#not even sure what 'it' is. Just....just know I'm doing it badly.

[lucyvaleheart]

how's that saying go, something something disaster lesbian? heh. keep up. im a disaster in general.

[mariasont]

hi honey! firstly, i just wanted to say your writing is beautiful—seriously, you’re so talented! i was wondering if you could write some hurt/comfort with early season spencer and gender neutral reader? something along the lines of spencer relapsing particularly badly and reader comforts him? maybe spencer doesn’t understand why they’re comforting him especially because he’s high and disoriented and drowsy and whatever. take it from there! thanks so much! 🦊

Worth It - S.R

a/n: hi!!!!!! thank you so much that means the absolute world to me! i hope you like this one <3

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer x gn!reader

warnings: drug use, relapsing, depression, pretty heavy themes yall, baby spencer

wc: 1.2k

"Spencer open the door."

The rough surface of the door scratched against your skin as you pressed your ear tighter to the wood. You willed yourself to stay perfectly still, straining for the smallest sound--a voice, a creak of floorboards, a heartbeat even. Nothing came. Just an empty, echoing void that seemed to laugh in your face. 

The tension in your stomach grew practically unbearable, twisting into a knot so tight it felt like it might snap you in half. His car was parked out front. His lights were on. You knew he was inside. You knew. Spencer didn’t just vanish, not without a reason. He didn’t shut people out unless something was wrong. You tried to picture him hunched over a book or pacing in thought, but the images felt brittle, like they might shatter if you held onto them for too long.

"Spencer, please," you tried again, louder this time. "I'm not leaving until I know you're okay."

Still nothing. With a shaky hand, you reached for the handle, hesitating just long enough to feel your heartbeat hammer in your ears. When it turned easily, the small relief was swallowed whole by the dread rising in your veins.

You froze as your eyes landed on him, slumped on the couch like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His head was bowed, his hand trembling faintly where it rested in his lap. His hair hung in messy strands around his face and his entire frame seemed to sag, like ten thousand boulders sat upon him.

"Spencer?" you whispered, stepping inside.

His head lifted at the sound, his bleary eyes struggling to focus. For a second, he looked almost surprised to see you, before his expression crumpled into something darker. Shame, maybe.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, voice raw, cracked, and worst of all—slurred.

The syringe on the coffee table confirmed what you already feared. You forced yourself to swallow, though it felt like shards of glass scraping down your throat. This wasn't the first time Spencer had relapsed, however, knowing that did nothing to soften the blow.

It was him, though—his appearance—that made it all so unbearable. He seemed impossibly diminished, as if this thing had shrunk him to something unrecognizable. The man you knew—sharp, wildly gifted, endlessly compassionate—had been hollowed out, replaced by someone who looked like they were holding on by a plastic string.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came. What could you possibly say? That you were here because you cared? That you couldn't stand the thought of him hurting alone? Or that seeing him like this felt like your heart was being wrenched apart, piece by agonizing piece?

Your gaze drifted to the syringe again, and bile crept up your throat, hot and bitter. You'd always known Spencer was fragile in his own way, but seeing the physical evidence of it—made it real in a way you weren't sure you were prepared for.

"You're shaking," you said quietly, crossing the room to kneel in front of him.

"I'm fine," he murmured, but the tremor in his voice gave him away.

"Yeah," you said back, mirroring his hushed tone. "You look fine."

A harsh, bitter laugh tore from his throat, brittle and hollow. It fractured halfway through, faltering into silence as his head dropped forward. His shoulders slumped, folding in on themselves, and for a second, you thought he might collapse entirely.

 "Don't...don't say it."

"Say what?"

"That I messed up," he slurred. "That I—you don't need to say it. I already know."

You reached out, placing your hand gently over his. His skin was clammy, his fingers cold beneath yours. "I wasn't going to. I think you're doing a good job of beating yourself up without me piling on."

His breath hitched, and you felt his hand twitch beneath yours, but he didn't pull away. A good sign, you thought.

"You shouldn't even be here," he mumbled after a long pause, his voice barely audible.

"Well, I am."

He didn't argue, but the faint furrow of his brow told you he wanted to.  It was a familiar expression, etched into your memory like a signature—the one he wore when he was deep in thought, pushing through some intricate puzzle. You could almost picture the insanely intelligent remark that used to follow, the lightbulb moment when his ideas shot across the room.

You’d always marveled at this sheer scope of Spencer’s mind. It was like an endless expanse of stars, each thought and idea connecting to something bigger and more profound. But in moments like this, it was hard not to see the darker side of that brilliance. The same mind that made him so extraordinary seemed to turn on him, trapping him in a relentless cycle of second-guessing and self-inflicted pain, similar to a galaxy collapsing in on itself.

It hurt to see him like this. It hurt in a way you didn't have the words for. But as much as it cut through you, you knew it cut deeper for him.

You stood, moving quietly to the kitchen. The clicking of glassware was the only sound as you filled a cup with water and grabbed a towel. 

When you returned, he was staring blankly at the ceiling, his lips moving faintly like he was trying to form words.

You knelt beside him, holding the glass out. "Here. Drink this."

He blinked down at it, his brow furrowing like the act of drinking water was entirely too complicated. "I don't need—,"

"You do," you interrupted, gently nudging it toward him.

He took it after a beat, grip clumsy as you helped steady it. He sipped and you waited until he'd taken a few swallows before taking it back and setting it aside.

When you brought a damp towel to his forehead, he flinched, his eyes snapping to meet yours. "What are you...?"

"Shh," you said softly, dabbing at his sweat-damp skin.

He didn't relax right away, his body stiff and uncomfortable.

"You're just... doing all this," he muttered. "Like it's normal. Like I didn't..."

His voice trailed off, his gaze flickering guiltily to the coffee table.

You didn't follow his eyes.

"You're tired," you said instead, folding the towel and pressing it to the back of his neck.

"I didn't mean to," he said suddenly, his voice cracking. "I-I tried not to. I swear I tried. But I just... I just couldn't stop thinking—,"

He cut himself off, his breathing ragged and uneven.

"Spencer," you said softly. "You don't have to explain anything to me right now."

"But I—,"

"Not right now."

He let out a shaky exhale, his eyes drifting shut. You stayed beside him, wide awake.

The silence seemed to stretch between you, sometimes broken by his uneven breathing and the occasional murmured word as his mind wandered. He rambled faintly, disconnected sentences spilling out of him—something about Gideon, something you couldn't quite catch. You didn't try to make sense of it, just sat with him.

At some point, he slumped sideways, his head landing heavily against your shoulder. He didn't say anything, didn't open his eyes, but you felt his breathing slow and the tightness in his body gradually softened.

You reached for a blanket draped over the couch, carefully tucking it around him. His brow furrowed, and for a brief second, you thought he might wake, but he settled again, his head pressing deeper into your shoulder.

Your gaze flicked to the coffee table once more, the syringe laying there like a conversation waiting for tomorrow. But for now, you stayed still, letting him rest.

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[violetvixen10]

First of all, great poem! This au gives me such brainworms. I need to spread good work around and dump my thoughts before I'm consumed. I'm having so many thoughts about the end and after of the mecha au!

Humans having a much shorter lifespan frightens the bots so much, but they just have to deal and cherish their time.

Until Jazz dies and his soul is transferred to a cybertronian body.

Until despite how traumatic the situation started, others realize they now have millions of years ahead of them to be together instead of only a couple of decades.

How do the other couples feel and react to this?! Can the other humans choose to have their souls just transferred over to Cybertronian bodies, and would they?!

Blurr might see a great opportunity. He loved being a mecha pilot and racer, but he can't do these anymore, and it hurts. A whole new chance, a new start, and they even have their own kind of racing! Swerve loves Blurr and doesn't want Blurr to do something so monumental just to feel like he has worth when Swerve loves him just as he is. Swerve feels so human, and he fell in love with Blurr the human, Blurr is amazing no matter what. (Oh, but those years together would be so magical, but Swerve would refuse to say anything that made him feel like he was making Blurr make a choice he'd regret. He doesn't want to be like Shockwave.)

Ratchet doesn't know how to feel or react. The poor man has seen a lot and has surely gone through a mid-life crisis at this point. So many have died, and a chance for the kids he has looked over from that cursed Mecha program getting more life almost feels like a miracle. (He just never expected more life for himself) He came to grips with the short time he would have with Drift, and he's content with his life. A chance for more is overwhelming, and he would probably struggle to make that choice much less comprehend that the choice exists at all. Drift wants him to say yes so badly. He borders and almost flips flops on all but begging Ratchet to say yes and stay with him. (There is so much respect and love though that he knows no matter what choice Ratchet makes Drift will accept it. Drift needs Ratchet, but does Ratchet need him...he's not so sure. He accepted the idea of a short life with Ratchet once he can do it again if he has to. Though by Primus, he hopes beyond hope he doesn't have to.)

First Aid barely stops himself from saying yes immediately. So much to learn and study with so much time! He's only held back because he needs to know what Vortex will do. (Vortex can be transferred too surprisingly. It makes First Aid ecstatic, but Vortex doesn't answer immediately. So, he's waiting. If Vortex decides to stay in a mech that won't withstand aging nearly as well as Cybertronians then First Aid will stay as he is. He won't take the long way back to Vortex and leave him. Ever.) Vortex isn't used to having a choice, and he's gotten used to his mecha. However, he's realized how much he wants to keep First Aid by this point. (He nearly lost him to Shockwave and that was unbearable.) It doesn't take that long to say yes. Vortex got used to being a mecha when he used to be human in just few years. Surely having millions to get use to just a different robot body is easier. (So much time with his First Aid~. Besides he has feeling the little medic would look so good in metal.) These two are such little freaks and so obsessed with each other that if the option was given for the humans (or lingering human souls) to become alien robot beings that live for millions of years I feel like these two would sign on to that pretty quick as long as they stayed together (and Primus help anyone who tries to separate them.)

I'm not sure exactly what choice Ratchet or Blurr would make in the end. Would they be Cybertronians or not? Idk. Would love to hear others' thoughts, though.

Yall. I can’t even with the new mecha pilot au Jazz lore,, it has driven me insane.

I have been so thoroughly shocked by this revelation that I have decided just art is not enough. I made the CONSCIOUS decision to use human WORDS today. Ohmigosh.

Hope yall enjoy this lil disaster poem I’ve crafted from disbelief and adrenaline alone 💀🫶✨

———————-——[under cut]—————————--

Cold, cold, cold,

Was it always this cold?

The battle is over with, yellows and greens and purples and guts galore

Stain the battle field red red red

Just like me,

Sinking and swimming rich red, red, grey?

Busy celebration, wild relief.

But my colors stop moving. Frozen in place

Where is my heart?

Where is my brain?

My fingers, my hands.

They move.

But not the right ones.

My hands are not made of metal, iron, or steel.

Back to the core, my s-sp-s-heart.

Down, down, down.

Wires strangle me as I move.

Around my mind, tendons, spi-sp-[error]

Where is my helmet?

Down, down, down.

I could shake it o-of- out

Push past, back to the red red grey

I feel something soft, outside the wire

Soft but cold.

What is this?

This is where I was, but this is not me.

Where did I go?

This is-i-was n-n-me

[Error]

Panic seeps into this metal frame.

But I it-its-am still

It’s not me

red grey grey

I push against the wire, iron hot around my rre- grey face and run around my metal coffin,

Wrapped slowly around and around, choking me-m-it gone.

Screaming my name, but n-ot-n- [error] in my voice.

I am not talking.

The world begins to rock, nice and slow.

Not down, out.

Air

I open the-th-my vents

And feel nothing.

Squeeze my-m-their hand

grey grey grey

It’s so cold in here.

Was it always so cold in-i-[error] here?

It’s not cold.

I need my face. Air.

It’s cold but I feel hot.

[error]

It is not cold.

I can feel it, something rushing from its-it-i-my head to i-my fin-fi-digits.

Away from this cold. It’s not cold anymore.

[error]

It was never cold.

Over the grey grey grey, around the wires, past the pipes, up the steam, through the metal.

grey grey blue?

Up further and further.

Past the wires, past the soft grey cold,

And around where my sp-s-heart is-is-i-i-i-was.

Back to it-my face, face?

Everything is blue.

But its n-notn-ot- [error] supposed to be

Make it red.

I lift i-my hands

Wrap them around -my face

Slide my digits under the blue, blue, blue

And pull.

Creak, crack, splinter, scream

It falls to the ground

Happy faces look my way

Not anymore.

One worried,

Hey, worried.

I’m not feeling too hot.

The world begins to rock, nice and slow.

blue, blue,, white

————————————————————————

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

Eyes on the mirror - part 2.

Pairing: neighbor!Frankie Morales x f!reader Rating: +18, NSFW Words count: 3814 Summary: Dinner at Frankie's mom's is a disaster, she doesn't like you at all but her son doesn't fail to show you how much he likes you instead. Tags/Warnings: POV second person, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress and heels, she has hair but it's not described, no mention of her skin tone, she doesn't blush, she understands Spanish (but I didn't write sentences in Spanish because I don't know how to do it and I don't want to do it badly when I'm already writing in a language that is not my native), Frankie's mom is pretty conservative, traditionalist and closed-minded and she's mean towards reader, unprotected p in v (do better irl, please), sex in front of a mirror, oral (m receiving), Frankie is a good man ❤︎ and we love that for him. A/N: It's an emotional work, it's smut, but it's smut with feelings and I think I put a lot of myself into it. So I ask you to be especially delicate. This Frankie is the same guy from You look like a fun place to sit and Give me more. Thanks again @aurorawritestoescape and @arcanefox207 for your precious help and advices ❤️ I made a few changes from the first draft, English is not my first language, any mistake is still on me, so if you come across one I’m very sorry. @joelmillerisapunk just 🥹🥹🥹💖 Part 1 ⎮ Frankie Masterlist ⎮ Masterlist

Frankie's mom has the same eyes as her son, brown, big and deep, but there is a sharpness in them that does not belong to Frankie's. 

She has a simple, well-groomed appearance, wearing a white tunic dress that comes down to her knee, her hands are slightly cracked but her manicured nails are painted a pearly pink. 

She is a short, thin woman with the haughty, imperious appearance of someone who doesn’t let anyone step on her toes, a woman ready to bargain, to work hard, to take care of an entire household without anyone's help.

She's a tough lady and you're pretty sure she hates your guts.

 She addresses you rather nicely but you can tell something is wrong.

Her tone of voice sounds mocking and she's constantly whispering things to Frankie in Spanish that you don't hear well but you're pretty sure aren't anything nice.

“So what do you do, dear?” she asks you with a forced smile, sitting at the head of the table as she has arranged you and Frankie facing each other.

“I…um…work in a graphic design studio,” you mutter.

Frankie quickly adds, “She's so good at her job!” 

The way he’s trying to enhance your skills since you arrived moves you, but his mom doesn’t seem impressed.

Mrs Morales is intimidating, staring at you like she’s trying to catch every single flaw you have.

You can't even use your usual sarcasm because she would surely think you were insolent and certainly not right for his son.

“Have you done anything that I might have seen? Any national commercials?” she prods.

“Um, I don't think so, we're a pretty small studio at the moment, we've mostly worked on graphics for local stores and websites for professionals here, you know.” 

“Oh.” She raises her eyebrow. ”I see.”

Trying to compliment her, you say the food is delicious, the best you've ever eaten, and she reserves a cold “thank you”

Then she presses you again, “Can you cook?”

You lower your gaze to your plate and admit, “no, actually, I'm not very good at cooking.” 

“What do you usually eat?” she asks suspiciously. 

"Um...well...I can cook pasta and eggs..." you try to say and she looks at you in shock as if you just said donkeys can fly.

“Mom, please” Frankie tries to calm her down and she hisses at him “she will starve you!”

He hisses in turn “I am not perished! And she’s adorable, she’s smart, kind, funny and beautiful”

You feel Frankie's sorry look comforting you from across the table, he's doing what he can and you are truly grateful, but right now there’s nothing that can make you feel happy to be here.

You don't want to fight with her because you love Frankie and you know he loves his mother, you don't want to lose him because of scowling at her.

You see her giggling and shaking her head and you feel like crying but you don't, you don't want her to add ‘pathetic’ as one of your flaws.

She turns to Frankie and says something like, “How can you be with someone like that?” in Spanish. 

Frankie leans over the table and reprimands her, “Mom, stop it.”

She responds irritated in Spanish, “why? She is no good at cooking, and that job? Tsk, you don't want to marry her, do you?”

Frankie rolls his eyes and hisses, “Mom!”

You understand Spanish just fine but all this whispering is putting a strain on you, you just want her to see how much you care about Frankie and for her to like something about you. 

Even the dress didn't have the effect you had hoped for, she looked down on you even though her son had chosen it.

You brought her flowers and a cake to be nice and she huffed about the flowers because she would have to find a suitable vase to put them in and as for the cake, you bought it, so obviously it’s another proof of your failures in the culinary field.

She waves her hand at Frankie to shush him and turns back to you.

“Do you want anything else, sweetheart?” nodding at the serving dishes in the center of the table with another fake smile. 

Your stomach churns and you respond politely that you are full.

She turns back to Frankie, squinting her eyes, "she won't even eat! how is she going to give me grandchildren?!”

You look at your hands resting on your lap, feeling lousy and tired. 

Frankie must see this clearly because he finally blurts out, “Mom, if you don't stop now, we're leaving! She has done nothing wrong to you to be treated like this”

Mrs. Morales brings a hand to her chest, a shocked grimace is painted on her face. 

 “How dare you address your mother like that! I'm just trying to protect you, she's clearly not good for you!” She no longer even bothers to say it whispering in Spanish so that you wouldn't understand, in fact you think she said it loud and in English precisely so that her disappointment would be clear to you. 

You get up while they are still busy arguing and lock yourself in the bathroom. 

You knew this evening would be a disaster, but you hoped so hard that you were wrong. 

You’re glad Frankie stood up for you but you never wanted him to fight with his mother because of you. 

You hear their angry voices in the distance as they continue to argue and you feel so guilty.

You sit on the floor on the turquoise tiles in Mrs. Morales' bathroom, thinking only about how much you want to get out of here.

After a few minutes you hear a knock on the door. 

 “Honey, open up, it's me” You get up and reluctantly open the door.

“Hey, come here” Frankie says to you as soon as he sees your eyes on to the brink of tears.

He closes the door behind him and takes you in his arms, holding you tightly. 

You hide your face in his chest, letting the soothing warmth of his body envelop you. 

He strokes your back and whispers, “I'm so sorry, you don't deserve any of this.”

“I wanted her to like me so much,” you sob. 

“I know, honey, it's not your fault. She is fixated on things I don't care about. But you don't have to worry, everything will be fine.”

You pull away from him “I don't want you to fight over me”

"She can’t treat you like that, I'm the one who wants to be with you, and I like you the way you are.”

“Yeah, but…it’s still your mum,” you murmur.

“I gave her a little speech, don’t worry, you’ll be fine now,” 

Frankie smiles, leaving a kiss on your forehead and caressing your cheek, wiping away your tears. “Don’t cry.”

“What did you say to her? You didn't threaten her not to visit again, did you?” you ask worriedly. His eyes become a little shy, he’s quiet for a moment and then whispers to you, “no, I didn't tell her that.” 

“What then?” his enigmatic expression that doesn't let anything out intrigues and agitates you. 

He looks straight into your eyes and candidly admits, "I told her that I love you." 

You've felt it in the air for some time but now that you've heard it come out of his mouth, plain and simple, you are stunned. 

“Do you mean it?” You ask in a low shaking voice, looking into his big brown eyes for evidence of his sincerity. 

"I've never been so serious, miss," he smiles at you, expectantly. 

And then you feel you can say it, no matter how scary it is for you, “I love you too.” 

It doesn't seem real to you that you have just made yourself so vulnerable in front of him, your neighbor who until a few months ago was bothering you while now you feel you have a total and deep connection with him, no matter how much you poke and bicker at each other, your heart sings every time you are with him and you feel it loud and clear in your chest as it skips a beat every time Frankie looks at you a certain way, smiling with his eyes, with those little wrinkles around them and that dimple on his cheek that you adore. 

You love the way he mumbles in the morning as soon as he wakes up, the way he stretches under the covers and then again as soon as he gets up, his golden skin under the morning light, his playfully mischievous eyes that settle on you while you're still lying down trying to wake up, the way he always leans down to give you a kiss, whispering, “Good morning, princess.”

You also love how he keeps that silly little cap glued to his head at every opportunity.

You like kissing him and feeling his lips tasting like coffee, you like the way he hugs you as if he wants to shield you with his body and protect you from the world, you like the way his eyes become attentive and receptive when they rest on you and the way he listens to you, remaining silent and caressing your hand as if to invite you to tell him anything that is on your mind. 

You love how loyal he is to his friends, how he takes care of people, you love when he tries to make you breakfast even though he leaves a mess in your kitchen as if a barbarian invasion passed through.

And you love him now, standing in his mother's bathroom, hugging you as if only you existed in the world. 

“I love you,” you repeat and he looks at your face as if he wants to study the map of how much you truly care about him on it.

His hands slide down your back to your butt and he pushes you hard against him without breaking eye contact. 

His eyes are dark, his pupils dilated, he squeezes your butt tightly and then kisses you. 

You know exactly what he wants and you whisper into his mouth as soon as you break away from the passionate, deep kiss in which he engulfed you, “Not here, come on, take me home.”

He turns to the door and locks it still holding you close. 

“Let it go, baby, it’s okay” he replies and winks at you.

Feeling so desired by him is a real relief after feeling stupid and unfitting all night.

He turns you to the large mirror above the sink, leans to your ear and whispers, “Look at yourself.”

His hands move up your back, reach for the zipper of your dress, and begin to pull it down.

You look at him and he rebukes you, “eyes on the mirror, honey. Watch yourself while I do it.”

He slides off your dress breathing on your skin while you keep your eyes fixed on the mirror. 

You remain in your bra and panties. 

He brushes against your skin, rising on your arms only with his fingertips, climbing up your shoulders, your collarbone, the point where your shoulders and your neck meet and up to the column of your neck until he reaches your jaw. He tilts your head a bit and holds your chin to make sure you’re going to watch the entire time.

He holds you so that you can lean against him, and with his other hand he reaches down to your stomach, touching the hem of your panties.

You sigh happily as he slides two fingers under the fabric and caresses your folds, slides down the sides to the bottom and pushes upward. 

You moan softly, “Frankie, please” 

“Don’t be impatient, babe” he reprimands.

He curls your panties between his fingers and starts brushing them over your folds, you whine at the sensation as he tilts your head down a little bit to make sure you’re seeing what he’s doing. However you would not be able to watch anything but his movements. Right, left, right, left Frankie's fingers expertly maneuver the fabric over your pussy.

Your inhibitions are long gone, everything is faded and far away. 

There is only you and Frankie.

He suddenly lets go of your panties and massages you over them, soaking the material in your juices. You’re so wet that it doesn’t take much for his fingers to get wet too. 

Your breath becomes shallow as his hand slithers under the fabric and he begins circling your clit.

You can already feel your legs going weak so you raise your arm and place your hand behind his neck to keep yourself more stable against him. 

“Yeah, just like that honey. You want me to make you feel real good, huh?” Frankie’s voice vibrates against your neck and you mewl a yes feeling your body mold for him. 

Your eyes are fixed on the mirror.

You see your hot and bothered face, your lips parted, your pleading eyes and your body impossibly tense against him. 

It’s all painted there, the amount of desire and hunger that you have for him, a grimace of lust and need spread out on your features. 

“Fuck me,” you babble.

“Yeah? You want my big cock inside, baby? Want me to fill you to the brim?” Frankie’s smirk is wide on his face, you see his eyes focused on you, and his commanding tone sends shivers down your spine as he doesn’t stop rubbing on your clit. 

“Yes” you breathe “please”

Your legs wobble as you try to stand on your feet while he undresses. 

His shirt falls on his mother’s bathroom tiles, he unbuckles his belt and places it on the countertop, he kicks off his boots, unbuttons his jeans and slides them down his legs, stamping on them to get them off his feet.

Through the mirror you see him standing behind you, wearing only his boxers, the muscles of his chest highlighted by the lights, his soft belly just above his boxers that makes your mouth water, the happy trail that goes to hide inside, his strong thighs and the imperious erection that grows between them.

 It's a perfect picture of everything that makes your head spin.

“On your knees, baby, I want to feel your mouth first,” he orders you. 

You immediately kneel, feeling your heart flutter in your chest, the coolness of the tiles on your shins, and his simmering gaze dominating you from above.

You caress his hips, pulling down his boxers, and taking them off, and his cock finally springs free and almost smacks your face towering before your eyes. 

You take him in your hand, feeling that familiar warmth, the softness of his skin, the pulsing of his veins, as he leaks pre cum within an inch of your lips.

As soon as it slips on your tongue you feel a new slick of arousal dripping on your panties.

You lace your gaze with his, your open mouth curved at the edges in a smirk as you let him in, you love doing this to him. 

You usually take in as much as you can while taking care of the rest with your hand but tonight you want to feel it all the way down, so you relax your throat as much as you can and keep sliding it until you feel the tip touch the bottom. 

You have a slight hint of a gag reflex that you manage to quell right away and you keep him there, nestled inside you, pulsing on your tongue as he looks at you raptly and whispers, “God, you're amazing.”

And then you begin to suck him, slowly, enjoying every moan and every involuntary twitch of his hips, cocooning him with your tongue.

You’re fully immersed in the act, intent on giving him all the lustful pleasure you can, licking his tip like a lollipop, swirling your tongue around and collecting his oozing pre cum.

And then you go down again, spreading it on his shaft, mixing it with your saliva, hollowing your cheeks to suck him as deep as you can.

Frankie is whimpering and you know how much he’s close to the edge.

Your hand caresses his base, then you move it to his balls, with every intention of getting him to finish in your mouth and swallow everything he gives you but he grabs your wrist, stopping you.

You let him out with a pop, passing the tip over your lips and smacking it against them twice, wetting them with his pleasure.

You give him a mock pout for stopping you but the truth is you can't wait to feel him split you in two. 

He smiles at you, taking your hand and helping you up, you give him a kiss with your mouth still smeared with him. 

He turns you back towards the mirror and gently orders, “bend over the sink”

He slides your panties down your legs, exposing your drenched pussy, bending down to admire it, “So fucking wet…it’s all for me, baby?”

“Just for you, always,” you turn to look at him and see him leaning behind you as he reaches down and licks your folds, a long deep lick that makes you gasp.

“So good, honey, I would never get tired of this perfect pussy.” His voice vibrates on your skin sending a thrill all over your body.  “It’s the only part of you that I like to see weep for me” 

His rough voice charged with ardor and his words send you into a frenzy.

He comes back to stand behind you and looks at you in the mirror, resting his large hands on your hips, “You are so fucking beautiful like this.”

You feel his cock rub against your folds, and you throb intensely overwhelmed by your craving, you mewl at him and he finally aligns with your entrance and starts to push in. 

You slowly stretch around him, he groans as he slides into you, every inch of his length parting your walls.

His hands still clasp your hips, holding you steady as he gives you a moment to adjust. 

You're full of him and you wouldn't want to be any other way.

Frankie holds you firmly as he sinks into you, slowly at first and then increasing the pace as your moans grow rougher and closer, his balls slamming against your ass in a feverish rush.

“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing my cock so hard.”

He pulls you toward him, his fingers reaching for your nipples, tweaking and tugging.

You can't help but look in the mirror now and what you see is the most exciting sight you've ever had before your eyes.

Your body is completely surrendered to him, your skin glistening with tiny droplets of sweat, your hair disheveled, your expression ecstatic, Frankie's hands firmly clinging to your hips as the wet, squelching sounds of his cock pounding incessantly in your cunt fill the room along with your moans and Frankie's groans.

And Frankie is literally a dream, his broad figure towering over you, his mouth roaming your neck, his hands enveloping your tits, squeezing them so right. 

He’s completely lost in you, his eyes half-closed, his tongue darting out from time to time soothing your sweaty skin. 

Now you know that you have never experienced such strong feelings in your life. 

You thought so, but you were wrong. 

It’s not the usual cliché of feeling complete with someone else, you are already a whole. 

It’s the fact of knowing that you can share with him, that you do not have to be afraid to be who you are with him. It is the fact that he knows how to understand the workings of your brain and unravel the skein that tangles it. It is the fact that you can feel that there is nothing you cannot face together. It is the fact of feeling seen, perceived for who you really are and held close for it.

It's knowing that wherever you run, Frankie will pick up the crumbs you leave on the road and bring them back to you.

And you had no idea that it could really be like this.

You always thought, it's only 4 months, don't push it when in the meantime he proceeded to tiptoe into your heart without even being noticed and sat there, waiting for both of you to be ready to say the most terrifying words out loud. 

Not "I need you" but "I'm so damn happy you're here", not "you're mine" but "I love holding your hand as I navigate my life.”

Not by owning, but by letting you do your own thing while you look at each other and think, “this is the person I love and I am proud of them.”

You're just out there being the most fragile human sometimes but you're never afraid to break down next to him.

Frankie comes, dripping onto your walls, his orgasm and whimpers shuddering against your body.

He wraps one of his big, strong arms around your hips and holds you up against him.

And you're safe, really safe, being vulnerable in front of a mirror, watching yourself come apart for him, feeling every inch of your body catching fire while Frankie is the match and the water at the same time. 

He holds you tight until you both recover normal breathing, still nestled inside you. 

He pulls out and embraces you, leaving small kisses on the soft skin near your ear, his large hands caressing your back. 

“I love you so much” he whispers once you make eye contact again.

“I love you too, Morales” you smile, tracing his cheek with your fingertips.

You both get dressed and leave the bathroom. 

You walk down the hallway leading to the living area as you wonder how much his mother heard. You cannot even quantify how long you were locked in the bathroom but it was worth every second. 

You find her in the living room, watching TV with the volume on full blast.

Frankie approaches his mother, without saying anything, rests his hand on hers while she has her eyes fixed on the telenovela you watched with your granny. 

“Do you think Javier will finally be able to confess his feelings to Lola?” you ask quietly. 

She turns, just for a moment, and finally gives you a genuine smile.

For the first time you feel that maybe, after all, despite the way you and her son just desecrated her bathroom, all is not lost. 

general tag list: @baronessvonglitter , @milla-frenchy , @almostempty , @harriedandharassed , @thundermartini If you want to be added or removed just let me know, thank you so much for reading!

[mcrits]

kanthony ballet au!

Anthony has long since fallen out of love with ballet.

Ever since his father, a renowned dancer and head of the Bridgerton Dance Academy, passed away, Anthony has taken over his responsibilities. He rarely dances anymore, too focused on taking care of his family, keeping the academy running, and training the next generation of dancers, some of which are his own siblings.

One day, he's approached by his mother's dear friend Agatha Danbury, who asks if he wants to star in her upcoming production of Romeo and Juliet. He tries to decline, saying that he's far too busy with the academy, but in typical Danbury fashion, he ends up agreeing before he's even realized it.

His mother thinks it'll be good for him to dance again. "Maybe it'll get you out of whatever rut you've been in," she says. Anthony rolls his eyes.

"I'm not in a rut, mother. I've simply been busy."

"Busy brooding, maybe."

Upon showing up for the first day of rehearsals, he meets his Juliet: Edwina Sharma, an up-and-coming dancer from India who is just making her debut in London's professional ballet scene.

She's talented and lovely with work with. She's graceful and the very image of excellence. She never seems to misstep or slip. Anthony could never dream of achieving such perfection, and he's been dancing in some form since the day he learned to walk.

She's kind, as well. When they arrive, during their breaks, and when they're preparing to leave, they get a chance to talk. When she asks him if he wants to get dinner with her after rehearsal one day, he finds no reason why he shouldn't.

She tells him about the stories she's been reading, and he tells her about his work at the academy. Usually, he'd be preening at the attention of a pretty, smart, and kind woman who is possibly into him, but for whatever reason, he isn't.

He has to, though, at least on stage. He has to lift her and press his body to hers and kiss her.

It's fine, but Anthony certainly doesn't feel any of the passion he once felt for dancing. He can't wait to tell his mother 'I told you so.'

Until two weeks before they're set to open, that is. Anthony is lifting her like he's done a hundred times before, but this time, she pushes off a bit too hard, sending them both off balance.

He has neither the reaction time nor the grip to keep her from falling. She falls to the ground with a loud thud and a gasp of pain. As Anthony stares down at her in shock, he winces. Her ankle does not look right.

He drives her to the hospital, where he waits with her until she can be seen and sits with her in the exam room as a doctor examines her ankle.

That is where he meets the older sister he has heard so much about. Kate Sharma.

She's like a storm, bursting into the room with who is presumably their mother in tow, demanding to know what happened and if Edwina's okay.

"I'm okay, didi," Edwina assures her. "It was just a lift gone badly, it's alright." Her face turns a little sad. "They think my ankle is broken, but they're doing an X-ray to be sure. I also have a concussion from my head hitting the floor. but I'm okay, I promise."

Anthony knows that there is no chance of her being well enough to perform in just a few weeks. But in this moment, he doesn't have much of a chance to think about it, because Kate turns to him. Her eyes are burning.

"May i speak with you in the hall, Mr. Bridgerton?"

Anthony snorts at the overly formal name. "Certainly, Miss Sharma."

As soon as the door closes behind them, Kate starts talking. "So, a lift gone badly. What happened?"

"Well, I had her, she pushed off a bit too hard, we both lost our balance, and I wasn't able to catch her."

Kate stares at him. "So you're going to blame her for you dropping her?"

Anthony frowns, his mind spinning. "Excuse me?"

"Don't think I don't know what's happening here, Bridgerton. I know you didn't want to dance again. I know you probably want a way out of this."

When Anthony processes what she's insinuating, he laughs. "You think so lowly of me that you think I'd drop Edwina on purpose?"

"Considering the way you've led her on, yes, I do."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Anthony asks. "I've just been nice! I've never given her any impression that there was anything between us other than friendship. Would you rather I be rude to her?"

"No, but I'd rather you not take her to countless lunches and dinners."

"Do you end up kissing every single person you go to lunch with? Uou don't have to do that, you know."

Late, breathing heavily with her rage, groans. "You are insufferable."

"Then you must be looking into a mirror."

Finally, Kate storms off, and Anthony shakes his head. Unbelievable.

He says a quick goodbye to Edwina, telling her to let him know about how her recovery is going, and heads home.

The next morning, rehearsal is surprisingly still on. He arrives, his heart dropping into his stomach as he sees who's sitting on the floor, pulling on her pointe shoes.

"You have got to be kidding me."

Kate looks up at him, her expression hardening. "I don't like it any more than you do, Bridgerton. But I know this show, and we only have two weeks until opening night."

This is going to be a long two weeks.

As much as Kate makes it her life's mission to piss him off, he does have to admit that she impresses him. She hasn't done the choreography in years, and yet she picks it up quickly.

But even with her fast pace, she still stays long after everyone leaves, rehearsing steps.

One night, against his better judgement, he agrees to stay late and practice with her. Despite his lack of passion, he does want to show to be as perfect as it can be.

That night, with just the two of them practicing passionate scenes over and over, Anthony truly sees her.

Kate is everything Edwina is not. She's stubborn where Edwina is easy-going. She's rude where Edwina is nice. She's reserved where Edwina is open.

Anthony loves it.

Finally, he gets a glimpse of his old passion. Their steps become routine, allowing them to focus on the emotion of the scene. Their bodies press together, and Anthony feels warm for the first time in a long time.

Their touches last longer than they should. They're closer than what's necessary.

As he walks forward to kiss her, they're both panting heavily, and his approach is much slower than it usually is. He can't help but savor the sight of her. Her cheeks are red and her hair is messy from the exertion. The blood leaves Anthony's brain.

Their lips connect, his hands going to grab her waist as usual, but this time?

Instead of leaning back and extending her arms out, she wraps both arms around his neck, going off pointe and burying a hand in the back of his hair.

He moans, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, and she groans against his lips. His brain has completely shut off, and doesn't kick back into gear until Kate pulls away.

They're sitting on the floor, their feet and legs aching, and Kate straddles his lap. She seems to have lost herself, too, since she laughs breathlessly. "I think that's enough for today," she says, her gorgeous eyes constantly flicking between his eyes and his lips.

"Agreed," he whispers, leaning in to give her a brief kiss before hovering his lips by her ear, his voice lowering. "I know you've been sore since we started rehearsing. I could introduce you to my bathtub. A warm bath does wonders."

Kate shakes her head. "I shouldn't."

"But do you want to?"

After a moment of hesitation, she sighs. "Your bathtub better be big enough for two."

Anthony grins, his heart fluttering.

From that moment on, their late-night rendezvous become routine. It's the first time in a long time that Anthony has looked forward to dancing, and the sex that follows certainly helps with the passion. But between rehearsing and sex, they do get to know each other. And while half the time, they're arguing, the other half consists of deep conversations and jokes.

It's nice. Her humor is dry and witty, and Anthony's delighted by their constant banter. Unlike Edwina, Kate challenges him. While he doesn't enjoy being bested by her as often as he is, he can't help but be thrilled by the competition.

"I'll be sad when this is over," he admits softly during one of their breaks, sitting on the floor side-by-side and sipping water.

"So will I. It's been fun." She presses her shoulder against his, and he smiles, unable to take his eyes off of her. "I'm- I'm sorry I came off so strong during our first meeting."

"It's alright, Kate. I'm a protective older sibling, I get it. If it was my sister who was dropped by an asshole, I would've been pissed, too. But for the record, it really was an accident. and I hope she's back to dancing soon."

"Her doctor says she should be alright," Kate replies, nodding. "But thank you, Anthony. As much as it pains me to say this, you're not as bad as I thought."

Anthony rolls his eyes, but grins, bumping his shoulder against hers. "You're not so bad, either, Sharma."

When the show comes to a close, Kate stays over at Anthony's apartment before the closing night of the show. With their bodies pressed together, their limbs completely entangled underneath the blankets, Kate lifts her head from his bare chest and looks him in the eye.

"I don't want this to end, Anthony," she whispers, placing a hand on his cheek.

"Neither do I."

"Then we'll still see each other after the show ends?"

Anthony grins. "You won't be able to get rid of me."

Kate matches his grin and leans in to kiss him.

Anthony loves dancing again, and he also loves Kate Sharma.

[stromuprisahat]

taragreenfield:

"Creepy Victorian ideal where women are expected to embody virtue and morality"? I'm sure Alina being repeatedly shamed for being attracted to the "wrong" man, calling herself "vain" when she doesn't hate what she looks like for once and getting punished for being "greedy" because she wanted to embrace her powers and forced to settle for sheer mediocrity do not play into the same creepy ideal. Nope. Not even a little.

☝️☝️☝️

So, it's one of the themes addressed rather badly.

Both of those dialogues feel (as often) as if Alina and the Darkling talked about something else.

“We would be equals until the day I dared to disagree with you, until the moment I questioned your judgment or didn’t do as I was bid. Then you would deal with me the way you dealt with Genya and your mother, the way you tried to deal with Mal.” He leaned against the window, and the gilded frame came into sharp focus. “Do you think it would be any different with your tracker beside you? With that Lantsov pup?” “Yes,” I said simply. “Because you would be the strong one?” “Because they’re better men than you.” “You might make me a better man.” “And you might make me a monster.”

Ruin and Rising- Chapter 3

Alina (once again) accuses Aleksander of wanting to annihilate any kind of opposition, naming the people she knows he "wronged". Completely disregarding Genya was a traitor, who'd possibly face harsher punishment from any other general, Baghra's questionable motivations and her whole relationship with him, and the teeny-tiny detail Malyen should've been executed ten times over, and got away only thanks to Nikolai's intercession.

She believes he'd torture and mutilate her for disobedience just like she did upon her first arrival to Little Palace. On the other hand her other romantic options are nothing but virtuous. They'd never... I don't know... shame her for not returning their passionate embrace, make her feel bad for them by repeated bouts of aggression and self pity, or such...

The irony...

Aleksander doesn't really buy the clean cut good/bad nonsense- he's too old for it-, and their conversation about fairness paints a picture of a person angry about skewed perception of people, yet his actions show it won't stop him from aiming at whatever goals he's trying to achieve. Goals to reach equality, perhaps even equity in general treatment by society. Alina might be determined to view him as evil, but that's as close to good to me as any person might get.

Also his views on human nature don't support the notion he'd expect Alina to miraculously "heal" him- quite contrary. In the Darkling's eyes people rarely change, unless you force them. His admission might mean Alina is strong enough to do so or- given how highly he thinks of himself- it might be him saying he'd ALLOW HER. He'd listen to her, weigh her objections and possibly make concessions, should her arguments stand on firm ground. It's voicing his potential malleability, and also vulnerability to her. As he said- he perceives her as his equal, therefore he's willing to allow her the same power over his actions as he, himself wields.

He also lacks the illusion Alina might act as some sort of moral authority- he's the one calling her on her selfishness among other things-, so Leigh suggesting that might be the case corresponds with her usual MO, when she describes something entirely different, than what she expects the reader to perceive.

“You were meant to be my balance, Alina. You are the only person in the world who might rule with me, who might keep my power in check.” “And who will balance me?” The words emerged before I thought better of them, giving raw voice to a thought that haunted me even more than the possibility that the firebird didn’t exist. “What if I’m no better than you? What if instead of stopping you, I’m just another avalanche?”

Ruin and Rising- Chapter 9

Again- he talks about balance of two metaphysical powers, Alina's math doesn't add up. And why does she view herself as the noble one?! She acts as if she worried about her own goodness, yet the Darkling's place among the naughty is never questioned.

This is even more tragic, if we delve into the theories on the origins of (Sun and) Shadow Summoners. The Darkling is the only known living Grisha with some insight into the workings of their powers and merzost- his faith him and Alina were "meant to be" might be only his loneliness, but it could also be supported by Grisha theory. There can't be light without shadows and vice versa.

Alina's weather talk sounds cool out of the context. In it, she looks even dumber than usual. It's as if a quantum physicist waxed poetic about the nature of particles and their resemblance to him and his beloved, while his entitled date somehow managed to turn it into dangers of skiing.

So...

I'm usually trying to avoid interviews and such, but I have this vague memory of LB stating something about disliking "the woman saves/fixes the man via her love" trope. Am I delusional? There's this paragraph in SoC that would make it almost as ironic as her claim she'd never make Alina stay in abusive relationship. 🙃

Hello!

I'm so happy to have her past interviews 'cause so much bullshit can be contradicted. I'm that friend with the screenshots.

So here it is:

[beargregor]

Chef greg delivery just for you. it's a wonder I hadn't bearified him yet, he's my fave greg too 🔪

gays literally only want one thing (to be chopped up and eaten by a depressed man) and it's fucking disgusting

[why-the-heck-not]

submitted the last course for my bachelor's degree and now I'm going to start stress-knitting the most homemade looking scarf there ever was (it's 6 diff colors that might or might not go together and also I'm bad at knitting and I have no plan nor am I going to be counting layers, I'll switch the yarn when I feel like it) I'm nervous things are gonna fall through the last second somehow and I'll get a ''u can't graduate actually''-email once I send in that "graduating now pls"-form (can't yet bc waiting for the last courses to be graded)

[lewmagoo]

nothing like a 12 am spiral over religious trauma lol

[sezja]

Can we please bring the VIth Legion, trapped in Azys Lla, home to Garlemald or at the very least away from Azys Lla

[chronurgy]

Experiencing the world's fucking weirdest work situation atm. Like genuinely what the fuck. I can't even really post about it because it's too identifying but know I am going through it™

[forcedhesitation]

maaaaaaaaaaan. ridiculous to be calling DBD "pathetic" because it couldn't get licensing for various final girls. as if it hasn't always been because of some bullshit on the end of the copyright holders. fuck, we would have gotten more material from Hellraiser, had it not been for the copyright holders. we lost Stranger Things temporarily because of the copyright holders being out of touch with fans and greedy. Ghostface exists in the game because luckily, the character of Ghostface isn't actually owned by Big Bad Viacrap.

also like. DBD isn't Fork Knife. it's just not. and if I'm not mistaken-- it's not like Fork Knife has any horror character that DBD doesn't, apart from Eleven and Hopper. Eleven could never be in the game anyway, because any character added has to be over 18/a legal adult (for legal reasons). and we have Steve, Nancy, and Jonathan instead. It makes much more sense that they chose those characters for the game, as this followed S2, which made Steve one of the most popular characters from the show. so much so that he can even contend with Eleven in popularity.

and let's not downplay the fact that DBD does have other, very, very impressive licenses in it. such as Silent Hill. that was the first big thing Konami let happen with the ip in YEARS. Resident Evil was...HUGE. Wesker's chapter brought in an unprecedented number of players and anyone who played survivor at that time knows that for WEEKS, all you would get was Wesker after Wesker. We have Chucky and Tiffany, voiced by their original VAs. Sadako from the original Japanese Ringu, not the American version of the same concept! You can play as the Xenomorph, and the Xenomorph Queen! Vecna, from D&D is a killer, and he is voiced by Mr. Matt Mercer! We have Ash Williams, Alan Wake, Leon. S. Kennedy, Cheryl Mason, and very soon Lara Croft! and then After her-- we are getting Castlevania!! So there is no shortage of incredible of characters from horror that are in this game, and it's disrespectful to act like the people who work on this game don't care enough about it to try their fucking hardest to give fans the best possible licensed chapter dlcs they can. it's not their fault if the copyright holders want something different.

Besides, I think it's gross to suggest that DBD doesn't have a claim to the title of "Horror Hall of Fame" just because it doesn't have specific licensed characters in it. what about all the amazing original characters that the game has? do those suddenly not count, just because they do not include super well-known characters from popular old horror movies? A lot of these popular old horror movies don't include/don't give much of a spotlight to people of colour, so the original chapters often give the devs the room to add diversity to DBD's cast of characters, whereas a license might have otherwise not allowed it. and many of these original characters even have nods to existing horror media, like the End Transmission chapter drawing inspiration from both the horror-survival game SOMA, and the sci-fi horror movie/comic book Virus. Does the hard work that the many talented members of the DBD team put into making this original chapter, among many others, mean nothing, just because Sidney Prescott or Sally Hardesty aren't in the fucking game? I should hope the fuck not.

[medicinemane]

There's honestly... just so many people, just so so so so so many people in this world where I'm like... aren't you people tired of this fucking... you know, I was going to call them clowns but that's really disrespectful to clowns, these people could never get their face on an egg...

Anyway, aren't you tired of this childish jackass? Don't you just want to ignore them and never have to hear about them again? If we just ignored them they legitimately would go away... don't you want that?

And this applies to... just ungodly amounts of people, from jake paul to even elon musk (just... don't touch his shit, he'll run out of money eventually with how bad he is with it), to just... name an annoying famous person and you'll name someone I've literally forgotten right now that I could never have to hear about again if people would just ignore them (unless they committed crimes, investigators are welcome to pay attention while gathering a case)

Yet the answer's always "no, we're paying so much attention to them!" and I'm just like... why? Why would you watch jake paul box? I heard about that and was like "he's still doing that shit?", and yet I guess it made a lot of money yet again and it's just like... ignore him

These people could go away, and yet

[adore-gregor]

.

[heartshattering]

anyone else's brain feel like expired pudding this fine friday afternoon (aka morning for me)?

[brittlebutch]

the thing about Aelwyn that I think about a lot is that there's a lot to the notion that she, to a certain extent, was so abrasive with Adaine because of how obstinate Adaine is with their parents. If you have based a chunk of your personality on the precept of "The only way to protect myself is to meet my parents' expectations and obey them at all costs", then every time Adaine pushes back against them, there is almost unquestionably a fear-response -- even if you aren't the one who set your parent off, their stress/frustration can fill a room to the point of becoming smothering anyway. And if you don't feel safe getting mad at your parents for being a source of stress/fear in your life, then invariably the only thing you can do is begin to resent the third-party who you perceive as setting them off for no reason instead of playing it safe, like you do.