#just waiting for the proper moment to let them loose

[aparticularbandit]

chihiro: i got bit by a mosquito last night.

me: wait, are you telling me jin kirigiri wouldn't let celeste have her cat, but he let the old school building have MOSQUITOS?

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hiiii

Can you do something about the batboys (specially Tim and Damian cuz they are my fav)?

With a reader who loves hugs, like A LOT

And it is simply spontaneous to want to hug.

Dick

He loves your spontaneity and your hugs.

He finally has someone who can eagerly accept his out of nowhere hugs by reciprocating with your own hugs.

You have a hug off to see who can hug the other the most as it never fails to make both of your days better, and it acts like a really good pick me up when you both need it most.

Dick could stay in your arms forever if he could and hopes that you feel the same as it acts as a way of communicating without the usage of words. Dick can convey how he felt to you in certain situations throughout all types of hugs possible.

Tight hugs for when he thought he wasn’t going to come back home to you, or when he fears that you wouldn’t love him anymore or for times where he just needed to feel you against him.

Soft, gently, comforting hugs for when he feels like being more affectionate with you, maybe even playful and or wanting to just show you that he cares about you as while he’s a charmer, meaningful words tend to fail him on multiple occasions.

Protective, ‘don’t touch them or else’ hugs where he keeps a tight and firm grip on you as he pushes your head into his neck while he poetically cocoons you in his arms as to keep you out of sight of anyone he thinks is no good for you.

Other then them, dick will always await for you with open arms almost instinctively, knowing he’s going to get the best hug of a lifetime as thought you haven’t seen each other in a long time and not five minutes. Dick just loves you and your spontaneous hugs.

Damian

Fight instincts are strong in Damian.

So when you first try to hug him, his sword was drawn within inches of your face as fast as you could blink. He’d never hurt you, no. It’s just that his body was tuned to react within seconds to any potential danger against him, and unfortunately his mind made him think that your hugs were threats.

So once he realises what he had done on impulse, he apologise and sheathed his sword and tells you that he’s not yet use to your kind of affection due to his upbringing and that he’ll try to become accustomed to it eventually; Which he does but his response to your hugs is rather stiff and almost robotic but you were more then happy to take what you get, and if this is the most he can do right now then you’ll accept it.

However when he does start to get use to your hugs and doesn’t feel like he has to draw his sword every time, but he tends to melt into your touch like a stray cat being shown love for the first time. He closes his eyes and burrows his head into your neck as he tightened his grip on you, as though you’d vanish if he were to ever let up his hold.

He doesn’t want you to hug him in public, he’s not comfortable with it as he would when you’re hugging him in private, but he couldn’t fault you if you were to hug him after an highly emotional moment where you thought you’d loose him, Damian understands but he just prefers to have you hug him in private overall.

It also lessens the teasing potential for his brothers and he gets the alone time with you like he so wished for.

Tim

Finds comfort and reassurance in your hugs.

Seriously your hugs are what Tim needs after a long and arduous mission alongside his brothers and sisters.

He doesn’t even flinch at how out of the blue your hugs are, he just accepts your hugs no matter what and will sigh heavily as he practically falls asleep in your arms.

Please help this man get some proper sleep for once in his life, the detective stuff can wait, it’s not going to go anywhere anytime soon just please take a break.

He’s more then reciprocal of your hugs and appreciates the love you pour into them as they help ease the worries within his head as he rests his head against yours, allowing himself to slow down and appreciate what was in front of him.

Your hugs -despite their spontaneity- have a calming affect on him and they worked wonders for when he needs sleep as his mind tends to keep him up at night. So now with you it’s a bit more bearable as you would cradle his head to your chest, letting him focus in on your breathing and your heart until that’s all the last thing he remembered before drifting off to sleep.

Jason

It takes Jason some time to get use to your spontaneous hug feasts. At first he flinches and almost shies away from your hugs as he doesn’t acquaint any physical contact as soft, or warm or comforting like you did. In fact he viewed it as the opposite.

So it takes time for Jason to become comfortable with your spontaneous hugs and once he stops flinching and shying away from them, he grows addicted to your hugs and awaits each and every time that you decided he looked like he needed a little hug or cuddle.

He -much like Damian- would melt into your hugs, tighten his grip on you and would find that everything fades away the moment he’s in your arms; His mind clears of all stress and all he can think about was how perfect each and every one of your hugs were every single time.

He also never wants to leave your embrace, ever, he just refuses and claims he needs five more minutes in your arms and would groan in annoyance if you were to attempt to pull away.

‘Stop moving away from me.’ He’d groan. ‘You wanted to hug me so hug me!’

You chuckle at him whenever he got like this but oblige to his wishes regardless as you didn’t have to heart to stop hugging Jason when he’s practically clinging onto you like a koala bear. So you just remain where you are until five minutes become a full day and you and Jason are shuffling towards the bedroom together to cuddle until you feel asleep.

Needles to say Jason grows to love your hugs however they come and when they come, for they help him get through the day.

Bruce

He’s not use to your hugs yet either and it takes him just as long-if not longer- as Jason to get use to them overtime.

His muscles would tense and that’s about it.

He’s use to being hugged by the likes of Jason and Damian and Dick when he got older but your hugs were different then theirs, and sooner or later Bruce had developed a sixth sense for whenever you’re going to hug him, and would smile to himself whenever he heard your footsteps and little giggles before bracing himself for you hug.

‘You heard me didn’t you.’ You’d always ask and without hesitation Bruce replied with in a playful manner; ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about my dear.’ Which only made you pout as you tightened your grip on him while burrowing your face into his broad back.

There would even be times where you’re about to hug him, but Bruce moves just in times as you were going to hug his waist and stares at you for a bit before opening his arms and letting you run into his chest. He doesn’t mind your hugs now and then when he’s not busy as he doesn’t like neglecting you for his work; So he tries to at least let you get all your hugs out while you could before he had to indulge in his work that takes up a huge amount of his time.

Like Damian he likes to have you hug him in private, he’s a well know public figure and Gotham isn’t exactly safe and so he prioritised your safety above all else. So while he’ll interlock his pinky with yours or have your arm locked in his in public, he’ll let you hang off of him as reward in private while he rests his hands over your own in means of keeping you there.

Alfred finds it sweet seeing Bruce be affectionate with you and probably has a picture where Bruce is embracing you fully, his head resting atop of yours while your face was smothered against his chest, your face bearing the widest smile possible in comparison to Bruce’s face of calm serenity.

[criminalamnesia]

GOD I LOVE traitor and how strong you've made the reader. It's amazing! And I eagerly await any future parts, whether it's big proper story or drabbles. BUT, you come first and your life does so you do what you gotta and go be amazing! We can wait. Proud of you X

im so late to responding, but thank you! <3

here’s part six :) also not really proofread so I apologize for any errors! I’ll fix them later!

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

you don’t know how long you’ve been sitting on the floor, cross-legged amongst broken glass, brittle flowers, and discarded clothes, when someone knocks on the door.

you don’t move, don’t say anything. the noise seems distant— too far off to be real.

besides, if someone is really knocking on your door, they know you’re in here.

and if they know you’re in here, it could be one of five people. your former squad mates, or the doctor.

the knock sounds again. it shakes you from your stupor, yet you still make no move to answer it. let them come in; let them see what they’ve made of you. of who you were. of who you could’ve been.

the person on the other side of the door is speaking now. you register the muffled baritone as it fights to be heard from the hall.

you clench your fists, then unclench them— stretching out your fingers as far as they go. clench them again. unclench. stretch. repeat.

it’s a tick— a calming habit. you don’t think it’s working at the present moment.

the doorknob turns. you still don’t move.

the door is being pushed in, light from the hallway aggressively slicing through the darkness you’d left yourself in. you fought the urge to curl in on yourself.

you’d been so consumed by your anger— are consumed by it— but coming into this room and seeing that damn note was earth-shaking. it was terrifying, and it was a tangible reminder of the team’s unapologetic tactics. simon’s unapologetic tactics.

the voice is speaking once more, clearer now that the door is out of the way— but you can’t make out the words over the ringing in your ears.

a hand gingerly lands on your shoulder, and that’s when you snap.

you whirl around, throwing yourself into the intruder like a cobra striking its prey. clearly caught off guard, the person lets loose a ‘oomph’ and falls backwards as you take out their legs.

everything is fuzzy. the ringing in your ears crescendos, and it brings pain with it. you’re striking your target with reckless abandon, still not registering who is flailing underneath you.

punches land and land and land. nails scrape and scratch and draw blood. all you see is red— all you hear is the sharpening of a knife or the whirring of a saw.

and then there are hands on you, yanking you away from your victim. the red slowly starts to recede, the ringing in your ears subsiding.

it’s only then do you release you’re screaming.

its only then do you see the swollen and bloodied face of your doctor, lying a foot away from you. she sputters a cough, blood leaving her lips and splattering onto the man leaning over her.

“you need to calm down,” a voice speaks into your ear.

“calm down, or they’ll sedate you,” it says, and you finally stop screaming. you take a breath.

clench your fists. unclench. stretch. repeat.

it takes you another minute to calm down enough to realize the person holding you is simon.

the doctor is being carried away now, and you notice it’s johnny and kyle carrying her. you notice john is standing to your left, eyes full of sympathy and guilt as he looks at you.

“get,” you huff, reaching down to slap at the arms circling your middle. “off me.”

simon releases you instantly. you don’t hesitate to put distance between the two of you. a few feet, at least. he just stands there, eyes watching with an expression you can’t place.

“what happened, love?” john’s voice is a soft rumble as he speaks. he moves a hand toward you, but decides against touching you— even if he only wanted to comfort you.

“I—” you start, glancing down at your hands. they’re bloody again.

“I thought it was—” you try again, but stop yourself.

you thought it was what? thought it was who?

you had heard man’s voice speaking to you. your mind had twisted things— had given you something you wanted to hear, deep down— because it gave you the chance to strike.

it gave you the opportunity to tear apart whichever man from the 141 had been there to check on you.

and you know you had wished it was simon.

john takes a cautious step forward at your silence. “let’s get you somewhere private, yeah? somewhere to cool down.”

the fire licking at your veins has subsided in favor of the chill of shame. of terror at what you’ve done— what you’ve done to the one person you had on your side. the person who was truly on your side.

you don’t fight this time. you give a nod, then solemnly follow him down the corridor. simon falls in behind you.

john takes you to his office, opening the door and ushering you inside. you move without protest, stepping into the dark room.

the two men enter behind you, john flicking on the light while simon pulls the door shut. you would’ve laughed at the scenario if you were in your right mind.

but you weren’t.

you weren’t okay. you knew that you weren’t, at least physically, but what you just did…

there was no way you were going to be transferred now. you doubted you would’ve even before you attacked the doctor.

you’re going to be discharged. you understand why.

but it hurts. this is your job, your life. years and years on the battlefield don’t prepare you for life off of it.

“love?”

john’s voice brings you back to the present. you realize you’ve been standing in the center of the room, unmoving and unblinking.

you feel simon’s hard gaze on your back. you want to cry.

how did things ever get this fucked up?

“im fine.” you say, not bothering to turn around. you didn’t trust yourself to keep it together if you faced them.

“you’re not,” john states, and you roll your eyes.

“im not talking about this with you,” you bite out, circling your arms around yourself. “either of you.”

“you should at least talk to someone, love— this isn’t healthy.”

“please, stop.” you tell him, but john was never good at taking orders. he gave them, not followed them.

“you hated the therapist, and you haven’t spoken to anyone else since… everything.” he continues.

“stop, john,” you try again.

“you need to let it out, love. we’re here—”

you spin around then, fists dropping to your sides. “for the love of god, john, shut the fuck up.”

that stuns him into silence, eyes slightly widened and mouth agape as he looks at you. simon doesn’t move from his position near the door.

“you are the last people i would ever fucking talk to! I don’t even want to be talking to you right now, but you won’t stop trying. trying to talk to me, trying to make it up, trying to wriggle your way back into my good graces.”

you pause, sucking in a breath. “johnny must’ve relayed the message, and that’s why you’ve back off a little— but one wrong fucking move and you’re swooping again! you aren’t my dad, you aren’t my lover, you aren’t my friend, and you’re sure as hell not my fucking captain anymore.”

“so please, john, leave me be. the four of you have done enough.”

the room is silent for a beat, then two. then three. and then simon takes a step forward, removes his balaclava, and looks you square in the face.

he doesn’t open his mouth to speak, so you take the chance to.

“don’t start with me, simon. just don’t.”

“the note,” he says. “you read it.”

you just look at him, a disbelieving scoff leaving your mouth as you give a nod. “yes, I read your fucking note. and I saw the stupid flowers, too, after seeing everything else you wrecked. tell me, how long did you wait after you tied me up to tear it all apart?”

he just watches you. you want to scream.

the note flashes back into your mind.

‘hope you can understand.’

“does it make you feel better, thinking what you did was right?” you ask him.

“I wouldn’t have done it differently.” simon tells you.

you clench your fists. unclench. stretch.

breathe in, breathe out.

“and if the roles were reversed,” you said, watching him. “if you were in my position, would you have expected me to do what you did?”

“yes.” he says, without hesitation.

“you’re unbelievable,” you huff. “is that how little I meant to you? all that time, wasted?”

“that’s not what I said.” he tells you, and you shake your head.

“no, but it’s what you meant.” anger is bubbling up again. you feel overwhelmed; shame and fury battling inside you. the ringing building up in your ears again, emerging from the background.

you can’t do this.

“what i meant is what i said.” he takes another step forward. “you’re just too damn stubborn to listen, always have been.”

“just go, simon.” you tell him. “both of you. go.”

“I wouldn’t change what I did,” he says again. “to protect my team, my family, I would do whatever it takes.”

you bite your tongue. you don’t want to keep arguing with him. he was an unmovable object— there was no way to reason with him.

“im not sorry it happened.” he speaks. “i did what i thought i had to do. what i had to do to make sure my team was safe.”

“and you should understand that, considering this team is all you have, too.”

you don’t respond— and even if you were going to, a knock on the door breaks the tense silence in the room.

johnny pops his head in, his eyes full of concern. “doc’s alrigh’.” he says, his gaze catching yours. “jus’ some bumps and bruises. she’ll be jus’ fine.”

“and she uh— said she’s not pressin’ charges or anythin’. says she still expects to see ya in a few days for your check-up.”

that’s what breaks you.

a tear slips from your eye, falling onto your cheek. another follows, then another, and you’re sobbing as you fall to the floor of price’s office.

the three men are staring, but no one makes any move to comfort you.

probably wise, considering what you did to the last person who tried.

you faintly register the click of the door as it shuts again. you don’t look up— your head in your hands as you cry.

cry about what you’ve done, what you’ve lost. mourn your career and your family and your love for the man who doesn’t regret what he did.

unbeknownst to you, simon is the only one still left in the room. his steps are silent as he approaches you— leaving only a foot of space between your bodies now.

he watches you as he sinks to the ground across from you, his long legs folded over each other, the fingers of his left hand twitching as he finds himself wanting to reach for you.

he still cares for you. his feelings for you were what made him do what he did in the first place.

the love he felt for you, twisting into betrayal and hurt and agony. fueling his actions, his desire to hear you admit your wrongdoings.

passion made people dangerous. passion in love, passion in rage. it was a fine line, and simon had crossed it.

he understood what this meant for you. recalls the conversation he had with price earlier— how laswell was planning for your discharge instead of your transfer.

this was the end of your time with them, and in the military. the hands of the 141, damaging one of their own beyond repair.

he finds himself mourning alongside you, then. mourning what was and what could’ve been.

what should have been.

“im sorry for what we did to you,” he says, but it comes out as a whisper that you don’t hear.

“im sorry.”

thank you all again for your patience! I plan on tying this little series up soon :)

as a reminder, I no longer do taglists. if you want to be notified when I post, follow @troiastitans and turn on notifications. I only reblog my works there.

I hope you all enjoyed :)

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Coveted.

Pairing: Yandere!Geto x Reader (+Yandere!Gojo) [JJK].

Word Count: 1.1k.

TW: Set Two or Three Years Post KFC Break-Up, Intimidation, Prolonged Stalking, Future Dub/Con, Mentions of Non/Con, and Unbalanced Power Dynamics.

[Part Two]

“You’re Satoru’s date, right?”

The voice was masculine, deep and as rough as it could be without crossing the line into gravelly. You stiffened, squaring your shoulders and burrowing your nails into your palm as your eyes darted across the table – where a man with dark hair and an off-putting smile was currently sliding into the unoccupied side of your booth. He reached out, clearly planning to shake your hand, but when you failed to move, he only let out an airy chuckle, propping his chin on his fist as he went on. “I’m a friend of his – Geto Suguru. You can call me Suguru-chan, though. Has he already told you about me?”

He was dressed like he’d just rolled out of bed – his attire limited to a form-fitting black shirt and a pair of loose sweatpants in the same color, his hair pulled into a loose bun. His tone was friendly, light. You returned it with a dead-pan stare, hoping it conveyed the weight of your exhaustion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Is that what he told you to say?” Another laugh, somehow more blood-chilling than the first. Your attention shifted outward, to the late-night diner where Gojo had asked you to meet him. There were only a few other customers, the skeleton of a proper staff, but single other person would’ve been one too many. You didn’t need to make a scene, not again, not after last time. “That sounds like him. He’s always been a stingy bastard.”

With a pressed frown, you pushed yourself to your feet, but Geto’s grin only broadened. He snapped his fingers and as if it’d only been waiting for a queue, a shape manifested at the end of your bench. You couldn’t bring yourself to look directly at it, but you saw enough out of the corner of your eye; a bulbous torso, shrunken arms, too many eyes to resemble any living thing. Instantly, what little courage you still had was replaced with a knot of dread, a bolt of pure anxiety. You half-expected it to lunge, to bite, to attack, but it didn’t move, only standing guard at the foot of your table.

It didn’t move, but it didn’t have to. In a moment, you’d fallen back into your seat and shoved yourself against the wall, fighting not to shake. It was a sight Geto seemed to take a particular joy in, letting his head lull to the side as he watched you curl into yourself. “You can see them. I was starting to think I had the wrong person.” A pause, a glance towards his summoned monster before his narrowed gaze skirted back to you. “Don’t be shy, now. How much did he tell you?”

It took you a moment to find your tongue, another to swallow back the tremor in your voice. "He said he could protect me.” It was harder to admit than you’d expected – not so much that you needed protection, but that there was something you needed protection from. You’d spent so long writing off your monsters as hallucinations that it was still a struggle to act like they were anything more. But, for as unwilling as you were to confront your little monsters, the resounding ache in your right leg where that thing had dug its claws into you was impossible to ignore. “He… he didn’t mention anyone else, but we’ve only spoken once. He was supposed to explain—” You gestured to the monster. “—all of this today.”

A slight hum, a look of genuine surprise. “So, he’s got some self-restraint after all! I thought he would’ve cracked months ago, considering how long he’s been following you around like a lost puppy.” He must’ve seen your expression fall, your posture slacken, because he didn’t wait for a response before going on. “I mean, you must’ve known that, at least. Did you think he’d play knight-in-shining-armor for just anyone?”

“I…” You trailed off quickly, shaking your head. “I don’t care. As long as he can protect me, I don’t care why he’s doing it.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say. You wouldn’t want to make Satoru feel so replaceable, now, would you?”  

At that, you met his stare. “What do you want?”

His eyes skirted towards the monster, who took an obedient step back. For a second, you considered running, trying to slip away before the man in front of you or your newly-realized stalker could make you regret ever showing up at all, but Geto was quick to cut off your escape route, filling the empty space beside you before you could so much as pick which door you would barrel through on the way out. “Well, now that we’re on the same page,” Unlike his monster, he didn’t give you the option of leaving him in your peripheral; settling close enough for his leg to press into yours. At this proximity, you could pick up the smoke on his breath, the scent of stale gore clinging to him like a second skin. As if he’d just stepped out of a blood bath. “I’d like to make you an alternative offer.”

“You’d protect me?”

“Oh, I’d do more than just that.” His hand fell to your thigh. “I’d have everything you’ve ever been afraid of bowing to you by the end of the night.”

You swallowed dryly. “You didn’t answer my first question. What do you get out of helping me?”

His answer was nonverbal, but clear enough. With that same idle grin, he nodded toward the streaked window, to the building across the street. Your heart fell into your stomach. It was one of those sleazy, by-the-hour hotels – the sign missing more than a few letters and the parking lot as empty as the diner. It was the kind of place that you only went to for one thing, and you had a feeling Geto hadn’t found some miraculous second reason to want to be alone with you in one of those bug-infested rooms.

You weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe to buy yourself time. Maybe because you couldn’t stand the idea of being left in silence as what was left of your rational mind screamed at you to get out of there. “I don’t have any money.”

“It’ll be my treat.”

“What happens I refuse?”

“I kill everyone here,” His nails bit into exposed skin. “And then fuck you on this table while their bodies attract flies.”

You might’ve cried, if you hadn’t been so tired.

You might’ve done anything, if you could bring yourself to care about anything but keeping those awful creatures at a distance.

Stiffly, with your eyes shut and your teeth grit, you forced yourself to nod. Geto rewarded you with an impossibly wide grin, a breath of a laugh. “Smart little thing.”

This time, he didn’t pretend it was an option; reaching out, taking your trembling hand in his own, and squeezing so softly, you could almost convince yourself he was being gentle.

“It’s only a shame Satoru isn’t here to join us.”

[kyracooneyx23]

Buffet

Leah Williamson

summary: Leah can't resist an all you can eat buffet, especially when your the main course.

warnings: smut, mdni, 18+

The big white block letters were already peeling over the black fabric and you'd only put them on a few minutes ago. They were uncomfortable, and not nearly half as nice as other pairs you owned, but the message made it all worth it: 'ALL YOU CAN EAT BUFFET'.

The ad for the thong had popped up when you were scrolling on instagram and it had been too good to resist. You'd ordered it immediately knowing that Leah always liked a good joke, but also liked a good meal.

You wear them beneath the little pajama shorts that drive Leah crazy, the ones that are loose enough so that she can always catch a glimpse of your underwear beneath them.

You're laying in bed, scrolling on your phone, as you waited for your girlfriend to come home. She'd messaged you a while ago, saying that the media team had kept her back and she'd be home later than planned.

It's only as the clock ticks to 9:30 that you finally hear your apartment door open and Leah's mumbles as she chucks her bags on the ground and pours herself a glass of water.

You put your phone down on the bedside table and tuck yourself beneath the covers, keeping your thighs purposefully visible. A small smirk falls on your face when your girlfriend walks through the door, running her hands through her hair and trying to muffle a yawn.

You're slightly taken aback when she refrains from making a comment about your choice of clothes. Usually she'd be all over you, and you have no doubt that she'll be nearly on top of you when you're both beneath the covers, but you can't believe that she manages to keep her mouth shut.

'Jonas wants me to go into the club earlier tomorrow to do a press conference for the Chelsea game,' she mumbles, clearly tired and slightly pissed off at her manager who you'd heard many rants about. 'Says I've got to be there an hour early, 7 I think? Which means I gotta haul my ass up before then.'

'Oh,' you sigh, trying to hide the disappointment in your voice, 'Sorry Le, we can sleep early tonight.'

She hums in agreement, getting changed before joining you underneath the covers, immediately reaching for you just as she does every single night. Her hands gravitate towards your waist, and even if she's too tired and committed to her job to think about sex tonight, her hands still snake into the waistband of your shorts just for safekeeping.

As soon as he feels the stiff, blocky, cool of the lettering on the front of your thong, you feel her brows furrow where her head is pressed into your shoulder. She lifts her head up and moves the blankets away from your body and pulls the waistband of your shorts down so she can see what your wearing in the dim lights neither of you made the effort to turn off.

'What-' she squints, trying to read upside-down without proper lighting, but it's a hopeless cause. Your dying from laughter and you shimmy out of your shorts so your sitting on your knees, close enough for her to see.

'All you can eat buffet,' she reads, murmuring the words while her face lights up and a hearty laugh escapes her throat, 'You naughty little girl, where did you get that?'

'I have my secrets,' You tease, and she braces a hand on your thigh to admire it. She studies you for a moment, still chuckling, and then she moves up, staring at you expectantly.

'Well lay down, baby.' She invites you, 'Let's see this buffet.'

'No, Leah, it's alright!' You insist, 'You have to be up early for the conference, it can wait, I'll wear them a time when your less busy.'

'No,' she whines, pulling at the waistband of the thong. 'Your terrible jokes and impulsive financial habits have turned me on. Plus, I didn't have dinner tonight and I don't see the point in wasting a perfectly good meal. On your back baby.'

'Leah, you don't-' You shake your head, knowing how important football, especially Arsenal, is to her. But she takes your face in her hands, pushing you down so your laying on your back, 'we don't have to do this, we can-'

'God, you make pussy eating sound like a chore.' She mumbles between kisses, her lips trailing down to your collar bone. 'Relax baby, All you can eats are my favourite, and I've just realised how hungry I am.'

You moan as Leah's hands reach under your shirt to play with your breasts. It's only been a matter of seconds and you've already turned to putty at her touch.

Her hands trail down your body, down to in between your thighs, her lips following as she kisses just above your waistband.

She rips the thong off chucking it behind her and her tongue slips into you, running a line along your slit. The sudden contact causing you to moan.

'Fuck Leah.' You cry out and trap her head with your legs, reaching down to pull on her hair which had fallen loose. She moans into your pussy from the feeling.

All you can hear is the sound of her tongue licking and sucking, and it's so fucking hot. Leah was way too good at this.

She adds a finger into you and flicks her tongue against your clit. She swirls her tongue around in circles, pumping her finger in and out of you as she does.

'Leah!' you yell out from the feeling, leaning up onto your elbows. You wanted to watch her eat you out, it's still dark but you can make out her blonde hair between your legs. That's all you need.

She continues to eat you out, and you grind on her face to feel her tongue deeper into you until you don't think you can take it anymore.

She moans loudly into your pussy, sensing that you were close by the way you clenched your thighs around her even tighter than before. You're so fucking close.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head, body going rigid as you came onto her tongue. She keeps sucking making sure to get every last drop.

'Best dinner ever,' she breathes, a satisfied smile spreading across her face, prompting a laugh from you. 'But I think I’ve still got room for dessert.'

[p0orbaby]

It’s Called Free Fall

summary: therapy makes you realise a lot of things

warnings: none

a/n: there’s not actually any alexia in this, but she is mentioned

word count: 2.7k

-

The therapist’s office feels like it’s been curated for someone far more refined than you—someone who actually takes their therapy seriously, rather than as an ironic lifestyle choice. The walls are a pale, flat grey that veers perilously close to lifeless, and there’s this overwhelming sense of emptiness, like everything here exists for display rather than use. The chairs, two narrow-backed leather things angled just slightly towards each other, appear less like furniture and more like sculptures. You imagine some recent graduate from a New York art school positioned them just so, meticulously arranging each one to make sure it induced the precise mix of discomfort and luxury.

The table between you and Dr. Vargas is another matter entirely—a sleek slab of polished mahogany, thick enough that you could lean your entire weight on it without even a squeak of protest. Its surface is bare except for a single leather-bound notebook, a fountain pen and a ceramic dish, all aligned to a degree that feels almost militaristic. There’s not a single loose thread in the rug, not a fingerprint on the glass of the one window facing out onto a garden view that’s suspiciously verdant for the middle of winter.

Even the fern, perched in the corner like it’s waiting for its close-up, seems too green, too lush. It’s ridiculous, but it’s all part of the aesthetic, this carefully curated minimalism, the kind of cultivated restraint that says, “We don’t need embellishments. We’re here for the truth.” You’re here, supposedly, for honesty and revelation. But to you, it all feels a bit too staged, like a hotel that boasts a “homely charm” but is actually cold and sterile beneath the surface. You suspect Dr. Vargas might even mist the plant herself in some sacred ritual of maintenance, a sort of last-minute grounding exercise to fill the silence between clients.

You settle back in the chair, draping one leg over the other, and make a mental note to mention it next time you’re in some magazine interview. “Austere,” you’d say, “but in a chic way. I once caught my therapist hand-polishing the leaves of a houseplant.” You let yourself savour the image for a moment, glancing at the fern, which seems to return your gaze with silent judgement.

Dr. Vargas has her pen poised in that infuriatingly neutral way, a half-smile that somehow manages to be both welcoming and utterly unreadable. She’s mastered this look; the expression that says, I’m here for you while also suggesting she’s already a step ahead, already written your entire profile out in her head, neatly categorised into sub-headings like “Avoidant Tendencies” and “Control Issues.”

You begin with a sigh, throwing a glance at the ceiling in mock contemplation. “I’ve been thinking about another place. A chalet, maybe. Something in the mountains this time.” You pause, letting the idea sit, feigning like it’s just occurred to you. “Somewhere remote, where people can’t just… get to me”

You’re fully aware that she sees right through it. This isn’t her first rodeo; you’re sure she’s dealt with hundreds like you before, masters of diversion who fill sessions with banalities rather than facing anything real. But Dr. Vargas, in all her maddening professionalism, gives nothing away. She just tilts her head, the soft scratch of her pen against her notebook barely there as she writes something down.

“A place to escape,” she offers back to you in that maddeningly placid tone.

“Yes. Escape,” you echo, knowing full well the word holds no weight here. Escape from what, exactly? You let your leg bounce a little, as if the rhythm might lend some gravity to your words. “And there’s this new project I’m in talks with—A24, actually. They want me to do something… serious. A proper rebrand. Gritty. Artistic.” You drawl out “artistic” with the faintest of smirks, like you’re amused at the thought of it all. A lifetime of playing these games, and you’re practically a pro by now.

Dr. Vargas’s face betrays not a flicker of interest or amusement. She simply nods, that little encouraging tilt of her head again, like she’s waiting for you to get to the real point, the heart of the matter. But you’re not giving in so easily.

“It could be big, you know,” you continue, lifting your chin a fraction. “And I’ve got Alexia, of course.” The name slips out, deliberately nonchalant, though you feel its weight instantly, like it’s left a mark on the air between you.

Dr. Vargas raises her eyebrows, ever so slightly. “Alexia,” she repeats, not quite a question, not quite a statement. Just… acknowledgment, and yet it still feels as if she’s plucked something out of you without you realising. You don’t like it, the way she turns your own words against you.

“Yeah,” you say, shrugging. “She’s… brilliant. On the field, off it. You know, she’s—” You trail off, allowing a smirk to play on your lips. “Not bad to look at, either”

She gives no reaction, doesn’t even break eye contact. You imagine her poker face would rival that of any seasoned card shark. But it’s her silence that presses at you, coaxing out more than you intend to reveal. It’s a trick she’s used before, and yet here you are, willingly falling into it.

“Honestly,” you continue, almost laughing as if sharing some private joke, “you should see her after a match. There’s this… intensity, this rawness. Shirt off, sweat-drenched, eyes still blazing from the game. It’s… invigorating.” You roll the word around like a fine wine, savouring it as you go. “It’s like the universe threw me a bone, just when I was getting bored”

Dr. Vargas finally moves, a slight shift of her head, her mouth curving up in a near-smile. “And yet, you’re here”

Her words drop between you like a carefully placed stone. You scoff, rolling your eyes, but there’s something in her expression—an almost imperceptible softness that somehow feels like an accusation. “Therapy’s a hobby,” you shrug, leaning back, as if the very idea of anything deeper is laughable. “I’m always in therapy, Doc. News flash”

“Yes,” she agrees smoothly, not missing a beat, “but you don’t usually bring her up”

“Come on,” you counter, with a smirk that’s designed to look careless, “I bring her up all the time”

“Not like this”

Her voice is calm, almost gentle, but her gaze sharpens, pinning you in place. You feel a spike of irritation, or maybe it’s something else. You cast a look towards the fern, now faintly silhouetted by the afternoon sun, its shadow long and narrow across the wall, an unasked-for third party in this strange little dance. The absurdity of the whole scene hits you, but before you can fully detach, she’s speaking again.

“You’re talking about her differently. More… openly.” There’s no edge to her tone, no overt judgment, yet it feels like she’s peeled back a layer, glimpsed a part of you you hadn’t meant to reveal.

In the moments that follow, you stub out your cigarette on the pristine ceramic dish Vargas keeps on the table, the one she’s claimed is “not for smoking” but never actually moved after that one session. You’ve taken it as tacit permission, though you know damn well it irritates her—just another way to test the boundaries in a room that prides itself on having none. That’s half the point of these sessions: see how far you can stretch them. How much she’ll let you say, or not say. And you’ve mastered the art of saying absolutely nothing, all while filling the space with empty words.

Dr. Vargas doesn’t speak, doesn’t press, which is almost worse than if she did. There’s just the persistent softness in her eyes, the quiet implication that she understands more than you’d prefer. You remember Alexia’s eyes looking at you like that once, right after you’d tried to make some grand point about the nature of relationships—one of those pseudo-philosophical tangents you like to go on. She’d just looked at you, with a kind of bemused patience that felt a little too genuine, a little too close to knowing you.

You roll your shoulders, shake off the memory. But it clings.

“Alright,” you say, letting the smoke spill out as you form the words. “Maybe I don’t do ‘love’ like everyone else. I’m not here for a candlelit dinner and a mortgage. I’m not,” you add with a quick laugh, “one of those people who turn into some sap over a nice couple’s holiday in Santorini”

Dr. Vargas gives a small nod, an acknowledgement rather than agreement, her expression neutral but open, giving you room to continue.

“But, yes. Fine.” You take another drag, a deliberate pause. “Maybe I… care about her. I care about her. She’s different, alright?”

“Different how?” she asks gently, with an infuriatingly patient tone.

You groan, shifting in your seat. “Come on, don’t make me quantify it. That’s your thing, not mine.” You know you’re stalling, using your usual deflections, but there’s an itch underneath it, a part of you that feels raw just acknowledging that Alexia is, in fact, ‘different.’

You can feel her eyes on you, waiting for you to take the bait you’ve laid out for yourself.

“Fine, you want specifics?” you sigh, feigning annoyance, though you know you’re the one who’s led the conversation here. “She… laughs at my worst jokes. Like, really laughs. Not in a polite way, but genuinely, like she thinks I’m the funniest person alive, even when I’m barely trying. It’s stupid, really, but it gets me”

“And how does that make you feel?” Vargas leans forward, like she’s zeroing in on something significant.

You chuckle, low and dismissive, waving the question off with your cigarette. “How do you think it makes me feel? It’s… fine. Nice. A bit strange, maybe. I’m not used to being seen like that.” You pause, the weight of that admission lingering in the air between you.

She doesn’t react, doesn’t push; she just lets the moment settle, knowing there’s more.

You sigh, smoke curling up around you, as your mind goes back to other little things—the way she has this weird ritual of picking all the green M&Ms out of the bag and tossing them to you, claiming they’re “bad luck.” How she insists on reading the morning news out loud, in that silly, exaggerated announcer voice, just to make you laugh while you pretend to read emails. Or how she makes you tea at exactly the right temperature, handing you the mug with a grin like she’s just given you a priceless gift. These are things that, on the surface, should be forgettable, the kind of mundane moments that fade. But they don’t, do they? Not with her.

Dr. Vargas’s voice interrupts your reverie, soft but insistent. “You’re smiling”

You realise she’s right; you’re smiling without even meaning to, and it’s a small, stupid smile, the kind that feels too open. You try to erase it, but it’s too late. The vulnerability’s already there, a quiet confession written across your face.

You roll your eyes, more at yourself than at her. “Alright, so what? So she’s… alright, she’s fun. She’s got that energy, you know, that lightness. It’s kind of… refreshing”

The words slip out unbidden, and you feel a pang of something resembling regret. Refreshing. A word that implies something else by omission—that most of your life, most people you’ve known, have been exhausting. The irony isn’t lost on you: someone so completely different from your own brand of detached sarcasm, from your carefully cultivated ennui, has managed to slip under the radar and wedge herself into your carefully controlled life.

Dr. Vargas watches, her silence pressing you forward.

“Look, I don’t think about it too much,” you say, trying to inject a casual note into your tone. “I don’t need to psychoanalyse every smile, every inside joke. I’m not here to have my relationship broken down into neat little psych terms”

“Maybe you should think about it,” Vargas says gently. “Maybe that’s why you’re here”

You scoff, but there’s a softness in the sound, a hint of resignation. Because she’s right, isn’t she? You came here because, as much as you don’t want to admit it, this thing with Alexia has started to matter, in a way that’s both terrifying and strangely compelling. You’ve always prided yourself on staying a step removed, on being a spectator in your own life, observing rather than fully engaging. But with her, you’re finding it harder to keep that distance.

“Fine,” you mutter, leaning back, letting your head rest against the chair, staring up at the ceiling as though the answers might be written there. “Maybe she’s… special”

The words feel strange in your mouth, too vulnerable, too open. You don’t say “special” often, especially not in this context. But there it is, a reluctant admission.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m in love with her,” you continue, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She’s great—don’t get me wrong. She’s amazing in bed. I can’t remember the last time someone made me cum so much. And she’s got this thing about her, you know? Like this fire, this intensity. It’s like when she looks at me, she’s looking right through me. And yeah, I guess that’s… intoxicating. But that’s all it is. Right?”

Dr. Vargas nods, a small, subtle gesture. “Why does that scare you?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you watch the smoke dancing away from your cigarette, dissipating into the air, leaving nothing behind but a faint, lingering scent. You think about what it is you’re so afraid of—because there’s something there, something you can’t quite name, a sense that if you let this thing with Alexia continue, it might change you in ways you’re not ready for.

“Because I don’t do… attachment,” you say finally, the words coming out sharper than intended. “I’ve built a life that doesn’t depend on anyone else. And she’s… she’s a complication”

You can feel Vargas watching you, sensing the weight of what you’re not saying, the unspoken truth that this isn’t just about Alexia, that it’s about something deeper, a fear of vulnerability, of losing control. She doesn’t push, though; she just waits, letting the silence do the work for her.

After a long pause, you take a breath, letting your gaze drift to the fern by the window, its leaves glossy and perfect, so meticulously maintained it almost looks fake. You wonder if it’s ever felt the strain of trying to keep everything together, to present a flawless exterior while something more fragile lurks beneath the surface.

“You know,” you say, almost to yourself, “it’s funny. For the longest time, I thought love was just a distraction, a temporary fix for people who couldn’t handle being alone.” You take another drag from your cigarette, exhaling slowly. “But with her, it’s… it’s different. It’s like she makes everything brighter, sharper, like she’s tuned into some frequency I didn’t know existed”

Dr. Vargas doesn’t respond, just nods, letting you continue.

“And the worst part?” You chuckle, a self-deprecating sound. “The worst part is that she’s getting to me. She’s in my head, even when she’s not there. I find myself thinking about her in the middle of the day, wondering what she’s up to, if she’s thinking about me too”

There’s a fragility in the admission, a crack in the armour you’ve built around yourself. And it terrifies you, this sense of letting someone in, of letting them get close enough to matter.

You stub out your cigarette, watching the last curl of smoke dissipate into the air. It feels like a metaphor for something, though you’re not sure what.

Dr. Vargas gives you a small, knowing smile. “Maybe falling in love isn’t as bad as you think it will be,” she says gently.

You shrug, trying to play it off, but there’s a part of you that knows she’s right. Because for all your detachment, all your carefully cultivated distance, there’s something about Alexia that feels like home, like she’s a part of you you didn’t realise was missing.

“Maybe,” you say, the words soft, barely audible.

Love. The word lingers like an uninvited guest. You try to dismiss it, try to laugh it off, but it keeps creeping back in.

[sundew199]

Birthday present

a/n: just smth cute to celebrate Zoro's birthday ♡

tags: Roronoa Zoro x f!reader, fluff, dad!zoro, family dynamics, post-canon

His hands shook as he wiped them from on the sides of his pants, clammy and moist from the nervous sweat he had broken out into as he waited.

It'd been a couple of hours since he received word that you'd gone into labor, caught up in a class and doing his best to rush back to the compound where the two of you lived. The whole day had been a mess, Zoro not anticipating you'd be close to delivering when he agreed to teach a class halfway across the island almost a year ago. Oh well, he can't go back and change the past, all he could do now was apologize and make up for it somehow.

"Everything went smoothly."

Not even hearing the door to the bedroom open, let alone spot the doctor slipping out of the room, snapping Zoro's restless thoughts back to the present. The man looked kind and forgiving, features creasing soft in a reassuring smile as he patted Zoro's arm.

"I'll give you all the time you need, congratulations."

Zoro barely smiled at the doctor as he turned down the hall away from the bedroom Zoro stood outside of. There shouldn't be any reason why he was nervous, right? I mean this wasn't a surprise, sort of planned and wanted so he should just go in and forget about everything swirling in his head. But his stomach flipped and churned and he wished he knew why.

Well. He can't stand out here for the rest of his life.

Slowly pulling back the shoji, slipping inside, Zoro just about melted seeing you cradle a small bundle in your arms, paired with the brightest and yet most tired smile he's seen on you.

"Hey." Falling to his knees beside the futon, grasping the back of your head and placing a kiss on your cheek. "I'm so sorry, I tried to get here as fast as I could."

A soft hand came to silence whatever else might've come out of his mouth next, gently laughing and kissing his cheek back, making the unease in his veins simmer into nothing.

"It's okay, this was kind of unexpected, for everyone."

Zoro cumbersomely laughed, pressing his forehead to yours and then following it with a kiss, reassured to know you weren't upset with him for missing the birth of his first child. You began to scoot over to make room for him, adjusting the baby in your arms and giving Zoro a brief glance. Shit he felt so emotional, a lump rising in his throat and finding no way to make it go away.

Slowly your hand moved the loose blanket swaddled around the baby out of the way so Zoro could see them properly. They were sleeping soundly in the comfort of your arms, it almost didn't look or feel real that he was a father now. He'd hope the realization would've set in sooner, but at the same time the overwhelming sensation coursing through him felt other worldly.

"Can I?" Asking nervously, watching you break out into a small laugh at his question to hold his own child, but Zoro was nervous and it couldn't be helped.

"Of course."

The exchange felt like it was in slow motion, Zoro something of a giant to this new life and instantly on pins and needles when the baby was placed in his arms. Moving as carefully as he could while sitting on the edge of the futon, Zoro looked at you with misty eyes, not quiet crying but overflowing with joy.

"It's a boy by the way."

Hearing you whisper the sweet words and smiling even harder, looking back down again at the baby and adjusting his hold to where he could move the blanket further away from their face. His son made little faces at the adjustments, worrying Zoro for a moment but calming when he continued to sleep.

"I meant to get you a proper gift, but I hope this is okay for now."

Quicker than he could process, Zoro was twisting to look at you fully, uncertainty taking over in his expression.

"Gift? What are you talking about?"

Your sweet laugh confused him further, wondering what you were talking about. Subtly, you scooted closer, hooking your chin over his shoulder and throwing an arm around the other, pressing your cheek to his as you both admired the sleeping baby in his arms.

"It's your birthday today."

Oh.

Oh-

Zoro slightly turned his head with wide eyes, the reminder dawning on him in that moment and suddenly he felt emotions he couldn't find proper words for. His birthday wasn't anything he cared much for, just another year getting older, but he did like the excuse of getting to drink as a form of celebration. He'd been so focused on you and the dojo that his birthday didn't even cross his mind once.

"Shit it is isn't it?"

Lips vibrated on his cheek as you kissed him with another laugh, running your fingertips along his shoulder and humming peacefully.

"Mhm. You don't mind sharing a birthday do you?" Asking with a bit of humor in your tone, pulling the corner of Zoro's mouth into a firmer smile.

"No," Moving to fully turn and face you now, getting himself properly adjusted on the futon next to you, checking in on his son still fast asleep. "Probably just made my birthdays more memorable from here on out."

With his free hand, Zoro cupped one side of your face, locking you into a deep kiss, stroking his thumb over your cheek bone when he pulled away.

"It's not going to bother me, but we never know how he'll feel about it when he's older." Motioning down towards the newborn baby with his chin, breathily chuckling at his own comment.

"I guess we'll just have to wait and see." Leaning over to kiss the top of your son's head, proceeding to give Zoro a quick kiss as well before curling up into his side carefully, running your hand across the soft newborn hair with your fingers.

[raz-writes-the-thing]

Gaze of the Moon (HOTD One-Shot)

Rhaenyra Targaryen x GN!Reader / requests are open

Summary: You and your wife, the Princess Rhaenyra steal a moment of peace together as you prepare for the coming birth of your child.

Fic type: fluff, romance, reflection

A/N: I had intended for this to be fem!reader x Rhaenyra but it wound up GN. This is also for @hotd-bigbang's March 11th prompt.

HOTD: (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"Did you know of that tale?" You asked softly, brushing your wife's hair back behind her ear as she lay against you in the moonlight. "About the second moon who cracked open from the heat of the sun and let the dragons out?"

Your wife let out a deep breath, the back of her skull pressing into your shoulder as she leaned back against you to peer out at the sky- up at the full moon above. She was gorgeous tonight. Radiant, round- both wife and moon.

The silver rays caught in Rhaenyra's loose hair, free tonight from tight braids and silk ribbons. The way you knew she preferred it. She'd been a wild child who'd grown into a proper lady, though you knew she yearned for the freedom of manhood. If she were a man, things would be easier. You both knew this but didn't care to dwell on it. There was no changing what was.

Rhaenyra hummed, eyes catching in the moon's gaze.

"I'm sure I remember my father telling me such a story once," she affirmed softly, lip twitching ever-so-slightly into the ghost of a smile. Your wife spent so much time stone-faced under the watchful eyes of the court vultures that even in the privacy of your own quarters she sometimes had trouble letting the cracks through. You treasured each of them like jewels as they deserved to be. "I used to stay up late into the eve and watch the moon- waiting for her to split and for the night to grow dark save for the fire of dragon's breath,' she admitted, eyes drawing closed as she thought on the memories.

"Perhaps one day, my dear wife," you said, pressing a kiss to her head before allowing your own to lean back against the cold, stone wall behind you. "Tell me, what is High Valyrian for 'moon'?"

You'd been learning her family's language for some time now, and you were certainly getting there. It was just that you preferred to hear the words from Rhaenyra's tongue. And truly, who could blame you when her voice had such royal lilt? Her voice was a balm for the mind. Or your mind, at the very least. You could listen to her speak for an age and then some.

"Hūra," Rhaenyra replied, a soft knowing smirk on her lips. You repeated it back to her, testing the syllables on your tongue. You liked the way it sounded, the way it felt. You reached a hand around her to brush over her swollen belly, round with child.

"If we have a daughter," you said thoughtfully, "Hūra is a nice name, do you not think?" Your fingers danced over her belly, and you both let out a laugh when you felt the babe kick from within her. Rhaenyra's hand joined yours, squeezing comfortingly. You hastily added, "It is not a traditional name, but I like it."

"Princess Hūra Targaryen," Rhaenrya breathed, opening her eyes to peer at her belly. "It does have a ring to it," she agreed, "and if the little one's restlessness is anything to speak of, the babe likes it, too."

You both lapsed into silence for a while, enjoying the light of the moon, the glint of the stars and the sounds of the night. It was quiet at this hour. Your favourite hour. What else could you possibly want for than this? A loving wife in your arms, a babe on the way, a flask of wine to share and the gaze of the moon on you?

"I suppose it is only fair you get to name one of our children," she said after a while. You'd almost thought her asleep in your arms with how quiet she'd been. "Why not the first. Get it out of the way, hmm?" She teased. "What if the babe is a boy?"

You chuckled softly, flicking at her arm in reply to her jape.

"Thank you, wife. Your generosity knows no bounds. I do not think the bairn is a boy, but if he is, I am quite fond of Vēzos. Best keep with the theme."

"One has to wonder where this sudden passion for celestial names has come from, my love," Rhaenyra mused. "Perhaps we will have twins. The Maester did say it was a possibility. Hūna and Vēzos. Moon and Sun-" Rhaenyra shifted uncomfortably as the babe wriggled under her skin. "I like it."

"Strong names," you added, brushing your fingers through her hair softly, aiming to detangle the few knots that caught in your fingers. "Compassionate names. Perfect for bairns destined for greatness."

You suddenly found yourself hoping for twins. A boy and a girl. Siblings to grow up together and protect each other from the horrors that lay dormant in the realm. You could picture them, age three or perhaps four, playing hide and seek in the gardens. Ages ten and four by their mothers' side on the throne. Ages nine and ten crowned joint heirs to the throne. Ages four and thirty sitting side by side on the throne. Ruling, together. Sun and Moon, over their kingdom. Their birth-right. Protecting each other and keeping each other in check. What was best for the kingdom.

The thought filled you with pride. Oh, yes, you hoped for twins. It wouldn't be long now until Rhaenyra was due. Within a month, most likely. It was part of the reason you both were staying up late at night and enjoying the peace. Once Rhaenyra commenced and completed her labours, there wouldn't be much room for peace and quiet.

And yet, you couldn't wait. You didn't like the thought of your lady-wife in pain, but the thought of your quiet chambers filled with the sounds of a babe or two growing big and strong was perhaps motivating enough for you to bear the thought of her pain. You'd be by her side no matter what, of course. Fuck the Maesters and midwives. This was your wife, your babe. You would be there to support her until she asked you to leave.

"We should retire to bed," Rhaenyra broke your thoughts as she began shifting to stand. "We both need our rest for the day to come. I believe we are making arrangements for catering after the birth."

Ah, yes. The feast the King was insisting upon for the birth of his Grand-Sire. As the birth grew closer, more plans needed to be set. Catering, colours, floral arrangements, gifts for the babe. So many things that Rhaenyra and yourself were set to arrange. You may have enjoyed setting the festivities up, but Rhaenyra would be more than happy to sit out if she could.

You hadn't told Rhaenyra yet, but you'd made arrangements with the cooks to send for the ingredients to make Rhaenyra's favourite sweets. Ones she had not had since she were near a babe herself. The rest of the food, however, you both needed to settle on. A job for tomorrow, quite clearly.

You supported her as she stood, following behind. You stretched out the muscles in your arms and legs, creaking with complaint. You could only imagine how Rhaenyra felt. You left the balcony door open to the bedchambers as you helped your wife shift out of her gown.

Once she was settled into the sheets, Rhaenyra let out a sigh of relief. The bed took the weight off her body and allowed her to settle in. You followed, pressing up against her back to keep her warm against the slight chill of the night.

Rhaenyra took your hand and rested it against her belly. You felt any of your remaining troubles melt away for the moment and pressed a kiss to the back of Rhaenyra's neck.

"Good night, my love," you whispered softly, rubbing your thumb over the silky material of her nightdress. "Sleep well, little one."

You drifted off to the sound of Rhaenyra's soft breathing and the quiet chatter of insects out in the gardens below your balcony, dreaming of the bairns to come, and a life well lived.

[the-modern-typewriter]

have I told you guys I'm trying my hand at writing a horror novel? Fey and aceness!

Wolverton House loomed out of the darkness more suddenly than such a large building should have been able to. It made Diana think of ghosts. It made her think of titanic icebergs. It made her think of an angler fish, mouth gaping bright and welcoming in the roiling blackness of the water.

Inevitably, of course, it made her think of Lucille.

The taxi jerked to a stop by the imposing front gates. Motion sensor lights flooded to life, illuminating the slender stone driveway snaking up to the manor proper. Diana squinted, raising a hand to shield her eyes.

“…you getting out here?” the driver asked. “Or do you want me to take you all of the way up.”

He sounded hopeful. It was difficult to tell if it was to get closer to the manor or to get the hell away from it. She swallowed, but it did nothing to stop the sudden dryness of her mouth. She wasn’t entirely sure which one she wanted either. But then, home was often like that, wasn’t it?

The gates slid open. An invitation.

The driver’s fingers white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll walk. Bit of fresh air and all that. Stretch my legs.”

His shoulders sagged in relief even as disappointment flickered across his face. He got out at the same time as she did, busying himself with hoisting her battered suitcase out onto the side of the road. He opened his mouth as if to say something, before he closed it again. His attention was inevitably drawn back to the house. Its stark white walls. Its invitingly lit windows. Its gardens, all pale roses picked out in the lush night. It hadn’t changed a bit.

“You know them?” Diana kept her voice light. “The Wolvertons?”

“Sure. I mean, everyone does round here.”

“You’ve met the fiancé?”

“Handsome fella.” He shook his head, as if to clear it, glancing at her again. Curiosity and terror. “You look after yourself up there.”

“And her?” Diana’s heart flipped. “Does she still come down to the town?”

His lips thinned. “That’s £112.”

She considered pressing him further, maybe telling him that actually she did want that lift up all the way to the front door, but then she simply paid. The fare receipt pinged on her phone before he’d even fully disappeared down the path.

Lucille would have made him drive all the way. She would have made him wait while she rang the doorbell, “just in case no one’s in!” She would have watched him squirm.

Still, Diana’s legs were cramped from the long hours of travel, so maybe it couldbe a relief to clack her way up the driveway. At the very least, it gave her a little more time before she had to ring the doorbell. Meet him. See her. Diana took a few steadying breaths, wrangled her luggage and began her ascent. She’d only a taken a few steps up the driveway path when the gates shut behind her again with a muffled clang.

Handsome fella. She’d seen pictures of Tristan De Silva, Lucille’s soon-to-be-husband, online. He was definitely handsome, it was true, but not in the way that Lucille usually liked. He was too sharp. Too much like her, in some way, so that surely if they were ever in a room together they’d spend the whole time in danger of bashing up against each other’s edges. They did look smitten in the photos though, and the wedding invitation certainly suggested something, but…

Surely she wouldn’t invite Diana, of all people, to be her maid of honour if she was in love with someone else?

Of course she bloody would. And of course Diana bloody came. She was an idiot.

All too soon, she rang the doorbell. As she waited, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and then untucked it again a moment later to let it curl loose and coppery over her forehead. Then she realised that her hands were shaking and shoved them in the pockets of her leather jacket.

The door swung open. The man behind it was the pictures made incarnate, dressed in the sort of casually-expensive trousers and t-shirt that Diana would never find in her own closet. Was that why Lucille had picked him?

“Ah, Diana.” He offered a perfect smile. “It is Diana, right? Lucille’s Diana?”

The words were like a beloved coat that no longer fit properly. Too tight around the shoulders. A squeeze of buttons clamping airless down upon her chest. Lucille’s Diana. She hadn’t been that in years. She hadn’t ever stopped being that for a moment.

“Just Diana,” she said. “You must be Tristan.”

Tristan tipped his head a fraction, a mocking sort of bow, and stepped aside to let her in.

“Where’s Lucille?” she asked.

“Upstairs.” He held out a hand for her jacket. “She’ll come down when she’s ready. You know she likes to make an entrance.”

Her jacket felt like the only pitiful armour she had, but Diana politely handed it over all the same. He hung it up and shut the door.

“Just leave your bag in the hallway,” he said, already turning towards the familiar kitchen as if he owned the place. “I’ll take it up to your room later. Champagne?”

“I – no, thank you. I don’t drink.”

He scoffed. “Yes you do. Since when?”

She stared at him.

“Well,” he said. “I’m having champagne.” As she followed him into the kitchen, he fished a bottle out of the fridge, popped it and poured it golden and frothing into three different flutes. He took one and held the other out to her.

Her jaw tightened a fraction.

“I’m engaged,” he said. “So we’re going to toast and you’re going to say congratulations.”

His hazel eyes bore into her, almost seeming to match the drink.

She took the glass, cold against her clammy palm, and held it up.

“Congratulations,” she said.

No, he was nothing like Lucille’s usual type, which begged the question, then – how much did he really know his fiancée at all?

The first thing that she remembered ever really noticing about Lucille Wolverton was that everybody loved her. It was an effect she had on people. When they were really young it hadn’t occurred to Diana to question it. Lucille was her friend and, of course, Lucille’s parents loved her. That was what good parents were supposed to do.

When she got older, she’d thought maybe it was because Lucille was pretty and people seemed to care an awful lot about that sort of thing. Some people simply had a star quality that drew people to them and, even as a child, it had been clear that Lucille did. When she smiled and laughed and relished in the attention of everyone who adored her, she possessed a warm sort of beauty. She was honey and gold, she was the fairy lights that turned an ordinary space into a super-secret lair, she was the candlelight flickering across a dinner table as two lovers leaned in for their first kiss. When she was angry, she was a colder thing. The moon in winter, glittering across an endless plane of unforgiving snow. A glass girl, seemingly fragile, poised to cut.

When she got older still, Diana was no longer sure if it could be just looks, just charm. She’d never quite figured it out though. All things considered she hadn’t been sure she wanted to.

She took a tiny sip of her drink, feeling Tristan’s eyes on her as he matched her movements. She had the strangest surety that if she drained the glass then he would simply do the same. Weirdly triumphant.

She set the flute firmly down on the counter and cleared her throat.

“So, how did you two meet?”

Music drifted down the stairs, too quiet to be entirely picked out. She could imagine Lucille flitting about her bedroom. It was impossible to hear her so far away, and yet Diana half felt that she could trace Lucille’s every step across the manor’s floors.

“At a party,” Tristan said. “She got the host to kiss her in front of his girlfriend. Wrecked their relationship. It was awful.” He smiled a strange smile. “I asked her out the same night.”

“Oh, naturally.”

His smile turned a touch edged. “I note you didn’t bring a plus one.”

Diana didn’t say anything.

“The invite did say you could bring someone.”

“I’m not seeing anybody at the moment.” Diana moved to circle the space, putting the kitchen island between her and the champagne as she scanned over the glossy cookbooks and paintings. The cookbooks were new. The paintings were the same visions of women stuffing their faces with dripping fruit, raw meat or chocolate cake as she’d seen since she was as a girl. They’d thrilled her then. Felt somehow taboo. “Does she do that sort of thing often, then? Wreck people’s relationships?”

“Shouldn’t you know?”

Diana shrugged, betrayed by her hammering heart.

“Mm. You’ll be staying in your old room, I believe.” He leaned himself almost lazily against the island and took another long sip of his drink, body angled towards her.

“Lucille’s told you a lot about me?”

“I’m nosy.” He flashed that perfect smile again. “She said the two of you grew up here, that you were like sisters. She said there was no one else she’d want at our wedding as much as you.”

Diana’s throat thickened.

“I suspect she left out all of the juicy bits,” he said.

She glanced over at him.

“Singular woman, Lucille Wolverton.” He raised his eyebrows. “But I’m sure if you told me, she’d have to kill you.”

“Or you.”

“Alas, they always suspect the spouse. She’s not that obvious.”

Despite herself, Diana laughed. It was something like a laugh anyway.

“It’s nothing juicy,” she said. “My parents worked here. We lived in the old servant’s cottage on the edge of the property when I was a kid, and this place is way out in the middle of nowhere. We had a lot of sleepovers.”

“So many that you had your own room. Do girls often have their own room during sleepovers?”

“It’s just one of the guest bedrooms. There’s enough of them, isn’t there?”

Her bedroom was the bedroom next to Lucille’s room, mirrored and sharing a wall.

Tristan hummed, seeming unconvinced as he studied her. She watched him in her periphery in turn, taking out one of the cookbooks and flicking through the pages. How to eat a peach.  

“So what is it you do?” she asked.

“Finance. You’re a caterer. What was she like when you knew her?”

The cookbook was thoroughly abandoned. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Diana said, “but I believe in small talk you’re supposed to at least pretend that you don’t know things about me when we first meet.”

“Stickler for politeness, are we?”

“You have to ask?” She pretended to gasp. “And there was me thinking you knew everything about me already.”

“Not everything. But I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Not especially. But I guess I was raised to be more polite to my guests than you.”

He laughed like that was funny, shaking his head, and raised his glass again in another private toast of some sort.

No, he was not Lucille’s type at all. Lucille’s type were soft and starry-eyed, utterly enamoured and easily bruised. He was…not that. She had no idea what the hell he was. A jerk, perhaps?

They eyed each other.

“So you met a party.” Diana tried again, with the friendly smile she reserved for only the most trying of customers. “That was…what? A little over a year ago? I can’t imagine she’s changed that much since I last saw her. I mean. You’re the one marrying her. Shouldn’t you know?”

Tristan shrugged in turn; a lighter, more effortless parry. “You’ve known her longer. You last saw her…what?” He mimicked her tone. “A little over three years ago?”

“Yeah.”

He seemed to consider her for a moment.

“I could probably still call your taxi back,” he said. “It’s not too late.”

Diana narrowed her eyes, spine stiffening.

“Too late for what exactly?”

Footsteps sounded on the hallway, light and graceful, shattering the moment. Tristan went quiet.

They both turned inexorably towards the kitchen door and then – there she was. Lucille Wolverton. Barefoot. Leaned against the door as if she had been there all along. In her wedding dress. “Hey stranger,” Lucille said. “Long time no see.”

[uno-san]

Oohhhh I can totally see Bill threatening to hurt or even off you after Ford broke things off with him.

Perhaps he wanted to reach out to you for help because he had a small sliver of hope that you, with your heart which was a size too big for your own good, might just come to his aid if he asked, even if you were upset with him. But then he was afraid of letting Bill get anywhere near you, so he endured all of the torture and abuse, just so long as he didn’t touch you.

Do what you will with this idea.

OOOHHH GOOOD this ask sent me in a spiral as I immediately had ideas for italsdfjlsaflfj Thank you so much for sending in an ask, especially since I love seeing your posts!

Sorry this took so long but please, enjoy the angst~

  Tick

Tick

  Tick

Each tick brought a new needling pain to his already frantic mind. How could such a small, incessant sound be so torturous? For every count that was marked down on the small watch it brought a harsh reminder to the pacing scientist; his eyes were bloodshot, dry, and torn. No matter what he’d do one would even bleed onto whatever project he’s started on to try and save his life. Everyone’s life.

Stanford Pines has been awake for 3 days.

Tick

  Tick

Tick

“Goddammit!”

Research notes and project blueprints were scattered everywhere with one mighty drag of his arm across the once-cluttered desk. Around him loose papers hovered uselessly in the air, as if they were trying to offer him a solution in the now discarded pile. He paid them no mind. They were just another idea down the gutter.

This time, a truly foolish one. He had called it the Bill-Proof Suit (Name Pending) and if he had a proper amount of sleep he would have seen sooner what a joke it truly was. Stanford’s concept was solid, naturally, the issue was the actual construction. That’s where the joke was.

He needed Fiddleford.

Fiddleford was long gone now. If Stanford hadn’t already chased him away the day of the portal incident there was no doubt Bill would have done the job himself. The man’s mechanical knowledge far exceeded Ford’s own. That’s what gained him a spot on this project in the first place. And now, it was laughable to think Ford had a hand in sabotaging such a pivotal partnership. A friendship. God, how that word felt so bitter now.

Bill had been his friend. His muse as well, but more importantly his friend. Fiddleford had been too. Stanford pushed him away, revealing that the one he had left was a guillotine waiting to drop. A conman from the very moment Ford had made the mistake of summoning him, lying the very second he appeared. The best lie Bill ever told was that Stanford was a genius.

In truth, Ford was an idealistic fool too over his head. Hunted in his own home until the day his mind would break and give in to what Bill wanted. But it would be a cold day in hell before Stanford ever gave in without a fight. For if he couldn’t keep the bastard out of his body, there was still one way to thwart him yet.

Scatter his research. Not destroy it, but spread it far so that no other fool under Bill’s thumb could recreate Ford’s work. It shouldn't be difficult. Ford had already sought to hide his other two journals due to previous threats. All that remained of his recorded mistakes were his first journal. This one needed special handling. The other two, while well hidden, still remained in Gravity Falls. Journal 1 would need to see a swift exit out to the world unknown.

But how?

  Tick

Tick

  Tick

With a growl of frustration Ford dropped himself into an aging chair that had been pushed out of the way to make room for his pacings. One arm rested across his knee while the other stayed propped up on his elbow to hold his head up; a dangerous position, considering his exhaustion. Though bleary his eyes focused on a nearby chalkboard with hastily scrawled names on its black surface. He’s been stuck on this awhile.

Fiddleford was out. No doubt about that with how they had departed. Unfortunately that meant that Stanford would have to find help outside of the initial project, which will prove to be risky at best and time-consuming at worst to get them caught up on the stakes of the mission. That left little to consider.

Already that knocked his parents out of the running. They were getting too old to do what was needed to keep his research safe. Not to mention what they’d think of Stanford started going off about demons and otherworldly powers.

You lost them millions, Stanford. Never even impressed your father and now you want them to help you? When was the last time you called?

Stanford’s body froze. Only the slow movement of his eyes showed signs of life as they drifted to each dark corner of the room. Had he said that? He gathered the courage to check over his shoulder. There was no one. His fingers tapped against his knee as the truth of the whispered words began to sink in. Would they even answer his call?

Tick

  Tick

Tick

Focus!

Right…right. Who else?

Nobody in town would be jumping at the chance to help him. Stanford never made the effort. Couldn’t make it, to be more accurate. Never was good at talking to people. Bill had helped with that isolation though Ford couldn’t place as much blame on him as he wanted to.

If he had the money, this would be a far easier task. Thanks, however, to his constantly running lab and testing of the portal during its construction even his generous grant money was dwindling down to pennies. Not even that tie he sold to the government went far. That was spent to get them to turn the other way for Ford’s more questionable purchases (Or thefts).

They wouldn’t have talked to you anyway. Not without a carnival banner to let them know the freakshow was in town.

Stanford’s hand swept up in his hair; his thumb resting outside the greasy mess to instead prop his eyelid open. The air stung. It was manageable compared to the heat of annoyance beginning to rise in his chest. Was this the best he could manage? Stanford Pines, life forever in ruins now just because he didn’t think to make silly small talk over a burnt cup of coffee?! Surely, there had to be somebody else to turn to-

You already know who you want to go crawling back to. To be safe in their arms again. Despite already chasing them off you know you want to drag them back into all of this. You want-

Stanford shot up from his chair. The rapid movement caused it to swivel while Ford’s hand grabbed hold of a long forgotten experiment; he shouted a guttural “NO!” before hurling the hunk of junk at the source of the voice. It shattered against the wall.

Both hands were knotted up into fists while Ford’s shoulders shook with a fury he couldn’t control. His lips were drawn back in a snarl as he continued to face off against nothing. This being the most he’s been awake in days being the only blessing of an already cursed conversation.

“No, I’m not doing this to them again, I’m not!” Stanford’s eyes followed a foe that wasn’t there, now facing a different side of the room, “They’re gone now and there’s nothing I can or will do to ever risk them coming back here. I can handle all this myself!”

Not that you’d get any help after what you did.

Stanford staggered back. Like the flame of his anger had been blown out and he’d been left with the ashes of guilt. He looked so unsure. Different compared to his conviction on stopping Bill once and for all.

“That was Bill, I didn’t want-”

Bill, who can read your mind? Bill, who has known you more intimately than you ever have your ‘partner’ know? Well, now's your chance. You look like shit. Everything around you is falling apart. One look at you and they’d come racing to your side. You want-

“ENOUGH!”

Stanford might have given in if he had heard your name. He now grabbed onto the abandoned chair and threw it against the next wall with all his might, praying that the sound of destruction would tune out that predatory voice poisoning his mind. It was just as awful as that-

  Tick

Tick

  Tick

That-

Tick

  Tick

Tick

THAT GODDAMN TICKING NOISE!

  Tick

Tick

  Tick

The man fell onto his knees in a heap. In spite of the danger of it all his eyes were skewed shut while the flat of his palms covered his ears like a spoiled child. Now on top of all he was trying to shut out he could hear the thunderous pounding of his heartbeat in face of the near mental break. But it was all in vain.

Stanford could hear the ticking of the stopwatch counting down another waking hour. The whispers, Bill, and…and the memories of 3 days ago replaying in his mind, again and again.

___

The day had already begun strangely. Not in the sense that when Stanford arose he didn’t know where he’d wake up, or that he was covered in mysterious injuries that he’s sure he didn’t want to know the origin of. None of that. That was, quite horridly, becoming Ford’s new reality until he gave in to Bill Cipher’s demands. Which would be never.

No, what made this day bizarre was that Stanford had woken up in bed. No ditch or jail cell. His actual bed inside his own home. When he had realized this Stanford had been quick to search the room for any signs of a trap. He didn’t get the chance to look long before he noticed that his hand had been clutched around something. As per usual his hands had been bloodied across the knuckles (which would sting to patch up later), but wrapped around and bundled into his palm was…hair?

The dread in his gut only deepened when he had given the hair a conspiratory sniff and recognized a scent that used to provide him comfort. It was the smell of your shampoo. It was after the horror began to dawn on him that Stanford noticed the corner of a tape poking out from beneath his pillows.

‘Play Me: Part 2’

The scene opened up to a hotel room, identified only by the luggage rack in the corner currently occupied by its namesake. Within the focal point of the shot was an empty bed and a window barely fitting into frame. Both the stillness and odd positioning of the shot suggested that the camera wasn’t being held at all; it was hidden on the tv stand.

Out of frame a door must have shut. Following after were the familiar sounds of ruffling fabric before the main light had been turned off, leaving only the bedside lamp to provide proper lighting. Then you walked onto the screen.

Wearing a pair of familiar pajamas, slippers, and a book in hand, you were yawning as you began to climb and settle into bed. You must have been staying in that room for a long while to be as comfortable as you look. Despite just opening your book you’re interrupted with a yawn, making you huff in frustration and stubbornly set your nightly entertainment down. The pout that Stanford always found cute was displayed prominently on your face. It was almost domestic.

It wasn’t long after until you reached over to turn off the lamp nearby. Immediately the room was shrouded with darkness; save for a sliver of light escaping past the curtains to illuminate your midsection. Not much, but enough to see you.

For several minutes, that’s all there was. In real time your process of sleep was captured. How you’d roll back and forth a few times before adjusting into a comfortable position, your pillow punched just right to cradle your head the way you liked it. With a final wiggle of comfort you fell asleep. Your chest rose and fell in slow, deep motions.

Then a pair of yellow eyes blinked open.

Stanford’s breath had caught in his chest. Nearly choking on it as he rose from his spot on the couch to instead crouch in front of the TV as if he could hop into the scene himself.

Beneath the bed a six-fingered hand crept out to grasp at the shag carpet and use the leverage to pull the rest of the body out with it. Emerging from the abyss was a stranger’s smile on a familiar face. His glasses were askew and the grin contorted his face unnaturally, but there was no doubt who it was.

Bill. Stanford. It hardly mattered when you wouldn’t even know the difference.

The figure moved with precision. His limbs stretched out far and bent at odd angles to distribute weight on the creaky floor; he looked like a spider poised to strike. Bill crept forward at a snail's pace. His stare never wavered from the camera meanwhile, remaining level headed until almost the entirety of Stanford’s- Bill’s yellow eye took the stage. A blink after and it was gone. In frame it captured a closeup of his hand as he grabbed the camera from its hidden position.

The already unnerving video had Stanford on edge and in his paranoia he paused the video. Freezing it right at the moment the knuckles of his hand flashed across the screen where he then held up his current injured one. The hand in the video had matching injuries, however in the past it still sparkled with fresh blood when the light hit it just right.

Stanford let out a sigh of relief. So Bill had tried the door before coming here. The wounds were from the door. The door. A fact that he’d have to remind himself of while he unpaused.

Bill was no longer visible as he became the cameraman. It was with soft footsteps that seemed ill-fitting of the one making them that the TV screen was now filled with your unconscious form. He had stopped just at the edge of the bed, yet the angle the camera shot from suggested that Bill began leaning over you. Miraculously, the frame remained steady in spite of the position.

He then spoke in such a hushed tone that his voice was almost unrecognizable if it hadn’t been the evident grin behind his words, “What. Happens. When they. Wake. Up?”

It felt as if all the blood in Stanford’s body froze at once. Each syllable that passed Bill’s lips sent a new horrific vision of what the fiend could do to your unsuspecting form. Emphasizing your vulnerability. Somehow your breathing already appeared weak as if you’ve been struck already. The thought had Ford’s mouth dry.

A pit was beginning to settle in his stomach. To calm himself down his eyes cast downwards to his bruised knuckles, trying to commit to memory that the wounds had been there since the start of the tape. Stanford didn’t gain comfort, however, as his attention returned to the screen. He couldn’t bear missing even one detail. No matter how much he wanted to.

For a long while, the ‘movie’ remained static. As chaotic as Bill was he could be patient when he wanted to be. Listening closely revealed Bill gasping for breath every so often, having forgotten that air was ‘integral’ to humans living when he had been so focused on you. Or maybe he was holding his breath on purpose. Pain was hilarious, he’d always say.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The tension was suddenly cut through by a burst of noise outside. A familiar and irritating sound of a car alarm began to blast away the quiet night, its rhythm now matching that of a racing heartbeat as it mercilessly shouted. Through the curtains a harsher light broke in. Blinking on and off to cast a harsh silhouette of Bill standing over you against the wall.

“No, no, no, nononono, gods, no!” Stanford cried out while his hands gripped at the TV’s sides to nearly crack the material. “Don’t, please-”

The past remained unchanged in spite of his begging.

You began to stir. With brows furrowed together your eyes squinted tightly together as if to block out the intrusive light, the once calm expression of peace you had now replaced with irritation at the interruption. Under your breath you mumbled something indiscernible.

From above a six-fingered hand began to torturously slide into frame while its fingers were spread and bent as if they were claws. Down and down it went. It was poised to make contact with your neck until the hand paused to hover over your body, the fingers giving a cheeky wiggle towards the camera. The open wounds on the knuckles still bled, allowing trickles of blood to pool at his fingertips until they fell and spilled across your collarbone.

Now your own hand reached up to idly scratch where the blood landed only to inadvertently smear the warm droplets on your skin. Off camera still, the sound of Bill sucking in air through his teeth filled the anticipated silence as he waited eagerly. Even the wet sound of skin stretching was a harsh reminder of how elated he must have looked.

Stanford’s hand reached toward his face where trembling fingers traced the torn corners of his mouth.

With a groan you made a sudden turn in bed that Bill hadn’t expected. He was forced to dodge his hand out of the way. You turned on your side away from the window with the corner of the blanket bunched in your first to fully entrap yourself within the comforting warmth. The car alarm outside had turned off just as you let out an exhausted yawn and snuggled into your pillow.

A moment after the camera slowly adjusted to frame your entirety once more while somehow capturing Bill’s unspoken anticipation. Yet you didn’t stir further. Instead the quiet was cut-through by your growing snores brought on by deepened rest. Off-camera Bill slowly released the air of excitement he had sucked in moments to ago in a disappointed huff.

Stanford wept.

___

Tick

  Tick

Tick

The memory brought a new sheen of tears to his eyes that Stanford cursed. Bitterly he threw off his glasses to wipe them away before they dared to fall and reveal his growing weakness. He didn’t have time to feel sorry for himself.

He had to protect you.

That had been three days ago. Worse yet the tape had actually contained the entirety of your night. From the moment you got into bed right down to your alarm clock going off, Bill stood over you. Stanford knew that for a fact considering he watched the tape all the way through, never daring to speed-forward or skip ahead out of fear of what he’d stumble upon after doing so.

The 6 hours of footage felt like an eternity of limbo compared to the pain of being awake for so long. This was much preferable to ever seeing that again. Even if it killed him Ford made the vow to not rest until he could assure that a ‘Part 3’ could never be made again.

Thus far the only respite he’s allowed himself was a call to your hotel. Thankfully he had recognized the tacky furniture from his own stay many years back when he had to wait for the construction of his home to complete. When you had picked up the phone and said a greeting in your warm voice, it felt as if Stanford had his second wind.

He hadn’t heard you since the day you left. Since he had driven you away in order to fall under more of his ‘muse’s’ lies. But now when Ford heard your voice all he could do was remember all the nights you spent taking care of him after an extensive research expedition. Or all the warm meals you’d prepare for him to fuel up for a dangerous day in the woods. All of that felt like a lifetime ago.

Stanford Pines had thrown you away. Now, his only redemption lied in keeping both you and the world safe, no matter what it took. Your voice was the motivation Ford needed but the reward he hadn’t earned yet. He hung up without ever saying a word to you.

From the floor Stanford used his knee to propel himself back upwards. He remembered to take his discarded glasses with him to wipe off on his button-up shirt and place back on his face. Trying to dust the rest of himself off he glanced around his now ramshackled lab that had once been the prize of all his hard work and efforts, now covered with the scrawlings of a paranoid recluse and damaged experiments from frenzied episodes.

His eyes landed on his remaining journal that had been left abandoned on the ground. Odd. Had he knocked it down at some point during his episode brought on by a lack of sleep? Stanford bent down to pick up the poor book left in disarray. Poking out from the side was a corner of a photo that must have become dislodged from within, serving as a reminder that Ford should take better care of his precious research.

With a huff of annoyance towards himself Stanford flipped open the book only to be met with a photo of his face- Stanley’s face captured from an airing commercial Ford had caught on TV one day. Puzzled by this, Ford pulled the photo from the pages to inspect Stanley’s expression yet the glare of gold from his journal behind kept drawing his gaze as well.

  Tick

Tick

  Tick

For a long time Stanford’s focus flickered between his journal and the photo of his brother. First he stared with irritation. Then as the seed of an idea began to bloom his eyes softened with a regret while seeing Stanley. So many years spent drifted apart, and yet…

Tick

  Tick

Tick

Stanford tucked the photo away with far more care than he realized he had before turning to head back upstairs to his home. There was a determination to the man as his feet picked up speed, now powered by the first actual idea he’s had in days. Whether it would work or not didn’t matter.

He had no one else.

[ceilidho]

wait but also, this being your first "proper adult job" so you're even less sure whether this is a normal thing to be upset about, or if you're just overreacting.

like, soap gets your phone number and address from the employee database thanks to one of his bros in HR, and shows up at your place one morning, saying something about, "starting a carpool program" even though it's only ever you two in the car???

or one day you're helping a customer and maybe standing a lil too close, so soap comes up behind you, grabs your loose hair and yanks just a bit too hard--your head tilts back until you're making uncomfortable eye contact with him. "Just putting your hair up for ye, luvie," he winks, while the customer suddenly feels like they're intruding on a weirdly intimate moment.

then for the holiday season, your team does a white elephant gift exchange and when it's your turn, you're unwrapping some very expensive perfume bottles--there's no way this didn't go over the $15 suggested limit. soap's sliding up next to you, saying something about he's dreamt of this fragrance on you and oh he sprays his bedsheets with this one so he can jerk off imagining you.

im shaking like a wet dog this is doing unspeakable things to me.

you don't even know this but he paid someone off to get your name in the secret santa gift exchange. like actually paid them fifty dollars just to have the opportunity to get you a gift. and you know the second you unwrap it that it must've been in the three figures. you just got someone a fancy mug. and he stares at you when you unwrap it, beaming when you give him a very controlled "thank you" because the alternative is screaming that this is way too expensive for you to keep.

"ye should put it on," he tells you, breathing just a little heavier. "really want ta smell it on ye."

he heaves you up by the hips whenever you have a hard time reaching something on a shelf instead of just reaching up and grabbing it for you. really digs his fingers into your sides. doesn't let you go right away when he puts you down. and if you make a comment about it being uncomfortable or it hurting you (you're an adult, you're not used to someone just lifting you up), he just coos at you instead, pouts and simpers like he's so sorry that you're not used to it yet.

maybe when you're assigned to the jewellery section, Johnny pops out of nowhere when you're helping a customer that's looking at some rings and he uses your hand to model some of the rings. and it gets. weirdly intense when he slides the ring onto your finger, like he's holding his breath. he even shudders a bit, presses himself right up against you behind the display counter until the customer leaves because it's genuinely off-putting lmao.

and if he comes in as a customer, jesus christ. be prepared for him to pester you the entire time, insisting on you helping him with his purchases. he'll brush off any other employees looking for you under the guise of you helping him shop, but then once they're gone, he'll go back to interrogating you about your childhood and your friends and whether you have a partner or any previous partners you might've had. makes you follow him to the bed section where he tries out all the mattresses and then asks you increasingly inappropriate questions like what mattress you have, what it feels like, how you sleep at night, what you wear to bed :\\\

[euseokz]

Most to least riize members that will do foreplay before sex? 👀

@ ot7 riize — favorite forms of foreplay . . cws : fingering . oral (f) . dry humping . teasing . sexting . wc : 0.5k+ . genre : smut

a/n : so. i kinda twisted your idea a bit nonnie and i hope you don’t mind it and are still happy with this ! foreplay is kinda important and sex usually sucks without it, so i preferred to go down the route of what their favorite forms of foreplay would be 🫶🏻🫶🏻

SHOTARO - making out : he just likes how sweet but messy it is. you’ll be sucking on each other’s lips, teeth clanking by accident and tongues pressing against one another harshly. your lips will be all red by the end of it, glistening with both your salivas as strings of it connect you to one another, and nothing gets him harder and ready to fuck you than that hazy look you always get afterwards, the lust glossing over your eyes the queue for him to finally flip you over.

EUNSEOK - fingering you : he loves how wet you always are for him, but also knows you need some preparation before getting fucked, so fingering you is always his favorite option. he’ll stuff you full with just his fingers, ramming them in and out of your soaked cunt, loving the squelching sounds it makes, pressing his thumb against your clit until you’re rolling your eyes back and giving him one last moan — only then will he proceed to fuck you.

SUNGCHAN - giving you oral : he’s obsessed with the way you taste, and there’s no other way to put it. he adores sucking on your clit, flicking his tongue over it and then pushing the pink muscle into your hole. sungchan not only loves how you always squirm under him, drowning in pleasure from how good it feels, but also how good it makes him feel, his cock getting harder the longer his mouth stays on your cunt, until you’re finally cumming on him and he’s too desperate to wait any longer.

WONBIN - dry humping : he just loves how you feel on top of him, hips rocking against his as you let out breathless moans, sounding so pretty while pressing your clothed cunt against his covered erection. it feels so good for the both of you, and you always keep going until you’re on the brink of an orgasm, your clit twitching inside your panties and his dick aching between his legs, both of you finally desperate enough to finally throw your clothes away and move on.

SEUNGHAN - massages : specifically him giving you. he just loves how your skin feels under his fingertips, and loves how you let out small, soft moans, his fingers getting more daring as time passes by until he’s massaging more than just your legs or shoulders to help release tension. he’ll move over you ass, circling his palm around it, then cup your breasts before placing his hand over your cunt, pressing it over the area, waiting until you’re finally begging for him to fuck you.

SOHEE - teasing : he loves when you tease him, when you give him just enough to leave him wanting you but without getting any proper release. like when you place your palm over his erection through his pants, wrapping your fingers around it loosely, stroking it with a barely there touch through all the layers. it drives him crazy, his knee always going to press between your legs so you get a bit of your own poison, eventually both of you finally getting too needy and moving on.

ANTON - sexting : especially when he’s away, he feels like it’s the perfect build up. staying the whole day out separate from each other, sending one another flirty texts and risky photos, talking about how bad you want one another, how you miss each other, how good it’d feel if he was there to fuck you in that moment, both of you spending the entire day horny until you finally get home at night and get what you’ve been wanting so bad for all those hours.

[inkspiredwriting]

A Kiss Through Time

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

A/N: Hey you, yes you. I would be very happy if you would follow me :)

Warnings: none

The Hargreeves mansion was bustling with activity. Klaus had decided to host an impromptu party, and the siblings, along with their friends, were scattered around the living room, enjoying the music, food, and general chaos. Amidst the revelry, Five Hargreeves stood in a corner, his expression somewhere between exasperated and amused.

Y/N, his girlfriend, was the only one who could match his wit and keep up with his time-traveling antics. Tonight, she was busy teasing him about something that Klaus had let slip—namely, that Five had never had a proper first kiss.

“So, Mr. Time Traveler, too busy saving the world to pucker up?” Y/N teased, leaning against the wall next to him.

Five rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his drink. “I’ve had more important things to worry about, Y/N.”

“Oh, come on,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Even superheroes need some romance in their lives.”

Klaus, overhearing the conversation, sauntered over with a grin. “Did I hear someone talking about romance? Little Five here has been too busy jumping through time to even think about kissing anyone.”

Five glared at his brother. “Not helping, Klaus.”

Y/N laughed, thoroughly enjoying the exchange. “Well, Five, there’s no time like the present.”

Five raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “What are you suggesting?”

Y/N leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. “How about we remedy that right now?”

Five’s eyes widened slightly, but he quickly masked his surprise with his usual stoic demeanor. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Y/N replied, her smile softening. “Unless you’re too scared?”

Five’s competitive nature flared up at the challenge. “I’m not scared of anything, especially not a kiss.”

“Prove it,” Y/N said, standing up straighter and looking him directly in the eyes.

The room around them seemed to fade as Five considered her words. His siblings, oblivious to the moment unfolding, continued their party, but Five’s focus was entirely on Y/N.

“Fine,” he said, setting his drink down with determination. “Let’s do this.”

Y/N’s smile widened, and she stepped closer, her heart pounding in her chest. Five, ever the perfectionist, took a deep breath and moved in, his face inches from hers.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Klaus suddenly shouted, drawing everyone’s attention. “Is this really happening? Five is about to have his first kiss, and we’re not going to celebrate?”

Five groaned, his moment ruined. “Klaus, I swear—”

“Shush, shush, everyone! Gather around!” Klaus clapped his hands, and the partygoers formed a loose circle around Five and Y/N, cheering them on.

“Five, this is ridiculous,” Y/N whispered, trying to hide her amusement.

“Tell me about it,” Five muttered back. “But now we have an audience, so we might as well give them a show.”

With everyone watching, Five and Y/N stood facing each other again. Five’s serious demeanor was betrayed by the slight twitch of a smile on his lips.

“Ready?” Y/N asked, her voice barely audible over the cheers.

“Always,” Five replied.

They leaned in, the noise of the room fading to a distant hum. Just as their lips were about to meet, Diego’s voice rang out, “Come on, Five! Don’t mess this up!”

In a rare moment of spontaneity, Five wrapped his arms around Y/N and dipped her, much to the surprise and delight of the onlookers. Y/N let out a laugh, and then, finally, their lips met in a kiss that was both tender and electrifying.

The room erupted in applause and cheers. Klaus hooted loudly, Allison and Viktor clapped, and even Luther managed a supportive smile. Five and Y/N, still locked in the kiss, were lost to the world around them.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and grinning, Y/N said, “Well, Mr. Time Traveler, how was that for a first kiss?”

Five, still holding her close, smirked. “I think I could get used to this.”

Klaus threw an arm around Five’s shoulders. “Ladies and gentlemen, our little Five is all grown up!”

“Shut up, Klaus,” Five said, but his annoyance was softened by the smile on his face.

As the party resumed its boisterous energy, Five and Y/N retreated to a quieter corner, their hands still intertwined. They shared a look that spoke volumes, a silent agreement that this was just the beginning of their adventures together—both in time and in love.

And so, in the midst of chaos, with his eccentric family around him, Five Hargreeves had his first kiss. It was perfect in its imperfection, much like everything else in his life.

[cupidddd-d]

i knew i'd never let you get away

now playing ... 4ever by clairo

pt. 1

wc: 662

it had been three years without you. one thousand and ninety-five days without you. twenty-six thousand, two hundred and ninety-eight hours. it had been too long living without you, and it was enough to make a lesser man go insane. every second without you was agony, but he would soon be able to rectify his biggest mistake: not being the man you deserved.

he thought he would be happy if he had his family, that he could learn to love his wife one day, but he was wrong. none of it meant anything if he didn't have you. you were the light of his life, his first thought in the morning and his last thought just before he fell asleep.

wake up, pat the sheets next to him in his half-asleep daze to check if you were still there. you aren't. you never are anymore. eat breakfast, miss your cooking and how you always made sure he was well-fed. go to work, his only distraction from you. come home, look down at the keychain you had given to him after a date at the carnival as he unlocks the door. eat dinner, yearn to be back in your kitchen and in your arms. you used to dance with him under the fluorescent lights as you waited for the food to finish cooking.

sometimes when he showers, he still feels the ghost of your fingers in his hair. and when he closes his eyes, the warmth of the water almost feels like you again. the water bill had never been higher.

and of course he had been keeping tabs on you throughout your time apart. he'd made you a promise, after all. he needed to be able to find you. you had become an art dealer now like you had always wanted, and, true to your promise, you waited for him.

you still live in the same house. you never dated anyone new. despite everything he had done to you, you waited for him. you're still waiting for him.

that fact was enough for him to gather the courage to come back to you again. he had waited long enough to be with you. the divorce with his wife had been finalized a year ago, but the last thing he wanted to do was disrupt your life while you were trying to move on.

he stands in front of your art gallery, nervously adjusting his tie and brushing away any loose strands of hair. he takes in frantic gulps of air, steeling himself as he walks inside.

he clasps his hands behind his back, trying to look every bit of the proper gentleman he aspires to be.

"hello, is there something i can help you find-" it's you. he feels his knees grow weak, the breath getting knocked out of his lungs. you're so beautiful. how did he go so long without seeing your face like this?

"-satoru," you say softly, a dazzling smile lighting up your features. just when he thought you couldn't be prettier, you're smiling. at him.

he's imagined your reunion a thousand times over. and he's dreamed about it twice as much, but nothing could ever compare to the real thing. that knowing twinkle in your eye was something his mind never could have conjured, which makes this moment so much better.

he stands there like an idiot, his mouth gaping open. "i came back for you, baby. like i promised," he chokes out, his voice thin and breathless.

you stay silent, just grinning at him before you launch yourself into his arms. he catches you without hesitation, one arm around your waist and the other cradling the back of your head. like always.

he has a silent moment of gratitude to all the gods in existence, thanking them for leading him back to you. he's not a religious man, but as he stands there, with you finally back in his arms, he thinks that maybe he could be.

tags:

@dekusdante @drownedpoetess

[meanbossart]

Lore Ask Compilation: "Every Other Question Is About The Drow's Dick" edition

Oh I LOVE Minthara, her dialogue is absolutely fascinating and in my opinion some of the best written In the game. Experiencing her in my Evil Durge playthrough without having been spoiled to her companion scenes prior was great - the amount of depth they managed to add to her, without it at all feeling forced or rushed, and considering how much less time she gets to develop at our side is really well done. While nearly everyone's quests had me immersed, she was one of the few characters who really made me pause and think about the things she had to say to me, what she truly meant by them, and what they meant for me as an avatar doing an evil run.

We have a lot of characters in this game that are meant to be full of wisdom and experience, who are meant to be the ones who say the right thing at the right time that inspires us to make the correct choices, but I don't think either Halsin or Jaheira (and I love Jaheira) made me feel like I knew so little about life quite as Minthara did.

And, of course, she's absolutely hysterical. 10/10 I wish she had a proper companion quest past being rescued but I understand why she doesn't.

[MORE ASKS UNDER THE CUT]

It doesn't connect to the urethra since the slit in on top, so he nuts and pisses normal.

Also you 100% are not sorry, stop lying to me.

Man, I thought a lot about this one because I play so fast and loose with the content the game gives us that I'm positive there must be SOMETHING I'm completely disregarding, but I couldn't think of anything! I've chosen to pick slightly less obvious interpretations to some lines and text but nothing that completely deviates from canon, I don't think. If anyone has noticed something I neglected to mention, feel free to let me know - not because I want to revise it, but just because I'm curious!

For the second part of the question, not really. Larian did a great job of giving us plenty of room to play around in the dark urge's background, I think I'm yet to see something that I find to truly "not fit" in the ample freedom they've given us. I have my preferences, of course - I'm shocked to find that most dark urge's are NOT big hulking beasts, for example - in fact that seems to be the minority by far, but I realize that I have my... Uh... Biases.

You can see a cute little divot through the fabric if you look closely LOL

And nah, I think his penis has seen enough sharp points for a lifetime.

Well.

Unless someone decided to add some bite-marks to it.

HMMM, I... Don't think so.

He didn't cry as a baby, he didn't cry as a child (and this isn't something I just decided on now - this is a major reason why his foster drow mother even kept him around) he didn't really cry growing up or at any point during the campaign. I think he is capable of it - sadness in him just tends to be far more confusing a feeling than anything else.

He will have emotional moments in ANE, whether or not that will culminate in crying is something you will have to wait to find out LOL

Astarion has noticed this and just took it as a character trait - the drow doesn't cry, he just gets confused, angry, frustrated or simply bottles it up. While he can be demanding of his emotional maturity, he isn't going to try and dictate how he should experience his own feelings. If it did happen it would definitely catch him majorly off-guard, perhaps even shift the perception he has of him to a certain extent.

Oh my god you just know they All managed to be utterly quiet about it for as long as humanly (and unhumanly) possible until like, I don't even know, halfway through the Shadow-cursed lands where one day Karlach finally turns back to the group around the campfire after a half-nude drow has strut past and she's like "SO

"DOES ANYONE KNOWS WHY HIS DICK HAS A SNATCH"

And Wyll is like :0... Karlach you can't just ask people that.

And then she pointedly turns to Astarion and starts trying to interrogate him on how it works while Gale covers his ears and Shadowheart is like:

This is gonna blow you guys backwards but he does not do those things in front of people and thinks its rude if you do.

HMMM Mostly physically but it's a little subtle. He really enjoys interacting with Astarion's (and previously Orin's) hands - kissing, holding, caressing. Touching hair and faces as well. He can engage in more overt physical affection but usually Astarion has to be the one to initiate.

A disarmingly earnest proclamation of love and adoration here and there as well - he isn't shy in the slightest to tell people how he feels about them, he just isn't constantly reminding them of it unless inspiration strikes.

Most of all I think he expects his loved-ones to see his care for them in his tendency to go out of his way to help them achieve their goals.

He went with them to the Shadow-cursed lands but I never helped him fix the curse, so he stayed behind when the gang went onwards to the city. DU Drow didn't really like him so it was good-riddance as far as he was concerned.

If he had come along and propositioned him during act 3 - uh, you know the really mean rejection line you have as a choice during that dialogue? Yeah, that one lmao.

Alas, DU drow is just monogamous. He could entertain group-sex with a partner for fun at the most, but not ever a third person in the relationship. And In my personal interpretation (but by all means - everyone else have fun with their poly arrangements!) of Astarion and his delivery of the "this is about Halsin" line, I also thought he was lying about being comfortable with it, so I write him as monogamous as well.

Nothing. Nada. Not a thing. Say what you'd like about Bhaal but he sure knows how sculpt them out of his murder-meat.

(Thank you!!!)

[apomaro-mellow]

King and Prince 25

Part 24

Steve read and re-read the letter over and over. He’d been awake for a couple of hours and had yet to leave his room. Sometimes he paced about the floor, letter in hand, eyes glued to the page. Other times he fell against the bed, Eddie’s words pressed to his chest as if that could calm the pounding that threatened to overwhelm him. Steve rubbed his cheeks, starting to get sore from his smile. 

Eddie seemed genuine. The letter was full of his intent to court him officially. The idea warmed his entire body. It was nice to be kissed and told sweet things in fleeting moments leading to a coupling. But to have this - someone saying with no uncertainty that they had their sights set on you. And the implication of the end of the road leading to an altar. Royalty didn’t play games of love like this.

If all Eddie wanted was his physical affection, he wouldn’t be going to all this trouble. For a moment, Steve wondered if he would have allowed that. If Eddie had made a few simple, yet flirtatious remarks, a few suggestive gestures before leading him to a private alcove…

Steve let out a breath and tugged at his collar. The idea was alluring and Steve couldn’t say for sure that it wouldn’t happen. But he was glad he had this, this letter in his hand. It told him that Eddie wanted more and saw him as more.

He searched for writing materials. It was only proper to reply with a letter of his own. Usually one had more time to answer an invitation to courtship but there was no reason to wait in this instance. 

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

Eddie watched on as El lifted a mound of clay. It floated in the air right before her, just a shapeless lump. 

“Good, now imagine your hands shaping it. Any form that you want, just picture your own fingers doing it”, Eddie said.

Something poked the clay from one spot, and then another. El’s brow furrowed as she tried to mold it. Eddie observed, expression neutral. Suddenly, El dropped the clay onto the table with a splat and frowned at him.

“I can’t do it.”

“What were you trying to make?”, he asked.

“...Something?”

“Well, there you go. You need to have a solid image in your mind.”

“Am I interrupting?”, Steve asked, poking his head into the art room.

“No”, Eddie smiled. “We were just about to take a break. El, go and rest your brain.”

She scurried off, already looking lighter than air as she walked out, leaving them alone. Eddie took in Steve. He was wearing yellow today, with accents of orange. His hands were behind his back as he stepped into the art room. Eddie swallowed a little when he realized Steve must be here to give his reply. Suddenly his hands got sweaty and he put them behind his own back to hide the fact.

“Did you-”, he paused to clear his throat but ended up coughing, bending over a little in effort and then tried to brush it off by leaning against the table. “Did you receive my letter?”

“I did”, Steve said, a coy smile on his face. “You do know that for a real, true, legitimate courtship you are required to approach my father for permission?”

Eddie couldn’t help the sneer that came upon his face. “The day I ask that man for permission for anything is the day the world breaks in two.” His arms had crossed but he uncrossed them and stopped leaning on the table, standing up straight as he looked Steve in the eye. “I care only for what you say.”

“...What if I were to refuse you?”, Steve asked, curious.

Eddie looked torn for a moment. “Then I…I would…if my feelings are not reciprocated, I would respect your decision.”

“Even if that decision was to marry Jason Carver?” When Steve asked that, he didn’t miss the way Eddie’s fist clenched before hiding it behind his back.

“Even then.”

“Even if I wished to be given a horse, some coin, and to be let loose on my way to forge my own path?”

Eddie’s eyebrow raised. “As a commoner?”

“As a commoner”, Steve nodded.

“Then you’d have a horse. And any amount of money that you would find respectable.”

“You would let me go that easily?”

“Who said it would be easy?”, Eddie breathed out. “I would let you go but I would think of you everyday after. You may leave this place but you have taken up permanent residence in my mind.”

“You’d still think of me?” Steve found that hard to believe. As a ruler, Eddie surely had more important things to keep him occupied. He might think of Steve for a time, but not for long.

“You would be in the face of every flower I see. I’d hear you in Dustin’s laughter, see you in the way Robin smirks. You’d be everywhere, even if you’re nowhere.”

Steve revealed his hand and held out a sealed envelope. Eddie took it, hands trembling only a little. He looked into Steve’s eyes, his own full of hope and asking for the allowance to open it right away. Steve nodded.

To the King who has opened up his home to me, 

Please do not misunderstand the shortness of the letter as a lackadaisical approach to romance. And I beg you to excuse the theft of your own words. I am not adept when putting a pen to paper. But I too, feel as if I could speak on you for pages and pages. That is to say, I humbly accept your offer. And I look forward to seeing what sort of romance you believe I am suited for.

Sincerely and with great hope,

Prince Steven

Steve waited with bated breath for Eddie to finish. It took longer than he had expected but that was simply because Eddie kept going over different parts of the letter in disbelief. Finally, he looked away from Steve’s writing.

“You realize what this means?”

That Steve was putting his heart in his hands, that he might face obstacles as an enemy courting the attentions of a king, that one day he may need to answer to his parents for his decisions, that-

“You and I will be needing a chaperone from now on”, Eddie said, interrupting Steve’s thoughts. “It’s no longer proper for us to be on our own.”

Steve blinked, realizing he was right and that they were alone right now. Most indecent for two people who were starting a romantic exchange, not yet married. Nothing to witness except for the easels, paints, and other art materials in the room. Steve grinned, pushing some hair behind his ear.

“And just what are you expecting we’d get up to all alone?”

“I-”

A trio of footsteps saved Eddie from answering as he was sure to stutter through a reply. El returned, Will and Max in tow. Will, ever the sensitive one, felt that they had interrupted something and gave them both quick glances. Max, also sensitive but less considerate about it, just brushed past them, going right to her own station where a mound of clay was waiting.

“Are you ready to start back up again?”, El asked, looking between Eddie and Steve.

“Uhhhh…”

“He’s ready for you”, Steve answered in his stead. “He and I will be seeing each other later.”

Steve walked out, brain working overtime to take in everything that had just happened. Eddie’s body language and the way his voice sounded. He had looked, nervous, for lack of a better word. It was the perfect word for it but still Steve was hesitant to use it towards himself. It surprised Steve at first. Why should Eddie feel nervous? But then when he understood it, he found it endearing. When a king set his sights on someone, it was considered a done deal. Who would deny a king? But Eddie was treating the situation like there was a chance Steve might say ‘no’. Like he really cared and would put forth the effort for him.

Better than floating on clouds, or being swept away by a current, for the first time in a long while, Steve felt like he had two feet on solid ground.

Part 26

Taglist

@thesuninyaface @only-evanescent  @snakeorsquid  @ignoremyworld  @theclichefortunecookie 

@goodolefashionedloverboi  @just-a-tiny-void  @0body0disphoria0  @cinnamon-mushroomabomination  @samsoble 

@jamieweasley13  @y4r3luv  @xtkxkrzrizir  @un-knownperson  @greekgeek24 

@justdrugsformethanks  @potato-of-the-lord  @notaqueenakhaleesi  @swimmingbirdrunningrock  @queenie-ofthe-void 

@nebulainajar  @lil-gremlin-things  @nicememerino  @robininblue  @hornedqueenofhell 

@anne-bennett-cosplayer  @moomkin77  @here4thetrama  @bookworm0690  @autumncrocusandladybug

@lil-gremlin-things @littlebluejane @puppy-steve