#so done with him being his gold shiny self

[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

[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

[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

[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)

[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.

[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)

______________________________________________________________

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.

[byunbhyunz]

Lead and Gold 6.

Pairing: Eunhyuk/Reader

Genre: mafia!au, smut and fluff

Warnings: swearing, self-pleasuring

Word count: 3,527

There were a lot of gossips about your superior, Doctor Jung’s secret works, where he invited surgeon residents to his private clinic to help him out. Afterwards, no one talked a word about it. Then, your time came. He took you there too, and you did your best to do exactly what your job was in the hospital: saving people’s lives. You just didn’t know who’s life it was this time.

Previous | Next

You had a short, but eventful shift before Eunhyuk’s promised visit. You only got called in because of a massive accident and they needed all hands on deck. You were knee deep in blood and other body fluids while helping doctors save lives. Your head was in the game, you happily and successfully pushed your frustration aside during work, even earned some praising glances and words from other doctors, including Jung.

But the nerves came back crashing when all was said and done, and you could wash away the dirt and dried fluids from your skin in the changing room. You scrubbed your body, skin turning red from your own harshness. Your thoughts wandered to Eunhyuk and the fantasies from this dawn. You had to will your own hands not to slip to your lower region, since you were out in public.

Still wondering about the mafia boss and the intention of his visit tonight, you put on your change of clothes you kept in your locker. A simple black shirt and jeans with your usual puffy coat against the chilly weather.

Shindong was leaning against the car. He had sunglasses on, so you had no idea where he was looking, but then he nodded at you, acknowledging your arrival.

“Done saving the day?” He asked jokingly, and you could only shrug. You weren’t saving the day, just doing your job. “Not even a snarky remark about how I should shut up? It was that rough, huh?”

“Almost lost a little kid. Barely three years old. The parents came out with scratches. I think they are still kneeling at Jung’s feet, thanking him for saving their kid’s life.”

“They should be. At least I would do the same.”

His answer picked your curiosity.

“You’ve got a kid?”

“No. My sister has. A seven year old little devil. Always looking for mischief. My sister has a soft heart, so he always gets out of trouble with a few begging words and innocent looks.” Shindong chuckled to himself, probably remembering a good memory. “What about you? Planning on getting married? Have a few kids running around your skirt?”

“Have you seen any husband candidates?” you snorted, thinking about your lack of dates lately. With no husband material anywhere on the horizon, marriage and kids were only a dream. “I used to want it. Marriage, a good husband, two or three kids. I wanted it with my first boyfriend, and I know how pathetic that sounds. Then we broke up, and I put those plans on hold.”

“But you still want it.”

Shindong glanced at you as he stopped at a red light. Lately you were getting used to him driving you anywhere you had to go. It was more comfortable and faster than going by bus, and Shindong turned out to be a not so bad company. He recognized your moods from a few words and looks, knew when to talk to you and when to stay silent.

“If I find the right man, then yes. It’s all up to fate, I guess.”

He didn’t reply, only gave you an unreadable look.

As Shindong pulled up to your building, your eyes stilled on the fancy black car with tinted windows parked in front of your apartment building. With it being shiny and new, it looked totally out of place. A bad feeling settled in your stomach. It could be Eunhyuk’s enemies again. As if Shindong read your mind, he said:

“It’s the boss’s car. I’ll wait outside.”

The sun started to set, and you hesitated to get out of the car. You were nervous about what was waiting for you, once you get out and meet with Eunhyuk.

The man himself made that decision for you. He elegantly got out of the fancy car, alone. That was a first. It must have been weird for him to not be followed by Donghae or any bodyguard. He was walking straight to you, opening the door once he got there.

“Donghae already checked the perimeters.” He was talking to Shindong, but his eyes were on you, drinking you up with only a glance. A shiver ran through your body, but your tried to conceal it with fiddling with your bag and keys.

“How nice of you! Breaking in my apartment, looking for an intruder,” you commented.

“So we could have a little chat without interruption.”

It was Shindong, who snorted this time.

“We all know, chatting is the last thing that will happen up there,” the bodyguard muttered, and you decided to not react. Something warm stirred in your stomach as you inhaled sharply.

Eunhyuk just laughed it off. He offered you his hand, helping you out of the car. He even held your hand as he guided you to your building.

“So what is it that you can’t discuss over the phone with me? Are you gonna kill me?”

You pulled your hand away as you got to the stairs, taking the lead while going up.

“I thought about it,” he admitted lowly. It made you stop in your track and Eunhyuk walked right into you, not expecting you to stop. His body leaning into your back was surprisingly warm, and he put his hand on your hip to settle himself. You thought you felt his fingers caress you for a moment, but his hand disappeared as fast as it came.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me whether you are going to kill me,” you said in a hushed tone, finally aware of your surroundings.

Turning around to face him was a mistake. He was looking up at you with dark eyes, mirroring the same lust you felt.

“Killing is the last thing on my mind right now.”

You tried to leave him behind before you did or said something you couldn’t take back, but he was fast on your heels, following you up the stairs and to your door. Entering your home, you went straight to the kitchen pouring yourself a glass of water and gulping it down.

“Anything to drink?” you asked him nonchalantly, masking your true thoughts.

“Something strong.”

“I only have beer and some leftover wine.”

“Wine will do, then. Thank you.”

Pouring a glass of it, you handed it to him. He was standing in the middle of your living room, looking around like he’s never been there before, while taking slow sips of the wine.

You kept staring at him, waiting for Eunhyuk to say something. Anything, really. But you weren’t the patient kind, not with him.

“So, you came here because?”

“You already guessed half of it. For a while now my plan was to simply kill you. Then I was thinking about paying you off and sending you somewhere far away.” The way he spoke about those possibilities without any hint of an emotion, you became reluctant.

“Did I not do a good job saving your men’s life?”

“No, you did a perfect job. And you proved you can keep your mouth shut even under bad circumstances.”

“Well, that is a way to describe my torturing.”

“And there it is.” He stepped closer to you, taking another sip of his wine. Black eyes unwavering as he held your gaze captive. “You talk back when you shouldn’t. You even dared to send back my gift.”

“And that is why you plan to kill me or pay me off? Because I ran my mouth carelessly and didn’t want to take your money after I got beaten up by your enemies?”

“I told you, killing is off the table. The other half depends.”

“On what?”

You were getting more confused the longer this conversation went on. You finally wanted to know what he wanted from you. If it wasn’t to put you in an early grave and sending you away was optional, then what was it?

“You confuse me, Y/N. You distract me from my business. So I’m here to propose an offer.”

Eunhyuk was standing very close to you now, and you didn’t realize when he took those remaining steps. You could feel his breath on your face, his scent was making you dizzy. You wanted to touch him so bad, touch his tattoos and scars. You wanted him to touch you, caress and make you feel… something.

“What kind of offer? And what do you mean I distract you? We barely met like what? Three or four times?” He chuckled as if you just told him the joke of the decade.

“And still, you can’t tell me you don’t feel this pull between us,” he whispered, leaning forward a little, so his lips were brushing yours. If you would be braver, you would already be tasting the wine on his lips. “My offer is this: give yourself to me tonight. I’ll make it worth for you and I can finally get you out of my system.”

You were scared to break this strange tension in the room, fearing it might disappear, so you just whispered back.

“And after that?”

“We never talk about it.”

“Did you bring condoms with you?” You asked the first thing that popped up in your mind.

“I did. But I’m also clean, if you are on birth control and feeling risky.”

You hummed satisfied with that answer.

“I’m also clean and on birth control. We’ll see then.”

Then you did the only thing you could think of.

Surging forward and kissing him must have been your best decision. You licked the residue of wine from his lips and Eunhyuk groaned into your mouth huskily. His hands found their way to your hips, then your ass, pulling you impossibly close to himself.

He was warm and deliciously hard under your touch. Your fingers got lost in his hair, and you opened your mouth for him. He didn’t hesitate to slid his tongue in. Your head became dizzier, and you were high on the feeling of Eunhyuk. His cock was hard, you could feel it pushing into your belly, making you wetter by the moment.

Lips leaving yours, he started to kiss down your neck, while his hands got busy with your pants. Eunhyuk unclasped the button, pulling the fabric down, his lips trailed down to your covered breasts, too. He helped you step out of your jeans. You were panting heavily as he stared at the wet patch on your panties and sighed, sending shivers through your body.

“You know,” he said as he straightened and picked you up, “I was taught to never eat standing.”

He smirked at you as he laid you on the dining table, taking a seat, so his face was right in front of your pussy.

“Let’s remove that, too.” Eunhyuk pulled on your panties and you lifted yourself to help him get it off faster. “And bon appetite!”

You didn’t have time to react, only to moan, as he grabbed your thigh and dived right into you. He lapped at your pussy like he was a man with a death sentence eating his last supper. And you screamed in satisfaction.

Fingers clenching hard on the edge of the table, curses slipped out of your mouth, when he sucked on your clit, then flicked it a few times before he went back to your folds.

“Fuck, you taste divine, babe!”

The way he moaned and grabbed your thigh harder turned you on even more. You could feel your orgasm building steadily. No man has ever eaten you out like this before.

Eunhyuk stopped for a moment, and you looked down on him. His dark, lustful eyes were on you as he slipped a tattooed finger, then another inside you. You clenched hard around them and he smiled like a little boy, but a lot more sinister. His movement were slow, dragging his fingers out, watching you whimper as he pushed them back in.

“I want to taste your cum on my tongue, babe, so tell me! Are you going to be a good girl and come for me?”

“Yeah, just keep doing that a little faster.”

His words were like magic and just as you imagined them. Eunhyuk’s dirty talk did things to you and you couldn’t take your eyes off of him. Keeping your gazes locked, he lowered his tongue back on your clit. He did as you asked; pumping his fingers faster in and out of you, he lapped at your folds. Your breathy moans got louder and louder, but you couldn’t care less about your neighbors hearing you. You were so close, you could feel your orgasm on the tip of your tongue.

“I’m… I’m going to cum,” you whispered as your thighs squeezed on reflex, but Eunhyuk’s hard grip pried them open before you could crush his head with them.

The orgasm washed through your body with a hot, white flash, and Eunhyuk stayed true to his words: he vigorously lapped up all your juices until you started whine from being oversensitive.

Coming down from your high, you felt him caressing your thighs, leaving small kisses on your skin. On his way up, he freed you from your shirt and bra, giving his undivided attention to your nipples. While his tongue circled around the right one, you grabbed his hand and brought it up to your lips. You saw your fluids still glistening on his fingers. You brought them to your mouth, licking and closing your lips on his two fingers that were in you a couple minutes earlier. You sucked on them as if it was his cock, making him feel your intentions. That caught Eunhyuk’s attention pretty fast. He crawled up further on you, pulling his fingers from your mouth to kiss you again.

“I want to suck your dick, Eunhyuk.” His name turned into a moan as he pushed his still clothed member to your pussy.

“And I’m too impatient for not continuing this with fucking you senseless, babe.” He groaned and the nickname finally registered in your brain. He kept calling you that ever since he tasted your pussy. You didn’t know why, but it turned your mood sour, even with him humping you towards another orgasm.

“Do you call every girl you fuck ‘babe’?” You asked before you could bite on your tongue.

His moves halted for a second and he looked you in the eyes again. Those dark orbs were unwavering while answering you.

“Usually I don’t call them anything. Barely remembering their faces, not to talk about their faces. I just tell them what to do.”

“Then it’s too bad that I’m working for you and you have to remember my face and name.” Your biting words lost their edge when he picked up with humping his cock.

“Oh, Y/N.” His smile was devilish as he said your name. He licked his lips and thrust harsher into your pussy. You held back on your moan, and that wiped that look off his face. “Looking at our position, you agreed to giving yourself to me for this night, so don’t you fucking hold back your little noises from me. I want to hear them all.”

Another thrust. You whined needily.

“And should I tell you the ways you distracted me this past days? How I wanted to kill you for your little show at The Fortress? How I had to fuck my own hand multiple times to the image of you dancing with another man, and I could still not find satisfaction? Hm? Is this what you want to hear?”

He punctuated each of his sentences with a thrust of his hips. Your moans flew freely in the air now, and you got lost in the feeling of his dick rubbing at the right places.

“Or you want me to tell you all the ways I imagined us fucking? You moaning helplessly under me? Your breasts ringing while you would ride me? My hand around your neck as a pretty necklace as I fuck you, pushed against the wall? Or bending you over your stupid couch while you keep begging for more? And yet, I only ate you out. So, which one do you choose? Because I want to be in your pussy in the next three minutes and this is me being nice by letting you pick.”

During his monologue, he fumbled with his own pants, pushing it down along with his briefs. He was fast to get rid of his black shirt too, before he was all over you again. You sighed, when you felt his bare dick rubbing over your folds. It was warm and heavy, the tip leaking with precum. It mixed with your own sticky wetness. Your pussy clenched around nothing with want, anticipating it eagerly, but Eunhyuk was merciless. Every time his tip was close to entering you, he moved his hips a little, so the angle would change, and his cock was continuing its way to your clit, and back again.

He snaked his hand around your neck, his thumb brushing over your chin, then dipping into your mouth. A shallow breath escaped you as he kissed you again. This kiss was more feverish and animalistic, teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance. You were panting, when Eunhyuk retreated, but his lip were still hovering over yours.

“No snarky remarks now? The time is ticking, so pick your choice.”

Two can play this game, you thought through the horny daze.

“I want your hand around my neck as you fuck me on this table. First. Then I want to ride you with the condition that you can’t touch me while I’m on top. I want full control. Then you can bend me over my shitty couch, and fuck me with all your might and frustration. I want you to fuck me so hard, that I will be aching and feeling you inside myself even days later.”

You bit on his lips and looked at him with challenge in your eyes. He seemed to like it, because his hand was back on your neck, his thumb caressing your throat this time. His other hand went lower, grabbed his dick and guided his tip to your entrance. You both groaned at the sensation as his cock slowly sank in you. He was hard beyond imagination with a good girth, and god, he was long. You thought he finally put all of himself into you, but he kept pushing and pushing more inches in you, until you believed you could feel him in your stomach.

He rubbed your walls just at the right places. Steamy noises of Eunhyuk pulling out and pushing in filled the air, and you became a moaning mess. Without notice, you came all over him and he just barely started with you. Before you could feel embarrassed, he tightened his hand around your neck, snapped his hips a little harder. You mewled; you were getting adjusted to his size and it hurt a bit, bit you couldn’t complain.

“Are you that needy, babe? Coming all over my cock after a few thrusts.”

Eunhyuk picked up his pace and changed up his rhythm here and there. For a few moments, he was thrusting in you with shallow movements, then he pulled out completely, leaving only his tip in you. He slammed back hard, then pulled fully out again, just to repeat it again and again.

You kept clenching around him, whimpers and sobs leaving your lips. He kept going faster, moves becoming sloppier as he chased his own high. His hand left your neck, going to the back of your neck to fist a handful of your hair in it. You kissed him, your tongue immediately finding his and he groaned and moaned with you.

Ah, you liked all the noises he made, too. He seemed needy, with his other hand going all over your body. A pinch to your nipple, a few rubs to your clit, a caress over your side and leg. It was almost like he became harder while pumping into you. Your juices covered his dick, making it so easy for him to slip in and out of you. For a second, he pulled out and rubbed his leaking tip over your clit, then he drove right back into you.

“Are you close again, babe?” After how he confined in you with his fantasies and wants, you didn’t mind the nickname. You started to anticipate it. “You keep fluttering around me so bad, I don’t think I can hold myself back any longer.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered. “I’m close, too.”

Just as you said it, Eunhyuk straightened up, grabbed your hips and started to pound you even faster. You came screaming his name, until he swallowed it with a kiss.

You felt his dick pulsate in you, his cum leaking out of you.

“Now, what were you saying about sucking my dick?” Eunhyuk panted into your neck. You could feel his smile on your skin.

“I thought you wanted me to ride you first. Or bend me over the couch. You didn’t seem too eager about the blowjob.”

“I changed my mind. I have to teach you how to shut your mouth.”

[freesia-writes]

hello there! For the fanfic writer emoji ask! (wow that was a mouthful)

💞 Who's your comfort character?

🧠 Pick a character, and I'll tell you my favorite headcanon for them -- tell me something about Fives, or Echo :)

💜happy weekend and happy new month!

Hello lovely!

💞 Who's your comfort character?

Howzer. I loved him from the start, but fleshing him out in a whole full-length fic that covers his shiny days, his growth arc, and his romance and adventure really made him close to my heart. Maybe I've shaped him far more than the show ever has, but it all feels "in character", and he is just such a gentleman. So beautiful. So humble. Heart of gold. I could go on forever. <3

🧠 Pick a character, and I'll tell you my favorite headcanon for them -- tell me something about Fives, or Echo :)

I'm almost done with a SUPER SWEET follower request about Fives, and between this one, the other one I wrote, and the amazing works I've read here... He has really grown on me! So my headcanon for him (might be kinda copied from my thoughts about Howzer's early days) is that he was actually a total poser as far as being a playboy. He would flirt shamelessly, every single night, and talk a HUGE game, but never actually sealed the deal. Then, things got serious, war gave him some new perspective and sobriety, and he toned it down a bit. Then the interest started coming toward HIM, and he was like "oh hey?!" And he slowly evolved into a confident, self-assured little slut as he learned to just chill out about it and be himself.

xoxo

[writer-of-random-things]

On Epic Heroes & Hobbit-Holes

"In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit."

The opening line of The Hobbit is one of the most charming yet simplistic in British literature. It's the perfect segue into the fact that Tolkien, in the course of developing Middle-earth, drew inspiration from many sources of Anglo-Saxon literature, notably Beowulf (which is arguably the opposite of simple). His lecture, "Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics", gave him academic fame. In fact, the term "Middle-earth" is even used in Beowulf. The quests, the act of defeating of monsters, and the poems/songs scattered throughout Tolkien's works are heavily reminiscent of the style of the epic poem. However, I want to focus on how Tolkien deviates--in both character and symbolism--from Beowulf.

That being said, many parallels have been made between the character of Beowulf and Beorn in The Hobbit: both are larger-than-life warriors, and although Beorn means "bear", it can also mean "warrior". So it makes sense Beorn should be the protagonist--Tolkein's own epic hero.

Yet Beorn is not. In fact, he is a minor character. Who do we get as the protagonist in this epic poem of a children's story, then? Surely someone as heroic as Beorn?

Nope. Meet Bilbo Baggins, everybody. He just wants to get thirteen dwarves out of his house and live in peace. Oh, and there's a wizard. Bilbo is the polar opposite of Beowulf: completely ordinary, sedentary, and slightly eccentric. As Nick Groom writes in Tolkien in the Twenty-First Century: The Meaning of Middle-Earth Today,

"...in a long letter written in 1951 [Tolkien] described [The Hobbit] as 'the study of a simple ordinary man, neither artistic nor noble and heroic' if 'not without the underdeveloped seeds of these things' ".

When all is said and done, that is what is at the center of The Hobbit. The simplicity of Bilbo's lifestyle contributes to the complexity of his character. While Beowulf abides by the Scandinavian heroic code and kills in the name of honor and duty, Bilbo as a main character falls into the shades of gray. He is kind and witty, yet is employed as a thief to rob and lie throughout the book; he takes the Arkenstone from Smaug (more on him later) simply because he is vain and it is shiny. Yet he is brave and risks his life to save his dwarf friends on numerous occasions. He also willingly gives up said Arkenstone for a chance at peace, though it backfires. While the (intended) theme of Beowulf is how one can only gain renown and loyalty by doing honorable deeds, The Hobbit is about adventure, courage, branching out, and most importantly, trying to do good even though you might not know what you're doing.

Bilbo's story focuses on the contradictory actions of life, and how the road to self-discovery includes a lot of stumbling and regrets; he is but a humble hobbit, but rather than rejecting that to become a graceful hero, he embraces it. This is in great juxtaposition to Smaug and the dragon in Beowulf, both of which depict power and greed. In both texts, the dragon is wakened in exactly the same way: a person (or hobbit) enters the dragon's cave and steals and golden goblet, unleashing the dragon's fury and causing him to set fire to nearby villages.

In Beowulf, the death of the dragon--and the subsequent death of Beowulf himself--contrast each other in terms of legacy. For example, while Beowulf is remembered as a heroic warrior and a good king, the dragon is described as such:

"[Beowulf's] nightmarish destroyer, lay destroyed as well, / utterly without life... / the sky-roamer lay there rigid, brought low beside the treasure-lodge"

The dragon, although he perished next his mound of gold, is nothing in death despite being surrounded by riches; the beast shows the shallowness of greed as opposed to honor. However, the dragon (or rather, his treasure) in The Hobbit symbolizes the corruption of greed: the dragon does nothing but sit on his pile of gold, but the influence of said gold corrupts not only the dragon (through fueling his greed) but Thorin as well, showing how power corrodes one's morality.

The excess of materialism and war compared to the strength of friendship and uncertainty is central to the story of Bilbo Baggins. In addition, it demonstrates how an author can borrow heavily from a pre-published text without necessarily adopting it's message: for what it's worth, I prefer the message of The Hobbit over many classics--a testament to the strength of a home-loving creature that is nevertheless always "quite ready for another adventure".

[rfaromance]

MysMe and their Best ShinyMas girls

Niche crossover made for me myself and I (in hopes of maybe convincing more people to get into Idolmaster Shiny Colors)

Yoosung would produce Chiyoko! Chiyoko is a cheerful, kind girl who does not think she's particularly interesting. She's insecure about being too "normal", and I think Yoosung would relate to that as he expresses such concerns about being the only "plain" member of the RFA. Chiyoko brands herself as the "chocolate idol" (because her name sounds like Choco), and she's a good cook to match her brand! She's also quite observant of her friends and is reliable! I think Yoosung would want to support someone like her and help her shine!

Zen is either going to produce Mikoto out of kinship or out of spite. Mikoto loves idols with her whole heart and cannot imagine a life where she is not an idol. She started training as a teenager, and she has more memories of idol lessons than of high school. She had a rocky start but found a second chance at 283 Productions. Zen would see himself in this workaholic, and whether he'd love or hate to see that... well, his narcissism is all a facade, so Mikoto may force him to face the qualities of himself that he's insecure about.

Jaehee knows that her oshi in real life is Zen, but for a game? She'd be a fan of Sakuya. Aside from her princely appearance and behavior that makes girls swoon (in the game and among players), Sakuya is a hard-working, cool, independent girl who wants to make others smile. She's not always good at relying on others, and I think Jaehee would acknowledge and relate to that. Sakuya is the common sense among the quirky L'antica idols, but she will play along in their antics! Maybe like... a silly taco song...?

707 is usually the type to prefer quirky or cat-themed idols, but once he spots twins with red hair and gold eyes? Oh, he's done for. He's an OsakiP, but he's especially fond of Tenka. He loves how she tries her best and pushes to be stronger even with her severe depression, and he also adores Amana for being supportive and always eager to help. He can't help but think of Saeran, even though Tenka is the older twin; helping her bloom makes Saeyoung feel like his choices can help Saeran thrive one day, too. He only produces the twins together! When it's Tenka, then Amana is in the first support spot. They do Fes together and jobs together. He will NOT separate them!

Jumin is definitely a NatsuhaP! He has major respect for her, because even though she comes from a wealthy family, she wants her accomplishments to be in HER name from HER effort! She works hard to live up to her name. Jumin takes that to heart. He can't help but think HCG is a tad similar to the RFA, too.

V finds himself producing Madoka. He isn't sure how it happened, but he actually knows exactly how it happened and doesn't want to admit so. Madoka is blunt and straightforward, and she is fiercely loyal to her friends, going to great lengths to ensure they are safe and comfortable. He can't help but be reminded of a certain someone. However, Madoka is also... quite harsh with her Producer, going so far as to curse him and say she hates him. V... well, V's self-hatred speaks for itself.

Ray is undoubtedly going to produce Mano. How can he not? She's sweet as sugar and gentle as can be. She's content making friends with birds and soaking up sun in a park. Her self-confidence isn't great, but Ray would be eager to show her how much he cares about her, far more than anyone else can. He'd want to protect her shy, genuine innocence... by any means necessary.

Suit Saeran would only support the idols he thinks are strong enough to flourish. But when he finds himself irritated with Mamimi's personality, his stubbornness ends up with him producing her. Mamimi is the type who acts out or is deliberately lazy to get attention, always trying to be a "bad girl" because she was a spoiled kid who was never reprimanded by her parents. That's the opposite of Saeran's life experiences, so he can't stand her. But the way she keeps pushing to tease and torment him... It's hard to tell who is the cat and who is the mouse. "I hate her," he says as he produces all of her cards so he can unlock more dialogue to see if she eventually breaks down.

GE Saeran would support hardworking idols going earnestly for their dreams! He's going to develop a soft spot for Kogane, who failed countless auditions but kept going towards the next ones. She's not the brightest bulb, but she is determined and strong-willed! Her belief that she can succeed is what keeps driving her until she does! She's clumsy and ditsy, but Saeran would find her honest, positive demeanor endearing. He may struggle to understand her thick Nagasaki country accent at first, though!

Unknown doesn't waste his time on games. But if his Savior told him to try it... He would pick an idol the same way he would pick someone to send to the apartment. Which means he's picking Koito, because she's a hard worker and studious. She could make a good assistant... if she didn't squeak and hide all the time like a mouse seeing a hawk. Koito is bright but her meekness holds her back, and she's been compared to a "pet" for Noctchill. He'd probably enjoy watching her panic in some of her commus... Unknown, be gentle please....

SE Saeran is a HioriP. He pretty much only plays for Hiori. He started begrudgingly at the behest of his nagging twin, but then he got attached to one (1) character. Hiori is diligent and serious, and Saeran doesn't suffer fools. She's also quite blunt and speaks her mind plainly. She can be a bit harsh when she speaks, not because she's mean, but because she's not good at communicating her thoughts and feelings. Sometimes this backfires Her stoic, icy appearance is misleading; she's kind and pure-hearted.

Vanderwood thinks the game is a waste of time... initially. But Vandy has a track record of going soft for precocious brats, so when they find Nichika? He's in trouble. Nichika is passionate, feisty, and dedicated. She can be quite stubborn and cheeky, which both amuses and frustrates Vandy when he plays. She isn't naturally skilled, but she works hard and he'd admire her work ethic. Nichika also has this tendency to get others to spoil her with her little sister energy, and Vanderwood is not immune. They'd ultimately go soft for her when they find how insecure she actually is.

Rika produces (and kins) Fuyuko. At first she was intrigued by Fuyuko's cute design, but as Rika dove deeper into her character, she was hooked. Fuyuko introduces herself as a cutesy, bubbly, attentive girl, and she asks her producer to call her "Fuyu." But she only behaves in this manner because she thinks that's the only way to get people to like her. The Fuyuko beneath "Fuyu-chan's" mask is stressed, snappy, and serious. She doesn't show her true self because she thinks she's not cute or nice enough to be an idol, despite how much she loves idols. Her greatest fear is being rejected and scorned by others. It's no surprise that Rika is drawn to her and wants to support her & her dreams, as kindred spirits! (Two pics to emphasize her two sides. Fuyuko's cards tend to be "kawaii" initially but then bolder and darker in Fes form.)

[full---ofstarlight]

All evens for gale and his beautiful wife :3c

LMAO THANK YOU THIS IS GREAT <3

2. Do they have a dynamic trope? (enemies to lovers, sunshine x grumpy, etc?)

Mutual pining, mutual pining, mutual pining bayyyybee. Also my unpopular opinion is that I usually prefer couples who are similar, which is apparently “Birds of a Feather” in TV tropes language, and I think well done they’re more satisfying than Opposites Attract.

4. Answered!

6. Do they go out often or prefer to stay indoors?

Gale’s probably more of a homebody than Delvyre, but also a year of self-isolation means he’s a bit restless for social events. Then again, their time on the road I think has earned them some rest and relaxation. 

8. Do they have any favorite activities to do together?

Magic — studying it, researching it, testing it out. They’re a powerhouse. I also think they enjoy, like, live theater and shows. Also if that High Rollers stream solidified anything for me, it’s that they both enjoy getting pampered, so spa days/bath days are common. 

10. Answered!

12. Who gets up the earliest? Who has the worst sleep schedule? Who is the sleepiest?

They’re both night owls who like to sleep in. I do think Del’s sleep schedule is less organized though. So on a rare occasion, she might actually get up early. But Gale is not up before 10 am if he doesn’t have to be (and usually Delvyre sleeps in too). They also both go to bed like past midnight for sure. 

14. Who does fashion shows after a mall trip and who watches and compliments them?

Both <3 <3 They like to look good. Gale spends more time in the shoe store.

16. Answered,

18. What does a date night out look like for them?

Going to a live performance of some sorts, or a lecture series, or a museum. And then to a nice restaurant, where they can discuss what they just saw/learned and sample good food and wine. 

20. What clothes/accessories do they steal from each other?

Jewelry, for sure. They’re both little magpies, and love shiny rings and earrings and necklaces and what not. Delvyre favors gold and Gale favors silver though. Also, Del probably steals his bigger robes and snuggles with them. 

22. How do they apologize after arguments?

Del will get very very passionately mad (insert that parks and rec scene where ben is like arguing with you is like arguing with the sun), but once all the anger is out of her, she’ll try to apologize right away and make things better. I think Gale isn’t as explosive, but he’ll need some more time to cool off/process his feelings. Earlier on, before they get the handle of, like, being in a relationship, I think he tries to smooth things over right away but that just kinda makes his annoyances fester a bit, so they both learn together how to apologize the way that makes the other feel heard. 

24. What are their favorite places to kiss on their partner(s)? What are their favorite types of kisses?

Gale likes kissing her neck and cheek and forehead :3. Del likes kissing his shoulder and chest (right where the orb mark is). Also not really a kiss, but she enjoys torturing him with raspberries on his stomach which he pretends to hate, but is reduced to a fit of giggles. 

26. Do they have any pets or kids?

Eventually have a couple of kids - probably two or three? They are very indulgent parents who think their kids are the most special amazing talented kids ever. Tara also eventually has a brood of Tressym kitties, which eventually become companions to their kids <3 

28. What’s something that reminds them of their partner(s)? Do they have anything on them daily as a reminder (a photo, phone background, tattoo, clothing/accessory, etc)?

Look, I gave them the matching true love rings you find on some corpses in Act 2, and they are never ever taking them off <3 Probably have something matching. Del probably gets some sort of tattoo to symbolize their relationship eventually (some fire and ice combo thing idk a rune or something). 

30. Free space! Say something about this ship that you want to say!

FREE SPACE! Okay rapid fire random things:

My height hcs: She’s 5’3, he’s 5’10 

Modern AU thoughts: He’s a professor who keeps getting denied tenure bc his ex is the head of the department; she’s a grad student but not his student, just in adjacent studies. 

….and to end on a lil nsfw bit: He likes to watch, she likes to put on a show ;)

[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!

------------

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.

[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. 

Masterlist

[the-illiterate-pirate]

@sublime-gyro-whore

Hi

It's been a while.

I'm just gonna get to the good stuff. Motley Crue Gyro, something something porn, I can't find the original request so I just hope this is good enough. Again I'm really, truly sorry this took so long, but here it is

This. Took a completely different turn from what I wanted, but it's still pretty good I think, I wanted it to be kinkier but Gyro ended up being a softy. Don't ask why it took so long. I don't know either. Like last night I procrastinated for an hour before trying to finish this up finally. It needed two sentences.

Kickstart My Heart

Warnings: Googled Italian, and porn. Kind of rushing to publish this so there might be mistakes. Also Reader is a filthy American

You inhaled deeply, and let it out. This was it, you were seriously about to make dreams come true! Just behind this door was all four members of the your band, and you were getting to take a seat and talk to them! And none of this would've happened if it wasn't for your big bro. Oh, if only you could celebrate this with him. You'd have to be sure to get an autograph for him. It made your heart race to think of how much this had to have been, front row seats and a backstage pass, all for you. There had to be something you could do to show your appreciation...

Someone tapped on your shoulder. The suddenness made you "peep!" and quickly twist around. It was a guard! Big and bulky just like on tv. You didn't break any rules, but his stature made you break out into a sweat.

"And who are you?"

It took all your self control not to stutter. Too much. "I. I... I have a pass! I get to see the band," You showed the overcrowding man the pass around your neck, shiny and gold with "Very Important Guest" printed down the side. "If they're not busy, I mean."

The guard settled down quickly, and nodded along. "Alright, step aside, I'll unlock the door."

He knocked thrice and didn't wait for a response before he unlocked the door with a key on his lanyard. You subconsciously held your breath as light poured through like the gates of Heaven. The doorman peaked in to give you a shout-out, warning of your presence. All seemed to stop once you saw them. All four of the band members sat around a low table on love seats and a stool.

Their bass guitarist and backup vocals, Hot Pants and Diego Brando shared one seat sipping on bottles of water and a bowl of candies. Their drummer Soundman was on his own seat looking over his drumstick for imperfections, casually tapping away at his thigh with the other. And finally, Gyro Zeppeli, the Horsemen's lead vocals and the main attraction.

He sat lonely on the farthest loveseat like a blond god, twirling a lock of hair around his finger like he was bored. Four sets of eyes locked on to you once you peaked out from the hallway, you wanted nothing more than to shrink away. Hot Pants waves, Soundman nodded a welcome, but Diego didn't do anything. Gyro looked away from his fingers to give you a side eye, showing some interest in the new lady.

"Well, hello there." Hot Pants spoke first. "We can take it from here, Zach."

She had a voice like a cat, slow and sly and so very pretty. You knew she had a gorgeous singing voice, but it was something else just hearing her speak. A voice like a siren that could make men swoon, that was Hot Pants.

That guy Zach left with a nod, and you were alone with the Four Horsemen. There was an awkward moment where you stood there with their eyes only on you. What to do? You couldn't act too familiar with them, they were all so much older than you. It felt weird.

What to do??

"W-Wow! Me and my brother are some of your biggest fans. It's, really great to finally meet you guys in person! But... I've never ever done something like this before."

It's always good to be honest, right?

"It's always great to meet eager fans," The redhead did the talking again. She gave you a small smile that set your heart into a frenzy. "Come sit down next to Gyro. You mentioned your brother, why's he not here with you?"

You wanted to answer. But what she said stopped your brain functioning. Sit... Next to Gyro. You didn't want to take up too much of their time, so you did as she said, but it made your anxiety sky rocket. Gyro was intimidating even from far away (shit, the entire band was), he had a stoic expression and his clothes showed off so much. He didn't even wear an actual shirt... It was just cuffs and straps and leather and metal. It showed off his incredible physique and abs... You couldn't tell anyone Gyro's birthday but you could write a paragraph on what scars and freckles dotted his abdomen. What started as some innocent crush at eighteen grew and got corrupted over the next three years.

No! Don't think like that right now, don't get hot and bothered in front of your celebrity crush. Shut up, shut up, shut up!

You ended up telling Hot Pants the truth, that Johnny didn't have enough money for two passes and he gave the only one to you. He put sacrificed something big just so you could have the greatest birthday.

Soundman finally spoke up to compliment Johnny. "He sacrificed good money to get you here, that's one hell of a brother." Hot Pants nodded somberly in agreement. "Better make this count, then. Let's have some fun."

"Yeah! Johnny is amazing, he's always been a great big brother. Ah, Soundman, you're actually one of his favorite drummers, is there anyway I could get your autograph for him?"

"Well, of course, anything for a fan. Just this once, it's on the house. But don't let me see this on eBay, 'kay?"

"'kay." You both shared a tilted smile.

It truly was a night to remember. Even Gyro got some witty quips in before time was up. Hearing him speak made your legs feel weak, even if it wasn't towards you most of the time.

Despite the gap in fame between you and those four, they made you feel like a good friend. It was comfortable. They didn't talk to you like you were just some fan, but like you all had just gone out for drinks together. There wasn't much talk about their occupation, except for some lessions on drums and guitar from Soundman and Diego.

Your final moments together was spent playing modified poker with candies and an old pack of Gyro's cards. You ended up winning the first time but afterwards was a quick win for Miss. Hot Pants.

Diego took a swig from a bottle of unknown liquor after checking the clock on the wall. "Well, I can't lie, I've had a damn blast tonight, but I'm afraid it's time for us to bounce."

"Damn. Is it eight already?" Soundman sounded a little upset. "Yeah, it's been fun. But we've got plans for dinner."

"Oh, I had a great time with you guys! Thanks for letting me stay." Hot Pants smiled a bit wider than before and agreed with the rest. Diego clapped you on the back before speaking to Gyro, "Ready to go?"

"I'll stay back and lock up shop, you guys go ahead."

They were reluctant to leave him alone but did end up leaving. You all shared goodbyes and were left with... Gyro. Him and his dark emerald stare.

"P-Please, let me help you clean up."

There wasn't much except for some paper that missed the trash can and some bottles thanks to Diego. Gyro thanked you for the help. But when you went to leave... He stoped you. "Bella, please. Before you leave, let's spend some time together."

Together? With Gyro Zeppeli?!

"R-Really?" Gyro's smile was wide but showed no teeth. "I should.. I'd like to stay, but my brother's waiting, it's almost been an hour already!" Shit. Even you weren't convinced with that.

"Aw, c'mon dolcezza. It won't take long, you spent so much time with the others, I barely got to know you!" He whined and pouted cutely like a child, tugging you towards the loveseat. He snuck out another bottle of wine from God knows where. "Y'said it's your twenty-first birthday yeah? Why don't we celebrate, you 'n me."

Sharing a drink with Gyro... It was tempting. Too tempting. Johnny could forgive you, right? His glass was waved in front of you as a temptation. The wines legs stuck to the sides and threatened to spill. To keep it from dropping you took it from his risky hands, "Fiiine... I guess I can stay for a drink. But no later than like, fifteen minutes."

"Bueno! Now, a toast to my favorite little fan." He raised his glass up. You quickly clunk your against Gyro's. "Cin cin! Alla nostra salute." He cried, his golden teeth shinning in the bright lights of the room. And you drank to your health.

Five minutes turned into ten, which quickly turned into fifteen.... But in no time during your drinks did you decide to look at the clock. You started on your third after done goading from Gyro, but it wasn't hard to be swept away by his Italian charms.

The wine got you feeling loose. Was it possible to get so tipsy on wine? Gyro even got you to settle down in his lap. He had his thick arms hugging your small frame close as he nuzzled his pointy nose into your neck. "Gyro! Stop it already!" It was hard not to giggle as he wouldn't stop.

"I can't help it, bambolina. You're just too cute~" His melodic voice taunted into your skin. "I love your accent doll. You're southern, ain't you?"

"Y-Yeah, I am. After my family left England when I was younger we moved back to our home town in Kentucky, it probably isn't as heavy as the other accents you'll hear from over there."

"But I don't wanna hear anyone's but yers. Soooo cute~. I love it when you say my name. Say it. Please please?"

You did as he told. What was the harm? "Gyroo~" You tested it out but it came with a hint of giggles. He groaned in appreciation and pressed his nose deeper into your throat. "Pretty~, let me hear it again."

"Gyyyro..."

"Yes! Just like that! You're so soo cute ♡"

His mouth gently kissed your flesh, his arms wrapped around you tighter. Your breath hitched when you felt his tongue peak between his lips to lap at your suddenly heated skin. Frozen solid, you couldn't stop him from groping your hips and continuing to kiss your throat. "Such a pretty dolly I have. Would my little bambolina like her birthday present?"

"Birthday present?" Your heart throbbed once his hand found its way between your thighs, rubbing you through your tights. "Well of course, I can't let my best fan leave empty handed. Whaddya say? Want me to give ya a gift you'll never forget?"

His breath mixed with yours as he closed in, waiting for an answer, nose pressing against yours now. "We...We shouldn't." Gyro felt your own hands cup around his face. He pulled away from your breasts to grab your hand, nuzzling the palm. "Your band mates are waiting for you."

"Let 'em." He grinned. "We'll make it real quick."

His lips started out gentle, moving against your inexperienced mouth with ease. You twisted around to straddle his legs and grip his shoulders for stability.

"I've, uh, never actually done this before. I'm a virgin." You pouted while you played with the studs on his shoulder straps. "You'll take care of me, right Gyro?"

"Aw, 'course I will, doll." You full on moaned as he pressed you down on to his crotch. "Well, I wouldn't use those words, really. I'm gonna rock your world. If that's what you want, of course." You giggled against his lips a little, "I don't mind a bit. Make me see stars Gyro."

"Baby, you're already in the presence of one." The Italian singer took your bottom lip between his teeth and nibbled slightly. You sighed blissfully as his hands continued to paw at your ass, squishing the meat before massaging at it.

He set you down under him on the loveseat with your legs on either side of his thighs, kissing down your collar to leave his mark while his hand played with your hair. His other played down the side of your shirt, playing with the hem with his fingers, slowly pulling it up to bare your belly and pull it off of you. He kissed down your chest, paying attention to your breasts and tits first, before going to play with your hips and nibble at your skin more. Trailing his lips were the green smudges of his lipstick. They were violent neon against your skin as he tickled down to your pants.

Gyro made quick work of your tights, he took a short minute contemplating just ripping the nylon elastic but decided against it. You needed to wear these out, after all.

He buried his head between your legs quickly, sucking at your swollen clit and licking your juices through your panties. Your legs stuttered around his head but only egged him on. He forced every moan and shriek you could offer out of you until you had to finally pull him away from his drink by the hair.

"G-God, just fuck me already. Please!"

He pulled away to look you in the eye while he licked his wet lips clean. "Well, when ya ask so sweet, how can I not?"

He towered over your small frame. His belt jingled as he threw it aside. You licked your suddenly dry lips, waiting for the next show. He made slow work of his zipper and button, slowly pulled down his jeans and boxers at the same time. His v-line kept going down until it.

It.

OH.

"Oh, GOOD GOD."

"Wut? Don't tell me you're gettin' squeamish on me." Gyro's grin was evil and golden as he teased you. His hand pumped over his fat cock to make it harden more.

"You're just... Really really big." Your eyes reminded him of saucers and it made him laugh.

"Nyoho~ none of my other gals have complained. Er, in the past. I haven't seen anyone in a while." His forest green eyes flashed in warning once the words left his mouth. Regret settled quick.

"Don't worry Gyro, I didn't think I'd be your first. I'd be a little shocked if I was, actually."

"Ah. Well, believe me when I say yer my last."

"Huh? What do you– OW. Ow, shit. FUCK!"

"Does it hurt a lot?" Gyro asked concerned. He heard strained whines. Your face twisted in pain, nails digging into his back. "Yes. God, yes it does."

"You want me to stay still? I'm only halfway in."

....Really?

"N-No. Can you move please?"

He held your hips soft but firm. His member pumped slowly in and out of you with just the tip, getting you familiar with the feeling. The stretch lost it's bite and became a delicious feeling of him pressing against your walls and pushing deep inside you. You lost control of your voice and limbs, your nails dug into his shoulders and your legs surrounded him to pull Gyro closer. Inch by inch he got to force more of his length into you. He pressed his lips into your chest and only left to whisper in your ear. "You're taking me so well, Dolcezza." He was smiling evilly to himself at the gone look in your eye. "We've only been at it for a few minutes, and yer just about drunk on me, aren't ya?"

"F-Fuck. Gyro, you f-feel ssooo good! Yes, yes! You're making me feel sso full!"

"Come on doll, we're almost there. Keep screaming my name like that." His right hand moved to rub at your clit. He rolled it between his fingers to get your thighs uncontrollably twitching closer around him. His balls slapped against your ass as he fucked deeper in finally getting all of his cock inside you. The sounds echoing in the rather small room were a filthy mix of music and skin against skin.

He kept pressing into something inside you, ramming into your button at an unforgiving pace slowly spiraling you down deeper into that forbidden pleasure. Gyro was no better off. He was breathing hot into your ear like he just ran a mile, licking at the shell, saying your name like it was the only word he cared for anymore. He nibbled at your earlobe pulling it between his teeth, it was a little painful but you didn't expect it to be the straw that broke the camel's back. Some never before felt feeling washed over you like hot molten lava as your walls clamped around his length inside you. You felt frozen as you clung on to Gyro for dear life. The blond let loose a moan before he left you to pump his own cock, his hot cum spurting on to your naked chest made you shake and whimper more. He stood over you for a while to catch his breath, looking like a hard worked god with his heaving chest. Once he swallowed he twisted away to grab a rag. He smooched your cheek before starting to wipe his cum off your boobs and stomach. Once clean be gave you another sucking kiss on your nipple with teasing eyes. "C'mon doll, let's clean up. Again."

You scrambled for clothes, he lazily put on his jeans and belt. Once you were about to put your shirt back on he stopped you.

"Hold on one sec, baby."

He took his sweet time to apply another coat of neon green lip paint and took a marker from his back pocket.

You watched on without stopping him from puckering his lips while taking the cap off the marker.

He kneeled down to write on your bare chest something you couldn't see. He dotted it with a bright green kiss, finishing strong with an over exaggerated "muah!"

"There ya go doll! Perfect."

"Eh, what did you write?" You tried reading it but the position of your head made it hard.

"Just a way to contact me once you're outta here," He winked and added a peck to your crown. "I wasn't kiddin' when I said I wanted you to be my last. I wanna get to know you better doll. So, call me when you're ready."

Johnny, bless his heart, was innocent to what sins you've committed. He was nervous but so very relieved to see you finally, and wasn't too upset with how long you took with the band, thank God. You were sure you couldn't say the same for Gyro and his mates. He tried asking questions, but once you waggled Soundman's autograph in front of his nose, his eyes lit up and questions were thrown out the door. Thank god.

Johny lead the way out to the car. Plots were empty so long after the show, so it wasn't hard to find it again. Your brother was talking about how he was able to talk a vender into selling him a shirt twenty bucks down, but you couldn't pay much attention. You were peeking under your shirt. Those green and purple marks Gyro had left were still ornery and bright, along with his ink. Putting your shirt up to your nose confirmed your biggest fear; you smelt like sex. Guess it was going to be a windows down trip back home. Kind of reminded you of that Blockheads' song. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Maybe missing the drugs, but you'd call this a successful night without them. And you had the digits to prove it.