas near Valinor. Ulmo, then, sent the sea creature (and it's possible it could be his Maia Ossë, actually), to wreck that ship to test Mairon; will you choose "good" (help Diarmind, who would reveal himself to be Eönwë) or Morgoth (pouch from the King of the Southlands who swore a blood oath to Morgoth)?

He choose Morgoth and run into Galadriel next. The question is: what if Galadriel was his second test? Because what we got with their Númenor dynamic was “the seduction of Mairon” 2.0. with Galadriel instead of Morgoth. And he failed the test, once again.

“You used me. After I all but begged you to let me be.” Mairon tells Galadriel this in 1x05, but it could easily be him thinking of Morgoth when he started to resent him (and probably joining him, in the first place), but, due to his blood oath, it was too late and there was nothing he could do to escape him. And so, he wouldn’t be able to serve any other master, nor gain redemption so easily.

Back to Galadriel, I know many fellow fans have complained she has been “toned down” in Season 2, because Gil-galad and Elrond have taken upon themselves to teach her a bit of humility. But that’s not because of the lorebros, folks. That’s her character arc in Tolkien legendarium. She’s a “repentant sinner” who got banished from Valinor because of her pride and greed (power hungry), as I’ve talked about in this post.

Galadriel has to humble herself and “touch some grass” in order to become the wise leader we know her to be on the Third Age. Her wisdom doesn’t come out of nowhere, she’ll have to earn it and cultivate it over the centuries. As she lets go of her arrogance and pride, the more powerful and wise she’ll become. And this has nothing to do with her being a wife or a mother (like the “lorebros” want, because this is of no consequence to her character arc as written by Tolkien), but with her own power and how she’ll wield it.

The struggle between good vs. evil is within Galadriel herself. She also has to choose good every day, to keep it as a part of her nature. And her pull towards evil and power is represented by her love for Sauron. Because it’s Sauron she wants. When he proposed to make her a queen, she expresses her desire of having him as her king consort, and adds “the Dark Lord”. This is in the literal script, I don’t even know why this “Sauron vs Halbrand” discourse is even a thing anymore.

At the end of the day, Halbrand was a mere mortal man, a Southlander, a “low man”, king or not. Galadriel fell in love with him, but she would always consider him beneath her. Now Sauron is a complete different story. He’s the most powerful being around, with all of his glorious titles: he’s Tar-Mairon, “King Excellent”, King of Kings, Lord of the Earth, the Lord of the Rings. Evil, or not, a mighty being like Sauron lusting after her is an absolute aphrodisiac for her power thirst. And that’s why Galadriel, deep down, is terrified of meeting him, again. Because if she lets him in, she’s doomed. She knows she won’t be able to resist him, again.

At its core, Galadriel’s hatred and anger is not at Sauron per say. She hates and is angry at herself for harboring these feelings for him, and projects this onto him during their fight. She knows she shouldn’t feel anything other than hate and despise for her enemy. This is like Gollum with the One Ring: in spite of how much he craves it, he hates himself for having this want because it destroys him.

She fights Sauron with all of her might in hope of destroying her feelings for him. That’s why she wants to kill him herself, so badly. She wants to prove to herself she can do it. She’s deep in denial about the whole thing. And that’s why Sauron shows her Halbrand. And, in that moment, she stops her violent shenanigans because that’s the face she knows, with whom she has a deep connection with, and the face she loves. But Halbrand is just one of Sauron’s physical forms, he’s the same immortal spirit. But Galadriel knows this, as well.

“I see you. I know your mind” is Sauron saying “I know that you want to join me.” And then he adds:

This is him saying “I know you are angry at yourself and that’s why you fight me, but I don’t hold it against you. You can still join me.”

But she’s still in denial. And he loses his patience. He forces them to bind together and it’s over for Galadriel: he’s in. And she cries. This is not due to physical pain alone, because Elves are tough, and Galadriel herself, being thousands of years old, and a seasoned warrior, has known her share of physical pain.

And now she will join him. I know many speculate this was her deceiving him, but I don’t think so. When we look at the general picture, it’s clear: she’s, indeed, about to join Sauron. And he knows this, too.

Come on, Sauron plays 5D chess, he cannot be deceived (only by himself, really), and nor does Galadriel have the power to do it at this point in the story, and I don’t think she ever will, because that’s not her character arc. She’s growing in wisdom and power, she’ll become the “Lady of Light”, not into a deceiver like Sauron.

And it’s Nenya that snaps her out of it. Nenya has healing powers, which explains her final words of “do you wish to heal Middle-earth? Heal yourself.” And Galadriel’s voice doesn’t even sound like hers. It’s like it’s Nenya talking through her, in that moment. To prevent her from joining Sauron, and it’s Nenya that compels Galadriel to fall. And this also fits with Celebrimbor’s warning that the rings of power will destroy Sauron, earlier in the episode.

When she falls back, Galadriel doesn’t look resolved or determined into doing this, at all. She looks like she’s asking for Sauron’s help to prevent her from falling down the cliff. And he tries to help her, indeed.

He probably “cushioned” her fall too, because there is no way she could have survived that fall in one piece. And when he’s looking down, I think he wants to go down there and get her.

Because when Gil-galad, Arondir and Elrond show up, there is a huge change in his demeanor. He’s pissed, and kills Glûg to drive home this point.