#lord i would have loved to be a fly on that wall for the intake session

[freddie-77-ao3]

Nico in therapy with Mr. D for the first time

Nico: so, what do I do? complain about my problems and you tell me others have it worse? Mr. D, having read Nico's chart and knowing he's from another era, his sister died, he felt betrayed by his crush, the only person he knew in the time period, fought a war, went to hell, fought another war, and was dealing with internalized homophobia the entire time: see, the thing is, I'm pretty sure others... definitely don't have it worse

[chiwhorei]

𝐀𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐚

✞𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐁𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬: 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧✞

Pairing: Shouta Aizawa x Fem!Reader

Genre: Smut, Dark Content, 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 3,175 [Link to Ao3]

Tags: Darkfic, sacrelige, coercion, corruption, dubcon and noncon elements, intonations and parallels to incest, but not actual incest (ie. ‘Father’ Shouta), choking, age-gap, oral, Priest!Aizawa, Virgin!Reader

From Chiwhorei: Aizawa is where this all started, so it’s fitting he is the subject of my anniversary fic. To everyone who’s followed me along this journey despite the long bouts of radio silence, to everyone that’s participated and supported this collab, to all of my lovely, devious friends— truly, completely, thank you for this past year. Xoxo.

The pain was so sharp that it made me utter several moans; and so excessive was the sweetness caused me by this intense pain that one can never wish to lose it, nor will one’s soul be content with anything less than God.

** ** **

There’s not a soul awake this late.

The rosary wrapped between twitching fingers feels like a hot lashing against the skin. The glass and metal itch in your hold, the devotional was a gift for your confirmation-- it holds a decade of sins.

Your family has been asleep for hours now. Slipping through the back door as soon as you’re sure. Nineteen. A legal adult. Yet the only way to leave in the middle of the night is in secret. The cool, summer air hits your cheeks, it’s still for a moment. It’s so quiet, you feel like you’ve mistaken the real world for a snow globe. Static— in the moments after all of the glitter settles, all of the quiet, iridescent tears laying at your feet. It waits, patiently, until someone comes by to shake it again.

Moving into a cramped dorm room a few hours away, your childhood home feels bigger every visit. It’s bigger because nothing fills the space inside. There’s nothing but tense words and the clatter of silverware against dinner plates. Your father reminds you of an old briefcase— stern, rigid leather, unmistakably empty; your mother’s rose garden smells like poisoned wine.

Roses and leather, the combination suffocating enough to repel you in the hours you should be unconscious.

The walk from your parent’s house to the church is the most familiar thing in the world. Down to the cracks on the sidewalk and mossy steps leading up to a set of large, cherry doors. So routine it almost feels good for you.

There’s not a soul awake this late, you decide, that must be why you’re here.

That must be why he’s up too.

Pushing open one ornate door just enough to peek inside, you’re met with that distinct waft of incense and dusty missals. It smells like every Sunday morning and Easter Vigil, it smells like home.

Only votive candles light the space around you, flickering with intentions from fellow parishioners. You wonder if there’s one burning for you.

You know where to find Father Shouta, and suspect he’s waiting. He can trace every step from your parents home to the front gate. You open the confessional booth and crawl inside, the wooden space around you is cramped. It smells like incense masking cigarettes. Kneeling into the leather cushion, you face the screen partition.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was,” the memory has you falter, “three months ago.”

You remember the last hollow confession like it was yesterday. You were back in town for spring break. After mass that Sunday, your dad told Father Shouta how deplorable it was that your friends had tried, in vain, to drag you to the beach a few hours away from campus. “A week of drinking and sex, not for my daughter.”

Shouta met with you that evening and you cried your sins to him. How you had been dared to kiss boys at a party during midterms week, how you drank who-knows-what mixed with cheap beer at a frat house. He consoled you then, he told you that God will forgive all transgressions. “Even the sins of a whore.”

The memory makes you want to cry all over again. Yet, here you are— knees pressed to the very same leather, face against the same dusty screen.

He’s so still, so quiet, you jump out of your skin at the sound of his voice, “What is it that you’d like to confess, my child?”

Your body aches, stiff and tense to the bone. You breathe in, shallow and suffocated, before you speak again.

“Father, forgive me I—” you can tell his posture is just as rigid, he’s only a shadowed outline and the slightest glimmer of color from his eyes. They warn you, but you ignore the familiar feeling on the back of your neck.

“I have been having impure thoughts. I’ve been thinking about a man,” one more deep breath in an attempt to keep your voice neutral, “a much older man.”

If you could hear a smile, Father’s creaks like floorboards.

His silence prompts you to continue, you knot your fingers together and hold them against your stomach, the Rosary tangled in between threatening to cut off circulation.

“The boys in my youth group, the ones in my classes— they’re all nice but,” you leave the second half of the sentence to rattle around in your mind, “but they aren’t you.”

“Impure thoughts are one thing, sinful, but,” his voice is indifferent, cold, “the true sins are ones of the flesh.”

“I- I haven’t,” you start to stutter, trying to defend yourself, “I haven’t done anything, Father.”

Despite himself, he laughs.

“It’s true Father,” you wonder why you hadn’t just stayed at home, “I’ve only ever kissed a boy— it wasn’t even a real kiss. I’m still a virgin.”

From the screen, you can only see him in fragments. Little cutouts of a dark figure and sickeningly bright red eyes. The color peaks through like pieces of a puzzle, chasing through the patterned wood before you can catch that he’s stepping out of his side of the confessional booth.

“It wasn’t a ‘real’ kiss,” each word is mimicked, emphasized by the tap of his shoes against the tiles below, “no, of course it wasn’t. Not with some boy.” Your legs are unsteady as you stand from the kneeler. There’s nowhere to hide, Father has you trapped in a toy box. Just for him to play with.

“Of course that wouldn’t have satisfied you.”

The door to your side of the booth creeks open just as your back hits the wall. You can see his face for the first time in months, you trace the features illuminated with candlelight. Father Shouta’s face is strong, even more sharp with his long, black hair tied back. His presence looms over where you’re sunken into the booth. Even standing and puffing out your chest, he’ll still be able to look down at you.

He bares his teeth. You know this by now, stupid little girl, you know he likes to play with his food.

Long fingers grip the small door frame and curl around the wood like an omen, his body slithers into your personal space until he’s only an inch away.

“Lust, greed, what is it that you want?” Each vowel cradles a hearty dose of poison, the consonants bite away and spit you out. Your skin feels raw under his attention, “You can’t atone for sins you’re not really sorry for.”

Those same fingers slide up either curve of your neck, he crawls from shoulder to jaw, slowly. So slowly it seems like he’s trying not to get caught. He holds steady against your skin, thumb rubbing lightly at your bottom lip. You must have just fallen asleep after your parents went to bed, that stale, poisoned house even lulling the restless. You must be dreaming right now.

“Don’t make me ask again.” His timber hits the three walls and brings you back to the present. There’s no rest for you, only a weak answer to his question. What is it that you want?

“I want to be a humble servant of our Lord.” Your voice shakes, battered against your throat on its way to meet the stiff air.

Father’s lips are on you, he traces the words of Luke over your trembling mouth, there’s only a breath of space between you,

“No one can serve two masters. For you will hate one and love the other; you will be devoted to one and despise the other,”

The hands holding your cheeks move down to circle your neck, each long finger lays a trap. He tightens around the skin, just enough to make you forget how it feels to breathe freely. He could do anything to you right now, and your cries for help would be swallowed by stained glass.

No one can serve two masters.

The scream caught in your throat meets his wicked smile, it fizzles into little more than a whimper. The small booth you’ve been trapped in is burning hot, you feel sweat beading on your forehead. The last ounce of courage, of restraint, tumbles out before you can catch it.

“Who do you serve, Father Shouta? God or the Devil?”

He answers you with a thick tongue finally pushing into your mouth. He smells like perfumed oils and votive candles, he tastes like sugar free gum and Seven Stars.

His grip around your neck is the only thing keeping you on your feet, you’re sure if he were to let go you’d melt into the floor below. Father’s lips against yours are a siren, dulling all other senses, rendering you malleable to his will. Whatever his will may be, whatever it is that he wants from you— you’d let him have it anyway.

He breaks away, the kiss that’s felt like hours disappears far too soon. Your body jolts forward of its own volition, trying to connect yourself to him again. You’re sure you look desperate, but you’re too intoxicated to care.

“I serve only myself.”

Father lets go of your neck and you’re allowed the first deep intake of breath you’ve had since walking into the church. You swallow hard, looking back up to him. He scares you, he always has, but that fear draws you towards him.

Does a moth know what the flame will do to it? Does the moth know their fate?

You feel like crying, really crying, but all that comes out are a few frustrated tears. Father leans over you once more, eyes trailing the tear waxing over your cheek, “You’re a wretched little girl.”

Is that why they fly towards fire, because they like the burn?

** ** **

You step forward in line, it’s almost your turn. Mother first, she’s always thought of Father Aizawa as such a “charming young man''. The notion always made you scoff, in reality he’s only a few years younger than your parents.

Your dad is behind you, he’ll give him a friendly handshake after the service and remark how beautiful the homily was. Today, he spoke of the devil tempting Jesus. You hung on every word.

Mother steps aside and makes the sign of the cross, you’re next. A sheep guided by the dutiful shepherd, a lamb onto his slaughter.

Your chin tilts upwards, eyes locked onto your part-time captor. He only has you for a few seconds this time, but his attention is a hallway— every door is a pitfall. Aizawa’s gaze turns red when he looks upon you again— a bright, bloody, captivating red. You’ve convinced yourself it’s a trick of the light. But you see them in the dark too.

“The Body of Christ,” his voice is a welcome mat in front of an asylum, holding out the wafer and obscuring one painfully beautiful eye.

“Amen.” You know you’re part, but you can’t hear your own voice.

Father watches as your eyes close and your mouth opens, a quiet obedience, nothing at all out of the ordinary. Your fingers tingle with how tight you’re holding them together.

He places the Body to your awaiting tongue. It tastes like a harsh nothing that will stick to the back of your throat for the rest of mass. You take Christ in pieces, letting it start to melt into the roof of your mouth.

Shouta brushes your bottom lip before retracting. It’s subtle, an accident— the smallest touch of chilling skin. No one notices, the earth doesn’t stop on its axis for anyone else. You step aside and follow your Mother back to the wooden pews like nothing out of the ordinary stirs in your heart.

You feel Father’s eyes on the back of your skirt. They feel red.

“Your sweet girl here has offered a helping hand getting prepared for a youth retreat the church is hosting next week.” After mass, the stop to shake Father’s hand is inevitable, a pleasantry every parishioner makes time for before shuffling out for Sunday brunch.

He speaks over your quiet, “Good morning, Father Shouta,” right as your family turns to leave, almost as if he had been mulling over whether or not it was worth a mention. He regards them with a veiled casualty, never once looking at you.

Father’s face is kind when he wants it to be, laying a hand in the middle of your shoulder blades, it's a feeling of comfort you can’t help but lean into, “We’re discussing how to remain chaste in a sinful world.”

The word ‘chaste’ is pinched into your spine and despite yourself, you smile. A heavy heart has found home at the bottom of your stomach, but you can’t let on to the sick churning in your gut. Your parents gleam with pride for their daughter. A perfect example of a good Catholic girl.

“I’ll have her meet at my office this evening, is six okay?” His question sounds like your dowry, talking past you and asking for your parents permission.

Your dad shakes Father Shout’s hand once more, delighted at how his diligent parenting must be the reason you’ve found yourself in holy favor. Said ‘parenting’ is definitely to blame, but not in the way your dad assumes.

*** *** ***

The walk through church and into the sacristy is like a meditation in fear, every step begging you to turn back, to run home like a scared child. You tread steady, feet searing on hot coals until you’re met with the sound of Father Shouta just beyond the threshold.

“You’re late.” Something sinister fills Father’s quarters as soon as you open the door. It’s scary how offhandedly he can lie. You’re at least ten minutes early, the evening toll of church bells will signal the hour. He wants to see if you’ll stutter, if you’ll argue. You stay quiet, busying your hands with the hem of your skirt, fingers lifting it slightly before you remember who owns the eyes sitting across the room. They look golden from here, a honey you could drown in. You cough at the feeling of sugar in your lungs before collecting yourself and awaiting instruction.

Seemingly pleased with your docility, he smiles wide and crooked. It’s bound into a book he will whisper into you page by page. It’s written in a language only he knows.

Shouta motions you farther inside, leaning back in his seat. He corrects you when you move to sit in the chair on the other side of his desk, waiting with little patience as you settle against his side instead. Your posture is stiff being this close, being this alone.

His facial hair is trimmed neatly, small scars litter his face, the most pronounced a jagged trail under his right eye. From the dim evening light, you see a shadow of loose hairs make a pointed crown around his head.

“St. Teresa of Avila,” Father starts, tapping his fingers against a small stack of papers, “what do you know of her?”

You’re disarmed, the question seems so innocent-- not a note of ulterior motive detectible. Even so, your guard remains high. His intentions need no subtext.

“St. Teresa of Avila, the patron saint of headache sufferers,” you’re struggling to see the point, but Father prompts you to continue, “she was a Spanish nun, she wrote about a prayerful life,”

After another moment of measured silence, you grow even more tense, “Father Shouta, forgive me, I don’t understand,”

You’re hushed with a laugh, the small collection of papers placed in your hands. The first leaf is titled with large letters, “The Life of Teresa of Jesus.”

“I’d like you to read the section I’ve highlighted.”

You shake, thumbing through until you find a block of text traced in bright yellow. You scan its contents, but are quickly interrupted by Shouta’s next request.

“Out loud.”

There’s no escaping the toy box.

His stare is unwavering, giving you no room for objection. They’re not soft like honey anymore, Father Shouta’s eye’s are harsh, bloody gemstones.

You know better than to keep him waiting, adjusting in your half sat position on the side of his desk, you begin reading with hoarse inflection, “In his hands I saw a long golden spear, and at the end of the iron tip I seemed to see a point of fire. With this he seemed to pierce my heart several times so that it penetrated to my entrails.”

Wincing, the words sound like a stranger in your ears. After every sentence, Shouta’s fingertips inch closer to the end of your skirt, right above the knee. You’d be stoned for this kind of hemline at home, but with Father it seems to be exactly the sacred skin he wanted to see.

His hands move, unwavering, as you continue with the annotated paragraph, “When he drew it out, I thought he was drawing them out with it and he left me completely afire with a great love of God.” Fingers stop their gentle assault before adding pressure to your inner thigh, he peels apart your legs with a wordless prompting to keep going.

“The pain was so sharp that it made me utter several moans; and so excessive was the sweetness caused me by this intense pain that one can never wish to lose it, nor will one’s soul be content with anything less than God.”

By the last several words, Father Shouta’s lips are centered in between your open thighs, you feel tears frozen in the duct. You want to pull away, to escape, but his lips hold something you’ve never been this close to.

“Piety is a virtue,” you can feel the hot breath against your most intimate planes of flesh, “but our God is one of pleasure too.”

His kiss feels like branding. An aimless, confused lamb seared with the mark of its owner.

You cry out, loud and broken, when his mouth meets the cotton covering your pussy. Shouta uses his pointer and middle finger to move the fabric away.

No one has ever seen these parts of you, kept locked away for your future husband until now, sitting in the heart of your family's church, writhing from even the slightest touch.Hips buck of their own accord, and you’re granted one last open-mouthed lave against your twitching cunt. His tongue peaks out slightly to catch your clit before pulling away.

You move as if possessed, falling to your knees in front of your Father. Your mouth opens, that same quiet obedience, and his finger brushes your lower lip again. “No one” you think, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of fingers wrapped into the back of your hair, “no one can serve two masters.”

“Body and soul, you’re mine.”

But there’s not a soul left in sight.

✞ 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞: All writing is chiwhorei’s original content, please do not repost or modify. Do no read my content as asmr. Do not recommend me on TikTok.©️

[cartierbin]

request — hey! if you aren’t too busy with school and stuff could you make a d!lf hyunjin or felix and just make it super rough

『 pairing — hyunjin x reader

genre — smut + mafia lord dilf!hyunjin and his four year old daughter’s teacher + gunplay type shit

word count — 1.2k

notes — hope you enjoy this loves. 』

smut under the cut !

“you have someone who wants to see you, mr. hwang”. his assistant reassured, clutching her clipboard a little too tightly to her chest. the blonde haired man allowed the thick white smoke to rise from his lips and settle into the air around him. he closed a file on his desk, beckoning his hand towards the door. “let them in”. to look as well kept and intimidating as hyunjin looked, he was actually a soft spoken man. stern, but soft spoken. his office door swung open and in came a woman he thought he’d never see here. usually, when women came into office they only wanted one thing and one thing only. it never crossed his mind that his very own daughter’s teacher wanted that same thing. when you walked in you were timid. the way his blonde hair sifted over his eyes and how luscious he looked in his suit jacket and open dress shirt beneath it, with multiple necklaces dangling at the center of his chest. you hesitantly sat in the seat in front of his desk and tried to divert your gaze elsewhere. you didn’t want to come off more lustful than you already were. especially since you didn’t know your boundaries.

his eyes skimmed over your skin tight salmon colored dress, attentive to the way it hugged you in all the right places. “may I ask you what you’re doing here?”. he questions, assuming that you knew what he was talking about. you, his daughter’s teacher coming to seek him. “I heard the pay here was good. and you know my occupation pays very little. I need something to help me make ends meet”. he gives you an unsettling stare, folding his arms on the table. “do you know what you’re getting yourself into? this isn’t just some regular job. we kill people”. you nod nervously, “I know I know I just can’t find anyone else who pays just as good as you do. I really need the money”. he dropped his eyes again over your body, trying to figure out what a beautiful woman like you would do if you were to work for him. you were much too pretty to be in harm’s way. he leans back in his chair with another intake of his cigar, allowing the smoke to cloud over his eyes. "tell me. what's your prissy little ass going to do if you work for me? do you know how to shoot a gun? can you handle money well? are you good with drugs?". you swallowed, knowing in your heart of hearts that you have never done any of those things in your life. maybe handling money could suffice. you thought back to your teen years, when you were a cashier for a grocery store. as far as anything goes, that's the most experience you've ever had with handling money. then again, grocery store cash was never much. definitely wasn't the huge amounts of cash hyunjin was referring to. he could tell you were thinking to yourself. he could tell that you were indecisive. he could tell you were inexperienced. that was one thing that he never tolerated.

"looks like you came to the wrong job didn't you? if you're not a made man how will I hire you? did you come in here to waste my time?". you quickly shook your head no becoming frightened at the hint of frustration in his voice. he could've had any weapon behind his desk for all you knew. and you hadn't planned on coming here just to die. "no mr.hwang I don't want to waste your time at all. I just need money and these other jobs aren't going to help me. I'm willing to take whatever training I can". hell no. hyunjin would never put an inexperienced worker on the job. which is why when he skimmed your body again with his eyes, a smirk flickered at the edge his lips. he lifts himself up from his seat which startled you a bit. you didn't know what he was planning on doing but the sudden movement was unexpected. "I don't train. all my workers are experienced and it'll remain that way". as much as you wanted to pay attention to the sudden drop of octave in his voice, your eyes shifted to the silver weapon in his hand. your body immediately grew cold. he leans on the front of his desk and stares down at you, smirking. "but... since my wife doesn’t please me enough I think I can use someone like you”. he swiped his tongue over his supple lips and your chest flooded with nervousness. “use me?”. you could’ve sworn you heard the gun click at that moment. he leans down and presses his lips against your ear. “how would you like it if I hired you as my sex worker?”. you swallowed. not expecting those kind of words to even fall from his lips. you hummed, at the edge of an answer. you felt the cold metal of the gun sweep along your thighs, he started to rub small circles into your inner thighs with it. “don’t act like you don’t want it”. he breathed down the nape of your neck. you shivered, feeling trapped yet turned on at how heated the room had gotten.

you were still sitting when he steps behind you, clasping his fingers around your neck whilst dragging the gun between your bare legs. you panicked. never in your life have you had a gun so close to your body before, nevertheless touching your skin. your heart thudded around in your chest as your dress drew upwards exposing your panties. he dipped the gun into the front of them, sitting it right on top of your pubic mound. you flinched and gripped his forearm. “to be my sex worker means that I can use your body whenever and however I want. are you willing to be used?”. your breathing became heavier while you nodded and swallowed, praying that his fingers weren’t on the trigger. he inches the gun just at the entrance of your hole, he teased achingly slow like the sly man he was. he loved the way you gasped each time he pushed the barrel deeper, he loved feeling you shiver in his grip while he kept clicking it leaving you on the edge. on the edge of thinking that he was going to shoot it any second. he basked in your fear, it made his heart warm. “you’ll be paid a generous salary, thousands by the hour. however just know that if any information you’ve heard ever leave these walls, I’m not afraid to kill you”. you squirmed while he worked the gun, fucking your pussy with it deep and slow. you opened your thighs wider, strewing your head back just a tad. you heard everything he said, it was just difficult for you to reply. your choked up moans was making him hard. It was challenging for even his wife to do that. she hadn’t got him worked up in months. he felt the gun become slippery at how wet your were becoming. your hardened nipples perked straight up underneath the fabric of your dress and sheer bra. “do you understand me?”. he questions all while trying to seem unfazed. “yes, yes I understand”. you stuttered with your legs trembling around the gun. “you get wet so fast I already know I’ll be fucking the shit out of you”.

with the way he was aggressively thrusting the weapon in between your folds, he didn’t have to. your mouth gaped open in bliss. every time you thought he would slow down and have a little mercy he didn’t. that was just the nature of hwang hyunjin. your hips jerked onto the piece of metal desperate to cum. It was shameful how much your stomach churned at the pleasure you received from just a weapon alone. he could click it as much as he wanted but you grew fond of the thrill. the thrill that a loaded gun was sinking into your channel with a pleasure that had you seeing stars. you reached up to grip his forearm with two hands. “you like this shit don’t you? you like when guns play with your little pussy?”. you groaned a breathless yes, growing overwhelmed with how low his voice tone dropped. you needed to make ends meet but you never thought you’d be making it this way. at the hands of a mafia lord who only wants to use you. “you will come to me whenever I call you. whenever I need you I’m going to fucking wreck your body. are you willing to take all of that?”. you nod much more vigorously now with your lips sealed, and sparks flying through your torso. he tightens his grip around your neck and tilts your head back further until your eyes were feasting his above. “open your mouth”. you dropped your jaw, unsure of what he wanted until you saw a long string of saliva transfer from his lips to your tongue. “as long as you’re an absolute slut for me you’ll never struggle again”. he pumped the gun in and out of your wet hole until you were creaming down the front of it, your body spasming from the intensity of it all. he pulled it out of you, shoving the barrel between his lips to clean your mess. it was sexy the way he done it, his thick tongue swirling around the piece of metal.

“welcome to the family. I’ll call you my mistress”.

[august-bleeds-red]

Texas Heat (Part Two)

Alpha!Tommy x omega!Reader (AFAB). When you find yourself trapped within the Hewitt family’s web of murder, violence and pain, the last thing you expect to do is fall in love.

Warnings: implied non-con, gore. NSFW in later chapters.

Part One / Part Two / Part Three

~

Dinner that night is stew.

 You help Luda cut the vegetables, but the meat is already simmering in the pot by the time you come down. Thomas is nowhere to be seen, and when you ask where he is, as casually as possible, Luda answers with a sly grin.

 “Oh, he’s probably workin’ down in the basement. Often doesn’t eat ‘til later, ‘specially when we have guests. He’s awful shy, you see.”

 You don’t mention the way he’d stared at you upstairs – more domineering and intense than anyone else you’d have described as “shy”.

 “I hope you don’t mind me asking—” you begin to say, but she’s already nodding, clearly anticipating your next words.

 “His face?”

 You nod. Setting down the knife she’s using to slice the carrots, she adjusts her spectacles and glances towards the door you presume leads to the basement.

 “He’s awful sensitive about it. We don’t usually talk about it, but I don’t want you to be makin’ any nasty judgements ‘bout him.”

 “Of course not, I wouldn’t.”

 She pats your arm and continues chopping the carrots. “I found him when he was just born. Some cruel no-goods had left him to die in a trash can. Lord knows what filthy things he was exposed to in there before I took him home. He started gettin’ skin complaints when he was a boy. Real bad. The other kids used to tease him for it, call him ‘diseased’. Got too much for him so he took a knife and . . .” She presses the tips of her fingers to her mouth and shakes her head. “Sorry, still gets to me.”

 “I understand,” you say, your heart aching empathetically. “I’m sorry.”

 She pats your arm again and sighs, “You’re a good girl, Y/N.”

 For some reason, she says this with a note of sadness which makes you uneasy again. You don’t have long to dwell on it, though, before Hoyt enters the room.

 “How’s that stew comin’ on, Momma?” he asks jovially.

 You help set the table and bow your head respectfully while Hoyt says Grace, accepting your bowl of stew with a grateful smile. The meat is tender, with an unusual flavour you can’t quite place. You figure it must be some kind of game animal you’ve not tasted before, or herbs mixed in with the broth. It’s good, whatever it is. You help yourself to the cornbread Luda offers you and try not to be disconcerted by the way Monty is staring at you.

 He’s just a dirty old man, you try and convince yourself. Ignore him.

 Though it’s not that late by the time your plate is cleared, you claim tiredness and go upstairs to your tiny room. Closing the door behind you, you wish there was some kind of furniture you could prop against it; the chest of drawers is far too heavy for you to move inconspicuously. You don’t feel quite comfortable enough to change into the camisole you usually wear for sleeping, so decide to remain in your shorts and T-shirt. One night won’t hurt. You brush your teeth in the tiny sink, making a mental note to rinse your toothbrush with clean water before using it again, and curl up on top of the blanket. The air is thick and humid, and you’re soon wishing you could just sleep naked. Your own scent hangs heavy in the air and you curse your time of the month. Even with the precautions prescribed to you, your heat was always strong, but it never has this much of a toll on you. You remember your first – you were ten, an early bloomer, and it had hit you at summer camp. It was the height of August, and the counsellors had found you whimpering in a corner of the dorm, hugging a pillow and grinding frantically against it.

 That was the last time you went to camp.

 Could it be because of Thomas? Is that why your body is reacting so strongly?

 Growling in frustration, you reach for your bag and grope inside for your pills. The doctors only advise taking three pills in a single day under extreme circumstances, but being under the same roof as an alpha as intimidating as Thomas Hewitt strikes you as pretty damn extreme. It takes you almost three whole minutes to realise the awful truth – the pills aren’t there. You know you put them back in the inside pocket earlier, the same place you always do. They’re definitely gone.

 Your heart starts pounding and you feel that prickling sense of danger creep over you again. It would have been easy for Hoyt, Monty, or even Thomas to come in here and take the pills while you were downstairs helping Luda. Which means they know. Perhaps you were kidding yourself that you could lie to them.

 You decide not to take any chances. Even without your car, there was no way you could stay here. Your parents would understand. Perhaps you could even call the cops when you got to the next town and ask them to fetch it for you. Gathering your belongings as quietly as possible, you open the door just a crack and peer out down the darkened hallway. All is still. You manage to make no sound all the way to the top of the stairs, taking care not to step in the centre of each step as you tiptoe down.

 You’re almost at the door when you hear it – a low, keening moan.

 You turn glacially slowly to look at the basement door. You could kid yourself that it was a dog, but you know in your bones that’s not the case.

 “Please . . .” the voice calls plaintively. A girl. “Help me . . .”

 Fear washes over you like a bucket of ice water. You should go – you know you should go. The door is right in front of you.

 “Pleeeeease . . .” the voice sobs.

 Your parents’ faces swim before your eyes. You think of what they’d suffer were you to never come home. You brother, your sister, your friends . . .

 “Oh God, help me . . .”

 “God damn it,” you whisper through gritted teeth. With a quick glance upstairs, you tread as light as a spider down the corridor towards the basement. The girl’s voice gets louder – it’s definitely coming from down there. The door is unlocked when you twist the handle, pulling it towards you just enough to slip inside and down the rickety steps beyond. A large pool of water is gathered at the foot of the stairs, too large for you to avoid. You wince as the damp soaks through your sneakers and socks.

 Two large hunks of meat are hanging from hooks along the wall. You think they may have once been pigs, though the head and limbs are all hacked away. You find the girl – a petite blonde in a short blue dress – on a filthy mattress, roped to a pipe in one corner of the room. She looks as though she’s been there for days, weeks, even. Her skin is bruised, and you can tell by her frightened scent that she’s a beta. You can also smell Hoyt’s potent musk on her – in her hair, in the smears of congealed fluid between her legs.

 She smells you before she sees you, eyes searching disbelievingly in the half-dark. You quickly stifle her mouth with your hand before she cries out.

 “Keep quiet, okay?” you hiss. You pick at the tightly-knotted rope, breaking a fingernail in your attempt to untie it. “Fuck.”

 “Oh God,” she gasps.

 “Shh, it’s okay, I’m gonna—”

 “NO!” she screams, her body falling into a fit of panicked flailing. Her eyes are big and brimming with fear, staring over your shoulder.

 The scent reaches you just before Thomas’s fingers do.

 You duck and back away from the captured girl, who continues screaming like she’s being sliced apart. Every nerve in your body is yelling at you to flee, to fight, to do anything besides what you are doing – which is staring like a deer in headlights up at Thomas approaching you. His scent is almost overpowering, and despite the terror seizing you, you feel a warm stream of slick trickling down the inside of your thigh.

 He gives a sharp intake of breath and rumbles deep in his chest. Your knees tremble, and you unconsciously breathe in the heady aroma surrounding the enormous man. Your breath shudders as it leaves you. Your instincts are commanding you to stay, to submit, to give yourself to this alpha; you can already feel your body leaning into him.

 The basement door slams open and Hoyt’s angry voice preceeds his heavy footsteps.

 “Nuff of this dang caterwauling, some of us’re tryin’ to sleep!”

 He stops dead at the wall of scent surrounding you, and a sly grin takes over his rugged features. “Well, lookee here.”

 Reaching inside his pocket, he pulls out a small foil strip that you recognise instantly.

 “Guess somebody’s not just a plain ole beta after all, huh?”

 “You asshole,” you spit, your disdain for Hoyt overriding your lust for just a moment.

 “That’s not very polite now, is it?” he says. He moves casually towards the whimpering blonde, who stares in terrified anticipation up at him. He reaches down and strokes her hair, and she cringes away from his touch. “Tommy, why don’t you teach this little bitch a lesson in manners?”

 Thomas takes two short strides towards you, but you dart out from under his grasp and sprint towards the stairs. The girl you’re abandoning screams after you, but all you can think of now is to escape, battling the nagging tug at the back of your mind that’s still desperately reaching out for Thomas.

 You somehow make it up the steps and through the door, your footsteps crashing on the boards as you fly down the hall. You throw your entire weight against the front door, splintering the wood surrounding the lock as you burst out into the night.

 You breathe in lungfuls of air as you sprint across the field, heading for the road. You’ve never been a fast runner, but the adrenaline pumping through your veins has you practically leaping like a gazelle. Your feet catch on stones and loose earth, threatening you with a fall, but you just manage to keep your balance. The sound of pounding footsteps behind you sends a sharp spike of fear into your gut, and if you weren’t running you may have vomited.

 You vaguely recognise another sound – a deep, mechanical roar – but you don’t want to risk glancing over your shoulder to see if it is what you think. He’s getting closer, you can smell him, you can hear his laboured breathing, you can feel his fingers grasping at your hair—

 He overshoots you by a good ten strides when you fall to the ground, scraping your hands and knees on hard soil. Turning to face your supine form, he brandishes the growling chainsaw clutched in his massive hands.

 You’re dead. You must be. How can you possibly expect any other outcome from this situation? Scrambling to your knees, you try to rise, but the metal teeth of the chainsaw brush too close; you can almost taste your own blood. Thomas’s eyes, black with rage, focus on you. His chest is heaving, his muscular arms flexing as he prepares to deal the killing blow—

 “Alpha!” you shriek, the word spilling from your tongue before you can recognise its meaning. “Alpha, please!”

 He freezes, arms aloft, staring down at you in surprise and disbelief.

 You crawl forwards, reaching out a shaking hand to touch his booted foot. “Please . . . p-please don’t kill me.”

 He glances up towards the house. You can tell he’s not used to making decisions without approval, but Hoyt isn’t here to spit poison in his ear.

 “I’ll . . . I’ll be yours.” You can’t believe the words you’re saying. “Please, alpha . . . you can have me. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t kill me.”

 He steps back and shakes his head angrily, but not in refusal – more like he’s trying to rid your honeyed words from his head as a bull might dislodge a persistent fly. Taking your life in your hands, you slowly rise to your feet and proffer your sweating hands towards him; the scent from your wrists glands is strong, unavoidable. The chainsaw powers down, and his arms slowly fall to waist-height. You take careful hold of one wrist and detach his fingers from the chainsaw handle. Keeping your gaze locked with his, you part your dry lips and press the flat of your tongue against his own wrist, licking a long, slow stripe. His skin is salty with sweat, the musk beneath deep and earthy, hitting the back of your throat like spice. You feel a shudder pass through his body and go one step further – baring your teeth just enough to nip the tender, swollen skin. The chainsaw falls heavily to the ground as he grabs you, one hand twisting the skin of your wrist, the other securing the back of your neck, fingers knotted in your hair. You stare up at him, heart dancing, skin tingling, fear and lust seeking dominance in your stomach. His teeth are bared behind the gap in his mask, his brow furrowed in bewildered rage and desire. You lift the hand still free from his grip and, as tenderly as though handling a baby sparrow, touch the gland at the nape of his neck. The skin is raised and warm, and his eyes close almost in reverence at the contact.

 “What in Lord’s name’re you doin’, boy?!” Hoyt’s furious voice startles you both. He’s hurrying up behind you, shotgun under one arm, glaring between you and Thomas.

 In a swift, one-handed movement, Thomas pulls you flush against his body, your nose filling with the metallic scent of blood imbedded in his apron – which, it occurs to you, is undoubtedly human blood.

 Hoyt stops in his tracks, assessing the situation before him. You, pliant and submissive in Thomas’s arms; Thomas, dominant and possessive, ready to protect you from the threat Hoyt poses. The older man sighs, chuckling softly.

 “Well, I’ll be damned.” Swinging the shotgun to rest on his shoulder, he shakes his grizzled head. “Y’sure, Tommy? She’d taste mighty sweet with Mama’s hot biscuits.”

 Thomas’s grip tightens and you whimper – he’s about to break your wrist. His fingers immediately loosen, and you see a flash of what could almost be called concern cross his face. Hoyt rolls his eyes and turns, heading back towards the farmhouse.

 “Come on, then.”

 Before you can protest, Thomas sweeps you up into a bridal embrace, pressing your body against his broad chest. Tears prick your eyes as you’re brought back to the place you fought so hard to escape from. As you’re carried over the threshold, Hoyt shoots you a nasty grin.

 “Welcome to the family, Little Miss Omega.”    

~

Comments are greatly appreciated because I’m a needy little trashbag.               

[kittiesluvyou]

You Can’t Outrun Megaout

Summary: Megatron and Knock Out fuse to torment Starscream for fun.

Word Count: Unknown

Inspiration: Megatron and Knock Out fusion by @seehowsupplethespineis

Tw: abuse and vomit

“It appears that Starscream has failed again at collecting more dark energon for my stores, dear Knock Out. How incompetent can he be with not only multiple failed assassination attempts to rule the Decepticons, but also going into the energon mines and finding more dark energon?! Are my beatings not working on him anymore, am I not hitting him hard enough, should I not bash his head to the point of bleeding?” Megatron paced back-and-forth in Knock Out’s med bay, his hands crossed behind his back.

Knock Out knew that his questions were all rhetorical, so he didn’t offer a response. He stood against his dissecting bed, arms and legs crossed, and let Megatron rant about his “problem child”. “I’m an excellent leader, but HE doesn’t believe so! UGH! I swear to Primus he is such a baby sometimes. All he does is cry, whine, and act like that he’s so much better than me!” Knock Out’s eyes widened Megatron has just given him the best idea ever. “Lord Megatron, forgive me for intruding on your grievances, but you just gave me a brilliant, horrible, awful idea.” He smirked and strutted seductively towards him, placing his hands softly on Megatron’s chest. “Knock Out, this better not involve any kind of sexual acts or I’ll kill you on the spot.” “Oh no, no, no, my liege! I’m suggesting a fusion of us to scar poor Screamer for life. With your need of command and my way of using amusement as a weapon, we’d be an unstoppable duo that Starscream would learn to fear.”

“Knock Out,” Megatron grabbed the medic’s hands, removed them from his chest, and dipped him. “That is by far the best idea that you’ve ever had. As soon a Soundwave sends a groundbridge for Starscream, that’ll be our time to act.” Megatron and Knock Out danced until a flash of light protruded from their bodies forming a being with a white polo shirt, a dark red coat, greyish-red hair, black earrings, black pants, and silver shoes. He also had white and sharp shark-like teeth His name was Megaout and he would make Starscream pay for his many sins against not only Megatron, but to the Decepticons as a whole.

Starscream walked out of the groundbridge and onto the main deck of the Teletraan I. He was carrying two crates of dark energon, there should’ve been more; however, the Autobots stole most of it for Ratchet’s research experiment. “Lord Megatron, I’ve only managed to collect two crates of dark energon before I got scrapped by Bumblebee and Arcee! I know that you’ve asked for twenty, but I couldn’t risk dying over energon so I retreated with these two crates.” He set the boxes down on the floor and was about to walk away when he heard an unusual voice, it sounded like Knock Out was possessed by a demon “You’re a failure, Starscream! I asked for twenty dark energon crates and all I get in return are two?! Look at you, even with that scared look on your face,” his eyes were a dark magenta color (courtesy of all of the dark energon that Megatron had been intaking into his system. “Kn-Knock Out?! If this is a prank, then you can knock it off right now!” Megaout giggled “Your puns are worse than your fashion sense.” He emerged from the corner behind the wall to show himself to him.

Just one look at this guy made his blood run cold, his legs were quaking, he wanted to escape. “You need to...RUN!” Starscream took off to the only place where he felt safe, which is in his own chambers. Megaout was faster than he was, so it wasn’t a problem when he tackled him to the ground and sent them both flying 30 kilometers. He locked Starscreams’ wrists on the ground and snarled “your fast, Screamer, but not fast enough.” He punched him in his left eye, leaving a blue and purple bruise. He punched him in the gut so hard that it matches the same way Megatron would always punch him; merciless and ravenous. Starscream tried to curl up on his side but he forgot that his fate lied in the fate of this...person.

“WHO ARE YOU?!” He shrieked as blood surged from his mouth. “My dear, sweet, cowardly Starscream, I AM A FUSION OF MEGATRON AND KNOCK OUT, I AM YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE, I LIVE ONLY TO TORMENT YOU! I. AM. MEGAOUT!” “That explains where that name came from,” he croaked out suddenly finding the courage to kick him off of his body. He then dashed to his chambers, trying to fight back his tears “I’ll cry once I’m safe.” He whispered.

Once he made it to his chambers, he immediately went to the restroom to empty out the contents in his stomach, which most of it was blood anyways. His feet were burning from running in his stilettoes, so he took them off; however, he left his pink socks on. He got into his sideways fetal position on the hard, cold, metallic floor and sobbed “Knock Out why? Do you not love me anymore? Is that why you beat me to a bloody pulp? You allowed Megatron to fuse with you just to torment me, didn’t you? Well, it worked!” He laughed hysterically, his hair was disheveled, his clothes were stained with blood, and he looked completely crazed; and his eyes were still watery. “I’M MORE AFRAID OF YOU THAN MEGATRON! CONGRATULATIONS, KNOCK OUT! I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY NOW!” His cries now sounded like laughter with every hiccup that he had.

“Soundwave has just installed his new security camera in Starscreams’ chambers and you might want to have a look, Knock Out.” Megatron stepped out of the way to let him have a better look at the shivering, bloody, wreck that was Starscream. “Shall I attend to his medical needs, Lord Megatron?” “No. Besides, he’s more scared of you now than he is of me; and that says a lot considering that you two are so...close to each other.” “It’s not personal if that’s what you’re thinking, it’s all business.” “Oh really? Then perhaps you could explain what you meant when you said ‘you’re no Breakdown. Though I must confess, I’ve always admired your lustrous finnish’?” Knock Out disguised his blush by putting his elbow to his face like he was about to sneeze “that was nothing, Lord Megatron, that was a little...sarcastic quip that I made. It was meant to be sarcastic, I swear upon the All Spark.” “Very well, just don’t have any...moments like that ever again or you and Starscream will be severely punished.”

Knock Out gave a small bow “as you wish, Lord Megatron.” He started to walk away. “I’ll be in my chambers if you need me.” In his chambers, he felt like he couldn’t move. He felt like he was chained on his satin bed, he could feel his head pounding, his stomach felt weak. His guilt was devouring him over what he did to Starscream, his only other companion on this forsaken ship. “Starscream, I’m so sorry...I didn’t mean to...I wanted to get you back for all of the times you’ve treated me like dirt...I should’ve known that it would end like this.” Of course, Starscream couldn’t hear any of what he said, but he will apologize in the morning during breakfast and try his absolute hardest to make it up to him, no matter if it was the cost of his status as medic or even his own life.

[unimooshi]

Christmas Fluff Snippet Megapost

(brought to you by your host Mooshi bc I’m stuck at home and wanna procrastinate cleaning my room :) )

Rated: G/Fluff

Relationship(s): Literally as many I can think within the span of 3 hours as they’re all basically 1 paragraph long. Feel free to read whichever ones you want I’m making word soup rn. We smackin’ tonight kings, queen, and royals in between😌😭✨

All relationships can be whatever universe you want, unless stated otherwise. Have a good time

Also please keep in mind that I haven’t read a lot of the comics and have a limited knowledge on the cartoons bc I haven’t watched some of them, but I’ll try my best to write out the dynamic as I see it.

1) Starscream/Optimus (StarPrime) you knew we were gonna start with OTP

“I know you wanted to visit Earth for a small vacation, but did you really have to choose the coldest of Earth months to visit?”, Starscream said with borderline disgust as he stared at the snow at the bottom of their ship, the only redeeming thing about the environment was the setting sun.

He kneeled down and scooped up a pile of snow, watching it crumble away between his digits. His internal heating system kicking into overdrive to compensate, little puffs of steam floating into the air. It wasn’t that it was cold, the issue was how wet it would be. The mess that would be made inside their circuits and the water dripping from exposed wiring made Starscream shiver.

“No, I didn’t have to but Earth has such a happy culture this time of year and I wanted to share that with you. I think you’ll like Christmas. Cheer up, let’s take a walk.” , Optimus planted a small peck on the side of Starscream’s helm and stepped outside, the soft crunch of snow following the Prime.

Starscream reluctantly stepped into the snow and groaned with how much water his sensors were already detecting, “How happy could this holiday possibly be with frozen condensation falling from the sky and getting into your circuits?”

“Well, according to what can be found on the internet, it’s an annual religious festival, but most humans use it as a time to see loved ones and celebrate their love for one another.”, Optimus took Starscream’s servo and interlaced it with his own, removing his battle mask to reveal a soft smile with blue optics to match, “and besides you can take a warm lather in the washracks later while I warm up some energon. I know you like watching Earth movies every once in a while.”

Starscream really couldn’t argue with his conjux and just vented out more heat, the puff leaving a trail of white steam as it floated into the evening sky. If being on a mud ball planet meant Optimus would be relaxed then he supposed it would be worth getting his circuits drenched for. Honestly, doing anything was worth it if it meant his Prime would stop thinking about his responsibilities even for just a cycle.

“Your strobes are blinking by the way.”

Starscream stopped walking and flapped his wings into view then dipped them low, brushing it off.

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t.”, Optimus rolled his optics and laughed, holding his conjux’s servo a little tighter.

———

2) Knockout/Breakdown (KOBD)

“Merry Christmas Knockout!”, Breakdown burst into the Medbay with a clumsily wrapped box.

Knockout nearly dropped his datapad and jumped from the sudden intrusion, his servo switched out for his buzz saw until he saw who it was.

“Breakdown!”, Knockout vented out and transformed his servo back, “Don’t scare me like that so suddenly.”

“I’m sorry, but I just wanted to finally give you this. I knew you just had to have it when I saw it and I really hope you like it.”

“All is forgiven. Thank you.”, Knockout casually tore away at the wrapping and lifted the lid, his optics glowing brighter.

“Well...do you like it?”

“Like it? I love it!”, Knockout unfolded the white stripe vinyl inside to it’s full length, laughing with a full smile, “You always know just what to get me!”

He put his gift down on the examination table and went to go hug his conjux, climbing up a little to properly plant a kiss.

As high as the mood was brought up, it was quickly shot down again.

“Wait, I’m not done with your gift yet.”, Knockout left for his datapad and scrolled through something.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to give me one. Your company is the only gift I need.”, Breakdown tried to comfort his conjux, but Knockout held out a servo to stop him.

“That’s a sweet sentiment, but it doesn’t feel fair if I had my gift before yours is even done and I don’t want you seeing it while it’s incomplete.”

“I’m sure I’ll like it even if it’s unfinished. The thought matters more than what it is. Can you tell me what it is?”

“Are you sure?”

Breakdown nodded excitedly.

Knockout sighed and handed over the datapad, “It’s only about 75% of the way done, but it’s a transcription of that Earth book you wanted to read but couldn’t find an online PDF version of it.”

Breakdown scrolled through the pages of words and felt his frame melt.

“I know it’s not as good as what you gave me but—”

“I love it!”, He lifted Knockout off the ground and squeezed, “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome but watch the paint!”

———

3) Bumblebee/Blitzwing (TFA Blitzbee)

Bumblebee wasn’t one for snow to be perfectly honest. Sure, making snowmen and having snowball fights with Sari were fun, but he mostly did those activities to make her happy as her best friend. The frosty windows on the base served as another reminder as to why he liked to stay inside where it was warm and there was plenty of oil to drink, so it was rather ironic when he started seeing a mech who could make ice and enjoyed just burying himself in the frozen stuff.

“Come outside my little bee~”

Random sang softly and taunted him from outside the Autobot base. The heat from Blitzwing’s system fogging up the window further. Everyone else in the base had retreated back to their rooms for the night, leaving Bee free to do what he wanted in the living room. At least, he would be if there wasn’t a giant beige and purple bot trying to get him outside.

“No way Blitzbrain. It’s beyond freezing out there. I’m not locking up my servos just so you can eat street snow again.”

Bumble whispered harshly and opened the window, a gush of frozen air creeped their way through the cracks of his frame. His central heating system kicked online.

Random’s glossa slithered out of his intake, “Aww why not?”

“Because it’s gross. And that’s saying something when it comes from me!”

Vrrrr.

“I suppose that’s true.”, Icy’s lips pouted outward as he pressed his digits to his chin. His sharp features standing out in the crisp darkness of the night, “But aren’t you the one always wanting to go out? Why is it so different this time?”

“Because time impossible to drive in snow and I don’t wanna deal with traffic.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“So?”

Vrrrr.

“So why don’t you want to come out here and spend some time away from this stupid base you tiny bug bot!”

Bee held a digit to his intake, “I’m right here idiot, you’ll wake everyone up and then they’ll see you and then we’ll have to fight.”

Vrrrr.

“You’re afraid of the snow aren’t you.”

“What? No. That’s not—I’m not afraid of it are you kidding me? Only sparklings are afraid of stupid things like that.”

“Ok, so you just don’t like the cold.”

“So what if I don’t?”

“Even if you can’t drive, it’s still a nice night for flying.”

Bumblebee’s optics widened, “Flying?”

“Yes. Calm winds, clear skies, no organics or bots in the streets, what more could you wait for?”

“You’re gonna take me flying?”, Bee’s voice rose in pitch and he looked up at his mechfriend with stars in his eyes.

Vrrrr.

“If you keep repeating the same thing I’ll crush you with this wall!”

Vrrrr.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen something go splat!”

Random laughed at his own morbid thought.

“Ok, first of all, don’t crush me. You’re like three times my size, you don’t need a wall. Second, as long as I don’t have to get my servos wet I’ll be there in a nanoklik.”

Bumblebee gave a quick peck before racing away to touch himself up a little for his small impromptu date.

———

4) Megatron/Soundwave (MegaWave)

Megatron was busy. Again.

Soundwave didn’t mind it much as he just worked on his reports, but deep in his spark he really hoped he would’ve made some time to be with him. There was no such luck unfortunately. Soundwave knew his leader was always busy which is what made their small times together all the more special and intimate. Nobody ever saw the side of the warlord that he did and he was quite proud of that. It made him feel special.

>Soundwave.

A private communication line blipped open from Megatron. What convenient timing.

>Yes, Lord Megatron?

>I need you to send a message to Shockwave about the latest export of energon. There will be a delay because of Autobot meddling, but it shouldn’t take more than a couple earth cycles to have everything in order.

>Message received. Will be sent as soon as possible.

>Good. By the way Soundwave, I’ve left something for you in your desk compartment. Consider it a token of my appreciation for all you’ve done staying loyal to the Decepticons.

>Understood. Thank you Lord Megatron.

With that, the line cut off and Soundwave was left alone again in the communication center. His optics glanced over at the large compartment in his desk and opened it. Inside he found a small stack of datapads and one single use datapad filled out.

—

‘To: Soundwave

Silent as a thief in the night

You crept into my spark and took flight

Your visor so full of mystery

Yet take away much of my misery

In war there is treachery

In war there is loyalty

No words could ever be strung to say how much you mean to me

Merry Christmas,

From Megatron

—

A/N: I’m done with this post. Whoop. 4 short stories in one post. This is all I could crank out in a few hours. I didn’t anticipate this day to be so busy for me😭😭. I’ve been hanging out with family and dropping off gifts for friends at their door step. You can kinda tel I gave up at the end and poems aren’t really my thing. I’ll finish the rest tomorrow, so just pretend that whatever I post tomorrow was done today. Tell me what you think and have a nice night. I’m gonna pass out now. Mwah.

AND YES WHEN I WRITE MEGS IN ANY FIC HE IS A MUSHY BASTARD WHEN HES NOT AN ASS HAT AND THATS ON SOFT BASTARDS😌✨✨

[duker42]

*****WARNING*****NSFW

💜The Dinner💜

“ERWIN SMITH! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR DAMNED MIND!!!!!!”

Levi smirked as the outraged bellow could be heard throughout the halls of the officer’s quarters. He fastened his cufflinks, and picked up his cravat as he continued getting dressed.

The high ranking officers of the Survey Corps had been invited, or politely ordered, to attend a dinner at Lord Byron’s estate. The invitation had arrived at the remote Headquarters, along with several lavishly ribboned boxes containing specific dresses for the female officers to wear.

Levi had thought it odd that the Lord be so peculiar about what dresses were seen in attendance, but dismissed the issue as it didn’t concern him. He had no interest in the dealings of the interior nobles and their piggish ways. Now with the racket coming from Y/N’s quarters, his interest was piqued.

Slipping on the well tailored suit jacket, he brushed himself off and walked out of his own quarters, heading towards the continued sounds of amplified anger.

“What the fuck kind of dinner is this!!!! I’m not going to whore myself out for your precious budget! You will just have to cut Levi’s tea order!”

Levi’s smirk disappeared as he heard Y/N’s statement. That wasn’t happening, she would wear the damn dress and just shut up before he would allow Erwin to do that. He walked into the opened door to Y/N’s quarters and stopped dead, eyes widening as he took in the scene.

The dress was...........tiny. It could barely be considered decent. That was what Lord Byron had sent for the officers to wear to a formal dinner? Now he understood why she was so outraged. He had never seen anything like it. Skin tight, the red material clung to every dip and curve of her body. It was low cut, the swells and deep valley between her breasts were prominently on display, practically spilling out of the top. The only cover on her shoulders was a tiny strap on one shoulder, the other creamy expanse of skin was completely bare. And short, By the Walls was it short. Stopping barely beneath the curve of her ass, Y/N’s legs seemed to go on for miles as the smooth lengths were available for viewing.

“Y/N, please. Lord Byron assured me that there was nothing untoward happening tonight. He just requested we dine with him and these dresses be worn. If we do this, he will personally fund the next year’s expedition budget.” Erwin pleaded with his officer, still not dressed himself.

Leaning against the door frame, Levi had an internal debate with himself. On the one hand, he despised everything about the nobles and would take the opposing side just for spite. On the other, he would get to see Y/N in this dress for the evening. It was such a tough decision, but in the end, his libido won.

“Y/N, quit bitching and just wear the damn thing. Erwin, can you please get your giant ass out of my girlfriend’s quarters?” He had to push down a laugh at the way Y/N jumped at the sound of his dry voice and quickly turned towards him.

“This is bullshit!!! You get to wear normal clothes!” Y/N whined.

Levi quirked an eyebrow at the situation. “I hope the Lord doesn’t want me in that dress. I don’t have the chest for it” He snickered.

Erwin’s relieved expression was evident as he used the opportunity to move away from his disgruntled squad leader and make his exit. “Y/N, you are wearing the dress. That’s an order. Levi will kill anyone who tries to touch you anyway.”

Levi did laugh quietly when his little spitfire perked up at the mention of violence. He moved over to her, trailing a single finger up her arm and over the bare shoulder, enjoying the slight shudder she made.

“I think I like this Lord Byron. Even if it’s only for this dress.” His voice was low, seductive.

While he hadn’t been looking forward to a boring dinner with equal boring nobles for company, he couldn’t wait to get the evening started. So he could come back to his quarters and peel this dress off Y/N.

“You won’t like him if he tries something.” She countered, trying to think as his hands glided over the exposed flesh.

His steely grey eyes flashed dangerously as he growled out. “He would be stupid to try and touch what is mine.”

Y/N tittered as she stepped closer to the Captain, placing a warm hand on his chest. “So I’m yours now?”

“Yes.” His answer was short and to the point as he curled elegant fingers around her waist, drawing her against him. Skimming his lips over hers, he hears her sharp intake of breath. He loves knowing she is affected by him the same way she twists his insides around.

As he moves to deepen the connection of their mouths, Hanji bursts through the open door.

“Come on you two, the carriages are waiting!” In a blur of long limbs and flying hair, the energetic woman is off.

“Four Eyes isn’t letting the tiny dress upset her, so let’s go. Move that ass.” He pulls away and holds his arm out for her, containing a smirk at the grumbling he hears from her.

He decided he liked the heels she was wearing to accompany the dress as he got a fantastic view of her ass as she climbed gingerly into the carriage.

Sitting across from her, he got the chance to study her overall appearance. She looked amazing. Her hair was curled and swept to the side, exposing that long neck and drawing attention to vast expanse of skin. Kohl lined eyes gave her a seductive look, finished off with lips stained the same color as her dress. Her only jewelry was the delicate earrings that were her grandmothers. He felt a burst of lust and pride looking at the woman he loved.

Arriving at Lord Byron’s estate shortly after his perusal, Levi froze when Y/N uncrossed her legs to prepare to exit the carriage. He could have sworn he saw a flash of skin. Shaking his head slightly, he exited after Mike and Nanaba, turning to help Y/N down. Holding his hand out to her, he watches carefully as she slides closer to the door and moves to step out, flashing the pale pink skin of her sex briefly.

Levi fights to retain his composure. Y/N is sans underwear. There is nothing under that dress but perfume and skin. His body goes slightly numb as he realizes he now had to sit through a boring dinner with this newfound knowledge. As she flashes a grateful smile to him, his pulse is beating a swift tattoo beneath his chest.

Making their way into the large house, Y/N finds all the female guests are similarly attired. Feeling somewhat better at her lack of cover, she begins to relax. Accepting a glass of wine from a server, she begins to chat with Nanaba and Hanji as Mike, Erwin and Levi are pulled away by the host to discuss some important issue. Most likely an excuse to bar themselves in a room and drink expensive scotch.

Dinner is announced as the men rejoin the ladies. Taking her arm, Levi leads Y/N into the large opulent dining room, making sure to sit on her left side. The first course is served and Levi watches Y/N observe the conversations around her. He had already noticed that the females here were from the military and all were wearing that same small dress in different colors. It seemed the Lord Byron was a bit of a lecher, and used his influence to provide his optical entertainment for the evening.

After wiping his mouth, he returned the napkin to his lap and made the first move. Slowly sliding his hand over, he set his palm lightly on Y/N’s smooth thigh. He felt her tense for a moment before she relaxed, looking at him gratefully as she took a sip of her wine. She had thought he was reassuring her, and he fought to keep the grin from coming to his lips.

Gently, he started tracing random pattern’s in her skin, keeping the touch feather light. Running from her knee to the hem of her dress, he stroked her skin, paying special attention to her sensitive inner thigh. She tightened her thighs around his hand in warning, and received a light pinch in return.

He removed his hand as the staff came to remove their plates and serve the next course. Y/N breathed a small sigh of relief. Levi was distracting her with those skilled hands of his. He had to have known what he was doing to her, and it had surprised her for him to do it in such a public setting. He was always very protective of their relationship, preferring to keep their affections behind closed doors.

As she proceeded to take a bite of the delicate beef of the main course, his warm hand returned to her leg, fingers hooking up underneath the tight dress. Calling attention to herself, Y/N chokes on the food, coughing as she tries to breath properly.

“Alright, brat?” A raised eyebrows meets her glare as she see the amusement swimming in his grey orbs. “Don’t die from pleasure.” His low, wry comment made her bite back a growl.

The smug bastard was enjoying her discomfort as he toyed with the hem. Y/N squirmed, trying to avoid his touch as his fingers worked closer to their goal. A slight moan escaped her as the first contact of his warm fingers made their way to her lips. She cursed her traitorous body as she responded to his touch.

“Good isn’t it?” The older man to her right startled her as he lean over to speak. At her obviously confused expression, he motioned to the food on her plate. “You seem to be really enjoying dinner.”

Levi raised his wine glass to his lips, taking a sip to hide the smirk that fought to make it’s way onto his face.

“Um, yeah. It’s really good.” Y/N flushed, embarrassed her reactions had caught someone’s attention.

She went back to studying her plate diligently as the fingers under her dress continues to slowly stroke the folds of her center. The conversation flowed around her as she used all of her willpower to not move or make a sound.

Desert was complete torture for Y/N. After the plate had been set before her, Levi had pushed one slender finger inside her. Gasping, she could only give a pleasured expression as she went to lift the fork to her mouth. The others around her nodded, thinking her reaction was from the sweet confection, rather than the stimulations of her lover’s hand beneath the table cloth.

Finally, the plates were taken up as Levi removed his hand from her lap, leaving her on the edge of a orgasm in a room full of people. She didn’t know if she should sigh in relief or beg him to finish her off. With a wicked grin, she watched as he slowly brought the glistening digit up and carefully cleaned it with his mouth, eyes dark with lust focused on her.

“Delicious.” He declared, his face rearranging itself into it’s normal passive expression as he turned back to the conversation on his left.

When they finally thanked the host and made their excuses, Y/N practically raced to the waiting carriages. Levi stood behind her, mindful of keeping her from exposing herself to anyone but him. Climbing up behind her, he turned to Mike and Nanaba.

“Ride with Erwin and Hanji.” And closed the carriage door.

Nanaba looked shocked, while Mike had a knowing grin on his face. He knew exactly what had been going on under the table. And he had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen on the ride back to Headquarters. Pulling his alluring date over to the other carriage, he shrugged his shoulders at her.

“The dinner must have gotten to her.”

Mobile MasterList

[eryiss]

no. 13 maybe because 😇

Prompt: ‘ I really don't care. You still look hot and I'm really trying not to fuck you senseless right now."’  Prompt List here

Pairing: Fraxus

Raiting: Explicit N S F W

Read it Elswhere: AO3, Fanfiction

“I Really Don’t Care. You Still Look Hot.”

“I know it ain’t appropriate,” Laxus murmured into Freed’s ear. “But I really don’t care. You still look hot and I’m really trying not to fuck you senseless right now.”

Freed raised his eyebrow, smirking a little at the sudden confession. Claiming the comment was inappropriate was an understatement, they were in an incredibly formal ball at the Palace of Fiore. Lords, Ladies, members of the royal family and other assorted esteemed guests were surrounding them, some dancing and others eating. It was perhaps one of the most formal events of the year; so claiming he wanted to fuck him senseless was perhaps the least appropriate thing one could say in this situation. But Freed was not one to be outdone.

“Then why aren’t you?” He whispered, placing his empty wine glass on a nearby table. Laxus blanked.

“What?” He managed to mumble, not expecting that reaction.

He thought that Freed would just go red, maybe scold him a little. Not that he had been exaggerating, though. Freed had always looked incredible in formalwear and dressed in a red suit that shaped around his body made him look fucking delicious. And god Laxus want to take him hard and fast to show him just how hot he thought his boyfriend was.

Even the thought of it sent a thrill to his dick. A dangerous situation, given where they were.

“I said, Laxus, why aren’t you fucking me senseless right now,” Freed whispered with a grin. “On the way back from the bathroom, I saw an unused cloakroom that would be perfect for it.”

“You serious?” Laxus murmured, trying to adjust his crotch as subtly as possible to hide his growing erection.

“Put your money where your mouth is Dreyar,” Freed smirked. “Wait a few minutes then join me. If you take too long, though, I might have to start without you.”

The almost arrogant way in which Freed spoke before he walked away sent another shot of arousal through Laxus, and he was forced to slam his hands into his pockets to keep his hard-on from being visible. No doubt Freed had worked him up intentionally, but that was fine. The second he was in the cloakroom, Laxus would make good on his word and fuck him senseless. That would be more than enough revenge for him.

Laxus fidgeted for about a minute, finishing his drink and placing the empty glass besides Freed’s. He walked out of the ballroom and towards the bathroom, eyes scanning the corridors. When his eyes settled on a door labelled cloakroom, he grinned and walked in.

It was dark, but Laxus could see his boyfriend leaning against a wall with a smirk.

“Asshole,” Laxus muttered, walking to Freed with a grin.

“Guilty,” Freed smirked. “What are you intending to do about it?”

Laxus didn’t reply, instead grabbing Freed by the belt and yanking him towards him. The blonde wrapped his hands into Freed’s hair and pulled him into a deep and sloppy kiss. He pushed their bodies together, feeling Freed relax into him. He could also Freed’s tenting dick pushing against his thigh, and grinned.

They were going to fuck in a palace. That was fucking hot.

The blonde shifted their positions slightly so that his thigh was between Freed’s legs, rubbing the man’s crotch against it without shame. Freed let out a shuddering moan at the gentle rubbing of his hard dick, pushing down against it. Damn, Freed was hornier than Laxus thought.

Laxus pushed him against the closest wall, pinning Freed to it with his body. He undid Freed’s tie and top button, bringing his lips to the top of Freed’s chest. He was intending to mark him, but not where anyone else could see. It would be incredibly satisfying – and hot as fuck – to know Freed’s chest would be covered in hickeys in front of almost every important person in the country.

“Bastard,” Freed moaned quietly. He knew what his lover was doing.

“Speak for yourself,” Laxus groaned back, pushing Freed further into the wall. “I know you got me horny in there on purpose.”

“Like you weren’t trying to do the same thing,” Freed let out in a strained voice.

Laxus didn’t reply, hands ruffling Freed’s clothing and groping at his body. His eyes darted around the room, settling on an unoccupied table. He grinned a little, tugging Freed off the wall and pushing him towards the table. He was being rough with Freed, and the rune mage didn’t seem to care.

He pushed Freed’s hips against the side of the table, pressing his own groin against Freed’s ass. The trousers his lover was wearing hugged perfectly around his sculpted ass, driving Laxus wild. He pushed their bodies against each other, dick hardening further.

“You ready babe?” Laxus murmured. “You better be.”

Laxus didn’t wait for a reply, snapping Freed’s belt out of his pants and tossing it to the side. He tugged the man’s pants and boxers down, revealing his round and muscular ass. The blonde smirked a little at the sight of it, a rush of exhilaration flooding him when he realised the situation. He was going to roughly fuck the man he loved in Fiore Palace, with the royal family in the next room, and that was such a fucking hot feeling.

He undid his own belt, fly and trousers. He pulled his dick out of his boxers and allowed it to rest between Freed’s ass cheeks without pushing in it. He heard a sharp intake of breath from his lover, and smirked.

With a grin, he pressed his lips against Freed’s neck.

Then he pushed his cock into Freed’s ass, splitting him apart and filling him deep. Laxus let out a quivering moan as the tightness enveloped him, and when Freed jutted back against him another groan left his lips. Damn Freed was hot like this, trying to remain restrained when he was close to losing control; Laxus loved being able to make Freed like this.

But he had a promise to make.

Without waiting for Freed to be ready, Laxus started to fuck him. His actions were fast, relentless and brutal, and Freed came undone because of it. He pushed back against Laxus’ thrusting cock, trying to get him deeper and deeper. Laxus moaned into his lover’s neck in response.

He pushed Freed down slightly, bending the man over the table completely while fucking him hard. Looking down at Freed with his suit ruffled and messed around him, digging his hips the table as his ass was attacked by his lover’s powerful movements, it was amazing. Laxus knew he was trying desperately not to moan, biting his lip as he rutted against the dragon slayer. The knowledge drove Laxus wild and made him thrust harder.

They could get caught doing this, and by the fucking royal guard no less. That was exhilarating.

Thrusting faster and faster, Laxus grinded his teeth together. He watched as Freed couldn’t hold in his moans anymore, his mouth dropping open and a shivering groan leaving it. It was music to Laxus’ ears, and he went harder.

The feeling was incredible.

It was all so overwhelming in the best way possible. The feeling of his hard dick pushing through Freed’s muscles, the slight stinging of his balls slamming into Freed’s body, the knowledge of the danger the situation they were in, the sound of Freed moaning and groaning below him despite that danger. It all surmounted into something incredible, and it made Laxus’ eyes roll into the back of his head.

He changed the speed of his thrusts, going slower now but harder. He pushed himself as deep inside Freed as possible, pulling the man as close as he could. He practically impaled Freed on his dick, and the man let out a loud moan because of it.

Laxus pulled out almost entirely, before thrusting deep inside of the man again. Then he did it again. And again. And again.

“Fuck!” Freed cussed sharply. “Shiiit”

Freed began to rut against Laxus’ cock quickly, pushing his forehead against the table he was bent over. Laxus groaned as Freed’s body tensed, his asshole tightening around Laxus’ length and a shuttering moan let the man’s lips.

With a final thrust, Laxus came deep into Freed’s hole, the feeling an incredible punch to the gut. They both let out a stew of cussing and moans into the empty room.

“Fuck,” Freed repeated. “I’m not sure, but I think we might have just committed treason.”

“Worth it,” Laxus grunted, pressing his lips into the man’s neck.

“You’re one to talk. You don’t have to spend the rest of the night with two men’s cum in your boxers,” Freed grunted, and Laxus smirked.

“I’d feel sorry for you, but that’s honestly really fucking hot,” Laxus murmured into Freed’s neck, watching as the man tried make himself look a little more presentable. Laxus took a little pity on him, taking the handkerchief from his jacket and giving it to Freed to wipe as much as the cum from him. “Any better?”

“A little,” Freed sighed. “You’re aware, I hope, that the moment we get home I’m going to fucking cover you in cum, right? Out of fairness.”

Laxus’ cock lurched at the threat.

“Looking forward to it,” He grinned. Now they had to face everyone in their dishevelled state, and it was exhilarating.

[shalebridge-cradle]

Sibella probably spends more time in front of a mirror than most people. Not that she’s ever thought that’s a negative thing; there’s nothing wrong with taking pride in how you look. Hell, it’s practically a public service – everyone gets to enjoy her perfect makeup and her timeless sense of fashion, and she gets to enjoy being enjoyed.

Well, there hasn’t been any of that going on lately.

Sibella stares at her reflection in the ancient bathroom cabinet’s mirror – awful. Ugly. One out of – no, she’s at least a five, even with the bags under her eyes and the neck brace and the expression of complete done-ness. But, nevertheless, the fall and what came after have driven her to her wit’s end.

Well, if she can’t look nice, at least she can be clean. With great effort, she opens the cabinet to fetch her toothbrush.

Unfortunately for her, there’s a disembodied head dressed like a 19th-century explorer in the way.

“AH-HA! YOU FOOL! YOU’VE FALLEN RIGHT INTO MY AMBUSH! PREPARE -” The bellowing stops for a second, and the anger drops from the severed head’s face. “Wait, I told the rest of me to wait behind the door… shocking lack of military discipline. I shall give it a right thrashing later... a biting, at least...”

Sibella closes the cupboard, turns on her heel, and all but runs out the bathroom door into the long, long hallway.

Highhurst Castle. When that woman from the legal chambers told Monty he’d inherited the place through his mother’s family, Sibella’s reasons for marrying him (which were already pretty good) were immediately validated. A castle! They’d won the real estate jackpot, and people have to call her ‘Lady Navarro’ now! Monty’s a peer of the realm! Are you a peer of the realm, Lionel, you cardboard box of a man?

Well, now she bitterly regrets admiring how much space the castle had, all the hallways – she is a target when she walks down to and from the bathroom, in the dining room, and the myriad unnecessary rooms – not even the master bedroom is safe. Once she acknowledges their existence (and even when she doesn’t), they take the opportunity to drive her up the wall. Doors do not stop her foes, nor the stone walls supposed to defend her – nothing does.

The woman with the shocking amount of feathers (and blood) on her gown is further down the hall, and does a funny little run to keep up with Sibella.

“Good morning! Now, from where we left off, Lord Southcliffe and Basil are alone for the first time. The stage is set, you can cut the tension in the air with a knife – and it just so happens there are two swords mounted above the fireplace. Who shall make it out alive to confess their love to the fair Selene? Have you written the other part down yet?”

No, Sibella hasn’t. It’s the worst play imaginable. She is ashamed to have hallucinated the person who came up with it.

A young man in a green jacket steps through a wall, accompanied as always by a maddening buzzing noise. “Hello again! Did you know that bees have little teeth on their wings? They lock together when the bee is flying. Isn’t that fascinating?”

Don’t talk to them, Sibella reminds herself. They’re not real. You must have read that bee thing somewhere and you’re subconsciously remembering it. Ignore them, and they’ll go away.

They do not go away. Well, at least the fox hunter isn’t here yet. Just the buck-toothed priest, doddering about like a child lost at a fair.

“Hello!” the priest says as she passes, then, in the exact same friendly tone of voice, “You don’t belong here! Get out!”

Only a few more steps to the dining room. Monty will still be having breakfast. But, as she reaches the door, she hears his voice – unless he can see the phantoms too (which he definitely can’t), he shouldn’t be making phone calls this early. Sibella presses her ear to the door.

“I know it’s unusual, but if I just give the money back… yes, I know that’s not how loans work, but there are medical reasons… no, she’s not dead – well, she came back from… She isn’t sleeping. She’s miserable. I don’t know what it is about this castle, but it’s damaging her recovery, and I want what’s best for her. I ask you, out of common decency -”

There is a long silence.

“I see. My mistake. Thank you for your time.”  

A numb sensation comes over Sibella. She’s touched, if unsurprised, that Monty would be willing to give up his birthright to keep her, but from the defeat in his voice it sounds like that isn’t an option. If only renovations were cheaper! If only the housing economy were more open to young buyers! If only she hadn’t fallen out of a bloody window and been cursed with highly realistic hallucinations!

A deep, disapproving female voice says in her ear, “It isn’t ladylike to eavesdrop.”

Sibella jumps back. A sopping wet Victorian woman gives her a disapproving look.

“It isn’t ladylike for you to exist,” Sibella replies, far too fast to sound confident, and makes her escape while the woman makes the most offended scoff she’s ever heard.

There is nowhere to run, she realises. Not from her mind, not from her economic troubles, not from the castle itself. It’s like something out of a horror movie, or a gothic novel. Yes, that’s what it is, she’s the innocent maiden who gets driven mad, stuck in a house that may or may not be haunted, and the author-slash-director leaves it up to the audience to figure out. She hates stories like that. They can’t just tell you, can they? It’s all symbolism, it’s all vague because they need to feel clever and artistic and pretend they’re so much smarter than you. Bloody hell, if she has to be stuck in a story, why does it have to be this one?

Sibella is so lost in how bad the novel of her life is that she almost misses the sound of someone limping down the hall.

Oh, shit. It’s the fox hunter.

Since this is probably the worst time for insensitive comments on... well, everything, Sibella ducks into the nearest room in hopes of evading him. She’s quick enough, but the dust old reading room (It has to be, with all the bookshelves) reveals yet another problem.

She’s young. In blue, probably another Victorian. Sibella’s walked past a portrait that looks just like this one so many times. She’s reading an open book on the side table, its pages covered in dust, before she jumps at the sound of Sibella slamming the door.

“Stop it!”

The blue-clad phantom’s eyes are wide. “Stop what?”

“Stop yelling at me to get out! I can’t! Not until me and Monty pay off his loan, and in this economy that’s probably gonna be the rest of my life!”

“But I’m not the one haunting you,” the woman stammers, shrinking in on herself. Her voice is high, soft, and ridiculously upper-class. “I never agreed to it. It’s a beastly thing to do, to drive you out of a place you rightfully own!”

“Listen. Even though you’re a much nicer broken part of my mind than the others, you’re still part of the problem. Connect – what’s those electrical parts of your brain called – connect to the other neutrons and tell all those other hallucinations to bugger off!”

The young woman’s jaw hangs open for a good ten seconds, before she says, “Oh. I understand. You think we’re figments of your imagination.”

“Well, what’s more likely, that the castle is haunted or that I have brain damage from falling out of a window?”

“Ah, well, yes. I am afraid this is the exception to the rule. But, the good news is that you’re not mad. There are ghosts bound forever to the grounds of Highhurst Castle, and through whatever twist of fate,a living person can see us for the first time.”

“Bullshit.” At the absolutely horrified look she receives from the ‘ghost’, Sibella feels a knot of unjustified guilt twist in her stomach. “If you’re ghosts, how did you die? Suicide? Murder most foul?”

“Well, my brother, Henry, the one in the olive suit. He was stung to death by bees.”

…Okay. The buzzing sound made sense now, at least. “I can hazard a guess with the guy in the pith helmet.”

“Major Bartholomew, yes, decapitated while weightlifting. Reverend Ezekiel fell from the eastern tower, Lady Hyacinth drowned in the lake, Lord Adalbert – red coat – died in a hunting accident, and Lady Salome’s prop dagger was mistakenly replaced with a real one during a performance.”

“What about the one with no trousers?”

The ghost’s face turns red. Surprising, given the lack of blood. “We’ve all been trying very hard not to think about that. It was quite embarrassing for everyone involved, as I understand it.”

“Oh, so, like, a sex thing.” Sibella ignores the sharp intake of breath. “And you? Or is it still too soon?”

“No, no, it’s quite all right. You know, I can’t recall how I died. This didn’t come across as strange to me, you would think you’d be a bit distracted with... well. You know. Henry passed before me, apparently he saw the whole thing – he says I was poisoned.”

Sibella feels like the ghost should be more than mildly concerned by this. Then again, she’s had time to get over it, hasn’t she? Wait, no, no she hasn’t, Sibella thinks, because she’s not real and you’re talking to thin air. It just so happens that thin air is very knowledgeable, and way more posh than you.

Then again. Adalbert is not a name she would have thought up in a million years, even for a lord’s ghost. She wonders how much that man’s mother hated him, if he had one.

“What’s the name of the sex ghost?”

“Asquith. Asquith D’Ysquith Junior, actually, and please never call him the… that name you said just now, again.”

“Asquith?!”

The detrousered phantom in his music hall outfit pokes his head through the wall. Sibella doesn’t flinch as badly, this time, and silently congratulates herself. “Yes?”

“Is that your name? Asquith?” Sibella asks.

“It is,” he hums. “You could have asked me yourself. I admit I didn’t take you for the bashful type, but, nevertheless, it is something I can work with.”

“She’s married,” the seated phantom snaps, “and this is a private conversation. Please take your leave.”

Asquith winks at Sibella, and vanishes once again. After suppressing a gag, Sibella turns back to the remaining ghost.

“I can’t believe Asquith is a real name, let alone one good enough to use twice. You know, I’m seriously starting to believe you’re real.”

“I should hope so,” the ghost remarks.

Sibella sits down opposite the apparition. “Right. I’m stuck here. You’re stuck here. How do we make this work?”

“If I knew a simple answer to that, you would not be in this situation.” The ghost thinks for a moment. “I do think some of my family members could use a reminder they are no longer the lords and ladies of the house. The others may do better with a softer touch, however. Henry is a gentle soul, after all.”

“Can you ask him to stop telling me bee facts when I’m trying to sleep?”

Then ghost smiles. “I can manage that.”

“Great. And the actress wants me to publish her play – I’ll post it online anonymously and hope she’s happy with that.” The ghost has the blank eyes and nervous smile of someone who has no idea what’s being said, but wants to remain polite. “The priest has no idea what’s going on, does he?”

“Not most of the time, no,” the phantom admits.

“So it’s really just the fox hunter left to worry about.” Sibella thinks telling him women have the vote now might make his head explode, and then the problem would be solved. She tries and fails to stifle a smirk at the thought.

Then, a sudden thought hits her.

“What about you?”

The ghost blinks. “Me?”

“Surely you need something. Do I have to find your murderer and get revenge? Get a reverend to bless your grave? What will help you?”

The ghost blinks again. And again. Then, tears start streaming from her eyes..

Oh. Oh no. Sibella is no good in these sorts of situations. When she makes someone cry, she usually means to. What is she supposed to do here? She raises her hand to pat the spectre’s shoulder, but it passes straight through her body. The ghost shudders at the failed contact, and does break out of her despair for a moment.

“Did I say something wrong?” Sibella asks, still semi-panicked. Now that she thinks about it, the ‘blessing her grave’ thing is probably what set this off. You wouldn’t hire a cleaning lady for someone else’s house, now would you?

“It’s been s-so long since someone’s done something for me,” the ghost sobs. “It’s been all squabbling and brooding for decades! Then, when someone alive can finally hear us, they keep doing the same thing, over and over again!”

Another dull realisation settles over Sibella, as she mumbles reassurances to the weeping phantom. That’s what ghosts, do, isn’t it? They cling to the lives they once had.

Is that what she does? Replay victories and ruminate on failures, time and time again?

“They will change,” Sibellla says, “I shall make them change. I shall do what you advised. A good shock to the system might get them out of their rut, and I am excellent at providing those. Just ask my sister – ten years and she still hasn’t forgiven me.”

The ghost gives a watery smile. “Thank you. Thank you so very much.”

With new-found purpose, Sibella strides towards the door, uncaring of whether the beings are truly ghosts or simply strange reflections of herself. Whatever is being confronted, she will be better for it.

When she opens the door, it’s not the dreaded fox hunter, the actress, nor the wet moral guardian.

It’s Monty. He looks over her shoulder, his gaze passing over the still-hiccupping phantom – he doesn’t see her.

“Now Sibella – I don’t want to upset you, but I have checked that we’re the only ones in the house. I mean, apart from the pigeon, but unless you’re talking about all his pigeon friends when you say you’re going to make them change, it might be a good idea to go talk to the doctor again.”

That’s a thought. It would prove it, one way or the other, if these quirky characters are bound to the house or just arguing personifications of her brain damage.

But, Monty is the one who convinced her the ghosts are just hallucinations. If they are ghosts, how is she going to convince Monty she hasn’t just gone insane?

A lightbulb goes off in her head.

She checks none of the other spirits are listening in, leans over, and whispers in Monty’s ear. His eyes widen, and his mouth hangs open.

“Asquith? Junior?!”

[zombiejette]

RadioDust HCs:

ok kids. bc i have no chill yet no desire to clean these ramblings up into an actual fic, have some of my extremely self-indulgent hcs for this ship. this is gonna get long-winded and wild, so strap tf in.

General HCs:

Alastor is gray or demisexual. Meaning he is generally sex-repulsed until he becomes incredibly close to someone. This is pretty much my standard HC across the board for him, especially when I’m trying to ship him with Angel cuz lord knows there needs to be a middle ground between their sexual natures somewhere lol

Even after falling for someone, he still is fairly indifferent to sex, but he does enjoy eliciting reactions, especially from someone he knows well. And in the rare event that he cares for another, he does genuinely want to bring them pleasure. Therefore he sees sex more as an extension of this and is willing to participate to make his partner happy/is interested in creating their reactions

Likes to know he’s the only one to rile them up as well, part of his power kink

Alastor also has no idea what these identity terms mean either: is a clueless murderous old man

Angel is a tad more Woke™, especially after being in Hell for a while

Having younger generations of demon friends helps with this: Cherri or Vaggie being the ones to usually clue him in to more modern concepts

Drives Angel up a gd wall when he attempts to explain a modern invention/slang/pop culture reference to Alastor, who only digs his heels in with Not Understanding it just to piss him off more

Alastor not only does understand, but saves this fact for the times when he really wants to impress/screw with Angel, or when the knowledge comes in handy

He’ll never forget the look on Angel’s face when he casually informed him that the deer selfie filter is actually super offensive to him and would you please be a ‘deer’ and cease using it on insta thank you now there’s a love

Angel is now super paranoid that Alastor will see all his social media interactions somehow, despite him NOT having any accounts anywhere

Does not stop him from posting nsfw selfies and tagging them with #alastor/radiodemon in the least

Anemia HCs:

ok so i read somewhere that angel was anemic on the hazbin wiki info, or something?? i don’t know if that was real or not but uh... i took it and ran with it, so now it’s my hc, and this whooooole thing turned itself into a multi-part mini fic, which is all under the cut. if you’re dying of radiodust thirst like me, pls enjoy this mess.

Part One:

Angel is indeed anemic, and the first time Alastor finds out is when he literally passes out into his arms like a bad ‘Gone with the Wind’ parody

At first Alastor was disgusted, thinking this was yet another stupid ploy to hit on him... until he realized Angel wasn’t speaking anymore

Something that never happens

He wasn’t expecting to care, let alone lift the spider the rest of the way into his arms, carrying him to Charlie so she can figure this out

One second, Angel was fainting on him, the next, Alastor found himself sitting by his bed, placing a cool cloth over his brow and waiting for Charlie to get back with supplies

Almost like something out of those novels Mother used to think she had so cleverly hidden away

Hmm

Somehow, that thought alone was not enough to make him leave, so there he dutifully remained

Even as Angel woke up, groggy, yet giving him maybe the smallest, softest smile he’d ever seen the demon make

”Al... you stayed...”

Well that was certainly something. The way it made his pulse race quicker and palms sweat under his gloves was definitely new. And apparently enough to keep him sticking around through Charlie’s fussing and prodding and Angel’s consequent refusal of said mothering

Until Alastor remembered that anemic means lack of iron

iron like from meat

meat like from animals

and animal meat was his specialty!

Without another word, he left for the kitchen, only to return with a giant steak dinner (clearly bullied out of the staff in a rush), complete with mashed potatoes and vegetables and a large glass of orange juice

Literally everything Angel never eats

He refused to leave until it was all eaten, sitting back in his chair and bribing Angel with the offer to tell him a story as he finished it

And so he does, weaving a vivid tale just like back in his radio star days, complete with voices and hand gestures

Never before had Angel and Charlie ever seen Alastor quite this engaged in something that wasn’t murder or chaos; instead spinning a yarn about a boy and his magical pig who helps him to find his lost twin sister

Angel is quite enraptured, naturally, having to be prompted to keep eating a couple times, and Charlie hangs back by the doorway, absolutely beside herself internally at what’s unfolding before her

Vaggie would no doubt try to convince her otherwise later, and she may just be a princess of hell, but she knows love when she sees it dammit!

Eventually, she can sense the story’s end coming near, and as much as she wants to hear it, she wants their story to begin more, so she quietly slips away and leaves them alone

The tale indeed ends and Angel swallows the last of the drink, both quiet a moment, looking at each other

“…. Where’d ya hear that one Al?”

“Hear it?”

“Ya know, where’d you get it from? Some old fairy tale book? A movie? It’s real good and I know Molly would love that it’s basically just like us, so if ya tell me where to find it I can-“

“Nowhere. I made it up.”

“You made that up!!? Just now!?”

a small chuckle “Yes, that is what storytellers do…”

“… For me?”

Alastor pauses at that, regarding him again

“I suppose… Yes, yes that one was just for you. About you, really… with some… embellishments,” he twirls a hand nonchalantly in the air before returning it to the other in his lap “Either way I’ve never told it to anyone before, if that’s what you’re after.”

And there’s that smile again, the one that Angel never wore before today, and the one that Alastor would find himself chasing every day since, whether he realizes it or not

Part Two:

The only downside to this is now Alastor will not leave Angel alone about his iron intake

Constantly asking him if he’s had anything substantial today, pushing juices and vitamins and most of all meat onto him, sometimes holding him hostage to watch him eat it

Angel would be flattered if it didn’t interfere with his drug and alcohol habit so much

“Al, geez let up wouldya!? I’m already in Hell, why do I gotta be HELLthy too huh??” a smirk accompanied that, despite himself

the radio demon sighs “As much as I appreciate a well-timed pun, I must insist” he taps where Angel’s nose would be on a normal face “I’m already well aware that you’ll never be ‘healthy’, but I’d take conscious as a consolation prize.”

“Really?? YOU prefer me conscious??”

“Don’t flatter yourself-” he scoffed faintly “I have a hotel to endorse, and you are it’s prized resident, my opinions on the matter non-withstanding. I can’t very well have the famed Angel Dust dropping like a fly at a moment’s notice over such a small thing as malnutrition. What kind of operation would this look like if we couldn’t at least keep on top of something as simple as anemia, hmm?”

For once, Angel had nothing to return fire with, since the last time someone gave him such a convincing speech about his well-being was his sister right before his death, and he really didn’t feel like putting anyone through that agony again

Not even Alastor

After that, Angel takes whatever food Al gives him in annoyed silence, but he still takes it

Though it’s getting harder and harder to remain annoyed when what Alastor gives him starts increasing in quality

At first it’s swiped energy bars or simply juice, but then progresses to sandwiches and fruit and deviled eggs and little spinach quiches and tortes and assortments of cheeses that can’t be easy to procure down here, even with Alastor’s influence

If you cornered him, Angel would never admit it, but he actually forgot how much he missed real food after being inebriated constantly, and Al’s little treats become the new highlight of his day

He’ll even stop using some of the harder drugs so he can better taste them

Charlie would never tell them for fear of the whole thing stopping on an embarrassed dime, but she’s so so proud of them both for this little secret transaction

Angel does start looking and acting better as a result, even though he still abuses alcohol and softer drugs and def keeps his sexual nature intact

But he’s less irritable and prone to lashing out, and his coloring is brighter and his hair sleeker

He also isn’t as tired as often and hasn’t fainted at all since the first time, just feeling overall stronger and more lucid

Which he can’t really complain about even though he wants to

Part Three:

The hotel even benefits from this, some small press circulating about Angel’s newfound constitution and attributing it to their work

In celebration, one night Alastor invites him to a proper dinner at one of Hell’s most famous fancy restaurants

One where the press could easily find them if they wanted

Angel knows this is just to show off his progress but doesn’t shy away from it- for once excited to eat out somewhere and not “eat out” if ya know what I mean

Besides, Alastor doesn’t seem that perturbed to be seen in public with him either, a rare development and not one to scoff at

They both dress up nicer than normal for it, making a big show as the hotel’s representatives, even walking in arm-in-arm

Angel is not immune to the certain type of looks they get as they arrive, and wonders if he should tell Al

Seeing the man with one of his more casual and less murderous smiles on as they take their seats convinces him not to

It would be a shame to get their outfits all bloody anyway

Especially since Angel decided to return to his drag look for the evening, complete with a new skintight velvet dress, feeling far fancier all dolled up than in any of his menswear

The glances Al gives him from time to time don’t hurt either, eyes noticeably lingering on his exaggerated chest fluff each time

Something Angel has no problem with, leaning forward and accentuating it more, resting his chin on a hand lightly to prop his figure up

Alastor orders for the both of them since he knows the place better, raving about their veal and venison dishes on the way over

Earlier in the year, this might have unnerved Angel more, knowing the demon’s penchant for savagery and carnage when it came to “hunting”, but now? He found it almost charming, that Al was so invested in the meat selection of Hell’s dining establishments that he even made his own ranking system for the best places to get each type of animal, who better prepared it according to cuisine, and how each cut measured up in quality

Angel took the liberty of perusing their liquor selection to create his own ranking system, just to be fair

Would be impolite to let Al do all the work on this date after all

….. wait…..

Date???

The fork clattering to the floor jarred Angel back to his senses, realizing his elbow had slipped abruptly from its perch at the very thought, almost in an allergic reaction to the word

Al only raised a controlled eyebrow at the flustered way Angel ducked down to retrieve it under the table skirt

Which is of course the very moment the paparazzi decided to start snapping their pictures

Alastor quickly spun around at the flashing lights, smiling dangerously at them and stopping some of the more cowardly photographers, but not quite enough

Angel, oblivious, continued rooting around for the fork, all the while inching closer and closer towards Alastor’s seat

“Angel!” Al hissed, finally reaching under and putting a hand on Angel’s hair to still him. Of course not making this look any better. “Sit up. Now.”

“Wait, but I almost got it Al-ahh!”

He was roughly pulled up by the back of his dress and sat up, hair mussed and face flushed incriminatingly, only making Alastor groan in defeat at some more camera snaps

It took half a second, but Angel suddenly understood, face blank in momentary shock

Alastor fully expected him to turn it into another lewd joke, brush it off and dig the hole deeper, most certainly at the expense of his own comfort

He quickly steeled himself for the impending barrage of innuendos and unwanted touching

What he wasn’t prepared for was Angel to suddenly leave the table, storming right up to the cameramen with the angriest look he’d ever seen on the spider’s face

“Ey ya parasites!! Let me see those!” he holds a couple of impatient hands out for their cameras, still fuming

Some actually comply out of complete shock, not at all used to Angel Dust getting mad about being photographed ever, especially over anything sexual

Angel proceeds to delete the photos off the first camera… then gets more and more frustrated when the pictures just wouldn’t stop coming. After a while, he just smashes the camera on the ground in a huff

“Fuck this it’ll take too long!” he points to the remaining paparazzi with intact cameras, still shocked and clutching them “Y’all are gonna delete every SINGLE photo you took of that little misunderstanding just now, alright?? Or else I’m gonna keep smashing cameras! Got it??”

They all nod and start deleting hurriedly

“And if ANY a ya think about gettin’ wise and leaking some anyway… well… let’s just say I had a much more deadly occupation than porn star when I was alive…” his face darkens at that, putting on his best godfathers voice to hit it home “And I ain’t afraid a comin’ out of retirement temporarily… Capisce?”

They capisce

He returns to the table with a resigned sigh and combs through his wig to tame it again, taking out a compact to fix his face

Completely ignoring the stunned absence of a smile on Alastor’s

Eventually Angel dares to glance at it and gives him an involuntary cringe

“Ah... Sorry Al…” he starts slowly, stowing the compact away again in his bosom and looking down chagrined “I know I went and made a scene in your favorite place and… and yer probably real mad and all an’… oh damn, Charlie’s gonna kill me if you don’t firs-“

“-Thank you.”

“W.. wait what??”

“Thank you…” Alastor repeated, if only to assure himself he was really saying it “I… it was… I never expected you to get mad…”

“Al?”

“I thought you’d let them… run with it” he waves a hand, explaining himself, somewhat awkwardly “Especially since it… it would help you. Your reputation. To be caught with the radio demon like… like that.”

The way his voice became so small on the last two words worried Angel much more than he’ll ever admit. The way you could hear the mortification behind his smile. He always knew Al was adverse to the act but never had he seen him actually terrified by it. Paralyzed by the stark realization of how close he came to becoming its subject… even if only as a rumor

It simply emboldened Angel’s resolve

the spider scoffed lightly “Well yeah… maybe if that’s what we had been doin’… or if you were into that stuff at all…”

“What?”

“I mean we weren’t even actually tryin’! I was just lookin’ fer a dumb fork for cryin’ out loud-!“

“No… no what about… me being into it?”

a pause, and then a one-shouldered shrug “Well it’s not the same thing as a payin customer is it?… Like you don’ even LIKE sex and stuff and… it’s different when it’s just us flirtin’ and bullshittin’ around at the hotel… I know you hate that too but at least there no one ain’t tryin’ ya capitalize on yer pain. Word never gets out. No one knows just how much I get under yer skin, so it’s almost like it never happened. But these pictures…” he waved both of his right hands in unison, motioning for emphasis “They’re permanent.. and they’d only be helpin’ my reputation while hurtin’ yours…”

Alastor just continues to stare

“A-and the hotel’s… of course…”

Finally a smile returns to his face, but with no hint of anything except appreciation behind it

“Of course…”

Part Four:

The rest of dinner went smoothly

Al had indeed picked well, and the dishes were some of the best Angel had ever tasted, other than his Momma’s cooking of course

When Al made a small chuckle at even that joke, Angel knew he must’ve done something right to land this far in the radio demon’s good graces

Though it could very well be the booze’s doing

Angel had insisted on ordering their drinks to compensate for the fiasco earlier, and had created specialty cocktails for each of them, based on what they ate

He was relieved when Alastor gave a small hum of approval mid-sip, downing a generous amount with an easy smile

And then finishing off three more with dinner

Both were quite full and loose by the time they finished, even getting a small tray of beignets for desert

They found they hadn’t even argued once, save for small asides and joking prods. But really arguing? Hadn’t even crossed their minds. Instead they bonded over jazz artists they both liked, reminisced about the 30′s while filling each other in on the decades they missed, talked a bit about their hometowns, and threw some mutual shade about residents of the hotel they couldn’t stand

Turns out they had quite a lot in common…

They paid on the hotel’s tab and finally headed out to the limo, only swaying slightly and linking arms again to subtly stabilize each other

This time the paparazzi was nowhere in sight, probably long scared off by now

Which is good since Alastor had suddenly removed his arm from Angel’s to pull him in around the waist, keeping the demon from tripping over a nearby curb by pressing him further into his side. Out of reflex, entirely.

After all, it’s not like he’d ever willingly choose to close their proximity. Just like he’d never willingly choose to notice the way Angel’s chest bounced softly against his, or how four hands grasping onto him felt oddly right, or how tempting the velvet hugging the curve of Angel’s lower back became under his fingertips

He’d only occasionally felt this way about accidental invasions of personal space before, and that fact did nothing to reassure him or his nerves

Nor did the pounding of his undead heart in his ears

Angel was also feeling the tension, but for a whole ‘nother reason

Drinks always made him more forward, and having a full belly for once numbed that urge into more of a simmering lust, cozy and comfortable and heavy

Getting tangled up in Alastor’s arms suddenly only made him want one thing

One thing he was telling himself desperately not to do

Which was real hard with Al’s face so so close to his, looking back at him with his own flush dusting along his cheeks and that smile still there, but slightly parted, waiting, hesitant of what it wanted to become but open to suggestions

Suggestions that Angel had plenty of

“You… you were about to trip… my dear…” Alastor finally explained in a hush, dipping a finger into the still water between them and rippling it quietly, grip on him still firm

“…. Ah…” slowly Angel righted himself, not moving away from him, but leaning on him less “That…. that sounds like me…” he offered a lopsided grin at his own joke, daring to look Alastor in the eyes again

Looking for what exactly, he wasn’t sure

And guessed he would never find out, seeing the moment vanish underfoot with the crunch of the limo’s tires, pulling up beside them

Alastor still offered him his hand though, helping guide Angel inside first, then sliding in after

Sitting at least one person apart, the drive begins in unsteady silence, neither exactly looking away but definitely not trying to confront anything either

That is until Alastor starts to fidget with his bow tie, inexplicably feeling very warm

Deciding to simply undo it entirely and redo it looser, he starts it out like usual, but his fingers can’t seem to find their footing and keeps losing track of the last few steps

On the third try, Angel sighs dramatically beside him

“Honestly Al…”

And just like that, the spider is making use of his extra arms and tugging the whole mess loose again, faces mere inches apart as he concentrates and deftly reties it in a perfect bow, which gently hugs the base of Al’s throat as his adam’s apple bobs with a nervous kind of grace

It ends far too quickly and now there is nothing left to keep them in this close… nothing Alastor can invent to explain away how Angel’s fingers linger on the edges of the fabric, or how he wants to undo more of his clothing just for those hands to fix him up again

So he does the only logical thing he can think of

The kiss hits Angel with a sort of intensity he wasn’t expecting, feeling himself pulled in by two gloved hands on his bare shoulders, touch light but not unsure, desperate but without any urgency, simply grounding them together in this moment

Their lips moved against each other’s slowly, mounting in a gentle exploration with Angel deferring to Alastor’s lead, his lower set of hands lightly resting along Al’s hips, asking permission at first until a soft moan granted him it

Eyes fluttering closed, the kiss deepened until it became a series of many, some opened-mouthed, tongues hinting at entering but never actually doing so, and all of them amidst small noises and panting breaths, desire simmering just under the surface of it all

Angel had never kissed like this… never thought to kiss like this… the boiling heat of lust kept at bay by a promise to just make out, to just keep it at another’s pace. All the while flushing his body with a white hot pulsing want that could only wait for someone else to grant it release?? Oh he could die all over again from this torture and would only beg for more. Never getting it being it’s own bittersweet reward

Alastor grappling meanwhile with why he suddenly wanted so very much as well, why, as he clung to Angel’s soft fur-lined skin and let their mouths dance relentlessly, he never once wanted to pull away. Never wanted to run and hide in the solace and safety of the self, was all too happy to let Angel’s hands cup and hold his hips and reward him with moaning sounds he rarely ever makes

His head was swimming in it, and he was oddly eager to let himself drown

Eventually they parted, breathless and slow but mutual, eyes opening again and glossily gazing at the other, searching for silent signs of yes, no, more?, sorry?, good?

“A-Al… I..”

Fingertips graced the speaking lips to silence them again, a small shake of the head a confirmation of no apology needed. “… That was… I liked that…” He offered, smiling small and gentle for once, an acknowledgement of how very rare this had really been. How nothing about this was usual, but not necessarily unwanted

Angel was now convinced he’d died twice

“You… yeah?” he smiled back, just as hopeful

Another nod, Alastor chewing words behind his closed mouth, clearly processing something

“… I don’t… I don’t want you to get… too excited but…”

Angel surprised him with his patience

“… I have kissed before. I… actually more than that as well but...” he shakes his head to keep himself on track before he loses his nerve “It’s not often. And it’s definitely not for fun… not for just… anyone.”

Angel hopes to heaven his smile isn’t too excited

a small exhale before continuing “What I’m trying to say is…. I can’t guarantee anything. I cant... predict how I’ll feel about more… or about everything. But I can tell you that I liked this. And… I’d like to do this sometimes… with you. If you don’t push me for more…”

Two hands held Alastor’s close to his chest, squeezing them once with an earnest smile

“I promise Al. I promise I won’t push… at least I’ll really really try. I know I’m shitty at self-restraint and I won’t lie, I’m fuckin’ pent up as shit right now…” his small chuckle was met with a slightly sarcastic eyebrow, feigning momentary annoyance “But… but I really liked that too. I ain’t never… I ain’t never felt this good after just makin’ out! I didn’t know I could…”

Alastor hums a bit in amusement, hands traveling from Angel’s grip to slide gently down the sides of the velvet dress he’s poured into “Well… seems tonight was a good one for a lot of firsts…” he watched Angel’s small shiver with some glee “Though I might just blame it all on this devilish dress…”

a breathless chuckle “Oh yeah, Al? You like it that much?”

“Yes…” no hesitation as he strokes small circles into the fabric with his thumbs, just over the start of Angel’s hipbones “I’ve always been partial to velvet…. and pretty creatures wearing it…”

Their second kiss lasted all the way home

[itsyouraveragebooklover]

Family

A/N: Hello everyone! I’m back with another mini story for you all! I hope you all enjoy this Nessian drabble I thought up after being inspired by countless fanarts. This was a fun one to write and hopefully everything flows smoothly. As always the characters do not belong to me. But without further ado, let the story begin~

Laughter echoed throughout the room tediously bouncing off walls and furniture. The sound rang in her ears, loud enough to break her stream of consciousness. However, she didn't mind for the sound was comforting and pure. It almost possessed the power to brighten a night sky or crack smiles for even those who have not an ounce of happiness within their hearts. It was something worth remembering.

The same laughter rumbled from outside her room within the corridor. Out of curiosity, Nesta listened to the chuckle grow in volume. It soon reached its apex in volume as the sound quickly passed the entrance to the room she currently occupied and down the hall growing fainter and fainter by the second.

A rustling of wings and pounding of feet joined in with the boisterous noise swiftly gliding passed her room as well. Taking a quick peek her eyes only caught a pair of large wings and fighting leathers race off in the direction of the giggling.

After a moment the cabin quieted enough for Nesta to retain her focus and return to the novel laying deserted upon her lap. She sank into the plush cushion enjoying the softness of the material and propped her book up into a comfortable position.

This week she picked up a book detailing the past policies and overall history of previous High Lords within the Summer Court. Over the years Nesta took it upon herself to learn everything she could possibly learn about each of the seven courts.

When negotiating and discussing policies the High Lords take her as emissary more seriously. It also helps immensely during negotiations once she teases them about revealing certain secrets which were meant to remain buried.

Slowly she flipped through the pages studying records and letters until a faint sound of laughter returned from the direction it disappeared from. Once again with each tick of the clock, the giggling grew closer as well as what sounded like labored breaths?

She shook her head of the distraction and returned to reading until a body flew past her chair straight into an unoccupied closet. The figure was so fast it caught her heightened senses off guard. Not all the training in the world could have prepared her for someone who snuck up so quickly behind her.

Her storm grey eyes peeked towards the closet. There was a small crack between the doors since they weren't fully closed. With closer inspection, she spotted a blue eye appear and glance between her and the door. The blue was bright and charming as well as the rim of purple surrounding it.

Nesta raised an eyebrow towards the curious soul lingering within the wardrobe and would have spoken if it not for the shuffling outside the room.

"Nesta," a voice spoke out soon appearing at the door.

With a moment to inhale she glaced towards the mysterious figure hiding away, then replied, "How can I help you?" Once the words rolled off her tongue she turned to face the owner behind the voice.

It was no surprise to find Rhysand for she distinguished his voice the second he opened his mouth. Along with him stood Azriel. They were both at the doorway, hands on knees and chests puffing in and out rapidly no matter how much they tried to hide it. Their long intakes of breath told her enough of what she needed to know.

“Have you seen him anywhere?” Rhysand laughed out with a huff as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

Nesta surveyed the two men, glancing back and forth with calculating eyes. Once she took in all she wanted to see she twisted back into her sofa and opened the book, dust floating into the air around it.

“No. Last time I heard, you two chased him down the hall and that was it,” she spoke, no hint of the playful bluff laced within her words. To no surprise, Rhysand didn't believe her for a minute.

“And what direction might that be?” Rhysand countered with a bluff of his own.

“Run down to the right, and straight into the kitchen. You know better than anyone how much he loves to eat,” she spoke with a wave of her hand.

Rhysand and Azriel merely glanced to one another. They lingered for a moment longer than turned to sprint down the hall towards the kitchen pretending as if they were in a hurry.

She listened closely waiting for footsteps to emerge but none came. Waiting a few moments longer she finally deemed it safe to walk about the room without another ambush. Nesta straightened her back and crawled out of the chair, leaving the warmth behind. She placed the book on the wooden table nearby and lifted off the cushion.

“It’s safe to come out,” Nesta whispered loud enough for only the boy to hear. She sensed him hesitate and heart rate quicken fearing she would expose him to his seekers. But then a pair of small hands grasped the doors and pushed them aside careful not to make a sound.

With each sway, Nesta spotted the black and blue shaggy hair first. It was ruffled, unlike its usual combed look. Then the pointed ears came into view next as well as the boy’s golden skin. Each time Nesta lays eyes on him he looks more and more like Rhysand.

“Aunt Nesta!” The child screamed out throwing his tiny arms around her neck. It was at times like these where she was thankful for her improved reflexes. In one swift movement, she caught him carefully, aware of the developing wings sprouting out from behind.

The embrace was warm and soothed an ache within her chest that happened to linger after a recent meeting between the High Lords.

"Are you hiding from your father again?” She questioned enjoying the feeling of his small sausage fingers touching her cheeks.

With another laugh, the boy chuckled laying his head on her shoulder, “Sure am. Papa, Uncle Azriel, Uncle Cassian, and Aunt Mor haven't caught me yet!” He chuckled mischievously, a hand over his mouth.

“Think again,” a chorus of voices chanted in the background behind Nesta. Chills radiated up and down her skin leaving goosebumps in their wake. With a glance over her shoulder, she saw Rhysand and the rest of the Inner Circle stand within the doorway. Each of them held an evil glint within their eyes that almost made her feel bad for the boy and his winning streak. Almost.

The child squealed in joy and stretched his wings out ready to fly. Nesta merely unhooked her arms around him and let him drift down to the floor. He quickly broke into a sprint around the room purposely running to the back to get the Inner Circle from blocking his only exit.

His plan miraculously worked. He saw an opening and took it. The boy was out the door running off to who knew where next with everyone hot on his tail.

“Shit! He’s so fast!” Mor mumbled leaping out the door. Rhysand and everyone else joined her evident on capturing him. Their shouts and stomps died off with time until silence washed over the west side of the cabin. It almost felt empty now without the welcomed ruckus, not that she would ever admit that.

Nesta’s grey eyes lingered towards the doorway, a hand clutched to her chest. A slight pain flickered deep inside as she stood there deep within her thoughts.

With sadness, the boy reminded her of a childhood she never had the chance to experience. A childhood where she could have been chased around a garden, her parents, and sisters hot on her trail squealing with joy. A childhood filled without fear and the hope to survive long enough to see the next sunrise. A childhood where she wished she wouldn't have suppressed emotions and closed herself off to those who cared most.

But then looking back at the boy he reminded her of happiness and uncontrollable laughter. A happy childhood filled with people who love and cherish him to no end including herself.

A small smile formed on her lips at the thought.

"I have a feeling he likes you more than the rest of us," a voice spoke out.

Nesta's heart quicken at Cassian's appearance. These Illyrian males would give her a heart attack from all the sneaking around. They were infamous for their stealth and she still hasn’t gotten used to it. 

"I doubt that," she turned to face him, arms crossed. "Amren is clearly his favorite."

Cassian huffed a laugh advancing towards Nesta with no more than two steps. "Maybe, but he's clearly your favorite amongst the Inner Circle."

Nesta felt the heat rise to her cheeks and playfully swatted his chest. "That might be true but you're still my favorite too," she whispered looking up at him with thick lashes.

Cassian leaned his forehead against Nesta's while wrapping his arms protectively around her frame. "I'm honored sweetheart."

The feeling of his breath tickling her cheek made her legs sway. She smiled and opened her eyes to look up at him, "Cassian, I wouldn't mind starting a family of our own."

She felt his breath catch. The reaction caused her to quickly glance down towards her feet, avoiding his gaze. 

"Really?" He questioned his tone unclear.

Nesta's stomach dropped but immediately settled once his palms lightly lifted her head to look at him. This wasn't like her, she hated feeling vulnerable, but she also knew how much she trusted him. Cassian would never upset her or do her any harm.

Once her gaze was lifted up she saw the single most beautiful smile ever made by him. The corners of his mouth couldn't have gone up any higher. The white of his teeth and canines couldn’t have shined any brighter.

"I would love to start a family." A genuine and strong statement. One he'd been wanting to say for years.

Her hand wrapped around his which was still pressed upon her cheek and whispered, "I'm scared."

Cassian rubbed his thumb against her soft skin and gazed into those mesmerizing eyes he constantly found himself getting lost into. "I'm scared too. But we'll figure it out together... as we always do."

[douchebagbrainwaves]

I BECOME MUCH MORE AWARE OF IT

Whether you end up among the living or the dead comes down to the third ingredient, not giving up. At the very least, crank up the font size big enough to make all the text legible. Now when we talk to them, not something customers need. Whatever the story is in the sciences, true collaboration seems to be making an effort. The VCs will have to be a total slacker. He explained that he'd just bought it in Thailand. More often people who do great things have careers with the trajectory of a ping-pong ball. Some of the founders mentioned a rule actors use: if you feel you're speaking too slowly, you're speaking at about the right speed. The two-job route has several variants depending on how long you work for money at a time till they feel they have nothing to invest. They just haven't realized yet that the economic cage is open. I'm not kidding.

At other Y Combinator events we allow outside guests, but not at Rehearsal Day. It was the same in the audience at startup school. We take applications for funding every 6 months. Which route should you take? Founders understand their companies better than investors, and we only regret about 10% of our decisions. So if investors want to get a VC to use up one of his 10 board seats for only a few steps away from being able to start successful startups, and who instead let themselves be swept into the intake ducts of big companies buying startups will only accelerate. When the thing we want is something we want to want—when it transforms opium into heroin—it seems bad. Never say we're passionate or our product is great. On the Internet, and distractions always evolve toward the procrastinators. The distribution of investors should mirror the distribution of startups, the big winners are big to a degree that violates our expectations about variation. In fact, it may actually be good for them to do anything more than leak internal documents designed to give the impression that you'll get enough information to make each choice before you need to be able to use VCs to drive up the valuation of an angel, and moreover, a quick 10x return. The landscape of possible jobs isn't flat; there are walls of varying heights between different kinds of academic work, because that showed how much you have to like making up elaborate lies.

Nearly all the returns are concentrated in a few big successes, so that in retrospect it seems obvious they were going to make it. Tip: avoid any field whose practitioners say this. And they were right. If it succeeds, you get better results if you use flexible media. The term angel round doesn't mean that all the founders are still the most powerful people in the company, whereas after a series A round if you do it so early. It's hard to find work you love. You also lose less control. It would also be helpful if the styling was in the industries that spiked the sharpest before the Depression.

Ten weeks later we invite all the investors we know to hear them present what they've built so far. Don't get too deeply into business models. Another place democracy seems to win is in deciding what counts as news. And I mean show, not tell. A lot have been told by their parents that the route to success is to build something valuable, and you could tell he meant it. The reason startups no longer depend so much on VCs is one that everyone in the startup business knows by now: it has gotten much cheaper to start a startup and think they seem likely to succeed at all. They'll just remember you as the company with the boneheaded plan for making money, rather than the order in which they happen to appear on the screen. The most dangerous liars can be the kids' own parents. I have some idea what they mean. Always produce is also a heuristic for finding the work you love, you're practically there. Most investors know this m. But I suspect the filter is set a little too high.

Unfortunately after reading it they decided it was too controversial to include. And if they do, I can now look at a group we're interviewing through Demo Day investors' eyes. Why is it that research can be done by collaborators. How to Start a Startup I advised startups never to let anyone fly under them, meaning never to let any other company offer a cheaper, easier solution. The three big powers on the Internet now are Yahoo, Google, Amazon, Cisco and Microsoft how they'd feel about two candidates, both 24, with equal ability, one who'd tried to start a rapidly growing business as software. And it is completely non-discriminatory. There were not a lot of money—so does IBM, for that matter. Because remember, the Microsoft monopoly didn't begin with Microsoft. Till now, VCs' claims about how much value they added were sort of like the government's. Design means making things do more of what we want. I had to start treating it differently. So ultimately we're aiming for the same destination, just approaching it from different directions.

Failing at 40, when you have a fairly tolerant advisor, you can opt to be valued directly by users, by starting your own, you'd learn a thing or two running your own company. The spread of tablets makes it possible to build new things controlled by and even incorporating them. No one does that kind of idea. Worse still, anything you work on changes you. It's distracting. The biggest difference is that you look smug. Both Blogger and Delicious did that. There are several reasons why, but one is that people don't want to end up with less stock per startup, but startups will probably do better with founders more in control, and there will probably be survivors from each group.

An unbiased review would go something like this: instead of a fixed round size, startups will do a rolling close, where they take money from investors one at a time. He got away with it, but it's less true now. There are a lot of variation in the incoming stream, but instead of pursuing this thought they tended to suppress it, in the language of VCs, gone from a must-have to a nice-to-have. One of the biggest remaining obstacles is pride. If you're young, you should probably take the organic route. And unless the forms of technological progress that produced these things are subject to different laws than technological progress in general, and partly because it seems kind of slimy. If the startup can't raise the rest, the lead is out too. Instead of getting a prototype out quickly and gradually refining it, you try to raise money. Maybe that will help, if you think about it, because our definition of success is that the kind of help that matters, you may as well just translate these to we're giving up on the startup. Tim says the phrase Web 2. Instead of getting a prototype out quickly and gradually refining it, you try to raise money from VCs, and a supposedly neutral fifth person.

But the average startup fails. You have to be careful about. So I'll tell you now: bad shit is coming. Plenty of people who make good startup founders don't mind dealing with technical problems—but they hate the type of problems investors cause. Disruptive technologies are developed by disruptive people. If half the startups we fund never to lord it over users. Another reason people in their early twenties don't start startups is that you've built something based on your own projects than an undergrad or corporate employee would. At least one startup from the most recent summer cycle may not even raise angel money, let alone write their own in house. If it fails, that is.

[incontinence-paris]

Abandoned baby finds new home after visit to hospital

As a two-time breast cancer survivor, Lorraine knew she’d never have kids of her own. Then a miracle literally showed up at her feet. Humankind

TALLAHASSEE – His newborn legs were bare and cold to the touch.

That chilly May 6 morning, his short-sleeve onesie was wet, his diaper was soiled, his white bib was stained. Curled up in the bed of a Nissan pickup truck, he was without a hat, a blanket or a name.

He was less than a week old. And he was all alone.

No one knows when the baby was stowed in the truck bed or how long he was there. It would be a college student who, drawn by the sound of hushed cries, discovered him while walking through the parking lot of the Meridian Apartments on High Road. Rattled, the 22-year-old called police. It was 8:26 a.m. Within minutes, an officer arrived, followed by paramedics.

As events unfolded, helpful strangers found themselves at the right place, at the right time to help an abandoned baby out of place in a cold world.

And just a week later, as if by divine design, that baby had a name, a home and a grateful mother who longed to nurture a newborn as her own.

His name is Caleb, but his mom and dad call him Charlie.

Lights and sirens

Leon County EMS Captain Steve Suarez had just grabbed a cup of coffee on West Tennessee Street when a dispatcher’s voice piped through his field truck.

Come with "lights and sirens," the dispatcher said. He arrived in two minutes.

Tallahassee Police Officer Beth Bascom already was on the scene at the student apartment complex. In her arms, she held what looked to be a "cold, scared and young baby." All he had was a green pacifier and one unused diaper; a loosely tied shirt was partially wrapped around his head and body, the police report said.

"The biggest concern we had at that point was exposure to the elements," said Suarez, who arrived about the same time as an ambulance with two paramedics on board. "We could tell he was relatively new to the world. I think we were all struck by how cold and alone he felt in the pickup."

That Saturday morning, something told Suarez to put a special equipment bag in his truck. It contained a warming mattress designed for babies and children. The EMS field supervisor had only used it once before while training at Miami Children’s Hospital.

Suarez called it "an incredible coincidence" that left him thinking a higher power was at work.

Temperatures dipped to 49 degrees that morning — 10 degrees colder than was common for that time of year. What were the chances he of all people, with the specialized child-warming equipment and experience, was just two minutes away when the call came?

"It gives me chills just thinking about it," Suarez said. "It was one of those days I was honored and thankful that we do the work we do."

Sirens blared as the infant was rushed by ambulance to Tallahassee Memorial HealthCare. Waiting in the emergency room for the baby’s arrival was a supervising respiratory therapist just in case the newborn had trouble breathing.

‘My heart went out to him’

Lorraine Nichols will never forget that morning.

Little was known about the infant, who was given the computer-generated name "Whiskey Doe" at the hospital. Nichols, a respiratory therapist for 18 years, said he was hypothermic, his body temperature dangerously low, even after the warming efforts of the paramedics.

His paper-thin skin was peeling. He wailed from hunger pangs. Doctors estimated he was 5 to 7 days old since his umbilical cord had fallen off. Based on the seed-like appearance of his stool, he’d been breastfed.

“My heart just went out to him,” said Nichols. “He was left alone, and there’s no telling how long he was really there.”

When he arrived, Nichols monitored his breathing and oxygen intake. For the most part, the newborn was fine — cold, hungry and wet — but fine. No drugs were detected in his bloodstream. He had no obvious abnormalities.

As a supervisor, Nichols works wherever she’s needed throughout the region’s largest hospital. That morning, she happened to be working in the ER.

Right place, right time.

Nichols is a two-time breast cancer survivor.

She and her husband, Charles, had spent tens of thousands of dollars on in-vitro fertilization before they were advised to stop trying. The hormones could bring back the cancer.

The couple turned to adoption, completed the exhaustive vetting process and was told it may take years to identify a baby.

Nichols longed to be a mother to a baby like Whiskey Doe.

She fell in love; she bonded the way mothers do when they cradle new life. She was glued to him. She called her husband, telling him about the abandoned baby and her hopes to adopt him. He wholeheartedly supported her.

As the newborn remained at TMH for observation, she speed-dialed the Florida Department of Children and Families (DCF) and her case manager at the Children’s Home Society regarding a possible adoption. DCF empowered Nichols to make decisions for him since the infant had no one.

The abandoned baby arrived at TMH weighing 5 pounds, 7 ounces. Four days later, 6-pound, 7-ounce Baby Charlie went home.

Charlie arrived May 10 at the Nichols’ four-bedroom northeast Tallahassee house in a new rear-facing Graco car seat. A plush cushion supported his head. A soft gray-and-white polka dot blanket kept him cozy. He was safe and secure.

The house, which sits at the entrance of a quiet cul de sac, was plastered in family portraits of his instant, forever family: his parents and three grown siblings — two brothers and a sister — and eight nieces and nephews (one on the way). Next door to a giant framed taekwondo jacket and belt mounted on a cinnamon-painted wall was Charlie’s room.

Block letters spelled out the baby’s nickname on a banner.

Inside his nursery, a white crib was lined with baby lion linens. On the aqua blue walls, Charles hand-painted colorful air balloons, flying airplanes and smiley face clouds. "Charlie" was spelled out in even bigger block letters on the front-facing wall.

Everything about the nursery said the Nicholses were, once again, proud parents.

Lorraine always wanted a baby girl, but she couldn’t bear a child. Fertility treatments could have been a death sentence. The couple was told it could be years before they found an adoptable baby. The odds seemed stacked against them.

Baby Charlie arrived one week before they were about to call a private adoption attorney — a costly option — so Lorraine could live her dream of being a mother to a young child.

"I truly believe that what God has for you is for you," she said. "It’s on his time, and God said, ‘No you’re going to get Caleb this time.’ And Caleb came with us."

The couple already had a crib and some baby necessities. They had installed childproof outlet covers and doorknob spinners since the Children’s Home Society vetted and cleared the couple for adoption in November 2016.

Married for 20 years, theirs was a May-December romance that took root.

Lorraine, 46, is 20 years younger than her husband, who is retired from the Army. They met when she was a cashier at the old Albertson’s grocery store (now Kohl’s) on Apalachee Parkway. He’d walk in with his three bouncing young children, ages 4, 5 and 9. It was quite the sight.

They both were facing a divorce. In time, they found a life mate in each other. His little ones carved a path to parenthood for a woman who always loved children.

"I helped my husband raise his three children," she said. "It doesn’t matter who they belong to, I love them."

The first week

Although she raised his kids, being a mom to a newborn was different — terrifying, even.

Days and nights were consumed by feedings every two hours and fragmented sleep. Nichols feared she’d "break him" — first-time mom jitters.

"Oh Lord, what have I done," she thought. Reality sunk in.

Lorraine, admittedly, was delusional. She thought she could care for the newborn without the benefit of maternity leave. She was wrong. Nichols ended up taking nine weeks, three weeks shy of the maximum leave allowed at TMH.

Throughout the haze of instant motherhood, she was thankful.

She was finally living the wonder and worry of nurturing a newborn, from changing diapers to sifting through mounds of gifted and purchased baby clothes, including church suits with matching neck and bow ties.

This is what she’d been missing. This is what she’d prayed for.

Every day, Lorraine talked to God. She wrote prayers and praises on Post-It sticky notes. On her side of the master bathroom, a sheet of yellow notes covers the inside of her "prayer closet," inspired by the movie War Room.

This is where she asked God to make a way, one that would lead to a child who needed her.

God answered.

Right place, right time.

Two weeks ago, she and her husband sat at their oval-shaped dining room table decorated with holiday plates and napkins. A 9-foot Christmas tree shimmered in silver tinsel and ornaments.

In a sweet child-like voice, Lorraine snuggled against Charlie’s soft cheek and said, “Mommy, I made it through, and I’m 7 months old now. You didn’t break me.”

Lorraine wants to be perfect for him.

She consulted her "Baby Center" app as often as she does her Bible. Co-workers and her Bethel Missionary Baptist Church family showered her with advice, encouragement and baby gifts. Charles is the ideal stay-at-home dad. He pitches in and leans on his experience juggling his young children — two followed his military footsteps.

Fatherhood is different this time around. He’s not the Army drill sergeant raising children on his own after his first wife walked out.

At 67, he enjoys being a support system for his wife who works 12-hour shifts three days a week at TMH and teaches part time at Tallahassee Community College.

“I just wanted to support my wife," he said. "Whatever she wants. Whatever makes her happy makes me happy."

Since Charlie’s arrival, the father-son moments are too many to count. The baby combs dad’s beard with his fingers and plants wet, slobbery kisses on his bald head.

“I love Charlie," he said. "That’s my buddy, my best friend and my sidekick.”

On Sept. 7, four months after Charlie appeared in their lives, his adoption was finalized.

Since then, the couple has tackled each day while planning for the future. Charlie has a passport for a family cruise in March. Swim lessons set up in April. Taekwondo classes by age 3 or so.

His parents will encourage him to play an instrument. They’ll urge Charlie to attend and finish college. He’ll receive a full ride from the state if he goes to a Florida school.

Wrapped presents bunch around the base of the Christmas tree at the Nichols home. A motorized train circles its base. Relatives traveling from as far as California and Texas are set to meet Charlie.

They’ll witness the baby’s christening on Christmas Eve. For the occasion, he’ll wear an all-white pantsuit and dress shoes. They’ll take turns holding Charlie, who’ll likely steal their hearts with every coo and cry.

This Christmas will truly be special.

"I feel all goodness for him, and that he’s going to be somebody," Lorraine said. Her gentle rocking lulled him to sleep in her arms. "And it’s all God’s plan. I just really believe that, and I tell him that all of the time."

She can’t but pray for Charlie’s birth mother, who nourished Charlie with her breast milk. Who knows if she was alone when he was born. Who knows what made her, or someone else put the newborn in the back of a pickup truck owned by someone who didn’t even live in the apartment complex where he was found.

Who knows.

Lorraine said there are too many what-ifs to count. She thinks of them all. Yet she doesn’t judge the mother or the father.

"All I can do is pray for her, and I still pray for her to this day because you don’t know what people go through or are going through," she said. "I can just imagine that she wanted her child to be safe."

She prays a divine message may reach the mother to let her know the baby is in good hands. He’ll have a good life.

"It’s just been amazing," Lorraine said, looking down on his face. "This is my Christmas gift."

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