#look at my terrible man some more. drawing his hands is fun

[adriartts]

auch julian. my man who sucks

↑ progess.

[ckret2]

please more evil ford please i stare with my puppy eyes for this i am obbsessed

Yeah all right, I've been working on some art. (For context, we're talking about this Evil Ford.)

Evil Ford is Evil as in "cheerfully works with Bill even after learning his full plot" and "is totally ready to conquer and/or destroy the world." But other than the shocking lack of basic ethics and the supervillain objective he's mostly the same guy—which means he still cares about his family. He's hoping to get them to join in on the world conquest plan.

Forty-odd years ago he went off to college promising someday he'd be a big shot scientist who changes the world and he'd make his family a fortune. If taking over reality doesn't qualify he doesn't know what does. The family can join him and his buddy Bill and rule the universe together. Pines Pines Pines Pines!

Unfortunately for him, the rest of the family still has normal moral compasses. And also they've met Bill.

Bill can't currently possess Ford due to Reasons; but even though he can't get in the driver's seat he still has permission to ride shotgun at any time. Ford talks to him pretty regularly. He HAS been caught doing this. Stan thinks he's just gone a little nutty from thirty years of isolation.

Naturally, since he was always on Bill's side, Ford's perception of events during Weirdmageddon is a bit different:

I finally made an official Evil Ford New Costume Character Design, check out his exciting totally different brand new look:

I decided that, since Ford is still basically the same person aside from his terrible life goals, he'd probably have the same fashion sense. And so... nothing changes except two tiny details lmao.

But he DOES have tattoos:

I traced a canon character model and took off its top to get a base to slap tattoos on, and then went dang... they gave him a big head and arms. He looks goofy. Anyway,

His forearms have less incriminating tattoos—just a birch tree and a sunrise. (The sunrise looks like the Journal 3 "The Muse Has Spoken" page.) The red text is the "triangulum entangulum" ritual; if anyone asks he'll go "it's uhh an ancient Sumerian poem about how great science is." It's not until he's topless that it's like "oh so he's a CULTIST cultist." The one exception is an unconcealed Eye of Providence on his right palm—but it's in an ink that's only visible in certain lighting. It's there so at any time he can point his hand at something and go "Bill are you seeing this BS?"

Of course, he still has the "hey now, you're an all star" neck tattoo. I didn't have room to draw it.

As you can see, he's made being Bill's right hand man a core part of his personality. Rather than spending 30 years scrabbling around the multiverse desperately searching for a way to destroy Bill, he spent 30 years chilling in the Quadrangle of Qonfusion as Bill's specialest favoritest Henchmaniac, and only scrabbling around the multiverse occasionally for fun & profit.

Here's a photo Bill & Ford took at a Nightmare Realm house party like fifteen years ago, three minutes before Bill started an argument and set the house on fire.

Most people have their wild party years in college, Ford has his in his 40s.

[rememberwren]

/•Harmless Fun 6•\

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Further Parts

Everyone comes clean.

About this: some explicit talk about consent and non-consent.

-

Johnny insists that it will be easier for the three of you to talk in the ruined bathroom, which is how you end up in the bathtub. A part of you thinks that Johnny should be the one in the tub (he’s the one limping, after all), but he had taken the broom from your hands and insisted on sweeping up the remains of the ceiling tiles himself. 

“Don’t need two good legs to work a broom, hen. Be reasonable,” he’d said with a roll of his eyes. 

Simon keeps busy at the other end of the bathroom sopping up the standing water that threatens the bedroom carpet. With nothing to do and no one who would accept your help, you had minimal options: sit on the closed lid of the toilet or curl up in the empty tub. 

At least in the tub you could draw the curtain shut and retain a little dignity. 

“The bathroom needs major reconstruction,” Simon says, the close quarters and tiled walls making his voice sound as if it is coming from every direction. Not that you mind, with a voice like his. You take in this news while examining the bottles of soap and shampoo nestled in the nook of the wall, reaching out quietly to take one and pop the cap open. God, it smelled like Simon did after his post-run showers, woodsy and clean. You inhale deeply. “So we’re down to one bathroom for the next few weeks.” 

Your belly swoops with relief: they weren’t kicking you out. You peek out of the shower curtain, soap held out of view, and maybe it is partly that outlandish relief that has you saying: “That’s not so bad.” 

Simon stares, kneeling on the tiles, wet towels all around him. “It’s an invasion of your space and privacy.” 

“Yeah, who knows the sort of girly things you keep hidden in there,” Johnny says. 

Simon shoots him a dry, unamused look. 

“I don’t mind sharing,” you admit (thank God you’d hidden the only real incriminating item before Johnny had used your bathroom). “My last roommate and I had to share while we lived together. We just locked the door and tried to respect each other’s time. I’m sure the three of us can make it work.” 

“We’ll have to,” Simon says, sounding about as thrilled of the prospect as a man might be of the electric chair or other unwilling euthanasia. He turns his dark, all-seeing eyes on you. “What is it that you needed to talk to us about?” 

You pull the curtain shut abruptly. With care, you sneak the soap back into its former position and hope that Simon won’t notice it’s been moved. Your hand shakes while you do. You’re horrified to feel tears of embarrassment and shame filling your eyes, grateful for the cover of the shower curtain as you palm the tears away before they can fall. Even if they weren’t planning to kick you out, it made you feel no less shameful about what you had done on the car ride home.

“I just feel terrible about last night. What I did to you, Johnny—and you, Simon—it, it was trashy to say the least. I mean, it was predatorial—” 

The soft rasp of the broom’s filaments against the floor stops. 

“Preda—? Alright, I’m coming in there.” Johnny draws the curtain back, frowning down at you. You don’t want to imagine the sight you make: curled up in his bathtub, eyes red from rubbing them raw. He turns himself sideways and sits on the ledge, wincing as he does so. Ever attuned to Johnny’s needs, Simon reaches out and helps him adjust his leg into a more neutral position. “What’s all this? Yer no predator.” 

“You tried to stop me.” Your voice is thick, cracking at the edges. 

“I didn’t say no, not in so many words—” 

“You didn’t say yes either, Johnny,” you remind him. “If a man had done to me what I did to you last night, you’d break his teeth in.” 

Johnny’s face twists into a grim expression. “Aye. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it wasn’t right what you did—but I get a say in it too, don’t I? I get to decide what happened to me, and I don’t feel like I was taken advantage of. Jesus, I could have stopped you if I hadn’t wanted it so bad.” 

“I think you’re—” you pause, blinking as Johnny’s words make it through the fog of your own self pity. Your eyes flicker to Simon, unsure if you had heard correctly. Simon gives nothing away, his eyes reminding you of cool dark rooms, if only you could find a lightswitch to illuminate them. “Johnny, did you just say—” 

“Is it easier if I shut the curtain again?” 

“Might be.” 

“Alright.” Simon helps him stand and Johnny tugs the curtain shut again. “Let me preface this by saying that you can say no to the likes of us, fer any reason, explained or otherwise, and there won’t be any consequences! But since the day you moved in, we’ve felt a chemistry with you that we haven’t felt with many people before, and we wanted to know if you felt the same way.” 

Chemistry. That was one way to put it. Overwhelming attraction and unshakeable fondness was another. While you knew that the three of you got along well enough (and more than once Johnny had referred to you all as friends), it loosened some tight, anxious muscle in your chest to know that they felt the connection too. It wasn’t just wishful thinking on your part; there was chemistry.

“What sort of chemistry?” you ask, adjusting yourself into a more comfortable position.

“There’s more than one?” Simon mutters. 

“I mean, there’s chemistry in a friendly way or a more romantic way—” 

“A sexual way,” Johnny suggests. You jolt and accidentally bang your knuckles against the porcelain of the tub. Hissing, you cradle them against your chest, mulling over his words.

Your mouth feels almost too dry to speak. 

“Right. Well—yes, I feel…that.” In the back of your brain, a tiny fire burns, fueled by disappointment. You try to smother its flames before it grows out of control and threatens to burn up your higher reasoning. Not every relationship needed to be centered around romance; this was the twenty-first century. You were perfectly within your rights—some would consider it smart, even—to have physical relationships without the complication of emotional aspects.

You’ll keep working on convincing yourself. In the meantime: “So you’re saying you want to have sex.” 

“I’m open to taking things slow and seeing where they lead,” says Johnny.

Dimly you remember something: some night spent curled up on the couch, your head lighter than air, listening to Johnny and Simon talk beside you. Something about their conversation reminded you of this moment, but the more you tried to remember, the more it slipped through your fingers like sand. 

“All of us?” you ask, noticing Simon’s pointed silence. 

There is shifting on the other side of the curtain. You see shadows moving through the thin plastic and fabric, like the two of them are trying to have a silent conversation with only hand gestures. It does nothing for your nerves. At length, Simon says: “Not me. Just you and Johnny.”

Your heart does a strange dip, like a bird changing course and soaring toward the ground. You feel strangely, stupidly hurt by this, though you couldn’t put into words why, and you wouldn’t want to even if he asked. It was within his rights to say no. Hadn’t you just learned that lesson?

“Are you sure you’d be okay with that?” you ask. Simon had never come off as a jealous sort of type (and you imagine that a jealous type wouldn’t last long with Johnny anyway, not with the way the other man liked to flirt), but everyone had a limit. You weren’t sure that if the situations were reversed you could be so affable. 

“Someone needs to keep a clear head,” he says. “I’ll be the designated driver.” 

Maybe he’s right. If you truly plan to sleep with Johnny, maybe it will be best to have someone in the apartment still as detached as possible. 

“Thanks, I guess,” you say, trying to force a little humor into your voice. “I think I proved last night that I don't make the best decisions under the influence.” 

“You did make the best decision,” he says solemnly. “You called me.” 

Johnny’s hand appears from around the edge of the shower curtain. Grinning, you stretch out to touch his fingers with your own and lace them together. It’s a little awkward, but most new things are. His hand is warm and gentle, and you could get used to it. 

“We’ll take it slow, yes?” 

“Alright.”

“Glad we’re on the same page. Lunch?” 

“Definitely on the same page there.” 

“Get out of my tub then.”

-

“Hey. Stay back.” 

Feeling a little like a student asked to stay behind after class, you watch with envy as Johnny slips into the living room to call for takeout, leaving you alone with Simon. You don’t get to spend a lot of alone time with Simon, and that time is usually spent in companionable silence as he reads. Nerves bubble in your belly, wondering what else he could have to talk to you about that he wouldn’t want to say in front of his husband.

“What’s up?” you ask, aiming for nonchalant. 

“I’ve got a rule,” he says. “One for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Don’t fall in love with Soap.” You blink up at him. Of all the things you could have imagined him saying, this hadn’t been on the list—though perhaps it should have been right there at the top. “I know how easy he is to love. But I also know that this is going to end at some point, one way or another. Let's not let it end up a mess. That’s my advice. As the driver.”

“Just friends,” you clarify around the knot in your throat. “Believe it or not, I was thinking the same thing. This is all just for fun, right?”

Simon stares at you hard, like he is trying to see through you to the door behind you. You hope your face is arranged into something neutrally appropriate but know that if it isn’t, it’s already too late. 

“Right,” he says at length.

-

The night ends softly, with something mindless and easy on television. Simon sits on the floor with his back against the base of the couch, head against Johnny’s knees. Johnny lays outstretched across the couch on his side, one hand reaching down to rub at his aching thigh now and again. All while you sit curled up in the armchair, watching the television half as often as you watch the two of them. 

They’re beautiful. There’s something about the way they contrast with each other, the darkness and the light, which you find aesthetically pleasing. Sometimes Johnny slips his fingers into Simon’s hair and scratches softly at his scalp, and you get to watch the relaxed, blissed-out expression creep over Simon’s face at the stimulation. 

The domesticity of it does something to you. Deep in your chest—in between your legs. It’s time for you to call it a night; there’s a toy in your room with your name on it (not literally). Joints creaking from disuse as you stand, both their heads swivel to look up at you, making your heart squeeze fondly. 

“I think I’m tapping out for the night,” you admit. 

Simon wishes you a goodnight. 

Johnny says: “Where’s my goodnight kiss?” 

You feel zapped, suddenly wide awake. “You…want one?” 

Johnny nods. He tries to sit up but can’t find the leverage, face twisting in pain. 

“No,” you tell him, “You stay there, I’ll come to you.” 

Walking around the coffee table, you come to kneel beside Simon at Johnny’s head. Your chest feels tight, blood thrumming with nerves. You can’t help but glance toward Simon who hasn’t changed positions except to angle his body towards you both a fraction more, his eyes dark and shadowed. 

“Alright, hen?” Johnny asks. 

“Yeah,” you murmur. 

He reaches out to cup your cheek, his palm warm, thumb stroking along the length of your cheekbone. Steeling your nerves, you lean down and press your mouth against his. His lips are soft, warm as you give him the simplest, chastest kiss. He keeps you there, searching for more, tilting your head with his hand until the angle serves him best, parting his lips until you can taste the lemon from the tea Simon had shared with you both earlier that night.

His tongue sweeps across your bottom lip and your thighs shake, weak in the knees from holding yourself up. You grip a fistful of the couch cushion beside his head and meet his tongue with your own, a soft little dance, familiar steps but a new partner. He exhales, the breath fanning across your cheek, and something about that makes the ache between your legs so much worse. 

You break away. Your fingers find his hair, soft dark strands that slip through your fingers like silk. You whisper: “Johnny.” 

“Just a little more, please,” Johnny begs, and you can’t say no when you want it so bad.

You meet him open mouthed, shifting on your knees to make yourself more comfortable—and you brush against Simon seated beside you. It has you pulling back, sucking in a breath. You can’t help but look at him with wide, guilty eyes, only to find him watching you with quiet, earnest intensity. His mouth curls at the edges into the ghost of a smile, though why he would be smiling, you couldn’t say. 

Meanwhile, Johnny sighs, brushing his thumb against your lower lip.

“Chemistry,” he says, mouth red and kiss-swollen. 

You silently agree. 

[the--rebel--fae]

ME ME FIRST IM FIRST PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE ALASTOR X FEM READER WHO LIKE A HOUSEWIFE IN THE HOTEL AND TAKES CARE OF NIFTTY AND CHARLE AS IF THEY WERE HER AND ALASTOR CHILDREN

A/N: You my friend, caught my attention first because of such an adorable response. So ask and ye shall receive! Here's hoping I do Alastor justice.

(This is an adorable request btw)

Pairing: Alastor x Fem! Reader

Tw: None! Just pure fluff!

Word count: 745

The Hazbin Bunch

Ever since you came to the Habin Hotel, it felt like everyone was a little family. You were an older demon, having died back in the forties. So you have been in hell for quite some time. 

When you first saw the TV commercial you wanted to see what it was all about. Especially since you heard that your old friend Alastor was involved. You haven’t seen him in years. Seven to be exact. And to know that he was back sent butterflies in your stomach. You never told him, but you always harbored feelings for the eccentric radio host. You never had the guts to tell him though since you feared messing up your friendship.

Little did you know, he had feelings for you as well. Alastor was already intrigued with you when you first met. Just the way you carried yourself and treated others. It was also a plus that you hated that infernal TV just as he did. Plus, you were a great conversationalist and probably the only one who could keep up with him when you had the time to dance.

Soon enough, Charlie, Vaggie, Husk, Angel Dust, Nifty, and even Sir Pentious became family to you. Almost as if they were your children. 

“Nifty my dear, if you truly want to kill those little bugs I suggest you swing your knife in a diagonal direction instead of a perpendicular. That way, they have less of a chance to escape.” You told the little red-headed cyclops girl as she chased around a few stray roaches.

Nifty paused briefly and looked up at you from your seat at the bar. “Ooh! That’s a great idea! Less chance for them to escape hehe.” She giggled creepily and then started back on her roach hunt. 

You shook your head and smiled fondly at the girl. Then turning back to Husk you regarded him with a warm smile. “Well, since I’m here I mine as well indulge in a small drink. What do you have in mind for me today Husk? I do so love the different drinks you concoct. If you worked at a bar back in my days on Earth, you’d be regarded as an artist.”

Husk chuckled as he started up your drink. “Weren’t you alive durin’ prohibition times though?”

You just waved your hand nonchalantly. “Ah, semantics. Besides, you know what they say. Nothing fun ever comes from following the rules.”

“How right you are Cher! Why if people followed the rules, things would be so terribly boring.” Alastor said as he popped out from seemingly nowhere.

Husk handed you your drink and you smiled as you took a sip. “Oh, hello Al. How was the radio show today?”

Alastor’s eyes lit up and his smile shone brightly. Most people would find it off-putting but you personally loved it. “It went splendidly, my dear! Thank you for asking.”

You were about to say something more, but then Charlie came down the main stairs drawing your attention. “Charlie, my dear! How are you, sweetie? Do you feel any better since the latest meeting with that infernal angel? Ad-what’s his name? The first man, I guess?”

Charlie met your gaze and smiled. “I’m doing a little bit better (y/n), thanks. But you don’t have to worry so much. That meeting was a month ago!’

You just chuckle. “That may be so, but I can tell how stressed you’ve been hun.”

Angel Dust clicks his tongue as he takes a seat beside you. “You know toots, sometimes it seems like you're the mom of this place with how ya act.” He then glanced at Alastor who unbeknownst to you was gazing fondly at you. “An if you're the mother of this joint, that’d make ol smiles here the dad.”

“Haha! You know, that doesn’t sound too bad Ma Cherie. I’d consider myself lucky to be assumed to be your husband.” Alastor said as he put a hand on your shoulder.

Instead of commenting, you could only blush furiously. Feeling the heat crawl all the way up to your ears, you tried your best to compose yourself and hide your growing smile behind your glass. Almost hoping that Alastor didn’t catch how much his comment made your long-dead heart soar. But he was no fool, he could see that beautiful smile of yours even as you tried to hide it behind the crystalline glass. 

Perhaps you truly were like a little family after all. 

Hope you enjoyed the story my friend! I gotta say, this was an adorable request. I had a lot of fun with it!

And if you guys want even more stories--like maybe your own personalized several page long one shots or even a multi-chap fic take a look at my Etsy Shop! I do commissions! I even have listings for Hazbin Hotel!

[corpsebasil]

Karma Part 3

Ghostface is her protector, but maybe more than that.

Your relationship had grown from tentative friendship leading into more, to full blown dating.

You’d never had so much fun as you did with Ethan. He liked to buy you flowers ‘just because’ which never failed to make you smile. When doing homework together he’d reach over and draw a tiny heart in your notebook, then pretend he didn’t know he’d done it. He was a terrible cook but, to your delight, he’d taken up baking rather quickly, and fumbled through the kitchen with you as you taught him the basics.

Just a few days ago you both had gotten drunk and played Just Dance. Rasputin was his go to and lord the man could move. You’d almost fell backwards onto the ground when you’d attempted the squat jump movement he easily copied, and you’d both laughed, collapsing onto the floor in a pile of giggles.

But then there were the more intimate moments.

The moments when he’d prop his head on your shoulder when you were with your friends, or when he’d hold your hand, almost constantly. And the kissing… You’d never gone farther than just that, although you wanted to. But you happily settled for the nights when he’d kiss you until you thought you’d pass out, the whispers between the two of you lost in the dark.

And the first time he told you he loved you, kissing you slowly on the couch, you felt so filled to the brim with emotion you almost embarrassed yourself by crying. You only ran your hands through his hair, murmuring the words back, and allowed him to run a hand up the bare skin of your thigh.

But then Ghostface called you.

You were in your room, playing Solitaire on your laptop, when your phone buzzed.

“Babe? That you?”

“It can be, if that’s what you want.” Ghostface teased, and you couldn’t help the slight smirk that pulled at your mouth.

“Very funny.” You told him, standing up to examine your apartment. “But I’m happily taken. If you’re here, though, maybe you can give me some knife lessons. I’d like to know how to defend myself.”

“As much fun as that would be,” the killer said, his tone amused. “I’m not there. But you need to listen to me.”

You paused, clutching the phone a bit tighter.

“What is it, Ghostie?”

“It’s—” you heard a male laugh and grinned. You didn’t want to admit it—would never admit it to anyone—but you’d found yourself waiting for him to come back. His jokes, his protectiveness…you could use that in a friend. Not that you would tell anyone that you found a serial killer worthy of friendship. “Ghostie? Really?”

You laughed and could almost feel him rolling his eyes.

“Sure, laugh away, pretty girl. I’m sure you’ll find it hilarious when I’m the one that has to save your ass once again.”

“Yeah, whatever.” You grumbled, ignoring the blush that rose on your face at his words. You had a boyfriend damnit. “So what do you want? I’m assuming this isn’t a pleasure call.”

“Gale Weathers is going to be carved up in about twenty minutes, by my guess.” He deadpanned, and you stilled. “My…cohort, if you will, is on their way. If you want to help her, like you’ve said you do, then go. I’ll meet you there.”

“Why would you help me?” You asked, eyebrows furrowing. “You’ve gone out of your way to save me multiple times now. Why?”

“Let’s call it an investment.” He said, and you bristled a bit. “Take it as a compliment, baby. I’m not letting you go just yet.”

“Oh please.” You scoffed, but your mind was racing back to Gale as you grabbed your purse and slid your shoes on. “I’m headed there. No fucking jump scares or I might hit you. My boyfriend’s been teaching me a bit of self defense.”

Your feet were loud on the stairs as you rushed out of the complex, headed to your car. You barely used the thing as you preferred walking, but today was an emergency.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Ghostface asked, his tone practically seductive as you drove out of the parking lot towards Gale’s place. “Ethan, is it?”

“Yes.” You purred. “How’d you know?”

“Tall, incredibly good looking? How could I not?”

You paused.

Your thoughts seemed to glitch at that response, your reply a bit too long for comfort. What in the—

“Y/N?”

“Yeah. I’m on my way I’ll—I’ll see you there.”

“Y/N, wait—”

You hung up, your breathing uneven as you glanced down momentarily at the blocked caller ID. The gears were turning in your brain, slowly, as you tried to think. There was something nagging you, something not right about Ghostface. Something familiar.

You blinked, shoving away any insane thoughts, and screeched into Gale’s parking lot minutes later.

-

You were terrified.

You’d never been so scared for your life, not when you’d been with Gale, urging the reporter to leave and call police. Not when Ghostface had thrown Gale’s boyfriend, dead, to the floor. You backed away, rushing to hide, but there was nowhere to go.

Gale was fighting—Gale was the main target here, not you. And the worst part was, you knew in your gut that this wasn’t your Ghostface. This person would gladly kill you, and would have no remorse.

You were paralyzed. Paralyzed as Gale stormed back into the living-room with a gun, her phone to her ear. You stared with wide eyes as she motioned for you to duck down behind the kitchen island, hiding yourself from sight. You felt your chest growing tight. It was just like before—just like before when you’d been cornered with nowhere else to go.

Gale hung up, putting the Ghostface on hold, of all things, and after a few seconds of tense silence you heard a phone ring. You covered your ears with your hands as shots fired, and then Gale was screaming, and you were shaking so bad you thought you might puke.

You didn’t know what to do. Didn’t want to be a coward, not now, not ever, so you stood, picking up a ceramic dinner plate and hurling it at Ghostface’s head. It slammed into them just before it could stab Gale again, and you threw another, then another. The last one missed and you ran, screaming as the Ghostface—god they were fast—chased you down.

You ran, but not fast enough, not when they slashed out at you and tore a gash through your arm. You shrieked, stumbling, and knocked a chair in their path as you searched for anywhere to hide.

And then there was only you, and the corner of the room, and no where to go.

“I’m going to enjoy this, bitch.” Ghostface snarled, flipping their knife in their hand.

You threw your hands up, as if that would stop it, when a loud cracking sound filled the space as the locked door banged open.

You knew who it was—could feel it in your gut as you saw him sprint for the person holding a knife towards you.

Ethan was Ghostface.

He was Ghostface. The one who’d been saving you this entire time. You’d wondered, absentmindedly, but knew for sure, right then, when he’d launched himself in front of the second Ghostface, tearing across the room to tackle whoever was behind the other mask.

You screamed as you cowered in the corner, watching as he and the other Ghostface rolled on the floor, he attempting to restrain them, them fighting back. They were yelling at each other, so loud you could barely make out what they were saying. But then the other Ghostface shoved him off and ran, sprinting out the door as fast as they could.

Ethan turned to you, breathing hard, the white of his mask catching the light. You moved forward, only a step; he was Ghostface. A killer. But you loved him. You loved him.

You stepped forward as your mouth wobbled, tears falling down your face as you moved to him. He was trembling, breathing hard, as you pulled his mask off and looked at him. His expression was one of agony and sorrow, shaking his head slowly at you as if to convey words he didn’t have.

He didn’t need to.

You kissed him, tugging him down to you by the black robes you’d grown used to, had grown to trust, and he let out a low, anguished noise into your mouth. Ethan was crying when you pulled away, his head dropping to your shoulder as he he clutched you to him.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, squeezing you tighter when you looped your arms around his neck. “I’m sorry baby, I wanted to tell you.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” You swallowed roughly, the pain in your arm momentarily forgotten at the moment. “It’s okay. I trust you.”

“I tried to protect you. I wanted you safe I never should’ve asked you to come here—”

“Ethan, look at me.” He did, pulling his head back, and you grasped his face in your hands, resting your forehead against his own. “I love you, E. I trust you, okay? We’re gonna find a way to get you out of this—”

“Still bleeding over here.” Gale called out to you both, and you turned. You were surprised she’d survived. “As creepily touching as this is.”

“Ethan, call an ambulance.” You told him, pressing one last kiss to his mouth before whispering, “and get the Hell out of here. Fast.”

He nodded and bolted, already pulling out his phone, as you dropped beside Gale and helped put pressure on her wound.

-

The second you were cleared by the medics, a gauzy bandage wrapped around your arm, you got to your apartment as fast as you physically could. Ethan was already there, putting clothes and other objects of yours into a suitcase. You gaped at him and shut the front door, locking it behind him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting you out of here.” He said, still focused on his work.

“Ethan what—what are you talking about?”

“The theater,” he looked up at you, eyes slightly crazed. “It’s a trap.” He gestured to the bag. “We’ll get you on a bus or a plane or something.”

“Ethan I am not leaving you.”

“Shit, Y/N.” He cursed, standing up and crossing the room. He placed a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then pulled back. “Please let me get you out. I won’t be able to live with myself if something happened to you.”

“And I’d rather die than see something happen to you.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, his brow furrowed as he sighed, holding you close. He ran a hand over your hair and pressed his lips your temple, and you could feel Ethan’s heart racing through the shirt he now wore.

“At least..at least put some things in my backpack. Just in case.” You could hear his uneven breathing and you slid your hands to his neck, holding him tighter. Then his chest heaved, and you felt a drop of wetness against your face. “I cant watch you die.”

“I’m not going to die. We’re both going to be fine.” You promised, and kissed him. “Ghostie.”

He held you tight as a half-hearted laugh left him, holding you so close you could feel almost every inch of him. And then he was lifting you, carrying you to your room, where he laid with you on the bed, kissing you and running his hands over your skin.

“I love you.” He murmured, lips soft on your own, and you held him tight, desperate to have him here with you for the little time you had left.

stg there’s only ONE PART LEFT BE PATIENT AND MAKE SURE TO REBLOG FOLLOW AND COMMENT for PART FOURRRR

tag list:

@pagesfalling @taetae123094 @iloveneilperry @hopefulcandywitch

@bokutoswifey

[withlove-xixi]

bard anon again with an nsfw/suggestive request: brat tamer chilchuck pls 👉👈 teasing and discipline…

— LESSONS TAUGHT: chilchuck x reader

ᥫ cw: nsfw, dom/sub, petnames, teasing, riding, praise, creampie ᥫ wc: 2988 ★ my dear bard anon, first im sorry for doing your requests out of order i promise i'll work on yer other req soon :3! second, AUGHAHASNDGNN ANSDGMMMANSN AUGHHAHSNDNN brat tamer chilchuck ... i need this old man in my bed so bad ... so terribly bad ...!!! lastly, im sorry if its not how you expected it to be TT aughhh i hope you enjoy tho! cross posted on ao3 — MINORS DNI! —

— SOME LESSONS IN LIFE ARE BEST LEARNED BY EXPERIENCE.

[♡]: chilchuck was an impatient man, whether it was with work or with friends, he could always only stretch his patience so thin. with you, he was always more lenient, of course, you were his favorite after all. but there were times, where you wore his patience down too.

THERE'S A HIGH PITCHED WHINE that echoes through the wooden walls of Chilchuck's bedroom, something impatient, something bratty.

"Pl… Please, Chil…" You plea softly, a small droplet of drool dribbling down the corner of your lips.

He only hums, hands smoothing over the skin of your ass, caressing it in such a gentle manner. He stays speechless, and you know he's calculating something, plotting exactly how he wants to enjoy your punishment. Chilchuck could really be mean when he wanted to.

Ah, but he'd justify that he was only mean when he needed to be.

Now was one of those times as you helplessly squirm on his lap, whining from the lack of stimulation. He's had you in this hold for quite some time now, only ever moving his hands to grab at your ass or back to your hips to stop you from grinding against him. It was unfair, terribly so. You didn't even do anything too bad. Well, maybe a bit bad.

Early that afternoon you had sauntered in the half-foot union headquarters with the intent to cause some trouble for your darling Chilchuck, who made it very clear he would be busy that afternoon. You justified your visit by telling yourself it was a means to cheer him up (which was half-true, really) since he had been working so hard lately, he barely had time to breath (which was completely true).

So there you were, wrapping your arms around Chilchuck's neck, pulling him to sit flush against his chair so you could kiss the top of your head.

"Come on, Chil," you say in a singsong tone, "come take a break. For me?"

You feel his body stiffen a bit and see his fingers twitch slightly. Oh, you knew he had a soft spot for you, it was something you abused quite often. But today Chilchuck seems unmoving, sighing deeply and continuing with paperwork.

"Darling, you know I can't." He says simply and slowly, like he was explaining something to a child. "Got work."

"And no time for me?" You draw out the last word as sweetly as you can. He stiffens a second time and a moment passes before he looks up at you. You bat your lashes at him, smiling innocently at your lover.

Chilchuck sighs again. "Not now, sweetheart." Though he sounds about ready to ravage you then and there.

You make a show of letting known your disappointment, huffing and peeling your hands away from him to cross them. You pout down at him and you fight a smirk when you see his eye twitch.

"Hey, come on, don't be like that." He says and turns his chair to face you. Chilchuck's hands pry apart your crossed ones and his thumbs smooth over the backs of your palms. "Could have fun at home sweetheart," he kisses the back of each hand one at a time, "just lemme finish up my work."

This was a rarity for Chilchuck, to be willing enough to ask this of anyone so nicely and so easily. You know it's because he's asking you, and when it comes to you, you've seen miracles happen with Chilchuck, moments and secrets he dare not share with anyone else. Despite that you huff again and turn your head to the side, you feel his grip on your hands tighten slightly.

"Let's have fun now!" You try again, whining. Your hands leave his as you make big gestures to sell him on your idea. "Take a break, Chil, please. I can make it quick." You say that last bit with a playful wink.

His eye twitches again, more obvious this time. You can tell he's fighting really hard not to give into his wants, not to give into you. Again, you've seen miracles happen with Chilchuck.

"No means no," he says so sternly after a brief moment of silence as he turns his chair back to focus on his work.

You open your mouth to protest again but he quickly cuts you off. "Don't test me on this, darling. I'm serious."

At this point, you’re the one annoyed, ticked off at the fact he’s so stubborn. Sure you admired his worth ethic, always prioritizing work before leisure, making sure everything is done, but gods! Get a grip, Chilchuck! You’ve been practically throwing yourself at him but he’s just too stubborn to budge! Any sane man would fold as soon as he sees his hot partner be so eager for him!

Again you make a show of your emotions, nearly growling in frustration as you throw your arms in the air. “Fine then! I don’t care!” You yell exasperatedly as you begin to stomp away.

Not before Chilchuck quickly catches your wrist. You turn back to him with an open mouth and a glare, wanting to yell a few more things, but you immediately freeze when you meet his eyes. His usual warm brown eyes now hold a stern, unamused look and your breath hitches in your throat.

“You’re really going to be like that?” He asks, but it’s more of a statement — a challenge. To which you huff at and stick your tongue out to.

Not quite the best choice seeing as Chilchuck’s got you all wet and needy and doing nothing about it at all.

You whine again as you try to grind your hips against his, trying your hardest to catch even a sliver of friction against his warm cock. But he spares you no alms, hands moving back to your waist to keep you still. Such a terrible position to be in! Any other time, you’d be gleefully bouncing yourself up and down his lap, savoring the way he feels scrapping your insides. But today? Now? When he’s got you naked and just sitting on his lap? When he had previously spent eternity pumps his experienced fingers in and out of you, only to stop when you’ve reached the precipice of pleasure? Not as fun considering how much trouble you went to to finally get him in bed with you. And Chilchuck wasn’t even naked! He was wearing his black long sleeved shirt still, his belt remained unbuckled, his pants unbuttoned, hell, he was still wearing that damn neckwarmer!

“Ch- Chil…” You try again with pleading, looking at him with a big pout as a tearful expression. “Please… hah… Need you… Please…”

Your breathing is ragged, uneven. Chilchuck merely stares at you (though you don’t miss the way his brow twitches when he sees you pout).

He finally makes a sound, humming as if in thought. “You really need to be taught a lesson, huh?”

Your brows furrow. You don’t like where this is going.

Your mouth opens to speak, but he cuts you off. “Don’t you think it’s unfair if I just give you what you want, sweetheart?” Chilchuck asks as a hand moves back down to smooth over the fat of your ass. He doesn’t let you even think about an answer before he’s continuing with a small tsk. “Making a big fuss at work? Thinking I’ll give you what you want if you show me those pouty lips of yours? Really think that’s fair?”

You shake your head, though the response is nearly instinctive. Chilchuck picks up on that, rubbing circles on your ass before he lifts his hand and brings it back down with a loud smack. You jolt at the sting, the pain shooting straight up your spine. You whine in response.

“Can’t have you being like that, darling. Gotta teach you a lesson.” He says as his hand comes down again; another slap, another whine.

You shake your head again. “I- ‘M sorry… Chil—”

He tuts softly. “None of that now, darling. Gotta be good for me, learn your lesson, yeah?” Chilchuck says as he pulls you closer, bringing your ass up higher.

He continues to slap your ass, almost rhythmically the way his hand lifts up only to come back down with searing pain. Tears well up in your eyes as you whine the whole time, incoherent pleas to stop and half-hearted promises to behave leave your lips as stray tears roll down your cheeks. Chilchuck resists the urge to just stop and give in to what you want, but he reminds himself that that was the whole purpose of your punishment; for being bratty.

Chilchuck's hand suddenly stops, resting on your ass as you huff out small sobs, letting tears freely fall. He smiles at you endearingly, though you miss it with the tears blurring your vision. His other hand comes up to brush against your cheek, wiping away the tears as he brings you closer, kissing you just below your eyes.

"Shh, it's okay," he coos and you feel yourself instantly melt. "Didn't mean to make you cry. I'm sorry, sweetheart."

You can tell enough his apology is genuine, but instinct tells you your punishment wasn't going to end so quickly.

But you sniffle anyway, letting Chilchuck whisper sweet reassurance into your ear as he rubs over the sore flesh of your ass, the other hand smoothing over the back of your head, stroking your hair.

"Have to be punished so you could learn your lesson." He explains slowly. "You understand right?"

With a small sniffle, you nod wordlessly, frowning slightly as you cast your eyes downward.

Chilchuck shushes you again and pulls you closer by the back of your head. He plants a gentle kiss on your forehead, pressing his face into your shoulder after. "So good for me…" He whispers. "So very good."

You whimper pathetically at the praise, stomach twisting in knots, and you feel Chilchuck smile slightly against your skin.

"Can—" you sniffle "Can we–"

"Not yet, darling. Can't let you off the hook yet." Chilchuck says, his tone is gentle, like he has to be for you to understand.

You whimper a second time, moving to try and lower yourself on him again. “Please, Chil… I’ll be— be nice… I’ll be good, please…”

There’s a pause the way he suddenly tilts his head backwards, exposing his neck to you. You watch his Adam's apple bob when he swallows slightly and you feel yourself grow just a bit needier. You lean forward, pressing your nose against the side of his neck, hot breath warming his skin as you pant against it. You let out a high pitched whine. “Please, Chil… Please…” You plead as you plant a light, experimental kiss on his skin as you hear him suck his breath through his teeth. His grip on your waist tightens slightly, fingers twitching against your skin.

You take this as a sign to keep going, leverage if you will. So you keep kissing him, very carefully peppering his neck with small, featherlight kisses, each one leading up higher to just below his ear, where you whisper a small, whiny “please”; all of which is enough for Chilchuck to snap.

He sighs, almost in defeat, and brings his hands to your shoulders to gently push you off him and make you look him in the eyes. Brown eyes stare back at yours with such fiery intensity, with such want; it was hard not to feel small under his gaze.

“Fine,” he says, like he has no other choice but to let you have your way. “Just this one time, okay, sweetheart? Just one time.”

A smile breaks on your face as you nod enthusiastically. “Yes! Please!” You say, desperation evident in your voice.

Chilchuck lets out a short chuckle, amused with your reaction. “There’ll be a catch though, darling, since I’m already doing so much by just pardoning your punishment.” He punctuates the statement with a shrug and you lift off him.

“What? No! You can’t!” You immediately respond despite not knowing what he has planned.

Chilchuck frowns at you. “Guess you don’t really want this then? Was gonna let you cum all nice and pretty but I gu—”

“No, no! I’ll do it! Chil!” You draw out his name in a whine as you pout at him with furrowed brows. The audacity he had to tease you at a time like this.

He smiles at you, too innocently, and reaches a hand down to undo his pants. Chilchuck taps on your thigh and you lift yourself off him to give him more room. He slides his pants and undergarments down, just enough for his cock to spring out. Your mouth waters at the sight, the feel of its warmth against your thigh. Another whine leaves your mouth as you buck your hips, urging Chilchuck to move already.

Thankfully, he gets the message, guiding your hips downward to meet his cock. It slips easily inside of your awaiting hole, its warmth and girth instantly filling you up. You make a pleasured sound, a languid moan that melts into a relieved sigh, finally at ease now that Chilchuck’s finally buried inside you.

You stare at him pleadingly but expectantly, impatiently waiting for him to buck his hips up into yours. But Chilchuck makes no such move, his hands remain still on your hips. Instead, the half-foot smiles at you, a mischievous grin that suddenly fills your stomach with dread.

“A catch remember, sweetheart?” He says, carefree. “Been bad, so you gotta work for what you want.”

You open your mouth to complain, but he quickly quirks an eyebrow at you. “Or have you changed your mind, darling? Don’t want this anymore?”

You shake your head vigorously and Chilchuck laughs at the way your relaxed expression instantly shifts to unease. Had it been a different circumstance, you might’ve swatted at Chilchuck for laughing at you, might’ve called him a meanie too for bullying you this much, but your body betrays you as his grip twitches against you when you involuntarily tighten up.

This time, Chilchuck looks at you expectantly. “Well, go on.”

Your eyebrows knit as you frown at him, but shakily make a move anyway, placing one hand on his shoulder and slowly lifting yourself off him. A deep groan echoes from Chilchuck, a shaky breath escapes you. Very gently, you begin pushing yourself back down until he’s back fully inside you.

You repeat the process, shakily lifting yourself up and plunging back down until you form a steady rhythm, bouncing up and down his cock with gusto. Chilchuck groans every time you come back down to sheath him inside of you, his grip on your hips tight enough to leave marks, his voice growing more and more animalistic the more you go on.

“So good, doing so good, darling.” He praises as he leans forward to meet your neck with his lips. His teeth graze against your skin as he bites down, exhaling against your skin with his mouth around it.

You whine when he bites, tightening your grip on his shoulder as you moan out his name. You feel his hips slightly buck upwards into you, pushing his cock deeper into you when you push yourself back down.

“Hah- Chil-” You say his name between pants. Quickly, he moves his mouth from your neck to your lips, one of his hands comes behind your neck to pull you against him. His tongue slips inside, pressing against yours in a sloppy wet kiss.

You find it difficult to focus both on kissing Chilchuck and fucking him, your pace falters as you begin to shakily pull yourself off him, muffle whimpers filling the confines of his bedroom. Thankfully, Chilchuck’s good at multitasking. He lets out a sharp, frustrated exhale through his nose as he forcefully thrusts his hips upward, making up for the sudden irregularity in your pace.

You moan unabashedly when he finally pulls away from the kiss, your hand on his shoulder moving to hold onto him more desperately, nails digging into the skin of his back as you cling onto him for stability, to ground yourself. Chilchuck’s hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers together as he continues to fuck into you, almost frantically bucking his hips into yours as you both draw closer to your peak.

You can tell he’s close with the way his groans sound almost like growls, something low and full against the shell of your ear. The sound alone is almost enough to set you off the edge, but that combined with his grip on your hips with the twitch of his cock against your warm walls and the praise he whispers between groans.

“Feel so good, darling.” He whispers, voice grown hoarse and gruff. “Wanna keep you like this, keep my dick inside you. You want that, darling? Fuck-”

Your thoughts are incoherent, therefore your response is incoherent too, a string of yes’s and vigorous nods mewled between high pitched moans and whines. Your hips try to keep up with his pace despite your legs beginning to shake. You’re close, you’re sure he can tell. Chilchuck kisses you again, wet, opened-mouthed and sloppy, teeth clashing against teeth, saliva mixing with saliva. He keeps kissing you as he suddenly thrusts upward one last time and his hand pulls you flush against his lap at the same time, forcing his cock as deep inside you as possible, filling you with warmth as he cums deep inside you.

You don’t last much longer, tightening around him as you reach the precipice of pleasure, milking his orgasm as you pulse against his cock. You pull away first from the kiss, panting, desperate to catch your breath. Chilchuck’s panting too, but he smiles as he brings a hand up to your cheek, caressing it gently and brushing sweat-slicked hair away from your face.

“Learned your lesson?” He asks, breathlessly yet easily.

Dazily, you nod slowly, licking your lips to moisten them. He presses a chaste kiss on your forehead as the hand on your hip rubs small, soothing circles on your skin.

“Good.” Chilchuck says. “Because next time, I’m not going to be as lenient.”

[yu-huuuu]

I absolutely love your Sesshomaru Hc! One thing I noticed during my current episode of Inuyasha/Sesshomaru obsession: he. Is. 175cm. (5‘9). And looks like 19.

Now, how would he react if someone of european descent, who are in average a bit taller and curvier than Asians, in their mid twenties turned up? And they had a hair colour that isn’t black? Because yes, his entire family has white hair, Shippo has reddish-brown hair, but most Asians have black hair. (Fun fact: when my family was in China, and my brother had blonde highlights, so many people wanted to make pictures with him, because that was so rare 😂)

So, yeah, what do you think?

[ 🌸 ] waaaait nooo— and besides, we're talking about ancient times. Approximately 500 years ago in Kagome's original time, and over 800 years ago for us now

Girly, they would easily label you as a demon or some celestial being from the heavens 🤭🤍 (it would probably be more the latter tho…)

characters: sesshomaru; some character mentions

…

— Sesshomaru will be curious when he sees you.

— Beautiful blue eyes that could rival any pearl?

— Hair like the sun and curly?

— Pale skin but not sickly, with some freckles?

— Plump and rosy lips?

— Extravagant and dazzling features?

— A curvy and elegant figure?

— Woman, you would really be extravagant, especially with that sweet accent you have.

— You, on the other hand, would be surprised; you're just a foreign exchange student at a university, and by some twist of fate, you became friends with a young girl who goes to a secondary school. You met her when you went to a café and ran into her.

— And one day, suddenly, you're sucked into ancient times by a strange well that was in her house.

— How terrible!

— On the other hand, many people stare at you; you draw a lot of attention at first glance.

— Maybe it’s because of your features or your accent; maybe it’s the way you act and how your body is too different from what people are used to.

— But despite that, you can't help but feel as if someone is watching you from afar.

— What?

— Where is Kagome?

— And why did Inuyasha, Kagome’s boyfriend, whom just days ago you thought was just an irresponsible young man, suddenly have ears and is growling while looking into the distance and—

— Oh.

— Wait…

— Did Inuyasha just call that majestic man over there, who is now staring at you intently, his brother?

[b1rds3ye]

I love your writing style!

(also love how you always go for gn!reader!)

Silly request for another masked reader?

Masked reader who has those more solid material masks that can easily be cleaned has in the past painted their mask during one holiday just for the fun of it and they boys wanna do it too. Variation of it; masked reader got injured and has to stay bed bound for a while so their mask is being written and painted on like people do with casts :D

(there would be so many pictures)

PLEASE THIS IS SO CUTE (also tysm anon!! It means a lot that you like my writing and writing decisions AHHHHH). I'm thinking a white-hockey mask sorta vibe that can look intimidating for missions, but also far too tempting for the 141 to wreak havoc on. Of course, they'll ensure you always have at least one spare blank mask so you can keep being the ominous badass on missions, but when a mission goes south and you escape with barely your life, they do what they can to make your bed-bound recovery as entertaining as possible.

Soap in particular truly treats your mask as a canvas. I already touched that Johnny has a journal of alternative designs for your mask and with a plain mask his mind is racing with so many ideas! He also has a general knack for drawing, in the quiet nights when he's done with training and can visit the med-bay he can spend hours just drawing on your mask with a thin sharpie (think like those highly intricate black-ink tattoos). His art is a little rough and scratchy but the artistry is there. He also provides his signature which lacks the tact of his art - if another member of the 141 hasn't he'll be the one stamping his name across your forehead with an obnoxious "SOAP WAS HERE!!".

Ghost is not an artist. There isn't a single artistic bone in this poor man, when he draws a circle it somehow looks like a square. Instead, Simon writes. A card is too sappy but your mask makes the perfect patch of parchment. His handwriting is legible but far from aesthetic, it's practical and hastily done with your head shaking slightly as he writes on it. Eventually he has to stabilise your head with his other hand, and his hold is surprisingly gentle. It's a general message wishing you get better soon, and a special military pun for everyone to read when they see your mask. He says that now your mask is a little more customised it almost looks half as good as his. While being unable to draw, he does accompany Johnny or Kyle if they pay a visit to vandalise your mask.

Price is straight forward. You want people to sign your mask? He'll sign your mask. John is surprisingly sentimental, he genuinely treats your mask as a get-well-soon card. He encourages you to rest - which is admittedly redundant since you can't get out of bed - but also to hurry up and get back on the field because he's losing his mind putting up with the rest of the 141. His handwriting is small because he has a lot to say, his message taking up the expanse of your cheek. He puts effort into his message and handwriting, it's going to be on your mask for everyone else to read and when he tries the captain has some exceptionally nice cursive. When he's done, he pulls away and lets out a satisfied huff at his message and how it looks on you... and then a consequential sigh when he looks at what of the rest of the task force has done to your poor mask.

Gaz does everything with your mask. He first covers the basics, signing his name and a quick, encouraging message for your health. Then Kyle goes ham on redesigning your mask and making it look as terrible as possible. Because it's a plain white mask, in particular he loves to use coloured sharpies on it. He'll shade panda-like eye bags where your eye sockets will be, or colour the area of your nose with a bright red circle like a clown. If you ever complain he'll just say this is the price you pay for getting injured and being sent to medbay. It's a joke but the underlying concern isn't missed from you. He's not the best artist but he'll leave a cute little doodle like a flower or that "S" sign that's used to graffiti everything known to man. He also enjoys giving you something to do (laying in med-bay all day must be terrible!), taking your hand in his to guide your hand across your face so you can draw a simple little star or love-heart on your own mask.

Surprisingly, it's Simon who initially asks for your permission to take photos of your mask. He says it's for the rest of the task force so they can have a reminder of what they're fighting for as they continue doing operations in your absence. John did add on that it was also simply for the memory as it's expected that you'll keep the mask once you've gotten better - unless you're willing to auction it off in which Kyle already called dibs.

It's only when you can freely move around do you take off your mask to realise that under your chin would be, generally obscured from view, one of them drew a shoddy little penis. You have half the mind of chasing up on who it was but it was simply too funny and you let it go. (Also because you already know deep down it was Soap)

Masked Reader Masterlist Call of Duty Masterlist

[applestorms]

do you have lawlight fic recs

*cracks knuckles*

(Not) According to Plan by FlamesRise: this fic was Fundamental to me figuring out what my ideal light (smut) characterization is. fun lawlight lawyers au that is also mostly kinda just about light manipulating himself into an uncomfortable sexual scenario yay👍(this really sets the stage for what the rest of these recs are gonna look like so prepare yourself lmfao. aka these are gonna be like, 90% questionable smut and/or dead dove, i just don't read much else... 🫠 oops)

blood in the walls of the yagami house (series) by qu_ilinn: gotta put the lawlight brocon on there since this is basically what got me into the DN fandom. grins. one of the best Terrible Horrible L depictions ever, i love this series sm lolol <33

rewards for fools by autumnstar88: cough. and so we notice a trend. this is once again light putting himself in a horny situation he's uncomfortable with and then freaking out as he likes it too much LOL, this time set immediately after he gets his memories back during yotsuba. light in a skirt, what else is there to say.

caligula would have blushed by findingsaturn: medical kink going wilddddd this blew my fucking mind the first time i read it. an absolutely delectable ratio of body horror to weird sex stuff, chefs kiss. i also rec corrosive wash and self-surgery, by the same author.

literally anything from the alignmentverse by praise_lilith and tsukinousagi: this is easily one of my favorite lawlight series, every single fic in this collection is absolutely fucking golden. 10/10 some of the funniest light and L characterization ever.

A complex fool and a simplex fool. by gomikyun: also some hilarious lawlight characterization, this time in the canonverse. i don't usually go for bottom L but this is The Exception. shout out to that one time i took like three hours searching for this just to find this stellar quote:

Why, why didn't I do this before? L has to hold himself back from letting out a whiny groan. He should have just pushed Light down and fucked himself ontop of him instead of playing tennis on that stupid fucking court. Would have been a great icebreaker. And made headlines, probably. ‘Hideki Ryuga and Light Yagami, top scorers on the To-Oh entrance exams have a friendly game of… gay sex on the tennis court. This year is looking to be quite interesting!’

Diamond by exAm: another top 3 for me in terms of lawlight being funny and horrible. one of if not The best het lawlight dynamic i've ever read (man light/woman L, in this case). light is such an egotistical, stupid asshole here, hubris through the fucking roof, and it works fantastic. also fun to see L dealing w/ canon-typical DN sexism LMFAO

Back to then by LiveLongEatWell: this one just has great smut idk what else to say. shrugs. also L obsessively fucking himself into the worst possible scenario lolol here's how KIRA could've actually won

Trading Blows and Idle Hands by gayraito (Mercurial_Magic): more yotsuba smut shenanigans, very fun. honestly most things by this author are great, hard to pick just one... The Gift is also great and somewhat inspired some of my own android light in superegos (read my lawlight fics too 🫵 boy)

draw it out by emmerii: VERY noncon no-memories light. smiles. this one makes me actually insane hides in my evil little corner

actually if we're doing the more heavily dead dove ones, there's also Take Me With You or Let Me Follow by WhyDoesEverythingHappenSoMuch and I will take what's mine, create what god would never design by FlamesRise for the specific concept of L being a freak over L's corpse. necrophilia warning? :]

Kouyaku by Not_default: basically a KIRA wins au where L doesn't actually die. sometimes L deserves to be the one locked in the basement ig. very very nice

The Dreadful Need by the_gabih: somewhat non-traditional omegaverse au that is also just about very dubcon prison sex. this makes my brain fucking melt please don't ask why

Perfect Life by foreskinsmoothie: probably the longest thing on this list, this one Fucked Me Up when i finished it a couple weeks ago. OCD light to the extreme, which is additionally Made Worse by L kidnapping him for shits and giggles 👍 that being said, i absolutely adore the ending of this one, so. if you can get past the graphic self-amputation, this is a (very fucked up) lil treat :>

Kira's Guide to the Munchies by plant1r: ok this is more like matsulight but i have to include it for light's characterization alone, AND ALSO NEAR. one of the best near depictions ever. this is hysterical, my favorite weed light fic everrr

praise the sweetness by cxtangerina: read my fic boy 🫵 cult leader L au. unreality apocalypse world wammy's cult weirdness. what more can i say. this is probably gonna have a meronia sequel in the near future so watch out for that (after i post this other lawlight fic anyway, which is ALMOSTTT done uwu everybody clap)

that enuf for you anon?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

girls just wanna have fun 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, blackmail, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: you're struggle to push back against your controlling father result in a misguided crush. (Silverfox AU)

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

You bite your lip as you look at your reflection. The ribbed top clings to your figure, the razorback cut covers your cleavage but your lack of layers if obvious. If your dad was home, he’d freak out.

What the hell are you wearing? Put a bra on! 

You’re tired of telling him you’re an adult. You’re over his distrust. You’ve always been a good a daughter. What have you ever done to let him down? You kept your GPA high enough and your halfway through college. You're a hot commodity. Yes, that’s exactly what you are. 

You turn and push out your bum, running your hands over the curve. The TikToks might call it a glow up. It’s that classic era of a woman’s life when she comes into her own. When she fills out just enough, when she knows the power she has. Well, you think that’s what it is. You don’t know, it’s all still a bit confusing. 

Hard to be your own woman when you still live at home, but daddy pays tuition so you play by his rules. Well, it’s summertime and you don’t need to turn in a 4.0 to make him happy until Fall. This is going to be your summer. No studying, no lame ass book clubs, you’re breaking free. Well, you’re gnawing on the bars. 

Your phone buzzes and draws you away from your narcissistic revery. Before, you weren’t really into yourself. You wore a school uniform and your hair was always the same style, nails clean and cut, no makeup. Your coming-of-age at least let you take a bit more control over your autonomy. Your dad couldn’t really keep you from spending the money you made at your campus work study. 

Another text from Shelby. You don’t click on the preview. It’s worse to leave her on read than to just ignore the notifications. She’s a good friend but you think you’ve outgrown her. The last time you hung out, she just wanted to play MarioKart. You wanted to go out and do stuff but she hates public places. You’re no more fond of strangers but you wanted a bikini. You ended up staying in and ordering off Amazon. 

You put the phone down as the whir of a weed whacker sounds outside your window. You go to it and look out the pane. You can’t help the curl of your lips. You watch your neighbour trimming the edges of his lawn. He’s overly diligent about his landscaping. While many others hire gardeners, he’s certain to tend to every inch of his lot. 

Mr. Barnes doesn’t seem the type for half-measures. You like that about him. No, you love it. You feel giddy just watching him. 

You spin and lean against the wall with a sigh. You have a terrible crush. On an older man. For all the novels and movies you’ve seen, it’s a common trope, but that’s fiction and this is real life. You can’t lust after your neighbour. Especially not him. 

Just because you feel a certain kind of way, doesn’t mean you need to do anything about it. You can still dream. You can pretend when you’re home alone or at night when you’re lying in bed, unable to sleep. You feel a tingle flow through you and shudder. 

You get a bad idea. Nothing’s going to happen, but you just want him to notice you. Just a little. Just for a moment. 

You turn to the mirror again and touch the sides of your white denim shorts, slightly distressed for effect. You wiggle your hips and clutch onto your courage. You spin and flit out before it can elude you. 

You scramble downstairs and stop to push your feet into your slides. You stop and take a breath, centering yourself on your act. You pull open the front door and flurry through, squealing as you scramble across the porch and nearly tripping down the steps. You throw up your hands, shaking them as you commit to your act. 

“Ew, ew, ew,” you chant shrilly and the whirring trimmer stops. “Oh god!” 

You hear a deep breath and a grunt. You put your hands to your head and cringe, turning to look at Mr. Barnes as he squints in your direction. You turn your grimace to a sheepish smile and drop your arms, rubbing one shyly, certain to push up your chest with the act. 

“Hi,” you poke out the tip of your tongue, “sorry I...” you laugh at yourself, “there’s a spider in my bedroom. I panicked.” 

He nods and squares his jaw, shifting the trimmer as he grips it. He comes towards the low picket fence between your yards. You drop your hands and hook your thumbs in your shorts pockets, rocking back and forth. 

“Sorry, didn’t meant to bother,” you push your shoulders to your ears. His eyes twitch, barely resisting a skim of your figure. Instead, he looks past you to the long drive at the other side of your lot. 

“Dad’s not around?” He asks warily, his voice rocky and deep, just like you hear it in your head. 

You shake your head, batting your lashes at him. Him and your father don’t get along. Maybe you have some daddy issues but you really don’t care. He’s just so hot. His slightly mussed silver hair and his still toned arms. He might have some years on you but there’s no guys your age who look that good. 

“Working,” you pout, “he won’t kill them either. He just puts them out in the yard and they come right back in.” 

“Mm,” he hums and leans the trimmer against the fence, “want me to take care of it?”

Yes, I want you to take care of me. Focus.

You let your eyes round and push your lip out, “if you don’t mind. They give me the heebies.” 

“Heebies,” he repeats the word flatly, “huh.” 

He comes around the fence and lets himself in through the gate. You meet him at the walk and step in front of him, leading him up the front steps. You can’t remember the last time he came over. Not since he moved in. Yeah, his brief acquaintance with your father ended in a city prospector measuring the lots and relaying the property line. Oof, your dad still hasn’t let that go. 

You’re overly aware of him behind you as you climb the steps. You hope he’s looking at your ass. Those shorts hug it in just the right way.  

The front door is still open from your feigned escape. You step inside and habitually leave your slides on the mat. Mr. Barnes pauses and steps out of his workboots. 

“Um, it’s in my room,” you point up the stairs, almost shaking. You didn’t really plan this far. 

“Right,” he follows your direction and you stay a few feet back, keeping up your frightful act. 

He climbs the stairs and you tell him which way to go. He enters your room and looks around. Shoot. Your head is empty. Something about him just makes you dumb. 

“It was in the corner,” you lie, “it must’ve skittered off. Oh no! You think it’s hiding somewhere.” 

“Probably won’t see it again,” he shrugs. “Keep a shoe by your bed.” 

You hum and nod. Your eyes linger on the small vibe on your nightstand. Whoops. You kinda hope he sees it too. He faces you and clears his throat. 

“Eucalyptus or peppermint,” he says, “those will keep them away. Spray a little around your windows and door.” He points around the walls. He looks a little out of place among your purple walls and your fluffy aesthetic, yet not at all. You can just see him on your bed. You gulp as you realise he’s still talking. “All good?” 

“Uh, yes, d—sir,” you smile and clench your teeth tight around your near slip. Had you really almost called him dad? Oh shit. Yeah, that can just be tucked away and never thought of again. “Thanks for trying.” 

“Yeah, no worries,” he shrugs and moves towards you. 

You just stand there. He arches a brow and gesture past you. You blink and giggle, “oh, uh, sorry. Thanks again.” 

“Mm, I’ll let myself out,” he says as he brushes by you. Just the scent of his sweat has you flustered. 

“Sure,” you murmur after him, your heart fluttering. “Bye, Mr. Barnes.” 

You listen to him go and as the front door shuts, you spin and float over to fall onto your bed. You lay face down and groan. Ugh, that only made everything so much worse. You want him! You need him! You lift your head and reach for the vibe on the nightstand. Hopefully the battery in this thing still has some juice. 

[nothorses]

Hi so I’m a nonbinary lesbian and have been out for well over 6 years. My gender expression has changed a lot over the years and now I’m just. A bit lost. I want to experiment more with masculinity again but I’ve kind of forgotten how to? I’m in a bit of a weird spot where most people around me aren’t trans (except for my roommates) but are of the (very good!) idea that “clothes and attributes aren’t gendered” and dress sort of unisex in as cheap second hand clothes as possible. Some guys have long hair or wear makeup to parties and some women don’t shave etc. But I still feel like most people view me as a woman or woman-lite because even though they’re well meaning and progressive, they’re not really well-educated about transness. And I’m in a long term lesbian relationship and have a lot of hobbies that are more traditionally feminine. My pronouns are they/she but most people use she/her exclusively. I’m starting to feel more and more dysphoric about this after a few years of no dysphoria, but I don’t know how to change things. So yeah do you have any tips on doing masculinity? Or experimenting more with combining gender expressions? I wish I could start t but the trans healthcare in my country is terrible.

ngl a lot of that is so familiar to me- especially the pronouns! It's been a long time since I started to lean more into masculinity from the kind of "I'm not a yucky man lol that would be unfeminist" purgatory I was trapped in pre-transition but post-realizing-i-was-trans-in-some-way (which isn't to imply that's where you're at, that was just my personal journey) but I definitely feel like I resonate with a lot of what you're describing from, like, that specific period in my life.

I think drawing harder lines around how I wanted people to refer to me helped a lot with this, early on. I know a ton of people who have pronouns they use with trans friends that are different from the pronouns they let cis people use; she/they for the people they know will make the effort to use both, but they/them or she/her exclusively for the people they know are unlikely to use those pronouns if they have an alternative. This works with other language as well- but that's all to your personal comfort level!

Outside of that, I think step 1 is really just thinking about what masculinity means to you, and what kinds of masculinity you're interested in or intrigued by. Don't worry too much about figuring out exactly what you want right away- just experiment with whatever seems like it might be fun or comfortable. Think clothes, hair, mannerisms, roles, hobbies and interests; anything you might have denied or been denied because of gendered expectations. There's no one singular way to Do Masculinity, and the goal isn't to start out with a single perfect, consistent way of presenting yourself to the world. You're just playing with things you haven't had permission to play with before!

I also have a lot of "feminine interests", and a big thing for me has been finding masculine role models within those things. In my area it's mostly women who are into horses, and I was the only man on the horseback riding team at my school when I transitioned; but cowboys are totally a thing, and I started leaning into that role pretty early on! We also ended up getting another guy on the team, I think partially because he saw there was at least one other & he wouldn't be the only man there, which was cool (he latched onto me hard, too. it was very funny to me when I mentioned being trans & he apparently had very much not realized that before. I got to watch his worldview shift in real time, lmao)

That one was probably the easiest, though. I've also looked to really positive, loving male teachers in my work in education, and that's been awesome! Sewing & embroidery have been the hardest by far, but I've definitely found plenty of men in both over time. Finding embroidery patterns to try out from gay men depicting masculine-presenting bodies has been especially fun & validating.

I know this isn't the most specific advice, and I'm not sure if you were looking for like, a list of clothes to buy? But honestly this has just been my own journey. I wear what's comfortable and I haven't really changed my interests or hobbies; exploring masculinity has really just meant giving myself permission to engage in things I haven't before, wearing things I feel good in, and looking to others who've given themselves that permission as well for inspiration. I had to be more intentional about considering the masculine-to-me options early on than I do now, but like, it should all be about you and what you're interested in. There are infinite types of guy! I think it's just a matter of figuring out which ones you resonate with and why, and building your own type of guy out of that.

[heliads]

Hey! I love your writing sm

could you pls do an f1 soulmate au with charles x carlos?

maybe whatever a person writes on themselves shows up on their soulmate so they write each other cute 'good luck' notes or jokes before races and maybe they realize they're soulmates when one of them gets a podium and the other person sees their drawings :)

i understand that you wanted this to be cute. however have you considered that they could be insane instead. have you considered that there could be mind games, bestie. think about the mental warfare (i am)

masterlist

Carlos Sainz believes that his secrets come out the fastest when he’s drinking. Doesn’t even have to be alcohol, his favorite ruiner of silence– he’s let out contract details and personal opinions just as freely with isotonic water after a race as with a shot someone hands him two hours into a post-race celebration. It’s easy to let your guard down when you think you’re with a friend, when the stakes don’t seem high, when he knows better but doesn’t want to admit it.

That’s why he feels a rippling wave of panic when he sees Charles walking across the Ferrari hospitality, two cups of coffee in his hands. Charles sits down at an empty table for two, places one cup in front of himself and one at the empty chair, and looks pointedly at Carlos. Carlos thinks to himself, this can’t be good, and mentally reminds himself to book an appointment with PR sooner rather than later.

He takes the seat. Some things, you can’t fight. Charles still smiles anyway, pleased, and says, “I got you coffee.”

Carlos had noticed this, surprisingly. It was difficult to ignore. “You’re being nice,” he remarks, blowing into the hole on the lid to cool down the liquid inside.

“I am nice,” Charles protests. His accent comes out more when he’s unhappy, it makes the syllables bunch up together like pleats of fabric.

Carlos arches a brow, and takes a sip of his coffee instead of answering. Scuderia Ferrari loves to claim that they adore the art of coffee just as much as their mother country, but every time Carlos gets coffee from hospitality it’s either flavorless or burnt, depending on who serves it. Charles’ attempt isn’t terrible, but he doubts Charles did anything more to prepare it than just put in an order. It’s a nice gesture, though. Just like Charles said.

When he looks up and the steam properly clears from his vision, Charles is still pouting at him. Carlos shakes his head, smiling to himself. He makes it so easy sometimes, to mess with his head. It’s kind of fun. Poker, but with a far prettier deck of cards. 

“Alright, fine,” he relents, grinning so Charles knows he’s in on the joke, “I’m just teasing. No need to get mad, cabrón.”

“I’m not mad,” Charles says, a hint of a smile on his face although he stubbornly tries to shake it, “just interested in defending my honor.”

“Your honor?” Carlos asks, laughing in earnest. “So lord-esque, that is what I have been telling you. Of course Lord Perceval would defend his honor.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “You can deal with my honor, mate. I got you coffee.”

“And I am grateful for it every time you bring it up,” Carlos says, and takes a sip to prove it.

Charles does the same, but his eyes remain on Carlos the whole time. “So? Is it true what they’re saying?”

Carlos wants more than coffee for a conversation that starts out like this. “Who’s saying what?”

Charles gestures vaguely towards his phone. “Everybody. They say you’re going to leave Ferrari when your contract expires.”

Ah. That. “People love rumors,” he says absentmindedly, “I never thought you’d pay attention to them.”

“I don’t usually, but I was interested in this one,” Charles admits. “You’d tell me if you were leaving, right?”

“I’m not leaving,” Carlos says.

Charles sets down his cup. “But you’d tell me, right?”

“I would,” Carlos says. Pauses. Starts again. “What’s gotten into you, man? I never took you for someone to fall for theories like this.”

Charles shakes his head a little too quickly. “I’m not. They just seemed to believe it.” 

Carlos shrugs. “They believe a lot. My contract doesn’t expire until next year. They won’t worry about me for a while.”

“Should I?” Charles asks. “Worry about you, I mean.”

Carlos looks at him, really looks at him. The tense grip of his teammate’s hands around his coffee, even despite the heat still emanating through the cup. The furtive glances he keeps sneaking towards Carlos, then abruptly looking at the cup again when he gets caught.

“I’m not going,” Carlos says gently. More gently than he’d answer any interviewer, anyway.

Charles nods quickly, his head bobbing like a doll on a string. “Of course. Besides, I have too much interest for you to leave yet. Not until we figure out your, ah–” A pause. Delicate, but not at all from a polite inclination, no matter how it might seem to any outsider.

Carlos groans, exasperated. “My soulmate? My God, Charles, you have to give this up at some point.”

If it were not enough to have an overly inquisitive teammate, one that’s rather good at using his eyes and smile to get what he wanted, Carlos has been cursed with a racing partner that’s unnaturally interested in his missing other half. Carlos himself wants to figure out who his soulmate is, obviously, but at this point he thinks Charles is even more invested.

They all have soulmates. Supposedly. There’s probably at least a couple people out there who skipped that universal drawing of lots, but Carlos knows for certain that he is not one of them because his soulmate contacts him almost every day. Some people go weeks or even months without finding so much as a scribble appearing out of thin air on their skin, but Carlos blinks and there’s a new sentence on his forearm, bruising his knuckles, curling around his ankle. Whoever his soulmate is, they don’t care much for being ignored.

Neither does his teammate. Charles huffs out an exasperated breath. “If you will not be curious, I will be curious for you. You’re always so cagey about it, anyway. I know they write to you. Don’t you want to know?”

“Of course I want to know who they are,” Carlos scoffs. “What I don’t get is why you want to know. Why don’t you focus on your own other half for a change?”

Charles just leans back in his chair, grinning coolly. Ah, yes. Carlos has suspected for some time that Charles already has an idea as to who his soulmate is, but for some reason Carlos has never seen her around the paddock. It could be that Charles is just keeping their relationship private, but he doubts it. Charles likes his trophies visible and his games extensive. More likely than not, Charles has his soulmate engaged in some kind of cat-and-mouse game so they figure it out without too much help on his end. It’s hellishly manipulative, but he’s charming enough that they all let it slide.

Even Carlos, although he at least tries to put up a fight. Sometimes, he thinks Charles is amusingly aware of that, and doubles down on his efforts to get Carlos to cave until both of them are locked in some sort of affectionate stalemate.

“You shouldn’t worry so much,” Charles hums, pleased that he’s got the other hand. “I mean,” he says, leaning forward abruptly to seize Carlos’ hand in his own, “Don’t you want to know about yours? Aren’t you curious?”

Whoever sat at their table before them left a Sharpie behind by accident; Charles picks it up now, uncapping it with the same hand without letting go of Carlos. “You could just ask them right now, who they are,” Charles muses. The tip of the Sharpie hovers millimeters above the curve of Carlos’ palm, waiting. 

Carlos stares at the black ink. It’s easier to focus on the skin when he mumbles, “They wouldn’t answer.”

You’re not supposed to. Unspoken rules. He’s never liked that sort of thing, and neither has Charles, who knows this and smiles unkindly anyway. “You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?” Carlos asks, mostly to himself. Charles doesn’t appear to hear him. The Sharpie dips lower until it touches Carlos’ skin. Immediately, the black ink flowers into his palm. Carlos waits for Charles to keep writing, to scrawl a question like who are you or can I fly you to a Grand Prix paddock, asap but instead Charles flinches, slams the palm of his own hand down towards the table, and covers up the pen again.

“Maybe you should do it yourself,” Charles mutters by way of explanation.

“Maybe,” Carlos says. He’s not sure if he’s agreeing or not. It would be easier, he thinks, to have Charles take the wheel again. It would also hurt more. Carlos caps the pen when it becomes obvious that Charles will not. “Drink your coffee,” he says. “It’ll get cold.”

Charles does as told, which is sort of surprising. Usually, he likes pushing the envelope until someone tells him to quit it. It appears to Carlos, though, that they have reached an unspoken limit, a line drawn out in black Sharpie on tanned skin that will not be crossed again.

A few minutes pass. They’re both quiet. Charles whispers into the condensation of his cup, “You’re not leaving, though, right?”

Carlos smiles. “I’m not.” Contracts change, obviously, but he’ll try to fight it. They all try.

They leave not long afterwards, race week means that they don’t have a lot of time to sit around. There’s always something to be filmed for media duties, an interview to conduct, checks to run through with engineers. Still, Carlos is somehow calmer than he was before, even despite the additional caffeine.

Charles, by contrast, seems jumpier than usual as they head towards the exit.

“Did you enjoy your coffee?” Carlos asks pointedly. 

 Charles glances quickly over both shoulders, then groans when he’s sure that no one can overhear him. “No, God. It’s terrible.”

Carlos chuckles. “But you went to so much trouble to get it. Surely you can pretend it’s more than just terrible. You drank, like, all of it.”

Charles gives him an appraising look. “It’s better with someone else.”

It occurs to Carlos, as he walks back to his driver’s room, that they may not just have been talking about coffee after all. He’s stopped by one of his PR advisors on the way back– apparently there’s a new TikTok trend that would be just great for him to do– and although he doesn’t feel that shaken, he must look it, because they only get halfway through a discussion of trending sounds before the agent asks if everything is alright.

Carlos scoffs. “Of course I’m alright.”

The agent arches a brow. “Are you sure? You look a little unsettled. Don’t tell me you were talking to George about track times again, he has that effect on everyone before qualis.”

Carlos shakes his head. “No, I didn’t see him. I was speaking with Charles, though, about nothing in particular. Just coffee and soulmates and stuff.” Unable to stop himself, he leans a little closer, drops his voice until it’s more of a whisper. “He’s found his soulmate, hasn’t he? She’s got to be around here somewhere.”

His PR agent, surprisingly, shakes their head. “No, he’s said nothing about it to us, and we’ve asked loads of times. Are you certain that they’re a she, though? That wasn’t the impression I got.”

Carlos stands utterly still. He thinks his blood may have cooled in his veins, congealing into a solid. He is not sure he could move if he tried. “Charles told you that?”

“Once,” the agent says offhandedly. “He got sick of us asking about his mystery woman. I don’t think he meant to let it slip, but you know how he is with secrets.”

They’re laughing at that. Carlos tries to chuckle along with him, but he can’t really do more than nod, because now he’s thinking about Charles’ soulmate being a man. It’s the driver in him, he supposes, the dreamer, that if he can imagine any scenario he would also imagine himself in it, and so it follows that now Carlos cannot stop thinking about the man on the other side of Charles’ heart being him, being Carlos. The picture fits a little too well. 

Carlos had never pictured his soulmate and thought of a man, but sometimes he’ll be up on the podium with Charles, champagne high and bright in the air, and he thinks maybe– maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing, not having a girl like that. He already knows what it’s like, anyway, to be at the top of the world and have another man standing there with him. If God did not intend for us to be with someone of the same sex, then why would He make it feel so natural?

Carlos somehow manages to end the conversation, to slip back into the relative safety of his driver’s room and lean his entire body weight against the door. He stares up at the ceiling, hands fisting the red fabric of his Ferrari jacket at his sides, and he lets himself, for the first time, wonder if his soulmate might not be a man as well. Anything Charles can do, Carlos can too, or so the commentators have started to say. Anyone Charles could love, Carlos could too. Anything his would be theirs. 

It is a risky thought. Pessimists will tell you that soulmates are good for nothing but getting your hopes up. Carlos does not know who his soulmate is nor, odds are, will he ever. It does no good to think about what he wants until he already has it. 

Later that day, Carlos tells his soulmate in non-descript block letters, All things must end. He caps the pen and covers his hand for the rest of the day. He sees Charles some hours later, looking pale and frightened. Carlos cannot, will not, imagine why.

He tries to push it from his mind. They are not hiding in Ferrari hospitality for the thrill of it, after all, but to prepare for the race ahead. Qualifying comes and goes, nothing to write home about but at least they should be decently in the points. One of them might be able to make it to a podium if they can give Lando Norris the slip. The best case scenario is that Checo will bin it so they could get a 1-2, but who knows if they’ll have any semblance of luck today.

Carlos qualified one position ahead of Charles. Fred Vasseur is already starting to eye him like a lamb to the slaughter, and Carlos makes a mental reminder to continually ask his engineer for Charles’ times during the race. He has a feeling that team orders might be given.

Strangely enough, it doesn’t make Carlos angry towards Charles as much as he thinks it should. He is irritated by Ferrari, of course, for picking one driver over another, but that’s expected in any given scenario in which the cars are swapped. Usually, though, that sort of thing happens enough times that you start directing your ire towards the other driver, but Carlos cannot manage that. In fact, he never has. Hating Charles is unthinkable. It would be easier to hate himself. Right?

Getting ready in his driver’s room before the race that Sunday, Carlos is struck by a sudden, unthinkable idea. He rummages around in his belongings for a while before coming up with a pen. Dark, thick, the kind you use for autographs when the hapless fan forgets to bring a writing implement of their own. Carlos uncaps it, stares at his skin, then starts to scribble. Words, underlined, circled. Do well. Good luck. Please.

He doesn’t know if– but he could, maybe, if he saw. Carlos loses himself in a frenzy, then snaps out of it just as quickly when his palms get covered in writing. The sound of footsteps outside his door makes him flinch, and he tugs on his gloves as fast as he can, smearing the ink even more than before. It doesn’t matter. Odds are nothing will come of this anyway.

The race goes as expected. Checo does not crash, much to the chagrin of all other teams, and Carlos gets stuck behind him long enough that they start talking about switching him with Charles, which happens around lap forty. When the checkered flag waves, Charles is third, Carlos fourth. He parks quickly and hurries over to the front. By the time he gets there, Charles has already withdrawn inside the cooldown room but Carlos can shoulder in with the other Ferrari crew and shout and slap each other on the back and that’s good, too, it really is.

He will tell himself that it is. Carlos, by now, has gone to a lot of teams and learned about a lot of strategy choices. He knows how to convince himself that something is fine, that the decisions of the team are ones he agrees with. He can idle with the crew and stare up at the podium with a fixed smile on his face, because Carlos is a Good Teammate and Good Teammates show up for each other. They accept team orders when they come their way. They do not stand in the shade of someone else’s idol and think, this isn’t fair.

Of course it isn’t fair, it’s motorsport. Charles is the one they love the most, even when he’s erratic and crashes every other race. Charles is the pretty boy, the golden one, Il Predestinato. Carlos is merely his father’ son. 

Charles, who figured out the whole game of soulmates months before. He guessed, at least. Told that to Carlos one night, grinning, drunk, spiraling after another lost podium. Charles had waited with wide eyes and a frozen smile as if waiting for Carlos to put something together, but the other shoe never dropped and eventually the moment ended, both of them pulled apart by other friends, downing other drinks, pretending they never existed. 

Carlos thinks of it now. He watches Charles emerge from the shadows of the space behind the podium to stand in the blinding sunlight, waving down at all of them. One of the mechanics is elbowing him in the side, speaking in that low voice they all get when they do the boy’s club talk, you know, someone’s soulmate likes him well enough, obviously, and Carlos has no idea what he’s talking about until he looks up and sees. Sees Charles, his palms dark with ink. From up here, it’s too small to see what is written. The Catholic boy in him thinks stigmata which is wrong, obviously, because there is no great divine mystery here, not when Carlos knows what happened.

Not when Carlos was the one to write all of it earlier that day. He’d almost forgotten during the course of the race, but it all comes flooding back now. That’s his ink on Charles’ hands, and that means– That means Charles is his soulmate. Always has been. Always will be.

Carlos stares up at him. Charles looks down, and although he’s been grinning with victory this whole time, the smile that slides onto his face upon seeing his teammate is different than before, it’s knowing. Charles knows that Carlos has figured it out at last. He’s been waiting for him to do it all this time.

It’s almost obscene, how close Charles must have come to telling him about a thousand times. Who would risk it like that? No one. Charles would. Carlos pictures him with the Sharpie earlier that week, black tip poised above his skin. How he’d caught himself before giving himself up. Perfect timing, a driver’s reflexes. Like managing to right yourself right before sending your car into the wall. Or, better, like doing it anyway. Like accelerating before you go. Like leaving your hands on the wheel so your wrists can break, too, not just your heart. 

Yes, Charles would. Charles Leclerc would. Charles, so impatient for his first championship that he’d give up his current chance by overshooting every corner, by doing too much until he ends up in the wall time and time again. This is the man who would expose his soulmate like a throat to a knife, and Carlos has known this about him for years.

The Ferrari section of the paddock is insane after getting a podium, so no one notices when Carlos fights his way through the crowds to let himself into Charles’ driver’s room. It’s empty when he arrives, Charles must have many more people to get through, so he paces relentlessly back and forth until Charles shows up.

Charles bursts through the door, still talking to someone down the hall. His exuberance crashes to a halt the second he sees Carlos waiting, and he hurriedly tells whoever is there not to wait up. Charles carefully closes the door behind him, locks it too, and then it’s just the two of them and this great and all encompassing secret for company. 

Charles swallows. “You know.”

Of course he does. Friends show up at each other’s driver’s rooms all the time, but this isn’t just on the order of congratulations for a good race result. They would not be hovering on the edge of this great precipice if it was just that. 

“You knew earlier,” Carlos challenges. 

Charles ducks his head in a nod. “I did.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Carlos asks. 

Charles’ gaze is shifty, it flicks from ceiling to floor to walls, anywhere but Carlos himself. Charles has always been a daredevil for the risks, but he’s never had the stomach for what becomes of them. The consequences are always a thousand times worse than the actions. 

“I didn’t think you would want it. Want me,” he corrects, almost whispering. 

This is so absurd that Carlos almost wants to laugh. Almost, because the look on Charles’ face is so pitiful that he can’t even smile. “Why wouldn’t I?” Carlos asks. 

Charles blinks in surprise. “Because you were never even that interested in finding out who your soulmate was, mate. Always said it would just be some girl you didn’t know. I didn’t want to see your face when you realized you didn’t even get some girl but me.”

“I didn’t want to look too much into my soulmate because I was afraid it wouldn’t be you,” Carlos says in a rush, and as he admits it he knows it’s true. 

How could it be anything but that? Carlos could have picked any team, but he went here. A hardheaded (formerly red) bull chasing not just the scarlet flag but the matador himself. Charles, all along. 

Charles’ eyes are wide, lashes darker even than the ink still staining his palms. “So you’re not mad, then?” He asks cautiously. 

“Not mad and not leaving,” Carlos reiterates. 

A ghost of a smile flickers over Charles’ lips. “You cannot blame me for wanting to be sure, I didn’t want you to go until I managed to tell you.”

“You certainly took your time about it,” Carlos comments. 

Charles rolls his eyes. “Just because we are racers does not mean we have to do everything fast, Carlos. Be patient.”

Carlos arches a brow. “You are telling me that?”

Charles has the grace to look at least a little ashamed. “Yes. Well. I can be patient now.”

Of course he can. They both can. Most people spend their entire lives searching for the answer to a question that is no longer a mystery to either of them. Time is all they have, time and sweet-sticky champagne and the sensation of being at the top of the world. Nothing will change them. Everything will. For once, though, the change does not scare him. It’s not bad, all of the time. 

Sometimes, it brings him Charles. Sometimes, it brings him this. No, not bad in the slightest. 

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy, @juphey

also: @quill-of-a-sparrow

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[yesimwriting]

Happy new year! I wish you all a blessed 2025 ❤️

Now personally I don’t care the new years kiss tradition is about kissing your significant other, every single friend I love is getting love back from me when I’m drunk.

Bestie reader should absolutely give Louis the biggest platonic SMOOCH because he deserves it. He’d walk around with lipstick on his forehead or something, take a pic, save it for later to make fun of the level of readers intoxication.

a/n happy new year!! i'm totally the same about nye kisses and drinking, i get a little sappy and suddenly everyone in my life needs to know how much i mean to them lol i love this concept and it's perfect for the first fic of 2025!

also as a side note, going out/drinking with a vampire seems so perfect, ultimate scary dog privileges bc let some creepy man try anything and suddenly louis has a little late night snack <3 it sounds so freeing

----

The music's heavy pulse has aligned itself with your own, the base of it reverberating through your chest so thoroughly it might as well take the place of your heart. You can't bring yourself to dislike the feeling.

"O-kay." Your enthusiasm breaks the word into two. You let yourself lean into the feeling, into the fullness of your joy. "I think the regular vodka's stronger than the jello shots, because it's vodka not vodka-jello."

Louis presses his lips together in an attempt to keep from grinning too broadly. "That makes sense."

Your eyes narrow as you give yourself a moment to absorb the response. "It does," the words are much more contemplative than they need to be, "I'm so smart."

This time, Louis lets himself react. He laughs at the deliberateness pressed into your syllables. You're too out of it to think to mind his reaction. "You're drunk."

You straighten slightly as if that'll be enough to prove him wrong. "I'm happy."

Louis extends an arm, placing a hand on your shoulder in an instinctual attempt at keeping you steady. You're not exactly implying instability, but he's spent enough time around you like this to know it's better to be safe than sorry.

"You're drunk."

You tilt your head at the correction, blinking at him curiously. "For some people, that's the same thing."

"Yeah?" The word is much too amused.

You nod enthusiastically, shifting your weight from foot to foot in a way that leaves Louis squeezing your arm a little tighter. "Yeah." You pause, eyebrows drawing together pensively as you struggle to grasp your next thought in its entirety. "I love you. I want you to be as happy as I am."

"Okay." He lets out a partial laugh. You're a good, terribly affectionate drunk. "I'm very happy. I promise."

His assurance doesn't seem to ease you. Instead of moving onto a separate topic of conversation or attempting to escape him in order to track down another shot, you frown. You step back slightly before lifting your arm. "Here."

You're holding your wrist out in front of him so innocently Louis can almost make himself forget what you're offering. "That--that's really nice of you, but I'm okay."

You frown, staring up at him with wide, sad eyes. Louis sighs, his fingers gently bending around your forearm. He pulls your hand down towards your side before stepping closer to you. In an abundance of precaution, he angles his head towards your ear. "I had that boy that grabbed your arm earlier, remember?"

"My blood is perfectly good--blood." Great, he's stumbled onto this argument again. You're not looking to be hurt, but for whatever reason, you're convinced that Louis's refusal to consume your blood to any extent is limiting your friendship. "Seriously, a doctor has never struggled to find my veins."

The defense is slurred and devoid of serious logic. Still, such a consistent mentioning of something he's always trying to ignore...always trying to forget makes it difficult to focus on anything else. The blood moving beneath your skin is warm against his palms, and it--the scent of it...

It is possible to stop. Some know how to resist, how to take just enough to feel something without bringing a life to its end. Lestat had possessed that kind of control, had used it when creating Claudia.

The thought leaves him more somber than he's prepared to be. Even if he could sense that kind of strength in himself, he--he couldn't use you in that way. Introducing you to his world at all was a cruel enough act on its own, he doesn't need to taint you further.

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling before pulling away slightly. He lifts your arm slowly, his thumb brushing against your wrist's pulse point. You watch him silently as he brings your inner forearm to his mouth. He presses his lips against your skin. "It's not you."

You're quiet for a second, something oddly sober briefly flickering behind your gaze. "I know," you relent slowly, "On some level, I know."

You look at him, then, with a careful awareness that often leaves him feeling like you're the one capable of looking into his mind. "But it better not be because you think your existence is some terrible burden you're inflicting onto me."

It's a warning he's used to hearing. His lips part, but before he can think of a response, the crowd around you shifts. A variety of voices blend together as they start to count, "...Ten...nine...."

"New years!" You beam, reaching for Louis's hand as you turn towards the others.

The countdown continues, the numbers oddly in sync for a bar so full of drunk individuals. The clock hits midnight, the crowd erupts into cheers.

You grin, straightening fully as you lean towards him. Before Louis can think to ask about what you're doing, you press your lips against his cheek. He can feel the residue of your lipgloss against his skin, but he can't bring himself to mind it. This isn't the first time you've gotten a little affectionate while drunk, but normally there's some warning. "What was that for?"

You shrug innocently, "New Years kiss."

You let go of him fully, halfheartedly pushing his arm off your shoulder as you start moving away from him. "Where are you going?"

"I want another shot." The response is absentmindedly thrown over your shoulder, like Louis should have had the foresight to follow you.

A part of him is glad that your back is to him. This way, he can grin openly without encouraging your behavior. "Slow down--you're in heels."

You turn at that, flashing your middle finger before continuing forward. Oh, you're not going to get the hear end of this tomorrow.

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Ch. 1 - The Handsome Stranger

Summary: The year is 1969. The place is the International Hotel. Valerie Pedretti, an aspiring singer, has a chance encounter with one Elvis Presley in an elevator that will change her life forever. Notes: To me, 1967-1971 EP is kind of peak Elvis, and so I wanted to write a fic with him smack dab in that time period. In the 1969-1970 period, especially, Elvis was probably the most handsome and alluring man in the galaxy. Lots of anachronisms and historical inaccuracies in this one, but just roll with it because it's fun! I based Valerie, in a sense, off of a mixture of Kathy Westmoreland, Joyce Bova, and Linda Thompson. Kathy met the real Elvis for the first time in an elevator, and that really inspired this work. Priscilla exists in this universe but she and Elvis get a divorce far earlier than in real life. Theirs, in some ways like real life, is a marriage of convenience and an "arrangement." Lisa Marie does not exist in this universe.

Las Vegas, Nevada, 1969

*

Vegas was shimmering mirage of bad decisions just waiting to snare me—a sucker-punch I never saw coming. The lights, the noise, the impossible promise of it all crashed over me in kaleidoscopic waves as my cab cruised down the strip towards the International Hotel. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching slack-jawed as sequined showgirls and vacationers blurred by in streaks of neon and rhinestone.

The cabbie swerved to the curb with a jolt, snapping me out of my daze. "International Hotel," he barked, his voice an ice bath to my face. I shoved a crumbled wad of bills into his hand and  stumbled out and into a swarm of hairspray and cigar smoke congregating under the hotel's blazing marquee. Blinking in confusion, I took in the frenzied scene unfolding—beefy security shoving their way through the sea of pompadours, vendors hawking glossy headshots, teddy bears and "I 🖤 ELVIS" pins. The realization hit me like a freight train. This wasn't just any weekend at the International. It was the kickoff of Elvis Presley's residency. Ground zero for absolute Elvis mania.

The irritation set in, simmering beneath my skin. "Shit," I muttered, suddenly feeling foolish for forgetting. Of all the rotten luck. Out of all the times to visit Las Vegas, I had unwittingly chosen the kickoff of Elvis's shows—an event drawing crowds I had no desire to mingle with.

I wove through the throng, lugging my cumbersome suitcases behind me. Inside the lobby was even more chaotic—a swirling kaleidoscope of big-haired fans and cigarette smoke lingering over shag carpet. Elvis was everywhere, his angelic face beaming down from posters, gold records, life-sized cardboard cutouts. A veritable religious shrine. Groaning internally, I caught my bedraggled reflection in a mirrored column. Of course I would show up to the Presley Promised Land looking like something the cat dragged in. Normally I'd at least try to pull myself together for check-in, maybe swipe on some lipstick or fluff my chocolate curls into place. After all, I didn't want to look terrible in front of people dressed to the nines. But after the day I'd had, I couldn't muster the effort.

My flight from Chicago had been delayed six excruciating hours due to "mechanical issues," which apparently was airline-speak for "sit tight while we screw you over." By the time we finally took off, I'd already stress-eaten two sleeves of Oreos and read the in-flight magazine three mind-numbing times. To top it off, I'd spilled coffee all over my only nice blouse right before landing. Clearly, some divine power had it out for me today.

Feeling sweaty and vaguely nauseous, I trudged to the front desk. The angular blonde behind the counter, Brenda, barely glanced up from her well-thumbed issue of Variety as I approached.

"Welcome to the International Hotel. Checking in?" She smacked her gum, eyes never leaving her magazine.

"Yes, uh, reservation should be under Deena Lovelace."

That finally got her attention. Her penciled brows shot up as she inspected me, taking in the coffee stains and rumpled slacks. "Wait, you're Deena? The Deena who told me she booked for the Sinatra audition tomorrow?" The doubt was palpable.

I gritted my teeth into a tight smile. "No, actually. I'm her friend Valerie. Deena got sick at the last minute, some kind of exotic flu, so I'm filling in for her."

Suspicion clouded Brenda's face, but after a long beat she shrugged. "Huh. Well, takes all kinds, I guess." She signaled to a bellhop in a red monkey suit and thrust a key into my hand. "Room 2806, elevators are that way. If you need anything, ask for Hector."

Hector the bellhop scurried over and hoisted up my bags with surprising ease for such a slight guy. I made a weak attempt to protest, but he just grinned and ushered me through the cacophonous lobby to the first hallway. The doors slid open and I thanked him, pressing a few crumpled bills into his white-gloved hand.

“I can take it from here, Hector.”

As I walked along, I looked at my reflection in the mirrored wall and exhaled slowly. My nerves buzzed like an exposed wire as I thought about tomorrow's audition. Landing a spot in the Sinatra chorus line seemed about as likely as shooting the moon at this point. I barely knew the song Deena had been rehearsing for weeks, my go-go boots had a broken heel, and my voice was ragged from practicing the whole weekend.

But damn it, this was the first real shot I'd had in ages to claw my way out of the chambermaid grind and actually make something of myself. To prove Ma right for always saying I had stardust in my veins, even when it landed me more trouble than applause growing up. I had to at least try. For all those thankless nights warbling in dim lounges, waiting for my big break. For Deena, who I knew would kill for this chance.

I'd barely begun my little pep talk when someone brushed by me, sloshing their vodka tonic onto my sleeve and snapping me back to the present moment. I weaved through the crowd towards another inner hallway, clearing my throat.

I turned on my heel and started hoofing it towards my room. The hotel's layout was an absolute dizzying mess of twists and turns in every direction. My thudding, ungainly footsteps were muffled by the shag carpet and the dulled roar of fans congregating throughout the hotel.

As I trudged on, the ambiance shifted gradually. The hum of voices faded away, replaced by an overwhelming silence that signaled I was getting farther away from the bustling core. Exhaustion tugged at my bones while I navigated the maze of hallways. My room was somewhere in this labyrinth, but my bed felt worlds away at this point.

My steps sank into the plush carpet as I drifted into a quieter, dimly-lit corridor that seemed less traveled. Finally, I found myself alone in front of a bank of elevator doors. I stabbed the call button and waited impatiently, my arms aching from the weight of my overstuffed suitcases. God, why did I pack so much useless junk?

"Must be close now," I muttered out loud, my voice barely audible.

With barely a thought, I slipped out of my heels and bent my toes backwards and forwards, allowing my sore feet to relish the heavenly softness underfoot. It was soft, springy, and absolute relief for my aching soles. Automatically, I began humming a familiar, nameless tune under my breath - just a few sweet, absentminded notes I always turned to for comfort when I needed it. The thought of finally washing this endless day off my face and jumping into a crisp hotel bed was the only thing on my mind as the gilded doors opened with a tinny ding.

*

The cab was empty. Relieved to finally have a moment to myself, I dragged my heavy bags inside and slumped against the mirrored wall. As the doors started to slide closed, a large, ring-adorned hand suddenly shot out, halting them.

I straightened up with a jolt, my exhaustion replaced by a flash of irritation. Great, just what I needed, another overzealous Elvis fan trying to cram into my personal space bubble.

But as the interloper stepped into the elevator, my breath caught in my throat. Standing before me, in all his smoldering, technicolor glory, was the man himself. Elvis fucking Presley. The aura he gave off was undeniable, that much was sure. And I recognized his face immediately, the same one splashed all over the posters and knick knacks in the lobby. There he was, outshining the garishly glitzy elevator cab like a supernova eclipsing neon. And next to him, a well-built redheaded man, his hand resting at something shiny on his hip. Bodyguard, most likely. Quickly, I shoved my feet back into my heels, silently cursing myself for having taken them off in the first place.

I blinked hard, convinced I must be hallucinating from sheer fatigue. But no, he was unquestionably real, from the polished black shoes to the perfectly coiffed onyx hair that shone like quicksilver in the light. His lean, powerful frame was draped in an immaculately tailored black suit, a shock of pink peeking out from the silk scarf knotted at his throat. But it was the penetrating, electric blue gaze behind tinted shades that truly unraveled me.

I'd never considered myself much of an Elvis fan. Sure, I could appreciate a catchy tune like "Don't Be Cruel" or "Teddy Bear," but I'd always been immune to the mass hysteria he incited in his besotted admirers. Yet here, in such close proximity to his cosmic charisma and undeniable sex appeal, I finally understood. This man was a force of nature.

The redhead caught my awestruck stare and chuckled knowingly. "I see you've met my friend Jon Burrows here," he said with a wink.

But this was no "Jon Burrows." I knew who it was, plain as day. And his affect on me was immediate. Was I dreaming? My pulse started racing. Should I say something? And just how the hell did this happen? I opened my mouth, then closed it, swallowing hard. Play it cool, Valerie.

Any lingering self-consciousness about my frazzled appearance just evaporated in the sheer force of his presence. Though judging by the unmistakably mischievous curl of his lip, my travel-battered state didn't seem to faze him one bit. His perceptive eyes met mine, always accustomed to the spotlight but now studying me with curiosity. He took in my slumped posture and visible fatigue without a hint of judgment.

"You've had yourself a long day, haven't you, honey?" That voice, richer than a Mississippi smokehouse, sliced right through me.

I could only nod dumbly, a lump forming in my throat. "I—uh, yeah. No. I mean... yes, you could say that," I stammered like an idiot. Get it together!

His smile was pure bewitchment. "Well, you'll be tucked in in no time, I reckon. I hear the beds are mighty comfortable here." 

I looked up at the ceiling in silence, tracing the swirling pattern with my mind's eye and trying to give off a vibe of cool indifference. But my stomach was actually rolling.  

To my surprise, he kept talking. "Pardon my manners. My name's Elvis, and this is my pal Red. Who might you be?"

My throat locked tighter than a cowboy's bullwhip. "Valer—?"

"Valerie." He drew the name out, savoring each note and curve as if testing its ring. Each single syllable seemed to undergo some mystical transformation, alchemized to pure liquid amber from his lips. "A pretty name for a pretty little songbird." A ringed hand discreetly adjusted the bejeweled cups shielding his gaze, maybe hoping to make out my sides better.

Elvis was still steadily playing the blue suede shoes off me, from his elegant bent stance to the teasing half-smirk barely shadowing those indolently hungover features—the whole routine daring me to go chasing his bait. But I was far too busy trying not to spontaneously combust. I screwed my eyes tightly shut for a half-moment, desperately grasping to regain some sense of composure with an oxygen-deprived brain. 

How did he know...?

Dumb question, Sherlock. The very notion conjured images of me, sweat-glazed and punchy-tired, mindlessly vocalizing sweet lullabies straight from my Off-Off-Broadway chambermaid days while I waited for the elevator. Of course he would've overhead that.

I cinched my mouth into what I hoped was a blasé half-smile, refusing to come completely uncorked by his pet name. I replayed the embarrassing moment in my head, wishing I could dissolve into the elevator shaft. Every breath I pulled in seemed to crackle with electricity. First I randomly share an elevator with The Elvis Presley, and now he'd overheard my nervous vocalizing and was complimenting me on it?

"Baby." A rich, salt-cured chuckle melted off his tongue, resining deep in my nerve center. "I got ears like a well-tuned radar dish. You in town for a show?"

I shook my head slowly. "Technically yes, but no. Just an audition," I replied, my heart thundering in my ears. I hoped he couldn't hear it pounding.

"Who for, if you don't mind me asking?" he inquired with that laser gaze.

I sucked in a steadying breath. Might as well take the bait since I'd already been barb-hooked but good. "I'm here for an audition, actually. Tomorrow. For Sinatra. I'm a singer. I mean, not like you, but hopefully one day..." I paused, unsure of how much backstory was worth burdening Elvis with. "Just got a last minute sub-in for a friend who's under the weather."

Something flickered across Elvis' handsome features before the mask of idle curiosity slid back into place. "Is that right?" His gaze raked over me again, slower this time, more deliberate. "And what will you be singing for Ol' Blue Eyes?"

Shit. Why was he asking me so many questions? My palms started to sweat as I racked my brain for a suitable answer. It wasn't like I could admit that I barely knew the material, that I was flying by the seat of my pants on a far-fetched favor for a friend. So I settled for a half-truth instead.

"Oh, you know. Just a little medley of standards. 'To Keep My Love Alive,' 'I Can Cook, Too,' that kind of thing."

Elvis nodded slowly, a shadow of a smirk still playing on his lips. "A classic set list. I'm sure you'll knock 'em dead, honey."

I started to stammer out a thanks, but Elvis was already moving past me towards the door as the elevator finally shuddered to a stop. He paused, throwing a glance back over his shoulder. There was a new intensity in his eyes when they met mine, a dark promise that made my toes curl involuntarily in my heels.

"I'll be rooting for you, songbird. Break a leg."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me weak-kneed and dizzy in a cloud of his smoky-spicy cologne. I sagged against the wall, trying to collect myself. What in the ever-loving hell had just happened? Had I honestly just been shamelessly eye-fucked by Elvis Presley in an elevator?

More importantly, why had I liked it so much?

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the treacherous thoughts as I finally stumbled out into the harshly lit hallway. It was late, I was tired, and I had an audition to rest up for. The last thing I needed was to dwell on smoldering looks from a celebrity Casanova that I had no business panting over in the first place.

But even as I went through the motions of unlocking my room and sinking face-first into the marshmallowy duvet, I couldn't stop my mind from wandering back to the electric encounter in the elevator. The way Elvis had stared at me, equal parts scorching and inscrutable, as if he was trying to crack some tantalizing code. There was no way I could have imagined that. The effortless command he'd exuded, the sheer magnetism rolling off of him in waves. How ridiculously, unexpectedly good he still looked, hips swiveling in slow-motion in my mind's eye...

I punched a pillow in frustration, annoyed with my traitorous libido. This was so far beyond the scope of anything I'd anticipated when I'd agreed to sub in for Deena's audition. But one thing was certain—my time in Vegas was shaping up to be a hell of a lot more interesting than I'd bargained for. And something told me that a chance run-in on a hotel elevator was only the beginning.

[mactavishwritings]

Fresh Ink Part Three

Ghost x Tattoo Artist!Reader

You were always there for him. Would he do the same for you?

Tw: tattoo needles, kidnapping <3

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four|

It had been about a year and a half since you had started tattooing Simon and about a year since you and Ghost had started seeing each other. You had worked on his sleeve until it creeped up over his shoulder and onto his back. You asked him multiple times to let you do his other arm, but he refused, claiming that he didn't want to run the risk of ruining a single piece with scars or wounds. You told him constantly that you would always cover it up, but he denied every wish. What you did manage to convince him of was to allow you to do a thigh piece; a giant portrait of Ares, the God of War and Courage, with a battle scene background. You had sketches drawn up in your notepad you kept besides your bed, not letting Simon get any early peaks. He always said he trusted you, not wanting any peaks any way, but you always caught him trying to look over your should while you were drawing.

The two of you tried to step up many appointments for Simon to get this tattoo done, but every time the appointment came around, he would get sent on a mission that would pull him away from you for weeks or even months at a time. You felt like you were being stood up, but you knew he couldn't control it. You saw in his eyes that he felt terrible about it and he didn't want to leave you. Whenever he did come back home, he came straight to you. You were his home; he never need to stop at his apartment, he had clothes at your house, and you were always waiting for him with open arms. You were the only home he needed. That and your shop made him feel happy and warm.

Speaking of your shop, you had expanded and you hired another artist to work in the shop with you. It lessened your work load incredibly and gave you the ability to see more of your clients. It definitely helped you relax a lot. Simon noticed the relief immediately, seeing you walk with less weight on your shoulders. You even had the ability to update your room even more; adding more decorations and pictures of you two. Emma made fun of you occasionally, but thought it was cute. Finally, Simon was able to get his thigh tattoo done. He was sitting in your chair, leg up and exposed. You were focused on the tattoo gun, dragging the needle carefully down his thigh. "You know, we've never had a real first date. Our dates consist of tattoos and movies at your place." Simon stated, hand resting on your back. You paused and leaned back in your chair, looking up at the man. "What? What do you mean?" You had a loopsided smile on your face, leaning up towards Simon who leaned back down in response. "I wanna take you on date. A real one where you dress nice and I bring you flowers."

Your face flushed and you gently kissed Simon's cheek before going back to his tattoo. "What were you think, love?" You pulled a deep line, thickening that side to add dimension to the piece. "I want to bring you to some fancy place where we make fun of the other people dining and I want you to wear some pretty dress that will make me drool all night and some heels that make your feel hurt so I'll have to rub them later." Simon played with a piece of your hair that fell out of your ponytail. You giggled and nodded along to his words. "And I would invite you in for a tea afterwards and you would come up with me. We would sit on my couch and drink the terrible I have because I don't drink it." Simon smiled brightly, the smile that only you get to see. "Exactly! Next day you're off, we're going because I don't know when my next mission is." You nodded, pulling another line, a thin one this time.

A couple days past and Simon had texted you that he was cashing in on his date card. He had texted you the day before that he was going to take you out so you had plenty of time to get ready. You treated yourself that day, a full shower, shave, and lotion. You spent the whole day focusing on yourself and getting ready. You knew that Simon would appreciate you taking the time to ground your mind. He wanted you to feel special, to know how much you meant to him. At half past 6, you got a text from Simon saying that he was outside your apartment building. You giggled and double checked yourself in the mirror before running out the door. You felt like it was a first date and you were still trying to impress each other again.

You met Simon in the lobby of your apartment, where he stood with a bouquet of fresh flowers. It was a variety of different flowers, from white lilies to pink roses. You took the flowers in your hands and your face flushed. “Thank you, Si. You really didn’t have to.” You planted a soft kiss on his cheek and he offered your his arm. He wore his usual skull mask, a pair of black fitted jeans, and a plain grey tee shirt that he had half tucked into his pants. Johnny must’ve given him some pointers on how to dress for this date. “I know. I wanted to though. You look absolutely stunning.” You had put on exactly what he had asked of you; a nice dark red dress that stopped right at mid thigh and a pair of heels that were already making your feet hurt, but nothing you couldn’t handle. You took his arm and gracefully walked with him to his car, smiling brightly up at the man, trying your best to ignore the stares you were getting.

The dress you picked out highlighted all of your tattoos, showing them off just how Simon liked. You knew it wasn’t usual for a woman to be completely covered in tattoos, but it was becoming more common. Most of the women who lived around you were clean and pristine, so of course they gave you stare downs whenever given the chance. Plus with Simon’s hulking figure and his mask, you two were like a show for these older women to gawk at. You felt slightly uncomfortable, wanting nothing more than to shrug on a jacket and hide in it. Simon must’ve noticed because he dropped his arm down and wrapped it tightly around your waist. He ushered you quickly into his car. “Ignore them, love. We’re gonna enjoy our evening, despite them.” Simon reassured as he opened the door for you, leaning down close to your face. You smiled, breathlessly nodding before sliding into the passenger seat. Simon reached over you and buckled you in and closed the door before quickly jogging around to the driver’s side and jumped in. You smiled happily as you wrapped your hand around his arm, leaning your head on his shoulder as he took off down the road.

"So we have two options; sushi or steak. Up to you." Simon kissed your head and you shrugged. "Choices choices choices....I think steak." You hummed and Simon smiled. "I like it. Let's go then." Simon quickly changed lanes and turned left. You leaned back in your seat and grabbed his phone to change the music to something you liked. Once you arrived to the restaurant, Simon opened your car door and you stepped out. You smiled at the place and Simon locked his car before guiding you inside. You guys were seated at a booth and you two sat across from each other, him reaching out to hold your hand. You squeezed his hand and grabbed the menu. "You want me to order for you, honey?" Simon looked at you, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles. "Yeah, whatever you think is good. I'm not sure what to get." You scanned the menu a few more times before placing the menu back down at the edge of the table. Simon nodded, before calling the waiter over and ordered a bottle of wine, two steaks, and an appetizer for you two to share. You smiled and leaned back, watching Simon check his phone before sliding it back in his pocket. Your smile faltered for a moment and your shoulders dropped.

"It's going in my pocket and not coming out for the rest of the night, I swear." Simon's hand came to rest on your arm and you nodded, smiling softly at the man. "You get called away any time we try to get together... Don't want to get my hopes up is all." You turned out as the waiter brought out the appetizer. Simon grabbed your hand gently as you tried to divert your attention to the food. "No no, baby. Look at me. I am here tonight and I am not going anywhere. I swear to you. Not tonight, You have me tonight." Simon whispered to you and you blushed, nodding. "Now let's enjoy the rest of the night without worrying about when I am leaving." You two were finishing up the rest of your dessert and you hand your wine glass in your hand, eyes practically in hearts. Simon was telling you one of his mission stories and his fingers laced with yours. When the check came, Simon immediately handed the waiter his credit card, not letting you even see the total. You blushed and finished the rest of your wine, rubbing his arm lightly.

The two of you decided to walk around the park that was down the road from the restaurant. You two held hands, walking past other people in the park. It was a clear night, relatively warm, and the sky was clear. You were just about to say something to Simon when his phone started buzzing in his pocket. Your shoulders dropped and your stomach plummeted. Simon squeezed your hand, before taking out his phone. You sighed as the man stepped away to take the call. The only reason you knew it wasn't good was he kept looking back at you with a familiar look in his eye; the look of sadness that he got when he had to leave you for another mission. You sighed and crossed your arms across your chest as Simon came back over to you after he hung up. "Babe..." Simon grabbed your arms and pulled you close to his chest. "Si. It's okay. It's your job, you can't control that." You casually shrugged and Simon shook his head, leading you back to his car. "I leave in two days. You and I are going to stay in your bed until then and I don't want to hear otherwise."

Those two days came and pasted and Simon stayed true to his word. The two of you stayed in your bed, minimal clothes and only getting up for food and the bathroom. When it came time for Simon to leave, you drove him back to base. You smiled at the man as he leaned over to kiss you deeply before getting out of the car. You rolled the passenger window down and Simon rest his forearms on the open slot. "Will you be here when I get back?" You nodded, knowing the hidden meaning behind the question. "Always." You reached your hand out and Simon grabbed it and planted a kiss on your knuckles. "Seeing you after the missions always make them go by faster. I now got something to come home to."

The mission had only lasted 3 weeks, but it felt like forever for you. You tried to make it go by faster by taking on more clients, but even Emma could tell your mind was elsewhere. You had just finished your last client of the day when you felt eyes on you. You turned your head to see Simon standing at the entrance of your room with his mask pulled up to his nose. "Oh my god! I didn't know you were going to be home this week!" You squealed and rushed over to the tall man. He was prepared for your weight, easily lifting you with one arm wrapped quickly around your middle. "Wanted to surprise you. Called Emma earlier to see if you were still in." You giggled and planted kisses all over the man's face. You tried to push his mask up more, but he stopped you, looking over his shoulder. He walked further into the room and closed the door, before finally shedding his mask. "There he is." You whispered as he sat down on your tattoo chair with you on top of him. You kissed his forehead, nose, and finally lips. "(Y/N). I need to have a serious conversation with you. You know that my job comes with risk, right?"

You got nervous and nodded, arms resting on his shoulders. "Have you seen anything weird? Gotten any weird messages?" You had never seen Simon so serious before. You thought back and shook your head. "I need to be open and honest with you, okay? We got intel that a suspect we've been chasing has touched down about 10 miles from here and I need to know immediately if you see anything weird or unusual." Your body got tense and nodded. "We don't think you'll be in any danger, but I want you to be prepared." You rubbed Simon's shoulder, feeling the stress he had been holding onto for the past few weeks. "Thank you, Si. I will let you know immediately. Pinky promise." You held your pinky out and Simon wrapped his around yours; you both leaned down and kissed your outstretched thumbs to seal the promise. A few days had pasted since that conversation, and you had forgotten all about the threat. You had just parked your car in the employee parking lot you recently opened and walked around to the front door of your shop to unlock the door. You were wrestling with your purse to find the keys when you noticed a note on the door. You grabbed the note and opened it; the paper had a black serpent symbol on it and that's when you heard the squealing of tires and you looked up. You gasped when you saw a black van pull up behind you and two masked men jumped out, grabbing your arms and covering your mouth. You cried out, kicking your legs as they dragged you into the van and driving off; not before dropping both the note and a black ace card on your door.

You were fighting the men off when you were injected with a drug in your arm. You felt your mind go fuzzy and the panic increased tenfold. Tears rolled down your face as you thought of Simon's words, knowing this would practically kill him. You closed your eyes, feeling the fight leave you as darkness over took. How would you survive this?

[amusingmusie]

After seeing the non-canon demon interactions of Nel and Al in your god blessed writing. I can only imagine the mischief Nel would get up to after realising she can use Lucifer to her advance to get back at Al.

The chaos, I can see it now.

THIS IS FOR FUN ONLY AND NOT CANON TO YOURS TRULY

An Apple a Day

Lucifer motherfucking Morningstar is in the hotel. Nel is fighting not to stress smoke or shit her suit pants.

She cannot fuck up in front of this guy. Not fucking up is decently easy. She’s made plenty of mistakes- some of which landed her here in this inferno of eternal torment- but she’s also made plenty of sound choices, like huddling away in a corner of the lobby as she watches Lucifer occupy himself with rambling about the intricacies of crafting rubber ducks to his daughter and her girlfriend.

Because peace is never an option, a chill washes over her and static tingles dance on her skin- it's the only warning she receives of the incoming suffering.

Alastor materializes at her side with a crackling hum, one elbow propped up to rest on her head while the other grips his microphone. Nel doesn’t even flinch.

“Hello, my Negative Nelly! What are you doing skulking around this cobwebbed corner? You’re missing out on all of today’s grand fun!”

“The fun of you ribbing the big cheese of Hell, you mean,” she snaps, sticking out a finger to jab him in his ribs. “Cut that shit out. You’re playing with hellfire.”

Alastor drops into the floor before reforming on her opposite side, his other elbow weighing down on her skull.

“Jealous? Don’t be! My disdain for him could never compare to the special contempt we share.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“I speak from the heart.”

“You don’t have one.”

“Oh, my sweet, you wound me!”

His dramatics grate on the single nerve of Nel’s that his hoofed feet haven’t trampled already. At this rate, he threatens to draw attention to them, and by proxy her, and she is not going to have Lucifer associate her with the jackass like everyone else in this ratty hotel already does.

She’s going nuclear.

“Allie,” she coos, placing her hand over his upon his staff, “I heard all that mess earlier with you and Charlie. If you wanted to have a daughter so badly, all you ever had to do was ask me.” 

There’s a harsh, sharp pitch in radio waves while Alastor’s gray face twists into one of pure, utter, absolute mortification. The beanpole sinks down into his shadow on the musty carpet and darts away, becoming nothing more than a black mass fleeing to his radio tower.

Ah, she’s still got it. 

A very pleased snicker catches her attention, and she snaps her head to the side, coming face to face with the devil she’d been trying to avoid all day. Mortified, she stammers over herself, staring up at Lucifer who’s beaming so widely that his red cheeks are pressing upwards into his eyeballs.

“Oh Jesus Christ- shit, no, not him- Your Majesty, I am so sorry you had to see that. Look-”

He holds out one hand to silence her. Nel brushes aside the indignation of being told what to do by a man and falls silent. 

Then, he bends over and giggles.

“Are you kidding?” Lucifer wipes away a few tears threatening to fall down his rosy cheeks as he keels over cackling. “Oh, oh, oh! Woo! You! Ah, sweet Eden, that was incredible, phenomenal, fantastic! Way to stick it to that tacky piece of crap! Keep up the good work, uh-?”

“Penelope, sir. Or, uh, Nel. Nelly.”

“Keep up the good work, Nancy!” he chirps with a wink, clapping a hand onto her shoulder.

She blanches. “It’s Nelly.”

“That’s what I said! That’s what I said, right? What did I say?” 

Awkward tension settles between them. One of her yellow eyes twitches.

After the brief pause, a mischievous grin slithers onto the king’s bone white face. “Well, Mel, if you ever find yourself in need of some assistance with that halitosis-ridden bellhop, don’t be a stranger!”

“...You don’t say?”

“Mhm! Now..." he leans in close to her, deathly serious, and Nel begins to fear that she's done something terribly wrong. "How do you feel about rubber ducks?”

Oh. Huh.

Maybe she does have an ally here after all.