#my ​depression is rearing its ugly head again

[absolutelyminty]

I don’t know man but every work day I wake up my first thought is always “I can’t wait to get home so I can do what I want” and not “wow! What a wonderful day to work at my 9-5 job that I love! I just love to spend all my time inside whilst the sun shines outside and even better than that I just LOVE using up my social battery during the work day and running entirely out of energy by the end of the day so I have to force myself to do chores and function like a supposedly normal human being despite knowing that I’m literally burning out as we speak, in fact I’m already running on fumes but you know what it’s all worth it if I can go to work.”

[that-bitch-kat3]

love looking at my tumblr stats for years past cause what is it about september and october that makes me post so fucking much? like damn i am locked in and clocked in when fall hits.

[myfriendtheghost]

had a GVF dream last night and naturally in my dream I had to log onto tumblr and tell everyone about my experience

so here I am fulfilling the prophecy

[pyroteapot]

.

[plutotheplum]

I Only Bleed For Him

dragon!sylus x fem!reader

summary: amidst the blooming flowers in tarus city, the dragon claims his beloved.

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, a smidge of fluff, angst, kissing, loss of virginity, oral sex, p in v, possessive sex, blood, claiming bites, mating, knotting, soulmates, canon compliant death

wc: 4.5k

a/n: the way the myth cards just keep getting depressing :( there will be another chapter after this fic, but it'll be in the actual timeline! also not very confident in my angst writing abilities, but hopefully y'all enjoy!! <3

also on ao3!

“You know, Tarus City can have flowers bloom everywhere, as far as the eye can see. But only for one person.”

Sylus’ voice is a soft murmur, his hands caressing your waist as he holds you tighter against him. Your heart lurches uncomfortably, fingers brushing across his cheek and the hard, black scale that lays fused to his skin.

“What if we stayed here?” you whisper, peering into his crimson eyes.

“Would you be able to sate yourself?” Sylus asks in return, his claws brushing through your hair gently.

You avert your gaze, cheek pressing against his chest as you stare at the swaying carmine flowers in the soft breeze. Sylus’ heart is steady, the soothing sound of thrumming coupled with the motions of his claws nearly enough to lull you to sleep.

His question holds value. Revenge threatens to pull you apart at the seams, the desire for chaos rearing its ugly head. You want more, you always want more and Sylus gives it to you willingly. Your selfish desires will be the downfall of the Fiend, you think, hands tightening into fists. 

Yet, there is so much more to do. So much to take from those that had taken from you. Resentment makes you tremble, the Sacred Judicator’s words ringing clear in your mind. 

The Sorceress has been judged. 

You could laugh at the thought if you weren’t so angry. Some sorceress you were, powerless and yet put before the Court of Justitia as a traitor for trying to protect the statue of a dragon. 

Angry tears prick at your eyes, teeth gritting together only to be drawn out of your wrathful thoughts by the press of Sylus’ lips against your clenched fists, his claws unfurling your clenched fingers.

“Just like the day we met,” Sylus murmurs, his gaze trained on you, “such hatred and defiance.”

You swallow the lump in your throat when he kisses your palms.

“Beauty,” he whispers against your skin, “and resentment, little sorceress. They make you my precious, most finest treasure.”

“I don’t want to think about the Legion,” you reply, voice trembling, “I want them gone, Sylus.”

“Pluck them out one by one,” Sylus says, his hand caressing your cheek, “but another will replace those gone. Their roots run deep, weeds that refuse to die, marring the world around them.”

You sigh, eyes fluttering shut as you lean into the warmth of his hand, the rough scales scratching your skin gently.

“I shall burn Justitia to the ground,” you grit out, eyes burning with determination, “I will make them all regret and spite them into contrition, bring them to their knees and- and-”

Sylus laughs, his expression soft as he peers up at you. “You speak sharply, little sorceress. Your fire and spirit matches my own.”

“Because I am your other half,” you mumble, pouting slightly as you feel your anger subside the more Sylus caresses you. 

“You are,” Sylus affirms, “bearer of my soul, my other half. Only you could be worthy enough.”

A light flush covers your cheeks before you hide again, nosing into his cheek. You can feel the warmth of his soul inside of you as your eyes shut, lungs expanding as you suck in a deep breath, the scent of the dragon clouding your senses.

Burnt embers and a soft sweetness make you whine, body squirming as you try and press yourself closer to him, your fingers caressing his horns.

“Careful,” Sylus grunts, his claws tightening around your waist when he feels the brush of your fingers against the base of his horns.

You can feel the slight jump of his hips, your gaze lifting to find his brows drawn together, eyes squeezed shut.

“Does it hurt?” you ask worriedly, fingers pausing.

“Hardly,” he replies, his eyes opening again, “I am simply… sensitive.”

You hum, head tilting to kiss his cheek as your fingers resume their stroking and caressing. Sylus makes a small noise and you relish in it, peppering kisses here and there, across his cheeks and over the large scales.

A delighted sound escapes you when you hear what you think is something akin to a purr. Sylus’ cheeks tint with a light pink and you smile against his cheek, ears straining to listen again when he rumbles gently, his head tilting as he pushes up into the caress of your hand.

“Like a mountain cat,” you tease, tracing the slope of his nose when he purrs again, feeling his claws twitch against your hips.

“Do not use my gifts against me,” Sylus grouses, despite the pleased rumble of his chest.

“I enjoyed them,” you reply, fingers running through his hair leisurely, “if only we could go back.”

“We will,” Sylus promises, his eyes flickering open, “I shall make sure of it.”

You smile wistfully. Going back to the cavern held more challenges than worth risking. Bitterness makes your smile waver, but you brush the thought away, content to at least be given this moment of reprieve.

“We will,” you repeat after him.

Neither of you mention the emptiness of the promise. The damp coldness of the chapel latches onto you and Sylus is the only one able to make it dissipate, his claws tracing over the curve of your cheek.

You cling to him, nose brushing against his gently.

“I love you.”

Sylus’ chest rumbles in response, his head tilting as he presses his lips to yours. The curl of his tail around you holds you to him, his hands kneading at your hips as you kiss him. It’s slow and syrupy, both of your souls intertwining and interlocking in the sweet musk of the flower fields. 

You can feel the pull of your soul towards him, how your body yearns for more of him, the tendrils of your very being try to claw through gaps of your ribs and pierce his chest. You’d let him hold you in the glowing stone embedded in his chest if it were possible.

“So this is what it means to love,” Sylus murmurs, his lips brushing over yours with every word he speaks, “perhaps mortals are wiser than I thought.”

You laugh, arms wrapping around his neck when he rolls you both over, your back pressing into the soft grass.

“Only some mortals,” you correct, smiling when his teeth bite onto the tips of your gloves, pulling them free from your hands, rings and all.

Sylus’ skin is warm when you touch him again, truly for the first time. His eyes flutter shut, savouring the sensation of your skin against his before he lowers his head, kissing you again.

“I wish to claim you, my beloved,” he breathes out, trailing hot kisses down your neck, “will you let me?”

“Yes,” you sigh, your own eyes slipping shut, “yes, Sylus.”

Sylus’ tail sways behind him, the pointed tip brushing across the skin of your leg before his claws join the midst, dragging down your thighs gently. You gasp, the unfamiliar sensation making you squirm as he begins to undo your dress.

You help him, sitting up as he pulls it over your head, his claws ripping through the delicate fabric despite his tentativeness. You don’t pay it any mind, cupping his cheeks to pull him down into a slow kiss, feeling his body hover over you, his tail wrapping around your waist.

The sharp spikes dig into your skin, making your body seize with discomfort until the repeated brush of Sylus’ lips over yours soothes away the nervousness.

Your panties are ripped away too, the fabric laying in tatters in Sylus’ palm. He frowns when he stares at his claws, and you reach for his hand, lips pressing against his knuckles gently.

“It doesn’t bother me,” you whisper.

“It should,” Sylus murmurs, his gaze dipping as he stares at you laying bare before him. 

He can see the mark of his fangs in your neck, the subtle scent of your blood setting his senses alight. You belong here, Sylus thinks, his eyes darkening as he sees the rise and fall of your chest, the pebbling of your nipples in the cooling breeze. 

An undying flame blooming amidst a field of lesser flowers. 

If only he could keep you here.  

The flicker of emotion in Sylus’ eyes makes you uncomfortable and you kiss his knuckles again, lips pressing against the hard scales firmly. He sighs, his hand flexing in your grip, his tail drawing you closer as he kisses your forehead.

You can hear his breath hitch when you fumble with his trousers, undoing the various buckles to have him bare before you as you are before him.

“Greedy mortal,” he murmurs, gripping your chin to plant a kiss to your lips.

“You already knew that,” you smile faintly, nipping his lower lip playfully.

Sylus rumbles, his body shifting to remove his clothing. You swallow when you see the heavy hang of his thick cock. The tip glistens and you squeeze your thighs shut, trying to quell the dull ache that has settled inside of you.

“It- it is different from mortal men,” you mumble, head tilting curiously as you stare at the base of his cock.

“I am a dragon,” Sylus supplies drily, his hand wrapping around his cock.

You watch, mesmerised as he pumps his cock with his clawed hand, brows furrowing when you see the slight swell at the base of his cock, above his heavy balls.

“A knot,” he explains, moving his cock to show you the swell of it a little better, a low hiss leaving him when you reach out to touch it hesitantly. “It- hah- it is useful for mating.”

It gives a little under your prodding, wetness pooling between your thighs at the sight of it. You try to wrap your fingers around it, but the tips of your fingers hardly touch, Sylus letting out a growl at the sight.

“I want it,” you whisper, blinking up at him, “I- I want you to mate me, and- and I want that.” You point to his knot.

Sylus lets out a hoarse laugh, his clawed hand coming up to caress your cheek. 

“And you shall have it when I claim you. Although…” he pauses for a moment, his expression becoming slightly flustered, “I have never claimed anyone before.”

“Oh,” you flush with him, averting your gaze. “I have never been claimed before.”

Sylus sucks in a sharp breath, his nose nudging against yours gently as he plants a soft kiss to your lips. “My first and my last.”

You have to blink away the tears that begin to brim in your eyes, your arms wrapping around his neck tightly. Sylus kisses the side of your head, his body descending further down your body.

Soft noises leave you as he places reverent kisses along the length of your body, his tongue flicking at your nipple experimentally, carmine eyes peering up to watch your reaction carefully. When you gasp, Sylus hums, his mouth opening wider to envelop your breast with his mouth.

Your fingers delve into his soft hair, back arching as you push your breast further into his mouth, his hot saliva making your skin shine. The flowers around you sway, unbothered by the act of intimacy, Sylus’ clawed fingers pinching at your nipple lightly.

He groans when you jerk under him, mouthing at the sides of your breast, pressing wet kisses here and there, tongue swirling over your areolas before granting each nipple a soft kiss.

“You respond well, beloved,” Sylus whispers, beginning to lave over one of your areolas again, seemingly taken with the way you twitch whenever his teeth graze your nipples.

“It- it feels good,” you whine, your thighs sticky with slick.

“Then perhaps I ought to do the same here,” he murmurs thoughtfully, pulling back to pry apart your thighs.

Translucent strings of slick cling to your thighs and the folds of your pussy, Sylus’ head lowering to get a better look.

“So delicate, little sorceress,” he whispers, his claws pulling apart your puffy folds to find your glistening pussy. “A bud,” Sylus continues, the flat of his scaled finger brushing your swollen clit tentatively, “like a flower.”

A needy whimper escapes you, hips bucking up under his exploratory touch. It’s nothing like when you used to touch yourself in the privacy of your small room within the walls of Justitia. Sylus’ touch is rough, textured, heightening the feeling that makes your clit pulse with want.

“Please,” you beg breathily, fingers reaching out to grasp his horns, “please, I- I need more.”

“But I am not yet done,” Sylus replies, peering up at you to watch the expression on your face when he rubs your clit more firmly.

“Sylus!” you whine, “the ache is too much!”

The dragon between your thighs huffs out an amused breath, the hot air making you shiver.

“So demanding,” he sighs, leaning forward to kiss your clit. “Although I do enjoy seeing you so… uninhibited, beloved.” 

You push his head towards your cunt, growing impatient, although being careful not to jostle his horns too much. Sylus groans when he tastes you for the first time, his rough tongue gliding through your wet folds.

A gasp leaves you when he flicks his tongue against your clit, a tremor settling through your bones as you writhe atop the grass. Sylus holds you in place, a pleased purr sounding as he nuzzles deeper into the wetness of your cunt, his tongue lapping and laving over the velvety flesh of your pussy.

“Oh,” you breathe out, eyes squeezing shut when you feel the dig of his claws into your flesh, coupled with his mouth on your pussy, “S- Sylus, oh yes.”

Sylus hums into your cunt, his tongue swirling around your clit, collecting your slick into his mouth, drinking it down as if it were the very essence of your soul.

“You taste sweet, my little love,” Sylus rasps, his claws pulling apart your folds so he can prod at your aching hole, feeling the needy clench of it around his tongue when he presses it in. “Sweeter than any wine I have ever tasted.”

“You- nghh- you exaggerate,” you mewl, tugging at his hair gently, your fingers stroking the base of his horns.

Sylus shudders, his head tipping forward into your touch. “I do not,” he growls, nipping at your thigh in a show of disagreement. “I would keep you on my mouth every night if you allowed me and drive you mad with pleasure.”

You smile hazily when you hear his words, hips rolling up to meet his mouth when he sucks your clit into his mouth, his tongue stroking across the swollen bud lazily.

“Are we not already mad?”

“Perhaps we are,” Sylus responds, his hips grinding into the clothes beneath him. “But I should be glad to be mad with you.”

A soft, content sigh leaves you as you lose yourself in the sensation of his tongue. It swirls through your folds, presses into your cunt every so often whenever Sylus loses interest in your clit for a brief moment.

He never strays far however, his chest rumbling with his own contentedness as he buries his face deeper into your cunt, breathing in your scent. Sylus sucks at your clit with renewed fervor when he feels the tensing of your thighs against his claws.

“I can feel you, little love,” Sylus rasps, his voice low and rumbling. “Come undone on my tongue.” He presses an affectionate kiss to your clit before latching his mouth onto it more firmly.

“Sy- Sylus,” you whimper, legs beginning to jerk as the pleasure grows.

He growls into your pussy, his mouth working faster, tongue swirling and slurping until you have no choice but to cum. You cry out, his name leaving you in disjointed syllables, heavy pants breaking your cries.

Your thighs squeeze around his head, until his tail wraps around one of your legs, pulling you open so he can drink from you until sated. Overstimulation makes you sensitive, whimpers and whines leaving you as you pull at his horns.

“It is too much,” you mewl, “I- I cannot-”

“You can,” Sylus murmurs, spreading you open wider, exposing you completely, “you will for me.”

The dragon devours you again, his fangs sinking deep into the flesh of your thigh. Your blood and slick mixes together and Sylus feels as though he is being torn apart from within, your taste heating his own blood until he can no longer hold back.

You cum again on his tongue, back arching before you writhe violently, fingers grasping for anything and everything, uprooting the flowers nearby as you attempt to gain some semblance of stability.

Sylus gives you some reprieve, his tongue lapping over your puffy pussy gently, his lips pressing against your clit and the mark his teeth have left on your inner thigh.

He rises up to find you limp, unable to stop the shudders that jerk through your body from the immense pleasure.

“Little love?” he murmurs, a claw tapping against your cheek.

A pout makes your lips jut out when you blink up at him blearily, brows furrowing into a glare. Sylus smiles, his head dipping to brush a sweet kiss to your cheek.

“You are beautiful,” Sylus says, his hand stroking over your hair soothingly, claws running through your hair.

“I want to do the same,” you whisper, your hand reaching down between your bodies to find his cock. “I want you in my mouth.”

It’s harder than before, pre-cum smeared across the tip, warm globs dripping onto your stomach. You wrap your hand around him, squirming around in an attempt to get onto your knees.

“Another time,” Sylus murmurs, stopping you from getting closer to his cock, his tongue licking into your mouth.

“Now,” you demand, blinking up at him, still a little dazed. “Now, Sylus.”

“Another time,” Sylus repeats firmly, his lips descending upon yours again.

“There- there will be no other time!” you protest, peering up at him desperately, your lower lip trembling.

You only speak the truth, and it angers you. The cruelty of fate has begun to wrap its remorseless fingers around your heart, squeezing and squeezing until you feel your heart give, clenching painfully.

“Never say that!” Sylus snaps suddenly, his hands cupping your cheeks. He presses himself against you, forehead touching yours. “There will-” there’s a tremor in his voice, “there will be another time. Always.”

How many more lies will you both tell yourselves? 

You bite back the sob building in your throat, crushing the sense of helplessness by pulling Sylus closer and pressing your lips against his feverishly. 

The dragon grips you harder, his tail winding around you tightly, holding you to him as he returns your kisses.

“Take me,” you beg when he lays you down again, “Sylus, claim me, please.”

“I will,” he hushes your cries with a kiss, “I will, little love. You will be by my side till the end of time.”

Sylus grasps his cock, breathing heavily, your panting breaths mixing together. He notches his cock against your drenched cunt, pushing in slowly. You both share a moan, his face pressing into the crook of your neck. The scales dig into your skin, his claws digging into your hips deeper, pain flaring across your skin.

It’s enough to distract you from the rampant thoughts of loss however, your mind clouding with every inch of Sylus’ cock that sinks into you.

“So- so tight,” he grunts out, his hips moving slowly.

You can feel his knot, slipping in and out of you, tugging on the edges of your cunt every now and again with how swollen it’s become. His cock splits you open, your soft moans sounding into the vast flower field as you reach up, hugging him to you.

Sylus thinks you sound as sweet as the scent of the blooming flowers.

He lowers his body, his weight almost crushing you but you need this, need him as close as possible to convince yourself that this is happening.

“More,” you whimper, pressing sloppy kisses to his jaw, “ruin me, take me apart.”

“You- hah-” Sylus’ eyes squeeze shut when he feels the tight clench of your cunt around his cock, “you mustn’t say such things.”

“And yet,” you whimper, dazed eyes finding his, “and yet, oh- I desire- ngh- it desperately.”

“If that is what you wish,” he whispers, kissing your forehead gently.

You moan loudly, the wanton sounds mixing with his low groans and growls when he swirls his hips, cock pressing into you deeper. His heavy balls slap against your ass, both of you uncaring of the lewd sounds as he thrusts his hips in and out of you, cock driving in deep.

Sylus’ knot sinks into place with each deep, rolling thrust he gives you, popping out whenever he draws his hips back. You’re slurring, hardly able to see him properly, clinging to him, legs wrapping around his waist.

He grunts, shifting your legs higher, away from the sharp, spiked scales that line his tails. 

They say the dragon is dangerous, the epitome of sin and yet he cares for you dearly, his lips trailing across your skin with such reverence that makes your body ache.

“You are mine,” Sylus growls, his carmine eyes glowing as he peers down at you. “Every inch of you, half of your soul, it is all mine.”

“Yours!” you hiccup, the pleasure making you feel numb, “always yours!”

Sylus moans deeply, and your hazy eyes catch the frantic sway of his tail behind him, his hips snapping harder and faster, your pussy struggling to accommodate and keep up with the ever-swelling knot at the base of his cock.

The sheer feral nature that seems to take over your dragon has you whining, a sharp scream leaving you when you feel his fangs bite into the still healing wound on your neck.

Blood flows freely from the bite and Sylus growls at the taste, losing his grip before tightening again. His claws prick at your thighs and hips, drawing more blood until it’s smeared across your skin. Your skin is just as red as the flowers in the field.

Your nails rake down his back, feeling driven wild by pain and ecstasy. Your own teeth sink into his shoulder, a soft whimper escaping you.

“Bite,” Sylus rasps, his hand on the back of your head, urging your teeth to sink in deeper, “harder, little love, harder.”

And you do bite. You mewl as you sink your teeth into the flesh of his shoulder, his blood wetting your tongue and lips and the taste is intoxicating. Your mind swirls as you feel the harsh thrust of his cock bullying inside of you over and over again, tongue lapping at the marks your teeth have left on his shoulder.

You can taste his blood and you can feel the searing pain and you- this- this is real.

This is real. This is real. This is real.

Your mind chants the affirmation as you tell it to yourself firmly, biting harder into him as your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Take it, beloved,” Sylus whispers hoarsely, pressing his face back into the crook of your neck, “take my cock and my knot. Let me claim you.”

“W- wait,” you begin to gasp, eyes widening with panic when Sylus manages to bully his cock into your pussy enough, the knot catching finally. 

You squeak, unable to comprehend the feeling of being plugged up so full. It’s entirely too swollen to pop free, your poor pussy fluttering around the thickness of it. Sylus isn’t faring much better, his hips jerking and halting when he feels the clench of your cunt, and how his knot has practically held you both in place.

“Yes,” he snarls, low and throaty, his hips swaying a little to grind his cock into you. “Mine, finally mine, little love.”

The press of his scaled claw against your clit has you screaming again, his name leaving you hoarsely as you cum on his knot. Your orgasm is violent, the tight coil in your lower stomach snapping sharply as you come apart, thighs twitching and body shaking.

Sylus sinks his fangs into your neck again and you cry out, softer this time, holding him to your neck and letting him lap at your blood.

He shudders, the taste of your blood coupled with the feel of your fluttering walls around his knot making his cock jerk and balls clench. Sylus cums with a throaty roar, his claws landing on either side of you as he hunches over.

Pleasure racks through his body whilst hot, thick cum floods your pussy unable to leak out and instead held in place by his throbbing knot. You whimper, mind feeling syrupy when Sylus rumbles and purrs, nuzzling into your breasts and then your cheeks, another hot load of cum spilling into you when his cock kicks at the squeeze of your cunt.

You kiss him clumsily, motions clouded by the haze of intimacy. Sylus sighs into your mouth, stroking your hair gently. You both lay there, surrounded by flowers, panting and unwinding.

His knot deflates after several minutes, softening cock pulling free. His cum spills out of you and Sylus watches with a frown, wishing his cum would stay stuffed inside of you.

Sylus rolls off of you when you tap his shoulder, his tail curling around you to bring to lay atop him. You don’t say anything, face pressing into the crook of his neck.

“Your desires are cruel,” you whisper, feeling his arms tighten around you.

“As are yours, little love,” Sylus says softly.

You sniffle, pressing a kiss to the steady beat of his pulse just under his jaw before shifting to kiss the glowing stone embedded in his chest.

Sylus shudders, his claws flexing around your skin. You kiss the stone again, beginning to cry when the stone’s glow begins to dim.

There’s a strange chill that makes your skin crawl, the familiar scent of the chapel invading your lungs.

“No,” you sob, peering up at Sylus, “not yet, please, please!”

Sylus smiles down at you, his expression forlorn. “I love you,” he says quietly, brushing a kiss to your forehead, sitting up to pull you onto his lap.

“I need more time,” you whisper, kissing him despite the growing coldness in the air. “We need more time.”

Hope had made you both fools. Sylus had claimed you in a withering graveyard.

You’re weeping when you ask him the question.

“Will you make the flowers bloom for me, Sylus?”

Your dragon kisses you fiercely.

“Always.”

Sylus’ emboldened oath is the only memory your fingers can latch onto when the dank atmosphere of the chapel awakens you.

The bell of the chapel rings loudly and you sob, scrabbling at his shoulders, trying to pull Sylus closer. You scream when the Sacred Judicator tears you from Sylus, the pull of his soul tugging violently at your chest. 

A week later, the dragon’s curse rings true. 

You no longer feel the warmth of his soul, for your beloved is dead.

[orbitaldeathwoomy-a]

‖ ♥︎ 》 It's only 5:00 and I'm already tired...

[mercurialmalcontent]

2024 kinda sucked on a personal level. I went into it still stinging from a friend breakup over some bizarre and upsetting bullying, then a couple of months later one of my cousins, who'd been struggling for years, died of an overdose. Shortly after that one of my uncles -- that cousin's stepdad -- nearly died of a massive heart attack.

I tried to get into a study program for full stack development but the guidance interview made it clear that I didn't have a snowball's chance in hell, which sent me into a deep depression for a month. I got some health news that made the spectre of my early adulthood eating disorder rear its ugly head again. I still haven't managed to finish fuckall creatively. And then there's the constant external pressure of existential threats...

But I'm doing... okay. I'm not falling to pieces, which is a huge amount of progress. I've made some good progress on the health problem. According to my phone's pedometer I walked 915 km, which is pretty fucking good for someone who uses a cane. I finally realized that if I spend the rest of my working life behind a desk I will lose my mind, which explains a lot about why I've struggled so much with self-studying anything.

So. Assuming I can pass another language test (which I'm pretty sure I can; my Finnish is poor but it's stayed the same level of poor for a long time, and since I passed the one last spring...) I'll get into a vocational program for gardening/groundskeeping in early Spring. It scares me -- what if I can't handle it physically, what if I make an ass of myself, what if people clock me and get weird about it -- but this is one of those things where the fear isn't really reasonable. I'm worried about how it'll impact me creatively, but let's be real, working in IT never made me more creative, and neither has having too much time on my hands. Yeah, I'm scared -- so I'll do it scared.

Maybe it'll work out, maybe it won't, but at least I'll have tried.

I do hope to have some stories to share with everyone this upcoming year, and I want to participate more, connect more, reach out more even though it's scary and I'm afraid of getting hurt. I've felt increasingly closed off and squashed down -- I think a lot of us have -- and I'm tired of it. We'll all need each other's voices more than ever, after all.

If you read all this, thank you. I'm wishing you the best.

[ange1sang]

a little to the left

2.6k words, gallavich + brief appearance from liam

; canon compliant/post season 11, domestic gallavich, hurt/comfort, trauma, dissociation, vomiting, gentle mickey milkovich

Most days Ian doesn't notice them. The blanks, the disconnect in his mind, the gaps in his memory like potholes in a road filled with oil slick and rainwater. They've been there since his late adolescence, weaving their way into his consciousness and embedding themselves into the membranes that separate his brain from his skull, so that he's used to them. He doesn't have to notice them, not when he can get by just fine without acknowledging them. But that's only on most days. 

Some days the blanks are deep and pitch black, tripping him up or even swallowing him whole. His mind becomes a black hole, everything in disarray and stretched, twisted, deformed until it's all unrecognisable. His childhood is a jumble of scenes from a movie watched on a drunken night, parts of it covered with lumpy, expired Wite-Out and others blotted with blood, smeared and dirty. The confusion makes his head pound and bile rise in his throat. For the longest time he didn't connect the two things. He's been having depressive episodes since he was seventeen, always accompanied by aches and nausea, and it was easy to lump the blanks and gaps in with everything else the depression brought on.

But he's older now, taking medication and watching his routine so that the depression rarely rears its ugly head anymore, yet the days of darkness, confusion and agony persist. They come when he least expects them, when he has a day full of errands to run with his brother or a day he's promised to spend babysitting his niece or nephew. He goes through the motions the way he's taught himself to do on even the hardest days, but it feels like wading through raw sewage in nothing but his boxers, grime and filth splattered against his thighs and clinging to the inside of his nose. He barely survives it, throwing up everything he eats, sometimes before he can reach a toilet bowl, and crawling into his bed deaf to the worried murmurs of his husband. 

It takes him years of survival, white-knuckled and tense-jawed, before it begins to make even a little sense to him. 

"Hey, Ian."

Liam's voice pulls Ian's attention from the comedy rerun he and a sleepy Mickey are watching on the TV. He looks to where his youngest brother is sitting at their kitchen table, school laptop illuminating his face and an old, chewed-up pen in his hand. 

"What's up?" Ian asks, lifting a hand to run his fingers through Mickey's hair. His husband grunts softly, pressing his face down against Ian's shoulder. Liam takes a breath, hesitating before he speaks again.

"You know the club you worked at?" he asks. Ian feels Mickey tense against him, and has to stroke his thumb against his forehead to keep him from cussing at the kid.

"Yeah, what about it?" Ian asks, trying to keep his voice lighthearted. "You aren't thinking of getting a job there, are you?"

"No," Liam says quickly, grimacing at the suggestion. Ian feels something in his chest relax. "I'm writing a paper on CSA for my psych class - you think it'd be okay if I interview you? Interviews get us extra points."

"CSA?" Ian asks, raising an eyebrow. Liam hesitates again, looking sheepish and guilty all of a sudden. 

"Childhood sexual assault," he clarifies after mulling it over for a long minute. The second the words leave his mouth Mickey lifts his head from Ian's shoulder and glares at the teen.

"Write a paper on those fuckin' drooling dogs or something, man," he says, which would be funny if it weren't for how his jaw clenches once the words have left his mouth. "Leave your family outta that shit, we got enough people lookin' at us like social experiments already."

"Right," Liam mumbles, but his eyes don't move from Ian, who feels his face stiffening like concrete. "Okay, sorry."

"Nah, it's fine," Ian whispers, his voice barely audible even though he tried to speak normally. He turns his head away from his brother, back to the TV. The blue light of the screen suddenly takes on a purple tinge, spotlights moving against the inside of Ian's eyelids and illuminating dark, dirty floors soiled with bodily fluids and pills that had been crushed beneath someone's shoe. His veins throb in his arms, skin suddenly too tight for his flesh, like he's waking up with a bad hangover, dry-mouthed and disoriented.

"Ian."

He feels his lips forming a frown on his face but they don't belong to him, invisible fingers pulling down the corners of his lips to turn him into a sad mime. Mickey's hand, warm and rough cups his cheek. He blinks and the dirty floor disappears, replaced with worried blue eyes and dark, furrowed brows.

"Hey. Baby."

"I'm fine," his reply comes, automatic and without thought, before he even thinks the words. Clearly, this does nothing to soothe Mickey, eyes darting around Ian's face. His thumb rubs Ian's temple, stroking the vein that feels like it's about to burst. "I'm... I'm fine."

Mickey draws in a sharp breath, looking like he's ready to scold him, but he doesn't say anything. He shoots Liam a brief but withering look, before leaning in to kiss Ian's forehead. 

"Okay," he mumbles, and slumps back against the sofa, but not without guiding Ian's head to rest against his shoulder. 

Ian's chest is tight and aching, but he's fine. He's totally fine.

When he wakes up the next morning it's to Mickey yelling from the kitchen.

"Ian! You want coffee?"

He stiffens in their bed, his husband's voice sounding foreign. 

"Ian?"

No, it isn't his husband's voice. It's the name. Ian. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to recall the last time he heard that name, but all his mind can offer are broken, fragmented memories of strangers whispering Curtis or Clayton or Benjamin in his ear, their breath hot against his skin. The familiarity of the names is soothing and torturous all at once, and before he knows what's happening his stomach is squeezing, pushing. He sits up but barely manages to lift his head from his pillow before a stream of weak, beige-green liquid pours from his mouth, puddling on the sheets and dripping down his chin. He stares at the pool of vomit, gears moving in his head like he's looking at an old friend. 

"Hey, man, you want coffee or-"

Mickey's voice stops just as abruptly as his movements, the man standing in the bedroom doorway like a statue. Ian turns his head to look at him, the small movement dizzying, and feels that same squeeze in his stomach. This time he has the foresight to move his hands, catching the little mouthful of hot, caustic stomach acid in his palms. 

"Ian, c'mon, don't do that," Mickey whispers, approaching slowly and taking hold of Ian's wrists. He allows himself to be manoeuvred, watching as the vomit sloshes from his palms and lands on the bed sheets. The name on Mickey's lips makes Ian's skin prickle, and he curls into himself. He's too big for it to really work, but he must have been small enough once. Must have been small enough to fold into himself like an ashen baby bird, all skin and bone and ruffled feathers. He tries to curl into himself further, trying to remember where the instinct comes from, but all he sees is a bottomless pit. Panic curls around his throat like barbed wire. "Come on, you gotta wash your hands. I can help you."

"No, I..." Ian mumbles, his own voice startling him. He stares down at his palms, feeling fabric against his skin. Expensive fabric, yarn woven into fine cotton with 2% spandex, fabric he's never been able to afford, not even on his wedding day, but that he must have touched at some point. Blearily, he looks at Mickey, meets his worried gaze through thick tears that refuse to pour down his cheeks even as he blinks over and over. His breath catches in his throat. "I don't feel right."

"That's okay. I got you," Mickey reassures him. Lips press against his forehead in a sweet kiss. "Come on, babe. It's okay."

Mickey takes his hands, not recoiling or frowning when the still-warm vomit touches his skin. He smiles, soft, small, scared, and helps the redhead stand up. 

"You're fine. I got you," he repeats, and kisses the dense patch of freckles on Ian's shoulder. The touch is familiar, and this time the familiarity is comforting without also being nauseating. He holds on tight to Mickey until their hands are under the running water of their bathroom tap, and as soon as their palms are separated he finds himself leaning into the other man, curling up again, trying to make himself smaller. He can feel Mickey watching him, gauging his condition, taking in his expressions and reaction to every little touch. "You're okay, Ia- baby."

Ian looks up, looks at Mickey's wet lashes when he bites back the name on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't understand why or how, but Mickey always knows what to say and, more importantly, he always knows what not to say. He drags in a deep breath that doesn't really reach his lungs and drops his head so he can hide his face against Mickey's shoulder. Hiding. Even if he can't seem to think of much right now, he knows he's good at hiding.

"Sorry I threw up," he mumbles into Mickey's shoulder, which makes his husband chuckle.

"I've seen you puke before, man," Mickey says. "That fuckin' sushi Debbie made us all eat last year? Playing drinking games with Sandy?"

Ian recognises the memories like the face of a quiet classmate in a yearbook - he can place them in the right environment, but can't picture them doing anything, not even opening their mouth to say 'present' for attendance. He winces, the effort of  trying to pull forth images he knows are there making him dizzy.

"C'mon," Mickey whispers, turning off the tap. "Let's get some breakfast in you. Pepto Bismol with your meds maybe."

"Wait," Ian pleads, not ready to open his eyes and face the world yet. Not when he can't remember his place in it. Again, Mickey takes it in his stride. He pulls Ian into a hug that's firm enough to ground him and gentle enough to remind him that Mickey loves him. The reminder is enough to ease the jelly feeling in his joints just a little, Mickey's thumb moving back and forth against his shoulder blade like it's all he's ever wanted to do, and Ian takes a deep breath. The just-woke-up smell on Mickey, a smell that he knows he's always loved, even if he's never been sure why.

"I love you, man," Mickey murmurs sincerely. Ian relaxes just a little more.

"I love you too."

The day goes by slowly, every bit of it like pulling teeth. He downs his medication and food Mickey gives him even though his stomach twists nervously with each swallow. They watch cartoons on the sofa and Mickey smokes through a pack of cigarettes before dinner, his eyes flicking back and forth between Ian and the TV so often that he must not be getting any of what's on the screen. The vigilance is comforting, a reminder that he really is sitting on their sofa and not just dreaming up the four walls around him, so he doesn't mention it to Mickey. 

By the late afternoon he's falling asleep, tired just from keeping his eyes open and his food down. He lays his head on Mickey's lap, nose pressed into his husband's thigh and shuts his eyes when fingers immediately find their way to his hair, running through his curls and brushing stray hairs from his forehead. 

"You wanna head to the clinic tomorrow, check your meds?" he asks.

"Maybe," is all Ian can muster the energy to say. Mickey hums, thumb rubbing his brow bone.

There's a long pause, long enough that Ian almost falls asleep, before Mickey speaks up again.

"You did good, Ian."

Ian. The name finally sounds familiar again. No bile rises at the sound of it and there's no ache in his chest as he tries to place it. Relief washes over him, icy and overwhelming, and pulls him under. 

The next day he wakes feeling disoriented but not nauseous. His head is on Mickey's chest, his heartbeat steady and reliable where it thumps against his cheek. He takes a deep breath in and lifts a hand to trace a fingertip along the tattoo of his name on his husband's skin, his heart fluttering the same way it used to when they were kids and Mickey would show up at the corner store looking for him. His body feels like his own again, every organ, capillary and freckle back in its rightful place. 

He makes coffee while Mickey sleeps in. He knows after a day like yesterday that Mickey must've been up half the night, watching him sleep as though his next breath might not come, and feels a little guilty at the thought. When he carries two mugs of coffee back to the bedroom and a pack of Oreos pinched between his teeth, Mickey is waiting for him, a smile on his lips.

"Morning, mister," he grumbles, voice sleep-rough in a way that makes Ian giddy. Ian drops the Oreos on the bed and leans in for a kiss, hungry for Mickey's touch more than anything else.

"Good morning," he replies, handing Mickey his mug and settling in next to him.

"You feelin' okay? Wanna hit the clinic after breakfast?" Mickey asks cautiously, watching Ian's expression for any telltale signs that he's hiding something.

"Nah, I'm... I'm okay," Ian mumbles, shrugging. "I don't know what was up yesterday, it was like everything was a few inches to the left or something. I couldn't remember shit."

He looks at Mickey and smiles at the crease between his worried brows. 

"I'm okay now, Mick. Seriously."

Mickey grunts, frowning in a way that lets Ian know he's sorting his thoughts into words that make sense. They're halfway through their coffee before he's ready to speak, but Ian doesn't mind the waiting. He doesn't mind much when it comes to Mickey these days, at least not as much as he claims to.

"Y'know, Svetlana had days like that," he says, slow and unsure. "She'd get pukey and shit, couldn't hold a conversation... It was weird, 'cause she was always so fuckin' headstrong y'know? Seein' you like that..."– Mickey pauses, reaches out to cup Ian's cheek for a moment and rubs his thumb over the freckles on his temple. –"Maybe you should see a shrink, talk about the stuff that happened at the club."

Something clicks in Ian's head at the mention of Svetlana, all of the blanks, disconnects and gaps in his mind making a little more sense now.

"Yeah. Maybe," he sighs, and turns his head to press a kiss to Mickey's palm. "Thanks for not freaking out."

"Anytime," Mickey says with a small, worried smile. Just a couple of years ago Ian would've felt guilty for being the cause of his worry, but he understands it now. They're husbands. They're always going to worry about each other. 

"I love you," he tells Mickey, which earns him one of those shiny-eyed smiles he adores with all his heart. 

"Love you too, Red."

Maybe tomorrow he'll book himself an appointment at the clinic. Today though, all he wants to do is make up for the time he lost yesterday.

[blackleatherjacketz]

Favorite

Santiago "Pope" Garcia x Female Reader

Summary: Santi figures out that Frankie came and saw you last night before he got a chance and makes you pay for it.

Warnings: 18+ Only!, Explicit Smut, Mature Content, Exes Reuniting, Favoritism, Jealousy, Revenge Sex, Competition Kink, Praise Kink, Manipulation, Kissing, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Come Eating (Accidental), Female Orgasm, Vaginal Intercourse, Woman On Top, Multiple Orgasms

Word Count: 2.8k+

A follow-up to FIRST

Read more of my stories HERE!

The expected pleasantries with Santi are cut short as you lead him into your living room, the warm glow of the table lamp doing little to hide the mark his best friend had deliberately left on your neck for him to see. You silently watch his handsome features twist into a frown as he begins going through all five stages of grief in a matter of seconds, depression staying just long enough before denial quickly counters it.

“What is that?” He touches you as if he hadn’t stopped doing so for years, as if it were only a matter of days since he last walked through your front door and kissed you goodbye.

“It’s nothing.” You lie in order to keep his hands on you, to relish in that feeling of him physically caring for you like he did so long ago before he up and left. His fingers are warm against your skin, rough and calloused as they press into your cheek, turning your face to get a better look at the mark. It takes every ounce of self control for you not to touch him back, not to fall into the muscle memory of your intimate relationship that you never really had the chance to get over.

“Nothing, huh?” He rotates your face from side to side, placing his opposite hand on your shoulder to keep you steady as he carefully inspects your new bruise. “It sure as hell doesn’t look like nothing.” He loosens his grip on your chin.

“It’s just…” You wrack your brain for some kind of story to feed him, one that you might even believe enough to properly convince him of as well. Maybe you got distracted while you were curling your hair? Or maybe your massage therapist got a little carried away when they tried to do the new cupping technique? Or maybe…?

“Did Frankie drop by here last night?” He interrupts your thoughts with a slightly worried tambre. “Because he joked about coming over here after he dropped me off, but I didn’t think he was fucking serious.”

He looks up at you with those eyes, those eyes that could easily make you spill your guts within seconds of staring into your soul with their deep mahogany hue. Eyes that could lull you into a false sense of security, pulling you in just close enough for you to forget everything else around you. Eyes that could soften your heart at its hardest, change your mind, or make you agree to do things you normally wouldn’t want to do. Those eyes of his were much more powerful than you ever really gave them credit for.

“Did he come to see you?” He asks again, barely blinking.

Only you don’t answer; purposefully averting your gaze from his hypnotic stare. Maybe if you don’t look at him he won’t be able to see the truth that’s undoubtedly painted all over your face.

Silence.

He laughs to himself and brushes his palm over his face. “Aye pendejo,” he whispers under his breath. “I should’ve fucking known.”

“Santi, look, I…” you start without knowing where you could possibly finish.

“What? You think I’m fucking stupid?” Anger rears its ugly head as the tone in his voice starts to escalate. “You let him in here just like last time, huh?” He snaps his fingers before pointing in the direction of your bedroom. “Just like that? You let him slip in here even when you knew I was coming over here tonight?”

God, he looks so fucking good when he’s angry. There’s something about him getting all hot and bothered over another man beating him to the punch to get into your bed, even if it was his best friend; even if it had happened before. That territorial look in his eyes brings his face that much closer to yours, his full lips parting as they quickly fill with blood.

“You and I aren’t together anymore,” you remind him as his palm remains on your shoulder, his thumb gently brushing against your clavicle. “And how the hell was I supposed to know if you would actually come over tonight instead of just disappearing like you did last time?” You match his volume and intensity. “Huh?!”

More silence.

“I deserve that.” He hangs his head so you can clearly see the silver streaks as they weave into the rest of his charcoal curls. “Look, I know we’re not together anymore. I do. Of course I know that, but I just thought…” he sighs, pausing for what seems like an eternity. “But Frankie? Again? Really? No wonder he was asking who I was texting!”

“You can leave if you want to,” you goad him, bringing your face in closer with a tone you know will challenge him just enough to stay.

“Oh yeah?” He tilts his head and takes a second to chase away the disappointment by pushing you back up against the wall, keeping his grip tight on your shoulder. “He’d like that, wouldn’t he? Have his way with you without any repercussions?” He licks his lips as he stares at your hickey, running his thumb across your discolored skin. “Marking you like that.”

You can’t help but let a triumphant grin cross your face as you watch that seed of competition begin to grow within him, pounding through the veins in his temples as he stares at you intently.

“It doesn’t matter, anyways,” you say as his lips draw closer to yours. “He may have gotten here first, but that’s only because he knows that you’re my favorite.” You slide your knee up between his thighs, gently nudging his growing bulge as his lips part mere centimeters away from your own.

“Your favorite, huh?” His whisper dampens your lips as he smooths his palm across your shoulder until it reaches your neck, squeezing just affectionately enough to excite your senses.

Now we’re talking.

“He doesn’t know my body like you do, Santi.” You cup his face and stroke the stubble along his cheek as he continues holding onto your throat. “He doesn’t take his time with me like you always do, or put in the work to make my body crave you the very second that I see you...”

“Shut up.” His kiss cuts your words short, that all too familiar taste of cheap beer fresh on his tongue as it parts your lips with a hunger that rivals that of your early years together.

You find yourself nodding into his lips without uttering another word, bringing both hands up to cradle his face as he slides his other hand beneath your shirt. You moan into him as he palms the muscles in your lower back, pulling you in close to warm your core against his. You can feel his heart beating in rhythm with yours, thumping in his chest as the heat between you begins to rise.

“How many times did he fuck you, last night, huh?” He lets go of your throat and pulls your shirt off, dropping it at your feet before quickly kissing you again.

“Just once,” you answer breathlessly, the shade of your lipstick now tinting his lips as he kisses your chin and jaw.

“Mmm, so fucking lazy,” he mumbles into your neck with a slight chuckle. He suddenly shifts his weight and turns around with you, pushing you backward onto the couch. Forcing you to sit down in front of him, he digs his hooks into you one more time by locking onto you with those blackened, lustful eyes. He smirks and slowly starts unfastening his belt, pushing his pants down his thighs at an agonizing pace while you carefully watch him with bated breath. “Show me the rest of your body, baby.”

Chills run down your spine as you nod again in response, watching him free himself from his clothes, his girth always a sudden shock to your system no matter how many times you’ve seen it before. You can feel the moisture begin to pool between your thighs as you find yourself instinctively doing as you’re told, unbuttoning your pants and sliding them down your legs. You still can’t believe how lucky you are to have spun his jealousy around, unable to look away as he spits on his palm without breaking eye contact, stroking himself in such a languid, gratuitous manner.

“Let’s see how wet you get for your favorite, aye cariño?” He steps out of his shoes and pants before kneeling down in front of you.

The sight of his face between your thighs is almost more intoxicating than watching him stroke himself, his hooded lids adorned with lashes that brush your delicate skin as he presses kisses into your knees all the way up your inner thighs. Those eyes of his finally close as his mouth reaches your needy center, a muffled moan leaving his lips as he eagerly tastes your arousal. A ripple of pleasure moves its way up your body, pulsing through your core and up into your spine as he licks a slow, torturous stripe up your soaking wet length.

“Just what I thought.” He runs two fingers up and down your puffy lips before spreading them apart, focusing solely on the dew that clings between them. “You get this wet for Frankie last night?”

“No,” you can barely breathe your answer as he dips his fingertips into your entrance to collect the evidence, spreading it up and over your clit.

It isn’t until just now that you remember Frankie’s words from before: ‘I want him to taste my come when he goes down on you tomorrow night’; a promise that sounded more like a threat at the time. Was it possible that Frankie could still be oozing out of you even now? Changing the way you taste to your former lover? Or had your own juices been enough to disguise the remnants of his release as Santi painstakingly splays you open?

Guess you’ll never know.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” He raises an eyebrow as he runs his fingers back down, delving them deep inside your walls without warning.

“Never,” you admit with a gasp, holding your breath as the ridges of his calloused fingers glide over that special spot inside, pushing and pulling against it as his thumb rubs slow, tantalizing circles into your swollen bud.

“Good.” His tongue quickly takes over again, greedily lapping up your slick in a perfectly blissful pattern, his spit now mixing with your sex and Santi’s release as it drips out of you and down the crevices between your cheeks.

His unmatched oral skills nearly send you into a dreamlike state as that ripple from before spreads throughout your entire body. It wades through your nervous system, expanding in diameter as it reaches new heights and widths, washing over you in varying waves of delight. The rhythm of his fingers speeds up as your hips roll into them, instinctively moving with the rush of ecstasy he sucks into your clit by eventually pulling it into his mouth and past his teeth.

Without even stopping to take a breath, his mouth massages that last bit of pleasure into your deliciously sensitive bud without an ounce of mercy. His groans vibrate against your skin as your body trembles beneath him, succumbing to his expert ministrations as you find yourself drowning in the euphoria that only he could deliver in such a skilled, efficient manner. You cry out his name as that delectable feeling rips through you in a matter of seconds, bursting through every vein and artery in your body until the waters inside you eventually ebb to a calm, still state.

“I almost forgot how beautiful you look when I make you come.” He finally says, looking up at you with a satisfied grin as your moisture glistens across his face.

“Jesus,” you huff, nearly jolting away as he pulls his fingers out, grazing them over your clit one more time before rising to his feet. “I almost forgot how good you are at that.”

“Better than our boy Frankie?” He sits down next to you on the couch and grabs onto your hips, pulling you onto his lap in one fluid motion.

“Are you kidding?” You try to catch your breath as you settle onto the tops of his thighs, not yet ready for his cock as it stands at full attention against his stomach. “He didn’t even do that for me.”

“Amateur,” Santi whispers before kissing you, taking the time to spread your flavor into every corner of your mouth as his hands delicately venture up your backside and into your hairline.

You could almost convince yourself that things were how they used to be when you’re facing him like this, kissing each other as if you’re dying to know what each other tastes like for the very first time. You could get lost in the smell of his sweat and cologne that haven’t changed in all these years, relish in the warmth of his hands as they caress your shaking muscles, and delight in the distinct taste of his kiss. If you tried hard enough, you could almost convince yourself that you still slept together in the same bed, lived in the same house and ate your meals at the same time together; but all that had come and gone. All you have now is this.

“Mmm, you taste so good,” you mumble to bring yourself out of that unhelpful line of thinking, playfully running your fingers through his hair.

“Of course I do, I taste like your pussy.” He nips at your bottom lip before kissing you again, giving you another opportunity to savor that tartness between your legs before suddenly pulling away. “Now why don’t you hop on and prove to me that I’m your favorite.”

Wow.

Trying your best not to act too shocked at his words, you nod and lift your hips off his thighs as he grabs hold of himself at the base, stroking the few droplets of precum over his shaft as he takes you in. He looks up as you move your pelvis forward, grinning from ear to ear as you attempt to line yourself up with him, only he keeps moving against you.

“You wanna act like a little slut, huh?” He glides his cock across your overstimulated bud before lining up with your entrance, watching your mouth fall slack with each pass as every neuron in your body ignites again. “Well, you’re my little slut.” He brushes over it another time, forcing your eyes to roll back into your head as bright stars start flashing in the background of your vision. “Right?”

“Right!” You moan as he finally guides himself into your entrance, pulling you down with his other hand on your hip.

He groans as you slowly envelop him, your freshly lubricated walls already contracting around his girth as it stretches you out more than Frankie ever could. With a whisper of your name, his breath quickens as you take him in completely, your thighs now flush against his before you gather the strength to sit up again. He smooths both hands up and down your spine as you begin to ride him, mewling his name against his forehead as those stars become brighter behind closed lids.

He squeezes the base of your neck as he bottoms out again, thrusting up into you with a sort of frantic desperation you’ve never seen in him before. Every buck of his hips forces those stars in your eyes to become brighter, to shine in blinding shades of different colors as they spin around on their axes. You hear him grunt something in Spanish, the last of his sounds becoming more breathy as he sends pulse after pulse of heated pleasure shooting up through your nervous system until his thrusts force your body to convulse around him.

“Fuck, I love you so much,” he lets slip as he pulls you down one last time, the sound of your skin slapping against his echoing against the walls of your living room as he spasms and twitches inside you with a pathetic growl.

“I love you, too,” your innate reaction to his words comes without thinking, your current state hijacking any common sense that might make you respond differently.

Instead of correcting himself or apologizing, he leaves his words hanging in the air, just as naked and bare as he is now as he finishes spilling himself inside of you. He kisses you even deeper, pulling you further into him as if to merge the two of your bodies into one until his thrusts eventually slow to a complete stop.

Continuing to ignore his sudden confession, he rests his head against your chin and guides his palms over the curves of your body as the aftershock of your shared orgasm phases through you both. He hums the tune of your favorite song as he continues smoothing out all the gooseflesh that had formed on your skin until both of your breathing has steadied.

“I’m sorry I left.”

[vodika-vibes]

Hey Vod’ika, hope you’re having a happy new year! I was wondering if you could do a f!reader x Fordo piece(or with and alpha arc really). Reader is a special ops officer and works closely with them, and has the most devastating crush on him. The thing is reader is really depressed and has a very low opinion of herself for a lot of reasons so she doesn’t think she even has a shot. The trooper himself thinks otherwise, and all it takes for everyone’s feelings to come to light is reader accidentally finding the trooper’s sketchbook which is filled to the brim with hand drawn sketches pinups of her(I like to headcanon the clones sometimes had a natch for art because Jango had a natural hand for it) and she’s shocked and honored but has a lot of questions. Que the embarrassing confession between reader and trooper ;) sorry if this is all weirdly specific pls don’t feel pressed to get every detail if you don’t want don’t mind me I’m just feeling crazy today

The Sketchbook

Summary: You've had a crush on Fordo for ages, and you're convinced nothing will ever come of it. And then you find the sketchbook.

Pairing: ARC Captain Fordo x F!Reader

Word Count: 1373

Warnings: Reader is not in the best place mentally speaking

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: I hope this is close to what you wanted. And I'm sorry it took so long!

You mumble under your breath as you walk through the halls of Topica City, your gaze locked on your datapad as you quickly parse through the information from one of the special ops teams. 

Once upon a time, at the beginning of the war, you would have been with them, going over the information in real time, but after a serious injury left you with a prosthetic leg, you were relegated to having to analyze information from Kamino, rather than on the front lines.

No one blames you. Which is fine, you blame yourself enough for an entire squad.

You turn a corner, and let out a startled noise as you crash into something very solid. Red and white armor, and jaig eyes on the helmet hanging from his hands…whoops.

“Captain Fordo, my apologies, I didn’t see you.” You internally swear at yourself, of course you didn’t see him, you weren’t looking. Gods, you’re so dumb sometimes-

“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have been lurking around corners,” Fordo interrupts your mental train of thought, his voice quiet. 

“Even so, I should have been paying more attention.” You say quickly, “I should know better than to try and read and walk at the same time-”

“Don’t worry about it, really.” Fordo interrupts you again, “It’s not like you would have been able to hurt me.” His harsh words are accompanied with a kind smile, and your heart lurches.

Now is not the time for your embarrassing crush to rear its ugly head, you think firmly to yourself. “Well, thank goodness for small mercies, right?” You say with a tiny smile, “But I’ll get out of your way, Captain.”

“Fordo,” He murmurs, “We see each other daily.” He clarifies, “You can just call me by my name.”

“I…of course.” You say, slightly awkwardly, “Fordo, then.”

He smiles again, seemingly pleased with something so simple, “I appreciate it. But I do have to go-”

“Right! Of course. I’ll get out of your way!” You step to the side, and Fordo steps past you continuing down the hall, and you sigh, as you continue your trek to your office. You’re not going to get anything else done today, that’s for sure.

After all, you never do when you get the chance to talk to Fordo. 

You push your way into your office and set your datapad on your desk, before you sink into your seat and press your face into your hands. 

Frankly, your crush on Fordo is humiliating. He’s literally perfect, and you’re…well you. 

You push your hands through your hair, and then sit up. Fordo will never look at you the way you look at him, because you’re not good enough, and that’s fine. It’s fine.

Totally fine.

…maybe if you repeat it to yourself often enough you’ll believe it.

You focus your attention back on your datapad, and on the information that you’ve been parsing. And you slowly reach for it. At least this work will get your mind off of Fordo.

Maybe.

Several hours later, with your eyes burning with exhaustion, you finally finish for the day, and slowly make your way from your office to your suite. You walk the path blindly, exhaustion making you pay even less attention than you normally would.

Which is why you don’t see the notebook until you step on it.

You stare at it, puzzled, and then you sigh and pick it up, opening it to the first page. Surely someone wrote their name inside the book.

The notebook falls open towards a middle page and you stare, dumbly, at the image etched on the page.

It’s…you.

Page after page of you.

Images of you sitting at a table. Of you walking through the halls. Of you standing in the rain.

And every so often, there are images of you that could have only come out of the artist's imagination. Images of you clad in lingerie, images of you sprawled on the bed, you in every state of undress that you can imagine.

Your face burns with slight embarrassment as you slam the book shut, you shouldn’t have looked at those. They weren’t for your eyes. Carefully, you open to the very first page and scan for a name.

And then you nearly drop the book in surprise.

Fordo.

Fordo?

This is Fordo’s notebook?

Maybe…you should just put it back on the floor and let him find it himself. Maybe that would be better than letting him know that you saw his drawings of you. 

Nervously you rub the back of your neck as you try and decide what to do.

You jump when you hear heavy footsteps behind you, and you whirl around, an excuse already on your tongue for why you’re just standing in the hallway, though the words die on your tongue when you see Fordo standing there.

His gaze drops to the book in your hands, and he shifts, slightly uncomfortably, “That’s mine.” He says quietly.

You hold it out to him, “Um, I found it. I stepped on it, I’m so sorry-”

He lightly takes the book from you, “Did you, uh…look inside?”

Your face burns, “I…yes. I was looking for a name-” You pause and your face heats a little more, “You’re a very good artist.” You offer.

“Kriff, you weren’t supposed to see those.” Fordo mutters, “Why’d it have to be this one that I dropped?”

“Um-”

“I can explain.” He says quickly, “About…about the pictures of you. And the…less than fully clothed pictures of you-”

“You don’t have to,” You take a deep breath, “I know there aren’t a lot of women here, and I’m flattered-”

“It wouldn’t matter even if there were more women here, because I’d still draw you.” Fordo interrupts. “You’re the only woman I want to draw. Ever.”

Your thought process derails completely. “...oh.”

“Look, you’re…” He pauses to gather his thoughts, “Gorgeous. Funny. Clever. And so very competent, which is unfairly attractive, so you know.” Fordo looks at you, and then he continues, “You also lost a leg and it barely slowed you down at all-”

“Fordo, you-”

“Let me finish? Please?”

You stop talking immediately, “I go out of my way to talk to you when I can, but you’re so busy all of the time, that all I can do is just put myself in your way and hope that you run into me.” Fordo continues, “And I know I’m just a clone, and I know I have millions of identical brothers, but I just want-...” He trails off with a sigh, “You. I just want you.” He pauses, “You can talk now.”

Millions of half finished thoughts spin through your mind, “You and your brothers aren’t interchangeable, Fordo.” Is the first coherent thought that slips from you, “And I’m hardly…I’m barely holding myself together most days. I’m not…any of those things that you say I am.”

“I disagree. If you could see yourself the way that I see you…” He trails off with a sigh, “Stars, you’re perfect.”

“I’m really not-”

“I want you to be mine.” Fordo says quickly, “I want to…to kiss you and hug you and make you believe me when I say nice things about you. I want to wake up every morning and see your face first thing, and I want your face to be the last thing I see before I go to bed, but I know that I don’t have anything to offer you except my affection.”

You stare at him, your lips parted in surprise, “I…don’t need anything more than that.” You finally say and his gaze snaps to yours. 

Fordo scans your face for a moment, and you shift uncomfortably, “You mean it.” He finally says.

“Yeah. I mean,” You nervously twist your hair between your fingers, “I’ve had an embarrassing crush on you forever it feels like, so…yeah. I don’t want or need anything more than just your affection.”

Fordo takes a step towards you and reaches out to brush his hand against your cheek, “I can do that.”

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” You ask, your voice a whisper, “I’m not the best cook but-”

“Yes. Yes, I would.” Fordo says with a small grin, “Right now.”

[twoinoneflesh]

June 17th, 2024

jesus wept. and yet, i think we all weep more.

i sit alone in a cafe. they have this large glass garage door. today, it is only 55 degrees fahrenheit, and they have the bottom of this huge door cracked. it tickles my ankles. as the breeze rushes in through its 14 inches of freedom, i find little goosebumps in little places. i sit right next to the door because the sting of chilly breezes in june makes me feel alive, even if it feels wrong.

i hear a song that makes me feel alone. isolated in my nostalgia. lonely, i sip on hot chocolate that i expect to burn my lips and the tip of my tongue, but it never does. sirens blaze. i can see the cop shop from this impressive window, not a very impressive view.

i take a bite of an orange that i expect make me feel something, and it is not what i anticipate. it tastes of the essence of all purpose cleaner, as if it had no flavor at all until someone spritzed mrs meyers in its general vicinity without a second thought. i eat it anyways. i tear away the pith, my hands now smell of it.

i havent written for a few days. i worked a triple. 13 straight hours, 2 hours of rest, and then another 8 hours. i do not get lunch breaks. i do not really get breaks at all. for 2 days i could barely bring myself to leave bed. my fatigue knows no bounds. i used to have to do this every day, at least now it is only every couple of weeks. i think about all the ways i can to leave the industry and recover, i draw blanks.

i go to the cafe to write, and now, i do not want to write. there are many ways in which i feel deeply unhappy with myself. i do not want to write them, but i should. i wait for sin to get off work so we may exist in the same space together again. sin is married but the two of us are more like a married couple than sin and their wife are, but that is because sin is in love with the people who can't figure out how to love them in return.

i shiver in in the cafe and i take a long draw from a contraband device. i try hard not to get caught, the breeze aids me in this even though it overwhelms my senses. i cant make it a day without smoking. my dopamine left me long ago, and this is the only way i find comfort when the pangs of panic arrive.

im supposed to clean today. i would rather return to bed. i think the depression has reared its ugly head once again. i need a haircut. i need a vacation. i need a new job. i need to get laid. i need to move. i need to leave this city. i need to reinvent myself. i need to be a parent. i need to own a farm. i need to get away. i need

[necros-writing-stuff]

18+ Account, Minors Do Not Interract

The halls of Arkham Asylum echoed their collective footsteps with a hallowing volume. It felt like the very walls itself were proclaiming "You belong to me, you'll never escape from me."

Not in a literal sense. Harvey Dent had slipped out between the cracks countless times now, and so had many of the other inmates of varying noteriety. But eventually, they'd be returned to the grand sarcophagus of their hopes and dreams.

Two guards stood at his side, each with batons drawn, each straight-backed and chin up. Just an hour session of therapy, just a quick trip across the asylum so the shrinks could try and try again to fix ole' Harvey Dent and make him whole again. It wasn't even a chance to stretch their legs - the chains around their ankles kept their steps shuffled and stiff.

The hall seemed longer today than it should be. Harvey wasn't on any new medication, this they knew; the suspicion of his water being spiked for an unknown reason began rearing its ugly head. The guards remained, still. They had not stopped, they did not appear to be waiting for anything.

Harvey's eyes passed over the walls, the high marble cieling, the once veritable grandeuor of Arkham that had waned into a depressing, cold, pathetic shadow of it's former self. Nothing rattled in the vents.

It was during this time, where their attention was drawn, that the first guard evaporated. Those echoing shoes grew just a little quieter, the amount of impacts lessening as Harvey turned their head back to find his scarred side perfectly empty of a companion. The remaining guard still didn't react.

"We need to grab his taser," Two-Face snarled in their head. "Something's wrong, Harv. Get the gun if you can, and let me take over."

"I don't want to shoot anyone," Harvey shot back, though he couldn't deny the tension bunching their wide shoulders tighter and tighter.

"You won't be. It'd be me. It's always me, you're too weak for all of that, ain't ya Harv?"

Harvey swallowed, taking another second to look behind. The distance hadn't changed since the last time - it wasn't changing even though their legs were peddling them further and further down the path to his cell. Their head felt so... misty. The echoes quietened again.

The last guard was gone. The only echoes were his own.

Halting right in the middle, Harvey raised their fists up to their chin, preparing to protect themselves from the attack that seemed inevitable - if they could keep their head long enough more guards could come. Hell, even the Bat would come save them if it came to it. Not that Two-Face would be proud of that.

"Hello, Mr Dent," came a new echo, both as silent as the new moon and as ear-piercing as the burning sun. "My apologies for introducing myself in such a manner."

Wipping around, Harvey caught sight of... something at the end of the hall, right in front of the doors they were escorted through not just thirty seconds ago. Whatever it was, they didn't think it was human.

"Charge first, Harvey boy. Get the upper hand. Don't let them dictate the fight. You remember that, right? You don't let the other side control the narrative?"

"Who are you?" Harvey asked instead. It wouldn't do to charge in blind.

The thing's head (or what he presumed was a head, they were more of a shadowy blob than anything else) tilted in contemplation. "A plaintiff," came their final answer, the 'f' hissing around him.

"You see, Mr Dent, I seem to have been rather rudely manipulated into signing for one of your human make-up selling schemes," a phone appeared in one of its hands, a small black box in another, "I have so much lipstick in my home."

More confused than they ever have been, Harvey's brows drew down and his shoulders loosed just a little. "You were tricked into a pyramid scheme?"

"Whatever it is, it isn't very bright." As biting as always, Harvey at least appreciated that Two-Face wasn't begging for a fight. Anymore.

"Yes!" The shape grew thinner and taller, as though it had popped up in happines that Harvey was understanding their predicament. "And I would like your help to get out of it."

Shuffling on the spot, trying to find an angle to aim their ankle so it wouldn't ache with the shackle's pressure, Harvey had only more question in this hazy, almost melting corridor. "Why us?"

It tilted that black box forward, the logo on the top perfectly visable to them even though they were so far away.

It read "February's Glow."

Harvey could only snort.

[lyriumcoloredskies]

Written in the Pages pt.1

Pairing: Bakugo x Villain!Reader WC: 2.8k Summary: In which Bakugo finds himself a little too attached to a certain public nuisance, much to the detriment of his own life. CW: angst, veiled mention of depression, burnout, maladaptive daydreaming, parasocial relationship, lots of cursing, pining, bakugo is a little delulu (but aren't we all?) AN: Also posted on my AO3 under the same name.

You were entirely too likeable.

Maybe it was your attitude – larger than life, with a witty comeback for everything, and that blasé way about you. Maybe was it the killer figure? Your fat fucking hips, a perky juicy little ass, and tig ol' biddies that Bakugo just wanted to smash his face into. 

Every time Bakugo thought about it, he could feel his left temple throb so deeply it threatened to end his entire life right then and there with an aneurysm.

Seven long and hard years grinding his way to the number 2 spot on the Pro-Hero list only for him to be pulled into this stupid cat and mouse game for the last five. You were a messy stain on his perfect record of putting even the most elusive criminals away in jail. Just like that, you managed to land yourself right in the thoughts of Bakugo Katsuki.

24/7, rent fucking free.

At first Katsuki assumed it was his quick temper, fragile ego, and perfectionist attitude rearing its ugly head. He was so sure the obsession would fade as soon as he slapped those cuffs on you and turned you over to the proper authorities. That thought was beaten out of him by the second year of chasing you only to be given the slip every time. Katsuki quickly found himself raging and roaring to go as if he was the same 15 year old boy at UA with a competitive streak a mile wide.

He poured over your files, rewatching clip after clip to see where he went wrong. How many late nights did he spend with Kirishima planning new strategies only to be outwitted yet again? Way too many for his ego to admit. When the third year rolled around, Katsuki tried his best to just move on.

This was fine. Totally fine.

If life had taught him anything it was that some things were not worth pouring energy over. It wasn’t like you were out there committing mass murder, just the occasional bank robbery and public nuisance charge. Determined to turn over a new leaf, and at Kirishima’s insistence, he neatly placed all the case files into a box and pawned it off to his sidekicks.

So, color Bakugo surprised when he found out that you didn’t leave his mind after his little desk clean out.

No, you fucking lingered because YOU were everywhere.

The internet was a disgusting and depraved place. Just like how there were fans dedicated to heroes, villain fans existed too. He was reminded of that fact every time he logged into his TigTog, Tweeter, or PicstaGram to "promote" his socials. Damn his PR manager.

He saw thousands of "thirst posts" from so called "villain simps", whatever the fuck that meant. Bakugo didn’t care and he sure as hell did not want to know. He had to begrudgingly admit that he somewhat understood how you became so infamous.

Though he would adamantly deny it, he wasn’t blind. Every altercation between the two of you meant he sometimes saw you more than his own friends and family. In fact, you were the only woman, aside from his mom and UA friends, that he saw regularly. Even though he was a hero, Bakugo is a hot-blooded man. His eyes wandered and lingered for a little too long to be considered “battle analysis”. He intimately knew the soft curves of your hips and the way you sounded as you panted for air. Images that were burned so deep in his brain that he had to will himself not to go there when he heard your name. 

If Bakugo let himself linger a little too long, his mind would escape from him. While his thoughts ran wild he couldn’t help but think of you. You were something Bakugou knew he would only see once in a lifetime. From your beautiful eyes, shining bright with wit and something of a naughtier nature, to your plump beautiful lips, full and shiny – FUCK.

He hated to admit it, but he loved the way your soft full breasts jiggled in your catsuit as you jumped, avoiding his explosions. How many times had he, like that fucking perverted grape boy, stared at your chest during fights? Only to get distracted just enough for you to slip beyond his grasp. It grated on his ego more than hearing that Deku kept his spot as number one at each Hero Awards Ceremony.

But holy fuck he would readily admit he would crawl on his knees to the gates of heaven if he could even hold you. To love you like you were everything because you were.

If only Bakugo thinks. If only he could hold you. If only he could bury himself deep in your thighs, happily leaving behind air for something sweeter. What Bakugo wouldn’t give to be with you. Sometimes after a hard day, when the dust of every fight was washed off and the night was quiet, the blond’s mind would race. Each thought raking and obsessing over what ifs. What if you had been a hero? What if you two had met in high school. Would you have been attracted to him? What would it be like to come home to you? His child on your hip and stomach round with his second.

Bakugo's thoughts ran through the night, often robbing him of what little sleep he could scrounge up in his busy schedule. He earnestly tried to close his eyes shut, meditating to clear his thoughts. He was desperate for a wink of sleep and yet he couldn’t stop himself from obsessing. 

Every.

Single.

Night.

***

The sleepless nights and long days had been taking a toll on Katsuki and he could tell. Everyone around him could tell. His sidekicks gave him a wide berth, hoping not to get caught in his hair trigger temper. Even understanding and sweet Kirishima had been keeping a distance. The tall red-head could tell something was wrong with his best friend but wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject. 

Every call on patrol was another battering to Katsuki’s already aching body. Coupled with the lack of sleep he knew he wasn’t at his best. The blonde’s forearms spasmed and burned when he used his quirk and his temples throbbed after every fight. The pro-hero was in no condition to continue to go out to the field and yet he continued, all in hopes of seeing you.

One day his prayer was answered. A bank robbery in Mustafu had been called in and for the first time in weeks Bakugo perked up. He knew he was utterly fucked when the bank robbery call was what got his blood racing. As he shot off his explosions to get to the 5th St. where the Central Mustafu Bank was located. His mind buzzing with the idea of seeing you again. The adrenaline of using his quirk coupled with the lack of sleep ultimately led to his mistake. The minute he landed at the bank entrance his vermillion eyes darted around the scene, mentally noting the best routes. The blond made a split-second decision and took a hard left to get to the vault. He knew you too well. Bakugo would bet his entire life on that decision.

His bet paid off when the sight of your catsuit clad body rapidly came into view. He was distracted by the way you stood in the bank vault surrounded by the chaos of vault boxes strewn about the marble floor. Your soft perky ass hugged by the unforgiving thick leather material of your catsuit. Your shiny hair framed your face and bounced when you turned to look at him. And fuck – if he could just relive that moment when you flashed him a flirty smile and blew him a kiss. Bakugou's pulse quickened, and it was like time just stopped. His brain turned numb and he momentarily forgot everything. He was fucking stunned. He could hear his pulse roar in his ears, heart threatening to escape his rib cage.

His crimson eyes drank in the sight of you with the ferocity of a man who hadn’t seen water in days. His brain was mush and though he willed his body to move, he found all his limbs were defiant to his will. The number 2 pro-hero was glued to his spot as he watched you stretch out your hands and snap.

He would only watch helplessly as you used your quirk to create a mirror which you slipped into. Outside of the vault the last of your crew executed a swift escape after overwhelming the other heroes that flocked to assist the situation. The blond knew it was all his fault. He was supposed to quickly eliminate the threat at the vault before turning back to offer support to the other heroes. It had all been because he faltered. 

Back at the MightRiot agency Bakugo poked his head into Kirishima’s office letting him know he would be taking the rest of the day off. His fellow pro-hero shot him a worried look which Bakugo pointedly ignored. He didn’t want to get into this. He just needed to get home, wash all the crap from today off him, and take a nice long fucking nap. Of course, was Bakugo given that reprieve? Nope. His failure mocked him when he got home.

He instinctively turned on the TV which had already been on the news station. 

“And it appears that we have some news about yesterday’s burglary. Takeshima, Daichi the board member of Hondo Motor Corporation was the victim of yesterday’s heist. The burglars have stolen just a little over 7 million yen’s worth of precious metals from a vault in Mustafu Central Bank. Pro-hero Dynamight responded to the burglary but was unsuccessful in apprehending the suspects. Let’s go to our official Hero Correspon-“

Bakugou turned off the T.V., and threw the defenseless remote on the coffee table. Hearing those words used to burn a deep ember within Bakugou’s stomach to become a better hero for his community. Now that smoldering ambition turned into hot flames of embarrassment that licked his cheeks and the top of his ears. He didn’t deserve to be called a hero.

His mind was plagued with the insecurities and doubt that had been deep embedded into his psyche since he was a child. He wanted nothing more than to go to sleep but Bakugo fucking knew what he would do. Because like clockwork, every day for the last year he had been doing it. He knew that instead of taking a shower and finally giving his body and mind the rest he needed, he would pick up the laptop on his mahogany coffee table. He would pick up from where he left off the other night. He could feel the ice cold feeling of shame settle like lead in his stomach. Despite the shame he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Bakugo wishes he could look back and say he was a better man but he wasn’t. Life after UA had been hard. He had kept his head down, nose to the wheel, grinding through the rankings to achieve his dream. The reality was, Bakugo felt empty. He had thrown away the potential for affection in lieu of achieving his lifelong dream. Now at the top he realized it was lonely. With his dream achieved, what did he have left? He watched as his friends, slowly but surely, find their life partners. Deku and Cheeks were one of the first, quickly confessing to each other right after graduating UA. Kyoka and Momo, Hagakure and Oijiro, the list went on and on. Even Icy-Hot managed to find someone. Then there was him, Dynamight, #2 pro-hero, and all alone. 

“What a fucking joke.” Bakugo thought to himself. His own ambition was his ultimate downfall. It was the reason he woke up every morning to an empty bed and came home to a quiet apartment.

It was too easy to pour himself into his work. It was all he had after all. That’s why he thought nothing of it when he took on the job of taking you down.

He remembers that day clearly. Bakugou received a dossier on the thief who had bested him just a few hours prior. It outlined the basics – your name, height, quirk, etc. and for a while that information was enough. It wasn’t until the 3rd encounter did, he decide to Moogle your villain moniker. The search turned up some promising leads. He skimmed through a couple of news articles before quickly X-ing out of all of them. He couldn’t bear to read another gimmicky copy paste low effort article by some two-bit writer for a pro hero gossip column. 

He soon began looking for alternative sources of information. He turned to social media, hoping to find citizen footage of incidents. Maybe there was an angle he had missed. He quickly fell down a rabbit hole. Bakugo tore through the threads on Readdit detailing your quirk, attacks, and motives. His brain voraciously consuming the content he could find. Like that the obsession switch had been turned on. Every fight and every failure were more fuel to the fire. Bakugo found himself heading home and searching up more and more he could about you. Soon combing over footage of fights to strategize on combat became watching your flexible body contort itself into positions that Bakugo would fucking die to have you in.

Before even the blond himself knew it he began daydreaming of you. Thinking of scenarios to beat you morphed into scenarios of you and him, blissful and in love. The what ifs had taken over Bakugos mind. 

Perhaps if Bakugo had been alone in his pining, he could have been okay. The fire would eventually have burned out. It’s very unfortunate that every time he opened his laptop he found more kindling. 

Since Bakugo was young, he had been a closet romantic. Though he would adamantly deny it, his years at UA had been spent staying up late to finish the latest chapter of Kiss Kiss Fall in Love, his favorite romance novel. His heart twisted and gripped in moments of beautifully written angst, and the teasing lead up to the first kiss had the blond biting his pillow to suppress his shouts of excitement. Bakugo loved love. Despite his prickly exterior he had always dreamed up fantasies about being loved in a way that didn’t need words. His soulmate would just know the right things to say to make him feel better after patrols. She would know what to do and what to say to soothe his raw emotions after everything went wrong. 

When Bakugo met his ideal woman that fateful day 5 years ago, it was the catalyst to his new daily habit. Wake up, work, come home, read fanfics about you. The one woman he couldn’t have was the woman he had built his entire life around. Each fanfic burned his pulse hotter. He found himself in too deep of a pit to climb out of. He found himself ensnared by the words on the page. Each paragraph detailing their love and the tribulations they faced to get there. He found with every word he read, the deeper he fell in love with you. He had already spent lifetimes with you. Some were tragic tales of two people who could never be.

Bakugo’s favorites were the mushy tooth rotting ones with meet cutes. He was utterly in love with the idea of meeting you organically. Colliding outside of a coffee shop only to lock eyes or maybe going into a floral shop only to fall in love with the girl selling the flowers. On hard days Bakugo would indulge himself in a Soulmate AU. Bakugo had experienced it all with you. The saddest thing was, Bakugo knew it wasn’t true. If the mere thought crossed his mind, he knew it would send him spiraling. He pushed it away in favor for his perfectly crafted fantasy. The blond knew this wasn’t healthy but quite frankly he didn’t care at this point.

He was in too deep.

Instead he spent his days teetering on the edge of his reality and the fantasy he built to escape, and on the days he was lucky enough, he would catch a glimpse of you. Boy, did it set his heart ablaze.

He tried to shake you out of his mind by burying himself in work and going on dates with attractive girls. It got old quickly. Because how was some random girl supposed to compare to you? You who was there to comfort Bakugo after the hardest days. You who smiled so brightly as you cheered him on, you who held him so lovingly even after Deku beat him out for the number one spot again. 

Deep down he knew.

[miaountainmama]

gently, gently.

a short drabble.

characters: chuuya, you contains: you are depressed af and chuuya comforts you

wc: 443

a/n: uhhh hi i'm new to tumblr let me know if i'm doing anything wrong. posting some old stuff. also i suck at tagging

Am I suffering beautifully?

There are no scars on my flesh for Chuuya to trace. I have left my skin untouched, porcelain smooth, and the hair he runs his fingers through is soft and smooth as silk. I have made great strides to appear unspoiled, and I like to believe that it is impossible to guess that I am anything other than whole from sight alone. But it has been too long, and he knows me better than that. I squeeze my eyes shut as his nails skim feather-light along my scalp, and my fingers curl around the back of his shirt to match the knot in my stomach. He sighs and kisses the crown of my head. I try to focus on his warm, easy breaths, and pretend I am capable of breathing easy too.

Is my agony lovable?

I make sure to thank him often, even when nothing particular has happened. Thank you for being so good to me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for existing. Each time, he says that I have no need to do so, and that he would do it a hundred times over for me. I am set aflame, and a savage love scorches me to my toes. There is no being on this planet I could ever love more fiercely than him.

Can you see me, everything that I am laid bare, and choose to stay?

He comes home sometimes to see me sprawled across the couch, staring at the wall or the ceiling or anything or nothing in particular. “I’m home, love,” he murmurs, gentle even in tone, and I try my best not to cry. There are many who Chuuya is short in temper with, and many who know him as nothing but harsh. But not with me. Never with me. I bring his hands to my lips and kiss his knuckles reverently. Somehow, we both end up tangled on the cushions, and I bare my soul to him without fear of judgement. It is a messy thing, writhing and ugly and oozing viscous, but he quells it before it can rear its head and spit rancor. Now I cannot hold the tears back, and I repeat over and over again that I love him into the warmth of his neck. He says it back and strokes the back of my hand with his thumb. “You’re going to be okay,” he tells me, and I find myself believing it unconditionally. There is nobody who knows me better than him. It is hard to believe, but I try my best to take his word as truth. I will be okay.

I will.

[ipsen]

Eto Character Analysis

Big long post coming. Couldn’t help myself.

Admittedly, I’m mostly stealing from this post from the old ages (it’s crazy good and turned Eto into my favorite character), so you can read that and honestly get the same information. But I figured I’d take a swing at the behemoth myself.

Also wanna preface the analysis with the fact that I’m using the official translations as my source, as I can’t access the original scans and also couldn’t read them even if I did (cursed by monolingual tendencies).

Under the cut!

Eto is, unfortunately, a character that is built mainly on subtext crammed into very few chapters. Figuring her out is very difficult and a lot of her more nuanced traits can go over most people’s heads (it’s easy to call her insane, for example, and while she does have a few issues up in the old cranium, i’d hardly call her that).

The most important thing about Eto to keep in mind when discussing her is that she has been failed, and as a result of that, she also believes that she has failed those around her.

Her father left her in what is basically a literal shithole, especially for a baby. Her mother, though she died without really knowing Eto, did leave a journal behind, and Eto’s singular insight to the work regarding herself is that she is just a “byproduct,” and her foster parent got killed (presumably) protecting her from V, punting her to an orphanage where she’d have to steal money to survive (see: re 62), and presumably pretty often at that.

She got insanely lucky with the writer gig and shiono, who-- side note-- means a lot to her. Finally, a positive adult figure in her life! Unfortunately, he is a) only human, and b) her editor/coworker, so his positive influence, while welcome, is limited. still, she picks up his cute little hand gestures and I, personally, appreciate that (see: re 62 and compare it to TG 114).

Just the greatest.

Where was I... Ah, Eto being failed by those around her. And where does that leave her? Look no further than TG 98:

“A replacement is merely a replacement.” Eto doesn’t believe in found family, because she never actually found one.

And within the context of this chapter, we learn another thing about Eto. Whenever she interacts with someone and “breaks” them (the Yasuhisas, Kanae), she heavily projects onto them (because she recognizes their situation; notice how she only ever targets people who are both relatable to her and weaker than her) and breaks apart the “lie” the target tells themself, even if it isn’t entirely accurate:

(re 43) This is a false statement; Kanae does wish for Shuu to recover, he’s just upset it’s happening like this. Because who wouldn’t be, in his situation? Despite everything that he and the others did for Shuu, the only thing able to bring him out of his depression is the very thing that caused it. But I digress.

Back on track, there’s also Haise’s analysis of her work, the most personal thing she has, to consider when discussing her in re 39:

Once again, the void rears its ugly head.

Hopelessness. Emptiness. Filling it with anger and bitterness, and it’s never enough, but it’s all she has. Because the void can only be filled by the things she can never have.

So she throws herself at the CCG, banging her head against its walls with small raids alongside some fellow ghouls and then taking on the special investigators by herself. She’s 14, she’s a kakuja, and she’s mad. Mad at the world that failed her, mad at V for making it the way it is, and mad that things haven’t changed for a very long time. She has Ukina’s journal; she knows how stale the “narrative” is.

Of course, her raids don’t work very well, but she’s basically just a kid. She is as old as Hinami during TG.

Then, she’s finally thrown a bone, and is worse off for it:

Something I’ve noticed when factoring Arima’s influence into Eto’s character is that there is an assumption that the power dynamic between them is equal. It isn’t. I cannot stress this enough; there is a hierarchy at play here, and Eto isn’t the one on top. How do we know this?

(TG 139)

(re 52)

Kaneki was the new toy to replace Eto, the old one.

The ultimate plan is “the One-Eyed King will destroy the egg of V’s world and make something new.” By the time Kaneki does take the throne, this plan has been going on for 13 years. Kaneki was chosen as a candidate at the ten-year mark; he had to have been a non-factor before then. So who is left to become the king instead?

Eto.

The age difference between her and Arima is roughly 4-5 years. Remind you of another relationship?

(TG 14)

Uh-oh.

To reiterate, Eto is a 14-year old kid who has been abandoned by everyone who could possibly love her the way she wants. She desires parental love, protective love, the kind of love that makes her feel safe, when she has only ever fought to defend herself.

Enter someone who is far stronger than she could ever be, someone who could actually offer her the protection she so desperately wants. Unfortunately, Kishou Arima is the endgame mindset of Black Reaper Kaneki, to put it simply: someone who is impossibly distant, wants to die, and craves the approval of everyone.

Let’s expand on Arima for a brief moment. “Craves the approval of everyone,” specifically. He is both the One-Eyed King and the greatest ghoul investigator that ever lived. He doesn’t pick one or the other, and when he dies, he doesn’t have to pick. He is mourned by the CCG, and Kaneki, ever a puppet in someone else’s game, carries on his legacy and “wish“ for coexistence.

Eto is no exception to his godly levels of charisma. She is one of Hinami’s foils, and we know how quickly and easily she latched onto Kaneki. It’s safe to assume that something similar happened with Eto and Arima.

And Eto failed him. She doesn’t become king; someone else does. Someone very similar. And yet, when faced with this new person:

(re 56)

Well, then.

Eto also does everything in her power to give Kaneki the information he needs to break the eggshell. She freely gives away information about V, the Washuu’s involvement with them, the connection to the CCG, everything. Or as much as she can give him while under Cochlea’s surveillance.

So what’s the game here? Why does she support Kaneki, the one who basically stole Arima's approval, something everyone around him wants, from under her nose? Better yet, why is she aiding the search for her “replacement” in the first place? Because remember, even before Kaneki registered on her radar for a candidate for the OEK, she and Aogiri were searching for Kanou, the one-eyed ghoul maker specialist man. Aogiri wanted to use Kanou to make as many possible candidates beyond just Kaneki. So even without Kaneki in the picture, Eto wants a replacement. She wants this. Why?

Well, here’s what I think she actually wants:

(re 53)

There’s no other explanation that I can think of for why she would willingly get herself arrested and leave Aogiri to be fully exterminated on Rushima (the One-Eyed Owl totally could have turned the tables of that battle). She’s only lived as long as she has because she doesn’t want to leave anything unsaid. This is also the reason why she reveals herself as a ghoul as Takatsuki; she’s effectively destroying her own career while simultaneously giving V a huge middle finger.

This desire to close off everything she’s built up until now and pass the torch to Kaneki is also represented in her haircut; she’s literally shedding her burdens to give to someone else. Someone similar to her, but kinder than her. Better than her.

(re 52)

--

I’ve said what I’ve come to say. Thanks for reading!

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

Thanksgiving Reruns 2024--Chapter 2: Thankful

It’s that time again; the holidays!    I would like to wish all my followers who celebrate it a very happy Thanksgiving.  As a thank you to you (as well as my followers who DON’T celebrate), I present you with 3 Thanksgiving related stories I’ve written in the past.  Enjoy!

Title: Thankful

Rating: G

Words: 2705

Summary: Pre-7x2 deleted scene.  The Swan/Jones/Charming/Mills family gets together for Thanksgiving dinner.  This year, Emma and Killian have something extra special for which to be thankful.

 Other Chapters: 1 3 4 5

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

CS Genre:  Deleted scene, pre 7x2

Growing up, Emma remembered the holidays as a cold, dreary, depressing time.  Everywhere she turned there were happy families, basking in the joy of the season.  Bright red and green decorations everywhere.  Singers crooning about the happiest time of the year.  Movies and tv shows about the joy and magic of the holidays. 

All it ever did was remind Emma of what she didn’t have. 

But that had all changed when she came to Storybrooke and found her family and her true love.

Emma woke early on Thanksgiving morning, a bright smile on her face and a song in her heart.  She lay pleasantly cocooned in a mountain of quilts, her husband’s warmth surrounding her, his arm slung over her waist, his hand splayed across her still-flat belly, holding their child close.

It was incredible how much her life had changed in just a few short years.  She missed Henry like crazy, especially during the holidays, but other than his absence, her life was about as close to perfect as it was possible to get.

Well…almost.  Emma felt her stomach roil as the ever present morning sickness reared its ugly head.  She took deep breaths, willing the nausea to subside, but after a minute or two she realized it was useless.  Moving as gently as possible so as not to disturb Killian, she got out of bed and nearly sprinted to the bathroom.

She loved this baby with everything in her already, but anyone who suggested pregnancy was fun needed to be committed.  Funny, she didn’t remember the first trimester being this miserable with Henry.  Oh she’d been a little more tired than normal, and she’d felt a bit sick for a couple of weeks, but it was the emotional turmoil that had been the worst.

It seemed getting pregnant in your early thirties was far different than getting pregnant in your teens.  Still, despite the unbelievable fatigue, the morning sickness that seemed to last most of the day, the constant weird cravings, and the times she felt faint, she wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Emma rinsed out her mouth, gargled a bit of mouthwash, splashed some water on her face and padded back to the bed.  Killian sat up in the bed, his hair delightfully tousled, and looked over at her in concern.

“Swan?” he asked, pulling up the covers and welcoming her back into the shelter of his arms, “are you quite well, love?”

Emma chuckled humorlessly.  “Killian, this kid of yours is trying to kill me.”

If possible, Killian looked even more concerned.  “Shall I ring the doctor?”

Emma laughed again.  “Killian we’ve talked about this.  I’m fine.  A bit miserable, but fine.  Besides, I think if you call Whale one more time to freak out about a little routine morning sickness, he’s going to come over here and beat you with his stethoscope.”

Emma loved having a husband who wanted to take care of her during her pregnancy, one who loved and wanted this baby at least as much as she did.  She loved Killian for it, but his whole concerned husband/mother hen routine had gotten old by about the second day they’d known about the pregnancy.

“Are you sure you should be lifting that love?” he’d asked, as she reached for the throw pillows that decorated their bed.

“A pillow, Killian?  Seriously?”

Later in the sheriff’s station, he’d been even worse.  “Swan, I’m not altogether sure you should go out on that call.  Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you or the baby.”

“Killian, Dopey and Doc got into a fender bender.  Just how dangerous do you think responding to that is going to be?”

“Perhaps you’d best take a rest in one of the unoccupied cells, love.  You must keep your strength up,” he’d continued.

“Killian stop fussing!”

But the last straw had come when Killian called Whale for the fifteenth time in the first week, concerned about her fatigue and nausea.

“Killian,” Emma said firmly, “I love you with all my heart.  I would go (and have gone) through hell for you, but I swear if you don’t stop hovering I’m going to turn you into a ferret.  I’m pregnant, not an invalid.

He’d gotten much better since then, but he still watched her like a hawk, ready to come to her assistance at the slightest indication it was needed.

Emma settled into the bed, kissed her husband, and prepared to catch a few more z’s when her stomach growled loud enough to wake the dead.  Killian chuckled.  “Our lass is demanding nourishment now, is she?”

It was, of course, far too early to know the sex of their baby, but Killian was sure they were having a daughter, and Emma had to admit she had the same feeling.

“She’s famished, as always,” Emma said.  “Guess it’s time to get up and see what’s for breakfast.”

Killian stopped her with a gentle hand to her shoulder.  “Stay put love.  Let me bring my girls breakfast in bed.”

Her heart turned over at the love in his eyes, the way he always wanted to do little things for her.  “Certainly not going to turn down an offer like that.”

“And just what does my little princess wish for her morning repast today?”

Emma grinned.  “Okay, I know this sounds totally disgusting, but do you know what I’m craving like crazy right now?”

“I couldn’t even begin to guess what noisome combination of food items you desire today,” he said.

“What I really want is a couple of my blueberry Pop-Tarts and a big dill pickle.”

Killian pulled a face, but dutifully shuffled off toward the kitchen.

Emma settled back against the pillows and smiled, putting a protective hand over her belly as she waited for her breakfast.  Today was a big day.  Today was the day she and Killian told the family their big news.  Killian had been so excited when she told him about the baby six weeks ago that he’d been ready to call her father (and his best mate) on the spot, but Emma had stopped him.

“Killian, would you mind terribly if we waited a bit to tell people?” she’d asked hesitantly.

He’d given her a surprised look, but then slowly shook his head.  “I suppose not, love, but why shouldn’t we share our joy?”

She’d shrugged.  “I don’t know.  It’s just so…new and exciting.  I was kind of hoping we could celebrate privately for a while, 67+have this incredibly amazing secret just between the two of us.”

He’d agreed with her, and in the end, they’d decided Thanksgiving day would be the perfect time to tell the family.

“Your grandma and grandpa are going to be so excited to find out about you, baby,” she whispered softly.

Emma had more to be thankful for this Thanksgiving than she ever had before.

~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~c~s~

Thanksgiving dinner had become somewhat of a tradition for the Charming/Swan/Jones/Mills family over the years.  The first Thanksgiving dinner they’d had together wasn’t actually on Thanksgiving at all.  It was in the middle of the spring, just after the Black Fairy had been defeated.  The whole gang (including Rumple, Belle and a newly baby-ized Gideon) met at Granny’s for lasagna and Regina’s famous apple turnovers.  Snow had insisted they go around the table and list something they were thankful for.  Despite some snark and grumbling (mainly from Zelena), everyone had complied, and a new family tradition was born.

Ever since that day, Thanksgiving dinner had moved to the appropriate day, near the end of November.  Granny’s had hosted them for the first couple of years, but when Anton finally succeeded in getting his newly planted magic bean fields to yield, she’d taken to realm hopping over the holidays so she could spend time with Ruby.  Now they all took turns hosting.

This year, the Mills sisters had the honor of hosting the big family dinner.

And so it was that early in the evening, Emma and Killian walked hand in hand into the mayor’s mansion, proffering a bottle of rum as a hostess gift.

“This looks like the good stuff,” Emma said, as Killian rang the doorbell, and they waited to be welcomed in.  “Too bad I won’t be able to drink it for a good seven months.”

“Don’t worry love,” Killian said with a wink.  “I’ll drink enough for both of us.”

For that, he received a (somewhat) playful smack.

Zelena opened the door with an eyeroll.  “About time you two arrived.  You’re ten minutes late.  After hours of slaving away in the kitchen (which is torture without magic), if you ruined a single dish there will be hell to pay.”

“Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Zelena,” Emma said with a grin.  “Sorry, we were just…um…delayed a bit, and lost track of time.”

She prayed her face wasn’t flaming as much as she suspected it was.  Another side effect of this pregnancy seemed to be that she wanted her husband.  Like all the time.  And Killian, good husband that he was, was always up to the task.  It’s possible they might have gotten carried away this afternoon and been so lost in each other that they totally forgot there was even such a thing as Thanksgiving.

Zelena looked back and forth between them for a moment, and then dramatically rolled her eyes.  “Can we just have one day where we’re not all nauseated at the thought of the two of you constantly getting it on?”

Killian smirked as he looked down at Emma, his look pure sin and wickedness.  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

And Zeus help her, but she was ready to drag Killian into the nearest private space she could find and have her way with him again.  Pregnancy hormones were going to be the death of her (and possibly the death of her pirate as well, considering the look her dad shot him as he walked into the foyer just in time to hear that little exchange).

The Golds had left on their big world tour some five or six years ago now, and of course Henry was off trying to create his own story, but even so, the Mills sisters’ dining room table was nearly filled to capacity between the Charmings, the Swan-Jones’s, the Mills sisters and the two rambunctious kids.  (Seriously, Neal and Robyn could get into more trouble together than any ten children Emma knew growing up in group homes.)

Emma settled in with Killian on one side and her mother on the other.  Snow leaned over and gave Emma a motherly one-armed hug. 

“Something’s different about you today, Emma,” Snow said with a smile.  “You’re positively glowing.”

Emma smiled and on impulse hugged her mom back.  “I’m just happy, mom,” she said meaning it with her whole heart.  “These big family get togethers are more than I ever could have hoped for, despite the inevitable snark-off between Regina and Zelena.”

Snow smiled gently.  “I’ll always regret all the years we missed together, but the fact that we can have these moments now, well it’s what I’ve always wanted for our family.”

Dinner, consisting of all the traditional Thanksgiving favorites, was delicious.  Emma always secretly loved it when Regina and Zelena hosted Thanksgiving, because magic or no magic, they were amazing cooks.  Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade dinner rolls, sweet potatoes and steamed vegetables.  All of it was delectable.  This year, however, the cranberry sauce nearly made her stomach turn.  Right then; so baby Swan-Jones did not like cranberries.  It took a few moments of deep breathing and swallowing hard, but luckily Emma was able to push the nausea aside and finish her dinner in peace.

David waited until they’d finished eating, everyone feeling like they’d burst if they consumed another bite, and then stood at the head of the table, clinking his glass.

“Well now that we’ve eaten, you all know what time it is.  It’s time for everyone to share what they’re thankful for.  Regina, as hostess, do you want to start?”

Regina smiled, waved her hand and produced a small piece of paper.  “I’m grateful for this letter Henry managed to get to me yesterday.  He’s doing well, and he’s having all types of adventures.  Okay, Zelena.  Your turn.”

Zelena took a sip of her rum.  “I’m thankful Leroy caught laryngitis.  His constant town crier act got old about ten years ago.  Robyn, darling?”

The little red head grinned, showing off a missing tooth or two.  “I’m thankful Mother Superior never found out it was me that put the ‘Shady Blue’ sign on her back.”

This, of course, resulted in admonishment from most of the adults, but Emma turned away to hide her grin.

“Neal, you’re next.”

Neal Nolan, frowned with all of his eight-year-old might and glared at his parents.  He, apparently, was still put out about his mother forbidding him from having a third apple turnover.   “I don’t want to say anything!  I’m not thankful!”

David shot him a stern look, and Neal looked back defiantly for another moment, but then dropped his eyes.  “Fine!  I’m thankful for Wilby.”

Ever since the Charmings had bought their farmhouse and adopted Wilby, dog and boy had been nearly inseparable.

“I guess I’ll go next,” David said after nodding approvingly at his recalcitrant son.  “I’m thankful for the life we have now.  I’m thankful to be back on a farm, working the land.  I’m thankful to have the best wife, son, daughter and son-in-law a man could ever have.  Snow?  How about you?”

Snow reached over and squeezed her husband’s hand affectionately.  “I’m thankful that we’re all here, all together, all happy and healthy.  It’s all I ever wanted for this family.  Emma?  Your turn.  What are you thankful for this year?”

Here it was, the moment of truth, the moment she and Killian had been planning pretty much since they got the positive pregnancy test.  Emma reached over and linked her fingers with her husbands’.

“Actually, mom,” Emma said, unable to hold back her smile.  “This year Killian and I wanted to share what we’re thankful for together.”

A knowing, excited look came into Snow’s face.  “Emma, honey?  Are you about to tell us what I think you’re about to tell us?”

“Yeah, I think I am,” Emma said, smiling as she looked over at her mom then her dad.  “So in just over seven months you and dad are going to be grandparents again.  Killian and I are expecting!”

Emma couldn’t have hoped for a better reaction to their big news.  From Snow nearly crushing her in a hug, to David patting Killian on the back, to the kids cheering about having a new playmate on the way, to Zelena demanding Regina pay up.  “I told you that’s why she wouldn’t drink the rum, Sis.  You owe me”, everyone shared their joy.  Everyone was ready to welcome the little cygnet into their big, crazy family with open arms.

“We can’t wait,” Killian said, “we’ve wanted this for such a long time, but I was starting to think it would never happen.  Not for lack of trying, mind you.  Swan and I had plenty of practice over the last couple of years.”

Neal tugged on his dad’s sleeve.  “Dad, what kind of practice does he mean?”

It was hard to tell, which was redder, the cranberry sauce or David’s face.  “Trust me son.  That’s a detail neither you nor I want to know about.  At all.”

As Regina and Zelena set about to clear the table, and Snow began talking about the baby shower she was bound and determined to throw for them, Emma looked over at Killian, tears welling in her eyes.  He shot her a tender look, reaching up to swipe at her cheek.  A lost girl and a lost boy they might have been, but this child, the product of their true love, would know no such heartache.  Still months away from greeting the world, and already she had more people that loved her than she’d ever know what to do with.

Never had there been a time when Emma had more for which to be thankful.

Next Chapter–>