#so done with him being his gold shiny self

[aerkame]

Which version of Sun Wukong do you like the most? (Both in character and design)

Which one would be your final choice?

You can't just ask me to pick one like that. 😭 There are so many versions of Sun Wukong throughout history from different media.

My favorite version of Sun Wukong is the one from New Gods: Nezha Reborn. I can't even begin to express just how much I love his character overall once I began to take notes for writing him (I'm still taking notes, there are many details). Both his design and character were well thought out for the movie and it's such a shame that he didn't get his own movie or have more screen time.

PERSONALITY

I know Nezha Reborn Monkey King probably isn't everyone's favorite, but what won me over was the amount of details to his personality, missed easter eggs, and his overall design that both matches the world he's in and also makes him stick out. For starters, Monkey King in this version is quite scary in my opinion despite his silly old man act. I really do believe he is a silly guy who is just minding his business and having fun. Sometimes in the movie, he truly does act like a monkey (makes you wonder how no one figured him out yet, he even has a giant metal sculpture of himself with his motorcycle collection), swinging from chains, climbing around, making small noises at times, having too much energy to the point of not being able to hold still for a single minute... but he's an assassin, a hitman. Monkey King being easily hired by Ao Guang as a hitman in the past plenty of times is scary enough. On top of that, his behavior is pretty cutthroat as well.

Sure, he's a silly old man, but it's hard to ignore how he acts sometimes. Especially when he not only ate another yaoguai, but he offered a piece of the dead assassin to the very guy who hired that yaoguai to kill Nezha's reincarnation (Ao Guang). This Monkey King is also more than an expert at acting. I think he even has a portion of the fandom tricked. There are only a few times in the movie where he acts like his true self and it's mostly around Nezha's reincarnation (Ever notice that he knew ALL of the names of the previous ones?)

He goes from silly guy to the biggest threat in the room real quick. This Monkey King is a very morally grey one. He's done plenty of bad things and plenty of good from the context given in the movie. It all depends on his motives if he has any. Who knows, he did say he's just tired.

DESIGN

Nezha Reborn Monkey King's overall design is just as thought out as his character too. If you look at the main cast or any character really, you'll notice that their clothes usually don't have any bright colors or anything that would have too much saturation to it. It's mostly all dull colors. Wukong however, has a bright pink suit and pants. Even the clothes he wears in his home are bright and colorful. This goes hand in hand with his personality. He's shown to have some greed in him when Ao Guang offered a larger payment for Li's assassination.

Monkey King is still a monkey, and he likes shiny valuables and that can be seen in his greed and the gold jewelry he wears (which has human skulls on it by the way-). He also has a huge amount of confidence and wearing bolder colors is definitely something he would do to show it. He does what he likes and wears what he wants.

The choice of colors and clothes not only matches his personality but they also serve a purpose in this movie's setting. Donghai not only has a water problem but it also has a poverty problem. We're shown around the beginning of the movie a background character who got a new dress that was a more muted plum purple. From the context of the two characters talking, having a dress like that is a statement of the person's wealth. So in conclusion, Monkey King is pretty loaded. I would like to argue though it's not just from taking expensive hits from Ao Guang, but also from the place he owns. In the beginning of the movie he introduces himself to Li after a race and says he owns the place (likely the whole area including the track since I could not find evidence anyone ever visits the place outside of races). That entire place looks like a water factory, which means he's likely making money from that too since water had become more expensive than currency.

The entire inside of the place he lives would earn another couple of paragraphs too, but it follows just about the same things I've said. Another detail I like, that might have been missed is that he fits the slang "Wrench monkey" pretty well. Just some food for thought.

I really could write a whole essay about him and several things I've noticed but I'm not sure if anyone would read this at all if I kept going. I might make a more in-depth essay sometime though or share my notes on him.

[prettynhot]

if yall saw my teacher irl you’d think he’s a celeb, this man is 6’2 with a slim build,dirty blonde AND handsome while graudating from the most prestigious uni in our country. and he was literally an actor while he was in uni😭 HES SO UUGHHHHHHH

[sturnsdarling]

cherry cola

you ask for Matts assistance in dying your hair red

vibe check: fluff, established relationship, good vibes all round really

900 words

A/N: this is completely self indulgent bc i literally just dyed my hair red lmao (i wrote this like two months ago now lol)

love and cigs, merc

You were sat, cross legged on a stool in front of his bathroom counter, in nothing but your bra and a pair of his boxers. Matt was behind you, clad in only grey plaid pyjama bottoms.

You’d wanted to dye your hair red for so long, and after bringing it up to Matt only one time, he became obsessed with the idea.

That day, he went and got you an entire selection of shades of red to choose from, a decision he made after standing in front of the hair dye section at the beauty supply store for 45 minutes and having less than no clue what the fuck he was doing.

“this is gonna look so good, princess” Matt said, eyes trained on the way the red made your eyes glow, “you’re gonna look like a hex girl” His eyes lit up as the realisation hit him.

You giggled, rolling your eyes at his statement, “you’re ridiculous”

“maybe we should get you a red dress and some fangs” Matt said, ignoring your insult and allowing his mind to wonder

“I was thinking more Ariel over hex girl but, i’m down for a little role play” You smirked, looking at him through the reflection.

“Ariel is hot” Matt said, nodding slightly in agreement

You jokingly raised your brows and nodded back to him, earning a chuckle from Matt’s lips as a smile spread across your face.

Matt continued to work the dye into your hair, making sure to get every inch of it and trying his best not to get it on your skin. His concentration was adorable, and you couldn’t help but stare at him as he worked across your scalp with perfect, caring movements.

Matt was literally the perfect boyfriend. Anything you wanted to do, he supported you and paid for it. New nails? he’s got it. New piercing? he’ll come with you. New tattoo? he’ll get one too. everything you do is gold to him, and he wants nothing more than to be able to treat you like a princess, it is your nickname after all.

“i think you’re all set, beautiful” Matt said, doing a final scan of your head as he took off his gloves.

“thanks, Matty” you cheesed, craning your head backwards to look at him, pursing your lips.

Matt smiled and leaned down, pressing his lips against yours for a moment from his towering position over you.

You hummed into the kiss, and Matt pulled away with a smile, his hands coming to your shoulders as you returned to looking at him in the reflection.

He rubbed your shoulders softly, pressing his thumbs into your skin before leaning down once more and pressing a soft, open mouth kiss onto the curve of your neck.

you couldn’t help but smile.

about half and hour had passed, and after a nice warm shower and matts assistance in rinsing your hair out, you were once more sat in front of the mirror, watching as Matt blowdried your now red hair with intense concentration.

Almost immediately after you had started dating, he told you that 'you never needed to do anything ever again', meaning that every strenuous day to day task you did simply to exist as a person, Matt was now going to do for you. that included drying your hair. as much as it was for you, a part of you knew he loved it, he loved looking after you, feeling needed, so despite your huffing and puffing about 'being able to do it yourself', you always let him do things for you.

Your hair was shiny and soft, and Matt was captivated by the colour, drying your hair for just a bit longer than he needed to so he could keep his hands in it.

"all done" Matt said, turning off the dryer and placing it down on the counter with a boyish smile.

"ugh, I love it so much" you said with a squeal, faffing about with your parting in the mirror, leaning forward slightly and causing Matts baggy tee to slip down your bare shoulder.

"it looks so good, princess" Matt smiled, unable to take his eyes off you as you gawked at yourself like a cockatoo

you cheesed at Matt in the reflection, watching as he absent-mindedly licked his lips at the sight of you. Turning on the balls of your feet to face him, you caught his eye-line, blinking up at him like a cat.

"you like it?" you said, fishing for compliments.

Matt licked his lips once more, feeling his chest tighten slightly at the way you were looking at him, "mhm" he nodded, "I love it, red is definitely your colour"

Matt brought his hands to your face, squishing your cheeks slightly as he pressed parts of your soft hair against your skin with his palms.

you hummed in response, unable to control the smile on your face, "reds more your colour than mine, I think" you said.

Matt smirked, "good thing you're always by my side then, ain't it princess?"

"mhm" you nodded smugly, edging your face closer to his with a seductive smile.

Matt pulled your lips to his gently, pressing his soft, wet mouth against yours with a small hum. your hands found his wrists, pulling him into you deeper as you slipped your tongue into the kiss.

Matt chuckled into your mouth, shifting slightly as he deepened the kiss further. Smoothly pulling an arm from your face, not once breaking the kiss, he pressed you against the bathroom wall and pushed the bathroom door shut.

taglist: @sturniozalt@mattslolita@shaquilles-0atmeal@blahbel668@sleepysturniolo@le4hsblog @sarosfilms @joemamaaa42069 @2muchofaslvt @seluky10 @cherib3lla @jetaimevous @witchofthehour @sofieeeeex @ncm9696 @lovesturni0l0s @pepsicola-pussy @ifwdominicfike @dani-sturn @stupendousjellyfishpost @aesthetixhoe @sturn-rose @mattsnronebitch @chriscorqutte @elizasturn @ribread03 @st7rnioioss @maggieflms

[gomzwrites]

Being their sugar baby

Summary: A look into some moments if they are your sugar daddy(separately)

Pairing: John Price, Simon Ghost Riley with x civy gn!Reader

Tags: fluff, implied/light nsfw, you call them daddy, kissing, mdni(18+)

Note: gif are not mine, reader’s texts are in purple!, indented texts are memories

a/n: this is for you annon who wanted a sugar daddy cod thing <3 It took me a while to get this done and I'm still not 100% satisfied with it, the amount of self-control I needed to not make this into a full-blown smut fic- 

Anyways, this time I only wrote for Price and Ghost, I do have a few drafts for Soap and Gaz but I haven’t finished it yet cause my adhd ass cannot be decisive. I don't know if I will complete them or not since my uni starts tomorrow, so no promises!

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Captain John Price

Hmmm absolutely not, you’re not going anywhere like that.

John clicks his tongue as he shakes his head and looks at the outfit you’re wearing with a disapproving look as you give him a pout. 

Daddy, we’ve been here for an hour already. 

You complain as you sigh and let the workers remove your clothes and frown as Price goes through another list of outfits, putting his finger up in the air as he gives you a smile.

Patience, sweetheart. I need to make sure you look just as good as I am at the party, hm? 

He says as he picks out another fancy clothe that is probably worth more than your car and orders the people around to dress you up again. You chuckle and roll your eyes as you do as you are told. Obediently dressing up as you glance at yourself in the mirror.

There you are, look at you…

He gives a proud smile as his beard shifts and walks slowly at you, you giggle as you give a spin and let him rake his eyes over your body, watching and observing you as if he is admiring a piece of art. 

Mmm, you like it?

He gives a nod as he rests his hands on your shoulders and gently adjusted the creased fabric slightly and glances at you through the mirror, always a perfectionist. A content look shows as he kisses your hair.

Always so perfect, sweetheart. Do you like it as well? 

He whispers into your ears as he runs his rough calloused hand around your waist and thigh, watching as your half-lidded eyes trace his motion from the reflection, he gives your ear a bite when you haven’t replied, already hazy when you take in a deep breath and stare yourself in the mirror.

You’re always confident with how you look with how much care and precision you put into yourself. Sticking a routine and maintaining your diet, and you thank yourself for having such discipline because that’s exactly how you even met John Price in the first place.

You give a few stretches and hum a tune as you feel how nicely the soft silk fabric adorns your body perfectly, no matter where you turn or pose it always displays your shape in the best way possible. You appreciate how he asks for your opinion still even though he makes the final decision, truthfully you’ll wear anything he wants you to because for one, it makes him happy and two, you can rock any outfit really.

Yes, I like it. Thank you, Daddy. 

He gives you a hush on your ear as he slightly runs his thumb across your exposed neck. This is nothing, no need to thank me. He whispers before tilting his head and turning back to the mirror again.

Hm, think you want a little something here? 

He gives a tap on your neck as you give him a nod.

He turns around with a hum and glances around the jewellery box he got you and picks one, you quickly place your hand on his as you shake your head, he raises his brow as he complies and lets you take out another shiny one instead, he gives a chuckle as he watches you wear it.

Out of so many of them, you always wear that one huh sweetheart? 

He says as he brushes your hair away and hooks his finger on the gold choker and examines it. It's the first of many pieces of jewellery he bought for you and it has since become your favourite. You’ll admit that the other necklaces with different gemstones and accessories would’ve fit your look better, but you also wear this one because it always reminded you the day you got it. 

Okay no way, you spent how much on this again?? You gesture at the beautiful gold choker, shining and twinkling brightly under the light as it hangs from Price’s hand. He gives a laugh as he ties it around your neck and ravishes the way it hugs around your pretty neck perfectly. Hush, if it looks good on you then it doesn’t matter. You give a frown and pout as he pokes your puffy cheek and smirks, turning your head to face the mirror again as you take a moment to examine it, you’ll have to agree that it does look pretty good as you run your hand along the cold metal, you’d expect it to be heavy but it’s pretty lightweight and it doesn't bite into your skin. 

Is it because you like the way you look with nothing but the choker on? 

He pulls you back out of your thoughts into the current time as he whispers with a dangerously low tone in your ear, causing you to blush as you tense up and recall the memory. He gives another chuckle as he bites your neck softly and nibbles it, causing you to whine as you push him away gently.

W-w-wait wait wait- the party-

Ah to hell with the party, need you now, need my sweetheart.

He rasps as he pulls the curtain and presses you onto the mirror with your back against him, feeling his palm going under the silk as he stares at you hungrily.  Are you going to be good for me then? He gives a devilish smirk as you quickly nod and arch your back for him.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Simon Ghost Riley

You walk towards your kitchen as you hum out a tune and give a soft yawn as you turn on the sink handle to let the water run, lazily rubbing your eyes as you wait for the water to fill the pot.  

Angel… 

A second voice joins you as Ghost wrapped around your waist and nuzzles close into your neck.

Mmmm, good morning Daddy.

You reply with another yawn as you kiss his cheek which earns a satisfied hum from him as he presses light kisses around your neck, leaving trails of goosebumps as he pulls your body closer to his. Soft, gentle yet needy as always.

You have been in this arrangement with him for the past two years already, he’d pay for your bills and get you anything you wanted, while you would court him to dinners, being his plus one essentially. It started off as once or twice per week, then to three or four, then somewhere along the line though, he had chosen to visit you and just bask in your presence whenever he wanted in your apartment, well the apartment he bought for you that is.

It took a while to get used to him, you were even sceptical and scared out of your life when you first met him after a friend recommended him to you. You study his actions a lot, being on your best behaviour for him on the first few outings. Overtime, you come to realise a few things about him.

He doesn’t ask for much whenever he’s at your place, he just wants to have you close to him, he’ll pull you away from whatever you’re doing to sit on his lap, smiling whenever you protest or complain about how it distracts you from doing your chores. 

I can hire a maid for you to do it you know. Absolutely not, I don't trust them. Hm, I’ll find trustable ones... Then what am I going to do? Then you’ll give me all your attention, Angel. 

Whenever you’re with him outside, one of his hands must always be on you, be it your waist, hands, or neck. He’s never one to speak a lot, instead to answer you based on his actions. He is also incredibly observant, if you stare at one item just another second too long you’ll see it on your bed the next day. Thanks to him, you also forgot what it's like to stress over every single payment every day, he’d always pay your bills the moment you send him the receipts. You don’t question where or how he manages to carry things out with this efficiently, but you suspect it’s probably due to his job in the military. Well, you don’t know if he actually is working in one.

So are you like an admiral in the military or something?  You asked casually one day when you were sitting on his lap and feeding him strawberries, you can tell he glance at you from the corner of his eye as he slowly run his hand along your back and munch the fruit, to your surprise he actually responded to your question this time and not ignore it like he always does to any questions that are related to him. How did you come to that conclusion? You give a long hmmm and answer back as you gesture at his body. Well, you’re ridiculously big and tall, and you carry yourself highly anywhere you go. At first, I thought maybe it was just a confidence thing, but the way you walk, your gait…it follows a very specific rhythm. You also tend to have a much broader, stricter stance.  You paused before you glance back at his arm and ghost your finger cautiously, Aaaaaand your tattoo, quite interesting with the choices of pattern no? You say as you trail along the dog tags, guns and skulls, pausing as you rest your hand on one of the longer faint scars on his forearm. and I’m assuming these scars are not just from simple accidents.  He gives a low chuckle once he patiently listen and wait for you to finish your answer, feeling the vibration from his chest as you give a grin and tilt your head and watch him, he gives you a smirk as he run his finger along your cheek, Such a smart angel, hm? He whispered as he brings you in for a kiss, wrapping his palm around your neck as you give a shudder, you kiss him slowly before retracting as you wipe the string of saliva that connected from his lips to yours. So was I right? He only hummed as he kissed your ears and grabbed your thighs over for you to straddle his hip. You never got a confirmation or an answer, but you didn’t mind since he was clearly professional in throwing your questions out the window the moment he pulled your hips close to him and feel something hard pressing against you as a gasp escape your mouth-

The memory sends a shiver down your spine as you snap back to the present time.

Cold?

He mumbles when he stopped his hands, you realize he has been rubbing your bare hips under your hoodie for some time now as you felt the warm pad of his fingers pressing into your skin.

You shake your head as you turn around and face him,

Mm, just thinking…

You whisper back as you rest your hand on his chest, watching it rise and fall, he raised his eyebrow as he carries you with ease and puts you on the cold kitchen counter, watching the way your thigh bounce softly upon contact, he glance back up at you as he rest his chin on your chest.

What were you thinking about? 

He says with a smirk as you blush and giggle softly.

Thinking about you. 

You replied back as he tilt his head in amusement.

Issit now…. 

He gives a reply as he kisses your nose and gives you a coy smirk,

Thinking about how well your sugar daddy treats you? 

He whispers as he kisses your neck teasingly, making your cheek red as he flattens his tongue on your skin and swipes it in a circular motion.

M-mhm. 

You replied back with a shaky tone as he sucks on your soft skin, leaving a soft mark as he chuckles. He starts to slowly trail his hand up under your shirt as he leans in and mutters against your sensitive ear once more. 

My angel, always so good to me.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

a/n: am pushing my soft Ghost agenda with this one >:] and yes, if you noticed I always write Price to be a bit mean hehe. I don't know how to feel with this fic, do let me know what you think! Have a nice day/night :D

[catyo90]

Veil guard Romance Head-Cannon Scenario: Ballroom

(Really missed the idea of a Ball room quest from DAI. So I thought what if I made up some for ya'll.)

Taash - They wear a more formal arrangement of fabric with multiple medals and jewels with a long blue cape to accent the body and arms. At first they are really uncomfortable, the idea of lavish food and drinks and having to be polite isn't really what the Qun or Lords of Fortune teach but they do love the jewels and gold around everyone saying how everyone in the room, be it friend or enemy, they are like dragons. They will fight tooth and nail to be at the top and smote away their competition. The stares from many women and men who find them attractive causes a smirk every time knowing full well what they are thinking. Rook being there helps, they are comfortable around them no matter what and loves it when Rook winks at them. The idea of dancing with Rook makes Taash blush a tad everytime the thought comes to mind.

Harding- She wears a similar garb to what the inquisition wore in orlais but with small stitching of her own and her hair down. Having worked with the Inquisition she isn't unaware of the game needed to be played since Leliana showed her the ins and outs of everything to look for. She stays near the balconies to keep an eye out from above, a birds eye view so to speak. She loves seeing Rook coming to her and sneaking kisses around the corner knowing all too well they both want to return to the lighthouse for private time. Dancing is a bit embarrassing for her seeing as the last few times she danced it was difficult to move along but Rook let's her lead but everytime Rook can they dip her, causing them to smile as the sounds of music echo on.

Bellara - She wears a combo of elven robes and her clans as well with her hair done into two smalle buns with her signature triangle accessories. She is super excited about meeting such well known scholars and researchers. Always answering and asking questions about human customs and their love of cheese which she seems to find everywhere she went. She loves the idea of dancing with Rook, so much so she will pull them onto the dancefloor and dances in her clans way. Both a delight and welcoming from all who witness the dance. Afterwards she is out of breath having enjoyed herself too much. After the dance she thanks Rook for bringing her to experience something new.

Emmerich - He wears a long green robe with bone like trims and small silver details of the human anatomy with a flower in his pocket. Having been self taught in manners and learned to honor all people politely he finds himself quite comfortable in the noble halls, basically follows the manners maketh men like style. He stays close to the center of the room drinking fine tea brought to him by Manfred who he has in special noble robes. Everyone is delighted by Manfred and his excitement. Rook is the one to ask Emerich to a dance, at first he's not confident enough, he wonders if the others around will judge for the age difference or even the idea of a necromancer finding any companionship, he finds Rook taking his hand and whispering sweet encouragement to him helps as the gentle tones of the songs block out the whispers of those around them.

Davrin- Wears a more formal Grey Warden armor with feathers along his arms and shoulders with Assan having a matching cloak around his neck.

Being a Grey Warden and an Elf having not really been influenced by the idea of elegant dancing or as Neve would tell him playing "The Game." He does love the rich food and drinks and bringing Assan he tends to stay outside keeping an eye out on any Venetori agents while Assan tries his hardest to be polite but finding it difficult to not chase the bejeweled outfits and shiny baubles that nobles wear. Seeing Rook though does ease the time spent as he will ask Rook to save a dance for him, warning that he can't help but stare at the way they are dressed.

Lucanis - The robes he wears are a dark black and purple trim with hidden pockets for his daggers, along his shoulders are crow feathers with a long cloak and hood with a lighter sash around his waist. He is quite at home here but he sticks close to the shadows and watches every step and gesture like his life depended on it. Having been imprisoned for a year though he is a tad rusty at the small talk and rather keeps to himself on the lush couch drinking coffee all the while trying to keep spite in check who keeps smelling the secrets of every nobles desire. All the dark secrets to spite as clear as water making him laugh inside. It is lucanis that asks Rook for a dance after the mission smiling all the while as spite shows off his wings to accent the dance entirely evening gently lifting them into the air away from prying eyes.

Neve - She wears a teal dress, not too long or short but enough to show off her legs, he hair is down with a small serpent hairpin and a custom prosthetic for dancing. She is very used to this sort of atmosphere having worked with Dorian and the magistrate undercover. She loves the chase of clues and the idea of hidden secrets in the halls and in the words of servants. While she does know how to dance, after losing her leg she became a bit more restrictive in the art but with Rook that fear goes away, the reassurance of love and comfort from Rook reminds her that she doesn't have to be the detective of the streets and instead be a courted lady of the evening.

[eliashirsch]

God Tier Top Gun Fanfictions. A Masterlist. (4/3)

More Top Gun fic recs:)) Different pairings ahead.

Winner Categories:

1. Best of the Best Authors (1/3)

2. Best of the Best Series (2/3)

3. Best of the Best Fics (3/3)

4. Honorary Mentions (4/3)

REMINDER! READ THE AUTHORS' TAGS AND WARNINGS!!!

Honorary Mentions

gold rush by gamerring @asimmutableasgravity

All his life, Jake Seresin has wanted to live his life as loud as possible. So that when he dies, people can place flowers on his casket. When the light hits him, sunbaked and smiling and grinning. He's whole and happy and everything he could ever want. He bites down on his teeth. Later, he hunches over the porcelain, petals falling out of his mouth, and is already one step in his grave. - Flowers, fighter pilots and the true fatality of your feelings spilling out.

Jake angst:)) And here’s another one from gamerring:

it's nice to have a friend by gamerring

"Will you marry me?" Ice is on his knees. His posture screams military, but his face is genuine. His eyebrows are furrowed in worry and a hesitant smile plays at his lips. The ring sits in a green velvet box. The band is gold and shiny, with a diamond inlaid in the middle. The rock seems to glow under the sunset, and Maverick's heart starts beating against his chest. This- it's spectacular. It's breathtaking. It's not for him. He bites his cheek for a microsecond, and then forces a smile."That's great. She can't say no to that." And a traitorous part of his soul hopes she does. - Three times Maverick should have said something, and the one time he did.

Just read the summary:) (This is canon.)

Lessons in pushing boundaries by will_thewisp

Maverick never needed lessons in pushing boundaries. Not if those boundaries are about going faster, further or screwing up on an ever increasing scale, because he'd run off the edge of the world before he'd let a thought that scared him shitless take root in his mind. It was enough that it was already in his heart. Or Maverick crashes the Darkstar and needs a very long time to learn that there's things that can and should be fixed. And that he's always had the tools to do it.

Don’t forget a tissue when reading this!

Amen by demiclar @demiclar

"What do you want done with your body when you die?" Pete Mitchell grieves his best friend.

Can you tell I love Mav angst?:)

Vanilla Milk by Specter_Ross

After the mission, Rooster is struggling to sleep so Maverick pulls some old methods out from when Bradley was a kid, in hopes of helping him.

I never get tired of reading MavDad and Bradley:)

A Perch Built for Two by chase_acow @cowsalot

Rooster is well known for keeping his own company, but between Maverick's reemergence and the suicide mission, Hangman manages to weasel his way into Bradley's attention. He's never let an alpha so close to him before, but Hangman might be the best choice - experienced and unlikely to ask for more than Bradley was willing to give. Unfortunately for him, it's Bradley who wants more, and he has no idea how to ask for it.

Another win for Hangster!

A Little Unconventional by McDanno50

Maverick didn’t know how he ended up here a month after the mission – on his back with his legs spread for not one, but two, hungry alphas. These alphas wanted Maverick so much that they no longer fought but worked together all in the name of mutual pleasure. It felt too good to be true, like a fevered dream conjured up by a broken mind. But even if he couldn’t believe his eyes, he had four other senses to rely on. A self-indulgent fic in which Omega!Maverick gets fucked by Alpha!Bradley and Alpha!Jake. That's literally it.

Mav/Bradley/Jake:)))))

Not Clamorous For Pardon by Arsenic @arsenicjade33

Okay, but what if the Navy didn't outlaw flogging as a punishment in 1896? Asking for a friend.

Another one of my favorite tropes: Mav being bullied by the Navy:(

still dangerous by cygnettine

Where was he? Jake was to his right, Bradley in front of him, the girls between their dads. Someone was missing. He was missing. Why was he missing? He was supposed to be there; that was a family dinner and he was family, he was his whole soul, why wasn’t he there? *** Maverick loses himself and wanders helplessly in his own mind until someone finally comes to his rescue.

Mav has Alzheimer's Disease:(

take a chance on the edge of life by Lacerta

It was a suicide mission. Of course they didn't succeed on their first try. - When Maverick dies, he loops back to the morning before.

An Edge of Tomorrow AU. Love this one. 

you've got the win in your bag by discosleaze @paulmezcal

“I’m going to go in and get something pierced, and if you’re a good boy, it’ll be my nipple. If you’re not, it’ll be my tongue.” Speaking of tongues, Bradley just about swallows his. “Why would that be a bad thing?” he croaks out, not enjoying how amused Jake is, mocking, even. “Well, Bradshaw, because I wouldn’t be able to blow you for weeks afterwards.” Jake contemplates a second piercing, Bradley contemplates nothing.

asdfghfghjkjhgfdsadfg. This one’s too hot for me.

How Big? by thenofutureshoe

"Most people would have had to give themselves a pep-talk, most people would have been nervous or unsure of the whole thing, Maverick Mitchell was not most people. He was a fucking power bottom and proud of it. This was not his first rodeo, pun intended. And he always got his man." Once Maverick hears the story behind Slider's callsign, it sounds more like a challenge than anything else.

This one… I never thought their difference in size could be this hot…

a dream of crashing by thefireplanet

Maverick buys a plane. Somehow, this becomes Iceman’s problem.

THIS ONE’S NOT COMPLETED! But it’s still so fun to read and the characterization is spot on!

and the bunny goes 𝒽𝑜𝓅, 𝒽𝑜𝓅, 𝒽𝑜𝓅 by Meadow_Wanderer

Contrary to expectation, he rarely measures time by the number of years he's lived without his father. Instead, he appraises in happenings. Every birthday, school graduation, and precious firsts; every milestone passing as the memory of his father becomes fainter and fainter until finally he reaches the last occasion where the end and the beginning meet, the son and the sire a breath's width apart, like reaching to touch one's reflection in the mirror. The very same one he'll face in just shy of a few hours.

Weird and fun!

you are not alone (i watch over you) by redwithlove

“Bradley, do you remember the time when you were eight and you wouldn't let me near your Pops for two days?” “What, really? Why?” “Yeah, for two whole days, can you believe it? And it all started over a can of Pringles.” Or—Bradley with Ice and Maverick over the years.

Mav and Ice and Bradley being family:) My favorite genre of topgun fics:))

PHEW! That's all the fics I've got! Thanks for reading until the end! Don't forget to leave a comment on these fics if you enjoyed them!

Here's my google doc for all four categories! >> God Tier Top Gun Fanfictions: A Masterlist

[chronically-ghosted]

can you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills?

rating: T (this is the tamest thing I’ve written in years)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 8K

summary: a year into secretly dating, you are overwhelmed by your feelings for Dieter Bravo, confident and resigned to the fact that he doesn’t feel the same way. But on Oscar’s night, drunk on sparkling wine and a terrific win, Dieter gives you a reason to doubt your fears. 

warnings/tags: age gap, self-aggrandizing rumination on our public vs private personas, a stupid amount of kissing, angst but soft angst, angst that is resolved, this is very different from anything i’ve done recently, and there’s no smut? just kisses? What have you become Taylor? one very very very soft Dieter, waxing shamelessly poetic about being in love and being loved by Dieter Bravo 

a/n: this comes from the same request by two of my LOVELY followers ( @tvversionperson and @bitchwitch1981) from my 100 followers event: “I’m not drunk. Can a drunk person do this?” “You’re not doing anything.” “But… I sent you my love. Did you… did you not get it?” with Dieter Bravo. this is so wildly different from anything i've done before, i'm flinging this into the internet like a goddamn trapshooter of emotional angst

shout out to @iamdesibell for the visuals of Dieter at the party. She spoils me with all of her incredible Dieter artwork.

🤍Masterlist

Every artist knows it's about the looks. The aesthetics of it all, the internet’s new favorite buzzword. Increasingly too often, the merit of the artwork is equated to the moral merit of the artist; it’s not so much about selling the image you create, it’s about selling the image of yourself. Does the artist fit into the image of what the masses imagine when they hear what the artist offers? Can the artist balance both the expectations and provide something new? When is the right time to break the mold, and be different, or when is it best to follow the crowd? Keep your head down and make more content than art. When does the aesthetics of a thing matter more than the thing itself?

For Oscar’s night, often there is nothing more important than the look of things. The elegance. The allure but approachability of the stars. Beautiful but obtainable. Handsome but effortless. But beneath all the veneer, all the lights, and gold and glitz, there is a yearning, an animalistic hunger, for a quite literal shiny object waved in their faces to clamor and push and shove for. The beauty is a mask that covers fragility and fear and anticipation – and that mask must remain firmly in place, no matter the outcome. Remember, they’re watching, always watching, and you cannot want a thing too much, lest you become conceited or conniving. You cannot love in a way that scares them.

And sometimes, you think you love him in a way that scares yourself.

His warm palm grips yours over your knee. He, along with the other nominees, wait patiently as the names are read allowed from the gilded stage. His face, a mask – of curiosity, of wonder – but only you, perhaps because you are so close to him, can see the fraught want in his eyes. You know how much he wants this, how much you want this for him. He wants it so much he’s trembling. Microscopically. Barely at all, barely a flinch of genuine human emotion, it makes you sick. Because Dieter, the Dieter you’ve come to know in the past year, is so wonderfully unpolished, such a sterling testament to the beauty in the raw, it makes a spot behind your sternum ache to watch him hold himself back. 

You want to give him a smile of encouragement, to kiss his knuckles and soothe his hammering pulse with your thumb, but you can’t. You can’t even look at him, any movement immediately flagged by the cameras. Always watching.

But behind the rows of seats, they can’t see your clasped hands. Can’t see his tapping foot. They can’t see how much he wants, how much he loves. As the names are read aloud for the category of Best Actor, you lift your thumbnail to the meat of his palm, between his own thumb and index finger. Gently, softly, quietly, so as not to startle the molecules of air around you, you draw a heart in his skin. 

But by his rigid posture, you’re not sure he registers it. You can’t tell if he knows you’re there at all. 

It began a year ago. 

After a truly spectacular break up that left you bereft and aimless, you decided to quit. Quit it all. Quit and start over doing the one thing you actually had passion for: screenwriting. Was it risky and dumb as hell at your age? Absolutely. But it didn’t matter if you never ended up writing for a big Hollywood film, you told yourself, as long as you were writing, that’s all that mattered. 

So you quit writing articles about car insurance, packed up everything, and moved to the City of Angels. 

Two years later, you were still earning your dues. Still working from the bottom of the barrel up, climbing through muck and verbal abuse and emotional exploitation and the very dredges of the industry. 

You tried to focus on your craft, on getting more than just getting coffee for the actual writers, but after multiple days spending nineteen hours on your feet, the capacity to be creative so rarely comes, your brain often sizzled and fried like the back end of a janky, unreliable toaster. The production company you worked for had just purchased the rights to a popular novelist’s book for a film adaptation. The party you were at was more of a “pat yourself on the back” sort of thing for the director and novelist to rub elbows while surrounded by beautiful people. Attending mind-numbing parties for the sake of building connections was one thing. You could actually have fun when you wanted, but this? This self-indulgent, ego-driven, flattery bullshit, when all you wanted to do was sleep?

You watch as Eliot Baker, friend of the director and whose house is currently being trashed by a bunch of dangerously drunk and high animals, steps up onto his kitchen table. His pupils nearly dilated to the size of quarters, he holds up a baggy of white powder.

“Anyone interested in Colombia’s finest, please join me in the bedroom. Beautiful women, please stay.” 

The three shots you had done earlier had done nothing to dull your irritation, now amplified by the grating cheer that goes up from the crowd. Coke rarely puts you in a better mood, but at least it’s better than sulking by the stairs. Eliot leaps off the table and leads a gaggle of giggling women, and men with their hands all over their sparkly asses, down the hall and you try not to roll your eyes, your feet all but dragging beneath you. 

Then someone catches you by the elbow.

And you wonder how a homeless man got past security. 

A comically large green beanie on his head, a blindly yellow hood zipped up over what perhaps had been a white t-shirt – you are immediately arrested by his dark, soft eyes. Thick, furrowed brow. He hasn’t let go of your elbow. 

“That guy is a fucker,” he tells you with vehemence. 

“What?” He could have asked you your name and you would have said the exact same thing.

“Baker,” he sneers over your shoulder at the small crowd tumbling through the open door, Eliot’s too blue eyes watching like a farmer counts cattle to the slaughterhouse. “He laces his shit. Makes you too fucked up. He’s the kind of evil fucker who roofies drinks.”

The stranger looks at you, the twist of rage around his mouth fading, eyes softening again, as if he is worried about you.

“Don’t go in there,” he says. 

His warm hand is still around your elbow. 

“Okay,” you say because you haven’t come across anyone this earnest, maybe in your entire life, and certainly not since moving to LA. 

He blinks, as if surprised, and slowly withdraws his hand. You stare at each other for perhaps too long before he jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

“Wanna smoke some weed?”

The cool night air of LA always surprises you. It’s never cold, no, but the chill is noticeable, tangible, always right at the back of your neck when you least expect it. You stifle the urge to shiver as the man slides the glass door behind him, immediately deafening the party inside. You hadn’t realized it had been so loud until there is blissful silence, the sound of blood rushing in your ears replacing the trance music and the dull hum of overlapping voices. 

The man straight off the set of The Big Lebowski unhurriedly digs around in the pocket of that obnoxious hoodie for a bit, as if he could lose an item in that small pouch. 

He finds what he’s looking for with a grin on his face, and when he brings both the lighter and blunt to his lips, you realize his left arm is in a cast. 

He sees you eye it, managing to light and hit the blunt with one hand before pocketing the lighter and offering the smoke to you. The browns in his eyes are overcome by the darkness surrounding you on the back porch overlooking the valley below, the skyline of Los Angeles winking in the far distance. 

You notice something, not writing or words on his cast, more like a dark blot, but you don’t ask him about it. Most people in this business you’ve found are only on for the cameras and when it comes to personal, quiet moments, the less personable they have to be the better. You feel like you’re already pressing your luck by getting a few free hits off this guy so you wait your turn, ready to be as silent as he wants it to be.

Which apparently isn’t very much at all.

“How’d you end up here?” He asks with genuine interest and just a touch of weariness. 

You shrug as you take the blunt from him again. “My boss is here to schmooze his new writer. As his assistant, I think I’m contractually obligated to be around him more than his own shadow.”

“You’re a PA?” He asks, voice strained and full of smoke, before he puffs out the side of his mouth. A considerate smoker, then. 

“No,” you shake your head. “I’m whatever is lower than a PA. I think an actual bottom-feeder in a fish tank has more power than me.” 

“So you’re new to the scene?” 

You scowl, one arm tucked around your waist, the other tapping on your thigh. “Yeah, if two years is still new.” 

He frowns. “What are you trying to break into?” 

His fingertips brush yours over the next exchange and maybe it’s the earnest look in his eyes, or the bizarre fact that he actually smells good despite looking like he’d raided a garbage can, or maybe it’s the weed finally hitting, but you are honest with this complete stranger.

“I wanna be a screenwriter.” 

Maybe it’s the drugs finally hitting him too, but the glossy shine to his eyes doesn’t seem to be from boredom as you explain to him the past few years of your life, starting from the breakup in Boston to getting a very specific brand of q-tips from a drugstore on the other side of town for your boss at midnight. 

“I know I have to pay my dues, and I don’t mind that, but I just want to do something that matters, you know?” The unexpected chill of the night air curls around your neck as he listens intently to your uninterrupted ramble for ten minutes. “I don’t even care about big movies, or the awards, I want to write something that touches just one person. Give them something to think about for years to come. Comforts or encourages them to do the thing they’re scared of doing.” You feel heat climb up your ears as he watches as though you’re the most fascinating thing in the world. “It’s silly. It’s just a job, and I know I should treat it like that . . .”

You trail off, waiting for him to admonish you, but instead he grins. A smile that widens his whole face. On someone else it might look condescending, but he’s grinning wildly as he slides the joint back into his mouth with two fingers and leans back on his heels.

“So you’re a little dreamer, huh?” That faint blush now beats a harsh red. Fuck, you knew you sounded like an idiot – always opening up too soon and too fast to strangers who don’t really give a fuck. You were just supposed to have a conversation with this nice, albeit weird guy and go on your way and – 

He cocks his head as he looks at you, takes in your beet-red ears and cheeks and that smile falters.

“You know that’s not a bad thing, right? The world needs more dreamers. People, who despite all the bullshit, continue to believe they can be happy.”

“You could also call that being delusional,” you mutter as you take the halfway-spent joint from him when he offers. 

One of those thick eyebrows jerks as though thinking of a funny joke. He shrugs, his mouth twisting down in a disbelieving smirk. “Personally, I like to call it whimsy.” 

Whimsy? Who talks like that?

You fight a giggle and find him looking at you again, that smile smoothed out and warm again. One glance and you snort loudly, then bust out laughing. 

Those magnanimous eyes glitter as he watches you laugh yourself silly. 

“Child-like, wondrous whimsy,” he teases and you laugh harder as though he tickled you. Another snort explodes out of you and you clap your hand over your mouth, finally hearing the noises you’re making and mortified beyond reason. You glance over your shoulder, worried someone else might have heard your donkey laugh. In fact, you wish anyone other than the gorgeous man standing next to you had heard it. 

But if he finds it unpolished or annoying, he doesn’t show it. He just rolls on his heels, grinning and looking overly pleased with himself. When the giggles subside, you bite your lip at him.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Fire away, Pistol Pete.” 

“How’d you break your arm?” 

He looks down at it as he forgot it was there.

“Uh, it’s a long story.”

He finally pulls it out of the sleeve of his jacket. Your mouth drops.

You can’t even tell what medium had been used, either paint or sharpie or something else entirely, but the cast is a mosaic of some of the most gorgeous artwork you’d ever seen. Birds in gold and blue hues, flowers and leaves in stunningly rendered detail, the curves of anonymous noses and lips and teeth and earlobes – all wound together in collage by someone with an eye for detail and a precious reverence for the mundane. 

But for all the artwork, designs you fully believe should be in a museum, you realize no one has signed it. Maybe only twelve year olds sign each other’s casts, you think harshly to yourself. Grow up.

But still, the sight makes you a little sad. 

“Did you do these?” You ask quietly.

He nods, turning his arm to give you a better look, as if eager for your approval. You think you see the horns of Goya’s El Gran Cabrón before he pulls his arm back. 

The man hasn’t answered your original question, watching your face for every microexpression. Finally, you do glance up and he has his bottom lip in teeth, as though preparing to be scolded. 

At that moment, you want nothing more than to kiss those plush lips. You swallow, feeling rather lighted-headed and capable of making terrible decisions, so you take a clear step back. 

“I got daydrunk and fell in my pool wrong.”

You frown at him. “That’s not a very long story.”

He drops your gaze, suddenly bashful, and shakes his sleeve back over his cast. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t come up with a better story that makes me look really cool, or makes you laugh, so I went with the lame truth.”

You don’t remark that it sounds like he wanted to impress you so you go for the easy alternative.

“Why would I laugh at you?” 

He flops his arms in half-shrug. “I don’t want you to laugh at me. I just want you to laugh. I like your laugh.” 

How does someone who wears their heart so openly on their sleeve survive in a place like this? You want him to swallow you down so you can count the rings in his stomach, learn his history like oak trees. 

“Who are you?” You blurt out, your mouth full of cotton and brain somewhat disconnected from your brain stem. 

At that, he laughs. “Gimme your number and you’ll find out.” 

His smile elongates the longer you stare at him. “It’s not a line. I mean, it is, but not like that, if you don’t want it to be. This fucking industry is built on who you know and I know a couple of people to know. You can call me if you have any questions or need a reference.” 

The whiplash between flirty tease and professional contact is jarring. Your fingers shaking from shock, you take your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him. 

He taps away, bobbing his head to some tune only he can hear, before lifting it up to his face and snapping a selfie – tongue out and eye squinting into the flash. 

He tosses your phone back and you learn his name for the first time. 

The shock wears off immediately and you roll your eyes.

“Okay, my turn.” 

He digs into his back pocket and slides a bright pink 2007 motorola flip-phone into your outstretched hand. 

Full – chock full, in fact – of surprises. 

“I’m not gonna get tracked,” he says seriously, eyes narrowed. “You really should think about giving up your iPhone. All kinds of bad vibes.”

You eagerly look forward to him explaining the Big Foot Conspiracy and his theories about the magic silver bullet. 

It takes you a second to type out your name with the multiple buttons, some old sense memory from seventh grade coming back like a grumpy, displeased ghost, but finally, you snap the phone together and toss it back to him.

With the nub of the smoking joint poking out of his mouth, he frowns when he looks at the phone screen. 

“Dolly Parton?”

You pluck the joint out of his mouth, a surge of playful confidence keeping your eyes locked on his. You nod. “Since we’re doing the whole fake name thing . . .”

You want to wink, with your hand on your hip, so clever to have figured out his little game, but when he continues to frown, that rush of bravery fizzles out.

“But the name I put in your phone is actually my name?”

You chuckle, surprised and confused he’s still committing to the bit, a little frustrated at this point because you are actually starting to like this guy and . . .

Unless . . .

“You’re actually Dieter Bravo? The actor? Three-time Emmy nominated actor Dieter Bravo?” 

He loops his finger through one of the free-roaming curls from under the beanie and twists it. “That’s what it says on my underwear . . . when I remember to wear it.” 

The blush on your face now scalding, you dart across the space between you and him and snatch his phone back. You can literally feel the shameful heat in your spine, your lower back, as you delete Dolly’s name and frantically type in your own. 

“I’m so, so, sorry. I was just trying to be funny. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you but it’s dark and, um, you don’t look like I thought you would and I-I had no idea – I’m so sorry –,”

“Girlie, take a breath,” he chuckles and strokes your fingers as they tremble over the keypad. “I’ve never seen someone so stressed out after smoking half a joint before.” 

You’ve gone stock still as he bleeds the panic out of you with just his touch. You watch as his warm hand, dwarfing yours in size, slowly moves up to your wrist, your pulse point. His thumb presses into the vein and gently rubs. You can’t help the sigh that eases out of your throat as all the tension in your arm collapses into that one focal point, that one place he presses against you. You inhale, not realizing you had stopped breathing for a second and he releases gently, the ache in your body left over from the rigidity gone. 

A brief dark haze passes over his eyes when you sigh, but gives you space easy enough when you settle. 

He takes the phone out of your limp hands and reads what you’ve typed out.

“Cute name. But I think I’m still gonna call you Dolly.”

Humor is your gut instinct. Defuse a situation or calm your nerves, sometimes the best you can do is crack a (often poorly timed) joke. You feel all fluttery inside, partially because you’d been talking to Dieter “I know people who know people” Bravo all night and partially because you’re about 86% sure he’d been flirting with you. And so, without thinking, you say:

“Because of my massive tits, right?”

His eyes flit up from his phone screen to, presumably, your tits. Which are very much not Dolly-Parton-comparable. 

But he grins. He actually giggles, pressing the back of the hand holding his phone against his lips as if trying to hide his smirk.

“Yeah, that’s definitely it.” 

It is the kind of laugh that you know he’s laughing with you and not at you and he’s still staring when his laughter subsides. 

He is still staring at your tits.

Just as your face flushes what feels like the hundredth time tonight, he glances up at you. He offers you the last puff, you shake your head, so he sucks in down before flicking the nub over the railing of the patio. His hands sit heavy in his front pocket, the frown on his face contemplative, eyes searching the horizon.

“I think you’re going to text me . . . on a Tuesday,” he says, like he’s divining portents from the shapes of the clouds. 

You swallow, trying to purge yourself of this whiplash embarrassment, but you can’t quite decide what exactly to make of this man or this conversation. “What makes you say that?”

His smile is so genuine it rattles something inside you. “It’s my favorite day of the week.” 

This feels too good, too real, too intense, too fast. It was a quiet, but familiar story passed around in writer’s rooms or on the back lots of sets: an older man seduces a young girl, promising the world, and then offering nothing once he had gotten what he wanted. 

You beg your heartbeat to slow down. 

But Dieter Bravo doesn’t seem capable of that, not with his honesty, his open heart, but then again none of them ever do. 

That’s the whole point. 

“So, um, I should go. My boss is probably out back, breaking things, pissed off because I’m not behind him with a fresh macchiato.” Your phone feels absurd in your hands, as if it now carries something vital inside of it. “But, uh, thank you – for everything. The smoke, the advice, listening to me ramble endlessly –,”

“You weren’t rambling,” he says, arms crossed and finger tugging at an errant curl again. “You were talking about what makes you happy and I was listening. I like listening to you.”

You wanted to believe him. You really did. 

“I’ll call you sometime, okay?”

He nods, raising a hand in a wave, but as you turn away, something final, the last piece of the puzzle, pops into your brain.

“Why me?”

Dieter looks at you, big brown eyes confused like a puppy whom you scolded for chewing on your shoe. 

“What do you mean?”

“There’s gotta be at least fifty people here. Why did you stop me from going into Eliot’s room? 

Dieter shrugs, that easy smile returning. “You looked like the only other person who didn’t want to be here. And you’re really pretty,” he adds casually and your heart launches itself into your throat. “I’ve got a thing for really pretty girls. Gets me into a lot of trouble.”

There comes that heat, that flare in his gaze that makes you wonder how someone like him fucks, all proof necessary that he has a working cock, and he’s not some mystical, Willy-Wonka-esque Ken doll. 

It’s a look that makes you wonder if he wants his cock in you. 

“Good night, Dieter.”

“Night, Dolly.” 

Weeks passed and immediately you were so drowned in work, Dieter Bravo occasionally slipped your mind, falling back on your list of things to do when a deadline was approaching.

But when a contract for a position in a new writer’s room passes over your desk, you pause, and immediately think of him. The offer is unbelievable. More money than you thought possible working as an underling. The channel set to produce was the real deal, likely to order more seasons if the first went well. 

“Saw your writing,” your boss told you by way of explaining your dreams falling directly into your lap. “Good work. I sent some of it off, and the studio came back with this. Don’t take too long signing the dotted line, okay?” 

You nod, dumb-founded as he walks off, and you glance back at the contract.

And, despite your almost desperate elation, something felt off. But you didn’t know enough about the industry to confidently say if this is a bad deal or not. 

So, with a glance down the hall, you call the only person you know who would.

He is immediately livid. Not that you haven’t called, of course, but that someone has clearly tried to take advantage of you. 

“Do not take that deal. That corporate bullshit means they’ll own your IP for years to come. I can’t believe they’d do that to you. Stay right there and whatever you do, do not sign that. I’m calling someone at the studios.”

“Yeah. Uh, okay, Dieter, I won’t,” you murmur, half-expecting your hand to burn if you picked the contract up again. “But, um, thank you, for being honest with me. It felt weird, but I didn’t want to pass up an opportunity and I was freaking out that this was the only one I was gonna get but I didn’t want to be rash,so I, um, . . .”

You trail off, the sudden silence on the other line only making your panic and shame more pronounced. You cringe inwardly – Dieter Bravo had better fucking things to do than console a baby screenwriter out of her first mistake – and Jesus, if there was ever a chance he was going to sleep with you, it’s long gone now – it must be, no one willingly sleeps with someone so goddamn gullible.

“Dolly?” His voice is quiet, but with a certain edge that makes you picture that implish little smirk. “Do you know what day it is?” 

“No?”

“It’s Tuesday.” 

That phone call turned into a new job with a female-led production team, thank yous over drinks, late-night dinners at obscure and dark Chinese food restaurants, movie nights at your shamefully small apartment, and then . . . a kiss.

Which led to all the rest. 

A year later and you’re so in love with Dieter Bravo, you crank up Beyonce’s Countdown and belt it from the top of your lungs every time you hear it on the radio. 

There’s a new irritant, a new agitation that can only be soothed by him. He’s remade you, changed you, reformed your very being to be missing a piece when he’s not around. He’s made space for him inside you, there was no life – not a real one, not a happy one – not before him and there won’t be anyone or anything after him. No one else fits with you anymore. Ever again. 

Your blood runs hot over the ridges of his fingerprints, stamped deep on your soul and your bones.

Trouble is, he’ll never know.

“And the award for Best Actor goes to . . .”

His grip is almost painful and you return it with everything you can, your jaw drawn tight.

The pause feels like it lasts forever.

You hear his name and you think for a second you’ve blacked out, that you’ve somehow missed the moment, or you’ve somehow slipped into a pungently real dream. 

And the crowd erupts.

The spotlight finds him in the crowd and you’re being pulled into his chest. 

The cologne he wears costs more than your car payment but the instant you’re crushed up into his silken shirt, it’s him. Beneath all the layers, beneath the veneer, the man with the green beanie and fervent yellow jacket is still there. Somewhere. You love them both.

“You did it, darling, you did it,” you whisper into his ear and that’s all you can say before you know you have to tear yourself back, because every second you linger on him, the harder it becomes to quell this rising tide inside you that increasingly tastes like salt water whenever he’s around. It’s become so obvious his name resides in the cup of your mouth. 

But when you do pull out of his embrace, in the ringing shout of the crowd, the sparkle of the spotlight, his hand lingers on your elbow, and in a space of a heartbeat that lasts impossibly longer in your memory, you’re met with such a look of profound regret you feel it take up room in your chest. 

And in an instant, it’s gone. Grinning broadly, he drops your elbow and moves on down the line, cheered on by his peers, the white light from above illuminating his broad back, the bits of gray becoming ever more present in his beard. You cheer and you cheer and you cheer and you hope it’s from all the cheering that your voice grows hoarse and the tears start to trickle out of the corner of your eyes. 

You’re trembling visibly as he accepts his award, showing just the right amount of awe, and appreciation, and excitement. He glances up into the spotlight and there’s the real Dieter for just a split second before he humbly gawks at the golden statue in his hand.

The clock begins.

Make your speech thoughtful and poignant – relevant to what is close to people’s hearts right now.

Be profusive with your thanks. Better start with that, actually. Lower yourself at the height of your glory.

Mention family, friends, names and faces that the masses don’t know because it makes you appear connected to a reality those watching on the television can only speculate about. Say something kindly about how this means so much to you.

Cry a bit, but not too much. Keep your voice steady but with tears in your eyes. Cut yourself off, the emotion too much, and say thank you again. 

And anything more than three minutes, they start to play you off. 

You’re mentally going through the notes on a potential acceptance speech his PR manager gave him on the drive over, but in the end, it’s clear he doesn’t need it. 

Dieter’s speech is excellent. 

Really good. Really, really, really good. It has a flare of genuinity, but not the bite of vulnerability that makes people uncomfortable. 

He’s been practicing for weeks now, editing as he talks, in the mirror, while driving home from the grocery store, before he goes to sleep. Tonight’s speech, a compilation of all that you’ve listened to time and time again, is the best version of all of them. 

He’s soft when he needs to be and excited when he can. He’s onto the gratitude bit, going through the director, the writers, the cast and crew, even his costar, whose beautiful face is shown on the twenty foot screen above the stage, joyful tears in her eyes. And as the applause dies down, his big hand dwarfing the tiny metal statue, his fingers flexing, Dieter’s back goes ridgid, his eyes downcast. A smile slips out infinitesimally. 

Dieter clears his throat and looks up.

“And there’s someone else I’d like to thank. This, uh, this one goes to all the little dreamers out there. Working nine to five, to make your dreams happen. We did it, baby, couldn’t have done it without you.”

He stares into the camera and you swear, you fucking swear, he’s looking right at you. 

It’s a drowning sort of wave, this focal point that draws you down into him. It’s all consuming and it’s tender and it touches places you didn’t know could go this warm and what else could describe this but love? You resent the Academy, this place, these people for keeping him away from you. You think you’ll claw out the eyes of anyone who tries to separate you again.

You are crying – for your industry friend, his guest at the Oscars, so sees the cameras and the glitz and the glamor. 

You’re crying because you’re in too deep. 

The rest of the night is dipped into a champagne glass and swirled fast, catching like lighting in a bottle.

Gold dust falling fast, dizzily. 

Bubbles, glinting green and pink in the light, rising and winking out of existence.

Golden bubbles in your drink, in your mouth. Your throat. Your stomach. 

You feel lighter than air. 

With him, you feel as bright and as strong as diamonds. As timeless and luminescent as pearl.

As beautiful as gold. 

When the door finally shuts behind you in a darkened apartment, you’ve entered a secret, separate realm of domesticity: mismatched shoes, coffee creamer flavors you don’t like, and shampoo bottles that take up too much space in your shower.

It’s quiet here, blue and shadowed. The girl who left here hours ago to get ready in a hotel halfway across town forgot to leave on a light, rushing out in her haste. 

Behind you, you hear him snicker, his tongue behind his teeth, champagne bubbles still in his nose, as he hangs his silk jacket on your coat rack, right next to your muddy raincoat and baseball caps faded with sweat. 

“We gotta be quiet,” he hums, wobbling a bit as he toes out of his expensive loafers, pushing them near your off-brand birkenstocks. “Nala’s gonna hate me forever if we wake her up now.”

He is, of course, referring to your tabby cat, who hates everyone who isn’t you, and has a distinct requirement for twelve hour naps with no interruptions. Dieter swears he’s going to wake up one morning with that cat flexing her claws against his throat.

It takes you a moment to recognize and comprehend how your lives have melted together, how extracting you from him and him from you would be akin to destructive alchemy, the process of deconstructing two things causing both of them to oxidize and reduce to flaky rust. You’re drunk and you’re a little dizzy and you’re swaying slightly because your feet hurt but you are too consumed by introspection on your own feelings, what it means to love something other than yourself, to do anything about it. 

You’re so far gone from your own body you float, untethered and lost in thought, right up until the moment his arms come around your waist and he pulls you into his chest, like slipping on a beloved coat. 

“I think I can buy you for a quarter at Coney Island,” he murmurs into the nape of your neck like he is reciting Neruda’s poetry. You stifle a smile, your hands gripping around his elbows, as he sways with you. He does this a lot; thinks one thing, then two, then three, and by the time it comes out of his mouth, it’s nonsensical to anyone not strapped into his train of thought. 

“Try again, darling.” You stroke his cheek with your thumb, his chin tucked over your shoulder, ear pressed to yours. “I think you missed a couple of steps.” 

Your voice is gummy even to your own ears, the endless drinks at the afterparty stitching your syllables and consonants together into some freakish creature. He’s slightly blurry in your eyes, his presence overwhelming all of your senses as they try to keep you upright. 

He chuckles and presses his face into your neck in what you believe is an attempted kiss. 

“I mean, you glow,” he admits quietly to your skin. The grin falls from your face when your heart constricts. “You fucking shined tonight and I couldn’t stop thinking how beautiful and sweet you looked. Sweetness I wanna lick up.” He chuckles again, this time through his nose, laughing at his own absurdity. “And then I remembered cotton candy is sweet too and you can buy cotton candy at Coney Island for a quarter and. . . I think I can buy you for a quarter at Coney Island.” 

He scrapes the back of your neck with his teeth as he nudges you forward down the hall, not sparing an inch between your bodies. Which makes for a disastrous time, both of you drunk, his socked feet slipping on the wood, and your heels and dress tangling up together. 

“Baby, wait–,” 

“We’re almost to the bedroom, we can make it–,”

“Not if we break our necks first. Gimme a second, I’ll just–,”

You slide out of his grasp, inching down the wall and tucking up the truly insane amount of tulle they managed to stitch into your dress. You feel like you’ve been digging for five minutes before you find what you're looking for.

You stick your heel in the air and fiddle with the clasp around your ankle, drunk and working in near total darkness.

Dieter huffs and slides to the floor next to you. He watches you struggle for a minute, nearly swallowed up by the layers and layers of tulle, before he squeezes the air with his open hand.

“Gimme. We’ll be here all night.”

You pout visibly and awkwardly rotate until your foot is in his lap. His fingers are warm as he plucks at the clasp.

“I am perfectly capable of getting dressed on my own.” You toss your hair indignantly. 

“Yeah, but you’re always going to need my help to get undressed, right?” He smirks, eyes bleary, as he slides the heel off your foot and takes up the other one when you don’t move. 

Always, he said. 

Forever.

He’s being so soft, so gentle.

He sees the red marks left behind by the straps of your heels and frowns, displeased. Slumped over in the hallway of your tiny, pathetic apartment, his top few buttons of his pressed dress shirt hopelessly gone, tonight’s bow tie slung around his neck like a tipsy snake, Dieter gives you a foot rub by way of kneading out your pain. 

He kisses your ankle with such reverence, adoration, the liquid in your mouth vanishes and ends up in the crotch of your tights. 

You’re both too drunk for an actual fuck (“don’t make fun of my whisky dick, baby, it makes it sad,”) but you don’t want to be anywhere else but in your bed with him when you do sober up. So, you let the tulle drop, Dieter giggling as he gets hit with an avalanche of dress and you both clamor over each other to stand up. 

Towering over you and smelling like rich, warm, leather and splash of something spicy, he raises an eyebrow at you. You scrunch up your face, your twisted-up mouth betraying the stern look in your eyes, and put your knuckles to your hips. He matches your stance, this town ain’t big enough for the two of us . . .

“You’re in my way,” he grumbles, his mouth twitching. 

“Maybe you’re in mine.”

“Well, then it looks like we’ve got on our hands a good ol’ Mexican standoff.” 

“By all means, pardner, stick ‘em up.”

You eye him like PopEye, cheek full of nothing but air, your one eye all squinty. At that, he completely breaks, going red as he laughs. You hold the pose for a second longer before you collapse against him, laughing until tears run out of the corners of your eyes. You press your forehead into his chest, his heartbeat like a homing beacon, as he nuzzles the back of your head, giggles escaping occasionally on puffs of air. 

“That’s it!” He says after a moment of silence and tosses his hands into the air. “I’ve had enough! I can’t do this anymore!”

Without warning, he bends down and hauls you over his shoulder. He continues his tirade over your brief gasp of surprise – “Dieter!” – his finger indignantly in the air as he marches off towards the bedroom.  

“I can no longer date a girl who is funnier than me and so goddamn, fucking pretty. Who let you do that, huh? Who taught you how to be so fucking adorable? Answer me, you sexy, little weirdo.”

He tickles you enough just to make you squirm before dramatically tossing you onto the bed. You assume your best heart-broken divorcé pose, hand draped over your forehead, one leg tucked under the other. 

“Think of the children, honey! Nala needs a father’s influence, a lonely girl trying to survive in a man’s world! You can’t shoulder me with the responsibility of single motherhood!” You sit up, eyes fluttering up at him. “Everything I learned, I learned it all from you!”

Smirking, he kneels onto the mattress, your body folding back as he hovers forward, his nose inches from yours. You fight the shiver that arches up your body every time he gets that look on his face. He’s got your sanity between his teeth. “That child loathes me, darling,” he purrs. “She’s better off with you. She looks far too much like the milkman to be mine anyway.”

Your fake gasp is buried beneath the lunge of his mouth over yours. His hand cups your cheek as his mouth seeks out all its favorite places against your lips, your skin, your jaw. Your fingers dig into his wrinkled, once-starched shirt, the heat of his skin pricking your fingertips.

It’s right there, that knife edge between starting something there’s no going back from, no alternative path that ends in anything other than him buried deep inside you, filth that still makes you blush pouring from his mouth into your ear. A part of you, the part of you that’s been stalking behind every smile and touch he sends your way all night, the part of you that every nerve sing for him, is begging you to continue. To touch him in the right places that make his eyelids drop, mouth wrench open, to take on the animal that’s gnawing at you both. 

But you don’t. You can’t.

The simple fact of the matter is – you’re exhausted. You know he is too. The Oscar statue sitting on your entryway is a culmination of dozens of exhausted nights that finally paid off. 

He sighs when you pull back, there is no anger on his face, no disappointment that you’re ending things here. There’s only . . .

“You looked really, really pretty tonight,” he confesses to your nose with a smile. “Thanks . . . for coming with me tonight. You make everything better.”

You tuck his hair over his ear, feeling whole and small beneath the gentle search of his gaze. His hair is getting long and you love it, but you don’t want to nag him about it. The universe has finally balanced itself with him in between your legs, the foundations that make up the galaxy all settled in right here. 

He takes it one step further, reaching back behind him to the comforter you keep on the end of the bed that inevitably gets kicked to the floor every time he stays over. You’d pick it up and put it back every day of your life without complaint if it meant him in your bed until the end of time. 

Dieter tosses the blanket over both of your heads and crawls back in between your legs, elbows tucked by your ribs. All the champagne in the world couldn’t give you this same warm, bubbly feeling in your chest as his weight sinks into you.

He’s submerged you both in another realm, a deeper one than the one before, and in this one you have to whisper, even though the only other person in all of existence is inches from your nose. 

“You’re drunk,” you murmur, hushed. You can barely find the outline of his chin, his lips, his nose. The steady drum in your chest misses a beat as you consider where he might be looking on you. 

He awkwardly tugs your knuckles from both hands beneath his head, kissing them gently before allowing them to quietly slide into his hair. He’s so warm, nearly completely invisible to you in the blackness, the weight of his broad chest threatens to choke the air right out of you. But this exactly is how you want it to be. You want to be overwhelmed by Dieter Bravo.  

“I’m not drunk,” he tuts, a soft slur still tucking his words together. 

You reach down just inches to his temple, following the lines of his body that swear all lead to you, to find the arch of his cheek. He closes his eyes, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings against your thumbs. 

“Could a drunk person do this?” He asks quietly, as close as he could come to indignant in this special, dark little world. 

You wait, for a sloppy kiss, for something hard to tap against your thigh, but nothing comes. In fact, he doesn’t move. 

You inhale as best you can, grinning, ready to start another proverbial sparring match with him.

“You’re not doing anything, Dieter.”

His eyelashes stroke your thumbs again, a kitten lick, as he opens his eyes. 

“I sent you my love. Did you not get it?”

All in the air in your lungs is purged in a heavy gasp as his words impact your chest the way comets collide with meteors. 

He says your name, concerned by the wounded noise you just made, and when you don’t answer, he leans back, tugging the blanket as he goes.

It’s not until you’re looking up at him in your bedroom, his face blurry and your cheeks cold, that you realize you’re crying. 

“Dolly, what did I do?” He sounds so concerned, so visibly shaken, you can’t help but cry harder. He only touches your wrist, as if he’d been banished from your body. 

If you hadn’t had so much to drink, this wouldn’t be happening or at least you’d be able to get it to stop, reign in those explosive feelings that you had kept for so long deep and buried until he came along with a match in the dark. 

You take a deep breath, eyes locked onto the ceiling, hands clenched in fists. You know he can feel the tension in your forearm beneath his thumb making circles inches below your pulsepoint. You thought you never, ever wanted to have this conversation, but now you understand this has been the only thing that’s been on your mind for months.

“You don’t mean that,” you croak into the darkness. You feel small and foolish, embarrassed for having a body that produces emotions. 

“Don’t mean what, darling?” He’s still talking quietly, but firmer, providing a hook onto which you can grasp and fight the current in your mind. He knows this feeling, anxiety, and he hates how it looks on you.

“That you love me.”

Your words ring in the air, like the distinctive pitch of singing glass. You swallow that choking knot further down your throat and, wrenching your gaze down from the ceiling, finally look him in the eyes.

It’s the same look he blinked at you from the seats, there and gone so fast you partially convinced yourself you’d imagined it: profound, deep regret.

“You think I don’t love you?”

His tone makes you instantly feel guilty. Did you miss something? What if he texted it to you and you didn’t see it? Or wrote it in a note . . .

“You’ve never said it. At least not to me.” 

And his face crumbles.

He slides off his haunches, feet dangling over the edge of the bed, his big shoulders curved. 

Slowly, as if believing he has no right to, he touches your ankle, where he had rubbed away those painful marks in the hallway. He shakes his head, smirking darkly at himself.

“At the risk of sounding like a dramatic fucking actor, I didn’t want to put you in harm’s way.”

You sit up, unable to help yourself from curling up next to him, his grip adjusting to your thigh, instantly finding the heat of it beneath all the tulle. Cutting right to the core of you. 

He gets this furtive glance when he’s thinking about something unpleasant, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth, as though unable to choose the right course of action. How much does he say, how much does he give away?

He rubs your dress material between his fingers.

“I’m older than you,” is how he starts. When your mouth twists open, ready with a litany of reasons why you don’t care, why no one should – reasons you’ve already said to him a dozen times – he meets your gaze and silences everything in your head. “And it’s not me they’re going to come for.” 

The weight, the finality to his voice shoves that knot right back up your throat, your eyes hot and tight.

“I . . . I didn’t say it, outloud, because then we’d have to do something about it. I don’t want to keep us in the dark, but . . .” he swallows as if choking too. “But after the dox two years ago and then the incident in Austin, I feel like I’ll be putting you in physical harm when they find out we’re together. And I would literally rather die than have anything happen to you.”

He kisses your temple, the touch a consolation. 

You don’t want to turn away, you want every kiss he gives you, but all you can feel are the studio’s words, the words of your managers, pressing down on you:

You know how some fans get. For your safety, let’s give it two years. 

We’re happy for you, we really are, but you can’t be seen together too much. Minimal instagram, rare public appearances. We’re just trying to keep up appearances until the fans settle. 

Appearances.

Aesthetics.

Image.

You’d happily kill anyone who tried to take him from you. 

But you know he’s right.

“It has nothing to do with how I feel about you, what I feel for you,” he promises, voice warm, dipped in honey. “I just . . . I can’t lose you.”

“Then can you say it just this once? Just to me?” You try to smile but the tightening of your skin only spills the tears. “Please, Dieter, I won’t ask again. I have to hear it once from you. After that, I promise I–,”

His great warm palm covets the back of your neck, rolling you into him like melting chocolate drips onto the floor. He stops, inches from your mouth, so close you can feel your neutrons mix with his.

“I love you.” 

Earnest, genuine, real. 

A green beanie and a yellow jacket.

Chinese food and dreams of a better life. Of a happy life.

You steady yourself, your spinning world, against his hand around your cheek, clutching onto his wrist like it’s the last great lighthouse at the end of the world.

You open your eyes and, yes, yes, there is adoration in his smile, in the way he watches his words soothe some ache inside of you with joy.

“I love you too,” you tell him, in case it wasn’t obvious. If somehow he couldn’t smell your obsession for him. “I love you,” you say again, firmly. 

It’s an inevitable sort of fall, his mouth into yours.

Like neutron stars collapsing together, alone and quiet in the far reaches of space.

Like the stone bones of an ancient church cracking and tipping into the sea as time and erosion eats away at a once great monument.

Like the spinning metal within a compass, never failing to find north, to find home.

When you awake next to him the next morning, warm in a way that goes behind physical body heat, he kisses your nose.

I love you, he tells you, with his words, with his body. With the dozens of ways he’s been mulling over in his mind to keep you safe and make you his for everyone to see.

I love you, he tells you that morning. 

And every morning after that.

[marigold-hills]

june 2: oyster | @wolfstarmicrofic | word count: 502

PREVIOUS PART • NEXT PART

“Alright there, Moony? Looking a bit pale,” Sirius asks in between inhaling his breakfast and reviewing what sparse notes he made for the Potions NEWT.

Remus looks up from his mug of tea (gripped between large hands like a lifeline). There are shadows under his eyes: another late night, then. Exams are upon them, and the way Remus studies has become obsessive.

“You need food too, mate,” James piles bacon onto Remus’ plate, ignoring his grumbles – almost growls, since it’s only a week until the full moon and the lines blur a bit in those days. “Yes, you’re very big and very scary. Now eat your breakfast.”

I should have done that, Sirius thinks because something in him believes the job is his. He’s never been good at caring for anything, hanging onto James even for his own needs, but it’s different, somehow, with Remus. There is a duality: being thankful for James’ care and resentful of it.

The owls come as they do every day, a flurry of wings and feathers. It’s a bright, clear day and they disturb the sun rays as they swoop through the Great Hall.

Remus gets the newspaper (something obscure about literature) and a beautiful, haughty looking owl lands in front of Sirius, raising a dignified foot with a small parcel for him to unwrap.

“What did you get?” James asks as the owl takes off, scoffing at Sirius’ offering of a sausage.

It’s an oyster shell, gold encrusted with an artisan's precision. Inside of it a marble eye, a shade of green which reminds him of autumn and of something else. He finds comfort in the colour - it’s why he chose it – a memory of warm fires and long cozy nights, of the happiness he feels when, as Padfoot, he’s surrounded by pack.

Sirius clips the silver chain the oyster is attached to around his neck “It’s an oisrí feiceálaí,” he hopes he doesn’t butcher the pronunciation, glances at Remus to make sure, “I’ve come across them when researching for my dissertation.”

“What does an oyster have to do with ancient runes?” Remus finds his voice at the bottom of the tea mug.

“Well… nothing. I just thought it was neat. It’s the symbol of fifth dimensional vision.”

“Sure you didn’t accidentally study Divination?”

“Hilarious, Prongs.”

Something catches James’ eye across the Great Hall – more likely someone – and he shoots up with a harried I have to go, see you at the exam!

Remus leans across the table, with a careful hand reaches for the necklace. Studies it, turning it around in his fingers. They oyster looks small in his grasp, the silver more pronounced against the golden skin.

“Very pretty, Sirius,” he says, and Sirius feels the sentence like it means something else, “Will you tell me more about it, after the exam?”

Remus looks up from the oyster, straight into Sirius’ face, eyes reddened and shiny from the lack of sleep and –

- well, Sirius knows what the green reminded him of.

NOTES:

this is part two of a 30-part series of shorts: I’m aiming for them all to be readable as standalone but are a part of a bigger story (better read together and in order, in my opinion)

oisrí feiceálaí, to the best of my knowledge, means seer oyster in Gaelic. It’s not actually a thing but I came across this and thought it was pretty and ostentatious enough for Sirius to wear ALCHEMICAL OYSTER PEARL

Remus is always autumn to me - by that logic Sirius in Winter, James is Summer (self explanatory, really). Peter is Spring I suppose. But I don’t ever write him into my fics so who’s to say

speaking of Peter - let’s say he’s already at the venue for the potions exam, absolutely shaking from stress and desperately cramming last minute revision

@lightningmonarchda3 @bowielover420 @tealeavesandtrash @digital-kam

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged in next parts)

[delta-lethonomia]

lots of astarions so... tosses a cazador/gale into the ring?

I asked for this, didn't I

Ok so hear me out: personality-wise, this is not the worst match-up. Gale thinks he's a moral person, but can talk himself/be talked into a lot, frankly, especially if there's a shiny new piece of magic at the end.

Gale, I think, also wants to be needed. He's got some self-esteem issues. He loves his mom but keeps her at a distance, but then again that can also be a pretty normal distance for a man is his late thirties to have. Nevertheless, it's interesting that he doesn't mention any other relationships outside of Mystra, and frankly he comes across as very full of himself and used to getting his way. (See baby Gale summoning Tara / being an absolute menace of a child.) I think Gale is charming when he wants to be but his first love is magic, so outside of the orb and his ex-gf telling him to kill himself, he's going to keep people at a certain distance, perhaps unconsciously. He's the guy who looks great on paper and you have a few good dates with but it just never goes anywhere, and before you know it every date is just him rambling about magic for a few hours. He says the right things but his heart isn't into it, and that's because he subconsciously doesn't think there's anything about him to love besides his talent with magic. A lot of his sweetness in game only comes about after being humbled so thoroughly by the events surrounding the netherese orb.

Now, Cazador - I can't believe I'm writing this - Cazador is an obsessive weirdo who's a box of neurosis wrapped in half-hearted decadence. Cazador, like Astarion, likes power, possessing power, and Gale is a very powerful arch mage (or he was before the orb). I think Caz would enjoy grinding Gale's arrogance into the dirt if he caught his interest, while Gale would be flattered by the attention.

Now, plot:

Sometime either before the events of the game / Gale's mishap with the Karsite weave. Maybe they're both at the same party and Gale is such a braggart it pings Cazador's need to crush him beneath his boots, or maybe Caz discovers something about the Rite of Profane Ascension (I assume that it is a historical document and not something hammered out in detail between Mephistopheles and Caz personally) that requires a wizards attention. Maybe Caz discovers that his soul will be taken during the ritual as well, for instance, or is sold upon his death to Mephistopheles - but he can't alter the Rite, but he's not going to stop it either, so he needs a wizard to craft him some sort of spell that sells another soul in place of his, or protects his soul upon death etc. It's something fucked up, something dark, but it's also interesting enough that Gale is drawn to it like a moth to flame.

Mystra, of course, does not approve, but that just gets Gale more interested. Gale is fully aware Cazador is a vampire - he notices the red eyes and pallor and says "yes, that man is a vampire, and no, I do not care because that is simply not my problem," similarly to the way he does with Astarion. He does manage to protect himself in a way that makes it clear Caz can't just turn him into a spawn, however, which really pings Cazador's "Need to dominate all who could harm me" even more. It would be tricky to get Gale working on a solution in a way that doesn't make it clear Caz intends to sacrifice thousands of innocent souls, but I think Caz could sell it by claiming their sacrifices are necessary to cure vampirism (a handy little lie about the ritual's purpose).

See, Gale is vulnerable to believing the best in others. He thinks Minthara has a hidden heart of gold. He could watch Cazador kick Astarion in the face for licking his boots the wrong way and then rationalize it as "well, this is completely on-brand for how patriars treat their servants, and perhaps there's a reason vampires treat their spawn so terribly. What has he done to you?" and Caz has an answer for everything. Cazador sees himself as only doing what is needed - his spawn would kill him if they could, they need a firm hand, and he does need to eat, and it's not like he can go collect the riffraff to feast upon himself - no, he sends his spawn out to gather the worst criminals possible. In a way, he's cleaning up Baldur's Gate himself. What else is a vampire to do? He's not feasting on orphans or innocents here. What alternate solution do you propose, Gale? Doesn't he deserve to live, despite being afflicted with a curse? There is no better option. He's as moral as he can be given the constraints of his position, and he won't spit on his families legacy by going off to live in the wilds like some common adventurer.

Astarion says Cazador likes to play mind games. He only plays games he knows he can win. I think Cazador would need to have something on Gale, some type of blackmail, something he'd hold in his pocket for the very moment Gale turns on him before he even lets him into the mansion. The Karsite weave could be useful here, offering it as a bargaining chip for the completion of Gale's services, yet also having letters and falsified testimony from other wizards ready to accuse Gale of attempting to destroy the weave entirely in an ego-driven attack against Mystra, potentially due to rumors she was growing tired of him and would soon choose a new chosen. Jealous ex-boyfriend burning down his former lovers' house type of deal. Very…. wizard, very believable.

But Gale can absolutely rationalize some very terrible acts as necessities, and he's driven by his curiosity - he thinks Cazador is very interesting, both for his quick wit and barely constrained depression in spite of his immortality and perceived wealth and status, the way he plays being a patriar and maintaining his families lineage and power within Baldur's Gate and not going full cackling vampire tyrant on them. I imagine a scene at a different party some other patriar calls Cazador poor and lacking in ambition to his face, and Cazador brushes it off with a blithe yet witty comment when Gale knows he's aching to drain that fucker dry. Such restraint! Clearly, he's a better man than he knows. (lol)

So I think Gale goes hunting. Ideally, he discovers Vellioth's skull, and the revelations about Cazador's past hit all of Gale's sympathy points. All of a sudden, Cazador is a tragic figure who's terrified of connection, who's suffered horrible torture at the hands of his master; by contrast, he's downright pleasant to his spawn, who clearly serve a purpose both in keeping him fed and collecting the worst sorts of people in his noble quest to eradicate vampirism. He's sympathetic! Tragic! So very, very lonely! No one knows of his quest but Gale - suddenly, he's honored to be a part of it. Even Cazador's bedroom/office is cold as stone and ascetic - he'd denied himself all the creature comforts Gale so enjoys. This is not a man laughing maniacally, mad with power.

So of course Gale confronts him and Cazador flips the fuck out. This is mask off: I think Cazador is restrained enough to not attack Gale directly, but he drags him to the kennels to prove what a monster he is, how he has Godey hurt them to keep them in line, talks about giving them out as entertainment at parties, basically running a prostitution ring, and while Gale isn't happy, he can make excuses for it. The prostitutes at parties was already a thing - at least the spawn can't die, unlike the living, and arguably it prevents other people from going down that particular meat grinder. Flaying? Vellioth impaled him on a pike for a decade, and Gale knows which he would choose. Half the time, he's not even there to enjoy it! No, this is clearly because Cazador simply does not understand that there are better options - he needs understanding and a guiding influence, and by Mystra's gorgeous tits he can be that for him.

Cazador…. cannot deal with this. He barely restrains the urge to murder Gale on the spot and walks away. He still needs him. He's not going to get his soul (or what remains of it) consumed by Mephistopheles. Jesus fucking Christ. He avoids Gale up until the point someone (Aurelia) points out that that makes him look weak the servants are talking at which point he flips around and decides to do something about it. He can't kill Gale - he needs him alive, for now, and he can't turn him into a spawn because Gale's not quite that stupid - and if he uses his blackmail Gale will fuck him over. Worse, Gale knows things now. Gale needs to do his work, solve Cazador's soul problem, and then keep his mouth shut while Cazador ascends, at which point he needs to kill Gale ASAP, which means he needs to stay there.

The solution? We gotta fuck Gale.

Cazador turns all that obsessive nature on Gale. Maybe he tried to throw the spawn at him previously, but Gale doesn't go for it because 1.) he's not really interested in random hookups and 2.) it's just a little immoral. They don't really have a choice, poor things. (Astarion screams into a pillow once he realizes the plot of this narrative and why Gale turned him down.)

Gale is interested in Cazador. He wants to save him. Gale, in turn, is a mystery to Cazador, now the only person alive who knows about him and his pathetic past, the closest thing he can imagine to…. an equal. God, he's practically vibrating with the need to kill him. He wants to hurt him so bad. He's obsessed. Torturing Astarion isn't even as fun as it used to be.

Cazador starts rolling out the red carpet, so to speak - he buys Gale books, whatever he wants, keeps him there in his mansion as much as possible, biding his time while he tries to get as many souls gathered within a shortening deadline as Gale works on his soul problem. Eventually, he seduces him: if he can't kill him or hurt him, dominating him sexually is an option, the only one available to him right now, and it provides an angle to why Gale gets away with so much shit in a way that deprives him of power in the eyes of the servants. He's not a powerful wizard in residence - he's just the new lover/boy-toy, understood?

Gale's incredibly flattered by all of this. I think he'd enjoy that level of all-consuming passion and obsession, and both Tara and Mystra and his mother disapprove, which tickles his rebellious and romantic nature. Cazador clocks his submissive inclinations and bullies him into developing a pretty hard pain kink and then grits his teeth every time Gale says something sweet, feeling all sorts of ways about it all, or as much as a true vampire is really able to feel. (Gale will join for an orgy at a brothel despite being the most monogamous fucker to ever live, he just leaves midway through. So long as he feels wanted, needed, he'll put up with a lot of things, and he's absolutely pretty kinky. I'm just saying so long as Cazador leaves the knives with Godey this isn't that insane.)

The Ascension happens. Cazador tries to keep Gale away for the actual event (as it's pretty obvious that it just makes him stronger and doesn't cure his vampirism, he's very clearly still a vampire though a living one) but uses his spell to keep/regain his soul but of course Gale can't stay away.

In an instant, Gale realizes what has happened, that all he's done is make Cazador more powerful, living, that he may have shielded his soul but in the end he still aided and abetted sacrificing 7007 souls of people he knew (assuming once more that Caz hid the fact that the 7 spawn would be sacrificed as well), and then…. he gears up for a fight. This is his breaking point. He can't do this. At the very least, he can kill Cazador, his lover, and end this horrible mistake.

There are three options now:

1.) Assuming becoming a true vampire twists your soul, citing the apparent differences between spawn Cazador and true vamp!Cazador, perhaps the spell "untwists" his soul and truly restores it to a whole state to match his living body. Cazador immediately collapses under the guilt of all that he's done. It's such an outpouring of emotion that cannot be faked, and somehow after years of this sham relationship, a part of him truly loves Gale. He confesses to all that he's done and it's enough to prevent Gale from killing him. In the end, they tell no one anything: they're both wracked with guilt, but Cazador's soul is saved, and they resolve to study both undoing the curse of vampirism using his living body but also how Gale's spell managed to undo the damage caused to his soul. Even if they can't cure it, at least perhaps they can help the existing vampire masters regain their humanity.

2.) They fight. Cazador (probably) wins, and kicks Gale's corpse off the ledge. He opens his pouch and takes out an orange, dropping the peels over the ledge, and bites into it. Does it taste the way it did in his childhood? He can't quite remember. It's very quiet, in the Szarr Mansion.

3.) Cazador, in a rare moment of graciousness and lingering affection, reveals his possession of the Karsite weave as being more than some random netherese artifact. He dangles it in front of Gale and absolves him of his participation: after all, if he had gone to anyone else, Cazador would have ruined his reputation so thoroughly no one would have believed him anyway. Truly, there was no other option, but Cazador will give him this: his life, and the weave.

Feeling like absolute garbage, Gale breaks. He can't bring himself to attack him. He needs to get out so he can tell someone what he has done, what he has unleashed upon the world: unthinking, he accepts the Karsite weave. He leaves the quiet Szarr Mansion after years of living there. He should give the weave to Mystra, but… he needs to fix this, somehow. He's responsible. He needs - something. Something!

Gale gets the orb in his chest again and gets kidnapped by mind flayers. The game proceeds as usual, with no Astarion, no Cazador, and we never find out what happens with Cazador either. Gale has made too many mistakes in life and doesn't open himself up to a new relationship, he's moody and a mess - when the time comes at Moonrise Towers, he blows up the elder brain without talking to anyone, unleashing a plague of mind flayers everywhere along the sword coast and dooming Faerûn to centuries of warfare.

[fallingrealms16]

Destiel Fic Recs Part 1 <333

So this is a little bit different to what I usually post (if you know me I post mostly Sterek content) but I have to remember this account is also all about that Destiel content too!

HERE WE GO !!

The Unbroken by casblackfeathers

126K Words // Chapters: 28/28 // 24K Hits // COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT//

Dean’s life had been made of running. He ran from a curse that had desolated his life ever since he was a child — whenever he got hurt, he turned into a goddamn human-torch, killing everyone around him — and he ran from himself and his own self-loathing. But managing all that at the end of a world full of Croats lurking around every corner was easier said than done. Until a mysterious man with tousled dark hair paired with blue eyes as clear as the sky during a hot summer’s day stopped him from free falling, literally. In one fell swoop, the stranger had not only saved his life but also calmed the wildfire threatening to burn everything in its wake. There was something about Castiel that made Dean want to stop running but also hid something darker — something Dean couldn’t quite put his finger on. And between soft, pillowy lips and feather-like fingerprints, Cas could very well shatter Dean’s world and maybe help save the whole world in return.

Empty Spaces by thisisapaige

48K Words // Chapters: 20/20 // 5K Hits // COMPLETED

//MATURE//

[Castiel] found the colour. It was a green, one of the few gentle colours at the edges of his dreams and the one he tried to capture in his paintings, never quite finding the right hue. He spent so long chasing the colours, trying to find it though pills and needles, but they always evaded his grasp. Yet he found one, right here, hiding in the eyes of a stranger. He studied the colour, the subtle differences between dark and light, the little flecks of gold nearly hidden in the sea of green, the ring around the outside. He studied it, trying to commit the colour to memory. The other man cleared his throat. “Uh, dude?” Oh. Castiel forgot the colour was attached to a person. ~~~ What if Castiel had fallen before the start of the series and met Dean on a routine hunt? Set in the spring before Dean goes to find Sam in Stanford. Intended as a three part series.

brightside by season12cas

17K Words // Chapters: 1/1 // 2K Hits // COMPLETED

//MATURE//

Cas’ arm around his body, well, that just— It feels good. It feels right. So when Dean does fall asleep, he’s pretty sure there’s a smile on his face.

Edge of Night by Sinelaborenihil

364K Words // Chapters: 61/61 // 71K Hits // COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT//

Following the events of Season 15 Episode 19 "Inherit the Earth", Dean Winchester finds himself struggling with his grief, despite what seems like a decisive victory. Then, in an instant, everything changes and he is given a second chance to explore what it might mean to allow himself to embrace a certain "profound bond".

There's a rule by Flurry_X

15K Words // Chapters: 3/3 // 7K Hits // COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT//

"He can see the sunburn blooming on Cas’s nose, the messy stubble covering his cheeks, the wet dip right above his lips, his eyes, blue and clear and staring at Dean with a longing that feels like it’s primal and raw and everlasting. And Dean wants to have him, wants to keep this, all of it, but he can’t say it. He doesn’t know how to love him in daylight, doesn’t know how to love him honest." ---- Sequel to "There's a nail" Where they take the road trip and try to figure it out Dean POV

Hautley's Bend by ColdIntheStudio

500K Words // Chapters: 42/42 // 268K Hits // COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT//

Castiel Novak is used to change. He's used to being the new kid in school. So when he moves with his family to the small town of Rail Pass, he doesn't expect things to be much different than the last three towns. But then he meets Dean Winchester, an aggressive fellow student who sees Castiel as the shiny new toy he and his friends get to mess with. Castiel has had his fair share of bullies in the past, but nothing like this. He's never felt this way about a bully, or anyone for that matter, before. Maybe something's wrong with him, that he could feel so attracted to someone who makes his everyday life hell. But then again, he sees the way Dean looks at him sometimes. And there's a lot more to Dean Winchester than meets the eye.

[martinys-world]

the girl (4)

I am struggling with trying to mold sliver with out giving to much away. also I forgot to mess with the color in the diomand pretend yellow is gray.

hope you enjoy this chapter the other chapters (1) (2) (3)

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Going form point 1 to point 2 was just a normal walk. just a turn left, a turn right. nothing worth noting. Honestly, I usually keep track where I am, but the lady with yellow eyes mess with my head big time.  I mean I know their “magic” but that usually baloney or leave a mark.  While I was playing the guessing game. I was just holding the strap on kris bag. He was leading the way. he used his strength to stop me from walking into a person. Coming back, I saw Noah going in and kris tugging me sit on a stone wall. 

“You okay sliver?”

“I been better, honestly.” I can't lie to him no matter how hard I want to. 

“Does it have anything to do with that magazine?”

Looking down I am not realized that I am still on the page that the lady left me on.

“Kind of …”

Before anything can be said. My plastic bracelet that sits on my left wrist. Started buzz and change color, from snowflake white to a dull sky blue. I guess my “blood sugar” need “insulin”. 

Pulling out my bag I grab my pencil case. it had all three of use Noah being the cool one with an attitude. My with peace sign on my fingers. Kris decides to photo bomb with heart hands. It’s one of my favorite moments. Under the photo there a diamond, With mini diamonds inside. 4 diamonds in total. 

You see no matter where there are three beings There is good (blue one on the right) the bad (purple on the left) and the neutrals (green the top). Then their possibility (the grey on at the bottom) there will always be good and bad but there was a third a neutral. That was both good and bad. They were made so that neither side would be by there self. Then there is possibility. the one where humans or any being fir that matter are place. You have a chance to be good, bad, or neutral. 

I pulled out my necklace held the yin and yang charm. I twisted so that yang was on top, and yin was on bottom for once. A bust green came off from the necklace. Went to anything that was electronic and frozen them, nothing can record. A sphere was around me. it gave a green tint to show that it was there. 

I then press. Blue, purple, green, and gray.  The case unlocks. I open it very carefully. There are 10 slots of vials, I pulled out a vial that was the same color as my bracelet. Number 10. It was a liquid that was filled to the top. With the needle that was under the vials. I careful took the foam full of vials out. Looks like I am going to need to run and get more needles soon. Taking one out and literally stab under my bracelet. The place where any nurse goes to draw blood. When they need to draw your blood for any reason at all. 

My bracelet turns back to its normal color snowflake white.

“How does your bracelet do that?”

Dam it. I forgot he was there. I didn’t want to drag him in this. Quick find an excuse.   

“Magic.” 

Magic may be fake but it’s the simplest way for him to understand. In all honestly, I don’t know. It always done turn to different colors on its own. I quickly and carefully clean up. I put the now used needle back in its clear little package. 

“Can it turn into other colors?”

“Yes.”

“What other colors?”

“Sometimes I turn a light purple. Once it turned gold.”

“What do they say?”

“Like I said it turn gold only once, I don’t fully know the truth. at the time it meant it was okay going to be okay.”

The time it turned gold was when I was escaping/stepping out of your comfort zone. It was scary leaving the place you only knew. When I was in that car, taking my first steps into a better life. Left hand on the wheel and my right hand on my dog (spike) petting his ear. I look over my wrist it turns into a shiny gold. Not enough to blinded me but enough to just stand out. the only feeling I can explain was I was safe, and I just knew everything was going to be alright after that, no matter how scary it was going to be. 

“What about purple.”

How to I explain purple? It was always complected to explain, let alone explained to an eleven-year-old. 

“Purple is when I become sick. I need an antibiotic?”

“What the antibiotic do you need.” 

Pointing at open my case. (That has all the vials in place.) I pointed to the number 3. Number 3 was the only one I had left; I need to do a run for it soon or I will surely be dead.”

“Number 3 has all the antibiotics; I need to get better and fast.”

closing the case, I put it in the green bag.  Know that my “medicine” is safe

“How fast?”

“Almost an instant.”

“But I thought medicine doesn’t heal as fast.”

“You are right but- “

“Sliver, tails let go.”

Noah, you have prefect timing. I just finished the twisting the yin and yang. Yin was once again on top of yang. The sphere was gone. he not only saves me from a very uncomfortable conversation but saving his brother join a cause, that I don’t want him or anyone else to be part of.  I want no one be part of my work. I still trying to fix myself form the last few runs. 

In my whole happy moment. I didn’t realize that Noah was upset. He must have not gotten the job, but my gut was saying there was more to it. When we got on the train. I gave Kirst my bulky headphones so he can play his game boy isn’t of the world around him. I just stared at Noah with the “explain now” look. 

“There noth- “

“I know you didn’t get that interview, but its more to it is there?”

Knowing he can't lie to me. he started spilling the truth. 

“Okay so I didn’t get the job like you said. then the guy that I was going to the interview that Mr. Tucker didn’t want to hire me for some reasons but what really bug me was the whole, “one of your people.”  On top of that I ran into Mrs. Greene, and she said this is the last appointment until money starts rolling in, 

“Hey, you will get a job it’s only a matter of time Mr. tucker is missing out and he is wrong, you’re not people you are Noah Diaz. A brother and a son that is no has don’t everything in his power to protect his family. you are a hero one way or another. 

“You differently know how to make a guy feel better.”

“I just, know when to say that truth. you know what I always say?”

Shaking his head no.

“When its midnight there are stars.”

“I hate that saying.”

“But it is turn there are stars when’s it dark out. 

He did a silent chuckle, that was my Signal that my job was done.  He was somewhat better.

 He went to watch the window of the subway to show that he was done with the conversation. That was my que to open my journal. I careful rip the magazine of the two articles and took picture of the lady on the toothpaste ad. And put the page before, so I can take whatever time I have left to write.

Noah is one the only people that is a hero. Whether he realizes it or not. Tails is lucky to have a brother like him.  the one that dose anything for his family, doing the wrong things for the right reason.  He a big brother trying to carry the world on his shoulders. Maybe I should call K and see if there something I can do to help.

The train jolted to a stop. A nice new scratched mark in my journal. I can't get rid of a pen mark even if I wanted too. That Tossing the journal and magazine in my big bag. Noah taps on kris, and they started to leave the cramp space. When everyone was off. kris wouldn’t let go of my hand. I felt like I was normal, and I have not felt like that in a VERY long time. Maybe I can be part of their family. 

“Hey, you two go up. I need to talk business.” 

Letting go of kris and going to Reek. 

“What that all about?”

“Reek said something about a job before we left.”

Oh no. Noah don’t do the wrong things for the right reasons.

“I going to cancel those plans tonight tails.”

“Why?”

“I have a feeling your brother going to me tonight.”

“Hey sliver,”

“Yea little man” 

“Please watch out for my big brother.”

“You know I will.”

“If he gets beat up, I will beat you up.”

“I know. I will let you beat me up.”

“I have something to ask you. But let’s go inside first.”

After going up the flights of stairs. We made to his door where he had a key. he pulled me in his room and the door was left open. 

“What this thing you want to ask?”

“In a few days I am going out of town.” 

Opening my purse, I pulled out 2 flower necklaces. Open was a blue daisy and the other one was blue speedwell flower, but both have a white almond gem in the middle. 

“I am going to send a letter to an old friend. He going to be around for a bit but he going to be looking for me. I am going to send him to Reek, but I don’t trust him for the life of me. this is a very dear friend to me. I am going to tell him a phrase you are going have to say back. Do you understand?”

With a nod he 

“He going to ask “when it dark there is? All you must do is there say “stars. there could be other lights, but stars will always there. “After you say that you are going to give him this daisy necklace and you two will go from there. 

“What about the other necklace?”

“This is my promise to you. You used this necklace when you feel your life is threatened. It could be as simples as an earthquake, and you are stuck. Or someone is planning to hurt you. You break it in half I will come as fast as I can.”

“How will you know.”

“I will just know.”   

“Hey kids, where are you at.” Said sonic.

“We are in the kris bedroom trying to beat Bowser.” I spoke. 

Tails was quick to pull out his Gameboy. this boy totally has my back. 

“Well with this information I am going to start dinner Or at least start it before mom comes homes. She will be here in an hour. Sliver will you be staying?” 

I was going to say no but tails grab my hands. With his pleading eyes. They were begging me to stay.

Looking back at sonic, “I guess I could stay for a meal.”

“Okay I will leave you guys to your mission.”

I waited for 7 mario deaths before I could do something.

“Hey, I am going to pop out your window to make a call okay let me know when sonic and your mom need me, or when dinner done.” 

“Got it.”

Pour kid gets so close but then dies on boswer. I was taking this opportunity to do something. leaning against the cold metal bars against forehead as I leaned against them, waiting for a different sound then ringing in my ear. 

“When its midnight there are?”

“Stars, there could be other lights, but stars will always be there.”

“Took you long enough for your check in.”

“Sorry!!” 

“Late is better than never. Anyway, how are you doing.”

“I mean I am okay. I need some refills can you send me a location I can get them?”

“Yea. I will E do that. he was saying the was a big dopiest near New York. How are you feeling mentally.”

“I’m not the greatest. But I am okay.”

“Do I need to go to you and drag you back.”

“NO!!! I am doing okay. don’t you dear come find me.”

“Okay, you know I will come and get you, if you go 24 hours of no contact when you are supposed to contact.”

“I know you will. I was enjoying being normal for once.”

 I heard him sigh. 

“I am not going to disappear without a word again. I promise you that.”  

“I know you won’t, I just can't help but worry. I know being normal is something you want. But people like us can't.”

“I know we can never be normal but doesn’t mean I can't enjoy it while we can. You can walk away any minute I can't.”

“I know. I just worry about you. They can find you. Then drag you back.” 

“I left no traces. I been doing this long enough.”

“I know. I love you okay.”

“Love you too.”

“Okay do you need anything else?”

“Actually, are you next to computer of any sort?”

I hear him wheel across. The room from one table to another.”

“Now I am.”

“Go dark and go to the SC or AC list of names? Type in tucker in last name slot. 

“Got we go 100. 

“See if any of them live or work in New York?”

“That shrink the list down to 7. “

“Any of them working in bridge security guard.”

“That brings it down to one. Sean tucker. A farther of 3. Wife is a teacher. she struggles with PTSD, and other relate illness.

“Tell me a story.”

“An apartment Building was on fire at Stone and Garfield St. the wife who name is Sally Tucker

 was on the 3-floor stairwell, when the explosion happens after the electric fire reach an area of chemicals. That set the who building a blaze. The chemicals made it spread faster.”

“How long ago was the fire.”

“About almost 8 months on the 27th. it looks like her Lily was one of the survivors. Went straight to the hospital after a bystander saw her window get smash by her boyfriend. Trying to get help to her. once in hospital she has serve burns. Lost more than 25% of muscle tissues. After multiple surgeries she was release about 6 months ago. she gotten into physical therapy about 2 months ago. has been there ever sense. 

“How were the tuckers involve in the program.”

“T and V had brought it to our attention when one of Mrs. tuckers students came home saying how his teacher was “acting strange”. 

“I am guessing the “acting strange” was her PTSD.”

“You called. V. went to talk to her. she found out story. made a deal with her.  she goes to therapy we give better care to her friend.”

“because of the deal. Every one of her family members had to be in the system.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Dose he used any of our services.”

“T has babysitting, and bills marked.”

“Babysitting Is needed when both parents are working full time and the mom needs help. There is no way they could do all that on their own.”

“Besides that, everything clean.”

“That doesn’t help what I want.”

“Want to explain?”

“Well, the people I am with. One of them had an interview with Mr. Tucker. When they came back. 

He said, “he doesn’t want your people on his team.”

“Well one of their rules is equality to the end.

“When was there last check?”

“Well about a month ago. t went to see if they were going to appointments. the other check ins are form the babysitter or physical therapy workers.”

“Okay. send T. and V. or someone with their level of clearance. To report and see if maybe something will come up.  If I want to mess with them I want to make sure its fair.

“Done. I know you are a necklace short who am I adding.”

“how do you know?”

“well you are making me do all this extra work for this “family you been hanging out with, right? they must have a lot of your respect. 

“You not adding him yet, at least not until I leave, or something happens.”

“Okay, but you still gave out a necklace?” 

“I going to protect them while I am here. When I give you a mission, I will tell them how you can get to them. I gave their youngest two necklace.”

“One for him and one for us.” 

“You know it.”

“Also, I need you to look into someone for me. tell me the name. Susie Cook.”

“Got it. why…” 

“I just want to make sure she there. I don’t want to fully explain it right now.”

“Okay. so, you know you better explain when I see you.”

Banging on glass had caught my attention. Tails tap his back of his wrist as time was up. I nodded at him as an understanding.  He left his room. Dinner must of be done. 

“Look bro I need to go. anything I should know before I disappear again.”

“That we love you and want what’s best for you.”

“I love you guys too. I have a feeling I will be back sooner then we know it.”

“I learned to trust that gut. you diffidently got the Gibbs gut.”

“What?”

“Wait, that not out yet.”

“I Explain and you explain when I come back.”

“DEAL!! when its midnight.”

“There are stars.”

I close the phone. Ending the call. Climbing in the window. It going to be a good night. Little did I was going to say the opposite later that night.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

This Dark Thing That Sleeps In Me - a Magnus Archives AU, Chapter Ten

This is a DARK AU; it is not a kid-fic, though Jon is young. Bittersweet ending ahead.

Spoilers for the whole show, though this is very much an alternate universe.

“You like my people, do you not? Martin. Tim. Sasha,” said Jonah.

“Yes, very much.” No lies needed here.

“I’m glad. I’ve gone to quite some trouble to ensure they were here for you.”

Again, his past self was silent. Jon looked—and was—confused. “For me?”

AO3

Incredible fanart by @iiiumihottie!

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They went back up the stairs, and they climbed and climbed and climbed. They passed the Web’s floor, and now, everything got fancy. Red wallpaper, rich dark carpet, fancy sconces with ornate brass molding. The red carpet was thick, swallowing every footstep, giving way under Jon’s feet so softly that he wanted to feel it bare-footed. Jon gawked.

“See, here’s how it’s going to work,” said Martin. “He loves the frippery of all of this? So we’re supposed to change clothes at least once a day.”

It is not supposed to be this way said that deep, repeated anger. “That’s so wasteful,” Jon said.

Martin snorted. “It is, but don’t let him hear you say that. Anyway. Here.” And it was an entire floor of what could only be called frippery. Every inch was gilded or feathered or embroidered with fancy, shiny thread. Even the high-up windows had been framed in gold, thick and ornate and gleaming with jewels that caught the fading sunlight. The carpet was even thicker, and the air itself so scented, that Jon felt immediately grubby.

“You can use anything up here,” said Martin. “At least we’re not expected to provide our own clothes. That’d be crazy.”

There were rooms of clothing. Rooms of clothing. So much clothing. Suits and dresses and hats and boots, huge things that had to be costumes with feathers and swords. One room filled with decidedly slinky things, lacy items that wouldn’t cover much.

“Not that one,” said Martin, and closed that door in a rush.

Clothes and clothes and clothes, and Jon couldn’t help but think of how hard it was on the street to find clothes, of how he’d had to be careful even when trading not to take from people who didn’t have much, and that tiny inside-part of him grew angrier. “I… I don’t know what to wear,” he said.

“Mmm,” said Martin. “This should work.” He snatched something green off a rack. “Let’s go. Time to get this fitted.”

“Fitted?”

“That’s half the fun. Jonah hates ill-fitting clothes.” Fitted meant up another floor, this time to a room with weavers. They were Web, all of them, and literally spinning, seated at looms. 

Jon had never imagined so many machines for making clothes. He’d also never imagined being stripped and redressed in moments by several people with six arms. He yipped.

Martin had already disappeared in a flock of them, hidden by enormous bustled dresses and tutting spider-armed people.

They were delighted to meet Annabelle Two.

“She’s my friend,” Jon informed them. “But I’m afraid she’s going to get squashed.”

That was the right thing to say, apparently. They laughed. They reassured him (keeping him distracted while they stripped him down, which helped). One of them produced a tiny cage. It was shaped like a birdcage and painted gold, but it wasn’t gold. It fit in Jon’s palm, and when he experimentally squeezed, it proved solid. The “bars” were just far enough apart that Annabelle Two could get through them without even hesitating, and she zipped right inside with clear relief.

“Oh, wow,” said Jon. And now, he got to wear her. He was given a complicated little gold sheath that hung over his ear and dangled the cage like some fancy earring. 

“Oh, that’s really cool,” said Martin, who had been done up in reds and pinks and puffed sleeves.

“I’ve never been cool before,” said Jon. Ever, confirmed his past self with some humor.

It was entirely a shocking experience, but the end was good. Jon had a suit that fit him in lush, velvety green. He had a fancy little cage the size of his thumb carrying his new friend. They’d tied his hair back, too, and he thought he looked older than he ever had. The tiny cage under his ear was practically weightless. It looked stylized and exotic. It made him look like a different person. He stared in the mirror.

“So what do you think?” said Martin with a spin. 

They’d given him a little cape that flared, and he grinned. Jon grinned back. “I suppose I can see the appeal.”

“Some days, it’s fun,” Martin admitted. “Having to do it every day is a fucking chore, but—sorry. A chore.”

“You can just speak in front of me, you know,” said Jon. “I’ve heard all the swears.”

Martin laughed softly. “Have you, now?”

“Can you even imagine the things people say in their homes when they think no one’s listening?” said Jon without a hint of guile.

Martin shook his head. “Somewhere, right now, Tim is whispering ‘dibs’ at the ceiling.”

“Why does he do that?" said Jon.

“Um. You’re fun? Come on, let’s get upstairs, shall we?”

“What’s above us?”

“Jon, everything from here on up belongs to Jonah.”

Jon did a quick calculation. “That’s nearly half this whole tower!”

“Yep,” said Martin.

Not how it was supposed to be.

Maybe not, Jon thought, but this wasn’t the time to get into it. He had to please the Heart of the End; he had to give absolutely no indication that he would be trouble. He had to give Jonah no reason to suspect him any more than he obviously did. Jon was silent the rest of the way up the stairs.

#

Dinner happened in the third highest floor in the place.

It was so high. In this room, the windows were floor to ceiling, giving an incredible view; the breeze was cool, sharp, free of the mess of ocean and city and death. It was black stone in here—polished and slippery, and Jon walked with care. On the walls were portraits of Jonah (or at least, Jonah’s face) posing throughout the ages in various uniforms: he was a knight in one, slaying a dragon, and some sort of saint in one, with a robe and blocks of stone with writing chiseled into them, and—

“Welcome!” Jonah called.

Most of the room was taken up with a table and chairs, also black, all of them lacquered and shiny. Gold tipped the pointed, decorative backs of each chair, as if they’d all be sitting under tiny crowns.

Jonah was dressed like a god. It was a suit, sure, with a jacket and vest and pants, but all of it glittered, a vibrant purple cloth with medals and jewels sewn all over, so that he glinted like broken glass. He was standing by the head of the table, holding out a chair on the side. And he gestured.

“Oh, boy,” Martin muttered. “Let’s get it over with.”

“How rude,” said Jonah, but he didn’t stop smiling.

Jon didn’t have to fake his fear. He was shaking like a skinned skeleton as he approached the chair.

Jonah’s eyes gleamed. He looked like a lion, about to pounce, as he slid Jon's chair in. “Relax, Jon. We will make this official.”

“Make what official, sir?” Jon managed. He kept his face turned toward Jonah, eyes glued.

“Good boy,” Jonah murmured. “You remembered.”

“I’m afraid of you,” Jon said.

“A wise response,” Jonah said. “What is this?” He touched the little cage.

“I trained spiders. Back in… before I left my Uncertain home,” Jon said. “This one’s mine, and the weavers gave me a way to keep her safe.”

“Such strange hobbies, the youth of today have,” said Jonah, dismissing this (and Jon knew he shouldn’t, knew there was some great influence being extended here to encourage that, but it worked, and that was all that mattered), and sat down.

Then Jonah just kept staring at him.

Jon shifted. Sank a little in his seat. Hugged himself.

Jonah laughed. “I’m not going to eat you.”

“I’m not used to being looked at. Sir,” said Jon.

“Mm, you wouldn’t be, would you?” said Jonah. “That makes sense—you’re so hard to see. How did your caretakers even manage you?”

“Food and money kept coming for the number of people in the house,” said Jon. “Though not after I left.”

“How would you know that?”

“It fell down. Amherst tore it apart.”

Jonah tilted his head. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“He didn’t want to turn thirty.”

“How foolish,” said Jonah lightly as people began filing in. “He would be reborn.”

“Of course,” said Jon. “I saw a lot of people afraid, though, even with that.” He perked up a little. “I was looking forward to it all when I turned ten.”

“Were you? Why?” said Jonah, chin on his hands, watching as though Jon were absolutely fascinating even though multitudes of people were wandering in, dressed to the nines.

Jon’s past self said nothing. He had no clue how to proceed, so… he simply talked. “Because I don’t know what it’s like. I want to know.”

“You want to know everything, isn’t that right?” said Jonah as the table was populated.

“Yes.” Jon almost looked down, but remembered not to.

“I will feed that,” said Jonah.

What a weird thing to say. “I wasn’t allowed on the Eye floor, though,” said  Jon.

“You weren’t? Well. We’ll fix that right away,” said Jonah. “Gertrude? Come sit up here, would you? Yes. By Jon. Thank you.”

Gertrude looked quietly afraid. Jon didn’t like her afraid. He had a feeling it didn’t happen often. 

“Hi,” he said.

She startled. “What—is that a spider on your ear?”

Sure, she could see that. “I train them.”

“Why?” she said.

“I didn’t have anyone else to talk to,” Jon said, which was a lie and not at the same time, and limited to the precise moment he’d felt most alone after Annabelle’s death.

Numerous things crossed her face. Something deep in Jon—very deep—was amused that he may have engendered actual compassion from this woman, though Jon was not sure why.

“Gertrude,” said Jonah, evenly, so calmly. “Did you forbid him access to your area today?”

The low murmurs of conversation stopped. So many people, quiet and watching. After what happened to Annabelle, everyone was afraid.

“Yes,” said Gertrude, because whatever flaws she had, she was very brave.

“I see. Why?”

“I don’t understand him, sir.”

“That is fair. Will you forbid him from here on out?”

“Do you want me to give him access, sir?” said Gertrude, bold as brass.

Jon liked her.

“Yes. In fact, that is an excellent cue. Everyone,” said Jonah, as if they weren’t already listening. “This is Jonathan Sims. He is mine. He belongs to me.”

Sims?

(The name echoed like a half-remembered dream.)

Sims? Had that been his mother’s name?

(The name felt right, settling on him as easily as his fitted suit.)

The looks cast his way were not friendly. They were hard, jealous, suspicious. Martin’s look was pitying. The spider reached through the little bars and patted Jon’s neck. It was tickly, but reassuring.

Jonah wasn’t done. “You will allow him to see whatever he wants. He has questions. And you will not hold back your answers.”

Jon swallowed, salivating, and looked around. He knew some of these people, but most, he did not. And yet how could he know any? He didn’t. And now that he knew he hadn’t been reborn before, and anyone in the cycle was from after, he couldn’t understand why he knew them.

“Let us feast!” said Jonah, apparently thrilled with how things were going, and clapped his hands. Servants entered (none, Jon noted, of the Corruption), bearing trays and trays and trays of food, the richness of which he had definitely never seen in London.

That tiny, quiet rage tried to rise again, but he pushed it down, piling food on top of it as fast as he could eat, daring not let Jonah see.

#

It wasn’t until the end of the meal that Jonah revealed what he’d been after this whole time.

Jon was so very full. Stuffed. He’d never eaten this much, and he had absolutely no regrets. Jonah watched him. He’d watched him most of dinner, ignoring conversation, even ignoring some direct questions. Finally, softly, he spoke. “Do you like it here, Jon?”

“You’re terrifying,” said Jon.

Jonah laughed softly. “Yes… but that isn’t what I asked.”

“I think so. I do. If I really will get answers, then yes, absolutely.”

“Mm. Good! Good. I’ve tried to make it a place where answers can be found. As well as… well. Walk with me.”

Thus bidden, Jon rose and followed him.

They didn’t go far; just to one of the windows, overlooking the endless sea. The sun was setting, painting it red; it was beautiful, frightening, vast.

“You like my people, do you not? Martin. Tim. Sasha,” said Jonah.

“Yes, very much.” No lies needed here.

“I’m glad. I’ve gone to quite some trouble to ensure they were here for you.”

Again, his past self was silent. Jon looked—and was—confused. “For me?”

“It’s very simple, Jon,” said Jonah, standing too close, looking down. “And really, I believe in laying out the stakes for a good game so all can enjoy it properly.”

“Game?” said Jon.

“If I die, they die,” he said.

Jon stared. All the conversation in the room seemed to reduce to buzzing, or maybe that was just inside his head. “What?” he whispered.

“I see I need to repeat it,” said Jonah. “If I die,” and he pointed at Martin, then pointed at Sasha and Tim and Mike at the far end of the table, then at himself. “They die.”

“I… why would…” Jon shook again.

“Because Annabelle was up to something,” Jonah said. “I don’t know what. I should have taken the time to root it out of her, but… well. Sometimes temper rules over good sense, don’t you know.”

Jon didn’t know what to say. How could he? “But you can’t die,” he finally blurted. “You’re the Heart of the End. Everybody knows that.”

“You’re almost endearing like this,” said Jonah. “Enjoy your answers. Friends! I retire. Behave, my lovely living ones.” And with that, he just swept away, cape fluttering, catching the light like a shattered mirror. 

Abandoned, backlit in front of the window, as seen as he’d ever been in his life, Jon stood and shook hard.

Did Jonah know? No. Or he would have killed Jon. He was just covering his bases. And he certainly had. Oh, he had.

If Jon did this, he would kill Martin, Tim, and Sasha.

But Jon would save the world.

But Jon would kill Martin, Tim, and Sasha, and they wouldn’t be reborn. No one would, ever again.

He couldn’t do this. How could he be expected to do this? He couldn’t do this!

“Hey, you okay?” said Martin, approaching slowly, like Jon was a wild dog.

Jon stared at him. He wanted to run away. He wanted to leave this behind, go back to the street, let them live. But they wouldn’t live. Martin might, at least until Jonah grew too angry with him, but… the others would not.

And they wouldn’t be reborn, either, the way things were going. But to kill them?

Jon didn’t know what to do.

“Long day, huh, buddy?” said Martin gently, coming alongside. “Come on. I think you need to sleep. A real bed this time. You’d like that, right?”

“Yes,” whispered Jon, and let Martin lead him away, out of the already-drifting gaze of the others, out of this horrible place with its frippery and fanciness, and back down the stairs. Away from it all, to quieter parts, where Jon found himself grateful that it was brown and black and not too fancy, where Jonah had wanted people to contemplate death and accidentally made it peaceful. He said nothing as Martin took him to his own area—sort of an apartment with multiple rooms—and assigned him a bedroom and bath of his very own.

“You going to be okay? What did he say to you over there?” said Martin.

“Nothing good,” said Jon. And then, since he’d been asked: “Maybe. I… I’ll try.”

“Do you want to be alone?”

“Yes, please.”

“You need anything, just call, or knock on the wall, or something. All right?”

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon wiped his eyes, and was left alone with his spider and his thoughts.

Then Annabelle Two left her cage, patted his hand, and climbed up to the ceiling to make webs in the corners.

And now, Jon was truly alone. His mind spun, and stalled over and over again.

How could he do this?

Somehow, by a miracle (and perhaps a very fully belly), he finally fell asleep.

chapter eleven

[poeticusnarcissus]

🍁Ariendelle Valyn🍁

~Fey Eladrin~

“I change alongside the seasons, just as we all do”

Druid {Circle of the Shepherd}

(Description)

Alignment: Chaotic Good

- cares deeply for wildlife, creatures, and the fae

- sworn to protect the lives of those weaker than her

- uninterested in the scheming of mortals

- feels responsible for the party’s well being

Flaws:

- Overwhelm in the face of responsibility

- Inferiority complex: Grandma Shava was always very strict with her, and rarely gave her a word of praise. Ari always felt more at home with the wild things, and was shamed for her curiosities due to Shava’s rigid demeanor. Ari feels that her only true place is helping creatures, but is entirely underconfident in her place among people, especially elves.

Interests:

- Cooking/baking, herbalism, ecology, art, magic and the arcane, the feywild

Likes:

- tea, trinkets and shiny things, discovering new species, cozy vibes

Dislikes:

- sticky smelly or slimy things, whiskey, places crowded with humanoids

Eyes: Grey

Size: Medium

Height: 5’10”

Faith: The Seldarine

Age: 130

Weight: 145

Clothes:

Bomber Jacket

- pockets lining the inside, with smaller pockets inside of them to hold viles in place.

- two small bags are strapped to her waist, as well as a small leather case containing a journal, a needle and thread, scissors and bandaids, and a bottle of advil.

Beige Baggy Pants

Black Combat Boots

- all of her pockets are filled with trinkets? vials, herbs

~Personalities~

(Base Traits) protective of creatures, clever, kind

(Autumn) cautious, charming, studious

Strengths: mediator; heavily focused on the well being of the people around her; relies on intellect to think through situations

Flaws: self-doubt, more worried about where she should be helping than what is in her power to do, gives more than she can so as not to be a burden, slow to action

Traits: “I’ll do my best to help when I see someone is suffering or in pain” “I always have snacks packed just in case”

Description: Auborn Red Hair w maple leaves growing in it, warm toned skin, brown eyes

(Winter) composed, rational, erratic

Strengths: hyper vigilance, logical thinking, quick to act on an opportunity

Flaws: rapid mood swings, suspicious + sarcastic, cynical

Traits: “All things end in life, winter always comes” “I’m thinking of all the ways this could go wrong, so when it does I am prepared”

(Spring) curious, reckless, mischievous

Strengths: charming, sneaky, a goddamn joy to be around

Flaws: acts without thinking of the consequences, a tad manipulative

Traits: “I’ll try anything, if it looks like it’ll be a good time.” “Curiosity is the guide to our wildest dreams.” “I get what I want; one way or the other.”

Description:

(Summer) passionate, protective, aggressive

Strengths: ready to charge into action, prepared for conflict, bursting with challenging energy

Flaws: consequences be damned, extremely defensive

Traits: “I won’t waste time with words when I can clearly see what needs to be done.” “Why worry so much? Let’s just all have a good time and get along.” “I’m all fired up!”

Description:

Hair - pale gold, with streaks of fiery red running through it. They fade and glow like the sparks of a fire (lava lamp)

Skin - warm tones, streaks of golden veins snake their way across her entire body including her face, they glow in response to her emotions

~Occupation~

Ranger at Central Park

Ari spends her days roaming the park, tracking the ecosystems and wildlife. She serves as a veterinarian for any critters that have been harmed or are sick.

~Significant Characters~

Freddie Mercury - Treant Sapling

-Freddie was found suffering from Tube Wilt in central park. Ari brought him to her home and cured him using rot grubs (which she promptly contained because they’re hazardous to mortals). He refused to move out of her apartment, so she let him stay.

-moody teenager

-Freddie’s mother is a sentient tree in Fae Grove; His father is

Twill - Tiny Mouse Fae

-Ari’s childhood friend who chose to stay by her side, accompanying her into the mortal realm

-spends her time in Ari’s apartment painting, sketching, or making arrows

-she’s practiced in making little tools, items, or weapons out of sticks, rocks, leaves and whatever else she can find

-notorious pick pocket

~Backstory~

Where is she from (Kingdom/Region/Etc.)?

Seldarine, Home of The Eladrin

Feywild

What was her role there?

Granddaughter of Shava, Elder of (Winter)

She lived in the central kingdom with her father and mother

Why did she leave? What motivated her? How did she become a ranger for the Fairy Mafia in New Amsterdam?

She grew up under the influence of her father, who is apart of the druidic Circle of the Shepherd. He showed her many creatures of the feywild, both within the islands of Seldarine and outside of them. He cared for the animals, the fae life, and any creature in need of help. Ari spent her youth following her father as he roamed the forests in Seldarine. On a few special occasions, he took her below the floating islands and into the Feywild itself. He spent more time there than most Eladrin, and taught Ari everything he’d learned about the Fae. She far preferred the company of her father and the feywild creatures over her fellow elf.

Grandma Shava and her mother wished to raise her as the next successor to be Elder of Winter. However, unlike most Eladrin, Ari has no control of her seasonal state. Eladrin can choose to remain in one season all their life, or change it at will. Most are still heavily influenced by their emotions, but the longer an Eladrin remains in a singular state, the more they concretely begin to take on the traits of their season. Ari’s seasons change based on her emotions, or purely at random with seemingly no cause.

Ari left the care of her parents at 100 years of age and moved to the city in Vandria with Shava, who began tutoring her in the ways of the Noble Eladrin. Though most Eladrin believe in the freedom of being, the Winter Eladrin have become frozen in their ways. Many hold to a rigid mindset that they believe is dignity befitting of the elven race. Ari’s mother (Allena) was to become the Elder’s Heir, but chose a life of a nomad to be with Ari’s father (Jorcoris). It tore a rift between Shava and her daughter. Allena hoped Ari could be the bridge to mend that bond.

There is a Feywild portal in The Sanctuary, though it is mostly used to travel throughout the feywilds rather than to the mortal realm. During a spring season, Ari became increasingly curious about tales of the mortal world. Feeling constricted, miserable, and homesick for her beloved Forests, she snuck through the portal. She’d intended only to spend a short time observing the creatures there, but found herself in the Fey Grove Park of New Ancaster. There, she helped save the life of a fae creature, and the Fairy Mafia witnessed it. They offered her a place among them, assisting in the care of the creatures residing in the park. All her life, she’d wanted to follow the path of her father and become a Shepherd. However, she did want to disappoint her grandmother or mother.

Conflicted, she returned home. She made a bargain with her grandmother to travel to the mortal realm and stay there for an equivalent of 10 years time in the Feywilds. Regardless of how time moved for Ari in the mortal world, she’d return once her grandmother sent for her. Her parents gave their blessings, and her father sent her on her way with his staff. She began assisting the Fairy Mafia in matters dealing with Magical Creatures.

Ari often misses the sprawling fields and lush forests of the Feywild. Her freedom was taken from her the day she entered Shava’s tutelage. New Amsterdam has offered her a place to belong and to be free, as well as new dangers.

- Twill is her childhood friend and chose to stay by her side, even into the mortal realm

- Freddie was found abandoned in Central Park suffering from Tube Wilt. Ari brought him to her home and cured him using rot grubs (which she then contained because they’re hazardous to mortals). He refused to leave, and she took him in.

Ari’s Motivations:

To protect the safe space for wild life in Central Park, and care for any patients who come through her doors.

Ari feels as though she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. That she shouldn’t be included with this group of people who are so willing to dive headfirst into trouble. She doubts she will be of any use, no matter how much she wants to help the creatures and children who are being put in danger.

When Ari is confronted with the reality of the situation head on, she is willing to lend a hand. She is unable to ignore the threat to the lives of the fey and fauna, or the innocents.

Due to Ari’s inexperience in battle, she panicked during her first real fight in the warehouse. Ari has only brushed the ugly underside of the city, and has done her best to remain detached from the dangers lurking there. Ari feels that Alfi died on her watch, and begins to question how much of a burden she truly is on this crew. She continues on, though reluctantly.

After nearly dying herself, she questions her purpose. Losing sight of the creatures who need her, she wishes to simply return to her peaceful days. Alfi convinces her to rejoin, and continue assisting them in their investigation. He reassures her of her safety, and her purpose.

The death of the homeless man deeply frightens Ari. This crew is full of powerful characters, and if her time with the Fae had taught her anything, it’s that those who are careless with power often end up hurting others with it. She has been pulled into the plots of something far larger than she could have ever imagined. Though she continues to wish to be of help to her friends, she no longer is willing to get involved with the dealings of the under city. Still, she follows through on her agreement to help Parker and Alfi in one last recon mission. Ari uncovers the groundwork for the true horrors this organization has planned. They call their kidnapped victims “Lumists”, beings filled with magic. They siphon the magic from them, a painful process that slowly kills them.

Parker’s daughter Vi gets kidnapped by the Don of the orc mafia, and used to open a portal. Ari helped free her, cutting the arcane sigils keeping her trapped in a magic siphoning machine. Being placed in another battle, Ari is able to heal many members of the party back from the brink of death (much improved from her first battle) “At least I managed to keep all of you alive this time.” Ari settles into the gravity of her situation. She begins to feel as though she’s understanding her place. Whether or not she herself is capable of facing the monsters, she can help the people who can. Ari is constantly reminded of the past that is creeping forward towards her. The letter from her parents, the locket, the vision from Hyssram. All pulling her back into the Fae Wild, to Seldarine. She knows she must return eventually, but would rather delay the inevitable. Suddenly, helping a ragtag group of hero’s seems like a far better way to spend one’s time, and ignore one’s own callings.

—

What changes for Ari that causes her to go from reluctant bypasser helping out, to a willing force in the plotline?

The plight of the creatures she’s sworn to protect

her fathers influence - a man who was kind to a fault, who never stood by when he saw the fragile balance of life being violated

In Ari’s eyes he was the strongest, bravest, kindest man to have ever lived. And she would be lucky to become half of what he was.

she rapidly becomes the parties ONLY healer and therefore feels she has no choice but to keep these fools alive.

[medicus-mortem]

erraticoptimism​:

They’ve been around one another long enough that the sudden shift in air doesn’t faze the younger captain in the least, Law not paid the least bit of mind as he continues in his efforts right up until his wrists are snagged to still his fingers from sinking back into the soil. It’s effective, those hands stop instantly and though Luffy makes no outward changes there’s a definite shift in tension. They’ve been here before and while the wound isn’t as raw as it was sometimes little things take him back for a moment to the cold metal of the med bay on the Polar Tang, the sharp smell of antiseptic and the burn of loss and exhaustion as he came down from the burst of adrenaline that had him attempting to tear his way out of the room.

It’s over quick as it comes. Never one to pass up an opportunity for distraction, Luffy watches gleefully as Law sorts out his request with much more thought and care than Luffy himself had bothered. “You know which means you touched it so it’s fine! The dirt doesn’t hurt. Besides, if I had cut them off you’d just fix them!” A perk. Luffy’s always been careless but now he’s got even more of an excuse to bid goodbye to sanity and self-preservation. He’s got a doctor on his adventure on this cliff side, after all, and Law’s solved his problems more than once–through no help of his own.

“I wish I could see his face when you just…do that.” He laughs, the mental image more than enough though it’s probably a lot more outlandish of a reaction than Usopp would’ve actually given. There’s upended chairs and shrieks in his mind’s eye, but he’s quick to inch just a little further away as if being out of reach really mattered when it came to Law. Still. He likes where he’s at and he doesn’t want to give the Heart Captain any bright ideas. He’s not going back to the Sunny.

“I want to get some shiny rocks, too!” They’d passed them on the way, jutting out of the cliff side and he’s certain he could hang over the edge and knock a few loose. Or dangle Law over it and have him pop them onto the ship like he’d done with the flower. His grin takes on a wicked edge as he considers. He wouldn’t have to carry it then which would leave him free to find more fun things. “Hey, Torao. Wanna do me a favor?” It’s phrased as if it’s a genuine question but he’s already in the process of making a grab for the doctor.

   Law cannot understand how this rubber kid can be so up beat all the time. It’s like he’s certain everything will work out fine. In Law’s experience that is not true. Unless you’re prepared for any and all possibilities the world will chew you up and spit you out. Life isn’t easy, life doesn’t just work itself out. You have to fight and claw for what little good you can find. But here is this pirate captain with a straw hat whose instant response to anything is to grin and say it’ll be fine.

   God does it make one gloomy doctor envious. How he wishes he could go through life feeling that light. How he wishes he didn’t have to carry this heavy weight.

   He just crouches here on his hunches, watching Luffy laugh and imagine what it’d be like for Usopp to see a crystal plant materialise out of nothing. His face is stone, no expression in his gold eyes. Just a small tilt in his eyebrows as Law once again tries to figure this kid out and fails miserably. How can he be this way after seeing his brother die? After being the destroyed wreck Law saw on Amazon Lily after he woke from the surgery? How can he get over the death of his sibling when Law has never once forgiven himself for his own sister’s death?

   Then Straw Hat’s attention shifts. It’s sudden, chaotic. A whirlwind of new, barely considered thoughts. His bright smile turns to Law and there is a gleam in his eyes that instantly puts the Surgeon of Death on edge. Arms reach out and Law has horrible, uncomfortable flashbacks.

   “Oh, nope,” Law hisses, standing quickly and stepping away from those reaching hands. “I know that fuckin’ look and you are not touching me. Just tell me what the fuck you want and I’ll do it without you throwin’ me into a wall or some other shit.”

   Because even if he loathes being told what to do, being ordered around, Law knows it’d be so much easier to just teleport whatever Straw Hat wants then to deal with his constant manhandling. He has had enough of that bullshit for multiple life times, thanks. Honestly, how does his crew put up with this?

[phoebe-delia]

Heart of Gold

This is for the marvelous, majestic, incredible birthday geese, @geesenoises. My love, I don't quite know what I'd do without you and your big heart and smart brain. You are so full of kindness, wisdom, humor and generosity. I simply adore you.

Thank you, also, for introducing me to Griff. For you, I have a little songfic offering based on "Heart of Gold," which as we've discussed is a great Drarry song. I hope I've done it justice. Enjoy!

Draco wonders when Harry will figure it out.

There will come a day, Draco knows, when Harry will come to his senses and realize that Draco—even at his best—isn't nearly good enough for him.

That idea is still somewhat foreign to Draco, still—this notion that being "good enough" can't be measured by a figure in a bank account, but is an imaginary value altogether that Draco has yet to calculate for himself. And yet he knows, viscerally, that on the hierarchy of Goodness, he is several rungs below Harry—shiny, smiling, giving, warm-hearted Harry.

Harry gives to charity at the supermarket. He holds the door for people. He picks up litter on the street. He volunteers at the animal shelter once a month. He has a smile for everyone and genuinely tries his best in everything he does.

Draco brushes past people handing out flyers on the street. He shamelessly takes the last muffin at work without asking if anyone wants it. He's selfish and he can be callous. He lets his anxiety and the urge to stay in his comfort zone overpower the shreds of a moral compass he's holding together in his soul with duct tape.

But more than that, Draco—deep down—still struggles to unlearn the lessons of his youth. He loves Harry—deeply, irrevocably and forever—and yet he still, constantly, has to swallow the instinctual judgment and prejudiced fear he was taught to internalize for so long. He doesn't act on it; he pushes the thoughts back down with all his might. But part of him hates himself a little every time it happens. He hates himself a little for knowing he doesn't measure up to what Harry deserves.

And, selfishly, he'll hold on to Harry–to this sacred love—for as long as he can.

______

Harry wishes Draco knew.

He sees it, sometimes; the flicker of self-flagellation in Draco's expression. Harry didn't know what it meant, in the beginning, but now he sees it for what it is—knows that it's Draco giving himself a mental slap for some imagined or arbitrary transgression.

Harry wonders if Draco knows it's okay to be imperfect—that he hasn't used up his chances in life to be wrong, to make mistakes and bad choices. He wonders if Draco will start to see that the best thing a person can do is try to do their best, each day.

He wants, so badly, to tell Draco all this. He could wax poetic about his love for Draco until he turns blue in the face; he could offer platitudes and comfort and reassurances. He could talk about how proud he is of Draco and how far they've come. He could tell Draco that everyone has thoughts they're not proud of—ones that make them cringe and scold themselves—but that what's important is how we act and treat others. And how we treat ourselves—with education and forgiveness.

But he knows words won't do what time can. Nothing will prove to Draco that Harry wants to be with him other than doing it. Living it out. Harry wants to give him forever, and that's a gift he can give every day, even if Draco doesn't see it at first.

And that's okay. Harry will give him time—as long as he needs—to figure it out.

[kiwixlime]

Between You and I - Part Seven

Recommended listening - Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge.

This is my 100th post! I was saving it for an update, so here we go! It's a little longer, coming it at around 5k words, but I was trying to build up some story line, too, lol. Anyway! Enjoy this chapter because man the next one is gonna be a mess. As always, thank you so much for reading. I love and appreciate u all. PS - I literally don't remember what I write so if I repeat things, I am super sorry. But I just get an idea and spend a couple days writing with the flow. So I never go back and reread things. Sorry!

And about the song. It just came on one of my playlists and I was like, hm. This works. 18+ Minors DNI

You sit in the passenger seat of Joel’s truck, the visor down with the mirror angled at your face. He watches with interest as you apply a bold coat of red lipstick to your lips, sticking your finger between them and pulling it out with a pop. His face twitches at the action. He should not find that so attractive. 

But you look good tonight. You look good every night, but rather than wait and get dressed at the club, you took your time and got ready at Joel’s place. He’s had to watch you float around in your skimpy outfit for an hour with you telling him no touching. It’s part of why you had to do your makeup in his car. You couldn’t risk him messing it up with his aroused kisses. 

You saved the lipstick for last, swiping your eyelids with champagne glitter complimented by thick black liner and false lashes. The lashes were a surprise for Joel, who could not get over the fact that they were, in fact, fake. And yes, you put them on top of your own. A wild concept for the man, but it was endearing. 

“God damn,” Joel mutters, his eyes still fixated on you. You stop fucking with the ringlets in your hair and glance over at him. Suddenly, you feel very self-conscious. 

“What?” You frown, looking down at your outfit. Tonight’s getup consists of a black bustier corset and skirt accented by red ribbon and lace detail. It’s not your favorite costume, but it accentuates your curves and pushes your breasts up, showing them off. You look hot. At least, you thought you did until Joel spoke. “Do I look okay?” You question him with a soft voice. 

“In that ensemble?” Joel snorts, flicking his eyes over your frame, burning every part of you into his brain. Under the dim parking lot lights, you are seductive, almost mythical. He thinks if he reaches out to touch you, you might just disappear. “You look like every teenage boy’s wet dream,” he blurts. 

“You say the sweetest things to me, Joel Miller,” you tease, glimpsing back at yourself in the mirror. After adding some setting spray, you’re good to go. Even if there were issues with your makeup, you have no time to make changes. You’re already running late. “Come on, let’s go,” you groan as you open the door. 

Tonight, Joel has decided to join you at the club. You were complaining earlier about how much you didn’t want to go, and Joel being the perfect man he is, said he’d tag along. His reasoning was that if you saw him waiting for you in the audience, the night would pass by quickly, and you'd be with him the second your shift was done. You’re not sure about that, but you love the thought. 

Ever since you went on your date with him, he’s been more delicate with you. His touches are gentle and affectionate. The words he speaks are wrapped in compassion. And the way he fucks you, well, it’s tender. It’s loving. You don’t want to get ahead of yourself, but his newfound passion torches those embers within you. He’s clingy, in a good way. And his actions are much like yours. Filled with love. 

But no, you don’t want to get ahead of yourself. 

“I’ll sit you in the VIP section,” you tell him when you enter the familiar building. The sequined walls welcome you back, and the lights have already dimmed to a cool violet shade. You greet Eli at the ticket counter and get Joel checked in, slipping a shiny gold wristband past his watch. Your stomach churns, knowing that it was a gift from Sarah. Oh, if only she knew what you were up to now. You swallow the lump in your throat and put a smile on your face, taking Joel’s hand. “The VIP tables have the best view in the house. So, I expect excellent tips,” you jibe. 

“I have to tip you now?” He laughs, following your lead through the club. “Isn’t that prostitution?” You don’t turn around, but he can hear you huff at his joke, and his smile widens. He keeps up as you weave through smaller tables until you reach a bigger raised platform. Velvet ropes drape around the location, and you unhook one, ushering Joel up. 

“Enjoy the show tonight, Mr. Miller,” you flirt, leaning over the cords. You swear you can see him blush a little as he relaxes back onto the velour loveseat. You step away for a second before returning, biting your lip. “And yes, you have to tip me. But… I didn’t say how,” you whisper suggestively, shooting him a wink before jumping down from the platform and sauntering away. 

His eyes stay glued to you until you vanish behind the purple curtain. Once you are out of sight, Joel exhales through his nose as worry seeps through his bloodstream. The hold you have over him is concerning, and he knows it. Truth be told, you have him hypnotized. And it’s not just your looks, or your youth, or your enthusiasm to do whatever he wants. You are extraordinary. It’s as simple as that. He could live a thousand lifetimes and never meet another soul like you. 

He’s not a big believer in things like fate. But that day you bumped into him changed his course in life for sure. How can he not thank the planets for aligning at just the right moment to bring you to him? 

Sarah would say it's destiny. 

But he can’t think about Sarah. He’s so afraid of her finding out this secret. But the problem is, he wants to tell her. He wants to tell her everything because he’s so intensely connected to you, he doesn’t want to hide it. Sarah is the most important person in his world, and her feelings come first. He wants her to accept his relationship with you because if it comes down to it and he has to choose…

He’d have to say goodbye to you. 

Lost in thought, Joel doesn’t realize he’s not alone anymore. Your coworker, Daphne, is standing beside him with a knowing grin on her face as she stares the man down. It’s only when she clicks her tongue that he snaps out of his daze, embarrassed. 

“Hey, I don’t blame you,” she says, comforting him. “Our girl looks good tonight.” 

“Yeah,” Joel nods in agreement. “She sure does. Did you need something?” He asks awkwardly, wondering how long she had been standing there before knocking him out of his fog. 

“Just to take your drink order,” she says cheerily. “What can I get you?” 

“Oh,” he frowns, darting around the room for you like a lost puppy. 

Daphne must notice because she laughs and snaps her fingers in his face. “She’s behind the bar. I’ll send her back with your drink. Just tell me what you want.” 

“Sorry,” he apologizes shyly and orders a scotch, thanking Daphne as she walks away. His eyes fall on the bar, and sure enough, there you are, mixing a cocktail. He smiles out of instinct, and you return it, sending him a little wave as well. 

Daphne stops in front of the bar, and he watches the two of you talk. She must say something witty, probably making fun of him, because your head falls back as you let out a laugh with your friend joining in after. Great, he thinks. Made a killer first impression on the people in your life. 

“Okay, for starters, that man is gorgeous and I hate you,” Daphne declares, leaning over the bar top, giving you Joel's order. You can’t help but laugh at her comment, agreeing with her. She glances back at him and then smiles brightly at you. “And secondly, he is so in love with you, it makes me sick.” 

“Daphne!” You chirp, standing straight in alert and almost dropping a bottle of alcohol in the process. “Don’t say that,” you whisper. “He is not.” 

“Oh, please,” she scoffs and turns around, deliberately pointing to Joel who's sitting there staring at his hands. “I know I’m kind of challenged in the male emotions department,” she admits, making you chuckle. “But I know love when I see it. And cupcake, that man is in love with you.” 

You glare at her while you get together Joel’s drink, cheeks burning crimson all the way to the tips of your ears. She really said that. And now you can’t get the thought out of your head. 

But she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She already admitted she’s bad at reading guys. She obviously has this one wrong. Obviously. Without saying another word, you grab your tray and make your way over to where Joel sits, leaving Daphne and her silly accusations behind. 

Joel fidgets while he waits for his booze. For whatever reason, he's feeling nervous tonight. This is your territory. This is your life. And you’re welcoming him in, letting him be a part of it. He's seen you dance before, once with Tommy, but this is so different. It’s intimate in a unique way, and he just wants to make you proud to be with him. 

“Your drink, sir,” your sweet voice says as you return to him, holding out a glass and a cocktail napkin. He mumbles his thank you, swiping the drink from your hands and downing it quickly. You stand by with wide eyes, shocked by his restlessness. Once he’s done, he gasps and sets the glass down thoughtfully. “You good, babe?” You ask him, practically feeling the panic that branches off him. 

“I’m anxious,” he admits, wiping his sweaty palms against his jeans. “I’m like, really fuckin’ anxious.” Okay, maybe Daphne is on the right track with this whole love thing. But…you can’t be sure. Don’t read into it. 

“Aw,” you coo, reaching forward for his hand. He lets you take it, lacing your fingers and giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Why?” 

“I have no idea, sweetheart,” he says. “This all feels really personal.” 

“Joel,” you say flatly, attempting to hide your mischievous smile. “You’ve seen me naked. Pretty sure that’s more personal than this.” 

“I know! How crazy is that!” He all but shouts, a wild look in his eyes. 

“Okay,” you giggle, dropping your hand from his. God, he's cute. “Can I get you a refill?” 

“I’m okay,” he assures you with a warm smile. “Go do your thing. I’ll be fine.” He nods as you stand there, sizing him up. You still have some questions, but he seems to be calmer now. So you leave him there, needing to attend to other customers. 

If only Joel knew how quickly things would change the second you left.  

You make your way to a table across from him, socializing with other patrons, taking their orders as you flip your hair over your shoulder, leaning down just close enough so some dick with a baseball cap gets an eyeful of your tits. It’s over the top flirtation, but the guys don’t care as long as you’re paying attention to them. They eat that shit up. 

Joel’s man enough to admit he feels jealous of the way these guys watch you. He doesn’t like when they flirt with you, and he certainly hates when you tease back. But it’s a part of the job. He understands this. If anything, it gives him a moment to take a step back and dial down the overly possessive thoughts swimming in his mind. He doesn’t own you. Yeah, you tease each other about it during sex. But you are your own person. He would never be that guy. Unless he's railing you. 

But he does have to fight down the urge to knock in their teeth when they check out your ass. Not that he can blame them. Anyone with a sense of sight would be floored by you. 

So he gets it. He does. And these men, they’re mostly respectful because even though you and every other performer in here are dressed like pinup girls, it’s a well-established joint with a good reputation. The audience comprehends that, so they keep their hands to themselves and their comments just above skeevy. 

Every once in a while, a rowdy client comes through. But that’s when security steps in and gives them the boot so as not to ruin the night for anyone else. You’ve told Joel that those nights are few and far between. And that it’s been a while since an incident occurred. 

So when you traipse past the VIP section to a table a few rows ahead of him, everything kind of moves in slow motion as a guy in a suit guides his hand to slap your ass. It takes a few seconds for Joel to wrap his head around the act before his protectiveness kicks into drive. He stands, rage ticking through him, ready to lunge at a notice. He’s halfway over the obstruction of velvet ropes when he hears your voice. 

“Excuse me, sir!” You scold, your tone reaching a decibel Joel’s never heard. It garners the attention of surrounding tables, all watching in anticipation. “Touch me again and I’ll have you thrown out,” you snap. 

“Like you have the power to do that,” douchebag in a suit slurs. You brush him off as a drunk idiot, not worth your time until he opens his mouth again and grabs your wrist. “Stupid slut.” 

Joel hears those vile words drip from that man’s mouth, and all he can see is red. His fists are ready for destruction. But before he can do anything to defend your honor, you’re yelling again. 

“Eduardo!” You call out, tearing yourself away from the man's aggressive hold. He has the nerve to smirk, totally unfazed by your temper. 

In seconds a tall, broad man approaches the chaos. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, hair slicked back, not a strand out of place, rigidity in his face. His muscles bulge as he crosses his arms, and his chunky army boots thunder against the floor as he makes his way to you, standing by your side. “Something wrong?” His deep voice asks, and the smirk on the pervert’s face falls.  

“This creep won’t stop touching me,” you huff, singling out the dickhead who grabbed you. 

Eduardo’s face hardens, and he captures the guy by the suit collar, yanking him from the chair he’d been occupying. The man wiggles in Eduardo’s hold, panic setting in that his drunk mind can’t understand. “No touching the performers,” Eduardo says harshly. 

“Performers?” The stranger chortles, spitting when he looks at you. “She’s basically a stripper.”

You roll your eyes and walk away from the altercation, as it's beneath you. Eduardo will override the guy’s last warning and have him kicked from the club any second. You’re done with that.

Footsteps come up behind you, and you know it’s Joel, coming to check on you. You have to admit, it would’ve been hot to see him in action. But if he dared to try, he’d be removed from the premises for beating that guy to a pulp. 

“Are you okay?” Joel asks, tugging on your hand affectionately. His spicy cologne fills your senses as he draws you close, examining your face for any type of distress. His warm hazel eyes look you over, and you swear, you’ve never felt so adored. 

“I’m fine,” you hum, leaning into his touch. The pad of his thumb skims over your jaw, down the side of your neck where you’re sporting faded bruises. His touch is mild as he outlines the mark he left and goosebumps raise over your arms. You tilt your head up and stand on your tiptoes to leave a faint kiss on his cheek. “Just settle in, relax. I’ll send Daphne over with another drink.” 

“Are you sure?” He asks, still concerned for your well-being. 

“I am,” you insist, motioning for him to return to his seating area. “I have to get back to work. Go, enjoy the show.” 

Joel (hesitantly) does as you say, going back to his area. He thinks about what just happened and how enraged he was, ready to annihilate that guy if needed. He’s always been the protective type, but this was startling. He saw you in danger, and it terrified him. He realizes now just how much he would do anything for you. Anything at all. 

Daphne comes around with another scotch, pulling him from his revelation. He thanks her, slowly sipping this one and enjoying the smooth taste as it travels down his throat. “You’re a good guy, Joel,” she states, catching him by surprise. “You’re the kind of guy she deserves.” 

A smile tugs on his lips, his insides twisting with a pleasant feeling. He likes that. A guy you deserve. It briefly makes him wonder about the guys you’ve had in your past. But that’s unnecessary suffering. 

The night goes on, and much to Joel’s dismay, a young group of men have decided that you are their favorite worker this evening. They toy with you and constantly call you back to their table. You put on a facade and flirt back, just for tips. But it makes Joel uncomfortable. He sees the way they look at you. The way they whisper amongst themselves when you walk away. 

He notices how easy it is for you to talk with them. And when it’s your turn to perform, they’re the loudest ones in the room. You smile, and Joel knows it’s your job to be friendly, but with those guys, it comes so effortlessly. He doesn’t like this jealous feeling festering inside of him. It’s rare and unpleasant. 

When the night is over, you hurry off the stage and head towards the back to change into the comfortable sundress you brought with you. Joel gets a text from you that says you’ll be out in a few minutes, so he waits by the door, chatting with Eli from earlier. He sees the rambunctious group of guys from before also waiting, probably for you. Fire burns through Joel’s veins when he hears them talking about you as if you’ll follow them home for some gangbang. No, that’s too much. He gives up and decides to wait outside instead. 

He waits for you in his truck, radio on in the background. He sings along to the song, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the melody. He’s carried away, lost in the music, he doesn’t hear you open the door. You slide into your seat with a big smile on your face. And he cringes at what could have you so bubbly. Was it those guys? Wow, okay. He’s acting pathetic. And a little bit like a psychopath. 

“Hey, why did you leave?” You question as you lean over for a kiss. His lips aren’t responsive, so you pull back, pouting. 

“Thought I’d give you some time,” he says coldly, and he knows that he sounds like an asshole, regretting his tone as soon as he opens his mouth. Get it together, old man. 

“Does this have anything to do with those boys?” You smirk, mocking him. Oh, so you saw them. “You have nothing to worry about,” you tell him, leaning over the center console again. You plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek, giggling as you pull back. 

“Hmph,” he grunts, pouting like a little kid. This is new. It’s kind of charming, if you’re being honest. 

“You know that this job comes with people who want to sleep with me,” you point out ruthlessly. “And maybe I’ll play along, let them wonder, but it’s all for show. You know you’re the only one who gets to fuck me.” Your voice drops an octave, your hand inching up his thigh. 

“You sure about that?” He asks, watching your delicate hand grip his jeans. 

“Of course,” you purr, dipping your fingers between his legs, scaling up his inner thigh until you reach the front of his jeans. You cup him in your hand, and he bites back a gasp. 

“That’s right,” he sighs and slants over, grabbing you by the hair and crushing his lips to yours. He’s dominant, holding you tightly in place, his lips molding with yours. His teeth scrape against your bottom lip, harshly tugging it into his mouth. His kiss is selfish, smothering you while his fingers wrap around the loose curls of your hair and pull. You can hardly breathe as he slips his tongue into your mouth, massaging it against your own. Your fingers curve on his chest, breathing through your nose until you feel like you’re going to pass out. He only lets up when you whimper against his bruising kiss. 

“Joel,” you wheeze, sliding your hand up his chest. 

“You good?” He asks, breathing heavily alongside you. Still catching your breath you nod, and he accepts that before kissing you again. His hand grasps the back of your neck, dragging you into him as his lips slot with yours, his tongue fiercely flicking inside your mouth. His other hand fucks with his seat, pulling the lever so it slides back. Your lips break apart from his, but he wastes no time tugging you on top of him. It’s a struggle to get into position, the wheel digging into your back and your head brushing against the roof, but you eventually do, settling your thighs over his. 

His greedy hands sweep up the length of your curves, starting at your thighs, up your sides, dropping back down to grab your ass. You wiggle against him, attaching your lips to his neck, piercing his skin with your teeth until you feel him groan against your mouth, low rumbles in his throat. His hands make their way back to your thighs, drifting upwards, under your dress. He bunches the fabric between his fingers, hiking the material up, exposing your panties. 

“You look so good in blue,” he murmurs, letting his fingers swipe up the front of your core, pressing against the soaked cotton. He rubs you through the soft material, watching your perfect body writhe on top of him. Your head falls back as he presses a knuckle to your clothed cunt, extracting a heavenly moan from your lips. 

“Oh, yes,” you say quietly, so low he almost misses it, but he catches the silky sound and pushes your panties to the side, sinking one finger past your slick entrance, then another. You quickly undo his jeans, eagerly pulling out his dick and taking it in your hands. His mouth claims yours again, sucking on your tongue while his fingers pump into your pussy faster. You try to match his pace, squeezing him harder, panting into each other’s mouths as he fucks you with his hand. But your grip on him falters when you feel him hit that delicious spot inside you. “Oh, god, Joel! Right there,” you beg, grinding against his fingers. 

“Touch me,” he demands in return, and you shiver at his tone. You comply, getting yourself together enough to jerk him off. You stroke his cock faster, paying special attention to his red, leaking tip, dipping into the slit with your thumb while your other hand works his base. In the dingy light, you can see his precum shining along his dick. And you crave to have him in your mouth. But Joel has other plans. 

He rips - literally rips - your panties off, revealing your needy pussy to him. You gasp in surprise, titillated when his rough finger drags through your folds. “Mr. Miller,” you whimper, pushing back on him. 

He chuckles darkly and taps your hips. You know what he wants, propping yourself up a bit so he can easily guide his cock into you. You sink down on him, groaning at his thickness as you feel every inch of his hardness brush against your walls. You start off fast, desperate even, rocking on top of him. This isn’t fun, playful sex; it's not even sweet, passionate lovemaking. It’s a quick, dirty fuck to show you who you belong to. 

“That’s it, baby,” he growls, “ride my cock.” He has a death grip on your hips, yanking you onto him, fucking you so deep you can practically feel him in your guts. “Look so good on top of me,” he whispers, keening his fingers into your creamy skin. He barely moves, staying almost still, making you do all the work. You bounce on him, gasping with each roll of your hips as he penetrates your sweet spot over and over. He reaches up to pull down the straps of your dress, letting your tits spill out in front of him. He grabs them in his hands, tweaking one nipple while he sucks on the other. You’re in bliss, that blinding gush of euphoria blanketing over you. 

“Fuck, Joel,” you moan loudly, grabbing at the back of his neck. You ride him faster, stabbing your nails into his skin, little crescents marking his neck. “Baby, I l-love…your cock.” You curse your tongue for almost letting your true words slip - I love you. I love you. I love you. 

“Of course you do,” he mumbles, finally moving and thrusting up into you, making your body rattle against him. “Who do you belong to?” He snarls, his hand shooting up to grasp your throat. His hold is tight, clutching at your trachea, stimulating all your senses until your mind becomes murky. He forces your head to stay up, looking into your lidded eyes. “Say it,” he orders. 

“Y-you, Mr. Miller,” you gasp, voice splintering. “I’m yours.” He gives your throat one final squeeze before moving his hands into your hair. Joel twirls your silky strands around his hand and tugs hard, shooting sharp sensations along your scalp. But he wants you where he wants you, head curling back with your pretty neck exposed so he can bite and suck wherever he pleases. You don’t know if it’s the possessive words he mutters in your ear or the rough way he handles your body, but it’s the hottest sex you’ve ever had. With anyone. 

“Good girl, such a good girl,” he moans, bucking into your cunt hard and fast, astonished at how you clench around his cock. You're so tight and warm, wet and perfect, he could fucking live between your legs. And you can barely get a word out, only pathetic whimpers with your mind consumed by desire. “This sweet little pussy belongs to me, doesn’t it?” He smirks.  

“God, yes,” you manage to choke out, your thighs quivering against his. He impales you hard, watching as you collapse on top of him and bury your face in his shoulder. His strong arms wrap around you, holding you in place as he jerks up into you. He's scalding against you, heating your entire body with delight. 

“Yeah, no one else can fuck you like I can,” he grunts, snapping his hips quick, making your worn out body jolt. He's not asking you questions anymore, he's telling you truths. “Those pathetic boys your age,” he scoffs as if the thought of them near you disgusts him. “They don't know how to please a girl like you.” His breath is searing in your ear, blowing against your cheek. "Girl like you deserves to be fucked right." 

He’s right, he’s so right. He’s right about all the things - about everything. Joel Miller is so deep inside you, fucking you to the brink that your brain becomes fried. Whatever he says, you agree with it. He is right. You can’t think about anything else except how wonderful he feels buried into your tight heat. You can't even remember what day it is. Christ, what’s your name again? 

“I’m gonna cum,” you breathe, shaking on top of him. Your hair is drenched with sweat, adhering to the sides of your face. And your breathing is rapid like you cannot take anymore.  

“Not until I say so,” Joel demands, and you cry out in both pleasure and frustration. “You’ll cum when I want you to. Got it?" He asks and you nod. "And I want to hear my name come from these beautiful lips. I want you to fucking scream it." 

“O-okay,” you agree, your pussy gripping his cock, welcoming him, taking everything he has to give you. Even if you feel like you're going to crumble. 

He uses what little energy he has left to fuck you into oblivion. You can feel his dick twitch inside you, and you brace weak hands on his shoulders, trying to roll your hips as he cums. He shoots deep into your overly sensitive pussy with his seed, fucking you through his climax, painting your walls with his cum. Just the thought of him inside of you brings you closer. And you can’t hold on much longer. 

“Mr. Miller, please,” you mewl, biting hard on your lip. “I n-need to cum.” 

“You think you deserve it?” He rasps, his hand coming up and grabbing your chin, forcing you to glance down at him. "Does my girl deserve to cum?" 

“Uh huh,” you sigh, releasing your lip from your teeth. Joel's fingers tip your chin, pulling you close so he can kiss you. It's sloppy, full of teeth and tongues, but it feels so good. 

“I think so, too,” he grins, showing his first sign of mischievousness since you started fucking. “Go ahead, baby. Cum, let me see you.” 

“Joel, fuck, Joel,” you moan his name like he asked, reaching up to grab at the roof of his truck, scratching your nails against the material for something, anything, to hold on to. Your orgasm hits you hard. Joel can feel your body trembling on top of him as you release, a sense of pride bubbling up inside. 

You're both panting, sticky, sweaty by the time you've come down from your rush. The windows have fogged, the scent of you and Joel lingers in the air, and you feel dirty. But in the best way. Your eyes meet his, and your heart thumps with affection. You love him so much. 

He can feel your heart pounding, knowing his is going just as strong. And all of the puzzle pieces come together to paint an obvious picture before him. Those feelings, the overwhelming emotions that took over him tonight. There's a reason for that. 

He loves you, too. 

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