#like god this might be worse than midnights even

[gor3-hound]

KISS AND MAKE UP — NAOYA + TOJI

a/n: another commission for my faveeee @nexysworld. MWAH. just a heads up, naoya is referred to as reader n toji’s cousin just cause second cousin sounded weird in writing idk.

cw: 18+ content. daddy-daughter incest (toji), cousin incest (toji/naoya-ish. naoya/reader). threats + slapping (directed at naoya). misogyny. kinda maybe brief dub-con. p in v. oral (f + m receiving). fem!reader. slapping. hair pulling. creampie.

2.8k words

Your dad has been gone for the better part of a week when he decides to wander into the house one morning — surprisingly early giving his typical track record of showing up well past midnight. You’re nursing a cup of coffee, nodding in greeting as his gaze lands on you.

“My cousin is coming over later.” Toji huffs as soon as he steps into the kitchen, lazily leaning against the doorway. Irritation is written all over his features. “Play nice, y'hear? I don't need gramps bitchin’ at me. Y'know what Naoya is like with his daddy.”

Naoya. The mention of his name alone is enough to have you scowling, your expression twisting in a similar manner to Toji’s. That only seems to annoy your father further, an exasperated sigh spilling past his lips. “N’ don’t give me that look, kid. Or him, for that matter. I ain’t dealin’ with another one of his rants about how I raised my daughter with a shitty attitude.”

“He thinks any woman who breathes too loud isn’t raised right.” You counter, huffing as you set your coffee down on your counter.

“Ain’t my problem,” your dad replies easily, shrugging his shoulders. “You only have to see him once or twice a year. Suck it up.”

“How long is he even staying?”

Toji is an asshole, but he isn’t evil. He feels a little bad, considering how much you and your cousin tend to butt heads. His lips thin at your question, pressing together as he walks over to ruffle your hair and pull you against his side. “Couple ‘a days. Sorry, kid.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Naoya’s gotten at least a hundred times worse since you last saw him. It’d been a year or so since you were forced to be in his presence for more than an hour at a time, and now that he’s hit his twenties and has been getting more duties in the clan, he seems to think he’s God’s greatest gift. He’s not even a full-year older than you, and yet he loves giving you the whole ‘respect your elders, girl’ spiel everytime you so much as frown in his presence.

He’s been here for a day, and you’re already counting down the minutes until he leaves. Your dad said an important job came up — an excuse to escape Naoya, you’re certain — so you don’t even have him to try and attempt to get Naoya to ease up.

You might genuinely go insane before your dad decides to show up again. If you hear him say that you ‘missed a spot’ while making you clean up his mess one more goddamn time, you’re going to end up in a cell.

“If I’m going to cook for you,” you say in a low tone, swallowing thickly to attempt not to snap. If only to save the lecture you’d inevitably get from Naoya, then your father, and then the head of the clan when Naoya eventually went whining to his dad. “You can at least take the plate to the kitchen after.” “And why should I?” He scoffs, that insufferable grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he regards you with an icy stare. “You’re here. Isn’t this kind of thing the purpose of your… species?”

The muscle of your jaw ticks at his words. You can’t even muster up the strength to force a polite smile on your face, your hands clenching and unclenching at your sides. Better to act like a proper lady than retaliate and have him being even more insufferable than usual. Your silence almost seems to piss him off more — you’re starting to think he gets a rise out of seeing you act out.

“You know, the women of this family are disgraceful.” He continues. “Not one of you was raised with proper manners. My father is too soft on all of you. When I am head of this clan, I plan to—”

“Please. Your own dad thinks you’re an asshole. He’s just waiting for an excuse to pass it onto someone else. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” You bite out, unable to hold your tongue any longer.

Silence fills the room for a few tense seconds. Naoya just… blinks at you, shock written over his features. Shock quickly turns to disbelief, as if the thought of you talking back to him was completely out of his realm of possibility. “Pathetic. You can’t even hear simple facts without growing emotional. The audacity you have to speak to me in such a way is…”

He trails off, lips curling into a sneer as he looks at you. “You should consider yourself lucky I even allow you to speak in my presence, you insolent little—”

“One more fuckin’ word.” The cold voice that cuts through Naoya’s words aren’t your own, but it is a voice you immediately recognise. Your head turns to face your father, the man standing in the doorway with a stony expression.

“I’ve done nothing wrong.” Naoya replies, though you don’t miss the slight waver in his voice.”I was simply correcting the behaviour you refuse to address. My father wouldn’t stand for this treatment of the heir of the—”

“Apologise to my fuckin’ daughter, or I’ll send you back to your daddy in a body bag, kid.” The words aren’t an empty threat — something you and Naoya seem to realise at the exact same time. You watch closely as your cousin swallows his pride, gaze falling to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, words barely audible. It’s a pathetic attempt, really. One your own father isn’t nearly satisfied with.

“Oh, now you wanna keep quiet, huh? Known you since you were a fuckin’ infant, and I’ve never known you to to know when to shut the fuck up. Say sorry properly.” Toji snaps. Naoya opens his mouth to give another half-hearted apology, but Toji is faster as he speaks up again. “Better be a good one.”

Your dad pauses briefly to think, then he’s stepping closer. “Y’know what? I think you should show you’re really sincere. Get on your knees, and say sorry to my kid.”

Naoya does an exceptionally good impression of a fish — mouth opening and closing multiple times as he stares blankly up at Toji. “You… You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t fuckin’ try me today. I’ve had shitty luck with the races, and I’d love to blow off some steam. I’m sick of you and that old man treatin’ us like shit.”

Naoya swallows hard, slowly rising from your battered sofa. He shifts slightly towards you, refusing to meet your gaze as he sinks down to his knees on the floor. “I apologise.”

“Better,” Toji hums, moving to stand behind you, guiding you to the spot Naoya was just sitting. He’s practically kneeling at your feet now, expression indecipherable. “Sit down, baby. Let’s get him to make it up to you, yeah?”

The tone of voice makes you shiver, eyes flicking up to your dad’s face. Between his soft coo and the way he’s looking at you, you feel your cheeks heat. It’s a familiar expression, but never one you’ve received when in the company of others. “Spread your legs for me, good girl.”

Naoya’s head snaps up then, eyes wide as he looks at Toji. You’re unable to school your own expression as you gaze down at Naoya, taking in the way he’s acting. You can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment, finally having him knocked down a few pegs. You swallow the lump forming in your throat, your heart fluttering nervously as you follow your dad’s command. 

“Show her how sorry you really are, hmm?” Toji purrs, all low as he takes a handful of Naoya’s dyed hair, forcing his face against your clothed cunt. He stiffens, but then he’s quickly melting against you, nuzzling closer to your heat. 

“Not so talkative now.” Toji scoffs, squatting down as he uses his grip as leverage to make Naoya rub against you more. The action draws a soft whine from the back of your throat, your head falling back against the sofa. “Got you actin’ like a well-trained dog, just from the scent of some pussy? You really have that much trouble gettin’ girls in bed, huh?”

Naoya bristles at his words, but he’s visibly more docile than usual as he allows Toji to guide him against you. You’re getting impatient yourself now, squirming against the cushions. 

“You want a taste, cousin?” And Naoya nods within seconds, eagerly opening his mouth and exhaling harshly. The hot air fans against the damp fabric of your panties in a way that instantly has heat shooting to your core. “Always bein’ a fuckin’ brat, think you even deserve it?”

Toji pulls Naoya back, and you find satisfaction in the pathetic little whine he lets out, even if you find yourself immediately missing his presence between your legs. 

“Daddy, please.” You breathe, voice a mix of needy and pleading. You instantly see the way he softens — something you only ever really get the luxury of seeing — before he lets go of Naoya’s hair. 

“Go on, then.” Toji murmurs, and Naoya doesn’t even blink before his fingers are desperately grasping at your skirt, bunching up the fabric at your waist and tugging your panties to the side before he dives in. 

A low, breathless ‘fuck’ spills past his lips as his tongue licks a long, wet stripe along your dripping cunt, collecting the wetness that had gathered there. He groans against you, nose nudging at your clit as he tongue-fucks you in earnest. His lashes flutter as he gazes up at you, the taste of you making him feel a little light-headed. 

You’ve never seen him so invested in anything. He has a lazy sort of arrogance that follows his every action, but he looks like nothing more than an over-excited puppy as he laps at you with an almost feverish intensity. His eyes are heavy lidded, fingers gripping onto your legs with a harshness that makes you think you’ll be left with bruises as a reminder of what happened. 

“Make her cum, and I might even let you have a treat,” Toji teases. Your peak is rapidly approaching by the time his voice takes your attention away from Naoya. You’d almost forgotten your dad was only feet away, watching the both of you closely. He’s clearly enjoying this — if the tent stretching his pants obscenely was anything to go by. 

Naoya is only spurred on by his words, dragging his mouth upwards until his lips suction around your clit. He sucks eagerly, tongue flicking against the swollen bud until you’re writhing and crying out beneath him. The way Toji sees it, the two of you have never gotten on so well. 

“Nao, please… need… just a little more.” You babble, hand reaching down to tug at his hair. He moans against you, tongue pressing flat against your clit. Your thighs clench around his head, body tensing as you gush all over his tongue. He keeps licking until he’s tugged away, hazy-eyed and hard as a rock. 

“My… treat?” Naoya mutters hoarsely. He’s never one to miss out on… anything that benefits him, really. He’s twitching in his trousers, leaking pre-cum steadily, and he’s just about ready to accept anything that’ll let him get off.

“Always an impatient brat.” Toji says under his breath, large hands coming down to position you on the sofa — hands and knees against the cushions — before stripping off his pants and boxers. “Think Naoya’s sorry, baby. Wanna return the favour while daddy has a turn on your pretty little pussy?”

You’re still panting from your previous orgasm, but the idea of being stuffed from both ends has your cunt pulsing. You flinch a little as your dad slides into you, whimpering softly as your walls flutter around him. You’re still sensitive, biting down on your lower lip to stifle your moans. 

“Aww, cute. Tryna be quiet, baby?” Toji coos, thrusting forward hard, just once, to make you squeal. “Naoya can help with that, yeah? Gonna let him fill that mouth?”

You nod, and Naoya considers that permission. You’ve never seen someone move so fast, his hands hastily pulling at his clothes. He slides onto the couch, kneeling in front of you. 

The only issue with his mouth no longer being preoccupied is he’s now capable of speaking again, and he makes that known to the entire room. He slowly slides his length past your lips, head titling back as the tight, wet heat of your mouth engulfs him. 

“Fuck, that’s good. I knew there had to be a reason my cousin kept you around, considering how useless you are at everything else.” As soon as the words leave his lips, the sharp, harsh sound of skin of skin fills the room. You don’t realise what happened at first, but Toji hips stutter at the exact moment Naoya lets out a sharp hiss of pain. 

Your dad hit him. Hard enough to have his cheek glowing red, his head cocked to the side from the force of the smack. You expect a tantrum, another speech. You get neither. 

His hips buck so violently his cock lodges itself deep in your throat, making you gag. Your eyes water at you look up at him, his pupils blown as a smug smile stretches across his face. 

“Weird little freak.” Your dad grunts, still fucking into you with further. His hands find your hips, pulling you back against his thrusts as you drool eagerly all over Naoya’s cock. 

“Guilty,” Naoya purrs in reply, words cocky and self-assured as he threads his hands in your hair to hold you steady, giving him the leverage he needs to fuck your face. 

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth when you’re talkin’ to my daughter, or I’ll make you sit in the corner and watch me play with her instead.” Toji growls. 

At least that seems to quieten him down, if only so he doesn’t have to give up the pleasure your mouth is bringing him. Naoya’s thighs begin to twitch at the same time his grip in your hair tightens. You work harder at licking along his length, sucking eagerly as he fucks your throat. 

“Come… coming, fuck.” Naoya hisses, forces the entirety of his length down your throat. You choke as his seed fills your throat, unable to do anything but swallow with your nose pressed firmly against his pelvis. You cough and splutter when he finally pulls out, a mix of cum and spit coating your lips and chin as he collapses in the corner of the couch. 

He watches lazily as your dad fucks you. Toji takes the opportunity to push your chest into the couch, nuzzling the nape of your neck to let you hear the quiet grunts he lets out against your skin as his chest presses against your back. His grip on your hips is tight, yanking you back to meet each of his thrusts. 

His cock hits that spongy spot inside of you that has you positively mewling with each jolt of his hips, his lips hot and hungry as he trails kisses along your skin. “Fuck, baby. So pretty. Such a good girl for me, so good… go on, cum for me, sweetheart. Show Naoya how good you are for daddy.”

His words are your undoing, a broken cry leaving you as you cream around his cock, slick coating his length and dripping down his balls. He thrusts lazily a few more times, biting down on your shoulder as he cums deep inside your trembling cunt. 

You flop down almost immediately, falling boneless against the couch. Your head falls against Naoya’s thigh, chest heaving with each panting breath you let out. 

“Might as well come up here,” Naoya hums with surprising softness, arm falling away from his side languidly. It’s about as open as an invitation to snuggle as you’re going to get. 

You shift up against his body, dropping down against his chest with a tired sigh. Toji just laughs, leaning back in his heels. “Christ. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Naoya glares at him, wrapping his arm around your waist. Your eyes are already shut, and Naoya’s close a moment later. Only moments later, you’re both passed out. 

“Brats.” Toji grumbles under his breath as he pulls a throw blanket around your sleeping forms, an unmistakable fondness to his tone. 

[dialdrunk]

taylor’s worst sin MUSICALLY is putting the best songs on the deluxe edition because from the bottom of my heart what the FUCK was that???????

[sidekick-hero]

“Hey, have you seen Harrington? Guy’s totally wasted. Can't even stand. Tried to get up, fell down like a goddamn turtle. Garrison's over there throwing chips at him. It’s hysterical, you gotta check this out, man.”

The upside to being the guy everyone calls ‘the Freak’—the guy no one wants to talk to unless they’re looking to buy—is that Eddie can disappear whenever he wants. And tonight, he’s been in full stealth mode, almost ghost-like in the way he drifts through the shadows of this overcrowded house party. When he’s not standing on lunch tables at school, giving speeches, or taunting the assholes who think they run the place, Eddie finds that people tend to forget he’s even there.

Which makes it real easy to hear all kinds of things he probably shouldn’t. Not that Carver's announcement is any kind of secret, not with the way he’s broadcasting it to the entire room. Ever since Harrington lost his King Steve status, the rest of the jock squad has been scrambling to claw their way to the top. It’s desperate. Pathetic, really, if you ask him. But no one’s ever asking Eddie for his opinion.

He should get out of here. Most of his stash is gone, and it’s getting late. There’s leftover mac and cheese in the fridge with his name on it, and if he bolts now, he might just catch the midnight rerun of The Thing.

Eddie tries to ignore the mental image of Harrington—Steve, Steve—sprawled out on that grimy carpet, covered in crumbs and dirt, drenched in stale beer. He must feel defenseless. The kind of defenseless that Eddie knows too well, the kind that gets you laughed at, or worse. But just because Harrington buys a dime bag off him every week doesn’t mean they’re friends. Even if they’ve had a few surprisingly not-awful conversations. Even if Steve’s actually kind of funny for a rich kid, for a jock.

There’s no reason for Eddie to care about what’s happening to Steve Harrington, just like Steve never cared about him.

So why the hell are his feet carrying him toward the living room instead of the back door? Why is he elbowing people out of the way, pushing through the circle of gawkers around Steve? Why are his hands grabbing Steve by the shoulders, hauling him up, and dragging him out before anyone even knows what’s happening?

And why, for the love of God, is he driving to his trailer with Steve snoring in the passenger seat, instead of dumping the guy at his parents' mansion and going home?

Eddie wishes he knew. But his body’s on autopilot, and he’s watching it all happen like he's outside himself, like he’s not the one doing it.

The trailer park is quiet, too quiet for a Saturday night, but that’s January for you—cold as a witch's tit, and getting colder. The van’s heater barely works, and Eddie can see both their breaths fogging up the air, little puffs of steam in the dark.

Eddie cuts the engine, and the sudden silence fills the van like a held breath. Steve shifts in the seat, muttering something incoherent, his head lolling against the window. For a split second, Eddie considers just leaving him here. Would serve him right, honestly. Let King Steve wake up alone, freezing his ass off in a busted van in a trailer park at the edge of town. But then Steve lets out a soft groan, and Eddie can’t help but roll his eyes.

"You're a real piece of work, Harrington," he mutters under his breath, pushing open the driver's side door.

The cold air hits him like a slap, biting through his jacket and sending a shiver down his spine. He makes his way around to the passenger side, yanking open the door and catching Steve before he can tumble out. The guy's heavier than he looks—dead weight, limp as a rag doll. Eddie grunts, struggling for a grip, and finally manages to sling one of Steve's arms over his shoulder.

"Okay, big boy, up you go," Eddie mutters, half-dragging, half-carrying Steve toward the trailer. Steve's head drops forward, his hair brushing Eddie’s cheek, and he smells like a mix of beer, Steve's usual cologne, and something else—something clean, like laundry detergent or fresh air. It's weirdly comforting, and Eddie has to shake himself out of it.

Inside, the trailer is dim, lit only by the glow of the old TV Eddie left on. He kicks the door shut behind them, maneuvering Steve over to the sagging couch. Steve flops down with a heavy thud, eyes still closed, mouth slightly open. For a second, Eddie just stands there, looking at him, wondering what the hell he’s doing.

Why didn’t he just leave him there at the party? Why did he care?

Maybe it's because Steve looks different like this. Not the smug, popular guy who used to strut down the halls like he owned the place. Not the guy who had everything and then lost it all. Just... some kid, really. Some scared, drunk kid who probably doesn’t know where he fits anymore.

“Alright, Sleeping Beauty,” Eddie mutters, leaning down to untie Steve’s sneakers. “Let’s get you comfortable before you choke on your own puke.”

As he pulls off one shoe, then the other, Steve stirs, his eyelids fluttering. For a moment, his gaze is unfocused, hazy, but then his eyes lock onto Eddie’s, and there’s a flicker of recognition.

“Munson?” Steve’s voice is low, rough from whatever he’s been drinking. “What the hell…?”

“Yeah, it’s me, genius,” Eddie says, trying to sound annoyed but failing to hide the faint smile tugging at his lips. “You got yourself in a bit of a mess tonight, Harrington.”

Steve blinks, slowly piecing things together. “Why’d you bring me here?”

Eddie shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Seemed like the right thing to do, I guess.”

Steve snorts, like he doesn’t quite believe him. “Right. The Freak playing Good Samaritan. What’s the punchline?”

Eddie’s smile fades. It inexplicably hurts to hear Steve call him that. “There’s no punchline, man. Not everything’s a joke.”

Steve stares at him, as if searching for something in Eddie’s face, something to latch onto. Finally, he just nods, leaning back against the couch, eyes half-closed again. “Thanks,” he mumbles, almost too quiet to hear. “I guess.”

Eddie feels something strange twist in his chest. “Don’t mention it,” he says, a little too quickly, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Steve. He turns away, grabbing an old blanket from a nearby chair and tossing it over Steve. “You sleep it off. I’ll be in my room.”

But even as he walks away, he can't shake the feeling that something’s shifted tonight, some invisible line crossed. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe in the morning, Steve will wake up, make a snarky comment, and it’ll all go back to the way it was.

Or maybe, just maybe, it won’t.

[wolvietxt]

𝓟ATCHWORK.

pairings : frank castle x fem!reader warnings : injury, crying, non-sexual nudity, angst, size diff, hurt/comfort, teasing, fluff, happy ending summary : you take care of your boyfriend frank after he shows up at your door, bloody and bruised wc : 1.2k a/n : um hello punisher fandom i’m only on season one i’m so sorry #fakefan😥

the knock at your door came just after midnight, faint but insistent. you had a sinking feeling even before you opened it, knowing who it would be. frank always showed up like this - silent and battered, like a ghost returning to haunt your quiet life. except you really did love this ghost. but tonight was worse. the moment you saw him leaning heavily against the frame, his face pale under streaks of blood, your breath hitched.

“frank,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “oh my god, what happened?”

he grunted in response, brushing off your concern with a slight shake of his head. “‘s not as bad as it looks,” he muttered, but the way he swayed on his feet told a different story. instinctively, you reached out, your much smaller hands pressing against his chest to steady him. he was so solid, so big, but he felt fragile in this moment, like he might collapse if you let go.

“come inside,” you said, your voice wavering as you pulled him in. he barely made it two steps before you had to slip under his arm, guiding him toward the bathroom. “you shouldn’t even be walking. why didn’t you call me?”

“didn’t wanna… bother you,” he rasped, wincing as you helped him sit on the closed toilet lid. his broad shoulders hunched forward, and he sucked in a sharp breath when you knelt in front of him, slowly nestling in between his legs.

“bother me?” your voice cracked, tears already pricking at your eyes. “frank, you’re bleeding all over my bathroom. how could you think…” you trailed off, shaking your head as you reached for the first aid kit under the sink.

his lips twitched, a ghost of a smile despite the situation. “baby, you’re cryin’ already,” he murmured, his tone soft, almost teasing. “i’m the one all cut up, and you’re the one fallin’ apart.”

“shut up,” you sniffled, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand before focusing on the deep gash along his side. “it’s not funny.”

“maybe a little funny,” he said, but his voice was gentler now, his dark eyes watching you with something like affection. the size of him made you feel even smaller as you worked, your hands trembling as you cleaned the wound. “you don’t gotta do this, y’know.”

“stop saying that,” you mumbled, dabbing at the cut with antiseptic, trying to focus on stopping the bleeding rather than frank’s cooing at your sniffles. “you’re always saying that, like i’m not here because i want to be. you think i’d let just anyone bleed all over my floor?”

his chuckle was low, rumbling in his chest. “guess not.”

once the wound was cleaned and stitched, you leaned back on your heels, letting out a shaky breath. “all done. but you need to get cleaned up. you’re covered in…” you gestured vaguely at him, your lips quivering as you tried not to cry again.

“hey,” he said softly, his massive hand reaching out to cup your cheek, another of his little scoffs threatening to slip. he was trying to be as serious as possible for you, not wanting you to think he wasn’t taking you seriously, especially after putting you through so much. his thumb brushed away a stray tear, and the contrast of his rough skin against your softness made your heart ache. “don’t cry, sweetheart. it’s okay. i’m okay.”

“you’re not okay,” you whispered, your voice breaking. your train of thought stopped abruptly when you noticed the corners of his lips slightly turning up. “frank! stop smiling. just let me help, okay?” you whined, lifting your head away from his hands.

“okay, sweetheart,” he didn’t argue, too tired to fight you on it. you stood and turned to the tub, starting the water and letting it run warm. the quiet sound of it filled the room, grounding you as you grabbed a clean towel and set it aside. when you turned back to him, he was watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

“come on,” you said, helping him to his feet. he towered over you, his sheer size making the act of guiding him to the tub feel almost absurd. but he let you, his movements slow and careful as he sank down onto the edge. his knees jutted up from the small space, his frame too large for the confines of your tiny bathroom.

“stay there,” you murmured, kneeling again to untie his boots and tug them off. your fingers worked quickly, but you were hyper-aware of his gaze, the weight of his attention making your cheeks flush.

once he was down to his boxers, you helped him ease into the water, your hands fluttering nervously as if you might break him. he let out a low sigh as the warm water enveloped him, his head tipping back against the edge of the tub.

“better?” you asked, perching on the side of the tub.

he hummed in response, his eyes slipping shut. after a moment, his head tipped forward, resting against your thigh. the vulnerability of the gesture stole your breath, and your hand hesitated mid-air before you rested it gently on his damp hair.

“you’re too good to me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

“stop saying that,” you replied softly, your fingers threading through his hair. “you deserve someone to take care of you, frank. you deserve…” your voice caught, the words sticking in your throat.

he tilted his head slightly, looking up at you with an amused glint in his eyes. “you’re cryin’ again.”

“shut up,” you sniffled, swiping at your cheeks. “it’s your fault. you’re so… stubborn.”

his laugh was soft, barely more than a huff of air, but it made your chest ache. “didn’t mean to make you cry, sweetheart.”

you shook your head, your hand still brushing through his hair. “you didn’t. i just… i hate seeing you like this. you act like you don’t matter, but you do. you matter to me.”

for a long moment, he didn’t say anything, his dark eyes searching yours. then, slowly, he lifted a hand out of the water, his fingers brushing against your knee. it was such a small, tender gesture, but it spoke volumes.

“you’re somethin’ else,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion.

the two of you stayed like that for a while, the water growing cooler as his breathing slowed, the exhaustion finally taking hold. you didn’t move, didn’t dare disturb the fragile peace that had settled over the room. he looked so different like this, his usual hard edges softened by the quiet intimacy of the moment.

as his head grew heavier against your thigh, you leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “get some rest,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “i’ve got you, frank. i’ve got you.”

and for the first time, he didn’t argue.

taglist form in pinned post, just added frank castle ><

[admiringlove]

happy birthday, satoru. i'll miss you till the end of time <3

satoru hated birthdays.

it was the worst time of the year. the cold seeped into his bones, a biting chill that he couldn’t shake. the snow blanketed everything in white, a stark reminder of his own hair color, and somehow, that made it all worse. he despised it. there had never been a reason for him to celebrate the day—or himself. because, really, what did gojo satoru have to celebrate?

he had everything and nothing, all at once. the money to buy the world, but the loneliness that kept it out of reach. he could touch anything, yet he owned none of it. what was the point of a day like this? a cake he wouldn’t eat? a song no one meant?

so when the day inevitably arrived, he found himself sitting alone in his room at nine in the morning. his phone lay in his hand, his lips curling into a small, frustrated pout as he stared at the screen. he thought of you—your face flickering in his mind. you should’ve wished him, shouldn’t you? why hadn’t you? why did you act like it was just another day, like he was just another person? indifferent. casual. distant.

you treated him the same way you always did—sarcasm dripping from your remarks, soft laughter slipping out when geto cracked a joke, cigarettes shared with shoko in the courtyard after class. and then you left.

it seemed as though none of his friends had remembered. and that... hurt more than he thought it would.

all his life, he’d been gojo satoru. the greatest. the honored one. the six eyes and the limitless user. for centuries, no one like him had existed, and maybe no one ever would again. he’d grown up as an untouchable, a god among men. always alone. disconnected from the world, from people. he didn’t even know what it meant to have a home.

but then, he’d come here. to jujutsu tech. and for the first time, he’d found something close to it. he’d found you. he’d found geto. he’d found shoko.

he mutters curses under his breath the moment suguru offhandedly mentions that you’ve gone out shopping with shoko downtown. harajuku, shinjuku—somewhere that usually might have piqued his interest. but right now, he doesn’t give a shit. not one bit. there’s a bitter taste lingering on his tongue, acrid and sharp, and it fuels his growing disdain for the day. he hates it more than ever.

it stings, more than he’s willing to admit. he’d gone out of his way to make sure he remembered your birthday. marked it on his calendar, down to the exact time of your birth, noting your zodiac signs and all the little details that made the day special. he’d stayed up until midnight just to call you, to be the first to wish you. he didn’t want suguru or shoko to beat him to it. that was his thing, his privilege. and then there were the gifts—carefully picked, thoughtfully wrapped.

but you’d forgotten about him. suguru hadn’t even bothered to tease him in that usual, exasperated tone he used whenever gojo flaunted his privilege. not a single snide comment, no playful jabs to pull him down a peg. and ieiri, she hadn’t even called him a loser today.

the thought nags at him, digs deep, and refuses to leave. he sighs heavily, staring at his phone screen as if it holds the answers he’s searching for. it doesn’t. the clock reads four in the evening. the day’s more than halfway over, and no message, no call, no nothing.

the ache in his chest is unfamiliar. for someone who has everything, who could want for nothing, it’s maddening to feel this hollow. so he shoves his phone into his pocket and heads out. no grand plan, no particular destination in mind—just movement, something to distract him. eventually, he finds himself walking into a small convenience store.

he doesn’t linger inside for long, grabbing a tub of ice cream and a bag of chips. it’s not much, but it’s enough. stepping outside, he looks around before settling down on a bench. the city hums quietly around him, distant enough to blur into the background. he opens the ice cream, letting the cold sweetness melt on his tongue, and tips his head back to watch the sun begin its slow descent.

the sky burns with streaks of orange and pink, and the air carries the faintest chill. it’s beautiful, he thinks, in a detached sort of way. but it doesn’t fill the empty space inside him. not today.

he watches the children on the playground, their laughter carried by the wind like a cruel melody. the rhythmic creak of swing sets and the squeals of kids sliding down brightly colored plastic seem to taunt him, their joy a distant echo of something he’s never truly known. he wonders, not for the first time, if his life might have been better—different—if he had been born ordinary. if he hadn’t been crushed under the weight of the jujutsu world, its endless demands a noose around his neck, tightening with every passing year.

would he have laughed like that too? carefree, unburdened by the enormity of what it meant to be gojo satoru? would he have been one of those kids on the swings, arms pumping, head tilted back to touch the sky, surrounded by friends who giggled and cheered him on? would his nights have been spent poring over homework at a desk in a small, cluttered room instead of wandering through empty halls of power and responsibility? would birthdays have been spent in a warm kitchen, candles flickering on a homemade cake, his parents smiling as they sang to him? parents who actually loved him—not for what he could do, but for who he was.

his chest tightens at the thought, an ache that feels almost unbearable. the life he imagines is so vivid it feels like a memory, even though it isn’t. it’s a phantom of something he’ll never have, a cruel dream that slips further away every time he reaches for it.

the sky blushes a deep pink as the sun dips lower, casting a warm glow that he doesn’t feel. he lets out a quiet sigh, leaning back on the bench. he was always surrounded by people, wasn’t he? classmates, colleagues, admirers. even strangers whispered his name like a hymn. but it was never enough. because he wasn’t just anyone. he was the gojo satoru. the honored one. the six eyes. the strongest.

and yet, beneath the grandiosity of those titles, he was just a man. a man who’d learned too early that strength didn’t equate to connection, and power didn’t promise love. always lonely. always alone.

he starts to taste the wooden stick from the ice cream, its faint bitterness seeping onto his tongue. it tastes like birch. or what he imagines birch would taste like. sharp, dry, and entirely unpleasant. his face twists instinctively, and he sticks his tongue out slightly, as though that alone could rid him of the awful taste. the half-eaten bag of potato chips sits abandoned on the bench beside him, the grease staining the corners of the crinkled plastic. it stares back at him like an unspoken challenge, but he’s already lost interest. he doesn’t want it anymore.

he leans back, sighing heavily, the weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders. the orange hues of the sunset feel like a mockery now; too vibrant, too alive for the quiet void curling inside him. at this point, all he wants is to retreat, to drag himself back to the dorms and sink into the familiar folds of his bed. the thought of his extra-fluffy blanket cocooning him is a small comfort, the idea of the springy, overstuffed mattress beneath him almost tempting enough to lift him off the bench.

but more than anything, he craves escape—not just from the day, but from himself. he wants to close his eyes and shut out the world, to drift into a dream where things are different. where the ache in his chest doesn’t exist. where he’s surrounded by people who care, people who love him. not for his strength, not for his name, but for who he is. it’s a small, desperate wish, one that he almost laughs at for its absurdity. but still, he lets it linger, lets it flicker softly in the quiet of his heart as he stares at the last rays of the setting sun.

and then the sun slips away completely, leaving the world cloaked in muted shades of dusk. the chill in the air deepens, and satoru pushes himself up from the bench, his joints protesting slightly. the bitter, almost metallic aftertaste of the ice cream stick lingers on his tongue, unwelcome and unpleasant. he straightens his back with a sharp breath, shoving his hands into his pockets as he starts walking toward the bus stop.

he could call for a car—he always could. it would be easy, convenient, and expected. but something inside him whispers otherwise tonight, a quiet, stubborn voice that tells him to let it go. to adjust. to make do. wasn’t that his life now, anyway? constantly making do. growing used to the loneliness that clung to him like a second skin. learning to be fine with it because that’s what people expected of someone like him. unshakable. untouchable. always alone.

he boards the bus when it arrives, the engine humming low as the doors hiss shut behind him. the world outside becomes a blur of motion as he takes a seat by the window, his reflection faint against the backdrop of passing streetlights and shadowed figures. he watches the city move, people coming and going, lives intersecting in brief, fleeting moments. none of them look up at him. none of them notice him.

when his stop comes, he stands and steps off the bus, offering a quiet, almost reflexive thanks to the driver. the old man turns to him with a warm smile, lines creasing the corners of his eyes.

“take care, young man,” the driver says softly, and somehow, it catches gojo off guard. he walks away, the smile still lingering in his mind. it was small, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but somehow, it mattered. a fleeting kindness from a stranger, given freely, without expectation. and as he makes his way back to the dorms, he thinks, maybe that made it all a little more bearable.

and as he walks through the gates of jujutsu tech, a strange stillness settles over him. the grounds are eerily quiet, too quiet. jujutsu tech is never this empty, not even on a sunday. normally, the halls would be alive with people returning from missions, chattering about their day or sharing meals. but now? nothing. his brows knit together as he moves toward the dorms, his footsteps echoing faintly in the silence.

no professors. no yaga pacing the halls, barking into his phone or reprimanding students for running. no clatter of footsteps, no laughter or voices bouncing off the walls. the absence is unsettling, and his instincts tell him something is off.

he was too drained to summon any of his techniques, but he let his eyes do the work anyway. as he approached the door to his dorm, his footsteps slow, his heartbeat quickening. there was energy inside—something different, something alive. it seeped through the walls, radiating warmth and anticipation, golden and electric. it wasn’t the cold, sterile energy he’d grown used to in battle; it was something softer, brighter. something he'd craved for as long as he could remember.

he stopped in his tracks, a sharp, shallow breath catching in his throat. his eyes widened, the familiar ache in his chest giving way to something foreign, something terrifyingly tender. he could see it—feel it. you. geto. shoko. nanamin. and more. the room was full, brimming with people whose energies pulsed with affection, with excitement, with care.

his chest tightened, and his heart raced faster than he could control. the pressure behind his eyes spilled over as a tear rolled down his cheek. it caught him off guard, the rawness of it. he hadn’t realized how much this meant—how much he’d needed this. his hands lifted to his face, swiping at the evidence of his weakness, his joy, his disbelief.

he opened the door.

the sound hit him first: a cacophony of cheers and laughter, the sharp crack of party poppers releasing confetti into the air. streamers dangled from the ceiling, colorful and haphazard, while the unmistakable scent of cheap pizza mingled with the sweetness of cake. balloons bobbed lazily in the corners, and a few cans of off-brand soda were scattered across the table. it was chaotic, vibrant, and so terribly them.

before he could process it all, your arms wrapped tightly around his neck. his body stiffened for a fraction of a second, startled by the suddenness of your embrace, before a soft yelp escaped him, unbidden and raw.

“surprise!” everyone shouted in unison, their voices crashing over him like a wave, breaking apart the isolation he’d been drowning in all day.

he froze, eyes scanning the room. the decorations were clumsy, the food was far from gourmet, and the whole setup was almost comically thrown together. but it was perfect. they’d remembered. every single one of you had remembered.

because for the first time in what feels like forever, gojo satoru isn’t just the honored one. he’s just satoru. surrounded by the people who love him.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[peggyao3]

Here comes the Sun [2/2]

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: Feyd-Rautha is the center of attention for an entire planet, but it counts for nothing because his favorite concubine isn't paying attention during the fight. How dare she ruin his birthday?

TAGS: 18+, smut, she/her AFAB FMC, mixed POVs, mutual pining, gore, cannibalism ❗ (just a lil), Baron being a homie, Feyd has that bratty vibe, God Complex Feyd, jealousy ❗, other concubines begone, arguments, insults, hate love relationship, enemies and lovers, porn with plot, marriage proposal, vaginal sex, knife kink, pain kink ❗, smut in chapter 2, semi-public sex ❗, angst with happy ending

WORD COUNT: 4.4k

A/N: Girly wears a revenge dress, talks shit with the Baron and gets abducted from the banquet prematurely by a boiled egg.

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist

Divider by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter

Vladimir Harkonnen was wrong. His nephew’s mood is anything but entertaining tonight.

It amazes him how a man in his twenties, who has defeated Paul Artreides, the false messiah of Arrakis, can still act like a boy just hitting puberty when a woman isn’t groveling at his feet. Feyd-Rautha refuses to deliver the annual speech he is supposed to give on the grand balcony, so the undulating mass of merrymakers on the hundred meter wide avenue is left waiting. Thankfully, with spice being dealt shamelessly among the hundreds of thousands, the celebration will soon turn into orgy and bloodbath alike, and the absence of Giedi Prime’s beloved na-Baron will be swiftly forgotten.

Albeit now dressed in a traditional, sharp-cut suit made of thick, synthetic fibers, Feyd-Rautha's face is the same as in the arena, now battling a foe whose main attack is absence.

It is two hours into the banquet when she finally enters and immediately becomes the brightest star in the obsidian colored banquet hall. And it is not due to her radiant personality, though that too is not to be underestimated. It’s because of the golden fabric that flows off her hips and chest like the molten gold and orange that a fiery alien sun might disgorge in a coronal mass ejection.

While even the esteemed guests from other Houses have chosen to match their attire somewhat to House Harkonnen by choosing rich, dark colors like mulberry and midnight blue, she has gone for the most provocative opposite, shimmering like  glossy amber. Instead of a preserved mosquito however, her amber cocoon seals a jealous animal that scowls at Feyd-Rautha as soon as his frenetic eyes target her from across the hall.

Life seems to return to Vladimir’s sulking nephew and his icy rage turns into kindling enthusiasm. Finally he can make his move. Nothing is worse than being ignored.

Strings start playing, each sound a low vibration in their ear drums and under the soles of their feet. The na-Baron and his partner of choice are expected to do the first steps on the shiny parquet. Expectantly, he raises his chin and she would like nothing more than to wrap her arms around his striking figure, cup his jaws that, despite casting a distinct shadow down his neck, have a roundness to their shape that she wants to kiss over and over.

Feyd had wanted her to dance with him. Here she is. Perfectly punctual. All he needs to do is walk over and ask her, but in his eyes, having left him waiting is her first move. So asking another concubine to dance is his.

He thinks he's being clever and proudly watches her jaws clench and shoulders stiffen. The anger in her eyes tastes better than any meal he's had today - until she looks away. She isn't supposed to look away.

As long as the strings play the first piece, Feyd dances with a total of three of his concubines. During and after each dance, his piercing gaze latches onto her like spearguns fired from seething tar, but he only meets the back of her head, and after a while not even that. A supermassive black hole obscures his view.

Baron Harkonnen floats to the woman in yellow and activates a barely used switch on his control panel. His massive frame carefully lowers itself, so he is almost on the ground and she may converse with his face without putting a strain on her neck.

“You missed the main course,” the Baron informs her and she is quite aware. For the main course, she would have been expected to occupy the seat on the na-Baron’s left while his uncle as the head of House Harkonnen sits on Feyd’s right.

“What a shame. I suppose I did catch a migraine in the end.”

“Lady Metulli sat at Feyd’S side instead. I was under the impression she couldn’t quite stomach his appetite.”

The woman in the bright dress nods. She is well aware of Feyd’s table manners. Being his uncle’s nephew, he categorically rejects cutlery and prefers to dig into raw meats with his hands and suckle blood and grease off his fingers - or make her do it. Luckily, she wasn’t there to see Lady Metulli purse her lips around Feyd’s fingers.

With rumbling laughter, the Baron adds: “She didn’t want the pill I offered either.”

“What sort of pill was it?”

“Anti nausea, of course.”

“And where is Lady Metulli now?” She must have thought Baron Harkonnen was trying to slip her a poison pill.

“Throwing up in the bathroom.”

At that, her mouth twitches and then she begins to cackle. The Baron’s gravelly breath sends plumes of vapor from his hookah into the air and she nearly chokes on it, but the coughing somehow only amplifies her laughter. Bystanders keep a wary distance to the strange duo. 

Baron Harkonnen snaps his fingers and a servant scurries to the remaining buffet which was moved to a long, sleek table along the side of the hall. They return with a black metal bowl and one red apple. The woman happily accepts the apple and imagines it's Feyd-Rautha's balls when she violently bites a piece out of it.

In her radiant dress, she occupies the center of the banquet hall like a luminary and Baron Harkonnen is her colossal floating satellite who drags a train of black matter after himself in the shape of his overlong robes.

Currently, Feyd-Rautha is a pale, icy asteroid who bristles in the periphery of these two peculiar celestial bodies, orbiting them at a safe distance. His dance partners have been discarded and the designated parquet is swarmed by guests who are supposed to be celebrating his birthday. But as the day draws to a close, praise and attention slip through his fingers like slippery blade handles. Defenseless, he stands at the edge of the dance floor and feels very alone.

Feyd doesn't know what they're talking about, but he has never wanted to gut his uncle more than right now.

“You should try one of the livers.” Vladimir offers her from his bowl.

“You know I don’t eat human livers.” The nonchalance with which she speaks to Baron Harkonnen makes a nearby representative from House Ginaz snap the stem of their glass.

The Baron hums. If with approval or disapproval, she can’t tell, but he plunges his own hand back into the slippery bowl and fishes a liver out. 

Good for her, that she refused. Feyd's jaw flexes under bone-white skin, imagining all the ways he would break her fingers and his uncle's. Feyd would rather draw a much closer orbit around his favorite concubine, but he will not allow her to let him flare up and burn down with humiliation so publicly.

“It looks like my dear nephew is still waiting for a birthday gift from you.” The Baron glances over to his chosen heir and feels almost sorry for him.

“And he can wait until the twelfth of never,” she spits.

A small, inky smile takes shape amid the Baron’s doughy face. She is a Harkonnen if he has ever seen one. If Harkonnen had hair and an aversion to human flesh. Furiously, she sinks her teeth into the red apple and juice dribbles down her chin, making her a sightlier twin of the Baron whose many chins sport a trail of grease.

She would make a good niece in law.

Night rolls in and the smoggy sky over Giedi Prime is black like ink. No starlight makes it through the thick atmosphere. The buffets have been swept empty by Harkonnen gluttony and the hall waits for one last thing, the finale of Feyd-Rautha's holy birthday.

A gasp sweeps through the guests when the walls slide up into the ceiling and a gust of warm wind seizes them, making skirts rustle and hair waft. Avidly, they spill past the sleek concrete pillars and out on the extended balcony. The putrid stench of Giedi Prime’s industrial landscape rolls into the air-conditioned banquet hall.

It is exactly one hour before midnight when the first firework whistles into the sky, pulling a tail of silvery particles, and explodes with a low bang that eerily echoes off pyramids and power plants.

She too, slowly advances towards the balcony, her attention snared by the extraterrestrial spectacle. The fireworks come in dozens, then in hundreds, blossoming colorlessly in the sky like parasitic cells under a microscope. They're beautiful.

A gasp escapes her mouth, unheard over the booming fireworks, when two wiry arms capture her from behind and pull her against a solid chest. What took him so long? Her belly flips with butterflies as Feyd-Rautha abducts her unnoticed from the celebration, pulling her back back back until the grand view over Giedi Prime vanishes from their view and the festive banquet hall is replaced by corridors like black tunnels. Only the occasional flash of a firework lights up the path before them and the visage of the pale demon who drags her along.

This is not the concubine's corridor.

Hands against her ribs shove her into Feyd-Rautha’s private chambers. Before her eyes can adjust to the darkness, his fingers are in her hair, tearing without care so the hairdo comes apart. “You've ruined my birthday and you enjoyed it!”

“I didn’t enjoy a single fucking second of this day!” Acting nonchalant only works when he’s not on her and all over her with violent hands and seething eyes, when the air doesn’t smell like his perfume oil. Her chest heaves and she will not cry.

“Then I must have imagined you having the time of your life with my uncle.” 

She tries to jerk her head out of Feyd’s grip, but he holds tight and she winces, her scalp stinging. “At least he was nice to me.”

“Perhaps you should be with him then.” Feyd’s jaw quivers.

“Your jealousy is ridiculous.”

“My jealousy?!”

“Well I’m jealous of the other women you fuck. You’re jealous of me talking to your uncle!” The fireworks are nothing compared to their voices, booming like the occasional earthquakes that rattle Giedi Prime’s volcanic crust.

Feyd threateningly lifts a finger, dark eyes simmering. “I asked you to dance with me.”

“Yes, after insulting our relationship.” 

He walks her deeper into his bed chamber, shaking his head as if to deny the allegations but he can’t, not really. It isn’t fair of her, he thinks. The na-Baron of Giedi Prime has many concubines. It’s his birthright and politically profitable. That he has been bedding only one of them for almost a year concerns no one but him.

Her walk backwards is only halted when her thighs bump into the edge of his bed where they lay only two nights ago and she had felt special in his arms, on top of him, under the weight of his body. Now she only feels like a toy and she’s not only sick of it, she also mentally can’t keep going.

“You are the center of the world, but who is the center of yours?” Her fingers curl into his thick suit jacket and he feels the little tremors in her muscles.

A lingering thought infests him, that her first assertion is a heretic belief, not a truth. The people in the avenues celebrate for the sake of it, the guests in the hall would dance and feast for any politically appropriate occasion. Perhaps his position at world's pivot is only one for show, where he is strung up as a puppet. His importance is the figure he represents, not the man he is. 

Feyd would so love to be the center of someone’s world.

His concubine’s face is angled upwards and the far echo of a firework sends a flash of silver over her features. “Making me jealous will only push me away, you dumb creature.” 

Oh.

He does love her fury, and when she insults him, his heart thrums a little needier. But what he doesn’t love is the note of tears that throttles her lovely voice. His jaws clench, fingers twitching against her scalp. He could throw her on the bed and punish her for the ruined day or kiss her and forgive her, but there’s an ache in his stomach that makes him do neither of the two. “I just… Don’t twist the facts!”

“Maybe you don’t have a heart, but I do. I didn’t want you to have it, but you—” She swallows as her voice cracks. “And now you’re chewing it apart with your heartless mouth.” The following shocks her, but it bursts like a weight off her chest. “Be with someone else! I don’t want to be your concubine anymore.”

Feyd’s heart (yes, he has one), drops into a void and he feels sick to his stomach, falling into the hole that gapes where the ground has been pulled from under his feet.

She tears away from him, hair slipping free, but Feyd catches her elbow. And as she turns back around, he viscerally drops on one knee.

“Then be my wife.”

The last firework explodes in the sky and they are left with a silence so quiet, one might just hear the universe’s heartbeat pulsing against the dome of the skies. A breeze wafts in and brushes her golden skirts against Feyd’s bent knee and he waits, trembling. She can’t say no. He would rather die a humiliating death in front of a million worshipers.

“Your answer?”

She knows, being a wife means nothing. Wives are why concubines exist. Wife is the ultimate empty title that has nothing to do with love, at least not among the Great Houses. Does it mean anything to him? Her mind swims with years and years of manipulation and forced assimilation and finally, the held-back tears spill over her cheeks.

“My conditions,” she boldly speaks and takes a deep breath, not allowing herself to fall into mindless euphoria despite how madly her heart beats and her stomach flips with butterflies. With controlled leisureness, she sits down on the edge of Feyd’s bed and nudges the tip of her shoe against the kneeling na-Baron’s sternum. “No concubines. No pets. I will be your only one. I don’t care which rotten cravings decay in your mind, I will be the one to fulfill them.”

Feyd's lips part and he draws in a quick breath. “Yes,” he breathes and his heart lifts itself from the pit that had swallowed it and Feyd inches closer, head craned back. The free hand slides under her skirts, needily catching her ankle.

“There is no need for anyone else. Tell me what you want me to do for you, I’ll do it.”

“I want you to watch the next time I fight.” Feyd’s nose and cheek twitch as the memory of today sends a sliver of rage through his nerves. Within a heart’s beat, her hand curls around his jaws, thumb rubbing over the twitching muscle. “And I want you to accept my proposal,” he growls much more needily. Blood has rushed to his cock, making it strain against the suit trousers.

“First… Hand me your blade.”

A small, gravelly moan rolls over plush lips and he releases her elbow to unsheathe the kukri from its holster. She takes it with deft fingers and presses it against his willing throat, watching with satisfaction as his pointy Adam’s Apple jumps against the blade. “What are you doing, woman?” Feyd drawls, hips weakly rutting into the empty space between them, not angled right to hump her leg, though he'd like to.

“Swear that I’ll be your only.”

“I swear it.” Feyd drawls without hesitation, pupils blown wide. Agitated breath fans her arm. He can barely wait to consummate their betrothal, squirming like a fish ashore, held at arm’s length by her will.

The clock ticks and Feyd-Rautha's birthday is nearly over. Pleadingly, he cranes his neck, shuffling on his knee. He is so eager to be devoted and brought to heel, when will she say yes?!  “Will you be my wife? Please.”

A heavy breath and scrutiny in tearful eyes, then finally, she breaks into a watery smile. “Yes, I will be your wife.” Happily, she sobs into the palm of her hand and the blade at his throat trembles. Feyd gives her no time to cry in peace and hauls her to the floor by the skirts.

The pair goes down on shiny tiles that reflect the golden material of her dress, barely gold anymore in the ambience of his dark chambers. Fragmented speckles of light dance across the floor as Feyd sifts through the layers until he has them bunched around her hips. Her thighs part willingly, latching around his narrow waist. She pulls close what belongs to her, making the na-Baron come flush with her pelvis.

Feyd claims her as frantically as she does him, calloused hands sliding along her waist to finally unwrap the birthday present she’s denied him all day, the only thing that mattered.

“I hate this dress,” he purrs. “You look like the wrong sun.” 

“Cut it off me then.” She offers him his own blade, chest arching off the floor. “Would you rather have me wear black at our wedding?” Excitedly, her breath hitches.

“No.” In fact, he’d be offended if she did. “I’d rather have you wear nothing and paint you black from the inside.” A flash of gold pervades the night when it reflects on the raised blade. A precise slash across her chest makes the bodice come undone between her breasts. The bite of metal misses her skin by a hair’s width. “Handing me back my blade… Did I teach you nothing?” Feyd purrs, sliding the blunt side over her breasts.

“I have my own.” Her breath hitches when her nipples pebble against the knife. Swiftly, she unsheathes her own blade from the strap around her hips under the skirts. The curved tip catches the button of Feyd’s trousers and slices straight through it, cutting a new fly into the thick material. His freed cock bobs against the flat side of her blade, the tip grazing his taut balls in a fatal kiss.

Feyd-Rautha moans, falling over her body to palm at her breasts and slide his mouth against her throat. She doesn’t have enough time to withdraw the blade from between his thighs and the way he whimpers tells her she has caught the delicate flesh. “Feyd, you idiot. Do you wish for me to dismember you before our wedding night?”

She pulls the blade away and seconds later, Feyd’s cock grinds against her center, slicking himself up with her essence. The velvety head rests heavily on her belly as he grinds his balls against cunt, relishing the sting of the wound. Blood drips over her folds, tinting the slick of her arousal black.

Forgotten, her kukri clatters to the floor and one hand reaches for his cock, the other for the back of his thigh, urging him closer as she lines him up with her entrance, wet but unprepared. It’ll be an adequate sting to match that of her betrothed’s incised testicles. Obediently, he follows, piercing her open with his cock head. A long wail escapes her as her cunt yields under pressure, then a startled gasp when Feyd’s knife is wedged inside the tight space between her two front teeth, so she cannot close her mouth.

Her cunt clenches fearfully around the thick length as he makes himself at home with languid thrusts. If the blade slips, he might just split her gums and lip. She doesn’t dare shake her head no and her tongue retreats far back into the cavity of her mouth, whimpering as he fucks her slowly, taking fascination in the way peril makes her slicker and her walls grip him in a fluttering embrace.

“Every rotten craving,” he cites her slyly. “Fuck.” A rapt look overtakes his eyes when she slides her tongue against the bottom of the blade, featherlight. She’s learned it from him, his favored way of testing the edge of a blade.

“You stole my show today,” he rasps, allowing her to wrap her fingers around his wrist to maneuver the kukri away. She pries it from his hand, then hurls it forcefully across the room. 

“You let me.  Maybe you like it when I bereave you, na-Baron.” The blade lands with a clatter.

“You bereft me of my other concubines.” 

The memory of them strengthens her fingers and she rips the jacket of Feyd’s festive suit open, digging her nails into taut, pale pectorals. “The Great Houses will be displeased.”

“Yes, they will be,” Feyd purrs, plush lips twitching into an excited smirk. “Maybe it’ll start a war.” He accentuates the word with a sharp thrust. The madness of his mirth over the idea is only slightly diluted by the arousal that swims in tar-black eyes. If her selfish claim sparks a war, she will have no regrets over it, because Feyd-Rautha is hers, tied by the heart, not by politics.

Her husband to be fucks her with frantic rythm until slick drips down her cheeks and turns the tiles below wet and sticky. They're both still waiting for the final nudge to come undone, so the night of their betrothal may go on forever. Her hands slide around the back or Feyd's neck, demanding kisses from plush lips and black teeth that glint in the dark.

“You looked so beautiful on your knees,” she moans into his mouth. “You should do it again.” Her gaze sweeps over to the balcony door and Feyd's follows. “You didn't deliver your speech, I heard, because you were, aahh, p-pouting.”

“Don't tease me, woman.” Feyd stands and pulls her up with him, arms hooked around her legs. His thick cock still twitches in her cunt as she wraps her legs around his waist. “Take off your dress.”

She obeys without question, heels of her feet digging into his lower back as she pulls the half-slashed golden fabric that's still gathered around her hips over her head. Feyd hums appreciatively, eyes gliding down her breasts and belly to the point where they're conjoined by the pelvis.

“Now my jacket,” he instructs and with a bit of awkward pulling, she manages to free the fabric from the clutch of her legs around his waist, then slides it off his arms one by one. Somehow, even with only one arm he manages to hold her firmly against his chest, slowly rocking his hips upwards, so her mind never stops reeling.

Last of all, Feyd kicks off his shoes and marches her over to the wall, grinning. “Feyd, what are you-? Wait.” A breeze brushes over her bare back as Feyd kicks the balcony door further open with and carries her out into the open, smiling wide with black maws.

A gust of turbulent, putrid wind catches her hair and turmoil swells from two hundred meters below, guttural chanting that could be celebration or it could be war, impossible to tell how many of them will look up to the palace pyramid and see the na-Baron's concubine seated on the banister and the na-Baron between her thighs.

Gasping, she clings to Feyd's shoulders, stripped of color entirely. The reflected moonlight barely makes it past the clouds, so they are swathed in somberness. It is a truly alien world, one that could really use a new sun.

Feyd-Rautha cants his hips, languidly thrusting into her cunt, pale arms circling her. A thread of slick comes off and drips into the abyss below, past the base of his thick cock. “Not the biggest fan of speeches. I prefer demonstrations.”

He fucks her on his balcony that overlooks Barony, the capital of Giedi Prime, cock drilling into her over the perilous chasm.

“You made me swear it, but you never promised me that I will be your only.” Feyd's plush lips curl into a snarl.

“Hmmm…” She pretends to ponder, a flash of amusement on her lips.

Feyd-Rautha however doesn’t take kindly to the playful hesitation and dips her dangerously backwards, smirking. Her life hangs in the arms of a psychopath and below her is nothing but gaping emptiness for two hundred meters. “I’d rather throw us both down there than share you!”

Her heart thrums like a shield, almost pierced by a slow blade. “I’d rather live another day in your arms, my na-Baron.”

Zestfully, he hoists her back up and resumes fucking her, possessive and rough, one hand tugging on her asscheek, the other clutching her waist. Her mind and nerves swim with pleasure. The euphoria of being claimed as his so brutally makes her want to laugh and cry, white teeth bared at the na-Baron.

He too stares at her, waiting, muscles twitching under pale skin.

“You think I can? When under me is death and a thousand Harkonnens watching?”

“You will.” Feyd leers, lips twitching. His cock drives into her center. Whimpering, she slides her hand between their bodies to rub her clit. “No.”

“No?!”

“You will cum from your husband's cock.”

The confidence that drips thick and velvety from his voice makes her head roll back, moaning. Her cunt flutters weakly, climax digging its tendrils into her core, eager to burst into full bloom. She angles her pelvis, squirming in Feyd's grasp, and props up one foot on the railing, trusting him to hold her.

And he does, laughing. Insanity lights up his eyes as he fucks into her, slap slap slap, pubic mound grinding against her clit. She arches her back and his cock nudges her just right, toes curling, lids fluttering.

“There, that's a good girl.”

She comes undone with a long moan, voice carried away by the putrid wind. Feyd-Rautha's lips and jaws twitch and he covers her open mouth with his. His eyes are open when he climaxes and fills her with his seed, their consummation on display for the whole of Giedi Prime.

Trembling fingers claw at Feyd's shoulders, dampened with a sheen of sweat. His chest heaves with raspy breaths and he raises a finger, trailing it over her throat and clavicle.

“My birthday gift.”

“The sex?” A gust of wind catches her face.

“No.” Feyd smirks. “You. My wife.”

FEYD TAG LIST:

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted

HCTS TAG LIST:

@ughdontbeboring

[nectardaddy]

don't ever leave - inumaki toge

cw: mentions of blood and death, anxiety/panic attack, light angst in the beginning

notes: not my fav but it's been sitting in my drafts forever, sorta edited

His throat was raw and scorched from words already, thinking to himself he would only make matters worse if he spoke at all. But what would he say if he could? What could he say at all?

How does one offer comfort without words?

It was past midnight, and the young man grappled with the very thought alone as he held you. Holding you tightly as if you would slip away at any moment. Violet eyes watched as tears slipped down your cheeks, feeling his heart strings tie themselves in knots at your broken form. You held onto him tightly, fingers grabbing at the fabric of his shirt that he had worn to bed because letting go meant being alone. And being alone made your mind race.

He didn't realize how missions strangled you, how much they choked you until you were gasping for breath even when you were safe. Didn't realize how much bloodshed and trauma his mind had already become accustomed to or completely blocked out - thinking as though if he did such, everyone else must, right?

He was so terribly wrong. Closing his eyes in guilt because that was so far from what you had done, and he hadn't even noticed. He witnessed the outpour of emotions he had long since forgotten when he opened his tired eyes to you that evening. An evening where he went to sleep rather early from the events of the day; an evening were his throat singed with pain and he winced with every swallow. An evening where he thought you did the same as you gave him a small smile before heading to bed.

But you didn't.

Unbeknownst to him, you tossed and turned, the inner turmoil of emotions bubbling up and over as you laid in bed. Tears running down your face in the darkness of the night as you repeated today's events in your mind - all the while he was sound asleep. Texting him to see if he was still awake, but with no reply you held your breath as you walked to his room. Choked sobs leaving your lips as you opened his door, too afraid to wait and knock as someone might have heard your cries.

You only craved the comfort of a man who couldn't even speak to it.

He was confused when he heard the door creek open and quickly shut, confused when the sound of soft cries hit his ears, and concerned when he heard the gentle call of his name. Groggy eyes opening at the noise only to find your shattered frame, haphazardly wiping your eyes and shoulders slumped - oh god why were you crying?

Now he was sat up in his bed, holding you like his life depended on it; because in that moment, he thought yours surely did. Pale fingers running down your back as he believed he shouldn't speak a word, he couldn't speak a word. His throat was raw and scorched from words already, thinking to himself he would only make matters worse if he spoke at all. But what would he say if he could? What could he say at all?

That you were alright? His words would snap you into a false sense of security, no longer feeling your emotions but shoving them down even further. Ask you what was wrong? You would spill your guts to him involuntarily, whether you wanted to share or not. Even if he were to utter a safe word, his throat was so shredded it would send him into a coughing fit. Then you would care less about your own feelings and more about his well-being. He was at a loss. So he held you. Unwavering in his hold as your tears didn't seem to stop, but wanting nothing more than to ease your mind.

"Sometimes I don't even want to be a sorcerer at all," he heard your mumble, your words jumbled and hushed as you kept your head in his chest. He could only nod gently, hoping you understood that he was listening, as you continued on. "I can't bear seeing you hurt yourself because I'm too weak to do anything."

His heart sunk in his chest at your statement, closing his eyes once more as his mind raced to block out the memory. But to no avail. The mere thought of the blood that pooled in his mouth earlier that day made him sick, and the visceral reaction that came with the thought of harm coming to you was nauseating. It was a thought he desperately wanted to speak to, one of which he only wished to utter the words he wanted.

He would rather succumb death than have you meet the same fate.

As much as the man swore to himself, to his friends, you didn't have such a foothold in his heart, his life would shatter without you in it. He vowed he would never, not in a million years, be so attached to someone he would risk his very own life. But here he sat, voice mutilated and hoarse as he had done just that. Yuuta would tell him it was, morbidly, romantic, but the young man would wholeheartedly deny ever doing such a thing - he was only doing the mission assigned. But he was naive to think such a thing, naive to push his own feelings aside for the sake of ego.

He didn't want to pull away, but he so desperately wanted to speak to your statement, to ease your mind in some way, shape, or form. The tears you shed made his heart wring and shatter. 'It's alright,' he signed, trying his best as he only pulled away one hand as to hold you with the other. 'I'm alright,' he reassured.

"You can't even speak, Toge," you quipped, your voice harsh as it was filled with tears and sorrow. Within your own words, you found yourself clutching his clothing for dear life. Hoping that if you guarded him, as you did your mind, he wouldn't slip through your fingers. Not whisk himself away through means of being a victor, a protector, because how could one protect if they were gone?

'But I'm here,' he signed, a simple statement that even he reveled in. Sorcery was a sinful business, a lethal business; one of which that broke the spirit, mind, and body. A morbid testament to those who ever dared to join the fray - it was win or die trying. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

Usually, the young man wasn't favorable with emotions, never knowing what to do, if anything at all. But it felt natural for his fingers to touch your chin, instinctive for his touch to be gentle and caring as he offered you to look at him. Violet eyes meeting your own troubled ones and pale fingers thumbing away a tear that slipped down your stained cheeks, he gave you a small, tired smile. "M' here," he choked out, his voice hoarse and broken. Seemingly a whisper compared to your own, as he couldn't find the strength to project.

The act made your heart melt within your chest, and few words were enough to set it ablaze. Though it was coarse and fractured, they were the only words you needed to hear in the moment. He was here, he was alive, he was breathing - hopefully now until the end of your days. "Don't ever leave."

@inumakis-boo @inumakisser

I know you'll appreciate this lol

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Here's a crack Stobin idea

It's platonic Hanahaki by instead of puking flowers, it's migraines and mind reading.

***

After they're injected with the same experimental mystery drugs in the Russian spy bunker, Steve wakes up two days later with a killer headache.

Must be the concussion.

Except throughout the day it gets worse, worse than his migraines after his fight with Billy. He tries to go to sleep early, but the pain's so intense he seriously thinks his head might implode.

Does he call Robin?

They aren't what he'd call friends. But they survived torture together, so that has to mean something, right?

No, he decides. She's got her own problems and it's almost midnight.

He's up, can't sleep. At 6:30am he wraps an ice pack around his head and sits in a warm bath. At 7:30am he's throwing up water and bile. By 9am he's got a bloody nose and he's popped a blood vessel in his right eye. Just as he's about to pick up the phone, there's knocking on his front door that feels like a hammer to his skull.

Robin's on the front stoop, the front of her Fleetwood Mac sleep shirt covered in drops of blood and she's holding a wad of napkins to her face. She's crying and practically collapses into his arms.

The pain recedes so quickly he gasps. He didn't realize how difficult it was to breathe. The sharp stabbing behind his eyes is gone and it feels like he hasn't eaten in days.

Robin's still holding his shoulder, looking at him with wide eyes. She moves the napkins and even though her face is a mess of dried blood it's clear the bleeding has stopped.

"Steve, what's going on?"

"How the hell should I know?"

Her hand slips from his shoulder as he backs into the house, and suddenly the pain's creeping back in. It's minimal compared to before. Robin grabs his hand again and the pain recedes.

He looks up and she's staring at him wide eyed, mouth hanging open like a fish.

"I do not look like a fish!" Robin scoffs.

He didn't say that.

"Oh holy shit you didn't say that!" she practically screams at him.

She grips his other hand, squeezing them both tight as they stare into each other's panicked eyes.

Oh my god playing on loop between them, yet Robin's mouth isn't moving and he's pretty sure his is closed.

Can we read minds?

I have no idea Steven I've never done this before! You're the freaky stuff expert.

It's called the upside down Robs.

He's so bitchy.

I'm not bitchy!

"OK we have to stop this," Robin finally says. He knows she said it. He saw her mouth move and everything.

"Jesus I'm not sure I can handle your brain Harrington I've already got enough going on up here on my own."

"Yeah tell me about it," he replies as he thinks about her rambling about nothing for hours on end during shared shifts.

Robin sighs, squeezing his hands again as she scuffs her shoes on the white tile.

For what it's worth, I like your rambling.

A light smile ghosts her face. He always feels better when she's smiling, and that gets a wet chuckle from her as she wipes her teary eyes.

"Ok," Robin says, putting her game face on. "We're going to figure this out and I've got some ideas."

~~~

s4 follow-up ficlet

[juyeonszn]

SAME DREAM, SAME MIND, SAME NIGHT

PAIRING kim younghoon x f!reader

WORD COUNT 3.60k

GENRES smut ﹒little bit of fluff ﹒little bit of crack tbh

WARNINGS 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, fawn when she can’t get enough of the brothers best friend trope, hyunjae and jacob are side characters that never actually make an appearance, younghoon is wearing a ghostface mask for 2 seconds 😵‍💫, reader is down bad, younghoon is also down pretty bad, size kink — the obvious yk, he’s big everywhere tbh, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, missionary/lowkey mating press towards the end LMFAOOOO i’m sorry i got carried away, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, pussy drunk!younghoon (i lied he’s down horrendous), creampie, the couch is a paid actor, last scene is kinda silly kinda cute, lmk if i missed anything!!

SUMMARY hyunjae really shouldn’t have left you home alone.

MORE and day 3 of fawntober has made her entrance 😈 i’m curious,,, how do we feel about these so far? i feel like i’m focusing on this challenge more than i am my school work 😭😭

PERM TAGLIST @winterchimez @maessseongs @itsbeeble @zzoguri

Being home alone has never been much of an issue for you. All throughout high school, you stayed home by yourself when your parents worked late and your brother had practice. And even now, well into adulthood, you’d never really been afraid of being alone.

If it were up to you, you’d live all by yourself. But unfortunately, rent was way too expensive to afford on your own. More fortunately, your brother had a spare room in his apartment for you. Pros included low grocery costs, low monthly rent, and free parking. Cons included living with your brother, living with one of his best friends, and having to deal with two grown men who sometimes acted like children.

It was a Friday night and both Hyunjae and Jacob were out, attending a Halloween party one of their friends was throwing. The holiday was only a few days away, so almost everyone you knew was hosting parties this weekend. Along with being content to stay alone in your home, you were even more so to never leave it. Going out and getting black out drunk or worse didn’t sound very appealing to you.

Nights like these were the rare occasion you got to be with yourself and some movies, snuggled with a blanket on your couch. Living with only men did not provide any luxuries except maybe someone to kill a spider every now and then. So you were abusing the fuck out of the opportunity, dressed in nothing but an oversized sweatshirt and some crew socks, a mug of hot cocoa in your hands as you watch the second installment of the Scream franchise. (Might as well get in the holiday spirit.)

There’s a knock at your door, causing you to raise an eyebrow. It was half past midnight and your brother mentioned that he and Jacob would be crashing over at Sangyeon’s after the party. You were also very much single, so you weren’t expecting anyone to come over either. The only other possible explanation was maybe a food delivery, but you hadn’t ordered anything.

You assume it’s someone at the wrong apartment and choose to ignore it, putting your focus back on the movie. Your mug raises to your lips, taking a long sip of the now lukewarm drink just as the movie’s plot begins to progress. Before you can fully revert into your concentration, there’s another knock.

A sigh escapes your mouth, setting down the mug and pausing the movie. Your sock-clad feet trudge over to the front door, expression flat as you undo all of the locks and swing it open. You jump at the sight in front of you, nearly dying of a heart attack on the spot.

A tall figure, dressed in all black and wearing a Ghostface mask stands on the other side, one arm resting on the threshold of your doorframe and their body weight leaning against it. When they realize they’ve almost killed you, they gasp.

“Oh my god, I forgot I was wearing this stupid thing.”

The person hurriedly removes the mask to reveal one of your brother’s other friends, Kim Younghoon. The tall male rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, apologizing for nearly making you faint. You clutch at your chest as your breathing stabilizes and your heart rate returns to normal.

“Jesus, Younghoon. Couldn’t you have said something before I opened the door?” You hold the heel of your palm to your forehead.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” he bows slightly, his eyes drifting off to something behind you. “Woah, wait, are you watching Scream 2 right now?”

“Uh, yeah?” At that moment you notice the silly coincidence that his costume happened to be Ghostface. “Do— um— do you wanna come in?”

“Yeah, sure.” He smiles, tucking his mask under his arm and following you into the apartment. He shuts the door behind him, making sure to hit all the locks as well.

As the two of you sit at the couch and you resume the movie, you purse your lips in confusion. You were curious as to why Younghoon was here in the first place, seeing as your brother was not. He had to have known that information himself considering he was dressed like he’d just come from a Halloween party. It only made sense that it was the same one Hyunjae and Jacob attended.

“Wait, so what are you doing here?” You ask, fiddling with the hem of your sweatshirt. Shit, you weren’t wearing any pants…

“Oh! Right,” he nods, ruffling his hair a bit. “I woke up really early this morning and it was starting to catch up with me so I decided to leave Sangyeon’s party to head home. Hyunjae asked if I could stop by to check on you since it was on the way.”

A simple call or text from your brother himself couldn’t suffice? You guess the fact that Younghoon really did live close by coupled with Hyunjae’s intoxication might’ve been a factor in asking his friend for the favor. All you can do is hum in response.

You weren’t all that upset by Younghoon’s sudden appearance either, and you were more than happy to invite him into your apartment any time. Out of all of your brother’s friends, excluding Jacob, Younghoon was probably your favorite. Aside from having a little crush on his handsome face, he was the easiest to get along with and you felt comfortable around him. Sometimes you wish he was your other roommate instead.

But then again, the thought of him being so domestic around you was enough to send you into cardiac arrest, much like his accidental jumpscare from earlier. Just imagining waking up to him making coffee and breakfast in the kitchen, wearing your Hello Kitty apron, had your pulse quickening. Oh God, bumping into him exiting the bathroom after he’s showered? Nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his hips and droplets of water decorating his no doubtedly sculpted chest?

Did someone crank up the thermostat?

“Y/N? N/N. N/N… Y/N!”

You blink, snapping yourself back into reality. Younghoon waves his hands back and forth in front of your face, a cute pout on his lips. He really was not making this any easier for you. You clear your throat, hoping your face isn’t as red as it feels.

“Y-Yes?” Why did you have to stutter, you fucking loser? There you go, blowing your cover.

“I was just wondering if you’ve seen the movies before. But you kinda spaced out on me there. You okay?” He asks, face full of concern. It doesn’t do much to quiet the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. If anything, it makes it ten times worse.

“Oh… Um. Yeah, I have,” your voice wavers. “And I-I’m fine, I swear. Don’t even worry about me.”

Your efforts to convince him are futile and instead of de-escalating the situation, you just add further fuel to the fire. He leans in to you, permeating your personal bubble as he examines your expression. If he moved even closer, his lips could land on your own, and the idea of that has you shrinking in on yourself.

“Are you… nervous around me?”

Did he have any sense of self-awareness? Did he think he wasn’t intimidating in this proximity to you? Kim Younghoon’s new talent just dropped; driving you to the brink of insanity!

You swallow thickly, eyes a little wide like a deer caught in headlights. Your line of eyesight falters to his lips, even more kissable now that they’re so close to yours. You shake your head when you realize that you haven’t responded, praying and hoping you were keeping your composure.

“I don’t really believe you, Y/N,” he says, tone no louder than a whisper, but so voluminous in your empty apartment. “So, I’m gonna rephrase my question. Are you nervous to be alone with me?”

When you process his words, you come to the conclusion that, yes, you are nervous to be alone with him. Your brother and Jacob were usually around when he was, so you’d never been in this position before. You’ve never truly been alone with Younghoon. Perhaps that was because you knew you couldn’t keep your feelings to yourself, afraid you might fuck up and say something stupid to him.

A few seconds pass with nothing but the noise of the movie still playing in the background, your lips pressed together. His eyes bore into yours, dark and swirling with something that looks a whole lot like lust. Your silence is a sufficient answer for him, one of his hands coming up to support his weight on the armrest of the couch behind you. The other trails up your thigh, the sheer size of it big enough to nearly cover the expanse of your skin.

Younghoon’s lips part when he slides under your sweatshirt and finds that you’re not wearing anything underneath. His eyes flutter shut with a sigh, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

“Tell me you don’t want this, tell me no before I lose all of my self control and I can’t hold back.” He lets his forehead fall to your shoulder, voice hushed.

The better, rational part of you wants to say no. It wants to tell him that you shouldn’t do this, because what would your brother think? Hyunjae would beat his ass if he found out about the two of you, especially on the living room sofa. Hell, he’d beat your ass for sleeping with one of his friends. But the part of you that was unhinged and has dreamt of this moment for years wants to say otherwise.

That part is what has you spreading your legs, taking Younghoon’s hand and leading it to where you need him most.

“Don’t hold back.” You breathe into his ear, your free hand coming up to the back of his neck and pulling his lips onto yours.

You whimper into his mouth as he kisses you, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your lace covered clit simultaneously. He’s by no means gentle, tongue tangling with your own roughly and desperately, as if he’s been dreaming of this just as much as you. He halts his motions, creeping further under your sweatshirt to palm your bare breasts and grind his hips into yours.

Your back arches off the couch, the feeling of his large hand on your chest goading your arousal. Younghoon presses open mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, sucking and nipping your supple skin, licking the abused area to soothe any pain. You can feel him even through the material of his black cargo pants, already hard for you. Without seeing it, you have an inkling of what you’re working with.

Younghoon’s always been tall, standing at six feet with broad shoulders. As long as you’ve known him, his height alone was enough to scare people away, despite the fact that he had the personality of a hyperactive puppy. But now, his body looming over yours and his touch all over your skin, you can’t help but feel turned on by his size alone.

“Can I finger you?” He asks suddenly, slowly pushing up your sweatshirt so he can expose your cute panties. You nod frantically, biting the hem of your top to keep it out his way as he pushes your underwear down your legs with one hand. “Wanna prep you as best as I can, baby.”

He smiles at you again, and in spite of being in such a compromising situation, he looks so stunning. You remember the reason why you’ve had a crush on him this long, because aside from his beauty, he was also doting and caring, willing to go above and beyond for those near and dear to him.

You squirm a bit beneath him when his middle finger glides through your folds with ease, you slick providing enough lubricant for him. He all but groans, inserting the digit into your entrance. Your moans are muffled by your sweatshirt in your mouth, his long finger so deep inside of you it brushes that one spongy spot you could never reach yourself.

Younghoon uses his thumb to circle your clit as his finger thrusts in and out of you, kissing along your jaw. He glances down and moans at the sight of your tits jostling around with each pump of his finger. He lowers his head to attach his mouth to one of your nipples, tongue flicking the sensitive bud.

There’s so much going on, your eyes practically rolling to the back of your head when his finger curls and his teeth scrape the swell of your breast. If his slender middle finger wasn’t enough to send you over the edge, then the sound of him being so vocal was, vibrations spreading on the surface of your skin. Younghoon adds the slightest amount of pressure to your clit when he sinks his pearly whites into your collarbone, coaxing your orgasm.

He swallows your whines, waiting until you’ve stopped spasming under him to slow his assault. He pulls his hoodie over his head, helping you remove your sweatshirt afterward. Your chest heaves, watching with heavy eyelids as Younghoon scoots himself further down the couch. He brings himself eye level with your cunt, experimentally blowing air on your core. You shiver, biting the inside of your lip and running a hand through his hair.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he makes eye contact with you, pressing a sweet kiss to your clit. “Can't believe you’ve been hiding this from me.”

Younghoon pushes your knees up to your chest, hands digging into the fat of the backs of your thighs. The position gives him better access to your glistening cunt. He licks a long line from your hole to your pelvic bone, flattening his tongue against you and repeating once more.

“Fuck, Hoon,” you mewl, holding the back of your hand to your forehead. “That feels so good.”

He hums, lips wrapping around your clit and giving it a harsh suck. That particular action rips a loud moan from your vocal cords. He doesn’t get any gentler, sliding both his middle and ring fingers into you as he continues making out with your pussy. Your head feels light and airy, your brain incapable of producing any coherent thoughts aside from how badly you need his cock inside of you. His thick fingers aren’t enough, you need more. You need him to fill you completely.

The pads of his fingers continuously brush along your velvety walls, inching you closer and closer to your tipping point. You aren’t sure you can last much longer, especially with the promise of having him fully following this. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly he wound you up and knocked you over the ledge again, like he was already so familiar with what you needed.

He swirls his tongue around your clit, alternating between curling his fingers and straightening them. It’s as if he’s doing a come-hither motion. Your whines are uncontrollable at this point, tugging at his hair with every suckle of your engorged skin. The sting on his scalp has him moaning against your cunt, the resonance shooting through your whole body.

“Shit shit, I’m cumming— I’m—“

Your hips buck up towards his mouth, his skillful tongue and fingers still working your overstimulated pussy until you’re begging him to stop. Good God, you already finished twice and he hadn’t even properly fucked you yet. You’re a panting mess beneath him when he parts with your lower lips, chin shiny with your release.

“You can give me one more, right?” Younghoon licks his lips to taste the remnants of your sweetness, wrapping them around his fingers to do the same thing. You let out a strained moan, nodding and connecting your mouths to kiss him roughly.

He laughs into the kiss, pulling back to tuck your hair behind your ear. His eyes resemble crescent moons, crinkled at the sides. His duality gives you whiplash. How could someone so sexy be so adorable at the same time? It was beyond you.

He goes to unbutton his pants, kicking them along with his underwear off his legs as he leans down to kiss you again. You gasp when you’re finally given the opportunity to see his dick, hard and flushed for you. You reach down to stroke him, reveling in the hiss he makes when your thumb glides over his sensitive tip.

You guide him to your entrance, but he pauses. “Wait, I don’t have anything on me.”

“It’s okay, Hoon,” you place a comforting hand on his cheek. “I trust you. I’m clean, I’m assuming you’re clean, and I’m on birth control. I wanna feel you— all of you.”

His head falls to your shoulder once more with a groan, his cock prodding your hole almost instantaneously. You exhale through your nose heavily, the stretch burning so good that you’re raking your nails down his back. Even the feeling of his broad shoulders and back muscles beneath your fingertips sends you into a frenzy. He’s just so huge. You’d never wanted to be ruined by someone as much as you wanted to be ruined by him.

Younghoon coos when you start to whimper, slowly pushing himself all the way in to his pelvic bone. He massages the back of your thighs, still pushed to your chest, pulling out gently before ramming his entire length back in. He does this a few more times to ensure your cunt has adjusted to his size, but the thought of you wrapped so tightly and warmly around him is enough to make him bust without going through the motions fully.

Your sweet pussy is so inviting, sucking him in like a fucking aspirator. He risks a glance down to where his hips meet yours, moaning so uncharacteristically at the sight of you enveloping his cock, coating it with your previous release. You clench when the sound hits your ears, provoking one of your own.

His thrusts are calculated, dragging them out so they’re deep rather than shallow. Despite not pounding into your brutally, like you were used to with past partners, you think you like this better. You can feel all of him this way. Every vein, every pulse, every fucking graze along your insides— as if he was meant to be there.

“You’re taking me so— fuck— so well, baby,” he breathes, voice hoarse in the crook of your neck. “Don’t know how much longer I can last.”

“G-God, you’re s-so b-big,” you cry, sinking your fingernails into his shoulder blades. “I feel so— oh my god— feel so full.”

You look so pretty underneath him, he doesn’t even care that he might go to hell for fucking you. He’d let Hyunjae murder him any day of the week if it guaranteed his spot above you, cock buried to the goddamn hilt. He places his forearm behind your knees, pressing your legs flat and practically folding you in half so he can speed up his tempo.

Younghoon throttles into you at a near animalistic pace, skin slapping on skin echoing throughout your apartment. You’re fucked stupid, noises that you can’t comprehend leaving your mouth to punctuate every single drive of his dick in your cunt and eyes fluttering shut. His tip kisses at that one spot that scratches your itch each time.

One particular gyration of his hips snaps that cord in your stomach and you’re cumming a third time, jaw going slack as your body spasms with the force of your orgasm. You produce no sound, the wave of your release cresting like a jolt of euphoria to your head, Younghoon following suit. However, his reaction is the opposite, so cacophonous and pornographic that it prolongs the twitching of your velvet-like walls, milking him dry of everything he can offer.

As both of you come down from your peaks, oxygen recirculating in your brains, Younghoon sighs and slips out of you. You wince, still so very sensitive from all three of your orgasms and how aggressively he was hitting it those last few minutes. You watch with choked groans as a combination of your cum flows out of your cunt onto the sofa.

Hyunjae was going to lose his mind.

“Shit, we gotta clean this up,” you panic, finally sobering up and moving into a sitting position. “I’d prefer to live long enough to tell you how much I like you.”

“Woah, wait,” his eyes widen animatedly. “Y-You like me?”

You gape at him, confused how after everything you just did together, he would think you didn't have feelings for him. “I just let you fuck me on the couch I share with my brother and Jacob. Do you think I’d do that if I didn’t like you?”

“I dunno. Maybe you were just really horny?” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck shyly, like he hadn’t just rearranged your insides six ways to Sunday. You get on your knees, capturing his lips in a soft kiss that portrays all the words you could’ve ever wanted to say and more.

“Does that answer your question?” You ask, pecking them once again. “I like you so much, Younghoon. I have since, like, my freshman year of uni.”

He smiles warmly, cupping your cheek and caressing it with his thumb. “That’s funny because I’ve liked you since then, too.”

“That makes me so happy to hear,” you giggle, nuzzling into his palm. “Okay, now get up so I can deep clean this fucking couch.”

© juyeonszn. do not steal, claim, or repost.

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

What If the guys had a kid in college.

college kid calls dad late at night because they are overwhelmed and need him to help them cook a recipe he use to cook for them.

Undertale Sans - He's teleporting right away to help. Now, the thing is that Sans is not the best cook either, so he will do his best lol. He's just happy his big baby still needs him and it's really just an excuse to see them for a bit.

Undertale Papyrus - He's guiding you via video call to the best he can, but eventually, you have to add Undyne to the call... And soon after Toriel to save your kitchen because things were already not that great with Papyrus, but it turned a lot worse with Undyne lol. Never again.

Underswap Sans - Blue gives them his taco recipe and guides them through the process, but he lacks patience and his kid takes too much time, to the point he starts to be a little angry in the end. Please hurry, he's bored and he wants to do other things!

Underswap Papyrus - Who cares about the recipe, what do you mean you're overwhelmed?! Are you sick? Are you in pain? Did you have a bad day? ARE YOU DYING RIGHT NOW?! OH MY GOD, YOU MUST BE DYING DON'T MOVE HE'S COMING!!! Yeah, Honey doesn't live very well with the separation with his baby lmao.

Underfell Sans - ... You mean his still half-frozen quiche? You go to the supermarket, you buy one and you try to make it eatable. He doesn't see what else he can do for you honestly. You sure you got the right number and didn't want to call his S/O instead?

Underfell Papyrus - He's doing it while trying subtly to understand what's going on with you. He doesn't like his child stress-cooking. You don't stress-cook without something stressing you. He wants to help but he knows you got his habit of not saying things because it's too late and he doesn't want to repeat his own mistakes.

Horrortale Sans - Well great, now he's stressed as well because you're stressed. Oak can't focus to give you the recipe, he can hear you're not ok and so he's not ok and keeps asking you if you're alright, more and more distressed. He even uses all of his energy to teleport to you. He just needs to make sure you're fine and alive you know. He can still take the train to go home.

Horrortale Papyrus - He gives you the recipe for one recipe, then get worried you might ask that because you don't know what to cook and feel distressed and then he starts to read his entire cooking book to you so you can have multiple choices. After that, he stresses cooks until he convinces himself you must be starving, and he goes to find you to give you everything he just cooked, he doesn't care if he has three hours of car to reach you.

Swapfell Sans - At the end of your cooking session, you feel even more pressured than you were before calling your dad lol. Nox tries his best to be patient, but you don't have half of the ingredients and your kitchen is a mess, he can't believe you didn't take after him to find what you need easily. A clean space for a clean mind for Toriel's sake! You're lucky he lives far away because he would have come to clean your kitchen and put all your utensils more practically.

Swapfell Papyrus - Uh... Now is the time to confess he actually never cook your favorite nuggets, he only ordered them from McDonald's and put them in the oven to make you believe he did them. You feel so betrayed you have no words. How the hell did you not notice in 17 years? Even Rus is shocked you didn't honestly. He's even a little embarrassed for you. So, uh... Order some nuggets or something?

Fellswap Gold Sans - Well, it's very easy you see. Take your phone, open Google, tap the recipe you want and here you go. Yeah, he's not going to help you. It's almost midnight, he is exhausted and he doesn't want to cook this late in the night. You'll get over what's frustrating you, he raised you like that. You tried lol.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - You'll never get an answer as Coffee didn't save your new phone number and panicked when he saw a number he didn't know calling him lol. Text him, it will be faster and he prefers write it anyway.

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

Akihiko practically has to excavate the first-aid kit from under layers and layers of built up miscellanea that has been stashed in the supply closet over the years. As he digs, he thanks god, Buddha, or whoever else might be listening that Shinji hadn’t put up a fight about being checked over. That has to count as a minor miracle.

It has been a while since they’ve dressed each other’s wounds like this, now that he thinks of it. Since before Shinji had left, back when Akihiko was the only one on the team with any healing abilities and they’d had to budget his stamina to a miserly degree. 

These days, between Takeba, Amada, and Arisato, they basically never have to worry about anybody spreading themselves too thin with healing, so they don’t ever leave Tartarus battered enough to need mundane patching up.

Once he finally finds the kit, Akihiko sheds his battle harness and armband and sets them gracelessly on the dining table. He settles on the couch next to Shinji while he undresses himself. It’s slow going, Shinji’s movements stiff and careful, but Akihiko doesn’t insult him by butting in. He peels his gloves off and waits patiently. When Shinji pulls the sweater over his head, his hat slides off along with it. He doesn’t bother putting it back on.

He looks smaller without any of his usual layers to bulk out his shape. It feels wrong to think of Shinji as ‘small’ in any context, even if it’s only in comparison. Objectively, Akihiko knows it isn’t even true– Shinji’s taller now than he was back then, his shoulders wider and his ribcage broader.

At the same time, it’s harrowingly true. He’s visibly underweight, and not all of that can be due to his time in the coma. It’s like there simply isn’t enough of him, and what’s there is stretched too-thin over his frame.

This is also the first time Akihiko’s seen the bandages around Shinji’s shoulder and abdomen. There are no red stains seeping through the gauze, which is a relief. He starts to carefully peel the medical tape free from Shinji’s skin, letting the crash course Nakai-san had given him on bandage changing run on loop through his mind.

It doesn’t occur to him until the first bandage is removed and the knotted starburst shape is on full display: it’s the first time Akihiko has seen the scars, either.

A halo of puckered skin interrupts Shinj’s shoulder, fanning out in shiny pink ridges around the bruise-red, sunken center. Its twin on his chest is slightly larger and more concave.

He hadn’t realized how big any of them would be. The ones up near his shoulder especially, where the bullet had gone all the way through him–

It reinforces with sickening clarity just how much of a miracle it is that Shinji pulled through. That he’s still here.

Akihiko jolts. Shinji isn’t even facing in his direction, so what–?

Shinji rolls one shoulder– the unscarred one– and Akihiko knows without needing to look that he’s rolling his eyes too. He ignores the display of petulance and gets to work surveying for new damage, starting with the shoulder.

There’s no fresh blood, and the area around the scar doesn’t look damaged or inflamed at least. Just to be sure, Akihiko probes the surrounding skin gingerly with the pads of his fingers, testing for swelling or anything that feels overly warm to the touch.

Shinji shudders and Akihiko jerks his hand away.

Shinji only shrugs– he does it with both shoulders, evidently by mistake, since he immediately flinches and bites out a curse under his breath.

Well, even if he’s downplaying it, he’s still admitting to it. Akihiko had been planning on getting Shinji started with his physical therapy routine tomorrow (or today, he supposes, since it’s after midnight) but…now he’s not sure.

Maybe he should hold off and give Shinji a break. He knows both from his own experience and the extensive amount of research he’d pored over after Shinji had (begrudgingly) asked for his help– pushing too hard will only stall his recovery, or even make things worse. 

There are some simple stretches he could try to coach Shinji through that wouldn’t be too strenuous or time-consuming, and that might also help with the pain. But he knows Shinji will still push back against even that, on principle if nothing else. Picking that particular fight would probably put just as much strain on his body as Akihiko was trying to avoid to begin with.

And hell, after everything that’s happened, Akihiko isn’t sure he has the energy for it, either. They all deserve a break.

Shinji obeys with the put-upon air of a cat being moved out of the way of foot traffic, but he’s not able to fully conceal how much of an effort it is for him. The scar on Shinji’s side doesn’t seem to have re-opened either. There is no exit wound counterpart on his back.

Unbidden, Akihiko’s thoughts are invaded by the question of whether they had removed every piece of the bullet while Shinji was on the operating table, or if some fragments of it had been irretrievable. Nausea crawls through his stomach at the idea. He doesn’t ask.

[alia-alia12]

By Chance

Part 4: Seen from Afar

𖧹Satoru Gojo x fem!reader

𖧹Fluff

𖧹1.1k

𖧹Masterlist

The soft hum of conversation and the clinking of cups filled the cozy café as Satoru sat at his usual corner booth, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. His sunglasses rested on the table, forgotten, as he stared out the large front window.

He shouldn’t have come here.

But after learning you were back, staying away felt impossible. He hated that he’d been thinking about you non-stop since Shoko dropped the news like a casual afterthought.

A week.

You’d been back a whole week, living and breathing in the same town, walking the same streets… and you hadn’t told him.

Why?

His eyes drifted toward the street, unfocused, mind tangled in memories he couldn’t escape.

He could still picture you—laughing, smiling, teasing. Back then, you were everywhere—in the warmth of the sun, in the cool autumn breeze, in every corner of this damn town.

He thought he’d buried those feelings long ago, locked them away in some forgotten corner of his heart.

Guess not.

A sudden motion outside caught his eye. His head snapped up instinctively—just in time to see you.

You stood across the street, just outside the old bookstore, your familiar features illuminated by the warm glow of the streetlamps. You looked… the same—but different.

Older. Stronger. More beautiful than he remembered.

His breath hitched as you paused, lingering on the bookstore steps like you were lost in thought. The faint breeze tugged at your hair, making you tuck it behind your ear in that familiar way he remembered so clearly.

God.

It really was you.

For a split second, he almost got up—almost crossed the street, almost called your name.

But something held him back.

You shifted, your gaze drifting toward the café window like you could feel his eyes on you. He held his breath, heart pounding like he was seventeen again.

Your eyes lingered for a moment—searching, hopeful—before you shook your head and turned away.

His chest ached with something sharp and familiar. Regret. Longing. Fear.

He stayed frozen, rooted to the spot, watching as you disappeared down the street, swallowed by the soft glow of the streetlamps.

Satoru let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair as he slumped back into the worn leather seat. His fingers trembled faintly as he reached for his coffee, only to realize it had gone cold.

Pathetic.

He hated himself for hesitating—for freezing like a coward when you were right there.

But… what would he have said?

What could he say after all these years?

Would you even want to see him… after everything?

The bell above the café door chimed softly as Satoru left, stepping into the cool night air. The rain-slick streets glistened faintly under the streetlights, the scent of damp earth and nostalgia clinging to the breeze.

He stood there for a long moment, staring down the street where he’d last seen you.

He thought leaving you behind back then was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

But seeing you again… and letting you walk away?

That might be worse.

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

The rain had stopped sometime after midnight, leaving the streets damp and glistening beneath the faint glow of the streetlamps. Cool air brushed against your skin as you unlocked the front door of your childhood home, stepping into the familiar warmth of the entryway.

You closed the door behind you with a soft click, lingering for a moment as the silence of the house settled around you.

You should’ve felt safe.

But that strange feeling still clung to your chest—that sense of being watched, of something left unfinished.

You slipped off your jacket, hanging it by the door, and padded toward the small kitchen. The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound as you filled a glass of water, sipping it slowly while your mind churned restlessly.

The evening replayed Itself in your head—the quiet bookstore, the empty street, the faint breeze tugging at your hair as you looked toward the café across the street…

Like someone was there. Watching.

Your gaze had lingered on the softly lit windows of the café, heart pounding for reasons you couldn’t explain. For a fleeting moment, you thought you’d seen… him.

Satoru.

But that was ridiculous. You were just tired—your mind playing tricks on you after a long day. He wouldn’t be there… not after all this time.

Would he?

You set the glass down with trembling fingers, frustration bubbling in your chest. Why couldn’t you stop thinking about him?

You’d told yourself that coming back wouldn’t stir up old feelings. You were older now, wiser… you’d moved on.

Except… you hadn’t. Not really.

His name still echoed through your mind at the worst times—in quiet moments like this, when there was nothing to distract you from what could’ve been.

You pressed your palms against the cool edge of the counter, grounding yourself.

It’s been years. Whatever you and Satoru had… it was gone. Buried.

But even as you told yourself that, your mind drifted back to the way the café window had glowed softly in the dark—like a beacon. Like a memory waiting for you to return.

What if…

You clenched your fists, hating the way your chest ached. It didn’t matter.

Even if he had been there, even if you had seen him… what would you have done?

What could you even say?

A sudden breeze rattled the windows, snapping you out of your thoughts. You straightened, blinking back the sting of unwanted tears.

With a slow breath, you turned off the kitchen light and headed upstairs, slipping into the quiet safety of your old room.

The worn quilt felt soft beneath your fingers as you lay down, staring at the ceiling while your mind continued its relentless spiral.

Somewhere, in the dark stillness of the house, you swore you could still hear his voice.

Far away…

Satoru shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, standing motionless beneath a streetlamp near the edge of town. His gaze lingered on the path you’d walked hours earlier, haunted by the same restless ache that kept you awake.

He should’ve walked away... should’ve let you go.

But no matter how much time passed… he couldn’t.

Part 5

[galesdevoteewife]

Let’s talk about Mystra

Hello everyone, I wanted to talk about Mystra👋🔮

As much of a crazy lover as I am for my fictional wizard, the more lore research I do, the more I feel like Mystra deserves some love too. This goddess lives a cursed life. I know I know she asked Gale to kill himself, but bear with me; here are my arguments:

A bit history of Mystra

There’re 3 Mystra: Mystryl -> Mystra (Elminster’s Mystra) -> Mystra (Midnight)

In short, Mystryl is the fourth deity in the universe, composed of Shar & Selûne’s essence. She is one of the primal existences while the universe is still new and trying to settle down, a significant component of the universe itself. While Mystryl’s spirit was born naturally, Mystra and Midnight were both once mortal and raised by AO to inherit Mystryl’s power.

Is Mystra bad?

Midnight, “Mystra 3rd ” is who we met in BG3. She was a human magic user born in 1332 DR. Midnight was aiding Mystra 2nd at the time of troubles. She’s a kind-hearted and humble woman who ascended in 1358 DR. She didn’t want godhood at all; she only did it to counter Cyric, the bad guy.

From comic book Avatar (1991)

For decades, she even tried to allow only the good use of magic, later learning her duty and place as the guardian of balance and impartial arbiter of the Weave; no matter how Midnight feels or hopes things could have been. She was only 26 when she had to wave goodbye to everyone she knew, shouldering the 24/7 goddess duty. It’s true that she will inherit other Mystra’s memory, but personality-wise she is only 160 years old; even Halsin is older than her. (Not to mention she spent 94 years in dormant)

Note[1]: Later on all the Mystra mentioned I will be talking about Midnight

Note[2]: Dec17/2023 I will come back and edit this section; it's misleading according to Ed Greenwood's tweet. The current Mystra is likely a blend of all three Mystras with an unspecified proportion. I will provide details on the stories and deeds of the other Mystras.

Being Mystra sucks. Truly.

Imagine your body is just a thing lying on the street; anyone can command you to dance for them so long as they know the right spell. While you CAN reject it, you are NOT ALLOWED to.

What’s worse is that too many mortals and too many gods want the Weave, but it’s not something that she can “give”. Like no one can give away their body to someone else. She IS the Weave; I think of it as the Weave being the cells that compose her. Whoever wants to take it away will have to separate her mind and “body” by:

killing her and inherit the Weave, where all the attempters failed step 2, then only resulted in a broken/Weaveless crisis

or completely manipulating her mind, which is the option no one ever considers; they all go straight to killing her

Whenever DnD wants to change the rules, they kill Mystra.

Shar wants the Weave, Bane wants it, countless mortals want it too. According to the conversation between Gale and Lorroakan, it’s almost a common conversation trying to dethrone the goddess and take the power for themselves.

And no one is there to protect Mystra; she fights alone. Although she has a good relationship with gods like Selûne or Azuth, nobody lent a hand when she was murdered. She relies on her chosens and her own power.

On top of defending herself, aka protecting the Weave, another important duty is to maintain the Weave. Whenever a spell is cast, it damages the Weave, and she is the one to patch the holes. The more powerful the spell is, the bigger damage it will cause. That’s why her dogma includes “Use the Art deftly and efficiently, not carelessly and recklessly.” She also needs to keep an eye out for possible upcoming threats. A tough and tedious job, and no holidays for the goddess.

It might sound a bit twisted, but she is taking care of the world by taking care of herself. Anything happening to her means catastrophe for the world. (e.g., Spellplague, where magic caused mutations to the users, see wiki here)

But she asked Gale to explode himself!

Yes, and she also promised Elysium once he’s dead. There is actually a thorough afterlife setting in the Forgotten Realms DnD setting. In short, a spirit doesn’t perish when a mortal dies; it would be drawn to the Fugue Plane and wait for the god they prayed to in life to send a servant to take them to their heaven.

It’s a terrible fate for the faithless or false spirits, those who either defy their gods or never choose one. They are forever punished in this grim plane and even become part of the Wall of the Faithless.

Fugue Plane and Wall of the Faithless: those are spirits piling up into a wall

In Mystra’s case, her heaven is Elysium, judging by the name, you can already tell it’s likely a heavenly place. Significantly better than the Fugue Plane, that’s for sure.

It’s a fixed truth that all will die someday, and Gale’s afterlife options are:

Defy Mystra: When he dies, he will be forever punished as a false in the Fugue Plane. Not to mention Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead, is also Midnight Mystra’s former(?) lover, and he detests cowardice.

Defy Mystra and try to gain favor from another god: I think this will mean changing class and profession for him, as a wizard he is tied to Mystra after all.

Serve Mystra and be taken to Elysium: And who knows, since he is chosen of Mystra, she might even revive him someday. Mystra 2nd did that for her other chosen before. Note: Interesting reading about how her chosen become weaveghost after death, see wiki here.

Obtain godhood: When the god Gale dies, he will go through a completely different process.

An interesting thought here is whether Gale knows about all these. It will largely define what his true colors are. It wouldn’t make sense if he is completely ignorant of afterlife logic, though. His background is an experienced wizard (probably studied some necromancy), goddess ex, and apparently visited heavens before.

Is Mystra power-thirsty?

I wouldn’t say so. She is already OP, and AO asked her to nerf herself by sharing and storing power in her chosens. Even if she were to gain more power, she is not allowed to keep it.

She wants the Shadow Weave

She sees Shar’s secret creation, the Shadow Weave, as a threat and aims to eventually subsume it into her portfolio, even if that means sacrificing her last remaining goodness and humanity.

From the DnD book “Faith & Pantheons”

We see how Shar is using her Shadow Weave in the cursed land, and it's safe to say it's not an ideal living environment for most beings. Shar has been very keen to kill Mystra and take over her power; I don’t think the world would be a better place in her hands than in Mystra’s.

She wants the Karsite Weave

The same logic could apply to the Karsite Weave. While we can argue whether Gale has a good heart and can be trusted with godlike power, he did show some concerning traits, did he not? Maybe in the future, when he is wiser and calmer, that's how I read Mystra’s line when she tells him to be patient.

Why doesn’t she just cure him since she can?

This is 100% headcanon. I think Mystra as a goddess is able to foresee some future. In Elminster’s story series, Mystra 2nd often asked him to do things that seemed irrelevant but were actually needed in the future. In Gale’s case, could it be that’s what Midnight meant to do? To mentor and humble him? Even prepare him to go through this journey? (Hardly imagine the prime archmage Gale joining our little merry band, and Elminster did say, “Mystra was anything but idle- she chose you as her champion.” What could that means?)

Gale has a curve where he goes from being “irked by untalented apprentices” to “enjoying teaching a lot” if not using the crown. He could have been relying on magic too much, and his ego or pursuit of power had led him astray from his good nature. If you look from this perspective, offering to use the orb before the final battle could be him still having doubts about the team's ability and having more faith in magic aka his own power (mixed with his deep love for everyone that he'd rather die than see their lives wasted, of course).

She is a terrible lover, and she doesn't care about Gale at all

According to patch 5, how time feels in the outer plane is very different from the material plane. God Gale came back in 6 months, and he seems not aware that it has been months. With this logic and putting myself in Mystra's shoes, she got mad because Gale recklessly activated a magical nuclear bomb and ignored him for a couple of weeks.(~1 year in the mortal world) When they meet again, this grumpy jumpy bean is thinking of the possibility of killing her for her powers already. Excuse me???

I will say there could be more considerate ways to handle this subject other than asking him to bomb himself. This long-distance cross-race romance was very problematic, but I will reserve my opinion on how much love she holds for Gale. Probably not seeing him as an equal partner, of course, but drawing the conclusion that she doesn't care a tad about his well-being might be too hasty, in my opinion.

A screenshot of Mystra telling Gale that she wasn't the one who took his gifts away from him. That's not an expression of 0 sympathy to me. I've never seen her make this face except for this line.

*UPDATE on Dec 11/2023* Add a tweet from Ed Greenwood, the creator of the Forgotten Realms. Ref: X

*UPDATE on Jan 11/2024* • Add a screenshots during Gale's meeting with her • Add a note on DnD weaveghost setting *UPDATE on Apr 15/2024* • An great analysis of Gale & Mystra's relationship and Mystra's behavior logic

-DISCLAIMER- I am very new to the DnD world, but these are what I dug up and puzzled together. I could be very, very wrong, but please be kind; I did all this out of love for my wizard 💜💜💜

[callsigncurse]

in your bones ( jake seresin x reader)

Summary: A disagreement causes tension between you and Jake, and a story is told. What happened the night Jake was turned? Why do you feel such a strong connection to him? You're about to find out.

Warnings: Description of an animal attack. Mentions of child neglect, and depression. Really sad Jake. Words: 5K

Without further adieu, I present to you: Evergreen Falls, part three.

←prev.

The strange feeling doesn’t dissipate when you get inside. In fact, it seems to linger in your bones as you lock the door behind you. The hair is standing on the back of your neck, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched. It had to be Jake playing a joke on you, right? How else would he have known to text you at that exact moment? There was no other way for him to have known you were out there; he’d left to go home half an hour ago.

You know he’s still awake, so you shoot off a text in response.

He doesn't respond for a minute, and you lean back against the door while you wait. The bubbles move on your phone, and you stare at it while you wait.

You didn't respond to that. This was all too strange for you. You'd felt an instant connection to him the moment you'd met. The connection only seemed to grow stronger, and today (well, yesterday) it felt like you could feel his emotions—so deeply, as if they were your own. Something beyond weird was happening, and you were determined now to find out what.

In the middle of your quickly derailing train of thought, your phone had started ringing, and you glanced at the screen. Of course he was calling—could he sense that you were freaking out, like you could sense his jealousy earlier? Of course, that thought was frankly ridiculous, but you were starting to think that not everything in this town is what it seems.

“Hello?”

“I told you not to go near the woods; you promised me you wouldn’t. So why did you go out there?”

You were taken aback by the slightly gruff tone he had going on. From the moment you’d met Jake, he’d been so sweet, his voice soft and low when he talked to you. This new tone was… different. Not bad, but definitely different.

“You realize I’m a grown woman, yes? I can make my own decisions.” You realize that mouthing off to him might make the situation worse, but you were always a tad stubborn, and even if he was the sweetest and most good-looking man you’d ever met, you still had free will.

“Well, sure, but you shouldn’t be making bad ones, especially since I took the time to warn you about what would happen if you went out there on your own!” He sounded exasperated, and you could picture him, maybe wearing a t-shirt and PJ pants, his hand pressing his phone to his ear, the other sliding through his already messy blonde hair.

“You’re not my dad.” ‘God, Pep, could you possibly have sounded more juvenile?’ You were actually cringing at yourself. “I didn’t get hurt; whatever it was ran away when my phone chimed because you texted me. Okay? No harm done.” You didn’t want to continue this conversation, in case you opened your mouth and said something else to make yourself sound even more like an idiot.

“We’re going to talk about this tomorrow, Pepper.” He sounded stern, and you rolled your eyes at how schoolmarmish he sounded. “I wasn’t kidding when I said it wasn’t safe, especially not for someone who didn’t grow up here. Imagine if you’d gone further in! You could’ve gotten turned around and lost. Do you realize that you could’ve gone missing tonight? How would Nat and the guys feel if you just up and vanished without a trace? How do you think I would feel, huh?”

“I’m going to bed.” You’d had just about enough of being lectured, and you pulled your phone away from your ear and ended the call. It had been a long day; it was nearing half past midnight, and you were exhausted.

So you marched yourself back up the stairs, turned your phone on Do Not Disturb, and plugged it in. If Jake still wanted to see you tomorrow, he was more than welcome to come over and see you. But until then, you were going to bed. So you turned off your lamp, slipped into bed, and closed your eyes.

The sunlight was coming in at an odd angle when you opened your eyes. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, it took you a second to realize that it wasn’t morning and that the light you were seeing was from a very full moon, and it was so close that it almost didn’t seem right.

And your phone wasn’t there when you went to check the time. In fact, your bedside table was completely barren, and you were so confused because you’d set a glass of water down on the table before bed. Now there was nothing there at all.

You slipped out of bed, heading slowly over to the window. Halfway there, you heard it.

Howling.

This time, you knew it was coming from your yard. And when you got to the window and looked down, it was waiting for you. The creature was huge—bigger than any wolf you’d ever seen. It made the ones at the San Diego Zoo look like chihuahuas.

It was looking at you, and the moon was so bright that you had to squint to see it. The beast’s coloring was so familiar. It was a dark honey color, and even from a distance, it looked soft. You got the sense that this creature was not a threat to you, and you relaxed a little.

And then you heard the movement from behind you.

Turning, your eyes caught sight of yet another creature. This one was equally as big, but its coloring was darker—more an oaky brown, earthy—and its eyes were a startling shade of blue. There was nothing soft or comforting about the color.

They were electric, hypnotizing, and dangerous.

The wolf showed its teeth; they were so long that you knew that even one bite would kill you.

You didn’t have time to even think of an exit strategy because it lunged.

And you didn’t have a chance to scream.

You shot out of bed so fast that you nearly launched yourself right out of it. Your heart was racing, and your pulse was hammering away in your throat. You were covered in sweat, and nausea had your stomach rolling. It took you a full minute to breathe through it.

It had been awhile since you’d had such a bad dream. A few months, at least—you'd had a few after your parents’ deaths—but this one had been different. It was so surreal, like it was something that you’d experienced or were going to experience.

Rubbing a hand over your face, you reached out and grabbed your phone from the bedside table. The time read 8:15 AM, which was a little earlier than you’d wanted to get up on a Sunday morning, but you didn’t think you’d be able to get back to sleep, not after that nightmare.

You had several missed calls from Jake and a few texts from him and the group chat, too. Jake had just griped at you some more, which reminded you that you were annoyed with him. He really had some nerve, calling you up to berate you like that and then continuing to text you about it after you’d hung up on him.

But at the same time, you could understand his concern. The woods around here were huge, and you remember walking on the path with your friends yesterday. Everything looked the same, so you could also understand how people got lost out there. Maybe he had a point.

Well, there was no time like the present to apologize. Kicking the blankets off, you rolled out of bed and headed straight to the bathroom to get ready—you had plenty to do.

About an hour later, you were stepping inside Top Bean. You were dressed in another pair of jean shorts and a t-shirt that fit you rather nicely. Your favorite pair of sneakers and sunglasses perfected the ensemble, and you were really feeling yourself as you walked in and waved to Javy.

“Hey, Pep.” He greeted you happily. “Whatcha up to today?” He looked a hell of a lot more awake than you felt, and you were a tiny bit jealous of that fact. Those bad dreams were no joke.

“Nothing much. I was just gonna pick up some coffee and hang out with Jake. Can I maybe get his usual and an iced Red Eye?” You were already pulling out your wallet and grabbing your card so you could pay. “I’m so tired.”

He rang you up, waving your hand off when you tried to stuff some cash into the tip jar. “Still not sleeping well, huh? I guess getting used to a new environment can screw up your sleep schedule pretty badly for a while. Have you tried tea?” He turned away, working on your order while you hung out by the bar stools.

“You mean like sleepytime tea, or something?” You asked, leaning against the counter. “I’ve never been much of a tea person, but at this point, I’ll try anything.” Which was true; you hadn’t really had a good night’s sleep since you’d left San Diego.

When Javy turns back around, he’s got a little box in his hands. “Sorta. Nat makes her own tea blends, and her most popular is her all-natural sleepy time tea. It’s got real valerian root and chamomile in it. She grows the chamomile herself, and she goes hunting in the woods for the other ingredients. It’s actually pretty tasty, especially if you add a little honey."

He hands you the box, and you turn it over in your hands a few times. “Huh. Interesting. Well, I guess I’ll try it. How much?”

“On the house. That’s just the sample size. Try it tonight, and if you like it, come back for the big box.” He turns back around, sliding over a cardboard holder with two coffees and a bag of baked goods. “And there is your order. Tell Jake I said hey and that it was good to hang out with him again. It’s been too long.”

You wonder what the story is behind that, but you don’t ask. You merely say goodbye to Javy and exit Top Bean. The sun is out from behind the cover of clouds, and you take a moment on the sidewalk to absorb it. You knew it was set to rain later, but that didn’t mean you could enjoy what you had now. 

South Pine Street wasn’t hard to find. It was around the corner from Main Street, and you decided to just leave your Jeep parked on Main and walk over to see Jake. It was nice to walk, you decided. It gave you a chance to observe more of the town, and it was nice to wave and smile at people that you recognized from your first few days in town. There was Maverick and Penny, walking an aging golden retriever, and you could see Mickey in the window of the record store as you passed by. He waved and smiled at you too, and your heart warmed.

Jake’s office was beautiful. It was a red brick building, just as old-fashioned as the rest of the town. On the big window to the left of the door, in red and white paint, a sign read:

Jake’s Carpentry & Woodworking Services.

The calligraphy reminded you of an old 1960s font, and you smiled to yourself as you walked up to the door and popped it open. Just like at Nat’s place, a bell above the door chimed when you entered. You were surprised to see an old man sitting at the front desk, and he looked a little surprised to see you there, too.

“Well hello.” He greeted you, closing the book he’d been reading. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you around this town before.” He looked kind—bright blue eyes, a pair of glasses resting on his nose, and a big and friendly smile on his lips. His hair was interesting; it was mostly black, with gray at the temples, even though he had to be well into his eighties, judging by the wrinkles on his face.

“Hi there, I just moved here.” You step in closer, letting the door swing shut behind you. You offer your name with a smile. “But everyone around here calls me Pepper. I was looking for Jake; is he around?”

“I’m Bernard, but everyone calls me Bernie! Or Grandpa B, whichever you’re more comfortable with. Jacob is in the workshop, just through this door to my left.” He waves his hand to indicate where you should go. “So, you’re the girl who’s captured my boy’s attention? Well, he certainly has an eye for beauty.” You felt yourself blush as you thanked him. “You go on in, but don’t sneak up on him, dear. I think he’s using the handsaw.”

You promise that you won’t, giving him another sweet smile as you slip through the door to the workshop.

Jake has his back to you, working on something, and sure enough, you can hear the telltale sounds of a power tool. So you set the coffee and pastries down on the counter beside you and sit down on the chair to watch and wait for him. It doesn’t take very long—you wonder if he can somehow sense you—before he shuts off the handsaw and turns around.

He’s wearing a red t-shirt today, and he seems surprised to see you.

“Pep?” He takes off the safety glasses, tossing them onto the table beside him. “What are you doing here?” You were hoping he’d act a little more happy to see you, but then again, maybe he was still a little annoyed by what had occurred last night. There were still a lot of questions that had yet to be answered, and a little annoyance was left inside you too, so you understood that.

“I brought coffee.” You answer quietly, gesturing with a hand at the treats you’d brought. “And I know we were supposed to hang out later, but I think we really need to talk.” You watch as he leans back against the counter behind him, crossing his thick arms over his chest. Those beautiful green eyes are staring at you, and for a moment, you completely forget about what you want to say to him.

“Okay.” He finally says, and his beautiful voice fills the silence between you. “So talk.” And that little attitude in his voice just woke up your annoyance from last night. For a man who had been nothing but kind and gentle with you, he sure was being such a man right now.

“I think you’re treating me like a child.” Walking closer, you watch as he tries to open his mouth—you know he wants to argue—but you cut him off before he can. “I get it; you’re the protective type, and I love that about you. It’s one of the many, many things that I adore about you, Jake Seresin. You’re kind and gentle, and you’ve made me feel like I really belong in this town. But you can’t call me up and yell at me when I do something you don’t like.”

He sighs in response, one hand swiping down his face. “Look, Pepper.” His eyes are so intense when he looks back at you, and it makes your stomach erupt into butterflies. “I’m not trying to treat you like a child. But there are dangerous things in this world. People, animals, and even the forests around here. That’s why I warned you not to go out there alone, and less than sixteen hours later, you’re breaking the promise you made to me.”

He has a point. “Look, Jake.” You’re standing just a short distance away now, mirroring his stance, your eyes narrowed in a challenge. “I get it; I broke the promise, but wouldn’t you be curious too? I mean, there was a wolf behind my house. And it’s not like they go out of their way to attack people–”

Before you can finish that sentence, warm hands are touching your face, angling your chin upwards so you’re staring into two dark green eyes. “Please, baby. Don’t go back into those woods without me, okay?” His face is so close to yours that you can taste the mint on his breath. He’s so warm and so close that you completely forget that you were even angry with him in the first place. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you. Tell me that you understand, sweet girl.”

A shiver drives its way down your spine, and warmth pools in your stomach. It was honestly unfair how attractive he is. “I understand.” You finally say, after a long moment of just staring at this unfairly beautiful man. “I’m sorry.”

“Good girl.” His voice is husky, so deep that you can feel the growl of it from where his chest is pressed against you. “That’s my good girl.”

You hate the fact that this turns you on. But it does. And it’s like he can sense that—you're sure your pupils are blown, because his lips pull into a self-satisfied smile. “You like that, sweet girl? Like being my good girl?” 

You nod quickly—a little too quickly. “Yes.” Your hands come up to rest on his arms; he’s still holding your face in his giant hands, and his thumbs are brushing over the apples of your cheeks. You’re honestly enjoying this a little too much, but you can’t help it. You’re completely infatuated with him.

When he leans in, his lips brush against the corners of your lips, and you whine—it's not enough; you want to feel his lips against yours completely. You want him to devour you, take your breath away, and make you completely forget any other man who has kissed you in the past. “Jake, please.”

“Not here, sweet girl.” He mumbles against your forehead, pressing another kiss there. “I don’t want our first real kiss to be in my workshop. Not exactly the romance you deserve.” Your heart constricts because that’s such a sweet thought—that he wants to make your first kiss together special. “Tonight, when I come to see you, I’ll give you a real kiss.”

You make a disappointed sound, but you understand. “Okay.” You lean into him again, and he wraps those strong arms around your frame and pulls you in so close that you can hear his heartbeat thudding under your ear. It’s a soothing sound, and the scent of him surrounds you. He smells like a man, like cloves and cedarwood, and you bury your face in his chest. “You smell so good.”

That pulls a chuckle out of him, and he kisses the top of your head. “I really do have things I need to work on, sweet girl.” He pulls away slightly, looking down at you with a half-smile. “If I could spend all day with you, I would, but there are people counting on me to finish up their orders.”

You nod, stepping up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He has to lean down to meet you, and your lips press against his bearded cheek. “Okay,” you agree. “I’ll see you tonight though, right?”

“Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I finish up here, I promise.” One last kiss to your forehead, and he lets you go. You mourn the loss of his touch immediately.

You say goodbye as you grab your bag and your coffee, and you can feel his eyes on you as you leave.

The walk back to your car helps to relax you because your heart is still racing from the vestiges of Jake's touch. You can feel the traces of his work-worn hands on your skin, and you ache for him.

The drive back to your house is short, but it gives you time to think about what you want to do when Jake arrives. You want to tidy up a bit; maybe sweep and put away the many, many books that are piled up. He wants to make dinner for you. He wants to have an intimate date with you, and you could swear on your life that you've never been so excited to see a man before.

Time drags on. You find yourself wandering around the house, straightening things up here and there, dusting windowsills, and making your bed. You wanted everything to be perfect by the time Jake got to your place.

You're curled up in your windowseat in the living room, paging through a book. Just like the weatherman had predicted, it was raining now. It was comforting to hear the sounds of raindrops against your window.

You're relaxed and happy when a knock comes at your door. Before you can get up to answer it, the door pops open, and Jake is slipping through it. In his large hands is a bouquet of wildflowers, and he looks so good. Raindrops drip from his hair, and his green eyes are warm and wide when he smiles at you. "Hey, sweet girl."

Something squeezes in your chest, and you push aside the book and stand, meeting his gaze with soft eyes and an even softer smile. "Hi." You answer shyly, and when he comes to you, you don't move.

Setting aside the flowers, he crowds in on you and leans in.

It seems as though he was as eager for this as you were. His lips were warm when they touched yours, and the feeling that comes with it—it feels as though you're coming back to startling life. You hadn't felt this good in so long, and it felt like you could really breathe again.

His teeth are sharp, and he nips at you. He swallows your gasp and takes the chance to slip his tongue into your mouth, and it's almost like he's trying to make you forget everything but him and his touch, and it's working. For a minute, you forget your own name. When he breaks away, it's only to trail kisses over the curve of your jaw, down the side of your neck, to the space between your neck and shoulder.

He bites you there—not too hard, but enough to leave a mark. And then his lips, tongue, and teeth are worrying at the bruise he's surely leaving, and you can't help the moan that escapes your lips. His answering sound is something akin to a low, gruff growl. The sound makes you shiver, and you lean into him and gasp his name in his ear.

The change is instantaneous—he turns his head, and his teeth are impossibly sharp, longer than any human's had any right to be. His green eyes are darker, so dark that it looks like his pupils have completely taken over. He growls again, and it's longer and deeper than the first one.

You're confused, and then you snap out of your lust-filled haze and scream.

His hands drop away from you immediately, and he moves so fast that he blurs. In the next moment, he's standing on the other side of the room with his hands up, palms toward you, his expression worried. "Baby, don't be scared. Please, don't be scared."

You're pressed against the wall across from him, staring at him with wide eyes. Your chest is moving quickly with rapid breaths; panic is gripping you. "Your teeth. Your eyes. How?" Something about this reminded you of your dream and of the story that he'd told you the night before. Some instinct deep inside you told you that you shouldn't be afraid of him, but self-preservation told you the opposite.

"I'll tell you everything." He takes a step forward but stops when he watches you skitter back away from him. "Please, just let me explain. Pep, I promise I won't hurt you. Don't run." 

You're shaking, but you stay still. "Okay. But you better start explaining, Jake. I'm freaking out here." You don't move closer to him, but you do move to sit back on the window seat. He doesn't move toward you; he just stays where he is.

There's a beat of silence, like he's trying to think of what to say, and then he begins.

"Growing up, my parents fought. A lot." He leans back against the wall behind him, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "Most of the time, they were so busy tearing into one another that they never actually paid me much attention." The idea of young Jake being alone in the world made your heart ache, but you didn't say anything. You just listened.

"It got especially bad when I was a teenager. I didn't have anyone besides Bernie. But it's not the same, you know? No kid should have to wonder if his parents actually love them. I spent a lot of time locked in my room, just sleeping. Sleeping meant that I could have peace, that I wouldn't have to deal with them bitching and being passively aggressive toward one another."

His tongue swipes over his lower lip, and he continues. "One night, when I was seventeen, I got tired of it. They'd been arguing all day, well into the night, saying awful things to one another. So I packed a bag and snuck out of my bedroom window. I headed to the one place that seemed like a sanctuary to me. I went to the falls."

You sit up straighter, head cocked to the side, as you listen. "Did they notice you were gone?"

He laughs a humorless laugh. "No, they didn't. It was midnight when I left. I grabbed the two-man tent from the garage and headed up to the falls. It was the night of the full moon, and the whole time I was walking, I felt like I was being watched. I chalked it up to anxiety, you know? I never expected what happened."

"What happened?"

His expression twists into one of pain. "You remember the story from last night, don't you?"

You pause, your eyes meeting his from across the room. "Yeah, of course." You're not really sure where he's going with this, but at the same time, you're pretty sure you know exactly where this is headed.

"Pepper, I was attacked that night." He shudders, as if he's scared of his own memories. "I'd just gotten to the falls and started setting up my tent when he arrived."

You moved to the side, patting the space beside you. He didn't hesitate to cross the room, settling into the window seat gratefully. "What happened to you, Jake?"

"It was huge. It was black, and it had these horrifyingly blue eyes." You don't react to that, even though you know he's about to describe the creature from your nightmare. "It was too big to be any normal wolf. And it was angry, and I wasn't fast enough."

Your hand finds his, your little fingers intertwining with his. "It bit you?"

"It did." He relaxes at your touch, relief coloring his voice. "It tore my arm open. I guess the thing thought I wouldn't survive, because it just left me there. I'd have died that night if Bernie hadn't heard me. He was out camping too, and when he heard my screams, he came running. Scooped me right up and took me to the hospital."

You hadn't noticed any scars, and you can't help but wonder about that. "What happened next?"

"I turned. The wound closed up mere days later, and I turned into a wolf and tore my room apart. "You can feel his eyes on you. "Pepper?"

"I saw him in my dreams. The wolf. He had silver on his muzzle and a scar under his left eye." You tell him, recalling your dream. "I think I saw you too, but he attacked me before I could move."

His hand leaves yours, choosing instead to wrap his arm around your shoulders and drag you to him. "That won't happen. I know he's still out there; that's why I don't want you in the woods alone, especially not at night." There's pressure in your hair, and you know he's kissing you.

"The connection between us—does this have anything to do with the whole werewolf thing?" Any other time, you'd have ditched a guy telling you some crazy story like this. But your instincts told you he wasn't lying, and you'd seen and felt enough to believe him.

"You're my mate, Pep." He murmurs into your hair, "Every wolf has one, usually another wolf. Very rarely does a wolf mate with a human."

You hum at that, and you feel as though you're floating. Most likely in shock, you think. You lean into him, burrowing into the warmth and safety he offers. "I knew there was something between us; when I first saw your eyes, I knew. It was like a chain connecting me to you, like this was always meant to be."

"You know I'd want you no matter what, right?" His warm fingers find your chin, tilting your head up so he can see your eyes. "Fate or not, sweet girl, I know you're the one for me. Hell, I'm still surprised that you like me."

Those gorgeous green eyes take away the rest of the tension in your body. "What's not to like about a kind-hearted, handsome gentleman who works with his hands? This is going to be… strange, trying to figure out this dynamic, but I can't walk away from you, Jake."

His face relaxes, and you're surprised to see tears forming in his eyes. "Thank God," he mumbled, and you watch as he struggles to keep his emotions in check. "I thought I was about to lose you for good. I just… my life is crazy, and I never wanted to involve you, but I couldn't stay away. I had to know you."

Your heart constricts. "It's okay, Jake. I'm not going anywhere, okay? We're going to figure this out together."

He's still shaking when you kiss him, but you can feel his relief when his hands touch your face.

my taglist loves ❤️

@mamachasesmayhem, @sailor-aviator, @roger-that-cap, @yuckosworld, @sky2nd, @nouis-bum, @mycobrakai1972, @book-dragon-90

(some of y'all ain't getting tagged for some reason when i put up your username, so idk what do lol)

add yourself to the taglist here!

[explosionshark]

hyped that you're writing again!

Fuffy (Faith/Buffy) + scrape, rain, dame

(maybe a noir vibe?)

okay lmao i know you've been wanting this for a minute, I hope it satisfies

-

Faith's never seen rain like this, not in the entire time she's been in California. And she might be a recent transplant but she's not stupid — this is no regular summer storm. No, this has to be something else. Driving winds, great freezing wet gouts of water gushing from midnight black clouds, like God himself opened a vein. An arterial baptism for the City of Angels, a place so choked in sin that the blood of lamb wasn't cutting it anymore and the Father, despairing, had no choice but to offer his own.

That or Buffy was right and there's a powerful coven at work and they're running out of time to stop them.

Speaking of Buffy—

She's got her hand clamped tight— bruising tight— around Faith's wrist, heels that couldn't be worse for this weather for if they were trying splashing noisily through filthy puddles in the sidewalk as she ran ahead, tugging Faith along behind her.

“Come on, Faith, come on,” Buffy's saying and Faith wonders, dazedly, why she sounds so scared until she feels herself falter on the slippery pavement, shoots a hand out to steady herself on a glass storefront beside her and sees, even through the dark and dim, the bright red streak of blood her palms leave behind.

Oh, yeah. She's shot.

It's a struggle to tear her mind free of the gauzy haze that surrounds it, but when Faith's ears pick up the distant sound of a motor getting less distant by the second, she manages it.

“They're coming back around,” she wheezes, sure that her voice is too pained and weak for Buffy to hear over the weather.

But she does, judging by the quiet curse she lets out, the way she squeezes Faith's hand. “Okay, okay. I know a place. Hang on, okay? Just a little farther.”

Faith would be the first to admit, if anyone would bother to stop and ask her, that in her current circumstances she is probably not the person best qualified to judge her condition. She's biased, in her own way, and being down a few pints of blood is probably not helping. But she's a detective, or at least Buffy has asked her to play the part, so she can do what detectives seem to do in those dime novels she reads from time to time: look at the evidence, draw a conclusion.

Faith + shot + the goons in that old beater coming back around to take another shot at putting the chill on her and it all adds up to one thing: she doesn't have much of a choice about whether to trust Buffy or not or if she wants to keep running after her through all these dark, filthy allies. 

All her life, Faith has been sure that she'd kick off this way someday: running. Running a con, or from the cops or after some dame with a face too sweet and a mouth too pink and inviting for Faith’s own good. Faith knows enough to know she doesn't know exactly what kind of scheme she's let herself get drawn into, but she figures whatever it is, her chances are still better with Buffy than with those hoods and their irons.

So she goes.

And within a few minutes, Buffy is tugging her to a stop in front of a nondescript door in the alleyway of some big brick building Faith doesn't recognize, someplace downtown. Faith, no stranger to running for her life, is a little disappointed that she'd failed to memorize how they'd ended up here, but she figures she can afford to cut herself a little slack tonight, given the circumstances.

She sags, exhausted, knees shaking, against Buffy, no doubt getting blood all over that smart dove gray coat she'd shown up wearing, that Faith had, a few happier hours ago, fantasized about peeling off her. Ruined now, no doubt.

“Sorry,” Faith mumbles, or tries to, because what comes out of her mouth is more like “Shrrrgghh.”

“Shh, it's okay, hang on,” Buffy says, voice a little too frantic to be comforting. She pounds on the door again, again until she finally lets loose an aggrieved sigh and puts her shoulder through it. She makes it look effortless but Faith hears the wood splinter, sees the metal of the steel lock bend like putty.

Everything else happens in a blur. Buffy hauls her through the doorway, down a dark hall until a man… a green man? With little red horns? Intercepts them. He's wearing a plush royal blue smoking jacket and a look of perfect terror but he does as Buffy bids him and ushers them into a sparsely furnished room with a mattress on a metal frame and not much else.

Buffy settles Faith down on the bed, saying over her shoulder to the man, “Sorry about the blood. And your door.”

He waves her off and rushes back out of the room, returning moments later with what looks like a doctor's bag.

“Now, let's see the damage,” he says, sounding far too cheerful for a man peeling her bloodstained shirt up from her skin. “Sorry, darling,” he at least has the good grace to say. “I know this is terribly ungentlemanly of me, but please bear with me now.”

At this Buffy stumbles back knocking into a dresser and toppling a small mirror onto the floor, where it shatters into bits. As if we needed any more bad luck, Faith thinks.

Aloud, she says, “Where y’goin’?”

Buffy shakes her head, voice quavering. “I'm squeamish. I can't watch.”

And then trips her way out of the room, falling all over herself to leave.

“She'll be okay,” the man says, kindly, warm hands easing her back onto the bed. He produces a bottle, something home brewed but strong that he urges her to sip. “So will you. I'm Lorne, by the way. I promise you're in good hands.”

Faith doesn't doubt him. Life has seen fit to instill in Faith certain skills for survival, one of these being discerning quickly and with good accuracy how much a man with intent to touch her wants to cause pain. There's nothing in Lorne’s hands that reads malice or danger.

No, that thrum of simple minded fear, that prey animal feeling pulsing through Faith's body isn't because of Lorne at all.

It lingers as she watches the door Buffy disappeared from with all the intensity of a rabbit struck still in the brush, waiting for the hawk to pass.

To distract from the pain in her side as Lorne goes to work with his tweezers and alcohol and gauze, Faith recalls Buffy's face. They've had their moments in the weeks since Buffy approached her, asked for her help. Long hot glances and lingering touches, loaded silences and innuendo both. Nothing has come of it, but one of Faith’s other survival skills, honed over the years, has been learning how to tell when a broad wants what she has to offer. And she’s felt that want from Buffy, choked as it is by what Faith had assumed this whole time was an abundance of caution. Maybe she had a secret beau, maybe she’d been burned before, maybe she just didn’t think Faith was worth the risk. But Faith had felt the want in her, before. 

And that was nothing compared to the hunger she saw in Buffy tonight, when they’d finally stopped running and Lorne had exposed the sick oozing wound in her side and she had lurched forward, helpless as a drunk. Oh, she’d caught herself right away, pulled back, a little too far, but Faith had seen it. Had seen the way her mouth went slack before she tightened it to a pained grimace, had seen her nostrils flare, her hands shake, the way her pupils had gone big and black, like a gowed-up dope fiend.

Faith had seen. And so now, she thinks about it like a detective, lining up the evidence. How they always met at night, how Buffy had knocked that door in like it was nothing, the way she was able to lug Faith around like she was made of cotton and air.

By the time Lorne is finished, Faith is exhausted, and slips into a deep, dreamless sleep. She wakes up in the daylight, for Lorne to change her bandages.

“Buffy had to go home,” Lorne lies as easily as he stitches her up. “She’ll be back in the evening.”

They talk a little, before she falls back asleep. “Weren’t you green last night?” she asks.

“Guilty,” he says and explains.

“Demon was my second guess,” Faith says amicably, squinting and tilting her head to try to see past the glamour. No such luck, it's solid work. “First was that I was hallucinating from blood loss.”

She drinks some broth, has a few more nips of whisky, and falls back asleep.

It is indeed evening when Buffy comes back. She’s cleaned up, looking sober and genuinely concerned as she hovers in the doorway.

Faith wonders, for one terrifying moment, how much she still smells like blood. If she’s in danger from Buffy losing it.

Then she thinks, if all Buffy wanted out of her was a quick meal, she could have had it weeks ago. 

“You might as well come on in,” Faith offers, eventually, sick of the silent staring. “You’re lettin’ in a draft.”

Hesitantly, Buffy steps into the room. She shuts the door behind her and pauses until Faith gestures to the chair at her bedside.

Settling down, Buffy asks, “How are you feeling? Lorne says the wound looks good. He doesn’t think it’ll get infected.”

Faith shrugs, regretting it immediately but hoping the pain doesn’t show on her face. “S’alright. Basically a scrape.”

“The bullet went all the way through you and out the other side.”

“A deep scrape,” Faith amends. 

Buffy shakes her head and Faith, goddamn her, feels her breath catch in her throat, despite everything.

“Where you been?” Faith asks, trying to sound casual. “Catching up with the mugs that tried to give me lead poisoning?” 

“No. I couldn’t find any sign of them when I left here last night.” 

“Grabbing a bite?” Faith tries, watching carefully for—

Buffy freezes.

Faith waits.

“Yes,” Buffy answers slowly. “I had something to eat.”

“I could tell,” Faith says. “You look steadier than last night.”

She waits another beat while Buffy looks at the floor.

“So, who was he?” Faith asks.

There it is. Buffy’s gaze snaps up to meet hers. “The man who tried to shoot you? I told you I didn’t find any trace of him.”

“Not him.” Faith says, then, despite the pain, she leans forward, holding catching Buffy’s eye and holding it. “Who’d you eat?”

“I didn’t hurt anyone,” Buffy says in a rush. “On the square. I didn’t.”

“C’mon, drop the veil,” Faith says. “I know what you are. A vamp, in both senses of the word.”

“I didn’t hurt anyone,” Buffy insists.

Faith frowns. “So, what? Thralls? Heard about a guy back east who paid hookers for it. That your bag?”

“I… There’s this butcher shop—”

Faith rolls her eyes, “Don’t give me that—”

“I mean it!” Buffy practically shouts. “I don’t feed from humans. I swear.”

Faith wants to believe it. She wants it so badly she’s not sure she trusts the feeling. 

“If you don’t, you’re the first bloodsucker I’ve ever met who doesn’t hunt.” Faith says. “So, what’s different about you?”

“I have a soul.” Faith rolls her eyes and Buffy, affronted, cuts her off before she can speak. “I do. Look, it’s a long story and I’ll tell it to you later, but for right now I need you to trust me. This shouldn’t change anything about our deal. You keep helping me, I’ll pay you what you’re owed, and together we save this city from a whole heap of trouble.”

“You expect me to trust you?” Faiths asks, head aching, wound aching, heart aching, and a special new kind of exhausted she's never been before. She wishes she knew how to stop the way her heart still speeds up when Buffy looked at her just like this — big eyed and sincere. “After lying to me?”

“No.” Buffy reaches out, tentatively and lays her hand over Faith’s. “I expect you to trust me after saving your life last night.”

Warmth flows up Faith’s body, from her belly all the way to the roots of her hair. Just like that.

Dizzy over a dame, she thinks, exasperated. A vampire dame. Ain’t I the world’s biggest chump.

“You said it was a long story,” Faith says, finally. “You ending up with a soul…”

“Yes.”

“Well,” leaning back into bed, Faith is careful to let her hand continue to rest under Buffy’s grip. She jerks her chin down toward the patched wound in her side. “As you can see, I got nothing but time.”

Buffy waits a beat, then nods. “Okay. It all started with a man. His name was Angel…”

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️🌤️

90 for 🌤️:

---

“Yeah, I am,” Chris says. “And I agree with this Imposter Buck, so please just be honest with me.”

“I’m not an imposter!” Buck nearly squawks. 

Eddie sighs.

“Okay,” Buck admits. “Maybe I am, a little.”

“What does that mean?” Chris demands. 

“It means…” Eddie makes an exasperated noise. “It means we’re not from here or now. We’re still us. We just… Don’t belong here?” 

Chris looks as puzzled by this explanation as Buck has felt all day. “What does that mean? Where are you from?”

“2024,” Buck says. 

Christopher’s jaw drops. 

“He’s going to think we’re crazy,” Eddie grits out. 

“Yeah, maybe a little,” Chris agrees, eyes very wide. 

“We… We don’t know Nico, Chris. We’re not married. We’re not even together,” Buck says. “I just broke up with Tommy. You know Tommy, right? How much is different here?”

Chris wrinkles his nose. “Yes, I remember Tommy. Is this a prank?”

“No, definitely not  a prank,” Eddie says. 

“And you can’t tell Nico,” Buck pleads. “We don’t want to scare him.”

“I didn’t want to scare you, either,” Eddie says quietly. 

Christopher’s expression changes, like a lightbulb has gone off. 

“2024?” He asks. 

Eddie and Buck both nod. 

“That’s why…” Chris exhales. “That’s why you both cried. I’m gone. I’m still gone, aren’t I?” 

Buck looks at the floor. 

“Yeah,” Eddie mutters. “You are.”

“Shit,” Chris exhales. 

They both flinch a little, unfamiliar with that sort of language out of his mouth. 

“Dad…” Chris says. “I-”

“It’s okay if you’re pissed at me,” Eddie says quickly. “I know I’m not your dad that you were expecting and I’m obviously worse than him, so-”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Chris interrupts. 

Buck looks at Eddie, uncertain what the answer will be. Somedays, he’s open about Chris. About how much he misses him. About everything that happened. Others? Well, others, it’s like walking on eggshells. He never knows what will send Eddie into a dark place. When he’d come over to find Eddie pantsless and seemingly happy, he’d been blown away. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Yeah, I want to talk about it.”

Buck feels a wash of relief. Thank god. 

“I’ll watch Nico,” Buck assures them. 

Then he turns and walk towards Nico’s room, giving them space. 

🌤️

They sit outside in a backyard Eddie didn’t realize he had. It’s nice. Not overly spacious, but set up with furniture and comfortable-looking. That must be all Buck, Eddie thinks. He can imagine being married to Buck means hosting dinner parties and barbecues more than he might personally choose to. He imagines he’d complain, but secretly love it. Eddie tries not to think about it. He’s not actually married to Buck. 

“So what’s the last day you remember?” Chris asks when they sit down. There’s a stiffness between them that Eddie can’t quite gauge. Is it because Chris is angry Eddie is the wrong Eddie? Or is it because Chris is still angry about everything else. Eddie wouldn’t blame him if he is. What Eddie did probably earned Chris a lifetime of trauma. 

“Um, November 7th, 2024? Or 8th? I can’t remember if we went to sleep after midnight or before.”

“That’s… That’s kind of a shame,” Chris sighs. “If only you’d decided to time travel a few months later.” 

“I didn’t decide… Wait, what?” Eddie frowns. “Why? Why a few months later?”